cout, UL M. ART. IN FICTION. Wists Js Sle N DEON A tovel Man is not above Nature, but in Nature” HAECKEL LONDON OSGOOD, McILVAINE & CO. 45, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. 1897 Copyright, 1897, by Haxrur & Brorugrs. Ad vights reserved. Printed in New York, U.S.A, hE SEALS TET TE LET TTB TN RINNE RR ORE RE I A om eee rt SOON ER OE BN tn TO G. W. McC. BOOK I VARIATION FROM TYPE OMNE VIVUM EX OVO | THE DESCENDANT CHAPTER I Tue child sat upon the roadside. A stiff wind was ris- ing westward, blowing over stretches of meadow-land that had long since run to waste, a scarlet tangle of sumac and sassafras. In the remote West, from whose heart the wind had risen, the death-bed of the Sun showed bloody after the carnage, and nearer at hand naked branches of poplar and sycamore were silhouetted against the shattered horizon, like skeletons of human arms that had withered in the wrath of God. Over the meadows the amber light of the afterglow fell like rain. It warmed the spectres of dead carrot flowers, and they awoke to reflect its glory; it dabbled in the blood of sumac and pokeberry; and it set its fiery torch to the goldenrod till it ignited and burst into bloom, flashing a subtle flame from field to field, a glorious bonfire from the hand of Nature. The open road wound lazily along, crossing transversely the level meadow-land and leading from the small town of Plaguesville to somewhere. Nobody—at least nobody thereabouts—knew exactly where, for it was seldom that a native left Plaguesville, and when he did it was only to go to Arlington, a few miles farther on, where the road dropped him, stretching southward. The child sat restlessly upon the rotten rails that were 4 THE DESCENDANT once a fence. He was lithe and sinewy, with a sharp brown face and eyes that were narrow and shrewd—a small, wild animal of the wood come out from the underbrush to bask in the shifting sunshine. Occasionally a Jaborer passed along the road from his ficld work, his scythe upon his shoulder, the pail in which his dinner was brought swinging at his side. Once a troop of boys had gone by with a dog, and then a beggar hob- bling on his crutch. They were following in the wake of the circus, which was moving to Plaguesville from a neigh- boring town. The child had seen the caravan go by. He ‘had seen the mustang ponies and the cowboys who rode them ; he had seen the picture of the fat lady painted upon the outside of her tent; and he had even seen the elephant as it passed in its casings. Presently the child rose, stooping to pick the blackberry briers from his bare legs. He wore nankeen trousers some- what worn in the seat and a nankeen shirt somewhat worn at the elbows. His hand was rough and brier-pricked, his feet stained with the red clay of the cornfield. Then, as he turned to move onward, there was a sound of footsteps, and a man’s figure appeared suddenly around a bend in the road, breaking upon the glorified landscape like an ill- omened shadow. It was the minister from the church near the town. He was a small man with a threadbare coat, a large nose, and no chin to speak of. Indeed, the one attribute of saintli- ness in which he was found lacking was a chin. An inch the more of chin, and he might have been held as a saint; an inch the less, and he passed as a simpleton. Such is the triumph of Matter over Mind. “Who is it?” asked the minister. He always inquired for a passport, not that he had any curiosity upon the sub- ject, but that he believed it to be his duty. As yet he had only attained that middle state of sanctity where duty and pleasure are clearly defined. ‘The next stage is the one in which, from excessive cultivation of the senses or atrophy | | | \ THE DESCENDANT 5 of the imagination, the distinction between the things we ought to do and the things we want to do becomes obliter- ‘ated. The child came forward. “Tt’s me,” he said. “ Little Mike Akershem, as minds the pigs.” “Ah!” said the minister. ‘The boy that Farmer Wat- kins is bringing up. Why, bless my soul, boy, you’ve been fighting !” The child whimpered. He drew his shirt sleeve across his eyes. “T—T warn’t doin’ nothin’,” he wailed, ‘ Leastways, nothin’ but mindin’ the pigs, when Jake Johnson knocked me down, he did.” “He's a wicked boy,” commented the minister, “and should be punished. And what did you do when Jake John- son knocked you down ?” “T_T fell,” whimpered the child. “A praiseworthy spirit, Michael, and I am glad to see it in one so young and with such a heritage. You know the good book says: ‘Do good unto them that persecute you and despitefully use you.’ Now, you would like to do good unto Jake Johnson, wouldn’t you, Michael?” “‘J_I’d like to bus’ him open,” sobbed the child. Tears were streaming from his eyes. When he put up his hand to wipe them away it left dirty smears upon his cheeks, The minister smiled and then frowned, “You've forgotten your Catechism, Michael,” he said. “T’m afraid you don’t study it as you should.” The boy bubbled with mirth. Smiles chased across his face like gleams of sunshine across a cloud. “T do,” he rejoined, righteously, ‘Jake, he fought me on o’count 0’ it.” “The Catechism!” exclaimed the minister. “Jake fought you because of the Catechism ?” “It war a word,” said the child. “Jake said it war con- sarnin’ me an’ I—” 6 THE DESCENDANT “What word?” the minister demanded. “What did the word mean ?” “It war an ugly word.” ‘The boy’s eyes were dry. He looked up inquiringly from beneath blinking lids. “It war dam—damni—” “ Ah! said the minister, in the tone in which he said “ Amen” upon a Sabbath, “ damnation.” “ Air it consarning me?” asked the child with anxious uncertainty. The minister looked down into the sharp face where the gleams of sunshine had vanished, and only the cloud re- mained. He saw the wistful eyes beneath the bushy hair, the soiled, sunburned face, the traces of a dirty hand that had wiped tears away—the whole pitiful littleness of the lad. The nervous blinking of the lids dazzled him. They opened and shut like a flame that flickers and revives in a darkened room. “No,” he said, gently, “you have nothing to do with that, so help me God.” Again the boy bubbled with life. Then, with a swift, tremulous change, he grew triumphant. He looked up hopefully, an eager anxiety breaking his voice. “Tt might be consarning Jake hisself,” he prompted. But the minister had stretched the mantle of his creed sufficiently. “Go home,” he said; “the pigs are needing their supper. What? Eh? Hold ona bit!” For the boy had leaped off like laughter, ‘‘What about the circus? There’s to be no gadding into such evil places, I hope.” The boy’s face fell. ‘No, sir,” he said. “It’s a quar- ter, an’ I ’ain’t got it.” “ And the other boys?” “Jake Johnson war looking through a hole in the fence an’ he wouldn’t let me peep never so little.” “Oh!” said the minister, slowly. He looked down at his boots. The road was dusty and they were quite gray. Then he blushed and looked at the boy. He was thinking | i | THE DESCENDANT 7 of the night when he had welcomed him into the world—a little brown bundle of humanity, unclaimed at the great threshold of life. Then he thought of the mother, an awk- ward woman of the fields, with a strapping figure and a coarse beauty of face. He thought of the hour when the woman lay dying in the little shanty beyond the mill. Something in the dark, square face startled him. The look in the eyes was not the look of a woman of the fields, the strength in the bulging brow was more than the strength of a peasant. His code of life was a stern one, and it had fallen upon stern soil. As the chosen ones of Israel beheld in Moab a wash-pot, so he and his people saw in the child only an em- bodied remnant of Jehovah’s wrath. But beneath the code of righteousness there quivered a germ of human kindness. “ Br—er, that’s all,” he said, his nose growing larger and his chin shorter. ‘“ You may go—but—how much have you? Money, I mean—” “ight cents,” replied the child; “three for blackberry- ing, an’ five for findin’ Deacon Joskins’s speckled pig as war lost. Five and three air eight—” “And seventeen more,” added the minister. ‘“ Well, here they are. Mind, now, learn your Catechism, and no gadding into evil places, remember that.” And he walked down the road with a blush on his face and a smile in his heart. The child stood in the white dust of the road, A pale finger of sunshine struggled past him to the ditch beside the way, where a crimson blackberry-vine palpitated like a vein leading to the earth’s throbbing heart, About him the glory waned upon the landscape and went out; the goldenrod had burned itself to ashes. A whippoorwill, somewhere upon the rotten fence rails, called out sharply, its cry rising in a low, distressful wail upon the air and. los- ing itself among the brushwood. Then another answered from away in the meadow, and another from the glimmer- ing cornfield, Tne eS EE SEE TR ERETAN AE AE EA TORN Eat 8 OER RET TET g THE DESCENDANT A mist, heavy and white as foam, was rising with the tide of night and breaking against the foot of the shadowy hills. The boy shifted upon his bare feet and the dust rose in a tiny cloud about him, Far in the distance shone the lights of the circus. He could almost hear the sound of many fiddles, Behind him, near the turnpike branch, the hungry pigs were rooting in the barnyard. He started, and the minister’s money jingled in his pocket, In the circus- tent were the mustang ponies, the elephant, and the fat lady. He shifted restlessly. Perspiration stood in beads upon his forehead; his shirt collar was warm and damp. His eyes emitted a yellow flame in their nervous blinking. There was a sudden patter of feet, and he went spinning along the white dust of the road. Be I Sa rth AE CETL EE Ae IS amiyuaaipecent, ne ce Re RRO Rt OE EDN mR ATS NES ot ITE MORON a 5 i ‘ CHAPTER II THe circus was over. One by one the lanterns went out; the tight-rope walker wiped the paint and perspiration from his face; the clown laid aside his eternal smile. From the opening in the tent a thin stream of heated hu- manity passed into the turnpike, where it divided into lit- tle groups, some lingering around stationary wheelbarrows upon which stood buckets of pink lemonade, others turning into the branch roads that led to the farm-houses along the way. In the midst of them, jostled helplessly from side to side, moved that insignificant combination of brown flesh and blue nankeen known as Michael Akershem. As the crowd dwindled away, his pace quickened until he went trotting at full speed through the shadows that were flung across the deserted road. Upon the face of the moon, as she looked down upon his solitary little figure, there was the derisive smile with which crabbed age regards callow youth and Eternity regards Time. Perhaps, had he been wise enough to read her face aright, the graven exaltation of his own might have given place to an expression more in keeping with the cynicism of omnis- cience. But just then, as he trotted resolutely along, the planet was of less importance in his reverie than one of the tallow candles that illumined the circus-tent. The night was filled with visions, but among them the solar system held no place. Over the swelling hills, along the shadowy road, in the milky moonlight, trooped the splendid heroes of the circus-ring. His mind was on fire with the light and laughter; and the chastened brilliance fe) THE DESCENDANT of the night, the full sweep of the horizon, the eternal hills themselves seemed but a fitting setting for his tinselled vis- itants. The rustling of the leaves above his head was the flapping of the elephant’s ears; the shimmer upon tufts of goldenrod, the yellow hair of the snake-charmer; and the quiet of the landscape, the breathless suspense of the ex- cited audience. As he ran, he held his worn straw hat firmly in his hand. His swinging strides impelled his figure from side to side, and before him in the dust his shadow flitted like an em- bodied energy. Beneath the pallor of the moonlight the concentration of his face was revealed in grotesque exaggeration. His eyes had screwed themselves almost out of vision, the constant blinking causing them to flicker in shafts of light. Across his forehead a dark vein ran like a seam that had been left unfelled by the hand of Nature. From the ditch beside the road rose a heavy odor of white thunder-blossom. The croaking of frogs grew louder as, one by one, they trooped to their congress among the rushes. ‘The low chirping of insects began in the hedges, the treble of the cricket piercing shrilly above the base of the jar-fly. Some late glow-worms blazed like golden dew- drops in the fetid undergrowth. The boy went spinning along the road. With the incon- sequence of childhood all the commonplaces of every day seemed to have withered in the light of later events. The farmer and his pigs had passed into the limbo of forgetable things. With the flickering lights of the cottage where Farmer Watkins lived, a vague uneasiness settled upon him; he felt a half-regret that Providence, in the guise of the min- ister, had thought fit to beguile him from the unpleasant path of duty. But the regret was {leeting, and as he crawled through a hole in the fence he managed to manipulate his legs as he thought the rope-walker would have done under the circumstances, THE DESCENDANT II From the kitchen window a stream of light issued, falling upon the gravelled path without. Against the lighted in- terior he beheld the bulky form of the farmer, and beyond him the attenuated shadow of the farmer’s wife stretching, a depressing presence, upon the uncarpeted floor. As the child stepped upon the porch the sound of voices caused him to pause with abruptness. A lonely turkey, roosting in the locust-tree beside the house, stirred in its sleep, and a shower of leaves descended upon the boy’s head. He shook them off impatiently, and they fluttered to his feet. The farmer was speaking. He was a man of peace, and his tone had the deprecatory quality of one who is talking for the purpose of keeping another silent. “My father never put his hand to the plough,” said the farmer, and he stooped to knock the ashes from his pipe; “nor more will I.” ; He spoke gently, for he was a good man — good, inas- much as he might have been a bad man, and was not. A negative character is most often a virtuous one, since to be wicked necessitates action. The voice of the farmer’s wife flowed on in a querulous monotone. “ Such comes from harborin’ the offspring of harlots and what-not,” she said. “It air a jedgment from the conde? The child came forward and stood in the kitchen door- way, scratching his left leg gently with the toes of his right foot. The sudden passage from moonlight into lamplight bewildered him, and he stretched out gropingly one wiry little hand, ‘The exaltation of his mind was chilled sud- denly. For a moment he stood unobserved. The farmer was cleaning his pipe with the broken blade of an old pruning- knife, and did not look up. The farmer’s wife was knead- ing dough, and her back was turned. All the bare and sor- did aspect of the kitchen, the unpolished walls, the pewter dishes in the cupboard, the bucket of apple parings in the 12 THE DESCENDANT corner, struck the child as a blight after the garish color of the circus-ring. He felt sick and ill at ease, ? ; The monotone of the farmer’s wife went relentlessly on. A jedgment for harborin’ the offspring of harlots,” she re- peated. “ God A’mighty knows what mischief he air work- in’ to-night. He air worse than a weasel.” From the child’s face all brightness was blotted out His lips tightened until the red showed in a narrow jines paling from the pressure as a scar pales that is left from 7 old sabre cut. The farmer replied soothingly, his hand wandering rest- lessly through his beard, “He air a young child,” he said feebly. “TI reckon he air too little to work much.” Then he looked up and saw the shrinking figure in the doorway. He shook his head slowly, more in weariness than wrath, “You hadn’t ought to done it,” he murmured, reproach- fully. “ You hadn’t ought to done it.” add A sob stuck in the boy’s throat. With a terrible revul- sion of feeling, his passionate nature leaped into revolt As the farmer’s wife turned, he faced her in sullen deannee! “T ’ain’t never seed nothin’ afore,” he said, dogged] «] ’ain’t never seed nothin’ afore.” Sah eg It was the justification he offered to opposing fate, The woman turned upon him violently, 7 You ingrate!” she cried. ‘“ A-leaving me to do your dirty work. A-sneaking off on meetin’ night an’ leaving me to tote the slops when I ought to led the choir. You in- grate |” The child looked pitifully small and lonely. He pulled nervously at the worn brim of his straw hat. Still he sought justification by facts. “You are been to meetin’ every Wednesday night sence I war born,” he said, in the same dogged tone, “an’ I ’ain’t never seed nothin’ afore.” Then the impotence of all explanation dawned upon him and his defiance lost its sullen restraint. He felt the rage ie THE DESCENDANT 13 within him burst like a thunder cloud, The lamplight trem- bled in the air. The plank floor, the pewter plates, the chromos pinned upon the wall passed in a giddy whirl be- fore his eyes. All his fire-tinctured blood quickened and leaped through his veins in a fever of scarlet. His face darkened from brown to black like the face of a witch. His thin lips were welded one into the other, and Nature’s careless handiwork upon his forehead palpitated like a visi- ble passion. He sprang forward, striking at vacancy. “T hate you!” he cried. “Curse you! Curse you!” Then he turned and rushed blindly out into the night. A moment more and he was speeding away into the meadows. Like a shadow he had fled from the lamplight, like a shadow he had fled from the gravelled walk, and like a shadow he was fleeing along the turnpike. He was unconscious of all save rage, blinding, blacken- ing rage—a desire to stamp and shriek aloud—to feel his fingers closing upon something and closing and closing until the blood ran down. The old savage instinct to kill fell upon him like a mantle. A surging of many waters started in his head, growing louder and louder until the waters rose into a torrent, shut- ting out all lesser sounds. The sob in his throat stifled him, and he gasped and panted in the midst of the moon- lit meadows. Suddenly he left the turnpike, dashing across country with the fever of a fox pursued by hounds. Over the swelling hills, where the corn-ricks stood marshalled like a spectre battalion, he fled, spurred by the lash of his passion. Beneath him the valley lay wrapped in a transpa- rent mist; above him a million stars looked down in pas- sionless self-poise. When he had run until he could run no more, he flung himself face downward upon the earth, beating the dew- drenched weeds into shapeless pulp. “T hate ’em! I hate ’em!” he cried, choking for speech. “ Damn—damn—damn them all, I wish they war all in 14 THE DESCENDANT hell. I wish the whole world war in hell—the farmer and the missis, and the minister and little Luly! I wish every- body war in hell—everybody ’cept me and the’ pigs!” Te ran his hand through his bair, tearing apart the matted waves, His lips quivered and closed together. Then he rolled over on his back and lay looking up to where the sky closed like a spangled vault above him, “Thate’em! Ihate’em!” he cried, and his cry fell quiv- eringly against the relentless hills. “TI hate ’em !” Back the faint echo came, ringing like the answering whisper of a devil, “ h-a-t-e °e-m—e-m—h-a-t-e !” Above him, beyond the wall of stars, he knew that God had his throne—God sitting in awful majesty before the mouth of hell. He would like to call up to Him—to tell Him of the wickedness of the farmer’s wife. He was sure that God would be angry and send her to hell. It was strange that God had overlooked her and allowed such things to be. Then he pictured himself dying all alone out upon the hillside ; and the picture was so tragic that he fell to weeping. No; he would not die. He would grow up and become a circus-rider, and wear blue stockinet and gold lace. The farmer’s wife and the farmer’s ten children, . their ten braids all smoothly plaited, would come to watch him ride the mustang ponies, and he would look straight across their heads and bow when the people applauded. He saw himself standing before the glittering footlights, with the clown and the tight-rope walker beside him, and he saw himself, the most dazzling of the trinity, bowing above the excited heads of the farmer’s children. Yes, that would be a revenge worth having. He sat up and looked about him. The night was very silent, and a chill breeze came blowing noiselessly across the hills. The moonlight shimmered like a crystalline liquid upon the atmosphere, His passion was over, and he sat, with swollen eyes and quivering lips, a tiny human figure in the vast amphitheatre of Nature, THE DESCENDANT 15 Beyond the stretch of pasture the open road gleamed pallid in the distance. The inky shadows through which he had passed some hours ago seemed to have thrilled into the phantoms of departed things. He wondered how he had dared to pass among them. Upon the adjoining hill he could see the slender aspens in the graveyard. They shivered and whitened as he looked at them. At their feet the white tombstones glimmered amid rank periwinkle. In a rocky corner he knew that there was one grave isolated in red clay soil—one outcast from among the righteous dead. He felt suddenly afraid of the wicked ghost that might arise from that sunken grave. He was afraid of the aspens and the phantoms in the road. With a sob he crouched down upon the hillside, looking upward at the stars. He wondered what they were made of—if they were really holes cut in the sky to let the light of heaven stream through. The night wind pierced his cotton shirt, and he fell to crying softly; but there was no one to hear. : At last the moon vanished behind a distant hill, a gray line in the east paled into saffron, and the dawn looked down upon him like a veiled face. Presently there was a stir at the farm, and the farmer’s wife came from the cow- pen with a pail of frothy milk in her hand. When she had gone into the house the boy left the hill- side and crept homeward. He was sore and stiff, and his clothes were drenched with the morning dew. He felt all alone in a very great world, and the only beings he regarded as companions were the pigs in the barn-yard. His heart reproached him that he had not given them their supper. The turnpike was chill and lonely as he passed along it. All the phantoms had taken wings unto themselves and flown. Upon the rail-fence the dripping trumpet-vine hung in limp festoons, yellow and bare of bloom. He paused to gather a persimmon that had fallen into the road from a tree beyond the fence, but it set his teeth on edge and he threw it away. A rabbit, sitting on the edge of a clump of 16 "THE DESCENDANT brushwood, turned to glance at him with bright, suspicious eyes. Then, as he drew nearer, it darted across the road and between the rails into the pasture. The boy limped painfully along. His joints hurt him when he moved, and his feet felt like hundredweights. He wondered if he was not going to die shortly, and thought regretfully of the blue - stockinet and tinsel which he could not carry with him into an eternity of psalm-singing. Reaching the house, he seated himself upon the step of the porch and looked with miserable eyes at the kitchen window, The smell of steaming coffce floated out to him, and he heard the clinking of cups and saucers, Through the open window he beheld the bustling form of the farmer’s wife. ‘Then, with a cautious movement, the door opened and the farmer came out upon the porch. He glanced hesi- tatingly around and, upon secing the boy, vanished precip- itately, to reappear bearing a breakfast-plate. The child caught a glimpse of batter-bread and bacon, and his eyes glistened. He seized it eagerly. The farmer drew a chair near the doorway and seated himself beneath the bunch of red pepper that hung drying from the sash. He turned his eyes upon the boy, They were dull and watery, like the eyes of a codfish, “Vou hadn’t ought to done it, sonny,” he said, slowly. “Vou hadn’t ought to done it.” Then he drew a small quid of tobacco from his pocket and began to unwind the wrapping with laborious care, “Tt war a fine show, I reckon,” he added. ‘The child nodded with inanimate acquiescence. It all seemed so long ago, the color and the splendor. It might as well have taken place in ancient Rome, The farmer reached leisurely down into the pocket of his jeans trousers and drew out the old pruning-knife, Then he cut off a small square of tobacco and put it in his mouth, “Sence it war a fine show,” he said, reflectively, “I wish I’d ha’ done it myself,” And he fell to chewing with a sigh, { | H i H TOA RCE LET SRT TES CHAPTER III Tue child grew apace. He shot upward with the im- provident growth of a weed that has sprung in a wheat- field. The changing seasons only served to render his hold upon life more tenacious and his will more indomitable. And, by-and-by, the child became the youth and waxed strong and manly, At nineteen he was lithe and straight as a young pine. Slightly above the average height, he had the look of a sturdy, thickset farmer, but with more than a farmer’s breadth of brow. The dark hair still grew in a tangled mat upon his head, his features had rough- ened, and the lines in his face were deeply hewn. His jaws were strongly marked, and he had thin, flexible lips that _ quivered with reserve or paled with passion. Beneath the projecting brows his eyes were narrowed by a constant blinking. Between himself and his little world there was drawn an invisible circle. The shadow that moved before or followed after him was a moral plague spot to the vision of his neighbors. If, with a spasmodic endeavor, they sought oc- casionally to rescue this stray brand from the burning, the rescue was attempted with gloved hands and a mental pitchfork. In periods of relaxation from personal purifica- tion, they played with the boy as children play with fire. It was the only excitement they permitted themselves. As for the brand himself, he made the mistake of re- garding the situation from a personal standpoint. Feeding the flame as he did, he naturally was unable to appreciate the vantage-ground of those who were only singed by it, and consequently in a position to enjoy that thrill of possi- ble danger which is only enjoyable because the danger is 18 THE DESCENDANT not possible at all. Being insensible to any danger, he failed to experience the thrill. But what he did experience was a silent rage that in the end froze into a silent bitterness. As we all look upon life through the shadows which we ourselves cast upon it, So the facts of organic existence shape themselves in our hori- zon conformably with the circumstances which have shaped our individual natures. We see large or small, symmetrical or distorted forms, not according to external forces which have played upon external objects, but according to the ad- justment of light and shade about our individual lenses. Truth is only truth in its complexity ; our convictions are only real in their relativity. But Michael had not learned this. He still believed in his own ability to make plain the crooked ways of his neighbors’ consciences. Socrates believed this, and where had arisen a greater than Soc- rates? Perhaps the one thing which Socrates and Michael had in common was a faith in the power of truth and the impotence of error; but then, Socrates and Michael each followed a different truth, Only the name of their divinity was the same—his face was different. So Michael saw the village doors close upon him, and laughed. He saw the girls pass him by with averted mod- esty and turn to look after him, and laughed again. Iie saw them, one and all, watching with a vulgar interest for the inheritance to creep out and the blood to show —and he sneered outwardly while he raged within. Ile was a bright lad. ‘The school-master had said SO, and the school-master was right. Easily he outstripped all the hardy farmers’ louts in the class, and easily, in the end), he had outstripped the school-master himself. Then the minister had taken him in hand, and before long he had tripped the minister. ees are my books,” the minister had said, “make use of them.” And he had looked over his shoulder to see that blue-eyed Emily was afar, He was a bright lad, but— well, blood is blood. Serena rem THE DESCENDANT 19 And Michael had made use of the books. He had fed upon them and he had laid up a store of capital. One and all, he had read them and absorbed them and pondered over them, and one and all he had disbelieved them. The minister handed him “The Lives of the Saints,” and the next day he had brought it back, throwing it down upon the table. “A lot of pig-headed idiots,” he said, with his lip curling and his grating laugh, “who hadn’t enough sense to know whether they were awake or asleep.” The minister shuddered and recoiled. “ Be silent,” he said. “If you have no respect for me, at least show some for God and the holy men who represent Him.” : ‘‘ Fiddlesticks !” said Michael. “They were so befud- dled that they got God and the devil mixed, that’s all.” But he laid the book aside and helped the minister about his copying. He was not without a wayward regard for worth. He was only warm with his fresh young blood and throbbing with vitality. ‘The restless activity of mind could not be checked. The impassioned pursuit of knowl- edge was sweeping him onward, Self-taught he was and self-made he would be. The genius of endurance was fit- ting him to struggle, and in the struggle to survive. So he drew out the minister’s dog-eared sermon and set about the copying. He had copied such sermons before, and it was a task he rather enjoyed, given the privilege of making amendments— which the minister good-naturedly granted, As for the minister himself, perhaps he remem- bered the occasions upon which the boy had written ser- mons as compositions, and how he had delivered them as substitutes for old ones of his own which had worn thread- bare. In his simple-minded search for divine purposes, the cleverness of the lad appeared inexplicable. That the hand of the Almighty should have overreached a flock of his elect to quicken with consuming fire the mind of an Ishmaelite seemed suspiciously like one of those stumb- THE DESCENDANT 20 ling-stones to faith which we accept as tests of the blind- ness of our belief. ‘hat Michael knew more philosophy than he, he had ac- knowledged cheerfully, and now he was fast beginning to harbor a suspicion that Michael knew more theology as well. Ile heaved a perplexed sigh and went to interview a con- sumnptive concerning his spiritual condition, while Michael dipped his‘pen in the inkstand and fell to work. It was a moment such as he enjoyed, when his intellec- tual interests were uppermost and his mind eager to seize an abstract train of thought. He remembered such exalta- tions during the long winter nights when he had sat up with a tallow candle and attacked the problems of politi- cal economy. He had spent plodding hours in mastering them, but mastered them he had, The dogged endurance of mind had perhaps served him better than any natural quickness. The remembrance of those winter nights turned the channel of his thoughts, and from the minister’s sermon he passed to larger premises and wider demonstrations. Push- ing the paper aside, he leaned back against the cushioned back of the minister’s chair and allowed his gaze to wander from the sheets before him to the flower-beds in the garden below, and then, past the wood-pile, where the hickory chips had rotted to mould, to the jagged line of purple mountains. The landscape was radiant with color. As the sunlight fell over them the meadows deepened in opalescent tints, pur- pling with larkspur, yellowing with dandelion, and whitening to a silver sweep of life everlasting. Across Michael’s lips a smile passed faintly, like the ripple of sunlight upon a murky pool, He put up his hand and brushed a lock of hair from his brow. He looked sud- denly younger and more boyish, Then his reverie was broken by a sound of footsteps. The lattice door in the passage opened and shut, and a shadow passed across the chintz curtain at the window. He heard voices, at first * THE DESCENDANT 21 broken and indistinct, and then clearer, as his mind left its cloudy heights and returned to commonplaces. : One was the gentle voice of the minister’s wife. ‘And if you can help me out with the custard-spoons,” it said “T’ll be mightily obliged. I have a dozen of mother’s to be sure, but, somehow, I don’t just like to use them. If yor can let me have ten, I reckon I can manage to make out with them and some tin ones Aunt Lucy sent me last Christmas.” ; The other voice was sharper and brisker. “T reckon I can piece out a dozen,” it returned, with the ringing emphasis of one eager to oblige. “If I can’t, Pl just borrow them from old Mrs. Cade without saying what I want with’em. And I'll send all the things over by Tim- othy as soon as I get home—the custard-spoons, and the salver for the cake, and the parlor lamp. If that glass stand for butter ain’t too badly cracked, I’ll send that along too; and I’ll be over in plenty of time to help you set the tables and fix things.” A murmur of thanks followed’ in the gentle tones, and then the brisker ones began. “You'll have a first-rate evening for the party,” they ob- served. ‘When I got up this morning the wind was in the east, but it has shifted round again. Well, I’ll send the things ail right.” “I’m mightily obliged,” responded the minister’s wife, in her repressed manner. “I hope it warn’t any trouble for you to bake the cake—our stove draws so poorly. It seems a heap of work to go to, but the minister never can deny Emily anything; and, after all, a birthday tea ain’t much to do for her. She’s a good child.” The other voice chimed in with cordial assent. “If a little party makes her happy, I reckon you don’t begrudge the work. She won’t be sixteen but once, I say, and it’s just as well to do what we can.” “Tf it makes her happy,” added the gentle voice, and then it sighed softly. ‘There's always a cloud,” it said. 22 THE DESCENDANT “To be sure, this is a very little one, but, as I told the minister, it was the prophet’s little cloud that raised the storm.” It was silent for a moment and then spoke sadly. “Tt’s about Michael,” it said. The brisker tones drooped. “That boy !” “Well, the minister’s compassions are great, you know, and he can’t feel just easy about not asking him. Of course, we must consider the other young folks, but the minister says it don’t seem to him human to leave him out.” “ Of course, I ain’t as fit to judge as the minister, but I know I shouldn’t like to have him around with my Lucy. And it seems to me that it ain’t right to encourage him in familiarity—with his birth, too.” “Yes,” assented the soft voice, deprecatingly, “but the minister can’t feel easy about it. He says he knows Christ would have had him.” The brisk tones rose in an ejaculation. “But the Lord never lived in such times as these !” “TI can’t help its worrying me,” continued the minister’s wife, “and Emily is just like her father—all tenderness and impulse. It does seem hard—” ‘Ihen the voice changed suddenly. “Oh, you wanted the nutmeg grater,” it said. “T forgot all about it.” And the lattice door opened and shut quickly. When the minister came in a while later he found Mi- chael standing beside the desk, his clenched hand resting upon the lid. At his feet lay the uncopied sermon, It was crumpled and torn, as if it had been held in a brutal erasp. The boy’s lips were pale and a yellow rage flickered in his eyes. As the minister paused, he confronted aim, ‘‘T hate these people!” he cried. “I hate them! I hate everybody who has come near this place. I hate my father because he was a villain. I hate my mother because she was a fool.” nnn ee etree THE DESCENDANT 23 He said it vehemently, his impassioned glance closing upon the minister. The minister quavered. The genial smile with which he had entered faded from his face. He had faced such storms before and they always stunned him, 3 “TI feel for you,” he stammered, “but—” and he was silent. The boy stood upon other ground than his, and he could not follow him; he saw with other eyes, and the light blinded him, In his veins the blood of two diverse natures met and mingled, and they formed a third—a mental hy- brid. The spirit that walked within him was a dual one— a spirit of toil, a spirit of ease; a spirit of knowledge, a spirit of ignorance; a spirit of improvidence, a spirit of thrift; a spirit.of submission, a spirit of revolt. “‘T hate them all!” repeated Michael. His scorching gaze blazed through the open window and seemed to wither the beds of flowering portulacca in the garden, ‘I hate these people with their creeds and their consciences. ‘They dare to spit upon me, that I am not as clean as they. I hate them all!” From without the full-throated call of a cat-bird floated into the room. Then it grew fainter and was lost in the graveyard, Michael’s face was dark and ugly. All the in- growing bitterness of his youth was finding an outlet. “What have I done?” he cried, passionately. ‘What have I done? Is it my fault that the laws of nature do not wait upon marriage banns? Is itmy—” He paused sud- denly. “TJ am sure that you misjudge them,” said the minis- ter. “Iam sure that—” The door opened, and his own pretty Emily, her blue eyes all alight, darted into the room. Michael’s eyes fell upon her, and, unconsciously to himself, they softened. The minister saw the softening, and he stammered and grew confused. He fell back as if to shelter the girl from the look, pushing her hastily into an adjoining room. “ Go—go, my dear—your mother wants you, I am sure of Se ope nn CS a rt pr ene ne I tem en Ay aiaees cine mire eee tp orem nein ee aere an cote oe oP =< aaa 8 SEES ILM EG see ee SS ——— EO ete Me sa ieaG er de — ie RSI GRETA ce atrial ee ee ne Sm - toe oe 24 THE DESCENDANT it.’ Then he turned and took up his speech, “I—I am—” and his conscience stung him and he blushed and stammered again. Michael laughed shortly. There was something brutal in the sound of it. “Vour daughter is safe,” he said. “I will turn my eyes away.” And the minister blushed redder than before. There was something masterful about the boy, and he had the brow of a genius, but—well, girls will be girls, and there’s no telling. Michael walked to the window and stood looking at the flower-beds in the garden. Then he turned and faced the minister, all the bitterness of his warped and sullen nature in his voice. “T want to get away,” he said. “ Anywhere that I am not known—anywhere. I can work. I can work my fingers to the bone—but I must get away.” The minister thought for a moment. “T could help you a little,” he said, slowly. “Say, lend you enough to pay your passage to, and a week’s board in New York. Such a bright fellow must find work. And, by-the-by, I’ve a cousin in the grocery business there ; perhaps he could get you a job—” He said it honestly, for he wished well to the boy; and yet there was a secret satisfaction in the chance of getting rid of him, of losing the responsibility of one stray sheep. God, in his wisdom, might redeem him, but the minister felt that the task was one for omnipotent hands to under- take. It was too difficult for him. If the Lord could un- ravel the meshes of Satan, he couldn’t, and it shouldn’t be expected of him. “T’ll go,” said Michael. He said it with determination, bringing his quivering hand down upon the table, “Til go. I’d rather die anywhere clse than live here—but I won’t die. J’ll succeed. [Il live to make you envy me vere A sudden flame had kindled in his eyes. It shot fitfully \ ne THE DESCENDANT 25 forth between the twitching lids, He became infused with life—with a passionate vitality, strong to overcome. “J’ll go to-morrow,” he said. He left the minister’s house, walking briskly down the nar- row path leading to the whitewashed gate. At the gate he paused and looked back. In a patch of vivid sunshine that fell upon an arbor of climbing rose he saw the blue flutter of pretty Emily’s skirts. She put back the hair from her eyes and stood gazing after him, an expression of childish curiosity upon her face. All the joy of life at that moment seemed filtered through the sunlight upon her head. He sighed and passed onward. Upon the steps of the farmer’s cottage sat a plump child in a soiled pinafore. It was little Luly, the youngest of the farmer’s ten children. As he entered the house she rose and trotted after him on her plump little legs. In the deorway he was met by the farmer's wife. She held a pan of watermelon rinds in her hand, “ Take these here rinds to the pig-pen,” she said, “an’ then you kin draw some water fur dinner. There ain’t none left in the water- bucket.” The boy looked at her silently. He was debat- ing in his mind the words in which he would renounce her service. Fie had often enacted the scene in imagination, and in such visions he had beheld himself rising in right- eous wrath and defying the farmer’s wife with dramatic gestures. Now, somehow, it all seemed very stale and flat, and he couldn’t think of just what to say. The woman was harder to confront in real life than she had been in his dreams. He wished he had gone away without saying any- thing to anybody. At last he spoke with a labored emphasis. “J won't feed the pigs,” he said, and his voice sounded half apologetic, ‘and I won't draw the water ; I am going away.” At the dinner-table the farmer was sitting before a plate of cabbage. He removed his knife slowly from his mouth and regarded the boy with mild amazement. A eS Tg mage Mee, we po ee Fd ara ee ik 5 st Os SES PS: aty SAE agree Men io erie kta ! ‘ 1 26 THE DESCENDANT “ An’ the crops ain’t in,” he murmured, reproachfully. The farmer’s wife set the pan on the table and wiped her face upon the corner of her gingham apron, “Vou ain’t goin’ fur good, I reckon?” she suggested. Michael stood awkwardly before her. He had expected vituperation, and when it did not come he felt curiously ashamed of his resolve. “Ves” he said, with a long pause between his words, “yes; I am going for good—I am not coming back ever any more. I am going for good.” A stifled wail broke from little Luly. ‘An’ you ’ain’t made my water-wheel,” she cried. ‘“ You’ain’t made my—” Her mother silenced her, and then looked at Michael in rising anger. “You kin go as fast as you please,” she said. “It'll be a good riddance. I won’t hev my children mixin’ with the offspring of har—” But Michael had flung himself ont of the room. CHAPTER IV Tur Old Dominion steamed slowly into the New York wharf, and her passengers made a precipitate rush for the gangway. Among those who left the third-class cabin there was an awkward youth in an ill-fitting suit of clothes and a cheap straw hat. From his right hand was suspend- ed a small bundle which held all his earthly possessions of a tangible quality. His capital he carried in his brain. As he stepped from the gangway to the wharf he hesi- tated and fell back, confused by the din of traffic. “Step lively there!” called some one from behind, and the young man collected himself with a shake and started down the long wharf amidst a medley of boxes, trucks, and horses’ feet. “Tf you air looking for New York I guess you won't find it in that direction,” remarked a laborer who was winding a coil of rope at some little distance. Michael turned, his face reddening, and retraced his steps to his starting-point, from whence he made a fresh venture. The tumult bewildered him. He was feeling strangely homesick, and there was a curious weakness in the pit of his stomach. It was as if he were passing to a scaffold of his own erecting. He wondered how so many people could ever have come to New Vork. Surely, if he had known what it was like, he would have remained where his lines had fallen until death had readjusted them. He had never heard so much noise in his life, not even in Arlington on court day. But when at last the shipping district lay behind him and he turned into Sixth Avenue, his youth and energy com- bined to reassure him, and a flush of excitement revived suite : wae owas “s aes A ee 5 oe ae 2 Bee ey speech thn pens erg ys ath aha, ten, Ait hynny be Pr.’ -_ ’ sh pare ach alam ane i ~ » * _ saa = OO NI ee PO aT Co — > SSS ADL ie FNGLA p EATS BO 186 THE DESCENDANT tainty. Weakening in his own, stability of convictions in another he recognized wonderingly. e They had turned into Mulberry Street, and the density of the atmosphere oppressed him, The old loathing, the old intolerable disgust for poverty seized upon him, and he longed to flee to cleanliness and space. Through swarms of Italian women, deep-bosomed and heavy of tread, they passed rapidly, The broken, guttural tones, robbed of their native melody, grated upon Michael’s ears; the stale odors of decaying vegetables stored in reek- ing cellars offended his nostrils. He hated it all, hated the squalor, the filth, the inevitable degradation. It was an everlasting reminder of the destiny that he had missed by a slip of the cup. Anna Allard passed along with healthy indifference, her skirts held slightly aside, her brows unbent. Agaia her per- sonality impressed him in its forcible uprightness. She possessed, in a great measure, that illusive quality called goodness, which so few good people possess, and which may be defined as a mean between spiritual unsophistica- tion and worldly wisdom. It was said of Miss Allard that she was good, implying that a persuasive sanctity was one of her attributes—a sixth sense, as it were, conveying re- ligious impressions. Whether the impression conveyed was as potent as the manner of conveying it or not is a subject for dispute, and one upon which my profane pen need offer no suggestion. But Michael felt, without defining, the attraction. It was not Miss Allard’s indomitable rectitude that caused him to become conscious of a state of moral inanition; it was the charm with which she managed to endow that rectitude. A Mulberry Street missionary, possessing a withered profile and a shrinking manner, might have been doubly virtuous with but slight success. And, after all; there are few of us capable of dissociating the attraction of virtue from the at- traction of the earthly habiliments which it chooses to adopt. ‘They left Mulberry Street, and she took him into , THE DESCENDANT 187 several tenements, bringing him face to face with the powers of poverty and dirt. A terrible pity took possession of him a pity prompting him to sit in his office chair and hurl edi- torial thunderbolts at the oppressors of the poor. There was no desire to speak to them or to touch them; there was a sensitive shrinking from the crippled man upon his pallet bed, and from the little red-eyed seamstress in her curl- papers and her soiled gown. He started when Anna Allard lifted an unwashed baby in her arms. And yet the memory of her as she stood there clung to him and followed him far into the night. A young Madonna, the straight and supple figure, the outstretched arms, the wonderful tender- ness upon her fresh-hued face, the wonderful, wonderful halo of her hair; and, above and beyond it all, the rays of sunshine falling, white and holy, into the squalid room, fall- ing like a benediction upon woman and child, wrapping in a luminous stillness child and woman—an eternal symbol of an eternal motherhood. At that moment he realized the emptiness of ambition the futility of reward. Was he who loathed pain the one to close the gaping wound? He who shrank from filth the one to purge from uncleanliness? And ambition? What a petty thing it is in the midst of a world of men, living, begetting, and passing into dust! “For fame is a thing devoid of judgment, and after- fame oblivion, and a name is but sound and echo.” He walked the streets that night pursued by his self-dis- trust. He despised himself that he had fought for the sake of fighting, not for the sake of the cause; for what men might say of him he had wrestled for the things that were baptizing his battle-field with bloody sweat. For a name he had given his salvation. “ And a name is but sound and echo.” Onward before him in the night, against the blackness of drawn clouds, moved the memory of Anna Allard, the holy of holies in her eyes, her eyes upon the young child. What was it that brought that.look into a woman’s face? 188 THE DESCENDANT What might a man not sustain, smiling, for the sake of such a look? Then, like a flash, one word broke upon his thoughts, and he paused and stood still as if he hearkened to a spoken name— Rachel!” Could it be that he had forgotten Rachel? Rachel who, he had told himself, was the breath of his life! Rachel whom he had loved with the passion of his youth and the strength of his manhood! He went to her studio, and found her light still burning. As he entered she gave a little cry, and ran towards him with outstretched hands. “Why, Mike, you bad, bad boy, where have you been ?” Her gladness, her trust, her utter lack of suspicion, touched him, and he stooped to kiss her with a poignant sense of remorse. As she looked up at him a sudden fear, vague and illu- sive, flamed in her face, and she spoke quickly : “Mike, is there anything wrong?” “Wrong! No, dear.” And then.a sudden cowardly shame took possession of him, for he had noticed the details of her toilet, and con- trasted the careless drapery, the wind-blown hair, with Anna Allard’s dainty trimness. Rachel was beautiful just then, but, to do him justice, he was not a man to be over- borne by physical beauty ; it was only an attribute to him, not a thing desirable for its own sake. It was cowardly to criticise Rachel; he had never done so before; and yet at that moment the fall of her gown seemed careless, the loosened coil of her hair a trifle un- kempt. We hated himself for the thought, but the thought would not be shut out. Then he started, for the girl, who had been watching him, suddenly threw herself upon him with a breathless sob. “Love me! love me! Jove me!” she cried. “I care for nothing but you—nothing but you! Let the world despise me, but you—you love me!” THE DESCENDANT 189 Her eyes, deep and solemn, like the heart of a storm, bound him by a spell; the slim white hands clung to him and would not let him go. With a swift repentance he caught her to him. “My star!” he said. Still her eyes cast over him their wonderful spell. “ Swear that you love me—swear it!” “T swear it!” She threw back her head with one of her impetuous movements, her face gleaming whiter in the dim light, a rapturous worship thrilling in her voice. “T adore you!” she said. Again the cursed thought: Would a good woman have loved him as Rachel loved him? Was not the worship she offered up to him a proof of her own unworthiness? Nay, a good woman sees ever between herself and the man she loves the inviolable shield of her own honor! Ah, the thrice-accursed thought! Would it never let him rest? It was the old, old expiation that Nature has demanded and woman paid since the day upon which woman and de- sire met and knew each other. Ah, the old, old expiation ! Bi pn cl NN Se nt Ne NL RE ee - - se sna ecient ee at eon Sheet ob wenn scanatesaaeeeaaaumpitaDarne: te teedaememeidene > enemmmmammmenamaiiaen ame aceite ‘ Poe aetna nna A. mere Ls ch er On a Ren, Re mr eg WO A bh cape, siamo gf mat gee Oa neat, hme poe. J — aan eon Roc SLP MP olmak: ps akmeleite 4 Ssoomeerumped mie cence mapcoe mn ats roman aeons ete cnt, Re A POR 5 mgr inacnaeee. = . Le: 3 : . rr set theatre taint tn ttn at eerie en entneeen Le ene are RY Cape tem ar TI Ei A RIE IM RS: armas a mp PR Re a oe CHAPTER VIII “ HELLO, Shem !” Akershem looked up. = “Your entrance is rough on nerves,” he remarked, irri- tably. Driscoll leaned in the doorway, surveying the world in general and the editor in particular with his accustomed complacency. t say, Shem, what is the matter with Zze Lconoclast (e Akershem shifted uneasily, running his hand impatiently through his hair. He looked worn and harassed, and the lines upon his forehead had deepened. i “ Matter?’ he echoed. ‘“ Why, nothing. Driscoll shook out a folded paper and held it towards him. | “For the past fortnight who has served us with edito- rials?” he asked. ‘Not yourself, my good fellow; and don’t tell me that this is Kyle’s work, for I know better. Why, here are two whole columns, and not an abusive epithet ? to speak of. Who’s your man So Michael kicked the paper viciously under the desk. “To tell the truth, I got Springer to do it, He’s one of our reporters, you know—a sensible fellow— “That fool! Why don’t you do the work yourselt “ Confound your catechizing! ll not have it! Driscoll gave a long, low whistle. “Well, of au the dashed impudence !” he said; then added, amiably, “ I’m off to Java, you know.” “To Javaty ; “Qh, the reports of Dr, Dubois and his Pleistocene dis- covery made me feverish. I am convinced that only crim- 2) ORECAST THE DESCENDANT 1gI inal negligence has prevented our verifying Darwinism by producing the bones of our ancestors. I'll satisfy myself in regard to the Java find, and then I’ll get up an anthropo- logical expedition for the purpose of making explorations in tropical Asia. I am inclined to believe that man origi- nated thereabouts, and I intend to search for the exact spot.” His eyes were glowing with enthusiasm, his face flushed, The old restless spirit was in possession. He pursued the dangerous, sweet divinity—change, Akershem was devoid of sympathy. ‘What a pity you weren't born a beggar!” he said; “you might have accom- plished something.” Perhaps of the affections of Michael’s life the affection for John Driscoll was the strongest; certainly it was the steadiest. And yet when Driscoll had gone he felt vaguely relieved; he half wished that the Java scheme would ma- terialize. For the past two weeks he had been undergoing a curious revulsion from his old nature, and the presence of Driscoll seemed a living reproach. And with his new- born sensitiveness he dreaded reproach; he craved not only self-esteem, but the esteem of his fellow-men, Impatiently he rose, and paced up and down the uncar- peted floor, He felt feverish, alert—eager to sweep the past aside, and to start, unfettered, in pursuit of the future. With the past he knew that Rachel was associated; KKachel, who had given him life when he was famished, sympathy when he was sore beset; Rachel, who had been passionately content to cast her art and ambition as a step- ping-stone before his feet, and who, when upon that step- ping-stone he could not reach the goal, had raised it by the throw of her own heart. The morning sunlight flitted across the floor, bringing to his memory the flitting figure of Rachel—Rachel, with lumi- nous eyes, with tender, quivering lips, the Love who had been offered up upon the altar of his own divinity. Upon the scales of his judgment his life and his life’s ambition were found wanting when weighed in the balance PLN et eg ee te OO ON eRe I pre pi Oia A wtaticen5 Sen Sm eo i Ae a een nD lemet meere ns ear a Pa ere tn it 2 otapeaFanlsitlrapeanse-cosaeenemalaaediinemaacateongentimensiiimenmmanethlne pa tar aideesie ene ay cn con mtremtenmien naee or seeeetncanende abieaen sateramememeamettennenadamae romana beaiaia enced Ne TE SETI Ie Te LO: Po k,n meen mentee GG tm eee i I tt erg eg acne oa SRR SD THE DESCENDANT 192 with Rachel’s. And yet, though Rachel was fair, Rachel be- longed to the past—to the past, with his old bitterness that needed a balm, his old ambition that craved a ballast. In his future Rachel had no place. Now he wanted more—far more—than Rachel could give. He wanted the one thing that she had not. He wanted the honor of good men and good women. He wanted a clean future, unbe- smirched by any blot upon the closed pages of his past. Then, dimly, as one who sces through a glass darkly, he felt that the respect he wanted was the respect of Anna: Allard, the homage of her fearless rectitude, her implacable honor. To him, in his limited experience, the esteem of Anna Allard meant the esteem of the other half of the world—the better half, with its trust and purity and faith, He knew then, and he had always known, that the desire for Anna Allard was not the desire for love. Love in his nature must hold ever a secondary place—must serve ever as the handmaid of ambition. And with love he had been surfeited—but honor lay still unattained. And he felt no remorse before the memory of Rachel. It seemed to him but natural that she should fill the part which she had chosen in his life. If she was to be buried, a victim to his discarded theories, it was because she had accepted those theories, discarding upon her side the laws of her conscience. And the thought again: A pure woman would have spurned passion for the sake of principle! Ah, the old, old expiation ! A man is never so merciless as to a dead desire, never so implacable as to the woman whom he has once loved and loves no longer. In the whole course of his life Mi- chael had never been so severe as he was to Rachel Gavin, never so unmerciful as when he held himself most just. And he judged her as he had never judged himself, be- cause with himself the wrong had not been of his own be- getting, but had descended to him in place of a name, But Rachel—with Rachel it had been love, not mistaken prin- ciple, and it was for that love that he judged her. } THE DESCENDANT 193 “Please, sir, will you speak to me?” With a start he turned to meet her brimming glance, She stood before him, dressed as he had first seen her—in the artist’s blouse and cap, with a drawing-block in her hand and her hand outstretched. At the apparition he fell back, surprised into a quick remorse; then he looked at her, and his heart hardened. Had he found her overburdened with a sense of her own unworthiness it might have been differ- ent, At a word of serious realization, he told himself, his anger would have melted. But, alas! poor Rachel; respon- sibility sat restlessly upon her—all eyes are not dimmed by tears. What was life to her, he asked himself, if she met it so lightly? Had she not played with ambition as with a toy, and might not love be as frivolously dealt with? Why should he fan the waning embers of his remorse for the sake of a pain that would be over and done with in the curl of an eyelash? And his heart hardened, and he drew back, “T forced an entrance,” said Rachel; “a guard in the guise of a reporter tried to stop me, but I told him that I had important news about the murder trial, so he let me in. Aren’t you glad he did?” She laughed, and by that laugh she lost her kingdom. A well of merriment overflowed and rippled upon the air; laughter was in her deep, gray eyes, where the tears were hardly dry, laughter was upon her lips, laughter dimpled across cheek and brow; she was all laughter. The little cap upon her head slipped jauntily aside, and the dark line of hair was sharply defined upon her white, blue-veined forehead. She was the old, audacious Rachel, whom he had met and pondered over some two years ago—a charm- ing Rachel, but a Rachel whose day was done. “ Aren’t you glad?” she repeated, and she rested her hands upon his shoulders and looked into his face. ‘ Don’t you want those items dreadfully ?” “T am busy,” he answered. 13 ar eet hae ae 5 8 Sake ean et eh nee imme Re BA fale aE PEO HEE CL ey meee ep a a Lay HO MeN Ae IR RRC At et th en ARETE I Sp Gan Tea ret tr am lA eo mc A a Eee me gE ance a Pl tA ETH nc Lac 2 seer AI Te EEE rm TA UE TT IR OR AT EE A AR tf RN et RN ete eng eet ape ae tag a UE Re en NN at TR ch alata a cre nat in teeta Dg onrmme fname ee a nate, Suey 5 Spek ote Neca eo ‘ THE DESCENDANT 194 “ Aren’t you glad to see mc >” she questioned, lightly, as i i 31 As s yoke she gave if forcing a foregone conclusion. As she spok ge him a little shake. “1 am busy.” “ Busy | Nongeteél Why, you were walking up and down this blessed floor as idle as—as that reporter, What were you thinking of?” *« Many things.” c «What? Was I among them? ENCES “Really? Then if you have time to think of me, why : es haven’t you time to talk to mc ? “TJ was thinking seriously.” - “ Well. I never! And can’t you talk seriously, too? ? “To you?” he asked, and smiled, ‘Why, you look like an escaped sunbeam.” Zs What a pretty speech! But shall I look like a cloud ?” And she bent her heavy brows upon him, closing her eyes until only the smutty purple shadows under them were visl- ble. “Do you like me now?” “Tt does not suit you.” “What is the matter? Are you angry?” Something tender and childish aboat her smote him suddenly with a sharp pain. How young she looked ! “ “Oh no!” he answered ; “not that, dear. “Am I good?” “Ves,” “Am I pretty?” AVS \ “Then what is the matter? Why can’t you become nice and good-humored ?” Then like a flash all the gayety vanished; a wondering look settled upon her face, and the sweet, fresh merriment fled. Fee “ There is something wrong, dearest ; what is 1t: He shook his head; but, with a sudden, passionate inten- sity, she spoke : THE DESCENDANT 195 “Flow dare you say nothing is wrong when you look like that? Something ¢s wrong, and I will know! I will know!” “What will you know?” “Why you look like this—why you wish me to go—what it all means. Tell me!” He took her hands very gently. What slender hands they were ! “There is nothing wrong that I can tell you, Rachel; nothing is wrong. Shall I go out with you for a walk?” cat . All the slumbering force of her nature had awakened, and thrilled in her voice. For a moment she was silent; then, drawing her hands from his grasp, she stood white and straight before him. The words came slowly: “For some time, Mike, I have felt—_I mean I have thought—that—that something had come between us. I tried not to see it; but one cannot shut one’s eyes, and— and I fear that it is so.” “ Rachel !” : “What it is Ido not know. Ihave thought and thought until my head ached, and I could think of nothing that I had done or said that could have made the difference.” Her voice was clear and steady now. “It may be that I am mistaken. If I have been unjust, forgive me. I know you have many things to do in life besides to love; and yet” —then she looked at him, her solemn eyes summoning him to judgment—“‘is it true?” she said. “Rachel!” A note of pity softened his voice, and, like a flash, it told upon her. He almost held his breath at the change. A warm light leaped to her face; the flame in her eyes blinded him as they swept over him, hot with pain. She drew back, straightening herself to her full height as to withstand a charge, and throwing back her head with a gesture of resistless pride. “Because I have loved you,’ that I cannot forget you.” » she said, “do not think See a Re RMON IRE IR CE AEA SN TEESE AEA Sa ef a ee ner ta eye ret eS ile test at a a eal i meat A tf ae et ammafictie. =a =a - nn on oe: * NA, 196 THE DESCENDANT He moved forward, but the coldness of her voice checked him, and he stood still. Ss “Tf we have played with love,” she said, “we have played with it together, and neither of us has been wounded in the farce, I need no pity. I chose to love you, and, when [ choose, I can forget you.” Then her voice broke, and she fell to trembling as he reached forward and caught her in his arms. ‘“ My dear! my love!” he cried, “forgive me! Iam only a poor blun- dering fool; forgive me ie But her vehemence had died away, leaving her weak and sobbing upon his breast. “ I—I lied,” she said. ‘‘I love you—and I did not choose to love you—and—and I caw t forget you.” Ee loved her still, he told himself. He did not tell him- self, but perhaps he dimly felt, that it was a love from which reverence was slipping away. What he could not tell him- self was that this mental revolution, which shadowed Rachel, was the result of an illumination cast for him by Rachel herself upon human life—and human fulfilments. His love for her had been born of a desire for the unattainable, and had fed upon sympathy; and that sympathy failing to ex- tend to changed conditions, he found that mere love was of all things frail the frailest. He kissed her and cursed himself; and, with sobs still echoing in her voice, she (eft him and went into the street. At first she walked heavily, feeling wretched and undone. But the air was so fresh, the sky so blue, the world so pul- sating with energy, that one must put aside borrowed cares and be glad with nature. And, after all, it had been a mis- take—he loved her, she was sure he loved her, and what mattered all else? So she quickened her steps and walked briskly along the crowded streets, shooting soft, luminous glances from beneath her drooping lids, putting away doubt and distrust. Then as she reached her door she caught sight of an organ-grinder with a monkey upon his back, and she called ‘ THE DESCENDANT 197 to the man, taking the grinning little animal from him and caressing it in her arms. It was so cunning and so ne ; oe ee: : climbed upon her shoulders and laid ean aah Sie cap she forgot her depression and bubbled cree eee a ible dear,” she said to the man—“ such a ¢ f j ees ittle dear.” And she gave him the change in her Then the man, who was an Italian and ski i ¢ done his battered hat. “The Lord Bisco ote aes face, he said; and he made the monkey practise his aie lous little tricks, while the sunshiny face shone upon hi and the sweet laugh rang out. Steet A passer-by, one who was once young but was now old and whose youth and age had been spent in the ways that lead to the getting of wealth, heard the laugh and ae to see from whence it came. He saw, and his withered heart grew green again at the sight, and he forgot, for the moment, that joy was vain and gold the only good BAS happy woman,” he said, and smiled enviously. , And yet where the laughter sparkled in the deep, gra eyes the tears were hardly dried; in the rippling jad i if one listened, one heard the echo of a sob, and Beene ue mirth, in her heart, a heaviness was weighing her down Alas, poor Rachel! all eyes are‘not dimmed by tears, 7 hee et enemas ottomainaaenaidl a wire t wey i a eh ah Stamens 1 Sh et BO toilet Se ~ ot ent i ag TI nee tg ll Wn Py eee Pe ep OO ae Te re ad re mt 5 tet ant eon CHAPTER IX SyatmmeR had come—throbbing, passionate summer, when Nature had ripened into the fulness of maternity. The earth had quickened joyously into fertility ; not a meadow but teemed with emerald verdure, not a barren space but rew pregnant with life. : In aeae the fog of soot and smoke hung heavily 7 the sweet, glad sunshine, reaching the tenement roofs, shifted in leaden rays as if robbed of the essence of its gladness. Summer in the country, with its free, wide stretches of purpling moors and its ecstatic insight into the sacred heart of things, is as unlike the city summer, with its palpi- tating humanity and its tainted atmosphere, as life is unlike death. The one is the world as God planned it; the other as man has made it. Rachel Gavin fretted and pined in her fifth-story front. She kept close during the long, hot days, and only stole out, wan and white, in the twilight for a breath of evening. In imagination she saw herself roaming over tangled fields and in shadowy woodland ways, her sketch-book and camp- ing-stool strapped upon her arm. But the city fenced her in, and her straitened means, the result of her idleness, had to be lengthened by stringent economy. She had not allowed Michael Akershem to give her so much as a paint- brush, and the stratagems to which she resorted in her fnancial straits were many and varied. Once he had brought her a diamond ring, and she had turned upon him like a flame, ‘How dare you?” she had cried, passion- ately. ‘Do you wish to insult me? And I despise dia- monds!” He had been a little vexed and a great deal startled. ‘I shall be beholden to no man,” she had said. \ THE DESCENDANT 199 “J will take nothing from you, do you hear? Nothing! nothing !” “Torgive me,” he had answered; ‘‘it is as you will.” But he had grown dimly conscious of a Jack of compre- hension. The delicacy of Rachel’s decision had been be- yond his power of perception. As some visions are unable to grasp, in a certain color, minute variations of shade, so in a wide survey of a fact, subtle distinctions were lost upon Michael Akershem. ‘That Rachel’s determination was the one salvation to which her pride adhered he did not suspect, and he would have failed as utterly in an at- tempt to distinguish between the position as she now saw it and as she should have seen it had she arrayed herself in his diamonds. To his mother, toiling in the harvest- fields, a nicety in point of morals could not have been more incomprehensible. But Rachel said, “I have accepted your convictions for your sake; you may also abide by mine.” And he was silenced. So it was not only her watch that was pawned this sum- mer; a pink coral necklace of her great-grandmother’s lay unreclaimed for several months in the glass case of one Israel Meyerbeer, and her guitar passed under those gold balls never to return—at least, into her possession. She suffered silently, however, for her pride set a seal upon her paling lips. She packed Madame Laroque and her belong- ings off to the seaside, watching her depart with smiling eyes; and when the old flower-woman at the corner clapped her withered hands, where the chilblains were barely healed, and declared that she felt the summer in her bones, Rachel answered with her ringing laugh. She had lost her watch and her great-grandmother’s necklace and her peace of mind, but, outwardly, she had not lost her frank good- humor, Rachel was not the only one who sighed in spirit, tortur- ing her imagination with visions of the country-side. The heat had penetrated into the office of Ze Lconoclast, and Lah en Rae at eR Rt PIN A a i i em inet, Rts TA OC eR ts te Risen” et op I tema AAPOR on nd EN A AP Ae eC i en RF ORE A Te = te NAT ne: ete renee tt tat” temas ns tien es hinen Prone iat Toceeetanandins eceactet ace oe uence emeeeneenemenentaendeiinataitemadeeneeneraenitinenieimmntian caine eee maeammeamneniemeenediceetadinieetenie oie eieatttees tener tea ae ease eee tea Ee ET Ee AE ee _— ot —— ne —- aptante a f me RR eS ape ee neni Ate ee nf I a ly tthe pee eRe itn caer oh on nce a OP Re Roly Synge a eae ee Fee re gf ine SOE SAIS RTT Penn Se OO pen ee ene oak earn tn va © a 200 THE DESCENDANT the printer’s devils groaned themselves blue, while in the composing-room the foreman mopped his streaming brow and thundered maledictions after the recreant editor. Michael was out of town. For the first time in his nine years of journalistic work he had taken a vacation, It was Hedley Semple who had borne him off for a fortnight’s shooting in the White Mountains. Mrs. Semple was en- sconced with the children and several friends.ip a dilapi- dated farm-house which she had purchased near North Conway, and Akershem had been drawn into the party. Like a bit of untried life to him was this happy-go-lucky holiday, spent in the midst of the mountains, with Hedley Semple’s enthusiastic sportsmanship and the frank cordi- ality of Mrs. Semple’s large and pervasive presence. It was a pleasant fortnight, and Michael entered into the high-spirited informality with a boyish zest, grasping at the youth which he had missed. For the first time he was thrown with a crowd of wholesome, unaffected young people —girls who had no theories and no missions but the general theory that life is pleasant enough in its way, and the mission to endeavor to make it more so, It was refreshing to him; it robbed him of half his cynicism, and knocked the life out of his fundamental maxim of social depravity. When he returned to the city he was in excellent health and it was with a masterful determination that and spirits, in—the work that he was begin- he took up his work aga ning to hate. One day in September, as he worked in the composing- yoo, a sudden disgust for his employment swept over him, and, rising, he walked rapidly up and down the room. “Mr, Akershem,” said the foreman, “can you let me have those three sticks of copy ae Michael sat down again, taking up his pen with an air of supreme self-mastery. There came a peal from the telephone bell, and he looked up impatiently. “That is the twentieth time in the last half-minute,” he said. Sheahan eNO | Ce BAER NON SORE ABER ee sia ch AEN AA meet Nn NEI SNE THE DESCENDANT 201 The telephone boy turned, the trumpet still at his ear. Cockril & Holmeson,” he said, “say that in your account of the strike at their works you put the wages the strikers were receiving at half a cent too low.” He looked at the foreman as he spoke, but Michael ut- tered an exclamation and returned to his work. The bell rang again. The boy looked up. “ Mr. Coggins says we made him say that Anarchism was not an unnatu- ral outcome of—” “Pshaw! I don’t care what he said.” Michael sighed. ‘That infernal telephone again!” he exclaimed. “Please, sir’—the telephone boy addressed vacancy and looked dejected—“ Miss Caroline Houston, of Thirty-first Street, says if we don’t retract that libel concerning her in to-day’s issue she’ll—she’ll—she didn’t say what she'd do but she’s coming up in a few minutes.” “ And the last form going to press,” muttered the fore- man, helplessly, while Michael cried : “Tell the next person to go to the devil !” For a moment there was silence. Michael tossed a cov- ered sheet aside and took up a blank. A reporter looked in at the door, and, seeing the state of affairs, cautiously looked out again, _ The telephone rang sharply, imperatively, with a finish- ing snap at the end. ‘Please, sir,” No answer. “Mr. Akershem !” epee 3) “A gentleman to speak to you.” “Tell him he can’t.” The words were shouted through the telephone, “ He says he must speak to you, sir.” “Tell him to go to thunder.” “ Please, sir, he says he won't, and he won’t budge till he speaks to you.” ¥ sn oath aterm eet _iah ane irer AS oguchsipeecarap ine omer Rien tm nee A tt k= AE ME ie gE i ee ne oe = ee ae OT i rn nm she nnorensne cbr th AD es en aon = ee ee Siro thea ni Aik we S Lite I ae” Pt Sng ne Tere eM 5. ny Manta Sie gee Mag ; Dn hea ett et enh Sposa, Fae Pa ee ea. Oy OE ON cB TaN sg ok < Ci paacdge elit abi Batten TSS SRE ela iphearenne ee EAN fe noe eae FETE EE ‘ 5 SN Oe ene ee a Peet 7 sdiecommneattine caiman cae eaheee = = Salles npg emma terse mma he mmc a a sem oad tat tot cia A 202 THE DESCENDANT In a rage Michael rose and strode to the trumpet. “Who, in the devil’s name, are you ?” he shouted, “ Hello, there!” came Driscoll’s voice. “I’ve something to say to you.” “Can't say it. Iwish you'd find some other amusement. We're going to press.” é He gave an angry jerk and left the telephone, picking up his papers from the table. {le cast a sympathetic look at the foreman, who held his head in one hand as he took down notes with the other. His tone softened wonderfully. The better side of his nature came out to his fellow-work- man. “Come into my room, if you like, Jenkins,” he said ; “Pll give you this in twenty minutes.” And he passed into his office. It was not until some hours later that he recalled Dris- coll and his urgent desire for an interview, and shortly after dinner he went to hunt him up. He found Driscoll in his sitting-room, waiting patiently for the last of the dinner things to be removed from the small table. “ fello!” he said. ‘Draw up and have some coffee and a cigar, “You'll find that box of Havanas to your right first-rate.” Michael sat down and glanced about him. There was an air of solid comfort about Driscoll’s rooms which never failed to impress him, and which he had striven long and unavailingly to copy. “How comfortable you look!’ remarked Michael, “I wish I could reach your degree of perfection in that line.” “ My greatest talent,” returned Driscoll, with complacent assurance. ‘JI tell you, there is more real science in mak- ing life pleasant than in tracing its origin.” “ Was it Tertullian who said that to be happy is to flaunt one’s self in the face of the Creator? And there is some truth in it. I am never particularly cheerful that I don’t wonder what particular misfortune Providence has pre- pared next in order. But you had something to say to me.” “And I have. I met Splicer, managing editor of Zhe 1 i i RETO ERO om I ce SCE SH THE DESCENDANT 203 Journal of Economics, you know. Well, his health has failed, and he has to quit work. He thought he might get me into his place. It’s a pretty responsible position, you see, but I told him political economy was too stagnant for my taste, and took the liberty of suggesting yourself. He was wild in your praise, said in controversy you hadn’t your match. Indeed, he magnified your ability considerably. You know you scored him once on the sanitary advantages of ash barrels, which accounts for it.. He said he would have been glad to use his influence for you had you been less unsound, and I ventured to hint at the moderation of your views.” “Tt is not so. My views have not altered. I shall not leave Zhe Lconoclast.” “Oh, well, suit yourself. It’s a pretty good chance, how- ever, if they offer it to you, which isn’t likely. I thought I might as well prepare you—” “T shouldn’t accept it,” returned Michael, insistently. But as he walked home, after leaving Driscoll, he knew that his determination had been but momentary, and that he was already beginning to waver in his allegiance to Zhe Jconoclast. In view of the foreseen contingency, his present work became more distasteful. It was uncongenial; not enough so, perhaps, to cause him to throw it aside with no immediate opening in view, but uncongenial enough to war- rant his exchanging it for an equally successful and more respectable position.’ And even if he was not sufficiently quixotic to sacrifice his future to his principles, still he was sufficiently ambitious to attempt, were it possible, to gratify principle and ambition at a single stroke. Yes; after all, if the position were offered he would consider an accept- ance. In his primitive disregard of consequences he over- looked the difficulties of his reversion, By an open and barefaced desertion to pass from his own party to the front ranks of his opponents seemed, in its way, feasible enough, That his party might resent his desertion did not occur to him. Cheerfully sanguine with regard to the opportunity he de- Sin rattoecioninps ethics AS At Oe Pies ar + pal a? OS ROAR, OTE OOO GS POE BA, 5 POE aH tres Ad, te 4 { } i) i ry i { { j : } i } : ; | i ‘ i { { 3 i y | | | j { i | a atm tee a ase “ Se ee ae — = fe ene. cre ewan eed tt nae PSE POE NS a a A ne eee ee Me nega 2 alee sitalnati “ ERA Re Cn wT i ee a one St hb eI PTET RS A he eT EL AN Fr 9 ert pA i a hf he RE ep cen, AE Begs eee HE BARI Ma naa roger trai tebe mommy ener mek nected, Se Se eer as 204 THE DESCENDANT v4 sired, he went home and smoked a peaceful pipe in the sat- isfaction of his decision. With the thought of his changed position had awakened the thought of Anna Allard. Fora moment he allowed himself to indulge in a soothing reve- rie. Ue saw her beside him, bending above his chair—the keeper of his home and his heart—her serene judgment sus- taining him through life, He saw her grave smile illumined by the glory of her hair; saw her bend above. him with his image in her eyes; saw them threading together, through youth and through age, into eternity, the pathway of their lives. He thought of her calmly, with not one quiver of his pulse. He desired her mentally. She personified the pro- prieties of life—nothing more. From his wine husks he was preparing to return to virtue, and virtue wore the hair and eyes of Anna Allard. Then he put the thought from him angrily, and fell to thinking of Rachel. The next day, going to his office, he found Kyle awaiting him. The young fanatic had grown more fanatical of late ; his appearance had become generally unkempt, and there was a strangely lurid light in his eyes. “We needed copy,” he began; “and as you left none I ventured to look into your desk. I found an article upon “ Tyrannicide” which I made use of. It suited us exactly.” A flame kindled in Michael’s eyes. “TJ consider it officious,” he said. “The thing was writ- ten two years ago and not intended for publication. I shall have it recalled.” “Tt is too late,” returned Kyle, doggedly; “I have given it to Jenkins. I had no idea you’d cut up so. I shouldn’t, in your place.” One of his rare smiles flashed across Michael’s face, giving him a brilliantly youthful look. “JT don’t believe you vould,” he said, frankly. “I beg your pardon, Kyle; I was hasty.” “And there is something else,” continued the other. “Paul Stretnorf was here. He wishes you to deliver your \ THE DESCENDANT 205 lecture upon Russian Nihilism before his society. I told him I was sure he might count upon you, It is important, you know.” Michael started. The smile passed from his face, leav- ing a harassed expression. “You are getting me into a peck of trouble, Kyle. I can’t do it.” : “Vou must,” persisted Kyle, passionately. “I as good as gave my word for you. The demand is imperative. Why, one would think that you were—” He checked him- self. “That I were what?” demanded Michael. “ Nothing, old man; but we must have the lecture.” “That I were what?” Kyle threw back his head and fixed his lurid gaze upon him. “That you were playing trimmer!” he said, in a passionate undertone. For a moment Michael looked at him, growing white to the lips. He realized in a flash that his part was less easy than he had believed it, that what he called principle other men would call perfidy, and that because of that principle or perfidy he should have to reckon with Kyle. “Do this for me, Akershem,” said Kyle. Michael hesitated, his gaze abstracted, the vein upon his forehead growing livid from contraction, his eyelids twitch- ing nervously. Then he reached forward and laid his hand upon Kyle’s shoulder. “Vou believe in me, Kyle?” he said, and there was a certain wistfulness in his voice. “Unto death,” responded the other. The old brilliant smile illumined Akershem’s face as he spoke, “I will deliver the lecture,” he said. iS t | a ee a “ - 5 ead nee ee " oem OO ee ee ea ee ee ee ee Be eae i. Z ate “« ra els Tar mes so Sel otiieanaotlimey ONO IE ANE Ep OE ATT Masons, nett Pe RE IRTP CLE ET A CT NS RE AB A EL SIR AO LENS OTE BIT Et crane enn he nt anaes r= sacamerwe £27 Recreate z eet ee em yas Gene wee “ eer ee Mn CE NR Pe NPE lf “ANA me Ont if A EE I TIAN AE SON RB NEN ty ag a aie RE a_i art E A dome = ‘ ie ey: a EE | i | ua ff } } ; $44 : Add | ! ; | : nae ; | : 4 | | ttt . : ; j | , Ay A ts : at i at _ BOOK IV SF ae | REVERSION : | is “Tt is not only what we have inherited from our fathers and mothers : 3 that walks in us. It is all sorts of dead ideals and lifeless old beliefs. ne by They have no vitality, but they cling to us all the same, and we can’t i { i ! get rid of them. . . . And then we are, one and all, so pitifully afraid : f ' ( of the light.” —Jdse, i i i : Ps { | { i | | | t 2 ‘} ‘ i Ny : 4 aay eee | i] 18: ee | ant i! i | aE ; Ay rEg: | ra | a1 | ; aut | : \ { i : i a ri 5 ; ae? i tah Wye 4 i CHAPTER I To Rachel Gavin the days seemed crowding past like gray gnomes glutted with presage of evil. With passion- ate incredulity she blinded her eyes, feeling in the darkness their leering presences around her.. Then she looked and understood. She understood that the way upon which she had walked was the way of a quicksand; that the things upon which she had looked were but phantasmagoric noth- ings; that the rock upon which she had anchored had crum- bled, as rocks will, ‘There remained only the end. “But I will be happy!” cried Rachel, in all the passion of her vehement youth—“T will be happy!” And she had grown beautiful from the assumption of omnipotence, as if an infusion of fresh blood stained the white of her skin with its scarlet flame. Against the tenacity of her will what power could prevail? In her eyes happiness had clothed itself in the image of Michael Akershem. As he was the one thing needful to her existence, so the vigor of the desire with which she desired him redeemed the shrink- ing value of her self-esteem. The buoyancy of her belief in him had exalted her above conventions; but despised conventions avenge themselves as inevitably as despised truths, It may be that we have never clearly defined wherein lies the difference betweén them. But if Rachel suffered now, she made no sign. If she missed the intensity of Michael's first affection, she missed it silently. If the carefully acquired courtesy with which he treated her showed pale beside the flaming memory of that turbulent devotion, who was the wiser? Before her always, sometimes shrouded by unnatural leth- argy, sometimes veiled by a natural sanguineness, loomed, 14 “ = : ‘ é SEES So et : Bess = : Seas e —~ eons AA NE A cis lil Ra BO ER a LAER SOAR A LS LO Sah LC APD 5 ERO ee A ALL IE ce Sa Aig GP te IGM EE. iG BE aN RPA ae cit td A nats tetas et rae RG AAO Sh FL Rt a Oe Fr cman oer on tree Anan. A a ele tener aa EP Ta NN a tenella Bat St a en gee ARR A AN tn ti gn Ee RN mae ee ye yf tir ame : saa Pete eh renee 2 eae cae me 2 2 saceerasapahmiebstaipanre nts ~ SAS PTI BORN LATS EO INNO AC TN ASPET INR AONE, RRO EAS NA A ROO Et RSE tee: A A ene ees ee we Sn TO san, a entrain cing a, re SORES S RR RIT, i ee SF CS BEL THE DESCENDANT 210 in a terrible obscurity, the dread of entering upon that val- ley of humiliation which is found at the end of the way of false ideals. She resented the gentleness with which Mi- chael treated her; she resented the superlative considerate- ness of Michael’s friends, and, most bitterly, she resented the ill-concealed compassion of her former companions, She who had renounced art scoffed at them that they re- gretted the renunciation. When Driscoll came one day and lounged about her studio, and talked to her in that deferential manner which she had observed closely of late, it stung her like the sting- ing of a lash. She writhed in the nervous tension of her exasperation. “T wish you wouldn’t treat me as if I were insane or in a fever,” she remarked, irritably. Driscoll’s mouth dropped in astonishment. He walked to the window and stood gnawing his mustache abstracted- ly. His back expressed an amicable forbearance, his face a prophetic gloom. The silence was oppressive. There was a lack of sprightliness about the passers-by that savored of dejection.. He shook himself resignedly and glanced at Rachel from the corner of his eye, after which he beat an almost inaudible tattoo upon the window-pane with the fin- gers of one hand. He quoted, gravely: ***T never saw a purple cow, I never hope to see one ; But this PH tell you, anyhow, I'd rather sce than be one,’” With an energy born of boredom he descended to over- tures. “Well, he remarked, placidly — “well, as we were * saying, the wind sits in the cast. cts ing to say,” continued Rachel, witl “Tf you have anything to say,” continued Rac hel, with asperity, “please say it, and have it over. I hate skirmish- ing !” . Driscoll’s mouth dropped a degree lower, and his eyes grew wider. THE DESCENDANT 2IT “But I haven’t anything to say,” he protested, “so how can I say it?” Then he grew hopeful. “I can quote you a line or two if it will answer,” he added. Rachel was not to be mollified, ‘I don’t know the rea- son,” she said, ‘but I wish you didn’t always look as if you were thinking things.” “I assure you,” retorted Driscoll, with solemnity, “my mind is a perfect blank.” Rachel laughed nervously, her glance flashing brilliantly through the dark shadows encircling her eyes. She inter- laced her fingers restlessly. ‘Perhaps I am insane,” she said; “perhaps that is why you are so civil.” And she added, with the recklessness of desperation, “I see no other reason.” He regarded her contemplatively. “I£ you will know,” he returned, with a whimsical disregard of her earnestness, “I was thinking that the abolition of slavery has more to answer for than is written in history.” Then he became suddenly serious. ‘ And I was also thinking,” he added, slowly, “that not one of us is worth your putting out your hand to; but it is like you to do it, and it is more like us to want you to.” Rachel started, and the scarlet fled from her face, leaving it like marble. Her lips trembled; the stars were lost be- hind the rain-clouds in her eyes. She tore at the em- broidered edge of her handkerchief nervously, “I—I am so childish !” she said, and burst into tears. He watched her quietly, pale to the lips. “Don’t!” he said, at last, stammering awkwardly. ‘Don’t!’ Then he spoke quickly. “Rachel,” he said, “if it had only been—” He checked himself; the word was never spoken. It was the restraint of a man in whom passion had long since been throttled. He regarded Rachel as he regarded the world, with hon- est cynicism, and a quizzical acknowledgment of what she, as well as the world, might have been to him and was not, eat ge tS eA YG a iS I tl ik AAR AS AES RL tg erly ms, aes AC ORES GR FARE fT ig ai ag EM Png? oy Et RO Em “alin ER Mp cA tl Sip I SSOP Tha RI Le PARI ZO PEE PING ta OT meenre manent ter ert nte ne si PE RENTAL SEI ER LO FIAT NL PEAR EAI EO ORE OT AE SABO PE NT ES TERE est tet A AOE AEE at Page ee mt tte He Aaa he 7A en EP RE aE a eae ea ee a Weer gttet 4 ee RET Ler A thE PEP tp Ct rea a i set ene NE ETE ER nena mee meanness ie waar: iin iceentar poeta ete ae in ns eS a EO) enn sir eh in ae ~~ Taco pe haters Mion pepe SP pnarnap aie sd poe nagar emai og gg ee eg Ne The GES rack? SS" lyre i eSCENDANT 212 THE DESCE When she looked at him he was conscious only of her —tragic eyes, haunted by tears. Fey ane she said, “I am porcedy, happy.” alba was a pitiful refutation in her voice. It is only my work that troubles me,” she added, and looked into his pace and saw that the lie was as naught. “It is my work,” she re- Boe course!” assented Driscoll, heartily — “ of course! What else could it be? Asa friend of mine used to remark, ‘What with your confounded advantages auc your cursed attractiveness, you lack only common-sense } Not at intentionally cast any aspcrsions | upon your See at ie added, hastily, ‘‘ for you will take it up again and I shall yet icture. we Paget bron.” Rachel wavered. in her answer. Then she stood up, and her glance met his as he isaiato! above her. A wave of color flooded her face. at the thought of Akershem she reddened before Akershem’s friend. A flash of her old iridescence illumined her, “TJ have chosen to Zive/” she said. r “ Ag we have all chosen,” he answered, simply. I as well as you, and the world as well as ourselves.” And he took the hand that lay in her lap with a gesture that ie half consolatory. ‘And like most choices, we regret It, he Sale tree think,” asked Rachel of Akershem that night, “how different life would have been for us both had 2 2 ed 2”? Be eR ee ea truthfully, “I have thought.” She flashed a brilliant glance upon his face. The light- ness of her voice drowned the pain beneath. “ Tow bare it would have been, and how cold!” she said. “ How brilliant for you!” “But how cold!” “Cold! With Fame?” “Tt does not warm.” He grew tender. THE DESCENDANT 213 “Does this?” He put his arm about her, and, as she lifted her head, kissed her lips. She warmed, a glow overspread her face, and that vivid, illusive flame, at which he had so often marvelled, wrapped her from head to foot. She laughed softly with happiness. “So you aren’t sorry?” she asked, “ Sorry ?” “Not sorry that I failed ?” ‘Vou did not try.” The old haunting jealousy of her work was gone, and it pained her. “YT might have been an honor to you,” she said, with rash audacity, “to leaven the lump of your reputation.” His brow wrinkled and grew harassed; the twitching of his lids increased. The superficiality of her manner per- plexed him; he knew not of the unguessed depths that lay below. He knew only that the recklessness of speech which had at first attracted now repelled him. ‘““My reputation is not so black as you are pleased to suppose,” he retorted. She laughed provokingly. “You contrast it with mine,” she said, “which, I doubt not, outrivals the raven’s wing.” “Don’t, Rachel!” he pleaded. “One must consider such things.” “As ebon reputations?” she inquired. “ Mine is at your service.” Then she made him a mocking courtesy. “Sir Respectability, may your shadow never be less !” She stood in the falling firelight, a vivid, elastic figure, all the supple curves emphasized by the strenuous motion. From her straight, white brow to her agile feet she was all energy and action. A scintillant charm, born of her spirit and the genial firelight, sent for an instant the swift blood to his brain, But half smiling he turned from her to the ruddy coals, which seemed inert and lifeless. There was nothing vital save herself. i a Oe ne es Bl Pa pol Ins ih ma, Sy ATL AEE SR AOR ROT rN tonnage ea SP I ne men nec papel ast att ce PO ee nt ON Hee me ne tt Rene ra rR tg, fe ane en perrntene eS aTAoe SH = See FO I A A LORE SRA SEL PE ROC A AROS ANAL TAI TT BESERY Li CONT BO IES RN NN CT Ng A NON T TEEH i Sot ne eae ng rt Sif ee IT, PE OE hg NF, ATE Otter % ne ley REY eT et oe tet + 226 THE DESCENDANT “ How cold you are!” she said, speaking rapidly from a feverish dread of silence—“how very cold! Sit down, No, not there. You never liked that chair, you know, This one suits you. So you came early, as z said. ies: there is something to be discussed. Why is it that the word discussion always reminds me of a dissecting-room? 1 feel that when a person is discussed he is morally dis- Sette she sected and pulled to pieces. But we sha’n’t dissect any p? i one but ourselves, shall we! She sat down near him, keeping upon the edge of her i i leat ds him. chair and turning her profile towar “Why dissect ourselves?” he asked. ‘ Unpleasant com- * ” lications are likely to ensue. me Oh, but it is necessary,” she answered, quickly. “You see, we have been living, as it were, under false pretences. We have pretended to be happy when we were not happy at all, You pretended to me, and I pretended to you. It has been just like a game we used to play when we were ‘ . ° 9 * children, which we called ‘ making believe,’ and in which we made believe we were something that we were not. Now we must stop making believe. I don’t feel like playing any longer; I want to return to my real self. So here Tam.” He regarded her fixedly, his eyes narrowing until his waze seemed as a stream of light thrown from a lantern dS : upon her excited face. ' “So here you are,” he repeated. “So here I am.” She moved restlessly on the edge of her chair. “And this means that it is all over—all over, do you hear? You go back to your work and I go back i mine; and we will both look upon this as a little game o ‘make-believe.’ ” : ‘But it was earnest,” he said. She started at his unconscious use of the past tense, oe walked hastily to the window; then she came back, ae played with the cups upon the tea-table. She cree : lump of sugar in the tongs, but it dropped before it reachec the cup. She smiled as he looked at her. THE DESCENDANT 227 ‘Ts there any superstition about sugar?” she asked. “Only that foolish one about ‘Many a slip,’ I suppose.” She poured the tea very carefully, and handed the cup to him. As he took it from her he noticed that her hands were trembling, “Rachel,” he protested—“ Rachel, I can’t understand.” She filled a cup for herself. Her throat was parched, and she swallowed a little before replying, ; “Not understand !” she exclaimed, with that lightness of manner which had once been natural. “ Well, be quiet, and let me explain. I was always good at explaining things, you know. It means just this: you and I have been very good friends, but friendship isn’t the only thing in the world, and we have found it out; and it means—well, you understand.” In a moment she went on again: “Perhaps, after a long time, when we are very, very old people, and have gotten as much fame as our hands can hold, we will sit down again and talk it quietly over. By that time it will all seem very amusing,” she added. She lifted the cup to her lips again, He surveyed her in baffled silence; then, rising, he stood before her. “Is it possible,” he asked, slowly, “that you have ceased to love me?” With a soothing gesture she put her hand to her throat, it felt so strained and drawn. : “So many things are possible,” she replied, “that one can’t be sure of anything.” He felt vaguely aggrieved, Then he looked into his own heart and his faith in impossibilities weakened. If his love could burn out, why not Rachel’s. And yet— ‘‘Y do not believe it!” he cried, hotly. She flushed angrily. “You were always sceptical,” she rejoined. She looked at him firmly. The struggle had come, and she knew it; and with the knowledge a nervous excitement quickened her to combat. The thought that he would yield easily maddened her; but she was not a cow- ard, and she faced that as she had faced the rest. a Se ee a eae — Ee OOO ne ee Ee mr a eS tea repre SS epee (e ee nee % STR TOOT ti eM OR eee, “Tagg ancmear See es > ore - Soom pe ae ees x = 3=— Sse a ~ Spee See ety ace ee Se ee a ne a eencort acpi wee weary nee sae ys SS. 228 THE DESCENDANT tood before her, In all the years that he looked that moment the cut of his With vivid intensity his figure, as he s was photographed upon her brain. came it was Michael Akershem as that she remembered, The maze of hair, _ coat, the ink-stains upon his finger-tips, the very pattern of his cravat—these dwelt in her mind then and forever after, He himself was half angry, half humbled. As Rachel stood there, wrapped, as in a t.antle, in her indomitable pride, he realized, as he had never realized be- fore, the wealth of her nature, the immensity of the love with which she had loved him. And then a tide of relief swelled within him that the crisis was to be faced and the suspense at an end. Stung by a quick suspicion, he s he said, “is there some one else?” A wave of resentment swept over her, staining her cheek; a wrathful light leaped to her eyes. She grew icy. “Why not?” she demanded, insolently. And he, remembering Anna Allard, was silent. He stretched out his hand without replying. “At least we are friends,” he said. Her hand closed upon his with nervous tension. “Not yet,” she answered ; “after a time—perhaps.” She swayed and leaned lightly against him, her head rest- ing against his arm. Then by an effort she held herself erect, and, lifting her heed, kissed him once. “ It was a poke harshly. “Rachel,” very nice game,” she said. In a sudden forgetfulness of all save her and what she had been to him, he held her from him, trying to read de- nial in her eyes. “ Little comrade,” he said, ‘can’t we throw up the game? Can't we settle down into commonplaces and matrimony at last ?” The laugh that broke from her was a reaction from her passionate self-control, but he did not know it. “What a prosaic ending to our theories!” she said. “No; it is better so.” eaten Bt CR ea SOs a ARETE RARE AOR AROTROESR PT URIS HA “eitaome, seine pes i AR A late ns ies dsl iN BE ao ct isch che ihe ia Ne Rn Ae NN Ne asia aa THE DESCENDANT 229 He ioe from her towards the door. On his way out ne upset her work-table, scattering a pile of 1 si iacnuheganes ; g a pile of colored silks “T beg your pardon,” he sai i ae ee 5 id, bluntly, stooping to gather “ Don’t trouble yourself,” she i answere Pema ; ? red, looking up. “It And he went out. : Rachel stood beside the table as he had left her. She eaned over the bowl of nasturtiums, crushing a flaming osson between her fingers ; its blood stained her hand: It would all be so ridiculous,” she said, “if one could onl see the humorous side.” 2 Her glance fell upon the shrouded canvas, and she went over to it, drawing the curtain hurriedly aside. Taking down her palette, she emptied a tube of yellow ochre upon it, squeezing it out with lavish haste, after which she stirred it absently with a camel’s-hair brush. “There is always something left,” i eft,” she said, and, looking up, found that the twilight had crept inupon her id Ipon h i her palette aside. ae : A: See dark to work,” she said, “so it won’t matter if cry a little.’ And she laid her head i ee upon her arm and ape SS ES Re ee EL ee aE ea sane : PY shee neous helene nero RTS ‘i aS Se = ~_—=— aa ees ae BE are pe es NEN STR PO pay RA mae Reece eee ee — Say =e: NT Re is mee CHAPTER III MicuHaEL walked along the corridor, and pressed the electric button summoning the elevator. As he stood wait- ing he straightened himself with the gesture of one relieved of a grievous weight. “So that is over,” he said. The conviction of its finality was impressed so forcibly upon his brain that, when he reached the ground-floor, he was surprised to find himself wondering what course he should pursue in view of a possible reconciliation. The climax having been precipitated by Rachel, she, he told himself, was alone responsible. But with the sudden re- moval of suspense, and the passing of the jubilant revulsion succeeding it, a gnawing doubt of his own sincerity assailed him. He left the house, walking along Eighteenth Street, and turning into Broadway at the corner. “So that is over,” he repeated, in a vehement endeavor to reassure himself. Then he threw back his head with the impatience of a horse that resents the curb. “Hang it all!” he exclaimed. “ What is the matter with me?” A moment before he would have sworn that freedom was the one thing needful; and perhaps it was, but he felt no freer to-day than he had felt yesterday or the day before. The fact that Rachel had annulled the unspoken contract was insufficient. A slow consciousness that he, not Rachel, was responsible for the annulment oppressed him with stub- born insistence. Vainly he sought to intimidate the con- sciousness by undue influence; he might obscure it by san- guine assurances, but when the assurances were hushed he j i | 4 a 4 | ' i AOA MOOR BA AOS MAMBOTS nt tt PRD SR MS OPEL RRR LE EA A EOLA EAL ERNIE REA NO iit Ct BE catatonia NA INI DT SRC a ea ie THE DESCENDANT 231 knew that it would rise and confront him. He admitted dimly that six months ago such words from Rachel would have had no power to release herself or him from their vol- untary obligations. He was aware, although he refused to acknowledge it, that for him to retrace his steps and to ac- cuse Rachel of the treachery of which he was unwilling to accuse himself would be to virtually reseal their broken faith. And yet— “Tt is her choice.” And the rising conviction that he lied irritated him unbearably. In his uncertainty he walked the streets until midnight, when he returned to his rooms. As he opened his door he spoke. “It is over,” he said. As he struck a light he spoke again. ‘I will see her to-morrow,” he said. That a personal interview indicated a truce to hostilities he admitted, and with a sinking confidence in his own good faith he shrank from clinching matters so irrevocably— ~ upon the side of Rachel. With the cowardliness which he would have derided in another, he compromised. Stand- ing beside the mantel, he drew out his note-book, and, tear- ing a leaf from it, scribbled a line: “Vou cannot mean it; I refuse to consider this final. If you loved me, you would not let me go.” This he kept by him until morning, when, before going to his breakfast, he sent it to Rachel’s room. In a mo- ‘ment the messenger returned. There was no answer, he said. Vehemently Michael demanded whom he had seen, and, when he had learned that it had been Rachel herself, was divided between anger and astonishment. In a fit of anger, which was increased by a sleepless night, he went to his office without breakfasting, The dis- order upon his desk annoyed him, and he spoke sharply to a reviewer who inquired for a missing volume. He found himself unable to concentrate his attention, and the task of pruning one of Kyle’s leaders was so irksome that he gave it up in disgust. The editing of a paper he felt to be a ieee pase ee 7 Sah ete See: ay ae ate ce Rat Nine EEE ENP ME LEED LINE Y NG POE LENCE IEEE ENERO LO EES MC Sites e £ SE aati ant Pam ma tS teten SE eerste tO at ay St ee mm nt, ce ee A aes 232 THE DESCENDANT species of refined damnation. Suddenly he rose, pushing all the papers upon his desk into a confused jumble. “ Kyle,” he called, “ Ive given out! Take charge of this confounded stuff, will you?” Kyle looked up sympathetically, ‘ Overwork, Aker- shem,” he said. ‘I should advise your secking medical advice.” “ Advice is the kind of rot that comes unsought,” re- turned Akershem, crossly. ‘I want quiet. Pll go off somewhere.” Kyle laughed softly. “‘Phe city editor’s lot is not an easy one,” he remarked, But Michael had left the office, The possibility of encountering. Rachel if he returned to his apartments occurred to him, and he went to a restaurant for dinner. Then, with a feeling that New Vork and the tumult of New York maddened him, he took the ferry, buy- ing a ticket in Jersey City and boarding the first train he came upon. Action of any kind was better than inertia, and to be rushing to hell preferable to standing still. He settled himself, throwing his overcoat upon the seat facing him, and surveying with an angry glance his fellow- passengers. Before the train pulled out from the station he was thrown in a nervous rage by the sounds without—by the hurry in the station-yard, by the equanimity of the por- ters, and by the steam from an engine upon the track be- side him. A frail lady carrying a milliner’s box took the section in front of him, and he felt an instantaneous dislike for her, for the bundles beside her, and for the crimps of her hair, A stout gentleman, entering from the rear, paused beside him to remove a silk hat and don a travelling-cap, and he disliked the stout gentleman even more than he had disliked the frail lady. At the end of the car a baby cried, and he felt that he disliked the baby most of all. Then with a jerk that irritated him the train started. The relief of motion was so great that for a moment the strain seemed lifted. An agent passed with an armful of books, He took the THE DESCENDANT 233 first that was handed him, running the leaves idly through his fingers. It was Mr. Chambers’s King in Yellow, and the head-lines caught his eye, conveying an impression without an idea: “The Repairer of Reputations.” Why should not reputations be repaired? ‘The Yellow Sign.” Why yel- low? And then “The Studio” staggered him with the sud- denness of a blow. Irom the page before him, suggested by the words, the familiar room dawned gradually: the glow of the fire in the grate, the faded carpet upon the floor, the Eastern pottery in one corner, the pictures on the wall, the plaster casts above the door, the marble statue of “ Hope” upon a little table, the bust of Michael Angelo upon her desk, the hangings at the windows, the paints, the brushes, the canvases—all the objects upon which she had im- pressed her vivid personality. The recollection was not pleasant ; it was by a mechanical predominance of memory over will that it prevailed. Striving to banish the real by the ideal, he followed the page upon which his eye had fallen : “He said: ‘For whom do you wait?” “ And I answered: ‘When she comes I shall know her.’” He threw the book aside. For whom did he wait ? Then— “T am a man,” he said, ‘‘and I will face it.” What it was that he thus determined to confront he did not know. To himself he admitted no possible reason for Rachel’s decision. He accepted it mentally, as he had ac- cepted it the evening before, viewing the facts of his life through a discolored veil. The flickering lights of the train reflected upon the win- dow-pane dazzled him, the swaying motion seemed the re- sult of intoxication. He stared into the obscurity with un- seeing eyes, ‘The landscape stretched in a sombre weird- ness that was as a triumph of the supernatural. A dim line of pearl-colored clouds in the distance suggested a pos- sible horizon to the blackness—blackness broken only by shrouded outlines of leafless trees and barbed-wire fences, speeding rapidly past, their places being as rapidly refilled. emcee ed SPT k een SSS ay ony eta. a CB tae et “Suga agree— emir ea Sct * FA Se a ee ee ee ee ae ee e <--> - Sie aie S ‘ xe ss Tet: Y FO AR ae tc AO gg ay * { eS > SPR Ee SS te i PONE IN OR CE GR PTET e pee peek a z Shi ey “a A PA LE EE ICO IT a RE ET, LM eR: Sa ro en rT i Papo aay et ¢ RE ac ee Pes “toe eas 68 Re ree aur yee ng STS LOA ieee eae ee j in i if THE DESCENDANT 234 He brushed the frown from his brow with a single gesture of his hand. Desire had so long guided him in the guise of reason that it was no great difficulty to follow where it led, deeming himself secure. It was as if his whole being sprang forward, drawn by some magnetic force, seeking, however dimly, a loadstar in the distance. What that load- star signified he dared not question. He even put its ex- istence angrily aside; and yet, ignore it as he would, a calm presence shone as through a nebulous vista, far beyond the tumult of the present, and—ignore it still more doggedly— that presence was Anna Allard. be The severe recoil from the sinking reefs of his fanaticism served as an impetus which impelled him towards conven- tions, His nature strained towards that decent ambition of decent people—respectability. Love and notoriety were his for the asking, but not honor and—Anna Allard. Beyond the difficulties investing the path that led to the accomplishment of his desire rose the objects desired, the more alluring to his combative nature because unattainable. And yet— Why unattainable? Only yesterday he had noticed the altered looks bent upon him, Only yesterday his hand had been grasped by a man whom he had long held as an opponent—an apostle of respectability. It had been a new experience and a pleasurable one. Now that his mind was purged from passion, he could look upon men as they were, not as his discased imagination had distorted them. He saw that in his old enmity against the world he had pursued a course devoid of policy, . To get the best that the world can give and hold it grudgingly is a surer revenge than squandering one’s birth- right of ability in the waging of a fruitless war. It was not that he had grown fonder of the world or of those men who called themselves his brothers, but that he realized that the revolt of the one against the many is an ineffectual revolt; that to take all life can offer is wiser than offering one’s self a victim upon the sacrificial altar of conventions. Yes; he wanted the opportunities that men open only to THE DESCENDANT 235 men who are like themselves. He wanted his reputation repaired. What an excellent thing it was that one had the power to repair one’s reputation! In a flash he re- membered the appointment of which Driscoll had spoken. He knew that a word from Driscoll would procure it, and he also knew how gladly Driscoll would speak that word. Driscoll! Why was it that the name of the man whose es- teem he most coveted was linked in his mind to the name of the woman who he now knew had hindered his career? Why was it that in facing Driscoll he must face Rachel also? Were they in league against him? Was Driscoll that some one whose existence she had not denied? Then even to his prejudiced eyes the subterfuge showed too weak to stand, Absurdity was bald upon the face of it. He ground his teeth as one in torture. What was it that haunted him? Without was the blackness of night, within the glare of swinging lamps. What was it? Passionately he strove to collect himself, but that something—that intangible something, for which he had no name and no acknowledgment—rose from the chaos of thought and confronted him. All the accumulat- ed experience of years, the lingering effects of which acted as his conscience, grouped themselves one by one about him. His sense of gratitude, which served him for a sense of duty, awoke. All the little kindnesses that men had done unto him and forgotten were resurrected from the dust in which they had lain, grouping about a light and gracious vision that glimmered in the night without. His nature still strained onward through that pale vista leading ahead, but something which fettered him like a chain held him back; and that chain was formed by links of the little kindnesses of men. In the chain came the farmer in his rusty suit of jeans, turning to look at him with his watery eyes, and passing him the supper which he had saved from his own. Why did that link him to Rachel? The minister, with his great nose and short chin; the a Sen gor Sa ee a ee ee i gy } £4 f hy ie ’ i { i | road A Se ee ee Sade eee ees Fn oF a5, Eley eae | hs q 28 236 THE DESCENDANT books which he had loaned him; the seventeen cents jin- gling in his pocket, as he, a little outcast, darted along the dusty road that evening ; his very enjoyment of that circus— why did that link him to Rachel? The woman who had held his head that night in the pub- lic park, the softened look in her eyes as she chafed his forehead, the dime that she had slipped into his hand—why did that link him to Rachel? And Driscoll? Driscoll, as he sat in his office chair looking with cynical eyes upon life; Driscoll, who had stood as a pillar of fire to his mental night — why, above all, did Driscoll link him to Rachel? Goaded to frenzy, he raised the window, leaning out into the night, watching the train as it rounded a curve, speed- ing with fiery eyes into blackness. A hot air laden with cinders blew into his face. “Will you kindly lower that window? I am subject to neuralgia.” The frail lady was speaking. He looked at her blankly, and she was forced to repeat her request before he com- plied. The lady retired into her berth, and soon the cur- tains were put up along the aisle. A man took the seat beside him, turning to follow drow- sily the movements of the porter. It was the stout gentle- man with the gray travelling-cap. He folded a single sheet of The Herald into a narrow strip, tapping his nose reflect- ively. Unusually chilly for this season,” he remarked. Michael stared at him absently. “ It is hot,” he replied; “or is it cold ?” The stout gentleman bestowed upon him that pleasant smile with which we favor those less gifted than ourselves in the matter of intellect, “Well, cold, rather,” he respond- ed, amiably. Then he continued: “We are having trouble out West again, I see.” “Yes,” said Michael, turning his dazed eyes to the win- dow. “A blizzard, was it not?” Another pleasant smile crossed the gentleman’s face, oe i 4 g 3 i een Rh eat IER Mi oa oS rw THE DESCENDANT 237 was alluding to the strike,” he answered. “The blizzard happened yesterday. We don’t take account of yesterday’s news in Chicago, We take to-day’s, and grumble because we can’t get to-morrow’s.” The gentleman departed to his berth, and Michael put up his hand te screen his eyes from the glaring lamps. The porter touched him upon the arm, “TI shall sit up,” he said, surlily. And in the morning, when, upon reaching Richmond, he found himself in time for the returning train, he took it. The trip had saved him from insanity, and decided nothing. That night he spent at a hotel, and the next morning, drawn by very indecision, he returned to his rooms. On the way he passed Rachel’s studio, and from a sudden im- pulse knocked at the door. There was no answer. Open- ing it, he was startled by blank walls; the firelight, the hangings, the canvases, the casts, the pictures —all were gone, and Rachel with them. In the haste with which she had deserted her accustomed spot he read a feverish shrink- ing from himself; in the bare wall and the sacrilegious sacking of this her temple he saw the overthrow of those passionate divinities of the past. It was as one who enters a cathedral that has been suffused with the purple mysti- cism of mediaval ages to find it naked to the cold, raw light of modern thought. The last shred of romanticism, draping the altar before which he had knelt, was swept aside, Rachel’s spirit, that light, elusive essence of mod- ernism, the outcome of an effete civilization, crumbling to dust upon the soil from which she, an untranslatable mixt- ure of the past and the future, had sprung, had escaped as a vapor from the place thereof. In an agonizing perplexity he left, going to his office. There he found disorder and excitement. Mr. Mushington, the man of money, awaited him, He had a complaint to lodge, and he lodged it with emphasis. “The paper is going down,” he said. “There is a mad- | ee eee ea STI aT Sheree SS a ce A th cei AAP SI Ely > se te mi ON fa nn St ae Sear Sa Baa cAS REVO sem to op Se armen MEA. Ae ahr Edge eee Ree Soe Se SOE ee aR ag Se SL, Sposa Sees So oer ete ere eeeee 5 eens Bat RTST en. ia a APM SRDS Srp, i ; ‘ eee Oo er ares PLS EEG BLAIS RY LEAH ET 238 THE DESCENDANT ness about the editorials which amounts to insanity. Can you explain it, sir?” Akershem looked into his red and bloated face with in- solent eyes. “T cannot,” he answered. It was his first revolt from the service of Mammon. “Then, sir, you know precious little about your busi- ness!” In sudden fury the Gordian knot was severed. “And will know still less about it in future. Expect my resignation.” He would let this infernal nonsense go. He was sick of fanaticism and women. By one stroke he had cut himself adrift from his old life, ridding himself forever of the past and of the present. Only the future remained. He remembered Driscoll and the appointment. That was his chance, and he would make it good. As he rushed from the office a group of reporters, as- sembled about the door, drew back. “What’s up with Akershem?” asked one. “He’s as mad as a March hare.” The sleeplessness, the perplexity, had fed upon him, pro- ducing an agony that was almost insanity. He felt his blood coursing like fire through his veins, and a dull pain started at the base of his brain. Lights flickered and danced before his eyes. The primitive lawlessness of his nature, aggravated by the swaddling-bands of the hot-bed of civilization, rose in a tempestuous desire to assert itself. Conventions which, acting like a moral strait-jacket, curb the normal man, in- flame the abnormal. But conventions are created and stamped with the Divine signature, not for the one, but for the many. He entered a bar-room, drinking a glass of brandy, but it failed to drive the lights away. It was as if his eyeballs were on fire, With an impetuous haste he rushed to Driscoll’s room, SOS ROAR Ret SE SERENE PERT a ls THE DESCENDANT 239 and found that gentleman sitting before the fire, a bottle of brandy at his hand and misery upon his face. Seeing Akershem, he exclaimed: “The very man! Be- hold me in the clutches of the devil. He is sawing every bone in my right side to bits. I leave for Florida to-day.” Akershem took no notice. ‘Look here, Driscoll,” he said, excitedly, “I have resigned from Zhe Lconoclast. I want that credential for Splicer.”. Driscoll looked at him inquiringly. Then, without speak- ing, he rose and limped to his desk. As he put his right foot to the floor his brow contracted with pain. “It is a temptation never to rise,” he remarked, “and having risen, it is an equal temptation never to sit.” With pen in hand he paused. “It’s all right about the place, Shem,” he said. “But ”—he hesitated a moment—“ Shem, this is a serious affair—more serious for you than for most men, You see, you must square up all your accounts. You can hardly re- adjust your political views until you have made reparation for your discarded social ones,” Michael flinched. ‘Those have readjusted themselves,” he replied, stolidly. Over Driscoll’s face a warm light broke; a flash of relief brightened his eyes. “That's right!” he exclaimed, hearti- ly. “I expected it of you, old fellow. So that explains why I found Miss Gavin’s studio deserted when I called there yesterday. Where are you staying?” A ramifying humiliation shot through Michael’s frame. It was like the application of an electric wire to raw flesh. The sensation was so strange that it half startled him. Never in his life had he felt this slow sense of rising shame that he felt before Driscoll—the man who believed in him, A red flush mounted to his brow. Then, with desperate resolve, he raised his eyes. “I cannot tell where Miss Gavin is,” he answered, “ because I do not know.” The keenness of Driscoll’s glance made him wince sharply. ‘ Why, what does it mean ?” Michael laughed; it was a harsh laugh, which grated v ae err ane Se — a fot nee ~-, z , BARS | TR SRE a ae st carr a 0G Min ie Np al ee a cokgae a ss: Sa a a a Se $F oe 5, Misae mance want eae pa ae aS zt. yoni ars nsec 240 THE DESCENDANT from lack of humor. Instinctively he realized the suspicion in Driscoll’s mind, and it angered him, “It means,” he retorted, fiercely, ‘that she, like the world, has weighed me in the balance and found me wanting.” A flash of perplexity shot from Driscoll’s eyes. “That she might have done so to her advantage, I admit,” he said ; “that she has done so, I refuse to believe.” Akershem flushed hotly. He was exhausted, and the lights flickered before his eyes. “Then get her to explain,” he broke in, passionately, “for I am sick of the whole con- founded thing.” “But explain you shall. If there is a grain of manliness left in you you will make good the debt you owe her. Good God, man! do you know that she has sacrificed more for you than your salvation is worth?” The blinking of Michael’s lids grew faster and a yellow flame shot from his eyes. His face was gray, and upon his brow that purple vein leaped forth like the brand of Cain. “Do I need you to tell me that?” he thundered. “I tell you I know nothing of her and her vagaries—nothing i Driscoll’s voice was low and distinct, cutting the passion- ladened air like steel. “This,” he said, “is a fitting climax to your conduct of late. Would a man who had acquired an instinct of honor owe to one woman the debt that you owed, and turn from her to follow like a spaniel at the heels of another? Perhaps I shall hear of your engagement in that quarter,” he added, with untempered irony. Michael was quivering from head to foot. ‘I love where I choose, and I marry where I choose!” he exclaimed, hotly, And then Driscoll turned upon him, “I had thought you an honest fanatic,” he said, “ but now I know you are a damned scoundrel !” Akershem shivered from the white-heat within him. The lights in the air before him flamed from blue to green and from green to scarlet. His eyes flickered like rusty iron THE DESCENDANT 241 through which a red-hot fire is passing. “I would kill an- other man for that!” His voice was choked and muffled. Driscoll laughed sarcastically. Then, with a quick return of his old manner, he took up his pen. As he did so he flinched from a twinge of pain, ‘Hold on, if you please,” he called, for Michael had reached the door, “ Allow me to give you this,” he continued, with icy courtesy, “and, be- lieve me, it will give me great pleasure to use my influence, now and always, for the advancement of your business in- terests.” : Michael crushed the paper in his hand convulsively. Then he threw it from him. He wished that it had been dynamite, that it might explode, blowing Driscoll, himself, and the room to atoms. ‘“ ‘Take that for your influence !” he exclaimed. As he stood there in his passionate defiance something of the old Michael whom Driscoll had first known and loved shone in him, and the fascination which his dominant nature exerted over all who loved him cast a shadowy spell over John Driscoll again. He softened suddenly. “Shem,” he said, with a gesture that was half appealing, “I would have forgiven you anything else.” And—“ Damn your forgiveness!” cried Michael, as he rushed out. : The rage within him was so great that it stifled him, and he put up his hand to loosen his collar. A terrible ringing began in his ears. Every bell in New York seemed to burst upon him with an infernal din, ringing him out of the city. He rushed on, almost oblivious of his way. He saw that he walked upon bricks and they burned his feet. He saw that people were passing about him, and he longed to fall upon them, one and all, to do some terrible damage to mankind or to himself. A newsboy held a paper towards him and he pushed it aside with an oath. A tiny child stumbled and fell at his feet, and he strode over it and went upon his way. As he ascended the stairs leading to his office an adver- 16 Tage ee mee eg ee ter eee > RECT a tae a Eg OSL Me SAD Ae SO ere pa Age ARO oan” com so Set ae cea _ Se merce pte Ser eter te ner ee Be ta So i aC es SS 242 THE DESCENDANT tising agent passed him, and he bit his tongue to keep back a volley of curses. Upon the landing a young lawyer, who had an office across the hall, was standing, a huge volume under his arm, and Michael put him aside as he would have put a child. Entering his office, he slammed the door violently, When he saw that he was not alone, that Kyle sat at his desk, he attacked him vehemently. ‘Can I never have my room to myself?” he demanded. And Kyle turned upon him, and he saw that his rage was equal to his own. Kyle left the desk, and Akershem crossed over and stood beside it. ‘They regarded each other in silence, as beasts awaiting a spring. Michael was breathing so heavily that the labored sound fell harshly upon the stillness of the room, Kyle spoke first. ‘So this is the end of your princi- ples >” he sneered, with a snap of his fingers. Akershem clinched his hand with such force that the nails grew purple. A lleck of foam whitened his lips. “Confound you!” he retorted, “ what is it to you?” “Did you strike a good bargain?” Kyle’s voice rose jeeringly, “How much was your honor worth oe With one hand Akershem opened a drawer, closing upon something. ‘The other he stretched out passionately, as if warding off Kyle. “Take care, Kyle!” he shouted, hoarsely—‘ take care!” “You blackguard! Can’t you name your price?” There was a sudden flash as of lightning; one report that rang out sharply upon the silence; a tiny cloud of smoke wreathing heavenward like the breath of a prayer. “Oh! cried Kyle, sharply. He coughed a half-choked cough; a clot of blood rose to his lips, oozing slowly down upon his shirt, and from his shirt to the floor—drip, drip, drip. He reached out, clutching at emptiness, and fell heavily forward. Akershem threw the revolver from him. It struck the opposite wall with a dull clank, Then he knelt beside Kyle, feeling, with white, nerveless fingers, for his heart. } a ROS ad Ral eR I eI TO ree in nic ROB EN AS Ee ANE aoe x THE DESCENDANT 243 “Kyle! Kyle!” he called. “Speak! You aren’t hurt! It can't be! Speak! Call me a blackguard—anything !” Kyle’s eyes stared at him blankly, barren of all reproach ; his hand fell limp and relaxed at his side. In his agony Michael rose, stretching out groping, ago- nized fingers, clutching, as Kyle had clutched, at emptiness. “Oh, my God !” he cried. There was a stir at the door; in a moment it opened and when his eyes had cleared a group surrounded hin: They surveyed him curiously. : Suddenly a man coming in pushed them aside. ‘What is it?” he cried. ‘ What does it mean ?” The lawyer with the volume under his arm turned quick- ly. “Mean?” he answered, with professional exactness, ‘Why, it means manslaughter.” AN mete oe ne ret rit mga ant + esate, sey, MRO, Ate, bra, : OS eter eine 8, tenet ete, mer i i i ee aera Tales Cp Sha reat I - a 7 = — TES II MOEN PAG ITI PBN at ar cee SOO EE See SBA een ar ste iad Sa Se EE i cin nas See a Ce a ea ae oe turned to wink at his companion. CHAPTER IV Tiere was noise and confusion in the depot. A Presi- dential candidate, after having successfully instilled nee the ears of the North the fact of his absolute loyalty to that section, was journeying South for the NEES ae Canoe ing the voters below Mason and Dixon’s tine of the =e opposite. As he strolled along the platform uae C cen arose from the rabble assembled. Above this jubi et ex- pression of a nation’s confidence sounded the mocking whistle of out-going trains, and the shouting of aes hands as they succeeded in demolishing a piece of heavy baggage. A gentleman standing upon the outskirts of the throng “Touching tribute of public favor,” he remarked; then apologized to some one, who, in leaving the waiting-room, had stumbled cpa him, thereby knocking him breathless. “ Pardon me for existing—” he began, when all irony fled. “John Driscoll, as Um alive!” he exclaimed, “ What! Seek you the clime I'm alive !" he exct of eternal sunshine? ; Halting suddenly, Driscoll recognized the speaker and smiled. He looked ill and worn, and acute physical ua had sharpened his features. As he walked he limpec lightly. ° i You are looking badly, man,” continued the first gentle- i Without replying Driscoll tossed his ‘grip to a ae “ Florida Special,” he said. “ Section six, Look heer Then he smiled again. ‘You see, its this plagued Theu- matism,” he explained. “Iam all but pusane If I cant cut this eternal civilization my mind won't be worth a con- is NEON Rah ct RONEN A RB OR ona Cael inte THE DESCENDANT 248 tinental, As long as your bones aren’t crumbling you can put up with it, but the devil and civilization at one dose will prepare any man for bedlam.” “It is annoying,” commented the second gentleman, motioning to the excited crowd. ‘Witness some of the faults of our nervous age. Now civilization is—” “Tommy-rot!” interrupted Driscoll, crossly. “But you can’t get rid of it,” he complained, irritably. ‘I’ve tried every spot upon the known world. Even Greenland has its explorers ; and as for Africa, by Jove! I settled in a jun- gle once, when who should come along but a missionary who wanted to convert the apes. And Florida! why, when I bought my place near Key West there wasn’t a man in shooting distance, and now, mind you, a German has put up a cottage across from me with green window-blinds. Of all the abominations of civilization there is not one that I abhor so utterly as green window-blinds.” “ But you return to them.” “NotI! I am going to buy a little island to myself— one of those small ones, you know, off Jamaica—and there I’m going to settle, and I’ll shoot the first thing in clothes that sets foot upon it—” ‘‘ Hello!” called a man from behind; “that’s Mr. Driscoll, isn’t it? I say, John, this is a bad thing about Akershem.” Driscoll scowled silently. “Why, what has he done now?” demanded the first gen- tleman. “I thought he had quieted down of late.” “The mischief! Why, there’s been a row at Zhe Lcono- clast, Something between Akershem and—what’s his name, that Irish fellow?” Driscoll started. “What is it?? he demanded. ‘Who is it? When didit happen?” | “They quarrelled—something about the paper, they say —and Akershem shot him down, Shot him in cold—” “Here, porter!” called Driscoll, excitedly, “stop my bag- gage; it can’t go! Confound it, let it go if it wants to!” And he rushed off, eee’ sites Sree een - : BS > =e abe oles Et Sree 4 / i RE TE as “pots a RE ee Mose ene an ET a ie a et RR te On Ce aS Sait 246 THE DESCENDANT At the door some one stopped him inquiringly. ‘“ What's wrong ?” : “Oh, Akershem! He’s made a fool of himself at last. And he passed on. ; 7 “ That’s a weakness of Driscoll’s that I can’t understand, remarked the first gentleman, with a shrug of his shoulders, “Nor I,” agreed the second. “I always said SEEM would come to the gallows. It’s no surprise to me. “He was always such a—such a cad, you know, added the third. In John Driscoll’s mind just then there was only room for self-reproach. It seemed to him that his own impetu- osity had been the cause of Akershem’s overthrow. Know- ing Michael’s undisciplined nature and his own disciplined one, he told himself that he was a fool to judge him as he judged himself—or any other man. As the result of con- flicting circumstances he saw that Michael was but a vic- tim to disregarded but controlling laws—laws that remain ignored for generations, and recoil upon the heads of the children of children. Now that his anger had cooled he saw in him not the man revolting against the system, but the abnormal development revolting against the normal. He beheld in him an expression of the old savage type, beaten out by civilization, and yet recurring here and there in the history of the race, to wage the old savage war against society. And he reproached himself, remembering Michael as he had seen him last, his nature aroused in all its primitive ferocity; the seething passion which he, John Driscoll, had laughed at because he could not understand, It seemed to him that had he reached forth and drawn him back, had he ventured one appeal to that better nature which was overthrown and vanquished, this tragedy might have been averted, ee He, the cynic; he, the clear-headed scientist, had been dolt enough to ignore the force of that unreasoning violence because the force was opposed to his own. Dolt! Idiot! And now, when the key turned in the lock and he stood Si ae canine Rn ai Ratna td hati wn NR aC eid sunset Macias THE DESCENDANT 247 face to face with Akershem, he felt constrained from very strength of feeling. Michael, hearing the opening door, turned from the win- dow of his cell and faced him. The daylight sifting through the bars showed the intensity that hate and wretchedness had graven upon his face. “ Shem !” “He came slowly forward, and for a moment they stood with locked hands. Driscoll ! so it is you!” Driscoll felt something choke in his throat; he coughed. “Shem, old man,” he repeated, and it was all that he could say. There was.so much to feel and so little to express. Akershem turned from him as if avoiding an expression of sympathy. He walked restlessly towards the door and restlessly back again. “So you have heard ?” he said. usViesi He went on rapidly: He looked feverish, his face was flushed, and there was suppressed excitement in his voice; his eyes emitted a nervous. glare. “To think that it was Kyle!” he said. “If it had been some one else I don’t think I should have been so cut up; but Kyle of all men. Why wasn’t it Mr. Mushington? Why wasn’t it that beast Van Houne? Why was it obliged to be anybody? I never hurt anything in my life. I always hated pain. I could not see a chicken-fight without getting sick. Why did I do it? Oh, I was mad—mad!_ And yet if I was mad, why do I remémber it so distinctly? I see him as he stood there. I see him clutch out. I see the blood that he coughed up, oozing upon his. shirt. I see him as he lay there dead—stone-dead.” Driscoll groaned. “Shem,” he reasoned, “it was in self- defence. Stop and remember. Surely he would have struck you.” Michael threw back his head impatiently. The fever in his face deepened, ‘No; he only spoke. I remember it well. He held out ex er A ta thyme seentgen Ache rnp topper serge a Ae AR ear Wn ay SCs Re ERE AD? “nema sa Sry a es 248 THE DESCENDANT his hand, but it was his gesture, and I knew it. He was always dramatic, you know. I tell you he was right ; he knew me better than I knew myself—” - ‘But he raised hishand. Think; your freedom depends upon it. He came towards you, he raised his hand.” “It was a gesture, I tell you, and I knew it. AmTa fool? Do you want to make a liar of me as well as a mur- derer? Good God!” Driscoll looked into his excited face and grew angry. Did Akershem realize that he was ruining himself? Was he mad? He felt an impulse to kick somebody — Aker- shem or himself. Why, after all, should he hold himself responsible for Michael—for his love affairs and his crimes? What had he to do with it? Akershem was silent, his gaze bent upon the floor. He was wellnigh delirious, and Driscoll, seeing it, was softened. Suddenly Akershem spoke. ‘Poor Kyle,” he said. A twinge of rheumatism caused Driscoll to flinch sharp- ly. The physical pain irritated him. He was provoked by Akershem’s obstinacy and his own concern. , “Do you know,” continued Akershem, “that the only thing I ever killed in my life was a rabbit? I murdered a rabbit once—shot it just as I shot Kyle, in cold blood. 1 did it for pure devilment—for the pleasure of it. I was a fiend then, as I was a fiend yesterday. I wanted blood, And since I have been sitting here and trying to think of Kyle, I can’t believe it. It seems to me that I am a boy and that it is a rabbit. I see it as clearly as I saw it then —the pasture, the sunrise, and the rabbit in the road. I see it all alive, and then I hear the cry it gave; I see the blood on its mouth, and the life has gone out. It is that horrible feeling of having crushed out life. Why is it that I can’t get that rabbit out of my head? It was Kyle— Kyle—Kyle. And Iwas not mad, I was only a devil.’ “For God’s sake, Shem, be quiet! If money and influ- ence are worth anything you shall be free, but you must help us.” ta aan hte faint tie 4 i nei ROL THE DESCENDANT 249 But Akershem paid no heed ; he had fallen into a torpor, and was gazing at the bare walls. “Unless the New York lawyers are bigger fools, or a New York jury honester men than those of any other spot, we will get you off,” added Driscoll. Afterwards he wondered why Kyle’s death had seemed such a small matter in com- parison with Akershem’s liberty, and could not say. On his way out Semple overtook him, and his sympa- thetic utterances increased Driscoll’s ill-humor. He was disgusted with the world, with Semple, with Akershem, with himself. This infernal aching in his limbs—would it never leave off? “Our counsel,” said Semple, with accustomed optimism, “is the best in New York. Akershem will be backed by wealth and influence, two powers which count. If the worst comes to the worst, we must remember that justice is salable. But I wish you’d reason with him, Mr. Driscoll, when he grows quieter. It is out of all question, the stand that he takes. Public opinion was never on his side, and he can’t afford to trifle with it. He'll have to fight preju- dices enough without adding to them.” A twinge again. ‘ Hang it all!” broke in Driscoll, irri- tably. “ Haven’t I reasoned with him until I haven’t a grain left for my own use? After getting us into this con- founded mess, Akershem sits up and talks his rot. He knows it will depend upon us to get him out.” “Tt is unfortunate,” admitted Semple, his jovial brow clouding. “He has been reckless, far too reckless. I feared evil.’ “It is a pity you didn’t fear it a little sooner; then you might have refrained from instilling your nonsense into him. He has only lived out the views you play with. Good- evening.” Turning a corner he disappeared, leaving Semple trans- fixed upon the sidewalk. Between physical and mental pain Driscoll was wellnigh exhausted. He was tired of humanity in general and ai ] St rnin PER LE EELS SII Oh AEE ENE te Ome omg ner ape “Ee \ SIE catenin te a eC pee Ciba SST a a nr etre ree a me Ses > Ean ara eee ks echt ee eo ae ES ee me PRS ESS Ee a fracas Pinos = Pe pees Fs el Fc REP a st Ng PE OLIN te Ri Me 4 tz * AD ete nen TO Rtn ey et ite OTS At eta Ete ao Rg eg LIE at tena SLi I re Sac ener ar a eed 250 THE DESCENDANT Hedley Semple in particular. He wanted only to be alone and to think. As he opened his door a slight sound from the inside caused him to frown blackly. “‘ More fools,” he muttered, Then he entered, and Rachel Gavin rose and came towards him. She had been sitting before the fire, her brow resting upon her gloved hand, and at his entrance had risen hurriedly, her muff falling to the floor. Despite the pain in her eyes her whole figure was so light and blooming—so vitally alive—that the contrast between it and the jaded man whom he had left in his cell jarred Driscoll painfully. He felt that Rachel and he were at the bottom of the whole tragedy. ‘Can’t you, at least, keep out of this?” he demanded. Rachel stopped suddenly, a slight, startled figure, before him, Even then he noticed that there was an added dig- nity in her presence—the dignity of grief. “ Oh, you must help me!” she cried. ‘ You don’t—you can’t—know what it means!” He felt goaded and harassed, ‘The agony in his arm as he lifted it turned him white. But for these two he would have left this climate and have found relief. The knowl- edge that for Rachel’s sake he had put all the passion of his nature into that last interview—the interview that had driven Michael to his ruin—hardened him. “ My ignorance of your meaning I confess,” he said, ironically. “As to what you are driving at, I suppose it concerns Aker- shem.” She grew white; the terror in her eyes was appealing. “Tell me,” she pleaded, “ how you left him ?” “Tn excellent health, You can hardly expect his spirits to be above zero; ours are not.” ; “But you must help me. I must see him. Won't you take me?” He eyed her with irritated displeasure. ‘Are you sure that he would wish to see you?” he asked, and felt dully the cruelty of his speech. si As Sat a A Ae a a I BET Lr ois er ieeasaacenil THE DESCENDANT 255 She drew back, shivering slightly as one in pain, From her face all trace of color had flown. ‘That—that is not the question,” she faltered. And then in desperation he spoke, knowing that he alone had the power to save the few shreds that remained of a reputation that had once been as white as driven snow, and that for her at least Akershem would not be worth the sac- rifice. “We would go together, you and I,” he said, mock- ingly. ‘The world has a sense of humor, and we should afford it an opportunity for gratifying it. It would say that we were beginning to console each other, you and I.” Some demon seemed urging him on. Again she shivered, hiding her face in her hands, and again he felt the brutality of his words. When she looked up it was with fresh resolve, Her hat had slipped aside, and he saw the anguish upon her face. “ But—but you can’t understand. It is my fault,” she pleaded, the tear-drops falling from her eyes upon her gloved hands—‘it is my fault! Oh, how can I bear it!” The last was a cry of agony, wrung from her by the mem- ory of his words. He looked at her, and his eyes soft- ened. “You cannot judge him, nor can I,” she said, and his heart hardened. How dare she seek to palliate Mi- chael’s guilt to him! “He is all impulse —all emotion. Wig “Yes, you and I are without feeling,” he assented, in grim irony. “Oh, don’t! don’t!” she cried, despairingly. “ Pity me! —at least pity me!” Rachel” “JT have made so many mistakes,” she sobbed, “I have done so much harm, I have ruined him whom I loved. My purest motive has been at fault. But if you knew all you would have mercy !” “Rachel, don’t mind me, Can’t you see that I don’t eres wer ga Se gage TE RC RS a RET HS a re ten rentnrtgiet ws ep CET EH pS EE RIE ETO So apne ees Sep Tg ent ae ig Pein EEA Se EE te Nr cee 252 THE DESCENDANT mean it? I only seek to spare you—to spare you a useless sacrifice |” “Useless “He thinks only of himself and his—his fault. If you went to him the whole world would condemn you. It would spoil all chances of your future life, and—” “What is that to me? What do I care for my life?” “ And not help him.” . “ But—but I must go ‘He has not mentioned you,” “JT must see him!” “He does not think of you.” She looked at him, her hands clasped convulsively. “ Why—why are you so cruel?” she asked. The smile that he bent upon her was half sad, half cyni- cal, “Perhaps I Aave a few sensations, after all,” he re- plied, “ despite your previous assertion.” She turned from him hopelessly, then back again. “If _if he asks for me, will you take me?” she asked. He looked down upon her and held out his hand. “Ves,” he said. She went out silently, but in a moment came back. Her eyes, as she looked at him, were luminous, “ Forgive me!” she said. ‘Vou are a far—far better friend to him than I have been.” “Rachel! He cried the name sharply. She held out her hands and he took them in his own, “You made him,” she said, with a shadow of her old radiant smile, “and I have unmade him,” For Rachel yesterday he could have killed Michael; to Rachel to-day he could speak no word. | “ Good-bye,” she said, and passed out. Driscoll stood looking after her. He saw her muff lying upon the floor where she had left it, and he calculated the amount of agony that it would cost to stoop and pick it up. The calculation overbalanced his possible powers of endur- ance, and he decided to let it lie. Then he turned slowly y y? THE DESCENDANT 253 around. \ S = an ae BESS esate ee ee aelwes Fag nea rg gehen a MRA GIOIA 4 splice GA a ne ev TN ve ne ee rT een all eet ee Saale ai Pawnee te ve Stteaet tye gy eee Se THE DESCENDANT 255 terror that was childlike in its instinctiveness. As a man entered he stared at him blankly, seeing that it was his senior counsel, but making no motion of recognition. The man came forward and stopped. He coughed dep- recatingly, “Mr. Akershem.” Michael looked up inquiringly. - “Mr, Akershem ”—he pauséd to rub his hands with affa- ble hesitancy—“ you will understand that, considering the prejudices your previous career has inspired in the mind of the public, the verdict was not—er—not unexpected. The fact that it was lighter than was generally looked for (he had assumed the tone he employed to the jury) is due, we believe—if you will allow us to say so—to our personal in- terest in the case and the tireless efforts of your friends—” “Ves,” interrupted Michael, “ but—” “As you know, there has been a refusal to set aside the verdict.” Michael returned his gaze with blank regard, and, as the lawyer paused, stood crumpling the telegrams between his fingers, his lips twitching slightly. “Cowards, they are afraid of me!” he muttered, passionately. The other rubbed his hands sympathetically. “Ah! ahem!” he began, “believe me, you have my sym- pathy—my deepest sympathy.” { Ten years!” said Michael, slowly, and he paced rest- lessly up and down his cell. ‘Ten years!” he repeated. The lawyer cast a glance of professional compassion upon him and departed. At the door he stumbled against John Driscoll, who was waiting upon the outside. ‘ “Your zeal is commendable, my dear sir,” he remarked, and hurried off. Driscoll entered the cell, and stood for a moment with his eyes upon Michael. Then he came forward, resting one hand upon his arm. “ Well, old man?” he said. ‘ | Michael looked at him with nervous intensity. “Ten years !” he said, in a half-whisper. “Ten years! Did you PEP eoe Teo toe soe 2g ee eye ; =e. ie na Re GEER Sy ST pee y oe ORE Tam eee Perec Ee a ied Pao ep hse Cee ee rey cE SRS aap aoe ae a Th, Senn ae rte tt, SP na attest —"¥ = ¥ ea a, OE PRO Eee Pita * apt Cr a a Nee hee eit we: ~ © ik gt kaa Peed a ea ae 4 Sec ee yen ge orm eg “el yen al i ¥ “ Loi Di han eS ‘ LN aig nO et ant aE Natnnne ie : id de rtm A EO LEON teh tn NE TN EAE 2 : = 256 THE DESCENDANT hear what that fool said, Driscoll? Somehow I did not are it in before. Ten years! Surely there is some FAIRS Driscoll, can’t you inquire if there is not a mistake ? a Something stuck in Driscoll’s throat; he shook his hea ithout replying. : . ne Why. ie goa is a lifetime !” continued Michael, breath less] « I have so much to do, so much to fight for. eine ten es away, and there will be nothing left. I have hac oaly teh years. It was ten years ago that I came to ay York and went into your office and demanded work. : jas then. I knew as much o u remember? I was a boy life as a baby. Since then I have fought hard. fee worked like a slave, and for what? To do say la ae in Sing Sing. Good God! I tell you it can’t be! I ae my life to live. What is anything compared to my ambi tion? I tell you—” | 5 “Shem, be quiet, for God’s sake! ae 4 a A shudder ran through Driscoll’s frame. Something ros before his eyes and blinded him. He oy See a : i ing his head upon the table. I Akershem’s chair, resting on th hm ime in his li Id have cried like a child. first time in his life he cou . eae looked at Michael, standing tall and stalwart oan him: he saw the haggard brow, the restless limbs, the whole impassioned frame. Over Bec a ves ee i had it been in his swept, and at that moment, e ss that blasted life, he could have struck Akershem dead at his feet. The energetic brow, the flaming ne the whole throbbing vitality of the ar He state a i Lait oe einea elas! ich 1? O God, the pity of it! a rete before him as vivid as the writing on ie ee ce i i in the balance with the evil o od which weighed in t e Bleed had been found wanting. cea pee of oe ee evelation, before his eyes. v flamed, a fiery revelation, ( ee fearless and elated, Poem. ee ges i is s hands fighting the cl ° of genius ; saw his strong fightin; run Bae “eh hemmed him in, and, foiled, still fighting 2 ie face of overwhelming odds, He saw Michael as \ SiN lt ad SAS es a RAINS cattle nalelce Rc THE DESCENDANT 257 had first appeared to him, awing him—cynic as he was— by that vital and dominant nature; saw him standing with upraised hand against an opposing world, victorious by the unconquerable force of his blood, a force which, recoiling upon his single head at last, had played into the hands of the Philistines. He saw the impress that one man had stamped upon his surroundings, He saw himself, satiated with the shams of life, cleaving unto the one nature which was fearlessly it- self, sincere alike in good and evil. The ruined waste that, meteor-like, he had wrought in the lives of others blackened the sketch of his thought; Rachel, a sacrifice to that force _ which draws the aberrant body to its allotted orbit 3 Kyle, a victim to the velocity of the body in its recoil. All the terrible penalties that man pays to an outraged nature, these confronted him. And lifting his head he looked at Michael Akershem, and his heart bled with the pity of it, “Driscoll,” said Michael, suddenly, Driscoll smiled sadly. “ Well?” he asked. “You—you have stood by me like a brick.” It was the first sign of gratitude Michael had shown, and it pained . Driscoll, “Don’t, Shem,” he pleaded. Then, with an awkward struggle for words, he went on: “ You know that I would have given my life to spare you. Not that it is worth much,” he added with a smile, rubbing his ankle; “pain is its essential principle just now. But for rheumatism I’d hardly know I was alive.” : Michael stopped before him. “You go to Florida?” he inquired, with but little show of interest. “If this confounded thing doesn’t go to my heart in- stead,” responded Driscoll. Then his tone changed. “But T haven’t given up yet, Shem,” he added; “but for the fact that several honest men had gotten in the wrong place I’d have settled it, As it is, not many weeks shall pass by that the Governor doesn’t hear from me, He will yield at last from sheer exasperation,” 17 Scr eeeatr ie a SKA ' i eas es a a Tne a erent 258 THE DESCENDANT Akershem shook his head impatiently and continued his walk. Then he spoke with an outburst of his old bitter- ness. Unconsciously his adjustment to’ conventions had failed; he stood once more at odds with the world. “Tam fortunate to have one friend,” he said. Catching a subtle inflection, Driscoll turned quickly. _ “Vou have many,” he answered ; and, “Is there any one in particular whom you wish to see?” No answer. “‘ Shem, don’t let a woman come between us now.” Akershem smiled. ‘“ Nor any man,” he added. “‘“Perhaps—’”’ Driscoll hesitated, but only fora moment; then he began again: “ Have you thought of Miss Gavin?” Michael laughed mirthlessly ; the bitterness of his speech stung sharply. ‘Only that she should congratulate her- self,” he returned. ‘“ Her selection of the proper moment resembles intuition.” “You are wrong, man,” said Driscoll, gently ; “ but—but do you wish to see her?” A flush rose to Michael’s face. With the old passion for sympathy was revivified the old passion for Rachel. It flickered for an instant and went out. “ Could I?” he asked. Driscoll rose and limped stiffly over to him. “Shem ”— he laid one hand upon his arm—‘“ all the women in America could not make me hard on you, but” —he caught his breath—“but is it for love of her? Think what it would mean to her. Do you desire her because you love her or because she loves you?” He waited patiently, but Aker- shem did not answer, And the next morning as Rachel worked in her studio the door opened and Driscoll entered. She started slight- ly, looking up from the colors she was mixing. Since he had last seen her a change had passed over her—something indefinable, blotting out ail vivid tints of her youth. She was thinner, and beneath her eyes the purple shadows had deepened; even her lips had lost their scarlet ripeness. \ Kasai A tc iil tab Na oo ceria rea inane aaa eheaaai Ki ah THE DESCENDANT . 259 Sitting there with a patience which ill became her, toiling mechanically for the food which she desired not, she ap- pealed to him as she had not done in all her past radiance. He lifted a paper from the table, examining it idly. It was a colored print of Paris fashions, a chromo-like array of slim-waisted, large-hipped women promenading upon air. He stared at it wonderingly. ‘ What abomination is this?” he inquired. ; Taking it from him, she placed it on the table before her, a smile breaking the firm lines of her lips. “‘T shall become quite an authority upon fashions,” she said, lightly. “Having nothing better to do, I have taken to copying designs.” He looked at her in dismay. “And you do this?” he asked. At his horror-struck tones she laughed a little, and then went on with her work, her head sinking lower over the table. ‘One must live, you know,” she answered. “Where is your painting ?” ‘Behind you are the remains,” she replied, with a pitiful attempt at herold animation. “Somehow it isn’t bread and meat.” Then she added: “I work upon it at odd times. Some day I shall get back my old power.” With the words a sudden flush overspread her face, and he saw that the lingering embers of a great ambition were still warm. He pointed to the fashion-sheet in disgust. “And who pays you for that filth?” he asked, “Madame Estelle.” “The modiste ?” She nodded. “ But you loathe it?” he said. “No,” she smiled; “far from it. Indeed, I am growing rather fond of it; it is so expressionless. I always loved colors, and here there are colors and nothing else. My painting sickens me; it is all emotion.” He glanced at the veiled “ Magdalen” and sighed. Then SAE SOE SEND See 4 oP ag RE Tg I at EG er a a: or ete OL S a i ee ea THE DESCENDANT 260 he walked to the fireplace and stood looking into the empty grate. He remembered that she disliked steam-heat, and her poverty smote him. That she was mak- ing a struggle to retain these, her old rooms, to which she had returned, he knew at a glance. One cannot let one’s hand lie idle for a couple of years without paying the price. “Vou see, 1 am a cabbage,” continued Rachel, with a “ All my animal vitality has become ex- hausted, and I shall stagnate for the balance of my life. When one only eats and sleeps and. breathes and loses one’s combativeness one becomes a plant, and when one grows to enjoy it one becomes a cabbage. I used to hate cabbages,” she added, slowly. “Rachel!” She looked up and smiled upon him—her old bewildering smile. “Is there not some one down South to look after you?” An expression of pain crossed her face; she shook her head, . “Down there they are all dead,” she answered, And added, quietly, “ And here I am dead.” He laid his hand upon the back of her chair. “I—I am a poor party to mother anybody,” he said, “but I can’t leave you like this.” She smiled again. ‘It is the only kindness you can do me,” she answered. “ But you are so lonely.” Her lip trembled for an instant and was firm. “ You can hardly have come to tell me that,” she responded. “No,” he said, “no. I came to tell you that—that he had rather not see you.” For a moment her busy hands lay still, She looked up at him with dazed eyes that caused him to put out his hand in pained protest. ‘Then she took up her knife again. “He had rather not?” she repeated, mechanically, and went on with her work. He stood over her an instant, and then held out his hand. Good-bye!” he said. She took it idly. “Good-bye,” she echoed. \ the thought of humorous smile. 4 i] i j 1 Stine i NaN a icine asa ial aici si lat a insane Sd abc aan cme atid cana cecilia aaa Nal Aa rd THE DESCENDANT 261 He went to the door, looked back a F t her, moved a ste forward, looked back again, and passed sre But as . descended the stairs he heard his name called and lingered. oe say upon the landing looking after him, her Reade re) Wath xe . 4 . os retched. He went up to her, clasping them in his oe soldier,” he said, “‘ the fight is not over.” ike a flame her old iridescence. e ceca nveloped her. She ; & aa sacs not go until—until ”—her hands closed more rmly over his—“ unti Bees er his—“ until I have thanked you for sens good- Misunderstanding her, he winced. “ Akershem is my friend,” he replied. “I ; ; h been a cad not to stand by him.” Salk a A hot flush rose to her brow; the t i : ears sh eyes, making them luminous. 3 eee a ‘“‘T_-T did not mean that,” she faltered. “I should not presume to thank you for your faithfulness t frignds.” And she left him. ee When the door had closed u pon her he turned slowl and descended the stairs, passing from R y Rachel’s life, ager Ge a = Gahginiaiar- eee =~ arraeeenn as +e eee paren ee ow tae pore Teo eta Py = sbertcar Sn ar deans Sec eo canagyc nang ot meg ectee ag EO ¢ eet, t i 4 5 1. CHAPTER VI - Into the Academy a flood of sunshine drifted, illumining the canvases upon the wall with a golden shimmer dazzling to the eye of the beholder. It was opening day, and a sup- pressed excitement weighted the atmosphere, emanating probably from the natural possessors of the illumined can- vases. Here and there the spring bonnets of the ladies showed amidst the sombre-toned gathering like early blos- soms cleaving brown soil, while the light-hued gowns be- longing to the wearers of the bonnets lent variegated dashes of color to the nondescript assembly. In the corners and about the entrances small groups clustered, talking in half- whispers, their voices rising in frequent interjections. “Qh, do find Clara’s picture!” cried a girl in brown, breaking suddenly away from her companions. ‘“Some- body please tell me the name of it. She said it was splen- didly hung.” No attention being paid to her, she went rapidly on: “Do you know Geoff Lorrilard sold his ‘ An- tigone’ for nine hundred? He painted it from the same model that I am using for ‘Cleopatra.’ Oh, there is a beauty of Bruce Crane’s! Look at it! The exhibition is finer this year than it has ever been, they say. Dupont says American art is looking up, and Dupont despises all but the French, you know.” “T hear he has hung a picture which is making a row,” broke in a young man with a note-book. ‘The painter is unknown ; I am inclined to think it is Dupont himself. It savors of the French School decidedly.” “Dupont could not do anything so strong as that,” re- marked another of the group; “it is a new hand. That } nich adh iain a i: ° ‘ aii - ; sats on insite in Ss RD ET a EA in Ten THE DESCENDANT . 263 brush has never dabbled in milk-and-water. What! you haven’t seen it?” And they passed out. An elderly gentleman with a very young lady entered suddenly and paused before an effect in blue. “ Fello!” exclaimed the gentleman, “here’s one of Nev- ins’s.” And, glancing up, he caught the eye of that artist through a gold-rimmed eye-glass.. “‘ How are you, Nevins?” he inquired. “Still producing babies, I see.” Mr. Nevins sauntered over to them. ‘“ Well, yes,” he admitted; “but you will notice they are no longer at the breast. It has taken me ten years to wean them, and in ten more I expect to have them adults.” The gentleman laughed, and the young lady colored and looked hastily for a number in her catalogue. “T should think that a grown-up, clothed and in his right mind, would be a pleasant novelty,” commented the gen- tleman. “I’m not a baby-fancier myself.” Mr. Nevins spread out his hands deprecatingly and shrugged his shoulders. ‘ Nor I,” he protested. “I never see a baby off canvas without wanting to smash it. It is by severe self-restraint that I keep my hands off my mod- els. But the public must be gratified, you know, and a good half the public are mothers. Babies sell. Nothing else does. I have tried landscapes, portraits, figures, nude and draped, and I return to the inevitable baby. I bring out a baby as regularly as the Season comes.” Then he smiled broadly. “John Driscoll used to call me the All- Father,” he added. The young lady looked up quickly. ‘Oh, do tell me something about Mr. Driscoll,” she said. ‘We used to be such friends, but it has been six—no, eight—years—how time does fly !—since he went away.” “Bight,” said Mr. Nevins. “It was shortly after that Akershem affair, but he has been back several times since then. He has been working to get Akershem out; the only job he has ever undertaken in which I could not wish him © success.” SENTERO A ENT OP EERE IESE Peg sae hppa en cheep gre tate ee ge - Sie wnt tt tgp, RR eg ee roe ‘ae Sepals ages ae a A a OR TS I SE NA : sien re . SP i LOL TT, PTB a ih 1 if i “yt i AI i| i i i ER a ss ahaa SIS oth 29 Sree ene 264 THE DESCENDANT “Poor fellow!” sighed the young lady, and was silent. Then she held out her hand to an acquaintance, “Why, Mrs. Van Dam,” she said, “this is a pleasure! We may always count upon Mrs. Van Dam as a patron of true art, mayn’t we, Mr. Nevins?” Mr. Nevins thought that upon the whole we might, and a pale young man in Mrs, Van Dam’s train was convinced Gfeits : Mrs. Van Dam had raised her veil, and was levelling her lorgnettes at the canvases within her line of vision. “J am with my daughter,” she explained. ‘She has lived South since her marriage, you know, but she is so fond of art. Cornelia, my dear, I want you to know— Why, where is Cornelia?’, she added. Cornelia not being forthcoming, she went placidly on, ‘You must come into the next room,” she said, “and tell me what you think of that large painting, ‘Mary of Magdala,’ It is the success of the Season. Dupont exhibits it, you know, and he is simply wild about it. So is Mr. McDonough, who is an enthusiast over American art. He proposes presenting it to the Metropolitan, I hear,” They passed into the next room, pausing suddenly be- fore a canvas which hung facing them. At first one noticed a deep-toned richness that suggested a Leonardo, and then from the perspective of gray and green loomed the Mag- dalen, There was a boldness in the drawing which might have been startling, but was only impressive. In the whole strong-limbed figure, of which the mud-stained drapery seemed to accentuate the sensuous curves, a living woman moved and breathed. In the mire at her feet lay a single rose, Above her head a full moon was rising, casting a pale-lemon light upon her garments, falling like a halo about the head of one scapegoat for the sins of men. “The painter is a realist,’ muttered the pale young man. “T don’t like realism.” The young lady rustled her catalogue, ‘“ How beauti- ful,” she murmured, “and how strange! Why, those eyes j 4 asians tau Slits sn a San nh AA SG i Nm AS AA a lt A SA A iin Aint ninth a A en a a Ota St aed Sth THE DESCENDANT 265 are marvellous. There is every emotion in them of which the human heart is capable—every emotion except remorse.” Then she looked for the name, “ Merely ‘Mary of Mag- dala,’” she said. ‘ But who is the artist ?” “That is Dupont’s secret,” said some one from behind. ‘He is pledged to silence, he says.” “Tt would be interesting,” remarked Mrs. Van Dam, “to know the artist.” “What! you haven’t heard ?” cried a new-comer, with an air implying the immensity of his own information upon the subject. “It is an open secret. Dupont won’t tell, but he’ll hint.” The young lady interrupted him eagerly. “Why, who is it?” she asked. ‘Well, there can be no harm in saying, I suppose, that it is a Miss Gavin. You remember she did some fine work years ago, but she got under a cloud and was lost sight of.” “Oh,” sighed the young lady, “how brilliantly she has reappeared!” Mrs. Van Dam put up her lorgnettes and surveyed her disapprovingly. ‘Do you think so?” she said, in an in- tended undertone, “For my part, I consider that it is add- ing impertinence to infamy.” The young lady colored and looked down. ‘““My dear Mrs. Van Dam,” reasoned Mr. Nevins, with his usual disregard of danger, “remember that the voice of this democratic people of ours is the voice of God. When it proclaims ‘famous’ it drowns our ‘infamous,’ ” The descendant of the Byrds of Westover turned her gaze upon him. ‘““One may expect anything of democracies,” she said. With a deprecatory shrug, Mr. Nevins spread out his hands. “But the Voice,” he insisted. “I agree with Mrs. Van Dam,” declared the pale young man. “ After all, the potent voice is the voice of Society.” Mr. Nevins’s shrug was still more deprecatory. “What! is Society curtailing vice?” he asked, Si Src ete es eas Ne SS or a Ct oie ain | | ! re j ' OB) § ¥ i oo A Frcs com ne een patgnae ig cena een ne el pL LI 266 THE DESCENDANT “Why, mamma”—a young matron with the face of an angel slipped her arm through Mrs, ‘Van Dam’s—“ Mr. Lorrilard is saying that the ‘Magdalen’ is’ Rachel Gavin’s. Can it be? How did you hear that Rachel was dead ?” Mrs. Van Dam stiffened. “From the best authority,” she replied, haughtily. “But she isn’t. It was all a mistake, and just look at her work. Why, it is so like Rachel! It makes one think that Christ saw holiness when our blind eyes beheld only crime.” “Why, Cornelia!” “From the mouths of babes,” remarked Mr. Nevins, in an audible aside. The young matron turned back as she was drawn away. “Tt is as beautiful as Rachel,” she said, “‘and as brave.” And in her studio, shut in by four walls from the tumult of the outside city, sat Rachel herself. She had grown thin and colorless. It was as if the brush of Nature had blotted out her bloom with a single stroke as she blotted out the colors upon her canvas. ‘The air of close rooms and the strain of overwork had destroyed the vividness of her youth. She was Rachel still—a Rachel that awoke at odd moments in laugh and voice that chased across her worn face in fleeting gleams, like the gleams from a sun that has set. “So you tell me that I must go to Paris?” she said. She was speaking to Dupont as he stood beside her, having taken the brush from her hand. “Leave this dirty work,” he answered. “Let Madame Estelle and her gowns go to Hades.” _ Rachel laughed a little bitterly. “This dirty work,” she answered, “has fed me when I was hungry and clothed me when I was naked. My painting has not done that.” “It is your fault,” he answered. “You have been faith- less. I tell you your ‘Magdalen’ will make you—make you, do you hear?” THE DESCENDANT 267 “If the making is more satisfactory than Providence’s, I shall not complain,” she answered, with a touch of cynicism. Then she smiled at him, the smile radiating across her sharpened features. “ Dear master,” she said, “ when one has earned one’s bread by copying dressmaker’s designs with a little wood-engraving thrown in, one feels like ane that bread and digesting it without any special saying of grace.” ; ee He stamped his foot, “Only a fool or a woman would have bartered such a talent for a mess of sour pottage,” he answered. a She flushed, and then, rising, faced him. “Iam no longer young,” she said. “Tam very tired. Art either maddens or wearies me, When it maddens me I do great things— a ‘Magdalen’; when it wearies me I do dirty work. If I might only go on copying designs,” Then her tone — changed. “TI will do all you wish,” she said. He looked into her white and wasted face, and beneath his gaze a slow flush rose, tingeing her cheeks. “I have won you back to art,” he said. An infusion of vitality seemed to surge through her veins *T will do you honor,” she answered. _ sa —— Re eS et Sa er a ti Er I i Nn DR 6 ret CHAPTER VII TuroucH the crowd which thronged Broadway at six o’clock a man passed. Amidst the congregate mass of mov- ing atoms his outline was. ail but imperceptible, presenting to an observer from a distant height as indistinct an indi- viduality as is presented to us by the individual in a writh- ing army of ants. He was an entity, but, surrounded by a host of greater and lesser entities, the fact of his personal existence was not conducive to philosophic reflection in another than himself. There was a sharp edge to the air as biting as a mid- winter’s frost. If one could have swept aside all visual im- pediments one might have seen an April sunset dyeing the broken west, a track left by the sun as he ploughed his bloody way across golden furrows. Above the city the smoke hovered low in a neutral-toned cloud, obscuring what was still day in the open country. The crowd in the street moved rapidly, dividing in two dark lines that passed in opposite directions. As the man walked he pushed aside with a feverish impatience those that came within his reach, moving as if indifferent to the human stream around him. He stooped slightly, as one who is old or in pain or both, sometimes staggering from loss of breath consequent upon his haste. He was of medium height, with a frame that might once have seemed of iron, the skeleton of which still resisted the disease that was wasting the flesh away. His features were rendered larger than their wont by the hollows of cheek and brow, and the skin drawn loosely over them was dry and colorless—the burned-out fuel of a hectic fire, Upon his temples the heavy hair was matted and dashed with \ THE DESCENDANT gray, and the hand that he raised impatiently to brush aside an imaginary lock trembled like the hand of one palsied. It was as if a gigantic statue, formed for power and for en- durance, were making a struggle against some insidious enemy feeding upon flesh and blood. Reaching the corner, the man paused for a moment, strangling back a fit of coughing which broke control at last. For the first time he looked up and glanced about him, It was the corner of Fourteenth Street, and across the way the words “The Iconoclast” stared him in the eyes. He remembered that he had stood at this same corner eighteen years ago, and had read that sign idly and with ignorance of the part it would play in the fulfilling of his life. It was new then, and shiny; now it showed battered and weather-beaten. It had breasted the years as he had breasted them. Be- hind him was the warehouse upon which he had seen the notice of “Men Wanted.” He remembered its oblong shape, the size of the letters, and the effect of the white tracing upon the blackboard, and instinctively he felt in his pocket for the phial of laudanum, Could that really have been eighteen years ago? Why, it seemed only yesterday. He glanced up at the office window of Zhe /conoclast's city editor—Driscoll’s window it had been then, and he almost expected to find those shrewd eyes looking at him from be- hind closed blinds. The thought made him nervous, and he moved a few feet away. For the last week, since the hospital doctor.had signed a certificate that secured him his freedom and he had left the prison behind him, he had been consumed with the dread of encountering old associations. Driscoll was South, he supposed, and he was glad of it. Before facing Driscoll again he must face the world and become rein- stated in his old Championship of liberty. Through his wasted limbs his unwasted energy vibrated. He was not beaten yet. A policeman touched his arm and motioned him not to obstruct the crossing, The policeman looked at him as he Sristee as PR, in ins ee y Sacre: Sete, nes ak ee Oe | oe ee ee eee e : SF ta I Ean ETL renee Dt cpr ate amare ee hg tege veie eset : eee Torts ae mene Ce pee mm an ry Smt A mE gn f “ 270 © THE DESCENDANT would have looked at any respectable but obtruding citizen, but Michael resented the look, and, with a defiant retort, moved onward. He hated those pugilistic protectors of the peace. For days he had roamed the streets as feverishly as he had done in his youth, drawn as by some impelling force to his old surroundings, and yet.dreading the sight of a familiar face, shrinking from the casual glance of che passer- by. Before he returned to do battle with the world he must rally his broken forces, must clothe this protruding skeleton with flesh. Freedom and good food would manage it, but he must give them time. He remembered the stains upon his handkerchief yesterday. Pshaw! was he the man to die from the loss of a drop of blood? There was itality in him yet. : At highteenth Street he turned as from habit, and paused as he found himself facing the Templeton. From the first floor to the eighth lights shone in the windows, in the very rooms that he had once occupied. The sight startled him. It was with a certain wonderment that he found the world unaltered. He had been in hell for eight years and more, and not one laugh the less was heard upon the streets, not one smile the less crossed the faces in the crowd, not one shadow the more fell over his familiar haunts. It was as it had been, and as it would be though he perished. How fleeting is the effect that one man produces:upon his time! An idol is exalted in the market-place ; it falls, and upon its crumbling ruins another is raised towards heaven. For men there are many divinities, and for a fallen idol there is the mire. cm Upon the sidewalk he loitered, glancing into the cheer- ful interiors. Vaguely he wondered if these people knew that he— Michael Akershem— stood without, In one, a room suffused with lamplight, a mother sat singing to the young child upon her breast. The placidity of her ex- pression annoyed him. He knew that though poverty and misery stalked in the night at her door she would not 4 cnn lniaskaepc tintin THE DESCENDANT 271 awaken the sleeping child or cease her soothing lullaby. In another a woman sat alone. She was lithe and young, and something in the curve of her shapely head brought Rachel to his mind, In such warm and soft firelight had Rachel waited for him in the old days when he was worth waiting for. Now Rachel had gone back to her art and was doing great things—things such as she had always meant to do. One evening in the elevated road he had heard two artists speaking of her and her future. In his embittered mind the praise had inspired an aggrieved jeal- ousy. She, whom he had loved to his own undoing, was gathering her meed of fame, for the crumbs of which he was famishing. The shapely woman in the firelit room warmed him with memory of the time when a woman had thought the world well lost for the sake of him. Whatever came to her here- _after, once every vibration of her heart-strings had been his—his, a homeless vagrant, with his bones crumbling to dust. An acute pain in his chest caused him to start suddenly. He remembered such a pain in that illness two years ago, when his breath had been like the agony of travail. Then, in the madness of delirium, he had called upon Rachel, and called in vain, Well, that was over and done with. He turned away from the ruddy isteriors and stood upon the corner, watching the straggling stream-of passers-by— a laborer with a tin pail jingling noisily from his hand, a woman with crimson roses upon her breast and crimson marks upon her cheeks, another woman, a man, a child, a man again, a newsboy, a policeman. And then a woman in a fur coat passed him, turned suddenly, hesitated, and came back. Beneath the small hat her eyes looked out inquir- ingly ; under her arm she carried a long roll. With a tremor he recognized her and drew away. In the haggard face he turned from her only a woman’s eyes could have seen Michael Akershem. He cowered into the shadow, but she came on. SE rE eo ine eS nt hE TE ROAST eon pen inl nero cb at nate ‘Keeiteneataennnen eee ste. - : ——— 272 THE DESCENDANT ‘¢ Michael !” Her voice thrilled him, and he put out his hand, warding her off. “‘ Michael !” She had reached him, her light touch was almost upon his arm. “Tam not Michael,” he answered, hoarsely. But as he lifted his head the electric light fell full upon him, and they stood in silence regarding each other. In that silence each looked across the years, and saw the past and the future drawing as to a point—and that point was the present. ; She saw pain and misery and wasted strength; she saw a dread of her and yet a need of her, a desire for solitude, like the desire of an animal that seeks the covert, and yet the longing for a ministering touch; she saw the hand of Death looming above his face, and the sight made her bold, as would not the hand of Life. He saw a woman from whom youth but not usefulness had fallen; he saw shoulders that had borne strong burdens and might bear stronger; he saw eyes that had looked upon life and found it futile, but that burned with his image as fervently as they had burned in the heat of the passionate past, and looking into them he saw constancy made manifest; he saw the love that after years of wrong and wandering may lead us home at last. “Michael, I am so glad!” Her hand was upon his arm, her gaze upon his face. “Tet me go!” he answered.. “Oh, Rachel! Rachel i Again he strove to strangle that grating cough, but it broke loose. ‘No, no,” she said, for he would have passed on. aol have come to me to be nursed and made quite strong again!” She tried to speak lightly, but her voice faltered. “Oh, my beloved, is it not so?” she asked. He spoke hoarsely ; his arm trembled from the weight of her detaining hand. Reap ae nraN Oem? Wr nree Tee Te: THE DESCENDANT 273 “Tt is nothing,” he answered, but he no longer withstood her; “it is only a cold—it is chronic,” “‘T will cure it,” she said. A leaping of his pulses that was not the leaping of fear stimulated him. At that mo- ment the memory of the time when Rachel had craved his love and it had failed her was blotted out. He remembered only the exuberant passion of his youth, “Do you care, Rachel? I am not worth it.” Still clinging to him, she led him on, talking in those light tones which came at will, drawing him from himself and to her. They entered the Templeton, and, because he shrank from the elevator, mounted the stairs. Her voice was clear and strong, the result of a nervous tension, warning her that to pause would be to break down, to discharge her swollen heart. “T have been to the baker’s,” she said, as lightly as if they had parted the day before—“ to the baker’s to buy a loaf of bread. I have supper in my studio now. I am tired of restaurants and French cooking. So, like Old Mother Hubbard, I have my little cupboard, to which I re- sort, and I have also, not a dog, but a cat—a nice gray cat.” His labored breathing caused her to pause for a moment. stooping to fasten the lace of her boot. It took some little time, and then she resumed her slow ascent, slipping her hand through his arm. “T have supper all by myself,” she continued, “and you shall share it—you and the cat. I have become quite a good cook, as you shall see. My oysters are the pride of my life. I haven’t any one to appreciate them except, now and then, Dupont, because, you see, there isn’t a soul here now that I care about. The little mother with the twins moved out West, and Madame Laroque—didn’t I tell you? —Madame’s husband died and left her property in France, and his brother came over to see her about it. But Ma- dame declared that she could not survive the sight of a Frenchman, so she locked herself in her room. Oh, it was 18 4 ‘ae | { i 1 t { 274 THE DESCENDANT so funny! There was the brother-in-law besieging and Madame relentless. It went on for a couple of weeks, when, finally, Madame came down, and one day he met her upon the street, and in a week they were married and sailed to France.” She paused, and the tears rose to her eyes, They had reached her landing, and with an energetic movement she threw open the door of her studio. “ Here we are,” she said, “and the tea is brewing, and the fire burning, and the cat waiting.” She drew an arm-chair to the hearth-rug, laid his hat and coat aside, and piled a heap of downy cushions at his head. Then she took off her wrap and set about preparing her supper, talking as she might have talked ten years ago. It was all so natural, so much as it used to be—the room, the firelight, the shaded lamp, the casts, the hangings, the canvases—that the years seemed but shapeless spectres and his agony a dream un- fulfilled. He lay back among the cushions and looked at her, his brilliant eyes flaming from between the twitching lids like a slow fire consuming his shrunken features, Over Rachel herself a radiance that was more than the radiance of the dancing firelight had fallen, Excitement crimsoned her cheeks, irradiating across brow and lips. In her eyes the lustre of her youth shone with its old splen- dors. All the vivid and evanescent charm that had once been hers returned for one fleeting moment to envelop her. He looked at her wonderingly. “Why, Rachel,” he said, and his tone was querulous, “vou have not changed !” She smiled upon him. ‘“ No,” she answered, simply, “I have not changed.” She brought the little table and placed it before him, watching him with anxious eyes as he ate his oysters, and pretending to eat, herself. The cat left the hearth-rug and leaped upon his knee, and he stroked it with a pitiable pleasure in the instinctive confidence animals had always felt in him, Broken and nlc sc ii ei ir OR aN ORAS Saisie nana bs Sct THE DESCENDANT 275 ill as he was, the little things which he had disregarded in his strength appealed to him in his weakness. Crushed by the great things of life, he saw that the little things were good. Rachel watched him with enraptured eyes. That buoy- ant interest in the minutia of life which had once irritated, now soothed him. It was pleasant to be cared for, to have some one care whether one ate or went hungry, whether one coughed or was silent. He accepted her services apatheti- cally, feeling not gratitude but contentment. When he had finished she pushed the table aside, placed the dishes upon a tray in the hall, and, drawing a stool to his feet, sat beside him, resting her cheek upon his dry and fevered hand. He spoke pettishly. “Tam a wreck,” he said—‘ a broken wreck. Look at that wrist; the muscle is almost through the flesh.’ And he added: “I am a cur that the stones of mankind have beaten to death. Yes, I am beaten.” Rachel looked up at him, ‘You are and have always been my hero,” she answered. “ From the night in that little French restaurant when I looked up and found your eyes upon me I have had no hero but you.” “ A poor hero,” he said, faintly, choking back the cough in his throat. He lay still for a while, so still that she fancied him ex- hausted and asleep. With a passionate tenderness she al- lowed her eyes to rest upon him, upon the drawn face and the whole ruined length of him. And then— “Te is mine,” she thought, exultingly—‘ mine for all time |” The broken and wasted remains of a great vitality, the decay of a towering ambition, querulous complaints in place of an impassioned reserve, death in place of life—these were hers. Hers the scattered crumbs from the bread of life, hers the stagnant slime left of an all-powerful passion, _ She moved gently, loosening her hold upon his hand, fearing to disturb his rest by an emotion which defied con- trol. He stirred and turned towards her. 276 ‘/)" (PHE DESCENDANT “ Rachel,” he said, “don’t let go ie Leaning above him, she kissed his brow, his eyes, his lips. “You want me?” she asked, with passionate compassion. He strove to raise himself, but she held him back. “J always wanted you,” he answered, “except when I was sure I had you.” And he added, slowly: “ You are so steadfast.” She kissed his burning hand. It was her reward. He struggled up, a light flashing in his eyes, his domi- nant nature, undaunted by failure and death, asserting itself again. “Rachel,” he said, breathlessly, “would you fight the world for me?” Her eyes caressed him. “TJ would fight God for you!” she answered. With a sudden energy he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. As he did so a cord within his chest seemed to strain and snap asunder, loosening the foundations of life. He put up his hand to force back the paroxysm of coughing, but it broke forth with a strangled violence, and with it a thin line of blood rose to his lips, oozing upon the handkerchief with which he strove to stanch it. He fell back in the chair, letting the scarlet stream pass between his lips, and putting aside the arms Rachel had cast about him. Then in a moment it was over, and he lay looking up at her, his face carved in the marble whiteness of pain, his brilliant eyes unclouded, There was a harder battle to fight before the end would find him. In his face the old fearless spirit which could be quenched but by dust shone brightly. “Give me half a chance,” he said, “and I will be even with the world at last!” But upon his lips was set the blood-red seal of fate. THE END 1