15714	----	Proofreading Team. [Illustration: THIS WAS A NOVEL EXPERIENCE, THIS HAVING BOTH FATHER AND MOTHER IN THE NURSERY AT THE SAME TIME] The POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL by ELEANOR GATES [Illustration] GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers NEW YORK The Poor Little Rich Girl CHAPTER I Halfway up the shining surface of the gilt-framed pier glass was a mark--a tiny ink-line that had been carefully drawn across the outer edge of the wide bevel. As Gwendolyn stared at the line, the reflection of her small face in the mirror grew suddenly all white, as if some rude hand had reached out and brushed away the pink from cheeks and lips. Arms rigid at her sides, and open palms pressed hard against the flaring skirts of her riding-coat, she shrank back from the glass. "Oo-oo!" she breathed, aghast. The gray eyes swam. After a moment, however, she blinked resolutely to clear her sight, stepped forward again, and, straightening her slender little figure to its utmost height, measured herself a second time against the mirror. But--as before--the top of her yellow head did not reach above the ink-mark--not by the smallest part of an inch! So there was no longer any reason to hope! The worst was true! She had drawn the tiny line across the edge of the bevel the evening before, when she was only six years old; now it was mid-morning of another day, and she was seven--_yet she was not a whit taller!_ The tears began to overflow. She pressed her embroidered handkerchief to her eyes. Then, stifling a sob, she crossed the nursery, stumbling once or twice as she made toward the long cushioned seat that stretched the whole width of the front window. There, among the down-filled pillows, with her loose hair falling about her wet cheeks and screening them, she lay down. For months she had looked forward with secret longing to this seventh anniversary. Every morning she had taken down the rose-embossed calendar that stood on the top of her gold-and-white writing-desk and tallied off another of the days that intervened before her birthday. And the previous evening she had measured herself against the pier glass without even a single misgiving. She rose at an early hour. Her waking look was toward the pier glass. Her one thought was to gauge her new height. But the morning was the usual busy one. When Jane finished bathing and dressing her, Miss Royle summoned her to breakfast. An hour in the school-room followed--an hour of quiet study, but under the watchful eye of the governess. Next, Gwendolyn changed her dressing-gown for a riding-habit, and with Jane holding her by one small hand, and with Thomas following, stepped into the bronze cage that dropped down so noiselessly from nursery floor to wide entrance-hall. Outside, the limousine was waiting. She and Jane entered it. Thomas took his seat beside the chauffeur. And in a moment the motor was speeding away. At the riding-school, her master gave her the customary lesson: She circled the tanbark on her fat brown pony--now to the right, at a walk; now to the left, at a trot; now back to the right again at a rattling canter, with her yellow hair whipping her shoulders, and her three-cornered hat working farther and farther back on her bobbing head, and tugging hard at the elastic under her dimpled chin. After nearly an hour of this walk, trot and canter she was very rosy, and quite out of breath. Then she was put back into the limousine and driven swiftly home. And it was not until after her arrival that she had a moment entirely to herself, and the first opportunity of comparing her height with the tiny ink-line on the edge of the mirror's bevel. Now as she lay, face down, on the window-seat, she know how vain had been all the longing of months. The realization, so sudden and unexpected, was a blow. The slender little figure among the cushions quivered under it. But all at once she sat up. And disappointment and grief gave place to apprehension. "I wonder what's the matter with me," she faltered aloud. "Oh, something awful, I guess." The next moment caution succeeded fear. She sprang to her feet and ran across the room. That tell-tale mark was still on the mirror, for nurse or governess to see and question. And it was advisable that no one should learn the unhappy truth. Her handkerchief was damp with tears. She gathered the tiny square of linen into a tight ball and rubbed at the ink-line industriously. She was not a moment too soon. Scarcely had she regained the window-seat, when the hall door opened and Thomas appeared on the sill, almost filling the opening with his tall figure. As a rule he wore his very splendid footman's livery of dark blue coat with dull-gold buttons, blue trousers, and striped buff waistcoat. Now he wore street clothes, and he had a leash in his hand. "Is Jane about, Miss Gwendolyn?" he inquired. Then, seeing that Gwendolyn was alone, "Would you mind tellin' her when she comes that I'm out takin' the Madam's dogs for a walk?" Gwendolyn had a new thought. "A--a walk?" she repeated. And stood up. "But tell Jane, if you please," continued he, "that I'll be back in time to go--well, _she_ knows where." This was said significantly. He turned. "Thomas!" Gwendolyn hastened across to him. "Wait till I put on my hat. I'm--I'm going with you." Her riding-hat lay among the dainty pink-and-white articles on her crystal-topped dressing-table. She caught it up. "Miss Gwendolyn!" exclaimed Thomas, astonished. "I'm seven," declared Gwendolyn, struggling with the hat-elastic. "I'm a whole year older than I was yesterday. And--and I'm grown-up." An exasperating smile lifted Thomas's lip. "Oh, _are_ you!" he observed. The hat settled, she met his look squarely. (Did he suspicion anything?) "_Yes_. And you take the dogs out to walk. So"--she started to pass him--"_I'm_ going to walk." His hair was black and straight. Now it seemed fairly to bristle with amazement. "I couldn't take you if you _was_ grown-up," he asserted firmly, blocking her advance; "--leastways not without Miss Royle or Jane'd say Yes. It'd be worth my job." Gwendolyn lowered her eyes, stood a moment in indecision, then pulled off the hat, tossed it aside, went back to the window, and sat down. At one end of the seat, swung high on its gilded spring, danced the dome-topped cage of her canary. Presently she raised her face to him. He was traveling tirelessly from perch to cage-floor, from floor to trapeze again. His wings were half lifted from his little body--the bright yellow of her own hair. It was as if he were ready for flight. His round black eyes were constantly turned toward the world beyond the window. He perked his head inquiringly, and cheeped. Now and then, with a wild beating of his pinions, he sprang sidewise to the shining bars of the cage, and hung there, panting. She watched him for a time; made a slow survey of the nursery next,--and sighed. "Poor thing!" she murmured. She heard the rustle of silk skirts from the direction of the school-room. Hastily she shook out the embroidered handkerchief and put it against her eyes. A door opened. "There will be no lessons this afternoon, Gwendolyn." It was Miss Royle's voice. Gwendolyn did not speak. But she lowered the handkerchief a trifle--and noted that the governess was dressed for going out--in a glistening black silk plentifully ornamented with jet _paillettes_. Miss Royle rustled her way to the pier-glass to have a last look at her bonnet. It was a poke, with a quilted ribbon circling its brim, and some lace arranged fluffily. It did not reach many inches above the spot where Gwendolyn had drawn the ink-line, for Miss Royle was small. When she had given the poke a pat here and a touch there, she leaned forward to get a better view of her face. She had a pale, thin face and thin faded hair. On either side of a high bony nose were set her pale-blue eyes. Shutting them in, and perched on the thinnest part of her nose, were silver-circled spectacles. "I'm very glad I can give you a half-holiday, dear," she went on. But her tone was somewhat sorrowful. She detached a small leaf of paper from a tiny book in her hand-bag and rubbed it across her forehead. "For my neuralgia is _much_ worse to-day." She coughed once or twice behind a lisle-gloved hand, snapped the clasp of her hand-bag and started toward the hall door. It was now that for the first time she looked at Gwendolyn--and caught sight of the bowed head, the grief-flushed cheeks, the suspended handkerchief. She stopped short. "Gwendolyn!" she exclaimed, annoyed. "I _hope_ you're not going to be cross and troublesome, and make it impossible for me to have a couple of hours to myself this afternoon--especially when I'm suffering." Then, coaxingly, "You can amuse yourself with one of your nice pretend-games, dear." From under long up-curling lashes Gwendolyn regarded her in silence. "I've planned to lunch out," went on Miss Royle. "But you won't mind, _will_ you, dear Gwendolyn?" plaintively. "For I'll be back at tea-time. And besides"--growing brighter--"you're to have--what do you think!--the birthday cake Cook has made." "I _hate_ cake!" burst out Gwendolyn; and covered her eyes once more. "_Gwen-do-lyn!_" breathed Miss Royle. Gwendolyn sat very still. "How _can_ you be so naughty! Oh, it's really wicked and ungrateful of you to be fretting and complaining--you who have _so_ many blessings! But you don't appreciate them because you've always had them. Well,"--mournfully solicitous--"I trust they'll never be taken from you, my child. Ah, _I_ know how bitter such a loss is! I haven't _always_ been in my present circumstances, compelled to go out among strangers to earn a scant living. Once--" Here she was interrupted. The door from the school-room swung wide with a bang. Gwendolyn, looking up, saw her nurse. Jane was in sharp contrast to Miss Royle--taller and stocky, with broad shoulders and big arms. As she halted against the open school-room door, her hair was as ruddy as the panel that made a background for it. And she had reddish eyes, and a full round face. In the midst of her face, and all out of proportion to it, was her short turned-up nose, which was plentifully sprinkled with freckles. "So you're goin' out?" she began angrily, addressing the governess. Miss Royle retreated a step. "Just for a--a couple of hours," she explained. Jane's face grew almost as red as her hair. Slamming the school-room door behind her, she advanced. "I suppose it's the neuralgia again," she suggested with quiet heat. The color stole into Miss Royle's pale cheeks. She coughed. "It _is_ a little worse than usual this afternoon," she admitted. "I thought so," said Jane. "It's always worse--_on bargain-days_." "How _dare_ you!" "You ask me that, do you?--you old snake-in-the-grass!" Now Jane grew pallid with anger. Gwendolyn, listening, contemplated her governess thoughtfully. She had often heard her pronounced a snake-in-the-grass. Miss Royle was also pale. "That will do!" she declared. "I shall report you to Madam." "Report!" echoed Jane, giving a loud, harsh laugh, and shaking her hair--the huge pompadour in front, the pug behind. "Well, go ahead. And I'll report _you_--and your handy neuralgia." "It's your duty to look after Gwendolyn when there are no lessons," reminded Miss Royle, but weakening noticeably. "On _week_-days?" shrilled Jane. "Oh, don't try to fool me with any of your schemin'! _I_ see. And I just laugh in my sleeve!" Gwendolyn fixed inquiring gray eyes upon that sleeve of Jane's dress which was the nearer. It was of black sateen. It fitted the stout arm sleekly. "This is the dear child's birthday, and I wish her to have the afternoon free." "A-a-ah! Then why don't you take her out with you? You like the auto_mo_bile nice enough,"--this sneeringly. Miss Royle tossed her head. "I thought perhaps _you'd_ be using the car," she answered, with fine sarcasm. Jane began to argue, throwing out both hands: "How was _I_ to know to-day was her birthday? You might've told me about it; instead, just all of a sudden, you shove her off on my hands." Gwendolyn's eyes narrowed resentfully. Miss Royle gave a quick look toward the window-seat. "You mean you've made plans?" she asked, concern supplanting anger in her voice. To all appearances Jane was near to tears. She did not answer. She nodded dejectedly. "Well, Jane, you shall have to-morrow afternoon," declared Miss Royle, soothingly. "Is _that_ fair? I didn't know you'd counted on to-day. So--" Here another glance shot window-ward. Then she beckoned Jane. They went into the hall. And Gwendolyn heard them whispering together. When Jane came back into the nursery she looked almost cheerful. "Now off with that habit," she called to Gwendolyn briskly. "And into something for your dinner." "I want to wear a plaid dress," announced Gwendolyn, getting down from her seat slowly. Jane was selecting a white muslin from a tall wardrobe. "Little girls ain't wearin' plaids this year," she declared shortly. "Come." "Well, then, I want a dress that's got a pocket," went on Gwendolyn, "--a pocket 'way down on this side." She touched the right skirt of her riding-coat. "They ain't makin' pockets in little girls' dresses this year," said Jane, "Come! Come!" "'They,'" repeated Gwendolyn. "Who are 'They'? I'd like to know; 'cause I could telephone 'em and--" "Hush your nonsense!" bade Jane. Then, catching at the delicate square of linen in Gwendolyn's hand, "How'd you git ink smeared over your handkerchief? What do you suppose your mamma'd say if she was to come upon it? _I'd_ be blamed--_as_ usual!" "Who are They'?" persisted Gwendolyn. "'They' do so _many_ things. And I want to tell 'em that I like pockets in _all_ my dresses." Jane ignored the question. "Yesterday you said 'They' would send us soda-water," went on Gwendolyn--talking to herself now, rather than to the nurse. "And I'd like to know where 'They' _find_ soda-water." Whereupon she fell to pondering the question. Evidently this, like many another propounded to Jane or Miss Royle; to Thomas; to her music-teacher, Miss Brown; to Mademoiselle Du Bois, her French teacher; and to her teacher of German, was one that was meant to remain a secret of the grown-ups. Jane, having unbuttoned the riding-coat, pulled at the small black boots. She was also talking to herself, for her lips moved. The moment Gwendolyn caught sight of her unshod feet, she had a new idea--the securing of a long-denied privilege by urging the occasion. "Oh, Jane," she cried. "May I go barefoot?--just for a _little_ while. I want to." Jane stripped off the cobwebby stockings. Gwendolyn wriggled her ten pink toes. "May I, Jane?" "You can go barefoot to _bed_," said Jane. Gwendolyn's bed stood midway of the nursery, partly hidden by a high tapestried screen. It was a beautiful bed, carved and enamelled, and panelled--head and foot--with woven cane. But to Gwendolyn it was, by day, a white instrument of torture. She gave it a glance of disfavor now, and refrained from pursuing her idea. When the muslin dress was donned, and a pink satin hair-bow replaced the black one that bobbed on Gwendolyn's head when she rode, she returned to the window and sat down. The seat was deep, and her shiny patent-leather slippers stuck straight out in front of her. In one hand she held a fresh handkerchief. She nibbled at it thoughtfully. She was still wondering about "They." Thomas looked cross when he came in to serve her noon dinner. He arranged the table with a jerk and a bang. "So old Royle up and outed, did she?" he said to Jane. "Hush!" counseled Jane, significantly, and rolled her eyes in the direction of the window-seat. Gwendolyn stopped nibbling her handkerchief. "And our plans is spoiled," went on Thomas. "Well, ain't that our luck! And I suppose you couldn't manage to leave a certain party--" Gwendolyn had been watching Thomas. Now she fell to observing the silver buckles on her slippers. She might not know who "They" were. But "a certain party"-- "Leave?" repeated Jane, "Who with? Not alone, surely you don't mean. For something's gone wrong already to-day, as you'll see if you'll use your eyes. And a fuss or a howl'd mean that somebody'd hear, and tattle to the Madam, and--" Thomas said something under his breath. "So we can't go after all," resumed Jane; "--leastways not like we'd counted on. And it's _too_ exasperatin'. Here I am, a person that likes my freedom once in a while, and a glimpse at the shop-windows,--exactly as much as old you-know-who does--and a bit of tea afterwards with a--a friend." At this point, Gwendolyn glanced up--just in time to see Thomas regarding Jane with a broad grin. And Jane was smiling back at him, her face so suffused with blushes that there was not a freckle to be seen. Now Jane sighed, and stood looking down with hands folded. "What good does it do to talk, though," she observed sadly. "Day in and day out, day _in_ and day out, I have to dance attendance." It was Gwendolyn's turn to color. She got down quickly and came forward. "Sh!" warned Thomas. He busied himself with laying the silver. Gwendolyn halted in front of Jane, and lifted a puzzled face. "But--but, Jane," she began defensively, "you don't ever _dance_." "Now, whatever do you think I was talkin' about?" demanded Jane, roughly. "You dance, don't you, at Monsoor Tellegen's, of a Saturday afternoon? Well, so do I when I get a' evenin' off,--which isn't often, as you well know, Miss. And now your dinner's ready. So eat it, without any more clackin'." Gwendolyn climbed upon the plump rounding seat of a white-and-gold chair. Jane settled down nearby, choosing an upholstered arm-chair--spacious, comfort-giving. She lolled in it, at ease but watchful. "You can't think how that old butler spies on me," said Thomas, addressing her. "He seen the tray when I put it on the dumb-waiter. And, 'Miss Royle is havin' her lunch out,' he says. Then would you _believe_ it, he took more'n half my dishes away!" Jane giggled. "Potter's a sharp one," she declared. "But, oh, you should've been behind a door just now when you-know-who and I had a little understandin'." "Eh?" he inquired, working his black brows excitedly. "How was that?" Gwendolyn went calmly on with her mutton-broth. She already knew each detail of the forth-coming recital. "Well," began Jane, "she played her usual trick of startin' off without so much as a word to me, and I just up and give her a tongue-lashin'." Gwendolyn's spoon paused half way to her expectant pink mouth. She stared at Jane. "Oh, I didn't see that," she exclaimed regretfully. "Jane, what is a tongue-lashing?" Jane sat up. "A tongue-lashin'," said she, "is what _you_ need, young lady. Look at the way you've spilled your soup! Take it, Thomas, and serve the rest of the dinner, I ain't goin' to allow you to be at the table _all_ day, Miss.... There, Thomas! That'll be all the minced chicken she can have." "But I took just one little spoonful," protested Gwendolyn, earnestly. "I wanted more, but Thomas held it 'way up, and--" "Do you want to be sick?" demanded Jane. "And have a doctor come?" Gwendolyn raised frightened eyes. A doctor had been called once in the dim past, when she was a baby, racked by colic and budding teeth. She did not remember him. But since the era of short clothes she had been mercifully spared his visits. "N-n-no!" she faltered. "Well, you look out or I'll git one on the 'phone. And you'll be sorry _the rest of your life_.... Take the chicken away, Thomas. 'Out of sight is'--you know the sayin'. (It's a pity there ain't some way to keep it hot.)" "A bit of cold fowl don't go so bad," said Thomas, reassuringly. And to Gwendolyn, "Here's more of the potatoes souffles, Miss Gwendolyn,--_very_ tasty and fillin'." Gwendolyn put up a hand and pushed the proffered dish aside. "Now, no temper," warned Jane, rising. "Too much meat ain't good for children. Your mamma herself would say that. Come! See that nice potatoes and cream gravy on your plate. And there you set cryin'!" Thomas had an idea. "Shall I fetch the cake?" he asked in a loud whisper. Jane nodded. He disappeared--to reappear at once with a round frosted cake that had a border of pink icing upon its glazed white top. And set within the circle of the border were seven pink candles, all alight. "Oh, look! Look!" cried Jane, excitedly, pulling Gwendolyn's hand away from her eyes. "Isn't it a beautiful cake! You shall have a bi-i-ig piece." Those seven small candles dispelled the gloom. With tears on her cheeks, but all eager and smiling once more, Gwendolyn blew the candles out. And as she bent forward to puff at each tiny one, Jane held her bright hair back, for fear that a strand might get too near a flame. "Oh, Jane," cried Gwendolyn, "when I blow like that, _where_ do all the little lights go?" "Did you ever _hear_ such a question?" exclaimed Jane, appealing to Thomas. He was cutting away at the cake. "Of course, Miss, you'd like _me_ to have a bite of this," he said. "You know it was me that reminded Cook about bakin'--" "Perhaps all the little lights go up under the big lamp-shade," went on Gwendolyn, too absorbed to listen to Thomas. "And make a big light." She started to get down from her chair to investigate. "Now look here," said Jane irritably, "you'll just finish your dinner before you leave the table. Here's your cake. _Eat_ it!" Gwendolyn ate her slice daintily, using a fork. Jane also ate a slice--holding it in her fingers. "There's ways of managin' a fairly jolly afternoon," she said from the depths of the arm-chair. "You're speakin' of--er--?" asked Thomas, picking up cake crumbs with a damp finger-tip. "Uh-huh." "A certain party would have to go along," he reminded. "_Of_ course. But a ride's better'n nothin'." "Shall I telephone for--?" Thomas brought a finger-bowl. Gwendolyn stood up. A ride meant the limousine, with its screening top and little windows. The limousine meant a long, tiresome run at good speed through streets that she longed to travel afoot, slowly, with a stop here and a stop there, and a poke into things in general. Her crimson cheeks spoke rebellion. "I want a walk this afternoon," she declared emphatically. "Use your finger-bowl," said Jane. "Can't you _never_ remember your manners?" "I'm seven to-day," Gwendolyn went on, the tips of her fingers in the small basin of silver while her face was turned to Jane. "I'm seven and--and I'm grown-up." "And you're splashin' water on the table-cloth. Look at you!" "So," went on Gwendolyn, "I'm going to walk. I haven't walked for a whole, whole week." "You can lean back in the car," began Jane enthusiastically, "and pretend you're a grand little Queen!" "I don't _want_ to be a Queen. I want to _walk_. "Rich little girls don't hike along the streets like common poor little girls," informed Jane. "I don't _want_ to be a rich little girl,"--voice shrill with determination. Jane went to shake her frilled apron into the gilded waste-basket beside Gwendolyn's writing-desk. "You can telephone any time now, Thomas," she said calmly. Gwendolyn turned upon Thomas. "But I don't _want_ to be shut up in the car this afternoon," she cried. "And I won't! I _won't!_ I WON'T!" Jane gave a gasp of smothered rage. The reddish eyes blazed. "Do you want me to send for a great black bear?" she demanded. At that Gwendolyn quailed. "No-o-o!" Jane shot a glance toward Thomas. It invited suggestion. "Let her take something along," he said under his breath, nodding toward a glass-fronted case of shelves that stood opposite Gwendolyn's bed. Each shelf of the case was covered with toys. Along one sat a line of daintily clad dolls--black-haired dolls; golden-haired dolls; dolls from China, with slanted eyes and a queue; dolls from Japan, in gayly figured kimonos; Dutch dolls--a boy and a girl; a French doll in an exquisite frock; a Russian; an Indian; a Spaniard. A second shelf held a shiny red-and-black peg-top, a black wooden snake beside its lead-colored pipe-like case; a tin soldier in an English uniform--red coat, and pill-box cap held on by a chin-strap; a second uniformed tin man who turned somersaults, but in repose stood upon his head; a black dog on wheels, with great floppy ears; and a half-dozen downy ducklings acquired at Easter. "Much good takin' anything'll do!" grumbled Jane. Then, plucking crossly at a muslin sleeve, "Well, what do you want? Your French doll? Speak up!" "I don't want anything," asserted Gwendolyn, "--long as I can't have my Puffy Bear any more." There was a wide vacant place beside the dog with the large ears. "The little beast got shabby," explained Thomas, "and I was compelled to throw him away along with the old linen-hamper. Like as not some poor little child has him now." She considered the statement, gray eyes wistful. Then, "I liked him," she said huskily. "He was old and squashy, and it wouldn't hurt him to walk up the Drive, right in the path where the horses go. The dirt is loose there, like it was in the road at Johnnie Blake's in the country. I could scuff it with my shoes." "You could scuff it and I could wear myself out cleanin', I suppose," retorted Jane. "And like as not run the risk of gittin' some bad germs on my hands, and dyin' of 'em. From what Rosa says, it was downright _shameful_ the way you muddied your clothes, and tore 'em, and messed in the water after nasty tad-poles that week you was up country. _I_ won't allow you to treat your beautiful dresses like that, or climb about, or let the hot sun git at you." "I'm going to _walk_." Silence; but silence palpitant with thought. Then Jane threw up her head--as if seized with an inspiration. "You're going to walk?" said she. "All right! _All_ right! Walk if you want to." She made as if to set out. "_Go_ ahead! But, my _dear_," (she dropped her voice in fear) "you'll no more'n git to the next corner when _somebody'll steal you!_" Gwendolyn was silent for a long moment. She glanced from Jane to Thomas, from Thomas to Jane, and crooked her fingers in and out of her twisted handkerchief. "But, Jane," she said finally, "the dogs go out walking--and--and nobody steals the dogs." "Hear the silly child!" cried Jane. "Nobody steals the dogs! Why, if anybody was to steal the dogs what good would it do 'em? They're only Pomeranians anyhow, and Madam could go straight out and buy more. Besides, like as not Pomeranians won't be stylish next year, and so Madam wouldn't care two snaps. She'd go buy the latest thing in poodles, or else a fine collie, or a spaniel or a Spitz." "But other little girls walk all the time," insisted Gwendolyn, "and nobody steals _them_." Jane crossed her knees, pursed her mouth and folded her arms. "Well, Thomas," she said, shaking her head, "I guess after all that I'll have to tell her." "Ah, yes, I suppose so," agreed Thomas. His tone was funereal. Gwendolyn looked from one to the other. "I haven't wanted to," continued Jane, dolefully. "_You_ know that. But now she forces me to do it. Though I'm as sorry as sorry can be." Thomas had just taken his portion of cake in one great mouthful. "Fo'm my," he chimed in. Gwendolyn looked concerned. "But I'm seven," she reiterated. "Seven?" said Jane. "What has that got to do with it? _Age_ don't matter." Gwendolyn did not flinch. "You said nobody steals other little girls," went on Jane. "It ain't true. Poor little girls and boys, _no_body steals. You can see 'em runnin' around loose everywheres. But it's different when a little girl's papa is made of money." "So much money," added Thomas, "that it fairly makes me palm itch." Whereat he fell to rubbing one open hand against a corner of the piano. Gwendolyn reflected a moment. Then, "But my fath-er isn't made of money,"--she lingered a little, tenderly, over the word father, pronouncing it as if it were two words. "I _know_ he isn't. When I was at Johnnie Blake's cottage, we went fishing, and fath-er rolled up his sleeves. And his arms were strong; and red, like Jane's." Thomas sniggered. But Jane gestured impatiently. Then, making scared eyes, "What has that _got to do_," she demanded, "_with the wicked men that keep watch of this house?_" Gwendolyn swallowed. "What wicked men?" she questioned apprehensively. "Ah-ha!" triumphed Jane. "I _thought_ that'd catch you! Now just let me ask you another question: _Why are there bars on the basement windows?_" Gwendolyn's lips parted to reply. But no words came. "You don't know," said Jane. "But I'll tell you something: There ain't no bars on the windows where _poor_ little girls live. For the simple reason that nobody wants to steal _them_." Gwendolyn considered the statement, her fingers still busy knotting and unknotting. "I tell you," Jane launched forth again, "that if you run about on the street, like poor children do, you'll be grabbed up by a band of kidnapers." "Are--are kidnapers worse than doctors?" asked Gwendolyn. "Worse than doctors!" scoffed Thomas, "_Heaps_ worse." "Worse than--than bears?" (The last trace of that rebellious red was gone.) Up and down went Jane's head solemnly. "Kidnapers carry knives--big curved knives." Now Gwendolyn recalled a certain terror-inspiring man with a long belted coat and a cap with a shiny visor. It was not his height that made her fear him, for her father was fully as tall; and it was not his brass-buttoned coat, or the dark, piercing eyes under the visor. She feared him because Jane had often threatened her with his coming; and, secondly, because he wore, hanging from his belt, a cudgel--long and heavy and thick. How that cudgel glistened in the sunlight as it swung to and fro by a thong! "Worse than a--a p'liceman?" she faltered. "Policeman? _Yes!_" "Than the p'liceman that's--that's always hanging around here?" Now Jane giggled, and blushed as red as her hair. "Hush!" she chided. Thomas poked a teasing finger at her. "Haw! Haw!" he laughed. "There's other people that's noticed a policeman hangin' round. _He's_ a dandy, he is!--_not_. He let that old hand organ man give him a black eye." "Pooh!" retorted Jane. "You know how much I care about that policeman! It's only that I like to have him handy for just such times as this." But Gwendolyn was dwelling on the newly discovered scourge of moneyed children. "What would the kidnapers do?" she inquired. "The kidnapers," promptly answered Jane, "would take you and shut you up in a nasty cellar, where there was rats and mice and things and--" Gwendolyn's mouth began to quiver. Hastily Jane put out a hand. "But we'll look sharp that nothin' of the kind happens," she declared stoutly; "for who can git you when you're in the car--_especially_ when Thomas is along to watch out. So"--with a great show of enthusiasm--"we'll go out, oh! for a _grand_ ride." She rose. "And maybe when we git into the country a ways, we'll invite Thomas to take the inside seat opposite," (another wink) "and he'll tell you about soldierin' in India, and camps, and marches, and shootin' elephants." "Aren't there kidnapers in the country, too?" asked Gwendolyn. "I--I guess I'd rather stay home." "You won't see 'em in the country this time of day," explained Jane. "They're all in town, huntin' rich little children. So on with the sweet new hat and a pretty coat!" She opened the door of the wardrobe. Gwendolyn did not move. But as she watched Jane the gray eyes filled with tears, which overflowed and trickled slowly down her cheeks. "If--if Thomas walked along with us," she began, "could--could anybody steal me then?" Jane was taking out coat, hat and gloves. "What would kidnapers care about _Thomas?_" she demanded contemptuously. "_Sure_, they'd steal you, and then they'd say to your father, 'Give! me a million dollars in cash if you want Miss Gwendolyn back.' And if your father didn't give the money on the spot, you'd be sold to gipsies, or--or _Chinamen_." But Gwendolyn persisted. "Thomas has killed el'phunts," she reminded. "Are--are kidnapers worse than el'phunts?" She drew on her gloves. Jane sat down and held out the coat. It was of velvet. "Now be still!" she commanded roughly. "You'll go in the machine if you go at _all_. Do you hear that?"--giving Gwendolyn a half-turn-about that nearly upset her. "Do you think I'm goin' to trapse over the hard pavements on my poor, tired feet just because _you_ take your notions?" Gwendolyn began to cry--softly. "Oh, I--I thought I wouldn't ever have to ride again wh-when I was seven," she faltered, putting one white-gloved hand to her eyes. "Stop that!" commanded Jane, again, "Dirtyin' your gloves, you wasteful little thing!" Now the big sobs came. Down went the yellow head. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" said Thomas. "Little _ladies_ never cry." "Walk! walk! walk!" scolded Jane, kneeling, and preparing to adjust the new hat. The hat had wide ribbons that tied under the chin--new, stiff ribbons. "Johnnie Bu-Blake didn't fasten _his_ hat on like this," wept Gwendolyn. She moved her chin from side to side. "He just had a--a sh-shoe-string." Jane had finished. "Johnnie Blake! Johnnie Blake! Johnnie Blake!" she mocked. She gave Gwendolyn a little push toward the front window. "Now, no more of your nonsense. Go and be quiet for a few minutes. And keep a' eye out, will you, to see that there's nobody layin' in wait for us out in front?" Gwendolyn went forward to the window-seat and climbed up among its cushions. From there she looked down upon the Drive with its sloping, evenly-cut grass, its smooth, tawny road and soft brown bridle-path, and its curving walk, stone-walled on the outer side. Beyond park and road and walk were tree-tops, bush-high above the wall. And beyond these was the broad, slow-flowing river, with boats going to and fro upon its shimmering surface. The farther side of the river was walled like the walk, only the wall was a cliff, sheer and dark and timber-edged. And through this timber could be seen the roofs and chimneys of distant houses. But Gwendolyn saw nothing of the beauty of the view. She did not even glance down to where, on its pedestal, stood the great bronze war-horse, its mane and tail flying, its neck arched, its lips curved to neigh. Astride the horse was her friend, the General, soldierly, valorous, his hat doffed--as if in silent greeting to the double procession of vehicles and pedestrians that was passing before him. Brave he might be, but what help was the General _now?_ When Jane was ready for the drive, Gwendolyn took a firm hold of one thick thumb. And, with Thomas following, they were soon in the entrance hall. There, waiting as usual, was Potter, the butler. He smiled at Gwendolyn. But Gwendolyn did not smile in return. As the cage had sunk swiftly down the long shaft, her heart had sunk, too. And now she thought how old Potter was; how thin and stooped. With kidnapers about, was _he_ a fit guardian for the front door? As Potter swung wide the heavy grille of wrought iron, with its silk-hung back of plate-glass, Gwendolyn pulled hard at Jane's hand, and went down the granite steps and across the sidewalk as quickly as possible, with a timid glance to right and left. For, even as she entered the car, might not that band of knife-men suddenly catch sight of her, and, rushing over walk and bridle-path and roadway, seize her and carry her off? She sank, trembling, upon the seat of the limousine. Jane followed her. Then Thomas closed the windowed door of the motor and took his place beside the chauffeur. Gwendolyn leaned forward for a swift glance at the lower windows, barred against intruders. The great house was of stone. On side and rear it stood flat against other houses. But it was built on a corner; and along its front and outer side, the tops of the basement windows were set a foot or more above the level of the sidewalk. To Gwendolyn those windows were huge eyes, peering out at her from under heavy lashes of iron. The automobile started. Jane arranged her skirts and leaned back luxuriously, her big hands folded on her lap. "My! but ain't this grand!" she exclaimed. Then to Gwendolyn: "You don't mind, do you, dearie, if Jane has a taste of gum as we go along?" Gwendolyn did not reply. She had not heard. She was leaning toward the little window on her side of the limousine. In front of Jane was the chauffeur, wide-backed and skillful, and crouched vigilantly over his wheel. But in front of her was Thomas, sitting in the proudly erect, stiff position peculiar to him whenever he fared abroad. He looked neither to right nor left. He seemed indifferent that danger lurked for her along the Drive. But she--! As the limousine joined others, all speeding forward merrily, her pale little face was pressed against the shield-shaped pane of glass, her frightened eyes roved continually, searching the moving crowds. CHAPTER II The nursery was on the top-most floor of the great stone house--this for sunshine and air. But the sunshine was gone when Gwendolyn returned from her drive, and a half-dozen silk-shaded lights threw a soft glow over the room. To shut out the chill of the spring evening the windows were down. Across them were drawn the heavy hangings of rose brocade. There was a lamp on the larger of the nursery tables, a tall lamp, almost flower-like with its petal-shaped ruffles of lace and chiffon. It made conspicuous two packages that flanked it--one small and square; the other large, and as round as a hat-box. Each was wrapped in white paper and tied with red string. "Birthday presents!" cried Jane, the moment she spied them; and sprang forward. "Oh, I wonder what they are! What do _you_ guess, Gwendolyn?" Gwendolyn followed slowly, blinking against the light. "I can't guess," she said without enthusiasm. The glass-fronted case was full of toys, none of which she particularly cherished. (Indeed, most of them were carefully wrapped from sight.) New ones would merely form an addition. "Well, what would you _like?_" queried Jane, catching up the small package and shaking it. Gwendolyn suddenly looked very earnest. "Most in the whole _world?_" she asked. "Yes, what?" Jane dropped the small package and shook the large one. "In the whole, whole big world?" went on Gwendolyn--to herself rather than to her nurse. She was not looking at the table, but toward a curtained window, and the gray eyes had a tender faraway expression. There was a faint conventional pattern in the brocade of the heavy hangings. It suggested trees with graceful down-growing boughs. She clasped her hands. "I want to live out in the woods," she said, "at Johnnie Blake's cottage by the stream that's got fish in it." Jane set the big package down with a thump. "That's _awful_ selfish of you," she declared warmly. "For you know right well that Thomas and _I_ wouldn't like to leave the city and live away out in the country. _Would_ we, Thomas?"--for he had just entered. "Cer-tain-ly _not_," said Thomas. "And it'd give poor Miss Royle the neuralgia," (Jane and Miss Royle might contend with each other; they made common cause against _her_.) "But none of you'd _have_ to" assured Gwendolyn. "When I was at Johnnie Blake's that once, just Potter went, and Rosa, and Cook. And Rosa buttoned my dresses and gave me my bath, and--" "So Rosa'll do _just_ as well as me," interrupted Jane, jealously. "--And Potter passed the dishes at table," resumed Gwendolyn, ignoring the remark; "and _he_ never hurried the best-tasting ones." "Hear that will you, Thomas!" cried Jane. "Mr. _Potter_ never hurried the best-tastin' ones!" Thomas gave her a significant stare. "I tell you, a certain person is growin' keen," he said in a low voice. Jane took Gwendolyn by the arm. "Put all that Johnnie Blake nonsense out of your head," she commanded. "Folks that live in the woods don't know nothin'. They're silly and pokey." Gwendolyn shook her head with deliberation. "Johnny Blake wasn't pokey," she denied. "He had a willow fishpole, and a string tied to it. And he caught shiny fishes on the end of the string." "Johnnie Blake!" sniffed Jane. "Oh, I know all about _him_. Rosa told me. He's a common, poor little boy. And"--severely--"I, for _one_, can't see why you was ever allowed to play with him!... "Now, darlin',"--softening--"here we stand fussin', and you ain't even guessed what your presents are. Guess something that's real fine: something you'd like in the city, pettie." She began to unwrap the larger of the packages. "Oh," said Gwendolyn. "What I'd like in the _city_. Well,"--suddenly between her brows there came a curious, strained little wrinkle--"I'd like--" The white paper fell away. A large, round box was disclosed. To it was tied a small card. "This is from your papa!" cried Jane. "Oh, let's see what it is!" The wrinkle smoothed. A smile broke,--like sudden sunlight after clouds, and shadow. Then there poured forth all that had filled her heart during the past months: "I'd like to eat at the grown-up table with my fath-er and my moth-er," she declared; "and I don't want to have a nurse any more like a baby! and I want to go to _day_-school." Jane gasped, and her big hands fell from the round box. Thomas stared, and reddened even to his ears, which were large and over-prominent. To both, the project cherished so long and constantly was in the nature of a bombshell. "Oh-ho!" said Jane, recovering herself after a moment. "So me and Thomas are to be thrown out of our jobs, are we?" Gwendolyn looked mild surprise. "But you don't _like_ to be here," she reminded. "And you and Thomas wouldn't have to work any more; you could just play all the time." She smiled up at them encouragingly. Thomas eyed Jane. "If we ain't careful," he warned in a low voice, "and let a certain party talk too much at headquarters--" The other nodded, comprehending "I'll look sharp," she promised. "Royle will, too." Whereupon, with a forced change to gayety, and a toss of the white card aside, she lifted the cover of the box and peeked in. It was a merry-go-round, canopied in gay stripes, and built to accommodate a party of twelve dolls. There were six deep seats, each lined with ruby plush, for as many lady dolls: There were six prancing Arab steeds--bay and chestnut and dappled gray--for an equal number of men. A small handle turned to wind up the merry-go-round. Whereupon the seats revolved gayly, the Arabs curvetted; and from the base of the stout canopy pole there sounded a merry tune. "Oh, darlin', what a grand thing!" cried Jane, lifting Gwendolyn to stand on the rounding seat of a white-and-gold chair (a position at other times strictly forbidden). "And what a pile of money it must've cost! Why, it's as natural as the big one in the Park!" The music and the horses appealed. Other considerations moved temporarily into the background as Gwendolyn watched and listened. Thomas broke the string of the smaller package. "This is the Madam's present," he declared. "And I'll warrant it's a beauty!" It proved a surprise. All paper shorn away, there stood revealed a green cabbage, topped by something fluffy and hairy and snow-white. This was a rabbit's head. And when Thomas had turned a key in the base of the cabbage, the rabbit gave a sudden hop, lifted a pair of long ears, munched at a bit of cabbage-leaf, turned his pink nose, now to the right, now to the left, and rolled two amber eyes. "And look! Look!" shouted Jane "The eyes light up" For each was glowing as yellowly as the tiny electric bulbs on either side of Gwendolyn's dressing-table. "Now what _more_ could a little lady want!" exclaimed Thomas. "It's as wonderful, _I_ say, as a wax figger." The rabbit, with a sharp click of farewell, popped back into the cabbage. Gwendolyn got down from the chair. "It _is_ nice," she conceded. "And I'm going to ask fath-er and moth-er to come up and see it." Neither Thomas nor Jane answered. But again he eyed the nurse, this time flashing a silent warning. After which she began to exclaim excitedly over the rabbit, while he wound up the merry-go-round. Then the ruby seats and the Arabs careened in a circle, the music played, the rabbit chewed and wriggled and rolled his luminous eyes. An interruption came in the shape of a ring at the telephone, which stood on the small table at the head of Gwendolyn's bed. Jane answered the summons, and received the message,--a brief one. It worked, however, a noticeable change. For when Jane turned round her face was sullen. Gwendolyn remarked the scowls. Also the fact that the moment Jane made Thomas her confidant--in an undertone--he showed plain signs of being annoyed. Gwendolyn saw the merry-go-round--cabbage and all--disappear into the large, round box without a trace of regret. So much ill-feeling on the part of nurse and man-servant undoubtedly meant that something of a decidedly pleasant nature was about to happen to herself. It was a usual--almost a daily--occurrence for her to visit the region of the grown-ups at the dinner-hour. On such occasions she saw one, though more often both, of her parents--as well as a varying number of guests. And the privilege was one held dear. She coveted a dearer. And her eyes roved to the larger of her two tables, where stood the tall lamp. There she ate all her meals, in the condescending company of Miss Royle. What if the telephone message meant that henceforth she was to eat _downstairs?_ Standing on one foot she waited developments, and concealed her eagerness by snapping her underlip against her teeth with one busy forefinger. Her spirits fell when Thomas appeared with the supper-tray. And she ate with no appetite--for all that she was eating alone--alone, that is, except for Thomas, who preserved a complete and stony silence. Miss Royle had not returned. Jane had disappeared toward her room, grumbling about never having a single evening to call her own. But at seven cheer returned with the realization that Jane was not getting ready the white-and-gold bed. Still in a very bad humor, and touched up smartly by a fresh cap and a dainty apron, the nurse put Gwendolyn into a rosebud-bordered mull frock and tied a white-satin bow atop her yellow hair. "Where am I going, Jane?" asked Gwendolyn. (She felt certain that this was one of the nights when she was invited downstairs: She hoped--with a throb in her throat that was like the beat of a heart--that the supper just past was only afternoon tea, and that there was waiting for her at the grown-up table--in view of her newly acquired year and dignity--_an empty chair_.) "You'll see soon enough," answered Jane, shortly. Next, a new thought! Her father and mother had not seen her for two whole days--not since she was six. "Wonder if I show I'm not taller," she mused under her breath. At precisely fifteen minutes to eight Jane took her by the hand. And she went down and down in the bronze cage, past the floor where were the guest chambers, past the library floor, which was where her mother and father lived, to the second floor of the great house. Here was the music-room, spacious and splendid, and the dining-room. The doors of this latter room were double. Before them the two halted. Not only the pause at this entrance betrayed whereto they were bound, but also Jane's manner. For the nurse was holding herself erect and proper--shoulders back, chin in, heels together. Gwendolyn had often noted that upon both Jane and Thomas her parents had a curious stiffening effect. The thought of that empty chair now forced itself uppermost. The gray eyes darkened with sudden anxiety. "Now, Gwendolyn" whispered Jane, leaning down, "put your best foot forward." Her face had lost some of its accustomed color. "But, Jane," whispered Gwendolyn back, "which _is_ my best foot?" Jane gave the small hand she was holding an impatient shake. "Hush your rubbishy questions," she commanded "We're goin' in!" She tapped one of the doors gently. Gwendolyn glanced down at her daintily slippered feet. With so little time for reflecting, she could not decide which one she should put forward. Both looked equally well. The next moment the doors swung open, and Potter, white-haired, grave and bent, stepped aside for them to pass. They crossed the threshold. The dining-room was wide and long and lofty. Its wainscot was somberly stained. Above the wainscot, the dull tapestried walls reached to a ceiling richly panelled. The center of this dark setting was a long table, glittering with china and crystal, bright with silver and roses, and lighted by clusters of silk-shaded candles that reflected themselves upon circular table mirrors. At the far end of the table sat Gwendolyn's father, pale in his black dress-clothes, and haggard-eyed; at the near end sat her mother, pink-cheeked and pretty, with jewels about her bare throat and in her fair hair. And between the two, filling the high-backed chairs on either side of the table, were strange men and women. Gwendolyn let go of Jane's hand and went toward her mother. Thither had gone her first glance; her second had swept the whole length of the board to her father's face. And now, without heeding any of the others, her look circled swiftly from chair to chair--searching. Not one was empty! The gray eyes blurred. Yet she tried to smile. Close to that dear presence, so delicately perfumed (with a haunting perfume that was a very part of her mother's charm and beauty) she halted; and curtsied--precisely as Monsieur Tellegen had taught her. And when the white-satin bow bobbed above the level of the table once more, she raised her face for a kiss. A murmur went up and down the double row of chairs. Gwendolyn's mother smiled radiantly. Her glance over the table was proud. "This is my little daughter's seventh birthday anniversary," she proclaimed. To Gwendolyn the announcement was unexpected. But she was quick. Very cautiously she lifted herself on her toes--just a little. Another buzz of comment circled the board. "_Too_ sweet!" said one; and, "_Cunning!_" and "Fine child, that!" "Now, dear," encouraged her mother. Gwendolyn would have liked to stand still and listen to the chorus of praise. But there was something else to do. She turned a corner of the table and started slowly along it, curtseying at each chair. As she curtsied she said nothing, only bobbed the satin bow and put out a small hand. And, "How do you do, darling!" said the ladies, and "Ah, little Miss Gwendolyn!" said the men. The last man on that side, however, said something different. (He, she had seen at the dinner-table often.) He slipped a hand into a pocket. When it came forth, it held an oblong box. "I didn't forget that this was your birthday," he half-whispered. "Here!"--as he laid the box upon Gwendolyn's pink palm--"that's for your sweet tooth!" Everyone was watching, the ladies beaming, the men intent and amused. But Gwendolyn was unaware both of the silence and the scrutiny. She glanced at the box. Then she looked up into the friendly eyes of the donor. "But," she began; "--but which _is_ my sweet tooth?" There was a burst of laughter, Gwendolyn's father and mother joining in. The man who had presented the box laughed heartiest of all; then rose. First he bowed to her mother, who acknowledged his salute graciously; next he turned to her father, whose pale face softened; last of all, he addressed her: "Miss Gwendolyn," said he, "a toast!" Gwendolyn looked at those bread-plates which were nearest her. There was no toast in sight, only some very nice dinner-rolls. Moreover, Potter and Thomas were not starting for the pantry, but were standing, the one behind her mother, the other behind her father, quietly listening. And what this friend of her father's had in his right hand was not anything to eat, but a delicate-stemmed glass wherein some champagne was bubbling--like amber soda-water. She was forced to conclude that he was unaccountably stupid--or only queer--or else indulging in another of those incomprehensible grown-up jokes. He made a little speech--which she could not understand, but which elicited much laughter and polite applause; though to her it did not seem brilliant, or even interesting. Reseating himself, he patted her head. She put the candy under her left arm, said a hasty, half-whispered Thank-you to him, went to the next high-backed chair, curtsied, bobbed the ribbon-bow and put out a hand. A pat on the head was dismissal: There was no need to wait for an answer to her question concerning her sweet tooth. Experience had taught her that whenever mirth greeted an inquiry, that inquiry was ignored. When one whole side of the table was finished, and she turned a second corner, her father brushed her soft cheek with his lips. "Did your dolls like the merry-go-round?" he asked kindly. "Yes, fath--er." "Was there something else my little girl wanted?" Now she raised herself so far on her toes that her lips were close to his ear. For there was a lady on either side of him. And both were plainly listening. "If--if you'd come up and make it go," she said, almost whispering. He nodded energetically. She went behind his chair. Thomas was in wait there still. Down here he seemed to raise a wall of aloofness between himself and her, to wear a magnificent air, all cold and haughty, that was quite foreign to the nursery. As she passed him, she dimpled up at him saucily. But it failed to slack the starchy tenseness of his visage. She turned another corner and curtsied her way along the opposite side of the table. On this side were precisely as many high-backed chairs as on the other. And now, "You _adorable_ child!" cried the ladies, and "Haw! Haw! Don't the rest of us get a smile?" said the men. When all the curtseying was over, and the last corner was turned, she paused. "And what is my daughter going to say about the rabbit in the cabbage?" asked her mother. There was a man seated on either hand. Gwendolyn gave each a quick glance. At Johnnie Blake's she had been often alone with her father and mother during that one glorious week. But in town her little confidences, for the most part, had to be made in just this way--under the eye of listening guests and servants, in a low voice. "I like the rabbit," she answered, "but my Puffy Bear was nicer, only he got old and shabby, and so--" At this point Jane took one quick step forward. "But if you'd come up to the nursery soon," Gwendolyn hastened to add. "_Would_ you, moth--er?" "Yes, indeed, dear." Gwendolyn went up to Jane, who was waiting, rooted and rigid, close by. The reddish eyes of the nurse-maid fairly bulged with importance. Her lips were sealed primly. Her face was so pale that every freckle she had stood forth clearly. How strangely--even direly--the great dining-room affected _her_--who was so at ease in the nursery! No smile, no wink, no remark, either lively or sensible, ever melted the ice of _her_ countenance. And it was with a look almost akin to pity that Gwendolyn held out a hand. Jane took it with a great show of affection. Then once more Potter swung wide the double doors. Gwendolyn turned her head for a last glimpse of her father, sitting, grave and haggard, at the far end of the table; at her beautiful, jeweled mother; at the double line of high-backed chairs that showed, now a man's stern black-and-white, next the gayer colors of a woman's dress; at the clustered lights; the glitter; the roses-- Then the doors closed, making faint the din of chatter and laughter. And the bronze cage carried Gwendolyn up and up. CHAPTER III There was a high wind blowing, and the newly washed garments hanging on the roofs of nearby buildings were writhing and twisting violently, and tugging at the long swagging clothes-lines. Gwendolyn, watching from the side window of the nursery, pretended that the garments were so many tortured creatures, vainly struggling to be free. And she wished that two or three of the whitest and prettiest might loose their hold and go flying away--across the crescent of the Drive and the wide river--to liberty and happiness in the forest beyond. Among the flapping lines walked maids--fully a score of them. Some were taking down wash that was dry and stuffing it into baskets. Others were busy hanging up limp pieces, first giving them a vigorous shake; then putting a small portion of each over the line and pinching all securely into place with huge wooden pins. It seemed cruel. Yet the faces of the maids were kind--kinder than the faces of Miss Royle and Jane and Thomas. Behind Gwendolyn the heavy brocade curtains hung touching. She parted them to make sure that she was alone in the nursery. After which she raised the window--just a trifle. The roofs that were white with laundry were not those directly across from the nursery, but over-looked the next street. Nevertheless, with the window up, Gwendolyn could hear the crack and snap of the whipping garments, and an indistinct chorus of cheery voices. One maid was singing a lilting tune. The rest were chattering back and forth. With all her heart Gwendolyn envied them--envied their freedom, and the fact that they were indisputably grown-up. And she decided that, later on, when she was as big and strong, she would be a laundry-maid and run about on just such level roofs, joyously hanging up wash. Presently she raised the window a trifle more, so that the lower sill was above her head. Then, "_Hoo_-hoo-oo-oo!" she piped in her clear voice. A maid heard her, and pointed her out to another. Soon a number were looking her way. They smiled at her, too, Gwendolyn smiled in return, and nodded. At that, one of a group snatched up a square of white cloth and waved it. Instantly Gwendolyn waved back. One by one the maids went. Then Gwendolyn suddenly recalled why she was waiting alone--while Miss Royle and Jane made themselves extra neat in their respective rooms; why she herself was dressed with such unusual care--in a pink muslin, white silk stockings, and black patent-leather pumps, the whole crowned by a pink-satin hair-bow. With the remembrance, the pretend-game was forgotten utterly: The lines of limp, white creatures on the roofs flung their tortured shapes about unheeded. At bed-time the previous evening Potter had telephoned that Madam would pay a morning visit to the nursery. The thought had kept Gwendolyn awake for a while, smiling into the dark, kissing her own hands for very happiness; it had made her heart beat wildly, too. For she reviewed all the things she intended broaching to her mother--about eating at the grown-up table, and not having a nurse any more, and going to day-school. Contrary to a secret plan of action, she slept late. At breakfast, excitement took away her appetite. And throughout the study-hour that followed, her eyes read, and her lips repeated aloud, several pages of standard literature for juveniles that her busy brain did not comprehend. Yet now as she waited behind the rose hangings for the supreme moment, she felt, strangely enough, no impatience. With three to attend her, privacy was not a common privilege, and, therefore, prized. She fell to inspecting the row of houses across the way--in search for other strange but friendly faces. There were exactly twelve houses opposite. The corner one farthest from the river she called the gray-haired house. An old lady lived there who knitted bright worsted; also a fat old gentleman in a gay skull-cap who showed much attention to a long-leaved rubber-plant that flourished behind the glass of the street door. Gwendolyn leaned out, chin on palm, to canvass the quaintly curtained windows--none of which at the moment framed a venerable head. Next the gray-haired house there had been--up to a recent date--a vacant lot walled off from the sidewalk by a high, broad bill-board. Now a pit yawned where formerly was the vacant space. And instead of the fascinating pictures that decorated the bill-board (one week a baby, rosy, dimpled and laughing; the next some huge lettering elaborately combined with a floral design; the next a mammoth bottle, red and beautiful, and flanked by a single gleaming word: "Catsup") there towered--above street and pit, and even above the chimneys of the gray-haired house--the naked girders of a new steel structure. The girders were black, but rusted to a brick-color in patches and streaks. They were so riveted together that through them could be seen small, regular spots of light. Later on, as Gwendolyn knew, floors and windowed walls and a tin top would be fitted to the framework. And what was now a skeleton would be another house! Directly opposite the nursery, on that part of the side street which sloped, were ten narrow houses, each four stories high, each with brown-stone fronts and brown-stone steps, each topped by a large chimney and a small chimney. In every detail these ten houses were precisely alike. Jane, for some unaccountable reason, referred to them as private dwellings. But since the roof of the second brown-stone house was just a foot lower than the roof of the first, the third roof just a foot lower than the roof of the second, and so on to the very tenth and last, Gwendolyn called these ten the step-houses. The step-houses were seldom interesting. As Gwendolyn's glances traveled now from brown-stone front to brown-stone front, not one presented even the relief of a visiting post-man. Her progress down the line of step-houses brought her by degrees to the brick house on the Drive--a large vine-covered house, the wide entrance of which was toward the river. And no sooner had she given it one quick glance than she uttered a little shout of pleased surprise. The brick-house people were back! All the shades were up. There was smoke rising from one of the four tall chimneys. And even as Gwendolyn gazed, all absorbed interest, the net curtains at an upper window were suddenly drawn aside and a face looked out. It was a face that Gwendolyn had never seen before in the brick house. But though it was strange, it was entirely friendly. For as Gwendolyn smiled it a greeting, it smiled her a greeting back! She was a nurse-maid--so much was evident from the fact that she wore a cap. But it was also plain that her duties differed in some way from Jane's. For her cap was different--shaped like a sugar-bowl turned upside-down; hollow, and white, and marred by no flying strings. And she was not a red-haired nurse-maid. Her hair was almost as fair as Gwendolyn's own, and it framed her face in a score of saucy wisps and curls. Her face was pretty--full and rosy, like the face of Gwendolyn's French doll. Also it seemed certain--even at such a distance--that she had no freckles. Gwendolyn waved both hands at her. She threw a kiss back. "Oh, thank you!" cried Gwendolyn, out loud. She threw kisses with alternating finger-tips. The nurse-maid shook the curtains at her. Then--they fell into place. She was gone. Gwendolyn sighed. The next moment she heard voices in the direction of the hall--first, Thomas's; next, a woman's--a strange one this. Disappointed, she turned to face the screening curtains. But she was in no mood to make herself agreeable to visiting friends of Miss Royle's--and who else could this be? She decided to remain quietly in seclusion; to emerge for no one except her mother. A door opened. A heavy step advanced, followed by the murmur of trailing skirts upon carpet. Then Thomas spoke--his tone that full and measured one employed, not to the governess, to Jane, to herself, or to any other common mortal, but to Potter, to her father and mother, and to guests. "This is Miss Gwendolyn's nursery," he announced. Beyond the curtains were persons of importance! She shrank against the window, taking care not to stir the brocade. "We will wait here,"--the voice was clear, musical. "Thank you." Thomas's heavy step retreated. A door closed. There was a moment of perfect stillness. Then that musical voice began again: "Where do you suppose that young one is?" A second voice rippled out a low laugh. Gwendolyn laughed too,--silently, her face against the glass. The fat old gentleman in the gray-haired house chanced to be looking in her direction. He caught the broad smile and joined in. "In the school-room likely,"--it was the first speaker, answering her own inquiry--"getting stuffed." Stuffed! Gwendolyn could appreciate _that_. She choked back a giggle with one small hand. Someone else thought the declaration amusing, for there was another well-bred ripple; then once more that murmur of trailing skirts, going toward the window-seat; going the opposite way also, as if one of the two was making a circuit of the room. Presently, "Just look at this dressing-table, Louise! Fancy such a piece of furniture for a _child!_ Ridiculous!" Gwendolyn cocked her yellow head to one side--after the manner of her canary. "Bad taste." Louise joined her companion. "_Crystal_, if you please! Must've cost a fabulous sum." One or two articles were moved on the dresser. Then, "Poor little girl!" observed the other woman. "Rich, but--" Gwendolyn puckered her brows gravely. Was the speaker referring to _her?_ Clasping her hands tight, she leaned forward a little, straining to catch every syllable. As a rule when gossip or criticism was talked in her hearing, it was insured against being understood by the use of strange terms, spellings, winks, nods, shrugs, or sudden stops at the most important point. But now, with herself hidden, was there not a likelihood of plain speech? It came. The voice went on: "This is the first time you've met the mother, isn't it?" "I think so,"--indifferently. "Who is she, anyhow?" "_No_body." Gwendolyn stared. "Nobody at all--_absolutely_. You know, they say--" She paused for emphasis. Now, Gwendolyn's eyes grew suddenly round; her lips parted in surprise. _They_ again! "Yes?" encouraged Louise. Lower--"They say she was just an ordinary country girl, pretty, and horribly poor, with a fair education, but no culture to speak of. She met him; he had money and fell in love with her; she married him. And, oh, _then!_" She chuckled. "Made the money fly?" The two were coming to settle themselves in chairs close to the side window. "Not exactly. Haven't you heard what's the matter with her?" Gwendolyn's face paled a little. There was something the matter with her mother?--her dear, beautiful, young mother! The clasped hands were pressed to her breast. "Ambitious?" hazarded Louise, confidently. "It's no secret. Everybody's laughing at her,--at the rebuffs she takes; the money she gives to charity (wedges, you understand); the quantities of dresses she buys; the way she slaps on the jewels. She's got the society bee in her bonnet!" Gwendolyn caught her breath. _The society bee in her bonnet?_ "Ah!" breathed Louise, as if comprehending. Then, "Dear! dear!" "She _talks_ nothing else. She _hears_ nothing else. She _sees_ nothing else." "Bad as that?" "Goes wherever she can shove in--subscription lectures and musicales, hospital teas, Christmas bazars. And she benches her Poms; has boxes at the Horse Show and the Opera; gives gold-plate dinners, and Heaven knows what!" "Ha! ha! _You_ haven't boosted her, dear?" "Not a bit of it! Make a point of never being seen _any_where with her." "And he?" Gwendolyn swallowed. _He_ was her father. "Well, it has kept the poor fellow in harness all the time, of course. You should have seen him when he _first_ came to town--straight and boyish, and _very_ handsome. (You know the type.) He's changed! Burns his candles at both ends." "Hm!" Gwendolyn blinked with the effort of making mental notes. "You haven't heard the latest about him?" "Trying to make some Club?" Whispering--"On the edge of a _crash_." "Who told you?" "Oh, a little bird." Up came both palms to cover Gwendolyn's mouth. But not to smother mirth. A startled cry had all but escaped her. A little bird! She knew of that bird! He had told things against _her_--true things more often than not--to Jane and Miss Royle. And now here he was chattering about her father! "It's the usual story," commented Louise calmly, "with these _nouveaux riches_." "Sh!" A moment of stillness, as if both were listening. Then, "_Sprechen Sie Deutsch?_" "I--er--read it fairly well." "_Parlez-vous Francais?_" "_Oh, oui! Oui!_" "_Allors._" And there followed, in undertones, a short, spirited conversation in the Gallic. Gwendolyn made a silent resolution to devote more time and thought to the peevish and staccato instruction of Miss Du Bois. The two were interrupted by a light, quick step outside. Again the hall door opened. "Oh, you'll pardon my having to desert you, _won't_ you?" It was Gwendolyn's mother. "I didn't intend being so long." Gwendolyn half-started forward, then stopped. "Why, of course!"--with sounds of rising. "_Cer_tainly!" "Differences below stairs, I find, require prompt action." "I fancy you have oceans of executive ability," declared Louise, warmly. "That Orphans' Home affair--I hear you managed it tre_men_dously!" "No! No!" "Really, my dear,"--it was the other woman--"to be _quite_ frank, we must confess that we haven't missed you! We've been enjoying our glimpse of the nursery." "It's simply _lovely!_" cried Louise. "And what a perfectly sweet dressing-table!" "Have you seen my little daughter?--Thomas!" "Yes, Madam." "There's a draught coming from somewhere--" "It's the side window, Madam." Instinctively Gwendolyn flattened herself against the wood-work at her back. Three or four steps brought Thomas across the floor. Then his two big hands appeared high up on the hangings. The next moment, the hands parted, sweeping the curtains with them. To escape detection was impossible. A quick thought made Gwendolyn raise a face upon which was a forced expression that bore only a faint resemblance to a smile. "Boo!" she said, jumping out at him. Startled, he fell back. "Why, Miss Gwendolyn!" "Gwendolyn?" repeated her mother, surprised. "Why, what were you doing there, darling?" "_Gwendolyn!_"--this in a faint gasp from both visitors. Gwendolyn came slowly forward. She did not raise her eyes; only curtsied. "So _this_ is your little daughter!" A gloved hand was reached out, and Gwendolyn was drawn forward. "How _cunning!_" Gwendolyn recognized the voice of Louise. Now, she looked up. And saw a pleasant face, young, but not so pretty as her mother's. She shook hands bashfully. Then shook again with an older woman, whose plain countenance was dimly familiar. After which, giving a sudden little bound, and putting up eager arms, she was caught to her mother. "My baby!" "_Moth-er!_" Cheek caressed cheek. "She's six, isn't she, my dear?" asked the plain, elderly one. "Oh, she's seven." A soft hand stroked the yellow hair. "As much as that? Really?" The inference was not lost upon Gwendolyn. She tightened her embrace. And turning her head on her mother's breast, looked frank resentment. The visitors were not watching her. They were exchanging glances--and smiles, faint and uneasy. Slowly now they began to move toward the hall door, which stood open. Beside it, waiting with an impressive air, was Miss Royle. "I think we must go, Louise." "Oh, we must,"--quickly. "Dear me! I'd almost forgot! We've promised to lunch with one or two people down-town." "I wish you were lunching here," said Gwendolyn's mother. She freed herself gently from the clinging arms and followed the two. "Miss Royle, will you take Gwendolyn?" As the governess promptly advanced, with a half-bow, and a set smile that was like a grimace, Gwendolyn raised a face tense with earnestness. Until half an hour before, her whole concern had been for herself. But now! To fail to grow up, to have her long-cherished hopes come short of fulfillment--that was _one_ thing. To know that her mother and father had real and serious troubles of their own, that was another! "Oh, moth-er! Don't _you_ go!" "Mother must tell the ladies good-by." "What touching affection!" It was the elder of the visiting pair. Miss Royle assented with a simper. "Will you come back?" urged Gwendolyn, dropping her voice. "Oh, I want to see you"--darting a look sidewise--"all by myself." There was a wheel and a flutter at the door--another silent exchange of comment, question and exclamation, all mingled eloquently. Then Louise swept back. "What a bright child!" she enthused. "Does she speak French?" "She is acquiring two tongues at present," answered Gwendolyn's mother proudly, "--French and German." "_Splendid!_" It was the elder woman. "I think every little girl should have those. And later on, I suppose, Greek and Latin?" "I've thought of Spanish and Italian." "_Eventually_," informed Miss Royle, with a conscious, sinuous shift from foot to foot, "Gwendolyn will have _seven_ tongues at her command." "How _chic!_" Once more the gloved hand was extended--to pat the pink-satin hair-bow. Gwendolyn accepted the pat stolidly. Her eyes were fixed on her mother's face. Now, the elder of the strangers drew closer. "I wonder," she began, addressing her hostess with almost a coy air, "if we could induce _you_ to take lunch with us down-town. Wouldn't that be jolly, Louise?"--turning. "_Awfully_ jolly!" "_Do_ come!" "Oh, _do_!" "Moth-er!" Gwendolyn's mother looked down. A sudden color was mounting to her cheeks. Her eyes shone. "We-e-ell," she said, with rising inflection. It was acceptance. Gwendolyn stepped back the pink muslin in a nervous grasp at either side. "Oh, _won't_ you stay?" she half-whispered. "Mother'll see you at dinnertime, darling. Tell Jane, Miss Royle." A bow. Louise led the way quickly, followed by the elderly lady. Gwendolyn's mother came last. A bronze gate slid between the three and Gwendolyn, watching them go. The cage lowered noiselessly, with a last glimpse of upturned faces and waving hands. Gwendolyn, lips pouting, crossed toward the school-room door. The door was slightly ajar. She gave it a smart pull. A kneeling figure rose from behind it. It was Jane, who greeted her with a nervous, and somewhat apprehensive grin. "I was waitin' to jump out at Miss Royle and give her a scare when she'd come through," she explained. Gwendolyn said nothing. CHAPTER IV It was a morning abounding in unexpected good fortune. For one thing, Miss Royle was indisposed--to an extent that was fully convincing--and was lying down, brows swathed by a towel, in her own room; for another, the bursting of a hot-water pipe on the same floor as the nursery required the prompt attention of a man in a greasy cap and Johnnie Blake overalls, who, as he hammered and soldered and coupled lengths of piping with his wrench, discussed various grown-up topics in a loud voice with Jane, thus levying on _her_ attention. Miss Royle's temporary incapacity set aside the program of study usual to each forenoon; and Jane's suddenly aroused interest in plumbing made the canceling of that day's riding-lesson seem advisable. It was Thomas who telephoned the postponement. And Gwendolyn found herself granted some little time to herself. But she was not playing any of the games she loved--the absorbing pretend-games with which she occupied herself on just such rare occasions. Her own pleasure, her own disappointment, too,--these were entirely put aside in a concern touching weightier matters. Slippers upheld by a hassock, and slender pink-frocked figure bent across the edge of the school-room table, she had each elbow firmly planted on a page of the wide-open, dictionary. At all times the volume was beguiling--this in spite of the fact that the square of black-board always carried along its top, in glaring chalk, the irritating reminder: _Use Your Dictionary!_ There was diversion in turning the leaves at random (blissfully ignoring the while any white list that might be inscribed down the whole of the board) to chance upon big, strange words. But the word she was now poring over was a small one. "B-double-e," she spelled; "Bee: a so-cial hon-ey-gath-er-ing in-sect." She pondered the definition with wrinkled forehead and worried eye. "Social"--the word seemed vaguely linked with that other word, "Society", which she had so fortunately overheard. But what of the remainder of that visitor's never-to-be-forgotten declaration of scorn? For the definition had absolutely nothing to say about any _bonnet_. She was shoving the pages forward with an impatient damp thumb in her search for Bonnet, when Thomas entered, slipping in around the edge of the hall door on soft foot--with a covert peek nursery-ward that was designed to lend significance to his coming. His countenance, which on occasion could be so rigorously sober, was fairly askew with a smile. Gwendolyn stood up straight on the hassock to look at him. And at first glance divined that something--probably in the nature of an edible--might be expected. For the breast-pocket of his liveried coat bulged promisingly. "Hello!" he saluted, tiptoeing genially across the room. "Hello!" she returned noncommittally. Near the table, he reached into the bulging pocket and drew out a small Manila bag. The bag was partly open at the top. He tipped his head to direct one black eye upon its contents. "Say, Miss Gwendolyn," he began, "_you_ like old Thomas, don't you?" Gwendolyn's nostrils widened and quivered, receiving the tempting fragrance of fresh-roasted peanuts. At the same time, her eyes lit with glad surprise. Since her seventh anniversary, she had noted a vast change for the better in the attitude of Miss Royle, Thomas and Jane; where, previous to the birthday, it had seemed the main purpose of the trio (if not the duty) to circumvent her at every turn--to which end, each had a method that was unique: the first commanded; the second threatened; Thomas employed sarcasm or bribery. But now this wave of thoughtfulness, generosity and smooth speech!--marking a very era in the history of the nursery. Here was fresh evidence that it was _continuing_. Yet--was it not too good to last? "Why, ye-e-es," she answered, more than half guessing that this time bribery was in the air. But the fragrant bag resolved itself into a friendly offering. Thomas let it drop to the table. Casting her last doubt aside, Gwendolyn caught it up eagerly. Miss Royle never permitted her to eat peanuts, which lent to them all the charm of the forbidden. She cracked a pod; and fell to crunching merrily. "And you wouldn't like to see me go away, _would_ you now," went on Thomas. Her mouth being crammed, she shook her head cordially. "Ah! I thought so!" He tore the bag down the side so that she could more easily get at its store. Then, leaning down confidentially, and pointing a teasing finger at her, "Ha! Ha! Who was it got caught spyin' yesterday?" The small jaws ceased grinding. She lifted her eyes. Their gray was suddenly clouded--remembering what, for a moment, her joy in the peanuts had blotted out. "But I _wasn't_ spying," she denied earnestly. "Then what _was_ you doin'?--still as mice behind them curtains." The mist cleared. Her face sunned over once more. "I was waving at the nurse in the brick house," she explained. At that, up went Thomas's head. His mouth opened. His ears grew red. "The nurse in the brick house!" he repeated softly. "The one with the curly hair," went on Gwendolyn, cracking more pods. Thomas turned his face toward the side window of the school-room. Through it could be seen the chimneys of the brick house. He smacked his lips. "You like peanuts, too," said Gwendolyn. She proffered the bag. He ignored it. His look was dreamy. "There's a fine Pomeranian at the brick house," he remarked. "It was the first time I'd ever seen her," said Gwendolyn, with the nurse still in mind. "Doesn't she smile nice!" Now, Thomas waxed enthusiastic. "And she's a lot prettier close to," he declared, "than she is with a street between. Ah, you ought--" That moment, Jane entered, fairly darting in. "Here!" she called sharply to Gwendolyn. "What're you eatin'?" "Peanuts, Jane,"--perfect frankness being the rule when concealment was not possible. Jane came over. "And where'd you git 'em?" she demanded, promptly seizing the bag as contraband. "Thomas." Sudden suspicion flamed in Jane's red glance. "Oh, you must've did Thomas a _grand_ turn," she observed. Thomas shifted from foot to foot. "I was--er--um--just tellin' Miss Gwendolyn"--he winked significantly--"that she wouldn't like to lose us." "So?" said Jane, still sceptical. Then to Gwendolyn, after a moment's reflection. "Let me close up your dictionary for you, pettie. Jane never likes to see one of your fine books lyin' open that way. It might put a strain on the back." Emboldened by that cooing tone, Gwendolyn eyed the Manila bag covetously. "I didn't eat many," she asserted, gently argumentative. "Oh, a peanut or two won't hurt you, lovie," answered Jane, kneeling to present the bag. Then drawing the pink-frocked figure close, "And you _didn't_ tell him what them two ladies had to say?" "No." It was decisive, "I told him about--" "I didn't ask her," interrupted Thomas. "No; I talked about how she loves us. And a-course, she does.... Jane, ain't it near twelve?" But Gwendolyn had no mind to be held as a tattler. "I told him," she continued, husking peanuts busily, "about the nurse-maid at the brick house." Jane sat back. "Ah?" She flashed a glance at Thomas, still shifting about uneasily mid-way between table and door. Then, "What _about_ the nurse-maid, dearie?" It was Gwendolyn's turn to wax enthusiastic. "Oh, she has _such_ sweet hair!" she exclaimed. "And she smiles nice!" Jealousy hardened the freckled visage of the kneeling Jane. "And she's taken with you, I suppose," said she. "She threw me kisses," recounted Gwendolyn, crunching happily the while. "And, oh, Jane, some day may I go over to the brick house?" "Some day you may--_not_." Gwendolyn recognized the sudden change to belligerence; and foreseeing a possible loss of the peanuts, commenced to eat more rapidly. "Well, then," she persisted, "she could come over here." Jane stared. "What do you mean?" she demanded crossly. "And don't you go botherin' your poor father and mother about this strange woman. Do you _hear?_" "But she takes care of a rich little girl. I _know_--'cause there are bars on the basement windows. And Thomas says--" "Oh, _come_" broke in Thomas, urging Jane hallward with a nervous jerk of the head. "Ah!" Now complete understanding brought Jane to her feet. She fixed Thomas with blazing eyes. "And _what_ does Thomas say, darlin'?" Thomas waited. His ears were a dead white. "There's a Pomeranian at the brick house," went on Gwendolyn, "and the pretty nurse takes it out to walk. And--" "And Thomas is a-walkin' our Poms at the same time." Jane was breathing hard. "And he says she's lots prettier close to--" A bell rang sharply. Thomas sprang away. With a gurgle, Jane flounced after. The next moment Gwendolyn, from the hassock--upon which she had settled in comfort--heard a wrangle of voices: First, Jane's shrill accusing, "It was _you_ put it into her head!--to come--and take my place from under me--and the food out of my very mouth--and break my hear-r-r-rt!" Next, Thomas's sonorous, "Stuff and fiddle-sticks!" then sounds of lamentation, and the slamming of a door. The last peanut was eaten. As Gwendolyn searched out some few remaining bits from the crevices of the bag, she shook her yellow hair hopelessly. Truly there was no fathoming grown-ups! The morning which had begun so propitiously ended in gloom. At the noon dinner, Thomas looked harassed. He had set the table for one. That single plate, as well as the empty arm-chair so popular with Jane, emphasized the infestivity. As for the heavy curtains at the side window, which--as near as Gwendolyn could puzzle it out--were the cause of the late unpleasantness, these were closely drawn. Having already eaten heartily, Gwendolyn had little appetite. Furthermore, again she was turning over and over the direful statements made concerning her parents. She employed the dinner-hour in formulating a plan that was simple but daring--one that would bring quick enlightenment concerning the things that worried. Miss Royle was still indisposed. Jane was locked in her own room, from which issued an occasional low bellow. When Thomas, too, was out of the way--gone pantry-ward with tray held aloft--she would carry it out. It called for no great amount of time: no searching of the dictionary. She would close all doors softly; then fly to the telephone--_and call up her father_. There were times when Thomas--as well as the two others--seemed to possess the power of divination. And during the whole of the dinner his manner showed distinct apprehension. The meal concluded, even to the use of the finger-bowl, and all dishes disposed upon the tray, he hung about, puttering with the table, picking up crumbs and pins, dusting this article and that with a napkin,--all the while working his lips with silent speech, and drawing down and lifting his black eye-brows menacingly. Meanwhile, Gwendolyn fretted. But found some small diversion in standing before the pier glass, at which, between the shining rows of her teeth, she thrust out a tip of scarlet. She was thinking about the discussion anent tongues held by her mother and the two visitors. "Seven," she murmured, and viewed the greater part of her own tongue thoughtfully; "_seven_." The afternoon was a French-and-music afternoon. Directly after dinner might be expected the Gallic teacher--undesired at any hour. Thomas puttered and frowned until a light tap announced her arrival. Then quickly handed Gwendolyn over to her company. Mademoiselle Du Bois was short and spare. And these defects she emphasized by means of a wide hat and a long feather boa. She led Gwendolyn to the school-room. There she settled down in a low chair, opened a black reticule, took out a thick, closely written letter, and fell to reading. Gwendolyn amused herself by experimenting with the boa, which she festooned, now over one shoulder, now over the other. "Mademoiselle," she began, "what kind of a bird owned these feathers?" "Dear me, Mees Gwendolyn," chided Mademoiselle, irritably (she spoke with much precision and only a slight accent), "how you talk!" _Talk_--the word was a cue! Why not make certain inquiries of Mademoiselle? "But do little _birds_ ever talk?" returned Gwendolyn, undaunted. The boa was thin at one point. She tied a knot in it. "And which little bird is it that tells things to--to people?" Then, more to herself than to Mademoiselle, who was still deep in her letter, "I shouldn't wonder if it wasn't the little bird that's in the cuckoo clock, though--" "_Ma foil!_" exclaimed Mademoiselle. She seized an end of the boa and drew Gwendolyn to her knee. "You make ze head buzz. Come!" She reached for a book on the school-room table. "_Attendez!_" "Mademoiselle," persisted Gwendolyn, twining and untwining, "if I do my French fast will you tell me something? What does _nouveaux riches_ mean?" "_Nouveaux riches_," said Mademoiselle, "is not on ziss page. _Attendez-vous!_" Miss Brown followed Mademoiselle Du Bois, the one coming upon the heels of the other; so that a loud _crescendo_ from the nursery, announcing the arrival of the music-teacher, drowned the last paragraph of French. To Gwendolyn an interruption at any time was welcome. This day it was doubly so. She had learned nothing from Mademoiselle. But Miss Brown--She made toward the nursery, doing her newest dance step. Miss Brown was stocky, with a firm tread and an eye of decision. As Gwendolyn appeared, she was seated at the piano, her face raised (as if she were seeking out some spot on the ceiling), and her solid frame swaying from side to side in the ecstasy of performance. Up and down the key-board of the instrument her plump hands galloped. Gwendolyn paused beside the piano-seat. The air was vibrant with melody. The lifted face, the rocking, the ardent touch--all these inspired hope. The gray eyes were wide with eagerness. Each corner of the rosy mouth was upturned. The resounding notes of a march ended with a bang. Miss Brown straightened--got to her feet--smiled down. That smile gave Gwendolyn renewed encouragement. They were alone. She stood on tiptoe. "Miss Brown," she began, "did you ever hear of a--a bee that some ladies carry in a--" Miss Brown's smile of greeting went. "Now, Gwendolyn," she interrupted severely, "are you going to begin your usual silly, silly questions?" Gwendolyn fell back a step. "But I didn't ask you a silly question day before yesterday," she plead. "I just wanted to know how _any_body could call my German teacher Miss _French_." "Take your place, if you please," bade Miss Brown curtly, "and don't waste my time." She pointed a stubby finger at the piano-seat. Gwendolyn climbed up, her cheeks scarlet with wounded dignity, her breast heaving with a rancor she dared not express. "Do I have to play that old piece?" she asked. "You must,"--with rising inflection. "Up at Johnnie Blake's it sounded nice. 'Cause my moth-er--" "Ready!" Miss Brown set the metronome to _tick-tocking_. Then she consulted a watch. Gwendolyn raised one hand to her face, and gulped. "Come! Come! Put your fingers on the keys." "But my cheek itches." "Get your position, I say." Gwendolyn struck a spiritless chord. Miss Brown gone, Gwendolyn sought the long window-seat and curled up among its cushions--at the side which commanded the best view of the General. Straight before that martial figure, on the bridle-path, a man with a dump-cart and a shaggy-footed horse was picking up leaves. He used a shovel. And each time he raised it to shoulder-height and emptied it into his cart, a few of the leaves went whirling away out of reach--like frightened butterflies. But she had no time to pretend anything of the kind. A new and a better plan!--this was what she must prepare. For--heart beating, hands trembling from haste--she had _tried_ the telephone--_and found it dead to every Hello!_ But she was not discouraged. She was only balked. The talking bird, the bee her mother kept in a bonnet, her father's harness, and the candles that burned at both ends--if she had _only_ known about them that evening of her seventh anniversary! Ignoring Miss Royle's oft-repeated lesson that "Nice little girls do not ask questions," or "worry father and mother," how easy it would have been to say, "Fath-er, what little bird tells things about you?" and, "Moth-er, have you _really_ got a bee in your bonnet?" But--the questions could still be asked. She was balked only temporarily. She got down and crossed the room to the white-and-gold writing-desk. Two photographs in silver frames stood upon it, flanking the rose-embossed calendar at either side. She took them down, one at a time, and looked at them earnestly. The first was of her mother, taken long, long ago, before Gwendolyn was born. The oval face was delicately lovely and girlish. The mouth curved in a smile that was tender and sweet. The second photograph showed a clean-shaven, boyish young man in a rough business-suit--this was her father, when he first came to the city. His lips were set together firmly, almost determinedly. But his face was unlined, his dark eyes were full of laughter. Despite all the well-remembered commands Miss Royle had issued; despite Jane's oft-repeated threats and Thomas's warnings, [and putting aside, too, any thought of what punishment might follow her daring] Gwendolyn now made a firm resolution: _To see at least one of her parents immediately and alone_. As she set the photographs back in their places, she lifted each to kiss it. She kissed the smiling lips of the one, the laughing eyes of the other. CHAPTER V The crescent of the Drive, never without its pageant; the broad river thronged with craft; the high forest-fringed precipice and the houses that could be glimpsed beyond--all these played their part in Gwendolyn's pretend-games. She crowded the Drive with the soldiers of the General, rank upon rank of marching men whom he reviewed with pride, while his great bronze steed pranced tirelessly; and she, a swordless Joan of Arc in a three-cornered hat and smartly-tailored habit, pranced close beside to share all honors from the wide back of her own mettlesome war-horse. As for the river vessels, she took long pretend-journeys upon them--every detail of which she carefully carried out. The companions selected were those smiling friends that appeared at neighboring windows; or she chose hearty, happy laundresses from the roofs; adding, by way of variety, some small, bashful acquaintances made at the dancing-school of Monsieur Tellegen. But more often, imagining herself a Princess, and the nursery a prison-tower from the loop-holes of which she viewed the great, free world, she liked to people the boats out of stories that Potter had told her on rare, but happy, occasions. A prosaic down-traveling steamer became the wonderful ship of Ulysses, his seamen bound to smokestacks and railing, his prow pointed for the ocean whereinto the River crammed its deep flood. A smaller boat, smoking its way up-stream, changed into the fabled bark of a man by the name of Jason, and at the bow of this Argo sat Johnnie Blake, fish-pole over the side, feet dangling, line trailing, and a silvery trout spinning at the hook. A third boat, smaller still, and driven forward by oars, bore a sad, level-lying, white-clad figure--Elaine, dead through the plotting of cruel servants, and now rowed by the hoary dumb toward a peaceful mooring at the foot of some far timbered slope. In each of the houses across the wide river, she often established a pretend-home. Her father was with her always; her mother, too,--in a silken gown, with a jeweled chaplet on her head. But her household was always blissfully free of those whose chief design it was to thwart and terrify her--Miss Royle, Jane, Thomas; her teachers [as a body]; also, Policemen, Doctors and Bears. Old Potter was, of course, the pretend-butler. And Rosa, notwithstanding the fact that she had once been, while at Johnnie Blake's, the herald of a hated bed-time went as maid. Gwendolyn had often secretly coveted the Superintendent's residence in the Park (so that, instead of straggling along a concrete pavement at rare intervals, held captive by the hand that was in Jane's, she might always have the right to race willy-nilly across the grass--chase the tame squirrels to shelter--_even climb a tree_). But more earnestly did she covet a house beyond the precipice. Were there not trees there? and rocks? Without doubt there were Johnnie Blake glades as well--glades bright with flowers, and green with lacy ferns. For of these glades Gwendolyn had received proof: Following a sprinkle on a cool day, a light west wind brought a butterfly against a pane of the front window. When Gwendolyn raised the sash, the butterfly fluttered in, throwing off a jeweled drop as he came and alighted upon the dull rose and green of a flower in the border of the nursery rug. His wings were flat together and he was tipped to one side, like a skiff with tinted sails. But when the sails were dry, and parted once more, and sunlight had replaced shower, he launched forth from the pink landing-place of Gwendolyn's palm--and sped away and away, due west! But the view from the _side_ window! Beyond the line of step-houses, and beyond the buildings where the maids hung their wash, were roofs. They seemed to touch, to have no streets between them anywhere. They reached as far as Gwendolyn could see. They were all heights, all shapes, all varieties as to tops--some being level, others coming to a point at one corner, a few ending in a tower. One tower, which was square, and on the outer-most edge of the roofs, had a clock in its summit. When night settled, a light sprang up behind the clock--a great, round light that was like a single shining eye. She did not know the proper name for all those acres of roof. But Jane called them Down-Town. At all times they were fascinating. Of a winter's day the snow whitened them into beauty. The rain washed them with its slanting down-pour till their metal sheeting glistened as brightly as the sides of the General's horse. The sea-fog, advanced by the wind, blotted out all but the nearest, wrapped these in torn shrouds, and heaped itself about the dun-breathed chimneys like the smoke of a hundred fires. She loved the roofs far more than Drive or River or wooded expanse; more because they meant so much--and that without her having to do much pretending. For across them, in some building which no one had ever pointed out to her, in a street through which she had never driven, was her father's office! She herself often selected the building he was in, placing him first in one great structure, then in another. Whenever a new one rose, as it often did, there she promptly moved his office. Once for a whole week he worked directly under the great glowing eye of the clock. Just now she was standing at the side window of the nursery looking away across the roofs. The fat old gentleman at the gray-haired house was sponging off the rubber-plant, and waving the long green leaves at her in greeting. Gwendolyn feigned not to see. Her lips were firmly set. A scarlet spot of determination burned round either dimple. Her gray eyes smouldered darkly--with a purpose that was unswerving. "I'm just going down there!" she said aloud. _Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!_ It was Miss Royle, entering. Though Saturday was yet two days away, the governess was preparing to go out for the afternoon, and was busily engaged in drawing on her gloves, her glance alternating between her task and the time-piece on the school-room mantel. "Gwendolyn dear," said she, "you can have such a _lovely_ long pretend-game between now and supper, _can't_ you?" Gwendolyn moved her head up and down in slow assent. Doing so, she rubbed the tip of her nose against the smooth glass. The glass was cool. She liked the feel of it. "You can travel!" enthused Miss Royle. "And _where_ do you think you'll go?" The gray eyes were searching the tiers of windows in a distant granite pile. "Oh, Asia, I guess," answered Gwendolyn, indifferently. (She had lately reviewed the latter part of her geography.) "Asia? Fine! And how will you travel, darling? In your sweet car?" A pause. Miss Royle was habitually honeyed in speech and full of suggestions when she was setting out thus. She deceived no one. Yet--it was just as well to humor her. "Oh, I'll ride a musk-ox. Or"--picking at random from the fauna of the world--"or a llama, or a'--a' el'phunt." She rubbed her nose so hard against the glass that it gave out a squeaking sound. "Then off you go!" and, _Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!_ Gwendolyn whirled. This was the moment, if ever, to make her wish known--to assert her will. With a running patter of slippers, she cut off Miss Royle's progress. "That tall building 'way, 'way down on the sky," she panted. "Yes, dear?"--with a simper. "Is _that_ where my father is?" The smirk went. Miss Royle stared down. "Er--why?" she asked. "'Cause"--the other's look was met squarely--"'cause I'm going down there to see him." "Ah!" breathed the governess. "I'm going to-day," went on Gwendolyn, passionately. "I want to!" Her lips trembled. "There's something--" "Something you want to tell him, dear?"--purringly. Confusion followed boldness. Gwendolyn dropped her chin, and made reply with an inarticulate murmur. "Hm!" coughed Miss Royle. (Her _hms_ invariably prepared the way for important pronouncements.) Gwendolyn waited--for all the familiar arguments: I can't let you go until you're sent for, dear; Your papa doesn't want to be bothered; and, This is probably his busy day. Instead, "Has anyone ever told you about that street, Gwennie?" "No,"--still with lowered glance. "Well, I wouldn't go down into it if _I_ were you." The tone was full of hidden meaning. There was a moment's pause. Then, "Why _not?_" asked Gwendolyn, back against the door. The question was put as a challenge. She did not expect an answer. An answer came, however. "Well, I'll tell you: The street is full of--bears." Gwendolyn caught her hands together in a nervous grasp. All her life she had heard about bears--and never any good of them. According to Miss Royle and Jane, these dread animals--who existed in all colors, and in nearly all climes--made it their special office to eat up little girls who disobeyed. She knew where several of the beasts were harbored--in cages at the Zoo, from where they sallied at the summons of outraged nurses and governesses. But as to their being Down-Town--! She lifted a face tense with earnestness "Is it _true?_" she asked hoarsely. "My dear," said Miss Royle, gently reproving, "ask _any_body." Gwendolyn reflected. Thomas was freely given to exaggeration. Jane, at times, resorted to bald falsehood. But Gwendolyn had never found reason to doubt Miss Royle. She moved aside. The governess turned to the school-room mirror to take a peep at her poke, and slung the chain of her hand-bag across her arm. Then, "I'll be home early," she said pleasantly. And went out by the door leading into the nursery. Bears! Gwendolyn stood bewildered. Oh, _why_ were the Zoo bears in her father's street? Did it mean that he was in danger? The thought sent her toward the nursery door. As she went she glanced back over a shoulder uneasily. Close to the door she paused. Miss Royle was not yet gone, for there was a faint rustling in the next room. And Gwendolyn could hear the quick _shoo-ish, shoo-ish, shoo-ish_ of her whispering, like the low purl of Johnnie Blake's trout-stream. Presently, silence. Gwendolyn went in. She found Jane standing in the center of the room, mouth puckered soberly, reddish eyes winking with disquiet, apprehension in the very set of her heavy shoulders. The sight halted Gwendolyn, and filled her with misgivings. Had _Jane_ just heard? When it came time to prepare for the afternoon motor-ride, Gwendolyn tested the matter--yet without repeating Miss Royle's dire statement. "Let's go past where my fath-er's office is to-day," she proposed. And tried to smile. Jane was tucking a small hand through a coat-sleeve. "Well, dearie," she answered, with a sigh and a shake of her red head, "you couldn't hire _me_ to go into that street. And I wouldn't like to see _you_ go." Gwendolyn paled. "Bears?" she asked. "_Truly?_" Jane made big eyes. Then turning the slender little figure carefully about, "Gwendolyn, lovie, _Jane_ thinks you'd better give the idear up." So it was true! Jane--who was happiest when standing in opposition to others; who was certain to differ if a difference was possible--Jane had borne it out! Moreover, she was frightened! For Gwendolyn was leaning against the nurse. And she could feel her shaking! Oh, how one terrible thing followed another! Gwendolyn felt utterly cast down. And the ride in the swift-flying car only increased her dejection. For she did not even have the entertainment afforded by Thomas's enlivening company. He stayed beside the chauffeur--as he had, indeed, ever since the memorable feast of peanuts--and avoided turning his haughty black head. Jane was morose. Now and then, for no apparent reason, she sniffled. Gwendolyn's mind was occupied by a terrifying series of pictures that Miss Royle's declaration called up. The central figure of each picture was her father, his safety threatened. Arrived home, she resolved upon still another course of action. She was forced to give up visiting her father at his office. But she would steal down to the grown-up part of the house--at a time _other_ than the dinner-hour--that very night! Evening fell, and she was not asked to appear in the great dining-room. That strengthened her determination. However, to give a hint of it would be folly. So, while Miss Royle picked at a chop and tittered over copious draughts of tea, and Thomas chattered unrebuked, she ate her supper in silence. Ordinarily she rebelled at being undressed. She was not sleepy. Or she wanted to watch the Drive. Or she did not believe it was seven--there was something wrong with the clock. But supper over, and seven o'clock on the strike, she went willingly to bed. When Gwendolyn was under the covers, and all the shades were down, Jane stepped into the school-room, leaving the door slightly ajar. She snapped on the lights above the school-room table. Then Gwendolyn heard the crackling of a news-paper. She lay thinking. Why had she not been asked to the great dining-room? At seven her father--if all were well--should be sitting down to his dinner. But was he ill to-night? or hurt? A half-hour dragged past. Jane left her paper and tiptoed into the nursery. Gwendolyn did not speak or move. When the nurse approached the bed and looked down, Gwendolyn shut her eyes. Jane tiptoed out, closing the door behind her. A moment later Gwendolyn heard another door open and shut, then the rumble of a man's deep voice, and the shriller tones of a woman. The chorus of indistinct voices made Gwendolyn sleepy. She found her eyelids drooping in spite of herself. That would never do! To keep herself awake, she got up cautiously, put on her slippers and dressing-gown, stole to the front window, climbed upon the long seat, and drew aside the shade--softly. The night was moonless. Clouds hid the stars. The street lamps disclosed the crescent of the Drive only dimly. Beyond the Drive the river stretched like a smooth wide ribbon of black satin. It undulated gently. Upon the dark water of the farther edge a procession of lights laid a fringe of gold. There were other lights--where, beyond the precipice, stood the forest houses; where moored boats rocked at a landing-place up-stream; and on boats that were plying past. A few lights made star-spots on the cliff-side. But most brilliant of all were those forming the monster letters of words. These words Gwendolyn did not pronounce. For Miss Royle, whenever she chanced to look out and see them, said "Shameful!" or "What a disgrace!" or "Abominable!" And Gwendolyn guessed that the words were wicked. As she knelt, peering out, sounds from city and river came up to her. There was the distant roll of street-cars, the warning; _honk! honk!_ of an automobile, the scream of a tug; and lesser sounds--feet upon the sidewalk under the window, low laughter from the dim, tree-shaded walk. She wondered about her father. Suddenly there rose to her window a long-drawn cry. She recognized it--the high-keyed, monotonous cry of a man who often hurried past with a bundle of newspapers under his arm. Now it startled her. It filled her with foreboding. "Uxtra! Uxtra! A-a-all about the lubble-lubble-lubble in ump Street!" Street! _What_ street? Gwendolyn strained her ears to catch the words. What if it were the street where her fath-- "Uxtra! Uxtra!" cried the voice again. It was nearer, yet the words were no clearer. "A-a-all about the lubble-lubble-lubble in ump Street!" He passed. His cry died in the distance. Gwendolyn let the window-shade go back into place very gently. To prepare properly for her trip downstairs meant running the risk of discovery. She tiptoed noiselessly to the school-room door. There she listened. Thomas's deep voice was still rumbling on. Punctuating it regularly was a sniffle. And the key-hole showed a spot of glinting red--Jane's hair. Gwendolyn left the school-room door for the one opening on the hall. In the hall were shaded lights. Light streamed up the bronze shaft. Gwendolyn put her face against the scrolls and peered down. The cage was far below. And all was still. The stairs wound their carpeted length before her. She slipped from one step to another warily, one hand on the polished banisters to steady herself, the other carrying her slippers. At the next floor she stopped before crossing the hall--to peer back over a shoulder, to peer ahead down the second flight. Outside the high carved door of the library she stopped and put on the slippers. And she could not forbear wishing that she knew which was really her best foot, so that she might put it forward. But there was no time for conjectures. She bore down with both hands on the huge knob, and pressed her light weight against the panels. The heavy door swung open. She stole in. The library had three windows that looked upon the side street. These windows were all set together, the middle one being built out farther than the other two, so as to form an embrasure. Over against these windows, in the shallow bow they formed, was a desk, of dark wood, and glass-topped. It was scattered with papers and books. Before it sat her father. The moment her eyes fell upon him she realized that she had not come any too soon. For his shoulders were bent as from a great weight. His head was bowed. His face was covered by his hands. She went forward swiftly. When she was between the desk and the windows she stopped, but did not speak. She kept her gray eyes on those shielding hands. Presently he sighed, straightened on his chair, and looked at her. For one instant Gwendolyn did not move--though her heart beat so wildly that it stirred the lace ruffles of her dressing-gown. Then, remembering dancing instructions, she curtsied. A smile softened the stern lines of her father's mouth. It traveled up his cheeks in little ripples, and half shut his tired eyes. He put out a hand. "Why, hello, daughter," he said wearily, but fondly. She felt an almost uncontrollable desire to throw out her arms to him, to clasp his neck, to cry, "Oh, daddy! daddy! I don't want them to hurt you!" But she conquered it, her underlip in her teeth, and put a small hand in his outstretched one gravely. "I--I heard the man calling," she began timidly. "And I--I thought maybe the bears down in your street--" "Ah, the bears!" He gave a bitter laugh. So Miss Royle had told the truth! The hand in his tightened its hold. "Have the bears ever frightened _you?_" she asked, her voice trembling. He did not answer at once, but put his head on one side and looked at her--for a full half-minute. Then he nodded. "Yes," he said; "yes, dear,--once or twice." She had planned to spy out at least a strap of the harness he wore; to examine closely what sort of candles, if any, he burned in the seclusion of the library. Now she forgot to do either; could not have seen if she had tried. For her eyes were swimming, blinding her. She swayed nearer him. "If--if you'd take Thomas along on your car," she suggested chokingly. "He hunted el'phunts once, and--and _I_ don't need him." Her father rose. He was not looking at her--but away, beyond the bowed windows, though the shades of these were drawn, the hangings were in place. And, "No!" he said hoarsely; "not yet! I'm not through fighting them _yet!_" "Daddy!" Fear for him wrung the cry from her. His eyes fell to her upturned face. And as if he saw the terror there, he knelt, suddenly all concern. "Who told you about the bears, Gwendolyn?"--with a note of displeasure. "Miss Royle." "That was wrong--she shouldn't have done it. There are things a little girl can't understand." His eyes were on a level with her brimming ones. The next moment--"Gwendolyn! _Gwen_dolyn! Oh, where's that child!" The voice was Jane's. She was pounding her way down the stairs. Before Gwendolyn could put a finger to his lips to plead for silence, "Here, Jane," he called, and stood up once more. Jane came in, puffing with her haste. "Oh, thank you, sir," she cried. "It give me _such_ a turn, her stealin' off like that! Madam doesn't like her to be up late, as she well knows. And I'll be blamed for this, sir, though I take pains to follow out Madam's orders exact," She seized Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn, eyes dry now, and defiant, pulled back with all the strength of her slender arm. "Oh, fath-er!" she plead. "Oh, _please_, I don't want to go!" "Why! Why! Why!" It was reproval; but tender reproval, mixed with mild amazement. "Oh, I want to tell you something," cried Gwendolyn. "Let me stay just a _minute_." "That's just the way she acts, sir, whenever it's bed-time," mourned Jane. He leaned to lift Gwendolyn's chin gently. "Father thinks she'd better go now," he said quietly. "And she's not to worry her blessed baby head any more." Then he kissed her. The kiss, the knowledge that strife was futile, the sadness of parting--these brought the great sobs. She went without resisting, but stumbling a little; the back of one hand was laid against her streaming eyes. Half a flight up the stairs, Jane turned her right about at a bend. Then she dropped the hand to look over the banisters. And through a blur of tears saw her father watching after her, his shoulders against the library door. He threw a kiss. Then another bend of the staircase hid his upturned face. CHAPTER VI Gwendolyn was lying on her back in the middle of the nursery floor. The skein of her flaxen hair streamed about her shoulders in tangles. Her head being unpillowed, her face was pink--and pink, too, with wrath. Her blue-and-white frock was crumpled. She was kicking the rug with both heels. It was noon. And Miss Royle was having her dinner. Her face, usually so pale, was dark with anger--held well in check. Her expression was that of one who had recently suffered a scare, and her faded eyes shifted here and there uneasily. Thomas, too, looked apprehensive as he moved between table and tray. Jane was just gone, showing, as she disappeared, lips nervously pursed, and a red, roving glance that betokened worry. Gwendolyn, watching out from under the arm that rested across her forehead, realized how her last night's breach of authority had impressed each one of them. And secretly rejoicing at her triumph, she kept up a brisk tattoo. Miss Royle ignored her. "I'll take a little more chocolate, Thomas," she said, with a fair semblance of calm. But cup and saucer rattled in her hand. Thomas, too, feigned indifference to the rat! tat! tat! of heels. He bent above the table attentively. And to Gwendolyn was wafted down a sweet aroma. "Thank you," said Miss Royle. "And cake, _too?_ Splendid! How did you manage it?" A knife-edge cut against china. She helped herself generously. Gwendolyn fell silent to listen. "Well, I haven't Mr. Potter to thank," said Thomas, warmly; "only my own forethoughtedness, as you might say. The first time I ever set eyes on it I seen it was the kind that'd keep, so--" From under the shielding arm Gwendolyn blinked with indignation. _Her birthday cake!_ "Say, Miss Royle," chuckled Thomas, replenishing the chocolate cup, "that was a' _awful_ whack you give Miss J--last night." At once Gwendolyn forgot the wrong put upon her in the matter of the cake--in astonishment at this new turn of affairs. Evidently Miss Royle and Thomas were leagued against Jane! The governess nodded importantly, "She _was_ only a cook before she came here," she declared contemptuously. "Down at the Employment Agency, where Madam got her, they said so. The common, two-faced thing!" This last was said with much vindictiveness. Following it, she proffered Thomas the cake-plate. "Thanks," said he; "I don't mind if I do have a slice." Now, of a sudden, wrath and resentment possessed Gwendolyn, sweeping her like a wave--at seeing her cake portioned out; at having her kicking ignored; at hearing these two openly abuse Jane. "I want some strawberries," she stormed, pounding the rug full force. "And an egg. I _won't_ eat dry bread!" Bang! Bang! Bang! Miss Royle half-turned. "Did you ask to go down to the library?" she inquired. She seemed totally undisturbed; yet her eyes glittered. "Did she ask?" snorted Thomas. "She's gettin' very forward, she is." "No, you knew better," went on Miss Royle. "You _knew_ I wouldn't permit you to bother your father when he didn't want you--" "He _did_ want me!"--choking with a sob. "Think," resumed the governess, inflecting her tones eloquently, "of the fortune he spends on your dresses, and your pony, and your beautiful car! And he hires all of us"--she swept a gesture--"to wait on you, you naughty girl, and try to make a little lady out of you--" "I hate ladies!" cried Gwendolyn, rapping her heels by way of emphasis. "Tale-bearing is _vulgar_," asserted Miss Royle. "Next year I'm going to _day_-school like Johnnie _Blake!_" "Oh, hush your nonsense!" commanded Thomas, irritably. Miss Royle glanced up at him. "That will do," she snapped. He bridled up. "What the little imp needs is a good paddlin'," he declared. "Well, _you_ have nothing to do with the disciplining of the child. That is _my_ business." "It's what she needs, all the same. The very idear of her bawlin' all the mornin' at the top of her lungs--" "I did _not_ at the top of my lungs," contradicted Gwendolyn. "I cried with my mouth." "--So's the whole house can hear," continued Thomas; "and beatin' about the floor. It's clear shameful, _I_ say, and enough to give a sensitive person the nerves. As I remarked to Jane only---" "You remark too many things to Jane," interposed the governess, curtly. Now he sobered. "I _hope_ you ain't displeased with me," he ventured. "_Ain't_ displeased?" repeated Miss Royle, more than ever fretful. "Oh, Thomas, _do_ stop murdering the King's English!" At that Gwendolyn sat up, shook back her hair, and raised a startled face to the row of toys in the glass-fronted case. Murdering the King's English! Had he _dared_ to harm her soldier with the scarlet coat? "I was urgin' your betterin', too, Miss Royle," reminded Thomas, gently. "I says to Jane, I says--" The soldier was in his place, safe. Relieved, Gwendolyn straightened out once more on her back. "--'The whole lot of us ought to be paid higher wages than we're gettin' for it's a real trial to have to be under the same roof with such a provokin'--'" Miss Royle interrupted by vigorously bobbing her head. "Oh, that I have to make my living in this way!" she exclaimed, voice deep with mournfulness. "I'd rather wash dishes! I'd rather scrub floors! I'd rather _star-r-ve!_" Something in the vehemence, or in the cadence, of Miss Royle's declaration again gave Gwendolyn that sense of triumph. With a sudden curling up of her small nose, she giggled. Miss Royle whirled with a rustle of silk skirts. "Gwendolyn," she said threateningly, "if you're going to act like that, I shall know there's something the matter with you, and I shall certainly call a doctor." Gwendolyn lay very still. As Thomas glanced down at her, smirking exultantly, her smile went, and the pink of wrath once more surged into her face. "And the doctor'll give nasty medicine," declared Thomas, "or maybe he'll cut out your appendix!" "Potter won't let him." "Potter! Huh!--He'll cut out your appendix, and charge your papa a thousand dollars. Oh, you bet, them that's naughty always pays the piper." Gwendolyn got to her feet. "I _won't_ pay the piper," she retorted. "I'm going to give all my money to the hand-organ man--_all_ of it. I like _him_," tauntingly. "But I hate--you." "_We_ hate a sneak," observed Miss Royle, blandly. The little figure went rigid. "And I hate _you_," she cried shrilly. Then buried her face in her hands. "_Gwen-do-lyn'!_" It was a solemn and horrified warning. Gwendolyn turned and walked slowly toward the window-seat. Her breast was heaving. "Come back and sit in this chair," bade the governess. Gwendolyn paused, but did not turn. "Shall I fetch you?" "Can't I even look out of the window?" burst forth Gwendolyn. "Oh, you--you--you--" (she yearned to say Snake-in-the--grass!--yet dared not) "you mean! _mean!_" Her voice rose to a scream. Miss Royle stood up. "I see that you want to go to bed," she declared. The torrent of Gwendolyn's anger and resentment surged and broke bounds. She pivoted, arms tossing, face aflame. There were those wicked words across the river that each night burned themselves upon the dark. She had never pronounced them aloud before; but-- "Starch!" she shrilled, stamping a foot, "Villa sites! Borax! _Shirts!_" Miss Royle gave Thomas a worried stare. He, in turn, fixed her with a look of alarm. So much Gwendolyn saw before she flung herself down again, sobbing aloud, but tearlessly, her cheek upon the rug. She heard Miss Royle rustle toward the school-room; heard Thomas close the door leading into the hall. There were times--the nursery had seen a few--when the trio found it well to let her severely alone. Now only a hoarse lamenting broke the quiet. It was an hour later when some one tapped on the school-room door--Miss French, doubtless, since it was her allotted time. The lamentations swelled then--and grew fainter only when the last foot-fall died away on the stairs. Then Gwendolyn slept. Awakening, she lay and watched out through the upper panes of the front window. Across the square of serene blue framed by curtains and casing, small clouds were drifting--clouds dazzlingly white. She pretended the clouds were fat, snowy sheep that were passing one by one. Thus had snowy flocks crossed above the trout-stream. Oh? where was that stream? the glade through which it flowed? the shingled cottage among the trees? With all her heart Gwendolyn wished she were a butterfly. Suddenly she sat up. She had found her way alone to the library. Why not put on hat and coat _and go to Johnnie Blake's?_ She was at the door of the wardrobe before she remembered the kidnapers, and realized that she dared not walk out alone. But Potter liked the country. Besides, he knew the way. She decided to ask him to go with her--old and stooped though he was. Perhaps she would also take the pretty nurse-maid at the corner. And those who were left behind--Miss Royle and Thomas and Jane--would all be sorry when she was gone. But let them fret! Let them weep, and wish her back! She-- That moment she caught sight of the photographs on the writing-desk. She stood still to look at them. As she looked, both pictured faces gradually dimmed. For tears had come at last--at the thought of leaving father and mother--quiet tears that flowed in erratic little S's between gray eyes and trembling mouth. How could she forsake _them?_ "Gwendolyn," she half-whispered, "s'pose we just pu-play the Johnnie Blake Pretend ... Oh, very well,"--this last with all of Miss Royle's precise intonation. The heavy brocade hangings were the forest trees. The piano was the mountain, richly inlaid. The table was the cottage, and she rolled it nearer the dull rose timber at the side window. The rug was the grassy, flowery glade; its border, the stream that threaded the glade. Beyond the stream twisted an unpaved and carefully polished road. The first part of this particular Pretend was the drive to the village--carved and enameled, and paneled with woven cane. A hassock did duty for a runabout that had no top to shut out the sun-light, no windows to bar the fragrant air. In front of the hassock, a pillow did duty as a stout dappled pony. Her father drove. And she sat beside him, holding on to the iron bar of the runabout seat with one hand, to a corner of his coat with the other; for not only were the turns sharp but the country road was uneven. The sun was just rising above the forest, and it warmed her little back. The fresh breeze caressed her cheeks into crimson, and swirled her hair about the down-sloping rim of her wreath-encircled hat. That breeze brought with it the perfume of opening flowers, the fragrance exhaled by the trees along the way, the essence of the damp ground stirred by hoof and wheel. Gwendolyn breathed through nostrils swelled to their widest. Following the drive to the village came the trip up the stream to trout-pools. Gwendolyn's father led the way with basket and reel. She trotted at his heels. And beside Gwendolyn trotted Johnnie Blake. The piano-seat was Johnnie. His eyes were blue, and full of laughter. His small nose was as freckled as Jane's. His brown hair disposed itself in several rough heaps, as if it had been winnowed by a tiny whirlwind. "Good-morning," said Gwendolyn, curtseying. "Hello!" returned Johnnie--while Gwendolyn smiled at herself in the pier-glass. Johnnie carried a long willow fishing-pole cut from the stream-side. Reel he had none, nor basket; and he did not own a belted outing-suit of hunter's-green, and high buckled boots. He wore a plaid gingham waist, starched so stiff that its round collar stood up and tickled his ears. His hat was of straw, and somewhat ragged. His brown jeans overalls, riveted and suspendered, reached to bare ankles fully as brown. The overalls were provided with three pockets. Bulging one was his round tin drinking-cup which was full of worms. "Are there p'liceman in these woods?" inquired Gwendolyn. "Nope," said Johnnie. "Are there bears?" "Nope." "Are there doctors?" "Nope. But there's snakes--some." "Oh, I'm not afraid of snakes. I've got one at home. It's long and black, and it's got a wooden tongue." "'Fraid to go barefoot?" "Oh, I wish I could!" Here she glanced over a shoulder toward the school-room; then toward the hall. Did she dare? "Well, you're little yet," explained Johnnie. "But just you wait till you grow up." "Are--are _you_ grown-up?"--a trifle doubtfully. "Of _course_, I'm grown up! Why, I'm _seven_." Whereat she strode up and down, hands on hips, in feeble imitation of Johnnie. But here the inclination for further make-believe died utterly--at a point where, usually, Johnnie threw back his head with a triumphant laugh, gave a squirrel-like leap into the air (from the top of the nursery table), caught the lower branch of a tall, slim tree (the chandelier), and swung himself to and fro with joyous abandon. For Gwendolyn suddenly remembered the cruel truth borne out by the ink-line on the pier-glass. And instead of climbing upon the table, she went to stand in front of her writing-desk. "I was seven my last birthday," she murmured, looking up at the rose-embossed calendar. Seven, and grown-up--and yet everything was just the same! She went to the front window and knelt on the cushioned seat. Across the river red smoke was pouring up from those chimneys on the water's edge that were assuredly a mile high. Red smoke meant that evening was approaching. Jane would enter soon. With two in the nursery, the advantage was for her who did not have to make the overtures of peace. She turned her back to the room. Jane came. She drew the heavy curtains at the side window and busied herself in the vicinity of the bed, moving about quietly, saying not a word. Presently she went out. Gwendolyn faced round. The bed was arranged for the night. At its head, on the small table, was a glass of milk, a sandwich, a cup of broth, a plate of cooked fruit. The western sky faded--to gray, to deep blue, to jade. The river flowed jade beneath. Along it the lights sprang up. Then came the stars. Gwendolyn worked at the buttons of her slippers. The tears were falling again; but not tears of anger or resentment--only of loneliness, of yearning. The little white-and-blue frock fastened down the front. She undid it, weeping softly the while, found her night-dress, put it on and climbed into bed. The food was close at hand. She did not touch it. She was not hungry, only worn with her day-long combat. She lay back among the pillows. And as she looked up at the stars, each sent out gay little flashes of light to every side. "Oh, moth-er!" she mourned. "Everybody hates me! Everybody hates me!" Then came a comforting thought: She would play the Dearest Pretend! It was easy to make believe that a girlish figure was seated in the dark beside the bed; that a tender face was bending down, a gentle hand touching the troubled forehead, stroking the tangled hair. "Oh, I want you all the time, moth-er!... And I want _you_, my precious baby.... How much do you love me, moth-er?... Love you?--oh, big as the sky!... Dear moth-er, may I eat at the grown-up table?... All the time, sweetheart.... Goody! And we'll just let Miss Royle eat with Jane and--" She caught a stealthy _rustle! rustle! rustle!_ from the direction of the hall. She spoke more low then, but continued to chatter, her pretend-conversation, loving, confidential, and consoling. Finally, "Moth-er," she plead, "will you please sing?" She sang. Her voice was husky from crying. More than once it quavered and broke. But the song was one she had heard in the long, raftered living-room at Johnnie Blake's. And it soothed. "Oh, it is not while beauty and youth are thine o-o-own, And thy cheek is unstained by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul can be kno-o-own--" It grew faint. It ended--in a long sigh. Then one small hand in the gentle make-believe grasp of another, she slept. CHAPTER VII Miss Royle looked sober as she sipped her orange-juice. And she cut off the top of her breakfast egg as noiselessly as possible. Her directions to Thomas, she half-whispered, or merely signaled them by a wave of her coffee-spoon. Now and then she glanced across the room to the white-and-gold bed. Then she beamed fondly. As for Thomas, he fairly stole from tray to table, from table to tray, his face all concern. Occasionally, if his glance followed Miss Royle's, he smiled--a broad, sympathetic smile. And Jane was subdued and solicitous. She sat beside the bed, holding a small hand--which from time to time she patted encouragingly. After the storm, calm. The more tempestuous the storm, the more perfect the calm. This was the rule of the nursery. Gwendolyn, lying among the pillows, wished she could always feel weak and listless. It made everyone so kind. "Thomas," said Miss Royle, as she folded her napkin and rustled to her feet, "you may call up the Riding School and say that Miss Gwendolyn will not ride to-day." "Yes, ma'am." "And, Jane, you may go out for the morning. I shall stay here." "Thanks," acknowledged Jane, in a tone quite unusual for her. She did not rise, however, but waited, striving to catch Thomas's eye. "And, Thomas," went on the governess, "when would _you_ like an hour?" Thomas advanced with a bow of appreciation. "If it's all the same to you, Miss Royle," said he, "I'll have a bit of an airin' directly after supper this evenin'." Jane glared. "Very well." Miss Royle rustled toward the school-room, taking a survey of herself in the pier-glass as she went. "Jane," she added, "you will be free to go in half an hour." She threw Gwendolyn a loud kiss. Thomas was directing his attention to the clearing of the breakfast-table. The moment the door closed behind the governess, Jane shot up from her chair and advanced upon him. "You ain't treatin' me fair," she charged, speaking low, but breathing fast. "You ain't takin' your hours off duty along with me no more. You're givin' me the cold shoulder." At that, Gwendolyn turned her head to look. Of late, she had heard not a few times of Thomas's cold shoulder--this in heated encounters between him and Jane. She wondered which of his shoulders was the cold one. Thomas lifted his upper lip in a sneer. "Indeed!" he replied. "I'm not treatin' you fair? Well," (with meaning) "I didn't think you was botherin' your head about anybody--except a certain policeman." Back jerked Jane's chin. "Can't I have a gentleman friend?" she demanded defensively. "Ha! ha! Gentleman friend!" Then, addressing no one in particular, "My! but don't a uniform take a woman's eye!" "Why, Thomas!" It was a sorrowful protest. "You misjudge, you really _do_." So far there was no fresh element in the misunderstanding. Thus the two argued time and again. Gwendolyn almost knew their quarrel by heart. But now Thomas came round upon Jane with a snarl. "You're not foolin' me," he declared. "Don't you think I know that policeman's heels over head?" He shook his crumb-knife at her. "_Heels over head!_" Then seizing the tray and swinging it up, he stalked out. Jane fell to pacing the floor. Her reddish eyes roved angrily. Heels over head! Gwendolyn, pondering, now watched the nurse, now looked across to where, on its shelf, was poised the toy somersault man. If one of the uniformed men she dreaded was heels over head-- "But, Jane." "Well? Well?" "I saw the p'liceman walking on his feet _yesterday_." "Hush your silly talk!" Gwendolyn hushed, her gray eyes wistful, her mouth drooping. The morning had been so peaceful. Now Jane had spoken the first rough word. Peace returned with Miss Royle, who came in with the morning paper, dismissed Jane, and settled down in the upholstered chair, silver-rimmed spectacles on nose. The brocade hangings of the front window were only partly drawn. Between them, Gwendolyn made out more of those fat sheep straying down the azure field of the sky. She lay very still and counted them; and, counting, slept, but restlessly, with eyes only half-shut and nervous starts. Awakening at noon the listlessness was gone, and she felt stronger. Her eyes were bright, too. There was a faint color in cheeks and lips. "Miss Royle!" "Yes, darling?" The governess leaned forward attentively. "I can understand why you call Thomas a footman. It's 'cause he runs around so much on his feet--" "You're better," said Miss Royle. She turned her paper inside out. "But one day you said he was all ears, and--" "Gwendolyn!" Miss Royle stared down over her glasses. "Never repeat what you hear me say, love. It's tattling, and tattling is ill-bred. Now, what can I give you?" Gwendolyn wanted a drink of water. When Thomas appeared with the dinner-tray, he gave an impressive wag of the head. "_What_ do you think I've got for you?" he asked--while Miss Royle propped Gwendolyn to a sitting position. Gwendolyn did not try to guess. She was not interested. She had no appetite. Thomas brought forward a silver dish. "It's a bird!" he announced, and lifted the cover. Gwendolyn looked. It was a small bird, richly browned. A tiny sprig of parsley garnished it on either side. A ribbon of bacon lay in crisp flutings across it. Its short round legs were up-thrust. On the end of each was a paper frill. "_Don't_ it look delicious!" said Thomas warmly. "Don't it tempt!" But Gwendolyn regarded it without enthusiasm. "What kind of a bird is it?" she asked. Thomas displayed a second dish--Bermuda potatoes the size of her own small fist. "Who knows?" said he. "It might be a robin, it might be a plover, it might be a quail." "It might be a--a talking-bird," said Gwendolyn. She poked the bird with a fork. "Not likely," declared Thomas. Gwendolyn turned away. "Ain't it to your likin'?" asked Thomas, surprised. He did not take the plate at once, in his usual fashion. "I--I don't want anything," she declared. "Oh, but maybe you'd fancy an egg." Gwendolyn took a glass of water. "It's just as well," said Miss Royle. When she resigned her place presently, she talked to Jane in undertones,--so that Gwendolyn could hear only disconnectedly: "...Think it would be the safest thing ... she gets any worse.... Never do, Jane ... find out by themselves.... She won't be home till late to-night ... some grand affair. But he ... though of course I'm sorry to have to." The moment Miss Royle was well away, Jane had a plan. "_I_ think you're gittin' on so fine that you can hop up and dress," she declared, noting how the gray eyes sparkled, and how pink were the round spots on Gwendolyn's cheeks. Gwendolyn had nothing to say. Jane ran to the wardrobe and took out a dress. It was a new one, of cream-white wool; and on a sleeve, as well as on the corners of the sailor collar and the tips of the broad tie, scarlet anchors were embroidered. Gwendolyn smiled. But it was not the anchors that charmed forth the smile. It was a pocket, set like a shield on the blouse--an adorable patch-pocket! "Oh!" she cried; "did They make me that pocket? Jane, how sweet!" "One, two, three," said Jane, briskly, "and we'll have this on! Let's see by the clock how quick you can jump into it!" The clock was a familiar method of inducing Gwendolyn to do hastily something she had not thought of doing at all. She shook her head. "Why, it'd do you _good_, pettie,"--this coaxingly. "It's too warm to dress," said Gwendolyn. Jane flung the garment back into the wardrobe without troubling to hang it up, and banged the wardrobe door. But she did not again broach the subject of getting up. A hint of uneasiness betrayed itself in her manner. She took a chair by the bed. Gwendolyn's whole face was gradually taking on a deep flush, for those flaming spots on her cheeks were spreading to throat and temples--to her very hair. She kept her hands in constant motion. Next, the small tongue began to babble uninterruptedly. It was the overlively talking that made Jane certain that Gwendolyn was ill. She leaned to feel of the busy hands, the throbbing forehead. Then she hastily telephoned Thomas. "Have we any more of that quietin' medicine?" she asked as he opened the door. "It's all gone. Why?" The two forgot their differences, and bent over Gwendolyn. She smiled up, and nodded. "All the clouds in the sky are filled with wind," she declared; "like automobile tires. Toy-balloons are, I know. Once I put a pin in one, and the wind blew right out. I s'pose the clouds in the South hold the south wind, and the clouds in the North hold the north wind, and the clouds--" "Jane," said Thomas, "we've got to have a doctor." Gwendolyn heard. She saw Jane spring to the telephone. The next instant, with a piercing scream that sent her canary fluttering to the top of its cage, she flung herself sidewise. "Jane! Oh, don't! Jane! He'll kill me! _Jane!_" Jane fell back, and caught Gwendolyn in her arms. The little figure was all a-tremble, both small hands were beating the air in wild protest. "Jane! Oh, I'll be good! I'll be good!" She hid her face against the nurse, shuddering. "But you're sick, lovie. And a doctor would make you well. There! There! Listen to Jane, dearie." Thomas laid an anxious hand on the yellow head. "The doctor won't hurt you," he declared. "He only gives bread-pills, anyhow." "_No-o-o!_" She flung herself back upon the bed, catching at the pillows as if to hide beneath them, writhing pitifully, moaning, beseeching with terrified eyes. Jane and Thomas stared helplessly at each other, their faces guilty and frightened. "Dearie!" cried Jane; "hush and we won't--Oh, Thomas, I'm fairly distracted!--Pettie, we _won't_ have the doctor." Gradually Gwendolyn quieted. Then carefully, and by degrees, Jane approached the matter of medical aid in a new way. "We'll just telephone," she declared, "We wont let any old doctor come here--not a _bit_ of it. We'll ask him to send something. Is _that_ all right. _Please_, darlin'." Reluctantly, Gwendolyn yielded. "The medicine'll be awful nasty," she faltered. To that Jane made no reply. Her every freckle was standing out clearly. Her reddish eyes bulged. She hunted a number in the telephone-directory with fumbling fingers. After which she held the receiver to her ear with a shaking hand. "Everything's goin' wrong," she mourned. Huddled into a little ball, and still as a frightened bird, Gwendolyn listened to the message. "Hello!... Hello! Is this the Doctor speakin'?... Oh, this is Miss Gwendolyn's nurse, sir.... _Yes_ sir. Well, Miss Gwendolyn's a little nervous to-day, sir. Not sick enough to call you in, sir.... But I was goin' to ask if you couldn't send something soothin'. She's been cryin' like, that's all.... Yes, sir, and wakeful--" "A little hysterical yesterday," prompted Thomas, in a low voice. "A little hysterical yesterday," went on Jane. "...Yes, sir, by messenger.... I'll be _most_ careful, sir.... Thank you, sir." Jane and Thomas combined to make the remainder of the afternoon less dull. One by one the favorite toys came down from the second shelf. And a miniature circus took place on the rug beside the bed--a circus in which each toy played a part. Gwendolyn's fear was charmed away. She laughed, and drank copious draughts of water--delicious bubbling water that Thomas poured from tall bottles. Jane had her own supper beside the white-and-gold bed--coffee and a sandwich only. Gwendolyn still had no appetite, but seemed almost her usual self once more. So much so that when she asked questions, Jane was cross, and counseled immediate sleep. "But I'm not a bit sleepy," declared Gwendolyn. "It'll be moonlight after while, Jane. May I look out at the Down-Town roofs?" "You may stop your botherin'," retorted Jane, "and make up your mind to go to sleep. You've give me a' awful day. Now try just forty winks." "Why do you always say forty?" inquired Gwendolyn. "Couldn't I take forty-one?" "_Hush!_" After supper came the medicine--a dark liquid. Gwendolyn eyed it anxiously. Thomas was gone. Jane opened the bottle and measured a teaspoonful into a drinking-glass. "Do I have to take it now?" asked Gwendolyn. "To-morrow you'll wake up as good as new," asserted Jane. She touched her tongue with the spoon, then smacked her lips. "Why, dearie, it's--" She was interrupted. From the direction of the side window there came a burst of instrumental music. With it, singing the words of a waltz from a popular opera, blended a thin, cracked voice. Before Jane could put out a restraining hand, Gwendolyn bounced to her knees. "Oh, it's the old hand-organ man!" she cried. "It's the old hand-organ man! Oh, where's some money? I want to give him some money!" Jane threw up both hands wildly. "Oh, did I ever have such luck!" she exclaimed. Then, between her teeth, and pressing Gwendolyn back upon the pillows, "You lay down or I'll shake you!" "Oh, please let him stay just this time!" begged Gwendolyn; "I like him, Jane!" "I'll stay him!" promised Jane, grimly. She marched to the side window, threw up the sash and leaned out. "Here, you!" she called down roughly. "You git!" "Oh, Jane!" plead Gwendolyn. The thin, cracked voice fell silent. The waltz slowed its tempo, then came to a gasping stop. "How's a body to git a child asleep with that old wheeze of yours goin'?" demanded Jane. "We don't _want_ you here. Move along!" "He could play me to sleep," protested Gwendolyn. A reply to Jane's order was shrilled up--something defiant. "He'd only excite you, darlin'," declared Jane. She was on her knees at the window, and turned her head to speak. "I can't have that rumpus in the street with you so nervous." Gwendolyn sighed. "Take your medicine, dearie," went on Jane. She stayed where she was. Promptly, Gwendolyn sat up and reached for the glass. To hold it, to shake it about and potter in the strange liquid with a spoon, would be some compensation for having to drink it. "If that mean old creature didn't make faces!" grumbled Jane. She was leaning forward to look out. "_How_ did he make faces, Jane?" asked Gwendolyn. "Were they nice ones?" She lifted the glass to take a whiff of its contents. "I'd like to see him make faces." She put the spoon into Jane's half-empty coffee-cup; then let the medicine run up the side of the glass until it was almost to her lips. She tasted it. It tasted good! She hesitated a second; then drained the glass. The street was quiet. Jane rose to her feet and came over. "Did you do as I said?" she asked. "Yes, Jane." "Now, _did_ you?" Jane picked up the glass, looked into it, then at Gwendolyn. "Honest?" "Yes,--every sip." "_Gwendolyn?_" Jane held her with doubting eyes. "I don't believe it!" "But I _did!_" Jane bent down to the cup, sniffed it, then smelled of the glass. "Gwendolyn," she said solemnly, "I know you did _not_ take your medicine. You poured it into this cup." "But I _didn't!_" "I _seen_." Jane pointed an accusing finger. "How _could_ you?" demanded Gwendolyn. "You were looking at the brick house." "I've got eyes in the back of my head. And I seen you _plain_ when I was lookin' straight the other way." "A-a-aw!" laughed Gwendolyn, skeptically. "They're hid by my braids," went on Jane, "but they're there. And I seen you throw away that medicine, you bad girl!" Again she leaned to examine the coffee-cup. "Miss Royle said you had two faces," admitted Gwendolyn. She stared hard at the coiled braids on the back of Jane's head. The braids were pinned close together. No pair of eyes was visible. Jane straightened resolutely, seized the medicine-bottle and the spoon, poured out a second dose, and proffered it. "Come, now!" she said firmly. "You ain't a-goin' to git ahead of me with your cuteness. Take this, and go to sleep." "Bu-but--" That moment a shrill whistle sounded from the street. "_There_ now!" cried Jane, triumphantly. "The policeman's right here. I can call him up whenever I like." Gwendolyn drank. Jane tossed the spoon aside, corked the bottle and went back to the open window. "You go to sleep," she commanded. Gwendolyn, lying flat, was murmuring to herself. "Oo-oo! How funny!" she said, "Oo-oo!" "Now, don't let me hear another word out of you!" warned Jane. Gwendolyn turned her head slowly from side to side. A great light of some kind was flaming against her eyes--a light shot through and through with black, whirling balls. Where did it come from? It stayed. And grew. Her eyes widened with wonderment. A smile curved her lips. Then suddenly she rose to a sitting posture, threw out both arms, and gave a little choking cry. CHAPTER VIII It was a cry of amazement. For suddenly--so suddenly that she did not have time to think how it had happened--she found herself _up and dressed_, and standing alone, gazing about her, _in the open air!_ But there were no high buildings on any side, no people passing to and fro, no motor-cars flashing by. And the grass underfoot was not the grass of a lawn, evenly cut and flowerless; it was tall, so that it brushed the hem of her dress, and blossom-dotted. She looked up at the sky. It was not the sky of the City, distant, and marbled with streaks of smoke. It was close and clear; starless, too; and no moon hung upon it. Yet though it was night there was light everywhere--warm, glowing, roseate. By that radiant glow she saw that she was in the midst of trees! Some were tall and slender and clean-barked; others were low and thick of trunk, but with the wide shapely spread of the great banyan in her geography; and, towering above the others, were the giants of that forest, unevenly branched, misshapen, aslant, and rugged with wart-like burls. "Is--is this the Park?" she said aloud, still looking around. "Or--or the woods across the River?" But there was no sign of a paved walk, such as traced patterns through the Park; nor of a chimney, to mark the whereabouts of a house. Behind her the ground sloped gently up to a wooded rise; in front of her it sloped as gently down to the edge of a narrow, noisy mountain stream. "Why, I'm at Johnnie Blake's!" she cried--then glanced over a shoulder cautiously. If this were indeed the place she had longed to revisit, it would be advisable to keep as quiet as possible, lest someone should hear her, and straightway come to take her home. Still watching backward apprehensively, she pushed through the grass to the edge of the stream. The moment she reached it she knew that it was not the trout-stream along which she had wandered while her father fished. It was, in fact, not ordinary water at all, but something lighter, more sparkling with color, swifter, and louder. It effervesced, so that a creamy mist lay along its surface--this the smoke of bursting bubbles. It was like the bottled water she drank at her nursery meals! Hands clasped, she leaned to stare down. "Isn't it _funny!_" she exclaimed half under her breath. A voice answered her--from close at hand. It was a thin, cracked voice. "This is where They get their soda-water," it said. She turned, and saw him. He was a queer little old thick-set, dark-skinned gentleman, with grizzled whiskers, a ragged hat and baggy trousers. His eyes were round and black under his brows, which were square and long-haired, and not unlike a certain new hand-brush that Jane wielded of a morning across Gwendolyn's small finger-tips. Over one shoulder, by a strap, hung a dark box, half-hidden by a piece of old carpet. In one hand he held a huge, curved knife. Though she could not remember ever having seen him at Johnnie Blake's; and though the curved knife was in pattern the true type of a kidnaper's weapon, and the look out of those round, dark eyes, as he strode toward her, was not at all friendly, she did not scamper away. She waited, her heart beating hard. When he halted, she curtsied. "I've--I've always wondered about soda-water," she faltered, trying to smile. "But when I asked--" "Um!" he grunted; then, with a sidewise jerk of the head, "Take a drink." She lifted eager eyes. "All I _want_ to?" she half-whispered. He nodded. "Sip! Lap! Tipple!" "Oo!" Fairly beaming with delight, she knelt down. For the first time in her life she could have all the soda-water she wanted! First, she put the tip of one finger into the rushing sparkle, slowly, to lengthen out her joy. Next, with a little laugh, she sank her whole hand. Bubbles formed upon it,--all sizes of them--standing out like dewdrops upon leaves. The bubbles cooled. And tempted her thirst. With a deep breath, she bent forward until her red mouth touched the shimmering surface. Thus, lying prone, with arms spread wide, she drank deep of the flow. When she straightened and sat back upon her heels, she made an astonishing discovery: The trees that studded the slope were not covered with leaves, like ordinary trees! Each branched to hold lights--myriads of lights! Some of these shone steadily; others burned with a hissing sound; others were silent enough, but rose and fell, jumped and flickered. It was these countless lights that illumed the forest like a pink sun. She rose. There was wonder in the gray eyes. "Are these Christmas trees?" she said. "Where am I?" "You've had your soda-water," he answered shortly. "You ought to know." "Yes, I--I ought to know. But--I don't." He grunted. "I s'pose," she ventured timidly, "that nobody ever answers questions here, either." He looked uncomfortable. "Yes," he retorted, "_every_body does." "Then,"--advancing an eager step--"why don't _you?_" He mopped his forehead. "Well--well--if I must, I must: This is where all the lights go when they're put out at night." "Oh!" And now as she glanced from tree to tree she saw that what he had said was true. For the greater part of the lights were electric bulbs; while many were gas-jets, and a few kerosene-flames. Still marveling, her look chanced to fall upon herself. And she found that she was not wearing a despised muslin frock! Her dress was gingham!--an adorable plaid with long sleeves, and a patch-pocket low down on the right side! "You darling!" she exclaimed happily, and thrust a hand into the pocket. "I guess They made it!" Next she looked down at her feet--and could scarcely believe! She had on no stockings! She did not even have on slippers. _She was barefoot!_ Then, still fearful that there was some mistake about it all, she put a hand to her head; and found her hair-bow gone! In its place, making a small floppy double knot, was a length of black shoe-string! "Oh, goody!" she cried. "Um!" grunted the little old gentleman. "And you can play in the water if you'd like to." That needed no urging! She was face about on the instant. From the standpoint of messing the soda-stream was ideal. It brawled around flat rocks, set at convenient jumping-distances from one another. (She leaped promptly to one of these and sopped her handkerchief.) It circled into sand-bottomed pools just shallow enough for wading; and from the pools, it spread out thinly to thread the grass, thus giving her an opportunity for squashing--a diverting pastime consisting in squirting equal parts of water and soil ticklishly through the toes. She hopped from rock to pool; she splashed from pool to long, wet, muddy grass. It was the water-play that brought the realization of all her new good-fortune--the being out of doors and plainly clad; free from the espionage of a governess; away from the tyranny of a motor-car; barefoot; and--chief blessing of all!--_nurseless_. Forgetting the little old gentleman, in a sudden excess of glee she seized a stick and bestrode it; seized another and belabored the quarters of a stout dappled pony; pranced, reared, kicked up her wet feet, shied wildly-- Then, both sticks cast aside, she began to dance; at first with deliberation, holding out the gingham dress at either side, and mincing through the steps taught by Monsieur Tellegen. But gradually she forsook rhythm and measure; capering ceased; the dance became fast and furious. Hallooing, she raced hither and thither among the trees, tossing her arms, darting down at the flowers and flinging them high, swishing her yellow hair from side to side, leaping exultantly toward the lights, pivoting-- Suddenly she found that she was dancing to music!--not the laboriously strummed notes of a piano, such as were beaten out by the firm-striding Miss Brown; not the clamorous, deafening, tuneless efforts of an orchestra. This was _real_ music--inviting, inspiring, heavenly! It was a hand-organ! She halted, spell-bound. He was playing, turning the crank with a swift, steady motion, his ragged hat tipped to one side. Now she understood the box hanging from its strap. She danced up to him, and held out a hand. "Why, you're the _hand-organ_ man!" she panted breathlessly. "And you got here as quick as I did!" He stopped playing, "I'm the hand-organ man when I'm in town," he corrected. "Here, in the Land of the Lights, I'm the Man-Who-Makes-Faces." The Man-Who-Makes-Faces! She looked at him with new interest. "Why, of course you are," she acknowledged. "Sometimes you make 'em in town." "Sometimes in town I make an ugly one," he retorted. Whereupon he shouldered the hand-organ, grasped the curved knife, and started away. As he walked, he called aloud to every side, like a huckster. "Here's where you get your ears sharpened!" he sang. "_Ears_ sharpened! _Eyes_ sharpened! Edges taken off of tongues!" She trotted beside him, head up, gray eyes wide, lips parted. He was ascending a gentle rise toward a low hill not far distant. As she drew away from the stream and the glade, she heard, from somewhere far behind, a shrill voice. It called a name--a name strangely familiar. She paid no heed. At the summit of the little hill, under some trees, he paused, and waved the kidnaper knife in circles. "_Ears_ to sharpen!" he shrilled again. "_Eyes_ to sharpen! Edges taken off of tongues!" She smiled up at him engagingly, noting how his gray hair hung over the back of his collar. She felt no fear of him whatever. "I think you're nice, Mr. Man-Who-Makes-Faces," she announced presently. "I'm so glad I can look straight at you. I didn't know you, 'cause your voice is different, and 'cause I'd never seen you before 'cept when I was looking _down_ at you." He had been ignoring her. But now, "Wasn't my fault that we didn't meet face to face," he retorted. Though his voice was still cross, his round, bright eyes were almost kind. "If you'll remember I often came under your window." "And I threw you money," she answered, nodding brightly. "I wanted to come down and talk to you, oh, lots of times, only--" At that, he relented altogether. And, reaching out, shook hands cordially. "Wouldn't you like," said he, "to have a look at my establishment?" He jerked a thumb over a shoulder. "Here's where I make faces." In the City she had seen many wonderful shops, catching glimpses of some from the little window of her car, visiting others with Miss Royle or Jane. Among the former were those fascinating ones, usually low of ceiling and dark with coal-dust, where grimy men in leather aprons tried shoes on horses; and those horrifying places past which she always drove with closed eyes--places where, scraped white and head downward, hung little pigs, pitiful husks of what they once had been, flanked on either hand by long-necked turkeys with poor glazed eyes; and once she had seen a wonderful shop in which men were sawing out flat pieces of stone, and writing words on them with chisels. But this shop of the Man-Who-Makes-Faces was the most interesting of all. It occupied a square of hard-packed ground--a square as broad as the nursery. And curiously enough, like the nursery, it had, marking it off all the way around its outer edge, a border of flowers! It was shaded by one huge tree. "Lime-tree," explained the little old gentleman. "And the lights--" "Don't tell me!" she cried. "I know! They're lime lights." These made the shop exceedingly bright. Full in their glare, neatly disposed, were two short-legged tables, a squat stool, and a high, broad bill-board. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seated himself on the stool at one of the tables and began working industriously. But Gwendolyn could only stand and stare about her, so amazed that she was dumb. For in front of the little old gentleman, and spread handily, were ears and eyes, noses and mouths, cheeks and chins and foreheads. And upon the bill-board, pendant, were toupees and side-burns and mustaches, puffs, transformations and goatees--and one coronet braid (a red one) glossy and thick and handsome! The bill-board also held an assortment of tongues--long and scarlet. These, a score in all, were ranged in a shining row. And underneath them was a sign which bore this announcement: _Tongues In All Languages Dead or Modern Chic if Seven Are Purchased at Once_. Gwendolyn clapped her hands. "Oo! how _nice!_" she exclaimed, finding her voice again. "Quite so," said the little old gentleman, shoving away a tray of chins and cheeks and reaching for a forehead. "Welcome, convenient, and satisfactory." She saw her opportunity. "Please," she began, "I'd like to buy six." She counted on her fingers. "I'll have a French tongue, a German tongue, a Greek tongue, a Latin tongue, and--later, though, if you don't happen to have 'em on hand--a Spanish and an Italian." Then she heaved a sigh of relief. "I'm glad I saw these," she added. "They'll save me a lot of work. And they've helped me about a def'nition. I looked for 'lashing' in my big dictionary. And it said 'to whip.' But _I_ couldn't see how anybody could whip anybody else with a _tongue_. Now, though--" The Man-Who-Makes-Faces nodded. "Just wait till you see the King's English," he bragged. "The King's English? Will I see him?" "Likely to," he answered, selecting an eye. He had all his eyes about him in a circle, each looking as natural as life. There were blue eyes and brown eyes, hazel eyes and-- "Ah!" she exclaimed suddenly. "I remember! It was _you_ who gave the Policeman a black eye!" "One _fine_ black eye," he answered, chuckling as he poked about in a pile of noses and selected a large-sized one. "Yes! Yes! And recently I made a lovely blue pair for a bad-tempered child who'd cried her own eyes out." She assented. She had heard of just such a case. "Once I saw some eyes in a shop-window," she confided. "It was a shop where you could buy spectacles." He wagged his beard proudly. "I made every _one_ of 'em!" he boasted. "Oh, yes, indeed." And polished away at the tip of the large nose. She considered for a moment. "I'm glad I know," she said gravely. "I wanted to, awful much." After that she studied the bill-board for a time. And presently discovered that a second supply of eyes was displayed there, being set in it as jewels are set in brooches! She pointed. "What kind are those?" He looked surprised at the question. "The bill-board is the rear wall of my shop," said he. "And those eyes are wall-eyes." She flushed with pleasure. "That's _exactly_ what I thought!" she declared. She began to walk up and down, one hand in the patch-pocket--to make sure it was really there. For this was all too good to be true. Here, in this Land so new to her, and so wonderful, were things about which she had pondered, and puzzled, and asked questions--the tongues, for instance, and the lime-lights, and the soda-water. How simply and naturally each was now explained!--explained as she herself had imagined each would be. She felt a sudden pride in herself. So far had anything been really unexpected? As she went back to pause in front of the little old gentleman, it was with a delightful sense of understanding. Oh, this was one of her pretend-games, gloriously come true! Now she felt a very flood of questions surge to her lips. She pointed to a deep yellow bowl set on the table beside him. "Would you mind telling me what that is?" she asked. "That? That's a sauce-box." And he smiled. "Oh!--What's it full of, please?" "Full of mouths,"--cheerily. It was her turn to smile. She smiled into the sauce-box. At its center was a queer object, very like a short length of dried apple-peeling. "I s'pose that's part of a mouth?" she ventured. He picked up the object and balanced it across his thumb. "You've guessed it!" he declared. "And it's a fine thing to carry around with one. You see, it's a stiff upper lip." He tossed it back. "My!" She took a deep breath. "Once I asked and _asked_ about a stiff upper lip." He went on with his polishing. "Should think you'd be more interested in these," he observed, giving a nod of the ragged hat toward a shallow dish at his elbow. "Little girls generally are." She looked, and saw that the dish was heaped high with what seemed to be _white peanuts_--peanuts that tapered to a point at one end. She puckered her brows over them. "Can't guess?" said he. "Then you didn't drink enough of that soda-water. Well, ever hear of a sweet tooth?" At that she clapped her hands and jumped up and down. "Why, I've _got_ one!" she cried. "Oh?" said the little old gentleman. "Thought so. I _always_ keep a supply on hand. Carve 'em myself, out of cube sugar." "Oh, aren't they funny!" She leaned above the shallow dish. "Funny?" repeated the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Not when they get into the wrong mouth!--a wry mouth, for instance, or an ugly mouth. A sweet tooth should go, you understand, only with a sweet face." "Is it a sweet tooth that makes a face sweet?" she inquired. "Quite so." He held up the nose to examine it critically. She watched him in silence for a while. Then, "You don't mind telling me who's going to have that?" she ventured, pointing a finger at the nose. "This? Oh, this is for a certain little boy's father." She blinked thoughtfully. "Is his name," she began--and stopped. "His father--the unfortunate man--has been keeping his own nose to the grindstone pretty steadily of late, and so--" "I can't just remember the name I'm thinking about," said Gwendolyn, troubled. He glanced up. And the round, bright eyes were grave as he searched her face. "I wonder," he said in a low voice, "if you know who _you_ are." She smiled. "Well, I've been acquainted with myself for seven years," she declared. "But do you know who you _are?_" (The round eyes were full of tears!) She felt uncertain. "I did just a little while ago. Now, though--" He reached to take her hand. "Shall I tell you?" "Yes,"--in a whisper. "You're the Poor Little Rich Girl." He patted her hand. "The Poor Little Rich Girl!" She nodded bravely, and stood looking up at him. He was old and unkempt. Out at elbows, too. And the bottoms of his baggy trousers hung in dusty shreds. But his lined and bearded face was kind! "I--I haven't been so very happy," she said falteringly. He shook his head. "Not happy! And no step-relations, either!" "Well,--er," (she felt uncertain) "there are some step-houses just across the street." "Not the same thing," he declared shortly. "But, _hm! hm!_"--as he coughed, he waved an arm cheerily. "Things will improve. Oh, yes. All you've got to do is follow my advice." The gray eyes were wistful, and questioning. "You've got a lot to do," he went on. "Oh, a _great_ deal. For instance"--here he paused, running his fingers through his long hair--"there's Miss Royle, and Thomas, and Jane." She was silent for a long moment. Miss Royle! Thomas! Jane! In the joy of being out of doors, of having real dirt to scuff in, and high grass through which to brush; of having a plaid gingham with a pocket, and all the fizzing drink she wished; of being able to dabble and wade; and of having good, squashy soda-mud for pies--in the joy at all this she had utterly forgotten them! She looked up at the tapered trees, and down at the flower-bordered ground; then at the bill-board, and the loaded tables of that marvelous establishment. There was still so much to see! And, oh, how many scores of questions to ask! He bent until his beard swept the sauce-box. "You'll just have to keep out of their _clutches_," he declared. Again she nodded, twisting and untwisting her fingers. "I thought maybe they didn't come here." "Come?" he grunted. "Won't they be hunting _you?_ Well, keep out of their clutches, I say. That's absolutely necessary. You'll see why--if you let 'em get you! For--how'll you ever find your father?" "_Oh!_" A sudden flush swept her face. She looked at the ground. She had forgotten Miss Royle and Thomas and Jane. Worse! Until that moment _she had forgotten her father and mother!_ "There's that harness of his," went on the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. He thought a moment, pursing his lips and twiddling his thumbs. "We'll have to consider how we can get rid of it." She glanced up. "Where does he come?" she asked huskily; "my fath-er?" "Um! Yes, where?" He seemed uneasy; scratched his jaw; and rearranged a row of chins. "Well, the fact is, he comes here to--er--buy candles that burn at both ends." "Of course. Is it far?" "Out in a new fashionable addition--yes, addition, subtraction, multiplication." "_You_ won't mind showing me the way?" Now her face grew pale with earnestness. He smiled sadly. "I? Your father thinks poorly of me. He's driven me off the block once or twice, you know. Though"--he looked away thoughtfully--"when you come to think of it there isn't such a lot of difference between your father and me. He makes money: I make faces." It was one of those unpleasant moments when there seemed very little to be said. She stood on the other foot. He began polishing once more. "Then there's that bee," he resumed-- "Moth-er." He went on as quickly as possible. "Of course there are lots of things worse than one of those so-cial hon-ey-gath-er-ing in-sects--" "She sees nothing else! She _hears_ nothing else!" "Um! We'll help her get rid of it!--_if!_" "If?" "You've got a lot to overcome. Recollect the Policeman?" She retreated a step. "Just suppose we meet _him!_ And the Bear that--" "My!" "Yes. And a certain Doctor." "Oh, _dear!_" "Bad! Pretty bad!" "Where does my moth-er come?"--timidly. The question embarrassed. "Er--the place is full of carriage-lamps," he began; "and--and side-lights, and search-lights, and--er--lanterns." She looked concerned. "I can't guess." "Just ordinary lanterns," he added. "You see, the Madam comes to--to Robin Hood's Barn." "Robin Hood's Barn!" "Exactly. Nice day, _isn't_ it?" By the expression on his face, Gwendolyn judged that Robin Hood's Barn--of which she had often heard--was a most undesirable spot. "Is it far?" she asked, swallowing. "No. Only--we'll have to go around it." Somehow, all at once, he seemed the one friend she had. She put out a hand to him. "You _will_ go with me?" she begged. "Oh, I want to find my fath-er, and my moth-er!" "You want to tell 'em the real truth about those three servants they're hiring. Unless I'm _much_ mistaken, your parents have never taken one good square look at those three." "Oh, let's start." Now, of a sudden, all the hopes and plans of the past months came crowding back into her mind. "I want to sit at the grown-up table," she declared. "And I want to live in the country, and go to day-school." He hung the hand-organ over a shoulder. "You can do every one of them," he said, "if we find your father and mother." "We'll find them," she cried determinedly. "We'll find 'em," he said, "if, as we go along, we don't leave one--single--stone--_unturned_." "Oh!" she glanced about her, searching the ground. "Not _one_," he repeated. "And now--we'll start." He picked up two or three small articles--an ear, a handful of hair, a plump cheek. "But there's a stone right here," said Gwendolyn. It was a small one, and lay at her feet, close to the table-leg. He peered over. "All right! Turn it!" She stooped--turned the rock--straightened. The next moment a chill swept her; the next, she felt a heavy hand upon her shoulder, and clumsy fingers busy with the buttons on the gingham dress. "_Tee! hee! hee! hee!_" It was the voice that had called from a distance. Hearing it now she felt a sudden, sickish, sinking feeling. She whirled. A strange creature was kneeling behind her--a creature dressed in black sateen, and like no human being that she had ever met before. For it was _two-faced!_ One face (the front) was blowzy and freckled, with a small pug nose and a quarrelsome mouth. The other (the face on what, with ordinary persons, was the back of the head) was dark and forbidding, its nose a large brick-colored pug, the mouth underneath shaped most extraordinarily--not unlike a _barrette_, for it was wide and long, and square at the corners, and full of shining tortoise-shell teeth! But the creature had only one tongue. This was loose at both ends, so that there was one tip for her front face, and one for the back. But she had only one pair of eyes. These were reddish. They watched Gwendolyn boldly from the front; then rolled quickly to the rear to stare at the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. At sight of the two-faced creature, Gwendolyn shrank away, frightened. "Oh!--oh, my!" she faltered. Both horrid mouths now bellowed hilariously. And the creature reached out a big hand. "Look here, Gwendolyn!" it ordered. "You ain't goin'!" Gwendolyn lifted terrified eyes for a second look at the brick-colored hair, the blowzy countenance. No possibility of doubt remained! It was Jane! CHAPTER IX Bobbing and swaying foolishly, the nurse-maid shuffled to her feet. And Gwendolyn, though she wanted to turn and flee beyond the reach of those big, clutching hands, found herself rooted to the ground, and could only stand and stare helplessly. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces stepped to her side hastily. His look was perturbed. "My! My!" he exclaimed under his breath. "She's worse than I thought!--_much_ worse." With a little gasp of relief at having him so near, Gwendolyn slipped her trembling fingers into his. "She's worse than _I_ thought," she managed to whisper back. Neither was given a chance to say more. For seeing them thus, hand in hand, Jane suddenly started forward--with a great boisterous hop and skip. Her front face was distorted with a jealous scowl. She gave Gwendolyn a rough sidewise shove. "Git away from that old beggar!" she commanded harshly. "Why, he'll kidnap you! Look at his knife!" Nimbly the little old gentleman thrust himself in front of her, barring her way, and shielding Gwendolyn. "Who told you where she was?" he asked angrily. "Who?" mocked Jane, impudently. "Well, who is it that tells people things?" "You mean the _Bird?_" Jane's front face broke into a pleased grin. "I mean the Bird," she bragged And balanced from foot to foot. Gwendolyn, peeking round at her, of a sudden felt a fresh concern. The Bird!--the same Bird that had repeated tales against her father! And now he was tattling on her! She saw all her hopes of finding her parents, all her happy plans, in danger of being blighted. "Oh, my goodness!" she said mournfully. She was holding tight to the little old gentleman's coat-tails. Now he leaned down. "We _must_ get rid of her," he declared. "You know what I said. She'll make us trouble!" "Here! None of that!" It was Jane once more, the grin replaced by a dark look. "I'll have you know this child is in _my_ charge." Again she tried to seize Gwendolyn. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces stood his ground resolutely--and swung the curved knife up to check any advance. "She doesn't need you," he declared "She's seven, and she's grown-up." And to Gwendolyn, "_Tell_ her so! Don't be afraid! Tell her!" Gwendolyn promptly opened her mouth. But try as she would, she could not speak. Her lips seemed dry. Her tongue refused to move. She could only swallow! As if he understood her plight, the little old gentleman suddenly sprang aside to where was the sauce-box, snatched something out of it, ran to the other table and picked up an oblong leather case (a case exactly like the gold-mounted one in which Miss Royle kept her spectacles), put the something out of the sauce-box into the case, closed the case with a snap, and put it, with a swift motion, into Gwendolyn's hand. "There!" he cried triumphantly. "There's that stiff upper lip! _Now_ you can answer." It was true! No sooner did she feel the leather case against her palm, than her fear, and her hesitation and lack of words, were gone! She assumed a determined attitude, and went up to Jane. "I don't need you," she said firmly. "'Cause I'm seven years old now, and I'm grown up. And--what are you here for _anyhow?_" At the very boldness of it, Jane's manner completely changed. That front countenance took on a silly simper. And she put her two-faced head, now on one side, now on the other, ingratiatingly. "What am I here for!" she repeated in an injured tone. "And you ask me that, Miss? Why, what _should_ I be doin' for you, lovie, but dancin' attendance." At that, she began to act most curiously, stepping to the right and pointing a toe, stepping to the left and pointing a toe; setting down one heel, setting down the other; then taking a waltzing turn. "Oh!" said Gwendolyn, understanding. (For dancing attendance was precisely what Jane was doing!) After observing the other's antics for a moment, she tossed her head. "Well, if _that's_ all you want to do," she said unconcernedly, "why, _dance_." "Yes, dance," broke in the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, snapping his fingers. "Frolic and frisk and flounce!" Jane obeyed. And waltzed up to the bill-board. "Say! what's the price of that big braid?" she called--between her tortoise-shell teeth. She had spied the red coronet, and was admiring its plaited beauty. From under those long, square brows, the little old gentleman frowned across the table at her. "I'll quote you no prices," he answered. "You haven't paid me yet for your extra face." Jane's reply was an impudent double-laugh. She was examining the different things on the bill-board, and hopping sillily from foot to foot. Gwendolyn tugged gently at a coat-tail. "Can't we run now?" she asked; "and hide?" _Boom-er-oom-er-oom!_ "Sh!" warned the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, not stirring. "What was that!" "I don't know." Both held their breath. And Gwendolyn took a more firm hold of the lip-case. After a moment the little old gentleman began to speak very low: "We shan't be able to steal away. She's watching us out of the back of her head!" "Yes. I can see 'em shine!" "I believe that when she rolled her eyes from one face to the other it made that _rumbley sound_." "Scares me," whispered Gwendolyn. "Ump!" he grunted. "Ought to cheer you up. For it's my opinion that her eyes rumble _because her head's empty_." "If it was hollow I think I'd know," she answered doubtfully. "You see she's been my nurse a long time. But--would it help?" "_Find out_," he advised. "And if it's a fact, your mother ought to know." _Boom-er-oom-er-oom!_ Gwendolyn, watching, saw two shining spots in Jane's back face grow suddenly small--to the size of glinting pin-points; then disappear. The nurse turned, and came dancing back. "You'd better let me have that braid, old man," she cried rudely. "I'll smooth down your saucy tongue," he threatened. "Tee! hee! hee! hee!" she tittered. "Ha! ha! ha!" Gwendolyn had heard her laugh before. But it was the first time she had _seen_ her laugh. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces, too. Now, at the same moment, both witnessed an extraordinary thing: As Jane chuckled, she lifted one stout arm so that a black sateen cuff was close to the mouth of the front face. And holding it there, actually _laughed in her sleeve!_ Laughed in her sleeve--_and a great deal more!_ For with each chuckle, from the top of her red head to her very feet, _she grew a trifle more plump!_ The little old gentleman warned her with one long finger. "You look out, young lady!" said he. "One of these days you'll laugh on the other side of your face." (Which made Gwendolyn wish that it was not impolite to correct those older than herself; for it was plain that he meant "you'll laugh on your _other_ face.") Jane put out a tongue-tip at him insolently. Then dancing near, "Come!" she bade Gwendolyn. "Come away with Nurse." The Man-Who-Makes-Faces made no effort to interpose. But he wagged his head significantly. "It's evident, Miss Jane," said he, "that you've forgotten all about--the Piper." She came short. And showed herself upset by what he had said, for she did a hop-schottische. He was not slow to take advantage. "We're sure to see him shortly," he went on. "And when we do--! Because your account with him is adding up _terrifically_. You're dancing a good deal, you know." "How can I help _that?_" demanded Jane. "Ain't I dancin' atten--" Gwendolyn forgot to listen to the remainder of the sentence. All at once she was a little apprehensive on her own account--remembering how _she_ had danced beside the soda-water, not half an hour before! "Mr. Man-Who-Makes-Faces," she began timidly, "do you mean the Piper that everybody has to pay?" "Exactly," replied the little old gentleman. "He's out collecting some pay for me now--from a dishonest fellow who didn't settle for two dozen ears that I boxed and sent him." At that, Jane began tittering harder than ever (hysterically, this time), holding up her arm as before--and filling out two or three wrinkles in the black sateen! And Gwendolyn, watching closely, saw that while the front face of her nurse was all a-grin, the face on the back of her head wore a nervous expression. (Evidently that front face was not always to be depended upon!) The little old gentleman also remarked the nervous expression. And followed up the advantage already won. "Now," said he, "perhaps you'll be willing to come along quietly. We're just starting, you understand." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Gwendolyn glanced in the direction he pointed. And saw--for the first time--that a wide, smooth road led away from the Face-Shop, a road as wide and smooth and curving as the Drive. Like the Drive it was well-lighted on either side (but lighted low-down) by a row of tiny electric bulbs with frosted shades, each resembling an incandescent toadstool. (She remembered having once caught a glimpse of something similar in a store-window.) These tiny lamps were set close together on short stems, precisely as white stones of a selected size edged all the paths at Johnnie Blake's. And each gave out a soft light. She did not have to ask about them. She guessed promptly what they were--lights to make plain the way for people's feet: in short, nothing more nor less than footlights! A few times in her life--so few that she could tell them off on her pink fingers--she had been taken to the theater, Jane accompanying her by right of nurse-maid, Miss Royle by her superior right as judge of all matters that partook of entertainment; Thomas coming also, though apparently for no reason whatever, to grace a rear seat along with the chauffeur. Seated in a box, close to the curved edge of the stage, she had seen the soft glow of the footlights. But for some reason which she could not fathom, the footlights had always been carefully concealed from everyone but the people on the stage. Trying to imagine them without any suggestions from Miss Royle or Jane, she had patterned them after a certain stuffed slipper-cushion that stood on Jane's dressing-table. How different was the reality, and how much more satisfactory! Jane looked up the road, between the lines of footlights. "You're just startin'," she repeated. "Where?" "To find her father and mother," answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, stoutly. At that Jane shook her huge pompadour. "Father and mother!" she cried. "Indeed, you won't! Not while _I'm_ a-takin' care of her." And reaching out, caught Gwendolyn--by a slender wrist. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seized the other. And the next moment Gwendolyn was unpleasantly reminded of times in the nursery, times when, Miss Royle and Jane disagreeing about her, each pulled at an arm and quarreled. For here was the nurse, tugging one direction to drag her away, and the little old gentleman tugging the other with all his might. "Slap her hands! Slap her hands!" he shouted excitedly. "It'll start circulation." Both slapped--so hard that her hands stung. And with the result he sought. For instantly all three began going in circles, around and around, faster and faster and faster. It was Jane who first let go. She was puffing hard, and the perspiration was standing out upon her forehead. "I'm going to call the Policeman," she threatened shrilly. "Oh! Oh! Please don't!" Gwendolyn's cry was as shrill. "I don't want him to get me!" "_Call_ the Policeman then," retorted the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. And to Gwendolyn, soothingly, "Hush! Hush, child!" Jane danced away--sidewise, as if to keep watch as she went. "Help! Help!" she shouted. "Police! Police!! _Poli-i-i-ice!!!_" Gwendolyn was terribly frightened. But she could not run. One wrist was still in the grasp of the little old gentleman. With wildly throbbing heart she watched the road. "Is he coming?" called the little old gentleman. He, too, was looking up the curving road. A whistle sounded. It was long-drawn, piercing. And now Gwendolyn heard movements all about her in the forest--the soft _pad, pad_ of running paws, the _hushing_ sound of wings--as if small live things were fleeing before the sharp call. Jane hastened back, galloping a polka. "Turn a stone! Turn a stone!" she cried, rumbling her eyes. Gwendolyn clung to the little old gentleman. "Oh, don't let her!" she plead. "What if--" "We _must_." "Will a pebble-size do?" yelled Jane, excitedly. "Yes! Yes!" answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "You've seen stones in rings, haven't you? Aren't _they_ pebble-size?" The nurse stooped, picked up a small stone, and sent it spinning from the end of a thumb. Faint with fear, Gwendolyn thrust a trembling hand into the patch-pocket and took hold of the lip-case. Then leaning against the little old gentleman, her yellow head half-concealed by the dusty flap of his torn coat, she waited. CHAPTER X What she first saw was a face!--straight ahead, at the top of a steep rise, where the wide road narrowed to a point. The face was a man's, and upon it the footlights beat so strongly that each feature was startlingly vivid. But it was not the fact that she saw _only_ a face that set her knees to trembling weakly--nor the fact that the face was fearfully distorted; but because it was _upside down!_ She stared, feeling herself grow cold, her flesh creep. "Oh, I want to go home!" she gasped. The face began to move nearer, slowly, inch by inch. And there sounded a hoarse outcry: "_Hoo! hoo! Hoo! hoo!_" It was the little old gentleman who reassured her somewhat--by his even voice. "Ah!" said he with something of pride, yet as if to himself. "He realizes that the black eye is a beauty. And I shouldn't wonder if he isn't coming to match it!" But what temporary confidence she gained, fled when Jane, tettering from side to side, began to threaten in a most terrifying way. "_Now_, young Miss!" she cried. "_Now_, you're goin' to be sorry you didn't mind Jane! Oh, _I_ told you he'd git you some fine day!" The Man-Who-Makes-Faces retorted--what, Gwendolyn did not hear. She was sick with apprehension. "I guess I won't find my father and moth-er now," she whispered miserably. Then, all at once, she could see _more_ than a face! Silhouetted against the lighted sky was a figure--broad shouldered and belted, with swinging cudgel, and visored cap. It was like those dreaded figures that patroled the Drive--yet how different! For as the Policeman came on, his wild face peered between his coat-tails!--peered between his coat-tails for the reason that he was _upside down_, and walking _on his hands!_ "_Hoo! hoo!_ Hoo! hoo!" he clamored again. His coat flopped about his ears. His natural merino socks showed where his trousers fell away from his shoes. His club bumped the side of his head at every stride of his long blue-clad arms. His identification was complete. For precisely as Thomas had declared, he was _heels over head_. "My!" breathed Gwendolyn, so astonished that she almost forgot to be anxious for her own safety. (What a marvelous Land was this--where everything was really as it ought to be!) The Man-Who-Makes-Faces addressed her, smiling down. "You won't mind if we don't start for a minute or two, will you?" he inquired. "This Officer will probably want to discuss the prices of eyes. You see, I gave him his black one. If he wants another, though, I shall be obliged to ask the Piper to collect." "Aren't--aren't you afraid of him?" stammered Gwendolyn, in a whisper. "_Afraid?_" he echoed, surprised. "Why, no! Are _you?_" Somehow, she felt ashamed. "N-n-not very," she faltered. No sooner did she partly deny her fear than she experienced a most delicious feeling of security! And this feeling grew as she watched the nearing Policeman. For she saw that he was in a mournful state. It was worry and grief that distorted his face. The dark eyes above the visor (both the black eye and the other one) were streaming with tears, tears which, naturally enough, ran from the four corners of his eyes, down across his forehead, and on into his hair. And it was evident that he had been weeping for a long time, for his cap was full! And now she realized that the hoarse cries which had filled her with terror were the saddest of complaints!--were not "Hoo! hoo!" but "_Boo!_ hoo!" "Poor man!" sympathized the little old gentleman, wagging his beard. Jane, however, with characteristic lack of compassion, hopped about, _tee-heeing_ loudly--and straightening out any number of wrinkles. "Oh, ain't he a sight!" she chortled. She had entirely given over her threatening. Gwendolyn now felt secure enough. But she did not feel like laughing. She was sober to the point of pitying. For though he looked ridiculous, he was so absolutely helpless, so utterly unhappy. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" he exclaimed as he came on--hand over hand, legs held together, and swaying from side to side rhythmically, like the pendulum of the metronome. "What shall I do! What shall I do!" "Need any sharpening?" called out the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, brandishing the curved knife. "Is there something wrong?" "Wrong!" echoed the Policeman dolefully. "I should say so! Oh, _dear!_ Oh, dear!" And still weeping copiously, so that his forehead glistened with his tears, he plodded across the border of the Face-Shop. It was then that Gwendolyn recalled under what circumstances she had seen him last. Only two or three days before, when bound homeward in the limousine, she had spied him loitering beside the walled walk. "What makes his club shine so?" she had asked Jane, whispering. "Eh?" whispered Jane in return; "what else than _blood?_" The wind was blowing as the automobile swept past him: The breeze lifted the tail of his belted coat. And for one terrifying instant Gwendolyn caught a glimpse of steel! "And if he don't mean harm to anybody," Jane had added when Gwendolyn turned scared eyes to her, "why does he carry a _pistol?_" But there was no need to fear a weapon now. The falling away of his coat-tails had uncovered his trouser-pockets. And as he halted, Gwendolyn saw that his revolver was gone, his pistol-pocket empty. She took a timid step toward him. "How do you do, Mr. Officer," she said. "Can't you let your feet come down? Then you'd be on your back, and you could get up the right way." Up came his face between his coat-tails. He stared at her with his new black eye--with the other one, too. (She noted that it was blue.) "But I _am_ up the right way," he answered, "Oh, no! It isn't that! It isn't that!" His hands were encased in white cotton gloves. He rocked himself from one to the other. "No, it _isn't_ that," agreed the little old gentleman; "but I firmly believe that, you'd feel better if you'd order another eye." "Another eye!" said the Policeman, bitterly. "Would another eye help me to find him?" "Oh, I see." The Man-Who-Makes-Faces spoke with some concern. "Then he's flown?" Gwendolyn, puzzled, glanced from one to the other. "Who is 'he'?" she asked. The Policeman bumped his head against his night-stick. "The Bird!" he mourned. At that, Jane hopped up and down in evident delight. But Gwendolyn fell back, taking up a position beside the little old gentleman. That Bird again! And it was evident that the Policeman thought well of him! Pity swiftly merged into suspicion. "I s'pose you mean the Bird that tells people things," she ventured--to be sure that she was not misjudging him. He wiped his black eye on a coat-tail. "Aye," he answered. "That's the one. And, oh, but he could tell _you_ things!" Gwendolyn considered the statement. At last, "He's a tattletale!" she charged, and felt her cheeks crimson with sudden anger. He nodded--so vigorously that some of his tears splashed over the rim of his cap. "That's why the Police can't get along without him," he declared. "And, oh, here I've gone and lost him! And They'll put me off the Force!" (Bump! bump! bump!) "They?" she questioned. "Do you mean the soda-water They?" "And They know so much," explained the little old gentleman, "because the Bird tells 'em." "He tells 'em everything," grumbled the Officer. "They send him around the whole country hunting gossip--when he ought to be working exclusively in the interest of Law and Order." Law and Order--Gwendolyn wondered who these two were. "He knows everything _I_ do," asserted the Policeman, "and everything _she_ does--" Here he jerked his head sidewise at Jane. She retreated, an expression of guilt on that front face. "And everything _you_ do," he went on, indicating Gwendolyn. "I know that," she said in an injured tone. "He told Jane I was here." At that, the Policeman gave himself a quick half-turn. "You've _seen_ him?" he demanded of the nurse. She shifted from side to side nervously. "It ain't the same one," she protested. "It--" He interrupted. "You couldn't be mistaken," he declared. "Did he have a bumpy forehead? and a lumpy tail?" "You don't mean _a lump of salt_," said Gwendolyn, astonished. "He does," said the little old gentleman. "And the bumpy forehead is from having to remember so many things." She heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, I think I'd like _that_ Bird," she said. "And I don't believe he's far. 'Cause when you whistled I heard flying." "_Running_ and flying," corrected the Policeman; "--running and flying to _me_." (He said it proudly.) "The squirrels and the robin-redbreasts, and the sparrows, all follow me here from the Park of a night, knowing I protect 'em." "Oh?" murmured Gwendolyn. "You protect 'em?" She looked sidewise at Jane, reflecting that the nurse had given him quite another character. "Yes; and I protect old, old people." "Huh!" snorted the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "You protect old people, eh? Well, how about old _organ-grinders?_" "You ought to know," answered the Officer promptly. "I guess you didn't give me that black eye for nothing." Whereat the little old gentleman suddenly subsided into silence. "Yes, I protect old people," reiterated the other, "and the blind, of course, and the trees and the flowers and the fountains. Also, the statues. There's the General, for instance. If I didn't watch out, folks would scribble on him with chalk." Gwendolyn assented. Once more she was beginning to have belief in him. "Then," he resumed, "I look after the children, so that--" She started. The children!--_he?_ "But," she interrupted, "Jane's always told me that you grab little boys and girls _and carry 'em off_." Then, fairly shook at her own boldness. "I never!" denied Jane, sullenly. He laughed. "I _do_ carry 'em off. But _where?_" "I don't know,"--in a flutter. "Tell her," urged the little old gentleman. The Policeman leaned his feet against the bill-board. "I'm the man," said he, "that takes lost little kids to their fathers and mothers." To their fathers and mothers! Gwendolyn came round upon Jane, lifting accusing eyes, pointing an accusing finger, "So!" she breathed. "You told me he stole 'em! It isn't _true!_" And she wiggled the finger. Jane edged away, head on one side "Oh, I was jokin' you," she declared lightly. But--accidentally--- she turned aside her grinning front face and gave the others a glimpse of the back one. And each noted how the square mouth was trembling with anxiety. "Ah-ha!" exclaimed Gwendolyn, triumphantly. "I'm finding you out!" The Policeman crossed his feet against the bill-board, taking care not to injure any of the articles there displayed. "Yes, I've taken a lot of lost little kids to their fathers and mothers," he repeated. "And I was just wondering if you--" She gave him no chance to finish his sentence. In her joy at finding that here was another friend, she ran to him and leaned to smile into his face. "You'll help _me_ to find my fath-er and moth-er, won't you?" she cried. "_Cer_-tainly!" "We were starting just as you came," said the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Well, let's be off!" His whistle hung by a thin chain from a button-hole of his coat. He swung it to his lips, _Toot! Toot!_ It was a cheery blast. The next moment, coming, as it were, on the heels of her sudden good fortune, Gwendolyn closed her right hand and found herself possessed of a bag of candy!--red-and-white stick-candy of the variety that she had often seen selling at street corners (out of show-cases that went on wheels). More than once she had longed, and in vain, to stop at one of these show-cases and purchase. Now she suddenly remembered having done so with a high hand. The sticks were striped spirally. Boldly she produced one and fell to sucking it, making more noise with her sucking than ever the strict proprieties of the nursery permitted. Then, candy in hand, and with the little old gentleman on her right, the Policeman on her left, and Jane trailing behind, doing a one-two-three-and-point, she set forward gayly along the wide, curving road. CHAPTER XI As she trotted along, pulling with great relish at a candy-stick, she glanced down at the Policeman every now and then--and glowed with pride. On some few well-remembered occasions her chauffeur had condescended to hold a short conversation with her; had even permitted her to sound the clarion of the limousine, with its bright, piercing tones. All of which had been keenly gratifying. But here she was, actually conversing with an Officer in full uniform! And on terms of perfect equality! She proffered him the bag of spiral sweets. He cocked his head side wise at it. "Is that the chewing kind?" he inquired. "Oh, I'm sorry!" However, he did not seem in the least disappointed. For he had a mouthful of gum, and this he cracked loudly from time to time--in a way that excited her admiration and envy. "I've watched you go by our house lots of times," she confided presently, eager to say something cordial. "Oh?" said he. "It's a beat that does well enough in summer. But in the wintertime I'd rather be Down-Town." Puffing a little,--for though he was upside down and walking on his hands, he had so far made good progress--he halted and rested his feet against the lowest limb of a tree that stood close to the road. Now his cap touched the ground, and his hands were free. With one white-gloved finger he drew three short lines in the packed dirt. "And you _ought_ to be Down-Town," declared the little old gentleman, halting too. "Because you're a Policeman with a level head." A level head? Gwendolyn stooped to look. And saw that it was indeed a fact! "If I hadn't one," answered the Policeman with dignity, "would I be able to stand up comfortably in this remarkable manner?" "Oh, tee! hee! hee! hee!" It was the nurse, her sleeve lifted, her blowzy face convulsed. As she laughed, Gwendolyn saw wrinkle after wrinkle in the black sateen taken up--with truly alarming rapidity. "My!" she exclaimed. "Jane's always been stout. But now--!" The Policeman was deepening the three short lines in the dirt, making a capital A. "Two streets come together," he said, placing his finger on the point of the letter. "And the block that connects 'em just before they meet, that's the beat for _me_." "I hope you'll get it," she said heartily. "Get it!" he repeated bitterly. "Well, I certainly won't if I don't find that Bird!" And he started forward once more. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces, trudging alongside, craned to peer ahead, his grizzled beard sticking straight out in front of him. "Now, let me see," he mused in a puzzled way. "Which route, I wonder, had we better take?" "That depends on where we're going," replied the Policeman, helplessly. "And with the Bird gone, of course I don't know." "I'll tell you," said the little old gentleman promptly. "First, we must cross the Glass--" Gwendolyn gave him a quick glance. Surely he meant cross the _grass_. "Yes, the Glass; go on," encouraged the Officer. "--And find _him_." Those round dark eyes darted a quick glance at Gwendolyn. Jane, capering at his heels, now interrupted. "Find him!" she taunted. "Gwendolyn'll never find her father if she don't listen to me." He ignored her. "Next," he went on "we'll steer straight for Robin Hood's Barn." "Oh!" exclaimed the Policeman "Then we have to go around." "_Every_body has to go around." Once more Jane broke in. "Gwendolyn," she called, "you'll never find your mother. This precious pair is takin' you the wrong way!" Gwendolyn paid no heed. Ahead the road divided--to the left in a narrow bridle-path, all loose soil and hoof-prints, and sharp turns; to the right in a level thoroughfare that held a straight course. She touched the little old gentleman's elbow. "Which?" she whispered. As the parting of the ways was reached, he pointed. And she saw a sign--a sign with an arrow directing travelers to the right. Under the arrow, plainly lettered, were the words: _To the Bear's Den_. Gwendolyn looked her concern. "Do we _have_ to go that road?" she asked him. He nodded. The next moment, with a loud rumbling of the eyes, Jane came alongside. "Oh, dearie," she cried, "you couldn't hire _me_ to go. And I wouldn't like to see _you_ go. I think too much of you, I do _indeed_." "Hold your tongue!" ordered the little old gentleman, crossly. Jane obeyed. Up came a hand, and she seized the tongue-tip in her front mouth. But since there was a second tongue-tip in that back face, she still continued her babbling: "Don't ask me to trapse over the hard pavements on my poor tired feet, dearie, just because you take your notions.... Come, I say! Your mother's nobody, anyhow.... You don't know what you're sayin' or doin', poor thing! You're just wanderin', that's all--just wanderin'." "I'm wandering in the right direction, anyhow," retorted Gwendolyn, stoutly. And to the little old gentleman, "I'm sorry we're going this way, though. I'm 'fraid of Bears,"--for the sign was past now; the four were on the level thoroughfare. The Policeman seemed not to have remarked her anxiety. "And after the Den, what do we pass?" he questioned. "The Big Rock," answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Do we have to turn it?" The other spoke with some annoyance. "What's likely to come out? I suppose it won't be hiding that Bird." "There's a hollow under the Rock," said the little old gentleman. "We'll find _something_." His face grew grave. "And--and after we go by the Big Rock?" ventured Gwendolyn. The little old gentleman smiled. "Ah, then!" he said, "--then we come to the Pillery!" "Oh!" She considered the reply. Pillery--it was a word she had never chanced upon in the large Dictionary. Yet she felt she could hardly ask any questions about it. She had asked so many already. "It's kind of you to answer and answer and answer," she said aloud. "Nobody else ever did that." "Ask anything you want to know," he returned cordially. "I'll always give you prompt attention. Though of course, there are _some_ things--" He hesitated. "Yes?"--eagerly. "That only fathers and mothers can answer." "Oh!" "Didn't you know that?" demanded the Policeman, surprised. "Tee! hee! hee! hee!" snickered Jane. Though she was some few steps in the rear, her difficult breathing could be plainly heard. She had laughed so much into her sleeve, and had grown so stout, that by now not a single wrinkle remained in the black sateen; _worse_--she was beginning to try every square inch of the cloth sorely. And having danced every foot of the way, she was tiring. "Oh, fath-er-and-moth-er questions," said Gwendolyn. "Precisely," answered the little old gentleman; "--about my friends, Santa Claus and the Sand-Man, for instance--" "They're not friends of Potter's, I guess. 'Cause he--" "--And the fairies, and the gnomes, and the giants; and Mother Goose and _her_ crowd. Of course a nurse or a governess or a teacher of some sort might _try_ to explain. Wouldn't do any good, though. You wouldn't understand." The Policeman swung his head back and forth, nodding. "That's the worst," said he, "of being a Poor--" Here he fell suddenly silent, and spatted the dust with his palms in an embarrassed way. She understood. "A Poor Little Rich Girl," she said, "who doesn't see her fath-er and moth-er." "But you will," he declared determinedly, and forged ahead faster than ever, white hand following white hand. It was then that Gwendolyn heard the nurse muttering and chortling to herself. "Well, I never!" exclaimed the tongue-tip that was not being held. "If this ain't a' _automobile_ road! Why, it's a _fine_ auto_mo_bile road! Ha! ha! ha! _That makes a difference!_" Gwendolyn was startled. What did Jane mean? _What_ difference? Why so much satisfaction all at once? She wished the others would listen; would take note of the triumphant air. But both were busy, the little old gentleman chattering and pointing ahead, the Policeman straining to keep pace and look where his companion directed. To lessen her uneasiness, Gwendolyn hunted a second stick of candy. Then sidled in between her two friends. "Oh, please," she began appealingly, with a glance up and a glance down, "I'm 'fraid Jane's going to make us trouble. Can't we think of some way to get rid of her?" The Policeman twisted his neck around until he could wink at her with his black eye. "In town," said he meaningly, "we Policemen have a way." "Oh, tell us!" she begged. For the Man-Who-Makes-Faces looked keenly interested. "Well," resumed the Officer--and now he halted just long enough to raise a gloved finger to one side of his head with a significant gesture--"when we want to get rid of a person, we put a flea in his ear." Gwendolyn blushed rosy. A flea! It was an insect that Miss Royle had never permitted her to mention. Still-- "But--but where could we--er--find--a--a--?" She had stammered that far when she saw the little old gentleman turn his wrinkled face over a shoulder. Next, he jerked an excited thumb. And looking, she saw that Jane was _failing to keep up_. By now the nurse had swelled to astonishing proportions. Her body was as round as a barrel. Her face was round too, and more red than ever. Her cheeks were so puffed, the skin of her forehead was so tight and shiny, that she looked precisely like a monster copy of a sanitary rubber doll! "She can't last much longer! Her strength's giving out." It was the Policeman. And his voice ended in a sob. (Yet the sob meant nothing, for he was showing all his white teeth in a delighted smile.) "She must have help!"--this the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. His voice broke, too. But his round, dark eyes were brimming with laughter. "Who'll help her?" demanded Gwendolyn. "_Nobody_. So _one_ of that three is gone for good!" She halted now--on the summit of a rise. Up this, but at a considerable distance, Jane was toiling, with feeble hops to the right, and staggering steps to the left, and faint, fat gasps. "Oh, Gwendolyn darlin'!" she called weepingly. "Oh, don't leave your Jane! Oh! Oh!" "I've made up my mind," announced Gwendolyn, "to have the nurse-maid in the brick house. So, good-by--good-by." She began to descend rapidly, with the little old gentleman in a shuffling run, and the Policeman springing from hand to hand as if he feared pursuit, and swaying his legs from side to side with a _tick-tock, tick-tock_. The going was easy. Soon the bottom of the slope was reached. Then all stopped to look back. Jane had just gained the top. But was come to a standstill. Over the brow of the hill could be seen only her full face--like a big red moon. At the sight, Gwendolyn felt a thrill of joy--the joy of freedom found again. "Why, she's not coming up," she called out delightedly. "She's going down!" And she punctuated her words with a gay skip. That skip proved unfortunate. For as ill-luck would have it, she stumbled. And stumbling stubbed her toe. The toe struck two small stones that lay partly embedded in the road--dislodged them--turned them end for end--and sent them skimming along the ground. "_Two!_" cried the Policeman. "_Now_ who?" "If only the right kind come!" added the little old gentleman, each of his round eyes rimmed with sudden white. "I'll blow my whistle." Up swung the shining bit of metal on the end of its chain. "Blow it at the top of your lungs!" The Policeman had balanced himself on his head, thrown away his gum, and put the whistle against his lips. Now he raised it and placed it against his chest, just above his collar-button. Then he blew. And through the forest the blast rang and echoed and boomed--until all the tapers rose and fell, and all the footlights flickered. Instantly that red moon sank below the crest of the hill. Puffs of smoke rose in its place. Then there was borne to the waiting trio a sound of _chugging_. And the next instant, with a purr of its engine, and a whirr of its wheels, here into full sight shot forward the limousine! Gwendolyn paled. The half-devoured stick of candy slipped from her fingers. "Oh, I don't want to be shut up in the car!" she cried out. "And I won't! I _won't!_ I WON'T!" She scurried behind the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. The automobile came on. Its polished sides reflected the varied lights of the forest. Its hated windows glistened. One door swung wide, as if yawning for a victim! The little old gentleman, as he watched it, seemed interested rather than apprehensive. After a moment, "Recollect my speaking of the Piper?" he asked. "Y-y-yes." At the mention of the Piper, the Policeman stared up. "The Pip-Piper!" he protested, stammering, and beginning to back away. At that, Gwendolyn felt renewed anxiety. "The Piper!" she faltered. "Oh, I'll have to settle with him." And thrust a searching hand into the patch-pocket. The Policeman kept on retreating. "I don't want to see him," he declared. "He made me pay too dear for my whistle." And he bumped his head against his night-stick. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces hastened to him, and halted him by grasping him about his fast-swaying legs. "You can't run away from the Piper," he reminded. "So--" Gwendolyn was no longer frightened. In her search for money she had found the gold-mounted leather case. This she now clutched, receiving courage from the stiff upper-lip. But the Policeman was far from sanguine. Now perspiration and not tears glistened on his forehead. He grasped his club with one shaking hand. As for the little old gentleman, he held the curved knife out in front of him, all his thin fingers wound tightly around its hilt. "What's the Piper got beside him?" he asked in a tone full of wonder. "Is it a _rubber-plant?_" Gwendolyn looked. The Piper was leaning over the steering-wheel of the car. He was so near by now that she could make him out clearly--a lanky, lean-jawed young man in a greasy cap and Johnnie Blake overalls. Over his right shoulder, on a strap, was suspended a bundle. A tobacco-pipe hung from a corner of his mouth. But it was evidently not this pipe that had given him his title; but pipes of a different kind--all of lead, in varying lengths. These were arranged about his waist, somewhat like a long, uneven fringe. And among them was a pipe-wrench, a coupling or two, and a cutter. Beside him on the seat, in the foot man's place, was a queer object. It was tall, and dark-blue in color. (Or was it green?) On one side of it were what seemed to be seven long leaves. On the other side were seven similar leaves. And as the car rolled swiftly up, these fourteen long leaf-like projections waved gently. She had no chance to examine the object further. Something else claimed her attention. The windowed door of the limousine suddenly swung wide, and through it, toward her, was extended a long black beckoning arm. Next, a freckled face filled the whole of the opening, spying this way and that. It was Jane! "Come, dearie," she cooed. (She had let go the front tongue-tip.) "I wouldn't stay with them two any more. Here's your beautiful car, love. _This_ is what'll take you fast to your papa and mamma." "_No!_" cried Gwendolyn. And to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, "She was 'fraid of the Piper just a little while ago. Now, she's riding around with him. _I_ think he's--" "Ssh!" warned the little old gentleman, speaking low. "We have to have him. And he has his good points." The Piper was staring at Gwendolyn impertinently. Now he climbed down from his seat, all his pipes _tinkling_ and _tankling_ as he moved, and gave her a mocking salute, quite as if he knew her--yet without removing the tobacco-pipe from between his lips, or the greasy cap from his hair. "Well, if here ain't the P.L.R.G.," he exclaimed rudely. As she got a better view of him she remembered that she _had_ met him before--in her nursery, that fortunate morning the hot-water pipe burst. He was the very Piper that had been called in to make plumbing repairs! "Good-evening," said Gwendolyn, nodding courteously--but staying close to the little old gentleman. For Jane had summoned strength enough to topple out of the limousine and teeter forward. Now she was kneeling in the road, crooking a coaxing finger, and gurgling invitingly. The Piper scowled at the nurse. "Say! What do you think you're doin'?" he demanded. "Singin' a duet with yourself?" Then turning upon the Policeman, "Off your beat, ain't you?" he inquired impudently; when, without waiting for an answer, he swung round upon the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Old gent," he began tauntingly, "I can't collect real money for that dozen ears." And threw out an arm toward the object on the driver's seat. Gwendolyn looked a second time. And saw a horrid and unnatural sight. For the object was a man, straight enough, broad-shouldered enough, with arms and legs, feet and hands, and a small head; but a man shockingly disfigured. For down either side of him, projecting from head and shoulders and arms, were ears--long, hairy, mulish ears, that wriggled horribly, one moment unfolding themselves to catch every sound, the next flopping about ridiculously. "Why, he's all ears!" she gasped. The little old gentleman started forward. "It's that dozen I boxed!" he announced. "Hey! Come out of there!" Gwendolyn's heart sank. Now she knew. From the first her fear had been that one of the dreaded three would come and fetch her out of the Land before she could find her parents. And here, at the very moment when she hoped to leave the worst of the trio behind, here was another!--to hamper and tattle and thwart. For the rubber plant was Thomas! And now all at once there was the greatest excitement. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seized Thomas by an ear and dragged him to the ground, all the while upbraiding him loudly. And while these two were occupied, the Piper swaggered toward the Policeman, his pipes and implements striking and jangling together. "I want my money," he bellowed. "I don't owe you anything!" retorted the Policeman. All this gave Jane the opportunity she wished. She advanced upon Gwendolyn. "Come, sweetie," she wheedled. "Rich little girls don't hike along the streets like common poor little girls. So jump in, and pretend you're a Queen, and have a grand ride--" Now all of a sudden a terrible inclination to obey seized Gwendolyn. There yawned that door--here burned those reddish eyes, compelling her forward into a dreaded grasp-- She screamed, covering her face. In that moment of danger it was the Policeman who came to her rescue. Eluding the Piper, he ran, hand over hand, to the side of the car, balanced himself on his level head, and waved his club. "Move on!" he ordered in a deep voice (precisely as Gwendolyn had heard officers order at crowded crossings); "move on, there!" The limousine obeyed! With no one touching the steering-gear, the engine began to _chug_, the wheels to whirr. And purring again, like some great good-natured live thing, it gained momentum, took the road in a cloud of pink dust, and, rounding a distant turn, disappeared from sight. CHAPTER XII It occurred to Gwendolyn that it would be a very good idea to stop turning stones. The first one set bottom-side up had resulted in the arrival of Jane. And whereas the Policeman had appeared when the second was dislodged, here, following the accidental stub of a toe, were these two--the Piper and Thomas. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces hurried across to her, his expression dubious. "Bitter pill!" he exclaimed, with a sidewise jerk of the ragged hat. "Gall and wormwood!" "Oh, yes!" For--sure enough!--there _was_ an ill-flavored taste on her lips--a taste that made her regret having lost the candy. Next, the Policeman came _tick-tocking_ up. "The scheme was to kidnap you," he declared wrathfully. "And keep me from finding my fath-er and moth-er," added Gwendolyn. Now she understood why Jane was so pleased with the choice of the automobile road! And she realized that all along there was never any danger of her being kidnaped by _strangers_, but by the two who, their past ill-feeling evidently forgotten, were at this very moment chuckling and chattering together, ugly heads touching--the eary head and the head with the double face! Seeing the Policeman and the little old gentleman in conversation with Gwendolyn, the Piper slouched over. "Look a-here!" he began roughly, addressing all three; "you're goin' to make a great big mistake if you antagonize a man that belongs to a Labor Union." (Just so had he spoken the day he fixed the broken hot-water pipe.) "Bosh!" cried the Policeman. "What do we care about _him!_ Why, he'll never even get through the Gate!" Gwendolyn was puzzled. _What_ Gate? And _why_ would Thomas not get through it? Then looking round to where he was conspiring with Jane, she saw what she believed was a very good explanation: He would never even get through the Gate because (a simple reason!) the _nurse_ would not be able to get through. For by now Jane was not only as _round_ as a barrel, but she was fully as _large_--what with so much happy giggling over Thomas's arrival. Moreover, having toppled sidewise, she _looked_ like a barrel--a barrel upholstered in black sateen, with a neat touch of white at collar and cuffs! "He's been in trouble before," continued the Policeman, stormily. "But _this_ time--!" And letting himself down flat upon his head, he shook both neatly shod feet in the Piper's face. It was now that Gwendolyn chanced, for the first time, to examine the latter's bundle. And was surprised to discover that it was nothing less than a large _poke-bonnet_--of the fluffy, lacy, ribbony sort. And she was admiring it, for it was of black silk, and handsome, _when something within it stirred!_ She retreated--until the night-stick and the kidnaper knife were between her and the poke. "Hadn't we better be st-starting?" she faltered nervously. The Piper marked her manner, and showed instant resentment of it. "This here thing was handed me once in part-payment," he explained. "And I ain't been able to get rid of it since. Every single day it's harder to lug around. Because, you see, he's growin'." At that, the Policeman and the Man-Who-Makes-Faces exchanged a glance full of significance. And both shrugged--the Policeman with such an emphatic upside-down shrug that his shoulders brushed the ground. Gwendolyn's curiosity emboldened her. "_He?_" she questioned. "The pig." _The pig!_ Gwendolyn's pink mouth opened in amazement. Here was the very pig that she heard _belonged_ in a poke! The Piper was glowering at Jane, who was rocking gently from side to side, displaying first one face, then the other. "Well, _I_ call that dancing," he declared. And pulling out a small, well-thumbed account-book, jotted down some figures. Gwendolyn tried to think of something to say--while feeling mistrust toward the Piper, and abhorrence toward the poke and its contents. At last she took refuge in polite inquiry. "When did you come out from town?" she asked. The Piper grunted rather ill-humoredly (or was it the pig?--she could not be certain), and colored up a little. "I didn't _come_ out," he answered in his surly fashion. Whereupon he fell to fitting a coupling upon the ends of two pipes. "No?"--inquisitively. "I--er--got run out." "Oh!" Again the Policeman and the Man-Who-Makes-Faces exchanged a significant glance. "You see," went on the Piper, "in the City everybody's in debt. Well, I have to have my money, don't I? So I dunned 'em all good. But maybe--er--a speck _too_ much. So--" "Oh, dear!" breathed Gwendolyn "Of course, I've never been what you might call popular. Who _would_ be--if everybody owed him money." "Huh!" snorted the Policeman. "You overcharge," asserted the little old gentleman. Gwendolyn hastened to forestall any heated reply from the Piper. "You don't think your pig had anything to do with it?" she suggested considerately. "'Cause do--do _nice_ people like pigs?" "The pig was never in sight," asserted the Piper. "Guess that's one reason why I can't sell him. What people don't see they don't want to buy--even when it's covered up stylish." (Here he regarded the poke with an expression of entire satisfaction.) The little company was well on its way by now--though Gwendolyn could not recall the moment of starting. The Piper had not waited to be invited, but strolled along with the others, his birch-stemmed tobacco-pipe in a corner of his mouth, his hands in his pockets, and the pig-poke a-swing at his elbow. Thomas, left to get Jane along as best he could, had managed most ingeniously. The nurse was cylindrical. All he had to do, therefore, was to give her momentum over the smooth windings of the road by an occasional smart shove with both hands. Which made it clear that the likelihood of losing Jane, of leaving her behind, was lessening with each moment! For now the more the nurse laughed _the easier it would be to get her along_. "Oh, dear!" sighed Gwendolyn, with a sad shake of her yellow head as Jane came trundling up, both fat arms folded to keep them out of the way. "If she stopped dancin' where would I come in?" demanded the Piper, resentfully. The pig moved in the poke. He trounced the poor thing irritably. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces now began to speak--in a curious, chanting fashion. "The mode of locomotion adapted by this woman," said he, "rather adds to, then detracts from, her value as a nurse. Think what facilities she has for amusing a child!--on, say, an extensive slope of lawn. And her ability to, see two ways--practically at once--gives her further value. Would _she_ ever let a young charge fall over a cliff?" The barrel was whopping over and over--noiselessly, except for the faint chatter of Jane's tortoise-shell teeth. Behind it was Thomas, limp-eared by now, and perspiring, but faithful to his task. "The _best_ thing," whispered Gwendolyn, reaching to touch a ragged sleeve, "would be to get rid of Thomas. Then she--" The Policeman heard. "Get rid of Thomas?" he repeated. "Easy enough. _Look on the ground_." She looked. "See the h's?" Sure enough, the road was fairly strewn with the sixth consonant!--both in small letters and capitals. "Been dropped," went on the Officer. She had heard the expression "dropping his h's." Now she understood it. "Oh, but how'll these help?" "Show 'em to Thomas!" She approached the barrel--and pointed down. Thomas followed her pointing. Instantly his expression became furious. And one by one his ears stood up alertly. "It's him!" he shouted. "Oh, wait till I get my hands on him!" Then heaving hard at the barrel, he raced off along the alphabetical trail. Gwendolyn was compelled to run to keep up with him. "What's the trouble?" she asked the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "A Dictionarial difference," he answered, his dark-skinned face very grave. "Oh!" (She resolved to hunt Dictionarial up the moment she was back in the school-room.) Thomas was shouting once more from where he labored in the lead. "I'll murder him!" he threatened. "This time I'll mur-r-der him!" Murder? That made matters clear! There was only one person against whom Thomas bore such hot ill-will. "It's the King's English," she panted. "It's the King's English," agreed the Policeman, _tick-tocking_ in rapid _tempo_. She reached again to tug gently at a ragged sleeve. "Do _you_ know him?" she asked. The round black eyes of the little old gentleman shone proudly down at her. "All nice people are well acquainted with the King's English," he declared--which statement she had often heard in the nursery. Now, however, it embarrassed her, for she was compelled to admit to herself that _she_ was not acquainted with the King's English--and he a personage of such consequence! The Piper hurried alongside, all his pipes rattling. "Just where are we goin', anyhow?" he asked petulantly. "We're going to the Bear's Den," informed the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "And here's the Zoo now," announced the Policeman. It was unmistakably the Zoo. Gwendolyn recognized the main entrance. For above it, in monster letters formed by electric lights, was a sign, bulbous and blinding-- _Villa Sites Borax Starch Shirts._ "So _this_ is the Gate you meant!" she called to the Policeman. The Gate was flung invitingly wide Thomas rushed toward it, his fourteen ears flopping horribly. "And here _he_ is!" cried the Policeman. "On guard." The next moment--"'Alt!" ordered a harsh voice--a voice with an English accent. There was a flash of scarlet before Gwendolyn's face--of scarlet so vivid that it blinded. She flung up a hand. But she was not frightened. She knew what it was. And rubbed at her eyes hastily to clear them. He stood in full view. As far as outward appearance was concerned, he was exactly the looking person she had pictured in her own mind--young and tall and lusty, with a florid countenance and hair as blonde as her own. And he wore the uniform of an English soldier--short coat of scarlet, all gold braid and brass buttons; dark trousers with stripes; and a little round cap with a chin strap. But he carried no cane. Instead, as he stepped forward, nose up, chin up, eyes very bold, he swung a most amazing weapon. It was as scarlet as his own coat, as long as he was tall, and polished to a high degree. But it was not unbending, like a sword: It was limber to whippiness, so that as he twirled it about his blonde head it snapped and whistled. And Gwendolyn remembered having seen others exactly like it hanging on the bill-board at the Face-Shop. For it was a tongue! "Aw! Mah word!" exclaimed the King's English, surveying the halted group. Gwendolyn could not imagine what word he had in mind, but she thought him very fine. With his air of proud self-assurance, and his fine brilliant uniform, he was strikingly like her own red-coated toy! Anxious to make a favorable impression upon him, she smoothed the gingham dress hastily, brushed back straying wisps of yellow, straightened her shoulders, and assumed a cordial expression of countenance. "How do you do," she said, curtseying. He saluted. But blocked the way. "May we go into the Zoo, please?" His hand jerked down to his side. "One at a time," he answered; "--all but Thomas." Thomas had come short with the others. Now as Gwendolyn looked at him she saw that he, also, was armed with a tongue--a warped and twisted affair, rough, but thin along its edges. "If you try to keep me out," he cried, "I certainly _will_ murder you!" At this juncture the Policeman pit-patted forward and took his station at the left of the Gate. Next, the King's English stepped back until he stood at the right. Between them, hand in hand once more, passed Gwendolyn and the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. The Piper came next. "Call that a' English tongue?" he asked, with an impudent grin at the soldier's shining weapon. "Yes, sir." "Pah!" Now Thomas gave Jane a quick shove forward--but a shove which sent her only as far as the Gate. The King's English stared down at her. "How are you?" he said coldly. "I'm awful uncomfortable," was the mournful answer. "Then take off your stays," he advised. Whereat the polished tongue glanced through the light, caught Jane fairly around the waist, and with a swift recoil brought her to her feet! And now Gwendolyn, astonished, saw that too much laughter had again remolded that sateen bulk. The nurse had grown woefully heavy about the shoulders--which put a fearful strain on the stitches of her bodice! and gave her the appearance of a gigantic humming-top! As she swayed a moment on her wide-toed shoes--shoes now utterly lacking buttons--the King's English again struck out, caught her, this time, around the neck, and sent her spinning through the Gate! "_Zing-g-g-g!_" she laughed dizzily--that laugh the high, persistent note of a top! Thomas attempted to follow. "I just _will_ come in," he cried, wielding his warped weapon with a flourish. "You shall _not!_" To bar the way, the King's English thrust out his polished tongue. "I _will!_" _Crack! Crack!_ "You won't!" _Crack! Crack!_ The fight was on! For the combatants, tongue's-length from each other, were prowling to and fro menacingly. "Oh, there's going to be a tongue-lashing," cried Gwendolyn, frightened. "I'm the King's Hinglish!"--it was the soldier's slogan. "This is me!" sang Thomas, saucily flicking at a brass button. His face was all cunning. Then how the tongues popped! "This is I!" corrected the King's English promptly. But his face got a trifle more florid. "Steady!" counseled the little old gentleman. "I'm hall right," the other cried back. "Oh, Piper!" said Gwendolyn; "which side are _you_ on?" The Piper shifted his tobacco pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other. "I'm for the man that's got the _cash_," he declared. There was no doubt about Jane's choice. Seeing Thomas's momentary advantage, she came spinning close to the Gate. "Use h-words, Thomas!" she hummed. "Use h-words!" Thomas acted upon her advice. "Hack and hit and hammer!" he charged. "Haggle and halve and hamper! Halt and hang and harass!" "'Ack and 'it and 'ammer!" struck back the King's English, beginning to breath hard. "Aggie and 'alve and 'amper! 'Alt and 'ang and 'arass!" As the tongues met, Gwendolyn saw small bright splinters fly this way and that--a shower of them! These splinters darted downward, falling upon the road. And each, as it lit, was an h! The Policeman was frightened. "Which is your best foot?" he called. The King's English indicated his right. "This!" "Then put it forward!" "My goodness!" exclaimed Gwendolyn. "Am I seeing this, or is it just Pretend?" Thomas now warmed to the fray. "Harm!" he scourged, "Harness! Hash! Hew! Hoodwink! Hurt and hurk!" "'Eavens!" breathed the King's English. "Turn your cold shoulder," advised the little old gentleman. The King's English thrust out the right. And it helped! "Oh, hayches don't matter," he panted. "I'm hall right has long has 'is grammar doesn't get too bad." And off came one of Thomas's ears--a large one--and blew along the ground like a great leaf. That was an unfortunate boast. For Thomas, enraged by the loss of an ear, fought with renewed zeal. "If you see he, just tell I!" he shouted. The King's English went pallid. "If you see 'im, just tell me," he gasped, meeting Thomas gallantly--with the loss of only one splinter. "Oh, I want you to win!" called Gwendolyn to him. But the contest was unequal. That was now plain. The King's English had polish and finish. Thomas had more: his tongue, newly sharpened, cut deep at each blow. Unequal as was the contest, Jane's interference a second time made it more so. For as the fighters trampled to and fro, seeking the better of each other, she twirled near again. "Try your _verbs_, Thomas!" she counseled. "Try your verbs!" Eagerly Thomas grasped this second hint. "By which I could was!" he cried, with a curling stroke of the warped tongue; "or shall am!" At that, the King's English showed distressing weakness. He seemed scarcely to have enough strength for another snap. "By w'ich I could be!" he whipped back feebly; "or shall 'ave been!" And staggered sidewise. Now the warped and twisted tongue began to chant past-participially: "I done! I done!! I done!!!" "'Elp!" implored the King's English, fairly wan. "Friends, this--this fellow 'as treated me houtrageously for--for yaaws!" "Oh, worser and worser and worser," pursued Thomas, changing suddenly to adverbs. "Rawly now--!" The King's English tottered to his knees. "I _did_," prompted Gwendolyn, eager to help him. "I did," repeated the King's English--but the polished tongue slipped from his grasp! "I seen!" followed up Thomas. "I sung!" _Crack! Crack!_ It was the last fatal onslaught. The scarlet-coated figure fell forward. Yet bravely he strove again to give tongue-lash for tongue-lash--by reaching out one palsied hand toward his weapon. "I--I--s-a-w!" he muttered; "I s-s-s-ing!"--And expired, with his last breath gasping good grammar. Instantly Thomas leaped the prostrate figure and strode to the Gate. He was breathing hard, but looking about him boldly. "Now _I_ come through," he boasted. "O-o-o!" It was Gwendolyn's cry. "Officer, don't let him! _Don't!_" In answer to her appeal, the Policeman seized Thomas by a lower ear and shoved him against a gate-post. "You've committed murder!" he cried. "And I arrest you!" "Tongue-tie him!" shouted the little old gentleman, springing to jerk Thomas's weapon out of his hand, and to snatch up the nicked and splintered weapon of the vanquished soldier. Under the great blazing sign of the Zoo entrance the capture was accomplished. And in a moment, from his feet to his very ears, Thomas was wrapped, arms tight against sides, in the scarlet toils of the tongues. "So!" exclaimed the little old gentleman as he tied a last knot. "Thomas'll never bother my little girl again." And taking Gwendolyn by the hand, he led her away. It was not until she had gone some distance that she turned to take a last look back. And saw, there beside the wide Gate, a rubber-plant, its long leaves waving gently. It was Thomas, bound securely, and abandoned. Yet she did not pity him. He had murdered the King's English, and he deserved his punishment. Furthermore, he looked so green, so cool, so ornamental! CHAPTER XIII So far, the Piper had seemed to be no one's friend--unless, perhaps, his own. He had lagged along, surly or boisterous by turns, and careless of his manners; not even showing respect to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces and the Policeman! But now Gwendolyn remarked a change in him. For as he spoke to her, he took his pipe out of his mouth--under the pretext of cleaning it. "Say!" he began in a cautious undertone: "I'll give you some advice about Jane." Gwendolyn was looking about her at the Zoo. Its roofs seemed countless. They touched, having no streets between them anywhere, and reached as far as she could see. They were all heights, all shapes, all varieties--some being level, others coming to a point at one corner, a few ending in a tower. One tower, on the outer-most edge of the Zoo, was square, and tapered. "Jane?" she said indifferently. "Oh, she's only a top." "Only a top!" It was the little old gentleman. "Why, that makes her all the _more_ dangerous!" "Because she's spinning so fast"--the Policeman balanced on one arm while he shook an emphatic finger--"that she'll stir up trouble!" "Well, then, what shall I do?" asked Gwendolyn. For, elated over seeing Thomas disposed of so completely--and yet with so much mercy--she was impatient at hearing that she still had reason to fear the nurse. The Piper took his time about replying. He sharpened one end of a match, thrust the bit of pine into the stem of his pipe, jabbed away industriously, threw away the match, blew through the stem once or twice, and turned the bowl upside down to make it _plop, plop_ against a palm. Then, "Keep Jane laughin'," he counseled, "--_and see what happens_." Jane was alongside, spinning comfortably on her shoe-leather point. Now, as if she had overheard, or guessed a plot, sudden uneasiness showed on both her countenances, and she increased her speed. "You done up Thomas, the lot of you," she charged, as she whirled away. "But you don't git _me_." "And we won't," declared Gwendolyn, "if we don't hurry up and trip her." "A _good_ idear!" chimed in the Piper. "If we only had some string!" cried the little old gentleman. "String won't do," said the Policeman. "We need rope." There was a high wind sweeping the roofs. And as the three began to run about, searching, it fluttered the Policeman's coat-tails, swelled out the Piper's cap, and tugged at the ragged garb of the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Here's a piece of clothes-line!" The Policeman made the find--catching sight of the line where it dangled from the edge of a roof. The others hastened to join him. And each seized the rope in both hands, the Piper staying at one end of it, the little old gentleman at the opposite, while Gwendolyn and the Policeman posted themselves at proper distances between. Then forward in a row swept all, carrying the rope with them. It was a curious one of its kind--as black as if it had been tarred, thick at the middle, but noticeably thin at one end. Jane saw their design. "Ba-a-a!" she mocked. "_I'm_ not afraid of you! I'm goin' to turn the Big Rock. _Then_ you'll see!" And she made straight toward the square tower in the distance. "_Oh!_" It was the little old gentleman, beard blown sidewise by the wind. "We musn't let her!" The Piper, in his excitement, jounced the pig so hard that it squealed. "We ought to be able," he panted, "to manage a top." "Jane!" bellowed the Policeman, galloping hard. "You must _not_ injure that shaft!" Then Gwendolyn realized that the square _tower_ toward which the nurse was spinning was the Big Rock. And she recognized it as a certain great pillar of pink granite, up and down the sides of which, deep cut by chisels, were written strange words. It rose just ahead. Answering the Officer with a shrill, scoffing laugh, Jane bore down upon it. Aided by the wind, she made top speed. There was not a moment to lose. Her pursuers fairly tore after her. And the Piper, who made the fastest progress, gained--until he was at her very heels. Then with a final leap, he passed her, and circled, dragging the rope. It made a loop about the buttonless shoes--a loop that tightened as the little old gentleman came short, as the Piper halted. Each gave a pull-- With disastrous result! For as the line came taut, up Jane went!--caught bodily from the ground. And still spinning, whizzed forward in that high wind and struck the granite squarely. She fell to the ground, toppling sidewise, and bulking large. But the shaft! It began to move--slowly at first--to tip forward, farther and farther. When, gaining velocity, with a great grinding noise, down from off the massive cube upon which it stood it came crashing! Instantly a chorus of cries arose: "Oh, she's bumped over the obelisk! She's bumped over the obelisk!" With the cries, and sounding from beneath the tapered end of the Big Rock, mingled ferocious growls--"_Rar! Rar! Rar! Rar!_" And in that same moment, the four who were holding the rope felt it begin to writhe and twist in their grasp!--_like a live thing_. And its black length took on a scaly look, glittering in that pink glow as if it were covered with small ebon _paillettes_. It grew cold and clammy. At its thicker end Gwendolyn saw that the Piper was supporting a head--a head with small, fiery eyes and a tongue flame-like in its color and swift darting. Next, "_Hiss-s-s-s-s!_" And with one hideous contortion, the huge black body wrung itself free and coiled. Once Gwendolyn had boasted that she was not afraid of snakes. And now she did not flee, though the black coils were piled at her very feet. For she recognized the serpent. There was no mistaking that thin face and those small eyes. Moreover, a pocket-handkerchief was bound round the reptilian jaws and tied at the top of the head in a bow-knot. She had gotten rid of Thomas. But here was Miss Royle! There was no time for greetings. Again were sounding those furious growls--"_Rar! Rar! Rar!_" Jane swung round in a half-circle to warn the governess. "It's that Bear!" she hummed. "Can't you drive him away?" Miss Royle began to uncoil. The Policeman was _tick-tocking_ up and down. "The Den's damaged!" he lamented. "_Now_, who's goin' to pay?" demanded the Piper. "I'm afraid the Bear's hurt," declared the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. In her eagerness to trip Jane, Gwendolyn had utterly forgotten the Bear's Den. Now she saw it--a large cage, light in color, its bars woven closely together. And she saw too--with horror--that what the Policeman said was true: In falling, the Big Rock had broken the cover of the Den. This cover was flopping up and down on its hinges. "Oh, he's loose!" she gasped. "_Rar! Rar! Rar-r-r!_" The Bear himself was knocking the cover into the air. The top of his head could be seen as he hopped about, evidently in pain. And now an extraordinary thing happened: A black glittering body shot rustling through the grass to the side of the Den. Then up went a scaly head, and forth darted a flaming tongue--driving the Bear back under the cover! At which the Bear rebelled. For his growls turned into a muffled protest--"Now, you stop, Miss Royle! I _won't_ be treated like this! I _won't!_" Then Gwendolyn understood Jane's hum! And why the governess had obeyed it so swiftly. The light-colored cage with the loose cover was nothing else than the old linen-hamper! As for the Bear--! Hair flying, cheeks crimson, eyes shining with quick tears of joy, she darted past Jane, leaped the glittering snake-folds before the hamper, and swung the cover up on its hinges. "Puffy!" she cried. "Oh, Puffy!" It was indeed Puffy, with his plushy brown head, his bright, shoe-button eyes, his red-tipped, sharply pointed nose, his adorably tiny ears, and deep-cut, tightly shut, determined mouth. It was Puffy, as dear as ever! As old and as squashy! He stood up in the hamper to look at her, leaning his front paws--in rather a dignified manner--on the broken edge of the basketry. He was breathing hard from his contest, but smiling nevertheless. "Ah!" said he, affably. "The Poor Little Rich Girl, I see!" Gwendolyn's first impulse was to take him up in her arms. But his proud air, combined with the fact that he had grown tremendously, caused her to check the impulse. "How do you do?" she inquired politely. "I'm pretty shabby, thank you." "Oh, it's _so_ good to hear your voice again!" she exclaimed. "When you left, I didn't have a chance to tell you good-by." It was then that she noticed a white something fluttering at his breast, just under his left fore-leg. "Excuse me," she said apologetically, "but aren't you losing your pocket handkerchief?" Sadly he shook his head. "It's my stuffing," he explained. And gently withdrawing his paw from her eager grasp, laid it upon his breast. "You see, the Big Rock--" The little old gentleman was beside him, examining the wound; muttering to himself. "Can you mend him?" asked Gwendolyn. "Oh, Puffy!" The little old gentleman began to empty his pockets of the articles with which he had provided himself--the ear, the handful of hair, the plump cheek. "Ah! Ah!" he breathed as he examined each one; and to and fro wagged the grizzled beard. "I'm afraid--! I must have help. This is a case that will require a specialist." The tone was so solemn that it frightened her. "Oh, do you mean we need a _Doctor?_" Puffy was trembling weakly. "I lost some cotton-batting once before," he half-whispered to Gwendolyn. "It was when you were teething. Oh, I know it was unintentional! You were _so_ little. But--I can't spare any more." Down into the patch-pocket went her hand. Out came the lip-case. She thrust it into his furry grasp. "Keep this," she bade, "till I come back. _I'll_ go for the Doctor." The Man-Who-Makes-Faces leaned down. "Fly!" he urged. At that, Jane began to circle once more. "Lovie," she hummed, "don't you go! He'll give you nasty medicine!" "Hiss-s-s-s!" chimed in Miss Royle, her bandaged head rising and lowering in assent. "He'll cut out your appendix." One moment she hesitated, feeling the old fear drive the blood from her cheeks--to her wildly beating heart. Then she saw Puffy sway, half fainting. And obeying the command of the little old gentleman, she grasped her gingham dress at either side--held it out to its fullest width--and with the wind pouching the little skirt, left the high grass, passed up through the lights of the nearby trees--and rose into the higher air! She gave a glance down as she went. How excitedly Jane was circling! How Miss Royle was lashing the ground! But the faces of the other three were smiling encouragement. And she flew for her very life. Lightly she went--as if there were nothing to her but her little gingham dress; as if that empty dress, having tugged at some swagging clothes-line until it was free, were now being wafted across the roofs, the tree-tops, the smooth windings of a road, to-- A bake-shop, without doubt! For her nostrils caught the good smell of fresh bread. Suddenly the shop loomed ahead of her. She alighted to have a look at it. It was a round, high, stone building, with stone steps leading up to it from every side, and columns ranged in a circle at the top of the steps. Seated on the bottom step, engrossed in some task, was a man. As Gwendolyn looked at him she told herself that the Man-Who-Makes-Faces had given this customer such a nice face; the eyes, in particular, were kind. He had a large pan of bread-dough beside him. Out of it, now, he gouged a spoonful, which he began to roll between his palms. And as he rolled the dough, it became rounder and rounder, until it was ball-like. It turned browner and browner, too, precisely as if it were baking in his hands! When he was finished with it, he piled it to one side, atop other brown pellets. She advanced to speak. "Please," she began, pointing a small finger, "what is this place?" He glanced up. "This, little girl, is the Pillery." The Pillery! Instantly she knew what he was making--_bread-pills_. And the bread-pills helped her to recognize him. She dimpled cordially. "I haven't seen you since I had the colic," she said, nodding, "but I know you. You're the Doctor!" The Doctor was most cordial, shaking her hand gently; after which, naturally enough, he felt her pulse. "But there's nothing the matter with _me_," she protested. "It's my dear Puffy. _You_ remember." Now he rose solemnly, selected a fresh-baked pill, bowed to the right, again to the left, last of all, to her--and presented the pill. "In that case, Miss Gwendolyn," he said, smiling down, "a toast!" And--quite in contrast to the evening of her seventh birthday anniversary--toast there _was_, deliciously crisp and crunchy! "Oo! How good!" she exclaimed, not nibbling conventionally, but taking big bites. "'Cause I hate cake!" The next moment she became aware of the munching of others. And on looking round, found that she was back at the Den. She was not surprised. Things had a way of coming to pass in a pleasantly instantaneous fashion. And she was glad to see the little old gentleman, the Piper and the Policeman each fairly gobbling up a pellet. Miss Royle was eating, too, and Jane was stuffing _both_ mouths. But Puffy was having quite different fare. In front of him stood the Doctor, busily feeding filmy white bits into the tear just under a fore-leg. "I think you'll find," assured the latter, "that a proper amount of cotton-batting is most refreshing." "Once I wanted Jane to take me to the Doll Hospital," complained Puffy, his shoe-button eyes hard with resentment; "but she said I was only a little beast." Gwendolyn looked severe. "Jane, you'll be sorry for that," she scolded. "Ah-_ha!_ my dear!" said the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, addressing the nurse, "at last one of your chickens is coming home to roost!" Gwendolyn glanced up. And, sure enough, a chicken _was_ going past--a small blue hen, who looked exceedingly fagged. (This was an occurrence worth noting. How often had she heard the selfsame remark--and never seen as much as a feather!) Jane also saw the blue hen. And appeared much disconcerted. "I think I'll take forty winks," she hummed; "--twenty for the front face, and twenty for the back." Whereupon she made a few quick revolutions, landing up against the granite base of the obelisk. The Doctor had been sewing up the tear in Puffy's coat. Now he finished his seam and knotted the thread. "There!" said he, cheerily. "You're as good as new!" "Thank you," said Puffy. "And I feel so grateful to you, Miss Gwendolyn, that I must repay your kindness. You've always heard a certain statement about Jane, yonder. Well, I'm going to prove that it's _true_." "What's true?" asked Gwendolyn, puzzled. He made no answer. But after a short whispered conference with the Policeman, turned his back and began sniffing and snarling under his breath, while a fore-paw was busy in the region of his third rib. When he faced round again, the shoe-button eyes were shining triumphantly, and he was holding both fore-paws together tightly. "I found one!" he cried. And wabbling over to Jane, stationed himself on one side of her, at the same time motioning the Officer to steal round to the other side on quiet hands. And now Gwendolyn saw that Jane, though she was only feigning sleep, was ignorant of what was happening. For her double equipment of faces had its disadvantages. Even when upright she had not been able to roll one eye forward while its mate was on guard in the rear. And reclining flat upon her back, she could not rumble her eyes forward to her front face for the reason that they would not roll up-hill. Both stayed in the back of her head, where they could see only the ground. Very cautiously Puffy put his fore-paws to Jane's ear--suddenly separated them--and waited. A moment. Then, "Well, finding _this_ out, you can wager I don't stay heels over head no more!" cried the Policeman. And with a wriggle and a twist and a bound, he gave a half somersault and stood on his feet! At once, the bottoms of his trouser-legs came down over his shoes, his coat-tails fell about him properly, uncovering his shield and his belt, and his club took its place at his right side. "Ouch!" he exclaimed. And began to scratch hard at the spot just between his shoulder-blades. At the same time, the tears that were in his cap flowed out and down his face. So that he seemed to be weeping. The Doctor, leaning close beside Gwendolyn, was all sympathy. "There is no reason to feel bad," he said kindly. "The operation was successful." "Feel bad!" repeated the Policeman. "Why, I'm _laughing_. Ha! Ha! We put a flea in her ear!" At that, Jane began to laugh "Oh, laws!" she exclaimed, sleeve to mouth once more. "Oh, I never heard the like of it!" "_Rar!_" growled Puffy, delighted. "The plan is working! See her growl!" "That flea went in one ear and came out the other," declared the little old gentleman, poking Jane with the toe of a worn shoe. Jane laughed the harder. "Oh, it's awful funny!" she cried, rocking herself to and fro--and steadily increasing her girth. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" "We've proved that you're empty-headed," said Puffy. And now the nurse was seized by a very paroxysm of mirth. Both faces distorted, she whopped over and over. "That's right! Split your sides alaughin'," cried the Piper. At these words, sudden terror showed on her face. For the first time she saw the trap into which she had been led! Yet she could not check her laughter. "Oh, ho!" she gasped hysterically; "_oh!_--" It was her last. Black sateen could stand no more. She gave a final and feeble rock. Both revolving faces paled. Then there sounded a loud _pop_--like the bursting of an automobile tire. Next, a ripping-- "Look!" cried Gwendolyn. There were great rents down the front seams of Jane's waist! The nurse guessed what had happened, and clutched desperately at the gaping seams with both fat hands--now in front, now at the sides, striving to hold the rips together. To no avail! All the laughter was gone out of her. Quickly she collapsed, her sateen hanging in loose, ragged strips. Once more she was just ordinary nurse-maid size. "Oh, will she die?" asked Gwendolyn, anxiously. The Doctor knelt to grasp Jane's wrist. "No," he answered gravely; "she'll only have to go back to the Employment Agency." "I won't!" cried Jane. "_I_ won't!--Miss Royle!" "_Hiss-ss-ss!_" "Get you-know-what out of the way! A certain person musn't talk to it! If she does she'll find--" "I understand!" hissed back the snake. _You-know-what?_ Gwendolyn was troubled. Now the Policeman and the Piper, assisted by Puffy, picked the nurse up and packed her into the linen-hamper. Whereupon the little old gentleman slapped down the cover and tied a large tag to it. On the tag was written--_Employment Agency, Down-Town!_" "I'm done with _her_" said Gwendolyn; "--if she _is_ a perfectly good top." "You're rid of me," answered Jane, calling through the weave of the hamper "_Yes!_ But how about _Miss Royle?_" "We'll send her back too," declared the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Here! Where _are_ you?" He ran about, searching. The others searched also--through the grass, behind the granite shift, everywhere. Concern sobered each face. For the snake-in-the-grass was gone! CHAPTER XIV Why had Miss Royle, sly reptile that she was, scuttled away without so much as a good-by? "Oh, dear!" sighed Gwendolyn; "just as soon as one trouble's finished, another one starts!" "We must get on her track!" declared the Policeman, patroling to and fro anxiously. "And let's hurry," urged the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "It's coming night in the City. And all these lights'll be needed soon." Very soon, indeed. For even as he spoke it happened--with a sharp click. Instantly the pink glow was blotted out. As suddenly thick blackness shut down. Except straight ahead! There Gwendolyn made out an oblong patch of sky in which were a few dim stars. "Never mind," went on the little old gentleman, soothingly. "Because we're close to the place where there's light all the time." "_All_ the time?" repeated Gwendolyn, surprised. "It's where light grows." "_Grows?_" "Well, it's where _candle_-light grows." "Candle-light!" she cried. "You mean--! Oh, it's where my fath-er comes!" "Sometimes." "Will he be there now?" "Only the Bird can tell us that." Then she understood Jane's last gasping admonition--"Get you-know-what out of the way! A certain person mustn't talk to it! If she does she'll find--" It was the Doctor's hand that steadied her as she hurried forward in the darkness. It was a big hand, and she was able to grasp only two fingers of it. But that clinging hold made her feel that their friendship was established. She was not at all surprised at her complete change of attitude toward him. It seemed to her now as if he and she had always been on good terms. The others were near. She could hear the _tinkle-tankle_ of the Piper's pipes, the scuff of Puffy's paws, the labored breathing of the little old gentleman as he trudged, the heavy tramp, tramp of the Policeman. She made her bare feet travel as fast as she could, and kept her look steadily ahead on the dim stars. And saw, moving from one to another of them, in quick darts--now up, now down--a small Something. She did not instantly guess what it was--flitting across that half-darkened sky. Until she heard the wild beating of tiny pinions! "Why, it's a bird!" she exclaimed. "A bird?" repeated the Policeman, all eagerness. "Must be _the_ Bird!" declared the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, triumphantly. It was. Even in the poor light her eager eyes made out the bumps on that small feathered head. And saw that on the down-drooping tail, nicely balanced, and gleaming whitely, was a lump. Remembering what she had heard about that bit of salt, she ran forward. At her approach, his wings half-lifted. And as she reached out to him, pointing a small finger, he sprang sidewise, alighting upon it. "Oh, I'm glad you've come!" he panted. He was no larger than a canary; and seemed to be brown--a sparrow-brown. Prejudiced against him she had been. He had tattled about her--_worse_, about her father. Yet seeing him now, so tiny and ruffled and frightened, she liked him. She brought him to a level with her eyes. "What's the matter?" she asked soothingly. "I'm afraid." He thrust out his head, pointing. "_Look_." She looked. Ahead the tops of the grass blades were swaying this way and that in a winding path--as if from the passage of some crawling thing! "She tried to get me out of the way!" "Oh, tell me where is my fath-er!" "Why, of _course_. They say he's--" He did not finish; or if he did she heard no end to the sentence. Of a sudden her face had grown almost painfully hot--as a great yellow light flamed against it, a light that shimmered up dazzlingly from the surface of a broad treeless field. This field was like none that she had ever imagined. For its acres were neatly sodded with _mirrors_. The little company was on the beveled edge of the field. To halt them, and conspicuously displayed, was a sign. It read-- _Keep off The Glass._ "'Keep off the glass,'" read Gwendolyn. "And I don't wonder. 'Cause we'd crack it." "We don't crack it, we cross it," reminded the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. And stepped boldly upon the gleaming plate. "My! My!" exclaimed the Piper. "Ain't there a _fine_ crop this year!" A fine crop? Gwendolyn glanced down. And saw for the first time that the mirrored acres were studded, flower-like, with countless silk-shaded candles! What curious candles they were! They did not grow horizontally, as she had imagined they must, but upright and candle-like. Above their sticks, which were of brass, silver and decorated porcelain, was a flame, ruddy of tip, sharply pointed, but fat and yellow at the base, where the soft white wax fed the fire; at the other end of the sticks, as like the top light as if it were a perfect reflection, was a second flame. These were candles that burned _at both ends_. And this was the region she had traveled so far to find! Her heart beat so wildly that it stirred the plaid of the little gingham dress. "Say! I hear a quacking!" announced Puffy, staring up into the sky. Gwendolyn heard it, too. It seemed to come from across the Field of Double-Ended Candles. She peered that way, to where a heavy fringe of trees walled the farther side greenily. She saw him first!--while the others (excepting the Bird) were still staring skyward. At the start, what she discerned was only a faint outline on the tree-wall--the outline of a man, broad-shouldered, tall, but a trifle stooped. It was faint for the reason that it blended with the trees. For the man was garbed in green. As he advanced into the field, the chorus of quacks grew louder. And presently Gwendolyn caught certain familiar expressions--"Oh, don't bozzer me!" "Sit up straight, Miss! Sit up straight!" (this a rather deep quack). "My dear child, you have no sense of time!" And, "What on earth ever put such a question into your head!" She concluded that the expressions were issuing from the large bell-shaped horn which was pointed her way over one shoulder of the man in green. The talking-machine to which the horn was attached--a handsome mahogany affair--he carried on his back. It was not unlike a hand-organ. Which made Gwendolyn wonder if he was not the Man-Who-Makes-Faces' brother. She glanced back inquiringly at the little old gentleman. Either the stranger _was_ a relation--and not a popular one--or else the quacking expressions annoyed. For the Man-Who-Makes-Faces was scowling. And, "Cavil, criticism, correction!" he scolded, half to himself. He in green now began to move about and gather silk-shaded candles, bending this way and that to pluck them, and paying not the slightest attention to the group of watchers in plain view. But not one of these was indifferent to _his_ presence. And all were acting in a most incomprehensible manner. With one accord, Doctor and Piper, Bear and Policeman, Face-maker and Bird, were rubbing hard at the palm of one hand. There being no trees close by, the men used the sole of a shoe, while Puffy raked away at one paw with the claws of the others, and the Bird pecked a foot with his beak. And yet Gwendolyn could not believe that it was really _he_. The Policeman drew near. "You've heard of Hobson's choice?" he inquired in a low voice. "Perhaps this is Hobson, or Sam Hill, or Punch, or Great Scott." The Man-Who-Makes-Faces shook his head. "You don't know him," he answered, "because recently, when the bears were bothering him a lot in his Street, I made him a long face." The man in green was pausing where the candles clustered thickest. Gwendolyn, still doubtful, went forward to greet him. "How do you do, sir," she began, curtseying. His face was long, as the Man-Who-Makes-Faces had pointed out--very long, and pale, and haggard. Between his sunken temples burned his dark-rimmed eyes. His nose was thin, and over it the skin was drawn so tightly that his nostrils were pinched. His lips were pressed together, driving out the blood. His cheeks were hollow, and shadowed bluely by a day-old beard. He had on a hat. Yet she was able (curiously enough!) to note that his hair was sparse over the top of his head, and streaked with gray. Nevertheless there was no denying that she recognized him dimly. Something knotted in her throat--at seeing weariness, anxiety, even torture, in those deep-set eyes. "I think I've met you before somewhere," she faltered. "Your--your long face--" The Bird was perched on the forefinger of one hand. She proffered the other. He did not even look at her. "My hands are full," he declared. And again, "My hands are full." She glanced at them. And saw that each was indeed full--of paper money. Moreover, the green of his coat was the green of new crisp bills. While his buff-colored trousers were made of yellowish ones, carefully creased. He was literally _made of money_. Now she felt reasonably certain of his identity. Yet she determined to make even more sure. "Would you mind just turning around for a moment?" she inquired. "But I'm busy to-day," he protested, "I can't be bothered with little girls. I'll see you when you're eight years old." Nevertheless he faced about accommodatingly. The moment he turned his back he displayed a detail of his dress that had not been visible before. This detail, at first glance, appeared to be a smart leather piping. On second glance it seemed a sort of shawl-strap contrivance by which the talking-machine was suspended. But in the end she knew what it was--a leather harness!--an exceedingly handsome, silver-buckled, hand-sewed harness! She went around him and raised a smiling face--caught at a hand, too; and felt her own happy tears make cool streaks down her cheeks. "I--I don't see you often," she said, "bu-but I know you just the same. You're--you're my fath-er!" At that, he glanced down at her--stooped--picked a candle--and held it close to her face. "Poor little girl!" he said. "Poor little girl!" "Poor little _rich_ girl," she prompted, noting that he had left out the word. She heard a sob! The next moment, _Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!_ And at her feet the gay-topped candles were bent this way and that--as Miss Royle, with an artful serpent-smile on her bandaged face, writhed her way swiftly between them! "Dearie," she hissed, making an affectionate half-coil about Gwendolyn, "what _do_ you think I'm going to say to you!" Gwendolyn only shook her head. "_Guess_, darling," encouraged the governess, coiling herself a little closer. "Maybe you're going to say, 'Use your dictionary,'" ventured Gwendolyn. "Oh, dearie!" chided Miss Royle, managing a very good blush for a snake. But now Gwendolyn guessed the reason for the other's sudden display of affection. For that scaly head was rising out of the grass, inch by inch, and those glittering serpent eyes were fixed upon the Bird! Unable to move, he watched her, plumage on end, round eyes fairly starting. "_Cheep! Cheep!_" At his cry of terror, the Doctor interposed. "I think we'd better take the Bird out of here," he said. "The less noise the better." And with that, he lifted the small frightened thing from Gwendolyn's finger. Miss Royle, quite thrown off her poise, sank hissing to the ground. "My neuralgia's worse than ever this evening," she complained, affecting not to notice his interference. "Huh!" he grunted. "Keep away from bargain counters." The Piper came jangling up. "That snake belongs in her case," he declared, addressing the Doctor. More than once Gwendolyn had wondered why the Piper had burdened himself--to all appearances uselessly and foolishly--with the various pieces of lead pipe. But now what wily forethought she granted him. For with a few quick flourishes of the wrench, she saw him join them, end to end, to form one length. This he threw to the ground, after which he gave a short, sharp whistle. In answer to it, the Bird fluttered down, and entered one end of the pipe, giving, as he disappeared from sight, one faint cheep. Miss Royle heard. Her scaly head glittered up once more. Her beady eyes shone. Her tongue darted hate. Then little by little, that long black body began to move--toward the pipe! A moment, and she entered it; another, and the last foot of rustling serpent had disappeared. Then out of the farther end of the pipe bounced the Bird. Whereat the Piper sprang to the Bird's side, produced a nut, and screwed it on the pipe-end. "How's that!" he cried triumphantly. The pipe rolled partly over. A muffled voice came from it, railing at him: "Be careful what you do, young man! _I_ saw you had that bonnet of mine!" "Oh, can a snake crawl backwards?" demanded Gwendolyn, excitedly. The Piper answered with a harsh laugh. And scrambling the length of the lead pipe, fell to hammering in a plug. Miss Royle was a prisoner! The Bird bounced very high. "That's a feather in _your_ cap," he declared joyously, advancing to the Piper. And suiting the action to the word, pulled a tiny plume from his own wing, fluttered up, and thrust it under the band of the other's greasy head-gear. "Think how that governess has treated me," growled Puffy. "When I was in your nursery, and was old and a little worn out, _how_ I would've appreciated care--and repair!" "The Employment Agency for her," said the Piper. "I'll attend to that," added the Policeman. Gwendolyn's father had been gathering candles, and had seemed not to see what was transpiring. Now as if he was satisfied with his load, he suddenly started away in the direction he had come. His firm stride jolted the talking-machine not a little. The quacking cries recommenced-- "Please to pay me.... Let me sell you...! Let me borrow...! Won't you hire...! _Quack! Quack! Quack!_" After him hurried the others in an excited group. The Piper led it, his plumbing-tools jangling, his pig-poke a-swing. And Gwendolyn saw him grin back over a shoulder craftily--then lay hold of her father and _tighten a strap_. She trudged in the rear. She had found her father--and he could see only the candles he sought, and the money in his grasp! She was out in the open with him once more, where she was free to gambol and shout--yet he was bound by his harness and heavily laden. "I might just as well be home," she said to Puffy, disheartened. "Wish your father'd let me sharpen his ears," whispered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. He shifted the hand-organ to the other shoulder. The Doctor had a basket on his arm. He peered into it. "I haven't a thing about me," he declared, "but a bread-pill." "How would a glass of soda-water do?" suggested the Policeman, in an undertone. "Why, of _course!_" It had happened before that the mere mention of a thing brought that dying swiftly. Now it happened again. For immediately Gwendolyn heard the rush and bubble and brawl of a narrow mountain-stream. Next, looking down from the summit of a gentle rise, she saw the smoky windings of the unbottled soda! The Doctor was a man of action. Though the Policeman had made his suggestion only a second before, here was the former already leaning down to the stream; and, having dipped, was walking in the midst of the little company, glass in hand. Gwendolyn ran forward. "Fath-er!" she called; "_please_ have a drink!" Her father shook his head. "I'm not thirsty," he declared, utterly ignoring the proffered glass. "I--I was 'fraid he wouldn't," sighed Gwendolyn, head down again, and scuffing bare feet in the cool damp grass of the stream-side--yet not enjoying it! The lights had changed: The double-ended candles had disappeared. Filling the Land once more with a golden glow were countless tapers--electric, gas, and kerosene. She was back where she had started, threading the trees among which she had danced with joy. But she was far from dancing now! "Let's not give up hope," said a voice--the Doctor's. He was holding up the glass before his face to watch the bubbles creaming upon its surface. "There may be a sudden turn for the better." Before she could draw another breath--here was the turn! a sharp one. And she, felt a keen wind in her eyes,--blown in gusts, as if by the wings of giant butterflies. The cloud that held the wind lay just ahead--a pinky mass that stretched from sky to earth. The Bird turned his dark eyes upon Gwendolyn from where he sat, high and safe, on the Doctor's shoulder. "I think her little journey's almost done," he said. There was a rich canary note in his voice. "Oo! goody!" she cried. "You mean you have a solution?" asked the little old gentleman. "A solution?" called back the Piper. "Well--?" A moment's perfect stillness. Then, "It's simple," said the Bird. (Now his voice was strangely like the Doctor's.) "I suppose you might call it a salt solution." His last three words began to run through Gwendolyn's mind--"A salt solution! A salt solution! A salt solution!"--as regularly as the pulse that throbbed in her throat. "Yes,"--the Doctor's voice now, breathless, low, tremulous with anxiety. "If we want to save her--" "Am I _her?_" interrupted Gwendolyn. (And again somebody sobbed!) "--_It must be done!_" "There isn't anything to cry about," declared Gwendolyn, stoutly. She felt hopeful, even buoyant. It was all novel and interesting. The Doctor began by making grabs at the lump of salt on the Bird's tail. The lump loosened suddenly. He caught it between his palms, after which he began to roll it--precisely as he had rolled the dough at the Pillery. And as the salt worked into a more perfect ball, it slowly browned! Gwendolyn clapped her hands. "My father won't know the difference," she cried. "You get my idea exactly," answered the Bird. The Doctor uncovered the pill-basket, selected a fine, round, toasted example of his own baking, and presented it to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces; presented a second to Gwendolyn; thence went from one to another of the little company, whereat everyone fell to eating. At once Gwendolyn's father looked round the circle of picknickers--as if annoyed by the crunching; but when the Doctor held out the brown salt, he took it, examined it critically, turning it over and over, then lifted it--and bit. "Pretty slim lunch this," he observed. He ate heartily, until the last salt crumb was gone. Then, "I'm thirsty," he declared "Where's--?" Instantly the Doctor proffered the glass. And the other drank--in one great gasping mouthful. "Ah!" breathed Gwendolyn. And felt a grateful coolness on her lips, as if she had slaked her own thirst. The next moment her father turned. And she saw that the change had already come. First of all, he looked down at his hands, caught sight of the crumpled bills, and attempted to stuff them hurriedly into his pocket. But his pockets were already wedged tight with silk-shaded candles. He reached round and fed the bills into the mahogany case of the talking-machine. Next, he emptied his pockets of the double-ended candles, frowned at them, and threw them to one side to wilt. Last of all, he spied a bit of leather strap, and pulled at it impatiently. Whereupon, with a clear ring of its silver mountings, his harness fell about his feet. He smiled, and stepped out of it, as out of a cast-off garment. This quick movement shook up the talking-machine, and at once voices issued from the great horn shrilly protesting into his ear--"_Quack!_ Quack! _Kommt, Fraulein!_" "_Une fille stupider!_" "Gid-_dap!_" "_Honk! Honk! Honk!_"--and then, rippling upward, to the accompaniment of dancing feet, a scale on a piano. He peered into the horn. "When did I come by _this?_" he demanded. "Well, I shan't carry it another step!" And moving his shoulders as if they ached, let the talking-machine slip sidewise to the glass. There was a crank attached to one side of the machine. This he grasped. And while he continued to stuff bills into the mahogany box with one hand, he turned the crank with the other. Gwendolyn had often marveled at the way bands of music, voices of men and women, chimes of clocks, and bugle-calls could come out of the self-same place. Now this was made clear to her. For as her father whirled the crank, out of the horn, in a little procession, waddled the creatures who had quacked so persistently. There were six of them in all. One wore patent leather pumps; one had a riding-whip; the third was in motor-livery--buff and blue; another waddled with an air unmistakably French (feathers formed a boa about her neck); the next advanced firmly, a metronome swinging on a slender pince-nez chain; the last one of all carried a German dictionary. Her father observed them gloomily. "_That's_ the kind of ducks and drakes I've been making out of my money," he declared. The procession quacked loudly, as if glad to get out. And waddled toward the stream. "Why!" cried Gwendolyn; "there's Monsieur Tellegen, and my riding-master, and the chauffeur, and my French teacher, and my music-teacher, and my Ger--!" His eyes rested upon her then. And she saw that he knew her! "Oh, daddy!"--the tender name she loved to call him. "Little daughter! Little daughter!" She felt his arms about her, pressing her to him. His pale face was close. "When my precious baby is strong enough--," he began. "I'm strong _now_." She gripped his fingers. "We'll take a little jaunt together." "We must have moth-er with us, daddy. Oh, _dear_ daddy!" "We'll see mother soon," he said; "--_very_ soon." She brushed his cheek with searching fingers. "I think we'd better start right away," she declared. "'Cause--isn't this a rain-drop on your face?" CHAPTER XV Without another moment's delay Gwendolyn and her father set forth, traveling a road that stretched forward beside the stream of soda, winding as the stream wound, to the music of the fuming water--music with a bass of deep pool-notes. How sweet it all was! Underfoot the dirt was cool. It yielded itself deliciously to Gwendolyn's bare tread. Overhead, shading the way, were green boughs, close-laced, but permitting glimpses of blue. Upon this arbor, bouncing along with an occasional chirp of contentment, and with the air of one who has assumed the lead, went the Bird. Gwendolyn's father walked in silence, his look fixed far ahead. Trotting at his side, she glanced up at him now and then. She did not have to dread the coming of Jane, or Miss Royle, or Thomas. Yet she felt concern--on the score of keeping beside him; of having ready a remark, gay or entertaining, should he show signs of being bored. No sooner did the thought occur to her than the Bird was ready with a story. He fluttered down to the road, hunted a small brush from under his left wing and scrubbed carefully at the feathers covering his crop. "Now I can make a clean breast of it," he announced. "Oh, you're going to tell us how you got the lump?" asked Gwendolyn, eagerly. The feathers over his crop were spotless. He nodded--and tucked away the scrubbing brush. "Once upon a time," he began-- She dimpled with pleasure. "I like stories that start that way!" she interrupted. "Once upon a time," he repeated, "I was just an ordinary sparrow, hopping about under the kitchen-window of a residence, busily picking up crumbs. While I was thus employed, the cook in the kitchen happened to spill some salt on the floor. Being a superstitious creature she promptly threw a lump of it over her shoulder. Well, the kitchen window was open, and the salt went through it and lit on my tail," (Here he pointed his beak to where the crystal had been). "And no sooner did it get firmly settled on my feathers--" "The first person that came along could catch you!" cried Gwendolyn, "Jane told me _that_." "Jane?" said the Bird. "The fat two-faced woman that was my nurse." The Bird ruffled his plumage. "Well, of course she knew the facts," he admitted "You see, _she was the cook_." "Oh!" "As long as that lump was on my tail," resumed the Bird, "anybody could catch me, and send me anywhere. And nobody ever seemed to want to take the horrid load off--with salt so cheap." "Did you do errands for my fath-er?" Her father answered. "Messages and messages and messages," he murmured wearily. (There was a rustle, as of paper.) "Mostly financial," He sighed. "Sometimes my work has eased up a trifle," went on the Bird, more cheerily; "that's when They hired Jack Robinson, because he's so quick." "Oh, yes, you worked for They," said Gwendolyn. "Please, who are They? And what do They look like? And how many are there of 'em?" Ahead was a bend in the road. He pointed it out with his bill. "You know," said he, "it's just as good to turn a corner as a stone. For there They are now!" He gave an important bounce. She rounded the bend on tiptoe. But when she caught sight of They, it seemed as if she had seen them many times before. They were two in number, and wore top hats, and plum-covered coats with black piping. They were standing in the middle of the road, facing each other. About their feet fluttered dingy feathers. And between them was a half-plucked crow, which They were picking. Once she had wanted to thank They for the pocket in the new dress. Now she felt as if it would be ridiculous to mention patch-pockets to such stately personages. So, leaving her father, she advanced modestly and curtsied. "How do you do, They," she began. "I'm glad to meet you." They stared at her without replying. They were alike in face as well as in dress; even in their haughty expression of countenance. "I've heard about you so often," went on Gwendolyn. "I feel I almost know you. And I've heard lots of things that you've said. Aren't you always saying things?" "Saying things," They repeated. (She was astonished to find that They spoke in chorus!) "Well, it's often So-and-So that does the talking, but we get the blame." Now They glared. Gwendolyn, realizing that she had been unfortunate in the choice of a subject, hastened to reassure them. "Oh, I don't want to blame you," she protested, "for things you don't do." At that They smiled. "I blame him, and he blames me," They answered. "In that way we shift the responsibility." (At which Gwendolyn nodded understandingly.) "And since we always hunt as a couple" (here They pulled fiercely at the feathers of the captured bird between them) "nobody ever knows who really _is_ to blame." They cast aside the crow, then, and led the way along the road, walking briskly. Behind them walked the Policeman, one hand to his cap. "Say, please don't put me off the Force," he begged. Grass and flowers grew along the center of the road. No sooner did the Policeman make his request than They moved across this tiny hedge and traveled one side of the road, giving the other side over to the Officer. Whereupon he strode abreast of They, swinging his night-stick thoughtfully. The walking was pleasant there by the stream-side. The fresh breeze caressed Gwendolyn's cheeks, and swirled her yellow hair about her shoulders. She took deep breaths, through nostrils swelled to their widest. "Oh, I like this place best in the whole, whole world!" she said earnestly. The next moment she knew why! For rounding another bend, she caught sight of a small boyish figure in a plaid gingham waist and jeans overalls. His tousled head was raised eagerly. His blue eyes shone. "_Hoo_-hoo-oo-oo!" he called. She gave a leap forward. "Why, it's Johnnie Blake!" she cried. "Johnnie! Oh, Johnnie!" It was Johnnie. There was no mistaking that small freckled nose. "Say! Don't you want to help dig worms?" he invited. And proffered his drinking-cup. She needed no urging, but began to dig at once; and found bait in abundance, so that the cup was quickly filled, and she was compelled to use his ragged straw hat. "Oh, isn't this nice!" she exclaimed. "And after we fish let's hunt a frog!" "I know where there's tadpoles," boasted he. "And long-legged bugs that can walk on the water, and--" "Oh, I want to stay here always!" She had forgotten that there were others about. But now a voice--her father's--broke in upon her happy chatter: "Without your _mother?_" She had been sitting down. She rose, and brushed her hands on the skirt of her dress. "I'll find my moth-er," she said. The little old gentleman was beside Johnnie, patting his shoulder and thrusting something into a riveted pocket. "There!" he half-whispered. "And tell your father to be sure to keep this nose away from the grindstone." Gwendolyn wrinkled her brows. "But--but isn't Johnnie coming with _me?_" she asked. At that Johnnie shook his head vigorously. "Not away from _here_," he declared. "No!" "No," repeated Puffy. "Not away from the woods and the stream and fishing, and hunting frogs and tadpoles and water-bugs. Why, he's the Rich Little Poor Boy!" "Oh!--Well, then I'll come back!" She moved away slowly, looking over a shoulder at him as she went. "Don't forget! I'll come back!" "I'll be here," he answered. "And I'll let you use my willow fishpole." He waved a hand. There were carriage-lamps along the stream now. Alternating with these were automobile lights--brass side-lights, and larger brass search-lights, all like great glowing eyes. Again They were in advance. "We can't be very far from the Barn," They announced. And each waved his right arm in a half-circle. "Robin Hood's Barn?" whispered Gwendolyn. The Policeman nodded. "The first people to go around it," said he, "were ladies who used feather-dusters on the parlor furniture." "I s'pose it's been built a long time," said Gwendolyn. "Ah, a _long_ time!" Her father was speaking. Now he halted and pointed down--to a wide road that crossed the one she was traveling. "Just notice how _that's_ been worn." The wide road had deep ruts. Also, here and there upon it were great, bowl-like holes. But a level strip between the ruts and the holes shone as if it had been tramped down by countless feet. "Around Robin Hood's Barn!" went on her father sadly. "How many have helped to wear that road! Not only her mother, but _her_ mother before her, and then back and back as far as you can count." "I can't count back very far," said Gwendolyn, "'cause I never have any time for 'rithmatic. I have to study my French, and my German, and my music, and my--" Her father groaned. "I've traveled it, too," he admitted. She lifted her eyes then. And there, just across that wide road, was the Barn!--looming up darkly, a great framework of steel girders, all bolted together, and rusted in patches and streaks. Through these girders could be seen small regular spots of light. "Nobody _has_ to go round the Barn," she protested. "Anybody could just go right in at one side and right out at the other." "But the _road!_" said her father meaningly. "If ever one's feet touch it--!" She thought the road wonderful. It was river-wide, and full of gentle undulations. Where it was smoothest, it reflected the Barn and all the surrounding lights. Yet now (like the shining tin of a roof-top) it resounded--to a foot-fall! "Some one's coming!" announced the Piper. _Buzz-z-z-z!_ It was a low, angry droning. The next moment a figure came into sight at a corner of the Barn. It was a slender, girlish figure, and it came hurrying forward along the circular way with never a glance to right or left. Gwendolyn could see that whoever the traveler was, her dress was plain and scant. Nor were there ornaments shining in her pretty hair, which was unbound. She was shod in dainty, high-heeled slippers. And now she walked as fast as she could; again she broke into a run; but taking no note of the ruts and rough places, continually stumbled. "She's watching what's in her hand," said the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Contemplation, speculation, perlustration." And he sighed. "She'll have a fine account to settle with me,"--this the Piper again. He whipped out his note-book. "That's what _I_ call a merry dance." "See what she's carrying," advised the Bird. In one hand the figure held a small dark something. Gwendolyn looked. "Why,--why," she began hesitatingly, "isn't it a _bonnet?_" A bonnet it was--a plain, cheap-looking piece of millinery. _BUZZ-Z-Z-Z-Z!_ The drone grew loud. The figure caught the bonnet close to her face and held it there, turning it about anxiously. Her eyes were eager. Her lips wore a proud smile. It was then that Gwendolyn recognized her. And leaned forward, holding out her arms. "Moth-er!" she plead. "_Mother!_" Her mother did not hear. Or, if she heard, did not so much as lift her eyes from the bonnet. She tripped, regained her balance, and rushed past, hair wind-tossed, dress fluttering. At either side of her, smoke curled away like silk veiling blown out by the swift pace. "Oh, she's burning!" cried Gwendolyn, in a panic of sudden distress. The Doctor bent down. "That's money," he explained; "--burning her pockets." "She can't see anything but the bee. She can't hear anything but the bee." It was Gwendolyn's father, murmuring to himself. "_The bee!_" Now the Bird came bouncing to Gwendolyn's side. "You've read that bees are busy little things, haven't you?" he asked. "Well, this particular so-cial hon-ey-gath-er-ing in-sect--" "That's the very one!" she declared excitedly. "--Is no exception." "We must get it away from her," declared Gwendolyn. "Oh, how _tired_ her poor feet must be!" (As she said it, she was conscious of the burning ache of her own feet; and yet the tears that swam in her eyes were tears of sympathy, not of pain.) "Puffy! Won't you eat it?" Puffy blinked as if embarrassed. "Well, you see, a bee--er--makes honey," he began lamely. The figure had turned a corner of the Barn. Now, on the farther side of the great structure, it was flitting past the openings. Gwendolyn rested a hand on the wing of the Bird. "Won't _you_ eat it?" she questioned. The Bird wagged his bumpy head. "It's against all the laws of this Land," he declared. "But this is a _society_ bee." "A bird isn't even allowed to eat a bad bee. But"--chirping low--"I'll tell you what _can_ be tried." "Yes?" "_Ask your mother to trade her bonnet for the Piper's poke_." Gwendolyn stared at him for a moment. Then she understood. "The poke's prettier," she declared. "Oh, if she only would! Piper!" The Piper swaggered up. "Some collecting on hand?" he asked. Swinging as usual from a shoulder was the poke. Gwendolyn thought she had never seen a prettier one. Its ribbon bows were fresh and smart; its lace was snow-white and neatly frilled. "Oh, I _know_ she'll make the trade!" she exclaimed happily. The Piper considered the matter, pursing his lips around the pipe-stem in his mouth; standing on one foot. Gwendolyn appealed to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Maybe moth-er'll have to have her ears sharpened," she suggested. The little old gentleman shook his shaggy head. "_Don't let her hear that pig!_" he warned darkly. "She'll come round in another moment!" It was the Doctor, voice very cheery. At that, the Piper unslung the poke and advanced to the edge of the road. "I've never wanted this crazy poke," he asserted over a shoulder to Gwendolyn. "Now, I'll just get rid of it. And I'll present that bonnet with the bee" (here he laughed harshly) "to a woman that hasn't footed a single one of my bills. Ha! ha!" _Buzz-z-z-z!_ Again that high, strident note. Gwendolyn's mother was circling into sight once more. Fortunately, she was keeping close to the outer edge of the road. The Piper faced in the direction she was speeding, and prepared to race beside her. _BUZZ-Z-Z-Z!_ It was an exciting moment! She was holding out the bonnet as before. He thrust the poke between her face and it, carefully keeping the lace and the bows in front of her very eyes. "Madam!" he shouted. "Trade!" "Moth-er!" Her mother heard. Her look fell upon the poke. She slowed to a walk. "_Trade!_" shouted the Piper again, dangling the poke temptingly. She stopped short, gazing hard at the poke. "Trade?" she repeated coldly. (Her voice sounded as if from a great distance.) "Trade? Well, that depends upon what They say." Then she circled on--at such a terrible rate that the Piper could not keep pace. He ceased running and fell behind, breathing hard and complaining ill-temperedly. "Oh! Oh!" mourned Gwendolyn. The smoke blown back from that fleeing figure smarted her throat and eyes. She raised an arm to shield her face. Disappointed, and feeling a first touch of weariness, she could not choke back a great sob that shook her convulsively. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces, whiskers buried in his ragged collar, was nodding thoughtfully "By and by," he murmured; "--by and by, presently, later on." The Doctor was even more comforting. "There! There!" he said. "Don't cry." "But, oh," breathed Gwendolyn, her bosom heaving, "why don't you feel _her_ pulse?" "It's--it's terrible," faltered Gwendolyn's father. His agonized look was fixed upon the road. Now the road was indeed terrible. For there were great chasms in it--chasms that yawned darkly; that opened and closed as if by the rush and receding of water. Gwendolyn's mother crossed them in flitting leaps, as from one roof-top to another. Her daintily shod feet scarcely touched the road, so swift was her going. A second, and she was whipped from sight at the Barn's corner. About her slender figure, as it disappeared, dust mingled with the smoke--mingled and swirled, funnel-like in shape, with a wide base and a narrow top, like the picture of a water-spout in the back of Gwendolyn's geography. The Piper came back, wiping his forehead. "What does she care about a poke!" he scolded, flinging himself down irritably. "Huh! All she thinks about is what They say!" At that Gwendolyn's spirits revived. Somehow, instantly and clearly, she knew what should be done! But when she opened her mouth, she found that she could not speak. Her lips were dry. Her tongue would not move. She could only swallow. Then, just as she was on the point of throwing herself down and giving way utterly to tears, she felt a touch on her hand--a furry touch. Next, something was slipped into her grasp. It was the lip-case! "Well, Mr. Piper," she cried out, "what _do_ They say?" They were close by, standing side by side, gazing at nothing. For their eyes were wide open, their faces expression-less. Gwendolyn's father addressed them. "I never asked my wife to drop that sort of thing," he said gravely, "--for Gwendolyn's sake. _You_ might, I suppose." One hand was in his pocket. The two pairs of wide-open eyes blinked once. The two mouths spoke in unison: "Money talks." Gwendolyn's father drew his hand from his pocket. It was filled with bills. "Will these--?" he began. It was the Piper who snatched the money out of his hand and handed it to They. And thinking it over afterward, Gwendolyn felt deep gratitude for the promptness with which They acted. For having received the money, They advanced into that terrible road, faced half-about, and halted. The angry song of the bee was faint then. For the slender figure was speeding past those patches of light that could be seen through the girders of the Barn. But soon the buzzing grew louder--as Gwendolyn's mother came into sight, shrouded, and scarcely discernible. They met her as she came on, blocking her way. And, "Madam!" They shouted. "Trade your bonnet for the Piper's poke!" Gwendolyn held her breath. Her mother halted. Now for the first time she lifted her eyes and looked about--as if dazed and miserable. There was a flush on each smooth cheek. She was panting so that her lips quivered. The Piper rose and hurried forward. And seeing him, half-timidly she reached out a hand--a slender, white hand. Quickly he relinquished the poke, but when she took it, made a cup of his two hands under it, as if he feared she might let it fall. The poke was heavier than the bonnet. She held it low, but looked at it intently, smiling a little. Presently, without even a parting glance, she held the bonnet out to him. "Take it away," she commanded. "It isn't becoming." He received it; and promptly made off along the road, the bonnet held up before his face. "When it comes to chargin'," he called back, with an independent jerk of the head, "I'm the only chap that can keep ahead of a chauffeur." And he laughed uproariously. Gwendolyn's mother now began to admire the poke, turning it around, at the same time tilting her head to one side,--this very like the Bird! She fingered the lace, and picked at the ribbon. Then, having viewed it from every angle, she opened it--as if to put it on. There was a bounce and a piercing squeal. Then over the rim of the poke, with a thump as it hit the roadway, shot a small black-and-white pig. She dropped the poke and sprang back, frightened. And as the porker cut away among the trees, she wheeled, caught sight of Gwendolyn, and suddenly opened her arms. With a cry, Gwendolyn flung herself forward. No need now to fear harming an elegant dress, or roughing carefully arranged hair. "Moth-er!" She clasped her mother's neck, pressing a wet cheek against a cheek of satin. "Oh, my baby! My baby!--Look at mother!" "I _am_ looking at you," answered Gwendolyn, half sobbing and half laughing. "I've looked at you for a _long_ time. 'Cause I _love_ you so I love you!" The next moment the Man-Who-Makes-Faces dashed suddenly aside--to a nearby flower-bordered square of packed ground over which, blazing with lights, hung one huge tree. Under the tree was a high, broad bill-board, a squat stool, and two short-legged tables. The little old gentleman began to bang his furniture about excitedly. "The tables are turned!" he shouted. "The tables are turned!" "Of course the tables are turned," said Gwendolyn; "but what diff'rence'll _that_ make?" "Difference?" he repeated, tearing back; "it means that from now on everything's going to be exactly _opposite_ to what it has been." "Oo! Goody!" Then lifting a puzzled face. "But why didn't you turn the tables at first? And why didn't we stay here? My moth-er was here all the time. And--" The Man-Who-Makes-Faces regarded her solemnly. "Suppose we hadn't gone around," he said. "Just suppose." Before her, in a line, were They, the Doctor, the Policeman, Puffy and the Bird. He indicated them by a nod. She nodded too, comprehending. "But now," went on the little old gentleman, "we must all absquatulate." He took her hand. "Oh, must you?" she asked regretfully. Absquatulate was a big word, but she understood it, having come across it one day in the Dictionary. "Good-by." He leaned down. And she saw that his round black eyes were clouded, while his square brush-like brows were working with the effort of keeping back his tears. "Good-by!" He stepped back out of the waiting line, turned, and made off slowly, turning the crank of the hand-organ as he went. Now the voices of They spoke up. "We also bid you good-night," They said politely. "We shall have to go. People must hear about this." And shoulder to shoulder They wheeled and followed the little old gentleman. "But my Puffy!" said Gwendolyn. "I'd like to keep him. I don't care if he is shabby." For answer there was a crackling and crashing in the underbrush, as if some heavy-footed animal were lumbering away. "I think," explained her father, "that he's gone to make some poor little boy very happy." "Oh, the Rich Little Poor Boy, I guess," said Gwendolyn, contented. The Bird was just in front of her. He looked very handsome and bright as he flirted his rudder saucily, and darted, now up, now down. Presently, he began to sing--a glad, clear song. And singing, rose into the air. "Oh!" she breathed. "He's happy 'cause he got that salt off his tail." When she looked again at the line, the Policeman was nowhere to be seen. "Doctor!" "Yes." "Don't _you_ go." "The Doctor is right here," said her mother, soothingly. Gwendolyn smiled. And put one hand in the clasp of her mother's, the other in a bigger grasp. "Tired out--all tired out," murmured her father. She was sleepy, too--almost past the keeping open of her gray eyes. "Long as you both are with me," she whispered, "I wouldn't mind if I was back in the nursery." The glow that filled the Land now seemed suddenly to soften. The clustered tapers had lessened--to a single chandelier of four globes. Next, the forest trees began to flatten, and take on the appearance of a conventional pattern. The grass became rug-like in smoothness. The sky squared itself to the proportions of a ceiling. There was no mistaking the change at hand! "We're getting close!" she announced happily. The rose-colored light was dim, peaceful. Here and there through it she caught glints of white and gold. Then familiar objects took shape. She made out the pier-glass; flanking it, her writing-desk, upon which were the two silver-framed portraits. And there--between the portraits--was the flower-embossed calendar, with pencil-marks checking off each figure in the lines that led up to her birthday. She sighed--a deep, tremulous sigh of content. CHAPTER XVI She moved her head from side to side slowly. And felt the cool touch of the pillow against either cheek. Then she tried to lift her arms; but found that one hand was still in a big grasp, the other in a clasp that was softer. Little by little, and with effort, she opened her gray eyes. In the dimness she could see, to her left, scarcely more than an outline of a dark-clad figure, stooped and watchful; of that other slender figure opposite. After all the fatigue and worry of the night, her father and mother were with her yet! And someone was standing at the foot of her bed, leaning and looking down at her. That was the Doctor. She lay very still. This was a novel experience, this having both father and mother in the nursery at the same time--and plainly in no haste to depart! The heaviness of deep sleep was gradually leaving her. Yet she forbore to speak; and as each moment went she dreaded the passing of it, lest her wonderful new happiness come to an end. Presently she ventured a look around--at the pink-tinted ceiling, with its cluster of full-blown plaster roses out of which branched the chandelier; at the walls of soft rose, met here and there by the deeper rose of the brocade hangings; at the plushy rug, the piano, the large table--now scattered with an unusual assortment of bottles and glasses; at the dresser, crystal-topped and strewn daintily, the deep upholstered chair, and the long cushioned seat across the front window, over which, strangely enough, no dome-topped cage was swinging. And there was the tall toy-case. The shelves of it were unchanged. On that one below the line of prettily clad dolls were the toys she favored most--the black-and-red top, the handsome soldier in the scarlet coat, the jointed snake beside its pipe-like box, and the somersault man, poised heels over head. Beyond these, ranged in a buff row, were the six small ducks acquired at Easter. She gave each plaything a keen glance. They reminded her vividly of the long busy night just past! Her small nose wrinkled in a quizzical smile. At that the three waiting figures stirred. Her look came back to them, to rest first upon her father's face, noting how long and pale and haggard it was, how sunken the temples, how bloodless the tightly pressed lips, how hollow the unshaven cheeks. When she turned to gaze at her mother, as daintily clad as ever, and as delicately perfumed--showing no evidence of dusty travel--she saw how pitifully pale was that dear beautiful face. But the eyes were no longer proud!--only anxious, tender and purple-shadowed. Next, Gwendolyn lifted her eyes to the Doctor, and felt suddenly conscience-stricken, remembering how she had always dreaded him, had taken the mere thought of his coming as punishment; remembering, too, how helpful and kind he had been to her through the night. He began to speak, low and earnestly, and as if continuing something already half said: "Pardon my bluntness, but it's a bad thing when there's too much money spent on forcing the brain before the body is given a chance--or the soul. Does a child get food that is simple and nourishing, and enough of it? Is all exercise taken in the open? Too often, I find, where there's a motor at the beck and call of a nurse, the child in her charge is utterly cut off--and in the period of quickest growth--from a normal supply of plain walking. Every boy and girl has a right" (his voice deepened with feeling) "to the great world out of doors. Let the warm sun, and the fresh air, and God's good earth--" Gwendolyn moved. "Is--is he praying?" she whispered. There was a moment of silence. Then, "No, daughter," answered her father, while her mother leaned to lay a gentle hand on her forehead. The Doctor went aside to the larger table and busied himself with some bottles. When he came back, her father lifted her head a trifle by lifting the pillow--her mother rising quickly to assist--and the Doctor put a glass to Gwendolyn's lips. She drank dutifully, and was lowered. At once she felt stronger. "Is the sun up?" she asked. Her voice was weak, and somewhat hoarse. "Would you like to see the sky?" asked her father. And without waiting for her eager nod, crossed to the front window and drew aside the heavy silk hangings. Serenely blue was the long rectangle framed by curtains and casing. Across it not a single fat sheep was straying. "Moth-er!" "Yes, darling?" "Is--is always the same piece of Heaven right there through the window?" "No. The earth is turning all the time--just as your globe in the school-room turns. And so each moment you see a new square of sky." The Doctor nodded with satisfaction. "Um! Better, aren't we?" he inquired, smiling down. She returned the smile. "Well, _I_ am," she declared. "But--I didn't know you felt bad." He laughed. "Tell me something," he went on. "I sent a bottle of medicine here yesterday." "Yes. It was a little bottle." "How much of it did Jane give you? Can you remember?" "Well, first she poured out one teaspoonful--" The Doctor had been leaning again on the foot of the white-and-gold bed. Now he fell back of a sudden. "A _teaspoonful!_" he gasped. And to Gwendolyn's father, "Why, that wretched girl didn't read the directions on the bottle!" There was another silence. The two men stared at each other. But Gwendolyn's mother, her face paler than before, bent above the yellow head on the pillow. "After I drank _that_ teaspoonful," went on Gwendolyn, "Jane wouldn't believe me. And so she made me take the other." "_Another!_"--it was the Doctor once more. He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead. Her father rose angrily. "She shall be punished," he declared. And began to walk to and fro. "I won't let this pass." Gwendolyn's look followed him tenderly. "Well, you see, she didn't know about--about nursery work," she explained. "'Cause before she came here she was just a cook." "Oh, my baby daughter!" murmured Gwendolyn's mother, brokenly. She bent forward until her face was hidden against the silken cover of the bed. "Mother didn't know you were being neglected! She thought she was giving you the _best_ of care, dear!" "Two spoonfuls!" said the Doctor, grimly. "That explains everything!" "Oh, but I didn't want to take the last one," protested Gwendolyn, hastily, "--though it tasted good. She made me. She said if I didn't--" "So!" exclaimed the Doctor, interrupting. "She frightened the poor little helpless thing in order to get obedience!" "Gwendolyn!" whispered her mother. "She _frightened_ you?" The gray eyes smiled wisely. "It doesn't matter now," she said, a hint of triumph in her voice. "I've found out that P'licemen are nice. And so are--are Doctors"--she dimpled and nodded. "And all the bears in the world that are outside of cages are just Puffy Bears grown up." Then uncertainly, "But I didn't find out about--the other." "What other?" asked her father, pausing in his walk. The gray eyes were diamond-bright now. "Though I don't _really_ believe it," she hastened to add. "But--_do_ wicked men keep watch of this house." "_Wicked men?_" Her mother suddenly straightened. "Kidnapers." This innocent statement had an unexpected effect. Again her father began to stride up and down angrily, while her mother, head drooping once more, began to weep. "Oh, mother didn't know!" she sobbed. "Mother didn't guess what terrible things were happening! Oh, forgive her! Forgive her!" The Doctor came to her side. "Too much excitement for the patient," he reminded her. "Don't you think you'd better go and lie down for a while, and have a little rest?" A startled look. And Gwendolyn put out a staying hand to her mother. Then--"Moth-er _is_ tired," she assented. "She's tireder than I am. 'Cause it was hard work going round and round Robin Hood's Barn." The Doctor hunted a small wrist and felt the pulse in it. "That's all right," he said to her mother in an undertone. "Everything's still pretty real to her, you see. But her pulse is normal," He laid cool fingers across her forehead. "Temperature's almost normal too." Gwendolyn felt that she had not made herself altogether clear. She hastened to explain. "I mean," she said, "when moth-er was carrying that society bee in her bonnet." Confusion showed in the Doctor's quick glance from parent to parent. Then, "I think I'll just drop down into the pantry," he said hastily, "and see how that young nurse from over yonder is getting along." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the side window as he went out. Gwendolyn wondered just who the young nurse was. She opened her lips to ask; then saw how painfully her mother had colored at the mere mention of the person in question, and so kept silence. The Doctor gone, her father came to her mother's side and patted a shoulder. "Well, we shan't ever say anything more about that bee," he declared, laughing, yet serious enough. "_Shall_ we, Gwendolyn!" "No." She blinked, puzzling over it a little. "There! It's settled." He bent and kissed his wife. "You thought you were doing the best thing for our little girl--_I_ know that, dear. You had her future in mind. And it's natural--and _right_--for a mother to think of making friends--the right kind, too--and a place in the social world for her daughter. And I've been short-sighted, and neglectful, and--" "Ah!" She raised wet eyes to him. "You had your worries. You were doing _more_ than your share. You had to meet the question of money. While I--" He interrupted her. "We _both_ thought we were doing our very best," he declared. "We almost did our worst! Oh, what would it all have amounted to--what would _anything_ have mattered--if we'd lost our little girl!" The pink came rushing to Gwendolyn's cheeks. "Why, I wasn't lost at all!" she declared happily. "And, oh, it was so good to have my questions all answered, and understand so many things I didn't once--and to be where all the put-out lights go, and--and where soda-water comes from. And I was _so_ glad to get rid of Thomas and Jane and Miss Royle, and--" The hall-door opened. She checked herself to look that way. Someone was entering with a tray. It was a maid--_a maid wearing a sugar-bowl cap_. Gwendolyn knew her instantly--that pretty face, as full and rosy as the face of the French doll, and framed by saucy wisps and curls as fair as Gwendolyn's own--and freckleless! "Oh!" It was a low cry of delight. The nurse smiled. She had a tray in one hand. On the tray was a blue bowl of something steaming hot. She set the tray down and came to the bed-side. Gwendolyn's eyes were wide with wonder. "How--how--?" she began. Her mother answered. "Jane called down to the Policeman, and he ran to the house on the corner." Now the dimples sprang into place, "Goody!" exclaimed Gwendolyn, and gave a little chuckle. Her mother went on: "We never can feel grateful enough to her, because she was such a help. And we're so glad you're friends already." Gwendolyn nodded. "She's one of my window-friends," she explained. "I'm going to stay with you," said the nurse. She smoothed Gwendolyn's hair fondly. "Will you like that?" "It's fine! I--I wanted you!" The Doctor re-entered. "Well, how does our sharp little patient feel now?" he inquired. "I feel hungry." "I have some broth for you," announced the pretty nurse, and brought forward the tray. Gwendolyn looked down at the bowl. "M-m-m!" she breathed. "It smells good! Now"--to the Doctor--"if I had one of your nice bread-pills--" At that, curiously enough, everyone laughed, the Doctor heartiest of all. And "Hush!" chided her mother gently while the Doctor shook a teasing finger. "Just for that," said he, "we'll have eating--and _no_ conversation--for five whole minutes." Whereupon he began to scribble on a pad, laughing to himself every now and then as he wrote. "That must be a cheerful prescription," observed Gwendolyn's father. He himself looking happier than he had. "The country," answered the Doctor, "is always cheerful." Gwendolyn's spoon slipped from her fingers. She lifted eager, shining eyes. "Moth-er," she half-whispered, "does the Doctor mean _Johnnie Blake's?_" The Doctor assented energetically. "I _prescribe_ Johnnie Blake's," he declared. "A-a-ah!" It was a deep breath of happiness. "I _promised_ Johnnie that I'd come back!" "But if my little daughter isn't strong--" Her father gave a sidewise glance at the steaming bowl on the tray. Thus prompted, Gwendolyn fell to eating once more, turning her attention to the _croutons_ bobbing about on the broth Each was square and crunchy, but not so brown as a bread-pill. "I shall now read my Johnnie Blake prescription," announced the Doctor, and held up a leaf from the pad. "Hm! Hm!" Then, in a business-like tone; "_Take two pairs of sandals, a dozen cheap gingham dresses with plenty of pockets and extra pieces for patches, and a bottle of something good for wild black-berry scratches_." He bowed. "_Mix all together with one strong medium-sized garden-hoe_--" "Oh, fath-er," cried Gwendolyn, her hoarse voice wistful with pleading, "_you_ won't mind if I play with Johnnie, _will_ you?" "Play all the time," answered her father. "Play hard--and then play some more." "He _isn't_ a common little boy." Whereupon, satisfied, she returned to the blue bowl. "And now," went on the Doctor, "as to directions." He held up other leaves from the pad. "First week (you'll have to go easy the first week), use the prescription each day as follows; When driving; also when lying on back watching birds in trees (and have a nap out of doors if you feel like it); also when lighting the fire at sundown. Nurse, here, will watch out for fingers." At that, another pleased little chuckle. "Second week:" (the Doctor coughed, importantly) "When riding your own fat pony, or chasing butterflies--assisted by one good-natured, common, ordinary, long-haired dog; or when fishing (stream or bath-tub, it doesn't matter!) or carrying kindling in to Cook--whether you're tired or not!" "I _love_ it!" "Third week: When baking mudpies, or gathering ferns (but put 'em in water when you get home); when jaunting in old wagon to hay-field, orchard or vegetable-patch--this includes tomboy yelling. And go barefoot." Gwendolyn's spoon, _crouton_-laden, wabbled in mid-air. "Go _barefoot?_" she repeated, small face flushing to a pleased pink. "Right _away?_ Before I'm eight?" "Um!" assented the Doctor. "And shin up trees (but don't disturb eggs if you find 'em). Also do barefoot gardening,--where there isn't a plant to hurt! _And wade the creek_." Again the dimples came rushing to their places. "I like squashing," she declared, smiling round. "Then isn't there a hill to climb?" continued the Doctor, "with your hat down your back on a string? And stones to roll--?" The small face grew suddenly serious. "No, thank you," she said, with a slow shake of the head, "I'd rather not turn any stones." "Very well--hm! hm!" "Oh, and there'll be jolly times of an evening after supper," broke in her father, enthusiastically. The stern lines of his face were relaxed, and a score of tiny ripples were carrying a smile from his mouth to his tired eyes. "We'll light all the candles--" "Daddy!" She relinquished the bowl, and turned to him swiftly. "Not--not candles that burn at both ends--" "No." He stopped smiling. "You're a wise little body!" pronounced the Doctor, taking her hand. "How's the pulse now?" asked her mother. "Somehow"--with a nervous little laugh--"she makes me anxious." "Normal," answered the Doctor promptly. "Only thing that isn't normal about her is that busy brain, which is abnormally bright." Thereupon he shook the small hand he was holding, strode to the table, and picked up a leather-covered case. It was black, and held a number of bottles. In no way did it resemble the pill-basket. "And if a certain person is to leave for the country soon--" Gwendolyn's smile was knowing. "You mean 'a certain party.'" He was trying to tease her with that old nursery name! "--She'd better rest. Good-by." And with that mild advice, he beckoned the nurse to follow him, whispered with her a moment at the door, and was gone. Gwendolyn's father resumed his place beside the bed. "She _can_ rest," he declared, "--the blessed baby! Not a governess or a teacher is to show as much as a hat-feather." She nodded. "We don't want 'em quacking around." Someone tapped at the door then, and entered--Rosa, bearing a card-tray upon which were two square bits of pasteboard. "To see Madam," she said, presenting the tray. After which she showed her white teeth in greeting to Gwendolyn, then stooped, and touched an open palm with her lips. Gwendolyn's mother read the cards, and shook her head. "Tell the ladies--explain that I can't leave my little daughter even for a moment to-day--" "Oh, yes, Madam." "And that we're leaving for the country _very_ soon." Rosa bobbed her dark head as she backed away. "And, Rosa--" "Yes, Madam?" "You know what I need in the country--where we were before." A bow. "Pack, Rosa. And you will go, of course." "And Potter, Madam?" "Potter, too. You'll have to pack a few things up here also." A white hand indicated the wardrobe door. "Very well, Madam." As the door closed, the telephone rang. Gwendolyn's father rose to answer it. "I think it's the office, dear," he explained; and into the transmitter--"Yes?... Hello?... Yes. Good-morning!... Oh, thanks! She's better.... And by the way, just close out that line of stocks. Yes.... I shan't be back in the office for some time. I'm leaving for the country as soon as Gwendolyn can stand the trip. To-morrow, maybe, or the next day.... No; don't go into the market until I come back. I intend to reconstruct my policy a good deal. Yes.... Oh, yes.... Good-by." He went to the front window. And as he stood in the light, Gwendolyn lay and looked at him. He had worn green the night before. But now there was not a vestige of paper money showing anywhere in his dress. In fact, he was wearing the suit--a dark blue--he had worn that night she penetrated to the library. "Fath-er." "Well, little daughter?" "I was wondering has anybody scribbled on the General's horse?--with chalk?" Her father looked down at the Drive. "The General's there!" he announced, glancing back at her over a shoulder. "And his horse seems in _fine_ fettle this morning, prancing, and arching his neck. And nobody's scribbled on him, which seems to please the General very much, for he's got his hat off--" Gwendolyn sat up, her eyes rounding. "To hundreds and hundreds of soldiers!" she told her mother. "Only everybody can't see the soldiers." Her father came back to her. "_I_ can," he declared proudly. "Do you want to see 'em, too?--just a glimpse, mother! Come! We'll play the game together!" And the next moment, silk coverlet and all, Gwendolyn was swung up in his arms and borne to the window-seat. "And, oh, there's the P'liceman!" she cried out. "His name is Flynn," informed her father. "And _twice_ this morning he's asked after you." "Oh!" she stood up among the cushions to get a better view. "He takes lost little boys and girls to their fath-ers and moth-ers, daddy, and he takes care of the trees, and the flowers, and the fountains, and--- and the ob'lisk. But he only likes it up here in summer. In winter he likes to be Down-Town. And he _ought_ to be Down-Town, 'cause he's got a _really_ level head--" "Wave to him now," said her father. "There! He's swinging his cap!--When we're out walking one of these times we'll stop and shake hands with him!" "With the hand-organ man, too, fath-er? Oh, you like him, _don't_ you? And you won't send him away!" "Father won't." He laid her back among the pillows then. And she turned her face to her mother. "Can't you sleep, darling?--And don't dream!" "Well, I'm pretty tired." "We know what a hard long night it was." "Oh, I'm _so_ glad we're going back to Johnnie Blake's, moth-er. 'Cause, oh, I'm tired of pretending!" "Of pretending," said her father. "Ah, yes." Her mother nodded at him. "I'm tired of pretending, too," she said in a low voice. Gwendolyn looked pleased. "I didn't know you ever pretended," she said. "Well, of course, you know that _real_ things are so much nicer--" "Ah, yes, my little girl!" It was her father. His voice trembled. "Real grass,"--she smiled up at him--"and real trees, and real people." After that, for a while, she gave herself over to thinking. How wonderful that one single night could bring about the changes for which she had so longed!--the living in the country; the eating at the grown-up table, and having no governess. One full busy night had done all that! And yet-- She glanced down at herself. Under her pink chin was the lace and ribbon of a night-dress. She could not remember being put to bed--could not even recall coming up in the bronze cage. And was the plaid gingham with the patch-pocket now hanging in the wardrobe? Brows knit, she slipped one small foot sidewise until it was close to the edge of the bed-covers, then of a sudden thrust it out from beneath them. The foot was as white as if it had only just been bathed! Not a sign did it show of having waded any stream, pattered through mud, or trudged a forest road! Presently, "Moth-er,"--sleepily. "Yes, darling?" "_Who_ are Law and Order?" A moment's silence. Then, "Well--er--" "Isn't it a fath-er-and-moth-er question?" "Why, _yes_, my baby. But I--" "Father will tell you, dear." He was seated beside her once more. "You see it's this way:" "Can you tell it like a story, fath-er?" "Yes." "A once-upon-a-time story?" "I'll try. But first you must understand that law and order are not two people. Oh, no. And they aren't anything a little girl could see--as she can see the mirror, for instance, or a chair--" Gwendolyn looked at the mirror and the chair--thence around the room. These were the same things that had been there all the time. Now how different each appeared! There was the bed, for instance. She had never liked the bed, beautiful though it was. Yet to-day, even with the sun shining on the great panes of the wide front window, it seemed good to be lying in it. And the nursery, once a hated place--a very prison!--the nursery had never looked lovelier! Her father went on with his explaining, low and cheerily, and as confidentially as if to a grown-up. Across from him, listening, was her mother, one soft cheek lowered to rest close to the small face half-hidden in the pillow. When her father finished speaking, Gwendolyn gave a deep breath--of happiness and content. Then, "Moth-er!" "Yes?"--with a kiss as light as the touch of a butterfly. Her eyelids, all at once, seemed curiously heavy. She let them flutter down. But a drowsy smile curved the pink mouth. "Moth-er," she whispered; "moth-er, the Dearest Pretend has come true!" 
43071	----	THE ALTERNATIVE By GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON Author of "The Husbands of Edith," "The Purple Parasol," "The Flyers," "The Butterfly Man," Etc. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS By HARRISON FISHER A. L. BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Copyright, 1909, by DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY Published, April, 1909 [Illustration: "'Agrippa! Come here, sir!'"] Contents CHAPTER I THE VAN PYCKES 1 CHAPTER II A YOUNG LADY ENTERS 26 CHAPTER III THE AMAZING MARRIAGE 53 CHAPTER IV THE SECRETARY GOES HOME 78 CHAPTER V HIS FIRST HOLIDAY 97 Illustrations "'Agrippa! Come here, sir!'" (_Frontispiece_) "'I am Mrs. De Foe's secretary,' she said quietly" "He was there. In fact he opened the door and assisted her to alight" "Her eyes were closed. He kissed the lids" THE ALTERNATIVE CHAPTER I THE VAN PYCKES A shrieking wind, thick with the sleety snow that knows no mercy nor feels remorse, beat vainly and with savage insolence against the staid windows in the lounging room of one of New York's most desirable clubs--one of those characteristic homes for college men who were up for membership on the day they were born, if one may speak so broadly of the virtue that links the early eighteenth-century graduate with his great-grandson of the class of 1908. Not to say, of course, that the eighteenth-century graduate was so carefully preserved from the biting snowstorm as the fellow of to-day, but that he got his learning in the ancient halls that now grind out his descendants by the hundred, one way or another. It is going much too far to assert that every member of this autocratic club had a colonial ancestor in college, but you'd think so if you didn't pin him down to an actual confession to the contrary. It is likely to be the way with college men who do not owe their degrees to certain mushroom institutions in the West, where electricity and mechanics are considered to be quite as necessary to a young man's equipment as the acquaintance, by tradition, with somebody's great-grandaddy, no matter how eminent he may have been in his primogenial day. All of which is neither here nor there. Ancestors for the future are in the club this night, enjoying the luxury, the coziness, the warmth, and the present good cheer of a great and glorious achievement: they are inside of solid walls on this bitter night, eating or tippling, smoking or toasting, reading or chatting with small regard for the ancient gentlemen who gave their _Alma Mater_ its name, but who, if suddenly come to life, would pass away again in a jiffy, not so much through the shock of opulence as at the sight of the wicked high-ball. At one of the windows, overlooking a broad street, stood two elderly gentlemen, conversing in no mild tones about the blizzard. Straight-backed, dignified gentlemen, they. They kept their hands clasped behind their backs, smoked very good cigars instead of cigarets, and spoke not of the chorus that gamboled just around a certain corner, but of the blizzard that did the same thing--in a less exalted manner--around _all_ corners. A thin, arrogant figure crossed from the hallway doors, his watery green eyes sweeping the group of young men at the lower end of the room. Evidently the person for whom he was looking was not among them. As he was turning toward the two elderly gentlemen in the window, one of the joyous spirits of 1908 saw him, and called out: "Hello, Mr. Van Pycke! Lookin' for Buzzy?" The thin old gentleman paused. He lifted his nose-glasses and deliberately set them upon the bridge of his long, aristocratic,--and we must say it,--somewhat rose-tinted nose. Then his slim fingers dropped to the end of his neat gray mustache. A coolly impersonal stare sought out the speaker. "Good evening," he said, in the most suave manner possible. No one would have suspected that he was unable to recall the name of the youth who put the question. "Yes, I rather expected to find Bosworth here. He said something about dining here." "He's upstairs in Peter Palmer's room." "Thank you. I sha'n't disturb him. Disagreeable night, gentlemen." The back of his spike-tailed coat confronted the group an instant later; he was crossing the room, headed for the gray-heads in the window. "Good evening, Billings. How are you, Knapp? A beastly night." The three did not shake hands. They had passed that stage long ago. They did nothing that they didn't have to do. "I was just telling Knapp that it reminds me of the blizzard in--" "Stop right there, Billings," interrupted Mr. Van Pycke. "It reminds me of every blizzard that has happened within my recollection. They're all alike--theoretically. A lot of wind, snow, and talk about the poor. Sit down here and have your liqueurs with me." "I'm glad I don't have to go in all this to-night," said little Mr. Billings, '59, unconsciously pressing his knees together as he sat down at the small table. "You're getting old, Billings." "So are you, Van Pycke. Demmit, I'm not more than two years older than you. What's more, you have a grown son." "My dear fellow, Bosworth is only twenty-five. A man doesn't have to be a Methuselah to have a grown son. They grow up like weeds. And some of them amount to about as much as--ahem! Ahem! Please press that button for me, will you, Knapp? I don't see why the devil they always have the button on the other side of the table. No, no! I'll sign for them, old chap. Don't think of it! Here, boy, let me have the ticket. Mr. Knapp rang, but he did it to oblige me. Now, see here, Knapp, I don't like that sort of--" "My dear Van Pycke, permit me! Billings is having his coffee with me. It's coming now. I insist on adding the cordial." "Very well, if you insist. Napoleon brandy with a single drop of Curaçao. Mind you,--a single drop, waiter. Ever try that fine old brandy, Knapp?" "I can't afford it," said Knapp, bluntly. "It's the only kind that I can drink," was all that Van Pycke said, lifting his thin eyebrows ever so slightly. "Yes, it's a rotten night," put in Mr. Billings with excellent haste. Knapp's face had gone a trifle red. Down at the other end of the room the "young bucks" were discussing the seared trio under the smileless portrait of a college founder. They spoke in rather subdued tones, with frequent glances toward the door at their left. "Old Van Pycke is the darndest sponge in the club. He never buys a drink, and yet he's always drinking," said one young man. "His nose shows that all right. I hate a pink nose." "You'd think he owned the club, the way he treats it," said another. "Tell me about him," said a new member--from the West. "He's the most elegant, the most fastidious gentleman I've ever seen. An old family?" "Rather! The Van Pyckes are as old as Bowling Green. Some of 'em came over in the Ark--or was it the 'Mayflower'?" "Buzzy came over in the 'Lusitania' last year," ventured one of them. The self-appointed historian, a drawler with ancestors in Trinity churchyard, went on: "Buckets of blue blood in 'em. The old man there is the last of his type. His son, Buzzy,--Bosworth Van Pycke,--he's the chap who gave the much-talked of supper for Carmen the other night--he's really a different sort. Or would be, I should have said, if he had half a chance. Buzzy's a good fellow--a regular--" "You bet he is!" exclaimed two or three approvingly. "The old man's got queer ideas about Buzzy. He insists on his being a regular gentleman." "Nothing queer in that," interrupted the Westerner. "Except that he thinks a fellow can't be a gentleman unless he's a loafer. He brought Buzzy up with the understanding that it wasn't necessary for him to be anything but a Van Pycke. The Van Pycke name, and all that sort of rot. It wouldn't be so bad if the old man had anything to back it up with. He hasn't a sou markee. That's the situation. For the last twenty years he's lived in the clubs, owing everybody and always being a gentleman about it. He has a small interest in the business of Rubenstein, Rosenthal & Meyer,--logical but not lineal descendants of the Van Pyckes who were gentlemen in dread of a rainy day,--but he doesn't get much out of it. Five or six thousand a year, I'd say. When Buzzy's maternal grandfather died, he left something in trust for the boy. Fixed it in such a way that he isn't to have the principal until he's fifty. By that time the old man over there will have passed in his checks. Catch the point? It was done to keep the amiable son-in-law from getting his fingers on the pile and squandering it as he squandered two or three other paternal and grand-paternal fortunes. Buzzy has about ten thousand a year from the trust fund. I know that he pays some of his father's debts--not all of 'em, of course; just the embarrassing kind that he hears about from creditors who really want their money. In a way, the old man has spoiled Buzzy. He has always pounded it into the boy's head that it isn't necessary to work--in fact, it's vulgar. When Buzzy first came into the club, two years ago, he was insufferable. At college, every one liked him. He was himself when out from under the old man's influence. After he left college, he set himself up as Van Pycke, gentleman. The old man told him the name was worth five millions at least. All he had to do was to wait around a bit and he'd have no trouble in marrying that amount or more. Marriage is the best business in the world for a gentleman, he argues. I've heard him say so myself. "Well, Buzzy's pretty much of a frivoler, but he isn't a cad. He'd like to do right, I'm sure. He didn't get started right, that's all. He goes about drinking tea and making love and spending all he has--like a gentleman. Just sleeps, eats, and frivols, that's all. He'll never amount to a hang. It's a shame, too. He's a darned good sort." At the little table down the room Van Pycke, senior, was holding forth in his most suave, convincing manner. "Gentlemen, I don't know what New York is coming to. There are not ten real gentlemen between the Battery and Central Park. Nothing but money grabbers. They don't know how to live. They eat like the devil and drink as though they lived in an aquarium; and they say they're New Yorkers." Mr. Van Pycke's patrician nose was a shade redder than usual. Billings, paying no heed to his remarks, was trying to remember how Van Pycke looked before his nose was thoroughly pickled. It was a long way back, thought Mr. Billings, vaguely. "I think I'll have a high-ball," said Mr. Van Pycke. "Have something, Knapp? Billings? Oh, I remember: you don't drink immediately after dinner. Splendid idea, too. I think I'll follow your example, to-night at least. I have a rather important--er--engagement, later on." He twirled his mustache fondly. "You'll pursue the fair sex up to the very brink of the grave, Van Pycke," grumbled Knapp. "If you mean my own grave, yes," said the other, calmly. "If you mean that I'll pursue any fair sexton to the brink of _her_ grave, you're mistaken. I don't like old women. By the way, Knapp, do you happen to know Jim Scoville's widow?" "You mean _young_ Jim Scoville?" "Certainly. I don't discuss dowagers. Everybody knows the old one. I mean the pretty Mrs. Scoville." "More or less scandal about her, isn't there?" ventured Billings, pricking up his ears. "Not a grain of truth in it, not a grain," retorted Mr. Van Pycke in such a way that you had the feeling he wanted you to believe there _was_ scandal and that he was more or less connected with it. He studied the chandelier in a most evasive manner. "Ahem! Do you know her?" "Only by reputation," said Knapp, with gentle irony. "I've seen her," said Billings. "At the horse show. Or was it the automobile--" "I was in her box at one and in her tonneau at the other," said Mr. Van Pycke, taking the cigar Knapp extended. He glanced at his watch with sudden interest. "Yes, I see quite a bit of her. Charming girl--ahem! Of course" (punctuating his opinion with deliberate care) "she has been talked about, in a way. Lot of demmed old tabbies around town rippin' her up the back whenever she turns to look the other way. Old Mrs. Scoville is the queen tabby. She hates the young Mrs. Jim like poison. And, come to think of it, I don't blame the dowager. Charlotte is one of the most attract--" "Charlotte!" exclaimed Knapp. "Do you call her Charlotte?" "Certainly!" said Mr. Van Pycke, with a chilly uplifting of his eyebrows. "I thought her name was Laura," said Billings, who read all the gossip in the weekly periodicals. Mr. Van Pycke coughed. There seemed some likelihood of his bursting, the fit lasted so long. "Charlotte is a pet name we have for her," he explained, somewhat huskily, when it was over. "Demmed stupid of me!" he was saying to himself. "As I said before, I don't blame the old lady. Young Mrs. Jim has got five or six of the Scoville millions, and she's showing the family how to spend it. Her husband's been dead over two years. She's got a perfect right to take notice of other men and to have a bit of fun if she takes the notion. Hasn't she? I--I--it wouldn't surprise me at all if she were to take a new husband unto herself before long." He uttered a very conscious cackle and looked at his watch quite suddenly--or past it, rather, for he forgot to open the virtuously chased hunting case. Billings waited a moment. "I hear she is quite devoted to Chauncey De Foe,--or is it the other way?" Mr. Van Pycke took five puffs at his cigar before responding, all the while staring at Billings in a perfectly unseeing way. "I beg pardon? Oh, yes, I see. Not at all, my dear Billings. De Foe is--er--you might say, a part of her past. He's out of it, quite. I don't mind telling you, he's a--ahem! a damned nuisance, though." This time he looked at his watch with considerable asperity. "Half-past eight! Where the devil is Bos--I say, Knapp, can you see the length of the room? Is he in that crowd over there?" "No, he isn't," said Knapp, shortly. "I shall have to telephone up to Palmer's room. I must see him before leaving the club. Beastly night, isn't it?" "Beastly," remarked the two old gentlemen, unconsciously heaving sighs of relief as Mr. Van Pycke arose and adjusted his immaculate waistcoat. Then he moved away, trimly. A particularly vicious gust of wind swept up to the windows; the fusillade of gritty snowflakes caused the two old men to lift their gaze to the panes. Billings arose and peered into the swirling, seething street. A phantom-like hansom was passing, a vague, top-heavy thing in shifting whites. Two taxicabs crawled humbly up to the club entrance, and away again, ghostly in their surrender to the noise of the wind. Mr. Billings shuddered as he resumed his seat. "I wonder if Van Pycke imagines that she could even _think_ of marrying _him_! Sixty-three, if he's a day!" Mr. Billings had not been thinking of the storm while he stood in the window. "Fine old New York name, Billings," mused Knapp. "You can't tell what these women will do to get a name that means something." Mr. Billings was silent for a long time. Suddenly he stirred himself, relighted his cigar, and remarked: "By Jove, hear that wind howling, will you! It's really worse than the blizzard of '93." "Billings" was not yet a fine old New York name. The crowd of young fellows at the other end watched Mr. Van Pycke vanish through the door. He was peering into his nose-glasses in such a lofty manner that one might have believed that he scented something disagreeable in every one who passed. As a matter of fact, his sole object was to discover his son if possible. For a long time he had nourished the conviction that his son would not take the trouble to discover him, if he could help it, no matter how close the propinquity. Mr. Van Pycke attributed this phase of filial indifference to the sublimity of caste. After all, wasn't Bosworth the son of his father, and wasn't it quite natural that he should be an improvement on all the Van Pyckes who had gone before? What was the sense in having a son if it were not to better the breed? Sometimes, however, Mr. Van Pycke experienced the sickening fear that Bosworth avoided him because of a foolish prejudice against the lending of money to relatives. There was an admirable counter-irritant, however, in Bosworth's assertion that one never got back the money he lent to relatives; and, as long as Mr. Van Pycke had known him in a pecuniary way, the young man had lived up to this principle by not even suggesting the return of a loan. Mr. Van Pycke was very proud of his son. He sometimes wished he could see more of him. Bosworth lived in the club. Van Pycke, senior, had lived there, but was now living at one of the other clubs--he would have had some difficulty in remembering just which one if suddenly questioned. "I hope Buzzy isn't going to turn out like the old man," said one of the loungers, addressing himself to the crowd. "Oh, he'll marry rich and go the pace, and the old man will die happy," said another. "He's hanging around that flossy Mrs. Scoville a good bit these days," observed the drawler. "That's not the best thing in the world for him." "She's not as bad as she's painted," protested some one. "My mother says she's the limit," said the drawler. "That's what my mother says also," argued another, "but it's because she's afraid I'll slip up some day and fall a victim to the lady's charms. These mothers are a nifty lot. They've got their eyes peeled and their ears spread, and they don't give a hang what they say about a woman if she's likely to harm sonny-boy." "Well, say what you please, Mrs. Scoville is as swift as a bullet. She carried on to beat the band with Chauncey De Foe long before Jim Scoville died, and she's still going it. Everybody talked about it then, and people don't forget. My mother says she knows of a dozen of the best houses where she is no longer received. I'm sorry that Buzzy has taken it into his head to flutter about her flame. He's bound to get a good singeing." "Oh, Buzzy's not such a fool as you think. He's pretty wise to women. He's had nothing else to do but to study 'em since he left college." "But she's always doing some freakish thing to get into the newspapers. Next thing you know, Buzzy'll have his name in the paper as taking a chimpanzee out to dinner, or being toastmaster at a banquet for French poodles. She delights in it, just because it makes people sit up and gasp. That sliding down the banister party she gave at her coming-out party last spring must have been a ripper. Four or five old ladies who couldn't slide down a haystack got mad and went home. They've cut her since then." "Coming-out party?" queried the Westerner. "I thought you said she was a widow." "She is. It was when she came out of mourning." "I think I'd like to know her," mused the Westerner, his eyes lighting up. "She's very expensive," murmured the drawler, who also would have enjoyed an acquaintanceship. For a few minutes they all seemed to be interested in their own thoughts. Finally a youth in a lavender waistcoat and a gray dinner jacket broke the silence. "Gimme a cigaret, Bob." "Don't you ever _buy_ cigarets, Sticky?" growled the one addressed, reluctantly extending his case. "Sticky" ignored the question. "I wonder if Buzzy's got it into his head to get married," he said reflectively. "She's rich enough," remarked the drawler. "How about De Foe? He's the bell-cow, isn't he?" "She's in love with him, that's all. The name of Van Pycke would get her into the very heart of the Four Hundred. With Buzzy's patronymic and the lamented Jim's millions, she'd be an establishment in herself. And, besides, Buzzy's a chap any woman might be proud of as a husband. He's good-looking, amusing, popular, and--useless. His habits are unnaturally decent. Drinks less than any fellow in the club--except the spooks who don't drink at all. Gambles moderately and--" "Fellows, I believe Buzzy'd make something of himself if he didn't have the family name to carry around," burst out "Sticky." "Lemme take a cigaret, Bob. Yes, sir; he's got it in him. If the old man was off the map, Buzzy'd come to realize that there's something for him to do besides marrying for money. The way it is now, he's just got to marry a lot of dough. It's cut out for him. That's all he's ever been taught,--that's all he grew up for. He's--Sh! Here he is!" A slender young man, immaculately dressed from tip to toe, approached the group. If any feature was out of proportion in this young man's face, it was his nose,--or perhaps it was his mouth. His nose was rather long and fine,--a typically aristocratic Van Pycke nose, but unblooming,--and his mouth was a bit too large for perfect symmetry, you might argue. But the one denoted truly patrician blood; the other signified no small amount of strength as well as the most engaging good nature. That is to say, one could not, by any chance, take him for a snob; the mouth quite offset the nose. Mr. Van Pycke has already said he was twenty-five. He looked what he was set up to be,--a gentleman, bred and born. More than one of his friends noticed the absence of a certain genial smile that usually illumined his face when he joined a party of acquaintances. There was something almost suggestive of gloom in his eyes. The mobile lips were not spread in the gentle smile they knew so well; they were rather studied in their sedateness. His hands were in his pockets (which was most unusual), and--yes, his tie was rather carelessly knotted. "Your father's looking for you, Buzzy," said Sticky. "He is? I thought he was looking for some one when I passed him out there just now. Here, waiter, take the orders." He sat upon the edge of a table and swung one leg aimlessly while the servant took the orders. "I'll take a Bronx," he said, after the others had spoken. The drawler took it upon himself to instruct the waiter to find Mr. Van Pycke, senior, and tell him that his son was in the lounge. "Never mind," countermanded Bosworth, sharply. "I'll look him up directly. Beastly night, isn't it?" Every one said it was. It dawned upon them that Bosworth was not taking his first cocktail. It was quite plain that already he had taken several. They were unwilling to believe their senses. Buzzy _never_ got tight! He always had said it made him dreadfully ill the next day, and a man who is ill the next day--in that way--suffers tremendously during the period of upheaval in the additional loss of self-respect. Be that as it may, he appeared to have forgotten his squeamishness. Young Mr. Van Pycke--he of the sleek blond hair and dark gray eyes--was quite palpably drunk. "This is the sixth for me in the last half hour," he remarked, but not proudly, as he took up the cocktail. A spoonful or more leaked over the top of the glass as he raised it to his lips. "Here's how." "Six!" exclaimed the drawler. "What's got into you, Buzzy? I thought your limit was two." Buzzy appeared to be thinking. "Two's my limit when I'm perfectly sober," he said sagely. He waited a moment. "Say, did you fellers see that thing in the paper's mor--this morning about the party?" "What party?" demanded several. He looked aggrieved. "Why, there was only one. I haven't heard of another. The one at Mrs. Thistlethorpe's. By Jove, that's a--a hard name to pronounce. Didn't you see in the papers that they played a new game between the Bridge and the pantry? Jus' before supper Mrs. This--Thissus Miss--the same one I said before--introduced her new trained dog. It was Willy Buttsford. Willy--the silly ass--came into the room on all fours. She was leadin' him by a leash. Willy's got such a deuced thin neck that her poodle's diamond-studded collar fits'm all right. Then she had him beg for candy, roll over an' play dead, jump over her leg, and--say, he almost broke his nose doin' that! Awful mess he made of himself, slippin' on the rug. He closed the show by tellin' the age of every woman present, barkin' the numbers. I thought I'd die of fatigue when he gave Mrs. Thisum--ahem!--when he gave _her_ age. He thought it would be smart to run it up into the hundreds. The dam' fool barked for three quarters of an hour without stoppin'! I never was so disgusted in my life. Thass--that's why I'm gettin' full to-night." "I don't see why _you_ should get full," said Sticky. "Sticky, you _would_ see if you knew the horrible thought that's been botherin' me all day. Mos' dreadful thought." "What is it?" "It occurred to me that, next thing I know, I'll be doin' some idiotic trick like that. I've got a feelin'--an awful feelin'--that I won't be able to get out of it. Some woman'll want me to play a cow, or a goat, or a crocodile, sure's your're born, and I'll be _it_. Awful thought!" Everybody laughed but Bosworth. He flushed and looked very much hurt. "I'm not foolin', boys," he said quite seriously. "I feel it coming. I haven't money enough to tell 'em to go to the devil, and they know it. That's the trouble in not havin' money. So, I've made up my mind to follow the governor's advice. I'm going to marry it." "Good boy!" cried the drawler, humoring him. "Either that or go to work," said Bosworth, slowly, impressively. Again they laughed, and again he flushed. "I mean it. I'm either going to marry some one who can support me in the latest and most approved fashion, or I'm going to chuck the whole business and devote my time to solving the labor problem by trying to hold a job somewhere. Twelve thousand a year is all right if a chap's working part of the time. He's at least earning the interest on what he spends. But twelve thousand isn't even pin money in the crowd I'm trying to keep up with." "I've always said you'd marry a wad as big as the best of 'em," said Sticky, greatly encouraged. "If I don't marry pretty soon, the governor will," mused Buzzy. "The Lord knows _he_ won't marry for love or experience. No, gentlemen, you can't expect to be much more than a poodle dog on twelve thousand. I had to lick a feller at college once for calling me a pup. I'd hate it like the deuce if I should live to see his statement proved true. No, I won't be a trained dog. I'll get married and pay my debts. And--I say, what time's it getting to be? Eight forty-five? Well, I must be on my way." He swung his leg down from the table, straightened his slender, elegant figure with a palpable effort, and smiled his most genial farewells to the crowd. "Rotten night," he said once more. The drawler took his arm and accompanied him to the door. They were very good friends. "Better stay in to-night, Buzzy," he said. Bosworth looked at him in haughty surprise. "You think I'm tight," he retorted. "There, forgive me, old chap; I didn't mean to snap you off like that. Le' me tell you about those cocktails. I took 'em to brace me up. I'm going to do it to-night." This in a whisper. "Do it? Do what?" "Ask her!" "What the dev--Ask who what?" "I don't know just who yet, but I certainly know what. I'm going to ask some one to become Mrs. Van Pycke. There are three of 'em who are eligible, according to the governor. He's ding-donged 'em at me for three months. I've got a taxicab waiting for me out there. The chances are that it'll get stuck in the snow somewhere. That's why I can't say which one I'm going to ask. It all depends on which one lives nearest to the snowdrift in which we get stuck. They're all the same to me. And I think they are to the governor. But, see here, George, I'm not going to ask more than one of 'em. If I get turned down to-night, that ends it. I'm going to work!" "I don't wish you any bad luck, Buzzy, but I hope you'll be turned down," said his friend, earnestly. Van Pycke was staring straight before him. His brain seemed clearer when he replied. There was a distinctly plaintive note in his voice. "I wonder if I _could_ make good at work of any kind. Do you suppose any one would give me a trial?" "In a minute, Buzzy! And you would make good. Better stay in to-night. Let the--" "No," said Buzzy, resolutely. "I'm going to try the other thing first. That's what I've been trained for. Good night, George. Don't tell the fellows, will you? They'll guy me to death. I just wanted you to understand that I can't go on as I'm going on twelve thousand a year." "I quite understand, old boy." Buzzy held his hand for a moment, looking quite steadily into his eyes. "You don't think I'm as useless as the rest of 'em think I am, do you, George?" "God bless you, no! No one thinks that of you!" "George, I hate a liar," said Buzzy, but his face glowed with a happy smile. In the lobby he met his father. "Where the devil have you been?" demanded Van Pycke, senior. "Damitall, I've wasted half an hour waiting for you." "I didn't know you were waiting, dad. Why didn't you send in your card?" "Send in my--why, confound you, Bosworth, I'm a member of this club. Why should I send in--" "Don't lose your temper, dad. I apologize for keeping you waiting. Don't let me keep you any longer." Mr. Van Pycke looked his son over very carefully. A pained expression came into his face. "Bosworth, I am sorry to see you in this condition. It grieves me beyond measure. You have never--" "It's an awful night, isn't it, dad? Can't I give you a lift in my taxicab? I see you've got on your overcoat and hat." Bosworth was moving toward the clubhouse entrance. The old gentleman resolutely kept pace with him. "That's just what I meant to ask you," said he, with some celerity. "I--I can't get a cab of any sort for love or money. It's generous--" "You can't get much of anything for love in these days, dad, except love." Mr. Van Pycke pondered this while Bosworth got into his coat and hat. "I am very sorry to see you intox--" "Dad, I 'm celebrating," said his son, halting just inside the door. "Celebrating what?" "My approaching marriage, sir." Mr. Van Pycke dropped the glove he was pulling on. He went very white, except for his nose. That seemed redder by contrast. "Not--not a chorus girl?" he stammered, his hand shaking as he raised it to his brow. "No, dad. Not yet. I expect to marry some one else first. I'll save the other for a rainy day." "Who--who is it, my boy? Who is it?" "That, sir, is still a matter of conjecture. I haven't quite got down to the point of selecting--" "You insufferable booby," roared his father. "You gave me a--a dreadful shock, sir! Never do that again." "I thought you'd like to know, sir," said Bosworth, politely. He winked gravely at a mahogany doorpost, and motioned for his father to precede him through the storm doors. "By the way," muttered his father, obstructing the way, as if recalling something he had forgotten to attend to inside the club, "would you mind lending me fifty for a couple of days? I meant to speak to you about it in--" "Will ten do, dad? It's all I have with me, except a tip for the driver. We mustn't forget the driver on a night like this." Bosworth was feeling in his trousers pocket, no sign of resentment in his face. "I dare say I can borrow forty from Stone," said the other, readily. "No," he went on, after he had pocketed the crumpled bank note and was fastening his baby lamb collar close up to his shrivelled throat; "no, we can't forget the driver on a night like this. You really won't mind dropping me up town, will you, Bosworth? I don't mind walking if you'd rather not." "Come along, governor," said the other, pushing through the doors. "Ah, that cold air feels good!" The young man drew in a long, deep breath. "Good? It might feel good to a polar bear, but I don't see how--" "Sh! Be careful, dad! Don't let the driver hear you call me a polar bear. He wouldn't understand, and it might get into the papers--the very thing I'm trying to avoid." Mr. Van Pycke attributed this remarkable utterance to the cup that cheers and befuddles. At best he seldom appreciated or understood Bosworth's wit. The taxicab plowed and sputtered its way through a city block of pelting snow before he gave over trying to analyze this latest example. Then he broke the silence, in the shrill, chattering tones of one who is very cold. "I don't think I told the driver where he could put me down," he said. "Eh?" mumbled Bosworth, coming out of a dream. "Oh, I dare say it won't matter. I'll tell him when he puts me down." "But," expostulated his father, from the recesses of the baby lamb, "you may be going to--to Harlem." He could think of nothing worse. "I've been delayed in keeping my appointment on your account, as it is. It's very annoying, Bosworth, that I should be kept waiting a whole hour there in the club while you puttered your time away at--" "Where _do_ you want to get out, dad?" interrupted the scion of the house of Van Pycke. Mr. Van Pycke had been thinking. He was not sure that he wanted Bosworth to know just where he was going on this momentous night. It occurred to him that the walk of a block would not only throw the young man off the track, but might also serve to soften the heart of the lady for whom he was risking so much in the shape of health by venturing forth afoot in a storm so relentless. Moreover, he could tell her that he had walked all the way up from the club, cabless because even the hardiest of drivers balked at the prospect. A statement like that, attended by a bushel or more of snow in the vestibule where it had been brushed off by the butler, ought to convince the lady in mind that his devotion was thinly divorced from recklessness. So he told Bosworth that he would get out at Mr. Purdwell's house. The announcement caused Bosworth mentally to eliminate one of the ladies from his list. He gave a deep sigh of relief at that. The daughter of the shamelessly rich Mr. Purdwell was so homely and so vain that she was almost certain to have said "yes"--with all her millions--if he had asked her. He remembered that Miss Hebbins, almost as rich and quite as eager to get into the Four Hundred, was the next on his list. She lived a few blocks farther up the street. "All right, dad. Just push the button when we get to Purdwell's corner. I'm going beyond." Mr. Van Pycke hesitated for a moment. "Would it be too much trouble for you to stop for me on your way down, Bosworth?" "Not at all, dad." As an afterthought he added: "Something tells me I won't be up here long. Can you be ready at half-past ten?" "I think so," said his father, who had some misgivings. The taxi struggled bravely along for a couple of blocks. Bosworth was dozing comfortably. His father, seized by an unwelcome sense of compunction, was turning something over in his mind. In the end, he concluded to break a certain piece of news to his son. "Your mother has been dead for sixteen years, Bosworth." Bosworth opened his eyes. "Yes, sir," he said, trying to guess what was coming. "She was a noble woman, my boy. I--I shall never forget her." "I loved her," said Bosworth, vaguely. "I have always said that a man shouldn't marry a second time," proceeded Mr. Van Pycke. Bosworth sniffed. Mr. Van Pycke went on: "That is, until his first wife has been--er--at rest for fifteen years or more. It's only decent." "I see," said Bosworth, comprehending. "You do?" demanded his father, a bit upset. "Who is she, dad?" Mr. Van Pycke's chin was so far down in the baby lamb that his reply was barely audible. "I hope to be able to tell you in the morning--perhaps late this evening, my son." The young man was smiling in his corner of the cab. "Are you quite sure you love her, dad?" he asked, without guile. Mr. Van Pycke coughed. "Perhaps you'd better wait till morning to tell me that, too," said his son, coming to the rescue. CHAPTER II A YOUNG LADY ENTERS Mr. Van Pycke got down in front of the Purdwell mansion. It must be admitted that he almost funked when he opened the door of the cab and let in a gust of wind and snow that almost took his breath away. But he steeled himself and slipped out into the seething blizzard. He blinked around in all directions as the taxicab chortled off into the white whirlwind. So dense was the flying snow that he could scarcely see the houses on the inner side of the pavement; he was nearly a minute in getting his bearings. Then he shuffled off through the great drifts on the walk, pointed toward a fashionable apartment building whose lights glimmered fantastically against the whistling, shifting screen. It may be added that Mr. Van Pycke was cursing himself for a fool at every wretched step of the way. Never, in all his life, had he seen snowdrifts so deep and never so stubborn. He said to himself that he'd be d--d if he pay a cent of taxes until civic affairs were administered by an assembly that knew enough to keep the sidewalks clear of snow. He also experienced the doleful fear that his nose was freezing in spite of all that he could do to prevent it. Bosworth's taxicab floundered heroically on for two blocks. Then it gave out and came to a frantic stop, pulsing and throbbing and jerking its very vitals out in the effort to go ahead. "She's stuck, sir," said the driver, opening the door. "Where are we?" demanded young Mr. Van Pycke. "Please come inside and close the door. I hate a draft. That's better. Now we can talk it over. Are we lost?" "Lost, sir? C'tainly not. I know w'ere we are, all right. Only we can't budge out of this snowdrift. It's the woist ever." "I suppose we'll have to sleep here," said Bosworth, resignedly. He was comfortably sleepy by this time. The driver struck a match, the better to inspect his amiable fare. "Not if I know myself," he growled. "If you should happen to lose your watch while you're in this condition, I'd be jugged for it. I'll take you to the Lackaday Hotel in the next block below and turn you over to the chambermaids. Come along, pardner. I'll see that you get there all right." Buzzy sat up and glared at him in the darkness. "Strike another match, confound you," he commanded. "How the devil am I to see your number? Never mind; I sha'n't report your impertinence, after all. I dare say you meant well. I am a bit drunk. But I can get along all right by myself. You say the Lackaday is back there in the next block?" "Yes, sir. The number you wanted is about three blocks furder up. If it hadn't a been--" "Let me out. I'll walk back. You--you've taken me past the number I wanted." "The ticket says 714, sir, plain as day," began the driver. "You didn't say nothin' about the Lackaday--" "You're quite right, my man. And you didn't say anything about stopping in the middle of the block for the night, did you? Well, there you are! That squares us." He clambered out into the snowdrift and unbuttoned his overcoat. The man seemed undecided whether to let him go or to drag him back into the vehicle. Bosworth found what he was looking for in his waistcoat pocket. He pressed it into the driver's hand. "I'm sorry it isn't more," he said regretfully. "It may be a dollar, or it may be a five, but no matter which it is, it ought to be more. Now I'll tell you what I want you to do. If you can't get this thing going by 'leven o'clock, I want you to go up to Martin's and have 'em send a four-horse sleigh to No. 511. It's the first residence north of the Lackaday, and it's the number I've been compelled to select as a last resort. Understand?" "Yes, sir. Martin's livery, sir. I'll attend to everything, sir. Thank you, sir." He stood there in the blinding snow, watching his fare struggle to the sidewalk. Then he decided to follow along behind him until the "young gent" was safely within the doors of No. 511. He had driven Mr. Van Pycke before and he knew that it was not a dollar bill. Bosworth reached the steps leading up to the rather imposing doorway at No. 511. There was a heavy, stubborn iron gate at the foot, which he had some difficulty in opening because of the snow. While he was working with it, a man came plump up against him. Together they seized upon the gate and yanked with all their might and main. "Thanks," said Buzzy, when it was open. "Don't thank me," snapped the other. "I'm going in myself." They mounted the six or eight steps to the storm doors, side by side, enveloped in the snow that scuttled around the corner of the big Lackaday hotel next door. With a great stamping of boots they floundered into the shelter of the outer vestibule. The light in the hall beyond shone through the glass doors, illuminating the box-like coop in which they paused, each selfishly to occupy himself in catching his breath and at the same time shake the snow from his person. In the act of knocking the snow from the tops of their silk hats they glanced up simultaneously, each having arrived at the moment when it was convenient for him to inquire into the identity of his fellow visitor. They stared hard for a moment. "Hello, dad! Are you lost?" Mr. Van Pycke muttered something into the collar of his coat. Fortunately the wind outside was making such a noise that his son did not hear the remark. "Is that you, Bosworth?" he demanded querulously, almost on the instant. "Yes, sir,--your long lost son. I--I thought I let you out at Purdwell's?" Bosworth seemed a bit hazy. Mr. Van Pycke cleared his throat. "I didn't find any one at home." It did not occur to him to ask why Bosworth was there. "So I came up here, unexpectedly, mind you. I thought perhaps the weather being so dreadful, I'd be sure to find Mrs. Scoville at home. No one would think of going out on a night like this." "Do you suppose the Purdwells went out _without_ thinking?" asked Bosworth, innocently. "Ring the bell," said Mr. Van Pycke, very sharply. His son found the button with some difficulty, and gave it a violent and unintentionally prolonged push. In silence they awaited the response of the footman. "Is your mistress at home, Bellows?" asked Mr. Van Pycke, as the door was opened part way to allow the indignant inspection of one who had certainly expected beggars. Bellows, smileless and resourceful individual, seemed a bit uncertain, not to say upset. He glanced over his shoulder in a very far from imperious manner, apparently expecting the answer to come from the softly lighted hallway behind him. "I'll see, Mr. Van Pycke. Will you step inside?" "Get a broom, Bellows, and brush off some of this snow." "Yes, sir." The footman appeared a moment later with a whisk broom. "It's a very nawsty night, sir," he informed them jointly as he began scattering the snow in all directions. From tip to toe he whisked the shivering Mr. Van Pycke, and then turned upon his silent companion. The elder slipped into the warm hall, feeling his nose in considerable agitation. "Bellows, come in here and take my coat. By Gad, I wonder if I am likely to catch pneumonia." "In a moment, sir." "You--you think it likely, Bellows? That suddenly?" Bosworth stepped inside, and Bellows gently closed the door before turning to the distressed Mr. Van Pycke, senior. "Bellows, is my nose frozen?" demanded that gentleman, in tones faint with dread. "No, sir. It looks to me to be quite warm, sir." "Is your mistress engaged, Bellows?" inserted Bosworth, quietly. "If she is, I'll not trouble you to help me off with my coat." "I--I think she is, sir. I'll see, however." "Very odd," said Mr. Van Pycke, senior, as the man disappeared down the hall. "I think there's a dinner going on," said Bosworth, beginning to button up his coat. "No one would go to a dinner on such a night as this," rasped Mr. Van Pycke, who knew all of the eleventh-hour habits of society. He took up his position over a simmering floor register. "I'm wet to my knees. My feet are like ice. I wish that demmed servant would hurry back here and get me a hot drink of some sort. Ring the bell there, Bosworth. I'm--I'm quite sure I feel something stuffy in my chest. Good God, if it should be pneumonia!" His legs trembled violently. Bosworth did not ring the bell. He was staring thoughtfully at the floor, and paid no attention to his father's maunderings. The humor of the situation was beginning to sift through his slowly clearing brain. Bellows returned. "Mrs. Scoville is at home, and begs the Misters Van Pycke to bear with her for a few minutes. She is at dinner with a few guests. In the drawing-room there are other guests. You will please to make yourselves at home until she leaves the table. The gentlemen are to smoke in the drawing-room to-night." "A crowd?" muttered Bosworth. Then his eyes lighted up with sudden relief. "Thank the Lord, I won't have to do it." "Do what?" demanded his father. Bosworth's wits were keener. "Go out into the storm without something to warm me up," he equivocated. "Bellows, who is in the drawing-room?" asked Mr. Van Pycke, eying the door with some curiosity. "They're deuced quiet, whoever they are." Bellows grew very red in the face and resolutely pressed his lips together. He took Mr. Bosworth's overcoat and hat and laid them carefully on the Italian hall seat before venturing to reply. "You can't hear them for the wind, sir," he said. "Bellows, I'm catching my death," shivered Mr. Van Pycke. "I feel it coming. Get me something to drink. My God, look at my shoes! They're sopping wet. Bosworth, don't stand there like a clothing store model! I must have dry shoes and stockings. I can't--" "A clothing store model?" murmured the footman, strangely perturbed. "I can't run the chance of pneumonia at my age," went on Mr. Van Pycke. "Bellows, do you suppose there's a dry pair of trousers in the house? I'm wet to the knees. I must have shoes. Demmit, Bosworth, do something!" "My dear father, don't look at me. I'm using my trousers. I dare say Bellows has an extra suit of livery." "If you wouldn't mind wearing brown trousers with a yellow stripe down the leg, sir," began Bellows. "Anything," interrupted Mr. Van Pycke, irritably. "But I must also have shoes." Bellows was thoughtful. "I think, sir, that there is an old pair of riding boots under the stairs, sir. They belonged to poor Mr. Scoville, sir." "I don't like the idea of wearing other men's shoes--" objected Mr. Van Pycke, with an apprehensive glance at his son. "I don't think it would matter, sir," said Bellows, affably. "Mr. Scoville hasn't worn them in two years and a half." Mr. Van Pycke's look of horror caused Bellows to realize. "I beg pardon, sir. It would be rather grewsome getting into dead men's boots, sir. I never thought--" "That's undoubtedly what Mr. Van Pycke is contemplating, Bellows," said Bosworth, slyly. "Sir!" snapped Mr. Van Pycke. Bellows' face lighted with the joy of a great discovery. "I have it, sir. If you will wait out here just a few moments, sir, I can have trousers, shoes, and stockings. Have you a notion, sir, as to the size?" He stood back and looked Mr. Van Pycke over carefully. "I think I can fix it, sir." He departed hastily, closing the drawing-room door behind him. Bosworth sat down upon a frail Italian chair and watched his father unbutton his shoes while standing on one foot, propped against the wall. "Dad, he's going to sandbag one of the guests and take off his clothes," the young man said, smiling broadly. His eyes were quite steady now, and merry. "Why are you here, sir?" demanded his father, irrelevantly, suddenly remembering that Bosworth had not mentioned his intention to stop at Mrs. Scoville's. The young man was spared the expediency of a reply by the return of Bellows, with a pair of trousers over his arm, shoes and stockings in his hand. He seemed in some haste to close the drawing-room door behind him. "You can change in the room at the head of the stairs, sir." Mr. Van Pycke, in his stocking feet, preceded the footman up the stairs, treading very tenderly, as if in mortal fear of tacks. Buzzy twirled his thumbs impatiently. He yawned time and again, and more than once cast his glance in the direction of his coat and hat. Never before, in any house, had he been required to sit in a reception hall until the hostess was ready to receive him elsewhere. He could not understand it. Above all places, Mrs. Scoville's, where the freedom of the house was usually extended to all who in friendship came. From behind closed doors--distant closed doors, by the way--came the sound of laughter and joyous conversation, faintly audible to the young man in the hall. "I feel like an ass," said young Mr. Van Pycke, probably to the newel post, there being nothing else quite so human in sight. Then he leaned back with a comfortable smile. "I've virtually tried the three eligibles to-night," he mused. "It's a satisfaction to feel that they haven't dismissed me in so many words, and it's a relief to feel that they haven't had the actual opportunity to accept me. I've done my best. The blizzard disposes. I'll see Krosson to-morrow about a place in his offices." Mr. Van Pycke came down stairs even more tenderly than he went up. There was a look of pain in his face, and he walked slack-kneed, with his toes turned in a trifle. He was wearing a pair of trousers that had been constructed for a much larger man, except as to height. "The shoes are too small and the trousers too big," he groaned. "I'm leaving my own up there to be dried out. Bellows says they'll be dry in half an hour. I had to put these on for a while. One can't go around with--er--nothing on, so to speak." "I'm trying to think who's in there that wears trousers of that size--and shape," murmured Bosworth, surveying his father critically. "Bah!" rasped the uncomfortable Mr. Van Pycke. "Announce us, Bellows." Bellows opened the drawing-room door, took a quick peep within, and then, standing aside, announced in his most impressive tones: "Mr. Van Pycke! Mr. Bosworth Van Pycke!" The two gentlemen stepped into the long, dimly lighted room. Bellows disappeared quickly down the hall. Mr. Van Pycke, his sense of dignity increased by the desire to offset the only too apparent lack of it, advanced into the middle of the room, politely smiling for the benefit of a group of ladies and gentlemen congregated at the lower end, near the windows. So far as he could see, they were engaged in the vulgar occupation known as staring. Bosworth Van Pycke stopped just inside the door, clapping his hand to his forehead. His mouth fell open and his eyes popped wide with amazement--almost horror. He sat down suddenly in the nearest chair and continued to gaze blankly at the figures down the room. He heard his father say "Good evening" twice, but he heard no response from the group. His abrupt, incontrollable guffaw of understanding and joy caused his now annoyed parent to whirl upon him in surprise. "Oh, this is rich!" Bosworth was holding his sides, laughing immoderately. "Bosworth!" hissed his father, with a conscious glance at his feet and legs. "What the devil amuses you?" For answer his son strode over and clutched him by the arm, turning him around so that he faced the silent, immovable group. "See that man back there without trousers? The bare-legged, bare-footed chap? Well, dad, you've got on his pants." "Good God!" gasped Mr. Van Pycke, nervously hunting for the bridge of his nose with his glasses. "Is the poor fellow naked?" "Half naked, dad, that's all. Look closely!" "Sh! Demmit all, boy, he'd knock me down! And the ladies! What the devil does he mean, undressing in this bare-faced--" "Bare-legged, dad." With a fresh laugh he leaned forward and chucked the nearest lady under the chin. As she was standing directly in front of Van Pycke, senior, that gentleman, in some haste, moved back to avoid the retort physical. "Bosworth! How--how dare you?" he gasped. "Can't you see, dad? This is the richest thing I've ever known. Don't be afraid of 'em. They're wax figures, every one of them!" Mr. Van Pycke started. Then he stared. "Well, upon my soul!" he gasped. He repeated this remark four or five times during a hasty parade in front of the group, in each instance peering rudely and with growing temerity into the pink and white face of a surpassingly beautiful lady. "It seems to me that I recognize this one," he said, with a cackle of joy. "I've seen her in Altman's window. 'Pon my soul I have, Bosworth." "I don't know what Laura's game is, but, by Jove, it's ripping, I'll say that for it," said Bosworth, his face beaming. "How many of them are there?" He counted. "Fourteen. Seven spiketails and seven directoires. Great!" The two gentlemen withdrew to the upper end of the room, to better the effect. From the dining-room, four rooms away, came the more distinct sounds of laughter and conversation. "There is a _real_ party out there," said Bosworth, rubbing his chin contemplatively. "I wonder what's up?" Mr. Van Pycke sat down and twirled his thin mustache, first one side and then the other, murmuring "By Jove!" over and over again in a most perplexed way. Bosworth stood, with his chin between finger and thumb, thoughtfully viewing the inanimate group. For several minutes his face indicated the most penetrating contemplation of the exhibit down the room. He was still a trifle dizzy, but in no danger of losing his attitude of sober reflection. There were blond ladies and brunettes, old ladies and young ones, and some who were neither; all beautifully, elaborately gowned in the latest models from Paris. Their starry glass eyes gazed into space with the same innocuous stare that baffles all attempts to divert it through plate-glass windows. Some were sitting, some were standing. Gentlemen in evening clothes, with monocles or opera hats--mostly plebeian persons, from Eighth Avenue, you'd say--stood vaguely but stanchly in juxtaposition to ladies who paid no heed to them, but who, however, were not unique in their abstraction. Fuzzy-mustached gentlemen were they, with pink cheeks and iron-clad shoulders. They stared intently but not attentively at the chandeliers or the wall-paper, unwinking gallants who seemed only conscious of their clothes. The effect was startling, even grewsome. For five minutes Bosworth surveyed the waxy, over-dressed group in profound silence, cudgeling his brain for a key to the puzzling exhibition. "For the life of me," he said at last, "I can't understand it." "I understand it perfectly," said his father, still somewhat dismayed by the steady gaze of the last pair of blue eyes he had encountered. "Mrs. Scoville is ordering some new gowns, and the--er--modistes have sent up samples. Perfectly clear to me." "I suppose she's ordering a few suits of men's garments--garments is what they say in the clothing stores--to lend variety to her wardrobe," said Bosworth, dryly. Mr. Van Pycke coughed indulgently. "Bosworth, you shouldn't take so many cocktails before--" "Yes, father," interrupted Bosworth, humbly. "I quite agree with you. For a while I thought it might be the cocktails, but now that you see them, too, I am very much relieved." "I am very sorry to see a son of mine--" "Hello!" said Bosworth, his gaze suddenly encountering a table near the fireplace on which were piled a number of small boxes. One could see at a glance that they were jeweller's boxes. "Looks like Christmas." He got up and strode over to the table. "Christmas is a week off," said Mr. Van Pycke. "What's up? Some one coming down the chimney? It wouldn't surprise me, by Jove!" His son was gazing, as if thunderstruck, at the contents of more than a dozen boxes of various sizes. He whistled softly, to best express his wonder. "Great Scott!" he said, after a moment. "There's half a million dollars' worth of dog-collars, pendants, tiaras, rings, and--" He was holding up, for his father's benefit, a rope of pearls that could not have cost less than a hundred thousand dollars. "Take a look at this, dad!" Mr. Van Pycke made his way painfully to his son's side. "Astounding!" he murmured, touching a tiara with respectful fingers. "Say!" The two Van Pyckes jumped. The voice that uttered the raucous monosyllable was masculine, and it seemed to burst from a spot not far removed from their elbows. Bewildered, they stared this way and that in quest of the rude owner of that voice. "Keep your hands off o' them jewels," said the voice, levelly. Bosworth's indignant gaze discovered the man in the very centre of the group of "dummies." The young man experienced a queer shiver of dismay. Was he losing his senses? A pink-cheeked gentleman with a crêpe mustache arose from a chair in the extreme background. He leveled a menacing finger, with Bosworth as the object of its concern. "Move back from that table, gents," remarked the vivified object near the windows. The Messrs. Van Pycke fell back several paces, still staring blankly at the figure. Bosworth gulped. "Are you--alive?" he demanded, putting his fingers to his temple. "Alive? What do you think I am? A corrupse?" exclaimed the figure. "I meant to say, are you the only live one in--in the crowd?" The man looked about him, perplexed. Then he understood. "Oh, you mean these freaks? Say, my disguise must be all right. I look like a waxwork, do I? I--" Mr. Van Pycke had recovered his dignity. "What the devil is the meaning of all this, sir? Explain yourself." The man picked his way carefully through the group of wax figures. He was a sturdy person whose evening clothes did not fit him, now that one observed him carefully. When he was clear of the group, he calmly turned back the lapel of his coat, revealing a nickel-plated star. "Does that star signify anything, gents? It says I'm here on this job, that's all. Just to see that nobody walks off with the sparklers. I'm from Wilkerson's Private Detective Agency. See? Now, I'd like to know when and how you got into this room." He faced them threateningly. The Van Pyckes started. "What do you mean?" exclaimed Bosworth, turning quite red. "Just what I say, young feller. When did you come in here?" "You say you are a detective!" sneered Bosworth. The man from Wilkerson's blinked his eyes suddenly. "I--I guess I dropped off to sleep for a couple of minutes. Up for three nights--" "Do you recognize these trousers?" demanded the young man, pointing to his father's ridiculous legs. The detective peered rather closely. Mr. Van Pycke drew back and glared at him through his glasses. "By thunder, they _don't_ fit him, do they? Say, there's something wrong with you guys. Where'd you get them pants, you?" "Me?" murmured Mr. Van Pycke. "Yes, _you_!" "I'll have you pitched from this house, you impertinent scoundrel!" roared Mr. Van Pycke, threatened with apoplexy. "Where'd you get them pants?" repeated the sleuth, steadily. "And them shoes! Say, this has a queer look. I'll have to--here! What's the matter with you? What you laughin' at? It won't be so blamed funny, young feller, let me tell you that. You guys can't--" "You're a fine detective, you are," laughed Bosworth. "I'm Doxey, the star man of the agency," retorted the detective, angrily. "It's a wonder my father isn't wearing your trousers, Mr. Doxey. It would have been quite as easy, and I really think they'd fit him better than they fit you. Don't lose your temper, please. Good detectives never lose their tempers. Please remember that. Now, if you'll be good enough to cast your eyes upon that shameless person near the cabinet over there, you'll--" "Great Scott!" gasped Mr. Doxey, his eyes bulging. "That's right! Keep your eye on him. I don't know who your friend is, Mr. Doxey, but my father is temporarily inhabiting his trousers--and shoes. You must have slept soundly not to have been disturbed when Bellows took them off. You'll find--" "Come off!" growled Doxey. "The old man didn't come here without pants, did he? And if he had his own on, what in thunder was he trading with--" Bosworth held up his hand imperatively. "Good detectives don't discuss their deductions with--never mind! I sha'n't say it. Now, it may interest you to know that we are close personal friends of Mrs. Scoville. We--" "Don't haggle with the demmed scoundrel," protested Mr. Van Pycke, vigorously. "Now, don't get fresh--don't get fresh!" said Mr. Doxey, his fusty black mustache coming loose on one side and drooping over his lip. "Don't bite it!" cautioned Bosworth, hastily. Mr. Doxey stuck it back in place with a white kid paw of huge dimensions. "I am Bosworth Van Pycke, and this is my father, Mr. Van Dieman Van Pycke," said Bosworth, bowing very low. "Van Pycke? Wait a minute. I got a list of the guests here in my pocket. I'll see if you're among 'em. If you belong here, why ain't you out there eatin' with the rest of 'em?" Mr. Doxey looked up suspiciously from the paper he had taken from his coat pocket. "I don't like this pants gag. It sounds fishy." "Fishy?" murmured Mr. Van Pycke. "What the devil does he mean by that, Bosworth?" "It's his way of calling me a liar, dad, that's all." "Say, there ain't any Van Pyckes on this list. And this is the _correct_ list, too. The butler gave it to me himself. I--" Bosworth suddenly lost his playful manner. He was tired of the game. "That will do, Mr. Doxey. Be good enough to go back to your corner," he said coldly. "I mean it. Don't stand there glaring. It has no effect on me. I _am_ Mr. Bosworth Van Pycke. I don't blame you for protecting the jewels--even from Van Pyckes--but there's nothing more for you to do, so far as we are concerned. We are waiting for Mrs. Scoville and her guests. And, say, on your way back to your chair--or was it a couch?--be good enough to drape a table cover about the limbs of that unfortunate person with the bald head--and bald legs, I might add." Mr. Doxey looked from one to the other with interest, not to say curiosity. Something in the young man's manner carried conviction. "Are you the--the Buzzy Van Pycke who gave the supper for Carmen the other--" "I am," Bosworth interjected. "I didn't see you there, Mr. Doxey." Mr. Doxey snickered. "My wife wouldn't 'a' stood for me--" "My good man, there were a number of married men there. All of 'em, no doubt, were being shadowed by detectives. I thought perhaps you might have got in--but, there! I am tattling. Please sit down, Mr. Doxey." He threw himself into a comfortable chair and crossed his legs. Then he proceeded to light a cigaret. Mr. Van Pycke, senior, had been sitting for some minutes, a strangely preoccupied look in his eyes, his lips twitching as if with pain. "I guess I'll just set out here," said the detective, looking from one to the other shrewdly. "The town's full of those Raffles crooks. How do I know--" "Quite right, Doxey. How could you know? You sleep too soundly." "If you're what you say you are, why don't you call in the footman to identify you?" "Bellows has already announced us, Mr. Doxey. I'm hanged if I'll ask him to do it over again. Now that I think of it, he almost burst while doing it. It's not my fault that you did not hear him." Mr. Doxey looked uncomfortable. "Well, just keep your hands off from the jewels," he said. Mr. Van Pycke, senior, spoke for the first time in many minutes. It was easy to see where his thoughts had been directed during the trifling dialogue. His gaze was attached to the patent-leather shoes he wore. "I don't see how that demmed dummy ever got into these shoes. They're almost killing me. Confound it, Bosworth, don't grin like an ape! You are tight, sir,--disgustingly tight!" "I'll lay you a fiver I'm not so tight as the shoes, dad." Mr. Doxey snickered. Van Pycke, père, glared at him in a shocked sort of way for a moment, and then, disdaining the affront, fell to tenderly pressing each of his insteps, very much as if trying to discover a spot that had not yet developed a pain. The detective took a seat where he could watch the two gentlemen and at the same time keep an eye on the door through to the dining-room far beyond. Bosworth smoked in silence for some time. "What's the meaning of all this?" he asked, after a while, indicating the group of dummies with a comprehensive sweep of his hand. "I'm not here to answer questions," said Mr. Doxey, succinctly. "Oh!" said Bosworth. Mr. Van Pycke stirred restlessly. "By Jove, I think I'll--'I'll have to go upstairs and change these shoes for my own, wet or dry. I can't stand 'em any longer. I dare say my trousers are dry by this time, too." He arose with great deliberateness. He took two delicate steps toward the hall door; then Mr. Doxey's irritatingly brusque voice brought him up with a jerk. "Hold on, there! None o' that--none o' that! You set right where you are, mister. I guess I'll just keep you in plain view for a while. Fine work, me lettin' you go upstairs, eh? Fine work, I don't think!" "Confound you, sir, I'll--" began Mr. Van Pycke, drawing himself to his full height with a spasmodic effort that brought its results in pain. "Sit down, father," advised Bosworth, gently. Mr. Van Pycke sat down. "There's some one coming," added his son a moment later. He arose and turned toward the portières at the upper end of the room, prepared to greet the beautiful Mrs. Scoville. The portières parted at the bottom. All eyes were lowered. The most unamiable looking bulldog that ever crossed man's path protruded his squat body into the room, pausing just inside the curtains to survey the trio before him in a most disconcertingly pointed manner. His whole body seemed to convert itself into a scowl of disapproval. Bosworth sat down dismayed. His father swore softly and drew his feet a bit nearer to the legs of the chair. Both of them knew the dog. They knew, moreover, that the only living creature in the whole world exempt from peril was the beast's mistress, the fair lady to whom they had come to pay coincidental devoirs. All other persons came under the head of prey, so far as Agrippa was concerned--Agrippa being the somewhat ominous name of the pet. "How--how does he happen to be loose?" murmured Bosworth, with a side glance at the detective. "Is he dangerous?" asked Mr. Doxey. "He's a man-eater," said the other, quite uncomfortably. "Nobody told me about a watchdog." "Ah, now I understand why he's loose," said Bosworth, promptly. Mr. Doxey looked thoughtful for a moment, and then opened his lips to resent the imputation, half rising from his chair to obtain greater emphasis in his delivery. Agrippa emitted a prophetic growl. Mr. Doxey resumed his seat in some haste. "Will he bite?" he demanded instead. "Bite? Hang it all, man, he'll chew us to ribbons if we move. I--I know that dog. We don't dare to twiddle until Mrs. Scoville comes in to call him off. He's got us treed, that's all there is to it. I wouldn't move my little finger for fifty dollars cash. Look at his eyes! Observe the size of his incisors!" "I believe you," said Mr. Doxey, with a belated shudder. "Demmed outrage!" sputtered Mr. Van Pycke. "Now I _can't_ take them off." Mr. Doxey was seized by an inspiration. He smiled. "Why don't you go upstairs and change 'em?" he asked. Mr. Van Pycke moved one foot, evidently agitated by a desire to kick Mr. Doxey. Agrippa growled. "Just to see if he _will_ bite," added the detective, with a nervous laugh. "You go to the devil, sir!" grated Mr. Van Pycke, but entirely without muscular emotion. Conversation lagged. For five minutes the three men sat immovable, staring with intensely wakeful eyes at the grim figure of Agrippa, who had eyes for all of them. He had moved farther into the room, possibly for the purpose of indulging in a more or less unobstructed scrutiny of the mysterious group of ladies and gentlemen beyond. Agrippa was puzzled but not disturbed. He was not what you would call an inquisitive dog. "I have never been so insulted in my life," said Mr. Van Pycke, without raising his voice above a polite monotone. "Neither have I," said Mr. Doxey. "You, sir? You are the _insult_, sir. How can you be insulted? It is impossible to insult an insult. I won't put up with--" "Keep cool, father," warned Bosworth. "You came very near to moving your leg just then. I warn you." "I'm quite sure a dog couldn't _add_ anything to the pain I'm already suffering from these demmed shoes. Come here, doggie! Nice doggie!" The wheedling tones made no impression on Agrippa. "What an unfriendly beast!" The figures in wax down the room were not more rigid than the four creatures above--three men and a dog. A little French clock on the mantelpiece clicked off the seconds in a more or less sonorous manner; Mr. Van Pycke's sighs and the detective's heavy breathing were quite plainly distinguishable, even though the wind howled with lusty lungs at every window in an effort to monopolize attention. "I shall have that dog shot the very first thing," mused Mr. Van Pycke aloud. "I guess not," protested Bosworth. "He's a corker. I wouldn't take a thousand for him." Then they shot simultaneous glances of apprehension at each other. Each wondered if he had let his cat out of the bag. Bosworth was quick to say to himself: "I see through the governor's game. Well, I'm a dutiful son. I've tried for three of them to-night and Fate has been against me. It means that I'm intended for something better than matrimony." Bosworth's father was thinking: "If I don't ask her at once, he'll propose. And she'll take him in a second if he does. I'll not give him the chance. I'll get it over with inside of five minutes. And I _will_ kill that demmed dog." Agrippa pricked up his ears and turned his head ever so slightly in the direction of the portières behind him. A moment later the light, quick tread of some one was heard in the adjoining room, accompanied by the swish of silky garments. Three pairs of eyes were lifted to the portières. A young woman appeared between the heavy silk curtains. For a second she held an attitude of polite inquiry. Then a wrinkle of perplexity crept into her smooth, white forehead. She looked in surprise from one to the other of the motionless gentlemen, ignoring the detective as completely as if he had not been there at all. What surprised her most was the fact that the Messrs. Van Pycke, noted as the most courteous of men, remained rooted to their chairs. "Good evening," said Bosworth, allowing his gaze to stray from her now indignant face to the commanding jowl of Agrippa. "Pardon me for not arising--pardon all of us, I might say,--but it is quite out of the question. By Jove! Do you happen to know Agrippa? If you don't, please escape while you can. He's--" "Agrippa? Oh!" She had a very soft, musical voice. It was doubly attractive because of an uncertain quaver that bespoke amazement. "Are you Mr. Van Pycke?" She looked at the young man with unmistakable interest--or was it curiosity? "I am Mr. Van Pycke's son," said Bosworth, cautiously inclining his head. The young lady smiled suddenly. "You poor men!" she cried. "Agrippa! Come here, sir!" Agrippa's dominion was ended. He turned to her, a very humble dog. She leaned over and boxed his ears with a soft, white hand--but so gently that Agrippa would have smiled if he knew how. He did wag his stubby tail by way of acknowledgment. "Please don't stir," she said to the three appalled observers. "I'll take him away. He's a very naughty dog." She departed, Agrippa's collar in her fingers. A moment later she returned. The three men were standing, but, by curious coincidence, each had taken a position behind the chair he had occupied. "Mrs. Scoville begs me to say that she is sorry to have kept you waiting so long, and that she will be down as soon as she has changed her gown." "Her gown?" murmured Bosworth. "Changing it for what?" muttered Mr. Van Pycke, dreadfully bewildered. "For a street gown. She's going out, you see." Mr. Doxey coughed by way of attracting attention. "Do you know these gents, Miss Downing?" The smile deepened in her face. Bosworth never had seen a smile so ravishing. He smiled in sympathy, without knowing just why he did it. "It isn't necessary to watch them any longer," she said very sweetly. Mr. Doxey retired to the group near the windows. "Thanks," said Bosworth, bowing to her. "Pardon me," said his father, "but I understood Mrs. Scoville was at dinner." "That was some time ago, Mr. Van Pycke," the girl said quickly. "She just _had_ to change her gown, you know." "Spilled something on it?" he queried. "These confounded servants are so--" "Won't you sit down?" she interrupted. Bosworth noted a sudden touch of nervousness in her manner. For some reason she bit her lip as she looked in the direction of the dummies. "If you don't mind," mumbled Mr. Van Pycke, "I think I'll go upstairs and change my shoes and trousers." He started for the door. Miss Downing stood aghast--petrified. CHAPTER III THE AMAZING MARRIAGE No one opposing him, Mr. Van Pycke carefully made his way to the door and disappeared into the hall. Miss Downing continued to stare after him for many seconds, plainly perplexed. She was not so transfixed, however, that she failed to note the grotesque misfit of his trousers; nor did his manner of locomotion escape her attention. Could this hobbling, ill-dressed person be the fastidious Van Dieman Van Pycke, of whom she had heard so much? And he was going upstairs to--by the virtue of all the saints, what _did_ he mean? A blush raced into her fair cheek. She turned to young Mr. Van Pycke with parted lips, half inclined to smile, half to protest. She found him smiling, yes, more than that; he had his hand over his mouth. Plainly, he was having a struggle of an inward character. "I--I don't understand," she murmured, the flush growing. "And _we_ don't understand," he responded after a moment, waving his hand in the direction of the dummies. She smiled brightly. "You've noticed them?" "Noticed them?" he repeated. He intended to say more, but a sudden, sickening doubt interfered. However, a quick, rather penetrating glance reassured him. Mr. Doxey had wrapped a rug about the unfortunate gentleman and was now engaged in making room for him behind the Steinway grand. The young lady's glance followed Bosworth's. "What is he doing?" she demanded, starting forward. "Those wax figures are not to be disturbed." Bosworth stayed her with a gesture. "You must not interfere with an officer in the discharge of his duty," he said with great gravity. "But--" "Please don't pay any attention to him," he pleaded, stepping in front of her. "Sit down and tell me about the dummies." She looked at the door through which Mr. Van Pycke had passed. "Where _has_ your father gone, Mr. Van Pycke?" "Can you keep a secret?" Her eyes were expressive. "You'll have to sit down--over here," he went on. "I don't want the detective to hear me." They sat down side by side in a Louis Seize divan. He told her of the predicament in which his father had found himself on arrival, and of the expedient footman who came to the rescue. Miss Downing stifled her laughter three times by successful applications of a handkerchief, but the fourth time she failed. If I were not writing of a young lady in a drawing-room, I'd tell the truth and say that she shrieked. "It _is_ droll, isn't it?" he asked, after watching her convulsed face for a moment. "Perfectly killing!" she gasped. He waited until she had dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief a few times and was able to meet his gaze with a certain degree of steadiness. Then he remarked: "It's strange that I've never met you before. Are you an old friend of Mrs. Scoville's?" "There isn't any Mrs. Scoville," she said quietly. She was watching his face. He stared. Then he started to his feet in alarm, with a bewildered look around the room. "Can it be that I am in the wrong house?" "There used to be a Mrs. Scoville here." "Used to be?" "But she's Mrs. De Foe now." She was smiling into his eyes now, so merrily, so frankly, that somehow he overcame the immediate impulse to express his consternation by leaping a foot or two into the air. Instead of doing anything so utterly common, he merely gulped and stared the harder. "She's--she's gone and got married to Chauncey De Foe?" he murmured, his eyes very wide. "This very night, Mr. Van Pycke," said she, leaning back to see how he would take it. His face grew suddenly radiant. "Oh," he exclaimed, "you don't know how happy you have made me!" "Happy? You?" she cried, amazed. "Yes. I--" he caught himself in time. "I'll tell you all about it, but not now. Some other day, if I may. Oh, I say, this will fetch the governor an awful cropper! Married to-night! Here? In this house? Why--why, it must have been in this very room. And those confounded dummies were--By Jove!" He stood up and surveyed the inanimate group through a seldom used monocle. An intensely thoughtful expression put many wrinkles upon his brow, but a sudden burst of understanding cleared them away in a jiffy. He beamed. "She's had real dummies at the wedding instead of the imitations that society provides. Oh, I say, that's sarcasm simplified. It's pretty rough, though, don't you think, Miss Downing?" "It doesn't seem to distress you very deeply, Mr. Van Pycke," she said. "But you are wrong in your conclusions. The figures do not represent the blockheads of New York society. They are meant to approximate the more active of the busybodies now at large. Do you see?" "I'm hanged if I do." "You are a very good friend of Mrs. Sco--Mrs. De Foe's, are you not?" she demanded. "A devoted admirer, I swear, or I wouldn't be here to-night." "Then, I think I may explain the situation to you. Those figures represent the society queens who closed their doors against Mrs. Scoville last season. The masculine examples represent the satellites of those virtuous ladies who profess never to have been found out. Mrs. Scoville made out her list of guests last week. She resolved to return good for evil. She invited the ladies and their satellites--by mental telepathy, I might say. Then she sent the butler over into Eighth Avenue with instructions to fetch them here in a moving van. They arrived last night, under cover of darkness. They spent the night in this room. Shocking, you'd say? That--" He interrupted, his eyes gleaming. "You mean to say that she rented these figures for no other purpose than to pose here as people who cut her because--er--because Mrs. Grundy gossiped too fluently? Suffering Mo--I should say, good gracious! What an idea!" "That's it precisely, Mr. Van Pycke. I fancy you know the ladies and gentlemen quite well. They treated her abominably last winter. She didn't mind it very much, as you know. She's not that sort. People _did_ talk about her, but her real friends remained true. She thought it would be splendid to have her enemies here in just this way. With the understanding, of course, that the whole story is to get into the newspapers." He stared harder than ever. "Into the newspapers? Good heavens, you don't mean to say she's going to let the papers in on this?" "Certainly," she said very quietly. "Why not? It will make a beautiful story. People invite monkeys to dinner and the papers are not denied the facts, are they? They have banquets for dogs and picnics for cats, don't they? Some one gave a fashionable supper the other night for the three-legged girl in the circus, and some one else followed it up with a tea for the four-legged rooster. The papers were full of details. Mrs. Scooper and many other ladies gave dinners and balls for a woman who had been the favorite of nearly all the masculine crowned heads in Europe, and the richly cultivated Mrs. Rankling once included in the list of invitations to an author's reading the names of J. Fenimore Cooper and Nathaniel Hawthorne. I don't see why Mrs. De Foe's dummies are worse than the freaks I've mentioned. Heaven knows they're respectable." "I like your enthusiasm," he said, but still a little shaken by the intelligence. "Mrs. Sco--Mrs. De Foe is the best, the dearest friend I have in the world," said the girl, simply. Young Mr. Van Pycke was very tactful. He appeared properly impressed. At the same time he looked at her with new interest. She seemed very young to be calling the former Mrs. Scoville her dearest friend. Somehow, her face was vaguely familiar. He wondered where he had seen a photograph of her. "She's a terribly good sort," he agreed, and he meant it. "But, I say, this is ripping! Talk about monkey dinners and--why, there's never been anything like this! Dummy guests at one's own wedding! It's rich! It's--" She held up her hand, gentle reproof in her eyes. "I can't say that I like it, Mr. Van Pycke. I'm only saying I approve of it because she was bound to have her own way in spite of the rest of us. But, to be perfectly honest, I think that a wedding is something beautifully sacred. It should be held sacred in every respect. It seems dreadful--But, there, I won't say any more. It's all right, I know. Besides, it was not my wedding." "I quite agree with you. Next to a funeral, a wedding is our most sacred ceremony," he said. "I've never heard you accused of super-sacredness," she said, with a little smile. "But I have very fine feelings," he protested. As an afterthought he added, "Sometimes." She turned her head to look at the portières, apparently anticipating sounds from beyond. He had a fine view of her profile. Leaning back in the divan, he made the most of the opportunity. It was a very pure, gentle face, full of strength and character and sweetness. Hardly the face, thought he, of one who had trained for any length of time in the set affected by the new Mrs. De Foe. Her hair was dark and fine and came low about her temples. It was all her own, he was quite sure, and there was an abundance of it. A small ear peeped invitingly out at him--somewhat timidly, he felt, as if he were a very wicked person to be shunned. Her neck was round and slim, her shoulders white and almost velvety in their healthy youthfulness. Somewhat to his amazement, there were no bones in evidence; and yet she was slender. He laid this phenomenon to perfect health, a condition heretofore regarded as perfectly unfeminine. Her cheeks were warm and clear, her lips red and almost tremulous in their sweetness; her eyes were--well, he could not see them, but he quite certainly remembered that they were blue. The nose--a very patrician nose--recalled to his mind one that he had seen in a very famous portrait somewhere, sometime. He had a vague recollection that it was some one's "Portrait of a Lady." Just as he was visually caressing the firm, white chin and throat, she turned upon him with a warning "Sh!" He already had decided that she was twenty-one and that her white satin evening gown was quite new and very exquisite. His intense gaze, caught red-handed, so to speak, confused her. She was not used to it: that was plain. He had the grace to look at the portières expectantly. "They are coming," she said, arising at once. "Can't you tell me more about the wedding?" he asked, standing beside her. "Not now. Later on, perhaps. You _do_ know her well enough to wish her happiness, don't you?" She added the last imploringly. "That's what I came here for--to insure her happiness," he said, smiling to himself. "You knew then?" she whispered in wonder. "I can't say that I knew that she was going to be married so soon," he replied evasively. "As a matter of fact, I didn't have De Foe in mind at all." Men and women, laughing, were approaching through the next room. "Do I know them?" he asked, nervously adjusting his monocle. She named a dozen people quickly. He nodded his head after each name. They were old friends, all of them. "And Mr. Rexford," she concluded. "Rexford? Who's he?" "He's from Pittsburg," she said, looking away. He studied the back of her head for a moment. "Oh, I see," he said, with a dry laugh. She faced him. "You are very much mistaken," she said. Bellows threw back the curtains and a group of very lively persons came crowding into the room. "Hello, Buzzy!" shouted three or four of the men. They had dined beautifully. For that matter, so had the ladies. They surrounded him and assaulted him verbally. You could have heard them laugh as far down as 35th Street, if you had been there. (Of course you were not, it being such a wretched night.) Bosworth grinned amiably under the volley of chaff they fired at him. He observed that Miss Downing effaced herself. She retired alone to the group of dummies. He was not long in wishing that he could be with her in that region of peace and rectitude. "Where's the groom?" he managed to ask, after ten or twelve voices had expended themselves in levity--not any of which appealed to his stricken bump of humor. "De Foe? He's changing," said one of the men. "They're leaving for Boston to-night." "Say, Buzzy, what do you think of the waxies?" cried another. "Have you seen 'em yet?" "Think I'm blind, Stockton? Good evening, Mrs. Runway. How do, Mrs. Clover." "I'm surprised you weren't asked, Buzzy," said Mrs. Runway, a blondish lady with black eyes and rather darkish skin. "You were such pals." "Where's your father, Buzzy?" shouted some one. "He was announced half an hour ago," said another. They all roared. Bosworth flushed painfully. There was a strange, new resentment in his heart. "He's changing," he announced coldly, and left them to wonder what he meant by the remark. Mr. Stockton volunteered: "Changing what? His spots or his mind?" But Bosworth had turned toward the young lady who had effaced herself. Somehow he rather rejoiced in the fact that she had forsaken this group for another and less objectionable one. Mrs. Runway intercepted him. "They do say, Buzzy, that you were in love with her," she said. "Are you dreadfully cut up about it?" He stared past her. "Not at all," he announced. "Far from it. Nothing would have afforded me greater pleasure than the privilege of giving the bride away." "Dear me," she said, as he smiled and walked on. Struck by a sudden impulse he turned to her. "Who is Miss Downing? Where have I seen her before?" "How should I know?" said Mrs. Runway, stiffly. "Oh," he said, turning again. A strange young man, very much the worse for champagne, had now approached the girl, his hands in his pockets, a vacuous smile on his flushed face. Bosworth changed his course and engaged young Mrs. Chanier in conversation, all the while keeping his eye on the girl down the room. "Terrible night, isn't it, Blanche?" he observed by way of reserving her attention, which seemed inclined to wander. "Ripping," she said. "Everything went off beautifully. Only one hitch, my dear. I say, who's the girl talking to Tommy Rexford?" She used her lorgnette. "I was just about to ask who the chap is talking to her. She's a Miss Downing." "Know her?" "Oh, yes," he prevaricated nobly, catching an ugly gleam in the young matron's eye. "She's a terribly nice girl." "I thought as much. Isn't she too nice?" "Who's this Rexford chap?" She stared at him. "Oh, he's all right, Mr. Buzzy Van Pycke," she said, resenting his ignorance. "Tommy Rexford is one of the dearest boys in the world. He's from Pittsburg. I met him at Palm Beach last winter. He comes to New York pretty often. I say, Buzzy, are you listening?" "Sure," said Buzzy, whose attention had drifted to the girl in the white satin. Plainly, she was being annoyed by the attentions of the intoxicated Mr. Rexford. He appeared to be relating a story which shocked her. "He seems very keen about Miss Downing," he volunteered, a queer bitterness in his heart. Mrs. Chanier bridled. "What? Why, he's been drinking a little too much, that's all." Her tone was nasty. Bosworth was not slow to grasp the true state of affairs. "How's your husband?" he asked bluntly. She smiled serenely. "Oh, he's still got his locomotor ataxia, if that's what you mean." Miss Downing abruptly left Mr. Rexford, who, looking after her for a moment as if dazed, allowed himself a short laugh of derision. Young Mr. Van Pycke's foot itched with the desire to kick young Mr. Rexford. "I'm sure liquor doesn't affect me in that way," he muttered, overtaken by the sudden recollection that he had imbibed quite freely, and further distressed by the fear that it had not entirely worn off. To himself he was saying: "That fellow's a warning to me. If I thought I looked or acted as he does, I'd--well, anyhow, I don't drink to excess, so I can't make comparisons or resolutions. That girl doesn't belong with this crowd. She's too good for them." With this sage conclusion he promptly took it upon himself to put her into better company. He joined her as she was about to pass into the library. "What was that fellow saying to you?" he demanded, quite as if he had always possessed the right to interrogate. "Was it so plain as all that, Mr. Van Pycke?" she asked, distress in her eyes. "He's been drinking." "That's no excuse," said he with surpassing severity. "I say, you--you don't really belong in this crowd," he went on earnestly. "Not that there's anything bad--I mean, the set's a bit faster than you're accustomed to. I can see that. I'm not throwing stones, so don't look at me so scornfully. Believe me, it's not the rottenest set in town. It's only the gayest. How do you happen to be here? Are you related to Mrs. Scoville?" "Birds of a feather," she said, a gleam of anger in her unsmiling eyes. "You mean that to apply to yourself or to me?" he asked, with a wry smile. "Do you profess to be any better than the rest of them, Mr. Van Pycke? They call you 'Buzzy' and 'dear,' so they must be your intimates. Why do you set yourself above them?" "The Lord knows I don't, Miss Downing. But I _do_ set you above them. You'll have to admit there's something in that. I--" She smiled faintly. "Please don't look so dismal. I didn't mean to bite your head off." "It would be amazingly interesting, I'm sure, if you were to try it," he said, with his finest smile. She was disarmed. "Still, I don't forget how you subdued Agrippa." "Oh, Agrippa loves me," she announced calmly. He looked into her deep eyes and realized that she was not an untrained girl from the country. She was very sure of herself. "Lucky dog," he said. "He has known me for ages," she explained. "That doesn't necessarily follow," he said gallantly. "It comes unexpectedly sometimes, even to dogs." "Do you like dogs, Mr. Van Pycke?" she asked, with disquieting serenity. "What is all this leading up to?" he demanded suspiciously. "You're not going to invite me to a dog dinner, are you?" "Dear me, no. How silly!" "Well, one never knows in these days." "These are not the dog days." He grinned amiably. "And so you are the wonderful Buzzy Van Pycke," she went on, quite frankly interested. "I've often wondered what you would be like." "You don't mean it," he said, surprised. Her only response was a penitent, apologetic smile; but it served better than words. He was dazzled. He afterward recalled that the whole course of his life changed in that instant. He was not quite sure that he didn't hear something snap inside. Still, it might have been his imagination. At this moment the bride hurried into the room, her arms full of furs. There was a shout of joy from the guests. She smiled for every one, and then sent a quick, searching glance among them. Discovering Bosworth, she uttered a little cry of pleasure, tossed the furs into a chair,--which, it seems, already was occupied,--and rushed over to him, both hands extended. "Dear old Buzzy, I'm so glad you came without an invitation! I am, truly. I would have sent you one, only I wasn't sure you would fit in under the circumstances. You see, it was a wedding. You'll understand, I'm sure." "Perfectly," he said. Regardless of Miss Downing's presence, he added without a qualm: "I'm rather glad you've done it, Laura. It's saved me a lot of despair, I'm sure. You see, I came up to-night to propose to you." She laughed easily, affecting no confusion. "And I might have accepted you. That's what you mean?" "Well, you might have done worse. But you haven't," he added hastily. "Chauncey's a brick. I've approved of him from the start. Always wanted him to get you, Laura." "It's nice of you to say that, Buzzy," she said, serious for an instant. Her fine eyes glowed. "I know you mean it, too. Others haven't been so generous." Then her manner changed. "Do you really have to marry some one, Buzzy? Are you so hard up as all that?" "My dear," he said, "you are alarming Miss Downing." "Nonsense! Miss Downing knows all about you and all about me. I have no secrets from her. She's not even wondering how you could have contemplated marrying me without loving me. She knows how rich I am." "Ah," he sighed, "I wonder if she knows how poor I am." "Every one knows that, Mr. Van Pycke," said Miss Downing. He stared. "You have a paltry twelve thousand a year. Even the street sweepers get more than that." Her sarcasm was veiled by a polite smile. The bride laughed. He felt a sudden, inexplicable shame. "Well, Buzzy, I can't stop here talking to you all night. We're leaving, you know, by the 11.30. Thanks, dear boy, for the thought that brought you up to-night, I appreciate the honor." She extended her hand. "Good luck, my friend. Try further up the street." "Oh, I say, Laura," he protested. She saw the genuine hurt in his eyes. Instead of withdrawing the hand he had clasped, she suddenly gave his a warm pressure. Her mocking eyes grew sober and earnest. "You're too much of a real man, Buzzy, for that sort of thing," she said. "Don't do it. Marry for love, my dear friend, even if it means getting along on twelve thousand a year. I don't believe, Bosworth Van Pycke, that down in your heart you can see much that is glorious in the spending of a woman's money. You're cut out for better work than that." "I've just come to the same conclusion, Laura," he said firmly. "Good luck and God bless you. You'll be happy: De Foe doesn't need your money." She dashed off to give orders to the butler and the maids who were waiting in the library beyond. De Foe's entrance was the signal for another outburst of joyous badinage. He was a handsome, strong-featured man of rather serious mien. Bosworth at once shook hands with him, the others looking on curiously. "God bless you and--thank you, old chap," he said. De Foe was never to know why the young man thanked him, but the attentive Miss Downing understood and favored the speaker with a glance of profound concern. He turned to her as De Foe was claimed by the others. An expression of deep uneasiness had come into his eyes. "I wonder what keeps father so long," he said, so quaintly that she laughed aloud. Then both of them turned to watch the preparations for departure. The butler tossed the jewel boxes into a stout black bag; the detective took charge of it. Bellows peered from the front windows in quest of the motor cars; everybody chattered and gabbled while they were being bundled into their outer garments by the nimble attendants. One could only think of the anterooms in the Savoy or the Ritz. "Now get out, every one of you," cried the bride. "I insist on being the last to leave the house. It's for good luck." Bellows said something in a low voice to Mr. De Foe. Any one but Bellows would have betrayed concern. "No motors!" exclaimed Mr. De Foe. There was a sudden silence in the room. "The blizzard, sir," said Bellows, briefly. "But, hang it all, we must get to the station," cried the groom. "What the devil's the meaning of all this?" "Don't blame Bellows, old man," said Bosworth Van Pycke. "He isn't a blizzard. And don't lose your temper, either. Remember it's your wedding night. Now, I have a big sleigh coming for me at 10.30. Taxis can't budge in this weather. You and the bride can take my sleigh--" He did not finish. Every man in the party had begun to berate the kind of car he owned and every woman was scolding the weather. Then there was a common demand for four-horse sleighs. Bellows received half a dozen orders to telephone to the garages and to the livery stables, all in the same breath, it seemed. "Don't worry, Chaunce. My sleigh is sure to come. The bride is safe." So spoke the confident Mr. Van Pycke. "All I ask you to do in return is to send it back here for me as soon as you're safely there." "You're an angel, Buzzy," cried the bride from the depths of her sables. Just as the sleigh was announced, half an hour later, a diversion was created by the entrance of Mr. Van Pycke, senior. He was dressed for the street, fur-coated and gloved. The shout which greeted him brought him up just inside the door. He glared at the crowd. "Where are you, Bosworth?" he called out, his voice husky with emotion. "Here, father. Are you ready to go?" His son stepped forward rather quickly. "Do you think I'm going to stay all night?" snapped the old gentleman. "I'm--I'm damned if I do!" Every one was rushing for the doors. The bride took time for a few words with the latest arrival. "How late you are, Mr. Van Pycke!" she cried, grasping his hand. "I'm so sorry we must be going. Catching a train, you know. By the way, Buzzy, we're sailing for the Azores day after to-morrow. When you're in Paris, be sure to look us up. Thank God, I'm never coming back to New York. Now you know why I don't care a snap what people say or think about my wedding guests. Good-bye, my dear. Good-bye, Mr. Van Pycke. Thanks, so much, for the roses you sent up to-day. Be sure we get the right sleigh, Bellows. Come, Mary, dear, kiss me. I _know_ you'll look me up when you come to Paris." She enveloped the pretty Miss Downing in her arms, kissed her warmly, and then rushed off into the hall, where the crowd was being shooed out into the storm ahead of her. Bosworth observed that Miss Downing was not attired for the street. "You're not going?" he asked quickly. "Not till to-morrow," she said. "I'm staying overnight." "Bosworth," put in Mr. Van Pycke, in deadly tones, "where is your cab?" "Stuck in the snow, dad. My sleigh will be back in half an hour. Take off your coat. Miss Downing won't mind our staying here a while longer. She--" "Not another minute, sir!" snapped Mr. Van Pycke. "You don't know what I know. You--" "I don't believe you know what I know, either, dad," said his son, dryly. Bellows entered. "Your sleigh will return in half an hour, Mr.--Mr. Bosworth. Will you wait, sir?" "No, he won't wait," said Mr. Van Pycke. "Get his coat and hat, Bellows. I'm--I'm going to take him away." "You'll be lost in the snow, sir," said Bellows, mildly. "It's worse than the Alps, sir." "Alps? Confound you, you've never seen the Alps!" "No, sir," said Bellows. "But Stokes, the butler, has, sir." "Send Stokes to me, Bellows," said Miss Downing, quietly. "I will give orders for to-night and to-morrow morning. I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Van Pycke, if I retire at once. I am very tired. It has been a busy day and--a rather wearing night." "Please don't go just yet," he begged. "You promised to tell me about the--" He was going to say wedding, but his father interrupted. "If you're not coming at once, Bosworth, I'll leave you here. I'll walk. I'll have pneumonia anyhow, so what's the sense of taking care of myself? I've been insulted, outraged, humiliated in this--But, I can't talk about it now, not in the presence of a lady--for I'm sure she is a lady. I can tell 'em by the sound of their voices. What, in God's name, are you doing here? That's the thing that puzzles me. 'Gad, if I did the proper thing, I'd take you away at once, storm or no storm." "Dad, you don't understand," began Bosworth. "Are you coming away with me?" roared his father, stamping the floor. "Do they still hurt you?" asked his son, with a solicitous glance at the old gentleman's feet. Mr. Van Pycke sputtered. "I have my own on, sir. But I'm crippled for life, just the same. Thank God, I got my trousers in the end." He passed his hand nervously over his brow. "In the end?" murmured Bosworth. Miss Downing turned to the fireplace. "I--I can't tell you about it now," said his father in a constrained manner. "'Gad, it was--it was awful! Bellows! Where the deuce is the man? Ah, here you are. Bellows, call me a cab or something at--" "Mr. Stokes will be here directly, Miss," said Bellows. "Very good, Mr. Van Pycke. A four-wheeler?" "Take the subway, dad," interposed Bosworth, glaring at Bellows. "Next corner below. But, think it over. You'd better wait for me." Stokes came in, and Miss Downing, with a significant glance at Bosworth, retired to the library with the butler. "Has everybody departed?" asked Bosworth of Bellows, who was turning off some of the lights in the lower end of the room. The young man dropped into a chair, opened his cigaret case, and then, first looking at the portières obscuring the library, yawned prodigiously. "Yes, sir," said Bellows, caught in the middle of an illy-suppressed yawn. "The detective, my mistress's maid, and Mr. De Foe's man, with the bags, sir, went away with the 'appy couple in your sleigh. It was a bit crowded, sir, for the driver." "Bellows," hissed Mr. Van Pycke, "who instructed you to take my trousers out to press 'em?" "They needed it, sir, badly," explained Bellows. "And my shoes, sir,--I did not ask to have them polished, did I?" "No, sir. As I remember it, you did not." "It wouldn't have been so bad," almost moaned the unhappy gentleman, turning to his son, "but I didn't discover their absence until after I had, in my ungovernable rage, thrown those confounded wax figure's garments from an upstairs window. And then, by Gad, sir, I couldn't find my own trousers. What's more, I couldn't find the bell button to call for Bellows. There I was, in a strange bedroom without--Oh, I'll never forget it, Bosworth--never! What the devil are you laughing at, sir?" Miss Downing had quietly reentered the room and was standing just inside the door, a growing smile of appreciation on her lips. "Wha--what did you do, sir?" asked Bosworth, controlling himself heroically. "Do? What could I do? Demmit all, trousers don't grow on chandeliers, do they? I couldn't pick off a pair, à la Santa Claus, could I? There was only one thing left to do. That was to shout for Bellows. Just as I was on the point of stealing out to the head of the stairs, I heard voices--a man's and a woman's. I dashed back into the bedroom. 'Gad, sir, what do you think? Those people were in the next room, and the door, which I hadn't noticed before, was partly ajar. At any minute they might come in and find--ahem! I didn't see you, Miss Downing." "Please go on," she said. "Only to convince you what kind of a house we have all gotten into," he explained, after a moment of indecision. "Well, I quickly entered a clothes closet near by. I don't want to hurt your feelings, Miss Downing, but the lady in the next bedchamber was your friend, Mrs. Scoville. The man was that confounded De Foe chap. I--I can't tell you what they were saying to each other. It was sickening, I'll say that much. No, no--I won't go into details. It seems there was a maid in there, hooking her up, but they didn't mind her. When the maid went out, I distinctly heard five or six kisses--ahem! Hang it all, Bosworth, I couldn't help eavesdropping. There were people in the hall outside. It was the most brazen thing I've ever known. Unfortunately, I had to sneeze." He stopped to blow his nose. Bellows also blew his, but for a different reason. "Yes, I sneezed. The exhibition ceased. I had just time to shut the closet door before De Foe came into the room, looking about. He said something about 'confounded servants,' and then went back to her. Then I heard him call her 'sweetheart' and ask her if she wouldn't tie his necktie for him, like a little darling. By Gad, sir, it was worse than I thought. I--" Bosworth coughed violently, and Miss Downing found it necessary to fleck some dust from a bronze bit at her elbow--somewhat to the rear of it, to be perfectly accurate. "You don't understand, father--" began Buzzy, nervously. "Confound it sir, I'm not deaf. I'll pass over the next half hour, except to say that they billed and cooed without cessation. I give you my word, that closet was like an ice-chest. I demmed near froze to death. At last they went away. Bellows came back with my trousers and shoes. After he'd gone, I stole out and got into 'em. There's a lot more I could tell, but--what's the use? I want to get out of here. Just to think that I came up here in all this storm to ask that creature to be my wife! 'Gad, I wouldn't ask her now if she was the last woman on earth. Open the door for me, Bellows! I'm going next door to the Lackaday, for the night, Bosworth. Call up by 'phone in the morning to see if I have pneumonia." He stormed into the hall without saying good night to Miss Downing. They heard him swear roundly as Bellows opened the door to the vestibule. Then there was a slam of the outer door. Together the young man and woman walked to the front window, and, side by side, they saw him fight his way down the steps and across the thirty feet of snowbank that lay between the house and the street entrance to the hotel bar. Mr. Van Pycke did not know, until he saw it in the papers next day, that there had been a wedding. It may be well to add in this connection that it was a long time before New York heard the last of that wedding and its amazing guests by proxy. "Good night," said Miss Downing, as they turned away from the window. "Oh, please, not yet," he cried. "I am so tired," she pleaded. "The sleigh will be back in twenty or thirty minutes." "I'll stay ten minutes," she agreed. "Come and sit before the fire in the library. You may have a cigar or a cigaret--but nothing to drink." He started guiltily. At the end of ten minutes, despite the fact that he was very amusing, she rose from the deep, comfortable chair before the fender, and said good night once more. "I hear sleigh bells in front," she said. "When are you leaving?" he asked, looking into her eyes with all of the new interest that had come into his own. "To-morrow. I'm to have a year's vacation on full pay," she said quite clearly. His eyes flew very wide open. "Isn't it nice, Mr. Van Pycke?" She was gone. He stood perfectly still, listening to the rustle of her gown as she sped up the stairs beyond. Something like a soft laugh came back to him from the dome of the hall. His face was a study. "By thunder!" he murmured, prior to a long, intent contemplation of the blazing coals. At last, shrugging his shoulders in dire perplexity, he turned and slowly made his way to the front windows. The sleigh was not in sight. He glanced at his watch. Eleven-twenty. With sudden exasperation he jammed his hands into his pockets and said something softly. Kicking a chair to the window, he sat down and glared at the snow-covered glass. Outside, the wind shrieked louder than ever. When Bellows came in to turn out the lights at a quarter to twelve, Bosworth did not hear him, nor did Bellows observe the limp figure in the chair. Mr. Van Pycke was sound asleep, and the footman did not have far to go to reach the same state. A sleigh came up, banked with snow, waited awhile in front of the dark house, and then departed. CHAPTER IV THE SECRETARY GOES HOME He was chilled to the bone when he awoke, an hour and a half later. The room was in pitchy darkness. It is only natural to suppose that he did not know where he was. He felt of himself, surprised to find that he was not undressed and not in bed. With more philosophy than is usually exhibited under such puzzling conditions, he fell back in his chair and forced himself into full wakefulness. A moment later, with a gasp of dismay, he was on his feet, scraping away the frost and peering from the black window into the night, his eyes wide with anxiety. His arms and legs were stiff with the cold; he found himself shivering as with a mighty chill. Turning his back to the window, for many minutes he stared dumbly into the opaqueness before him. The house was as black as the grave and quite as silent. He began to experience, strangely enough, the same dread of darkness he had felt when a boy. A furnace register, he remembered, was near the door leading to the hall, wherever that might be. His first thought was to seek the comfort of its friendly, warmth-giving drafts. On second thoughts, he ransacked his pockets for a match. A clock in the hall struck once, but how was he to know whether it signified one o'clock or half-past something else? Finding no match, he started for the register, his hands stretched before him. Of one thing he was reasonably sure; the household was wrapped in slumber. There was not a sound in the house. He was reminded of a childhood poem in which it was said: "Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse." The memory of this line brought a smile to his lips. His progress was rather sharply checked by bodily contact with one of the dummies, whose presence he had quite forgotten. Not only was there a hollow protest from the dummy, but a more substantial one from Mr. Van Pycke. Not content with a mild encounter with this particular obstacle, he proceeded, in his confusion, to back into another, which, being less sturdy, toppled over with a crash that must have been heard in the attic. Panic-stricken, the young man floundered on, now intent upon reaching the hall and making as dignified an escape as possible before the servants appeared with blunderbusses and tongs. His only desire now was to find his overcoat and hat and the front steps without butting his brains out in the darkness. He brought up against a chair, creating additional racket and barking his knee into the bargain. "Good heaven," he muttered, "where am I? Is it a barricade?" His heart stood still for a second. Distinctly he heard the soft, suppressed cry of a woman--and then the unmistakable sound of scurrying fabrics. The sounds came from some remote corner of the room--or possibly from a room hard by--and were indicative of great alarm on the part of an unseen person. Bosworth was not a slow thinker. He took the safest way. Without hesitation he called out: "It's all right! I am Bosworth Van Pycke!" There was dead silence for the next sixty seconds. The French clock ticked them off. He involuntarily counted twenty-five or thirty before a small, hushed voice responded,--from the library, he was sure,--the voice of a woman. "What did you say?" "I am Mr. Van Pycke. Don't be alarmed. It's--it's all a mistake. I--" "Mr. Van Pycke? Why--why--" He recognized the voice. "Is that you, Miss Downing?" "Are you--are you sure that you are Mr. Van Pycke? I have my finger on the call button. Wha--what are you doing here?" "I am trying to get out," he said, lowering his voice. "Don't you recognize my voice?" "Ye--yes, I think I do." "Where are you?" "Why didn't you go out before?" asked the voice, a bit querulously he thought. "I am not a sleep walker," he said. Realizing that it was a poor time to jest, he hastily supplemented: "I went to sleep--waiting. Where are you? What time is it? Is every one in bed?" The curtains at the opposite end of the room parted very slowly. First, a strong, red glow appeared beyond, mellow and somewhat fitful; then the shadowy figure of the girl was silhouetted against the red, framed on either side by shivering drapery. She was still wearing the white satin evening gown. He took hope. "It isn't so late, after all," he cried, starting toward her. "I hope you will go away at once, Mr. Van Pycke," she said quickly. "It is half-past one--and every one _is_ in bed. I don't understand why you are still here." "I'll tell you all about it," he said, not very confidently. "Don't turn me out until I've got warm, please. I give you my word, I'm paralyzed with the cold." "Really, Mr. Van Pycke, I--I can't have you here--I mean, it is so terribly late. I--I--" "Were you horribly frightened?" he asked, somewhat irrelevantly. He had come up to her by this time, and, peering beyond, saw a splendid fire in the library grate. There were no lights in the room. A big chair stood before the fender, invitingly. His teeth were chattering. "I was almost petrified," she said rather breathlessly. "If you had not called out, I--I think my heart would have refused to beat again. Oh, I am _so_ glad it is you and not a burglar!" "May I come in and get warm?" he pleaded. She saw that he was shivering. With a quick glance over her shoulder she stood aside and allowed him to pass. "You _are_ cold," she said. "Sit down by the fire. I'll poke it up a bit. Just for a few minutes, and then you must go. I wonder if the racket alarmed the servants. You see, I am the only person in this part of the house, Mr. Van Pycke." He looked up from the grate, over which he was holding his hands. "By the way, why are you not in bed? I distinctly remember you said good night--and started." She hesitated. "I wasn't sleepy," she said. "On the other hand, I slept very soundly," he said. "Have you been down here all this time?" "Since twelve o'clock. I love a grate fire." "Won't you sit down? Do." "No, thank you. I'll wait till you have gone. If I sit down now, you'll stay, I'm afraid." He moved the big chair and drew up another for himself beside it. She watched the proceedings without approval or resentment. When the two chairs stood side by side before the fender, he motioned for her to sit down. She was now gazing at him fixedly, a somewhat detached smile on her lips. After a moment she shrugged her shoulders and sat down. He promptly dropped into the other chair and stretched out his feet to the fire. "You said something that surprised me, just as you left me--two hours ago," he remarked, after a long silence. "A year's vacation on full pay," he repeated. "I am Mrs. De Foe's secretary," she said quietly. He turned to look at her. [Illustration: "'I am Mrs. De Foe's secretary,' she said quietly."] "Secretary? I didn't dream of that, Miss Downing." "Have I fallen in your estimation?" she asked, meeting his gaze steadily. "I think you've risen," he said slowly. "You may not remember me, but I crossed on the steamer with you from Liverpool when I was eight years old. You were eleven, I think you said. I was a very pretty little girl. You said that, too. Do you remember?" He was cudgeling his brain. "I can't say that I do, to be perfectly candid. Still, I've been wondering where I've seen you. I recall the voyage, but as for little girls, I remember but one. Ah, she was a little beauty. I was so desperately in love with her that I dare say I had thoughts or eyes for no one else. I'm sorry." "Do you remember her name?" "Perfectly. It wasn't so long ago, you know. I'm twenty-five. She had a perfectly ungovernable nurse. I was obliged to do my worshiping from a distance. By Jove, that reminds me, her father was put down and out a few years ago in Wall Street. I think he had a stroke of paralysis, or something, poor devil, afterwards. Lost everything. I wonder what has become of her. I never saw her after we landed in New York." "Was her name Pembroke?" He started. "Yes,--Mary Pembroke! You knew her? Why, I believe--" He stared hard. "I am Mary Pembroke," said she, leaning back and smiling. His astonishment was unqualified. "You? Yes! I can see it now. All evening there has been some vague thing about you that has puzzled me. Why, it is wonderful--positively wonderful. I--" He stopped suddenly, a look of concern in his eyes. "I hope I didn't say anything just now to hurt you,--I mean, about your father." "You spoke of him as the world speaks, Mr. Van Pycke. And you did say 'poor devil.' That was something. He is--still a helpless invalid. Perhaps you did not know that." "I'm sorry--very sorry." He hesitated for a moment. "Is that why you are Mrs. De Foe's secretary?" "We are quite poor, Mr. Van Pycke. So poor that I am unwilling to take from the slender annuity that keeps us together--my father, my two little sisters and me. There is enough for him to live on to the end of his poor, desolated life. I am strong, and I love him too well to take from that little store. Mine hasn't been such a trying position, after all. Mrs. Scoville is an old friend. I've known her since I was a little girl. She's been very kind and very generous. I don't mind the work. It's much better than marrying some one for his money, I'm sure. Have you ever read of Lily Bart? She had a very much harder time than I, poor thing, in her house of mirth. She did not deserve it, but she served as a warning to me." "I dare say you remember that I told Mrs. Scoville I had come up here to-night to propose to her," he said ruefully. She nodded, and her eyes narrowed. "You are not so brave as I am, Mr. Van Pycke," she said. "I thought you were very brave and very manly as a little boy." "Well, I didn't ask her, after all," he said, resenting her tone. "I don't believe I could have done it, if it had actually come to the test. I couldn't do it now to save my very soul. I'm going to marry for love or not at all. Money be hanged." "Oh, don't say that!" she cried. "You forget how rich you are!" "Rich! I'm a pauper." "On twelve thousand a year? I consider myself quite well off on the fifteen hundred Mrs. Scoville pays me. You are fabulously rich." "You are laughing at me," he exclaimed, shamed. "Who am I to laugh at the wonderful Buzzy Van Pycke, prince of the dandies in--" "Please don't." He clenched his hands and set his jaw, leaning forward to gaze into the bed of coals. She studied his averted face. "You have a strong face," she said at last, voicing her thoughts. "Thanks," he muttered. "You don't know _how_ to work. Is that it, Mr. Van Pycke?" she asked. "Oh, I fancy I could earn a living," he said, without looking up. "And then you could save the twelve thousand intact," she observed. He looked up curiously. "In ten years you would have at least one hundred and twenty-five thousand. You could buy a yacht with that much money. Just think what fun it would be to spend it all in an hour." "It may interest you to know that I _am_ going to work," he said, conscious of a burning sensation in his face. "Are you in earnest?" "Certainly. I'm tired of this sort of thing." "Splendid! And what are you going to do? Something gentlemanly, I hope, such as selling bonds on commission. Gentlemen who go to work always do that, don't they, whether they're qualified or not?" "You're a bit sarcastic, aren't you? I _was_ going to sell bonds, having been solicited to do so, but I've changed my mind. I'm going to get a job with an undertaker." They laughed, at first rather half heartedly, then merrily. For ten minutes they talked of the past, the present, and the future. He gathered that she had assumed the name of Downing for secretarial purposes only; that she kept herself very much in the background in Mrs. Scoville's establishment; that she had watched his social career with unflagging interest; that she was returning to her own home on the following day, with a check for fifteen hundred in her possession; that she expected to marry if the right man came along; that Mrs. Scoville had made her a present of the gown--and so on and so forth. They discussed the wedding and the hullabaloo it was to create. They united in deprecating the impulse which robbed the marriage of its natural sanctity, but they agreed that she was a lovely bride. "And now you must go home," she said at last. The clock chimed a quarter after two. "That reminds me," he said. "You said you were going to your own home in the morning, early enough to avoid the reporters, who are to be managed by Stokes. May I inquire where your own home is, Miss Pembroke?" "We live in Princeton, Mr. Van Pycke." "Princeton? Why, I was there four years, you know. Strange I never saw you." "You forget we were living in Fifth Avenue or Mayfair until two years ago. The house in Princeton is all that is left of the Pembroke millions. It was my mother's." "By Jove, I remember you came out three years ago. I--I was asked, wasn't I?" "You were. And you didn't come." "I'd like to come to Princeton, if it isn't too late." "If it doesn't interfere with your work, you mean." "Oh, come now!" he protested. "We have to consider everything," she said. "I'll try to get a job in the faculty. I remember distinctly that I knew more than any man in the faculty at one time. That would simplify matters, wouldn't it?" "Do you really feel the need of that eyeglass, Mr. Van Pycke?" she asked, again veering off, much to his annoyance. "Not at all." He calmly tossed the monocle upon the coals. She cried out. "Oh, I didn't mean you to do that. I _love_ monocles!" "The deuce! Why didn't you say so?" he lamented. "It's too bad," she sighed. "You would have needed it so much, too, looking for work." "By Jove, I like you!" he cried. "You're a plucky girl and a philosopher. You do something toward the support of a whole family, while I--well, look at me! What good have I done? I have not earned ten dollars in my whole life by honest toil. I'm ashamed. I am--" "Please, please," she interposed despairingly. "Don't go into that again. It's too late. I am really very sleepy now. I hate to turn you out in the storm, but you _must_ go. If the servants should--heavens, please go!" "You're right! I'm off. I'll be as quiet as a mouse, so don't worry. This has been the most gallant night of my life. I'll live it over a hundred times in my dreams. By the way, what train do you take in the morning?" He was shaking hands with her, standing beside her chair. There was a new light in his eyes. "The ten-fifteen, if it isn't snowbound. Why?" "Never mind. I just asked," he said. He was thinking of violets and a trip to the ferry. "Don't do anything so absurd, Mr. Van Pycke," she said severely, trying to read his thoughts. He laughed blithely, full of certain early morning enterprise. "Good-bye. Oh, just listen to the wind!" She shuddered. "Don't leave the fire," he said. "And _do go to bed_! Remember, you are to catch the ten-fifteen." He tiptoed into the hall. There was not a sound in the house. A minute later the outer doors closed behind him, gently. He was out in the cold, bitter night, plowing his way through snowdrifts three and four feet deep, bound for the hotel next door, the nearest place of refuge. In the office he left a call for seven o'clock. Not in ten years had he done anything so amazing. "She helps to support a family--a helpless father and two small sisters," he said to himself as he crept into bed. "But, it wouldn't be the same thing supporting my governor. _I should say not!_" Later on, very drowsily: "I was sure I had seen her before. Little Mary Pembroke! How I adored her! But it seems to me her hair was yellow then. It's black now. Still, I dare say that's better than if it had been black then and yellow now. Seven o'clock! What an ungodly hour to get up. But I'll have to get used to it." Miss Pembroke resisted the desire to look after him from the front window. She couldn't bear the thought of scraping the frost from the window pane with her fingernails, for one thing; for another, he might take it into his head to look back. So she went to bed, thinking of him--as she had been doing for an hour or more before his amazing second appearance. "He was such a shy boy," she reflected. "But he was the best looking thing. Dear me, how long ago it seems! And those silly love letters I wrote to him and never mailed. What funny things children are!" At nine o'clock the next morning she was called to the telephone. She was at breakfast, and her bag was ready for the train. An early glance from the window had filled her with misgivings. The street was absolutely impassable, it seemed to her. "I won't talk to the reporters," she said to Stokes. "It isn't a reporter, Miss. It's a gentleman." "Don't be a snob, Stokes. Who is it?" "It's Mr. Van Pycke, Miss." She started. Then she flushed warmly. "Say to him, Stokes, that I have gone," she said, after a moment. "Very good, Miss. Anything else?" She pondered. "Yes, Stokes. Ask him to hold the wire." "Hold the wire, Miss?" "Yes, while you run to the door to call me back." A moment later she was in the telephone room, quite out of breath. "Who is it?" she called. She compelled him to repeat the name four times. Eventually he got her serious attention. "No trains until this afternoon?" she cried despairingly. "Why, the children will be at the station to meet me." "Trains all snowbound," he announced quite cheerfully. "I've been telephoning." "It's awfully good of you. I'll call up the Pennsylvania--" "Don't bother," he called. "I've seen to all that. There's only one thing to do. Go to the ferry at one o'clock and wait. They'll get a train out as soon as possible. I'm glad it's to be no earlier than one. This is my busy day, you see." "What has that to do with it?" "I think I can be at liberty at one o'clock, that's all. I'm at my rooms now, writing letters of resignation to eleven clubs and declining invitations to four Christmas house parties on Long Island. I'm going down to see Thrush and Wrenn, the publishers, at eleven." "Indeed?" "Yes. I'm thinking of writing a book exposing New York society. They're all the rage now. This will be the literary remains of a fizzle." "Are you jesting?" "It depends," he said. "At ten I am to see George P. Krosson, the capital king. You see I _have_ been telephoning. I got him out of bed at seven-thirty. He says he didn't know I had it in me to be so energetic. He's an old friend, however, so it's all right. He--" "Please tell me what it's all about. I know who he is, so don't enlighten me. He once was an old friend of ours." "Well, he's always said he'd take me as a secretary, if I'd agree to buckle down to it. I'm going to try it on." "You--to be a secretary?" "Don't be so surprised, please! It's only a starter, you know. His last secretary owns a bank now, and the present one is going to Congress. But I'll tell you about it--at the ferry." She tried not to appear to be looking for him when her fretting taxicab finally struggled up to the ferry building at Twenty-third Street, just before one o'clock. Nearly an hour had been spent in the trip from the Scoville home to the ferry. There were times when she thought the effort would have to be abandoned. He was there. In fact he opened the door and assisted her to alight from the vehicle. There was a brief discussion with the driver over the register's showing. Then they hurried into the ferry building, pursued by three bags and a "Much obliged, Miss," from the surprised chauffeur. [Illustration: "He was there. In fact he opened the door and assisted her to alight."] "You were very reckless, giving him a dollar," he criticised severely, but not forgetting that he had given five the night before. He had been wondering all the morning if _she_ had noticed the cocktails. "It is so good of you to come down," she said, a color in her cheeks that was not from the cold. He was marveling. Never, in all his life, had he seen any one so pretty as this trim, proud young person in the Persian lamb coat and ermine stole and muff. She gauged his thoughts. "Presents from Mrs. Scoville--in advance of Christmas," she said dryly. He was properly embarrassed. "Now, I must ask about the trains." "It's all attended to, Miss Pembroke," he said. "I got here at half-past twelve, lunchless. Boat in ten minutes, train out of Jersey City at two o'clock, positively. We can have luncheon on the train." He seemed a bit embarrassed, as he ought to have been, in truth. She stood still and looked at him. "On the train?" she murmured. "Yes, Miss Pembroke. I have an afternoon off. I'm going to Princeton. Oh, by the way, don't bother about the tickets. I have them. Come along, please, or we'll miss the boat." Of course she protested. She was very much annoyed--or, at least, that is what she meant to be. He explained, in a burst of confidence meant to cover the unique trepidation he felt, that he was not to assume his duties as secretary to Mr. Krosson until the following Monday. "This is my last free week. Don't begrudge me an excursion. It's to take the place of four house parties." She held out stubbornly, for appearance's sake; it was not until they were in the middle of the Hudson that she said it would be very nice, and he could catch the five o'clock train back to New York. It would be difficult to relate all that they said during the tortuous trip to Princeton. Naturally they discussed his prospects. "I'm not sure that I know what a secretary has to do," he confessed. "But," with a determined gleam in his eyes, "whatever it is, I'm going to do it. I don't expect Mr. Krosson to give me a year's vacation on full pay, and I'm not looking for furs in my stocking at this or any other Christmas, but I do mean to live on what I earn. I'm to have twenty-five hundred a year, in the beginning." "Goodness, that _is_ a lot of money," she said. They were at luncheon in the private dining car. "I'll retain my membership in two clubs. I'm starting out to-morrow to find a couple of cozy rooms in a genteel apartment hotel." "Have you broken the news to your father?" He laughed. "No. I stopped at his room to see if he had pneumonia. He said he was asleep and couldn't tell--and for me to go to the devil." From the car window they watched the great white sea through which they were gliding. Their hearts were free and their hearts were sparkling. Constantly recurring in their thoughts were the little forgotten things of that memorable voyage across the Atlantic. It was he, however, who presumed to steal surreptitious glances in which wonder was uppermost; she steadfastly declined to be led by her impulses. "You've never heard anything particularly terrible about me, have you?" he demanded, rather anxiously, once in course of a duet of personalities. "Only that a great many women are in love with you." "It's funny I've never heard that," he said dolefully. "Men say that you are an exceptionally decent chap and it's too bad you'll never amount to anything." "Oh, they do, do they?" indignantly. "I think they'll be stunned when they hear of your latest move." "Well, I'll show 'em what I'm made of." "Splendid! I like to hear you speak in that way." "You do?" he asked eagerly. "You _do_ think I'll make good, don't you?" "What station is this?" she asked deliberately. "Rahway," he said, leaning close to her in order to see the name on the station. "I think I'll have a holiday on Christmas," he ventured carefully. "That's next week, you know. May I come down to Princeton for the afternoon and evening?" "To see me?" She seemed surprised. "Yes," he said simply. She had expected some frivolous reply. Her gaze wavered ever so slightly as it met his. "It will be a very dull way to spend Christmas," she said. "Christmas is always a dull day," he said, so imploringly that she laughed. He came very near to adding, irrelevantly, that she was prettier than ever when she smiled. "When there are no children about," he succeeded in saying, as an amend for his slip. "There are two in our house, besides myself," she said gayly. "Splendid!" he cried enthusiastically. "Can't we have a tree?" On the platform at Princeton he was introduced to two small and very pretty young ladies, six and eight, and to a resentful gallant aged nine, who seemed to look upon him with disfavor. It afterwards developed that he was the characteristic neighbor boy who loves beyond his years. He adored Miss Pembroke. "Mr. Van Pycke is coming down for Christmas," announced Miss Pembroke, in course of time, drawing her little sisters close to her side and smiling upon the dazzled gallant, aged nine. "Will you play bear for me?" asked the young lady aged six, after a sly look at her nurse. "The whole menagerie," said Mr. Van Pycke, most obligingly. Then, having occupied a perilously long time in shaking hands with the girl in the Persian lamb, he rushed off in response to the station master's satirical warning that last night's train was just pulling out for New York. "I know just what's going to happen to me," he said to himself, jubilantly, as he waved to her from the window. "I can feel it coming." CHAPTER V HIS FIRST HOLIDAY Two days passed before Mr. Van Pycke, senior, in diligent and somewhat wrathful quest of his son, came to know that the young man had accepted a position as secretary to Mr. Krosson. "I can't believe it," said Mr. Van Pycke, a sudden pallor almost retrieving the lost complexion at the end of his nose. He then went about the search in earnest, ultimately discovering his son in his room at the club, busily engaged in superintending the packing of cherished Penates. "Is what I hear true, Bosworth?" demanded the old gentleman, without preliminaries. "Sit down, dad. Try that trunk. The chairs seem to be occupied by odds and ends." Bosworth was in his shirt sleeves. His hands were dirty, and there was a long dark streak across his brow. "I'm moving." "Moving? What the devil's the meaning of all this?" sputtered his father, kicking a package of rugs out of the way. "I can't afford to live here on twenty-five hundred a year," said his son, genially. The perspiring porters retired to the hall. "But you have twelve thou--" "And I have decided to save that twelve thousand. My salary will have to do for a few years, dad." "Your salary? Then it is true?" It was almost a wail. "It does seem too good to be true, doesn't it? I am like you, dad. I didn't believe any one would hire me. But Mr. Krosson seems to think I've got it in me to--" "Bosworth," interrupted his father, sternly, "I won't permit you to make an ass of yourself. I forbid you--" "Hold on, dad," said Bosworth, rather shortly. "We won't discuss it unless we can do so agreeably. I'm going into this thing with all my heart, and I mean to stick to it. There's an end to that. I'm tired of leading an absolutely useless, butterfly life." "But, my boy, my boy," groaned the other, "this step will blast every prospect of a suitable marriage. Demmit all, no one will marry you." "I'm not so sure of that," said his son, sticking his hands into his pockets and breathing deeply. "I think, if I'm careful, I can make a very suitable marriage." "Rubbish! Who'd marry a secretary?" sniffed Mr. Van Pycke, jabbing a chair-back with his cane. Bosworth radiated joy. "I would!" he cried so emphatically that Mr. Van Pycke almost rose to his toes. "That's not the point, sir," said he, a little bewildered. "You can't marry yourself." Bosworth laughed softly, but ventured no explanation to the odd remark. If, during the next ten minutes, his father noticed a detached, far-away look in the young man's eyes, he attributed it to the force of his own arguments. Just as he was beginning to feel that he had succeeded in turning the thoughtful young man from his suicidal course, Bosworth came to himself with a start. "Beg pardon, dad; my mind must have been wandering. What were you saying?" "Do--do you mean to tell me you haven't heard what I've been saying to you?" roared the old gentleman, coming to his feet. "I'm sorry; but, you see, this new undertaking is on my mind all the time. It's a rather serious step I'm taking and I can't help giving it a good deal of thought. Mr. Krosson says he'll raise my salary at the end of--" But Mr. Van Pycke was standing over him, his face red with anger. "I brought you up as a gentleman, sir, and this is what comes of it. What would your poor mother say? She, too, expected you to be a gentleman, sir. Your grandfather expected it. All Van Pyckes are gentlemen. You are the first to forget yourself, sir. By Gad, sir, I suppose you'll marry a shop girl or a stenographer. That's what you'll do! After the way in which I've brought you up and educated you and all that. And with the Van Pycke name and traditions at your command! It's so demmed preposterous that I can't express myself adequately. It's--" "It's no use, dad," said Bosworth, simply. "I'm lost." "You could marry that little Hebbins girl next week if you--" "I'm going to marry for love, dad," said his son. Mr. Van Pycke opened his lips to say something, thought better of it, and stalked majestically out of the room. In the hall he encountered the two porters. "Is Mr. Bosworth ready for us now, Mr.--" began one of the men, very deferentially, for Mr. Van Pycke was very well known in the club. "Get out of my way!" roared Mr. Van Pycke. The next morning, it being a Sunday at that, Bosworth sustained a blow that shook him mightily. In his box he found a curt letter from his father. "My dear son," it read, "I neglected to announce my coming marriage to you at our last meeting. I dare say it was because I was so upset. I am to be married to Mrs. Scoville on the third of January. If you can get away from the shop, or the office, or whatever it is, at three o'clock on that day, I will be very much gratified to see you at the ceremony. Your loving father." Bosworth clapped his hand to his brow, glaring at the note. "He's gone clean daffy!" he groaned. "Scoville? Why, he must know she's already--Great Scott! He means the old one!--the pelican!--that's who he means. The good Lord deliver us!" He was genuinely distressed. The dowager Mrs. Scoville, of all women! For a long time he stood in the window, staring out over the housetops, his heart full of pity for his wayward parent. "Poor old dad!" he said over and over again. "He's paying an awful price for the privilege of remaining a gentleman to the end. Hang it all! I would have taken care of him. I'd have given him half of my income--yes, two thirds of it--sooner than see him sell out to that old tigress. I'll see him at once. I'll make the proposition to him. He may be able to crawl out of it." He soon discovered that an appeal of any sort was out of the question. The Sunday papers announced the approaching marriage of the venerable society leaders. As a man of honor, Van Dieman Van Pycke could not now retreat. "Poor dad!" said Bosworth a hundred times that day. He could not banish the calamity from his mind. Thoughts of Mary Pembroke crept in frequently to chasten his ill humor, but even a developing interest in that adorable creature failed to overcome the shock he had received. He ended by writing a long, boyish letter of congratulation and well wishes to his father, closing with the ingenuous hope that he might live long to enjoy the fruits of his folly. The next day, bright and early, he was at the office of the great Mr. Krosson, a bit nervous, but withal full of the confidence that will not be gainsaid. Every man in the club, on that momentous Sunday, had congratulated him on the step he was taking. Somehow, he was beginning to feel that he was no longer "Buzzy" Van Pycke. He was almost a stranger to himself. Christmas came on Friday. By that time he was fairly well acquainted with the inner offices of Mr. Krosson. The novelty was wearing off, but his ambition was being constantly whetted by signs of achievement that met him, no matter which way he looked in contemplation of his new environment. To his surprise and gratification--and also to his consternation--society was not ready to drop him. As a matter of fact, he was more sought after than ever. Most of his time as secretary to Mr. Krosson was spent in declining the invitations that poured in upon him from admiring hostesses who, far from disdaining him, frankly intimated that they liked him the better for the step he had taken. Old Mrs. Beeker, society's leader, halted him in Fifth Avenue the day before Christmas and leaned from her carriage window to tell him that she was proud of him. "Women despise idlers and dawdlers, my dear boy," she said. "Make something of yourself. If you should happen to get a wife, beat her occasionally." His personal effects had been removed to less conspicuous rooms in Seventy-seventh Street. He was at home there every evening. "I wonder if this will last," he said to himself more than once in those first days. He was off to Princeton on the noon train, more pleasurably excited than he had been in many a day. He had asked Mr. Krosson if his services were necessary at the office on Christmas day. "If not, I think I will run down to Princeton to spend the holiday with friends." "I thought you were going to drop out of society, Bosworth," said the capitalist, putting his hand on the young man's shoulder. Bosworth flushed. "I expect to, Mr. Krosson, but I'm not going into a monastery," he said. "I'm glad you were not one of the guests at that ridiculous De Foe-Scoville wedding," said his old friend and new master. "That was the limit in outrages." "It was very daring," said Bosworth, swallowing hard. He had seven bundles and a suit case on the seat in front of him when the train pulled out of Jersey City. In his pocket was a great bunch of newspaper clippings, intended for the private eye of the new Mrs. De Foe's one-time secretary. He wondered how she would take the caustic, sometimes scurrilous things the editors were saying about the now historic wedding. Few if any of them left a shred on which the bride could depend for support if she ever presumed to apply to New York society for reestablishment. He was distressed by the fear that Mary Pembroke would take to heart the bitter things that were being said of her benefactress. He discovered, later on, that Mrs. De Foe had quite fully prepared the girl for the avalanche of criticism. And so it was that Mary was able to smile when he showed her the clippings. "I'm still her private secretary, Mr. Van Pycke," she said, "and therefore I cannot discuss her private affairs with any one. As Mr. Krosson's secretary, you wouldn't think of discussing his affairs, would you?" But we are getting ahead of the story, or, more properly speaking, ahead of the train. When he got down at Princeton, with his bundles and his bag, he was surprised and not a little mortified by the half-checked shriek of laughter that greeted him from the shelter of the station building. She had come down to meet him. He had not expected it. But it was most unkind of her to laugh at him. The bundles contained Christmas presents for the children, he had lugged them about at great inconvenience, and--He was thinking these things, but not venturing to express them aloud. "Forgive me," she cried, hurrying over to him. "You _are_ so funny with all those packages." He promptly set them down, regardless, and shook hands with her. His ears were a bit red. On second thoughts, he didn't blame her for laughing. He now recalled that other people had smiled as he crowded through the aisle of the car, but he had not noticed it at the time on account of a certain abstractedness that had to do with the future and not the present. "I didn't expect you," he said. "It's awfully good of you to meet me. Merry Christmas!" "To you the same," she cried, meeting his gaze with one in which happiness shone brightly. "I had a dark purpose in meeting you here, Mr. Van Pycke. It's very mysterious." "Splendid!" he said. "I've always wanted to be a conspirator." "Let me take some of the packages--yes, do! I insist! You are ridiculous, carrying all these things. I have a cab around the corner. We'll--" "A cab!" he exclaimed, dropping a picture puzzle with considerable effect. "My dear Miss Pembroke, we can't afford cabs! They're luxuries." "You won't say so when you see this one," she said gayly. Together they collected the bundles, large and small, and hurried off to the waiting cab. There was some doubt as to which should go in first, the passengers or the parcels. "If we get in first, there will be no room for the bundles," said he. "And if we put them in first, there'll be no room for us." The venerable driver scratched his head in perplexity. "We could make two loads of it, sir," he said. "I c'n take your wife and half the bundles up first and come back--" "It isn't to be thought off," interrupted Bosworth, quickly. "Don't you remember me, Tobias?" "It--it ain't Mr. Van Pycke? Well, by gracious! It beats the--" Bosworth checked him in time. To Miss Pembroke he said: "Tobias drove me all the way from the freshman class to the senior." "I knew it, Mr. Van Pycke. That's why I engaged him." Tobias was suddenly confused. "Excuse me, I was thinking of another gentleman when I said wife, sir. My mistake, sir. It sha'n't happen again." "Don't make rash statements like that, Tobias," said Bosworth, boldly. "You can't tell what will happen." "Put the bundles in, Tobias," said Miss Pembroke quietly, far from amused. "Mr. Van Pycke must ride on the seat with you. He has done it a great many times, if tradition is to be trusted." "My dear Miss Pembroke--" "Drive us into the alley at the rear of Mr. Pembroke's house, please. We're going in through the kitchen, Mr. Van Pycke. There's to be a Christmas tree at three o'clock. You are to be Santa Claus. I'll secrete you in the butler's pantry until it is time for you to appear. Now, please don't object. We have the fur coat and the whiskers and the red cap. All you have to do is to come in and play you're delighted. You will read off the names and--now, _do_ be nice! You know it will be great fun." He could not resist the appeal in her eyes. It seemed to him that to be disagreeable about it--or even reluctant--would be the most dastardly crime imaginable. He caught the spirit. "Great fun? It will be gorgeous!" "Oh, lovely," she cried. "Hurry up, please. It's after two, and I still have to put some things on the tree." She squeezed into the decrepit little hack, laughing joyously. He scrambled up beside Tobias, clinging manfully to less than ten inches of seat, a splendid grin on his face all the way across town, utterly oblivious to the curious stares of Christmas pedestrians who passed them by. He was thinking only of her smile of delight and of the amazing change it had wrought in him--like a flash, so to speak. Already Christmas was beginning to mean a great deal to him. The chatty Tobias, reminiscent and more or less paternal, swung into an alley entrance in course of time,--not without a smug uplifting of his left eyebrow,--and trotted his venerable nag onward until a sharp rapping on the window-glass from within brought him to a rather heroic stop between two widely separated back gates. "Drive on to the next gate," called out the young lady, partly opening the door. Bosworth almost fell off in his valiant attempt to catch a glimpse of her face. With a great deal of stealth and no small amount of suppressed, eager laughter, they made their way into the kitchen of the quaint old house. Half an hour later Mr. Bosworth Van Pycke, suffering somewhat from stage fright but buoyed by the promise of unequivocal success in his new rôle, bounded from the pantry into the dining-room, befurred and bewhiskered, with nothing showing but his nose, greatly to the delight and consternation of a dozen small children who shrieked with excitement. He had appeared with some success in amateur theatricals and had led cotillions under the most nerve-racking conditions, but never before had he come plump against an audience of children. It was rather terrifying. He halted in the middle of the room, to the left of the brilliantly lighted, tinselled tree with its load of presents, and there he stuck, spellbound, until the shrill voice of one less awed than the rest broke the hush that had fallen upon the expectant group in the row of chairs beyond. "Hello, Santy!" piped up this small, confident voice. Bosworth could not afford to be outdone in politeness. He responded: "Hello, Mr. What's-your-name!" "What a pretty voice you have," called out a pink little girl. Right there Bosworth forgot his lines. He was to say something about Christmas coming but once a year and that Santa Claus loved nice little girls and boys, after which he was to appeal to Miss Pembroke for assistance in distributing the presents. But the ingenuous compliment upset him. He made his appeal to Miss Pembroke first, and it was rather a piteous one at that. She flew at once to his relief. In two minutes he was talking volubly, even brilliantly, shouting back at the children and making himself so generously noisy that he would have been very much shocked if he could have stepped outside and heard himself. Four or five nurses in the background giggled and simpered; the housemaid and the cook grinned so amiably that Miss Pembroke had real hopes that she could keep them in Princeton for the rest of the winter. "The Pembroke infants are the only poor man's blessings in the crowd, Mr. Van Pycke," said Mary in a gay aside. "The others have everything. But they are having a good time, aren't they?" "They're not having half so good a time as I am," he said eagerly. By this time he was thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the hour. "I never knew Christmas could be so good to grown-ups. Why, it's--it's ripping!" Once at the top of a stepladder, he burst into uncontrollable laughter, seemingly for no reason on earth. It had just occurred to him to wonder what his friends in New York would say if they could see him now! Miss Pembroke looked up in some surprise. "What is it?" she called rather anxiously. "Nothing," he replied hastily. "A hang-over laugh from my youth, that's all. This is the first chance it's had to escape." At last the tree was completely shorn of its wealth; nothing but the tinsel, the pop-corn, and the tin candlesticks were left. In front of each child stretched a new panorama of possessions. Each little one was a person of vast and suddenly acquired wealth; arrogantly wealthy was each, at that, for no one admitted the superiority of another's acquisitions. We were all wealthy on the Christmas days of long ago. Bosworth had the satisfaction of knowing that his own presents to the small Pembrokes were received with wild acclaim. He could not help recalling certain presents he had bestowed on former Christmases, upon more mature ladies, who received them as a matter of tribute and with hardly so much as a sigh of pleasure. Then the children were herded into the library with their toys and their sweetmeats, pursued by anxious, colic-fearing nurses. Bosworth, very hot and very happy, retired to the pantry to remove his great coat, his whiskers, and his cotton wig (the latter the handiwork of Miss Pembroke, who, whatever else she might have been proficient in, was not a successful wig-maker). She appeared in the swinging door, her face flushed and her eyes glowing. "Wasn't it fun?" she cried. He was picking cotton from his hair. He paused in this operation to stare at her, entranced. "By Jove!" he murmured, his soul leaping to his eyes. As if fascinated, he advanced slowly, his hands extended to clasp hers. She drew back ever so slightly, confused by the look in his eyes. She gave him her hands, however,--warm, firm little hands that hesitated a long time before responding to the grip he gave them. "Do you know," he said, irrelevant but serious to the point of perplexing her, "I believe I've never had you out of my mind during all these years? I haven't realized it before, but now I honestly believe it's true. You've been here--in my brain--all this time. That's why no one else ever really got in. Mary Pembroke, you are still the loveliest girl I've ever seen--just as you were fourteen years ago. You are just as wonderful to me now as you were then--even though you were eight and yellow-haired and lived in the cabin _de luxe_. It's--it's marvelous. You've been lying dormant in my memory--in my heart--all these years. Now you are suddenly revived. It's a terribly queer sensation. I--I don't believe I'll get over it." She withdrew her hands; her lids wavered before his steady gaze. Something ineffably sweet crept into the dark eyes; a quick, almost imperceptible quiver flashed over her chin, and her lips parted in tremulous protest against the possibility of jest. "I'm--I 'm glad that you do remember me," she said, with a vague little smile. "I loved you--oh, how I loved you on that long-ago voyage," he said recklessly. "I used to lie awake half the night in my berth, lamenting the fact that I was so ungainly and so homely, and so utterly unfit to be a story-book hero to you. I had a terrible fear that my legs would always be beanpoles and that my chest would never grow to even respectable proportions. I thought my ears were big and--" "They _were_ big," she interposed, the mysterious quaver still in her voice. "They were like bat's ears, only bigger," he agreed dismally. "And I hated my freckles and despaired of my hair, which would curl up at the back of my neck. All this time you were so lovely, so perfect, so adorable--" "What a rhapsodist you are!" she cried. "You didn't possess a single flaw--not one," he announced firmly. "Every boy on the boat was perishing of love for you. By Jove, you knew it, too." "Oh, you forget how young I was!" "At any rate, you knew I was sick over you. And for months after we landed in New York--yes, until long after I went away to boarding-school--you were the princess of my dreams, the treasure of my heart. Then I thought I had forgotten you. You slipped back into my memory and hid yourself completely away. There you stayed snugly, serenely, quite as if I had stored you in a safety deposit box, all the while growing more beautiful, more lovely, more valuable. Last week I opened the box and took you out. I was amazed to find that you had always been there. I had put you there as a little girl, and when I came to take you out, you were a beautiful lady. I'd been treasuring you up through all these years without really knowing it. I never knew I was so rich." A sudden panic assailed her. She realized, without warning, that she was being made love to, and that underneath his fanciful declarations there was something real, and strong, and earnest. She might have laughed at him and chided him for his gallantry had it not been for one distressing obstacle: he, Bosworth Van Pycke, had been lying just as snugly all these years in the deepest recesses of her heart. Unlike him, however, she had never quite forgotten the flaxen-haired lad of the steamship. "It's so very nice of you to say--" she began. "I mean it all, too--every word of it," he said gently. "It's all come back to me--" "Don't you think we'd better go in where the children are?" she asked nervously, backing toward the door, the light in her eyes very bright. "This--this, Mr. Van Pycke, is the pantry." He flushed. "I--I dare say it does seem rather like backstairs gallantry," he said, in genuine humility. "I didn't mean it in that way," she cried instantly. "It was the most beautiful thought I've ever heard expressed." She stopped suddenly. "Are you coming?" "Not until I've said the rest of it," he said, looking over his shoulder. Then, with fierce eagerness, drawing closer to her: "I adored you when you were eight. You may call it boyish impulse or whatever you like. Be that as it may, I've never loved any one else. A hundred times I've tried to picture the face, the form, the character of the girl I'd really come to love. Always there came to my mind a face--not a child's face, but a child's face grown to a woman's. It was always the same. The face of the little girl who grew up in my brain without being observed--without a sign that she was there. When she was fifteen, she was fifteen to my dreams; when she was twenty, I imagined her as such. She grew up with me. Every year I saw the change in the girl I pictured as the one I could love. No other came up to that ideal. There could be no other, for there was a real girl there all the time. I loved you years ago, Mary Pembroke, and I must tell you that--" "Oh, you mustn't say it--you mustn't!" she cried, tremulously, putting out her hand. "It--it doesn't seem real--it wouldn't seem honest. Please, please don't treat it lightly. Don't spoil it all by--" "I never was so serious," he said. "I--I didn't mean to shock you. It must sound foolish to you. Of course, I've never meant anything to you. It's all on my side. I've been too abrupt. I've been an awful ass to blurt it out to you so soon. Why, you can't help looking upon me as a total stranger. You haven't thought of me in years and years." "Oh, I haven't forgotten the spindle-shanked boy," she said in a very low voice. "You may not have known it, my friend, but I was very deeply in love with you in the days of the old _Campania_. I was--" "You were! You really were?" he cried, with difficulty reducing it to a half whisper. "I was a very impressionable child," she said, regaining all of her lost ground as only a woman can when carried to the last extremity. "And--and I _may_ have a chance even now?" he cried, his eyes gleaming. She pushed the swing-door open with her elbow and demurely held it ajar for him, a soft smile on her lips that he did not then understand and never was to understand, being a male. "You are Santa Claus, not Romeo," she said. He also missed the flutter in her voice and entirely overlooked the fact that she was breathing quickly. He followed her into the dining-room, strangely subdued. They came by the light of a window. There, with an impulsive gesture and a quick laugh, she halted him. Her amused eyes were taking in his tumbled hair. "Wait," she said. "Do you mind if I pick some of the cotton out of your hair?" "Not at all," he said with alacrity. "Lean over," she said. He did so. Very daintily, very deftly she pulled the stray wisps of cotton from his hair, so deftly, in fact, that he scarcely felt the touch of her fingers, although his whole being thrilled with the delicious sensation of contact. For years he was to remember that infinite minute and a half. He knew how pleased Samson must have been while his strength was being shorn, even though the parable says he slept. A trifle dazed by exaltation, he followed her into the library. The children who had greeted him vociferously as Santa Claus were now strangely silent and tongue-tied in the presence of a mere human,--but only for a moment. "Oh, it's Mr. Pycke!" screamed the pinkest one of them all. "I know him!" Whereupon she announced that he had come down from New York to see her sister Mary and was going to stay for dinner and play bear. "Do you mind being left alone with them for a few minutes?" asked Mary. "I must go up to father's room. He is quite helpless, you know." "I'd forgotten to ask how he's feeling to-day," he murmured contritely. The tears suddenly rushed to her eyes. A very pathetic smile and a shake of her head was the only answer he received. She left him standing there, surrounded by glad, expectant revelers, prey to a most unusual depression--as swift as it was surprising. His heart, overflowing with a new sensation of tenderness and pity, followed the slender figure up the stairs; there was but little of it left below to encourage the gleeful spirits of the care-free lads and lassies. For some unexplained reason, which he afterward sought to attribute to hysteria, he hugged the pink little Pembroke girl with unnecessary ardor, and would have kissed her older sister if he could have caught her. When Miss Pembroke came downstairs half an hour later, she found him playing bear, with tiny Miss Florence leading him about the room at the end of a long red ribbon. His hair was rumpled and his face was flushed, and it seemed that he was gasping for breath--whether from exertion or because the ribbon was choking him, she could not tell. She rescued him at once. "I like it," he cried. "It's fun to be a kiddie once more. As a matter of fact, you know, I never really had a kid's life. I'm having the time of my life." "Why, they 're wearing you out," she cried. "May I ask what you were representing?" "A bear!" shouted eleven voices. Bosworth gravely nodded. "He was going to be a trained seal, only we couldn't get a tub for him to lie on," said Mary's nine-year-old worshiper. Miss Pembroke laughed gayly. "I understood you to say last week, Mr. Van Pycke, that you were through with menagerie performances for all time." There was a witchery in her eyes that enthralled him. "This is different," he protested in some confusion. "I draw the line at grown-up tomfoolery. It may interest you to know that I was a horse just before you came in. They've all had a ride on my back. This chap here, when I wasn't looking, took those cavalry spurs from the mantelpiece over there and, by Jove! he _did_ get me moving!" The children shrieked with glee. "You poor man!" Mary cried, genuinely troubled over his experiences. "You've had a dreadful time. I'll save you before it grows any worse. Come upstairs, won't you, please? Father is very eager to meet you." "But I've promised to be another horse," he said loyally. "It wasn't a horse," corrected one of the boys. "You have been that. You said you'd be a jackass. None of us ever saw a jackass." "You said you could be a jackass without half trying, Mr. Van Pycke," said the little pink Pembroke. Mr. Van Pycke fled. His charming hostess overtook him in the hall, where, in dire humility, he had paused to wait for her. She was having immense difficulty to keep her face straight and serene. "I--I wonder if the little beggars think I _am_ such an idiot as I seem," was his unhappy lamentation. "They adore you!" she cried. "You have been too splendid for anything. I am so afraid you have been bored by--" "If you don't banish that pathetic droop from the corners of your--your adorable mouth, I'll do something positively desperate," he interrupted, folding' his arms resolutely so that he couldn't, by any chance, do it. She smiled at him, quite confidingly,--greatly to his disappointment, for he had rather hoped for consternation,--and said: "It is banished." Then she started up the stairs. "Come. I'll show you to your room first. You may come into father's room when you have brushed your hair. It looks positively savage." "My room?" he murmured, coming close behind her. "Yes. Don't you expect to dress for dinner, sir?" "Oh, I can't put you to the trouble of--" "You are to stop here--in this house, Mr. Van Pycke. Your room is all ready for you. I was compelled to turn you out in the cold the other night and I was so sorry. Now you are in my own home, you must stay--to make up for the other time. My father expects you to stay." "Over night?" he said unbelievingly. "Unless, of course, you've something else you'd rather do," she said quickly. "Why--why," he stammered, his head swimming with delight, "there's nothing in the world I'd rather do than to stay here. It seems incredible." "There's a train up at eight in the morning," she announced calmly. "You'll be called at six-thirty. Breakfast at seven. Bacon and eggs and popovers. Is that all right?" "There's only one thing lacking," he cried, his heart leaping. They were standing quite close to each other at the head of the stairs. "If our home isn't--" "If you'll promise to come down to breakfast, I'll never get over the joy of this visit," he said. "I always have breakfast with the children." He looked askance. "At seven o'clock," she vouchsafed. "By Jove!" was all he could gasp in his delirium. "That's father's door at the end of the hall. Come in there when you are ready. I'll be with him. Don't be long. Your room is here." He watched her until she closed her father's door behind her. Then he went into the sweet little bedroom across the hall, sat down rather heavily upon the edge of a couch, pulled his collar away from his throat as if that act were necessary to let the blood back from his head, and murmured over and over again, in the haziest manner imaginable: "Who would have thought it could come like this? Who would have dreamed it?" * * * * * Eleven o'clock that night. A fire in the library grate; logs crackling and the sap singing; the smell of live wood burning; the musketry of popping sparks; the swirl of smoke into the drafty chimney. New logs had just found their place of duty upon the half-starved fire behind the ancient "dogs." A sturdy poking had put life into the lazy embers. It was high time, indeed. For an hour the fire had gone neglected, unheeded. The chill of a bitter night had come creeping into the room, slowly conquering the warmth that had reigned supreme. Outside the wind had begun to whistle with a wilder glee; the creeking of wagon-wheels on the frozen roadway grew louder and more angrily insistent; a desolate cornet, far off in the Christmas air, sobbed its pathetic song to the fickle ear of the night. Two sentinels had stood watch over the fire for hours. It died as they watched it, and yet they did not see. Not unlike another fire, a week old and long since dead, was this one, and not unlike the soft glow of another fire-light was that which played on the serene faces of the two sentinels who sat side by side and watched their charge eke out its life. But on that other night these sentinels were not lovers. She shivered. He had been telling her of the world that was ahead of them and of all the joys it was to hold for him. He had told her that he would care for her all his life--that he would take care of her to the end of hers. It was then that she smiled fairly, a dear little pucker coming between her eyes. "I know, Bosworth, dear," she said quaintly, "but would you mind taking a little care of me now? I am freezing. Please poke up the fire." It was not until then that the fireplace renewed its roar of gladness, supported by his tardy but vigorous conscience. Together they stood before the resulting blaze. Her hands were in his, clasped close to his breast. Her eyes were closed. He kissed the lids. [Illustration: "Her eyes were closed. He kissed the lids."] "Fourteen years is a long time, Bosworth, dear, for two people to love each other without knowing it," she said, ever so softly, freeing one hand only that it might be slipped up to his cheek and then to his hair. THE END 
3737	----	A FAR COUNTRY By Winston Churchill BOOK 2. X. This was not my first visit to the state capital. Indeed, some of that recondite knowledge, in which I took a pride, had been gained on the occasions of my previous visits. Rising and dressing early, I beheld out of the car window the broad, shallow river glinting in the morning sunlight, the dome of the state house against the blue of the sky. Even at that early hour groups of the gentlemen who made our laws were scattered about the lobby of the Potts House, standing or seated within easy reach of the gaily coloured cuspidors that protected the marble floor: heavy-jawed workers from the cities mingled with moon-faced but astute countrymen who manipulated votes amongst farms and villages; fat or cadaverous, Irish, German or American, all bore in common a certain indefinable stamp. Having eaten my breakfast in a large dining-room that resounded with the clatter of dishes, I directed my steps to the apartment occupied from year to year by Colonel Paul Barney, generalissimo of the Railroad on the legislative battlefield,--a position that demanded a certain uniqueness of genius. "How do you do, sir," he said, in a guarded but courteous tone as he opened the door. I entered to confront a group of three or four figures, silent and rather hostile, seated in a haze of tobacco smoke around a marble-topped table. On it reposed a Bible, attached to a chain. "You probably don't remember me, Colonel," I said. "My name is Pared, and I'm associated with the firm of Watling, Fowndes, and Ripon." His air of marginality,--heightened by a grey moustache and goatee a la Napoleon Third,--vanished instantly; he became hospitable, ingratiating. "Why--why certainly, you were down heah with Mr. Fowndes two years ago." The Colonel spoke with a slight Southern accent. "To be sure, sir. I've had the honour of meeting your father. Mr. Norris, of North Haven, meet Mr. Paret--one of our rising lawyers..." I shook hands with them all and sat down. Opening his long coat, Colonel Varney revealed two rows of cigars, suggesting cartridges in a belt. These he proceeded to hand out as he talked. "I'm glad to see you here, Mr. Paret. You must stay awhile, and become acquainted with the men who--ahem--are shaping the destinies of a great state. It would give me pleasure to escort you about." I thanked him. I had learned enough to realize how important are the amenities in politics and business. The Colonel did most of the conversing; he could not have filled with efficiency and ease the important post that was his had it not been for the endless fund of humorous anecdotes at his disposal. One by one the visitors left, each assuring me of his personal regard: the Colonel closed the door, softly, turning the key in the lock; there was a sly look in his black eyes as he took a chair in proximity to mine. "Well, Mr. Paret," he asked softly, "what's up?" Without further ado I handed him Mr. Gorse's letter, and another Mr. Watling had given me for him, which contained a copy of the bill. He read these, laid them on the table, glancing at me again, stroking his goatee the while. He chuckled. "By gum!" he exclaimed. "I take off my hat to Theodore Watling, always did." He became contemplative. "It can be done, Mr. Paret, but it's going to take some careful driving, sir, some reaching out and flicking 'em when they r'ar and buck. Paul Varney's never been stumped yet. Just as soon as this is introduced we'll have Gates and Armstrong down here--they're the Ribblevale attorneys, aren't they? I thought so,--and the best legal talent they can hire. And they'll round up all the disgruntled fellows, you know,--that ain't friendly to the Railroad. We've got to do it quick, Mr. Paret. Gorse gave you a letter to the Governor, didn't he?" "Yes," I said. "Well, come along. I'll pass the word around among the boys, just to let 'em know what to expect." His eyes glittered again. "I've been following this Ribblevale business," he added, "and I understand Leonard Dickinson's all ready to reorganize that company, when the time comes. He ought to let me in for a little, on the ground floor." I did not venture to make any promises for Mr. Dickinson. "I reckon it's just as well if you were to meet me at the Governor's office," the Colonel added reflectively, and the hint was not lost on me. "It's better not to let 'em find out any sooner than they have to where this thing comes from,--you understand." He looked at his watch. "How would nine o'clock do? I'll be there, with Trulease, when you come,--by accident, you understand. Of course he'll be reasonable, but when they get to be governors they have little notions, you know, and you've got to indulge 'em, flatter 'em a little. It doesn't hurt, for when they get their backs up it only makes more trouble." He put on a soft, black felt hat, and departed noiselessly... At nine o'clock I arrived at the State House and was ushered into a great square room overlooking the park. The Governor was seated at a desk under an elaborate chandelier, and sure enough, Colonel Varney was there beside him; making barely perceptible signals. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Paret," said Mr. Trulease. "Your name is a familiar one in your city, sir. And I gather from your card that you are associated with my good friend, Theodore Watling." I acknowledged it. I was not a little impressed by the perfect blend of cordiality, democratic simplicity and impressiveness Mr. Trulease had achieved. For he had managed, in the course of a long political career, to combine in exact proportions these elements which, in the public mind, should up the personality of a chief executive. Momentarily he overcame the feeling of superiority with which I had entered his presence; neutralized the sense I had of being associated now with the higher powers which had put him where he was. For I knew all about his "record." "You're acquainted with Colonel Varney?" he inquired. "Yes, Governor, I've met the Colonel," I said. "Well, I suppose your firm is getting its share of business these days," Mr. Trulease observed. I acknowledged it was, and after discussing for a few moments the remarkable growth of my native city the Governor tapped on his desk and inquired what he could do for me. I produced the letter from the attorney for the Railroad. The Governor read it gravely. "Ah," he said, "from Mr. Gorse." A copy of the proposed bill was enclosed, and the Governor read that also, hemmed and hawed a little, turned and handed it to Colonel Varney, who was sitting with a detached air, smoking contemplatively, a vacant expression on his face. "What do you think of this, Colonel?" Whereupon the Colonel tore himself away from his reflections. "What's that, Governor?" "Mr. Gorse has called my attention to what seems to him a flaw in our statutes, an inability to obtain testimony from corporations whose books are elsewhere, and who may thus evade, he says, to a certain extent, the sovereign will of our state." The Colonel took the paper with an admirable air of surprise, adjusted his glasses, and became absorbed in reading, clearing his throat once or twice and emitting an exclamation. "Well, if you ask me, Governor," he said, at length, "all I can say is that I am astonished somebody didn't think of this simple remedy before now. Many times, sir, have I seen justice defeated because we had no such legislation as this." He handed it back. The Governor studied it once more, and coughed. "Does the penalty," he inquired, "seem to you a little severe?" "No, sir," replied the Colonel, emphatically. "Perhaps it is because I am anxious, as a citizen, to see an evil abated. I have had an intimate knowledge of legislation, sir, for more than twenty years in this state, and in all that time I do not remember to have seen a bill more concisely drawn, or better calculated to accomplish the ends of justice. Indeed, I often wondered why this very penalty was not imposed. Foreign magistrates are notoriously indifferent as to affairs in another state than their own. Rather than go into the hands of a receiver I venture to say that hereafter, if this bill is made a law, the necessary testimony will be forthcoming." The Governor read the bill through again. "If it is introduced, Colonel," he said, "the legislature and the people of the state ought to have it made clear to them that its aim is to remedy an injustice. A misunderstanding on this point would be unfortunate." "Most unfortunate, Governor." "And of course," added the Governor, now addressing me, "it would be improper for me to indicate what course I shall pursue in regard to it if it should come to me for my signature. Yet I may go so far as to say that the defect it seeks to remedy seems to me a real one. Come in and see me, Mr. Paret, when you are in town, and give my cordial regards to Mr. Watling." So gravely had the farce been carried on that I almost laughed, despite the fact that the matter in question was a serious one for me. The Governor held out his hand, and I accepted my dismissal. I had not gone fifty steps in the corridor before I heard the Colonel's voice in my ear. "We had to give him a little rope to go through with his act," he whispered confidentially. "But he'll sign it all right. And now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Paret, I'll lay a few mines. See you at the hotel, sir." Thus he indicated, delicately, that it would be better for me to keep out of sight. On my way to the Potts House the bizarre elements in the situation struck me again with considerable force. It seemed so ridiculous, so puerile to have to go through with this political farce in order that a natural economic evolution might be achieved. Without doubt the development of certain industries had reached a stage where the units in competition had become too small, when a greater concentration of capital was necessary. Curiously enough, in this mental argument of justification, I left out all consideration of the size of the probable profits to Mr. Scherer and his friends. Profits and brains went together. And, since the Almighty did not limit the latter, why should man attempt to limit the former? We were playing for high but justifiable stakes; and I resented the comedy which an hypocritical insistence on the forms of democracy compelled us to go through. It seemed unworthy of men who controlled the destinies of state and nation. The point of view, however, was consoling. As the day wore on I sat in the Colonel's room, admiring the skill with which he conducted the campaign: a green country lawyer had been got to introduce the bill, it had been expedited to the Committee on the Judiciary, which would have an executive session immediately after dinner. I had ventured to inquire about the hearings. "There won't be any hearings, sir," the Colonel assured me. "We own that committee from top to bottom." Indeed, by four o'clock in the afternoon the message came that the committee had agreed to recommend the bill. Shortly after that the first flurry occurred. There came a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a stocky Irish American of about forty years of age, whose black hair was plastered over his forehead. His sea-blue eyes had a stormy look. "Hello, Jim," said the Colonel. "I was just wondering where you were." "Sure, you must have been!" replied the gentleman sarcastically. But the Colonel's geniality was unruffled. "Mr. Maker," he said, "you ought to know Mr. Paret. Mr. Maker is the representative from Ward Five of your city, and we can always count on him to do the right thing, even if he is a Democrat. How about it, Jim?" Mr. Maker relighted the stump of his cigar. "Take a fresh one, Jim," said the Colonel, opening a bureau drawer. Mr. Maker took two. "Say, Colonel," he demanded, "what's this bill that went into the judiciary this morning?" "What bill?" asked the Colonel, blandly. "So you think I ain't on?" Mr. Maker inquired. The Colonel laughed. "Where have you been, Jim?" "I've been up to the city, seem' my wife--that's where I've been." The Colonel smiled, as at a harmless fiction. "Well, if you weren't here, I don't see what right you've got to complain. I never leave my good Democratic friends on the outside, do I?" "That's all right," replied Mr. Maker, doggedly, "I'm on, I'm here now, and that bill in the Judiciary doesn't pass without me. I guess I can stop it, too. How about a thousand apiece for five of us boys?" "You're pretty good at a joke, Jim," remarked the Colonel, stroking his goatee. "Maybe you're looking for a little publicity in this here game," retorted Mr. Maker, darkly. "Say, Colonel, ain't we always treated the Railroad on the level?" "Jim," asked the Colonel, gently, "didn't I always take care of you?" He had laid his hand on the shoulder of Mr. Maker, who appeared slightly mollified, and glanced at a massive silver watch. "Well, I'll be dropping in about eight o'clock," was his significant reply, as he took his leave. "I guess we'll have to grease the wheels a little," the Colonel remarked to me, and gazed at the ceiling.... The telegram apropos of the Ward Five leader was by no means the only cipher message I sent back during my stay. I had not needed to be told that the matter in hand would cost money, but Mr. Watling's parting instruction to me had been to take the Colonel's advice as to specific sums, and obtain confirmation from Fowndes. Nor was it any surprise to me to find Democrats on intimate terms with such a stout Republican as the Colonel. Some statesman is said to have declared that he knew neither Easterners nor Westerners, Northerners nor Southerners, but only Americans; so Colonel Varney recognized neither Democrats nor Republicans; in our legislature party divisions were sunk in a greater loyalty to the Railroad. At the Colonel's suggestion I had laid in a liberal supply of cigars and whiskey. The scene in his room that evening suggested a session of a sublimated grand lodge of some secret order, such were the mysterious comings and goings, knocks and suspenses. One after another the "important" men duly appeared and were introduced, the Colonel supplying the light touch. "Why, cuss me if it isn't Billy! Mr. Paret, I want you to shake hands with Mr. Donovan, the floor leader of the 'opposition,' sir. Mr. Donovan has had the habit of coming up here for a friendly chat ever since he first came down to the legislature. How long is it, Billy?" "I guess it's nigh on to fifteen years, Colonel." "Fifteen years!" echoed the Colonel, "and he's so good a Democrat it hasn't changed his politics a particle." Mr. Donovan grinned in appreciation of this thrust, helped himself liberally from the bottle on the mantel, and took a seat on the bed. We had a "friendly chat." Thus I made the acquaintance also of the Hon. Joseph Mecklin, Speaker of the House, who unbent in the most flattering way on learning my identity. "Mr. Paret's here on that little matter, representing Watling, Fowndes and Ripon," the Colonel explained. And it appeared that Mr. Mecklin knew all about the "little matter," and that the mention of the firm of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon had a magical effect in these parts. The President of the Senate, the Hon. Lafe Giddings, went so far as to say that he hoped before long to see Mr. Watling in Washington. By no means the least among our callers was the Hon. Fitch Truesdale, editor of the St. Helen's Messenger, whose editorials were of the trite effectiveness that is taken widely for wisdom, and were assiduously copied every week by other state papers and labeled "Mr. Truesdale's Common Sense." At countless firesides in our state he was known as the spokesman of the plain man, who was blissfully ignorant of the fact that Mr. Truesdale was owned body and carcass by Mr. Cyrus Ridden, the principal manufacturer of St. Helen's and a director in several subsidiary lines of the Railroad. In the legislature, the Hon. Fitch's function was that of the moderate counsellor and bellwether for new members, hence nothing could have been more fitting than the choice of that gentleman for the honour of moving, on the morrow, that Bill No. 709 ought to pass. Mr. Truesdale reluctantly consented to accept a small "loan" that would help to pay the mortgage on his new press.... When the last of the gathering had departed, about one o'clock in the morning, I had added considerably to my experience, gained a pretty accurate idea of who was who in the legislature and politics of the state, and established relationships--as the Colonel reminded me--likely to prove valuable in the future. It seemed only gracious to congratulate him on his management of the affair,--so far. He appeared pleased, and squeezed my hand. "Well, sir, it did require a little delicacy of touch. And if I do say it myself, it hasn't been botched," he admitted. "There ain't an outsider, as far as I can learn, who has caught on to the nigger in the wood-pile. That's the great thing, to keep 'em ignorant as long as possible. You understand. They yell bloody murder when they do find out, but generally it's too late, if a bill's been handled right." I found myself speculating as to who the "outsiders" might be. No Ribblevale attorneys were on the spot as yet,--of that I was satisfied. In the absence of these, who were the opposition? It seemed to me as though I had interviewed that day every man in the legislature. I was very tired. But when I got into bed, it was impossible to sleep. My eyes smarted from the tobacco smoke; and the events of the day, in disorderly manner, kept running through my head. The tide of my exhilaration had ebbed, and I found myself struggling against a revulsion caused, apparently, by the contemplation of Colonel Varney and his associates; the instruments, in brief, by which our triumph over our opponents was to be effected. And that same idea which, when launched amidst the surroundings of the Boyne Club, had seemed so brilliant, now took on an aspect of tawdriness. Another thought intruded itself,--that of Mr. Pugh, the president of the Ribblevale Company. My father had known him, and some years before I had traveled halfway across the state in his company; his kindliness had impressed me. He had spent a large part of his business life, I knew, in building up the Ribblevale, and now it was to be wrested from him; he was to be set aside, perhaps forced to start all over again when old age was coming on! In vain I accused myself of sentimentality, and summoned all my arguments to prove that in commerce efficiency must be the only test. The image of Mr. Pugh would not down. I got up and turned on the light, and took refuge in a novel I had in my bag. Presently I grew calmer. I had chosen. I had succeeded. And now that I had my finger at last on the nerve of power, it was no time to weaken. It was half-past six when I awoke and went to the window, relieved to find that the sun had scattered my morbid fancies with the darkness; and I speculated, as I dressed, whether the thing called conscience were not, after all, a matter of nerves. I went downstairs through the tobacco-stale atmosphere of the lobby into the fresh air and sparkly sunlight of the mild February morning, and leaving the business district I reached the residence portion of the little town. The front steps of some of the comfortable houses were being swept by industrious servant girls, and out of the chimneys twisted, fantastically, rich blue smoke; the bare branches of the trees were silver-grey against the sky; gaining at last an old-fashioned, wooden bridge, I stood for awhile gazing at the river, over the shallows of which the spendthrift hand of nature had flung a shower of diamonds. And I reflected that the world was for the strong, for him who dared reach out his hand and take what it offered. It was not money we coveted, we Americans, but power, the self-expression conferred by power. A single experience such as I had had the night before would since to convince any sane man that democracy was a failure, that the world-old principle of aristocracy would assert itself, that the attempt of our ancestors to curtail political power had merely resulted in the growth of another and greater economic power that bade fair to be limitless. As I walked slowly back into town I felt a reluctance to return to the noisy hotel, and finding myself in front of a little restaurant on a side street, I entered it. There was but one other customer in the place, and he was seated on the far side of the counter, with a newspaper in front of him; and while I was ordering my breakfast I was vaguely aware that the newspaper had dropped, and that he was looking at me. In the slight interval that elapsed before my brain could register his identity I experienced a distinct shock of resentment; a sense of the reintrusion of an antagonistic value at a moment when it was most unwelcome.... The man had risen and was coming around the counter. He was Hermann Krebs. "Paret!" I heard him say. "You here?" I exclaimed. He did not seem to notice the lack of cordiality in my tone. He appeared so genuinely glad to see me again that I instantly became rather ashamed of my ill nature. "Yes, I'm here--in the legislature," he informed me. "A Solon!" "Exactly." He smiled. "And you?" he inquired. "Oh, I'm only a spectator. Down here for a day or two." He was still lanky, his clothes gave no evidence of an increased prosperity, but his complexion was good, his skin had cleared. I was more than ever baked by a resolute good humour, a simplicity that was not innocence, a whimsical touch seemingly indicative of a state of mind that refused to take too seriously certain things on which I set store. What right had he to be contented with life? "Well, I too am only a spectator here," he laughed. "I'm neither fish, flesh nor fowl, nor good red herring." "You were going into the law, weren't you?" I asked. "I remember you said something about it that day we met at Beverly Farms." "Yes, I managed it, after all. Then I went back home to Elkington to try to make a living." "But somehow I have never thought of you as being likely to develop political aspirations, Krebs," I said. "I should say not! he exclaimed. "Yet here you are, launched upon a political career! How did it happen?" "Oh, I'm not worrying about the career," he assured me. "I got here by accident, and I'm afraid it won't happen again in a hurry. You see, the hands in those big mills we have in Elkington sprang a surprise on the machine, and the first thing I knew I was nominated for the legislature. A committee came to my boarding-house and told me, and there was the deuce to pay, right off. The Railroad politicians turned in and worked for the Democratic candidate, of course, and the Hutchinses, who own the mills, tried through emissaries to intimidate their operatives." "And then?" I asked. "Well,--I'm here," he said. "Wouldn't you be accomplishing more," I inquired, "if you hadn't antagonized the Hutchinses?" "It depends upon what you mean by accomplishment," he answered, so mildly that I felt more rued than ever. "Well, from what you say, I suppose you're going in for reform, that these workmen up at Elkington are not satisfied with their conditions and imagine you can help to better them. Now, provided the conditions are not as good as they might be, how are you going to improve them if you find yourself isolated here, as you say?" "In other words, I should cooperate with Colonel Varney and other disinterested philanthropists," he supplied, and I realized that I was losing my temper. "Well, what can you do?" I inquired defiantly. "I can find out what's going on," he said. "I have already learned something, by the way." "And then?" I asked, wondering whether the implication were personal. "Then I can help--disseminate the knowledge. I may be wrong, but I have an idea that when the people of this country learn how their legislatures are conducted they will want to change things." "That's right!" echoed the waiter, who had come up with my griddle-cakes. "And you're the man to tell 'em, Mr. Krebs." "It will need several thousand of us to do that, I'm afraid," said Krebs, returning his smile. My distaste for the situation became more acute, but I felt that I was thrown on the defensive. I could not retreat, now. "I think you are wrong," I declared, when the waiter had departed to attend to another customer. "The people the great majority of them, at least are indifferent, they don't want to be bothered with politics. There will always be labour agitation, of course,--the more wages those fellows get, the more they want. We pay the highest wages in the world to-day, and the standard of living is higher in this country than anywhere else. They'd ruin our prosperity, if we'd let 'em." "How about the thousands of families who don't earn enough to live decently even in times of prosperity?" inquired Krebs. "It's hard, I'll admit, but the inefficient and the shiftless are bound to suffer, no matter what form of government you adopt." "You talk about standards of living,--I could show you some examples of standards to make your heart sick," he said. "What you don't realize, perhaps, is that low standards help to increase the inefficient of whom you complain." He smiled rather sadly. "The prosperity you are advocating," he added, after a moment, "is a mere fiction, it is gorging the few at the expense of the many. And what is being done in this country is to store up an explosive gas that some day will blow your superstructure to atoms if you don't wake up in time." "Isn't that a rather one-sided view, too?" I suggested. "I've no doubt it may appear so, but take the proceedings in this legislature. I've no doubt you know something about them, and that you would maintain they are justified on account of the indifference of the public, and of other reasons, but I can cite an instance that is simply legalized thieving." For the first time a note of indignation crept into Krebs's voice. "Last night I discovered by a mere accident, in talking to a man who came in on a late train, that a bill introduced yesterday, which is being rushed through the Judiciary Committee of the House--an apparently innocent little bill--will enable, if it becomes a law, the Boyne Iron Works, of your city, to take possession of the Ribblevale Steel Company, lock, stock, and barrel. And I am told it was conceived by a lawyer who claims to be a respectable member of his profession, and who has extraordinary ability, Theodore Watling." Krebs put his hand in his pocket and drew out a paper. "Here's a copy of it,--House Bill 709." His expression suddenly changed. "Perhaps Mr. Watling is a friend of yours." "I'm with his firm," I replied.... Krebs's fingers closed over the paper, crumpling it. "Oh, then, you know about this," he said. He was putting the paper back into his pocket when I took it from him. But my adroitness, so carefully schooled, seemed momentarily to have deserted me. What should I say? It was necessary to decide quickly. "Don't you take rather a--prejudiced view of this, Krebs?" I said. "Upon my word, I can't see why you should accept a rumour running around the lobbies that Mr. Watling drafted this bill for a particular purpose." He was silent. But his eyes did not leave my face. "Why should any sensible man, a member of the legislature, take stock in that kind of gossip?" I insisted. "Why not judge this bill by its face, without heeding a cock and bull story as to how it may have originated? It is a good bill, or a bad bill? Let's see what it says." I read it. "So far as I can see, it is legislation which we ought to have had long ago, and tends to compel a publicity in corporation affairs that is much needed, to put a stop to practices which every decent citizen deplores." He drew the paper out of my hand. "You needn't go on, Paret," he told me. "It's no use." "Well, I'm sorry we don't agree," I said, and got up. I left him twisting the paper in his fingers. Beside the clerk's desk in the Potts House, relating one of his anecdotes, I spied Colonel Varney, and managed presently to draw him upstairs to his room. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Do you know a man named Krebs in the House?" I said. "From Elkington? Why, that's the man the Hutchinses let slip through,--the Hutchinses, who own the mills over there. The agitators put up a job on them." The Colonel was no longer the genial and social purveyor of anecdotes. He had become tense, alert, suspicious. "What's he up to?" "He's found out about this bill," I replied. "How?" "I don't know. But someone told him that it originated in our office, and that we were going to use it in our suit against the Ribblevale." I related the circumstances of my running across Krebs, speaking of having known him at Harvard. Colonel Varney uttered an oath, and strode across to the window, where he stood looking down into the street from between the lace curtains. "We'll have to attend to him, right off," he said. I was surprised to find myself resenting the imputation, and deeply. "I'm afraid he's one of those who can't be 'attended to,'" I answered. "You mean that he's in the employ of the Ribblevale people?" the Colonel inquired. "I don't mean anything of the kind," I retorted, with more heat, perhaps, than I realized. The Colonel looked at me queerly. "That's all right, Mr. Paret. Of course I don't want to question your judgment, sir. And you say he's a friend of yours." "I said I knew him at college." "But you will pardon me," the Colonel went on, "when I tell you that I've had some experience with that breed, and I have yet to see one of 'em you couldn't come to terms with in some way--in some way," he added, significantly. I did not pause to reflect that the Colonel's attitude, from his point of view (yes, and from mine,--had I not adopted it?) was the logical one. In that philosophy every man had his price, or his weakness. Yet, such is the inconsistency of human nature, I was now unable to contemplate this attitude with calmness. "Mr. Krebs is a lawyer. Has he accepted a pass from the Railroad?" I demanded, knowing the custom of that corporation of conferring this delicate favour on the promising young talent in my profession. "I reckon he's never had the chance," said Mr. Varney. "Well, has he taken a pass as a member of the legislature?" "No,--I remember looking that up when he first came down. Sent that back, if I recall the matter correctly." Colonel Varney went to a desk in the corner of the room, unlocked it, drew forth a black book, and running his fingers through the pages stopped at the letter K. "Yes, sent back his legislative pass, but I've known 'em to do that when they were holding out for something more. There must be somebody who can get close to him." The Colonel ruminated awhile. Then he strode to the door and called out to the group of men who were always lounging in the hall. "Tell Alf Young I want to see him, Fred." I waited, by no means free from uneasiness and anxiety, from a certain lack of self-respect that was unfamiliar. Mr. Young, the Colonel explained, was a legal light in Galesburg, near Elkington,--the Railroad lawyer there. And when at last Mr. Young appeared he proved to be an oily gentleman of about forty, inclining to stoutness, with one of those "blue," shaven faces. "Want me, Colonel?" he inquired blithely, when the door had closed behind him; and added obsequiously, when introduced to me, "Glad to meet you, Mr. Paret. My regards to Mr. Watling, when you go back. "Alf," demanded the Colonel, "what do you know of this fellow Krebs?" Mr. Young laughed. Krebs was "nutty," he declared--that was all there was to it. "Won't he--listen to reason?" "It's been tried, Colonel. Say, he wouldn't know a hundred-dollar bill if you showed him one." "What does he want?" "Oh, something,--that's sure, they all want something." Mr. Young shrugged his shoulder expressively, and by a skillful manipulation of his lips shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other without raising his hands. "But it ain't money. I guess he's got a notion that later on the labour unions'll send him to the United States Senate some day. He's no slouch, either, when it comes to law. I can tell you that." "No--no flaw in his--record?" Colonel Varney's agate eyes sought those of Mr. Young, meaningly. "That's been tried, too," declared the Galesburg attorney. "Say, you can believe it or not, but we've never dug anything up so far. He's been too slick for us, I guess." "Well," exclaimed the Colonel, at length, "let him squeal and be d--d! He can't do any more than make a noise. Only I hoped we'd be able to grease this thing along and slide it through the Senate this afternoon, before they got wind of it." "He'll squeal, all right, until you smother him," Mr. Young observed. "We'll smother him some day!" replied the Colonel, savagely. Mr. Young laughed. But as I made my way toward the State House I was conscious of a feeling of relief. I had no sooner gained a front seat in the gallery of the House of Representatives when the members rose, the Senate marched gravely in, the Speaker stopped jesting with the Chaplain, and over the Chaplain's face came suddenly an agonized expression. Folding his hands across his stomach he began to call on God with terrific fervour, in an intense and resounding voice. I was struck suddenly by the irony of it all. Why have a legislature when Colonel Paul Varney was so efficient! The legislature was a mere sop to democratic prejudice, to pray over it heightened the travesty. Suppose there were a God after all? not necessarily the magnified monarch to whom these pseudo-democrats prayed, but an Intelligent Force that makes for righteousness. How did He, or It, like to be trifled with in this way? And, if He existed, would not His disgust be immeasurable as He contemplated that unctuous figure in the "Prince Albert" coat, who pretended to represent Him? As the routine business began I searched for Krebs, to find him presently at a desk beside a window in the rear of the hall making notes on a paper; there was, confessedly, little satisfaction in the thought that the man whose gaunt features I contemplated was merely one of those impractical idealists who beat themselves to pieces against the forces that sway the world and must forever sway it. I should be compelled to admit that he represented something unique in that assembly if he had the courage to get up and oppose House Bill 709. I watched him narrowly; the suggestion intruded itself--perhaps he had been "seen," as the Colonel expressed it. I repudiated it. I grew impatient, feverish; the monotonous reading of the clerk was interrupted now and then by the sharp tones of the Speaker assigning his various measures to this or that committee, "unless objection is offered," while the members moved about and murmured among themselves; Krebs had stopped making notes; he was looking out of the window. At last, without any change of emphasis in his droning voice, the clerk announced the recommendation of the Committee on Judiciary that House Bill 709 ought to pass. Down in front a man had risen from his seat--the felicitous Mr. Truesdale. Glancing around at his fellow-members he then began to explain in the impressive but conversational tone of one whose counsels are in the habit of being listened to, that this was merely a little measure to remedy a flaw in the statutes. Mr. Truesdale believed in corporations when corporations were good, and this bill was calculated to make them good, to put an end to jugglery and concealment. Our great state, he said, should be in the forefront of such wise legislation, which made for justice and a proper publicity; but the bill in question was of greater interest to lawyers than to laymen, a committee composed largely of lawyers had recommended it unanimously, and he was sure that no opposition would develop in the House. In order not to take up their time he asked: therefore, that it be immediately put on its second and third reading and allowed to pass. He sat down, and I looked at Krebs. Could he, could any man, any lawyer, have the presumption to question such an obviously desirable measure, to arraign the united judgment of the committee's legal talent? Such was the note Mr. Truesdale so admirably struck. As though fascinated, I continued to gaze at Krebs. I hated him, I desired to see him humiliated, and yet amazingly I found myself wishing with almost equal vehemence that he would be true to himself. He was rising,--slowly, timidly, I thought, his hand clutching his desk lid, his voice sounding wholly inadequate as he addressed the Speaker. The Speaker hesitated, his tone palpably supercilious. "The gentleman from--from Elkington, Mr. Krebs." There was a craning of necks, a staring, a tittering. I burned with vicarious shame as Krebs stood there awkwardly, his hand still holding the desk. There were cries of "louder" when he began; some picked up their newspapers, while others started conversations. The Speaker rapped with his gavel, and I failed to hear the opening words. Krebs paused, and began again. His speech did not, at first, flow easily. "Mr. Speaker, I rise to protest against this bill, which in my opinion is not so innocent as the gentleman from St. Helen's would have the House believe. It is on a par, indeed, with other legislation that in past years has been engineered through this legislature under the guise of beneficent law. No, not on a par. It is the most arrogant, the most monstrous example of special legislation of them all. And while I do not expect to be able to delay its passage much longer than the time I shall be on my feet--" "Then why not sit down?" came a voice, just audible. As he turned swiftly toward the offender his profile had an eagle-like effect that startled me, seemingly realizing a new quality in the man. It was as though he had needed just the stimulus of that interruption to electrify and transform him. His awkwardness disappeared; and if he was a little bombastic, a little "young," he spoke with the fire of conviction. "Because," he cried, "because I should lose my self-respect for life if I sat here and permitted the political organization of a railroad, the members of which are here under the guise of servants of the people, to cow me into silence. And if it be treason to mention the name of that Railroad in connection with its political tyranny, then make the most of it." He let go of the desk, and tapped the copy of the bill. "What are the facts? The Boyne Iron Works, under the presidency of Adolf Scherer, has been engaged in litigation with the Ribblevale Steel Company for some years: and this bill is intended to put into the hands of the attorneys for Mr. Scherer certain information that will enable him to get possession of the property. Gentlemen, that is what 'legal practice' has descended to in the hands of respectable lawyers. This device originated with the resourceful Mr. Theodore Watling, and if it had not had the approval of Mr. Miller Gorse, it would never have got any farther than the judiciary committee. It was confided to the skillful care of Colonel Paul Varney to be steered through this legislature, as hundreds of other measures have been steered through,--without unnecessary noise. It may be asked why the Railroad should bother itself by lending its political organization to private corporations? I will tell you. Because corporations like the Boyne corporation are a part of a network of interests, these corporations aid the Railroad to maintain its monopoly, and in return receive rebates." Krebs had raised his voice as the murmurs became louder. At this point a sharp-faced lawyer from Belfast got to his feet and objected that the gentleman from Elkington was wasting the time of the House, indulging in hearsay. His remarks were not germane, etc. The Speaker rapped again, with a fine show of impartiality, and cautioned the member from Elkington. "Very well," replied Krebs. "I have said what I wanted to say on that score, and I know it to be the truth. And if this House does not find it germane, the day is coming when its constituents will." Whereupon he entered into a discussion of the bill, dissecting it with more calmness, with an ability that must have commanded, even from some hostile minds, an unwilling respect. The penalty, he said, was outrageous, hitherto unheard of in law,--putting a corporation in the hands of a receiver, at the mercy of those who coveted it, because one of its officers refused, or was unable, to testify. He might be in China, in Timbuctoo when the summons was delivered at his last or usual place of abode. Here was an enormity, an exercise of tyrannical power exceeding all bounds, a travesty on popular government.... He ended by pointing out the significance of the fact that the committee had given no hearings; by declaring that if the bill became a law, it would inevitably react upon the heads of those who were responsible for it. He sat down, and there was a flutter of applause from the scattered audience in the gallery. "By God, that's the only man in the whole place!" I was aware, for the first time, of a neighbour at my side,--a solid, red-faced man, evidently a farmer. His trousers were tucked into his boots, and his gnarled and powerful hands, ingrained with dirt, clutched the arms of the seat as he leaned forward. "Didn't he just naturally lambaste 'em?" he cried excitedly. "They'll down him, I guess,--but say, he's right. A man would lose his self-respect if he didn't let out his mind at them hoss thieves, wouldn't he? What's that fellow's name?" I told him. "Krebs," he repeated. "I want to remember that. Durned if I don't shake hands with him." His excitement astonished me. Would the public feel like that, if they only knew?... The Speaker's gavel had come down like a pistol shot. One "war-hoss"--as my neighbour called them--after another proceeded to crush the member from Elkington. It was, indeed, very skillfully done, and yet it was a process from which I did not derive, somehow, much pleasure. Colonel Varney's army had been magnificently trained to meet just this kind of situation: some employed ridicule, others declared, in impassioned tones, that the good name of their state had been wantonly assailed, and pointed fervently to portraits on the walls of patriots of the past,--sentiments that drew applause from the fickle gallery. One gentleman observed that the obsession of a "railroad machine" was a sure symptom of a certain kind of insanity, of which the first speaker had given many other evidences. The farmer at my side remained staunch. "They can't fool me," he said angrily, "I know 'em. Do you see that fellow gettin' up to talk now? Well, I could tell you a few things about him, all right. He comes from Glasgow, and his name's Letchworth. He's done more harm in his life than all the criminals he's kept out of prison,--belongs to one of the old families down there, too." I had, indeed, remarked Letchworth's face, which seemed to me peculiarly evil, its lividity enhanced by a shock of grey hair. His method was withering sarcasm, and he was clearly unable to control his animus.... No champion appeared to support Krebs, who sat pale and tense while this denunciation of him was going on. Finally he got the floor. His voice trembled a little, whether with passion, excitement, or nervousness it was impossible to say. But he contented himself with a brief defiance. If the bill passed, he declared, the men who voted for it, the men who were behind it, would ultimately be driven from political life by an indignant public. He had a higher opinion of the voters of the state than those who accused him of slandering it, than those who sat silent and had not lifted their voices against this crime. When the bill was put to a vote he demanded a roll call. Ten members besides himself were recorded against House Bill No. 709! In spite of this overwhelming triumph my feelings were not wholly those of satisfaction when I returned to the hotel and listened to the exultations and denunciations of such politicians as Letchworth, Young, and Colonel Varney. Perhaps an image suggesting Hermann Krebs as some splendid animal at bay, dragged down by the hounds, is too strong: he had been ingloriously crushed, and defeat, even for the sake of conviction, was not an inspiring spectacle.... As the chase swept on over his prostrate figure I rapidly regained poise and a sense of proportion; a "master of life" could not permit himself to be tossed about by sentimentality; and gradually I grew ashamed of my bad quarter of an hour in the gallery of the House, and of the effect of it--which lingered awhile--as of a weakness suddenly revealed, which must at all costs be overcome. I began to see something dramatic and sensational in Krebs's performance.... The Ribblevale Steel Company was the real quarry, after all. And such had been the expedition, the skill and secrecy, with which our affair was conducted, that before the Ribblevale lawyers could arrive, alarmed and breathless, the bill had passed the House, and their only real chance of halting it had been lost. For the Railroad controlled the House, not by owning the individuals composing it, but through the leaders who dominated it,--men like Letchworth and Truesdale. These, and Colonel Varney, had seen to it that men who had any parliamentary ability had been attended to; all save Krebs, who had proved a surprise. There were indeed certain members who, although they had railroad passes in their pockets (which were regarded as just perquisites,--the Railroad being so rich!), would have opposed the bill if they had felt sufficiently sure of themselves to cope with such veterans as Letchworth. Many of these had allowed themselves to be won over or cowed by the oratory which had crushed Krebs. Nor did the Ribblevale people--be it recorded--scruple to fight fire with fire. Their existence, of course, was at stake, and there was no public to appeal to. A part of the legal army that rushed to the aid of our adversaries spent the afternoon and most of the night organizing all those who could be induced by one means or another to reverse their sentiments, and in searching for the few who had grievances against the existing power. The following morning a motion was introduced to reconsider; and in the debate that followed, Krebs, still defiant, took an active part. But the resolution required a two-thirds vote, and was lost. When the battle was shifted to the Senate it was as good as lost. The Judiciary Committee of the august body did indeed condescend to give hearings, at which the Ribblevale lawyers exhausted their energy and ingenuity without result with only two dissenting votes the bill was calmly passed. In vain was the Governor besieged, entreated, threatened,--it was said; Mr. Trulease had informed protesters--so Colonel Varney gleefully reported--that he had "become fully convinced of the inherent justice of the measure." On Saturday morning he signed it, and it became a law.... Colonel Varney, as he accompanied me to the train, did not conceal his jubilation. "Perhaps I ought not to say it, Mr. Paret, but it couldn't have been done neater. That's the art in these little affairs, to get 'em runnin' fast, to get momentum on 'em before the other party wakes up, and then he can't stop 'em." As he shook hands in farewell he added, with more gravity: "We'll see each other often, sir, I guess. My very best regards to Mr. Watling." Needless to say, I had not confided to him the part I had played in originating House Bill No. 709, now a law of the state. But as the train rolled on through the sunny winter landscape a sense of well-being, of importance and power began to steal through me. I was victoriously bearing home my first scalp,--one which was by no means to be despised.... It was not until we reached Rossiter, about five o'clock, that I was able to get the evening newspapers. Such was the perfection of the organization of which I might now call myself an integral part that the "best" publications contained only the barest mention,--and that in the legislative news,--of the signing of the bill. I read with complacency and even with amusement the flaring headlines I had anticipated in Mr. Lawler's 'Pilot.' "The Governor Signs It!" "Special legislation, forced through by the Railroad Lobby, which will drive honest corporations from this state." "Ribblevale Steel Company the Victim." It was common talk in the capital, the article went on to say, that Theodore Watling himself had drawn up the measure.... Perusing the editorial page my eye fell on the name, Krebs. One member of the legislature above all deserved the gratitude of the people of the state,--the member from Elkington. "An unknown man, elected in spite of the opposition of the machine, he had dared to raise his voice against this iniquity," etc., etc. We had won. That was the essential thing. And my legal experience had taught me that victory counts; defeat is soon forgotten. Even the discontented, half-baked and heterogeneous element from which the Pilot got its circulation had short memories. XI. The next morning, which was Sunday, I went to Mr. Watling's house in, Fillmore Street--a new residence at that time, being admired as the dernier cri in architecture. It had a mediaeval look, queer dormers in a steep roof of red tiles, leaded windows buried deep in walls of rough stone. Emerging from the recessed vestibule on a level with the street were the Watling twins, aglow with health, dressed in identical costumes of blue. They had made their bow to society that winter. "Why, here's Hugh!" said Frances. "Doesn't he look pleased with himself?" "He's come to take us to church," said Janet. "Oh, he's much too important," said Frances. "He's made a killing of some sort,--haven't you, Hugh?"... I rang the bell and stood watching them as they departed, reflecting that I was thirty-two years of age and unmarried. Mr. Watling, surrounded with newspapers and seated before his library fire, glanced up at me with a welcoming smile: how had I borne the legislative baptism of fire? Such, I knew, was its implication. "Everything went through according to schedule, eh? Well, I congratulate you, Hugh," he said. "Oh, I didn't have much to do with it," I answered, smiling back at him. "I kept out of sight." "That's an art in itself." "I had an opportunity, at close range, to study the methods of our lawmakers." "They're not particularly edifying," Mr. Watling replied. "But they seem, unfortunately, to be necessary." Such had been my own thought. "Who is this man Krebs?" he inquired suddenly. "And why didn't Varney get hold of him and make him listen to reason?" "I'm afraid it wouldn't have been any use," I replied. "He was in my class at Harvard. I knew him--slightly. He worked his way through, and had a pretty hard time of it. I imagine it affected his ideas." "What is he, a Socialist?" "Something of the sort." In Theodore Watling's vigorous, sanity-exhaling presence Krebs's act appeared fantastic, ridiculous. "He has queer notions about a new kind of democracy which he says is coming. I think he is the kind of man who would be willing to die for it." "What, in these days!" Mr. Watling looked at me incredulously. "If that's so, we must keep an eye on him, a sincere fanatic is a good deal more dangerous than a reformer who wants something. There are such men," he added, "but they are rare. How was the Governor, Trulease?" he asked suddenly. "Tractable?" "Behaved like a lamb, although he insisted upon going through with his little humbug," I said. Mr. Watling laughed. "They always do," he observed, "and waste a lot of valuable time. You'll find some light cigars in the corner, Hugh." I sat down beside him and we spent the morning going over the details of the Ribblevale suit, Mr. Watling delegating to me certain matters connected with it of a kind with which I had not hitherto been entrusted; and he spoke again, before I left, of his intention of taking me into the firm as soon as the affair could be arranged. Walking homeward, with my mind intent upon things to come, I met my mother at the corner of Lyme Street coming from church. Her face lighted up at sight of me. "Have you been working to-day, Hugh?" she asked. I explained that I had spent the morning with Mr. Watling. "I'll tell you a secret, mother. I'm going to be taken into the firm." "Oh, my dear, I'm so glad!" she exclaimed. "I often think, if only your father were alive, how happy he would be, and how proud of you. I wish he could know. Perhaps he does know." Theodore Watling had once said to me that the man who can best keep his own counsel is the best counsel for other men to keep. I did not go about boasting of the part I had played in originating the now famous Bill No. 709, the passage of which had brought about the capitulation of the Ribblevale Steel Company to our clients. But Ralph Hambleton knew of it, of course. "That was a pretty good thing you pulled off, Hughie," he said. "I didn't think you had it in you." It was rank patronage, of course, yet I was secretly pleased. As the years went on I was thrown more and more with him, though in boyhood there had been between us no bond of sympathy. About this time he was beginning to increase very considerably the Hambleton fortune, and a little later I became counsel for the Crescent Gas and Electric Company, in which he had shrewdly gained a controlling interest. Even toward the colossal game of modern finance his attitude was characteristically that of the dilettante, of the amateur; he played it, as it were, contemptuously, even as he had played poker at Harvard, with a cynical audacity that had a peculiarly disturbing effect upon his companions. He bluffed, he raised the limit in spite of protests, and when he lost one always had the feeling that he would ultimately get his money back twice over. At the conferences in the Boyne Club, which he often attended, his manner toward Mr. Dickinson and Mr. Scherer and even toward Miller Gorse was frequently one of thinly veiled amusement at their seriousness. I often wondered that they did not resent it. But he was a privileged person. His cousin, Ham Durrett, whose inheritance was even greater than Ralph's had been, had also become a privileged person whose comings and goings and more reputable doings were often recorded in the newspapers. Ham had attained to what Gene Hollister aptly but inadvertently called "notoriety": as Ralph wittily remarked, Ham gave to polo and women that which might have gone into high finance. He spent much of his time in the East; his conduct there and at home would once have created a black scandal in our community, but we were gradually leaving our Calvinism behind us and growing more tolerant: we were ready to Forgive much to wealth especially if it was inherited. Hostesses lamented the fact that Ham was "wild," but they asked him to dinners and dances to meet their daughters. If some moralist better educated and more far-seeing than Perry Blackwood (for Perry had become a moralist) had told these hostesses that Hambleton Durrett was a victim of our new civilization, they would have raised their eyebrows. They deplored while they coveted. If Ham had been told he was a victim of any sort, he would have laughed. He enjoyed life; he was genial and jovial, both lavish and parsimonious,--this latter characteristic being the curious survival of the trait of the ancestors to which he owed his millions. He was growing even heavier, and decidedly red in the face. Perry used to take Ralph to task for not saving Ham from his iniquities, and Ralph would reply that Ham was going to the devil anyway, and not even the devil himself could stop him. "You can stop him, and you know it," Perry retorted indignantly. "What do you want me to do with him?" asked Ralph. "Convert him to the saintly life I lead?" This was a poser. "That's a fact," sand Perry, "you're no better than he is." "I don't know what you mean by 'better,'" retorted Ralph, grinning. "I'm wiser, that's all." (We had been talking about the ethics of business when Perry had switched off to Ham.) "I believe, at least, in restraint of trade. Ham doesn't believe in restraint of any kind." When, therefore, the news suddenly began to be circulated in the Boyne Club that Ham was showing a tendency to straighten up, surprise and incredulity were genuine. He was drinking less,--much less; and it was said that he had severed certain ties that need not again be definitely mentioned. The theory of religious regeneration not being tenable, it was naturally supposed that he had fallen in love; the identity of the unknown lady becoming a fruitful subject of speculation among the feminine portion of society. The announcement of the marriage of Hambleton Durrett would be news of the first magnitude, to be absorbed eagerly by the many who had not the honour of his acquaintance, --comparable only to that of a devastating flood or a murder mystery or a change in the tariff. Being absorbed in affairs that seemed more important, the subject did not interest me greatly. But one cold Sunday afternoon, as I made my way, in answer to her invitation, to see Nancy Willett, I found myself wondering idly whether she might not be by way of making a shrewd guess as to the object of Hambleton's affections. It was well known that he had entertained a hopeless infatuation for her; and some were inclined to attribute his later lapses to her lack of response. He still called on her, and her lectures, which she delivered like a great aunt with a recondite knowledge of the world, he took meekly. But even she had seemed powerless to alter his habits.... Powell Street, that happy hunting-ground of my youth, had changed its character, become contracted and unfamiliar, sooty. The McAlerys and other older families who had not decayed with the neighbourhood were rapidly deserting it, moving out to the new residence district known as "the Heights." I came to the Willett House. That, too, had an air of shabbiness,--of well-tended shabbiness, to be sure; the stone steps had been scrupulously scrubbed, but one of them was cracked clear across, and the silver on the polished name-plate was wearing off; even the act of pulling the knob of a door-bell was becoming obsolete, so used had we grown to pushing porcelain buttons in bright, new vestibules. As I waited for my summons to be answered it struck me as remarkable that neither Nancy nor her father had been contaminated by the shabbiness that surrounded them. She had managed rather marvellously to redeem one room from the old-fashioned severity of the rest of the house, the library behind the big "parlour." It was Nancy's room, eloquent of her daintiness and taste, of her essential modernity and luxuriousness; and that evening, as I was ushered into it, this quality of luxuriousness, of being able to shut out the disagreeable aspects of life that surrounded and threatened her, particularly impressed me. She had not lacked opportunities to escape. I wondered uneasily as I waited why she had not embraced them. I strayed about the room. A coal fire burned in the grate, the red-shaded lamps gave a subdued but cheerful light; some impulse led me to cross over to the windows and draw aside the heavy hangings. Dusk was gathering over that garden, bleak and frozen now, where we had romped together as children. How queer the place seemed! How shrivelled! Once it had had the wide range of a park. There, still weathering the elements, was the old-fashioned latticed summer-house, but the fruit-trees that I recalled as clouds of pink and white were gone.... A touch of poignancy was in these memories. I dropped the curtain, and turned to confront Nancy, who had entered noiselessly. "Well, Hugh, were you dreaming?" she said. "Not exactly," I replied, embarrassed. "I was looking at the garden." "The soot has ruined it. My life seems to be one continual struggle against the soot,--the blacks, as the English call them. It's a more expressive term. They are like an army, you know, overwhelming in their relentless invasion. Well, do sit down. It is nice of you to come. You'll have some tea, won't you?" The maid had brought in the tray. Afternoon tea was still rather a new custom with us, more of a ceremony than a meal; and as Nancy handed me my cup and the thinnest of slices of bread and butter I found the intimacy of the situation a little disquieting. Her manner was indeed intimate, and yet it had the odd and disturbing effect of making her seem more remote. As she chatted I answered her perfunctorily, while all the time I was asking myself why I had ceased to desire her, whether the old longing for her might not return--was not even now returning? I might indeed go far afield to find a wife so suited to me as Nancy. She had beauty, distinction, and position. She was a woman of whom any man might be proud.... "I haven't congratulated you yet, Hugh," she said suddenly, "now that you are a partner of Mr. Watling's. I hear on all sides that you are on the high road to a great success." "Of course I'm glad to be in the firm," I admitted. It was a new tack for Nancy, rather a disquieting one, this discussion of my affairs, which she had so long avoided or ignored. "You are getting what you have always wanted, aren't you?" I wondered in some trepidation whether by that word "always" she was making a deliberate reference to the past. "Always?" I repeated, rather fatuously. "Nearly always, ever since you have been a man." I was incapable of taking advantage of the opening, if it were one. She was baffling. "A man likes to succeed in his profession, of course," I said. "And you made up your mind to succeed more deliberately than most men. I needn't ask you if you are satisfied, Hugh. Success seems to agree with you,--although I imagine you will never be satisfied." "Why do you say that?" I demanded. "I haven't known you all your life for nothing. I think I know you much better than you know yourself." "You haven't acted as if you did," I exclaimed. She smiled. "Have you been interested in what I thought about you?" she asked. "That isn't quite fair, Nancy," I protested. "You haven't given me much evidence that you did think about me." "Have I received much encouragement to do so?" she inquired. "But you haven't seemed to invite--you've kept me at arm's length." "Oh, don't fence!" she cried, rather sharply. I had become agitated, but her next words gave me a shock that was momentarily paralyzing. "I asked you to come here to-day, Hugh, because I wished you to know that I have made up my mind to marry Hambleton Durrett." "Hambleton Durrett!" I echoed stupidly. "Hambleton Durrett!" "Why not?" "Have you--have you accepted him?" "No. But I mean to do so." "You--you love him?" "I don't see what right you have to ask." "But you just said that you invited me here to talk frankly." "No, I don't love him." "Then why, in heaven's name, are you going to marry him?" She lay back in her chair, regarding me, her lips slightly parted. All at once the full flavour of her, the superfine quality was revealed after years of blindness.--Nor can I describe the sudden rebellion, the revulsion that I experienced. Hambleton Durrett! It was an outrage, a sacrilege! I got up, and put my hand on the mantel. Nancy remained motionless, inert, her head lying back against the chair. Could it be that she were enjoying my discomfiture? There is no need to confess that I knew next to nothing of women; had I been less excited, I might have made the discovery that I still regarded them sentimentally. Certain romantic axioms concerning them, garnered from Victorian literature, passed current in my mind for wisdom; and one of these declared that they were prone to remain true to an early love. Did Nancy still care for me? The query, coming as it did on top of my emotion, brought with it a strange and overwhelming perplexity. Did I really care for her? The many years during which I had practised the habit of caution began to exert an inhibiting pressure. Here was a situation, an opportunity suddenly thrust upon me which might never return, and which I was utterly unprepared to meet. Would I be happy with Nancy, after all? Her expression was still enigmatic. "Why shouldn't I marry him?" she demanded. "Because he's not good enough for you." "Good!" she exclaimed, and laughed. "He loves me. He wants me without reservation or calculation." There was a sting in this. "And is he any worse," she asked slowly, "than many others who might be mentioned?" "No," I agreed. I did not intend to be led into the thankless and disagreeable position of condemning Hambleton Durrett. "But why have you waited all these years if you did not mean to marry a man of ability, a man who has made something of himself?" "A man like you, Hugh?" she said gently. I flushed. "That isn't quite fair, Nancy." "What are you working for?" she suddenly inquired, straightening up. "What any man works for, I suppose." "Ah, there you have hit it,--what any man works for in our world. Power,--personal power. You want to be somebody,--isn't that it? Not the noblest ambition, you'll have to admit,--not the kind of thing we used to dream about, when we did dream. Well, when we find we can't realize our dreams, we take the next best thing. And I fail to see why you should blame me for taking it when you yourself have taken it. Hambleton Durrett can give it to me. He'll accept me on my own terms, he won't interfere with me, I shan't be disillusionized,--and I shall have a position which I could not hope to have if I remained unmarried, a very marked position as Hambleton Durrett's wife. I am thirty, you know." Her frankness appalled me. "The trouble with you, Hugh, is that you still deceive yourself. You throw a glamour over things. You want to keep your cake and eat it too. "I don't see why you say that. And marriage especially--" She took me up. "Marriage! What other career is open to a woman? Unless she is married, and married well, according to the money standard you men have set up, she is nobody. We can't all be Florence Nightingales, and I am unable to imagine myself a Julia Ward Howe or a Harriet Beecher Stowe. What is left? Nothing but marriage. I'm hard and cynical, you will say, but I have thought, and I'm not afraid, as I have told you, to look things in the face. There are very few women, I think, who would not take the real thing if they had the chance before it were too late, who wouldn't be willing to do their own cooking in order to get it." She fell silent suddenly. I began to pace the room. "For God's sake, don't do this, Nancy!" I begged. But she continued to stare into the fire, as though she had not heard me. "If you had made up your mind to do it, why did you tell me?" I asked. "Sentiment, I suppose. I am paying a tribute to what I once was, to what you once were," she said. A--a sort of good-bye to sentiment." "Nancy!" I said hoarsely. She shook her head. "No, Hugh. Surely you can't misjudge me so!" she answered reproachfully. "Do you think I should have sent for you if I had meant--that!" "No, no, I didn't think so. But why not? You--you cared once, and you tell me plainly you don't love him. It was all a terrible mistake. We were meant for each other." "I did love you then," she said. "You never knew how much. And there is nothing I wouldn't give to bring it all back again. But I can't. It's gone. You're gone, and I'm gone. I mean what we were. Oh, why did you change?" "It was you who changed," I declared, bewildered. "Couldn't you see--can't you see now what you did? But perhaps you couldn't help it. Perhaps it was just you, after all." "What I did?" "Why couldn't you have held fast to your faith? If you had, you would have known what it was I adored in you. Oh, I don't mind telling you now, it was just that faith, Hugh, that faith you had in life, that faith you had in me. You weren't cynical and calculating, like Ralph Hambleton, you had imagination. I--I dreamed, too. And do you remember the time when you made the boat, and we went to Logan's Pond, and you sank in her?" "And you stayed," I went on, "when all the others ran away? You ran down the hill like a whirlwind." She laughed. "And then you came here one day, to a party, and said you were going to Harvard, and quarrelled with me." "Why did you doubt met" I asked agitatedly. "Why didn't you let me see that you still cared?" "Because that wasn't you, Hugh, that wasn't your real self. Do you suppose it mattered to me whether you went to Harvard with the others? Oh, I was foolish too, I know. I shouldn't have said what I did. But what is the use of regrets?" she exclaimed. "We've both run after the practical gods, and the others have hidden their faces from us. It may be that we are not to blame, either of us, that the practical gods are too strong. We've learned to love and worship them, and now we can't do without them." "We can try, Nancy," I pleaded. "No," she answered in a low voice, "that's the difference between you and me. I know myself better than you know yourself, and I know you better." She smiled again. "Unless we could have it all back again, I shouldn't want any of it. You do not love me--" I started once more to protest. "No, no, don't say it!" she cried. "You may think you do, just this moment, but it's only because--you've been moved. And what you believe you want isn't me, it's what I was. But I'm not that any more,--I'm simply recalling that, don't you see? And even then you wouldn't wish me, now, as I was. That sounds involved, but you must understand. You want a woman who will be wrapped up in your career, Hugh, and yet who will not share it,--who will devote herself body and soul to what you have become. A woman whom you can shape. And you won't really love her, but only just so much of her as may become the incarnation of you. Well, I'm not that kind of woman. I might have been, had you been different. I'm not at all sure. Certainly I'm not that kind now, even though I know in my heart that the sort of career you have made for yourself, and that I intend to make for myself is all dross. But now I can't do without it." "And yet you are going to marry Hambleton Durrett!" I said. She understood me, although I regretted my words at once. "Yes, I am going to marry him." There was a shade of bitterness, of defiance in her voice. "Surely you are not offering me the--the other thing, now. Oh, Hugh!" "I am willing to abandon it all, Nancy." "No," she said, "you're not, and I'm not. What you can't see and won't see is that it has become part of you. Oh, you are successful, you will be more and more successful. And you think I should be somebody, as your wife, Hugh, more perhaps, eventually, than I shall be as Hambleton's. But I should be nobody, too. I couldn't stand it now, my dear. You must realize that as soon as you have time to think it over. We shall be friends." The sudden gentleness in her voice pierced me through and through. She held out her hand. Something in her grasp spoke of a resolution which could not be shaken. "And besides," she added sadly, "I don't love you any more, Hugh. I'm mourning for something that's gone. I wanted to have just this one talk with you. But we shan't mention it again,--we'll close the book."... At that I fled out of the house, and at first the thought of her as another man's wife, as Hambleton Durrett's wife, was seemingly not to be borne. It was incredible! "We'll close the book." I found myself repeating the phrase; and it seemed then as though something within me I had believed dead--something that formerly had been all of me--had revived again to throb with pain. It is not surprising that the acuteness of my suffering was of short duration, though I remember certain sharp twinges when the announcement of the engagement burst on the city. There was much controversy over the question as to whether or not Ham Durrett's reform would be permanent; but most people were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt; it was time he settled down and took the position in the community that was to be expected of one of his name; and as for Nancy, it was generally agreed that she had done well for herself. She was not made for poverty--and who so well as she was fitted for the social leadership of our community? They were married in Trinity Church in the month of May, and I was one of Ham's attendants. Ralph was "best man." For the last time the old Willett mansion in Powell Street wore the gala air of former days; carpets were spread over the sidewalk, and red and white awnings; rooms were filled with flowers and flung open to hundreds of guests. I found the wedding something of an ordeal. I do not like to dwell upon it--especially upon that moment when I came to congratulate Nancy as she stood beside Ham at the end of the long parlour. She seemed to have no regrets. I don't know what I expected of her--certainly not tears and tragedy. She seemed taller than ever, and very beautiful in her veil and white satin gown and the diamonds Ham had given her; very much mistress of herself, quite a contrast to Ham, who made no secret of his elation. She smiled when I wished her happiness. "We'll be home in the autumn, Hugh, and expect to see a great deal of you," she said. As I paused in a corner of the room my eye fell upon Nancy's father. McAlery Willett's elation seemed even greater than Ham's. With a gardenia in his frock-coat and a glass of champagne in his hand he went from group to group; and his familiar laughter, which once had seemed so full of merriment and fun, gave me to-day a somewhat scandalized feeling. I heard Ralph's voice, and turned to discover him standing beside me, his long legs thrust slightly apart, his hands in his pockets, overlooking the scene with typical, semi-contemptuous amusement. "This lets old McAlery out, anyway," he said. "What do you mean?" I demanded. "One or two little notes of his will be cancelled, sooner or later--that's all." For a moment I was unable to speak. "And do you think that she--that Nancy found out--?" I stammered. "Well, I'd be willing to take that end of the bet," he replied. "Why the deuce should she marry Ham? You ought to know her well enough to understand how she'd feel if she discovered some of McAlery's financial coups? Of course it's not a thing I talk about, you understand. Are you going to the Club?" "No, I'm going home," I said. I was aware of his somewhat compassionate smile as I left him.... XII. One November day nearly two years after my admission as junior member of the firm of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon seven gentlemen met at luncheon in the Boyne Club; Mr. Barbour, President of the Railroad, Mr. Scherer, of the Boyne Iron Works and other corporations, Mr. Leonard Dickinson, of the Corn National Bank, Mr. Halsey, a prominent banker from the other great city of the state, Mr. Grunewald, Chairman of the Republican State Committee, and Mr. Frederick Grierson, who had become a very important man in our community. At four o'clock they emerged from the club: citizens in Boyne Street who saw them chatting amicably on the steps little suspected that in the last three hours these gentlemen had chosen and practically elected the man who was to succeed Mr. Wade as United States Senator in Washington. Those were the days in which great affairs were simply and efficiently handled. No democratic nonsense about leaving the choice to an electorate that did not know what it wanted. The man chosen to fill this high position was Theodore Watling. He said he would think about the matter. In the nation at large, through the defection of certain Northern states neither so conservative nor fortunate as ours, the Democratic party was in power, which naturally implies financial depression. There was no question about our ability to send a Republican Senator; the choice in the Boyne Club was final; but before the legislature should ratify it, a year or so hence, it were just as well that the people of the state should be convinced that they desired Mr. Watling more than any other man; and surely enough, in a little while such a conviction sprang up spontaneously. In offices and restaurants and hotels, men began to suggest to each other what a fine thing it would be if Theodore Watling might be persuaded to accept the toga; at the banks, when customers called to renew their notes and tight money was discussed and Democrats excoriated, it was generally agreed that the obvious thing to do was to get a safe man in the Senate. From the very first, Watling sentiment stirred like spring sap after a hard winter. The country newspapers, watered by providential rains, began to put forth tender little editorial shoots, which Mr. Judah B. Tallant presently collected and presented in a charming bouquet in the Morning Era. "The Voice of the State Press;" thus was the column headed; and the remarks of the Hon. Fitch Truesdale, of the St. Helen's Messenger, were given a special prominence. Mr. Truesdale was the first, in his section, to be inspired by the happy thought that the one man preeminently fitted to represent the state in the present crisis, when her great industries had been crippled by Democratic folly, was Mr. Theodore Watling. The Rossiter Banner, the Elkington Star, the Belfast Recorder, and I know not how many others simultaneously began to sing Mr. Watling's praises. "Not since the troublous times of the Civil War," declared the Morning Era, "had the demand for any man been so unanimous." As a proof of it, there were the country newspapers, "which reflected the sober opinion of the firesides of the common people." There are certain industrious gentlemen to whom little credit is given, and who, unlike the average citizen who reserves his enthusiasm for election time, are patriotic enough to labour for their country's good all the year round. When in town, it was their habit to pay a friendly call on the Counsel for the Railroad, Mr. Miller Gorse, in the Corn Bank Building. He was never too busy to converse with them; or, it might better be said, to listen to them converse. Let some legally and politically ambitious young man observe Mr. Gorse's method. Did he inquire what the party worker thought of Mr. Watling for the Senate? Not at all! But before the party worker left he was telling Mr. Gorse that public sentiment demanded Mr. Watling. After leaving Mr. Gorse they wended their way to the Durrett Building and handed their cards over the rail of the offices of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon. Mr. Watling shook hands with scores of them, and they departed, well satisfied with the flavour of his cigars and intoxicated by his personality. He had a marvellous way of cutting short an interview without giving offence. Some of them he turned over to Mr. Paret, whom he particularly desired they should know. Thus Mr. Paret acquired many valuable additions to his acquaintance, cultivated a memory for names and faces that was to stand him in good stead; and kept, besides, an indexed note-book into which he put various bits of interesting information concerning each. Though not immediately lucrative, it was all, no doubt, part of a lawyer's education. During the summer and the following winter Colonel Paul Varney came often to town and spent much of his time in Mr. Paret's office smoking Mr. Watling's cigars and discussing the coming campaign, in which he took a whole-souled interest. "Say, Hugh, this is goin' slick!" he would exclaim, his eyes glittering like round buttons of jet. "I never saw a campaign where they fell in the way they're doing now. If it was anybody else but Theodore Watling, it would scare me. You ought to have been in Jim Broadhurst's campaign," he added, referring to the junior senator, "they wouldn't wood up at all, they was just listless. But Gorse and Barbour and the rest wanted him, and we had to put him over. I reckon he is useful down there in Washington, but say, do you know what he always reminded me of? One of those mud-turtles I used to play with as a boy up in Columbia County,--shuts up tight soon as he sees you coming. Now Theodore Watling ain't like that, any way of speaking. We can get up some enthusiasm for a man of his sort. He's liberal and big. He's made his pile, and he don't begrudge some of it to the fellows who do the work. Mark my words, when you see a man who wants a big office cheap, look out for him." This, and much more wisdom I imbibed while assenting to my chief's greatness. For Mr. Varney was right,--one could feel enthusiasm for Theodore Watling; and my growing intimacy with him, the sense that I was having a part in his career, a share in his success, became for the moment the passion of my life. As the campaign progressed I gave more and more time to it, and made frequent trips of a confidential nature to the different counties of the state. The whole of my being was energized. The national fever had thoroughly pervaded my blood--the national fever to win. Prosperity--writ large--demanded it, and Theodore Watling personified, incarnated the cause. I had neither the time nor the desire to philosophize on this national fever, which animated all my associates: animated, I might say, the nation, which was beginning to get into a fever about games. If I remember rightly, it was about this time that golf was introduced, tennis had become a commonplace, professional baseball was in full swing; Ham Durrett had even organized a local polo team.... The man who failed to win something tangible in sport or law or business or politics was counted out. Such was the spirit of America, in the closing years of the nineteenth century. And yet, when one has said this, one has failed to express the national Geist in all its subtlety. In brief, the great American sport was not so much to win the game as to beat it; the evasion of rules challenged our ingenuity; and having won, we set about devising methods whereby it would be less and less possible for us winners to lose in the future. No better illustration of this tendency could be given than the development which had recently taken place in the field of our city politics, hitherto the battle-ground of Irish politicians who had fought one another for supremacy. Individualism had been rampant, competition the custom; you bought an alderman, or a boss who owned four or five aldermen, and then you never could be sure you were to get what you wanted, or that the aldermen and the bosses would "stay bought." But now a genius had appeared, an American genius who had arisen swiftly and almost silently, who appealed to the imagination, and whose name was often mentioned in a whisper,--the Hon. Judd Jason, sometimes known as the Spider, who organized the City Hall and capitalized it; an ultimate and logical effect--if one had considered it--of the Manchester school of economics. Enlightened self-interest, stripped of sentiment, ends on Judd Jasons. He ran the city even as Mr. Sherrill ran his department store; you paid your price. It was very convenient. Being a genius, Mr. Jason did not wholly break with tradition, but retained those elements of the old muddled system that had their value, chartering steamboats for outings on the river, giving colossal picnics in Lowry Park. The poor and the wanderer and the criminal (of the male sex at least) were cared for. But he was not loved, as the rough-and-tumble Irishmen had been loved; he did not make himself common; he was surrounded by an aura of mystery which I confess had not failed of effect on me. Once, and only once during my legal apprenticeship, he had been pointed out to me on the street, where he rarely ventured. His appearance was not impressive.... Mr. Jason could not, of course, prevent Mr. Watling's election, even did he so desire, but he did command the allegiance of several city candidates--both democratic and republican--for the state legislature, who had as yet failed to announce their preferences for United States Senator. It was important that Mr. Watling's vote should be large, as indicative of a public reaction and repudiation of Democratic national folly. This matter among others was the subject of discussion one July morning when the Republican State Chairman was in the city; Mr. Grunewald expressed anxiety over Mr. Jason's continued silence. It was expedient that somebody should "see" the boss. "Why not Paret?" suggested Leonard Dickinson. Mr. Watling was not present at this conference. "Paret seems to be running Watling's campaign, anyway." It was settled that I should be the emissary. With lively sensations of curiosity and excitement, tempered by a certain anxiety as to my ability to match wits with the Spider, I made my way to his "lair" over Monahan's saloon, situated in a district that was anything but respectable. The saloon, on the ground floor, had two apartments; the bar-room proper where Mike Monahan, chamberlain of the establishment, was wont to stand, red faced and smiling, to greet the courtiers, big and little, the party workers, the district leaders, the hangers-on ready to be hired, the city officials, the police judges,--yes, and the dignified members of state courts whose elections depended on Mr. Jason's favour: even Judge Bering, whose acquaintance I had made the day I had come, as a law student, to Mr. Watling's office, unbent from time to time sufficiently to call there for a small glass of rye and water, and to relate, with his owl-like gravity, an anecdote to the "boys." The saloon represented Democracy, so dear to the American public. Here all were welcome, even the light-fingered gentlemen who enjoyed the privilege of police protection; and who sometimes, through fortuitous circumstances, were hauled before the very magistrates with whom they had rubbed elbows on the polished rail. Behind the bar-room, and separated from it by swinging doors only the elite ventured to thrust apart, was an audience chamber whither Mr. Jason occasionally descended. Anecdote and political reminiscence gave place here to matters of high policy. I had several times come to the saloon in the days of my apprenticeship in search of some judge or official, and once I had run down here the city auditor himself. Mike Monahan, whose affair it was to know everyone, recognized me. It was part of his business, also, to understand that I was now a member of the firm of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon. "Good morning to you, Mr. Paret," he said suavely. We held a colloquy in undertones over the bar, eyed by the two or three customers who were present. Mr. Monahan disappeared, but presently returned to whisper: "Sure, he'll see you," to lead the way through the swinging doors and up a dark stairway. I came suddenly on a room in the greatest disorder, its tables and chairs piled high with newspapers and letters, its windows streaked with soot. From an open door on its farther side issued a voice. "Is that you, Mr. Paret? Come in here." It was little less than a command. "Heard of you, Mr. Paret. Glad to know you. Sit down, won't you?" The inner room was almost dark. I made out a bed in the corner, and propped up in the bed a man; but for the moment I was most aware of a pair of eyes that flared up when the man spoke, and died down again when he became silent. They reminded me of those insects which in my childhood days we called "lightning bugs." Mr. Jason gave me a hand like a woman's. I expressed my pleasure at meeting him, and took a chair beside the bed. "I believe you're a partner of Theodore Watling's now aren't you? Smart man, Watling." "He'll make a good senator," I replied, accepting the opening. "You think he'll get elected--do you?" Mr. Jason inquired. I laughed. "Well, there isn't much doubt about that, I imagine." "Don't know--don't know. Seen some dead-sure things go wrong in my time." "What's going to defeat him?" I asked pleasantly. "I don't say anything," Mr. Jason replied. "But I've known funny things to happen--never does to be dead sure." "Oh, well, we're as sure as it's humanly possible to be," I declared. The eyes continued to fascinate me, they had a peculiar, disquieting effect. Now they died down, and it was as if the man's very presence had gone out, as though I had been left alone; and I found it exceedingly difficult, under the circumstances, to continue to address him. Suddenly he flared up again. "Watling send you over here?" he demanded. "No. As a matter of fact, he's out of town. Some of Mr. Watling's friends, Mr. Grunewald and Mr. Dickinson, Mr. Gorse and others, suggested that I see you, Mr. Jason." There came a grunt from the bed. "Mr. Watling has always valued your friendship and support," I said. "What makes him think he ain't going to get it?" "He hasn't a doubt of it," I went on diplomatically. "But we felt--and I felt personally, that we ought to be in touch with you, to work along with you, to keep informed how things are going in the city." "What things?" "Well--there are one or two representatives, friends of yours, who haven't come out for Mr. Watling. We aren't worrying, we know you'll do the right thing, but we feel that it would have a good deal of influence in some other parts of the state if they declared themselves. And then you know as well as I do that this isn't a year when any of us can afford to recognize too closely party lines; the Democratic administration has brought on a panic, the business men in that party are down on it, and it ought to be rebuked. And we feel, too, that some of the city's Democrats ought to be loyal to Mr. Watling,--not that we expect them to vote for him in caucus, but when it comes to the joint ballot--" "Who?" demanded Mr. Jason. "Senator Dowse and Jim Maher, for instance," I suggested. "Jim voted for Bill 709 all right--didn't he?" said Mr. Jason abruptly. "That's just it," I put in boldly. "We'd like to induce him to come in with us this time. But we feel that--the inducement would better come through you." I thought Mr. Jason smiled. By this time I had grown accustomed to the darkness, the face and figure of the man in the bed had become discernible. Power, I remember thinking, chooses odd houses for itself. Here was no overbearing, full-blooded ward ruffian brimming with vitality, but a thin, sallow little man in a cotton night-shirt, with iron-grey hair and a wiry moustache; he might have been an overworked clerk behind a dry-goods counter; and yet somehow, now that I had talked to him, I realized that he never could have been. Those extraordinary eyes of his, when they were functioning, marked his individuality as unique. It were almost too dramatic to say that he required darkness to make his effect, but so it seemed. I should never forget him. He had in truth been well named the Spider. "Of course we haven't tried to get in touch with them. We are leaving them to you," I added. "Paret," he said suddenly, "I don't care a damn about Grunewald--never did. I'd turn him down for ten cents. But you can tell Theodore Watling for me, and Dickinson, that I guess the 'inducement' can be fixed." I felt a certain relief that the interview had come to an end, that the moment had arrived for amenities. To my surprise, Mr. Jason anticipated me. "I've been interested in you, Mr. Paret," he observed. "Know who you are, of course, knew you were in Watling's office. Then some of the boys spoke about you when you were down at the legislature on that Ribblevale matter. Guess you had more to do with that bill than came out in the newspapers--eh?" I was taken off my guard. "Oh, that's talk," I said. "All right, it's talk, then? But I guess you and I will have some more talk after a while,--after Theodore Watling gets to be United States Senator. Give him my regards, and--and come in when I can do anything for you, Mr. Paret." Thanking him, I groped my way downstairs and let myself out by a side door Monahan had shown me into an alleyway, thus avoiding the saloon. As I walked slowly back to the office, seeking the shade of the awnings, the figure in the darkened room took on a sinister aspect that troubled me.... The autumn arrived, the campaign was on with a whoop, and I had my first taste of "stump" politics. The acrid smell of red fire brings it back to me. It was a medley of railroad travel, of committees provided with badges--and cigars, of open carriages slowly drawn between lines of bewildered citizens, of Lincoln clubs and other clubs marching in serried ranks, uniformed and helmeted, stalwarts carrying torches and banners. And then there were the draughty opera-houses with the sylvan scenery pushed back and plush chairs and sofas pushed forward; with an ominous table, a pitcher of water on it and a glass, near the footlights. The houses were packed with more bewildered citizens. What a wonderful study of mob-psychology it would have offered! Men who had not thought of the grand old Republican party for two years, and who had not cared much about it when they had entered the dooms, after an hour or so went mad with fervour. The Hon. Joseph Mecklin, ex-Speaker of the House, with whom I traveled on occasions, had a speech referring to the martyred President, ending with an appeal to the revolutionary fathers who followed Washington with bleeding feet. The Hon. Joseph possessed that most valuable of political gifts, presence; and when with quivering voice he finished his peroration, citizens wept with him. What it all had to do with the tariff was not quite clear. Yet nobody seemed to miss the connection. We were all of us most concerned, of course, about the working-man and his dinner pail,--whom the Democrats had wantonly thrown out of employment for the sake of a doctrinaire theory. They had put him in competition with the serf of Europe. Such was the subject-matter of my own modest addresses in this, my maiden campaign. I had the sense to see myself in perspective; to recognize that not for me, a dignified and substantial lawyer of affairs, were the rhetorical flights of the Hon. Joseph Mecklin. I spoke with a certain restraint. Not too dryly, I hope. But I sought to curb my sentiments, my indignation, at the manner in which the working-man had been treated; to appeal to the common sense rather than to the passions of my audiences. Here were the statistics! (drawn, by the way, from the Republican Campaign book). Unscrupulous demagogues--Democratic, of course--had sought to twist and evade them. Let this terrible record of lack of employment and misery be compared with the prosperity under Republican rule. "One of the most effective speakers in this campaign for the restoration of Prosperity," said the Rossiter Banner, "is Mr. Hugh Paret, of the firm of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon. Mr. Paret's speech at the Opera-House last evening made a most favourable impression. Mr. Paret deals with facts. And his thoughtful analysis of the situation into which the Democratic party has brought this country should convince any sane-minded voter that the time has come for a change." I began to keep a scrap-book, though I locked it up in the drawer of my desk. In it are to be found many clippings of a similarly gratifying tenor.... Mecklin and I were well contrasted. In this way, incidentally, I made many valuable acquaintances among the "solid" men of the state, the local capitalists and manufacturers, with whom my manner of dealing with public questions was in particular favour. These were practical men; they rather patronized the Hon. Joseph, thus estimating, to a nicety, a mans value; or solidity, or specific gravity, it might better be said, since our universe was one of checks and balances. The Hon. Joseph and his like, skyrocketing through the air, were somehow necessary in the scheme of things, but not to be taken too seriously. Me they did take seriously, these provincial lords, inviting me to their houses and opening their hearts. Thus, when we came to Elkington, Mr. Mecklin reposed in the Commercial House, on the noisy main street. Fortunately for him, the clanging of trolley cars never interfered with his slumbers. I slept in a wide chamber in the mansion of Mr. Ezra Hutchins. There were many Hutchinses in Elkington,--brothers and cousins and uncles and great-uncles,--and all were connected with the woollen mills. But there is always one supreme Hutchins, and Ezra was he: tall, self-contained, elderly, but well preserved through frugal living, essentially American and typical of his class, when he entered the lobby of the Commercial House that afternoon the babel of political discussion was suddenly hushed; politicians, traveling salesmen and the members of the local committee made a lane for him; to him, the Hon. Joseph and I were introduced. Mr. Hutchins knew what he wanted. He was cordial to Mr. Mecklin, but he took me. We entered a most respectable surrey with tassels, driven by a raw-boned coachman in a black overcoat, drawn by two sleek horses. "How is this thing going, Paret?" he asked. I gave him Mr. Grunewald's estimated majority. "What do you think?" he demanded, a shrewd, humorous look in his blue eyes. "Well, I think we'll carry the state. I haven't had Grunewald's experience in estimating." Ezra Hutchins smiled appreciatively. "What does Watling think?" "He doesn't seem to be worrying much." "Ever been in Elkington before?" I said I hadn't. "Well, a drive will do you good." It was about four o'clock on a mild October afternoon. The little town, of fifteen thousand inhabitants or so, had a wonderful setting in the widening valley of the Scopanong, whose swiftly running waters furnished the power for the mills. We drove to these through a gateway over which the words "No Admittance" were conspicuously painted, past long brick buildings that bordered the canals; and in the windows I caught sight of drab figures of men and women bending over the machines. Half of the buildings, as Mr. Hutchins pointed out, were closed,--mute witnesses of tariff-tinkering madness. Even more eloquent of democratic folly was that part of the town through which we presently passed, streets lined with rows of dreary houses where the workers lived. Children were playing on the sidewalks, but theirs seemed a listless play; listless, too, were the men and women who sat on the steps,--listless, and somewhat sullen, as they watched us passing. Ezra Hutchins seemed to read my thought. "Since the unions got in here I've had nothing but trouble," he said. "I've tried to do my duty by my people, God knows. But they won't see which side their bread's buttered on. They oppose me at every step, they vote against their own interests. Some years ago they put up a job on us, and sent a scatter-brained radical to the legislature." "Krebs." "Do you know him?" "Slightly. He was in my class at Harvard.... Is he still here?" I asked, after a pause. "Oh, yes. But he hasn't gone to the legislature this time, we've seen to that. His father was a respectable old German who had a little shop and made eye-glasses. The son is an example of too much education. He's a notoriety seeker. Oh, he's clever, in a way. He's given us a good deal of trouble, too, in the courts with damage cases."... We came to a brighter, more spacious, well-to-do portion of the town, where the residences faced the river. In a little while the waters widened into a lake, which was surrounded by a park, a gift to the city of the Hutchins family. Facing it, on one side, was the Hutchins Library; on the other, across a wide street, where the maples were turning, were the Hutchinses' residences of various dates of construction, from that of the younger George, who had lately married a wife, and built in bright yellow brick, to the old-fashioned mansion of Ezra himself. This, he told me, had been good enough for his father, and was good enough for him. The picture of it comes back to me, now, with singular attractiveness. It was of brick, and I suppose a modification of the Georgian; the kind of house one still sees in out-of-the way corners of London, with a sort of Dickensy flavour; high and square and uncompromising, with small-paned windows, with a flat roof surrounded by a low balustrade, and many substantial chimneys. The third storey was lower than the others, separated from them by a distinct line. On one side was a wide porch. Yellow and red leaves, the day's fall, scattered the well-kept lawn. Standing in the doorway of the house was a girl in white, and as we descended from the surrey she came down the walk to meet us. She was young, about twenty. Her hair was the colour of the russet maple leaves. "This is Mr. Paret, Maude." Mr. Hutchins looked at his watch as does a man accustomed to live by it. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Paret, I have something important to attend to. Perhaps Mr. Paret would like to look about the grounds?" He addressed his daughter. I said I should be delighted, though I had no idea what grounds were meant. As I followed Maude around the house she explained that all the Hutchins connection had a common back yard, as she expressed it. In reality, there were about two blocks of the property, extending behind all the houses. There were great trees with swings, groves, orchards where the late apples glistened between the leaves, an old-fashioned flower garden loath to relinquish its blooming. In the distance the shadowed western ridge hung like a curtain of deep blue velvet against the sunset. "What a wonderful spot!" I exclaimed. "Yes, it is nice," she agreed, "we were all brought up here--I mean my cousins and myself. There are dozens of us. And dozens left," she added, as the shouts and laughter of children broke the stillness. A boy came running around the corner of the path. He struck out at Maude. With a remarkably swift movement she retaliated. "Ouch!" he exclaimed. "You got him that time," I laughed, and, being detected, she suddenly blushed. It was this act that drew my attention to her, that defined her as an individual. Before that I had regarded her merely as a shy and provincial girl. Now she was brimming with an unsuspected vitality. A certain interest was aroused, although her shyness towards me was not altered. I found it rather a flattering shyness. "It's Hugh," she explained, "he's always trying to be funny. Speak to Mr. Paret, Hugh." "Why, that's my name, too," I said. "Is it?" "She knocked my hat off a little while ago," said Hugh. "I was only getting square." "Well, you didn't get square, did you?" I asked. "Are you going to speak in the tows hall to-night?" the boy demanded. I admitted it. He went off, pausing once to stare back at me.... Maude and I walked on. "It must be exciting to speak before a large audience," she said. "If I were a man, I think I should like to be in politics." "I cannot imagine you in politics," I answered. She laughed. "I said, if I were a man." "Are you going to the meeting?" "Oh, yes. Father promised to take me. He has a box." I thought it would be pleasant to have her there. "I'm afraid you'll find what I have to say rather dry," I said. "A woman can't expect to understand everything," she answered quickly. This remark struck me favourably. I glanced at her sideways. She was not a beauty, but she was distinctly well-formed and strong. Her face was oval, her features not quite regular,--giving them a certain charm; her colour was fresh, her eyes blue, the lighter blue one sees on Chinese ware: not a poetic comparison, but so I thought of them. She was apparently not sophisticated, as were most of the young women at home whom I knew intimately (as were the Watling twins, for example, with one of whom, Frances, I had had, by the way, rather a lively flirtation the spring before); she seemed refreshingly original, impressionable and plastic.... We walked slowly back to the house, and in the hallway I met Mrs. Hutchins, a bustling, housewifely lady, inclined to stoutness, whose creased and kindly face bore witness to long acquiescence in the discipline of matrimony, to the contentment that results from an essentially circumscribed and comfortable life. She was, I learned later, the second Mrs. Hutchins, and Maude their only child. The children of the first marriage, all girls, had married and scattered. Supper was a decorous but heterogeneous meal of the old-fashioned sort that gives one the choice between tea and cocoa. It was something of an occasion, I suspected. The minister was there, the Reverend Mr. Doddridge, who would have made, in appearance at least, a perfect Puritan divine in a steeple hat and a tippet. Only--he was no longer the leader of the community; and even in his grace he had the air of deferring to the man who provided the bounties of which we were about to partake rather than to the Almighty. Young George was there, Mr. Hutchins's nephew, who was daily becoming more and more of a factor in the management of the mills, and had built the house of yellow brick that stood out so incongruously among the older Hutchinses' mansions, and marked a transition. I thought him rather a yellow-brick gentleman himself for his assumption of cosmopolitan manners. His wife was a pretty, discontented little woman who plainly deplored her environment, longed for larger fields of conquest: George, she said, must remain where he was, for the present at least,--Uncle Ezra depended on him; but Elkington was a prosy place, and Mrs. George gave the impression that she did not belong here. They went to the city on occasions; both cities. And when she told me we had a common acquaintance in Mrs. Hambleton Durrett--whom she thought so lovely!--I knew that she had taken Nancy as an ideal: Nancy, the social leader of what was to Mrs. George a metropolis. Presently the talk became general among the men, the subject being the campaign, and I the authority, bombarded with questions I strove to answer judicially. What was the situation in this county and in that? the national situation? George indulged in rather a vigorous arraignment of the demagogues, national and state, who were hurting business in order to obtain political power. The Reverend Mr. Doddridge assented, deploring the poverty that the local people had brought on themselves by heeding the advice of agitators; and Mrs. Hutchins, who spent much of her time in charity work, agreed with the minister when he declared that the trouble was largely due to a decline in Christian belief. Ezra Hutchins, too, nodded at this. "Take that man Krebs, for example," the minister went on, stimulated by this encouragement, "he's an atheist, pure and simple." A sympathetic shudder went around the table at the word. George alone smiled. "Old Krebs was a free-thinker; I used to get my glasses of him. He was at least a conscientious man, a good workman, which is more than can be said for the son. Young Krebs has talent, and if only he had devoted himself to the honest practice of law, instead of stirring up dissatisfaction among these people, he would be a successful man to-day." Mr. Hutchins explained that I was at college with Krebs. "These people must like him," I said, "or they wouldn't have sent him to the legislature." "Well, a good many of them do like him," the minister admitted. "You see, he actually lives among them. They believe his socialistic doctrines because he's a friend of theirs." "He won't represent this town again, that's sure," exclaimed George. "You didn't see in the papers that he was nominated,--did you, Paret?" "But if the mill people wanted him, George, how could it be prevented?" his wife demanded. George winked at me. "There are more ways of skinning a cat than one," he said cryptically. "Well, it's time to go to the meeting, I guess," remarked Ezra, rising. Once more he looked at his watch. We were packed into several family carriages and started off. In front of the hall the inevitable red fire was burning, its quivering light reflected on the faces of the crowd that blocked the street. They stood silent, strangely apathetic as we pushed through them to the curb, and the red fire went out suddenly as we descended. My temporary sense of depression, however, deserted me as we entered the hall, which was well lighted and filled with people, who clapped when the Hon. Joseph and I, accompanied by Mr. Doddridge and the Hon. Henry Clay Mellish from Pottstown, with the local chairman, walked out on the stage. A glance over the audience sufficed to ascertain that that portion of the population whose dinner pails we longed to fill was evidently not present in large numbers. But the farmers had driven in from the hills, while the merchants and storekeepers of Elkington had turned out loyally. The chairman, in introducing me, proclaimed me as a coming man, and declared that I had already achieved, in the campaign, considerable notoriety. As I spoke, I was pleasantly aware of Maude Hutchins leaning forward a little across the rail of the right-hand stage box--for the town hall was half opera-house; her attitude was one of semi-absorbed admiration; and the thought that I had made an impression on her stimulated me. I spoke with more aplomb. Somewhat to my surprise, I found myself making occasional, unexpected witticisms that drew laughter and applause. Suddenly, from the back of the hall, a voice called out:--"How about House Bill 709?" There was a silence, then a stirring and craning of necks. It was my first experience of heckling, and for the moment I was taken aback. I thought of Krebs. He had, indeed, been in my mind since I had risen to my feet, and I had scanned the faces before me in search of his. But it was not his voice. "Well, what about Bill 709?" I demanded. "You ought to know something about it, I guess," the voice responded. "Put him out!" came from various portions of the hall. Inwardly, I was shaken. Not--in orthodox language from any "conviction of sin." Yet it was my first intimation that my part in the legislation referred to was known to any save a select few. I blamed Krebs, and a hot anger arose within me against him. After all, what could they prove? "No, don't put him out," I said. "Let him come up here to the platform. I'll yield to him. And I'm entirely willing to discuss with him and defend any measures passed in the legislature of this state by a Republican majority. Perhaps," I added, "the gentleman has a copy of the law in his pocket, that I may know what he is talking about, and answer him intelligently." At this there was wild applause. I had the audience with me. The offender remained silent and presently I finished my speech. After that Mr. Mecklin made them cheer and weep, and Mr. Mellish made them laugh. The meeting had been highly successful. "You polished him off, all right," said George Hutchins, as he took my hand. "Who was he?" "Oh, one of the local sore-heads. Krebs put him up to it, of course." "Was Krebs here?" I asked. "Sitting in the corner of the balcony. That meeting must have made him feel sick." George bent forward and whispered in my ear: "I thought Bill 709 was Watling's idea." "Oh, I happened to be in the Potts House about that time," I explained. George, of whom it may be gathered that he was not wholly unsophisticated, grinned at me appreciatively. "Say, Paret," he replied, putting his hand through my arm, "there's a little legal business in prospect down here that will require some handling, and I wish you'd come down after the campaign and talk it over, with us. I've just about made up my mind that you're he man to tackle it." "All right, I'll come," I said. "And stay with me," said George.... We went to his yellow-brick house for refreshments, salad and ice-cream and (in the face of the Hutchins traditions) champagne. Others had been invited in, some twenty persons.... Once in a while, when I looked up, I met Maude's eyes across the room. I walked home with her, slowly, the length of the Hutchinses' block. Floating over the lake was a waning October moon that cast through the thinning maples a lace-work of shadows at our feet; I had the feeling of well-being that comes to heroes, and the presence of Maude Hutchins was an incense, a vestal incense far from unpleasing. Yet she had reservations which appealed to me. Hers was not a gushing provincialism, like that of Mrs. George. "I liked your speech so much, Mr. Paret," she told me. "It seemed so sensible and--controlled, compared to the others. I have never thought a great deal about these things, of course, and I never understood before why taking away the tariff caused so much misery. You made that quite plain. "If so, I'm glad," I said. She was silent a moment. "The working people here have had a hard time during the last year," she went on. "Some of the mills had to be shut down, you know. It has troubled me. Indeed, it has troubled all of us. And what has made it more difficult, more painful is that many of them seem actually to dislike us. They think it's father's fault, and that he could run all the mills if he wanted to. I've been around a little with mother and sometimes the women wouldn't accept any help from us; they said they'd rather starve than take charity, that they had the right to work. But father couldn't run the mills at a loss--could he?" "Certainly not," I replied. "And then there's Mr. Krebs, of whom we were speaking at supper, and who puts all kinds of queer notions into their heads. Father says he's an anarchist. I heard father say at supper that he was at Harvard with you. Did you like him?" "Well," I answered hesitatingly, "I didn't know him very well." "Of course not," she put in. "I suppose you couldn't have." "He's got these notions," I explained, "that are mischievous and crazy--but I don't dislike him." "I'm glad to hear you say that!" she answered quietly. "I like him, too--he seems so kind, so understanding." "Do you know him?" "Well,--" she hesitated--"I feel as though I do. I've only met him once, and that was by accident. It was the day the big strike began, last spring, and I had been shopping, and started for the mills to get father to walk home with me, as I used to do. I saw the crowds blocking the streets around the canal. At first I paid no attention to them, but after a while I began to be a little uneasy, there were places where I had to squeeze through, and I couldn't help seeing that something was wrong, and that the people were angry. Men and women were talking in loud voices. One woman stared at me, and called my name, and said something that frightened me terribly. I went into a doorway--and then I saw Mr. Krebs. I didn't know who he was. He just said, 'You'd better come with me, Miss Hutchins,' and I went with him. I thought afterwards that it was a very courageous thing for him to do, because he was so popular with the mill people, and they had such a feeling against us. Yet they didn't seem to resent it, and made way for us, and Mr. Krebs spoke to many of them as we passed. After we got to State Street, I asked him his name, and when he told me I was speechless. He took off his hat and went away. He had such a nice face--not at all ugly when you look at it twice--and kind eyes, that I just couldn't believe him to be as bad as father and George think he is. Of course he is mistaken," she added hastily, "but I am sure he is sincere, and honestly thinks he can help those people by telling them what he does." The question shot at me during the meeting rankled still; I wanted to believe that Krebs had inspired it, and her championship of him gave me a twinge of jealousy,--the slightest twinge, to be sure, yet a perceptible one. At the same time, the unaccountable liking I had for the man stirred to life. The act she described had been so characteristic. "He's one of the born rebels against society," I said glibly. "Yet I do think he's sincere." Maude was grave. "I should be sorry to think he wasn't," she replied. After I had bidden her good night at the foot of the stairs, and gone to my room, I reflected how absurd it was to be jealous of Krebs. What was Maude Hutchins to me? And even if she had been something to me, she never could be anything to Krebs. All the forces of our civilization stood between the two; nor was she of a nature to take plunges of that sort. The next day, as I lay back in my seat in the parlour-car and gazed at the autumn landscape, I indulged in a luxurious contemplation of the picture she had made as she stood on the lawn under the trees in the early morning light, when my carriage had driven away; and I had turned, to perceive that her eyes had followed me. I was not in love with her, of course. I did not wish to return at once to Elkington, but I dwelt with a pleasant anticipation upon my visit, when the campaign should be over, with George. XIII. "The good old days of the Watling campaign," as Colonel Paul Varney is wont to call them, are gone forever. And the Colonel himself, who stuck to his gods, has been through the burning, fiery furnace of Investigation, and has come out unscathed and unrepentant. The flames of investigation, as a matter of fact, passed over his head in their vain attempt to reach the "man higher up," whose feet they licked; but him they did not devour, either. A veteran in retirement, the Colonel is living under his vine and fig tree on the lake at Rossiter; the vine bears Catawba grapes, of which he is passionately fond; the fig tree, the Bartlett pears he gives to his friends. He has saved something from the spoils of war, but other veterans I could mention are not so fortunate. The old warriors have retired, and many are dead; the good old methods are becoming obsolete. We never bothered about those mischievous things called primaries. Our county committees, our state committees chose the candidates for the conventions, which turned around and chose the committees. Both the committees and the conventions--under advice--chose the candidates. Why, pray, should the people complain, when they had everything done for them? The benevolent parties, both Democratic and Republican, even undertook the expense of printing the ballots! And generous ballots they were (twenty inches long and five wide!), distributed before election, in order that the voters might have the opportunity of studying and preparing them: in order that Democrats of delicate feelings might take the pains to scratch out all the Democratic candidates, and write in the names of the Republican candidates. Patriotism could go no farther than this.... I spent the week before election in the city, where I had the opportunity of observing what may be called the charitable side of politics. For a whole month, or more, the burden of existence had been lifted from the shoulders of the homeless. No church or organization, looked out for these frowsy, blear-eyed and ragged wanderers who had failed to find a place in the scale of efficiency. For a whole month, I say, Mr. Judd Jason and his lieutenants made them their especial care; supported them in lodging-houses, induced the night clerks to give them attention; took the greatest pains to ensure them the birth-right which, as American citizens, was theirs,--that of voting. They were not only given homes for a period, but they were registered; and in the abundance of good feeling that reigned during this time of cheer, even the foreigners were registered! On election day they were driven, like visiting notables, in carryalls and carriages to the polls! Some of them, as though in compensation for ills endured between elections, voted not once, but many times; exercising judicial functions for which they should be given credit. For instance, they were convinced that the Hon. W. W. Trulease had made a good governor; and they were Watling enthusiasts,--intent on sending men to the legislature who would vote for him for senator; yet there were cases in which, for the minor offices, the democrat was the better man! It was a memorable day. In spite of Mr. Lawler's Pilot, which was as a voice crying in the wilderness, citizens who had wives and homes and responsibilities, business men and clerks went to the voting booths and recorded their choice for Trulease, Watling and Prosperity: and working-men followed suit. Victory was in the air. Even the policemen wore happy smiles, and in some instances the election officers themselves in absent-minded exuberance thrust bunches of ballots into the boxes! In response to an insistent demand from his fellow-citizens Mr. Watling, the Saturday evening before, had made a speech in the Auditorium, decked with bunting and filled with people. For once the Morning Era did not exaggerate when it declared that the ovation had lasted fully ten minutes. "A remarkable proof" it went on to say, "of the esteem and confidence in which our fellow-citizen is held by those who know him best, his neighbours in the city where he has given so many instances of his public spirit, where he has achieved such distinction in the practice of the law. He holds the sound American conviction that the office should seek the man. His address is printed in another column, and we believe it will appeal to the intelligence and sober judgment of the state. It is replete with modesty and wisdom." Mr. Watling was introduced by Mr. Bering of the State Supreme Court (a candidate for re-election), who spoke with deliberation, with owl-like impressiveness. He didn't believe in judges meddling in politics, but this was an unusual occasion. (Loud applause.) Most unusual. He had come here as a man, as an American, to pay his tribute to another man, a long-time friend, whom he thought to stand somewhat aside and above mere party strife, to represent values not merely political.... So accommodating and flexible is the human mind, so "practical" may it become through dealing with men and affairs, that in listening to Judge Bering I was able to ignore the little anomalies such a situation might have suggested to the theorist, to the mere student of the institutions of democracy. The friendly glasses of rye and water Mr. Bering had taken in Monahan's saloon, the cases he had "arranged" for the firm of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon were forgotten. Forgotten, too, when Theodore Watling stood up and men began, to throw their hats in the air,--were the cavilling charges of Mr. Lawler's Pilot that, far from the office seeking the man, our candidate had spent over a hundred thousand dollars of his own money, to say nothing of the contributions of Mr. Scherer, Mr. Dickinson and the Railroad! If I had been troubled with any weak, ethical doubts, Mr. Watling would have dispelled them; he had red blood in his veins, a creed in which he believed, a rare power of expressing himself in plain, everyday language that was often colloquial, but never--as the saying goes--"cheap." The dinner-pail predicament was real to him. He would present a policy of our opponents charmingly, even persuasively, and then add, after a moment's pause: "There is only one objection to this, my friends--that it doesn't work." It was all in the way he said it, of course. The audience would go wild with approval, and shouts of "that's right" could be heard here and there. Then he proceeded to show why it didn't work. He had the faculty of bringing his lessons home, the imagination to put himself into the daily life of those who listened to him,--the life of the storekeeper, the clerk, of the labourer and of the house-wife. The effect of this can scarcely be overestimated. For the American hugs the delusion that there are no class distinctions, even though his whole existence may be an effort to rise out of once class into another. "Your wife," he told them once, "needs a dress. Let us admit that the material for the dress is a little cheaper than it was four years ago, but when she comes to look into the family stocking--" (Laughter.) "I needn't go on. If we could have things cheaper, and more money to buy them with, we should all be happy, and the Republican party could retire from business." He did not once refer to the United States Senatorship. It was appropriate, perhaps, that many of us dined on the evening of election day at the Boyne Club. There was early evidence of a Republican land-slide. And when, at ten o'clock, it was announced that Mr. Trulease was re-elected by a majority which exceeded Mr. Grunewald's most hopeful estimate, that the legislature was "safe," that Theodore Watling would be the next United States Senator, a scene of jubilation ensued within those hallowed walls which was unprecedented. Chairs were pushed back, rugs taken up, Gene Hollister played the piano and a Virginia reel started; in a burst of enthusiasm Leonard Dickinson ordered champagne for every member present. The country was returning to its senses. Theodore Watling had preferred, on this eventful night, to remain quietly at home. But presently carriages were ordered, and a "delegation" of enthusiastic friends departed to congratulate him; Dickinson, of course, Grierson, Fowndes, Ogilvy, and Grunewald. We found Judah B. Tallant there,--in spite of the fact that it was a busy night for the Era; and Adolf Scherer himself, in expansive mood, was filling the largest of the library chairs. Mr. Watling was the least excited of them all; remarkably calm, I thought, for a man on the verge of realizing his life's high ambition. He had some old brandy, and a box of cigars he had been saving for an occasion. He managed to convey to everyone his appreciation of the value of their cooperation.... It was midnight before Mr. Scherer arose to take his departure. He seized Mr. Watling's hand, warmly, in both of his own. "I have never," he said, with a relapse into the German f's, "I have never had a happier moment in my life, my friend, than when I congratulate you on your success." His voice shook with emotion. "Alas, we shall not see so much of you now." "He'll be on guard, Scherer," said Leonard Dickinson, putting his arm around my chief. "Good night, Senator," said Tallant, and all echoed the word, which struck me as peculiarly appropriate. Much as I had admired Mr. Watling before, it seemed indeed as if he had undergone some subtle change in the last few hours, gained in dignity and greatness by the action of the people that day. When it came my turn to bid him good night, he retained my hand in his. "Don't go yet, Hugh," he said. "But you must be tired," I objected. "This sort of thing doesn't make a man tired," he laughed, leading me back to the library, where he began to poke the fire into a blaze. "Sit down awhile. You must be tired, I think,--you've worked hard in this campaign, a good deal harder than I have. I haven't said much about it, but I appreciate it, my boy." Mr. Watling had the gift of expressing his feelings naturally, without sentimentality. I would have given much for that gift. "Oh, I liked it," I replied awkwardly. I read a gentle amusement in his eyes, and also the expression of something else, difficult to define. He had seated himself, and was absently thrusting at the logs with the poker. "You've never regretted going into law?" he asked suddenly, to my surprise. "Why, no, sir," I said. "I'm glad to hear that. I feel, to a considerable extent, responsible for your choice of a profession." "My father intended me to be a lawyer," I told him. "But it's true that you gave me my--my first enthusiasm." He looked up at me at the word. "I admired your father. He seemed to me to be everything that a lawyer should be. And years ago, when I came to this city a raw country boy from upstate, he represented and embodied for me all the fine traditions of the profession. But the practice of law isn't what it was in his day, Hugh." "No," I agreed, "that could scarcely be expected." "Yes, I believe you realize that," he said. "I've watched you, I've taken a personal pride in you, and I have an idea that eventually you will succeed me here--neither Fowndes nor Ripon have the peculiar ability you have shown. You and I are alike in a great many respects, and I am inclined to think we are rather rare, as men go. We are able to keep one object vividly in view, so vividly as to be able to work for it day and night. I could mention dozens who had and have more natural talent for the law than I, more talent for politics than I. The same thing may be said about you. I don't regard either of us as natural lawyers, such as your father was. He couldn't help being a lawyer." Here was new evidence of his perspicacity. "But surely," I ventured, "you don't feel any regrets concerning your career, Mr. Watling?" "No," he said, "that's just the point. But no two of us are made wholly alike. I hadn't practised law very long before I began to realize that conditions were changing, that the new forces at work in our industrial life made the older legal ideals impracticable. It was a case of choosing between efficiency and inefficiency, and I chose efficiency. Well, that was my own affair, but when it comes to influencing others--" He paused. "I want you to see this as I do, not for the sake of justifying myself, but because I honestly believe there is more to it than expediency,--a good deal more. There's a weak way of looking at it, and a strong way. And if I feel sure you understand it, I shall be satisfied. "Because things are going to change in this country, Hugh. They are changing, but they are going to change more. A man has got to make up his mind what he believes in, and be ready to fight for it. We'll have to fight for it, sooner perhaps than we realize. We are a nation divided against ourselves; democracy--Jacksonian democracy, at all events, is a flat failure, and we may as well acknowledge it. We have a political system we have outgrown, and which, therefore, we have had to nullify. There are certain needs, certain tendencies of development in nations as well as in individuals,--needs stronger than the state, stronger than the law or constitution. In order to make our resources effective, combinations of capital are more and more necessary, and no more to be denied than a chemical process, given the proper ingredients, can be thwarted. The men who control capital must have a free hand, or the structure will be destroyed. This compels us to do many things which we would rather not do, which we might accomplish openly and unopposed if conditions were frankly recognized, and met by wise statesmanship which sought to bring about harmony by the reshaping of laws and policies. Do you follow me?" "Yes," I answered. "But I have never heard the situation stated so clearly. Do you think the day will come when statesmanship will recognize this need?" "Ah," he said, "I'm afraid not--in my time, at least. But we shall have to develop that kind of statesmen or go on the rocks. Public opinion in the old democratic sense is a myth; it must be made by strong individuals who recognize and represent evolutionary needs, otherwise it's at the mercy of demagogues who play fast and loose with the prejudice and ignorance of the mob. The people don't value the vote, they know nothing about the real problems. So far as I can see, they are as easily swayed to-day as the crowd that listened to Mark Antony's oration about Caesar. You've seen how we have to handle them, in this election and--in other matters. It isn't a pleasant practice, something we'd indulge in out of choice, but the alternative is unthinkable. We'd have chaos in no time. We've just got to keep hold, you understand--we can't leave it to the irresponsible." "Yes," I said. In this mood he was more impressive than I had ever known him, and his confidence flattered and thrilled me. "In the meantime, we're criminals," he continued. "From now on we'll have to stand more and more denunciation from the visionaries, the dissatisfied, the trouble makers. We may as well make up our minds to it. But we've got something on our side worth fighting for, and the man who is able to make that clear will be great." "But you--you are going to the Senate," I reminded him. He shook his head. "The time has not yet come," he said. "Confusion and misunderstanding must increase before they can diminish. But I have hopes of you, Hugh, or I shouldn't have spoken. I shan't be here now--of course I'll keep in touch with you. I wanted to be sure that you had the right view of this thing." "I see it now," I said. "I had thought of it, but never--never as a whole--not in the large sense in which you have expressed it." To attempt to acknowledge or deprecate the compliment he had paid me was impossible; I felt that he must have read my gratitude and appreciation in my manner. "I mustn't keep you up until morning." He glanced at the clock, and went with me through the hall into the open air. A meteor darted through the November night. "We're like that," he observed, staring after it, a "flash across the darkness, and we're gone." "Only--there are many who haven't the satisfaction of a flash," I was moved to reply. He laughed and put his hand on my shoulder as he bade me good night. "Hugh, you ought to get married. I'll have to find a nice girl for you," he said. With an elation not unmingled with awe I made my way homeward. Theodore Watling had given me a creed. A week or so after the election I received a letter from George Hutchins asking me to come to Elkington. I shall not enter into the details of the legal matter involved. Many times that winter I was a guest at the yellow-brick house, and I have to confess, as spring came on, that I made several trips to Elkington which business necessity did not absolutely demand. I considered Maude Hutchins, and found the consideration rather a delightful process. As became an eligible and successful young man, I was careful not to betray too much interest; and I occupied myself at first with a review of what I deemed her shortcomings. Not that I was thinking of marriage--but I had imagined the future Mrs. Paret as tall; Maude was up to my chin: again, the hair of the fortunate lady was to be dark, and Maude's was golden red: my ideal had esprit, lightness of touch, the faculty of seizing just the aspect of a subject that delighted me, and a knowledge of the world; Maude was simple, direct, and in a word provincial. Her provinciality, however, was negative rather than positive, she had no disagreeable mannerisms, her voice was not nasal; her plasticity appealed to me. I suppose I was lost without knowing it when I began to think of moulding her. All of this went on at frequent intervals during the winter, and while I was organizing the Elkington Power and Traction Company for George I found time to dine and sup at Maude's house, and to take walks with her. I thought I detected an incense deliciously sweet; by no means overpowering, like the lily's, but more like the shy fragrance of the wood flower. I recall her kind welcomes, the faint deepening of colour in her cheeks when she greeted me, and while I suspected that she looked up to me she had a surprising and tantalizing self-command. There came moments when I grew slightly alarmed, as, for instance, one Sunday in the early spring when I was dining at the Ezra Hutchins's house and surprised Mrs. Hutchins's glance on me, suspecting her of seeking to divine what manner of man I was. I became self-conscious; I dared not look at Maude, who sat across the table; thereafter I began to feel that the Hutchins connection regarded me as a suitor. I had grown intimate with George and his wife, who did not refrain from sly allusions; and George himself once remarked, with characteristic tact, that I was most conscientious in my attention to the traction affair; I have reason to believe they were even less delicate with Maude. This was the logical time to withdraw--but I dallied. The experience was becoming more engrossing,--if I may so describe it,--and spring was approaching. The stars in their courses were conspiring. I was by no means as yet a self-acknowledged wooer, and we discussed love in its lighter phases through the medium of literature. Heaven forgive me for calling it so! About that period, it will be remembered, a mushroom growth of volumes of a certain kind sprang into existence; little books with "artistic" bindings and wide margins, sweetened essays, some of them written in beautiful English by dilettante authors for drawing-room consumption; and collections of short stories, no doubt chiefly bought by philanderers like myself, who were thus enabled to skate on thin ice over deep water. It was a most delightful relationship that these helped to support, and I fondly believed I could reach shore again whenever I chose. There came a Sunday in early May, one of those days when the feminine assumes a large importance. I had been to the Hutchinses' church; and Maude, as she sat and prayed decorously in the pew beside me, suddenly increased in attractiveness and desirability. Her voice was very sweet, and I felt a delicious and languorous thrill which I identified not only with love, but also with a reviving spirituality. How often the two seem to go hand in hand! She wore a dress of a filmy material, mauve, with a design in gold thread running through it. Of late, it seemed, she had had more new dresses: and their modes seemed more cosmopolitan; at least to the masculine eye. How delicately her hair grew, in little, shining wisps, around her white neck! I could have reached out my hand and touched her. And it was this desire,--although by no means overwhelming,--that startled me. Did I really want her? The consideration of this vital question occupied the whole time of the sermon; made me distrait at dinner,--a large family gathering. Later I found myself alone with heron a bench in the Hutchinses' garden where we had walked the day of my arrival, during the campaign. The gardens were very different, now. The trees had burst forth again into leaf, the spiraea bushes seemed weighted down with snow, and with a note like that of the quivering bass string of a 'cello the bees hummed among the fruit blossoms. And there beside me in her filmy dress was Maude, a part of it all--the meaning of all that set my being clamouring. She was like some ripened, delicious flower ready to be picked.... One of those pernicious, make-believe volumes had fallen on the bench between us, for I could not read any more; I could not think; I touched her hand, and when she drew it gently away I glanced at her. Reason made a valiant but hopeless effort to assert itself. Was I sure that I wanted her--for life? No use! I wanted her now, no matter what price that future might demand. An awkward silence fell between us--awkward to me, at least--and I, her guide and mentor, became banal, apologetic, confused. I made some idiotic remark about being together in the Garden of Eden. "I remember Mr. Doddridge saying in Bible class that it was supposed to be on the Euphrates," she replied. "But it's been destroyed by the flood." "Let's make another--one of our own," I suggested. "Why, how silly you are this afternoon." "What's to prevent us--Maude?" I demanded, with a dry throat. "Nonsense!" she laughed. In proportion as I lost poise she seemed to gain it. "It's not nonsense," I faltered. "If we were married." At last the fateful words were pronounced--irrevocably. And, instead of qualms, I felt nothing but relief, joy that I had been swept along by the flood of feeling. She did not look at me, but gazed straight ahead of her. "If I love you, Maude?" I stammered, after a moment. "But I don't love you," she replied, steadily. Never in my life had I been so utterly taken aback. "Do you mean," I managed to say, "that after all these months you don't like me a little?" "'Liking' isn't loving." She looked me full in the face. "I like you very much." "But--" there I stopped, paralyzed by what appeared to me the quintessence of feminine inconsistency and caprice. Yet, as I stared at her, she certainly did not appear capricious. It is not too much to say that I was fairly astounded at this evidence of self-command and decision, of the strength of mind to refuse me. Was it possible that she had felt nothing and I all? I got to my feet. "I hate to hurt your feelings," I heard her say. "I'm very sorry."... She looked up at me. Afterwards, when reflecting on the scene, I seemed to remember that there were tears in her eyes. I was not in a condition to appreciate her splendid sincerity. I was overwhelmed and inarticulate. I left her there, on the bench, and went back to George's, announcing my intention of taking the five o'clock train.... Maude Hutchins had become, at a stroke, the most desirable of women. I have often wondered how I should have felt on that five-hour journey back to the city if she had fallen into my arms! I should have persuaded myself, no doubt, that I had not done a foolish thing in yielding to an impulse and proposing to an inexperienced and provincial young woman, yet there would have been regrets in the background. Too deeply chagrined to see any humour in the situation, I settled down in a Pullman seat and went over and over again the event of that afternoon until the train reached the city. As the days wore on, and I attended to my cases, I thought of Maude a great deal, and in those moments when the pressure of business was relaxed, she obsessed me. She must love me,--only she did not realize it. That was the secret! Her value had risen amazingly, become supreme; the very act of refusing me had emphasized her qualifications as a wife, and I now desired her with all the intensity of a nature which had been permitted always to achieve its objects. The inevitable process of idealization began. In dusty offices I recalled her freshness as she had sat beside me in the garden,--the freshness of a flower; with Berkeleyan subjectivism I clothed the flower with colour, bestowed it with fragrance. I conferred on Maude all the gifts and graces that woman had possessed since the creation. And I recalled, with mingled bitterness and tenderness, the turn of her head, the down on her neck, the half-revealed curve of her arm.... In spite of the growing sordidness of Lyme Street, my mother and I still lived in the old house, for which she very naturally had a sentiment. In vain I had urged her from time to time to move out into a brighter and fresher neighbourhood. It would be time enough, she said, when I was married. "If you wait for that, mother," I answered, "we shall spend the rest of our lives here." "I shall spend the rest of my life here," she would declare. "But you--you have your life before you, my dear. You would be so much more contented if--if you could find some nice girl. I think you live--too feverishly." I do not know whether or not she suspected me of being in love, nor indeed how much she read of me in other ways. I did not confide in her, nor did it strike me that she might have yearned for confidences; though sometimes, when I dined at home, I surprised her gentle face--framed now with white hair--lifted wistfully toward me across the table. Our relationship, indeed, was a pathetic projection of that which had existed in my childhood; we had never been confidants then. The world in which I lived and fought, of great transactions and merciless consequences frightened her; her own world was more limited than ever. She heard disquieting things, I am sure, from Cousin Robert Breck, who had become more and more querulous since the time-honoured firm of Breck and Company had been forced to close its doors and the home at Claremore had been sold. My mother often spent the day in the scrolled suburban cottage with the coloured glass front door where he lived with the Kinleys and Helen.... If my mother suspected that I was anticipating marriage, and said nothing, Nancy Durrett suspected and spoke out. Life is such a curious succession of contradictions and surprises that I record here without comment the fact that I was seeing much more of Nancy since her marriage than I had in the years preceding it. A comradeship existed between us. I often dined at her house and had fallen into the habit of stopping there frequently on my way home in the evening. Ham did not seem to mind. What was clear, at any rate, was that Nancy, before marriage, had exacted some sort of an understanding by which her "freedom" was not to be interfered with. She was the first among us of the "modern wives." Ham, whose heartstrings and purse-strings were oddly intertwined, had stipulated that they were to occupy the old Durrett mansion; but when Nancy had made it "livable," as she expressed it, he is said to have remarked that he might as well have built a new house and been done with it. Not even old Nathaniel himself would have recognized his home when Nancy finished what she termed furnishing: out went the horsehair, the hideous chandeliers, the stuffy books, the Recamier statuary, and an army of upholsterers, wood-workers, etc., from Boston and New York invaded the place. The old mahogany doors were spared, but matched now by Chippendale and Sheraton; the new, polished floors were covered with Oriental rugs, the dreary Durrett pictures replaced by good canvases and tapestries. Nancy had what amounted to a genius for interior effects, and she was the first to introduce among us the luxury that was to grow more and more prevalent as our wealth increased by leaps and bounds. Only Nancy's luxury, though lavish, was never vulgar, and her house when completed had rather marvellously the fine distinction of some old London mansion filled with the best that generations could contribute. It left Mrs. Frederick Grierson--whose residence on the Heights had hitherto been our "grandest"--breathless with despair. With characteristic audacity Nancy had chosen old Nathaniel's sanctum for her particular salon, into which Ham himself did not dare to venture without invitation. It was hung in Pompeiian red and had a little wrought-iron balcony projecting over the yard, now transformed by an expert into a garden. When I had first entered this room after the metamorphosis had taken place I inquired after the tombstone mantel. "Oh, I've pulled it up by the roots," she said. "Aren't you afraid of ghosts?" I inquired. "Do I look it?" she asked. And I confessed that she didn't. Indeed, all ghosts were laid, nor was there about her the slightest evidence of mourning or regret. One was forced to acknowledge her perfection in the part she had chosen as the arbitress of social honours. The candidates were rapidly increasing; almost every month, it seemed, someone turned up with a fortune and the aspirations that go with it, and it was Mrs. Durrett who decided the delicate question of fitness. With these, and with the world at large, her manner might best be described as difficult; and I was often amused at the way in which she contrived to keep them at arm's length and make them uncomfortable. With her intimates--of whom there were few--she was frank. "I suppose you enjoy it," I said to her once. "Of course I enjoy it, or I shouldn't do it," she retorted. "It isn't the real thing, as I told you once. But none of us gets the real thing. It's power.... Just as you enjoy what you're doing--sorting out the unfit. It's a game, it keeps us from brooding over things we can't help. And after all, when we have good appetites and are fairly happy, why should we complain?" "I'm not complaining," I said, taking up a cigarette, "since I still enjoy your favour." She regarded me curiously. "And when you get married, Hugh?" "Sufficient unto the day," I replied. "How shall I get along, I wonder, with that simple and unsophisticated lady when she appears?" "Well," I said, "you wouldn't marry me." She shook her head at me, and smiled.... "No," she corrected me, "you like me better as Hams' wife than you would have as your own." I merely laughed at this remark.... It would indeed have been difficult to analyze the new relationship that had sprung up between us, to say what elements composed it. The roots of it went back to the beginning of our lives; and there was much of sentiment in it, no doubt. She understood me as no one else in the world understood me, and she was fond of me in spite of it. Hence, when I became infatuated with Maude Hutchins, after that Sunday when she so unexpectedly had refused me, I might have known that Nancy's suspicions would be aroused. She startled me by accusing me, out of a clear sky, of being in love. I denied it a little too emphatically. "Why shouldn't you tell me, Hugh, if it's so?" she asked. "I didn't hesitate to tell you." It was just before her departure for the East to spend the summer. We were on the balcony, shaded by the big maple that grew at the end of the garden. "But there's nothing to tell," I insisted. She lay back in her chair, regarding me. "Did you think that I'd be jealous?" "There's nothing to be jealous about." "I've always expected you to get married, Hugh. I've even predicted the type." She had, in truth, with an accuracy almost uncanny. "The only thing I'm afraid of is that she won't like me. She lives in that place you've been going to so much, lately,--doesn't she?" Of course she had put two and two together, my visits to Elkington and my manner, which I had flattered myself had not been distrait. On the chance that she knew more, from some source, I changed my tactics. "I suppose you mean Maude Hutchins," I said. Nancy laughed. "So that's her name!" "It's the name of a girl in Elkington. I've been doing legal work for the Hutchinses, and I imagine some idiot has been gossiping. She's just a young girl--much too young for me." "Men are queer creatures," she declared. "Did you think I should be jealous?" It was exactly what I had thought, but I denied it. "Why should you be--even if there were anything to be jealous about? You didn't consult me when you got married. You merely announced an irrevocable decision." Nancy leaned forward and laid her hand on my arm. "My dear," she said, "strange as it may seem, I want you to be happy. I don't want you to make a mistake, Hugh, too great a mistake." I was surprised and moved. Once more I had a momentary glimpse of the real Nancy.... Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Ralph Hambleton.... XIV. However, thoughts of Maude continued to possess me. She still appeared the most desirable of beings, and a fortnight after my repulse, without any excuse at all, I telegraphed the George Hutchinses that I was coming to pay them a visit. Mrs. George, wearing a knowing smile, met me at the station in a light buck-board. "I've asked Maude to dinner," she said.... Thus with masculine directness I returned to the charge, and Maude's continued resistance but increased my ardour; could not see why she continued to resist me. "Because I don't love you," she said. This was incredible. I suggested that she didn't know what love was, and she admitted it was possible: she liked me very, very much. I told her, sagely, that this was the best foundation for matrimony. That might be, but she had had other ideas. For one thing, she felt that she did not know me.... In short, she was charming and maddening in her defensive ruses, in her advances and retreats, for I pressed her hard during the four weeks which followed, and in them made four visits. Flinging caution to the winds, I did not even pretend to George that I was coming to see him on business. I had the Hutchins family on my side, for they had the sense to see that the match would be an advantageous one; I even summoned up enough courage to talk to Ezra Hutchins on the subject. "I'll not attempt to influence Maude, Mr. Paret--I've always said I wouldn't interfere with her choice. But as you are a young man of sound habits, sir, successful in your profession, I should raise no objection. I suppose we can't keep her always." To conceal his emotion, he pulled out the watch he lived by. "Why, it's church time!" he said.... I attended church regularly at Elkington.... On a Sunday night in June, following a day during which victory seemed more distant than ever, with startling unexpectedness Maude capitulated. She sat beside me on the bench, obscured, yet the warm night quivered with her presence. I felt her tremble.... I remember the first exquisite touch of her soft cheek. How strange it was that in conquest the tumult of my being should be stilled, that my passion should be transmuted into awe that thrilled yet disquieted! What had I done? It was as though I had suddenly entered an unimagined sanctuary filled with holy flame.... Presently, when we began to talk, I found myself seeking more familiar levels. I asked her why she had so long resisted me, accusing her of having loved me all the time. "Yes, I think I did, Hugh. Only--I didn't know it." "You must have felt something, that afternoon when I first proposed to you!" "You didn't really want me, Hugh. Not then." Surprised, and a little uncomfortable at this evidence of intuition, I started to protest. It seemed to me then as though I had always wanted her. "No, no," she exclaimed, "you didn't. You were carried away by your feelings--you hadn't made up your mind. Indeed, I can't see why you want me now." "You believe I do," I said, and drew her toward me. "Yes, I--I believe it, now. But I can't see why. There must be so many attractive girls in the city, who know so much more than I do." I sought fervidly to reassure her on this point.... At length when we went into the house she drew away from me at arm's length and gave me one long searching look, as though seeking to read my soul. "Hugh, you will always love me--to the very end, won't you?" "Yes," I whispered, "always." In the library, one on each side of the table, under the lamp, Ezra Hutchins and his wife sat reading. Mrs. Hutchins looked up, and I saw that she had divined. "Mother, I am engaged to Hugh," Maude said, and bent over and kissed her. Ezra and I stood gazing at them. Then he turned to me and pressed my hand. "Well, I never saw the man who was good enough for her, Hugh. But God bless you, my son. I hope you will prize her as we prize her." Mrs. Hutchins embraced me. And through her tears she, too, looked long into my face. When she had released me Ezra had his watch in his hand. "If you're going on the ten o'clock train, Hugh--" "Father!" Maude protested, laughing, "I must say I don't call that very polite."... In the train I slept but fitfully, awakening again and again to recall the extraordinary fact that I was now engaged to be married, to go over the incidents of the evening. Indifferent to the backings and the bumpings of the car, the voices in the stations, the clanging of locomotive bells and all the incomprehensible startings and stoppings, exalted yet troubled I beheld Maude luminous with the love I had amazingly awakened, a love somewhere beyond my comprehension. For her indeed marriage was made in heaven. But for me? Could I rise now to the ideal that had once been mine, thrust henceforth evil out of my life? Love forever, live always in this sanctuary she had made for me? Would the time come when I should feel a sense of bondage?... The wedding was set for the end of September. I continued to go every week to Elkington, and in August, Maude and I spent a fortnight at the sea. There could be no doubt as to my mother's happiness, as to her approval of Maude; they loved each other from the beginning. I can picture them now, sitting together with their sewing on the porch of the cottage at Mattapoisett. Out on the bay little white-caps danced in the sunlight, sail-boats tacked hither and thither, the strong cape breeze, laden with invigorating salt, stirred Maude's hair, and occasionally played havoc with my papers. "She is just the wife for you, Hugh," my mother confided to me. "If I had chosen her myself I could not have done better," she added, with a smile. I was inclined to believe it, but Maude would have none of this illusion. "He just stumbled across me," she insisted.... We went on long sails together, towards Wood's Hole and the open sea, the sprays washing over us. Her cheeks grew tanned.... Sometimes, when I praised her and spoke confidently of our future, she wore a troubled expression. "What are you thinking about?" I asked her once. "You mustn't put me on a pedestal," she said gently. "I want you to see me as I am--I don't want you to wake up some day and be disappointed. I'll have to learn a lot of things, and you'll have to teach me. I can't get used to the fact that you, who are so practical and successful in business, should be such a dreamer where I am concerned." I laughed, and told her, comfortably, that she was talking nonsense. "What did you think of me, when you first knew me?" I inquired. "Well," she answered, with the courage that characterized her, "I thought you were rather calculating, that you put too high a price on success. Of course you attracted me. I own it." "You hid your opinions rather well," I retorted, somewhat discomfited. She flushed. "Have you changed them?" I demanded. "I think you have that side, and I think it a weak side, Hugh. It's hard to tell you this, but it's better to say so now, since you ask me. I do think you set too high a value on success.' "Well, now that I know what success really is, perhaps I shall reform," I told her. "I don't like to think that you fool yourself," she replied, with a perspicacity I should have found extraordinary. Throughout my life there have been days and incidents, some trivial, some important, that linger in my memory because they are saturated with "atmosphere." I recall, for instance, a gala occasion in youth when my mother gave one of her luncheon parties; on my return from school, the house and its surroundings wore a mysterious, exciting and unfamiliar look, somehow changed by the simple fact that guests sat decorously chatting in a dining-room shining with my mother's best linen and treasured family silver and china. The atmosphere of my wedding-day is no less vivid. The house of Ezra Hutchins was scarcely recognizable: its doors and windows were opened wide, and all the morning people were being escorted upstairs to an all-significant room that contained a collection like a jeweller's exhibit,--a bewildering display. There was a massive punch-bowl from which dangled the card of Mr. and Mrs. Adolf Scherer, a really wonderful tea set of old English silver given by Senator and Mrs. Watling, and Nancy Willett, with her certainty of good taste, had sent an old English tankard of the time of the second Charles. The secret was in that room. And it magically transformed for me (as I stood, momentarily alone, in the doorway where I had first beheld Maude) the accustomed scene, and charged with undivined significance the blue shadows under the heavy foliage of the maples. The September sunlight was heavy, tinged with gold.... So fragmentary and confused are the events of that day that a cubist literature were necessary to convey the impressions left upon me. I had something of the feeling of a recruit who for the first time is taking part in a brilliant and complicated manoeuvre. Tom and Susan Peters flit across the view, and Gene Hollister and Perry Blackwood and the Ewanses,--all of whom had come up in a special car; Ralph Hambleton was "best man," looking preternaturally tall in his frock-coat: and his manner, throughout the whole proceeding, was one of good-natured tolerance toward a folly none but he might escape. "If you must do it, Hughie, I suppose you must," he had said to me. "I'll see you through, of course. But don't blame me afterwards." Maude was a little afraid of him.... I dressed at George's; then, like one of those bewildering shifts of a cinematograph, comes the scene in church, the glimpse of my mother's wistful face in the front pew; and I found myself in front of the austere Mr. Doddridge standing beside Maude--or rather beside a woman I tried hard to believe was Maude--so veiled and generally encased was she. I was thinking of this all the time I was mechanically answering Mr. Doddridge, and even when the wedding march burst forth and I led her out of the church. It was as though they had done their best to disguise her, to put our union on the other-worldly plane that was deemed to be its only justification, to neutralize her sex at the very moment it should have been most enhanced. Well, they succeeded. If I had not been as conventional as the rest, I should have preferred to have run away with her in the lavender dress she wore when I first proposed to her. It was only when we had got into the carriage and started for the house and she turned to me her face from which the veil had been thrown back that I realized what a sublime meaning it all had for her. Her eyes were wet. Once more I was acutely conscious of my inability to feel deeply at supreme moments. For months I had looked forward with anticipation and impatience to my wedding-day. I kissed her gently. But I felt as though she had gone to heaven, and that the face I beheld enshrouded were merely her effigy. Commonplace words were inappropriate, yet it was to these I resorted. "Well--it wasn't so bad after all! Was it?" She smiled at me. "You don't want to take it back?" She shook her head. "I think it was a beautiful wedding, Hugh. I'm so glad we had a good day."... She seemed shy, at once very near and very remote. I held her hand awkwardly until the carriage stopped. A little later we were standing in a corner of the parlour, the atmosphere of which was heavy with the scent of flowers, submitting to the onslaught of relatives. Then came the wedding breakfast: croquettes, champagne, chicken salad, ice-cream, the wedding-cake, speeches and more kisses.... I remember Tom Peters holding on to both my hands. "Good-bye, and God bless you, old boy," he was saying. Susan, in view of the occasion, had allowed him a little more champagne than usual--enough to betray his feelings, and I knew that these had not changed since our college days. I resolved to see more of him. I had neglected him and undervalued his loyalty.... He had followed me to my room in George's house where I was dressing for the journey, and he gave it as his deliberate judgment that in Maude I had "struck gold." "She's just the girl for you, Hughie," he declared. "Susan thinks so, too." Later in the afternoon, as we sat in the state-room of the car that was bearing us eastward, Maude began to cry. I sat looking at her helplessly, unable to enter into her emotion, resenting it a little. Yet I tried awkwardly to comfort her. "I can't bear to leave them," she said. "But you will see them often, when we come back," I reassured her. It was scarcely the moment for reminding her of what she was getting in return. This peculiar family affection she evinced was beyond me; I had never experienced it in any poignant degree since I had gone as a freshman to Harvard, and yet I was struck by the fact that her emotions were so rightly placed. It was natural to love one's family. I began to feel, vaguely, as I watched her, that the new relationship into which I had entered was to be much more complicated than I had imagined. Twilight was coming on, the train was winding through the mountain passes, crossing and re-crossing a swift little stream whose banks were massed with alder; here and there, on the steep hillsides, blazed the goldenrod.... Presently I turned, to surprise in her eyes a wide, questioning look,--the look of a child. Even in this irrevocable hour she sought to grasp what manner of being was this to whom she had confided her life, and with whom she was faring forth into the unknown. The experience was utterly unlike my anticipation. Yet I responded. The kiss I gave her had no passion in it. "I'll take good care of you, Maude," I said. Suddenly, in the fading light, she flung her arms around me, pressing me tightly, desperately. "Oh, I know you will, Hugh, dear. And you'll forgive me, won't you, for being so horrid to-day, of all days? I do love you!" Neither of us had ever been abroad. And although it was before the days of swimming-pools and gymnasiums and a la carte cafes on ocean liners, the Atlantic was imposing enough. Maude had a more lasting capacity for pleasure than I, a keener enjoyment of new experiences, and as she lay beside me in the steamer-chair where I had carefully tucked her she would exclaim: "I simply can't believe it, Hugh! It seems so unreal. I'm sure I shall wake up and find myself back in Elkington." "Don't speak so loud, my dear," I cautioned her. There were some very formal-looking New Yorkers next us. "No, I won't," she whispered. "But I'm so happy I feel as though I should like to tell everyone." "There's no need," I answered smiling. "Oh, Hugh, I don't want to disgrace you!" she exclaimed, in real alarm. "Otherwise, so far as I am concerned, I shouldn't care who knew." People smiled at her. Women came up and took her hands. And on the fourth day the formidable New Yorkers unexpectedly thawed. I had once thought of Maude as plastic. Then I had discovered she had a mind and will of her own. Once more she seemed plastic; her love had made her so. Was it not what I had desired? I had only to express a wish, and it became her law. Nay, she appealed to me many times a day to know whether she had made any mistakes, and I began to drill her in my silly traditions,--gently, very gently. "Well, I shouldn't be quite so familiar with people, quite so ready to make acquaintances, Maude. You have no idea who they may be. Some of them, of course, like the Sardells, I know by reputation." The Sardells were the New Yorkers who sat next us. "I'll try, Hugh, to be more reserved, more like the wife of an important man." She smiled. "It isn't that you're not reserved," I replied, ignoring the latter half of her remark. "Nor that I want you to change," I said. "I only want to teach you what little of the world I know myself." "And I want to learn, Hugh. You don't know how I want to learn!" The sight of mist-ridden Liverpool is not a cheering one for the American who first puts foot on the mother country's soil, a Liverpool of yellow-browns and dingy blacks, of tilted funnels pouring out smoke into an atmosphere already charged with it. The long wharves and shed roofs glistened with moisture. "Just think, Hugh, it's actually England!" she cried, as we stood on the wet deck. But I felt as though I'd been there before. "No wonder they're addicted to cold baths," I replied. "They must feel perfectly at home in them, especially if they put a little lampblack in the water." Maude laughed. "You grumpy old thing!" she exclaimed. Nothing could dampen her ardour, not the sight of the rain-soaked stone houses when we got ashore, nor even the frigid luncheon we ate in the lugubrious hotel. For her it was all quaint and new. Finally we found ourselves established in a compartment upholstered in light grey, with tassels and arm-supporters, on the window of which was pasted a poster with the word reserved in large, red letters. The guard inquired respectfully, as the porter put our new luggage in the racks, whether we had everything we wanted. The toy locomotive blew its toy whistle, and we were off for the north; past dingy, yellow tenements of the smoking factory towns, and stretches of orderly, hedge-spaced rain-swept country. The quaint cottages we glimpsed, the sight of distant, stately mansions on green slopes caused Maude to cry out with rapture:--"Oh, Hugh, there's a manor-house!" More vivid than were the experiences themselves of that journey are the memories of them. We went to windswept, Sabbath-keeping Edinburgh, to high Stirling and dark Holyrood, and to Abbotsford. It was through Sir Walter's eyes we beheld Melrose bathed in autumn light, by his aid repeopled it with forgotten monks eating their fast-day kale. And as we sat reading and dreaming in the still, sunny corners I forgot, that struggle for power in which I had been so furiously engaged since leaving Cambridge. Legislatures, politicians and capitalists receded into a dim background; and the gift I had possessed, in youth, of living in a realm of fancy showed astonishing signs of revival. "Why, Hugh," Maude exclaimed, "you ought to have been a writer!" "You've only just begun to fathom my talents," I replied laughingly. "Did you think you'd married just a dry old lawyer?" "I believe you capable of anything," she said.... I grew more and more to depend on her for little things. She was a born housewife. It was pleasant to have her do all the packing, while I read or sauntered in the queer streets about the inns. And she took complete charge of my wardrobe. She had a talent for drawing, and as we went southward through England she made sketches of the various houses that took our fancy--suggestions for future home-building; we spent hours in the evenings in the inn sitting-rooms incorporating new features into our residence, continually modifying our plans. Now it was a Tudor house that carried us away, now a Jacobean, and again an early Georgian with enfolding wings and a wrought-iron grill. A stage of bewilderment succeeded. Maude, I knew, loved the cottages best. She said they were more "homelike." But she yielded to my liking for grandeur. "My, I should feel lost in a palace like that!" she cried, as we gazed at the Marquis of So-and-So's country-seat. "Well, of course we should have to modify it," I admitted. "Perhaps--perhaps our family will be larger." She put her hand on my lips, and blushed a fiery red.... We examined, with other tourists, at a shilling apiece historic mansions with endless drawing-rooms, halls, libraries, galleries filled with family portraits; elaborate, formal bedrooms where famous sovereigns had slept, all roped off and carpeted with canvas strips to protect the floors. Through mullioned windows we caught glimpses of gardens and geometrical parterres, lakes, fountains, statuary, fantastic topiary and distant stretches of park. Maude sighed with admiration, but did not covet. She had me. But I was often uncomfortable, resenting the vulgar, gaping tourists with whom we were herded and the easy familiarity of the guides. These did not trouble Maude, who often annoyed me by asking naive questions herself. I would nudge her. One afternoon when, with other compatriots, we were being hurried through a famous castle, the guide unwittingly ushered us into a drawing-room where the owner and several guests were seated about a tea-table. I shall never forget the stares they gave us before we had time precipitately to retreat, nor the feeling of disgust and rebellion that came over me. This was heightened by the remark of a heavy, six-foot Ohioan with an infantile face and a genial manner. "I notice that they didn't invite us to sit down and have a bite," he said. "I call that kind of inhospitable." "It was 'is lordship himself!" exclaimed the guide, scandalized. "You don't say!" drawled our fellow-countryman. "I guess I owe you another shilling, my friend." The guide, utterly bewildered, accepted it. The transatlantic point of view towards the nobility was beyond him. "His lordship could make a nice little income if he set up as a side show," added the Ohioan. Maude giggled, but I was furious. And no sooner were we outside the gates than I declared I should never again enter a private residence by the back door. "Why, Hugh, how queer you are sometimes," she said. "I maybe queer, but I have a sense of fitness," I retorted. She asserted herself. "I can't see what difference it makes. They didn't know us. And if they admit people for money--" "I can't help it. And as for the man from Ohio--" "But he was so funny!" she interrupted. "And he was really very nice." I was silent. Her point of view, eminently sensible as it was, exasperated me. We were leaning over the parapet of a little-stone bridge. Her face was turned away from me, but presently I realized that she was crying. Men and women, villagers, passing across the bridge, looked at us curiously. I was miserable, and somewhat appalled; resentful, yet striving to be gentle and conciliatory. I assured her that she was talking nonsense, that I loved her. But I did not really love her at that moment; nor did she relent as easily as usual. It was not until we were together in our sitting-room, a few hours later, that she gave in. I felt a tremendous sense of relief. "Hugh, I'll try to be what you want. You know I am trying. But don't kill what is natural in me." I was touched by the appeal, and repentant... It is impossible to say when the little worries, annoyances and disagreements began, when I first felt a restlessness creeping over me. I tried to hide these moods from her, but always she divined them. And yet I was sure that I loved Maude; in a surprisingly short period I had become accustomed to her, dependent on her ministrations and the normal, cosy intimacy of our companionship. I did not like to think that the keen edge of the enjoyment of possession was wearing a little, while at the same time I philosophized that the divine fire, when legalized, settles down to a comfortable glow. The desire to go home that grew upon me I attributed to the irritation aroused by the spectacle of a fixed social order commanding such unquestioned deference from the many who were content to remain resignedly outside of it. Before the setting in of the Liberal movement and the "American invasion" England was a country in which (from my point of view) one must be "somebody" in order to be happy. I was "somebody" at home; or at least rapidly becoming so.... London was shrouded, parliament had risen, and the great houses were closed. Day after day we issued forth from a musty and highly respectable hotel near Piccadilly to a gloomy Tower, a soggy Hampton Court or a mournful British Museum. Our native longing for luxury--or rather my native longing--impelled me to abandon Smith's Hotel for a huge hostelry where our suite overlooked the Thames, where we ran across a man I had known slightly at Harvard, and other Americans with whom we made excursions and dined and went to the theatre. Maude liked these persons; I did not find them especially congenial. My life-long habit of unwillingness to accept what life sent in its ordinary course was asserting itself; but Maude took her friends as she found them, and I was secretly annoyed by her lack of discrimination. In addition to this, the sense of having been pulled up by the roots grew upon me. "Suppose," Maude surprised me by suggesting one morning as we sat at breakfast watching the river craft flit like phantoms through the yellow-green fog--"suppose we don't go to France, after all, Hugh?" "Not go to France!" I exclaimed. "Are you tired of the trip?" "Oh, Hugh!" Her voice caught. "I could go on, always, if you were content." "And--what makes you think that I'm not content?" Her smile had in it just a touch of wistfulness. "I understand you, Hugh, better than you think. You want to get back to your work, and--and I should be happier. I'm not so silly and so ignorant as to think that I can satisfy you always. And I'd like to get settled at home,--I really should." There surged up within me a feeling of relief. I seized her hand as it lay on the table. "We'll come abroad another time, and go to France," I said. "Maude, you're splendid!" She shook her head. "Oh, no, I'm not." "You do satisfy me," I insisted. "It isn't that at all. But I think, perhaps, it would be wiser to go back. It's rather a crucial time with me, now that Mr. Watling's in Washington. I've just arrived at a position where I shall be able to make a good deal of money, and later on--" "It isn't the money, Hugh," she cried, with a vehemence which struck me as a little odd. "I sometimes think we'd be a great deal happier without--without all you are going to make." I laughed. "Well, I haven't made it yet." She possessed the frugality of the Hutchinses. And some times my lavishness had frightened her, as when we had taken the suite of rooms we now occupied. "Are you sure you can afford them, Hugh?" she had asked when we first surveyed them. I began married life, and carried it on without giving her any conception of the state of my finances. She had an allowance from the first. As the steamer slipped westward my spirits rose, to reach a climax of exhilaration when I saw the towers of New York rise gleaming like huge stalagmites in the early winter sun. Maude likened them more happily--to gigantic ivory chessmen. Well, New York was America's chessboard, and the Great Players had already begun to make moves that astonished the world. As we sat at breakfast in a Fifth Avenue hotel I ran my eye eagerly over the stock-market reports and the financial news, and rallied Maude for a lack of spirits. "Aren't you glad to be home?" I asked her, as we sat in a hansom. "Of course I am, Hugh!" she protested. "But--I can't look upon New York as home, somehow. It frightens me." I laughed indulgently. "You'll get used to it," I said. "We'll be coming here a great deal, off and on." She was silent. But later, when we took a hansom and entered the streams of traffic, she responded to the stimulus of the place: the movement, the colour, the sight of the well-appointed carriages, of the well-fed, well-groomed people who sat in them, the enticement of the shops in which we made our purchases had their effect, and she became cheerful again.... In the evening we took the "Limited" for home. We lived for a month with my mother, and then moved into our own house. It was one which I had rented from Howard Ogilvy, and it stood on the corner of Baker and Clinton streets, near that fashionable neighbourhood called "the Heights." Ogilvy, who was some ten years older than I, and who belonged to one of our old families, had embarked on a career then becoming common, but which at first was regarded as somewhat meteoric: gradually abandoning the practice of law, and perceiving the possibilities of the city of his birth, he had "gambled" in real estate and other enterprises, such as our local water company, until he had quadrupled his inheritance. He had built a mansion on Grant Avenue, the wide thoroughfare bisecting the Heights. The house he had vacated was not large, but essentially distinctive; with the oddity characteristic of the revolt against the banal architecture of the 80's. The curves of the tiled roof enfolded the upper windows; the walls were thick, the note one of mystery. I remember Maude's naive delight when we inspected it. "You'd never guess what the inside was like, would you, Hugh?" she cried. From the panelled box of an entrance hall one went up a few steps to a drawing-room which had a bowed recess like an oriel, and window-seats. The dining-room was an odd shape, and was wainscoted in oak; it had a tiled fireplace and (according to Maude) the "sweetest" china closet built into the wall. There was a "den" for me, and an octagonal reception-room on the corner. Upstairs, the bedrooms were quite as unusual, the plumbing of the new pattern, heavy and imposing. Maude expressed the air of seclusion when she exclaimed that she could almost imagine herself in one of the mediaeval towns we had seen abroad. "It's a dream, Hugh," she sighed. "But--do you think we can afford it?"... "This house," I announced, smiling, "is only a stepping-stone to the palace I intend to build you some day." "I don't want a palace!" she cried. "I'd rather live here, like this, always." A certain vehemence in her manner troubled me. I was charmed by this disposition for domesticity, and yet I shrank from the contemplation of its permanency. I felt vaguely, at the time, the possibility of a future conflict of temperaments. Maude was docile, now. But would she remain docile? and was it in her nature to take ultimately the position that was desirable for my wife? Well, she must be moulded, before it were too late. Her ultra-domestic tendencies must be halted. As yet blissfully unaware of the inability of the masculine mind to fathom the subtleties of feminine relationships, I was particularly desirous that Maude and Nancy Durrett should be intimates. The very day after our arrival, and while we were still at my mother's, Nancy called on Maude, and took her out for a drive. Maude told me of it when I came home from the office. "Dear old Nancy!" I said. "I know you liked her." "Of course, Hugh. I should like her for your sake, anyway. She's--she's one of your oldest and best friends." "But I want you to like her for her own sake." "I think I shall," said Maude. She was so scrupulously truthful! "I was a little afraid of her, at first." "Afraid of Nancy!" I exclaimed. "Well, you know, she's much older than I. I think she is sweet. But she knows so much about the world--so much that she doesn't say. I can't describe it." I smiled. "It's only her manner. You'll get used to that, when you know what she really is." "Oh, I hope so," answered Maude. "I'm very anxious to like her--I do like her. But it takes me such a lot of time to get to know people." Nancy asked us to dinner. "I want to help Maude all I can,--if she'll let me," Nancy said. "Why shouldn't she let you?" I asked. "She may not like me," Nancy replied. "Nonsense!" I exclaimed. Nancy smiled. "It won't be my fault, at any rate, if she doesn't," she said. "I wanted her to meet at first just the right people your old friends and a few others. It is hard for a woman--especially a young woman--coming among strangers." She glanced down the table to where Maude sat talking to Ham. "She has an air about her,--a great deal of self-possession." I, too, had noticed this, with pride and relief. For I knew Maude had been nervous. "You are luckier than you deserve to be," Nancy reminded me. "But I hope you realize that she has a mind of her own, that she will form her own opinions of people, independently of you." I must have betrayed the fact that I was a little startled, for the remark came as a confirmation of what I had dimly felt. "Of course she has," I agreed, somewhat lamely. "Every woman has, who is worth her salt." Nancy's smile bespoke a knowledge that seemed to transcend my own. "You do like her?" I demanded. "I like her very much indeed," said Nancy, a little gravely. "She's simple, she's real, she has that which so few of us possess nowadays--character. But--I've got to be prepared for the possibility that she may not get along with me." "Why not?" I demanded. "There you are again, with your old unwillingness to analyze a situation and face it. For heaven's sake, now that you have married her, study her. Don't take her for granted. Can't you see that she doesn't care for the things that amuse me, that make my life?" "Of course, if you insist on making yourself out a hardened, sophisticated woman--" I protested. But she shook her head. "Her roots are deeper,--she is in touch, though she may not realize it, with the fundamentals. She is one of those women who are race-makers." Though somewhat perturbed, I was struck by the phrase. And I lost sight of Nancy's generosity. She looked me full in the face. "I wonder whether you can rise to her," she said. "If I were you, I should try. You will be happier--far happier than if you attempt to use her for your own ends, as a contributor to your comfort and an auxiliary to your career. I was afraid--I confess it--that you had married an aspiring, simpering and empty-headed provincial like that Mrs. George Hutchins' whom I met once, and who would sell her soul to be at my table. Well, you escaped that, and you may thank God for it. You've got a chance, think it over. "A chance!" I repeated, though I gathered something of her meaning. "Think it over, said Nancy again. And she smiled. "But--do you want me to bury myself in domesticity?" I demanded, without grasping the significance of my words. "You'll find her reasonable, I think. You've got a chance now, Hugh. Don't spoil it." She turned to Leonard Dickinson, who sat on her other side.... When we got home I tried to conceal my anxiety as to Maude's impressions of the evening. I lit a cigarette, and remarked that the dinner had been a success. "Do you know what I've been wondering all evening?" Maude asked. "Why you didn't marry Nancy instead of me." "Well," I replied, "it just didn't come off. And Nancy was telling me at dinner how fortunate I was to have married you." Maude passed this. "I can't see why she accepted Hambleton Durrett. It seems horrible that such a woman as she is could have married--just for money. "Nancy has an odd streak in her," I said. "But then we all have odd streaks. She's the best friend in the world, when she is your friend." "I'm sure of it," Maude agreed, with a little note of penitence. "You enjoyed it," I ventured cautiously. "Oh, yes," she agreed. "And everyone was so nice to me--for your sake of course." "Don't be ridiculous!" I said. "I shan't tell you what Nancy and the others said about you." Maude had the gift of silence. "What a beautiful house!" she sighed presently. "I know you'll think me silly, but so much luxury as that frightens me a little. In England, in those places we saw, it seemed natural enough, but in America--! And they all your friends--seem to take it as a matter of course." "There's no reason why we shouldn't have beautiful things and well served dinners, too, if we have the money to pay for them." "I suppose not," she agreed, absently. XV. That winter many other entertainments were given in our honour. But the conviction grew upon me that Maude had no real liking for the social side of life, that she acquiesced in it only on my account. Thus, at the very outset of our married career, an irritant developed: signs of it, indeed, were apparent from the first, when we were preparing the house we had rented for occupancy. Hurrying away from my office at odd times to furniture and department stores to help decide such momentous questions as curtains, carpets, chairs and tables I would often spy the tall, uncompromising figure of Susan Peters standing beside Maude's, while an obliging clerk spread out, anxiously, rugs or wall-papers for their inspection. "Why don't you get Nancy to help you, too!" I ventured to ask her once. "Ours is such a little house--compared to Nancy's, Hugh." My attitude towards Susan had hitherto remained undefined. She was Tom's wife and Tom's affair. In spite of her marked disapproval of the modern trend in business and social life,--a prejudice she had communicated to Tom, as a bachelor I had not disliked her; and it was certain that these views had not mitigated Tom's loyalty and affection for me. Susan had been my friend, as had her brother Perry, and Lucia, Perry's wife: they made no secret of the fact that they deplored in me what they were pleased to call plutocratic obsessions, nor had their disapproval always been confined to badinage. Nancy, too, they looked upon as a renegade. I was able to bear their reproaches with the superior good nature that springs from success, to point out why the American tradition to which they so fatuously clung was a things of the past. The habit of taking dinner with them at least once a week had continued, and their arguments rather amused me. If they chose to dwell in a backwater out of touch with the current of great affairs, this was a matter to be deplored, but I did not feel strongly enough to resent it. So long as I remained a bachelor the relationship had not troubled me, but now that I was married I began to consider with some alarm its power to affect my welfare. It had remained for Nancy to inform me that I had married a woman with a mind of her own. I had flattered myself that I should be able to control Maude, to govern her predilections, and now at the very beginning of our married life she was showing a disquieting tendency to choose for herself. To be sure, she had found my intimacy with the Peterses and Blackwoods already formed; but it was an intimacy from which I was growing away. I should not have quarrelled with her if she had not discriminated: Nancy made overtures, and Maude drew back; Susan presented herself, and with annoying perversity and in an extraordinarily brief time Maude had become her intimate. It seemed to me that she was always at Susan's, lunching or playing with the children, who grew devoted to her; or with Susan, choosing carpets and clothes; while more and more frequently we dined with the Peterses and the Blackwoods, or they with us. With Perry's wife Maude was scarcely less intimate than with Susan. This was the more surprising to me since Lucia Blackwood was a dyed-in-the-wool "intellectual," a graduate of Radcliffe, the daughter of a Harvard professor. Perry had fallen in love with her during her visit to Susan. Lucia was, perhaps, the most influential of the group; she scorned the world, she held strong views on the higher education of women; she had long discarded orthodoxy for what may be called a Cambridge stoicism of simple living and high thinking; while Maude was a strict Presbyterian, and not in the least given to theories. When, some months after our homecoming, I ventured to warn her gently of the dangers of confining one's self to a coterie--especially one of such narrow views--her answer was rather bewildering. "But isn't Tom your best friend?" she asked. I admitted that he was. "And you always went there such a lot before we were married." This, too, was undeniable. "At the same time," I replied, "I have other friends. I'm fond of the Blackwoods and the Peterses, I'm not advocating seeing less of them, but their point of view, if taken without any antidote, is rather narrowing. We ought to see all kinds," I suggested, with a fine restraint. "You mean--more worldly people," she said with her disconcerting directness. "Not necessarily worldly," I struggled on. "People who know more of the world--yes, who understand it better." Maude sighed. "I do try, Hugh,--I return their calls,--I do try to be nice to them. But somehow I don't seem to get along with them easily--I'm not myself, they make me shy. It's because I'm provincial." "Nonsense!" I protested, "you're not a bit provincial." And it was true; her dignity and self-possession redeemed her. Nancy was not once mentioned. But I think she was in both our minds.... Since my marriage, too, I had begun to resent a little the attitude of Tom and Susan and the Blackwoods of humorous yet affectionate tolerance toward my professional activities and financial creed, though Maude showed no disposition to take this seriously. I did suspect, however, that they were more and more determined to rescue Maude from what they would have termed a frivolous career; and on one of these occasions--so exasperating in married life when a slight cause for pique tempts husband or wife to try to ask myself whether this affair were only a squall, something to be looked for once in a while on the seas of matrimony, and weathered: or whether Maude had not, after all, been right when she declared that I had made a mistake, and that we were not fitted for one another? In this gloomy view endless years of incompatibility stretched ahead; and for the first time I began to rehearse with a certain cold detachment the chain of apparently accidental events which had led up to my marriage: to consider the gradual blindness that had come over my faculties; and finally to wonder whether judgment ever entered into sexual selection. Would Maude have relapsed into this senseless fit if she had realized how fortunate she was? For I was prepared to give her what thousands of women longed for, position and influence. My resentment rose again against Perry and Tom, and I began to attribute their lack of appreciation of my achievements to jealousy. They had not my ability; this was the long and short of it.... I pondered also, regretfully, on my bachelor days. And for the first time, I, who had worked so hard to achieve freedom, felt the pressure of the yoke I had fitted over my own shoulders. I had voluntarily, though unwittingly, returned to slavery. This was what had happened. And what was to be done about it? I would not consider divorce. Well, I should have to make the best of it. Whether this conclusion brought on a mood of reaction, I am unable to say. I was still annoyed by what seemed to the masculine mind a senseless and dramatic performance on Maude's part, an incomprehensible case of "nerves." Nevertheless, there stole into my mind many recollections of Maude's affection, many passages between us; and my eye chanced to fall on the ink-well she had bought me out of the allowance I gave her. An unanticipated pity welled up within me for her loneliness, her despair in that room upstairs. I got up--and hesitated. A counteracting, inhibiting wave passed through me. I hardened. I began to walk up and down, a prey to conflicting impulses. Something whispered, "go to her"; another voice added, "for your own peace of mind, at any rate." I rejected the intrusion of this motive as unworthy, turned out the light and groped my way upstairs. The big clock in the hall struck twelve. I listened outside the door of the bedroom, but all was silent within. I knocked. "Maude!" I said, in a low voice. There was no response. "Maude--let me in! I didn't mean to be unkind--I'm sorry." After an interval I heard her say: "I'd rather stay here,--to-night." But at length, after more entreaty and self-abasement on my part, she opened the door. The room was dark. We sat down together on the window-seat, and all at once she relaxed and her head fell on my shoulder, and she began weeping again. I held her, the alternating moods still running through me. "Hugh," she said at length, "how could you be so cruel? when you know I love you and would do anything for you." "I didn't mean to be cruel, Maude," I answered. "I know you didn't. But at times you seem so--indifferent, and you can't understand how it hurts. I haven't anybody but you, now, and it's in your power to make me happy or--or miserable." Later on I tried to explain my point of view, to justify myself. "All I mean," I concluded at length, "is that my position is a little different from Perry's and Tom's. They can afford to isolate themselves, but I'm thrown professionally with the men who are building up this city. Some of them, like Ralph Hambleton and Mr. Ogilvy, I've known all my life. Life isn't so simple for us, Maude--we can't ignore the social side." "I understand," she said contentedly. "You are more of a man of affairs--much more than Tom or Perry, and you have greater responsibilities and wider interests. I'm really very proud of you. Only--don't you think you are a little too sensitive about yourself, when you are teased?" I let this pass.... I give a paragraph from a possible biography of Hugh Paret which, as then seemed not improbable, might in the future have been written by some aspiring young worshipper of success. "On his return from a brief but delightful honeymoon in England Mr. Paret took up again, with characteristic vigour, the practice of the law. He was entering upon the prime years of manhood; golden opportunities confronted him as, indeed, they confronted other men--but Paret had the foresight to take advantage of them. And his training under Theodore Watling was now to produce results.... The reputations had already been made of some of that remarkable group of financial geniuses who were chiefly instrumental in bringing about the industrial evolution begun after the Civil War: at the same time, as is well known, a political leadership developed that gave proof of a deplorable blindness to the logical necessity of combinations in business. The lawyer with initiative and brains became an indispensable factor," etc., etc. The biography might have gone on to relate my association with and important services to Adolf Scherer in connection with his constructive dream. Shortly after my return from abroad, in answer to his summons, I found him at Heinrich's, his napkin tucked into his shirt front, and a dish of his favourite sausages before him. "So, the honeymoon is over!" he said, and pressed my hand. "You are right to come back to business, and after awhile you can have another honeymoon, eh? I have had many since I married. And how long do you think was my first? A day! I was a foreman then, and the wedding was at six o'clock in the morning. We went into the country, the wife and I." He laid down his knife and fork, possessed by the memory. "I have grown rich since, and we've been to Europe and back to Germany, and travelled on the best ships and stayed at the best hotels, but I never enjoyed a holiday more than that day. It wasn't long afterwards I went to Mr. Durrett and told him how he could save much money. He was always ready to listen, Mr. Durrett, when an employee had anything to say. He was a big man,--an iron-master. Ah, he would be astonished if only he could wake up now!" "He would not only have to be an iron-master," I agreed, "but a financier and a railroad man to boot." "A jack of all trades," laughed Mr. Scherer. "That's what we are--men in my position. Well, it was comparatively simple then, when we had no Sherman law and crazy statutes, such as some of the states are passing, to bother us. What has got into the politicians, that they are indulging in such foolishness?" he exclaimed, more warmly. "We try to build up a trade for this country, and they're doing their best to tie our hands and tear it down. When I was in Washington the other day I was talking with one of those Western senators whose state has passed those laws. He said to me, 'Mr. Scherer, I've been making a study of the Boyne Iron Works. You are clever men, but you are building up monopolies which we propose to stop.' 'By what means?'" I asked. "'Rebates, for one,' said he, 'you get preferential rates from your railroad which give you advantages over your competitors.' Foolishness!" Mr. Scherer exclaimed. "I tell him the railroad is a private concern, built up by private enterprise, and it has a right to make special rates for large shippers. No,--railroads are public carriers with no right to make special rates. I ask him what else he objects to, and he says patented processes. As if we don't have a right to our own patents! We buy them. I buy them, when other steel companies won't touch 'em. What is that but enterprise, and business foresight, and taking risks? And then he begins to talk about the tariff taking money out of the pockets of American consumers and making men like me rich. I have come to Washington to get the tariff raised on steel rails; and Watling and other senators we send down there are raising it for us. We are building up monopolies! Well, suppose we are. We can't help it, even if we want to. Has he ever made a study of the other side of the question--the competition side? Of course he hasn't." He brought down his beer mug heavily on the table. In times of excitement his speech suggested the German idiom. Abruptly his air grew mysterious; he glanced around the room, now becoming empty, and lowered his voice. "I have been thinking a long time, I have a little scheme," he said, "and I have been to Washington to see Watling, to talk over it. Well, he thinks much of you. Fowndes and Ripon are good lawyers, but they are not smart like you. See Paret, he says, and he can come down and talk to me. So I ask you to come here. That is why I say you are wise to get home. Honeymoons can wait--eh?" I smiled appreciatively. "They talk about monopoly, those Populist senators, but I ask you what is a man in my place to do? If you don't eat, somebody eats you--is it not so? Like the boa-constrictors--that is modern business. Look at the Keystone Plate people, over there at Morris. For years we sold them steel billets from which to make their plates, and three months ago they serve notice on us that they are getting ready to make their own billets, they buy mines north of the lakes and are building their plant. Here is a big customer gone. Next year, maybe, the Empire Tube Company goes into the business of making crude steel, and many more thousands of tons go from us. What is left for us, Paret?" "Obviously you've got to go into the tube and plate business yourselves," I said. "So!" cried Mr. Scherer, triumphantly, "or it is close up. We are not fools, no, we will not lie down and be eaten like lambs for any law. Dickinson can put his hand on the capital, and I--I have already bought a tract on the lakes, at Bolivar, I have already got a plant designed with the latest modern machinery. I can put the ore right there, I can send the coke back from here in cars which would otherwise be empty, and manufacture tubes at eight dollars a ton less than they are selling. If we can make tubes we can make plates, and if we can make plates we can make boilers, and beams and girders and bridges.... It is not like it was but where is it all leading, my friend? The time will come--is right on us now, in respect to many products--when the market will be flooded with tubes and plates and girders, and then we'll have to find a way to limit production. And the inefficient mills will all be forced to shut down." The logic seemed unanswerable, even had I cared to answer it.... He unfolded his campaign. The Boyne Iron Works was to become the Boyne Iron Works, Ltd., owner of various subsidiary companies, some of which were as yet blissfully ignorant of their fate. All had been thought out as calmly as the partition of Poland--only, lawyers were required; and ultimately, after the process of acquisition should have been completed, a delicate document was to be drawn up which would pass through the meshes of that annoying statutory net, the Sherman Anti-trust Law. New mines were to be purchased, extending over a certain large area; wide coal deposits; little strips of railroad to tap them. The competition of the Keystone Plate people was to be met by acquiring and bringing up to date the plate mills of King and Son, over the borders of a sister state; the Somersworth Bridge and Construction Company and the Gring Steel and Wire Company were to be absorbed. When all of this should have been accomplished, there would be scarcely a process in the steel industry, from the smelting of the ore to the completion of a bridge, which the Boyne Iron Works could not undertake. Such was the beginning of the "lateral extension" period. "Two can play at that game," Mr. Scherer said. "And if those fellows could only be content to let well enough alone, to continue buying their crude steel from us, there wouldn't be any trouble."... It was evident, however, that he really welcomed the "trouble," that he was going into battle with enthusiasm. He had already picked out his points of attack and was marching on them. Life, for him, would have been a poor thing without new conflicts to absorb his energy; and he had already made of the Boyne Iron Works, with its open-hearth furnaces, a marvel of modern efficiency that had opened the eyes of the Steel world, and had drawn the attention of a Personality in New York,--a Personality who was one of the new and dominant type that had developed with such amazing rapidity, the banker-dinosaur; preying upon and superseding the industrial-dinosaur, conquering type of the preceding age, builder of the railroads, mills and manufactories. The banker-dinosaurs, the gigantic ones, were in Wall Street, and strove among themselves for the industrial spoils accumulated by their predecessors. It was characteristic of these monsters that they never fought in the open unless they were forced to. Then the earth rocked, huge economic structures tottered and fell, and much dust arose to obscure the vision of smaller creatures, who were bewildered and terrified. Such disturbances were called "panics," and were blamed by the newspapers on the Democratic party, or on the reformers who had wantonly assailed established institutions. These dominant bankers had contrived to gain control of the savings of thousands and thousands of fellow-citizens who had deposited them in banks or paid them into insurance companies, and with the power thus accumulated had sallied forth to capture railroads and industries. The railroads were the strategic links. With these in hand, certain favoured industrial concerns could be fed, and others starved into submission. Adolf Scherer might be said to represent a transitional type. For he was not only an iron-master who knew every detail of his business, who kept it ahead of the times; he was also a strategist, wise in his generation, making friends with the Railroad while there had yet been time, at length securing rebates and favours. And when that Railroad (which had been constructed through the enterprise and courage of such men as Nathaniel Durrett) had passed under the control of the banker-personality to whom I have referred, and had become part of a system, Adolf Scherer remained in alliance, and continued to receive favours.... I can well remember the time when the ultimate authority of our Railroad was transferred, quietly, to Wall Street. Alexander Barbour, its president, had been a great man, but after that he bowed, in certain matters, to a greater one. I have digressed.... Mr. Scherer unfolded his scheme, talking about "units" as calmly as though they were checkers on a board instead of huge, fiery, reverberating mills where thousands and thousands of human beings toiled day and night--beings with families, and hopes and fears, whose destinies were to be dominated by the will of the man who sat opposite me. But--did not he in his own person represent the triumph of that American creed of opportunity? He, too, had been through the fire, had sweated beside the blasts, had handled the ingots of steel. He was one of the "fittest" who had survived, and looked it. Had he no memories of the terrors of that struggle?... Adolf Scherer had grown to be a giant. And yet without me, without my profession he was a helpless giant, at the mercy of those alert and vindictive lawmakers who sought to restrain and hamper him, to check his growth with their webs. How stimulating the idea of his dependence! How exhilarating too, the thought that that vision which had first possessed me as an undergraduate--on my visit to Jerry Kyme--was at last to be realized! I had now become the indispensable associate of the few who divided the spoils, I was to have a share in these myself. "You're young, Paret," Mr. Scherer concluded. "But Watling has confidence in you, and you will consult him frequently. I believe in the young men, and I have already seen something of you--so?"... When I returned to the office I wrote Theodore Watling a letter expressing my gratitude for the position he had, so to speak, willed me, of confidential legal adviser to Adolf Scherer. Though the opportunity had thrust itself upon me suddenly, and sooner than I expected it, I was determined to prove myself worthy of it. I worked as I had never worked before, making trips to New York to consult leading members of this new branch of my profession there, trips to Washington to see my former chief. There were, too, numerous conferences with local personages, with Mr. Dickinson and Mr. Grierson, and Judah B. Tallant,--whose newspaper was most useful; there were consultations and negotiations of a delicate nature with the owners and lawyers of other companies to be "taken in." Nor was it all legal work, in the older and narrower sense. Men who are playing for principalities are making war. Some of our operations had all the excitement of war. There was information to be got, and it was got--somehow. Modern war involves a spy system, and a friendly telephone company is not to be despised. And all of this work from first to last had to be done with extreme caution. Moribund distinctions of right and wrong did not trouble me, for the modern man labours religiously when he knows that Evolution is on his side. For all of these operations a corps of counsel had been employed, including the firm of Harrington and Bowes next to Theodore Watling, Joel Harrington was deemed the ablest lawyer in the city. We organized in due time the corporation known as the Boyne Iron Works, Limited; a trust agreement was drawn up that was a masterpiece of its kind, one that caused, first and last, meddling officials in the Department of Justice at Washington no little trouble and perplexity. I was proud of the fact that I had taken no small part in its composition.... In short, in addition to certain emoluments and opportunities for investment, I emerged from the affair firmly established in the good graces of Adolf Scherer, and with a reputation practically made. A year or so after the Boyne Company, Ltd., came into existence I chanced one morning to go down to the new Ashuela Hotel to meet a New Yorker of some prominence, and was awaiting him in the lobby, when I overheard a conversation between two commercial travellers who were sitting with their backs to me. "Did you notice that fellow who went up to the desk a moment ago?" asked one. "The young fellow in the grey suit? Sure. Who is he? He looks as if he was pretty well fixed." "I guess he is," replied the first. "That's Paret. He's Scherer's confidential counsel. He used to be Senator Watling's partner, but they say he's even got something on the old man." In spite of the feverish life I led, I was still undoubtedly young-looking, and in this I was true to the incoming type of successful man. Our fathers appeared staid at six and thirty. Clothes, of course, made some difference, and my class and generation did not wear the sombre and cumbersome kind, with skirts and tails; I patronized a tailor in New York. My chestnut hair, a little darker than my father's had been, showed no signs of turning grey, although it was thinning a little at the crown of the forehead, and I wore a small moustache, clipped in a straight line above the mouth. This made me look less like a college youth. Thanks to a strong pigment in my skin, derived probably from Scotch-Irish ancestors, my colour was fresh. I have spoken of my life as feverish, and yet I am not so sure that this word completely describes it. It was full to overflowing--one side of it; and I did not miss (save vaguely, in rare moments of weariness) any other side that might have been developed. I was busy all day long, engaged in affairs I deemed to be alone of vital importance in the universe. I was convinced that the welfare of the city demanded that supreme financial power should remain in the hands of the group of men with whom I was associated, and whose battles I fought in the courts, in the legislature, in the city council, and sometimes in Washington,--although they were well cared for there. By every means ingenuity could devise, their enemies were to be driven from the field, and they were to be protected from blackmail. A sense of importance sustained me; and I remember in that first flush of a success for which I had not waited too long--what a secret satisfaction it was to pick up the Era and see my name embedded in certain dignified notices of board meetings, transactions of weight, or cases known to the initiated as significant. "Mr. Scherer's interests were taken care of by Mr. Hugh Paret." The fact that my triumphs were modestly set forth gave me more pleasure than if they had been trumpeted in headlines. Although I might have started out in practice for myself, my affection and regard for Mr. Watling kept me in the firm, which became Watling, Fowndes and Paret, and a new, arrangement was entered into: Mr. Ripon retired on account of ill health. There were instances, however, when a certain amount of annoying publicity was inevitable. Such was the famous Galligan case, which occurred some three or four years after my marriage. Aloysius Galligan was a brakeman, and his legs had become paralyzed as the result of an accident that was the result of defective sills on a freight car. He had sued, and been awarded damages of $15,000. To the amazement and indignation of Miller Gorse, the Supreme Court, to which the Railroad had appealed, affirmed the decision. It wasn't the single payment of $15,000 that the Railroad cared about, of course; a precedent might be established for compensating maimed employees which would be expensive in the long run. Carelessness could not be proved in this instance. Gorse sent for me. I had been away with Maude at the sea for two months, and had not followed the case. "You've got to take charge, Paret, and get a rehearing. See Bering, and find out who in the deuce is to blame for this. Chesley's one, of course. We ought never to have permitted his nomination for the Supreme Bench. It was against my judgment, but Varney and Gill assured me that he was all right." I saw Judge Bering that evening. We sat on a plush sofa in the parlour of his house in Baker Street. "I had a notion Gorse'd be mad," he said, "but it looked to me as if they had it on us, Paret. I didn't see how we could do anything else but affirm without being too rank. Of course, if he feels that way, and you want to make a motion for a rehearing, I'll see what can be done." "Something's got to be done," I replied. "Can't you see what such a decision lets them in for?" "All right," said the judge, who knew an order when he heard one, "I guess we can find an error." He was not a little frightened by the report of Mr. Gorse's wrath, for election-day was approaching. "Say, you wouldn't take me for a sentimental man, now, would you?" I smiled at the notion of it. "Well, I'll own up to you this kind of got under my skin. That Galligan is a fine-looking fellow, if there ever was one, and he'll never be of a bit of use any more. Of course the case was plain sailing, and they ought to have had the verdict, but that lawyer of his handled it to the queen's taste, if I do say so. He made me feel real bad, by God,--as if it was my own son Ed who'd been battered up. Lord, I can't forget the look in that man Galligan's eyes. I hate to go through it again, and reverse it, but I guess I'll have to, now." The Judge sat gazing at the flames playing over his gas log. "Who was the lawyer?" I asked. "A man by the name of Krebs," he replied. "Never heard of him before. He's just moved to the city." "This city?" I ejaculated. The Judge glanced at me interestedly. "This city, of course. What do you know about him?" "Well," I answered, when I had recovered a little from the shock--for it was a distinct shock--"he lived in Elkington. He was the man who stirred up the trouble in the legislature about Bill 709." The Judge slapped his knee. "That fellow!" he exclaimed, and ruminated. "Why didn't somebody tell me?" he added, complainingly. "Why didn't Miller Gorse let me know about it, instead of licking up a fuss after it's all over?"... Of all men of my acquaintance I had thought the Judge the last to grow maudlin over the misfortunes of those who were weak or unfortunate enough to be defeated and crushed in the struggle for existence, and it was not without food for reflection that I departed from his presence. To make Mr. Bering "feel bad" was no small achievement, and Krebs had been responsible for it, of course,--not Galligan. Krebs had turned up once more! It seemed as though he were destined to haunt me. Well, I made up my mind that he should not disturb me again, at any rate: I, at least, had learned to eliminate sentimentality from business, and it was not without deprecation I remembered my experience with him at the Capital, when he had made me temporarily ashamed of my connection with Bill 709. I had got over that. And when I entered the court room (the tribunal having graciously granted a rehearing on the ground that it had committed an error in the law!) my feelings were of lively curiosity and zest. I had no disposition to underrate his abilities, but I was fortified by the consciousness of a series of triumphs behind me, by a sense of association with prevailing forces against which he was helpless. I could afford to take a superior attitude in regard to one who was destined always to be dramatic. As the case proceeded I was rather disappointed on the whole that he was not dramatic--not even as dramatic as he had been when he defied the powers in the Legislature. He had changed but little, he still wore ill-fitting clothes, but I was forced to acknowledge that he seemed to have gained in self-control, in presence. He had nodded at me before the case was called, as he sat beside his maimed client; and I had been on the alert for a hint of reproach in his glance: there was none. I smiled back at him.... He did not rant. He seemed to have rather a remarkable knowledge of the law. In a conversational tone he described the sufferings of the man in the flannel shirt beside him, but there could be no question of the fact that he did produce an effect. The spectators were plainly moved, and it was undeniable that some of the judges wore rather a sheepish look as they toyed with their watch chains or moved the stationery in front of them. They had seen maimed men before, they had heard impassioned, sentimental lawyers talk about wives and families and God and justice. Krebs did none of this. Just how he managed to bring the thing home to those judges, to make them ashamed of their role, just how he managed--in spite of my fortified attitude to revive something of that sense of discomfort I had experienced at the State House is difficult to say. It was because, I think, he contrived through the intensity of his own sympathy to enter into the body of the man whose cause he pleaded, to feel the despair in Galligan's soul--an impression that was curiously conveyed despite the dignified limits to which he confined his speech. It was strange that I began to be rather sorry for him, that I felt a certain reluctant regret that he should thus squander his powers against overwhelming odds. What was the use of it all! At the end his voice became more vibrant--though he did not raise it--as he condemned the Railroad for its indifference to human life, for its contention that men were cheaper than rolling-stock. I encountered him afterward in the corridor. I had made a point of seeking him out, perhaps from some vague determination to prove that our last meeting in the little restaurant at the Capital had left no traces of embarrassment in me: I was, in fact, rather aggressively anxious to reveal myself to him as one who has thriven on the views he condemned, as one in whose unity of mind there is no rift. He was alone, apparently waiting for someone, leaning against a steam radiator in one of his awkward, angular poses, looking out of the court-house window. "How are you?" I said blithely. "So you've left Elkington for a wider field." I wondered whether my alert cousin-in-law, George Hutchins, had made it too hot for him. He turned to me unexpectedly a face of profound melancholy; his expression had in it, oddly, a trace of sternness; and I was somewhat taken aback by this evidence that he was still bearing vicariously the troubles of his client. So deep had been the thought I had apparently interrupted that he did not realize my presence at first. "Oh, it's you, Paret. Yes, I've left Elkington," he said. "Something of a surprise to run up against you suddenly, like this." "I expected to see you," he answered gravely, and the slight emphasis he gave the pronoun implied not only a complete knowledge of the situation and of the part I had taken in it, but also a greater rebuke than if his accusation had been direct. But I clung to my affability. "If I can do anything for you, let me know," I told him. He said nothing, he did not even smile. At this moment he was opportunely joined by a man who had the appearance of a labour leader, and I walked away. I was resentful; my mood, in brief, was that of a man who has done something foolish and is inclined to talk to himself aloud: but the mood was complicated, made the more irritating by the paradoxical fact that that last look he had given me seemed to have borne the traces of affection.... It is perhaps needless to add that the court reversed its former decision. XVI. The Pilot published a series of sensational articles and editorials about the Galligan matter, a picture of Galligan, an account of the destitute state of his wife and family. The time had not yet arrived when such newspapers dared to attack the probity of our courts, but a system of law that permitted such palpable injustice because of technicalities was bitterly denounced. What chance had a poor man against such a moloch as the railroad, even with a lawyer of such ability as had been exhibited by Hermann Krebs? Krebs was praised, and the attention of Mr. Lawler's readers was called to the fact that Krebs was the man who, some years before, had opposed single-handed in the legislature the notorious Bill No. 709. It was well known in certain circles--the editorial went on to say--that this legislation had been drawn by Theodore Watling in the interests of the Boyne Iron Works, etc., etc. Hugh Paret had learned at the feet of an able master. This first sight of my name thus opprobriously flung to the multitude gave me an unpleasant shock. I had seen Mr. Scherer attacked, Mr. Gorse attacked, and Mr. Watling: I had all along realized, vaguely, that my turn would come, and I thought myself to have acquired a compensating philosophy. I threw the sheet into the waste basket, presently picked it out again and reread the sentence containing my name. Well, there were certain penalties that every career must pay. I had become, at last, a marked man, and I recognized the fact that this assault would be the forerunner of many. I tried to derive some comfort and amusement from the thought of certain operations of mine that Mr. Lawler had not discovered, that would have been matters of peculiar interest to his innocent public: certain extra-legal operations at the time when the Bovine corporation was being formed, for instance. And how they would have licked their chops had they learned of that manoeuvre by which I had managed to have one of Mr. Scherer's subsidiary companies in another state, with property and assets amounting to more than twenty millions, reorganized under the laws of New Jersey, and the pending case thus transferred to the Federal court, where we won hands down! This Galligan affair was nothing to that. Nevertheless, it was annoying. As I sat in the street car on my way homeward, a man beside me was reading the Pilot. I had a queer sensation as he turned the page, and scanned the editorial; and I could not help wondering what he and the thousands like him thought of me; what he would say if I introduced myself and asked his opinion. Perhaps he did not think at all: undoubtedly he, and the public at large, were used to Mr. Lawler's daily display of "injustices." Nevertheless, like slow acid, they must be eating into the public consciousness. It was an outrage--this freedom of the press. With renewed exasperation I thought of Krebs, of his disturbing and almost uncanny faculty of following me up. Why couldn't he have remained in Elkington? Why did he have to follow me here, to make capital out of a case that might never have been heard of except for him?... I was still in this disagreeable frame of mind when I turned the corner by my house and caught sight of Maude, in the front yard, bending bareheaded over a bed of late flowers which the frost had spared. The evening was sharp, the dusk already gathering. "You'll catch cold," I called to her. She looked up at the sound of my voice. "They'll soon be gone," she sighed, referring to the flowers. "I hate winter." She put her hand through my arm, and we went into the house. The curtains were drawn, a fire was crackling on the hearth, the lamps were lighted, and as I dropped into a chair this living-room of ours seemed to take on the air of a refuge from the vague, threatening sinister things of the world without. I felt I had never valued it before. Maude took up her sewing and sat down beside the table. "Hugh," she said suddenly, "I read something in the newspaper--" My exasperation flared up again. "Where did you get that disreputable sheet?" I demanded. "At the dressmaker's!" she answered. "I--I just happened to see the name, Paret." "It's just politics," I declared, "stirring up discontent by misrepresentation. Jealousy." She leaned forward in her chair, gazing into the flames. "Then it isn't true that this poor man, Galligan--isn't that his name?--was cheated out of the damages he ought to have to keep himself and his family alive?" "You must have been talking to Perry or Susan," I said. "They seem to be convinced that I am an oppressor of the poor. "Hugh!" The tone in which she spoke my name smote me. "How can you say that? How can you doubt their loyalty, and mine? Do you think they would undermine you, and to me, behind your back?" "I didn't mean that, of course, Maude. I was annoyed about something else. And Tom and Perry have an air of deprecating most of the enterprises in which I am professionally engaged. It's very well for them to talk. All Perry has to do is to sit back and take in receipts from the Boyne Street car line, and Tom is content if he gets a few commissions every week. They're like militiamen criticizing soldiers under fire. I know they're good friends of mine, but sometimes I lose patience with them." I got up and walked to the window, and came back again and stood before her. "I'm sorry for this man, Galligan," I went on, "I can't tell you how sorry. But few people who are not on the inside, so to speak, grasp the fact that big corporations, like the Railroad, are looked upon as fair game for every kind of parasite. Not a day passes in which attempts are not made to bleed them. Some of these cases are pathetic. It had cost the Railroad many times fifteen thousand dollars to fight Galligan's case. But if they had paid it, they would have laid themselves open to thousands of similar demands. Dividends would dwindle. The stockholders have a right to a fair return on their money. Galligan claims that there was a defective sill on the car which is said to have caused the wreck. If damages are paid on that basis, it means the daily inspection of every car which passes over their lines. And more than that: there are certain defects, as in the present case, which an inspection would not reveal. When a man accepts employment on a railroad he assumes a certain amount of personal risk,--it's not precisely a chambermaid's job. And the lawyer who defends such cases, whatever his personal feelings may be, cannot afford to be swayed by them. He must take the larger view." "Why didn't you tell me about it before?" she asked. "Well, I didn't think it of enough importance--these things are all in the day's work." "But Mr. Krebs? How strange that he should be here, connected with the case!" I made an effort to control myself. "Your old friend," I said. "I believe you have a sentiment about him." She looked up at me. "Scarcely that," she replied gravely, with the literalness that often characterized her, "but he isn't a person easily forgotten. He may be queer, one may not agree with his views, but after the experience I had with him I've never been able to look at him in the way George does, for instance, or even as father does." "Or even as I do," I supplied. "Well, perhaps not even as you do," she answered calmly. "I believe you once told me, however, that you thought him a fanatic, but sincere." "He's certainly a fanatic!" I exclaimed. "But sincere, Hugh-you still think him sincere." "You seem a good deal concerned about a man you've laid eyes on but once." She considered this. "Yes, it is surprising," she admitted, "but it's true. I was sorry for him, but I admired him. I was not only impressed by his courage in taking charge of me, but also by the trust and affection the work-people showed. He must be a good man, however mistaken he may be in the methods he employs. And life is cruel to those people." "Life is-life," I observed. "Neither you nor I nor Krebs is able to change it." "Has he come here to practice?" she asked, after a moment. "Yes. Do you want me to invite him to dinner?" and seeing that she did not reply I continued: "In spite of my explanation I suppose you think, because Krebs defended the man Galligan, that a monstrous injustice has been done." "That is unworthy of you," she said, bending over her stitch. I began to pace the room again, as was my habit when overwrought. "Well, I was going to tell you about this affair if you had not forestalled me by mentioning it yourself. It isn't pleasant to be vilified by rascals who make capital out of vilification, and a man has a right to expect some sympathy from his wife." "Did I ever deny you that, Hugh?" she asked. "Only you don't ever seem to need it, to want it." "And there are things," I pursued, "things in a man's province that a woman ought to accept from her husband, things which in the very nature of the case she can know nothing about." "But a woman must think for herself," she declared. "She shouldn't become a mere automaton,--and these questions involve so much! People are discussing them, the magazines and periodicals are beginning to take them up." I stared at her, somewhat appalled by this point of view. There had, indeed, been signs of its development before now, but I had not heeded them. And for the first time I beheld Maude in a new light. "Oh, it's not that I don't trust you," she continued, "I'm open to conviction, but I must be convinced. Your explanation of this Galligan case seems a sensible one, although it's depressing. But life is hard and depressing sometimes I've come to realize that. I want to think over what you've said, I want to talk over it some more. Why won't you tell me more of what you are doing? If you only would confide in me--as you have now! I can't help seeing that we are growing farther and farther apart, that business, your career, is taking all of you and leaving me nothing." She faltered, and went on again. "It's difficult to tell you this--you never give me the chance. And it's not for my sake alone, but for yours, too. You are growing more and more self-centred, surrounding yourself with a hard shell. You don't realize it, but Tom notices it, Perry notices it, it hurts them, it's that they complain of. Hugh!" she cried appealingly, sensing my resentment, forestalling the words of defence ready on my lips. "I know that you are busy, that many men depend on you, it isn't that I'm not proud of you and your success, but you don't understand what a woman craves,--she doesn't want only to be a good housekeeper, a good mother, but she wants to share a little, at any rate, in the life of her husband, in his troubles as well as in his successes. She wants to be of some little use, of some little help to him." My feelings were reduced to a medley. "But you are a help to me--a great help," I protested. She shook her head. "I wish I were," she said. It suddenly occurred to me that she might be. I was softened, and alarmed by the spectacle she had revealed of the widening breach between us. I laid my hand on her shoulder. "Well, I'll try to do better, Maude." She looked up at me, questioningly yet gratefully, through a mist of tears. But her reply--whatever it might have been--was forestalled by the sound of shouts and laughter in the hallway. She sprang up and ran to the door. "It's the children," she exclaimed, "they've come home from Susan's party!" It begins indeed to look as if I were writing this narrative upside down, for I have said nothing about children. Perhaps one reason for this omission is that I did not really appreciate them, that I found it impossible to take the same minute interest in them as Tom, for instance, who was, apparently, not content alone with the six which he possessed, but had adopted mine. One of them, little Sarah, said "Uncle Tom" before "Father." I do not mean to say that I had not occasional moments of tenderness toward them, but they were out of my thoughts much of the time. I have often wondered, since, how they regarded me; how, in their little minds, they defined the relationship. Generally, when I arrived home in the evening I liked to sit down before my study fire and read the afternoon newspapers or a magazine; but occasionally I went at once to the nursery for a few moments, to survey with complacency the medley of toys on the floor, and to kiss all three. They received my caresses with a certain shyness--the two younger ones, at least, as though they were at a loss to place me as a factor in the establishment. They tumbled over each other to greet Maude, and even Tom. If I were an enigma to them, what must they have thought of him? Sometimes I would discover him on the nursery floor, with one or two of his own children, building towers and castles and railroad stations, or forts to be attacked and demolished by regiments of lead soldiers. He was growing comfortable-looking, if not exactly stout; prematurely paternal, oddly willing to renounce the fiercer joys of life, the joys of acquisition, of conquest, of youth. "You'd better come home with me, Chickabiddy," he would say, "that father of yours doesn't appreciate you. He's too busy getting rich." "Chickabiddy," was his name for little Sarah. Half of the name stuck to her, and when she was older we called her Biddy. She would gaze at him questioningly, her eyes like blue flower cups, a strange little mixture of solemnity and bubbling mirth, of shyness and impulsiveness. She had fat legs that creased above the tops of the absurd little boots that looked to be too tight; sometimes she rolled and tumbled in an ecstasy of abandon, and again she would sit motionless, as though absorbed in dreams. Her hair was like corn silk in the sun, twisting up into soft curls after her bath, when she sat rosily presiding over her supper table. As I look back over her early infancy, I realize that I loved her, although it is impossible for me to say how much of this love is retrospective. Why I was not mad about her every hour of the day is a puzzle to me now. Why, indeed, was I not mad about all three of them? There were moments when I held and kissed them, when something within me melted: moments when I was away from them, and thought of them. But these moments did not last. The something within me hardened again, I became indifferent, my family was wiped out of my consciousness as though it had never existed. There was Matthew, for instance, the oldest. When he arrived, he was to Maude a never-ending miracle, she would have his crib brought into her room, and I would find her leaning over the bedside, gazing at him with a rapt expression beyond my comprehension. To me he was just a brick-red morsel of humanity, all folds and wrinkles, and not at all remarkable in any way. Maude used to annoy me by getting out of bed in the middle of the night when he cried, and at such times I was apt to wonder at the odd trick the life-force had played me, and ask myself why I got married at all. It was a queer method of carrying on the race. Later on, I began to take a cursory interest in him, to watch for signs in him of certain characteristics of my own youth which, in the philosophy of my manhood, I had come to regard as defects. And it disturbed me somewhat to see these signs appear. I wished him to be what I had become by force of will--a fighter. But he was a sensitive child, anxious for approval; not robust, though spiritual rather than delicate; even in comparative infancy he cared more for books than toys, and his greatest joy was in being read to. In spite of these traits--perhaps because of them--there was a sympathy between us. From the time that he could talk the child seemed to understand me. Occasionally I surprised him gazing at me with a certain wistful look that comes back to me as I write. Moreton, Tom used to call Alexander the Great because he was a fighter from the cradle, beating his elder brother, too considerate to strike back, and likewise--when opportunity offered--his sister; and appropriating their toys. A self-sufficient, doughty young man, with the round head that withstands many blows, taking by nature to competition and buccaneering in general. I did not love him half so much as I did Matthew--if such intermittent emotions as mine may be called love. It was a standing joke of mine--which Maude strongly resented--that Moreton resembled Cousin George of Elkington. Imbued with the highest ambition of my time, I had set my barque on a great circle, and almost before I realized it the barque was burdened with a wife and family and the steering had insensibly become more difficult; for Maude cared nothing about the destination, and when I took any hand off the wheel our ship showed a tendency to make for a quiet harbour. Thus the social initiative, which I believed should have been the woman's, was thrust back on me. It was almost incredible, yet indisputable, in a day when most American women were credited with a craving for social ambition that I, of all men, should have married a wife in whom the craving was wholly absent! She might have had what other women would have given their souls for. There were many reasons why I wished her to take what I deemed her proper place in the community as my wife--not that I cared for what is called society in the narrow sense; with me, it was a logical part of a broader scheme of life; an auxiliary rather than an essential, but a needful auxiliary; a means of dignifying and adorning the position I was taking. Not only that, but I felt the need of intercourse--of intercourse of a lighter and more convivial nature with men and women who saw life as I saw it. In the evenings when we did not go out into that world our city afforded ennui took possession of me: I had never learned to care for books, I had no resources outside of my profession, and when I was not working on some legal problem I dawdled over the newspapers and went to bed. I don't mean to imply that our existence, outside of our continued intimacy with the Peterses and the Blackwoods, was socially isolated. We gave little dinners that Maude carried out with skill and taste; but it was I who suggested them; we went out to other dinners, sometimes to Nancy's--though we saw less and less of her--sometimes to other houses. But Maude had given evidence of domestic tastes and a disinclination for gaiety that those who entertained more were not slow to sense. I should have liked to take a larger house, but I felt the futility of suggesting it; the children were still small, and she was occupied with them. Meanwhile I beheld, and at times with considerable irritation, the social world changing, growing larger and more significant, a more important function of that higher phase of American existence the new century seemed definitely to have initiated. A segregative process was away to which Maude was wholly indifferent. Our city was throwing off its social conservatism; wealth (which implied ability and superiority) was playing a greater part, entertainments were more luxurious, lines more strictly drawn. We had an elaborate country club for those who could afford expensive amusements. Much of this transformation had been due to the initiative and leadership of Nancy Durrett.... Great and sudden wealth, however, if combined with obscure antecedents and questionable qualifications, was still looked upon askance. In spite of the fact that Adolf Scherer had "put us on the map," the family of the great iron-master still remained outside of the social pale. He himself might have entered had it not been for his wife, who was supposed to be "queer," who remained at home in her house opposite Gallatin Park and made little German cakes,--a huge house which an unknown architect had taken unusual pains to make pretentious and hideous, for it was Rhenish, Moorish and Victorian by turns. Its geometric grounds matched those of the park, itself a monument to bad taste in landscape. The neighbourhood was highly respectable, and inhabited by families of German extraction. There were two flaxen-haired daughters who had just graduated from an expensive boarding-school in New York, where they had received the polish needful for future careers. But the careers were not forthcoming. I was thrown constantly with Adolf Scherer; I had earned his gratitude, I had become necessary to him. But after the great coup whereby he had fulfilled Mr. Watling's prophecy and become the chief factor in our business world he began to show signs of discontent, of an irritability that seemed foreign to his character, and that puzzled me. One day, however, I stumbled upon the cause of this fermentation, to wonder that I had not discovered it before. In many ways Adolf Scherer was a child. We were sitting in the Boyne Club. "Money--yes!" he exclaimed, apropos of some demand made upon him by a charitable society. "They come to me for my money--there is always Scherer, they say. He will make up the deficit in the hospitals. But what is it they do for me? Nothing. Do they invite me to their houses, to their parties?" This was what he wanted, then,--social recognition. I said nothing, but I saw my opportunity: I had the clew, now, to a certain attitude he had adopted of late toward me, an attitude of reproach; as though, in return for his many favours to me, there were something I had left undone. And when I went home I asked Maude to call on Mrs. Scherer. "On Mrs. Scherer!" she repeated. "Yes, I want you to invite them to dinner." The proposal seemed to take away her breath. "I owe her husband a great deal, and I think he feels hurt that the wives of the men he knows down town haven't taken up his family." I felt that it would not be wise, with Maude, to announce my rather amazing discovery of the iron-master's social ambitions. "But, Hugh, they must be very happy, they have their friends. And after all this time wouldn't it seem like an intrusion?" "I don't think so," I said, "I'm sure it would please him, and them. You know how kind he's been to us, how he sent us East in his private car last year." "Of course I'll go if you wish it, if you're sure they feel that way." She did make the call, that very week, and somewhat to my surprise reported that she liked Mrs. Scherer and the daughters: Maude's likes and dislikes, needless to say, were not governed by matters of policy. "You were right, Hugh," she informed me, almost with enthusiasm, "they did seem lonely. And they were so glad to see me, it was rather pathetic. Mr. Scherer, it seems, had talked to them a great deal about you. They wanted to know why I hadn't come before. That was rather embarrassing. Fortunately they didn't give me time to talk, I never heard people talk as they do. They all kissed me when I went away, and came down the steps with me. And Mrs. Scherer went into the conservatory and picked a huge bouquet. There it is," she said, laughingly, pointing to several vases. "I separated the colours as well as I could when I got home. We had coffee, and the most delicious German cakes in the Turkish room, or the Moorish room, whichever it is. I'm sure I shan't be able to eat anything more for days. When do you wish to have them for dinner?" "Well," I said, "we ought to have time to get the right people to meet them. We'll ask Nancy and Ham." Maude opened her eyes. "Nancy! Do you think Nancy would like them?" "I'm going to give her a chance, anyway," I replied.... It was, in some ways, a memorable dinner. I don't know what I expected in Mrs. Scherer--from Maude's description a benevolent and somewhat stupid, blue-eyed German woman, of peasant extraction. There could be no doubt about the peasant extraction, but when she hobbled into our little parlour with the aid of a stout, gold-headed cane she dominated it. Her very lameness added to a distinction that evinced itself in a dozen ways. Her nose was hooked, her colour high,--despite the years in Steelville,--her peculiar costume heightened the effect of her personality; her fire-lit black eyes bespoke a spirit accustomed to rule, and instead of being an aspirant for social honours, she seemed to confer them. Conversation ceased at her entrance. "I'm sorry we are late, my dear," she said, as she greeted Maude affectionately, "but we have far to come. And this is your husband!" she exclaimed, as I was introduced. She scrutinized me. "I have heard something of you, Mr. Paret. You are smart. Shall I tell you the smartest thing you ever did?" She patted Maude's shoulder. "When you married your wife--that was it. I have fallen in love with her. If you do not know it, I tell you." Next, Nancy was introduced. "So you are Mrs. Hambleton Durrett?" Nancy acknowledged her identity with a smile, but the next remark was a bombshell. "The leader of society." "Alas!" exclaimed Nancy, "I have been accused of many terrible things." Their glances met. Nancy's was amused, baffling, like a spark in amber. Each, in its way, was redoubtable. A greater contrast between two women could scarcely have been imagined. It was well said (and not snobbishly) that generations had been required to make Nancy's figure: she wore a dress of blue sheen, the light playing on its ripples; and as she stood, apparently wholly at ease, looking down at the wife of Adolf Scherer, she reminded me of an expert swordsman who, with remarkable skill, was keeping a too pressing and determined aspirant at arm's length. I was keenly aware that Maude did not possess this gift, and I realized for the first time something of the similarity between Nancy's career and my own. She, too, in her feminine sphere, exercised, and subtly, a power in which human passions were deeply involved. If Nancy Durrett symbolized aristocracy, established order and prestige, what did Mrs. Scherer represent? Not democracy, mob rule--certainly. The stocky German peasant woman with her tightly drawn hair and heavy jewels seemed grotesquely to embody something that ultimately would have its way, a lusty and terrible force in the interests of which my own services were enlisted; to which the old American element in business and industry, the male counterpart of Nancy Willett, had already succumbed. And now it was about to storm the feminine fastnesses! I beheld a woman who had come to this country with a shawl aver her head transformed into a new species of duchess, sure of herself, scorning the delicate euphemisms in which Fancy's kind were wont to refer to asocial realm, that was no less real because its boundaries had not definitely been defined. She held her stick firmly, and gave Nancy an indomitable look. "I want you to meet my daughters. Gretchen, Anna, come here and be introduced to Mrs. Durrett." It was not without curiosity I watched these of the second generation as they made their bows, noted the differentiation in the type for which an American environment and a "finishing school" had been responsible. Gretchen and Anna had learned--in crises, such as the present--to restrain the superabundant vitality they had inherited. If their cheekbones were a little too high, their Delft blue eyes a little too small, their colour was of the proverbial rose-leaves and cream. Gene Hollister's difficulty was to know which to marry. They were nice girls,--of that there could be no doubt; there was no false modesty in their attitude toward "society"; nor did they pretend--as so many silly people did, that they were not attempting to get anywhere in particular, that it was less desirable to be in the centre than on the dubious outer walks. They, too, were so glad to meet Mrs. Durrett. Nancy's eyes twinkled as they passed on. "You see what I have let you in for?" I said. "My dear Hugh," she replied, "sooner or later we should have had to face them anyhow. I have recognized that for some time. With their money, and Mr. Scherer's prestige, and the will of that lady with the stick, in a few years we should have had nothing to say. Why, she's a female Napoleon. Hilda's the man of the family." After that, Nancy invariably referred to Mrs. Scherer as Hilda. If Mrs. Scherer was a surprise to us, her husband was a still greater one; and I had difficulty in recognizing the Adolf Scherer who came to our dinner party as the personage of the business world before whom lesser men were wont to cringe. He seemed rather mysteriously to have shed that personality; become an awkward, ingratiating, rather too exuberant, ordinary man with a marked German accent. From time to time I found myself speculating uneasily on this phenomenon as I glanced down the table at his great torso, white waist-coated for the occasion. He was plainly "making up" to Nancy, and to Mrs. Ogilvy, who sat opposite him. On the whole, the atmosphere of our entertainment was rather electric. "Hilda" was chiefly responsible for this; her frankness was of the breath-taking kind. Far from attempting to hide or ignore the struggle by which she and her husband had attained their present position, she referred with the utmost naivete to incidents in her career, while the whole table paused to listen. "Before we had a carriage, yes, it was hard for me to get about. I had to be helped by the conductors into the streetcars. I broke my hip when we lived in Steelville, and the doctor was a numbskull. He should be put in prison, is what I tell Adolf. I was standing on a clothes-horse, when it fell. I had much washing to do in those days." "And--can nothing be done, Mrs. Scherer?" asked Leonard Dickinson, sympathetically. "For an old woman? I am fifty-five. I have had many doctors. I would put them all in prison. How much was it you paid Dr. Stickney, in New York, Adolf? Five thousand dollars? And he did nothing--nothing. I'd rather be poor again, and work. But it is well to make the best of it."... "Your grandfather was a fine man, Mr. Durrett," she informed Hambleton. "It is a pity for you, I think, that you do not have to work." Ham, who sat on her other side, was amused. "My grandfather did enough work for both of us," he said. "If I had been your grandfather, I would have started you in puddling," she observed, as she eyed with disapproval the filling of his third glass of champagne. "I think there is too much gay life, too much games for rich young men nowadays. You will forgive me for saying what I think to young men?" "I'll forgive you for not being my grandfather, at any rate," replied Ham, with unaccustomed wit. She gazed at him with grim humour. "It is bad for you I am not," she declared. There was no gainsaying her. What can be done with a lady who will not recognize that morality is not discussed, and that personalities are tabooed save between intimates. Hilda was a personage as well as a Tartar. Laws, conventions, usages--to all these she would conform when it pleased her. She would have made an admirable inquisitorial judge, and quite as admirable a sick nurse. A rare criminal lawyer, likewise, was wasted in her. She was one of those individuals, I perceived, whose loyalties dominate them; and who, in behalf of those loyalties, carry chips on their shoulders. "It is a long time that I have been wanting to meet you," she informed me. "You are smart." I smiled, yet I was inclined to resent her use of the word, though I was by no means sure of the shade of meaning she meant to put into it. I had, indeed, an uneasy sense of the scantiness of my fund of humour to meet and turn such a situation; for I was experiencing, now, with her, the same queer feeling I had known in my youth in the presence of Cousin Robert Breck--the suspicion that this extraordinary person saw through me. It was as though she held up a mirror and compelled me to look at my soul features. I tried to assure myself that the mirror was distorted. I lost, nevertheless, the sureness of touch that comes from the conviction of being all of a piece. She contrived to resolve me again into conflicting elements. I was, for the moment, no longer the self-confident and triumphant young attorney accustomed to carry all before him, to command respect and admiration, but a complicated being whose unity had suddenly been split. I glanced around the table at Ogilvy, at Dickinson, at Ralph Hambleton. These men were functioning truly. But was I? If I were not, might not this be the reason for the lack of synthesis--of which I was abruptly though vaguely aware between my professional life, my domestic relationships, and my relationships with friends. The loyalty of the woman beside me struck me forcibly as a supreme trait. Where she had given, she did not withdraw. She had conferred it instantly on Maude. Did I feel that loyalty towards a single human being? towards Maude herself--my wife? or even towards Nancy? I pulled myself together, and resolved to give her credit for using the word "smart" in its unobjectionable sense. After all; Dickens had so used it. "A lawyer must needs know something of what he is about, Mrs. Scherer, if he is to be employed by such a man as your husband," I replied. Her black eyes snapped with pleasure. "Ah, I suppose that is so," she agreed. "I knew he was a great man when I married him, and that was before Mr. Nathaniel Durrett found it out." "But surely you did not think, in those days, that he would be as big as he has become? That he would not only be president of the Boyne Iron Works, but of a Boyne Iron Works that has exceeded Mr. Durrett's wildest dreams." She shook her head complacently. "Do you know what I told him when he married me? I said, 'Adolf, it is a pity you are born in Germany.' And when he asked me why, I told him that some day he might have been President of the United States." "Well, that won't be a great deprivation to him," I remarked. "Mr. Scherer can do what he wants, and the President cannot." "Adolf always does as he wants," she declared, gazing at him as he sat beside the brilliant wife of the grandson of the man whose red-shirted foreman he had been. "He does what he wants, and gets what he wants. He is getting what he wants now," she added, with such obvious meaning that I found no words to reply. "She is pretty, that Mrs. Durrett, and clever,--is it not so?" I agreed. A new and indescribable note had come into Mrs. Scherer's voice, and I realized that she, too, was aware of that flaw in the redoubtable Mr. Scherer which none of his associates had guessed. It would have been strange if she had not discovered it. "She is beautiful, yes," the lady continued critically, "but she is not to compare with your wife. She has not the heart,--it is so with all your people of society. For them it is not what you are, but what you have done, and what you have." The banality of this observation was mitigated by the feeling she threw into it. "I think you misjudge Mrs. Durrett," I said, incautiously. "She has never before had the opportunity of meeting Mr. Scherer of appreciating him." "Mrs. Durrett is an old friend of yours?" she asked. "I was brought up with her." "Ah!" she exclaimed, and turned her penetrating glance upon me. I was startled. Could it be that she had discerned and interpreted those renascent feelings even then stirring within me, and of which I myself was as yet scarcely conscious? At this moment, fortunately for me, the women rose; the men remained to smoke; and Scherer, as they discussed matters of finance, became himself again. I joined in the conversation, but I was thinking of those instants when in flashes of understanding my eyes had met Nancy's; instants in which I was lifted out of my humdrum, deadly serious self and was able to look down objectively upon the life I led, the life we all led--and Nancy herself; to see with her the comic irony of it all. Nancy had the power to give me this exquisite sense of detachment that must sustain her. And was it not just this sustenance she could give that I needed? For want of it I was hardening, crystallizing, growing blind to the joy and variety of existence. Nancy could have saved me; she brought it home to me that I needed salvation.... I was struck by another thought; in spite of our separation, in spite of her marriage and mine, she was still nearer to me--far nearer--than any other being. Later, I sought her out. She looked up at me amusedly from the window-seat in our living-room, where she had been talking to the Scherer girls. "Well, how did you get along with Hilda?" she asked. "I thought I saw you struggling." "She's somewhat disconcerting," I said. "I felt as if she were turning me inside out." Nancy laughed. "Hilda's a discovery--a genius. I'm going to have them to dinner myself." "And Adolf?" I inquired. "I believe she thought you were preparing to run away with him. You seemed to have him hypnotized." "I'm afraid your great man won't be able to stand--elevation," she declared. "He'll have vertigo. He's even got it now, at this little height, and when he builds his palace on Grant Avenue, and later moves to New York, I'm afraid he'll wobble even more." "Is he thinking of doing all that?" I asked. "I merely predict New York--it's inevitable," she replied. "Grant Avenue, yes; he wants me to help him choose a lot. He gave me ten thousand dollars for our Orphans' Home, but on the whole I think I prefer Hilda even if she doesn't approve of me." Nancy rose. The Scherers were going. While Mr. Scherer pressed my hand in a manner that convinced me of his gratitude, Hilda was bidding an affectionate good night to Maude. A few moments later she bore her husband and daughters away, and we heard the tap-tap of her cane on the walk outside.... XVII. The remembrance of that dinner when with my connivance the Scherers made their social debut is associated in my mind with the coming of the fulness of that era, mad and brief, when gold rained down like manna from our sooty skies. Even the church was prosperous; the Rev. Carey Heddon, our new minister, was well abreast of the times, typical of the new and efficient Christianity that has finally buried the hatchet with enlightened self-interest. He looked like a young and prosperous man of business, and indeed he was one. The fame of our city spread even across the Atlantic, reaching obscure hamlets in Europe, where villagers gathered up their lares and penates, mortgaged their homes, and bought steamship tickets from philanthropists,--philanthropists in diamonds. Our Huns began to arrive, their Attilas unrecognized among them: to drive our honest Americans and Irish and Germans out of the mills by "lowering the standard of living." Still--according to the learned economists in our universities, enlightened self-interest triumphed. Had not the honest Americans and Germans become foremen and even presidents of corporations? What greater vindication for their philosophy could be desired? The very aspect of the city changed like magic. New buildings sprang high in the air; the Reliance Trust (Mr. Grierson's), the Scherer Building, the Hambleton Building; a stew hotel, the Ashuela, took proper care of our visitors from the East,--a massive, grey stone, thousand-awninged affair on Boyne Street, with a grill where it became the fashion to go for supper after the play, and a head waiter who knew in a few weeks everyone worth knowing. To return for a moment to the Huns. Maude had expressed a desire to see a mill, and we went, one afternoon, in Mr. Scherer's carriage to Steelville, with Mr. Scherer himself,--a bewildering, educative, almost terrifying experience amidst fumes and flames, gigantic forces and titanic weights. It seemed a marvel that we escaped being crushed or burned alive in those huge steel buildings reverberating with sound. They appeared a very bedlam of chaos, instead of the triumph of order, organization and human skill. Mr. Scherer was very proud of it all, and ours was a sort of triumphal procession, accompanied by superintendents, managers and other factotums. I thought of my childhood image of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, and our progress through the flames seemed no less remarkable and miraculous. Maude, with alarm in her eyes, kept very close to me, as I supplemented the explanations they gave her. I had been there many times before. "Why, Hugh," she exclaimed, "you seem to know a lot about it!" Mr. Scherer laughed. "He's had to talk about it once or twice in court--eh, Hugh? You didn't realize how clever your husband was did you, Mrs. Paret?" "But this is so--complicated," she replied. "It is overwhelming." "When I found out how much trouble he had taken to learn about my business," added Mr. Scherer, "there was only one thing to do. Make him my lawyer. Hugh, you have the floor, and explain the open-hearth process." I had almost forgotten the Huns. I saw Maude gazing at them with a new kind of terror. And when we sat at home that evening they still haunted her. "Somehow, I can't bear to think about them," she said. "I'm sure we'll have to pay for it, some day." "Pay for what?" I asked. "For making them work that way. And twelve hours! It can't be right, while we have so much, and are so comfortable." "Don't be foolish," I exclaimed. "They're used to it. They think themselves lucky to get the work--and they are. Besides, you give them credit for a sensitiveness that they don't possess. They wouldn't know what to do with such a house as this if they had it." "I never realized before that our happiness and comfort were built on such foundations;" she said, ignoring my remark. "You must have seen your father's operatives, in Elkington, many times a week." "I suppose I was too young to think about such things," she reflected. "Besides, I used to be sorry for them, sometimes. But these men at the steel mills--I can't tell you what I feel about them. The sight of their great bodies and their red, sullen faces brought home to me the cruelty of life. Did you notice how some of them stared at us, as though they were but half awake in the heat, with that glow on their faces? It made me afraid--afraid that they'll wake up some day, and then they will be terrible. I thought of the children. It seems not only wicked, but mad to bring ignorant foreigners over here and make them slaves like that, and so many of them are hurt and maimed. I can't forget them." "You're talking Socialism," I said crossly, wondering whether Lucia had taken it up as her latest fad. "Oh, no, I'm not," said Maude, "I don't know what Socialism is. I'm talking about something that anyone who is not dazzled by all this luxury we are living in might be able to see, about something which, when it comes, we shan't be able to help." I ridiculed this. The prophecy itself did not disturb me half as much as the fact that she had made it, as this new evidence that she was beginning to think for herself, and along lines so different from my own development. While it lasted, before novelists, playwrights, professors and ministers of the Gospel abandoned their proper sphere to destroy it, that Golden Age was heaven; the New Jerusalem--in which we had ceased to believe--would have been in the nature of an anticlimax to any of our archangels of finance who might have attained it. The streets of our own city turned out to be gold; gold likewise the acres of unused, scrubby land on our outskirts, as the incident of the Riverside Franchise--which I am about to relate--amply proved. That scheme originated in the alert mind of Mr. Frederick Grierson, and in spite of the fact that it has since become notorious in the eyes of a virtue-stricken public, it was entered into with all innocence at the time: most of the men who were present at the "magnate's" table at the Boyne Club the day Mr. Grierson broached it will vouch for this. He casually asked Mr. Dickinson if he had ever noticed a tract lying on the river about two miles beyond the Heights, opposite what used to be in the old days a road house. "This city is growing so fast, Leonard," said Grierson, lighting a special cigar the Club kept for him, "that it might pay a few of us to get together and buy that tract, have the city put in streets and sewers and sell it in building lots. I think I can get most of it at less than three hundred dollars an acre." Mr. Dickinson was interested. So were Mr. Ogilvy and Ralph Hambleton, and Mr. Scherer, who chanced to be there. Anything Fred Grierson had to say on the question of real estate was always interesting. He went on to describe the tract, its size and location. "That's all very well, Fred," Dickinson objected presently, "but how are your prospective householders going to get out there?" "Just what I was coming to," cried Grierson, triumphantly, "we'll get a franchise, and build a street-railroad out Maplewood Avenue, an extension of the Park Street line. We can get the franchise for next to nothing, if we work it right." (Mr. Grierson's eye fell on me), "and sell it out to the public, if you underwrite it, for two million or so." "Well, you've got your nerve with you, Fred, as usual," said Dickinson. But he rolled his cigar in his mouth, an indication, to those who knew him well, that he was considering the matter. When Leonard Dickinson didn't say "no" at once, there was hope. "What do you think the property holders on Maplewood Avenue would say? Wasn't it understood, when that avenue was laid out, that it was to form part of the system of boulevards?" "What difference does it make what they say?" Ralph interposed. Dickinson smiled. He, too, had an exaggerated respect for Ralph. We all thought the proposal daring, but in no way amazing; the public existed to be sold things to, and what did it matter if the Maplewood residents, as Ralph said; and the City Improvement League protested? Perry Blackwood was the Secretary of the City Improvement League, the object of which was to beautify the city by laying out a system of parkways. The next day some of us gathered in Dickinson's office and decided that Grierson should go ahead and get the options. This was done; not, of course, in Grierson's name. The next move, before the formation of the Riverside Company, was to "see" Mr. Judd Jason. The success or failure of the enterprise was in his hands. Mahomet must go to the mountain, and I went to Monahan's saloon, first having made an appointment. It was not the first time I had been there since I had made that first memorable visit, but I never quite got over the feeling of a neophyte before Buddha, though I did not go so far as to analyze the reason,--that in Mr. Jason I was brought face to face with the concrete embodiment of the philosophy I had adopted, the logical consequence of enlightened self-interest. If he had ever heard of it, he would have made no pretence of being anything else. Greatness, declares some modern philosopher, has no connection with virtue; it is the continued, strong and logical expression of some instinct; in Mr. Jason's case, the predatory instinct. And like a true artist, he loved his career for itself--not for what its fruits could buy. He might have built a palace on the Heights with the tolls he took from the disreputable houses of the city; he was contented with Monahan's saloon: nor did he seek to propitiate a possible God by endowing churches and hospitals with a portion of his income. Try though I might, I never could achieve the perfection of this man's contempt for all other philosophies. The very fact of my going there in secret to that dark place of his from out of the bright, respectable region in which I lived was in itself an acknowledgment of this. I thought him a thief--a necessary thief--and he knew it: he was indifferent to it; and it amused him, I think, to see clinging to me, when I entered his presence, shreds of that morality which those of my world who dealt with him thought so needful for the sake of decency. He was in bed, reading newspapers, as usual. An empty coffee-cup and a plate were on the littered table. "Sit down, sit down, Paret," he said. "What do you hear from the Senator?" I sat down, and gave him the news of Mr. Watling. He seemed, as usual, distrait, betraying no curiosity as to the object of my call, his lean, brown fingers playing with the newspapers on his lap. Suddenly, he flashed out at me one of those remarks which produced the uncanny conviction that, so far as affairs in the city were concerned, he was omniscient. "I hear somebody has been getting options on that tract of land beyond the Heights, on the river." He had "focussed." "How did you hear that?" I asked. He smiled. "It's Grierson, ain't it?" "Yes, it's Grierson," I said. "How are you going to get your folks out there?" he demanded. "That's what I've come to see you about. We want a franchise for Maplewood Avenue." "Maplewood Avenue!" He lay back with his eyes closed, as though trying to visualize such a colossal proposal.... When I left him, two hours later, the details were all arranged, down to Mr. Jason's consideration from Riverside Company and the "fee" which his lawyer, Mr. Bitter, was to have for "presenting the case" before the Board of Aldermen. I went back to lunch at the Boyne Club, and to receive the congratulations of my friends. The next week the Riverside Company was formed, and I made out a petition to the Board of Aldermen for a franchise; Mr. Bitter appeared and argued: in short, the procedure so familiar to modern students of political affairs was gone through. The Maplewood Avenue residents rose en masse, supported by the City Improvement League. Perry Blackwood, as soon as he heard of the petition, turned up at my office. By this time I was occupying Mr. Watling's room. "Look here," he began, as soon as the office-boy had closed the door behind him, "this is going it a little too strong." "What is?" I asked, leaning back in my chair and surveying him. "This proposed Maplewood Avenue Franchise. Hugh," he said, "you and I have been friends a good many years, Lucia and I are devoted to Maude." I did not reply. "I've seen all along that we've been growing apart," he added sadly. "You've got certain ideas about things which I can't share. I suppose I'm old fashioned. I can't trust myself to tell you what I think--what Tom and I think about this deal." "Go ahead, Perry," I said. He got up, plainly agitated, and walked to the window. Then he turned to me appealingly. "Get out of it, for God's sake get out of it, before it's too late. For your own sake, for Maude's, for the children's. You don't realize what you are doing. You may not believe me, but the time will come when these fellows you are in with will be repudiated by the community,--their money won't help them. Tom and I are the best friends you have," he added, a little irrelevantly. "And you think I'm going to the dogs." "Now don't take it the wrong way," he urged. "What is it you object to about the Maplewood franchise?" I asked. "If you'll look at a map of the city, you'll see that development is bound to come on that side. Maplewood Avenue is the natural artery, somebody will build a line out there, and if you'd rather have eastern capitalists--" "Why are you going to get this franchise?" he demanded. "Because we haven't a decent city charter, and a healthy public spirit, you fellows are buying it from a corrupt city boss, and bribing a corrupt board of aldermen. That's the plain language of it. And it's only fair to warn you that I'm going to say so, openly." "Be sensible," I answered. "We've got to have street railroads,--your family has one. We know what the aldermen are, what political conditions are. If you feel this way about it, the thing to do is to try to change them. But why blame me for getting a franchise for a company in the only manner in which, under present conditions, a franchise can be got? Do you want the city to stand still? If not, we have to provide for the new population." "Every time you bribe these rascals for a franchise you entrench them," he cried. "You make it more difficult to oust them. But you mark my words, we shall get rid of them some day, and when that fight comes, I want to be in it." He had grown very much excited; and it was as though this excitement suddenly revealed to me the full extent of the change that had taken place in him since he had left college. As he stood facing me, almost glaring at me through his eye-glasses, I beheld a slim, nervous, fault-finding doctrinaire, incapable of understanding the world as it was, lacking the force of his pioneer forefathers. I rather pitied him. "I'm sorry we can't look at this thing alike, Perry," I told him. "You've said solve pretty hard things, but I realize that you hold your point of view in good faith, and that you have come to me as an old friend. I hope it won't make any difference in our personal relations." "I don't see how it can help making a difference," he answered slowly. His excitement had cooled abruptly: he seemed dazed. At this moment my private stenographer entered to inform me that I was being called up on the telephone from New York. "Well, you have more important affairs to attend to, I won't bother you any more," he added. "Hold on," I exclaimed, "this call can wait. I'd like to talk it over with you." "I'm afraid it wouldn't be any use, Hugh," he said, and went out. After talking with the New York client whose local interests I represented I sat thinking over the conversation with Perry. Considering Maude's intimacy with and affection for the Blackwoods, the affair was awkward, opening up many uncomfortable possibilities; and it was the prospect of discomfort that bothered me rather than regret for the probable loss of Perry's friendship. I still believed myself to have an affection for him: undoubtedly this was a sentimental remnant.... That evening after dinner Tom came in alone, and I suspected that Perry had sent him. He was fidgety, ill at ease, and presently asked if I could see him a moment in my study. Maude's glance followed us. "Say, Hugh, this is pretty stiff," he blurted out characteristically, when the door was closed. "I suppose you mean the Riverside Franchise," I said. He looked up at me, miserably, from the chair into which he had sunk, his hands in his pockets. "You'll forgive me for talking about it, won't you? You used to lecture me once in a while at Cambridge, you know." "That's all right--go ahead," I replied, trying to speak amiably. "You know I've always admired you, Hugh,--I never had your ability," he began painfully, "you've gone ahead pretty fast,--the truth is that Perry and I have been worried about you for some time. We've tried not to be too serious in showing it, but we've felt that these modern business methods were getting into your system without your realizing it. There are some things a man's friends can tell him, and it's their duty to tell him. Good God, haven't you got enough, Hugh,--enough success and enough money, without going into a thing like this Riverside scheme?" I was intensely annoyed, if not angry; and I hesitated a moment to calm myself. "Tom, you don't understand my position," I said. "I'm willing to discuss it with you, now that you've opened up the subject. Perry's been talking to you, I can see that. I think Perry's got queer ideas,--to be plain with you, and they're getting queerer." He sat down again while, with what I deemed a rather exemplary patience, I went over the arguments in favour of my position; and as I talked, it clarified in my own mind. It was impossible to apply to business an individual code of ethics,--even to Perry's business, to Tom's business: the two were incompatible, and the sooner one recognized that the better: the whole structure of business was built up on natural, as opposed to ethical law. We had arrived at an era of frankness--that was the truth--and the sooner we faced this truth the better for our peace of mind. Much as we might deplore the political system that had grown up, we had to acknowledge, if we were consistent, that it was the base on which our prosperity was built. I was rather proud of having evolved this argument; it fortified my own peace of mind, which had been disturbed by Tom's attitude. I began to pity him. He had not been very successful in life, and with the little he earned, added to Susan's income, I knew that a certain ingenuity was required to make both ends meet. He sat listening with a troubled look. A passing phase of feeling clouded for a brief moment my confidence when there arose in my mind an unbidden memory of my youth, of my father. He, too, had mistrusted my ingenuity. I recalled how I had out-manoeuvred him and gone to college; I remembered the March day so long ago, when Tom and I had stood on the corner debating how to deceive him, and it was I who had suggested the nice distinction between a boat and a raft. Well, my father's illogical attitude towards boyhood nature, towards human nature, had forced me into that lie, just as the senseless attitude of the public to-day forced business into a position of hypocrisy. "Well, that's clever," he said, slowly and perplexedly, when I had finished. "It's damned clever, but somehow it looks to me all wrong. I can't pick it to pieces." He got up rather heavily. "I--I guess I ought to be going. Susan doesn't know where I am." I was exasperated. It was clear, though he did not say so, that he thought me dishonest. The pain in his eyes had deepened. "If you feel that way--" I said. "Oh, God, I don't know how I feel!" he cried. "You're the oldest friend I have, Hugh,--I can't forget that. We'll say nothing more about it." He picked up his hat and a moment later I heard the front door close behind him. I stood for a while stock-still, and then went into the living-room, where Maude was sewing. "Why, where's Tom?" she inquired, looking up. "Oh, he went home. He said Susan didn't know where he was." "How queer! Hugh, was there anything the matter? Is he in trouble?" she asked anxiously. I stood toying with a book-mark, reflecting. She must inevitably come to suspect that something had happened, and it would be as well to fortify her. "The trouble is," I said after a moment, "that Perry and Tom would like to run modern business on the principle of a charitable institution. Unfortunately, it is not practical. They're upset because I have been retained by a syndicate whose object is to develop some land out beyond Maplewood Avenue. They've bought the land, and we are asking the city to give us a right to build a line out Maplewood Avenue, which is the obvious way to go. Perry says it will spoil the avenue. That's nonsense, in the first place. The avenue is wide, and the tracks will be in a grass plot in the centre. For the sake of keeping tracks off that avenue he would deprive people of attractive homes at a small cost, of the good air they can get beyond the heights; he would stunt the city's development." "That does seem a little unreasonable," Maude admitted. "Is that all he objects to?" "No, he thinks it an outrage because, in order to get the franchise, we have to deal with the city politicians. Well, it so happens, and always has happened, that politics have been controlled by leaders, whom Perry calls 'bosses,' and they are not particularly attractive men. You wouldn't care to associate with them. My father once refused to be mayor of the city for this reason. But they are necessities. If the people didn't want them, they'd take enough interest in elections to throw them out. But since the people do want them, and they are there, every time a new street-car line or something of that sort needs to be built they have to be consulted, because, without their influence nothing could be done. On the other hand, these politicians cannot afford to ignore men of local importance like Leonard Dickinson and Adolf Scherer and Miller Gorse who represent financial substance and' responsibility. If a new street-railroad is to be built, these are the logical ones to build it. You have just the same situation in Elkington, on a smaller scale. "Your family, the Hutchinses, own the mills and the street-railroads, and any new enterprise that presents itself is done with their money, because they are reliable and sound." "It isn't pleasant to think that there are such people as the politicians, is it?" said Maude, slowly. "Unquestionably not," I agreed. "It isn't pleasant to think of some other crude forces in the world. But they exist, and they have to be dealt with. Suppose the United States should refuse to trade with Russia because, from our republican point of view, we regarded her government as tyrannical and oppressive? or to cooperate with England in some undertaking for the world's benefit because we contended that she ruled India with an iron hand? In such a case, our President and Senate would be scoundrels for making and ratifying a treaty. Yet here are Perry and Tom, and no doubt Susan and Lucia, accusing me, a lifetime friend, of dishonesty because I happen to be counsel for a syndicate that wishes to build a street-railroad for the convenience of the people of the city." "Oh, no, not of dishonesty!" she exclaimed. "I can't--I won't believe they would do that." "Pretty near it," I said. "If I listened to them, I should have to give up the law altogether." "Sometimes," she answered in a low voice, "sometimes I wish you would." "I might have expected that you would take their point of view." As I was turning away she got up quickly and put her hand on my shoulder. "Hugh, please don't say such things--you've no right to say them." "And you?" I asked. "Don't you see," she continued pleadingly, "don't you see that we are growing apart? That's the only reason I said what I did. It isn't that I don't trust you, that I don't want you to have your work, that I demand all of you. I know a woman can't ask that,--can't have it. But if you would only give me--give the children just a little, if I could feel that we meant something to you and that this other wasn't gradually becoming everything, wasn't absorbing you more and more, killing the best part of you. It's poisoning our marriage, it's poisoning all your relationships." In that appeal the real Maude, the Maude of the early days of our marriage flashed forth again so vividly that I was taken aback. I understood that she had had herself under control, had worn a mask--a mask I had forced on her; and the revelation of the continued existence of that other Maude was profoundly disturbing. Was it true, as she said, that my absorption in the great game of modern business, in the modern American philosophy it implied was poisoning my marriage? or was it that my marriage had failed to satisfy and absorb me? I was touched--but sentimentally touched: I felt that this was a situation that ought to touch me; I didn't wish to face it, as usual: I couldn't acknowledge to myself that anything was really wrong... I patted her on the shoulder, I bent over and kissed her. "A man in my position can't altogether choose just how busy he will be," I said smiling. "Matters are thrust upon me which I have to accept, and I can't help thinking about some of them when I come home. But we'll go off for a real vacation soon, Maude, to Europe--and take the children." "Oh, I hope so," she said. From this time on, as may be supposed, our intercourse with both the Blackwoods began to grow less frequent, although Maude continued to see a great deal of Lucia; and when we did dine in their company, or they with us, it was quite noticeable that their former raillery was suppressed. Even Tom had ceased to refer to me as the young Napoleon of the Law: he clung to me, but he too kept silent on the subject of business. Maude of course must have noticed this, must have sensed the change of atmosphere, have known that the Blackwoods, at least, were maintaining appearances for her sake. She did not speak to me of the change, nor I to her; but when I thought of her silence, it was to suspect that she was weighing the question which had led up to the difference between Perry and me, and I had a suspicion that the fact that I was her husband would not affect her ultimate decision. This faculty of hers of thinking things out instead of accepting my views and decisions was, as the saying goes, getting a little "on my nerves": that she of all women should have developed it was a recurring and unpleasant surprise. I began at times to pity myself a little, to feel the need of sympathetic companionship --feminine companionship.... I shall not go into the details of the procurement of what became known as the Riverside Franchise. In spite of the Maplewood residents, of the City Improvement League and individual protests, we obtained it with absurd ease. Indeed Perry Blackwood himself appeared before the Public Utilities Committee of the Board of Aldermen, and was listened to with deference and gravity while he discoursed on the defacement of a beautiful boulevard to satisfy the greed of certain private individuals. Mr. Otto Bitter and myself, who appeared for the petitioners, had a similar reception. That struggle was a tempest in a tea-pot. The reformer raged, but he was feeble in those days, and the great public believed what it read in the respectable newspapers. In Mr. Judah B. Tallant's newspaper, for instance, the Morning Era, there were semi-playful editorials about "obstructionists." Mr. Perry Blackwood was a well-meaning, able gentleman of an old family, etc., but with a sentiment for horse-cars. The Era published also the resolutions which (with interesting spontaneity!) had been passed by our Board of Trade and Chamber of Commerce and other influential bodies in favour of the franchise; the idea--unknown to the public--of Mr. Hugh Paret, who wrote drafts of the resolutions and suggested privately to Mr. Leonard Dickinson that a little enthusiasm from these organizations might be helpful. Mr. Dickinson accepted the suggestion eagerly, wondering why he hadn't thought of it himself. The resolutions carried some weight with a public that did not know its right hand from its left. After fitting deliberation, one evening in February the Board of Aldermen met and granted the franchise. Not unanimously, oh, no! Mr. Jason was not so simple as that! No further visits to Monahan's saloon on my part, in this connection were necessary; but Mr. Otto Bitter met me one day in the hotel with a significant message from the boss. "It's all fixed," he informed me. "Murphy and Scott and Ottheimer and Grady and Loth are the decoys. You understand?" "I think I gather your meaning," I said. Mr. Bitter smiled by pulling down one corner of a crooked mouth. "They'll vote against it on principle, you know," he added. "We get a little something from the Maple Avenue residents." I've forgotten what the Riverside Franchise cost. The sum was paid in a lump sum to Mr. Bitter as his "fee,"--so, to their chagrin, a grand jury discovered in later years, when they were barking around Mr. Jason's hole with an eager district attorney snapping his whip over them. I remember the cartoon. The municipal geese were gone, but it was impossible to prove that this particular fox had used his enlightened reason in their procurement. Mr. Bitter was a legally authorized fox, and could take fees. How Mr. Jason was to be rewarded by the land company's left-hand, unknown, to the land company's right hand, became a problem worthy of a genius. The genius was found, but modesty forbids me to mention his name, and the problem was solved, to wit: the land company bought a piece of downtown property from--Mr. Ryerson, who was Mr. Grierson's real estate man and the agent for the land company, for a consideration of thirty thousand dollars. An unconfirmed rumour had it that Mr. Ryerson turned over the thirty thousand to Mr. Jason. Then the Riverside Company issued a secret deed of the same property back to Mr. Ryerson, and this deed was not recorded until some years later. Such are the elaborate transactions progress and prosperity demand. Nature is the great teacher, and we know that her ways are at times complicated and clumsy. Likewise, under the "natural" laws of economics, new enterprises are not born without travail, without the aid of legal physicians well versed in financial obstetrics. One hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand, let us say, for the right to build tracks on Maplewood Avenue, and we sold nearly two million dollars worth of the securities back to the public whose aldermen had sold us the franchise. Is there a man so dead as not to feel a thrill at this achievement? And let no one who declares that literary talent and imagination are nonexistent in America pronounce final judgment until he reads that prospectus, in which was combined the best of realism and symbolism, for the labours of Alonzo Cheyne were not to be wasted, after all. Mr. Dickinson, who was a director in the Maplewood line, got a handsome underwriting percentage, and Mr. Berringer, also a director, on the bonds and preferred stock he sold. Mr. Paret, who entered both companies on the ground floor, likewise got fees. Everybody was satisfied except the trouble makers, who were ignored. In short, the episode of the Riverside Franchise is a triumphant proof of the contention that business men are the best fitted to conduct the politics of their country. We had learned to pursue our happiness in packs, we knew that the Happy Hunting-Grounds are here and now, while the Reverend Carey Heddon continued to assure the maimed, the halt and the blind that their kingdom was not of this world, that their time was coming later. Could there have been a more idyl arrangement! Everybody should have been satisfied, but everybody was not. Otherwise these pages would never have been written. 
3736	----	A FAR COUNTRY By Winston Churchill BOOK 1. I. My name is Hugh Paret. I was a corporation lawyer, but by no means a typical one, the choice of my profession being merely incidental, and due, as will be seen, to the accident of environment. The book I am about to write might aptly be called The Autobiography of a Romanticist. In that sense, if in no other, I have been a typical American, regarding my country as the happy hunting-ground of enlightened self-interest, as a function of my desires. Whether or not I have completely got rid of this romantic virus I must leave to those the aim of whose existence is to eradicate it from our literature and our life. A somewhat Augean task! I have been impelled therefore to make an attempt at setting forth, with what frankness and sincerity I may, with those powers of selection of which I am capable, the life I have lived in this modern America; the passions I have known, the evils I have done. I endeavour to write a biography of the inner life; but in order to do this I shall have to relate those causal experiences of the outer existence that take place in the world of space and time, in the four walls of the home, in the school and university, in the noisy streets, in the realm of business and politics. I shall try to set down, impartially, the motives that have impelled my actions, to reveal in some degree the amazing mixture of good and evil which has made me what I am to-day: to avoid the tricks of memory and resist the inherent desire to present myself other and better than I am. Your American romanticist is a sentimental spoiled child who believes in miracles, whose needs are mostly baubles, whose desires are dreams. Expediency is his motto. Innocent of a knowledge of the principles of the universe, he lives in a state of ceaseless activity, admitting no limitations, impatient of all restrictions. What he wants, he wants very badly indeed. This wanting things was the corner-stone of my character, and I believe that the science of the future will bear me out when I say that it might have been differently built upon. Certain it is that the system of education in vogue in the 70's and 80's never contemplated the search for natural corner-stones. At all events, when I look back upon the boy I was, I see the beginnings of a real person who fades little by little as manhood arrives and advances, until suddenly I am aware that a stranger has taken his place.... I lived in a city which is now some twelve hours distant from the Atlantic seaboard. A very different city, too, it was in youth, in my grandfather's day and my father's, even in my own boyhood, from what it has since become in this most material of ages. There is a book of my photographs, preserved by my mother, which I have been looking over lately. First is presented a plump child of two, gazing in smiling trustfulness upon a world of sunshine; later on a lean boy in plaided kilts, whose wavy, chestnut-brown hair has been most carefully parted on the side by Norah, his nurse. The face is still childish. Then appears a youth of fourteen or thereabout in long trousers and the queerest of short jackets, standing beside a marble table against a classic background; he is smiling still in undiminished hope and trust, despite increasing vexations and crossings, meaningless lessons which had to be learned, disciplines to rack an aspiring soul, and long, uncomfortable hours in the stiff pew of the First Presbyterian Church. Associated with this torture is a peculiar Sunday smell and the faint rustling of silk dresses. I can see the stern black figure of Dr. Pound, who made interminable statements to the Lord. "Oh, Lord," I can hear him say, "thou knowest..." These pictures, though yellowed and faded, suggest vividly the being I once was, the feelings that possessed and animated me, love for my playmates, vague impulses struggling for expression in a world forever thwarting them. I recall, too, innocent dreams of a future unidentified, dreams from which I emerged vibrating with an energy that was lost for lack of a definite objective: yet it was constantly being renewed. I often wonder what I might have become if it could have been harnessed, directed! Speculations are vain. Calvinism, though it had begun to make compromises, was still a force in those days, inimical to spontaneity and human instincts. And when I think of Calvinism I see, not Dr. Pound, who preached it, but my father, who practised and embodied it. I loved him, but he made of righteousness a stern and terrible thing implying not joy, but punishment, the, suppression rather than the expansion of aspirations. His religion seemed woven all of austerity, contained no shining threads to catch my eye. Dreams, to him, were matters for suspicion and distrust. I sometimes ask myself, as I gaze upon his portrait now, the duplicate of the one painted for the Bar Association, whether he ever could have felt the secret, hot thrills I knew and did not identify with religion. His religion was real to him, though he failed utterly to make it comprehensible to me. The apparent calmness, evenness of his life awed me. A successful lawyer, a respected and trusted citizen, was he lacking somewhat in virility, vitality? I cannot judge him, even to-day. I never knew him. There were times in my youth when the curtain of his unfamiliar spirit was withdrawn a little: and once, after I had passed the crisis of some childhood disease, I awoke to find him bending over my bed with a tender expression that surprised and puzzled me. He was well educated, and from his portrait a shrewd observer might divine in him a genteel taste for literature. The fine features bear witness to the influence of an American environment, yet suggest the intellectual Englishman of Matthew Arnold's time. The face is distinguished, ascetic, the chestnut hair lighter and thinner than my own; the side whiskers are not too obtrusive, the eyes blue-grey. There is a large black cravat crossed and held by a cameo pin, and the coat has odd, narrow lapels. His habits of mind were English, although he harmonized well enough with the manners and traditions of a city whose inheritance was Scotch-Irish; and he invariably drank tea for breakfast. One of my earliest recollections is of the silver breakfast service and egg-cups which my great-grandfather brought with him from Sheffield to Philadelphia shortly after the Revolution. His son, Dr. Hugh Moreton Paret, after whom I was named, was the best known physician of the city in the decorous, Second Bank days. My mother was Sarah Breck. Hers was my Scotch-Irish side. Old Benjamin Breck, her grandfather, undaunted by sea or wilderness, had come straight from Belfast to the little log settlement by the great river that mirrored then the mantle of primeval forest on the hills. So much for chance. He kept a store with a side porch and square-paned windows, where hams and sides of bacon and sugar loaves in blue glazed paper hung beside ploughs and calico prints, barrels of flour, of molasses and rum, all of which had been somehow marvellously transported over the passes of those forbidding mountains,--passes we blithely thread to-day in dining cars and compartment sleepers. Behind the store were moored the barges that floated down on the swift current to the Ohio, carrying goods to even remoter settlements in the western wilderness. Benjamin, in addition to his emigrant's leather box, brought with him some of that pigment that was to dye the locality for generations a deep blue. I refer, of course, to his Presbyterianism. And in order the better to ensure to his progeny the fastness of this dye, he married the granddaughter of a famous divine, celebrated in the annals of New England,--no doubt with some injustice,--as a staunch advocate on the doctrine of infant damnation. My cousin Robert Breck had old Benjamin's portrait, which has since gone to the Kinley's. Heaven knows who painted it, though no great art were needed to suggest on canvas the tough fabric of that sitter, who was more Irish than Scotch. The heavy stick he holds might, with a slight stretch of the imagination, be a blackthorn; his head looks capable of withstanding many blows; his hand of giving many. And, as I gazed the other day at this picture hanging in the shabby suburban parlour, I could only contrast him with his anaemic descendants who possessed the likeness. Between the children of poor Mary Kinley,--Cousin Robert's daughter, and the hardy stock of the old country there is a gap indeed! Benjamin Breck made the foundation of a fortune. It was his son who built on the Second Bank the wide, corniced mansion in which to house comfortably his eight children. There, two tiers above the river, lived my paternal grandfather, Dr. Paret, the Breck's physician and friend; the Durretts and the Hambletons, iron-masters; the Hollisters, Sherwins, the McAlerys and Ewanses,--Breck connections,--the Willetts and Ogilvys; in short, everyone of importance in the days between the 'thirties and the Civil War. Theirs were generous houses surrounded by shade trees, with glorious back yards--I have been told--where apricots and pears and peaches and even nectarines grew. The business of Breck and Company, wholesale grocers, descended to my mother's first cousin, Robert Breck, who lived at Claremore. The very sound of that word once sufficed to give me a shiver of delight; but the Claremore I knew has disappeared as completely as Atlantis, and the place is now a suburb (hateful word!) cut up into building lots and connected with Boyne Street and the business section of the city by trolley lines. Then it was "the country," and fairly saturated with romance. Cousin Robert, when he came into town to spend his days at the store, brought with him some of this romance, I had almost said of this aroma. He was no suburbanite, but rural to the backbone, professing a most proper contempt for dwellers in towns. Every summer day that dawned held Claremore as a possibility. And such was my capacity for joy that my appetite would depart completely when I heard my mother say, questioningly and with proper wifely respect-- "If you're really going off on a business trip for a day or two, Mr. Paret" (she generally addressed my father thus formally), "I think I'll go to Robert's and take Hugh." "Shall I tell Norah to pack, mother," I would exclaim, starting up. "We'll see what your father thinks, my dear." "Remain at the table until you are excused, Hugh," he would say. Released at length, I would rush to Norah, who always rejoiced with me, and then to the wire fence which marked the boundary of the Peters domain next door, eager, with the refreshing lack of consideration characteristic of youth, to announce to the Peterses--who were to remain at home the news of my good fortune. There would be Tom and Alfred and Russell and Julia and little Myra with her grass-stained knees, faring forth to seek the adventures of a new day in the shady western yard. Myra was too young not to look wistful at my news, but the others pretended indifference, seeking to lessen my triumph. And it was Julia who invariably retorted "We can go out to Uncle Jake's farm whenever we want to. Can't we, Tom?"... No journey ever taken since has equalled in ecstasy that leisurely trip of thirteen miles in the narrow-gauge railroad that wound through hot fields of nodding corn tassels and between delicious, acrid-smelling woods to Claremore. No silent palace "sleeping in the sun," no edifice decreed by Kubla Khan could have worn more glamour than the house of Cousin Robert Breck. It stood half a mile from the drowsy village, deep in its own grounds amidst lawns splashed with shadows, with gravel paths edged--in barbarous fashion, if you please with shells. There were flower beds of equally barbarous design; and two iron deer, which, like the figures on Keats's Grecian urn, were ever ready poised to flee,--and yet never fled. For Cousin Robert was rich, as riches went in those days: not only rich, but comfortable. Stretching behind the house were sweet meadows of hay and red clover basking in the heat, orchards where the cows cropped beneath the trees, arbours where purple clusters of Concords hung beneath warm leaves: there were woods beyond, into which, under the guidance of Willie Breck, I made adventurous excursions, and in the autumn gathered hickories and walnuts. The house was a rambling, wooden mansion painted grey, with red scroll-work on its porches and horsehair furniture inside. Oh, the smell of its darkened interior on a midsummer day! Like the flavour of that choicest of tropical fruits, the mangosteen, it baffles analysis, and the nearest I can come to it is a mixture of matting and corn-bread, with another element too subtle to define. The hospitality of that house! One would have thought we had arrived, my mother and I, from the ends of the earth, such was the welcome we got from Cousin Jenny, Cousin Robert's wife, from Mary and Helen with the flaxen pig-tails, from Willie, whom I recall as permanently without shoes or stockings. Met and embraced by Cousin Jenny at the station and driven to the house in the squeaky surrey, the moment we arrived she and my mother would put on the dressing-sacks I associated with hot weather, and sit sewing all day long in rocking-chairs at the coolest end of the piazza. The women of that day scorned lying down, except at night, and as evening came on they donned starched dresses; I recall in particular one my mother wore, with little vertical stripes of black and white, and a full skirt. And how they talked, from the beginning of the visit until the end! I have often since wondered where the topics came from. It was not until nearly seven o'clock that the train arrived which brought home my Cousin Robert. He was a big man; his features and even his ample moustache gave a disconcerting impression of rugged integrity, and I remember him chiefly in an alpaca or seersucker coat. Though much less formal, more democratic--in a word--than my father, I stood in awe of him for a different reason, and this I know now was because he possessed the penetration to discern the flaws in my youthful character,--flaws that persisted in manhood. None so quick as Cousin Robert to detect deceptions which were hidden from my mother. His hobby was carpentering, and he had a little shop beside the stable filled with shining tools which Willie and I, in spite of their attractions, were forbidden to touch. Willie, by dire experience, had learned to keep the law; but on one occasion I stole in alone, and promptly cut my finger with a chisel. My mother and Cousin Jenny accepted the fiction that the injury had been done with a flint arrowhead that Willie had given me, but when Cousin Robert came home and saw my bound hand and heard the story, he gave me a certain look which sticks in my mind. "Wonderful people, those Indians were!" he observed. "They could make arrowheads as sharp as chisels." I was most uncomfortable.... He had a strong voice, and spoke with a rising inflection and a marked accent that still remains peculiar to our locality, although it was much modified in my mother and not at all noticeable in my father; with an odd nasal alteration of the burr our Scotch-Irish ancestors had brought with them across the seas. For instance, he always called my father Mr. Par-r-ret. He had an admiration and respect for him that seemed to forbid the informality of "Matthew." It was shared by others of my father's friends and relations. "Sarah," Cousin Robert would say to my mother, "you're coddling that boy, you ought to lam him oftener. Hand him over to me for a couple of months--I'll put him through his paces.... So you're going to send him to college, are you? He's too good for old Benjamin's grocery business." He was very fond of my mother, though he lectured her soundly for her weakness in indulging me. I can see him as he sat at the head of the supper table, carving liberal helpings which Mary and Helen and Willie devoured with country appetites, watching our plates. "What's the matter, Hugh? You haven't eaten all your lamb." "He doesn't like fat, Robert," my mother explained. "I'd teach him to like it if he were my boy." "Well, Robert, he isn't your boy," Cousin Jenny would remind him.... His bark was worse than his bite. Like many kind people he made use of brusqueness to hide an inner tenderness, and on the train he was hail fellow well met with every Tom, Dick and Harry that commuted,--although the word was not invented in those days,--and the conductor and brakeman too. But he had his standards, and held to them.... Mine was not a questioning childhood, and I was willing to accept the scheme of things as presented to me entire. In my tenderer years, when I had broken one of the commandments on my father's tablet (there were more than ten), and had, on his home-coming, been sent to bed, my mother would come softly upstairs after supper with a book in her hand; a book of selected Bible stories on which Dr. Pound had set the seal of his approval, with a glazed picture cover, representing Daniel in the lions' den and an angel standing beside him. On the somewhat specious plea that Holy Writ might have a chastening effect, she was permitted to minister to me in my shame. The amazing adventure of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego particularly appealed to an imagination needing little stimulation. It never occurred to me to doubt that these gentlemen had triumphed over caloric laws. But out of my window, at the back of the second storey, I often saw a sudden, crimson glow in the sky to the southward, as though that part of the city had caught fire. There were the big steel-works, my mother told me, belonging to Mr. Durrett and Mr. Hambleton, the father of Ralph Hambleton and the grandfather of Hambleton Durrett, my schoolmates at Miss Caroline's. I invariably connected the glow, not with Hambleton and Ralph, but with Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego! Later on, when my father took me to the steel-works, and I beheld with awe a huge pot filled with molten metal that ran out of it like water, I asked him--if I leaped into that stream, could God save me? He was shocked. Miracles, he told me, didn't happen any more. "When did they stop?" I demanded. "About two thousand years ago, my son," he replied gravely. "Then," said I, "no matter how much I believed in God, he wouldn't save me if I jumped into the big kettle for his sake?" For this I was properly rebuked and silenced. My boyhood was filled with obsessing desires. If God, for example, had cast down, out of his abundant store, manna and quail in the desert, why couldn't he fling me a little pocket money? A paltry quarter of a dollar, let us say, which to me represented wealth. To avoid the reproach of the Pharisees, I went into the closet of my bed-chamber to pray, requesting that the quarter should be dropped on the north side of Lyme Street, between Stamford and Tryon; in short, as conveniently near home as possible. Then I issued forth, not feeling overconfident, but hoping. Tom Peters, leaning over the ornamental cast-iron fence which separated his front yard from the street, presently spied me scanning the sidewalk. "What are you looking for, Hugh?" he demanded with interest. "Oh, something I dropped," I answered uneasily. "What?" Naturally, I refused to tell. It was a broiling, midsummer day; Julia and Russell, who had been warned to stay in the shade, but who were engaged in the experiment of throwing the yellow cat from the top of the lattice fence to see if she would alight on her feet, were presently attracted, and joined in the search. The mystery which I threw around it added to its interest, and I was not inconsiderably annoyed. Suppose one of them were to find the quarter which God had intended for me? Would that be justice? "It's nothing," I said, and pretended to abandon the quest--to be renewed later. But this ruse failed; they continued obstinately to search; and after a few minutes Tom, with a shout, picked out of a hot crevice between the bricks--a nickel! "It's mine!" I cried fiercely. "Did you lose it?" demanded Julia, the canny one, as Tom was about to give it up. My lying was generally reserved for my elders. "N-no," I said hesitatingly, "but it's mine all the same. It was--sent to me." "Sent to you!" they exclaimed, in a chorus of protest and derision. And how, indeed, was I to make good my claim? The Peterses, when assembled, were a clan, led by Julia and in matters of controversy, moved as one. How was I to tell them that in answer to my prayers for twenty-five cents, God had deemed five all that was good for me? "Some--somebody dropped it there for me." "Who?" demanded the chorus. "Say, that's a good one!" Tears suddenly blinded me. Overcome by chagrin, I turned and flew into the house and upstairs into my room, locking the door behind me. An interval ensued, during which I nursed my sense of wrong, and it pleased me to think that the money would bring a curse on the Peters family. At length there came a knock on the door, and a voice calling my name. "Hugh! Hugh!" It was Tom. "Hughie, won't you let me in? I want to give you the nickel." "Keep it!" I shouted back. "You found it." Another interval, and then more knocking. "Open up," he said coaxingly. "I--I want to talk to you." I relented, and let him in. He pressed the coin into my hand. I refused; he pleaded. "You found it," I said, "it's yours." "But--but you were looking for it." "That makes no difference," I declared magnanimously. Curiosity overcame him. "Say, Hughie, if you didn't drop it, who on earth did?" "Nobody on earth," I replied cryptically.... Naturally, I declined to reveal the secret. Nor was this by any means the only secret I held over the Peters family, who never quite knew what to make of me. They were not troubled with imaginations. Julia was a little older than Tom and had a sharp tongue, but over him I exercised a distinct fascination, and I knew it. Literal himself, good-natured and warm-hearted, the gift I had of tingeing life with romance (to put the thing optimistically), of creating kingdoms out of back yards--at which Julia and Russell sniffed--held his allegiance firm. II. I must have been about twelve years of age when I realized that I was possessed of the bard's inheritance. A momentous journey I made with my parents to Boston about this time not only stimulated this gift, but gave me the advantage of which other travellers before me have likewise availed themselves--of being able to take certain poetic liberties with a distant land that my friends at home had never seen. Often during the heat of summer noons when we were assembled under the big maple beside the lattice fence in the Peters' yard, the spirit would move me to relate the most amazing of adventures. Our train, for instance, had been held up in the night by a band of robbers in black masks, and rescued by a traveller who bore a striking resemblance to my Cousin Robert Breck. He had shot two of the robbers. These fabrications, once started, flowed from me with ridiculous ease. I experienced an unwonted exhilaration, exaltation; I began to believe that they had actually occurred. In vain the astute Julia asserted that there were no train robbers in the east. What had my father done? Well, he had been very brave, but he had had no pistol. Had I been frightened? No, not at all; I, too, had wished for a pistol. Why hadn't I spoken of this before? Well, so many things had happened to me I couldn't tell them all at once. It was plain that Julia, though often fascinated against her will, deemed this sort of thing distinctly immoral. I was a boy divided in two. One part of me dwelt in a fanciful realm of his own weaving, and the other part was a commonplace and protesting inhabitant of a world of lessons, disappointments and discipline. My instincts were not vicious. Ideas bubbled up within me continually from an apparently inexhaustible spring, and the very strength of the longings they set in motion puzzled and troubled my parents: what I seem to see most distinctly now is a young mind engaged in a ceaseless struggle for self-expression, for self-development, against the inertia of a tradition of which my father was the embodiment. He was an enigma to me then. He sincerely loved me, he cherished ambitions concerning me, yet thwarted every natural, budding growth, until I grew unconsciously to regard him as my enemy, although I had an affection for him and a pride in him that flared up at times. Instead of confiding to him my aspirations, vague though they were, I became more and more secretive as I grew older. I knew instinctively that he regarded these aspirations as evidences in my character of serious moral flaws. And I would sooner have suffered many afternoons of his favourite punishment--solitary confinement in my room--than reveal to him those occasional fits of creative fancy which caused me to neglect my lessons in order to put them on paper. Loving literature, in his way, he was characteristically incapable of recognizing the literary instinct, and the symptoms of its early stages he mistook for inherent frivolity, for lack of respect for the truth; in brief, for original sin. At the age of fourteen I had begun secretly (alas, how many things I did secretly!) to write stories of a sort, stories that never were finished. He regarded reading as duty, not pleasure. He laid out books for me, which I neglected. He was part and parcel of that American environment in which literary ambition was regarded as sheer madness. And no one who has not experienced that environment can have any conception of the pressure it exerted to stifle originality, to thrust the new generation into its religious and commercial moulds. Shall we ever, I wonder, develop the enlightened education that will know how to take advantage of such initiative as was mine? that will be on the watch for it, sympathize with it and guide it to fruition? I was conscious of still another creative need, that of dramatizing my ideas, of converting them into action. And this need was to lead me farther than ever afield from the path of righteousness. The concrete realization of ideas, as many geniuses will testify, is an expensive undertaking, requiring a little pocket money; and I have already touched upon that subject. My father did not believe in pocket money. A sea story that my Cousin Donald Ewan gave me at Christmas inspired me to compose one of a somewhat different nature; incidentally, I deemed it a vast improvement on Cousin Donald's book. Now, if I only had a boat, with the assistance of Ham Durrett and Tom Peters, Gene Hollister and Perry Blackwood and other friends, this story of mine might be staged. There were, however, as usual, certain seemingly insuperable difficulties: in the first place, it was winter time; in the second, no facilities existed in the city for operations of a nautical character; and, lastly, my Christmas money amounted only to five dollars. It was my father who pointed out these and other objections. For, after a careful perusal of the price lists I had sent for, I had been forced to appeal to him to supply additional funds with which to purchase a row-boat. Incidentally, he read me a lecture on extravagance, referred to my last month's report at the Academy, and finished by declaring that he would not permit me to have a boat even in the highly improbable case of somebody's presenting me with one. Let it not be imagined that my ardour or my determination were extinguished. Shortly after I had retired from his presence it occurred to me that he had said nothing to forbid my making a boat, and the first thing I did after school that day was to procure, for twenty-five cents, a second-hand book on boat construction. The woodshed was chosen as a shipbuilding establishment. It was convenient--and my father never went into the back yard in cold weather. Inquiries of lumber-yards developing the disconcerting fact that four dollars and seventy-five cents was inadequate to buy the material itself, to say nothing of the cost of steaming and bending the ribs, I reluctantly abandoned the ideal of the graceful craft I had sketched, and compromised on a flat bottom. Observe how the ways of deception lead to transgression: I recalled the cast-off lumber pile of Jarvis, the carpenter, a good-natured Englishman, coarse and fat: in our neighbourhood his reputation for obscenity was so well known to mothers that I had been forbidden to go near him or his shop. Grits Jarvis, his son, who had inherited the talent, was also contraband. I can see now the huge bulk of the elder Jarvis as he stood in the melting, soot-powdered snow in front of his shop, and hear his comments on my pertinacity. "If you ever wants another man's missus when you grows up, my lad, Gawd 'elp 'im!" "Why should I want another man's wife when I don't want one of my own?" I demanded, indignant. He laughed with his customary lack of moderation. "You mind what old Jarvis says," he cried. "What you wants, you gets." I did get his boards, by sheer insistence. No doubt they were not very valuable, and without question he more than made up for them in my mother's bill. I also got something else of equal value to me at the moment,--the assistance of Grits, the contraband; daily, after school, I smuggled him into the shed through the alley, acquiring likewise the services of Tom Peters, which was more of a triumph than it would seem. Tom always had to be "worked up" to participation in my ideas, but in the end he almost invariably succumbed. The notion of building a boat in the dead of winter, and so far from her native element, naturally struck him at first as ridiculous. Where in Jehoshaphat was I going to sail it if I ever got it made? He much preferred to throw snowballs at innocent wagon drivers. All that Tom saw, at first, was a dirty, coal-spattered shed with dim recesses, for it was lighted on one side only, and its temperature was somewhere below freezing. Surely he could not be blamed for a tempered enthusiasm! But for me, all the dirt and cold and discomfort were blotted out, and I beheld a gallant craft manned by sturdy seamen forging her way across blue water in the South Seas. Treasure Island, alas, was as yet unwritten; but among my father's books were two old volumes in which I had hitherto taken no interest, with crude engravings of palms and coral reefs, of naked savages and tropical mountains covered with jungle, the adventures, in brief, of one Captain Cook. I also discovered a book by a later traveller. Spurred on by a mysterious motive power, and to the great neglect of the pons asinorum and the staple products of the Southern States, I gathered an amazing amount of information concerning a remote portion of the globe, of head-hunters and poisoned stakes, of typhoons, of queer war-craft that crept up on you while you were dismantling galleons, when desperate hand-to-hand encounters ensued. Little by little as I wove all this into personal adventures soon to be realized, Tom forgot the snowballs and the maddened grocery-men who chased him around the block; while Grits would occasionally stop sawing and cry out:--"Ah, s'y!" frequently adding that he would be G--d--d. The cold woodshed became a chantry on the New England coast, the alley the wintry sea soon to embrace our ship, the saw-horses--which stood between a coal-bin on one side and unused stalls filled with rubbish and kindling on the other--the ways; the yard behind the lattice fence became a backwater, the flapping clothes the sails of ships that took refuge there--on Mondays and Tuesdays. Even my father was symbolized with unparalleled audacity as a watchful government which had, up to the present, no inkling of our semi-piratical intentions! The cook and the housemaid, though remonstrating against the presence of Grits, were friendly confederates; likewise old Cephas, the darkey who, from my earliest memory, carried coal and wood and blacked the shoes, washed the windows and scrubbed the steps. One afternoon Tom went to work.... The history of the building of the good ship Petrel is similar to that of all created things, a story of trial and error and waste. At last, one March day she stood ready for launching. She had even been caulked; for Grits, from an unknown and unquestionably dubious source, had procured a bucket of tar, which we heated over afire in the alley and smeared into every crack. It was natural that the news of such a feat as we were accomplishing should have leaked out, that the "yard" should have been visited from time to time by interested friends, some of whom came to admire, some to scoff, and all to speculate. Among the scoffers, of course, was Ralph Hambleton, who stood with his hands in his pockets and cheerfully predicted all sorts of dire calamities. Ralph was always a superior boy, tall and a trifle saturnine and cynical, with an amazing self-confidence not wholly due to the wealth of his father, the iron-master. He was older than I. "She won't float five minutes, if you ever get her to the water," was his comment, and in this he was supported on general principles by Julia and Russell Peters. Ralph would have none of the Petrel, or of the South Seas either; but he wanted,--so he said,--"to be in at the death." The Hambletons were one of the few families who at that time went to the sea for the summer, and from a practical knowledge of craft in general Ralph was not slow to point out the defects of ours. Tom and I defended her passionately. Ralph was not a romanticist. He was a born leader, excelling at organized games, exercising over boys the sort of fascination that comes from doing everything better and more easily than others. It was only during the progress of such enterprises as this affair of the Petrel that I succeeded in winning their allegiance; bit by bit, as Tom's had been won, fanning their enthusiasm by impersonating at once Achilles and Homer, recruiting while relating the Odyssey of the expedition in glowing colours. Ralph always scoffed, and when I had no scheme on foot they went back to him. Having surveyed the boat and predicted calamity, he departed, leaving a circle of quaint and youthful figures around the Petrel in the shed: Gene Hollister, romantically inclined, yet somewhat hampered by a strict parental supervision; Ralph's cousin Ham Durrett, who was even then a rather fat boy, good-natured but selfish; Don and Harry Ewan, my second cousins; Mac and Nancy Willett and Sam and Sophy McAlery. Nancy was a tomboy, not to be denied, and Sophy her shadow. We held a council, the all-important question of which was how to get the Petrel to the water, and what water to get her to. The river was not to be thought of, and Blackstone Lake some six miles from town. Finally, Logan's mill-pond was decided on,--a muddy sheet on the outskirts of the city. But how to get her to Logan's mill-pond? Cephas was at length consulted. It turned out that he had a coloured friend who went by the impressive name of Thomas Jefferson Taliaferro (pronounced Tolliver), who was in the express business; and who, after surveying the boat with some misgivings,--for she was ten feet long,--finally consented to transport her to "tide-water" for the sum of two dollars. But it proved that our combined resources only amounted to a dollar and seventy-five cents. Ham Durrett never contributed to anything. On this sum Thomas Jefferson compromised. Saturday dawned clear, with a stiff March wind catching up the dust into eddies and whirling it down the street. No sooner was my father safely on his way to his office than Thomas Jefferson was reported to be in the alley, where we assembled, surveying with some misgivings Thomas Jefferson's steed, whose ability to haul the Petrel two miles seemed somewhat doubtful. Other difficulties developed; the door in the back of the shed proved to be too narrow for our ship's beam. But men embarked on a desperate enterprise are not to be stopped by such trifles, and the problem was solved by sawing out two adjoining boards. These were afterwards replaced with skill by the ship's carpenter, Able Seaman Grits Jarvis. Then the Petrel by heroic efforts was got into the wagon, the seat of which had been removed, old Thomas Jefferson perched himself precariously in the bow and protestingly gathered up his rope-patched reins. "Folks'll 'low I'se plum crazy, drivin' dis yere boat," he declared, observing with concern that some four feet of the stern projected over the tail-board. "Ef she topples, I'll git to heaven quicker'n a bullet." When one is shanghaied, however,--in the hands of buccaneers,--it is too late to withdraw. Six shoulders upheld the rear end of the Petrel, others shoved, and Thomas Jefferson's rickety horse began to move forward in spite of himself. An expression of sheer terror might have been observed on the old negro's crinkled face, but his voice was drowned, and we swept out of the alley. Scarcely had we travelled a block before we began to be joined by all the boys along the line of march; marbles, tops, and even incipient baseball games were abandoned that Saturday morning; people ran out of their houses, teamsters halted their carts. The breathless excitement, the exaltation I had felt on leaving the alley were now tinged with other feelings, unanticipated, but not wholly lacking in delectable quality,--concern and awe at these unforeseen forces I had raised, at this ever growing and enthusiastic body of volunteers springing up like dragon's teeth in our path. After all, was not I the hero of this triumphal procession? The thought was consoling, exhilarating. And here was Nancy marching at my side, a little subdued, perhaps, but unquestionably admiring and realizing that it was I who had created all this. Nancy, who was the aptest of pupils, the most loyal of followers, though I did not yet value her devotion at its real worth, because she was a girl. Her imagination kindled at my touch. And on this eventful occasion she carried in her arms a parcel, the contents of which were unknown to all but ourselves. At length we reached the muddy shores of Logan's pond, where two score eager hands volunteered to assist the Petrel into her native element. Alas! that the reality never attains to the vision. I had beheld, in my dreams, the Petrel about to take the water, and Nancy Willett standing very straight making a little speech and crashing a bottle of wine across the bows. This was the content of the mysterious parcel; she had stolen it from her father's cellar. But the number of uninvited spectators, which had not been foreseen, considerably modified the programme,--as the newspapers would have said. They pushed and crowded around the ship, and made frank and even brutal remarks as to her seaworthiness; even Nancy, inured though she was to the masculine sex, had fled to the heights, and it looked at this supreme moment as though we should have to fight for the Petrel. An attempt to muster her doughty buccaneers failed; the gunner too had fled,--Gene Hollister; Ham Durrett and the Ewanses were nowhere to be seen, and a muster revealed only Tom, the fidus Achates, and Grits Jarvis. "Ah, s'y!" he exclaimed in the teeth of the menacing hordes. "Stand back, carn't yer? I'll bash yer face in, Johnny. Whose boat is this?" Shall it be whispered that I regretted his belligerency? Here, in truth, was the drama staged,--my drama, had I only been able to realize it. The good ship beached, the headhunters hemming us in on all sides, the scene prepared for one of those struggles against frightful odds which I had so graphically related as an essential part of our adventures. "Let's roll the cuss in the fancy collar," proposed one of the head-hunters,--meaning me. "I'll stove yer slats if yer touch him," said Grits, and then resorted to appeal. "I s'y, carn't yer stand back and let a chap 'ave a charnst?" The head-hunters only jeered. And what shall be said of the Captain in this moment of peril? Shall it be told that his heart was beating wildly?--bumping were a better word. He was trying to remember that he was the Captain. Otherwise, he must admit with shame that he, too, should have fled. So much for romance when the test comes. Will he remain to fall fighting for his ship? Like Horatius, he glanced up at the hill, where, instead of the porch of the home where he would fain have been, he beheld a wisp of a girl standing alone, her hat on the back of her head, her hair flying in the wind, gazing intently down at him in his danger. The renegade crew was nowhere to be seen. There are those who demand the presence of a woman in order to be heroes.... "Give us a chance, can't you?" he cried, repeating Grits's appeal in not quite such a stentorian tone as he would have liked, while his hand trembled on the gunwale. Tom Peters, it must be acknowledged, was much more of a buccaneer when it was a question of deeds, for he planted himself in the way of the belligerent chief of the head-hunters (who spoke with a decided brogue). "Get out of the way!" said Tom, with a little squeak in his voice. Yet there he was, and he deserves a tribute. An unlooked-for diversion saved us from annihilation, in the shape of one who had a talent for creating them. We were bewilderingly aware of a girlish figure amongst us. "You cowards!" she cried. "You cowards!" Lithe, and fairly quivering with passion, it was Nancy who showed us how to face the head-hunters. They gave back. They would have been brave indeed if they had not retreated before such an intense little nucleus of energy and indignation!... "Ah, give 'em a chanst," said their chief, after a moment.... He even helped to push the boat towards the water. But he did not volunteer to be one of those to man the Petrel on her maiden voyage. Nor did Logan's pond, that wild March day, greatly resemble the South Seas. Nevertheless, my eye on Nancy, I stepped proudly aboard and seized an "oar." Grits and Tom followed,--when suddenly the Petrel sank considerably below the water-line as her builders had estimated it. Ere we fully realized this, the now friendly head-hunters had given us a shove, and we were off! The Captain, who should have been waving good-bye to his lady love from the poop, sat down abruptly,--the crew likewise; not, however, before she had heeled to the scuppers, and a half-bucket of iced water had run it. Head-hunters were mere daily episodes in Grits's existence, but water... He muttered something in cockney that sounded like a prayer.... The wind was rapidly driving us toward the middle of the pond, and something cold and ticklish was seeping through the seats of our trousers. We sat like statues.... The bright scene etched itself in my memory--the bare brown slopes with which the pond was bordered, the Irish shanties, the clothes-lines with red flannel shirts snapping in the biting wind; Nancy motionless on the bank; the group behind her, silent now, impressed in spite of itself at the sight of our intrepidity. The Petrel was sailing stern first.... Would any of us, indeed, ever see home again? I thought of my father's wrath turned to sorrow because he had refused to gratify a son's natural wish and present him with a real rowboat.... Out of the corners of our eyes we watched the water creeping around the gunwale, and the very muddiness of it seemed to enhance its coldness, to make the horrors of its depths more mysterious and hideous. The voice of Grits startled us. "O Gawd," he was saying, "we're a-going to sink, and I carn't swim! The blarsted tar's give way back here." "Is she leaking?" I cried. "She's a-filling up like a bath tub," he lamented. Slowly but perceptibly, in truth, the bow was rising, and above the whistling of the wind I could hear his chattering as she settled.... Then several things happened simultaneously: an agonized cry behind me, distant shouts from the shore, a sudden upward lunge of the bow, and the torture of being submerged, inch by inch, in the icy, yellow water. Despite the splashing behind me, I sat as though paralyzed until I was waist deep and the boards turned under me, and then, with a spasmodic contraction of my whole being I struck out--only to find my feet on the muddy bottom. Such was the inglorious end of the good ship Petrel! For she went down, with all hands, in little more than half a fathom of water.... It was not until then I realized that we had been blown clear across the pond! Figures were running along the shore. And as Tom and I emerged dragging Grits between us,--for he might have been drowned there abjectly in the shallows,--we were met by a stout and bare-armed Irishwoman whose scanty hair, I remember, was drawn into a tight knot behind her head; and who seized us, all three, as though we were a bunch of carrots. "Come along wid ye!" she cried. Shivering, we followed her up the hill, the spectators of the tragedy, who by this time had come around the pond, trailing after. Nancy was not among them. Inside the shanty into which we were thrust were two small children crawling about the floor, and the place was filled with steam from a wash-tub against the wall and a boiler on the stove. With a vigorous injunction to make themselves scarce, the Irishwoman slammed the door in the faces of the curious and ordered us to remove our clothes. Grits was put to bed in a corner, while Tom and I, provided with various garments, huddled over the stove. There fell to my lot the red flannel shirt which I had seen on the clothes-line. She gave us hot coffee, and was back at her wash-tub in no time at all, her entire comment on a proceeding that seemed to Tom and me to have certain elements of gravity being, "By's will be by's!" The final ironical touch was given the anti-climax when our rescuer turned out to be the mother of the chief of the head-hunters himself! He had lingered perforce with his brothers and sister outside the cabin until dinner time, and when he came in he was meek as Moses. Thus the ready hospitality of the poor, which passed over the heads of Tom and me as we ate bread and onions and potatoes with a ravenous hunger. It must have been about two o'clock in the afternoon when we bade good-bye to our preserver and departed for home.... At first we went at a dog-trot, but presently slowed down to discuss the future looming portentously ahead of us. Since entire concealment was now impossible, the question was,--how complete a confession would be necessary? Our cases, indeed, were dissimilar, and Tom's incentive to hold back the facts was not nearly so great as mine. It sometimes seemed to me in those days unjust that the Peterses were able on the whole to keep out of criminal difficulties, in which I was more or less continuously involved: for it did not strike me that their sins were not those of the imagination. The method of Tom's father was the slipper. He and Tom understood each other, while between my father and myself was a great gulf fixed. Not that Tom yearned for the slipper; but he regarded its occasional applications as being as inevitable as changes in the weather; lying did not come easily to him, and left to himself he much preferred to confess and have the matter over with. I have already suggested that I had cultivated lying, that weapon of the weaker party, in some degree, at least, in self-defence. Tom was loyal. Moreover, my conviction would probably deprive him for six whole afternoons of my company, on which he was more or less dependent. But the defence of this case presented unusual difficulties, and we stopped several times to thrash them out. We had been absent from dinner, and doubtless by this time Julia had informed Tom's mother of the expedition, and anyone could see that our clothing had been wet. So I lingered in no little anxiety behind the Peters stable while he made the investigation. Our spirits rose considerably when he returned to report that Julia had unexpectedly been a trump, having quieted his mother by the surmise that he was spending the day with his Aunt Fanny. So far, so good. The problem now was to decide upon what to admit. For we must both tell the same story. It was agreed that we had fallen into Logan's Pond from a raft: my suggestion. Well, said Tom, the Petrel hadn't proved much better than a raft, after all. I was in no mood to defend her. This designation of the Petrel as a "raft" was my first legal quibble. The question to be decided by the court was, What is a raft? just as the supreme tribunal of the land has been required, in later years, to decide, What is whiskey? The thing to be concealed if possible was the building of the "raft," although this information was already in the possession of a number of persons, whose fathers might at any moment see fit to congratulate my own on being the parent of a genius. It was a risk, however, that had to be run. And, secondly, since Grits Jarvis was contraband, nothing was to be said about him. I have not said much about my mother, who might have been likened on such occasions to a grand jury compelled to indict, yet torn between loyalty to an oath and sympathy with the defendant. I went through the Peters yard, climbed the wire fence, my object being to discover first from Ella, the housemaid, or Hannah, the cook, how much was known in high quarters. It was Hannah who, as I opened the kitchen door, turned at the sound, and set down the saucepan she was scouring. "Is it home ye are? Mercy to goodness!" (this on beholding my shrunken costume) "Glory be to God you're not drownded! and your mother worritin' her heart out! So it's into the wather ye were?" I admitted it. "Hannah?" I said softly. "What then?" "Does mother know--about the boat?" "Now don't ye be wheedlin'." I managed to discover, however, that my mother did not know, and surmised that the best reason why she had not been told had to do with Hannah's criminal acquiescence concerning the operations in the shed. I ran into the front hall and up the stairs, and my mother heard me coming and met me on the landing. "Hugh, where have you been?" As I emerged from the semi-darkness of the stairway she caught sight of my dwindled garments, of the trousers well above my ankles. Suddenly she had me in her arms and was kissing me passionately. As she stood before me in her grey, belted skirt, the familiar red-and-white cameo at her throat, her heavy hair parted in the middle, in her eyes was an odd, appealing look which I know now was a sign of mother love struggling with a Presbyterian conscience. Though she inherited that conscience, I have often thought she might have succeeded in casting it off--or at least some of it--had it not been for the fact that in spite of herself she worshipped its incarnation in the shape of my father. Her voice trembled a little as she drew me to the sofa beside the window. "Tell me about what happened, my son," she said. It was a terrible moment for me. For my affections were still quiveringly alive in those days, and I loved her. I had for an instant an instinctive impulse to tell her the whole story,--South Sea Islands and all! And I could have done it had I not beheld looming behind her another figure which represented a stern and unsympathetic Authority, and somehow made her, suddenly, of small account. Not that she would have understood the romance, but she would have comprehended me. I knew that she was powerless to save me from the wrath to come. I wept. It was because I hated to lie to her,--yet I did so. Fear gripped me, and--like some respectable criminals I have since known--I understood that any confession I made would inexorably be used against me.... I wonder whether she knew I was lying? At any rate, the case appeared to be a grave one, and I was presently remanded to my room to be held over for trial.... Vividly, as I write, I recall the misery of the hours I have spent, while awaiting sentence, in the little chamber with the honeysuckle wall-paper and steel engravings of happy but dumpy children romping in the fields and groves. On this particular March afternoon the weather had become morne, as the French say; and I looked down sadly into the grey back yard which the wind of the morning had strewn with chips from the Petrel. At last, when shadows were gathering in the corners of the room, I heard footsteps. Ella appeared, prim and virtuous, yet a little commiserating. My father wished to see me, downstairs. It was not the first time she had brought that summons, and always her manner was the same! The scene of my trials was always the sitting room, lined with grim books in their walnut cases. And my father sat, like a judge, behind the big desk where he did his work when at home. Oh, the distance between us at such an hour! I entered as delicately as Agag, and the expression in his eye seemed to convict me before I could open my mouth. "Hugh," he said, "your mother tells me that you have confessed to going, without permission, to Logan's Pond, where you embarked on a raft and fell into the water." The slight emphasis he contrived to put on the word raft sent a colder shiver down my spine than the iced water had done. What did he know? or was this mere suspicion? Too late, now, at any rate, to plead guilty. "It was a sort of a raft, sir," I stammered. "A sort of a raft," repeated my father. "Where, may I ask, did you find it?" "I--I didn't exactly find it, sir." "Ah!" said my father. (It was the moment to glance meaningly at the jury.) The prisoner gulped. "You didn't exactly find it, then. Will you kindly explain how you came by it?" "Well, sir, we--I--put it together." "Have you any objection to stating, Hugh, in plain English, that you made it?" "No, sir, I suppose you might say that I made it." "Or that it was intended for a row-boat?" Here was the time to appeal, to force a decision as to what constituted a row-boat. "Perhaps it might be called a row-boat, sir," I said abjectly. "Or that, in direct opposition to my wishes and commands in forbidding you to have a boat, to spend your money foolishly and wickedly on a whim, you constructed one secretly in the woodshed, took out a part of the back partition, thus destroying property that did, not belong to you, and had the boat carted this morning to Logan's Pond?" I was silent, utterly undone. Evidently he had specific information.... There are certain expressions that are, at times, more than mere figures of speech, and now my father's wrath seemed literally towering. It added visibly to his stature. "Hugh," he said, in a voice that penetrated to the very corners of my soul, "I utterly fail to understand you. I cannot imagine how a son of mine, a son of your mother who is the very soul of truthfulness and honour--can be a liar." (Oh, the terrible emphasis he put on that word!) "Nor is it as if this were a new tendency--I have punished you for it before. Your mother and I have tried to do our duty by you, to instil into you Christian teaching. But it seems wholly useless. I confess that I am at a less how to proceed. You seem to have no conscience whatever, no conception of what you owe to your parents and your God. You not only persistently disregard my wishes and commands, but you have, for many months, been leading a double life, facing me every day, while you were secretly and continually disobeying me. I shudder to think where this determination of yours to have what you desire at any price will lead you in the future. It is just such a desire that distinguishes wicked men from good." I will not linger upon a scene the very remembrance of which is painful to this day.... I went from my father's presence in disgrace, in an agony of spirit that was overwhelming, to lock the door of my room and drop face downward on the bed, to sob until my muscles twitched. For he had, indeed, put into me an awful fear. The greatest horror of my boyish imagination was a wicked man. Was I, as he had declared, utterly depraved and doomed in spite of myself to be one? There came a knock at my door--Ella with my supper. I refused to open, and sent her away, to fall on my knees in the darkness and pray wildly to a God whose attributes and character were sufficiently confused in my mind. On the one hand was the stern, despotic Monarch of the Westminster Catechism, whom I addressed out of habit, the Father who condemned a portion of his children from the cradle. Was I one of those who he had decreed before I was born must suffer the tortures of the flames of hell? Putting two and two together, what I had learned in Sunday school and gathered from parts of Dr. Pound's sermons, and the intimation of my father that wickedness was within me, like an incurable disease,--was not mine the logical conclusion? What, then, was the use of praying?... My supplications ceased abruptly. And my ever ready imagination, stirred to its depths, beheld that awful scene of the last day: the darkness, such as sometimes creeps over the city in winter, when the jaundiced smoke falls down and we read at noonday by gas-light. I beheld the tortured faces of the wicked gathered on the one side, and my mother on the other amongst the blessed, gazing across the gulf at me with yearning and compassion. Strange that it did not strike me that the sight of the condemned whom they had loved in life would have marred if not destroyed the happiness of the chosen, about to receive their crowns and harps! What a theology--that made the Creator and Preserver of all mankind thus illogical! III. Although I was imaginative, I was not morbidly introspective, and by the end of the first day of my incarceration my interest in that solution had waned. At times, however, I actually yearned for someone in whom I could confide, who could suggest a solution. I repeat, I would not for worlds have asked my father or my mother or Dr. Pound, of whom I had a wholesome fear, or perhaps an unwholesome one. Except at morning Bible reading and at church my parents never mentioned the name of the Deity, save to instruct me formally. Intended or no, the effect of my religious training was to make me ashamed of discussing spiritual matters, and naturally I failed to perceive that this was because it laid its emphasis on personal salvation.... I did not, however, become an unbeliever, for I was not of a nature to contemplate with equanimity a godless universe.... My sufferings during these series of afternoon confinements did not come from remorse, but were the result of a vague sense of injury; and their effect was to generate within me a strange motive power, a desire to do something that would astound my father and eventually wring from him the confession that he had misjudged me. To be sure, I should have to wait until early manhood, at least, for the accomplishment of such a coup. Might it not be that I was an embryonic literary genius? Many were the books I began in this ecstasy of self-vindication, only to abandon them when my confinement came to an end. It was about this time, I think, that I experienced one of those shocks which have a permanent effect upon character. It was then the custom for ladies to spend the day with one another, bringing their sewing; and sometimes, when I unexpectedly entered the sitting-room, the voices of my mother's visitors would drop to a whisper. One afternoon I returned from school to pause at the head of the stairs. Cousin Bertha Ewan and Mrs. McAlery were discussing with my mother an affair that I judged from the awed tone in which they spoke might prove interesting. "Poor Grace," Mrs. McAlery was saying, "I imagine she's paid a heavy penalty. No man alive will be faithful under those circumstances." I stopped at the head of the stairs, with a delicious, guilty feeling. "Have they ever heard of her?" Cousin Bertha asked. "It is thought they went to Spain," replied Mrs. McAlery, solemnly, yet not without a certain zest. "Mr. Jules Hollister will not have her name mentioned in his presence, you know. And Whitcomb chased them as far as New York with a horse-pistol in his pocket. The report is that he got to the dock just as the ship sailed. And then, you know, he went to live somewhere out West,--in Iowa, I believe." "Did he ever get a divorce?" Cousin Bertha inquired. "He was too good a church member, my dear," my mother reminded her. "Well, I'd have got one quick enough, church member or no church member," declared Cousin Bertha, who had in her elements of daring. "Not that I mean for a moment to excuse her," Mrs. McAlery put in, "but Edward Whitcomb did have a frightful temper, and he was awfully strict with her, and he was old enough, anyhow, to be her father. Grace Hollister was the last woman in the world I should have suspected of doing so hideous a thing. She was so sweet and simple." "Jennings was very attractive," said my Cousin Bertha. "I don't think I ever saw a handsomer man. Now, if he had looked at me--" The sentence was never finished, for at this crucial moment I dropped a grammar.... I had heard enough, however, to excite my curiosity to the highest pitch. And that evening, when I came in at five o'clock to study, I asked my mother what had become of Gene Hollister's aunt. "She went away, Hugh," replied my mother, looking greatly troubled. "Why?" I persisted. "It is something you are too young to understand." Of course I started an investigation, and the next day at school I asked the question of Gene Hollister himself, only to discover that he believed his aunt to be dead! And that night he asked his mother if his Aunt Grace were really alive, after all? Whereupon complications and explanations ensued between our parents, of which we saw only the surface signs.... My father accused me of eavesdropping (which I denied), and sentenced me to an afternoon of solitary confinement for repeating something which I had heard in private. I have reason to believe that my mother was also reprimanded. It must not be supposed that I permitted the matter to rest. In addition to Grits Jarvis, there was another contraband among my acquaintances, namely, Alec Pound, the scrape-grace son of the Reverend Doctor Pound. Alec had an encyclopaedic mind, especially well stocked with the kind of knowledge I now desired; first and last he taught me much, which I would better have got in another way. To him I appealed and got the story, my worst suspicions being confirmed. Mrs. Whitcomb's house had been across the alley from that of Mr. Jennings, but no one knew that anything was "going on," though there had been signals from the windows--the neighbours afterwards remembered.... I listened shudderingly. "But," I cried, "they were both married!" "What difference does that make when you love a woman?" Alec replied grandly. "I could tell you much worse things than that." This he proceeded to do. Fascinated, I listened with a sickening sensation. It was a mild afternoon in spring, and we stood in the deep limestone gutter in front of the parsonage, a little Gothic wooden house set in a gloomy yard. "I thought," said I, "that people couldn't love any more after they were married, except each other." Alec looked at me pityingly. "You'll get over that notion," he assured me. Thus another ingredient entered my character. Denied its food at home, good food, my soul eagerly consumed and made part of itself the fermenting stuff that Alec Pound so willing distributed. And it was fermenting stuff. Let us see what it did to me. Working slowly but surely, it changed for me the dawning mystery of sex into an evil instead of a holy one. The knowledge of the tragedy of Grace Hollister started me to seeking restlessly, on bookshelves and elsewhere, for a secret that forever eluded me, and forever led me on. The word fermenting aptly describes the process begun, suggesting as it does something closed up, away from air and sunlight, continually working in secret, engendering forces that fascinated, yet inspired me with fear. Undoubtedly this secretiveness of our elders was due to the pernicious dualism of their orthodox Christianity, in which love was carnal and therefore evil, and the flesh not the gracious soil of the spirit, but something to be deplored and condemned, exorcised and transformed by the miracle of grace. Now love had become a terrible power (gripping me) whose enchantment drove men and women from home and friends and kindred to the uttermost parts of the earth.... It was long before I got to sleep that night after my talk with Alec Pound. I alternated between the horror and the romance of the story I had heard, supplying for myself the details he had omitted: I beheld the signals from the windows, the clandestine meetings, the sudden and desperate flight. And to think that all this could have happened in our city not five blocks from where I lay! My consternation and horror were concentrated on the man,--and yet I recall a curious bifurcation. Instead of experiencing that automatic righteous indignation which my father and mother had felt, which had animated old Mr. Jules Hollister when he had sternly forbidden his daughter's name to be mentioned in his presence, which had made these people outcasts, there welled up within me an intense sympathy and pity. By an instinctive process somehow linked with other experiences, I seemed to be able to enter into the feelings of these two outcasts, to understand the fearful yet fascinating nature of the impulse that had led them to elude the vigilance and probity of a world with which I myself was at odds. I pictured them in a remote land, shunned by mankind. Was there something within me that might eventually draw me to do likewise? The desire in me to which my father had referred, which would brook no opposition, which twisted and squirmed until it found its way to its object? I recalled the words of Jarvis, the carpenter, that if I ever set my heart on another man's wife, God help him. God help me! A wicked man! I had never beheld the handsome and fascinating Mr. Jennings, but I visualised him now; dark, like all villains, with a black moustache and snapping black eyes. He carried a cane. I always associated canes with villains. Whereupon I arose, groped for the matches, lighted the gas, and gazing at myself in the mirror was a little reassured to find nothing sinister in my countenance.... Next to my father's faith in a Moral Governor of the Universe was his belief in the Tariff and the Republican Party. And this belief, among others, he handed on to me. On the cinder playground of the Academy we Republicans used to wage, during campaigns, pitched battles for the Tariff. It did not take a great deal of courage to be a Republican in our city, and I was brought up to believe that Democrats were irrational, inferior, and--with certain exceptions like the Hollisters--dirty beings. There was only one degree lower, and that was to be a mugwump. It was no wonder that the Hollisters were Democrats, for they had a queer streak in them; owing, no doubt, to the fact that old Mr. Jules Hollister's mother had been a Frenchwoman. He looked like a Frenchman, by the way, and always wore a skullcap. I remember one autumn afternoon having a violent quarrel with Gene Hollister that bade fair to end in blows, when he suddenly demanded:--"I'll bet you anything you don't know why you're a Republican." "It's because I'm for the Tariff," I replied triumphantly. But his next question floored me. What, for example, was the Tariff? I tried to bluster it out, but with no success. "Do you know?" I cried finally, with sudden inspiration. It turned out that he did not. "Aren't we darned idiots," he asked, "to get fighting over something we don't know anything about?" That was Gene's French blood, of course. But his question rankled. And how was I to know that he would have got as little satisfaction if he had hurled it into the marching ranks of those imposing torch-light processions which sometimes passed our house at night, with drums beating and fifes screaming and torches waving,--thousands of citizens who were for the Tariff for the same reason as I: to wit, because they were Republicans. Yet my father lived and died in the firm belief that the United States of America was a democracy! Resolved not to be caught a second time in such a humiliating position by a Democrat, I asked my father that night what the Tariff was. But I was too young to understand it, he said. I was to take his word for it that the country would go to the dogs if the Democrats got in and the Tariff were taken away. Here, in a nutshell, though neither he nor I realized it, was the political instruction of the marching hordes. Theirs not to reason why. I was too young, they too ignorant. Such is the method of Authority! The steel-mills of Mr. Durrett and Mr. Hambleton, he continued, would be forced to shut down, and thousands of workmen would starve. This was just a sample of what would happen. Prosperity would cease, he declared. That word, Prosperity, made a deep impression on me, and I recall the certain reverential emphasis he laid on it. And while my solicitude for the workmen was not so great as his and Mr. Durrett's, I was concerned as to what would happen to us if those twin gods, the Tariff and Prosperity, should take their departure from the land. Knowing my love for the good things of the table, my father intimated, with a rare humour I failed to appreciate, that we should have to live henceforth in spartan simplicity. After that, like the intelligent workman, I was firmer than ever for the Tariff. Such was the idealistic plane on which--and from a good man--I received my first political instruction! And for a long time I connected the dominance of the Republican Party with the continuation of manna and quails, in other words, with nothing that had to do with the spiritual welfare of any citizen, but with clothing and food and material comforts. My education was progressing.... Though my father revered Plato and Aristotle, he did not, apparently, take very seriously the contention that that government alone is good "which seeks to attain the permanent interests of the governed by evolving the character of its citizens." To put the matter brutally, politics, despite the lofty sentiments on the transparencies in torchlight processions, had only to do with the belly, not the soul. Politics and government, one perceives, had nothing to do with religion, nor education with any of these. A secularized and disjointed world! Our leading citizens, learned in the classics though some of them might be, paid no heed to the dictum of the Greek idealist, who was more practical than they would have supposed. "The man who does not carry his city within his heart is a spiritual starveling." One evening, a year or two after that tariff campaign, I was pretending to study my lessons under the student lamp in the sitting-room while my mother sewed and my father wrote at his desk, when there was a ring at the door-bell. I welcomed any interruption, even though the visitor proved to be only the druggist's boy; and there was always the possibility of a telegram announcing, for instance, the death of a relative. Such had once been the case when my Uncle Avery Paret had died in New York, and I was taken out of school for a blissful four days for the funeral. I went tiptoeing into the hall and peeped over the banisters while Ella opened the door. I heard a voice which I recognized as that of Perry Blackwood's father asking for Mr. Paret; and then to my astonishment, I saw filing after him into the parlour some ten or twelve persons. With the exception of Mr. Ogilvy, who belonged to one of our old families, and Mr. Watling, a lawyer who had married the youngest of Gene Hollister's aunts, the visitors entered stealthily, after the manner of burglars; some of these were heavy-jowled, and all had an air of mystery that raised my curiosity and excitement to the highest pitch. I caught hold of Ella as she came up the stairs, but she tore herself free, and announced to my father that Mr. Josiah Blackwood and other gentlemen had asked to see him. My father seemed puzzled as he went downstairs.... A long interval elapsed, during which I did not make even a pretence of looking at my arithmetic. At times the low hum of voices rose to what was almost an uproar, and on occasions I distinguished a marked Irish brogue. "I wonder what they want?" said my mother, nervously. At last we heard the front door shut behind them, and my father came upstairs, his usually serene face wearing a disturbed expression. "Who in the world was it, Mr. Paret?" asked my mother. My father sat down in the arm-chair. He was clearly making an effort for self-control. "Blackwood and Ogilvy and Watling and some city politicians," he exclaimed. "Politicians!" she repeated. "What did they want? That is, if it's anything you can tell me," she added apologetically. "They wished me to be the Republican candidate for the mayor of this city." This tremendous news took me off my feet. My father mayor! "Of course you didn't consider it, Mr. Paret," my mother was saying. "Consider it!" he echoed reprovingly. "I can't imagine what Ogilvy and Watling and Josiah Blackwood were thinking of! They are out of their heads. I as much as told them so." This was more than I could bear, for I had already pictured myself telling the news to envious schoolmates. "Oh, father, why didn't you take it?" I cried. By this time, when he turned to me, he had regained his usual expression. "You don't know what you're talking about, Hugh," he said. "Accept a political office! That sort of thing is left to politicians." The tone in which he spoke warned me that a continuation of the conversation would be unwise, and my mother also understood that the discussion was closed. He went back to his desk, and began writing again as though nothing had happened. As for me, I was left in a palpitating state of excitement which my father's self-control or sang-froid only served to irritate and enhance, and my head was fairly spinning as, covertly, I watched his pen steadily covering the paper. How could he--how could any man of flesh and blood sit down calmly after having been offered the highest honour in the gift of his community! And he had spurned it as if Mr. Blackwood and the others had gratuitously insulted him! And how was it, if my father so revered the Republican Party that he would not suffer it to be mentioned slightingly in his presence, that he had refused contemptuously to be its mayor?... The next day at school, however, I managed to let it be known that the offer had been made and declined. After all, this seemed to make my father a bigger man than if he had accepted it. Naturally I was asked why he had declined it. "He wouldn't take it," I replied scornfully. "Office-holding should be left to politicians." Ralph Hambleton, with his precocious and cynical knowledge of the world, minimized my triumph by declaring that he would rather be his grandfather, Nathaniel Durrett, than the mayor of the biggest city in the country. Politicians, he said, were bloodsuckers and thieves, and the only reason for holding office was that it enabled one to steal the taxpayers' money.... As I have intimated, my vision of a future literary career waxed and waned, but a belief that I was going to be Somebody rarely deserted me. If not a literary lion, what was that Somebody to be? Such an environment as mine was woefully lacking in heroic figures to satisfy the romantic soul. In view of the experience I have just related, it is not surprising that the notion of becoming a statesman did not appeal to me; nor is it to be wondered at, despite the somewhat exaggerated respect and awe in which Ralph's grandfather was held by my father and other influential persons, that I failed to be stirred by the elements of greatness in the grim personality of our first citizen, the iron-master. For he possessed such elements. He lived alone in Ingrain Street in an uncompromising mansion I always associated with the Sabbath, not only because I used to be taken there on decorous Sunday visits by my father, but because it was the very quintessence of Presbyterianism. The moment I entered its "portals"--as Mr. Hawthorne appropriately would have called them--my spirit was overwhelmed and suffocated by its formality and orderliness. Within its stern walls Nathaniel Durrett had made a model universe of his own, such as the Deity of the Westminster Confession had no doubt meant his greater one to be if man had not rebelled and foiled him.... It was a world from which I was determined to escape at any cost. My father and I were always ushered into the gloomy library, with its high ceiling, with its long windows that reached almost to the rococo cornice, with its cold marble mantelpiece that reminded me of a tombstone, with its interminable book shelves filled with yellow bindings. On the centre table, in addition to a ponderous Bible, was one of those old-fashioned carafes of red glass tipped with blue surmounted by a tumbler of blue tipped with red. Behind this table Mr. Durrett sat reading a volume of sermons, a really handsome old man in his black tie and pleated shirt; tall and spare, straight as a ramrod, with a finely moulded head and straight nose and sinewy hands the colour of mulberry stain. He called my father by his first name, an immense compliment, considering how few dared to do so. "Well, Matthew," the old man would remark, after they had discussed Dr. Pound's latest flight on the nature of the Trinity or the depravity of man, or horticulture, or the Republican Party, "do you have any better news of Hugh at school?" "I regret to say, Mr. Durrett," my father would reply, "that he does not yet seem to be aroused to a sense of his opportunities." Whereupon Mr. Durrett would gimble me with a blue eye that lurked beneath grizzled brows, quite as painful a proceeding as if he used an iron tool. I almost pity myself when I think of what a forlorn stranger I was in their company. They two, indeed, were of one kind, and I of another sort who could never understand them,--nor they me. To what depths of despair they reduced me they never knew, and yet they were doing it all for my good! They only managed to convince me that my love of folly was ineradicable, and that I was on my way head first for perdition. I always looked, during these excruciating and personal moments, at the coloured glass bottle. "It grieves me to hear it, Hugh," Mr. Durrett invariably declared. "You'll never come to any good without study. Now when I was your age..." I knew his history by heart, a common one in this country, although he made an honourable name instead of a dishonourable one. And when I contrast him with those of his successors whom I was to know later...! But I shall not anticipate. American genius had not then evolved the false entry method of overcapitalization. A thrilling history, Mr. Durrett's, could I but have entered into it. I did not reflect then that this stern old man must have throbbed once; nay, fire and energy still remained in his bowels, else he could not have continued to dominate a city. Nor did it occur to me that the great steel-works that lighted the southern sky were the result of a passion, of dreams similar to those possessing me, but which I could not express. He had founded a family whose position was virtually hereditary, gained riches which for those days were great, compelled men to speak his name with a certain awe. But of what use were such riches as his when his religion and morality compelled him to banish from him all the joys in the power of riches to bring? No, I didn't want to be an iron-master. But it may have been about this time that I began to be impressed with the power of wealth, the adulation and reverence it commanded, the importance in which it clothed all who shared in it.... The private school I attended in the company of other boys with whom I was brought up was called Densmore Academy, a large, square building of a then hideous modernity, built of smooth, orange-red bricks with threads of black mortar between them. One reads of happy school days, yet I fail to recall any really happy hours spent there, even in the yard, which was covered with black cinders that cut you when you fell. I think of it as a penitentiary, and the memory of the barred lower windows gives substance to this impression. I suppose I learned something during the seven years of my incarceration. All of value, had its teachers known anything of youthful psychology, of natural bent, could have been put into me in three. At least four criminally wasted years, to say nothing of the benumbing and desiccating effect of that old system of education! Chalk and chalk-dust! The Mediterranean a tinted portion of the map, Italy a man's boot which I drew painfully, with many yawns; history no glorious epic revealing as it unrolls the Meaning of Things, no revelation of that wondrous distillation of the Spirit of man, but an endless marching and counter-marching up and down the map, weary columns of figures to be learned by rote instantly to be forgotten again. "On June the 7th General So-and-so proceeded with his whole army--" where? What does it matter? One little chapter of Carlyle, illuminated by a teacher of understanding, were worth a million such text-books. Alas, for the hatred of Virgil! "Paret" (a shiver), "begin at the one hundred and thirtieth line and translate!" I can hear myself droning out in detestable English a meaningless portion of that endless journey of the pious AEneas; can see Gene Hollister, with heart-rending glances of despair, stumbling through Cornelius Nepos in an unventilated room with chalk-rubbed blackboards and heavy odours of ink and stale lunch. And I graduated from Densmore Academy, the best school in our city, in the 80's, without having been taught even the rudiments of citizenship. Knowledge was presented to us as a corpse, which bit by bit we painfully dissected. We never glimpsed the living, growing thing, never experienced the Spirit, the same spirit that was able magically to waft me from a wintry Lyme Street to the South Seas, the energizing, electrifying Spirit of true achievement, of life, of God himself. Little by little its flames were smothered until in manhood there seemed no spark of it left alive. Many years were to pass ere it was to revive again, as by a miracle. I travelled. Awakening at dawn, I saw, framed in a port-hole, rose-red Seriphos set in a living blue that paled the sapphire; the seas Ulysses had sailed, and the company of the Argonauts. My soul was steeped in unimagined colour, and in the memory of one rapturous instant is gathered what I was soon to see of Greece, is focussed the meaning of history, poetry and art. I was to stand one evening in spring on the mound where heroes sleep and gaze upon the plain of Marathon between darkening mountains and the blue thread of the strait peaceful now, flushed with pink and white blossoms of fruit and almond trees; to sit on the cliff-throne whence a Persian King had looked down upon a Salamis fought and lost.... In that port-hole glimpse a Themistocles was revealed, a Socrates, a Homer and a Phidias, an AEschylus, and a Pericles; yes, and a John brooding Revelations on his sea-girt rock as twilight falls over the waters.... I saw the Roman Empire, that Scarlet Woman whose sands were dyed crimson with blood to appease her harlotry, whose ships were laden with treasures from the immutable East, grain from the valley of the Nile, spices from Arabia, precious purple stuffs from Tyre, tribute and spoil, slaves and jewels from conquered nations she absorbed; and yet whose very emperors were the unconscious instruments of a Progress they wot not of, preserved to the West by Marathon and Salamis. With Caesar's legions its message went forth across Hispania to the cliffs of the wild western ocean, through Hercynian forests to tribes that dwelt where great rivers roll up their bars by misty, northern seas, and even to Celtic fastnesses beyond the Wall.... IV. In and out of my early memories like a dancing ray of sunlight flits the spirit of Nancy. I was always fond of her, but in extreme youth I accepted her incense with masculine complacency and took her allegiance for granted, never seeking to fathom the nature of the spell I exercised over her. Naturally other children teased me about her; but what was worse, with that charming lack of self-consciousness and consideration for what in after life are called the finer feelings, they teased her about me before me, my presence deterring them not at all. I can see them hopping around her in the Peters yard crying out:--"Nancy's in love with Hugh! Nancy's in love with Hugh!" A sufficiently thrilling pastime, this, for Nancy could take care of herself. I was a bungler beside her when it came to retaliation, and not the least of her attractions for me was her capacity for anger: fury would be a better term. She would fly at them--even as she flew at the head-hunters when the Petrel was menaced; and she could run like a deer. Woe to the unfortunate victim she overtook! Masculine strength, exercised apologetically, availed but little, and I have seen Russell Peters and Gene Hollister retire from such encounters humiliated and weeping. She never caught Ralph; his methods of torture were more intelligent and subtle than Gene's and Russell's, but she was his equal when it came to a question of tongues. "I know what's the matter with you, Ralph Hambleton," she would say. "You're jealous." An accusation that invariably put him on the defensive. "You think all the girls are in love with you, don't you?" These scenes I found somewhat embarrassing. Not so Nancy. After discomfiting her tormenters, or wounding and scattering them, she would return to my side.... In spite of her frankly expressed preference for me she had an elusiveness that made a continual appeal to my imagination. She was never obvious or commonplace, and long before I began to experience the discomforts and sufferings of youthful love I was fascinated by a nature eloquent with contradictions and inconsistencies. She was a tomboy, yet her own sex was enhanced rather than overwhelmed by contact with the other: and no matter how many trees she climbed she never seemed to lose her daintiness. It was innate. She could, at times, be surprisingly demure. These impressions of her daintiness and demureness are particularly vivid in a picture my memory has retained of our walking together, unattended, to Susan Blackwood's birthday party. She must have been about twelve years old. It was the first time I had escorted her or any other girl to a party; Mrs. Willett had smiled over the proceeding, but Nancy and I took it most seriously, as symbolic of things to come. I can see Powell Street, where Nancy lived, at four o'clock on a mild and cloudy December afternoon, the decorous, retiring houses, Nancy on one side of the pavement by the iron fences and I on the other by the tree boxes. I can't remember her dress, only the exquisite sense of her slimness and daintiness comes back to me, of her dark hair in a long braid tied with a red ribbon, of her slender legs clad in black stockings of shining silk. We felt the occasion to be somehow too significant, too eloquent for words.... In silence we climbed the flight of stone steps that led up to the Blackwood mansion, when suddenly the door was opened, letting out sounds of music and revelry. Mr. Blackwood's coloured butler, Ned, beamed at us hospitably, inviting us to enter the brightness within. The shades were drawn, the carpets were covered with festal canvas, the folding doors between the square rooms were flung back, the prisms of the big chandeliers flung their light over animated groups of matrons and children. Mrs. Watling, the mother of the Watling twins--too young to be present was directing with vivacity the game of "King William was King James's son," and Mrs. McAlery was playing the piano. "Now choose you East, now choose you West, Now choose the one you love the best!" Tom Peters, in a velvet suit and consequently very miserable, refused to embrace Ethel Hollister; while the scornful Julia lurked in a corner: nothing would induce her to enter such a foolish game. I experienced a novel discomfiture when Ralph kissed Nancy.... Afterwards came the feast, from which Ham Durrett, in a pink paper cap with streamers, was at length forcibly removed by his mother. Thus early did he betray his love for the flesh pots.... It was not until I was sixteen that a player came and touched the keys of my soul, and it awoke, bewildered, at these first tender notes. The music quickened, tripping in ecstasy, to change by subtle phrases into themes of exquisite suffering hitherto unexperienced. I knew that I loved Nancy. With the advent of longer dresses that reached to her shoe tops a change had come over her. The tomboy, the willing camp-follower who loved me and was unashamed, were gone forever, and a mysterious, transfigured being, neither girl nor woman, had magically been evolved. Could it be possible that she loved me still? My complacency had vanished; suddenly I had become the aggressor, if only I had known how to "aggress"; but in her presence I was seized by an accursed shyness that paralyzed my tongue, and the things I had planned to say were left unuttered. It was something--though I did not realize it--to be able to feel like that. The time came when I could no longer keep this thing to myself. The need of an outlet, of a confidant, became imperative, and I sought out Tom Peters. It was in February; I remember because I had ventured--with incredible daring--to send Nancy an elaborate, rosy Valentine; written on the back of it in a handwriting all too thinly disguised was the following verse, the triumphant result of much hard thinking in school hours:-- Should you of this the sender guess Without another sign, Would you repent, and rest content To be his Valentine I grew hot and cold by turns when I thought of its possible effects on my chances. One of those useless, slushy afternoons, I took Tom for a walk that led us, as dusk came on, past Nancy's house. Only by painful degrees did I succeed in overcoming my bashfulness; but Tom, when at last I had blurted out the secret, was most sympathetic, although the ailment from which I suffered was as yet outside of the realm of his experience. I have used the word "ailment" advisedly, since he evidently put my trouble in the same category with diphtheria or scarlet fever, remarking that it was "darned hard luck." In vain I sought to explain that I did not regard it as such in the least; there was suffering, I admitted, but a degree of bliss none could comprehend who had not felt it. He refused to be envious, or at least to betray envy; yet he was curious, asking many questions, and I had reason to think before we parted that his admiration for me was increased. Was it possible that he, too, didn't love Nancy? No, it was funny, but he didn't. He failed to see much in girls: his tone remained commiserating, yet he began to take an interest in the progress of my suit. For a time I had no progress to report. Out of consideration for those members of our weekly dancing class whose parents were Episcopalians the meetings were discontinued during Lent, and to call would have demanded a courage not in me; I should have become an object of ridicule among my friends and I would have died rather than face Nancy's mother and the members of her household. I set about making ingenious plans with a view to encounters that might appear casual. Nancy's school was dismissed at two, so was mine. By walking fast I could reach Salisbury Street, near St. Mary's Seminary for Young Ladies, in time to catch her, but even then for many days I was doomed to disappointment. She was either in company with other girls, or else she had taken another route; this I surmised led past Sophy McAlery's house, and I enlisted Tom as a confederate. He was to make straight for the McAlery's on Elm while I followed Powell, two short blocks away, and if Nancy went to Sophy's and left there alone he was to announce the fact by a preconcerted signal. Through long and persistent practice he had acquired a whistle shrill enough to wake the dead, accomplished by placing a finger of each hand between his teeth;--a gift that was the envy of his acquaintances, and the subject of much discussion as to whether his teeth were peculiar. Tom insisted that they were; it was an added distinction. On this occasion he came up behind Nancy as she was leaving Sophy's gate and immediately sounded the alarm. She leaped in the air, dropped her school-books and whirled on him. "Tom Peters! How dare you frighten me so!" she cried. Tom regarded her in sudden dismay. "I--I didn't mean to," he said. "I didn't think you were so near." "But you must have seen me." "I wasn't paying much attention," he equivocated,--a remark not calculated to appease her anger. "Why were you doing it?" "I was just practising," said Tom. "Practising!" exclaimed Nancy, scornfully. "I shouldn't think you needed to practise that any more." "Oh, I've done it louder," he declared, "Listen!" She seized his hands, snatching them away from his lips. At this critical moment I appeared around the corner considerably out of breath, my heart beating like a watchman's rattle. I tried to feign nonchalance. "Hello, Tom," I said. "Hello, Nancy. What's the matter?" "It's Tom--he frightened me out of my senses." Dropping his wrists, she gave me a most disconcerting look; there was in it the suspicion of a smile. "What are you doing here, Hugh?" "I heard Tom," I explained. "I should think you might have. Where were you?" "Over in another street," I answered, with deliberate vagueness. Nancy had suddenly become demure. I did not dare look at her, but I had a most uncomfortable notion that she suspected the plot. Meanwhile we had begun to walk along, all three of us, Tom, obviously ill at ease and discomfited, lagging a little behind. Just before we reached the corner I managed to kick him. His departure was by no means graceful. "I've got to go;" he announced abruptly, and turned down the side street. We watched his sturdy figure as it receded. "Well, of all queer boys!" said Nancy, and we walked on again. "He's my best friend," I replied warmly. "He doesn't seem to care much for your company," said Nancy. "Oh, they have dinner at half past two," I explained. "Aren't you afraid of missing yours, Hugh?" she asked wickedly. "I've got time. I'd--I'd rather be with you." After making which audacious remark I was seized by a spasm of apprehension. But nothing happened. Nancy remained demure. She didn't remind me that I had reflected upon Tom. "That's nice of you, Hugh." "Oh, I'm not saying it because it's nice," I faltered. "I'd rather be with you than--with anybody." This was indeed the acme of daring. I couldn't believe I had actually said it. But again I received no rebuke; instead came a remark that set me palpitating, that I treasured for many weeks to come. "I got a very nice valentine," she informed me. "What was it like?" I asked thickly. "Oh, beautiful! All pink lace and--and Cupids, and the picture of a young man and a young woman in a garden." "Was that all?" "Oh, no, there was a verse, in the oddest handwriting. I wonder who sent it?" "Perhaps Ralph," I hazarded ecstatically. "Ralph couldn't write poetry," she replied disdainfully. "Besides, it was very good poetry." I suggested other possible authors and admirers. She rejected them all. We reached her gate, and I lingered. As she looked down at me from the stone steps her eyes shone with a soft light that filled me with radiance, and into her voice had come a questioning, shy note that thrilled the more because it revealed a new Nancy of whom I had not dreamed. "Perhaps I'll meet you again--coming from school," I said. "Perhaps," she answered. "You'll be late to dinner, Hugh, if you don't go...." I was late, and unable to eat much dinner, somewhat to my mother's alarm. Love had taken away my appetite.... After dinner, when I was wandering aimlessly about the yard, Tom appeared on the other side of the fence. "Don't ever ask me to do that again," he said gloomily. I did meet Nancy again coming from school, not every day, but nearly every day. At first we pretended that there was no arrangement in this, and we both feigned surprise when we encountered one another. It was Nancy who possessed the courage that I lacked. One afternoon she said:--"I think I'd better walk with the girls to-morrow, Hugh." I protested, but she was firm. And after that it was an understood thing that on certain days I should go directly home, feeling like an exile. Sophy McAlery had begun to complain: and I gathered that Sophy was Nancy's confidante. The other girls had begun to gossip. It was Nancy who conceived the brilliant idea--the more delightful because she said nothing about it to me--of making use of Sophy. She would leave school with Sophy, and I waited on the corner near the McAlery house. Poor Sophy! She was always of those who piped while others danced. In those days she had two straw-coloured pigtails, and her plain, faithful face is before me as I write. She never betrayed to me the excitement that filled her at being the accomplice of our romance. Gossip raged, of course. Far from being disturbed, we used it, so to speak, as a handle for our love-making, which was carried on in an inferential rather than a direct fashion. Were they saying that we were lovers? Delightful! We laughed at one another in the sunshine.... At last we achieved the great adventure of a clandestine meeting and went for a walk in the afternoon, avoiding the houses of our friends. I've forgotten which of us had the boldness to propose it. The crocuses and tulips had broken the black mould, the flower beds in the front yards were beginning to blaze with scarlet and yellow, the lawns had turned a living green. What did we talk about? The substance has vanished, only the flavour remains. One awoke of a morning to the twittering of birds, to walk to school amidst delicate, lace-like shadows of great trees acloud with old gold: the buds lay curled like tiny feathers on the pavements. Suddenly the shade was dense, the sunlight white and glaring, the odour of lilacs heavy in the air, spring in all its fulness had come,--spring and Nancy. Just so subtly, yet with the same seeming suddenness had budded and come to leaf and flower a perfect understanding, which nevertheless remained undefined. This, I had no doubt, was my fault, and due to the incomprehensible shyness her presence continued to inspire. Although we did not altogether abandon our secret trysts, we began to meet in more natural ways; there were garden parties and picnics where we strayed together through the woods and fields, pausing to tear off, one by one, the petals of a daisy, "She loves me, she loves me not." I never ventured to kiss her; I always thought afterwards I might have done so, she had seemed so willing, her eyes had shone so expectantly as I sat beside her on the grass; nor can I tell why I desired to kiss her save that this was the traditional thing to do to the lady one loved. To be sure, the very touch of her hand was galvanic. Paradoxically, I saw the human side of her, the yielding gentleness that always amazed me, yet I never overcame my awe of the divine; she was a being sacrosanct. Whether this idealism were innate or the result of such romances as I had read I cannot say.... I got, indeed, an avowal of a sort. The weekly dancing classes having begun again, on one occasion when she had waltzed twice with Gene Hollister I protested. "Don't be silly, Hugh," she whispered. "Of course I like you better than anyone else--you ought to know that." We never got to the word "love," but we knew the feeling. One cloud alone flung its shadow across these idyllic days. Before I was fully aware of it I had drawn very near to the first great junction-point of my life, my graduation from Densmore Academy. We were to "change cars," in the language of Principal Haime. Well enough for the fortunate ones who were to continue the academic journey, which implied a postponement of the serious business of life; but month after month of the last term had passed without a hint from my father that I was to change cars. Again and again I almost succeeded in screwing up my courage to the point of mentioning college to him,--never quite; his manner, though kind and calm, somehow strengthened my suspicion that I had been judged and found wanting, and doomed to "business": galley slavery, I deemed it, humdrum, prosaic, degrading! When I thought of it at night I experienced almost a frenzy of self-pity. My father couldn't intend to do that, just because my monthly reports hadn't always been what he thought they ought to be! Gene Hollister's were no better, if as good, and he was going to Princeton. Was I, Hugh Paret, to be denied the distinction of being a college man, the delights of university existence, cruelly separated and set apart from my friends whom I loved! held up to the world and especially to Nancy Willett as good for nothing else! The thought was unbearable. Characteristically, I hoped against hope. I have mentioned garden parties. One of our annual institutions was Mrs. Willett's children's party in May; for the Willett house had a garden that covered almost a quarter of a block. Mrs. Willett loved children, the greatest regret of her life being that providence had denied her a large family. As far back as my memory goes she had been something of an invalid; she had a sweet, sad face, and delicate hands so thin as to seem almost transparent; and she always sat in a chair under the great tree on the lawn, smiling at us as we soared to dizzy heights in the swing, or played croquet, or scurried through the paths, and in and out of the latticed summer-house with shrieks of laughter and terror. It all ended with a feast at a long table made of sawhorses and boards covered with a white cloth, and when the cake was cut there was wild excitement as to who would get the ring and who the thimble. We were more decorous, or rather more awkward now, and the party began with a formal period when the boys gathered in a group and pretended indifference to the girls. The girls were cleverer at it, and actually achieved the impression that they were indifferent. We kept an eye on them, uneasily, while we talked. To be in Nancy's presence and not alone with Nancy was agonizing, and I wondered at a sang-froid beyond my power to achieve, accused her of coldness, my sufferings being the greater because she seemed more beautiful, daintier, more irreproachable than I had ever seen her. Even at that early age she gave evidence of the social gift, and it was due to her efforts that we forgot our best clothes and our newly born self-consciousness. When I begged her to slip away with me among the currant bushes she whispered:--"I can't, Hugh. I'm the hostess, you know." I had gone there in a flutter of anticipation, but nothing went right that day. There was dancing in the big rooms that looked out on the garden; the only girl with whom I cared to dance was Nancy, and she was busy finding partners for the backward members of both sexes; though she was my partner, to be sure, when it all wound up with a Virginia reel on the lawn. Then, at supper, to cap the climax of untoward incidents, an animated discussion was begun as to the relative merits of the various colleges, the girls, too, taking sides. Mac Willett, Nancy's cousin, was going to Yale, Gene Hollister to Princeton, the Ewan boys to our State University, while Perry Blackwood and Ralph Hambleton and Ham Durrett were destined for Harvard; Tom Peters, also, though he was not to graduate from the Academy for another year. I might have known that Ralph would have suspected my misery. He sat triumphantly next to Nancy herself, while I had been told off to entertain the faithful Sophy. Noticing my silence, he demanded wickedly:--"Where are you going, Hugh?" "Harvard, I think," I answered with as bold a front as I could muster. "I haven't talked it over with my father yet." It was intolerable to admit that I of them all was to be left behind. Nancy looked at me in surprise. She was always downright. "Oh, Hugh, doesn't your father mean to put you in business?" she exclaimed. A hot flush spread over my face. Even to her I had not betrayed my apprehensions on this painful subject. Perhaps it was because of this very reason, knowing me as she did, that she had divined my fate. Could my father have spoken of it to anyone? "Not that I know of," I said angrily. I wondered if she knew how deeply she had hurt me. The others laughed. The colour rose in Nancy's cheeks, and she gave me an appealing, almost tearful look, but my heart had hardened. As soon as supper was over I left the table to wander, nursing my wrongs, in a far corner of the garden, gay shouts and laughter still echoing in my ears. I was negligible, even my pathetic subterfuge had been detected and cruelly ridiculed by these friends whom I had always loved and sought out, and who now were so absorbed in their own prospects and happiness that they cared nothing for mine. And Nancy! I had been betrayed by Nancy!... Twilight was coming on. I remember glancing down miserably at the new blue suit I had put on so hopefully for the first time that afternoon. Separating the garden from the street was a high, smooth board fence with a little gate in it, and I had my hand on the latch when I heard the sound of hurrying steps on the gravel path and a familiar voice calling my name. "Hugh! Hugh!" I turned. Nancy stood before me. "Hugh, you're not going!" "Yes, I am." "Why?" "If you don't know, there's no use telling you." "Just because I said your father intended to put you in business! Oh, Hugh, why are you so foolish and so proud? Do you suppose that anyone--that I--think any the worse of you?" Yes, she had read me, she alone had entered into the source of that prevarication, the complex feelings from which it sprang. But at that moment I could not forgive her for humiliating me. I hugged my grievance. "It was true, what I said," I declared hotly. "My father has not spoken. It is true that I'm going to college, because I'll make it true. I may not go this year." She stood staring in sheer surprise at sight of my sudden, quivering passion. I think the very intensity of it frightened her. And then, without more ado, I opened the gate and was gone.... That night, though I did not realize it, my journey into a Far Country was begun. The misery that followed this incident had one compensating factor. Although too late to electrify Densmore and Principal Haime with my scholarship, I was determined to go to college now, somehow, sometime. I would show my father, these companions of mine, and above all Nancy herself the stuff of which I was made, compel them sooner or later to admit that they had misjudged me. I had been possessed by similar resolutions before, though none so strong, and they had a way of sinking below the surface of my consciousness, only to rise again and again until by sheer pressure they achieved realization. Yet I might have returned to Nancy if something had not occurred which I would have thought unbelievable: she began to show a marked preference for Ralph Hambleton. At first I regarded this affair as the most obvious of retaliations. She, likewise, had pride. Gradually, however, a feeling of uneasiness crept over me: as pretence, her performance was altogether too realistic; she threw her whole soul into it, danced with Ralph as often as she had ever danced with me, took walks with him, deferred to his opinions until, in spite of myself, I became convinced that the preference was genuine. I was a curious mixture of self-confidence and self-depreciation, and never had his superiority seemed more patent than now. His air of satisfaction was maddening. How well I remember his triumph on that hot, June morning of our graduation from Densmore, a triumph he had apparently achieved without labour, and which he seemed to despise. A fitful breeze blew through the chapel at the top of the building; we, the graduates, sat in two rows next to the platform, and behind us the wooden benches nicked by many knives--were filled with sisters and mothers and fathers, some anxious, some proud and some sad. So brief a span, like that summer's day, and youth was gone! Would the time come when we, too, should sit by the waters of Babylon and sigh for it? The world was upside down. We read the one hundred and third psalm. Then Principal Haime, in his long "Prince Albert" and a ridiculously inadequate collar that emphasized his scrawny neck, reminded us of the sacred associations we had formed, of the peculiar responsibilities that rested on us, who were the privileged of the city. "We had crossed to-day," he said, "an invisible threshold. Some were to go on to higher institutions of learning. Others..." I gulped. Quoting the Scriptures, he complimented those who had made the most of their opportunities. And it was then that he called out, impressively, the name of Ralph Forrester Hambleton. Summa cum laude! Suddenly I was seized with passionate, vehement regrets at the sound of the applause. I might have been the prize scholar, instead of Ralph, if I had only worked, if I had only realized what this focussing day of graduation meant! I might have been a marked individual, with people murmuring words of admiration, of speculation concerning the brilliancy of my future!... When at last my name was called and I rose to receive my diploma it seemed as though my incompetency had been proclaimed to the world... That evening I stood in the narrow gallery of the flag-decked gymnasium and watched Nancy dancing with Ralph. I let her go without protest or reproach. A mysterious lesion seemed to have taken place, I felt astonished and relieved, yet I was heavy with sadness. My emancipation had been bought at a price. Something hitherto spontaneous, warm and living was withering within me. V. It was true to my father's character that he should have waited until the day after graduation to discuss my future, if discussion be the proper word. The next evening at supper he informed me that he wished to talk to me in the sitting-room, whither I followed him with a sinking heart. He seated himself at his desk, and sat for a moment gazing at me with a curious and benumbing expression, and then the blow fell. "Hugh, I have spoken to your Cousin Robert Breck about you, and he has kindly consented to give you a trial." "To give me a trial, sir!" I exclaimed. "To employ you at a small but reasonable salary." I could find no words to express my dismay. My dreams had come to this, that I was to be made a clerk in a grocery store! The fact that it was a wholesale grocery store was little consolation. "But father," I faltered, "I don't want to go into business." "Ah!" The sharpness of the exclamation might have betrayed to me the pain in which he was, but he recovered himself instantly. And I could see nothing but an inexorable justice closing in on me mechanically; a blind justice, in its inability to read my soul. "The time to have decided that," he declared, "was some years ago, my son. I have given you the best schooling a boy can have, and you have not shown the least appreciation of your advantages. I do not enjoy saying this, Hugh, but in spite of all my efforts and of those of your mother, you have remained undeveloped and irresponsible. My hope, as you know, was to have made you a professional man, a lawyer, and to take you into my office. My father and grandfather were professional men before me. But you are wholly lacking in ambition." And I had burned with it all my life! "I have ambition," I cried, the tears forcing themselves to my eyes. "Ambition--for what, my son?" I hesitated. How could I tell him that my longings to do something, to be somebody in the world were never more keen than at that moment? Matthew Arnold had not then written his definition of God as the stream of tendency by which we fulfil the laws of our being; and my father, at any rate, would not have acquiesced in the definition. Dimly but passionately I felt then, as I had always felt, that I had a mission to perform, a service to do which ultimately would be revealed to me. But the hopelessness of explaining this took on, now, the proportions of a tragedy. And I could only gaze at him. "What kind of ambition, Hugh?" he repeated sadly. "I--I have sometimes thought I could write, sir, if I had a chance. I like it better than anything else. I--I have tried it. And if I could only go to college--" "Literature!" There was in his voice a scandalized note. "Why not, father?" I asked weakly. And now it was he who, for the first time, seemed to be at a loss to express himself. He turned in his chair, and with a sweep of the hand indicated the long rows of musty-backed volumes. "Here," he said, "you have had at your disposal as well-assorted a small library as the city contains, and you have not availed yourself of it. Yet you talk to me of literature as a profession. I am afraid, Hugh, that this is merely another indication of your desire to shun hard work, and I must tell you frankly that I fail to see in you the least qualification for such a career. You have not even inherited my taste for books. I venture to say, for instance, that you have never even read a paragraph of Plutarch, and yet when I was your age I was completely familiar with the Lives. You will not read Scott or Dickens." The impeachment was not to be denied, for the classics were hateful to me. Naturally I was afraid to make such a damning admission. My father had succeeded in presenting my ambition as the height of absurdity and presumption, and with something of the despair of a shipwrecked mariner my eyes rested on the green expanses of those book-backs, Bohn's Standard Library! Nor did it occur to him or to me that one might be great in literature without having read so much as a gritty page of them.... He finished his argument by reminding me that worthless persons sought to enter the arts in the search for a fool's paradise, and in order to satisfy a reprehensible craving for notoriety. The implication was clear, that imaginative production could not be classed as hard work. And he assured me that literature was a profession in which no one could afford to be second class. A Longfellow, a Harriet Beecher Stowe, or nothing. This was a practical age and a practical country. We had indeed produced Irvings and Hawthornes, but the future of American letters was, to say the least, problematical. We were a utilitarian people who would never create a great literature, and he reminded me that the days of the romantic and the picturesque had passed. He gathered that I desired to be a novelist. Well, novelists, with certain exceptions, were fantastic fellows who blew iridescent soap-bubbles and who had no morals. In the face of such a philosophy as his I was mute. The world appeared a dreary place of musty offices and smoky steel-works, of coal dust, of labour without a spark of inspiration. And that other, the world of my dreams, simply did not exist. Incidentally my father had condemned Cousin Robert's wholesale grocery business as a refuge of the lesser of intellect that could not achieve the professions,--an inference not calculated to stir my ambition and liking for it at the start. I began my business career on the following Monday morning. At breakfast, held earlier than usual on my account, my mother's sympathy was the more eloquent for being unspoken, while my father wore an air of unwonted cheerfulness; charging me, when I departed, to give his kindest remembrances to my Cousin Robert Breck. With a sense of martyrdom somehow deepened by this attitude of my parents I boarded a horse-car and went down town. Early though it was, the narrow streets of the wholesale district reverberated with the rattle of trucks and echoed with the shouts of drivers. The day promised to be scorching. At the door of the warehouse of Breck and Company I was greeted by the ineffable smell of groceries in which the suggestion of parched coffee prevailed. This is the sharpest remembrance of all, and even to-day that odour affects me somewhat in the manner that the interior of a ship affects a person prone to seasickness. My Cousin Robert, in his well-worn alpaca coat, was already seated at his desk behind the clouded glass partition next the alley at the back of the store, and as I entered he gazed at me over his steel-rimmed spectacles with that same disturbing look of clairvoyance I have already mentioned as one of his characteristics. The grey eyes were quizzical, and yet seemed to express a little commiseration. "Well, Hugh, you've decided to honour us, have you?" he asked. "I'm much obliged for giving me the place, Cousin Robert," I replied. But he had no use for that sort of politeness, and he saw through me, as always. "So you're not too tony for the grocery business, eh?" "Oh, no, sir." "It was good enough for old Benjamin Breck," he said. "Well, I'll give you a fair trial, my boy, and no favouritism on account of relationship, any more than to Willie." His strong voice resounded through the store, and presently my cousin Willie appeared in answer to his summons, the same Willie who used to lead me, on mischief bent, through the barns and woods and fields of Claremore. He was barefoot no longer, though freckled still, grown lanky and tall; he wore a coarse blue apron that fell below his knees, and a pencil was stuck behind his ear. "Get an apron for Hugh," said his father. Willie's grin grew wider. "I'll fit him out," he said. "Start him in the shipping department," directed Cousin Robert, and turned to his letters. I was forthwith provided with an apron, and introduced to the slim and anaemic but cheerful Johnny Hedges, the shipping clerk, hard at work in the alley. Secretly I looked down on my fellow-clerks, as one destined for a higher mission, made out of better stuff,--finer stuff. Despite my attempt to hide this sense of superiority they were swift to discover it; and perhaps it is to my credit as well as theirs that they did not resent it. Curiously enough, they seemed to acknowledge it. Before the week was out I had earned the nickname of Beau Brummel. "Say, Beau," Johnny Hedges would ask, when I appeared of a morning, "what happened in the great world last night?" I had an affection for them, these fellow-clerks, and I often wondered at their contentment with the drab lives they led, at their self-congratulation for "having a job" at Breck and Company's. "You don't mean to say you like this kind of work?" I exclaimed one day to Johnny Hedges, as we sat on barrels of XXXX flour looking out at the hot sunlight in the alley. "It ain't a question of liking it, Beau," he rebuked me. "It's all very well for you to talk, since your father's a millionaire" (a fiction so firmly embedded in their heads that no amount of denial affected it), "but what do you think would happen to me if I was fired? I couldn't go home and take it easy--you bet not. I just want to shake hands with myself when I think that I've got a home, and a job like this. I know a feller--a hard worker he was, too who walked the pavements for three months when the Colvers failed, and couldn't get nothing, and took to drink, and the last I heard of him he was sleeping in police stations and walking the ties, and his wife's a waitress at a cheap hotel. Don't you think it's easy to get a job." I was momentarily sobered by the earnestness with which he brought home to me the relentlessness of our civilization. It seemed incredible. I should have learned a lesson in that store. Barring a few discordant days when the orders came in too fast or when we were short handed because of sickness, it was a veritable hive of happiness; morning after morning clerks and porters arrived, pale, yet smiling, and laboured with cheerfulness from eight o'clock until six, and departed as cheerfully for modest homes in obscure neighbourhoods that seemed to me areas of exile. They were troubled with no visions of better things. When the travelling men came in from the "road" there was great hilarity. Important personages, these, looked up to by the city clerks; jolly, reckless, Elizabethan-like rovers, who had tasted of the wine of liberty--and of other wines with the ineradicable lust for the road in their blood. No more routine for Jimmy Bowles, who was king of them all. I shudder to think how much of my knowledge of life I owe to this Jimmy, whose stories would have filled a quarto volume, but could on no account have been published; for a self-respecting post-office would not have allowed them to pass through the mails. As it was, Jimmy gave them circulation enough. I can still see his round face, with the nose just indicated, his wicked, twinkling little eyes, and I can hear his husky voice fall to a whisper when "the boss" passed through the store. Jimmy, when visiting us, always had a group around him. His audacity with women amazed me, for he never passed one of the "lady clerks" without some form of caress, which they resented but invariably laughed at. One day he imparted to me his code of morality: he never made love to another man's wife, so he assured me, if he knew the man! The secret of life he had discovered in laughter, and by laughter he sold quantities of Cousin Robert's groceries. Mr. Bowles boasted of a catholic acquaintance in all the cities of his district, but before venturing forth to conquer these he had learned his own city by heart. My Cousin Robert was not aware of the fact that Mr. Bowles "showed" the town to certain customers. He even desired to show it to me, but an epicurean strain in my nature held me back. Johnny Hedges went with him occasionally, and Henry Schneider, the bill clerk, and I listened eagerly to their experiences, afterwards confiding them to Tom.... There were times when, driven by an overwhelming curiosity, I ventured into certain strange streets, alone, shivering with cold and excitement, gripped by a fascination I did not comprehend, my eyes now averted, now irresistibly raised toward the white streaks of light that outlined the windows of dark houses.... One winter evening as I was going home, I encountered at the mail-box a young woman who shot at me a queer, twisted smile. I stood still, as though stunned, looking after her, and when halfway across the slushy street she turned and smiled again. Prodigiously excited, I followed her, fearful that I might be seen by someone who knew me, nor was it until she reached an unfamiliar street that I ventured to overtake her. She confounded me by facing me. "Get out!" she cried fiercely. I halted in my tracks, overwhelmed with shame. But she continued to regard me by the light of the street lamp. "You didn't want to be seen with me on Second Street, did you? You're one of those sneaking swells." The shock of this sudden onslaught was tremendous. I stood frozen to the spot, trembling, convicted, for I knew that her accusation was just; I had wounded her, and I had a desire to make amends. "I'm sorry," I faltered. "I didn't mean--to offend you. And you smiled--" I got no farther. She began to laugh, and so loudly that I glanced anxiously about. I would have fled, but something still held me, something that belied the harshness of her laugh. "You're just a kid," she told me. "Say, you get along home, and tell your mamma I sent you." Whereupon I departed in a state of humiliation and self-reproach I had never before known, wandering about aimlessly for a long time. When at length I arrived at home, late for supper, my mother's solicitude only served to deepen my pain. She went to the kitchen herself to see if my mince-pie were hot, and served me with her own hands. My father remained at his place at the head of the table while I tried to eat, smiling indulgently at her ministrations. "Oh, a little hard work won't hurt him, Sarah," he said. "When I was his age I often worked until eleven o'clock and never felt the worse for it. Business must be pretty good, eh, Hugh?" I had never seen him in a more relaxing mood, a more approving one. My mother sat down beside me.... Words seem useless to express the complicated nature of my suffering at that moment,--my remorse, my sense of deception, of hypocrisy,--yes, and my terror. I tried to talk naturally, to answer my father's questions about affairs at the store, while all the time my eyes rested upon the objects of the room, familiar since childhood. Here were warmth, love, and safety. Why could I not be content with them, thankful for them? What was it in me that drove me from these sheltering walls out into the dark places? I glanced at my father. Had he ever known these wild, destroying desires? Oh, if I only could have confided in him! The very idea of it was preposterous. Such placidity as theirs would never understand the nature of my temptations, and I pictured to myself their horror and despair at my revelation. In imagination I beheld their figures receding while I drifted out to sea, alone. Would the tide--which was somehow within me--carry me out and out, in spite of all I could do? "Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core...." I did not shirk my tasks at the store, although I never got over the feeling that a fine instrument was being employed where a coarser one would have done equally well. There were moments when I was almost overcome by surges of self-commiseration and of impotent anger: for instance, I was once driven out of a shop by an incensed German grocer whom I had asked to settle a long-standing account. Yet the days passed, the daily grind absorbed my energies, and when I was not collecting, or tediously going over the stock in the dim recesses of the store, I was running errands in the wholesale district, treading the burning brick of the pavements, dodging heavy trucks and drays and perspiring clerks who flew about with memorandum pads in their hands, or awaiting the pleasure of bank tellers. Save Harvey, the venerable porter, I was the last to leave the store in the evening, and I always came away with the taste on my palate of Breck and Company's mail, it being my final duty to "lick" the whole of it and deposit it in the box at the corner. The gum on the envelopes tasted of winter-green. My Cousin Robert was somewhat astonished at my application. "We'll make a man of you yet, Hugh," he said to me once, when I had performed a commission with unexpected despatch.... Business was his all-in-all, and he had an undisguised contempt for higher education. To send a boy to college was, in his opinion, to run no inconsiderable risk of ruining him. What did they amount to when they came home, strutting like peacocks, full of fads and fancies, and much too good to associate with decent, hard-working citizens? Nevertheless when autumn came and my friends departed with eclat for the East, I was desperate indeed! Even the contemplation of Robert Breck did not console me, and yet here, in truth, was a life which might have served me as a model. His store was his castle; and his reputation for integrity and square dealing as wide as the city. Often I used to watch him with a certain envy as he stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, and greeted fellow-merchant and banker with his genuine and dignified directness. This man was his own master. They all called him "Robert," and they made it clear by their manner that they knew they were addressing one who fulfilled his obligations and asked no favours. Crusty old Nathaniel Durrett once declared that when you bought a bill of goods from Robert Breck you did not have to check up the invoice or employ a chemist. Here was a character to mould upon. If my ambition could but have been bounded by Breck and Company, I, too, might have come to stand in that doorway content with a tribute that was greater than Caesar's. I had been dreading the Christmas holidays, which were indeed to be no holidays for me. And when at length they arrived they brought with them from the East certain heroes fashionably clad, citizens now of a larger world than mine. These former companions had become superior beings, they could not help showing it, and their presence destroyed the Balance of Things. For alas, I had not wholly abjured the feminine sex after all! And from being a somewhat important factor in the lives of Ruth Hollister and other young women I suddenly became of no account. New interests, new rivalries and loyalties had arisen in which I had no share; I must perforce busy myself with invoices of flour and coffee and canned fruits while sleigh rides and coasting and skating expeditions to Blackstone Lake followed one another day after day,--for the irony of circumstances had decreed a winter uncommonly cold. There were evening parties, too, where I felt like an alien, though my friends were guilty of no conscious neglect; and had I been able to accept the situation simply, I should not have suffered. The principal event of those holidays was a play given in the old Hambleton house (which later became the Boyne Club), under the direction of the lively and talented Mrs. Watling. I was invited, indeed, to participate; but even if I had had the desire I could not have done so, since the rehearsals were carried on in the daytime. Nancy was the leading lady. I have neglected to mention that she too had been away almost continuously since our misunderstanding, for the summer in the mountains,--a sojourn recommended for her mother's health; and in the autumn she had somewhat abruptly decided to go East to boarding-school at Farmington. During the brief months of her absence she had marvellously acquired maturity and aplomb, a worldliness of manner and a certain frivolity that seemed to put those who surrounded her on a lower plane. She was only seventeen, yet she seemed the woman of thirty whose role she played. First there were murmurs, then sustained applause. I scarcely recognized her: she had taken wings and soared far above me, suggesting a sphere of power and luxury hitherto unimagined and beyond the scope of the world to which I belonged. Her triumph was genuine. When the play was over she was immediately surrounded by enthusiastic admirers eager to congratulate her, to dance with her. I too would have gone forward, but a sense of inadequacy, of unimportance, of an inability to cope with her, held me back, and from a corner I watched her sweeping around the room, holding up her train, and leaning on the arm of Bob Lansing, a classmate whom Ralph had brought home from Harvard. Then it was Ralph's turn: that affair seemed still to be going on. My feelings were a strange medley of despondency and stimulation.... Our eyes met. Her partner now was Ham Durrett. Capriciously releasing him, she stood before me, "Hugh, you haven't asked me to dance, or even told me what you thought of the play." "I thought it was splendid," I said lamely. Because she refrained from replying I was farther than ever from understanding her. How was I to divine what she felt? or whether any longer she felt at all? Here, in this costume of a woman of the world, with the string of pearls at her neck to give her the final touch of brilliancy, was a strange, new creature who baffled and silenced me.... We had not gone halfway across the room when she halted abruptly. "I'm tired," she exclaimed. "I don't feel like dancing just now," and led the way to the big, rose punch-bowl, one of the Durretts' most cherished possessions. Glancing up at me over the glass of lemonade I had given her she went on: "Why haven't you been to see me since I came home? I've wanted to talk to you, to hear how you are getting along." Was she trying to make amends, or reminding me in this subtle way of the cause of our quarrel? What I was aware of as I looked at her was an attitude, a vantage point apparently gained by contact with that mysterious outer world which thus vicariously had laid its spell on me; I was tremendously struck by the thought that to achieve this attitude meant emancipation, invulnerability against the aches and pains which otherwise our fellow-beings had the power to give us; mastery over life,--the ability to choose calmly, as from a height, what were best for one's self, untroubled by loves and hates. Untroubled by loves and hates! At that very moment, paradoxically, I loved her madly, but with a love not of the old quality, a love that demanded a vantage point of its own. Even though she had made an advance--and some elusiveness in her manner led me to doubt it I could not go to her now. I must go as a conqueror,--a conqueror in the lists she herself had chosen, where the prize is power. "Oh, I'm getting along pretty well," I said. "At any rate, they don't complain of me." "Somehow," she ventured, "somehow it's hard to think of you as a business man." I took this for a reference to the boast I had made that I would go to college. "Business isn't so bad as it might be," I assured her. "I think a man ought to go away to college," she declared, in what seemed another tone. "He makes friends, learns certain things,--it gives him finish. We are very provincial here." Provincial! I did not stop to reflect how recently she must have acquired the word; it summed up precisely the self-estimate at which I had arrived. The sting went deep. Before I could think of an effective reply Nancy was being carried off by the young man from the East, who was clearly infatuated. He was not provincial. She smiled back at me brightly over his shoulder.... In that instant were fused in one resolution all the discordant elements within me of aspiration and discontent. It was not so much that I would show Nancy what I intended to do--I would show myself; and I felt a sudden elation, and accession of power that enabled me momentarily to despise the puppets with whom she danced.... From this mood I was awakened with a start to feel a hand on my shoulder, and I turned to confront her father, McAlery Willett; a gregarious, easygoing, pleasure-loving gentleman who made only a pretence of business, having inherited an ample fortune from his father, unique among his generation in our city in that he paid some attention to fashion in his dress; good living was already beginning to affect his figure. His mellow voice had a way of breaking an octave. "Don't worry, my boy," he said. "You stick to business. These college fellows are cocks of the walk just now, but some day you'll be able to snap your fingers at all of 'em." The next day was dark, overcast, smoky, damp-the soft, unwholesome dampness that follows a spell of hard frost. I spent the morning and afternoon on the gloomy third floor of Breck and Company, making a list of the stock. I remember the place as though I had just stepped out of it, the freight elevator at the back, the dusty, iron columns, the continuous piles of cases and bags and barrels with narrow aisles between them; the dirty windows, spotted and soot-streaked, that looked down on Second Street. I was determined now to escape from all this, and I had my plan in mind. No sooner had I swallowed my supper that evening than I set out at a swift pace for a modest residence district ten blocks away, coming to a little frame house set back in a yard,--one of those houses in which the ringing of the front door-bell produces the greatest commotion; children's voices were excitedly raised and then hushed. After a brief silence the door was opened by a pleasant-faced, brown-bearded man, who stood staring at me in surprise. His hair was rumpled, he wore an old house coat with a hole in the elbow, and with one finger he kept his place in the book which he held in his hand. "Hugh Paret!" he exclaimed. He ushered me into a little parlour lighted by two lamps, that bore every evidence of having been recently vacated. Its features somehow bespoke a struggle for existence; as though its occupants had worried much and loved much. It was a room best described by the word "home"--home made more precious by a certain precariousness. Toys and school-books strewed the floor, a sewing-bag and apron lay across the sofa, and in one corner was a roll-topped desk of varnished oak. The seats of the chairs were comfortably depressed. So this was where Mr. Wood lived! Mr. Wood, instructor in Latin and Greek at Densmore Academy. It was now borne in on me for the first time that he did live and have his ties like any other human being, instead of just appearing magically from nowhere on a platform in a chalky room at nine every morning, to vanish again in the afternoon. I had formerly stood in awe of his presence. But now I was suddenly possessed by an embarrassment, and (shall I say it?) by a commiseration bordering on contempt for a man who would consent to live thus for the sake of being a schoolteacher. How strange that civilization should set such a high value on education and treat its functionaries with such neglect! Mr. Wood's surprise at seeing me was genuine. For I had never shown a particular interest in him, nor in the knowledge which he strove to impart. "I thought you had forgotten me, Hugh," he said, and added whimsically: "most boys do, when they graduate." I felt the reproach, which made it the more difficult for me to state my errand. "I knew you sometimes took pupils in the evening, Mr. Wood." "Pupils,--yes," he replied, still eyeing me. Suddenly his eyes twinkled. He had indeed no reason to suspect me of thirsting for learning. "But I was under the impression that you had gone into business, Hugh." "The fact is, sir," I explained somewhat painfully, "that I am not satisfied with business. I feel--as if I ought to know more. And I came to see if you would give me lessons about three nights a week, because I want to take the Harvard examinations next summer." Thus I made it appear, and so persuaded myself, that my ambition had been prompted by a craving for knowledge. As soon as he could recover himself he reminded me that he had on many occasions declared I had a brain. "Your father must be very happy over this decision of yours," he said. That was the point, I told him. It was to be a surprise for my father; I was to take the examinations first, and inform him afterwards. To my intense relief, Mr. Wood found the scheme wholly laudable, and entered into it with zest. He produced examinations of preceding years from a pigeonhole in his desk, and inside of half an hour the arrangement was made, the price of the lessons settled. They were well within my salary, which recently had been raised.... When I went down town, or collecting bills for Breck and Company, I took a text-book along with me in the street-cars. Now at last I had behind my studies a driving force. Algebra, Latin, Greek and history became worth while, means to an end. I astonished Mr. Wood; and sometimes he would tilt back his chair, take off his spectacles and pull his beard. "Why in the name of all the sages," he would demand, "couldn't you have done this well at school? You might have led your class, instead of Ralph Hambleton." I grew very fond of Mr. Wood, and even of his thin little wife, who occasionally flitted into the room after we had finished. I fully intended to keep up with them in after life, but I never did. I forgot them completely.... My parents were not wholly easy in their minds concerning me; they were bewildered by the new aspect I presented. For my lately acquired motive was strong enough to compel me to restrict myself socially, and the evenings I spent at home were given to study, usually in my own room. Once I was caught with a Latin grammar: I was just "looking over it," I said. My mother sighed. I knew what was in her mind; she had always been secretly disappointed that I had not been sent to college. And presently, when my father went out to attend a trustee's meeting, the impulse to confide in her almost overcame me; I loved her with that affection which goes out to those whom we feel understand us, but I was learning to restrain my feelings. She looked at me wistfully.... I knew that she would insist on telling my father, and thus possibly frustrate my plans. That I was not discovered was due to a certain quixotic twist in my father's character. I was working now, and though not actually earning my own living, he no longer felt justified in prying into my affairs. When June arrived, however, my tutor began to show signs that his conscience was troubling him, and one night he delivered his ultimatum. The joke had gone far enough, he implied. My intentions, indeed, he found praiseworthy, but in his opinion it was high time that my father were informed of them; he was determined to call at my father's office. The next morning was blue with the presage of showers; blue, too, with the presage of fate. An interminable morning. My tasks had become utterly distasteful. And in the afternoon, so when I sat down to make out invoices, I wrote automatically the names of the familiar customers, my mind now exalted by hope, now depressed by anxiety. The result of an interview perhaps even now going on would determine whether or no I should be immediately released from a slavery I detested. Would Mr. Wood persuade my father? If not, I was prepared to take more desperate measures; remain in the grocery business I would not. In the evening, as I hurried homeward from the corner where the Boyne Street car had dropped me, I halted suddenly in front of the Peters house, absorbing the scene where my childhood had been spent: each of these spreading maples was an old friend, and in these yards I had played and dreamed. An unaccountable sadness passed over me as I walked on toward our gate; I entered it, gained the doorway of the house and went upstairs, glancing into the sitting room. My mother sat by the window, sewing. She looked up at me with an ineffable expression, in which I read a trace of tears. "Hugh!" she exclaimed. I felt very uncomfortable, and stood looking down at her. "Why didn't you tell us, my son?" In her voice was in truth reproach; yet mingled with that was another note, which I think was pride. "What has father said?" I asked. "Oh, my dear, he will tell you himself. I--I don't know--he will talk to you." Suddenly she seized my hands and drew me down to her, and then held me away, gazing into my face with a passionate questioning, her lips smiling, her eyes wet. What did she see? Was there a subtler relationship between our natures than I guessed? Did she understand by some instinctive power the riddle within me? divine through love the force that was driving me on she knew not whither, nor I? At the sound of my father's step in the hall she released me. He came in as though nothing had happened. "Well, Hugh, are you home?" he said.... Never had I been more impressed, more bewildered by his self-command than at that time. Save for the fact that my mother talked less than usual, supper passed as though nothing had happened. Whether I had shaken him, disappointed him, or gained his reluctant approval I could not tell. Gradually his outward calmness turned my suspense to irritation.... But when at length we were alone together, I gained a certain reassurance. His manner was not severe. He hesitated a little before beginning. "I must confess, Hugh; that I scarcely know what to say about this proceeding of yours. The thing that strikes me most forcibly is that you might have confided in your mother and myself." Hope flashed up within me, like an explosion. "I--I wanted to surprise you, father. And then, you see, I thought it would be wiser to find out first how well I was likely to do at the examinations." My father looked at me. Unfortunately he possessed neither a sense of humour nor a sense of tragedy sufficient to meet such a situation. For the first time in my life I beheld him at a disadvantage; for I had, somehow, managed at length to force him out of position, and he was puzzled. I was quick to play my trump card. "I have been thinking it over carefully," I told him, "and I have made up my mind that I want to go into the law." "The law!" he exclaimed sharply. "Why, yes, sir. I know that you were disappointed because I did not do sufficiently well at school to go to college and study for the bar." I felt indeed a momentary pang, but I remembered that I was fighting for my freedom. "You seemed satisfied where you were," he said in a puzzled voice, "and your Cousin Robert gives a good account of you." "I've tried to do the work as well as I could, sir," I replied. "But I don't like the grocery business, or any other business. I have a feeling that I'm not made for it." "And you think, now, that you are made for the law?" he asked, with the faint hint of a smile. "Yes, sir, I believe I could succeed at it. I'd like to try," I replied modestly. "You've given up the idiotic notion of wishing to be an author?" I implied that he himself had convinced me of the futility of such a wish. I listened to his next words as in a dream. "I must confess to you, Hugh, that there are times when I fail to understand you. I hope it is as you say, that you have arrived at a settled conviction as to your future, and that this is not another of those caprices to which you have been subject, nor a desire to shirk honest work. Mr. Wood has made out a strong case for you, and I have therefore determined to give you a trial. If you pass the examinations with credit, you may go to college, but if at any time you fail to make good progress, you come home, and go into business again. Is that thoroughly understood?" I said it was, and thanked him effusively.... I had escaped,--the prison doors had flown open. But it is written that every happiness has its sting; and my joy, intense though it was, had in it a core of remorse.... I went downstairs to my mother, who was sitting in the hall by the open door. "Father says I may go!" I said. She got up and took me in her arms. "My dear, I am so glad, although we shall miss you dreadfully.... Hugh?" "Yes, mother." "Oh, Hugh, I so want you to be a good man!" Her cry was a little incoherent, but fraught with a meaning that came home to me, in spite of myself.... A while later I ran over to announce to the amazed Tom Peters that I was actually going to Harvard with him. He stood in the half-lighted hallway, his hands in his pockets, blinking at me. "Hugh, you're a wonder!" he cried. "How in Jehoshaphat did you work it?"... I lay long awake that night thinking over the momentous change so soon to come into my life, wondering exultantly what Nancy Willett would say now. I was not one, at any rate, to be despised or neglected. VI. The following September Tom Peters and I went East together. In the early morning Boston broke on us like a Mecca as we rolled out of the old Albany station, joint lords of a "herdic." How sharply the smell of the salt-laden east wind and its penetrating coolness come back to me! I seek in vain for words to express the exhilarating effect of that briny coolness on my imagination, and of the visions it summoned up of the newer, larger life into which I had marvellously been transported. We alighted at the Parker House, full-fledged men of the world, and tried to act as though the breakfast of which we partook were merely an incident, not an Event; as though we were Seniors, and not freshmen, assuming an indifference to the beings by whom we were surrounded and who were breakfasting, too,--although the nice-looking ones with fresh faces and trim clothes were all undoubtedly Olympians. The better to proclaim our nonchalance, we seated ourselves on a lounge of the marble-paved lobby and smoked cigarettes. This was liberty indeed! At length we departed for Cambridge, in another herdic. Boston! Could it be possible? Everything was so different here as to give the place the aspect of a dream: the Bulfinch State House, the decorous shops, the still more decorous dwellings with the purple-paned windows facing the Common; Back Bay, still boarded up, ivy-spread, suggestive of a mysterious and delectable existence. We crossed the Charles River, blue-grey and still that morning; traversed a nondescript district, and at last found ourselves gazing out of the windows at the mellowed, plum-coloured bricks of the University buildings.... All at once our exhilaration evaporated as the herdic rumbled into a side street and backed up before the door of a not-too-inviting, three-storied house with a queer extension on top. Its steps and vestibule were, however, immaculate. The bell was answered by a plainly overworked servant girl, of whom we inquired for Mrs. Bolton, our landlady. There followed a period of waiting in a parlour from which the light had been almost wholly banished, with slippery horsehair furniture and a marble-topped table; and Mrs. Bolton, when she appeared, dressed in rusty black, harmonized perfectly with the funereal gloom. She was a tall, rawboned, severe lady with a peculiar red-mottled complexion that somehow reminded one of the outcropping rocks of her native New England soil. "You want to see your rooms, I suppose," she remarked impassively when we had introduced ourselves, and as we mounted the stairs behind her Tom, in a whisper, nicknamed her "Granite Face." Presently she left us. "Hospitable soul!" said Tom, who, with his hands in his pockets, was gazing at the bare walls of our sitting-room. "We'll have to go into the house-furnishing business, Hughie. I vote we don't linger here to-day--we'll get melancholia." Outside, however, the sun was shining brightly, and we departed immediately to explore Cambridge and announce our important presences to the proper authorities.... We went into Boston to dine.... It was not until nine o'clock in the evening that we returned and the bottom suddenly dropped out of things. He who has tasted that first, acute homesickness of college will know what I mean. It usually comes at the opening of one's trunk. The sight of the top tray gave me a pang I shall never forget. I would not have believed that I loved my mother so much! These articles had been packed by her hands; and in one corner, among the underclothes on which she had neatly sewed my initials, lay the new Bible she had bought. "Hugh Moreton Paret, from his Mother. September, 1881." I took it up (Tom was not looking) and tried to read a passage, but my eyes were blurred. What was it within me that pressed and pressed until I thought I could bear the pain of it no longer? I pictured the sitting-room at home, and my father and mother there, thinking of me. Yes, I must acknowledge it; in the bitterness of that moment I longed to be back once more in the railed-off space on the floor of Breck and Company, writing invoices.... Presently, as we went on silently with our unpacking, we became aware of someone in the doorway. "Hello, you fellows!" he cried. "We're classmates, I guess." We turned to behold an ungainly young man in an ill-fitting blue suit. His face was pimply, his eyes a Teutonic blue, his yellow hair rumpled, his naturally large mouth was made larger by a friendly grin. "I'm Hermann Krebs," he announced simply. "Who are you?" We replied, I regret to say, with a distinct coolness that did not seem to bother him in the least. He advanced into the room, holding out a large, red, and serviceable hand, evidently it had never dawned on him that there was such a thing in the world as snobbery. But Tom and I had been "coached" by Ralph Hambleton and Perry Blackwood, warned to be careful of our friendships. There was a Reason! In any case Mr. Krebs would not have appealed to us. In answer to a second question he was informed what city we hailed from, and he proclaimed himself likewise a native of our state. "Why, I'm from Elkington!" he exclaimed, as though the fact sealed our future relationships. He seated himself on Tom's trunk and added: "Welcome to old Harvard!" We felt that he was scarcely qualified to speak for "old Harvard," but we did not say so. "You look as if you'd been pall-bearers for somebody," was his next observation. To this there seemed no possible reply. "You fellows are pretty well fixed here," he went on, undismayed, gazing about a room which had seemed to us the abomination of desolation. "Your folks must be rich. I'm up under the skylight." Even this failed to touch us. His father--he told us with undiminished candour--had been a German emigrant who had come over in '49, after the cause of liberty had been lost in the old country, and made eye-glasses and opera glasses. There hadn't been a fortune in it. He, Hermann, had worked at various occupations in the summer time, from peddling to farming, until he had saved enough to start him at Harvard. Tom, who had been bending over his bureau drawer, straightened up. "What did you want to come here for?" he demanded. "Say, what did you?" Mr. Krebs retorted genially. "To get an education, of course." "An education!" echoed Tom. "Isn't Harvard the oldest and best seat of learning in America?" There was an exaltation in Krebs's voice that arrested my attention, and made me look at him again. A troubled chord had been struck within me. "Sure," said Tom. "What did you come for?" Mr. Krebs persisted. "To sow my wild oats," said Tom. "I expect to have something of a crop, too." For some reason I could not fathom, it suddenly seemed to dawn on Mr. Krebs, as a result of this statement, that he wasn't wanted. "Well, so long," he said, with a new dignity that curiously belied the informality of his farewell. An interval of silence followed his departure. "Well, he's got a crust!" said Tom, at last. My own feeling about Mr. Krebs had become more complicated; but I took my cue from Tom, who dealt with situations simply. "He'll come in for a few knockouts," he declared. "Here's to old Harvard, the greatest institution of learning in America! Oh, gee!" Our visitor, at least, made us temporarily forget our homesickness, but it returned with redoubled intensity when we had put out the lights and gone to bed. Before we had left home it had been mildly hinted to us by Ralph and Perry Blackwood that scholarly eminence was not absolutely necessary to one's welfare and happiness at Cambridge. The hint had been somewhat superfluous; but the question remained, what was necessary? With a view of getting some light on this delicate subject we paid a visit the next evening to our former friends and schoolmates, whose advice was conveyed with a masterly circumlocution that impressed us both. There are some things that may not be discussed directly, and the conduct of life at a modern university--which is a reflection of life in the greater world--is one of these. Perry Blackwood and Ham did most of the talking, while Ralph, characteristically, lay at full length on the window-seat, interrupting with an occasional terse and cynical remark very much to the point. As a sophomore, he in particular seemed lifted immeasurably above us, for he was--as might have been expected already a marked man in his class. The rooms which he shared with his cousin made a tremendous impression on Tom and me, and seemed palatial in comparison to our quarters at Mrs. Bolton's, eloquent of the freedom and luxury of undergraduate existence; their note, perhaps, was struck by the profusion of gay sofa pillows, then something of an innovation. The heavy, expensive furniture was of a pattern new to me; and on the mantel were three or four photographs of ladies in the alluring costume of the musical stage, in which Tom evinced a particular interest. "Did grandfather send 'em?" he inquired. "They're Ham's," said Ralph, and he contrived somehow to get into those two words an epitome of his cousin's character. Ham was stouter, and his clothes were more striking, more obviously expensive than ever.... On our way homeward, after we had walked a block or two in silence, Tom exclaimed:--"Don't make friends with the friendless!--eh, Hughie? We knew enough to begin all right, didn't we?"... Have I made us out a pair of deliberate, calculating snobs? Well, after all it must be remembered that our bringing up had not been of sufficient liberality to include the Krebses of this world. We did not, indeed, spend much time in choosing and weighing those whom we should know and those whom we should avoid; and before the first term of that Freshman year was over Tom had become a favourite. He had the gift of making men feel that he delighted in their society, that he wished for nothing better than to sit for hours in their company, content to listen to the arguments that raged about him. Once in a while he would make a droll observation that was greeted with fits of laughter. He was always referred to as "old Tom," or "good old Tom"; presently, when he began to pick out chords on the banjo, it was discovered that he had a good tenor voice, though he could not always be induced to sing.... Somewhat to the jeopardy of the academic standard that my father expected me to sustain, our rooms became a rendezvous for many clubable souls whose maudlin, midnight attempts at harmony often set the cocks crowing. "Free from care and despair, What care we? 'Tis wine, 'tis wine That makes the jollity." As a matter of truth, on these occasions it was more often beer; beer transported thither in Tom's new valise,--given him by his mother,--and stuffed with snow to keep the bottles cold. Sometimes Granite Face, adorned in a sky-blue wrapper, would suddenly appear in the doorway to declare that we were a disgrace to her respectable house: the university authorities should be informed, etc., etc. Poor woman, we were outrageously inconsiderate of her.... One evening as we came through the hall we caught a glimpse in the dimly lighted parlour of a young man holding a shy and pale little girl on his lap, Annie, Mrs. Bolton's daughter: on the face of our landlady was an expression I had never seen there, like a light. I should scarcely have known her. Tom and I paused at the foot of the stairs. He clutched my arm. "Darned if it wasn't our friend Krebs!" he whispered. While I was by no means so popular as Tom, I got along fairly well. I had escaped from provincialism, from the obscure purgatory of the wholesale grocery business; new vistas, exciting and stimulating, had been opened up; nor did I offend the sensibilities and prejudices of the new friends I made, but gave a hearty consent to a code I found congenial. I recognized in the social system of undergraduate life at Harvard a reflection of that of a greater world where I hoped some day to shine; yet my ambition did not prey upon me. Mere conformity, however, would not have taken me very far in a sphere from which I, in common with many others, desired not to be excluded.... One day, in an idle but inspired moment, I paraphrased a song from "Pinafore," applying it to a college embroglio, and the brief and lively vogue it enjoyed was sufficient to indicate a future usefulness. I had "found myself." This was in the last part of the freshman year, and later on I became a sort of amateur, class poet-laureate. Many were the skits I composed, and Tom sang them.... During that freshman year we often encountered Hermann Krebs, whistling merrily, on the stairs. "Got your themes done?" he would inquire cheerfully. And Tom would always mutter, when he was out of earshot: "He has got a crust!" When I thought about Krebs at all,--and this was seldom indeed,--his manifest happiness puzzled me. Our cool politeness did not seem to bother him in the least; on the contrary, I got the impression that it amused him. He seemed to have made no friends. And after that first evening, memorable for its homesickness, he never ventured to repeat his visit to us. One windy November day I spied his somewhat ludicrous figure striding ahead of me, his trousers above his ankles. I was bundled up in a new ulster,--of which I was secretly quite proud,--but he wore no overcoat at all. "Well, how are you getting along?" I asked, as I overtook him. He made clear, as he turned, his surprise that I should have addressed him at all, but immediately recovered himself. "Oh, fine," he responded. "I've had better luck than I expected. I'm correspondent for two or three newspapers. I began by washing windows, and doing odd jobs for the professors' wives." He laughed. "I guess that doesn't strike you as good luck." He showed no resentment at my patronage, but a self-sufficiency that made my sympathy seem superfluous, giving the impression of an inner harmony and content that surprised me. "I needn't ask how you're getting along," he said.... At the end of the freshman year we abandoned Mrs. Bolton's for more desirable quarters. I shall not go deeply into my college career, recalling only such incidents as, seen in the retrospect, appear to have had significance. I have mentioned my knack for song-writing; but it was not, I think, until my junior year there was startlingly renewed in me my youthful desire to write, to create something worth while, that had so long been dormant. The inspiration came from Alonzo Cheyne, instructor in English; a remarkable teacher, in spite of the finicky mannerisms which Tom imitated. And when, in reading aloud certain magnificent passages, he forgot his affectations, he managed to arouse cravings I thought to have deserted me forever. Was it possible, after all, that I had been right and my father wrong? that I might yet be great in literature? A mere hint from Alonzo Cheyne was more highly prized by the grinds than fulsome praise from another teacher. And to his credit it should be recorded that the grinds were the only ones he treated with any seriousness; he took pains to answer their questions; but towards the rest of us, the Chosen, he showed a thinly veiled contempt. None so quick as he to detect a simulated interest, or a wily effort to make him ridiculous; and few tried this a second time, for he had a rapier-like gift of repartee that transfixed the offender like a moth on a pin. He had a way of eyeing me at times, his glasses in his hand, a queer smile on his lips, as much as to imply that there was one at least among the lost who was made for better things. Not that my work was poor, but I knew that it might have been better. Out of his classes, however, beyond the immediate, disturbing influence of his personality I would relapse into indifference.... Returning one evening to our quarters, which were now in the "Yard," I found Tom seated with a blank sheet before him, thrusting his hand through his hair and biting the end of his penholder to a pulp. In his muttering, which was mixed with the curious, stingless profanity of which he was master, I caught the name of Cheyne, and I knew that he was facing the crisis of a fortnightly theme. The subject assigned was a narrative of some personal experience, and it was to be handed in on the morrow. My own theme was already, written. "I've been holding down this chair for an hour, and I can't seem to think of a thing." He rose to fling himself down on the lounge. "I wish I was in Canada." "Why Canada?" "Trout fishing with Uncle Jake at that club of his where he took me last summer." Tom gazed dreamily at the ceiling. "Whenever I have some darned foolish theme like this to write I want to go fishing, and I want to go like the devil. I'll get Uncle Jake to take you, too, next summer." "I wish you would." "Say, that's living all right, Hughie, up there among the tamaracks and balsams!" And he began, for something like the thirtieth time, to relate the adventures of the trip. As he talked, the idea presented itself to me with sudden fascination to use this incident as the subject of Tom's theme; to write it for him, from his point of view, imitating the droll style he would have had if he had been able to write; for, when he was interested in any matter, his oral narrative did not lack vividness. I began to ask him questions: what were the trees like, for instance? How did the French-Canadian guides talk? He had the gift of mimicry: aided by a partial knowledge of French I wrote down a few sentences as they sounded. The canoe had upset and he had come near drowning. I made him describe his sensations. "I'll write your theme for you," I exclaimed, when he had finished. "Gee, not about that!" "Why not? It's a personal experience." His gratitude was pathetic.... By this time I was so full of the subject that it fairly clamoured for expression, and as I wrote the hours flew. Once in a while I paused to ask him a question as he sat with his chair tilted back and his feet on the table, reading a detective story. I sketched in the scene with bold strokes; the desolate bois brule on the mountain side, the polished crystal surface of the pool broken here and there with the circles left by rising fish; I pictured Armand, the guide, his pipe between his teeth, holding the canoe against the current; and I seemed to smell the sharp tang of the balsams, to hear the roar of the rapids below. Then came the sudden hooking of the big trout, habitant oaths from Armand, bouleversement, wetness, darkness, confusion; a half-strangled feeling, a brief glimpse of green things and sunlight, and then strangulation, or what seemed like it; strangulation, the sense of being picked up and hurled by a terrific force whither? a blinding whiteness, in which it was impossible to breathe, one sharp, almost unbearable pain, then another, then oblivion.... Finally, awakening, to be confronted by a much worried Uncle Jake. By this time the detective story had fallen to the floor, and Tom was huddled up in his chair, asleep. He arose obediently and wrapped a wet towel around his head, and began to write. Once he paused long enough to mutter:--"Yes, that's about it,--that's the way I felt!" and set to work again, mechanically,--all the praise I got for what I deemed a literary achievement of the highest order! At three o'clock, a.m., he finished, pulled off his clothes automatically and tumbled into bed. I had no desire for sleep. My brain was racing madly, like an engine without a governor. I could write! I could write! I repeated the words over and over to myself. All the complexities of my present life were blotted out, and I beheld only the long, sweet vista of the career for which I was now convinced that nature had intended me. My immediate fortunes became unimportant, immaterial. No juice of the grape I had ever tasted made me half so drunk.... With the morning, of course, came the reaction, and I suffered the after sensations of an orgie, awaking to a world of necessity, cold and grey and slushy, and necessity alone made me rise from my bed. My experience of the night before might have taught me that happiness lies in the trick of transforming necessity, but it did not. The vision had faded,--temporarily, at least; and such was the distraction of the succeeding days that the subject of the theme passed from my mind.... One morning Tom was later than usual in getting home. I was writing a letter when he came in, and did not notice him, yet I was vaguely aware of his standing over me. When at last I looked up I gathered from his expression that something serious had happened, so mournful was his face, and yet so utterly ludicrous. "Say, Hugh, I'm in the deuce of a mess," he announced. "What's the matter?" I inquired. He sank down on the table with a groan. "It's Alonzo," he said. Then I remembered the theme. "What--what's he done?" I demanded. "He says I must become a writer. Think of it, me a writer! He says I'm a young Shakespeare, that I've been lazy and hid my light under a bushel! He says he knows now what I can do, and if I don't keep up the quality, he'll know the reason why, and write a personal letter to my father. Oh, hell!" In spite of his evident anguish, I was seized with a convulsive laughter. Tom stood staring at me moodily. "You think it's funny,--don't you? I guess it is, but what's going to become of me? That's what I want to know. I've been in trouble before, but never in any like this. And who got me into it? You!" Here was gratitude! "You've got to go on writing 'em, now." His voice became desperately pleading. "Say, Hugh, old man, you can temper 'em down--temper 'em down gradually. And by the end of the year, let's say, they'll be about normal again." He seemed actually shivering. "The end of the year!" I cried, the predicament striking me for the first time in its fulness. "Say, you've got a crust!" "You'll do it, if I have to hold a gun over you," he announced grimly. Mingled with my anxiety, which was real, was an exultation that would not down. Nevertheless, the idea of developing Tom into a Shakespeare,--Tom, who had not the slightest desire to be one I was appalling, besides having in it an element of useless self-sacrifice from which I recoiled. On the other hand, if Alonzo should discover that I had written his theme, there were penalties I did not care to dwell upon .... With such a cloud hanging over me I passed a restless night. As luck would have it the very next evening in the level light under the elms of the Square I beheld sauntering towards me a dapper figure which I recognized as that of Mr. Cheyne himself. As I saluted him he gave me an amused and most disconcerting glance; and when I was congratulating myself that he had passed me he stopped. "Fine weather for March, Paret," he observed. "Yes, sir," I agreed in a strange voice. "By the way," he remarked, contemplating the bare branches above our heads, "that was an excellent theme your roommate handed in. I had no idea that he possessed such--such genius. Did you, by any chance, happen to read it?" "Yes, sir,--I read it." "Weren't you surprised?" inquired Mr. Cheyne. "Well, yes, sir--that is--I mean to say he talks just like that, sometimes--that is, when it's anything he cares about." "Indeed!" said Mr. Cheyne. "That's interesting, most interesting. In all my experience, I do not remember a case in which a gift has been developed so rapidly. I don't want to give the impression--ah that there is no room for improvement, but the thing was very well done, for an undergraduate. I must confess I never should have suspected it in Peters, and it's most interesting what you say about his cleverness in conversation." He twirled the head of his stick, apparently lost in reflection. "I may be wrong," he went on presently, "I have an idea it is you--" I must literally have jumped away from him. He paused a moment, without apparently noticing my panic, "that it is you who have influenced Peters." "Sir?" "I am wrong, then. Or is this merely commendable modesty on your part?" "Oh, no, sir." "Then my hypothesis falls to the ground. I had greatly hoped," he added meaningly, "that you might be able to throw some light on this mystery." I was dumb. "Paret," he asked, "have you time to come over to my rooms for a few minutes this evening?" "Certainly, sir." He gave me his number in Brattle Street.... Like one running in a nightmare and making no progress I made my way home, only to learn from Hallam,--who lived on the same floor,--that Tom had inconsiderately gone to Boston for the evening, with four other weary spirits in search of relaxation! Avoiding our club table, I took what little nourishment I could at a modest restaurant, and restlessly paced the moonlit streets until eight o'clock, when I found myself in front of one of those low-gabled colonial houses which, on less soul-shaking occasions, had exercised a great charm on my imagination. My hand hung for an instant over the bell.... I must have rung it violently, for there appeared almost immediately an old lady in a lace cap, who greeted me with gentle courtesy, and knocked at a little door with glistening panels. The latch was lifted by Mr. Cheyne himself. "Come in, Paret," he said, in a tone that was unexpectedly hospitable. I have rarely seen a more inviting room. A wood fire burned brightly on the brass andirons, flinging its glare on the big, white beam that crossed the ceiling, and reddening the square panes of the windows in their panelled recesses. Between these were rows of books,--attractive books in chased bindings, red and blue; books that appealed to be taken down and read. There was a table covered with reviews and magazines in neat piles, and a lamp so shaded as to throw its light only on the white blotter of the pad. Two easy chairs, covered with flowered chintz, were ranged before the fire, in one of which I sank, much bewildered, upon being urged to do so. I utterly failed to recognize "Alonzo" in this new atmosphere. And he had, moreover, dropped the subtly sarcastic manner I was wont to associate with him. "Jolly old house, isn't it?" he observed, as though I had casually dropped in on him for a chat; and he stood, with his hands behind him stretched to the blaze, looking down at me. "It was built by a certain Colonel Draper, who fought at Louisburg, and afterwards fled to England at the time of the Revolution. He couldn't stand the patriots, I'm not so sure that I blame him, either. Are you interested in colonial things, Mr. Paret?" I said I was. If the question had concerned Aztec relics my answer would undoubtedly have been the same. And I watched him, dazedly, while he took down a silver porringer from the shallow mantel shelf. "It's not a Revere," he said, in a slightly apologetic tone as though to forestall a comment, "but it's rather good, I think. I picked it up at a sale in Dorchester. But I have never been able to identify the coat of arms." He showed me a ladle, with the names of "Patience and William Simpson" engraved quaintly thereon, and took down other articles in which I managed to feign an interest. Finally he seated himself in the chair opposite, crossed his feet, putting the tips of his fingers together and gazing into the fire. "So you thought you could fool me," he said, at length. I became aware of the ticking of a great clock in the corner. My mouth was dry. "I am going to forgive you," he went on, more gravely, "for several reasons. I don't flatter, as you know. It's because you carried out the thing so perfectly that I am led to think you have a gift that may be cultivated, Paret. You wrote that theme in the way Peters would have written it if he had not been--what shall I say?--scripturally inarticulate. And I trust it may do you some good if I say it was something of a literary achievement, if not a moral one." "Thank you, sir," I faltered. "Have you ever," he inquired, lapsing a little into his lecture-room manner, "seriously thought of literature as a career? Have you ever thought of any career seriously?" "I once wished to be a writer, sir," I replied tremulously, but refrained from telling him of my father's opinion of the profession. Ambition--a purer ambition than I had known for years--leaped within me at his words. He, Alonzo Cheyne, had detected in me the Promethean fire! I sat there until ten o'clock talking to the real Mr. Cheyne, a human Mr. Cheyne unknown in the lecture-room. Nor had I suspected one in whom cynicism and distrust of undergraduates (of my sort) seemed so ingrained, of such idealism. He did not pour it out in preaching; delicately, unobtrusively and on the whole rather humorously he managed to present to me in a most disillusionizing light that conception of the university held by me and my intimate associates. After I had left him I walked the quiet streets to behold as through dissolving mists another Harvard, and there trembled in my soul like the birth-struggle of a flame something of the vision later to be immortalized by St. Gaudens, the spirit of Harvard responding to the spirit of the Republic--to the call of Lincoln, who voiced it. The place of that bronze at the corner of Boston Common was as yet empty, but I have since stood before it to gaze in wonder at the light shining in darkness on mute, uplifted faces, black faces! at Harvard's son leading them on that the light might live and prevail. I, too, longed for a Cause into which I might fling myself, in which I might lose myself... I halted on the sidewalk to find myself staring from the opposite side of the street at a familiar house, my old landlady's, Mrs. Bolton's, and summoned up before me was the tired, smiling face of Hermann Krebs. Was it because when he had once spoken so crudely of the University I had seen the reflection of her spirit in his eyes? A light still burned in the extension roof--Krebs's light; another shone dimly through the ground glass of the front door. Obeying a sudden impulse, I crossed the street. Mrs. Bolton, in the sky-blue wrapper, and looking more forbidding than ever, answered the bell. Life had taught her to be indifferent to surprises, and it was I who became abruptly embarrassed. "Oh, it's you, Mr. Paret," she said, as though I had been a frequent caller. I had never once darkened her threshold since I had left her house. "Yes," I answered, and hesitated.... "Is Mr. Krebs in?" "Well," she replied in a lifeless tone, which nevertheless had in it a touch of bitterness, "I guess there's no reason why you and your friends should have known he was sick." "Sick!" I repeated. "Is he very sick?" "I calculate he'll pull through," she said. "Sunday the doctor gave him up. And no wonder! He hasn't had any proper food since he's be'n here!" She paused, eyeing me. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Paret, I was just going up to him when you rang." "Certainly," I replied awkwardly. "Would you be so kind as to tell him--when he's well enough--that I came to see him, and that I'm sorry?" There was another pause, and she stood with a hand defensively clutching the knob. "Yes, I'll tell him," she said. With a sense of having been baffled, I turned away. Walking back toward the Yard my attention was attracted by a slowly approaching cab whose occupants were disturbing the quiet of the night with song. "Shollity--'tis wine, 'tis wine, that makesh--shollity." The vehicle drew up in front of a new and commodious building,--I believe the first of those designed to house undergraduates who were willing to pay for private bathrooms and other modern luxuries; out of one window of the cab protruded a pair of shoeless feet, out of the other a hatless head I recognized as belonging to Tom Peters; hence I surmised that the feet were his also. The driver got down from the box, and a lively argument was begun inside--for there were other occupants--as to how Mr. Peters was to be disembarked; and I gathered from his frequent references to the "Shgyptian obelisk" that the engineering problem presented struck him as similar to the unloading of Cleopatra's Needle. "Careful, careful!" he cautioned, as certain expelling movements began from within, "Easy, Ham, you jam-fool, keep the door shut, y'll break me." "Now, Jerry, all heave sh'gether!" exclaimed a voice from the blackness of the interior. "Will ye wait a minute, Mr. Durrett, sir?" implored the cabdriver. "You'll be after ruining me cab entirely." (Loud roars and vigorous resistance from the obelisk, the cab rocking violently.) "This gintleman" (meaning me) "will have him by the head, and I'll get hold of his feet, sir." Which he did, after a severe kick in the stomach. "Head'sh all right, Martin." "To be sure it is, Mr. Peters. Now will ye rest aisy awhile, sir?" "I'm axphyxiated," cried another voice from the darkness, the mined voice of Jerome Kyme, our classmate. "Get the tackles under him!" came forth in commanding tones from Conybear. In the meantime many windows had been raised and much gratuitous advice was being given. The three occupants of the cab's seat who had previously clamoured for Mr. Peters' removal, now inconsistently resisted it; suddenly he came out with a jerk, and we had him fairly upright on the pavement minus a collar and tie and the buttons of his evening waistcoat. Those who remained in the cab engaged in a riotous game of hunt the slipper, while Tom peered into the dark interior, observing gravely the progress of the sport. First flew out an overcoat and a much-battered hat, finally the pumps, all of which in due time were adjusted to his person, and I started home with him, with much parting counsel from the other three. "Whereinell were you, Hughie?" he inquired. "Hunted all over for you. Had a sousin' good time. Went to Babcock's--had champagne--then to see Babesh in--th'--Woods. Ham knows one of the Babesh had supper with four of 'em. Nice Babesh!" "For heaven's sake don't step on me again!" I cried. "Sh'poloshize, old man. But y'know I'm William Shakespheare. C'n do what I damplease." He halted in the middle of the street and recited dramatically:-- "'Not marble, nor th' gilded monuments Of prinches sh'll outlive m' powerful rhyme.'" "How's that, Alonzho, b'gosh?" "Where did you learn it?" I demanded, momentarily forgetting his condition. "Fr'm Ralph," he replied, "says I wrote it. Can't remember...." After I had got him to bed,--a service I had learned to perform with more or less proficiency,--I sat down to consider the events of the evening, to attempt to get a proportional view. The intensity of my disgust was not hypocritical as I gazed through the open door into the bedroom and recalled the times when I, too, had been in that condition. Tom Peters drunk, and sleeping it off, was deplorable, without doubt; but Hugh Paret drunk was detestable, and had no excuse whatever. Nor did I mean by this to set myself on a higher ethical plane, for I felt nothing but despair and humility. In my state of clairvoyance I perceived that he was a better man, than I, and that his lapses proceeded from a love of liquor and the transcendent sense of good-fellowship that liquor brings. VII. The crisis through which I passed at Cambridge, inaugurated by the events I have just related, I find very difficult to portray. It was a religious crisis, of course, and my most pathetic memory concerning it is of the vain attempts to connect my yearnings and discontents with the theology I had been taught; I began in secret to read my Bible, yet nothing I hit upon seemed to point a way out of my present predicament, to give any definite clew to the solution of my life. I was not mature enough to reflect that orthodoxy was a Sunday religion unrelated to a world whose wheels were turned by the motives of self-interest; that it consisted of ideals not deemed practical, since no attempt was made to put them into practice in the only logical manner,--by reorganizing civilization to conform with them. The implication was that the Christ who had preached these ideals was not practical.... There were undoubtedly men in the faculty of the University who might have helped me had I known of them; who might have given me, even at that time, a clew to the modern, logical explanation of the Bible as an immortal record of the thoughts and acts of men who had sought to do just what I was seeking to do,--connect the religious impulse to life and make it fruitful in life: an explanation, by the way, a thousand-fold more spiritual than the old. But I was hopelessly entangled in the meshes of the mystic, the miraculous and supernatural. If I had analyzed my yearnings, I might have realized that I wanted to renounce the life I had been leading, not because it was sinful, but because it was aimless. I had not learned that the Greek word for sin is "a missing of the mark." Just aimlessness! I had been stirred with the desire to perform some service for which the world would be grateful: to write great literature, perchance. But it had never been suggested to me that such swellings of the soul are religious, that religion is that kind of feeling, of motive power that drives the writer and the scientist, the statesman and the sculptor as well as the priest and the Prophet to serve mankind for the joy of serving: that religion is creative, or it is nothing: not mechanical, not a force imposed from without, but a driving power within. The "religion" I had learned was salvation from sin by miracle: sin a deliberate rebellion, not a pathetic missing of the mark of life; useful service of man, not the wandering of untutored souls who had not been shown the way. I felt religious. I wanted to go to church, I wanted to maintain, when it was on me, that exaltation I dimly felt as communion with a higher power, with God, and which also was identical with my desire to write, to create.... I bought books, sets of Wordsworth and Keats, of Milton and Shelley and Shakespeare, and hid them away in my bureau drawers lest Tom and my friends should see them. These too I read secretly, making excuses for not joining in the usual amusements. Once I walked to Mrs. Bolton's and inquired rather shamefacedly for Hermann Krebs, only to be informed that he had gone out.... There were lapses, of course, when I went off on the old excursions,--for the most part the usual undergraduate follies, though some were of a more serious nature; on these I do not care to dwell. Sex was still a mystery.... Always I awoke afterwards to bitter self-hatred and despair.... But my work in English improved, and I earned the commendation and friendship of Mr. Cheyne. With a wisdom for which I was grateful he was careful not to give much sign of it in classes, but the fact that he was "getting soft on me" was evident enough to be regarded with suspicion. Indeed the state into which I had fallen became a matter of increasing concern to my companions, who tried every means from ridicule to sympathy, to discover its cause and shake me out of it. The theory most accepted was that I was in love. "Come on now, Hughie--tell me who she is. I won't give you away," Tom would beg. Once or twice, indeed, I had imagined I was in love with the sisters of Boston classmates whose dances I attended; to these parties Tom, not having overcome his diffidence in respect to what he called "social life," never could be induced to go. It was Ralph who detected the true cause of my discontent. Typical as no other man I can recall of the code to which we had dedicated ourselves, the code that moulded the important part of the undergraduate world and defied authority, he regarded any defection from it in the light of treason. An instructor, in a fit of impatience, had once referred to him as the Mephistopheles of his class; he had fatal attractions, and a remarkable influence. His favourite pastime was the capricious exercise of his will on weaker characters, such as his cousin, Ham Durrett; if they "swore off," Ralph made it his business to get them drunk again, and having accomplished this would proceed himself to administer a new oath and see that it was kept. Alcohol seemed to have no effect whatever on him. Though he was in the class above me, I met him frequently at a club to which I had the honour to belong, then a suite of rooms over a shop furnished with a pool and a billiard table, easy-chairs and a bar. It has since achieved the dignity of a house of its own. We were having, one evening, a "religious" argument, Cinibar, Laurens and myself and some others. I can't recall how it began; I think Cinibar had attacked the institution of compulsory chapel, which nobody defended; there was something inherently wrong, he maintained, with a religion to which men had to be driven against their wills. Somewhat to my surprise I found myself defending a Christianity out of which I had been able to extract but little comfort and solace. Neither Laurens nor Conybear, however, were for annihilating it: although they took the other side of the discussion of a subject of which none of us knew anything, their attacks were but half-hearted; like me, they were still under the spell exerted by a youthful training. We were all of us aware of Ralph, who sat at some distance looking over the pages of an English sporting weekly. Presently he flung it down. "Haven't you found out yet that man created God, Hughie?" he inquired. "And even if there were a personal God, what reason have you to think that man would be his especial concern, or any concern of his whatever? The discovery of evolution has knocked your Christianity into a cocked hat." I don't remember how I answered him. In spite of the superficiality of his own arguments, which I was not learned enough to detect, I was ingloriously routed. Darwin had kicked over the bucket, and that was all there was to it.... After we had left the club both Conybear and Laurens admitted they were somewhat disturbed, declaring that Ralph had gone too far. I spent a miserable night, recalling the naturalistic assertions he had made so glibly, asking myself again and again how it was that the religion to which I so vainly clung had no greater effect on my actions and on my will, had not prevented me from lapses into degradation. And I hated myself for having argued upon a subject that was still sacred. I believed in Christ, which is to say that I believed that in some inscrutable manner he existed, continued to dominate the world and had suffered on my account. To whom should I go now for a confirmation of my wavering beliefs? One of the results--it will be remembered of religion as I was taught it was a pernicious shyness, and even though I had found a mentor and confessor, I might have hesitated to unburden myself. This would be different from arguing with Ralph Hambleton. In my predicament, as I was wandering through the yard, I came across a notice of an evening talk to students in Holder Chapel, by a clergyman named Phillips Brooks. This was before the time, let me say in passing, when his sermons at Harvard were attended by crowds of undergraduates. Well, I stood staring at the notice, debating whether I should go, trying to screw up my courage; for I recognized clearly that such a step, if it were to be of any value, must mean a distinct departure from my present mode of life; and I recall thinking with a certain revulsion that I should have to "turn good." My presence at the meeting would be known the next day to all my friends, for the idea of attending a religious gathering when one was not forced to do so by the authorities was unheard of in our set. I should be classed with the despised "pious ones" who did such things regularly. I shrank from the ridicule. I had, however, heard of Mr. Brooks from Ned Symonds, who was by no means of the pious type, and whose parents attended Mr. Brooks's church in Boston.... I left my decision in abeyance. But when evening came I stole away from the club table, on the plea of an engagement, and made my way rapidly toward Holder Chapel. I had almost reached it--when I caught a glimpse of Symonds and of some others approaching,--and I went on, to turn again. By this time the meeting, which was in a room on the second floor, had already begun. Palpitating, I climbed the steps; the door of the room was slightly ajar; I looked in; I recall a distinct sensation of surprise,--the atmosphere of that meeting was so different from what I had expected. Not a "pious" atmosphere at all! I saw a very tall and heavy gentleman, dressed in black, who sat, wholly at ease, on the table! One hand was in his pocket, one foot swung clear of the ground; and he was not preaching, but talking in an easy, conversational tone to some forty young men who sat intent on his words. I was too excited to listen to what he was saying, I was making a vain attempt to classify him. But I remember the thought, for it struck me with force,--that if Christianity were so thoroughly discredited by evolution, as Ralph Hambleton and other agnostics would have one believe, why should this remarkably sane and able-looking person be standing up for it as though it were still an established and incontrovertible fact? He had not, certainly, the air of a dupe or a sentimentalist, but inspired confidence by his very personality. Youthlike, I watched him narrowly for flaws, for oratorical tricks, for all kinds of histrionic symptoms. Again I was near the secret; again it escaped me. The argument for Christianity lay not in assertions about it, but in being it. This man was Christianity.... I must have felt something of this, even though I failed to formulate it. And unconsciously I contrasted his strength, which reinforced the atmosphere of the room, with that of Ralph Hambleton, who was, a greater influence over me than I have recorded, and had come to sway me more and more, as he had swayed others. The strength of each was impressive, yet this Mr. Brooks seemed to me the bodily presentment of a set of values which I would have kept constantly before my eyes.... I felt him drawing me, overcoming my hesitation, belittling my fear of ridicule. I began gently to open the door--when something happened,--one of those little things that may change the course of a life. The door made little noise, yet one of the men sitting in the back of the room chanced to look around, and I recognized Hermann Krebs. His face was still sunken from his recent illness. Into his eyes seemed to leap a sudden appeal, an appeal to which my soul responded yet I hurried down the stairs and into the street. Instantly I regretted my retreat, I would have gone back, but lacked the courage; and I strayed unhappily for hours, now haunted by that look of Krebs, now wondering what the remarkably sane-looking and informal clergyman whose presence dominated the little room had been talking about. I never learned, but I did live to read his biography, to discover what he might have talked about,--for he if any man believed that life and religion are one, and preached consecration to life's task. Of little use to speculate whether the message, had I learned it then, would have fortified and transformed me! In spite of the fact that I was unable to relate to a satisfying conception of religion my new-born determination, I made up my mind, at least, to renounce my tortuous ways. I had promised my father to be a lawyer; I would keep my promise, I would give the law a fair trial; later on, perhaps, I might demonstrate an ability to write. All very praiseworthy! The season was Lent, a fitting time for renunciations and resolves. Although I had more than once fallen from grace, I believed myself at last to have settled down on my true course--when something happened. The devil interfered subtly, as usual--now in the person of Jerry Kyme. It should be said in justice to Jerry that he did not look the part. He had sunny-red, curly hair, mischievous blue eyes with long lashes, and he harboured no respect whatever for any individual or institution, sacred or profane; he possessed, however, a shrewd sense of his own value, as many innocent and unsuspecting souls discovered as early as our freshman year, and his method of putting down the presumptuous was both effective and unique. If he liked you, there could be no mistake about it. One evening when I was engaged in composing a theme for Mr. Cheyne on no less a subject than the interpretation of the work of William Wordsworth, I found myself unexpectedly sprawling on the floor, in my descent kicking the table so vigorously as to send the ink-well a foot or two toward the ceiling. This, be it known, was a typical proof of Jerry's esteem. For he had entered noiselessly, jerking the back of my chair, which chanced to be tilted, and stood with his hands in his pockets, surveying the ruin he had wrought, watching the ink as it trickled on the carpet. Then he picked up the book. "Poetry, you darned old grind!" he exclaimed disgustedly. "Say, Parry, I don't know what's got into you, but I want you to come home with me for the Easter holidays. It'll do you good. We'll be on the Hudson, you know, and we'll manage to make life bearable somehow." I forgot my irritation, in sheer surprise. "Why, that's mighty good of you, Jerry--" I began, struggling to my feet. "Oh, rot!" he exclaimed. "I shouldn't ask you if I didn't want you." There was no denying the truth of this, and after he had gone I sat for a long time with my pen in my mouth, reflecting as to whether or not I should go. For I had the instinct that here was another cross-roads, that more depended on my decision than I cared to admit. But even then I knew what I should do. Ridiculous not to--I told myself. How could a week or ten days with Jerry possibly affect my newborn, resolve? Yet the prospect, now, of a visit to the Kymes' was by no means so glowing as it once would have been. For I had seen visions, I had dreamed dreams, beheld a delectable country of my very own. A year ago--nay, even a month ago--how such an invitation would have glittered!... I returned at length to my theme, over which, before Jerry's arrival, I had been working feverishly. But now the glamour had gone from it. Presently Tom came in. "Anyone been here?" he demanded. "Jerry," I told him. "What did he want?" "He wanted me to go home with him at Easter." "You're going, of course." "I don't know. I haven't decided." "You'd be a fool not to," was Tom's comment. It voiced, succinctly, a prevailing opinion. It was the conclusion I arrived at in my own mind. But just why I had been chosen for the honour, especially at such a time, was a riddle. Jerry's invitations were charily given, and valued accordingly; and more than once, at our table, I had felt a twinge of envy when Conybear or someone else had remarked, with the proper nonchalance, in answer to a question, that they were going to Weathersfield. Such was the name of the Kyme place.... I shall never forget the impression made on me by the decorous luxury of that big house, standing amidst its old trees, halfway up the gentle slope that rose steadily from the historic highway where poor Andre was captured. I can see now the heavy stone pillars of its portico vignetted in a flush of tenderest green, the tulips just beginning to flame forth their Easter colours in the well-kept beds, the stately, well-groomed evergreens, the vivid lawns, the clipped hedges. And like an overwhelming wave of emotion that swept all before it, the impressiveness of wealth took possession of me. For here was a kind of wealth I had never known, that did not exist in the West, nor even in the still Puritan environs of Boston where I had visited. It took itself for granted, proclaimed itself complacently to have solved all problems. By ignoring them, perhaps. But I was too young to guess this. It was order personified, gaining effect at every turn by a multitude of details too trivial to mention were it not for the fact that they entered deeply into my consciousness, until they came to represent, collectively, the very flower of achievement. It was a wealth that accepted tribute calmly, as of inherent right. Law and tradition defended its sanctity more effectively than troops. Literature descended from her high altar to lend it dignity; and the long, silent library displayed row upon row of the masters, appropriately clad in morocco or calf,--Smollett, Macaulay, Gibbon, Richardson, Fielding, Scott, Dickens, Irving and Thackeray, as though each had striven for a tablet here. Art had denied herself that her canvases might be hung on these walls; and even the Church, on that first Sunday of my visit, forgot the blood of her martyrs that she might adorn an appropriate niche in the setting. The clergyman, at one of the dinner parties, gravely asked a blessing as upon an Institution that included and absorbed all other institutions in its being.... The note of that house was a tempered gaiety. Guests arrived from New York, spent the night and departed again without disturbing the even tenor of its ways. Unobtrusive servants ministered to their wants,--and to mine.... Conybear was there, and two classmates from Boston, and we were treated with the amiable tolerance accorded to college youths and intimates of the son of the house. One night there was a dance in our honour. Nor have I forgotten Jerry's sister, Nathalie, whom I had met at Class Days, a slim and willowy, exotic young lady of the Botticelli type, with a crown of burnished hair, yet more suggestive of a hothouse than of spring. She spoke English with a French accent. Capricious, impulsive, she captured my interest because she put a high value on her favour; she drove me over the hills, informing me at length that I was sympathique--different from the rest; in short, she emphasized and intensified what I may call the Weathersfield environment, stirred up in me new and vague aspirations that troubled yet excited me. Then there was Mrs. Kyme, a pretty, light-hearted lady, still young, who seemed to have no intention of growing older, who romped and played songs for us on the piano. The daughter of an old but now impecunious Westchester family, she had been born to adorn the position she held, she was adapted by nature to wring from it the utmost of the joys it offered. From her, rather than from her husband, both of the children seemed to have inherited. I used to watch Mr. Grosvenor Kyme as he sat at the end of the dinner-table, dark, preoccupied, taciturn, symbolical of a wealth new to my experience, and which had about it a certain fabulous quality. It toiled not, neither did it spin, but grew as if by magic, day and night, until the very conception of it was overpowering. What must it be to have had ancestors who had been clever enough to sit still until a congested and discontented Europe had begun to pour its thousands and hundreds of thousands into the gateway of the western world, until that gateway had become a metropolis? ancestors, of course, possessing what now suddenly appeared to me as the most desirable of gifts--since it reaped so dazzling a harvest-business foresight. From time to time these ancestors had continued to buy desirable corners, which no amount of persuasion had availed to make them relinquish. Lease them, yes; sell them, never! By virtue of such a system wealth was as inevitable as human necessity; and the thought of human necessity did not greatly bother me. Mr. Kyme's problem of life was not one of making money, but of investing it. One became automatically a personage.... It was due to one of those singular coincidences--so interesting a subject for speculation--that the man who revealed to me this golden romance of the Kyme family was none other than a resident of my own city, Mr. Theodore Watling, now become one of our most important and influential citizens; a corporation lawyer, new and stimulating qualification, suggesting as it did, a deus ex machina of great affairs. That he, of all men, should come to Weathersfield astonished me, since I was as yet to make the connection between that finished, decorous, secluded existence and the source of its being. The evening before my departure he arrived in company with two other gentlemen, a Mr. Talbot and a Mr. Saxes, whose names were spoken with respect in a sphere of which I had hitherto taken but little cognizance-Wall Street. Conybear informed me that they were "magnates,"... We were sitting in the drawing-room at tea, when they entered with Mr. Watling, and no sooner had he spoken to Mrs. Kyme than his quick eye singled me out of the group. "Why, Hugh!" he exclaimed, taking my hand. "I had no idea I should meet you here--I saw your father only last week, the day I left home." And he added, turning to Mrs. Kyme, "Hugh is the son of Mr. Matthew Paret, who has been the leader of our bar for many years." The recognition and the tribute to my father were so graciously given that I warmed with gratitude and pride, while Mr. Kyme smiled a little, remarking that I was a friend of Jerry's. Theodore Watling, for being here, had suddenly assumed in my eyes a considerable consequence, though the note he struck in that house was a strange one. It was, however, his own note, and had a certain distinction, a ring of independence, of the knowledge of self-worth. Dinner at Weathersfield we youngsters had usually found rather an oppressive ceremony, with its shaded lights and precise ritual over which Mr. Kyme presided like a high priest; conversation had been restrained. That night, as Johnnie Laurens afterwards expressed it, "things loosened up," and Mr. Watling was responsible for the loosening. Taking command of the Kyme dinner table appeared to me to be no mean achievement, but this is just what he did, without being vulgar or noisy or assertive. Suavitar in modo, forbiter in re. If, as I watched him there with a newborn pride and loyalty, I had paused to reconstruct the idea that the mention of his name would formerly have evoked, I suppose I should have found him falling short of my notion of a gentleman; it had been my father's opinion; but Mr. Watling's marriage to Gene Hollister's aunt had given him a standing with us at home. He possessed virility, vitality in a remarkable degree, yet some elusive quality that was neither tact nor delicacy--though related to these differentiated him from the commonplace, self-made man of ability. He was just off the type. To liken him to a clothing store model of a well-built, broad-shouldered man with a firm neck, a handsome, rather square face not lacking in colour and a conventional, drooping moustache would be slanderous; yet he did suggest it. Suggesting it, he redeemed it: and the middle western burr in his voice was rather attractive than otherwise. He had not so much the air of belonging there, as of belonging anywhere--one of those anomalistic American citizens of the world who go abroad and make intimates of princes. Before the meal was over he had inspired me with loyalty and pride, enlisted the admiration of Jerry and Conybear and Johnnie Laurens; we followed him into the smoking-room, sitting down in a row on a leather lounge behind our elders. Here, now that the gentlemen were alone, there was an inspiring largeness in their talk that fired the imagination. The subject was investments, at first those of coal and iron in my own state, for Mr. Watling, it appeared, was counsel for the Boyne Iron Works. "It will pay you to keep an eye on that company, Mr. Kyme," he said, knocking the ashes from his cigar. "Now that old Mr. Durrett's gone--" "You don't mean to say Nathaniel Durrett's dead!" said Mr. Kyme. The lawyer nodded. "The old regime passed with him. Adolf Scherer succeeds him, and you may take my word for it, he's a coming man. Mr. Durrett, who was a judge of men, recognized that. Scherer was an emigrant, he had ideas, and rose to be a foreman. For the last few years Mr. Durrett threw everything on his shoulders...." Little by little the scope of the discussion was enlarged until it ranged over a continent, touching lightly upon lines of railroad, built or projected, across the great west our pioneers had so lately succeeded in wresting from the savages, upon mines of copper and gold hidden away among the mountains, and millions of acres of forest and grazing lands which a complacent government would relinquish provided certain technicalities were met: touching lightly, too, very lightly,--upon senators and congressmen at Washington. And for the first time I learned that not the least of the functions of these representatives of the people was to act as the medium between capital and investment, to facilitate the handing over of the Republic's resources to those in a position to develop them. The emphasis was laid on development, or rather on the resulting prosperity for the country: that was the justification, and it was taken for granted as supreme. Nor was it new to me; this cult of prosperity. I recalled the torch-light processions of the tariff enthusiasts of my childhood days, my father's championship of the Republican Party. He had not idealized politicians, either. For the American, politics and ethics were strangers. Thus I listened with increasing fascination to these gentlemen in evening clothes calmly treating the United States as a melon patch that existed largely for the purpose of being divided up amongst a limited and favored number of persons. I had a feeling of being among the initiated. Where, it may be asked, were my ideals? Let it not be supposed that I believed myself to have lost them. If so, the impression I have given of myself has been wholly inadequate. No, they had been transmuted, that is all, transmuted by the alchemy of Weathersfield, by the personality of Theodore Watling into brighter visions. My eyes rarely left his face; I hung on his talk, which was interspersed with native humour, though he did not always join in the laughter, sometimes gazing at the fire, as though his keen mind were grappling with a problem suggested. I noted the respect in which his opinions were held, and my imagination was fired by an impression of the power to be achieved by successful men of his profession, by the evidence of their indispensability to capital itself.... At last when the gentlemen rose and were leaving the room, Mr. Watling lingered, with his hand on my arm. "Of course you're going through the Law School, Hugh," he said. "Yes, sir," I replied. "Good!" he exclaimed emphatically. "The law, to-day, is more of a career than ever, especially for a young man with your antecedents and advantages, and I know of no city in the United States where I would rather start practice, if I were a young man, than ours. In the next twenty years we shall see a tremendous growth. Of course you'll be going into your father's office. You couldn't do better. But I'll keep an eye on you, and perhaps I'll be able to help you a little, too." I thanked him gratefully. A famous artist, who started out in youth to embrace a military career and who failed to pass an examination at West Point, is said to have remarked that if silicon had been a gas he would have been a soldier. I am afraid I may have given the impression that if I had not gone to Weathersfield and encountered Mr. Watling I might not have been a lawyer. This impression would be misleading. And while it is certain that I have not exaggerated the intensity of the spiritual experience I went through at Cambridge, a somewhat belated consideration for the truth compels me to register my belief that the mood would in any case have been ephemeral. The poison generated by the struggle of my nature with its environment had sunk too deep, and the very education that was supposed to make a practical man of me had turned me into a sentimentalist. I became, as will be seen, anything but a practical man in the true sense, though the world in which I had been brought up and continued to live deemed me such. My father was greatly pleased when I wrote him that I was now more than ever convinced of the wisdom of choosing the law as my profession, and was satisfied that I had come to my senses at last. He had still been prepared to see me "go off at a tangent," as he expressed it. On the other hand, the powerful effect of the appeal made by Weathersfield and Mr. Watling must not be underestimated. Here in one object lesson was emphasized a host of suggestions each of which had made its impression. And when I returned to Cambridge Alonzo Cheyne knew that he had lost me.... I pass over the rest of my college course, and the years I spent at the Harvard Law School, where were instilled into me without difficulty the dictums that the law was the most important of all professions, that those who entered it were a priestly class set aside to guard from profanation that Ark of the Covenant, the Constitution of the United States. In short, I was taught law precisely as I had been taught religion,--scriptural infallibility over again,--a static law and a static theology,--a set of concepts that were supposed to be equal to any problems civilization would have to meet until the millennium. What we are wont to call wisdom is often naively innocent of impending change. It has no barometric properties. I shall content myself with relating one incident only of this period. In the January of my last year I went with a party of young men and girls to stay over Sunday at Beverly Farms, where Mrs. Fremantle--a young Boston matron had opened her cottage for the occasion. This "cottage," a roomy, gabled structure, stood on a cliff, at the foot of which roared the wintry Atlantic, while we danced and popped corn before the open fires. During the daylight hours we drove about the country in sleighs, or made ridiculous attempts to walk on snow-shoes. On Sunday afternoon, left temporarily to my own devices, I wandered along the cliff, crossing into the adjoining property. The wind had fallen; the waves, much subdued, broke rhythmically against the rocks; during the night a new mantle of snow had been spread, and the clouds were still low and menacing. As I strolled I became aware of a motionless figure ahead of me,--one that seemed oddly familiar; the set of the shabby overcoat on the stooping shoulders, the unconscious pose contributed to a certain sharpness of individuality; in the act of challenging my memory, I halted. The man was gazing at the seascape, and his very absorption gave me a sudden and unfamiliar thrill. The word absorption precisely expresses my meaning, for he seemed indeed to have become a part of his surroundings,--an harmonious part. Presently he swung about and looked at me as though he had expected to find me there--and greeted me by name. "Krebs!" I exclaimed. He smiled, and flung out his arm, indicating the scene. His eyes at that moment seemed to reflect the sea,--they made the gaunt face suddenly beautiful. "This reminds me of a Japanese print," he said. The words, or the tone in which he spoke, curiously transformed the picture. It was as if I now beheld it, anew, through his vision: the grey water stretching eastward to melt into the grey sky, the massed, black trees on the hillside, powdered with white, the snow in rounded, fantastic patches on the huge boulders at the foot of the cliff. Krebs did not seem like a stranger, but like one whom I had known always,--one who stood in a peculiar relationship between me and something greater I could not define. The impression was fleeting, but real.... I remember wondering how he could have known anything about Japanese prints. "I didn't think you were still in this part of the country," I remarked awkwardly. "I'm a reporter on a Boston newspaper, and I've been sent up here to interview old Mr. Dome, who lives in that house," and he pointed to a roof above the trees. "There is a rumour, which I hope to verify, that he has just given a hundred thousand dollars to the University." "And--won't he see you?" "At present he's taking a nap," said Krebs. "He comes here occasionally for a rest." "Do you like interviewing?" I asked. He smiled again. "Well, I see a good many different kinds of people, and that's interesting." "But--being a reporter?" I persisted. This continued patronage was not a conscious expression of superiority on my part, but he did not seem to resent it. He had aroused my curiosity. "I'm going into the law," he said. The quiet confidence with which he spoke aroused, suddenly, a twinge of antagonism. He had every right to go into the law, of course, and yet!... my query would have made it evident to me, had I been introspective in those days, that the germ of the ideal of the profession, implanted by Mr. Watling, was expanding. Were not influential friends necessary for the proper kind of career? and where were Krebs's? In spite of the history of Daniel Webster and a long line of American tradition, I felt an incongruity in my classmate's aspiration. And as he stood there, gaunt and undoubtedly hungry, his eyes kindling, I must vaguely have classed him with the revolutionaries of all the ages; must have felt in him, instinctively, a menace to the stability of that Order with which I had thrown my fortunes. And yet there were comparatively poor men in the Law School itself who had not made me feel this way! He had impressed me against my will, taken me by surprise, commiseration had been mingled with other feelings that sprang out of the memory of the night I had called on him, when he had been sick. Now I resented something in him which Tom Peters had called "crust." "The law!" I repeated. "Why?" "Well," he said, "even when I was a boy, working at odd jobs, I used to think if I could ever be a lawyer I should have reached the top notch of human dignity." Once more his smile disarmed me. "And now" I asked curiously. "You see, it was an ideal with me, I suppose. My father was responsible for that. He had the German temperament of '48, and when he fled to this country, he expected to find Utopia." The smile emerged again, like the sun shining through clouds, while fascination and antagonism again struggled within me. "And then came frightful troubles. For years he could get only enough work to keep him and my mother alive, but he never lost his faith in America. 'It is man,' he would say, 'man has to grow up to it--to liberty.' Without the struggle, liberty would be worth nothing. And he used to tell me that we must all do our part, we who had come here, and not expect everything to be done for us. He had made that mistake. If things were bad, why, put a shoulder to the wheel and help to make them better. "That helped me," he continued, after a moment's pause. "For I've seen a good many things, especially since I've been working for a newspaper. I've seen, again and again, the power of the law turned against those whom it was intended to protect, I've seen lawyers who care a great deal more about winning cases than they do about justice, who prostitute their profession to profit making,--profit making for themselves and others. And they are often the respectable lawyers, too, men of high standing, whom you would not think would do such things. They are on the side of the powerful, and the best of them are all retained by rich men and corporations. And what is the result? One of the worst evils, I think, that can befall a country. The poor man goes less and less to the courts. He is getting bitter, which is bad, which is dangerous. But men won't see it." It was on my tongue to refute this, to say that everybody had a chance. I could indeed recall many arguments that had been drilled into me; quotations, even, from court decisions. But something prevented me from doing this,--something in his manner, which was neither argumentative nor combative. "That's why I am going into the law," he added. "And I intend to stay in it if I can keep alive. It's a great chance for me--for all of us. Aren't you at the Law School?" I nodded. Once more, as his earnest glance fell upon me, came that suggestion of a subtle, inexplicable link between us; but before I could reply, steps were heard behind us, and an elderly servant, bareheaded, was seen coming down the path. "Are you the reporter?" he demanded somewhat impatiently of Krebs. "If you want to see Mr. Dome, you'd better come right away. He's going out for a drive." For a while, after he had shaken my hand and departed, I stood in the snow, looking after him.... VIII On the Wednesday of that same week the news of my father's sudden and serious illness came to me in a telegram, and by the time I arrived at home it was too late to see him again alive. It was my first experience with death, and what perplexed me continually during the following days was an inability to feel the loss more deeply. When a child, I had been easily shaken by the spectacle of sorrow. Had I, during recent years, as a result of a discovery that emotions arising from human relationships lead to discomfort and suffering, deliberately been forming a shell, until now I was incapable of natural feelings? Of late I had seemed closer to my father, and his letters, though formal, had given evidence of his affection; in his repressed fashion he had made it clear that he looked forward to the time when I was to practise with him. Why was it then, as I gazed upon his fine features in death, that I experienced no intensity of sorrow? What was it in me that would not break down? He seemed worn and tired, yet I had never thought of him as weary, never attributed to him any yearning. And now he was released. I wondered what had been his private thoughts about himself, his private opinions about life; and when I reflect now upon my lack of real knowledge at five and twenty, I am amazed at the futility of an expensive education which had failed to impress upon me the simple, basic fact that life was struggle; that either development or retrogression is the fate of all men, that characters are never completely made, but always in the making. I had merely a disconcerting glimpse of this truth, with no powers of formulation, as I sat beside my mother in the bedroom, where every article evoked some childhood scene. Here was the dent in the walnut foot-board of the bed made, one wintry day, by the impact of my box of blocks; the big arm-chair, covered with I know not what stiff embroidery, which had served on countless occasions as a chariot driven to victory. I even remembered how every Wednesday morning I had been banished from the room, which had been so large a part of my childhood universe, when Ella, the housemaid, had flung open all its windows and crowded its furniture into the hall. The thought of my wanderings since then became poignant, almost terrifying. The room, with all its memories, was unchanged. How safe I had been within its walls! Why could I not have been, content with what it represented? of tradition, of custom,--of religion? And what was it within me that had lured me away from these? I was miserable, indeed, but my misery was not of the kind I thought it ought to be. At moments, when my mother relapsed into weeping, I glanced at her almost in wonder. Such sorrow as hers was incomprehensible. Once she surprised and discomfited me by lifting her head and gazing fixedly at me through her tears. I recall certain impressions of the funeral. There, among the pall-bearers, was my Cousin Robert Breck, tears in the furrows of his cheeks. Had he loved my father more than I? The sight of his grief moved me suddenly and strongly.... It seemed an age since I had worked in his store, and yet here he was still, coming to town every morning and returning every evening to Claremore, loving his friends, and mourning them one by one. Was this, the spectacle presented by my Cousin Robert, the reward of earthly existence? Were there no other prizes save those known as greatness of character and depth of human affections? Cousin Robert looked worn and old. The other pall-bearers, men of weight, of long standing in the community, were aged, too; Mr. Blackwood, and Mr. Jules Hollister; and out of place, somehow, in this new church building. It came to me abruptly that the old order was gone,--had slipped away during my absence. The church I had known in boyhood had been torn down to make room for a business building on Boyne Street; the edifice in which I sat was expensive, gave forth no distinctive note; seemingly transitory with its hybrid interior, its shiny oak and blue and red organ-pipes, betokening a compromised and weakened faith. Nondescript, likewise, seemed the new minister, Mr. Randlett, as he prayed unctuously in front of the flowers massed on the platform. I vaguely resented his laudatory references to my father. The old church, with its severity, had actually stood for something. It was the Westminster Catechism in wood and stone, and Dr. Pound had been the human incarnation of that catechism, the fit representative of a wrathful God, a militant shepherd who had guarded with vigilance his respectable flock, who had protested vehemently against the sins of the world by which they were surrounded, against the "dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie." How Dr. Pound would have put the emphasis of the Everlasting into those words! Against what was Mr. Randlett protesting? My glance wandered to the pews which held the committees from various organizations, such as the Chamber of Commerce and the Bar Association, which had come to do honour to my father. And there, differentiated from the others, I saw the spruce, alert figure of Theodore Watling. He, too, represented a new type and a new note,--this time a forceful note, a secular note that had not belonged to the old church, and seemed likewise anomalistic in the new.... During the long, slow journey in the carriage to the cemetery my mother did not raise her veil. It was not until she reached out and seized my hand, convulsively, that I realized she was still a part of my existence. In the days that followed I became aware that my father's death had removed a restrictive element, that I was free now to take without criticism or opposition whatever course in life I might desire. It may be that I had apprehended even then that his professional ideals would not have coincided with my own. Mingled with this sense of emancipation was a curious feeling of regret, of mourning for something I had never valued, something fixed and dependable for which he had stood, a rock and a refuge of which I had never availed myself!... When his will was opened it was found that the property had been left to my mother during her lifetime. It was larger than I had thought, four hundred thousand dollars, shrewdly invested, for the most part, in city real estate. My father had been very secretive as to money matters, and my mother had no interest in them. Three or four days later I received in the mail a typewritten letter signed by Theodore Watling, expressing sympathy for my bereavement, and asking me to drop in on him, down town, before I should leave the city. In contrast to the somewhat dingy offices where my father had practised in the Blackwood Block, the quarters of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon on the eighth floor of the new Durrett Building were modern to a degree, finished in oak and floored with marble, with a railed-off space where young women with nimble fingers played ceaselessly on typewriters. One of them informed me that Mr. Watling was busy, but on reading my card added that she would take it in. Meanwhile, in company with two others who may have been clients, I waited. This, then, was what it meant to be a lawyer of importance, to have, like a Chesterfield, an ante-room where clients cooled their heels and awaited one's pleasure... The young woman returned, and led me through a corridor to a door on which was painted Mr. Wailing. I recall him tilted back in his chair in a debonnair manner beside his polished desk, the hint of a smile on his lips; and leaning close to him was a yellow, owl-like person whose eyes, as they turned to me, gave the impression of having stared for years into hard, artificial lights. Mr. Watling rose briskly. "How are you, Hugh?" he said, the warmth of his greeting tempered by just the note of condolence suitable to my black clothes. "I'm glad you came. I wanted to see you before you went back to Cambridge. I must introduce you to Judge Bering, of our State Supreme Court. Judge, this is Mr. Paret's boy." The judge looked me over with a certain slow impressiveness, and gave me a soft and fleshy hand. "Glad to know you, Mr. Paret. Your father was a great loss to our bar," he declared. I detected in his tone and manner a slight reservation that could not be called precisely judicial dignity; it was as though, in these few words, he had gone to the limit of self-commitment with a stranger--a striking contrast to the confidential attitude towards Mr. Watling in which I had surprised him. "Judge," said Mr. Watling, sitting down again, "do you recall that time we all went up to Mr. Paret's house and tried to induce him to run for mayor? That was before you went on the lower bench." The judge nodded gloomily, caressing his watch chain, and suddenly rose to go. "That will be all right, then?" Mr. Watling inquired cryptically, with a smile. The other made a barely perceptible inclination of the head and departed. Mr. Watling looked at me. "He's one of the best men we have on the bench to-day," he added. There was a trace of apology in his tone. He talked a while of my father, to whom, so he said, he had looked up ever since he had been admitted to the bar. "It would be a pleasure to me, Hugh, as well as a matter of pride," he said cordially, but with dignity, "to have Matthew Paret's son in my office. I suppose you will be wishing to take your mother somewhere this summer, but if you care to come here in the autumn, you will be welcome. You will begin, of course, as other young men begin,--as I began. But I am a believer in blood, and I'll be glad to have you. Mr. Fowndes and Mr. Ripon feel the same way." He escorted me to the door himself. Everywhere I went during that brief visit home I was struck by change, by the crumbling and decay of institutions that once had held me in thrall, by the superimposition of a new order that as yet had assumed no definite character. Some of the old landmarks had disappeared; there were new and aggressive office buildings, new and aggressive residences, new and aggressive citizens who lived in them, and of whom my mother spoke with gentle deprecation. Even Claremore, that paradise of my childhood, had grown shrivelled and shabby, even tawdry, I thought, when we went out there one Sunday afternoon; all that once represented the magic word "country" had vanished. The old flat piano, made in Philadelphia ages ago, the horsehair chairs and sofa had been replaced by a nondescript furniture of the sort displayed behind plate-glass windows of the city's stores: rocking-chairs on stands, upholstered in clashing colours, their coiled springs only half hidden by tassels, and "ornamental" electric fixtures, instead of the polished coal-oil lamps. Cousin Jenny had grown white, Willie was a staid bachelor, Helen an old maid, while Mary had married a tall, anaemic young man with glasses, Walter Kinley, whom Cousin Robert had taken into the store. As I contemplated the Brecks odd questions suggested themselves: did honesty and warm-heartedness necessarily accompany a lack of artistic taste? and was virtue its own reward, after all? They drew my mother into the house, took off her wraps, set her down in the most comfortable rocker, and insisted on making her a cup of tea. I was touched. I loved them still, and yet I was conscious of reservations concerning them. They, too, seemed a little on the defensive with me, and once in a while Mary was caustic in her remarks. "I guess nothing but New York will be good enough for Hugh now. He'll be taking Cousin Sarah away from us." "Not at all, my dear," said my mother, gently, "he's going into Mr. Watling's office next autumn." "Theodore Watling?" demanded Cousin Robert, pausing in his carving. "Yes, Robert. Mr. Watling has been good enough to say that he would like to have Hugh. Is there anything--?" "Oh, I'm out of date, Sarah," Cousin Robert replied, vigorously severing the leg of the turkey. "These modern lawyers are too smart for me. Watling's no worse than the others, I suppose,--only he's got more ability." "I've never heard anything against him," said my mother in a pained voice. "Only the other day McAlery Willett congratulated me that Hugh was going to be with him." "You mustn't mind Robert, Sarah," put in Cousin Jenny,--a remark reminiscent of other days. "Dad has a notion that his generation is the only honest one," said Helen, laughingly, as she passed a plate. I had gained a sense of superiority, and I was quite indifferent to Cousin Robert's opinion of Mr. Watling, of modern lawyers in general. More than once a wave of self-congratulation surged through me that I had possessed the foresight and initiative to get out of the wholesale grocery business while there was yet time. I looked at Willie, still freckled, still literal, still a plodder, at Walter Kinley, and I thought of the drabness of their lives; at Cousin Robert himself as he sat smoking his cigar in the bay-window on that dark February day, and suddenly I pitied him. The suspicion struck me that he had not prospered of late, and this deepened to a conviction as he talked. "The Republican Party is going to the dogs," he asserted. "It used to be an honourable party, but now it is no better than the other. Politics are only conducted, now, for the purpose of making unscrupulous men rich, sir. For years I furnished this city with good groceries, if I do say it myself. I took a pride in the fact that the inmates of the hospitals, yes, and the dependent poor in the city's institutions, should have honest food. You can get anything out of the city if you are willing to pay the politicians for it. I lost my city contracts. Why? Because I refused to deal with scoundrels. Weill and Company and other unscrupulous upstarts are willing to do so, and poison the poor and the sick with adulterated groceries! The first thing I knew was that the city auditor was holding back my bills for supplies, and paying Weill's. That's what politics and business, yes, sir, and the law, have come to in these days. If a man wants to succeed, he must turn into a rascal." I was not shocked, but I was silent, uncomfortable, wishing that it were time to take the train back to the city. Cousin Robert's face was more worn than I had thought, and I contrasted him inevitably with the forceful person who used to stand, in his worn alpaca coat, on the pavement in front of his store, greeting with clear-eyed content his fellow merchants of the city. Willie Breck, too, was silent, and Walter Kinley took off his glasses and wiped them. In the meanwhile Helen had left the group in which my mother sat, and, approaching us, laid her hands on her father's shoulders. "Now, dad," she said, in affectionate remonstrance, "you're excited about politics again, and you know it isn't good for you. And besides, they're not worth it." "You're right, Helen," he replied. Under the pressure of her hands he made a strong effort to control himself, and turned to address my mother across the room. "I'm getting to be a crotchety old man," he said. "It's a good thing I have a daughter to remind me of it." "It is a good thing, Robert," said my mother. During the rest of our visit he seemed to have recovered something of his former spirits and poise, taking refuge in the past. They talked of their own youth, of families whose houses had been landmarks on the Second Bank. "I'm worried about your Cousin Robert, Hugh," my mother confided to me, when we were at length seated in the train. "I've heard rumours that things are not so well at the store as they might be." We looked out at the winter landscape, so different from that one which had thrilled every fibre of my being in the days when the railroad on which we travelled had been a winding narrow gauge. The orchards--those that remained--were bare; stubble pricked the frozen ground where tassels had once waved in the hot, summer wind. We flew by row after row of ginger-bread, suburban houses built on "villa plots," and I read in large letters on a hideous sign-board, "Woodbine Park." "Hugh, have you ever heard anything against--Mr. Watling?" "No, mother," I said. "So far as I knew, he is very much looked up to by lawyers and business men. He is counsel, I believe, for Mr. Blackwood's street car line on Boyne Street. And I told you, I believe, that I met him once at Mr. Kyme's." "Poor Robert!" she sighed. "I suppose business trouble does make one bitter,--I've seen it so often. But I never imagined that it would overtake Robert, and at his time of life! It is an old and respected firm, and we have always had a pride in it." ... That night, when I was going to bed, it was evident that the subject was still in her mind. She clung to my hand a moment. "I, too, am afraid of the new, Hugh," she said, a little tremulously. "We all grow so, as age comes on." "But you are not old, mother," I protested. "I have a feeling, since your father has gone, that I have lived my life, my dear, though I'd like to stay long enough to see you happily married--to have grandchildren. I was not young when you were born." And she added, after a little while, "I know nothing about business affairs, and now--now that your father is no longer here, sometimes I'm afraid--" "Afraid of what, mother?" She tried to smile at me through her tears. We were in the old sitting-room, surrounded by the books. "I know it's foolish, and it isn't that I don't trust you. I know that the son of your father couldn't do anything that was not honourable. And yet I am afraid of what the world is becoming. The city is growing so fast, and so many new people are coming in. Things are not the same. Robert is right, there. And I have heard your father say the same thing. Hugh, promise me that you will try to remember always what he was, and what he would wish you to be!" "I will, mother," I answered. "But I think you would find that Cousin Robert exaggerates a little, makes things seem worse than they really are. Customs change, you know. And politics were never well--Sunday schools." I, too, smiled a little. "Father knew that. And he would never take an active part in them." "He was too fine!" she exclaimed. "And now," I continued, "Cousin Robert has happened to come in contact with them through business. That is what has made the difference in him. Before, he always knew they were corrupt, but he rarely thought about them." "Hugh," she said suddenly, after a pause, "you must remember one thing,--that you can afford to be independent. I thank God that your father has provided for that!" I was duly admitted, the next autumn, to the bar of my own state, and was assigned to a desk in the offices of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon. Larry Weed was my immediate senior among the apprentices, and Larry was a hero-worshipper. I can see him now. He suggested a bullfrog as he sat in the little room we shared in common, his arms akimbo over a law book, his little legs doubled under him, his round, eyes fixed expectantly on the doorway. And even if I had not been aware of my good fortune in being connected with such a firm as Theodore Watling's, Larry would shortly have brought it home to me. During those weeks when I was making my first desperate attempts at briefing up the law I was sometimes interrupted by his exclamations when certain figures went by in the corridor. "Say, Hugh, do you know who that was?" "No." "Miller Gorse." "Who's he?" "Do you mean to say you never heard of Miller Gorse?" "I've been away a long time," I would answer apologetically. A person of some importance among my contemporaries at Harvard, I had looked forward to a residence in my native city with the complacency of one who has seen something of the world,--only to find that I was the least in the new kingdom. And it was a kingdom. Larry opened up to me something of the significance and extent of it, something of the identity of the men who controlled it. "Miller Gorse," he said impressively, "is the counsel for the railroad." "What railroad? You mean the--" I was adding, when he interrupted me pityingly. "After you've been here a while you'll find out there's only one railroad in this state, so far as politics are concerned. The Ashuela and Northern, the Lake Shore and the others don't count." I refrained from asking any more questions at that time, but afterwards I always thought of the Railroad as spelled with a capital. "Miller Gorse isn't forty yet," Larry told me on another occasion. "That's doing pretty well for a man who comes near running this state." For the sake of acquiring knowledge, I endured Mr. Weed's patronage. I inquired how Mr. Gorse ran the state. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough," he assured me. "But Mr. Barbour's president of the Railroad." "Sure. Once in a while they take something up to him, but as a rule he leaves things to Gorse." Whereupon I resolved to have a good look at Mr. Gorse at the first opportunity. One day Mr. Watling sent out for some papers. "He's in there now;" said Larry. "You take 'em." "In there" meant Mr. Watling's sanctum. And in there he was. I had only a glance at the great man, for, with a kindly but preoccupied "Thank you, Hugh," Mr. Watling took the papers and dismissed me. Heaviness, blackness and impassivity,--these were the impressions of Mr. Gorse which I carried away from that first meeting. The very solidity of his flesh seemed to suggest the solidity of his position. Such, say the psychologists, is the effect of prestige. I remember well an old-fashioned picture puzzle in one of my boyhood books. The scene depicted was to all appearances a sylvan, peaceful one, with two happy lovers seated on a log beside a brook; but presently, as one gazed at the picture, the head of an animal stood forth among the branches, and then the body; more animals began to appear, bit by bit; a tiger, a bear, a lion, a jackal, a fox, until at last, whenever I looked at the page, I did not see the sylvan scene at all, but only the predatory beasts of the forest. So, one by one, the figures of the real rulers of the city superimposed themselves for me upon the simple and democratic design of Mayor, Council, Board of Aldermen, Police Force, etc., that filled the eye of a naive and trusting electorate which fondly imagined that it had something to say in government. Miller Gorse was one of these rulers behind the screen, and Adolf Scherer, of the Boyne Iron Works, another; there was Leonard Dickinson of the Corn National Bank; Frederick Grierson, becoming wealthy in city real estate; Judah B. Tallant, who, though outlawed socially, was deferred to as the owner of the Morning Era; and even Ralph Hambleton, rapidly superseding the elderly and conservative Mr. Lord, who had hitherto managed the great Hambleton estate. Ralph seemed to have become, in a somewhat gnostic manner, a full-fledged financier. Not having studied law, he had been home for four years when I became a legal fledgling, and during the early days of my apprenticeship I was beholden to him for many "eye openers" concerning the conduct of great affairs. I remember him sauntering into my room one morning when Larry Weed had gone out on an errand. "Hello, Hughie," he said, with his air of having nothing to do. "Grinding it out? Where's Watling?" "Isn't he in his office?" "No." "Well, what can we do for you?" I asked. Ralph grinned. "Perhaps I'll tell you when you're a little older. You're too young." And he sank down into Larry Weed's chair, his long legs protruding on the other side of the table. "It's a matter of taxes. Some time ago I found out that Dickinson and Tallant and others I could mention were paying a good deal less on their city property than we are. We don't propose to do it any more--that's all." "How can Mr. Watling help you?" I inquired. "Well, I don't mind giving you a few tips about your profession, Hughie. I'm going to get Watling to fix it up with the City Hall gang. Old Lord doesn't like it, I'll admit, and when I told him we had been contributing to the city long enough, that I proposed swinging into line with other property holders, he began to blubber about disgrace and what my grandfather would say if he were alive. Well, he isn't alive. A good deal of water has flowed under the bridges since his day. It's a mere matter of business, of getting your respectable firm to retain a City Hall attorney to fix it up with the assessor." "How about the penitentiary?" I ventured, not too seriously. "I shan't go to the penitentiary, neither will Watling. What I do is to pay a lawyer's fee. There isn't anything criminal in that, is there?" For some time after Ralph had departed I sat reflecting upon this new knowledge, and there came into my mind the bitterness of Cousin Robert Breck against this City Hall gang, and his remarks about lawyers. I recalled the tone in which he had referred to Mr. Watling. But Ralph's philosophy easily triumphed. Why not be practical, and become master of a situation which one had not made, and could not alter, instead of being overwhelmed by it? Needless to say, I did not mention the conversation to Mr. Watling, nor did he dwindle in my estimation. These necessary transactions did not interfere in any way with his personal relationships, and his days were filled with kindnesses. And was not Mr. Ripon, the junior partner, one of the evangelical lights of the community, conducting advanced Bible classes every week in the Church of the Redemption?... The unfolding of mysteries kept me alert. And I understood that, if I was to succeed, certain esoteric knowledge must be acquired, as it were, unofficially. I kept my eyes and ears open, and applied myself, with all industry, to the routine tasks with which every young man in a large legal firm is familiar. I recall distinctly my pride when, the Board of Aldermen having passed an ordinance lowering the water rates, I was intrusted with the responsibility of going before the court in behalf of Mr. Ogilvy's water company, obtaining a temporary restricting order preventing the ordinance from going at once into effect. Here was an affair in point. Were it not for lawyers of the calibre of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon, hard-earned private property would soon be confiscated by the rapacious horde. Once in a while I was made aware that Mr. Watling had his eye on me. "Well, Hugh," he would say, "how are you getting along? That's right, stick to it, and after a while we'll hand the drudgery over to somebody else." He possessed the supreme quality of a leader of men in that he took pains to inform himself concerning the work of the least of his subordinates; and he had the gift of putting fire into a young man by a word or a touch of the hand on the shoulder. It was not difficult for me, therefore, to comprehend Larry Weed's hero-worship, the loyalty of other members of the firm or of those occupants of the office whom I have not mentioned. My first impression of him, which I had got at Jerry Kyme's, deepened as time went on, and I readily shared the belief of those around me that his legal talents easily surpassed those of any of his contemporaries. I can recall, at this time, several noted cases in the city when I sat in court listening to his arguments with thrills of pride. He made us all feel--no matter how humble may have been our contributions to the preparation--that we had a share in his triumphs. We remembered his manner with judges and juries, and strove to emulate it. He spoke as if there could be no question as to his being right as to the law and the facts, and yet, in some subtle way that bated analysis, managed not to antagonize the court. Victory was in the air in that office. I do not mean to say there were not defeats; but frequently these defeats, by resourcefulness, by a never-say-die spirit, by a consummate knowledge, not only of the law, but of other things at which I have hinted, were turned into ultimate victories. We fought cases from one court to another, until our opponents were worn out or the decision was reversed. We won, and that spirit of winning got into the blood. What was most impressed on me in those early years, I think, was the discovery that there was always a path--if one were clever enough to find it--from one terrace to the next higher. Staying power was the most prized of all the virtues. One could always, by adroitness, compel a legal opponent to fight the matter out all over again on new ground, or at least on ground partially new. If the Court of Appeals should fail one, there was the Supreme Court; there was the opportunity, also, to shift from the state to the federal courts; and likewise the much-prized device known as a change of venue, when a judge was supposed to be "prejudiced." IX. As my apprenticeship advanced I grew more and more to the inhabitants of our city into two kinds, the who were served, and the inefficient, who were separate efficient, neglected; but the mental process of which the classification was the result was not so deliberate as may be supposed. Sometimes, when an important client would get into trouble, the affair took me into the police court, where I saw the riff-raff of the city penned up, waiting to have justice doled out to them: weary women who had spent the night in cells, indifferent now as to the front they presented to the world, the finery rued that they had tended so carefully to catch the eyes of men on the darkened streets; brazen young girls, who blazed forth defiance to all order; derelict men, sodden and hopeless, with scrubby beards; shifty looking burglars and pickpockets. All these I beheld, at first with twinges of pity, later to mass them with the ugly and inevitable with whom society had to deal somehow. Lawyers, after all, must be practical men. I came to know the justices of these police courts, as well as other judges. And underlying my acquaintance with all of them was the knowledge--though not on the threshold of my consciousness--that they depended for their living, every man of them, those who were appointed and those who were elected, upon a political organization which derived its sustenance from the element whence came our clients. Thus by degrees the sense of belonging to a special priesthood had grown on me. I recall an experience with that same Mr. Nathan. Weill, the wholesale grocer of whose commerce with the City Hall my Cousin Robert Breck had so bitterly complained. Late one afternoon Mr. Weill's carriage ran over a child on its way up-town through one of the poorer districts. The parents, naturally, were frantic, and the coachman was arrested. This was late in the afternoon, and I was alone in the office when the telephone rang. Hurrying to the police station, I found Mr. Weill in a state of excitement and abject fear, for an ugly crowd had gathered outside. "Could not Mr. Watling or Mr. Fowndes come?" demanded the grocer. With an inner contempt for the layman's state of mind on such occasions I assured him of my competency to handle the case. He was impressed, I think, by the sergeant's deference, who knew what it meant to have such an office as ours interfere with the affair. I called up the prosecuting attorney, who sent to Monahan's saloon, close by, and procured a release for the coachman on his own recognizance, one of many signed in blank and left there by the justice for privileged cases. The coachman was hustled out by a back door, and the crowd dispersed. The next morning, while a score or more of delinquents sat in the anxious seats, Justice Garry recognized me and gave me precedence. And Mr. Weill, with a sigh of relief, paid his fine. "Mr. Paret, is it?" he asked, as we stood together for a moment on the sidewalk outside the court. "You have managed this well. I will remember." He was sued, of course. When he came to the office he insisted on discussing the case with Mr. Watling, who sent for me. "That is a bright young man," Mr. Weill declared, shaking my hand. "He will get on." "Some day," said Mr. Watling, "he may save you a lot of money, Weill." "When my friend Mr. Watling is United States Senator,--eh?" Mr. Watling laughed. "Before that, I hope. I advise you to compromise this suit, Weill," he added. "How would a thousand dollars strike you? I've had Paret look up the case, and he tells me the little girl has had to have an operation." "A thousand dollars!" cried the grocer. "What right have these people to let their children play on the streets? It's an outrage." "Where else have the children to play?" Mr. Watling touched his arm. "Weill," he said gently, "suppose it had been your little girl?" The grocer pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his bald forehead. But he rallied a little. "You fight these damage cases for the street railroads all through the courts." "Yes," Mr. Watling agreed, "but there a principle is involved. If the railroads once got into the way of paying damages for every careless employee, they would soon be bankrupt through blackmail. But here you have a child whose father is a poor janitor and can't afford sickness. And your coachman, I imagine, will be more particular in the future." In the end Mr. Weill made out a cheque and departed in a good humour, convinced that he was well out of the matter. Here was one of many instances I could cite of Mr. Watling's tenderness of heart. I felt, moreover, as if he had done me a personal favour, since it was I who had recommended the compromise. For I had been to the hospital and had seen the child on the cot,--a dark little thing, lying still in her pain, with the bewildered look of a wounded animal.... Not long after this incident of Mr. Weill's damage suit I obtained a more or less definite promotion by the departure of Larry Weed. He had suddenly developed a weakness of the lungs. Mr. Watling got him a place in Denver, and paid his expenses west. The first six or seven years I spent in the office of Wading, Fowndes and Ripon were of importance to my future career, but there is little to relate of them. I was absorbed not only in learning law, but in acquiring that esoteric knowledge at which I have hinted--not to be had from my seniors and which I was convinced was indispensable to a successful and lucrative practice. My former comparison of the organization of our city to a picture puzzle wherein the dominating figures become visible only after long study is rather inadequate. A better analogy would be the human anatomy: we lawyers, of course, were the brains; the financial and industrial interests the body, helpless without us; the City Hall politicians, the stomach that must continually be fed. All three, law, politics and business, were interdependent, united by a nervous system too complex to be developed here. In these years, though I worked hard and often late, I still found time for convivialities, for social gaieties, yet little by little without realizing the fact, I was losing zest for the companionship of my former intimates. My mind was becoming polarized by the contemplation of one object, success, and to it human ties were unconsciously being sacrificed. Tom Peters began to feel this, even at a time when I believed myself still to be genuinely fond of him. Considering our respective temperaments in youth, it is curious that he should have been the first to fall in love and marry. One day he astonished me by announcing his engagement to Susan Blackwood. "That ends the liquor, Hughie," he told me, beamingly. "I promised her I'd eliminate it." He did eliminate it, save for mild relapses on festive occasions. A more seemingly incongruous marriage could scarcely be imagined, and yet it was a success from the start. From a slim, silent, self-willed girl Susan had grown up into a tall, rather rawboned and energetic young woman. She was what we called in those days "intellectual," and had gone in for kindergartens, and after her marriage she turned out to be excessively domestic; practising her theories, with entire success, upon a family that showed a tendency to increase at an alarming rate. Tom, needless to say, did not become intellectual. He settled down--prematurely, I thought--into what is known as a family man, curiously content with the income he derived from the commission business and with life in general; and he developed a somewhat critical view of the tendencies of the civilization by which he was surrounded. Susan held it also, but she said less about it. In the comfortable but unpretentious house they rented on Cedar Street we had many discussions, after the babies had been put to bed and the door of the living-room closed, in order that our voices might not reach the nursery. Perry Blackwood, now Tom's brother-in-law, was often there. He, too, had lapsed into what I thought was an odd conservatism. Old Josiah, his father, being dead, he occupied himself mainly with looking after certain family interests, among which was the Boyne Street car line. Among "business men" he was already getting the reputation of being a little difficult to deal with. I was often the subject of their banter, and presently I began to suspect that they regarded my career and beliefs with some concern. This gave me no uneasiness, though at limes I lost my temper. I realized their affection for me; but privately I regarded them as lacking in ambition, in force, in the fighting qualities necessary for achievement in this modern age. Perhaps, unconsciously, I pitied them a little. "How is Judah B. to-day, Hughie?" Tom would inquire. "I hear you've put him up for the Boyne Club, now that Mr. Watling has got him out of that libel suit." "Carter Ives is dead," Perry would add, sarcastically, "let bygones be bygones." It was well known that Mr. Tallant, in the early days of his newspaper, had blackmailed Mr. Ives out of some hundred thousand dollars. And that this, more than any other act, stood in the way, with certain recalcitrant gentlemen, of his highest ambition, membership in the Boyne. "The trouble with you fellows is that you refuse to deal with conditions as you find them," I retorted. "We didn't make them, and we can't change them. Tallant's a factor in the business life of this city, and he has to be counted with." Tom would shake his head exasperatingly. "Why don't you get after Ralph?" I demanded. "He doesn't antagonize Tallant, either." "Ralph's hopeless," said Tom. "He was born a pirate, you weren't, Hughie. We think there's a chance for his salvation, don't we, Perry?" I refused to accept the remark as flattering. Another object of their assaults was Frederick Grierson, who by this time had emerged from obscurity as a small dealer in real estate into a manipulator of blocks and corners. "I suppose you think it's a lawyer's business to demand an ethical bill of health of every client," I said. "I won't stand up for all of Tallant's career, of course, but Mr. Wading has a clear right to take his cases. As for Grierson, it seems to me that's a matter of giving a dog a bad name. Just because his people weren't known here, and because he has worked up from small beginnings. To get down to hard-pan, you fellows don't believe in democracy,--in giving every man a chance to show what's in him." "Democracy is good!" exclaimed Perry. "If the kind of thing we're coming to is democracy, God save the state!"... On the other hand I found myself drawing closer to Ralph Hambleton, sometimes present at these debates, as the only one of my boyhood friends who seemed to be able to "deal with conditions as he found them." Indeed, he gave one the impression that, if he had had the making of them, he would not have changed them. "What the deuce do you expect?" I once heard him inquire with good-natured contempt. "Business isn't charity, it's war. "There are certain things," maintained Perry, stoutly, "that gentlemen won't do." "Gentlemen!" exclaimed Ralph, stretching his slim six feet two: We were sitting in the Boyne Club. "It's ungentlemanly to kill, or burn a town or sink a ship, but we keep armies and navies for the purpose. For a man with a good mind, Perry, you show a surprising inability to think things, out to a logical conclusion. What the deuce is competition, when you come down to it? Christianity? Not by a long shot! If our nations are slaughtering men and starving populations in other countries,--are carried on, in fact, for the sake of business, if our churches are filled with business men and our sky pilots pray for the government, you can't expect heathen individuals like me to do business on a Christian basis,--if there is such a thing. You can make rules for croquet, but not for a game that is based on the natural law of the survival of the fittest. The darned fools in the legislatures try it occasionally, but we all know it's a sop to the 'common people.' Ask Hughie here if there ever was a law put on the statute books that his friend Watling couldn't get 'round'? Why, you've got competition even among the churches. Yours, where I believe you teach in the Sunday school, would go bankrupt if it proclaimed real Christianity. And you'll go bankrupt if you practise it, Perry, my boy. Some early, wide-awake, competitive, red-blooded bird will relieve you of the Boyne Street car line." It was one of this same new and "fittest" species who had already relieved poor Mr. McAlery Willett of his fortune. Mr. Willett was a trusting soul who had never known how to take care of himself or his money, people said, and now that he had lost it they blamed him. Some had been saved enough for him and Nancy to live on in the old house, with careful economy. It was Nancy who managed the economy, who accomplished remarkable things with a sum they would have deemed poverty in former days. Her mother had died while I was at Cambridge. Reverses did not subdue Mr. Willett's spirits, and the fascination modern "business" had for him seemed to grow in proportion to the misfortunes it had caused him. He moved into a tiny office in the Durrett Building, where he appeared every morning about half-past ten to occupy himself with heaven knows what short cuts to wealth, with prospectuses of companies in Mexico or Central America or some other distant place: once, I remember, it was a tea, company in which he tried to interest his friends, to raise in the South a product he maintained would surpass Orange Pekoe. In the afternoon between three and four he would turn up at the Boyne Club, as well groomed, as spruce as ever, generally with a flower in his buttonhole. He never forgot that he was a gentleman, and he had a gentleman's notions of the fitness of things, and it was against his principles to use, a gentleman's club for the furtherance of his various enterprises. "Drop into my office some day, Dickinson," he would say. "I think I've got something there that might interest you!" He reminded me, when I met him, that he had always predicted I would get along in life.... The portrait of Nancy at this period is not so easily drawn. The decline of the family fortunes seemed to have had as little effect upon her as upon her father, although their characters differed sharply. Something of that spontaneity, of that love of life and joy in it she had possessed in youth she must have inherited from McAlery Willett, but these qualities had disappeared in her long before the coming of financial reverses. She was nearing thirty, and in spite of her beauty and the rarer distinction that can best be described as breeding, she had never married. Men admired her, but from a distance; she kept them at arm's length, they said: strangers who visited the city invariably picked her out of an assembly and asked who she was; one man from New York who came to visit Ralph and who had been madly in love with her, she had amazed many people by refusing, spurning all he might have given her. This incident seemed a refutation of the charge that she was calculating. As might have been foretold, she had the social gift in a remarkable degree, and in spite of the limitations of her purse the knack of dressing better than other women, though at that time the organization of our social life still remained comparatively simple, the custom of luxurious and expensive entertainment not having yet set in. The more I reflect upon those days, the more surprising does it seem that I was not in love with her. It may be that I was, unconsciously, for she troubled my thoughts occasionally, and she represented all the qualities I admired in her sex. The situation that had existed at the time of our first and only quarrel had been reversed, I was on the highroad to the worldly success I had then resolved upon, Nancy was poor, and for that reason, perhaps, prouder than ever. If she was inaccessible to others, she had the air of being peculiarly inaccessible to me--the more so because some of the superficial relics of our intimacy remained, or rather had been restored. Her very manner of camaraderie seemed paradoxically to increase the distance between us. It piqued me. Had she given me the least encouragement, I am sure I should have responded; and I remember that I used occasionally to speculate as to whether she still cared for me, and took this method of hiding her real feelings. Yet, on the whole, I felt a certain complacency about it all; I knew that suffering was disagreeable, I had learned how to avoid it, and I may have had, deep within me, a feeling that I might marry her after all. Meanwhile my life was full, and gave promise of becoming even fuller, more absorbing and exciting in the immediate future. One of the most fascinating figures, to me, of that Order being woven, like a cloth of gold, out of our hitherto drab civilization,--an Order into which I was ready and eager to be initiated,--was that of Adolf Scherer, the giant German immigrant at the head of the Boyne Iron Works. His life would easily lend itself to riotous romance. In the old country, in a valley below the castle perched on the rack above, he had begun life by tending his father's geese. What a contrast to "Steeltown" with its smells and sickening summer heat, to the shanty where Mrs. Scherer took boarders and bent over the wash-tub! She, too, was an immigrant, but lived to hear her native Wagner from her own box at Covent Garden; and he to explain, on the deck of an imperial yacht, to the man who might have been his sovereign certain processes in the manufacture of steel hitherto untried on that side of the Atlantic. In comparison with Adolf Scherer, citizen of a once despised democracy, the minor prince in whose dominions he had once tended geese was of small account indeed! The Adolf Scherer of that day--though it is not so long ago as time flies--was even more solid and impressive than the man he afterwards became, when he reached the dizzier heights from which he delivered to an eager press opinions on politics and war, eugenics and woman's suffrage and other subjects that are the despair of specialists. Had he stuck to steel, he would have remained invulnerable. But even then he was beginning to abandon the field of production for that of exploitation: figuratively speaking, he had taken to soap, which with the aid of water may be blown into beautiful, iridescent bubbles to charm the eye. Much good soap, apparently, has gone that way, never to be recovered. Everybody who was anybody began to blow bubbles about that time, and the bigger the bubble the greater its attraction for investors of hard-earned savings. Outside of this love for financial iridescence, let it be called, Mr. Scherer seemed to care little then for glitter of any sort. Shortly after his elevation to the presidency of the Boyne Iron Works he had been elected a member of the Boyne Club,--an honour of which, some thought, he should have been more sensible; but generally, when in town, he preferred to lunch at a little German restaurant annexed to a saloon, where I used often to find him literally towering above the cloth,--for he was a giant with short legs,--his napkin tucked into his shirt front, engaged in lively conversation with the ministering Heinrich. The chef at the club, Mr. Scherer insisted, could produce nothing equal to Heinrich's sauer-kraut and sausage. My earliest relationship with Mr. Scherer was that of an errand boy, of bringing to him for his approval papers which might not be intrusted to a common messenger. His gruffness and brevity disturbed me more than I cared to confess. I was pretty sure that he eyed me with the disposition of the self-made to believe that college educations and good tailors were the heaviest handicaps with which a young man could be burdened: and I suspected him of an inimical attitude toward the older families of the city. Certain men possessed his confidence; and he had built, as it were, a stockade about them, sternly keeping the rest of the world outside. In Theodore Watling he had a childlike faith. Thus I studied him, with a deliberation which it is the purpose of these chapters to confess, though he little knew that he was being made the subject of analysis. Nor did I ever venture to talk with him, but held strictly to my role of errand boy,--even after the conviction came over me that he was no longer indifferent to my presence. The day arrived, after some years, when he suddenly thrust toward me a big, hairy hand that held the document he was examining. "Who drew this, Mr. Paret!" he demanded. Mr. Ripon, I told him. The Boyne Works were buying up coal-mines, and this was a contract looking to the purchase of one in Putman County, provided, after a certain period of working, the yield and quality should come up to specifications. Mr. Scherer requested me to read one of the sections, which puzzled him. And in explaining it an idea flashed over me. "Do you mind my making a suggestion, Mr. Scherer?" I ventured. "What is it?" he asked brusquely. I showed him how, by the alteration of a few words, the difficulty to which he had referred could not only be eliminated, but that certain possible penalties might be evaded, while the apparent meaning of the section remained unchanged. In other words, it gave the Boyne Iron Works an advantage that was not contemplated. He seized the paper, stared at what I had written in pencil on the margin, and then stared at me. Abruptly, he began to laugh. "Ask Mr. Wading what he thinks of it?" "I intended to, provided it had your approval, sir," I replied. "You have my approval, Mr. Paret," he declared, rather cryptically, and with the slight German hardening of the v's into which he relapsed at times. "Bring it to the Works this afternoon." Mr. Wading agreed to the alteration. He looked at me amusedly. "Yes, I think that's an improvement, Hugh," he said. I had a feeling that I had gained ground, and from this time on I thought I detected a change in his attitude toward me; there could be no doubt about the new attitude of Mr. Scherer, who would often greet me now with a smile and a joke, and sometimes went so far as to ask my opinions.... Then, about six months later, came the famous Ribblevale case that aroused the moral indignation of so many persons, among whom was Perry Blackwood. "You know as well as I do, Hugh, how this thing is being manipulated," he declared at Tom's one Sunday evening; "there was nothing the matter with the Ribblevale Steel Company--it was as right as rain before Leonard Dickinson and Grierson and Scherer and that crowd you train with began to talk it down at the Club. Oh, they're very compassionate. I've heard 'em. Dickinson, privately, doesn't think much of Ribblevale paper, and Pugh" (the president of the Ribblevale) "seems worried and looks badly. It's all very clever, but I'd hate to tell you in plain words what I'd call it." "Go ahead," I challenged him audaciously. "You haven't any proof that the Ribblevale wasn't in trouble." "I heard Mr. Pugh tell my father the other day it was a d--d outrage. He couldn't catch up with these rumours, and some of his stockholders were liquidating." "You, don't suppose Pugh would want to admit his situation, do you?" I asked. "Pugh's a straight man," retorted Perry. "That's more than I can say for any of the other gang, saving your presence. The unpleasant truth is that Scherer and the Boyne people want the Ribblevale, and you ought to know it if you don't." He looked at me very hard through the glasses he had lately taken to wearing. Tom, who was lounging by the fire, shifted his position uneasily. I smiled, and took another cigar. "I believe Ralph is right, Perry, when he calls you a sentimentalist. For you there's a tragedy behind every ordinary business transaction. The Ribblevale people are having a hard time to keep their heads above water, and immediately you smell conspiracy. Dickinson and Scherer have been talking it down. How about it, Tom?" But Tom, in these debates, was inclined to be noncommittal, although it was clear they troubled him. "Oh, don't ask me, Hughie," he said. "I suppose I ought to cultivate the scientific point of view, and look with impartial interest at this industrial cannibalism," returned Perry, sarcastically. "Eat or be eaten that's what enlightened self-interest has come to. After all, Ralph would say, it is nature, the insect world over again, the victim duped and crippled before he is devoured, and the lawyer--how shall I put it?--facilitating the processes of swallowing and digesting...." There was no use arguing with Perry when he was in this vein.... Since I am not writing a technical treatise, I need not go into the details of the Ribblevale suit. Since it to say that the affair, after a while, came apparently to a deadlock, owing to the impossibility of getting certain definite information from the Ribblevale books, which had been taken out of the state. The treasurer, for reasons of his own, remained out of the state also; the ordinary course of summoning him before a magistrate in another state had naturally been resorted to, but the desired evidence was not forthcoming. "The trouble is," Mr. Wading explained to Mr. Scherer, "that there is no law in the various states with a sufficient penalty attached that will compel the witness to divulge facts he wishes to conceal." It was the middle of a February afternoon, and they were seated in deep, leather chairs in one corner of the reading room of the Boyne Club. They had the place to themselves. Fowndes was there also, one leg twisted around the other in familiar fashion, a bored look on his long and sallow face. Mr. Wading had telephoned to the office for me to bring them some papers bearing on the case. "Sit down, Hugh," he said kindly. "Now we have present a genuine legal mind," said Mr. Scherer, in the playful manner he had adopted of late, while I grinned appreciatively and took a chair. Mr. Watling presently suggested kidnapping the Ribblevale treasurer until he should promise to produce the books as the only way out of what seemed an impasse. But Mr. Scherer brought down a huge fist on his knee. "I tell you it is no joke, Watling, we've got to win that suit," he asserted. "That's all very well," replied Mr. Watling. "But we're a respectable firm, you know. We haven't had to resort to safe-blowing, as yet." Mr. Scherer shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say it were a matter of indifference to him what methods were resorted to. Mr. Watling's eyes met mine; his glance was amused, yet I thought I read in it a query as to the advisability, in my presence, of going too deeply into the question of ways and means. I may have been wrong. At any rate, its sudden effect was to embolden me to give voice to an idea that had begun to simmer in my mind, that excited me, and yet I had feared to utter it. This look of my chief's, and the lighter tone the conversation had taken decided me. "Why wouldn't it be possible to draw up a bill to fit the situation?" I inquired. Mr. Wading started. "What do you mean?" he asked quickly. All three looked at me. I felt the blood come into my face, but it was too late to draw back. "Well--the legislature is in session. And since, as Mr. Watling says, there is no sufficient penalty in other states to compel the witness to produce the information desired, why not draw up a bill and--and have it passed--" I paused for breath--"imposing a sufficient penalty on home corporations in the event of such evasions. The Ribblevale Steel Company is a home corporation." I had shot my bolt.... There followed what was for me an anxious silence, while the three of them continued to stare at me. Mr. Watling put the tips of his fingers together, and I became aware that he was not offended, that he was thinking rapidly. "By George, why not, Fowndes?" he demanded. "Well," said Fowndes, "there's an element of risk in such a proceeding I need not dwell upon." "Risk!" cried the senior partner vigorously. "There's risk in everything. They'll howl, of course. But they howl anyway, and nobody ever listens to them. They'll say it's special legislation, and the Pilot will print sensational editorials for a few days. But what of it? All of that has happened before. I tell you, if we can't see those books, we'll lose the suit. That's in black and white. And, as a matter of justice, we're entitled to know what we want to know." "There might be two opinions as to that," observed Fowndes, with his sardonic smile. Mr. Watling paid no attention to this remark. He was already deep in thought. It was characteristic of his mind to leap forward, seize a suggestion that often appeared chimerical to a man like Fowndes and turn it into an accomplished Fact. "I believe you've hit it, Hugh," he said. "We needn't bother about the powers of the courts in other states. We'll put into this bill an appeal to our court for an order on the clerk to compel the witness to come before the court and testify, and we'll provide for a special commissioner to take depositions in the state where the witness is. If the officers of a home corporation who are outside of the state refuse to testify, the penalty will be that the ration goes into the hands of a receiver." Fowndes whistled. "That's going some!" he said. "Well, we've got to go some. How about it, Scherer?" Even Mr. Scherer's brown eyes were snapping. "We have got to win that suit, Watling." We were all excited, even Fowndes, I think, though he remained expressionless. Ours was the tense excitement of primitive man in chase: the quarry which had threatened to elude us was again in view, and not unlikely to fall into our hands. Add to this feeling, on my part, the thrill that it was I who had put them on the scent. I had all the sensations of an aspiring young brave who for the first time is admitted to the councils of the tribe! "It ought to be a popular bill, too," Mr. Schemer was saying, with a smile of ironic appreciation at the thought of demagogues advocating it. "We should have one of Lawler's friends introduce it." "Oh, we shall have it properly introduced," replied Mr. Wading. "It may come back at us," suggested Fowndes pessimistically. "The Boyne Iron Works is a home corporation too, if I am not mistaken." "The Boyne Iron Works has the firm of Wading, Fowndes and Ripon behind it," asserted Mr. Scherer, with what struck me as a magnificent faith. "You mustn't forget Paret," Mr. Watling reminded him, with a wink at me. We had risen. Mr. Scherer laid a hand on my arm. "No, no, I do not forget him. He will not permit me to forget him." A remark, I thought, that betrayed some insight into my character... Mr. Watling called for pen and paper and made then and there a draft of the proposed bill, for no time was to be lost. It was dark when we left the Club, and I recall the elation I felt and strove to conceal as I accompanied my chief back to the office. The stenographers and clerks were gone; alone in the library we got down the statutes and set to work. to perfect the bill from the rough draft, on which Mr. Fowndes had written his suggestions. I felt that a complete yet subtle change had come over my relationship with Mr. Watling. In the midst of our labours he asked me to call up the attorney for the Railroad. Mr. Gorse was still at his office. "Hello! Is that you, Miller?" Mr. Watling said. "This is Wading. When can I see you for a few minutes this evening? Yes, I am leaving for Washington at nine thirty. Eight o'clock. All right, I'll be there." It was almost eight before he got the draft finished to his satisfaction, and I had picked it out on the typewriter. As I handed it to him, my chief held it a moment, gazing at me with an odd smile. "You seem to have acquired a good deal of useful knowledge, here and there, Hugh," he observed. "I've tried to keep my eyes open, Mr. Watling," I said. "Well," he said, "there are a great many things a young man practising law in these days has to learn for himself. And if I hadn't given you credit for some cleverness, I shouldn't have wanted you here. There's only one way to look at--at these matters we have been discussing, my boy, that's the common-sense way, and if a man doesn't get that point of view by himself, nobody can teach it to him. I needn't enlarge upon it" "No, sir," I said. He smiled again, but immediately became serious. "If Mr. Gorse should approve of this bill, I'm going to send you down to the capital--to-night. Can you go?" I nodded. "I want you to look out for the bill in the legislature. Of course there won't be much to do, except to stand by, but you will get a better idea of what goes on down there." I thanked him, and told him I would do my best. "I'm sure of that," he replied. "Now it's time to go to see Gorse." The legal department of the Railroad occupied an entire floor of the Corn Bank building. I had often been there on various errands, having on occasions delivered sealed envelopes to Mr. Gorse himself, approaching him in the ordinary way through a series of offices. But now, following Mr. Watling through the dimly lighted corridor, we came to a door on which no name was painted, and which was presently opened by a stenographer. There was in the proceeding a touch of mystery that revived keenly my boyish love for romance; brought back the days when I had been, in turn, Captain Kidd and Ali Baba. I have never realized more strongly than in that moment the psychological force of prestige. Little by little, for five years, an estimate of the extent of Miller Gorse's power had been coming home to me, and his features stood in my mind for his particular kind of power. He was a tremendous worker, and often remained in his office until ten and eleven at night. He dismissed the stenographer by the wave of a hand which seemed to thrust her bodily out of the room. "Hello, Miller," said Mr. Watling. "Hello, Theodore," replied Mr. Gorse. "This is Paret, of my office." "I know," said Mr. Gorse, and nodded toward me. I was impressed by the felicity with which a cartoonist of the Pilot had once caricatured him by the use of curved lines. The circle of the heavy eyebrows ended at the wide nostrils; the mouth was a crescent, but bowed downwards; the heavy shoulders were rounded. Indeed, the only straight line to be discerned about him was that of his hair, black as bitumen, banged across his forehead; even his polished porphyry eyes were constructed on some curvilinear principle, and never seemed to focus. It might be said of Mr. Gorse that he had an overwhelming impersonality. One could never be quite sure that one's words reached the mark. In spite of the intimacy which I knew existed between them, in my presence at least Mr. Gorse's manner was little different with Mr. Watling than it was with other men. Mr. Wading did not seem to mind. He pulled up a chair close to the desk and began, without any preliminaries, to explain his errand. "It's about the Ribblevale affair," he said. "You know we have a suit." Gorse nodded. "We've got to get at the books, Miller,--that's all there is to it. I told you so the other day. Well, we've found out a way, I think." He thrust his hand in his pocket, while the railroad attorney remained impassive, and drew out the draft of the bill. Mr. Gorse read it, then read it over again, and laid it down in front of him. "Well," he said. "I want to put that through both houses and have the governor's signature to it by the end of the week." "It seems a little raw, at first sight, Theodore," said Mr. Gorse, with the suspicion of a smile. My chief laughed a little. "It's not half so raw as some things I might mention, that went through like greased lightning," he replied. "What can they do? I believe it will hold water. Tallant's, and most of the other newspapers in the state, won't print a line about it, and only Socialists and Populists read the Pilot. They're disgruntled anyway. The point is, there's no other way out for us. Just think a moment, bearing in mind what I've told you about the case, and you'll see it." Mr. Gorse took up the paper again, and read the draft over. "You know as well as I do, Miller, how dangerous it is to leave this Ribblevale business at loose ends. The Carlisle steel people and the Lake Shore road are after the Ribblevale Company, and we can't afford to run any risk of their getting it. It's logically a part of the Boyne interests, as Scherer says, and Dickinson is ready with the money for the reorganization. If the Carlisle people and the Lake Shore get it, the product will be shipped out by the L and G, and the Railroad will lose. What would Barbour say?" Mr. Barbour, as I have perhaps mentioned, was the president of the Railroad, and had his residence in the other great city of the state. He was then, I knew, in the West. "We've got to act now," insisted Mr. Watling. "That's open and shut. If you have any other plan, I wish you'd trot it out. If not, I want a letter to Paul Varney and the governor. I'm going to send Paret down with them on the night train." It was clear to me then, in the discussion following, that Mr. Watling's gift of persuasion, though great, was not the determining factor in Mr. Gorse's decision. He, too, possessed boldness, though he preferred caution. Nor did the friendship between the two enter into the transaction. I was impressed more strongly than ever with the fact that a lawsuit was seldom a mere private affair between two persons or corporations, but involved a chain of relationships and nine times out of ten that chain led up to the Railroad, which nearly always was vitally interested in these legal contests. Half an hour of masterly presentation of the situation was necessary before Mr. Gorse became convinced that the introduction of the bill was the only way out for all concerned. "Well, I guess you're right, Theodore," he said at length. Whereupon he seized his pen and wrote off two notes with great rapidity. These he showed to Mr. Watling, who nodded and returned them. They were folded and sealed, and handed to me. One was addressed to Colonel Paul Varney, and the other to the Hon. W. W. Trulease, governor of the state. "You can trust this young man?" demanded Mr. Gorse. "I think so," replied Mr. Watling, smiling at me. "The bill was his own idea." The railroad attorney wheeled about in his chair and looked at me; looked around me, would better express it, with his indefinite, encompassing yet inclusive glance. I had riveted his attention. And from henceforth, I knew, I should enter into his calculations. He had made for me a compartment in his mind. "His own idea!" he repeated. "I merely suggested it," I was putting in, when he cut me short. "Aren't you the son of Matthew Paret?" "Yes," I said. He gave me a queer glance, the significance of which I left untranslated. My excitement was too great to analyze what he meant by this mention of my father.... When we reached the sidewalk my chief gave me a few parting instructions. "I need scarcely say, Hugh," he added, "that your presence in the capital should not be advertised as connected with this--legislation. They will probably attribute it to us in the end, but if you're reasonably careful, they'll never be able to prove it. And there's no use in putting our cards on the table at the beginning." "No indeed, sir!" I agreed. He took my hand and pressed it. "Good luck," he said. "I know you'll get along all right." 
3738	----	A FAR COUNTRY By Winston Churchill BOOK 3. XVIII. As the name of our city grew to be more and more a byword for sudden and fabulous wealth, not only were the Huns and the Slavs, the Czechs and the Greeks drawn to us, but it became the fashion for distinguished Englishmen and Frenchmen and sometimes Germans and Italians to pay us a visit when they made the grand tour of America. They had been told that they must not miss us; scarcely a week went by in our community--so it was said--in which a full-fledged millionaire was not turned out. Our visitors did not always remain a week,--since their rapid journeyings from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from Canada to the Gulf rarely occupied more than four,--but in the books embodying their mature comments on the manners, customs and crudities of American civilization no less than a chapter was usually devoted to us; and most of the adjectives in their various languages were exhausted in the attempt to prove how symptomatic we were of the ambitions and ideals of the Republic. The fact that many of these gentlemen--literary and otherwise--returned to their own shores better fed and with larger balances in the banks than when they departed is neither here nor there. Egyptians are proverbially created to be spoiled. The wiser and more fortunate of these travellers and students of life brought letters to Mr. and Mrs. Hambleton Durrett. That household was symptomatic--if they liked--of the new order of things; and it was rare indeed when both members of it were at home to entertain them. If Mr. Durrett were in the city, and they did not happen to be Britons with sporting proclivities, they simply were not entertained: when Mrs. Durrett received them dinners were given in their honour on the Durrett gold plate, and they spent cosey and delightful hours conversing with her in the little salon overlooking the garden, to return to their hotels and jot down paragraphs on the superiority of the American women over the men. These particular foreigners did not lay eyes on Mr. Durrett, who was in Florida or in the East playing polo or engaged in some other pursuit. One result of the lavishness and luxury that amazed them they wrote--had been to raise the standard of culture of the women, who were our leisure class. But the travellers did not remain long enough to arrive at any conclusions of value on the effect of luxury and lavishness on the sacred institution of marriage. If Mr. Nathaniel Durrett could have returned to his native city after fifteen years or so in the grave, not the least of the phenomena to startle him would have been that which was taking place in his own house. For he would have beheld serenely established in that former abode of Calvinism one of the most reprehensible of exotic abominations, a 'mariage de convenance;' nor could he have failed to observe, moreover, the complacency with which the descendants of his friends, the pew holders in Dr. Pound's church, regarded the matter: and not only these, but the city at large. The stronghold of Scotch Presbyterianism had become a London or a Paris, a Gomorrah! Mrs. Hambleton Durrett went her way, and Mr. Durrett his. The less said about Mr. Durrett's way--even in this suddenly advanced age--the better. As for Nancy, she seemed to the distant eye to be walking through life in a stately and triumphant manner. I read in the newspapers of her doings, her comings and goings; sometimes she was away for months together, often abroad; and when she was at home I saw her, but infrequently, under conditions more or less formal. Not that she was formal,--or I: our intercourse seemed eloquent of an intimacy in a tantalizing state of suspense. Would that intimacy ever be renewed? This was a question on which I sometimes speculated. The situation that had suspended or put an end to it, as the case might be, was never referred to by either of us. One afternoon in the late winter of the year following that in which we had given a dinner to the Scherers (where the Durretts had rather marvellously appeared together) I left my office about three o'clock--a most unusual occurrence. I was restless, unable to fix my mind on my work, filled with unsatisfied yearnings the object of which I sought to keep vague, and yet I directed my steps westward along Boyne Street until I came to the Art Museum, where a loan exhibition was being held. I entered, bought a catalogue, and presently found myself standing before number 103, designated as a portrait of Mrs. Hambleton Durrett,--painted in Paris the autumn before by a Polish artist then much in vogue, Stanislaus Czesky. Nancy--was it Nancy?--was standing facing me, tall, superb in the maturity of her beauty, with one hand resting on an antique table, a smile upon her lips, a gentle mockery in her eyes as though laughing at the world she adorned. With the smile and the mockery--somehow significant, too, of an achieved inaccessibility--went the sheen of her clinging gown and the glint of the heavy pearls drooping from her high throat to her waist. These caught the eye, but failed at length to hold it, for even as I looked the smile faded, the mockery turned to wistfulness. So I thought, and looked again--to see the wistfulness: the smile had gone, the pearls seemed heavier. Was it a trick of the artist? had he seen what I saw, or thought I saw? or was it that imagination which by now I might have learned to suspect and distrust. Wild longings took possession of me, for the portrait had seemed to emphasize at once how distant now she was from me, and yet how near! I wanted to put that nearness to the test. Had she really changed? did anyone really change? and had I not been a fool to accept the presentment she had given me? I remembered those moments when our glances had met as across barriers in flashes of understanding. After all, the barriers were mere relics of the superstition of the past. What if I went to her now? I felt that I needed her as I never had needed anyone in all my life.... I was aroused by the sound of lowered voices beside me. "That's Mrs. Hambleton Durrett," I heard a woman say. "Isn't she beautiful?" The note of envy struck me sharply--horribly. Without waiting to listen to the comment of her companion I hurried out of the building into the cold, white sunlight that threw into bold relief the mediocre houses of the street. Here was everyday life, but the portrait had suggested that which might have been--might be yet. What did I mean by this? I didn't know, I didn't care to define it,--a renewal of her friendship, of our intimacy. My being cried out for it, and in the world in which I lived we took what we wanted--why not this? And yet for an instant I stood on the sidewalk to discover that in new situations I was still subject to unaccountable qualms of that thing I had been taught to call "conscience"; whether it were conscience or not must be left to the psychologists. I was married--terrible word! the shadow of that Institution fell athwart me as the sun went under a cloud; but the sun came out again as I found myself walking toward the Durrett house reflecting that numbers of married men called on Nancy, and that what I had in mind in regard to her was nothing that the court would have pronounced an infringement upon the Institution.... I reached her steps, the long steps still guarded by the curved wrought-iron railings reminiscent of Nathaniel's day, though the "portals" were gone, a modern vestibule having replaced them; I rang the bell; the butler, flung open the doors. He, at any rate, did not seem surprised to see me here, he greeted me with respectful cordiality and led me, as a favoured guest, through the big drawing-room into the salon. "Mr. Paret, Madam!" Nancy, rose quickly from the low chair where she sat cutting the pages of a French novel. "Hugh!" she exclaimed. "I'm out if anyone calls. Bring tea," she added to the man, who retired. For a moment we stood gazing at each other, questioningly. "Well, won't you sit down and stay awhile?" she asked. I took a chair on the opposite side of the fire. "I just thought I'd drop in," I said. "I am flattered," said Nancy, "that a person so affaire should find time to call on an old friend. Why, I thought you never left your office until seven o'clock." "I don't, as a rule, but to-day I wasn't particularly busy, and I thought I'd go round to the Art Museum and look at your portrait." "More flattery! Hugh, you're getting quite human. What do you think of it?" "I like it. I think it quite remarkable." "Have a cigarette!" I took one. "So you really like it," she said. "Don't you?" "Oh, I think it's a trifle--romantic," she replied "But that's Czesky. He made me quite cross,--the feminine presentation of America, the spoiled woman who has shed responsibilities and is beginning to have a glimpse--just a little one--of the emptiness of it all." I was stirred. "Then why do you accept it, if it isn't you?" I demanded. "One doesn't refuse Czesky's canvases," she replied. "And what difference does it make? It amused him, and he was fairly subtle about it. Only those who are looking for romance, like you, are able to guess what he meant, and they would think they saw it anyway, even if he had painted me--extinct." "Extinct!" I repeated. She laughed. "Hugh, you're a silly old goose!" "That's why I came here, I think, to be told so," I said. Tea was brought in. A sense of at-homeness stole over me,--I was more at home here in this room with Nancy, than in any other place in the world; here, where everything was at once soothing yet stimulating, expressive of her, even the smaller objects that caught my eye,--the crystal inkstand tipped with gold, the racks for the table books, her paper-cutter. Nancy's was a discriminating luxury. And her talk! The lightness with which she touched life, the unexplored depths of her, guessed at but never fathomed! Did she feel a little the need of me as I felt the need of her? "Why, I believe you're incurably romantic, Hugh," she said laughingly, when the men had left the room. "Here you are, what they call a paragon of success, a future senator, Ambassador to England. I hear of those remarkable things you have done--even in New York the other day a man was asking me if I knew Mr. Paret, and spoke of you as one of the coming men. I suppose you will be moving there, soon. A practical success! It always surprises me when I think of it, I find it difficult to remember what a dreamer you were and here you turn out to be still a dreamer! Have you discovered, too, the emptiness of it all?" she inquired provokingly. "I must say you don't look it"--she gave me a critical, quizzical glance--"you look quite prosperous and contented, as though you enjoyed your power." I laughed uneasily. "And then," she continued, "and then one day when your luncheon has disagreed with you--you walk into a gallery and see a portrait of--of an old friend for whom in youth, when you were a dreamer, you professed a sentimental attachment, and you exclaim that the artist is a discerning man who has discovered the secret that she has guarded so closely. She's sorry that she ever tried to console herself with baubles it's what you've suspected all along. But you'll just run around to see for yourself--to be sure of it." And she handed me my tea. "Come now, confess. Where are your wits--I hear you don't lack them in court." "Well," I said, "if that amuses you--" "It does amuse me," said Nancy, twining her fingers across her knee and regarding me smilingly, with parted lips, "it amuses me a lot--it's so characteristic." "But it's not true, it's unjust," I protested vigorously, smiling, too, because the attack was so characteristic of her. "What then?" she demanded. "Well, in the first place, my luncheon didn't disagree with me. It never does." She laughed. "But the sentiment--come now--the sentiment? Do you perceive any hint of emptiness--despair?" Our chairs were very close, and she leaned forward a little. "Emptiness or no emptiness," I said a little tremulously, "I know that I haven't been so contented, so happy for a long time." She sat very still, but turned her gaze on the fire. "You really wouldn't want to find that, Hugh," she said in another voice, at which I exclaimed. "No, I'm not being sentimental. But, to be serious, I really shouldn't care to think that of you. I'd like to think of you as a friend--a good friend--although we don't see very much of one another." "But that's why I came, Nancy," I explained. "It wasn't just an impulse--that is, I've been thinking of you a great deal, all along. I miss you, I miss the way you look at things--your point of view. I can't see any reason why we shouldn't see something of each other--now--" She continued to stare into the fire. "No," she said at length, "I suppose there isn't any reason." Her mood seemed suddenly to change as she bent over and extinguished the flame under the kettle. "After all," she added gaily, "we live in a tolerant age, we've reached the years of discretion, and we're both too conventional to do anything silly--even if we wanted to--which we don't. We're neither of us likely to quarrel with the world as it is, I think, and we might as well make fun of it together. We'll begin with our friends. What do you think of Mr. Scherer's palace?" "I hear you're building it for him." "I told him to get Eyre," said Nancy, laughingly, "I was afraid he'd repeat the Gallatin Park monstrosity on a larger scale, and Eyre's the only man in this country who understands the French. It's been rather amusing," she went on, "I've had to fight Hilda, and she's no mean antagonist. How she hates me! She wanted a monstrosity, of course, a modernized German rock-grotto sort of an affair, I can imagine. She's been so funny when I've met her at dinner. 'I understand you take a great interest in the house, Mrs. Durrett.' Can't you hear her?" "Well, you did get ahead of her," I said. "I had to. I couldn't let our first citizen build a modern Rhine castle, could I? I have some public spirit left. And besides, I expect to build on Grant Avenue myself." "And leave here?" "Oh, it's too grubby, it's in the slums," said Nancy. "But I really owe you a debt of gratitude, Hugh, for the Scherers." "I'm told Adolf's lost his head over you." "It's not only over me, but over everything. He's so ridiculously proud of being on the board of the Children's Hospital.... You ought to hear him talking to old Mrs. Ogilvy, who of course can't get used to him at all,--she always has the air of inquiring what he's doing in that galley. She still thinks of him as Mr. Durrett's foreman." The time flew. Her presence was like a bracing, tingling atmosphere in which I felt revived and exhilarated, self-restored. For Nancy did not question--she took me as I was. We looked out on the world, as it were, from the same window, and I could not help thinking that ours, after all, was a large view. The topics didn't matter--our conversation was fragrant with intimacy; and we were so close to each other it seemed incredible that we ever should be parted again. At last the little clock on the mantel chimed an hour, she started and looked up. "Why, it's seven, Hugh!" she exclaimed, rising. "I'd no idea it was so late, and I'm dining with the Dickinsons. I've only just time to dress." "It's been like a reunion, hasn't it?--a reunion after many years," I said. I held her hand unconsciously--she seemed to be drawing me to her, I thought she swayed, and a sudden dizziness seized me. Then she drew away abruptly, with a little cry. I couldn't be sure about the cry, whether I heard it or not, a note was struck in the very depths of me. "Come in again," she said, "whenever you're not too busy." And a minute later I found myself on the street. This was the beginning of a new intimacy with Nancy, resembling the old intimacy yet differing from it. The emotional note of our parting on the occasion I have just related was not again struck, and when I went eagerly to see her again a few days later I was conscious of limitations,--not too conscious: the freedom she offered and which I gladly accepted was a large freedom, nor am I quite sure that even I would have wished it larger, though there were naturally moments when I thought so: when I asked myself what I did wish, I found no answer. Though I sometimes chafed, it would have been absurd of me to object to a certain timidity or caution I began to perceive in her that had been absent in the old Nancy; but the old Nancy had ceased to exist, and here instead was a highly developed, highly specialized creature in whom I delighted; and after taking thought I would not have robbed her of fine acquired attribute. As she had truly observed, we were both conventional; conventionality was part of the price we had willingly paid for membership in that rarer world we had both achieved. It was a world, to be sure, in which we were rapidly learning to take the law into our own hands without seeming to defy it, in order that the fear of it might remain in those less fortunately placed and endowed: we had begun with the appropriation of the material property of our fellow-citizens, which we took legally; from this point it was, of course, merely a logical step to take--legally, too other gentlemen's human property--their wives, in short: the more progressive East had set us our example, but as yet we had been chary to follow it. About this time rebellious voices were beginning to make themselves heard in the literary wilderness proclaiming liberty--liberty of the sexes. There were Russian novels and French novels, and pioneer English novels preaching liberty with Nietzschean stridency, or taking it for granted. I picked these up on Nancy's table. "Reading them?" she said, in answer to my query. "Of course I'm reading them. I want to know what these clever people are thinking, even if I don't always agree with them, and you ought to read them too. It's quite true what foreigners say about our men,--that they live in a groove, that they haven't any range of conversation." "I'm quite willing to be educated," I replied. "I haven't a doubt that I need it." She was leaning back in her chair, her hands behind her head, a posture she often assumed. She looked up at me amusedly. "I'll acknowledge that you're more teachable than most of them," she said. "Do you know, Hugh, sometimes you puzzle me greatly. When you are here and we're talking together I can never think of you as you are out in the world, fighting for power--and getting it. I suppose it's part of your charm, that there is that side of you, but I never consciously realize it. You're what they call a dual personality." "That's a pretty hard name!" I exclaimed. She laughed. "I can't help it--you are. Oh, not disagreeably so, quite normally--that's the odd thing about you. Sometimes I believe that you were made for something different, that in spite of your success you have missed your 'metier.'" "What ought I to have been?" "How can I tell? A Goethe, perhaps--a Goethe smothered by a twentieth-century environment. Your love of adventure isn't dead, it's been merely misdirected, real adventure, I mean, forth faring, straying into unknown paths. Perhaps you haven't yet found yourself." "How uncanny!" I said, stirred and startled. "You have a taste for literature, you know, though you've buried it. Give me Turgeniev. We'll begin with him...." Her reading and the talks that followed it were exciting, amazingly stimulating.... Once Nancy gave me an amusing account of a debate which had taken place in the newly organized woman's discussion club to which she belonged over a rather daring book by an English novelist. Mrs. Dickinson had revolted. "No, she wasn't really shocked, not in the way she thought she was," said Nancy, in answer to a query of mine. "How was she shocked, then?" "As you and I are shocked." "But I'm not shocked," I protested. "Oh, yes, you are, and so am I--not on the moral side, nor is it the moral aspect that troubles Lula Dickinson. She thinks it's the moral aspect, but it's really the revolutionary aspect, the menace to those precious institutions from which we derive our privileges and comforts." I considered this, and laughed. "What's the use of being a humbug about it," said Nancy. "But you're talking like a revolutionary," I said. "I may be talking like one, but I'm not one. I once had the makings of one--of a good one,--a 'proper' one, as the English would say." She sighed. "You regret it?" I asked curiously. "Of course I regret it!" she cried. "What woman worth her salt doesn't regret it, doesn't want to live, even if she has to suffer for it? And those people--the revolutionaries, I mean, the rebels--they live, they're the only ones who do live. The rest of us degenerate in a painless paralysis we think of as pleasure. Look at me! I'm incapable of committing a single original act, even though I might conceive one. Well, there was a time when I should have been equal to anything and wouldn't have cared a--a damn." I believed her.... I fell into the habit of dropping in on Nancy at least twice a week on my way from the office, and I met her occasionally at other houses. I did not tell Maude of that first impulsive visit; but one evening a few weeks later she asked me where I had been, and when I told her she made no comment. I came presently to the conclusion that this renewed intimacy did not trouble her--which was what I wished to believe. Of course I had gone to Nancy for a stimulation I failed to get at home, and it is the more extraordinary, therefore, that I did not become more discontented and restless: I suppose this was because I had grown to regard marriage as most of the world regarded it, as something inevitable and humdrum, as a kind of habit it is useless to try to shake off. But life is so full of complexities and anomalies that I still had a real affection for Maude, and I liked her the more because she didn't expect too much of me, and because she didn't complain of my friendship with Nancy although I should vehemently have denied there was anything to complain of. I respected Maude. If she was not a squaw, she performed religiously the traditional squaw duties, and made me comfortable: and the fact that we lived separate mental existences did not trouble me because I never thought of hers--or even that she had one. She had the children, and they seemed to suffice. She never renewed her appeal for my confidence, and I forgot that she had made it. Nevertheless I always felt a tug at my heartstrings when June came around and it was time for her and the children to go to Mattapoisett for the summer; when I accompanied them, on the evening of their departure, to the smoky, noisy station and saw deposited in the sleeping-car their luggage and shawls and bundles. They always took the evening train to Boston; it was the best. Tom and Susan were invariably there with candy and toys to see them off--if Susan and her children had not already gone--and at such moments my heart warmed to Tom. And I was astonished as I clung to Matthew and Moreton and little Biddy at the affection that welled up within me, saddened when I kissed Maude good-bye. She too was sad, and always seemed to feel compunctions for deserting me. "I feel so selfish in leaving you all alone!" she would say. "If it weren't for the children--they need the sea air. But I know you don't miss me as I miss you. A man doesn't, I suppose.... Please don't work so hard, and promise me you'll come on and stay a long time. You can if you want to. We shan't starve." She smiled. "That nice room, which is yours, at the southeast corner, is always waiting for you. And you do like the sea, and seeing the sail-boats in the morning." I felt an emptiness when the train pulled out. I did love my family, after all! I would go back to the deserted house, and I could not bear to look in at the nursery door, at the little beds with covers flung over them. Why couldn't I appreciate these joys when I had them? One evening, as we went home in an open street-car together, after such a departure, Tom blurted out:--"Hugh, I believe I care for your family as much as for my own. I often wonder if you realize how wonderful these children are! My boys are just plain ruffians--although I think they're pretty decent ruffians, but Matthew has a mind--he's thoughtful--and an imagination. He'll make a name for himself some day if he's steered properly and allowed to develop naturally. Moreton's more like my boys. And as for Chickabiddy!--" words failed him. I put my hand on his knee. I actually loved him again as I had loved and yearned for him as a child,--he was so human, so dependable. And why couldn't this feeling last? He disapproved--foolishly, I thought--of my professional career, and this was only one of his limitations. But I knew that he was loyal. Why hadn't I been able to breathe and be reasonably happy in that atmosphere of friendship and love in which I had been placed--or rather in which I had placed myself?.... Before the summer was a day or two older I had grown accustomed to being alone, and enjoyed the liberty; and when Maude and the children returned in the autumn, similarly, it took me some days to get used to the restrictions imposed by a household. I run the risk of shocking those who read this by declaring that if my family had been taken permanently out of my life, I should not long have missed them. But on the whole, in those years my marriage relation might be called a negative one. There were moments, as I have described, when I warmed to Maude, moments when I felt something akin to a violent antagonism aroused by little mannerisms and tricks she had. The fact that we got along as well as we did was probably due to the orthodox teaching with which we had been inoculated,--to the effect that matrimony was a moral trial, a shaking-down process. But moral trials were ceasing to appeal to people, and more and more of them were refusing to be shaken down. We didn't cut the Gordian knot, but we managed to loosen it considerably. I have spoken of a new species of titans who inhabited the giant buildings in Wall Street, New York, and fought among themselves for possession of the United States of America. It is interesting to note that in these struggles a certain chivalry was observed among the combatants, no matter how bitter the rivalry: for instance, it was deemed very bad form for one of the groups of combatants to take the public into their confidence; cities were upset and stirred to the core by these conflicts, and the citizens never knew who was doing the fighting, but imagined that some burning issue was at stake that concerned them. As a matter of fact the issue always did concern them, but not in the way they supposed. Gradually, out of the chaotic melee in which these titans were engaged had emerged one group more powerful than the rest and more respectable, whose leader was the Personality to whom I have before referred. He and his group had managed to gain control of certain conservative fortresses in various cities such as the Corn National Bank and the Ashuela Telephone Company--to mention two of many: Adolf Scherer was his ally, and the Boyne Iron Works, Limited, was soon to be merged by him into a greater corporation still. Leonard Dickinson might be called his local governor-general. We manned the parapets and kept our ears constantly to the ground to listen for the rumble of attacks; but sometimes they burst upon us fiercely and suddenly, without warning. Such was the assault on the Ashuela, which for years had exercised an apparently secure monopoly of the city's telephone service, which had been able to ignore with complacency the shrillest protests of unreasonable subscribers. Through the Pilot it was announced to the public that certain benevolent "Eastern capitalists" were ready to rescue them from their thraldom if the city would grant them a franchise. Mr. Lawler, the disinterestedness of whose newspaper could not be doubted, fanned the flame day by day, sent his reporters about the city gathering instances of the haughty neglect of the Ashuela, proclaiming its instruments antiquated compared with those used in more progressive cities, as compared with the very latest inventions which the Automatic Company was ready to install provided they could get their franchise. And the prices! These, too, would fall--under competition. It was a clever campaign. If the city would give them a franchise, that Automatic Company--so well named! would provide automatic instruments. Each subscriber, by means of a numerical disk, could call up any other, subscriber; there would be no central operator, no listening, no tapping of wires; the number of calls would be unlimited. As a proof of the confidence of these Eastern gentlemen in our city, they were willing to spend five millions, and present more than six hundred telephones free to the city departments! What was fairer, more generous than this! There could be no doubt that popular enthusiasm was enlisted in behalf of the "Eastern Capitalists," who were made to appear in the light of Crusaders ready to rescue a groaning people from the thrall of monopoly. The excitement approached that of a presidential election, and became the dominant topic at quick-lunch counters and in street-cars. Cheap and efficient service! Down with the Bastille of monopoly! As counsel for the Ashuela, Mr. Ogilvy sent for me, and by certain secret conduits of information at my disposal I was not long in discovering the disquieting fact that a Mr. Orthwein, who was described as a gentleman with fat fingers and a plausible manner, had been in town for a week and had been twice seen entering and emerging from Monahan's saloon. In short, Mr. Jason had already been "seen." Nevertheless I went to him myself, to find him for the first time in my experience absolutely non-committal. "What's the Ashuela willing to do?" he demanded. I mentioned a sum, and he shook his head. I mentioned another, and still he shook his head. "Come 'round again," he said... I was compelled to report this alarming situation to Ogilvy and Dickinson and a few chosen members of a panicky board of directors. "It's that damned Grannis crowd," said Dickinson, mentioning an aggressive gentleman who had migrated from Chicago to Wall Street some five years before in a pink collar. "But what's to be done?" demanded Ogilvy, playing nervously with a gold pencil on the polished table. He was one of those Americans who in a commercial atmosphere become prematurely white, and today his boyish, smooth-shaven face was almost as devoid of colour as his hair. Even Leonard Dickinson showed anxiety, which was unusual for him. "You've got to fix it, Hugh," he said. I did not see my way, but I had long ago learned to assume the unruffled air and judicial manner of speaking that inspires the layman with almost superstitious confidence in the lawyer.... "We'll find a way out," I said. Mr. Jason, of course, held the key to the situation, and just how I was to get around him was problematical. In the meantime there was the public: to permit the other fellow to capture that was to be lacking in ordinary prudence; if its votes counted for nothing, its savings were desirable; and it was fast getting into a state of outrage against monopoly. The chivalry of finance did not permit of a revelation that Mr. Grannis and his buccaneers were behind the Automatic, but it was possible to direct and strengthen the backfire which the Era and other conservative newspapers had already begun. Mr. Tallant for delicate reasons being persona non grata at the Boyne Club, despite the fact that he had so many friends there, we met for lunch in a private room at the new hotel, and as we sipped our coffee and smoked our cigars we planned a series of editorials and articles that duly appeared. They made a strong appeal to the loyalty of our citizens to stand by the home company and home capital that had taken generous risks to give them service at a time when the future of the telephone business was by no means assured; they belittled the charges made by irresponsible and interested "parties," and finally pointed out, not without effect, that one logical consequence of having two telephone companies would be to compel subscribers in self-defence to install two telephones instead of one. And where was the saving in that? "Say, Paret," said Judah B. when we had finished our labours; "if you ever get sick of the law, I'll give you a job on the Era's staff. This is fine, the way you put it. It'll do a lot of good, but how in hell are you going to handle Judd?...." For three days the inspiration was withheld. And then, as I was strolling down Boyne Street after lunch gazing into the store windows it came suddenly, without warning. Like most inspirations worth anything, it was very simple. Within half an hour I had reached Monahan's saloon and found Mr. Jason out of bed, but still in his bedroom, seated meditatively at the window that looked over the alley. "You know the crowd in New York behind this Automatic company as well as I do, Jason," I said. "Why do you want to deal with them when we've always been straight with you, when we're ready to meet them and go one better? Name your price." "Suppose I do--what then," he replied. "This thing's gone pretty far. Under that damned new charter the franchise has got to be bid for--hasn't it? And the people want this company. There'll be a howl from one end of this town to the other if we throw 'em down." "We'll look out for the public," I assured him, smiling. "Well," he said, with one of his glances that were like flashes, "what you got up your sleeve?" "Suppose another telephone company steps in, and bids a little higher for the franchise. That relieves, your aldermen of all responsibility, doesn't it?" "Another telephone company!" he repeated. I had already named it on my walk. "The Interurban," I said. "A dummy company?" said Mr. Jason. "Lively enough to bid something over a hundred thousand to the city for its franchise," I replied. Judd Jason, with a queer look, got up and went to a desk in a dark corner, and after rummaging for a few moments in one of the pigeon-holes, drew forth a glass cylinder, which he held out as he approached me. "You get it, Mr. Paret," he said. "What is it?" I asked, "a bomb!" "That," he announced, as he twisted the tube about in his long fingers, holding it up to the light, "is the finest brand of cigars ever made in Cuba. A gentleman who had every reason to be grateful to me--I won't say who he was--gave me that once. Well, the Lord made me so's I can't appreciate any better tobacco than those five-cent 'Bobtails' Monahan's got downstairs, and I saved it. I saved it for the man who would put something over me some day, and--you get it." "Thank you," I said, unconsciously falling in with the semi-ceremony of his manner. "I do not flatter myself that the solution I have suggested did not also occur to you." "You'll smoke it?" he asked. "Surely." "Now? Here with me?" "Certainly," I agreed, a little puzzled. As I broke the seal, pulled out the cork and unwrapped the cigar from its gold foil he took a stick and rapped loudly on the floor. After a brief interval footsteps were heard on the stairs and Mike Monahan, white aproned and scarlet faced, appeared at the door. "Bobtails," said Mr. Jason, laconically. "It's them I thought ye'd be wanting," said the saloon-keeper, holding out a handful. Judd Jason lighted one, and began smoking reflectively. I gazed about the mean room, with its litter of newspapers and reports, its shabby furniture, and these seemed to have become incongruous, out of figure in the chair facing me keeping with the thoughtful figure in the chair facing me. "You had a college education, Mr. Paret," he remarked at length. "Yes." "Life's a queer thing. Now if I'd had a college education, like you, and you'd been thrown on the world, like me, maybe I'd be livin' up there on Grant Avenue and you'd be down here over the saloon." "Maybe," I said, wondering uneasily whether he meant to imply a similarity in our gifts. But his manner remained impassive, speculative. "Ever read Carlyle's 'French Revolution'?" he asked suddenly. "Why, yes, part of it, a good while ago." "When you was in college?" "Yes." "I've got a little library here," he said, getting up and raising the shades and opening the glass doors of a bookcase which had escaped my attention. He took down a volume of Carlyle, bound in half calf. "Wouldn't think I cared for such things, would you?" he demanded as he handed it to me. "Well, you never can tell what a man's real tastes are until you know him," I observed, to conceal my surprise. "That's so," he agreed. "I like books--some books. If I'd had an education, I'd have liked more of 'em, known more about 'em. Now I can read this one over and over. That feller Carlyle was a genius, he could look right into the bowels of the volcano, and he was on to how men and women feet down there, how they hate, how they square 'emselves when they get a chance." He had managed to bring before me vividly that terrible, volcanic flow on Versailles of the Paris mob. He put back the book and resumed his seat. "And I know how these people fed down here, below the crust," he went on, waving his cigar out of the window, as though to indicate the whole of that mean district. "They hate, and their hate is molten hell. I've been through it." "But you've got on top," I suggested. "Sure, I've got on top. Do you know why? it's because I hated--that's why. A man's feelings, if they're strong enough, have a lot to do with what he becomes." "But he has to have ability, too," I objected. "Sure, he has to have ability, but his feeling is the driving power if he feels strong enough, he can make a little ability go a long way." I was struck by the force of this remark. I scarcely recognized Judd Jason. The man, as he revealed himself, had become at once more sinister and more fascinating. "I can guess how some of those Jacobins felt when they had the aristocrats in the dock. They'd got on top--the Jacobins, I mean. It's human nature to want to get on top--ain't it?" He looked at me and smiled, but he did not seem to expect a reply. "Well, what you call society, rich, respectable society like you belong to would have made a bum and a criminal out of me if I hadn't been too smart for 'em, and it's a kind of satisfaction to have 'em coming down here to Monahan's for things they can't have without my leave. I've got a half Nelson on 'em. I wouldn't live up on Grant Avenue if you gave me Scherer's new house." I was silent. "Instead of starting my career in college, I started in jail," he went on, apparently ignoring any effect he may have produced. So subtly, so dispassionately indeed was he delivering himself of these remarks that it was impossible to tell whether he meant their application to be personal, to me, or general, to my associates. "I went to jail when I was fourteen because I wanted a knife to make kite sticks, and I stole a razor from a barber. I was bitter when they steered me into a lockup in Hickory Street. It was full of bugs and crooks, and they put me in the same cell with an old-timer named 'Red' Waters; who was one of the slickest safe-blowers around in those days. Red took a shine to me, found out I had a head piece, and said their gang could use a clever boy. If I'd go in with him, I could make all kinds of money. I guess I might have joined the gang if Red hadn't kept talking--about how the boss of his district named Gallagher would come down and get him out,--and sure enough Gallagher did come down and get him out. I thought I'd rather be Gallagher than Red--Red had to serve time once in a while. Soon as he got out I went down to Gallagher's saloon, and there was Red leaning over the bar. 'Here's a smart kid! he says, 'He and me were room-mates over in Hickory Street.' He got to gassing me, and telling me I'd better come along with him, when Gallagher came in. 'What is it ye'd like to be, my son?' says he. A politician, I told him. I was through going to jail. Gallagher had a laugh you could hear all over the place. He took me on as a kind of handy boy around the establishment, and by and by I began to run errands and find out things for him. I was boss of that ward myself when I was twenty-six.... How'd you like that cigar?" I praised it. "It ought to have been a good one," he declared. "Well, I don't want to keep you here all afternoon telling you my life story." I assured him I had been deeply interested. "Pretty slick idea of yours, that dummy company, Mr. Paret. Go ahead and organize it." He rose, which was contrary to his custom on the departure of a visitor. "Drop in again. We'll talk about the books."... I walked slowly back reflecting on this conversation, upon the motives impelling Mr. Jason to become thus confidential; nor was it the most comforting thought in the world that the artist in me had appealed to the artist in him, that he had hailed me as a breather. But for the grace of God I might have been Mr. Jason and he Mr. Paret: undoubtedly that was what he had meant to imply... And I was forced to admit that he had succeeded--deliberately or not--in making the respectable Mr. Paret just a trifle uncomfortable. In the marble vestibule of the Corn National Bank I ran into Tallant, holding his brown straw hat in his hand and looking a little more moth-eaten than usual. "Hello, Paret," he said "how is that telephone business getting along?" "Is Dickinson in?" I asked. Tallant nodded. We went through the cool bank, with its shining brass and red mahogany, its tiled floor, its busy tellers attending to files of clients, to the president's sanctum in the rear. Leonard Dickinson, very spruce and dignified in a black cutaway coat, was dictating rapidly to a woman, stenographer, whom he dismissed when he saw us. The door was shut. "I was just asking Paret about the telephone affair," said Mr. Tallant. "Well, have you found a way out?" Leonard Dickinson looked questioningly at me. "It's all right," I answered. "I've seen Jason." "All right!" they both ejaculated at once. "We win," I said. They stood gazing at me. Even Dickinson, who was rarely ruffled, seemed excited. "Do you mean to say you've fixed it?" he demanded. I nodded. They stared at me in amazement. "How the deuce did you manage it?" "We organize the Interurban Telephone Company, and bid for the franchise--that's all." "A dummy company!" cried Tallant. "Why, it's simple as ABC!" Dickinson smiled. He was tremendously relieved, and showed it. "That's true about all great ideas, Tallant," he said. "They're simple, only it takes a clever man to think of them." "And Jason agrees?" Tallant demanded. I nodded again. "We'll have to outbid the Automatic people. I haven't seen Bitter yet about the--about the fee." "That's all right," said Leonard Dickinson, quickly. "I take off my hat to you. You've saved us. You can ask any fee you like," he added genially. "Let's go over to--to the Ashuela and get some lunch." He had been about to say the Club, but he remembered Mr. Tallant's presence in time. "Nothing's worrying you, Hugh?" he added, as we went out, followed by the glances of his employees. "Nothing," I said.... XVIX. Making money in those days was so ridiculously easy! The trouble was to know how to spend it. One evening when I got home I told Maude I had a surprise for her. "A surprise?" she asked, looking up from a little pink smock she was making for Chickabiddy. "I've bought that lot on Grant Avenue, next to the Ogilvys'." She dropped her sewing, and stared at me. "Aren't you pleased?" I asked. "At last we are going to have a house of our very own. What's the matter?" "I can't bear the thought of leaving here. I'm so used to it. I've grown to love it. It's part of me." "But," I exclaimed, a little exasperated, "you didn't expect to live here always, did you? The house has been too small for us for years. I thought you'd be delighted." (This was not strictly true, for I had rather expected some such action on her part.) "Most women would. Of course, if it's going to make such a difference to you as that, I'll sell the lot. That won't be difficult." I got up, and started to go into my study. She half rose, and her sewing fell to the floor. "Oh, why are we always having misunderstandings? Do sit down a minute, Hugh. Don't think I'm not appreciative," she pleaded. "It was--such a shock." I sat down rather reluctantly. "I can't express what I think," she continued, rather breathlessly, "but sometimes I'm actually frightened, we're going through life so fast in these days, and it doesn't seem as if we were getting the real things out of it. I'm afraid of your success, and of all the money you're making." I smiled. "I'm not so rich yet, as riches go in these days, that you need be alarmed," I said. She looked at me helplessly a moment. "I feel that it isn't--right, somehow, that you'll pay for it, that we'll pay for it. Goodness knows, we have everything we want, and more too. This house--this house is real, and I'm afraid that won't be a home, won't be real. That we'll be overwhelmed with--with things!"... She was interrupted by the entrance of the children. But after dinner, when she had seen them to bed, as was her custom, she came downstairs into my study and said quietly:--"I was wrong, Hugh. If you want to build a house, if you feel that you'd be happier, I have no right to object. Of course my sentiment for this house is natural, the children were born here, but I've realized we couldn't live here always." "I'm glad you look at it that way," I replied. "Why, we're already getting cramped, Maude, and now you're going to have a governess I don't know where you'd put her." "Not too large, a house," she pleaded. "I know you think I'm silly, but this extravagance we see everywhere does make me uneasy. Perhaps it's because I'm provincial, and always shall be." "Well, we must have a house large enough to be comfortable in," I said. "There's no reason why we shouldn't be comfortable." I thought it as well not to confess my ambitions, and I was greatly relieved that she did not reproach me for buying the lot without consulting her. Indeed, I was grateful for this unanticipated acquiescence, I felt nearer to her, than I had for a long time. I drew up another chair to my desk. "Sit down and we'll make a few sketches, just for fun," I urged. "Hugh," she said presently, as we were blacking out prospective rooms, "do you remember all those drawings and plans we made in England, on our wedding trip, and how we knew just what we wanted, and changed our minds every few days? And now we're ready to build, and haven't any ideas at all!" "Yes," I answered--but I did not look at her. "I have the book still--it's in the attic somewhere, packed away in a box. I suppose those plans would seem ridiculous now." It was quite true,--now that we were ready to build the home that had been deferred so long, now that I had the money to spend without stint on its construction, the irony of life had deprived me of those strong desires and predilections I had known on my wedding trip. What a joy it would have been to build then! But now I found myself: wholly lacking in definite ideas as to style and construction. Secretly, I looked forward to certain luxuries, such as a bedroom and dressing-room and warm tiled bathroom all to myself bachelor privacies for which I had longed. Two mornings later at the breakfast table Maude asked me if I had thought of an architect. "Why, Archie Lammerton, I suppose. Who else is there? Have you anyone else in mind?" "N-no," said Maude. "But I heard of such a clever man in Boston, who doesn't charge Mr. Lammerton's prices; and who designs such beautiful private houses." "But we can afford to pay Lammerton's prices," I replied, smiling. "And why shouldn't we have the best?" "Are you sure--he is the best, Hugh?" "Everybody has him," I said. Maude smiled in return. "I suppose that's a good reason," she answered. "Of course it's a good reason," I assured her. "These people--the people we know--wouldn't have had Lammerton unless he was satisfactory. What's the matter with his houses?" "Well," said Maude, "they're not very original. I don't say they're not good, in away, but they lack a certain imagination. It's difficult for me to express what I mean, 'machine made' isn't precisely the idea, but there should be a certain irregularity in art--shouldn't there? I saw a reproduction in one of the architectural journals of a house in Boston by a man named Frey, that seemed to me to have great charm." Here was Lucia, unmistakably. "That's all very well," I said impatiently, "but when one has to live in a house, one wants something more than artistic irregularity. Lammerton knows how to build for everyday existence; he's a practical man, as well as a man of taste, he may not be a Christopher Wrenn, but he understands conveniences and comforts. His chimneys don't smoke, his windows are tight, he knows what systems of heating are the best, and whom to go to: he knows what good plumbing is. I'm rather surprised you don't appreciate that, Maude, you're so particular as to what kind of rooms the children shall have, and you want a schoolroom-nursery with all the latest devices, with sun and ventilation. The Berringers wouldn't have had him, the Hollisters and Dickinsons wouldn't have had him if his work lacked taste." "And Nancy wouldn't have had him," added Maude, and she smiled once more. "Well, I haven't consulted Nancy, or anyone else," I replied--a little tartly, perhaps. "You don't seem to realize that some fashions may have a basis of reason. They are not all silly, as Lucia seems to think. If Lammerton builds satisfactory houses, he ought to be forgiven for being the fashion, he ought to have a chance." I got up to leave. "Let's see what kind of a plan he'll draw up, at any rate." Her glance was almost indulgent. "Of course, Hugh. I want you to be satisfied, to be pleased," she said. "And you?" I questioned, "you are to live in the house more than I." "Oh, I'm sure it will turn out all right," she replied. "Now you'd better run along, I know you're late." "I am late," I admitted, rather lamely. "If you don't care for Lammerton's drawings, we'll get another architect." Several years before Mr. Lammerton had arrived among us with a Beaux Arts moustache and letters of introduction to Mrs. Durrett and others. We found him the most adaptable, the most accommodating of young men, always ready to donate his talents and his services to private theatricals, tableaux, and fancy-dress balls, to take a place at a table at the last moment. One of his most appealing attributes was his "belief" in our city,--a form of patriotism that culminated, in later years, in "million population" clubs. I have often heard him declare, when the ladies had left the dining-room, that there was positively no limit to our future growth; and, incidentally, to our future wealth. Such sentiments as these could not fail to add to any man's popularity, and his success was a foregone conclusion. Almost before we knew it he was building the new Union Station of which he had foreseen the need, to take care of the millions to which our population was to be swelled; building the new Post Office that the unceasing efforts of Theodore Watling finally procured for us: building, indeed, Nancy's new house, the largest of our private mansions save Mr. Scherer's, a commission that had immediately brought about others from the Dickinsons and the Berringers.... That very day I called on him in his offices at the top of one of our new buildings, where many young draftsmen were bending over their boards. I was ushered into his private studio. "I suppose you want something handsome, Hugh," he said, looking at me over his cigarette, "something commensurate with these fees I hear you are getting." "Well, I want to be comfortable," I admitted. We lunched at the Club together, where we talked over the requirements. When he came to dinner the next week and spread out his sketch on the living-room table Maude drew in her breath. "Why, Hugh," she exclaimed in dismay, "it's as big as--as big as the White House!" "Not quite," I answered, laughing with Archie. "We may as well take our ease in our old age." "Take our ease!" echoed Maude. "We'll rattle 'round in it. I'll never get used to it." "After a month, Mrs. Paret, I'll wager you'll be wondering how you ever got along without it," said Archie. It was not as big as the White House, yet it could not be called small. I had seen, to that. The long facade was imposing, dignified, with a touch of conventionality and solidity in keeping with my standing in the city. It was Georgian, of plum-coloured brick with marble trimmings and marble wedges over the ample windows, some years later I saw the house by Ferguson, of New York, from which Archie had cribbed it. At one end, off the dining-room, was a semicircular conservatory. There was a small portico, with marble pillars, and in the ample, swift sloping roof many dormers; servants' rooms, Archie explained. The look of anxiety on Maude's face deepened as he went over the floor plans, the reception-room; dining room to seat thirty, the servants' hall; and upstairs Maude's room, boudoir and bath and dress closet, my "apartments" adjoining on one side and the children's on the other, and the guest-rooms with baths.... Maude surrendered, as one who gives way to the inevitable. When the actual building began we both of us experienced, I think; a certain mild excitement; and walked out there, sometimes with the children, in the spring evenings, and on Sunday afternoons. "Excitement" is, perhaps, too strong a word for my feelings: there was a pleasurable anticipation on my part, a looking forward to a more decorous, a more luxurious existence; a certain impatience at the delays inevitable in building. But a new legal commercial enterprise of magnitude began to absorb me at his time, and somehow the building of this home--the first that we possessed was not the event it should have been; there were moments when I felt cheated, when I wondered what had become of that capacity for enjoyment which in my youth had been so keen. I remember indeed, one grey evening when I went there alone, after the workmen had departed, and stood in the litter of mortar and bricks and boards gazing at the completed front of the house. It was even larger than I had imagined it from the plans; in the Summer twilight there was an air about it,--if not precisely menacing, at least portentous, with its gaping windows and towering roof. I was a little tired from a hard day; I had the odd feeding of having raised up something with which--momentarily at least--I doubted my ability to cope: something huge, impersonal; something that ought to have represented a fireside, a sanctuary, and yet was the embodiment of an element quite alien to the home; a restless element with which our American atmosphere had, by invisible degrees, become charged. As I stared at it, the odd fancy seized me that the building somehow typified my own career.... I had gained something, in truth, but had I not also missed something? something a different home would have embodied? Maude and the children had gone, to the seaside. With a vague uneasiness I turned away from the contemplation of those walls. The companion mansions were closed, their blinds tightly drawn; the neighbourhood was as quiet as the country, save for a slight but persistent noise that impressed itself on my consciousness. I walked around the house to spy in the back yard; a young girl rather stealthily gathering laths, and fragments of joists and flooring, and loading them into a child's express-wagon. She started when she saw me. She was little, more than a child, and the loose calico dress she wore seemed to emphasize her thinness. She stood stock-still, staring at me with frightened yet defiant eyes. I, too, felt a strange timidity in her presence. "Why do you stop?" I asked at length. "Say, is this your heap?" she demanded. I acknowledged it. A hint of awe widened her eyes. Then site glanced at the half-filled wagon. "This stuff ain't no use to you, is it?" "No, I'm glad to have you take it." She shifted to the other foot, but did not continue her gathering. An impulse seized me, I put down my walkingstick and began picking up pieces of wood, flinging them into the wagon. I looked at her again, rather furtively; she had not moved. Her attitude puzzled me, for it was one neither of surprise nor of protest. The spectacle of the "millionaire" owner of the house engaged in this menial occupation gave her no thrills. I finished the loading. "There!" I said, and drew a dollar bill out of my pocket and gave it to her. Even then she did not thank me, but took up the wagon tongue and went off, leaving on me a disheartening impression of numbness, of life crushed out. I glanced up once more at the mansion I had built for myself looming in the dusk, and walked hurriedly away.... One afternoon some three weeks after we had moved into the new house, I came out of the Club, where I had been lunching in conference with Scherer and two capitalists from New York. It was after four o'clock, the day was fading, the street lamps were beginning to cast sickly streaks of jade-coloured light across the slush of the pavements. It was the sight of this slush (which for a brief half hour that morning had been pure snow, and had sent Matthew and Moreton and Biddy into ecstasies at the notion of a "real Christmas"), that brought to my mind the immanence of the festival, and the fact that I had as yet bought no presents. Such was the predicament in which I usually found myself on Christmas eve; and it was not without a certain sense of annoyance at the task thus abruptly confronting me that I got into my automobile and directed the chauffeur to the shopping district. The crowds surged along the wet sidewalks and overflowed into the street, and over the heads of the people I stared at the blazing shop-windows decked out in Christmas greens. My chauffeur, a bristly-haired Parisian, blew his horn insolently, men and women jostled each other to get out of the way, their holiday mood giving place to resentment as they stared into the windows of the limousine. With the American inability to sit still I shifted from one corner of the seat to another, impatient at the slow progress of the machine: and I felt a certain contempt for human beings, that they should make all this fuss, burden themselves with all these senseless purchases, for a tradition. The automobile stopped, and I fought my way across the sidewalk into the store of that time-honoured firm, Elgin, Yates and Garner, pausing uncertainly before the very counter where, some ten years before, I had bought an engagement ring. Young Mr. Garner himself spied me, and handing over a customer to a tired clerk, hurried forward to greet me, his manner implying that my entrance was in some sort an event. I had become used to this aroma of deference. "What can I show you, Mr. Paret?" he asked. "I don't know--I'm looking around," I said, vaguely, bewildered by the glittering baubles by which I was confronted. What did Maude want? While I was gazing into the case, Mr. Garner opened a safe behind him, laying before me a large sapphire set with diamonds in a platinum brooch; a beautiful stone, in the depths of it gleaming a fire like a star in an arctic sky. I had not given Maude anything of value of late. Decidedly, this was of value; Mr. Garner named the price glibly; if Mrs. Paret didn't care for it, it might be brought back or exchanged. I took it, with a sigh of relief. Leaving the store, I paused on the edge of the rushing stream of humanity, with the problem of the children's gifts still to be solved. I thought of my own childhood, when at Christmastide I had walked with my mother up and down this very street, so changed and modernized now; recalling that I had had definite desires, desperate ones; but my imagination failed me when I tried to summon up the emotions connected with them. I had no desires now: I could buy anything in reason in the whole street. What did Matthew and Moreton want? and little Biddy? Maude had not "spoiled" them; but they didn't seem to have any definite wants. The children made me think, with a sudden softening, of Tom Peters, and I went into a tobacconist's and bought him a box of expensive cigars. Then I told the chauffeur to take me to a toy-shop, where I stood staring through a plate-glass window at the elaborate playthings devised for the modern children of luxury. In the centre was a toy man-of-war, three feet in length, with turrets and guns, and propellers and a real steam-engine. As a boy I should have dreamed about it, schemed for it, bartered my immortal soul for it. But--if I gave it to Matthew, what was there for Moreton? A steam locomotive caught my eye, almost as elaborate. Forcing my way through the doors, I captured a salesman, and from a state bordering on nervous collapse he became galvanized into an intense alertness and respect when he understood my desires. He didn't know the price of the objects in question. He brought the proprietor, an obsequious little German who, on learning my name, repeated it in every sentence. For Biddy I chose a doll that was all but human; when held by a young woman for my inspection, it elicited murmurs of admiration from the women shoppers by whom we were surrounded. The proprietor promised to make a special delivery of the three articles before seven o'clock.... Presently the automobile, after speeding up the asphalt of Grant Avenue, stopped before the new house. In spite of the change that house had made in my life, in three weeks I had become amazingly used to it; yet I had an odd feeling that Christmas eve as I stood under the portico with my key in the door, the same feeling of the impersonality of the place which I had experienced before. Not that for one moment I would have exchanged it for the smaller house we had left. I opened the door. How often, in that other house, I had come in the evening seeking quiet, my brain occupied with a problem, only to be annoyed by the romping of the children on the landing above. A noise in one end of it echoed to the other. But here, as I entered the hall, all was quiet: a dignified, deep-carpeted stairway swept upward before me, and on either side were wide, empty rooms; and in the subdued light of one of them I saw a dark figure moving silently about--the butler. He came forward to relieve me, deftly, of my hat and overcoat. Well, I had it at last, this establishment to which I had for so long looked forward. And yet that evening, as I hesitated in the hall, I somehow was unable to grasp that it was real and permanent, the very solidity of the walls and doors paradoxically suggested transientness, the butler a flitting ghost. How still the place was! Almost oppressively still. I recalled oddly a story of a peasant who, yearning for the great life, had stumbled upon an empty palace, its tables set with food in golden dishes. Before two days had passed he had fled from it in horror back to his crowded cottage and his drudgery in the fields. Never once had the sense of possession of the palace been realized. Nor did I feel that I possessed this house, though I had the deeds of it in my safe and the receipted bills in my files. It eluded me; seemed, in my, bizarre mood of that evening, almost to mock me. "You have built me," it seemed to say, "but I am stronger than you, because you have not earned me." Ridiculous, when the years of my labour and the size of my bank account were considered! Such, however, is the verbal expression of my feeling. Was the house empty, after all? Had something happened? With a slight panicky sensation I climbed the stairs, with their endless shallow treads, to hurry through the silent hallway to the schoolroom. Reassuring noises came faintly through the heavy door. I opened it. Little Biddy was careening round and round, crying out:--"To-morrow's Chris'mas! Santa Claus is coming tonight." Matthew was regarding her indulgently, sympathetically, Moreton rather scornfully. The myth had been exploded for both, but Matthew still hugged it. That was the difference between them. Maude, seated on the floor, perceived me first, and glanced up at me with a smile. "It's father!" she said. Biddy stopped in the midst of a pirouette. At the age of seven she was still shy with me, and retreated towards Maude. "Aren't we going to have a tree, father?" demanded Moreton, aggressively. "Mother won't tell us--neither will Miss Allsop." Miss Allsop was their governess. "Why do you want a tree?" I asked. "Oh, for Biddy," he said. "It wouldn't be Christmas without a tree," Matthew declared, "--and Santa Claus," he added, for his sister's benefit. "Perhaps Santa Claus, when he sees we've got this big house, will think we don't need anything, and go on to some poorer children," said Maude. "You wouldn't blame him if he did that,--would you?" The response to this appeal cannot be said to have been enthusiastic.... After dinner, when at last all of them were in bed, we dressed the tree; it might better be said that Maude and Miss Allsop dressed it, while I gave a perfunctory aid. Both the women took such a joy in the process, vying with each other in getting effects, and as I watched them eagerly draping the tinsel and pinning on the glittering ornaments I wondered why it was that I was unable to find the same joy as they. Thus it had been every Christmas eve. I was always tired when I got home, and after dinner relaxation set in. An electrician had come while we were at the table, and had fastened on the little electric bulbs which did duty as candles. "Oh," said Maude, as she stood off to survey the effect, "isn't it beautiful! Come, Miss Allsop, let's get the presents." They flew out of the room, and presently hurried back with their arms full of the usual parcels: parcels from Maude's family in Elkington, from my own relatives, from the Blackwoods and the Peterses, from Nancy. In the meantime I had had my own contributions brought up, the man of war, the locomotive, the big doll. Maude stood staring. "Hugh, they'll be utterly ruined!" she exclaimed. "The boys might as well have something instructive," I replied, "and as for Biddy--nothing's too good for her." "I might have known you wouldn't forget them, although you are so busy.".... We filled the three stockings hung by the great fireplace. Then, with a last lingering look at the brightness of the tree, she stood in the doorway and turned the electric switch. "Not before seven to-morrow morning, Miss Allsop," she said. "Hugh, you will get up, won't you? You mustn't miss seeing them. You can go back to bed again." I promised. Evidently, this was Reality to Maude. And had it not been one of my dreams of marriage, this preparing for the children's Christmas, remembering the fierce desires of my own childhood? It struck me, after I had kissed her good night and retired to my dressing-room, that fierce desires burned within me still, but the objects towards which their flames leaped out differed. That was all. Had I remained a child, since my idea of pleasure was still that of youth? The craving far excitement, adventure, was still unslaked; the craving far freedom as keen as ever. During the whole of my married life, I had been conscious of an inner protest against "settling down," as Tom Peters had settled down. The smaller house from which we had moved, with its enforced propinquity, hard emphasized the bondage of marriage. Now I had two rooms to myself, in the undisputed possession of which I had taken a puerile delight. On one side of my dressing-room Archie Lammerton had provided a huge closet containing the latest devices for the keeping of a multitudinous wardrobe; there was a reading-lamp, and the easiest of easy-chairs, imported from England, while between the windows were shelves of Italian walnut which I had filled with the books I had bought while at Cambridge, and had never since opened. As I sank down in my chair that odd feeling of uneasiness, of transience and unreality, of unsatisfaction I had had ever since we had moved suddenly became intensified, and at the very moment when I had gained everything I had once believed a man could desire! I was successful, I was rich, my health had not failed, I had a wife who catered to my wishes, lovable children who gave no trouble and yet--there was still the void to be filled, the old void I had felt as a boy, the longing for something beyond me, I knew not what; there was the strange inability to taste any of these things, the need at every turn for excitement, for a stimulus. My marriage had been a disappointment, though I strove to conceal this from myself; a disappointment because it had not filled the requirements of my category--excitement and mystery: I had provided the setting and lacked the happiness. Another woman Nancy--might have given me the needed stimulation; and yet my thoughts did not dwell on Nancy that night, my longings were not directed towards her, but towards the vision of a calm, contented married happiness I had looked forward to in youth,--a vision suddenly presented once more by the sight of Maude's simple pleasure in dressing the Christmas tree. What restless, fiendish element in me prevented my enjoying that? I had something of the fearful feeling of a ghost in my own house and among my own family, of a spirit doomed to wander, unable to share in what should have been my own, in what would have saved me were I able to partake of it. Was it too late to make that effort?.... Presently the strains of music pervaded my consciousness, the chimes of Trinity ringing out in the damp night the Christmas hymn, Adeste Fideles. It was midnight it was Christmas. How clear the notes rang through the wet air that came in at my window! Back into the dim centuries that music led me, into candle-lit Gothic chapels of monasteries on wind-swept heights above the firs, and cathedrals in mediaeval cities. Twilight ages of war and scourge and stress and storm--and faith. "Oh, come, all ye Faithful!" What a strange thing, that faith whose flame so marvellously persisted, piercing the gloom; the Christmas myth, as I had heard someone once call it. Did it possess the power to save me? Save me from what? Ah, in this hour I knew. In the darkness the Danger loomed up before me, vague yet terrible, and I trembled. Why was not this Thing ever present, to chasten and sober me? The Thing was myself. Into my remembrance, by what suggestion I know not, came that March evening when I had gone to Holder Chapel at Harvard to listen to a preacher, a personality whose fame and influence had since spread throughout the land. Some dim fear had possessed me then. I recalled vividly the man, and the face of Hermann Krebs as I drew back from the doorway.... When I awoke my disquieting, retrospective mood had disappeared, and yet there clung to me, minus the sanction of fear or reward or revealed truth, a certain determination to behave, on this day at least, more like a father and a husband: to make an effort to enter into the spirit of the festival, and see what happened. I dressed in cheerful haste, took the sapphire pendant from its velvet box, tiptoed into the still silent schoolroom and hung it on the tree, flooding on the electric light that set the tinsel and globes ablaze. No sooner had I done this than I heard the patter of feet in the hallway, and a high-pitched voice--Biddy's --crying out:--"It's Santa Claus!" Three small, flannel-wrappered figures stood in the doorway. "Why, it's father!" exclaimed Moreton. "And he's all dressed!" said Matthew. "Oh-h-h!" cried Biddy, staring at the blazing tree, "isn't it beautiful!" Maude was close behind them. She gave an exclamation of delighted surprise when she saw me, and then stood gazing with shining eyes at the children, especially at Biddy, who stood dazzled by the glory of the constellation confronting her.... Matthew, too, wished to prolong the moment of mystery. It was the practical Moreton who cried:--"Let's see what we've got!" The assault and the sacking began. I couldn't help thinking as I watched them of my own wildly riotous, Christmas-morning sensations, when all the gifts had worn the aura of the supernatural; but the arrival of these toys was looked upon by my children as a part of the natural order of the universe. At Maude's suggestion the night before we had placed my presents, pieces de resistance, at a distance from the tree, in the hope that they would not be spied at once, that they would be in some sort a climax. It was Matthew who first perceived the ship, and identified it, by the card, as his property. To him it was clearly wonderful, but no miracle. He did not cry out, or call the attention of the others to it, but stood with his feet apart, examining it, his first remark being a query as to why it didn't fly the American flag. It's ensign was British. Then Moreton saw the locomotive, was told that it was his, and took possession of it violently. Why wasn't there more track? Wouldn't I get more track? I explained that it would go by steam, and he began unscrewing the cap on the little boiler until he was distracted by the man-of-war, and with natural acquisitiveness started to take possession of that. Biddy was bewildered by the doll, which Maude had taken up and was holding in her lap. She had had talking dolls before, and dolls that closed their eyes; she recognized this one, indeed, as a sort of super-doll, but her little mind was modern, too, and set no limits on what might be accomplished. She patted it, but was more impressed by the raptures of Miss Allsop, who had come in and was admiring it with some extravagance. Suddenly the child caught sight of her stocking, until now forgotten, and darted for the fireplace. I turned to Maude, who stood beside me, watching them. "But you haven't looked on the tree yourself," I reminded her. She gave me an odd, questioning glance, and got up and set down the doll. As she stood for a moment gazing at the lights, she seemed very girlish in her dressing-gown, with her hair in two long plaits down her back. "Oh, Hugh!" She lifted the pendant from the branch and held it up. Her gratitude, her joy at receiving a present was deeper than the children's! "You chose it for me?" I felt something like a pang when I thought how little trouble it had been. "If you don't like it," I said, "or wish to have it changed--" "Changed!" she exclaimed reproachfully. "Do you think I'd change it? Only--it's much too valuable--" I smiled.... Miss Allsop deftly undid the clasp and hung it around Maude's neck. "How it suits you, Mrs. Paret!" she cried.... This pendant was by no means the only present I had given Maude in recent years, and though she cared as little for jewels as for dress she seemed to attach to it a peculiar value and significance that disturbed and smote me, for the incident had revealed a love unchanged and unchangeable. Had she taken my gift as a sign that my indifference was melting? As I went downstairs and into the library to read the financial page of the morning newspaper I asked myself, with a certain disquiet, whether, in the formal, complicated, and luxurious conditions in which we now lived it might be possible to build up new ties and common interests. I reflected that this would involve confessions and confidences on my part, since there was a whole side of my life of which Maude knew nothing. I had convinced myself long ago that a man's business career was no affair of his wife's: I had justified that career to myself: yet I had always had a vague feeling that Maude, had she known the details, would not have approved of it. Impossible, indeed, for a woman to grasp these problems. They were outside of her experience. Nevertheless, something might be done to improve our relationship, something which would relieve me of that uneasy lack of unity I felt when at home, of the lassitude and ennui I was wont to feel creeping over me on Sundays and holidays.... XX. I find in relating those parts of my experience that seem to be of most significance I have neglected to tell of my mother's death, which occurred the year before we moved to Grant Avenue. She had clung the rest of her days to the house in which I had been born. Of late years she had lived in my children, and Maude's devotion to her had been unflagging. Truth compels me to say that she had long ceased to be a factor in my life. I have thought of her in later years. Coincident with the unexpected feeling of fruitlessness that came to me with the Grant Avenue house, of things achieved but not realized or appreciated, was the appearance of a cloud on the business horizon; or rather on the political horizon, since it is hard to separate the two realms. There were signs, for those who could read, of a rising popular storm. During the earliest years of the new century the political atmosphere had changed, the public had shown a tendency to grow restless; and everybody knows how important it is for financial operations, for prosperity, that the people should mind their own business. In short, our commercial-romantic pilgrimage began to meet with unexpected resistance. It was as though the nation were entering into a senseless conspiracy to kill prosperity. In the first place, in regard to the Presidency of the United States, a cog had unwittingly been slipped. It had always been recognized--as I have said--by responsible financial personages that the impulses of the majority of Americans could not be trusted, that these--who had inherited illusions of freedom--must be governed firmly yet with delicacy; unknown to them, their Presidents must be chosen for them, precisely as Mr. Watling had been chosen for the people of our state, and the popular enthusiasm manufactured later. There were informal meetings in New York, in Washington, where candidates were discussed; not that such and such a man was settled upon,--it was a process of elimination. Usually the affair had gone smoothly. For instance, a while before, a benevolent capitalist of the middle west, an intimate of Adolf Scherer, had become obsessed with the idea that a friend of his was the safest and sanest man for the head of the nation, had convinced his fellow-capitalists of this, whereupon he had gone ahead to spend his energy and his money freely to secure the nomination and election of this gentleman. The Republican National Committee, the Republican National Convention were allowed to squabble to their hearts' content as to whether Smith, Jones or Brown should be nominated, but it was clearly understood that if Robinson or White were chosen there would be no corporation campaign funds. This applied also to the Democratic party, on the rare occasions when it seemed to have an opportunity of winning. Now, however, through an unpardonable blunder, there had got into the White House a President who was inclined to ignore advice, who appealed over the heads of the "advisers" to the populace; who went about tilting at the industrial structures we had so painfully wrought, and in frequent blasts of presidential messages enunciated new and heretical doctrines; who attacked the railroads, encouraged the brazen treason of labour unions, inspired an army of "muck-rakers" to fill the magazines with the wildest and most violent of language. State legislatures were emboldened to pass mischievous and restrictive laws, and much of my time began to be occupied in inducing, by various means, our courts to declare these unconstitutional. How we sighed for a business man or a lawyer in the White House! The country had gone mad, the stock-market trembled, the cry of "corporation control" resounded everywhere, and everywhere demagogues arose to inaugurate "reform campaigns," in an abortive attempt to "clean up politics." Down with the bosses, who were the tools of the corporations! In our own city, which we fondly believed to be proof against the prevailing madness, a slight epidemic occurred; slight, yet momentarily alarming. Accidents will happen, even in the best regulated political organizations,--and accidents in these days appeared to be the rule. A certain Mr. Edgar Greenhalge, a middle-aged, mild-mannered and inoffensive man who had made a moderate fortune in wholesale drugs, was elected to the School Board. Later on some of us had reason to suspect that Perry Blackwood--with more astuteness than he had been given credit for--was responsible for Mr. Greenhalge's candidacy. At any rate, he was not a man to oppose, and in his previous life had given no hint that he might become a trouble maker. Nothing happened for several months. But one day on which I had occasion to interview Mr. Jason on a little matter of handing over to the Railroad a piece of land belonging to the city, which was known as Billings' Bowl, he inferred that Mr. Greenhaige might prove a disturber of that profound peace with which the city administration had for many years been blessed. "Who the hell is he?" was Mr. Jason's question. It appeared that Mr. G.'s private life had been investigated, with disappointingly barren results; he was, seemingly, an anomalistic being in our Nietzschean age, an unaggressive man; he had never sold any drugs to the city; he was not a church member; nor could it be learned that he had ever wandered into those byways of the town where Mr. Jason might easily have got trace of him: if he had any vices, he kept them locked up in a safe-deposit box that could not be "located." He was very genial, and had a way of conveying disturbing facts--when he wished to convey them--under cover of the most amusing stories. Mr. Jason was not a man to get panicky. Greenhalge could be handled all right, only--what was there in it for Greenhalge?--a nut difficult for Mr. Jason to crack. The two other members of the School Board were solid. Here again the wisest of men was proved to err, for Mr. Greenhalge turned out to have powers of persuasion; he made what in religious terms would have been called a conversion in the case of another member of the board, an hitherto staunch old reprobate by the name of Muller, an ex-saloon-keeper in comfortable circumstances to whom the idea of public office had appealed. Mr. Greenhalge, having got wind of certain transactions that interested him extremely, brought them in his good-natured way to the knowledge of Mr. Gregory, the district attorney, suggesting that he investigate. Mr. Gregory smiled; undertook, as delicately as possible, to convey to Mr. Greenhalge the ways of the world, and of the political world in particular, wherein, it seemed, everyone was a good fellow. Mr. Greenhalge was evidently a good fellow, and didn't want to make trouble over little things. No, Mr. Greenhalge didn't want to make trouble; he appreciated a comfortable life as much as Mr. Gregory; he told the district attorney a funny story which might or might not have had an application to the affair, and took his leave with the remark that he had been happy to make Mr. Gregory's acquaintance. On his departure the district attorney's countenance changed. He severely rebuked a subordinate for some trivial mistake, and walked as rapidly as he could carry his considerable weight to Monahan's saloon.... One of the things Mr. Gregory had pointed out incidentally was that Mr. Greenhalge's evidence was vague, and that a grand jury wanted facts, which might be difficult to obtain. Mr. Greenhalge, thinking over the suggestion, sent for Krebs. In the course of a month or two the investigation was accomplished, Greenhalge went back to Gregory; who repeated his homilies, whereupon he was handed a hundred or so typewritten pages of evidence. It was a dramatic moment. Mr. Gregory resorted to pleading. He was sure that Mr. Greenhalge didn't want to be disagreeable, it was true and unfortunate that such things were so, but they would be amended: he promised all his influence to amend them. The public conscience, said Mr. Gregory, was being aroused. Now how much better for the party, for the reputation, the fair name of the city if these things could be corrected quietly, and nobody indicted or tried! Between sensible and humane men, wasn't that the obvious way? After the election, suit could be brought to recover the money. But Mr. Greenhalge appeared to be one of those hopeless individuals without a spark of party loyalty; he merely continued to smile, and to suggest that the district attorney prosecute. Mr. Gregory temporized, and presently left the city on a vacation. A day or two after his second visit to the district attorney's office Mr. Greenhalge had a call from the city auditor and the purchasing agent, who talked about their families,--which was very painful. It was also intimated to Mr. Greenhalge by others who accosted him that he was just the man for mayor. He smiled, and modestly belittled his qualifications.... Suddenly, one fine morning, a part of the evidence Krebs had gathered appeared in the columns of the Mail and State, a new and enterprising newspaper for which the growth and prosperity of our city were responsible; the sort of "revelations" that stirred to amazement and wrath innocent citizens of nearly every city in our country: politics and "graft" infesting our entire educational system, teachers and janitors levied upon, prices that took the breath away paid to favoured firms for supplies, specifications so worded that reasonable bids were barred. The respectable firm of Ellery and Knowles was involved. In spite of our horror, we were Americans and saw the humour of the situation, and laughed at the caricature in the Mail and State representing a scholar holding up a pencil and a legend under it, "No, it's not gold, but it ought to be." Here I must enter into a little secret history. Any affair that threatened the integrity of Mr. Jason's organization was of serious moment to the gentlemen of the financial world who found that organization invaluable and who were also concerned about the fair name of their community; a conference in the Boyne Club decided that the city officials were being persecuted, and entitled therefore to "the very best of counsel,"--in this instance, Mr. Hugh Paret. It was also thought wise by Mr. Dickinson, Mr. Gorse, and Mr. Grierson, and by Mr. Paret himself that he should not appear in the matter; an aspiring young attorney, Mr. Arbuthnot, was retained to conduct the case in public. Thus capital came to the assistance of Mr. Jason, a fund was raised, and I was given carte blanche to defend the miserable city auditor and purchasing agent, both of whom elicited my sympathy; for they were stout men, and rapidly losing weight. Our first care was to create a delay in the trial of the case in order to give the public excitement a chance to die down. For the public is proverbially unable to fix its attention for long on one object, continually demanding the distraction that our newspapers make it their business to supply. Fortunately, a murder was committed in one of our suburbs, creating a mystery that filled the "extras" for some weeks, and this was opportunely followed by the embezzlement of a considerable sum by the cashier of one of our state banks. Public interest was divided between baseball and the tracking of this criminal to New Zealand. Our resentment was directed, not so much against Commissioner Greenhalge as against Krebs. It is curious how keen is the instinct of men like Grierson, Dickinson, Tallant and Scherer for the really dangerous opponent. Who the deuce was this man Krebs? Well, I could supply them with some information: they doubtless recalled the Galligan, case; and Miller Gorse, who forgot nothing, also remembered his opposition in the legislature to House Bill 709. He had continued to be the obscure legal champion of "oppressed" labour, but how he had managed to keep body and soul together I knew not. I had encountered him occasionally in court corridors or on the street; he did not seem to change much; nor did he appear in our brief and perfunctory conversations to bear any resentment against me for the part I had taken in the Galligan affair. I avoided him when it was possible.... I had to admit that he had done a remarkably good piece of work in collecting Greenhalge's evidence, and how the, erring city officials were to be rescued became a matter of serious concern. Gregory, the district attorney, was in an abject funk; in any case a mediocre lawyer, after the indictment he was no help at all. I had to do all the work, and after we had selected the particular "Railroad" judge before whom the case was to be tried, I talked it over with him. His name was Notting, he understood perfectly what was required of him, and that he was for the moment the chief bulwark on which depended the logical interests of capital and sane government for their defence; also, his re-election was at stake. It was indicated to newspapers (such as the Mail and State) showing a desire to keep up public interest in the affair that their advertising matter might decrease; Mr. Sherrill's great department store, for instance, did not approve of this sort of agitation. Certain stationers, booksellers and other business men had got "cold feet," as Mr. Jason put it, the prospect of bankruptcy suddenly looming ahead of them,--since the Corn National Bank held certain paper.... In short, when the case did come to trial, it "blew up," as one of our ward leaders dynamically expressed it. Several important witnesses were mysteriously lacking, and two or three school-teachers had suddenly decided--to take a trip to Europe. The district attorney was ill, and assigned the prosecution to a mild assistant; while a sceptical jury--composed largely of gentlemen who had the business interests of the community, and of themselves, at heart returned a verdict of "not guilty." This was the signal for severely dignified editorials in Mr. Tallant's and other conservative newspapers, hinting that it might be well in the future for all well-meaning but misguided reformers to think twice before subjecting the city to the cost of such trials, and uselessly attempting to inflame public opinion and upset legitimate business. The Era expressed the opinion that no city in the United States was "more efficiently and economically governed than our own." "Irregularities" might well occur in every large organization; and it would better have become Mr. Greenhalge if, instead of hiring an unknown lawyer thirsting for notoriety to cook up charges, he had called the attention of the proper officials to the matter, etc., etc. The Pilot alone, which relied on sensation for its circulation, kept hammering away for a time with veiled accusations. But our citizens had become weary.... As a topic, however, this effective suppression of reform was referred to with some delicacy by my friends and myself. Our interference had been necessary and therefore justified, but we were not particularly proud of it, and our triumph had a temporarily sobering effect. It was about this time, if I remember correctly, that Mr. Dickinson gave the beautiful stained-glass window to the church.... Months passed. One day, having occasion to go over to the Boyne Iron Works to get information at first hand from certain officials, and having finished my business, I boarded a South Side electric car standing at the terminal. Just before it started Krebs came down the aisle of the car and took the seat in front of me. "Well," I said, "how are you?" He turned in surprise, and thrust his big, bony hand across the back of the seat. "Come and sit here." He came. "Do you ever get back to Cambridge in these days?" I asked cordially. "Not since I graduated from newspaper work in Boston. That's a good many years ago. By the way, our old landlady died this year." "Do you mean--?" "Granite Face," I was about to say. I had forgotten her name, but that homesick scene when Tom and I stood before our open trunks, when Krebs had paid us a visit, came back to me. "You've kept in touch with her?" I asked, in surprise. "Well," said Krebs, "she was one of the few friends I had at Cambridge. I had a letter from the daughter last week. She's done very well, and is an instructor in biology in one of the western universities." I was silent a moment. "And you,--you never married, did you?" I inquired, somewhat irrelevantly. His semi-humorous gesture seemed to deny that such a luxury was for him. The conversation dragged a little; I began to feel the curiosity he invariably inspired. What was his life? What were his beliefs? And I was possessed by a certain militancy, a desire to "smoke him out." I did not stop to reflect that mine was in reality a defensive rather than an aggressive attitude. "Do you live down here, in this part of the city?" I asked. No, he boarded in Fowler Street. I knew it as in a district given over to the small houses of working-men. "I suppose you are still a socialist." "I suppose I am," he admitted, and added, "at any rate, that is as near as you can get to it." "Isn't it fairly definite?" "Fairly, if my notions are taken in general as the antithesis of what you fellows believe." "The abolition of property, for instance." "The abolition of too much property." "What do you mean by 'too much'?" "When it ceases to be real to a man, when it represents more than his need, when it drives him and he becomes a slave to it." Involuntarily I thought of my new house,--not a soothing reflection. "But who is going to decree how much property, a man should have?" "Nobody--everybody. That will gradually tend to work itself out as we become more sensible and better educated, and understand more clearly what is good for us." I retorted with the stock, common-sense phrase. "If we had a division to-morrow, within a few years or so the most efficient would contrive to get the bulk of it back in their hands." "That's so," he admitted. "But we're not going to have a division to-morrow." "Thank God!" I exclaimed. He regarded me. "The 'efficient' will have to die or be educated first. That will take time." "Educated!" "Paret, have you ever read any serious books on what you call socialism?" he asked. I threw out an impatient negative. I was going on to protest that I was not ignorant of the doctrine. "Oh, what you call socialism is merely what you believe to be the more or less crude and utopian propaganda of an obscure political party. That isn't socialism. Nor is the anomalistic attempt that the Christian Socialists make to unite modern socialistic philosophy with Christian orthodoxy, socialism." "What is socialism, then?" I demanded, somewhat defiantly. "Let's call it education, science," he said smilingly, "economics and government based on human needs and a rational view of religion. It has been taught in German universities, and it will be taught in ours whenever we shall succeed in inducing your friends, by one means or another, not to continue endowing them. Socialism, in the proper sense, is merely the application of modern science to government." I was puzzled and angry. What he said made sense somehow, but it sounded to me like so much gibberish. "But Germany is a monarchy," I objected. "It is a modern, scientific system with monarchy as its superstructure. It is anomalous, but frank. The monarchy is there for all men to see, and some day it will be done away with. We are supposedly a democracy, and our superstructure is plutocratic. Our people feel the burden, but they have not yet discovered what the burden is." "And when they do?" I asked, a little defiantly. "When they do," replied Krebs, "they will set about making the plutocrats happy. Now plutocrats are discontented, and never satisfied; the more they get, the more they want, the more they are troubled by what other people have." I smiled in spite of myself. "Your interest in--in plutocrats is charitable, then?" "Why, yes," he said, "my interest in all kinds of people is charitable. However improbable it may seem, I have no reason to dislike or envy people who have more than they know what to do with." And the worst of it was he looked it. He managed somehow simply by sitting there with his strange eyes fixed upon me--in spite of his ridiculous philosophy--to belittle my ambitions, to make of small worth my achievements, to bring home to me the fact that in spite of these I was neither contented nor happy though he kept his humour and his poise, he implied an experience that was far deeper, more tragic and more significant than mine. I was goaded into making an injudicious remark. "Well, your campaign against Ennerly and Jackson fell through, didn't it?" Ennerly and Jackson were the city officials who had been tried. "It wasn't a campaign against them," he answered. "And considering the subordinate part I took in it, it could scarcely be called mine." "Greenhalge turned to you to get the evidence." "Well, I got it," he said. "What became of it?" "You ought to know." "What do you mean?" "Just what I say, Paret," he answered slowly. "You ought to know, if anyone knows." I considered this a moment, more soberly. I thought I might have counted on my fingers the number of men cognizant of my connection with the case. I decided that he was guessing. "I think you should explain that," I told him. "The time may come, when you'll have to explain it." "Is that a threat?" I demanded. "A threat?" he repeated. "Not at all." "But you are accusing me--" "Of what?" he interrupted suddenly. He had made it necessary for me to define the nature of his charges. "Of having had some connection with the affair in question." "Whatever else I may be, I'm not a fool," he said quietly. "Neither the district attorney's office, nor young Arbuthnot had brains enough to get them out of that scrape. Jason didn't have influence enough with the judiciary, and, as I happen to know, there was a good deal of money spent." "You may be called upon to prove it," I retorted, rather hotly. "So I may." His tone, far from being defiant, had in it a note of sadness. I looked at him. What were his potentialities? Was it not just possible that I should have to revise my idea of him, acknowledge that he might become more formidable than I had thought? There was an awkward silence. "You mustn't imagine, Paret, that I have any personal animus against you, or against any of the men with whom you're associated," he went on, after a moment. "I'm sorry you're on that side, that's all,--I told you so once before. I'm not calling you names, I'm not talking about morality and immorality. Immorality, when you come down to it, is often just the opposition to progress that comes from blindness. I don't make the mistake of blaming a few individuals for the evils of modern industrial society, and on the other hand you mustn't blame individuals for the discomforts of what you call the reform movement, for that movement is merely a symptom--a symptom of a disease due to a change in the structure of society. We'll never have any happiness or real prosperity until we cure that disease. I was inclined to blame you once, at the capital that time, because it seemed to me that a man with all the advantages you have had and a mind like yours didn't have much excuse. But I've thought about it since; I realize now that I've had a good many more 'advantages' than you, and to tell you the truth, I don't see how you could have come out anywhere else than where you are,--all your surroundings and training were against it. That doesn't mean that you won't grasp the situation some day--I have an idea you will. It's just an idea. The man who ought to be condemned isn't the man that doesn't understand what's going on, but the man who comes to understand and persists in opposing it." He rose and looked down at me with the queer, disturbing smile I remembered. "I get off at this corner," he added, rather diffidently. "I hope you'll forgive me for being personal. I didn't mean to be, but you rather forced it on me." "Oh, that's all right," I replied. The car stopped, and he hurried off. I watched his tall figure as it disappeared among the crowd on the sidewalk.... I returned to my office in one of those moods that are the more disagreeable because conflicting. To-day in particular I had been aroused by what Tom used to call Krebs's "crust," and as I sat at my desk warm waves of resentment went through me at the very notion of his telling me that my view was limited and that therefore my professional conduct was to be forgiven! It was he, the fanatic, who saw things in the larger scale! an assumption the more exasperating because at the moment he made it he almost convinced me that he did, and I was unable to achieve for him the measure of contempt I desired, for the incident, the measure of ridicule it deserved. My real animus was due to the fact that he had managed to shake my self-confidence, to take the flavour out of my achievements,--a flavour that was in the course of an hour to be completely restored by one of those interesting coincidences occasionally occurring in life. A young member of my staff entered with a telegram; I tore it open, and sat staring at it a moment before I realized that it brought to me the greatest honour of my career. The Banker-Personality in New York had summoned me for consultation. To be recognized by him conferred indeed an ennoblement, the Star and Garter, so to speak, of the only great realm in America, that of high finance; and the yellow piece of paper I held in my hand instantly re-magnetized me, renewed my energy, and I hurried home to pack my bag in order to catch the seven o'clock train. I announced the news to Maude. "I imagine it's because he knows I have made something of a study of the coal roads situation," I added. "I'm glad, Hugh," she said. "I suppose it's a great compliment." Never had her inadequacy to appreciate my career been more apparent! I looked at her curiously, to realize once more with peculiar sharpness how far we were apart; but now the resolutions I had made--and never carried out--on that first Christmas in the new home were lacking. Indeed, it was the futility of such resolutions that struck me at this moment. If her manner had been merely one of indifference, it would in a way have been easier to bear; she was simply incapable of grasping the significance of the event, the meaning to me of the years of unceasing, ambitious effort it crowned. "Yes, it is something of a recognition," I replied. "Is there anything I can get for you in New York? I don't know how long I shall have to stay--I'll telegraph you when I'm getting back." I kissed her and hurried out to the automobile. As I drove off I saw her still standing in the doorway looking after me.... In the station I had a few minutes to telephone Nancy. "If you don't see me for a few days it's because I've gone to New York," I informed her. "Something important, I'm sure." "How did you guess?" I demanded, and heard her laugh. "Come back soon and tell me about it," she said, and I walked, exhilarated, to the train.... As I sped through the night, staring out of the window into the darkness, I reflected on the man I was going to see. But at that time, although he represented to me the quintessence of achievement and power, I did not by any means grasp the many sided significance of the phenomenon he presented, though I was keenly aware of his influence, and that men spoke of him with bated breath. Presidents came and went, kings and emperors had responsibilities and were subject daily to annoyances, but this man was a law unto himself. He did exactly what he chose, and compelled other men to do it. Wherever commerce reigned,--and where did it not?--he was king and head of its Holy Empire, Pope and Emperor at once. For he had his code of ethics, his religion, and those who rebelled, who failed to conform, he excommunicated; a code something like the map of Europe,--apparently inconsistent in places. What I did not then comprehend was that he was the American Principle personified, the supreme individual assertion of the conviction that government should remain modestly in the background while the efficient acquired the supremacy that was theirs by natural right; nor had I grasped at that time the crowning achievement of a unity that fused Christianity with those acquisitive dispositions said to be inherent in humanity. In him the Lion and the Lamb, the Eagle and the Dove dwelt together in amity and power. New York, always a congenial place to gentlemen of vitality and means and influential connections, had never appeared to me more sparkling, more inspiring. Winter had relented, spring had not as yet begun. And as I sat in a corner of the dining-room of my hotel looking out on the sunlit avenue I was conscious of partaking of the vigour and confidence of the well-dressed, clear-eyed people who walked or drove past my window with the air of a conquering race. What else was there in the world more worth having than this conquering sense? Religion might offer charms to the weak. Yet here religion itself became sensible, and wore the garb of prosperity. The stonework of the tall church on the corner was all lace; and the very saints in their niches, who had known martyrdom and poverty, seemed to have renounced these as foolish, and to look down complacently on the procession of wealth and power.. Across the street, behind a sheet of glass, was a carrosserie where were displayed the shining yellow and black panels of a closed automobile, the cost of which would have built a farm-house and stocked a barn. At eleven o'clock, the appointed hour, I was in Wall Street. Sending in my name, I was speedily ushered into a room containing a table, around which were several men; but my eyes were drawn at once to the figure of the great banker who sat, massive and preponderant, at one end, smoking a cigar, and listening in silence to the conversation I had interrupted. He rose courteously and gave me his hand, and a glance that is unforgettable. "It is good of you to come, Mr. Paret," he said simply, as though his summons had not been a command. "Perhaps you know some of these gentlemen." One of them was our United States Senator, Theodore Watling. He, as it turned out, had been summoned from Washington. Of course I saw him frequently, having from time to time to go to Washington on various errands connected with legislation. Though spruce and debonnair as ever, in the black morning coat he invariably wore, he appeared older than he had on the day when I had entered his office. He greeted me warmly, as always. "Hugh, I'm glad to see you here," he said, with a slight emphasis on the last word. My legal career was reaching its logical climax, the climax he had foreseen. And he added, to the banker, that he had brought me up. "Then he was trained in a good school," remarked that personage, affably. Mr. Barbour, the president of our Railroad, was present, and nodded to me kindly; also a president of a smaller road. In addition, there were two New York attorneys of great prominence, whom I had met. The banker's own special lieutenant of the law, Mr. Clement T. Grolier, for whom I looked, was absent; but it was forthwith explained that he was offering, that morning, a resolution of some importance in the Convention of his Church, but that he would be present after lunch. "I have asked you to come here, Mr. Paret," said the banker, "not only because I know something personally of your legal ability, but because I have been told by Mr. Scherer and Mr. Barbour that you happen to have considerable knowledge of the situation we are discussing, as well as some experience with cases involving that statute somewhat hazy to lay minds, the Sherman anti-trust law." A smile went around the table. Mr. Watling winked at me; I nodded, but said nothing. The banker was not a man to listen to superfluous words. The keynote of his character was despatch.... The subject of the conference, like many questions bitterly debated and fought over in their time, has in the year I write these words come to be of merely academic interest. Indeed, the very situation we discussed that day has been cited in some of our modern text-books as a classic consequence of that archaic school of economics to which the name of Manchester is attached. Some half dozen or so of the railroads running through the anthracite coal region had pooled their interests,--an extremely profitable proceeding. The public paid. We deemed it quite logical that the public should pay--having been created largely for that purpose; and very naturally we resented the fact that the meddling Person who had got into the White House without asking anybody's leave,--who apparently did not believe in the infallibility of our legal Bible, the Constitution,--should maintain that the anthracite roads had formed a combination in restraint of trade, should lay down the preposterous doctrine--so subversive of the Rights of Man--that railroads should not own coal mines. Congress had passed a law to meet this contention, suit had been brought, and in the lower court the government had won. As the day wore on our numbers increased, we were joined by other lawyers of renown, not the least of whom was Mr. Grolier himself, fresh from his triumph over religious heresy in his Church Convention. The note of the conference became tinged with exasperation, and certain gentlemen seized the opportunity to relieve their pent-up feelings on the subject of the President and his slavish advisers,--some of whom, before they came under the spell of his sorcery, had once been sound lawyers and sensible men. With the exception of the great Banker himself, who made few comments, Theodore Watling was accorded the most deference; as one of the leaders of that indomitable group of senators who had dared to stand up against popular clamour, his opinions were of great value, and his tactical advice was listened to with respect. I felt more pride than ever in my former chief, who had lost none of his charm. While in no way minimizing the seriousness of the situation, his wisdom was tempered, as always, with humour; he managed, as it were, to neutralize the acid injected into the atmosphere by other gentlemen present; he alone seemed to bear no animus against the Author of our troubles; suave and calm, good natured, he sometimes brought the company into roars of laughter and even succeeded in bringing occasional smiles to the face of the man who had summoned us--when relating some characteristic story of the queer genius whom the fates (undoubtedly as a practical joke) had made the chief magistrate of the United States of America. All geniuses have weaknesses; Mr. Wading had made a study of the President's, and more than once had lured him into an impasse. The case had been appealed to the Supreme Court, and Mr. Wading, with remarkable conciseness and penetration, reviewed the characteristics of each and every member of that tribunal, all of whom he knew intimately. They were, of course, not subject to "advice," as were some of the gentlemen who sat on our state courts; no sane and self-respecting American would presume to "approach" them. Nevertheless they were human, and it were wise to take account, in the conduct of the case, of the probable bias of each individual. The President, overstepping his constitutional, Newtonian limits, might propose laws, Congress might acquiesce in them, but the Supreme Court, after listening to lawyers like Grolier (and he bowed to the attorney), made them: made them, he might have added, without responsibility to any man in our unique Republic that scorned kings and apotheosized lawyers. A Martian with a sense of humour witnessing a stormy session of Congress would have giggled at the thought of a few tranquil gentlemen in another room of the Capitol waiting to decide what the people's representatives meant--or whether they meant anything.... For the first time since I had known Theodore Watling, however, I saw him in the shadow of another individual; a man who, like a powerful magnet, continually drew our glances. When we spoke, we almost invariably addressed him, his rare words fell like bolts upon the consciousness. There was no apparent rift in that personality. When, about five o'clock, the conference was ended and we were dismissed, United States Senator, railroad presidents, field-marshals of the law, the great banker fell into an eager conversation with Grolier over the Canon on Divorce, the subject of warm debate in the convention that day. Grolier, it appeared, had led his party against the theological liberals. He believed that law was static, but none knew better its plasticity; that it was infallible, but none so well as he could find a text on either side. His reputation was not of the popular, newspaper sort, but was known to connoisseurs, editors, financiers, statesmen and judges,--to those, in short, whose business it is to make themselves familiar with the instruments of power. He was the banker's chief legal adviser, the banker's rapier of tempered steel, sheathed from the vulgar view save when it flashed forth on a swift errand. "I'm glad to be associated with you in this case, Mr. Paret," Mr. Grolier said modestly, as we emerged into the maelstrom of Wall Street. "If you can make it convenient to call at my office in the morning, we'll go over it a little. And I'll see you in a day or two in Washington, Watling. Keep your eye on the bull," he added, with a twinkle, "and don't let him break any more china than you can help. I don't know where we'd be if it weren't for you fellows." By "you fellows," he meant Mr. Watling's distinguished associates in the Senate.... Mr. Watling and I dined together at a New York club. It was not a dinner of herbs. There was something exceedingly comfortable about that club, where the art of catering to those who had earned the right to be catered to came as near perfection as human things attain. From the great, heavily curtained dining-room the noises of the city had been carefully excluded; the dust of the Avenue, the squalour and smells of the brown stone fronts and laddered tenements of those gloomy districts lying a pistol-shot east and west. We had a vintage champagne, and afterwards a cigar of the club's special importation. "Well," said Mr. Watling, "mow that you're a member of the royal council, what do you think of the King?" "I've been thinking a great deal about him," I said, and indeed it was true. He had made, perhaps, his greatest impression when I had shaken his hand in parting. The manner in which he had looked at me then had puzzled me; it was as though he were seeking to divine something in me that had escaped him. "Why doesn't the government take him over?" I exclaimed. Mr. Watling smiled. "You mean, instead of his mines and railroads and other properties?" "Yes. But that's your idea. Don't you remember you said something of the kind the night of the election, years ago? It occurred to me to-day, when I was looking at him." "Yes," he agreed thoughtfully, "if some American genius could find a way to legalize that power and utilize the men who created it the worst of our problems would be solved. A man with his ability has a right to power, and none would respond more quickly or more splendidly to a call of the government than he. All this fight is waste, Hugh, damned waste of the nation's energy." Mr. Watling seldom swore. "Look at the President! There's a man of remarkable ability, too. And those two oughtn't to be fighting each other. The President's right, in a way. Yes, he is, though I've got to oppose him." I smiled at this from Theodore Watling, though I admired him the more for it. And suddenly, oddly, I happened to remember what Krebs had said, that our troubles were not due to individuals, but to a disease that had developed in industrial society. If the day should come when such men as the President and the great banker would be working together, was it not possible, too, that the idea of Mr. Watling and the vision of Krebs might coincide? I was struck by a certain seeming similarity in their views; but Mr. Watling interrupted this train of thought by continuing to express his own. "Well,--they're running right into a gale when they might be sailing with it," he said. "You think we'll have more trouble?" I asked. "More and more," he replied. "It'll be worse before it's better I'm afraid." At this moment a club servant announced his cab, and he rose. "Well, good-bye, my son," he said. "I'll hope to see you in Washington soon. And remember there's no one thinks any more of you than I do." I escorted him to the door, and it was with a real pang I saw him wave to me from his cab as he drove away. My affection for him was never more alive than in this hour when, for the first time in my experience, he had given real evidence of an inner anxiety and lack of confidence in the future. XXI. In spite of that unwonted note of pessimism from Mr. Watling, I went home in a day or two flushed with my new honours, and it was impossible not to be conscious of the fact that my aura of prestige was increased --tremendously increased--by the recognition I had received. A certain subtle deference in the attitude of the small minority who owed allegiance to the personage by whom I had been summoned was more satisfying than if I had been acclaimed at the station by thousands of my fellow-citizens who knew nothing of my journey and of its significance, even though it might have a concern for them. To men like Berringer, Grierson and Tallant and our lesser great lights the banker was a semi-mythical figure, and many times on the day of my return I was stopped on the street to satisfy the curiosity of my friends as to my impressions. Had he, for instance, let fall any opinions, prognostications on the political and financial situation? Dickinson and Scherer were the only other men in the city who had the honour of a personal acquaintance with him, and Scherer was away, abroad, gathering furniture and pictures for the house in New York Nancy had predicted, and which he had already begun to build! With Dickinson I lunched in private, in order to give him a detailed account of the conference. By five o'clock I was ringing the door-bell of Nancy's new mansion on Grant Avenue. It was several blocks below my own. "Well, how does it feel to be sent for by the great sultan?" she asked, as I stood before her fire. "Of course, I have always known that ultimately he couldn't get along without you." "Even if he has been a little late in realizing it," I retorted. "Sit down and tell me all about him," she commanded. "I met him once, when Ham had the yacht at Bar Harbor." "And how did he strike you?" "As somewhat wrapped up in himself," said Nancy. We laughed together. "Oh, I fell a victim," she went on. "I might have sailed off with him, if he had asked me." "I'm surprised he didn't ask you." "I suspect that it was not quite convenient," she said. "Women are secondary considerations to sultans, we're all very well when they haven't anything more serious to occupy them. Of course that's why they fascinate us. What did he want with you, Hugh?" "He was evidently afraid that the government would win the coal roads suit unless I was retained." "More laurels!" she sighed. "I suppose I ought to be proud to know you." "That's exactly what I've been trying to impress on you all these years," I declared. "I've laid the laurels at your feet, in vain." She sat with her head back on the cushions, surveying me. "Your dress is very becoming," I said irrelevantly. "I hoped it would meet your approval," she mocked. "I've been trying to identify the shade. It's elusive--like you." "Don't be banal.... What is the colour?" "Poinsetta!" "Pretty nearly," she agreed, critically. I took the soft crepe between my fingers. "Poet!" she smiled. "No, it isn't quite poinsetta. It's nearer the red-orange of a tree I remember one autumn, in the White Mountains, with the setting sun on it. But that wasn't what we were talking about. Laurels! Your laurels." "My laurels," I repeated. "Such as they are, I fling them into your lap." "Do you think they increase your value to me, Hugh?" "I don't know," I said thickly. She shook her head. "No, it's you I like--not the laurels." "But if you care for me--?" I began. She lifted up her hands and folded them behind the knot of her hair. "It's extraordinary how little you have changed since we were children, Hugh. You are still sixteen years old, that's why I like you. If you got to be the sultan of sultans yourself, I shouldn't like you any better, or any worse." "And yet you have just declared that power appeals to you!" "Power--yes. But a woman--a woman like me--wants to be first, or nothing." "You are first," I asserted. "You always have been, if you had only realized it." She gazed up at me dreamily. "If you had only realized it! If you had only realized that all I wanted of you was to be yourself. It wasn't what you achieved. I didn't want you to be like Ralph or the others." "Myself? What are you trying to say?" "Yourself. Yes, that is what I like about you. If you hadn't been in such a hurry--if you hadn't misjudged me so. It was the power in you, the craving, the ideal in you that I cared for--not the fruits of it. The fruits would have come naturally. But you forced them, Hugh, for quicker results." "What kind of fruits?" I asked. "Ah," she exclaimed, "how can I tell what they might have been! You have striven and striven, you have done extraordinary things, but have they made you any happier? have you got what you want?" I stooped down and seized her wrists from behind her head. "I want you, Nancy," I said. "I have always wanted you. You're more wonderful to-day than you have ever been. I could find myself--with you." She closed her eyes. A dreamy smile was on her face, and she lay unresisting, very still. In that tremendous moment, for which it seemed I had waited a lifetime, I could have taken her in my arms--and yet I did not. I could not tell why: perhaps it was because she seemed to have passed beyond me--far beyond--in realization. And she was so still! "We have missed the way, Hugh," she whispered, at last. "But we can find it again, if we seek it together," I urged. "Ah, if I only could!" she said. "I could have once. But now I'm afraid--afraid of getting lost." Slowly she straightened up, her hands falling into her lap. I seized them again, I was on my knees in front of her, before the fire, and she, intent, looking down at me, into me, through me it seemed--at something beyond which yet was me. "Hugh," she asked, "what do you believe? Anything?" "What do I believe?" "Yes. I don't mean any cant, cut-and-dried morality. The world is getting beyond that. But have you, in your secret soul, any religion at all? Do you ever think about it? I'm not speaking about anything orthodox, but some religion--even a tiny speck of it, a germ--harmonizing with life, with that power we feel in us we seek to express and continually violate." "Nancy!" I exclaimed. "Answer me--answer me truthfully," she said.... I was silent, my thoughts whirling like dust atoms in a storm. "You have always taken things--taken what you wanted. But they haven't satisfied you, convinced you that that is all of life." "Do you mean--that we should renounce?" I faltered. "I don't know what I mean. I am asking, Hugh, asking. Haven't you any clew? Isn't there any voice in you, anywhere, deep down, that can tell me? give me a hint? just a little one?" I was wracked. My passion had not left me, it seemed to be heightened, and I pressed her hands against her knees. It was incredible that my hands should be there, in hers, feeling her. Her beauty seemed as fresh, as un-wasted as the day, long since, when I despaired of her. And yet and yet against the tumult and beating of this passion striving to throb down thought, thought strove. Though I saw her as a woman, my senses and my spirit commingled and swooned together. "This is life," I murmured, scarcely knowing what I said. "Oh, my dear!" she cried, and her voice pierced me with pain, "are we to be lost, overpowered, engulfed, swept down its stream, to come up below drifting--wreckage? Where, then, would be your power? I'm not speaking of myself. Isn't life more than that? Isn't it in us, too,--in you? Think, Hugh. Is there no god, anywhere, but this force we feel, restlessly creating only to destroy? You must answer--you must find out." I cannot describe the pleading passion in her voice, as though hell and heaven were wrestling in it. The woman I saw, tortured yet uplifted, did not seem to be Nancy, yet it was the woman I loved more than life itself and always had loved. "I can't think," I answered desperately, "I can only feel--and I can't express what I feel. It's mixed, it's dim, and yet bright and shining--it's you." "No, it's you," she said vehemently. "You must interpret it." Her voice sank: "Could it be God?" she asked. "God!" I exclaimed sharply. Her hands fell away from mine.... The silence was broken only by the crackling of the wood fire as a log turned over and fell. Never before, in all our intercourse that I could remember, had she spoken to me about religion.... With that apparent snap in continuity incomprehensible to the masculine mind-her feminine mood had changed. Elements I had never suspected, in Nancy, awe, even a hint of despair, entered into it, and when my hand found hers again, the very quality of its convulsive pressure seemed to have changed. I knew then that it was her soul I loved most; I had been swept all unwittingly to its very altar. "I believe it is God," I said. But she continued to gaze at me, her lips parted, her eyes questioning. "Why is it," she demanded, "that after all these centuries of certainty we should have to start out to find him again? Why is it when something happens like--like this, that we should suddenly be torn with doubts about him, when we have lived the best part of our lives without so much as thinking of him?" "Why should you have qualms?" I said. "Isn't this enough? and doesn't it promise--all?" "I don't know. They're not qualms--in the old sense." She smiled down at me a little tearfully. "Hugh, do you remember when we used to go to Sunday-school at Dr. Pound's church, and Mrs. Ewan taught us? I really believed something then--that Moses brought down the ten commandments of God from the mountain, all written out definitely for ever and ever. And I used to think of marriage" (I felt a sharp twinge), "of marriage as something sacred and inviolable,--something ordained by God himself. It ought to be so--oughtn't it? That is the ideal." "Yes--but aren't you confusing--?" I began. "I am confusing and confused. I shouldn't be--I shouldn't care if there weren't something in you, in me, in our--friendship, something I can't explain, something that shines still through the fog and the smoke in which we have lived our lives--something which, I think, we saw clearer as children. We have lost it in our hasty groping. Oh, Hugh, I couldn't bear to think that we should never find it! that it doesn't really exist! Because I seem to feel it. But can we find it this way, my dear?" Her hand tightened on mine. "But if the force drawing us together, that has always drawn us together, is God?" I objected. "I asked you," she said. "The time must come when you must answer, Hugh. It may be too late, but you must answer." "I believe in taking life in my own hands," I said. "It ought to be life," said Nancy. "It--it might have been life.... It is only when a moment, a moment like this comes that the quality of what we have lived seems so tarnished, that the atmosphere which we ourselves have helped to make is so sordid. When I think of the intrigues, and divorces, the self-indulgences,--when I think of my own marriage--" her voice caught. "How are we going to better it, Hugh, this way? Am I to get that part of you I love, and are you to get what you crave in me? Can we just seize happiness? Will it not elude us just as much as though we believed firmly in the ten commandments?" "No," I declared obstinately. She shook her head. "What I'm afraid of is that the world isn't made that way--for you--for me. We're permitted to seize those other things because they're just baubles, we've both found out how worthless they are. And the worst of it is they've made me a coward, Hugh. It isn't that I couldn't do without them, I've come to depend on them in another way. It's because they give me a certain protection,--do you see? they've come to stand in the place of the real convictions we've lost. And--well, we've taken the baubles, can we reach out our hands and take--this? Won't we be punished for it, frightfully punished?" "I don't care if we are," I said, and surprised myself. "But I care. It's weak, it's cowardly, but it's so. And yet I want to face the situation--I'm trying to get you to face it, to realize how terrible it is." "I only know that I want you above everything else in the world--I'll take care of you--" I seized her arms, I drew her down to me. "Don't!" she cried. "Oh, don't!" and struggled to her feet and stood before me panting. "You must go away now--please, Hugh. I can't bear any more--I want to think." I released her. She sank into the chair and hid her face in her hands.... As may be imagined, the incident I have just related threw my life into a tangle that would have floored a less persistent optimist and romanticist than myself, yet I became fairly accustomed to treading what the old moralists called the devious paths of sin. In my passion I had not hesitated to lay down the doctrine that the courageous and the strong took what they wanted,--a doctrine of which I had been a consistent disciple in the professional and business realm. A logical buccaneer, superman, "master of life" would promptly have extended this doctrine to the realm of sex. Nancy was the mate for me, and Nancy and I, our development, was all that mattered, especially my development. Let every man and woman look out for his or her development, and in the end the majority of people would be happy. This was going Adam Smith one better. When it came to putting that theory into practice, however, one needed convictions: Nancy had been right when she had implied that convictions were precisely what we lacked; what our world in general lacked. We had desires, yes convictions, no. What we wanted we got not by defying the world, but by conforming to it: we were ready to defy only when our desires overcame the resistance of our synapses, and even then not until we should have exhausted every legal and conventional means. A superman with a wife and family he had acquired before a great passion has made him a superman is in rather a predicament, especially if he be one who has achieved such superhumanity as he possesses not by challenging laws and conventions, but by getting around them. My wife and family loved me; and paradoxically I still had affection for them, or thought I had. But the superman creed is, "be yourself, realize yourself, no matter how cruel you may have to be in order to do so." One trouble with me was that remnants of the Christian element of pity still clung to me. I would be cruel if I had to, but I hoped I shouldn't have to: something would turn up, something in the nature of an intervening miracle that would make it easy for me. Perhaps Maude would take the initiative and relieve me.... Nancy had appealed for a justifying doctrine, and it was just what I didn't have and couldn't evolve. In the meanwhile it was quite in character that I should accommodate myself to a situation that might well be called anomalous. This "accommodation" was not unaccompanied by fever. My longing to realize my love for Nancy kept me in a constant state of tension--of "nerves"; for our relationship had merely gone one step farther, we had reached a point where we acknowledged that we loved each other, and paradoxically halted there; Nancy clung to her demand for new sanctions with a tenacity that amazed and puzzled and often irritated me. And yet, when I look back upon it all, I can see that some of the difficulty lay with me: if she had her weakness--which she acknowledged--I had mine--and kept it to myself. It was part of my romantic nature not to want to break her down. Perhaps I loved the ideal better than the woman herself, though that scarcely seems possible. We saw each other constantly. And though we had instinctively begun to be careful, I imagine there was some talk among our acquaintances. It is to be noted that the gossip never became riotous, for we had always been friends, and Nancy had a saving reputation for coldness. It seemed incredible that Maude had not discovered my secret, but if she knew of it, she gave no sign of her knowledge. Often, as I looked at her, I wished she would. I can think of no more expressive sentence in regard to her than the trite one that she pursued the even tenor of her way; and I found the very perfection of her wifehood exasperating. Our relationship would, I thought, have been more endurable if we had quarrelled. And yet we had grown as far apart, in that big house, as though we had been separated by a continent; I lived in my apartments, she in hers; she consulted me about dinner parties and invitations; for, since we had moved to Grant Avenue, we entertained and went out more than before. It seemed as though she were making every effort consistent with her integrity and self-respect to please me. Outwardly she conformed to the mould; but I had long been aware that inwardly a person had developed. It had not been a spontaneous development, but one in resistance to pressure; and was probably all the stronger for that reason. At times her will revealed itself in astonishing and unexpected flashes, as when once she announced that she was going to change Matthew's school. "He's old enough to go to boarding-school," I said. "I'll look up a place for him." "I don't wish him to go to boarding-school yet, Hugh," she said quietly. "But that's just what he needs," I objected. "He ought to have the rubbing-up against other boys that boarding-school will give him. Matthew is timid, he should have learned to take care of himself. And he will make friendships that will help him in a larger school." "I don't intend to send him," Maude said. "But if I think it wise?" "You ought to have begun to consider such things many years ago. You have always been too--busy to think of the children. You have left them to me. I am doing the best I can with them." "But a man should have something to say about boys. He understands them." "You should have thought of that before." "They haven't been old enough." "If you had taken your share of responsibility for them, I would listen to you." "Maude!" I exclaimed reproachfully. "No, Hugh," she went on, "you have been too busy making money. You have left them to me. It is my task to see that the money they are to inherit doesn't ruin them." "You talk as though it were a great fortune," I said. But I did not press the matter. I had a presentiment that to press it might lead to unpleasant results. It was this sense of not being free, of having gained everything but freedom that was at times galling in the extreme: this sense of living with a woman for whom I had long ceased to care, a woman with a baffling will concealed beneath an unruffled and serene exterior. At moments I looked at her across the table; she did not seem to have aged much: her complexion was as fresh, apparently, as the day when I had first walked with her in the garden at Elkington; her hair the same wonderful colour; perhaps she had grown a little stouter. There could be no doubt about the fact that her chin was firmer, that certain lines had come into her face indicative of what is called character. Beneath her pliability she was now all firmness; the pliability had become a mockery. It cannot be said that I went so far as to hate her for this,--when it was in my mind,--but my feelings were of a strong antipathy. And then again there were rare moments when I was inexplicably drawn to her, not by love and passion; I melted a little in pity, perhaps, when my eyes were opened and I saw the tragedy, yet I am not referring now to such feelings as these. I am speaking of the times when I beheld her as the blameless companion of the years, the mother of my children, the woman I was used to and should--by all canons I had known--have loved.... And there were the children. Days and weeks passed when I scarcely saw them, and then some little incident would happen to give me an unexpected wrench and plunge me into unhappiness. One evening I came home from a long talk with Nancy that had left us both wrought up, and I had entered the library before I heard voices. Maude was seated under the lamp at the end of the big room reading from "Don Quixote"; Matthew and Biddy were at her feet, and Moreton, less attentive, at a little distance was taking apart a mechanical toy. I would have tiptoed out, but Biddy caught sight of me. "It's father!" she cried, getting up and flying to me. "Oh, father, do come and listen! The story's so exciting, isn't it, Matthew?" I looked down into the boy's eyes shining with an expression that suddenly pierced my heart with a poignant memory of myself. Matthew was far away among the mountains and castles of Spain. "Matthew," demanded his sister, "why did he want to go fighting with all those people?" "Because he was dotty," supplied Moreton, who had an interesting habit of picking up slang. "It wasn't at all," cried Matthew, indignantly, interrupting Maude's rebuke of his brother. "What was it, then?" Moreton demanded. "You wouldn't understand if I told you," Matthew was retorting, when Maude put her hand on his lips. "I think that's enough for to-night," she said, as she closed the book. "There are lessons to do--and father wants to read his newspaper in quiet." This brought a protest from Biddy. "Just a little more, mother! Can't we go into the schoolroom? We shan't disturb father there." "I'll read to them--a few minutes," I said. As I took the volume from her and sat down Maude shot at me a swift look of surprise. Even Matthew glanced at me curiously; and in his glance I had, as it were, a sudden revelation of the boy's perplexity concerning me. He was twelve, rather tall for his age, and the delicate modelling of his face resembled my father's. He had begun to think.. What did he think of me? Biddy clapped her hands, and began to dance across the carpet. "Father's going to read to us, father's going to read to us," she cried, finally clambering up on my knee and snuggling against me. "Where is the place?" I asked. But Maude had left the room. She had gone swiftly and silently. "I'll find it," said Moreton. I began to read, but I scarcely knew what I was reading, my fingers tightening over Biddy's little knee.... Presently Miss Allsop, the governess, came in. She had been sent by Maude. There was wistfulness in Biddy's voice as I kissed her good night. "Father, if you would only read oftener!" she said, "I like it when you read--better than anyone else.".... Maude and I were alone that night. As we sat in the library after our somewhat formal, perfunctory dinner, I ventured to ask her why she had gone away when I had offered to read. "I couldn't bear it, Hugh," she answered. "Why?" I asked, intending to justify myself. She got up abruptly, and left me. I did not follow her. In my heart I understood why.... Some years had passed since Ralph's prophecy had come true, and Perry and the remaining Blackwoods had been "relieved" of the Boyne Street line. The process need not be gone into in detail, being the time-honoured one employed in the Ribblevale affair of "running down" the line, or perhaps it would be better to say "showing it up." It had not justified its survival in our efficient days, it had held out--thanks to Perry--with absurd and anachronous persistence against the inevitable consolidation. Mr. Tallant's newspaper had published many complaints of the age and scarcity of the cars, etc.; and alarmed holders of securities, in whose vaults they had lain since time immemorial, began to sell.... I saw little of Perry in those days, as I have explained, but one day I met him in the Hambleton Building, and he was white. "Your friends are doing thus, Hugh," he said. "Doing what?" "Undermining the reputation of a company as sound as any in this city, a company that's not overcapitalized, either. And we're giving better service right now than any of your consolidated lines."... He was in no frame of mind to argue with; the conversation was distinctly unpleasant. I don't remember what I said sething to the effect that he was excited, that his language was extravagant. But after he had walked off and left me I told Dickinson that he ought to be given a chance, and one of our younger financiers, Murphree, went to Perry and pointed out that he had nothing to gain by obstruction; if he were only reasonable, he might come into the new corporation on the same terms with the others. All that Murphree got for his pains was to be ordered out of the office by Perry, who declared that he was being bribed to desert the other stockholders. "He utterly failed to see the point of view," Murphree reported in some astonishment to Dickinson. "What else did he say?" Mr. Dickinson asked. Murphree hesitated. "Well--what?" the banker insisted. "He wasn't quite himself," said Murphree, who was a comparative newcomer in the city and had a respect for the Blackwood name. "He said that that was the custom of thieves: when they were discovered, they offered to divide. He swore that he would get justice in the courts." Mr. Dickinson smiled.... Thus Perry, through his obstinacy and inability to adapt himself to new conditions, had gradually lost both caste and money. He resigned from the Boyne Club. I was rather sorry for him. Tom naturally took the matter to heart, but he never spoke of it; I found that I was seeing less of him, though we continued to dine there at intervals, and he still came to my house to see the children. Maude continued to see Lucia. For me, the situation would have been more awkward had I been less occupied, had my relationship with Maude been a closer one. Neither did she mention Perry in those days. The income that remained to him being sufficient for him and his family to live on comfortably, he began to devote most of his time to various societies of a semipublic nature until--in the spring of which I write his activities suddenly became concentrated in the organization of a "Citizens Union," whose avowed object was to make a campaign against "graft" and political corruption the following autumn. This announcement and the call for a mass-meeting in Kingdon Hall was received by the newspapers with a good-natured ridicule, and in influential quarters it was generally hinted that this was Mr. Blackwood's method of "getting square" for having been deprived of the Boyne Street line. It was quite characteristic of Ralph Hambleton that he should go, out of curiosity, to the gathering at Kingdon Hall, and drop into my office the next morning. "Well, Hughie, they're after you," he said with a grin. "After me? Why not include yourself?" He sat down and stretched his long legs and his long arms, and smiled as he gaped. "Oh, they'll never get me," he said. And I knew, as I gazed at him, that they never would. "What sort of things did they say?" I asked. "Haven't you read the Pilot and the Mail and State?" "I just glanced over them. Did they call names?" "Call names! I should say they did. They got drunk on it, worked themselves up like dervishes. They didn't cuss you personally,--that'll come later, of course. Judd Jason got the heaviest shot, but they said he couldn't exist a minute if it wasn't for the 'respectable' crowd--capitalists, financiers, millionaires and their legal tools. Fact is, they spoke a good deal of truth, first and last, in a fool kind of way." "Truth!" I exclaimed irritatedly. Ralph laughed. He was evidently enjoying himself. "Is any of it news to you, Hughie, old boy?" "It's an outrage." "I think it's funny," said Ralph. "We haven't had such a circus for years. Never had. Of course I shouldn't like to see you go behind the bars,--not that. But you fellows can't expect to go on forever skimming off the cream without having somebody squeal sometime. You ought to be reasonable." "You've skimmed as much cream as anybody else." "You've skimmed the cream, Hughie,--you and Dickinson and Scherer and Grierson and the rest,--I've only filled my jug. Well, these fellows are going to have a regular roof-raising campaign, take the lid off of everything, dump out the red-light district some of our friends are so fond of." "Dump it where?" I asked curiously. "Oh," answered Ralph, "they didn't say. Out into the country, anywhere." "But that's damned foolishness," I declared. "Didn't say it wasn't," Ralph admitted. "They talked a lot of that, too, incidentally. They're going to close the saloons and dance halls and make this city sadder than heaven. When they get through, it'll all be over but the inquest." "What did Perry do?" I asked. "Well, he opened the meeting,--made a nice, precise, gentlemanly speech. Greenhalge and a few young highbrows and a reformed crook named Harrod did most of the hair-raising. They're going to nominate Greenhalge for mayor; and he told 'em something about that little matter of the school board, and said he would talk more later on. If one of the ablest lawyers in the city hadn't been hired by the respectable crowd and a lot of other queer work done, the treasurer and purchasing agent would be doing time. They seemed to be interested, all right." I turned over some papers on my desk, just to show Ralph that he hadn't succeeded in disturbing me. "Who was in the audience? anyone you ever heard of?" I asked. "Sure thing. Your cousin Robert Breck; and that son-in-law of his--what's his name? And some other representatives of our oldest families,--Alec Pound. He's a reformer now, you know. They put him on the resolutions committee. Sam Ogilvy was there, he'd be classed as respectably conservative. And one of the Ewanses. I could name a few others, if you pressed me. That brother of Fowndes who looks like an up-state minister. A lot of women--Miller Gorse's sister, Mrs. Datchet, who never approved of Miller. Quite a genteel gathering, I give you my word, and all astonished and mad as hell when the speaking was over. Mrs. Datchet said she had been living in a den of iniquity and vice, and didn't know it." "It must have been amusing," I said. "It was," said Ralph. "It'll be more amusing later on. Oh, yes, there was another fellow who spoke I forgot to mention--that queer Dick who was in your class, Krebs, got the school board evidence, looked as if he'd come in by freight. He wasn't as popular as the rest, but he's got more sense than all of them put together." "Why wasn't he popular?" "Well, he didn't crack up the American people,--said they deserved all they got, that they'd have to learn to think straight and be straight before they could expect a square deal. The truth was, they secretly envied these rich men who were exploiting their city, and just as long as they envied them they hadn't any right to complain of them. He was going into this campaign to tell the truth, but to tell all sides of it, and if they wanted reform, they'd have to reform themselves first. I admired his nerve, I must say." "He always had that," I remarked. "How did they take it?" "Well, they didn't like it much, but I think most of them had a respect for him. I know I did. He has a whole lot of assurance, an air of knowing what he's talking about, and apparently he doesn't give a continental whether he's popular or not. Besides, Greenhalge had cracked him up to the skies for the work he'd done for the school board." "You talk as if he'd converted you," I said. Ralph laughed as he rose and stretched himself. "Oh, I'm only the intelligent spectator, you ought to know that by this time, Hughie. But I thought it might interest you, since you'll have to go on the stump and refute it all. That'll be a nice job. So long." And he departed. Of course I knew that he had been baiting me, his scent for the weaknesses of his friends being absolutely fiendish. I was angry because he had succeeded,--because he knew he had succeeded. All the morning uneasiness possessed me, and I found it difficult to concentrate on the affairs I had in hand. I felt premonitions, which I tried in vain to suppress, that the tide of the philosophy of power and might were starting to ebb: I scented vague calamities ahead, calamities I associated with Krebs; and when I went out to the Club for lunch this sense of uneasiness, instead of being dissipated, was increased. Dickinson was there, and Scherer, who had just got back from Europe; the talk fell on the Citizens Union, which Scherer belittled with an air of consequence and pompousness that struck me disagreeably, and with an eye newly critical I detected in him a certain disintegration, deterioration. Having dismissed the reformers, he began to tell of his experiences abroad, referring in one way or another to the people of consequence who had entertained him. "Hugh," said Leonard Dickinson to me as we walked to the bank together, "Scherer will never be any good any more. Too much prosperity. And he's begun to have his nails manicured." After I had left the bank president an uncanny fancy struck me that in Adolf Scherer I had before me a concrete example of the effect of my philosophy on the individual.... Nothing seemed to go right that spring, and yet nothing was absolutely wrong. At times I became irritated, bewildered, out of tune, and unable to understand why. The weather itself was uneasy, tepid, with long spells of hot wind and dust. I no longer seemed to find refuge in my work. I was unhappy at home. After walking for many years in confidence and security along what appeared to be a certain path, I had suddenly come out into a vague country in which it was becoming more and more difficult to recognize landmarks. I did not like to confess this; and yet I heard within me occasional whispers. Could it be that I, Hugh Paret, who had always been so positive, had made a mess of my life? There were moments when the pattern of it appeared to have fallen apart, resolved itself into pieces that refused to fit into each other. Of course my relationship with Nancy had something to do with this.... One evening late in the spring, after dinner, Maude came into the library. "Are you busy, Hugh?" she asked. I put down my newspapers. "Because," she went on, as she took a chair near the table where I was writing, "I wanted to tell you that I have decided to go to Europe, and take the children." "To Europe!" I exclaimed. The significance of the announcement failed at once to register in my brain, but I was aware of a shock. "Yes." "When?" I asked. "Right away. The end of this month." "For the summer?" "I haven't decided how long I shall stay." I stared at her in bewilderment. In contrast to the agitation I felt rising within me, she was extraordinarily calm, unbelievably so. "But where do you intend to go in Europe?" "I shall go to London for a month or so, and after that to some quiet place in France, probably at the sea, where the children can learn French and German. After that, I have no plans." "But--you talk as if you might stay indefinitely." "I haven't decided," she repeated. "But why--why are you doing this?" I would have recalled the words as soon as I had spoken them. There was the slightest unsteadiness in her voice as she replied:--"Is it necessary to go into that, Hugh? Wouldn't it be useless as well as a little painful? Surely, going to Europe without one's husband is not an unusual thing in these days. Let it just be understood that I want to go, that the children have arrived at an age when it will do them good." I got up and began to walk up and down the room, while she watched me with a silent calm which was incomprehensible. In vain I summoned my faculties to meet it. I had not thought her capable of such initiative. "I can't see why you want to leave me," I said at last, though with a full sense of the inadequacy of the remark, and a suspicion of its hypocrisy. "That isn't quite true," she answered. "In the first place, you don't need me. I am not of the slightest use in your life, I haven't been a factor in it for years. You ought never to have married me,--it was all a terrible mistake. I began to realize that after we had been married a few months--even when we were on our wedding trip. But I was too inexperienced--perhaps too weak to acknowledge it to myself. In the last few years I have come to see it plainly. I should have been a fool if I hadn't. I am not your wife in any real sense of the word, I cannot hold you, I cannot even interest you. It's a situation that no woman with self-respect can endure." "Aren't those rather modern sentiments, for you, Maude?" I said. She flushed a little, but otherwise retained her remarkable composure. "I don't care whether they are 'modern' or not, I only know that my position has become impossible." I walked to the other end of the room, and stood facing the carefully drawn curtains of the windows; fantastically, they seemed to represent the impasse to which my mind had come. Did she intend, ultimately, to get a divorce? I dared not ask her. The word rang horribly in my ears, though unpronounced; and I knew then that I lacked her courage, and the knowledge was part of my agony. I turned. "Don't you think you've overdrawn things, Maude exaggerated them? No marriages are perfect. You've let your mind dwell until it has become inflamed on matters which really don't amount to much." "I was never saner, Hugh," she replied instantly. And indeed I was forced to confess that she looked it. That new Maude I had seen emerging of late years seemed now to have found herself; she was no longer the woman I had married,--yielding, willing to overlook, anxious to please, living in me. "I don't influence you, or help you in any way. I never have." "Oh, that's not true," I protested. But she cut me short, going on inexorably:--"I am merely your housekeeper, and rather a poor one at that, from your point of view. You ignore me. I am not blaming you for it--you are made that way. It's true that you have always supported me in luxury,--that might have been enough for another woman. It isn't enough for me--I, too, have a life to live, a soul to be responsible for. It's not for my sake so much as for the children's that I don't want it to be crushed." "Crushed!" I repeated. "Yes. You are stifling it. I say again that I'm not blaming you, Hugh. You are made differently from me. All you care for, really, is your career. You may think that you care, at times, for--other things, but it isn't so." I took, involuntarily, a deep breath. Would she mention Nancy? Was it in reality Nancy who had brought about this crisis? And did Maude suspect the closeness of that relationship? Suddenly I found myself begging her not to go; the more astonishing since, if at any time during the past winter this solution had presented itself to me as a possibility, I should eagerly have welcomed it! But should I ever have had the courage to propose a separation? I even wished to delude myself now into believing that what she suggested was in reality not a separation. I preferred to think of it as a trip.... A vision of freedom thrilled me, and yet I was wracked and torn. I had an idea that she was suffering, that the ordeal was a terrible one for her; and at that moment there crowded into my mind, melting me, incident after incident of our past. "It seems to me that we have got along pretty well together, Maude. I have been negligent--I'll admit it. But I'll try to do better in the future. And--if you'll wait a month or so, I'll go to Europe with you, and we'll have a good time." She looked at me sadly,--pityingly, I thought. "No, Hugh, I've thought it all out. You really don't want me. You only say this because you are sorry for me, because you dislike to have your feelings wrung. You needn't be sorry for me, I shall be much happier away from you." "Think it over, Maude," I pleaded. "I shall miss you and the children. I haven't paid much attention to them, either, but I am fond of them, and depend upon them, too." She shook her head. "It's no use, Hugh. I tell you I've thought it all out. You don't care for the children, you were never meant to have any." "Aren't you rather severe in your judgments?" "I don't think so," she answered. "I'm willing to admit my faults, that I am a failure so far as you are concerned. Your ideas of life and mine are far apart." "I suppose," I exclaimed bitterly, "that you are referring to my professional practices." A note of weariness crept into her voice. I might have known that she was near the end of her strength. "No, I don't think it's that," she said dispassionately. "I prefer to put it down, that part of it, to a fundamental difference of ideas. I do not feel qualified to sit in judgment on that part of your life, although I'll admit that many of the things you have done, in common with the men with whom you are associated, have seemed to me unjust and inconsiderate of the rights and feelings of others. You have alienated some of your best friends. If I were to arraign you at all, it would be on the score of heartlessness. But I suppose it isn't your fault, that you haven't any heart." "That's unfair," I put in. "I don't wish to be unfair," she replied. "Only, since you ask me, I have to tell you that that is the way it seems to me. I don't want to introduce the question of right and wrong into this, Hugh, I'm not capable of unravelling it; I can't put myself into your life, and see things from your point of view, weigh your problems and difficulties. In the first place, you won't let me. I think I understand you, partly--but only partly. You have kept yourself shut up. But why discuss it? I have made up my mind." The legal aspect of the matter occurred to me. What right had she to leave me? I might refuse to support her. Yet even as these thoughts came I rejected them; I knew that it was not in me to press this point. And she could always take refuge with her father; without the children, of course. But the very notion sickened me. I could not bear to think of Maude deprived of the children. I had seated myself again at the table. I put my hand to my forehead. "Don't make it hard, Hugh," I heard her say, gently. "Believe me, it is best. I know. There won't be any talk about it,--right away, at any rate. People will think it natural that I should wish to go abroad for the summer. And later--well, the point of view about such affairs has changed. They are better understood." She had risen. She was pale, still outwardly composed,--but I had a strange, hideous feeling that she was weeping inwardly. "Aren't you coming back--ever?" I cried. She did not answer at once. "I don't know," she said, "I don't know," and left the room abruptly.... I wanted to follow her, but something withheld me. I got up and walked around the room in a state of mind that was near to agony, taking one of the neglected books out of the shelves, glancing at its meaningless print, and replacing it; I stirred the fire, opened the curtains and gazed out into the street and closed them again. I looked around me, a sudden intensity of hatred seized me for this big, silent, luxurious house; I recalled Maude's presentiment about it. Then, thinking I might still dissuade her, I went slowly up the padded stairway--to find her door locked; and a sense of the finality of her decision came over me. I knew then that I could not alter it even were I to go all the lengths of abjectness. Nor could I, I knew, have brought myself to have feigned a love I did not feel. What was it I felt? I could not define it. Amazement, for one thing, that Maude with her traditional, Christian view of marriage should have come to such a decision. I went to my room, undressed mechanically and got into bed.... She gave no sign at the breakfast table of having made the decision of the greatest moment in our lives; she conversed as usual, asked about the news, reproved the children for being noisy; and when the children had left the table there were no tears, reminiscences, recriminations. In spite of the slight antagonism and envy of which I was conscious,--that she was thus superbly in command of the situation, that she had developed her pinions and was thus splendidly able to use them,--my admiration for her had never been greater. I made an effort to achieve the frame of mind she suggested: since she took it so calmly, why should I be tortured by the tragedy of it? Perhaps she had ceased to love me, after all! Perhaps she felt nothing but relief. At any rate, I was grateful to her, and I found a certain consolation, a sop to my pride in the reflection that the initiative must have been hers to take. I could not have deserted her. "When do you think of leaving?" I asked. "Two weeks from Saturday on the Olympic, if that is convenient for you." Her manner seemed one of friendly solicitude. "You will remain in the house this summer, as usual, I suppose?" "Yes," I said. It was a sunny, warm morning, and I went downtown in the motor almost blithely. It was the best solution after all, and I had been a fool to oppose it.... At the office, there was much business awaiting me; yet once in a while, during the day, when the tension relaxed, the recollection of what had happened flowed back into my consciousness. Maude was going! I had telephoned Nancy, making an appointment for the afternoon. Sometimes--not too frequently--we were in the habit of going out into the country in one of her motors, a sort of landaulet, I believe, in which we were separated from the chauffeur by a glass screen. She was waiting for me when I arrived, at four; and as soon as we had shot clear of the city, "Maude is going away," I told her. "Going away?" she repeated, struck more by the tone of my voice than by what I had said. "She announced last night that she was going abroad indefinitely." I had been more than anxious to see how Nancy would take the news. A flush gradually deepened in her cheeks. "You mean that she is going to leave you?" "It looks that way. In fact, she as much as said so." "Why?" said Nancy. "Well, she explained it pretty thoroughly. Apparently, it isn't a sudden decision," I replied, trying to choose my words, to speak composedly as I repeated the gist of our conversation. Nancy, with her face averted, listened in silence--a silence that continued some time after I had ceased to speak. "She didn't--she didn't mention--?" the sentence remained unfinished. "No," I said quickly, "she didn't. She must know, of course, but I'm sure that didn't enter into it." Nancy's eyes as they returned to me were wet, and in them was an expression I had never seen before,--of pain, reproach, of questioning. It frightened me. "Oh, Hugh, how little you know!" she cried. "What do you mean?" I demanded. "That is what has brought her to this decision--you and I." "You mean that--that Maude loves me? That she is jealous?" I don't know how I managed to say it. "No woman likes to think that she is a failure," murmured Nancy. "Well, but she isn't really," I insisted. "She could have made another man happy--a better man. It was all one of those terrible mistakes our modern life seems to emphasize so." "She is a woman," Nancy said, with what seemed a touch of vehemence. "It's useless to expect you to understand.... Do you remember what I said to you about her? How I appealed to you when you married to try to appreciate her?" "It wasn't that I didn't appreciate her," I interrupted, surprised that Nancy should have recalled this, "she isn't the woman for me, we aren't made for each other. It was my mistake, my fault, I admit, but I don't agree with you at all, that we had anything to do with her decision. It is just the--the culmination of a long period of incompatibility. She has come to realize that she has only one life to live, and she seems happier, more composed, more herself than she has ever been since our marriage. Of course I don't mean to say it isn't painful for her.... But I am sure she isn't well, that it isn't because of our seeing one another," I concluded haltingly. "She is finer than either of us, Hugh,--far finer." I did not relish this statement. "She's fine, I admit. But I can't see how under the circumstances any of us could have acted differently." And Nancy not replying, I continued: "She has made up her mind to go,--I suppose I could prevent it by taking extreme measures,--but what good would it do? Isn't it, after all, the most sensible, the only way out of a situation that has become impossible? Times have changed, Nancy, and you yourself have been the first to admit it. Marriage is no longer what it was, and people are coming to look upon it more sensibly. In order to perpetuate the institution, as it was, segregation, insulation, was the only course. Men segregated their wives, women their husbands,--the only logical method of procedure, but it limited the individual. Our mothers and fathers thought it scandalous if husband or wife paid visits alone. It wasn't done. But our modern life has changed all that. A marriage, to be a marriage, should be proof against disturbing influences, should leave the individuals free; the binding element should be love, not the force of an imposed authority. You seemed to agree to all this." "Yes, I know," she admitted. "But I cannot think that happiness will ever grow out of unhappiness." "But Maude will not be unhappy," I insisted. "She will be happier, far happier, now that she has taken the step." "Oh, I wish I thought so," Nancy exclaimed. "Hugh, you always believe what you want to believe. And the children. How can you bear to part with them?" I was torn, I had a miserable sense of inadequacy. "I shall miss them," I said. "I have never really appreciated them. I admit I don't deserve to have them, and I am willing to give them up for you, for Maude..." We had made one of our favourite drives among the hills on the far side of the Ashuela, and at six were back at Nancy's house. I did not go in, but walked slowly homeward up Grant Avenue. It had been a trying afternoon. I had not expected, indeed, that Nancy would have rejoiced, but her attitude, her silences, betraying, as they did, compunctions, seemed to threaten our future happiness. XXII. One evening two or three days later I returned from the office to gaze up at my house, to realize suddenly that it would be impossible for me to live there, in those great, empty rooms, alone; and I told Maude that I would go to the Club--during her absence. I preferred to keep up the fiction that her trip would only be temporary. She forbore from contradicting me, devoting herself efficiently to the task of closing the house, making it seem, somehow, a rite,--the final rite in her capacity as housewife. The drawing-room was shrouded, and the library; the books wrapped neatly in paper; a smell of camphor pervaded the place; the cheerful schoolroom was dismantled; trunks and travelling bags appeared. The solemn butler packed my clothes, and I arranged for a room at the Club in the wing that recently had been added for the accommodation of bachelors and deserted husbands. One of the ironies of those days was that the children began to suggest again possibilities of happiness I had missed--especially Matthew. With all his gentleness, the boy seemed to have a precocious understanding of the verities, and the capacity for suffering which as a child I had possessed. But he had more self-control. Though he looked forward to the prospect of new scenes and experiences with the anticipation natural to his temperament, I thought he betrayed at moments a certain intuition as to what was going on. "When are you coming over, father?" he asked once. "How soon will your business let you?" He had been brought up in the belief that my business was a tyrant. "Oh, soon, Matthew,--sometime soon," I said. I had a feeling that he understood me, not intellectually, but emotionally. What a companion he might have been!.... Moreton and Biddy moved me less. They were more robust, more normal, less introspective and imaginative; Europe meant nothing to them, but they were frankly delighted and excited at the prospect of going on the ocean, asking dozens of questions about the great ship, impatient to embark..... "I shan't need all that, Hugh," Maude said, when I handed her a letter of credit. "I--I intend to live quite simply, and my chief expenses will be the children's education. I am going to give them the best, of course." "Of course," I replied. "But I want you to live over there as you have been accustomed to live here. It's not exactly generosity on my part,--I have enough, and more than enough." She took the letter. "Another thing--I'd rather you didn't go to New York with us, Hugh. I know you are busy--" "Of course I'm going," I started to protest. "No," she went on, firmly. "I'd rather you didn't. The hotel people will put me on the steamer very comfortably,--and there are other reasons why I do not wish it." I did not insist.... On the afternoon of her departure, when I came uptown, I found her pinning some roses on her jacket. "Perry and Lucia sent them," she informed me. She maintained the friendly, impersonal manner to the very end; but my soul, as we drove to the train, was full of un-probed wounds. I had had roses put in her compartments in the car; Tom and Susan Peters were there with more roses, and little presents for the children. Their cheerfulness seemed forced, and I wondered whether they suspected that Maude's absence would be prolonged. "Write us often, and tell us all about it, dear," said Susan, as she sat beside Maude and held her hand; Tom had Biddy on his knee. Maude was pale, but smiling and composed. "I hope to get a little villa in France, near the sea," she said. "I'll send you a photograph of it, Susan." "And Chickabiddy, when she comes back, will be rattling off French like a native," exclaimed Tom, giving her a hug. "I hate French," said Biddy, and she looked at him solemnly. "I wish you were coming along, Uncle Tom." Bells resounded through the great station. The porter warned us off. I kissed the children one by one, scarcely realizing what I was doing. I kissed Maude. She received my embrace passively. "Good-bye, Hugh," she said. I alighted, and stood on the platform as the train pulled out. The children crowded to the windows, but Maude did not appear.... I found myself walking with Tom and Susan past hurrying travellers and porters to the Decatur Street entrance, where my automobile stood waiting. "I'll take you home, Susan," I said. "We're ever so much obliged, Hugh," she answered, "but the street-cars go almost to ferry's door. We're dining there." Her eyes were filled with tears, and she seemed taller, more ungainly than ever--older. A sudden impression of her greatness of heart was borne home to me, and I grasped the value of such rugged friendship as hers--as Tom's. "We shouldn't know how to behave in an automobile," he said, as though to soften her refusal. And I stood watching their receding figures as they walked out into the street and hailed the huge electric car that came to a stop beyond them. Above its windows was painted "The Ashuela Traction Company," a label reminiscent of my professional activities. Then I heard the chauffeur ask:--"Where do you wish to go, sir?" "To the Club," I said. My room was ready, my personal belongings, my clothes had been laid out, my photographs were on the dressing-table. I took up, mechanically, the evening newspaper, but I could not read it; I thought of Maude, of the children, memories flowed in upon me,--a flood not to be dammed.... Presently the club valet knocked at my door. He had a dinner card. "Will you be dining here, sir?" he inquired. I went downstairs. Fred Grierson was the only man in the dining-room. "Hello, Hugh," he said, "come and sit down. I hear your wife's gone abroad." "Yes," I answered, "she thought she'd try it instead of the South Shore this summer." Perhaps I imagined that he looked at me queerly. I had made a great deal of money out of my association with Grierson, I had valued very highly being an important member of the group to which he belonged; but to-night, as I watched him eating and drinking greedily, I hated him even as I hated myself. And after dinner, when he started talking with a ridicule that was a thinly disguised bitterness about the Citizens Union and their preparations for a campaign I left him and went to bed. Before a week had passed my painful emotions had largely subsided, and with my accustomed resiliency I had regained the feeling of self-respect so essential to my happiness. I was free. My only anxiety was for Nancy, who had gone to New York the day after my last talk with her; and it was only by telephoning to her house that I discovered when she was expected to return.... I found her sitting beside one of the open French windows of her salon, gazing across at the wooded hills beyond the Ashuela. She was serious, a little pale; more exquisite, more desirable than ever; but her manner implied the pressure of control, and her voice was not quite steady as she greeted me. "You've been away a long time," I said. "The dressmakers," she answered. Her colour rose a little. "I thought they'd never get through." "But why didn't you drop me a line, let me know when you were coming?" I asked, taking a chair beside her, and laying my hand on hers. She drew it gently away. "What's the matter?" I asked. "I've been thinking it all over--what we're doing. It doesn't seem right, it seems terribly wrong." "But I thought we'd gone over all that," I replied, as patiently as I could. "You're putting it on an old-fashioned, moral basis." "But there must be same basis," she urged. "There are responsibilities, obligations--there must be!--that we can't get away from. I can't help feeling that we ought to stand by our mistakes, and by our bargains; we made a choice--it's cheating, somehow, and if we take this--what we want--we shall be punished for it." "But I'm willing to be punished, to suffer, as I told you. If you loved me--" "Hugh!" she exclaimed, and I was silent. "You don't understand," she went on, a little breathlessly, "what I mean by punishment is deterioration. Do you remember once, long ago, when you came to me before I was married, I said we'd both run after false gods, and that we couldn't do without them? Well, and now this has come; it seems so wonderful to me, coming again like that after we had passed it by, after we thought it had gone forever; it's opened up visions for me that I never hoped to see again. It ought to restore us, dear--that's what I'm trying to say--to redeem us, to make us capable of being what we were meant to be. If it doesn't do that, if it isn't doing so, it's the most horrible of travesties, of mockeries. If we gain life only to have it turn into death--slow death; if we go to pieces again, utterly. For now there's hope. The more I think, the more clearly I see that we can't take any step without responsibilities. If we take this, you'll have me, and I'll have you. And if we don't save each other--" "But we will," I said. "Ah," she exclaimed, "if we could start new, without any past. I married Ham with my eyes open." "You couldn't know that he would become--well, as flagrant as he is. You didn't really know what he was then." "There's no reason why I shouldn't have anticipated it. I can't claim that I was deceived, that I thought my marriage was made in heaven. I entered into a contract, and Ham has kept his part of it fairly well. He hasn't interfered with my freedom. That isn't putting it on a high plane, but there is an obligation involved. You yourself, in your law practice, are always insisting upon the sacredness of contract as the very basis of our civilization." Here indeed would have been a home thrust, had I been vulnerable at the time. So intent was I on overcoming her objections, that I resorted unwittingly to the modern argument I had more than once declared in court to be anathema-the argument of the new reform in reference to the common law and the constitution. "A contract, no matter how seriously entered into at the time it was made, that later is seen to violate the principles of humanity should be void. And not only this, but you didn't consent that he should disgrace you." Nancy winced. "I never told you that he paid my father's debts, I never told anyone," she said, in a low voice. "Even then," I answered after a moment, "you ought to see that it's too terrible a price to pay for your happiness. And Ham hasn't ever pretended to consider you in any way. It's certain you didn't agree that he should do--what he is doing." "Suppose I admitted it," she said, "there remain Maude and your children. Their happiness, their future becomes my responsibility as well as yours." "But I don't love Maude, and Maude doesn't love me. I grant it's my fault, that I did her a wrong in marrying her, but she is right in leaving me. I should be doing her a double wrong. And the children will be happy with her, they will be well brought up. I, too, have thought this out, Nancy," I insisted, "and the fact is that in our respective marriages we have been, each of us, victims of our time, of our education. We were born in a period of transition, we inherited views of life that do not fit conditions to-day. It takes courage to achieve happiness, initiative to emancipate one's self from a morality that begins to hamper and bind. To stay as we are, to refuse to take what is offered us, is to remain between wind and water. I don't mean that we should do anything--hastily. We can afford to take a reasonable time, to be dignified about it. But I have come to the conclusion that the only thing that matters in the world is a love like ours, and its fulfilment. Achievement, success, are empty and meaningless without it. And you do love me--you've admitted it." "Oh, I don't want to talk about it," she exclaimed, desperately. "But we have to talk about it," I persisted. "We have to thrash it out, to see it straight, as you yourself have said." "You speak of convictions, Hugh,--new convictions, in place of the old we have discarded. But what are they? And is there no such thing as conscience--even though it be only an intuition of happiness or unhappiness? I do care for you, I do love you--" "Then why not let that suffice?" I exclaimed, leaning towards her. She drew back. "But I want to respect you, too," she said. I was shocked, too shocked to answer. "I want to respect you," she repeated, more gently. "I don't want to think that--that what we feel for each other is--unconsecrated." "It consecrates itself," I declared. She shook her head. "Surely it has its roots in everything that is fine in both of us." "We both went wrong," said Nancy. "We both sought to wrest power and happiness from the world, to make our own laws. How can we assert that--this is not merely a continuation of it?" "But can't we work out our beliefs together?" I demanded. "Won't you trust me, trust our love for one another?" Her breath came and went quickly. "Oh, you know that I want you, Hugh, as much as you want me, and more. The time may come when I can't resist you." "Why do you resist me?" I cried, seizing her hands convulsively, and swept by a gust of passion at her confession. "Try to understand that I am fighting for both of us!" she pleaded--an appeal that wrung me in spite of the pitch to which my feelings had been raised. "Hugh, dear, we must think it out. Don't now." I let her hands drop.... Beyond the range of hills rising from the far side of the Ashuela was the wide valley in which was situated the Cloverdale Country Club, with its polo field, golf course and tennis courts; and in this same valley some of our wealthy citizens, such as Howard Ogilvy and Leonard Dickinson, had bought "farms," week-end playthings for spring and autumn. Hambleton Durrett had started the fashion. Capriciously, as he did everything else, he had become the owner of several hundred acres of pasture, woodland and orchard, acquired some seventy-five head of blooded stock, and proceeded to house them in model barns and milk by machinery; for several months he had bored everyone in the Boyne Club whom he could entice into conversation on the subject of the records of pedigreed cows, and spent many bibulous nights on the farm in company with those parasites who surrounded him when he was in town. Then another interest had intervened; a feminine one, of course, and his energies were transferred (so we understood) to the reconstruction and furnishing of a little residence in New York, not far from Fifth Avenue. The farm continued under the expert direction of a superintendent who was a graduate of the State Agricultural College, and a select clientele, which could afford to pay the prices, consumed the milk and cream and butter. Quite consistent with their marital relations was the fact that Nancy should have taken a fancy to the place after Ham's interest had waned. Not that she cared for the Guernseys, or Jerseys, or whatever they may have been; she evinced a sudden passion for simplicity,--occasional simplicity, at least,--for a contrast to and escape from a complicated life of luxury. She built another house for the superintendent banished him from the little farmhouse (where Ham had kept two rooms); banished along with the superintendent the stiff plush furniture, the yellow-red carpets, the easels and the melodeon, and decked it out in bright chintzes, with wall-papers to match, dainty muslin curtains, and rag-carpet rugs on the hardwood floors. The pseudo-classic porch over the doorway, which had suggested a cemetery, was removed, and a wide piazza added, furnished with wicker lounging chairs and tables, and shaded with gay awnings. Here, to the farm, accompanied by a maid, she had been in the habit of retiring from time to time, and here she came in early July. Here, dressed in the simplest linen gowns of pink or blue or white, I found a Nancy magically restored to girlhood,--anew Nancy, betraying only traces of the old, a new Nancy in a new Eden. We had all the setting, all the illusion of that perfect ideal of domesticity, love in a cottage. Nancy and I, who all our lives had spurned simplicity, laughed over the joy we found in it: she made a high art of it, of course; we had our simple dinners, which Mrs. Olsen cooked and served in the open air; sometimes on the porch, sometimes under the great butternut tree spreading its shade over what in a more elaborate country-place, would have been called a lawn,--an uneven plot of grass of ridges and hollows that ran down to the orchard. Nancy's eyes would meet mine across the little table, and often our gaze would wander over the pastures below, lucent green in the level evening light, to the darkening woods beyond, gilt-tipped in the setting sun. There were fields of ripening yellow grain, of lusty young corn that grew almost as we watched it: the warm winds of evening were heavy with the acrid odours of fecundity. Fecundity! In that lay the elusive yet insistent charm of that country; and Nancy's, of course, was the transforming touch that made it paradise. It was thus, in the country, I suggested that we should spend the rest of our existence. What was the use of amassing money, when happiness was to be had so simply? "How long do you think you could stand it?" she asked, as she handed me a plate of blackberries. "Forever, with the right woman," I announced. "How long could the woman stand it?".... She humoured, smilingly, my crystal-gazing into our future, as though she had not the heart to deprive me of the pleasure. "I simply can't believe in it, Hugh," she said when I pressed her for an answer. "Why not?" "I suppose it's because I believe in continuity, I haven't the romantic temperament,--I always see the angel with the flaming sword. It isn't that I want to see him." "But we shall redeem ourselves," I said. "It won't be curiosity and idleness. We are not just taking this thing, and expecting to give nothing for it in return." "What can we give that is worth it?" she exclaimed, with one of her revealing flashes. "We won't take it lightly, but seriously," I told her. "We shall find something to give, and that something will spring naturally out of our love. We'll read together, and think and plan together." "Oh, Hugh, you are incorrigible," was all she said. The male tendency in me was forever strained to solve her, to deduce from her conversation and conduct a body of consistent law. The effort was useless. Here was a realm, that of Nancy's soul, in which there was apparently no such thing as relevancy. In the twilight, after dinner, we often walked through the orchard to a grassy bank beside the little stream, where we would sit and watch the dying glow in the sky. After a rain its swollen waters were turbid, opaque yellow-red with the clay of the hills; at other times it ran smoothly, temperately, almost clear between the pasture grasses and wild flowers. Nancy declared that it reminded her of me. We sat there, into the lush, warm nights, and the moon shone down on us, or again through long silences we searched the bewildering, starry chart of the heavens, with the undertones of the night-chorus of the fields in our ears. Sometimes she let my head rest upon her knee; but when, throbbing at her touch, with the life-force pulsing around us, I tried to take her in my arms, to bring her lips to mine, she resisted me with an energy of will and body that I could not overcome, I dared not overcome. She acknowledged her love for me, she permitted me to come to her, she had the air of yielding but never yielded. Why, then, did she allow the words of love to pass? and how draw the line between caresses? I was maddened and disheartened by that elusive resistance in her--apparently so frail a thing!--that neither argument nor importunity could break down. Was there something lacking in me? or was it that I feared to mar or destroy the love she had. This, surely, had not been the fashion of other loves, called unlawful, the classic instances celebrated by the poets of all ages rose to mock me. "Incurably romantic," she had called me, in calmer moments, when I was able to discuss our affair objectively. And once she declared that I had no sense of tragedy. We read "Macbeth" together, I remember, one rainy Sunday. The modern world, which was our generation, would seem to be cut off from all that preceded it as with a descending knife. It was precisely from "the sense of tragedy" that we had been emancipated: from the "agonized conscience," I should undoubtedly have said, had I been acquainted then with Mr. Santayana's later phrase. Conscience--the old kind of conscience,--and nothing inherent in the deeds themselves, made the tragedy; conscience was superstition, the fear of the wrath of the gods: conscience was the wrath of the gods. Eliminate it, and behold! there were no consequences. The gods themselves, that kind of gods, became as extinct as the deities of the Druids, the Greek fates, the terrible figures of German mythology. Yes, and as the God of Christian orthodoxy. Had any dire calamities overtaken the modern Macbeths, of whose personal lives we happened to know something? Had not these great ones broken with impunity all the laws of traditional morality? They ground the faces of the poor, played golf and went to church with serene minds, untroubled by criticism; they appropriated, quite freely, other men's money, and some of them other men's wives, and yet they were not haggard with remorse. The gods remained silent. Christian ministers regarded these modern transgressors of ancient laws benignly and accepted their contributions. Here, indeed, were the supermen of the mad German prophet and philosopher come to life, refuting all classic tragedy. It is true that some of these supermen were occasionally swept away by disease, which in ancient days would have been regarded as a retributive scourge, but was in fact nothing but the logical working of the laws of hygiene, the result of overwork. Such, though stated more crudely, were my contentions when desire did not cloud my brain and make me incoherent. And I did not fail to remind Nancy, constantly, that this was the path on which her feet had been set; that to waver now was to perish. She smiled, yet she showed concern. "But suppose you don't get what you want?" she objected. "What then? Suppose one doesn't become a superman? or a superwoman? What's to happen to one? Is there no god but the superman's god, which is himself? Are there no gods for those who can't be supermen? or for those who may refuse to be supermen?" To refuse, I maintained, were a weakness of the will. "But there are other wills," she persisted, "wills over which the superman may conceivably have no control. Suppose, for example, that you don't get me, that my will intervenes, granting it to be conceivable that your future happiness and welfare, as you insist, depend upon your getting me--which I doubt." "You've no reason to doubt it." "Well, granting it, then. Suppose the orthodoxies and superstitions succeed in inhibiting me. I may not be a superwoman, but my will, or my conscience, if you choose, may be stronger than yours. If you don't get what you want, you aren't happy. In other words, you fail. Where are your gods then? The trouble with you, my dear Hugh, is that you have never failed," she went on, "you've never had a good, hard fall, you've always been on the winning side, and you've never had the world against you. No wonder you don't understand the meaning and value of tragedy." "And you?" I asked. "No," she agreed, "nor I. Yet I have come to feel, instinctively, that somehow concealed in tragedy is the central fact of life, the true reality, that nothing is to be got by dodging it, as we have dodged it. Your superman, at least the kind of superman you portray, is petrified. Something vital in him, that should be plastic and sensitive, has turned to stone." "Since when did you begin to feel this?" I inquired uneasily. "Since--well, since we have been together again, in the last month or two. Something seems to warn me that if we take--what we want, we shan't get it. That's an Irish saying, I know, but it expresses my meaning. I may be little, I may be superstitious, unlike the great women of history who have dared. But it's more than mere playing safe--my instinct, I mean. You see, you are involved. I believe I shouldn't hesitate if only myself were concerned, but you are the uncertain quantity--more uncertain than you have any idea; you think you know yourself, you think you have analyzed yourself, but the truth is, Hugh, you don't know the meaning of struggle against real resistance." I was about to protest. "I know that you have conquered in the world of men and affairs," she hurried on, "against resistance, but it isn't the kind of resistance I mean. It doesn't differ essentially from the struggle in the animal kingdom." I bowed. "Thank you," I said. She laughed a little. "Oh, I have worshipped success, too. Perhaps I still do--that isn't the point. An animal conquers his prey, he is in competition, in constant combat with others of his own kind, and perhaps he brings to bear a certain amount of intelligence in the process. Intelligence isn't the point, either. I know what I'm saying is trite, it's banal, it sounds like moralizing, and perhaps it is, but there is so much confusion to-day that I think we are in danger of losing sight of the simpler verities, and that we must suffer for it. Your super-animal, your supreme-stag subdues the other stags, but he never conquers himself, he never feels the need of it, and therefore he never comprehends what we call tragedy." "I gather your inference," I said, smiling. "Well," she admitted, "I haven't stated the case with the shade of delicacy it deserves, but I wanted to make my meaning clear. We have raised up a class in America, but we have lost sight, a little--considerably, I think--of the distinguishing human characteristics. The men you were eulogizing are lords of the forest, more or less, and we women, who are of their own kind, what they have made us, surrender ourselves in submission and adoration to the lordly stag in the face of all the sacraments that have been painfully inaugurated by the race for the very purpose of distinguishing us from animals. It is equivalent to saying that there is no moral law; or, if there is, nobody can define it. We deny, inferentially, a human realm as distinguished from the animal, and in the denial it seems to me we are cutting ourselves off from what is essential human development. We are reverting to the animal. I have lost and you have lost--not entirely, perhaps, but still to a considerable extent--the bloom of that fervour, of that idealism, we may call it, that both of us possessed when we were in our teens. We had occasional visions. We didn't know what they meant, or how to set about their accomplishment, but they were not, at least, mere selfish aspirations; they implied, unconsciously no doubt, an element of service, and certainly our ideal of marriage had something fine in it." "Isn't it for a higher ideal of marriage that we are searching?" I asked. "If that is so," Nancy objected, "then all the other elements of our lives are sadly out of tune with it. Even the most felicitous union of the sexes demands sacrifice, an adjustment of wills, and these are the very things we balk at; and the trouble with our entire class in this country is that we won't acknowledge any responsibility, there's no sacrifice in our eminence, we have no sense of the whole." "Where did you get all these ideas?" I demanded. She laughed. "Well," she admitted, "I've been thrashing around a little; and I've read some of the moderns, you know. Do you remember my telling you I didn't agree with them? and now this thing has come on me like a judgment. I've caught their mania for liberty, for self-realization--whatever they call it--but their remedies are vague, they fail to convince me that individuals achieve any quality by just taking what they want, regardless of others.".... I was unable to meet this argument, and the result was that when I was away from her I too began to "thrash around" among the books in a vain search for a radical with a convincing and satisfying philosophy. Thus we fly to literature in crises of the heart! There was no lack of writers who sought to deal--and deal triumphantly with the very situation in which I was immersed. I marked many passages, to read them over to Nancy, who was interested, but who accused me of being willing to embrace any philosophy, ancient or modern, that ran with the stream of my desires. It is worth recording that the truth of this struck home. On my way back to the city I reflected that, in spite of my protests against Maude's going--protests wholly sentimental and impelled by the desire to avoid giving pain on the spot--I had approved of her departure because I didn't want her. On the other hand I had to acknowledge if I hadn't wanted Nancy, or rather, if I had become tired of her, I should have been willing to endorse her scruples.... It was not a comforting thought. One morning when I was absently opening the mail I found at my office I picked up a letter from Theodore Watling, written from a seaside resort in Maine, the contents of which surprised and touched me, troubled me, and compelled me to face a situation with which I was wholly unprepared to cope. He announced that this was to be his last term in the Senate. He did not name the trouble his physician had discovered, but he had been warned that he must retire from active life. "The specialist whom I saw in New York," he went on, "wished me to resign at once, but when I pointed out to him how unfair this would be to my friends in the state, to my party as a whole--especially in these serious and unsettled times--he agreed that I might with proper care serve out the remainder of my term. I have felt it my duty to write to Barbour and Dickinson and one or two others in order that they might be prepared and that no time may be lost in choosing my successor. It is true that the revolt within the party has never gained much headway in our state, but in these days it is difficult to tell when and where a conflagration may break out, or how far it will go. I have ventured to recommend to them the man who seems to me the best equipped to carry on the work I have been trying to do here--in short, my dear Hugh, yourself. The Senate, as you know, is not a bed of roses just now for those who think as we do; but I have the less hesitancy in making the recommendation because I believe you are not one to shun a fight for the convictions we hold in common, and because you would regard, with me, the election of a senator with the new views as a very real calamity. If sound business men and lawyers should be eliminated from the Senate, I could not contemplate with any peace of mind what might happen to the country. In thus urging you, I know you will believe me when I say that my affection and judgment are equally involved, for it would be a matter of greater pride than I can express to have you follow me here as you have followed me at home. And I beg of you seriously to consider it.... I understand that Maude and the children are abroad. Remember me to them affectionately when you write. If you can find it convenient to come here, to Maine, to discuss the matter, you may be sure of a welcome. In any case, I expect to be in Washington in September for a meeting of our special committee. Sincerely and affectionately yours, Theodore Watling." It was characteristic of him that the tone of the letter should be uniformly cheerful, that he should say nothing whatever of the blow this must be to his ambitions and hopes; and my agitation at the new and disturbing prospect thus opened up for me was momentarily swept away by feelings of affection and sorrow. A sharp realization came to me of how much I admired and loved this man, and this was followed by a pang at the thought of the disappointment my refusal would give him. Complications I did not wish to examine were then in the back of my mind; and while I still sat holding the letter in my hand the telephone rang, and a message came from Leonard Dickinson begging me to call at the bank at once. Miller Gorse was there, and Tallant, waving a palm-leaf while sitting under the electric fan. They were all very grave, and they began to talk about the suddenness of Mr. Watling's illness and to speculate upon its nature. Leonard Dickinson was the most moved of the three; but they were all distressed, and showed it--even Tallant, whom I had never credited with any feelings; they spoke about the loss to the state. At length Gorse took a cigar from his pocket and lighted it; the smoke, impelled by the fan, drifted over the panelled partition into the bank. "I suppose Mr. Watling mentioned to you what he wrote to us," he said. "Yes," I admitted. "Well," he asked, "what do you think of it?" "I attribute it to Mr. Watling's friendship," I replied. "No," said Gorse, in his businesslike manner, "Watling's right, there's no one else." Considering the number of inhabitants of our state, this remark had its humorous aspect. "That's true," Dickinson put in, "there's no one else available who understands the situation as you do, Hugh, no one else we can trust as we trust you. I had a wire from Mr. Barbour this morning--he agrees. We'll miss you here, but now that Watling will be gone we'll need you there. And he's right--it's something we've got to decide on right away, and get started on soon, we can't afford to wobble and run any chances of a revolt." "It isn't everybody the senatorship comes to on a platter--especially at your age," said Tallant. "To tell you the truth," I answered, addressing Dickinson, "I'm not prepared to talk about it now. I appreciate the honour, but I'm not at all sure I'm the right man. And I've been considerably upset by this news of Mr. Watling." "Naturally you would be," said the banker, sympathetically, "and we share your feelings. I don't know of any man for whom I have a greater affection than I have for Theodore Wading. We shouldn't have mentioned it now, Hugh, if Watling hadn't started the thing himself, if it weren't important to know where we stand right away. We can't afford to lose the seat. Take your time, but remember you're the man we depend upon." Gorse nodded. I was aware, all the time Dickinson was speaking, of being surrounded by the strange, disquieting gaze of the counsel for the Railroad.... I went back to my office to spend an uneasy morning. My sorrow for Mr. Watling was genuine, but nevertheless I found myself compelled to consider an honour no man lightly refuses. Had it presented itself at any other time, had it been due to a happier situation than that brought about by the illness of a man whom I loved and admired, I should have thought the prospect dazzling indeed, part and parcel of my amazing luck. But now--now I was in an emotional state that distorted the factors of life, all those things I hitherto had valued; even such a prize as this I weighed in terms of one supreme desire: how would the acceptance of the senatorship affect the accomplishment of this desire? That was the question. I began making rapid calculations: the actual election would take place in the legislature a year from the following January; provided I were able to overcome Nancy's resistance--which I was determined to do--nothing in the way of divorce proceedings could be thought of for more than a year; and I feared delay. On the other hand, if we waited until after I had been duly elected to get my divorce and marry Nancy my chances of reelection would be small. What did I care for the senatorship anyway--if I had her? and I wanted her now, as soon as I could get her. She--a life with her represented new values, new values I did not define, that made all I had striven for in the past of little worth. This was a bauble compared with the companionship of the woman I loved, the woman intended for me, who would give me peace of mind and soul and develop those truer aspirations that had long been thwarted and starved for lack of her. Gradually, as she regained the ascendency over my mind she ordinarily held--and from which she had been temporarily displaced by the arrival of Mr. Watling's letter and the talk in the bank--I became impatient and irritated by the intrusion. But what answer should I give to Dickinson and Gorse? what excuse for declining such an offer? I decided, as may be imagined, to wait, to temporize. The irony of circumstances--of what might have been--prevented now my laying this trophy at Nancy's feet, for I knew I had only to mention the matter to be certain of losing her. XXIII. I had bought a small automobile, which I ran myself, and it was my custom to arrive at the farm every evening about five o'clock. But as I look back upon those days they seem to have lost succession, to be fused together, as it were, into one indeterminable period by the intense pressure of emotion; unsatisfied emotion,--and the state of physical and mental disorganization set up by it is in the retrospect not a little terrifying. The world grew more and more distorted, its affairs were neglected, things upon which I had set high values became as nothing. And even if I could summon back something of the sequence of our intercourse, it would be a mere repetition--growing on my part more irrational and insistent--of what I have already related. There were long, troubled, and futile silences when we sat together on the porch or in the woods and fields; when I wondered whether it were weakness or strength that caused Nancy to hold out against my importunities: the fears she professed of retribution, the benumbing effects of the conventional years, or the deep-rooted remnants of a Calvinism which--as she proclaimed--had lost definite expression to persist as an intuition. I recall something she said when she turned to me after one of these silences. "Do you know how I feel sometimes? as though you and I had wandered together into a strange country, and lost our way. We have lost our way, Hugh--it's all so clandestine, so feverish, so unnatural, so unrelated to life, this existence we're leading. I believe it would be better if it were a mere case of physical passion. I can't help it," she went on, when I had exclaimed against this, "we are too--too complicated, you are too complicated. It's because we want the morning stars, don't you see?" She wound her fingers tightly around mine. "We not only want this, but all of life besides--you wouldn't be satisfied with anything less. Oh, I know it. That's your temperament, you were made that way, and I shouldn't be satisfied if you weren't. The time would come when you would blame me I don't mean vulgarly--and I couldn't stand that. If you weren't that way, if that weren't your nature, I mean, I should have given way long ago." I made some sort of desperate protest. "No, if I didn't know you so well I believe I should have given in long ago. I'm not thinking of you alone, but of myself, too. I'm afraid I shouldn't be happy, that I should begin to think--and then I couldn't stop. The plain truth, as I've told you over and over again, is that I'm not big enough." She continued smiling at me, a smile on which I could not bear to look. "I was wrong not to have gone away," I heard her say. "I will go away." I was, at the time, too profoundly discouraged to answer.... One evening after an exhausting talk we sat, inert, on the grass hummock beside the stream. Heavy clouds had gathered in the sky, the light had deepened to amethyst, the valley was still, swooning with expectancy, louder and louder the thunder rolled from behind the distant hills, and presently a veil descended to hide them from our view. Great drops began to fall, unheeded. "We must go in," said Nancy, at length. I followed her across the field and through the orchard. From the porch we stood gazing out at the whitening rain that blotted all save the nearer landscape, and the smell of wet, midsummer grasses will always be associated with the poignancy of that moment.... At dinner, between the intervals of silence, our talk was of trivial things. We made a mere pretence of eating, and I remember having my attention arrested by the sight of a strange, pitying expression on the face of Mrs. Olsen, who waited on us. Before that the woman had been to me a mere ministering automaton. But she must have had ideas and opinions, this transported Swedish peasant.... Presently, having cleared the table, she retired.... The twilight deepened to dusk, to darkness. The storm, having spent the intensity of its passion in those first moments of heavy downpour and wind, had relaxed to a gentle rain that pattered on the roof, and from the stream came recurringly the dirge of the frogs. All I could see of Nancy was the dim outline of her head and shoulders: she seemed fantastically to be escaping me, to be fading, to be going; in sudden desperation I dropped on my knees beside her, and I felt her hands straying with a light yet agonized touch, over my head. "Do you think I haven't suffered, too? that I don't suffer?" I heard her ask. Some betraying note for which I had hitherto waited in vain must have pierced to my consciousness, yet the quiver of joy and the swift, convulsive movement that followed it seemed one. Her strong, lithe body was straining in my arms, her lips returning my kisses.... Clinging to her hands, I strove to summon my faculties of realization; and I began to speak in broken, endearing sentences. "It's stronger than we are--stronger than anything else in the world," she said. "But you're not sorry?" I asked. "I don't want to think--I don't care," she replied. "I only know that I love you. I wonder if you will ever know how much!" The moments lengthened into hours, and she gently reminded me that it was late. The lights in the little farmhouses near by had long been extinguished. I pleaded to linger; I wanted her, more of her, all of her with a fierce desire that drowned rational thought, and I feared that something might still come between us, and cheat me of her. "No, no," she cried, with fear in her voice. "We shall have to think it out very carefully--what we must do. We can't afford to make any mistakes." "We'll talk it all over to-morrow," I said. With a last, reluctant embrace I finally left her, walked blindly to where the motor car was standing, and started the engine. I looked back. Outlined in the light of the doorway I saw her figure in what seemed an attitude of supplication.... I drove cityward through the rain, mechanically taking the familiar turns in the road, barely missing a man in a buggy at a four-corners. He shouted after me, but the world to which he belonged didn't exist. I lived again those moments that had followed Nancy's surrender, seeking to recall and fix in my mind every word that had escaped from her lips--the trivial things that to lovers are so fraught with meaning. I lived it all over again, as I say, but the reflection of it, though intensely emotional, differed from the reality in that now I was somewhat able to regard the thing, to regard myself, objectively; to define certain feelings that had flitted in filmy fashion through my consciousness, delicate shadows I recognized at the time as related to sadness. When she had so amazingly yielded, the thought for which my mind had been vaguely groping was that the woman who lay there in my arms, obscured by the darkness, was not Nancy at all! It was as if this one precious woman I had so desperately pursued had, in the capture, lost her identity, had mysteriously become just woman, in all her significance, yes, and helplessness. The particular had merged (inevitably, I might have known) into the general: the temporary had become the lasting, with a chain of consequences vaguely implied that even in my joy gave me pause. For the first time in my life I had a glimpse of what marriage might mean,--marriage in a greater sense than I had ever conceived it, a sort of cosmic sense, implying obligations transcending promises and contracts, calling for greatness of soul of a kind I had not hitherto imagined. Was there in me a grain of doubt of my ability to respond to such a high call? I began to perceive that such a union as we contemplated involved more obligations than one not opposed to traditional views of morality. I fortified myself, however,--if indeed I really needed fortification in a mood prevailingly triumphant and exalted,--with the thought that this love was different, the real thing, the love of maturity steeped in the ideals of youth. Here was a love for which I must be prepared to renounce other things on which I set a high value; prepared, in case the world, for some reason, should not look upon us with kindliness. It was curious that such reflections as these should have been delayed until after the achievement of my absorbing desire, more curious that they should have followed so closely on the heels of it. The affair had shifted suddenly from a basis of adventure, of uncertainty; to one of fact, of commitment; I am exaggerating my concern in order to define it; I was able to persuade myself without much difficulty that these little, cloudy currents in the stream of my joy were due to a natural reaction from the tremendous strain of the past weeks, mere morbid fancies. When at length I reached my room at the Club I sat looking out at the rain falling on the shining pavements under the arc-lights. Though waves of heat caused by some sudden recollection or impatient longing still ran through my body, a saner joy of anticipation was succeeding emotional tumult, and I reflected that Nancy had been right in insisting that we walk circumspectly in spite of passion. After all, I had outwitted circumstance, I had gained the prize, I could afford to wait a little. We should talk it over to-morrow,--no, to-day. The luminous face of the city hall clock reminded me that midnight was long past.... I awoke with the consciousness of a new joy, suddenly to identify it with Nancy. She was mine! I kept repeating it as I dressed; summoning her, not as she had lain in my arms in the darkness--though the intoxicating sweetness of that pervaded me--but as she had been before the completeness of her surrender, dainty, surrounded by things expressing an elusive, uniquely feminine personality. I could afford to smile at the weather, at the obsidian sky, at the rain still falling persistently; and yet, as I ate my breakfast, I felt a certain impatience to verify what I knew was a certainty, and hurried to the telephone booth. I resented the instrument, its possibilities of betrayal, her voice sounded so matter-of-fact as she bade me good morning and deplored the rain. "I'll be out as soon as I can get away," I said. "I have a meeting at three, but it should be over at four." And then I added irresistibly: "Nancy, you're not sorry? You--you still--?" "Yes, don't be foolish," I heard her reply, and this time the telephone did not completely disguise the note for which I strained. I said something more, but the circuit was closed.... I shall not attempt to recount the details of our intercourse during the week that followed. There were moments of stress and strain when it seemed to me that we could not wait, moments that strengthened Nancy's resolution to leave immediately for the East: there were other, calmer periods when the wisdom of her going appealed to me, since our ultimate union would be hastened thereby. We overcame by degrees the distastefulness of the discussion of ways and means.... We spent an unforgettable Sunday among the distant high hills, beside a little lake of our own discovery, its glinting waters sapphire and chrysoprase. A grassy wood road, at the inviting entrance to which we left the automobile, led down through an undergrowth of laurel to a pebbly shore, and there we lunched; there we lingered through the long summer afternoon, Nancy with her back against a tree, I with my head in her lap gazing up at filmy clouds drifting imperceptibly across the sky, listening to the droning notes of the bees, notes that sometimes rose in a sharp crescendo, and again were suddenly hushed. The smell of the wood-mould mingled with the fainter scents of wild flowers. She had brought along a volume by a modern poet: the verses, as Nancy read them, moved me,--they were filled with a new faith to which my being responded, the faith of the forth-farer; not the faith of the anchor, but of the sail. I repeated some of the lines as indications of a creed to which I had long been trying to convert her, though lacking the expression. She had let the book fall on the grass. I remember how she smiled down at me with the wisdom of the ages in her eyes, seeking my hand with a gesture that was almost maternal. "You and the poets," she said, "you never grow up. I suppose that's the reason why we love you--and these wonderful visions of freedom you have. Anyway, it's nice to dream, to recreate the world as one would like to have it." "But that's what you and I are doing," I insisted. "We think we're doing it--or rather you think so," she replied. "And sometimes, I admit that you almost persuade me to think so. Never quite. What disturbs me," she continued, "is to find you and the poets founding your new freedom on new justifications, discarding the old law only to make a new one,--as though we could ever get away from necessities, escape from disagreeable things, except in dreams. And then, this delusion of believing that we are masters of our own destiny--" She paused and pressed my fingers. "There you go-back to predestination!" I exclaimed. "I don't go back to anything, or forward to anything," she exclaimed. "Women are elemental, but I don't expect you to understand it. Laws and codes are foreign to us, philosophies and dreams may dazzle us for the moment, but what we feel underneath and what we yield to are the primal forces, the great necessities; when we refuse joys it's because we know these forces by a sort of instinct, when we're overcome it's with a full knowledge that there's a price. You've talked a great deal, Hugh, about carving out our future. I listened to you, but I resisted you. It wasn't the morality that was taught me as a child that made me resist, it was something deeper than that, more fundamental, something I feel but can't yet perceive, and yet shall perceive some day. It isn't that I'm clinging to the hard and fast rules because I fail to see any others, it isn't that I believe that all people should stick together whether they are happily married or not, but--I must say it even now--I have a feeling I can't define that divorce isn't for us. I'm not talking about right and wrong in the ordinary sense--it's just what I feel. I've ceased to think." "Nancy!" I reproached her. "I can't help it--I don't want to be morbid. Do you remember my asking you about God?--the first day this began? and whether you had a god? Well, that's the trouble with us all to-day, we haven't any God, we're wanderers, drifters. And now it's just life that's got hold of us, my dear, and swept us away together. That's our justification--if we needed one--it's been too strong for us." She leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes. "We're like chips in the torrent of it, Hugh.".... It was not until the shadow of the forest had crept far across the lake and the darkening waters were still that we rose reluctantly to put the dishes in the tea basket and start on our homeward journey. The tawny fires of the sunset were dying down behind us, the mist stealing, ghostlike, into the valleys below; in the sky a little moon curled like a freshly cut silver shaving, that presently turned to gold, the white star above it to fire. Where the valleys widened we came to silent, decorous little towns and villages where yellow-lit windows gleaming through the trees suggested refuge and peace, while we were wanderers in the night. It was Nancy's mood; and now, in the evening's chill, it recurred to me poignantly. In one of these villages we passed a church, its doors flung open; the congregation was singing a familiar hymn. I slowed down the car; I felt her shoulder pressing against my own, and reached out my hand and found hers. "Are you warm enough?" I asked.... We spoke but little on that drive, we had learned the futility of words to express the greater joys and sorrows, the love that is compounded of these. It was late when we turned in between the white dates and made our way up the little driveway to the farmhouse. I bade her good night on the steps of the porch. "You do love me, don't you?" she whispered, clinging to me with a sudden, straining passion. "You will love me, always no matter what happens?" "Why, of course, Nancy," I answered. "I want to hear you say it, 'I love you, I shall love you always.'" I repeated it fervently.... "No matter what happens?" "No matter what happens. As if I could help it, Nancy! Why are you so sad to-night?" "Ah, Hugh, it makes me sad--I can't tell why. It is so great, it is so terrible, and yet it's so sweet and beautiful." She took my face in her hands and pressed a kiss against my forehead.... The next day was dark. At two o'clock in the afternoon the electric light was still burning over my desk when the telephone rang and I heard Nancy's voice. "Is that you, Hugh?" "Yes." "I have to go East this afternoon." "Why?" I asked. Her agitation had communicated itself to me. "I thought you weren't going until Thursday. What's the matter?" "I've just had a telegram," she said. "Ham's been hurt--I don't know how badly--he was thrown from a polo pony this morning at Narragansett, in practice, and they're taking him to Boston to a private hospital. The telegram's from Johnny Shephard. I'll be at the house in town at four." Filled with forebodings I tried in vain to suppress I dropped the work I was doing and got up and paced the room, pausing now and again to gaze out of the window at the wet roofs and the grey skies. I was aghast at the idea of her going to Ham now even though he were hurt badly hurt; and yet I tried to think it was natural, that it was fine of her to respond to such a call. And she couldn't very well refuse his summons. But it was not the news of her husband's accident that inspired the greater fear, which was quelled and soothed only to rise again when I recalled the note I had heard in her voice, a note eloquent of tragedy--of tragedy she had foreseen. At length, unable to remain where I was any longer, I descended to the street and walked uptown in the rain. The Durrett house was closed, the blinds of its many windows drawn, but Nancy was watching for me and opened the door. So used had I grown to seeing her in the simple linen dresses she had worn in the country, a costume associated with exclusive possession, that the sight of her travelling suit and hat renewed in me an agony of apprehension. The unforeseen event seemed to have transformed her once more. Her veil was drawn up, her face was pale, in her eyes were traces of tears. "You're going?" I asked, as I took her hands. "Hugh, I have to go." She led me through the dark, shrouded drawing room into the little salon where the windows were open on the silent city-garden. I took her in my arms; she did not resist, as I half expected, but clung to me with what seemed desperation. "I have to go, dear--you won't make it too hard for me! It's only--ordinary decency, and there's no one else to go to him." She drew me to the sofa, her eyes beseeching me. "Listen, dear, I want you to see it as I see it. I know that you will, that you do. I should never be able to forgive myself if I stayed away now, I--neither of us could ever be happy about it. You do see, don't you?" she implored. "Yes," I admitted agitatedly. Her grasp on my hand tightened. "I knew you would. But it makes me happier to hear you say it." We sat for a moment in helpless silence, gazing at one another. Slowly her eyes had filled. "Have you heard anything more?" I managed to ask. She drew a telegram from her bag, as though the movement were a relief. "This is from the doctor in Boston--his name is Magruder. They have got Ham there, it seems. A horse kicked him in the head, after he fell,--he had just recovered consciousness." I took the telegram. The wordy seemed meaningless, all save those of the last sentence. "The situation is serious, but by no means hopeless." Nancy had not spoken of that. The ignorant cruelty of its convention! The man must have known what Hambleton Durrett was! Nancy read my thoughts, and took the paper from my hand. "Hugh, dear, if it's hard for you, try to understand that it's terrible for me to think that he has any claim at all. I realize now, as I never did before, how wicked it was in me to marry him. I hate him, I can't bear the thought of going near him." She fell into wild weeping. I tried to comfort her, who could not comfort myself; I don't remember my inadequate words. We were overwhelmed, obliterated by the sense of calamity.... It was she who checked herself at last by an effort that was almost hysterical. "I mustn't yield to it!" she said. "It's time to leave and the train goes at six. No, you mustn't come to the station, Hugh--I don't think I could stand it. I'll send you a telegram." She rose. "You must go now--you must." "You'll come back to me?" I demanded thickly, as I held her. "Hugh, I am yours, now and always. How can you doubt it?" At last I released her, when she had begged me again. And I found myself a little later walking past the familiar, empty houses of those streets.... The front pages of the evening newspapers announced the accident to Hambleton Durrett, and added that Mrs. Durrett, who had been lingering in the city, had gone to her husband's bedside. The morning papers contained more of biography and ancestry, but had little to add to the bulletin; and there was no lack of speculation at the Club and elsewhere as to Ham's ability to rally from such a shock. I could not bear to listen to these comments: they were violently distasteful to me. The unforeseen accident and Nancy's sudden departure had thrown my life completely out of gear: I could not attend to business, I dared not go away lest the news from Nancy be delayed. I spent the hours in an exhausting mental state that alternated between hope and fear, a state of unmitigated, intense desire, of balked realization, sometimes heightening into that sheer terror I had felt when I had detected over the telephone that note in her voice that seemed of despair. Had she had a presentiment, all along, that something would occur to separate us? As I went back over the hours we had passed together since she had acknowledged her love, in spite of myself the conviction grew on me that she had never believed in the reality of our future. Indeed, she had expressed her disbelief in words. Had she been looking all along for a sign--a sign of wrath? And would she accept this accident of Ham's as such? Retrospection left me trembling and almost sick. It was not until the second morning after her departure that I received a telegram giving the name of her Boston hotel, and saying that there was to be a consultation that day, and as soon as it had taken place she would write. Such consolation as I could gather from it was derived from four words at the end,--she missed me dreadfully. Some tremor of pity for her entered into my consciousness, without mitigating greatly the wildness of my resentment, of my forebodings. I could bear no longer the city, the Club, the office, the daily contact with my associates and clients. Six hours distant, near Rossiter, was a small resort in the mountains of which I had heard. I telegraphed Nancy to address me there, notified the office, packed my bag, and waited impatiently for midday, when I boarded the train. At seven I reached a little station where a stage was waiting to take me to Callender's Mill. It was not until morning that I beheld my retreat, when little wisps of vapour were straying over the surface of the lake, and the steep green slopes that rose out of the water on the western side were still in shadow. The hotel, a much overgrown and altered farm-house, stood, surrounded by great trees, in an ancient clearing that sloped gently to the water's edge, where an old-fashioned, octagonal summerhouse overlooked a landing for rowboats. The resort, indeed, was a survival of simpler times.... In spite of the thirty-odd guests, people of very moderate incomes who knew the place and had come here year after year, I was as much alone as if I had been the only sojourner. The place was so remote, so peaceful in contrast to the city I had left, which had become intolerable. And at night, during hours of wakefulness, the music of the waters falling over the dam was soothing. I used to walk down there and sit on the stones of the ruined mill; or climb to the crests on the far side of the pond to gaze for hours westward where the green billows of the Alleghenies lost themselves in the haze. I had discovered a new country; here, when our trials should be over, I would bring Nancy, and I found distraction in choosing sites for a bungalow. In my soul hope flowered with little watering. Uncertain news was good news. After two days of an impatience all but intolerable, her first letter arrived, I learned that the specialists had not been able to make a diagnosis, and I began to take heart again. At times, she said, Ham was delirious and difficult to manage; at other times he sank into a condition of coma; and again he seemed to know her and Ralph, who had come up from Southampton, where he had been spending the summer. One doctor thought that Ham's remarkable vitality would pull him through, in spite of what his life had been. The shock--as might have been surmised--had affected the brain.... The letters that followed contained no additional news; she did not dwell on the depressing reactions inevitable from the situation in which she found herself--one so much worse than mine; she expressed a continual longing for me; and yet I had trouble to convince myself that they did not lack the note of reassurance for which I strained as I eagerly scanned them--of reassurance that she had no intention of permitting her husband's condition to interfere with that ultimate happiness on which it seemed my existence depended. I tried to account for the absence of this note by reflecting that the letters were of necessity brief, hurriedly scratched off at odd moments; and a natural delicacy would prevent her from referring to our future at such a time. They recorded no change in Ham's condition save that the periods of coma had ceased. The doctors were silent, awaiting the arrival in this country of a certain New York specialist who was abroad. She spent most of her days at the hospital, returning to the hotel at night exhausted: the people she knew in the various resorts around Boston had been most kind, sending her flowers, and calling when in town to inquire. At length came the news that the New York doctor was home again; and coming to Boston. In that letter was a sentence which rang like a cry in my ears: "Oh, Hugh, I think these doctors know now what the trouble is, I think I know. They are only waiting for Dr. Jameson to confirm it." It was always an effort for me to control my impatience after the first rattling was heard in the morning of the stage that brought the mail, and I avoided the waiting group in front of the honeycombed partition of boxes beside the "office." On the particular morning of which I am now writing the proprietor himself handed me a letter of ominous thickness which I took with me down to the borders of the lake before tearing open the flap. In spite of the calmness and restraint of the first lines, because of them, I felt creeping over me an unnerving sensation I knew for dread.... "Hugh, the New York doctor has been here. It is as I have feared for some weeks, but I couldn't tell you until I was sure. Ham is not exactly insane, but he is childish. Sometimes I think that is even worse. I have had a talk with Dr. Jameson, who has simply confirmed the opinion which the other physicians have gradually been forming. The accident has precipitated a kind of mental degeneration, but his health, otherwise, will not be greatly affected. "Jameson was kind, but very frank, for which I was grateful. He did not hesitate to say that it would have been better if the accident had been fatal. Ham won't be helpless, physically. Of course he won't be able to play polo, or take much active exercise. If he were to be helpless, I could feel that I might be of some use, at least of more use. He knows his friends. Some of them have been here to see him, and he talks quite rationally with them, with Ralph, with me, only once in a while he says something silly. It seems odd to write that he is not responsible, since he never has been,--his condition is so queer that I am at a loss to describe it. The other morning, before I arrived from the hotel and when the nurse was downstairs, he left the hospital, and we found him several blocks along Commonwealth Avenue, seated on a bench, without a hat--he was annoyed that he had forgotten it, and quite sensible otherwise. We began by taking him out every morning in an automobile. To-day he had a walk with Ralph, and insisted on going into a club here, to which they both belong. Two or three men were there whom they knew, and he talked to them about his fall from the pony and told them just how it happened. "At such times only a close observer can tell from his manner that everything is not right. "Ralph, who always could manage him, prevented his taking anything to drink. He depends upon Ralph, and it will be harder for me when he is not with us. His attitude towards me is just about what it has always been. I try to amuse him by reading the newspapers and with games; we have a chess-board. At times he seems grateful, and then he will suddenly grow tired and hard to control. Once or twice I have had to call in Dr. Magruder, who owns the hospital. "It has been terribly hard for me to write all this, but I had to do it, in order that you might understand the situation completely. Hugh dear, I simply can't leave him. This has been becoming clearer and clearer to me all these weeks, but it breaks my heart to have to write it. I have struggled against it, I have lain awake nights trying to find justification for going to you, but it is stronger than I. I am afraid of it--I suppose that's the truth. Even in those unforgettable days at the farm I was afraid of it, although I did not know what it was to be. Call it what you like, say that I am weak. I am willing to acknowledge that it is weakness. I wish no credit for it, it gives me no glow, the thought of it makes my heart sick. I'm not big enough I suppose that's the real truth. I once might have been; but I'm not now,--the years of the life I chose have made a coward of me. It's not a question of morals or duty it's simply that I can't take the thing for which my soul craves. It's too late. If I believed in prayer I'd pray that you might pity and forgive me. I really can't expect you to understand what I can't myself explain. Oh, I need pity--and I pity you, my dear. I can only hope that you will not suffer as I shall, that you will find relief away to work out your life. But I will not change my decision, I cannot change it. Don't come on, don't attempt to see me now. I can't stand any more than I am standing, I should lose my mind." Here the letter was blotted, and some words scratched out. I was unable to reconstruct them. "Ralph and I," she proceeded irrelevantly, "have got Ham to agree to go to Buzzard's Bay, and we have taken a house near Wareham. Write and tell me that you forgive and pity me. I love you even more, if such a thing is possible, than I have ever loved you. This is my only comfort and compensation, that I have had and have been able to feel such a love, and I know I shall always feel it.--Nancy." The first effect of this letter was a paralyzing one. I was unable to realize or believe the thing that had happened to me, and I sat stupidly holding the sheet in my hand until I heard voices along the path, and then I fled instinctively, like an animal, to hide my injury from any persons I might meet. I wandered down the shore of the lake, striking at length into the woods, seeking some inviolable shelter; nor was I conscious of physical effort until I found myself panting near the crest of the ridge where there was a pasture, which some ancient glacier had strewn with great boulders. Beside one of these I sank. Heralded by the deep tones of bells, two steers appeared above the shoulder of a hill and stood staring at me with bovine curiosity, and fell to grazing again. A fleet of white clouds, like ships pressed with sail, hurried across the sky as though racing for some determined port; and the shadows they cast along the hillsides accentuated the high brightness of the day, emphasized the vivid and hateful beauty of the landscape. My numbness began to be penetrated by shooting pains, and I grasped little by little the fulness of my calamity, until I was in the state of wild rebellion of one whom life for the first time has foiled in a supreme desire. There was no fate about this thing, it was just an absurd accident. The operation of the laws of nature had sent a man to the ground: another combination of circumstances would have killed him, still another, and he would have arisen unhurt. But because of this particular combination my happiness was ruined, and Nancy's! She had not expected me to understand. Well, I didn't understand, I had no pity, in that hour I felt a resentment almost amounting to hate; I could see only unreasoning superstition in the woman I wanted above everything in the world. Women of other days had indeed renounced great loves: the thing was not unheard of. But that this should happen in these times--and to me! It was unthinkable that Nancy of all women shouldn't be emancipated from the thralls of religious inhibition! And if it wasn't "conscience," what was it? Was it, as she said, weakness, lack of courage to take life when it was offered her?.... I was suddenly filled with the fever of composing arguments to change a decision that appeared to me to be the result of a monstrous caprice and delusion; writing them out, as they occurred to me, in snatches on the backs of envelopes--her envelopes. Then I proceeded to make the draft of a letter, the effort required for composition easing me until the draft was finished; when I started for the hotel, climbing fences, leaping streams, making my way across rock faces and through woods; halting now and then as some reenforcing argument occurred to me to write it into my draft at the proper place until the sheets were interlined and blurred and almost illegible. It was already three o'clock when I reached my room, and the mail left at four. I began to copy and revise my scrawl, glancing from time to time at my watch, which I had laid on the table. Hurriedly washing my face and brushing my hair, I arrived downstairs just as the stage was leaving.... After the letter had gone still other arguments I might have added began to occur to me, and I regretted that I had not softened some of the things I wrote and made others more emphatic. In places argument had degenerated into abject entreaty. Never had my desire been so importunate as now, when I was in continual terror of losing her. Nor could I see how I was to live without her, life lacking a motive being incomprehensible: yet the fire of optimism in me, though died down to ashes, would not be extinguished. At moments it flared up into what almost amounted to a conviction that she could not resist my appeal. I had threatened to go to her, and more than once I started packing.... Three days later I received a brief note in which she managed to convey to me, though tenderly and compassionately, that her decision was unalterable. If I came on, she would refuse to see me. I took the afternoon stage and went back to the city, to plunge into affairs again; but for weeks my torture was so acute that it gives me pain to recall it, to dwell upon it to-day.... And yet, amazing as it may seem, there came a time when hope began to dawn again out of my despair. Perhaps my life had not been utterly shattered, after all: perhaps Ham Durrett would get well: such things happened, and Nancy would no longer have an excuse for continuing to refuse me. Little by little my anger at what I had now become convinced was her weakness cooled, and--though paradoxically I had continued to love her in spite of the torture for which she was responsible, in spite of the resentment I felt, I melted toward her. True to my habit of reliance on miracles, I tried to reconcile myself to a period of waiting. Nevertheless I was faintly aware--consequent upon if not as a result of this tremendous experience--of some change within me. It was not only that I felt at times a novel sense of uneasiness at being a prey to accidents, subject to ravages of feeling; the unity of mind that had hitherto enabled me to press forward continuously toward a concrete goal showed signs of breaking up:--the goal had lost its desirability. I seemed oddly to be relapsing into the states of questioning that had characterized my earlier years. Perhaps it would be an exaggeration to say that I actually began to speculate on the possible existence of a realm where the soul might find a refuge from the buffetings of life, from which the philosophy of prosperity was powerless to save it.... XXIV. It was impossible, of course, that my friends should have failed to perceive the state of disorganization I was in, and some of them at least must have guessed its cause. Dickinson, on his return from Maine, at once begged me to go away. I rather congratulated myself that Tom had chosen these months for a long-delayed vacation in Canada. His passion for fishing still persisted. In spite of the fact I have noted, that I had lost a certain zest for results, to keep busy seemed to be the only way to relieve my mind of an otherwise intolerable pressure: and I worked sometimes far into the evening. In the background of my thoughts lay the necessity of coming to a decision on the question of the senatorship; several times Dickinson and Gorse had spoken of it, and I was beginning to get letters from influential men in other parts of the state. They seemed to take it for granted that there was no question of my refusing. The time came when I had grown able to consider the matter with a degree of calmness. What struck me first, when I began to debate upon it, was that the senatorship offered a new and possibly higher field for my energies, while at the same time the office would be a logical continuation of a signal legal career. I was now unable to deny that I no longer felt any exhilaration at the prospect of future legal conquests similar to those of the past; but once in the Senate, I might regain something of that intense conviction of fighting for a just and sound cause with which Theodore Wading had once animated me: fighting there, in the Capitol at Washington, would be different; no stigma of personal gain attached to it; it offered a nearer approach to the ideal I had once more begun to seek, held out hopes of a renewal of my unity of mind. Mr. Watling had declared that there was something to fight for; I had even glimpsed that something, but I had to confess that for some years I had not been consciously fighting for it. I needed something to fight for. There was the necessity, however, of renewing my calculations. If Hambleton Durrett should recover, even during the ensuing year, and if Nancy relented it would not be possible for us to be divorced and married for some time. I still clung tenaciously to the belief that there were no relationships wholly unaffected by worldly triumphs, and as Senator I should have strengthened my position. It did not strike me--even after all my experience--that such a course as I now contemplated had a parallel in the one that I had pursued in regard to her when I was young. It seemed fitting that Theodore Watling should be the first to know of my decision. I went to Washington to meet him. It pained me to see him looking more worn, but he was still as cheerful, as mentally vigorous as ever, and I perceived that he did not wish to dwell upon his illness. I did venture to expostulate with him on the risk he must be running in serving out his term. We were sitting in the dining room of his house. "We've only one life to live, Hugh," he answered, smiling at me, "and we might as well get all out of it we can. A few years more or less doesn't make much difference--and I ought to be satisfied. I'd resign now, to please my wife, to please my friends, but we can't trust this governor to appoint a safe man. How little we suspected when we elected him that he'd become infected. You never can tell, in these days, can you?" It was the note of devotion to his cause that I had come to hear: I felt it renewing me, as I had hoped. The threat of disease, the louder clamourings of the leaders of the mob had not sufficed to dismay him--though he admitted more concern over these. My sympathy and affection were mingled with the admiration he never failed to inspire. "But you, Hugh," he said concernedly, "you're not looking very well, my son. You must manage to take a good rest before coming here--before the campaign you'll have to go through. We can't afford to have anything happen to you--you're too young." I wondered whether he had heard anything.... He spoke to me again about the work to be done, the work he looked to me to carry on. "We'll have to watch for our opportunity," he said, "and when it comes we can handle this new movement not by crushing it, but by guiding it. I've come to the conclusion that there is a true instinct in it, that there are certain things we have done which have been mistakes, and which we can't do any more. But as for this theory that all wisdom resides in the people, it's buncombe. What we have to do is to work out a practical programme." His confidence in me had not diminished. It helped to restore confidence in myself. The weather was cool and bracing for September, and as we drove in a motor through the beautiful avenues of the city he pointed out a house for me on one of the circles, one of those distinguished residences, instances of a nascent good taste, that are helping to redeem the polyglot aspect of our national capital. Mr. Watling spoke--rather tactfully, I thought--of Maude and the children, and ventured the surmise that they would be returning in a few months. I interpreted this, indeed, as in rather the nature of a kindly hint that such a procedure would be wise in view of the larger life now dawning for me, but I made no comment.... He even sympathized with Nancy Durrett. "She did the right thing, Hugh," he said, with the admirable casual manner he possessed of treating subjects which he knew to be delicate. "Nancy's a fine woman. Poor devil!" This in reference to Ham.... Mr. Watling reassured me on the subject of his own trouble, maintaining that he had many years left if he took care. He drove me to the station. I travelled homeward somewhat lifted out of myself by this visit to him; with some feeling of spaciousness derived from Washington itself, with its dignified Presidential Mansion among the trees, its granite shaft drawing the eye upward, with its winged Capitol serene upon the hill. Should we deliver these heirlooms to the mob? Surely Democracy meant more than that! All this time I had been receiving, at intervals, letters from Maude and the children. Maude's were the letters of a friend, and I found it easy to convince myself that their tone was genuine, that the separation had brought contentment to her; and those independent and self-sufficient elements in her character I admired now rather than deplored. At Etretat, which she found much to her taste, she was living quietly, but making friends with some American and English, and one French family of the same name, Buffon, as the great naturalist. The father was a retired silk manufacturer; they now resided in Paris, and had been very kind in helping her to get an apartment in that city for the winter. She had chosen one on the Avenue Kleber, not far from the Arc. It is interesting, after her arraignment of me, that she should have taken such pains to record their daily life for my benefit in her clear, conscientious handwriting. I beheld Biddy, her dresses tucked above slim little knees, playing in the sand on the beach, her hair flying in the wind and lighted by the sun which gave sparkle to the sea. I saw Maude herself in her beach chair, a book lying in her lap, its pages whipped by the breeze. And there was Moreton, who must be proving something of a handful, since he had fought with the French boys on the beach and thrown a "rock" through the windows of the Buffon family. I remember one of his letters--made perfect after much correcting and scratching,--in which he denounced both France and the French, and appealed to me to come over at once to take him home. Maude had enclosed it without comment. This letter had not been written under duress, as most of his were. Matthew's letters--he wrote faithfully once a week--I kept in a little pile by themselves and sometimes reread them. I wondered whether it were because of the fact that I was his father--though a most inadequate one--that I thought them somewhat unusual. He had learned French--Maude wrote--with remarkable ease. I was particularly struck in these letters with the boy's power of observation, with his facile use of language, with the vivid simplicity of his descriptions of the life around him, of his experiences at school. The letters were thoughtful--not dashed off in a hurry; they gave evidence in every line of the delicacy of feeling that was, I think, his most appealing quality, and I put them down with the impression strong on me that he, too, longed to return home, but would not say so. There was a certain pathos in this youthful restraint that never failed to touch me, even in those times when I had been most obsessed with love and passion.... The curious effect of these letters was that of knowing more than they expressed. He missed me, he wished to know when I was coming over. And I was sometimes at a loss whether to be grateful to Maude or troubled because she had as yet given him no hint of our separation. What effect would it have on him when it should be revealed to him?.... It was through Matthew I began to apprehend certain elements in Maude I had both failed to note and appreciate; her little mannerisms that jarred, her habits of thought that exasperated, were forgotten, and I was forced to confess that there was something fine in the achievement of this attitude of hers that was without ill will or resentment, that tacitly acknowledged my continued rights and interest in the children. It puzzled and troubled me. The Citizens Union began its campaign early that autumn, long before the Hons. Jonathan Parks and Timothy MacGuire--Republican and Democratic candidates for Mayor--thought of going on the stump. For several weeks the meetings were held in the small halls and club rooms of various societies and orders in obscure portions of the city. The forces of "privilege and corruption" were not much alarmed. Perry Blackwood accused the newspapers of having agreed to a "conspiracy of silence"; but, as Judah B. Tallant remarked, it was the business of the press to give the public what it wanted, and the public as yet hadn't shown much interest in the struggle being waged in its behalf. When the meetings began to fill up it would be time to report them in the columns of the Era. Meanwhile, however, the city had been quietly visited by an enterprising representative of a New York periodical of the new type that developed with the opening years of the century--one making a specialty of passionate "muck-raking." And since the people of America love nothing better than being startled, Yardley's Weekly had acquired a circulation truly fabulous. The emissary of the paper had attended several of the Citizens meetings; interviewed, it seemed, many persons: the result was a revelation to make the blood of politicians, capitalists and corporation lawyers run cold. I remember very well the day it appeared on our news stands, and the heated denunciations it evoked at the Boyne Club. Ralph Hambleton was the only one who took it calmly, who seemed to derive a certain enjoyment from the affair. Had he been a less privileged person, they would have put him in chancery. Leonard Dickinson asserted that Yardley's should be sued for libel. "There's just one objection to that," said Ralph. "What?" asked the banker. "It isn't libel." "I defy them to prove it," Dickinson snapped. "It's a d--d outrage! There isn't a city or village in the country that hasn't exactly the same conditions. There isn't any other way to run a city--" "That's what Mr. Krebs says," Ralph replied, "that the people ought to put Judd Jason officially in charge. He tells 'em that Jason is probably a more efficient man than Democracy will be able to evolve in a coon's age, that we ought to take him over, instead of letting the capitalists have him." "Did Krebs say that?" Dickinson demanded. "You can't have read the article very thoroughly, Leonard," Ralph commented. "I'm afraid you only picked out the part of it that compliments you. This fellow seems to have been struck by Krebs, says he's a coming man, that he's making original contributions to the people's cause. Quite a tribute. You ought to read it." Dickinson, who had finished his lunch, got up and left the table after lighting his cigar. Ralph's look followed him amusedly. "I'm afraid it's time to cash in and be good," he observed. "We'll get that fellow Krebs yet," said Grierson, wrathfully. Miller Gorse alone made no remarks, but in spite of his silence he emanated an animosity against reform and reformers that seemed to charge the very atmosphere, and would have repressed any man but Ralph.... I sat in my room at the Club that night and reread the article, and if its author could have looked into my soul and observed the emotions he had set up, he would, no doubt, have experienced a grim satisfaction. For I, too, had come in for a share of the comment. Portions of the matter referring to me stuck in my brain like tar, such as the reference to my father, to the honoured traditions of the Parets and the Brecks which I had deliberately repudiated. I had less excuse than many others. The part I had played in various reprehensible transactions such as the Riverside Franchise and the dummy telephone company affair was dwelt upon, and I was dismissed with the laconic comment that I was a graduate of Harvard.... My associates and myself were referred to collectively as a "gang," with the name of our city prefixed; we were linked up with and compared to the gangs of other cities--the terminology used to describe us being that of the police reporter. We "operated," like burglars; we "looted": only, it was intimated in one place, "second-story men" were angels compared to us, who had never seen the inside of a penitentiary. Here we were, all arraigned before the bar of public opinion, the relentless Dickinson, the surfeited Scherer, the rapacious Grierson, the salacious Tallant. I have forgotten what Miller Gorse was called; nothing so classic as a Minotaur; Judd Jason was a hairy spider who spread his net and lurked in darkness for his victims. Every adjective was called upon to do its duty.... Even Theodore Watling did not escape, but it was intimated that he would be dealt with in another connection in a future number. The article had a crude and terrifying power, and the pain it aroused, following almost immediately upon the suffering caused by my separation from Nancy, was cumulative in character and effect, seeming actively to reenforce the unwelcome conviction I had been striving to suppress, that the world, which had long seemed so acquiescent in conforming itself to my desires, was turning against me. Though my hunger for Nancy was still gnawing, I had begun to fear that I should never get her now; and the fact that she would not even write to me seemed to confirm this. Then there was Matthew--I could not bear to think that he would ever read that article. In vain I tried that night to belittle to myself its contentions and probable results, to summon up the heart to fight; in vain I sought to reconstruct the point of view, to gain something of that renewed hope and power, of devotion to a cause I had carried away from Washington after my talk with Theodore Watling. He, though stricken, had not wavered in his faith. Why should I? Whether or not as the result of the article in Yardley's, which had been read more or less widely in the city, the campaign of the Citizens Union gained ground, and people began to fill the little halls to hear Krebs, who was a candidate for district attorney. Evidently he was entertaining and rousing them, for his reputation spread, and some of the larger halls were hired. Dickinson and Gorse became alarmed, and one morning the banker turned up at the Club while I was eating my breakfast. "Look here, Hugh," he said, "we may as well face the fact that we've got a fight ahead of us,--we'll have to start some sort of a back-fire right away." "You think Greenhalge has a chance of being elected?" I asked. "I'm not afraid of Greenhalge, but of this fellow Krebs. We can't afford to have him district attorney, to let a demagogue like him get a start. The men the Republicans and Democrats have nominated are worse than useless. Parks is no good, and neither is MacGuire. If only we could have foreseen this thing we might have had better candidates put up--but there's no use crying over spilt milk. You'll have to go on the stump, Hugh--that's all there is to it. You can answer him, and the newspapers will print your speeches in full. Besides it will help you when it comes to the senatorship." The mood of extreme dejection that had followed the appearance of the article in Yardley's did not last. I had acquired aggressiveness: an aggressiveness, however, differing in quality from the feeling I once would have had,--for this arose from resentment, not from belief. It was impossible to live in the atmosphere created by the men with whom I associated--especially at such a time--without imbibing something of the emotions animating them,--even though I had been free from these emotions myself. I, too, had begun to be filled with a desire for revenge; and when this desire was upon me I did not have in my mind a pack of reformers, or even the writer of the article in Yardley's. I thought of Hermann Krebs. He was my persecutor; it seemed to me that he always had been.... "Well, I'll make speeches if you like," I said to Dickinson. "I'm glad," he replied. "We're all agreed, Gorse and the rest of us, that you ought to. We've got to get some ginger into this fight, and a good deal more money, I'm afraid. Jason sends word we'll need more. By the way, Hugh, I wish you'd drop around and talk to Jason and get his idea of how the land lies." I went, this time in the company of Judah B. Tallant. Naturally we didn't expect to see Mr. Jason perturbed, nor was he. He seemed to be in an odd, rather exultant mood--if he can be imagined as exultant. We were not long in finding out what pleased him--nothing less than the fact that Mr. Krebs had proposed him for mayor! "D--d if I wouldn't make a good one, too," he said. "D--d if I wouldn't show 'em what a real mayor is!" "I guess there's no danger of your ever being mayor, Judd," Tallant observed, with a somewhat uneasy jocularity. "I guess there isn't, Judah," replied the boss, quickly, but with a peculiar violet flash in his eyes. "They won't ever make you mayor, either, if I can help it. And I've a notion I can. I'd rather see Krebs mayor." "You don't think he meant to propose you seriously," Tallant exclaimed. "I'm not a d--d fool," said the boss. "But I'll say this, that he half meant it. Krebs has a head-piece on him, and I tell you if any of this reform dope is worth anything his is. There's some sense in what he's talking, and if all the voters was like him you might get a man like me for mayor. But they're not, and I guess they never will be." "Sure," said Mr. Jason. "The people are dotty--there ain't one in ten thousand understands what he's driving at when he gets off things like that. They take it on the level." Tallant reflected. "By gum, I believe you're right," he said. "You think they will blow up?" he added. "Krebs is the whole show, I tell you. They wouldn't be anywhere without him. The yaps that listen to him don't understand him, but somehow he gets under their skins. Have you seen him lately?" "Never saw him," replied Tallant. "Well, if you had, you'd know he was a sick man." "Sick!" I exclaimed. "How do you know?" "It's my business to know things," said Judd Jason, and added to Tallant, "that your reporters don't find out." "What's the matter with him?" Tallant demanded. A slight exultation in his tone did not escape me. "You've got me there," said Jason, "but I have it pretty straight. Any one of your reporters will tell you that he looks sick.".... The Era took Mr. Jason's advice and began to publish those portions of Krebs's speeches that were seemingly detrimental to his own cause. Other conservative newspapers followed suit.... Both Tallant and I were surprised to hear these sentiments out of the mouth of Mr. Jason. "You don't think that crowd's going to win, do you?" asked the owner of the Era, a trifle uneasily. "Win!" exclaimed the boss contemptuously. "They'll blow up, and you'll never hear of 'em. I'm not saying we won't need a little--powder," he added--which was one of the matters we had come to talk about. He gave us likewise a very accurate idea of the state of the campaign, mentioning certain things that ought to be done. "You ought to print some of Krebs's speeches, Judah, like what he said about me. They're talking it all around that you're afraid to." "Print things like his proposal to make you mayor!" The information that I was to enter the lists against Krebs was received with satisfaction and approval by those of our friends who were called in to assist at a council of war in the directors' room of the Corn National Bank. I was flattered by the confidence these men seemed to have in my ability. All were in a state of anger against the reformers; none of them seriously alarmed as to the actual outcome of the campaign,--especially when I had given them the opinion of Mr. Jason. What disturbed them was the possible effect upon the future of the spread of heretical, socialistic doctrines, and it was decided to organize a publicity bureau, independently of the two dominant political parties, to be in charge of a certain New York journalist who made a business of such affairs, who was to be paid a sum commensurate with the emergency. He was to have carte blanche, even in the editorial columns of our newspapers. He was also to flood the city with "literature." We had fought many wars before this, and we planned our campaign precisely as though we were dealing with one of those rebellions in the realm of finance of which I have given an instance. But now the war chest of our opponents was negligible; and we were comforted by the thought that, however disagreeable the affair might be while it lasted, in the long run capital was invincible. Before setting to work to prepare my speeches it was necessary to make an attempt to familiarize myself with the seemingly unprecedented line of argument Krebs had evolved--apparently as disconcerting to his friends as to his opponents. It occurred to me, since I did not care to attend Krebs's meetings, to ask my confidential stenographer, Miss McCoy, to go to Turner's Hall and take down one of his speeches verbatim. Miss McCoy had never intruded on me her own views, and I took for granted that they coincided with my own. "I'd like to get an accurate record of what he is saying," I told her. "Do you mind going?" "No, I'll be glad to go, Mr. Paret," she said quietly. "He's doing more harm than we thought," I remarked, after a moment. "I've known him for a good many years. He's clever. He's sowing seeds of discontent, starting trouble that will be very serious unless it is headed off." Miss McCoy made no comment.... Before noon the next day she brought in the speech, neatly typewritten, and laid it on my desk. Looking up and catching her eye just as she was about to withdraw, I was suddenly impelled to ask:--"Well, what did you think of it?" She actually flushed, for the first time in my dealings with her betraying a feeling which I am sure she deemed most unprofessional. "I liked it, Mr. Paret," she replied simply, and I knew that she had understated. It was quite apparent that Krebs had captivated her. I tried not to betray my annoyance. "Was there a good audience?" I asked. "Yes," she said. "How many do you think?" She hesitated. "It isn't a very large hall, you know. I should say it would hold about eight hundred people." "And--it was full?"--I persisted. "Oh, yes, there were numbers of people standing." I thought I detected in her tone-although it was not apologetic--a desire to spare my feelings. She hesitated a moment more, and then left the room, closing the door softly behind her... Presently I took up the pages and began to read. The language was simple and direct, an appeal to common sense, yet the words strangely seemed charged with an emotional power that I found myself resisting. When at length I laid down the sheets I wondered whether it were imagination, or the uncomfortable result of memories of conversations I had had with him. I was, however, confronted with the task of refuting his arguments: but with exasperating ingenuity, he seemed to have taken the wind out of our sails. It is difficult to answer a man who denies the cardinal principle of American democracy,--that a good mayor or a governor may be made out of a dog-catcher. He called this the Cincinnatus theory: that any American, because he was an American, was fit for any job in the gift of state or city or government, from sheriff to Ambassador to Great Britain. Krebs substituted for this fallacy what may be called the doctrine of potentiality. If we inaugurated and developed a system of democratic education, based on scientific principles, and caught the dog-catcher, young enough, he might become a statesman or thinker or scientist and make his contribution to the welfare and progress of the nation: again, he might not; but he would have had his chance, he would not be in a position to complain. Here was a doctrine, I immediately perceived, which it would be suicidal to attempt to refute. It ought, indeed, to have been my line. With a growing distaste I began to realize that all there was left for me was to flatter a populace that Krebs, paradoxically, belaboured. Never in the history of American "uplift" had an electorate been in this manner wooed! upbraided for expediency, a proneness to demand immediate results, an unwillingness to think, yes, and an inability to think straight. Such an electorate deserved to be led around by the nose by the Jasons and Dickinsons, the Gorses and the Griersons and the Parets. Yes, he had mentioned me. That gave me a queer sensation. How is one to handle an opponent who praises one with a delightful irony? We, the Dickinsons, Griersons, Parets, Jasons, etc., had this virtue at least, and it was by no means the least of the virtues,--that we did think. We had a plan, a theory of government, and we carried it out. He was inclined to believe that morality consisted largely, if not wholly, in clear thinking, and not in the precepts of the Sunday-school. That was the trouble with the so-called "reform" campaigns, they were conducted on lines of Sunday-school morality; the people worked themselves up into a sort of revivalist frenzy, an emotional state which, if the truth were told, was thoroughly immoral, unreasonable and hypocritical: like all frenzies, as a matter of course it died down after the campaign was over. Moreover, the American people had shown that they were unwilling to make any sacrifices for the permanent betterment of conditions, and as soon as their incomes began to fall off they turned again to the bosses and capitalists like an abject flock of sheep. He went on to explain that he wasn't referring now to that part of the electorate known as the labour element, the men who worked with their hands in mills, factories, etc. They had their faults, yet they possessed at least the virtue of solidarity, a willingness to undergo sacrifices in order to advance the standard of conditions; they too had a tenacity of purpose and a plan, such as it was, which the small business men, the clerks lacked.... We must wake up to the fact that we shouldn't get Utopia by turning out Mr. Jason and the highly efficient gentlemen who hired and financed him. It wasn't so simple as that. Utopia was not an achievement after all, but an undertaking, a state of mind, the continued overcoming of resistance by a progressive education and effort. And all this talk of political and financial "wickedness" was rubbish; the wickedness they complained of did not reside merely in individuals it was a social disorder, or rather an order that no longer suited social conditions. If the so-called good citizens would take the trouble to educate themselves, to think instead of allowing their thinking to be done for them they would see that the "evils" which had been published broadcast were merely the symptoms of that disease which had come upon the social body through their collective neglect and indifference. They held up their hands in horror at the spectacle of a commercial, licensed prostitution, they shunned the prostitute and the criminal; but there was none of us, if honest, who would not exclaim when he saw them, "there, but for the Grace of God, go I!" What we still called "sin" was largely the result of lack of opportunity, and the active principle of society as at present organized tended more and more to restrict opportunity. Lack of opportunity, lack of proper nutrition,--these made sinners by the wholesale; made, too, nine-tenths of the inefficient of whom we self-righteously complained. We had a national philosophy that measured prosperity in dollars and cents, included in this measurement the profits of liquor dealers who were responsible for most of our idiots. So long as we set our hearts on that kind of prosperity, so long as we failed to grasp the simple and practical fact that the greatest assets of a nation are healthy and sane and educated, clear-thinking human beings, just so long was prostitution logical, Riverside Franchises, traction deals, Judd Jasons, and the respectable gentlemen who continued to fill their coffers out of the public purse inevitable. The speaker turned his attention to the "respectable gentlemen" with the full coffers, amongst whom I was by implication included. We had simply succeeded under the rules to which society tacitly agreed. That was our sin. He ventured to say that there were few men in the hall who at the bottom of their hearts did not envy and even honour our success. He, for one, did not deem these "respectable gentlemen" utterly reprehensible; he was sufficiently emancipated to be sorry for us. He suspected that we were not wholly happy in being winners in such a game,--he even believed that we could wish as much as any others to change the game and the prizes. What we represented was valuable energy misdirected and misplaced, and in a reorganized community he would not abolish us, but transform us: transform, at least, the individuals of our type, who were the builders gone wrong under the influence of an outworn philosophy. We might be made to serve the city and the state with the same effectiveness that we had served ourselves. If the best among the scientists, among the university professors and physicians were willing to labour--and they were--for the advancement of humanity, for the very love of the work and service without disproportionate emoluments, without the accumulation of a wealth difficult to spend, why surely these big business men had been moulded in infancy from no different clay! All were Americans. Instance after instance might be cited of business men and lawyers of ability making sacrifices, giving up their personal affairs in order to take places of honour in the government in which the salary was comparatively small, proving that even these were open to inducements other than merely mercenary ones. It was unfortunate, he went on, but true, that the vast majority of people of voting age in the United States to-day who thought they had been educated were under the obligation to reeducate themselves. He suggested, whimsically, a vacation school for Congress and all legislative bodies as a starter. Until the fact of the utter inadequacy of the old education were faced, there was little or no hope of solving the problems that harassed us. One thing was certain--that they couldn't be solved by a rule-of-thumb morality. Coincident with the appearance of these new and mighty problems, perhaps in response to them, a new and saner view of life itself was being developed by the world's thinkers, new sciences were being evolved, correlated sciences; a psychology making a truer analysis of human motives, impulses, of human possibilities; an economics and a theory of government that took account of this psychology, and of the vast changes applied science had made in production and distribution. We lived in a new world, which we sought to ignore; and the new education, the new viewpoint was in truth nothing but religion made practical. It had never been thought practical before. The motive that compelled men to work for humanity in science, in medicine, in art--yes, and in business, if we took the right view of it, was the religious motive. The application of religion was to-day extending from the individual to society. No religion that did not fill the needs of both was a true religion. This meant the development of a new culture, one to be founded on the American tradition of equality of opportunity. But culture was not a weed that grew overnight; it was a leaven that spread slowly and painfully, first inoculating a few who suffered and often died for it, that it might gradually affect the many. The spread of culture implied the recognition of leadership: democratic leadership, but still leadership. Leadership, and the wisdom it implied, did not reside in the people, but in the leaders who sprang from the people and interpreted their needs and longings.... He went on to discuss a part of the programme of the Citizens Union.... What struck me, as I laid down the typewritten sheets, was the extraordinary resemblance between the philosophies of Hermann Krebs and Theodore Watling. Only--Krebs's philosophy was the bigger, held the greater vision of the two; I had reluctantly and rather bitterly to admit it. The appeal of it had even reached and stirred me, whose task was to refute it! Here indeed was something to fight for--perhaps to die for, as he had said: and as I sat there in my office gazing out of the window I found myself repeating certain phrases he had used--the phrase about leadership, for instance. It was a tremendous conception of Democracy, that of acquiescence to developed leadership made responsible; a conception I was compelled to confess transcended Mr. Watling's, loyal as I was to him.... I began to reflect how novel all this was in a political speech--although what I have quoted was in the nature of a preamble. It was a sermon, an educational sermon. Well, that is what sermons always had been,--and even now pretended to be,--educational and stirring, appealing to the emotions through the intellect. It didn't read like the Socialism he used to preach, it had the ring of religion. He had called it religion. With an effort of the will I turned from this ironical and dangerous vision of a Hugh Paret who might have been enlisted in an inspiring struggle, of a modern yet unregenerate Saul kicking against the pricks, condemned to go forth breathing fire against a doctrine that made a true appeal; against the man I believed I hated just because he had made this appeal. In the act of summoning my counter-arguments I was interrupted by the entrance of Grierson. He was calling on a matter of business, but began to talk about the extracts from Krebs's speech he had read in the Mail and State. "What in hell is this fellow driving at, Paret?" he demanded. "It sounds to me like the ranting of a lunatic dervish. If he thinks so much of us, and the way we run the town, what's he squawking about?" I looked at Grierson, and conceived an intense aversion for him. I wondered how I had ever been able to stand him, to work with him. I saw him in a sudden flash as a cunning, cruel bird of prey, a gorged, drab vulture with beady eyes, a resemblance so extraordinary that I wondered I had never remarked it before. For he had the hooked vulture nose, while the pink baldness of his head was relieved by a few scanty tufts of hair. "The people seem to like what he's got to say," I observed. "It beats me," said Grierson. "They don't understand a quarter of it--I've been talking to some of 'em. It's their d--d curiosity, I guess. You know how they'll stand for hours around a street fakir." "It's more than that," I retorted. Grierson regarded me piercingly. "Well, we'll put a crimp in him, all right," he said, with a laugh. I was in an unenviable state of mind when he left me. I had an impulse to send for Miss McCoy and ask her if she had understood what Krebs was "driving at," but for reasons that must be fairly obvious I refrained. I read over again that part of Krebs's speech which dealt with the immediate programme of the Citizens Union. After paying a tribute to Greenhalge as a man of common sense and dependability who would make a good mayor, he went on to explain the principle of the new charter they hoped ultimately to get, which should put the management of the city in the hands of one man, an expert employed by a commission; an expert whose duty it would be to conduct the affairs of the city on a business basis, precisely as those of any efficient corporation were conducted. This plan had already been adopted, with encouraging results, in several smaller cities of the country. He explained in some detail, with statistics, the waste and inefficiency and dishonesty in various departments under the present system, dwelling particularly upon the deplorable state of affairs in the city hospital. I need not dwell upon this portion of his remarks. Since then text-books and serious periodicals have dealt with these matters thoroughly. They are now familiar to all thinking Americans. XXV. My entrance into the campaign was accompanied by a blare of publicity, and during that fortnight I never picked up a morning or evening newspaper without reading, on the first page, some such headline as "Crowds flock to hear Paret." As a matter of fact, the crowds did flock; but I never quite knew as I looked down from platforms on seas of faces how much of the flocking was spontaneous. Much of it was so, since the struggle had then become sufficiently dramatic to appeal to the larger public imagination that is but occasionally waked; on the other hand, the magic of advertising cannot be underestimated; nor must the existence be ignored of an organized corps of shepherds under the vigilant direction of Mr. Judd Jason, whose duty it was to see that none of our meetings was lacking in numbers and enthusiasm. There was always a demonstrative gathering overflowing the sidewalk in front of the entrance, swaying and cheering in the light of the street lamps, and on the floor within an ample scattering of suspiciously bleary-eyed voters to start the stamping and applauding. In spite of these known facts, the impression of popularity, of repudiation of reform by a large majority of level-headed inhabitants had reassuring and reenforcing effects. Astute citizens, spectators of the fray--if indeed there were any--might have remarked an unique and significant feature of that campaign: that the usual recriminations between the two great parties were lacking. Mr. Parks, the Republican candidate, did not denounce Mr. MacGuire, the Democratic candidate. Republican and Democratic speakers alike expended their breath in lashing Mr. Krebs and the Citizens Union. It is difficult to record the fluctuations of my spirit. When I was in the halls, speaking or waiting to speak, I reacted to that phenomenon known as mob psychology, I became self-confident, even exhilarated; and in those earlier speeches I managed, I think, to strike the note for which I strove--the judicial note, suitable to a lawyer of weight and prominence, of deprecation rather than denunciation. I sought to embody and voice a fine and calm sanity at a time when everyone else seemed in danger of losing their heads, and to a large extent achieved it. I had known Mr. Krebs for more than twenty years, and while I did not care to criticise a fellow-member of the bar, I would go so far as to say that he was visionary, that the changes he proposed in government would, if adopted, have grave and far-reaching results: we could not, for instance, support in idleness those who refused to do their share of the work of the world. Mr. Krebs was well-meaning. I refrained from dwelling too long upon him, passing to Mr. Greenhalge, also well-meaning, but a man of mediocre ability who would make a mess of the government of a city which would one day rival New York and Chicago. (Loud cheers.) And I pointed out that Mr. Perry Blackwood had been unable to manage the affairs of the Boyne Street road. Such men, well-intentioned though they might be, were hindrances to progress. This led me naturally to a discussion of the Riverside Franchise and the Traction Consolidation. I was one of those whose honesty and good faith had been arraigned, but I would not stoop to refute the accusations. I dwelt upon the benefits to the city, uniform service, electricity and large comfortable cars instead of rattletrap conveyances, and the development of a large and growing population in the Riverside neighbourhood: the continual extension of lines to suburban districts that enabled hard-worked men to live out of the smoke: I called attention to the system of transfers, the distance a passenger might be conveyed, and conveyed quickly, for the sum of five cents. I spoke of our capitalists as men more sinned against than sinning. Their money was always at the service of enterprises tending to the development of our metropolis. When I was not in the meetings, however, and especially when in my room at night, I was continually trying to fight off a sense of loneliness that seemed to threaten to overwhelm me. I wanted to be alone, and yet I feared to be. I was aware, in spite of their congratulations on my efforts, of a growing dislike for my associates; and in the appalling emptiness of the moments when my depression was greatest I was forced to the realization that I had no disinterested friend--not one--in whom I could confide. Nancy had failed me; I had scarcely seen Tom Peters that winter, and it was out of the question to go to him. For the third time in my life, and in the greatest crisis of all, I was feeling the need of Something, of some sustaining and impelling Power that must be presented humanly, possessing sympathy and understanding and love.... I think I had a glimpse just a pathetic glimpse--of what the Church might be of human solidarity, comfort and support, of human tolerance, if stripped of the superstition of an ancient science. My tortures weren't of the flesh, but of the mind. My mind was the sheep which had gone astray. Was there no such thing, could there be no such thing as a human association that might at the same time be a divine organism, a fold and a refuge for the lost and divided minds? The source of all this trouble was social.... Then toward the end of that last campaign week, madness suddenly came upon me. I know now how near the breaking point I was, but the immediate cause of my "flying to pieces"--to use a vivid expression--was a speech made by Guptill, one of the Citizens Union candidates for alderman, a young man of a radical type not uncommon in these days, though new to my experience: an educated man in the ultra-radical sense, yet lacking poise and perspective, with a certain brilliance and assurance. He was a journalist, a correspondent of some Eastern newspapers and periodicals. In this speech, which was reported to me--for it did not get into the newspapers--I was the particular object of his attack. Men of my kind, and not the Judd Jasons (for whom there was some excuse) were the least dispensable tools of the capitalists, the greatest menace to civilization. We were absolutely lacking in principle, we were ready at any time to besmirch our profession by legalizing steals; we fouled our nests with dirty fees. Not all that he said was vituperation, for he knew something of the modern theory of the law that legal radicals had begun to proclaim, and even to teach in some tolerant universities. The next night, in the middle of a prepared speech I was delivering to a large crowd in Kingdom Hall there had been jeers from a group in a corner at some assertion I made. Guptill's accusations had been festering in my mind. The faces of the people grew blurred as I felt anger boiling, rising within me; suddenly my control gave way, and I launched forth into a denunciation of Greenhalge, Krebs, Guptill and even of Perry Blackwood that must have been without license or bounds. I can recall only fragments of my remarks: Greenhalge wanted to be mayor, and was willing to put the stigma of slander on his native city in order to gain his ambition; Krebs had made a failure of his profession, of everything save in bringing shame on the place of his adoption; and on the single occasion heretofore when he had been before the public, in the School Board fiasco, the officials indicted on his supposed evidence had triumphantly been vindicated--, Guptill was gaining money and notoriety out of his spleen; Perry Blackwood was acting out of spite.... I returned to Krebs, declaring that he would be the boss of the city if that ticket were elected, demanding whether they wished for a boss an agitator itching for power and recognition.... I was conscious at the moment only of a wild relief and joy in letting myself go, feelings heightened by the clapping and cheers with which my characterizations were received. The fact that the cheers were mingled with hisses merely served to drive me on. At length, when I had returned to Krebs, the hisses were redoubled, angering me the more because of the evidence they gave of friends of his in my audiences. Perhaps I had made some of these friends for him! A voice shouted out above the uproar:--"I know about Krebs. He's a d--d sight better man than you." And this started a struggle in a corner of the hall.... I managed, somehow, when the commotion had subsided, to regain my poise, and ended by uttering the conviction that the common sense of the community would repudiate the Citizens Union and all it stood for.... But that night, as I lay awake listening to the street noises and staring at the glint from a street lamp on the brass knob of my bedstead, I knew that I had failed. I had committed the supreme violation of the self that leads inevitably to its final dissolution.... Even the exuberant headlines of the newspapers handed me by the club servant in the morning brought but little relief. On the Saturday morning before the Tuesday of election there was a conference in the directors' room of the Corn National. The city reeked with smoke and acrid, stale gas, the electric lights were turned on to dispel the November gloom. It was not a cheerful conference, nor a confident one. For the first time in a collective experience the men gathered there were confronted with a situation which they doubted their ability to control, a situation for which there was no precedent. They had to reckon with a new and unsolvable equation in politics and finance,--the independent voter. There was an element of desperation in the discussion. Recriminations passed. Dickinson implied that Gorse with all his knowledge of political affairs ought to have foreseen that something like this was sure to happen, should have managed better the conventions of both great parties. The railroad counsel retorted that it had been as much Dickinson's fault as his. Grierson expressed a regret that I had broken out against the reformers; it had reacted, he said,--and this was just enough to sting me to retaliate that things had been done in the campaign, chiefly through his initiative, that were not only unwise, but might land some of us in the penitentiary if Krebs were elected. "Well," Grierson exclaimed, "whether he's elected or not, I wouldn't give much now for your chances of getting to the Senate. We can't afford to fly in the face of the dear public." A tense silence followed this remark. In the street below the rumble of the traffic came to us muffled by the heavy plate-glass windows. I saw Tallant glance at Gorse and Dickinson, and I knew the matter had been decided between themselves, that they had been merely withholding it from me until after election. I was besmirched, for the present at least. "I think you will do me the justice, gentlemen," I remember saying slowly, with the excessive and rather ridiculous formality of a man who is near the end of his tether, "that the idea of representing you in the Senate was yours, not mine. You begged me to take the appointment against my wishes and my judgment. I had no desire to go to Washington then, I have less to-day. I have come to the conclusion that my usefulness to you is at an end." I got to my feet. I beheld Miller Gorse sitting impassive, with his encompassing stare, the strongest man of them all. A change of firmaments would not move him. But Dickinson had risen and put his hand on my shoulder. It was the first time I had ever seen him white. "Hold on, Hugh," he exclaimed, "I guess we're all a little cantankerous today. This confounded campaign has got on our nerves, and we say things we don't mean. You mustn't think we're not grateful for the services you've rendered us. We're all in the same boat, and there isn't a man who's been on our side of this fight who could take a political office at this time. We've got to face that fact, and I know you have the sense to see it, too. I, for one, won't be satisfied until I see you in the Senate. It's where you belong, and you deserve to be there. You understand what the public is, how it blows hot and cold, and in a few years they'll be howling to get us back, if these demagogues win. "Sure," chimed in Grierson, who was frightened, "that's right, Hugh. I didn't mean anything. Nobody appreciates you more than I do, old man." Tallant, too, added something, and Berringer,--I've forgotten what. I was tired, too tired to meet their advances halfway. I said that I had a speech to get ready for that night, and other affairs to attend to, and left them grouped together like crestfallen conspirators--all save Miller Gorse, whose pervasive gaze seemed to follow me after I had closed the door. An elevator took me down to the lobby of the Corn Bank Building. I paused for a moment, aimlessly regarding the streams of humanity hurrying in and out, streaking the white marble floor with the wet filth of the streets. Someone spoke my name. It was Bitter, Judd Jason's "legal" tool, and I permitted myself to be dragged out of the eddies into a quiet corner by the cigar stand. "Say, I guess we've got Krebs's goat all right, this time," he told me confidentially, in a voice a little above a whisper; "he was busy with the shirt-waist girls last year, you remember, when they were striking. Well, one of 'em, one of the strike leaders, has taken to easy street; she's agreed to send him a letter to-night to come 'round to her room after his meeting, to say that she's sick and wants to see him. He'll go, all right. We'll have some fun, we'll be ready for him. Do you get me? So long. The old man's waiting for me." It may seem odd that this piece of information did not produce an immediately revolting effect. I knew that similar practices had been tried on Krebs, but this was the first time I had heard of a definite plan, and from a man like Bitter. As I made my way out of the building I had, indeed, a nauseated feeling; Jason's "lawyer" was a dirty little man, smelling of stale cigars, with a blue-black, unshaven face. In spite of the shocking nature of his confidence, he had actually not succeeded in deflecting the current of my thoughts; these were still running over the scene in the directors' room. I had listened to him passively while he had held my buttonhole, and he had detained me but an instant. When I reached the street I was wondering whether Gorse and Dickinson and the others, Grierson especially, could possibly have entertained the belief that I would turn traitor? I told myself that I had no intention of this. How could I turn traitor? and what would be the object? revenge? The nauseated feeling grew more acute.... Reaching my office, I shut the door, sat down at my desk, summoned my will, and began to jot down random notes for the part of my speech I was to give the newspapers, notes that were mere silly fragments of arguments I had once thought effective. I could no more concentrate on them than I could have written a poem. Gradually, like the smoke that settled down on our city until we lived in darkness at midday, the horror of what Bitter had told me began to pervade my mind, until I was in a state of terror. Had I, Hugh Paret, fallen to this, that I could stand by consenting to an act which was worse than assassination? Was any cause worth it? Could any cause survive it? But my attempts at reasoning might be likened to the strainings of a wayfarer lost on a mountain side to pick his way in the gathering dusk. I had just that desperate feeling of being lost, and with it went an acute sense of an imminent danger; the ground, no longer firm under my feet, had become a sliding shale sloping toward an unseen precipice. Perhaps, like the wayfarer, my fears were the sharper for the memory of the beauty of the morning on that same mountain, when, filled with vigour, I had gazed on it from the plain below and beheld the sun breaking through the mists.... The necessity of taking some action to avert what I now realized as an infamy pressed upon me, yet in conflict with the pressure of this necessity there persisted that old rebellion, that bitterness which had been growing all these years against the man who, above all others, seemed to me to represent the forces setting at nought my achievements, bringing me to this pass.... I thought of appealing to Leonard Dickinson, who surely, if he knew of it, would not permit this thing to be done; and he was the only man with the possible exception of Miller Gorse who might be able to restrain Judd Jason. But I delayed until after the luncheon hour, when I called up the bank on the telephone, to discover that it was closed. I had forgotten that the day was Saturday. I was prepared to say that I would withdraw from the campaign, warn Krebs myself if this kind of tactics were not suppressed. But I could not get the banker. Then I began to have doubts of Dickinson's power in the matter. Judd Jason had never been tractable, by any means; he had always maintained a considerable independence of the financial powers, and to-day not only financial control, but the dominance of Jason himself was at stake. He would fight for it to the last ditch, and make use of any means. No, it was of no use to appeal to him. What then? Well, there was a reaction, or an attempt at one. Krebs had not been born yesterday, he had avoided the wiles of the politicians heretofore, he wouldn't be fool enough to be taken in now. I told myself that if I were not in a state bordering on a nervous breakdown, I should laugh at such morbid fears, I steadied myself sufficiently to dictate the extract from my speech that was to be published. I was to make addresses at two halls, alternating with Parks, the mayoralty candidate. At four o'clock I went back to my room in the Club to try to get some rest.... Seddon's Hall, the place of my first meeting, was jammed that Saturday night. I went through my speech automatically, as in a dream, the habit of long years asserting itself. And yet--so I was told afterwards--my delivery was not mechanical, and I actually achieved more emphasis, gave a greater impression of conviction than at any time since the night I had lost my control and violently denounced the reformers. By some astonishing subconscious process I had regained my manner, but the applause came to me as from a distance. Not only was my mind not there; it did not seem to be anywhere. I was dazed, nor did I feel--save once--a fleeting surge of contempt for the mob below me with their silly faces upturned to mine. There may have been intelligent expressions among them, but they failed to catch my eye. I remember being stopped by Grierson as I was going out of the side entrance. He took my hand and squeezed it, and there was on his face an odd, surprised look. "That was the best yet, Hugh," he said. I went on past him. Looking back on that evening now, it would almost seem as though the volition of another possessed me, not my own: seemingly, I had every intention of going on to the National Theatre, in which Parks had just spoken, and as I descended the narrow stairway and emerged on the side street I caught sight of my chauffeur awaiting me by the curb. "I'm not going to that other meeting," I found myself saying. "I'm pretty tired." "Shall I drive you back to the Club, sir?" he inquired. "No--I'll walk back. Wait a moment." I entered the ear, turned on the light and scribbled a hasty note to Andrews, the chairman of the meeting at the National, telling him that I was too tired to speak again that night, and to ask one of the younger men there to take my place. Then I got out of the car and gave the note to the chauffeur. "You're all right, sir?" he asked, with a note of anxiety in his voice. He had been with me a long time. I reassured him. He started the car, and I watched it absently as it gathered speed and turned the corner. I began to walk, slowly at first, then more and more rapidly until I had gained a breathless pace; in ten minutes I was in West Street, standing in front of the Templar's Hall where the meeting of the Citizens Union west in progress. Now that I had arrived there, doubt and uncertainty assailed me. I had come as it were in spite of myself, thrust onward by an impulse I did not understand, which did not seem to be mine. What was I going to do? The proceeding suddenly appeared to me as ridiculous, tinged with the weirdness of somnambulism. I revolted, walked away, got as far as the corner and stood beside a lamp post, pretending to be waiting for a car. The street lights were reflected in perpendicular, wavy-yellow ribbons on the wet asphalt, and I stood staring with foolish intentness at this phenomenon, wondering how a painter would get the effect in oils. Again I was walking back towards the hall, combating the acknowledgment to myself that I had a plan, a plan that I did not for a moment believe I would carry out. I was shivering. I climbed the steps. The wide vestibule was empty except for two men who stopped a low-toned conversation to look at me. I wondered whether they recognized me; that I might be recognized was an alarming possibility which had not occurred to me. "Who is speaking?" I asked. "Mr. Krebs," answered the taller man of the two. The hum of applause came from behind the swinging doors. I pushed them open cautiously, passing suddenly out of the cold into the reeking, heated atmosphere of a building packed with human beings. The space behind the rear seats was filled with men standing, and those nearest glanced around with annoyance at the interruption of my entrance. I made my way along the wall, finally reaching a side aisle, whence I could get sight of the platform and the speaker. I heard his words distinctly, but at first lacked the faculty of stringing them together, or rather of extracting their collective sense. The phrases indeed were set ringing through my mind, I found myself repeating them without any reference to their meaning; I had reached the peculiar pitch of excitement that counterfeits abnormal calm, and all sense of strangeness at being there in that meeting had passed away. I began to wonder how I might warn Krebs, and presently decided to send him a note when he should have finished speaking--but I couldn't make up my mind whether to put my name to the note or not. Of course I needn't have entered the hall at all: I might have sent in my note at the side door. I must have wished to see Krebs, to hear him speak; to observe, perhaps, the effect on the audience. In spite of my inability to take in what he was saying, I was able to regard him objectively,--objectively, in a restricted sense. I noticed that he had grown even thinner; the flesh had fallen away from under his cheek-bones, and there were sharp, deep, almost perpendicular lines on either side of his mouth. He was emaciated, that was the word. Once in a while he thrust his hand through his dry, ashy hair which was of a tone with the paleness of his face. Such was his only gesture. He spoke quietly, leaning with one elbow against the side of his reading stand. The occasional pulsations of applause were almost immediately hushed, as though the people feared to lose even a word that should fall from his dry lips. What was it he was talking about? I tried to concentrate my attention, with only partial success. He was explaining the new theory of city government that did not attempt to evade, but dealt frankly with the human needs of to-day, and sought to meet those needs in a positive way... What had happened to me, though I did not realize it, was that I had gradually come under the influence of a tragic spell not attributable to the words I heard, existing independently of them, pervading the spacious hall, weaving into unity dissentient minds. And then, with what seemed a retarded rather than sudden awareness, I knew that he had stopped speaking. Once more he ran his hand through his hair, he was seemingly groping for words that would not come. I was pierced by a strange agony--the amazing source of which, seemed to be a smile on the face of Hermann Krebs, an ineffable smile illuminating the place like a flash of light, in which suffering and tragedy, comradeship and loving kindness--all were mingled. He stood for a moment with that smile on his face--swayed, and would have fallen had it not been for the quickness of a man on the platform behind him, and into whose arms he sank. In an instant people had risen in their seats, men were hurrying down the aisles, while a peculiar human murmur or wail persisted like an undertone beneath the confusion of noises, striking the very note of my own feelings. Above the heads of those about me I saw Krebs being carried off the platform.... The chairman motioned for silence and inquired if there were a physician in the audience, and then all began to talk at once. The man who stood beside me clutched my arm. "I hope he isn't dead! Say, did you see that smile? My God, I'll never forget it!" The exclamation poignantly voiced the esteem in which Krebs was held. As I was thrust along out of the hall by the ebb of the crowd still other expressions of this esteem came to me in fragments, expressions of sorrow and dismay, of a loyalty I had not imagined. Mingled with these were occasional remarks of skeptics shaken, in human fashion, by the suggestion of the inevitable end that never fails to sober and terrify humanity. "I guess he was a bigger man than we thought. There was a lot of sense in what he had to say." "There sure was," the companion of this speaker answered. They spoke of him in the past tense. I was seized and obsessed by the fear that I should never see him again, and at the same moment I realized sharply that this was the one thing I wanted--to see him. I pushed through the people, gained the street, and fairly ran down the alley that led to the side entrance of the hall, where a small group was gathered under the light that hung above the doorway. There stood on the step, a little above the others, a young man in a grey flannel shirt, evidently a mechanic. I addressed him. "What does the doctor say?" Before replying he surveyed me with surprise and, I think, with instinctive suspicion of my clothes and bearing. "What can he say?" he retorted. "You mean--?" I began. "I mean Mr. Krebs oughtn't never to have gone into this campaign," he answered, relenting a trifle, perhaps at the tone of my voice. "He knew it, too, and some of us fellows tried to stop him. But we couldn't do nothing with him," he added dejectedly. "What is--the trouble?" I asked. "They tell me it's his heart. He wouldn't talk about it." "When I think of what he done for our union!" exclaimed a thick-set man, plainly a steel worker. "He's just wore himself out, fighting that crooked gang." He stared with sudden aggressiveness at me. "Haven't I seen you some-wheres?" he demanded. A denial was on my lips when the sharp, sinister strokes of a bell were heard coming nearer. "It's the ambulance," said the man on the step. Glancing up the alley beyond the figures of two policemen who had arrived and were holding the people back, I saw the hood of the conveyance as it came to a halt, and immediately a hospital doctor and two assistants carrying a stretcher hurried towards us, and we made way for them to enter. After a brief interval, they were heard coming slowly down the steps inside. By the white, cruel light of the arc I saw Krebs lying motionless.... I laid hold of one of the men who had been on the platform. He did not resent the act, he seemed to anticipate my question. "He's conscious. The doctors expect him to rally when he gets to the hospital." I walked back to the Club to discover that several inquiries had been made about me. Reporters had been there, Republican Headquarters had telephoned to know if I were ill. Leaving word that I was not to be disturbed under any circumstances, I went to my room, and spent most of the night in distracted thought. When at last morning came I breakfasted early, searching the newspapers for accounts of the occurrence at Templar's Hall; and the fact that these were neither conspicuous nor circumstantial was in the nature of a triumph of self-control on the part of editors and reporters. News, however sensational, had severely to be condensed in the interest of a cause, and at this critical stage of the campaign to make a tragic hero of Hermann Krebs would have been the height of folly. There were a couple of paragraphs giving the gist of his speech, and a statement at the end that he had been taken ill and conveyed to the Presbyterian Hospital.... The hospital itself loomed up before me that Sunday morning as I approached it along Ballantyne Street, a diluted sunshine washing the extended, businesslike facade of grimy, yellow brick. We were proud of that hospital in the city, and many of our foremost citizens had contributed large sums of money to the building, scarcely ten years old. It had been one of Maude's interests. I was ushered into the reception room, where presently came the physician in charge, a Dr. Castle, one of those quiet-mannered, modern young medical men who bear on their persons the very stamp of efficiency, of the dignity of a scientific profession. His greeting implied that he knew all about me, his presence seemed to increase the agitation I tried not to betray, and must have betrayed. "Can I do anything for you, Mr. Paret?" he asked. "I have come to inquire about Mr. Krebs, who was brought here last night, I believe." I was aware for an instant of his penetrating, professional glance, the only indication of the surprise he must have felt that Hermann Krebs, of all men, should be the object of my solicitude. "Why, we sent him home this morning. Nineteen twenty six Fowler Street. He wanted to go, and there was no use in his staying." "He will recover?" I asked. The physician shook his head, gazing at me through his glasses. "He may live a month, Mr. Paret, he may die to-morrow. He ought never to have gone into this campaign, he knew he had this trouble. Hepburn warned him three months ago, and there's no man who knows more about the heart than Hepburn." "Then there's no hope?" I asked. "Absolutely none. It's a great pity." He added, after a moment, "Mr. Krebs was a remarkable man." "Nineteen twenty-six Fowler Street?" I repeated. "Yes." I held out my hand mechanically, and he pressed it, and went with me to the door. "Nineteen twenty-six Fowler Street," he repeated... The mean and sordid aspect of Fowler Street emphasized and seemed to typify my despair, the pungent coal smoke stifled my lungs even as it stifled my spirit. Ugly factories, which were little more than sweatshops, wore an empty, menacing, "Sunday" look, and the faint November sunlight glistened on dirty pavements where children were making a semblance of play. Monotonous rows of red houses succeeded one another, some pushed forward, others thrust back behind little plots of stamped earth. Into one of these I turned. It seemed a little cleaner, better kept, less sordid than the others. I pulled the bell, and presently the door was opened by a woman whose arms were bare to the elbow. She wore a blue-checked calico apron that came to her throat, but the apron was clean, and her firm though furrowed face gave evidences of recent housewifely exertions. Her eyes had the strange look of the cheerfulness that is intimately acquainted with sorrow. She did not seem surprised at seeing me. "I have come to ask about Mr. Krebs," I told her. "Oh, yes," she said, "there's been so many here this morning already. It's wonderful how people love him, all kinds of people. No, sir, he don't seem to be in any pain. Two gentlemen are up there now in his room, I mean." She wiped her arms, which still bore traces of soap-suds, and then, with a gesture natural and unashamed, lifted the corner of her apron to her eyes. "Do you think I could see him--for a moment?" I asked. "I've known him for a long time." "Why, I don't know," she said, "I guess so. The doctor said he could see some, and he wants to see his friends. That's not strange--he always did. I'll ask. Will you tell me your name?" I took out a card. She held it without glancing at it, and invited me in. I waited, unnerved and feverish, pulsing, in the dark and narrow hall beside the flimsy rack where several coats and hats were hung. Once before I had visited Krebs in that lodging-house in Cambridge long ago with something of the same feelings. But now they were greatly intensified. Now he was dying.... The woman was descending. "He says he wants to see you, sir," she said rather breathlessly, and I followed her. In the semi-darkness of the stairs I passed the three men who had been with Krebs, and when I reached the open door of his room he was alone. I hesitated just a second, swept by the heat wave that follows sudden shyness, embarrassment, a sense of folly it is too late to avert. Krebs was propped up with pillows. "Well, this is good of you," he said, and reached out his hand across the spread. I took it, and sat down beside the shiny oak bedstead, in a chair covered with tobacco-colored plush. "You feel better?" I asked. "Oh, I feel all right," he answered, with a smile. "It's queer, but I do." My eye fell upon the long line of sectional book-cases that lined one side of the room. "Why, you've got quite a library here," I observed. "Yes, I've managed to get together some good books. But there is so much to read nowadays, so much that is really good and new, a man has the hopeless feeling he can never catch up with it all. A thousand writers and students are making contributions today where fifty years ago there was one." "I've been following your speeches, after a fashion,--I wish I might have been able to read more of them. Your argument interested me. It's new, unlike the ordinary propaganda of--" "Of agitators," he supplied, with a smile. "Of agitators," I agreed, and tried to return his smile. "An agitator who appears to suggest the foundations of a constructive programme and who isn't afraid to criticise the man with a vote as well as the capitalist is an unusual phenomenon." "Oh, when we realize that we've only got a little time left in which to tell what we think to be the truth, it doesn't require a great deal of courage, Paret. I didn't begin to see this thing until a little while ago. I was only a crude, hot-headed revolutionist. God knows I'm crude enough still. But I began to have a glimmering of what all these new fellows in the universities are driving at." He waved his hand towards the book-cases. "Driving at collectively, I mean. And there are attempts, worthy attempts, to coordinate and synthesize the sciences. What I have been saying is not strictly original. I took it on the stump, that's all. I didn't expect it to have much effect in this campaign, but it was an opportunity to sow a few seeds, to start a sense of personal dissatisfaction in the minds of a few voters. What is it Browning says? It's in Bishop Blougram, I believe. 'When the fight begins within himself, a man's worth something.' It's an intellectual fight, of course." His words were spoken quietly, but I realized suddenly that the mysterious force which had drawn me to him now, against my will, was an intellectual rather than apparently sentimental one, an intellectual force seeming to comprise within it all other human attractions. And yet I felt a sudden contrition. "See here, Krebs," I said, "I didn't come here to bother you about these matters, to tire you. I mustn't stay. I'll call in again to see how you are--from time to time." "But you're not tiring me," he protested, stretching forth a thin, detaining hand. "I don't want to rot, I want to live and think as long as I can. To tell you the truth, Paret, I've been wishing to talk to you--I'm glad you came in." "You've been wishing to talk to me?" I said. "Yes, but I didn't expect you'd come in. I hope you won't mind my saying so, under the circumstances, but I've always rather liked you, admired you, even back in the Cambridge days. After that I used to blame you for going out and taking what you wanted, and I had to live a good many years before I began to see that it's better for a man to take what he wants than to take nothing at all. I took what I wanted, every man worth his salt does. There's your great banker friend in New York whom I used to think was the arch-fiend. He took what he wanted, and he took a good deal, but it happened to be good for him. And by piling up his corporations, Ossa on Pelion, he is paving the way for a logical economic evolution. How can a man in our time find out what he does want unless he takes something and gives it a trial?" "Until he begins to feel that it disagrees with him," I said. "But then," I added involuntarily, "then it may be too late to try something else, and he may not know what to try." This remark of mine might have surprised me had it not been for the feeling--now grown definite--that Krebs had something to give me, something to pass on to me, of all men. Indeed, he had hinted as much, when he acknowledged a wish to talk to me. "What seems so strange," I said, as I looked at him lying back on his pillows, "is your faith that we shall be able to bring order out of all this chaos--your belief in Democracy." "Democracy's an adventure," he replied, "the great adventure of mankind. I think the trouble in many minds lies in the fact that they persist in regarding it as something to be made safe. All that can be done is to try to make it as safe as possible. But no adventure is safe--life itself is an adventure, and neither is that safe. It's a hazard, as you and I have found out. The moment we try to make life safe we lose all there is in it worth while." I thought a moment. "Yes, that's so," I agreed. On the table beside the bed in company with two or three other volumes, lay a Bible. He seemed to notice that my eye fell upon it. "Do you remember the story of the Prodigal Son?" he asked. "Well, that's the parable of democracy, of self-government in the individual and in society. In order to arrive at salvation, Paret, most of us have to take our journey into a far country." "A far country!" I exclaimed. The words struck a reminiscent chord. "We have to leave what seem the safe things, we have to wander and suffer in order to realize that the only true safety lies in development. We have first to cast off the leading strings of authority. It's a delusion that we can insure ourselves by remaining within its walls--we have to risk our lives and our souls. It is discouraging when we look around us to-day, and in a way the pessimists are right when they say we don't see democracy. We see only what may be called the first stage of it; for democracy is still in a far country eating the husks of individualism, materialism. What we see is not true freedom, but freedom run to riot, men struggling for themselves, spending on themselves the fruits of their inheritance; we see a government intent on one object alone--exploitation of this inheritance in order to achieve what it calls prosperity. And God is far away." "And--we shall turn?" I asked. "We shall turn or perish. I believe that we shall turn." He fixed his eyes on my face. "What is it," he asked, "that brought you here to me, to-day?" I was silent. "The motive, Paret--the motive that sends us all wandering into is divine, is inherited from God himself. And the same motive, after our eyes shall have been opened, after we shall have seen and known the tragedy and misery of life, after we shall have made the mistakes and committed the sins and experienced the emptiness--the same motive will lead us back again. That, too, is an adventure, the greatest adventure of all. Because, when we go back we shall not find the same God--or rather we shall recognize him in ourselves. Autonomy is godliness, knowledge is godliness. We went away cringing, superstitious, we saw everywhere omens and evidences of his wrath in the earth and sea and sky, we burned candles and sacrificed animals in the vain hope of averting scourges and other calamities. But when we come back it will be with a knowledge of his ways, gained at a price,--the price he, too, must have paid--and we shall be able to stand up and look him in the face, and all our childish superstitions and optimisms shall have been burned away." Some faith indeed had given him strength to renounce those things in life I had held dear, driven him on to fight until his exhausted body failed him, and even now that he was physically helpless sustained him. I did not ask myself, then, the nature of this faith. In its presence it could no more be questioned than the light. It was light; I felt bathed in it. Now it was soft, suffused: but I remembered how the night before in the hall, just before he had fallen, it had flashed forth in a smile and illumined my soul with an ecstasy that yet was anguish.... "We shall get back," I said at length. My remark was not a question--it had escaped from me almost unawares. "The joy is in the journey," he answered. "The secret is in the search." "But for me?" I exclaimed. "We've all been lost, Paret. It would seem as though we have to be." "And yet you are--saved," I said, hesitating over the word. "It is true that I am content, even happy," he asserted, "in spite of my wish to live. If there is any secret, it lies, I think, in the struggle for an open mind, in the keeping alive of a desire to know more and more. That desire, strangely enough, hasn't lost its strength. We don't know whether there is a future life, but if there is, I think it must be a continuation of this." He paused. "I told you I was glad you came in--I've been thinking of you, and I saw you in the hall last night. You ask what there is for you--I'll tell you,--the new generation." "The new generation." "That's the task of every man and woman who wakes up. I've come to see how little can be done for the great majority of those who have reached our age. It's hard--but it's true. Superstition, sentiment, the habit of wrong thinking or of not thinking at all have struck in too deep, the habit of unreasoning acceptance of authority is too paralyzing. Some may be stung back into life, spurred on to find out what the world really is, but not many. The hope lies in those who are coming after us--we must do for them what wasn't done for us. We really didn't have much of a chance, Paret. What did our instructors at Harvard know about the age that was dawning? what did anybody know? You can educate yourself--or rather reeducate yourself. All this"--and he waved his hand towards his bookshelves--"all this has sprung up since you and I were at Cambridge; if we don't try to become familiar with it, if we fail to grasp the point of view from which it's written, there's little hope for us. Go away from all this and get straightened out, make yourself acquainted with the modern trend in literature and criticism, with modern history, find out what's being done in the field of education, read the modern sciences, especially biology, and psychology and sociology, and try to get a glimpse of the fundamental human needs underlying such phenomena as the labour and woman's movements. God knows I've just begun to get my glimpse, and I've floundered around ever since I left college.... I don't mean to say we can ever see the whole, but we can get a clew, an idea, and pass it on to our children. You have children, haven't you?" "Yes," I said.... He said nothing--he seemed to be looking out of the window. "Then the scientific point of view in your opinion hasn't done away with religion?" I asked presently. "The scientific point of view is the religious point of view," he said earnestly, "because it's the only self-respecting point of view. I can't believe that God intended to make a creature who would not ultimately weigh his beliefs with his reason instead of accepting them blindly. That's immoral, if you like--especially in these days." "And are there, then, no 'over-beliefs'?" I said, remembering the expression in something I had read. "That seems to me a relic of the method of ancient science, which was upside down,--a mere confusion with faith. Faith and belief are two different things; faith is the emotion, the steam, if you like, that drives us on in our search for truth. Theories, at a stretch, might be identified with 'over-beliefs' but when it comes to confusing our theories with facts, instead of recognizing them as theories, when it comes to living by 'over-beliefs' that have no basis in reason and observed facts,--that is fatal. It's just the trouble with so much of our electorate to-day--unreasoning acceptance without thought." "Then," I said, "you admit of no other faculty than reason?" "I confess that I don't. A great many insights that we seem to get from what we call intuition I think are due to the reason, which is unconsciously at work. If there were another faculty that equalled or transcended reason, it seems to me it would be a very dangerous thing for the world's progress. We'd come to rely on it rather than on ourselves the trouble with the world is that it has been relying on it. Reason is the mind--it leaps to the stars without realizing always how it gets there. It is through reason we get the self-reliance that redeems us." "But you!" I exclaimed. "You rely on something else besides reason?" "Yes, it is true," he explained gently, "but that Thing Other-than-Ourselves we feel stirring in us is power, and that power, or the Source of it, seems to have given us our reason for guidance--if it were not so we shouldn't have a semblance of freedom. For there is neither virtue nor development in finding the path if we are guided. We do rely on that power for movement--and in the moments when it is withdrawn we are helpless. Both the power and the reason are God's." "But the Church," I was moved by some untraced thought to ask, "you believe there is a future for the Church?" "A church of all those who disseminate truth, foster open-mindedness, serve humanity and radiate faith," he replied--but as though he were speaking to himself, not to me.... A few moments later there was a knock at the door, and the woman of the house entered to say that Dr. Hepburn had arrived. I rose and shook Krebs's hand: sheer inability to express my emotion drove me to commonplaces. "I'll come in soon again, if I may," I told him. "Do, Paret," he said, "it's done me good to talk to you--more good than you imagine." I was unable to answer him, but I glanced back from the doorway to see him smiling after me. On my way down the stairs I bumped into the doctor as he ascended. The dingy brown parlour was filled with men, standing in groups and talking in subdued voices. I hurried into the street, and on the sidewalk stopped face to face with Perry Blackwood. "Hugh!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?" "I came to inquire for Krebs," I answered. "I've seen him." "You--you've been talking to him?" Perry demanded. I nodded. He stared at me for a moment with an astonishment to which I was wholly indifferent. He did not seem to know just how to act. "Well, it was decent of you, Hugh, I must say. How does he seem?" "Not at all like--like what you'd expect, in his manner." "No," agreed Perry agitatedly, "no, he wouldn't. My God, we've lost a big man in him." "I think we have," I said. He stared at me again, gave me his hand awkwardly, and went into the house. It was not until I had walked the length of the block that I began to realize what a shock my presence there must have been to him, with his head full of the contrast between this visit and my former attitude. Could it be that it was only the night before I had made a speech against him and his associates? It is interesting that my mind rejected all sense of anomaly and inconsistency. Krebs possessed me; I must have been in reality extremely agitated, but this sense of being possessed seemed a quiet one. An amazing thing had happened--and yet I was not amazed. The Krebs I had seen was the man I had known for many years, the man I had ridiculed, despised and oppressed, but it seemed to me then that he had been my friend and intimate all my life: more than that, I had an odd feeling he had always been a part of me, and that now had begun to take place a merging of personality. Nor could I feel that he was a dying man. He would live on.... I could not as yet sort and appraise, reduce to order the possessions he had wished to turn over to me. It was noon, and people were walking past me in the watery, diluted sunlight, men in black coats and top hats and women in bizarre, complicated costumes bright with colour. I had reached the more respectable portion of the city, where the churches were emptying. These very people, whom not long ago I would have acknowledged as my own kind, now seemed mildly animated automatons, wax figures. The day was like hundreds of Sundays I had known, the city familiar, yet passing strange. I walked like a ghost through it.... XXVI. Accompanied by young Dr. Strafford, I went to California. My physical illness had been brief. Dr. Brooke had taken matters in his own hands and ordered an absolute rest, after dwelling at some length on the vicious pace set by modern business and the lack of consideration and knowledge shown by men of affairs for their bodies. There was a limit to the wrack and strain which the human organism could stand. He must of course have suspected the presence of disturbing and disintegrating factors, but he confined himself to telling me that only an exceptional constitution had saved me from a serious illness; he must in a way have comprehended why I did not wish to go abroad, and have my family join me on the Riviera, as Tom Peters proposed. California had been my choice, and Dr. Brooke recommended the climate of Santa Barbara. High up on the Montecito hills I found a villa beside the gateway of one of the deep canons that furrow the mountain side, and day after day I lay in a chair on the sunny terrace, with a continually recurring amazement at the brilliancy of my surroundings. In the early morning I looked down on a feathery mist hiding the world, a mist presently to be shot with silver and sapphire-blue, dissolved by slow enchantment until there lay revealed the plain and the shimmering ocean with its distant islands trembling in the haze. At sunset my eyes sought the mountains, mountains unreal, like glorified scenery of grand opera, with violet shadows in the wooded canon clefts, and crags of pink tourmaline and ruby against the skies. All day long in the tempered heat flowers blazed around me, insects hummed, lizards darted in and out of the terrace wall, birds flashed among the checkered shadows of the live oaks. That grove of gnarled oaks summoned up before me visions of some classic villa poised above Grecian seas, shining amidst dark foliage, the refuge of forgotten kings. Below me, on the slope, the spaced orange trees were heavy with golden fruit. After a while, as I grew stronger, I was driven down and allowed to walk on the wide beach that stretched in front of the gay houses facing the sea. Cormorants dived under the long rollers that came crashing in from the Pacific; gulls wheeled and screamed in the soft wind; alert little birds darted here and there with incredible swiftness, leaving tiny footprints across the ribs and furrows of the wet sand. Far to the southward a dark barrier of mountains rose out of the sea. Sometimes I sat with my back against the dunes watching the drag of the outgoing water rolling the pebbles after it, making a gleaming floor for the light to dance. At first I could not bear to recall the events that had preceded and followed my visit to Krebs that Sunday morning. My illness had begun that night; on the Monday Tom Peters had come to the Club and insisted upon my being taken to his house.... When I had recovered sufficiently there had been rather a pathetic renewal of our friendship. Perry came to see me. Their attitude was one of apprehension not unmixed with wonder; and though they, knew of the existence of a mental crisis, suspected, in all probability, some of the causes of it, they refrained carefully from all comments, contenting themselves with telling me when I was well enough that Krebs had died quite suddenly that Sunday afternoon; that his death--occurring at such a crucial moment--had been sufficient to turn the tide of the election and make Edgar Greenhalge mayor. Thousands who had failed to understand Hermann Krebs, but whom he had nevertheless stirred and troubled, suddenly awoke to the fact that he had had elements of greatness.... My feelings in those first days at Santa Barbara may be likened, indeed, to those of a man who has passed through a terrible accident that has deprived him of sight or hearing, and which he wishes to forget. What I was most conscious of then was an aching sense of loss--an ache that by degrees became a throbbing pain as life flowed back into me, re-inflaming once more my being with protest and passion, arousing me to revolt against the fate that had overtaken me. I even began at moments to feel a fierce desire to go back and take up again the fight from which I had been so strangely removed--removed by the agency of things still obscure. I might get Nancy yet, beat down her resistance, overcome her, if only I could be near her and see her. But even in the midst of these surges of passion I was conscious of the birth of a new force I did not understand, and which I resented, that had arisen to give battle to my passions and desires. This struggle was not mentally reflected as a debate between right and wrong, as to whether I should or should not be justified in taking Nancy if I could get her: it seemed as though some new and small yet dogged intruder had forced an entrance into me, an insignificant pigmy who did not hesitate to bar the pathway of the reviving giant of my desires. These contests sapped my strength. It seemed as though in my isolation I loved Nancy, I missed her more than ever, and the flavour she gave to life. Then Hermann Krebs began to press himself on me. I use the word as expressive of those early resentful feelings,--I rather pictured him then as the personification of an hostile element in the universe that had brought about my miseries and accomplished my downfall; I attributed the disagreeable thwarting of my impulses to his agency; I did not wish to think of him, for he stood somehow for a vague future I feared to contemplate. Yet the illusion of his presence, once begun, continued to grow upon me, and I find myself utterly unable to describe that struggle in which he seemed to be fighting as against myself for my confidence; that process whereby he gradually grew as real to me as though he still lived--until I could almost hear his voice and see his smile. At moments I resisted wildly, as though my survival depended on it; at other moments he seemed to bring me peace. One day I recalled as vividly as though it were taking place again that last time I had been with him; I seemed once more to be listening to the calm yet earnest talk ranging over so many topics, politics and government, economics and science and religion. I did not yet grasp the synthesis he had made of them all, but I saw them now all focussed in him elements he had drawn from human lives and human experiences. I think it was then I first felt the quickenings of a new life to be born in travail and pain.... Wearied, yet exalted, I sank down on a stone bench and gazed out at the little island of Santa Cruz afloat on the shimmering sea. I have mentioned my inability to depict the terrible struggle that went on in my soul. It seems strange that Nietzsche--that most ruthless of philosophers to the romantic mind!--should express it for me. "The genius of the heart, from contact with which every man goes away richer, not 'blessed' and overcome,....but richer himself, fresher to himself than before, opened up, breathed upon and sounded by a thawing wind; more uncertain, perhaps, more delicate, more bruised; but full of hopes which as yet lack names, full of a new will and striving, full of a new unwillingness and counterstriving.".... Such was my experience with Hermann Krebs. How keenly I remember that new unwillingness and counter-striving! In spite of the years it has not wholly died down, even to-day.... Almost coincident with these quickenings of which I have spoken was the consciousness of a hunger stronger than the craving for bread and meat, and I began to meditate on my ignorance, on the utter inadequacy and insufficiency of my early education, on my neglect of the new learning during the years that had passed since I left Harvard. And I remembered Krebs's words--that we must "reeducate ourselves." What did I know? A system of law, inherited from another social order, that was utterly unable to cope with the complexities and miseries and injustices of a modern industrial world. I had spent my days in mastering an inadequate and archaic code--why? in order that I might learn how to evade it? This in itself condemned it. What did I know of life? of the shining universe that surrounded me? What did I know of the insect and the flower, of the laws that moved the planets and made incandescent the suns? of the human body, of the human soul and its instincts? Was this knowledge acquired at such cost of labour and life and love by my fellow-men of so little worth to me that I could ignore it? declare that it had no significance for me? no bearing on my life and conduct? If I were to rise and go forward--and I now felt something like a continued impulse, in spite of relaxations and revolts--I must master this knowledge, it must be my guide, form the basis of my creed. I--who never had had a creed, never felt the need of one! For lack of one I had been rudely jolted out of the frail shell I had thought so secure, and stood, as it were, naked and shivering to the storms, staring at a world that was no function of me, after all. My problem, indeed, was how to become a function of it.... I resolved upon a course of reading, but it was a question what books to get. Krebs could have told me, if he had lived. I even thought once of writing Perry Blackwood to ask him to make a list of the volumes in Krebs's little library; but I was ashamed to do this. Dr. Strafford still remained with me. Not many years out of the medical school, he had inspired me with a liking for him and a respect for his profession, and when he informed me one day that he could no longer conscientiously accept the sum I was paying him, I begged him to stay on. He was a big and wholesome young man, companionable, yet quiet and unobtrusive, watchful without appearing to be so, with the innate as well as the cultivated knowledge of psychology characteristic of the best modern physicians. When I grew better I came to feel that he had given his whole mind to the study of my case, though he never betrayed it in his conversation. "Strafford," I said to him one morning with such an air of unconcern as I could muster, "I've an idea I'd like to read a little science. Could you recommend a work on biology?" I chose biology because I thought he would know something about it. "Popular biology, Mr. Paret?" "Well, not too popular," I smiled. "I think it would do me good to use my mind, to chew on something. Besides, you can help me over the tough places." He returned that afternoon with two books. "I've been rather fortunate in getting these," he said. "One is fairly elementary. They had it at the library. And the other--" he paused delicately, "I didn't know whether you might be interested in the latest speculations on the subject." "Speculations?" I repeated. "Well, the philosophy of it." He almost achieved a blush under his tan. He held out the second book on the philosophy of the organism. "It's the work of a German scientist who stands rather high. I read it last winter, and it interested me. I got it from a clergyman I know who is spending the winter in Santa Barbara." "A clergyman!" Strafford laughed. "An 'advanced' clergyman," he explained. "Oh, a lot of them are reading science now. I think it's pretty decent of them." I looked at Strafford, who towered six feet three, and it suddenly struck me that he might be one of the forerunners of a type our universities were about to turn out. I wondered what he believed. Of one thing I was sure, that he was not in the medical profession to make money. That was a faith in itself. I began with the elementary work. "You'd better borrow a Century Dictionary," I said. "That's easy," he said, and actually achieved it, with the clergyman's aid. The absorption in which I fought my way through those books may prove interesting to future generations, who, at Sunday-school age, when the fable of Adam and Eve was painfully being drummed into me (without any mention of its application), will be learning to think straight, acquiring easily in early youth what I failed to learn until after forty. And think of all the trouble and tragedy that will have been averted. It is true that I had read some biology at Cambridge, which I had promptly forgotten; it had not been especially emphasized by my instructors as related to life--certainly not as related to religion: such incidents as that of Adam and Eve occupied the religious field exclusively. I had been compelled to commit to memory, temporarily, the matter in those books; but what I now began to perceive was that the matter was secondary compared to the view point of science--and this had been utterly neglected. As I read, I experienced all the excitement of an old-fashioned romance, but of a romance of such significance as to touch the very springs of existence; and above all I was impressed with the integrity of the scientific method--an integrity commensurate with the dignity of man--that scorned to quibble to make out a case, to affirm something that could not be proved. Little by little I became familiar with the principles of embryonic evolution, ontogeny, and of biological evolution, phylogeny; realized, for the first time, my own history and that of the ancestors from whom I had developed and descended. I, this marvellously complicated being, torn by desires and despairs, was the result of the union of two microscopic cells. "All living things come from the egg," such had been Harvey's dictum. The result was like the tonic of a cold douche. I began to feel cleansed and purified, as though something sticky-sweet which all my life had clung to me had been washed away. Yet a question arose, an insistent question that forever presses itself on the mind of man; how could these apparently chemical and mechanical processes, which the author of the book contented himself with recording, account for me? The spermia darts for the egg, and pierces it; personal history begins. But what mysterious shaping force is it that repeats in the individual the history of the race, supervises the orderly division of the cells, by degrees directs the symmetry, sets aside the skeleton and digestive tract and supervises the structure? I took up the second book, that on the philosophy of the organism, to read in its preface that a much-to-be-honoured British nobleman had established a foundation of lectures in a Scotch University for forwarding the study of a Natural Theology. The term possessed me. Unlike the old theology woven of myths and a fanciful philosophy of the decadent period of Greece, natural theology was founded on science itself, and scientists were among those who sought to develop it. Here was a synthesis that made a powerful appeal, one of the many signs and portents of a new era of which I was dimly becoming cognizant; and now that I looked for signs, I found them everywhere, in my young Doctor, in Krebs, in references in the texts; indications of a new order beginning to make itself felt in a muddled, chaotic human world, which might--which must have a parallel with the order that revealed itself in the egg! Might not both, physical and social, be due to the influence of the same invisible, experimenting, creating Hand? My thoughts lingered lovingly on this theology so well named "natural," on its conscientiousness, its refusal to affirm what it did not prove, on its lack of dogmatic dictums and infallible revelations; yet it gave me the vision of a new sanction whereby man might order his life, a sanction from which was eliminated fear and superstition and romantic hope, a sanction whose doctrines--unlike those of the sentimental theology--did not fly in the face of human instincts and needs. Nor was it a theology devoid of inspiration and poetry, though poetry might be called its complement. With all that was beautiful and true in the myths dear to mankind it did not conflict, annulling only the vicious dogmatism of literal interpretation. In this connection I remembered something that Krebs had said--in our talk about poetry and art,--that these were emotion, religion expressed by the tools reason had evolved. Music, he had declared, came nearest to the cry of the human soul.... That theology cleared for faith an open road, made of faith a reasonable thing, yet did not rob it of a sense of high adventure; cleansed it of the taints of thrift and selfish concern. In this reaffirmation of vitalism there might be a future, yes, an individual future, yet it was far from the smug conception of salvation. Here was a faith conferred by the freedom of truth; a faith that lost and regained itself in life; it was dynamic in its operation; for, as Lessing said, the searching after truth, and not its possession, gives happiness to man. In the words of an American scientist, taken from his book on Heredity, "The evolutionary idea has forced man to consider the probable future of his own race on earth and to take measures to control that future, a matter he had previously left largely to fate." Here indeed was another sign of the times, to find in a strictly scientific work a sentence truly religious! As I continued to read these works, I found them suffused with religion, religion of a kind and quality I had not imagined. The birthright of the spirit of man was freedom, freedom to experiment, to determine, to create--to create himself, to create society in the image of God! Spiritual creation the function of cooperative man through the coming ages, the task that was to make him divine. Here indeed was the germ of a new sanction, of a new motive, of a new religion that strangely harmonized with the concepts of the old--once the dynamic power of these was revealed. I had been thinking of my family--of my family in terms of Matthew--and yet with a growing yearning that embraced them all. I had not informed Maude of my illness, and I had managed to warn Tom Peters not to do so. I had simply written her that after the campaign I had gone for a rest to California; yet in her letters to me, after this information had reached her, I detected a restrained anxiety and affection that troubled me. Sequences of words curiously convey meanings and implications that transcend their literal sense, true thoughts and feelings are difficult to disguise even in written speech. Could it be possible after all that had happened that Maude still loved me? I continually put the thought away from me, but continually it returned to haunt me. Suppose Maude could not help loving me, in spite of my weaknesses and faults, even as I loved Nancy in spite of hers? Love is no logical thing. It was Matthew I wanted, Matthew of whom I thought, and trivial, long-forgotten incidents of the past kept recurring to me constantly. I still received his weekly letters; but he did not ask why, since I had taken a vacation, I had not come over to them. He represented the medium, the link between Maude and me that no estrangement, no separation could break. All this new vision of mine was for him, for the coming generation, the soil in which it must be sown, the Americans of the future. And who so well as Matthew, sensitive yet brave, would respond to it? I wished not only to give him what I had begun to grasp, to study with him, to be his companion and friend, but to spare him, if possible, some of my own mistakes and sufferings and punishments. But could I go back? Happy coincidences of desires and convictions had been so characteristic of that other self I had been struggling to cast off: I had so easily been persuaded, when I had had a chance of getting Nancy, that it was the right thing to do! And now, in my loneliness, was I not growing just as eager to be convinced that it was my duty to go back to the family which in the hour of self-sufficiency I had cast off? I had believed in divorce then--why not now? Well, I still believed in it. I had thought of a union with Nancy as something that would bring about the "self-realization that springs from the gratification of a great passion,"--an appealing phrase I had read somewhere. But, it was at least a favourable symptom that I was willing now to confess that the "self-realization" had been a secondary and sentimental consideration, a rosy, self-created halo to give a moral and religious sanction to my desire. Was I not trying to do that very thing now? It tortured me to think so; I strove to achieve a detached consideration of the problem,--to arrive at length at a thought that seemed illuminating: that the it "wrongness" or "rightness," utility and happiness of all such unions depend upon whether or not they become a part of the woof and warp of the social fabric; in other words, whether the gratification of any particular love by divorce and remarriage does or does not tend to destroy a portion of that fabric. Nancy certainly would have been justified in divorce. It did not seem in the retrospect that I would have been: surely not if, after I had married Nancy, I had developed this view of life that seemed to me to be the true view. I should have been powerless to act upon it. But the chances were I should not have developed it, since it would seem that any salvation for me at least must come precisely through suffering, through not getting what I wanted. Was this equivocating? My mistake had been in marrying Maude instead of Nancy--a mistake largely due to my saturation with a false idea of life. Would not the attempt to cut loose from the consequences of that mistake in my individual case have been futile? But there was a remedy for it--the remedy Krebs had suggested: I might still prevent my children from making such a mistake, I might help to create in them what I might have been, and thus find a solution for myself. My errors would then assume a value. But the question tortured me: would Maude wish it? Would it be fair to her if she did not? By my long neglect I had forfeited the right to go. And would she agree with my point of view if she did permit me to stay? I had less concern on this score, a feeling that that development of hers, which once had irritated me, was in the same direction as my own.... I have still strangely to record moments when, in spite of the aspirations I had achieved, of the redeeming vision I had gained, at the thought of returning to her I revolted. At such times recollections came into my mind of those characteristics in her that had seemed most responsible for my alienation.... That demon I had fed so mightily still lived. By what right--he seemed to ask--had I nourished him all these years if now I meant to starve him? Thus sometimes he defied me, took on Protean guises, blustered, insinuated, cajoled, managed to make me believe that to starve him would be to starve myself, to sap all there was of power in me. Let me try and see if I could do it! Again he whispered, to what purpose had I gained my liberty, if now I renounced it? I could not live in fetters, even though the fetters should be self-imposed. I was lonely now, but I would get over that, and life lay before me still. Fierce and tenacious, steel in the cruelty of his desires, fearful in the havoc he had wrought, could he be subdued? Foiled, he tore and rent me.... One morning I rode up through the shady canon, fragrant with bay, to the open slopes stained smoky-blue by the wild lilac, where the twisted madrona grows. As I sat gazing down on tiny headlands jutting out into a vast ocean my paralyzing indecision came to an end. I turned my horse down the trail again. I had seen at last that life was bigger than I, bigger than Maude, bigger than our individual wishes and desires. I felt as though heavy shackles had been struck from me. As I neared the house I spied my young doctor in the garden path, his hands in his pockets watching a humming-bird poised over the poppies. He greeted me with a look that was not wholly surprise at my early return, that seemed to have in it something of gladness. "Strafford," I said, "I've made up my mind to go to Europe." "I have been thinking for some time, Mr. Paret," he replied, "that a sea-voyage is just what you need to set you on your feet." I started eastward the next morning, arriving in New York in time to catch one of the big liners sailing for Havre. On my way across the continent I decided to send a cable to Maude at Paris, since it were only fair to give her an opportunity to reflect upon the manner in which she would meet the situation. Save for an impatience which at moments I restrained with difficulty, the moods that succeeded one another as I journeyed did not differ greatly from those I had experienced in the past month. I was alternately exalted and depressed; I hoped and doubted and feared; my courage, my confidence rose and fell. And yet I was aware of the nascence within me of an element that gave me a stability I had hitherto lacked: I had made my decision, and I felt the stronger for it. It was early in March. The annual rush of my countrymen and women for foreign shores had not as yet begun, the huge steamer was far from crowded. The faint throbbing of her engines as she glided out on the North River tide found its echo within me as I leaned on the heavy rail and watched the towers of the city receding in the mist; they became blurred and ghostlike, fantastic in the grey distance, sad, appealing with a strange beauty and power. Once the sight of them, sunlit, standing forth sharply against the high blue of American skies, had stirred in me that passion for wealth and power of which they were so marvellously and uniquely the embodiment. I recalled the bright day of my home-coming with Maude, when she too had felt that passion drawing me away from her, after the briefest of possessions.... Well, I had had it, the power. I had stormed and gained entrance to the citadel itself. I might have lived here in New York, secure, defiant of a veering public opinion that envied while it strove to sting. Why was I flinging it all away? Was this a sudden resolution of mine, forced by events, precipitated by a failure to achieve what of all things on earth I had most desired? or was it the inevitable result of the development of the Hugh Paret of earlier days, who was not meant for that kind of power? The vibration of the monster ship increased to a strong, electric pulsation, the water hummed along her sides, she felt the swell of the open sea. A fine rain began to fall that hid the land--yes, and the life I was leaving. I made my way across the glistening deck to the saloon where, my newspapers and periodicals neglected, I sat all the morning beside a window gazing out at the limited, vignetted zone of waters around the ship. We were headed for the Old World. The wind rose, the rain became pelting, mingling with the spume of the whitecaps racing madly past: within were warmth and luxury, electric lights, open fires, easy chairs, and men and women reading, conversing as unconcernedly as though the perils of the deep had ceased to be. In all this I found an impelling interest; the naive capacity in me for wonder, so long dormant, had been marvellously opened up once more. I no longer thought of myself as the important man of affairs; and when in the progress of the voyage I was accosted by two or three men I had met and by others who had heard of me it was only to feel amazement at the remoteness I now felt from a world whose realities were stocks and bonds, railroads and corporations and the detested new politics so inimical to the smooth conduct of "business." It all sounded like a language I had forgotten. It was not until near the end of the passage that we ran out of the storm. A morning came when I went on deck to survey spaces of a blue and white sea swept by the white March sunlight; to discern at length against the horizon toward which we sped a cloud of the filmiest and most delicate texture and design. Suddenly I divined that the cloud was France! Little by little, as I watched, it took on substance. I made out headlands and cliffs, and then we were coasting beside them. That night I should be in Paris with Maude. My bag was packed, my steamer trunk closed. I strayed about the decks, in and out of the saloons, wondering at the indifference of other passengers who sat reading in steamer-chairs or wrote last letters to be posted at Havre. I was filled with impatience, anticipation, yes, with anxiety concerning the adventure that was now so imminent; with wavering doubts. Had I done the wisest thing after all? I had the familiar experience that often comes just before reunion after absence of recalling intimate and forgotten impressions of those whom I was about to see again the tones of their voices, little gestures.... How would they receive me? The great ship had slowed down and was entering the harbour, carefully threading her way amongst smaller craft, the passengers lining the rails and gazing at the animated scene, at the quaint and cheerful French city bathed in sunlight.... I had reached the dock and was making my way through the hurrying and shifting groups toward the steamer train when I saw Maude. She was standing a little aside, scanning the faces that passed her. I remember how she looked at me, expectantly, yet timidly, almost fearfully. I kissed her. "You've come to meet me!" I exclaimed stupidly. "How are the children?" "They're very well, Hugh. They wanted to come, too, but I thought it better not." Her restraint struck me as extraordinary; and while I was thankful for the relief it brought to a situation which might have been awkward, I was conscious of resenting it a little. I was impressed and puzzled. As I walked along the platform beside her she seemed almost a stranger: I had difficulty in realizing that she was my wife, the mother of my children. Her eyes were clear, more serious than I recalled them, and her physical as well as her moral tone seemed to have improved. Her cheeks glowed with health, and she wore a becoming suit of dark blue. "Did you have a good trip, Hugh?" she asked. "Splendid," I said, forgetting the storm. We took our seats in an empty compartment. Was she glad to see me? She had come all the way from Paris to meet me! All the embarrassment seemed to be on my side. Was this composure a controlled one or had she indeed attained to the self-sufficiency her manner and presence implied? Such were the questions running through my head. "You've really liked Paris?" I asked. "Yes, Hugh, and it's been very good for us all. Of course the boys like America better, but they've learned many things they wouldn't have learned at home; they both speak French, and Biddy too. Even I have improved." "I'm sure of it," I said. She flushed. "And what else have you been doing?" "Oh, going to galleries. Matthew often goes with me. I think he quite appreciates the pictures. Sometimes I take him to the theatre, too, the Francais. Both boys ride in the Bois with a riding master. It's been rather a restricted life for them, but it won't have hurt them. It's good discipline. We have little excursions in an automobile on fine days to Versailles and other places of interest around Paris, and Matthew and I have learned a lot of history. I have a professor of literature from the Sorbonne come in three times a week to give me lessons." "I didn't know you cared for literature." "I didn't know it either." She smiled. "Matthew loves it. Monsieur Despard declares he has quite a gift for language." Maude had already begun Matthew's education! "You see a few people?" I inquired. "A few. And they have been very kind to us. The Buffons, whom I met at Etretat, and some of their friends, mostly educated French people." The little railway carriage in which we sat rocked with speed as we flew through the French landscape. I caught glimpses of solid, Norman farm buildings, of towers and keeps and delicate steeples, and quaint towns; of bare poplars swaying before the March gusts, of green fields ablaze in the afternoon sun. I took it all in distractedly. Here was Maude beside me, but a Maude I had difficulty in recognizing, whom I did not understand: who talked of a life she had built up for herself and that seemed to satisfy her; one with which I had nothing to do. I could not tell how she regarded my re-intrusion. As she continued to talk, a feeling that was almost desperation grew upon me. I had things to say to her, things that every moment of this sort of intercourse was making more difficult. And I felt, if I did not say them now, that perhaps I never should: that now or never was the appropriate time, and to delay would be to drift into an impossible situation wherein the chance of an understanding would be remote. There was a pause. How little I had anticipated the courage it would take to do this thing! My blood was hammering. "Maude," I said abruptly, "I suppose you're wondering why I came over here." She sat gazing at me, very still, but there came into her eyes a frightened look that almost unnerved me. She seemed to wish to speak, to be unable to. Passively, she let my hand rest on hers. "I've been thinking a great deal during the last few months," I went on unsteadily. "And I've changed a good many of my ideas--that is, I've got new ones, about things I never thought of before. I want to say, first, that I do not put forth any claim to come back into your life. I know I have forfeited any claim. I've neglected you, and I've neglected the children. Our marriage has been on a false basis from the start, and I've been to blame for it. There is more to be said about the chances for a successful marriage in these days, but I'm not going to dwell on that now, or attempt to shoulder off my shortcomings on my bringing up, on the civilization in which we have lived. You've tried to do your share, and the failure hasn't been your fault. I want to tell you first of all that I recognize your right to live your life from now on, independently of me, if you so desire. You ought to have the children--" I hesitated a moment. It was the hardest thing I had to say. "I've never troubled myself about them, I've never taken on any responsibility in regard to their bringing up." "Hugh!" she cried. "Wait--I've got more to tell you, that you ought to know. I shouldn't be here to-day if Nancy Durrett had consented to--to get a divorce and marry me. We had agreed to that when this accident happened to Ham, and she went back to him. I have to tell you that I still love her--I can't say how much, or define my feelings toward her now. I've given up all idea of her. I don't think I'd marry her now, even if I had the chance, and you should decide to live away from me. I don't know. I'm not so sure of myself as I once was. The fact is, Maude, circumstances have been too much for me. I've been beaten. And I'm not at all certain that it wasn't a cowardly thing for me to come back to you at all." I felt her hand trembling under mine, but I had not the courage to look at her. I heard her call my name again a little cry, the very poignancy of pity and distress. It almost unnerved me. "I knew that you loved her, Hugh," she said. "It was only--only a little while after you married me that I found it out. I guessed it--women do guess such things--long before you realized it yourself. You ought to have married her instead of me. You would have been happier with her." I did not answer. "I, too, have thought a great deal," she went on, after a moment. "I began earlier than you, I had to." I looked up suddenly and saw her smiling at me, faintly, through her tears. "But I've been thinking more, and learning more since I've been over here. I've come to see that that our failure hasn't been as much your fault as I once thought, as much as you yourself declare. You have done me a wrong, and you've done the children a wrong. Oh, it is frightful to think how little I knew when I married you, but even then I felt instinctively that you didn't love me as I deserved to be loved. And when we came back from Europe I knew that I couldn't satisfy you, I couldn't look upon life as you saw it, no matter how hard I tried. I did try, but it wasn't any use. You'll never know how much I've suffered all these years. "I have been happier here, away from you, with the children; I've had a chance to be myself. It isn't that I'm--much. It isn't that I don't need guidance and counsel and--sympathy. I've missed those, but you've never given them to me, and I've been learning more and more to do without them. I don't know why marriage should suddenly have become such a mockery and failure in our time, but I know that it is, that ours hasn't been such an exception as I once thought. I've come to believe that divorce is often justified." "It is justified so far as you are concerned, Maude," I replied. "It is not justified for me. I have forfeited, as I say, any rights over you. I have been the aggressor and transgressor from the start. You have been a good wife and a good mother, you have been faithful, I have had absolutely nothing to complain of." "Sometimes I think I might have tried harder," she said. "At least I might have understood better. I was stupid. But everything went wrong. And I saw you growing away from me all the time, Hugh, growing away from the friends who were fond of you, as though you were fading in the distance. It wasn't wholly because--because of Nancy that I left you. That gave me an excuse--an excuse for myself. Long before that I realized my helplessness, I knew that whatever I might have done was past doing." "Yes, I know," I assented. We sat in silence for a while. The train was skirting an ancient town set on a hill, crowned with a castle and a Gothic church whose windows were afire in the setting sun. "Maude," I said, "I have not come to plead, to appeal to your pity as against your judgment and reason. I can say this much, that if I do not love you, as the word is generally understood, I have a new respect for you, and a new affection, and I think that these will grow. I have no doubt that there are some fortunate people who achieve the kind of mutual love for which it is human to yearn, whose passion is naturally transmuted into a feeling that may be even finer, but I am inclined to think, even in such a case, that some effort and unselfishness are necessary. At any rate, that has been denied to us, and we can never know it from our own experience. We can only hope that there is such a thing,--yes, and believe in it and work for it." "Work for it, Hugh?" she repeated. "For others--for our children. I have been thinking about the children a great deal in the last few months especially about Matthew." "You always loved him best," she said. "Yes," I admitted. "I don't know why it should be so. And in spite of it, I have neglected him, neglected them, failed to appreciate them all. I did not deserve them. I have reproached myself, I have suffered for it, not as much as I deserved. I came to realize that the children were a bond between us, that their existence meant something greater than either of us. But at the same time I recognized that I had lost my right over them, that it was you who had proved yourself worthy.... It was through the children that I came to think differently, to feel differently toward you. I have come to you to ask your forgiveness." "Oh, Hugh!" she cried. "Wait," I said.... "I have come to you, through them. I want to say again that I should not be here if I had obtained my desires. Yet there is more to it than that. I think I have reached a stage where I am able to say that I am glad I didn't obtain them. I see now that this coming to you was something I have wanted to do all along, but it was the cowardly thing to do, after I had failed, for it was not as though I had conquered the desires, the desires conquered me. At any rate, I couldn't come to you to encumber you, to be a drag upon you. I felt that I must have something to offer you. I've got a plan, Maude, for my life, for our lives. I don't know whether I can make a success of it, and you are entitled to decline to take the risk. I don't fool myself that it will be all plain sailing, that there won't be difficulties and discouragements. But I'll promise to try." "What is it?" she asked, in a low voice. "I--I think I know." "Perhaps you have guessed it. I am willing to try to devote what is left of my life to you and to them. And I need your help. I acknowledge it. Let us try to make more possible for them the life we have missed." "The life we have missed!" she said. "Yes. My mistakes, my failures, have brought us to the edge of a precipice. We must prevent, if we can, those mistakes and failures for them. The remedy for unhappy marriages, for all mistaken, selfish and artificial relationships in life is a preventive one. My plan is that we try to educate ourselves together, take advantage of the accruing knowledge that is helping men and women to cope with the problems, to think straight. We can then teach our children to think straight, to avoid the pitfalls into which we have fallen." I paused. Maude did not reply. Her face was turned away from me, towards the red glow of the setting sun above the hills. "You have been doing this all along, you have had the vision, the true vision, while I lacked it, Maude. I offer to help you. But if you think it is impossible for us to live together, if you believe my feeling toward you is not enough, if you don't think I can do what I propose, or if you have ceased to care for me--" She turned to me with a swift movement, her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Hugh, don't say any more. I can't stand it. How little you know, for all your thinking. I love you, I always have loved you. I grew to be ashamed of it, but I'm not any longer. I haven't any pride any more, and I never want to have it again." "You're willing to take me as I am,--to try?" I said. "Yes," she answered, "I'm willing to try." She smiled at me. "And I have more faith than you, Hugh. I think we'll succeed.".... At nine o'clock that night, when we came out through the gates of the big, noisy station, the children were awaiting us. They had changed, they had grown. Biddy kissed me shyly, and stood staring up at me. "We'll take you out to-morrow and show you how we can ride," said Moreton. Matthew smiled. He stood very close to me, with his hand through my arm. "You're going to stay, father?" he asked. "I'm going to stay, Matthew," I answered, "until we all go back to America.".... 
3621	----	Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines. Peg O' My Heart by J. Hartley Manners To "LAURIE" "--in that which no waters can quench, No time forget, nor distance wear away." PREFACE Up to the time of publication, December 1922, "Peg o' My Heart" has been played as a comedy in English in the United States and Canada in excess of 8000 times, in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland in excess of 6000 times, in India 65 times, in the Orient 20 times, in Holland 152 times, and in Scandinavia 23 times. Australia and New Zealand have seen 701 performances while South Africa has witnessed 229. Three companies are playing in France where the total performances exceed 500, the Belgian figures are not yet available, Spain has two companies, and Italy five, the total figures for these three countries last-named running well over a thousand performances. In France and Belgium "Peg de Mon Coeur" is the title for the French language version, in Italy "Peg del Mio Cuore" is the name of the Italian "Peg", while her Spanish admirers and translators have named her "Rirri." Over 194,000 copies of the novel have been sold in the United States, while the British Empire has bought 51,600 in novel form. In play form 3000 copies have been sold to date. The new film "Peg o' My Heart" in nine reels is being distributed throughout the entire world, and while innumerable companies are playing the comedy throughout the United States, Canada and the British Empire, an internationally-known composer, Dr. Hugo Felix, is at work upon the score of a "Peg" operetta in collaboration with its author, so that the young lady may continue her career in musical form. The present work is submitted in its original form with the addition of illustrations taken from the film recently made, through the courtesy of the Metro Pictures Corporation, for which acknowledgment is gratefully made. It is believed that these statistics are unique in theatrical and publishing history for it will now be possible in any large city to read or witness "Peg o' My Heart" in the five phases of her career to date, viz., novel, printed play, acted comedy, photo play and operetta. J. Hartley Manners. The Lotes Club, New York City, December, 1922. CONTENTS BOOK THE FIRST The Romance of an Irish Agitator and an English Lady of Quality I The Irish Agitator Makes His First Appearance II The Panorama of a Lost Youth III St. Kernan's Hill IV Nathaniel Kingsnorth Visits Ireland V Angela VI Angela Speaks Her Mind Freely to Nathaniel VII The Wounded Patriot VIII Angela in Sore Distress IX Two Letters X O'Connell Visits Angela in London XI Kingsnorth's Despair XII Looking Forward BOOK THE SECOND The End of the Romance I Angela's Confession II A Communication from Nathaniel Kingsnorth III The Birth of Peg BOOK THE THIRD Peg I Peg's Childhood II We Meet an Old Friend After Many Years III Peg Leaves Her Father for the First Time BOOK THE FOURTH Peg in England I The Chichester Family II Christian Brent III Peg Arrives in England IV The Chichester Family Receive a Second Shock V Peg Meets Her Aunt VI Jerry VII The Passing of the First Month VIII The Temple of Friendship IX The Dance and its Sequel X Peg Intervenes XI "The Rebellion of Peg" XII A Room in New York XIII The Morning After XIV Alaric to the Rescue XV Montgomery Hawkes XVI The Chief Executor Appears on the Scene XVII Peg Learns of Her Uncle's Legacy XVIII Peg's Farewell to England BOOK THE FIFTH Peg Returns to Her Father I After Many Days II Looking Backward III An Unexpected Visitor Afterword CHAPTER I THE IRISH AGITATOR MAKES HIS FIRST APPEARANCE "Faith, there's no man says more and knows less than yerself, I'm thinkin'." "About Ireland, yer riverence?" "And everything else, Mr. O'Connell." "Is that criticism or just temper, Father?" "It's both, Mr. O'Connell." "Sure it's the good judge ye must be of ignorance, Father Cahill." "And what might that mane?" "Ye live so much with it, Father." "I'm lookin' at it and listenin' to it now, Frank O'Connell." "Then it's a miracle has happened, Father." "A miracle?" "To see and hear one's self at the same time is indade a miracle, yer riverence." Father Cahill tightened his grasp on his blackthorn stick, and shaking it in the other's face, said: "Don't provoke the Man of God!" "Not for the wurrld," replied the other meekly, "bein' mesef a Child of Satan." "And that's what ye are. And ye'd have others like yerself. But ye won't while I've a tongue in me head and a sthrong stick in me hand." O'Connell looked at him with a mischievous twinkle in his blue-grey eyes: "Yer eloquence seems to nade somethin' to back it up, I'm thinkin'." Father Cahill breathed hard. He was a splendid type of the Irish Parish-Priest of the old school. Gifted with a vivid power of eloquence as a preacher, and a heart as tender as a woman's toward the poor and the wretched, he had been for many years idolised by the whole community of the village of M--in County Clare. But of late there was a growing feeling of discontent among the younger generation. They lacked the respect their elders so willingly gave. They asked questions instead of answering them. They began to throw themselves, against Father Cahill's express wishes and commands, into the fight for Home Rule under the masterly statesmanship of Charles Stuart Parnell. Already more than one prominent speaker had come into the little village and sown the seeds of temporal and spiritual unrest. Father Cahill opposed these men to the utmost of his power. He saw, as so many far-sighted priests did, the legacy of bloodshed and desolation that would follow any direct action by the Irish against the British Government. Though the blood of the patriot beat in Father Cahill's veins, the well-being of the people who had grown up with him was near to his heart. He was their Priest and he could not bear to think of men he had known as children being beaten and maimed by constabulary, and sent to prison afterwards, in the, apparently, vain fight for self-government. To his horror that day he met Frank Owen O'Connell, one of the most notorious of all the younger agitators, in the main street of the little village. O'Connell's back sliding had been one of Father Cahill's bitterest regrets. He had closed O'Connell's father's eyes in death and had taken care of the boy as well as he could. But at the age of fifteen the youth left the village, that had so many wretched memories of hardship and struggle, and worked his way to Dublin. It was many years before Father Cahill heard of him again. He had developed meanwhile into one of the most daring of all the fervid speakers in the sacred Cause of Liberty. Many were the stories told of his narrow escapes from death and imprisonment. He always had the people on his side, and once away from the hunt, he would hide in caves, or in mountains, until the hue and cry was over, and then appear in some totally unexpected town and call on the people to act in the name of Freedom. And that was exactly what happened on this particular day. He had suddenly appeared in the town he was born in and called a meeting on St. Kernan's Hill that afternoon. It was this meeting Father Cahill was determined to stop by every means in his power. He could hardly believe that this tall, bronzed, powerful young man was the Frank O'Connell he had watched about the village, as a boy--pale, dejected, and with but little of the fire of life in him. Now as he stood before Father Cahill and looked him straight through with his piercing eye, shoulders thrown back, and head held high, he looked every inch a born leader of men, and just for a moment the priest quailed. But only for a moment. "Not a member of my flock will attend yer meetin' to-day. Not a door will open this day. Ye can face the constabulary yerself and the few of the rabble that'll follow ye. But none of my God-fearin' people will risk their lives and their liberty to listen to you." O'Connell looked at him strangely. A far-away glint came into his eye, and the suspicion of a tear, as he answered: "Sure it's precious little they'd be riskin', Father Cahill; havin' NO liberty and their lives bein' of little account to them." O'Connell sighed as the thought of his fifteen years of withered youth in that poor little village came up before him. "Let my people alone, I tell ye!" cried the priest. "It's contented they've been until the likes of you came amongst us." "Then they must have been easily satisfied," retorted O'Connell, "to judge by their poor little homes and their drab little lives." "A hovel may be a palace if the Divine Word is in it," said the priest. "Sure it's that kind of tachin' keeps Ireland the mockery of the whole world. The Divine Word should bring Light. It's only darkness I find in this village," argued O'Connell. "I've given my life to spreadin' the Light!" said the priest. A smile hovered on O'Connell's lips as he muttered: "Faith, then, I'm thinkin' it must be a DARK-LANTERN yer usin', yer riverence." "Is that the son of Michael O'Connell talkin'?" Suddenly the smile left O'Connell's lips, the sneer died on his tongue, and with a flash of power that turned to white heat before he finished, he attacked the priest with: "Yes, it is! It is the son of Michael O'Connell who died on the roadside and was buried by the charity of his neighbours. Michael O'Connell, born in the image of God, who lived eight-and-fifty years of torment and starvation and sickness and misery! Michael O'Connell, who was thrown out from a bed of fever, by order of his landlord, to die in sight of where he was born. It's his son is talkin', Father Cahill, and it's his son WILL talk while there's breath in his body to keep his tongue waggin'. It's a precious legacy of hatred Michael O'Connell left his son, and there's no priest, no government, no policeman or soldier will kape that son from spendin' his legacy." The man trembled from head to foot with the nervous intensity of his attack. Everything that had been outraged in him all his life came before him. Father Cahill began to realise as he watched him the secret of the tremendous appeal the man had to the suffering people. Just for a moment the priest's heart went out to O'Connell, agitator though he was. "Your father died with all the comforts of the Holy Church," said the priest gently, as he put his old hand the young man's shoulder. "The comforts of the church!" scoffed O'Connell. "Praise be to heaven for that!" He laughed a grim, derisive laugh as he went on: "Sure it's the fine choice the Irish peasant has to-day. 'Stones and dirt are good enough for them to eat,' sez the British government. 'Give them prayers,' say the priests. And so they die like flies in the highways and hedges, but with 'all the comforts of the Holy Church'!" Father Cahill's voice thrilled with indignation as he said: "I'll not stand and listen to ye talk that way, Frank O'Connell." "I've often noticed that those who are the first to PREACH truth are the last to LISTEN to it," said the agitator drily. "Where would Ireland be to-day but for the priest? Answer me that. Where would she be? What has my a here been? I accepted the yoke of the Church when I was scarcely your age. I've given my life to serving it. To help the poor, and to keep faith and love for Him in their hearts. To tache the little children and bring them up in the way of God. I've baptised them when their eyes first looked out on this wurrld of sorrows. I've given them in marriage, closed their eyes in death, and read the last message to Him for their souls. And there are thousands more like me, giving their lives to their little missions, trying to kape the people's hearts clean and honest, so that their souls may go to Him when their journey is ended." Father Cahill took a deep breath as he finished. He had indeed summed up his life's work. He had given it freely to his poor little flock. His only happiness had been in ministering to their needs. And now to have one to whom he had taught his first prayer, heard his first confession and given him his first Holy Communion speak scoffingly of the priest, hurt him as nothing else could hurt and bruise him. The appeal was not lost on O'Connell. In his heart he loved Father Cahill for the Christ-like life of self-denial he had passed in this little place. But in his brain O'Connell pitied the old man for his wasted years in the darkness of ignorance in which so many of the villages of Ireland seemed to be buried. O'Connell belonged to the "Young Ireland" movement. They wanted to bring the searchlight of knowledge into the abodes of darkness in which the poor of Ireland were submerged. To the younger men it seemed the priests were keeping the people from enlightenment. And until the fierce blaze of criticism could be turned on to the government of cruelty and oppression there was small hope of freeing the people who had suffered so long in silence. O'Connell was in the front band of men striving to arouse the sleeping nation to a sense of its own power. And nothing was going to stop the onward movement. It pained him to differ from Father Cahill--the one friend of his youth. If only he could alter the good priest's outlook--win him over to the great procession that was marching surely and firmly to self-government, freedom of speech and of action, and to the ultimate making of men of force out of the crushed and the hopeless. He would try. "Father Cahill," he began softly, as though the good priest might be wooed by sweet reason when the declamatory force of the orator failed, "don't ye think it would be wiser to attend a little more to the people's BODIES than to their SOULS? to their BRAINS rather than to their HEARTS? Don't ye?" "No, I do NOT," hotly answered the priest. "Well, if ye DID," said the agitator, "if more priests did, it's a different Ireland we'd be livin' in to-day--that we would. The Christian's heaven seems so far away when he's livin' in hell. Try to make EARTH more like a heaven and he'll be more apt to listen to stories of the other one. Tache them to kape their hovels clean and their hearts and lives will have a betther chance of health. Above all broaden their minds. Give them education and the Divine tachin' will find a surer restin' place. Ignorance and dirt fill the hospitals and the asylums, and it is THAT so many of the priests are fosterin'." "I'll not listen to another wurrd," cried Father Cahill, turning away. O'Connell strode in front of him. "Wait. There's another thing. I've heard more than one priest boast that there was less sin in the villages of Ireland than in any other country. And why? What is yer great cure for vice? MARRIAGE--isn't it?" "What are ye sayin'?" "I'm sayin' this, Father Cahill. If a boy looks at a girl twice, what do ye do? Engage them to be married. To you marriage is the safeguard against sin. And what ARE such marriages? Hunger marryin' thirst! Poverty united to misery! Men and women ignorant and stunted in mind and body, bound together by a sacrament, givin' them the right to bring others, equally distorted, into the wurrld. And when they're born you baptise them, and you have more souls entered on the great register for the Holy Church. Bodies livin' in perpetual torment, with a heaven wavin' at them all through their lives as a reward for their suffering here. I tell ye ye're wrong! Ye're wrong! Ye're wrong! The misery of such marriages will reach through all the generations to come. I'd rather see vice--vice that burns out and leaves scar-white the lives it scorches. There is more sin in the HEARTS and MINDS of these poor, wretched, ill-mated people than in the sinks of Europe. There is some hope for the vicious. Intelligence and common-sense will wean them from it. But there is no hope for the people whose lives from the cradle to the grave are drab and empty and sordid and wretched." As O'Connell uttered this terrible arraignment of the old order of protecting society by early and indiscriminate marriages, it seemed as if the mantle of some modern prophet had fallen on him. He had struck at the real keynote of Ireland's misery to-day. The spirit of oppression followed them into the privacy of their lives. Even their wives were chosen for them by their teachers. Small wonder the English government could enforce brutal and unjust laws when the very freedom of choosing their mates and of having any voice in the control of their own homes was denied them. To Father Cahill such words were blasphemy. He looked at O'Connell in horror. "Have ye done?" he asked. "What else I may have to say will be said on St. Kernan's Hill this afternoon." "There will be no meetin' there to-day," cried the priest. "Come and listen to it," replied the agitator. "I've forbidden my people to go." "They'll come if I have to drag them from their homes." "I've warned the resident-magistrate. The police will be there if ye thry to hold a meetin'." "We'll outnumber them ten to one." "There'll be riotin' and death." "Better to die in a good cause than to live in a bad one," cried O'Connell. "It's the great dead who lead the world by their majesty. It's the bad livin' who keep it back by their infamy." "Don't do this, Frank O'Connell. I ask you in the name of the Church in which ye were baptised--by me." "I'll do it in the name of the suffering people I was born among." "I command you! Don't do this!" "I can hear only the voice of my dead father saying: 'Go on!'" "I entreat you--don't!" "My father's voice is louder than yours, Father Cahill." "Have an old man's tears no power to move ye?" O'Connell looked at the priest. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He made no effort to staunch them. O'Connell hesitated, then he said firmly: "My father wept in the ditch when he was dyin', dying in sight of his home. Mine was the only hand that wiped away his tears. I can see only HIS to-day, Father." "I'll make my last appeal. What good can this meetin' do? Ye say the people are ignorant and wretched. Why have them batthered and shot down by the soldiers?" "It has always been the martyrs who have made a cause. I am willin' to be one. I'd be a thraitor if I passed my life without lifting my voice and my hands against my people's oppressors." "Ye're throwin' yer life away, Frank O'Connell." "I wouldn't be the first and I won't be the last" "Nothing will move ye?" cried the priest. "One thing only," replied the agitator. "And what is that?" "Death!" and O'Connell strode abruptly away. CHAPTER II THE PANORAMA OF A LOST YOUTH As O'Connell hurried through the streets of the little village thoughts surged madly through his brain. It was in this barren spot he was born and passed his youth. Youth! A period of poverty and struggle: of empty dreams and futile hopes. It passed before him now as a panorama. There was the doctor's house where his father hurried the night he was born. How often had his mother told him of that night of storm when she gave her last gleam of strength in giving him life! In storm he was born: in strife he would live. The mark was on him. Now he came to the little schoolhouse where he first learned to read. Facing it Father Cahill's tiny church, where he had learned to pray. Beyond lay the green on which he had his first fight. It was about his father. Bruised and bleeding, he crept home that day--beaten. His mother cried over him and washed his cuts and bathed his bruises. A flush of shame crept across his face as he thought of that beating. The result of our first battle stays with us through life. He watched his conqueror, he remembered for years. He had but one ambition in those days--to gain sufficient strength to wipe out that disgrace. He trained his muscles, He ran on the roads at early morning until his breathing was good. He made friends with an English soldier stationed in the town, by doing him some slight service. The man had learned boxing in London and could beat any one in his regiment. O'Connell asked the man to teach him boxing. The soldier agreed. He found the boy an apt pupil. O'Connell mastered the art of self-defence. He learned the vulnerable points of attack. Then he waited his opportunity. One half-holiday, when the schoolboys were playing on the green, he walked up deliberately to his conqueror and challenged him to a return engagement. The boys crowded around them. "Is it another batin' ye'd be afther havin', ye beggar-man's son?" said the enemy. O'Connell's reply was a well-timed punch on that youth's jaw, and the second battle was on. As O'Connell fought he remembered every blow of the first fight when, weak and unskilful, he was an easy prey for his victor. "That's for the one ye gave me two years ago, Martin Quinlan," cried O'Connell, as he closed that youth's right eye, and stepped nimbly back from a furious counter. "And it's a bloody nose ye'll have, too," as he drove his left with deadly precision on Quinlan's olfactory organ, staggering that amazed youth, who, nothing daunted, ran into a series of jabs and swings that completely dazed him and forced him to clinch to save further damage. But the fighting blood of O'Connell was up. He beat Quinlan out of the clinch with a well-timed upper-cut that put the youth upon his back on the green. "Now take back that 'beggar-man's' son!" shouted O'Connell. "I'll not," from the grass. "Then get up and be beaten," screamed O'Connell. The boys danced around them. It was too good to be true. Quinlan had thrashed them all, and here was the apparently weakest of them--white-faced O'Connell--thrashing him. Why, if O'Connell could best him, they all could. The reign of tyranny was over. "Fight! Fight!" they shouted, as they crowded around the combatants. Quinlan rose to his feet only to be put back again on the ground by a straight right in the mouth. He felt the warm blood against his lips and tasted the salt on his tongue. It maddened him. He staggered up and rushed with all his force against O'Connell, who stepped aside and caught Quinlan, as he stumbled past, full behind the ear. He pitched forward on his face and did not move. The battle was over. "And I'll serve just the same any that sez a word against me father!" Not a boy said a word. "Fighting O'Connell" he was nicknamed that day, and "Fighting O'Connell" he was known years afterwards to Dublin Castle. When he showed his mother his bruised knuckles that night and told her how he came by them, she cried again as she did two years before. Only this time they were tears of pride. From door to door he went. "St. Kernan's Hill at three," was all he said. Some nodded, some said nothing, others agreed volubly. On all their faces he read that they would be there. On through the village he went until he reached the outskirts. He paused and looked around. There was the spot on which the little cabin he was born in and in which his mother died, had stood. It had long since been pulled down for improvements. Not a sign to mark the tomb of his youth. It was here they placed his father that bleak November day--here by the ditch. It was here his father gave up the struggle. The feeble pulse ebbed. The flame died out. The years stripped back. It seemed as yesterday. And here HE stood grown to manhood. He needed just that reminder to stir his blood and nerve him for the ordeal of St. Kernan's Hill. The old order was dying out in Ireland. The days of spiritless bending to the yoke were over. It was a "Young Ireland" he belonged to and meant to lead. A "Young Ireland" with an inheritance of oppression and slavery to wipe out. A "Young Ireland" that demanded to be heard: that meant to act: that would fight step by step in the march to Westminster to compel recognition of their just claims. And he was to be one of their leaders. He squared his shoulders as he looked for the last time on the little spot of earth that once meant "Home" to him. He took in a deep breath and muttered through his clenched teeth: "Let the march begin to-day. Forward!" and he turned toward St. Kernan's Hill. CHAPTER III ST. KERNAN'S HILL To the summit of the hill climbed up men, women and children. The men grimy and toil-worn; a look of hopelessness in their eyes: the sob of misery in their voices. Dragging themselves up after them came the women--some pressing babies to their breasts, others leading little children by the hand. The men had begged them to stay at home. There might be bad work that day, but the women had answered: "If WE go they won't hurt YOU!" and they pressed on after the leaders. At three o'clock O'Connell ascended the hill and stood alone on the great mount. A cry of greeting went up. He raised his hand in acknowledgment. It was strange indeed for him to stand there looking down at the people he had known since childhood. A thousand conflicting emotions swept through him as he looked at the men and women whom, only a little while ago, it seemed, he had known as children. THEN he bent to their will. The son of a peasant, he was amongst the poorest of the poor. Now he came amongst them to try and lift them from the depths he had risen from himself. "It is Frankie O'Connell himself," cried a voice. "Him we knew as a baby," said another. "Fightin' O'Connell! Hooray for him!" shouted a third. "Mary's own child standin' up there tall and straight to get us freedom and comfort," crooned an old white-haired woman. "And broken heads," said another old woman. "And lyin' in the county-jail himself, mebbe, this night," said a third. "The Lord be with him," cried a fourth. "Amen to that," and they reverently crossed themselves. Again O'Connell raised his hand, this time to command silence. All the murmurs died away. O'Connell began--his rich, melodious voice ringing far beyond the farthest limits of the crowd--the music of his Irish brogue making cadences of entreaty and again lashing the people into fury at the memory of Ireland's wrongs. "Irish men and women, we are met here to-day in the sight of God and in defiance of the English government," (groans and hisses), "to clasp hands, to unite our thoughts and to nerve our bodies to the supreme effort of bringing hope to despair, freedom to slavery, prosperity to the land and happiness to our homes." (Loud applause.) "Too long have our forefathers lived under the yoke of the oppressor. Too long have our old been buried in paupers' graves afther lives of misery no other counthry in the wurrld can equal. Why should it be the lot of our people--men and women born to a birthright of freedom? Why? Are ye men of Ireland so craven that aliens can rule ye as they once ruled the negro?" ("No, no!") "The African slave has been emancipated and his emancipation was through the blood and tears of the people who wronged him. Let OUR emancipation, then, be through the blood and tears of our oppressors. In other nations it is the Irishman who rules. It is only in his own counthry that he is ruled. And the debt of hathred and misery and blasted lives and dead hopes is at our door today. Shall that debt be unpaid?" ("No, no!") "Look around you. Look at the faces of yer brothers and sisthers, worn and starved. Look at yer women-kind, old before they've been young. Look at the babies at their mothers' breasts, first looking out on a wurrld in which they will never know a happy thought, never feel a joyous impulse, never laugh with the honest laughther of a free and contented and God-and-government-protected people. Are yez satisfied with this?" (Angry cries of "No, no!") "Think of yer hovels--scorched with the heat, blisthered with the wind and drenched with the rain, to live in which you toil that their owners may enjoy the fruits of yer slavery--IN OTHER COUNTHRIES. Think of yer sons and daughthers lavin' this once fair land in hundhreds of thousands to become wage-earners across the seas, with their hearts aching for their homes and their loved ones. The fault is at our own door. The solution is in our own hands. Isn't it betther to die, pike in hand, fightin' as our forefathers did, than to rot in filth, and die, lavin' a legacy of disease and pestilence and weak brains and famished bodies?" His voice cracked and broke into a high-pitched hysterical cry as he finished the peroration. A flame leaped through the mob. The men muttered imprecations as a new light flashed from their eyes. All their misery fell from them as a shroud. They only thought of vengeance. They were men again. Their hearts beat as their progenitors' hearts must have beaten at the Boyne. The great upheaval that flashed star-like through Ireland from epoch to epoch, burned like vitriol in their veins. The women forgot their crying babies as they pressed forward, screaming their paean of vengeance against their oppressors. The crowd seemed to throb as some great engine of humanity. It seemed to think with one brain, beat with one heart and call with one voice. The cry grew into an angry roar. Suddenly Father Cahill appeared amongst them. "Go back to your homes," he commanded, breathlessly. "Stay where you are," shouted O'Connell. "In the name of the Catholic Church, go!" said the priest. "In the name of our down-trodden and suffering people, stay!" thundered O'Connell. "Don't listen to him. Listen to the voice of God!" "God's help comes to those who help themselves," answered the agitator. Father Cahill made his last and strongest appeal: "My poor children, the constabulary are coming to break up the meetin' and to arrest HIM." "Let them come," cried O'Connell. "Show them that the spirit of Irish manhood is not dead. Show them that we still have the power and the courage to defy them. Tell them we'll meet when and where we think fit. That we'll not silence our voices while there's breath in our bodies. That we'll resist their tyranny while we've strength to shouldher a gun or handle a pike. I appeal to you, O Irishmen, in the name of yer broken homes; in the name of all that makes life glorious and death divine! In the name of yer maimed and yer dead! Of yer brothers in prison and in exile! By the listenin' earth and the watching sky I appeal to ye to make yer stand to-day. I implore ye to join yer hearts and yer lives with mine. Lift yer voices with me: stretch forth yer hands with mine and by yer hopes of happiness here and peace hereafter give an oath to heaven never to cease fightin' until freedom and light come to this unhappy land!" "Swear by all ye hold most dear: by the God who gave ye life: by the memory of all ye hold most sacred: by the sorrow for yer women and children who have died of hunger and heart-break: stretch forth yer hands and swear to give yer lives so that the generations to come may know happiness and peace and freedom. Swear!" He stopped at the end of the adjuration, his right hand held high above his head, his left--palm upward, stretched forward in an attitude of entreaty. It seemed as though the SOUL of the man was pleading with them to take the oath that would bind THEIR souls to the "Cause." Crowding around him, eyes blazing, breasts heaving, as if impelled by one common thought, the men and women clamoured with outstretched hands: "We swear!" In that moment of exaltation it seemed as if the old Saint-Martyrs' halo glowed over each, as they took the oath that pledged them to the "CAUSE,"--the Cause that meant the lifting of oppression and tyranny: immunity from "buckshot" and the prison-cell: from famine and murder and coercion--all the component parts of Ireland's torture in her struggle for her right to self-government. A moment later the crowd was hushed. A tremour ran through it. The sounds of marching troops: the unintelligible words of command, broke in on them. Father Cahill plunged in amongst them. "The constabulary," he cried. "Back to your homes." "Stay where you are," shouted O'Connell. "I beg you, my children! I command you! I entreat you! Don't have bloodshed here to-day!" Father Cahill turned distractedly to O'Connell, crying out to him: "Tell them to go back! My poor people! Tell them to go back to their homes while there's time." Turning his back on the priest, O'Connell faced the crowd: "You have taken your oath. Would you perjure yourselves at this old man's bidding? See where the soldiers come. Look--and look well at them. Their uniforms stand for the badge of tyranny. The glint of their muskets is the message from their illustrious sovereign of her feeling to this part of her kingdom. We ask for JUSTICE and they send us BULLETS. We cry for 'LIBERTY' and the answer is 'DEATH' at the hands of her soldiers. We accept the challenge. Put yer women and childhren behind you. Let no man move." The men hurriedly placed the women and children so that they were protected from the first onslaught of the soldiery. Then the men of St. Kernan's Hill, armed with huge stones and sticks, turned to meet the troops. Mr. Roche, the resident-magistrate, rode at their head. "Arrest that man," he cried, pointing to O'Connell. An angry growl went up from the mob. Father Cahill hurried to him: "Don't interfere with them, Mr. Roche. For the love of heaven, don't. There'll be murder here to-day if ye do." "I have my instructions, Father Cahill, and it's sorry I am to have to act under them to-day." "It isn't the people's fault," pleaded the priest; "indeed it isn't." "We don't wish to hurt them. We want that man O'Connell." "They'll never give him up. Wait till to-night and take him quietly." "No, we'll take him here. He's given the police the slip in many parts of the country. He won't to-day." The magistrate pushed forward on his horse through the fringe on the front part of the crowd and reined up at the foot of the mount. "Frank Owen O'Connell, I arrest you in the Queen's name for inciting peaceable citizens to violence," he called up to the agitator. "Arrest me yerself, Mr. Magistrate Roche," replied O'Connell. Turning to an officer Roche motioned him to seize O'Connell. As the officer pressed forward he was felled by a blow from a heavy stick. In a second the fight was on. The magistrate read the riot-act. He, together with Father Cahill, called to the mob to stop. They shouted to O'Connell to surrender and disperse the people. Too late. The soldiers formed into open formation and marched on the mob. Maddened and reeling, with no order, no discipline, with only blind fury and the rushing, pulsing blood--that has won many a battle for England against a common foe--the men of Ireland hurled themselves upon the soldiers. They threw their missiles: they struck them with their gnarled sticks: they beat them with their clenched fists. The order to "Fire" was given as the soldiers fell back from the onslaught. When the smoke cleared away the ranks of the mob were broken. Some lay dead on the turf; some groaned in the agony of shattered limbs. The women threw themselves moaning on the bodies. Silence fell like a pall over the mob. Out of the silence a low angry growl went up. O'Connell had fallen too. The soldiers surrounded his prostrate body. The mob made a rush forward to rescue him. O'Connell stopped them with a cry: "Enough for to-day, my men." He pointed to the wounded and dying: "Live to avenge them. Wait until 'The Day'!" His voice failed. He fell back unconscious. Into the midst of the crowd and through the ranks of the soldiers suddenly rode a young girl, barely twenty years old. Beside her was a terrified groom. She guided her horse straight to the magistrate. He raised his hat and muttered a greeting, with a glance of recognition. "Have him taken to 'The Gap,'" she said imperatively, pointing to the motionless body of O'Connell. "He is under arrest," replied the magistrate. "Do you want another death on your hands? Haven't you done enough in killing and maiming those unfortunate people?" She looked with pity on the moaning women: and then with contempt on the officer who gave the order to fire. "You ought to be proud of your work to-day!" she said. "I only carried out my orders," replied the man humbly. "Have that man taken to my brother's house. He will surrender him or go bail for him until he has been attended to. First let us SAVE him." The girl dismounted and made a litter of some fallen branches, assisted by the groom. "Order some of your men to carry him." There was a note of command in her tone that awed both the officer and the magistrate. Four men were detailed to carry the body on the litter. The girl remounted. Turning to the magistrate, she said: "Tell your government, Mr. Roche, that their soldiers shot down these unarmed people." Then she wheeled round to the mob: "Go back to your homes." She pointed to the dead and wounded: "THEY have died or been maimed for their Cause. Do as HE said," pointing to the unconscious O'Connell, "LIVE for it!" She started down through the valley, followed by the litter-bearers and the magistrate. The officer gave the word of command, and, with some of the ringleaders in their midst, the soldiers marched away. Left alone with their dying and their dead, all the ferocity left the poor, crushed peasants. They knelt down sobbing over the motionless bodies. For the time being the Law and its officers were triumphant. This was the act of the representatives of the English government in the year of civilisation 18--, and in the reign of her late Gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria, by the grace of God, Empress of India. CHAPTER IV NATHANIEL KINGSNORTH VISITS IRELAND While the incidents of the foregoing chapters were taking place, the gentleman whose ownership shaped the destinies of many of the agitators of St. Kernan's Hill, was confronting almost as difficult a problem as O'Connell was facing on the mount. Whilst O'Connell was pleading for the right of Ireland to govern herself, Mr. Nathaniel Kingsnorth was endeavouring to understand how to manage so unwieldy and so troublesome an estate. The death of his father placed a somewhat extensive--and so far entirely unprofitable--portion of the village in his care. His late father had complained all his life of the depreciation of values; the growing reluctance to pay rents; and the general dying-out of the worth of an estate that had passed into the hands of a Kingsnorth many generations before in the ordinary course of business, for notes that had not been taken up, and mortgages that had been foreclosed. It was the open boast of the old gentleman that he had never seen the village, and it was one of his dying gratifications that he would never have to. He had all the racial antipathy of a certain type of Englishmen to anything IRISH. The word itself was unpleasant to his ears. He never heard it without a shudder, and his intimates, at his request, refrained from using it in his presence. The word represented to him all that was unsavoury, unpatriotic and unprincipled. One phrase of his, in speaking of Ireland at a banquet, achieved the dignity of being printed in all the great London daily papers and was followed by a splenetic attack in the "Irish Nation." Both incidents pleased the old gentleman beyond measure. It was an unfailing source of gratification to him that he had coined the historical utterance. He quoted it with a grim chuckle on the few occasions when some guest, unfamiliar with his prejudice, would mention in his presence the hated word "Ireland." It appears that one particularly hard winter, when, for some unnecessary and wholly unwarrantable reason, the potato crop had failed, and the little Irish village was in a condition of desperate distress, it was found impossible to collect more than a tithe of Mr. Kingsnorth's just dues. No persuasion could make the obstinate tenants pay their rents. Threats, law-proceedings, evictions--all were useless. They simply would not pay. His agent finally admitted himself beaten. Mr. Kingsnorth must wait for better times. Furious at his diminished income and hating, with a bitter hatred, the disloyal and cheating tenantry, he rose at a Guildhall banquet to reply to the toast of "The Colonies." He drew vivid pictures of the splendour of the British possessions: of India--that golden and loyal Empire; Australia with its hidden mines of wealth, whose soil had scarce been scratched, peopled by patriotic, zealous and toiling millions, honestly paying their way through life by the sweat of their God-and-Queen-fearing brows. What an example to the world! A country where the wage-earner hurried, with eager footsteps, to place the honestly earned tolls at the feet of generous and trusting landlords! Then, on the other hand, he pointed to that small portion of the British Isles, where to pay rent was a crime: where landlords were but targets for insult and vituperation--yes, and indeed for BULLETS from the hidden assassin whenever they were indiscreet enough to visit a country where laws existed but that they might be broken, and crime stalked fearlessly through the land. Such a condition was a reproach to the English government. "Why," he asked the astonished gathering of dignitaries, "why should such a condition exist when three hundred and sixty-five men sat in the House of Commons, sent there by electors to administer the just and wise laws of a just and wise country? Why?" As he paused and glared around the table for the reply that was not forthcoming, the undying phrase sprang new-born from his lips: "Oh," he cried; "oh! that for one brief hour Providence would immerse that island of discontent beneath the waters of the Atlantic and destroy a people who seemed bent on destroying themselves and on disintegrating the majesty and dignity and honour of our great Empire!" Feeling that no words of his could follow so marvellous a climax, he sat down, amid a silence that seemed to him to be fraught with eloquence, so impressive and significant was--to him--its full meaning. Some speeches are cheered vulgarly. It was the outward sign of coarse approval. Others are enjoyed and sympathised with inwardly, and the outward tribute to which was silence--and that was the tribute of that particular Guildhall gathering on that great night. It seemed to Wilberforce Kingsnorth, hardened after-dinner speaker though he was, that never had a body of men such as he confronted and who met his gaze by dropping their eyes modestly to their glasses, been so genuinely thrilled by so original, so comprehensive and so dramatic a conclusion to a powerful appeal. Kingsnorth felt, as he sat down, that it was indeed a red-letter night for him--and for England. The Times, in reviewing the speeches the following morning, significantly commented that: "Mr. Kingsnorth had solved, in a moment of entreaty, to a hitherto indifferent Providence, the entire Irish difficulty." When Nathaniel Kingsnorth found himself the fortunate possessor of this tract of land peopled by so lawless a race, he determined to see for himself what the conditions really were, so for the first time since they owned a portion of it, a Kingsnorth set foot on Irish soil. Accompanied by his two sisters he arrived quietly some few weeks before and addressed himself at once to the task of understanding the people and the circumstances in which they lived. On this particular afternoon he was occupied with his agent, going systematically through the details of the management of the estate. It was indeed a discouraging prospect. Such a condition of pauperism seemed incredible in a village within a few hours of his own England. Except for a few moderately thriving tradesmen, the whole population seemed to live from hand to mouth. The entire village was in debt. They owed the landlords, the tradesmen, they even owed each other money and goods. It seemed to be a community cut off from the rest of the world, in which nothing from the outside ever entered. No money was ever put into the village. On the contrary there was a continuous withdrawal. By present standards a day would come when the last coin would depart and the favoured spot would be as independent of money as many of the poorer people were of clothing. It came as a shock to Nathaniel Kingsnorth. For the first time it began to dawn on him that, after all, the agitators might really have some cause to agitate: that their attitude was not one of merely fighting for the sake of the fight. Yet a lingering suspicion, borne of his early training, and his father's doctrines about Ireland, that Pat was really a scheming, dishonest fellow, obtruded itself on his mind, even as he became more than half convinced of the little village's desperate plight. Nathaniel loathed injustice. As the magistrate of his county he punished dishonesty. Was the condition he saw due to English injustice or Irish dishonesty? That was the problem that he was endeavouring to solve. "There doesn't seem to be a sixpence circulating through the whole place," he remarked to the agent when that gentleman had concluded his statement of the position of matters. "And there never will be, until some one puts money into the village instead of taking it out of it," said the agent. "You refer to the land-owners?" "I do. And it's many's the time I wrote your father them same words." "It is surely not unnatural for owners to expect to be paid for the use of houses and land, is it? We expect it in England," said Kingsnorth drily. "In England the landlord usually lives on his estate and takes some pride in it." "Small pride anyone could take in such an estate as this," Kingsnorth laughed bitterly. Then he went on: "And as for living on it--," and he shrugged his shoulders in disgust. "Before the Kingsnorths came into possession the MacMahons lived on it, and proud the people were of them and they of the people, sir." "I wish to God they'd continued to," said Kingsnorth wrathfully. "They beggared themselves for the people--that's what they did, sir. Improvements here--a road there. A quarry cut to give men work and a breakwater built to keep the sea from washing away the poor fishermen's homes. And when famine came not a penny rent asked--and their women-kind feedin' and nursin' the starvin' and the sick. An' all the time raisin' money to do it. A mortgage on this and a note of hand for that--until the whole place was plastered with debt. Then out they were turned." The agent moved away and looked out across the well-trimmed lawn to conceal his emotion. "Ill-timed charity and business principles scarcely go together, my good Burke," said Kingsnorth, with ill-concealed impatience. He did not like this man's tone. It suggested a glorification of the former BANKRUPT landlord and a lack of appreciation of the present SOLVENT one. "So the English think," Burke answered. Kingsnorth went on: "If we knew the whole truth we would probably find the very methods these people used were the cause of the sorry condition this village is in now. No landlord has the right to pauperise his tenantry by giving them money and their homes rent-free. It is a man's duty and privilege to WORK. INDEPENDENCE--that is what a man should aim at. The Irish are always CRYING for it. They never seem to PRACTISE it." "Ye can't draw the water out of a kettle and expect it to boil, sir, and by the same token independence is a fine thing to tache to men who are dependent on all." "Your sympathies appear to be entirely with the people," said Kingsnorth, looking shrewdly and suspiciously at the agent. "No one could live here man and boy and not give it to them," answered Burke. "You're frank, anyway." "Pity there are not more like me, sir." "I'll see what it is possible to do in the matter of improving conditions. Mind--I promise nothing. I put my tenants on probation. It seems hopeless. I'll start works for the really needy. If they show a desire to take advantage of my interest in them I'll extend my operations. If they do NOT I'll stop everything and put the estate on the market." Burke looked at him and smiled a dry, cracked smile. He was a thin, active, grizzled man, well past fifty, with keen, shrewd eyes that twinkled with humour, or sparkled with ferocity, or melted with sorrow as the mood seized him. As he answered Kingsnorth the eyes twinkled. "I'm sure it's grateful the poor people 'ull be when they hear the good news of yer honour's interest in them." "I hope so. Although history teaches us that gratitude is not a common quality in Ireland. 'If an Irishman is being roasted you will always find another Irishman to turn the spit,' a statesman quoted in the House of Commons a few nights ago." "That must be why the same statesman puts them in prison for standin' by each other, I suppose," said Burke, with a faint smile. "You are now speaking of the curses of this country--the agitators. They are the real cause of this deplorable misery. Who will put money into a country that is ridden by these scoundrels? Rid Ireland of agitators and you advance her prosperity a hundred years. They are the clogs on the wheel of a nation's progress." He picked up a copy of the local newspaper and read a headline from one of the columns: "I see you have agitators even here?" "We have, sir." "Drive them out of the town. Let the people live their own lives without such disturbing elements in them. Tell them distinctly that from the moment they begin to work for me I'll have no 'meetings' on my property. Any of my tenants or workmen found attending them elsewhere will be evicted and discharged." "I'll tell them, sir." "I mean to put that kind of lawlessness down with a firm hand." "If ye DO ye'll be the first, Mr. Kingsnorth." "There is one I see to-day," glancing again at the paper. "There is, sir." "Who is this man O'Connell?" "A native of the village, sir." "What is he--a paid agitator?" "Faith there's little pay he gets, I'm thinkin'." "Why don't the police arrest him?" "Mebbe they will, sir." "I'll see that they do." Burke smiled. "And what do you find so amusing, Mr. Burke?" "It's a wondher the English government doesn't get tired of arrestin' them. As fast as they DO others take their place. It's the persecution brings fresh converts to the 'Cause.' Put one man in jail and there'll be a hundred new followers the next day." "We'll see," said Kingsnorth firmly. "Here is one district where the law will be enforced. These meetings and their frequent bloodshed are a disgrace to a civilised people." "Ye may well say that, yer honour," replied Burke. "Before I invest one penny to better the condition of the people I must have their pledge to abandon such disgraceful methods of trying to enlist sympathy. I'll begin with this man O'Connell. Have him brought to me to-morrow. I'll manage this estate my own way or I'll wash my hands of it. My father was often tempted to." "He resisted the temptation though, sir." "I'm sorry he did. That will do for to-day. Leave these statements. I'll go over them again. It's hard to make head or tail of the whole business. Be here tomorrow at ten. Bring that fellow O'Connell with you. Also give me a list of some of the more intelligent and trustworthy of the people and I'll sound them as to the prospects of opening up work here. Drop them a hint that my interest is solely on the understanding that this senseless agitation stops." "I will, sir. To-morrow morning at ten," and Burke started for the door. "Oh, and--Burke--I hope you are more discreet with my tenants than you have been with me?" "In what way, Mr. Kingsnorth?" "I trust that you confine your sympathy with them to your FEELINGS and not give expression to them in words." "I can't say that I do, Mr. Kingsnorth." "It would be wiser to in future, Mr. Burke." "Well, ye see, sir, I'm a MAN first and an AGENT afterwards." "Indeed?" "Yes, sir. It's many's the ugly thing I've had to do for your father, and if a kind word of mine hadn't gone with it, it's precious little of the estate would be fit to look at to-day, Mr. Kingsnorth." "And why not?" "Do ye remember when Kilkee's Scotch steward evicted two hundred in one day, sir?" "I do not." "Rade about it. It's very enlightenin'." "What happened?" "The poor wretched, evicted people burnt down every dwellin' and tree on the place, sir." "I would know how to handle such ruffians." "That's what Kilkee thought. 'Tache them a lesson,' said he. 'Turn them into the ditches!' And he DID. HE thought he KNEW how to handle them. He woke up with a jump one mornin' when he found a letter from the under-steward tellin' him his Scotch master was in the hospital with a bullet in his spleen, and the beautiful house and grounds were just so much blackened ashes." "It seems to me, my good man, there is a note of agreement with such methods, in your tone." "Manin' the evictin' or the burnin', yer honour?" "You know what I mean," and Kingsnorth's voice rose angrily. "I think I do," answered Burke quietly. "I want an agent who is devoted to my interests and to whom the people are secondary." "Then ye'd betther send to England for one, sir. The men devoted to landlords and against the people are precious few in this part of Ireland, sir." "Do you intend that I should act on that?" "If ye wish. Ye can have my TIME at a price, but ye won't have my INDEPENDENCE for any sum ye like to offer." "Very well. Send me your resignation, to take effect one month from to-day." "It's grateful I am, Mr. Kingsnorth," and he went out. In through the open window came the sound of the tramping of many feet and the whisper of subdued voices. Kingsnorth hurried out on to the path and saw a number of men and women walking slowly down the drive, in the centre of which the soldiers were carrying a body on some branches. Riding beside them was his sister Angela with her groom. "What new horror is this?" he thought, as he hurried down the path to meet the procession. CHAPTER V ANGELA Wilberforce Kingsnorth left three children: Nathaniel--whose acquaintance we have already made, and who in a large measure inherited much of his father's dominant will and hardheadedness--Monica, the elder daughter, and Angela the younger. Nathaniel was the old man's favourite. While still a youth he inculcated into the boy all the tenets of business, morality and politics that had made Wilberforce prosperous. Pride in his name: a sturdy grasp of life: an unbending attitude toward those beneath him, and an abiding reverence for law and order and fealty to the throne--these were the foundations on which the father built Nathaniel's character. Next in point of regard came the elder daughter Monica. Patrician of feature, haughty in manner, exclusive by nature she had the true Kingsnorth air. She had no disturbing "ideas": no yearning for things not of her station. She was contented with the world as it had been made for her and seemed duly proud and grateful to have been born a Kingsnorth. She was an excellent musician: rode fairly to hounds: bestowed prizes at the local charities with grace and distinction--as became a Kingsnorth--and looked coldly out at the world from behind the impenetrable barriers of an old name. When she married Frederick Chichester, the rising barrister, connected with six county families, it was a proud day for old Kingsnorth. His family had originally made their money in trade. The Chichesters had accumulated a fortune by professions. The distinction in England is marked. One hesitates to acknowledge the salutation of the man who provides one with the necessities of life: a hearty handshake is occasionally extended to those who minister to one's luxuries. In England the law is one of the most expensive of luxuries and its devotees command the highest regard. Frederick Chichester came of a long line of illustrious lawyers--one had even reached the distinction of being made a judge. He belonged to an honourable profession. Chichesters had made the laws of the country in the House of Commons as well as administered them in the Courts. The old man was overjoyed. He made a handsome settlement on his eldest daughter on her marriage and felt he had done well by her, even as she had by him. His son and elder daughter were distinctly a credit to him. Five years after Monica's birth Angela unexpectedly was born to the Kingsnorths. A delicate, sickly infant, it seemed as if the splendid blood of the family had expended its vigour on the elder children. Angela needed constant attention to keep her alive. From tremulous infancy she grew into delicate youth. None of the strict standards Kingsnorth had used so effectually with his other children applied to her. She seemed a child apart. Not needing her, Kingsnorth did not love her. He gave her a form of tolerant affection. Too fragile to mix with others, she was brought up at home. Tutors furnished her education. The winters she passed abroad with her mother. When her mother died she spent them with relations or friends. The grim dampness of the English climate was too rigorous for a life that needed sunshine. Angela had nothing in common with either her brother or her sister. She avoided them and they her. They did not understand her: she understood them only too well! A nature that craved for sympathy and affection--as the frail so often do--was repulsed by those to whom affection was but a form, and sympathy a term of reproach. She loved all that was beautiful, and, as so frequently happens in such natures as Angela's, she had an overwhelming pity for all that were unhappy. To her God made the world beautiful: man was responsible for its hideousness. From her heart she pitied mankind for abusing the gifts God had showered on them. It was on her first home-coming since her mother's death that her attention was really drawn to her father's Irish possessions. By a curious coincidence she returned home the clay following Wilberforce Kingsnorth's electrical speech, invoking Providence to interpose in the settlement of the Irish difficulty. It was the one topic of conversation throughout dinner. And it was during that dinner that Angela for the first time really angered her father and raised a barrier between them that lasted until the day of his death. The old man had laughed coarsely at the remembrance of his speech on the previous night, and licked his lips at the thought of it. Monica, who was visiting her father for a few days smiled in agreeable sympathy. Nathaniel nodded cheerfully. From her father's side Angela asked quietly: "Have you ever been in Ireland, father?" "No, I have not," answered the old man sharply: "And, what is more, I never intend to go there." "Do you know anything about, the Irish?" persisted Angela. "Do I? More than the English government does. Don't I own land there?" "I mean do you know anything about the people?" insisted Angela. "I know them to be a lot of thieving, rascally scoundrels, too lazy to work, and too dishonest to pay their way, even when they have the money." "Is that all you know?" "All!" He stopped eating to look angrily at his daughter. The cross-examination was not to his liking. Angela went on "Yes, father; is that all you know about the Irish?" "Isn't it enough?" His voice rose shrilly. It was the first time for years anyone had dared use those two hated words "Ireland" and "Irish" at his table. Angela must be checked and at once. Before he could begin to check her, however, Angela answered his question: "It wouldn't be enough for me if I had the responsibilities and duties of a landlord. To be the owner of an estate should be to act as the people's friend, their father, their adviser in times of plenty and their comrade in times of sorrow." "Indeed? And pray where did you learn all that, Miss?" asked the astonished parent. Without noticing the interruption or the question, Angela went on: "Why deny a country its own government when England is practically governed by its countrymen? Is there any position of prominence today in England that isn't filled by Irishmen? Think. Our Commander-in-Chief is Irish: our Lord High Admiral is Irish: there are the defences of the English in the hands of two Irishmen and yet you call them thieving and rascally scoundrels." Kingsnorth tried to speak; Angela raised her voice: "Turn to your judges--the Lord Chief is an Irishman. Look at the House of Commons. Our laws are passed or defeated by the Irish vote, and yet so blindly ignorant and obstinate is our insular prejudice that we refuse them the favours they do us--governing THEMSELVES as well as England." Kingsnorth looked at his daughter aghast. Treason in his own house! His child speaking the two most hated of all words at his own dinner table and in laudatory terms. He could scarcely believe it. He looked at her a moment and then thundered: "How dare you! How dare you!" Angela smiled a little amusedly-tolerant smile as she looked frankly at her father and answered: "This is exactly the old-fashioned tone we English take to anything we don't understand. And that is why other countries are leaving us in the race. There is a nation living within a few hours' journey from our doors, yet millions of English people are as ignorant of them as if they lived in Senegambia." She paused, looked once more straight into her father's eyes and said: "And you, father, seem to be as ignorant as the worst of them!" "Angela!" cried her sister in horror. Nathaniel laughed good-naturedly, leaned across to Angela and said: "I see our little sister has been reading the sensational magazines. Yes?" "I've done more than that," replied Angela. "In Nice a month ago were two English members of Parliament who had taken the trouble to visit the country they were supposed to assist in governing. They told me that a condition of misery existed throughout the whole of Ireland that was incredible under a civilised government." "Radicals, eh?" snapped her father. "No. Conservatives. One of them had once held the office of Chief Secretary for Ireland and was Ireland's most bitter persecutor, until he visited the country. When he saw the wretchedness of her people he stopped his stringent methods and began casting about for some ways of lessening the poor people's torment." "The more shame to him to talk like that to a girl. And what's more you had no right to listen to him. A Conservative indeed! A fine one he must be!" "He is. I don't see why the Liberal party should have all the enlightenment and the Conservative party all the bigotry." "Don't anger your father," pleaded Monica. "Why, little Angela has come back to us quite a revolutionary," said Nathaniel. "Leave the table," shouted her father. Without a word Angela got up quietly and left the room. Her manner was entirely unmoved. She had spoken from her inmost convictions. The fact that they were opposed to her father was immaterial. She loathed tyranny and his method of shutting the mouths of those who disagreed with him was particularly obnoxious to her. It was also most ineffectual with her. From childhood she had always spoken as she felt. No discipline checked her. Freedom of speech as well as freedom of thought were as natural and essential to her as breathing was. From that time she saw but little of her father. When he died he left her to her brother's care. Kingsnorth made no absolute provision for her. She was to be dependent on Nathaniel. When the time came that she seemed to wish to marry, if her brother approved of the match, he should make a handsome settlement on her. In response to her request Nathaniel allowed her to go with him to Ireland on his tour of inspection. Mr. Chichester was actively engaged at the Old Bailey on an important criminal case, so Monica also joined them. Everything Angela saw in Ireland appealed to her quick sympathy and gentle heart. It was just as she had thought and read and listened to. On every side she saw a kindly people borne down by the weight of poverty. Lives ruined by sickness and the lack of nourishment. A splendid race perishing through misgovernment and intolerant ignorance. Angela went about amongst the people and made friends with them. They were chary at first of taking her to their hearts. She was of the hated Saxon race. What was she doing there, she, the sister of their, till now, absentee landlord? She soon won them over by her appealing voice and kindly interest. All this Angela did in direct opposition to her brother's wishes and her sister's exhortations. The morning of the meeting she had ridden some mile to visit a poor. family. Out of five three were in bed with low fever. She got a doctor for them, gave them money to buy necessities and, with a promise to return the next day, she rode away. When within some little distance of her brother's house she saw a steady, irregular stream of people climbing a great hill. She rode toward it, and, screened by a clump of trees, saw and heard the meeting. When O'Connell first spoke his voice thrilled her. Gradually the excitement of the people under the mastery of his power, communicated itself to her. It pulsed in her blood, and throbbed in her brain. For the first time she realised what a marvellous force was the Call of the Patriot. To listen and watch a man risking life and liberty in the cause of his country. Her heart, and her mind and her soul went out to him. When the soldiers marched on to the scene she was paralysed with fear. When the order to fire was gives she wanted to ride into their midst and cry out to them to stop. But she was unable to move hand or foot. When the smoke had thinned and she saw the bodies lying motionless on the ground of men who a moment before had been full of life and strength: when was added to that the horror of the wounded crying out with pain, her first impulse was to fly from the sight of the carnage. She mastered that moment of fear and plunged forward, calling to the groom to follow her. What immediately followed has already been told. The long, slow, tortuous journey home: the men slowly following with the ghastly mute-body on the rude litter, became a living memory to her for all the remainder of her life. She glanced down every little while at the stone-white face and shuddered as she found herself wondering if eke would ever hear his voice again or see those great blue-grey eyes flash with his fierce courage and devotion. Once only did the lips of the wounded man move. In a moment Angela had dismounted and halted the soldiers. As she bent down over him O'Connell swooned again from pain. The procession went on. As they neared her brother's house, stragglers began to follow curiously. Sad looking men and weary women joined the procession wonderingly. All guessed it was some fresh outrage of the soldiers. Little, ragged, old-young children peered down at the body on the litter and either ran away crying or joined in listlessly with the others. It was an old story carrying back mutilated men to the village. None was surprised. It seemed to Angela that an infinity of time had passed before they entered the grounds attached to the Kingsnorth house. She sent a man on ahead to order a room to be prepared and a doctor sent for. As she saw her brother coming forward to meet her with knit brows and stern eyes she nerved herself to greet him. "What is this, Angela?" he asked, looking in amazement at the strange procession. "Another martyr to our ignorant government, Nathaniel," and she pressed on through the drive to the house. CHAPTER VI ANGELA SPEAKS HER MIND FREELY TO NATHANIEL Nathaniel's indignation at his sister's conduct was beyond bounds when he learnt who the wounded man was. He ordered the soldiers to take the man and themselves away. The magistrate interposed and begged him to at least let O'Connell rest there until a doctor could patch him up. It might be dangerous to take him back without medical treatment. He assured Nathaniel that the moment they could move him he would be lodged in the county-jail. Nathaniel went back to his study as the sorry procession passed on to the front door. He sent immediately for his sister. The reply came back that she would see him at dinner. He commanded her to come to him at once. In a few minutes Angela came into the room. She was deathly pale. Her voice trembled as she spoke: "What do you want?" "Why did you bring that man here?" "Because he is wounded." "Such scoundrels are better dead." "I don't think so. Nor do I think him a scoundrel." "He came here to attack landlords--to attack ME. ME! And YOU bring him to MY house and with that RABBLE. It's outrageous! Monstrous!" "I couldn't leave him with those heartless wretches to die in their hands." "He leaves here the moment a doctor has attended him." "Very well. Is that all?" "No, it isn't!" Kingsnorth tried to control his anger. After a pause he continued: "I want no more of these foolhardy, quixotic actions of yours. I've heard of your visiting these wretched people--going into fever dens. Is that conduct becoming your name? Think a little of your station in life and what it demands." "I wish YOU did a little more." "What?" he shouted, all his anger returned. "There's no need to raise your voice," Angela answered quietly. "I am only a few feet away. I repeat that I wish you thought a little more of your obligations. If you did and others like you in the same position you are in, there would be no such horrible scenes as I saw to-day; a man shot down amongst his own people for speaking the truth." "You SAW it?" Nathaniel asked in dismay. "I did. I not only SAW, but I HEARD. I wish you had, too. I heard a man lay bare his heart and his brain and his soul that others might knew the light in them. I saw and heard a man offer up his life that others might know some gleam of happiness in THEIR lives. It was wonderful! It was heroic! It was God-like!" "If I ever hear of you doing such a thing again, you shall go back to London the next day." "That sounds exactly as though my dead father were speaking." "I'll not be made a laughing-stock by you." "You make yourself one as your father did before you. A Kingsnorth! What has your name meant? Because one of our forefathers cheated the world into giving him a fortune, by buying his goods for more than they were worth, we have tried to canonise him and put a halo around the name of Kingsnorth. To me it stands for all that is mean and selfish and vain and ignorant. The power of money over intellect. How did we become owners of this miserable piece of land? A Kingsnorth swindled its rightful owner. Lent him money on usury, bought up his bills and his mortgages and when he couldn't pay foreclosed on him. No wander there's a curse on the village and on us!" Kingsnorth tried to speak, but she stopped him: "Wait a moment. It was a good stroke of business taking this estate away. Oh yes, it was a good stroke of business. Our name has been built up on 'good strokes of business.' Well, I tell you it's a BAD stroke of business when human lives are put into the hands of such creatures as we Kingsnorths have proved ourselves!" "Stop!" cried Nathaniel, outraged to the innermost sanctuary of his being. "Stop! You don't speak like one of our family. It is like listening to some heretic--some--" "I don't feel like one of your family. YOU are a KINGSNORTH. _I_ am my MOTHER'S child. My poor, gentle, patient mother, who lived a life of unselfish resignation: who welcomed death, when it came to her, as a release from tyranny. Don't call ME a Kingsnorth. I know the family too well. I know all the name means to the people who have suffered through YOUR FAMILY." "After this--the best thing--the only thing--is to separate," said Nathaniel. "Whenever you wish." "I'll make you an allowance." "Don't let it be a burden." "I've never been so shocked--so stunned--" "I am glad. From my cradle I've been shocked and stunned--in my home. It's some compensation to know you are capable of the feeling, too. Frankly, I didn't think you were." "We'll talk no more of this," and Nathaniel began to pace the room. "I am finished," and Angela went to the door. "It would be better we didn't meet again--in any event--not often," added Nathaniel. "Thank you," said Angela, opening the door. He motioned her to close it, that he had something more to say. "We'll find you some suitable chaperone. You can spend your winters abroad, as you have been doing. London for the season--until you're suitably married. I'll follow out my father's wishes to the letter. You shall be handsomely provided for the day you marry." She closed the door with a snap and came back to him and looked him steadily in the eyes. "The man I marry shall take nothing from you. Even in his 'last will and testament' my father proved himself a Kingsnorth. It was only a Kingsnorth could make his youngest daughter dependent on YOU!" "My father knew I would respect his wishes." "He was equally responsible for me, yet he leaves me to YOUR care. A Kingsnorth!" "The men MASTERS and the women SLAVES!" "That is the Kingsnorth doctrine." "It is a pity our father didn't live a little longer. There are many changes coming into this old grey world of ours and one of them is the real, honourable position of woman. The day will come in England when we will wring from our fathers and our brothers as our right what is doled out to us now as though we were beggars." "And they are trying to govern the country of Ireland in the same way. The reign of the despot. Well, THAT is nearly over too--even as woman's degrading position to-day is almost at an end." "Have you finished?" Once again Angela went to the door. Nathaniel said in a somewhat changed tone: "As it is your wish this man should be cared for, I'll do it. When he is well enough to be moved, the magistrate will take him to jail. But, for the little while we shall be here, I beg you not to do anything so unseemly again." A servant came in to tell Angela the doctor had come. Without a word. Angela went out to see to the wounded man. The servant followed her. Left alone, Nathaniel sat down, shocked and stunned, to review the interview he had just had with his youngest sister. CHAPTER VII THE WOUNDED PATRIOT When Angela entered the sick-room she found Dr. McGinnis, a cheery, bright-eyed, rotund little man of fifty, talking freely to the patient and punctuating each speech with a hearty laugh. His good-humour was infectious. The wounded agitator felt the effect of it and was trying to laugh feebly himself. "Sure it's the fine target ye must have made with yer six feet and one inch. How could the poor soldiers help hittin' ye? Answer me that?" and the jovial doctor laughed again as he dexterously wound a bandage around O'Connell's arm. "Aisy now while I tie the bandage, me fine fellow. Ye'll live to see the inside of an English jail yet." He turned as he heard the door open and greeted Angela. "Good afternoon to ye, Miss Kingsnorth. Faith, it's a blessin' ye brought the boy here. There's no tellin' What the prison-surgeon would have done to him. It is saltpetre, they tell me, the English doctors rub into the Irish wounds, to kape them smartin'. And, by the like token, they do the same too in the English House of Commons. Saltpetre in Ireland's wounds is what they give us." "Is he much hurt?" asked Angela. "Well, they've broken nothin'. Just blackened his face and made a few holes in his skin. It's buckshot they used. Buckshot! Thank the merciful Mr. Forster for that same. 'Buckshot-Forster,' as the Irish reverently call him." Angela flushed with indignation as she looked at the crippled man. "What a dastardly thing to do," she cried. "Ye may well say that, Miss Kingsnorth," said the merry little doctor. "But it's betther than a bullet from a Martini-Henry rifle, that's what it is. And there's many a poor English landlord's got one of 'em in the back for ridin' about at night on his own land. It's a fatherly government we have, Miss Kingsnorth. 'Hurt 'em, but don't quite kill 'em,' sez they; 'and then put 'em in jail and feed them on bread and wather. That'll take the fine talkin' and patriotism out of them,' sez they." "They'll never take it out of me. They may kill me, perhaps, but until they do they'll never silence me," murmured O'Connell in a voice so low, yet so bitter, that it startled Angela. "Ye'll do that all in good time, me fine boy," said the busy little doctor. "Here, take a pull at this," and he handed the patient a glass in which he had dropped a few crystals into some water. As O'Connell drank the mixture Dr. McGinnis said in a whisper to Angela: "Let him have that every three hours: oftener if he wants to talk. We've got to get his mind at rest. A good sleep'll make a new man of him." "There's no danger?" asked Angela in the same tone. "None in the wurrld. He's got a fine constitution and mebbe the buckshot was pretty clean. I've washed them out well." "To think of men shot down like dogs for speaking of their country. It's horrible! It's wicked! It's monstrous." "Faith, the English don't know what else to do with them, Miss. It's no use arguin' with the like of him. That man lyin' on that bed 'ud talk the hind-foot off a heifer. The only way to kape the likes of him quiet is to shoot him, and begob they have." "I heard you, doctor," came from the bed. "If they'd killed me to-day there would be a thousand voices would rise all over Ireland to take the place of mine. One martyr makes countless converts." "Faith, I'd rather kape me own life than to have a hundred thousand spakin' for me and me dead. Where's the good that would be doin' me? Now kape still there all through the beautiful night, and let the blessed medicine quiet ye, and the coolin' ointment aize yer pain. I'll come in by-and-by on the way back home. I'm goin' up beyant 'The Gap' to some poor people with the fever. But I'll be back." "Thank you, Dr. McGinnis." "Is it long yer stayin' here?" and the little man picked up his hat. "I don't know," said Angela. "I hardly think so." "Well, it's you they'll miss when ye're gone, Miss Kingsnorth. Faith if all the English were like you this sort of thing couldn't happen." "We don't try to understand the people, doctor. We just govern them blindly and ignorantly." "Faith it's small blame to the English. We're a mighty hard race to make head nor tail of. And that's a fact. Prayin' at Mass one minnit and maimin' cattle the next. Cryin' salt tears at the bedside of a sick child, and lavin' it to shoot a poor man in the ribs for darin' to ask for his rint." "They're not IRISHMEN," came from the sick bed. "Faith and they are NOW. And it's small wondher the men who sit in Whitehall in London trate them like savages." "I've seen things since I've been here that would justify almost anything!" cried Angela. "I've seen suffering no one in England dreamt of. Misery, that London, with all its poverty and wretchedness, could not compare with. Were I born in Ireland I should be proud to stake my liberty and my life to protect my own people from such horrible brutality." The wounded man opened his eyes and looked full at Angela. It was a look at once of gratitude and reverence and admiration. Her heart leaped within her. So far no man in the little walled-in zone she had lived in had ever stirred her to an even momentary enthusiasm. They were all so fatuously contented with their environment. Sheltered from birth, their anxiety was chiefly how to make life pass the pleasantest. They occasionally showed a spasmodic excitement over the progress of a cricket or polo match. Their achievements were largely those of the stay-at-home warriors who fought with the quill what others faced death with the sword for. Their inertia disgusted her. Their self-satisfaction spurred her to resentment. Here was a man in the real heart of life. He was engaged in a struggle that makes existence worth while--the effort to bring a message to his people. How all the conversations she was forced to listen to in her narrow world rose up before her in their carping meannesses! Her father's brutal diatribes against a people, unfortunate enough to be compelled, from force of circumstance, to live on a portion of land that belonged to him, yet in whose lives he took no interest whatsoever. His only anxiety was to be paid his rents. How, and through what misery, his tenants scraped the money together to do it with, mattered nothing to him. All that DID matter was that he MUST BE PAID. Then arose a picture of her sister Monica, with her puny social pretensions. Recognition of those in a higher grade bread and meat and drink to her. Adulation and gross flattery the very breath of her nostrils. Her brother's cheap, narrow platitudes about the rights of rank and wealth. To Angela wealth had no rights except to bring happiness to the world. It seemed to bring only misery once people acquired it. Grim sorrow seemed to stalk in the trail of the rich. She could not recall one moment of real, unfeigned happiness among her family. The only time she could remember her father smiling or chuckling was at some one else's misfortune, or over some cruel thing he had said himself. Her sister's joy over some little social triumph--usually at the cost of the humiliation of another. Her brother's cheeriness over some smart stroke of business in which another firm was involved to their cost. Parasites all! The memory of her mother was the only link that bound her to her childhood. The gentle, uncomplaining spirit of her: the unselfish abnegation of her: the soul's tragedy of her--giving up her life at the altar of duty, at the bidding of a hardened despot. All Angela's childhood came back in a brief illuminating flash. The face of her one dear, dead companion--her mother--glowed before her. How her mother would have cared for and tended, and worshipped a man even as the one lying riddled on that bed of suffering! All the best in Angela was from her mother. All the resolute fighting quality was from her father. She would use both now in defence of the wounded man. She would tend him and care for him, and see that no harm came to him. She was roused from her self-searching thoughts by the doctor's voice and the touch of his hand. "Good-bye for the present, Miss Kingsnorth. Sure it's in good hands I'm lavin' him. But for you he'd be lyin' in the black jail with old Doctor Costello glarin' down at him with his gimlet eyes, I wouldn't wish a dog that. Faith, I've known Costello to open a wound 'just to see if it was healthy,' sez he, an' the patient screamin' 'Holy murther!' all the while, and old 'Cos' leerin' down at him and sayin': 'Does it hurt? Go on now, does it? Well, we'll thry this one and see if that does, too,' and in 'ud go the lance again. I tell ye it's the Christian he is!" He stopped abruptly. "How me tongue runs on. 'Talkative McGinnis' is what the disrespectful ones call me--I'll run in after eight and mebbe I'll bleed him a little and give him something'll make him slape like a top till mornin'. Good-bye to yez, for the present," and the kindly, plump little man hurried out with the faint echo of a tune whistling through his lips. Angela sat down at a little distance from the sickbed and watched the wounded man. His face was drawn with pain. His eyes were closed. But he was not sleeping. His fingers locked and unlocked. His lips moved He opened his eyes and looked at her. "You need not stay here," he said. "Would you rather I didn't?" asked Angela, rising. "Why did you bring me here?" "To make sure your wounds were attended to." "Your brother is a landlord--'Kingsnorth--the absentee landlord,' we used to call your father as children. And I'm in his son's house. I'd betther be in jail than here." "You mustn't think that." "You've brought me here to humiliate me--to humiliate me!" "No. To care for you. To protect you." "Protect me?" "If I can." "That's strange." "I heard you speak to-day." "You did?" "I did." "I'm glad of that." "So am I." "Pity your brother wasn't there too." "It was--a great pity." "Here's one that Dublin Castle and the English government can't frighten. I'll serve my time in prisons when I'm well enough--it's the first time they've caught me and they had to SHOOT me to do it--and when I come out I'll come straight back here and take up the work just where I'm leaving it." "You mustn't go to prison." "It's the lot of every Irishman to-day who says what he thinks." "It mustn't be yours! It mustn't!" Angela's voice rose in her distress. She repeated: "It mustn't! I'll appeal to my brother to stop it." "If he's anything like his father it's small heed he'll pay to your pleading. The poor wretches here appealed to old Kingsnorth in famine and sickness--not for HELP, mind ye, just for a little time to pay their rents--and the only answer they ever got from him was 'Pay or go'!" "I know! I know!" Angela replied. "And many a time when I was a child my mother and I cried over it." He looked at her curiously. "You and yer mother cried over US?" "We did. Indeed we did." "They say the heart of England is in its womenkind. But they have nothing to do with her laws." "They will have some day." "It'll be a long time comin', I'm thinkin'. If they take so long to free a whole country how long do ye suppose it'll take them to free a whole sex--and the female one at that?" "It will come!" she said resolutely. He looked at her strangely. "And you cried over Ireland's sorrows?" "As a child and as a woman," said Angela. "And ye've gone about here tryin' to help them too, haven't ye?" "I could do very little" "Well, the spirit is there--and the heart is there. If they hadn't liked YOU it's the sorry time maybe your brother would have." He paused again, looking at her intently, whilst his fingers clutched the coverlet convulsively as if to stifle a cry of pain. "May I ask ye yer name?" he gasped. "Angela," she said, almost in a whisper. "Angela," he repeated. "Angela! It's well named ye are. It's the ministering angel ye've been down here--to the people--and--to me." "Don't talk any more now. Rest" "REST, is it? With all the throuble in the wurrld beatin' in me brain and throbbin' in me heart?" "Try and sleep until the doctor comes to-night." He lay back and closed his eyes. Angela sat perfectly still. In a few minutes he opened them again. There was a new light in his eyes and a smile on his lips. "Ye heard me speak, did ye?" "Yes." "Where were ye?" "Above you, behind a bank of trees." A playful smile played around his lips as he said: "It was a GOOD speech, wasn't it?" "I thought it wonderful," Angela answered. "And what were yer feelings listenin' to a man urgin' the people against yer own country?" "I felt I wanted to stand beside you and echo everything you said." "DID you?" and his eyes blazed and his voice rose. "You spoke as some prophet, speaking in a wilderness of sorrow, trying to bring them comfort." He smiled whimsically, as he said, in a weary voice: "I tried to bring them comfort and I got them broken heads and buck-shot." "It's only through suffering every GREAT cause triumphs," said Angela. "Then the Irish should triumph some day. They've suffered enough, God knows." "They will," said Angela eagerly. "Oh, how I wish I'd been born a man to throw in my lot with the weak! to bring comfort to sorrow, freedom to the oppressed: joy to wretchedness. That is your mission. How I envy you. I glory in what the future has in store for you, Live for it! Live for it!" "I will!" cried O'Connell. "Some day the yoke will be lifted from us. God grant that mine will be the hand to help do it. God grant I am alive to see it done. That day'll be worth living for--to wring recognition from our enemies--to--to--to" he sank back weakly on the pillow, his voice fainting to a whisper. Angela brought him some water and helped him up while he drank it. She smoothed back the shining hair--red, shot through gold--from his forehead. He thanked her with a look. Suddenly he burst into tears. The strain of the day had snapped his self-control at last. The floodgates were opened. He sobbed and sobbed like some tired, hurt child. Angela tried to comfort him. In a moment she was crying, too. He took her hand and kissed it repeatedly, the tears falling on it as he did so. "God bless ye! God bless ye!" he cried. In that moment of self-revelation their hearts went out to each other. Neither had known happiness nor love, nor faith in mankind. In that one enlightening moment of emotion their hearts were laid bare to each other. The great comedy of life between man and woman had begun. From that moment their lives were linked together. CHAPTER VIII ANGELA IN SORE DISTRESS Three days afterwards O'Connell was able to dress and move about his room. He was weak from loss of blood and the confinement that an active man resents. But his brain was clear and vivid. They had been three wonderful days. Angela had made them the most amazing in his life. The memory of those hours spent with her he would carry to his grave. She read to him and talked to him and lectured him and comforted him. There were times when he thanked the Power that shapes our ends for having given him this one supreme experience. The cadences of her voice would haunt him through the years to come. And in a little while he must leave it all. He must stand his trial under the "Crimes Act" for speaking at a "Proclaimed" meeting. Well, whatever his torture he knew he would come out better equipped for the struggle. He had learned something of himself he had so far never dreamed of in his bitter struggle with the handicap of his life. He had something to live for now besides the call of his country--the call of the HEART--the cry of beauty and truth and reverence. Angela inspired him with all these. In the three days she ministered to him she had opened up a vista he had hitherto never known. And now he had to leave it and face his accusers, and be hectored and jeered at in the mockery they called "trials." From the Court-House he would go to the prison and from thence he would be sent back into the world with the brand of the prison-cell upon him. As the thought of all this passed through his mind, he never wavered. He would face it as he had faced trouble all his life, with body knit for the struggle, and his heart strong for the battle. And back of it all the yearning that at the end she would be waiting and watching for his return to the conflict for the great "Cause" to which he had dedicated his life. On the morning of the third day Mr. Roche, the resident magistrate, was sent for by Nathaniel Kingsnorth. Mr. Roche found him firm and determined, his back to the fireplace, in which a bright fire was burning, although the month was July. "Even the climate of Ireland rebels against the usual laws of nature!" thought Kingsnorth, as he shivered and glanced at the steady, drenching downpour that had lasted, practically, ever since he had set foot in the wretched country. The magistrate came forward and greeted him respectfully. "Good morning, Mr. Roche," said Nathaniel, motioning him to sit down by the fire. "I've sent for you to remove this man O'Connell," added Nathaniel, after a pause. "Certainly--if he is well enough to be moved." "The doctor, I understand, says that he is." "Very well. I'll drive him down to the Court-House. The Court is sitting now," said Roche, rising. Kingsnorth stopped him with a gesture. "I want you to understand it was against my express wishes that he was ever brought into this house." "Miss Kingsnorth told me, when I had arrested him, that you would shelter him and go bail for him, if necessary," said Roche, in some surprise. "My sister does things under impulse that she often regrets afterwards. This is one. I hope there is no, harm done?" "None in the world," replied the magistrate. "On the contrary, the people seem to have a much higher opinion of you, Mr. Kingsnorth, since the occurrence," he added. "Their opinion--good or bad--is a matter of complete indifference to me. I am only anxious that the representatives of the government do not suppose that, because, through mistaken ideas of charity, my sister brought this man to my house, I in any way sanction his attitude and his views!" "I should not fear that, Mr. Kingsnorth. You have always been regarded as a most loyal subject, sir," answered Roche. "I am glad. What sentence is he likely to get?" "It depends largely on his previous record." "Will it be settled to-day?" "If the jury bring in a verdict. Sometimes they are out all night on these cases." "A jury! Good God! A jury of Irishmen to try, an Irishman?" "They're being trained gradually, sir." "It should never be left to them in a country like this A judge should have the power of condemning such bare-faced criminals, without trial." "He'll be condemned," said Roche confidently. "What jury will convict him if they all sympathise with him? Answer me that?" "That was one difficulty we had to face at first," Roche answered. "It was hard, indeed, as you say, to get an Irishman convicted by an Irish jury--especially the agitators. But we've changed that. We've made them see that loyalty to the Throne is better than loyalty to a Fenian." "How have they done it?" "A little persuasion and some slight coercion, sir." "I am glad of it. It would be a crime against justice for a man who openly breaks the law not to be punished through being tried before a jury of sympathisers." "Few of them escape, Mr. Kingsnorth. Dublin Castle found the way. One has to meet craft with craft and opposition with firmness. Under the present government we've succeeded wonderfully." Roche smiled pleasantly as he thought of the many convictions he had been instrumental in procuring himself. Kingsnorth seemed delighted also. "Good," he said. "The condition of things here is a disgrace--mind you, I'm not criticising the actions of the officials," he hastened to add. The magistrate bowed. Kingsnorth went on: "But the attitude of the people, their views, their conduct, is deplorable--opeless. I came here to see what I could do for them. I even thought of spending a certain portion of each year here. But from what I've heard it would be a waste of time and money." "It is discouraging, at first sight, but we'll have a better state of affairs presently. We must first stamp out the agitator. He is the most potent handicap. Next are the priests. They are nearest to the people. The real solution of the Irish difficulty would be to make the whole nation Protestants." "Could it be done?" "It would take time--every big movement takes time." Roche paused, looked shrewdly, at Kingsnorth and asked him: "What do you intend doing with this estate?" "I am in a quandary. I'm almost determined to put it in the market. Sell it. Be rid of it. It has always been a source of annoyance to our family. However, I'll settle nothing until I return to London. I'll go in a few days--much sooner than I intended. This man being brought into my house has annoyed and upset me." "I'm sorry," said the magistrate. "Miss Kingsnorth was so insistent and the fellow seemed in a bad way, otherwise I would never have allowed it." A servant came in response to Kingsnorth's ring and was sent with a message to have the man O'Connell ready to accompany the magistrate as quickly as possible. Over a glass of sherry and a cigar the two men resumed their discussion. "I wouldn't decide too hastily about disposing of the land. Although there's always a good deal of discontent there is really very little trouble here. In fact, until agitators like O'Connell came amongst us we had everything pretty peaceful. We'll dispose of him in short order." "Do. Do. Make an example of him." "Trust us to do that," said Roche. After a moment he added: "To refer again to selling the estate you would get very little for it. It can't depreciate much more, and there is always the chance it may improve. Some of the people are quite willing to work--" "ARE they? They've not shown any willingness to me." "Oh, no. They wouldn't." "What? Not to their landlord?" "You'd be the LAST they'd show it to. They're strange people in many ways until you get to know them. Now there are many natural resources that might be developed if some capital were put into them." "My new steward discouraged me about doing that. He said it might be ten years before I got a penny out." "Your NEW steward?" "Andrew McPherson." "The lawyer?" "Yes" "He's a hard man, sir." "The estate needs one." "Burke understands the people." "He sympathises with them. I don't want a man like that working for me. I want loyalty to my interests The makeshift policy of Burke during my father's lifetime helped to bring about this pretty state of things. We'll see what firmness will do. New broom. Sweep the place clean. Rid it of slovenly, ungrateful tenants. Clear away the tap-room orators. I have a definite plan in my mind. If I decide NOT to sell I'll perfect my plan in London and begin operations as soon as I'm satisfied it is feasible and can be put upon a proper business basis. There's too much sentiment in Ireland. That's been their ruin. _I_ am going to bring a little common sense into play." Kingsnorth walked restlessly around the room as he spoke. He stopped by the windows and beckoned the magistrate. "There's your man on the drive. See?" and he pointed to where O'Connell, with a soldier each side of him, was slowly moving down the long avenue. The door of the room opened and Angela came in hurriedly and went straight to where the two men stood. There was the catch of a sob in her voice as she spoke to the magistrate. "Are you taking that poor wounded man to prison?" "The doctor says he is well enough to be moved," replied Roche. "You've not seen the doctor. I've just questioned him. He told me you had not asked his opinion and that if you move him it will be without his sanction." Kingsnorth interrupted angrily: "Please don't interfere." Angela turned on him: "So, it's YOU who are sending him to prison?" "I am." Angela appealed to the magistrate. "Don't do this, I entreat you--don't do it." "But I have no choice, Miss Kingsnorth." "The man can scarcely walk," she pleaded. "He will receive every attention, believe me, Miss Kingsnorth," Roche replied. Angela faced her brother again. "If you let that wounded man go from this house to-day you will regret it to the end of your life." Her face was dead-white; her breath was coming thickly; her eyes were fastened in hatred on her brother's face. "Kindly try and control yourself, Angela," Kingsnorth said sternly. "You should consider my position a little more--" "YOUR position? And what is HIS? You with EVERYTHING you want in life--that man with NOTHING. He is being hounded to prison for what? Pleading for his country! Is that a crime? He was shot down by soldiers--for what? For showing something we English are always boasting of feeling OURSELVES and resent any other nation feeling it--patriotism!" "Stop!" commanded Kingsnorth. "If you take that sick, wretched man out of this house it will be a crime--" began Angela. Kingsnorth stopped her; he turned to the magistrate: "Kindly take the man away." Roche moved to the window. Angela's heart sank. All her pleading was in vain. Her voice faltered and broke: "Very well. Then take him. Sentence him for doing something his own countrymen will one day build a monument to him for doing. The moment the prison-door closes behind him a thousand voices will cry 'Shame' on you and your government, and a thousand new patriots will be enrolled. And when he comes out from his torture he'll carry on the work of hatred and vengeance against his tyrants. He will fight you to the last ditch. You may torture his BODY, but you cannot break his HEART or wither his spirit. They're beyond you. They're--they're--," she stopped suddenly, as her voice rose to the breaking-point, and left the room. The magistrate went down the drive. In a few moments O'Connell was on his way to the Court-House, a closely guarded prisoner. Angela, from her window, watched the men disappear. She buried her face in her hands and moaned as she had not done since her mother left her just a few years before. The girlhood in her was dead. She was a woman. The one great note had come to her, transforming her whole nature--love. And the man she loved was being carried away to the misery and degradation of a convict. Gradually the moans died away. The convulsive heaving of her breast subsided. A little later, when her sister Monica came in search of her, she found Angela in a dead faint. By night she was in a fever. CHAPTER IX TWO LETTERS Dublin, Ireland, Nov. 16th, 18-- Dear Lady of Mercy: I have served my sentence. I am free. At first the horrible humiliation of my treatment, of my surroundings, of the depths I had to sink to, burned into me. Then the thought of you sustained me. Your gentle voice: your beauty: your pity: your unbounded faith in me strengthened my soul. All the degradation fell from me. They were but ignoble means to a noble end. I was tortured that others might never know sorrow. I was imprisoned that my countrymen might know liberty. And so the load was lighter. The memory of those three WONDERFUL days was so marvellous, so vivid, that it shone like a star through the blackness of those TERRIBLE days. You seem to have taken hold of my heart and my soul and my life. Forgive me for writing this to you, but it seems that you are the only one I've ever known who understands the main-springs of my nature, of my hopes and my ambitions--indeed, of my very thoughts. To-day I met the leader of my party. He greeted me warmly. At last I have proved myself a worthy follower. They think it best I should leave Ireland for a while. If I take active part at once I shall be arrested again and sent for a longer sentence. They have offered me the position of one of the speakers In a campaign in America to raise funds for the "Cause." I must first see the Chief in London. He sent a message, writing in the highest terms of my work and expressing a wish to meet me. I wonder if it would be possible to see you in London? If I am sent to America it would speed my going to speak to you again. If you feel that I ask too much, do not answer this and I will understand. Out of the fulness of my heart, from the depths of my soul, and with the whole fervour of my being, I ask you to accept all the gratitude of a heart filled to overflowing. God bless and keep you. Yours in homage and gratitude, FRANK OWEN O'CONNELL. London, Nov. 19th, 18-- My dear Mr. O'Connell: I am glad indeed to have your letter and to know you are free again. I have often thought of your misery during all these months and longed to do something to assuage it. It is only when a friend is in need and all avenues of help are closed to him that a woman realises how helpless she is. That they have not crushed your spirit does not surprise me. I was as sure of that as I am that the sun is shining to-day. That you do not work actively in Ireland at once is, I am sure, wise. Foolhardiness is not courage. In a little while the English government may realise how hopeless it is to try and conquer a people who have liberty in their hearts. Then they will abate the rigour of their unjust laws. When that day comes you must return and take up the mission with renewed strength and hope and stimulated by the added experience of bitter suffering. I should most certainly like to see you in London. I am staying with a distant connection of the family. We go to the south of France in a few weeks. I have been very ill--another reproach to the weakness of woman. I am almost recovered now but far from strong. I have to lie still all day. My only companions are my books and my thoughts. Let me know when you expect to arrive in London. Come straight here. I have so much to tell you, but the words halt as they come to my pen. Looking forward to seeing you, In all sincerity, ANGELA KINGSNORTH. CHAPTER X O'CONNELL VISITS ANGELA IN LONDON Nathaniel Kingsnorth stayed only, long enough in Ireland to permit of Angela's recovery. He only went into the sick-room once. When Angela saw him come into the room she turned her back on him and refused to speak to him. For a moment a flush of pity for his young sister gave him a pang at his heart. She looked so frail and worn, so desperately ill. After all she was his sister, and again, had she not been punished? He was willing to forget the foolhardy things she had done and the bitter things she had said. Let bygones be bygones. He realised that he had neglected her. He would do so no longer. Far from it. When they returned to London all that would be remedied. He would take care of her in every possible way. He felt a genuine thrill course through him as he thought of his generosity. To all of this Angela made no answer. Stung by her silence, he left the room and sent for his other sister. When Monica came he told her that whenever Angela wished to recognise his magnanimity she could send for him. She would not find him unforgiving. To this Angela sent no reply. When the fever had passed and she was stronger, arrangements were made for the journey to London. As Angela walked unsteadily to the carriage, leaning on the arm of the nurse, Nathaniel came forward to assist her. She passed him without a word. Nor did she speak to him once, nor answer any remark of his, during the long journey on the train. When they reached London she refused to go to the Kingsnorth house, where her brother lived, but went at once to a distant cousin of her mother's--Mrs. Wrexford--and made her home with her, as she had often done before. She refused to hold any further communication with her brother, despite the ministrations of her sister Monica and Mrs. Wrexford. Mrs. Wrexford was a gentle little white-capped widow whose only happiness in life seemed to be in worrying over others' misfortunes. She was on the board of various charitable organisations and was a busy helper in the field of mercy. She worshipped Angela, as she had her mother before her. That something serious had occurred between Angela and her brother Mrs. Wrexford realised, but she could find out nothing by questioning Angela. Every time she asked her anything relative to her attitude Angela was silent. One day she begged Mrs. Wrexford never to speak of her brother again. Mrs. Wrexford respected her wishes and watched her and nursed her through her convalescence with a tender solicitude. When O'Connell's letter came, Angela showed it to Mrs. Wrexford, together with her reply. "Do you mind if I see him here?" Angela asked. "What kind of man is he?" "The kind that heroes are made of." "He writes so strangely--may, one say unreservedly? Is he a gentleman?" "In the real meaning of the word--yes." "Of good family?" "Not as we estimate goodness. His family were just simple peasants." "Do you think it wise to see him?" "I don't consider the wisdom. I only listen to my heart." "Do you mean that you care for him?" "I do." "You--you love him?" "So much of love as I can give is his." "Oh, my dear!" cried Mrs. Wrexford, thoroughly alarmed. "Don't be afraid," said Angela, quietly. "Our ways lie wide apart. He is working for the biggest thing in life. His work IS his life. I am nothing." "But don't you think it would be indiscreet, dear, to have such a man come here?" "Why--indiscreet?" "A man who has been in prison!" and Mrs. Wrexford shuddered at the thought. She had seen and helped so many poor victims of the cruel laws, and the memory of their drawn faces and evil eyes, and coarse speech, flashed across her mind. She could not reconcile one coming into her little home. Angela answered her: "Yes, he has been in prison, but the shame was for his persecutors--not for him. Still, if you would rather I saw him somewhere else--" "Oh no, my dear child. If you wish it--" "I do. I just want to see him again, as he writes he does me. I want to hear him speak again. I want to wish him 'God-speed' on his journey." "Very, well, Angela," said the old lady. "As you wish." A week afterwards O'Connell arrived in London. They met in Mrs. Wrexford's little drawing-room in Mayfair. They looked at each other for some moments without speaking. Both noted the fresh lines of suffering in each other's faces. They had been through the long valley of the shadow of sorrow since they had last met. But O'Connell thought, as he looked at her, that all the suffering he had gone through passed from him as some hideous dream. It was worth it--these months of torture--just to be looking at her now. Worth the long black nights--the labours in the heat of the day, with life's outcasts around him; the taunts of his gaolers: worth all the infamy of it--just to stand there looking at her. She had taken his life in her two little hands. He had bathed his soul all these months in the thought of her. He had prayed night and day that he might see her standing near him just as she was then: see the droop of her eye and the silk of her hair and feel the touch of her hand and hear the exquisite tenderness of her voice. He stood mute before her. She held out her hand and said simply "Thank you for coming." "It was good of you to let me," he answered hoarsely. "They have not broken your spirit or your courage?" "No," he replied tensely; "they are the stronger." "I thought they would be," she said proudly. All the while he was looking at the pale face and the thin transparency of her hands. "But you have suffered, too. You have been ill. Were you in--danger?" His voice had a catch of fear in it as he asked the, to him, terrible question. "No. It was just a fever. It is past. I am a little weak--a little tired. That will pass, too." "If anything had happened to you--or ever should happen!" He buried his face in his hands and moaned "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" His body shook with the sobs he tried vainly to check. Angela put her hand gently on his shoulder. "Don't do that," she whispered. He controlled himself with an effort. "It will be over in a moment. Just a moment. I am sorry." He suddenly knelt at her feet, his head bowed in reverence. "God help me," he cried faintly, "I love you! I love you!" She looked down at him, her face transfigured. He loved her! The beat of her heart spoke it! "He loves you!" the throbbing of her brain shouted it: "He loves you!" the cry of her soul whispered it: "He loves you!" She stretched out her hands to him: "My love is yours, just as yours is mine. Let us join our lives and give them to the suffering and the oppressed." He looked up at her in wonder. "I daren't. Think what I am." "You are the best that is in me. We are mates." "A peasant! A beggar!" "You are the noblest of the noble." "A convict." "Our Saviour was crucified so that His people should be redeemed. You have given the pain of your body so that your people may be free." "It wouldn't be fair to you," he pleaded. "If you leave me it will be unfair to us both." "Oh, my dear one! My dear one!" He folded her in his arms: "I'll give the best of my days to guard you and protect you and bring you happiness." "I am happy now," and her voice died to a whisper. CHAPTER XI KINGSNORTH IN DESPAIR Three days afterwards Nathaniel Kingsnorth returned late at night from a political banquet. It had been a great evening. At last it seemed that life was about to give him what he most wished for. His dearest ambitions were, apparently, about to be realised. He had been called on, as a staunch Conservative, to add his quota to the already wonderful array of brilliant perorations of seasoned statesmen and admirable speakers. Kingsnorth had excelled himself. Never had he spoken so powerfully. Being one of the only men at the banquet who had enjoyed even a brief glimpse of Ireland, he made the solution of the Irish question the main topic of his speech. Speaking lucidly and earnestly, he placed before them his panacea for Irish ills. His hearers were enthralled. When he sat down the cheering was prolonged. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, an old friend of his late father, spoke most glowingly to him and of him in his hearing. The junior Whip hinted at his contesting a heat at a coming bye-election in the North of Ireland. A man with his knowledge of Ireland--as he had shown that night--would be invaluable to his party. When he left the gathering he was in a condition of ecstasy. Lying back, amid the cushions, during his long drive home, he closed his eyes and pictured the future. His imagination ran riot. It took wings and flew from height to height. He saw himself the leader of a party--"The Kingsnorth Party!"--controlling his followers with a hand of iron, and driving them to vote according to his judgment and his decree. By the time he reached home he had entered the Cabinet and was being spoken of as the probable Prime Minister. But for the sudden stopping of the horses he might have attained that proud distinction. The pleasant warmth of the entrance hall on this chill November night, greeted him as a benignant welcome. He bummed a tune cheerfully as he climbed the stairs, and was smiling genially when he entered the massive study. He poured out a liqueur and stood sipping it as he turned over the letters brought by the night's post. One arrested him. It had been delivered by hand, and was marked "Most Urgent." He lit a cigar and tore open the envelope. As he read the letter every vestige of colour left his face. He sank into a chair: the letter slipped from his fingers. All his dreams had vanished in a moment. His house of cards had toppled down. His ambitions were surely and positively destroyed at one stroke. He mechanically picked up the letter and re-read it. Had it been his death-sentence it could not have affected him more cruelly. "Dear Nathaniel: I scarcely know how to write to you about what has happened. I am afraid I am in some small measure to blame. Ten days ago your sister showed me a letter from a man named O'Connell--[Kingsnorth crushed the letter in his hand as he read the hated name--the name of the man who had caused him so much discomfort during that unfortunate visit to his estate in Ireland. How he blamed himself now for having ever gone there. There was indeed a curse on it for the Kingsnorths. He straightened out the crumpled piece of paper and read on]:--a man named O'Connell--the man she nursed in your house in Ireland after he had been shot by the soldiers. He was coming to England and wished to see her. She asked my permission. I reasoned with her--but she was decided. If I should not permit her to see him in my house she would meet him elsewhere. It seemed better the meeting should be under my roof, so I consented. I bitterly reproach myself now for not acquainting you with the particulars. You might have succeeded in stopping what has happened." "Your sister and O'Connell were married this morning by special licence and left this afternoon for Liverpool, en route to America." "I cannot begin to tell you how much I deplore the unfortunate affair. It will always be a lasting sorrow to me. I cannot write any more now. My head is aching with the thought of what it will mean to you. Try not to think too hardly of me and believe me." "Always your affectionate cousin," "Mary Caroline Wrexford." Kingsnorth's head sank on to his breast. Every bit of life left him. Everything about his feet. Ashes. The laughing-stock of his friends. Were Angela there at that moment he could have killed her. The humiliation of it! The degradation of it! Married to that lawless Irish agitator. The man now a member of his family! A cry of misery broke from him, as he realised that the best years of his life were to come and go fruitlessly. His career was ended. Despair lay heavy on his soul. CHAPTER XII LOOKING FORWARD Standing on the main deck of an Atlantic liner stood Angela and O'Connell. They were facing the future together. Their faces were turned to the West. The sun was sinking in a blaze of colour. Their eyes lighted up with the joy of HOPE. LOVE was in their hearts. BOOK II THE END OF THE ROMANCE CHAPTER I ANGELA'S CONFESSION A year after the events in the preceding book took place O'Connell and his young wife were living in a small; apartment in one of the poorer sections of New York City. The first few months in America had been glorious ones for them. Their characters and natures unfolded to each other as some wonderful paintings, each taking its own hues from the adoration of the other. In company with a noted Irish organiser O'Connell had spoken in many of the big cities of the United States and was everywhere hailed as a hero and a martyr to English tyranny. But he had one ever-present handicap--a drawback he had never felt during the years of struggle preceding his marriage. His means were indeed small. He tried to eke out a little income writing articles for the newspapers and magazines. But the recompense was pitiful. He could not bear, without a pang, to see Angela in the dingy surroundings that he could barely afford to provide for her. On her part Angela took nothing with her but a few jewels her mother had left her, some clothes and very little money. The money soon disappeared and then one by one the keepsakes of her mother were parted with. But they never lost heart. Through it all they were happy. All the poetry of O'Connell's nature came uppermost, leavened, as it was, by the deep faith and veneration of his wife. This strangely assorted fervent man and gentle woman seemed to have solved the great mystery of happiness between two people. But the poverty chafed O'Connell--not for himself, but for the frail, loving, uncomplaining woman who had given her life into his care. His active brain was continually trying to devise new ways of adding to his meagre income. He multiplied his duties: he worked far into the night when he could find a demand for his articles. But little by little his sources of revenue failed him. Some fresh and horrible Agrarian crimes in Ireland, for which the Home Rule party were blamed, for a while turned the tide of sympathy against his party. The order was sent out to discontinue meetings for the purpose of collecting funds in America--funds the Irish-Americans had been so cheerfully and plentifully bestowing on the "Cause." O'Connell was recalled to Ireland. His work was highly commended. Some day they would send him to the United States again as a Special Pleader. At present he would be of greater value at home. He was instructed to apply to the treasurer of the fund and arrangements would be made for his passage back to Ireland. He brought the news to Angela with a strange feeling of fear and disappointment. He had built so much on making a wonderful career in the great New World and returning home some day to Ireland with the means of relieving some of her misery and with his wife guarded, as she should be, from the possibility of want. And here was he going back to Ireland as poor as he left it--though richer immeasurably in the love of Angela. She was sitting perfectly still, her eyes on the floor, when he entered the room. He came in so softly that she did not hear him. He lifted her head and looked into her eyes. He noticed with certainty what had been so far only a vague, ill-defined dread. Her face was very, very pale and transparent. Her eyes were sunken and had a strange brilliancy. She was much slighter end far more ethereal than on that day when they stood the deck of the ship and turned their faces so hopefully to the New World. He felt a knife-like stab startle through his blood to his heart. His breath caught. Angela looked up at him, radiantly. He kissed her and with mock cheerfulness he said, laughingly: "Such news, me darlin'! Such wondherful news!" "Good news, dear?" "The best in the wurrld," and he choked a sob. "I knew it would come! I knew it would. Tell me, dear." "We're to go back--back to--back to Ireland. See--here are the orders," and he showed her the official letter. She took it wonderingly and read it. Her hand dropped to her side. Her head drooped into the same position he had found her in. In a moment he was kneeling at her side: "What is it, dear?" "We can't go, Frank." "We can't go? What are ye sayin', dear?" "We can't go," she repeated, her body crumpled up limply in the chair. "And why not, Angela? I know I can't take ye back as I brought ye here, dear, if that's what ye mane. The luck's been against me. It's been cruel hard against me. An' that thought is tearin' at me heart this minnit." "It isn't THAT, Frank," she said, faintly. "Then what is it?" "Oh," she cried, "I hoped it would be so different--so very different." "What did ye think would be so different, dear? Our going back? Is that what's throublin' ye?" "No, Frank. Not that. I don't care how we go back so long as you are with me." He pressed her hand. In a moment she went on: "But we can't go. We can't go. Oh, my dear, my dear, can't you guess? Can't you think?" She looked imploringly into his eyes. A new wonder came into his. Could it be true? Could it? He took both her hands and held them tightly and stood up, towering over her, and trembling violently. "Is it--is it--?" he cried and stopped as if afraid to complete the question. She smiled a wan smile up at him and nodded her head as she answered: "The union of our lives is to be complete. Our love is to be rewarded." "A child is coming to us?" he whispered. "It is," and her voice was hushed, too. "Praise be to God! Praise be to His Holy Name," and O'Connell clasped his hands in prayer. In a little while she went on: "It was the telling you I wanted to be so different. I wanted you, when you heard it, to be free of care--happy. And I've waited from day to day hoping for the best--that some good fortune would come to you." He forced one of his old time, hearty laughs, but there was a hollow ring in it: "What is that yer sayin' at all? Wait for good fortune? Is there any good fortune like what ye've just told me? Sure I'm ten times the happier man since I came into this room." He put his arm around her and sitting beside her drew her closely to him. "Listen, dear," he said, "listen. We'll go back to the old country. Our child shall be born where we first met. There'll be no danger. No one shall harm us with that little life trembling in the balance--the little precious life. If it's a girl-child she'll be the mother of her people; and if it be a man-child he shall grow up to carry on his father's work. So there--there--me darlin', we'll go back--we'll go back." She shook her head feebly. "I can't," she said. "Why not, dear?" "I didn't want to tell you. But now you make me. Frank, dear, I am ill." His heart almost stopped. "Ill? Oh, my darlin', what is it? Is it serious? Tell me it isn't serious?" and his voice rang with a note of agony. "Oh, no, I don't think so. I saw the doctor to-day. He said I must be careful--very careful until--until--our baby is born." "An' ye kept it all to yerself, me brave one, me dear one. All right. We won't go back. We'll stay here. I'll make them find me work. I'm strong. I'm clever too and crafty, Angela. I'll wring it from this hustling, city. I'll fight it and beat it. Me darlin' shall have everything she wants. My little mother--my precious little mother." He cradled her in his strong arms and together they sat for hours and the pall of his poverty fell from them and they pictured the future rose-white and crowned with gold--a future in which there were THREE--the trinity one and undivided. Presently she fell asleep in his arms. He raised his eyes to heaven and prayed God to help him in his hour of striving. He prayed that the little life sleeping so calmly in his arms would be spared him. "Oh God! answer my prayer, I beseech you," he cried. Angela smiled contentedly in her sleep and spoke his same. It seemed to O'Connell as if his prayer had been heard and answered. He gathered the slight form up in, his arms and carried her to her room and sat by her until dawn. It was the first night for many weeks that she had slept through till morning without starting out of her sleep in pain. This night she slumbered like a child and a smile played on her lips as though her dreams were happy ones. CHAPTER II A COMMUNICATION FROM NATHANIEL KINGSNORTH The months that followed were the hardest in O'Connell's life. Strive as he would he could find no really remunerative employment. He had no special training. He knew no trade. His pen, though fluent, was not cultured and lacked the glow of eloquence he had when speaking. He worked in shops and in factories. He tried to report on newspapers. But his lack of experience everywhere handicapped him. What he contrived to earn during those months of struggle was all too little as the time approached for the great event. Angela was now entirely confined to her bed. She seemed to grow more spirit-like every day. A terrible dread haunted O'Connell waking and sleeping. He would start out of some terrible dream at night and listen to her breathing. When he would hurry back at the close of some long, disappointing day his heart would be hammering dully with fear for his loved one. As the months wore on his face became lined with care, and the bright gold of his hair dimmed with streaks of silver. But he never faltered or lost courage. He always felt he must win the fight now for existence as he meant to win the greater conflict later--for liberty. Angela, lying so still, through the long days, could only hope. She felt so helpless. It was woman's weakness that brought men like O'Connell to the edge of despair. And hers was not merely bodily weakness but the mare poignant one of PRIDE. Was it fair to her husband? Was it just? In England she had prosperous relatives. They would not let her die in her misery. They could not let her baby come into the world with poverty as its only inheritance. Till now she had been unable to master her feeling of hatred and bitterness for her brother Nathaniel; her intense dislike and contempt for her sister Monica. From the time she left England she had not written to either of them. Could she now? Something decided her. One night O'Connell came back disheartened. Try as he would, he could not conceal it. He was getting to the end of his courage. There was insufficient work at the shop he had been working in for several weeks. He had been told he need not come again. Angela, lying motionless and white, tried to comfort him and give him heart. She made up her mind that night. The next day she wrote to her brother. She could not bring herself to express one regret for what she had done or said. On the contrary she made many references to her happiness with the man she loved. She did write of the hardships they were passing through. But they were only temporary. O'Connell was so clever--so brilliant--he must win in the end. Only just now she was ill. She needed help. She asked no gift--a loan--merely. They would pay it back when the days of plenty came. She would not ask even this were it not that she was not only ill, but the one great wonderful thing in the world was to be vouchsafed her--motherhood. In the name of her unborn baby she begged him to send an immediate response. She asked a neighbour to post the letter so that O'Connell would not know of her sacrifice. She waited anxiously for a reply. Some considerable time afterwards--on the eve of her travail and when things with O'Connell were at their worst--the answer came by cable. She was alone when it came. Her heart beat furiously as she opened it. Even if he only sent a little it would be so welcome now when they were almost at the end. If he had been generous how wonderful it would be for her to help the man to whom nothing was too much to give her. The fact that her brother had cabled strengthened the belief that he had hastened to come to her rescue. She opened the cable and read it. Then she fell back on the pillow with a low, faint moan. When, hours later, O'Connell returned from a vain search for work he found her senseless, with the cable in her fingers. He tried to recover her without success. He sent a neighbour for a doctor. As he watched the worn, patient face, his heart full to bursting, the thought flashed through him--what could have happened to cause this collapse? He became conscious of the cable he had found tightly clasped in her hand. He picked it up and read it. It was very brief: You have made your bed, lie in it. Nathaniel Kingsnorth. was all it said. CHAPTER III THE BIRTH OF PEG Toward morning the doctor placed a little mite of humanity in O'Connell's arms. He looked down at it in a stupor. It had really come to pass. Their child--Angela's and his! A little baby-girl. The tiny wail from this child, born of love and in sorrow, seemed to waken his dull senses. He pressed the mite to him as the hot tears flowed down his cheeks. A woman in one of the adjoining flats who had kindly offered to help took the child away from him. The doctor led him to the bedside. He looked down at his loved one. A glaze was over Angela's eyes as she looked up at him. She tried to smile. All her suffering was forgotten. She knew only pride and love. She was at peace. She raised her hand, thin and transparent now, to O'Connell. He pressed it to his lips. She whispered: "My baby. Bring me--my baby." He took it from the woman and placed it in Angela's weak arms. She kissed it again and again. The child wailed pitifully. The effort had been too much for Angela's failing strength. Consciousness left her. . . . . . . . Just before sunrise she woke. O'Connell was sitting beside her. He had never moved. The infant was sleeping on some blankets on the couch--the woman watching her. Angela motioned her husband to bend near to her. Her eyes shone with unearthly brightness. He put his ear near her lips. Her voice was very, very faint. "Take--care--of--our--baby--Frank. I'm--I'm--leaving you. God--help--you--and--keep--you--and bless you--for--your--love--of me." She paused to take breath--then she whispered her leave-taking. The words never left O'Connell's memory for all the days of all the years that followed. "My--last--words--dear--the--last--I'll--ever--speak--to--you. I--I--love--you--with--all--my heart--and--my soul--HUSBAND! Good--good-bye--Frank." She slipped from his arms and lay, lips parted, eyes open, body still. The struggle was over. She had gone where there are no petty treacheries, no mean brutalities--where all stand alike before the Throne to render an account of their stewardship. The brave, gentle little heart was stilled forever. BOOK III PEG CHAPTER I PEG'S CHILDHOOD And now Peg appears for the first time, and brings her radiant presence, her roguish smile, her big, frank, soulful, blue eyes, her dazzling red hair, her direct, honest and outspoken truth: her love of all that is clean and pure and beautiful--Peg enters our pages and turns what was a history of romance and drama into a Comedy, of Youth. Peg--pure as a mountain lily, sweet as a fragrant rose, haunting as an old melody--Peg o' our Hearts comes into our story, even as she entered her father's life, as the Saviour of these pages, even as she was the means of saving O'Connell. And she did save her father. It was the presence and the thought of the little motherless baby that kept O'Connell's hand from destroying himself when his reason almost left him after his wife's death. The memories of the days immediately following the passing of Angela are too painful to dwell upon. They are past. They are sacred in O'Connell's heart. They will be to the historian. Thanks to some kindly Irishmen who heard of O'Connell's plight he borrowed enough money to bury his dead wife and place a tablet to her memory. He sent a message to Kingsnorth telling him of his sister's death. He neither expected nor did he receive an answer. As soon as it was possible he returned to Ireland and threw himself once again heart and soul into working for the "Cause." He realised his only hope of keeping his balance was to work. He went back to the little village he was born in and it was Father Cahill's hands that poured the baptismal waters on O'Connell's and Angela's baby and it was Father Cahill's voice that read the baptismal service. She was christened Margaret. Angela, one night, when it was nearing her time, begged him if it were a girl to christen her Margaret after her mother, since all the best in Angela came from her mother. O'Connell would have liked to have named the mite "Angela." But his dead wife's wishes were paramount So Margaret the baby was christened. It was too distinguished a name and too long for such a little bundle of pink and white humanity. It did not seem to fit her. So, "Peg" she was named and "Peg" she remained for the rest of her life. When she was old enough to go with him O'Connell took Peg everywhere. He seemed to bear a charmed life when she was with him. Peg's earliest memories are of the village where she was baptised and where her father was born. Her little will was law to everyone who came in contact with her. She ruled her little court with a hand of iron. Many were the dire predictions of the rod O'Connell was making for his own back in giving the little mite her own way in everything. But O'Connell's only happiness was in Peg and he neither heard nor cared about any criticism that may have been levelled at him for his fond, and, perhaps, foolish care of her. Looming large in Peg's memories in after life are her father showing her St. Kernan's Hill, and pointing out the mount on which he stood and spoke that day, whilst her mother, hidden by that dense mass of trees, saw every movement and heard every word. From there he took her to "The Gap" and pointed out the windows of the room in which he was nursed for those three blessed days. It eased his mind to talk to the child of Angela and always he pictured her as the poet writes in verse of the passion of his life: as the painter puts on canvas the features that make life worth the living for him. Those memories were very clear in little Peg's mind. Then somehow her childish thoughts all seemed to run to Home Rule--to love of Ireland and hatred of England--to thinking all that was good of Irishmen and all that was bad of Englishmen. "Why do yez hate the English so much, father?" she asked O'Connell once, looking up at him with a puzzled look in her big blue eyes, and the most adorable brogue coming fresh from her tongue. "Why do yez hate them?" she repeated. "I've good cause to, Peg me darlin'," he answered, and a deep frown gathered on his brow. "Sure wasn't me mother English?" Peg asked. "She was." "Then WHY do yez hate the English?" "It 'ud take a long time to tell ye that, Peggy. Some day I will. There's many a reason why the Irish hate the English, and many a good reason too. But there's one why you and I should hate them, and hate them with all the bittherness that's in us." "And what is it?" said Peg curiously. "I'll tell ye. When yer mother and I were almost starvin', and she lyin' on a bed of sickness, she wrote to an Englishman and asked him to assist her. An' this is the reply she got: 'Ye've made yer bed; lie in it.' That was the answer she got the day before you were born, and she died givin' ye life. And by the same token the man that wrote that shameful message to a dyin' woman was her own brother." "Her own brother, yer tellin' me?" asked Peg wrathfully. "I am, Peg. Her own brother, I'm tellin' ye." "It's bad luck that man'll have all his life!" said Peg fiercely. "To write me mother that--and she dyin'! Faith I'd like to see him some day--just meet him--and tell him--" she stopped, her little fingers clenched into a miniature fist. The hot colour was in her cheeks and she stamped her small foot in actual rage. "I'd like to meet him some day," she muttered. "I hope ye never will, Peg," said her father solemnly. "And," he added, "don't let us ever talk of it again, me darlin'!" And she never did. But she often thought of the incident and the memory of that brutal message was stamped vividly on her little brain. The greatest excitements of her young life were going with her father to hear him speak. She made the most extraordinary collection of scraps of the speeches she had heard her father make for Home Rule. While he would be speaking she would listen intently, her lips apart, her little body tense with excitement, her little heart beating like a trip-hammer. When they applauded him she would laugh gleefully and clap her little hands together: if they interrupted him she would turn savagely upon them. She became known all over the countryside as "O'Connell's Peg." "Sure O'Connell's not the same man at all, at all, since he came back with that little bit of a red-headed child," said a man to Father Cahill one day. "God is good, Flaherty," replied the priest. "He sent O'Connell a baby to take him up nearer to Himself. Ye're right. He's NOT the same man. It's the good Catholic he is again as he was as a boy. An' it's I'm thankful for that same." Father Cahill smiled happily. He was much older, but though the figure was a little bent and the hair thinner, and the remainder of it snow-white, the same sturdy spirit was in the old man. "They're like boy and girl together, that's what they are," said Flaherty with a tone of regret in his voice. "He seems as much of a child as she is when he's with her," he added. "Every good man has somethin' of the child left in him, me son. O'Connell was goin' in the way of darkness until a woman's hand guided him and gave him that little baby to hold on to his heart strings." "Sure Peg's the light o' his life, that's what she is," grumbled Flaherty. "It's small chance we ever have of broken heads an' soldiers firin' on us, an' all, through O'Connell, since that child's laid hands on him." Flaherty sighed. "Them was grand days and all," he said. "They were wicked days, Flaherty," said the priest severely; "and it's surprised I am that a God-fearin' man like yerself should wish them back." "There are times when I do, Father, the Lord forgive me. A fight lets the bad blood out of ye. Sure it was a pike or a gun O'Connell 'ud shouldher in the ould days, and no one to say him nay, and we all following him like the Colonel of a regiment--an' proud to do it, too. But now it's only the soft words we get from him." "A child's hand shall guide," said the priest. Then he added: "It has guided him. Whenever ye get them wicked thoughts about shouldherin' a gun and flashin' a pike, come round to confession, Flaherty, and it's the good penance I'll give ye to dhrive the devil's temptation away from ye." "I will that, Father Cahill," said Flaherty, hurriedly, and the men went their different ways. O'Connell did everything for Peg since she was an infant. His were the only hands to tend the little body, to wash her and dress her, and tie up her little shoe-laces, and sit beside her in her childish sicknesses. He taught her to read and to write and to pray. As she grew bigger he taught her the little he knew of music and the great deal he knew of poetry. He instilled a love of verse into her little mind. He never tired of reading her Tom Moore and teaching her his melodies. He would make her learn them and she would stand up solemnly and recite or sing them, her quaint little brogue giving them an added music. O'Connell and Peg were inseparable. One wonderful year came to Peg when she was about fourteen. O'Connell had become recognised as a masterly exponent of the particular form of Land Act that would most benefit Ireland. It was proposed that he should lecture right through the country, wherever they would let him, and awaken amongst the more violent Irish, the recognition that legislative means were surer of securing the end in view, than the more violent ones of fifteen years before. The brutality of the Coercion Act had been moderated and already the agricultural and dairy produce of the country had developed so remarkably that the terrible misery of by-gone days, when the potato-crop would fail, had been practically eliminated, or at least in many districts mitigated. O'Connell accepted the proposition. Through the country he went speaking in every village he passed through, and sometimes giving several lectures in the big cities. His mode of travelling was in a cart. He would speak from the back of it, Peg sitting at his feet, now watching him, again looking eagerly and intently at the strange faces before her. They were marvellous days, travelling, sometimes, under a golden sun through the glistening fields: or pushing on at night under a great green-and-white moon. Peg would sit beside her father as he drove and he would tell her little folk-stories, or sing wild snatches of songs of the days of the Rebellion; or quote lines ringing with the great Irish confidence in the triumph of Justice: "Lo the path we tread By our martyred dead Has been trodden 'mid bane and blessing, But unconquered still Is the steadfast will And the faith they died confessing." Or at night he would croon from Moore: "When the drowsy world is dreaming, love, Then awake--the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear, And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!" When storms would come she would cower down in the bottom of the cart and cry and pray. Storms terrified her. It seemed as if all the anger of the heavens were levelled at her. She would cry and moan pitifully whilst O'Connell would try to soothe her and tell her that neither God nor man would harm her--no one would touch his "Peg o' my Heart." After one of those scenes he would sit and brood. Angela had always been afraid of storms, and in the child's terror his beloved wife would rise up before him and the big tears would drop silently down his cheeks. Peg crept out once when the storm had cleared and the sky was bright with stars. Her father did not hear her. His thoughts were bridging over the years and once more Angela was beside him. Peg touched him timidly and peered up into his face. She thought his cheeks were wet. But that could not be. She had never seen her father cry. "What are ye thinkin' about, father?" she whispered. His voice broke. He did not want her to see his emotion. He answered with a half-laugh, half-sob: "Thinkin' about, is it? It's ashamed I am of ye to be frightened by a few little flashes of lightnin' and the beautiful, grand thundher that always kapes it company. It's ashamed I am of ye--that's what I am!" He spoke almost roughly to hide his emotion and he furtively wiped the tears from his face so that she should not see them. "It's not the lightnin' I'm afraid of, father," said Peg solemnly. "It's the thundher. It shrivels me up, that's what it does." "The thundher, is it? Sure that's only the bluff the storm puts up when the rale harm is done by the lightnin's flash. There is no harm in the thundher at all. And remember, after all, it's the will of God." Peg thought a moment: "It always sounds just as if He were lookin' down at us and firin' off cannons at us because He's angry with us." O'Connell said nothing. Presently he felt her small hand creep into his: "Father," said Peg; "are yez ralely ashamed of me when I'm frightened like that?" O'Connell was afraid to unbend lest he broke down altogether. So he continued in a voice of mock severity: "I am that--when ye cry and moan about what God has been good enough to send us." "Is it a coward I am for bein' afraid, father?" said Peg, her lips quivering. "That's what ye are, Peg," replied O'Connell with Spartan severity. "Then I'll never be one again, father! Never again," and her eyes filled up. He suddenly took her in his arms and pressed her to him and rocked her as though she were still a baby, and his voice trembled and was full of pity as he said: "Ye can't help it, acushla. Ye can't help it. Ye're NOT a coward, my own brave little Peg. It's yer mother in ye. She could never bear a thunder-storm without fear, and she was the bravest woman that ever lived Bad luck to me for sayin' a cross word to ye." Suddenly poor little Peg burst out crying and buried her face on her father's breast and sobbed and sobbed as though her heart would break. "Ssh! Ssh! There--there, me darlin'," cried O'Connell, now thoroughly alarmed at the depth of feeling the child had loosened from her pent-up emotion, "ye mustn't cry--ye mustn't. See it's laughin' I am! Laughin', that's what I'm doin'." And he laughed loudly while his heart ached, and he told her stories until she forgot her tears and laughed too. And that night as he watched her fall off to sleep he knelt down in the straw and prayed: "Oh, kape her always like she is now--always just a sweet, innocent, pure little creature. Kape the mother in her always, dear Lord, so that she may grow in Your likeness and join my poor, dear Angela in the end. Amen." Those were indeed glorious days for Peg. She never forgot them in after life. Waking in the freshness of the early morning, making their frugal breakfast, feeding the faithful old horse and then starting off through the emerald green for another new and wonderful day, to spread the light of the "Cause." O'Connell had changed very much since the days of St. Kernan's Hill. As was foreshadowed earlier, he no longer urged violence. He had come under the influence of the more temperate men of the party, and was content to win by legislative means, what Ireland had failed to accomplish wholly by conflict. Although no one recognised more thoroughly than O'Connell what a large part the determined attitude of the Irish party, in resisting the English laws, depriving them of the right of free speech, and of meeting to spread light amongst the ignorant, had played in wringing some measure of recognition and of tolerance from the bitter narrowness of the English ministers. What changed O'Connell more particularly was the action of a band of so-called "Patriots" who operated in many parts of Ireland--maiming cattle, ruining crops, injuring peaceable farmers, who did not do their bidding and shooting at landlords and prominent people connected with the government. Crime is not a means to honourable victory and O'Connell was ashamed of the miscreants who blackened the fair name of his country by their ruthless and despicable methods. He avoided the possibility of imprisonment again for the sake of Peg. What would befall her if he were taken from her? The continual thought that preyed upon him was that he would have nothing to leave her when his call came. Do what he would he could make but little money--and when he had a small surplus he would spend it on Peg--a shawl to keep her warm, or a ribbon to give a gleam of colour to the drab little clothes. On great occasions he would buy her a new dress, and then Peg was the proudest little child in the whole of Ireland. Every year, on the anniversary of her mother's death, O'Connell had a Mass said for the repose of Angela's soul, and he would kneel beside Peg through the service, and be silent for the rest of the day. One year he had candles, blessed by the Archbishop, lit on our Lady's altar and he stayed long after the service was over. He sent Peg home. But, although Peg obeyed him, partially, by leaving the church, she kept watch outside until her father came out. He was wiping his eyes as he saw her. He pretended to be very angry. "Didn't I tell ye to go home?" "Ye did, father." "Then why didn't ye obey me?" "Sure an' what would I be doin' at home, all alone, without you? Don't be cross with me, father." He took her hand and they walked home in silence. He had been crying and Peg could not understand it. She had never seen him do such a thing before and it worried her. It did not seem right that a MAN should cry. It seemed a weakness--and that her father, of all men, should do it--he who was not afraid of anything nor anyone--it was wholly unaccountable to her. When they reached home Peg busied herself about her father, trying to make him comfortable, furtively watching him all the while. When she had put him in an easy chair, and brought him his slippers, and built up the fire, she sat down on a little stool by his side. After a long silence she stroked the back of his hand and then gave him a little tug. He looked down at her. "What is it, Peg?" "Was my mother very beautiful, father?" "The most beautiful woman that ever lived in all the wurrld, Peg." "She looks beautiful in the picture ye have of her." From the inside pocket of his coat he drew out a little beautifully-painted miniature. The frame had long since been worn and frayed. O'Connell looked at the face and his eyes shone: "The man that painted it couldn't put the soul of her into it. That he couldn't. Not the soul of her." "Am I like her, at all, father?" asked Peg wistfully. "Sometimes ye are, dear: very like." After a little pause Peg said: "Ye loved her very much, father, didn't ye?" He nodded. "I loved her with all the heart of me and all the strength of me." Peg sat quiet for some minutes: then she asked him a question very quietly and hung in suspense on his answer: "Do ye love me as much as ye loved her, father?" "It's different, Peg--quite, quite different." "Why is it?" She waited He did not answer. "Sure, love is love whether ye feel it for a woman or a child," she persisted. O'Connell remained silent. "Did ye love her betther than ye love me, father?" Her soul was in her great blue eyes as she waited excitedly for the answer to that, to her, momentous question. "Why do ye ask me that?" said O'Connell. "Because I always feel a little sharp pain right through my heart whenever ye talk about me mother. Ye see, father, I've thought all these years that I was the one ye really loved--" "Ye're the only one I have in the wurrld, Peg." "And ye don't love her memory betther than ye do me?" O'Connell put both of his arms around her. "Yer mother is with the Saints, Peg, and here are you by me side. Sure there's room in me heart for the memory of her and the love of you." She breathed a little sigh of satisfaction and nestled onto her father's shoulder. The little fit of childish jealousy of her dead mother's place in her father's heart passed. She wanted no one to share her father's affection with her. She gave him all of hers. She needed all of his. When Peg was eighteen years old and they were living in Dublin, O'Connell was offered quite a good position in New York. It appealed to him. The additional money would make things easier for Peg. She was almost a woman now, and he wanted her to get the finishing touches of education that would prepare her for a position in the world if she met the man she felt she could marry. Whenever he would speak of marriage Peg would laugh scornfully: "Who would I be of AFTHER marryin' I'd like to know? Where in the wurrld would I find a man like you?" And no coaxing would make her carry on the discussion or consider its possibility. It still harassed him to think he had so little to leave her if anything happened to him. The offer to go to America seemed providential. Her mother was buried there. He would take Peg to her grave. Peg grew very thoughtful at the idea of leaving Ireland. All her little likes and dislikes--her impulsive affections and hot hatreds were all bound up in that country. She dreaded the prospect of meeting a number of new people. Still it was for her father's good, so she turned a brave face to it and said: "Sure it is the finest thing in the wurrld for both of us." But the night before they left Ireland she sat by the little window in her bed-room until daylight looking back through all the years of her short life. It seemed as if she were cutting off all that beautiful golden period. She would never again know the free, careless, happy-go-lucky, living-from-day-to-day existence, that she had loved so much. It was a pale, wistful, tired little Peg that joined her father at breakfast next morning. His heart was heavy, too. But he laughed and joked and sang and said how glad they ought to be--going to that wonderful new country, and by the way the country Peg was born in, too! And then he laughed again and said how FINE SHE looked and how WELL HE felt and that it seemed as if it were God's hand in it all. And Peg pretended to cheer up, and they acted their parts right to the end--until the last line of land disappeared and they were headed for America. Then they separated and went to their little cabins to think of all that had been. And every day they kept up the little deception with each other until they reached America. They were cheerless days at first for O'Connell. Everything reminded him of his first landing twenty years before with his young wife--both so full of hope, with the future stretching out like some wonderful panorama before them. He returns twenty years older to begin the fight again--this time for his daughter. His wife was buried at a little Catholic cemetery a few miles outside New York City. There he took Peg one day and they put flowers on the little mound of earth and knelt awhile in prayer. Beneath that earth lay not only his wife's remains, but O'Connell's early hopes and ambitions were buried with her. Neither spoke either going to or returning from the cemetery. O'Connell's heart was too full. Peg knew what was passing through his mind and sat with her hands folded in her lap--silent. But her little brain was busy thinking back. Peg had much to think of during the early days following her arrival in New York. At first the city awed her with its huge buildings and ceaseless whirl of activity and noise. She longed to be back in her own little green, beautiful country. O'Connell was away during those first days until late apt night. He found a school for Peg. She did not want to go to it, but just to please her father she agreed. She lasted in it just one week. They laughed at her brogue and teased and tormented her for her absolute lack of knowledge. Peg put up with that just as long as she could. Then one day she opened out on them and astonished them. They could not have been more amazed had a bomb exploded in their midst. The little, timid-looking, open-eyed, Titian-haired girl was a veritable virago. She attacked and belittled, and mimicked and berated them. They had talked of her BROGUE! They should listen to their own nasal utterances, that sounded as if they were speaking with their noses and not with their tongues! Even the teacher did not go unscathed. She came in for an onslaught, too. That closed Peg's career as a New York student. Her father arranged his work so that he could be with her at certain periods of the day, and outlined her studies from his own slender stock of knowledge. He even hired a little piano for her and followed up what he had begun years before in Ireland--imbuing her with a thorough acquaintance with Moore and his delightful melodies. One wonderful day they had an addition to their small family. A little, wiry-haired, scrubby, melancholy Irish terrier followed O'Connell for miles. He tried to drive him away. The dog would turn and run for a few seconds and the moment O'Connell would take his eyes off him he would run along and catch him up and wag his over-long tail and look up at O'Connell with his sad eyes. The dog followed him all the way home and when O'Connell opened the door he ran in. O'Connell Had not the heart to turn him out, so he poured out some milk and broke up some dry biscuits for him and then played with him until Peg came home. She liked the little dog at once and then and there O'Connell adopted him and gave him to Peg. He said the dog's face had a look of Michael Quinlan, the Fenian. So "Michael" he was named and he took his place in the little home. He became Peg's boon companion. They romped together like children, and they talked to each other and understood each other. "Michael" had an eloquent tail, an expressive bark and a pair of eyes that told more than speech. The days flowed quietly on, O'Connell apparently satisfied with his lot. But to Peg's sharp eye all was not well with him. There was a settled melancholy about him whenever she surprised him thinking alone. She thought he was fretting for Ireland and their happy days together and so said nothing. He was really worrying over Peg's future. He had such a small amount of money put by, and working on a salary it would be long before he could save enough to leave Peg sufficient to carry her on for a while if "anything happened." There was always that "if anything happened!" running in his mind. One day the chance of solving the whole difficulty of Peg's future was placed in his hands. But the means were so distasteful to him that he hesitated about even telling her. He came in unexpectedly in the early afternoon of that day and found a letter waiting for him with an English postmark. Peg had eyed it curiously off and on for hours. She had turned it over and over in her fingers and looked at the curious, angular writing, and felt a little cold shiver run up and down her as she found herself wondering who could be writing to her father from England. When O'Connell walked in and picked the letter up she watched him excitedly. She felt, for some strange reason, that they were going to reach a crisis in their lives when the seal was broken and the contents disclosed. Superstition was strong--in Peg, and all that day she had been nervous without reason, and excited without cause. O'Connell read the letter through twice--slowly the first time, quickly the second. A look of bewilderment came across his face as he sat down and stared at the letter in his hand. "Who is it from, at all?" asked Peg very quietly, though she was trembling all through her body. Her father said nothing. Presently he read it through again. "It's from England, father, isn't it?" queried Peg, pale as a ghost. "Yes, Peg," answered her father and his voice sounded hollow and spiritless. "I didn't know ye had friends in England?" said Peg, eyeing the letter. "I haven't," replied her father. "Then who is it from?" insisted Peg, now all impatience and with a strange fear tugging at her heart. O'Connell looked up at her as she stood there staring down at him, her big eyes wide open and her lips parted. He took both of her hands in one of his and held them all crushed together for what seemed to Peg to be a long, long while. She hardly breathed. She knew something was going to happen to them both. At last O'Connell spoke and his voice trembled and broke: "Peg, do ye remember one mornin', years and years ago, when I was goin' to speak in County Mayo, an' we started in the cart at dawn, an' we thravelled for miles and miles an' we came to a great big crossing where the roads divided an' there was no sign post an' we asked each other which one we should take an' we couldn't make up our minds an' I left it to you an' ye picked a road an' it brought us out safe and thrue at the spot we were making for? Do you remember it, Peg?" "Faith I do, father. I remember it well. Ye called me yer little guide and said ye'd follow my road the rest of yer life. An' it's many's the laugh we had when I'd take ye wrong sometimes afterwards." She paused. "What makes ye think of that just now, father?" He did not answer. "Is it on account o' that letther?" she persisted. "It is, Peg." He spoke with difficulty as if the words hurt him to speak. "We've got to a great big crossin'-place again where the roads branch off an' I don't know which one to take." "Are ye goin' to lave it to me again, father?" said Peg. "That's what I can't make up me mind about, dear--for it may be that ye'll go down one road and me down the other." "No, father," Peg cried passionately, "that we won't. Whatever the road we'll thravel it together." "I'll think it out by meself, Peg. Lave me for a while--alone. I want to think it out by meself--alone." "If it's separation ye're thinkin' of, make up yer mind to one thing--that I'LL never lave YOU. Never." "Take 'MICHAEL' out for a spell and come back in half an hour and in the meanwhile I'll bate it all out in me mind." She bent down and straightened the furrows in his forehead with the tips of her fingers, and kissed him and then whistled to the wistful "MICHAEL" and together they went running down the street toward the little patch of green where the children played, and amongst whom "MICHAEL" was a prime favourite. Sitting, his head in his hands, his eyes staring into the past, O'Connell was facing the second great tragedy of his life. CHAPTER II WE MEET AN OLD FRIEND AFTER MANY YEARS While O'Connell sat there in that little room in New York trying to decide Peg's fate, a man, who had played some considerable part in O'Connell's life, lay, in a splendidly furnished room in a mansion in the West End of London--dying. Nathaniel Kingsnorth's twenty years of loneliness and desolation were coming to an end. What an empty, arid stretch of time those years seemed to him as he feebly looked back on them! After the tragedy of his sister's reckless marriage he deserted public life entirely and shut himself away in his country-house--except for a few weeks in London occasionally when his presence was required on one or other of the Boards of which he was a director. The Irish estate--which brought about all his misfortunes--he disposed of at a ridiculously low figure. He said he would accept any bid, however small, so that he could sever all connection with the hated village. From the day of Angela's elopement he neither saw nor wrote to any member of his family. His other sister, Mrs. Chichester, wrote to him from time to time--telling him one time of the birth of a boy: two years later of the advent of a girl. Kingsnorth did not answer any of her letters. In no way dismayed, Mrs. Chichester continued to write periodically. She wrote him when her son Alaric went to school and also when he went to college. Alaric seemed to absorb most of her interest. He was evidently her favourite child. She wrote more seldom of her daughter Ethel, and when she did happen to refer to her she dwelt principally on her beauty and her accomplishments. Five years before, an envelope in deep mourning came to Kingsnorth, and on opening it he found a letter from his sister acquainting him with the melancholy news that Mr. Chichester had ended a life of usefulness at the English bar and had died, leaving the family quite comfortably off. Kingsnorth telegraphed his condolences and left instructions for a suitable wreath to be sent to the funeral. But he did not attend it. Nor did he at any time express the slightest wish to see his sister nor did he encourage any suggestion on her part to visit him. When he was stricken with an illness, from which no hope of recovery was held out to him, he at once began to put his affairs in order, and his lawyer spent days with him drawing up statements of his last wishes for the disposition of his fortune. With death stretching out its hand to snatch him from a life he had enjoyed so little, his thoughts, coloured with the fancies of a tired, sick brain, kept turning constantly, to his dead sister Angela. From time to time down through the years he had a softened, gentle remembrance of her. When the news of her death came, furious and unrelenting as he had been toward her, her passing softened it. Had he known in time he would have insisted on her burial in the Kingsnorth vault. But she had already been interred in New York before the news of her death reached him. The one bitter hatred of his life had been against the man who had taken his sister in marriage and in so doing had killed all possibility of Kingsnorth succeeding in his political and social aspirations. He heard vaguely of a daughter. He took no interest in the news. Now, however, the remembrance of his treatment of Angela burnt into him. He especially repented of that merciless cable: "You have made your bed; lie in it." It haunted him through the long hours of his slow and painful illness. Had he helped her she might have been alive to-day, and those bitter reflections that ate into him night and day might have been replaced by gentler ones and so make his end the more peaceful. He thought of Angela's child and wondered if she were like his poor dead sister. The wish to see the child became an obsession with him. One morning, after a restless, feverish night, he sent for his lawyer and told him to at once institute inquiries--find out if the child was still living, and if so--where. This his lawyer did. He located O'Connell in New York, through a friend of his in the Irish party, and found that the child was living with him in rather poor circumstances. He communicated the result of his inquiries to Kingsnorth. That day a letter was sent to O'Connell asking him to allow his child to visit her dying uncle. O'Connell was to cable at Kingsnorth's expense and if he would consent the money for the expenses of the journey would be cabled immediately. The girl was to start at once, as Mr. Kingsnorth had very little longer to live. When the letter had gone Kingsnorth drew a breath of relief. He longed to see the child. He would have to wait impatiently for the reply. Perhaps the man whom he had hated all his life would refuse his request. If he did, well, he would make some provision in his will for her--in memory of his dead sister. The next day he altered his entire will and made Margaret O'Connell a special legacy. Ten days late a cable came: I consent to my daughter's visiting you. FRANK OWEN O'CONNELL. The lawyer cabled at once making all arrangements through their bankers in New York for Miss O'Connell's journey. That night Kingsnorth slept without being disturbed. He awoke refreshed in the morning. It was the first kindly action he had done for many years. How much had he robbed himself of all his life, if by doing so little he was repaid so much! CHAPTER III PEG LEAVES HER FATHER FOR THE FIRST TIME O'Connell had a hard struggle with Peg before she would consent to leave him. She met all his arguments with counter-arguments. Nothing would move her for hours. "Why should I go to a man I have never seen and hate the name of?" "He's your uncle, Peg." "It's a fine uncle he's been to me all me life. And it was a grand way he threated me mother when she was starvin'." "He wants to do somethin' for ye now, Peg." "I'll not go to him." "Now listen, dear; it's little I'll have to lave ye when I'm gone," pleaded O'Connell. "I'll not listen to any talk at all about yer goin'. Yer a great strong healthy man--that's what ye are. What are ye talkin' about? What's got into yer head about goin'?" "The time must come, some day, Peg." "All right, we'll know how to face it when it does. But we're not goin' out all the way to meet it," said Peg, resolutely. "It's very few advantages I've been able to give ye, me darlin'," and O'Connell took up the argument again. "Advantages or no advantages, what can anybody be more than be happy? Answer me that? An' sure it's happy I've been with you. Now, why should ye want to dhrive it all away from me?" To these unanswerable reasons O'Connell would remain silent for a while, only to take up the cudgels again. He realised what it would mean to Peg to go to London to have the value of education and of gentle surroundings. He knew her heart was loyal to him: nothing strangers might teach her would ever alter that. And he felt he owed it to her to give her this chance of seeing the great world. HE would never be able to do it for her. Much as he hated the name of Kingsnorth he acknowledged the fact that he had made an offer O'Connell had no real right to refuse. He finally persuaded Peg that it was the wise thing: the right thing: and the thing he wished for the most. "I don't care whether it's wise or right," said poor Peg, beaten at last, "but if you wish it--" and she broke off. "I do wish it, Peg." "Ye'll turn me away from ye, eh?" "No, Peg. Ye'll come back to me a fine lady." "I'd like to see anybody thry THAT with me. A lady, indeed! Ye love me as I am. I don't want to be any different." "But ye'll go?" "If ye say so." "Then it's all settled?" "I suppose it is." "Good, me darlin'. Ye'll never regret it" O'Connell said this with a cheery laugh, though his heart was aching at the thought of being separated from her. Peg looked at him reproachfully. Then she said: "It's surprised I am at ye turnin' me away from ye to go into a stuck-up old man's house that threated me mother the way he did." And so the discussion ended. For the next few days Peg was busy preparing herself for the journey and buying little things for her scanty equipment. Then the cable came to the effect that a passage was reserved for her and money was waiting at a banker's for her expenses. This Peg obstinately refused to touch. She didn't want anything except what her father gave her. When the morning of her departure came, poor Peg woke with a heavy heart. It was their first parting, and she was miserable. O'Connell, on the contrary, seemed full of life and high spirits. He laughed at her and joked with her and made a little bundle of some things that would not go in her bag--and that he had kept for her to the last minute. They were a rosary that had been his mother's, a prayer-book Father Cahill gave him the day he was confirmed, and lastly the little miniature of Angela. It wrung his heart to part with it, but he wanted Peg to have it near her, especially as she was going amongst the relations of the dead woman. All through this O'Connell showed not a trace of emotion before Peg. He kept telling her there was nothing to be sad about. It was all going to be for her good. When the time came to go, the strange pair made their way down to the ship--the tall, erect, splendid-looking man and the little red-haired girl in her simple black suit and her little black hat, with red flowers to brighten it. O'Connell went aboard with her, and an odd couple they looked on the saloon-deck, with Peg holding on to "Michael"--much to the amusement of the passengers, the visitors and the stewards. Poor, staunch, loyal, honest, true little Peg, going alone to--what? Leaving the one human being she cared for and worshipped--her playmate, counsellor, friend and father--all in one! O'Connell never dropped his high spirits all the time they were together on board the ship. He went aboard with a laugh and when the bell rang for all visitors to go ashore he said good-bye to Peg with a laugh--while poor Peg's heart felt like a stone in her breast. She stood sobbing up against the rail of the saloon deck as the ship swung clear. She was looking for her father through the mists of tears that blinded her. Just as the boat slowly swept past the end of the dock she saw him right at the last post so that he could watch the boat uninterruptedly until it was out of sight. He was crying himself now--crying like a child, and as the boat swung away he called up, "My little Peg! Peg o' my Heart!" How she longed to get off that ship and go back to him! They stood waving to each other as long as they remained in sight. While the ship ploughed her way toward England with little Peg on board, the man whom she was crossing the Atlantic to meet died quietly one morning with no one near him. The nurse found Mr. Kingsnorth smiling peacefully as though asleep. He had been dead several hours. Near him on the table was a cable despatch from New York: My daughter sailed on the Mauretania to-day at ten o'clock. FRANK OWEN O'CONNELL. BOOK IV PEG IN ENGLAND CHAPTER I THE CHICHESTER FAMILY Mrs. Chichester--whom we last saw under extremely distressing circumstances in Ireland--now enters prominently into the story. She was leading a secluded and charming existence in an old and picturesque villa at Scarboro, in the north of England. Although her husband had been dead for several years, she still clung to the outward symbols of mourning. It added a softness to the patrician line of her features and a touch of distinction to her manner and poise. She had an illustrious example of a life-long sorrow, and, being ever loyal, Mrs. Chichester retained the weeds of widowhood and the crepe of affliction ever present. She was proud indeed of her two children--about whom she had written so glowingly to her brother Nathaniel. Alaric was the elder. In him Mrs. Chichester took the greater pride. He was so nearly being great--even from infancy--that he continually kept his mother in a condition of expectant wonder. He was NEARLY brilliant at school: at college he ALMOST got his degree. He JUST MISSED his "blue" at cricket, and but for an unfortunate ball dribbling over the net at a critical moment in the semi-final of the tennis championships, he MIGHT have won the cup. He was quite philosophic about it, though, and never appeared to reproach fate for treating him so shabbily. He was always NEARLY doing something, and kept Mrs. Chichester in a lively condition of trusting hope and occasional disappointment. She knew he would "ARRIVE" some day--come into his own: then all these half-rewarded efforts would be invaluable in the building of his character. Her daughter, Ethel, on the other hand, was the exact antithesis to Alaric. She had never shown the slightest interest in anything since she had first looked up at the man of medicine who ushered her into the world. She regarded everything about her with the greatest complacency. She was never surprised or angry, or pleased, or depressed. Sorrow never seemed to affect her--nor joy make her smile. She looked on life as a gentle brook down whose current she was perfectly content to drift undisturbed. At least, that was the effect created in Mrs. Chichester's mind. She never thought it possible there might be latent possibilities in her impassive daughter. While her mother admired Ethel's lofty attitude of indifference toward the world--a manner that bespoke the aristocrat--she secretly chafed at her daughter's lack of enthusiasm. How different to Alaric--always full of nearly new ideas: always about to do something. Alaric kept those around him on the alert--no one ever really knew what he would do next. On the other hand, Ethel depressed by her stolid content with everything about her. Every one knew what she would do--or thought they did. Mrs. Chichester had long since abandoned any further attempt to interest her brother Nathaniel in the children. Angela's wretched marriage had upset everything,--driven Nathaniel to be a recluse and to close his doors on near and distant relatives. Angela's death the following year did not relieve the situation. If anything, it intensified it, since she left a baby that, naturally, none of the family could possibly take the slightest notice of--nor interest in. It was tacitly agreed never to speak of the unfortunate incident, especially before the children. It was such a terrible example for Ethel, and so discouraging to the eager and ambitious Alaric. Consequently Angela's name was never spoken inside of Regal Villa. And so the Chichester family pursued an even course, only varied by Alaric's sudden and DEFINITE decisions to enter either public life, or athletics, or the army, or the world of art--it was really extremely hard for so well-equipped a young man to decide to limit himself to any one particular pursuit. Consequently he put off the final choice from day to day. Suddenly a most untoward incident happened. Alaric, returning from a long walk, alone--during which he had ALMOST decided to become a doctor--walked in through the windows from the garden into the living-room and found his mother in tears, an open letter in her hand. This was most unusual. Mrs. Chichester was not wont to give vent to open emotion. It shows a lack of breeding. So she always suppressed it. It seemed to grow inwards. To find her weeping--and almost audibly--impressed Alaric that something of more than usual importance had occurred. "Hello, Mater!" he cried cheerfully, though his looks belied the buoyancy of his tone. "Hullo! what's the matter? What's up?" At the same moment Ethel came in through the door. It was 11:30, and at precisely that time every morning Ethel practised for half an hour on the piano. Not that she had the slightest interest in music, but it helped the morning so much. She would look forward to it for an hour before, and think of it for an hour afterwards--and then it was lunch-time. It practically filled out the entire morning. Mrs. Chichester looked up as her beloved children came toward her--and REAL tears were in her eyes, and a REAL note of alarm was in her voice: "Oh Ethel! Oh Alaric!" Alaric was at her side in a moment. He was genuinely alarmed. Ethel moved slowly across, thinking, vaguely, that something must have disagreed with her mother. "What is it, mater?" cried Alaric. "Mother!" said Ethel, with as nearly a tone of emotion as she could feel. "We're ruined!" sobbed Mrs. Chichester. "Nonsense!" said the bewildered son. "Really?" asked the placid daughter. "Our bank has failed! Every penny your poor father left me was in it," wailed Mrs. Chichester. "We've nothing. Nothing. We're beggars." A horrible fear for a moment gripped Alaric--the dread of poverty. He shivered! Suppose such a thing should really happen? Then he dismissed it with a shrug of his shoulders. How perfectly absurd! Poverty, indeed! The Chichesters beggars? Such nonsense! He turned to his mother and found her holding out a letter and a newspaper. He took them both and read them with mingled amazement and disgust. First the headline of the newspaper caught his eye: "Failure of Gifford's Bank." Then he looked at the letter: "Gifford's Bank suspended business yesterday!" Back his eye travelled to the paper: "Gifford's Bank has closed its doors!" He was quite unable, at first, to grasp the full significance of the contents of that letter and newspaper. He turned to Ethel: "Eh?" he gasped. "Pity," she murmured, trying to find a particular piece of music amongst the mass on the piano. "We're ruined!" reiterated Mrs. Chichester. Then the real meaning of those cryptic headlines and the business-like letter broke in on Alaric. All the Chichester blood was roused in him. "Now that's what I call a downright, rotten, blackguardly shame--a BLACKGUARDLY SHAME!" His voice rose in tones as it increased in intensity until it almost reached a shriek. Something was expected of him. At any rate indignation. Well, he was certainly indignant. "Closed its doors, indeed!" he went on. "Why should it close its doors? That's what I want to know! Why--should--it?" and he glared at the unoffending letter and the non-committal newspaper. He looked at Ethel, who was surreptitiously concealing a yawn, and was apparently quite undisturbed by the appalling news. He found no inspiration there. Back he went to his mother for support. "What RIGHT have banks to fail? There should be a law against it. They should be made to open their doors and keep 'em open. That's what we give 'em our money for--so that we can take it out again when we want it." Poor Mrs. Chichester shook her head sadly. "Everything gone," she moaned. "Ruined! and at my age!" "Nice kettle of fish," was all Alaric could think of. He was momentarily stunned. He turned once more to Ethel. He never relied on her very much, but at this particular crisis he would like to have some expression of opinion, however slight--from her. "I say, Ethel, it's a nice kettle of fish all o-boilin', eh?" "Shame!" she said quietly, as she found the particular movement of Grieg she had been looking for. She loved Grieg. He fitted into all her moods. She played everything he composed exactly the same. She seemed to think it soothed her. She would play some now and soothe her mother and Alaric. She began an impassioned movement which she played evenly and correctly, and without any unseemly force. Alaric cried out distractedly: "For goodness' sake stop that, Ethel! Haven't you got any feelings? Can't you see how upset the mater is? And I am? Stop it. There's a dear! Let's put our backs into this thing and thrash it all out. Have a little family meetin', as it were." Poor Mrs. Chichester repeated, as though it were some refrain: "Ruined! At my age!" Alaric sat on the edge of her chair and put his arm around her shoulder and tried to comfort her. "Don't you worry, mater," he said. "Don't worry. I'll go down and tell 'em what I think of 'em--exactly what I think of 'em. They can't play the fool with me. I should think NOT, indeed. Listen, mater. You've got a SON, thank God, and one no BANK can take any liberties with. What we put in there we've got to have out. That's all I can say. We've simply got to have it out. There! I've said it!" Alaric rose, and drawing himself up to his full five feet six inches of manhood glared malignantly at some imaginary bank officials. His whole nature was roused. The future of the family depended on him. They would not depend in vain. He looked at Ethel, who was trying to make the best of the business by smiling agreeably on them both. "It's bankrupt!" wailed Mrs. Chichester. "Failed!" suggested Ethel, cheerfully. "We're beggars," continued the mother. "I must live on charity for the rest of my life. The guest of relations I've hated the sight of and who have hated me. It's dreadful! Dreadful!" All Alaric's first glow of manly enthusiasm began to cool. "Don't you think we'll get anything?" By accident he turned to Ethel. She smiled meaninglessly and said for the first time with any real note of conviction: "Nothing!" Alaric sat down gloomily beside his mother. "I always thought bank directors were BLIGHTERS. Good Lord, what a mess!" He looked the picture of misery. "What's to become of Ethel, mater?" "Whoever shelters me must shelter Ethel as well," replied the mother sadly. "But it's hard--at my age--to be--sheltered." Alaric looked at Ethel, and a feeling of pity came over him. It was distinctly to his credit--since his own wrongs occupied most of his attention. But after all HE could buffet the world and wring a living out of it. All he had to do was to make up his mind which walk in life to choose. He was fortunate. But Ethel, reared from infancy in the environment of independence: it would come very hard and bitter on her. Alaric just touched Ethel's hand, and with as much feeling as he could muster, he said: "Shockin' tough, old girl." Ethel shook her head almost determinedly and said, somewhat enigmatically, and FOR HER, heatedly: "NO!" "No?" asked Alaric. "No--what?" "Charity!" said Ethel. "Cold-blooded word," and Alaric shuddered. "What will you do, Ethel?" "Work." "At what?" "Teach." "TEACH? Who in the wide world can YOU teach?" "Children." Alaric laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, come, that's rich! Eh, mater? Fancy Ethel teachin' grubby little brats their A B C's! Tush!" "Must!" said Ethel, quite unmoved. "A CHICHESTER TEACH?" said Alaric, in disgust. "Settled!" from Ethel, and she swept her finger slowly across the piano. "Very well," said Alaric, determinedly: "I'll work, too." Mrs. Chichester looked up pleadingly. Alaric went on: "I'll put my hand to the plough. The more I think of it the keener I am to begin. From to-day I'll be a workin' man." At this Ethel laughed a queer, little, odd, supercilious note, summed up in a single word: "Ha!" There was nothing mirthful in it. There was no reproach in it. It was just an expression of her honest feeling at the bare suggestion of her brother WORKING. Alaric turned quickly to her: "And may I ask WHY that 'Ha!'? WHY, I ask you? There's nothing I couldn't do if I were really put to it--not a single thing. Is there, mater?" His mother looked up proudly at him. "I know that, dear. But it's dreadful to think of YOU--WORKING." "Not at all," said Alaric, "I'm just tingling all over at the thought of it. The only reason I haven't so far is because I've never had to. But now that I have, I'll just buckle on my armour, so to speak, and astonish you all." Again came that deadly, cold, unsympathetic "Ha!" from Ethel. "Please don't laugh in that cheerless way, Ethel. It goes all down my spine. Jerry's always tellin' me I ought to do something--that the world is for the worker--and all that. He's right, and I'm goin' to show him." He suddenly picked up the paper and looked at the date. "What's to-day? The FIRST? Yes, so it is. June the first. Jerry's comin' to-day--all his family, too. They've taken 'Noel's Folly' on the hill. He's sure to look in here. Couldn't be better. He's the cove to turn to in a case like this." Jarvis, a white-haired, dignified butler who had served the family man and boy, came in at this juncture with a visiting card on a salver. Alaric picked it up and glanced at it. He gave an expression of disgust and flung the card back on the salver. "Christian Brent." For the first time Ethel showed more than a passing gleam of interest. She stopped strumming the piano and stood up, very erect and very still. Mrs. Chichester rose too: "I can't see any one," she said imperatively. "Nor I," added Alaric. "I'm all strung up." He turned to Jarvis. "Tell Mr. Brent we're very sorry, but--" "I'LL see him," interrupted Ethel, almost animatedly. "Bring Mr. Brent here, Jarvis." As Jarvis went in search of Mr. Brent, Mrs. Chichester went up the great stairs: "My head is throbbing. I'll go to my room." "Don't you worry, mater," consoled Alaric. "Leave everything to me. I'll thrash the whole thing out--absolutely thrash it out." As Mrs. Chichester disappeared, Alaric turned to his calm sister, who, strangely enough, was showing some signs of life and interest. "Awful business, Ethel, eh?" "Pretty bad." "Really goin' to teach?" "Yes." "Right! I'll find somethin', too. Very likely a doctor. We'll pull through somehow." Ethel made a motion toward the door as though to stop any further conversation. "Mr. Brent's coming," she said, almost impatiently. Alaric started for the windows leading into the garden. "Jolly good of you to let him bore you. I hate the sight of the beggar, myself. Always looks to me like the first conspirator at a play." The door opened, and Jarvis entered and ushered in "Mr. Brent." Alaric hurried into the garden. CHAPTER II CHRISTIAN BRENT A few words of description of Christian Brent might be of interest, since he represents a type that society always has with it. They begin by deceiving others: they end by deceiving themselves. Christian Brent was a dark, tense, eager, scholarly-looking man of twenty-eight years of age. His career as a diplomatist was halted at its outset by an early marriage with the only daughter of a prosperous manufacturer. Brent was moderately independent in his own right, but the addition of his wife's dowry seemed to destroy all ambition. He no longer found interest in carrying messages to the various legations or embassies of Europe, or in filling a routine position as some one's secretary. From being an intensely eager man of affairs he drifted into a social lounger--the lapdog of the drawing-room--where the close breath of some rare perfume meant more than the clash of interests, and the conquest of a woman greater than that of a nation. Just at this period Ethel Chichester was the especial object of his adoration. Her beauty appealed to him. Her absolute indifference to him stung him as a lash. It seemed to belittle his powers of attraction. Consequently he redoubled his efforts. Ethel showed neither like nor dislike--just a form of toleration. Brent accepted this as a dog a crumb, in the hope of something more substantial to follow. He had come that morning with a fixed resolve. His manner was determined. His voice wooed as a caress. He went tenderly to Ethel the moment the door closed on Jarvis. "How are you?" he asked, and there was a note of subdued passion in his tone. "Fair," replied Ethel, without even looking at him. "Where is your mother?" suggesting that much depended on the answer. "Lying down," answered Ethel, truthfully and without any feeling. "And Alaric?" "In the garden." "Then we have a moment or two--alone?" Brent put a world of meaning into the suggestion. "Very likely," said Ethel, picking up a score of Boheme and looking at it as if she saw it for the first time: all the while watching him through her half-closed eyes. Brent went to her. "Glad to see me?" he asked. "Why not?" "I am glad to see you." He bent over her. "More than glad." "Really?" He sat beside her: "Ethel," he whispered intensely: "I am at the Cross-roads." "Oh?" commented Ethel, without any interest. "It came last night." "Did it?" "This is the end--between Sybil and myself." "Is it?" "Yes--the end. It's been horrible from the first--horrible. There's not a word of mine--not an action--she doesn't misunderstand." "How boring," said Ethel blandly. "She would see harm even in THIS!" "Why?" "She'd think I was here to--to--" he stopped. "What?" innocently inquired Ethel. "Make love to you," and he looked earnestly into her eyes. She met his look quite frankly and astonished him with the question: "Well? Aren't you?" He rose anxiously: "Ethel!" "Don't you always?" persisted Ethel. "Has it seemed like that to you?" "Yes," she answered candidly. "By insinuation: never straightforwardly." "Has it offended you?" "Then you admit it?" "Oh," he cried passionately, "I wish I had the right to--to--" again he wavered. "Yes?" and Ethel looked straight at him. "Make love to you straightforwardly." He felt the supreme moment had almost arrived. Now, he thought, he would be rewarded for the long waiting; the endless siege to this marvellous woman who concealed her real nature beneath that marble casing of an assumed indifference. He waited eagerly for her answer. When it came it shocked and revolted him. Ethel dropped her gaze from his face and said, with the suspicion of a smile playing around her lips: "If you had the right to make love to me straightforwardly--you wouldn't do it." He looked at her in amazement. "What do you mean?" he gasped. "It's only because you haven't the right that you do it--by suggestion," Ethel pursued. "How can you say that?" And he put all the heart he was capable of into the question. "You don't deny it," she said quietly. He breathed hard and then said bitterly: "What a contemptible opinion you must have of me." "Then we're quits, aren't we?" "How?" he asked. "Haven't YOU one of ME?" "Of YOU? Why, Ethel--" "Surely every married man MUST have a contemptible opinion of the woman he covertly makes love to. If he hadn't he couldn't do it, could he?" Once again she levelled her cold, impassive eyes on Brent's flushed face. "I don't follow you," was all Brent said. "Haven't you had time to think of an answer?" "I don't now what you're driving at," he added. Ethel smiled her most enigmatical smile: "No? I think you do." She waited a moment. Brent said nothing. This was a new mood of Ethel's. It baffled him. Presently she relieved the silence by asking him: "What happened last night?" He hesitated. Then he answered: "I'd rather not say. I'd sound like a cad blaming a woman." "Never mind how it sounds. Tell it. It must have been amusing." "Amusing? Good God!" He bent over her again. "Oh, the more I look at you and listen to you, the more I realise I should never have married." "Why DID you?" came the cool question. Brent answered with all the power at his command. Here was the moment to lay his heart bare that Ethel might see. "Have you ever seen a young hare, fresh from its kind, run headlong into a snare? Have you ever seen a young man free of the trammels of college, dash into a NET? _I_ did! I wasn't trap-wise!" He paced the room restlessly, all the self-pity rising in him. He went on: "Good God! what nurslings we are when we first feel our feet! We're like children just loose from the leading-strings. Anything that glitters catches us. Every trap that is set for our unwary feet we drop into. I did. Dropped in. Caught hand and foot--mind and soul." "Soul?" queried Ethel, with a note of doubt. "Yes," he answered. "Don't you mean BODY?" she suggested. "Body, mind AND soul!" he said, with an air of finality. "Well, BODY anyway," summed up Ethel. "And for what?" he went on. "For WHAT? Love! Companionship! That is what we build on in marriage. And what did _I_ realise? Hate and wrangling! Wrangling--just as the common herd, with no advantages, wrangle, and make it a part of their lives--the zest to their union. It's been my curse." "Why wrangling?" drawled Ethel. "She didn't understand." "You?" asked Ethel, in surprise. "My thoughts! My actions!" "How curious." "You mean you would?" "Probably." "I'm sure of it." He tried to take her hand. She drew it away, and settled herself comfortably to listen again: "Tell me more about your wife." "The slightest attention shown to any other woman meant a ridiculous--a humiliating scene." "Humiliating?" "Isn't doubt and suspicion humiliating?" "It would be a compliment in some cases." "How?" "It would put a fictitious value on some men." "You couldn't humiliate in that way," he ventured, slowly. "No. I don't think I could. If a man showed a preference for any other woman she would be quite welcome to him." "No man could!" said Brent, insinuatingly. She looked at him coldly a moment. "Let me see--where were you? Just married, weren't you? Go on." "Then came the baby!" He said that with a significant meaning and paused to see the effect on Ethel. If it had any, Ethel effectually concealed it. Her only comment was: "Ah!" Brent went on: "One would think THAT would change things. But no. Neither of us wanted her. Neither of us love her. Children should come of love--not hate. And she is a child of hate." He paused, looking intently at Ethel. She looked understandingly at him, then dropped her eyes. Brent went on as if following up an advantage: "She sits in her little chair, her small, wrinkled, old disillusioned face turned to us, with the eyes watching us accusingly. She submits to caresses as though they were distasteful: as if she knew they were lies. At times she pushes the nearing face away with her little baby fingers." He stopped, watching her eagerly. Her eyes were down. "I shouldn't tell you this. It's terrible. I see it in your face. What are you thinking?" "I'm sorry," replied Ethel simply. "For me?" "For your wife." "MY WIFE?" he repeated, aghast. "Yes," said Ethel. "Aren't you? No? Are you just sorry for yourself?" Brent turned impatiently away. So this laying-open the wound in his life was nothing to Ethel. Instead of pity for him all it engendered in her was sorrow for his wife. How little women understood him. There was a pathetic catch in his voice as he turned to Ethel and said reproachfully: "You think me purely selfish?" "Naturally," she answered quickly. "_I_ AM. Why, not be truthful about ourselves sometimes? Eh?" "We quarrelled last night--about you!" he said, desperately. "Really?" "Gossip has linked us together. My wife has heard and put the worst construction on it." "Well?" "We said things to each other last night that can never be forgiven or forgotten. I left the house and walked the streets--hours! I looked my whole life back and through as though it were some stranger's" He turned abruptly away to the windows and stayed a moment, looking down the drive. Ethel said nothing. He came back to her in a few moments. "I tell you we ought to be taught--we ought to be taught, when we are young, what marriage really means, just as we are taught not to steal, nor lie, nor sin. In, marriage we do all three--when we're ill-mated. We steal affection from some one else, we lie in our lives and we sin in our relationship." Ethel asked him very quietly: "Do you mean that you are a sinner, a thief, and a liar?" Brent looked at her in horror. "Oh, take some of the blame," said Ethel; "don't put it all on the woman." "You've never spoken to me like this before." "I've often wanted to," replied Ethel. Then she asked him: "What do you intend doing?" "Separate," he answered, eagerly. "You don't doctor a poisoned limb when your life depends on it; you cut it off. When two lives generate a deadly poison, face the problem as a surgeon would. Amputate." "And after the operation? What then?" asked Ethel. "That is why I am here facing you. Do you understand what I mean?" "Oh, dear, yes. Perfectly. I have been waiting for you to get to the point." "Ethel!" and he impulsively stretched out his arms as though to embrace her. She drew back slightly, just out of his reach. "Wait." She looked up at him, quizzically: "Suppose we generate poison? What would you do? Amputate me?" "You are different from all other women." "Didn't you tell your wife that when you asked her to marry you?" He turned away impatiently: "Don't say those things, Ethel, they hurt." "I'm afraid, Christian, I'm too frank, aren't I?" "You stand alone, Ethel. You seem to look into the hearts of people and know why and how they beat." "I do--sometimes. It's an awkward faculty." He looked at her glowingly: "How marvellously different two women can be! You--my wife." Ethel shook her head and smiled her calm, dead smile "We're not really very different, Christian. Only some natures like change. Yours does. And the new have all the virtues. Why, I might not last as long as your wife did." "Don't say that. We lave a common bond--UNDERSTANDING." "Think so?" "I understand you." "I wonder." "You do me." "Yes--that is just the difficulty." "I tell you I am at the cross-roads. The fingerboard points the way to me distinctly." "Does it?" "It does." He leaned across to her: "Would you risk it?" "What?" she asked. "I'll hide nothing. I'll put it all before you. The snubs of your friends. The whisper of a scandal that would grow into a roar. Afraid to open a newspaper, fearing what might be printed in it. Life, at first, in some little Continental village--dreading the passers through--keeping out of sight lest they would recognise one. No. It wouldn't be fair to you." Ethel thought a moment, then answered slowly: "No, Chris, I don't think it would." "You see I AM a cad--just a selfish cad!" "Aren't you?" and she smiled up at him. "I'll never speak of this again. I wouldn't have NOW--only--I'm distracted to-day--completely distracted. Will you forgive me for speaking as I did?" "Certainly," said Ethel. "I'm not offended. On the contrary. Anyway, I'll think it over and let you know." "You will, REALLY?" he asked greedily, grasping at the straw of a hope. "You will really think it over?" "I will, really." "And when she sets me free," he went on, "we could, we could--" He suddenly stopped. She looked coolly at him as he hesitated and said: "It IS a difficult little word at times, isn't it?" "WOULD you marry me?" he asked, with a supreme effort. "I never cross my bridges until I come to them," said Ethel, languidly. "And we're such a long way from THAT one, aren't we?" "Then I am to wait?" "Yes. Do," she replied. "When the time comes to accept the charity of relations, or do something useful for tuppence a week, Bohemian France or Italy--but then the runaways always go to France or Italy, don't they?--Suppose we say Hungary? Shall we?" He did not answer. She went on: "Very well. When I have to choose between charity and labour, Bohemian Hungary may beckon me." He looked at her in a puzzled way. What new mood was this? "Charity?" he asked. "Labour?" "Yes. It has come to that. A tiresome bank has failed with all our sixpences locked up in it. Isn't it stupid?" "Is ALL your money gone?" "I think so." "Good God!" "Dear mamma knows as little about business as she does about me. Until this morning she has always had a rooted belief in her bank and her daughter. If I bolt with you, her last cherished illusion will be destroyed." "Let me help you," he said eagerly. "How?" and she looked at him again with that cold, hard scrutiny. "Lend us money, do you mean?" He fell into the trap. "Yes," he said. "I'd do that if you'd let me." She gave just the suggestion of a sneer and turned deliberately away. He felt the force of the unspoken reproof: "I beg your pardon," he said humbly. She went on as if she had not heard the offensive suggestion: "So you see we're both, in a way, at the crossroads." He seized her hand fiercely: "Let me take you away out of it all!" he cried. She withdrew her hand slowly. "No," she said, "not just now. I'm not in a bolting mood to-day." He moved away. She watched him. Then she called him to her. Something in the man attracted this strange nature. She could not analyse or define the attraction. But the impelling force was there. He went to her. Ethel spoke to him for the first time softly, languorously, almost caressingly: "Chris! Sometime--perhaps in the dead of night--something will snap in me--the slack, selfish, luxurious ME, that hates to be roused into action, and the craving for adventure will come. Then I'll send for you." He took her hand again and this time she did not draw it away. He said in a whisper: "And you'll go with me?" Ethel stretched lazily, and smiled at him through her half-closed eyes. "I suppose so. Then Heaven help you!" "Why should we wait?" he cried. "It will give us the suspense of expectation." "I want you! I need you!" he pleaded. "Until the time comes for AMPUTATION?" "Don't! Don't!" and he dropped her hand suddenly. "Well, I don't want you to have any illusions about me, Chris. I have none about you. Let us begin fair anyway. It will be so much easier when the end comes." "There will be no end," he said passionately. "I love you--love you with every breath of my body, every thought in my mind, every throb of my nerves. I love you!" He kissed her hand repeatedly. "I love you!" He took her in his arms and pressed her to him. She struggled with him without any anger, or disgust, or fear. As she put him away from her she just said simply: "Please don't. It's so hot this morning." As she turned away from him she was struck dumb. Sitting beside the table in the middle of the room, her back turned to them, was the strangest, oddest little figure Ethel had ever seen. Who was she? How long had she been in the room? Ethel turned to Brent. He was quite pale now and was nervously stroking his slight moustache. Ethel was furious! It was incredible that Brent could have been so indiscreet! How on earth did that creature get there without their hearing or seeing her? Ethel went straight to the demure little figure sitting on the chair. CHAPTER III PEG ARRIVES IN ENGLAND Peg's journey to England was one of the unhappiest memories of her life. She undertook the voyage deliberately to please her father, because he told her it would please him. But beneath this feeling of pleasing him was one of sullen resentment at being made to separate from him. She planned all kinds of reprisals upon the unfortunate people she was going amongst. She would be so rude to them and so unbearable that they would be glad to send her back on the next boat. She schemed out her whole plan of action. She would contradict and disobey and berate and belittle. Nothing they would do would be right to her and nothing she would do or say would be right to them. She took infinite pleasure in her plan of campaign. Then when she was enjoying the pleasure of such resentful dreams she would think of her father waiting for news of her: of his pride in her: of how much he wanted her to succeed. She would realise how much the parting meant to HIM, and all her little plots would tumble down and she would resolve to try and please her relations, learn all she could, succeed beyond all expression and either go back to America prosperous, or send for her father to join her in England. All her dreams had her father, either centrifugally or centripetally, beating through them. She refused all advances of friendship aboard ship. No one dared speak to her. She wanted to be alone in her sorrow. She and "MICHAEL" would romp on the lower deck, by favour of one of the seamen, who would keep a sharp look-out for officers. This seaman--O'Farrell by name--took quite a liking to Peg and the dog and did many little kindly, gracious acts to minister to the comfort of both of them. He warned her that they would not let "Michael" go with her from the dock until he had first been quarantined. This hurt Peg more than anything could. She burst into tears. To have "Michael" taken from her would be the last misfortune. She would indeed be alone in that strange country. She was inconsolable. O'Farrell, at last, took it on himself to get the dog ashore. He would wrap him up in some sail cloths, and then he would carry "Michael" outside the gates when the Customs' authorities had examined her few belongings. When they reached Liverpool O'Farrell was as good as his word, though many were the anxious moments they had as one or other of the Customs' officers would eye the suspicious package O'Farrell carried so carelessly under his arm. At the dock a distinguished-looking gentleman came on board and after some considerable difficulty succeeded in locating Peg. He was a well-dressed, soft-speaking, vigorous man of forty-five. He inspired Peg with an instant dislike by his somewhat authoritative and pompous manner. He introduced himself as Mr. Montgomery Hawkes, the legal adviser for the Kingsnorth estate, and at once proceeded to take charge of Peg as a matter of course. Poor Peg felt ashamed of her poor little bag, containing just a few changes of apparel, and her little paper bundle. She was mortified when she walked down the gangway with the prosperous-looking lawyer whilst extravagantly dressed people with piles of luggage dashed here and there endeavouring to get it examined. But Mr. Hawkes did not appear to notice Peg's shabbiness. On the contrary he treated her and her belongings as though she were the most fashionable of fine ladies and her wardrobe the most complete. Outside the gates she found O'Farrell waiting for her, with the precious "Michael" struggling to free himself from his coverings. Hawkes soon had a cab alongside. He helped Peg into it: then she stretched out her arms and O'Farrell opened the sail-cloths and out sprang "Michael," dusty and dirty and blear-eyed, but oh! such a happy, fussy, affectionate, relieved little canine when he saw his beloved owner waiting for him. He made one spring at her, much to the lawyer's dignified amazement, and began to bark at her, and lick her face and hands, and jump on and roll over and over upon Peg in an excess of joy at his release. Peg offered O'Farrell an American dollar. She had very little left. O'Farrell indignantly refused to take it. "Oh, but ye must, indade ye must," cried Peg in distress. "Sure I won't lie aisy to-night if ye don't. But for you poor 'Michael' here might have been on that place ye spoke of--that Quarantine, whatever it is. Ye saved him from that. And don't despise it because it's an American dollar. Sure it has a value all over the wurrld. An' besides I have no English money." Poor Peg pleaded that O'Farrell should take it. He had been so nice to her all the way over. Hawkes interposed skilfully, gave 'O'Farrell five shillings; thanked him warmly for his kindness to Peg and her dog; returned the dollar to Peg; let her say good-bye to the kindly sailor: told the cabman to drive to a certain railway station, and in a few seconds they were bowling along and Peg had entered a new country and a new life. They reached the railway station and Hawkes procured tickets and in half an hour they were on a train bound for the north of England. During the journey Hawkes volunteered no information. He bought her papers and magazines and offered her lunch. This Peg refused. She said the ship had not agreed with her. She did not think she would want food for a long time to come. After a while, tired out with the rush and excitement of the ship's arrival, Peg fell asleep. In a few hours they reached their destination. Hawkes woke her and told her she was at her journey's end. He again hailed a cab, told the driver where to go and got in with Peg, "MICHAEL" and her luggage. In the cab he handed Peg a card and told her to go to the address written on it and ask the people there to allow her to wait until he joined her. He had a business call to make in the town. He would be as short a time as possible. She was just to tell the people that she had been asked to call there and wait. After the cab had gone through a few streets it stopped before a big building; Hawkes got out, told the cabman where to take Peg, paid him, and with some final admonitions to Peg, disappeared through the swing-doors of the Town Hall. The cabman took the wondering Peg along until he drove up to a very handsome Elizabethan house. There he stopped. Peg looked at the name on the gate-posts and then at the name on the card Mr. Hawkes had given her. They were the same. Once more she gathered up her belongings and her dog and passed in through the gateposts and wandered up the long drive on a tour of inspection. She walked through paths dividing rosebeds until she came to some open windows. The main entrance-hall of the house seemed to be hidden away somewhere amid the tall old trees. Peg made straight for the open windows and walked into the most wonderful looking room she had ever seen. Everything in it was old and massive; it bespoke centuries gone by in every detail. Peg held her breath as she looked around her. Pictures and tapestries stared at her from the walls. Beautiful old vases were arranged in cabinets. The carpet was deep and soft and stifled all sound. Peg almost gave an ejaculation of surprise at the wonders of the room when she suddenly became conscious that she was not alone in the room: that others were there and that they were talking. She looked in the direction the sounds came from and saw to her astonishment, a man with a woman in his arms. He was speaking to her in a most ardent manner. They were partially concealed by some statuary. Peg concluded at once that she had intruded on some marital scene at which she was not desired, so she instantly sat down with her back to them. She tried not to listen, but some of the words came distinctly to her. Just as she was becoming very uncomfortable and had half made up her mind to leave the room and find somewhere else to wait, she suddenly heard herself addressed, and in no uncertain tone of voice. There was indignation, surprise and anger in Ethel's question: "How long have you been here?" Peg turned round and saw a strikingly handsome, beautifully dressed young lady glaring down at her. Her manner was haughty in the extreme. Peg felt most unhappy as she looked at her and did not answer immediately. A little distance away was a dark, handsome young man who was looking at Peg with a certain languid interest. "How long have you been here?" again asked Ethel. "Sure I only came in this minnit," said Peg innocently and with a little note of fear. She was not accustomed to fine-looking, splendidly-dressed young ladies like Ethel. "What do you want?" demanded the young lady. "Nothin'," said Peg reassuringly. "NOTHING?" echoed Ethel, growing angrier every moment. "Not a thing. I was just told to wait," said Peg. "Who told you?" "A gentleman," replied Peg. "WHAT gentleman?" asked Ethel sharply and suspiciously. "Just a gentleman." Peg, after fumbling nervously in her pocket, produced the card Mr. Hawkes had given her, which "MICHAEL" immediately attempted to take possession of. Peg snatched it away from the dog and handed it to the young lady. "He told me to wait THERE." Ethel took the card irritably and read: "'Mrs. Chichester, Regal Villa.' And what do you want with Mrs. Chichester?" she asked Peg, at the same time looking at the shabby clothes, the hungry-looking dog, and the soiled parcel. "I don't want anythin' with her. I was just told to wait!" "Who are you?" Peg was now getting angry too. There was no mistaking the manner of the proud young lady. Peg chafed under it. She looked up sullenly into Ethel's face and said: "I was not to say a wurrd, I'm tellin' ye. I was just to wait." Peg settled back in the chair and stroked "MICHAEL." This questioning was not at all to her liking. She wished Mr. Hawkes would come and get her out of a most embarrassing position. But until he DID she was not going to disobey his instructions. He told her to say nothing, so nothing would she say. Ethel turned abruptly to Brent and found that gentleman looking at the odd little stranger somewhat admiringly. She gave an impatient ejaculation and turned back to Peg quickly: "You say you have only been here a minute?" "That's all," replied Peg. "Just a minnit." "Were we talking when you came in?" "Ye were." Ethel could scarcely conceal her rage. "Did you hear what we said?" "Some of it. Not much," said Peg. "WHAT did you hear?" "Please don't--it's so hot this mornin'," said Peg with no attempt at imitation--just as if she were stating a simple, ordinary occurrence. Ethel flushed scarlet. Brent smiled. "You refuse to say why you're here or who you are?" Ethel again asked. "It isn't ME that's refusin'. All the gentleman said to me was, 'Ye go to the place that's written down on the card and ye sit down there an' wait. And that's all ye do.'" Ethel again turned to the perplexed Brent: "Eh?" "Extraordinary!" and Brent shook his head. The position was unbearable. Ethel decided instantly how to relieve it. She looked freezingly down at the forlorn-looking little intruder and said: "The servants' quarters are at the back of the house." "ARE they?" asked Peg, without moving, and not in any way taking the statement to refer to her. "And I may save you the trouble of WAITING by telling you we are quite provided with servants. We do not need any further assistance." Peg just looked at Ethel and then bent down over "MICHAEL." Ethel's last shot had struck home. Poor Peg was cut through to her soul. How she longed at that moment to be back home with her father in New York. Before she could say anything Ethel continued: "If you insist on waiting kindly do so there." Peg took "MICHAEL" up in her arms, collected once more her packages and walked to the windows. Again she heard the cold hard tones of Ethel's voice speaking to her: "Follow the path to your right until you come to a door. Knock and ask permission to wait there, and for your future guidance go to the BACK door of a house and ring, don't walk unannounced into a private room." Peg tried to explain: "Ye see, ma'am, I didn't know. All the gentleman said was 'Go there and wait'--" "That will do." "I'm sorry I disturbed yez." And she glanced at the embarrassed Brent. "THAT WILL DO!" said Ethel finally. Poor Peg nodded and wandered off through the windows sore at heart. She went down the path until she reached the door Ethel mentioned. She knocked at it. While she is waiting for admission we will return to the fortunes of the rudely-disturbed LOVERS(?). CHAPTER IV THE CHICHESTER FAMILY RECEIVES A SECOND SHOCK Ethel turned indignantly to Brent, as the little figure went off down the path. "Outrageous!" she cried. "Poor little wretch." Brent walked to the windows and looked after her. "She's quite pretty." Ethel looked understandingly at him: "IS she?" "In a shabby sort of way. Didn't you think so?" Ethel glared coldly at him. "I never notice the lower orders. You apparently do." "Oh, yes--often. They're very interesting--at times." He strained to get a last glimpse of the intruder: "Do you know, she's the strangest little apparition--" "She's only a few yards away if you care to follow her!" Her tone brought Brent up sharply. He turned away from the window and found Ethel--arms folded, eyes flashing--waiting for him. Something in her manner alarmed him. He had gone too far. "Why, Ethel,"--he said, as he came toward her. "Suppose my mother had walked in here--or Alaric--instead of that creature? Never do such a thing again." "I was carried away," he hastened to explain. "Kindly exercise a little more restraint. You had better go now." There was a finality of dismissal in her tone as she passed him and crossed to the great staircase. He followed her: "May I call to-morrow?" "No," she answered decidedly. "Not to-morrow." "The following day, then," he urged. "Perhaps." "Remember--I build on you." She looked searchingly at him: "I suppose we ARE worthy of each other." Through the open windows came the sound of voices. "Go!" she said imperatively and she passed on up the stairs. Brent went rapidly to the door. Before either he could open it or Ethel go out of sight Alaric burst in through the windows. "Hello, Brent," he cried cheerfully. "Disturbin' ye?" And he caught Ethel as she was about to disappear: "Or you, Ethel?" Ethel turned and answered coolly: "You've not disturbed me." "I'm just going," said Brent. "Well, wait a moment," and Alaric turned to the window and beckoned to someone on the path and in from the garden came Mr. Montgomery Hawkes. "Come in," said the energetic Alaric. "Come in. Ethel, I want you to meet Mr. Hawkes--Mr. Hawkes--my sister. Mr. Brent--Mr. Hawkes." Having satisfactorily introduced everyone he said to Ethel: "See if the mater's well enough to come down, like a dear, will ye? This gentleman has come from London to see her. D'ye mind? And come back yourself, too, like an angel. He says he has some business that concerns the whole family." Ethel disappeared without a word. Alaric bustled Hawkes into a chair and then seized the somewhat uncomfortable Brent by an unwilling hand and shook it warmly as he asked: "MUST you go?" "Yes," replied Brent with a sigh of relief. Alaric dashed to the door and opened it as though to speed the visitor on his way. "So sorry I was out when you called," lied Alaric nimbly. "Run in any time. Always delighted to see you. Delighted. Is the angel wife all well?" Brent bowed: "Thank you." "And the darling child?" Brent frowned. He crossed to the door and turned in the frame and admonished Alaric: "Please give my remembrances to your mother." Then he passed out. As he disappeared the irrepressible Alaric called after him: "Certainly. She'll be so disappointed not to have seen you. Run in any time--any time at all." Alaric closed the door and saw his mother and Ethel coming down the stairs. All traces of emotion had disappeared from Ethel's face and manner. She was once again in perfect command of herself. She carried a beautiful little French poodle in her arms and was feeding her with sugar. Alaric fussily brought his mother forward. "Mater, dear," he said; "I found this gentleman in a rose-bed enquiring the way to our lodge. He's come all the way from dear old London just to see you. Mr. Hawkes--my mother." Mrs. Chichester looked at Hawkes anxiously. "You have come to see me?" "On a very important and a very private family matter," replied Hawkes, gravely. "IMPORTANT? PRIVATE?" asked Mrs. Chichester in surprise. "We're the family, Mr. Hawkes," ventured Alaric, helpfully. Mrs. Chichester's forebodings came uppermost. After the news of the bank's failure nothing would surprise her now in the way of calamity. What could this grave, dignified-looking man want with them? Her eyes filled. "Is it BAD news?" she faltered. "Oh, dear, no," answered Mr. Hawkes, genially. "Well--is it GOOD news?" queried Alaric. "In a measure," said the lawyer. "Then for heaven's sake get at it. You've got me all clammy. We could do with a little good news. Wait a minute! Is it by any chance about the BANK?" "No," replied Mr. Hawkes. He cleared his throat and said solemnly and impressively to Mrs. Chichester: "It is about your LATE brother--Nathaniel Kingsnorth." "Late!" cried Mrs. Chichester. "Is Nathaniel DEAD?" "Yes, madam," said Hawkes gravely. "He died ten days ago." Mrs. Chichester sat down and silently wept. Nathaniel to have died without her being with him to comfort him and arrange things with him! It was most unfortunate. Alaric tried to feel sorry, but inasmuch as his uncle had always refused to see him he could not help thinking it may have been retribution. However, he tried to show a fair and decent measure of regret. "Poor old Nat," he cried. "Eh, Ethel?" "Never saw him," answered Ethel, her face and voice totally without emotion. "You say he died ten days ago?" asked Mrs. Chichester. Mr. Hawkes bowed. "Why was I not informed? The funeral--?" "There was no funeral," replied Mr. Hawkes. "No funeral?" said Alaric in astonishment. "No," replied the lawyer. "In obedience to his written wishes he was cremated and no one was present except the chief executor and myself. If I may use Mr. Kingsnorth's words without giving pain, he said he so little regretted not having seen any of his relations for the last twenty years of his life-time he was sure THEY would regret equally little his death. On no account was anyone to wear mourning for him, nor were they to express any open sorrow. 'They wouldn't FEEL it, so why lie about it?' I use his own words," added Mr. Hawkes, as if disclaiming all responsibility for such a remarkable point of view. "What a rum old bird!" remarked Alaric, contemplatively. Mrs. Chichester wept as she said: "He was always the most unfeeling, the most heartless--the most--" "Now in his will--" interrupted the lawyer, producing a leather pocket-book filled with important-looking papers: "In his will--" he repeated-- Mrs. Chichester stopped crying: "Eh? A will?" "What?" said Alaric, beaming; "did the dear old gentleman leave a will?" Even Ethel stopped playing with "Pet" and listened languidly to the conversation. Mr. Hawkes, realising he had their complete interest, went on importantly: "As Mr. Kingsnorth's legal adviser up to the time of his untimely death I have come here to make you acquainted with some of its contents." He spread a formidable-looking document wide-open on the table, adjusted his pince-nez and prepared to read. "Dear old Nat!" said Alaric reflectively. "Do you remember, mater, we met him at Victoria Station once when I was little more than a baby? Yet I can see him now as plainly as if it were yesterday. A portly, sandy-haired old buck, with three jolly chins." "He was white toward the end, and very, very thin," said Mr. Hawkes softly. "Was he?" from Alaric. "Fancy that. It just shows, mater, doesn't it?" He bent eagerly over the table as Hawkes traced some figures with a pencil on one of the pages of the will. "How much did he leave?" And Alaric's voice rose to a pitch of well-defined interest. "His estate is valued, approximately, at some two hundred thousand pounds," replied the lawyer. Alaric gave a long, low whistle, and smiled a broad, comprehensive smile. Ethel for the first time showed a gleam of genuine interest. Mrs. Chichester began to cry again. "Perhaps it was my fault I didn't see him oftener," she said. Alaric, unable to curb his curiosity, burst out with: "How did the old boy split it up?" "To his immediate relations he left" Mr. Hawkes looked up from the will and found three pairs of eyes fixed on him. He stopped. It may be that constant association with the law courts destroys faith in human nature--but whatever the cause, it seemed to Mr. Hawkes in each of those eyes was reflected the one dominant feeling--GREED. The expression in the family's combined eyes was astonishing in its directness, its barefacedness. It struck the dignified gentleman suddenly dumb. "Well? Well?" Cried Alaric. "How much? Don't stop right in the middle of an important thing like that. You make me as nervous as a chicken." Mr. Hawkes returned to the will and after looking at it a moment without reading said: "To his immediate relations Mr. Kingsnorth left, I regret to say--NOTHING." A momentary silence fell like a pall over the stricken Chichester family. Mrs. Chichester rose, indignation flashing from the eyes that a moment since showed a healthy hope. "Nothing?" she cried incredulously. "Not a penny-piece to anyone?" ventured Alaric. The faintest suspicion of a smile flitted across Ethel's face. Hawkes looked keenly at them and answered: "I deeply regret to say--nothing." Mrs. Chichester turned to Ethel, who had begun to stroke "Pet" again. "His own flesh and blood!" cried the poor lady. "What a shabby old beggar!" commented Alaric, indignantly. "He was always the most selfish, the most--" began Mrs. Chichester, when Mr. Hawkes, who bad been turning over the pages of the document before him, gave an ejaculation of relief. "Ah! Here we have it. This, Mrs. Chichester, is how Mr. Kingsnorth expressed his attitude toward his relations in his last will and testament." "'I am the only member of the Kingsnorth family who ever made any money. All my precious relations either inherited it or married to get it.'--" "I assure you--" began Mrs. Chichester. Alaric checked her: "Half a moment, mater. Let us hear it out to the bitter end. He must have been an amusin' old gentleman!" Mr. Hawkes resumed: "--'consequently I am not going to leave one penny to relations who are already, well-provided for.'" Mrs. Chichester protested vehemently: "But we are NOT provided for." "No," added Alaric. "Our bank's bust." "We're ruined," sobbed Mrs. Chichester. "Broke!" said Alaric. "We've nothing!" wailed the old lady. "Not thruppence," from the son. "Dear, dear," said the lawyer. "How extremely painful." "PAINFUL? That's not the word. Disgustin' I call it," corrected Alaric. Mr. Hawkes thought a moment. Then he said: "Under those circumstances, perhaps a clause in the will may have a certain interest and an element of relief." As two drowning people clinging to the proverbial straws the mother and son waited breathlessly for Mr. Hawkes to go on. Ethel showed no interest whatever. "When Mr. Kingsnorth realised that he had not very much longer to live he spoke constantly of his other sister--Angela," resumed Mr. Hawkes. "Angela?" cried Mrs. Chichester in surprise; "why, she is dead." "That was why he spoke of her," said Hawkes gravely. "And not a word of me?" asked Mrs. Chichester. "We will come to that a little later," and Mr. Hawkes again referred to the will. "It appears that this sister Angela married at the age of twenty, a certain Irishman by name O'Connell, and was cut off by her family--" "The man was an agitator--a Fenian agitator. He hadn't a penny. It was a disgrace--" Alaric checked his mother again. Hawkes resumed: "--was cut off by her family--went to the United States of America with her husband, where a daughter was born. After going through many, conditions of misery with her husband, who never seemed to prosper, she died shortly after giving birth to the child." He looked up: "Mr. Kingsnorth elsewhere expresses his lasting regret that in one of his sister's acute stages of distress she wrote to him asking him, for the first time, to assist her. He replied: 'You have made your bed; lie in it.'" "She had disgraced the family. He was justified," broke in Mrs. Chichester. "With death approaching," resumed Hawkes, "Mr. Kingsnorth's conscience began to trouble him and the remembrance of his treatment of his unfortunate sister distressed him. If the child were alive he wanted to see her. I made inquiries and found that the girl was living with her father in very poor circumstances in the City of New York. We sent sufficient funds for the journey, together with a request to the father to allow her to visit Mr. Kingsnorth in England. The father consented. However, before the young girl sailed Mr. Kingsnorth died." "Oh!" cried Alaric, who had been listening intently. "Died, eh? That was too bad. Died before seeing her. Did you let her sail, Mr. Hawkes?" "Yes. We thought it best to bring her over here and acquaint her with the sad news after her arrival. Had she known before sailing she might not have taken the journey." "But what was the use of bringing her over when Mr. Kingsnorth was dead?" asked Alaric. "For this reason," replied Hawkes: "Realising that he might never see her, Mr. Kingsnorth made the most remarkable provision for her in his will." "Provided for HER and not for--?" began Mrs. Chichester. "Here is the provision," continued Mr. Hawkes, again reading from the will: "'I hereby direct that the sum of one thousand pounds a year be paid to any respectable well-connected woman of breeding and family, who will undertake the education and up-bringing of my niece, Margaret O'Connell, in accordance with the dignity and tradition of the Kingsnorths'--" "He remembers a niece he never saw and his own sister--" and Mrs. Chichester once more burst into tears. "It beats cock-fighting, that's all I can say," cried Alaric. "It simply beats cock-fighting." Mr. Hawkes went on reading: "'If at the expiration of one year my niece is found to be, in the judgment of my executors, unworthy of further interest, she is to be returned to her father and the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds a year paid her to provide her with the necessities of life. If, on the other hand, she proves herself worthy of the best traditions of the Kingsnorth family, the course of training is to be continued until she reaches the age of twenty-one, when I hereby bequeath to her the sum of five thousand pounds a year, to be paid to her annually out of my estate during her life-time and to be continued after her death to any male issue she may have--by marriage.'" Mr. Hawkes stopped, and once again looked at the strange family. Mrs. Chichester was sobbing: "And me--his own sister--" Alaric was moving restlessly about: "Beats any thing I've heard of. Positively anything." Ethel was looking intently at "Pet's" coat. Hawkes continued: "'On no account is her father to be permitted to visit her, and should the course of training be continued after the first year, she must not on any account visit her father. After she reaches the age of twenty-one she can do as she pleases.'" Mr. Hawkes folded up the will with the air of a man who had finished an important duty. Alaric burst out with: "I don't see how that clause interests us in the least, Mr. Hawkes." The lawyer removed his pince-nez and looking steadily at Mrs. Chichester said: "Now, my dear Mrs. Chichester, it was Mr. Kingsnorth's wish that the first lady to be approached on the matter of undertaking the training of the young lady should be--YOU!" Mrs. Chichester rose in astonishment: "I?" Alaric arose in anger: "My mother?" Ethel quietly pulled "Pet's" ear and waited. Mr. Hawkes went on quietly: "Mr. Kingsnorth said, 'he would be sure at least of his niece having a strict up-bringing in the best traditions of the Kingsnorths, and that though his sister Monica was somewhat narrow and conventional in ideas'--I use his own words--'still he felt sure she was eminently fitted to undertake such a charge.' There--you have the whole object of my visit. Now--will you undertake the training of the young lady?" "I never heard of such a thing!" cried Mrs. Chichester furiously. "Ridiculous!" said Ethel calmly. "Tush and nonsense," with which Alaric dismissed the whole matter. "Then I may take it you refuse?" queried the astonished lawyer. "Absolutely!" from Mrs. Chichester. "Entirely!" from Ethel. "I should say so!" and Alaric brought up the rear. Mr. Hawkes gathered up his papers and in a tone of regret ventured: "Then there is nothing more to be said. I was only carrying out the dead man's wishes by coming here and making the facts known to you. Mr. Kingsnorth was of the opinion that you were well provided for and, that, outside of the sentimental reason that the girl was your own niece, the additional thousand pounds a year might be welcome as, say, pin-money for your daughter." Ethel laughed her dry, cheerless little laugh. "Ha! Pin-money!" Alaric grew suddenly grave and drew his mother and sister out of Mr. Hawkes' vicinity. "Listen, mater--Ethel. It's a cool thousand, you know? Thousands don't grow on raspberry bushes when your bank's gone up. What do ye think, eh?" Mrs. Chichester brightened: "It would keep things together," she said. "The wolf from the door," urged Alaric. "No charity," chimed in Ethel. Mrs. Chichester looked from daughter to son. "Well? What do you think?" "Whatever you say, mater," from Alaric. "You decide, mamma," from Ethel. "We might try it for a while, at least," said Mrs. Chichester. "Until we can look around," agreed Alaric. "Something may be saved from the wreck," reasoned Mrs. Chichester more hopefully. "Until _I_ get really started," said Alaric with a sense of climax. Mrs. Chichester turned to her daughter: "Ethel?" "Whatever you decide, mamma." Mrs. Chichester thought a moment--then decided "I'll do it," she said determinedly. "It will be hard, but I'll do it." She went slowly and deliberately to Mr. Hawkes, who by this time had disposed of all his documents and was preparing to go. A look in Mrs. Chichester's face stopped him. He smiled at her. "Well?" he asked. "For the sake of the memory of my dead sister, I will do as Nathaniel wished," said Mrs. Chichester with great dignity and self-abnegation. Mr. Hawkes breathed a sigh of relief. "Good!" he said. "I'm delighted. It is splendid. Now that you have decided so happily there is one thing more I must tell you. The young lady is not to be told the conditions of the will, unless at the discretion of the executors should, some crisis arise. She will be to all intents and purposes--your GUEST. In that way we may be able to arrive at a more exact knowledge of her character. Is that understood?" The family signified severally and collectively that it was. "And now," beamed the lawyer, happy at the fortunate outcome of a situation that a few moments before seemed so strained, "where is your bell?" Alaric indicated the bell. "May I ring?" asked the lawyer. "Certainly," replied Alaric. Mr. Hawkes rang. Alaric watched him curiously: "Want a sandwich or something?" Hawkes smiled benignly on the unfortunate family and rubbed his hands together self-satisfiedly: "Now I would like to send for the young lady,--the heiress." "Where is she?" asked Mrs. Chichester. "She arrived from New York this morning and I brought her straight here. I had to call on a client, so I gave her your address and told her to come here and wait." At the word "wait" an uneasy feeling took possession of Ethel. That was the word used by that wretched-looking little creature who had so rudely intruded upon her and Brent. Could it be possible--? The footman entered at that moment. The lawyer questioned him. "Is there a young lady waiting for Mr. Hawkes?" "A YOUNG LADY, sir? No, sir." answered Jarvis. Mr. Hawkes was puzzled. What in the world had become of her? He told the cabman distinctly where to go. Jarvis opened the door to go out, when a thought suddenly occurred to him. He turned back and spoke to the lawyer: "There's a young person sitting in the kitchen: came up and knocked at the door and said she had to wait until a gentleman called. Can't get nothin' out of her." Hawkes brightened up. "That must be Miss O'Connell," he said. He turned to Mrs. Chichester and asked her if he might bring the young lady in there. "My niece in the kitchen!" said Mrs. Chichester to the unfortunate footman. "Surely you should know the difference between my niece and a servant!" "I am truly sorry, madam," replied Jarvis in distress, "but there was nothing to tell." "Another such mistake and you can leave my employment," Mrs. Chichester added severely. Jarvis pleaded piteously: "Upon my word, madam, no one could tell." "That will do," thundered Mrs. Chichester. "Bring my niece here--at once." The wretched Jarvis departed on his errand muttering to himself: "Wait until they see her. Who in the world could tell she was their relation." Mrs. Chichester was very angry. "It's monstrous!" she exclaimed. "Stoopid!" agreed Alaric. "Doocid stoopid." Ethel said nothing. The one thought that was passing through her mind was: "How much did that girl hear Brent say and how much did she see Mr. Brent do?" Hawkes tried to smooth the misunderstanding out. "I am afraid it was all my fault," he explained. "I told her not to talk. To just say that she was to wait. I wanted to have an opportunity to explain matters before introducing her." "She should have been brought straight to me," complained Mrs. Chichester. "The poor thing." Then with a feeling of outraged pride she said: "My niece in kitchen. A Kingsnorth mistaken for a servant!" The door opened and Jarvis came into the room. There was a look of half-triumph on his face as much as to say: "Now who would not make a mistake like that? Who could tell this girl was your niece?" He beckoned Peg to come into the room. Then the Chichester family received the second shock they had experienced that day--one compared with which the failure of the bank paled into insignificance. When they saw the strange, shabby, red-haired girl slouch into the room, with her parcels and that disgraceful-looking dog, they felt the hand of misfortune had indeed fallen upon them. CHAPTER V PEGS MEETS HER AUNT As Peg wandered into the room Mrs. Chichester and Alaric looked at her in horrified amazement. Ethel took one swift glance at her and then turned her attention to "Pet." Jarvis looked reproachfully at Mrs. Chichester as much as to say: "What did I tell you?" and went out. Alaric whispered to his mother: "Oh, I say, really, you know--it isn't true! It CAN'T be." "Pet" suddenly saw "Michael" and began to bark furiously at him. "Michael" responded vigorously until Peg quieted him. At this juncture Mr. Hawkes came forward and, taking Peg gently by the arm, reassured her by saying: "Come here, my dear. Come here. Don't be frightened. We're all your friends." He brought Peg over to Mrs. Chichester, who was staring at her with tears of mortification in her eyes. When Peg's eyes met her aunt's she bobbed a little curtsey she used to do as a child whenever she met a priest or some of the gentle folk. Mrs. Chichester went cold when she saw the gauche act. Was it possible that this creature was her sister Angela's child? It seemed incredible. "What is your name?" she asked sternly. "Peg, ma'am." "What?" "Sure me name's Peg, ma'am," and she bobbed another little curtsey. Mrs. Chichester closed her eyes and shivered. She asked Alaric to ring. As that young gentleman passed Ethel on his way to the bell he said: "It can't really be true! Eh, Ethel?" "Quaint," was all his sister replied. Hawkes genially drew Peg's attention to her aunt by introducing her: "This lady is Mrs. Chichester--your aunt." Peg looked at her doubtfully a moment then turned to Hawkes and asked him: "Where's me uncle?" "Alas! my dear child, your uncle is dead." "Dead!" exclaimed Peg in surprise. "Afther sendin' for me?" "He died just before you sailed," added Hawkes. "God rest his soul," said Peg piously. "Sure if I'd known that I'd never have come at all. I'm too late, then. Good day to yez," and she started for the door. Mr. Hawkes stopped her. "Where are you going?" "Back to me father." "Oh, nonsense." "But I must go back to me father if me uncle's dead." "It was Mr. Kingsnorth's last wish that you should stay here under your aunt's care. So she has kindly consented to give you a home." Peg gazed at Mrs. Chichester curiously. "Have yez?" she asked. Mrs. Chichester, with despair in every tone, replied: "I have!" "Thank yez," said Peg, bobbing another little curtsey, at which Mrs. Chichester covered her eyes with her hand as if to shut out some painful sight. Peg looked at Mrs. Chichester and at the significant action. There was no mistaking its significance. It conveyed dislike and contempt so plainly that Peg felt it through her whole nature. She turned to Alaric and found him regarding her as though she were some strange animal. Ethel did not deign to notice her. And this was the family her father had sent her over to England to be put in amongst. She whispered to Hawkes: "I can't stay here." "Why not?" asked the lawyer. "I'd be happier with me father," said Peg. "Nonsense. You'll be quite happy here. Quite." "They don't seem enthusiastic about us, do they?" and she looked down at "Michael" and up at Hawkes and indicated the Chichester family, who had by this time all turned their backs on her. She smiled a wan, lonely smile, and with a little pressure on "Michael's" back, murmured: "We're not wanted here, 'Michael!'" The terrier looked up at her and then buried his head under her arm as though ashamed. Jarvis came in response to the ring at that moment, bearing a pained, martyr-like expression on his face. Mrs. Chichester directed him to take away Peg's parcels and the dog. Peg frightenedly clutched the terrier. "Oh, no, ma'am," she pleaded. "Plaze lave 'Michael' with me. Don't take him away from me." "Take it away," commanded Mrs. Chichester severely, "and never let it INSIDE the house again." "Well, if ye don't want HIM inside yer house ye don't want ME inside yer house," Peg snapped back. Hawkes interposed. "Oh, come, come, Miss O'Connell, you can see the little dog whenever you want to," and he tried to take "Michael" out of her arms. "Come, let me have him." But Peg resisted. She was positive when she said: "No, I won't give him up. I won't. I had a hard enough time gettin' him ashore, I did." Hawkes pleaded again. "No," said Peg firmly. "I WILL NOT GIVE HIM UP. And that's all there is about it." The lawyer tried again to take the dog from her: "Come, Miss O'Connell, you really must be reasonable." "I don't care about being reasonable," replied Peg. "'Michael' was given to me by me father an' he's not very big and he's not a watchdog, he's a pet dog--and look--" She caught sight of Ethel's little poodle and with a cry of self-justification, she said: "See, she has a dog in the house--right here in the house. Look at it!" and she pointed to where the little ball of white wool lay sleeping on Ethel's lap. Then Peg laughed heartily: "I didn't know what it was until it MOVED." Peg finally weakened under Mr. Hawkes' powers of persuasion and on the understanding that she could see him whenever she wanted to, permitted the lawyer to take "Michael" out of her arms and give him to the disgusted footman, who held him at arm's length in mingled fear and disgust. Then Hawkes took the bag and the parcels and handed them also to Jarvis. One of them burst open, disclosing her father's parting gifts. She kept the rosary and the miniature, and wrapping up the others carefully she placed them on the top of the other articles in the outraged Jarvis's arms, and then gave him her final injunctions. Patting "Michael" on the head she said to the footman: "Ye won't hurt him, will ye?" "Michael" at that stage licked her hand and whined as though he knew they were to be separated. Peg comforted him and went on: "And I'd be much obliged to ye if ye'd give him some wather and a bone. He loves mutton bones." Jarvis, with as much dignity as he could assume, considering that he had one armful of shabby parcels and the other hand holding at arm's length a disgraceful looking mongrel, went out, almost on the verge of tears. Peg looked down and found Alaric sitting at a desk near the door staring at her in disgust. He was such a funny looking little fellow to Peg that she could not feel any resentment toward him. His sleek well-brushed hair; his carefully creased and admirably-cut clothes; his self-sufficiency; and above all his absolute assurance that whatever he did was right, amused Peg immensely. He was an entirely new type of young man to her and she was interested. She smiled at him now in a friendly way and said: "Ye must know 'Michael' is simply crazy about mutton. He LOVES mutton." Alaric turned indignantly away from her. Peg followed him up. He had begun to fascinate her. She looked at his baby-collar with a well-tied bow gleaming from the centre; at his pointed shoes; his curious, little, querulous look. He was going to be good fun for Peg. She wanted to begin at once. And she would have too, not the icy accents of Mrs. Chichester interrupted Peg's plans for the moment. "Come here," called Mrs. Chichester. Peg walked over to her and when she got almost beside the old lady she turned to have another glimpse at Alaric and gave him a little, chuckling, good-natured laugh. "Look at ME!" commanded Mrs. Chichester sternly. "Yes, ma'am," replied Peg, with a little curtsey. Mrs. Chichester closed her eyes for a moment. What was to be done with this barbarian? Why should this affliction be thrust upon her? Then she thought of the thousand pounds a year. She opened her eyes and looked severely at Peg. "Don't call me 'ma'am'!" she said. "No, ma'am," replied Peg nervously, then instantly corrected herself: "No, ANT! No, ANT!" "AUNT!" said Mrs. Chichester haughtily. "AUNT. Not ANT." Alaric commented to Ethel: "ANT! Like some little crawly insect." Peg heard him, looked at him and laughed. He certainly was odd. Then she looked at Ethel, then at Mr. Hawkes, then all round the room as if she missed someone. Finally she faced Mrs. Chichester again. "Are you me Uncle Nat's widdy?" "No, I am not," contradicted the old lady sharply. "Then how are you me--AUNT?" demanded Peg. "I am your mother's sister," replied Mrs. Chichester. "Oh!" cried Peg. "Then your name's Monica?" "It is." "What do ye think of that?" said Peg under her breath. She surreptitiously opened out the miniature and looked at it, then she scrutinised her aunt. She shook her head. "Ye don't look a bit like me poor mother did." "What have you there?" asked Mrs. Chichester. "Me poor mother's picture," replied Peg softly. "Let me see it!" and Mrs. Chichester held out her hand for it. Peg showed it to Mrs. Chichester, all the while keeping a jealous hold on a corner of the frame. No one would ever take it away from her. The old lady looked at it intently. Finally she said: "She had changed very much since I last saw her--and in one year." "Sorrow and poverty did that, Aunt Monica," and the tears sprang unbidden into Peg's eyes. "AUNT will be quite sufficient. Put it away," and Mrs. Chichester released the miniature. Peg hid it immediately in her bosom. "Sit down," directed the old lady in the manner of a judge preparing to condemn a felon. Peg sprawled into a chair with a great sigh of relief. "Thank ye, ant--AUNT," she said. Then she looked at them all alternately and laughed heartily: "Sure I had no idea in the wurrld I had such fine relations. Although of course my father often said to me, 'Now, Peg,' he would say, 'now, Peg, ye've got some grand folks on yer mother's side'--" "Folks! Really--Ethel!" cried Alaric disgustedly. "Yes, that's what he said. Grand FOLKS on me mother's side." Mrs. Chichester silenced Peg. "That will do. Don't sprawl in that way. Sit up. Try and remember where you are. Look at your cousin," and the mother indicated Ethel. Peg sat up demurely and looked at Ethel. She chuckled to herself as she turned back to Mrs. Chichester: "Is she me cousin?" "She is," replied the mother. "And I am too," said Alaric. "Cousin Alaric." Peg looked him all over and laughed openly. Then she turned to Ethel again, and then looked all around the room and appeared quite puzzled. Finally she asked Mrs. Chichester the following amazing question: "Where's her husband?" Ethel sprang to her feet. The blow was going to fall. She was to be disgraced before her family by that beggar-brat. It was unbearable. Mrs. Chichester said in astonishment: "Her HUSBAND?" "Yes," replied Peg insistently. "I saw her husband when I came in here first. I've been in this room before, ye know. I came in through those windows and I saw, her and her husband, she was--" "What in heaven's name does she mean?" cried Alaric. Peg persisted: "I tell ye it was SHE sent me to the kitchen--she and HIM." "Him? Who in the world does she mean?" from Alaric. "To whom does she refer, Ethel?" from Mrs. Chichester. "Mr. Brent," said Ethel with admirable self-control. She was on thin ice, but she must keep calm. Nothing may come out yet if only she can silence that little chatterbox. Alaric burst out laughing. Mrs. Chichester looked relieved. Peg went on: "Sure, she thought I was a servant looking for a place and Mr. Hawkes told me not to say a word until he came--and I didn't say a word--" Mr. Hawkes now broke in and glancing at his watch said: "My time, is short. Miss O'Connell, it was your uncle's wish that you should make your home here with Mrs. Chichester. She will give you every possible advantage to make you a happy, well-cared for, charming young lady." Peg laughed. "LADY? ME? Sure now--" The lawyer went on: "You must do everything she tells you. Try and please her in all things. On the first day of every month I will call and find out what progress you're making." He handed Mrs. Chichester a card: "This is my business address should you wish to communicate with me. And now I must take my leave." He picked up his hat and cane from the table. Peg sprang up breathlessly and frightenedly. Now that Mr. Hawkes was going she felt deserted. He had at least been gentle and considerate to her. She tugged at his sleeve and looked straight up into his face with her big blue eyes wide open and pleaded: "Plaze, sir, take me with ye and send me back to New York. I'd rather go home. Indade I would. I don't want to be a lady. I want me father. Plaze take me with you." "Oh--come--come" Mr. Hawkes began. "I want to go back to me father. Indade I do." Her eyes filled with tears. "He mightn't like me to stay here now that me uncle's dead." "Why, it was your uncle's last wish that you should come here. Your father will be delighted at your good fortune." He gently pressed her back into the chair and smiled pleasantly and reassuringly down at her. Just when he had negotiated everything most satisfactorily to have Peg endeavour to upset it all was most disturbing. He went on again: "Your aunt will do everything in her power to make you feel at home. Won't you, Mrs. Chichester?" "Everything!" said Mrs. Chichester, as if she were walking over her own grave. Peg looked at her aunt ruefully: her expression was most forbidding: at Ethel's expressive back; lastly at Alaric fitting a cigarette into a gold mounted holder. Her whole nature cried out against them. She made one last appeal to Mr. Hawkes: "DO send me back to me father!" "Nonsense, my dear Miss O'Connell. You would not disappoint your father in that way, would you? Wait for a month. I'll call on the first and I expect to hear only the most charming things about you. Now, good-bye," and he took her hand. She looked wistfully up at him: "Good-bye, sir. And thank ye very much for bein' so kind to me." Hawkes bowed to Mrs. Chichester and Ethel and went to the door. "Have a cab?" asked Alaric. "No, thank you," replied the lawyer. "I have no luggage. Like the walk. Good-day," and Peg's only friend in England passed out and left her to face this terrible English family alone. "Your name is Margaret," said Mrs. Chichester, as the door closed on Mr. Hawkes. "No, ma'am--" Peg began, but immediately corrected herself; "no, aunt--I beg your pardon--no aunt--my name is Peg," cried she earnestly. "That is only a CORRUPTION. We will call you Margaret," insisted Mrs. Chichester, dismissing the subject once and for all. But Peg was not to be turned so lightly aside. She stuck to her point. "I wouldn't know myself as Margaret--indade I wouldn't. I might forget to answer to the name of Margaret." She stopped her pleading tone and said determinedly: "My name IS Peg." Then a little softer and more plaintively she added: "Me father always calls me Peg. It would put me in mind of me father if you'd let me be called Peg, aunt." She ended her plea with a little yearning cry. "Kindly leave your father out of the conversation," snapped the old lady severely. "Then it's all I will LAVE him out of!" cried Peg, springing up and confronting the stately lady of the house. Mrs. Chichester regarded her in astonishment and anger. "No TEMPER, if you please," and she motioned Peg to resume her seat. Poor Peg sat down, breathing hard, her fingers locking and unlocking, her staunch little heart aching for the one human being she was told not to refer to. This house was not going to hold her a prisoner if her father's name was to be slighted or ignored; on that point she was determined. Back to America she would go if her father's name was ever insulted before her. Mrs. Chichester's voice broke the silence: "You must take my daughter as your model in all things." Peg looked at Ethel and all her anger vanished temporarily. The idea of taking that young lady as a model appealed to her as being irresistibly amusing. She smiled broadly at Ethel. Mrs. Chichester went on: "Everything my daughter does you must try and imitate. You could not have a better example. Mould yourself on her." "Imitate her, is it?" asked Peg innocently with a twinkle in her eye and the suggestion of impishness in her manner. "So far as lies in your power," replied Mrs. Chichester. A picture of Ethel struggling in Brent's arms suddenly flashed across Peg, and before she could restrain herself she had said in exact imitation of her cousin: "Please don't! It is so hot this morning!" Then Peg laughed loudly to Ethel's horror and Mrs. Chichester's disgust. "How dare you!" cried her aunt. Peg looked at her a moment, all the mirth died away. "Mustn't I laugh in this house?" she asked. "You have a great deal to learn." "Yes, aunt." "Your education will begin to-morrow." "Sure that will be foine," and she chuckled. "No levity, if you please," said her aunt severely. "No, aunt." "Until some decent clothes can be procured for you we will find some from my daughter's wardrobe." "Sure I've a beautiful dhress in me satchel I go to Mass in on Sundays. It's all silk, and--" Mrs. Chichester stopped her: "That will do. Ring, Alaric, please." As Alaric walked over to press the electric button he looked at Peg in absolute disgust and entire disapproval. Peg caught the look and watched him go slowly across the room. He had the same morbid fascination for her that some uncanny elfish creature might have. If only her father could see him! She mentally decided to sketch Alaric and send it out to her father with a full description of him. Mrs. Chichester again demanded her attention. "You must try and realise that you have an opportunity few girls in your position are ever given. I only hope you will try and repay our interest and your late uncle's wishes by obedience, good conduct and hard study." "Yes, aunt," said Peg demurely. Then she added quickly: "I hope ye don't mind me not having worn me silk dress, but ye see I couldn't wear it on the steamer--it 'ud have got all wet. Ye have to wear yer thravellin' clothes when ye're thravellin'." "That will do," said Mrs. Chichester sharply. "Well, but I don't want ye to think me father doesn't buy me pretty clothes. He's very proud of me, an' I am of him--an'--" "That will do," commanded Mrs. Chichester as Jarvis came in reply to the bell. "Tell Bennett to show my niece to the Mauve Room and to attend her," said Mrs. Chichester to the footman. Then turning to Peg she dismissed her. "Go with him." "Yes, aunt," replied Peg. "An' I am goin' to thry and do everythin' ye want me to. I will, indade I will." Her little heart was craving for some show of kindness. If she was going to stay there she would make the best of it. She would make some friendly advances to them. She held her hand out to Mrs. Chichester: "I'm sure I'm very grateful to you for taking me to live with yez here. An' me father will be too. But ye see it's all so strange to me here, an' I'm so far away--an' I miss me father so much." Mrs. Chichester, ignoring the outstretched hand, stopped her peremptorily: "Go with him!" and she pointed up the stairs, on the first landing of which stood the portly Jarvis waiting to conduct Peg out of the family's sight. Peg dropped a little curtsey to Mrs. Chichester, smiled at Ethel, looked loftily at Alaric, then ran up the stairs and, following the footman's index finger pointing the way, she disappeared from Mrs. Chichester's unhappy gaze. The three tortured people looked at each other in dismay. "Awful!" said Alaric. "Terrible!" agreed Mrs. Chichester. "Dreadful!" nodded Ethel. "It's our unlucky day, mater!" added Alaric. "One thing is absolutely necessary," Mrs. Chichester went on to say, "she must be kept away from every one for the present." "I should say so!" cried Alaric energetically. Suddenly he ejaculated: "Good Lord! Jerry! HE mustn't see her. He'd laugh his head off at the idea of my having a relation like her. He'll probably run in to lunch." "Then she must remain in her room until he's gone," said Mrs. Chichester, determinedly. "I'll go into town now and order some things for her and see about tutors. She must be taught and at once." "Why put up with this annoyance at all?" asked Ethel, for the first time showing any real interest. Mrs. Chichester put her arm around Ethel and a gentle look came into her eyes as she said: "One thousand pounds a year--that is the reason--and rather than you or Alaric should have to make any sacrifice, dear, or have any discomfort, I would put up with worse than that." Ethel thought a moment before she replied reflectively: "Yes, I suppose you would. I wouldn't," and she went up the stairs. When she was little more than half way up Alaric, who had been watching her nervously, called to her: "Where are you off to, Ethel?" She looked down at him and a glow, all unsuspected, came into her eyes and a line of colour ran through her cheeks, and there was an unusual tremor in her voice, as she replied: "To try to make up my mind, if I can, about something. The coming of PEG may do it for me." She went on out of sight. Alaric was half-inclined to follow her. He knew she was taking their bad luck to heart withal she said so little. He was really quite fond of Ethel in a selfish, brotherly way. But for the moment he decided to let Ethel worry it out alone while he would go to the railway station and meet his friend's train. He called to his mother as she passed through the door: "Wait a minute, mater, and I'll go with you as far as the station-road and see if I can head Jerry off. His train is almost due if it's punctual." He was genuinely concerned that his old chum should not meet that impossible little red-headed Irish heathen whom an unkind fate had dropped down in their midst. At the hall-door Mrs. Chichester told Jarvis that her niece was not to leave her room without permission. As Mrs. Chichester and Alaric passed out they little dreamt that the same relentless fate was planning still further humiliations for the unfortunate family and through the new and unwelcome addition to it. CHAPTER VI JERRY Peg was shown by the maid, Bennett, into a charming old-world room overlooking the rose garden. Everything about it was in the most exquisite taste. The furniture was of white and gold, the vases of Sevres, a few admirable prints on the walls and roses everywhere. Left to her reflections, poor Peg found herself wondering how people, with so much that was beautiful around them, could live and act as the Chichester family apparently did. They seemed to borrow nothing from their once illustrious and prosperous dead. They were, it would appear, only concerned with a particularly near present. The splendour of the house awed--the narrowness of the people irritated her. What an unequal condition of things where such people were endowed with so much of the world's goods, while her father had to struggle all his life for the bare necessities! She had heard her father say once that the only value money had, outside of one's immediate requirements, was to be able to relieve other people's misery: and that if we just spent it on ourselves money became a monster that stripped life of all happiness, all illusion, all love--and made it just a selfish mockery of a world! How wonderfully true her father's diagnosis was! Here was a family with everything to make them happy--yet none of them seemed to breathe a happy breath, think a happy thought, or know a happy hour. The maid had placed Peg's scanty assortment of articles on the dressing-table. They looked so sadly out of place amid the satin-lined boxes and perfumed drawers that Peg felt another momentary feeling of shame. Since her coming into the house she had experienced a series of awakenings. She sturdily overcame the feeling and changed her cheap little travelling suit for one of the silk dresses her father had bought her in New York. By the time she had arranged her hair with a big pink ribbon and put on the precious brown silk garment she began to feel more at ease. After all, who were they to intimidate her? If she did not like the house and the people, after giving them a fair trial, she would go back to New York. Very much comforted by the reflection and having exhausted all the curious things in the little Mauve-Room she determined to see the rest of the house. At the top of the stairs she met the maid Bennett. "Mrs. Chichester left word that you were not to leave your room without permission. I was just going to tell you," said Bennett. All Peg's independent Irish blood flared up. What would she be doing shut up in a little white-and-gold room all day? She answered the maid excitedly: "Tell Mrs. CHI-STER I am not goin' to do anythin' of the kind. As long as I stay in this house I'll see every bit of it!" and she swept past the maid down the stairs into the same room for the third time. "You'll only get me into trouble," cried the maid. "No, I won't. I wouldn't get you into trouble for the wurrld. I'll get all the trouble and I'll get it now." Peg ran across, opened the door connecting with the hall and called out at the top of her voice: "Aunt! Cousins! Aunt! Come here, I want to tell ye about myself!" "They've all gone out," said the maid quickly. "Then what are ye makin' such a fuss about? You go out too." She watched the disappointed Bennett leave the room and then began a tour of inspection. She had never seen so many strange things outside of a museum. Fierce men in armour glared at her out of massive frames: old gentlemen in powdered wigs smiled pleasantly at her; haughty ladies in breath-bereaving coiffures stared superciliously right through her. She felt most uncomfortable in such strange company. She turned from the gallery and entered the living room. Everything about it was of the solid Tudor days and bespoke, even as the portraits, a period when the family must have been of some considerable importance. She wandered about the room touching some things timidly--others boldly. For example--on the piano she found a perfectly carved bronze statuette of Cupid. She gave a little elfish cry of delight, took the statuette in her arms and kissed it. "Cupid! me darlin'. Faith, it's you that causes all the mischief in the wurrld, ye divil ye!" she cried. All her depression vanished. She was like a child again. She sat down at the piano and played the simple refrain and sang in her little girlish tremulous voice, one of her father's favourite songs, her eyes on Cupid: "Oh! the days are gone when Beauty bright My heart's charm wove! When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love! New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As Love's young dream! No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As Love's young dream." As she let the last bars die away and gave Cupid a little caress, and was about to commence the neat verse a vivid flash of lightning played around the room, followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder. Peg cowered down into a deep chair. All the laughter died from her face and the joy in her heart. She made the sign of the cross, knelt down and prayed to Our Lady of Sorrows. By this time the sky was completely leaden in hue and rain was pouring down. Again the darkening room was lit up by a vivid forked flash and the crash of the thunder came instantly. The storm was immediately overhead. Peg closed her eyes, as she did when a child, while her lips moved in prayer. Into the room through the window came a young man, his coat-collar turned up, rain pouring from his hat; inside his coat was a terrified-looking dog. The man came well into the room, turning down the collar of his coat; and shaking the moisture from his clothes, when he suddenly saw the kneeling figure of Peg. He looked down at her in surprise. She was intent on her prayers. "Hello!" cried the young man. "Frightened, eh?" Peg looked up and saw him staring down at her with a smile on his lips. Inside his coat was her precious little dog, trembling with fear. The terrier barked loudly when he saw his mistress. Peg sprang up, clutched "Michael" away from the stranger, just as another blinding flash played around the room followed by a deafening report. Peg ran across to the door shouting: "Shut it out! Shut it out!" She stood there trembling, covering her eyes with one hand, with the other she held on to the overjoyed "MICHAEL," who was whining with glee at seeing her again. The amazed and amused young man closed the windows and the curtains. Then he moved down toward Peg. "Don't come near the dog, sir. Don't come near it!" She opened a door and found it led into a little reception room. She fastened "MICHAEL" with a piece of string to a chair in the room and came back to look again at the stranger, who had evidently rescued her dog from the storm. He was a tall, bronzed, athletic-looking, broad shouldered young man of about twenty-six, with a pleasant, genial, magnetic manner and a playful humour lurking in his eyes. As Peg looked him all over she found that he was smiling down at her. "Does the dog belong to you?" he queried. "What were you doin' with him?" she asked in reply. "I found him barking at a very high-spirited mare." "MARE?" cried Peg. "WHERE?" "Tied to the stable-door." "The stable-door? Is that where they put 'MICHAEL'?" Once again the lightning flashed vividly and the thunder echoed dully through the room. Peg shivered. The stranger reassured her. "Don't be frightened. It's only a summer storm." "Summer or winter, they shrivel me up," gasped Peg. The young man walked to the windows and drew back the curtains. "Come and look at it," he said encouragingly. "They're beautiful in this part of the country. Come and watch it." "I'll not watch it!" cried Peg. "Shut it out!" Once more the young man closed the curtains. Peg looked at him and said in an awe-struck voice: "They say if ye look at the sky when the lightnin' comes ye can see the Kingdom of Heaven. An' the sight of it blinds some and kills others--accordin' to the state of grace ye're in." "You're a Catholic?" said the stranger. "What else would I be?" asked Peg in surprise. Again the lightning lit the room and, after some seconds, came the deep rolling of the now distant thunder. Peg closed her eyes again and shivered. "Doesn't it seem He is angry with us for our sins?" she cried. "With ME, perhaps--not with you," answered the stranger. "What do ye mane by that?" asked Peg. "You don't know what sin is," replied the young man. "And who may you be to talk to me like that?" demanded Peg. "My name is Jerry," said the stranger. "JERRY?" and Peg looked at him curiously. "Yes. What is yours?" "Peg!" and there was a sullen note of fixed determination in her tone. "Peg, eh?" and the stranger smiled. She nodded and looked at him curiously. What a strange name he had--JERRY! She had never heard such a name before associated with such a distinguished-looking man. She asked him again slowly to make certain she had heard aright. "Jerry, did ye say?" "Just plain Jerry," he answered cheerfully. "And you're Peg." She nodded again with a quick little smile: "Just plain Peg." "I don't agree with you," said the young man. "I think you are very charming." "Ye mustn't say things like that with the thunder and lightnin' outside," answered Peg, frowning. "I mean it," from the man who called himself "Jerry." "No, ye don't mane it," said Peg positively. "The man who MANES them things never sez them. My father always told me to be careful of the fellow that sez flattherin' things right to yer face. 'He's no good, Peg,' my father sez; 'He's no good.'" Jerry laughed heartily. "Your father is right, only his doctrine hardly applies in this instance. I didn't mean it as flattery. Just a plain statement of fact." After a pause he went on: "Who are you?" "I'm me aunt's niece," replied Peg, looking at him furtively. Jerry laughed again. "And who is your aunt?" "Mrs. Chi-ster." "Whom?" Poor Peg tried again at the absurd tongue-tying name. "My aunt is Mrs. Chi-sister." "Mrs. Chichester?" asked Jerry in surprise. "That's it," said Peg. "How extraordinary!" "Isn't it? Ye wouldn't expect a fine lady like her to have a niece like me, would ye?" "That isn't what I meant," corrected Jerry. "Yes, it is what ye meant. Don't tell untruths with the storm ragin' outside," replied Peg. "I was thinking that I don't remember Alaric ever telling me that he had such a charming cousin." "Oh, do you know Alaric?" asked Peg with a quick smile. "Very well," answered Jerry. Peg's smile developed into a long laugh. "And why that laugh?" queried Jerry. "I'd like me father to see Alaric. I'd like him just to see Alaric for one minnit." "Indeed?" "Yes, indade. Ye know ALARIC, do ye?--isn't it funny how the name suits him?--ALARIC! there are very few people a name like that would get along with--but fits HIM all right--doesn't it? Well, he didn't know I was alive until I dropped down from the clouds this mornin'." "Where did you drop from?" "New York." "Really? How odd." "Not at all. It's nearly as big as London and there's nothin' odd about New York." "Were you born there?" asked Jerry. "I was," answered Peg. "By way of old Ireland, eh?" "How did ye guess that?" queried Peg, not quite certain whether to be pleased or angry. "Your slight--but DELIGHTFUL accent," replied Jerry. "ACCENT is it?" and Peg looked at him in astonishment. "Sure I'VE no accent. I just speak naturally. It's YOU have the accent to my way of thinkin'." "Really?" asked the amused Jerry. Peg imitated the young man's well-bred, polished tone: "Wah ye bawn theah?" Jerry laughed immoderately. Who was this extraordinary little person? was the one thought that was in his mind. "How would you say it?" he asked. "I'd say it naturally. I would say: 'Were ye borrn there?' I wouldn't twist the poor English language any worse than it already is." Peg had enough of the discussion and started off on another expedition of discovery by standing on a chair and examining some china in a cabinet. Jerry turned up to the windows and drew back the curtains, threw the windows wide open and looked up at the sky. It was once more a crystal blue and the sun was shining vividly. He called to Peg: "The storm is over. The air is clear of electricity. All the anger has gone from the heavens. See?" Peg said reverently: "Praise be to God for that." Then she went haphazardly around the room examining everything, sitting in various kinds of chairs, on the sofa, smelling the flowers and wherever she went Jerry followed her, at a little distance. "Are you going to stay here?" he reopened the conversation with. "Mebbe I will and mebbe I won't," was Peg's somewhat unsatisfactory answer. "Did your aunt send for you?" "No--me uncle." "Indeed?" "Yes, indade; me Uncle Nat." "NAT?" "Nathaniel Kingsnorth--rest his soul." "Nathaniel Kingsnorth!" cried Jerry in amazement Peg nodded. "Sleepin' in his grave, poor man." "Why, then you're Miss Margaret O'Connell?" "I am. How did ye know THAT?" "I was with your uncle when he died." "WERE ye?" "He told me all about you." "Did he? Well, I wish the poor man 'ud ha' lived. An' I wish he'd a' thought o' us sooner. He with all his money an' me father with none, an' me his sister's only child." "What does your father do?" Peg took a deep breath and answered eagerly. She was on the one subject about which she could talk freely--all she needed was a good listener. This strange man, unlike her aunt, seemed to be the very person to talk to on the one really vital subject to Peg. She said breathlessly: "Sure me father can do anythin' at all--except make money. An' when he does MAKE it he can't kape it. He doesn't like it enough. Nayther do I. We've never had very much to like, but we've seen others around us with plent an' faith we've been the happiest--that we have." She only stopped to take breath before on she went again: "There have been times when we've been most starvin', but me father never lost his pluck or his spirits. Nayther did I. When times have been the hardest I've never heard a word of complaint from me father, nor seen a frown on his face. An' he's never used a harsh word to me in me life. Sure we're more like boy and girl together than father and daughther." Her eyes began to fill and her voice to break. "An' I'm sick for the sight of him. An' I'm sure he is for me--for his 'Peg o' my Heart,' as he always calls me." She covered her eyes as the tears trickled down through her fingers. Under her breath Jerry heard her saying: "I wish I was back home--so I do." He was all compassion in a moment. Something in the loneliness and staunchness of the little girl appealed to him. "Don't do that," he said softly, as he felt the moisture start into his own eyes. Peg unpinned her little handkerchief and carefully wiped away her tears and just as carefully folded the handkerchief up again and pinned it back by her side. "I don't cry often," she said. "Me father never made me do it. I never saw HIM cry but twice in his life--once when he made a little money and we had a Mass said for me mother's soul, an' we had the most beautiful candles on Our Lady's altar. He cried then, he did. And when I left him to come here on the ship. And then only at the last minnit. He laughed and joked with me all the time we were together--but when the ship swung away from the dock he just broke down and cried like a little child. 'My Peg!' he kep' sayin'; 'My little Peg!' I tell ye I wanted to jump off that ship an' go back to him--but we'd started--an' I don't know how to swim." How it relieved her pent-up feelings to talk to some one about her father! Already she felt she had known Jerry for years. In a moment she went on again: "I cried meself to sleep THAT night, I did. An' many a night, too, on that steamer." "I didn't want to come here--that I didn't. I only did it to please me father. He thought it 'ud be for me good." "An' I wish I hadn't come--that I do. He's missin' me every minnit--an' I'm missin' him. An' I'm not goin' to be happy here, ayther." "I don't want to be a lady. An' they won't make me one ayther if I can help it. 'Ye can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear,' that's what me father always said. An' that's what I am. I'm a sow's ear." She stopped,--her eyes fixed on the ground. Jerry was more than moved at this entirely human and natural outbreak. It was even as looking into some one's heart and brain and hearing thoughts spoken aloud and seeing the nervous workings of the heart. When she described herself in such derogatory terms, a smile of relief played on Jerry's face as he leaned over to her and said: "I'm afraid I cannot agree with you." She looked up at him and said indifferently: "It doesn't make the slightest bit of difference to me whether ye do or not. That's what I am. I'm a sow's ear." He reasoned with her: "When the strangeness wears off you'll be very happy." "Do yez know the people here--the Chi-sters?" "Oh, yes. Very well." "Then what makes ye think I'll be happy among them?" "Because you'll know that you're pleasing your father." "But I'm all alone." "You're among friends." Peg shook her head and said bitterly: "No, I'm not. They may be me RELATIONS, but they're not me FRIENDS. They're ashamed of me." "Oh, no!" interrupted Jerry. "Oh, yes," contradicted Peg. "I tell ye they are ashamed of me. They sent me to the kitchen when I first came here. And now they put 'MICHAEL' to slape in the stable. I want ye to understand 'MICHAEL' is not used to that. He always sleeps with me father." She was so unexpected that Jerry found himself on the verge of tears one moment, and the next something she would say, some odd look or quaint inflection would compel his laughter again. He had a mental picture of "MICHAEL," the pet of Peg's home, submitting to the indignity of companionship with mere horses. Small wonder he was snapping at Ethel's mare, when Jerry, discovered him. He turned again to Peg and said: "When they really get to know you, Miss O'Connell, they will be just as proud of you as your father is--as--I would be." Peg looked at him in whimsical astonishment: "You'd be? Why should YOU be proud of ME?" "I'd be more than proud if you'd look on me as your friend." "A FRIEND is it?" cried Peg warily. "Sure I don't know who you are at all," and she drew away from him. She was on her guard. Peg made few friends. Friendship to her was not a thing to be lightly given or accepted. Why, this man, calling himself by the outlandish name of "Jerry," should walk in out of nowhere, and offer her his friendship, and expect her to jump at it, puzzled her. It also irritated her. Who WAS he? Jerry explained: "Oh, I can give you some very good references. For instance, I went to the same college as your cousin Alaric." Peg looked at him in absolute disdain. "Did ye?" she said. "Well, I'd mention that to very few people if I were you," and she walked away from him. He followed her. "Don't you want me to be your friend?" "Sure I don't know," Peg answered quickly. "I'm like the widdy's pig that was put into a rale bed to sleep. It nayther wanted it, nor it didn't want it. The pig had done without beds all its life, and it wasn't cryin' its heart out for the loss of somethin' it had never had and couldn't miss." Jerry laughed heartily at the evident sincerity of the analogy. Peg looked straight at him: "I want to tell ye that's one thing that's in yer favour," she said. "What is?" asked Jerry. "Sure, laughter is not dead in you, as it is in every one else in this house." Whilst Jerry was still laughing, Peg suddenly joined in with him and giving him a playful slap with the back of her hand, asked him: "Who are ye at all?" "No one in particular," answered Jerry between gasps. "I can see that," said Peg candidly. "I mean what do ye do?" "Everything a little and nothing really well," Jerry replied. "I was a soldier for a while: then I took a splash at doctoring: read law: civil-engineered in South America for a year: now I'm farming." "Farming?" asked Peg incredulously. "Yes. I'm a farmer." Peg laughed as she looked at the well-cut clothes, the languid manner and easy poise. "It must be mighty hard on the land and cattle to have YOU farmin' them," she said. "It is," and he too laughed again. "They resent my methods. I'm a new farmer." "Faith ye must be." "To sum up my career I can do a whole lot of things fairly well and none of them well enough to brag about." "Just like me father," she said interestedly. "You flatter me," he replied courteously. Peg thought she detected a note of sarcasm. She turned on him fiercely: "I know I do. There isn't a man in the whole wurrld like me father. Not a man in the wurrld. But he says he's a rollin' stone and they don't amount to much in a hard-hearted wurrld that's all for makin' dollars." "Your father is right," agreed Jerry. "Money is the standard to-day and we're all valued by it." "And he's got none," cried Peg. Thoughts were coming thick and fast through her little brain. To speak of her father was to want to be near him. And she wanted him there now for that polished, well-bred gentleman to see what a wonderful man he was. She suddenly said: "Well, he's got me. I've had enough of this place. I'm goin' home now." She started up the staircase leading to the Mauve Room. Jerry called after her anxiously: "No, no! Miss O'Connell. Don't go like that." "I must," said Peg from the top of the stairs. "What will I get here but to be laughed at and jeered at by a lot of people that are not fit to even look at me father. Who are they I'd like to know that I mustn't speak his name in their presence? I love me father and sure it's easier to suffer for the want of food than the want of love!" Suddenly she raised one hand above her head and in the manner and tone of a public-speaker she astounded Jerry with the following outburst: "An' that's what the Irish are doin' all over the wurrld. They're driven out of their own country by the English and become wandherers on the face of the earth and nothin' they ever EARN'LL make up to them for the separation from their homes and their loved ones!" She finished the peroration on a high note and with a forced manner such as she had frequently heard on the platform. She smiled at the astonished Jerry and asked him: "Do ye know what that is?" "I haven't the least idea," he answered truthfully. "That's out of one of me father's speeches. Me father makes grand speeches. He makes them in the Cause of Ireland." "Oh, really! In the Cause of Ireland, eh?" said Jerry. "Yes. He's been strugglin' all his life to make Ireland free--to get her Home Rule, ye know. But the English are so ignorant. They think they know more than me father. If they'd do what me father tells them sure there'd be no more throuble in Ireland at all." "Really?" said Jerry, quite interestedly. "Not a bit of throuble. I wish me father was here to explain it to ye. He could tell ye the whole thing in a couple of hours. I wish he were here now just to give you an example of what fine speakin' really is. Do you like speeches?" "Very much--sometimes," replied Jerry, guardedly. "Me father is wondherful on a platform with a lot o' people in front of him. He's wondherful. I've seen him take two or three hundred people who didn't know they had a grievance in the wurrld--the poor cratures--they were just contented to go on bein' ground down and trampled on and they not knowing a thing about it--I've seen me father take that crowd and in five minutes, afther he had started spakin' to them ye wouldn't know they were the same people. They were all shoutin' at once, and they had murther in their eye and it was blood they were afther. They wanted to reform somethin'--they weren't sure what--but they wanted to do it--an' at the cost of life. Me father could have led them anywhere. It's a wondherful POWER he was. And magnetism. He just looks at the wake wuns an' they wilt. He turns to the brave wuns and they're ready to face cannon-balls for him. He's a born leader--that's what he is, a born leader!" She warmed to her subject: she was on her hobby-horse and she would ride it as far as this quiet stranger would let her. She went on again: "Ye know the English government are very much frightened of me father. They are indade. They put him in prison once--before I was born. They were so afraid of him they put him in prison. I wish ye could see him!" she said regretfully. "I am sure I wish I could--with all my heart. You have really aroused my keenest interest," said Jerry gravely. "He must be a very remarkable man," he added. "That's what he is," agreed Peg warmly. "An' a very wondherful lookin' man, too. He's a big, upstandin' man, with gold hair goin' grey, an' a flashin' eye an' a great magnetic voice. Everybody sez 't's the MAGNETISM in him that makes him so dangerous. An' he's as bold as a lion. He isn't frightened of anybody. He'll say anything right to your face. Oh, I wish ye could just meet him. He's not afraid to make any kind of a speech--whether it's right or not, so long as it's for the 'Cause.' Do yez like hearin' about me father?" she asked Jerry suddenly, in case she was tiring him--although how any one COULD be tired listening to the description of her Hero she could not imagine. Jerry hastened to assure her that he was really most interested. "I am not botherin' ye listenin', am I?" "Not in the least," Jerry assured her again. "Well, so long as yer not tired I'll tell ye some more. Ye know I went all through Ireland when I was a child with me father in a cart. An' the police and the constabulary used to follow us about. They were very frightened of me father, they were. They were grand days for me. Ye know he used to thry his speeches on me first. Then I'd listen to him make them in public. I used to learn them when I'd heard them often enough. I know about fifty. I'll tell ye some of them if I ever see ye again. Would ye like to hear some of them?" "Very much indeed," answered Jerry. "Well, if I STAY here ye must come some time an' I'll tell ye them. But it is not the same hearin' me that it is hearin' me father. Ye've got to see the flash of his eye hear the big sob in his voice, when he spakes of his counthry, to ralely get the full power o' them. I'll do me best for ye, of course." "Ye're English, mebbe?" she asked him suddenly. "I am," said Jerry. He almost felt inclined to apologise. "Well, sure that's not your fault. Ye couldn't help it. No one should hold that against ye. We can't all be born Irish." "I'm glad you look at it so broad-mindedly," said Jerry. "Do ye know much about Ireland?" asked Peg. "Very little, I'm ashamed to say," answered Jerry. "Well, it would be worth yer while to learn somethin' about it," said Peg. "I'll make it my business to," he assured her. "It's God country, is Ireland. And it's many a tear He must have shed at the way England mismanages it. But He is very lenient and patient with the English. They're so slow to take notice of how things really are. And some day He will punish them and it will be through the Irish that punishment will be meted out to them." She had unconsciously dropped again into her father's method of oratory, climaxing the speech with all the vigour of the rising inflection. She looked at Jerry, her face aglow with enthusiasm. "That's from another of me father's speeches. Did ye notice the way he ended it?--'through the Irish that punishment will be meted out to them!' I think 'meted out' is grand. I tell you me father has the most wondherful command of language." She stood restlessly a moment, her hands beating each other alternately. "I get so lonesome for him," she said. Suddenly with a tone of definite resolve in her voice she started up the stairs, calling over her shoulder: "I'm goin' back to him now. Good-bye!" and she ran all the way upstairs. Jerry followed her--pleading insistently: "Wait! Please wait!" She stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down at him. "Give us one month's trial--one month!" he urged. "It will be very little, out of your life and I promise you your father will not suffer through it except in losing you for that one little month. Will you? Just a month?" He spoke so earnestly and seemed so sincerely pained and so really concerned at-her going, that she came down a few steps and looked at him irresolutely: "Why do you want me to stay?" she asked him. "Because--because your late uncle was my friend. It was his last wish to do something for you. Will you? Just a month?" She struggled, with the desire to go away from all that was so foreign and distasteful to her. Then she looked at Jerry and realised, with something akin to a feeling of pleasure, that he was pleading with her to stay, and doing it in such a way as to suggest that it mattered to him. She had to admit to herself that she rather liked the look of him. He seemed honest, and even though he were English he did show an interest whenever she spoke of her father and he had promised to try and learn something about Ireland. That certainly was in his favour--just as the fact that he could laugh was, too. Quickly the thoughts ran hot-foot through Peg's brain: After all to run away now would look cowardly. Her father would be ashamed of her. This stuck-up family would laugh at her. That thought was too much. The very suggestion of Alaric laughing at her caused a sudden rush of blood to her head. Her temples throbbed. Instantly she made up her mind. She would stay. Turning to Jerry, she said: "All right, then. I'll stay--a month. But not any more than a month, though!" "Not unless you wish it." "I won't wish it--I promise ye that. One month'll be enough in this house. It's goin' to seem like a life-time." "I'm glad," said Jerry, smiling. "Ye're glad it's goin' to seem like a life-time?" "No, no!" he corrected her hastily; "I am glad you're going to stay." "Well, that's a comfort anyway. Some one'll be pleased at me stayin'." And she came down the stairs and walked over to the piano again. Jerry followed her: "I am--immensely." "All right Ye've said it!" replied Peg, looking up and finding him standing beside her. She moved away from him. Again he followed her: "And will you look on me as your friend?" This time she turned away abruptly. She did not like being followed about by a man she had only just met. "There's time enough for that," she said, and went across to the windows. "Is it so hard?" pleaded Jerry, again following her.. "I don't know whether it's hard or aisy until I thry it." "Then try," urged Jerry, going quite close to her: She faced him: "I never had anyone makin' such a fuss about havin' me for a friend before. I don't understand you at all." "Yet I'm very simple," said Jerry. "I don't doubt ye," Peg answered drily. "From what I've heard of them most of the English are--simple." He laughed and held out his hand. "What's that for?" she asked suspiciously. "To our friendship." "I never saw the likes of you in all me life." "Come--Peg." "I don't think it's necessary." "Come!" She looked into his eyes: They were fixed upon her. Without quite knowing why she found herself giving him her hand. He grasped it firmly. "Friends, Peg?" "Not yet now," she answered half defiantly, half frightenedly. "I'll wager we will be." "Don't put much on it, ye might lose." "I'll stake my life on it." "Ye don't value it much, then." "More than I did. May you be very happy amongst us, Peg." A door slammed loudly in the distance. Peg distinctly heard her aunt's voice and Alaric's. In a moment she became panic-stricken. She made one bound for the stairs and sprang up them three at a time. At the top she turned and warned him: "Don't tell any one ye saw me." "I won't," promised the astonished young man. But their secret was to be short-lived. As Peg turned, Ethel appeared at the top of the stairs and as she descended, glaring at Peg, the unfortunate girl went down backwards before her. At the same moment Mrs. Chichester and Alaric came in through the door. They all greeted Jerry warmly. Mrs. Chichester was particularly gracious. "So sorry we were out. You will stay to lunch?" "It is what I came for," replied Jerry heartily. He slipped his arm through Alaric's and led him up to the windows: "Why, Al, your cousin is adorable!" he said enthusiastically. "What?" Alaric gasped in horror. "You've met her?" "Indeed I have. And we had the most delightful time together. I want to see a great deal of her while she's here." "You're joking?" remarked Alaric cautiously. "Not at all. She has the frank honest grip on life that I like better than anything in mankind or womankind. She has made me a convert to Home Rule already." The luncheon-gong sounded in the distance. Alaric hurried to the door: "Come along, every one! Lunch!" "Thank goodness," cried Jerry, joining him. "I'm starving." Peg came quietly from behind the newell post, where she had been practically hidden, and went straight to Jerry and smiling up at him, her eyes dancing with amusement, said: "So am I starvin' too. I've not had a bite since six." "Allow me," and Jerry offered her his arm. Mrs. Chichester quickly interposed. "My niece is tired after her journey. She will lunch in her room." "Oh, but I'm not a bit tired," ejaculated Peg anxiously. "I'm not tired at all, and I'd much rather have lunch down here with Mr. Jerry." The whole family were aghast. Ethel looked indignantly at Peg. Mrs. Chichester ejaculated: "What?" Alaric, almost struck dumb, fell back upon: "Well, I mean to say!" "And you SHALL go in with Mr. Jerry," said that young gentleman, slipping Peg's arm through his own. Turning to Mrs. Chichester he asked her: "With your permission we will lead the way. Come--Peg," and he led her to the door and opened it. Peg looked up at him, a roguish light dancing in her big expressive eyes. "Thanks. I'm not so sure about that wager of yours. I think yer life is safe. I want to tell ye ye've saved mine." She put one hand gently on her little stomach and cried: "I am so hungry me soul is hangin' by a thread." Laughing gaily, the two new-found friends went in search of the dining-room. The Chichester family looked at each other. It seemed that the fatal first day of June was to be a day of shocks. "Disgraceful!" ventured Ethel. "Awful!" said the stunned Alaric. "She must be taken in hand and at once!" came in firm tones from Mrs. Chichester. "She must never be left alone again. Come quickly before she can disgrace us any further to-day." The unfortunate family, following in the wake of Peg and Jerry, found them in the dining-room chattering together like old friends. He was endeavouring to persuade Peg to try an olive. She yielded just as the family arrived. She withdrew the olive in great haste and turning to Jerry said: "Faith, there's nothin' good about it but it's colour!" In a few moments she sat down to the first formal meal is the bosom of the Chichester family. CHAPTER VII THE PASSING OF THE FIRST MONTH The days that followed were never-to-be-forgotten ones for Peg. Her nature was in continual revolt. The teaching of her whole lifetime she was told to correct. Everything she SAID, everything she LOOKED, everything she DID was wrong. Tutors were engaged to prepare her for the position she might one day enjoy through her dead uncle's will. They did not remain long. She showed either marked incapacity to acquire the slightest veneer of culture--else it was pure wilfulness. The only gleams of relief she had were on the occasions when Jerry visited the family. Whenever they could avoid Mrs. Chichester's watchful eyes they would chat and laugh and play like children. She could not understand him--he was always discovering new traits in her. They became great friends. Her letters to her father were, at first, very bitter, regarding her treatment by the family. Indeed so resentful did they become that her father wrote to her in reply urging her, if she was so unhappy, to at once return to him on the next steamer. But she did NOT. Little by little the letters softened. Occasionally, toward the end of that first month they seemed almost contented. Her father marvelled at the cause. The month she had promised to stay was drawing to an end. But one more day remained. It was to be a memorable one for Peg. Jerry had endeavoured at various times to encourage her to study. He would question her, and chide her and try to stimulate her. One day he gave her a large, handsomely-bound volume and asked her to read it at odd times and he would examine her in it when she had mastered its contents. She opened it wonderingly and found it to be "Love Stories of the World." It became Peg's treasure. She kept it hidden from every one in the house. She made a cover for it out of a piece of cloth so that no one could see the ornate binding. She would read it at night in her room, by day out in the fields or by the sea. But her favourite time and place was in the living-room, every evening after dinner. She would surround herself with books--a geography, a history of England, a huge atlas, a treatise on simple arithmetic and put the great book in the centre; making of it an island--the fount of knowledge. Then she would devour it intently until some one disturbed her. The moment she heard anyone coming she would cover it up quickly with the other books and pretend to be studying. The book was a revelation to her. It gave all her imagination full play. Through its pages treaded a stately procession of Kings and Queens--Wagnerian heroes and heroines: Shakespearian creations, melodious in verse; and countless others. It was indeed a treasure-house. It took her back to the lives and loves of the illustrious and passionate dead, and it brought her for the first time to the great fount of poetry and genius. Life began to take on a different aspect to her. All her rebellious spirit would soften under the spell of her imagination; and again all her dauntless spirit would assert itself under the petty humiliations the Chichester family frequently inflicted upon her. Next to Mrs. Chichester she saw Alaric the most. Although she could not actively dislike the little man her first feeling of amusement wore off. He simply bored her now. He was no longer funny. He seemed of so little account in the world. She saw but little of Ethel. They hardly spoke when they met. All through the month Christian Brent was a frequent visitor. If Peg only despised the Chichesters she positively loathed Brent, and with a loathing she took no pains to conceal. On his part, Brent would openly and covertly show his admiration for her. Peg was waiting for a really good chance to find out Mr. Brent's real character. The opportunity came. On the night of the last day of the trial-month, Peg was in her favourite position, lying face downward on a sofa, reading her treasure, when she became conscious of dome one being in the room watching her. She started up in a panic instinctively hiding the book behind her. She found Brent staring down at her in open admiration. Something in the intentness of his gaze caused her to spring to her feet. He smiled a sickly smile. "The book must be absorbing. What is it?" he asked. Peg faced him, the book clasped in both of her hands behind her back; her eyes flashing and her heart throbbing. Brent looked at her with marked appreciation. "You mustn't be angry, child. What is it? Eh? Something forbidden?" and he leered knowingly at her. Then he made a quick snatch at the book, saying: "Show it me!" Peg ran across the room and turning up a corner of the carpet, put the book under it, turned back the carpet, put her foot determinedly on it and turned again to face her tormentor. Brent went rapidly across to her. The instinct of the chase was quick in his blood. "A hiding-place, eh? NOW you make me really curious. Let me see." He again made a movement toward the hidden book. Peg clenched both of her hands into little fists and glared at Brent, while her breath came in quick, sharp gasps. She was prepared to defend the identity of the book at any cost. "I love spirit!" cried Brent. Then he looked at her charming dress; at her stylish coiffure; at the simple spray of flowers at her breast. He gave an ejaculation of pleasure. "What a wonderful change in a month. You most certainly would not be sent to the kitchen now. Do you know you have grown into a most attractive young lady? You are really delightful angry. And you are angry, aren't you? And with me, eh? I'm so sorry if I've offended you. Let us kiss and be friends." He made an impulsive movement toward her and tried to take her in his arms. Peg gave him a resounding box on the ear. With a muffled ejaculation of anger and of pain he attempted to seize her by the wrists, when the door opened and Ethel came into the room. Peg, panting with fury, glared at them both for a moment and then hurried out through the windows. Brent, gaining complete control of himself, turned to Ethel and, advancing with outstretched hands, murmured: "My dear!" Ethel looked coldly at him, ignored the extended hands and asked: "Why did she run away?" Brent smiled easily and confidently: "I'd surprised one of her secrets and she flew into a temper. Did you see her strike me?" He waited anxiously for her reply. "Secrets?" was all Ethel said. "Yes. See." He walked across to the corner and turned back the carpet and kneeling down searched for the book, found it and held it up triumphantly: "Here!" He stood up, and opened the book and read the title-page: "'Love Stories o f the World.' 'To Peg from Jerry.' Oho!" cried Mr. Brent. "Jerry! Eh? No wonder she didn't want me to see it." He put the book back into its hiding-place and advanced to Ethel: "Jerry! So that's how the land lies. Romantic little child!" Ethel looked steadily at him as he came toward her. Something in her look stopped him within a few feet of her. "Why don't you go after her?" and she nodded in the direction. Peg had gone. "Ethel!" he cried, aghast. "She is new and has all the virtues." "I assure you" he began-- "You needn't. If there is one thing I am convinced of, it's your assurance." "Really--Ethel--" "Were you 'carried away' again?" she sneered. "Do you think for one moment--" he stopped. "Yes, I do," answered Ethel positively. Brent hunted through his mind for an explanation. Finally he said helplessly: "I--I--don't know what to say." "Then you'd better say nothing." "Surely you're not jealous--of a--a--child?" "No. I don't think it's JEALOUSY," said Ethel slowly. "Then what is it?" he asked eagerly. She looked scornfully at him: "Disgust!" She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously as he tried in vain to find something to say. Then she went on: "Now I understand why the SCULLERY is sometimes the rival of the DRAWING-ROOM. The love of change!" He turned away from her. He was hurt. Cut to the quick. "This is not worthy of you!" was all he said. "That is what rankles," replied Ethel. "It isn't. YOU'RE not." "Ethel!" he cried desperately. "If that ever happened again I should have to AMPUTATE YOU." Brent walked over to the window-seat where he had left his automobile coat and cap and picked them up. Ethel watched him quietly. "Chris! Come here!" He turned to her. "There! It's over! I suppose I HAVE been a little hard on you. All forgotten?" She held out her hand. He bent over it. "My nerves have been rather severely tried this past month," Ethel went on. "Put a mongrel into a kennel of thoroughbreds, and they will either destroy the intruder or be in a continual condition of unsettled, irritated intolerance. That is exactly MY condition. I'm unsettled, irritable and intolerant." Brent sat beside her and said softly: "Then I've come in time?" Ethel smiled as she looked right through him: "So did I, didn't I?" and she indicated the window through which Peg ran after assaulting Brent. The young man sprang up reproachfully: "Don't! Please don't!" he pleaded. "Very well," replied Ethel complacently, "I won't." Brent was standing, head down, his manner was crestfallen. He looked the realisation of misery and self-pity. "I'm sorry, Chris," remarked Ethel finally, after some moments had passed. "A month ago it wouldn't have mattered so much. Just now--it does. I'd rather looked forward to seeing you. It's been horrible here." "A month of misery for me, too," replied Brent, passionately. "I'm going away--out of it. To-morrow!" he added. "Are you?" she asked languidly. "Where?" "Petersburg--Moscow--Siberia--" "Oh! The COLD places" She paused, then asked "Going alone?" He knelt on the sofa she was sitting on and whispered almost into her ear: "Unless someone--goes with me!" "Naturally," replied Ethel, quite unmoved. "Will--you--go?" And he waited breathlessly. She thought a moment, looked at him again, and said quietly: "Chris! I wish I'd been here when you called--instead of that--BRAT." He turned away up again to the window-seat crying: "Oh! This is unbearable." Ethel said quite calmly: "Is it? Your wife all over again, eh?" He came back to her: "No. I place you far above her, far above all petty suspicions and carping narrownesses. I value you as a woman of understanding." "I am," she said frankly. "From what you've told me of your wife, SHE must be too." "Don't treat me like this!" he pleaded distractedly. "What shall I do?" asked Ethel with wide open eyes, "apologise? That's odd. I've been waiting for YOU to." Brent turned away again with an impatient ejaculation. As he moved up toward the windows Alaric came in behind him through the door. "Hello, Brent," he called out heartily. "H'are ye?" "Very well, thank you, Alaric," he said, controlling his surprise. "Good. The dear wife well too?" "Very." "And the sweet child?" "Yes." "You must bring 'em along sometime. The mater would love to see them and so would Ethel. Ethel loves babies, don't you, dear?" Without waiting for Ethel to reply he hurried on: "And talkin' of BABIES, have you seen MARGARET anywhere?" Ethel nodded in the direction of the garden: "Out there!" "Splendid. The mater wants her. We've got to have a family meetin' about her and at once. Mater'll be here in a minute. Don't run away, Brent," and Alaric hurried out through the windows into the garden. Brent hurried over to Ethel: "I'm at the hotel. I'll be there until morning. Send me a message, will you? I'll wait up all night for one." He paused: "Will you?" "Perhaps," replied Ethel. "I'm sorry if anything I've said or done has hurt you. Believe me it is absolutely and entirely unnecessary." "Don't say any more." "Oh, if only--" he made an impulsive movement toward her. She checked him just as her mother appeared at the top of the stairs. At the same moment Bennett, the maid, came in through the door. Mrs. Chichester greeted Brent courteously: "How do you do, Mr. Brent? You will excuse me?" She turned to the maid: "When did you see my niece last?" "Not this hour, madam." "Tell Jarvis to search the gardens--the stables--to look up and down the road." "Yes, madam," and the maid hurried away in search of Jarvis. Mrs. Chichester turned again to her guest: "Pardon me--Mr. Brent." "I'm just leaving, Mrs. Chichester." "Oh, but you needn't--" expostulated that lady. "I'm going abroad to-morrow. I just called to say good-bye." "Indeed?" said Mrs. Chichester. "Well, I hope you and Mrs. Brent have a very pleasant trip. You must both call the moment you return." "Thank you," replied Brent. "Good-bye, Mrs. Chichester--and--Ethel--" He looked meaningly and significantly at Ethel as he stood in the doorway. The next moment he was gone. Ethel was facing the problem of her future with no one to turn to and ask for guidance. Her mother least of all. Mrs. Chichester had never encouraged confidence between her children and herself, consequently, any crisis they reached they had to either decide for themselves or appeal to others. Ethel had to decide for herself between now and to-morrow morning. Next day it would be too late. What was she to do? Always loath to make up her mind until forced to, she decided to wait until night. It might be that the something she was always expecting to snap in her nature would do so that evening and save her the supreme effort of taking the final step on her own initiative, and consequently having to bear the full responsibility. Whilst these thoughts were passing rapidly through her mind, Alaric hurried in through the windows from the garden. "Not a sign of Margaret anywhere," he said furiously, throwing himself into a chair and fanning himself vigorously. "This cannot go on," cried Mrs. Chichester. "I should think not indeed. Running about all over, the place." Mrs. Chichester held up an open telegram: "Mr. Hawkes telegraphs he will call to-morrow for his first report. What can I tell him?" "What WILL you?" asked Alaric. "Am I to tell him that every tutor I've engaged for her resigned? Not one stays more than a week. Can I tell him THAT?" "You could, mater dear: but would it be wise?" Mrs. Chichester went on: "Am I to tell him that no maid will stay with her? That she shows no desire to improve? That she mimics and angers her teachers, refuses to study and plays impish tricks like some mischievous little elf? Am I to tell him THAT?" "Serve her jolly well right if you did. Eh, Ethel?" said Alaric. "It would," replied Ethel. At that moment the footman and the maid both entered from the garden very much out of breath. "I've searched everywhere, madam. Not a sign of her," said Bennett. "Not in the stables, nor up or down the road. And the DOG'S missin', madam," added Jarvis. Ethel sprang up. "'PET'?" "No, miss. SHE'S gnawin' a bone on the lawn. The OTHER." "That will do," and Mrs. Chichester dismissed them. As they disappeared through the door, the old lady said appealingly to her children: "Where IS she?" "Heaven knows," said Alaric. "Oh, if I could only throw the whole business up." "Wish to goodness we COULD. But the monthly cheque will be useful to-morrow, mater." "That's it! That's it!" cried the unhappy woman. "No one seems particularly anxious to snatch at MY services as yet," said Alaric. "Course it's a dull time, Jerry tells me. But there we are. Not tuppence comin' in and the butcher's to be paid--likewise the other mouth-fillers. See where I'm comin'?" "Have I not lain awake at night struggling with it?" replied the poor lady, almost on the verge of tears. "Well, I'll tell you what," said the hope of the family; "I'll tell you what we'll do. Let's give the little beggar another month of it. Let her off lightly THIS time, and the moment the lawyer-bird's gone, read her the riot-act. Pull her up with a jerk. Ride her on the curb and NO ROT!" "We could try," and Mrs. Chichester wiped her eyes: "Of course she HAS improved in her manner. For THAT we have to thank Ethel." She looked affectionately at her daughter and choked back a sob. "Who could live near dear Ethel and NOT improve?" "Ah! There we have it!" agreed Alaric. "But I don't know how much of the improvement is genuine and how much pretended," gasped his mother. "There we go again. She's got us fairly gravelled," said Alaric despondently. "Of course I can truthfully tell him that, at times, she is very tractable and obedient." "AT TIMES! About two minutes a week! When Jerry's around. How on earth he puts up with her I can't understand. She follows him about like a little dog. Listens to him. Behaves herself. But the moment he's gone--Poof! back she goes to her old tricks. I tell you she's a freak!" and Alaric dismissed the matter, and sat back fanning himself. "Can I tell Mr. Hawkes that?" asked Mrs. Chichester. "No," replied Alaric. "But I WOULD say that the thousand a year is very hardly earned. Nat ought to have made it ten thousand. Dirt cheap at THAT. Tell him that out of respect for the dead man's wishes, we shall continue the job and that on the whole we have HOPES. SLIGHT--BUT--HOPES!" In through the open windows came the sound of dogs barking furiously. Ethel sprang up crying: "'Pet!'" and hurried out into the garden. Mrs. Chichester and Alaric went to the windows and looked out. "Margaret!" cried Mrs. Chichester. "And the mongrel! She's urgin' him on. The terrier's got 'Pet' now." Alaric called out to the little poodle: "Fight him, old girl! Maul him! Woa there! 'Pet's' down. There is Ethel on the scene," he cried as Ethel ran across the lawn and picked up the badly treated poodle. "Go and separate them," urged Mrs. Chichester. "Not me," replied Alaric. "Ethel can handle 'em. I hate the little brutes. All hair and teeth. I cannot understand women coddling those little messes of snarling, smelly wool." Ethel came indignantly into the room soothing the excited and ruffled "Pet." She was flushed and very angry. How dare that brat let her mongrel touch the aristocratic poodle? A moment later Peg entered with the victorious "Michael" cradled in her arms. She had a roguish look of triumph in her eyes. Down the front of her charming new dress were the marks of "Michael's" muddy paws. Peg was also breathing quickly, and evidently more than a little excited. "Take that animal out of the room!" cried Mrs. Chichester indignantly the moment Peg appeared. Peg turned and walked straight out into the garden and began playing with "Michael" on the grass. Mrs. Chichester waited for a few moments, then called out to her: "Margaret!" Then more sharply: "Margaret! Come here! Do you hear me?" Peg went on playing with "Michael" and just answered: "I hear ye." "Come here at once!" "Can 'Michael' come in too?" came from the garden. "You come in and leave that brute outside." "If 'Michael' can't come in, I don't want to," obstinately insisted Peg. "Do as I tell you. Come here," commanded her aunt. Peg tied "Michael" to one of the French windows and then went slowly into the room and stood facing her aunt. "Where have you been?" asked that lady. "Down to the say-shore," replied Peg indifferently. "Haven't I told you NEVER to go out ALONE?" "Ye have." "How dare you disobey me?" "Sure I had to." "You HAD to?" "I did." "And WHY?" "'Michael' needed a bath, so I took him down to the say-shore an' gave him one. He loves the wather, he does." "Are there no SERVANTS?" "There ARE sure." "Isn't that THEIR province?" "Mebbe. But they hate 'Michael' and I hate THEM. I wouldn't let them touch him." "In other words you WILFULLY disobeyed me?" "I did." "Is this the way MY NIECE should behave?" "Mebbe not. It's the way _I_ behave though." "So my wishes count for nothing?" The old lady looked so hurt as well as so angry that Peg softened and hastened to try and make it up with her aunt: "Sure yer wishes DO count with me, aunt. Indade they do." "Don't say INDADE. There is no such word. Indeed!" corrected Mrs. Chichester. "I beg your pardon, aunt. INDEED they do." "Look at your dress!" suddenly cried Mrs. Chichester as she caught sight of the marks of "MICHAEL'S" playfulness. Peg looked at the stains demurely and said cheerfully "'MICHAEL' did that. Sure they'll come off." Mrs. Chichester looked at the flushed face of the young girl, at the mass of curly hair that had been carefully dressed by Bennett for dinner and was now hovering around her eyes untidily. The old lady straightened it: "Can you not keep your hair out of your eyes? What do you think will become of you?" "I hope to go to Heaven, like all good Catholics," said Peg. Mrs. Chichester turned away with a gesture of despair. "I give it up! I give it up!" she said, half-crying. "I should say so," agreed Alaric. "Such rubbish!" Peg shook her head the moment Mrs. Chichester turned her back, and the little red curls once more danced in front of her eyes. "I do everything I can, everything," complained Mrs. Chichester, "but you--you--" she broke off. "I don't understand you! I don't understand you!" "Me father always said that," cried Peg eagerly; "and if HE couldn't sure how could any one else?" "Never mind your father," said Mrs. Chichester severely. Peg turned away. "What IS it?" continued the old lady. "I say WHAT IS IT?" "What is WHAT?" asked Peg. "Is it that you don't wish to improve? Is it THAT?" "I'll tell ye what I think it is," began Peg helpfully, as if anxious to reach some satisfactory explanation: "I think there's a little divil in me lyin' there and every now and again he jumps out." "A devil?" cried Mrs. Chichester, horrified. "Yes, aunt," said Peg demurely. "How dare you use such a word to ME?" "I didn't. I used it about MESELF. I don't know whether you have a divil in ye or not. I think I have." Mrs. Chichester silenced her with a gesture: "To-morrow I am to give Mr. Hawkes my first report on you." Peg laughed suddenly and then checked herself quickly. "And why did you do that?" asked her aunt severely. "I had a picture of what ye're goin' to tell him." "Your manners are abominable." "Yes, aunt." "What am I to tell Mr. Hawkes?" "Tell him the truth, aunt, and shame the divil." "Margaret!" and the old lady glared at her in horror. "I beg yer pardon," said Peg meekly. "Don't you wish to remain here?" continued Mrs. Chichester. "Sometimes I do, an' sometimes I don't." "Don't I do everything that is possible for you?" "Yes, ye do everything possible TO me--" "What?" "I mean--FOR ME. I should have said FOR me, aunt!" and Peg's blue eyes twinkled mischievously. "Then why do you constantly disobey me?" pursued the old lady. "I suppose it is the original sin in me," replied Peg thoughtfully. "WHAT?" cried Mrs. Chichester again taken completely aback. "Oh, I say, you know! that's good! Ha!" and Alaric laughed heartily. Peg joined in and laughed heartily with him. Alaric immediately stopped. Ethel took absolutely no notice of any one. Peg sat down beside her aunt and explained to her: "Whenever I did anythin' wilful or disturbin' as a child me father always said it was the 'original sin' in me an' that I wasn't to be punished for it because I couldn't help it. Then he used to punish himself for MY fault. An' when I saw it hurt him I usen't to do it again--for a while--at least. I think that was a grand way to bring up a daughter. I've been wonderin' since I've been here if an aunt could bring a niece up the same way." And she looked quizzically at Mrs. Chichester. "Supposin', for instance, YOU were to punish yerself for everythin' wrong that I'd do, I might be so sorry I'd never do it again--but of course I might NOT. I am not sure about meself. I think me father knows me betther than I do meself." "Your father must have been a very bad influence on you," said Mrs. Chichester sternly. "No, he wasn't," contradicted Peg, hotly. "Me father's the best man--" Mrs. Chichester interrupted her: "Margaret!" Peg looked down sullenly and said: "Well, he was." "Haven't I TOLD you never to CONTRADICT me?" "Well, YOU contradict ME all the time." "Stop!" "Well, there's nothin' fair about your conthradictin' ME and ME not being able to--" "Will you stop?" "Well, now, aunt, ye will do me a favour if you will stop spakin' about me father the way you do. It hurts me, it does. I love my father and--I--I--" "WILL--YOU--STOP?" "I have stopped." And Peg sank back in her chair, breathing hard and her little fists punching against each other. Her aunt then made the following proposition: "If I consent to take charge of you for a further period, will you promise me you will do your best to show some advancement during the next month?" "Yes, aunt," said Peg readily. "And if I get fresh tutors for you, will you try to keep them?" "Yes, aunt." Mrs. Chichester questioned Alaric. "What do you think?" "We might risk it," replied Alaric, turning to his sister: "Eh, Ethel?" "Don't ask me," was Ethel's reply. "Very well," said Mrs. Chichester determinedly, "Begin to-night." "Begin what" queried Peg, full of curiosity. "To show that you mean to keep your promise. Work for a while." "What at?" asked Peg, all eagerness to begin something. "Get your books," said her aunt. "Sure an' I will." And Peg turned to different parts of the room, finding an atlas here, a book of literature on the piano, an English history under the table. Finally she got them complete and sat down at the big table and prepared to study. Jarvis came in with a letter on a salver. "Well?" asked the old lady. "For Miss Chichester, madam," and he handed Ethel the letter. "By hand, miss." Ethel took the letter quite unconsciously and opened it. Whilst she was reading it, Peg called the footman over to her. "Jarvis," she said, "me dog 'MICHAEL' is outside there, tied up to the door. He's had a fight an' he's tired. Will ye put him to bed for me like a good boy?" Jarvis went out disgustedly, untied the dog and put him in the kennel that had been specially made for him. Poor Jarvis's life this last month had been most unhappy. The smooth and peaceful order of things in the house had departed. The coming of the "niece" had disturbed everything. Many were the comments below stairs on the intruder. The following is an example of the manner in which Peg was regarded by the footman and Mrs. Chichester's own maid, Bennett. "A NIECE!" cried Bennett, sarcastically, just after Peg's arrival. "So they SAY!" retorted Jarvis, mysteriously. "What do you make of her?" "Well, every family I've served and my mother before me, had a family skeleton. SHE is OURS." "Why, she hadn't a rag to her back when she came here. I'd be ashamed to be dressed as she was. You should have seen the one she goes to Mass in!" "I did," said Jarvis indignantly. "All wrapped up in the 'Irish Times.' Then I got ragged for putting her in the kitchen. Looked too good for her. And that dog! Can't go near it without it trying to bite me. I don't approve of either of 'em comin' into a quiet family like ours." Just then the bell called him to the drawing-room and further discussion of Peg and "MICHAEL" was deferred to a more suitable opportunity. To return--Ethel read her letter and went to the writing-desk to reply to it. "Who is it from?" asked Mrs. Chichester. "Mr. Brent," replied Ethel, indifferently. "Brent?" cried Alaric. "What on earth does he write to YOU for?" "He wants me to do something for him," and she tore the letter up into the smallest pieces and placed them in a receptacle on the desk. "Do something?" questioned Alaric. "Yes. Nothing very much. I'll answer it here," and she proceeded quite imperturbably to write an answer. Mrs. Chichester had seen that Peg had commenced to study--which meant--with Peg--roaming through her books until she found something that interested her. Then she would read it over and over again until she thought she knew it. "Come, Alaric," and Mrs. Chichester left the room after admonishing Peg that an hour would be sufficient to sit up. Alaric watched his mother go out of the room and then he slouched over to Peg and grinned chaffingly down at her. "ORIGINAL-SIN, eh? That's a good 'un." Peg looked up at him and a dangerous gleam came into her eyes. Alaric was not going to mock at her and get away unscathed. All unconscious of his danger, Alaric went on: "Study all the pretty maps and things." Peg closed the book with a slam and took it up and held it in a threatening manner as she glared at Alaric. "Little devil!" and Alaric laughed at her. "He's tuggin' at me now!" replied Peg. "The devil must hate knowledge. He always tries to keep ME from gettin' any." Alaric laughed again maliciously. "Watch your cousin! Model yourself on Ethel! Eh? What?" Peg hurled the book at him; he dodged it and it just escaped hitting Ethel, who turned at the disturbance. Alaric hurried out to avoid any further conflict--calling back over his shoulder: "Little devil." Peg picked up the book, looked at Ethel, who had finished the letter and had put it into an unaddressed envelope. She took a cigarette out of her case and lit it neatly. Peg took one out of the box on the table and lit it clumsily, though in exact imitation of Ethel. When Ethel had addressed the envelope she turned and saw Peg smoking, sitting on the edge of the table, watching Ethel with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Ethel impatiently threw her cigarette on to the ash tray on the desk. Peg did the same action identically into a tray on the table. Ethel rose indignantly and faced Peg. "Why do you watch me?" "Aunt told me to. Aren't ye me model? I'm to mould meself on you, sure!" Ethel turned away furiously and began to ascend the stairs. Peg followed her and called up to her: "May I talk to ye?" "You were told to study," replied Ethel, angrily. "Won't ye let me talk to ye? Please, do!" urged Peg. Then she went on: "Ye haven't said a kind wurrd to me since I've been here." She stopped a moment. Ethel said nothing. Peg continued: "Sure, we're both girls, in the same house, of the same family, an' pretty much the same age, and yet ye never look at me except as if ye hated me. Why, ye like yer dog betther than you do ME, don't ye?" Ethel looked down at "Pet" and fondled her and kissed her. "I'm sorry 'Michael' hurt him. It was a cowardly thing of 'Michael' to do to snap at a little bit of a thing like that is. But it wasn't 'Michael's' fault. _I_ set him on to it, an' he always obeys me. He'd bite a lion or THAT"--and she pointed to the poor little poodle--"if I set him onto it." "You made him attack 'Pet'?" cried Ethel. "I did. I hate it. It's so sleek and fat and well-bred. I hate fat, well-bred things. I like them thin and common, like 'Michael' and meself. A dog should be made to look like a dog if it is a dog. No one could mistake 'Michael' for anything else BUT a dog, but THAT thing--" Ethel gave an indignant ejaculation and again started to go upstairs. Peg entreated her: "Don't go for a minnit. Won't ye make friends with me?" "We've nothing in common," replied Ethel. "Sure, that doesn't prevent us bein' dacent to each other, does it?" "DECENT?" cried Ethel in disgust. "I'll meet ye three quarthers o' the way if ye'll show just one little generous feelin' toward me." She paused as she looked pleadingly at Ethel: "Ye would if ye knew what was in me mind." Ethel came down to the last step of the stairs and stood there looking down searchingly at Peg. Finally she said: "You're a strange creature." "Not at all. It's you people here who are strange--I'm just what I am. I don't pretend or want to be anythin' else. But you--all of you--seem to be trying to be somethin' different to what ye are." "What do you mean?" asked Ethel suspiciously. "Oh, I watch ye and listen to ye," went on Peg eagerly. "Ye turn yer face to the wurrld as much as to say, 'Look at me! aren't I the beautiful, quiet, well-bred, aisy-goin', sweet-tempered young lady?' An' yer nothin' o' the kind, are ye?" Ethel went slowly over to Peg and looked into her eyes: "What am I?" "Sure ye've got the breedin' all right, an' the nice-looks, an' the beautiful manners--but down in yer heart an' up in yer brain ye're worryin' yer little soul all the time, aren't ye?" And Peg paused. Ethel looked down. Peg after a moment continued: "An' ye've got a temper just as bad as mine. It's a beautiful temper ye have, Ethel. It's a shame not to let a temper like that out in the daylight now and again. But ye kape it out o' sight because it isn't good form to show it. An' with all yer fine advantages ye're not a bit happy, are ye? Are ye, Ethel?" Ethel, moved in spite of herself, admitted involuntarily: "No. I'm not!" Peg went on quietly: "Nor am I--in this house. Couldn't we try and comfort each other?" There was a look of genuine sympathy with Ethel in Peg's big blue eyes and a note of tender entreaty in her tone. "Comfort? YOU--comfort ME?" cried Ethel, in disdain. "Yes, Ethel dear, ME comfort YOU, They say 'a beautiful thought makes a beautiful face'; an' by the same token, sure a kind action gives ye a warm feelin' around the heart. An' ye might have that if ye'd only be a little kind to me--sometime." Peg's honest sincerity and depth of feeling had suddenly a marked effect on the, apparently, callous Ethel. She turned to Peg and there was a different expression entirely in her look and tone as she said: "I'm afraid I have been a little inconsiderate." "Ye have, sure," said Peg. "What would you like me to do?" "I'd like ye to spake to me sometimes as though I were a human bein' an' not a clod o' earth." "Very well, Margaret, I will. Good night." And feeling the matter was closed, Ethel again turned away to leave the room. "Will ye give me another minnit--NOW--PLEASE," called Peg, after her, excitedly. Ethel looked at the letter in her hand, hesitated, then re-entered the room and went down to Peg and said gently: "All right" "Only just a minnit," repeated Peg, breathlessly. "What do you want, Margaret?" "I want ye to tell me somethin'." "What is it?" Peg paused--looked at Ethel bashfully--dropped her eyes to the ground--took a deep breath--then said as fast as she could speak: "Do ye know anything about--about LOVE?" "Love?" echoed Ethel, very much astonished. "Yes," said Peg. "Have ye ever been in love?" and she wanted expectantly for Ethel's answer. Ethel put the letter she had just written to Mr. Brent slowly behind her back and answered coldly: "No. I have not." "Have ye ever THOUGHT about it?" "Yes." "WHAT do ye think about it?" questioned Peg eagerly. "Rot!" replied Ethel, decidedly. "ROT? ROT?" cried Peg, unable to believe her ears. "Sentimental nonsense that only exists in novels." "Ye're wrong!" insisted the anxious Peg; "ye're wrong. It's the most wondherful thing in the wurrld!" Ethel brought the letter up to her eyes and read the superscription. "Think so?" she asked calmly. "I do," cried Peg hotly. "I do. It's the most wondherful thing in the whole wurrld. To love a good man, who loves you. A man that made ye hot and cold by turns: burnin' like fire one minnit an' freezin' like ice the next. Who made yer heart leap with happiness when he came near ye, an' ache with sorrow when he went away from ye. Haven't ye ever felt like that, Ethel?" "Never!" replied Ethel, positively. Peg went on: "Oh! it's mighty disturbin', I'm tellin' ye. Sometimes ye walk on air, an' at others yer feet are like lead. An' at one time the wurrld's all beautiful flowers and sweet music and grand poetry--an' at another it's all coffins, an' corpses, an' shrouds." She shook her head seriously: "Oh! I tell ye it's mighty disturbin'." Ethel looked at her inquiringly: "How do you know this?" Peg grew confused, then answered hurriedly: "I've been readin' about it--in a book. It's wondherful--that's what it is." "When you're a little older you will think differently," corrected Ethel, severely. "You will realise then that it is all very primitive." "PRIMITIVE?" asked Peg, disappointedly. "Of the earth--earthy," answered Ethel. Peg thought a moment: "Sure I suppose _I_ am then." She looked half-shyly at Ethel and asked her quietly: "Don't you like men?" "Not much," answered Ethel, indifferently. "Just dogs?" persisted Peg. "You can trust THEM," and Ethel caressed "PET'S" little pink snout. "That's thrue," agreed Peg. "I like dogs, too. But I like children betther. Wouldn't ye like to have a child of yer own, Ethel?" That young lady looked at her horrifiedly: "MARGARET!" "Well, _I_ would," said Peg. "That's the rale woman in us. Ye know ye only fondle that animal because ye haven't got a child of yer own to take in yer arms. Sure that's the reason all the selfish women have pet dogs. They're afraid to have childhren. I've watched them! O' course a dog's all very well, but he can't talk to ye, an' comfort ye, an' cry to ye, an' laugh to ye like a child can." Peg paused, then pointed to "PET" and launched the following wonderful statement: "Sure THAT thing could never be President of the United States. But if ye had a baby he might grow up to it." "That's very IRISH," sneered Ethel. "Faith I think it's very human," answered Peg. "I wish ye had some more of it, Ethel, acushla." Ethel walked away as though to dismiss the whole subject. It was most distasteful to her: "It is not customary for girls to talk about such things." "I know it isn't," said Peg. "An' the more's the pity. Why shouldn't we discuss events of national importance? We THINK about them--very well! why shouldn't we TALK about them. Why shouldn't girls be taught to be honest with each other? I tell ye if there was more honesty in this wurrld there wouldn't be half the sin in it, that there wouldn't." "Really--" began Ethel-- "Let US be honest with each other, Ethel," and Peg went right over to her and looked at her compassionately. "What do ye mean?" said Ethel with a sudden contraction of her breath. "You like Mr. Brent, don't ye?" So! the moment had come. The little spy had been watching her. Well, she would fight this common little Irish nobody to the bitter end. All the anger in her nature surged uppermost as Ethel answered Peg--but she kept her voice under complete control and once more put the letter behind her back. "Certainly I like Mr. Brent. He is a very old friend of the family!" "He's got a wife?" "He has!" "An' a baby?" "Yes--and a baby." Ethel was not going to betray herself. She would just wait and see what course this creature was going to take with her. Peg went on: "Of course I've never seen the wife or the baby because he never seems to have them with him when he calls here. But I've often heard Alaric ask afther them." "Well?" asked Ethel coldly. "Is it usual for English husbands with babies to kiss other women's hands?" and Peg looked swiftly at her cousin. Ethel checked an outburst and said quite calmly: "It is a very old and a very respected custom." "The devil doubt it but it's OLD. I'm not so sure about the RESPECT. Why doesn't he kiss me AUNT'S hand as well?" Ethel went quickly to the staircase. She could not control herself much longer. It was becoming unbearable. As she crossed the room she said with as little heat as possible: "You don't understand." "Well, but I'm thryin' to," persisted Peg. "That's why I watch YE all the time." Ethel turned: she was now at bay: "YOU WATCH ME?" "Aren't ye me model?" "It's contemptible!" cried Ethel. "Sure I only saw the 'OLD and RESPECTED CUSTOM' by, accident--when I came in through THERE a month ago--an' once since when I came in again by accident--a few days aftherwards. I couldn't help seein' it both times. And as for bein' CONTEMPTIBLE I'm not so sure the CUSTOM doesn't deserve all the CONTEMPT." Ethel was now thoroughly aroused: "I suppose it is too much to expect that a child of the COMMON people should understand the customs of DECENT people." "Mebbe it is," replied Peg. "But I don't see why the COMMON PEOPLE should have ALL the decency and the aristocracy NONE." "It is impossible to talk to you. I was foolish to have stayed here. You don't understand: you never could understand--" Peg interrupted: "Why, I never saw ye excited before:--not a bit of colour in yer cheeks till now--except TWICE. Ye look just as ye did when Mr. Brent followed that OLD and RESPECTED custom on yer hand," cried Peg. Ethel answered, this time, excitedly and indignantly, giving full and free vent to her just anger: "Be good enough never to speak to me again as long as you're in this house. If I had MY way you'd leave it this moment. As it is--as it is--" her voice rose almost to a scream: her rage was unbridled. What more she might have said was checked by the door opening and Jarvis showing in Jerry. Jerry walked cheerfully and smilingly into the roam and was amazed to find the two young ladies glaring at each other and apparently in the midst of a conflict. All power of speech left him as he stood looking in amazement at the combatants. CHAPTER VIII THE TEMPLE OF FRIENDSHIP Ethel was the first to recover her equanimity. She came down the steps, greeted Jerry with a genial handshake, asked to be excused for a moment, and after halting the departing Jarvis she went over to the writing-desk, opened the envelope, added a postscript, addressed a new envelope, put the augmented epistle inside it, sealed it, handed it to Jarvis, saying: "Send that at once. No answer." As Jarvis left the room, Ethel turned to speak to Jerry. Meanwhile, that young gentleman had greeted Peg: "And how is Miss Peg this evening?" "I'm fine, Mr. Jerry, thank ye." She looked at him admiringly. He was in evening dress, a light overcoat was thrown across his arm and a Homburg hat in his hand. "Let me take your hat and coat?" she suggested. "No, thank you," said Jerry, "I'm not going to stay." "Aren't ye?" she asked disappointedly. "Is your aunt in?" "Yes, she's in. Is it HER ye've come to see?" "Yes," replied Jerry. At that moment Ethel joined them. "I came over to ask Mrs. Chichester's permission for you two young ladies to go to a dance to-night. It's just across from here at the assembly rooms." Peg beamed joyfully. It was just what she wanted to do. Ethel viewed the suggestion differently: "It's very kind of you," she said; "but it's quite impossible." "Oh!" ejaculated Peg. "Impossible?" exclaimed Jerry. "I'm sorry," and Ethel went to the door. "So am I," replied Jerry regretfully. "I would have given you longer notice only it was made up on the spur of the moment. Don't you think you could?" "I don't care for dancing. Besides,--my head aches." "What a pity," exclaimed the disappointed young man. Then he said eagerly: "Do you suppose your mother would allow Miss Margaret to go?" "I'll ask her," and Ethel left the room. Peg ran across, stopped the door from closing and called after Ethel: "I didn't mean to hurt ye--indade I didn't. I wanted to talk to ye, that was all--an' ye made me angry--" Ethel disappeared without even turning her head. Peg came into the room ruefully, and sat down on the sofa. She was thoroughly unhappy. Jerry looked at her a moment, walked over to her and asked her: "What's the matter?" "One of us girls has been brought-up all wrong. I tried to make friends with her just now and only made her angry, as I do every one in this house whenever I open my mouth." "Aren't you friends?" "Indade--INDEED--INDEED--we're NOT. None of them are with me." "What a shame!" "Wait until ye hear what me aunt says when ye ask her about the dance!" "Don't you think she'll let you go?" "No. I do NOT." She looked at him quizzically for a moment. Then she burst out laughing. He was glad to see her spirits had returned and wondered as to the cause. She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with mischief: "Misther Jerry, will ye take me all the same if me aunt doesn't consent?" "Why, Peg--" he began, astonishedly. "But I haven't got an evenin' dress. Does it matter?" "Not in the least, but--" "Will this one do?" "It's very charming--still--" "Stains and all?" "My dear Peg--" "Perhaps they'll rub out. It's the prettiest one me aunt gave me--an' I put it on to-night--because--I thought you--that is, SOMEONE might come here to-night. At least, I HOPED he would, an' ye've come!" Suddenly she broke out passionately: "Oh, ye must take me! Ye must! I haven't had a bit of pleasure since I've been here. It will be wondherful. Besides I wouldn't rest all night with you dancin' over there an' me a prisoner over here." "Now, Peg--" he tried to begin-- "It's no use, I tell ye. Ye've GOT to take me. An' if it goes against yer conscience to do it, I'LL take YOU. Stop, now! Listen! The moment they're all in bed, an' the lights are all out I'll creep down here an' out through those windows an' you'll meet me at the foot o' the path. An' it's no use ye sayin' anythin' because I'm just goin' to that dance. So make up yer mind to it." Jerry laughed uncomfortably. She was quite capable of doing such a thing and getting herself into a great deal of unnecessary trouble. So he tried to dissuade her. He laughed cheerfully. "There may not be any occasion to do such a wild, foolish thing. Why, your aunt may be delighted." "ME aunt has never been DELIGHTED since she was born!" "Have you been annoying her again?" "Faith, I'm always doin' that." He looked at the litter of books on the table and picked up one. "How are your studies progressing?" "Just the way they always have," replied Peg. "Not at all." "Why not?" "I don't like studying," answered Peg earnestly. "And are you going through life doing only the things you LIKE?" "Sure, that's all life's for." "Oh, no, it isn't. As you grow older you'll find the only real happiness in life is in doing things for others." "Oh!" she said quickly: "I like doin' them NOW for others." She looked up at him a moment, then down at a book and finished under, her breath: "When I LIKE the OTHERS." He looked at her intently a moment and was just going to speak when she broke in quickly: "What's the use of learnin' the heights of mountains whose names I can't pronounce and I'm never goin' to climb? And I'm very much surprised at me aunt allowin' me to read about the doin's of a lot of dead kings who did things we ought to thry and forget." "They made history," said Jerry. "Well, they ought to have been ashamed of themselves. I don't care how high Mont Blanc is nor when William the Conqueror landed in England." "Oh, nonsense!" reasoned Jerry-- "I tell ye I HATE English history. It makes all me Irish blood boil." Suddenly she burst into a reproduction of the far-off father, suiting action to word and climaxing at the end, as she had so often heard him finish: "'What IS England? What is it, I say. I'll tell ye! A mane little bit of counthry thramplin' down a fine race like OURS!' That's what me father sez, and that's the way he sez it. An' when he brings his fist down like that--" and she showed Jerry exactly how her father did it--"when he brings his fist down like THAT, it doesn't matther how many people are listenin' to him, there isn't one dares to conthradict him. Me father feels very strongly about English History. An' I don't want to learn it." "Is it fair to your aunt?" asked Jerry. Peg grew sullen and gloomy. She liked to be praised, but all she ever got in that house was blame. And now he was following the way of the others. It was hard. No one understood her. "Is it fair to your aunt?" he repeated. "No. I don't suppose it is." "Is it fair to yourself?" "That's right--scold me, lecture me! You sound just like me aunt, ye do." "But you'll be at such a disadvantage by-and-by with other young ladies without half your intelligence just because they know things you refuse to learn. Then you'll be ashamed." She looked at him pleadingly. "Are YOU ashamed of me? Because I'm ignorant? Are ye?" "Not a bit," replied Jerry heartily. "I was just the same at your age. I used to scamp at school and shirk at college until I found myself so far behind fellows I despised that _I_ was ashamed. Then I went after them tooth and nail until I caught them up and passed them." "Did ye?" cried Peg eagerly. "I did." "I will, too," she said. "WILL you?" She nodded vigorously: "I will--INDEED I will. From now on I'll do everythin' they tell me an' learn everythin' they teach me, if it kills me!" "I wish you would," he said seriously. "An' when I pass everybody else, an' know more than anyone EVER knew--will ye be very proud of me?" "Yes, Peg. Even more than I am now." "Are ye NOW?" "I am. Proud to think you are my friend." "Ye'd ha' won yer wager. We ARE friends, aren't we?" "I am YOURS." "Sure, I'm YOURS ALL RIGHT." She looked at him, laughed shyly and pressed her cheeks. He was watching her closely. "What are you laughing at?" he asked. "Do ye know what Tom Moore wrote about Friendship?" "No." "Shall I tell ye?" excitedly. "Do." "See if anywan's comin' first." As he looked around the room and outside the door to detect the advent of an intruder Peg sat at the piano and played very softly the prelude to an old Irish song. As Jerry walked back he said surprisedly: "Oh! so you play?" Peg nodded laughingly. "Afther a fashion. Me father taught me. Me aunt can't bear it. An' the teacher in the house said it was DREADFUL and that I must play scales for two years more before I thry a tune. She said I had no ear." Jerry laughed as he replied: "I think they're very pretty." "DO ye? Well watch THEM an' mebbe ye won't mind me singin' so much. An' afther all ye're only a farmer, aren't ye?" "Hardly that," and Jerry laughed again. Her fingers played lightly over the keys for a moment. "This is called 'A Temple to Friendship,'" she explained. "Indeed?" "And it's about a girl who built a shrine and she thought she wanted to put 'Friendship' into it. She THOUGHT she wanted 'Friendship.' Afther a while she found out her mistake. Listen:" And Peg sang, in a pure, tremulous little voice that vibrated with feeling the following: "'A temple to Friendship,' said Laura enchanted, 'I'll build in this garden: the thought is divine!' Her temple was built and she now only wanted An Image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor who set down before her A Friendship the fairest his art could invent! But so cold and so dull that the Youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. 'Oh! never,' she cried, 'could I think of enshrining An image whose looks are so joyless and dim-- But yon little god (Cupid) upon roses reclining, We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him.' So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: 'Farewell,' said the sculptor, 'you're not the first maiden Who came but for Friendship and took away--Love.'" She played the refrain softly after she had finished the song. Gradually the last note died away. Jerry looked at her in amazement. "Where in the world did you learn that?" "Me father taught it to me," replied Peg simply. "Tom Moore's one of me father's prayer-books." Jerry repeated as though to himself: "'Who came but for FRIENDSHIP and took away LOVE!'" "Isn't that beautiful?" And Peg's face had a rapt expression as she looked up at Jerry. "Do you believe it?" he asked. "Didn't Tom Moore write it?" she answered. "Is there anything BETTER than Friendship between man and woman?" She nodded: "Indeed there is. Me father felt it for me mother or I wouldn't be here now. Me father loved me mother with all his strength and all his soul." "Could YOU ever feel it?" he asked, and there was an anxious look in his eyes as he waited for her to answer. She nodded. "HAVE you ever felt it?" he went on. "All me life," answered Peg in a whisper. "As a child, perhaps," remarked Jerry. "Some DAY it will come to you as a woman and then the whole world will change for you." "I know," replied Peg softly. "I've felt it comin'." "Since when?" and once again suspense was in his voice. "Ever since--ever since--" suddenly she broke off breathlessly and throwing her arms above her head as though in appeal she cried: "Oh, I do want to improve meself. NOW I wish I HAD been born a lady. I'd be more worthy of--" "WHAT? WHOM?" asked Jerry urgently and waiting anxiously for her answer. Peg regained control of herself, and cowering down again on to the piano-stool she went on hurriedly. "I want knowledge now. I know what you mean by bein' at a disadvantage. I used to despise learnin'. I've laughed at it. I never will again. Why I can't even talk yer language. Every wurrd I use is wrong. This book ye gave me--the 'LOVE STORIES OF THE WORLD,' I've never seen anythin' like it. I never knew of such people. I didn't dhream what a wondherful power in the wurrld was the power of love. I used to think it somethin' to kape to yerself and never spake of out in the open. Now I know it's the one great big wondherful power in the wurrld. It's me love for me father has kept faith and hope alive in me heart. I was happy with him. I never wanted to lave him. Now I see there is another happiness, too an' it's beyond me. I'm no one's equal. I'm just a little Irish nothin'--" "Don't say that," Jerry interrupted. "There's an obstinate bad something in me that holds me back every time I want to go forward. Sometimes the good little somethin' tries so hard to win, but the bad bates it. It just bates it, it does." "What you call the bad is the cry of youth that resents being curbed: and the GOOD is the WOMAN in you struggling for an outlet," explained Jerry. "Will you help me to give it an outlet, Mr. Jerry?" "In any way in my power, Peg." As they stood looking at each other the momentary something was trembling on both their lips and beating in both of their hearts. The something--old as time, yet new as birth--that great transmuter of affection into love, of hope into faith. It had come to them--yet neither dared speak. Peg read his silence wrongly. She blushed to the roots of her hair and her heart beat fast with shame. She laughed a deliberately misleading laugh and, looking up roguishly at him, said, her eyes dancing with apparent mischief, though the tear lurked behind the lid: "Thank ye for promisin' to help me, Misther Jerry. But would ye mind very much if the BAD little somethin' had one more SPURT before I killed it altogether? Would ye?" "Why, how do you mean?" "Take me to that dance tonight--even without me aunt's permission, will ye? I'll never forget ye for it if ye will. An' it'll be the last wrong thing I'll ever do. I'm just burnin' all over at the thought of it. My heart's burstin' for it." She suddenly hummed a waltz refrain and whirled around the room, the incarnation of childish abandonment. Mrs. Chichester came slowly down the stairs, gazing in horror at the little bouncing figure. As Peg whirled past the newel post she caught sight of her aunt. She stopped dead. "What does this mean?" asked Mrs. Chichester angrily. Peg crept away and sank down into a chair: Jerry came to the rescue. He shook hands with Mrs. Chichester and said: "I want you to do something that will make the child very happy. Will you allow her to go to a dance at the Assembly Rooms tonight?" "Certainly not," replied Mrs. Chichester severely. "I am surprised at you for asking such a thing." "I could have told ye what she'd say wurrd for wurrd!" muttered Peg. "I beg your pardon," said Jerry, straightening up, hurt at the old lady's tone. "The invitation was also extended to your daughter, but she declined. I thought you might be pleased to give your niece a little pleasure." "Go to a dance--unchaperoned?" "My mother and sisters will be there." "A child of her age?" said Mrs. Chichester. "CHILD is it?" cried Peg vehemently. "I'd have ye know my father lets me go anywhere--" "MARGARET!" and the old lady attempted to silence Peg with a gesture. Peg changed her tone and pleaded: "Plaze let me go. I'll study me head off tomorrow, if ye'll only let me dance me feet off a bit tonight. Plaze let me!" The old lady raised her band commanding Peg to stop. Then turning to Jerry she said in a much softer tone: "It was most kind of you to trouble to come over. You must pardon me if I seem ungracious--but it is quite out of the question." Peg sprang up, eager to argue it out. Jerry looked at her as if imploring her not to anger her aunt any further. He shook Mrs. Chichester's hand and said: "I'm sorry. Good night." He picked up his hat and coat and went to the door. "Kindly remember me to your mother and sisters," added Mrs. Chichester gently. "With pleasure," and Jerry opened the door. "Good night, Misther Jerry," called Peg. He turned and saw Peg deliberately pointing to the pathway and indicating that he was to meet her there. Mrs. Chichester happened to look around just in time to catch her. Peg reddened and stood trapped. Jerry went out. The old lady looked at her for several moments without speaking. Finally she asked: "What did you mean by dancing in that disgraceful way? And what did you mean by those signs you were making?" Peg said nothing. "Are you always going to be a disgrace to us? Are you ever going to learn how to behave?" "Yes, aunt," said Peg, and the words came out in a torrent. "I'm never goin' to do anythin' agen to annoy ye--AFTHER TONIGHT. I'm goin' to wurrk hard too--AFTHER TONIGHT. Don't ye see what a disadvantage I'd be at with girls without half me intelligence if I don't? Don't ye see it? _I_ do. I'd be ashamed--that's what I'd be. Well--I'm goin' afther them tooth and nail an' I'm goin' to catch them up an' pass them an' then he'll--YE'LL--YE'LL--be proud of me--that ye will." "What is all this?" asked the amazed old lady. "It's what I'm goin' to do--AFTHER TO-NIGHT." "I'm very glad to hear it." "I knew ye would be. An' I'll never be any more throuble to ye--afther to-night." "I hope you will be of the same mind in the morning." "So do I, aunt. D'ye mind if I stay up for another hour? I'd like to begin now." "Begin what?" "Tryin' to pass people--tooth an' nail. May I study for just one more hour?" "Very well. Just an hour." "Sure that'll be fine" She went to the table and began eagerly to arrange her books once again. "Turn off the lights when you've finished," said Mrs. Chichester. "Yes, aunt. Are you goin' to bed now?" "I am" "Everybody in the house goin' to bed--except me?" "Everybody." "That's good," said Peg, with a sigh of relief. "Don't make any noise," admonished the old lady. "Not a sound, aunt," agreed Peg. "Good night," and Mrs. Chichester went to the stairs. "Good night, aunt! Oh! there's somethin' else. I thought perhaps I would have to be gettin' back home to me father but I had a letther from him this mornin' an'. it was quite cheerful--so I think--if ye don't mind--I'd like to stay another month. Can I?" "We'll talk it over with Mr. Hawkes in the morning," Mrs. Chichester said coldly and went on up the stairs. Peg watched her out of sight then jumped up all excitement and danced around the room. She stopped by the table, locked at the open books in disgust--with a quick movement swept them off the table. Then she listened panic-stricken and hurriedly knelt down and picked them all up again. Then she hurried over to the windows and looked out into the night. The moonlight was streaming full down the path through the trees. In a few moments Peg went to the foot of the stairs and listened. Not hearing anything she crept upstairs into her own little Mauve-Room, found a cloak and some slippers and a hat and just as quietly crept down again into the living-room. She just had time to hide the cloak and hat and slippers on the immense window-seat when the door opened and Ethel came into the room. She walked straight to the staircase without looking at Peg, and began to mount the stairs. "Hello, Ethel!" called out Peg, all remembrance of the violent discussion gone in the excitement of the present. "I'm studyin' for an hour. Are yez still angry with me? Won't ye say I 'good night'? Well, then, I will. Good night, Ethel, an' God bless you." Ethel disappeared in the bend of the stairs. Peg listened again until all was still, then she crept across the room, turned back the carpet and picked up her treasure--her marvellous book of "Love-Stories." She took it to the table, made an island of it as was her wont--and began to read--the precious book concealed by histories and atlases, et cetera. Her little heart beat excitedly. The one thought that beat through her quick brain was: "Will Jerry come back for me?" CHAPTER IX THE DANCE AND ITS SEQUEL Mrs. Chichester's uncompromising attitude had a great deal to do with what followed. Had she shown the slightest suggestion of fairness or kindness toward Peg things might have resulted differently. But her adamantine attitude decided Jerry. He resolved to fly in the face of the proprieties. He would take the little child to the Assembly Rooms, put her in the care of his mother and sisters and safeguard at least one evening's pleasure for her. And this he did. He met her at the foot of the path when he saw all the lights disappear in the house. They walked across the lawns and meadows on that beautiful July night with the moon shining down on them. Once at the great hall his mother put the gauche little Peg at her ease, introduced her to the most charming of partners, and saw that everything was done to minister, to her enjoyment. It was a wonderful night for Peg. She danced every dance: she had the supper one with Jerry: she laughed and sang and romped and was the centre of all the attention. What might have appeared boldness in another with Peg was just her innocent, wilful, child-like nature. She made a wonderful impression that night and became a general favourite. She wanted it to go on and on and to never stop. When the last waltz was played, and encored, and the ball was really ended, Peg felt a pang of regret such as she had not felt for a long, long time. It was the first real note of pleasure she had experienced in England and now it was ended and tomorrow had to be faced and the truth told. What would happen? What course would Mrs. Chichester take? Send her away? Perhaps--and then--? Peg brushed the thought away. At all events she had enjoyed that ones wonderful evening. "Oh, I am so happy! So happy!" she cried, as Jerry led her back to her seat at the conclusion of the last dance. "Sure the whole wurrld seems to be goin' round and round and round in one grand waltz. It's the first time I've been ralely happy since I came here. And it's been through you! Through you! Thank ye, Jerry." "I'm glad it has been through me, Peg," said Jerry quietly. "Faith these are the only moments in life that count--the happy ones. Why can't it always be like this? Why shouldn't we just laugh and dance our way through it all?" went on Peg excitedly. The rhythm of the movement of the dance was in her blood: the lights were dancing before her eyes: the music beat in on her brain. "I wish I could make the world one great ball-room for you," said Jerry earnestly. "Do ye?" asked Peg tremulously. "I do." "With you as me partner?" "Yes" "Dancin' every dance with me?" "Every one" "Wouldn't that be beautiful? An' no creepin' back afther it all like a thief in the night?" "No," replied Jerry. "Your own mistress, free to do whatever you wished." "Oh," she cried impulsively; "wouldn't that be wondherful!" Suddenly she gave a little elfish chuckle and whispered: "But half the fun to-night has been that I'm supposed to be sleepin' across beyant there and HERE I am stalin' time" She crooned softly: "'Sure the best of all WAYS to lengthen our DAYS, Is to stale a few hours from the NIGHT, me dear.'" "You've stolen them!" said Jerry softly. "I'm a thief, sure!" replied Peg with a little laugh. "You're the--the sweetest--dearest--" he suddenly checked himself. His mother had come across to say "Good night" to Peg. In a few moments his sisters joined them. They all pressed invitations on Peg to call on them at "Noel's Folly" and with Mrs. Chichester's permission, to stay some days. Jerry got her cloak and just as they were leaving the hall the band struck up again, by special request, and began to play a new French waltz. Peg wanted to go back but Jerry suggested it would be wiser now for her to go home since his mother had driven away. Back across the meadows and through the lanes, under that marvellous moon and with the wild beat of the Continental Walse echoing from the ball-room, walked Peg and Jerry, side by side, in silence. Both were busy with their thoughts. After a little while Peg whispered: "Jerry?" "Peg?" "What were you goin' to say to me when yer mother came up to us just now?" "Something it would be better to say in the daylight, Peg." "Sure, why the daylight? Look at the moon so high in the heavens." "Wait until to-morrow." "I'll not slape a wink thinkin' of all the wondherful things that happened this night. Tell me--Jerry--yer mother and yer sisters--they weren't ashamed o' me, were they?" "Why of course not. They were charmed with you." "Were they? Ralely?" "Really, Peg." "Shall I ever see them again?" "I hope some day you'll see a great deal of them." They reached the windows leading into the now famous--to Peg--living-room. He held out his hand: "Good night, Peg." "What a hurry ye are in to get rid o' me. An' a night like this may never come again." Suddenly a quick flash of jealousy startled through her: "Are ye goin' back to the dance? Are ye goin' to dance the extra ones ye wouldn't take me back for?" "Not if you don't wish me to." "Plaze don't," she pleaded earnestly. "I wouldn't rest aisy if I thought of you with yer arm around one of those fine ladies' waists, as it was around mine such a little while ago--an' me all alone here. Ye won't, will ye?" "No, Peg; I will not." "An' will ye think o' me?" "Yes, Peg, I will." "All the time?" "All the time." "An' I will o' you. An' I'll pray for ye that no harm may come to ye, an' that HE will bless ye for makin' me happy." "Thank you, Peg." He motioned her to go in. He was getting anxious. Their voices might be heard. "Must I go in NOW?" asked Peg. "NOW?" she repeated. "You must." "With the moon so high in the heavens?" "Someone might come." "An' the music comin' across the lawn?" "I don't want you to get into trouble," he urged. "All right," said Peg, half resignedly. "I suppose you know best. Good night, Jerry, and thank ye." "Good night, Peg." He bent down and kissed her hand reverently. At the same moment the sound of a high power automobile was heard in the near distance. The brakes were put on and the car came to a stand-still. Then the sound of footsteps was heard distinctly coming toward the windows. "Take care," cried Jerry. "Go in. Someone is coming." Peg hurried in and hid just inside the windows and heard every word that followed. As Peg disappeared Jerry walked down the path to meet the visitor. He came face to face with Christian Brent. "Hello, Brent," he said in surprise. "Why, what in the world--?" cried that astonished gentleman. "The house is asleep," said Jerry, explanatorily. "So I see," and Brent glanced up at the darkened windows. There was a moment's pause. Then out of the embarrassing silence Jerry remarked: "Just coming from the dance? I didn't see you there." "No," replied the uncomfortable Brent. "I was restless and just strolled here." "Oh! Let us go on to the road." "Right," said the other man, and they walked on. Before they had gone a few steps Jerry stopped abruptly. Right in front of him at the gate was a forty-horse-power "Mercedes" automobile. "Strolled here? Why, you have your car!" said Jerry. "Yes," replied Brent hurriedly. "It's a bright night for a spin." The two men went on out of hearing. CHAPTER X Peg Intervenes Peg listened until she heard the faint sounds in the distance of the automobile being started--then silence. She crept softly upstairs. Just as she reached the top Ethel appeared from behind the curtains on her way down to the room. She was fully dressed and carried a small travelling bag. Peg looked at her in amazement. "Ethel!" she said in a hoarse whisper. "You!" cried Ethel, under her breath and glaring at Peg furiously. "Please don't tell anyone ye've seen me!" begged Peg. "Go down into the room!" Ethel ordered. Peg went down the stairs into the dark room, lit only by the stream of moonlight coming in through the windows at the back. Ethel followed her: "What are you doing here?" "I've been to the dance. Oh, ye won't tell me aunt, will ye? She'd send me away an' I don't want to go now, indade I don't." "To the dance?" repeated Ethel, incredulously. Try as she would she could not rid herself of the feeling that Peg was there to watch her. "To the DANCE?" she asked again. "Yes. Mr. Jerry took me." "JERRY took you?" "Yer mother wouldn't let me go. So Jerry came back for me when ye were all in bed and he took me himself. And I enjoyed it so much. An' I don't want yer mother to know about it. Ye won't tell her, will ye?" "I shall most certainly see that my mother knows of it." "Ye will?" cried poor, broken-hearted Peg. "I shall. You had no right to go." "Why are ye so hard on me, Ethel?" "Because I detest you." "I'm sorry," said Peg simply. "Ye've spoiled all me pleasure now. Good night, Ethel." Sore at heart and thoroughly unhappy, poor Peg turned away from Ethel and began to climb the stairs. When she was about half-way up a thought flashed across her. She came back quickly into the room and went straight across to Ethel. "And what are YOU doin' here--at this time o' night? An' dressed like THAT? An' with that BAG? What does it mane? Where are ye goin'?" "Go to your room!" said Ethel, livid with anger, and trying to keep her voice down and to hush Peg in case her family were awakened. "Do you mean to say you were going with--" Ethel covered Peg's mouth with her hand. "Keep down your voice, you little fool!" Peg freed herself. HER temper was up, too. The thought of WHY Ethel was there was uppermost in her mind as she cried: "HE was here a minnit ago an' Mr. Jerry took him away." "HE?" said Ethel, frightenedly. "Mr. BRENT," answered Peg. Ethel went quickly to the windows. Peg sprang in front of her and caught her by the wrists. "Were ye goin' away with him? Were ye?" "Take your hands off me." "Were ye goin' away with him? Answer me?" insisted Peg. "Yes," replied Ethel vehemently. "And I AM." "No ye're not," said the indomitable Peg holding her firmly by the wrist. "Let me go!" whispered Ethel, struggling to release herself. "Ye're not goin' out o' this house to-night if I have to wake everyone in it." "Wake them!" cried Ethel. "Wake them. They couldn't stop me. Nothing can stop me now. I'm sick of this living on CHARITY; sick of meeting YOU day by day, an implied insult in your every look and word, as much as to say: 'I'M giving you your daily bread; I'M keeping the roof over you!' I'm sick of it. And I end it to-night. Let me go or I'll--I'll--" and she tried in vain to release herself from Peg's grip. Peg held her resolutely: "What d'ye mane by INSULT? An' yer DAILY BREAD? An' kapin' the roof over ye? What are ye ravin' about at all?" "I'm at the end--to-night. I'm going!" and she struggled with Peg up to the windows. But Peg did not loose her hold. It was firmer than before. "You're not goin' away with him, I tell ye. Ye're NOT. What d'ye suppose ye'd be goin' to? I'll tell ye. A wakin' an' sleepin' HELL--that's what it would be." "I'm going," said the distracted girl. "Ye'd take him from his wife an' her baby?" "He hates THEM! and I hate THIS! I tell you I'm going--" "So ye'd break yer mother's heart an' his wife's just to satisfy yer own selfish pleasure? Well I'm glad _I_ sinned to-night in doin' what I wanted to do since it's given me the chance to save YOU from doin' the most shameful thing a woman ever did!" "Will you--" and Ethel again struggled to get free. "YOU'LL stay here and HE'LL go back to his home if I have to tell everyone and disgrace yez both." Ethel cowered down frightenedly. "No! No! You must not do that! You must not do that!" she cried, terror-stricken. "Ye just told me yer own mother couldn't stop ye?" said Peg. "My mother mustn't know. She mustn't know. Let me go. He is waiting--and it is past the time--" "Let him wait!" replied Peg firmly. "He gave his name an' life to a woman an' it's yer duty to protect her an' the child she brought him." "I'd kill myself first!" answered Ethel through her clenched teeth. "No, ye won't. Ye won't kill yerself at all. Ye might have if ye'd gone with him. Why that's the kind of man that tires of ye in an hour and laves ye to sorrow alone. Doesn't he want to lave the woman now that he swore to cherish at the altar of God? What do ye suppose he'd do to one he took no oath with at all? Now have some sense about it. I know him and his kind very well. Especially HIM. An' sure it's no compliment he's payin' ye ayther. Faith, he'd ha' made love to ME if I'd LET him." "What? To YOU?" cried Ethel in astonishment. "Yes, to ME. Here in this room to-day. If ye hadn't come in when ye did, I'd ha' taught him a lesson he'd ha' carried to his grave, so I would!" "He tried to make love to you?" repeated Ethel incredulously, though a chill came at her heart as she half realised the truth of Peg's accusation. "Ever since I've been in this house," replied Peg. "An' to-day he comes toward me with his arms stretched out. 'Kiss an' be friends!' sez he--an' in YOU walked." "Is that true?" asked Ethel. "On me poor mother's memory it is, Ethel!" replied Peg. Ethel sank down into a chair and covered her eyes. "The wretch!" she wailed, "the wretch!" "That's what he is," said Peg. "An' ye'd give yer life into his kapin' to blacken so that no dacent man or woman would ever look at ye or spake to ye again." "No! That is over! That is over!" All the self-abasement of consenting to, or even considering going with, such a creature as Brent now came uppermost. She was disgusted through and through to her soul. Suddenly she broke down and tears for the first time within her remembrance came to her. She sobbed and sobbed as she had not done since she was a child. "I hate myself," she cried between her sobs. "Oh, how I hate myself" Peg was all pity in a moment. She took the little travelling bag away from Ethel and put it on the table. Then with her own hands she staunched Ethel's tears and tried to quiet her. "Ethel acushla! Don't do that! Darlin'! Don't! He's not worth it. Kape yer life an' yer heart clane until the one man in all the wurrld comes to ye with HIS heart pure too, and then ye'll know what rale happiness means." She knelt down beside the sobbing girl and took Ethel in her arms, and tried to comfort her. "Sure, then, cry dear, and wash away all the sins of this night. It's the salt of yer tears that'll cleanse yer heart an' fall like Holy Wather on yer sowl. Ssh! There! There! That's enough now. Stop now an' go back to yer room, an' slape until mornin', an' with the sunlight the last thought of all this will go from ye. Ssh! There now! Don't! An' not a wurrd o' what's happened here to-night will cross my lips." She helped her cousin up and supported her. Ethel was on the point of fainting, and her body was trembling with the convulsive force of her half-suppressed sobs. "Come to MY room," said Peg in a whisper, as she helped Ethel over to the stairs. "I'll watch by yer side till mornin'. Lane on me. That's right. Put yer weight on me." She picked up the travelling-bag and together the two girls began to ascend the stairs. Ethel gave a low choking moan. "Don't, dear, ye'll wake up the house," cried Peg anxiously. "We've only a little way to go. Aisy now. Not a sound! Ssh, dear! Not a morsel o' noise." Just as the two girls reached the landing, Peg in her anxiety stepped short, missed the top step, lost her footing and fell the entire length of the staircase into the room, smashing a tall china flower-vase that was reposing on the post at the foot of the stairs. The two girls were too stunned for a moment to move. The worst thing that could possibly have happened was just what DID happen. There would be all kinds of questions and explanations. Peg instantly made up her mind that they were not going to know why Ethel was there. Ethel must be saved and at any cost. She sprang to her feet. "Holy Mother!" she cried, "the whole house'll be awake! Give me yer hat! Quick! An' yer cloak! An' yer bag!" Peg began quickly to put on Ethel's hat and cloak. Her own she flung out of sight beneath the great oak table. "Now remember," she dictated, "ye came here because ye heard me. Ye weren't goin' out o' the house at all. Ye just heard me movin' about in here. Stick to that." The sound of voices in the distance broke in on them. "They're comin'," said Peg, anxiously. "Remember ye're here because ye heard ME. An' ye were talkin--an'--I'll do the rest. Though what in the wurrld I am GOIN' to say and do I don't know at all. Only YOU were not goin' out o' this house! That's one thing we've got to stick to. Give me the bag." Wearing Ethel's hat and cloak and with Ethel's travelling-bag in her hand, staunch little Peg turned to meet the disturbed family, with no thought of herself, what the one abiding resolution to, at any and at all costs, save her cousin Ethel from disgrace. CHAPTER XI "THE REBELLION OF PEG" "Take care, mater--keep back. Let me deal with them." And Alaric with an electric flash-light appeared at the head of the stairs, followed by his mother holding a night-lamp high over her head, and peering down into the dark room. "It was from here that the sound came, dear," she said to Alaric. "Stay up there," replied the valiant youth: "I'll soon find out what's up." As Alaric reached the bottom of the stairs, the door just by the staircase opened noiselessly and a large body protruded into the room covered in an equally gigantic bath robe. As the face came stealthily through the doorway, Alaric made one leap and caught the invader by the throat. A small, frightened voice cried out: "Please don't do that, sir. It's only me!" Alaric flashed the electric-light in the man's face and found it was the unfortunate Jarvis. "What are you doing here?" asked Alaric. "I heard a disturbance of some kind and came down after it, sir," replied Jarvis, nervously. "Guard that door then! and let no one pass. If there is any one trespassing in here I want to find 'em." He began a systematic search of the room until suddenly the reflector from the flash-light shone full on the two girls. Ethel was sitting back fainting in a chair, clinging to Peg, who was standing beside her trembling. "ETHEL!" cried Alaric in amazement. "MARGARET!" said Mrs. Chichester in anger. "Well, I mean to say," ejaculated the astounded young man as he walked across to the switch and flooded the room with light. "That will do," ordered Mrs. Chichester, dismissing the equally astonished footman, who passed out, curiosity in every feature. "What are you two girls playin' at?" demanded Alaric. "What does this mean?" asked Mrs. Chichester severely. "Sure, Ethel heard me here," answered Peg, "an' she came in, an'--" "What were you doing here?" "I was goin' out an' Ethel heard me an' came in an' stopped me--an'--" "Where were you going?" persisted the old lady. "Just out--out there--" and Peg pointed to the open windows. Mrs. Chichester had been examining Peg minutely. She suddenly exclaimed: "Why, that is Ethel's cloak." "Sure it is," replied Peg, "and this is her hat I've got an' here's her bag--" Peg was striving her utmost to divert Mrs. Chichester's attention from Ethel, who was in so tense and nervous a condition that it seemed as if she might faint at any moment. She thrust the dressing-bag into the old lady's hand. Mrs. Chichester opened it immediately and found just inside it Ethel's jewel-box. She took it out and held it up accusingly before Peg's eyes: "Her jewel-box! Where did you get this?" "I took it," said Peg promptly. "Took it?" "Yes, aunt, I took it!" Mrs. Chichester opened the box: it was full. Every jewel that Ethel owned was in it. "Her jewels! Ethel's jewels?" "Yes--I took them too." "You were STEALING them?" "No. I wasn't STEALING them,--I just TOOK 'em!" "Why did you take them?" "I wanted--to WEAR them," answered Peg readily. "WEAR them?" "Yes--wear them." Suddenly Peg saw a way of escape, and she jumped quickly at it. "I wanted to wear them at the DANCE." "WHAT dance?" demanded Mrs. Chichester, growing more suspicious every moment. "Over there--in the Assembly Rooms. To-night. I went over there, an' I danced. An' when I came back I made a noise, an' Ethel heard me, an' she threw on some clothes, an' she came in here to see who it was, an' it was ME, an' were both goin' up to bed when I slipped an' fell down the stairs, an' some noisy thing fell down with me--an' that's all." Peg paused for want of breath. Ethel clung to her. Mrs. Chichester, not by any means satisfied with the explanation, was about to prosecute her inquiries further, when Alaric called out from the window: "There's some one prowling in the garden. He's on the path! He's coming here. Don't be frightened, mater. I'll deal with him." And he boldly went up the steps leading into the alcove to meet the marauder. Ethel half rose from the chair and whispered: "Mr. Brent!" Peg pressed her back into the chair and turned toward the windows. On came the footsteps nearer and nearer until they were heard to be mounting the steps from the garden into the alcove. Alaric pushed his electric light full into the visitors face, and fell back. "Good Lord! Jerry!" he ejaculated, completely astonished. "I say, ye know," he went on, "what is happening in this house to-night?" Jerry came straight down to Mrs. Chichester. "I saw your lights go up and I came here on the run. I guessed something like this had happened. Don't be hard on your niece, Mrs. Chichester. The whole thing was entirely my fault. I asked her to go." Mrs. Chichester looked at him stonily. "You took my niece to a dance in spite of my absolute refusal to allow her to go?" "He had nothin' to do with it;" said Peg, "I took him to that dance." She wasn't going to allow Jerry to be abused without lodging a protest. After all it was her fault. She made him take her. Very, well--she would take the blame. Mrs. Chichester looked steadily at Jerry for a few moments before she spoke. When she did speak her voice was cold and hard and accusatory. "Surely, Sir Gerald Adair knows better than to take a girl of eighteen to a public ball without her relations' sanction?" "I thought only of the pleasure it would give her," he answered. "Please accept my sincerest apologies." Peg looked at him in wonder: "Sir Gerald Adair! Are YOU Sir Gerald Adair?" "Yes, Peg." "So ye have a title, have yez?" He did not answer. Peg felt somehow that she had been cheated. Why had he not told her? Why did he let her play and romp and joke and banter with him as though they had been children and equals? It wasn't fair! He was just laughing, at her! Just laughing at her! All her spirit was in quick revolt. "Do you realise what you have done?" broke in Mrs. Chichester. "I'm just beginning to," replied Peg bitterly. "I am ashamed of you! You have disgraced us all!" cried Mrs. Chichester. "Have I?" screamed Peg fiercely. "Well, if I HAVE then I am goin' back to some one who'd never be ashamed o' me, no matter what I did. Here I've never been allowed to do one thing I've wanted to. He lets me do EVERYTHING I want because he loves and trusts me an' whatever I do is RIGHT because _I_ do it. I've disgraced ye, have I? Well, none of you can tell me the truth. I'm goin' back to me father." "Go back to your father and glad we are to be rid of you!" answered Mrs. Chichester furiously. "I am goin' back to him--" Before she could say anything further, Ethel suddenly rose unsteadily and cried out: "Wait, mother! She mustn't go. We have all been grossly unfair to her. It is _I_ should go. To-night she saved me from--she saved me from--" suddenly Ethel reached the breaking-point; she slipped from Peg's arms to the chair and on to the floor and lay quite still. Peg knelt down beside her: "She's fainted. Stand back--give her air--get some water, some smelling-salts--quick--don't stand there lookin' at her: do somethin'!" Peg loosened Ethel's dress and talked to her all the while, and Jerry and Alaric hurried out in different directions in quest of restoratives. Mrs. Chichester came toward Ethel, thoroughly alarmed and upset. But Peg would not let her touch the inanimate girl. "Go away from her!" cried Peg hysterically. "What good do ye think ye can do her? What do you know about her? You don't know anything about yer children--ye don't know how to raise them. Ye don't know a thought in yer child's mind. Why don't ye sit down beside her sometimes and find out what she, thinks and who she sees? Take her hand in yer own and get her to open her soul to ye! Be a mother to her! A lot you know about motherhood! I want to tell ye me father knows more about motherhood than any man in the wurrld." Poor Mrs. Chichester fell back, crushed and humiliated from Peg's onslaught. In a few moments the two men returned with water and salts. After a while Ethel opened her eyes and looked up at Peg. Peg, fearful lest she should begin to accuse herself again, helped her up the stairs to her own room and there she sat beside the unstrung, hysterical girl until she slept, her hand locked in both of Peg's. Promising to call in the morning, Jerry left. The mother and son returned to their rooms. The house was still again. But how much had happened that night that went to shaping the characters and lives of these two young girls, who were first looking out at life with the eyes and minds of swiftly advancing womanhood! One thing Peg had resolved: she would not spend another night in the Chichester home. Her little heart was bruised and sore. The night had begun so happily: it had ended so wretchedly. And to think the one person in whom she trusted had been just amusing himself with her, leading her to believe he was a farmer--"less than that" he had once said, and all the time he was a man of breeding and of birth and of title. Poor Peg felt so humiliated that she made up her mind she would never see him again. In the morning she would go back to the one real affection of her life--to the min who never hurt or disappointed her--her father. CHAPTER XII A ROOM IN NEW YORK We will now leave Peg for a while and return to one who claimed so much of the reader's attention in the early pages of this history--O'Connell. It had not been a happy month for him. He felt the separation from Peg keenly. At first he was almost inconsolable. He lived in constant dread of hearing that some untoward accident had befallen her. All the days and nights of that journey of Peg's to England, O'Connell had the ever-present premonition of danger. When a cable came, signed Montgomery Hawkes, acquainting O'Connell with the news of Peg's safe arrival, he drew a long breath of relief. Then the days passed slowly until Peg's first letter came. It contained the news of Kingsnorth's death--Peg's entrance into the Chichester family, her discontent--her longing to be back once more in New York. This was followed by more letters all more or less in the same key. Finally he wrote urging her to give it all up and come back to him. He would not have his little daughter tortured for all the advantages those people could give her. Then her letters took on a different aspect. They contained a curious half-note of happiness in them. No more mention of returning. On the contrary, Peg appeared to be making the best of the conditions in which she was placed. These later letters set O'Connell wondering. Had the great Message of Life come to his little Peg? Although he always felt it WOULD come some day, now that it seemed almost a very real possibility, he dreaded it. There were so few natures would understand her. Beneath all her resolute and warlike exterior, it would take a keenly observing eye to find the real, gentle, affectionate nature that flourished in the sunshine of affection, and would fret and pine amid unsympathetic surroundings. That Peg was developing her character and her nature during those few weeks was clear to O'Connell. The whole tone of her letters had changed. But no word of hers gave him any clue to the real state of her feelings, until one day he received a letter almost entirely composed of descriptions of the appearance, mode of speech, method of thought and expression of one "Jerry." The description of the man appealed to him, he apparently having so many things in common with the mysterious person who had so vividly impressed himself on Peg. Apparently Peg was half trying to improve herself. There was a distinct note of seriousness about the last letter. It was drawing near the end of the month and she was going to ask her aunt to let her stay on for another month if her father did not mind. She did not want him to be unhappy, and if he was miserable without her, why she would sail back to New York on the very first steamer. He wrote her a long affectionate letter, telling her that whatever made her happy would make HIM, too, and that she must not, on any account, think of returning to New York if she found that she was helping her future by staying with her aunt. All through the letter he kept up apparent high spirits, and ended it with a cheery exhortation to stay away from him just as long as she could; not to think of returning until it was absolutely necessary. It was with a heavy heart he posted that letter. Back of his brain he had hoped all through that month that Peg would refuse to stay any longer in England. Her determination to stay was a severe blow to him. He lived entirely alone in the same rooms he had with Peg when she was summoned abroad. He was preparing, in his spare time, a history, of the Irish movement from twenty years before down to the present day. It was fascinating work for him, embodying as it did all he had ever felt and thought or done for the "Great Cause." In addition to this work--that occupied so many of his free hours--he would give an occasional lecture on Irish conditions or take part as adviser in some Irish pageant. He became rapidly one of the best liked and most respected of the thoughtful, active, executive Irishmen in New York City. The night of the day following the incidents in the preceding chapter--incidents that determined Peg's future--O'Connell was sitting in his little work room, surrounded by books of reference, and loose sheets of manuscript, developing his great work--the real work of his life--because in it he would incorporate everything that would further the march of advancement in Ireland--to work and thought and government by her people. A ring at the bell caused O'Connell to look up frowningly. He was not in the habit of receiving calls. Few people ever dared to intrude on his privacy. He preferred to be alone with his work. It passed the time of separation from Peg quicker than in any other way. He opened the door and looked in amazement at his visitor. He saw a little, round, merry-looking, bald-headed gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles, an enormous silk-hat, broad cloth frock-coat suit, patent boots with grey spats on them, and a general air of prosperity and good nature that impressed itself on even the most casual observer. "Is that Frank O'Connell?" cried the little man. "It is," said O'Connell, trying in vain to see the man's features distinctly in the dim light. There was a familiar ring in his voice that seemed to take O'Connell back many years. "You're not tellin' me ye've forgotten me?" asked the little man, reproachfully. "Come into the light and let me see the face of ye. Yer voice sounds familiar to me, I'm thinkin'," replied O'Connell. The little man came into the room, took of his heavy silk-hat and looked up at O'Connell with a quizzing look in his laughing eyes. "McGinnis!" was all the astonished agitator could say. "That's who it is! 'Talkative McGinnis,' come all the way from ould Ireland to take ye by the hand." The two men shook hands warmly and in a few moments O'Connell had the little doctor in the most comfortable seat in the room, a cigar between his lips and a glass of whiskey--and--water at his elbow. "An' what in the wurrld brings ye here, docthor?" asked O'Connell. "Didn't ye hear?" "I've heard nothin', I'm tellin' ye." "Ye didn't hear of me old grand-uncle, McNamara of County Sligo dyin'--after a useless life--and doin' the only thing that made me proud of him now that he's gone--may he slape in peace--lavin' the money he'd kept such a close fist on all his life to his God-fearin' nephew so that he can spind the rest of his days in comfort? Didn't ye hear that?" "I did not. And who was the nephew that came into it?" "Meself, Frank O'Connell!" "You! Is it the truth ye're tellin' me?" "May I nivver spake another wurrd if I'm not." O'Connell took the little man's hand and shook it until the doctor screamed out to him to let it go. "What are ye doin' at all--crushin' the feelin' out of me? Sure that's no way to show yer appreciation," and McGinnis held the crushed hand to the side of his face in pain. "It's sorry I am if I hurt ye and it's glad I am at the cause. So it's a wealthy man ye are now, docthor, eh?" "Middlin' wealthy." "And what are ye doin' in New York?" "Sure this is the counthry to take money to. It doubles itself out here over night, they tell me." "Yer takin' it away from the land of yer birth?" "That's what I'm doin' until I make it into enough where I can go back and do some good. It's tired I am of blood-lettin', and patchin' up the sick and ailin', fevers an' all. I've got a few years left to enjoy meself--an' I'm seventy come November--an' I mane to do it." "How did ye find me?" "Who should I meet in the sthreet this mornin'--an' me here a week--but Patrick Kinsella, big as a house and his face all covered in whiskers--him that I took into me own home the night they cracked his skull up beyant the hill when O'Brien came to talk to us." "'What are yer doin' here at all?' sez I. 'Faith, it's the foine thing I'm in,' sez he. 'An' what is it?' sez I. 'Politics!' sez he, with a knowin' grin. 'Politics is it?' I asks, all innocent as a baby. 'That's what I'm doin',' sez he. 'An' I want to tell ye the Irish are wastin' their time worryin their heads over their own country when here's a great foine beautiful rich one over here just ripe, an' waitin' to be plucked. What wud we be doin' tryin' to run Ireland when we can run America. Answer me that,' sez he. 'Run America?' sez I, all dazed. 'That's what the Irish are doin' this minnit. Ye'd betther get on in while the goin's good. It's a wondherful melon the Irish are goin' to cut out here one o' these fine days,' an' he gave me a knowin' grin, shouted to me where he was to be found and away he wint." "There's many a backslider from the 'Cause' out here, I'm thinkin'," continued the doctor. "If it's me ye mane, ye're wrong. I'm no backslider." "Kinsella towld me where to find ye. Sure it's many's the long day since ye lay on yer back in 'The Gap' with yer hide full o' lead, and ye cursin' the English government. Ye think different now maybe to what ye did then?" "Sure I think different. Other times, other ways. But if it hadn't been for the methods of twenty years ago we wouldn't be doin' things so peaceably now. It was the attitude of Irishmen in Ireland that made them legislate for us. It wasn't the Irish members in Westminster that did it." "That's thrue for ye." "It was the pluck--and determination--and statesmanship--and unflinchin' not-to-be-quieted-or-deterred attitude of them days that's brought the goal we've all been aimin' at in sight. An' it's a happier an' more contented an' healthier an' cleaner Ireland we're seein' to-day than the wun we had to face as childhren." "Thrue for ye agen. I see ye've not lost the gift o' the gab. Ye've got it with ye still, Frank O'Connell." "Faith an' while I'm talkin' of the one thing in the wurrld that's near our hearts--the future of Ireland--I want to prophesy--" "Prophesy is it?" "That's what I want to do." "An' what's it ye'd be after prophesying?" "This: that ten years from now, with her own Government, with her own language back again--Gaelic--an' what language in the wurrld yields greater music than the old Gaelic?--with Ireland united and Ireland's land in the care of IRISHMEN: with Ireland's people self-respectin' an' sober an' healthy an' educated: with Irishmen employed on Irish industries, exportin' them all over the wurrld: with Ireland's heart beatin' with hope an' faith in the future--do ye know what will happen?" "Go on, Frank O'Connell. I love to listen to ye. Don't stop." "I'll tell ye what will happen! Back will go the Irishmen in tens o' thousands from all the other counthries they were dhriven to in the days o' famine an' oppression an' coercion an' buck-shot--back they will go to their mother counthry. An' can ye see far enough into the future to realise what THAT will do? Ye can't. Well, I'll tell ye that, too. The exiled Irish, who have lived their lives abroad--takin' their wives, like as not, from the people o' the counthry they lived in an' not from their own stock--when they go back to Ireland with different outlooks, with different manners an' with different tastes, so long as they've kept the hearts o' them thrue an' loyal--just so long as they've done that--an' kept the Faith o 'their forefathers--they'll form a new NATION, an' a NATION with all the best o' the old--the great big Faith an' Hope o' the old--added to the prosperity an' education an' business-like principles an' statesmanship o' the NEW--an' it's the BLOOD o' the great OLD an' the POWER o' the great NEW that'll make the Ireland o' the future one o' the greatest NATIONS in PEACE as she has always been in WAR." O'Connell's voice died away as he looked out across the years to come. And the light of prophecy shone in his eyes, and the eerie tone of the seer was in his voice. It was the Ireland he had dreamed of! Ireland free, prosperous, contented--happy. Ireland speaking and writing in her national tongue! Ireland with all the depth of the poetic nature of the peasant equal to the peer! Ireland handling her own resources, developing her own national character, responsible before the WORLD and not to an alien nation for her acts--an Ireland triumphant. Even if he would not live to see the golden harvest ripen he felt proud to be one of those who helped, in the days of stress that were gone, her people, to the benefiting of the future generations, who would have a legacy of development by PACIFIC measures, what he and his forefathers strove to accomplish by the loss of their liberty and the shedding of their blood. "Sure it's the big position they should give you on College Green when they get their own government again, Frank O'Connell," the little doctor said, shaking his head knowingly. "The race has been everythin' to me: the prize--if there's one--'ud be nothin'. A roof to me head and a bite to eat is all I need by day--so long as the little girl is cared for." "An' where is the little blue-eyed maiden? Peg o' your heart? Where is she at all?" "It's in London she is." "London!" "Aye. She's with an aunt o' hers bein' educated an' the like" "Is it English ye're goin' to bring her up?" cried the doctor in horror and disgust. "No, it's not, Docthor McGinnis--an' ye ought to know me betther than to sit there an' ask me such a question. Bring her up English? when the one regret o' me life is I never knew enough Gaelic to tache her the language so that we'd be free of the English speech anyway. Bring her up English! I never heard the like o' that in me life." "Then what is she doin' there at all?" "Now listen, McGinnis, and listen well--an' then we'll never ask such a question again. When the good Lord calls me to Himself it's little enough I'll have to lave little Peg. An' that thought has been throublin' me these years past. I'm not the kind that makes money easily or that kapes the little I earn. An' the chance came to give Peg advantages I could never give her. Her mother's people offered to take her and it's with them she has been this last month. But with all their breedin' an' their fine manners and soft speech they've not changed Peg--not changed her in the least. Her letthers to me are just as sweet an' simple as if she were standin' there talkin' to me. An' I wish she were standin' here--now--this minnit," and his eyes filled up and he turned away. McGinnis jumped up quickly and turned the tall, bronzed man around with a hand on each shoulder--though he had to stand tip-toe to do it, and poured forth his feelings as follows: "Send for her! Bring her back to ye! Why man, yer heart is heavy without her; aye, just as yer HAIR is goin' grey, so is yer LIFE without the one thing in it that kapes it warm and bright. Send for her! Don't let the Saxons get hold of her with their flattherin' ways and their insincerities, an' all. Bring her back to ye and kape her with ye until the right man comes along--an' he must be an Irishman--straight of limb an' of character--with the joy of livin' in his heart and the love of yer little girl first to him in the wurrld, an' then ye'll know ye've done the right thing by her; for it's the only happiness yer Peg'll ever know--to be an Irish wife an' an Irish mother as well as an Irish daughther. Send for her--I'm tellin' ye, Frank O'Connell, or it's the sore rod ye'll be makin' for yer own back." McGinnis's words sank in. When they parted for the night with many promises to meet again ere long, McConnell sat down and wrote Peg a long letter, leaving the choice in her hands, but telling her how much he would like to have her back with him. He wrote the letter again and again and each time destroyed it. It seemed so clumsy. It was so hard to express just what he felt. He decided to leave it until morning. All that night he tossed about in feverish unrest. He could not sleep. He had a feeling of impending calamity. Toward dawn he woke, and lighting a lamp wrote out a cable message: Miss Margaret O'Connell c/o Mrs. Chichester Regal Villa, Scarboro, England Please come back to me. I want you. Love from Your Affectionate Father Relieved in his mind, he put the message on the table, intending to send it on his way to business. Then he slept until breakfast-time without a dream. His Peg would get the message and she would come to him. At breakfast a cable was brought to him. He opened it and looked in bewilderment at the contents: "Sailing to-day for New York on White Star boat Celtic. Love. Peg." CHAPTER XIII THE MORNING AFTER The morning after the incident following Peg's disobedience in going to the dance, and her subsequent rebellion and declaration of independence, found all the inmates of Regal Villa in a most unsettled condition. Peg had, as was indicated in a preceding chapter remained by Ethel's side until morning, when, seeing that her cousin was sleeping peacefully, she had gone to her own room to prepare for her leaving. One thing she was positive about--she would take nothing out of that house she did not bring into it--even to a heartache. She entered the family a month before Gore at heart--well, she was leaving it in a like condition. Whilst she was making her few little preparations, Mrs. Chichester was reviewing the whole situation in her room. She was compelled to admit, however outraged her feelings may have been the previous night, that should Peg carry out her intention to desert them, the family would be in a parlous condition. The income from Mr. Kingsnorth's will was indeed the one note of relief to the distressed household. She had passed a wretched night, and after a cup of tea in her room, and a good long period of reflection, she decided to seek the aid of the head of the family--her son. She found him in the morning-room lying full length on a lounge reading the "Post." He jumped up directly he saw her, led her over to the lounge, kissed her, put her down gently beside him and asked her how she was feeling. "I didn't close my eyes all night," answered the unhappy old lady. "Isn't that rotten?" said Alaric sympathetically. "I was a bit plungy myself--first one side and then the other." And he yawned and stretched languidly. "Hate to have one's night's rest broken," he concluded. Mrs. Chichester looked at him sadly. "What is to be done?" she asked, despair in every note. "We must get in forty winks during the day some time," he replied, encouragingly. "No, no, Alaric. I mean about Margaret?" "Oh! The imp? Nothin' that I can see. She's got it into her stubborn little head that she's had enough of us, and that's the end of it!" "And the end of our income," summed up Mrs. Chichester, pathetically. "Well, you were a bit rough on her, mater. Now, I come to think of it we've all been a bit rough on her--except ME. I've made her laugh once or twice--poor little soul. After all, suppose she did want to dance? What's the use of fussing? LET her, I say. LET her. Better SHE should dance and STAY, than for US to starve if she GOES." "Don't reproach me, dear. I did my duty. How could I consent to her going? A girl of her age!" "Girl! Why, they're grown women with families in America at her age." "Thank God they're not in England." "They will be some day, mater. They're kickin' over the traces more and more every day. Watch 'em in a year or two, I say, watch 'em. One time women kept on the pavement. Now they're out in the middle of the road--and in thousands! Mark me! What ho!" "They are not women!" ejaculated Mrs. Chichester severely. "Oh, bless me, yes. They're women all right. I've met 'em. Listened to 'em talk. Some of 'em were rippers. Why, there was one girl I really have rather a fash on. Great big girl she is with a deep voice. She had me all quivery for a while." And his mind ran back over his "Militant" past and present. "Just when I had begun to have some hope of her!" Alaric started. "I didn't know you met her. Do you know Marjory Fairbanks?" "No," replied Mrs. Chichester, almost sharply: "I mean Margaret." "Oh! The little devil? Did ye? I never did. Not a hope! I've always felt she ought to have the inscription on dear old Shakespeare's grave waving in front of her all the time 'Good friend, for Heaven's sake forbear.' There's no hope for her, mater. Believe ME." "I thought that perhaps under our influence--in time--" "Don't you think it. She will always be a Peter Pan. Never grow up. She'd play elfish tricks if she had a nursery full of infants." "But," persisted the old lady, "some GOOD man--one day might change that." "Ah! But where is he? Good men who'd take a girl like that in hand are very scarce, mater--very scarce indeed. Oh, no. Back she goes to America to-day, and off I go to-morrow to work. Must hold the roof up, mater, and pacify the tradesmen. I've given up the doctor idea--takes too long to make anything. And it's not altogether a nice way to earn your living. No; on the whole, I think--Canada. . ." Mrs. Chichester rose in alarm "Canada! my boy!" "Nice big place--plenty of room. We're all so crowded together here in England. All the professions are chock-full with people waitin' to squeeze in somewhere. Give me the new big countries! England is too old and small. A fellow with my temperament can hardly turn round and take a full breath in an island our size. Out there, with millions of acres to choose from, I'll just squat down on a thousand or so, raise cattle, and in a year or two I'll be quite independent. Then back I'll come here and invest it. See?" "Don't go away, from me, Alaric. I couldn't bear that." "All right--if you say so, mater. But it does seem a shame to let all that good land go to waste when it can be had for the asking." "Well, I'll wander round the fields for a bit, and thrash it all out. 'Stonishing how clear a fellow's head gets in the open air. Don't you worry, mater--I'll beat the whole thing out by myself." He patted the old lady gently on the shoulder, and humming a music-hall ballad cheerfully, started off into the garden. He had only gone a few steps when his mother called to him. He stopped. She joined him excitedly. "Oh, Alaric! There is a way--one way that would save us." And she trembled as she paused, as if afraid to tell him what the alternative was. "Is there, mater? What is it?" "It rests with you, dear." "Does it? Very good. I'll do it." "Will you?" "Honour bright, I will." "Whatever it is?" "To save you and Ethel and the roof, 'course I will. Now you've got me all strung up. Let me hear it." She drew him into a little arbour in the rose-garden out of sight and hearing of the open windows. "Alaric?" she asked, in a tone that suggested their fate hung on his answer: "Alaric! Do you LIKE her?" "Like whom?" "Margaret! Do you?" "Here and there. She amuses me like anything at times. She drew a map of Europe once that I think was the most fearful and wonderful thing I have ever seen. She said it was the way her father would like to see Europe. She had England, Scotland and Wales in GERMANY, and the rest of the map was IRELAND. Made me laugh like anything." And he chuckled at the remembrance. Suddenly Mrs. Chichester placed both of her hands on his shoulders and with tears in her eyes exclaimed: "Oh! my boy! Alaric! My son!" "Hello!" cried the astonished youth. "What is it? You're not goin' to cry, are ye?" She was already weeping copiously as she gasped between her sobs: "Oh! If you only COULD." "COULD? WHAT?" "Take that little wayward child into your life and mould her." "Here, one moment, mater: let me get the full force of your idea. You want ME to MOULD Margaret?" "Yes, dear." "Ha!" he laughed uneasily. Then said decidedly: "No, mater, no. I can do most things, but as a moulder--oh, no. Let Ethel do it--if she'll stay, that is." "Alaric, my dear--I mean to take her really into your life 'to have and to hold.'" And she looked pleadingly at him through her tear-dimmed eyes. "But, I don't want to hold her, mater!" reasoned her son. "It would be the saving of her," urged the old lady. "That's all very well, but what about me?" "It would be the saving of us all!" she insisted significantly. But Alaric was still obtuse. "Now, how would my holding and moulding Margaret save us?" The old lady placed her cards deliberately, on the table as she said sententiously: "She would stay with us here--if you were--engaged to her!" The shock had cone. His mother's terrible alternative was now before him in all its naked horror. A shiver ran through him. The thought of a man, with a future as brilliant as his, being blighted at the outset by such a misalliance. He felt the colour leave his face. He knew he was ghastly pale. The little arbour seemed to close in on him and stifle him. He could scarcely breathe. He murmured, his eyes half closed, as if picturing some vivid nightmare: "Engaged! Don't, mother, please." He trembled again: "Good lord! Engaged to that tomboy!" The thought seemed to strike him to the very core of his being. He who might ally himself with anyone sacrificing his hopes of happiness and advancement with a child of the earth. "Don't, mother!" he repeated in a cry of entreaty. "She has the blood of the Kingsnorths!" reminded, Mrs. Chichester. "It is pretty well covered up in O'Connell Irish," replied Alaric bitterly. "Please don't say any more, mater. You have upset me for the day. Really, you have for the whole day." But his mother was not to be shaken so easily in her determination. She went on: "She has the breeding of my sister Angela, dear." "You wouldn't think it to watch her and listen to her. Now, once and for all" and he tried to pass his mother and go into the garden. There was no escape. Mrs. Chichester held him firmly: "She will have five thousand pounds a year when she is twenty-one!" She looked the alarmed youth straight in the eyes. She was fighting for her own. She could not bear to think of parting with this home where she had lived so happily with her husband, and where her two children were born and reared. Even though Peg was not of the same caste, much could be done with her. Once accept her into the family and the rest would be easy. As she looked piercingly into Alaric's eyes, he caught the full significance of the suggestion. His lips pursed to whistle--but no sound came through them. He muttered hoarsely, as though he were signing away his right to happiness. "Five thousand pounds a year! Five thousand of the very best!" Mrs. Chichester took the slowly articulated words in token of acceptance. He would do it! She knew he would! Always ready to rise to a point of honour and to face a duty or confront a danger, he was indeed her son. She took him in her arms and pressed his reluctant and shrinking body to her breast. "Oh, my boy!" she wailed joyfully. "My dear, dear boy!" Alaric disengaged himself alertly. "Here, half a minute, mater. Half a minute, please: One can't burn all one's boats like that, without a cry for help." "Think what it would mean, dear! Your family preserved, and a brand snatched from the burning!" "That's just it. It's all right savin' the family. Any cove'll do that at a pinch. But I do not see myself as a 'brand-snatcher' Besides, I am not ALTOGETHER at liberty." "What?" cried his mother. "Oh, I've not COMMITTED myself to anything. But I've been three times to hear that wonderful woman speak--once on the PLATFORM! And people are beginning to talk. She thinks no end of me. Sent me a whole lot of stuff last week--'ADVANCED LITERATURE' she calls it. I've got 'em all upstairs. Wrote every word of 'em herself. Never saw a woman who can TALK and WRITE as she can. And OUTSIDE of all that I'm afraid I've more or less ENCOURAGED her. And there you are--the whole thing in a nutshell." "It would unite our blood, Alaric," the fond mother insisted. "Oh, hang our blood! I beg your pardon, mater, but really I can't make our blood the FIRST thing." "It would settle you for life, dear," she suggested after a pause. "I'd certainly be settled all right," in a despairing tone. "Think what it would mean, Alaric." "I am, mater. I'm thinking--and thinking awfully hard. Now, just a moment. Don't let either of us talk. Just let us think. I know how much is at stake for the family, and YOU realise how much is at stake for ME, don't you?" "Indeed I do. And if I didn't think you would be happy I would not allow it--indeed I wouldn't." Alaric thought for a few moments. The result of this mental activity took form and substance as follows: "She is not half-bad-lookin'--at times--when she's properly dressed." "I've seen her look almost beautiful!" cried Mrs. Chichester. Alaric suddenly grew depressed. "Shockin' temper, mater!" and he shook his head despondently. "That would soften under the restraining hand of affection!" reasoned his mother. "She would have to dress her hair and drop DOGS. I will not have a dog all over the place, and I do like tidiness in women. Especially their hair. In that I would have to be obeyed." "The woman who LOVES always OBEYS!" cried his mother. "Ah! There we have it!" And Alaric sprang up and faced the old lady. "There we have it! DOES she LOVE me?" Mrs. Chichester looked fondly at her only son and answered: "How could she be NEAR you for the last month and NOT love you?" Alaric nodded: "Of course there is that. Now, let me see--just get a solid grip on the whole thing. IF she LOVES me--and taking all things into consideration--for YOUR sake and darling ETHEL'S and for my--that is--" He suddenly broke off, took his mother's hand between both of his and pressed it encouragingly, and with the courage of hopefulness, he said: "Anyway, mater, it's a go! I'll do it. It will take a bit of doin', but I'll do it." "Bless you, my boy," said the overjoyed mother, "Bless you." As they came out of the little arbour it seemed as if Fate had changed the whole horizon for the Chichester family. Mrs. Chichester was happy in the consciousness that her home and her family would lie free from the biting grip of debt. Alaric, on the other hand, seemed to have all the sunlight suddenly stricken out of his life. Still, it was his DUTY, and duty was in the Chichester motto. As mother and son walked slowly toward the house, they looked up, and gazing through a tiny casement of the little Mauve-Room was Peg, her face white and drawn. Alaric shivered again as he thought of his sacrifice. CHAPTER XIV ALARIC TO THE RESCUE Mrs. Chichester went up to the Mauve-Room a little later and found Peg in the same attitude, looking out of the window--thinking. "Good morning, Margaret," she began, and her tone was most conciliatory, not to say almost kindly. "Good mornin'," replied Peg dully. "I am afraid I was a little harsh with you last night," the old lady added. It was the nearest suggestion of an apology Mrs. Chichester had ever made. "Ye'll never be again," flashed back Peg sharply. "That is exactly what I was saying to Alaric. I shall never be harsh with you again. Never!" If Mrs. Chichester thought the extraordinary unbending would produce an equally, Christian-like spirit in Peg, she was unhappily mistaken. Peg did not vary her tone or hear attitude. Both were absolutely uncompromising. "Ye'll have to go to New York if ye ever want to be harsh with me again. That is where ye'll have to go. To New York." "You are surely not going to leave us just on account of a few words of correction?" reasoned Mrs. Chichester. "I am," replied Peg, obstinately. "An' ye've done all the correctin' ye'll ever do with me." "Have you thought of all you are giving up?" "I thought all through the night of what I am going back to. And I am going back to it as soon as Mr. Hawkes comes. And now, if ye don't mind, I'd rather be left alone. I have a whole lot to think about, an' they're not very happy thoughts, ayther--an' I'd rather be by meself--if ye plaze." There was a final air of dismissal about Peg that astonished and grieved the old lady. How their places had changed in a few hours! Yesterday it was Mrs. Chichester who commanded and Peg who obeyed--SOMETIMES. Now, she was being sent out of a room in her own house, and by her poor little niece. As she left the room Mrs. Chichester thought sadly of the condition misfortune had placed her in. She brightened as she realised that they had still one chance--through Alaric--of recouping, even slightly, the family fortunes. The thought flashed through Mrs. Chichester's mind of how little Margaret guessed what an honour was about to be conferred upon her through the nobility of her son in sacrificing himself on the altar of duty. The family were indeed repaying good for evil--extending the olive branch--in tendering their idol as a peace-offering at the feet of the victorious Peg. Meanwhile, that young lady had suddenly remembered two things--firstly--that she must not return to her father in anything Mrs. Chichester had given her. Out of one of the drawers she took the little old black jacket and skirt and the flat low shoes and the red-flowered hat. Secondly, it darted through her mind that she had left Jerry's present to her in its familiar hiding-place beneath a corner of the carpet. Not waiting to change into the shabby little dress, she hurried downstairs into the empty living-room, ran across, and there, sure enough, was her treasure undisturbed. She took it up and a pang went through her heart as it beat in on her that never again would its donor discuss its contents with her. This gentleman of title, masquerading as a farmer, who had led her on to talk of herself, of her country and of her father, just to amuse himself. The blood surged up to her temples as she thought how he must have laughed at her when he was away from her: though always when with her he showed her the gravest attention, and consideration, and courtesy. It was with mingled feelings she walked across the room, the book open in her hand, her eyes scanning some of the familiar and well-remembered lines. As she reached the foot of the stairs, Alaric came in quickly through the windows. "Hello! Margaret!" he cried cheerfully, though his heart was beating nervously at the thought of what he was about to do--and across his features there was a sickly pallor. Peg turned and looked at him, at the same moment hiding the book behind her back. "What have you got there, all tucked away?" he ventured as the opening question that was to lead to the all-important one. Peg held it up for him to see: "The only thing I'm takin' away that I didn't bring with me." "A book, eh?" "That's what it is--a book;" and she began to go upstairs. "Taking it AWAY?" he called up to her. "That's what I'm doin'," and she still went on up two more steps. Alaric made a supreme effort and followed her. "You're not really goin' away--cousin?" he gasped. "I am," replied Peg. "An' ye can forget the relationship the minnit the cab drives me away from yer door!" "Oh, I say, you know," faltered Alaric. "Don't be cruel!" "Cruel, is it?" queried Peg in amazement. "Sure, what's there cruel in THAT, will ye tell me?" She looked at him curiously. For once all Alaric's confidence left him. His tongue was dry and clove to the roof of his mouth. Instead of conferring a distinction on the poor little creature he felt almost as if he were about to ask her a favour. He tried to throw a world of tenderness into his voice as he spoke insinuatingly: "I thought we were goin' to be such good little friends," and he looked almost languishingly at her. For the first time Peg began to feel some interest. Her eyes winked as she said: "DID ye? Look at that, now. I didn't." "I say, you know," and he went up on the same step with her: "I say--really ye mustn't let what the mater said last night upset ye! Really, ye mustn't!" "Mustn't I, now? Well, let me tell ye it did upset me--an' I'm still upset--an' I'm goin' to kape on bein' upset until I get into the cab that dhrives me from yer door." "Oh, come, now--what nonsense! Of course the mater was a teeny bit disappointed--that's all. Just a teeny bit. But now it's all over." "Well, _I_ was a WHOLE LOT disappointed--an' it's all over with me, too." She started again to get away from him, but he stepped in front of her. "Don't go for a minute. Why not forget the whole thing and let's all settle down into nice, cosy, jolly little pals, eh?" He was really beginning to warm to his work the more she made difficulties. It was for Alaric to overcome them. The family roof was at stake. He had gone chivalrously to the rescue. He was feeling a gleam of real enthusiasm. Peg's reply threw a damper again on his progress. "Forget it, is it? No--I'll not forget it. My memory is not so convaynient. You're not goin' to be disgraced again through me!" She passed him and went on to the landing. He followed her eagerly. "Just a moment," he cried, stopping her just by an a oriel window. She paused in the centre of the glow that radiated from its panes. "What is it, now?" she asked impatiently. She wanted to go back to her room and make her final preparations. Alaric looked at her with what he meant to be adoration in his eyes. "Do you know, I've grown really awfully fond of you?" His voice quivered and broke. He had reached one of the crises of his life. Peg looked at him and a smile broadened across her face. "No, I didn't know it. When did ye find it out?" "Just now--down in that room--when the thought flashed through me that perhaps you really meant to leave us. It went all through me. 'Pon my honour, it did. The idea positively hurt me. Really HURT me." "Did it, now?" laughed Peg. "Sure, an' I'm glad of it." "Glad! GLAD?" he asked in astonishment. "I am. I didn't think anythin' could hurt ye unless it disturbed yer comfort. An' I don't see how my goin' will do that." "Oh, but it will," persisted Alaric. "Really, it will." "Sure, now?" Peg was growing really curious. What was this odd little fellow trying to tell her? He looked so tremendously in earnest about something What in the world was it? Alaric answered her without daring to look at her. He fixed his eye on his pointed shoe and said quaveringly: "You know, meetin' a girl round the house for a whole month, as I've met you, has an awful effect on a fellow. AWFUL Really!" "AWFUL?" cried Peg. "Yes, indeed it has. It grows part of one's life, as it were. Not to see you running up and down those stairs: sittin' about all over the place: studyin' all your jolly books and everything--you know the thought bruises me--really it BRUISES." Peg laughed heartily. Her good humour was coming back to her. "Sure, ye'll get over it, Alaric," she said encouragingly. "That's just it," he protested anxiously. "I'm afraid I WON'T get over it. Do you know, I'm quite ACHE-Y NOW. Indeed I am." "Ache-y?" repeated Peg, growing more and more amused. Alaric touched his heart tenderly: "Yes, really. All round HERE!" "Perhaps it's because I disturbed yer night's rest, Alaric?" "You've disturbed ALL my rest. If you GO I'll never have ANY rest." Once again he spurred on his flagging spirits and threw all his ardour into the appeal. "I've really begun to care for you very much. Oh, very, very much. It all came to me in a flash--down in the room." And--for the moment--he really meant it. He began to see qualities in his little cousin which he had never noticed before. And the fact that she was not apparently a willing victim, added zest to the attack. Peg looked at him with unfeigned interest: "Sure, that does ye a great dale of credit. I've been thinkin' all the time I've known ye that ye only cared for YERSELF--like all Englishmen." "Oh, no," protested Alaric. "Oh, DEAR, no. We care a great deal at times--oh, a GREAT deal--and never say a word about it--not a single word. You know we hate to wear our hearts on our sleeves." "I don't blame ye. Ye'd wear them out too soon, maybe." Alaric felt that the moment had now really come. "Cousin," he said, and his voice dropped to the caressing note of a wooer: "Cousin! Do you know I am going to do something now I've never done before?" He paused to let the full force of what was to come have its real value. "What is it, Alaric?" Peg asked, all unconscious of the drama that was taking place in her cousin's heart! "Sure, what is it? Ye're not goin' to do somethin' USEFUL, are ye?" He braced himself and went on: "I am going to ask a very charming young lady to marry me. Eh?" "ARE ye?" "I am." "What do ye think o' that, now!" "And--WHO--DO--YOU--THINK--IT--IS?" He waited, wondering if she would guess correctly. It would be so helpful if only she could. But she was so unexpected. "I couldn't guess it in a hundred years, Alaric. Ralely, I couldn't." "Oh, TRY! Do. TRY!" he urged. "I couldn't think who'd marry YOU--indade I couldn't. Mebbe the poor girl's BLIND. Is THAT it?" "Can't you guess? No? Really?" "NO, I'm tellin' ye. Who is it?" "YOU!" The moment had come. The die was cast. His life was in the hands of Fate--and of Peg. He waited breathlessly for the effect. Peg looked at him in blank astonishment. All expression had left her face. Then she leaned back against the balustrade and laughed long and unrestrainedly. She laughed until the tears came coursing down her cheeks. Alaric was at first nonplussed. Then he grasped the situation in its full significance. It was just a touch of hysteria. He joined her and laughed heartily as well. "Aha!" he cried, between laughs: "That's a splendid sign. Splendid! I've always been told that girls CRY when they're proposed to." "Sure, that's what I'm doin'," gasped Peg. "I'm cryin'--laughin'." Alaric suddenly checked his mirth and said seriously: "'Course ye must know, cousin, that I've nothin' to offer you except a life-long devotion: a decent old name--and--my career--when once I get it goin'. I only need an incentive to make no end of a splash in the world. YOU would be my incentive." Peg could hardly believe her ears. She looked at Alaric while her eyes danced mischievously. "Go on!" she said. "Go on. Sure, ye're doin' fine!" "Then it's all right?" he asked fervently. "Faith! I think it's wondherful." "Good. Excellent. But--there are one or two little things to be settled first." Even as the victorious general, with the capitulated citadel, it was time to dictate terms. Delays in such matters, Alaric had often been told, were unwise. A clear understanding at the beginning saved endless complications afterwards. "Just a few little things," he went on, "such as a little OBEDIENCE--that's most essential. A modicum of care about ORDINARY things,--for instance, about dress, speech, hair, et ectera--and NO 'Michael.'" "Oh!" cried Peg dejectedly, while her eyes beamed playfully: "Sure, couldn't I have 'Michael'?" "No," he said firmly. It was well she should understand that once and for all. He had never in a long experience, seen a dog he disliked more. "Oh!" ejaculated Peg, plaintively. Prepared to, at any rate, compromise, rather than have an open rupture, he hastened to modify his attitude: "At least NOT in the HOUSE." "In the STABLES?" queried Peg. "We'd give him a jolly little kennel somewhere, if you really wanted him, and you could see him--say TWICE a day." He felt a thrill of generosity as he thus unbent from his former rigid attitude. "Then it wouldn't be 'love me love my dog'?" quizzed Peg. "Well, really, you know, one cannot regulate one's life by proverbs, cousin. Can one?" he reasoned. "But 'Michael' is all I have in the wurrld, except me father. Now, what could ye give me instead of him?" Here was where a little humour would save the whole situation. Things were becoming strained--and over a dog. Alaric would use his SUBTLER humour--keen as bright steel--and turn the edge of the discussion. "What can I give you instead of 'Michael'?" He paused, laughed cheerfully and bent tenderly aver her and whispered: "MYSELF, dear cousin! MYSELF!" and he leaned back and watched the effect. A quick joke at the right moment had so often saved the day. It would again, he was sure. After a moment he whispered softly: "What do you say--dear cousin?" Peg looked up at him, innocently, and answered: "Sure, I think I'd rather have 'Michael'--if ye don't mind." He started forward: "Oh, come, I say! You don't MEAN that?" "I do," she answered decidedly. "But think--just for one moment--of the ADVANTAGES?" "For you, or for me?" asked Peg. "For YOU--of course," replied the disappointed Alaric. "I'm thryin' to--but I can only think of 'Michael. Sure, I get more affection out of his bark of greetin' than I've ever got from a human bein' in England. But then he's IRISH. No, thank ye, all the same. If it makes no difference to ye, I'd rather have 'Michael.'" "You don't mean to say that you REFUSE me?" he asked blankly. "If ye don't mind," replied Peg meekly. "You actually decline my HAND and--er--HEART?" "That's what I do." "Really?" He was still unable to believe it. He wanted to hear her refusal distinctly. "Ralely," replied Peg, gravely. "Is that FINAL?" "It's the most final thing there is in the wurrld," replied Peg, on the brink of an outburst of laughter. Alaric looked so anxious and crestfallen now--in sharp contrast to his attitude of triumph a few moments before. To her amazement the gloom lifted from her cousin's countenance. He took a deep breath, looked at her in genuine relief, and cried out heartily: "I say! You're a BRICK!" "Am I?" asked Peg. "It's really awfully good of you. Some girls in your position would have jumped at me. Positively JUMPED!" "WOULD they--poor things!" "But YOU--why, you're a genuine, little, hall-marked 'A number one brick'! I'm extremely obliged to you." He took her little hand and shook it warmly. "You're a plucky little girl, that's what you are--a PLUCKY--LITTLE--GIRL. I'll never forget it--NEVER. If there is anythin' I can do--at any time--anywhere--call on me. I'll be there--right on the spot." He heard his mother's voice, speaking to Jarvis, in the room below. At the same moment he saw Ethel walking toward them along the corridor. He said hurriedly and fervently to Peg: "Bless you, cousin. You've taken an awful load off my mind. I was really worried. I HAD to ask you. Promised to. See you before you go! Hello! Ethel! All right? Good!" Without waiting for an answer, the impulsive young gentleman went on up to his own room to rejoice over his escape. Peg walked over and took Ethel by both hands and looked into the tired, anxious eyes. "Come into my room," she whispered. Without a word, Ethel followed her into the Mauve Room. CHAPTER XV MONTGOMERY HAWKES On the 30th day of June, Mr. Montgomery Hawkes glanced at his appointments for the following day and found the entry: "Mrs. Chichester, Scarboro--in re Margaret O'Connell." He accordingly sent a telegram to Mrs. Chichester, acquainting her with the pleasant news that she might expect that distinguished lawyer on July 1, to render an account of her stewardship of the Irish agitator's child. As he entered a first-class carriage on the Great Northern Railway at King's Cross station next day, bound for Scarboro, he found himself wondering how the experiment, dictated by Kingsnorth on his death-bed, had progressed. It was a most interesting case. He had handled several, during his career as a solicitor, in which bequests were made to the younger branches of a family that had been torn by dissension during the testator's lifetime, and were now remembered for the purpose of making tardy amends. But in those cases the families were all practically of the same caste. It would be merely benefiting them by money or land. Their education had already been taken care of. Once the bequest was arranged all responsibility ended. The O'Connell-Kingsnorth arrangement was an entirely different condition of things altogether. There were so many provisions each contingent on something in the character of the beneficiary. He did not regard the case with the same equanimity he had handled the others. It opened up so many possibilities of difficulty, and the object of Mr. Kingsnorth's bequest was such an amazing young lady to endeavour to do anything with. He had no preconceived methods to employ in the matter. It was an experiment where his experience was of no use. He had only to wait developments, and, should any real crisis arise, consult with the Chief Executor. By the time he reached Scarboro he had arranged everything in his mind. It was to be a short and exceedingly satisfactory interview and he would be able to catch the afternoon express back to London. He pictured Miss O'Connell as being marvellously improved by her gentle surroundings and eager to continue in them. He was sure he would have a most satisfactory report to make to the Chief Executor. As he walked up the beach-walk he was humming gaily an air from "Girofle-Girofla." He was entirely free from care and annoyance. He was thinking what a fortunate young lady Miss O'Connell was to live amid such delightful surroundings. It would be many a long day before she would ever think of leaving her aunt. All of which points to the obvious fact that even gentlemen with perfectly-balanced legal brains, occasionally mis-read the result of force of character over circumstances. He was shown into the music-room and was admiring a genuine Greuze when Mrs. Chichester came in. She greeted him tragically and motioned him to a seat beside her. "Well?" he smiled cheerfully. "And how is our little protegee?" "Sit down," replied Mrs. Chichester, sombrely. "Thank you." He sat beside her, waited a moment, then, with some sense of misgiving, asked: "Everything going well, I hope?" "Far from it." And Mrs. Chichester shook her head sadly. "Indeed?" His misgivings deepened. "I want you to understand one thing, Mr. Hawkes," and tears welled up into the old lady's eyes: "I have done my best." "I am sure of that, Mrs. Chichester," assured the lawyer, growing more and more apprehensive. "But she wants to leave us to-day. She has ordered cab. She is packing now." "Dear, dear!" ejaculated the bewildered solicitor. "Where is she going?" "Back to her father." "How perfectly ridiculous. WHY?" "I had occasion to speak to her severely--last night. She grew very angry and indignant--and--now she has ordered a cab." "Oh!" and Hawkes laughed easily. "A little childish temper. Leave her to me. I have a method with the young. Now--tell me--what is her character? How has she behaved?" "At times ADMIRABLY. At others--" Mrs. Chichester raised her hands and her eyes in shocked disapproval. "Not quite--?" suggested Mr. Hawkes. "Not AT ALL!" concluded Mrs. Chichester. "How are her studies?" "Backward." "Well, we must not expect too much," said the lawyer reassuringly. "Remember everything is foreign to her." "Then you are not disappointed, Mr. Hawkes?" "Not in the least. We can't expect to form a character in a month. Does she see many people?" "Very few. We try to keep her entirely amongst ourselves." "I wouldn't do that. Let her mix with people. The more the better. The value of contrast. Take her visiting with you. Let her talk to others--listen to them--exchange opinions with them. Nothing is better for sharp-minded, intelligent and IGNORANT people than to meet others cleverer than themselves. The moment they recognise their own inferiority, they feel the desire for improvement." Mrs. Chichester listened indignantly to this, somewhat platitudinous, sermon on how to develop character. And indignation was in her tone when she replied: "Surely, she has sufficient example here, sir?" Hawkes was on one of his dearest hobbies--"Characters and Dispositions." He had once read a lecture on the subject. He smiled almost pityingly at Mrs. Chichester, as he shook his head and answered her. "No, Mrs. Chichester, pardon me--but NO! She has NOT sufficient example here. Much as I appreciate a HOME atmosphere, it is only when the young get AWAY from it that they really develop. It is the contact with the world, and its huge and marvellous interests, that strengthens character and solidifies disposition. It is only--" he stopped. Mrs. Chichester was evidently either not listening, or was entirely unimpressed. She was tapping her left hand with a lorgnette she held in her right, and was waiting for an opportunity to speak. Consequently, Mr. Hawkes stopped politely. "If you can persuade her to remain with us, I will do anything you wish in regard to her character and its development." "Don't be uneasy," he replied easily, "she will stay. May I see her?" Mrs. Chichester, rose crossed over to the bell and rang it. She wanted to prepare the solicitor for the possibility of a match between her son and her niece. She would do it NOW and do it tactfully. "There is one thing you must know, Mr. Hawkes. My son is in love with her," she said, as though in a burst of confidence. Hawkes rose, visibly perturbed. "What? Your son?" "Yes," she sighed. "Of course she is hardly a suitable match for Alaric--as YET. But by the time she is of age--" "Of age?" "By that time, much may be done." Jarvis came in noiselessly and was despatched by Mrs. Chichester to bring her niece to her. Hawkes was moving restlessly about the room. He stopped in front of Mrs. Chichester as Jarvis disappeared. "I am afraid, madam, that such a marriage would be out of the question." "What do you mean?" demanded the old lady. "As one of the executors of the late Mr. Kingsnorth's will, in my opinion, it would be defeating the object of the dead man's legacy." Mrs. Chichester retorted, heatedly: "He desires her to be TRAINED. What training is better than MARRIAGE?" "Almost any," replied Mr. Hawkes. "Marriage should be the union of two formed characters. Marriage between the young is one of my pet objections. It is a condition of life essentially for those who have reached maturity in nature and in character. I am preparing a paper on it for the Croydon Ethical Society and--" Whatever else Mr. Hawkes might have said in continuation of another of his pet subjects was cut abruptly short by the appearance of Peg. She was still dressed in one of Mrs. Chichester's gifts. She had not had an opportunity to change into her little travelling suit. Hawkes looked at her in delighted surprise. She had completely changed. What a metamorphosis from the forlorn little creature of a month ago! He took her by the hand and pressed it warmly, at the same time saying heartily: "Well, well! WHAT an improvement." Peg gazed at him with real pleasure. She was genuinely glad to see him. She returned the pressure of his hand and welcomed him: "I'm glad you've come, Mr. Hawkes." "Why, you're a young lady!" cried the astonished solicitor. "Am I? Ask me aunt about that!" replied Peg, somewhat bitterly. "Mr. Hawkes wishes to talk to you, dear," broke in Mrs. Chichester, and there was a melancholy pathos in her voice and, in her eyes. If neither Alaric nor Mr. Hawkes could deter her, what would become of them? "And I want to talk to Mr. Hawkes, too," replied Peg. "But ye must hurry," she went on. "I've only, a few minutes." Mrs. Chichester went pathetically to the door, and, telling Mr. Hawkes she would see him again when he had interviewed her niece, she left them. "Now, my dear Miss Margaret O'Connell--" began the lawyer. "Will ye let me have twenty pounds?" suddenly asked Peg. "Certainly. NOW?" and he took out his pocket-book. "This minnit," replied Peg positively. "With pleasure," said Mr. Hawkes, as he began to count the bank-notes. "And I want ye to get a passage on the first ship to America. This afternoon if there's one," cried Peg, earnestly. "Oh, come, come--" remonstrated the lawyer. "The twenty pounds I want to buy something for me father--just to remember England by. If ye think me uncle wouldn't like me to have it because I'm lavin', why then me father'll pay ye back. It may take him a long time, but he'll pay it." "Now listen--" interrupted Mr. Hawkes. "Mebbe it'll only be a few dollars a week, but father always pays his debts--in time. That's all he ever needs--TIME." "What's all this nonsense about going away?" "It isn't nonsense. I'm goin' to me father," answered Peg resolutely. "Just when everything is opening out for you?" asked the lawyer. "Everything has closed up on me," said Peg. "I'm goin' back." "Why, you've improved out of all knowledge." "Don't think that. Me clothes have changed--that's all. When I put me thravellin' suit back on agen, ye won't notice any IMPROVEMENT." "But think what you're giving up." "I'll have me father. I'm only sorry I gave HIM up--for a month." "The upbringing of a young lady!" "I don't want it. I want me father." "The advantages of gentle surroundings." "New York is good enough for me--with me father." "Education!" "I can get that in America--with me father." "Position!" "I don't want it. I want me father." "Why this rebellion? This sudden craving for your father?" "It isn't sudden," she turned on him fiercely. "I've wanted him all the time I've been here. I only promised to stay a month anyway. Well, I've stayed a month. Now, I've disgraced them all here an' I'm goin' back home." "DISGRACED them?" "Yes, disgraced them. Give me that twenty pounds, please," and she held out her hand for the notes. "How have you disgraced them?" demanded the astonished lawyer. "Ask me aunt. She knows. Give me the money, please." Hawkes hunted through his mind for the cause of this upheaval in the Chichester home. He remembered Mrs. Chichester's statement about Alaric's affection for his young cousin. Could the trouble have arisen from THAT? It gave him a clue to work on. He grasped it. "Answer me one question truthfully, Miss O'Connell." "What is it? Hurry. I've a lot to do before I go." "Is there an affair of the heart?" "D'ye mean LOVE?" "Yes." "Why d'ye ask me that?" "Answer me," insisted Mr. Hawkes. Peg looked down on the ground mournfully and replied: "Me heart is in New York--with me father." "Has anyone made love to you since you have been here?" Peg looked up at him sadly and shook her head. A moment later, a mischievous look came into her eyes, and she said, with a roguish laugh: "Sure one man wanted to kiss me an' I boxed his ears. And another--ALMOST man--asked me to marry him." "Oh!" ejaculated the lawyer. "Me cousin Alaric." "And what did you say?" questioned Hawkes. "I towld him I'd rather have 'Michael.'" He looked at her in open bewilderment and repeated: "Michael?" "Me dog," explained Peg, and her eyes danced with merriment. Hawkes laughed heartily and relievedly. "Then you refused him?" "Of course I refused him. ME marry HIM! What for, I'd like to know?" "Is he too young?" "He's too selfish, an' too silly too, an' too everything I don't like in a man!" replied Peg. "And what DO you like in a man?" "Precious little from what I've seen of them in England." As Hawkes looked at her, radiant in her spring-like beauty, her clear, healthy complexion, her dazzling teeth, her red-gold hair, he felt a sudden thrill go through him. His life had been so full, so concentrated on the development of his career, that he had never permitted the feminine note to obtrude itself on his life. His effort had been rewarded by an unusually large circle of influential clients who yielded him an exceedingly handsome revenue. He had heard whispers of a magistracy. His PUBLIC future was assured. But his PRIVATE life was arid. The handsome villa in Pelham Crescent had no one to grace the head of the table, save on the occasional visits of his aged mother, or the still rarer ones of a married sister. And here was he in the full prime of life. It is remarkable how, at times, in one's passage through life, the throb in a voice, the breath of a perfume, the chord of an old song, will arouse some hidden note that had so far lain dormant in one's nature, and which, when awakened into life, has influences that reach through generations. It was even so with Hawkes, as he looked at the little Irish girl, born of an aristocratic English mother, looking up at him, hand outstretched, expectant, in all her girlish pudicity. Yielding to some uncontrollable impulse, he took the little hand in both of his own. He smiled nervously, and there was a suspicious tremor in his voice: "You would like a man of position in life to give you what you most need. Of years to bring you dignity, and strength to protect you." "I've got HIM," stated Peg unexpectedly, withdrawing her hand and eyeing the bank-notes that seemed as far from her as when she first asked for them. "You've got him?" ejaculated the man-of-law, aghast. "I have. Me father. Let ME count that money. The cab will be here an' I won't be ready--" Hawkes was not to be denied now. He went on in his softest and most persuasive accents: "I know one who would give you all these--a man who has reached the years of discretion! one in whom the follies of youth have merged into the knowledge and reserve of early middle-age. A man of position and of means. A man who can protect you, care for you, admire you--and be proud to marry you." He felt a real glow of eloquent pleasure, as he paused for her reply to so dignified and ardent an appeal. If Peg had been listening, she certainly could not have understood the meaning of his fervid words, since she answered him by asking a question: "Are ye goin' to let me have the money?" "Do not speak of MONEY at a moment like this!" cried the mortified lawyer. "But ye said ye would let me have it!" persisted Peg. "Don't you wish to know who the man is, whom I have just described, my dear Miss O'Connell?" "No, I don't. Why should I? With me father waitin' in New York for me--an' I'm waitin' for that--" and again she pointed to his pocket-book. "Miss O'Connell--may I say--Margaret, I was your uncle's adviser--his warm personal friend. We spoke freely of you for many weeks before he died. It was his desire to do something for you that would change your whole life and make it full and happy and contented. Were your uncle alive, I know of nothing that would give him greater pleasure than for his old friend to take you, your young life--into his care. Miss O'Connell--I am the man!" It was the first time this dignified gentleman had ever invited a lady to share his busy existence, and he felt the warm flush of youthful nervousness rush to his cheeks, as it might have done had he made just such a proposal, as a boy. It really seemed to him that he WAS a boy as he stood before Peg waiting for her reply. Again she did not say exactly what he had thought and hoped she would have said. "Stop it!" she cried. "What's the matther with you men this morning? Ye'd think I was some great lady, the way ye're all offerin' me yer hands an' yer names an' yer influences an' yer dignities. Stop it! Give me that money and let me go." Hawkes did not despair. He paused. "Don't give your answer too hastily. I know it must seem abrupt--one might almost say BRUTAL. But _I_ am alone in the world--YOU are alone. Neither of us have contracted a regard for anyone else. And in addition to that--there would be no occasion to marry until you are twenty-one. There!" And he gazed at her with what he fondly hoped were eyes of sincere adoration. "Not until I'm twenty-one! Look at that now!" replied Peg--it seemed to Mr. Hawkes, somewhat flippantly. "Well! What do you say?" he asked vibrantly. "What do I say, to WHAT?" "Will you consent to an engagement?" "With YOU?" "Yes, Miss O'Connell, with me." Peg suddenly burst into a paroxysm of laughter. Hawkes' face clouded and hardened. The gloomier he looked, the more hearty were Peg's ebullitions of merriment. Finally, when the hysterical outburst had somewhat abated, he asked coldly: "Am I to consider that a refusal?" "Ye may. What would _I_ be doin', marryin' the likes of you? Answer me that?" His passion began to dwindle, his ardour to lessen. "That is final?" he queried. "Absolutely, completely and entirely final." Not only did all HOPE die in Mr. Hawkes, but seemingly all REGARD as well. Ridicule is the certain death-blow to a great and disinterested affection. Peg's laugh still rang in his ears and as he looked at her now, with a new intelligence, unblinded by illusion, he realised what a mistake it would have been for a man, of his temperament, leanings and achievements to have linked his life with hers. Even his first feeling of resentment passed. He felt now a warm tinge of gratitude. Her refusal--bitter though its method had been--was a sane and wise decision. It was better for both of them. He looked at her gratefully and said: "Very well. I think your determination to return to your father, a very wise one. I shall advise the Chief Executor to that effect. And I shall also see that a cabin is reserved for you on the first out-going steamer, and I'll personally take you on board." "Thank ye very much, sir. An' may I have the twenty pounds?" "Certainly. Here it is," and he handed her the money. "I'm much obliged to ye. An' I'm sorry if I hurt ye by laughin' just now. But I thought ye were jokin', I did." "Please never refer to it again." "I won't--indade I won't. I am sure it was very nice of ye to want to marry me--" "I beg you--" he interrupted, stopping her with a gesture. "Are you goin' back to London to-day?" "By the afternoon express." "May I go with you?" "Certainly." "Thank ye," cried Peg. "I won't kape ye long. I've not much to take with me. Just what I brought here--that's all." She hurried across the room to the staircase. When, she was halfway up the stairs, Jarvis entered and was immediately followed by Jerry. Peg stopped when she saw him come into the room. As Jarvis went out, Jerry turned and saw Peg looking down at him. The expression on her face was at once stern and wistful and angry and yearning. He went forward eagerly. "Peg!" he said gently, looking up at her. "I'm goin' back to me father in half an hour!" and she went on up the stairs. "In half an hour?" he called after her. "In thirty minutes!" she replied and disappeared. As Jerry moved slowly away from the staircase, he met Montgomery Hawkes. CHAPTER XVI THE CHIEF EXECUTOR, APPEARS UPON THE SCENE "Why, how do you do, Sir Gerald?" and Hawkes went across quickly with outstretched hand. "Hello, Hawkes," replied Jerry, too preoccupied to return the act of salutation. Instead, he nodded in the direction Peg had gone and questioned: "What does she mean--going in a few minutes?" "She is returning to America. Our term of guardianship is over." "How's that?" "She absolutely refuses to stay here any longer. My duties in regard to her, outside of the annual payment provided by her late uncle, end to-day," replied the lawyer. "I think not, Hawkes." "I beg your pardon?" "As the Chief Executor of the late Mr. Kingsnorth's will, _I_ must be satisfied that its conditions are complied with in the SPIRIT as well as to the LETTER," said Jerry, authoritatively. "Exactly," was the solicitor's reply. "And--?" "Mr. Kingsnorth expressly stipulated that a year was to elapse before any definite conclusion was arrived at. So far only a month has passed." "But she insists on returning to her father!" protested Mr. Hawkes. "Have you told her the conditions of the will?" "Certainly not. Mr. Kingsnorth distinctly stated she was not to know them." "Except under exceptional circumstances. I consider the circumstances most exceptional." "I am afraid I cannot agree with you, Sir Gerald." "That is a pity. But it doesn't alter my intention." "And may I ask what that intention is?" "To carry out the spirit of Mr. Kingsnorth's bequest." "And what do you consider the spirit?" "I think we will best carry out Mr. Kingsnorth's last wishes by making known the conditions of his bequest to Miss O'Connell and then let her decide whether she wishes to abide by them or not." "As the late Mr. Kingsnorth's legal adviser, I must strongly object to such a course," protested the indignant lawyer. "All the same, Mr. Hawkes, I feel compelled to take it, and I must ask you to act under my instructions." "Really," exclaimed Mr. Hawkes; "I should much prefer to resign from my executorship." "Nonsense. In the interests of all parties, we must act together and endeavour to carry out the dead man's wishes." The lawyer considered a moment and then in a somewhat mollified tone, said: "Very well, Sir Gerald. If you think it is necessary, why then by all means, I shall concur in your views." "Thank you," replied the Chief Executor. Mrs. Chichester came into the room and went straight to Jerry. At the same time, Alaric burst in through the garden and greeted Jerry and Hawkes. "I heard you were here--" began Mrs. Chichester. Jerry interrupted her anxiously: "Mrs. Chichester, I was entirely to blame for last night's unfortunate business. Don't visit your displeasure on the poor little child. Please don't." "I've tried to tell her that I'll overlook it. But she seems determined to go. Can you suggest anything that might make her stay? She seems to like you--and after all--as you so generously admit--it was--to a certain extent your fault." Before Jerry could reply, Jarvis came down the stairs with a pained--not to say mortified--expression on his face. Underneath his left arm he held tightly a shabby little bag and a freshly wrapped up parcel: in his right hand, held far away from his body, was the melancholy and picturesque terrier--"Michael." Mrs. Chichester looked at him in horror. "Where are you going with those--THINGS?" she gasped. "To put them in a cab, madam," answered the humiliated footman. "Your niece's orders." "Put those articles in a travelling-bag--use one of my daughter's," ordered the old lady. "Your niece objects, madam. She sez she'll take nothing away she didn't bring with her." The grief-stricken woman turned away as Jarvis passed out. Alaric tried to comfort her. But the strain of the morning had been too great. Mrs. Chichester burst into tears. "Don't weep, mater. Please don't. It can't be helped. We've all done our best. I know _I_ have!" and Alaric put his mother carefully down on the lounge and sat beside her on the arm. He looked cheerfully at Jerry and smiled as he said: "I even offered to marry her if she'd stay. Couldn't do more than that, could I?" Hawkes listened intently. Jerry returned Alaric's smile as he asked: "YOU offered to marry her?" Alaric nodded: "Poor little wretch. Still I'd have gone through with it." "And what did she say?" queried Jerry. "First of all she laughed in my face--right in my face--the little beggar!" Hawkes frowned gloomily as though at some painful remembrance. "And after she had concluded her cachinnatory outburst, she coolly told me she would rather have 'MICHAEL.' She is certainly a remarkable little person and outside of the inconvenience of having her here, we should all be delighted to go on taking care of her. And if dancing is the rock we are going to split on, let us get one up every week for her. Eh, Jerry? You'd come, wouldn't you?" Down the stairs came Peg and Ethel. Peg was holding one of Ethel's hands tightly. There seemed to be a thorough understanding between them. Peg was dressed in the same little black suit she wore when she first entered the Chichester family and the same little hat. They all looked at her in amazement, amusement, interrogation and disgust respectively. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Ethel stopped Peg and entreated: "Don't go!" "I must. There's nothin' in the wurrld 'ud kape me here now. Nothin'!" "I'll drive with you to the station. May I?" asked Ethel. "All right, dear." Peg crossed over to Mrs. Chichester: "Good-bye, aunt. I'm sorry I've been such a throuble to ye." The poor lady looked at Peg through misty eyes and said reproachfully: "WHY that dress? Why not one of the dresses I gave you?" "This is the way I left me father, an' this is the way I'm goin' back to him!" replied Peg sturdily. "Goodbye, Cousin Alaric," and she laughed good-naturedly at the odd little man. In spite of everything he did, he had a spice of originality about him that compelled Peg to overlook what might have seemed to others unpardonable priggishness. "Good-bye--little devil!" cried Alaric, cheerfully taking the offered hand. "Good luck to ye. And take care of yerself," added Alaric, generously. As Peg turned away from him, she came face to face with Jerry--or as she kept calling him in her brain by his new name--to her--Sir Gerald Adair. She dropped her eyes and timidly held out her hand: "Good-bye!" was all she said. "You're not going, Peg," said Jerry, quietly and positively. "Who's goin' to stop me?" "The Chief Executor of the late Mr. Kingsnorth's will." "An' who is THAT?" "'Mr. Jerry,' Peg!" "YOU an executor?" "I am. Sit down--here in our midst--and know why you have been here all the past month." As he forced Peg gently into a chair, Mrs. Chichester and Alaric turned indignantly on him. Mr. Hawkes moved down to listen, and, if necessary, advise. There was pleasure showing on one face only--on Ethel's. She alone wanted Peg to understand her position in that house. Since the previous night the real womanly note awakened in Ethel. Her heart went out to Peg. CHAPTER XVII PEG LEARNS OF HER UNCLE'S LEGACY Peg looked up wonderingly from the chair. "Me cab's at the door!" she said, warningly to Jerry. "I am sorry to insist, but you must give me a few, moments," said the Chief Executor. "MUST?" cried Peg. "It is urgent," replied Jerry quietly. "Well, then--hurry;" and Peg sat on the edge of the chair, nervously watching "Jerry." "Have you ever wondered at the real reason you were brought here to this house and the extraordinary interest taken in you by relations who, until a month ago, had never even bothered about your existence?" "I have, indeed," Peg answered. "But whenever I've asked any one, I've always been told it was me uncle's wish." "And it was. Indeed, his keenest desire, just before his death, was to atone in some way for his unkindness to your mother." "Nothin' could do that," and Peg's lips tightened. "That was why he sent for you." "Sendin' for me won't bring me poor mother back to life, will it?" "At least we must respect his intentions. He desired that you should be given the advantages your mother had when she was a girl." "'Ye've made yer bed; lie in it'! That was the message he sent me mother when she was starvin'. And why? Because she loved me father. Well, I love me father an' if he thought his money could separate us he might just as well have let me alone. No one will ever separate us." "In justice to yourself," proceeded Jerry, "you must know that he set aside the sum of one thousand pounds a year to be paid to the lady who would undertake your training." Mrs. Chichester covered her eyes to hide the tears of mortification that sprang readily into them. Alaric looked at Jerry in absolute disgust. Hawkes frowned his disapproval. Peg sprang up and walked across to her aunt and looked down at her. "A thousand pounds a year!" She turned to Jerry and asked: "Does she get a thousand a year for abusin' me?" "For taking care of you," corrected Jerry. "Well, what do ye think of that?" cried Peg, gazing curiously at Mrs. Chichester. "A thousand pounds a year for makin' me miserable, an' the poor dead man thinkin' he was doin' me a favour!" "I tell you this," went on Jerry, "because I don't want you to feel that you have been living on charity. You have not." Peg suddenly blazed up: "Well, I've been made to feel it," and she glared passionately at her aunt. "Why wasn't I told this before? If I'd known it I'd never have stayed with ye a minnit Who are YOU, I'd like to know, to bring me up any betther than me father? He's just as much a gentleman as any of yez. He never hurt a poor girl's feelin's just because she was poor. Suppose he hasn't any money? Nor ME? What of it? Is it a crime? What has yer money an' yer breedin' done for you? It's dried up the very blood in yer veins, that's what it has! Yer frightened to show one real, human, kindly impulse. Ye don't know what happiness an' freedom mean. An' if that is what money does, I don't want it. Give me what I've been used to--POVERTY. At least I can laugh sometimes from me heart, an' get some pleasure out o' life without disgracin' people!" Peg's anger gave place to just as sudden a twinge of regret as she caught sight of Ethel, white-faced, and staring at her compassionately. She went across to Ethel and buried her face on her shoulder and wept as she wailed. "Why WASN'T I told! I'd never have stayed! Why wasn't I told?" And Ethel comforted her: "Don't cry, dear," she whispered. "Don't. The day you came here we were beggars. You have literally, fed and housed us for the last month." Peg looked up at Ethel in astonishment. She forgot her own sorrow. "Ye were beggars?" "Yes. We have nothing but the provision made for your training." Poor Mrs. Chichester looked at her daughter reproachfully. Alaric had never seen his sister even INTERESTED much less EXCITED before. He turned to his mother, shrugged his shoulders and said: "I give it up! That's all I can say! I simply give it up!" Peg grasped the full meaning of Ethel's words: "And will ye have nothin' if I go away?" Peg paused: Ethel did not speak. Peg persisted: "Tell me--are ye ralely dependin' on ME? Spake to me. Because if ye are, I won't go. I'll stay with ye. I wouldn't see ye beggars for the wurrld. I've been brought up amongst them, an' I know what it is." Suddenly she took Ethel by the shoulders and asked in a voice so low that none of the others heard her: "Was that the reason ye were goin' last night?" Ethel tried to stop her. The truth illumined Ethel's face and Peg saw it and knew. "Holy Mary!" she cried, "and it was I was drivin' ye to it. Ye felt the insult of it every time ye met me--as ye said last night. Sure, if I'd known, dear, I'd never have hurt ye, I wouldn't! Indade, I wouldn't!" She turned to the others: "There! It's all settled. I'll stay with ye, aunt, an' ye can tache me anythin' ye like. Will some one ask Jarvis to bring back me bundles an' 'Michael.' I'm goin' to stay!" Jerry smiled approvingly at her. Then he said: "That is just what I would have expected you to do. But, my dear Peg, there's no need for such a sacrifice." "Sure, why not?" cried Peg, excitedly. "Let me, sacrifice meself. I feel like it this minnit." "There is no occasion." He walked over to Mrs. Chichester and addressed her: "I came here this morning with some very good news for you. I happen to be one of the directors of Gifford's bank and I am happy to say that it will shortly reopen its doors and all the depositors' money will be available for them in a little while." Mrs. Chichester gave a cry of joy as she looked proudly at her two children: "Oh, Alaric!" she exclaimed: "My darling Ethel!" "REOPEN its doors?" Alaric commented contemptuously. "So it jolly well ought to. What right had it to CLOSE 'em? That's what _I_ want to know. What right?" "A panic in American securities, in which we were heavily interested, caused the suspension of business," explained Jerry. "The panic is over. The securities are RISING every day. We'll soon be on easy street again." "See here, mater," remarked Alaric firmly, "every ha'penny of ours goes out of Gifford's bank and into something that has a bottom to it. In future, I'LL manage the business of this family." The Chichester family, reunited in prosperity, had apparently forgotten the forlorn little girl sitting on the chair, who a moment before had offered to take up the load of making things easier for them by making them harder for herself. All their backs were turned to her. Jerry looked at her. She caught his eye and smiled, but it had a sad wistfulness behind it. "Sure, they don't want me now. I'd better take me cab. Good day to yez." And she started quickly for the door. Jerry stopped her. "There is just one more condition of Mr. Kingsnorth's will that you must know. Should you go through your course of training satisfactorily to the age of twenty-one, you will inherit the sum of five thousand pounds a year." "When I'm twenty-one, I get five thousand pounds year?" gasped Peg. "If you carry out certain conditions." "An' what are they?" "Satisfy the executors that you are worthy of the legacy." "Satisfy you?" "And Mr. Hawkes." Peg looked at the somewhat uncomfortable lawyer, who reddened and endeavoured to appear at ease. "Mr. Hawkes! Oho! Indade!" She turned back to Jerry: "Did he know about the five thousand? When I'm twenty-one?" "He drew the will at Mr. Kingsnorth's dictation," replied Jerry. "Was that why ye wanted me to be engaged to ye until I was twenty-one?" she asked the unhappy lawyer. Hawkes tried to laugh it off. "Come, come, Miss O'Connell," he said, "what nonsense!" "Did YOU propose to Miss Margaret?" queried Jerry. "Well--" hesitated the embarrassed lawyer--"in a measure--yes." "That's what it was," cried Peg, with a laugh. "It was very measured. No wondher the men were crazy to kape me here and to marry me." She caught sight of Alaric and smiled at him. He creased his face into a sickly imitation of a smile and murmured: "Well, of course, I mean to say!" with which clear and well-defined expression of opinion, he stopped. "I could have forgiven you, Alaric," said Peg, "but Mr. Hawkes, I'm ashamed of ye." "It was surely a little irregular, Hawkes," suggested Jerry. "I hardly agree with you, Sir Gerald. There can be nothing irregular in a simple statement of affection." "Affection is it?" cried Peg. "Certainly. We are both alone in the world. Miss O'Connell seemed to be unhappy: the late Mr. Kingsnorth desired that she should be trained--it seemed to me be an admirable solution of the whole difficulty." Peg laughed openly and turning to Jerry, said "He calls himself a 'solution.' Misther Hawkes--go on with ye--I am ashamed of ye." "Well, there is no harm done," replied Mr. Hawkes, endeavouring to regain his lost dignity. "No!" retorted Peg. "It didn't go through, did it?" Hawkes smiled at that, and taking Peg's hand, protested: "However--always your friend and well-wisher." "But nivver me husband!" insisted Peg. "Good-bye." "Where are ye goin' without me?" "You surely are not returning to America now?" said Hawkes, in surprise. "Why, of course, I'm goin' to me father now. Where else would I go?" Hawkes hastened to explain: "If you return to America to your father, you will violate one of the most important clauses in the will." "If I go back to me father?" "Or if he visits you--until you are twenty-one," added Jerry. "Is that so?" And the blood rushed up to Peg's temples. "Well, then, that settles it. No man is goin' to dictate to me about me father. No dead man--nor no livin' one nayther." "It will make you a rich young lady in three years, remember. You will be secure from any possibility of poverty." "I don't care. I wouldn't stay over here for three years with" she caught Mrs. Chichester's eyes fastened on her and she checked herself. "I wouldn't stay away from me father for three years for all the money in the wurrld," she concluded, with marked finality. "Very well," agreed Jerry. Then he spoke to the others: "Now, may I have a few moments alone with my ward?" The family expressed surprise. Hawkes suggested a feeling of strong displeasure. "I shall wait to escort you down to the boat, Miss O'Connell." Bowing to every one, the man of law left the room. Peg stared at Jerry incredulously. "WARD? Is that ME?" "Yes, Peg. I am your legal guardian--appointed by Mr. Kingsnorth!" "You're the director of a bank, the executor of an estate, an' now ye're me guardian. What do ye do with yer spare time?" Jerry smiled and appealed to the others: "Just a few seconds--alone." Mrs. Chichester went to Peg and said coldly "Good-bye, Margaret. It is unlikely we'll meet again. I hope you have a safe and pleasant journey." "I thank ye, Aunt Monica." Poor Peg longed for at least one little sign of affection from her aunt. She leaned forward to kiss her. The old lady either did not see the advance or did not reciprocate what it implied. She went on upstairs out of sight. Mingled with her feeling of relief that she would never again be slighted and belittled by Mrs. Chichester, she was hurt to the heart by the attitude of cold indifference with which her aunt treated her. She was indeed overjoyed to think now it was the last she would ever see of the old lady. Alaric held out his hand frankly: "Jolly decent of ye to offer to stay here--just to keep us goin'--awfully decent. You are certainly a little wonder. I'll miss you terribly--really I will." Peg whispered: "Did ye know about that five thousand pounds when I'm twenty-one?" "'Course I did. That was why I proposed. To save the roof." Alaric was nothing if not honest. "Ye'd have sacrificed yeself by marryin' ME?" quizzed Peg. "Like a shot." "There's somethin' of the hero about you, Alaric!" "Oh, I mustn't boast," he replied modestly. "It's all in the family." "Well, I'm glad ye didn't have to do it," Peg remarked positively. "So am I. Jolly good of you to say 'No.' All the luck in the world to you. Drop me a line or a picture-card from New York. Look you up on my way to Canada--if I ever really go. 'Bye!" The young man walked over to the door calling over his shoulder to Jerry: "See ye lurchin' about somewhere, old dear!" and he too went out of Peg's life. She looked at Ethel and half entreated, half commanded Jerry: "Plaze look out of the window for a minnit. I want to spake to me cousin." Jerry sauntered over to the window and stood looking at the gathering storm. "Is that all over?" whispered Peg. "Yes," replied Ethel, in a low tone. "Ye'll never see him again?" "Never. I'll write him that. What must you think of me?" "I thought of you all last night," said Peg eagerly. "Ye seem like some one who's been lookin' for happiness in the dark with yer eyes shut. Open them wide, dear, and look at the beautiful things in the daylight and then you'll be happy." Ethel shook her head sadly: "I feel to-day that I'll never know happiness again." "Sure, I've felt like that many a time since I've been here. Ye know three meals a day, a soft bed to slape in an' everythin' ye want besides, makes ye mighty discontented. If ye'd go down among the poor once in a while an' see what they have to live on, an' thry and help them, ye might find comfort and peace in doin' it." Ethel put both of her hands affectionately on Peg's shoulders. "Last night you saved me from myself--and then; you shielded me from my family." "Faith I'd do THAT for any poor girl, much less me own cousin." "Don't think too hardly of me, Margaret. Please!" she entreated. "I don't, dear. It wasn't yer fault. It was yer mother's." "My mother's?" "That's what I said. It's all in the way, we're brought up what we become aftherwards. Yer mother, raised ye in a hot house instead of thrustin' ye out into the cold winds of the wurrld when ye were young and gettin' ye used them. She taught ye to like soft silks and shining satins an' to look down on the poor, an' the shabby. That's no way to bring up anybody. Another thing ye learnt from her--to be sacret about things that are near yer heart instead of encouragin' ye to be outspoken an' honest. Of course I don't think badly of ye. Why should I? I had the advantage of ye all the time. It isn't ivery girl has the bringin' up such as I got from me father. So let yer mind be aisy, dear. I think only good of ye. God bless ye!" She took Ethel gently in her arms and kissed her. "I'll drive down with you," said Ethel, brokenly, and hurried out. Peg stood looking after her for a moment, then she turned and looked at Jerry, who was still looking out of the window. "She's gone," said Peg, quietly. Jerry walked down to her. "Are you still determined to go?" he asked. "I am." "And you'll leave here without a regret?" "I didn't say that sure." "We've been good friends, haven't we?" "I thought we were," she answered gently. "But friendship must be honest. Why didn't ye tell me ye were a gentleman? Sure, how was I to know? 'Jerry' might mean anybody. Why didn't ye tell me ye had a title?" "I did nothing to get it. Just inherited it," he said simply. Then he added: "I'd drop it altogether if I could." "Would ye?" she asked curiously. "I would. And as for being a gentleman, why one of the finest I ever met drove a cab in Piccadilly. He was a GENTLE MAN--that is--one who never willingly hurts another. Strange in a cabman, eh?" "Why did ye let me treat ye all the time as an equal?" "Because you ARE--superior in many things. Generosity, for instance." "Oh, don't thry the comther on me. I know ye now. Nothin' seems the same." "Nothing?" "Nothin'!" "Are we never to play like children again?" he pleaded. "No," she said firmly. "Ye'll have to come out to New York to do it. An' then I mightn't." "Will nothing make you stay?" "Nothing. I'm just achin' for me home." "Such as this could never be home to you?" "This? Never," she replied positively. "I'm sorry. Will you ever think of me?" He waited. She averted her eyes and said nothing. "Will you write to me?" he urged. "What for?" "I'd like to hear of you and from you. Will you?" "Just to laugh at me spellin'?" "Peg!" He drew near to her. "Sir Gerald!" she corrected him and drew a little away. "Peg, my dear!" He took both of her hands in his and bent over her. Just for a moment was Peg tempted to yield to the embrace. Had she done so, the two lives would have changed in that moment. But the old rebellious spirit came uppermost, and she looked at him defiantly and cried: "Are you goin' to propose to me, too?" That was the one mistake that separated those two hearts. Sir Gerald drew back from her--hurt. She was right--they were not equals. She could not understand him, since he could never quite say all he felt, and she could never divine what was left unsaid. She was indeed right. Such as this could never be a home for her. Jarvis came quietly in: "Mr. Hawkes says, Miss, if you are going to catch the train--" "I'll catch it," said Peg impatiently; and Jarvis went out. Peg looked at Jerry's back turned eloquently toward her, as though in rebuke. "Why in the wurrld did I say that to him?" she muttered. "It's me Irish tongue." She went to the door, and opened it noisily, rattling the handle loudly--hoping he would look around. But he never moved. She accepted the attitude as one of dismissal. Under her breath she murmured: "Good-bye, Misther Jerry--an' God bless ye--an' thank ye for bein' so nice to me." And she passed out. In the hall Peg found Ethel and Hawkes waiting for her. They put her between them in the cab and with "Michael" in her arms, she drove through the gates of Regal Villa never to return. The gathering storm broke as she reached the station. In storm Jerry came into her life, in storm she was leaving his. The threads of what might have been a fitting addition to the "LOVE STORIES OF THE WORLD" were broken. Could the break ever be healed? CHAPTER XVIII PEG'S FAREWELL TO ENGLAND Many and conflicting were Peg's feelings as she went aboard the ship that was to carry her from England forever. In that short MONTH she had experienced more contrasted feelings than in all the other YEARS she had lived. It seemed as if she had left her girlhood, with all its keen hardships and sweet memories, behind her. When the vessel swung around the dock in Liverpool and faced toward America Peg felt that not only was she going back to the New World, but she was about to begin a new existence. Nothing would ever be quite the same again. She had gone through the leavening process of emotional life and had come out of it with her courage still intact, her honesty unimpaired, but somehow with her FAITH abruptly shaken. She had believed and trusted, and she had been--she thought--entirely mistaken, and it hurt her deeply. Exactly why Peg should have arrived at such a condition--bordering as it was on cynicism--was in one sense inexplicable, yet from another point of view easily understood. That Jerry had not told her all about himself when they first met, as she did about herself to him, did not necessarily imply deceit on his part. Had she asked any member or servant in the Chichester family who and what "Jerry" was they would readily have told her. But that was contrary to Peg's nature. If she liked anyone, she never asked questions about them. It suggested a doubt, and doubt to Peg meant disloyalty in friendship and affection. Everyone had referred to this young gentleman as "Jerry." He even introduced himself by that unromantic and undignified name. No one seemed to treat him with any particular deference, nor did anything in his manner seem to demand it. She had imagined that anyone with a title should not only be proud of it, but would naturally hasten to let everyone they met become immediately aware whom they were addressing. She vividly remembered her father pointing out to her a certain north-of-Ireland barrister who--on the strength of securing more convictions under the "Crimes Act" than any other jurist in the whole of Ireland--was rewarded with the Royal and Governmental approval by having conferred on him the distinction and dignity of knighthood. It was the crowning-point of his career. It has steadily run through his life since as a thin flame of scarlet. He lives and breathes "knighthood." He thinks and speaks it. He DEMANDS recognition from his equals, even as he COMPELS it from his inferiors. Her father told Peg that all the servants were drilled carefully to call him--"Sir Edward." His relations, unaccustomed through their drab lives to the usages of the great, found extreme difficulty in acquiring the habit of using the new appellation in the place of the nick-name of his youth--"Ted." It was only when it was made a condition of being permitted an audience with the gifted and honoured lawyer, that they allowed their lips to meekly form the servile "Sir!" when addressing their distinguished relation. When he visited Dublin Castle to consult with his Chiefs, and any of his old-time associates hailed him familiarly as "Ted!" a grieved look would cross his semi-Scotch features, and he would hasten to correct in his broad, coarse brogue: "Sir Edward, me friend! Be the Grace of Her Majesty and the British Government--Sir Edward--if--ye plaze!" THERE was one who took pride in the use of his title. He desired and exacted the full tribute due the dignity it carried. Then why did not "Jerry" do the same? She did not appreciate that to him the prefix having been handed down from generations, was as natural to him as it was unnatural to the aforementioned criminal lawyer. The one was born with it, consequently it became second nature to him. The other had it conferred on him for his zeal in procuring convictions of his own countrymen, and never having in his most enthusiastic dreams believed such a condition would come to pass--now that it was an accomplished fact, he naturally wanted all to know and respect it. They were two distinct breeds of men. Peg had occasionally met the type of the honoured lawyer. They sprang up as mushrooms over night during the pressure of the "Crimes Act," and were liberally rewarded by the government--some were even transferred to the English Bar. And they carried their blatant insistence even across the channel. But the man of breeding who exacted nothing; of culture, who pretended not to have acquired it; of the real power and dignity of life, yet was simplicity itself in his manner to others--that kind of man was new to Peg. She burned with shame as she thought of her leave-taking. What must Sir Gerald think of her? Even to the end she was just the little "Irish nothin'," as she had justly, it seemed to her now, described herself to him. She had hurt and offended him. In that one rude, foolish, unnecessary question, "Are you goin' to propose too?" she had outraged common courtesy, and made it impossible for him to say even a friendly "Good bye" to her. She did not realise the full measure of the insult until afterwards. She had practically insinuated that he was following the somewhat sordid example of cousin Alaric and Montgomery Hawkes in proposing for her hand because, in a few years, she would benefit by her uncle's will. Such a suggestion was not only unworthy of her--it was an unforgivable thing to say to him. He had always treated her with the greatest courtesy and consideration, and because he did not flaunt his gentility before her, she had taken unwarranted umbrage and had said something that raised an impassable barrier between them. All the way across the Atlantic poor lonely Peg had many opportunities of reviewing that brief glimpse of English life. She felt now how wrong her attitude had been to the whole of the Chichester family. She had judged them at first sight. She had resolved that they were just selfish, inconsiderate, characterless people. On reflection, she determined that they were not. And even if they had been, why should Peg have been their accuser? And after all, is there not an element of selfishness in every nature? Was Peg herself entirely immune? And in a family with traditions to look back on and live up to, have they not a greater right to being self-centred than the plebeian with nothing to look back on or forward to? And, all things considered, is not selfishness a thoroughly human and entirely natural feeling? What right had she to condemn people wholesale for feeling and practising it? These were the sum and substance of Peg's self-analysis during the first days of her voyage home. Then the thought came to her,--were the Chichesters really selfish? Now that she had been told the situation, she knew that her aunt had undertaken her training to protect Ethel and Alaric from distress and humiliation. She realised how distasteful it must have been to a lady of Mrs. Chichester's nature and position to have occasion to receive into her house, amongst her own family, such a girl as Peg. And she had not made it easy for her aunt. She had regarded the family as being allied against her. Was it not largely her own fault if they had been? Peg's sense of justice was asserting itself. The thought of Alaric flashed through her mind, and with it came a little pang of regret for the many occasions she had made fun of him--and in his mother's presence. His proposal to her had its pathetic as well as its humorous side. To save his family he would have deliberately thrown away his own chance of happiness by marrying her. Yet he would have done it willingly and cheerfully and, from what she had seen of the little man, he would have lived up to his obligations honourably and without a murmur. Alaric's sense of relief at her refusal of him suddenly passed before her, and she smiled broadly as she saw, in a mental picture, his eager and radiant little face as he thanked her profusely for being so generous as to refuse him. Looking back, Alaric was by no means as contemptible as he had appeared at first sight. He had been coddled too much. He needed the spur of adversity and the light of battle with his fellowmen. Experience and worldly wisdom could make him a useful and worthy citizen, since fundamentally there was nothing seriously wrong with him. Peg's outlook on life was distinctly becoming clarifled. Lastly, she thought of Ethel. Poor, unhappy, lonely Ethel! In her little narrow ignorance, Peg had taken an intense dislike to her cousin from the beginning. Once or twice she had made friendly overtures to Ethel, and had always been repulsed. She placed Ethel in the category of selfish English-snobdom that she had heard and read about and now, apparently, met face to face. Then came the vivid experience at night when Ethel laid bare her soul pitilessly and torrentially for Peg to see. With it came the realisation of the heart-ache and misery of this outwardly contented and entirely unemotional young lady. Beneath the veneer of repression and convention Peg saw the fires of passion blazing in Ethel, and the cry of revolt and hatred against her environment. But for Peg she would have thrown away her life on a creature such as Brent because there was no one near her to understand and to pity and to succour. Peg shuddered as she thought of the rash act Ethel had been saved from--blackening her life in the company of that satyr. How many thousands of girls were there in England today, well-educated, skilled in the masonry of society--to all outward seeming perfectly contented, awaiting their final summons to the marriage-market--the culmination of their brief, inglorious careers. Yet if one could penetrate beneath the apparent calm, one might find boiling in THEIR blood and beating in THEIR brains the same revolt that had driven Ethel to the verge of the Dead Sea of lost hopes and vain ambitions--the vortex of scandal. When from time to time a girl of breeding and of family elopes with an under-servant or a chauffeur, the unfortunate incident is hushed up and the parents attribute the unhappy occurrence primarily to some mental or moral twist in the young lady. They should seek the fault in their own hearts and lives. It is the home life of England that is responsible for a large portion of the misery that drives the victims to open revolt. The children are not taught from the time they can first speak to be perfectly frank and honest about everything they think and feel. They are too often left in the care of servants at an age when parental influence has the greatest significance. On the rare occasions when they are permitted to enter the august presence of their parents, they are often treated with a combination of tolerant affection and imperial severity. Small wonder the little ones in their development to adolescence evade giving confidences that have neither been asked for nor encouraged. They have to learn the great secrets of life and of nature from either bitter experience or from the lips of strangers. Children and parents grow up apart. It often takes a convulsion of nature or a devastating scandal to awaken the latter to the full realisation of their responsibility. During their talk the morning following that illuminating incident, Peg learned more of Ethel's real nature than she had done in all of the four weeks she had seen and listened to her daily. She had opened her heart to Peg, and the two girls had mingled confidences. If they had only begun that way, what a different month it might have been for both! Peg resolved to watch Ethel's career from afar: to write to her constantly: and to keep fresh and green the memory of their mutual regard. At times there would flash through Peg's mind--what would her future in America be--with her father? Would he be disappointed? He so much wanted her to be provided for that the outcome of her visit abroad would be, of a certainty, in the nature of a severe shock to him. What would be the outcome? How would he receive her? And what had all the days to come in store for her with memory searching back to the days that were? She had a longing now for education: to know the essential things that made daily intercourse possible between people of culture. She had been accustomed to look on it as affectation. Now she realised that it was as natural to those who had acquired the masonry of gentle people as her soft brogue and odd, blunt, outspoken ways were to her. From, now on she would never more be satisfied with life as it was of old. She had passed through a period of awakening; a searchlight had been turned on her own shortcomings and lack of advantages. She had not been conscious of them before, since she had been law unto herself. But now a new note beat in on her. It was as though she had been colour-blind and suddenly had the power of colour-differentiation vouchsafed her and looked out on a world that dazzled by its new-found brilliancy. It was even as though she had been tone-deaf and, by a miracle, had the gift of sweet sounds given her, and found herself bathed in a flow of sweet music. She was bewildered. Her view of life had changed. She would have to rearrange her outlook by her experience if she hoped to find happiness. And always as she brooded and argued with and criticised herself and found things to admire in what had hitherto been wrong to her--always the face of Jerry rose before her and the sound of his voice came pleasantly to her ears and the memory of his regard touched gently at her heart, and the thought of her final mistake burnt and throbbed in her brain. And with each pulsation of the giant engines she was carried farther and farther away froze the scene of her first romance. One night she made her "farewell" to England and all it contained that had played a part in her life. It was the night before she reached New York. As she came nearer and nearer to America, the thought of one who was waiting for her--who had never shown anger or resentment toward her--whatever she did; who had never shown liking for any but her; who had always given her the love of his heart and the fruit of his brain; who had sheltered and taught and loved and suffered for her,--rose insistently before her and obliterated all other impressions and all other memories. As she spoke her "farewell" to England, Peg turned her little body toward the quickly nearing shores of America and thanked God that waiting to greet her would be her father, and entreated Him that he would be spared to her, and that when either should die that she might be called first; that life without him would be barren and terrible! and above all, she pleaded that He would keep her little heart loyal always to her childhood hero, and that no other should ever supplant her father in her love and remembrance. When she awoke nest day amid the bustle of the last morning on board, it seemed that her prayer had been answered. Her farewell to England was indeed final. She had only one thought uppermost--she was going to see her father. BOOK V PEG RETURNS TO HER FATHER CHAPTER I AFTER MANY DAYS Frank O'Connell stood on the quay that morning in July, and watched the great ship slowly swing in through the heads, and his heart beat fast as he waited impatiently while they moored her. His little one had come back to him. His fears were at rest. She was on board that floating mass of steel and iron, and the giant queen of the water had gallantly survived storm and wave and was nestling alongside the pier. Would she be the same Peg? That was the thought beating through him as he strained his eyes to see the familiar and beloved little figure. Was she coming back to him--transformed by the magic wand of association--a great lady? He could scarcely believe that she WOULD, yet he had a half-defined fear in his soul that she might not be the same. One thing he made up his mind to--never again would he think of separation. Never again would he argue her into agreeing to go away from him. He had learned his lesson and by bitter experience. Never again until SHE wished it. Amid the throngs swarming down the gangways he suddenly saw his daughter, and he gave a little gasp of surprised pleasure, and a mist swam before his eyes and a great lump came into his throat and his heart beat as a trip-hammer. It was the same Peg that had gone away a month ago. The same little black suit and the hat with the berries and the same bag and "Michael" in her arms. Their meeting was extraordinary. It was quite unlike what either had supposed it would be. There was a note of strangeness in each. There was--added to the fulness of the heart--an aloofness--a feeling that, in the passage of time, life had not left either quite the same. How often that happens to two people who have shared the intimacy of years and the affection of a lifetime! After a separation of even a little while, the break in their joint-lives, the influence of strangers, and the quick rush of circumstance during their parting, creates a feeling neither had ever known. The interregnum had created barriers that had to be broken down before the old relationship could be resumed. O'Connell and Peg made the journey home almost in silence. They sat hand in hand in the conveyance whilst Peg's eyes looked at the tall buildings as they flashed past her, and saw the daring advertisements on the boardings and listened to the ceaseless roar of the traffic. All was just as she had left it. Only Peg had changed. New York seemed a Babel after the quiet of that little north of England home. She shivered as thoughts surged in a jumbled mass through her brain. They reached O'Connell's apartment. It had been made brilliant for Peg's return. There were additions to the meagre furnishings Peg had left behind. Fresh pictures were on the walls. There were flowers everywhere. O'Connell watched Peg anxiously as she looked around. How would she feel toward her home when she contrasted it with what she had just left? His heart bounded as he saw Peg's face brighten as she ran from one object to another and commented on them. "It's the grand furniture we have now, father!" "Do ye like it, Peg?" "That I do. And it's the beautiful picture of Edward Fitzgerald ye have on the wall there!" "Ye mind how I used to rade ye his life?" "I do indade. It's many's the tear I've shed over him and Robert Emmet." "Then ye've not forgotten?" "Forgotten what?" "All ye learned as a child and we talked of since ye grew to a girl?" "I have not. Did ye think I would?" "No, Peg, I didn't. Still, I was wondherin'--" "What would I be doin' forgettin' the things ye taught me?" He looked at her and a whimsical note came in his voice and the old look twinkled in his eyes. "It's English I thought ye'd be by now. Ye've lived so long among the Saxons." "English! is it?" And her tone rang with disgust and her look was one of disdain. "English ye thought I'd be! Sure, ye ought to know me betther than that!" "I do, Peg. I was just tasin' ye." "An' what have ye been doin' all these long days without me?" He raised the littered sheets of his manuscript and showed them to her. "This." She looked over her shoulder and read: "From 'BUCK-SHOT' to 'AGRICULTURAL ORGANISATION.' "THE HISTORY OF A GENERATION OF ENGLISH MISRULE, by Frank Owen O'Connell." She looked up proudly at her father. "It looks wondherful, father." "I'll rade it to you in the long evenin's now we're together again." "Do, father." "And we won't separate any more, Peg, will we?" "We wouldn't have this time but for you, father." "Is it sorry ye are that ye went?" "I don't know. I'm sorry o' coorse, and GLAD, too, in some ways." "What made yez come back so sudden-like?" "I only promised to stay a month." "Didn't they want ye any longer?" "In one way they did, an' in another they didn't. It's a long history--that's what it is. Let us sit down here as we used in the early days and I'll tell ye the whole o' the happenin's since I left ye." She made him comfortable as had been her wont before, and, sitting on the little low stool at his feet, she told him the story of her month abroad and the impelling motive of her return. She softened some things and omitted others--Ethel entirely. That episode should be locked forever in Peg's heart. Jerry she touched on lightly. O'Connell asked her many questions about him, remembering the tone of her later letters. And all the time he never took his eyes from her face, and he marked how it shone with a warm glow of pleasure when Jerry's name occurred, and how the gleam died away and settled into one of sadness when she spoke of her discovery that he had a title. "They're queer people, the English, Peg." "They are, father." "They're cool an' cunnin' an' crafty, me darlin'." "Some o' them are fine an' honourable an' clever too, father." "Was this fellow that called himself 'Jerry'--an' all the while was a Lord--that same?" "Ivery bit of it, father." "And he trated ye dacent-like?" "Sure, I might have been a LADY, the way he behaved to me." "Did he iver smile at ye?" "Many's the time." "Do ye remember the proverb I taught ye as a child?" "Which wun, father? I know a hundred, so I do." "'Beware the head of a bull, the heels of a horse, of the smile of an Englishman!'" He paused and looked at her keenly. "Do you remember that, Peg?" "I do. There are Englishmen AND Englishmen. There are PLENTY o' bad Irish, and by the same token there are SOME good Englishmen. An' he is wun o' them." "Why didn't he tell ye he was a Lord?" "He didn't think it necessary. Over there they let ye gather from their manner what they are. They don't think it necessary to be tellin' everyone." "It's the strange ones they are, Peg, to be rulin' us." "Some day, father, they'll go over to Ireland and learn what we're really like, and then they'll change everything. Jerry said that." "They've begun to already. Sure, there's a man named Plunkett has done more in a few years than all the governments have accomplished in all the years they've been blunderin' along tryin' to thrample on us. An' sure, Plunkett has a title, too!" "I know, father. Jerry knows him and often spoke of him." "Did he, now?" "He did. He said that so long as the English government 'ud listen to kindly, honourable men like Plunkett, there was hope of makin' Ireland a happy, contented people, an' Jerry said--" "It seems Misther Jerry must have said a good deal to yez." "Oh, he did. Sure, it was HE started me learnin' things, an' I am goin' on learnin' now, father. Let us both learn." "What?" cried the astonished father. "O' coorse, I know ye have a lot o' knowledge, but it's the little FINE things we Irish have got to learn. An' they make life seem so much bigger an' grander by bein' considerate an' civil an' soft-spoken to each other. We've let the brutality of all the years that have gone before eat into us, and we have thrown off all the charm and formality of life, and in their place adopted a rough and crude manner to each other that does not come really from our hearts, but from the memory of our wrongs." Unconsciously Peg had spoken as she had heard Jerry so often speak when he discussed the Irish. She had lowered her voice and concluded with quiet strength and dignity. The contrast to the beginning of the speech was electrical. O'Connell listened amazed. "Did the same Jerry say that?" "He did, father. An' much more. He knows Ireland well, an' loves it. Many of his best friends are Irish--an'--" "Wait a minnit. Have I ever been 'rough an' crude' in me manner to you, Peg?" "Never, father. But, faith, YOU ought to be a Lord yerself. There isn't one o' them in England looks any betther than you do. It's in their MANNER that they have the advantage of us." "And where would _I_ be gettin' the manner of a Lord, when me father died the poorest peasant in the village, an' me brought up from hand to mouth since I was a child?" "I'm sorry I said anythin', father. I wasn't reproachin' ye." "I know that, Peg." "I'm so proud of ye that yer manner manes more to me than any man o' title in England." He drew her gently to him. "There's the one great danger of two people who have grown near to each other separatin'. When they, meet again, they each think the other has changed. They look at each other with different eyes, Peg. An' that's what yer doin' with me. So long as I was near ye, ye didn't notice the roughness o' me speech an' the lack o' breedin' an' the want o' knowledge. Ye've seen and listened to others since who have all I never had the chance to get. God knows I want YOU to have all the advantages that the wurrld can give ye, since you an' me counthry--an' the memory of yer mother--are all I have had in me life these twenty years past. An' that was why I urged ye to go to England on the bounty of yer uncle. I wanted ye to know there was another kind of a life, where the days flowed along without a care or a sorrow. Where poverty was but a word, an' misery had no place. An' ye've seen it, Peg. An' the whole wurrld has changed for ye, Peg. An' from now you'll sit in judgment on the dead and gone days of yer youth--an' in judgment on me--" She interrupted him violently: "What are ye sayin' to me at all! _I_ sit in judgment on YOU! What do ye think I've become? Let me tell ye I've come back to ye a thousand times more yer child than I was when I left ye. What I've gone through has only strengthened me love for ye and me reverence for yer life's work. _I_ MAY have changed. But don't we all change day by day, even as we pass them close to each other. An' if the change is for the betther, where's the harm? I HAVE changed, father. There's somethin' wakened in me I never knew before. It's a WOMAN I've brought ye back instead o' the GIRL I left. An' it's the WOMAN'LL stand by ye, father, even as the child did when I depended on ye for every little thing. There's no power in the wurrld'll ever separate us!" She clung to him hysterically. Even while she protested the most, he felt the strange new note in her life. He held her firmly and looked into her eyes. "There's one thing, Peg, that must part us, some day, when it comes to you." "What's that, father?" "LOVE, Peg." She lowered her eyes and said nothing. "Has it come? Has it, Peg?" She buried her face on his breast, and though no sound came, he knew by the trembling of her little body that she was crying. So it HAD come into her life. The child he had sent away a month ago had come back to him transformed in that little time--into a woman. The Cry of Youth and the Call of Life had reached her heart. CHAPTER II LOOKING BACKWARD That night Peg and her father faced the future. They argued out all it might mean. They would fight it together. It was a pathetic, wistful little Peg that came back to him, and O'Connell set himself the task of lifting something of the load that lay on his child's heart. After all, he reasoned with her, with all his gentility and his advantages to have allowed Peg to like him and then to deliberately hurt her at the end, just as she was leaving, for a fancied insult, did not augur well for the character of Jerry. He tried to laugh her out of her mood. He chided her for joking with an Englishman at a critical moment such as their leave-taking. "And it WAS a joke, Peg, wasn't it?" "Sure, it was, father." "You ought to have known betther than that. During all that long month ye were there did ye meet one Englishman that ever saw a joke?" "Not many, father. Cousin Alaric couldn't." "Did ye meet ONE?" "I did, father." "Ye did?" "I did." "THERE was a man whose friendship ye might treasure." "I do treasure it, father." "Ye do?" "Yes, father." "Who was it?" "Jerry, father." O'Connell took a long breath and sighed. Jerry! Always Jerry! "I thried several jokes on him, an' he saw most of 'em." "I'd like to see this paragon, faith." "I wish ye could, father. Indade I do. Ye'd be such good friends." "WE'D be friends? Didn't ye say he was a GINTLEMAN?" "He sez a GENTLEMAN is a man who wouldn't willingly hurt anybody else. And he sez, as well, that it doesn't matther what anybody was born, if they have that quality in them they're just as much gintleman as the people with ancestors an' breedin'. An' he said that the finest gintleman he ever met was a CABMAN." "A cabman, Peg?" "Yes, faith--that's what he said. The cabman couldn't hurt anybody, and so he was a gintlemaa." "Did he mane it?" "He meant everything he said--to ME." "There isn't much the matther with him, I'm thinkin'." "There's nothin' the matther with him, father." "Mebbe he is Irish way back. It's just what an Irishman would say--a RALE Irishman." "There's no nationality in character or art, or sport or letthers or music. They're all of one great commonwealth. They're all one brotherhood, whether they're white or yellow or red or black. There's no nationality about them. The wurrld wants the best, an' they don't care what colour the best man is, so long as he's GREAT." O'Connell listened amazed. "An' where might ye have heard that?" "Jerry towld me. An' it's thrue. I believe it." They talked far into the night. He unfolded his plans. If his book was a success and he made some little money out of it, they would go back to Ireland and live out their lives there. And it was going to be a wonderful Ireland, too, with the best of the old and ceaseless energy of the new. An Ireland worth living in. They would make their home there again, and this time they would not leave it. "But some day we might go to England, father, eh?" "What for?" "Just to see it, father." "I was only there once. It was there yer mother an' me were married. It was there she gave her life into me care." He became suddenly silent, and the light of memory shone in his eyes, and the sigh of heart-ache broke through his lips. And his thoughts stretched back through the years, and once again Angela was beside him. Peg saw the look and knew it. She kept quite still. Then, as of old, when her father was in trouble, she did as she was wont in those old-young days--she slipped her little hand into his and waited for him to break the silence. After a while he stood up. "Ye'd betther be goin' to bed, Peg." "All right, father." She went to the door. Then she stopped. "Ye're glad I'm home, father?" He pressed her closely to him for answer. "I'll never lave ye again," she whispered. All through the night Peg lay awake, searching through the past and trying to pierce through the future. Toward morning she slept and, in a whirling dream she saw a body floating down a stream. She stretched out her hand to grasp it when the eyes met hers, and the eyes were those of a dead man--and the man was Jerry. She woke trembling with fear and she turned on the light and huddled into a chair and sat chattering with terror until she heard her father moving in his room. She went to the door and asked him to let her go in to him. He opened the door and saw his little Peg wild eyed, pale and terror-stricken, standing on the threshold. The look in her eyes terrified him. "What is it, Peg, me darlin'? What is it?" She crept in, and looked up into his face with her startling gaze, and she grasped him with both of her small hands, and in a voice dull and hopeless, cried despairingly: "I dreamt he was dead! Dead! and I couldn't rache him. An' he went on past me--down the stream--with his face up-turned--" The grasp loosened, and just as she slipped from him, O'Connell caught her in his strong arms and placed her gently on the sofa and tended her until her eyes opened again and looked up at him. It was the first time his Peg had fainted. She had indeed come back to him changed. He reproached himself bitterly. Why had he insisted on her going? She had a sorrow at her heart, now, that no hand could heal--not even his. Time only could soften her grief--time--and-- CHAPTER III AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR Those first days following Peg's return found father and child nearer each other than they had been since that famous trip through Ireland, when he lectured from the back of his historical cart. She became O'Connell's amanuensis. During the day she would go from library to library in New York, verifying data for her father's monumental work. At night he would dictate and she would write. O'Connell took a newer and more vital interest in the book, and it advanced rapidly toward completion. It was a significant moment to introduce it, since the eyes of the world were turned on the outcome of the new measure for Home Rule for Ireland, that Mr. Asquith's government were introducing, and that appeared to have every chance of becoming law. The dream of so many Irishmen seemed to be within the bounds of possibility of becoming a forceful reality. Accordingly O'Connell strained every nerve to complete it. He reviewed the past; he dwelt on the present: he attempted to forecast the future. And with every new page that he completed he felt it was one more step nearer home--the home he was hoping for and building on for Peg--in Ireland. There the colour would come back to her cheeks, the light to her eyes and the flash of merriment to her tongue. She rarely smiled now, and the pallor was always in her cheeks, and wan circles pencilled around her eyes spoke of hard working days and restless nights. She no longer spoke of England. He, wise in his generation, never referred to it. All her interest seemed to be centred in his book. It was a strange metamorphosis for Peg--this writing at dictation: correcting her orthography; becoming familiar with historical facts and hunting through bookshelves for the actual occurrences during a certain period. And she found a certain happiness in doing it. Was it not for her father? And was she not improving herself? Already she would not be at such a disadvantage, as a month ago, with people. The thought gratified her. She had two letters from Ethel: the first a simple, direct one of gratitude and of regret; gratitude for Peg's kindness and loyalty to her, and regret that Peg had left them. The second told of a trip she was about to make to Norway with some friends. They were going to close the house in Scarboro and return to London early in September. Alaric had decided to follow his father's vocation and go to the bar. The following Autumn they would settle permanently in London while Alaric ate his qualifying dinners and addressed himself to making his career! Of Brent she wrote nothing. That incident was apparently closed. She ended her letter with the warmest expressions of regard and affection for Peg, and the hope that some day they would meet again and renew their too-brief intimacy. The arrival of these letters and her daily 'deviling' for her father were the only incidents in her even life. One evening some few weeks after her return, she was in her room preparing to begin her night's work with her father when she heard the bell ring. That was unusual. Their callers were few. She heard the outer door open--then the sound of a distant voice mingling with her father's. Then came a knock at her door. "There's somebody outside here to see ye, Peg," said her father. "Who is it, father?" "A perfect sthranger--to me. Be quick now." She heard her father's footsteps go into the little sitting-room and then the hum of voices. Without any apparent reason she suddenly felt a tenseness and nervousness. She walked out of her room and paused a moment outside the closed door of the sitting-room and listened. Her father was talking. She opened the door and walked in. A tall, bronzed man came forward to greet her. Her heart almost stopped. She trembled violently. The next moment Jerry had clasped her hand in both of his. "How are you, Peg?" He smiled down at her as he used to in Regal Villa: and behind the smile there was a grave look in his dark eyes, and the old tone of tenderness in his voice. "How are you, Peg?" he repeated. "I'm fine, Mr. Jerry," she replied in a daze. Then she looked at O'Connell and she hurried on to say: "This is my father--Sir Gerald Adair." "We'd inthroduced ourselves already," said O'Connell, good-naturedly, eyeing the unexpected visitor all the while. "And what might ye be doin' in New York?" he asked. "I have never seen America. I take an Englishman's interest in what we once owned--" "--And lost thro' misgovernment--" "--Well, we'll say MISUNDERSTANDING--" "--As they'll one day lose Ireland--" "--I hope not. The two countries understand each other better every day." "It's taken centuries to do it." "The more lasting will be the union." As Peg watched Jerry she was wondering all the time why he was there. This quiet, undemonstrative, unemotional man. Why? The bell rang again. Peg started to go, but O'Connell stopped her. "It's McGinnis. This is his night to call and tell me the politics of the town. I'll take him into the next room, Peg, until yer visitor is gone." "Oh, please--" said Jerry hurriedly and taking a step toward the door. "Allow me to call some other time." "Stay where ye are!" cried O'Connell, hurrying out as the bell rang again. Peg and Jerry looked at each other a moment, then she lowered her eyes. "I want to ask ye something, Sir Gerald," she began. "Jerry!" he corrected. "Please forgive me for what I said to ye that day. It was wrong of me to say it. Yet it was just what ye might have expected from me. But ye'd been so fine to me--a little nobody--all that wonderful month that it's hurt me ever since. And I didn't dare write to ye--it would have looked like presumption from me. But now that ye've come here--ye've found me out and I want to ask yer pardon--an' I want to ask ye not to be angry with me." "I couldn't be angry with you, Peg." He paused, and, as he looked at her, the reserve of the held-in, self-contained man was broken. He bent over her and said softly: "Peg, I love you!" A cry welled up from Peg's heart to her lips, and was stifled. The room swam around her. Was all her misery to end? Did this man come back from the mists of memory BECAUSE he loved her? She tried to speak but nothing came from her parched lips and tightened throat. Then she became conscious that he was speaking again, and she listened to him with all her senses, with all her heart, and from her soul. "I knew you would never write to me, and somehow I wondered just how much you cared for me--if at all. So I came here. I love you, Peg. I want you to be my wife. I want to care for you, and tend you, and make you happy. I love you!" Her heart leaped and strained. The blood surged to her temples. "Do you love me?" she whispered, and her voice trembled and broke. "I do. Indeed I do. Be my wife." "But you have a title," she pleaded "Share it with me!" he replied. "Ye'd be so ashamed o' me, ye would!" "No, Peg, I'd be proud of you. I love you!" Peg, unable to argue or plead, or strive against what her heart yearned for the most, broke down and sobbed as she murmured: "I love you, too, Mister Jerry." In a moment she was in his arms. It was the first time anyone had touched her tenderly besides her father. All her sturdy, boyish ruggedness shrank from any display of affection. Just for a moment it did now. Then she slowly yielded herself. But Jerry stroked her hair, and looked into her eyes and smiled down at her lovingly, as he asked: "What will your father say?" She looked happily up at him and answered: "Do you know one of the first things me father taught me when I was just a little child?" "Tell me!" "It was from Tom Moore: 'Oh, there's nothin' half so sweet in life As Love's young dream.'" When O'Connell came into the room later he realised that the great summons had come to his little girl. He felt a dull pain at his heart. But only for a moment. The thought came to him that he was about to give to England his daughter in marriage! Well, had he not taken from the English one of her fairest daughters as his wife? And a silent prayer went up from his heart that happiness would abide with his Peg and her 'Jerry' and that their romance would last longer than had Angela's and his. AFTERWORD And now the moment has come to take leave of the people I have lived with for so long. Yet, though I say "Adieu!" I feel it is only a temporary leave-taking. Their lives are so linked with mine that some day in the future I may be tempted to draw back the curtain and show the passage of years in their various lives. Simultaneously with the Second-Reading of the Home Rule Bill passing through the English House of Commons, O'Connell published his book. Setting down clearly, without passion or prejudice, the actual facts of the ancient and modern struggle for Ireland's freedom, and foreshadowing the coming of the New Era of prosperity and enlightenment and education and business integrity--O'Connell found himself hailed, as a modern prophet. He appealed to them to BEG no longer but to cooperate, to organize--above all to WORK and to work consistently and intelligently. He appealed to the Irish working in factories and work-shops and in civil appointments in the great cities of the world, to come back to Ireland, and, once again to worship at the shrine of the beauty of God's Country! To open their eyes and their hearts to all the light and glory and wonder which God gives to the marvellous world He has made for humanity. To see the Dawn o'er mountain and lake; scent the grass and the incense of the flowers, and the sweet breath of the land. To grasp the real and tumultuous magnificence of their native country. He appealed to all true Irishmen to take up their lives again in the land from which, they were driven, and to be themselves the progenitors of Ireland's New Nation. It will not be long before his appeal will be answered and his prophecy fulfilled. The Dawn of the New Ireland has begun to shed its light over the country, and the call of Patriotism will bring Irishmen from the farthest limits of the world, as it drove them away in the bitter time of blood and strife and ignorance and despotism. Those days have passed. O'Connell was in the thick o the battle in his youth; in his manhood he now sees the fruit of the conflict. Some day, with him, we will visit Peg in her English home, and see the marvels time and love have wrought upon her. But to those who knew her in the old days she is still the same Peg O' my Heart--resolute, loyal, unflinching, mingling the laugh with the tear--truth and honesty her bed-rock. And whilst we are in London we will drop into the Law-Courts and hear Alaric Chichester, now Barrister-at-Law, argue his first case and show the possibility of following in his famous father's footsteps. We will also visit Mrs. Chichester and hear of her little grand-child, born in Berlin, where her daughter, Ethel, met and married an attache at the Embassy, and has formed a salon in which the illustrious in the Diplomatic world foregather. It will be a grateful task to revive old memories of those who formed the foreground of the life-story of one whose radiant presence shall always live in my memory: whose steadfastness and courage endeared her to all; whose influence on those who met her and watched her and listened to her was far-reaching, since she epitomized in her small body all that makes woman loveable and man supreme: honour, faith and Love! Adieu! Peg O' my Heart!