NRLF 
 
 
OFTHB 
 
ce, Fifty Cents 
 
 J 
 
 The 
 Governor 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER STORIES 
 
 By GEORGE ^. HIBBARD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 1892 
 
 \ 
 
SCRIBNER S YELLOW COVER SERI1 
 
 PARTIAL ANNOUNCEMENT OF NEW VOLUMES FOR 
 THE GOVERNOR, AND OTHER STORIES. By GEC 
 
 A. HlEBARD, 
 
 A volume of six entertaining stories by an author who ha 
 servedly become a great favorite with magazine writers. 
 Howells, in Harper s, refers to Mr. Hibbard s work as having "; 
 tain felicity of execution and a certain ideal of performance \ 
 are not common. The wish to deal with poetic material in the r 
 of physical conjecture is curiously blended with the desire oJ 
 traying the life of the society world." 
 
 SEVENOAKS. By J. G. HOLLAND. 
 
 "Without doubt this is the best story Dr. Holland ever wrot 
 will bear a second reading as well as any novel which has 
 written in this generation." Chicago Inter Ocean. 
 
 "Dr. Holland will always find a congenial audience in the h 
 of culture and refinement. He cherishes a strong fellow-feeling 
 the pure and tranquil life in the modest social circles of the Ame 
 people, and has thus won his way to the companionship of : 
 friendly hearts." N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 REFLECTIONS OF A MARRIED MAN. By ROBERT GR 
 Ready in May, 
 
 A delicious vein of humor runs through this new book b 
 author of "The Confessions of a Frivolous Girl," who take: 
 reader into his confidence and gives a picture of married life tl 
 as bright and entertaining as it is amusing. The experienc 
 Fred and Josephine are so typical, that it is singular that they 
 never got into print before. 
 
 THE WRECKER. By R. L. STEVENSON and LLOYD 
 BOURNE. Ready in June, 
 
 Here is a tale so full of daring adventure and incident ar 
 brilliantly told that it could have been written only by the autl: 
 "Kidnapped" and "Treasure Island." It is largely an Ame 
 story in scene and character, the theatre of action shifting ra 
 from Paris to California and the South Seas, and the leading ch 
 ters consisting of American types whose portraits are drawn 
 great skill and boldness. 
 
 OTHER VOLUMES IN PREPARATION. 
 
 - ;* For volumes of Series already issued, see third pa$ 
 
 cover. 
 
THE GOVERNOR 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
THE GOVERNOR 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE A.lHIBBARD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 1892 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 
 GIFT 
 
 TROW DIRECTORY 
 
 PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPA 
 NEW YORK 
 
1 3 
 L- 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE GOVERNOR, 1 
 
 A DEEDLESS DRAMA, 67 
 
 "As THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD," .... 123 
 
 A MATTER OF FACT, 177 
 
 A FRESH-WATER ROMANCE, 215 
 
 THE END OF THE BEGINNING, .... 263 
 
 P766381 
 
THE GOVERNOR 
 
THE GOVERNOR 
 
 THE sleek, spirited horses picked their 
 scornful way up the avenue, held in 
 restive subjection by the impassive coachman 
 stouter than his companion, the footman 
 fresh-faced, clean-shaven, solid upon the box 
 and apparently oblivious of all greatness save 
 his own, as a coachman should be. The glossy 
 carriage, almost noiseless in its slow motion, 
 held only a grim, gray-haired old man. Many 
 eyes were bent upon him. Pedestrians paused 
 to look at him. The occupants of other carri 
 ages broke short their conversations, and turned 
 to catch another glance as he passed. Here 
 and there a hat was lifted. Without change of 
 expression, however, except when the light of 
 personal recognition occasionally lit up his face 
 and he half automatically returned a bow, the 
 tall, thin, commanding, much noticed and most 
 noticeable personage sat almost motionless. 
 
 
4 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 Thirty - nine years before, he had entered 
 the city a boy of twenty, with scarce money 
 enough in the pocket of his coarse, ill-fitting 
 coat to pay for a week s subsistence. It was 
 an afternoon like this, and the wealth and 
 fashion of the town then, as to-day, glittered 
 along this same avenue. Then, as now, he 
 looked away up the broad street, bordered by 
 stately buildings, at the glistening carriages 
 flowing in counter-currents up and down ; at 
 the scattered hundreds upon the sidewalks; at 
 the whole animated scene, all given tone by 
 the mellow autumnal sunshine. How different 
 it all was and yet how much the same. He 
 had envied them then, with the feverish, im 
 patient, unreasoning hatred of unsatisfied am 
 bition. He had sworn then, that he would 
 possess more than any of them possessed ; com 
 mand more than any of them controlled. And 
 he had kept to that resolve, through all the 
 thirty-nine years; that resolve, that was, after 
 all, only a renewal of another resolve made 
 once before. He thought now with almost 
 pitying contempt of the impetuous fashion in 
 which the first had been made ; of the eager 
 impulse with which, that summer afternoon 
 under the old willow, he threw down the book 
 
THE GOVERNOR 5 
 
 that he had been reading and vowed that he 
 too would win power, fame, and wealth. In 
 what exaltation, in what passion of the mo 
 ment he had made his resolution. 
 
 "I wonder," and the thin, close-drawn lips 
 for the first time approached change of expres 
 sion a slight smile that was quickly gone, 
 flickering over them, " I wonder if I can find 
 the marks of my blows upon the old tree, 
 Avhen, with only the possibility of mere physi 
 cal exertion to satisfy my longing for imme 
 diate action, I pounded its twisted trunk with 
 a fallen branch until I was tired." 
 
 There was a block at an intersecting street, 
 and the carriage, pausing on the cross-walk, 
 brought its occupant within ear-shot of the 
 knot of people waiting for the way to clear. 
 
 "The Governor. They call me the Gov 
 ernor. The Governor. And the Governor of 
 a pivotal State. The newspapers I see grow 
 stronger about it every day. It may come to 
 me it has come to others to me, as things 
 come to those who go to meet them. And 
 I am rich, richer than I ever dreamed I should 
 be. I ve a right to my holiday if ever a man 
 had the first in forty years." 
 
 He drove out of the avenue into the park. 
 
6 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 The wheels ran with softer, hollo wer roll upon 
 the smoother road. The rattle of the harness 
 was more noticeable. The hoofs of ridden 
 horses in rhythmic beat could be distinctly 
 heard. The stream of humanity poured here 
 with hurrying pulsation, and lagged there with 
 slower eddy. 
 
 " I ll go back and look at my own past, my 
 own youth. I ll go back to the old place. I 
 wonder if it will be greatly changed. I wonder 
 if I shall find any of them there after forty 
 years ? No doubt held there by the insidious 
 strength of habit, effortless, almost brainless in 
 the stupefying turn of slow, dull routine, Yes, 
 I will go back. It is a whim, almost a roman 
 tic folly but I ve a right to it. I haven t done 
 so many senseless things in my life that I 
 haven t a right to do this one." 
 
 And so disconnectedly, and with frequent in 
 terruption as attention was caught by what he 
 saw or overheard, ran the Governor s thoughts 
 as he drove on the man whose slow, steady, in 
 exorable advancement, never retarded by over 
 scrupulous method, never impeded by even 
 the record of many an obstruction thrown some 
 times relentlessly in wreck out of his path, 
 made him one of the most remarkable figures 
 
THE GOVERNOR 7 
 
 of the day the man who now, sanctified by 
 success, had reached unquestioned eminence 
 throughout the land. 
 
 Shadows steal across the country from the 
 west renegade deserters of the day, seeking 
 to join the main body of invading darkness ad 
 vancing from the east. A train has just arrived 
 at the small station a platform and a shed 
 merely which is the stopping-place, on this 
 particular line, nearest to the village of Farm 
 stead. Two passengers only alight. One an 
 old man, tall and spare, the Governor, who, the 
 day before, as he drove along, had so held the 
 gaze of the avenue, where there were so many 
 and so much to attract attention ; the other a 
 trim, decent-looking, middle-aged person, who, 
 as the two stepped from the train, unfolded a 
 light overcoat with the easy, unobtruding care 
 that indicates the watchful and skilful ser 
 vant. 
 
 There was the sound of empty milk - cans 
 hastily set down, and then the conductor raised 
 his hand to the engineer, leaning, pipe in mouth, 
 from his cab. The train started, and, grumb 
 ling dissatisfaction at having been stopped at 
 all, steams down the track. There are the usual 
 
8 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 surroundings ; the gallows - like affair giving 
 warning of the railroad crossing ; a pile of 
 empty barrels ; a freight-car or two on a side 
 track, with doors wide open. 
 
 The Governor, shading his eyes with one 
 hand from the rays of the sinking sun, looked 
 long and earnestly over the country, from which 
 rose the heavy, sweet perfume of a warm au 
 tumn day. 
 
 " Nothing nothing at all like," he mutters, 
 and then, reassuringly, " but I was seldom here. 
 There was no railroad in my time." 
 
 But still he did not move. The warm ul 
 tramarine, in the west, was shrinking into a 
 cold, delicate green, and soon the horizon 
 would become a dull, glowing yellow. The 
 platform was already deserted. There was but 
 one vehicle in sight a one-horse wagon into 
 which a boy was loading the clattering, dented, 
 brass-rimmed milk-cans. The Governor was a 
 little impatient was growing angry in fact, 
 with the indefensible, wholly unreasonable irri 
 tation natural to gentlemen of his years. How 
 could he get to Farmstead ? Why was there 
 110 means of conveying travellers thither ? 
 
 " Do you want anybody ? " said some one in 
 a thin, youthful voice behind him. The Gov- 
 
THE GOVERNOR 9 
 
 ernor turned and found himself face to face 
 with the boy, who, having finished loading the 
 wagon, had mounted to the platform. "With 
 feet wide apart he stood looking at the Gov 
 ernor. He was fresh - faced, round - cheeked, 
 sturdy. His attire verged upon raggedness 
 not the raggedness of poverty, but the natural 
 raggedness of healthy boyhood. He looked at 
 the tall, grave man before him with a steady, 
 straightforward stare, free, however, from both 
 assurance and embarrassment. 
 
 "I want some means of getting to Farm 
 stead," answered the Governor. 
 
 " Going there myself," replied the boy, not 
 too smartly and with a good-humored friendli 
 ness. " I ll take you over if you like. If you 
 don t go with me I guess you ll have to walk. 
 Many don t come by this road, and the stage 
 isn t sent over here. Want to come ? " 
 
 He glanced up smiling, and the Governor 
 nodded his assent. 
 
 " Does he want to come too ? " continued 
 the boy, jerking his thumb in the direction of 
 the servant busy with the luggage. The Gov 
 ernor nodded again. 
 
 "I guess there s room for the lot of you," 
 answered the boy, cheerfully. 
 
10 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 "Williams," said the Governor, "take the 
 bags and get in behind." 
 
 The vehicle was of the kind once known as 
 a carry-all, with a straight, stiff stick rising at 
 each corner to support a hard, flat roof. The 
 leather tags by which the curtains were upheld 
 flapped raggedly, giving it an altogether dog 
 eared appearance, and the rusty iron-work and 
 splashed wheels and body told of long and 
 hard usage. It was not a luxurious or even a 
 very comfortable turn-out. But the Governor 
 was very glad to make use of it. 
 
 "There," said the boy, after he had jumped 
 into the wagon himself, "give me your hand. 
 Now then." 
 
 The Governor so aided stepped on the 
 muddy hub, climbed slowly up and seated 
 himself beside the boy on the front seat. 
 
 " Most people come by the new road that 
 goes right through the village," said the boy, 
 after they -had started. 
 
 " Ah," responded the Governor. 
 
 " Go long," said the boy to the horse. 
 
 If the Governor had ever attempted to form 
 any such mental picture, he probably would 
 not have imagined himself returning to the 
 home of his childhood in this fashion. As his 
 
THE GOVERNOR 11 
 
 thoughts ran when he drove up the crowded, 
 noisy, glittering avenue, so his thoughts ran 
 now as the staid old horse drew him slowly 
 along the silent, shadowy country road. The 
 nearer he came to Farmstead, the more dis 
 tinct became his memories. He remembered 
 things often surprisingly trivial things that 
 he had not thought of for years. The aspect 
 of the trees, the lines of the fences, he rec 
 ollected sometimes with singular clearness. 
 And the people he had not seen any of them 
 for forty years yet he could remember ex 
 actly how many of them looked. He wondered 
 what had become of the old school teacher, 
 and of all the boys with whom he had gone to 
 school. What had become of Joliffe Joliffe 
 of whom he had not thought for so long a 
 time, although once he had thought of him 
 often enough. And with this memory his 
 features became suddenly even more severe 
 and then quickly relaxed into an expression 
 almost of eager pleasure. Joliffe ! How that 
 name brought back the past. It was jealousy 
 of him, as much as anything else, that had led 
 to the famous resolve by the willows, nearly 
 half a century ago. Jealousy absolute jeal 
 ousy he thought. For then Joliffe had seemed 
 
12 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 blessed with all the favors of fortune. Only a 
 country doctor s son, yet the holder of almost 
 all the prizes of that humble life. Jealousy 
 finds its cause not only in what others have, 
 but in what we have not, as well. And Joliffe 
 was the possessor of so much that was desired, 
 and the representative of so much more only 
 imagined. " How I should like to give him a 
 tAvinge of regret, of envy," thought the Gover 
 nor. " If I could but make him realize the 
 pettiness of his own life and the power of 
 mine, that would repay me for the hours of 
 boyish misery he caused me. Has not some 
 one said that we do our meanest acts on ac 
 count of those we most despise ? Should any 
 one know that I, after forty years, still feel 
 resentment against the insignificant son of a 
 country doctor, he would think me contempt 
 ibly beneath contempt." 
 
 "I don t do this sort of thing every day," 
 volunteered the boy, finally, looking back at 
 the cans. "They are pretty busy at home," 
 pausing to see if his companion caught the full 
 significance of his words ; " I did it as a par 
 ticular favor." 
 
 " Indeed," said the Governor, absently. 
 
 " Yes," continued the boy, disappointed that 
 
THE GOVERNOR 13 
 
 he had made no deeper impression. " You 
 see they are going to have a wedding, and 
 they ve got a good deal to do getting ready. 
 Somebody had to get the cans, and I said I d 
 do it." 
 
 He flapped the reins on the back of the horse, 
 and for a moment, was apparently lost in the 
 contemplation of his own condescension. " I 
 didn t much like to do it, cause there s so 
 much going on at home. Say, " he exclaimed, 
 " you aren t one of his relations, are you ? " 
 
 " Whose ? " asked the Governor, blankly. 
 
 " Mr. Lysle s, who s going to marry Sue." 
 
 " No," confessed the Governor, almost hum 
 bly, " I am not." 
 
 " I thought you might be," said the boy. 
 " There s a good many of them been coming 
 lately." 
 
 There was silence for a few moments. 
 
 " You know the place the people about here 
 pretty well ? " asked the Governor, abruptly. 
 
 " I was born here," replied the boy, with a 
 fine scorn which the oldest inhabitant could 
 not have excelled. 
 
 " Do you know anybody by the name of 
 Joliffe ? " the Governor demanded. 
 
 " Joliffe ! " and the boy opened his eyes wide 
 
14 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 with astonishment, and twisted himself in 
 hilarious contortion. "Why, my name s Jo- 
 liffe, John Joliife. It s my father s name, too. 
 Ever seen father ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered the Governor, slowly ; 
 " he s a physician, isn t he ? " 
 
 " Why certainly, father s a doctor. He s re 
 tired though. You get sick around here and 
 you ll find out that he s the doctor, if you can 
 get him. He s a great doctor, he is. No one 
 can give you worse-tasting things than he can." 
 
 "No doubt nq doubt," murmured the Gov 
 ernor, utterly unconscious of what he was 
 saying or to what he replied. " And so," he 
 thought, "Joliffe has lived on here. I sup 
 pose the slim boy by the way how much this 
 boy looks as he did I m surprised I did not 
 notice it at once has become a coarse, overfed, 
 country dullard. Married early, of course 
 I never have found time for that, early or late." 
 Then, turning to the boy again, he asked : 
 
 " How old are you ? " 
 
 " Twelve and a half," answered the driver, 
 promptly. " I m the youngest." 
 
 "Any brothers?" 
 
 " Two." 
 
 "Sisters?" 
 
THE GOVERNOR 15 
 
 " Three." 
 
 " Of course," thought the Governor, " Joliffe 
 was the veiy man to have such a family a ru 
 minant, a calm-lived bovine." 
 
 " Sue s the third oldest," continued the boy, 
 his desire for conversation causing him to for 
 get his haste and to suspend his chirruping 
 and clucking at the horse. 
 
 " And she s to be married ? " 
 
 " Married to-morrow to Mr. Lysle," respond 
 ed the youngster, meditatively. " He isn t a 
 bad sort of fellow, and I used to like him first- 
 rate." 
 
 " You liked him ? " The Governor was sur 
 prised at the interest he took in the matter, 
 and at the number of questions he asked. 
 
 " Before Sue said she d have him, he used 
 to give me a lot of things. Somehow he don t 
 now." 
 
 " I should like to see your father," said the 
 Governor, suddenly. " If you will take me to 
 your house, my servant will walk on to the ho 
 tel and have a wagon sent for the bags and 
 myself." 
 
 " It s more than a mile," said the boy. 
 
 " Why," said the Governor, with some sur 
 prise, " I thought that you lived in the village." 
 
16 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 " Oh," cried the boy, " you ve been here be 
 fore. But that was the old house, before father 
 gave up practice. We live now in the one just 
 outside, that used to be the minister s house, 
 and that father fixed over. You wouldn t know 
 it, there s been such a lot done to it." 
 
 " I was born there," thought the Governor. 
 And then, with a sudden contraction of the 
 brow, "I had forgotten all about it. I wish 
 I hadn t. I might have bought it. I d rather 
 that Joliffe did not have it John Joliffe, of 
 all men." 
 
 " My father s a rich man," continued the 
 boy. " Are you ? " 
 
 He looked at the Governor with clear, un 
 abashed eyes, that held no evidence of con 
 sciousness of the impropriety of the question. 
 His unembarrassed innocence made a direct 
 answer even natural and proper. 
 
 " Some people think so," answered the Gov 
 ernor. 
 
 " But are you ? " persisted the boy. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Very?" 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " I don t believe you are as rich as he is." 
 
 " Possibly not," responded the Governor. 
 
THE GOVERNOR 17 
 
 The light had diminished. The lulling 
 sounds of the coming twilight, the quelled 
 noises of the field, the rustle of the trees scat 
 tered along the highway, the slight clash in 
 one place where some stalks of corn were left 
 standing in their ripened leaves like Arabs in 
 their loose-hanging robes all deepened by a 
 multitude of dim, half-realized associations, 
 softened the hour to the Governor, as they 
 now drove silently along. The occasional low 
 ing of distant cattle, clearer than it could have 
 been earlier in the year, the boom of a night- 
 hawk swooping down, the small, shrill, stridu- 
 lous pipings in the bedusted bushes the Gov 
 ernor heard it all heard it with that finer sense 
 with which present perception has but little to 
 do. A grove cast deep shadows across the road. 
 It ended abruptly, and they came in sight of a 
 large house, perhaps half a mile distant. 
 
 " That s our house," said the boy. " Our 
 farm s back of it." 
 
 " How very much changed," mused the Gov 
 ernor. And then as they came nearer he saw 
 it the house in which he was born and 
 Joliffe owned it and had changed it to what 
 it was. Modern architecture had made of 
 it one of those structures now scattered in 
 2 
 
18 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 such number through the country, which, in 
 ready adaptability, in evident comfortableness, 
 and in relieving picturesqueness appeal pleas 
 antly to the eye and to the mind. It had been 
 painted a deep red. It was low and with low- 
 hanging eaves ; broad balconies ran around all 
 parts visible from the road. With its many 
 chimneys it was easy to see that it had many 
 rooms. Evident prosperity dwelt therein. No 
 one could doubt that broad halls ran through 
 it ; that in many of its rooms there was place 
 for the stir of happy life, in others, for stillness 
 and peace. It was something much more than 
 walls and roof. It was a home, where children 
 could be joyous in sunshiny spring days, and 
 where sorrow could be softened to men and 
 women, when autumn winds tore thrpugh clash 
 ing branches a home consecrated beneath the 
 changing hands of human gladness and grief. 
 
 They passed through the gateway, over 
 which two great elms one on each side 
 dropped their branches. These were changed, 
 grown larger, but the Governor recollected 
 them. They were the first things that he re 
 membered altogether, and the sight of the 
 trees filled him with a strange, troubled joy. 
 
 They rattled up to the side veranda. The 
 
THE GOVERNOR 19 
 
 horse stopped of his own accord. The boy 
 jumped out. A couple of dogs tore around a 
 corner of the house, and one of them putting 
 his paws upon the boy s shoulders licked his 
 cheek. A puppy tumbled along. The boy 
 caught it up and with a hand under each shoul 
 der, held it out for the Governor s inspection ; 
 smiled, shook his head in negative upon the 
 claims of all others to equal this puppy, and 
 then placed it upon the piazza, where it sat 
 solemnly, its eyes fixed upon a dead grasshop 
 per, as if it comprehended at least six modern 
 philosophies. 
 
 A hall-dozen boys and girls of young Jo- 
 liffe s own age were at full run across the lawn 
 toward him. 
 
 " Go away, everyone of you," cried the boy 
 as the racing group reached him. " What ! " 
 and he stooped to hear what the youngest was 
 eager to whisper. "You don t mean to say 
 they re going to have that ! " 
 
 " Lots of it," said one, evidently aware of the 
 subject of the confidence. 
 
 "I say," cried young Joliffe, at last becom 
 ing conscious of the duties of hospitality. 
 " I ve got to find father. There s a gentleman 
 here wants to see him. Cephas ! " 
 
20 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 A brisk young fellow appeared whom the 
 boy, it was evident, delighted to think he dom 
 ineered, and with quick glance at the Governor, 
 gathered the reins in one hand while with the 
 other he turned the horse by the bit and led 
 him down a short lane bordered with huge but 
 ternut-trees, toward the stables, half hid by 
 the descending ground, a troop of marauding 
 turkeys, just in from a day s scout, scattering 
 out of the way. 
 
 The children all turned and gazed at the 
 Governor with the frank unconcealed interest 
 of youth often so disconcerting. He who had 
 so many times borne the stare of curious 
 crowds without confusion, felt suddenly em 
 barrassed ; he who had so often received im 
 portant and importunate committees ; who had 
 ruled the stormiest of national conventions ; 
 who had poured words in abundant flow over 
 packed thousands, could find nothing to say. 
 He seemed to himself awkward, clumsy. If 
 Williams had not at that moment asked him 
 about the luggage and given him an opportu 
 nity to answer with grim, relieving severity, he 
 would hardly have known what to do. 
 
 " Will you come in, sir ? " asked the boy, 
 the consciousness of the dignity of his posi- 
 
THE GOVERNOR 21 
 
 tion sobering his speech, " or will you sit 
 here?" 
 
 The Governor preferred to sit on the veranda. 
 The boy had been gone but a moment, his 
 companions following him, when a young girl 
 stepped out of an open window, and evidently 
 she did not know there was anyone there 
 walked toward him. Stealthily as the image 
 steals out upon the negative under the alchemy 
 of the chemicals, but still with almost instan 
 taneous action, another figure took form before 
 the Governor s inner sight, another figure, like 
 this one, 
 
 " A child of nature s rarest making, 
 Wistful and sweet and with a heart foi -breaking." 
 
 Where were those forty years ? He felt a sud 
 den, startling contraction of the heart. The 
 same, almost the very same slight, but with 
 the slightness of pliant strength ; the sun- 
 burnished hair ; the eyes so possessed with 
 happiness ; and the very dress the same, the 
 light lingering that it might fall upon the cling 
 ing white stuff. Can a rock drink in the dawn 
 of a spring morning, and hold it in unyielding 
 fastness for many years ; were such the deli- 
 
22 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 cacy, the truth, the tenacity of an old man s 
 memory? She was even twisting a piece of 
 blue ribbon between her fingers as he had seen 
 that other do so long before. 
 
 "I thought the children were here," said the 
 girl, a little startled, a little puzzled, as her 
 eyes fell on the stranger. " Do you wish to 
 see anyone ? " 
 
 " Doctor Joliffe," said the Governor. 
 
 She stood turning the ribbon with a certain 
 shyness, for she realized that the man before 
 her was not one of the many who insisted upon 
 coming to the old doctor for advice though he 
 had so long been out of practice. And then a 
 man s voice, positive, rich, of generous ampli 
 tude, was heard in the house. 
 
 " There he is," she said. " I will call him." 
 
 But upon the instant, he who had spoken 
 stepped upon the veranda. He was a man of 
 that sturdy strength so rarely found at his 
 age, and which, when found, is so impressive, 
 telling as it generally does of a healthy, active, 
 untroubled life. For the man was old. He 
 had white hair, whiter even than the Gover 
 nor s, whose hair was a dull, heavy gray. He 
 was old, but still he stepped with an alertness 
 which showed that years had 110 more impaired 
 
THE GOVERNOR 23 
 
 his spirit than they had weakened his voice. 
 He walked rapidly toward the Governor. 
 
 " Do you want to see me ? " he said. " Do 
 you? I m invisible, positively invisible. I ve 
 got a wedding to look after." He glanced in 
 voluntarily at the young girl, who instantly 
 found a new interest in the landscape. " A 
 man s got a right to be let off on an excuse 
 like that a wedding s better than Fourth of 
 July or Christmas, it doesn t come anything 
 like once a year." 
 
 The same laugh a laugh over forty years 
 older and yet the same. It was that laugh, so 
 round, so broad, so full from centre to vanish 
 ing outskirt, so filled with the satisfaction that 
 derides all dissatisfaction, that had been such 
 exasperation, such provocation, such an irri 
 tant, to the restless, envious, ambitious boy so 
 long ago. How he had despised the light tem 
 perament that shook out such laughter, as you 
 shake the blossoms from a thorn-bush in the 
 spring ! How, when too young and too inex 
 perienced to conceal the aspirations that then 
 seemed so absurd to all but himself, how the 
 wild rhodomontade of his boyhood was checked 
 and chilled by that very laugh ! And now, 
 when he heard it again after forty years, did 
 
24: THE GOVERNOR 
 
 it not carry the same aggravation, the same tor 
 ment? Was it petulant querulousness that 
 another could still be apparently so vacant- 
 mindedly happy that troubled him ; or was it 
 dissatisfaction, rising in revolt against himself, 
 with what he was, with all that he had earned 
 and got ? There was a flash of the same old 
 fierce envy that had burned in his boy s heart. 
 Envy of what? Must he seek rehabilitation 
 in himself because a country doctor, beaming 
 with common happiness, rotund with common 
 prosperity, laughed loudly in his every-day 
 house ? Was it envy handed down from his 
 former self, like an heirloom in a family, 
 through the line of changes that he thought 
 were in himself ; or was there no such change ? 
 Was the laugh that had helped to fuse togeth 
 er and anneal those discordant desires, hatreds, 
 determinations, abilities, passions, qualities of 
 heart, into a character dominated by an all- 
 powerful ambition, now as then something to 
 make him scorn what was his the very super 
 latives of the world wealth, power, celebrity ? 
 Could this man, who possessed but the every 
 day excellences of existence, thus render his 
 own possessions almost contemptible in his 
 own sight ? 
 
THE GOVERNOR 25 
 
 So lag the words struggling to express all 
 that the Governor s thoughts spanned in an 
 instant so do mere words lag and fail. 
 
 He had determined not to announce himself 
 so soon. But he was impatient, half angry 
 with himself. If he spoke, would he not be 
 satisfied ? 
 
 "You do not know nie?"he said, holding 
 out his hand. 
 
 Joliffe did not answer at once. He looked 
 at the Governor in that doubtful, conscious 
 way in which, fearful of committing a rude 
 ness, we look at those demanding recognition 
 and of whom we have no memory. But the 
 trace of doubt in his smile quickly vanished, 
 as he broke into a laugh. 
 
 " Not know you ! " he shouted. " Not know 
 you," and he caught the Governor s right hand 
 in his own left and struck his own right into 
 the Governor s. "I didn t at first. Time 
 does his work well if you give him forty 
 years. But I know you now, and it does my 
 soul good to shake hands with you. How in 
 the world did you get here ? " 
 
 The Governor explained. He added that 
 the young gentleman was to drive him over to 
 the hotel as soon as the milk-cans had been 
 
T THE GOVERNOR 
 
 unloaded, or, he concluded, if it was not far 
 he would walk. 
 
 "Hotel!" cried the doctor. "Much you ll 
 see of the hotel," and he stepped to the corner 
 of the piazza. " Cephas ! " he called, and the 
 young man appeared running to answer the 
 summons. 
 
 "Take those bags into the house," com 
 manded the doctor. 
 
 The two old men stood silently gazing at 
 one another. 
 
 " You look well," said the Governor, at last. 
 
 " If you don t worry the world, it won t 
 worry you. Now you have worried it a good 
 deal." 
 
 " And show it," responded the Governor, 
 grimly. 
 
 " We know all about you up here," Joliffe 
 went on. "Because we re a little out of the 
 way you must not think that we don t keep 
 our eyes pretty sharply on what is going on." 
 
 " I ve no doubt," replied the Governor. 
 
 " We only stand aside." 
 
 " You always did, Joliffe." 
 
 " Yes, Governor," replied the doctor. " I al 
 ways took the world easily. You didn t. You 
 always had a grudge against it. You hated it 
 
THE GOVERNOR 27 
 
 as an enemy to be conquered. You hated it, 
 but still you were always bound to succeed in 
 it." 
 
 " Success," responded the Governor in his 
 severest tones, " is the only revenge we can 
 take on the world." 
 
 " That sounds like you," said Joliffe, looking 
 curiously at the man before him. " Only the 
 edge instead of dulling has grown keener. But 
 come, you must see the rest of us." 
 
 The Governor followed the doctor along the 
 veranda and around the corner. On a lawn 
 stretching beside the house, young people were 
 flying about, not even noticing the new arrival, 
 for the game of tennis must be finished before 
 the net and court-lines should be obscured by 
 the darkness. On the veranda, on the steps, 
 and on the gravel walk were yellow - haired 
 youngsters and gray -haired elders the ex 
 tremes of age, that find so much in common. 
 
 "It is long since I have been here," ex 
 plained the Governor, as they walked along. 
 " I thought I should like to look over the old 
 ground a little." 
 
 "You ve come just right. There s nothing 
 like a wedding to brighten up old memories. 
 Even if it s not one of your own that s leaving 
 
28 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 you, still you can t help catching something of 
 the spirit of the time." 
 
 The Governor glanced uneasily at the tall 
 girl beside his old companion. 
 
 " You see we change, in our own slow way, 
 even here," continued the doctor, looking 
 proudly about. "You will hardly know the 
 village." 
 
 The two old men slowly approached a group 
 about the doorway. A little apart from the 
 rest, on a long, low chair such as an invalid 
 might use, sat a lady holding back the vines 
 that she might see the conclusion of the game. 
 Her delicate face would instantly have re 
 minded anyone of the young girl whom the 
 Governor had just seen, for despite the many 
 years difference in their ages, the mother s face, 
 besides possessing a striking similarity to the 
 daughter s, held the same expression of bright 
 intelligence and kindly interest. Hearing foot 
 steps, she quickly turned. A smile lit up her 
 delicate features, as her eyes fell first upon her 
 husband. 
 
 " Mary," said the doctor, his voice soften 
 ing, " I bring you an old friend." 
 
 It was evident that she knew him at once. 
 And he, no wonder that he started. In her 
 
THE GOVERNOR 29 
 
 daughter he had seen her living apparition, 
 and here ethereal almost, but plainly in stead 
 fast life here in reality, and more beautiful 
 in the Governor s sight than her likeness in 
 her spring-time, was the woman he had loved 
 nearly half a century ago whom he had then 
 almost worshipped in the strength of his strong 
 and then not wholly perverted nature ; who of 
 all human beings alone had ever had the power, 
 unconsciously exercised, to make him for an in 
 stant falter in his purpose, and who alone, that 
 purpose fully resumed, could have had power 
 to awaken in him a question, a regret, a doubt. 
 And Joliffe had won her ! She was his, as was 
 also his old home. Strange that he had not 
 known all this before. But was it so strange ? 
 He knew that she had not married within the 
 first year, and after that well he had not taken 
 thought about her after that. Then came a 
 dull ache at his heart, another sharp pang of 
 envy struck at his very being. These were in 
 stants of quick retrospection, of sudden recog 
 nition. Could it have been that those years 
 were barren, heart-breaking years to her, as 
 they would have been to him perhaps, if he had 
 not been in abject suppression beneath him 
 self. And Joliffe had won her! They had 
 
30 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 been rivals here as in so much else, even in 
 childhood, in that bitter rivalry, bitterer per 
 haps than is ever found in after years, for it is 
 direct, outspoken, untempered by the amenities 
 of life ; but in this rivalry he had never really 
 feared Joliffe. From the very first had not the 
 hundred somethings in which men learn their 
 fate been in his favor? Did he not know 
 always that they were more than light im 
 pulses, casual and passing likings, that bent 
 toward him in the old time, and that told him 
 he had nothing to fear if he would but speak. 
 But he had not spoken. To speak would have 
 been renunciation of ambition, a self-condem 
 nation to village insignificance. He remem 
 bered well the morning before he went away. 
 It was much such a morning as to-day s had 
 been, or as to-morrow s might be, an autumn 
 morning, glad in the possessed ripeness of 
 the year, sad in its suggestion of decay. The 
 apples were red upon the orchard trees. The 
 birds held sad family consultation, for they 
 were to leave their homes. The smoke from a 
 near fallow dragged no higher than the low 
 tree-tops, and a man not far distant shouted 
 dully to oxen rebelling under their yoke. And 
 he had talked excitedly with cruel vain-glori- 
 
THE GOVERNOR 31 
 
 ousness about his plans, while she gave but lit 
 tle heed to what he said. But had he himself 
 been very heedful of his own words ? Was he 
 not thinking how pleasant it would be to tell 
 her all he really felt, and to hear the avowal 
 that he was almost sure must follow wholly 
 assured as he saw her downcast eyes and sad 
 preoccupation. But he did not speak. And 
 after he had gone cruel to himself as he had 
 so often since been cruel to so many her last 
 look, her puzzled, grieved, sorrow-weighted 
 look, had followed him for days and months 
 and years. And so, in another of those instan 
 taneous, all-embracing flashes, not of memory, 
 but of that sudden expansion and enlighten 
 ment of the whole being, when one sees, in com 
 plete revealment, aspects of life with which 
 time and memory s processes have nothing to 
 do, there came to the Governor a vision of 
 what had been and what might not be. 
 
 "We never forget such old friends," she 
 said, giving him her hand. "I have never 
 forgotten the Governor." 
 
 One by one all were brought up and pre 
 sented to him some to find themselves a little 
 awed by the presence of the man of whom they 
 had heard so much. Indeed the Governor 
 
32 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 held quite a little reception on the veranda, 
 shaking hands in his most approved, auto 
 matic, political fashion. 
 
 The supper that night was widely different 
 from the supper that must take place the next 
 night. This was a mere prelude, a mere fam 
 ily affair. To-morrow night the wedding 
 would be over, and all would be there to see 
 the bride depart. But all the Joliffes were 
 there now. Mary, the oldest daughter, was 
 there, with her husband, the editor from St. 
 Louis. Evelyn, too, the second daughter 
 her husband an officer stationed at Fort Lara- 
 mie had only arrived that afternoon. Robert 
 had short leave and was home from Harvard ; 
 and Martin, seventeen, from Exeter. Then 
 there were Susan s two best friends the tall 
 blonde from Salem and the little brunette from 
 Baltimore and with them Lysle s best man 
 and two ushers. You would have found that 
 Susan was there, and Lysle, if you had looked 
 around ; otherwise you might not have noticed 
 them, for they said but little. 
 
 At the left of the hostess the Governor, of 
 course, was at her right was the lawyer from 
 the village, a trifle deaf, rather inter jectional in 
 
THE GOVERNOR 33 
 
 style, and with the air of a man, who, if he had 
 made the law, would have made it different in 
 several particulars. The clergyman was not to 
 be seen. The initiate understood that his wife 
 would not let him come, and that she would 
 not come without him. She knew the diges 
 tion of that divine to a mouthful, and two such 
 suppers of course he would be there on the 
 following night would not do at all. Every 
 where, wedged in here, popping up there, were 
 children of all ages. The table was not of the 
 kind that groan beneath the weight of what 
 they bear. Why should it ? Had it not up 
 held the family s hospitality for half a century ? 
 It was dressed in its full regalia. The pure 
 white cloth lay as softly as if snowed upon it, 
 and somebody, something, had wrought in its 
 web devices in such delicate tracery as the 
 frost, plying its small implements, works upon 
 the winter panes. It wore all its honors : its 
 old blue, willow-pattern china ; its glass insig 
 nia of the great order of Thirst ; its silver dec 
 orations of St. Bounty. And what the table 
 bore could not have been given in any scant 
 menu, with epitaph-like, monumental inscrip 
 tion. The madeira, laid down with the port, 
 by the grandfather for great occasions sev- 
 3 
 
34: THE GOVERNOR 
 
 eral undecanted bottles lay on the sideboard, 
 as thickly encrusted as might be the backs of 
 hippopotami just above water with sunburned 
 clay the madeira trudged down one side of 
 the table, while the port, a little tender as to 
 one toe, it might be fancied, travelled up the 
 other. The two old decanters who not which 
 had kept the road together as long as the 
 table had done service as a table, moved on 
 sedately, while their clear heads the decan 
 ters could dispense with their heads while on 
 a business tour, and if they were changed it 
 did not matter, so alike were their ideas lay 
 winking approval at each other, at the doctor s 
 right hand. 
 
 Memory is a very strange thing, and plays 
 us very strange tricks. Apparently without 
 adequate cause, there steal at times into our 
 minds half -forgotten fancies, long - unremem- 
 bered facts, distant scenes, that seemingly have 
 nothing to do with anything about us. As the 
 Governor sat at the table with the home-like 
 realities of this home life around him, he sud 
 denly remembered what suggested it at that 
 moment he could not for the life of him have 
 told that once when he was the country s rep 
 resentative abroad, he had been present at a 
 
THE GOVERNOR 35 
 
 great review, held after a bloody but successful 
 war, and that he had seen a regiment march 
 past, the gaps made by the fallen left in its 
 ranks. The aspect of these broken lines was 
 now vivid in his memory. He stirred uneasily. 
 What had reminded him of all this ? For the 
 first time he wondered if it would have been 
 better not to come. Sitting there at his old 
 rival s table, he wondered if there were such 
 spaces in his life spaces where, in the conflict, 
 living things had gone down living things, 
 vital as life itself. 
 
 A dance, a mere carpet affair which the 
 young people insisted upon, followed the sup 
 per. The doctor s remonstrance was of no ef 
 fect his remonstrance that there must be so 
 much to do to-morrow. The oldest daughter 
 played, and once the doctor danced with Susan. 
 The girl, the glad but saddened significance of 
 her future life already stealing upon her for 
 the tender, joyful, tearful to-morrow drew very 
 near swam through the dance as if in a happy 
 dream. But Joliffe what was there to com 
 pare with his flow of abundant life, with the 
 light elasticity of his every motion? To be 
 sure his waltzing was somewhat antiquated, 
 but then the astonishing thing was that he 
 
36 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 waltzed at all. The dancing, however, of the 
 bridesmaids and ushers quite made up for 
 what might be deficient, and toned down what 
 might be too effusive in the doctor s perform 
 ance. The children danced too, without re 
 spect to time, or place, or remonstrance; 
 danced as dance spots of sunshine upon the 
 sward amid the shadows of breeze - shaken 
 leaves. 
 
 The Governor sat quietly beside his hostess. 
 They said but little. His thin lips tightened 
 in rigidity at times, as if drawn together by 
 the strong lines of resolve ; but they were lax 
 lines just then softened as might be the 
 strings of an old Cremona left out in the dew. 
 
 As the Governor sat saying nothing, he saw 
 Susie looking at him curiously. She had often, 
 since her sisters marriages, been her mother s 
 aid at the frequent entertainments of that hos 
 pitable house. No one as easily as she could 
 put the awkward at their ease or as pleasantly 
 deal with the idiosyncrasies of the diffident ; 
 but now she hesitated. She was accustomed 
 to the weak and the unattractive, the embar 
 rassed and the unpopular, and she felt that 
 it would be almost presumption for her to as 
 sume a moment s care of anyone so high and 
 
THE GOVERNOR 37 
 
 mighty as the Governor. But something in 
 his look it must have been his look, for no 
 muscle of his face stirred encouraged her, 
 and she timidly approached. 
 
 " It is a long time since I have been at a 
 wedding," he said. He was about to add that 
 funerals the funerals of distinguished fellow- 
 citizens were almost the only gatherings of 
 his kind, not political or financial, that he had 
 been in the habit of attending. But he did 
 not do it. It seemed to him that it would not 
 sound very well. 
 
 " Oh, it is to be so very simple," she an 
 swered ; "it will not be like a wedding in the 
 city at all. It was almost too bad to ask the 
 girls to be bridesmaids for only this." 
 
 "They do not seem dissatisfied," remarked 
 the Governor, dryly, glancing critically at the 
 quick whirling dance. 
 
 "Everyone has been so kind," responded 
 Susie, enthusiastically, " and I have got such 
 lovely things." 
 
 Of course, thought the Governor, they al 
 ways give presents to a bride. And he had 
 none. It was strange, how humiliated he felt. 
 However, he remembered with an altogether 
 disproportionate joy, considering the trifling 
 
38 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 nature of his difficulty, that here was some 
 thing that could be remedied. 
 
 "I did not know that I was coming to a 
 wedding," he said, apologetically, " and I have 
 nothing. I hope I believe that I am none 
 the less welcome." 
 
 Susie grew red with sudden confusion. 
 Speaking of her happiness, she almost felt 
 that she was sharing it with others, and in her 
 great gladness and friendliness for all, she had 
 spoken quite frankly and without thought. 
 
 " Oh," she exclaimed, confusedly, " I only 
 spoke of them because because they were a 
 part of the wedding." 
 
 "Won t you show them to me?" said the 
 Governor. 
 
 He rose and followed her to a room where, 
 on assembled tables, the offerings to the bride 
 were displayed. There was the silver given by 
 Joliffe forks and spoons in shining array; 
 there were the silver tea-pot, the cream-pitcher, 
 the sugar-bowl from her mother ; there were a 
 salad-spoon and fork from an uncle, and a soup- 
 ladle from the lawyer. There was Lysle s gift, 
 a gold necklace with one small gem at the 
 clasp. Lysle s father and mother were dead, 
 and his only living relative was an ancient and 
 
THE GOVERNOR 39 
 
 wealthy maiden aunt, an aunt of very aristo 
 cratic connections and possessed of a somewhat 
 mysterious, but unquestionably all-puissant in 
 fluence, that it was hoped at one time might 
 do great things for him ; she had not entirely 
 approved of the marriage, and she now sent a 
 bronze thermometer. There were the presents 
 from the bridesmaids : a silver-backed mirror, 
 and a fan with silver monogram. There were 
 the presents from the "best man" and the 
 ushers : a silver jug, silver candlesticks, and 
 a silver inkstand. Then there were bronzes, 
 books, etchings, a throng of pretty things of 
 twisted brass, and carved wood, and dainty 
 stuffs from cousins, friends, and even from old 
 servants. It was not a very grand display- 
 all could not have cost very many hundreds of 
 dollars, and if the Governor had estimated 
 what he saw at its pecuniary value he would 
 not have greatly considered it. But he saw 
 the radiant, triumphant joy of the girl ; he 
 noticed with what pride she called his atten 
 tion to the fact that she had received three 
 sets of coffee-spoons and duplicate sugar-tongs 
 saw her satisfaction with the somewhat mea 
 gre collection, and it seemed to him precious 
 beyond price. He thought of dusty piles of 
 
40 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 securities in dark bank vaults ; thought of hide 
 ous buildings in crowded city neighborhoods ; 
 thought of all the wealth he possessed, and 
 wondered, if these few gifts could evoke such 
 pleasure, what could not be done with his huge 
 slumbering fortune, busy even while it slum 
 bered in gathering what for the instant seemed 
 like usurious spoil; wondered if it were not 
 possible to draw a better revenue from some 
 new use of his vast capital than was to be ob 
 tained from the very closest, richest, " trust." 
 He had never thought anything of the kind be 
 fore, and it struck him with the force of a new 
 idea. He thought that he would like to buy 
 her something rare, dazzling, wonderful ; hold 
 it before her astonished eyes, and say to her 
 that it was hers. Then he wondered if, after 
 all, it would give her more pleasure than some 
 of the trifles that he saw. 
 
 " And shall you always live here ? " he asked, 
 when they had finished the inspection. 
 
 " No, indeed," she answered. " We are to 
 live in New York. Jack is in business there." 
 
 "And what " began the Governor. 
 
 " He is the cashier of a great firm of brokers 
 in Wall Street." 
 
 " Do you know the name of the firm ? " 
 
THE GOVERNOR 41 
 
 " Kyde & Broxtowe," she answered, proudly. 
 " Perhaps you have heard of them. Jack tells 
 me they are very well known." 
 
 " Eyde & Broxtowe," repeated the Governor, 
 looking up with a sharp glance of surprise. 
 "Yes, I have heard of the firm of Kyde & 
 Broxtowe." 
 
 " They have such confidence in Jack," she 
 went on, " in his integrity, in his ability ; " 
 she thought she had heard these words used 
 in connection with some one who held an office 
 of responsibility, and she now rather shyly em 
 ployed them. " They wanted were going to 
 take him into the firm, but one of the troubles 
 came that come so suddenly there, and they 
 got into difficulties and had to be helped by 
 some one, a great capitalist Jack does not 
 know who and now they can do nothing them 
 selves, and so can make no change." 
 
 " It is strange I have not seen him. I have 
 been at Eyde & Broxtowe s often." 
 
 " He has seen you. He told me so to-night." 
 
 "Possibly," responded the Governor, ab 
 sently. " I suppose he was in the outer offices 
 and and I am afraid that I do not notice 
 very much." 
 
 There was silence while Susie made the last 
 
4:2 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 of a long series of experiments in the arrange 
 ment of the presents. The photograph frame 
 from her old school-teacher certainly looked 
 best behind the alligator skin portfolio from 
 her Sunday-school class. 
 
 " And you are going to live in New York ? " 
 said the Governor, at last. "How do you 
 think you will like that ? " 
 
 " I am sure I shall like it," she answered. 
 " We have taken a flat. It is pretty high up, 
 but I tell Jack that we ll see more sky, and that, 
 will be nice for me, for I m from the country. 
 We shall be very comfortable, and then some 
 day he will be taken into the firm, and then 
 we shall be rich." 
 
 " He wishes to be a member of the firm ? " 
 asked the Governor. 
 
 " Oh, if he could be, it would make him so 
 happy ! You see everyone has thought that 
 we ought not to be married now and though 
 they have all been perfect about it at home, 
 still I can see that they are a little afraid but 
 of course if he were that, it would settle every 
 thing." 
 
 "It would settle everything," repeated the 
 Governor, slowly. 
 
 She sighed slightly, and the first look of sad- 
 
THE GOVERNOR 43 
 
 ness the Governor had seen in her face lay for 
 a moment on her delicate features, but this 
 quickly gave way to a smile, and the Governor 
 turning, discovered Lysle in the doorway. 
 
 " I have been looking for you everywhere," 
 he said to Susie. " They are waiting for you 
 for a dance." 
 
 " I was showing the our presents," she 
 said. 
 
 " Yes," broke in the Governor. " They are 
 very beautiful. But do not let me keep you 
 any longer." 
 
 He followed her as she walked to the door, 
 and when she turned to see if he was not com 
 ing with them she found that he was quite 
 near her. 
 
 " Young man," said the Governor, somewhat 
 stiffly, " you have youth and you have health, 
 and you have," he paused and glanced at 
 Susie, " you have the best this world can give. 
 You have the three simple elements of happi 
 ness, by no means as complex a thing as some 
 suppose. Remember this, that what you have 
 now is more than you can ever reasonably 
 expect to attain can ever attain, no matter 
 with what expectation. He who in this world 
 does only what the world would call wise is a 
 
44 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 fool a fool. A penny spent, sir, is a penny 
 gained." 
 
 These were singular words for the Governor. 
 They were simple, plain words for one famous 
 for his eloquence ; they were strangely unprac 
 tical words for one pointed out as the very 
 type of success ; they were even obscure, con 
 tradictory words to be uttered by one so cool- 
 headed, cold-hearted as he ; but they were the 
 words the Governor used, turning sharply on 
 his heel when he was done. 
 
 " Go and join the dance," he added, a trifle 
 peremptorily, turning again to Lysle and Susie, 
 who stood gazing at him in great astonishment, 
 " and would you be kind enough to have them 
 send my man Williams to me ? " 
 
 Williams found the Governor in what Joliffe 
 called the " study." He was writing, and from 
 the yellow paper with printed top and ruled 
 lines that he had taken from his pocket it was 
 easy to see that he was preparing a telegram. 
 It was a long despatch ; he pinned together 
 four sheets, before he affixed his signature. 
 
 " This," he said, handing the papers to Will 
 iams, " must go to Eyde & Broxtowe the first 
 thing in the morning. Do you know where 
 the telegraph office is ? you can find out and 
 
THE GOVERNOR 45 
 
 be there when it opens. And be careful to let 
 no one know what you have." 
 
 "You see, Governor," said Joliffe, very 
 much out of breath from the dance, as he ap 
 proached his guest a little later; "there isn t 
 much wisdom in it all, but much happiness." 
 
 "But much happiness," repeated the Gov 
 ernor, " and that is something that cannot al 
 ways be won by wisdom." 
 
 They stood for an instant silent. 
 
 " You look tired," said the doctor, glancing 
 at the other. " Shall I take you to your 
 room?" 
 
 " Yes, the day has been rather too much for 
 me, more than I thought any day could ever 
 be." 
 
 " See," said the doctor, as the two men en 
 tered a room above stairs, " this is in the old 
 part of the house. I shouldn t be surprised if 
 you knew this place." 
 
 They stood for an instant looking curiously 
 at each other in the strong glow of the lamp. 
 
 "Joliffe," said the Governor, slowly, at last. 
 "We didn t get on very well when we were 
 boys." 
 
 The doctor did not answer. 
 
46 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 11 Possibly I was the most to blame," contin 
 ued the Governor. " But 110 matter now. We 
 have come to an age when we have little but 
 our past. Let us try to forget what was un 
 pleasant in it." 
 
 Joliffe understood the halting speech al 
 most the first of retraction that had ever passed 
 those rigid lips and held out his hand. 
 
 " Good-night," said both, and for the first 
 time in their lives they were friends. 
 
 The doctor tramped out of the room, shut 
 the door with a slam, coughed, and went down 
 the stairs with even more noise than usual. 
 
 The Governor stood still in deep thought. 
 Had he not in substance asked his old rival s 
 pardon ? It certainly was not a thing he had 
 expected to do when he started for his old 
 home. But he felt the better for it. He 
 stepped to the window. Indeed he knew the 
 place now. It was his own old room. The 
 moon had just risen and the broad stretch of 
 country lay before him. It was changed of 
 course. Clumps of trees had disappeared. 
 Here and there buildings he had never before 
 seen were visible in the cold, clear, white light. 
 He, however, recognized much remembered 
 detail upon detail. The line of the hills lay 
 
THE GOVERNOR 47 
 
 there delicate, almost pathetic, against the sky. 
 The sweep of the river was there, always the 
 same. But he had never felt anything like 
 this before peace-giving and with soothing 
 promise. Many and many a time had he looked 
 out that window, the phantasmagoria of hope 
 in full whirl, with inexperienced ambition throb 
 bing with quick grasping desires for imagined, 
 uncompr eh ended things ; and now he stood 
 there with the bitterness of victory at his heart 
 stood there the possessor of the pieces of 
 silver, the prices of his own self-betrayal. The 
 realization of the real worthlessness of all 
 things won was upon him the realization so 
 often, if we could but know it, panged with 
 pain such as defeat, that may leave us our 
 ideals, never brings. 
 
 At first the sound of music from the distant 
 dancing-room, sad as a modern waltz can be 
 is it typical of our half-hearted joyousness that 
 there must even be a plaint in our dance mu 
 sic ? kept him awake ; but even when the 
 music ceased, his hurrying thoughts prevented 
 sleep. It was well on toward morning before 
 he fell into what was even then a broken slum 
 ber. Who can give account of the occult in 
 fluences that mingled the experiences of the 
 
48 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 day with his last waking ideas, and filled that 
 strange chamber in the house of life with his 
 dream ? He was in the old orchard again, the 
 late golden-rod glowing in the sunlight ; the 
 ferns shrinking in the shadows. But the peace 
 of a great contentment was upon him, for he 
 had asked and been answered, and the world 
 had nothing more to give. No longer was 
 there any haste, or restlessness, or the leap of 
 mounting ambition. Life was no longer a 
 means, a mere opportunity ; it was an attain 
 ment, an end adequate in and of itself, explan 
 atory, all-sufficient. He felt what he had never 
 known the free spaciousness of youth. The 
 lengthening vista of coming years was no longer 
 a succession of prisoning spaces ; it was a 
 sweep of graceful arches, each in itself beauti 
 ful, bending over a progress, the end of which 
 was the best that life could give. And now 
 scene and circumstance changed with quick 
 magical craft. It was his wedding-day. There 
 were many people ; some of them with the faces 
 seen in the evening. There was the bride, 
 white-robed, silent, a little frightened ; there he 
 was himself, awkward, self-important, proud, 
 happy. And then the church, cool, dim, shad 
 ow-trodden; the wedding march wandering 
 
THE GOVERNOR 49 
 
 from stiff pew to stiff pew, stealing, pealing 
 along the narrow aisle and low gallery. And 
 from outside came the glad laughter of the 
 tumbling bell. Now came years, changing in 
 season, but, as the course of nature, fully fore 
 seen, assuring, satisfying. Children were born 
 and one died, but a kindly growth covered the 
 wound as the closing wood grows where the 
 lightning stroke has torn the green tree trunk. 
 And he grew old for time and place are but 
 for the fleshly self, they have no denizenship 
 in the realm of dreams he grew old and by 
 some strange law, common in that strange 
 country, he was Joliffe, strong, hearty, as he 
 had seen him. And there was talk of another 
 wedding a daughter this time. Gently as 
 comes the remembrance of some evanescent 
 perfume, there came to him memories of his 
 own love-making ; and he watched that old 
 drudge, unoriginating nature, make this repe 
 tition without bitterness, for he felt that he, 
 too, had had his day, and that his day had not 
 been wasted. But now, most surprising of all, 
 there came to the house a man of the same 
 age, rich, famous, alone, who was also himself ; 
 and then, in strange dual existence, he com 
 pared each. self with the other the one in the 
 4 
 
50 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 lush meadow where the grasses are, and the 
 other, footsore upon some barren place where 
 the treading crowd wear smoother the well- 
 worn stones. And the morning light was 
 shining full in the room and in incomplete 
 consciousness, 
 
 " Half in a dreme not fully well awake," 
 
 gradually, it almost seemed, the figments of 
 the night stole from him, and with sharp an 
 guish he found himself himself. Where were 
 resolution, self-confidence, persistence, insist 
 ence ; where the consciousness of strength, of 
 eloquence of speech; where wisdom born of 
 experience in affairs ; where the arts of inter 
 course, the indescribable power of influencing 
 men, the joy in large, comprehending thought, 
 in forceful character? What were wealth, 
 power, fame what in comparison with wife 
 and children and the accumulated happiness, 
 sorrow-enriched, that is the abiding atmos 
 phere, the vital air of family and home ? What 
 was it the rapture in some crowning moment of 
 great achievement what was it, compared with 
 the gifts ever recurring, the unchanging reali 
 ties of man s natural, wholesome, common life ? 
 And he might have had all all that he now 
 
THE GOVERNOR 51 
 
 knew was so much if he had but spoken. 
 As he thought then, so he thought now, that 
 the answer must have been "yes," and the 
 belief was agonizing to him. If he could only 
 know that it could not have been; that no 
 matter what he had said, the past could not 
 have been different. To have held happiness 
 within his grasp, and to have thrown it away ! 
 If he could only know that the meeting under 
 the old apple-trees could have brought him 
 nothing, then it seemed that what remained of 
 life might be borne. 
 
 A stone wall bounded the orchard, an irreg 
 ular mosaic of browns and blues and grays. 
 Tall weeds grew plentifully beside it, grasses 
 sprung from its crevices, moss covered its bro 
 ken face, vines hung over it, and even here and 
 there the branches rested on it. The wall could 
 hardly be seen at all in summer, but it was 
 autumn now and the rain had beaten down the 
 stalks and scattered the leaves, and in places it 
 was wholly uncovered. The Governor leaned 
 upon its rounded top and looked across the 
 ribbed fields. It seemed to him that he had 
 been almost forgotten at the house in the ex 
 citement of preparation, and not wishing to 
 
52 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 intrude upon the peculiarly personal interests 
 of the time, he wandered forth alone. The 
 morning was bright ; sad, however, with that 
 sadness felt in the brightest autumn day. 
 Each tree, larger and more gnarled, perhaps, 
 than when he had last seen it, was rich with 
 memories ; each bowlder softened with an as 
 sociation. The bright, richly colored, fallen 
 leaves seemed embroidered upon the dark tis 
 sue of the grass. The polished apples were 
 bright in the sun. He strolled along a path 
 one of those paths turning here and there as 
 the accordant fancies of the first passers made 
 it, kept worn as others had followed with rou 
 tine feet and coming to the wall he rested his 
 arms upon it and looked wearily beyond. As 
 he stood there he felt that his life, too, had 
 encountered a sudden barrier, over which he 
 could only wistfully gaze. 
 
 He turned quickly as he heard a light foot 
 fall and the rustle of a dress. 
 
 It was the woman who was in his thoughts 
 the woman whom he had loved so long ago. 
 Again they were together, in an autumn or 
 chard, and after forty years. 
 
 "I missed you," she said. "It is hardly 
 hospitable that you should be left alone." 
 
THE GOVERNOR 53 
 
 " One is never alone," said the Governor, 
 "where much has happened. I was never 
 less alone. I am in the midst of many mem 
 ories." 
 
 She said nothing. Were her thoughts, with 
 his, in the tract known only to them ? 
 
 In the strange sameness of the situation he 
 felt almost as if he were again in his unworn 
 youth. But he looked down upon his corded, 
 blue-veined hand, rough-cast with years, hard 
 of grain, it seemed, as the stone upon which it 
 rested ; he glanced at her, and saw the gray 
 threads in the dark hair, saw the tracery of 
 time upon the white forehead, and he was old 
 again ; the forty years had passed. 
 
 "I want to speak to you," he said. It 
 seemed to him that the distant, indestructible 
 past must permit to them both, frankness and 
 absolute directness of speech, and he hastened 
 to say what it had been in his heart to say 
 since daybreak. 
 
 "Yes," she replied. 
 
 "Are you are you wholly happy?" he 
 asked, slowly. 
 
 " Wholly," she answered, looking up in some 
 surprise from a branch of ruddy leaves which 
 she had gathered. 
 
54 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 " You remember the last time w^ walked to 
 gether ? " he asked, abruptly, hesitatingly, as 
 he had spoken before. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, breaking some dry 
 twigs from the branch. " That was a long 
 time ago. We were very young then." 
 
 " Perhaps too young to know," said the Gov 
 ernor. 
 
 She did not speak. 
 
 lie felt strangely ; as if scarce naturally ex 
 istent. The visual scene seemed trembling, dis 
 solving, to be hardly as real as his vision of the 
 night. The aspects of the place and of the day 
 were the same ; but was he looking at that day 
 long gone, or at this through the glimmering, 
 misty atmosphere of the past? He too was 
 silent for a moment. He was thinking sadly 
 that it was not a little strange that it was only 
 now, and with weakening voice and lax lips, in 
 passionless and measured accents, that he was 
 to tell his love-story a love-story that had 
 waited nearly half a century for its denouement. 
 "We are so old," he continued at last, "that 
 we can talk of what has been, almost as if we 
 were already somewhere else." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I loved you once." 
 
THE GOVERNOR 55 
 
 She did not speak. 
 
 " Then." 
 
 " I thought so." 
 
 " More than all else, except myself." 
 
 "As you say," she said, gently, and with a 
 quick glance toward her home, "we can indeed 
 talk as if we were somewhere else. Why did 
 you not tell me then ? " 
 
 " Because " he spoke with the even, un 
 broken tone of quiet resignation "because I 
 was mistaken. Tell me we may say anything 
 now if I had told you then, would your an 
 swer ha,ve been yes ? " 
 
 " Perhaps," she replied, with the serene laugh 
 of a woman so strong in a present and long- 
 abiding love, that all else is as nothing. " We 
 were very young then." 
 
 She broke another twig from the branch, 
 shook it, that any of the autumn-loosened leaves 
 might fall, and glanced at her companion. 
 
 " I am afraid they will need me at the 
 house," she said. "Will you not come back 
 with me ? " 
 
 She turned to go, but the Governor, with his 
 arms again on the wall, remained gazing over 
 the barren fields ; barren, but not in the ster 
 ility incapable of promise ; barren, but still 
 
56 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 covered with the stubble left by the gathered 
 harvest. 
 
 The wedding was over. It was singularly 
 like the one in the Governor s dream. The 
 faces were a little clearer, the forms slightly 
 more distinct ; that was about all. 
 
 The church it was a small brick place, with 
 meagre stone corners and slender, small-paned 
 windows, and a small stone steeple, through 
 the openings of which the bell could be seen 
 from the outside the church, innocent of the 
 adornments non-secular architecture now per 
 mits itself, and not unlike the rigid houses bor 
 dering the village street, could they be dressed 
 in prim, Sunday array the church, not unpict- 
 uresque even in its unpretentiousness, for time, 
 dulling and staining the once bright-red brick 
 into pleasing consonance of tone, had, it 
 seemed, also softened and rounded its abrupt 
 angles and sharp edges, an effect aided not a 
 little by a Virginia creeper, now gorgeous in 
 the livery of the passing year, that had clam 
 bered up the front, stretched across the slate 
 roof and, in graceful tendrils, stealing through 
 the openings in the belfry, played in the gen 
 tle air as the tentacles of some huge, resplend- 
 
THE GOVERNOR 57 
 
 ent marine creature, hidden in some recess, 
 might sway in a falling tide the church was 
 crowded, packed. All the village had turned 
 out, and there were many guests from away. 
 The church could not hold half that came, and 
 many stood along the narrow, stone walk and 
 on the leaf -strewn grass. But all saw the bride 
 and were accordingly satisfied. The influential 
 female relative had relented at the last moment, 
 and, arriving on the morning train, now occu 
 pied the place of honor a large front pew 
 with the Governor. As the wedding march 
 sounded from the organ the wedding march 
 that has become almost as much a part of a 
 wedding as the veil and ring, the march that 
 few hear without anticipatory tremor or retro 
 spective thrill all seemed, for an instant, as 
 all had seemed to the Governor, in the orchard, 
 but a continuation of his dream. Then the in 
 fluential female relative moved uneasily she 
 was truly not 
 
 "such stuff 
 As dreams are made on," 
 
 and he knew that he was awake. 
 
 The wedding was over. The bride had been 
 driven to the house, and now, in its largest room, 
 
58 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 she stood against a background of flowers and 
 foliage, receiving the wedding guests. One by 
 one they passed before her, many among them 
 who had known her as a baby, as a child, as a 
 young girl saying their little speeches, some 
 awkwardly enough perhaps, but not one with 
 out earnest desire that all happiness should be 
 hers. Even the influential female relative, 
 evidently moved by her youth and beauty, had 
 stiffly embraced her. The room was so full 
 that it was difficult to make way through it. 
 The press about the bride was so great that 
 only occasionally could anyone, not near, catch 
 even a glimpse of her white dress. And then 
 the crowd swayed and in strong current seemed 
 to sweep the Governor from where he stood by 
 the door, swiftly along, and he suddenly found 
 himself before Susie. The stillness that at 
 once settled on those about him half appalled 
 him. Something was expected of him, he un 
 derstood that, but in his trepidation he could 
 hardly command himself enough to be able to 
 realize what. 
 
 There was quick laughter, almost a burst of 
 applause. 
 
 He did not know how he did it he hardly 
 knew at the time that he had done it but he 
 
THE GOVERNOR 59 
 
 had kissed the bride. He had done it and he 
 was proud of it. 
 
 At the wedding supper the Governor made 
 the speech when they drank Susie s health, and 
 although no busy stenographers were there to 
 catch the words as they fell, and send them 
 swarming along the spider-web wires of this 
 over -vexed earth he never spoke better in his 
 life. 
 
 Lysle paused for a moment on the stairs as 
 Susie threw her bouquet among the crowd in 
 the hall, and such uproar as always follows 
 that event had not subsided when one of the 
 ushers handed him a telegram which had just 
 been received by a servant. He opened it, 
 read it, and handed it to Susie. 
 
 It ran : 
 
 "We are happy to say that the arrange 
 ments for partnership of which we spoke to you 
 can now be easily consummated. See us im 
 mediately on your return. 
 
 "BYDE & BEOXTOWE." 
 
 The Governor stood by the doorway, awk 
 wardly holding an old satin slipper which some 
 one had thrust into his hand why, he did not 
 
60 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 know. He looked up when Lysle began read 
 ing the despatch. He watched Susie take it ; 
 he watched her as she read, and saw the light 
 of infinite happiness dawn in her face, saw the 
 girl as she turned and cast her arms around 
 her husband s neck ; saw Lysle, for they must 
 go, since time and tide and train wait for no 
 one not even a bride toss the despatch with 
 glad gesture to the doctor ; and, as the carriage 
 which bore so much away started, following 
 the example of the others, he threw the old 
 slipper after them with such surprisingly good 
 aim that it fell directly on its roof. 
 
 The city again. 
 
 It is early evening, but the darkness is as in 
 tense as it will be at midnight. The rain falls 
 in persistent, insistent drizzle. Each light is 
 the nucleus of a long, luminous, cometic tail 
 streaming over the swimming pavement. In 
 the streets around the great railway-station the 
 confusion of cabs and omnibuses is chaotic ; on 
 the sidewalks and in the waiting-rooms human 
 ity is anarchic. 
 
 The Governor, jostled by the passengers eager 
 in the first rush of their enfranchisement, 
 slowly made his way down the long platform 
 
THE GOVERNOR 61 
 
 at which the train had stopped. Usually he 
 travelled in a special car, and attentive officials 
 waited upon him at every step, but as he had 
 gone upon this journey, so he returned un 
 heralded, unreceived, and with only Williams 
 for attendant. He walked the whole length of 
 the huge, resonant building, his eyes downcast 
 or fixed upon the great clock at one end. Since 
 he had seen it last the hour-hand had travelled 
 around the face hardly half a dozen times, and 
 yet it seemed to him that he had been away 
 from the city for many days. As he approached 
 the iron railing that crossed the broad, nagged 
 walk, a young man stepped quickly through the 
 opened gate and walked rapidly toward him. 
 
 " We telegraphed you, Governor," he said 
 hastily, " but couldn t reach you before you 
 started. We tried to catch you on the train, 
 but I suppose it was no use." 
 
 He was the Governor s private secretary, the 
 man who knew the most of his affairs, the man 
 whom he trusted as much as he had ever trusted 
 anyone. 
 
 " What s the matter, Warner ? " asked the 
 Governor, detecting an unwonted excitement 
 in the secretary s usually measured and inex 
 pressive voice. 
 
62 THE GOVERNOR 
 
 " You haven t heard, sir ! There hasn t been 
 such a day on the Street for years. They are 
 waiting at the house for you now." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " It s all out about the syndicate came out 
 this morning how, no one knows. They all 
 want time they all want money they all 
 want everything." 
 
 The Governor coughed. 
 
 "The presidents of three railroads and two 
 banks have been waiting for you ever since 
 dark," the secretary suggested nervously. He 
 had been brought up in a broker s office, and 
 the great " King " of the " Street "his 
 
 "round 
 And top of sovereignty " 
 
 inspired him with a reverence that no crowned 
 monarch could have excited in that strictly 
 American heart. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the Governor, abstractedly. 
 " Tell Williams to see about the luggage and 
 have the carriage brought up." 
 
 Warner hastened to obey, and the Governor 
 remained standing in the draughty passageway. 
 The arrivals by the train had dispersed and he 
 was almost alone. Two men who had come in 
 
THE GOVERNOR 63 
 
 hurriedly from the street stood beneath the 
 flaring gaslight. One held a newspaper that 
 he had just bought, and both were looking 
 eagerly at it. 
 
 "It s the last edition," said one, " but there s 
 nothing new." 
 
 " He s still away," said the other ; "just like 
 the sly old fox, to keep himself where no one 
 can get at him. He s managed it well. It s 
 the long-headedest scoop that s been made in 
 my time." 
 
 " To think of a whole country waiting for 
 him for when the Street is excited the whole 
 country is crazy from Boston to San Francisco. 
 He has surpassed himself. He commands suc 
 cess ; he compels fate. Happy I d give a 
 year of my life for a moment of his to-night." 
 
 " How much do you suppose he ll make ? " 
 asked the other in awed tones. 
 
 " Millions ! and he has millions now. "What 
 can he do with them ? " 
 
 "Buy another railroad or another party or 
 his soul back from the devil." 
 
 And all this the Governor heard or half- 
 heard. 
 
 The secretary returned, and shaking off the 
 rain-drops, he pointed through the doorway to 
 
64: THE GOVERNOR 
 
 the carriage with its flashing lamps. A sharp 
 gust of wind bustling along the street stirred 
 the uneasy gaslights. The dull, ominous, 
 threatening roar of the great city fell upon the 
 Governor s ears. Was he thinking of the men 
 anxiously waiting his coming, as he stood gaz 
 ing into the darkness ? was he thinking of the 
 throbbing city where, during the day, his name 
 had been uttered with wonder, with praises, 
 with curses, by so many tongues : where it had 
 appeared weighted with so much significance, 
 upon so many printed pages ? It was strange, 
 but as he stood there there, at what the world 
 would call the most successful moment of his 
 most successful life, he only thought of the 
 amber, autumn light falling through twisted 
 branches upon a young girl s face. It was a 
 bright vision, and as it slowly faded, the night 
 seemed even more dark, more bitter than be 
 fore. 
 
 " Yes," he thought, remembering vaguely 
 what he had said to Joliffe. " Success is the 
 only revenge that we can take upon the world, 
 but- 
 Splashing through the muddy pools, the 
 horses made their way down the desolate and 
 deserted avenue. 
 
THE GOVERNOR 65 
 
 " Governor," said the secretary, as the car 
 riage drew up before a great house with great 
 darkened windows, " you have reached home." 
 
 But the Governor did not speak or stir. 
 5 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 " "What s done we partly may compute, 
 But know not what s resisted." 
 
 BUBNS. " Address to the Unco Guid." 
 
 (( npHE mail," said Pruden, adjusting his 
 I gold eye-glasses more accurately upon 
 his nose, " seems unusually heavy this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 The cool morning light that fell through the 
 panes of the high windows on the letter-strewn 
 table, was broken and rendered tremulous by 
 the sway of the gently stirring branches and 
 the fall and flutter of the autumn foliage with 
 out. The smooth lawn, encircled by the firm 
 driveway between the house and the heavy iron 
 fence, appeared unusually green where the grass 
 was visible through the massed stretches of rus 
 set leaves ; but already the gardeners had begun 
 work, and soon, the approach and the encom- 
 
70 A DEEDLES8 DRAMA 
 
 passed sward would be as neat as if it were 
 close - girdled summer instead of careless au 
 tumn. The house that stood in the midst of the 
 carefully tended grounds, belonged to the red 
 brick and yellow-sandstone period of American 
 architecture, specimens of which crop up so 
 plentifully throughout the country. It was very 
 large, very regular, and very impersonal ; it pro 
 duced the impression of having cost a great 
 deal of money, and was honored accordingly. 
 
 " There have been more letters every day," 
 said the person to whom Pruden spoke, a tall 
 woman, who turned from the window with some 
 thing of the alertness of youth and a little of 
 the apathy of age in the movement, but still 
 with a peculiar self-contained poise evidently 
 characteristic of the individual. " As to-mor 
 row is the day before election, I suppose you 
 will be inundated." 
 
 Then, she added, after a short pause, a little 
 listlessly, and as if by some effort of memory 
 she brought herself to ask the question : 
 
 " What are they all about ? " 
 
 " About," answered Pruden, with his habitual 
 laugh, "about everything and about nothing. 
 They re all alike in this, however, they all ask 
 something. I think that no one can really un- 
 
A DEED LESS DRAMA 71 
 
 derstand the multifarious demands of humanity 
 unless he is a millionaire or has been a candi 
 date for public office. Here," he continued, 
 picking up a sheet of paper, " is a Chatterton 
 who has written a poem in my honor, of sixty- 
 three stanzas, in which I am compared to Co 
 lumbus ; " and he read : 
 
 " Like him who first the country saw, 
 
 And gave the world a continent, 
 
 So you will bring reform and law, 
 
 And give us honest government. 
 
 % 
 
 However, he only wants a subscription to help 
 
 him to bring out his book. This," he went on, 
 taking up another letter, " is to inform me that 
 a gentleman who has been blessed with twins 
 has done me the honor to christen one after me, 
 and wishes to know my wife s name so that he 
 may name the other after her. He does not 
 say expressly what he wants, but darkly hints 
 at the fitness of his wife s grandmother for the 
 position of a scrub-woman in the City Build 
 ings. Here is one from a person who says that 
 he has noticed with regret that I am growing 
 slightly bald, and that he ventures to send me 
 a wash that he assures me will bring back the 
 hair in its accustomed luxuriance and restore it 
 
72 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 to its pristine color. All that lie desires is a 
 certificate attesting the beneficial effects I have 
 experienced from its use. Here are others," 
 and he gathered up a handful, " of the regula 
 tion pattern, promising support and influence, 
 all for more or less clearly expressed considera 
 tions. And here is one from the editor of The 
 Multiple, asking for an interview upon a most 
 important matter." 
 
 " "What is it ? " she demanded, with that sud 
 den quickening of utterance and vigor of ac 
 cent that denote increased attention, if not 
 newly awakened interest. 
 
 " Why you see my dear," began Pruden, 
 coughing slightly and glancing over his glasses, 
 placed far down on his nose, "I suppose I 
 do not say certainly but I suppose it is about 
 the same old thing." 
 
 His wife rose from the chair in which she 
 had just seated herself, beside the gently 
 flickering fire, and throwing aside the news 
 paper at which she had carelessly glanced, 
 came and stood before him on the other side 
 of the table. Gray hairs were discoverable in 
 the crisp waves of her black locks her maid 
 had at one time attempted their extraction, but 
 had been somewhat peremptorily ordered to 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 73 
 
 desist and a few small wrinkles might have 
 been discerned about her eyes and the corners 
 of her mouth when it was motionless, the 
 strange fixity of expression peculiar to her 
 making Time s delicate intaglio the more evi 
 dent. But she was still a strangely beautiful 
 woman. Although her complexion had not the 
 freshness of extreme youth, there was in her 
 face a ruddy color the color of vigorous, un 
 troubled health that was almost a compen- 
 sating, quality ; and the brilliancy of her eyes, 
 which had not known, and evidently never 
 would know, diminution or change until the 
 last, gave her face a youthful vividness, and 
 often a quick animation, in spite of its habit 
 ual coldness of expression. As she stood with 
 the light full upon her, as strongly erect as she 
 had stood, when Ethel Burdyne, at her first 
 ball, it hardly could seem possible that she 
 had been the wife of Robert Pruden for four 
 teen years marrying him at twenty-three with 
 the full consent of her family and the unquali 
 fied approbation of the town. 
 
 " Will that hateful old story never die ? " she 
 exclaimed, impatiently. " Of course you will 
 refuse to see him ? " 
 
 " I cannot very well do that," answered Pru- 
 
74 A DEEDLES8 DRAMA 
 
 den ; " but I can refuse to accede to what he 
 probably wishes." 
 
 " You can ; you must," she answered. " Rob 
 ert, you would not do such a thing you know 
 that you would not. There are too many rea 
 sons why Mr. Harding, enemy though he may 
 have been for a very long time, and political 
 opponent though he now is, should be well 
 treated by you." 
 
 " But is this really just ? " remonstrated Prti- 
 den, a little petulantly. " A man should suffer 
 for his misdeeds ; and if another profits by his 
 suffering, it is but a part of his penalty." 
 
 " Are you sure that he was guilty ? " she 
 asked, with the manner of one who puts an 
 often-repeated question. 
 
 "I could not prove it, you know," he re 
 plied ; " but every indication at the time point 
 ed to his guilt, and popular opinion univer 
 sally condemned him." 
 
 "But nothing was ever established," she 
 said, wearily, and with the slow, lagging words 
 of ineffectual repetition. " Would you profit 
 by a doubt?" 
 
 She had urged the same point so often, re 
 peated the same arguments so frequently dur 
 ing the past few weeks. 
 
A DEEDLES8 DRAMA 75 
 
 " You know that I have refused to have the 
 story used. But I hesitate I doubt some 
 times " 
 
 "Kobert," she interrupted, and there was 
 something in her voice that startled even her 
 self, " you are certain of your success ; you can 
 afford to be magnanimous. The day after to 
 morrow will be election-day ; you are sure to 
 be elected. Do not let the value of your vic 
 tory be lessened in your own estimation by the 
 knowledge that an unjust, and certainly an un 
 generous action may have contributed toward 
 it ; do not make another s defeat the more bit 
 ter by the fact that perhaps it has been, in a 
 manner, brought about by the imputation of a 
 fault of which perhaps he was never guilty." 
 
 " You always plead for him," said Pruden, 
 angrily, as one thin wrinkle struck across his 
 smooth, white forehead, and his full, pink lips 
 gathered in quick contraction. 
 
 " You know I do not," she answered, with 
 the remnant of an almost outworn indignation 
 in her tone. " Why do you always accuse me 
 of it ? Cannot you believe me ? I plead for 
 you for you, yourself. You have so far re 
 sisted a temptation ; do not yield to it now." 
 
 " If it had been any other man, would you 
 
76 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 have been so eager so earnest ? " continued 
 Pruden, looking, at her and then glancing 
 away. His eyes were small, and the steadi 
 ness of his gaze had only given them an expres 
 sion of anxious and suspicious incredulity. 
 
 " You have asked me that before you have 
 asked it of me a dozen times in the last month. 
 Why have you done so ? " 
 
 " Because," he replied, in a voice that would 
 have been gibing had it not been apologetic, 
 and with an expression that might have been 
 sneering had; it not been one of fearfulness, 
 " because a woman always has a weakness for 
 the man who once loved her because " 
 
 " Robert," she said, in the measured tone of 
 conscious repression, " you are a good man and 
 I am a good woman. "We can afford to speak 
 the truth. Fifteen years ago James Harding 
 sought to marry me. I married you. Can 
 not you forget that he was your rival ? Does 
 the fact that he is your opponent now so em 
 bitter you that you misjudge him and me? 
 In the last few clays, in look and tone, in words 
 even, you have implied that I have been watch 
 ful of his interests, more watchful than I 
 should have been of the interests of another. 
 Because I have asked you not to revive this 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 77 
 
 old scandal, you have insinuated more or less 
 clearly that I have not been true to you. Is 
 this fair, is it fitting, is it even dignified? 
 Have not all the years that we have lived to 
 gether led to something better more secure ? 
 Cannot you trust me ? Because you have hated 
 him, and he, as I suppose, has hated you, must 
 you, with wilful perversity, misrepresent cir 
 cumstances and lives ? " 
 
 " But " began Pruden, suspicious as are 
 those who are uncertain of themselves whose 
 self-doubt begets doubt of others. He paused, 
 beat his fingers softly on the table, and then 
 went on with greater boldness than he had 
 hitherto shown : " But he loved you once." 
 
 " I have understood the meaning underlying 
 your words," she said. " What I feared has 
 come. When you were nominated, and I 
 learned that you were to be the opponent of 
 Mr. Harding, I did what I could to dissuade 
 you from running against him." 
 
 " If my interests " commenced Pruden, 
 with the insistence of weakness. 
 
 " You know that I have always made your 
 interests mine," she interrupted, in her sudden 
 scorn letting her clear voice ring out with 
 something of its natural vigor. " After fourteen 
 
78 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 years, can you not trust me once ? I tried to 
 induce you to refuse the honor, as you called 
 it. I could give no reason ; I knew none. I 
 only vaguely feared trouble, and trouble has 
 come. Suspicion may exist, doubt may even 
 be ever present, but when neither has found 
 utterance people may live with dignity and 
 self-respect, if not with tranquillity and happi 
 ness. But let what each knows be once ac 
 knowledged by both, and all peace, all restraint 
 is at an end. What has been said once will be 
 said again ; both will live but in apprehension 
 of its repetition. You taunt me with the fact 
 that James Harding loved me ; you will next 
 accuse me of having loved him. No two, quar 
 relling in a hovel, could really be more rudely 
 explicit than we should become ; and though 
 our language might be better, our lives would 
 really be as squalid." 
 
 She paused and glanced down at her hus 
 band as he sat at the table. 
 
 James Harding and Eobert Pruden had 
 journeyed through life with orbits constantly 
 crossing and recrossing in one of those com 
 pulsory relations which sometimes seem inexor 
 ably imposed upon human beings, and which 
 
,4 DEEDLESS DRAMA 79 
 
 they no more can change, however discon 
 tented they may be, than a dissatisfied planet 
 can change its system. Of nearly the same age, 
 and born to nearly equal positions and fortunes, 
 their lives had been so much alike in circum 
 stance as to invite comparison, and their names 
 had always been inseparably bracketed in the 
 public mind. 
 
 It is not only between the patrician families 
 of a picturesque Verona, that personal feuds 
 arise that involve families and communities as 
 well as individuals. Race hatreds that have ex 
 isted for a greater or less time are to be found 
 in all our cities, and, though they may not be 
 carried on as frankly and as bloodily as in 
 other places and other times, they are really 
 hardly less bitter. They may not be fought 
 out with the sword thrust and parry in the 
 moonlit streets ; but they certainly are very 
 vigorously prosecuted in the drawing-room and 
 across the dinner-table with the tongue s give 
 and take. 
 
 Once, "before the war," the Hardings and 
 the Prudens had been friends ; and in child 
 hood and boyhood Pruden and Harding had 
 lived in the compulsory intimacy of a limited 
 society. Whether they had been really friends 
 
80 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 they could themselves hardly have said ; often 
 those who are by circumstances much thrown 
 together acquire a habit of intercourse that 
 very effectively replaces actual congeniality, 
 and enables them to go on without the neces 
 sity of questioning the exact nature of their 
 relations. Although they were social equals, 
 the quality, so to speak, of their families po 
 sitions was very different. Pruden, the elder, 
 had always affected a certain simplicity of life 
 and austerity of manner that marked him as a 
 zealous upholder of most things called con 
 servative, and had already, in that remote time, 
 won for him the appellation of " old-fashioned." 
 Harding, on the other hand, had, as far as was 
 possible in that unvitalized period, led the 
 lighter life of the larger world ; had rather de 
 spised Pruden s " puritanical " prejudices ; had 
 married a Harpending ; had been wise in wine 
 and "horse," and, before anyone else in the 
 city, had put his coachman in livery. Young 
 Pruden was an exemplary student, rejoicing in 
 an examination and scenting a prize from afar, 
 a " dig " and a " grind ; " but young Harding 
 found the pons asinorum a " Bridge of Sighs," 
 and with difficulty had advanced with Xeno- 
 phon even the regulation number of parasangs 
 
A DEEDLES8 DRAMA 81 
 
 a day. But he could ride more lightly, run 
 more swiftly, and swim more strongly than 
 any of his companions. When Pruden spoke 
 of Harding s son it was as " that young sav 
 age ; " while Harding designated his friend s 
 offspring as "the bookworm." 
 
 At Harvard, Harding was the first marshal 
 of his class ; Pruden delivered the oration. 
 Both men had inherited fortunes and were 
 really independent ; but society at that time 
 demanded at least an ostensible occupation, 
 and after graduation, on their return home to 
 assume the responsibilities of their positions, 
 both became active partners in a firm of long 
 standing, whose founders were all dead except 
 one Christopher Burdyne the father of Ethel 
 Burdyne. 
 
 The men fell apart. Harding made idleness, 
 which had hitherto been regarded with abso 
 lute disfavor in the place, possible, if not dis 
 tinguished, and really revolutionized much of 
 the life of the town, making its society, for 
 better or worse, a more accurate counterpart of 
 the life of larger and older places. Mankind 
 always demands a leader, the living exponent 
 of an idea, some one to whom it is possible to 
 point and say : "Behold, this is an example of 
 6 
 
82 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 all that is admirable." Prnden without ef 
 fort, and unavoidably, became the representa 
 tive of those who felt themselves aggrieved by 
 young Harding s mode of life found himself 
 advanced as the exemplar of the principles of 
 the more staid members of the community. 
 He was scrupulous in his attention to " busi 
 ness ; " systematic in his charities ; accurate in 
 every conventional observance. Respectable 
 heads of families held him up as a pattern of 
 all that was desirable for their sons, and worthy 
 matrons welcomed him effusively as a partner 
 for their daughters. But there was many a 
 radiant young sovereign of the ball-room, 
 reigning by true right divine, who smiled on 
 young Harding, and hardly a spirited younker 
 in town who was not his friend. 
 
 The almost imperceptible but inevitable dis 
 integration of time took place ; then the most 
 sudden and absolute fracture possible occurred 
 that cleavage that can separate the closest- 
 bound lives, the firmest friendships. Both 
 men fell in love, and the woman both loved 
 was the same. Had it been another than she, 
 the dormant, unrecognized antipathy that had 
 so long existed might not have so suddenly 
 developed into open, active animosity; but 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 83 
 
 both loved Ethel Burdyne, and such result was 
 inevitable. She was not a woman to be loved 
 half-heartedly. He who had once felt the power 
 of her dark glance was as little able to free 
 himself from its subversive influence as it was 
 once supposed the tarantula-bitten wretch was 
 to escape from the effect of the venomous sting. 
 And it was a pretty dance she led her victims 
 a wild tarantism, from which they neither 
 sought nor desired freedom. Her careless, 
 girlish arrogance drove Harding, with his more 
 excitable nature, to desperation ; with Pruden 
 her calm capriciousness was only a needed ex 
 citant, animating but not overmastering him. 
 His love, however, played strange havoc with 
 his well-formulated beliefs and well-grounded 
 prejudices ; it came across his life like a tu 
 multuous gust of wind sweeping across liis 
 well-kept desk, mixing and confusing all his 
 carefully arranged ideas, as the invading puff 
 might his perfectly ordered papers. 
 
 Harding was in difficulty, and his present 
 infatuation seemed only to make him the more 
 reckless. There was talk of dissipated faculties 
 and wasted opportunities ; there were whispers 
 of large losses at play. That he was embar 
 rassed for want of money was well known ; al- 
 
84 A DEEDLE88 DRAMA 
 
 though he had but a short time before pos 
 sessed ample means, it was understood that he 
 was borrowing largely. 
 
 Sometimes it is a great thing, sometimes a 
 very small one, but sooner or later, although 
 often unaccountably delayed, something hap 
 pens that is the culmination of a cumulative 
 series of events, and that characterizes all that 
 has gone before and all that comes afterward. 
 One morning about " the streets," and one af 
 ternoon at the club, there was a strange rumor. 
 Burdyne, Harding & Pruden, it was said, had 
 been robbed of a large sum of money. "Where 
 the story started no one could tell ; but, with 
 all the strange amplitude of detail of undefined 
 report, it was in men s mouths, and thenceforth, 
 was, within even the lives of generations, never 
 to be driven from men s minds. That a large 
 sum had been stolen from fifty to a hundred 
 thousand dollars no one doubted. The night 
 before it had been in the firm s vault ; in the 
 morning it was gone. The lock was intact ; the 
 great door was untouched. But the drawer in 
 which the money had been was empty. Only 
 the members of the firm possessed a key that 
 would open the complicated lock, or knew the 
 " sesame " of the " combination ; " and yet the 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 85 
 
 money was undoubtedly missing. When old 
 Mr. Burdyne was incidentally questioned, he 
 only shook his head and admitted that the firm 
 had sustained a considerable loss ; interviewed 
 by the representative of an enterprising news 
 paper, he confessed that the matter was under 
 investigation. Neither Harding nor Prudent 
 would say anything, and all that was ever pub 
 licly known was what had come into common 
 knowledge at the very first. Finally, with de 
 creasing speculation, the affair ceased actively 
 to occupy the general attention ; but from that 
 morning Harding was a marked man by the 
 irresponsible tribunals of the counting-room 
 and smoking-room he had been as irrevocably 
 condemned as was ever a criminal by judge or 
 jury. But little was ever said that he could 
 hear ; it is doubtful if he could have described 
 any change in the manner of those whom he 
 daily met ; but from that moment he was in a 
 measure an outcast a man out of full and per 
 fect communion, with his kind. He was a man 
 with a story. Such men are to be found every 
 where, often apparently enjoying the esteem of 
 many and the confidence of all ; but let even a 
 stranger look a little more closely or observe a 
 little longer existing conditions, and he will de- 
 
86 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 tect, as to such a one, marked differences and 
 reservations. He is the man with a history ; at 
 his heels drags an invisible but impeding ball 
 and chain, and on his wrists are undiscernible 
 manacles ; unconsciously his eyes fall in antici 
 pation of the condemnatory glance ; unavoid 
 ably his tongue hesitates as if fearful of rebuff, 
 for, even if innocent, he cannot preserve the 
 frankness and freedom of unsuspected integrity. 
 What is said of him may not be true, and he 
 may know it ; but it has been said, and no words 
 graven on monumental brass or cut in memorial 
 marble are more enduring than those recorded 
 in grave or light character on the public mind 
 no conviction so absolute and without appeal 
 as that pronounced by the public voice. 
 
 Harding was at first indifferent, then actively 
 and proudly rebellious ready to suspect af 
 front and resentful of any imagined insult 
 then dully resigned. What could he do against 
 the many ? He might convince one in a thou 
 sand, but, with their wide dissemination, could 
 he ever hope to destroy the wide-spread plague- 
 germs of scandal, the microbes of defamation ? 
 
 Men forgot in the press of newer matters to 
 discuss the ugly story ; but there was not one 
 whose first thought at sight of Harding was not 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 87 
 
 of the robbery. After a while the subject was 
 absolutely stricken out of the list of the day s 
 topics ; then, it was revived for a time, when it 
 was known that the firm of Burdyne, Harding 
 & Pruden had been dissolved ; and again was 
 less actively taken up when it was learned that 
 Pruden was to marry Ethel Burdyne. A decade 
 passed ; the place changed and the people, but 
 the story was not quite forgotten. It lingered 
 in the memory of many of the townspeople, 
 gaining something in romantic interest by the 
 flight of time, in much the same manner as the 
 town-pump that had once stood in the main 
 street, a plain and unpretentious affair, had in 
 unrecognized association acquired a certain pict- 
 uresqueness. Harding s story became one of 
 the legends of the place. As another genera 
 tion began its life, it was whispered in attentive 
 ears, and heard almost as eagerly as on the 
 morning when it was new. Harding himself 
 had changed. Levity and carelessness were 
 gone ; an unvarying and disdainful reserve had 
 taken the place of his former blithe bonhomie. 
 His manner of life changed. He who had been 
 the most flippant idler became an unquestion 
 able hard worker absorbed in affairs and ap 
 parently without other thought than gain. He 
 
88 A DEEDLE8S DRAMA 
 
 greatly prospered, gathering to himself a huge 
 fortune ; and men looked almost with awe upon 
 the man whom no turn of a market ever found 
 unprepared. Harding s party, in the minority 
 in the place, sought a candidate. His popular 
 ity was an uncertain quantity, but his riches 
 were indubitable. If the spoils of victory were 
 not to be won, the pickings of the " campaign " 
 were not to be despised. He was nominated, 
 and, to the surprise of everyone, he accepted 
 the nomination. 
 
 There was a moment s silence in the room 
 where Pruden sat before his wife ; then he 
 laughed irritably. He laughed very frequently ; 
 sometimes excitedly, often embarrassedly, oc 
 casionally exultingly. It was a peculiarity to 
 which Ethel had never become resigned ; and 
 she dreaded inexpressibly that inopportune, 
 boisterous laughter, boyish without boyishness, 
 breaking out in some loud guffaw at some silly 
 joke, covering some new gaucherie, rejoicing 
 over some small point gained. Often some lit 
 tle habit, at first almost . unnoticed, will, by its 
 persistence, thrust itself upon the attention of 
 one who is obliged to live with its possessor, 
 and, in the course of time, become a terrible 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 89 
 
 infliction. It may be only a very small thing, 
 but sometimes, where a previous and prevailing 
 fondness does not exist, it starts, fosters, and 
 perfects a hatred such as the discovery of crime 
 could not have occasioned. With morbid ex 
 pectancy the sufferer watches for the recurrence 
 of the distasteful thing, unable to drive away 
 the consciousness of its coming, and proximity 
 becomes a prolonged dread. Such a thing in a 
 measure was Pruden s laugh to Ethel ; it had 
 from the first jarred upon her ; in time it be 
 came almost physically disagreeable. Now it 
 seemed almost unendurable. 
 
 " I speak seriously," she said, " and for the 
 future. Kobert," she went on, picking up a 
 paper-knife, an imitation dagger whose bright 
 blade gleamed viciously in her firm grasp, " you 
 have been tempted, and you have resisted no 
 bly. How great the inducement must have 
 been to take advantage of what chance offered 
 to you I can understand, all must understand. 
 You had only to consent to the use of the story 
 as a campaign measure to injure James Hard 
 ing and advance your own interests. With all 
 the pressure brought to bear upon you and I 
 know what it has been you have refused to do 
 so. I honor you for it ; all must honor you for 
 
90 A DEEDLE8S DRAMA 
 
 it. I said a moment ago that you were a good 
 man. You have always been very good to 
 me 
 
 She paused, and the little knife dropped from 
 her hand with a sharp, metallic ring upon the 
 table. 
 
 " And yet," he said, slowly, " you never have 
 loved me." 
 
 She looked down at Pruden, who, with his 
 diffident indirectness of glance, seemed rather 
 one accused than one accusing. 
 
 " I knew it always," he added, almost plain 
 tively, " but I have always hoped that I might 
 overcome your your indifference. I have done 
 what I could, and now it seems that your 
 aversion 
 
 " No, no," she interrupted. 
 
 He hesitated as if he expected her to speak 
 farther, but she said nothing. 
 
 " At all events, your affection is as far beyond 
 my attainment as ever," he went on. " James 
 Harding 
 
 " Must his name be used must we speak of 
 him?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Pruden, with that apathy 
 with which much that is most vital can be said 
 when it has been long thought. " You would 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 91 
 
 have married James Harding if you had not 
 thought him unworthy had not known him to 
 be a " 
 
 "No," she interrupted, almost fiercely, "I 
 never thought it, and you shall not say it." 
 
 " You defend him now, even when you know 
 him indefensible," he said, with jealous readi 
 ness. 
 
 " I defend him as I would any stranger I be 
 lieved unjustly accused." 
 
 " If you believed him innocent why did you 
 not marry him ? " he demanded, forgetful of 
 all self-control and with that abject curiosity of 
 the jealous, who stop at no self-abasement to 
 learn what they desire to know. 
 
 She smiled a little sadly. 
 
 " I married you," she answered. " Have you 
 any reason to suppose that it was not because 
 I wished to do so ? " 
 
 " No," he replied, sullenly. 
 
 " And I have loved you, Robert." 
 
 " Love ! " he said, almost as if in soliloquy. 
 "Yes," and he smiled with a certain patient 
 resignation that was not without dignity, " you 
 have loved me. I know. But how have you 
 loved me ? The best love is given in spite of 
 all reason ; it was reason alone that accredited 
 
92 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 me to you, otherwise you would not have mar 
 ried me. You never have you never could 
 have loved me, with that other love. The 
 thought that I could not win what was given to 
 a worthless idler was exasperation to me. I ex 
 ulted in his downfall. I " 
 
 " You do not know he did it," she said, with 
 the same tone of mechanical reiteration with 
 which she had urged the possibility of Hard- 
 ing s innocence before as if she were fulfilling 
 some duty so habitual as to be almost uncon 
 sciously performed. 
 
 "We dissolved the firm upon that suppo 
 sition," he said, " choosing to lose the money 
 rather than prosecute an associate. I firmly be 
 lieve that he did the thing, and with the dis 
 like hatred that I have always had for him, 
 it has been very difficult for me to refrain from 
 doing something that many would think only 
 natural. I have had nothing to lose and much 
 to gain." 
 
 " If you had done otherwise you would have 
 lost in the consideration of all thoughtful 
 people. You could prove nothing you could 
 only vilify ; and in refraining from doing that, 
 you have the consciousness that you have been 
 an honorable gentleman." 
 
A DEEDLE88 DRAMA 93 
 
 " I have not done it ; I have been weak, at 
 times, but I have not done it. This temptation 
 has been nearly the measure of my power. I 
 cannot imagine an added element that would 
 make it greater; but were it possible that it 
 should be greater I hope you will understand 
 what I have done I could not have resisted 
 it. 
 
 He paused, for he had spoken with an in 
 tensity unusual with him, and he appeared al 
 most physically exhausted. 
 
 "The better part of our lives is past," he 
 resumed, in a moment. " If we have not been 
 joyously successful, we have at least been de 
 cently peaceful. I do not mean to say any dis 
 tressing or disturbing things now. We have 
 gone too far for that. I have tried to do the 
 best for you, in my way another way might 
 have made you happier, perhaps, but I was un 
 equal to it or did not know. That I could not 
 do better, I am sorry. I do not blame you for 
 anything. I understand now how hard you 
 have tried too in your way." 
 
 " We have not done so very badly, Robert," 
 she answered, kindly. "I think we are not 
 exactly people for tremor and transport ; and 
 if we have missed a little of the intoxication, 
 
94 A DEEDLES8 DRAMA 
 
 we are not now of an age when we should re 
 gret it. Believe me," and she spoke with even 
 regretful tenderness, " no one could have been 
 kinder, more considerate, more forbearing." 
 
 She held out her hand to him across the 
 table, and, taking it clumsily in both his own, 
 he shyly kissed it. 
 
II. 
 
 As Harding closed and locked the door of 
 his private office, shutting out the discordant 
 hum of voices that filled the crowded rooms 
 beyond, the stamp of hurried feet, the grating 
 noise of chairs shoved abruptly back or drawn 
 hastily forward over the wooden floor as he 
 removed the newspaper from the pocket in 
 which he had so hastily thrust it when it had 
 first been brought to him, he felt that re 
 lief that is often given by the consciousness 
 that the period of suspense is finally ended, 
 that the long -dreaded blow has at last fall 
 en, that the worst that can be has come. He 
 stepped to the window and unfolded the scant 
 leaves. The Multiple was only a penny pa 
 per, and hardly indicative in its appearance of 
 its large circulation and wide influence. He 
 glanced along the columns of the first page, 
 and instantly the article he sought caught his 
 eyes. Double - leaded and with heavy black 
 heading, the lines that he had dreaded every 
 
96 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 morning and evening to find in some hostile 
 sheet stood conspicuous. He bit his lower 
 lip, as was a habit with him, and his fingers 
 tightened slightly upon the common hard pa 
 per upon which The Multiple was printed, 
 causing the coarse fabric to crackle with an 
 almost malicious sharpness. Still he did not 
 at once read the words staring him in the face ; 
 he only looked vacantly out and through the 
 dust-dimmed pane. He was anxious, fever 
 ishly, fearfully anxious, to gather the full im 
 port of the dreaded sentences, but still he 
 weakly postponed the moment of full realiza 
 tion. If comprehension could only be reached 
 without reading the detestable phrases, word 
 after word ! 
 
 The window looked upon the courtyard of 
 the great building his own the " Harding 
 Building," in which were his offices, as were 
 also the offices, story on story, of nearly every 
 important professional man or considerable 
 corporation in town a building from which 
 he drew the revenue of a German principality, 
 and that was a boast for the inhabitants and 
 a jest for the dwellers in rival and envious 
 cities. It was a little later than noon. The 
 telegraph and telephone wires, extending from 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 97 
 
 roof to roof in bewildering confusion, cast thick 
 shadows on the walls and pavement, so thick 
 and strong that, looking only at them, you 
 might have imagined that innumerable heavy 
 cables had been stretched across the space for 
 the aerial performance of a troop of tight-rope 
 dancers. Dully the sound of the jarring wheels 
 rose from the street, vaguely the cries of the 
 small traffickers of the sidewalk rose to the se 
 cluded room. The business-day was at its me 
 ridian ; the business- world supremely active 
 that world in which latterly he had solely lived, 
 and which he had come to know so well. He 
 was upon his own ground, in secure possession 
 upon an often contested field ; with his massed 
 millions, what could harm him ? But even as 
 he sought to assure himself he almost trem 
 bled. He understood the cowardly cruelty of 
 the many, and knew that a bold assault like 
 the present would be followed by almost end 
 less guerilla warfare. 
 
 He grasped the paper still tighter, and 
 looked again at the article. 
 
 " He has done it at last," Harding muttered. 
 " I knew he would. The chance was too good 
 for him to lose. The sanctimonious hypocrite ! " 
 
 He had only half an hour before learned that 
 7 
 
98 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 the attack upon him had appeared. No one 
 had dared to tell him of this, and it was only 
 when Plestero, entering the committee-rooms, 
 had, with the innocence of fatuity and the 
 hardihood of folly, made joking allusion to 
 it, that Harding learned that what he dreaded 
 most in the world had happened. There, at 
 last, it all was, in black and white the old, 
 old miserable story, with dates, names, and 
 even the amount confidently given. He read, 
 almost in one comprehensive glance, then with 
 a quick, indignant exclamation, that ended in 
 an oath, he tore the paper across and cast it 
 on the floor. He was so helpless, and he knew 
 it ; so friendless, and he fully realized it. Be 
 fore this accusation, that had been gathering 
 force for fifteen years, he must remain silent. 
 He felt "cornered" at bay and something 
 of the anguish and brute anger of a trapped 
 and desperate animal rose in his heart, arous 
 ing every instinct of self - preservation and 
 every impulse of revenge. 
 
 He turned and walked across the floor. 
 There are times in the lives of the best of us 
 when, shirk the fact as we may, if the weapon 
 of destruction were in our grasp we would not 
 put it away. Well it is indeed that means are 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 99 
 
 not always responsive to desire. To Harding, 
 as he paced the room, nature seemed a hostile, 
 threatening thing, and mankind a personal en 
 emy ; in his fierce revolt no act of retaliation 
 would have appeared a crime. 
 
 There was a knock at the door. 
 
 With election on the day after the morrow, 
 all had business with him, and none could be 
 refused. 
 
 " Come in," he cried, and then he turned the 
 key and instinctively stood with his back to 
 the light. 
 
 " A young man who wishes to see you, sir," 
 said the clerk, as he entered. " I ve tried to 
 get rid of him, but he won t go. He says he 
 has something most important to say." 
 
 " Well," responded Harding, sharply. 
 
 The man closed the door softly, but in a mo 
 ment it was again opened and another figure 
 stood upon the threshold. With one hand up 
 on the handle the new-comer steadied himself 
 and looked vaguely around. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Harding," he said, 
 rather huskily, but still intelligibly enough. 
 
 It sometimes happens that we meet people 
 who are so perfectly " dressed " for their too 
 
100 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 evident character that they almost impress us 
 with a sense of unreality. It almost seems that 
 they are " doing it on purpose," so exactly are 
 their habiliments such as we should expect to 
 find upon a clever actor representing what they 
 clearly are. The young man who stood in the 
 doorway was so consummate a personification 
 of the species " tough," that he was almost 
 ludicrous in his exactitude. He seemed, as it 
 were, some grotesque caricature of himself. 
 
 " Mornin , Mr. Harding ! " he went on. 
 
 " Good-morning." 
 
 "I hate to take your time," he continued, 
 " as the man said when he annexed the other 
 fellow s watch. But I believe in going to head 
 quarters straight, and so I came to you." 
 
 Harding did not speak. 
 
 " I suppose you don t know who I am." He 
 took one step into the room, with his hand 
 still on the door-handle. 
 
 " Perhaps I do," answered Harding. " I am 
 very much occupied ; if you have anything to 
 say I hope you will say it." 
 
 " But if I told you I was the son of Colby, 
 the book-keeper of the firm of Burdyne, Hard 
 ing & Pruden, perhaps you might think there 
 was some reason for talking to me." 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 101 
 
 Colby glanced over his shoulder at the clerk 
 who stood behind him. 
 
 " A confidential communication," he said. 
 
 Harding nodded, and the clerk disappeared. 
 
 Moved as he was by what he had just read, 
 the immediate mention of the name of the old 
 firm affected him strangely ; it seemed, coming 
 as it did in such close connection, some mock 
 ing play of fate, and it was with an unusual 
 sense of excitement that he spoke. 
 
 "I remember your father very well, Mr. 
 Colby," he said. "He was a very worthy man, 
 and had the respect of all who knew him. He 
 died, I think, about five years ago and I am 
 unable to see " 
 
 "Don t accelerate the conversation, Mr. 
 Harding, or, in other words, don t go too fast. 
 I ve heard it said that dead men tell no tales. 
 Well, it ain t true. They talk sometimes, and 
 then they talk loud." 
 
 He winked at Harding, at the same time 
 slightly elevating his chin. 
 
 " It s true he died five years ago," continued 
 Colby, " but, just before, he freed his mind of 
 something that I thought perhaps you d like 
 to hear." 
 
 " Yes," said Harding, with almost tremulous 
 
102 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 anxiety. Excited as he was, there seemed 
 something terrifying in the appositeness of the 
 incident. 
 
 "Mr. Harding," said Colby, carefully closing 
 the door, " you never stole that money." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean you never stole that money be 
 cause another man did it." 
 
 Harding sank into the chair beside which he 
 stood. 
 
 " And I ve got the way to prove it." 
 
 Harding did not speak. Not for an instant 
 did he doubt the truth of what was said. After 
 his involuntary acquiescence in the probability 
 of what had seemed impossible, he was pre 
 pared to believe anything. 
 
 Colby advanced a step or two further into 
 the room. 
 
 " I have my father s statement all regular 
 and sworn to proving who stole that money, 
 and it wasn t you, Mr. Harding." 
 
 Still Harding said nothing. 
 
 " When I saw that thing in the paper this 
 morning, I thought I d better act. The old 
 gentleman was always unwilling that the truth 
 should come out, for some reason; but it lay 
 on his mind, and just before he died he wrote 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 103 
 
 it down. I m hard up, or, rather, hard down, 
 for I ve touched my lowest level my last cent. 
 I ve got to raise the wind, I wouldn t mind if 
 it blew a Western cyclone, and I thought that, 
 all things considered, you might be willing to 
 help turn on the breeze." 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 " I m not particular. I only want money. 
 Give me enough, and I ll give you the means 
 of fixing old Pruden so that he ll not squeal 
 again." 
 
 "Pruden?" 
 
 "It was he stole that money see here." 
 And drawing a paper from his pocket he began 
 to read from it : " Being upon the point of 
 quitting this world, and wishing to have noth 
 ing upon my soul, I make the following state- 
 inent, earnestly hoping that it may never be 
 used to the detriment of any of the persons 
 concerned, all of whom have treated me with 
 unvarying kindness, and none of whom I would 
 desire to injure. Still, as the truth is always 
 desirable and certain in the end to be bene 
 ficial, I now say what I do. On the night of 
 June 15, 18 , the night of the robbery of the 
 firm of Burdyne, Harding & Pruden, I had re 
 turned to the office to complete some work that 
 
104 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 was pressing upon me. I was the confidential 
 clerk of the firm, and had a key that admitted 
 me to the offices at any time. It was late at 
 night when I finished what I had to do, and I 
 had turned out the gas preparatory to leaving, 
 when I heard a slight noise in the next room. 
 I was an old man even at that time, and I was 
 timorous. I thought that it would be best for 
 me to conceal myself, and then if anything 
 happened I could later give the alarm. I saw 
 a figure enter the room in which I was. I saw 
 the person, whose features the darkness did 
 not then permit me to distinguish, grope his 
 way to the safe and open it. For some time 
 he rummaged among the papers, but evidently 
 not being able to find what he sought, he drew 
 what I supposed to be a match-case from his 
 pocket and lit a match. I saw Kobert Pruden 
 standing before that safe as clearly as I ever 
 saw any man in my life ; I saw him extract a 
 small bundle from it ; saw him close the door, 
 blow out the match, make his way back across 
 the room. I " 
 
 " Your father wrote that ? " said Harding. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Let me see it." 
 
 " You can look at it," said Colby, holding up 
 
A DEED LESS DRAMA 105 
 
 the paper so that Harding could see the writ 
 ing across the large office-table. 
 
 There could be no doubt about its authen 
 ticity ; there, in old Colby s clerkly characters, 
 in that handwriting he knew almost as well as 
 his own, were the words that had just been 
 read to him. 
 
 " The thing s worth a gold mine to you," said 
 Colby. 
 
 " It is evidently only a question with you of 
 how much money you can get? " said Harding, 
 with interrogatory inflection. 
 
 " Oh, how much ain t for me to say. I m 
 not here to bargain. There ain t no market- 
 price on such things, and the amount is bound 
 to vary according to the purchaser. I ve got 
 something here that s to be got nowhere else 
 I m the only shop dealing in just this kind of 
 goods ; it s a fancy article, and I naturally look 
 to get money for it. Now, just you say what 
 you think it s worth to you, and then " 
 
 Harding did not answer, but, stepping to a 
 desk, he hurriedly filled out a check. 
 
 " There," he said, turning and holding out 
 the narrow slip of paper. "Not a cent more." 
 
 A quick gleam of satisfied covetousness 
 shone for an instant in young Colby s dull eyes. 
 
106 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 " It don t take gentlemen long to understand 
 one another, does it ? " he said, with the first 
 respectful intonation his voice had held. 
 
 " I think that is all." 
 
 " I think," answered Colby, with a nervous 
 laugh, " that we ll call this little matter ended 
 and part friends." 
 
 Few things in life had power to awe him, 
 but the ability of a man to draw his check for 
 such an amount abashed and, without question, 
 filled him with an admiration and reverence 
 that hardly any other manifestation of human 
 power could have caused. 
 
 " Go, then, and " began Harding, with a 
 
 gesture of dismissal "take that side-door; 
 you need not go back through the offices." 
 
 With an utter absence of the jaunty confi 
 dence with which he had entered, Colby opened 
 the door to which Harding pointed. 
 
 " I d thank you," he faltered, " only I know 
 that obligations are mutual." 
 
 And he was gone. 
 
 It had not been difficult for Harding to keep 
 himself from any undue exhibition of his per 
 turbation during the interview, so surprisingly 
 brief for one of such moment ; his very excite 
 ment, in raising him, as it were, to a higher 
 
A DEEDLE88 DRAMA 107 
 
 level of emotion, had made all his words and 
 actions accordant and consistent, and precluded 
 that abruptness that is generally the first indi 
 cation of unusual agitation. It happens but 
 rarely that a man experiences so absolute a 
 change of feeling in so short a time. But ten 
 minutes before he had felt the outrage of un 
 just accusation -an accusation that, after hav 
 ing been almost mute for years, had at last, 
 when patience was exhausted and power of en 
 durance almost lost, found condensed and effec 
 tive utterance at a time when of all others it 
 was most calculated to do him serious harm ; 
 ten minutes before he had felt the blind wrath 
 of his utter powerlessness that wrath that, 
 springing from a sense of injustice done, makes 
 the human being eager to shake the support of 
 all things as the strong man did the pillars at 
 Dagon s feast, and involve himself and every 
 one in general destruction. It had all passed 
 so rapidly that as yet he hardly realized what 
 had really happened. Sitting at the desk on 
 which he had written the check, he let his 
 head fall upon his folded arms, unconscious of 
 the darkness of closed eyelids and the prison 
 ing grasp of his hands about his forehead, for 
 suddenly life seemed newly illumed, and his 
 
108 A DEEDLE8S DRAMA 
 
 spirit strangely free. Now, for the first time 
 in fifteen years, he experienced something of 
 the joy of unrestrained existence ; now seemed 
 able to meet the curious and accusative glances, 
 the expressive silences ; now he had a response 
 for every unasked question ; and now he felt 
 in anticipation the thrilling exultation of re 
 venge. A man does not live for fifteen years at 
 conscious variance with his kind without some 
 hardening of the heart, some embitterment of 
 the spirit, and Harding experienced now al 
 most the joy of a conqueror overcoming a 
 hostile race. He had been a successful man, 
 but all that he had won had been difficult of 
 acquirement ; and he felt a malevolent resent 
 ment against mankind who had made his life 
 so difficult, such as the miner may feel against 
 the obdurate soil, or a fisherman against the 
 cruel and baffling sea. Now all was changed. 
 As if at some incantation, in response to his 
 desire for vengeance, this ugly distortion of hu 
 manity had appeared and given into his hands 
 power as absolute as any invoked and willing 
 demon could confer. Now he held the means 
 of reinstating himself, of ruining another, and 
 that other the one who had sought to injure 
 him. He thought, as he almost lay upon the 
 
A DEEDLE88 DRAMA 109 
 
 desk, that he could not act too quickly ; and 
 yet he did not stir. 
 
 Again there was a knock at the door connect 
 ing with the other offices. 
 
 He did not even raise his head. 
 
 The knock was repeated. 
 
 At his sudden command, the clerk who had 
 before appeared again entered. 
 
 "There is a lady in the outer room who 
 wishes to speak to you, sir," said the man. 
 " She will not tell her business." 
 
 " Say I m engaged," answered Harding, per 
 emptorily. 
 
 The man hesitated. Something had evidently 
 impressed either his judgment or his imagina 
 tion, and he was visibly unwilling to depart 
 with such message of dismissal. He stood 
 mutely advocating the desired interview in the 
 silently expressive way known to all employees. 
 Unsettled, unnerved, unmanned as Harding 
 was, even such influence possessed strange co 
 ercive power. 
 
 "Let her come in," he said, impatiently. 
 " Bring her through the hall by the side-door." 
 
 The clerk disappeared, and almost on the 
 instant Harding had forgotten the interruption. 
 
110 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 His thoughts were busy again with the great 
 fact of his emancipation, and fancy was active 
 fashioning his probable future. In quick vis 
 ionary sequence he saw the scenes of the new 
 life that was before him a life of lessened re 
 pression and, in his freedom of action, of larger 
 attainment. With this stigma removed, what 
 might not be possible for him with this elec 
 tion gained, what high offices might not be open 
 to him ! 
 
 After a knock of warning a moment s pause 
 the door through which Colby had made his 
 exit opened, and a woman was ushered in by 
 the clerk. Her veil was so thick that even in a 
 stronger light it would have been impossible to 
 distinguish her features, and her drapery was 
 so voluminous as utterly to conceal her figure. 
 
 " I should like, Mr. Harding," she said, with 
 her voice only raised to half its usual power, 
 " to speak with you alone." 
 
 Harding s frame seemed suddenly to stiffen, 
 as the body of an animal stiffens after the 
 death-blow, and then as quickly relaxed. 
 
 " You may go," he said to the man. 
 
 Hardly had the door closed when he was on 
 his feet. 
 
 " Ethel ! " he cried. 
 
A DEEDLE88 DRAMA 111 
 
 " Yes," she answered, quietly and sadly, as 
 
 she unwound the veil that in its density seemed 
 
 almost a scarf. " Ethel Burdyne, when we 
 
 last spoke to each other alone, fifteen years ago 
 
 but not Ethel Burdyne now." 
 
 Harding stood looking curiously at her. 
 
 " It is a long time," she went on. " Why 
 have you not, in all that time, sought once to 
 talk with me ? " 
 
 " What had I to say ? Long ago I said all 
 that a man can say to a woman I said I loved 
 you. After that there is nothing more to say. 
 I have never had anything to add, nothing to 
 take away. I have lived, silent and as best I 
 might, the life that was left to me." 
 
 " I know," she said. " It is strange ; we have 
 lived in the same place ; at first we met in the 
 same drawing-rooms, sometimes at the same 
 dinner-tables, with only a formal word ; latterly 
 we have driven past each other in the street or 
 park with a hardly more formal bow. We have 
 been as much separated as if we were in dif 
 ferent zones. Has it been necessary ? Be 
 cause " 
 
 " Because you would not marry me no ; 
 because you did me a great wrong yes. Why 
 do you speak of all this ? Why " 
 
112 A DEED LESS DRAMA 
 
 11 Because I wish to remind you that it was 
 not always so. There was a time when we 
 could speak directly with mutual confidence. 
 We must do so again. We must speak as if 
 we were still friends." 
 
 " You ask me to remember ; you should ask 
 me to forget. When you have made my years 
 what they have been, when but I will not re 
 proach you even now. I should have won 
 you ; it is not the woman s fault if she is not 
 won. But fault or no fault, you see what my 
 life has been." 
 
 " A life successful, powerful." 
 
 " I am rich, influential, feared even ; but I 
 am more without a home than one of the horses 
 in my stables ; as much without human sym 
 pathy as a machine in one of my factories." 
 
 "But you might have all. Many another 
 since " 
 
 " It may be admirable or it may not, but I 
 cannot change. I have never been envious of 
 a nature that can vary. I lost you, by the in 
 justice " 
 
 " I know what you wish to say. Do not say 
 it do not accuse me ; I acknowledge my guilt 
 before the accusation. But if suffering " 
 
 " Then you know you did me wrong," he 
 
A DEED LESS DRAMA 113 
 
 cried, with a quick break of exultation in his 
 voice ; " that I was no thief ? " 
 
 They had spoken hurriedly with short sen 
 tences overlapping and breaking in upon each 
 other, like people speaking from dock and deck 
 when a vessel is rapidly borne away from the 
 shore. 
 
 " Yes," she answered. " But you do not 
 you cannot know all." She paused as one who 
 fears that the distracting influence of her emo 
 tion may lead her from a pre - established 
 course. " It is because of that hateful story 
 that miserable thing that I am here. I would 
 not have come for myself I would not have 
 come for yourself. It is only for another that 
 I came." 
 
 "For whom?" 
 
 "My husband," she replied. "This morn 
 ing I received a letter from an old woman to 
 whom I had done some kindnesses the wife 
 of a man named Colby, who was the book 
 keeper of your old firm in which she said 
 that her son, a man evidently utterly dissolute 
 and worthless, had stolen from her a statement 
 made by her husband, in which he accused my 
 husband of being the man who stole the money. 
 She said that she could only imagine that her 
 8 
 
114 A DEEDLES8 DRAMA 
 
 son intended to use the paper to obtain money 
 from you, and that because of the gratitude she 
 felt toward me, she wished to warn me. Has 
 any such person brought you such a paper ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Have you it now? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "You bought this stolen declaration you 
 paid this man money for it ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You intend to make use of it ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " James," she said, stepping toward him, 
 " you must not do it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because I ask you." 
 
 He laughed harshly, almost brutally. 
 
 " Do you know what you are saying do you 
 realize what you are asking me to give up? 
 Have you seen The Multiple this morning ? " 
 
 " What appeared in The Multiple was wholly 
 without my husband s knowledge or sanction. 
 I know that he has always refused to make use 
 of the scandal. He has resisted his temptation 
 nobly ; do you now resist yours." 
 
 The strange parallelism of her present posi 
 tion with that in which she had been placed in 
 
A DEEDLESS DRAMA 115 
 
 the morning bewildered her. Again she was 
 entreating a man to refrain from doing injury 
 to another, and again the injury from which 
 she besought a man to abstain was the same. 
 
 " His temptation ! " said Harding, and the 
 dense significance of the word seemed edged 
 with a burning scorn. "His temptation ! " he 
 repeated. " What was his temptation ? He is 
 honored, praised ; it would not add a particle to 
 the esteem in which he is held if he succeeded 
 in sinking me still lower than I am in public ap 
 preciation. In lowering me he would not raise 
 himself. Where was his temptation ? A temp 
 tation in which no active action was required 
 only mere abstinence. He had only to do 
 nothing, to lose nothing. Did he not know 
 that men must say, See how magnanimous he 
 is. Would he have acted as he has, if he had 
 been obliged to act without the world s knowl 
 edge of what was done, as I must if I do what 
 you wish ? What is offered to me if I yield ? 
 For years I have been a pariah my name 
 blackened by a shameful story. I am offered 
 liberation from more than physical bondage. I 
 have but to speak, and I am not only free, but 
 I am avenged. Do you think that, with my 
 nature, all these years have not made me 
 
116 A DEEDLE8S DRAMA 
 
 resentful not made me madly revengeful? 
 Can you believe that now, when, in the first 
 realization of a hope almost unhoped, I stand 
 ready to strike, I shall withhold the blow be 
 cause the woman who married him rather than 
 me although she be you asks me to do so ? " 
 
 " And yet," she said, steadily, " you will do 
 it." 
 
 He laughed again, a rattling laugh as hard 
 as the rattle of shaken dice. 
 
 "Will do it?" he repeated. "Either you 
 are mad or I. Will do it, because he did not 
 see fit to make use of a slander that lay ready 
 at his hand? Will do it, because when he 
 knew me innocent he did not choose to pro 
 claim rne guilty? We are all of us heroes, 
 then, if we only knew it, because we do not 
 bear false witness against our neighbors." 
 
 "But if he thought you guilty ? " 
 
 " That is impossible. How could he think 
 that I had done what he knew that he himself 
 did?" 
 
 " James," she said, " trust me. I have not 
 done so much for you that I can ask you to do 
 it as a right, but I ask it humbly of your gen 
 erosity. Do what I wish without further ques 
 tion ; and, believe me, if you understood all, 
 
A DEEDLE8S DRAMA 117 
 
 you would not repent it. As you once loved 
 me " 
 
 " There can be no light without shadow no 
 love without hate. I loved you once I almost 
 hate you now." 
 
 "James, James," she cried, coming nearer 
 to him, " will you drive me to it ? Will you 
 cruelly compel me " 
 
 " Should you expect mercy from me ? When 
 I was innocent you doubted me, and married 
 him who was really guilty." 
 
 " If I can urge nothing that can influence 
 you," she almost moaned, "I must tell you. 
 Robert Pruden never stole that money." 
 
 " How do you know? " 
 
 "Because I know that it was stolen by an 
 other." 
 
 " What other ? " he asked, in what was almost 
 a gasp. 
 
 " My father," she answered, looking him full 
 in the face. 
 
 For a moment neither moved nor spoke. 
 The hum of voices continued in the room be 
 yond, and from the distant street trembled up 
 the noise of traffic. But they heard nothing. 
 To both of them it seemed as if the every-day, 
 
118 A DEED LESS DRAMA 
 
 habitual world were far away, as foreign as it 
 might seem to the conscious dead. 
 
 " Now you know the truth," she continued, 
 lowering her voice. "Now you know why I 
 dared to come here. My suffering your suf 
 fering would not have brought me ; suffering 
 is perhaps our lot. The danger that threatened 
 another my husband a danger that could be 
 averted by me, was all that made me come it 
 was my duty. Long ago, before my father 
 died, I learned the truth from him ; in his re- 
 pentence for what he had done, he told me. 
 On the night the money was taken he was con 
 cealed in the office, waiting for Colby to finish 
 his work and go. He saw Robert Pruden open 
 the safe and remove some private papers. 
 When he was finally alone he unlocked the 
 safe and took the money. He had speculated 
 and lost. He hoped to return the money, but 
 the loss had been discovered, and when he was 
 able to act, it was too late. With his reputa 
 tion, he stood above suspicion ; you, with your 
 manner of life, laid yourself open to distrust 
 and were condemned. He could do nothing 
 except confess, and that he was never strong 
 enough to do. I never doubted you even when 
 I did not know the truth, or, if I did doubt, it 
 
A DEEDLE88 DRAMA 119 
 
 did not influence my feelings. But you were 
 proud, and from the first, when you knew that 
 you were suspected, you carried yourself with a 
 certain reserve. I perhaps should have sought 
 to make you understand me ; but then I did 
 not understand myself. A girl s pride for a 
 moment s pique she will not utter the word 
 that may assure a future. You held aloof, and 
 in time I married Robert Pruden. Now you 
 know all, and now you will not do what a mo 
 ment ago you threatened to do." 
 
 Again there was silence. 
 
 " No," said Harding, and the word edged its 
 way through his closed lips. " I will not be 
 stopped. Do you think that after the injustice 
 of years I shall be deterred by the fact that I 
 may be unjust ? The position, for all purposes 
 of freedom or revenge, is the same. I have 
 but to publish this statement. He cannot dis 
 prove it ; you will not speak, or if you do the 
 world would not heed you. They would say 
 that you were demented a daughter who be 
 trayed her father would be too unnatural and 
 even if you were believed, my end would be 
 gained ; I should be held innocent. I shall do 
 as I have been done by ; the accusation that 
 has been upon me for years will be transferred 
 
120 A DEEDLESS DRAMA 
 
 to him ; unjustly, perhaps, but why should I 
 alone suffer? " 
 
 " No, no," she exclaimed, " you cannot do 
 it." 
 
 "You spoke of temptations," he went on, 
 disregarding her. " What is my temptation 
 now ? How much harder is it for me to resist 
 doing this wrong than it was for him merely 
 to do something that was only fairly right ? If 
 I do not do this, what is my future but a con 
 tinuation of my past a hell of doubt and 
 scorn ? When he withheld, as you say he did, 
 from injuring me, what had he to apprehend ? 
 Nothing. He could live on as he always had 
 lived, but I the man with a story I must al 
 ways see the world glance at me askance." 
 
 " I know," she said, " that it is often harder 
 to resist doing wrong than simply to do right 
 that repression often requires more courage 
 than action. But you will do it do it for 
 yourself and for me." 
 
 She stepped forward, bending almost as if 
 she would fall at his feet. He, with the first 
 agony of his disappointment, the first fury of 
 his anger past, and the period of doubt begun, 
 stood as if unconscious of her presence. 
 
 "James," she said, and with self-mocking 
 
A DEED LESS DRAMA 121 
 
 bitterness she thought how much her words 
 were an echo of those she had spoken in the 
 morning, " we have not made so very much out 
 of our lives, you and I, but we have not acted 
 wrongly after all. Do not let us spoil all now. 
 There is something strengthening, self-sustain 
 ing in suffering. It will not be so hard. Be 
 lieve me I tell you so I myself who have 
 known 
 
 Still he gave no sign that he was aware that 
 she had spoken to him ; impassive in his absorp 
 tion, he stood seemingly looking through and 
 beyond her, while she, with clasped hands and 
 pale, anxious face, remained waiting his further 
 action. What did he see ? The dark stretches 
 of later life, sombre at best, but more sombre 
 for him than for another if he did not act. He 
 must give up all, bid stand still the dark wrong 
 that eclipsed his whole existence ; blot out joy 
 and hope such as he had not known in years. 
 With the weapon in his hand he must cast it 
 away, because the blow was unworthy of an 
 honest man; must condemn himself, as but 
 few condemn themselves, for he knew the full 
 measure of his condemnation ; must consent to 
 see another honored and himself despised ; 
 and worst, bitterest of all, must hear another 
 
122 A DEED LESS DRAMA 
 
 praised for refraining from doing something 
 that, though it palely resembled the act he was 
 compelled in honor to perform, was as differ 
 ent from it as the shadow from the substance 
 something that, from the very weakness of its 
 similarity, made the plaudits that it would win 
 and which he could never hope to hear for his 
 mightier renunciation, the more unbearable. 
 Such was the fate that awaited him, did he do 
 but what he ought in honesty to do. 
 
 A slight sigh broke from him. If the silence 
 had not been so perfect she could not have 
 heard it, but as she did, the light of an infinite 
 happiness shone in her eyes. 
 
 Picking up the paper that had lain on the 
 desk ever since he had received it, Harding 
 handed it to her. Neither spoke. Dragging 
 the fluttering thing from his grasp, she seized 
 the trembling hand that had held it out to her 
 and pressed it against her side, above her 
 heart, with all her force pressing it down 
 until he felt the indentation made by a fold of 
 her heavily embroidered dress. 
 
 He heard the door close, and, looking up, he 
 found himself alone. 
 
AS THE SPARKS FLY UP 
 WARD " 
 
AS THE SPARKS FLY UP 
 WARD " 
 
 IT was past the time when the "through" 
 night express should start, but still the 
 ponderous engine stood motionless ; the steam 
 escaping with a terrific roar, and mounting- 
 high in the air, first in a vigorous jet, then 
 spreading in dull, whitened clouds that soon 
 mingled with and were lost in the denser mass 
 and greater volume of the rolling smoke. The 
 hands of the illuminated clock, placed on the 
 depot wall, had passed the points on the dial 
 that indicated the hour of departure, and now 
 stood at not more than a minute after; but 
 even so small a particle of time was of impor 
 tance, for this, the night express, was the par 
 ticular feature of this particular road, and to 
 get it to its destination at the advertised in 
 stant was the duty and pride of every employee ; 
 for this, every resource of the great corporation 
 
126 A8 THE SPAXKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 was employed, every sacrifice of other consid 
 erations made. Over those miles and miles of 
 shining rails, on which the train must run all 
 night, lay the road from West to East and from 
 East to West, and upon the speed and certainty 
 with which they were covered depended many 
 an important affair the success or failure of 
 many a business venture, often of many a po 
 litical combination. 
 
 The station-master hurried up to the engine 
 and looked in the window. 
 
 "What s the matter, Irby?" he said to the 
 engineer. 
 
 "Spurlock s not here," answered the man, 
 who sat on the narrow, transverse seat in the 
 cab, with his hand on the heavy, shining, 
 round-tipped handle of the reverse-lever. 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " Don t know," replied Irby. " He stepped 
 off five minutes ago, saying he d be back di 
 rectly." 
 
 "If he isn t here in thirty seconds I ll have 
 to give you another fireman." 
 
 Everything indicated readiness for depart 
 ure. The loungers along the broad, cemented 
 walk of the station those who had sought a 
 little exercise before the long, cramped ride 
 
"AS TEE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 127 
 
 had mounted to the cars ; and the porters, after 
 picking up the little stools placed before the 
 steps of the "sleepers," stood ready all along 
 the line to swing themselves on to the plat 
 forms as soon as the series of jarring jerks 
 with which a train straightens itself out for 
 work, indicated that the " 7.30 " was off. 
 
 The scene as it now presented itself a min 
 ute and -more after the time when " No. 47 " 
 should have been under way was character 
 istically American, for nowhere else in the 
 world is quite its like to be found. The huge 
 arched station so large that, numerous as 
 were the hard, clear, powerful electric lights, 
 there still were left many areas of gloom 
 echoed and re-echoed with multitudinous 
 sounds, and, closing your eyes, you might al 
 most have imagined yourself in an asylum for 
 demented noises, the air was so burdened with 
 the sustained uproar, distressed by such brazen 
 clangor, torn by so many a wild shriek. The 
 gleaming steel rails banded the broad, boarded 
 space, stretching in innumerable lines far across 
 to the opposite Avail; now running with the 
 parallel exactness of a copy-book; now cross 
 ing and recrossing each other in what seemed 
 inextricable confusion. Long strings of cars, 
 
128 "AS THE SPARKS FL7 UPWARD" 
 
 their windows all aglow, stood here or there 
 just arrived, or just on the point of leaving 
 this train " in," after having run all day along 
 the shores of the great lakes ; that ready to 
 plunge into the dark Pennsylvania forests, and 
 hurry away, perhaps, past some flaming oil- 
 well into the more distant coal-fields. People 
 swarmed everywhere passengers and em 
 ployees, baggage-men, brakemen, and express 
 men. Heavy trucks, overloaded with luggage, 
 were wildly trundled through the place ; small 
 iron carriages, piled high with mail-bags, were 
 recklessly rolled past ; and in and out darted 
 the bearers of flaming torches that cast a wild 
 glare about them as they moved, who, with 
 long-handled hammers tested the car-wheels 
 with ringing blows. And away in the distance, 
 where the immense, arched opening of the sta 
 tion permitted a glimpse of the darkness be 
 yond, gleamed innumerable lights green, red, 
 and orange some stationary and arranged in 
 complex designs, others swinging in eccentric 
 circles, or flitting like the ignesfatui of swamp 
 lands, along the ground, now appearing and 
 now disappearing. 
 
 " Here he comes ! " shouted a voice some 
 where in remote darkness. 
 
11 A3 THE SPARKS FLY UPWABD" 129 
 
 " Hurry up," commanded the station-master ; 
 and, with a running accompaniment of ques 
 tions, exhortations, and admonitions, lit up 
 by some scattered execrations, a slight man, 
 dressed in the blackened and greasy overalls 
 and " jumper " of a laborer, ran along the walk 
 and mounted the engine. 
 
 " Let her go, Dan," he said. 
 
 The engineer glanced at the conductor lean 
 ing against the wall ; saw him quickly shut his 
 watch and wave his hand. One pull on a lever, 
 and the piston-rods began to glide out and in, 
 the huge driving-wheels to revolve, and the 
 train, with almost a dislocating shock, so hur 
 ried had been the start, was finally off. 
 
 " What was it, Jeff? " said Irby. 
 
 "Why," answered Spuiiock, with a hardly 
 perceptible hesitation, " a little celebration of 
 my own. Do you forget what night it is ? " 
 
 " No," answered the other and older man, a 
 trifle sharply. "But what did you promise 
 me?" 
 
 " It s only once a year," responded Spurlock, 
 sullenly, " and I haven t touched a thing for ten 
 weeks." 
 
 Irby did not answer, but peered out into the 
 darkness through the narrow cab window. 
 9 
 
130 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 The depot had been left behind, and the en 
 gine was now passing through the outer busi 
 ness belt of the great city. Huge, silent ware- 
 nouses, with their shutters closed, quite as if 
 they had gone to sleep with iron lids shut over 
 their innumerable eyes, were to be seen along 
 the deserted streets ; high chimneys here and 
 there rose above the roofs they might have 
 been columns supporting the leaden sky the 
 dull clouds of smoke that lazily seemed to over 
 flow them only distinguishable from the dark 
 heavens by their greater density. It had been 
 snowing during the early evening, but the 
 flakes had melted as they fell, and the ill-paved 
 roads were full of spreading pools that caught 
 the rays cast by the glowing embers in the en 
 gine s fire-box, and, seeming to hold them for 
 an instant in dull reflection, threw them weakly 
 back. And now the pavements cease alto 
 gether ; no longer are there any gas-lamps or 
 electric lights to reveal the dripping squalor, 
 but as one looks ahead there are to be seen by 
 the spreading illumination of the headlight 
 only the shining, converging rails, and between 
 them, and on either side, the sodden, half- 
 frozen earth. Now only infrequent buildings 
 start into view ; but there appear instead long, 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 131 
 
 shadowy lines of freight-cars, apparently in 
 numerable, drawn up on either side of the 
 track, by which the engine thunders with re 
 verberating clatter the strange but still famil 
 iar characters, letters, and names on their many 
 colored sides the stars, the diamonds, the 
 crosses, the often-repeated initials, the num 
 bers, reaching sometimes into the tens of thou 
 sands only showing for an instant in the dim 
 rays cast by the single light in the engine, and 
 then quickly blotted out by the broad hand of 
 darkness. At length these, too, are gone, and 
 now there is nothing to be seen but the occa 
 sional hut of some switch- tender, and the con 
 stantly recurring telegraph poles that so rapidly 
 flash in and out of sight. Far behind appears 
 in the sky a dull, orange glow that marks the 
 position of the town that has been left behind, 
 but all before is unbroken blackness. Now, at 
 last, the train has reached the open country. 
 Irby pushes the throttle-valve still further 
 open, and the engine, with a quiver, almost 
 such as a spirited horse will give at the touch 
 of the spur, plunges more swiftly forward, and 
 finally tears along at almost full running speed, 
 over fifty miles an hour, through the night. 
 The narrow place in which the men are 
 
132 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 seated, face to face, is but dimly illuminated. 
 They are neither of them particularly excep 
 tional-looking persons ; you might see their 
 like almost any day through an engine s win 
 dow and not turn to look again, and still their 
 faces are not without a certain stern significance 
 the significance to be found in the counte 
 nances of most men who have for any length of 
 time held what might be called "non-commis 
 sioned " office in the army of labor, where, 
 though opportunity of honor is rare, responsi 
 bility is great and incessant. 
 
 Irby, ten years the older of the two, heavy, 
 but with a muscular strength that enables him 
 to move with perfect ease in spite of his stout 
 ness, has in his countenance that indescribable 
 something that indicates firmness, even obsti 
 nacy ; while in the mobile features, more shift 
 ing glance, and more changeful expression of 
 his companion, you could as readily detect the 
 equally evident, but more subtle evidences of 
 weakness and irresolution. And yet he was a 
 pretty fellow enough with his thick, lustrous, 
 black hair, and his small, pointed mustache, 
 his highly colored cheeks and his dull, dark 
 eyes. Of graceful build too his belt was 
 drawn about a waist as small almost as a worn- 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 133 
 
 an s slight but lithesome, a man to surprise 
 you with unsuspected strength. 
 
 " Don t it make you feel, Dan, as if we were 
 regularly out in the cold," he said, " to be on 
 this job to-night?" 
 
 " Well, you see," answered Irby, argumen- 
 tatively, " all the other boys have got sweet 
 hearts or wives, and it s only natural they 
 should want the evening to themselves. Now, 
 what s Christmas Eve to us you, who haven t 
 got a belonging in the world, as you say, and 
 
 Irby paused. Whether or not he saw some 
 thing worthy of notice in what seemed the im 
 penetrable night, Spurlock could not deter 
 mine, but the engineer looked through the 
 window with what appeared increased atten 
 tion. 
 
 " Tain t much like one s general notion of a 
 Christmas," he added at length. 
 
 " No," answered Spurlock. 
 
 Neither spoke again for some time, and 
 Spurlock busied himself with the flapping- 
 canvas curtain that gave doubtful shelter to 
 the occupants of the cab, for the icy wind blew 
 briskly as the scudding clouds attested. 
 
 " Let me see," said Irby at length. " This 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 time of the year rather lends itself to reckon 
 ing how long is it now that we ve travelled 
 along together ? " 
 
 " Going on eight months," answered Spur- 
 lock, " from the time when you first set me 
 straight." 
 
 Irby glanced across at the man before him. 
 "Set him straight." Yes, he had "set him 
 straight," and the memory came to him of what 
 Spurlock had been ; a picture rose before him 
 of how Spurlock looked when he first saw him ; 
 a thin, bent form, with pallid face, and trem 
 bling, it would almost seem palsied hands, 
 dressed in a mysterious garment that was only 
 a remote suggestion of a coat, and with all his 
 other clothes correspondingly frayed and tat 
 tered; a being, coming from no one knew 
 where, and going no one cared whither slink 
 ing out to bask in the sunshine, as if doubtful 
 if the world, which afforded him so little, might 
 not grudge and deny him even this ; leading 
 one of those mysterious, almost reptilian exist 
 ences in the dark holes and corners of the 
 earth, which, were they not so common, would 
 seem more awful and more significant, but 
 which, seen every day, we scarcely notice and 
 easily allow to pass from memory. 
 
"AS THE 8PARK8 FLY UPWARD" 135 
 
 Irby had first seen the ill-looking creature 
 loitering about the confines of the station, 
 sometimes penetrating even to the engine-yard 
 and standing at gaze before the big, resplen 
 dent, perfectly " groomed " locomotive look 
 ing at it revengefully, as if resentful of the fact 
 that this thing of iron and steel should receive 
 such care, when he, a creature of flesh and 
 blood, was so destitute. Such as he was, he 
 had been the jest, the jeer of the whole place. 
 There was no one so insignificant that he did 
 not dare to scoff at him, and it seemed that 
 there was no indignity that the poor creature 
 would not endure. But one day from his lofty 
 post Irby had noticed that a row was going on. 
 In that neighborhood in the circles in which 
 his locomotive moved, that was a thing of no 
 uncommon occurrence, but this particular dif 
 ficulty seemed more serious than was commonly 
 the case. 
 
 " What s the matter? " he shouted. 
 
 " Joe Bannager s been givin the tramp mor n 
 he can stand, an he s showed fight," was the 
 answer. 
 
 Irby let himself down from the engine and 
 joined the crowd just in time to see the burly 
 Bannager, to the admiration of the on-lookers, 
 
A3 THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD 
 
 very neatly knocked out of time by the now 
 animated vagabond. 
 
 " If you ve got spirit enough for that," said 
 Irby, looking curiously at the now erect figure 
 of the stranger, " you ve got spirit enough to 
 be a man. Come with me." 
 
 He had taken Spurlock over to the engine, 
 and in its torrid shade had inspected him more 
 thoroughly. 
 
 " If I gave you money, would you drink it 
 up ? " he asked. 
 
 " Try me and see," said the man. 
 
 Irby handed him a bill, and the next day 
 there had appeared before him a person whom 
 he did not at first recognize. It was Spurlock, 
 in a suit of the poorest clothing, but clean and 
 decent looking. 
 
 " Give me something to do," he said. 
 
 Irby again looked at him scrutinizingly. It 
 had always been his Irby s boast, that he 
 knew a man who had anything in him when he 
 saw one, and after a moment s contemplation, 
 which the other had borne unflinchingly, he 
 spoke doubtfully. 
 
 " My fireman s laid up, perhaps I might get 
 you taken on." 
 
 " All right," answered Spurlock. " You ve 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 137 
 
 picked me out of the gutter, now set me on 
 the walk." 
 
 And this, Irby thought, was the same man 
 who now sat opposite to him. Indeed, Spur- 
 lock had changed. As he quickly emerged 
 from his state of degradation, he displayed un 
 expected intelligence, exhibiting a surprising 
 knowledge about all sorts of unlikely things. 
 Irby, who had started in life with only a lim 
 ited knowledge of reading and writing, but who 
 had graduated long ago with " honors " from 
 the great University of the Newspapers, was 
 thoroughly able to appreciate higher acquire 
 ments than his own, and both marvelled and 
 admired. Spurlock never spoke of his past, 
 and Irby had never asked him a question. 
 That it was not the usual past of a man in his 
 position Irby felt sure ; but they were both of 
 that world that should in truth be called the 
 " great world " instead of the insignificant por 
 tion that now bears that name, where few ques 
 tions are asked for the reason that a close 
 knowledge of the strange haps and mishaps of 
 life has dulled curiosity. Day and night they 
 had travelled together in the little cab, over 
 thousands of miles, through heat and cold, 
 through storm and sunshine, and gradually 
 
138 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 there had grown up in Irby a real friendship 
 for this being whom he had, as it were, created. 
 He looked at Spurlock, and reflecting that had 
 it not been for him, the alert, self-respecting 
 man who was now his companion would have 
 been in a pauper s grave or leading a life than 
 which any death would be better, he took cred 
 it to himself for what he could almost regard 
 as his handiwork, and beamed upon him with 
 something like affection. 
 
 " Seeing the time it is," said Spurlock, at 
 length, " I ve got a Christmas present for you, 
 Dan, and I don t know but I might as well give 
 it to you now." 
 
 He reached up and took down his coat from 
 the place where it hung, then drawing out a 
 tobacco-pouch, cheaply embroidered, handed it 
 across to the engineer. Irby took it, opened 
 it, and found instead of tobacco a carefully 
 folded bill. 
 
 "The money you lent me that time, you 
 know," explained Spurlock. 
 
 Irby stretched out his hand, with the power 
 ful, blunted fingers, to the younger man, who 
 took it and shook it roughly with an awkward 
 consciousness. 
 
 The wide plains that lay around the city had 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 139 
 
 been swiftly traversed, and now the track ran 
 over land partly uncleared. In and out the en 
 gine darted through the thick woods, plunging 
 into the narrow openings among the dark, ser 
 ried trunks and spreading branches, as if into 
 some tunnelled mountain. 
 
 " You ve been the making of me, Dan," Spur- 
 lock went on, " and if I come to anything now 
 it ll be your doing." 
 
 " The engine s seemed a different place since 
 you ve been on it, Jeff," he said, quietly, " an 
 so I guess we re square." 
 
 Another of those long silences followed, 
 which will occur between people who are 
 constantly together one of those pauses 
 that indicate intimacy more fully than any 
 speech. 
 
 " I wasn t always what you found me, Dan," 
 said Spurlock, finally. 
 
 Irby glanced at his companion. 
 
 " But I began bad," the other went on, " and 
 I kept on growing worse. I was the black 
 sheep of a particularly white flock, and, by 
 contrast, my color only showed up the more. 
 Where I was born, or what or when, doesn t 
 matter. I wouldn t like to show disrespect 
 for any of my highly respectable relations by 
 
140 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 bringing them into any such unfortunate so 
 ciety as mine." 
 
 He paused, and the expression of reckless 
 ness that had lain on his countenance, almost 
 like a mask so evidently unnatural was it 
 seemed suddenly to be snatched away. 
 
 "The fiend take it, Dan," said he, "there s 
 something in this cursed time that sets you 
 remembering." 
 
 Irby s face darkened ; it appeared as if the 
 past had also come up before him with unu 
 sual vividness, and that the vision was dis 
 quieting and painful. 
 
 " I don t think I ever came near being re 
 spectable in my life but once," continued Spur- 
 lock, dully, almost as if some strange power 
 were forcing him to speak as if volition had 
 nothing to do with it. 
 
 " But," he went on, " we re generally stand 
 ing on the ground even when we re looking at 
 the clouds. Oh, of course it was a woman 
 that did it. You, Dan, you can t understand 
 that ; you you ve the face of a true misogy 
 nist. You see," he broke out, " I haven t for 
 got all that my little fresh-water college 
 taught me. You re the kind that are superior 
 to that inferior influence. 
 
" AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 141 
 
 " I really believe that I could have reformed 
 then," murmured Spurlock after another pause, 
 " for I loved her. Strange how you feel when 
 you really love a woman. There seems to come 
 out of the very holes and corners of your being, 
 feelings and sentiments and aspirations that 
 you never knew you had before. Mind I don t 
 say that the same cause doesn t sometimes 
 work a very different way on your nature 
 doesn t stir up and set moving a number of 
 dark, ugly things also passions, jealousies, 
 hatreds that you never suspected were in you. 
 Oh, it s a queer thing this love it s like a streak 
 of varnish across the natural wood that brings 
 out the beauty of the grain and the unsightliness 
 of the knots as well. I loved her from the first 
 time I set my eyes on her pretty, pale face. 
 Oh, don t be frightened. I m not going to tell 
 you a yarn, for there s none to tell. But Agnes 
 Holcombe was the only one who could ever 
 have made anything out of me." 
 
 " Women," said Irby, slowly, " do a deal of 
 good when they don t do a deal of harm." 
 
 " She could have been the making of me. 
 But circumstances " 
 
 " How long ago was it ? " interrupted Irby. 
 
 " About eighteen months." 
 
142 A8 THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 Eighteen months. With the instinct that 
 leads everyone to measure the nearness or re 
 moteness of an event by its relation in time to 
 his own life, Irby thought of himself as he 
 had been a year and a half before. That, he 
 remembered, was before his quarrel with Ma 
 bel before the final separation. He ground 
 his teeth in sudden rage. Could he not get the 
 miserable affair out of his mind ; must every 
 thing he heard or saw always serve to remind 
 him of it? 
 
 The train had now for some time been on its 
 way, dashing by isolated farm-houses usually 
 at this hour merely black shapes in the dim 
 landscape, but to-night with windows all alight ; 
 past scattered groups of cottages where the 
 smoke rolling comfortably from the chimneys 
 suggested glowing and generous hearths; in 
 and out of villages where a quickly opened, 
 quickly closed door would often suddenly dis 
 close some bright interior. 
 
 And now the spreading glow in the sky be 
 fore them proved that they were again ap 
 proaching a city. Stronger, brighter, more 
 diffused it grew as the train spun swiftly on ; 
 and finally the many detached points of light 
 showed that they were quite near. Again the 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 143 
 
 engine plunged among long lines of coal- 
 trucks and freight-cars again clattered by the 
 echoing walls of great factories, and finally, at 
 decreased speed, puffed into the city. As it 
 chanced, in this particular place the tracks lay 
 along streets that crossed some of the great 
 thoroughfares, and sometimes for a short dis 
 tance even ran in them. It was hardly more 
 than nine o clock, and the sidewalks were 
 thronged. It seemed as if the whole town 
 had turned out, and yet there must have been 
 many who were at home. Every shop was 
 open was brilliant with the best display it 
 was possible for it to make. Here, as at the 
 place they had left, it had evidently been snow 
 ing during the day, but here the wind had 
 blown boisterously and long enough to dry the 
 walks and bring a crackling sheet of ice on the 
 surface of the street puddles. There was a 
 briskness in the air well accordant with the 
 time, and there was an animation in the crowd 
 that clearly indicated that it was no concourse 
 such as might ordinarily be found in and be 
 fore the stores. It was much larger, it was 
 much more alert, and it was much more self- 
 satisfied and self-important ; certainly it was 
 much jollier. You might have jostled it as 
 
144 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 much as you pleased without exciting anything 
 but good-natured remonstrance ; you could 
 tread on its toes with nearly perfect impunity. 
 It was a true Christmas crowd in every aspect 
 and every attribute baskets, bundles, and all 
 and as the great engine slowly ground its 
 way along, the bell sounding with regular 
 brazen clang, the two men in the cab gazed 
 upon the animated spectacle with greedy eyes. 
 They looked upon it all as aliens in a double 
 sense separated from it in situation and in 
 mood and the knowledge of their twofold re 
 moteness filled each with a rebellious bitter 
 ness that strengthened as they went on. It 
 all seemed like some mocking show prepared 
 for their special torment some deluding mi 
 rage as tantalizing as the semblance of water is 
 to the thirsty traveller of the desert. 
 
 The stop in the dark, nearly deserted station 
 was not long, and soon they were out again 
 in the populous quarters of the town. It was 
 Christmas time at its brightest and best 
 cheerful Noel in its most comfortable mood. 
 It was Christmas Eve more mirthful, better 
 perhaps than Christmas itself as a promise is 
 often better than a fulfilment. That feeling of 
 the time that calls upon all to " eat, drink, and 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FL7 UPWARD" 145 
 
 be merry," found most ample manifestation 
 the sense of human fellowship that, let what may 
 be said, is just a little stronger on and about 
 the wonderful December day than at any other 
 time of the year, was evident everywhere. 
 Gazing like prisoners through prison bars, the 
 two men avidly drank in the scene, its very 
 geniality making them the more morose. 
 
 And as the engine passed on again into the 
 desolate country between the brown banks 
 and broken fences the men were almost 
 tempted to rub their eyes and ask themselves 
 if really what they had seen had not been a 
 dream, so sudden had been its appearance, so 
 apparently doubtful its reality even while it 
 was before them, and so absolute its eclipse. 
 
 " Agnes Holcombe," said Irby, half to drive 
 from his mind the memories that tormented 
 him, half to lead Spuiiock to talk further of 
 himself. 
 
 " Agnes Holcombe," repeated Spurlock. 
 "That, of course, wasn t her real name, as I 
 soon found out." 
 
 " Not her real name ? " Irby half asked 
 
 " No," said Spurlock. " Though there s but 
 little to tell, I might as well tell yon that 
 little. It all happened out at Arapago." 
 10 
 
146 "A3 THE SPARES FLY UPWARD" 
 
 " Arapago ? " repeated Irby, glancing sharp 
 ly around. 
 
 " Yes, Arapago," continued Spurlock. " It 
 was one of my respectable times when I was 
 still struggling. I was clerk in one of the big 
 freight depots. One night I was sitting in that 
 park that looks out over the lake when I saw a 
 woman on the next bench to mine. I saw that 
 she was pretty and that she was crying. The 
 two things were too much for me they ought 
 to be for any man. I made an excuse to speak 
 to her, she answered me and we had a long 
 talk. I asked her where she lived, but al 
 though she would not tell me, she promised to 
 meet rne on the night after the next, at the 
 same place. She kept her word, and it was the 
 first of many meetings. Dan, I loved that 
 woman, and, what is the strangest thing, I 
 loved her as I never loved another. It almost 
 seemed as if I didn t want her to love me; 
 why, man, the ground she walked on, it seemed 
 to me, was the only thing that I was fit to 
 touch. There are some women who can make 
 you feel like that, though, like as not, they re 
 laughing at you all the time. One night I fol 
 lowed her to find out if I could know some 
 thing about her." 
 
"A3 THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 147 
 
 "Well," said Irby, impatiently, and yet 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 " I followed her to a pretty little house just 
 where the city begins to break up and you get 
 a little air and space." 
 
 " Yes," said Irby, looking at his fireman with 
 a curious glitter in his eyes. 
 
 " It was in Canestoga Street, number one 
 hundred and seventeen queer how you ll re 
 member those little things and there she 
 went in, with that air you know that one has 
 when going into a familiar place." 
 
 "Yes," said Irby, as he leaned forward to 
 look at one of the gauges, and then again fixed 
 his eyes on Spurlock with the same intensity 
 of gaze. 
 
 " She was mad enough when she found out 
 what I d done, but she soon forgave me. And 
 it was there we met when her husband was 
 away." He paused, then added quickly, 
 " What s the matter, Dan ? " 
 
 " Nothing," answered Irby ; " go on." 
 
 " Yes, and when he was there she d come to 
 the park sometimes ; but I generally saw her 
 in the garden. I learned all about her from 
 the people in the neighborhood, but I never let 
 her know that I knew the truth, though she 
 
148 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 must have suspected that I did. I ve seen 
 enough not to appear to know any more than 
 a woman wants that you should. She was mar 
 ried, so they told me, to a man a good deal 
 older than herself, who, though he was gener 
 ally well considered, was thought by the neigh 
 bors a little too strict and glum for her. I 
 imagined I saw how it was. He was an en 
 gineer on one of the Western roads, away half 
 the time, and the poor young thing was left 
 all alone. I think he made her pretty unhappy, 
 and so the inevitable happened, and I happened 
 to be the inevitable, though in this case the in 
 evitable wasn t so very much after all." 
 
 " Go on," said Irby. 
 
 " Though neither of us ever spoke about it, 
 I gathered from what I picked up that it was 
 only when her husband Shaw, that was the 
 engineer s name was away that I could ap 
 pear. Then, when it was dark enough, I d slip 
 over the white picket -fence and sit with her 
 in the arbor under the grape-vines. I never 
 kissed her but once " 
 
 Before Spurlock had time to do more than 
 instinctively raise his arm in defence, Irby was 
 upon him, and with an iron wrench that he 
 had snatched from its place had felled him 
 
"AS TEE SPARKS FLT UPWARD" 149 
 
 with one blow to the floor, where he lay, an al 
 most shapeless heap, on the hot, riveted iron 
 plates. 
 
 What Irby consciously noticed next was that 
 the train was swiftly running over the causeway 
 built across the widespreading marshes that 
 lay an hour and more beyond the last stopping- 
 place. It was not that the sky was clearer and 
 therefore gave more light, but there was more 
 of it, stretching as it did to the horizon, and 
 Irby could distinctly see the dull, sullen waters 
 above which, on the embankment, the locomo 
 tive so swiftly moved along; could mark the 
 acres and acres of low-lying land partially 
 covered with rank grass and partially with tall, 
 tangled, aquatic plants. It was a sad, desolate 
 place at any time, but now, seen only by the 
 uncertain light of the stars the wind had torn 
 the clouds from the sky it was indeed forbid 
 ding and awful. 
 
 In Irby s mind was an uneasy consciousness 
 that something unusual had happened, what, 
 he half knew, yet hardly could have told. 
 With the instinct of his calling, he glanced first 
 at all the cocks and levers about him, then 
 looked cautiously around. Yes, there it was, 
 
150 " A8 THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 more like some bundle of old clothes than the 
 form of a man, for Spurlock had fallen face 
 down, with his arms doubled up under him, 
 and there was no pallid countenance, no worn, 
 blackened hand to show what was really there. 
 Irby did not start ; he had half-prepared him 
 self for what he was to see, and only gazed in 
 tently, almost apathetically, at the object at 
 his feet. Then his eye caught something that 
 needed attention in the machinery, and he, 
 with action almost as automatic as that of any 
 one of the engine s appliances, set it right. 
 The fires must have burnt low, he thought; 
 but how could he replenish them ? Dulled as 
 his mind was, it seemed an insurmountable 
 difficulty that Spurlock s body lay on the floor. 
 How would it be possible to open the furnace 
 door ? how shovel in the coal ? But gradually 
 perception became clearer that the engine 
 should be run all right seemed to him more im 
 portant than anything else and he left the 
 shelf -like seat on which he had been sitting, 
 and picking up the body carefully, placed it in 
 a corner, with the back against the wall of the 
 cab and the side of the opposite bench. Then 
 he threw open the furnace-door. With the 
 glare of what seemed to him the nether pit, 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 151 
 
 the tongues of flame, writhing and twisting in 
 the strong draft, leaped up, licking around 
 the iron edges of their prison-house. The whole 
 place was illuminated with the fierce, ruddy 
 light, and the face of the man whom he had 
 struck down seemed to gain even something 
 more than its natural color. Drawing back 
 the canvas screen he grasped Spurlock s shovel 
 and cast the coals into the furnace s mouth ; 
 then he carefully drew together the curtain, 
 shut the opened door, mounted to his seat, and 
 glanced down the straight road that seemed 
 almost to slip under the engine and glide away. 
 Fancies, rather than such positive thoughts as 
 it would seem should be the natural and un 
 avoidable outcome of the situation, filled his 
 brain. First, there started into quick vision, 
 the astonishment, the horror of the officials, 
 when he should ride into the next station with 
 a murdered man on the engine with hir^. 
 There seemed something so grotesquely ludi 
 crous in the idea, that he almost laughed aloud. 
 Then he listlessly thought of what the newspa 
 pers would say of the heavy headlines and 
 sensational sentences. People would talk about 
 it the next day Christmas Day Christmas of 
 all days. The sense of the awful inharmony 
 
152 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 between what he had done and what the feel 
 ing of the time enjoined, brought him the first 
 thrill of horror that he had felt. His regular 
 respiration was broken by a quick, raucous 
 gasp, and on his brow he felt the chilly dew of 
 terror. 
 
 Christmas Eve! It seemed to Irby that 
 everything of any consequence to him had hap 
 pened on Christmas Eve. It was on a Christ 
 mas Eve that he had been married ; it was on 
 the next Christmas Eve that the baby was 
 born ; it was only just before Christmas Eve, 
 a year past, that they Mabel and he had 
 their final misunderstanding and had parted ; 
 he swearing that though she might wish to 
 seek his forgiveness she should not have the 
 chance. So he had gone to a distant place, 
 where, under a new name perhaps even then 
 apprehensive that he might not be able to with 
 stand her pleading should she attempt to soften 
 his heart he had sought new employment, 
 while she had fled he knew not whither. 
 
 He had often wondered, sometimes doubted, 
 whether he had not been unjust to her. There 
 were even times when he had accused himself 
 of blind cruelty to her, and had felt impelled, 
 then and there, to seek her out wherever she 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 153 
 
 might be, and ask her forgiveness. But he had 
 been too deeply hurt ; the wound, to one of his 
 nature, was too grievous to permit any such 
 action, and he had quickly fallen back into his 
 old state of obduracy and inert despair. For 
 days before he had finally spoken to her, he 
 had watched and waited, and reasoned and 
 argued until it almost seemed that he had lost 
 all power of continuous thought, so distracted 
 had he become ; and now, since they had been 
 separated, he had weighed the evidence again 
 and again ; had never ceased laboriously to re 
 volve the matter in his mind ; to seek to com 
 prehend her motives and to test his own. He 
 could not have made a mistake. It was true 
 that she had never confessed anything, but 
 again she had never denied anything, merely 
 contenting herself with an indignant silence, 
 or with impetuous assertion that she dis 
 dained to defend herself against suspicion, 
 adding that if he did not trust her he did 
 not love her, and that they had best part. 
 
 And so he, unable to control the fierce jeal 
 ousy, the rugged wrong-side of his strong love, 
 and she feigning or feeling the deep indig 
 nation of affronted womanhood, had given to 
 the wind the vows they had both made, that 
 
154 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 they would thereafter cling to one another, 
 even until the last great parting. No, he 
 must have been right there was so much to 
 justify him. Though he had imagined her so 
 different from other women, was there really 
 any reason why she should be so ? There was 
 her own sister beautiful, headstrong, erring 
 Cora and might not Mabel really have been 
 was it not indeed reasonable to believe that 
 she was as vain, as frivolous, as light as the 
 other ? Was it not highly probable that as one 
 sister had been, so the other would be ? And 
 yet at first he had felt that she was of another 
 nature than this wilful being who had fled from 
 the tedium of a life in which there was only 
 peace and sufficiency, to seek the excitement 
 and lavishness that she seemed to crave had 
 fled from the small but pretty house, on the 
 city s outskirts, where Mabel had seemed so 
 contented, and where during the long, lustrous 
 summer evenings he had timidly courted her ; 
 where, on the brisk, brilliant December night, 
 three years ago, he had finally married her. 
 
 It was about her sister, Cora, that they had 
 had their first quarrel he peremptorily refus 
 ing ever to let his wife see or communicate 
 with one whom he had thought so unworthy of 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 155 
 
 her love and countenance, and she, only after 
 argument and contention, finally yielding. It 
 had always been disagreeable to him to think 
 of Cora as his wife s sister. It was with real 
 relief that, in the first year of their marriage, 
 he had listened to Mabel as she told him that 
 she had received news of Cora s death in one of 
 the hospitals of an Eastern city, and reflected 
 that she, whose life was so worthless to herself 
 and others, could no longer come between them. 
 Yes, Mabel had always been light-hearted 
 and pleasure-loving. But granting only this, 
 was not that enough to cause difficulty in time ? 
 Was he middle-aged, serious, and a trifle taci 
 turn the man to satisfy such a woman pretty, 
 with the desire, and even the right, to have her 
 beauty recognized ; naturally longing for the 
 enjoyment that youth demands as its peculiar 
 prerogative ? Was it not only natural that she 
 should fancy some one nearer her own age, 
 some one with a readier wit, and more adapt 
 able manner ? He was as conscious of his own 
 shortcomings as he was of his inability to over 
 come them ; but he nevertheless suffered 
 grievously, and had been continually on the 
 lookout for some sign of disapproval, of dislike, 
 on her part. It is true it never came, but he 
 
156 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 was always apprehensive ; it was the seed-time 
 for suspicion, and the soil in which the grain 
 might come to deadly fruit was morbidly rich. 
 It was only to be expected that he should 
 hearken to what people said. When he had 
 received the first anonymous letter he had 
 sworn that he would not read the thing ; but 
 when, with trembling hand and quick-beating 
 heart, he had first glanced along the cowardly, 
 feigned writing as he deliberately read it 
 again, as he had read all that succeeded it, he 
 had in his heart believed what was said. Had 
 she not acted strangely for a long time, as if 
 she were keeping something from him ? All 
 seemed calculated to strengthen him in his ap 
 prehensions, all to bear witness against her. 
 And when he had shown her the letters, with 
 their blackening tale, though she had appeared 
 indignant, outraged, even then she had denied 
 nothing, and had refused to defend, to excul 
 pate herself. It had been a brief but violent 
 scene, and then they she proudly, and he 
 besottedly jealous, and passionately inflexible 
 had separated. 
 
 It was a common enough story, as he knew, 
 but in spite of this knowledge it seemed 
 strangely pathetic to him. And this had 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 157 
 
 been the end of the life that had begun so 
 happily, although it had not been the end of 
 torturing thought, of continual questionings, of 
 occasional self-crimination. Now, with a sense 
 almost of relief, he reflected that the time of 
 doubt was past for him. Since he had heard 
 Spurlock s confession he need torment himself 
 no more. He had been right. Her fancy had 
 been taken by the good looks and careless 
 grace of the stranger, and she had forgotten 
 his love, lost her love if there had really ever 
 been any for him. 
 
 It did not require any great time for these 
 thoughts to arise, to eddy giddily about, to 
 crowd one another in Irby s mind. And yet 
 he was thinking more calmly and collectedly 
 now it was strange that he should have felt 
 so deeply about it all, at this late day, as to 
 have been moved to kill this man. And then 
 he reflected how wonderful it was that the poor 
 creature whom in pity he had befriended and 
 rescued, should have been the man who had 
 robbed him of his happiness. The injustice 
 what seemed to him almost the ingratitude of 
 it struck him with sudden force, and he 
 glanced with quick-kindling hatred at the mo 
 tionless something in the corner. 
 
158 "A3 THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 And all the while the engine sped on, thun 
 dering over bridges and roaring through " cut 
 tings," a terrible, it might almost seem in its 
 awful momentum, an unmanageable force 
 sped on, pouring a dense cloud of smoke from 
 its swaying stack, and flinging into the air my 
 riads of glowing, dancing sparks that streamed 
 behind in a cometic trail ! 
 
 Now another city lies not far ahead, as Irby 
 well knows. Shall he tell what has happened 
 and give himself up? Uncertain what to do 
 he determines to do nothing. The stop he 
 knows will be but short. At so late an hour 
 there will be but few about ; none at all who 
 will think of mounting on the engine. The 
 cab is so high from the ground that no one 
 passing on the platform of the station can see 
 into it. Why not go as he had come, without 
 allowing a person to know what had occurred ; 
 then, in the long unbroken run to the next 
 stopping place, he would have time to reflect 
 to decide upon his ultimate course. 
 
 Crouching over the lever, he brought the 
 engine up to the building that gave shelter to 
 the travellers, and stopped it, trembling, before 
 the lighted windows. The sudden illumina 
 tion disconcerted him somewhat and he turned 
 
"A8 THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 159 
 
 to adjust the tattered, greasy curtain more 
 carefully. His change of position had brought 
 the body within his gaze, and he looked at it 
 now for the first time coolly and curiously. 
 Blood stood in almost inky black spots on the 
 white face the distended arms lay along the 
 floor in flaccid, impotent immobility. Had it 
 not been cowardly to take the man unawares ; 
 should he not have given Spurlock a chance to 
 defend himself ? He thought vaguely that if 
 the deed were to be done over again he would 
 prefer not to do it in that way. 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! " 
 
 The voice seemed almost at his elbow, and 
 he gave a great start. But it was only one of 
 the station people, whom he knew, hurrying 
 by on the platform below him. 
 
 "Merry Christmas!" 
 
 He w r as afraid that if he did not answer the 
 man might return, and so he shouted the 
 cheery, conventional greeting after him in a 
 voice that he did not seem to recognize as his 
 own. 
 
 The time the train could remain at this 
 place was nearly up, and he glanced at his 
 clock to see if even then he might not set the 
 engine in motion. The hands stood exactly at 
 
160 "A3 THE SPARES FLY UPWARD" 
 
 twelve, folded together in a manner that sug 
 gested palms closely pressed in prayer ; and 
 now, as he sat waiting for the moment when he 
 might be off, the chimes rang out from a 
 church near at hand. In the clear night air 
 they sounded merrily, and it seemed to him 
 that he had never heard sounds so sweet, so 
 holy. He knew what it meant ; they were ring 
 ing for the midnight service of Christmas. 
 Had he not gone once with her, and as the 
 memory came back to him it seemed almost 
 brought to him by the wind-borne cadences of 
 the bells he bowed his head on his hand that 
 rested on the cold, hard handle of the steel 
 beam, and a sob broke from him and left him 
 trembling and afraid. He thought of the 
 momentous event in remembrance of which 
 the bells were ringing the birth of the Child 
 that was born into the world to bring the mes 
 sage of hope and of salvation ; to teach that 
 lesson of gentleness and peace that the world 
 had never known before that it has only so 
 imperfectly learned. " Peace on earth and 
 good-will toward men." He turned again and 
 glanced at the upward staring face in the cor 
 ner. The contrast between word and fact was 
 so terrible, so complete, that its realization 
 
"A3 THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 161 
 
 overcame him, and in his sudden agony he 
 again sobbed aloud. 
 
 On flew the train. The flat, open country 
 was crossed, and the way now lay among high 
 hills that soon would become mountains. Irby 
 felt that there was something threatening in 
 their ragged outline and wished himself back 
 again in the level land. Then he tried to dis 
 miss such senseless, such insane ideas from his 
 mind, and sought to reason, and to resolve, but 
 found he could do neither. Was he becoming 
 mad, or had he been mad all the time ? It was a 
 new thought, and he pondered over it diligently. 
 
 He seemed to hear a noise as if some one 
 were moving, and glanced around. Spurlock 
 stirred uneasily, raised himself slowly on his 
 elbow, then, in an instant, was on his feet. It 
 was evident that complete intelligence had re 
 turned with renewed physical strength, his still 
 vigorous youth making sudden recovery possi 
 ble. He threw himself instantly into a position 
 of defence, as if his last conscious thought was 
 still in his mind, or was the first to return to it. 
 
 " Dan," he cried, " what s the matter ? Have 
 you gone mad? " 
 
 But Irby did not answer. The knowledge 
 11 
 
162 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 that, after all, lie had not killed his companion 
 filled him for an instant with strange relief; 
 then the old, fierce hate returned, and he looked 
 at the other threateningly. 
 
 " What is it, Dan ? " said Spurlock, entreat- 
 ingly ; " can t you tell me ? " 
 
 Still Irby did not speak. 
 
 " Can t you say something ? " continued 
 Spurlock. 
 
 "No," answered Irby. "I m not crazy, 
 whatever you may think, although perhaps I 
 ought to be." 
 
 "Then what is it?" 
 
 " You were telling me a story." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you remember there was a woman 
 in it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "She," said Irby, calmly enough, "was my 
 wife." 
 
 "It isn t true, Dan; it can t be true," almost 
 shrieked Spurlock, raising his voice high above 
 the roar of the train. 
 
 " It is true," answered Irby. 
 
 " But, Dan," implored Spurlock, " I never 
 knew, I never could have suspected. She had 
 another name." 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 163 
 
 " Sliaw was my name then is my real name 
 now." 
 
 " But I swear to you, swear to you as I hope 
 for salvation on the day of judgment, that there 
 was nothing." 
 
 " I know," said Irby, slowly, " and I believe 
 you. But you said that she told you that she 
 loved you. You confessed that yourself, and 
 isn t that enough ? " 
 
 " And what are you going to do ? " 
 
 " What I started to do," answered Irby. 
 
 " No, Dan," cried Spurlock, " don t say that, 
 don t do that. If I ve done you a wrong, I 
 didn t mean it, and " 
 
 "I don t pretend," answered Irby, sullenly, 
 " that I can see the thing clear. I only know 
 what I have felt, and what I feel. There may 
 not be any justice in it, but justice is for them 
 who can think, and I can t. I only know that 
 you re the man that came between us, that I 
 tried to find then, and that I ve found at 
 last." 
 
 " And you re going to kill me ? " asked Spur- 
 lock, now, with entire calmness ; " is that what 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Irby. 
 
 " Then I tell you what it is," continued 
 
 
164: "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 Spurlock, with perfect coolness, though with a 
 certain quickness of utterance ; "I haven t done 
 anything to you knowingly, and if you try 
 that again I m going to defend myself. You 
 know I m not afraid, and that I ll make a good 
 fight." 
 
 "All the better," said Irby, grimly; "I ll 
 feel it the less after it is over." 
 
 "But look here," Spurlock went on; "do 
 you propose that we settle this here, and now ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Irby. 
 
 " Then I d like to say something," said Spur 
 lock, seating himself, but watching his com 
 panion carefully. "We re both strong men. 
 I m as likely to do you an injury as you me. 
 We might both meet with an accident, and 
 then what would become of the train ? " 
 
 Irby did not answer. After what had 
 passed, this calm parleying about life and death 
 did not strike him as in the least unnatural. 
 Whether or not he should kill Spurlock then 
 and there, or wait until later, seemed to him 
 a matter that might be talked over quite 
 calmly and collectedly. 
 
 " It s our duty," said Spurlock, " to look out 
 for the train, whatever we may feel ourselves." 
 
 Irby thought of the scores of sleeping pas- 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 165 
 
 sengers and hesitated. What Spurlock said 
 was true. A struggle between them in such 
 confined quarters would indeed be something 
 determined and dangerous, and though he had 
 no doubt as to its outcome, still Spurlock 
 could very easily do him an injury that would 
 incapacitate him. 
 
 " I think you re right," he answered, briefly, 
 and then he again sat down, for he had risen 
 when he had first spoken. " There s more coal 
 needed, put it on." 
 
 Spurlock threw open the furnace-door, again 
 allowing the ruddy glow to play over the place ; 
 cast half a dozen shovelfuls of coal on the em 
 bers fanned by the draft to almost a white heat, 
 then closed the heavy iron shutter, and took 
 his place opposite Irby. 
 
 Mile on mile they rode in silence, hardly look 
 ing at each other. The lights were all out now 
 in the houses along the road ; the landscape 
 unbroken by a gleam anywhere. It was like 
 travelling through some lately deserted land. 
 
 " Dan," said Spurlock, at length, " I don t 
 speak because I want you to let up on me, but 
 you know you re the last man in the world I d 
 harm." 
 
 " I know it," answered Irby, shortly. 
 
166 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 Then again there was silence, lasting for 
 minutes and miles. 
 
 "" If there s no way out of this," said Spur- 
 lock, once more speaking, "I d like, Dan, to 
 understand it a little better. I want to know 
 what I ve done to you." 
 
 Should he answer him, Irby thought. He 
 knew that he could not give expression to the 
 least part of what he had known and suffered, 
 but the instinct that makes even the bravest 
 sometimes cry out when they are hurt, forbade 
 silence. 
 
 " It was you who spoiled the only happiness 
 that I ever had," he said, relentlessly ; "it was 
 you who destroyed my confidence in her." 
 
 It appeared incomprehensible that he could 
 sit there so calmly discussing his own misery 
 with the man who had been the cause of it ; 
 tossing reasons back and across, as if it were 
 the most ordinary subject. But so much had 
 happened to him that he had not thought pos 
 sible that the position only caused him mo 
 mentary surprise. 
 
 " Yes," said Spurlock. " But I didn t know 
 I couldn t look ahead." 
 
 " But you must have understood that harm 
 was bound to come somewhere to some one." 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 167 
 
 "A man doesn t stop to think," answered 
 Spurlock, " at such a time." 
 
 " Some one was bound to suffer," said Irby. 
 
 "Well," exclaimed Spurlock, bitterly, "I 
 think we ve all done that all." 
 
 " I thought it was bad enough when I lost 
 the child," continued Irby, disregarding the 
 other s speech ; " but to lose her ! A man 
 doesn t marry a woman unless he has trust in 
 her, and to such as I, who have never had a 
 chance to believe much of anything, it s about 
 the only faith that s given to them. When 
 you take away such belief you re robbing them 
 of everything in this world and the next, for 
 some woman s all the religion many a man s 
 got. She can make him believe that some 
 thing s right, and that right s something, and 
 when you find out that she has been deceiving 
 you, there doesn t seem to be anything any 
 where. She s not only been a worse woman, but, 
 Spurlock, I ve been a worse man since then." 
 
 His first hesitancy was past now, and he 
 was talking unconstrainedly, almost argumen- 
 tatively. 
 
 "I suppose, Dan," Spurlock hastened to 
 say, " it s only natural that you should feel 
 the way you do ; I suppose I d do the same in 
 
168 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 your place ; but let s try and be reasonable. I 
 grant that you ve got grounds of complaint 
 against me, and I m willing to give you the 
 satisfaction you want. That s only square. 
 But, Dan, we ve been friends so long, mates on 
 the engine for some considerable time now, 
 and it isn t as if I d been a stranger, and you d 
 learned this thing." 
 
 " No," assented Irby. 
 
 "If I should give you revenge, I owe you 
 gratitude, and whatever comes, I m not going 
 to forget that." 
 
 Another city was near, as they both well 
 knew, a city where a longer stay would be 
 made than at any place since they had started 
 on the long ride. 
 
 " In ten minutes we ll be in the depot," said 
 Spurlock ; " what s to happen then ? " 
 
 "Nothing," answered Irby, after a moment s 
 consideration. 
 
 " We ll take the train through ? " 
 
 " Yes, we ll take the train through," answered 
 Irby. 
 
 The track, after passing the station, ran di 
 rectly over a great bridge that spanned a broad 
 
"A3 THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 169 
 
 river, and the train, with carefully diminished 
 speed, almost crawled along, high over the 
 rushing stream that beat with such strong 
 current against the massive piers. It was still 
 perfectly dark, and the two men felt rather 
 than saw the black waters rolling beneath 
 them. Slowly, it would seem for the first time 
 almost timidly, the engine rolled on, but soon 
 the measured clang the almost rhythmic re 
 verberation of the iron girders, as the wheels 
 ground over them suddenly ceased ; was 
 succeeded by a more confused and unbroken 
 din, and wheeling around a bend in the shore, 
 the locomotive took up a swifter pace, and soon 
 the lights glittering along the wharves, and the 
 gas-lamps shining in rows up and down the 
 steep streets, were lost from sight. 
 
 It was a straight " run in " now for the me 
 tropolis, unbroken by another halt. 
 
 For a time the landscape was obscured by 
 the flying flakes, for the train had run into 
 a snow - squall and the air was full of the 
 whirling, downy particles. Finally the storm 
 passed, or the train passed it, and as the engine 
 tore on, the two men saw that the ground be 
 side the track, lit by the dancing light of the 
 cab windows, was unbrokenly white. 
 
170 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 The engine frequently raced by small way 
 stations, for the country along the river was 
 more thickly settled than any through which 
 it had passed ; but they were all dark, or with 
 only a signal-light at some switch, and so the 
 time passed, the train grinding swiftly on. At 
 length, at one place larger than the rest, there 
 shot up into the darkness strange, lambent 
 flames that caught and held, though it was no 
 strange sight to them, the gaze of both the 
 men. Nearer, it was easy to see that they rose 
 from the great chimneys of an iron mill that, 
 like huge stationary torches, lit up all around. 
 Of vivid green when they sprang from the 
 chimney s mouths they twisted away in strange 
 orange convolutions, fantastic and fascinating. 
 Now the windows of the wide-spreading build 
 ings, row after row, came into view ; and now, 
 through an opening, could be seen the glowing 
 interior, with glimpses of dark, diabolic forms 
 and of brilliant masses of heated metal that 
 either flowed in slow, fiery stream, or beneath 
 the blows of ponderous hammers cast off be 
 wildering showers of sparks. But, like all 
 else, this was speedily left behind. 
 
 " Dan," said Spurlock, finally, " there s one 
 thing I wish you d do." 
 
"A3 THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 171 
 
 " What ? " asked Irby. 
 
 " Shake hands with me for the time that s 
 past when we didn t know." 
 
 Irby hesitated a moment, then held out his 
 hand to his companion ; Spurlock seized and 
 shook it silently. 
 
 " We ll be in the city in a little more than an 
 hour, now," continued Spurlock, "and I thought 
 we d better settle up everything and then start 
 fresh." 
 
 Irby nodded. 
 
 " They gave me a letter for you just as we 
 were leaving, that had been waiting for you at 
 the office," Spurlock went on; "but the hur 
 ry of starting drove it out of my head, and," 
 Spurlock smiled grimly, - you knocked it 
 out." 
 
 He drew a letter from his coat and handed 
 it to Irby. 
 
 The day had just broken and the first tinges 
 of anything like color appeared in the sky. It 
 was still dark, but the shape of the great, swell 
 ing headlands across the broad river that flowed 
 along unfrozen, and with swollen flood, could 
 now, with difficulty, be distinguished. It was 
 light enough, however, for Irby to read the di 
 rection on the envelope, and as he did so his 
 
172 " A8 THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 face, already so pale, became a duller white and 
 he slightly trembled. 
 
 Then he hastily tore open the letter, and 
 read in the dim but strengthening light : 
 
 "DAN, DEAK : I do not know why I write to 
 you at this time unless it is for the very reason 
 that it is this time. The day that is so near, 
 is so closely connected with so much that was 
 most important to me, and must be so to you 
 that is, if you ever think of me and the past 
 at all that I have dared to do it. I know 
 that you have done all in your power to make 
 it impossible for me to reach you all useless 
 ly for even if I could I would not have done 
 so. I was very proud, and you hurt me very 
 much. I have changed, and that has made me 
 think that you may have changed too, and that 
 perhaps all may be different. We have made 
 a mistake, Dan, I as well as you, and now I 
 know it. I should not have been so resentful 
 of your suspicions ; you should not have been 
 so angered by my resentment. You were older 
 than I, and you should have been more patient. 
 But I am not writing these lines to show you 
 where you have failed, but rather to acknowl 
 edge my own errors. For, Dan, I did you a 
 
"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD 173 
 
 wrong, though not in the way you accused me 
 of doing it. I did deceive you, but it was not 
 in the way you thought. I deceived .you once, 
 but even then I did not tell you a lie. I only 
 let you go on thinking something that was not 
 true. Cora died last night, here, with me by 
 her bedside. It was not true, the news that 
 came to us from that Eastern hospital ; she 
 was very ill, but she got well, and one day, 
 more than a year and a half ago, she came to 
 me, when we were living in Arapago, and 
 begged me to be kind to her. I remembered 
 what you had told me recollect that you are 
 a stern man sometimes almost hard that 
 you have been hard even with me, though 
 you never meant it and I was afraid if I 
 let you know, that you would not allow me 
 to see her. And poor Cora, if anyone needed 
 help in this world, such help as sympathy 
 alone can give, it was she. She was never 
 really bad, only weak fearfully, fatally weak 
 and though God knows that I needed 
 strength that was one of the reasons I loved 
 you, Dan, you made me feel so secure of my 
 self I could aid her. Under the name of 
 Agnes Holcombe, the name she had taken 
 when she left her home, she lived in the city, 
 
174 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 supporting herself with some little assistance 
 from me. She could only come to the house 
 I could only see her when you were away. 
 Perhaps you will understand now what it was 
 I was keeping from you. I felt that I must 
 see her if she was to be saved. I was the only 
 influence for good that there was near her I 
 alone had power to control her, and I did see 
 her and kept the knowledge of it from you. 
 There was a young man who was in love with 
 her I did not know that for some time she 
 did not tell me, and though I did what I could, 
 she insisted upon seeing him, slipping out to 
 meet him, even in the garden beside the house. 
 Poor girl, it seemed as if she craved love more 
 than most of us, and that it was her very need 
 for affection that always brought her trouble. 
 
 " I did not think that I would ever try to 
 justify myself. At the time of our trouble I 
 felt too deeply your unworthy doubts ; the 
 very fact that I loved you so much made the 
 wound deeper, and I imagined then that I 
 never could forget. But time does so much, 
 and as the day has once more come around 
 that has meant so much to us is so nearly 
 here, I have seen things differently, and I 
 have wanted you to hear the truth. I do not 
 
"A8 THE SPARKS FLY UPWAfiD " 175 
 
 know what effect it will have upon you, but at 
 least there will no longer be any misunder 
 standing, and whatever the future may be for 
 us, it will not be the result of a mistake. 
 
 " I am no, I have some pride left and I will 
 not tell you where I am if you really wish 
 to see me, you can find me. But, Dan, if you 
 are coming, do not wait long. I cannot bear 
 suspense. If you are coming, come at once, 
 and make this for me what I could not expect, 
 and perhaps do not deserve, indeed a merry 
 Christmas and a happy New Year. 
 
 " MABEL." 
 
 As Irby finished reading the letter the sun 
 started up from behind a not distant hill and 
 flung its light full into the engine window; 
 then its brilliant rays spread across the small 
 sparkling waves of the grandly rolling river 
 and fell on the opposite shore, turning the 
 snow-covered hills a warm and delicate pink. 
 The smoke, rising from the many chimneys of 
 a village through which the train dashed, 
 mounted slowly and almost in unswerving 
 lines in the still air, while the unshuttered 
 windows of the houses cast back the new ra 
 diance of the morning, flash on flash. It 
 
176 "AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD" 
 
 seemed a new world, and to Irby it was one. 
 Silently lie handed the paper he had just read 
 to Spurlock, who took it wonderingly, and 
 again his head sank upon his left hand, which 
 hardly had left the bar that controlled the on- 
 rushing engine. 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 " All ! sure within him and without, 
 Could his dark wisdom find it out, 
 There must be answer to his doubt." 
 
 The Two Voices. 
 
 THE cool, dim library was very pleasant 
 on this prematurely warm and glowing 
 morning. There, the light seemed but 
 to give tone to a tissue of shadows ; the atmos 
 phere was velvety. 
 
 It was only May, and yet a day of midsum 
 mer. Through the closed blinds, lapsed, at 
 times, slow, subdued puffs of air, soft with the 
 dull, caressing warmth of July. The street be 
 low the library was in the second story of the 
 big, massive house was overlaid with a glare 
 of metallic light. The nimble the mumble 
 of the carriages and carts as they rolled along 
 the pavement of this the most aristocratic part 
 of the city s Fifth and the world s first Avenue ; 
 the occasional cries of the small merchants of 
 
ISO A NATTER OF FACT 
 
 the sidewalk ; the drone of a hand-organ, in 
 which seemed drowsily to linger something of 
 the lethargy of winter one of those hand-or 
 gans that in our cities, as certainly as the dan 
 delions, herald the approach of spring these, 
 and a hundred sounds in mingled indistinct 
 ness, fell, with slightly accented monotony, 
 upon the ear. 
 
 Clearly it was time to think of leaving town. 
 The crocuses had been out some time ; the 
 "smells" would be soon in insurrection. 
 Geoffrey Biddulph had begun to feel the rising 
 pulse of such slight impatience as was peculiar 
 to him impatience more for change, after all, 
 than for other circumstances. Of course, he 
 decided, as he sat in his great arm-chair, he 
 had gathered material enough to enable him to 
 finish his monograph, " Beaumarchais and the 
 American Revolution." Philbrook, his private 
 secretary, who had filled volumes with facts and 
 gossip, would of course go with him and the 
 sea-air of Newport would be far more inspirit 
 ing than the breezes that wander on Murray 
 Hill. He would be off at once. Eleanor, with 
 her husband, could follow at her leisure. 
 
 Biddulph hardly had the appearance of an 
 old man. His perfect dress modulated every- 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 181 
 
 thing from the severity of age into aspects 
 more belonging to middle life. His hair was 
 but slightly gray. The lines in his face were 
 but few and fine. His eyes were bright. The 
 afternoon glow still lit the dull ashiness of 
 closing day in his complexion. Was the in 
 valid s air a thing of mere languid habitude 
 or was it real ? "Whatever it was, however, he 
 had lived for years in the full luxury of an 
 invalid s enjoyment in the study of his own 
 sensations ; with the invalid s defence against 
 intrusion ; with the invalid s immunity which 
 enabled him to make his life wholly his own. 
 
 An elderly man, consciously, almost con 
 scientiously deferential, noiselessly entered the 
 room. 
 
 " Mrs. Armroyd, sir " there was the preface 
 of an introductory, a slightly deprecatory cough 
 "has sent to inquire if you could see her this 
 morning." 
 
 " Certainly," said Biddulph, with calm gra- 
 ciousness, " at any time you may say at any 
 time." 
 
 The servant disappeared. In his manner 
 he could have taught a ghost repose ; in his 
 action, ease. 
 
 Biddulph sighed impatiently. One hand, 
 
182 A MATTER OP PACT 
 
 smooth, delicate, lay on the arm of his chair. 
 He picked up the book open upon his knee, 
 glanced at a line or two, and laid it down. 
 " Armroyd," he repeated slowly, as if studying 
 something latent in the two syllables. Even 
 the strenuous name had never pleased him. 
 To his delicate ear, it had always seemed too 
 resonant, too clangorous, too suggestive of 
 " self-help " and powerful machinery things 
 for which he certainly could not be expected to 
 care. And that Eleanor, his only child, with 
 all her possibilities ; with the Biddulph name 
 as an inheritance, and a great fortune in ex 
 pectancy, should have fallen in love with this 
 man, and afterward, with a firmness which he 
 never had suspected in her, should have in 
 sisted upon marrying him these were psycho 
 logical mysteries too difficult for him to mas 
 ter. But she had never been a perfect Bid 
 dulph. She was small in stature, dark, gentle, 
 timid, while the most of the race had been tall, 
 light, confident, perhaps a trifle too assertive. 
 She might be the heiress of the Biddulph mill 
 ions ; she certainly had inherited none of the 
 Biddulph beauty. Hers was merely an elusive 
 prettiness a prettiness, however, singularly 
 significant arid peculiarly personal. 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 183 
 
 The door opened and Eleanor Armroyd 
 she looked like a young girl came slowly, 
 almost shyly, into the room. She was very 
 slight ; her cheeks were tinged with the warm 
 blood of youth ; her eyes were clear and 
 bright; her soft, dark hair was gathered in a 
 lustrous knot at her neck. Dressed with the 
 rare perfection of a woman who knows herself 
 not beautiful, but who, with faultless taste and 
 all means at her command, strives to make the 
 most of herself, she was a dainty vision in the 
 rich, sombre apartment. 
 
 " This is very kind of you, Eleanor," said 
 Biddulph, " very kind of you to come and see 
 me." 
 
 " But, papa," she said, in slightly reproving 
 tone, " you know that I come every day every 
 day for a talk with you." 
 
 " That is what I mean ; it is kind of you to 
 come every day. You bring the outside world 
 to me, and now that I cannot go to the outside 
 world I find I cannot get on without it. I al 
 ways did take a not unworthy interest in my 
 kind." 
 
 " But I see very few people you know I 
 am not at all a gay person myself." 
 
 " You can tell me something, and I like gos- 
 
184 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 sip. My dear, no man is so profound that he 
 can afford altogether to despise it. The gossip 
 of yesterday is often the history of to-morrow. 
 Really a great part of history has been at some 
 time only gossip. What was once the idle talk 
 of the agora or of the forum, is our history to 
 day, as the chatter of our club smoking-rooms 
 will be history for those who come after us. 
 Do not let us despise a rumor that posterity 
 may respect. It is not courteous to our de 
 scendants." 
 
 His light, facile, satirical laugh followed as 
 he looked fondly across the large, book-be 
 strewn library table at his daughter. 
 
 " I wonder," he went on, " how many of 
 them really remember me how many will be 
 surprised to find, when the newspapers an 
 nounce my death there must be a column at 
 least that I only died the day before." 
 
 Eleanor stepped to her father s chair and 
 dropped on her knees beside it, her big 
 brown eyes eyes of the sort in which it seems 
 tears are ever ready to start dimmed and 
 suffused. 
 
 " Please," she implored ; " please." 
 
 "I don t grieve," said Biddulph, kindly, 
 " and why should you ? I have had as much 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 185 
 
 out of life as I deserve more than many men 
 more deserving ; and if I must finally be re 
 solved into my original elements I forget 
 what they exactly are mostly, I believe, phos 
 phate of something and water that which 
 happens to me has happened to others who 
 had more to give up than I." 
 
 " And don t you really believe that there is 
 anything else ? " asked the girl, looking fondly 
 up. " Do you really think that this is the 
 end?" 
 
 " Nellie," said Biddulph, kindly, and laying 
 his hand upon her head, " why think of these 
 things? You are young, with a long, happy 
 life before you." 
 
 " But," cried Eleanor, "if it is so if there 
 is nothing more if we are never to meet each 
 other again it is awful." 
 
 " Why is it awful ? " said Biddulph, smooth 
 ing her hair. "If we are sure that it is so, 
 should it not make us care more for each other 
 while we are here? should it not prevent us 
 from weakening what we have here in hope of 
 a remote future ? No, my dear, the vague 
 dreams of unestablished faith must be given 
 up. As that great thinker, August Comte, has 
 explained beyond question, in his doctrine of 
 
186 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 1 The Three Stages, we have advanced beyond 
 such delusions and should know that what we 
 know is all." 
 
 "But," said Eleanor, almost shivering, "it 
 makes all so lonely, so barren. I had rather 
 believe, even if belief should be wrong." 
 
 "What real good," continued Biddulph, 
 "can ever come of error? What facts can 
 justify such vague belief ? And, Nellie, there 
 is nothing, nothing but facts, that we can 
 trust ; nothing but facts that can convince the 
 modern mind. Do we believe anything here 
 on mere conjecture ; and can we build a heaven, 
 an eternity of life, upon such foundation ? 
 Who would ask me to believe that there is 
 something some condition of things most im 
 portant to me which facts do not prove and 
 of which I am ignorant ? And is it not even 
 more absurd to ask me to believe that there 
 is something beyond this life which neither 
 sense nor reason recognizes ? " 
 
 " And mamma," murmured Eleanor, bowing 
 her head, "and the baby? " 
 
 Biddulph rose impatiently and now tottered 
 with slow, vacillating steps toward the great 
 carved mantel, against which he leaned heavily. 
 Invalid or not, there was now no affectation, 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 187 
 
 no mere mannerism in look, or gesture, or ac 
 tion. 
 
 " Nellie," he said, sharply, " you must not 
 indulge in such morbid thoughts. They are 
 not worthy of you as my daughter. In your 
 youth I so taught you that now, when you are 
 a woman, you should not be startled when you 
 meet truth face to face when facts which can 
 not be gainsaid are brought to your notice." 
 
 Eleanor had not risen, but, with her head 
 bowed upon the arm of the chair, wept si 
 lently. 
 
 " Father," she sobbed, " when I was a child 
 I believed all that you told me. Then mamma 
 died then my baby. I do not believe that 
 my mother lived only to pass utterly away. I 
 do not believe that I bore my child only that 
 she should wholly perish. I am an ignorant 
 girl ; but I have no need of reason. I know 
 and I believe." 
 
 "I think, Nellie," said Biddulph, slowly, 
 " that I understand you less and less every 
 day. Really it is very perplexing and annoy- 
 ing." 
 
 " I am very sorry, papa," said Eleanor. " I 
 would be glad to be what you want me to be ; 
 I would have liked to have done what you 
 
188 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 wanted me to do. But it lias been impossible. 
 I think I was nearly everything did nearly 
 everything that you desired until I met 
 Stephen." 
 
 " I know I know," he said, a little petu 
 lantly. " You seemed bewitched -tradition, 
 training, all seemed to go for nothing." 
 
 " I loved him," said Eleanor, simply, looking 
 at Biddulph with something in her air which, 
 if not defiance, was more than mere asser 
 tion. 
 
 " Exactly," said Biddulph, a little impa 
 tiently. " You loved him ; and in saying that 
 you think you offer an explanation. But who 
 will explain love ? Your explanation does not 
 explain. You answer a riddle with an enigma 
 substitute a mystery for a puzzle. You for 
 got yourself and your position. The strongest 
 of all influences, habit and association, were as 
 nothing. You did what I did not desire, be 
 cause one day you met a certain man. With 
 the fortune you will have, with your name, 
 there were many whom the world, as well as I, 
 considered much more eligible who would 
 have been glad to marry you, who wished to 
 marry you, but you would not look at them or 
 listen to them." 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 189 
 
 " He loved me," answered Eleanor. 
 
 "Loved you!" exclaimed Biddulph, with 
 rising impatience. "How do you know that 
 he loved you more than any of the others ? 
 He had more to gain than they, and yet you 
 believed him, and thought all the others for 
 tune-hunters." 
 
 " You cannot tell how you know those things 
 you feel them." 
 
 " Preposterous ! " exclaimed Biddulph, al 
 most scornfully. "He was a good-looking 
 fellow and he took your fancy, as the fancy of 
 many another rich girl has been taken by a 
 handsome face, a manly air, a ready tongue, 
 and a resolute spirit. Don t you suppose he 
 thought of your money exactly as did the 
 rest?" 
 
 " I do you want to make me doubt him ? " 
 moaned Eleanor. " I wanted so to think he 
 cared for me, that I could not help doing what 
 I did. And now, if I thought he only married 
 me because he thought I would be rich, I 
 should die." 
 
 " You were not a reigning beauty, nor one to 
 arrest attention in the world," continued Bid 
 dulph, " but it may not have been altogether 
 for the beaux yeux de ma cassette. Let us 
 
190 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 hope so. I think you never sufficiently real 
 ized your position, or else you never cared 
 enough about it. Still, I never expected all to 
 end as it did." 
 
 " But we have been so happy." 
 
 " I must confess," said Biddulph, " that the 
 result has been better than I expected. I 
 really cannot find fault with the man you in 
 sisted upon having for a husband. Stephen 
 Armroyd has done wonderfully well consider 
 ing who and what he was a man from the 
 masses, self-made and self-educated." 
 
 " But he had made himself even then," said 
 Eleanor, proudly. " He needed nobody s mon 
 ey, nobody s aid to accomplish that." 
 
 " He had," conceded Biddulph, " attained a 
 very respectable position. But what I desired 
 for you was a man of brilliant rank, rich, your 
 equal." 
 
 " My equal ! " exclaimed Eleanor, scornfully. 
 " As if Stephen 
 
 " Yes," interrupted Biddulph, " I know 
 we ve discussed all this before did it thor 
 oughly when you were about to be married. 
 There is no need to go over it again. I have 
 quite often listened to the enumeration of Arm- 
 royd s qualities intelligent, capable, honest, 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 191 
 
 of excellent presence and presentable manner 
 altogether a very admirable person." 
 " If you could only do him justice." 
 " But," continued Biddulph, " really, a man 
 who had only then made some little money by 
 the invention of a clever machine ; a man whom 
 you met by accident for he had no recognized 
 position in your world who was about as 
 much out of place there as a white bear would 
 be in Sahara. No, he was not one whom I had 
 been led to expect you would marry, or whom 
 I would care to have for a son-in-law." 
 
 " Has he not always been perfect with you ? " 
 " Personally," said Biddulph, " I do not com 
 plain. He has borne himself with a deference 
 and delicacy truly remarkable considering what 
 must have been his early disadvantages. I 
 have no reason to say anything. I do not say 
 anything. I am satisfied if you are happy." 
 " And I am," she answered, " I am ; you do 
 not know how happy." 
 
 " I suppose," said Biddulph, losing some 
 thing of his habitual half -raillery that so easily 
 changed to querulousness, " this is all I really 
 ask, but we seem to have such different ideas 
 of happiness. I had imagined I could give you 
 something better ; but you did not want any- 
 
192 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 thing better ; you wanted Armroyd, and what 
 one wants is so often so much better than the 
 best, that I suppose I have been wise in letting 
 you have him. Whatever else one may do, 
 one can never be happy in another s way. I 
 inay have been weakly indulgent, as I always 
 have been, and have given him to you as, at 
 another age, I would have given you any costly 
 plaything. I have known many women and 
 have learned something of their ways. Never 
 oppose them. Let them go to the devil, or 
 his equivalent, in their own way, and they will 
 bear you no grudge. Obstruct them but with 
 a straw, and they will hate you, for they will 
 not doubt that they would have enjoyed, but 
 for the straw, that supreme, that final happi 
 ness that every woman seems continually and 
 feverishly to seek. Instinctively I acted toward 
 you as toward any other woman knowing that 
 you are all alike for all women are the same ; 
 only the conditions that are required to make 
 them so are really ever different." 
 
 "But, papa, are you not contented now? 
 has it not all been for the best ? " 
 
 Biddulph did not at once reply. 
 
 " If your mother had lived," he said, in a 
 moment, " she would have wished you to do as 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 193 
 
 you have done. That thought influenced me. 
 It has always seemed to me that you were like 
 her, really more her child than mine, and I 
 thought she would understand what was best 
 for you much better than I could hope to do. 
 I loved her dearly, but I am afraid that I some 
 times made her not quite happy not as 
 happy as she might have been. I felt that I 
 did not fully understand her, and it was the 
 fear that I might not understand you might 
 inflict upon you some grief that I could not 
 fully comprehend that made me finally give 
 my consent." 
 
 " Yes," said Eleanor, gently. 
 
 "Yes," continued Biddulph, "she your 
 mother could believe well in short, be 
 lieved, and my incredulity, my scepticism, was 
 always a trouble to her. At the last," Biddulph 
 paused and passed his hand across his fore 
 head, " at the last, when I knew that she was 
 dying, then I first realized the barrenness of 
 disbelief. How happy they must be who can 
 trust in the hereafter ! How comparatively 
 bearable would have been even that separation, 
 if I could have thought that we would ever 
 meet again ! But," Biddulph s voice broke, for 
 
 a minute he could not speak, and when he did, 
 13 
 
194 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 it was with the weak trenmlousness of fore 
 running age, in the shaking, time-worn articu 
 lation of senility which was not yet his, " since 
 then," he continued, more composedly, "I 
 have never been the same. But I could make 
 you happy, and in yielding to your every wish 
 I sought to make some atonement to her. And 
 I gave up more than you know. If Armroyd 
 was not positively repugnant to me, there could 
 be no sympathy between us. The slight ten 
 tacles that nature puts forth in first distrust, 
 brought to each knowledge of the unlikeness 
 of himself to the other. But time has so soft 
 ened our relations that, whatever I may be to 
 him, I am glad that we more than bear with 
 each other. He knew that you were all that 
 was left to me, and has not insisted upon tak 
 ing you wholly from me. I am grateful to him 
 that he has consented to live in my house, 
 something another might not have been will 
 ing to do and I do not misinterpret his rea 
 son. He did not, I am convinced, wish to 
 separate us utterly ; but then he must, of 
 course, have realized that you were both large 
 ly dependent upon me." 
 
 Eleanor s face burned with a quick, in 
 dignant flush ; she with difficulty withheld 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 195 
 
 the words that evidently pressed for utter 
 ance. 
 
 " Of course it was a great advance," con 
 tinued Biddulph, in the same vein "a won 
 derful piece of good fortune for him, and he 
 should have been grateful. He had the good 
 sense also to recognize my sacrifice his in 
 equality 
 
 " Papa ! " exclaimed Eleanor, facing her 
 father with eyes blazing through unshed tears, 
 " I will not bear it, I will not have you say 
 such things. Stephen is more than my equal. 
 He is good, wise, noble, brave, strong, and 
 so handsome." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Biddulph, indulgently. 
 
 " You do not know him," continued Eleanor, 
 "you do not understand him. You have 
 lived in your assumed superiority, you have 
 made it impossible for him to reach you. His 
 position has not been an easy one. You say 
 he has been perfect with you. He has been 
 as perfect with everyone, about everything. 
 Think how splendidly he has always treated 
 that Mr. Kunyon." 
 
 An unwonted look of stern severity came 
 into Biddulph s face, and Eleanor paused for a 
 moment. 
 
196 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 " You know very well," she continued, more 
 calmly, " that Eunyon never really did any 
 thing for him. Tho money he lent him to ad 
 vance his invention, Stephen could have got 
 anywhere. Still, when the machine was suc 
 cessful, Stephen paid Eunyon over and over 
 again. He has helped him in trouble after 
 trouble, and Eunyon is always in trouble. It 
 was only yesterday that Stephen first refused 
 any one of his demands, and then only because 
 it was so outrageous." 
 
 "Eunyon has been to see him again, has 
 he ? " half sneered Biddulph, visibly annoyed, 
 however, by what he heard. 
 
 " Yes," said Eleanor. " I didn t mean to tell 
 you, but I forgot. I knew it would trouble 
 you. Eunyon has been here once more. And 
 after all Stephen has done for him, too." 
 
 "What did he want?" 
 
 "Twenty-five thousand dollars," answered 
 Eleanor, " and when Stephen refused, Eunyon 
 was angry and insolent, and said he would 
 bring a suit against him." 
 
 " And your husband ? " asked Biddulph. 
 
 " Told Eunyon," replied Eleanor, " that the 
 threat confirmed his refusal." 
 
 " Nothing can be done ? " 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 197 
 
 " Stephen prefers to endure the annoyance 
 of the suit. There is nothing, he says, of the 
 claim." 
 
 " Nothing of the claim ! " exclaimed Bid- 
 dulph, excitedly. " But there is, in one sense. 
 Do you think that it is nothing that a suit 
 will be brought against your husband, my son- 
 in-law, for money claimed to have been lent, 
 advanced whatever it is called to aid him in 
 something about a machine," and he scornfully, 
 spitefully accented the word, " a machine mak 
 ing, I believe, more cheaply something greatly 
 superior to anything of the kind that could be 
 produced before ? Do you know what the 
 world will say ? It will say that Armroyd has 
 robbed Bunyon. And there will be talk and 
 newspaper articles. Probably my name your 
 name will be brought into the affair in some 
 way." 
 
 "What would it matter?" 
 
 "A great deal," answered Biddulph, im 
 patiently. "It would not be pleasant it 
 would not be endurable. In a business sense 
 the affair may be wholly justifiable, but I 
 know nothing about business and I don t like 
 it." He paused a moment, then he added : 
 " I suppose that if the man got the twenty-five 
 
198 A MATTEK OF FACT 
 
 thousand dollars, even that would not be the 
 last of it." 
 
 " Yes," answered Eleanor, positively, " Kun- 
 yon would sign papers, do something that 
 would end everything. I wanted Stephen to 
 give him the money, but he would not. He 
 said that it was not right to suffer such an im 
 position ; as a matter of business principle he 
 could not allow it." 
 
 " Business ! " said Biddulph, in a tone too 
 well bred perhaps to be a sneer, but still won 
 derfully suggestive of one. " Business ! Are 
 there not other considerations that my name 
 should be kept from common scandal? that 
 his own name even should be kept from easy 
 defamation ? " 
 
 " I am sure," said Eleanor, " that Stephen 
 would never do anything that would be un 
 worthy of your name or his own." 
 
 " I do not know," said Biddulph ; " I have 
 seen something of these practical businessmen 
 and their ways are not my ways. Armroyd 
 might do what he thought right according to 
 his lights ; but " Biddulph shook his head 
 " he has no traditions, no inherited instincts 
 to guide him." 
 
 The servant re-entered the room. 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 199 
 
 " Mr. Tollison has called and says he desires 
 to see you, sir," he announced, standing like 
 some stiff but very life-like figure that had 
 been rolled in upon well-oiled wheels, and left 
 in that particular spot. 
 
 " Yes," said Biddulph, " and yet I did not 
 send for him." 
 
 " Shall I go ? " asked Eleanor. 
 
 " For a moment," answered Biddulph. " I 
 do not know what Tollison may want, and he 
 may find it difficult to state his business with, 
 you here. He is an excellent man of affairs 
 has managed the estate for me admirably all 
 these years but he is hardly at his ease in 
 the presence of a lady." 
 
 Biddulph had scarcely time, after Eleanor 
 had left the room, to take a turn or two, as he 
 did, with doubtful and wavering steps across 
 the library, when the servant again appeared 
 and announced : 
 
 " Mr. Tollison." 
 
 A small, neatly dressed man came uncer 
 tainly forward and nervously took the hand 
 that Biddulph condescendingly held out to 
 him. 
 
 " Ah, Tollison," said Biddulph, " I am very 
 glad to see you ; indeed I may say that your 
 
200 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 coming has been most opportune. But first, 
 about what do you wish to speak to me ? " 
 
 " Nothing in particular, nothing," answered 
 Tollison, with his handkerchief at his heated 
 forehead. " But you told me to call from time 
 to time, and 
 
 " I believe I did. Sit down, Tollison," said 
 Biddulph to the still standing man. "But 
 really I cannot imagine why. You know I 
 have perfect confidence in you ; that I under 
 stand very little about the transaction of af 
 fairs, and that the property was very fortu 
 nately left to me in such condition that it has 
 always been very easy to manage it." 
 
 " Yes," answered Tollison. 
 
 " And I luckily have been so placed inher 
 iting from my father a fortune so wisely in 
 vested and a man of business in every way so 
 capable as you that I have not been obliged 
 to give money matters even a thought. You 
 cut the coupons, I spend the proceeds, that 
 has been about all that has been necessary; 
 and I think our respective tasks have been 
 quite congenial to both of us for I have ob 
 served, Tollison, that it has always been a 
 certain satisfaction to you, the mere hand 
 ling of money, while the only pleasure I 
 
A MATTEL OF FACT 201 
 
 liave ever had in it lias been the getting rid 
 of it." 
 
 Tollison laughed as one who feels that a 
 laugh is expected, but still uncertainly, as if 
 fearful that what he was doing might not be 
 quite right. 
 
 "But I said your coming was opportune," 
 said Biddulph. "If you had not come, I 
 should have been obliged to send for you. 
 There is a certain little matter to which I de 
 sire that you should attend at once." 
 
 " Certainly, Mr. Biddulph." 
 
 " The fact is that I want some money for a 
 particular purpose." 
 
 " Yes," said Tollison, again becoming mono 
 syllabic and speaking as if his only thought 
 was to avoid any possibility of discussion. 
 
 " It s a largish sum, but of course there will 
 be no difficulty about j^our letting me have it 
 well to-morrow morning." 
 
 "No," answered Tollison, but there was more 
 of hesitation than of certainty in his tone. 
 
 " I want twenty-five thousand dollars." 
 
 " Twenty-five thousand dollars ! " repeated 
 Tollison, perceptibly startled. 
 
 " Twenty-five thousand dollars," said Bid 
 dulph, sharply, "a mere trifle an amount that, 
 
202 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 with my fortune invested as it is, you can 
 easily raise in an hour." 
 
 But " began Tollison. 
 
 " To-morrow morning will do," said Bid- 
 dulph, rather peremptorily. " I shall not want 
 the money before then." 
 
 " But " again began Tollison, sitting on 
 
 the very edge of his chair, " the purpose if I 
 might know why you want this sum this 
 large sum of money." 
 
 " Tollison, my good friend," said Biddulph, 
 suppressing his annoyance, " it has never been 
 my custom to consult you about the disposi 
 tion of my money, and I do not see any reason 
 for doing so now. Indeed, I may say that I 
 consider what you have said ill-timed and ex 
 tremely unsuitable." 
 
 "Still, Mr. Biddulph," insisted the little 
 man, in pitiable agitation, "if I should venture 
 to inquire 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed Biddulph, in unre 
 strained anger, "am I not to do what I please 
 with my own ? We have known each other a 
 long time, Mr. Tollison, and I must say you 
 have served me faithfully and well, but do not, 
 I pray, forget yourself, Mr. Tollison. I can 
 not, even in view of the many years you have 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 203 
 
 been in my employ the employ of my family 
 permit you to inquire into my motives or 
 question my actions." 
 
 "But I must know, Mr. Biddulph," said 
 Tollison, in an agony of embarrassment. "You 
 have never asked for so large a sum before, 
 and I must ask you to tell me, or else " 
 
 " Or else ? " interrupted Biddulph, in aston 
 ishment. "What do you mean that other 
 wise you cannot get it ? " 
 
 "I do not know," answered Tollison, so 
 confused that he evidently had lost all self- 
 control. " Only tell me," he went on, beseech 
 ingly, " and I will see that it is all arranged." 
 
 " There is something here that I do not un 
 derstand," insisted Biddulph with great sever 
 ity, looking squarely at the almost trembling 
 man before him. "Am I to believe that it is 
 necessary for you to know what disposition I 
 intend to make of the money before you can 
 procure it ? You cannot mean to imply that, 
 for it would be absurd." 
 
 " You said you have always trusted me, Mr. 
 Biddulph," begged Tollison ; " trust me in 
 this. I am not good at concealments, and if 
 you will only not question me, you will find 
 that it will be all right." 
 
20i A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 Biddulph seated liimself in front of the now 
 thoroughly excited man, with great delibera 
 tion and with something of a judicial air. 
 
 " Tollison," he said, " there is some mystery 
 here. I intend to know what it is. As you 
 say, you are not skilful in subterfuge, and you 
 had best tell me at once." 
 
 " I beg that you will ask me nothing for 
 your own sake and for the sake of others." 
 
 " I direct you to raise for me a certain sum 
 of money which, although large, is not enor 
 mous," continued Biddulph, utterly disregard 
 ing these entreaties, " and you insist upon my 
 telling you what I am going to do with it, im 
 plying that if you do not know this, the thing 
 cannot be accomplished." 
 
 " Not exactly that," groaned Tollison. 
 
 " That, at least, was the impression I gath 
 ered from your words," continued Biddulph, 
 pitilessly, " and I must conclude that it was a 
 just one. If the knowledge of my purpose is 
 all that is necessary in order to effect the pro 
 curement of this sum, then there cannot be 
 any real lack of power to raise the money." 
 
 " No," Tollison hastened to respond. 
 
 " The money will be forthcoming from some 
 where," asserted Biddulph. 
 
A MAT TEE OF FACT 205 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But still there is something unexplained. 
 You cannot assure me truthfully, on your word 
 as an honest man, that I can have what I wish 
 without revealing to you my intention ? " 
 
 Biddulph, looking narrowly with his sharp, 
 old worldly eyes at Tollison, saw that a tre 
 mendous struggle agitated him. 
 
 " No," answered Tollison, at length. 
 
 " Ah ! that is very well. Now we shall soon 
 understand. It must be, then, that there is 
 some one else concerned in this affair." 
 
 "Mr. Biddulph," cried Tollison, in utter dis 
 may, " you really must ask me nothing more." 
 
 " There is some one else concerned, and I am 
 not entire master of my own affairs. How can 
 that have happened? Through no fault of 
 yours, Mr. Tollison, I am sure 
 
 " No, Mr. Biddulph," said Tollison, proud 
 ly ;" everyone has conceded that. All that 
 could be done I did, and when " he paused 
 now in even greater consternation than before, 
 having evidently said more than he had in 
 tended. 
 
 " Something has happened," said Biddulph, 
 quite pleasantly, " and from the connection, it 
 has something to do with my money matters ? " 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 He waited for an answer, looking at Tolli- 
 son with a fixedness that finally led the latter 
 to hesitatingly murmur : 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Now, from the fact," continued Biddulph, 
 relentlessly, " that you hesitate about comply 
 ing with my demand, I must argue that it is 
 something unpleasant. There is some diffi 
 culty that you have kept from me ? " 
 
 " Yes, and no," stammered Tollison. 
 
 " As you will readily understand, it is of the 
 utmost importance to me to find out what it is. 
 If, with my fortune, I cannot at once raise so 
 insignificant a sum as twenty-five thousand 
 dollars, the situation must be very serious." 
 
 Tollison was silent. 
 
 " This is a matter that will admit of no tri 
 fling," went on Biddulph, and his manner, 
 which had been apparently easy and almost 
 indifferent, suddenly became stem and impres 
 sive. " Misfortune has happened, and the fact 
 has been withheld from me, as it could easily 
 be, from one who has given no more attention 
 to details than I have." 
 
 "Yes," gasped Tollison; "but really it is 
 nothing ; " then using the phrase he had em 
 ployed before, " it will be all right." 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 207 
 
 " You must allow me to think otherwise, Tol- 
 lison," said Biddulph, quietly. " From your 
 manner I see that it is more serious than I 
 had anticipated. Is it ruin ? " 
 
 " Do not ask me," cried Tollison, " I can say 
 nothing I -" 
 
 "It is ruin," said Biddulph, without the al 
 teration of a tone or the variation of an in 
 flection. " But why have I not been told ? " 
 
 " It is not my fault. I advised it. I argued 
 that it should be done." 
 
 " Then I am to infer that what I should have 
 known knowledge of my own affairs has 
 been kept from me by you through the influ 
 ence of others or another ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Armroyd, sir, and Mr. Armroyd " 
 
 " They desired that I should remain in 
 ignorance of my loss ? " quietly demanded 
 Biddulph. 
 
 " They thought it was best that you might 
 be saved trouble that, as it would make no 
 difference 
 
 " Not make any difference ? " 
 
 " No you see, Mr. Armroyd has made such 
 a large fortune in the last three years that 
 everything could be earned on just the 
 same." 
 
208 A MAT TEE OF FACT 
 
 " And it has been his money that has main 
 tained this establishment that has enabled it 
 to go on as it has that has given me what I 
 have had?" 
 
 " Yes," continued Tollison, now utterly de 
 moralized, " since you lost all." 
 
 " All? " repeated Biddulph. 
 
 " Yes, sir, all. They thought for they 
 realized how proud you are that you would 
 be happier if you did not know, and so they 
 forced me into helping them in the deception 
 and we have succeeded, although now " 
 
 "And I have been mistaken about every 
 thing all these years ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And I am to understand that I have been 
 living all this time on the bounty of Mr. Arm- 
 royd, my son-in-law ? " 
 
 " Not exactly that. Of course I m sure Mr. 
 Armroyd never looked at it in that way." 
 
 "That I am a pauper dependent upon 
 others ? " 
 
 "No no!" cried Tollison, appalled at the 
 effect of his revelations. " You do not see 
 let me explain." 
 
 "My good sir," said Biddulph, with his 
 stateliest air, "I must ask you to withdraw for 
 
A MAT TEE OF FACT 209 
 
 a short time ; I wish to speak a few moments 
 with my daughter, alone." 
 
 As Eleanor entered the room she saw some 
 thing unusual had happened. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried, running to Biddulph and 
 putting her arms about him. " What is it ? " 
 
 Biddulph sat like one who, just recovering 
 consciousness, has not yet reached full reali 
 zation of his situation. As he did not at once 
 answer she asked again, with even greater evi 
 dence of apprehension : 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " I have learned the truth." 
 
 "Mr. Tollison ?" 
 
 " Tollison has told me all." 
 
 " And he promised us that you should never 
 know," grieved Eleanor. 
 
 " I hardly think that he is really to blame," 
 continued Biddulph, quietly ; " I pressed him 
 pretty hard, and he is not a person of great 
 presence of mind or strength of resistance." 
 
 " But you will not think of it again ? You 
 will forget you ever knew or heard of it ? " be 
 sought Eleanor. 
 
 " I do not know what to say or what to 
 think. I am stunned, prostrated. The shock 
 14 
 
210 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 lias been very great, and I cannot tell how it 
 will affect me." 
 
 " But we did it for the best," she moaned. 
 " We wished to spare you all we could. We 
 knew you would feel the loss deeply, and 
 Stephen " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " When I proposed that we should try and 
 keep you in ignorance, Stephen at once as 
 sented. I knew how you felt about him, and 
 I was afraid you might think of him mistaken 
 ly. Remember you are a very proud man " 
 
 " And you did this to spare my pride ? " 
 
 " We did it because there was no real reason 
 why we should do otherwise. What you lost 
 is little in comparison with what Stephen has 
 gained what he will gain. You do not know 
 about him he is one of the rich men of the 
 city of the country a power an influence. 
 Within the last few years he has been success 
 ful in all he has undertaken, and everyone re 
 spects and honors him. You, living as you 
 have, cut off from the world, have heard noth 
 ing of this. Father, you must say that you 
 were wrong, and that I was right. You must 
 say it. " 
 
 " Perhaps," answered Biddulph, sadly. " You 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 211 
 
 must give me time to collect my thoughts. 
 One cannot suddenly find the fabric of his life 
 rent and ruined, and remain unmoved; one 
 cannot discover that the idea of his whole ex 
 istence has been utterly mistaken, and instant 
 ly command every faculty." 
 
 " But there is no reason why you should feel 
 it everything will must go on as it always 
 has," urged Eleanor, eagerly. 
 
 "I don t know I don t know," murmured 
 Biddulph, weakly and perplexedly. " I do not 
 seem to have quite my accustomed vigor." 
 
 Indeed, he seemed to have aged with strange 
 suddenness a paleness overspread his face 
 there was a tremulousness in his long, lean 
 hand never there before, and his glance was 
 for the moment wandering and objectless. 
 
 " There can be no change everything is the 
 same except some miserable money." 
 
 " But I am penniless a pauper." 
 
 " You are not. Do you think that Stephen 
 was without pride and that it was not hard for 
 him, comparatively without fortune, as he then 
 was, to marry me the heiress ? You must now 
 forget your pride as much as he did then un 
 derstanding that it is a joy to him to find him 
 self in a position to benefit you to benefit us." 
 
212 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 "I do not seem very clear in my mind, 
 Nellie," said Biddulph, continuing what he 
 had said before rather than responding to her 
 last speech. " It seems as if in some way my 
 faculties had been benumbed by this blow. I 
 am an old man," he paused, irresolutely, "I 
 have been proud and imperious, and self-con 
 fident. Perhaps this is retribution." 
 
 But he did not appear to be really as much 
 moved by the revelation to which he had just 
 listened as Eleanor might have imagined that 
 he would be ; either the callousness of age or 
 a certain indifference which he himself would 
 never have suspected, seemed to enable him to 
 endure so well the overthrow of so much that 
 he had considered assured. 
 
 " You did it for the best," he went on, piti 
 fully, " you and he but still I should have 
 liked to know." 
 
 Eleanor looked at him curiously and then 
 hastened to speak : 
 
 "And now everything shall be as it was, 
 only you will understand Stephen better, and 
 all everything will be clear." 
 
 Biddulph slowly bowed his head with some 
 thing of an inattentive air. 
 
 " Will you send Tollison away ? I don t 
 
A MATTER OF FACT 213 
 
 think I care to see him again to-day. I am 
 hardly equal to talking about business." 
 
 " Of course," answered Eleanor, leaning over 
 him and kissing him upon the brow as he sat 
 bent in his chair. " And now let me make you 
 comfortable." 
 
 She brought a footstool and placed it before 
 him then she arranged the cushions for him 
 to lean against. 
 
 "Now you are all right," she said, standing 
 off and contemplating her work. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, listlessly. 
 
 She was going, when he stopped her. 
 
 " I should like," he said, " to see your to 
 see Stephen Armroyd. You will tell him so 
 for me, and he will come ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "I have been mistaken," he said slowly, 
 "but there was nothing to lead me to suspect 
 that I was. It seemed so clear to me that I 
 knew all that I needed to know, and so impos 
 sible that there could be anything else." Then 
 he added, returning to his former careless, 
 courtly manner, and speaking with his habitual 
 lightness as it were shrugging aside annoy 
 ance with the graceful ease of which he had 
 always been master "Before you go could 
 
214 A MATTER OF FACT 
 
 you give me a book? Spinoza s "Tractatus 
 Theologico-Politicus." You ll find it on the 
 third shelf at the right of the door. I wish to 
 verify a quotation." 
 
 As Eleanor handed him the volume he spoke 
 again. 
 
 " Spinoza perhaps did not see with the com 
 plete clearness of some ; still his conclusions 
 are always interesting. Facts to him were 
 perhaps not the paramount and only things 
 they should always be. But his was a marvel 
 ous intellect a charming personality. Thank 
 you. And do not forget that I should like to 
 speak with your husband. I can manage to see 
 him at almost any time." 
 
 
A FRESH-WATER ROMANCE 
 
A FRESH-WATER ROMANCE 
 
 THE Lone Star was the oldest propeller of 
 standard class " on the Lakes." It was 
 twenty years or more since the blocks were 
 knocked from under her at the Cleveland ship 
 yard where she had been built, and she slid 
 down the ways, her starboard side striking the 
 water first and a groat wave rising as she struck, 
 that foamed across the basin and broke high 
 upon an opposite pier. During this score of 
 years she had run between Buffalo and Chicago, 
 touching sometimes, but not always, at Cleve 
 land, at Detroit, at Milwaukee, with a regular 
 ity so great that it was now her greatest if not 
 her only merit. 
 
 Once the Star that soon had become her 
 name in common usage had been the pride 
 of her owners, the boast of her home-port. 
 She was shown to "visiting statesmen " when 
 
218 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 it was desired to impress them with the im 
 portance of the " Commerce of the Lakes ; " 
 she was mentioned in swelling editorials when 
 ever the local newspapers descanted upon that 
 theme. Her speed, her tonnage, her power, 
 her build, were subjects of frequent eulogy. 
 She was a practical wonder ; a marvel of 
 naval architecture. But now all was differ 
 ent. She was no longer visited by commit 
 tees. She was no longer mentioned in print 
 except in some such brief announcements 
 as : " Detroit Passed up, Lone Star, 11.20 
 P.M." " Buffalo Arrived, Prop. L. Star, Stark 
 weather, wheat and flour. Stoke & Pogis." 
 Other propellers had been built others upon 
 better lines, of greater speed and power others 
 in whose holds could be stowed thousands 
 more bushels of the beaded amber of the bil 
 lowy Minnesota wheat-fields, thousands more 
 feet of the yellow Michigan lumber, and tons 
 and tons more of the tawny copper of true 
 aboriginal hue, taken from the Lake Superior 
 mines. But the Star held steadily to her 
 original trade ; had grown old, evidently old, 
 in it. Even the new coat of paint given her 
 every spring did not hide that unpleasant fact. 
 There were dents and patches and cracks which 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 21i) 
 
 paint could not entirely cover or caulking quite 
 conceal. And if advanced years did not make 
 her appear wholly shabby or dilapidated they 
 did not give her picturesqueness. She was 
 only a " Lake propeller," with nothing of that 
 charm of association which gathers around her 
 far-away kindred of the ocean. She stirred no 
 thoughts of distant lands ; of 
 
 " The Indian winds, 
 
 That blow off from the coast, and cheer the sailor 
 With the sweet savor of their spices ; " 
 
 of many climates ; of strange peoples ; of mon 
 sters with uncommon names ; of drifting ice 
 bergs ; of all that adventure, that poetry, that 
 romance have given to ships, even in their fall 
 en estate, that have sought wider seas. Her 
 very form would have killed imagination. She 
 was broad of beam. Her bows were bluff. 
 Fancy could liken her to nothing known to 
 poetry, unless, perhaps, to the blunt-headed 
 grasshopper. She was not unlike that insect 
 in build, for her high arches rose above her 
 hull like the insect s legs above its folded, 
 sheathing wings. Still she was as admirably 
 adapted for the purposes for which she was in 
 tended as are most of our American produc 
 tions, even if she was as frankly and fearlessly 
 
220 A FRESH- WA TER ROMANCE 
 
 ugly a thing as we Americans alone dare make 
 or use when we have a distinct and practical 
 end in view as ugly as an elevator, an elevat 
 ed railroad, the advertisement of the last pat 
 ent medicine, a new political theory. 
 
 There was probably only one person who 
 ever thought the Lone Star beautiful Nettie 
 Starkweather, the daughter and only child of 
 the captain of Captain Samuel Starkweather, 
 who " brought out " the boat and had been her 
 captain ever since. And why should she not ? 
 She was "a Lake girl, born and bred in the big 
 city which owed its origin and early growth to 
 the Lakes, and had never seen anything differ 
 ent. Besides, there was one proud day in her 
 very young life, always vividly remembered. 
 Had she not, an insignificant mite of a thing, 
 but upon that great day, far from unimportant 
 or inconspicuous in her stiff-starched white 
 dress and broad, blue sash had she not chris 
 tened the boat when it was launched, and, 
 hardly realizing what she did, but knowing that 
 it was something very important, had she not 
 broken the bottle over the boat s bow and seen 
 the bright, foaming wine run slowly along the 
 rail? And then she had been brought up 
 with the boat, so to speak, and to it she owed 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 221 
 
 much. For not only had her father had his 
 pay as captain for so many years, but he had 
 come to own a sixteenth interest in her, and 
 had always had that share in her net earnings 
 besides. Therefore to the old propeller they 
 owed not only their living but all they had, 
 even the ring upon her small finger, the chain 
 around her slender neck, and the watch hex 
 father had given her at Christmas. 
 
 But now there was a new interest to Nettie 
 Starkweather in the old propeller. That very 
 morning her father had told her that if David 
 Sackett received his license as chief mate 
 and there was no doubt that he would that 
 " Dave " was to go mate of the Star he went 
 second on her last season that is if he, Stark 
 weather, and about this there seemed to be a 
 suspicion of doubt, was to be her captain. Of 
 course Nettie was interested in this, and but 
 it is quite impossible to dissever and distribute 
 in parts of speech the thoughts, the fancies 
 that mingled in the reverie of the girl as she 
 sat silent on the lower veranda step stirring 
 with her foot the gravel in the walk before her 
 thoughts and fancies so vague, so discon 
 nected, so novel, that she herself scarcely rec 
 ognized even that they were delightful. 
 
222 A FRESH-WATER ROMANCE 
 
 All at once she laughed a little, in that sud 
 den, mysterious way in which happy young 
 girls will laugh, as if from the very superabun 
 dance of their joyousness ; and then she looked 
 hastily up at a young man who sat perilously 
 near the edge of the platform, watching the 
 little foot as it scattered the pebbles. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked. 
 
 " I don t know why I laughed," she answered, 
 quickly ; " I just had to." 
 
 The young man was about to speak when 
 Starkweather came out through the front door. 
 
 " I thought I heard you," he said, as he 
 walked with heavy tread to a chair, " and I 
 he paused for a moment and beamed placidly 
 upon the pair " didn t wait for you to come in 
 was afraid you d think I was busy and stay 
 out." 
 
 And then he laboriously sat down. Nettie 
 gave a pebble larger than the rest a quick, im 
 patient push ; a sudden look of disappointment 
 shot across the young man s face. 
 
 " Mild for the season ain t it ? " the Captain 
 said, turning to the young man. 
 
 " Yes, sir," he answered, meekly. " They 
 told me down at the office " 
 
 " Stoke & Pogis s ? " asked Starkweather. 
 
A FRESH-WATER ROMANCE 223 
 
 " Yes, sir, that they d heard the ice was al- 
 mcfst out of the Straits." 
 
 " No ! " said Starkweather. " When d they 
 get word?" 
 
 " This afternoon," replied the young man. 
 
 " Navigation ll be open right away," said 
 Starkweather, rather eagerly. " No more crib- 
 bage for us ; don t think of any more cribbage 
 this year. Cribbage is well enough for a win 
 ter evenin , and I won t say I don t like it. 
 Night shut down, soft coal in the grate, a 
 storm outside, a pipe, Nettie playing on the 
 piano, and cribbage ain t at all bad. Eh? 
 What? But ?" pausing a moment "that 
 ain t the openin of navigation." 
 
 " Miss Nettie," said the young man, taking 
 advantage of Starkweather s pause, " I tried to 
 get that song you told me about. I went to 
 every music-store in the city, but they didn t 
 have it." 
 
 " I m sure, Mr. Sackett," said the girl, " you 
 needn t have taken that trouble. You don t 
 mean to say you remembered the name ? " 
 
 " As if I would be likely to forget it," said 
 Sackett, with lowered voice. " l When the 
 Stars come one by one, Love. They ve sent 
 for it. It ll be here to-morrow." 
 
224 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 " Mr. Sackett ! " 
 
 " And there s such a difference in seasons," 
 continued Starkweather, blandly. " Along 
 about 78 must have been along there it was 
 the season she " Captain Starkweather hardly 
 ever mentioned the propeller s name " came 
 near bein bliged to winter in Chicago there 
 came the blamedest season ice wasn t no 
 name for it why, she didn t get out o here, 
 Sackett, for three weeks after what she ll do 
 now." 
 
 "No ? " said Sackett, absently. 
 
 " Emily Marvin s to be married next week," 
 said the girl, a little impatiently, " and I m to 
 be bridesmaid." 
 
 " Are you ? " asked Sackett, rather anxiously. 
 " If if we aren t out of port by that time, 
 can would you mind will you let me go to 
 the church to see you ? " 
 
 "I! The idea !" half exclaimed the girl. "I 
 keep you from church! It ll do you good. It 
 must be an age since you ve been in one." 
 
 " "When I walked home with you " began 
 
 the young man. 
 
 " But you weren t at church then. You only 
 happened to see me in the porch where I was 
 waiting for father, who had gone back for his 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 225 
 
 spectacles he had left in the big prayer-book. 
 You only happened" the slightest accent 
 she couldn t help it, on the word " along that 
 way and came into the porch, not a step fur 
 ther." 
 
 " Happened, " - said the young man. 
 " There s a good deal in this world that * hap 
 pens on purpose." 
 
 " I don t think it ll amount to a thing not 
 a thing," said Starkweather, partially to him 
 self, " specially as it s now so late in the sea 
 son ; but they re keepin up the talk that I m 
 to be retired." 
 
 " Who says so ? " asked Sackett, indignant- 
 
 iy- 
 
 " Oh, them that pretend to know. As if a 
 man who won t be sixty-three till December, 
 wasn t in the prime o life. Why, Sackett, you 
 know I ve sailed these Lakes forty-five years 
 I ve told you that often. Failin faculties ! 
 Between you an me and the pawl-bitt, Sackett, 
 there s fools down on them docks that can t be 
 beat as fools. < Failin faculties! " The 
 Captain paused in utter indignation. 
 
 " I ve heard nothing about it," said Sackett, 
 confidently. 
 
 " An wouldn t be likely to," went on Stark- 
 15 
 
226 A FRESH-WATER ROMANCE 
 
 weather. "But there s those that bring me 
 the news straight enough. I s pose some one 
 wants my place. He ll have a good time get- 
 tin it, whoever he is," and Starkweather 
 brought down his fist on the arm of his chair 
 with a thud that almost startled himself. 
 
 " Emily has lots of presents," said the girl. 
 "I gave her the loveliest looking-glass you 
 ever saw." 
 
 " Did you look into it to see ? " asked 
 Sackett. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said the girl. 
 
 "There s been more or less talk about this 
 for a year or two," continued Starkweather ; 
 "but there seems more substance to it this 
 spring." 
 
 " Who s at the bottom of it?" asked Sackett, 
 a little alarmed at the boldness of his last 
 speech, and running for protection under the 
 lee, as he might say, of a word or two with the 
 Captain. 
 
 " I think it s Jacox," said Starkweather. 
 
 "Jacox?" asked Sackett. "What has he 
 got what can he have against you ? " 
 
 " There s them," said the Captain, impres 
 sively, " that seem to think you re doin em 
 harm by livin . They feel you see through em, 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 227 
 
 and they don t like it. Jacox is one of that 
 sort. He can t bear the sight of me because I 
 know him. They feel streaks of meanness, 
 that kind, just as I feel shoots of rheumatism 
 in the winter," he added, cautiously, "only 
 in the winter to speak of." 
 
 Starkweather settled silently back into his 
 chair, and again Sackett took heart. 
 
 " You ll be getting out the flowers in the 
 garden soon, Miss Nettie ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes, the beds ought to be dug right away." 
 
 " There s a new kind of border I saw in De 
 troit last summer, and I was thinking " 
 
 " They say it s goin to be the best season 
 the Lakes have had in many a year," interrupt 
 ed Starkweather. " Elevators full at Chicago. 
 Lots of coal to go up. Freights ll just be 
 boomin ." 
 
 "I hope so," said Sackett, a little impa 
 tiently. 
 
 " You saw a border in Detroit " suggest 
 ed Nettie, decidedly. 
 
 "But the Lakes are not what they used to 
 be," continued Starkweather ; " freights nowa 
 days ain t nowhere. It s them railroads that 
 do it." 
 
 " That fill the elevators in Chicago, that burn 
 
228 A FRESH- WATER ROMANCE 
 
 the coal, that " began Sackett, innocently, 
 
 and stopping suddenly as the Captain turned 
 and looked sharply at him. 
 
 "No," said the Captain, severely. "They 
 kill freights ; don t they cany all winter ? They 
 don t have seasons of navigation. Have we 
 ever had any such freights as we used to have 
 before they got to runnin the way they do? 
 What did the Lord create the Lakes for if it 
 wasn t to travel by ? to carry cargoes on ? I 
 say railroads go against nature. They ought 
 to be put down by act of Congress." 
 
 Sackett rose determinedly as the Captain 
 paused. 
 
 " What are you doin ? " asked Starkweather, 
 in some surprise. 
 
 "I think," said Sackett, desperately, "I 
 must be going." 
 
 "Already!" said the Captain, "Why, I 
 came out here for a good, long talk." 
 
 " I think I must go," maintained Sackett. 
 
 "All right, if you must," replied the Cap 
 tain. " Come and see us again ; drop in any 
 time. Always glad to see you. Good-evenin ." 
 
 " Good-evening, sir." 
 
 Sackett shook hands despondently with Net 
 tie, who had also arisen. 
 
A FRESH- WATER ROMANCE 229 
 
 " Come again soon," said the girl, gently. 
 
 " I will," said Sackett. " 111 bring the song 
 right away." 
 
 Nettie stood looking at him until she heard 
 the latch of the gate click, and saw him turn 
 down the street. 
 
 "Well," she said to her father, as she sat 
 down and resting her chin on her hand gazed 
 into the darkness, " I hope you enjoyed your 
 self." 
 
 " I think," said the Captain, " David Sackett s 
 a very smart young man. He seems to set 
 value by what I say to him. But it s curious 
 that sometimes, when we ve got an evenin all 
 before iis, and I m just warmin to a subject I 
 know all about, it s Good-evenin , and off he 
 goes. It s curious, it really is." 
 
 He shook his head slowly, and, rising, went 
 into the house, there perhaps to reflect on the 
 unaccountable conduct of this otherwise ordi 
 nary young man, leaving his daughter to her 
 own unuttered thoughts, as she sat out upon 
 the veranda and watched the stars " come one 
 by one." 
 
II. 
 
 IT was a very quiet, rather out-of-the-way 
 part of the city, although it lay near its heart. 
 The bustling "docks" were not far off; great 
 factories were near; only a couple of blocks 
 away began the shop-bordered and principal 
 street where the main line of the street-cars 
 ran, where the great hotels stood, where omni 
 buses, carriages, wagons, carts, rumbled and 
 rattled from early morning till late at night, 
 and where at least half the population, it 
 seemed, within that time passed up and down. 
 In this comparatively deserted quarter grass 
 grew in the cracks in the sidewalks and along 
 the curbstones in many places. There were 
 even scattered trees in the streets, some of 
 them thriving and with spreading branches ; 
 others but the dry skeletons of what they had 
 been. 
 
 The mild spring evening was just closing in, 
 and the stars were just beginning to show, like 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 231 
 
 saffron-drops on the dark violet sky, as Sack- 
 ett walked along Hyphen Street toward Stark 
 weather s house, which stood well toward the 
 uptown border of this part of the city. The 
 neighborhood itself was still ; the bell of a 
 locomotive running along a street three blocks 
 off, even if it did not have a pastoral tinkle, 
 was not at all unmusical. Only that, and now 
 and then the quick whistle of a tug in the har 
 bor, or the deep-throated roar of a propeller as 
 she rounded in from the Lake, broke the si 
 lence. The time, the place, were conducive to 
 reverie, and there was plenty in Sackett s head 
 and heart to furnish material for that pastime. 
 He was not given to introspection. He took 
 his psychological conditions very much as a 
 more sophisticated and more complex person 
 might take the warmth of sudden sunshine or 
 the coolness of an up-springing breeze. But a 
 man cannot help but think when he is troubled, 
 eager, anxious, in love for moments perhaps 
 over-bold, for minutes sunk in fear. 
 
 And Sackett thought, as he walked uncon 
 scious almost of where he was going, but still 
 with a decided persistence in one direction, of 
 what he only was ; thought of Nettie and of 
 all she was ; reflected upon their differing con- 
 
232 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 ditions, and, in the lucid and usual manner of 
 lovers in such strait, fancied how different 
 things would be if they were only otherwise. 
 Not that he was not a fellow of pluck and re 
 source. But he was quite overcome with his 
 own audacity in dreaming in such way of the 
 daughter of the Captain of the Lone Star and 
 the owner of one-sixteenth of that boat he, 
 whose father had been, at most, a wheels 
 man on the old brig " James and Jane," and 
 who had died at thirty, leaving his mother 
 and him in poverty he, who in his boyhood 
 had " taken to the Lakes " that he might aid in 
 fighting the want he knew so well, and who had 
 learned what little books had taught him only 
 at the city s winter schools and in the scant 
 hours in the dim forecastle. Why, the thing 
 was ridiculous. What would Nettie herself 
 think of such presumption ? Hadn t he better 
 stop right where he was give up the little un 
 reasonable hope that now whispered to him to 
 persevere turn the other way and walk down 
 Hyphen Street instead of up it ? But he had 
 such an excellent excuse for going to see her 
 to-night was ever lover without one ? for he 
 had the song, in a roll, in his hand. What was 
 the harm of going on ? Undoubtedly he would 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 233 
 
 find the Captain at home. But suppose Stark 
 weather did run on about " good years " and 
 " bad years " on the Lakes, and condemned, 
 right and left, new things as troublesome to 
 peace and prosperity ; still could he not watch 
 Nettie sitting quietly in the twilight ; and 
 really, it wasn t worth while to turn back after 
 he had walked so far. And so he held on his 
 way, a disturbed, doubtful, downhearted, yet 
 for was there not that little, rather impertinent, 
 whispering hope ? afar from despairing and a 
 decidedly eager young man. 
 
 As he came near the house he could see that 
 Nettie was sitting alone on the veranda. 
 
 He opened the gate absently, but briskly 
 made his way up the walk. Perhaps he might 
 have a word with her before the Captain ap 
 peared. She did not rise to greet him, and he 
 stood with his arms on the railing. 
 
 " Father s gone out," she said. 
 
 His heart sank, then gave a great leap, then 
 stood still. 
 
 " Gone out ? " he repeated. 
 
 " Yes, gone up to see Mr. Stoke at his 
 house," she said. " He is troubled about what 
 he has heard about his not being captain. It s 
 nonsense, I tell him. I know it s nonsense." 
 
234 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 " Of course it is," said Sackett. 
 
 " But he says," continued Nettie, " that if he 
 oughtn t to be captain any longer oughtn t to 
 be trusted with the boat and valuable cargoes 
 he oughtn t ; and so he has made a matter of 
 conscience of it, and he has gone to have a long 
 talk with Mr. Stoke you know Stoke & Pogis 
 own her, except," this with a little pride, " our 
 share and tell him all he thinks, and," she had 
 not failed to see the roll he held in his hand, 
 " is that the music ? Do come up and sit 
 down. I d like to look at it. Father ll be in 
 soon." 
 
 He mounted the two or three steps and 
 stood leaning against one of the supporting 
 posts of the veranda. She took the song, 
 opened it, and said, quickly : 
 
 " Oh, how good of you ! I thank you so 
 much. Let s go in and try it right away." 
 But she did not stir, and neither did he move 
 from where he was. 
 
 " Won t you come ? " she asked, still not 
 moving. 
 
 He did not reply, and for a moment they 
 stood silently looking at each other. 
 
 Now was his time. But where was his cour 
 age ? And where were the words, the phrases, 
 
A FRESH- WATER ROMANCE 235 
 
 that lie had conned and studied the words in 
 which should mingle expression of humility, 
 fear, ardor, hope, devotion, courage, love as 
 true as any the world had ever known? Gone, 
 lost in a bewildering, vanishing haze. He did 
 not speak for a moment. 
 
 "There s something," he said, at last, "I d 
 like to say to you, Miss Nettie. May I ? " 
 
 " Me ! Why not ? " she said, looking up at 
 him with that perfect air of surprised curiosity 
 that a woman can best assume when she knows 
 exactly what she may expect. 
 
 " I know you won t like it," he said. " Not 
 that it s anything a fellow shouldn t say, or a 
 girl shouldn t be willing to hear, for that mat 
 ter. I ve tried to say it for a long time not 
 that there s any reason why I should say it 
 or that I expect it to lead to anything 
 
 " But what is it ? " she asked, as he paused 
 as if to gather and choose his words. You 
 don t know how interested I am." 
 
 " Are you ? " he asked, looking at her ear 
 nestly and steadily, and leaning a little for 
 ward so that she shrank back, as one might 
 who had raised a spirit mightier than it was 
 supposed the simple spell could evoke. 
 
 " I have got my mate s certificate. There it 
 
236 A FRESH-WATER ROMANCE 
 
 is," and he pulled it from his pocket, " and I 
 want to tell you how much I owe you and 
 him and to thank you and to " and he 
 paused in actual anguish. There was a pitiful, 
 pleading look in his eyes a rhetoric beyond 
 all eloquence of speech. 
 
 " I don t think," she said, slowly, with eyes 
 a little downcast, "that you are telling me 
 much. I thought " and she, too, paused. 
 
 " You thought ? " he asked, eagerly. 
 
 " I thought," she said, " that you were 
 going to say something that don t thank me 
 you ve nothing to thank me for," and she 
 took the certificate from his hand and held it 
 listlessly and without looking at it : " Not a 
 thing I thought you were going to say some 
 thing that meant something a great deal " 
 
 " It is a great deal that I want to say," he 
 replied, excitedly, "a great deal to me if I 
 dared if I only dared," and he paused again. 
 
 " What," she said, looking up at him quickly, 
 and for the smallest fraction of an instant, in 
 which it is possible for a girl to look a dozen 
 things at once, her voice sinking a little in 
 spite of valorous effort that it should hold its 
 own, " are you afraid of ? " 
 
 "You." 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 237 
 
 " Of me ! Am I so frightful ? " 
 
 "Nettie," and as he drew near to her she 
 did not draw away. " Nettie," and he drew 
 nearer to her, and still she did not stir. "Net 
 tie, will you let me say it ? " 
 
 " Yes," she whispered. 
 
 "It s all right," shouted Starkweather from 
 the gate. " I m a fool," he cried, as he stormed 
 up the walk, " a downright fool. Pack up a 
 bag for me, I m off for a lunatic asylum. It 
 was only some of that dock talk. Why Stoke d 
 never heard of such a thing, never d thought 
 of such a thing ; and Pogis said Oh, you re 
 not alone." 
 
 He brought up at the foot of the steps and 
 gazed with a puzzled expression at the pair be 
 fore him, for even to his eyes it was evident 
 that something unusual had happened. 
 
 "No, Captain Starkweather," said Sackett, 
 firmly, " I m here and I want to see you." 
 
 " Sorry to have missed your call," said the 
 Captain, genially ; " but you re not goin yet. 
 Sit down for a while." 
 
 " You don t exactly understand me ; I ve 
 something important to say to you." 
 
 " Oh, you have, have you," said Stark- 
 
238 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 weather, blankly, and evidently at a loss how 
 to act. 
 
 "You ve got to know it some time, and I 
 don t see why you shouldn t know it now. I ve 
 asked Nettie to marry me, and she has said 
 that she would." 
 
 " No ? " And the Captain sank into a chair. 
 
 " I know I m poor and she is rich, that I m 
 nobody and she s somebody ; but I m not al 
 ways going to be that, and if she ll wait, and 
 she says she will " 
 
 " And you say think this all right ? " said 
 the old man, looking at the girl. 
 
 "I think it is the best thing in all the 
 world," she answered, proudly, "and if he 
 hadn t asked me I should have asked him, and 
 I m not sure but I did." 
 
 " It s rather sudden," said Starkweather, 
 doubtfully, " and I don t exactly know " 
 
 " I do," said the girl, " and it isn t sudden. 
 It seems as if it had been always. And you 
 don t mind ? " she added, beseechingly. 
 
 " I don t know," repeated her father, help 
 lessly. 
 
 " Dave isn t rich, but he will be some day, 
 and now he s mate the Lone Star 11 take care 
 of all of us. You were poor poorer than he 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 239 
 
 when you and mother were married, you ve 
 told me, and why should it make any differ 
 ence with us ? " 
 
 " I don t know as I ve any real objection if 
 you haven t," said Starkweather, slowly. "I 
 suppose I ought to have more worldly views, 
 but I haven t. I haven t had many views but 
 your happiness, and if you say it must be, why, 
 I s pose it must." 
 
 " It must," commanded the girl, authorita 
 tively. 
 
 " Well," continued the old man, " then we d 
 better call it concluded and be done with it. 
 There s my hand," he said, turning to Sackett ; 
 " I like your principles and I don t mind your 
 prospects, and I guess you ll make her happy 
 if you can." 
 
 " I ll try," answered the young man, simply. 
 
 Starkweather glanced at the two, neither of 
 whom sat down, and there seemed something 
 almost questioning in his look and attitude. 
 
 "I guess," he said, at length, "I ll just step 
 inside for a moment." 
 
 Somewhat later, when Nettie entered the 
 house, she found her f ather smoking vigorously, 
 and evidently pondering upon some subject 
 deeply. She had kissed him good-night, and 
 
240 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 was leaving the room before he spoke. When 
 he did, it was with something of an air of ab 
 straction, with the manner of one who has 
 only succeeded in convincing himself of an as 
 tounding fact after mature deliberation. He 
 rested the hand that held his pipe upon his 
 knee and rubbed the other slowly over his 
 chin ; the words came slowly, as if even now 
 he were not quite ready to commit himself to 
 an open avowal of what on further reflection 
 might appear to him different. 
 
 " Do you know, Nettie, I don t half believe 
 that young fellow used to come to see me after 
 all." 
 
 She had kissed him once, but returning she 
 threw her arms wildly around his neck, hug 
 ging him to her, and kissing him a score of 
 times. 
 
ni. 
 
 WHEN Sackett came on watch at one o clock 
 in the morning, the Lone Star, bound from Buf 
 falo to Chicago, was on Lake Erie, about forty 
 miles to the southward and eastward of Pointe 
 Pelee Island. The wind was strong from 
 W.S.W. and was increasing. A considerable 
 sea had risen. The night was clear. The stars, 
 seen through the wind-swept space, shone 
 brightly and seemed strangely near. Now and 
 then a scouting cloud started above the horizon 
 and advanced swiftly. On either hand, and even 
 ahead, could be seen the green and red signal 
 lights of sail vessels the lights of some grain- 
 laden fleet "bound down " from Chicago. They 
 had the wind free, and as one of them passed 
 swiftly, and not far away, it could be seen that 
 she was carrying all sail. Sackett ordered the 
 man, far forward on the promenade deck, to 
 keep a sharp lookout, and he himself mounted 
 to the hurricane deck and stood in front of the 
 pilot-house. There were two men at the wheel. 
 16 
 
242 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 He glanced in at the compass. The propeller 
 was on her course, N.W. by N. f N. She ran 
 along, and as signal lights farther up the lake 
 were visible, he thought of " checking down " 
 his vessel, but he did not. 
 
 Now the clouds came on in skirmishing 
 squads. The wind shifted three points to W. 
 by N. The sea was rising ; it was vexed by the 
 changing wind. Vigilant as Sackett was, with 
 the acquired and ever-present vigilance of a true 
 sailor when on duty with sight and hearing 
 keenly if unconsciously alert he really could 
 not keep his thoughts from wandering. Was 
 not the prosperous season drawing to a close, 
 and was not the time the coming Christmas 
 not far away, when Nettie and he were to be 
 come " shipmates " for the voyage around the 
 world of their joint lives ? and 
 
 " Green light 011 the port bow," sung out the 
 lookout, " close aboard." 
 
 With a glance Sackett saw it. It flashed 
 quickly into plain sight, not many lengths away 
 not four points off the Star s port bow. 
 
 " Starboard hard a starboard ! " shouted 
 Sackett. 
 
 " Starboard," answered a man at the wheel, 
 and the Star swung to port. It was rather a 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 243 
 
 close thing ; but the big " fore-and-after," now 
 showing a torchlight, rushed at almost a ten- 
 knot speed across the bows of the propeller, 
 and the propeller passed saf elj under the stern 
 of the sail vessel. 
 
 Sackett glanced at his signal lights. They 
 were all right. 
 
 " That vessel must have changed her course," 
 he thought; "why, what fool could guess? 
 Her jibs must have hid her red light or we 
 would have seen it before ? She couldn t have 
 kept a good lookout." 
 
 The propeller, back on her course, held 
 steadily on at her usual speed. All lights to be 
 seen were now distant and broad off either bow. 
 There were none ahead. 
 
 How beautiful Nettie had looked as he hur 
 ried away, not an hour before the propeller 
 started on this trip. Even though the wind 
 was still increasing he could see that the clouds 
 had thickened and were in closer array to the 
 northward and westward ; all was safe, and he 
 could not but think of her as he now stood gaz 
 ing ahead. Unconsciously he pictured to him 
 self the room in which he generally saw her 
 its comfortable look its home look to which 
 she added so much and the door opening into 
 
244 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 the dining-room was at the end of the piano, 
 against which she leaned for a moment. How 
 many panels had that door ? There certainly 
 were two at the top. But were there two at the 
 bottom? He could not tell. This puzzled 
 him. And 
 
 One of the deck-hands had come from aft out 
 on the promenade deck. Sackett seemed to 
 hesitate for a moment as he looked at him. 
 
 " Come up here," he said to him. 
 
 The man mounted to the " hurricane roof " 
 and stood silent. He was an old man whom 
 Dave had known a long time. When Sackett 
 first shipped, as a " boy," on the " Yellow 
 stone," the Englishman was deck-hand on the 
 steamer, and as deck-hand the man had " fol 
 lowed the Lakes " ever since. Drink had been 
 his curse and had kept him down. 
 
 Sackett glanced ahead and looked around. 
 
 "What do you think of it, Mason?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Looks like a nasty night, sir," said Mason, 
 an old salt-water sailor. " And," he added, 
 contemptuously, " there s no sea-room on these 
 puddles." 
 
 There was a rumble amid the distant clouds. 
 At last they seemed to march in battalions and 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 245 
 
 with regulated step. The wind had died away 
 a little. 
 
 " It will be nothing," said Sackett, " I ll wait 
 awhile. He hasn t had half a dozen hours sleep 
 in the last forty-eight. And he ll want to take 
 her up the river. But stay where you are, 
 Mason." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Mason, and he turned and 
 stood looking off to windward. 
 
 The wind fell away more and more. There 
 was not a signal light in sight. 
 
 Sackett stood gazing steadily ahead, absent 
 ly, as one who did not know him or his kind 
 might have supposed. How wonderful so 
 ran his disjointed thoughts it all was. Won 
 derful that she, the spoiled child of the pros 
 perous Captain and owner of a sixteenth of the 
 Star, should have placed the soft hand that so 
 many had sought in his hard palm. Like 
 many another good fellow like all good fel 
 lows, who never quite get over the idea that a 
 pretty woman is a being above and beyond 
 earth, sacred, and, if loved, to be loved with 
 the feeling that consecrates its object like all 
 good fellows in such cases, he felt that Nettie 
 was to be tenderly adored and carefully guard 
 ed, or otherwise she would spread her wings 
 
246 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 and take flight to the native region in which 
 she could only be at home. That she even 
 could think of him seemed a sort of divine 
 condescension that filled him with ineffable 
 gratitude ; that she said that she loved him 
 amazed him with a sort of dazed ecstasy that 
 he could neither analyze nor find words to ex 
 press. And then her money ! It was both a 
 shame and a delight to him ; a shame that he, 
 who had nothing but his chief mate s license, 
 should receive so much from her ; a delight 
 because it must prove that she loved him when, 
 against all self-interest, she gave so much to 
 one so poor. But in this thought there was 
 much that was inspiriting. Here was some 
 thing that a man might accomplish. He swore 
 gently to himself that he would own the Star 
 all except the sixteenth before some in 
 definite, not far-away time. He would save 
 money. He w^ould make money. He would 
 own a half-dozen propellers better than the 
 
 Star. He would 
 
 The heavens flashed and crashed. Its artil 
 lery was at last wheeled into action. The roar 
 and flame were incessant. The rain fell in al 
 most compact mass. It beat down the crests 
 of the mounting sea, threshed them out as flails 
 
A FRESH- WATER ROMANCE 247 
 
 thresh out and flatten unbound sheaves. But 
 the long roll of the waves swept along. It was 
 now blowing more than " half a gale of wind." 
 
 " Steady on your course," shouted Sackett to 
 the men at the wheel. " Mason, call the Cap 
 tain. Send another man forward. Come back 
 here yourself." 
 
 Mason was down the ladder in an instant. 
 In a minute he was on the deck again the 
 Captain and he. 
 
 " How s she heading ? " asked the Captain, 
 as he looked forward and off either bow. 
 
 " Northwest by north, three-quarters north, 
 sir," replied Sackett. 
 
 " Keep her there." 
 
 "Shall we sound the whistle?" asked Sac 
 kett. 
 
 " There s no fog," said the Captain. 
 
 " Lights can t be seen far, sir." 
 
 " Sound it," said the Captain ; " it can do 
 no harm." 
 
 " Sound the whistle," said Sackett to Mason, 
 and its first warning was soon heard. 
 
 " What s her speed? " asked the Captain. 
 
 " About seven miles," said Sackett. 
 
 " Check her down still more, but give her 
 good steerage way." 
 
248 A FRESH-WATER ROMANCE 
 
 Sackett gave the order to the engineer 
 through the " bells." He could soon tell that 
 the boat was "slowed down." 
 
 Two men now were forward on the promen 
 ade-deck, " in the eyes of her," one port, the 
 other starboard. 
 
 All were silent, waiting, watching, listening. 
 There was the booming thunder, the splinter 
 ing lightning, the roar of the whistle every 
 minute, the hissing of the trampling rain, the 
 sound of the wind, sharp, as sweeping along 
 the decks it was cut by the standing rigging. 
 
 " I ve lost my nerve this trip," said Stark 
 weather to Sackett. " Perhaps I m really not 
 fit for duty," he added, solemnly. "Nothing 
 must happen nothing this season. I d be 
 ruined. They d say I was to blame." 
 
 " Nothing," began Sackett 
 
 " Bright light and red and green close on 
 the port bow," yelled one of the men forward. 
 
 The words were scarcely spoken when the 
 three lights burst into plain view. 
 
 " Back her," shouted Starkweather. "Back 
 her strong." 
 
 Sackett signalled the engineer to stop the 
 engine must not "catch on the centre " then 
 instantly to back. The order was immediately 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 249 
 
 obeyed. The Star was "backing," "backing 
 strong," when a huge, dominating mass, about 
 four points off the port bow, seemed to rise 
 out of, to detach itself from, the darkness and 
 the obscuring rain. At full speed apparently, 
 a large, heavily laden propeller came down 
 upon the Star. The crash was terrific. The 
 Star was struck just abaft her forward port 
 gangway. The force of the blow swung her 
 bow to starboard. The standing rigging gave 
 way ; running rigging parted ; the Star s mast 
 fell. The stranger evidently had ported just 
 before the collision. This lessened the force 
 of the blow a little. As it was, her sharp bow 
 cut into the Star s side almost to her midship 
 line. The engine of the stranger was now 
 "backing." The Star was "backing" when 
 struck. The vessels quickly drew away and 
 lost each other in the darkness. 
 
 For a minute all was confusion on the Star. 
 The lookouts rushed aft; the engineer had 
 stopped his engine and hastened up ; the 
 " watch below " hurried on deck. 
 
 The Star lost her headway, "fell off," and 
 was soon rolling in the trough of the sea. 
 
 " Go below," said the Captain to Sackett ; 
 "and see how bad she s hurt." 
 
250 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 Sackett swung himself off the hurricane 
 deck. He ran aft. He could see that the 
 port side was crushed in ; he could hear the 
 water pouring into the hold. He knew that 
 nothing could- be done that the Star must 
 sink. He hurried back ; he could not see the 
 Captain. The men had rushed to the two 
 boats hanging at the davits. The second mate 
 headed those about to lower the starboard 
 boat ; Mason was with the others, and stopped 
 for a moment and held on to his rope, even 
 after it began to run through the block. 
 
 " Lower away," shouted some one to Mason ; 
 " there s a hole in her bigger n a house." 
 
 " Quick," yelled the second mate, " if you 
 ever want to see daylight again." 
 
 All discipline, for the moment at least, was 
 really lost. Sackett saw this as he reached the 
 hurricane deck. 
 
 The clamor of voices ceased. Above the 
 swash of the waves, above the swish of the 
 rain along the deck, above all the tumult of 
 the storm, Sackett could hear the shout of the 
 Captain as he stood between the boats on 
 either side : 
 
 " Stop ! Hold on everything ! " 
 
 In an instant Sackett was by his side. 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 251 
 
 Starkweather stood with a revolver in his 
 hand, and as he turned from port to starboard, 
 he shouted to the men at either boat : 
 
 "Leave the ship, would you! A pack of 
 cowards ! I ll shoot the first man that stirs to 
 lower a boat." 
 
 " Captain Starkweather," said the second 
 mate, " we d stand by you and the Star as long- 
 as any living men, but it s no use. She s 
 bound to sink." 
 
 " Bound to sink ! " shouted Starkweather. 
 " She mustn t sink. She shan t sink." 
 
 " We ll do what we can, or we ll sink with 
 her," said Mason, resolutely, taking a turn of 
 the rope he held around a belay ing-pin. " I 
 don t want no better mourner n the old Star 
 at my funeral." He looked around, and as he 
 saw Sackett he gave the rope another and 
 quicker turn. 
 
 For an instant nothing was said. The power of 
 command was arrayed against the determination 
 of men who knew that in the boats lay safety. 
 
 " They re right, sir," said Sackett. " She ll 
 sink in a few minutes." 
 
 " You! " shouted the Captain, turning fierce 
 ly upon Sackett " you ! I m captain of this 
 boat I ll " 
 
252 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 A heavy wave struck the port side. The 
 vessel rolled to starboard. She righted with a 
 sudden jerk. The men clung to the ropes and 
 to the rails on either side. Starkweather was 
 thrown to the deck, his head striking heavily. 
 Sackett staggered but did not fall. Instantly 
 he was beside the Captain, and sought to aid 
 him. But Starkweather did not stir. Sackett 
 and Mason lifted him to his feet. 
 
 The Captain was powerless and uncon 
 scious. 
 
 " The old man " the captain of a vessel, no 
 matter how young, is always " the old man " to 
 his crew " shan t go down if all the rest do," 
 said Mason. 
 
 Together they carried Starkweather to the 
 vessel s side. 
 
 " Lively now," shouted Sackett. " Get 
 clear of her before she sinks." 
 
 Mason rose up to take an oar. The boat 
 rolled. He was jerked overboard. A wave 
 swept the boat away from the vessel. Mason 
 snatched at a rope trailing over the propeller s 
 side. It seemed to render slowly, as if through 
 some block above. He tried to climb it hand 
 over hand to keep his head above water. 
 
 " Good-by, Dave," he shouted to Sackett, as 
 
A FRESH- WATER ROMANCE 253 
 
 if they were still man and boy on the Yellow 
 stone. " It s no use." 
 
 The rope fell over the side. The propeller 
 lurched to port, pitched, and went down. The 
 struggling boat half filled, but did not sink. 
 
 "Back! We may save him yet," shouted 
 Sackett. 
 
 They rowed back. They lay upon their 
 oars. With every flash of the lightning they 
 strained their eyes to see what they might see. 
 They shouted. They heard nothing but the 
 rumble of the thunder, the wash of the waves. 
 The old deck-hand and the oldest propeller on 
 the Lakes had gone down together. 
 
IV. 
 
 THE winter was severe. The Lake was 
 covered with ice. Hundreds were busy upon 
 it, sawing it out in large blocks. These were 
 loaded upon sleds which strong horses dragged 
 slowly around the light-house to the city, 
 where it was stowed in huge ice-houses. 
 Fishermen, through holes cut in the ice, plied 
 a craft, a " gentle craft," of which old "Walton 
 never dreamed. You could see them coming, 
 going, away out upon the ice in the dull winter 
 light. The snow lay thick everywhere 011 
 wharves, on the great bulky elevators, even on 
 the vessels moored for the winter in the har 
 bor. Only occasionally could a living thing 
 be discovered on any of them. The docks 
 were deserted. The silence there was seldom 
 broken, and then only by slight sounds which 
 appeared to come from far away like echoes. 
 Where there is human neighborhood and the 
 sense of human presence, there is no place 
 within city bounds where, it seems, at times, 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 255 
 
 that desolation is so complete, as the harbor 
 and wharves of a winter-bound port upon the 
 great Lakes. 
 
 Up at the Starkweather cottage the rigid 
 season held sway with equal rigor. As Nettie 
 sat looking out of the window this afternoon, 
 she could see the leafless tops of the bushes in 
 the yard in stalky stiffness above the snow. 
 The branches of the lilac-tree were encased in 
 frozen sleet ; the small evergreens were weight 
 ed with ice. The gravel walk lay as if its peb 
 bles were embedded in hardened cement. 
 
 It was a sad house. There was the sense 
 that there might be other calamity impending 
 and imminent, even where calamity had lately 
 struck so suddenly and so heavily. In his room 
 lay Starkweather, senseless, ever since he fell 
 upon the deck of the Lone Star. He might 
 never be better. But there was one relief, he 
 knew nothing of what had happened ; another, 
 that he did not suffer pain. These things the 
 doctors said, and these things were good. 
 
 Sackett stood silently behind Nettie as she 
 sat looking out. 
 
 " And last year it was all so different," she 
 said, as she looked sadly up at him. 
 
 "Perhaps," he replied, with at least some 
 
256 A FRESH- WATER ROMANCE 
 
 show of confidence, " next year or it may be 
 sooner it will all be as different in another 
 way." 
 
 " Then," went on the girl, disregarding what 
 he said, " father was well and strong, and she 
 the Star hadn t sunk, and there wasn t the 
 lawsuit; and" and with a girl s capricious 
 wilfulness, taking a strange delight in affecting 
 to taste a bitterness which she knows does not 
 exist " and you loved me." 
 
 " Nettie ! " half-exclaimed the young man. 
 
 " I don t know," she was answering his tone, 
 not his speech, for she knew well enough what 
 he would have said had he said more. " Every 
 thing else has changed so much. And the 
 money- the lawsuit 
 
 " Nettie," he said, and he held his hands un 
 der her chin and looked over into her upturned 
 eyes, " let the lawsuit do its worst ; your money 
 has made me feel awkward and ashamed many 
 a time. Lose it, and you will be like many 
 another girl, only you won t won t be like any 
 one in all the world." 
 
 She laughed contentedly in the way that 
 women will, when what they have sought to 
 have said is said in exactly the right way and 
 as they expected it would be. 
 
A FRESH-WATER ROMANCE 257 
 
 But father- 
 
 " When is it to be ? " he asked in a mo 
 ment. 
 
 " At eleven o clock to-morrow. But do you 
 really think it will be successful ? " she asked, 
 anxiously. 
 
 Sackett did not answer. 
 
 "Even if it is," she continued, "they say 
 that he will think and feel as he used to do." 
 
 " Yes. " 
 
 " And he ll know that the boat is gone, and 
 then he ll feel you know how he felt last 
 spring he ll think that he is disgraced. Then 
 there s the lawsuit. It will be awful." 
 
 "It will be hard." 
 
 " But there s no other way ? " 
 
 " None. I must go, Nettie. I shall come 
 again this evening." 
 
 Now, at noon, the operation was nearly 
 ended. 
 
 All the time Nettie had been in the room. 
 
 " I will hear his first word," she had said, for 
 the doctors had told her that as soon as the 
 pressure upon the brain was relieved it would 
 instantly resume its normal functions. 
 
 She had not spoken, scarcely moved ; the 
 17 
 
258 A FRESH- WATER ROMANCE 
 
 look of determination in her face was one of 
 resolved despair. Sackett stood beside her. 
 His expression changed often. He was a man, 
 and had a man s revulsion from a sick-room. 
 He had not a woman s courage in such place 
 a woman s blessed adaptation to all such scenes 
 of visible suffering. He could not bear the 
 sight of the glistening, torturing instruments 
 upon the table. There was a large bowl half 
 filled with water, and over its edge hung a 
 blood-stained towel, the deeper color fading 
 off into a dull yellow, and the sight sickened 
 him. 
 
 But few words were spoken. The physicians 
 understood each other s every act. Little now 
 remained to be done. 
 
 " It will be a success," said Doctor Mayne, 
 at last, confidently. 
 
 Nettie would have fallen had not Sackett sus 
 tained her. Her tears came there had been 
 none before. The arid sands of sorrow drank 
 them up, and now there was gladness. 
 
 "My dear young lady," said Doctor Mayne, 
 " stand here. Let him see and know you first." 
 
 " Leave the ship ! " said Starkweather, 
 faintly. " I ll shoot the first man that stirs." 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 259 
 
 Then she took her father s hand and smiled. 
 
 " Why, Nettie," said Starkweather, " is there 
 is there something the matter ? " 
 
 " Yes, father," she said, kneeling on a low 
 stool by his side; "you are not well. You 
 must let me take care of you until you are." 
 
 " Take care of me ! " he murmured, with just 
 strength enough to show a little impatience ; 
 and then in a lower voice, as if to himself, 
 " bright light, and red and green. Why didn t 
 she hear us? WTiy didn t she port? Why 
 didn t she stop and back ? " 
 
 "He must not be excited," said Doctor 
 Mayne, "nor made tired, nor yet allowed to 
 puzzle and wonder." 
 
 " Father," said Nettie, " when people are 
 sick they are often delirious, you know. You ll 
 be all well again soon." 
 
 For a moment the Captain did not speak 
 " If if it had been real," said Starkweather, 
 "and we d lost the boat, I d never have held 
 up my head again." 
 
 " He doesn t know that the Star is gone," 
 she whispered to Sackett, who bent down to 
 listen when she beckoned to him. 
 
 "And God help him," Sackett said, "he 
 never shall." 
 
260 A FRESH- WATER ROMANCE 
 
 The wedding did not take place till the mid 
 dle of the next spring. Then the doctors said 
 that Starkweather was as well as he ever would 
 be ; then the lawsuit had been decided, and the 
 future of Nettie and Sackett lay before them. 
 It was not a particularly brilliant future, for 
 the lawsuit had been lost and all except the 
 house had gone, and the Captain, though he 
 did not know it, never would be in command 
 again ; but they were not unhappy. 
 
 The wedding was a quiet one. It took place 
 in the room where the Captain sat day after 
 day. There were but few present. There was 
 no wedding-trip, of course. That, they said, 
 would come some other time. 
 
 And all through the season there was a mys 
 tery in the house not a very terrible mystery, 
 but one which all assisted in maintaining. For 
 the Captain, the Lone Star made her trips as 
 regularly as usual, and marvellous trips they 
 were, or you would think so if you heard the 
 talk between the Captain and Nettie and Sack 
 ett. There was a little harmless suppression, 
 a little evasion here and there, and certain 
 newspapers were kept carefully away from the 
 old Captain. And the most of what was said 
 was true, except that the Lone Star was not 
 
A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 261 
 
 the old boat at all, but one entirely new of 
 which Sackett was the master. 
 
 Nettie is sitting reading silently. Sackett is 
 busy at the table. He is looking at the draw 
 ing of a new propeller- wheel, in which Stark 
 weather and he have great faith. Starkweather 
 himself is watching the dancing blaze of a soft 
 coal fire in the grate. 
 
 " If it had been real," he says, half to him 
 self, "if she had been lost, I should have gone 
 down with her I couldn t have lived dis 
 graced." 
 
 Neither of the others heed him. They have 
 heard it so often before. 
 
 Then Nettie reads aloud from the book of 
 " The Pilgrim s Progress, from this World to 
 That which is to Come," and Sackett lays 
 down the drawing, and Starkweather turns 
 half around and looks at her as she reads : 
 
 " Now, as they were going along, and talking, 
 they espied a boy feeding his father s sheep. 
 The boy was in very mean cloaths, but of a very 
 fresh and well - favored countenance ; and as 
 he sat by himself, he sung. Hark, said Mr. 
 Great-heart, to what the Shepherd s boy 
 saith ; so they hearkened, and he said : 
 
262 A FRESH -WATER ROMANCE 
 
 He that is down, needs fear no Fall ; 
 
 He that is low, no Pride : 
 
 He that is humble, ever shall 
 
 Have God to be his Guide. 
 
 I am content with what I have, 
 
 Little be it or much : 
 And, Lord, Contentment still I crave, 
 Because thou savest such. 
 
 1 Fulness to such, a Burden is, 
 
 That go on Pilgrimage : 
 Here little, and hereafter Bliss, 
 Is best from Age to Age. 
 
 " Then said their Guide, Do you hear him ? 
 I will dare to say, that this boy lives a merrier 
 life, and wears more of that herb called Hearts 
 ease in his bosom, than he that is clad in silk 
 and velvet. " 
 
THE END OF THE BEGIN 
 NING 
 
THE END OF THE BEGIN 
 NING 
 
 A FANTASY 
 
 " CITY OP NEW YORK. 
 "April 10, 1887. 
 
 T^vEAE SIK : It is with some hesitation 
 
 \-J that I venture to trespass upon your 
 valuable time, knowing as I do that the de 
 mands of clients, of constituents, of friends, 
 are so exacting. Still, as what I am about to 
 ask relates to a matter lying very near my 
 heart, I hope you will forgive me. A young 
 man in whom, in spite of the usual extrava 
 gances and follies of youth, I discern some 
 promise and whom I hope, for his own sake 
 and from my friendship for his excellent father, 
 dead long ago, to see occupying a respectable 
 position in the community, has, with the heed- 
 
266 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 lessness peculiar to his age, involved himself 
 in certain difficulties which, although at pres 
 ent of a sufficiently distressing nature, may, I 
 hope, be satisfactorily overcome. Knowing so 
 well your distinguished abilities, ripe judgment, 
 and great experience, I can think of no one to 
 whom I can, in this critical period of his life, 
 more confidently send him for counsel, instruc 
 tion, and aid, and I accordingly commend him 
 to you, trusting to our old friendship to account 
 for and excuse my somewhat unusual act. 
 Though what I ask of you is something not 
 usually required of a lawyer, I think you will 
 understand my reason for thus troubling you. 
 No one can have a more thorough knowledge 
 of the world than an old practitioner like 
 yourself, and what you may say must fall upon 
 the ears of youth with weighty authority. 
 Talk to him as you would to your son, if you 
 had one, not as a client, and I shall be inex 
 pressibly indebted to you, for I know you will 
 lead him to appreciate the serious realities of 
 life, which, at present, he is so disposed to dis 
 regard. 
 
 " I need only add that he is a young man of 
 some fortune and, certainly, by birth worthy of 
 much consideration. He will call upon you in 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 267 
 
 person and himself explain his present embar 
 rassments. 
 
 " I remain, now as always, 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 RICHARD BEVINGTON. 
 " THE HON. JACOB MASKELYNE, 
 Oounsellor-a-tlaw, 
 
 Number William Street, 
 City of New York." 
 
 This was the letter that the Honorable 
 Jacob Maskelyne read, reread, and read yet 
 again. Indeed, not content with its repeated 
 perusal, he turned it this way and that, looked 
 at it upsidedown, and finally, laying it upon 
 the table, he held up its envelope in curi 
 ous study, as people so often do when thus 
 perplexed. It bore the common, dull-red-two- 
 cent stamp and was post-marked the day 
 before. Both it and the letter were apparent 
 ly as much matters of the every-day world as 
 a jostle on the side- walk. Nevertheless, the 
 old lawyer was puzzled more than puzzled, 
 although he, of all men in the great, wide 
 awake city, would in popular opinion have 
 been thought perhaps the very last to be 
 thus at fault. If millstones were to be worn 
 
268 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 as monocles if there was any seeing what the 
 future might bring forth the chances of a 
 project, the risks of rise or fall in a stock, the 
 hazards of a corner in a staple, the prospects 
 of a party or of a partisan, Jacob Maskelyne 
 would be regarded as the man of men for the 
 work. But, under the circumstances, even to 
 him this letter was more than perplexing. 
 Here, on this spring morning, with floods of 
 well-authenticated sunshine pouring into every 
 nook and corner, dissipating every mystery of 
 shadow and, it might seem, every shadow of 
 mystery here, in his office, bricked in by the 
 unimaginative octavos of the law those hide 
 bound volumes, heavy literature of all things 
 most amazingly matter of fact; here, in the 
 eighteen hundred and eighty seventh year of 
 the Christian era, in the one hundred and 
 eleventh year of the Republic, he had received 
 a letter from his old guardian, whom, when he 
 himself was not more than twenty, he remem 
 bered, walking about, a feeble old man with 
 many an almost Revolutionary peculiarity in 
 speech and manner, and whose funeral he, with 
 the heads and scions of most of the first fami 
 lies of the town, had attended full twenty-five 
 years ago. It certainly was enough to bewil- 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 269 
 
 der any one. He again took up the letter. It 
 was unquestionably in old Bevington s best 
 style, courtly enough, but a trifle pompous. 
 Had it not been for its true tone he would un 
 doubtedly have thought the thing a hoax and 
 immediately have dismissed it from his mind. 
 He touched a hand-bell, and in response a 
 young man a very prosaic young man over 
 whose black clothes the gray of age had begun 
 to gather, appeared. 
 
 " Bring me the letters received of the year 
 eighteen sixty letter B," said the lawyer, 
 sharply. 
 
 That was the year in which his father s estate 
 had been finally settled, and he knew that 
 there would be many examples of his guardian s 
 handwriting in the correspondence of that time. 
 
 The clerk soon returned with a tin case and 
 laid it on the table. Mr. Maskelyne took one 
 from among the many papers therein, and, strik 
 ing it sharply against ,the arm of his chair, to 
 scatter the dust that invests all things in the 
 garment the outfitter Time warrants such a 
 perfect fit, he spread it out beside the letter he 
 had just read with such blank wonder. 
 
 " Identically the same," he muttered. " No 
 other man ever made an e like that." 
 
270 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 The clerk had vanished and the lawyer was 
 again alone. 
 
 He glanced once more at the mysterious 
 missive, and then, with the purposelessness of 
 abstraction, he rose and went to the window. 
 Nothing caught his eye but the sign-bedecked 
 front of the opposite building and one small 
 patch of blue sky near, gritty, limestone fact 
 and a far-away something without confine. 
 Still, amazed as he was, the contagious joy of 
 the time sensibly affected him. 
 
 The sparrows, quarrelsome gamins of the 
 air, for the time reformed by honest labor into 
 respectable artisans, upon an opposite entabla 
 ture, in garrulous amity plied their small, nest- 
 making joinery. The sunlight falling through 
 a haze of wires, wrought into something bright 
 with its own glow a tuft of grass which clumped 
 its spears on the opposite frieze. Of even these 
 small things and of much more Mr. Maskelyne 
 was partially conscious. But the letter ! Clear 
 sighted as he was, he knew but little so forth 
 right was his look, so fixed toward mere gain 
 of the wonderful country which lies beneath 
 every man s nose, less even of the vanishing 
 tracts which retrospection sometimes sees over 
 either shoulder. But the letter ! It peopled 
 
. THE END OF THE BEGINNING 271 
 
 his vision with things long gone. It brought 
 into view old Bevington " Dick Bevington," 
 as he was called to the last day of his life and 
 a nickname at fifty indicates much of character 
 brought up before him Dick Bevington as he 
 was before age had stiffened his easy but digni 
 fied carriage or taught his once polished but 
 positive utterance to veer and haul in sudden 
 change ; brought up old Bevington, as he him 
 self, in childhood, had seen him, stately but 
 debonair, the perfection of aristocratic exclu- 
 siveness, affable, however, in the genial kind 
 liness of a kind-hearted man secure in every 
 position a genuine Knickerbocker in every 
 practice and in every principle a well-born, 
 well-bred gentleman. And that once active 
 and once ebullient life had long ago gone out ! 
 It almost seemed that such vitality, so held in 
 self-contained management, so wisely put forth, 
 so well invested, so to speak, should have lasted 
 forever. But now there was nothing left to bring 
 him to mind but a portrait in the rooms of the 
 Historical Society, or a name in the list of di 
 rectors when the history of some bank was 
 given, or in the pamphlet in which the story of 
 some charitable institution was told from the 
 beginning really there was nothing more than 
 
272 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 this to recall Dick Bevington, foremost among 
 the city s fathers, the leader of the ton. When 
 he had last seen his guardian he had thought 
 him of patriarchal age. And was not he him 
 self now nearly as old ? In spite of the blithe 
 some aspects of the morning, Jacob Maskelyne 
 turned away from the window with an unwont 
 ed weight at his heart and a new wrinkle on his 
 brow. The whole world seemed to be going 
 from him, losing charm and significance in a 
 sort of blurring dissatisfaction, as upon a globe, 
 when swiftly turned, lines of longitude and of 
 latitude, and even continents and seas, vanish 
 from sight, and all because his own life sudden 
 ly seemed but vexed nothingness. He had not 
 even mellowed into age as had Bevington. He 
 was as sharp and as rough-edged as an Indian s 
 flint arrow-head, and he knew it. 
 
 He seated himself at his table. Automati 
 cally he was about to take up the first of sev 
 eral bundles of law -papers, when he was 
 startled by the entrance of the clerk. He 
 leaned back in his chair, and his reawakened 
 wonder grew the more when a card was placed 
 before him upon which was written, in a dash 
 ing hand, " From Mr. Bevington." 
 
 " A gentleman to see you," said the clerk. 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 273 
 
 " What does lie look like ? " asked Mr. Mas- 
 kelyne, suspiciously. 
 
 " Nobody I ever saw before," answered the 
 clerk ; " and he seems rather strange about his 
 clothes," the man added, in a rather doubtful, 
 tentative manner. 
 
 " Let him come in," said Mr. Maskelyne 
 after a moment s pause. 
 
 The door had hardly closed upon the vanish 
 ing messenger when it again swung upon its 
 hinges, and a new figure stood in relief against 
 the clearer light from without. In his eager 
 ness to see of what nature a being so intro 
 duced might be, Mr. Maskelyne turned his 
 chair completely around, and silently gazed at 
 the new-comer as he entered. His eyes fell 
 upon a slim, graceful young man dressed in the 
 mode of at least forty-five years ago a mode 
 not without its own good tone undoubtedly, 
 but with a tendency toward gorgeousness, 
 which an exquisite of these days of assertive 
 unobtrusiveness, might think almost vulgar. 
 His whole attire was touched in every detail 
 with that nameless something which really 
 makes the consummate result unattainable by 
 any not born to such excellence ; but in the 
 bright intelligence shining in his dark eyes, and 
 18 
 
274 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 the clear intellectual lines of his face, even 
 Maskelyne could see that if he had given much 
 thought to his dress it was only from, a proper 
 self-respect, and not because dress was the ul 
 timate or the best expression of what he was. 
 Few could look into the luminous countenance 
 and not feel a glow of sudden sympathy with 
 the high aspirations, the pure disinterested 
 ness, the clear intellect, that lit up and strength 
 ened his features. Even the old lawyer, dis 
 ciplined as he was by years of hard experience 
 to disregard all such misleading impulses, felt 
 his heart warm toward the young man. 
 
 " I hope that I do not intrude too greatly on 
 your time," said the new-comer, with a smile so 
 pleasant, so ingenuous, so confiding, that all 
 Maskelyne s ideas of deception had he had 
 time to recognize them in the moment before a 
 strange, unquestioning acquiescence took com 
 plete possession of him were at once dissipated. 
 
 Won really in spite of himself by the appear 
 ance of his visitor, the famous counsellor 
 waved his hand toward a chair. 
 
 " I suppose," continued the stranger, with an 
 almost boyish sweetness, as he seated himself, 
 " that Mr. Bevington has already told you why 
 I am here." 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 275 
 
 Mr. Maskelyne might very well have an 
 swered that Mr. Bevington was hardly to be 
 looked to for any information on any subject, 
 but he did not the wonderful circumstances 
 of the interview had been so driven from his 
 mind by the potent charm of the young man s 
 personality. 
 
 " Mr." and he paused as if waiting for en 
 lightenment as to the name of the stranger. 
 
 " I m in a devil of a scrape," continued the 
 young man, apparently imagining that the let 
 ter had made all necessary explanations, and 
 mentioning the devil as though he was an 
 every-day acquaintance, a pleasant fellow whom 
 he had just left at the door awaiting his return. 
 
 " Ah ! " murmured the lawyer. 
 
 " I did not wish to see you," continued the 
 other, his singularly trufetful smile breaking 
 again over lip and cheek. 
 
 " Indeed," said Maskelyne, his wits and per 
 ceptions in most confusing entanglement. 
 
 "No," went on the unaccountable visitor. 
 " I supposed that you would give me what the 
 world calls good advice. But I don t want 
 that. I want to hear something better." 
 
 He laughed aloud in such a joyous, cheery 
 fashion that the old lawyer even smiled. 
 
276 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 " You don t think I am a good man to come 
 to for bad advice ? " lie said. 
 
 "The last in the world. I don t suppose 
 that you ever did a foolish thing in your life." 
 
 " And therefore am perhaps less competent 
 to advise others who have," replied Maskelyne, 
 half heedlessly, for his thoughts were slowly 
 turning in a new direction. The more he 
 looked, the more the eager, spirited face seemed 
 familiar. He had certainly seen the young 
 fellow before, but where? It seemed to him 
 that he could certainly remember in a moment, 
 if he only had time to think. 
 
 " Mr. Bevington " 
 
 " Pardon me," interrupted Maskelyne, in a 
 significant tone, " you said Mr. Bevington ?" 
 
 "Certainly," said the stranger, suddenly 
 looking up in evident surprise. " Didn t he 
 write ? " 
 
 " I have received a letter," said the old law 
 yer, cautiously. 
 
 He was on the point of making some further 
 inquiries, but the impulse came to nothing. 
 The former feeling of acquiescent but expect 
 ant apathy again possessed him ; indeed, he 
 had never been much in the habit of asking 
 questions. He knew that he often learned 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 277 
 
 more than was suspected even, by letting peo 
 ple talk on in their own way. 
 
 " In the first place," and he paused a mo 
 ment " I am very much in debt." The young 
 man spoke as he might of taking a cold, asleep 
 in the open air as if he had been exposed to 
 debt and had caught it. 
 
 The first look of sadness rose and deepened 
 over his face as he shook his head dejectedly. 
 
 "But I ll get over it." 
 
 "By your own exertions?" asked the law 
 yer dryly and evading the question. 
 
 "I write a little," replied the impenitent, 
 modestly. " I have even heard of people who 
 admired some of my verses." 
 
 " You have no other occupation ? " 
 
 Old Maskelyne was asking enough questions 
 now. Indeed, under the magic of the stranger s 
 manner he had quite forgotten himself, his 
 usual caution, and even the exceptional way 
 in which his companion had been introduced 
 to him. 
 
 "Yes," the other admitted, "I am a law 
 yer." 
 
 " Don t you think," said the older man an 
 swering almost instinctively, "that on the 
 whole you might find the employments of the 
 
278 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 law more remunerative than the calling of a 
 poet ? " 
 
 " Mr. Maskelyne, I sometimes think that the 
 world really believes in the sort of thing under 
 lying your question. But there are gains you 
 cannot invest in lands and stocks columns with 
 statues at the top as well as columns whose 
 sums are at the bottom. Who will undertake 
 to strike the balance between fame and fort 
 une? What mathematician will undertake to 
 say that x, the unknown quantity of fame, does 
 not equal the dollar-mark ? " Then he added, 
 after a moment s pause, " Mr. Maskelyne, don t 
 you think it is true that 
 
 " One crowded hour of glorious life 
 Is worth an age without a name 
 
 don t you really ? " 
 
 It was hard to resist such enthusiasm, such 
 unquestioning certainty. The old lawyer did 
 not even smile as he lay back in his chair, a 
 new life shooting through every nerve, his gaze 
 fixed on the flushing face of the young man. 
 
 " And the consciousness .of best employing 
 the best that is in you," he continued. " Who 
 dare shorten the reach or blunt the nicety of 
 man s wit, make purblind the imagination, 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 279 
 
 stiffen the cunning hand ? . Tell men that in 
 some Indian sea, fathoms deep, lie hid forever 
 Spanish galleons in which doubloons and moi- 
 dores, as honey when it more than fills the 
 comb, almost drip from the sacks, and you 
 will see in their sudden thoughtfulness, how 
 quickly they appreciate such loss ; tell them, 
 if you can, what, through poverty, erring en 
 deavor, uncongenial occupation, the world, with 
 each year, loses in intellectual riches, and they 
 will stand heedless." 
 
 Speaking with the incomparable confidence 
 of youth, its own glorious nonsense, the young 
 man s voice sent old Maskelyne s blood hasten 
 ing through his veins in almost audible pulsa 
 tions. 
 
 " What if I do not wish great wealth," the 
 speaker continued, " must I be made to have 
 it ? I want but little. Give me food, cloth 
 ing, habitation, sufficient that my eyes may see 
 the delights this world has to show, that my 
 ears may catch the whispered harmonies of all 
 things beautiful, gladden me with the radiance 
 of common joy, and that s all I want. Are the 
 worldly so insecure that, as the frightened 
 kings sought to still beneath their tread the 
 first throb of the French Kevolution, they 
 
280 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 must stamp out the first symptom of revolt 
 against the almighty dollar ? " 
 
 He paused, and glanced triumphantly at the 
 old man. He felt in some secret, instinctive 
 way that he was gaining ground. Fine sense 
 was victorious for the moment over common 
 sense. A squadron of fauns had charged from 
 amid the vine-leaves, and the legion upon the 
 highway was in rout. 
 
 " I think," said Maskelyne, at last, and with 
 a strange, sad, patient air, unwearied, however, 
 by the young man s dithyrambic, sometimes 
 almost incoherent, speech, " I think I cannot 
 attempt to advise you. Having discarded the 
 wisdom of ages, what heed will you give the 
 wisdom of age ? " 
 
 A cloud seemed to cast its shadow over the 
 other s face. 
 
 " If I speak strongly," he said, " it is because 
 I feel strongly. If I did not feel strongly I 
 should not attempt to withstand the amount of 
 testimony against me." 
 
 " Might I ask," said Maskelyne, gently, in his 
 inexplicable sympathy with the young fellow, 
 " why, if you feel such confidence in all you 
 say, you do not, without hesitation, enter on a 
 life in accordance with your convictions ? " 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 2S1 
 
 At last there was hesitation in the young 
 stranger s manner. He turned his hat nervous 
 ly in his hand, and sat silent for a moment. 
 
 "You see," he began, paused, and began 
 again " you see, if I were alone it would be 
 one thing. But I m not not at all alone," he 
 added, evidently gaining confidence. 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed the old lawyer, a sudden 
 gleam of new intelligence shining in his dull, 
 weary old eyes. 
 
 " And how am I to get married, Mr. Mas- 
 kelyne ? " 
 
 " The lady does not approve of your po 
 etical aspirations ? " 
 
 "Not approve!" cried the young fellow, 
 eagerly ; " she has made me promise that I 
 will give nothing up, that I will refuse all Mr. 
 Bevington has arranged for me. You can t 
 tell how inspiring our misery is. And our 
 courage a young Froissart must be our 
 chronicler, sir. We take our sorrows gladly." 
 
 " And may I ask " 
 
 "Anything, anything," interrupted the young 
 man, gayly. " I m sent here to be talked out 
 of what they may call my folly. You see I 
 can t be talked out of it. Don t that prove 
 that it is no folly ? " 
 
282 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 " You seem," said Maskelyne, dryly, " to 
 have settled it between you you and she." 
 
 " Settled it ! We did not need help about 
 that. It s the unsettling. There comes a time 
 when friends are the worst enemies. You 
 know that, Mr. Maskelyne ? " 
 
 The old lawyer paused. " Indeed I do," he 
 said at last, and the sneer stealing over the out 
 lines of his face slunk away before the look of 
 regret that came swiftly on. Almost in em 
 barrassment, with nervous hand, he shuffled 
 the papers on his table. 
 
 Far back in the past, when his eyes were not 
 yet dimmed by the dust blown from law-books, 
 nor his ears deadened by the stridulous clamor 
 of litigation, before his life had gone in at 
 tempts at 
 
 " Mastering the lawless science of our law," 
 or he had lost himself in 
 
 " That codeless myriad of precedent, 
 That wilderness of single instances ; " 
 
 when he, too, dwelt in that other- world of the 
 young, forgotten by everyone but himself, but, 
 although hardly ever remembered, never forgot 
 ten by him not one grain of its golden sand, 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 283 
 
 not one drop of its honey-dew, not one tremor 
 of its slightest thrill then even he had had his 
 romance. The freshness of the early spring 
 morning, the airy brightness of his young 
 visitor, himself no bad exponent of the day, 
 the awe-footed shadow which, with almost un 
 recognized obtrusion, skirts the border where 
 the ripened grain fills the field of life and nods 
 to the ready sickle was it something of such 
 kind, or was it the simple story of which he 
 had such telling intimation, that brought it all 
 up in memory s half -tender glow ? He, too, had 
 once been in love. He, too, had written verses 
 to his inamorata. He remembered it all now, 
 with a smile of mingled pity and contempt. It 
 needed no ransacking of the brain now to 
 quicken into full view his own " It might have 
 been " to people once more the mystic world 
 whose first paradise is rich in the slight garni 
 ture of glances and sighs and smiles and tears. 
 Lost in himself, the old man forgot his visitor. 
 
 " You are very young," he said, at last, ab 
 sently. 
 
 " Twenty-three," was the answer. 
 
 "And she?" 
 
 " Eighteen." 
 
 It was strange, but he, too, had been twenty- 
 
284 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 three and she eighteen when the end came in 
 that glimmering, gleaming past. He remem 
 bered and how strange the recollection 
 seemed taking her, on her birthday, some 
 flowers and some slight silver gift a poor, in 
 expensive thing, for she would let him give no 
 more because he too, was in debt. And now, 
 with strange revulsion, he hardened almost 
 into his habitual self, and grimly thought that 
 it all was youthful nonsense, and that all such 
 follies were very much alike. Had he spoken, 
 he would have been guilty of one of those 
 faults often packed with error, an apothegm 
 he would have said that we only become orig 
 inal, even in our folly, as age gives us charac 
 ter. 
 
 " We could be so happy with so little," said 
 the youthful lover. 
 
 The old man started. These were his own 
 words many, many years ago ; his very words 
 to his guardian when the final appeal was made 
 by old Bevington to what he called his better 
 judgment, so very, very long ago, in the dark, 
 stately house upon Second Avenue. 
 
 " So very little," repeated the young man. 
 " I have always said," he continued, as pleased 
 with the conceit as if it had never before glit- 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 285 
 
 tered in the song of finches of his feather, 
 " that we should have gold enough in her 
 hair." 
 
 " And is her hair golden ? " asked Maskelyne, 
 and, startled by the sound of such words 
 dropped from the lips of the distinguished 
 counsel for many a soulless corporation and 
 many as soulless a man, he added, hurriedly, 
 " light." And then the old lawyer remembered 
 that he, too, had a lock of hair that he had not 
 sent back when he returned her letters and 
 her picture. How bright it was ! What had 
 become of it? Where was it? In what pigeon 
 hole, what secret drawer? He could not for 
 the moment remember. He looked out of the 
 window. How bright the sunshine was ! How 
 empty the world ! It seemed to build up its 
 vacancy around him as a wall. 
 
 " And she, of course, has no money ? " he 
 said, turning again. 
 
 " None." 
 
 He had been sure of it. He rose and went 
 to the window. The joyful attributes of the 
 morning were there, but they were no longer 
 joyful to him. The light fell in the same broad 
 flood, still promising the glory of summer, the 
 ripened harvest, but there was no promise for 
 
286 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 him. The sparrows preluded still the full- 
 voiced singers of the year, when leaves are 
 heavy with the dust and brooks run dry, but 
 he heard only a quick, petulant twitter. A 
 sort of dull despondency suddenly settled upon 
 him. He forgot his visitor, and even time and 
 place. Amid the glimmering lights and shak 
 ing shadows of the past, he sought a vision, as 
 at twilight one seeks in some deserted corridor 
 a statue which would seem to have so taken 
 into its grain the last rays of the already sunk 
 en sun, that the marble glows in the gathering 
 darkness with a radiance not its own. 
 
 The young man grew impatient as the revery 
 was prolonged. He stirred uneasily. The old 
 lawyer turned and looked curiously at him. 
 Of course, of course f Was a man to be 
 changed, the bone of what he was to have its 
 marrow drawn, the fibre of every muscle to be 
 untwisted, by this nonsense of a boy ? Of 
 course old Bevington was right, and for the 
 moment he did not remember that Bevington 
 was dead in sending the young fool to such a 
 cool old hand as himself. But if Bevington 
 had known what a turbulence of disappoint 
 ment, discontent, and revolt had risen, and 
 poured in strength-gathering torrent, even at 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 287 
 
 that instant, through his heart, would he not 
 have kept his young charge away ? He would 
 talk to him certainly he would pave his way 
 for him, perhaps, as with flag-stones of wis 
 dom. Perhaps and then he thought with 
 grim satisfaction of what Bevington might 
 think should he learn that he recognized that 
 there were other paths than those edged by a 
 curbstone. 
 
 " You have been sent to me," he said, very 
 seriously, coming from the window and leaning 
 with both hands on the table, " for advice and 
 admonition. I shall give my lesson in sternest 
 characters. I shall teach by example, but I may 
 not teach what you were sent here to learn. 
 When I was as young as you do not start, I 
 was young once," and he spoke with infinite 
 sadness, " I loved as you love, and, as with you, 
 love was returned. They who called themselves 
 my friends strove, with what they called rea 
 son, to tear me from what they called my folly. 
 My folly ! It was the wisdom that it takes all 
 that is blent into humanity at supremest mo 
 ments to attain; their reason the fatuous 
 folly only enough to give habitual stir to an 
 earth-beclotted brain ! I yielded, as you have 
 not yielded. I killed out even the natural irn- 
 
288 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 pulses of my nature. Gradually almost new 
 instincts came, desire for delight sank into ap 
 petite for gain, hope for the joy of higher ex 
 istence was lost in the ambition for mere ad 
 vancement. I wrought out in myself that 
 fearful piece of handiwork whose every effort 
 is but to grasp the worthless handful man can 
 only wrest from the mere world. I lost, and I 
 have not won. I was a man and I am only a 
 lawyer, and to him you have been sent for ad 
 vice. I can find no precedent better, no au 
 thority more weighty for your guidance, than 
 my own life. Such strength as enabled me to 
 work such a change will also enable you to 
 make yourself a new being, to accomplish self- 
 overthrow, to bring you to what I am a man 
 rich, successful, courted, revered most miser 
 able. He who has so won, so lost, stands 
 alone, or he would not so win. Choose rather 
 the close companionship of worldly defeat, if 
 it must be, and I say to you in the rapture of 
 your youth, clay plastic to the moment s touch, 
 hold to yourself, and believe that no fame, no 
 power, no wealth, can compensate for a conten 
 tious life, an empty heart, a desolate old age. 
 
 If I were you " 
 
 He did not finish. Slowly the young 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 289 
 
 stranger rose to his full height, every linea 
 ment of his face clear in cold light. His 
 whole aspect was one of steadfast command. 
 
 " Stop," he cried, in a stern tone. " I am 
 yourself. No ghost walks save that which is 
 what a man might have been. We throng the 
 world. Beside everyone through life moves 
 the image of a past potentiality, the thing he 
 could have become had he held along another 
 course. I am what you were, the promise of 
 what you might have been. For forty years I 
 have walked by your side. I have touched 
 you and you have shuddered, I have chilled 
 you and you have shrunk from me. Your nat 
 ure has so grown athwart, all impulse has been 
 so long gone, all that softens or ennobles so 
 thrown off, that, in almost final self-assertion, 
 what you really were or might have been, 
 stands by your side and bids you measure 
 stature with itself. Your life has entered upon 
 its wintry days, but sunlight is sunshine even 
 in December ; and in youth " 
 
 The old lawyer, almost shuddering, stepped 
 back with repelling gesture. He passed his 
 hand quickly across his eyes, and then, as if 
 his heart had beat recall, summoning back 
 every retreating force in quick rally, com- 
 19 
 
290 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 pelled but not unwilling, he turned in com 
 bative instinct to meet the stranger face to 
 face, nature to nature, turned and found him 
 self alone. 
 
 Once more the clerk opened the door. 
 
 " Eleven o clock, sir," he said, " and you 
 know the General Term this morning " 
 
 " You saw the gentleman who just went 
 out ? " asked the lawyer. 
 
 " I, sir! " answered the man, " I saw no one 
 go out." 
 
 " No one ? " 
 
 " No one." 
 
 " You certainly brought me a card and showed 
 a young gentleman in a few minutes ago." 
 
 " I, sir ! " repeated the clerk. " I brought in 
 a card and showed a young gentleman in ! " 
 
 " That will do," said Maskelyne, sternly. 
 
 As soon as he was again alone he stepped to 
 the table. The card and the letter were gone. 
 And still he knew he had not been dreaming. 
 A man, swung high in the air, was busy painting 
 a sign upon a building not far away, and he 
 was conscious that all through the strange in 
 terview he had watched him at work. He had 
 seen him finish one letter and then another, 
 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 291 
 
 and now if he found him adding the final con 
 sonant he would be assured he could not have 
 been asleep. He looked up and found that he 
 was right. The man had just made the heavy 
 shaded side, and was busy putting the little 
 finishing line at the bottom of the letter. 
 
 Two men one of rotund middle age, the 
 other younger but yet not young came down 
 the steps of the Union Club a few weeks later. 
 They met an old man rounding the corner of 
 the Avenue. 
 
 " See what you would come to if you had 
 your own way," said the elder of the two. 
 " There s old Maskelyne. He s got everything 
 you re making yourself wretched to get. Do 
 you want to be like him ? " 
 
 " Then you haven t heard ? " 
 
 "Heard what?" 
 
 " He s a changed man, all within a month." 
 
 " Has his brain or his heart softened ? " 
 
 "As you look at life," said the younger. 
 " He has sent for that clever, improvident, 
 gracefully graceless good-fellow of a good-for- 
 nothing, his nephew for him and his pretty- 
 handed, big-eyed wife he hadn t seen either 
 of them since they ran away and were mar- 
 
292 THE END OF THE BEGINNING 
 
 ried sent for them and put them in his great, 
 old house and they say at the Club the neph 
 ew will have all the old man s property." 
 
 " What s the world coming to ? " said the 
 senior, " or what is coming to the world ? " 
 
RIEF LIST OF BOOKS OF FICTION 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER S 
 SONS, 743-745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. 
 
 William Waldorf Astor. 
 
 VALENTINO: An Historical Romance. (I2mo, $1.00). SFORZA : A Story of 
 Milan. (I2mo, $1.50.) 
 
 " The story is full of clear-cut little tableaux of mediaeval Italian 
 manners, customs, and observances. The movement throughout is 
 spirited, the reproduction of bygone times realistic. Mr. Astor has 
 written a romance which will heighten the reputation he made by 
 Valentino. " The New York Tribune. 
 
 Arlo Bates. 
 
 A WHEEL OF FIRE. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.) 
 
 "The novel deals with character rather than incident, and is 
 evolved from one of the most terrible of moral problems with a 
 subtlety not unlike that of Hawthorne. One cannot enumerate all 
 the fine points of artistic skill which make this study so wonderful 
 in its insight, so rare in its combination of dramatic power and 
 tenderness." The Critic. 
 
 Hjalmar H. Bqyesen. 
 
 FALCONBERG. Illustrated (I2mo, $I.50)-GUNNAR. (Sq. I2mo, paper, 
 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25) TALES FROM TWO HEMISPHERES. (Sq. I2mo, 
 $1.00) ILKA ON THE HILL TOP, and Other Stories. (Sq. I2mo, $1.00) 
 QUEEN TITANIA (Sq. I2mo, $1.00). 
 
 " Mr. Boyesen s stories possess a sweetness, a tenderness, and a 
 drollery that are fascinating, and yet they are no more attractive 
 than they are strong." The Home Journal. 
 
 H. C. Bunner. 
 
 THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE. Illustrated by A. B. Frost. (I2mo s 
 $1.25) THE MIDGE. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.00} ZADOC PINE, 
 and Other Stories. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.00.) 
 
 "It is Mr. Bunner s delicacy of touch and appreciation of what 
 is literary art that give his writings distinctive quality. Everything 
 Mr. Bunner paints shows the happy appreciation of an author who 
 has not alone mental discernment, but the artistic appreciation. 
 The author and the artist both supplement one another in this ex 
 cellent Story of a New York House. " The New York Times 
 
2 SCRIBNER S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION. 
 
 Frances Hodgson Burnett. 
 
 THAT LASS O LOWRIE S. Illustrated (paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.25)- 
 HAWORTH S. Illustrated (I2mo, $I.25)-THROUGH ONE ADMINISTRA* 
 TION. (I2mo, $1.50) LOUISIANA. (I2mo, $1.25) A FAIR BARBARIAN. 
 (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25) VAGABONDIA. A Love Story. (I2mo, 
 paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.25)- SURLY TIM, and Other Stories. (I2mo, $1.25) 
 EARLIER STORIES First Series, EARLIER STORIES-Second Series 
 (I2mo, each, paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.25). 
 
 THE PRETTY SISTER OF JOSE". Illustrated byC. S. Rheinhart (I2mo, $1.00), 
 
 LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY. (Sq. 8vo, $2.00) -SARA CREWE; or, 
 What Happened at Miss Minchin s. (Sq. 8vo, $1.00) LITTLE SAINT 
 ELIZABETH, and Other Stories. (I2mo, $1.50.) Illustrated by R. B. Birch. 
 
 " Mrs. Burnett discovers gracious secrets in rough and forbidding 
 natures the sweetness that often underlies their bitterness the soul 
 of goodness in things evil. She seems to have an intuitive percep 
 tion of character. If we apprehend her personages, and I think we 
 do clearly, it is not because she describes them to us, but because 
 they reveal themselves in their actions. Mrs. Burnett s characters 
 are as veritable as Thackeray s." RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 William Allen Butler. 
 
 DOMESTICUS. A Tale of the Imperial City. (I2mo, $1.25.) 
 
 " Under a veil made intentionally transparent, the author main 
 tains a -running fire of good-natured hits at contemporary social 
 follies. There is a delicate love story running through the book. 
 The author s style is highly finished. One migbt term it old-fashioned 
 in its exquisite choiceness and precision," 7"he New York Journal 
 of Commerce. 
 
 George W. Cable. 
 
 THE GRANDISSIMES. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $I.25)-OLD CREOLE 
 DAYS. (I2mo, cloth, $1.25 ; also in two parts, I6mo, cloth, each, 75 cts. ; 
 paper, each, 30 cts.) DR. SEVIER. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.25) 
 BONAVENTURE. A Prose Pastoral of Arcadian Louisiana. (I2mo, paper 
 50 cts. ; $1.25.) 
 
 The set, 4. vols., $5.00. 
 
 " There are few living American writers who can reproduce fot 
 us more perfectly than Mr. Cable does, in his best moments, the 
 speech, the manners, the whole social atmosphere of a remote time 
 and a peculiar people. A delicious flavor of humor penetrates his 
 stories." The New York Tribune. 
 
SCRIBNER S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION. 3 
 
 Richard Harding Davis. 
 
 GALLEGHER, and Other Stories. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.00.; 
 
 The ten stories comprising this volume attest the appearance of a 
 new and strong individuality in the field of American fiction. They 
 are of a wide range and deal with very varied types of metropolitan 
 character and situation ; but each proves that -Mr. Davis knows 
 his New York as well as Dickens did his London. 
 
 Edward Eggleston. 
 
 ROXY THE CIRCUIT RIDER. Illustrated (each I2mo, $1.50). 
 
 "Dr. Eggleston s fresh and vivid portraiture of a phase of life 
 and manners, hitherto almost unrepresented in literature ; its boldly 
 contrasted characters, and its unconventional, hearty, religious spirit, 
 took hold of the public imagination." The Christian Union. 
 
 Erckmann-Cbatrian . 
 
 THE CONSCRIPT. Illustrated WATERLOO. Illustrated. (Sequel to The 
 Conscript.) MADAME TH^RESE THE BLOCKADE OF PHALSBURG. 
 Illustrated THE INVASION OF FRANCE IN 1814. Illustrated - A 
 MILLER S STORY OF THE WAR. Illustrated. 
 
 The National Novels, each, $1.23 ; the set, 6 vols., $7.50. 
 FRIEND FRITZ. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.25.) 
 
 Eugene Field. 
 
 A LITTLE BOOK OF PROFITABLE TALES. (I6mo, $1.25.) 
 
 * This pretty little volume promises to perpetuate examples of a 
 wit, humor, and pathos quaint and rare in their kind. Genial and 
 sympathetic, Mr. Field has already made a mark in the literature 
 of the day, which will not quickly wear out." New York Tribzme. 
 
 Harold Frederic. 
 
 SETH S BROTHER S WIFE. (I2mo, $1 25)-THE LAWTON GIRL. (12mo, 
 $1.25; paper, 50 cts.) IN THE VALLEY. Illustrated (I2mo, $1.50). 
 
 <4 Mr. Frederic s new tale takes a wide range, includes many 
 characters, and embraces a field of action full of dramatic climaxes. 
 It is almost reasonable to assert that there has not been since 
 Cooper s day a better American novel dealing with a purely his 
 torical theme than In the Valley. " Boston, Beacon. 
 
 Octave Tbanet. 
 
 EXPIATION. Illustrated by A. B. Frost. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.00.) 
 
 " This remarkable novel shows an extraordinary grasp of drama. 
 tic possibilities as well as an exquisite delicacy of character drawing. 
 Miss French has with this work taken her place among the very 
 foremost of American writers of fiction." Boston Beacon 
 
4 SCRIBNER S BRIEF LIST OF FICTION. 
 
 ]ames Anthony Froude. 
 
 THE TWO CHIEFS OF DUNBOY. An Irish Romance of the Last Century, 
 (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $L50.) 
 
 " The narrative is full of vigor, spirit, and dramatic power. It 
 will unquestionably be widely read, for it presents a vivid and life 
 like study of character with romantic color and adventurous incident 
 for the background." The New York Tribune, 
 
 Robert Grant. 
 
 FACE TO FACE. (I2mo, paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.25.) 
 
 " This is a well-told story, the interest of which turns upon a game 
 of cross purposes between an accomplished English girl, posing as a 
 free and easy American Daisy Miller, and an American gentleman, 
 somewhat given to aping the manners of the English." The 
 Buffalo Express. 
 
 Edward Everett Hale. 
 
 PHILIP NOLAN S FRIENDS. Illustrated (I2mo, Paper, 50 cents; Cloth, 
 
 $1.75.) 
 
 "There is no question, we think, that this is Mr. Hale s com* 
 pletest and best novel. The characters are for the most part well 
 drawn, and several of them are admirable." The Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 Marion Harland. 
 
 JUDITH: A Chronicle of Old Virginia. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1 00) 
 HANDICAPPED. (I2mo, $1.50). WITH THE BEST INTENTIONS. 
 
 A Midsummer Episode. (I2mo, Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 50 cents.) 
 
 r "Fiction has afforded no more charming glimpses of old Virginia- 
 life than are found in this delightful story, with its quaint pictures, 
 its admirably drawn characters, its wit, and its frankness.""^* 
 Brooklyn Daily Times. 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 FREE JOE, and Other Georgian Sketches. (I2mo, paper, 50 cts., cloth, $!.00.) 
 
 " The author s skill as a story writer has never been more felic 
 itously illustrated than in this volume. The title story is meagre 
 almost to baldness in incident, but its quaint humor, its simple but 
 broadly outlined characters, and, above all, its touching pathos, 
 combine to make it a masterpiece of its kind." The New York Sun. 
 
 Augustus Allen Hayes. 
 
 THE JESUIT S RING. A Romance of Mount Desert (I2mo, paper, 50 cl.\ 
 cloth, $1.00). 
 
 " The conception of the story is excellent. " The Boston Traveller.