iipiiil 
 
 CA5TLE-JR
 
 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 OE CALIF.- IIBRAHY f T IDS AffGELE
 
 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 By 
 WILLIAM R. CASTLE, JR. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 1912
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 Published March, IQIS
 
 TO 
 
 21 28705
 
 THE GREEN VASE
 
 BOOK I 
 HELEN
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE train came to a stop with a jerk that almost 
 threw the passengers to the floor. 
 
 " Confound that engineer," Henry Murphy said. 
 " He's nearly knocked us down at every station since 
 we left New York, and I guess this time he just 
 remembered the last minute that the Boston station 
 wasn't located on State Street. Come on, Helen," 
 and then, to a group of fellow-passengers, " Good-bye 
 and good luck to you." 
 
 He took his wife's arm and pushed his way across 
 the crowded platform to a cab. While he went with 
 the driver to find their trunk she leaned back some- 
 what dispiritedly against the worn leather cushions 
 of the carriage. The day was blustering and dismal. 
 Their honeymoon was over. During the first week, 
 at Niagara, she had found herself pitifully unable 
 to share Henry's enthusiasm in the wonder of the 
 place, and at the same time had been thrilled with 
 the realisation that he was somehow, in his splendid 
 young strength, a part of it all. Then had followed 
 a fortnight of ecstatic, if perhaps a little wistful joy 
 in New York. At the Waldorf, at Delmonico's, she 
 
 3
 
 had brushed against men and women of the world. 
 And yet she had suffered. To be among them, un- 
 noticed, was not to be of them. To touch them in 
 passing was not like speaking with them, eating with 
 them; and yet, an outsider, she had felt kinship 
 with them. Henry had been interested in them only 
 as he was interested in a play in which he had no 
 wish to take a part. Then, more acutely, as vaguely 
 before they were married, she had wished he was 
 different, not in any specific detail perhaps, but that 
 he might be more obviously a gentleman like the 
 men in evening clothes who seemed to have so much 
 to say. She had not phrased it so clearly as 
 yet. 
 
 Now they had come home. Where they were to 
 live she had no idea. Henry had wanted to surprise 
 her as though she were a child and she had been 
 unwilling to spoil the eager joy of his anticipation and 
 had refrained from questions. After all, he would 
 only have rented and they could decide during the com- 
 ing year where to live. She wanted to be among the 
 people whom her father had known and loved and 
 whom her mother, in their poverty, had lost sight 
 of after his death. Beacon Street and Common- 
 wealth Avenue were beyond their means, but people 
 were moving out. The Fenway and the Bay State
 
 HELEN 5 
 
 Road were building up, and she believed it would be 
 an easy matter to persuade Henry to settle there 
 since his sense for financial opportunity was as keen 
 as hers for social. She knew that she was not a 
 " climber." She wanted friends, as she had wanted 
 them all her life people in whose interests she could 
 really share. 
 
 Henry spoke to the coachman, evidently naming 
 a familiar street, and then jumped into the carriage 
 and fell, rather than sat, beside her. He never did 
 things calmly. He was often boisterous in the vital- 
 ity of his youth, and so, almost roughly, yet with 
 the tenderness that came of great love, he threw 
 his arm over her shoulder and drew her close. 
 "Now, dearest," he said, "home! What a home 
 it will be! Just us two! A thousand times better 
 than wedding tours. No swells to look at our clothes 
 and wonder who the country folks are. Just us two. 
 Aren't you glad, Helen? " 
 
 1 Yes," she whispered, " yes, dear," and nestled 
 closer. At that moment, as always when she was 
 alone with him, she shared fully his feelings, let her 
 love shine clear, meeting his as frankly and unre- 
 servedly as their eyes met. She delighted in his 
 strength, his touch, his whole-hearted, protecting love. 
 She was willing to let herself sink contentedly into
 
 6 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 its limitless shelter and to rest, to be unreservedly 
 happy in his care, as he was in the right to care. 
 
 She had almost forgotten that they were moving, 
 going home, until she looked out and saw unfamiliar 
 streets. She watched vaguely a moment, then 
 acutely. Their carriage was lumbering along toward 
 the South Boston bridge. Her first impulse was to 
 cry out. Surely he had not taken a house there 
 or perhaps they were going to Roxbury. She quieted 
 at that. Roxbury was not the Back Bay, but good 
 families still lived there. It would be only temporary, 
 and at any rate she must not disappoint her hus- 
 band, must not let him see anything but the happi- 
 ness he so confidently expected. Then they turned 
 to the left, over the bridge. "Where?" she cried 
 involuntarily, "not South Boston?" 
 
 Henry looked at her, surprised. " Yes, dear, South 
 Boston. Why not ? We're not social swells and 
 nothing is prettier. You just wait." 
 
 " I have never been there," she murmured, but 
 she kept her face away from him, looking unseeingly 
 over the forests of shipping. South Boston. People 
 had silver weddings there, and sometimes the engage- 
 ment was announced in the papers of a clerk living in 
 Somerville or Charlestown to Miss Murphy of South 
 Boston. Murphy that was her name now, and per-
 
 HELEN 7 
 
 haps she belonged there. But she did not she was 
 sure of that not for long at any rate. The name, 
 Murphy, always troubled her except when she was 
 with Henry, and then, in her admiration for him, she 
 forgot about it. Perhaps there were nice people in 
 South Boston, but she doubted it because they were 
 never mentioned in the society columns, the real so- 
 ciety columns where people did not pay and which 
 were not called society to please the politicians whose 
 names and speeches were reported. It was among 
 the political items that their home-coming would be 
 reported. " Henry Murphy, the rising young pol- 
 itician, has just returned from Niagara and New 
 York with his bride, who was a Miss Helen Smith 
 of Cambridge. The young people have taken a house 
 
 in Street, South Boston, where they will be 
 
 pleased to see their friends." She could not imagine 
 the Elliotts and the Blands and the Sawyers reading 
 that notice and the combination of Murphy and 
 South Boston made her almost glad. 
 
 The carriage was bumping along now over ill- 
 paved slum streets where babies and mangy dogs 
 swarmed in the gutters, and where rumpled sheets 
 and turkey-red tableclothes streamed from the win- 
 dows. Slatternly women with market baskets gos- 
 siped on the corners. Helen almost envied them be-
 
 8 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 cause she was sure they never thought beyond th< 
 day. Happiness there must be on the top rung o: 
 the social ladder. A kind of sordid acceptance then 
 must be on the lowest rung, too, where one mus 
 recognise the impossibility of the climb and when 
 envy would only be for the money that Mrs. De 
 lancy's diamond tiara would bring, not for contac 
 with the lazy men and women who saw it glitter an< 
 came to pass idle, precious words with its owner 
 And all the time Henry had been talking, loving her 
 taking her home, masculinely unconscious that shi 
 was less radiant under the gloomy skies than he 
 For him the time had not yet arrived, if it ever would 
 when he could distinguish between a brave smile anc 
 a joyous one. She did not let him see her eyes. 
 
 " It's lucky for us," he was saying as they passec 
 into tree-lined streets where the houses would hav< 
 been suggestive of Beacon Hill had it not been foi 
 the little ugly signs of " Front Room To Let " ir 
 the windows, " that the swells missed seeing wha 
 a really good thing South Boston was. We couk 
 never have come here if folks like that had bough 
 up the land. Are you tired out, love? We are al 
 most home." She had turned to him, and he ha( 
 caught a suggestion of the suffering in her eyes, onb 
 to interpret it wrongly. " Here we are now."
 
 HELEN 9 
 
 The carriage turned up a sharp, short hill and 
 came to a stop at one side of a shaded but somewhat 
 unkempt park before the door of an old-fashioned, 
 red house with a high stoop and ornate iron railing. 
 In front was a little grass-plot where a few purple 
 crocuses showed their faces. About the whole square ' 
 was an air of respectability, almost of gentility, Helen 
 thought, as she glanced over it, suddenly reassured. 
 And then, in the window of the next house, her eye 
 caught a sign, " Large Front Room To Let." 
 
 Henry led her up the steps and hand in hand they 
 passed into the hall. He was too deeply moved to 
 speak, and Helen, when she saw his face, threw her 
 arms around his neck. " Our house," she whispered. 
 " Dearest, how happy we shall be." 
 
 The parlour had red walls, red of an almost bloody 
 shade, but touched with magenta where shadows fell 
 across it. The woodwork, heavy all of it, but over- 
 shadowed by the huge mantelpiece that tried inef- 
 fectually to hide behind an intricate network of jig- 
 saw tracery, was of lifeless black walnut. On the 
 centre of the mantel, crushing all hope of better 
 things, was a fat green vase, up which sprawled red 
 and yellow roses, all in high relief, all shining as 
 though varnished. It was the wedding present from 
 Henry's Uncle John, and Helen had cried when it
 
 io THE GREEN VASE 
 
 came. Uncle John was rich and she had hoped that 
 his riches might be associated with good taste. The 
 furniture suited the room, as she realised sadly. It, 
 too, was of black walnut, upholstered in bright green 
 corduroy, and it had obviously been newly revar- 
 nished. She sat down on the hard tufted sofa and 
 covered her face with her hands. The sofa was un- 
 yielding and she moved to a chair. It was stiff and 
 uncomfortable but from it she could not see the 
 green vase. She was in the grip of despair but knew 
 she could hide her feelings from her husband after 
 he came from superintending the trunks. She only 
 hoped the stairs were long, so that he could not finish 
 quickly. There were coarse lace curtains at the win- 
 dows, a blue white in colour. She had not noticed 
 them before. They looked like the curtains one 
 bought in shops where furniture is sold on the instal- 
 ment plan. They were just the hue of a dead body. 
 She thought of tearing them down, and then she 
 heard the front door slam. Henry was coming. 
 
 She stood up to meet him, afraid of herself, afraid 
 of her surroundings, but with the same brave smile 
 on her face that he so eagerly mistook for joy. 
 " Well," he cried, " pretty flossy parlour for begin- 
 ners, ain't it? " She looked at him with staring eyes, 
 the smile still hovering on her lips. Somehow she
 
 HELEN ii 
 
 had expected his personality to dominate the room, 
 to push back the ugliness, to sweep her up into his 
 own optimism. And he did dominate, become the 
 moving force of all the surroundings, but not, as she 
 hoped, by crushing them back on themselves. Rather 
 he seemed at the moment to assimilate them to him- 
 self, to be himself the ultimate test of vulgarity, finer 
 only because stronger, and through his strength less 
 capable of change. Suddenly she sank down on the 
 inhospitable sofa and shook with great wrenching 
 sobs. She cried because at the moment her dreams 
 were shattered; because she recognised the impossi- 
 bility of moulding her husband into a type different 
 from that of his birthright; and because, contradict- 
 ing as he did all her masculine ideals except that of 
 power, she yet loved him. 
 
 He was on his knees beside her, his arms around 
 her, talking to her as he might have to a child with 
 a broken toy, very tenderly, with a gentleness she had 
 hardly believed was in him. " Poor little girl. Poor 
 child tired out and I never knew it. And then, after 
 all the excitement of the trip, coming to a new and 
 strange home. But you'll feel better soon. And I 
 have a surprise for you a surprise that'll make you 
 very happy, a new wedding present." 
 
 " Not another green vase ! " she cried, straighten-
 
 12 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 ing suddenly and drawing away from him. " I I 
 couldn't stand that." 
 
 He laughed happily, holding both her hands. 
 " No, not another green vase ; I'd forgotten you 
 didn't like that. You'll learn to, I guess. A much 
 bigger, costlier present than that. Uncle John did 
 help with it, though, in a sort of way. See, here's 
 his letter," he added, producing the document from 
 his pocket. " It's what I call a good letter. Read 
 it." He thrust it into her hand, and sitting on the 
 sofa beside her drew her close to him. 
 
 " DEAR NEPHEW HENRY," it began. " I am glad 
 you took the straight road to your uncle. Who 
 should you go to quicker? I have been thinking over 
 your plan and have decided to help you. But along 
 with the help here goes a bit of advice from an old 
 man who has been through life, to a young one just 
 beginning. From what you say I opine that you are 
 marrying a sensible young woman like your Aunt 
 Mary was when she and I made up together. Miss 
 Helen has earned her living so she will know how 
 to be economical and keep your house shipshape. She 
 will have no social bee in her bonnet, thank God. 
 The germ of that kind of ambition in a woman is the 
 worst kind of sickness to fight. It is sometimes con- 
 tagious and then you might as well call in the financial 
 undertaker. But I guess you are safe and I would 
 say Miss Helen was if I did not know the suscepti-
 
 HELEN 13 
 
 bility of womankind. There is no such thing as being 
 too careful in these matters. Therefore, which is 
 the reason for all this, buy a house where there will 
 be as few chances of contagion as possible. If you 
 buy in the city get away from what the papers call 
 the tide of fashion. Strike into a back water if you 
 can, some place that's just got left out. You never 
 can tell what will happen in a new place if the dam 
 breaks, because any tide is a curious thing and reaches 
 the most unlikely places. But a back water has been 
 tried already and things are apt to keep on pretty 
 steady like. The hill in South Boston is one of such 
 and so are the streets north of Franklin Square. In 
 both you can buy cheap and good, reaping the fruits, 
 so to speak, of the fashion hunters that made a mis- 
 take. But I put South Boston first because it's far- 
 ther from the danger line and because the park will 
 be a fine place for the children to play. Of course 
 there is not much chance of land skyrocketing there, 
 but you will be buying a home, not a wildcat specula- 
 tion scheme. That is not what I am lending money 
 on, but on a permanent investment, as permanent as 
 marriage itself. I am lending you money to build up 
 a God-fearing, righteous, fruitful home, and after all 
 that's the only thing worth while in the long journey 
 of this life. I want you and Helen to start right 
 and keep right, and nothing is more likely to do it 
 than a bit of land and a tidy home that is your own. 
 Therefore when you need the money your old Uncle 
 will hold the mortgage, believing it will be the sound-
 
 i 4 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 est investment of his life. God bless you both, my 
 boy. You're just the sort I would have liked my 
 son to be if he had ever been more than a dream- 
 child, and it's up to you to keep on living up to my 
 ideal of what he would have been. 
 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 
 " JOHN MURPHY." 
 
 Helen read the letter through, dry-eyed and emo- 
 tionless. " Have you bought the house? " she asked 
 finally, in a hard voice. 
 
 " Yes, dear," he answered. " That was the sur- 
 prise. Isn't Uncle John a wonder. The deed's in 
 your name. How does it feel to be a property owner? 
 Better than writing letters in Stuyvesant and Bond's 
 office, isn't it?" 
 
 " Henry," she said quickly, " you're too good to 
 me. I'm not worth it. Shall we go upstairs now? " 
 
 He looked vaguely disappointed as he followed her, 
 but could not have told why. He was far from 
 grasping even a suggestion of the undercurrent of 
 her thought, far from seeing that the fulfilment of his 
 brightest dreams was the shattering of hers.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A WEEK later Helen sat before her mirror doing her 
 hair. She was proud of the wonderful masses of it, 
 deep, rich chestnut in colour, and as she drew it back 
 not too tightly, coiling it into a great knot at the back 
 of her neck, she watched the ripples of light that 
 played along it. The sun was shining across her 
 window, and through a golden haze she could look 
 out over the shallow harbour and the marshes to the 
 Dorchester hills, already stained with the warm, soft, 
 green of spring. The call of a fishmonger, made 
 musical by distance, the notes of birds in the trees, 
 the smell, languorous yet deeply irritating, of the 
 earth waking to new life in the hot spring sunshine 
 all these stirred her more profoundly than she knew, 
 disintegrating the despairing calm that for seven days 
 had only given way before tempests of self-accusing 
 love for her husband. So, as she leaned forward 
 watching herself in the glass, her bare arms resting 
 on the cool marble top of her dressing table, she felt 
 the pain of her defeat acutely resurgent. Bitterly she 
 repeated the hard, common-sense phrases of Uncle 
 John's letter the house that was his soundest invest- 
 
 15
 
 16 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 ment because they would live in it, always; the park 
 where the children could play dirty, South Boston 
 children she saw them, their father's commonness 
 without his redeeming strength; she saw them in 
 school, in college, always dragging on a noisy, colour- 
 less existence; saw them married, the girl perhaps to 
 that vulgar boy next door who threw spitballs and 
 whose mother took boarders at sixty cents a day. In 
 anticipation, for them, she rebelled. It would be 
 better not to have children, and at that her pity re- 
 verted to herself. Did not the woman looking back 
 at her from the mirror deserve a better fate than 
 drowning in the slough of South Boston respectabil- 
 ity? She was not a vain woman, but she knew the 
 value of her face and figure. There was nothing 
 plebeian in the soft oval of the face, in the deep 
 brown eyes, the firm nose and chin, the small mouth 
 that drooped pathetically at the corners. Why should 
 there be? Her poverty had not affected her inher- 
 itance of birth. She held up her arms and let the 
 loose sleeves of her dressing sacque fall to the shoul- 
 ders. There was strength as well as beauty in the 
 pliant lines of her figure. She knew that her body 
 was more than Henry had said " little, and warm, 
 and soft to cuddle." She thought of it then frankly, 
 as a social asset more potent than jewels and bro-
 
 HELEN 17 
 
 cades, and yet she longed for the jewels and brocades 
 to hang upon it, longed for them with much the same 
 feeling that a priest has for the diamonds with which 
 he embroiders the robe of the Blessed Virgin. The 
 precious stones do not enhance the value of the object 
 of worship. They seem merely, through the senses, to 
 give a first impulse to the worshippers. Henry loved 
 to have her well dressed " as well as you can, my 
 dear, without being etxravagant. I want my wife to 
 look well so people can't say I'm stingy, but it would 
 be the ruin of my career to have them think we were 
 trying to put ourselves over them." Was she, then, 
 to be merely an aid to his career, to spend her life 
 being polite to the vulgar wives of vulgar constitu- 
 ents? Perhaps that was a wife's duty, but she had 
 married, partly at least, to escape the grind of duty, 
 but most of all, she knew even in her despair, be- 
 cause she loved Henry Murphy. There was nothing 
 in the whisperings and the pervasive scent of a warm 
 spring day to impel her back to the cold fact of duty. 
 She stepped to the window and stood looking out 
 as her husband so often did, but unlike him, she got 
 no pleasure from the commercial aspect of the scene. 
 When he exclaimed at the lovely tints of the water 
 as a cloud let fall its long, quivering shadow, or 
 pointed out the yellow in the budding woods of the
 
 i8 THE. GREEN VASE 
 
 Dorchester hills, she was sorry, as he was glad, that 
 the water was stained with coal dust, and that under 
 the trees were the squalid huts of hundreds of la- 
 bourers. So to-day she was only conscious of the 
 harmony of colour, restful after the garish crudity 
 of her house. She was seeking to order her mind, 
 to draw out of the chaos of her dissatisfaction a 
 thread of active purpose. She was not of the stuff 
 which yields weakly to environment, that inertly al- 
 lows itself to be broken on the wheel of chance. Her 
 ambition was clear social recognition by the men 
 and the wives of the men whom she had seen daily 
 pass through the office of Stuyvesant and Bond and 
 who had in turn seen her, but not as a lady, merely 
 as an astonishingly pretty secretary who would not 
 accept theatre invitations. It had been ambition and 
 modesty that had made her refuse. She knew that 
 if she had wanted the jewels and fine raiment she 
 could have had them, but she wanted them as symbols, 
 not for themselves. In He.nry she had seen a young 
 man, already well off, prospering in business ; she had 
 heard him spoken of as a coming financier, and she 
 had fallen in love with him. There was no doubt 
 of that. She loved him first, perhaps, for what he 
 might become, then with proud submission to his 
 splendid strength. Of the nature of that strength
 
 HELEN 19 
 
 her intuition had been at fault. She had conceived 
 it to be the power that conquers and then seeks new 
 conquests. She had found it the power that holds, 
 that fastens its roots firmly in its native soil. In im- 
 agination she had harnessed her ambition to Henry's 
 strength, and in reality she found them at odds. The 
 question defined itself quite clearly. She must match 
 her wit against his stolidity. Ultimate success would 
 come very slowly and the waiting would be tedious. 
 She must treasure every chance phrase, every act, 
 every rebuff, until at last she should reach the sensitive 
 pride, the craving for approbation that somewhere 
 underlies the shell of every man. She must not let 
 him suspect her ambition. He would think it the 
 " desire," as Uncle John called it. To her it was a 
 craving for the understanding of those who thought 
 as she instinctively thought. She must foster in 
 Henry's mind the belief that social recognition was 
 only the natural consequence of success. In her hus- 
 band's absence she felt herself able to accomplish 
 anything. 
 
 She fastened her dress and pinned a white bow at 
 her neck, looked at herself once more in the glass, 
 touched her hair, and then wondered whether she had 
 ordered supper. She heard the door open and turned 
 quickly.
 
 20 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " Mrs. Jennings from across the park to call, 
 ma'am," said the maid. She had unkempt hair, wore 
 a black skirt, much spotted, and a soiled blue waist. 
 
 " Very well, Rose," she answered, " tell her I 
 shall be down directly. And, Rose, next time, please, 
 knock before you open a door." 
 
 She smiled rather grimly as the door slammed. " I 
 wonder whether it is necessary to have maids who are 
 dirty and impudent." Then she followed. The hall 
 was always close because the gas had to be kept 
 burning. The red and blue stained glass panel in 
 the front door admitted little or no light except in 
 the late afternoon, when the sun shone through it 
 fantastically. 
 
 In the parlour Mrs. Jennings sat stiffly on one of 
 the green upholstered chairs. Even if she had been 
 of a less uncompromising appearance, Helen thought, 
 she would still have had to be stiff in that chair. 
 
 " How do you do," she said. " It is very kind of 
 you to call." 
 
 " Not at all, my dear, not at all," Mrs. Jennings 
 responded energetically. " It was my duty to call. 
 We all know each other in the Park. Of course, too, 
 we knew about Mr. Murphy, and Mrs. Davidson 
 knows a lady in Cambridge who said you'd al- 
 ways been well spoken of there, though a little over-
 
 HELEN 21 
 
 dressed. It was Mrs. Eusden who told her. Do you 
 happen to know Mrs. Eusden?" 
 
 " Yes," Helen said, " I have met her." 
 
 " I wish I knew her," said Mrs. Jennings. " Mrs. 
 Davidson is one of the very most perticular ladies in 
 the Park. One of her ancestors by her mother's side 
 came over in the Mayflower, and her grandfather's 
 older brother much older, of course was lieuten- 
 ant in the Revolutionary war with England. It's 
 strange, though," she continued, " this Mrs. Eusden 
 didn't seem to know much about your family. She 
 said there were so many Joneses that you could hardly 
 keep them apart in your mind, though I must say I 
 have known some very nice ones." 
 
 " My name was Smith." 
 
 ' To be sure it was, but no offence. Still it was 
 a natural mistake, and Smith's even commoner than 
 Jones or Murphy." 
 
 " Yes, it is." 
 
 " Well, you know the old saying, ' a rose by any 
 other name,' so there's no reason why you need to 
 worry. The folks living in the Park don't all of 
 them have fancy names, but they're a different class 
 from the rest of South Boston with a few excep- 
 tions, of course. Ladies like Mrs. Davenant of K. 
 Street, f'r instance, feel misplaced, and I don't mind
 
 22 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 telling you that when your house was for sale it 
 is yours, I hear a good many of us hoped Mrs. D. 
 could be persuaded to take it. Of course, you under- 
 stand, we don't mind you. We were just afraid some 
 real ordinary folks might get in, and we did want 
 Mrs. Davenant to get what she aimed for. She has 
 quite a walk to see her friends, and of course we 
 don't often care to go to K Street." 
 
 "So the Park considers itself very aristocratic?" 
 " Well, now, I wouldn't just say that. Of course 
 we can't help seeing that we're different from the rest 
 of South Boston, but that don't mean we're not dem- 
 ocratic. Perhaps some might call us just a little bit 
 sniffy to our neighbours, and I do think of it often 
 that perhaps we ought to do something for them, 
 being placed so different. We might have an annual 
 picnic for them in the park, or fireworks on the 
 Fourth. But then, you see, if we gave a finger they 
 might take a hand. They might even call, and of 
 course we couldn't have that. You understand, don't 
 you." 
 
 " Yes, I think I begin to." She remembered blaz- 
 ingly a remark she had not thought much of at the 
 time, a casual remark she had overheard Stephen 
 Bond make to a man leaving his office: " Yes, it's just 
 as I always said. The test of a gentleman is that he
 
 HELEN 23 
 
 should be able to treat his inferiors as though they 
 were equals, and without toadying, to recognise his 
 superiors when he sees them." 
 
 " But " Mrs. Jennings reverted to the charge 
 " we are in a democratic country and so we try to 
 be democratic. I guess you'll think we are when you 
 hear the ladies talking over the Social Life in the 
 Sunday paper after church. Why, you wouldn't be- 
 lieve it, Mrs. Murphy, the way we despise all those 
 snobs and rich folks in the Back Bay. I guess they 
 wouldn't feel so almighty important if they could 
 hear us talk them over. Why, the way those women 
 drink cocktails and champagne and run around with 
 other peoples' husbands is something scandalous, and 
 then to go and pay the papers to put it all in. Why, 
 it's a disgrace to America, I say." 
 
 " They don't pay the papers." 
 
 " Don't pay ! Well, I'd like to know. Didn't Mrs. 
 Searles that lives next us have to pay to have a notice 
 of her daughter's engagement to that young Adams 
 of Charlestown put in? And that was real news; 
 the other ain't. Who'd care to know what Mrs. 
 So-and-so wore to the opera. Why should the pa- 
 pers put it in if not for pay? " 
 
 " To increase the circulation, I suppose." 
 
 " Increase the well, I never! Who'd ever buy a
 
 24 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 paper to read that stuff excepting perhaps those that 
 want to see their own names in print. That might 
 help some." 
 
 ** Don't you read it, Mrs. Jennings? " 
 
 " I ? Well, of course, I just take a glance at it, 
 seeing it's lying on the parlour table and I don't want 
 to appear ignorant walking home from church. But 
 that's not saying I'd go out and buy it, and what's 
 more, if the stuff wasn't there I'd never look at it. 
 As it is, I only read it to make myself thankful that 
 I'm not that kind." 
 
 " Newspapers have to make capital out of all sorts 
 of motives, Mrs. Jennings. Much of their circula- 
 tion is due, I suppose, to the desire of entirely worthy 
 people to have tangible cause of congratulation that 
 they are not what they have had either no oppor- 
 tunity or no inherited instinct to become." 
 
 " I dare say," Mrs. Jennings assented, not quite 
 sure what Helen meant, nor whether it was intended 
 for her in particular. " All I know is that if I was 
 running the papers they'd be different. 
 
 " I am sure of it. Fewer murders and more silver 
 weddings." 
 
 " Yes, or at least golden ones. Why, would you 
 believe it? When old Mr. and Mrs. Cranston had 
 theirs a few weeks ago the Herald only gave two
 
 HELEN 25 
 
 or three lines to it, never spoke of the golden-shower 
 a yellow party, you know and Mrs. Stone and I 
 had worked days over it, as we told the reporter. 
 But all that really don't matter. I called to see 
 what I could do for you, neighbourly like, you 
 know." 
 
 ;< Thank you. I think of nothing." 
 
 " Nothing. But goodness gracious, was there ever 
 such a young married woman! Who's your 
 butcher?" 
 
 " I really don't know. Henry orders on his way 
 to the office." 
 
 " Henry orders! There now and you said there 
 was nothing I could do. I presumed your kind of 
 work was no training for housekeeping, and that 
 proves it. Do you know what'll happen? He'll get 
 a roast every day and then he'll get the habit of not 
 coming home to dinner, not having any surprise wait- 
 ing for him. Just now, when you're pretty to look at 
 and things are new for him, it may be all right, but 
 you make a man do a woman's work as well as his 
 and he's going to get grumpier and grumpier unless 
 he kicks over the traces altogether. I know 
 men." 
 
 " You don't know my husband, Mrs. Jennings." 
 
 " Don't I, though ? Didn't I come to this house
 
 26 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 when he was here with the agent and go over it 
 with' them, looking at it to see if it would possibly 
 do for Mrs. Davenant? " 
 
 " Oh, so it was you. How funny," and Helen 
 laughed convulsively, because she tried not to. But 
 there was a soft, musical quality to the laugh, some- 
 thing curiously private, as though her soul were full 
 of laughter, the reason for which the world should 
 never, never know. It was like a bird song, spontane- 
 ously bubbling from a secret spring, intensely but 
 unconsciously selfish. 
 
 All this Mrs. Jennings could not feel. She was 
 merely irritated by it. " I believe you were say- 
 ing " she remarked frigidly. 
 
 " No. I had quite finished. I am sorry I 
 laughed." She had an insane wish to relate Henry's 
 version of the meeting. He had told her of a woman 
 who came to pry into his affairs " snoop around," 
 was the expression he had used and who had asked 
 the most personal questions. Then, seeing the grow- 
 ing anger in her guest's face, she added, " It struck 
 me as so curious, Mrs. Jennings, that you, who were 
 really the only person of whom I had heard, should 
 be the first to call. It was absurd to laugh, I know, 
 and I am very sorry." 
 
 Mrs. Jennings smiled at last. " I don't blame you
 
 HELEN 27 
 
 a bit, my dear. I know how hard it is to get settled, 
 and all the strangeness of a new house, and a hus- 
 band, and new friends, and not knowing anything 
 about anything. I'm only surprised you laughed in- 
 stead of cried." 
 
 Helen sighed with relief. It would have been 
 terrible to make an enemy so soon. It would have 
 made Henry unhappy and perhaps would have done 
 real harm. " Yes, it is hard," she said, " but I hope 
 I shall learn." 
 
 " Of course you will, my dear, if you'll let us 
 help, and now I must be going. Mrs. Searles, your 
 next door neighbour, is coming to see me at eleven- 
 thirty." 
 
 " Please don't give her too bad an impression of 
 me," Helen said, smiling. 
 
 At that moment both were startled by a violent 
 pounding at the door. The maid stood there de- 
 fiantly, a box in her hand. 
 
 " Well? " Helen questioned. 
 
 " Flowers for you, marm. If I have to run up 
 from the kitchen many more times, you won't get no 
 dinner." She flung the box on a chair and turned 
 to go. 
 
 " Do you have trouble with maids, Mrs. Jen- 
 nings? " Helen said, turning to her despairingly. " I
 
 28 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 can't keep a girl like that so dirty, and so terribly 
 rude." 
 
 " Don't be too hasty, though. It ain't always easy 
 to get a new one. And what's more, I don't believe 
 you can cook." 
 
 " I can't boil a potato. We can go to town for 
 dinner and to-morrow Henry will get another 
 maid." 
 
 Again Mrs. Jennings gasped. " Well, my dear 
 he getting a maid! If you are not digging your own 
 grave by this foolishness, I miss my guess. And him 
 so good to you. Ain't you going to look at those 
 flowers?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, the flowers. I had forgotten them." 
 She took up the box and tore off the wrappings. " I 
 wonder who sent them ? " 
 
 " Well, I never," Mrs. Jennings cried. " A bride 
 of a month and not knowing whether flowers come 
 from her husband or not. They're a useless ex- 
 travagance, anyway." 
 
 " Oh, but so lovely and such a joy to have." 
 
 "Orchids!" Mrs. Jennings almost shrieked as 
 Helen opened the box. " Well, of all the wicked 
 waste. Henry Murphy ought to be ashamed of him- 
 self." 
 
 Helen opened the envelope that was tied to the
 
 HELEN 29 
 
 flowers. She gave a gasp of surprise as she read the 
 name. 
 
 " It is from a man who was very kind to me before 
 I was married," she said quietly, " so you must not 
 blame Henry, Mrs. Jennings." She laid the flowers 
 carressingly against her cheek. 
 
 " Then I consider it very improper and not as it 
 should be," Mrs. Jennings said vigorously. " You 
 a bride of only a month and getting flowers from 
 young men when you ought to be thinking of nobody 
 but your husband. It ain't right." 
 
 " I'm sorry, very sorry, Mrs. Jennings. The flow- 
 ers are as much a surprise to me as they are to you. 
 And can you think of a more charming way to re- 
 member a young woman a bride than by sending 
 her flowers? " 
 
 " Orchids! " Mrs. Jennings retorted. " Orchids! 
 Probably fifty dollars' worth of orchids. Money 
 wasted that might have been spent on a new cook- 
 stove." 
 
 Helen laughed. " But I don't need one. And 
 besides, that would not have been proper. Flowers 
 always are who can tell why? " She let them rest 
 against her cheek again. " I only know that any- 
 thing else would have been an insult that flowers 
 are the expression of a chivalrous thought."
 
 30 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 Mrs. Jennings tossed her head. " I guess you'll 
 find Henry Murphy agrees with me," she said. " I 
 guess you'll wish those flowers had never come after 
 he sees them if he does. Good-bye, Mrs. Murphy." 
 
 She sailed from the room, leaving Helen, still 
 smiling at the orchids in her hand.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 " HELLO, dear. Had a good day? Better than me, 
 I hope. I'm dead beat." 
 
 " You poor boy. You mustn't work so hard. I 
 don't care about so very, very much money, you 
 know." Helen laughed affectionately as she helped 
 him with his coat. He liked her to do it always 
 because of the touch of her fingers on his neck and 
 the little pat she gave as the coat slipped from his 
 shoulders. To-night she touched him more than 
 usual and her fingers tingled on his skin. She was 
 excited. Her cheeks were flushed and the lights 
 sparkled in her eyes. 
 
 " It's great work," he said, pressing her close and 
 covering her forehead with his large hand the more 
 deeply to gaze into her eyes. " It's great, because 
 you're something worth while to work for. You 
 don't know what it meant to me in the office to-day, 
 thinking there was you to come home to and a cosy 
 little dinner waiting, and a long, quiet evening with 
 you and my pipe before the fire. I wouldn't go out 
 to-night for worlds." 
 
 Her face fell. " Oh, Henry, I am so sorry. We 
 
 31
 
 32 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 must go out. I didn't know you would be so disap- 
 pointed. We haven't any dinner." 
 
 "No dinner? Damn that market. Didn't they 
 send it?" 
 
 " It wasn't the market. The maid has gone." 
 
 "Maid gone? Well, what in the devil's 
 name " 
 
 " It was my fault. She was impudent and I sent 
 her away." 
 
 "Impudent, was she? And you shipped her? 
 Well, good riddance, anyway. Only I wish I could 
 have told her what I thought of her." 
 
 " So you see, dear, we'll just have to go out. 
 That's why I dressed. We can go to town to 
 a hotel and have a cosy little dinner, just the 
 same." 
 
 " Cosy, nonsense in a hotel full of people. Not 
 for me. I'm going to stay planted right here. We'll 
 cook the dinner ourselves. You trot along upstairs 
 like a good girl and get off that silk thing, then come 
 down and help. It will be great sport." He was 
 already off, whistling as he clattered down the dark 
 basement stairs. 
 
 Helen stood dispiritedly in the hall, her happy ex- 
 citement gone, then went slowly upstairs. But as 
 she lighted the gas in her room she pulled herself
 
 HELEN 33 
 
 sharply together. " This is absurd," she said aloud, 
 and started at the sound of her own voice. It sud- 
 denly became clear to her that no dreams could come 
 true if she allowed her mood to be swayed by mo- 
 mentary disappointments. What if she could not go 
 out that night. There would be many others the 
 same. She knew that her husband was not a man 
 to be won to her way of thinking by complaints and 
 tears. Just so long as he believed their way of life 
 was best he would calmly, tenderly, forgivingly, she 
 knew, bear with her moods, struggle to make her 
 happy in his way, and remain impenetrably blind to 
 hers. His love for her was too deep, too far-seeing 
 to be swayed through momentary pity into action that 
 would mean to his saner thought ultimate suffering. 
 She must learn from her husband the lesson of sub- 
 ordinating present trouble to future happiness, must 
 live in the consciousness of the happy moment, and 
 construct from the sum of the moments gay or sad 
 the foundation of the palace of her dreams. It is 
 one thing theoretically to realise that only through 
 successful dealing with trivial matters can greater 
 ends be accomplished, quite another to bear the actual 
 pin-pricks without flinching. Fortunately for Helen 
 she was a woman capable of action and of endurance, 
 one who seldom postponed the beginning of a hard
 
 34 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 task, because she knew that with progress difficulties 
 melted away. 
 
 She was consequently smiling, apparently happy, 
 when she opened the kitchen door a few minutes later 
 to find her husband broiling chops and frying pota- 
 toes over the range. 
 
 " That's right," he said, looking approvingly at 
 her blue gingham and white apron. " I knew folks 
 like us couldn't be scared away by a saucy Irish maid. 
 She forgot we were Irish ourselves, as the name 
 shows." 
 
 " That was a long time ago." 
 
 " Thrue ye' air, me darlint, but it don't take many 
 drops of the owld blood to leaven the dough. Now, 
 do you be settin' the table while I git the praties off." 
 
 A little later he put her into her place with a flour- 
 ish and then kissed the tip of her ear " as the butler 
 would do in one of the grand houses," he remarked, 
 " if his mistress was half as pretty as you." 
 
 " In other words, be impudent, like Rose, and lose 
 his place." 
 
 " He'd risk it, and if he was half as handsome as 
 me would be forgiven. You ought to have said that, 
 and you've made no remarks about the praties." 
 
 ' They're delicious." She wished he had troubled 
 to put on his coat or even to take off his waistcoat.
 
 HELEN 35 
 
 Stephen Bond would never have eaten in his shirt- 
 sleeves, even after cooking potatoes if he knew how 
 to cook them. There was something pleasant in the 
 idea that he did not. It justified the shirt-sleeves. 
 She liked men who could do things. 
 
 Then she remembered that she must tell Henry 
 about the orchids. " Mrs. Jennings called to-day." 
 
 ; ' The wife of Abe Jennings who runs this dis- 
 trict?" 
 
 " I don't know the one who lives in the house 
 on the corner the hideous one with the tower." 
 
 ' That's him, all right. I hope you made her 
 purr." 
 
 "Purr? No. She was a cat, though. She tried 
 to scratch." 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, why? You know, dear, I 
 must stand in with Jennings if I am going to have 
 any future." 
 
 ' You ought to have told me that. At any rate, 
 she's the scratching kind. You know her. She helped 
 you buy the house." 
 
 ' That woman ! Good God ! I hope you didn't 
 let on." 
 
 " I almost did. I told her you remembered it and 
 that it was funny she should be the first to call. I had 
 to say that, because I laughed."
 
 36 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " But she finally liked you, I hope." He was 
 playing with his knife and fork and watching her 
 closely, with an alertness she had never seen before, 
 that suggested his mastery and that insisted on sub- 
 servience to his prospects. " She left in a pleasant 
 mood?" 
 
 " No. I did not say that, but it was no fault of 
 mine." 
 
 "What happened?" 
 
 " Some flowers came for me, and when she said it 
 was very extravagant for you to send them, I told 
 her you had not. She thought it very improper 
 that flowers were a waste of money for any one." 
 
 "Why didn't you tell her who sent them? Who 
 was it? " 
 
 " Mr. Bond." 
 
 " Bond? Why should he send you flowers? " 
 
 u Just out of kindness, Henry. Surely you do not 
 mind. See, here is the note which came with them. 
 I brought it down to show you. Read it aloud." 
 
 11 * DEAR MRS. MURPHY,' he read, * I saw you at 
 the theatre last night with your husband and am 
 sending you these flowers as a welcome back to Bos- 
 ton. May your life always be as happy as it deserves 
 to be. Sincerely, STEPHEN BOND.' Well, I must
 
 HELEN 37 
 
 say that sounds decent. Why didn't you tell Mrs. 
 Jennings? " 
 
 " Because I knew she would not understand. She 
 probably knows who he is and after all, Henry, it 
 was mere curiosity." 
 
 Henry lighted his pipe and leaned back in his 
 chair, looking thoughtfully at the table. " I can 
 understand your feelings," he said slowly; " still, I 
 don't know. I think it would have been better to 
 explain. You want to be on friendly terms with the 
 ladies in the Park, and of course it's important to 
 me." 
 
 " More important than my self-respect? " she asked 
 quickly. " No, I didn't mean that, but I wanted you 
 to take my side, instantly, completely." 
 
 " I hope I always will, dear. Only sometimes our 
 ideas may differ. For your sake as well as mine I 
 want Mrs. Jennings to like you. So far as I am 
 concerned, you know, you could do nothing that would 
 make me love you or trust you less. Let's go up- 
 stairs and light the parlour fire." 
 
 She followed somewhat reluctantly, dissatisfied 
 with him and with herself. Perhaps she had not 
 been wise, but neither had he been sympathetic. 
 What was more, she felt that he was not pleased 
 with the flowers, as she had been, and at the same
 
 38 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 time that half her pleasure was gone because he did 
 not share it with her. For the first time something 
 real, if intangible, had come between them. She 
 knew that it was only a cloud, easily to be dissipated, 
 but even the cloud troubled her. She needed his love 
 and his support too keenly to draw back, but before 
 she could speak the door-bell rang. Henry went into 
 the hall, and then followed Mr. and Mrs. Jennings 
 into the room. 
 
 Mrs. Jennings bowed stiffly, the hard, straight line 
 of her mouth making her thin lips disappear alto- 
 gether. She looked quickly about the room and 
 smiled grimly as she saw the flowers were nowhere 
 in sight. " This is Mr. Jennings," she remarked 
 as though introductions were unpleasant tasks. " We 
 came to give you a little advice, seeing as you are 
 new to the Park. I notice the flowers are not in 
 sight." 
 
 " No," Helen said quietly. " We have just fin- 
 ished our supper and I was going to get them when 
 you came." 
 
 " It was about them, mostly, that we came to 
 talk," Mrs. Jennings went on. " The ladies in the 
 Park agree with me that it ain't right for any woman 
 to be getting gifts of flowers from strange men es- 
 pecially brides."
 
 HELEN 39 
 
 "Are you thinking of the flowers Mr. Bond sent, 
 Helen? " Henry asked. 
 
 " Oh, she's told you, has she? I'm sure she never 
 told you about any others, nor about how she kisses 
 them, and goes on about them." 
 
 " Mrs. Jennings ! " Helen cried, her cheeks 
 flaming. 
 
 " Yes, Amanda," Mr. Jennings interposed sooth- 
 ingly. " Ain't you going a bit fast?" He was a 
 little man, with sandy grey hair, who kept himself 
 discreetly in the background. 
 
 " I'll thank you to hold your tongue, Mr. Jen- 
 nings. You wasn't here." Mrs. Jennings turned 
 fiercely to Henry. " What have you to say about 
 this?" 
 
 " Nothing," he answered, putting his arm around 
 his wife, " except to say that you are mistaken. Here 
 is the note that came with the flowers. Perhaps you 
 would like to read it? " 
 
 Helen put out her hand to stop him, but he in- 
 sisted. Mrs. Jennings glared at her, then at the 
 note. After reading it, she folded it precisely and 
 handed it back. " All I've got to say is," she re- 
 marked, " that buttered words don't hide the tiger's 
 claws." 
 
 " Really, Amanda," Mr. Jennings interposed
 
 40 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 again, " you may be mistaken, you know. We did 
 not come to scold, but to give advice." 
 
 Mrs. Jennings glared at him, then at Henry. " All 
 the same, young man," she said, " you're young, and 
 foolish, and poor, and there's a queer kind of fascina- 
 tion about a rich man that sends expensive flowers 
 to a girl who thinks she's safe because she's mar- 
 ried." 
 
 Henry, still holding his wife tightly, answered her 
 at last. " We want to do what is right, Mrs. Jen- 
 nings Helen just as much as me. We want to be 
 friends with all the nice people in the Park, but we 
 want them to know that we have just as much morals 
 as they have, and that in little things we must 
 decide for ourselves. Helen I trust as I do my- 
 self." 
 
 " We'll see," Mrs. Jennings answered frigidly. 
 " We want to be friends, too, and it's only friendly 
 to sound a warning. Come, Mr. Jennings." 
 
 She stalked from the room, followed at the usual 
 discreet distance by her husband, who stopped at the 
 door to say softly, " I'm awfully sorry about this. 
 Amanda's hard to manage when she's riled, but it'll 
 blow over. I want to talk to you some day about this 
 car strike. Things look pretty black, and we must 
 get in some good work, what? "
 
 HELEN 41 
 
 " Any day," Henry answered; " it would be rotten 
 to have the service tied up." 
 
 " Mr. Jennings, I'm waiting." Mrs. Jennings' 
 voice sounded angrily from the hall. 
 
 " I'm coming, my dear, I'm coming. You won't 
 be down on us, will you, Mrs. Murphy? " 
 
 She smiled at him as brightly as she could. Her 
 lips quivered and she was cold, but Mr. Jennings 
 pretended to see only the smile. " Thank you, my 
 dear," he said eagerly, as he hurried after his 
 wife. 
 
 For a short time they stood silently, Helen looking 
 into the fire and feeling helplessly that the tears, one 
 by one, overflowed her eyelids and ran down her 
 cheeks, Henry, beside the table, playing abstractedly 
 with a huge, yellow wooden paper-cutter on which 
 was burned the word, " Yosemite." 
 
 " May I see the flowers? " he said, at last, very 
 gently. 
 
 Helen brought them from her room a mass of 
 exquisite pale violet orchids with throats of royal 
 purple. They were in a plain glass bowl she had 
 at last found in the kitchen after trying them with 
 painful result in all the gaudy glass and china vases 
 with which the various mantels and tables were punc- 
 tuated. She set them down now in front of her hus-
 
 42 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 band, saying, " I should have left them here if they 
 had not been killed by the hideous red paper, and 
 even without it, nothing could look well in a room 
 with that dreadful vase of your uncle's." 
 
 He glanced at her furtively, wondering whether 
 she remembered that the paper had been his choice, 
 but saw that she was suffering too keenly to be con- 
 sciously cruel. He took up one of the flowers and 
 studied it closely, holding it between thumb and fore- 
 finger, and with the other hand bending back the en- 
 folding petals so that he could see through the purple 
 throat the yellow heart of it. " How beautiful," he 
 said at last, " the shading of the different colours. 
 I have never seen an orchid before, except in a florist's 
 window." 
 
 Helen shivered. " Henry," she cried sharply. 
 "Why didn't you speak up for me?" She caught 
 the edge of the table and stood, swaying slightly, 
 searching his face across the purple cloud of flowers. 
 He was still peering into the orchid in his hand. 
 
 " I guess it was these," he answered, indicating the 
 flowers. 
 
 She drew back a little. "These? But you just 
 said they were beautiful." 
 
 " So they are but " 
 
 " But what? Henry, surely you understand. You
 
 HELEN 43 
 
 said the note was quite right. You did not let what 
 Mrs. Jennings said affect you?" 
 
 " Mrs. Jennings be damned. I'm not that kind 
 of a fool. It was the flowers themselves the 
 orchids." 
 
 " The flowers themselves, Henry? I don't under- 
 stand," she said piteously. 
 
 " Of course you don't, dear." He threw his flower 
 into the fire and drew her down beside him on the 
 sofa. " That's the goodness and the sweetness and 
 the dearness of you. Why, you never told me they 
 were orchids." 
 
 " I wanted to surprise you." 
 
 " Yes, I know but orchids aren't easy to ex- 
 plain." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Well, it's just this way. Those flowers cost prob- 
 ably fifty dollars." 
 
 " I never thought of the price " 
 
 " But I did and Mrs. Jennings did. When a man 
 sends flowers to a friend he doesn't spend fifty dol- 
 lars. He sends roses or violets or two or three 
 orchids, or two or three of those newfangled, sweet- 
 smelling white things " 
 
 " Gardenias." 
 
 " Yes, gardenias. A bouquet like that he sends to
 
 44 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 a chorus girl or a well, a woman he doesn't respect. 
 He wants to impress her. He thinks she'll warm up 
 to the price more than to the flowers." 
 
 " And that's how he thought of me as some one 
 to impress with his money. Oh, Henry, how could 
 he? And I was so happy " 
 
 " Well, he showed bad taste and he made a big 
 mistake." 
 
 She winced at the truth of his words, hurt deeply 
 that Stephen Bond should instinctively put her in 
 a class from which she shrank, miserable that her 
 own instinct had not taken warning, and angry that 
 Henry should have to teach her a lesson she should 
 have known. Her childish delight in the flowers was 
 turning into loathing. 
 
 "But, dear," she said suddenly. " He never gave 
 me anything when I was in his office. Why didn't 
 he then, if that is what he means? " 
 
 " Because he's that kind of a man the kind that 
 doesn't want what's under his nose and that's his 
 for the asking, but that wants it bad when it belongs 
 to somebody else and he's got to be mean to 
 get it." 
 
 " Then you don't think he sent the flowers just to 
 be kind." 
 
 " No, I don't. I did just at first, but the more
 
 HELEN 45 
 
 I think about it the more I don't. He wouldn't 
 throw away fifty dollars like that." 
 
 Helen jumped to her feet and stood before him, 
 her eyes and cheeks burning, her lips compressed in 
 a white line. " There, at last, you're wrong. I know 
 him, and you don't. He's not that kind. You were 
 right to say the flowers were an insult because it was 
 wicked of him to think me the kind of woman who 
 would calculate the price. To-morrow I will take 
 them to the hospital. But Mr. Bond is a good man. 
 Haven't I seen the courtesy in his treatment of the 
 girls. Why, he never even sees them when he says 
 ' Good-morning.' He had the luck to be born a gen- 
 tleman, and he never forgets it." 
 
 " Shucks I He was born a dirty, howling little brat 
 like all the rest of the world, and then, when he 
 began to grow up, his mother, who was a snob, 
 taught him all that gentleman fairy-tale business, 
 and he learned it so hard that he can't find out that 
 other boys and girls he never knew may grow up to 
 be as good as him. How about what he thought of 
 you?" 
 
 "Of me?" She put her hand to her throat. "Of 
 me? Why, I suppose he thought oh, instinctively 
 classed me with so many working girls. I haven't 
 had his advantages. I wish so much I had."
 
 46 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " Rot. That kind of talk makes me sick. You're 
 as good as the best. I'd like to hear any one say 
 anything else of my wife ! " 
 
 " How about Mrs. Jennings? " 
 
 "Mrs. Oh, Helen, forget it. I did all I 
 
 thought I could with that kind of a woman. Come, 
 let's go to bed. Any one to hear us would think 
 we'd been married ten years instead of a month. 
 To-morrow I'll go for a servant girl." 
 
 " No," she said, " I think I had better do that."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE Bond house was one of those dignified old yel- 
 low brick structures, the windows of which overlook 
 the Common. Stephen lived there alone. For years 
 the Mothers' Campaign had raged around him, but 
 the old house was still without a mistress. Even the 
 butler, who had stood behind the master's chair on 
 the night that Mr. and Mrs. Elisha Bond had re- 
 turned from their wedding trip and had officiated 
 tearfully at the funerals that one by one marked 
 the passing of members of the family even he, the 
 faithful Spriggs, had ceased to remind Mr. Stephen 
 that he was the last of the name and that it would 
 be well once more to hear a woman's laugh in the 
 wainscotted library. Stephen was obdurate. He was 
 not averse to marriage, but he was decidedly unwill- 
 ing to be driven into marriage. He had laughed 
 when a friend said to him, " You would have mar- 
 ried Katherine Bland, Steve, if it had not been for 
 her mother's frenzied first-aid-to-the-injured " but 
 the laugh had not been without its tinge of hidden 
 bitterness, because he really had liked Katherine un- 
 commonly well ever since they had played as children 
 
 47
 
 48 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 together, and had been quite literally frightened 
 away by her mother's overpowering welcome when 
 he had begun to show a deeper interest. He had 
 watched Katherine grow from girlhood into a charm- 
 ing, unspoiled womanhood, fresh as the woods 
 around her father's country house. And then, lately, 
 he had seen her harden, caught the first sparks of 
 cynicism, and had wondered, fearfully, whether he 
 had been a little to blame. 
 
 He was a true Bostonian in his distrust of enthusi- 
 asm. It seemed to him as a rule vulgar, at its best, 
 as denoting extreme youth. He always wanted to 
 make up his own mind quite calmly and without a 
 suggestion of coercion. If his fruit-dealer was loud 
 in his praise of a new brand of Oregon apples, 
 Stephen, who loved apples, would certainly choose 
 a box of sound-looking Gravensteins, only to eat with 
 delight at a friend's house the next day a sample 
 of the new variety. On the stock market his attitude 
 was the same, inherited from his father. He was 
 afraid of anything new. 
 
 As it happened, Stephen and his companion at 
 dinner, Philip Moncrieff, were discussing this very 
 question of enthusiasm over their coffee and cigars in 
 the dim library one evening late in May. 
 
 " It has always struck me," said Moncrieff, " that
 
 HELEN 49 
 
 you Americans, here in this little corner of the coun- 
 try, have hardly outlived the eighteenth century. 
 You have quite the attitude of mind of Englishmen 
 of the Georgian period. You have never had a 
 Reform Bill to make you conscious of the rights 
 of the average man. I wonder whether you even 
 know there is such an individual." 
 
 " We ought to. Few cities are more vilely gov- 
 erned." 
 
 " The city yes, as a political entity. But the city 
 is not American. It's Irish, Italian anything but 
 American. And the Irish politicians who govern you 
 they're not average men. They're deucedly clever, 
 far-seeing, vigorous-minded all for themselves, of 
 course. But, after all, so are you, the ruling classes, 
 as you are falsely called. You don't rule, however, 
 because you think it vulgar to take a really active part 
 in politics. You're afraid of meeting the average 
 man for fear that you might contract some of his 
 enthusiasm. ' Sufficient unto the Hub is the central 
 pivot thereof ' might be your motto ; you, the aris- 
 tocracy, being that pivot." 
 
 " So you would suggest a little more energy in 
 the pivot. I always supposed that should be sta- 
 tionary." 
 
 " Analogies do not always hold certainly not here.
 
 50 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 Call Boston a machine, if you will, but grant it life. 
 Its wheels grow and spin faster day by day. It may 
 be the hub of the universe, as one of your wits put it 
 that is, you may think it is. But all the same, to 
 the majority of its citizens it is the universe, and 
 they're going to make what they can out of it. They 
 are not going to allow their splendid new machine 
 to go to pieces because of any inadequate pivot. The 
 pivot has got to keep pace with the rest of the growth 
 or be discarded. That's about where the Boston 
 aristocracy finds itself to-day. It used to be adequate 
 when the city was a village. To an outsider it looks 
 rather silly as the representative of a modern 
 city." 
 
 Stephen laughed. " I like your energy, old man, 
 but what am I going to do about it? " 
 
 " Get some enthusiasm. Be absurdly bold. Do 
 something extremely silly that you will spend years 
 in publicly regretting while you rejoice over it in 
 private. That's the kind of thing that makes the old 
 world live." 
 
 " But if such things don't appeal to me? " 
 
 " Then give up the game and move to Concord, 
 where there is no progress to stand in the way of. 
 Sit in your library and shiver at the intellectual heresy 
 of Chesterton, and if you feel that you must do
 
 HELEN 51 
 
 something shocking, tell your gardener to plant a bed 
 of pink and scarlet zinnias. But, heaven on earth, 
 Steve, you're not that kind. You've got it in you 
 to do things, big things, startling things. The same 
 blood crawls through your veins that crawled through 
 the veins of those fellows who threw the tea over- 
 board only it didn't crawl any more when the time 
 came. I suppose you are a bit ashamed of them, as 
 you are of the abolitionists." 
 
 " I do rather think they lost their heads." 
 
 " Of course they did, God bless 'em, for he that 
 loseth his head shall surely find his soul." 
 
 Stephen laughed again. " A dangerous doctrine, 
 that, my dear friend. But since you have established 
 yourself as mentor you might suggest something 
 definite." 
 
 " Suggest something definite," Moncrieff shouted, 
 
 " suggest Oh, Lord, how like a Bostonian. 
 
 Here I tell you to lose your head, and you ask me 
 the most approved and entirely aristocratic way of 
 doing it." 
 
 " As I remember, I had no particular wish to lose 
 my head," Stephen said, somewhat peevishly. " You 
 were the one who seemed to think it would be a 
 valuable experience." 
 
 " So I did now don't spoil it all by losing that
 
 52 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 admirably behaved temper of yours instead. That 
 wasn't what I suggested. Let me think. Are you 
 religious? " 
 
 " I am a Unitarian." 
 
 " So I might have known. No hope there. To be 
 religious one must have faith, belief in something. 
 I don't suppose you'd be willing to turn Roman 
 Catholic?" 
 
 " Emphatically, no." 
 
 " Quite right. You couldn't possibly digest real 
 faith. I only mentioned the matter because if you 
 are to lose your head for the civic good it is impor- 
 tant that you should have to hunt for it among the 
 despised average men and the Roman Church is 
 full of them." 
 
 " Such men don't bother about logic." 
 
 " On the contrary. That's why the Roman Church 
 is so full of them. They're logic mad, and if there 
 is any institution more founded on logic, fed on logic, 
 damned and saved through logic, it's Rome. That's 
 how the Church gets converts through logic, and 
 that's also why she does not get many really intelli- 
 gent converts, because the man of well rounded intel- 
 ligence has learned the limitations of logic. You're 
 illogical you Unitarians because you neglect one- 
 half of human nature, the emotions, just as people
 
 HELEN 53 
 
 like the Methodists neglect the other half, pure in- 
 tellect." 
 
 " You suggest the bull, then, that I lose my head 
 through logic." 
 
 " Exactly. There never has been such a potent 
 cause of insanity but it's not for you. I ought to 
 have known that. How about politics? You proba- 
 bly have a horribly developed sense of duty, and if 
 you could be made to feel that the salvation of Bos- 
 ton depended on you " 
 
 " But it doesn't. The salvation of Boston the 
 present city of Boston is quite unimportant to me. 
 Beside which I cannot and will not get myself into 
 any predicament that will call for public speeches." 
 
 " I see. Vanish the political madness. Since you 
 have your motor, I don't suppose the present tram- 
 car strike interests you." 
 
 " I am not so selfish. Of course it interests me. 
 It's an abomination." 
 
 " Good. That's a vigorous word, abomination. 
 Would you go out and die for the strikers, or would 
 you like to run cars through their lines and shoot 
 all those who try to interfere?" 
 
 Stephen got up and began to pace the floor. 
 " Neither. Fortunately, I can see matters too clearly 
 for that. Both sides are at fault."
 
 54 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " Oh, Lord!" 
 
 " They are. Of course, hotheads like Murphy see 
 only one side of the question. He talked in my 
 office yesterday morning like a boy orator the com- 
 pany had been cutting off wages here and adding 
 on extra work there until now the men lived like dogs 
 got home to their wives late at night, ready to 
 drop, they were so tired, and with just money enough 
 in their jeans to buy the bare necessities not enough, 
 when they had large families. To him they were 
 martyrs undergoing the sufferings of a veritable in- 
 quisition." 
 
 "And the other side?" 
 
 " The other? The company? He simply ignored 
 the fact that it, too, had rights, and obligations to 
 its stockholders. I admitted that the men were not 
 properly paid and that their hours were too long, 
 but I told him the Union could not be allowed to 
 dictate terms." 
 
 "Are they trying to?" 
 
 "Are they? Well, rather. Their first demand 
 is that certain old and trusted employees who are 
 not Union members should be discharged." 
 
 " Well? What did Murphy say? " 
 
 " He said there never was a reform carried through 
 that could please every one, that the few had to suffer
 
 HELEN 55 
 
 for the good of the many. I could not follow him 
 there, practically, because I could not see what good 
 would result from the obviously unfair treatment of 
 these old servants." 
 
 "H'm. What Murphy?" 
 
 "Murphy?" Stephen stopped abruptly in his 
 walk, took down a book from the shelf nearest him, 
 and began aimlessly to turn over the leaves. Mon- 
 crieff watched him curiously. " He's a young man 
 down town had a legal training and has taken up 
 stocks, I believe. No particular family, but person- 
 ally respectable. Making a name for himself in pol- 
 itics as well as in trade. Decided ability, I should 
 say, but a bit raw. Irish, generations back, I sup-, 
 pose. Family's always lived hereabout. My grand- 
 father used to buy horses from his." 
 
 "Married?" 
 
 Stephen looked up quickly, then back at his book. 
 " I have heard so." 
 
 " Indeed." Moncrieff grinned. " Had you heard 
 he married your bookkeeper? " 
 
 Stephen tossed his book on the table. " Certainly 
 I had heard it, but how in the devil did you know 
 anything about it, and what difference does it make, 
 anyway? " 
 
 " I heard at the Club last night."
 
 56 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " At the Club ! I might have known it. Of all 
 gossipping, scandal-mongering places that is the 
 worst. Now, what possible reason could a lot of 
 American gentlemen have in telling a stranger about 
 my bookkeeper and Henry Murphy? " 
 
 " Really, my dear Steve, there's nothing to get hot 
 under the collar about. They were talking of the 
 strike and the leaders, and naturally mentioned Mur- 
 phy. Then some one said, ' Is he the fellow who 
 married that pretty girl in Stuyvesant and Bond's 
 office? ' and some one else said, ' Yes.' That was all 
 not very scandalous, I thought." 
 
 " But totally unnecessary. One does not identify 
 a prominent man by reference to his wife." 
 
 " Oh, yes, one does, often, if she is pretty. I 
 merely happened to mention it and quite unexpectedly 
 struck a spark. How pretty is she?" 
 
 " By George, Phil," Stephen cried angrily, " that's 
 going a bit too far, you know. I'm no Don Juan, 
 and what's more to the point, Helen Murphy is a 
 lady." 
 
 Moncrieff shrugged. " That's all right, old chap. 
 I didn't know she was a lady. You seem to have 
 a deuced lot of interest in her. Why didn't you 
 discover her sooner? " 
 
 "Why didn't I?" He stopped abruptly and
 
 HELEN 57 
 
 picked up the book from where it had fallen on the 
 table. " Have you ever seen this copy of the ' Hours 
 of Idleness ' a splendid tall one. I picked it up 
 at Sotheby's one day last summer." 
 
 " And these days find Byron more congenial than 
 Emerson. He does seem to fit extraordinarily with 
 certain moods. Come along, Steve, tell me more 
 about her." 
 
 " There's nothing to tell. She is married." 
 
 " That wouldn't matter to one who had courage, 
 and enthusiasm and who dared lose his head." 
 
 ' That's just it, Phil, I don't dare because I hope 
 I'm not a cad." 
 
 " And couldn't be if you tried. Tell me; I'm not 
 a Bostonian and I am your friend. If I could help 
 you find yourself well, old man, it would be jolly 
 well worth my little voyage over here. She was in 
 your office " 
 
 " Yes." Stephen seated himself in a deep chair 
 before the fire, and with hands in his pockets, his legs 
 stretched out straight before him, seemed to talk 
 more to himself than to his companion. " Yes, she 
 was in my office. She was young, and quiet, and very 
 pretty. I knew it subconsciously, because I never 
 really looked at her. One of the most stringent rules 
 of the office is that the girls shall be treated like ladies
 
 58 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 like machines, it might be fairer to say. If any 
 clerk forgets it, or any girl either, for that matter, we 
 fill the place with some one who will remember. All 
 that may sound quixotic and visionary, but the result 
 is that we have a splendid, self-respecting force of 
 workers. This girl, Helen Smith, came to us direct 
 from Simmons College, and was put on the books. 
 She fell instinctively, gratefully, I think, into the office 
 regulations. I liked her because I always felt that 
 she was ready to learn and to make the most of 
 her opportunities in the way a self-respecting girl 
 should." 
 
 " And all this time you never thought of her? " 
 
 " As a woman, no. I should as soon have thought 
 of making love to my mother's parlour-maid as to 
 her sooner, if I had been that kind, since I naturally 
 feel personal responsibility about the girls in the of- 
 fice. Then one day she came to me to say she was 
 leaving she had been with us two years. I asked 
 her why; and she said she was going to marry Mur- 
 phy. I told her he was a lucky man quite the 
 normal thing to say. She was married the next week, 
 I saw by the paper." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " Well there isn't much more, and I don't know 
 why it should interest you. When they got back
 
 HELEN 59 
 
 from their honeymoon, I saw them one night at the 
 theatre. I had almost forgotten her, I thought, but 
 seeing her there, like any other lady, I realised that 
 
 she was really a woman and that well It's all 
 
 this old Boston feeling same the world over, I sup- 
 pose. It blinded me. Until I could see her as I see 
 other ladies I had never really seen her at all." 
 
 " Was her family respectable? " 
 
 " Quite distinguished, in fact, two or three gen- 
 erations back, but unfortunate. Her father died 
 when she was a baby, and her mother sank into a 
 querulous and incapable widowhood simply van- 
 ished because she had not the character to wear pov- 
 erty with dignity." 
 
 "And was this all?" 
 
 " Just about. The next morning I sent her some 
 flowers. I wanted the best there were and I sent 
 orchids too many. It was bad form, and her note 
 showed that she was hurt." 
 
 " Her husband is a decent chap, you say? " 
 
 " Splendid. She is probably happier than she ever 
 would have been with me and then I never should 
 have married her if he hadn't, because I never should 
 have seen her." 
 
 " Shall you meet her again? " 
 
 " Yes, I go to her house to-morrow night. A
 
 60 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 dinner of those interested in putting an end to the 
 strike." 
 
 " You will not lose your head? " 
 
 " No, I think not. There are generations of re- 
 serve behind me." 
 
 Moncrieff gripped his shoulder affectionately. 
 " Be careful, old chap," he said. " To lose your head 
 in this case would be to damn, not to find your soul."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THEY were waiting for the guests. Helen had pro- 
 tested against being seen at all, but her husband had 
 wanted her to receive them and to give them coffee 
 after dinner. " It's just as well not to let it be too 
 masculine," he said. " Knowing you're here may 
 make them less violent. There's nothing like a pretty 
 woman to make men see sense." 
 
 " Or lose what little they have." 
 
 " Of course. But not in the way I mean. Nobody 
 is going to lose his head over my wife when I'm 
 around." 
 
 " In some ways it must be annoying to be so lit- 
 eral, Henry," she responded. 
 
 " I suppose I am that not much -imagination. I 
 made a fool of myself, as I told you, about Bond. 
 He may have ideas I don't go in for but he's 
 straight. I like him right through, especially since 
 he spoke about the orchids himself and really apol- 
 ogised for sending so many. Be good to him to- 
 night." 
 
 The parlour, where they were waiting, was bril- 
 liant, with every gas-jet lighted. Helen said it looked 
 
 6l
 
 62 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 as though they were preparing to take a kodak pic- 
 ture of each guest, but her husband thought a dimly 
 lighted room would seem gloomy. To him brilliant 
 light was a sure indication of festivity, and although 
 the dinner was to be a somewhat grim business meet- 
 ing, he was anxious to make the setting as gay as 
 possible. " It's lucky the paper is shiny," he said, 
 " because if it wasn't, all the gas going wouldn't light 
 it up. The reflection on the walls is pretty, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 "Very," Helen answered; "it brings out all the 
 purple in the paper." She was tired and worried. 
 The house seemed unusually hideous, and she dreaded 
 having Bond see it. Could he possibly think kindly 
 of her in such surroundings? Would he not always 
 picture her if he thought of her at all in a setting 
 of shiny black walnut and purple red walls all dom- 
 inated by a dreadful green vase her own taste, of 
 course, since a woman is always held responsible for 
 her house. 
 
 The first to arrive was Mr. Jennings. Helen had 
 grown almost fond of the absurd little man. She 
 liked his sandy hair and his little, twinkling grey eyes 
 that disappeared when he laughed. She respected him 
 because Henry did, and most of all, she knew him 
 her ally with the busy gossips of the Park.
 
 HELEN 63 
 
 " Well, well, well," he cried, as he bustled into the 
 room. " This is pleasant to see you, Mrs. M. I hope 
 you are going to eat with us to keep the lions and 
 the jackals in order. What? " It was amusing, his 
 increase of self-respect and assertiveness when parted 
 from his wife. 
 
 " No," Helen said, laughing. " I should be terri- 
 fied. I stay decently in the background, emerging 
 only for an instant to give you coffee." 
 
 " Alas, and is it so. I think I shall go home 
 after coffee unless I can persuade you to take a turn 
 in the Park." 
 
 " Never. The Park has eyes as well as ears, and 
 I could not risk your reputation in your home pre- 
 cinct." 
 
 11 My reputation? Fol de loll It is yours that 
 would suffer to be seen abroad with such a rake as 
 me. What?" 
 
 Mr. Staples, second vice-president of the Traction 
 Company, came next. He was an able man in his 
 office, but when he saw Helen, seemed to swell visibly 
 and walked stiffly, as though the floor were hot. Her 
 presence gave the dinner a social significance that 
 displeased him. He and his wife lived in Brookline, 
 and considered themselves important factors in the 
 social life of that suburb. It had been a trial for
 
 64 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 him to go to South Boston at all, but as he had re- 
 marked on leaving home, " I am simply going to a 
 business meeting. It wouldn't do, if any of the neigh- 
 bours should drop in, to say I was dining in South 
 Boston. Of course, for any one in our position, that 
 would be ridiculous." As a result, he was confused, 
 being unwilling to allow these people to consider him, 
 even for a moment, one of them, and at the same 
 time conscious that for the sake of the company he 
 must not offend them. He succeeded in giving the 
 impression that he wanted to be affable but did not 
 know how, and he wished sincerely that he had in- 
 sisted on having the dinner at the Country Club, of 
 which he had recently been elected a member, and 
 where he still felt the sense of proprietorship char- 
 acteristic of the new member. 
 
 " Your little park, here, is very pretty," he said 
 to Helen. " Livin' in Brookline, as I do, I have 
 never been so far afield as this, and did not suppose 
 South Boston had any such open spaces." 
 
 " It is a pretty park," Helen assented, " but of 
 course it must seem small to you, living more in the 
 country." 
 
 " Indeed Brookline is not country. It is suburban, 
 but a very fashionable suburb." 
 
 Her answering smile flattered him, while to an-
 
 HELEN 65 
 
 other it would have shown her ironical appreciation 
 of his pompous self-satisfaction. 
 
 " I don't suppose you that is, I mean people in 
 South Boston, have much opportunity to go to Brook- 
 line," he continued. 
 
 " Seldom, Mr. Staples," she said sweetly. 
 
 Mr. Jennings, who had been standing near, chuck- 
 led. " I am glad to see you stand up for old South 
 Boston. What?" 
 
 Helen laughed. " I should want to do that, you 
 know." 
 
 O'Leary and Donovan represented the strikers. 
 They entered awkwardly, but with the awkwardness 
 of limbs accustomed only to toil, not through any 
 feeling that they were out of place. They shook 
 hands with her heartily and with frank admiration on 
 their faces, but she heard one say to the other as 
 they turned away, " I hope there ain't going to be 
 any women messing in this. It's man's business." 
 
 Last to arrive were Stephen Bond and Paul Dun- 
 bar, the young attorney for the company. They, at 
 least, were not ill at ease, awkward neither by reason 
 of untrained limbs nor through fear of compromising 
 their position socially. It seemed to Helen as though 
 in the moment after his entrance Stephen completely 
 fulfilled his own definition of a gentleman. Clearly
 
 66 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 the men liked him all except, perhaps, Staples, who 
 was, nevertheless, almost unctuous in his greeting. 
 She noticed with amused understanding that the cor- 
 dial, " How d'y do, Mr. Staples," was followed by, 
 "Very well, Bond, and you?" Evidently Staples 
 aspired to a familiarity that Bond was unwilling to 
 admit, and was irritated that his own progress, to 
 which he held tenaciously, brought no echo. Helen 
 knew that the impalpable hint of reserve behind 
 Stephen's cordiality was more galling to Mr. Sta- 
 ples' social vanity than would be all the bitter re- 
 marks to which she could so well have given 
 vent. 
 
 But the bitterness vanished when Stephen came up 
 to her. " It is so good of you, Mrs. Murphy, to 
 be here. It makes an unpleasant meeting a real pleas- 
 ure." 
 
 " My husband wanted me to do it. I should far 
 rather not be here." 
 
 " That's unkind." 
 
 " It sounds rude," she said quickly, " and I did 
 not mean it." 
 
 He looked around the room, and Helen shivered 
 as his glance fell on the green vase. But he noticed, 
 apparently, only the people. " I can understand, I 
 think," he said, " how you would feel out of place.
 
 HELEN 67 
 
 The strikers are hardly normal dinner guests, and 
 Mr. Staples, as you may have discovered, is a rather 
 absurd person." 
 
 " Absurd, yes," she said, " but in a harmless and 
 amusing way." 
 
 He laughed. " I am glad you saw him in that 
 light." 
 
 " Can you two stop to let us have dinner? " Henry 
 broke in, putting his hand on Bond's shoulder. 
 " Come, gentlemen. It's time to feed the inner man. 
 It seems mean to leave you, Helen." 
 
 " How would it be to add her to our committee," 
 Stephen said. " She might be a pacifying influence 
 if that's needed and anyway, she's probably as in- 
 telligent as the lot of us." 
 
 " We must not forget that this is strictly a busi- 
 ness meeting," Mr. Staples remarked severely, and 
 Donovan and O'Leary looked their relief. 
 
 " My intelligence is certainly. sufficient to keep me 
 out of the dining-room," Helen said. " And then, 
 you know, it would be quite improper for me to be 
 at the table unless Mrs. Staples and Mrs. Jennings 
 were there, too." 
 
 " Impossible ! " Staples cried involuntarily, look- 
 ing scornfully at Mr. Jennings. 
 
 " Yes, I guess it is." Mr. Jennings grinned his
 
 68 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 appreciation. "And I guess, too, that this matter 
 can be settled best by masculine intelligences. 
 What? " 
 
 The last thing Helen saw, as they passed through 
 the folding doors into the dining-room, was the look 
 of repressed amusement in Stephen's face. When 
 Henry had closed the doors after them, she turned 
 off some of the superfluous gas-jets and then sat on 
 the hard sofa with her embroidery. 
 
 The air was oppressive and she opened a window. 
 Her pride was hurt by the undisguised snobbery of 
 Mr. Staples, but, as she analysed the pain, she knew 
 it came more from the fact that she was in the mental 
 state to be hurt than from anything he had said or 
 looked. Why should she not ignore him, laugh at 
 him, as Stephen would do? She cared nothing for 
 the opinion, adverse or complimentary, of a middle- 
 class snob. She recognised, almost pictorially, the 
 intricate structure of the American social edifice, built 
 tier upon tier on the solid foundation of work, re- 
 freshingly simple and sturdy at its base, rising into 
 a confused ugliness, and beyond that into a more 
 delicate beauty. Only the middle portion was pre- 
 tentious. She saw, as Mr. Staples could never have 
 seen, even had he had the imagination to conceive 
 such a structure, that the soaring towers were not
 
 HELEN 69 
 
 equally symmetrical nor equally dignified; that some, 
 heavy with superfluous ornament masking their crude 
 design, were carried on buttresses flung out from the 
 vulgar middle stones ; that others, sturdy, harmonious, 
 reached upward in powerful granite lines that traced 
 their way undeviating from the base; and that still 
 others, distant and glistening white, seemed to float 
 against the sky, supported by unseen columns that 
 had their origin deep in the virgin soil. 
 
 Helen was calmer as the vision became more dis- 
 tinct. She saw herself the denizen of one of the high 
 white towers, astray for the moment, perhaps, but 
 still able to ignore the jeers of those who looked out 
 at her from gaudy, rococo windows. If only the 
 time might not be too long before she found her way 
 home. Home! She had never thought of it quite 
 in that way before, and she knew that she had never 
 before thought truth. She was lost and she was 
 lonely. Who should be her guide? Stephen Bond? 
 She shivered slightly, why she could not have told. 
 After all, he was hardly more than an abstract per- 
 sonality, a citizen of the high places who had acci- 
 dently crossed her path. But crossing it as he had, 
 as her employer, could he ever think of her as his 
 equal, as a girl of his own class who had lost her 
 way and wanted to go home ? Would he not rather
 
 70 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 connect her aspirations with those of other working 
 girls, as the lust for money with its attendant vulgar 
 display, or at best as the longing for lazy comfort, 
 undisturbed by the need to work, work, work? Per- 
 haps he knew of her origin, of her father, but more 
 probably not. What he might know was of her un- 
 cared-for childhood, her slatternly home in Cam- 
 bridge. And knowing this, was there any reason why 
 he should think of her as different from all the others? 
 What was more, she was married to Henry ! She felt 
 for a moment an angry resentment against him whom 
 she had chosen as her guide for better or for worse. 
 And then she heard his voice through the closed 
 doors, and an equally unreasoning tenderness swept 
 away her resentment. He was speaking earnestly, 
 and she caught a word now and then, enough to know 
 that he was pleading the cause of the strikers, fight- 
 ing, as he believed, a just fight. She would not have 
 had him different then, even if she could not agree 
 with all his ideas, because he was proving his strength. 
 Was he not building, block by block, one of those 
 sturdy, symmetrical, granite towers, the dwellers in 
 which met on a proud equality those in the others, the 
 distant white towers that gleamed against the sky? 
 He was her husband, and she knew ah, if she could 
 only have the courage always to cling to the knowl-
 
 HELEN 71 
 
 edge that he was a husband of whom she need 
 never be ashamed. 
 
 The dinner seemed to her interminably long, but 
 at last the doors opened. Already she had made 
 the coffee and was ready for them as they filed into 
 the room. Their expressions interested her keenly. 
 O'Leary and Donovan looked surly and left with 
 hardly a word. Henry spoke a moment with them at 
 the door and to Stephen, she noticed, they were cor- 
 dial. To Dunbar they showed a grudging respect, 
 and Mr. Staples they ignored altogether. 
 
 He came over and sat on the sofa beside her, much 
 to her surprise and chagrin. " Well, well, well," he 
 said, " that was a very good meetin', quite satisfac- 
 tory. And the dinner good, too, very good. I com- 
 pliment you, madam." 
 
 " Thank you. Will you have one lump? " 
 
 " Two, please. I believe you used to be in Stuy- 
 vesant and Bond's office. That's so, isn't it? I 
 thought I remembered seein' you somewhere." 
 
 " Yes. I was there two years." 
 
 " A good place to be Stuyvesant and Bond's. 
 They have a fine business in a conservative way, of 
 course. I suppose that's how you happened to know 
 Steve Bond so well ha?" He looked at her 
 slyly.
 
 72 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 She turned quickly to Mr. Jennings. " Will you 
 come over here?" she asked, "I have a message for 
 your wife." 
 
 " Oh, if that's the way you take a little well-meant 
 pleasantry " grumbled Mr. Staples, rising awk- 
 wardly. His face turned slowly to a dull brick red. 
 " I guess you would find more to say to Mr. Jen- 
 nin's. I found him most amusin' at dinner." 
 
 Mr. Jennings smiled at him a peculiarly guileless 
 smile. " Glad I gave you a good time. There's more 
 of 'em coming, what? " Then to Helen, " Has that 
 piece of a circus been insulting you again? I reckon 
 I'd better kick him out of the house." 
 
 " He's going of his own accord and Mr. Dunbar 
 with him." 
 
 " Then I'm sorry for Staples. Dunbar's sharp as 
 a pin, and I opine a bad half hour for Mr. Vice- 
 President. If he succeeds in making such an all- 
 around, nicely patterned, verdant ass of himself many 
 times, I can see walking papers from the company 
 for his. I don't suppose you really have a message 
 for Mrs. Jennings?" 
 
 " Just to tell her from me, please, that you have 
 been delightful company and came to my rescue gal- 
 lantly." 
 
 " Well, now " Mr. Jennings shook his head
 
 HELEN 73 
 
 dubiously and put his fingers through his thin locks. 
 " I reckon that's a message that might as well be 
 kept for my own private enjoyment, what? You 
 see, Mrs. J. has the reediculous idea that I'm some- 
 thing of a lady-killer, which suspicions I shouldn't 
 want to confirm, and then she hasn't entirely got 
 straight bearings about you yet, and I wouldn't like 
 for her to get started on another tangent. Amanda's 
 a very good woman she always prefers for me to 
 say lady but she has her prejudices like all of us. 
 Do I make it clear? " 
 
 Helen laughed. " Oh, quite, Mr. Jennings. I 
 leave everything to your discretion." 
 
 " That's all right, then. Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 " I must be going, too, Mrs. Murphy," Stephen 
 said, coming up to her. " The evening has been in- 
 tensely interesting, even if not satisfactory. Have 
 you and Murphy talked over the strike at 
 all?" 
 
 " Indeed, yes. Perhaps I don't entirely under- 
 stand things, but Henry always talks over with me 
 the problems that are interesting him. It is wonder- 
 ful to think I am worth consulting, and I really am 
 learning." 
 
 " And teaching, too. A college instructor once said
 
 74 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 to me that the only way really to learn a subject was 
 to give a course in it. So don't be afraid to express 
 your ideas." 
 
 " I'm not," she responded, smiling. " That has 
 never been one of my faults. In fact, I'm always 
 jumping at conclusions and expressing them." 
 
 " And quite rightly, if you have the courage to 
 admit sometimes that you are mistaken. People 
 brave enough to define conclusions that still need 
 proof are the ones who carry the world forward. 
 Now I," he added somewhat sadly, " I am quite the 
 other kind. I shall never do anything big, either 
 bad or good, because I spend all my life crawling 
 around questions and testing the validity of every 
 proposition. By the time I am convinced the question 
 is no longer vital; the world has accepted an answer 
 usually a right one, too and has gone ahead to 
 new problems." 
 
 " If you are that kind, perhaps it would be a good 
 thing for you once in a while to lose your head," she 
 said. 
 
 He quivered. " That remark startled me," he said 
 at last, quite calmly, " because it is exactly what my 
 friend Philip Moncrieff said to me last night. I 
 wonder what it means." 
 
 " Obviously nothing, I suppose," she answered,
 
 HELEN 75 
 
 turning to him again " or else a great deal, since it 
 was stated by two quite different people." 
 
 Henry, who had been talking on the steps with 
 Mr. Jennings, came in. " What are you two talking 
 about? " he said. 
 
 " Mr. Bond was just telling me about the dinner 
 and asking whether I knew anything about the strike," 
 Helen answered. 
 
 " And I am sure, Murphy," Stephen added, " that 
 a woman must give advice that is really helpful. I 
 wish I could stay now to share in it, but I must 
 
 go." 
 
 " We must get together again soon about this 
 business," Henry said. " To-night was useless, and 
 we might work out some solution alone or with 
 Helen, here. She sometimes cuts right down to the 
 heart of things." 
 
 " There is nothing I should like better," Stephen 
 said. " Why can't we why won't you both dine with 
 me next Wednesday at my house just the three of us. 
 Would you accept such an informal invitation, Mrs. 
 Murphy? It's business, you know, as well as pleasure 
 for me." 
 
 " If Henry has no engagement, it would be de- 
 lightful. But do you really want me? " 
 
 " Sure we do," Henry asserted. " Between us we
 
 76 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 can construct a proposition that people will have to 
 assent to." 
 
 " It's settled, then. I am so glad. And now I 
 really must go. Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night, and thank you," Helen said, giving 
 him her hand. 
 
 " If it hadn't been for that fool, Staples," Henry 
 said, when the door was closed, " we might have done 
 something. But it's all in the day's work. And noth- 
 ing matters so long as I have you at the end." 
 
 " No," Helen assented, resting her cheek against 
 his shoulder, " nothing else really matters."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SUNK deep in the corner of a huge, soft, leather- 
 covered sofa, Helen let her eyes wander over the 
 room and intermittently to the faces of the two men. 
 Her sensation was of infinite content and peace. The 
 rich colours of the books, contrasting, separated, and 
 at the same time brought into harmony by an occa- 
 sional volume bound in warm vellum that seemed to 
 have absorbed the sunshine of its hundred years of 
 life; the severe lines of the furnishings; the mellow 
 panels, some glowing like wrinkled satin in the light, 
 others vanishing into a velvet blackness; everything 
 softened even as it was brought into being by the 
 light that came, one hardly knew from where all 
 seemed to her an expression of herself, of some far- 
 distant, ancestral self that had never had a chance 
 to live. Her senses were rested, not dulled. She 
 was mentally alert, ready to answer questions about 
 the strike or to throw in suggestions, all the time that 
 subconsciously she was drifting back into a past which 
 she could not remember, but that she knew to be her 
 inheritance. 
 
 ' Then you feel sure," she heard Henry say, " that 
 
 77
 
 78 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 the company would agree to the terms we have out- 
 lined?" 
 
 " Of course I cannot officially answer for the com- 
 pany," Stephen responded. " I am only one of eleven 
 directors. But I feel reasonably certain. I only wish 
 I could be equally sure that you can make the men see 
 the injustice of turning out those non-union employees 
 who have worked so long and so faithfully." 
 
 ;< The men are reasonable or were. I never saw 
 that side of it before. I guess I never understood 
 what a corporation conscience was. Don't you think, 
 Helen, from what I've told you, that the men would 
 agree to let it be an open field if they got better pay 
 and shorter hours." 
 
 " The men yes," she answered quickly, " but you 
 must count in the influence of the national union lead- 
 ers who are in Boston. To them it is not the indi- 
 vidual. It's the principle at stake. They may in- 
 sist." 
 
 " That's exactly where I'm worried, Mrs. Murphy. 
 Human nature is going to stand for the square deal 
 every time, but in cases like this human nature doesn't 
 usually have a chance to show up. Is there much 
 theoretical socialism mixed in with all this strike agi- 
 tation, do you think, Murphy? " 
 
 " No, not much, so far as I can make out. It's
 
 HELEN 79 
 
 just the wish to get cash enough to feed themselves 
 decently. Of course there must be some cases of the 
 rankest kind of socialism. O'Leary, one of those 
 fellows at my house the other night, seems pretty 
 reasonable. He is the kind who would be, and his 
 word carries a lot of weight. But he says, just as 
 Helen suggests, that the labour leaders have been 
 stirring up trouble, says they urge the men to declare 
 a strike right off and tell them to make their own 
 terms. Confound it! Why can't they let us run 
 our little show ourselves?" 
 
 " Because, individually, in their eyes, we don't 
 count. A fight for principle in Boston, even if un- 
 successful, counts in San Francisco, and it's the na- 
 tional aspect of -the thing they're looking at." 
 
 " But a successful fight would count for more, and 
 by rushing into things unprepared they're weakening 
 their chances of getting what they ought to have." 
 
 ' That may be so from the point of view of the 
 men and their families the actual employees in 
 whom you are interested but not from that of the 
 unions. The leaders are clever enough to know that 
 they can best manage men who are actually on strike, 
 who see everything magnified through their passions. 
 A man will not usually do violence while he is capable 
 of thinking sanely, but once let passion get the upper
 
 8o THE GREEN VASE 
 
 hand of sanity, and physical violence is the natural 
 consequence." 
 
 " I don't believe there will be any violence." 
 
 " Don't be too sure. A few cars destroyed or a 
 bridge wrecked makes a big noise from one end of 
 the country to the other. Noise is what they want." 
 
 " But surely," Helen said, " notoriety gained in 
 that way must prejudice people against them." 
 
 " So it does," Stephen answered, " in the minds 
 of men and women like ourselves, but not in the minds 
 of the masses, especially those in distant cities. What 
 they see is merely that so horrible were the abuses of 
 the company that self-respecting men were compelled 
 to stand up for their rights by force, persuasion hav- 
 ing failed. There is a bit of sneaking sympathy for 
 the anarchist in all of us." 
 
 " I don't believe it," Henry interposed. ; ' Was 
 there a man in the nation that didn't curse Czol- 
 gosz? " 
 
 " I am afraid there was more than one. But that 
 was a peculiar case. McKinley stood out as a fa- 
 mously good, mild-mannered, and above all, inof- 
 fensive man. And then you must add that social 
 unrest in America has not, as yet, developed into 
 active hatred of government, but only of riches, es- 
 pecially of corporate riches."
 
 HELEN 81 
 
 " What do you mean by ' as yet '? " Helen asked. 
 
 " Just what I say. The logical result of social 
 unrest is social revolution, unless causes of grievance 
 are removed in time. We have let matters slide too 
 long. The cry of our labouring classes originally was 
 that special privileges be cut away. Now they have 
 become so used to the idea of special privileges that 
 instead of equal opportunity they demand special 
 privileges for themselves, and, what is more, privi- 
 leges more monstrous than were ever enjoyed by cor- 
 porations." 
 
 " But this notion of special privileges," Henry said, 
 " seems to me dead against the principles of social- 
 ism, and that, I gathered from things you said at 
 dinner, was growing to be mighty dangerous." 
 
 "Isn't it something like this?" Helen put in. 
 " When people begin to think about the injustice of 
 society socialism seems a pretty obvious remedy. 
 Then they preach their doctrine, and the masses, who 
 have passions, but not trained intelligence, take up the 
 doctrine because it means to them an easy way to 
 get money and a punishment for those who have been 
 more successful." 
 
 " A sort of universal get-rich-quick scheme," 
 Henry said. 
 
 " Most young men who think go through the so-
 
 82 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 cialistic phase," Stephen answered. " I did. There 
 was a time when I wanted to give away everything 
 I had because it was inherited, not earned. Even 
 now I should be willing to give up this house and 
 everything in it, for example, if I was convinced it 
 would do any good. But I am not willing to have 
 it taken away from me and to have my books used to 
 light fires." 
 
 " I should think not," Helen cried. 
 
 " There we have it," Henry said laughing " the 
 thing that will save the country from socialism. The 
 love of a woman for things that are hers." 
 
 Stephen smiled. " How about the women, Mrs. 
 Murphy? Do they envy their neighbours? " 
 
 " All women do, Mr. Bond. I don't know the 
 wives of any of the strikers, but I imagine they are 
 no better than I am than we all are." 
 
 Stephen laughed out. " That is the first time you 
 have descended to generalities. For what do you 
 envy your neighbours, I wonder? " 
 
 " And the first time you have descended to person- 
 ality. Do you really want an answer?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, then ; I envy them the opportunity to be 
 entirely themselves." 
 
 " That is enigmatic."
 
 HELEN 83 
 
 " And will have to remain so, I fear. What one 
 cannot explain to oneself is impossible to explain to 
 others." 
 
 "May I use your telephone, Bond?" Henry 
 broke in. He had been thoughtfully pacing the room, 
 paying no attention to the conversation. " Some of 
 the strikers whom I know well are having a meeting 
 this evening where I can get them, and it might be 
 a good scheme to get them thinking along the lines 
 of what we've been saying. None of the Union lead- 
 ers are with them." 
 
 " Good idea," Stephen said. " You won't make 
 anything definite, of course, as we have no authority. 
 My man will show you the telephone." He took him 
 to the door and then, returning, stood with an arm 
 on the mantel looking down at Helen. " You interest 
 me even more than the strike, I am afraid," he con- 
 tinued. " What you said a few minutes ago, that 
 you envied the wives of these strikers the chance fully 
 to express themselves. I should have said that you 
 very fully expressed yourself were yourself, might 
 be better." 
 
 " That may be because you know me so little. I 
 am really two women in one I suppose every woman 
 thinks that of herself. But I feel it very sharply, 
 even though vaguely. One part of me is the natural
 
 84 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 development from the child who has been brought 
 up in poverty, who has had to work for everything, 
 who has gained what little refinement she has against 
 sometimes bitter odds. The other woman well- 
 she is the one I cannot expain one who is sensitively 
 satisfied with this room, for example. Perhaps that 
 will make it as clear as anything I can say." 
 
 " This is a very masculine room, my friends tell 
 me. It needs a woman's hand to make it expressive." 
 
 " That is not what I meant. And yet just because 
 of its masculine severity it is even more satisfying. 
 What I mean is that it does express that instinctive 
 refinement, that shuddering away from anything that 
 is ugly, that the other woman in me feels every day. 
 It is a craving that is seldom satisfied, so to-night 
 I have let it have full sway. When I get back to 
 the red walls and the polished black walnut and the 
 vase with roses sprawling up it that Uncle John gave 
 us well, then, you see, the first part of me takes the 
 helm again." 
 
 " Good God, how you must suffer! " 
 
 " No," she said, smiling up at him. " On the 
 contrary, I must, and do find happiness, in order to 
 let myself develope. Suffering would kill the part 
 of me which appreciates the better things of life. 
 My mother suffered. I don't think she ever really
 
 HELEN 85 
 
 understood as my father would have. She suffered 
 because she had lost her comforts, and she spent her 
 life in querulous complaint, never in the attempt to 
 make a little go as far as it could be made to go. My 
 father was not like that. He always held the candle 
 in the dark places so I have heard, and so I believe, 
 and from him I must have inherited what strength I 
 have." 
 
 " Go on," he cried harshly. 
 
 " No," she said. " That is all there is to tell. I 
 am not usually egotistical and especially in talking to 
 a man I hardly know." 
 
 " Don't say that. You do know me what little 
 there is to know because you know, as I do, the grip 
 of old traditions, old conventions. But not so numb- 
 ingly, perhaps. They have become the very expres- 
 sion of myself until I am afraid there is nothing left 
 but the hard, unyielding surface of me. I am too 
 much of a coward ever to shatter that surface and 
 give air to the poor, starving kernel of a real man 
 within." 
 
 " That is not true, because the picture you paint is 
 of a self-centred, selfish, passionless creature, and 
 everything you do disproves it." 
 
 " Everything I do disproves it? Everything makes 
 it more certain."
 
 86 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " No. Your courageous interest in these poor 
 working people when everything should keep you in 
 the ranks of those who cry them down ; your unfailing 
 courtesy to the girls in your office; your including 
 me here to-night because you knew it would give me 
 pleasure " 
 
 " Stop. What is my interest, really, in these motor- 
 men and conductors but an example of the old Bos- 
 tonian's idea that he must have some charity or some 
 fad to keep his mind broad. Broad ! Good heavens 
 and every activity like that is simply a sop to his 
 self-congratulation. And the girls in the office! 
 More efficient service that is all, with perhaps a 
 gleam of prudish, conventional joy in the fact that 
 scandals don't occur in the offices of Stuyvesant and 
 Bond. And you here at dinner! Oh, if you could 
 only realise how little I thought of your pleasure and 
 how much of my own." 
 
 " Simply because you are big enough hearted to 
 take greater pleasure in pleasing others than in pleas- 
 ing only yourself." 
 
 He laughed bitterly. " Rather call it the self- 
 imposed punishment of the man who has been blind 
 to the happiness that he might have had, and when 
 at last he sees, lies on the ground at night and cries 
 impotently for the stars."
 
 HELEN 87 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't understand," she said, her 
 voice quivering a little. " I have heard that a blind 
 man who sees at last, often mistakes a tallow candle 
 for a star. Perhaps you are that man, Mr. Bond. 
 There are ignoble things in life as inaccessible as the 
 stars, but the man who struggles to reach them is 
 burning the gifts the gods have given him, while the 
 one who aspires to the heavens climbs high." 
 
 " You, too, fight with the rhetoric of convention." 
 
 " I know its strength," she said, smiling; " and I 
 know the candle is beautiful only when out of reach." 
 
 ' You are right," he said, bowing his face in the 
 hollow of his arm. " You are always right. I shall 
 remember." 
 
 She looked into the fire, her pleasure gone, her 
 faith in him broken through the unwilling revelation 
 of himself that was contrary to his nature. She took 
 up a print that lay on the table beside her, attracted 
 perhaps by its colour. But as she looked at it care- 
 lessly it riveted her attention. She had never seen 
 a good Japanese print before, and this one was a su- 
 preme example. It was by Harunobu, of a young 
 man and a girl standing in a simple room. Through 
 a paper screen one saw the shadow of a pine tree. 
 "This is real," she said tremulously. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. " That man saw and ex-
 
 88 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 pressed the harmony of life that we, here, have lost 
 sight of." 
 
 She held the print in her hand, gazing and gazing 
 at it, trying, in its simple truthfulness, to creep away 
 from this knowledge that had come to her so unex- 
 pectedly and so terrifyingly. Here was none of the 
 convention, none of the sad complexity of life that 
 had caught her in its grip. It stood out for her as 
 representing the simplicity of truth in a mass of lies 
 the one true thing in the room. At last she laid 
 the print on the table, but it had burned into her con- 
 consciousness so that she felt she could never forget it. 
 
 For a moment they were silent. Then, as Henry 
 opened the door, Helen rose, a little unsteadily, and 
 turned to a bookcase. Stephen stood erect before the 
 fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. " Well," 
 he said quietly, " did you get them? " 
 
 " Yes, I got them. Not very satisfactory, though. 
 They seem to be mixed up with these visitors who 
 are crying for trouble, and who are trying to make 
 them decide things, not as would be better for them, 
 but in a way that would make most impression out- 
 side just as you said." 
 
 " I hope we are not too late. I only wish we 
 could have got to work sooner. You will do what 
 you can, of course, and so shall I."
 
 HELEN 89 
 
 Helen wondered how they could talk so calmly. 
 The last half hour had been a time of violent read- 
 justment for her, but she had come through the ordeal 
 with the eyes of her soul seeing more clearly than 
 they had ever seen before. At first, before Stephen 
 had spoken, she had thought sadly of the miserable 
 little shelf of worn books in her sitting-room as com- 
 pared with the riches beside her; of her red walls, 
 and his glowing panels; of Mrs. Jennings, and the 
 ladies who sat at his table. Now, she thought only 
 of her husband, and of Stephen. One she loved, the 
 true, fine heart of him underneath the common sur- 
 face. The other was only a symbol of a life she 
 longed for. As a symbol he counted for much; as a 
 man, for nothing. And his self-betrayal affected her 
 curiously. She was frightened, afraid for an instant 
 that he was the kind of a man Henry had thought 
 him when the orchids came. But now, she saw him 
 as he was. She recognised the situation in its com- 
 pleteness, the man, blinded by convention, letting slip 
 the opportunity he had not seen, and crying out after- 
 ward, as a child would cry for a rabbit which, trapped, 
 he did not quite dare to touch, and which later darted 
 through the long grass into cover. What was more, 
 she understood, without completely understanding, his 
 love for her. In the future he must always be dif-
 
 90 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 ferent to her much nearer and more to be trusted, 
 yet more to be kept distant. She knew that Henry 
 would never have so revealed himself to another 
 man's wife, whatever had been his feelings, and at 
 the same time knew him so true to her that he would 
 not be tempted. The knowledge thrilled her, and 
 intensified her love. 
 
 " We have outstayed our welcome," she said, turn- 
 ing to them. "Now that you and Henry have hit 
 on a solution that satisfies you, at least," she added, 
 as she saw his gesture of dissent "we really must 
 go. Our carriage came long ago." 
 
 " It can wait. We have much more to say all 
 of us and you ought to pity a lonely bachelor. 
 Since you have been here, Mrs. Murphy, the room 
 has seemed again like a refuge as it did when my 
 mother was alive." 
 
 " But even for that," Henry said, taking his wife's 
 arm, " we cannot stay forever, you know. And it's 
 late enough now, in all conscience. I'm beginning 
 to have an uneasy feeling already, that my wife be- 
 longs here instead of in South Boston." 
 
 " In a way she does," Stephen said, not looking 
 at Helen. " Not here in this house, perhaps, but 
 among her own people, her own kind. Think of the 
 people she must have to associate with while you are
 
 HELEN 91 
 
 away. We men are thoughtless creatures. We go 
 daily into the world and meet all kinds, and our 
 women must stay at home, alone, or with the people 
 who live near at hand. That's what I mean. I don't 
 know her, but I don't believe the wife of that pol- 
 itician, Jennings, is Mrs. Murphy's kind." 
 
 Henry looked at him thoughtfully. He felt that 
 Stephen was " butting in," as he would put it later 
 to Helen, but at the same time he felt the basis of 
 truth in what he had said. Finally he fell back on 
 the old argument. " But we're not swells, you know. 
 I'm just a plain South Boston politician not even 
 rich and my wife must take her chances along with 
 me." 
 
 " Not at all," Stephen said quickly. " That is 
 contrary to the whole trend of American life. It 
 may be true in Turkey, or even in Germany. Here 
 the woman must strive to rise in her way as the man 
 does in his. There is nothing more un-American nor 
 more cowardly, it seems to me, than the idea that 
 whatever is, is right. Our motto is rather to keep 
 pace with opportunity." 
 
 'You mean she ought to rise socially?" Henry 
 asked. " But why is a woman better off dangling 
 onto the gilded skirts of what you call society than 
 she is among men and women of her own station? "
 
 92 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " Why it should be so is hard to answer. Per- 
 haps because we have no fixed station. But facts 
 speak for themselves, and I am not talking of the 
 scandals and the divorces and the drinking and the 
 gambling. I mean the great class of ladies and gen- 
 tlemen who meet for pleasure on terms of intellectual 
 and social equality, people who, after dinner, can 
 talk, and don't need to be entertained by parlour 
 tricks and charades. For the men, too, Mur- 
 phy it is almost invariably among such people 
 that you find the really important men in public 
 life." 
 
 "You wouldn't call Jennings really important? 
 He has tremendous influence and has done a lot to 
 clean up politics." 
 
 " No. He is a good man whose vision does not 
 extend an inch beyond South Boston. You do not 
 want to confine yourself to that." 
 
 Helen looked at him gratefully. 
 
 There came a knock at the door and Spriggs ap- 
 peared. " Mr. Moncrieff, sir. Shall I ask him to 
 wait? " 
 
 " No. Tell him to come up." 
 
 " Then we may really go," Helen said, smiling 
 at him. " Your little sermon is over and you have 
 not even the excuse of loneliness."
 
 HELEN 93 
 
 " But wait just a minute. I want you to meet 
 Moncrieff. He is one of my oldest friends, and is 
 seldom in Boston." 
 
 As he was speaking they saw Moncrieff run up the 
 stairs two steps at a time. " Hello, old chap," he 
 cried, not seeing that any one else was in the room, 
 " lost your head yet? " 
 
 " I want to introduce you to my friends, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Murphy, who have been dining here." 
 
 Moncrieff turned to them quickly. " By Jove," he 
 said, shaking hands, " I'm awfully sorry I bounded 
 into the room that way, and awfully glad I didn't 
 scare you out." 
 
 Helen looked at him and then at Stephen. This, 
 then, was the friend who had also advised him to 
 lose his head. She blushed because she felt the 
 chance remark as an unconscious thread between them, 
 and because she knew that Stephen, also, was think- 
 ing of it. " We were just going, Mr. Moncrieff, so 
 you could not have frightened us away." 
 
 " Oh, no! " he said. "That would be too bad. 
 Steve told me about you both the other night, and 
 I want to know you." 
 
 " I guess it'll have to be through Bond, then," 
 Henry put in. " Our carriage will go off without us 
 or else the driver'll charge us an unholy fee. Good-
 
 94 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 night, Bond. We'll get together again when I've 
 seen the men." 
 
 " Make it another dinner here. Will you do that, 
 Mrs. Murphy? " 
 
 " No, indeed," Helen answered. " Next time you 
 must come to us. Will you?" For the last time her 
 eyes strayed to the Japanese print as though she 
 wanted to take with her the memory only of that true, 
 simple fact. 
 
 " Of course I will. Good-night." 
 
 When Stephen came back to the library, Mon- 
 crieff was stretched out on the sofa, a Scotch and 
 soda on the table beside him. " I've made my- 
 self comfortable, Steve. Was that the woman? 
 She's a ripper for looks hair and eyes good 
 enough to bowl any fellow over. Nose a little 
 inadequate, I thought. How'd they happen to be 
 here?" 
 
 " Probably because I invited them," Stephen an- 
 swered, a little stiffly. " Murphy is one of the best 
 fellows I know." 
 
 " Yes, of course he is. You'd have him here often 
 if it wasn't for his wife. He's just your sort, I 
 should think. Why don't you put him up for the 
 Club?" 
 
 " It strikes me that you're just a little bit drunk,
 
 HELEN 95 
 
 Phil." Stephen was lighting his pipe and his fingers 
 trembled with irritation. 
 
 "Drunk? I'm as sober as a corpse at its own 
 funeral. Drat it, man, don't be a prig. You've 
 known me too long to pretend. If a friend of mine 
 wants to make an ass of himself about a pretty woman 
 I'm not going to stand in his way." 
 
 " For God's sake, Phil, drop that nonsense. I 
 like Mrs. Murphy. She's one of the most charming 
 and thoroughly civilised women I know. I shall see 
 what I can of her, and I am neither a prig nor a 
 cad." 
 
 " Of course not. There is no reason on earth why 
 you should not have an innocent flirtation with the 
 wife of a South Boston politician a girl who used 
 to be in your office. Everybody will understand per- 
 fectly that it is quite aboveboard. Let's talk about 
 something else." 
 
 Stephen turned abruptly, and stood, his hands in 
 his pockets, looking down at Moncrieff. " I think I 
 must have lost my head," he said slowly, " or my 
 senses. Of course the world would be cynical. And, 
 O Lord, what an intolerable position for her I" 
 
 Moncrieff looked back at him, a smile just twist- 
 ing the corners of his mouth. Finally he took up his 
 glass of Scotch. " Here's luck," he said.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 " I'M sure," said Mrs. Jennings, president of the 
 South Boston Thursday Morning Ladies' Intellectual 
 Improvement Society, as she rose from her chair and 
 rapped by force of habit on the table at her side 
 " I'm sure that we have all profited greatly by the 
 talk Miss Barnes has so kindly treated us to. This 
 subject of Gothic Architecture in England and France 
 is very important, and one that we have long felt the 
 need of knowing more about. Now, when we make 
 little trips to Europe again " Mrs. Jennings had 
 been on a two months' personally conducted tour some 
 time before she was married " we will be able to 
 understand why the cathedrals are beautiful. I know 
 you all want to exhibit your gratification to our kind 
 lecturer by a vote. Will some one make a motion? 
 Thank you, Mrs. Fritch, that was very well put. 
 Now will every one that is in favour of Mrs. Fritch's 
 motion please say ' Aye.' Contrary minded, ' No.' 
 It is a vote. The secretary will please inscribe the 
 vote on the records of the society." The ladies all 
 said that Mrs. Jennings must have learned from her 
 
 husband how to preside so emphatically and without 
 
 96
 
 HELEN 97 
 
 waste of time. A few even hinted that her haste pre- 
 vented any dissent from her views, but these were the 
 insurgents whose husbands did not like Mr. Jennings' 
 political control. " And now," Mrs. Jennings con- 
 tinued, adjusting her glasses and unfolding a slip of 
 paper, " I am pleased to say that at our next meeting, 
 on Thursday the i4th, we shall have the pleasure 
 of listening to Mrs. Solway, who will talk to us on 
 ' How to force tulips so they will come into bloom 
 before Easter.' You all know that Mrs. Solway won 
 the fourth prize for kitchen-forced tulips at the South 
 Boston flower-show last March, so you will all await 
 her words with eager interest. The meeting is now 
 open to general discussion." She sat down, folded the 
 slip of paper precisely, and put it in her bag. Then 
 she looked expectantly around the room. Through 
 the windows came the indignant shrieks of a child, 
 and one of the mothers made a hasty exit. At 
 last the silence was broken, and Mrs. Jennings' 
 face darkened as she saw the speaker rise to her 
 feet. Mrs. Smythe was not a favourite with the 
 Club. 
 
 " It appears to me," the lady remarked belliger- 
 ently, " that in these stirring times there are more 
 important matters to discuss than Rheims she called 
 it ' Reems ' Cathedral and kitchen tulips. Just now,
 
 98 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 when the city is topsy-turvy with strikes and when 
 we ladies hardly dare to go to Boston in the cars, 
 and when, I might say, we go in fear of our lives 
 when we open our front doors, it does appear to me 
 that we are not fulfilling our mission as the helpmates 
 of our husbands, to be setting here listening to pretty 
 little talks about bulbs and churches. Those are my 
 sentiments, and I suppose I have a right to hold 
 them." 
 
 " You certainly have," responded Mrs. Jennings, 
 her voice quivering with anger. ' This is a free 
 country, as I've had occasion to remark many times. 
 But the South Boston Ladies' Thursday Morning So- 
 ciety is not a political organisation nor any more is 
 it a woman's rights club. As I understand it, we meet 
 for intellectual improvement." There was vigorous 
 nodding from some of the company, a little less em- 
 phatic shaking of heads from others. 
 
 " It appears to me," Mrs. Smythe retorted, " that 
 this Society would accomplish more on that line even, 
 if it was more up to date." 
 
 " I don't know what our sister means by that," 
 some one put in. " The French churches still stand 
 and I was looking over a tulip catalogue just this 
 morning." 
 
 " But the churches and the tulips we will always
 
 HELEN 99 
 
 have, and the strike, I hope, we sha'n't," said Mrs. 
 Smythe. 
 
 " That's just it," said the president. " We meet 
 together to discuss things that are lasting, not things 
 of the moment that are to-morrow cast into the fire 
 and consumed." 
 
 " But, Mrs. President," said a new voice from the 
 back of the room, " these strikes are, after all, mat- 
 ters which are moulding our national life. To under- 
 stand the forces that are making our country what it 
 is should be a very important part of our intellectual 
 equipment." 
 
 There was a general craning of necks and twisting 
 in chairs, and thirty pairs of eyes were focussed on 
 Helen. She looked back at them calmly, with com- 
 plete self-possession, yet not defiantly. Almost every 
 one felt that she had spoken well and without undue 
 self-assertion, yet almost all were annoyed that she 
 had spoken at all. She was the latest member, and 
 she had not yet been tried according to the various 
 standards of the Park. Perhaps Mrs. Jennings felt 
 it most keenly. Had she not, after a talk with her 
 husband, in which he had expressed himself more 
 forcibly than was his custom, taken Helen under her 
 special protection? Had she not even abased her 
 pride by telling a new and much more kindly she
 
 ioo THE GREEN VASE 
 
 would hardly have admitted truer version of the 
 orchid story? Had she not finally made it a personal 
 matter to get her elected to the Society? Certainly 
 it seemed to her base ingratitude that Helen, the first 
 time she spoke, should take a stand against her, ally- 
 ing herself moreover with that dreadful Mrs. Smythe. 
 But Mrs. Jennings tried to be fair. She knew that 
 Helen had never met Mrs. Smythe, probably had 
 never heard of her. What was more, the question at 
 issue had in her mind no importance aside from Mrs. 
 Smythe's championship. She therefore determined 
 to be magnanimous. 
 
 " What you say, Mrs. Murphy," she answered, 
 after a moment of ominous silence, " sounds reason- 
 able. Of course, it does seem to me that we can 
 learn about all we want to know about the strike 
 from the papers, but then, if anybody's got anything 
 to add, why, I don't know but as we'd be willing to 
 listen. What's more, I feel constrained to add on 
 second thoughts, I don't see exactly what a local 
 strike's got to do with national development. Per- 
 haps you can tell us that right now." 
 
 " I am hardly prepared to give any very illuminat- 
 ing views at a moment's notice," Helen said, smiling, 
 " even if I ever could. It seems to me, however, that 
 the strike is a symptom of the national unrest. Every
 
 HELEN 101 
 
 clash between labour and capital sets our knowledge 
 of conditions one step ahead, and at the same time 
 makes the situation more complex and difficult of a 
 satisfactory conclusion. But I don't want to talk 
 about it. I want to hear some one who is really well 
 informed." 
 
 " I guess you know more than any of us," Mrs. 
 Jennings said. " My husband tells me you're one of 
 a self-appointed sub-committee with Mr. Murphy 
 and that Mr. Bond to settle the thing sub rosa." 
 
 ' They are very good to let me listen," she an- 
 swered, blushing in spite of herself as she caught the 
 furtive glances of understanding that passed 
 from woman to woman. " I am learning a great 
 deal." 
 
 " Couldn't you tell us what you have learned next 
 Thursday?" Mrs. Jennings continued. "We don't 
 have meetings every Thursday, as a general rule, in 
 summer, but as you say, the question is very agitating 
 just at present and might not be at one of our regular 
 dates I am sure, ladies, you could not think of dis- 
 appointing Mrs. Solway two weeks from to-day 
 and that would make it a month. All in favour of 
 having an extra session next week to hear Mrs. Mur- 
 phy talk on the strike signify it by saying ' Aye.' 
 Contrary minded, ' No.' It is a vote."
 
 102 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " But," Helen cried. " I can't make a speech, and 
 as I told you, I want to learn myself." 
 
 " I'm sorry," Mrs. Jennings said. " You ought 
 to have spoken sooner. It's a vote now, and a vote's 
 a vote, just as a law's a law. You'll just have to 
 do your best." 
 
 " But could we not get some man who really 
 knows? " 
 
 " Some man! Well, it's pretty clear that you 
 haven't been in this Society very long. A man, in- 
 deed! We believe that women are just as able to 
 talk and think as men, and we voted long ago never 
 to listen to a man after one we asked refused to come. 
 Ladies, the meeting is over. Before disbanding, shall 
 we sing our usual hymn? " She began beating time, 
 and then burst out shrilly with the words, " Blessed 
 be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love." 
 
 Helen joined her as they went down the steps into 
 the hot June sunshine. " Really, Mrs. Jennings, how 
 can I speak next week? I have never done such a 
 thing." 
 
 " Then the sooner you begin the better, my dear. 
 I advise you to write it all down and then you won't 
 forget. Of course, when you have talked in public 
 as much as I have you won't find that necessary, but
 
 HELEN 103 
 
 you're young yet and haven't had much experience, 
 and I presume the words don't always come easy. 
 Now, I went to a Sunday school where the scholars 
 all had to get up and recite Bible verses, and it gave 
 me confidence on my feet. Did you have to do 
 that?" 
 
 " I never went to Sunday school." 
 
 " Never went to Sunday school ! Well, I must 
 remark! Your mother must have been a peculiar 
 
 woman." 
 
 " She was not well, Mrs. Jennings, and on Sun- 
 days she needed me at home. About next Thursday 
 what made you think I could talk? " 
 
 " I didn't." 
 
 Helen looked at her quickly. " You didn't. Then 
 why do you make me? " 
 
 " Well," Mrs. Jennings answered slowly, " I guess 
 I did it to give you your chance. You see, it's just 
 this way. When you first came here, I made a mis- 
 take about you. I thought you were different and 
 uppish, somehow. I guess you sort of riled me, too. 
 I thought you were putting on airs, and I couldn't 
 see where you had any occasion to. All that made 
 me mad. I told one or two of the neighbours about 
 the orchids, and they spread the story in a mean, 
 gossipping sort of way until all South Boston that
 
 104 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 is, all the Park and Mrs. Davenant of K Street and 
 a few others was talking about it. And then the 
 minister of our church I really wish you went there, 
 Mrs. Murphy, he preaches such edifying sermons 
 well, he preached on that text about how some people 
 have tongues that are sharper than a serpent's teeth 
 and made me feel how mean and unchristian-like the 
 other ladies of the Park were, so that I felt ashamed 
 of them. And then, that very evening Abraham 
 asked me if I wouldn't use my influence I really do 
 have a great deal, if I do say it as shouldn't to stop 
 the talk. He said it was very necessary, because if 
 I didn't he would lose Murphy, who he thinks is a 
 great help to him in politics. So I went around and 
 told the ladies what I thought of them. I knew it 
 was the right thing to do." 
 
 "Thank you. What then?" 
 
 " Well, then things were quieting down all peace- 
 ful until you had Mr. Bond to dinner." 
 
 " It was to discuss the strike." 
 
 " Yes, so Mr. J. told me when I remarked about it 
 to him, but it did set folks to talking again." 
 
 " I'm afraid it can't be helped. Henry finds Mr. 
 Bond too good a man to work with to throw him 
 over on account of silly gossip." 
 
 " Of course I don't know about it's being all silly
 
 HELEN 105 
 
 gossip, but it was dying out until Mrs. Salsbury saw 
 you talking with a man she thought must be Mr. 
 Bond on Washington Street last Monday morning. 
 That naturally makes things worse than ever." 
 
 " I was talking with him. We met Henry later 
 and had luncheon together. But what has all this to 
 do with next Thursday? " 
 
 " Just this. I don't believe there is much of any- 
 thing in all the stories I hear. So you see, it oc- 
 curred to me that if you talked to them it would make 
 the ladies see you different and give them something 
 else to think about." 
 
 " But won't they think merely that all I tell them 
 I got from Mr. Bond?" 
 
 " Maybe. It's a risk, but a risk worth running. 
 It gives you a chance to get on the right side of folks, 
 and I hope you'll take it." 
 
 " I shall at least try," Helen said, " and I thank 
 you, now that I understand. This is your house, and 
 I must hurry home. Good-bye." 
 
 Life seemed to Helen just then to be a tangle of 
 contradictions. Mrs. Jennings, who did not like her, 
 was acting openly as her champion because Henry was 
 politically useful to Mr. Jennings; she was doing 
 her best to further Henry's ambitions, and those am- 
 bitions seemed to her unworthy of consideration; she
 
 io6 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 was seeing more and more of Stephen Bond, almost 
 always through her husband's wish, and yet every 
 time she saw him she knew that through the growing 
 distrust of her it made Henry's position in South 
 Boston more insecure; and finally, that being with 
 Stephen was cruel to him, since each meeting made 
 his hopeless love for her more violent, even as the 
 fact lessened her respect for him. And yet she clung 
 to him as the only link which connected the life she 
 led with the life she longed to lead. With a little 
 gesture of despair she sat down on a bench beside 
 the fountain and watched the swarms of children 
 splashing each other as they waded in the huge stone 
 basin. She had been there only a minute, it seemed, 
 when she was startled by a voice at her side. " What 
 luck, Mrs. Murphy. May I sit down? I had no 
 idea of finding a friend here." 
 
 " Mr. Moncrieff," she cried, " you in South 
 Boston! I can't imagine what should bring you 
 here." 
 
 " Quite a commonplace reason, I assure you. To 
 be accurate, the heat." 
 
 " The heat. That should be a reason to keep any 
 one away." 
 
 " On the contrary. Your ocean is always cold and 
 there are no sea-baths in Boston," He took off his
 
 HELEN 107 
 
 straw hat and laid it on the bench beside him. " Do 
 you mind if I smoke? " 
 
 " Not at all." But as she answered she wondered 
 whether Stephen would have done it, whether this 
 man would have, if he had thought her one of his 
 own kind. 
 
 " You've seen a good bit of Steve lately, so he tells 
 me," he said, when he had lighted his cigarette. 
 
 " Yes, we have met several times. He and my 
 husband seem to have a great deal to say about the 
 strike and they are good enough to let me listen." 
 She was angry with herself for saying it. She was 
 tired of the phrase and suddenly angry at the need 
 to justify herself. Why was her right to see him less 
 than the right of any other self-respecting woman. 
 Yet she had excused herself to Mrs. Jennings and 
 again to this man. " I always enjoy being with him," 
 she added hastily, " because I Lke him very much." 
 
 " He is an attractive chap curious one, too. He's 
 hard to make out entirely, so deucedly reserved and 
 calm. One can't quite imagine his ' slipping his 
 trolley,' as you say over here, and yet he has it in 
 him to do something startling." 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 " Nothing specific. I was thinking of his char- 
 acter. He feels things just as keenly as you and I
 
 io8 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 do, a bit more keenly, I think, sometimes, but he 
 has his own practice of years and the practice of 
 generations back of him not to show it. He would 
 meet crisis after crisis and you'd never know any- 
 thing more important was happening than the ringing 
 of church bells. He'd go through a financial panic 
 without a quiver and would hold onto his property 
 when other people would think the bottom of the 
 world had dropped out. Repression, subordination 
 of life to reason that's the keynote of the man." 
 
 " Why, isn't all that very fine? " 
 
 " It is Lord, what a noise those children make ! 
 It is, so far as it goes, but it's all pure intellect. In 
 that way it's like the Unitarian religion, capable of 
 satisfying to a certain point and to meet a good many 
 crises, but not all. It fails at the most critical mo- 
 ment because it discounts the emotions, and they're 
 just as true, if not truer, than the brain. Steve doesn't 
 realise yet that passion has a quite silly and quite 
 outrageously thorough way of demolishing beautiful 
 theories." 
 
 " I don't think I understand." 
 
 " I do generalise a bit too much. It's a bad habit 
 I have fallen into. To be more specific, then. Sup- 
 pose Steve should fall in love." She looked at him 
 involuntarily, but he was staring at the fountain and
 
 HELEN 109 
 
 apparently thinking aloud. " Suppose he should fall 
 in love, I mean, with a quite impossible person, some 
 one not of his own class, or married. He would 
 hold onto himself, of course, and bubble and boil 
 inside, and have a great deal to say about platonic 
 friendship oh, I've heard him discourse on that silly 
 subject until I'm sick to death of it and he'd go on 
 seeing the bright star of his adoration, his love be- 
 coming all the time worse and worse and all the time 
 more easily to be explained by that infallible reason 
 of his, and then, inevitably, there would come a time 
 when the dikes would break and reason well, it 
 would be just a bobbing cork on a rushing river. It's 
 not only his own passion but that of all his ancestors 
 that would get loose, remember." 
 
 " That sounds rather fantastic to me," Helen said, 
 " and even if it is not, why borrow trouble ? He must 
 see too many girls of his own class to go hunting for 
 one in the wilds." 
 
 "Ah! but the girls have mothers, and old Steve 
 is rich and much to be desired. The result is attempt 
 at coercion, and from that Stephen flies. Besides, one 
 does not go to the wilds hunting for Love. One 
 finds it by the wayside." 
 
 " And there you are afraid Mr. Bond will find 
 it?"
 
 no THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " Or has found it," he said, looking at her directly 
 until she felt the hot red staining her neck and face. 
 
 " If that is so," she answered, returning his look 
 bravely, " we must trust, for his sake, that the woman, 
 if unmarried, will remember that she, too, has duties 
 to society, and if married, is as truly in love with her 
 husband as I am with mine." 
 
 Moncrieff turned toward her and made a motion 
 as though to take her hand. His face expressed de- 
 lighted surprise. " It seems to me," he said, " that 
 Stephen is blessed with very good friends with two, 
 at least, who really want the best for him. I did not 
 realise, Mrs. Murphy, that you would be so quick to 
 see. I thought " 
 
 " It really does not matter what you thought, Mr. 
 Moncrieff. Perhaps it would be better not to depart 
 from the impersonal." 
 
 He tossed his cigarette into the fountain. " You 
 are right. Steve told me you usually were. Should 
 you be willing to add me to your list of friends? " 
 
 She stood up and held out her hand to him. " Be- 
 cause you have done an unpleasant thing as pleasantly 
 as you could yes. In the future, however, let us 
 discuss something quite impersonal, labour and cap- 
 ital, for example. No woman could forgive distrust 
 more than once."
 
 HELEN in 
 
 " Distrust? Is that quite fair? " 
 
 " Perhaps not," she said, smiling. " A stronger 
 word might have been more appropriate. You made 
 mentally a class generalisation, and I fitted into it." 
 
 ' You see through me," he admitted contritely, 
 " and yet you forgive. You are generous. But my 
 mistake was broader than you think. I had put you 
 in the wrong class." 
 
 " Perhaps. I hope so, but I fear that you still have 
 not sounded the depths of your error. In America 
 you cannot generalise as to classes at all. The ex- 
 ceptions are as numerous as the type." 
 
 Suddenly she became conscious that a half-dozen 
 dirty and very wet little children were grouped about 
 them, looking up at them wonderingly, and at the 
 same time heard a shrill voice from the fountain: 
 " Hi ! Look at lovers holding hands ! " She 
 snatched her hand away from his. It must have 
 been a ridiculous picture, the two of them standing 
 there in the sunlight with clasped hands ; yet so intent 
 had she been on what they were saying that she had 
 not realised he was touching her. Then another 
 scornful childish voice piped up. " Naw. Them's 
 no lovers. She's the new lady what lives at eight 
 nineteen." 
 
 And then to complete her embarrassment Mrs.
 
 ii2 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 Jennings strode into the circle. " Get away, you 
 dirty children," she cried. " It's high time you all 
 went home to dinner," and then, with exaggerated 
 surprise, " Well, for the land sakes, Mrs. Murphy. 
 If this isn't you ! And I thought you was hurrying 
 home to dinner a good half-hour ago. But of 
 course " and she turned with a smile toward Mon- 
 crieff " of course I know that if a lady meets a 
 gentleman she must stop to pass the time of day with 
 him. Perhaps you will introduce me to Mr. Bond." 
 
 Helen felt her face burning. She did not dare 
 look at Moncrieff. " I am afraid you have made a 
 mistake, Mrs. Jennings. This is Mr. Moncrieff." 
 
 " Mr. Moncrieff? " She looked in amazement at 
 first one and then the other. 
 
 " Moncrieff is my name, and I am honoured to meet 
 you, Mrs. Jennings," he said quietly. Then he 
 looked with deep questioning at Helen, but her eyes 
 were hidden from him. 
 
 *For a full minute Mrs. Jennings was silent, while 
 her face grew more and more threatening. Mon- 
 crieff took out another cigarette. The children had 
 scattered, their interest gone, so the three stood alone. 
 
 Then Helen laughed convulsively, and at the sound 
 Mrs. Jennings burst out: "Moncrieff! Pooh I 
 Who ever heard of that name in Boston! Mon-
 
 HELEN 113 
 
 crieff! You might at least have picked out a more 
 likely name than that. And haven't I been watching 
 you through my front parlour window ever since you 
 left me to hurry home." 
 
 Helen was staring, fascinated, at Mrs. Jennings, 
 and when she stopped for breath, laughed again. 
 Then the muscles of her face seemed suddenly to 
 freeze into rigid white lines. " Really, Mr. Mon- 
 crieff," she said bitterly, " I had no thought of sub- 
 jecting you to this when you were good enough to 
 stop to speak with me. Perhaps Mrs. Jennings will 
 add one more to your collection of American impres- 
 sions." 
 
 " Tush," cried that lady, turning fiercely to Mon- 
 crieff. " And you, Mr. Bond. Aren't you ashamed 
 to lend yourself to such deception a man with your 
 good name making mock of a respectable middle-aged 
 lady. It's shameful that's what I call it, and I'll 
 keep on saying so if I have to cry it from the house- 
 tops, that I will. Truly the ways of men are past 
 understanding." 
 
 " But, madam," he protested, " this is all a mis- 
 take. I assure you I'm not Mr. Bond. See, here is 
 one of my calling cards to prove it." He took out 
 his pocketbook. 
 
 " Oh, no, young man. You needn't trouble your-
 
 ii4 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 self. I know all I want to know and I've said all 
 I want to say to you. Good-day." 
 
 " I'm afraid I've made an awful mess for you, 
 Mrs. Murphy," Moncrieff said. 
 
 " Oh, no," she answered. " It will merely hasten 
 the crisis. Good-bye. No. Please do not walk home 
 with me; I should rather be alone, if you don't mind." 
 
 As he walked slowly toward the car line Mon- 
 crieff whistled softly to himself. " I'll be hanged," 
 he thought, " if I understand all this. She seemed 
 so straight, but there can't be all this smoke without 
 some fire. I wonder what she meant by saying it 
 would only hasten the crisis. Oh, damn it all, I think 
 I had better let Steve manage his own salvation."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 HELEN stood looking out of the front window. The 
 low sun still sent a stream of yellow light through 
 the trees in the Park and turned the dust clouds 
 golden as they hissed along the street and against 
 the window. She moved nervously. The hand that 
 clutched one of the blue-white lace curtains rolled it 
 into a ball and unconsciously tore it full of little holes. 
 She was waiting for her husband and strained her 
 eyes to see through the clouded pane. The lonely 
 afternoon had been intolerable and endless. But she 
 knew at last what she must say that so far as life 
 in South Boston was concerned she had reached the 
 end of her endurance. Only three months and it 
 seemed as many years. She knew what Henry would 
 answer, all the arguments he would use, the impres- 
 sion that he would fear any change might have on 
 Uncle John, but she felt the strength of desperation 
 and the power to prevail. She caught her breath 
 as she had so often during the afternoon at the idea 
 of his disappointment, at the idea that she had so far 
 been merely a hindrance to him instead of the aid 
 she had so proudly and fearlessly planned to be. But
 
 ii6 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 her ambition for that was as bright as it had always 
 been. Might she not, in taking him out of the narrow 
 horizon of South Boston lead him into greater op- 
 portunity? 
 
 The telephone bell rattled through the silence of 
 the house and she started with an unreasoning fear. 
 Never had she lost the idea that a telegram meant 
 disaster of some kind, and now the sharp jangling of 
 the bell seemed to hold something equally sinister. 
 She forced her self-control as she went slowly into the 
 hall and took down the receiver. 
 
 " Hello." 
 
 "Hello, dear, is that you?" She shivered with 
 relief at the sound of Henry's voice. 
 
 " Yes. Why are you so late? " 
 
 " I'm awfully sorry. I've been rushed all the after- 
 noon, and now I've got to go to a meeting of the 
 strikers. I can't come home to dinner." 
 
 " Can't come home to dinner? " In spite of her- 
 self she gave a choking sob. " But, Henry, you 
 must. I need you." 
 
 " Do you, honey well, so do I need to see your 
 bonnie face. What is it? You're not sick? " 
 
 " No, not really ; just sick at heart. Please, oh, 
 please come home. I'm so lonely." 
 
 " I wish I could, dear, but it's not me only, or
 
 HELEN 117 
 
 even you, that I must think of it's all these poor 
 strikers." 
 
 " What do I care for them? " 
 
 "Helen!" 
 
 She caught herself up sharply. " I'm sorry I said 
 that. I didn't mean it." Her voice was quite firm 
 at last. " Of course you have told Mr. Bond you 
 will not be here." 
 
 " I tried to, but I can't find him. It's just as well. 
 He'll drive the spooks away until I get home." 
 
 " But, Henry," she cried, " you don't understand. 
 He mustn't come when I'm alone. Something hap- 
 pened to-day. I can't tell you over the telephone." 
 
 " Something happened? Not with him? You 
 don't want to see him?" 
 
 " It's no fault of his. But these people in the 
 Park they see everything and imagine more." 
 
 " Let them imagine. I'll soon straighten them out, 
 dog'on them. Don't worry, but have a good time. 
 I'll be home soon after nine. Now I must run and 
 get a bite before the meeting. Good-bye." 
 
 Mechanically she hung the receiver on the hook 
 and found her way back to the window. For whom 
 was she waiting, now that Henry was not coming? 
 For Stephen? She imagined other windows in the 
 Park, all filled with watchful, spying eyes, impelled
 
 n8 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 to look by that lowest kind of curiosity that seeks to 
 know what the neighbours are doing, whom they 
 are seeing, and why, and hoping always to discover 
 scandal. Helen turned wearily away and climbed 
 the stairs to her room. Again mechanically she did 
 her hair and changed to a simple muslin evening 
 gown. Then she returned to the window and stood 
 looking out on the golden dust clouds, red-shot, now, 
 like flames, by the rays of the setting sun. What, 
 even to the spying eyes of the Park, she thought, what 
 of scandal could there be in this daylight meeting? 
 Then she pictured to herself Mrs. Salsbury next 
 door, she who took boarders at sixty cents a day, 
 crouched, spider-like, behind her curtains, waiting 
 and watching; thought how the spider would quiver 
 at the approach of Stephen to her web of malicious 
 gossip ; how she would wait and watch a few minutes 
 longer lest Henry should come like a clumsy bumble- 
 bee to break the net; how she would at last emerge 
 joyfully and scuttle across the Park to pour her venom 
 into the incredulous but delighted ears of her sister 
 gossip, Mrs. Jennings. Suddenly Helen felt an im- 
 perative need to catch the spy in the very act of spy- 
 ing. She ran from the room, flung open the door, 
 and darted down the steep front steps almost into 
 Stephen's arms. She just caught a glimpse of the cur-
 
 HELEN 119 
 
 tains moving in the next window before Stephen 
 cried: " Mrs. Murphy, what is the matter? " 
 
 " Matter," she answered, laughing, and impetu- 
 ously, giving him both her hands. " Nothing is the 
 matter. I'm just glad to see you. I've been waiting 
 so long." 
 
 "Waiting?" he queried incredulously, "waiting 
 for me?" 
 
 ' Yes, for you. For any one who will be good to 
 me." 
 
 " How absurd that sounds. Who could help being 
 good to you ? " he asked as they climbed the steps. 
 
 " A great many people," she answered vaguely. 
 " Mrs. Salsbury next door, who takes boarders, and 
 Mrs. Jennings, for instance." 
 
 " But they what do you care what they do to 
 you?" 
 
 " It isn't what they do. It's just Oh, every- 
 thing. Won't you sit down. That chair is probably 
 the least uncomfortable in the room." As she spoke 
 she seated herself stiffly on the sofa. 
 
 "Why can't I sit there with you?" 
 ' You may if you want to, I suppose," she said 
 unconcernedly, giving him room. 
 
 He looked at her, puzzled and troubled. This 
 placid unresponsiveness was as difficult to understand
 
 120 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 as had been her effusive greeting. He returned to 
 their former topic. "Surely, you don't care what 
 women of that class think of you." 
 
 " Oh, but I do care what every one thinks. 
 What they say doesn't matter much but what peo- 
 ple think is very important." 
 
 i{ Why should you care what they think of you, 
 any more than I care what they think of me? " 
 
 " I ought not to." She smiled to herself. " Henry 
 said ' dog'on 'em. I'll fix 'em.' I wonder what you 
 would have said." She looked at him curiously. 
 
 " I should probably have expressed much the same 
 sentiment," he answered awkwardly. " By the way, 
 where is Henry? " 
 
 " He's not at home. He would appreciate your 
 1 by the way.' " 
 
 " It was not meant as it sounded," he said, laugh- 
 ing, and then, with sudden enlightenment and disap- 
 pointment, " I suppose you ran down the steps to 
 meet him." 
 
 " Not at all. I knew he wasn't coming. I wanted 
 to see the spider." 
 
 "The spider?" 
 
 " Yes, don't you know ? Mrs. Salsbury next door, 
 who takes boarders. She serves bad meals, I am sure, 
 but she is very industrious. She sits by the hour at
 
 HELEN 121 
 
 her parlour window, looking out and spinning a won- 
 derful web of scandal. I wanted to see her at work. 
 She is there still, waiting for Henry, and when he 
 does not come she will go scuttling across the Park 
 to give out her big piece of news and get other little 
 ones in return." 
 
 " I see," he said angrily. " Why doesn't Murphy 
 come to spoil her little story?" 
 
 " He is not coming until after dinner." 
 
 " Then do you want me to go? " 
 
 "No, why go? The harm is already done, and 
 Henry told me to have a good time with you and 
 forget my troubles. Dinner must be ready." 
 
 " How wonderful ! Alone with you 1 " 
 
 She stopped him with a gesture. " Wonderful is 
 hardly the word." 
 
 Stephen flushed deeply. " I did not mean it in 
 that way. I have a friend who always uses the word 
 wonderful to express disappointment." 
 
 " Thank you," she said, laughing. " That will 
 do for an excuse. I was afraid for a moment that 
 Mr. Moncrieff might have been right about you." 
 
 "Moncrieff? What did he say? " 
 
 " Nothing of importance. Simply that there were 
 some things about you that you did not understand 
 yourself. Dinner is ready. Shall we go in? "
 
 122 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 At the table she placed him at her right, leaving 
 Henry's seat opposite vacant. When the maid had 
 served the soup, Stephen said somewhat tentatively, 
 " I did not know you had seen Moncrieff again? " 
 
 " I saw him this noon in the Park. He had been 
 having a swim. We had a very pleasant talk, and 
 we agreed to be friends." 
 
 " A compact against me? " 
 
 " Surely not. Why should two of your friends 
 conspire against you ? " 
 
 " Phil has some curious ideas about me. He thinks 
 I need to be protected against myself. You just 
 said that he thought I did not understand myself." 
 
 " Nor does any man, Mr. Bond. That is woman's 
 prerogative completely to understand herself." 
 
 " But you say you do not not completely under- 
 stand yourself." 
 
 " I am learning to. I appreciate now the longings 
 of the other woman, the ancestral woman I told you 
 about, and I know that her demands are imperative. 
 To be myself I must realise her, must live her 
 life." 
 
 "And that means?" 
 
 11 What that means I will tell you after dinner, 
 if you are still interested. Maids in this environ- 
 ment at least talk of what they do not understand
 
 HELEN 123 
 
 to other maids, who in turn discuss their news up- 
 stairs, and so the scandal grows. What is the latest 
 news of the strike?" 
 
 She laughed at the expression on his face. " That 
 is really the most vital question in these days, you 
 know, and is supremely important to us who live in 
 South Boston and have to shop in Boston. You see, 
 I must go to town almost every day to see dress- 
 makers and all the other expensive people whom we 
 women have to see." 
 
 ' The strike is as bad as it can be," he said 
 gloomily. 
 
 "Really? Tell me all about it." 
 
 So the dinner dragged along. Helen talked in- 
 cessantly, asking, commenting, and arguing when she 
 could make Stephen argue. It seemed to her that she 
 must be dreaming. She took in only enough of what 
 he said to answer with some semblance of sanity, 
 and wondered, as she heard her own voice, whether 
 she was chattering the merest nonsense. She felt 
 that she was exerting every nerve, dared not laugh 
 for fear that she should lose control of herself, was 
 angry with Stephen because he let her carry the whole 
 burden of conversation. To rest, to sleep, if she 
 could that was all that seemed worth while. 
 
 In the parlour after dinner he returned gruffly to
 
 i2 4 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 his question. He was in the grip of such emotion 
 as he had never suspected. He hated her because he 
 realised that she had become everything to him and 
 the rest of his world nothing; because he knew that 
 she responded in no way to his growing, almost over- 
 mastering love. He felt her to be unattainable, and 
 yet, in a curious, vague way felt her to be his. And 
 through the mist of it all he kept his senses, remem- 
 bered his own unspotted name, and hers, and her 
 husband's. But he could not keep the gruffness from 
 his voice because he knew it must be that or a pas- 
 sionate tenderness. "And that means?" he mut- 
 tered as though there had been no hiatus in their 
 talk. 
 
 " Won't you light a cigarette? " she said. He did 
 so, and stood leaning against the mantel, his shoulder 
 touching the green vase. " I wish you would move 
 suddenly and break it," she added. 
 
 He moved away. " Will you answer me ? " 
 " We were talking about the strike, I think." 
 "We are not now. You know what I mean. 
 Don't pretend. My Heaven you will drive me 
 mad!" 
 
 She looked up at him and then spoke rapidly. " I 
 said that I must live the life of the other woman. 
 That is true. I have tried and tried, but the people
 
 HELEN 125 
 
 I know give me nothing nor I them, except an end- 
 less subject for gossip. I must change it all." 
 
 " And you don't know how," he cried eagerly, im- 
 petuously. "Helen! I can help you." 
 
 She shrank a little in her chair and he came toward 
 her. 
 
 " Stop," she cried bitterly, with a gesture of sudden 
 repulsion. " Would you take away the only friend 
 I have?" 
 
 He stood looking at her and slowly his arms 
 dropped to his sides. " Is there no hope, then ? " 
 
 "Hope?" she threw back at him. "Hope of 
 what? Are you thinking of yourself or of 
 me?" 
 
 "Of myself," he said contritely, the fire dying from 
 his eyes then, with a whimsical smile, " I told you 
 before that I always thought of myself." 
 
 " No. You told me that you always thought of 
 what others would think of you. You are not doing 
 that now." 
 
 " I forgot to be myself. The shell cracked. Per- 
 haps I lost my head." He laughed again. "And 
 that is what Phil said, and you said, that I needed 
 to do. I don't find it a very amusing or uplifting 
 experience." 
 
 " Nor do I," she said sadly, " but at least it has
 
 126 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 brought us face to face and with shame for me, be- 
 cause I knew." 
 
 "Knew what?" 
 
 " Your feeling about me, Mr. Bond. Ever since 
 that night at your house " 
 
 " Yes, I know. Even then I made a fool of myself 
 and you set me straight." 
 
 " But after that I could not do right. I could 
 not put you out of my life because you represented 
 the things that made life worth living for the other 
 me. And all that time I have been making you 
 miserable." 
 
 " No, not that," he said very gently. " You were 
 showing me what life might have meant. And to- 
 night " 
 
 " Oh, to-night," she interrupted. " Don't speak 
 of to-night. I was tired, despairing anything. I 
 used you for my own ends cruelly, since I knew. 
 I treated you almost as a lover, and I do not love 
 you." 
 
 " I know you do not." 
 
 " But," she went on hurriedly, " everything I have 
 said is true. I will be myself, the other self that is 
 the true me. I must be. But not in the way you 
 thought that you had a right to think. I must allow 
 that self to develop out of the one that is here; I
 
 HELEN 127 
 
 must take what I have and conquer my surround- 
 ings." 
 
 "Here?" he asked incredulously. "Can you 
 work miracles? " 
 
 " No, not here. To-day has made that impossi- 
 ble." She smiled. " Until now I had visions of 
 being an angel of sweetness and light in South Bos- 
 ton, but the angel's wings are heavy and her features 
 so blackened with soot that people might con- 
 tinue to mistake her for a devil. No, I must go 
 away ! " 
 
 " With your husband? " 
 
 " With my husband, of course," she answered 
 proudly. " Have you ever pictured to yourself Amer- 
 ican society as I have, as a great building, topped 
 with innumerable towers, some white against the sky 
 and springing from an unknown source, others, less 
 graceful, but stronger, built stone by stone from the 
 granite foundation? " 
 
 " I think I understand." 
 
 " Then you will understand my dream. I thought 
 that I belonged in one of those white towers, but had 
 gone astray and had lost my way." 
 
 " You do belong there." 
 
 " No, I have no home. I have lost the birthright 
 of inheritance. Long absence does that. But I have
 
 128 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 not lost touch with my class. I have married one 
 who is capable of building for himself. When his 
 tower is finished I can meet proudly my old asso- 
 ciates. Only in that way, through my own upward 
 striving, working by Henry's side, can I ever reach 
 the goal with happiness to myself and to him. Do 
 you see?" she added, holding out her hand. 
 
 He took it, and bending down kissed it almost 
 humbly. "And I," he said, "I have no place in it 
 all." 
 
 " Oh, but you have," she put in quickly. " You 
 revealed me to myself. You were the first to hold 
 out a kindly hand." 
 
 "But now?" 
 
 " Ah, now," she echoed. " Now you must go away 
 for a time until you are well. Henry and I must 
 stand alone. I have clung to you when I had no right 
 because you gave me courage. But it is wrong, 
 cruel to you, as I said, and for me I dare do it no 
 longer." 
 
 " What a brute I have been." 
 
 " No, not that. But I should fear to lose you 
 altogether, as I almost lost you to-night, and I have 
 learned that people will inevitably think evil of me 
 and of you." 
 
 " Not my friends."
 
 HELEN 129 
 
 " Yes, yours, too. I learned that from Mr. Mon- 
 crieff. Our positions, socially, are too far apart." 
 
 " Only apparently." 
 
 " Well, only apparently, if you will, but what 
 seems is often more effective in creating belief than 
 what is." 
 
 " And in this misunderstanding it is you who suf- 
 fer." 
 
 " Yes. It is always the woman." 
 
 " Then I will go," he said, harshly again, and 
 without looking at her. " Good-bye." 
 
 " You will not wait to see Henry? He will want 
 to tell you the latest strike news." 
 
 " Strike news ! " He laughed. " Is there a strike? 
 I had forgotten. What does it matter? " And then 
 he turned to her once more. " I do not want to see 
 your husband. See him ! Good God ! And tell him 
 I love his wife, or still play the hypocrite? Which 
 would be the finer thing? Good-bye." 
 
 Stephen rushed from the house and down the steps. 
 As he turned to the right to let the tentative east 
 wind cool his face he saw in a half-lighted window 
 the dark silhouette of the " spider." " Eight-thirty," 
 he muttered, looking at his watch under a street light, 
 " much may happen in two hours, my tireless friend. 
 Make the most of it. This is your last chance, for I
 
 130 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 am going out of your miserable ken forever. Make 
 the most of it. Your imagination is as narrow as 
 your vision. The truth you will never dream, and 
 what you dream ugh a pure woman with the cour- 
 age of Helen can live down all lies."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 AT the corner he turned back, struck across the Park, 
 and with a last glance at the light in Helen's parlour, 
 where he could imagine her sitting sadly among her 
 hideously incongruous surroundings, swung at a rapid 
 pace toward Boston. In the turmoil of his thoughts 
 he was conscious of pushing his way through crowds 
 of men whose vociferous complaints, and sullen, men- 
 acing faces sometimes made his nerves quiver with 
 a pain beyond his own suffering. It was the strike, 
 in action, permeating the atmosphere with its lurid 
 possibilities of terror. On the bridge there was space 
 and air. He stopped, and leaning over the parapet 
 took off his hat and rested, taking long refreshing 
 breaths, until a huge man, dirty and threatening, 
 seemingly an incarnation of the strike, told him 
 gruffly to move on. Stephen looked at him curiously, 
 wondered at the madness in his eyes, and then, too 
 heart-weary for argument, obeyed. He passed un- 
 seeing through the deserted business streets, was irri- 
 tated at the sudden glare and noise of Tremont 
 Street and grateful for the leafy stillness of the Com- 
 mon. Before reaching the foot of the hill that led
 
 132 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 to Beacon Street he felt suddenly tired and sat down 
 on one of the benches where so many of the homeless 
 spent their nights. The noise of the city broke at 
 the edge of the Common. It seemed to him sugges- 
 tive of evil. He had never thought of it before, but 
 as he listened now, and saw dimly the lines of women 
 filing along Tremont Street, vice seemed to him sud- 
 denly one of the great, overwhelming facts of human 
 life, damnable, of course, yet insistent and curiously 
 fascinating. The thought died at birth, strangled 
 mercifully by all the traditions of his upbringing and 
 of his blood. It was dead, but its death left him 
 inert and physically weak on this hot summer night. 
 
 A woman was descending the hill, walking easily, 
 with the swing of one accustomed to be outdoors. 
 She looked familiar, but he was only subconsciously 
 aware of her until she stopped before him. ' You, 
 Stephen," she said, " you, adorning the Common like 
 other loafers. May I sit down? " 
 
 " Katherine ! " He had not risen, but he turned 
 toward her gratefully. She was a breath of clean, 
 pure air, and it seemed to him that he had been 
 breathing the stagnant mists of sin and sorrow. " I'm 
 glad to see you. But what would Mrs. Bland say? " 
 
 " She would be delighted, Steve. You know it, 
 and that's one reason why we never have these clan-
 
 HELEN 133 
 
 destine meetings. One reason, I said the other 
 well, the world moves fast, and one man more or less, 
 or one girl better or worse, doesn't matter, I suppose." 
 She laughed mirthlessly, and he felt a tug at his heart 
 strings. 
 
 " Here in the city " he said. " Do you remem- 
 ber, Katherine, those wonderful days in the open 
 when we were little and loved each other? " 
 
 " No," she answered sharply. " I have forgotten 
 all such silly things. Where have you been to- 
 night?" 
 
 The question brought him sharply to himself. " I 
 have been dining," he said, " with a woman. Some 
 one you have never heard of and are never likely to 
 hear of. And she is wonderful, Katherine, wonder- 
 ful." 
 
 "Where does she live?" 
 
 " In South Boston." 
 
 Katherine Bland drew in her breath sharply. " I 
 didn't know you knew that kind, Steve." 
 
 " That kind," he cried. " But, Katherine, I tell 
 you she is wonderful, unspoiled. She has dreams that 
 are like the visions of our childhood and we have 
 forgotten how to have visions any more." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And she is so sad, Katherine, so borne down
 
 i 3 4 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 with what she has to bear and so brave. She never 
 loses courage. She will find her place. Why, just 
 to-night she told me in a word what our society was 
 like many, many high towers, beautiful against the 
 sky, some white and distant, as though born of air 
 those are the towers where you and I live, Katherine. 
 And then there are others, equally beautiful, built 
 up bit by bit from the earth, and those who live in 
 them meet us on terms of equality She means to 
 live in one of those. It is a possible dream, isn't it, 
 Katherine?" 
 
 " No," she answered harshly. " It isn't. I don't 
 want to know such people, Steve, and neither do you. 
 I believed in you always and now. I must go 
 home." 
 
 He leaned heavily against the back of the bench. 
 " You don't think it possible? " 
 
 " Certainly not. Good-night." 
 
 He jumped to his feet. 
 
 " Please don't come. I should rather, much rather, 
 be alone." 
 
 He thought he caught the sound of a sob in her 
 voice, but gravely took off his hat. 
 
 " Not possible," he muttered, turning toward his 
 own home. " Katherine is cynical and all the Elands 
 are hard. But she knows." And then he thought of
 
 HELEN 135 
 
 Helen, waiting in the hideous room for her husband. 
 Was there, then, no hope for her? He clenched 
 his hands and bowed his head despairingly. At his 
 own doorstep he hesitated a moment, looked down 
 the Hill at the bright windows of the Club, and then 
 entered. Even solitude, with its attendant spectres, 
 was preferable to the talk of his fellow-men. 
 
 At the sound of the latch-key Spriggs appeared. 
 " Mr. Moncrieff is in the library," he said. " Is 
 there anything more, sir?" 
 
 " No," Stephen responded. " I shall need noth- 
 ing. Go to bed." 
 
 " Yes, sir. Thanking you, sir." 
 
 He had wanted to be alone, but there were all the 
 years to come in which he could think. Perhaps Mon- 
 crieff would make him forget. He went slowly up 
 the stairs and pushed open the library door. " Hello, 
 Phil." 
 
 " Hello, Steve, old man. Making myself at home 
 as usual. Couldn't find you anywhere and wanted to 
 talk, so I just camped out until your return. Where 
 in the devil have you been? " 
 
 " Dining out," Stephen answered shortly, as he 
 lighted a cigar and sank into a deep armchair. 
 
 " Dining out, ha? A new kind of dinner costume 
 I call that." Stephen had on his business suit.
 
 136 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " It was a business dinner." 
 
 " Oh, business. South Boston, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes, South Boston. Have you any objection? I 
 hear you were there yourself to-day." 
 
 " So I was, but not to talk about the strike. You 
 have some queer types in this country. I think I'll 
 write a book about them ' Impressions of a Tramp,' 
 or something of that sort. Mrs. Jennings, her name 
 is, I think the particular type that flung itself at 
 me to-day. And then, of course, there was Mrs. 
 Murphy, but her type is world-wide." 
 
 " What do you mean by that? " 
 
 " Nothing except that I know a great many peo- 
 ple like her." 
 
 " Do you really? " Stephen's voice had a sarcastic 
 ring. "I wish I did." 
 
 "You? Bah! You have never had the chance 
 because you have never made a study of the under- 
 world as I have." 
 
 " You insist on misunderstanding her, don't you, 
 Phil?" 
 
 " Quite the contrary. I almost did for a half-hour 
 to-day. But then, I was seeing her without her gen- 
 tleman husband and she had a chance to play with me. 
 You know it's a funny thing but no matter how 
 old I grow a pretty woman can always do that
 
 HELEN 137 
 
 while I'm with her. Of course to-day Mrs. Jennings 
 dispelled the illusion more quickly that it would have 
 gone of its own accord. I have known complete re- 
 covery to take a month when a woman has been un- 
 usually plausible." 
 
 " What illusion do you mean in Mrs. Murphy's 
 case?" 
 
 "General disinterestedness, my dear boy; love of 
 abstract virtue personified in marital relations in- 
 nocence of social ambition all that sort of thing." 
 
 " And you let a woman like Mrs. Jennings destroy 
 that illusion, as you call it? " 
 
 ' There was no question of letting her do it. The 
 simple refutation of one belief on my part and un- 
 conscious refutation, mind you, which is the best of 
 evidence brought down the whole bally edifice with 
 a crash." 
 
 " Do you mind telling me how? " 
 
 " Not at all if you're reasonable and won't lose 
 your temper. We were talking about you." 
 
 " So I supposed. Go on." 
 
 " Mrs. Murphy had actually made me believe that 
 you were nothing to her, that she seldom saw you 
 and then only with her husband. I was glowing 
 with reflected virtue, swore eternal friendship, was 
 prepared generally to make an ass of myself, when
 
 138 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 down swooped Mrs. Jennings and demanded an in- 
 troduction to Mr. Bond." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " Then? If you were not so dense you would see. 
 There was more talk. She still believes I am you 
 because with one such constant attendant another 
 man friend was inconceivable." 
 
 " And so, because of one woman's scandal-loving 
 mind you conclude that another deserves the mud 
 flung at her," Stephen spoke sternly. 
 
 " The other happened to be young and pretty and 
 poor and dissatisfied and socially ambitious. You 
 don't deny that. It is a combination of qualities 
 that I know the meaning of, even if you don't." 
 
 " It's a combination of qualities from which you 
 generalise as you have a very bad habit of doing, 
 Phil without taking individual character into ac- 
 count at all. Mrs. Murphy has no connection with 
 the underworld. I should trust her as I should my 
 own sister, if I had one. She is " 
 
 " Oh, yes. I know all about that. She's a woman 
 in a thousand. She is well, all the things I said 
 two years ago about Lilly Merrill. It's all piffle." 
 
 " Lilly Merrill happened to be a chorus girl. It is 
 insulting to bring her in." 
 
 " Not at all. Lilly's father was a country clergy-
 
 HELEN 139 
 
 man like the fathers of all aspiring chorus girls. 
 I have no doubt if she had been friendly with the 
 leading man he might even have acted the part for 
 my benefit. But what is more to the point, Lilly's 
 intentions were strictly honourable and moral. She 
 wanted to marry me." 
 
 Stephen got up angrily from his chair. " We 
 have had about enough of this," he said. " Can I 
 put you up for the night, or are you going back to 
 the Club?" 
 
 " That later," Moncrieff answered lazily, " if 
 you play fair and don't lose your temper. You got 
 me out of a scrape once. I want to square the ac- 
 count." 
 
 " But I don't need your help. I am not in any 
 scrape." 
 
 Moncrieff helped himself to a whiskey and soda. 
 " They say," he remarked, " that when a man is suf- 
 ficiently far under water he does not know that he is 
 drowning. But that doesn't prevent the fellows with 
 the grappling irons from doing their work." 
 
 " All they pull up is a dead body." 
 
 " That is better than nothing. They at least have 
 a memento of the dear departed one, something over 
 which to plant roses and forget-me-nots. Now tell 
 me. What have I said that irritates you? "
 
 140 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " I am not willing to have any insinuations made 
 in this house against the good name of Mrs. Mur- 
 phy." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Stephen looked down at him for a moment with- 
 out speaking. " Because I love her," he said, at last, 
 very slowly and distinctly. 
 
 " Oh," Moncrieff responded. " Then I beg your 
 pardon. I don't mean to butt in on my friends' little 
 love affairs." 
 
 " I love her honourably," Stephen added, in the 
 same even voice. 
 
 Moncrieff snorted. " Honourably. Since when 
 has it been the custom in America to love one an- 
 other's wives honourably? Of course I believe you, 
 so far. You are truthful, and you tell me you have 
 never been alone with her." 
 
 " I was alone with her in her own house all this 
 evening. I dined with her." 
 
 "The devil you did!" 
 
 " And I lost my head," Stephen continued quietly. 
 " I tried to tell her that I loved her and she answered 
 by showing me how truly she loved her husband. 
 That is all that happened and it is the end. The 
 miserable gossips in South Boston have made her life 
 intolerable there. If there are miserable gossips in
 
 HELEN 141 
 
 the Back Bay I should advise them to come direct 
 to me with their tattle. Now it is time, I think, for 
 you to go back to the Club." 
 
 " I think it is," Moncrieff assented, springing to 
 his feet. " My grappling irons have missed to-night. 
 Remember that they are always ready if you need 
 them. You say it's all over and I hope to Heaven 
 it is, but when a man of your kind falls in, Steve, 
 he has a long swim to shore. Good-night." 
 
 " A long swim to shore," Stephen repeated, as he 
 threw himself into his chair. " A long swim to the 
 shore of forgetfulness no, drowning is better. The 
 shore my God I cannot even imagine its outlines."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IT was nearly two o'clock in the morning before 
 Henry came in. Helen had been in bed since ten, 
 not sleeping, not brooding, although it seemed 
 to her sometimes as though her sadness had in 
 it the might of darkness and of death. She was 
 infinitely weary. Every nerve quivered and her mus- 
 cles twitched convulsively, as though she had been 
 stretched on a rack and was only gradually sinking 
 back into her normal shape. But when her husband 
 came she pretended to be asleep; did not even move 
 when he whispered her name and touched her cheek 
 with his lips before getting into bed. She knew that 
 to talk would be impossible. At last the very effort 
 not to move put her to sleep, and when she became 
 conscious again the room was flooded with light 
 and Henry was already nearly dressed. 
 
 " Good-morning, dear," she called. She was not 
 rested, but the new daylight seemed to give her 
 courage. 
 
 Henry strode to the bedside, and taking her face 
 in his hands, kissed her. " Oh, my honey," he said, 
 
 142
 
 HELEN 143 
 
 with almost a sob in his voice, " I love you. I 
 wouldn't give you up for a peck of peanuts." 
 
 " Well, I hope not," she laughed, but her eyes 
 filled with quick tears. " Why do you say such silly 
 things? " 
 
 " I don't know," he answered, stroking her cheek. 
 " I seem to feel sort of lonesome this morning; sort of 
 to need you more than ever." 
 
 " I'm glad," she said, " because I always need you, 
 you know, and if you need me too, you will always 
 want to be with me. And that's what makes me 
 happy. Now go down stairs like a dear and read 
 the paper while I dress. After breakfast you must 
 tell me all about the strike, and I want to tell you 
 all about me." 
 
 A half hour later they were sitting hand in hand 
 on the green sofa. " That was all that came of the 
 meeting," he concluded. " Five hours of useless talk, 
 threats, cursing. My God, what an ass that Staples 
 is ! Always says the wrong thing or the right thing 
 the wrong way. He forgets that God made labouring 
 men just as much as he made little red apples. No 
 compromise that was what it began and ended with, 
 and there'll be trouble to follow bloodshed, I guess. 
 Some of the strikers stoned the cars last night." 
 
 "How horrible!"
 
 H4 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 ' Yes. But we mustn't blame them too much. 
 They wouldn't do it of their own accord. They're 
 just egged on all the time. Bond was dead right when 
 he said the national union leaders were dangerous." 
 
 " They must be brutes." 
 
 " They are. Every one fighting for a principle is 
 more or less a brute because they see only one thing. 
 I once heard a peace conference delegate say that he 
 would gladly string up every one that did not fight 
 against the horrors of war." 
 
 " And yet just those people who are fighting for 
 a principle to the exclusion of everything else are 
 needed in the world. They are needed for prog* 
 ress." 
 
 " You bet they are, and that's just what worries 
 me about these union leaders. If they're honest they 
 must be some use." 
 
 " It is not only honesty, Henry. It's honesty 
 backed by intelligence and training. Have they 
 that?" 
 
 " I guess not to speak of. That's the trouble. But 
 some men that never had any chance seem to get 
 along mighty well with just honesty and common 
 sense. Now take Jennings, for instance. See what 
 he's done for South Boston." 
 
 Helen shivered at the mention of his name, and
 
 HELEN 145 
 
 Henry pressed her hand. " And that in spite of his 
 wife," he added " which reminds me that I met him 
 this morning about two, in the Park. He was finding 
 it necessary to cool off. Home was pretty hot." 
 
 " So you knew all about it from him." 
 
 " I heard a lot of drivel from him. He likes you, 
 but had been stormed off his feet and he didn't quite 
 know what to answer." 
 
 " Henry," she cried, " I have tried so hard, and 
 it has been nothing but misrepresentation and misun- 
 derstanding from the beginning. After that awful 
 scene yesterday noon in the Park it seemed as though 
 I could never hold up my head again for shame. I 
 don't dare think of what Mr. Moncrieff must have 
 thought." 
 
 " So it was him. I knew it couldn't have been 
 Bond, because I saw him in town about that time. 
 How'd you happen to meet Moncrieff? " 
 
 " I was sitting on a bench by the fountain. It was 
 on the way back from the Women's Club meeting. 
 Mr. Moncrieff had been swimming and stopped to 
 speak. But it's not only that, Henry. That was 
 just an incident. It is simply that I cannot live any 
 longer here. I cannot stand the suspicion and the 
 gossip. When I go out I am watched. When I stay 
 at home the house is watched. At first I thought I
 
 i 4 6 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 could live it down, but it gets worse and worse, and 
 I can't, dear. I just haven't the courage." 
 
 He put his arm around her and drew her close 
 against him. "Don't you exaggerate, honey?" he 
 said at last. ' They can't be so much interested in 
 you as all that." 
 
 "Can't be?" she cried. "Let me give you an 
 example. Last night I felt that Mrs. Salsbury was 
 spying. I wanted to see. I opened the door and 
 ran down the steps, almost into Mr. Bond's arms." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Didn't Mr. Jennings tell you about it with pic- 
 turesque additions." 
 
 " So that was the truth of it," he said, more to 
 himself than to her. " I wondered what really hap- 
 pened." 
 
 "You see!" 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " I see. And it must be 
 devilishly hard for you, but that seems to me hardly 
 sufficient reason for running away. We don't want 
 them to think we were scared. Besides, we own the 
 house." 
 
 " I don't care what they think," she sobbed, resting 
 her head against his shoulder. " I wouldn't care if 
 we owned the Park. I'm just lonesome from morn- 
 ing to night no I shouldn't mind if I were alone
 
 HELEN 147 
 
 but the terror of knowing that one of those horri- 
 ble women may come at any moment not to see me, 
 but to pry into our lives I just can't endure it." 
 
 " Helen, sweetheart," he said, stroking her hair 
 and holding her close, and wondering what in the 
 world he could do with her " Helen please don't. 
 I've never seen you like this before. Why can't we 
 talk reasonably about it? It's so sudden, you know 
 that I can't think all in a minute what would be best. 
 That's a good girl. I knew you would be sensible." 
 
 She had pulled herself together and walked across 
 to the window, where she stood with her back to him. 
 " Of course, a thing like this, dear " he continued 
 tentatively " well, it's a big move, and we can't do 
 it in a rush. You say you don't want to live in South 
 Boston any more. I guess you must be out of sorts 
 so you don't think just right or you'd realise. Now 
 what would Uncle John think, do you suppose ? " 
 
 She turned sharply from the window. " I don't 
 care in the least what Uncle John thinks," she said. 
 " I have no interest in his opinions, and what's more," 
 she added, pointing to the mantelpiece, " wherever we 
 go that hideous vase is not going with us. I never 
 wanted to live in South Boston. I was never con- 
 sulted. There is not a soul in the place I care ever 
 to see again. I have tried my best and I have failed.
 
 i 4 8 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 You don't fail when you start to do things. That 
 is why you will never understand, and is one of the 
 reasons that made me marry you and has made me 
 love you. But I have failed. I haven't any courage 
 left to make another attempt, .and that is why I say 
 once more we must leave here as soon as possible." 
 She turned away again and stood looking over the 
 Park. 
 
 He crossed the room and put his hand on her 
 shoulder. " Helen, dearest," he whispered. 
 
 "Have you made up your mind?" she returned 
 in a hard voice. 
 
 He took his hand away abruptly. " No. This is 
 not the kind of thing that can be decided in a mo- 
 ment. I must think it over " 
 
 " Which means that you do not intend to move." 
 
 " Perhaps so. I can't say now, because we must 
 think of the future as well as the present. Now I 
 must go to Boston. Perhaps we can talk things over 
 again to-night." 
 
 " If I am here to-night." 
 
 "Helen. What do you mean?" 
 
 She turned toward him and suddenly threw her 
 arms around his neck. " I don't mean anything," 
 she said. " I am frightened at nothing and lone- 
 some. I am silly and cruel, but I want to go away
 
 HELEN 149 
 
 to be somewhere with you where I can help you 
 not drag you down." 
 
 " That would be impossible that you could drag 
 me down anywhere. Perhaps you can help most 
 right here. Then you would want to stay for the 
 year at least." 
 
 She shivered in his arms, but did not answer. 
 " Anyhow, I'll think it over," he continued, " and 
 perhaps talk with Bond. He's shown himself a good 
 friend." 
 
 " Oh, no. Not with him," she cried. " I can't 
 be under obligations to him." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 She stared at him with frightened eyes. " I don't 
 know. I don't want to see him again not for a long 
 time." 
 
 " Helen," he said sternly. " Don't act like a baby. 
 Try to think straight. To-night, when you are rea- 
 sonable, we'll have another talk. And one other 
 thing. Don't go to Boston to-day. I'm afraid to 
 have you ride in the cars. Stay at home or else go 
 and see some of the people in the Park." 
 
 " Very well," she said bitterly. " Perhaps Mrs. 
 Jennings might like me to drop in with my knitting." 
 
 " That is for you to decide. All I insist is that 
 you do not ride in the cars."
 
 150 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 "Aren't you exaggerating the danger?" 
 
 " Perhaps you will admit that I am the best judge 
 of that. Good-bye." He kissed her cheek and hur- 
 ried from the room. Through the window Helen 
 watched him go, and caught her breath when he did 
 not wave to her as usual. 
 
 Then, mechanically, she went about her morning 
 household duties, feeling as she did them the strange 
 hold that routine has even in times of stress. She 
 moved silently, gave her orders to the maid in a 
 curiously repressed voice, as though some one were 
 lying dead in an adjoining room. The surface of 
 her mind seemed to work automatically, while within 
 there was a lifeless chamber of despair. She made 
 her little tasks last as long as possible, because when 
 they were over she knew that she must think, and that 
 she did not dare to do. 
 
 But finally all was finished. She went upstairs, her 
 feet dragging, and sat down with her knitting before 
 the open window. She felt physically sick and passed 
 her cold hand wonderingly across her hot forehead. 
 That, at least, was something to think about. She 
 had never been ill in her life and could not under- 
 stand it. But suddenly the spectre of her despair 
 once more leaped into the foreground of her mind. 
 She looked shudderingly into the future. " After
 
 HELEN 151 
 
 a year, perhaps," Henry had said. She had not the 
 power to bridge that gap death might come first 
 or madness. Again she saw visions, but not ordered 
 ones, consoling, as her visions usually were. Pictures 
 of the strikers screaming their hatred of the world, 
 of herself being stoned by Mrs. Jennings and the 
 women and children of South Boston. Then a blind- 
 ing glare seemed to overwhelm her and she fell back 
 in her chair. When she came to herself she was 
 conscious that some one was knocking at the door. 
 " Come in," she called feebly. 
 
 The maid entered, a letter in her hand. " Why, 
 ma'am," she cried at sight of Helen's face. " You 
 look awful sick. Will I ring for the doctor? " 
 
 " No, Mary, I'm not sick just very tired. Give 
 me the letter. And, Mary, I should like you in the 
 future to wear a cap when you are not in the 
 kitchen." 
 
 " A cap, ma'am? " she said. " No, ma'am, I can't 
 do that. I only wears caps when I'm working for 
 the quality, ma'am." 
 
 " Oh, is that the rule? " she said gently. " Per- 
 haps it's of no consequence. I think it looks well 
 that's all. You may go now. I shall not be at home 
 for luncheon." 
 
 The maid dropped her belligerent air. " Much
 
 152 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 as I'd like to do it to oblige you, ma'am, I really 
 couldn't, you know." 
 
 " As I said, Mary, it's of no consequence." She 
 began to open her letter and did not look around as 
 the girl left the room. 
 
 "MRS. HENRY MURPHY," she read, "Madam: 
 This is to inform you that at a special meeting of the 
 South Boston Ladies' Thursday Morning Intellectual 
 Improvement Society your name was dropped from 
 the list by a standing vote " " I wonder whether a 
 standing vote is more definite than a sitting one," 
 she said to herself. " This is a very unusual act," 
 the letter continued, " and is only resorted to in very 
 peculiar and untowered circumstances. It was ren- 
 dered necessary in this instance for the following rea- 
 sons, ist. By your unseemly actions with men in 
 public places. 2ndly. By your entertaining of other 
 men in your home during the absence of your hus- 
 band. And 3rdly. By your general reputation for 
 light conduct that is improper in a member of 
 a serious intellectual Society. To the above vote and 
 the reasons therefore I hereto set my hand and seal 
 in the presence of witnesses. 
 
 ( " Signed) AMANDA J. JENNINGS, President." 
 
 Helen laughed almost light-heartedly as she 
 folded the letter. If this were tragedy, surely it was 
 tricked out in all the beribboned. costume of farce
 
 HELEN 153 
 
 comedy. Moreover, it was something tangible, mean- 
 ing isolation, perhaps, but at the same time relief 
 from the importunities perhaps from the curiosity 
 of her neighbours. It was something she could 
 grasp. She took out a sheet of note-paper to answer 
 immediately, and wrote: 
 
 " MY DEAR MRS. JENNINGS : Your communica- 
 tion has just reached me. I accept gladly the decision 
 of your Society in the hope that your action which 
 must seem to you the extreme of punishment will 
 cause you and your friends to look with more charity 
 on my doings, during the remaining time that I shall 
 be among you, and that, perhaps, since you need 
 no longer feel responsible for me, you will not con- 
 sider it necessary to give up so much of your valuable 
 time to the inspection and discussion of my move- 
 ments. In justification of myself I must add that 
 since living in South Boston I have done nothing 
 of which my own conscience disapproves nor to which 
 my husband finds it necessary to take exception. 
 Thanking you for the many kindnesses which you 
 so carefully explained to me yesterday morning, I am, 
 sincerely, 
 
 " HELEN MURPHY." 
 
 She glanced over the note, smiled to herself, and, 
 calling her maid, sent it to its destination. 
 
 But when it was gone and she had taken up her
 
 154 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 knitting she felt again die dangers of her imagina- 
 tion. It was always imminent her despair ready 
 to dose in upon her. Suddenly she remembered that 
 she had said she would not be at home for luncheon. 
 She would go to Boston. Among the people in the 
 streets, in a hotel dining-room, perhaps, she could 
 regain her poise, look the world squarely in the face 
 once more, be ready to talk with Henry rationally 
 the only way, she felt, that could possibly have any 
 effect. Had she not decided long ago to lead him, 
 through his reason, to her way of thinking? Well, 
 it had come sooner than she planned. She could not 
 carry him with her insensibly, step by step. But even 
 so, she realised that hysterics would be of no avail. 
 Time must be replaced by keener wit, gradual per- 
 suasion by cogent reasoning. For that, perfect con- 
 trol of mind and body was essential, and never before 
 had she so thoroughly distrusted both. She could 
 not be on the verge of illness. She had no time for 
 that. And yet she feared it because every fibre, phys- 
 ical as well as nervous, quivered. Obviously she must 
 have distraction, and hurriedly, almost blindly, she 
 changed into a street suit and left the house. 
 
 As she turned down the hill to the car line she 
 stopped short, remembering Henry's injunction that 
 under no circumstances should she ride in the cars.
 
 HELEN 155 
 
 But her hesitation was only momentary. In its place 
 flared up an unreasoning anger. She felt toward 
 Henry as an unjustly accused prisoner might feel to- 
 ward a goaler who had been extraordinarily land to 
 him, who trusted him, and who had yet tried to cut off 
 a chance to escape. To Helen this excursion to Bos- 
 ton was an escape, a release from surroundings that 
 had become for the time being intolerable. Still 
 more did it mean a possible lifting of the veil, a 
 chance to regain the balance that she knew to be 
 imperative to any effective discussion with Henry. 
 She continued down the hill. 
 
 At its foot she met Mr. Jennings. " Sakes alive," 
 he cried, as he seized her hand. " You do look sick, 
 Mrs. Murphy." 
 
 " No," she said irritably, " I am not sick; I am 
 merely very hot and rather cross." 
 
 " I don't believe it the last, I mean. You ain't 
 that kind, even if things do rub die wrong way. 
 They have done that lately, what?" 
 
 " Things? I admit that nothing very pleasant has 
 happened. And I dislike being watched." 
 
 " I just bet you do. It's about the meanest feeling 
 * feller can have begging your pardon for caning 
 you a feller. Don't I know how it feels? Every 
 time there's any political move on don't they all watch
 
 156 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 me as if I was a menace to the public peace, just 
 setting in my room devising tricks to plunder the city, 
 when they all know, way deep in their minds, that 
 I'm as innocent as a blasted lamb. But I got used 
 to it just as you will. When I feel inclined to 
 get to ruminating over it I just says to myself, ' Let 
 'em watch. There's nothing they can find. My con- 
 science is easy, and if the poor things can get so all- 
 fired much pleasure by guessing nonsense about things 
 they know ain't true why, just let 'em guess.' Then 
 I just naturally don't care a durn more about it." 
 
 " I'm afraid I'm not built to take things so philo- 
 sophically." 
 
 " No? Well, women ain't, as a general rule, but 
 I guessed you might be different. It's their nature to 
 take things hard even good advice. Now, f'r in- 
 stance, when Mrs. Jennings was talking about you 
 last evening I told her just about what I've told you 
 about me being watched and what I thought. And 
 she well, she sure took it hard." 
 
 Helen could not help laughing. " That was how 
 Henry happened to meet you in the Park? " 
 
 " Did he tell you that? Now, that isn't what I 
 call real neighbourly to give away a fellow-man. 
 But, nevertheless, since you know about that, I don't 
 mind telling you that in the present uncertain condi-
 
 HELEN 157 
 
 tion of the weather I wouldn't overly like to be seen 
 talking to you on the street corner." His eyes 
 twinkled as he said it. 
 
 " You need not worry," she said. " Personal in- 
 spection, except accidentally, does not extend beyond 
 the Park." 
 
 " That's true. They haven't done anything more 
 to you, have they? " 
 
 " Only to call a meeting and expel me from the 
 Club. And by a standing vote, too. Is that very 
 terrible a standing vote ? " 
 
 "Now I call that rubbing it in," he said angrily; 
 " you mean from the S. B. L. T. M. I. I. S., don't 
 you? It took me quite several years to learn that. 
 But I guess you're bearing up, ain't you? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered, smiling. " I seem to be 
 bearing up. I'm going to Boston to forget all about 
 it. Here comes my car at last." 
 
 "You're not going by trolley? I wouldn't do 
 that, Mrs. Murphy. It might be safe, but then 
 again it mightn't. I don't believe Henry would 
 like it." 
 
 " So he told me, Mr. Jennings; but I must go to 
 Boston and I can't walk." 
 
 " Why not take a cab ? " 
 
 " It's too expensive and I have not time."
 
 i 5 8 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " Then let me go along with you," he cried, as she 
 stepped into the street to hail the car. 
 
 " And lose your hold on the strikers by riding in 
 a car managed by strike-breakers? No, Mr. Jen- 
 nings. Please. I should rather be alone." 
 
 " By gosh," he muttered as the car moved away. 
 " If women don't beat all. Anyhow, I guess there 
 ain't any real danger. And now for a pleasant family 
 reunion with Mrs. J."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 STEPHEN rose that morning after a night of mental 
 and moral torture. At one moment he resolved never 
 to see her again at least not for a year. Then the 
 time was cut down, and down, until he was convinced 
 that the only strong course would be to see her im- 
 mediately to show her that he could be a man. At 
 that point he always switched on the light to look 
 at his watch. Again he contemplated flight abroad 
 to Africa anywhere that forgetfulness might be 
 found. At such moments he was obsessed with a 
 deep-lying anger against Helen, that she had brought 
 him to such a state. Or again he slept fitfully only 
 to dream of her until some horror dragged her 
 away and he woke, coughing, sometimes almost 
 strangling, it seemed. 
 
 Soon after six he was out of bed and roaming 
 about the still quiet house in his pyjamas. A cold 
 shower calmed him a little, so that he looked less 
 haggard when he demanded breakfast from the 
 startled Spriggs an hour later. After breakfast a 
 reckless gallop through the Parkway so much further 
 restored his mental equilibrium that when he entered 
 
 159
 
 160 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 his office, as usual punctually at nine, his stenographer 
 noticed nothing out of the way. Like Helen he found 
 temporary forgetfulness, or better, temporary obscur- 
 ing of the more active portion of his mind, in the 
 anaesthesia of routine duties. He found to his sur- 
 prise that he could devote himself, apparently as 
 clearly as ever, to consideration of the multifarious 
 demands of his customers. But always, when there 
 came a cessation of work, there surged up the im- 
 perative question of what he should do, and he knew 
 himself as far from decision as ever. At last he 
 pushed back his chair and closed his desk. " I am 
 going over to the office of Mr. Henry Murphy," he 
 said to a clerk as he passed through the outer office. 
 " If anything important comes up you may telephone 
 me there, during the next half hour; and, by the way, 
 I may have to take the one o'clock train for New 
 York, in which case I shall not be here to-morrow." 
 
 " You remember, sir, that Mr. Thompson is com- 
 ing on from Chicago to-morrow. You usually see 
 him yourself." 
 
 " I had forgotten. Well, if he comes and cannot 
 stay a couple of days as usual, turn him over to Mr. 
 Stuyvesant." 
 
 As he walked down the street Stephen marvelled 
 at himself. He thought rather grimly of a little,
 
 HELEN 161 
 
 exquisitely embroidered bookmark his grandmother 
 had worked for him while he was still a schoolboy 
 and which he carried always in his pocketbook a 
 narrow slip of faded ribbon with the motto " Know 
 Thyself." It had been his monitor, and until yester- 
 day he had believed that he had fully lived up to its 
 teaching. To-day he was a stranger to himself. He 
 had left his office on impulse, said he might go to 
 New York, on impulse he, who had never spent a 
 penny without due consideration. Moncrieff was 
 right in saying that the man in control only of the 
 intellectual part of himself was like an automobile 
 run by a mechanic who understood perfectly the en- 
 gine but had no conception of the steering gear. He 
 felt only too keenly the mad indirection of that sup- 
 posedly excellent machine, himself. 
 
 He hurried, as he walked, and at the same time 
 wondered why he should hurry, except that he was 
 doing everything unreasonably. Even as he took the 
 elevator to Henry's office it occurred to him that he 
 had nothing in the world to talk about, that the call 
 would only uselessly irritate his already overstrained 
 nerves. For a moment he thought of going back, 
 and then remembered that he had said at his office 
 where he was to be and that a telephone message 
 might come for him. He felt that he could not go
 
 162 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 through the ordeal of explaining anything to any- 
 body. 
 
 Henry was glad to see him, and Stephen knew that 
 anger and contempt would have been a more appro- 
 priate reception. " You are a busy man," he said 
 quickly. " I shall not keep you long." 
 
 " I am never too busy to see you," Henry replied, 
 " because I always learn something worth while. Be- 
 sides, I particularly wanted to talk to you. I suppose 
 you came about the strike." 
 
 " Yes," Stephen answered vaguely, " about the 
 strike. How is it? " 
 
 " Bad, damn bad. It's got beyond us, I guess. 
 Both sides are out for blood now, and I must admit 
 at last I don't much blame the company. They've 
 tried and they've made concessions. Of course that 
 fool Staples prejudiced their case, but still, if it could 
 have been settled without interference it would have 
 been. Now, with these union representatives making 
 trouble it looks as though there'd be the devil to 
 
 pay." 
 
 "Serious trouble, you think?" 
 
 " It looks like it and that will mean every news- 
 paper in the city against the strikers. At the com- 
 mencement they had public sympathy." 
 
 " It is important, I suppose public sympathy? "
 
 HELEN 163 
 
 " Important ! Of course it is. It's nearly the 
 whole game, and if they try violence as they will 
 every one will cry them down. What were they work- 
 ing for at first? For a living wage, clean houses, 
 decency. That appeals to every one. Now what is 
 it? That the union shall dictate. That don't appeal 
 to any one especially when the car service is almost 
 at a standstill and self-respecting women don't dare 
 go into the streets of an evening. And now they'll 
 kill for what they want. The decent fight was all 
 used up on the decent object." 
 
 " You really think there is danger, then? " 
 
 " No, I don't think. I know it. Haven't I been 
 telling you so for ten minutes? I am so sure, I told 
 Helen she must not think of coming to town to-day. 
 What's the matter with you, Bond. You don't seem 
 a bit like you usually do this morning." 
 
 " Don't I? It must be hard on Mrs. Murphy to 
 feel that she must not leave South Boston. I don't 
 believe she is very happy there, do you? " 
 
 " No, she isn't," Henry answered gloomily, " and 
 I wanted to get your advice about it though she 
 said I mustn't. She isn't happy and I can't see why 
 she shouldn't be." 
 
 " Is there any reason why she should be? " 
 
 " Yes, you bet there is. She has a good home, with
 
 164 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 every comfort; it's in the best location in South Bos- 
 ton, airy, good view, and easy to the cars. Mighty 
 few young women start life so well. What's more, 
 it's a first-rate spot to bring up a family in." 
 
 " Good Lord ! " Stephen interrupted involuntarily. 
 " Don't check up advantages with respect to possibili- 
 ties. There are enough horrible actualities." 
 
 " A man must think of the future." 
 
 " To be sure he must, but never to the extent of 
 letting the future play havoc with the present. Re- 
 member that the future is built on the past and that 
 if the past is ruined the foundations will never hold. 
 South Boston will not have many advantages as a 
 playground if there is no mother to bring children 
 into the world." 
 
 Henry grew very pale and gripped the arms of his 
 chair until the veins of his hands stood out like cords. 
 " What do you mean? " he muttered. 
 
 " I mean," Stephen said bitterly, " that even if a 
 woman lives in a palace, where the life-giving airs 
 of the world blow through the chambers and where 
 the view from every window is a delight that woman 
 will still starve and droop and die without appro- 
 priate companionship. She may lose her ideals and 
 live in the companionship of servants. Your wife 
 has the high, pure flame that flutters toward like
 
 HELEN 165 
 
 flames that burn in the minds and hearts of her equals. 
 Quench the flame starve the flame that is in her, and 
 you have killed her the part of her, at least, that 
 makes her beautiful." He stopped suddenly and 
 stood up. " I am afraid I am talking foolishly." 
 
 " I guess you are," Henry said doubtfully. " It 
 sounded to me something like the rot we had to read 
 in school. But I did gather that you thought I ought 
 to take Helen away from South Boston too much 
 water there for her ' fluttering flame ' or something 
 of that sort. Was that right? " 
 
 Stephen walked up and down the room before an- 
 swering. " Yes. I am tired, Murphy. Things seem 
 to get on my nerves and I never knew I had any 
 nerves. I will try to be understandable in giving 
 advice that I have no right to give. Mrs. Murphy 
 is a peculiarly fine and sensitive woman. She is lonely 
 because there is no one with whom she can associate, 
 and women, far more than men, are dependent on 
 companionship. That terrible thing that happened 
 yesterday with Moncrieff well, it seems to me final. 
 No husband can have the right to risk the repetition 
 of such an ordeal." 
 
 " Did Helen tell you about it?" 
 
 " No, Moncrieff did." 
 
 " I'm sorry you heard about it. As to moving,
 
 166 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 you don't understand the practical difficulties. Be- 
 sides, I don't want the people in South Boston to 
 think we were scared, and turned tail and ran. I want 
 Helen to live it down, to make those people respect 
 her." 
 
 " What does she care for their opinion? " 
 
 " She ought to care for the opinion of all respecta- 
 ble people. No man and no woman can afford to go 
 without it." 
 
 " And so, for fear of risking the bad opinion of 
 the Jenningses and their kind you are willing to ruin 
 the health and the happiness of your wife, who is so 
 much above them that she ought not even to know 
 they exist " 
 
 " That's about enough," Henry interrupted an- 
 grily. " It appears to me that you're making out a 
 mighty poor case because you underestimate my wife. 
 She's not such a weakling as you think. It's true, she 
 was upset this morning," he added a little less confi- 
 dently. " But a year from now, when she has made 
 good with the people you despise so much, nobody 
 will be gladder than her that she stuck it out." 
 
 " Made good," Stephen echoed. " She will never 
 make good with them because they are incapable of 
 understanding her. The longer you stay the nastier 
 will be their gossip "
 
 HELEN 167 
 
 " Perhaps there wouldn't be as much of that if you 
 hung around a little less." 
 
 Stephen sprang to his feet. ' That remark was 
 quite unnecessary, Murphy," he said. " I shall not 
 trouble her again with my unwelcome attentions. But 
 mark my words, a woman like Mrs. Murphy can 
 stand just so much vulgarity and no more. She is 
 already bent far under this load. Be careful that she 
 does not break." He took his hat and strode from 
 the room, glancing once, as he passed through the 
 door, at Henry, who sat at his desk, his head bent, 
 thinking. 
 
 As he walked along the street toward his own 
 office Stephen felt the old doubts return, the old 
 questions clamouring for an answer. For the first time 
 in his life he thought of himself as adrift, without 
 a compass. He remembered suddenly a story that 
 a friend had told him of some foreigners who were 
 racing in American waters, against American boats. 
 " I found," the man had said, " that they were racing 
 without a compass. I offered to lend them mine. 
 4 Oh, no,' they answered, ' we can just follow the 
 American boats.' But," his friend had added as he 
 passed them the compass, " you must take it, anyhow. 
 If the good Lord should let you get ahead, what 
 in the devil would you do? " For him there was no
 
 i68 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 friend with a compass, and had there been he could 
 not have used it. He was sailing through uncharted 
 seas and the magnet of conscious virtue which had 
 always been his guide had failed him. Helen was 
 the only magnet in his life now and to her influence 
 only he responded. 
 
 In obedience to this he took a car there were very 
 few passing to South Boston. It was not to be 
 nearer her, he argued, but to study the strike where 
 it was known to be most virulent. Perhaps he would 
 see again the mad-eyed giant who had ordered him 
 off the bridge the night before. From him he might 
 get news. At the corner of Broadway and Dorchester 
 Avenue he continued on foot. The street was almost 
 deserted, except for occasional groups of unkempt 
 men who dispersed, or fell into a sullen silence, at 
 his approach. Among them he recognised the faces 
 of conductors who had taken his fare in the past. 
 They glowered at the cars that occasionally went by, 
 and once or twice he saw a brick hurled, half- 
 heartedly, and falling short of its mark. There was 
 something horrible in the Sunday quiet, in the aspect 
 of the shops that looked as though they had retreated 
 into back rooms, in the utter absence of children's 
 voices. It was as though the world were holding its 
 breath as it watched the cars, magnified into senseless
 
 HELEN 169 
 
 importance, crawling back and forth. He thought 
 of Helen, sitting lonely in her house, and in the 
 leaden silence and emptiness even she seemed to 
 shrink. 
 
 And then he saw her. She was sitting in the third 
 seat of an open car almost the only passenger 
 and she was staring ahead, absorbed in her own 
 thoughts, pitifully unconscious of the mute emptiness 
 of the world. " Perhaps," Stephen thought, " it 
 matches only too well her own blank vision." From 
 a group of strikers near him he heard a gruff voice 
 remark, somewhat anxiously, he thought, "Two 
 women on that car," and the answer, " If they're 
 such damn fools they've got to take the consequences." 
 
 The meaningless, but in some way significant words, 
 stung him to instant action. He dashed into the 
 street, caught the car, and swung himself aboard. 
 
 " You ! " Helen cried, startled from her apathy. 
 
 He could not speak for a moment, the sudden ex- 
 ertion making him cough and breathe hard. " I 
 thought Murphy told me that you would not ride 
 on the cars to-day." 
 
 "Is there real danger?" she questioned, her eyes 
 opening suddenly very wide. 
 
 <r I think so. I don't know what. It's in the air." 
 
 She looked around, as though to see for herself
 
 i7o THE GREEN VASE 
 
 what he meant, realised the deserted streets, the 
 groups of men who watched them curiously as they 
 passed, and shivered. " If there is danger, why are 
 you here? " 
 
 " I saw you." 
 
 " But why are you in South Boston at all? " 
 
 " I don't know. I was looking over the ground. 
 Perhaps I wanted to be near in case of trouble." 
 
 " That is Henry's place." 
 
 " Yes, I know. You don't need to remind me. 
 But he thought you would stay in the house all day.'' 
 
 "And you did not?" 
 
 " It seems now as though I knew you would not. 
 At the time I just let myself go where instinct led 
 me." 
 
 " You said last night " 
 
 " Yes, I have gone back on my word. But I did 
 not set out meaning to see you. I'm not sorry." 
 
 The car stopped at the corner of Dorchester Ave- 
 nue to take on passengers, eight or ten of them. As 
 it was about to start a man tore himself from the 
 grasp of his mates on the sidewalk and sprang to 
 the car. He caught Helen's dress and pulled her. 
 " Get out," he cried roughly, " I won't have you 
 here!" 
 
 Helen drew away from him, terrified. He was
 
 HELEN 171 
 
 hatless and coatless. His hair was a tangled mass, 
 his face was stained with dirt, and his shirt, torn 
 open at the neck, showed his great hairy chest. 
 
 He pulled Helen again, almost tearing her dress, 
 and crying over and over, " Get out! Get out! " 
 
 Stephen, raging with a sudden fury, leaned across 
 her and struck the man in the face. The blow 
 knocked him from the running board, and, as the 
 car was already moving, he fell heavily into the 
 street. Women screamed. Every one, except Helen, 
 stood up to see what would happen, but to the sur- 
 prise of every one the strikers, instead of following, 
 picked up their fallen comrade and drew back to the 
 sidewalk, where they stood, silently, watching the 
 car as it sped toward the bridge. 
 
 Stephen sat down and wiped his hands. " The 
 brute! " he said. " Did he hurt you? " 
 
 " No," she answered after a moment. " He did 
 not hurt me but I am horribly afraid. That was 
 O'Leary, I think you remember who had dinner 
 at our house weeks ago." 
 
 " O'Leary? He didn't see me, I think. And why 
 should he act like such a brute? I thought he was 
 a very decent fellow." 
 
 " I don't know but I'm afraid horribly afraid, 
 I tell you. I want to get out. Come, please come."
 
 172 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 The tears were running down her cheeks. " Oh, 
 why isn't Henry here. He would take me away. 
 He always knows what to do." She stood up, but 
 Stephen caught her to prevent her from jumping from 
 the swiftly moving car. 
 
 She struggled to free herself, and then stiffened as 
 a deep roar shattered the air. " The bridge ! " some 
 one screamed. The whole structure seemed to crum- 
 ble away. The car rose bodily, tipped forward, hung 
 quivering a moment, then plunged through the great 
 rent in the pavement down to the brown water.
 
 BOOK II 
 STEPHEN
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 IT was late summer. Stephen sat at the desk in his 
 office reading the morning paper. He was very pale, 
 almost grey, in startling contrast to the clerks, who 
 were brown, with a normal summer's tan. His 
 cheeks were hollow and his sunken eyes were dull and 
 lifeless. He looked up wearily as his partner entered 
 the room. 
 
 Mr. Stuyvesant was a man of about fifty, smooth- 
 shaven, with iron-grey hair, tall and lean, but quiv- 
 ering with life. He was always immaculate in his 
 dress, bordering on the dandy, his friends told him, 
 but was too thoroughly masculine ever to be called 
 effeminate. He patted Stephen affectionately on the 
 shoulder as he sat down. " I want to talk to you, old 
 man," he said, " seriously." 
 
 Stephen smiled. " Fire away." 
 
 " I don't know quite how to begin. It is hard to 
 tell a fellow you like that he looks like hell but you 
 do." 
 
 " I have had a suspicion of that for some time 
 myself," Stephen answered with a mirthless laugh. 
 
 175
 
 176 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " But I never considered myself an Adonis, you 
 know." 
 
 " It isn't a question of personal beauty, my boy, it's 
 a matter of health." 
 
 " Oh, as to health I am well enough. Trained 
 down a little fine, perhaps." 
 
 " That's rot. No man who sits at his desk all day 
 and coughs, is well. It doesn't take a doctor to tell 
 you that." 
 
 " I have always had a cough. It is nothing but 
 an irritation in the throat." 
 
 ' Yes, that comes from trouble lower down. You 
 ought to take a vacation, out in the open air." 
 
 " I did take a vacation last June for a month." 
 
 " But where? You disappear without giving any 
 warning except that you might take the one o'clock to 
 New York and the day at that of our beastly bridge 
 explosion." Stephen let fall the paper-weight he held 
 in his hand and stoopd to pick it up, coughing vio- 
 lently in consequence. " Yes, and no word for a 
 week then only a line that you are not well and will 
 stay away two or three weeks. You send no address. 
 You come back at last looking as though you had 
 been through the third degree and then stick to your 
 desk all through the hot weather while I am abroad." 
 
 " I always went away from Friday to Monday."
 
 STEPHEN 177 
 
 " Yes. To New York. The Lord knows there 
 isn't any open air there. I am worried about you, 
 Steve, genuinely worried. Will you see a doctor?" 
 
 " No, I will not." 
 
 " Will you take a month off? " 
 
 Stephen hesitated. " Perhaps I will. I'll tell you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Good so long as you decide to do it. Go to 
 Canada shooting, or West New York won't do you 
 any good." 
 
 " If I go I promise not to stay in New York," 
 Stephen answered. 
 
 "All right. That's something accomplished. 
 Now I must beat it for the stock exchange. Be good 
 to yourself." 
 
 Left alone Stephen began once more his mechanical 
 reading of the newspaper. But suddenly his apathy 
 gave way to an alert attention. The article that 
 caught his eye was headed, " Strange and Improbable 
 Echo of the Bridge Disaster. Story told by sailor 
 may have bearing on the mysterious disappearance 
 of the body of Mrs. Murphy." Stephen laid the 
 paper on the desk, and supporting his head in his 
 hands read rapidly. " The London Standard this 
 morning prints the following article : A sailor off the 
 ship Constance from New York and Boston has an
 
 i 7 8 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 extraordinary story to tell of a man and a woman 
 who were rescued from the water immediately after 
 the famous blowing up of a bridge in Boston, U. S. 
 A., last June, a disaster, it will be remembered, which 
 was the culmination of the great strike of the em- 
 ployees of the street railway company in that city. It 
 appears, from the sailor's story, that the Constance 
 had her clearance papers and was proceeding down 
 the harbour when the explosion occurred, well within 
 sight of the ship. Some few minutes later, the tide 
 running strongly in their direction, a man was made 
 out in the water, supporting the unconscious form of 
 a woman. A boat was immediately lowered and the 
 two taken aboard. The captain, much irritated at 
 a possible delay and inquest, was only too glad to 
 proceed immediately on his way to New York. The 
 man, who gave his name as Fales, resident in New 
 York, said that he and his wife were rowing when 
 the explosion occurred, and that a block of stone de- 
 molished the boat and injured the woman. As the 
 Constance carries a doctor, this Fales was only too 
 glad to proceed immediately to New York, hoping 
 so to escape the publicity that would be forced upon 
 him by the American press. On reaching New York, 
 the sailor asserted, the man, Fales, had his wife re- 
 rmyyed in an ambulance, leaving as an address a
 
 STEPHEN 179 
 
 well-known hotel. The sailor, who claims that he was 
 in command of the boat that rescued Mr. and Mrs. 
 Fales, asserted that he afterward called at the hotel, 
 but could find no trace of the people in question. 
 Unfortunately the captain of the Constance died on 
 the voyage to England, and before the sailor became 
 loquacious the ship had sailed on her return voyage 
 to America." The editor then continued in his own 
 words. " This story seems to us in all probability 
 the invention of a man thirsting for notoriety. It is 
 unlikely that the destruction of a rowboat would have 
 escaped the notice of the hundreds who claim to have 
 witnessed the disaster. The only point worthy of 
 note is that one body, that of Mrs. Murphy, is known 
 not to have been recovered, and that, as Mr. O'Leary 
 testified, a man was sitting next her when the car 
 approached the bridge. Who this man was, or 
 whether his body was one of those recovered, will 
 never be known. On the whole, the story may well 
 be put down as fictional, although naturally exam- 
 ination of the facts should be made when the Con- 
 stance again reaches America." 
 
 Stephen sat for a long time, his head still resting 
 in his hands, staring blindly at the paper. The 
 crude account, by its omissions as well as by what it 
 actually told, brought back with terrifying vividness
 
 i8o THE GREEN VASE 
 
 all the details of that hideous morning. )f its possi- 
 ble import to him, to-day, over three months later, 
 he took no account. Its only effect was to set once 
 more in motion the pitilessly final procession of events. 
 At the beginning they were chaotic a bewilderment 
 of noise, of falling, of struggling in the water. He 
 had believed it was death, and his only endeavour 
 had been to hold fast to Helen. The first clear im- 
 pression had been one of wonder when he found his 
 head above water and looked down at the face be- 
 side him, white except for the blood that trickled from 
 a deep gash in the forehead, apparently the face of 
 a dead woman. Then the rescue, when he laid her, 
 still living the doctor told him, on a seat in the cabin 
 of the ship. Only then, as he looked down on her 
 unconscious form, had the desperate longing and 
 hopelessness of the past weeks suddenly culminated 
 in decisive action. With reason in complete abey- 
 ance, he had been conscious only of an impelling need 
 of her. Was her life not owing to him, and therefore 
 his, to do with as he would. He had not thought. 
 The arrangement with the captain to take them to 
 New York had not looked beyond the moment. The 
 future must take care of itself. And he had never 
 had a regret he was sure of that. During all the 
 weks that he had watched her as she lay unconscious
 
 STEPHEN 181 
 
 on the ship, and later in the little cottage he had 
 taken in a secluded village in Jersey all the time 
 he was glad. It had been a long, bitter fight with 
 death. The necessity of work for her, when he was 
 with her, of planning for her when he had to be in 
 Boston, had kept him from thinking much of her 
 awakening. It might come at any time now, the 
 doctors said must indeed come soon if it came at 
 all. They had warned him of the possibilities mad- 
 ness or idiocy or obliteration of the past. He had 
 taken it all stoically, they thought but they did not 
 know what joy there was in his heart at what seemed 
 to them so dreadful. If she woke herself well, it 
 did not seem possible that she could take any other 
 point of view than his because to him it was so obvi- 
 ous. But deep down in him there was a conscious- 
 ness that remembered her cry, " If Henry were only 
 here ! " He preferred that it should not be an issue, 
 sure as he was of success. If she had lost her mind? 
 He could look on that possibility with equanimity, 
 even if with profound sorrow, because he Had found 
 that his love for Helen was not an extraneous thing, 
 dependent on any conditions. He did not love in 
 that way. Rather was his love an outbreathing of 
 himself, as much a part of him as life. He couldj 
 therefore, give himself up to an endless care of her
 
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 1 84 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 I did not understand her perhaps not as well as you 
 did. She was too fine for me then. I might have 
 grown to her because I loved her so much." 
 
 41 So did I." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 " Yes, I. We can never understand each other 
 unless you know that. I should never have told you 
 before the accident. But now you ought to know." 
 
 " You loved her, even though she was my wife? " 
 
 " I did. I could not help the accident that she 
 was your wife." He talked brokenly because his 
 breath was short. 
 
 "Did Helen know this?" 
 
 11 She knew it." 
 
 " And did she Oh, no, I cannot ask that. 
 
 Life holds little enough as it is." 
 
 " She did not love me," Stephen interposed quickly. 
 At the cost of a lie he would gladly have given that 
 solace to the suffering man. The truth was harder 
 to tell, but he told it. " She loved you only you. 
 That was my tragedy. She liked me, for myself, I 
 think but she held to me only because I was a repre- 
 sentative, as it happened, of the people with whom 
 she belonged." 
 
 Henry leaned forward and put his hand over 
 Stephen's, " Thank you, Bond," he said in a quiver-!
 
 STEPHEN 185 
 
 ing voice. " It was hard for you to tell me that. 
 That's how I know it's true. The future looks pretty 
 dark to me sometimes, without Helen, but I always 
 have her love to remember and that gives me a pur- 
 pose to make myself more like her, more like she 
 wanted me to be. And if the memory of her love 
 had been taken away well, there wouldn't have been 
 much to make the struggle worth the price, would 
 there? If I had thought she was false I couldn't pos- 
 sibly have believed any one. That's why I thank 
 you." 
 
 Stephen looked at him searchingly. It seemed to 
 him that already the man's face was finer, that he 
 was reaching out toward appreciation of the more 
 delicate things of life. Almost overpoweringly he 
 realised that Henry had always been a better man 
 than he, that now he was beating out for himself, 
 inch by inch, a knowledge of those things which were 
 instinctive with those fortunate enough to be gentle 
 born, and that when he had succeeded he would be 
 not only a better, but a finer man. And if a finer 
 
 man, a fitter mate for Helen But no that was 
 
 not a possible question. She was no longer Mrs. 
 Murphy, and this man, Henry Murphy, had no more 
 claim on her than any other. He himself believed 
 his wife to be dead and she was. Mrs. Murphy had
 
 i86 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 been killed in the bridge explosion on June 1 6th and 
 her body had never been recovered. The white-faced, 
 scarred, unconscious woman in the little New Jersey 
 town was a quite different person, the wife, not yet 
 publicly acknowledged, of Mr. Stephen Bond. 
 
 To Stephen there was no doubt of this, yet his 
 intellect liked to play with the question, especially 
 now, with the man who might, if he knew, put in 
 some preposterous claim. " Much as she loved you, 
 however," he said, " I do not believe she would have 
 been able to bear, indefinitely, the life she was living. 
 She might not have ceased to love you, but I think 
 she would have left you. The incessant irritation of 
 her surroundings, the absolute contradiction of every 
 instinct of her real self, would gradually have broken 
 her power of resistance." 
 
 " Of resistance to what? " 
 
 " To me, for example." Stephen smiled. " After 
 the accident, I realised that the point had nearly been 
 reached where I should have thrown prudence and de- 
 cency as the world considers decency to the winds. 
 And I could have offered her everything that you de- 
 nied her." 
 
 " You could have offered her nothing, except regret 
 and sorrow," Henry said sharply. " But if she had 
 been blinded as you were, I think, after a time, I
 
 STEPHEN 187 
 
 should have understood as I understood many things 
 when it was too late." 
 
 " What should you have done? " 
 
 " I should have asked her to come home and she 
 would have come." 
 
 Stephen started. " What makes you think that? " 
 
 " Because she loved me and would always have 
 loved me." He said it quite simply, as admitting 
 of no argument. " But why discuss such questions? 
 Impossible as they are, they stain Helen's memory 
 and your honour. You have thought about it so 
 much that you have lost the sense of your own moral 
 strength." 
 
 " No. Instead, the accident has taught me that 
 I have a moral strength that would rise above the 
 tenets of conventional morality, that would seize for 
 its own what greater love and greater need had made 
 its own. I have swept aside the grave-clothes of 
 my over-civilised ancestors cerements of convention- 
 alised morality that each generation has sought to 
 bind about its descendants. I have conquered once 
 more my heritage." Stephen's face glowed as he 
 talked. He stood up, erect, looking straight ahead, 
 as though into the eyes of a vision. ' You have had 
 her past. Her future is mine." 
 
 Henry, too, rose from his chair and stood looking
 
 i88 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 into Stephen's shining face. The tears were in his 
 own eyes. " I am glad you told me that you loved 
 her," he said gently. " The love of two good men 
 is finer than the love of one, because it shows the 
 beauty of her character, that could inspire such love. 
 Her past, as you say, is mine. Her future " his 
 voice trembled " you have a right to. You cannot 
 take away my memories, nor I your visions." 
 
 " You say that," Stephen cried " even you. Then 
 indeed I am free. Even the lingering Puritan in me 
 should be satisfied."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 As he stepped into the worn station carriage in the 
 little New Jersey village on the following Friday 
 evening Stephen drew a long breath of happy antici- 
 pation. He had arranged with his partner to be 
 away a full month. The details of that month had 
 no significance for him. They were sunk in the one 
 great, absorbing fact that he was to be with Helen 
 Helen, his wife. He had no misgivings now as 
 to the ethics of the situation. 
 
 While his carriage rattled along the dark road, 
 however, he thought of little. He was for the time 
 a truant, setting out for a long holiday with only 
 a single companion, the best of all. The joys of 
 truancy, in the days stolen from school so long ago, 
 were symbolic of the more vivid joys and sorrows of 
 this manly truancy, just beginning, and reaching 
 mistily into the future, with only the rough wall of 
 death to mark their end. And his mind strayed back 
 to those childhood delights, especially to one mem- 
 orable day when he and Katherine Bland stole away 
 in the night much such a night as this, when the 
 full moon cast long, black, fantastic shadows on the 
 
 189
 
 i 9 o THE GREEN VASE 
 
 grass only they had seen it, he remembered, just be- 
 fore dawn, and now he could still imagine a feeble 
 yellow glow in the west. They had climbed to a hill- 
 top to watch the stars go out, and sitting hand in 
 hand had shouted their welcome to the sun. On what 
 strange peaks might not he and Helen watch the 
 pale stars swim away into the golden radiance of 
 morning? He remembered how, with Katherine, 
 he had searched the woods for nuts and had shaken 
 the last red apples from the bough, and then how 
 they had spread their table of leaves and garnished 
 it with fruit for breakfast, and that she had told 
 him, while she made everything ready, to go beyond 
 the clump of trees to bathe, and how he had come 
 back, his short hair dripping, his body glowing from 
 the cold plunge, and had kissed her shyly before they 
 ate their food. It was in this spirit that he was 
 going to Helen, with all the generous, pure-minded 
 enthusiasm of a boy. So vivid was the impression 
 that he felt a glow like that after the cold plunge 
 of long ago; so vivid that he put his hand to his 
 forehead to feel whether his hair might not be drip- 
 ping wet. He laughed as he did it, light-heartedly, 
 as he might have laughed at one of Katherine's sal- 
 lies. And then suddenly he remembered the ending 
 of their day, how she had slipped and sprained her
 
 STEPHEN 191 
 
 ankle, how he had bound it with long blue strips 
 from his shirt, wet in cold brook water, and how he 
 had carried her the last mile of their way, singing, 
 and telling her brave tales to make her forget the 
 pain. Alas his long day with Helen had begun with 
 trouble, deep trouble, which stories of the troubadours 
 could not reach. But he laughed at the augury. Did 
 it not surely presage a happy ending? 
 
 Stephen leaned from the carriage to breathe in 
 the clear, cool air. It had lately rained, so that the 
 moonlight glistened on the leaves. He saw that they 
 were approaching the house, but for once the delight 
 of his nearness to her did not give way before any 
 foreboding of what the nurse might have to tell him. 
 Usually there had been the haunting fear that she 
 might be worse, or the almost equal terror that she 
 had regained consciousness and that her first cry 
 would be like her last, for Henry. Then he had 
 longed for a continuance of the peace of her uncon- 
 sciousness. But to-night his lingering misgivings 
 were gone. He felt himself literally the primitive 
 man returning triumphantly to his mate. 
 
 At the doorstep he sprang from the carnage and 
 ran like a boy into the house. In the hall a nurse 
 was waiting for him. She looked frightened. " Any 
 change? " he asked.
 
 192 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " Yes. She is conscious." 
 
 " Since when? " There was a catch in his voice. 
 This, after all, was the real test, and thank God he 
 was ready to meet it. 
 
 " Since morning." 
 
 "And her mind?" 
 
 u The doctor will tell you. Here he is." The 
 nurse slipped from the room as the doctor came in. 
 There were tears in her eyes. 
 
 "Well?" Stephen said. 
 
 " Sit down, Mr. Bond," the doctor said. " Mrs. 
 Bond has regained consciousness but has lost, I fear, 
 her memory." 
 
 Stephen did sit down then, very suddenly, his knees 
 refusing to support him. " What do you mean? " 
 
 " It is not nearly so bad as it might have been," 
 the doctor said. " I warned you that we might expect 
 anything. Mrs. Bond seems perfectly rational, but 
 she remembers nothing. Her accident it is nat- 
 ural that she should forget, but she does not remem- 
 ber the beginning of the automobile ride that ended 
 so disastrously. She had to ask even who she was. 
 We have not let her talk much." 
 
 " She remembers nothing of her past? " Stephen 
 spoke hoarsely, but what the doctor mistook for pain 
 was really the birth-struggle of an overwhelming joy.
 
 STEPHEN 193 
 
 " Nothing, so far we know since her childhood 
 at least. We have not questioned her." 
 
 " She remembers nothing," Stephen repeated stu- 
 pidly. " Does she know of me? " 
 
 " Yes. We had to tell her who she was." 
 
 " And she made no comment? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 " She did not ask for Henry?" 
 
 "No. Why should she?" 
 
 " She used to call me that. She has forgotten 
 everything." He leaned on the table, and letting his 
 head fall on his arms, sobbed uncontrollably, heavy, 
 racking sobs, that were the bursting forth of his re- 
 lief. Truly the world was his. " Will her memory 
 ever return? " he added suddenly. 
 
 " Probably not," the doctor answered. " We 
 don't know very much about these cases. Another 
 
 shock might do it." 
 
 " That she must never have," Stephen cried, and 
 then he coughed, struggling for breath and clinging 
 to the table for support. 
 
 The doctor sprang to his side and held him by the 
 shoulders. When the fit was over he spoke sternly. 
 " Mrs. Bond is out of the woods now. You are the 
 real patient in this house. I believe that you are 
 sicker to-day than she is."
 
 194 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " Nonsense," Stephen gasped. " It's just a cough 
 nervous. I've had it all my life, more or less. A 
 bit worse now, perhaps, from worry. Make my 
 wife well and I shall give no more trouble." 
 
 " That is simply not true," the doctor said, " you 
 are a very sick man. Won't you let Dr. Locke run 
 over from New York and examine you ? " 
 
 " No," Stephen answered irritably, " I will not. 
 May I see my wife? " 
 
 " I suppose I shall have to let you but I don't 
 want to. Your coughing will be bad for her. What 
 she must have is weeks of quiet, affectionate care, out 
 of which she can slowly recreate a living world. You 
 ought to be the one to give it to her but you can't, 
 unless you are looked after very soon." 
 
 "You mean that I shall die?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly unless you act quickly." 
 
 " Good Lord. I had no idea it was as bad as that. 
 Send over your specialist if you want. I can't die, 
 you know. That would be too ridiculous, with life 
 just beginning. Now may I see Helen? I shall not 
 cough." 
 
 The doctor led him upstairs. " You will be 
 careful," he said. " She knows you are coming, 
 but we must not excite her more than we can 
 help."
 
 STEPHEN 195 
 
 Stephen nodded as he passed into the dimly lighted 
 room. 
 
 Helen was in her bed, propped up by pillows so 
 that she seemed to be reclining on a sofa. Her fore- 
 head was still bandaged, but her hair, in two heavy, 
 gold-red braids, was brought over her shoulders and 
 lay along her body like the revers of some magnificent 
 coat. For a moment he stood looking at her, tears 
 in his eyes and his lips trembling. If he had loved 
 her when she was unconscious, how much more he 
 loved her now. He went softly across the room, 
 and kneeling by the bedside, took her fragile hand 
 in his and kissed it. 
 
 " So this is you, Stephen," she said at last. Her 
 voice was low but clear, and Stephen thought he had 
 never heard such music. " My husband whom I do 
 not know." 
 
 He put his head down, leaning his cheek against her 
 hand, but even the touch of her could not keep him 
 so. He raised his head to look at her again, to gaze 
 speechlessly into the beautiful, innocent mystery of 
 her eyes. They were pure, like the eyes of a child 
 who has yet to learn the world's evil, and its good. 
 They were ready to love, but did not know what love 
 meant. 
 
 She lifted her hand and brushed back the hair
 
 196 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 from his forehead. The caress, the first she had 
 ever given him, made him tremble as though in a 
 fever. " You have been very good to me all these 
 weeks," she said gently. 
 
 He found his words at last. " It is not goodness 
 to fulfil one's own greatest happiness, and that, my 
 darling, is to be with you." 
 
 " That is sweet of you to say, but I was not here. 
 I was away somewhere, dreaming, I don't know 
 what." 
 
 " But you were always near. I felt that. Your 
 spirit was resting, growing as it rested into new 
 strength to take up the problems of life again." 
 
 " Perhaps," she answered. " And yet I am very 
 ignorant. It hurts me when I try to remember. I 
 have so much to learn everything." 
 
 " But I am here to teach you. To think that I can 
 recreate you, show you the world again and all the 
 beautiful things in it. Oh, it will be too wonder- 
 ful." 
 
 " Poor Stephen," she said, patting his hand. " I 
 shall try to be a good pupil." 
 
 The nurse came quietly into the room. Neither 
 noticed her. They were looking longingly and ques- 
 tioningly into each others' eyes. " I am sorry to 
 disturb you," she said in a low voice, " but the doctor
 
 STEPHEN i 97 
 
 is going, Mr. Bond, and wants to speak to you. Mrs. 
 Bond must sleep now, too. You may see her longer 
 in the morning." 
 
 " Very well," Stephen answered. " Tell him I am 
 coming." Then to Helen, " Rest now, sweetheart. 
 To-morrow will be the first of long and beautiful to- 
 morrows." 
 
 She held his hand tightly and kissed him when he 
 leaned down to her. " I am very happy," she said 
 shyly, " because I think you are the kind of man I 
 should have chosen for a husband if I could have 
 chosen. I must be just what I was long ago when 
 I did choose you." 
 
 Stephen rushed from the room, his eyes blinded 
 with tears that came from his fierce joy. But with 
 the joy there was an almost fiercer pain. Until now 
 he had found deception so easy, but this was very 
 different, this matter of deceiving Helen. Almost 
 he wished that she had wakened with memory intact. 
 Then he could have argued and convinced her that 
 he was right for her happiness and in fulfilment of 
 his own need. Now she was his without a struggle. 
 She trusted his honour, and for the moment he felt 
 himself stripped naked of honour. But she was his 
 her future was his with all its possibilities. He held 
 fast to that, made it the paramount consideration in
 
 i 9 8 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 his mind, strained his will to keep his thoughts fixed 
 there, and there only. Perhaps later he would tell 
 her then in full mutual understanding they could 
 publicly face the world, its common scorn and its rare 
 comprehension but not now. Neither had the 
 strength to bear it now. " It is best as it is best as 
 it is," he kept repeating to himself, but when he 
 reached the room where the doctor was waiting for 
 him he cried involuntarily, " Don't tell me anything 
 more. I can't bear anything more now." 
 
 The doctor led him to a chair. " I'm sorry if I 
 frightened you too much about yourself. Perhaps 
 Dr. Locke " 
 
 " I'm not thinking of myself," Stephen interrupted. 
 " I don't care what your specialist says." 
 
 "Oh, well, then; it was something about your 
 wife I wanted to tell you." 
 
 " There is a chance that she may regain her mem- 
 ory?" 
 
 " None, I fear, at present. It is something pleas- 
 ant, something that I should have told you before, 
 but put off from week to week until I was sure it 
 would be good news, not bad." 
 
 " Must you tell me now? " Even in the stress of 
 his emotion Stephen was conscious that news of 
 Helen, as it seemed good to others, might not be
 
 STEPHEN 199 
 
 equally good for him. Perhaps, for instance, he 
 might suggest some shock to restore her memory that 
 it would be almost impossible to avoid taking. 
 
 " It is not imperative to tell you now, but I must 
 soon. You must tell her." 
 
 Stephen took hold of the arms of his chair. " You 
 might as well tell me now. I don't want to live in 
 dread of anything." 
 
 " That is wise, since my news must please you. 
 Soon after you came here I believed that Mrs. Bond 
 was going to have a child. I did not tell you then 
 because I was afraid the accident might have injured 
 the child and that we should not be able to save it. 
 The escape is almost miraculous, but is, I believe, 
 definite. Everything seems to be normal, and you 
 should be a happy father next February or 
 March Mr. Bond what is it? " 
 
 Stephen had leaned down, his head between his 
 hands, when the doctor started to speak, and at the 
 end toppled forward, slid from the chair, and lay, 
 face downward, on the floor. 
 
 When he regained consciousness he found himself 
 in bed. A nurse was sitting at his side, and across 
 the room he saw the doctor, reading. The lamp 
 was deeply shaded, but he closed his eyes. Even the 
 dim light irritated him. He felt utterly exhausted,
 
 200 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 knowing only where he was, and that Helen was 
 near him. He was too weak to think. 
 
 The nurse took hold of his wrist, but he made no 
 sign. " The pulse is a little stronger," he heard her 
 say. " It will take some days, however. He lost 
 a lot of blood." Blood? Why should he have lost 
 blood, he thought vaguely. 
 
 Then the doctor answered: " It is quite wonderful 
 how his strength has kept up during the last weeks. 
 He looked bad and was living on his nerves. Dr. 
 Locke will be here soon, thank God. He needs a 
 lung specialist, and quickly." 
 
 " Wasn't it strange, his having that hemorrhage 
 so suddenly? " So that was it the loss of blood a 
 hemorrhage. Well, he had known many people who 
 had them and recovered. 
 
 " It was," the doctor answered. " I should have 
 let him alone, I suppose, but I wanted to cheer him 
 up. It must be rather dreary having to get ac- 
 quainted all over again with your own wife. But it 
 seemed to have the opposite effect. He toppled right 
 over when I told him about the baby." 
 
 " Baby " the word echoed dully in Stephen's 
 mind. He always liked children. Whose baby were 
 they talking about? He was interested in no par- 
 ticular baby. Then the whole appalling story came
 
 STEPHEN 201 
 
 crashing back into his mind. He did not think; he 
 simply felt, and as he come to full emotional realisa- 
 tion shudders ran along his body. He heard the 
 nurse call to the doctor, knew that they were wrap- 
 ping him in blankets and putting hot cloths against 
 his feet and his back. It was like treating a foot to 
 cure a toothache, he knew, but they could not guess 
 the agony of his mind. The picture came to him, 
 the vision of the afternoon, of the radiant future, 
 of the endless chain of days, each like a golden bead, 
 perfect in itself and made more beautiful by its fel- 
 lows, all strung on the invisible thread of their com- 
 mon life. Was this possible now? He and Helen 
 alone there was infinitude of happiness in the dream. 
 He and Helen, and Henry's child the dream was 
 shattered. He had prayed that the past might not 
 too violently obtrude its shadow, and praying, he had 
 trained to do battle with the shadow. But as against 
 the unbelievable reality his training was in vain. One 
 could not fight with a child. The past had projected 
 a living fragment of itself into the future, and as the 
 future grew so the past would grow with it.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A FEW days later Stephen sat in an armchair on the 
 piazza. One end was screened, and there he slept. 
 The day was warm, with a softness in the air like 
 that of a day in spring. The harlequin reds and yel- 
 lows of the trees seemed crudely out of place. It was 
 as though the year had made a mistake. The soft 
 blue sky, flecked with wisps of white, should have 
 looked down through trees all feathered with soft 
 pinks and greens like the colours in a Hokusai 
 print. To be in keeping with the autumn leaves the 
 sky should have been of that harder, colder blue that 
 shone with an almost metallic lustre through the bold 
 foliage of a picture by Hiroshige. 
 
 Stephen thought naturally in terms of Japanese 
 prints. Years earlier, on a trip around the world, 
 he had been captivated by their charm, had realised 
 almost instinctively the artist's point of view, and 
 had delighted in their singleness of purpose, their con- 
 sistent striving for perfection as they understood it. 
 With this exception for he studied his prints with 
 scientific minuteness as well as with appreciation he 
 
 had always been a dilletante in art matters, He 
 
 202
 
 STEPHEN 203 
 
 went to the Art Museum, groaned, like all Bostonians 
 of his own set, over the uninspired plaster casts and 
 the inadequate paintings but unlike most, he went 
 further, to study the really glorious Chinese and 
 Japanese collections. Like all good Bostonians, too, 
 he went to the Symphony concerts, understood them, 
 a little, by dint of diligent reading of the programmes, 
 and thoroughly enjoyed them in his own unexpressive 
 way. But for his prints, over which he spent hours 
 of loving study, he had a trained, appreciative 
 knowledge. 
 
 Naturally, therefore, after two torturing days in 
 his bed, when he had been at last allowed to sit on 
 the piazza, he had asked that the few prints in the 
 house be put on a table beside him. The conscious 
 calm of them soothed him, the exquisite harmony of 
 their lines and colours, unrelieved by shadows or 
 high lights, brought at least momentary harmony into 
 his tangled and twisted outlook. Helen had recog- 
 nised it in the print she had seen in his house in 
 Boston. They would love them together. As he sat 
 now, thinking of Helen and looking at a print by 
 Kiyonaga that lay in his lap, he was able to think 
 more sanely because of its unconscious influence. It 
 was an example of the highest work of the artist 
 the Shakspere of wood engravers, Stephen loved to
 
 204 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 call him, because he most nearly approximated the 
 real and the ideal. The women of the print were real 
 women, standing out from the discreetly suggested 
 landscape background, not the attenuated fancies of 
 Kiyonaga's latest style. In their almost unearthly 
 grace of motion, in the flowing lines of their har- 
 moniously coloured draperies, in the spiritual calm of 
 their expressions, they brought reality into com- 
 munion with the eternal ideal. They were two 
 women, a mother and a nurse-maid, and at their feet 
 a child. 
 
 It was the child which had made him choose this 
 print among them all to study. He was not thinking 
 of the technique in Kiyonaga this is unnecessary ex- 
 cept in recognition of its mastery. He was rather 
 thinking of the relation portrayed, the wonderful re- 
 lation between a mother and her child, that transcends 
 all others of human life and yet conflicts with none. 
 In the apparent detachment of the mother in the pic- 
 ture he tried to see Helen, filling, as she would, the 
 mother's part, yet ready for all the world had to 
 offer beyond. The father? He wondered whether 
 the women were thinking of him, whether, perhaps, 
 in giving her the child, he had not fulfilled his mis- 
 sion and passed onward into the inscrutable mystery 
 of death. Then some other would take up his re-
 
 STEPHEN 205 
 
 sponsibilities toward the child and the child's mother, 
 would be a new father, as Stephen felt that he could 
 be, would perhaps more completely fill the woman's 
 soul than the first could have done the first, who 
 had lost his opportunity, through death. This was, 
 after all, normal, when one died, that another should 
 take up the burden of his joys and sorrows. And if 
 the woman died, as Helen had died, might not she 
 gather up the threads of life anew, had she not the 
 right to choose for herself once more, as she would 
 have, had her husband died? He forced aside the 
 ever-recurrent question, that his inherited love of fair 
 sport pressed to the foreground. " You say she has 
 the right to choose, but is she shown that right?" 
 " Later," he always answered, " she is not able now. 
 Later, when she has learned to see, I will give it to 
 her." 
 
 So, during the long days and nights of mental and 
 moral torture he had come into possession of a kind 
 of compromise peace with his conscience. The only 
 moral question that troubled him was that of his 
 deceit toward Helen. The question of Henry's rights 
 had ceased to have any meaning for him. It was a 
 twisted reflection of the beliefs of his own remote 
 ancestors who had torn England with civil strife and 
 beheaded King Charles because they had set up Right,
 
 206 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 the will of God, as in eternal but always victorious 
 conflict with rights, the privileges of the individual 
 or of society. Like them, he declared society wrong 
 in its sweeping definition of the rights of a husband. 
 In a particular case, like his, God's will must be de- 
 cisive. Perhaps he would not have phrased it so, 
 but the fact was there. Like the Puritans in so 
 many instances, he mistook his own will for that of 
 God. 
 
 He put the print reluctantly on the table beside 
 him, looking once more at the calm, mysterious face 
 of the mother. Passionless, the mark of the world- 
 wide enigma of woman's nature, it seemed to him 
 the keynote of the harmony of life as well as the 
 focal point of its dissension. It seemed to him also 
 capable of infinite understanding, forgiveness, and 
 love. With this thought he went to Helen. 
 
 " Stephen, dear," she said, as he sat in a chair be- 
 side her sofa, " I have been thinking much, since I 
 could think. And perhaps there may be something 
 uncommonly clear in the thoughts of one who is able 
 only to hold in mind the present and the future." 
 
 " In any case, dear, what you think is of greatest 
 importance to me. What has it all been about? " 
 
 " Largely about you. I am well now, and as soon 
 as my silly legs will hold me up I want to go away,
 
 STEPHEN 207 
 
 with you somewhere where I can care for you as 
 you have for me and bring back your health as you 
 have mine." 
 
 " I suppose it will be necessary for a time," he 
 said gloomily. " But I had made such wonderful 
 plans while you were sick such long, splendid trips 
 over the whole round world to show you the places 
 I have already seen and to see with you the places I 
 have never seen." 
 
 " It would be wonderful but not now. We must 
 go West, to Arizona or Colorado, the nurse tells me, 
 where you will get well again. It will be best for 
 me, too, she says." 
 
 " But the loneliness of it for you, dear." 
 " Why for me, more than for you? " 
 " For me it would be heaven away from the 
 world, from every one but you. It would be glori- 
 ous." 
 
 " And yet you doubt the same pleasure for me." 
 She smiled at him, affectionately. " But seriously, 
 Stephen, it would be a blessing. I am afraid of peo- 
 ple. I should be in fear continually of meeting those 
 I used to know and not knowing them. It would 
 mean explaining, explaining revealing my shallow 
 soul to people who have no right to know. I want 
 to be forgotten as I have forgotten. I want, when
 
 208 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 I meet people again, to meet them as a woman, not 
 as a child." 
 
 " Yes, I know, dearest," he said, " and yet there 
 is a peace in your reconquered innocence that is worth 
 more than years of knowledge and of tears. If I 
 could only teach you the beautiful things and none 
 of the ugly! " 
 
 " But you cannot, Stephen. It is just as though 
 I were newly born. I must see the world as it is, or 
 not at all." 
 
 " You are rigjit," he said. " Do you know, Helen, 
 that is what I said to you often in the past, that time 
 that you don't remember. Many things I thank God 
 that you have forgotten." 
 
 " No. You must not say that. It will make me 
 think that you did not love me then. Before we 
 come back from the West you must tell me every- 
 thing. I trust you, dear everything. I cannot face 
 the world of men and women remembering only the 
 happy parts of my life. I must know the sad ones, 
 the troubled ones. You must make again the scars 
 that they have made. I cannot have die clean soul 
 of a child with the scarred body of a woman." 
 She put her hand to her forehead, where a long, 
 white scar drew its sharp curve across her left 
 temple.
 
 STEPHEN 209 
 
 " Will not the purity of your soul," he said gently, 
 " he the hest inheritance of your child? " 
 
 " My child ? " It was only a startled question, but 
 as she looked at him her eyes grew dark and large. 
 As Stephen gazed into them he was frightened at the 
 things he did not understand, startled to see dawning 
 there the mystery of motherhood. Had the print lied 
 to him? Was it, after all, a passion, all consuming? 
 Was the child to dose for him the doors of Heaven? 
 He would have given the world to have the words 
 unsaid, yet said they must be. 
 
 ' Yes," he said, still very gently, though his voice 
 trembled. " Next February, the doctor says. It will 
 be a little Arizona baby." He held her hand tightly 
 clasped in his and leaned over her, laying his head 
 on the pillow beside hers. 
 
 Her eyes dosed. Slowly the blood drained away 
 from her face, and tears, forcing themselves between 
 her eyelids, trickled down her cheeks. But for that, 
 and the convulsive hold on his hand, he would have 
 thought she had fainted. He waited, silent, wiping 
 away the tears as they fell. He knew that she must 
 realise it, and he had nothing to say. Her senses 
 were too acute for him to risk any expression he did 
 not feel. He was cold and his heart beat furiously. 
 
 At last she opened her eyes and looked at him pite-
 
 210 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 ously. He could not long answer her gaze, because 
 it was brimming with mute, despairing questions that 
 he could not solve. It seemed to him that he looked 
 away because he could not answer truth with truth. 
 He did not know, what it takes the best of men 
 years of married life to learn, that to the deepest, 
 most soul-stirring questions a woman does not need 
 from the man she loves naked truth, but infinite com- 
 passion. It is not that she is by nature less truthful, 
 but that the texture of her soul, as of her body, is 
 more sensitive than his, and that the truth which in- 
 spires him may crush her. So he did not know that 
 the appeal in Helen's eyes was not for explanation, 
 but for sympathy. He knew that she was brave, that 
 she would always do the right thing, the strong, un- 
 selfish thing much more, that she would see the 
 right, which is braver than to do it. Probably, al- 
 though he did not know it, his silence was wise. 
 
 In a broken voice she spoke, at last, and her first 
 word was a question, " Can a child be a mother? " 
 
 He answered her quietly, his words full of emo- 
 tion, however, " If more mothers in this world were 
 children at heart, the world would be a sweeter place 
 to live in. It is the worldliness, the damnable knowl- 
 edge of the mothers, their forth-putting, their interest 
 in everything on earth except their families, that
 
 STEPHEN 211 
 
 leaves their poor children to grow up as best they may 
 and the best is usually the worst. No, Helen. 
 Thank Heaven that your child will be free from the 
 taint of its mother's worldliness." 
 
 Her eyes, fixed on him still, were as full of ques- 
 tions as ever. Not yet could he fearlessly return her 
 gaze. " But, Stephen," she went on, " you are speak- 
 ing generalities, and I believe you, though I cannot 
 understand. There may be such mothers, but I should 
 not have been one. All the experience I had gath- 
 ered in the past would have been his, the child's, for 
 his use, as my life would have been his and his 
 father's. And, Stephen I do not know his father." 
 
 He drew away from her sharply. " Now it is 
 you," he cried hoarsely, " you, who are speaking in 
 a language I cannot understand." 
 
 " Yet you must, dear," she pleaded. " I must make 
 you understand. I have been dead and now I am 
 alive again, but still my past is dead. You are here 
 yes, you and the house and this body of mine. I 
 accept them because I must and gratefully, dear 
 Stephen do not misunderstand again. I told you 
 that you were a proof to me that I must have been 
 much as I am. But now, in addition to all this, I 
 must train myself to accept a child, a little baby, the 
 incarnation of the past, of the joy of the past, sud-
 
 212 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 denly becoming real like you and all the rest but 
 more than you, demanding explanations. I can't tell 
 you coherently, dear, because it is all so new. The 
 words and the thoughts come together and both are 
 confused. But it seems to me that a baby has no 
 meaning unless he emerges, like a ray of sun- 
 light, from the glory of his father's and his mother's 
 love. And that, dear Stephen all that is blank to 
 me." 
 
 He bowed his head. " You must give me time, 
 dear," she continued brokenly; " I shall come, at last, 
 to accept this, as I have the other things but it is 
 so different. You have told me the facts of the last 
 years, some of them. You must tell me all as time 
 goes on. But you cannot tell me the emotions. They 
 must be felt, and the memory of them is the renewal 
 of the feeling, not of the fact. Only as new emotions 
 come I may be able through imagination to relive 
 the old ones. Then, perhaps, the baby will grow 
 to have a meaning. Can you understand a lit- 
 tle " 
 
 He saw that her terror for herself had changed 
 to pity for him, and realised bitterly what her words 
 meant, as applied to him. They were the unconscious 
 ratification of the truth he had fought against, that 
 the child, in whom he had no part, must always stand
 
 STEPHEN 213 
 
 between them. Perhaps, as the months and years 
 went by, he and Helen might grow into the complete 
 accord that he longed for; but, if this were so, the 
 child must stand aside, unloved and uncared for, 
 except as duty demanded. Either thought was agony. 
 He could not give up the dream of Helen that had 
 sustained him through the dark months of her un- 
 consciousness, the dream of tKeir unclouded life to- 
 gether where she should have every opportunity to 
 grow into the full inheritance of " the other woman " 
 whom he knew to be her true self, and where he 
 should learn for the first time what might be the 
 meaning of happiness, which is never lonely satisfac- 
 tion. And at the same time he could not think of 
 the child as neglected or unloved. What had at first 
 seemed a cruel assertion of unwarranted personal 
 claims on Henry Murphy's part, claims made vital in 
 the person of the child, had gradually come to mean 
 an opportunity. Those claims, never quite dead in 
 the background of his conscience, could be fully, gen- 
 erously satisfied by giving to Henry's child the best 
 there was to give, materially, and in loving care. 
 And now it seemed to him that his reasoning had led 
 him into a lane that had no outlet. Could he possibly 
 reconcile the child's right to happiness with his? His 
 old nature reasserted itself. He must risk his own
 
 2i 4 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 happiness to fulfil his obligations to the letter, since 
 they were obligations that he recognised. 
 
 He could look at Helen, now, with no thought of 
 faithlessness. There had been a long silence, dis- 
 turbed only by his own hoarse breathing. " Have 
 you nothing to say to me? " she asked. 
 
 " No," he answered " that is, I had nothing. But 
 I have been thinking. You will love your baby." 
 
 " Yes, I shall love him. He will be so helpless 
 and alone." 
 
 " And the love you have for him perhaps that, 
 more than anything, will carry you back into the 
 years that are dark now." He said it firmly, but his 
 voice was charged with the pain of a great renuncia- 
 tion. " You must try to love him, my dearest. You 
 must make him first of all. It will be best for you 
 and for him." 
 
 He had spoken with eyes closed, and started as 
 she put her hand over his. "And for you?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " And for me," he answered, shaking his head as 
 though to toss away the fumes of thought. " What 
 is for your good must be for mine. Have you 
 talked with the doctor about when you can leave 
 here?" 
 
 She was quick to follow his lead. " In a month,
 
 STEPHEN 215 
 
 at the latest, he says. For both of us, the sooner we 
 go the better. Have you decided where it is to be? " 
 
 " To Arizona. I fell in love with the desert years 
 ago, and you will, when you see it. There is nothing 
 dreary or if there is it is a kind of dreariness so 
 objective that it increases your joy in life. We shall 
 go to Tucson. There perhaps we can find a house. 
 And now I must write my friends, telling of our 
 departure. I shall have to go to Boston once more 
 on business and then, dear, away with you to the 
 uttermost ends of the earth." 
 
 But to him those words that once would have meant 
 so much were tinged with bitterness.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE five years that had made Helen again a strong 
 woman had not gone so well with Stephen. At first 
 the keen, dry air of Arizona had built him up, al- 
 most driven away the cough ; but a month spent dur- 
 ing the winter in New Orleans had brought the 
 trouble back, showing him that there was safety only 
 at home they had easily come to call Tucson home. 
 But even Tucson had this time proved itself inade- 
 quate. Stephen was courageous, hoping that Helen 
 would not see; but both knew in their hearts that he 
 was going down hill, very gradually and peacefully, 
 to be sure, but still losing ground day by day. 
 
 The doctor was just leaving one afternoon in late 
 January. Stephen lay in a hammock on the veranda. 
 Helen was riding, and the boy was off, somewhere, 
 with his nurse. "Should you give me a year?" 
 Stephen asked abruptly. 
 
 " My dear man, many years," the doctor an- 
 swered, buttoning his heavy linen coat across his fat 
 stomach. He was a short man, very round, with a 
 permanent smile and a bald head that seemed to 
 
 catch a reflection wherever he was, Almost hi only 
 
 216
 
 STEPHEN 217 
 
 duty was to make happy the last stages of the hun- 
 dreds who flocked to Arizona too late, with lungs too 
 far gone to be cured. Those who came in time 
 laughed at him the others with him. " You've got 
 to take things easy, but if you do it life will take you 
 easy." 
 
 " Yes," Stephen said, " or death." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks! Death is a personage not worth 
 talking about. We all have to meet him sooner or 
 later, and the less we talk about him beforehand the 
 better." 
 
 "Yes, I know," Stephen interrupted; "I am not 
 seeking his acquaintance, but I want to be fore- 
 warned. I am not in the least afraid, you know, but 
 I want to be ready. I have my will to make, for 
 example." 
 
 " Make it, make it, make it," the doctor cried, sit- 
 ting down on the top step. " The man who doesn't 
 make his will when he's well is a fool. Some folks 
 think it's a gloomy business will making. It isn't. 
 It's just planning safe future investments on a de- 
 pendable market. I made mine twenty-two years ago, 
 when I married Bessie. I knew she was a safe invest- 
 ment, and I was right. If you don't know the same 
 of your wonderful little wife your business sense is 
 lacking that's all I've got to say, except that I'd
 
 218 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 take a few shares at par any pleasant day. You have 
 a really fine view up here," he added, looking across 
 the plains, " almost as good as mine, but not quite." 
 
 " I am not mistrusting my investment. To prove 
 it, send up a lawyer from the town to-morrow and 
 I'll make my will." 
 
 "To-morrow; good Lord, there's no such hurry 
 as that except, as my good grandmother used to 
 say to us boys, * It's always wise to take time by the 
 fetlock.' " 
 
 Stephen laughed in spite of himself. " I marvel," 
 he said, " that such an inconsequential person as you, 
 Dr. Seward, knows whether it is better to make a sick 
 man well or a well man sick." 
 
 " Both methods would bring in business. I have 
 to cure them all, and if I could make a large enough 
 part of the district sick it would mean a fortune." 
 
 " So it would. No one who knows you would have 
 any other doctor. But that does not alter my state- 
 ment that you are inconsequential. You shout * make 
 it, make it ' when I suggest a will, and then you tell 
 me there is no hurry. Will you answer my question 
 as to how long I have? I really want to know 
 seriously." 
 
 " And I really don't know seriously. If you take 
 things calmly, avoid excitement and all that, you may,
 
 STEPHEN 219 
 
 as I said, live years. On the other hand, you may 
 catch some other trouble and go off in a week. It's 
 a chance we all run, but it's a worse risk for you, 
 because you haven't any lungs to speak of and so 
 you can't get in the fresh air that drives things out. 
 Keep cheerful and keep calm the two go together 
 and you're good for a long time to come." 
 
 " So you can't tell me. I believe you. And as 
 to your prescription, that is easy. Every morning I 
 am sure that I am better. I believe it and Helen tells 
 me so. It is only when I stop to think about it, as 
 now, that I know every day I am just a bit, a tiny bit, 
 weaker. I used to ride with her every day and 
 then one day last week I didn't feel up to the mark 
 and stayed at home. But I have not been since. 
 This hammock is wonderfully comfortable. Will you 
 send the lawyer to-morrow, Dr. Seward? " 
 
 " Sure will I but on one condition, and that is, 
 that you see him merely as a fool lawyer, not as a 
 preliminary undertaker." 
 
 " Of course. I am not going to create bogies for 
 myself just because I neglected to do what I ought to 
 have done long ago." 
 
 " Right-o. With that spirit you'll live a good 
 decade longer than I do." He got up and pulled his 
 coat straight. "And, by the way, I hear you're
 
 220 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 seeing a good bit of Father Ignatius over at the 
 Mission. A good man, that, I have no doubt, but 
 more interested in souls than bodies. Now, what you 
 need to think about is your body. Of course I don't 
 want to interfere, but I believe that if a man keeps 
 his body reasonably clean his soul will make a pretty 
 good shift for itself. And, as a matter of fact, the 
 two are pretty closely joined, down here anyway, and 
 it's bad policy discussing the time when they won't 
 be that is, I mean, dwelling on the separation too 
 much. It really is a fine view from here. As I said 
 before, almost as good as mine." 
 
 Stephen smiled indulgently. " Just now," he said, 
 " Father Ignatius and I are not discussing the soul 
 at all. This morning, in fact, we talked almost en- 
 tirely about the Arizona orange crop. He believes 
 one can raise oranges here that taste as well as the 
 Florida oranges and that look as well as the Cali- 
 fornias." 
 
 " He is perfectly right," Dr. Seward interrupted 
 joyfully. "-That's what I've always said. I didn't 
 know he was v such a sensible man. Indeed, between 
 ourselves, I invested two thousand in the Phenix Im- 
 proved Orange Company only last month. I wonder 
 whether the friars have put any of their vast wealth 
 into the company."
 
 STEPHEN 221 
 
 " I doubt it," Stephen answered, " because I am 
 afraid that vast wealth of theirs is a myth. They 
 spend all they have, and more, in their work among 
 the Indians. In fact, that is what Father Ignatius 
 usually comes to talk about their finances, and, be- 
 cause I ask him, their religion." 
 
 " I guess he doesn't need any urging about the 
 last," the doctor said. " I never saw a monk yet that 
 didn't try to proselyte." 
 
 " Oh ! As to that it's hardly a campaign, you 
 know. I am perfectly willing to be a Catholic if I 
 think the Catholics are right. Father Ignatius knows 
 that. And when I ask him questions he really has to 
 answer. The trouble is that I know, theoretically, as 
 much as he. But the things I don't know he cannot 
 explain faith, for example I suppose he was born 
 with it. There is a lot that is fine in his religion. 
 Historically there seems to be no other, and it is the 
 only one that rises above denominational lines be- 
 cause it claims to be final." 
 
 The doctor bridled. " I don't see that that sig- 
 nifies. If you claimed to be a father that wouldn't 
 make you one if you weren't. And as to being unde- 
 nominational how about the Episcopal Church? " 
 
 " Yes," Stephen said seriously. " You have me 
 there. The Episcopal Church is not denominational
 
 222 
 
 because it is fashionable. My wife tells me that in 
 the town half the congregation are Jews. Their 
 presence seems to make both assertions definite. They 
 wouldn't be there if it were denominational nor if it 
 were not fashionable." 
 
 " We're getting them out," the doctor said irrita- 
 bly. ; ' They want to sing in the choir to show their 
 clothes and we've made a rule that only those can 
 sing in the choir who are communicants. Even you 
 can see, I suppose, that if they're communicants they 
 can't possibly be Jews. Why don't you come down 
 with Mrs. Bond some Sunday and try it. It's a much 
 safer doctrine than the Roman." 
 
 " Better for me, I suppose. Less talk of the soul." 
 
 " I don't know about that ; but at least they don't 
 bury a man before he is dead. If you want religion, 
 give it a try and next time don't keep me here talk- 
 ing like this. My other patients may die for lack 
 of a chance to tell me funny stories. Good-bye. Send 
 for me if you feel down." 
 
 " Surely and don't forget the lawyer and don't 
 kill yourself with reckless driving." 
 
 Dr. Seward grinned as he climbed into his buggy. 
 His horse, known the country round as Old Faithful, 
 had been standing motionless for an hour, apparently 
 gazing mournfully across the brown plains. People
 
 STEPHEN 223 
 
 said the doctor needed Old Faithful to give him a 
 serious point of view. He cracked his whip lustily, 
 more to prove to himself that he knew how than as 
 any suggestion to the horse, and started slowly be- 
 tween the lines of date palms to the gate. 
 
 Stephen got up reluctantly from his hammock and 
 walked across the veranda. From the other end he 
 could look out on the flower garden, brilliant even 
 in January with hibiscus, and gladioli, and poppies. 
 There, as he hoped, was the child, sitting on the con- 
 crete edge of the little fountain and poking at the 
 goldfish with a long, pliable reed. " Harry," he 
 called. " Come and take care of me while Miss Gor- 
 don goes for your supper." 
 
 " I want to play with the fishes," the boy called 
 back. " But I'm coming. Will you tell me a story? " 
 
 " Yes, or talk with you." The child laid his reed 
 carefully on the concrete. " Don't lose it," Stephen 
 heard him say, " I want it on to-morrow. We are 
 going to feed the fishes then I and mother. I like 
 to feed the fishes with mother." Then he trudged 
 around the flower beds until he came to the gladioli. 
 " Can I pick a red one for my mother? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes," said Stephen, " you may not can, you 
 know. Carefully now not to break them." 
 
 The little boy very gravely and conscientiously
 
 224 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 picked out a perfect flower, and holding the stem with 
 one chubby hand, pulled it off. " It is the best of 
 all," he said, " for my best mother. When is she 
 coming home? " 
 
 " Very soon, I hope. She is riding." Stephen 
 came down the steps and took the child's hand. 
 
 " I like her to ride where I can see her. She is 
 such a pretty mother." They sat down in the ham- 
 mock together. 
 
 ' You must always love your mother very dearly, 
 my boy. If I ever have to go away you must take 
 care of her." 
 
 " Yes, I will," the child answered earnestly. " She 
 says I'm a brave boy, and I love her more than you 
 but I love you some, too, and my nurse." 
 
 " That's right. You must always love your 
 mother best." 
 
 " Yes. Because she loves me best more than she 
 does you or my nurse." 
 
 Stephen winced, but drew the boy more closely to 
 him. For a half minute neither said anything, but 
 Harry was never long silent. Living almost entirely 
 with older people, he expressed himself more clearly 
 than did the average child of his age. 
 
 "Why is the blue sky yellow?" he asked sud- 
 denly.
 
 STEPHEN 225 
 
 " Because the sun is setting. That means that 
 your mother will be back soon." 
 
 " Does the sun like a yellow sky when it sets? It 
 sleeps all night in those hills, doesn't it, and then 
 in the morning men and oxen carry it way round the 
 other side? " 
 
 " No, dear boy. When it is all dark here the sun 
 is still shining somewhere else." 
 
 " I should think it would get very tired. I do, 
 and I have to sleep. If the sun didn't go into the 
 hills, would I have to sleep in the day? " 
 
 " I suppose you would. Sleep makes you 
 strong." 
 
 " Is that why you sleep in the swing all day to 
 get strong? Do you sit up all night? Oh ! " he cried 
 delightedly, sliding from the hammock. " Here's 
 mother. You may tell me a story on to-morrow in- 
 stead. Hi! Mother!" 
 
 He stood at the top of the steps, jumping up and 
 down like a bouncing ball. 
 
 Helen leaped from her horse without waiting for 
 the groom, and darted up the steps. At the top she 
 sat down and threw her arms around the little red- 
 coated figure. " Mother's darling," she cried joy- 
 ously. " Has he been a good boy and taken good 
 care of his father? "
 
 226 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 :< Yes," he said, wriggling from her arms " very 
 good boy. We talked about you father and me." 
 
 " Did you, you nice people. Isn't it a wonderful 
 afternoon, Stephen?" she said, looking at him for 
 the first time. 
 
 " Like all afternoons, brighter when you get 
 back." 
 
 She smiled at him and caught the child in her arms 
 again. " Tell mother what you and father have been 
 saying about me." 
 
 " I told him you love me best." 
 
 " Oh, but you mustn't say that, my darling. I 
 love you both, but differently, you know." 
 
 " But I love you more," he persisted. 
 
 " No, dear, you mustn't say that, either. You love 
 us both just the same." 
 
 " Father told me to love you most, and I do." He 
 said it in a tone of finality, as though the subject 
 were closed. 
 
 " That seems to be settled, Helen," Stephen broke 
 in. " We must not worry the child by making him 
 decide in a conflict of parental authority." 
 
 " All right, dear. But I wish you would not en- 
 courage him in such ideas." 
 
 " I want a pony," the boy said suddenly, " to ride 
 with you."
 
 STEPHEN 227 
 
 " Next year, Harry, when you're a big boy. Then 
 you and father and I can all ride together." 
 
 Stephen, in his hammock, sighed as he looked and 
 listened. He could think of nothing happier than 
 long rides across the desert with Helen and this child, 
 who had grown into his heart even while he knew 
 that he must divide her love more than divide it, 
 with the boy. He felt it to be right, this victory of 
 mother love. He did not struggle against it. Rather 
 he felt it to be reparation, in some sort, for all that 
 his long sickness had denied her. So he sat, half 
 listening while she told Harry how she had killed 
 a rattlesnake in the desert with her whip ; half sadly 
 dreaming, as he so often did, of their life. His con- 
 science, lately, was troubling him again. In the Bos- 
 ton papers, and once or twice in letters, he had read 
 of Henry Murphy's success, of his growing impor- 
 tance in Boston political and financial fields, and very 
 recently of his being at dinners with people who had 
 been lifelong friends of the Bonds. He was build- 
 ing his granite tower, and the people who had 
 never had to build were holding out their hands to 
 him. 
 
 So far as Henry was concerned Stephen felt no 
 regrets. It was only for Helen's sake that he was 
 unhappy. When she came to life in her new world
 
 228 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 he had appropriated the rights of the other man who 
 had proved himself unworthy because unable to give 
 her the privileges and the opportunities that were 
 hers by right. And now this other man, Henry Mur- 
 phy, the father of the child, had grown into the power 
 that could fulfil all her ambitions, while he, Stephen 
 Bond, had faded from the world's ken, was good 
 only to sit in a hammock and watch her play with 
 her child on the edge of the limitless desert. He had 
 wanted to save her from the sordid things but was 
 anything more sordid than disease. He had wanted 
 to show her the fascination of the world, to give 
 her, in Europe, a great social position that stupid 
 prejudice would have denied her in Boston. He had 
 kept her in Tucson, isolated from her equals, the 
 social queen of the Mrs. Jenningses of Arizona, who 
 were hardly better than their progenitors in South 
 Boston. That she was happy, in a mild, unemotional 
 way, he knew. It was all that kept up his courage. 
 She was happy because she knew nothing better like 
 a child with a battered rag doll and because she 
 was doing what she believed to be her duty. He had 
 long since come to the bitter realisation of the fact 
 that for him she had little more real affection, except 
 in a motherly, pitying way, than she had had years 
 ago in Boston. It had been for him a lesson learned
 
 STEPHEN 229 
 
 slowly, bit by bit, one suggestion after another, each 
 almost meaningless, but falling into its prescribed 
 place in the final picture. The boy, not he, was the 
 light in these dark places that kept her face fixed 
 toward the sky. 
 
 But as he watched them, it was their future that 
 loomed menacing before him their life after he was 
 dead. Somehow that had not occurred to him at 
 first. He had not even thought of death then, and 
 not until the last month or two had it come over 
 him what might happen to Helen. Sorrow not at 
 his death, which must be a release, sad, but without 
 the poignancy of tragedy sorrow at the knowledge 
 that must follow. There was the true tragedy the 
 revelation of himself when he could not explain the 
 revelation of herself to her whose past had been 
 mystery and whose future would be the cruel lifting 
 of the veil. That was why he had sent for Father 
 Ignatius as for one whose mission had been for cen- 
 turies to give consolation. There had been nothing 
 of reasoning in this. It had been only a vague crav- 
 ing for props to replace the material supports that 
 were gradually crumbling away. As Dr. Seward had 
 suggested, there was much discussion of the soul and 
 of death. There was also much self-revelation, not 
 of deed, but of motive, and the very speaking out
 
 2 3 o THE GREEN VASE 
 
 was comfort. The healing power of the priest was 
 becoming greater than that of the doctor. 
 
 Stephen came suddenly to full realisation of the 
 moment, when Helen and the boy stood up. They 
 were both laughing, her sweet, mellow voice mingling 
 musically with the flute-like treble of the boy's. She 
 leaned down, and taking the curly head between her 
 hands, asked, " Tell me, you funny little boy, where 
 you got that happy face." 
 
 " I know," he cried. " When I came to you from 
 Heaven I went through a cloud like that one, over 
 there and the cloud smiled at me." 
 
 " Isn't that cunning, Stephen? " she said. " Who 
 told you that, my boy? " 
 
 " Nobody told me. I dreamed it, and it is true." 
 
 u Then you must go, now, and dream more beau- 
 tiful dreams. Here is Miss Gordon with your sup- 
 per." The child clasped his chubby arms around 
 her neck and hugged her. Then he kissed Stephen's 
 cheek and trotted into the house. 
 
 Helen sat down in the hammock beside Stephen. 
 " It was really wonderful out in the desert," she 
 said, " almost the most perfect of all our perfect days. 
 I rode for miles all alone. I missed you, dear. 
 Didn't the doctor advise you to begin riding again 
 soon? "
 
 STEPHEN 231 
 
 " No. We really said nothing about it. He 
 seemed to take for granted that my riding days were 
 over." Helen put her hand quickly in his. " But 
 there is always joy in living while you are with me, 
 my dearest. Without- you well, the flame burns low 
 and you are the air that gives it being." 
 
 " You mustn't talk like that, Stephen. You are 
 better than you were a week ago. And then about 
 my leaving you it hurts when you suggest such 
 things. What would life mean for me without you 
 and Harry? " 
 
 " I can't imagine without Harry. Oh, no, dear, 
 I am not jealous. The little fellow with all his 
 charm and life and good spirits ought to be the one 
 to keep the world bright for you. I can't do that, 
 much as I should like to. It is quite wonderful, the 
 satisfaction you must have, and that, please God, 
 you will always have, in knowing that just because 
 of you the days of my sickness were the best of all 
 my life. And one other thing, Helen. If the time 
 comes that you think of me as bad, if your thoughts 
 are bitter against me try, dear, to be charitable. 
 Try to learn that a great love is blind, that even as 
 it grows in strength it grows in selfishness, in utter 
 disregard of all other rights but its own. Even the 
 loved one is merged in its violence her best being
 
 232 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 no longer best unless it contributes to the satisfaction 
 of love's demands. Oh, my darling you see me 
 now, weak and groping and trembling. Do not re- 
 member me so. Remember me as mad with love 
 mad, mad, mad and then perhaps you will for- 
 give." 
 
 She had drawn away as he talked and sat staring 
 at him, white, frightened. She hardly noticed that 
 he lay back in the hammock, his handkerchief to his 
 mouth, his eyes closed. Suddenly she spoke. " The 
 horror the terror of that awful void in my life. 
 I cannot understand and then there come flashes of 
 lightning like what you said now and the clouds 
 roll in the void and I almost see. Oh, Stephen, 
 Stephen, if you would only tell me give me a right 
 to love you as you love me, through knowledge of 
 your suffering, and mine. I hold out my arms to a 
 shadow and it eludes me. There must be a something 
 to make the shadow, and my heart cries out for it. 
 But out of the shadow you come and you are not 
 the substance of the shadow. And yet perhaps you 
 are, if you would only tell. Have I not the right 
 to know? " 
 
 " You have," he answered slowly, " because my 
 love has risked your immortal soul. Some day I will 
 tell you."
 
 STEPHEN 233 
 
 "Why not now?" 
 
 " Because to-day I am not ripe for death and 
 when you leave me, because I love you more than 
 man has a right to love, I shall die. I am not ready. 
 There is much to do for you, and for the child. 
 Helen can you not find happiness here a little 
 longer? Is there not still joy in the desert? " 
 
 " There is joy and terror. Have I ever told 
 you? When the sun is shining at midday and the 
 cacti throw their sharp, black blotches on the yellow 
 sand, I do not go out. I do not dare. I feel the 
 terror of one possessed and in the dream you are the 
 pursuer and the shadow that I cry to for help draws 
 away; and once Harry came and stood between the 
 cacti. I ran toward him, and he, thinking I was 
 playing, fled. And I was blind with terror, because 
 he seemed to be the shadow and I knew him for my 
 child. That to me, Stephen, is the terror of the 
 desert. When the sun is high I sit in the house and 
 read." 
 
 " Strange," he muttered, " strange. Father Ig- 
 natius said that the present existed like sunshine, 
 checkered with shadows of the past." He looked at 
 Helen. Her pale face was glowing in the light of 
 the setting sun. " But let us forget the shadows, 
 now, my dearest," he said, rising slowly. ' Your
 
 234 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 face reflects the brightness of the sky. Please God, 
 some little of it may shine through into your 
 heart." 
 
 She smiled at him. " At least I know that you 
 love me," she said, and kissed him.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 " I AM thankful that you have come, Father," Stephen 
 said. I meant to send for you this morning. I have 
 been very sick again." 
 
 ' Yes, my son, I have heard," Father Ignatius an- 
 swered, laying his flat black hat on Stephen's desk. 
 " I have prayed for you, to the Blessed Virgin and 
 to St. Stephen, Martyr, he who appears to me your 
 spiritual ancestor. But alas, my son, it is not for the 
 faith you would die, but for the pleasures and the 
 lusts of this evil world." He sat in a deep chair 
 and leaned toward Stephen, his elbows resting on the 
 arms, his fingers tip to tip. His white hair stood out 
 stiffly around the shaven spot on his head. He sat 
 absolutely without motion, the lines of his body re- 
 laxed. Only his large black eyes, young eyes in an 
 ancient face, seemed alive with the flame of his ear- 
 nestness. He spoke slowly and very precisely, care- 
 ful of each word that passed between his lips, as 
 though using an instrument with which he had long 
 been familiar but seldom used. 
 
 "The pleasures and lusts, Father? Does life in 
 the desert seem to you to cater to these? " 
 
 235
 
 236 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " There are pleasures and lusts of the mind as of 
 the physical body. There is the shall I say inverted 
 pleasure? of moral cowardice. You may say to me 
 that for a man to make confession is weak. I say 
 that to make confession is strong. It is the acceptance 
 of the greater pain over the lesser. True it brings 
 in its train peace, but a peace that is hypothetically 
 to be reached through the acuteness of suffering that 
 attends confession, is one that only a strong man seeks 
 to reach." 
 
 " Why do you say these things to me? " 
 
 " Because you have a great sin that weighs you 
 down, that cries to be told." 
 
 " Why do you think this of me? " 
 
 " I do not think this thing. I know. You are 
 without peace. When your beautiful wife comes to 
 you the love in your eyes is love that has no calm. 
 When your child comes to your knee you look at 
 him not as a father should look at his child, but with 
 eyes that beseech his pure sight not to pry deeply into 
 your nature. It is as though he were another's child." 
 
 Stephen started, but the priest was gazing out over 
 the plains, beyond the white town to the brown and 
 blue hills beyond. " Can you see what others cannot 
 see? " Stephen asked hoarsely. 
 
 " I know not what others see. I only know that
 
 STEPHEN 237 
 
 with the eyes of compassion I see many things. Has 
 my life not been the giving of balm to the sorrowful, 
 and shall I not see sorrow where it exists? " 
 
 " And can your religion relieve such sorrow 
 as mine such sorrow as you conceive me to 
 have?" 
 
 " The compassion of God is past understanding. 
 It can relieve the burden of sin, and the burden of 
 sin is sorrow." 
 
 Stephen struggled with himself. The impulse to 
 tell was strong, but the self-repression of the Puritan 
 died hard. It was not of himself he thought, but 
 of Helen. Of what use to her future would there be 
 in a personal confession to this man? ;< Tell me," 
 he said, groping for an opening that would not be 
 a revelation. " Is a marriage between Protestants 
 valid?" 
 
 " It is a binding contract," the priest answered. 
 " There is no sacrament." 
 
 " Then is the breaking of such a marriage as much 
 a sin as would be the breaking of a Catholic mar- 
 riage? " 
 
 " A Catholic marriage could never be dissolved. 
 Unfaithfulness to marriage vows would be desecra- 
 tion of a sacrament and would be therefore a capital 
 sin. But, my son, it is idle to weigh sins in the
 
 238 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 balance with each other. Weigh them rather in the 
 balance with repentance." 
 
 " God knows I have repented bitterly enough ! " 
 Stephen cried involuntarily. 
 
 "Enough to make restitution?" the priest asked 
 sternly. " Repentance without fruits is the vanity of 
 vanities." 
 
 "Restitution?" Stephen whispered. "Can God 
 be so cruel? Even the civil law is more merciful. 
 The thief who steals my money is punished, but if 
 the money is gone he does not have to make it good." 
 
 " He must pay to the extent of his possessions, and 
 if punishment bring repentance he works until he has 
 gained more possessions wherewith to pay." 
 
 Stephen shrank back into the corner of the ham- 
 mock. His face was grey. " I should not ask that 
 of him," he said, " I should be ashamed to strip 
 him." 
 
 " God asks full payment. When payment is made 
 he clothes the sinner in white garments and makes 
 him rich with riches he has never known." 
 
 Stephen laughed bitterly. " This is aphorism. But 
 no truth stands without its exception. What if resti- 
 tution be death? " 
 
 14 Then the reward is everlasting life in the glory 
 of Heaven."
 
 STEPHEN 239 
 
 " And even that reward may be mean in comparison 
 with the sacrifice. You cannot conceive it, for your 
 eyes are fixed on Heaven. To me the glories that 
 are bright in your eyes pale before the sunshine of 
 this earth." He stopped abruptly, and then went 
 on: " But you will not think only evil of me, Father. 
 I am groping in my darkness and I need your hand 
 I, a Unitarian and one who calls himself a philos- 
 opher. Let me still do my little good while I may. 
 Perhaps it will turn the balance in my favour, and 
 perhaps though I do not think it as the sun of 
 this life grows dimmer my time is short now I may 
 be able to see your light. I shall never shut my eyes 
 against it." 
 
 " And I shall pray without ceasing," the priest said 
 simply. " Shall I go now? " 
 
 " No, not yet. Helen is riding, and I like to hear 
 you talk. Tell me more about the Mission. Has 
 the old Indian woman heard from her son? " 
 
 They sat talking for an hour, Father Ignatius tell- 
 ing him of the work among the Indians and with it 
 calling up many of the old customs and legends of 
 the people. He treated them all with quaint toler- 
 ance and often illuminating humour. These people 
 were all his children, the tricky flock that he strug- 
 gled to keep in the road that would lead them straight
 
 2 4 o THE GREEN VASE 
 
 to the gates of Heaven. He never blamed them too 
 sorely. If one got drunk and beat his mother, Father 
 Ignatius would seek excuses. " They always treated 
 serpents as holy, you know," he would say. " It is 
 inheritance, the trace of which must slowly be eradi- 
 cated." Even in telling an amusing story his words 
 were the words of books. 
 
 " And now," he said, when the western hills threw 
 their shadows to the edge of the town where the 
 buildings of the University of Arizona dominated the 
 desert, " now I must go. It is a long walk to the 
 Mission where my children always wait for me. And 
 for you, my son, I shall pray, and when the time is 
 fulfilled you will speak, reaching out your hands for 
 the gifts of Holy Church." He held out his hands 
 and blessed Stephen ; then, lifting his skirts, he pulled 
 them through his cincture to give his legs free play 
 and turned away through the garden. 
 
 Stephen watched the black-robed figure as it passed 
 rapidly down the path between the fan-palms. He 
 felt a peculiar, shrinking fondness for the old priest, 
 whose vision of life and death was so untainted with 
 earthy passion. The eye of Faith ! Its vision had 
 the intensity of concentration and its undisturbed joy. 
 Stephen longed for it and yet drew away. Could the 
 glory that streamed through the wicket gate, flooding
 
 STEPHEN 241 
 
 the straight and narrow way, compensate for the 
 pleasant, troubling visions of sun-washed fields that 
 his broader outlook caught beyond the walls? He 
 smiled at the thought that he was interpreting Cath- 
 olic faith in terms of the " Pilgrim's Progress," that 
 he was setting Father Ignatius on the path that led 
 through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, where 
 the wornout giant, Pope, sat grinning and doddering 
 at the mouth of his cave. Suddenly he remembered 
 his scornful comments on the Church years before, 
 when he had called it illogical. He was wrong, but, 
 as Moncrieff had said, it was not the logic that ap- 
 pealed so keenly; it was the continual compassion, 
 the stupendous promises that drew him. 
 
 Moncrieff had been wise in all he said Stephen 
 saw it now a kind of devilish, worldly wisdom, that 
 understood man's lower cravings as Father Ignatius 
 understood the higher. It had been the wisdom of 
 the serpent too general, Stephen had often re- 
 minded him, to be intense but it had been more 
 than that because Moncrieff knew men with a vivid- 
 ness that made it possible for him to balance, men- 
 tally, the ratio between temptation and character; 
 that had made him able to prophesy with appalling 
 accuracy. Stephen felt that he hated him, and yet 
 found himself longing for him, for his acrid com-
 
 242 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 ment on men and women, for a touch once more of 
 masculine companionship. He could not think of the 
 doctor and the priest as men. 
 
 Then Helen came out to him, letters in her hand, 
 and a package. " Here are the prints, I think, dear," 
 she said. " They came in a box from Boston. I had 
 Pedro open it." 
 
 " Hurrah ! " he cried. " Let's open them immedi- 
 ately. The letters can wait. Come, we will look at 
 them together. It is terrible to think how long they 
 have been lying in the house on Beacon Hill. I 
 should have sent for them years ago." 
 
 She pulled up a light table and cut the string around 
 the package, then sat beside him to look at the prints. 
 He was as thrilled as a child on Christmas morning. 
 There was the joy of discovery, made keener by the 
 new finding of old friends. For Helen, too, it was 
 a delight, since under his tutelage she had learned 
 to share his enthusiasm for the delicate, Oriental re- 
 finement of these lovely pictures. Yet these particular 
 prints could never have for her, she thought, the inti- 
 mate charm of those they had found together. These 
 represented Stephen's old life, in which she had no 
 part. Her only hope was that through them she 
 might be able to live back into that life, thus per- 
 haps gathering another of the many threads that
 
 STEPHEN 243 
 
 went to make up the unknown pattern of her own 
 past. 
 
 He turned over the pictures one by one, comment- 
 ing or asking her opinion. " See this one a real 
 Moronobu. I found it in Kioto just after I left col- 
 lege. I don't believe there is a better in America. 
 If you had only been with me, how much more faith- 
 fully we should have searched and what treasures 
 we should have found. But you were a cunning little 
 girl then all pink ribbons and pigtails." 
 " Not many pink ribbons, I am afraid." 
 " You poor child. But look. Here are the 
 Harunobus. How I loved him and how I love him 
 still. This one isn't it lovely? Look at the curves 
 he sometimes attained to the perfect line, I think. 
 And then oh, Helen this one! For years I kept 
 it always beside me, on my table in Boston. The 
 young daughter of the house has just finished her 
 morning duties and is looking at a pet mouse her 
 brother is holding, and she says it's not my trans- 
 lation 
 
 ' I've dusted as our mother bade 
 
 And yet have left one stain ; 
 How could I brush the pine-tree shade 
 
 From off the window-pane ? ' 
 
 It is miserable verse not half so poetic as the print. 
 Look at the shadow of the pine across the pale, paper
 
 244 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 screen. And the perfect union of sentiment and exe- 
 cution simplicity, domestic charm Helen, my 
 
 darling, what is it? " 
 
 She was lying back in her chair, her eyes closed, 
 the smooth lines of her face twisted with pain. 
 "Helen, dear! " He sought vainly for anything he 
 might have said to hurt her. " Helen ! " His voice 
 betrayed his terror. Slowly her eyes opened and she 
 gazed at him with the same piteous questioning of 
 years ago when he had told her she was to have a 
 child. 
 
 She leaned across the table, covering the print 
 with her arms. " Stephen," she whispered at last. 
 " I have seen that print before in the dead days." 
 
 ' You have seen the reproduction in Fenollosa's 
 book. Because it is familiar you think it carries you 
 back." 
 
 She shook her head. " No, no. I have seen that 
 very print." Her eyes dilated and she stared at the 
 blank wall as though seeing a vision. She spoke 
 rapidly, in monotone, the words forced from her, 
 charged with an under-note of suffering. " I see a 
 big dark room nothing is clear but you are there, 
 and the air is alive with passion. Only that print is 
 definite. It shines up through the black shadows on 
 the table. It is the only true thing there. I keep
 
 STEPHEN 245 
 
 my eyes fixed on it as though it had the power to 
 save. I shrink from you and then the shadow comes 
 the shadow of the desert but more real, standing 
 out from the other shadows. And I shrink from it 
 shrink and yet long for it. And there is the noise of 
 
 wind in trees and of voices, and then It is gone, 
 
 all gone the page that I almost read. Stephen, what 
 does it mean? " 
 
 His eyes fell before her gaze. " I do not know," 
 he answered. 
 
 She stood up quickly and he watched her as she 
 walked firmly to the door. She turned toward him, 
 and he saw that her cheeks were blazing with the first 
 real anger he had seen there. " Never before have 
 you lied to me," she said, and left him. 
 
 He felt as though he was shriveling to nothing in 
 his chair. Was this the end? It was true he had 
 never lied to her before. But their whole intercourse 
 had been founded on a lie the lie of death become 
 the lie of life. Not much longer could he play the 
 game. He had no longer any strength, no longer 
 any courage. He took up the print to tear it to bits. 
 And then he suddenly remembered. She had said it 
 was " the only true thing there." He let it fall from 
 his hands and watched it flutter to the floor, where 
 it lay, shining in the last gleam of sunlight. He
 
 246 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 turned to the door where Helen had vanished. It 
 was open, and through the opening he could see the 
 dark, empty room. It seemed to him suddenly to 
 be typical of his own future the darkness, the 
 emptiness. Through his soul Helen had passed like 
 a flame, and the passing of her, that had been glory, 
 was ending in tragic night. And yet, could it even be 
 dignified with the high name of tragedy? He seized 
 the corners of the table with his withered hands and 
 stared, as she had done, at the blank wall. To him 
 it yielded no visions. He turned toward the desert. 
 It typified the immensity of his desolation, but with 
 a tragic beauty in which he had no part, in which 
 he felt like a shameless, mean intruder. Years ago his 
 sin had seemed to him the fulfilment of the joy of 
 life. To-day it took on the loathsome aspect of a 
 common theft, bolstered up by common lies. And 
 in the desert there was no hiding-place. That might 
 be found in teeming city streets, never in these plains, 
 pitilessly open to the all-seeing sky a place where a 
 sinless man might make merry with the eternities, 
 but where the sinner must crouch in bitter communion 
 with his inner agony, until death. To Stephen not 
 even the growing darkness, that was born in the 
 valleys, that welled up over their brink, and that even 
 now, like grey water, was overflowing the plains and
 
 STEPHEN 247 
 
 reaching out toward the foothills not even the dark- 
 ness offered shelter. When it had enveloped the 
 world the myriad eyes of heaven would open and 
 gaze down mockingly through the long hours of the 
 night, watching his misery. For he would be alone. 
 It seemed to him that all the years of his deceit had 
 culminated in that little, direct lie, and that at last a 
 wall stood between them that neither could ever pene- 
 trate. 
 
 Unless it were the child ! Might not Harry's ex- 
 quisite innocence prove a door through which might 
 stream from the warmth of Helen's heart a shaft of 
 yellow sunshine to cheer, once more, the cold cells of 
 his? But why the boy? In him Stephen had no 
 part. He was but another aspect of the lie, for him 
 and for Helen, all in all. He put his arms across 
 the prints and let his head sink down. He was con- 
 scious that tears were dropping from his eyes. But 
 he was not a woman. The tears brought no relief. 
 They were the terrible expression of pain too all- 
 absorbing to be longer held in check. 
 
 So he sat while night swept up from the valleys. 
 A sudden gust of chill air caught up the neglected 
 letters, scattering them over the grass of the lawn. 
 
 And then, at last, Helen came to him again. The 
 touch of her hand on his hair made him tremble in
 
 248 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 every nerve. He had thought of her, somehow, as 
 far away, lost to him forever. "I let Harry stay 
 with you because I thought he might comfort you for 
 my cruelty, dear. Sometimes I forget. Have you 
 sent him in?" She spoke gently and the gentleness 
 in her voice caught him before he grasped the mean- 
 ing of her words. He rubbed his sleeve across his 
 eyes like a little boy and caught her hand in his. 
 
 " I am not weak enough to mistake justice for 
 cruelty," he said, and then " the boy has not been 
 with me." 
 
 She drew away from him sharply. " Not been 
 with you? Miss Gordon said he came out here an 
 hour ago." She ran into the house, and he heard her 
 call. " Miss Gordon, Harry is not with his father. 
 Where can he have gone?" He listened dully to 
 the noises in the house, the running of people, the 
 calling, within doors and in the garden. She had for- 
 gotten him at the first hint of danger to her son. 
 His suffering was nothing to her. She came onto the 
 veranda again, a lamp in her hand that brought out 
 all the beauty of her face and the horror in her eyes. 
 She did not even glance at him. She stood at the top 
 of the steps, peering vainly into the darkness, and 
 shivering. After a while the servants came toward 
 her from various parts of the garden- " Madam,
 
 STEPHEN 249 
 
 we do not find him," they said, one after another, 
 and the last added, " The little gate to the south 
 that leads to the Mission is open." 
 
 " Father Ignatius forgot to close it," she cried bit- 
 terly, " the miserable, meddling old man. And you, 
 Stephen," she said, turning toward him, " you sit 
 there impotent and useless when my son, my own 
 little son, has gone out into the desert alone." The 
 very sound of her voice carried in it the terror of 
 the desert, that feeling that is always dormant under 
 the love of those who love the yellow sand, 
 and the grey sage brush, and the wide, painted 
 plains. 
 
 It roused Stephen at last. He seized a lantern 
 from the wall, lighted it, and strode across the 
 veranda like a strong man. " I will bring him back 
 to you," he said. Then he turned to the frightened 
 servants. " You men get lanterns and go to search 
 for him, in all the lands to the south near our com- 
 pound. " You," pointing to another, " make a bon- 
 fire on the hill yonder. And you ride to the town 
 and get aid at the police station. You, Helen, stay 
 here, and see that everything is done as I have or- 
 dered. When the searching party arrives from Tuc- 
 son, see that they go in the right direction. The 
 bonfire will show them the way back."
 
 250 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 "And you, Stephen?" she said, "where are you 
 going?" 
 
 " To find the boy." He kissed her and started 
 down the steps. 
 
 " But, Stephen you are not strong enough to 
 walk." 
 
 He did not answer her, but pressed forward across 
 the garden and out through the open gate. Before 
 him was the desert, east, west, south, dark, so that 
 all outlines were lost. Only his lantern cast a narrow 
 circle of light. But his mind glowed with the vivid- 
 ness of his thought. Every fibre of him was respond- 
 ing to the call. He was sure of himself as he had not 
 been since the old days before Helen had risen above 
 his horizon. Now he tried to think as the child must 
 have thought when he came out of the gate an hour 
 and a half before. There was a path, a narrow, yel- 
 low trail that zigzagged among the hummocks and 
 hollows of the desert. Harry would probably have 
 followed that until some particularly alluring pile 
 of rocks or bit of chapparal enticed him away. So 
 Stephen watched carefully, as far as the rays of the 
 lantern allowed, calling now and then, following each 
 likely lead until it ended in a gully, worn by primeval 
 storms; or again, perhaps, in a clump of impenetrable 
 cacti. Then he returned to the path and proceeded
 
 STEPHEN 251 
 
 ever eastward. Once he looked back and saw the 
 quivering signal of the bonfire and specks of dancing 
 light that were the lanterns of the searchers. Once 
 or twice he stumbled. His legs trembled and his 
 breath came in gasps. But he fought off his faint- 
 ness, for he had a work to do. 
 
 Suddenly he heard in the distance ahead of him 
 a man's voice, singing. He stopped to listen. It 
 was unbelievable, a disembodied voice, crooning, as 
 though a lullaby. He stopped to listen with an 
 amazement that was akin to terror. Was he losing 
 his mind? He tried then not to listen, not to be- 
 lieve. There was no light, nothing to guide the foot- 
 steps of a man, yet the voice came steadily nearer. 
 At last he could distinguish the words " A*ue 'Maria, 
 gratia plena." He sat down abruptly on the ground. 
 He could no longer stand. And still the song sounded 
 clearer until the singer came close at hand and 
 Stephen could hear his footsteps crunching on the 
 gravel. Then suddenly it stopped and the vast silence 
 of the desert closed in. But it was only for a mo- 
 ment. The voice called softly in Spanish, " Who is 
 there?" 
 
 Stephen tried to answer, but no sound came. " It 
 is I, Father Ignatius," the voice continued. " May 
 the holy Saints bless you and care for you."
 
 252 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " It is I, Stephen Bond," he stammered, at last. 
 
 " Ah, my son, is it you? " Father Ignatius strode 
 into the light. " See, I have a present for you. Your 
 little son. He was asleep beside the path. And here 
 is his little whip. He had gone into the desert to 
 kill a rattlesnake, like his beautiful mother. But see, 
 he sleeps still. I was singing to him as a lullaby the 
 only song I know, the hymn of the Blessed Virgin. 
 Ah how sweet is the sleep of childhood, trusting al- 
 ways in the might of Providence." 
 
 Stephen leaned forward, his head against his knees. 
 " I thank God," he said brokenly, " and I pray Him 
 to bless you as you have blessed us. Take the child 
 home to his mother and then send the men for me. 
 My strength is gone." 
 
 " I go," the priest answered, " and I leave you in 
 the care of Heaven. See the stars the eyes of the 
 angels. They will watch over you."
 
 " I SHALL never forget it, Stephen that you almost 
 gave your life for Harry." 
 
 " Why not? " he answered gruffly. " Would any 
 man do less for his wife's son. I couldn't let the little 
 beggar starve in the desert. And besides I didn't 
 find him. Father Ignatius did." 
 
 " That matters nothing. You did more than your 
 best when you would have been justified in doing 
 nothing." 
 
 " And because I did not continue swinging in my 
 hammock you thought it worth while to nurse me 
 back into my miserable existence again." 
 
 " You have all the proverbial harshness of the con- 
 valescent," she said, laughing but there were tears 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " You saved my life, Helen. It's yours now 
 yours to do with as it best pleases you. That is my 
 theory of the reward for saving life." 
 
 " It might prove a dangerous theory, dear. A 
 life saved is a gift, a very great gift, to be sure, but 
 no more the property of the giver than is any other 
 present, freely given." 
 
 253
 
 254 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " You think it a gift like any other? Does it 
 entail, in your mind, no obligations? " 
 
 She shook her head. " All obligation, yes, but 
 surely only obligations acknowledged by the receiver. 
 If, after my accident, you had been any other than 
 you were my husband you surely do not dream 
 that you would have had any right over my life 
 other than the right to demand eternal gratitude. 
 Death itself no more changes things than sleep. To 
 save from death why, after all is said and done, 
 my dear, it is little more than instinct." 
 
 " But I wish," Stephen insisted, " to give you my 
 life I acknowledge my obligation. As I took yours 
 and made with it what I would, so you must take mine. 
 In no other way can our account be cleared. Of late 
 the thought has been crushing my soul to hell." 
 
 " Stephen," she cried. " What do you mean with 
 all this talk of give and take. We are each other's. 
 Neither would have a thought but for the other's 
 good." 
 
 He laughed scornfully. " Not a thought, perhaps 
 but as to action! There is the difference. A 
 thought may seem all bright and holy and translated 
 into action it becomes damnable yet seems right at 
 first, because it is the child of the thought. But an 
 act is never solitary. It sets in train a thousand con-
 
 STEPHEN 255 
 
 sequences. Its primal virtue or what seemed a 
 virtue is made vicious by subsequent events. I 
 dreamed great dreams long ago, and the world has 
 turned those dreams to ashes. They have wrecked 
 your life because I did not hold, as I thought I held, 
 the reins of destiny. I worshipped the god of my 
 own reason and the god had feet of clay that have 
 crumbled to dust. I lie on my face at last amid the 
 ruins that I have caused. I crawl to your feet, you, 
 whose life my attempt to bless has cursed, and beg 
 for pity. For pity! " he cried, sitting up in his bed. 
 " For your pity and you will give it, contemptu- 
 ously, as I deserve. Your love I have never had. 
 Do not lie, as I have lied to you everything about 
 me was a lie except my love, and the stupendous truth 
 of that made it false. I leave you soon but, thank 
 God, with your boy to comfort you in the storms that 
 are to come. He is the child of the shadow and he 
 is true there is no taint in him." 
 
 " Stephen ! " she whispered. The tears streamed 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 " Now leave me," he said, throwing off the bed- 
 clothes. " Dr. Seward said I might go out to-day. 
 I am going to the Mission. There is only a short 
 time left. Send Pedro to help me. I must write 
 first. Have the carriage in half an hour."
 
 256 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 Helen ran to the bed and tried to hold him back. 
 ' You must not go," she cried. " I love you, Stephen. 
 I cannot let you go." 
 
 He caught her in his arms and held her close. 
 " You love me? " There was in the few words a note 
 of pleading, almost of hope. " But, no," he said 
 suddenly, pushing her away. " I have done with all 
 that. Shall I waste my little breath vainly try- 
 ing to blow dead ashes into flame? I am strong 
 because I have work to do. Let me do what I 
 can." 
 
 She walked a little unsteadily from the room as 
 Stephen got out of bed. He did not wait for Pedro, 
 but began to dress himself, holding a chair to keep 
 from falling. Before he had finished Pedro came 
 in and helped him to the desk. 
 
 " Now, go," Stephen said. " See that the carriage 
 is ready in half an hour. I am going to St. Xavier." 
 He pulled out pen and paper and wrote rapidly. The 
 days in bed had not been wasted. While they thought 
 him sleeping he had in reality been mapping out his 
 course. He had no longer any hesitation. All he 
 prayed for was the strength to continue to the end. 
 His will had been made craftily worded, he be- 
 lieved, so that no lawyer could misconstrue his mean- 
 ing. His property was left ultimately to Harry,
 
 STEPHEN 257 
 
 although the income was to go to Helen during her 
 life. He did not want to give her the chance to dis- 
 pose of the principal. But more important by far 
 than any financial arrangements, he knew, was the 
 working out of some plan whereby she might be saved 
 a little of the agony that she must endure when she 
 had to face the truth, alone. 
 
 More and more, in these last days, Stephen had 
 come to feel that renunciation was possible, that the 
 last, struggling rays of his life could only fade peace- 
 fully into the great darkness if all conflicting passions, 
 all selfish desires, had been swept away. At first the 
 thought of death had been only of the poignant sor- 
 row of parting from Helen; then, as he realised the 
 iron bands with which his broken life bound her, he 
 had unselfishly welcomed it; and then, in these last 
 weeks, had come the maddening realisation that for 
 him death would be release from an unsupportable 
 burden a burden which would be transferred to her 
 beloved shoulders. To make it as little heavy for 
 her as possible that was the task that remained, and 
 that must be accomplished, even though it meant that 
 he must die like a dog, alone. 
 
 In less than the half-hour Stephen finished his 
 writing, sealed and addressed it, and enclosed it in 
 another envelope on which was the name of Father
 
 258 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 Ignatius. Then he took his cane and hobbled, bent 
 like an old man, to the front door. 
 
 Helen ran to him and helped him across the 
 veranda. The carriage was waiting at the steps. 
 " Won't you let me go with you, dear? " she pleaded. 
 
 " No," he said, but very tenderly. " I have work 
 to do that I can best do alone. I shall soon be at 
 home again, and then I shall have many things to 
 tell you, my dearest. I have brought infinite sorrow 
 into your life. Now I must bring suffering, too, but 
 I pray that it may be a healing pain this time." 
 
 She turned away to hide her tears and he bent 
 low to kiss her hand. That was all, except that as 
 the carriage drove away he turned to catch the last 
 glimpse of her white-clad figure on the steps. As he 
 passed the gate Harry saw him, and called out, 
 " Good-bye, papa " he used the term when he 
 wanted particuarly to show his affection " can I 
 come, too? " 
 
 " May, my boy," Stephen called, " not can. No, 
 not to-day. I am very busy. Some other day." 
 
 The desert stretched away to the east, before him 
 the same ground he had traversed in the blackness 
 three weeks before but to-day it was of all colours, 
 melting into a glorious harmony of saffron and rose 
 and olive. A clump of straight-growing cacti barred
 
 STEPHEN 259 
 
 the road with black lines between the squares of sun- 
 light. Among them, in the whirl of orange dust, 
 Stephen imagined, with instinctive shrinking, that he 
 could see Helen's " shadow," that elusive ghost of 
 the past that gave terror to the sun-stained desert. 
 But on away from dreams into realities ! The time 
 was too short for dreams, even here, in the very home 
 of wild imaginings. On then, on toward the grey- 
 white walls of the Mission, so near, seemingly, in the 
 clear, clean air, in reality still so far away. 
 
 Stephen turned to the Mexican who was driving 
 and spoke to him in Spanish. " Do you ever dream, 
 Pedro?" 
 
 "Dream, senor? Yes, often at night but more 
 often in the day, when the desert has cast its spell." 
 
 "You, too. The desert makes you dream?" 
 
 " It does so to every one, senor. There is en- 
 chantment in the desert to all who live in it." 
 
 " And does it seem to you when you are driving, 
 as now, that you are driving into eternity?" 
 
 " Not into it, but rather in it," he answered sim- 
 ply. " Time and space have no meaning here. The 
 bright days follow each other like glittering crystals 
 on an endless chain, and the black nights are beads of 
 jet to set off their sparkle. Distance has no meaning. 
 The rock by the roadside is no clearer than the hill
 
 2 6o THE GREEN VASE 
 
 over yonder under which passes the old trail to 
 Phenix. One is always at the beginning and always 
 at the ending." 
 
 " You speak truth," Stephen said slowly. " We 
 are living in eternity. But death is not that an 
 ending? " 
 
 " Or a beginning? I do not know, because I have 
 never died. Not in the desert, I think. Pain is 
 ended, and gladness, perhaps, but not the journey. 
 That has no end. The holy priests tell of Heaven 
 as a place of golden streets and green trees and flow- 
 ing water that sings sweet songs. To a dweller in 
 the desert such a heaven cannot be. It is too crowded, 
 too noisy. Only in silence is peace, and peace is 
 Heaven. When my wife died, 1 was very sad, sefior. 
 I went out into the desert alone, with water and 
 food. For a week I lived there, until the sun had 
 risen and set seven times. And my sorrow went 
 away from me. It vanished sobbing into the vast 
 canons to join its sister sorrows. I returned to my 
 home comforted." 
 
 " Sorrow that I understand. But sin, Pedro 
 can the desert relieve of that burden? " 
 
 " No," he answered, " Holy Church does that. 
 But she demands after confession, penitence. The 
 desert gives gladness once more to the penitent."
 
 STEPHEN 261 
 
 " I can see that," Stephen mused. " Yes, I can 
 see that. The calm, and utter purity of the desert 
 must give the opportunity for personality to reestab- 
 lish itself. Among men one cannot grow straight 
 again. There are too many conflicting passions, the 
 past is too obtrusive to give a clear vision of the 
 future. It might be so for me if I had time." 
 
 " I do not understand," Pedro said, as he guided 
 the horses skilfully across an ancient waterway. 
 " But what the senor is pleased to say must be 
 true." 
 
 " It is true, Pedro, and is what you would have 
 said yourself in a simpler and better way. One thing 
 I want to tell you that you can understand. Very 
 soon I am going away. I want you to care for the 
 mistress and the little boy." 
 
 The man's eyes gleamed. "As though it were 
 necessary to ask ! " he cried. " No servant would 
 ever leave the beautiful mistress and the little senor 
 who is learning so well to speak our language. Is the 
 senor going into the East?" 
 
 " No, Pedro. Into the desert on the long trail." 
 
 Pedro crossed himself. " God forbid. The master 
 will have many years more with us." 
 
 " It will be as God wills," Stephen said. " But 
 now He has left me very little time. Here we are
 
 262 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 at the Mission. Stop at the church. Father Ig- 
 natius will let me in." 
 
 He stood at the door, leaning heavily on his cane 
 while Pedro went for the priest. Around him was 
 the little, straggling Indian settlement, the children, 
 in gaudy rags, playing before the doors of the huts 
 where their mothers sat working over the bead bags 
 and belts that brought them, a living. Beyond was 
 the hill where a shrine was to be built and a statue of 
 the Blessed Virgin set up, that in years to come was 
 to rival in miraculous power the wonders done by 
 Our Lady of Lourdes. Stephen smiled thoughtfully. 
 Surely if miracles were to be performed in these mod- 
 ern days, no place could be so appropriate as the 
 desert, open wide to all the influences of Heaven. 
 Our Lady, he thought, would find it easier to reach 
 down from the skies, more a pleasure to bathe her 
 white arms in this limpid air than in the mists of 
 southern France, tainted, as they were, with all the 
 sin and civilisation of the Old World. Once more 
 he smiled at this childish faith, even while he recog- 
 nised it as being greater in its power than the deepest 
 learning. 
 
 Father Ignatius came swinging down the road from 
 his house. He was hatless and the bushy white hair 
 stood up around his head. " My son, welcome," he
 
 STEPHEN 263 
 
 said. " It was Heaven's mercy that brought you 
 that night through the desert alive. Saint Stephen 
 assuredly guided you on the path to me. Your 
 strength would not long have continued." 
 
 " Much more surely was it Heaven that led you 
 to the child. Helen would have died to lose 
 him." 
 
 " No one does not die of innocent sorrow not 
 if one has the character of Mrs. Bond. Rather does 
 such sorrow wash clean the soul so that it may grow 
 in holiness. It has been the bereaved mothers who 
 have become spiritual mothers of thousands who 
 would else have been motherless." 
 
 " You must know," Stephen said. " But I came to 
 talk of myself, to ask your aid." 
 
 The priest's face lighted. " It has come at last," 
 he cried, " the penitence that has the courage to re- 
 nounce. And you have come to ask my help the 
 only help I have the consolation of Holy Church." 
 He put his hands on Stephen's shoulders and looked 
 into his eyes. 
 
 " Not just as you think, perhaps," Stephen an- 
 swered, but his eyes did not waver before the priest's 
 gaze. " Not just as you would have me come not 
 as a sheep crying to be admitted to the fold. I have 
 not I can never have, your faith. To pretend to
 
 264 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 have it would add one more lie and I have enough 
 in my record already. Can't you understand, Father? 
 My ancestry, all my inheritance from three hundred 
 years and more, makes that faith remote. But it has 
 taught me much that penitence is not complete with- 
 out confession, and resitution. Beyond that I cannot 
 go without a miracle, and there are no longer 
 miracles." 
 
 " It is not as I should have ordered it," said Fa- 
 ther Ignatius. " But I am an ignorant man and 
 should not presume to teach God. Nor is it for me to 
 try to understand His ways. And yet, my son, I see 
 a miracle to-day for is not the birth of truth the 
 greatest miracle? " 
 
 " It seems to me a normal evolution." 
 
 " Ah so ! But is not the power that makes the 
 law of evolution above all miraculous? I care noth- 
 ing what terms you use so long as the result is conso- 
 lation. In special ways, my son, how may I aid 
 you?" 
 
 " Just," Stephen answered, " by taking charge of 
 this letter. After I die, please send it to the person 
 whose name is written on the inner envelope." 
 
 " You are asking me nothing that a priest should 
 not do?" 
 
 "It is unlikely, Father, when I am on the verge
 
 STEPHEN 265 
 
 of death. The letter may do much toward righting 
 the great wrong I have done to Helen." 
 
 " It is the years that are lost from her life? " 
 
 "Yes; why?" 
 
 " Much may happen in a few days that a lifetime is 
 needed to repair." 
 
 " Helen is guilty of nothing absolutely noth- 
 ing." 
 
 " That I know. Her eyes are bright with inno- 
 cence." 
 
 " It is true and that divine innocence has never 
 been marred with any love of me. Her service is duty 
 and pity." 
 
 Father Ignatius bowed his head. " I will take the 
 letter. Is there more? " 
 
 " Yes a strange request for me, a Protestant. 
 My confession must be not to you, but to Helen and 
 before that to God. May I be an hour alone in the 
 church?" 
 
 Without a word Father Ignatius stepped to the 
 huge, old, worm-eaten door and, unlocking it with 
 a heavy key that hung from his belt, opened it. 
 " How long shall you want? " 
 
 " An hour," Stephen answered. He crossed the 
 threshold and stood for a moment on the stone floor. 
 Behind him the great door swung to and he heard
 
 266 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 the key grate in the rusted lock. He moved slowly 
 forward into the nave, breathing deeply of the cool, 
 ancient air, almost imperceptibly tinged with incense 
 and the still more subtle odour of wornout years. A 
 single thin shaft of sunlight fell across the chancel, 
 accentuating the surrounding dimness. 
 
 He was not alone. Painted saints and angels, their 
 crude outlines mellowed against the misty gold walls, 
 looked down on him. When he had first seen the 
 church he had laughed, had talked to Helen of the 
 vulgar melodrama of it all a cheap device to at- 
 tract the simple Indians. That was just after he had 
 come to Arizona. Now he had become a child of 
 the desert, realising that this church, like the rare 
 desert flower, was an outgrowth of the soil, stained 
 with its violent colours, the hot exaggeration of primal 
 things. At first he had called for a church cold and 
 white and pure, symbolic of die austerity of the 
 Christian faith. Now he knew himself wrong. 
 Christianity should express itself in conformity with 
 its surroundings, clothing itself with infinite variation 
 as man puts on fur in the cold North and linen in the 
 hot South. 
 
 So this child of the desert let himself be absorbed 
 into the mood of the old Mission church. And it 
 was a mood of passionate self-abnegation, uplifted like
 
 STEPHEN 267 
 
 the daily sacrifice through adoration of the unknown 
 deity. Unknown? No, not to the builders of the 
 church, Stephen thought rather an intimate friend, 
 understanding them and all their childish devices to 
 please him. So the beautiful, sad-faced angels against 
 the buttresses that upheld the arch of the chancel, 
 bowed in lowly wonder as they held their silk flags, on 
 which was inscribed the " Gloria in Excelsis Deo." 
 So, above the altar, smiling cherubs upheld the plat- 
 form on which stood St. Francis, dressed in cassock 
 and surplice, his face scarred with the suffering of 
 the world, and yet forgetting self in compas- 
 sion for others. And in his hand was a worn 
 crucifix. 
 
 Stephen moved slowly up the nave, into the chancel, 
 to the very steps of the altar, and there, not reason- 
 ing but feeling, he knelt, leaned forward until his 
 forehead touched the cold stone, and at last sank pros- 
 trate before the crucifix. There he lay, and slowly, 
 as his uncertainty drained away, peace welled up in 
 its place. It was not happiness, but the dawn of hap- 
 piness that rises out of understanding. He saw him- 
 self, at last, as he was. " Give me time," he mur- 
 mured. " Give me time. I have the courage. Just 
 one untroubled day, undisturbed with echoes from be- 
 yond the desert. Here, in this eternal peace of a
 
 268 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 dead world, help me to find my peace and hers." 
 It was the first true prayer he had breathed in years, 
 and as he turned toward the door he felt that the 
 saints on the walls looked down with pity and with 
 joy.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 STEPHEN walked slowly down the aisle, looking back 
 again and again at the dim chancel, cut by that one 
 misty shaft of sunlight. He hesitated to go, fearing 
 to leave the peace of the church, yet sure that outside 
 he would find the equal peace of the desert, with only 
 Father Ignatius waiting for him, and Pedro, with the 
 horses. They were a part of the desert. His other 
 friends, those of long ago, whom he dreaded now, 
 were far away. And he had work that called him. 
 
 He knocked on the door and then waited while the 
 key turned. At first the sunshine blinded him. He 
 put his hand on the priest's arm to steady himself. 
 
 "A friend is here to see you," Father Ignatius 
 said. " Perhaps he comes as Heaven's answer to your 
 prayers." 
 
 Stephen drew away. "A friend? A stranger to 
 you? I am expecting no one. I want no one. 
 Where is he?" 
 
 " He is buying photographs from the Sisters. I 
 could not grant admission to the church while you 
 were there. He is coming now." 
 
 Stephen turned, leaning heavily on his cane. It 
 
 269 
 \
 
 270 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 was only a short distance from the convent door to 
 the church. He looked in terror at the man, and, as 
 he recognised Moncrieff, turned once more abruptly 
 to the priest, muttering brokenly, but fiercely, " Is this 
 the answer your saints make to my prayer for 
 peace? " 
 
 Father Ignatius crossed himelf and bowed his head. 
 
 " Hello, Steve, old man," Moncrieff cried joy- 
 ously. " It's awfully jolly to see you again but, my 
 Lord, you are looking seedy. It's about time I 
 turned up to save you from a lot of old women." 
 He glanced at the priest. " Aren't you glad to see 
 me?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 Moncrieff drew back. " By Jove but that is a 
 cordial welcome! And after a man has come three 
 thousand miles just to cheer you up." 
 
 " I need no cheering. I need to be left alone. 
 Will you return in your own team, or shall I take 
 you?" 
 
 " I shall go with you, of course. I have not come 
 this far to go away without seeing you." 
 
 " Get in, then. We can talk while I drive you to 
 the hotel. There is no train until to-morrow. Good- 
 bye, Father. I trust you to carry out my commission. 
 We are ready, Pedro."
 
 STEPHEN 271 
 
 " This is idiotic, Steve," Moncrieff said angrily as 
 the horses started. " Have you not yet forgotten our 
 last meeting? We were a couple of fools and at 
 any rate the woman in question is dead. I am not 
 going to the hotel. You can put me up. I left my 
 bag with your wife " 
 
 "With my wife?" 
 
 " I supposed she was your wife." 
 
 "And you did not recognise her? Has she 
 changed so much? It has been the sorrow, the mis- 
 understanding, the misery of a lie." He was speak- 
 ing to himself. 
 
 "She did not look unhappy as you do, 
 Steve." 
 
 "Unhappy?" He laughed bitterly then, turn- 
 ing fiercely on Moncrieff : " It does not matter about 
 me. I am dead or almost. But, Helen ! " He 
 pulled himself together, and continued with a cold, 
 ringing calm : " I could kill you easily, Phil here, 
 right now. You are unarmed; I never am. I have to 
 be prepared for the shadows that haunt the desert 
 lest they come to life, to shatter Helen's life to 
 steal her boy. The boy she must have. He is hers. 
 He bears his father's name that was my gift and 
 it is enough." 
 
 " Are you mad? "
 
 272 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " Never more sane. At die end the candle flares 
 up brightly. You want to go home with me. You 
 shall; but you must know when you penetrate at 
 last die disguise of sorrowful years that Helen is 
 pure, innocent. She is sinless as a saint." 
 
 "And I know this Helen? Is it possible she is 
 not dead?" 
 
 " She was. I gave her life again. She remembers 
 no:h:::g never has remembered. When the bridge 
 fell her life was cut in two. The only past she knows 
 is the past she has lived with me." 
 
 "And the child?" 
 
 " Yes Murphy's child. She does not know." 
 
 "My God!" 
 
 The carriage drove on, tossing up clouds of golden 
 dust diat swirled through the spiry cacti, settled over 
 the tufted sage. 
 
 " Stephen," Moncrieff said suddenly, " you are a 
 cad." 
 
 " Perhaps so. Certainly me name adds no degra- 
 dation to my thought of myself." 
 
 " What are you going to do? " 
 
 " More pertinent what are you ? I am going to 
 die." 
 
 "Nonsense you mean to kill yourself after all 
 these years?"
 
 STEPHEN 273 
 
 Stephen laughed wearily. " Oh, no. Nothing so 
 heroic as that just die, because the end has come." 
 
 " And leave her to discover the truth " 
 
 " Not that. I may be a cad, but I am no coward 
 now. I had planned to tell her to-night unless your 
 coming makes it impossible." 
 
 " I am going to the hotel, and West to-morrow. 
 Oh, Steve, how could you? " 
 
 " It was a glorious smashing of dead traditions." 
 
 " But since Have you never thought of Mur- 
 
 phy?" 
 
 " Never. Perhaps you will not believe that al- 
 most never since the shock of knowing she was to 
 have a child. I saw him once after the accident 
 told him I loved her and that her future was mine. 
 He said that I might have it. He had her past." 
 
 " He believing her dead." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Good God! What a conversation! And be- 
 cause of that you thought yourself justified?" 
 
 "No. Not because of that. I thought I was saving 
 her from a life unworthy of her from the all-per- 
 vading commonness that surrounded her. Nothing is 
 more finally damnable than the constant irritation 
 of unimportant, vulgar things from which we cannot 
 escape."
 
 274 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " And you thought crime more worthy of her 
 less damnable? " 
 
 " I saw it not as crime but as conquest vindication 
 of the right of the individual to choose. It was all 
 so sudden. I lost my head, as you said I should. 
 
 ' The right to choose did you give her that 
 right? " 
 
 " No. You are probing the cancer of my soul, 
 Phil, but I think I want you to understand. I put 
 it off until she should have the strength to decide 
 really, I know now, until she should be so bound to 
 me that she could only decide in my way. She was 
 happy in a way, and I thought she might come to 
 love me. She never has, but I fought for my dream." 
 
 " And yet now you give up? " 
 
 " At last my punishment has made me see. It was 
 punishment, Phil. There is none worse than fighting 
 for the love of a woman who can never love in re- 
 turn. Gradually the agony has grown the knowl- 
 edge that instead of blessing I have cursed her. And 
 I love her still. You never understood her or me. 
 In these months when I have seen death coming 
 oh, I have not whined about it my one terror has 
 been that when I told her she would leave me. I did 
 not dare to die alone, and that bound my tongue. 
 Now at last I dare even that. The only thing I
 
 STEPHEN 275 
 
 fear is the lie, my life and hers. That she must 
 understand and she must learn it from me. Perhaps, 
 if she will let me do one good deed, I can help her 
 plan her future. That is my only hope." 
 
 Again there was silence except for the padding of 
 the horses' hoofs on the &oft road. Suddenly Mon- 
 crieff put his arm across Stephen's shoulders. " Let 
 me help, old man," he said brokenly. " I can under- 
 stand a little I who have only played about the skirts 
 of love and burned my fingers through my clumsiness. 
 I have dared some things for a surface love. I have 
 no right to judge of the love I am not man enough 
 to feel." 
 
 " Perhaps you will stay with me, Phil. It will be 
 for only a few days and I shall not trouble you with 
 complaints. I know now that whatever comes is 
 right." 
 
 " Of course I will stay but I do not think she 
 will leave you." 
 
 " Perhaps not. I do not know. Whatever hap- 
 pens, you will be kind to her, Phil? " 
 
 " Of course. I could not blame her if she left. I 
 should worship her if she stayed. This is your place, 
 isn't it? An awfully jolly little house and a location 
 fit for the gods." 
 
 " Yes. There is the boy, playing in the fountain."
 
 276 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " And his mother with him? " Moncrieff asked. 
 
 " No; that's Miss Gordon, his nurse." 
 
 " She was the person I saw. No wonder I did not 
 recognise her." 
 
 Stephen did not notice. " There is Helen on the 
 steps, waiting for me, as she always waits, God bless 
 her." 
 
 Moncrieff saw her through the palms as the car- 
 riage passed along the white driveway. " A lady! " 
 he muttered, " but I should have known her." 
 
 Stephen turned toward him scornfully. " I am 
 glad you realise at last. You were dense enough in 
 Boston." 
 
 The carriage stopped with Pedro's usual flourish 
 of the whip and pretence of difficulty with the horses. 
 Helen came halfway down the steps and stopped, 
 looking at Moncrieff with startled eyes. 
 
 " This is my friend, Philip Moncrieff, Helen, from 
 London and Boston. He has come to see how we 
 live in Arizona." 
 
 Moncrieff jumped from the carriage. " You 
 are not the one I saw an hour ago," he said. 
 " If you had been perhaps I should not have gone 
 on." 
 
 Helen smiled. " Oh, yes, you would. We had 
 not been introduced, you know."
 
 STEPHEN 277 
 
 " No," he assented. " Of course. We had not 
 been introduced. But an old friend of Steve's as I 
 am we must have many common memories." 
 
 She grew pale and her lips trembled. Then she 
 ran down the steps to take Stephen's arm as Pedro 
 helped him from the carriage. Together they sup- 
 ported him to his hammock. Helen turned once more 
 to Moncrieff. " Thank you for coming," she said 
 gently. " Stephen needs cheering, poor boy. He 
 has lived too long with women. He will grow strong 
 again if he has a man beside him." 
 
 " I have always had the reputation of being a 
 cheerful person," Moncrieff said, smiling " but my 
 wit, what I have, is not the vain simplicity of bub- 
 bling, childish merriment. My model is Pope. I 
 have knocked about among people too much to ap- 
 preciate any other humour than satire. Everything 
 is rotten, you know, really, and my mission is to toss 
 about the mud artistically." 
 
 " Yet you are not a good satirist, Phil," Stephen 
 said. " True satire plays with truth. Your gen- 
 eralisations ignore the truth." 
 
 " Yes, just now, Mr. Moncrieff," Helen broke in. 
 " There is very little that is rotten here, in the heart 
 of the desert." 
 
 Moncrieff laughed scornfully. " I could find it.
 
 278 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 No fallacy is more absurd than the idea that social 
 degeneration is confined to the cities. There is moral 
 tonic even in association with bad men. Only in 
 solitude can the poison spread until it chokes all in- 
 dependent judgment. Right here, for example "" 
 
 "Stop!" Stephen cried. "Why make Helen 
 think you are what you are not, a pessimist? It is 
 always the old trouble, generalising without sufficient 
 examples to justify you and refusing to see excep- 
 tions to your rule, even when they stare you in the 
 face." 
 
 " That's unfair, Steve. I have recognised to-day 
 two errors of judgment, one as to you, and the other 
 as to this lady." 
 
 Stephen closed his eyes wearily. He was too 
 tired, too dead tired to stop this futile chatter. If 
 Moncrieff was determined to blurt out the truth he 
 must do it. The end would only come a little 
 sooner. 
 
 " Yes, in you," Moncrieff went on, " I mistook the 
 woman whom I saw here two hours ago for you. I 
 thought she was Steve's wife and she was not any 
 more than well, than you are my wife." 
 
 Stephen watched him closely. He knew his hatred 
 of sham, his quick changes of mood, saw that the 
 unwilling but none the less true sympathy of an hour
 
 STEPHEN 279 
 
 ago had given place to a more normal spirit of ma- 
 licious raillery. And yet in the essential things he 
 trusted him. Moncrieff might unconsciously make 
 Helen unhappy by his innuendoes. He would never 
 make her miserable by any brutal betrayal of trust. 
 Furthermore, the day was drawing to a close. Al- 
 ready the shadows were again swimming up from the 
 valleys, and when it was quite dark, when the desert 
 was asleep, Stephen would tell her everything. After 
 that? At least Moncrieff would have no power over 
 her. 
 
 Miss Gordon and Harry came in from the garden. 
 She left the boy with his mother. 
 
 " Go to Mr. Moncrieff, dear, and tell him that you 
 are glad to see him here." 
 
 The little boy went gravely across the veranda and 
 held up his face to be kissed. Moncrieff drew back. 
 " I'll shake hands, young man," he said. " Girls are 
 made for kissing, not boys. Haven't you found that 
 out? " 
 
 " I am glad you came," he remarked, apparently 
 unheeding, then added, " I know girls are better to 
 kiss than men. I like to kiss my mother better than 
 my father. Don't you?" 
 
 " Do you know, my boy, I can't answer that. I 
 never kissed either. He looks extraordinarily like
 
 2 8o THE GREEN VASE 
 
 his father." Moncrieff addressed Helen, careful 
 never to use a name. 
 
 The child's mouth quivered. " I want to look 
 like my mother," he protested. 
 
 " You don't know what a fine fellow your father is 
 or you would want to be like him. He has never 
 lost his nerve you don't know what that means, but 
 write it down on the tablets of your memory to under- 
 stand later." 
 
 The little boy looked bewildered. " I can't write 
 that," he stammered, " but I can write cat, c-a-t 
 cat." 
 
 Stephen was listening, but as though in a dream. 
 It was too impossible to be real this frank talk, 
 veiled though it was for Helen, of a man whose name, 
 like his memory, had been a shadow in that house. 
 Moncrieff was being consciously brutal, but Stephen's 
 vitality was at too low an ebb for him to feel the 
 force of the blows. Only when he caught Helen's 
 glance of affectionate appreciation did he really feel 
 sharp pain. Her love was dead, he knew what love 
 there had ever been but this supposed praise from 
 an old friend was stirring to life the sparks in the 
 ashes of what might have been. His mind roamed 
 back over the years, tentatively, vaguely. The pic- 
 tures had no definite outlines, except one, the early
 
 STEPHEN 281 
 
 morning of a grey Boston day when he had gone into 
 Stuyvesant's office and had found the new secretary 
 sorting the letters. She had looked up at him quickly, 
 shyly. He had noticed the glint of the desk light on 
 her bronze hair, the pure curve of her cheek and 
 neck, the ladylike simplicity of her dress, her utter 
 lack of the frightened self-assurance so often char- 
 acteristic of her class. He had retreated, more nearly 
 embarrassed than he had ever been in the presence 
 of a woman. It was the incongruity of the girl and 
 her surroundings that had impressed him. When 
 Stuyvesant came to him, chuckling over " his find," 
 he had answered curtly, asking no questions. Then 
 he had dismissed her from his mind, because she was 
 earning her living at least he had tried to, and 
 thought himself successful until she had married 
 Murphy. He did not know why it was this picture 
 that shut out the reality of the desert and the sunset 
 sky. Perhaps because it was true, the prologue 
 of a drama that was not to be, unstained by the 
 tragedy that was. 
 
 He found it difficult to keep his mind clear, to 
 answer rationally the questions that Moncrieff put 
 occasionally. His voice seemed to come from far 
 away. Their conversation was banal enough now, 
 discussions that Arizonans can never avoid, never,
 
 282 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 in fact, wish to avoid, of the untold wealth of the 
 land, once they have water. Helen was as enthusi- 
 astic as a native, and Stephen heard the talk flow 
 on, of oranges, and mines, and ostriches. He watched 
 the last saffron tint fade from the Tucson mountains, 
 and wondered, with a sudden twinge of agony, with 
 whom he should watch the sunset another night. He 
 put out his hand gropingly. Helen was sitting, as 
 usual, beside his hammock. 
 
 " Stephen, dear," she cried when he touched her, 
 " how cold your hand is. Do you need another rug? " 
 
 Moncrieff got up rather noisily. " I think I'll go 
 and dress for dinner," he said. " Can I find my 
 room ? " 
 
 " Lucia will show you," Helen answered. " She 
 is just inside the door. Can you speak Spanish? 
 She understands almost no English." 
 
 " Enough to make myself understood," he said 
 gruffly. " I am not used to seeing Stephen in the 
 role of lover and feel out of place." He went quickly 
 into the house. 
 
 " I don't think I like him," Helen whispered. " I 
 always feel that he means more than he says." 
 
 " Perhaps he does. But his heart is right. I want 
 you to like him, Helen." 
 
 "Will he stay long?"
 
 STEPHEN 283 
 
 " I do not know. Where is the boy? " 
 
 " Why, Stephen, he went to bed an hour ago. He 
 kissed you good-night. Don't you remember? " 
 Her voice showed that she was hurt. 
 
 " No, dear. I have been dreaming. And I am 
 very sorry. I wanted to kiss him once more wanted 
 it particularly to-night." 
 
 " Let me go up to his nursery. Perhaps he is not 
 asleep and I can bring him down." 
 
 " No, dear. Don't trouble. Perhaps you will let 
 me kiss him to-morrow." He tried to say it lightly, 
 but there was a note of pleading that she did not 
 understand. " Will you go now and dress for 
 dinner? I shall not dress to-night, but I shall come 
 in soon. Send Pedro to help me in fifteen minutes, 
 perhaps. I feel quite absurdly weak." 
 
 " Do you think you can come to the table? " she 
 asked anxiously, as she stood up. 
 
 " If not I can lie on the sofa in the dining-room," 
 he said. " Now kiss me, dear, please." She leaned 
 over him and he took her face between his hands. 
 ' You will never forget how much I loved you," he 
 murmured. " Never? never? that love is my justi- 
 fication. This evening I shall tell you many things, 
 but you must not forget. You must never forget. 
 Will you promise? "
 
 284 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 "I promise, 11 she said earnestly, and as she rose 
 he felt a tear drop on his cheek- 
 Stephen lay quietly after she had left him. He 
 was not thinking acutely, but seemed to be floating 
 in an endless sea of placid, sorrowful resignation. 
 Pain and joy were very distant. He heard the faint 
 night wind as it whispered through the palms and 
 began to long for the absolute silence of the desert. 
 Slowly he reached for his cane and succeeded in pull- 
 ing himself up from the hammock. He tottered 
 across the veranda and felt his way down the steps. 
 He had no purpose except to escape, for die time, 
 from every one, to let himself drift into the pro- 
 found and eternal peace of the desert where even 
 the wings of the wind pass silently. He opened the 
 little gate through which Harry had gone, long, long 
 ago, and took once more the old trail to the Mission. 
 He felt stronger and moved almost easily. In a few 
 minutes, which had seemed hours, he turned from 
 the path and let himself sink to die ground. He lay 
 on his back, gazing up at the stars. Again he asked 
 himself the puzzle of his boyhood. Were the stars 
 the eyes of angels or were they the light shining 
 through chinks in the walls of Heaven. It was a 
 puzzle he was too tired to solve. He only knew they 
 were there, protecting him, and Helen, and her child.
 
 STEPHEN 285 
 
 "Oh, God," he whispered, "enfold her in Thy 
 boundless mercy and hold her hand that she may 
 never fail." Then as the breath of die cold night 
 wind brushed his cheeks, he dosed his eyes. 
 
 Hours later, Father Ignatius found him, as he had 
 found die boy, but this time there was no need to go 
 for help. He peered silendy into Stephen's face, that 
 shone like silver in the moonlight, and in die face 
 he found a peace that was beyond the world's peace. 
 He knelt and crossed the stiffening arms over the 
 quiet breast. " On the breath of the wind," he mur- 
 mured " on the wind that was the fanning of an- 
 gels' wings, God took his soul, and gave him peace."
 
 BOOK III 
 
 
 
 HENRY
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE station at Houston, Texas, was filled with 
 its daily crowd of loafers waiting to see the west- 
 bound Sunset Limited. Negroes, who apparently had 
 not a care in the world, were waiting to earn a dime 
 here and there by carrying bags that did not look 
 heavy. A few poor whites, derelicts stranded for 
 a space in this thriving young city, which was too 
 active and progressive to hold them long, rubbed 
 shoulders with the blacks, who despised them. Most 
 niggers, in the African code of ethics, were born 
 shiftless white men became so. And that is a very 
 different matter. You cannot despise a man for being 
 what God made him. You must despise him for fall- 
 ing, through sheer laziness, from his rightful estate. 
 So, too, these very white men, who cringed with 
 uncontrollable physical aversion at the touch of black 
 hands, felt at the same time their own inferiority. 
 
 All this showed in their faces, and Henry Murphy 
 saw it as he looked from the car window. He could 
 not endure the weak, covetous, impotent staring of 
 this human wreckage, and with a shudder of disgust 
 seized his hat and hurried from the car for a breath 
 
 289
 
 290 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 of fresh air. On the platform he was immediately 
 surrounded by crowds of porters, hotel-keepers, cab- 
 drivers, and creatures who called themselves 
 " guides." But crying that he wanted nothing, that 
 he was going straight on, he shouldered his way 
 through them, and proceeding to the further, less 
 crowded end of the station, walked rapidly back and 
 forth until the conductor called " All aboard ! " 
 
 Back in the car Henry noticed with some irrita- 
 tion that the section opposite, which had been vacant 
 from New Orleans, was occupied by a man and his 
 wife, old people apparently, who were arranging their 
 multitudinous bags with much fuss on the man's part 
 and precision on the woman's. He sighed as he 
 threw himself into his seat, and turning his back on 
 them, looked gloomily through the window. Since 
 his wedding trip with Helen, years ago, he had taken 
 no long railroad journey. Then he had been eager 
 to " make friends " with all the passengers, to " swap 
 stories," to tell all about himself, his struggles and 
 ambitions. Now he not only made no advances, but 
 drew back when others made advances to him. He 
 had become more reticent after the loss of his wife, 
 devoting himself during the day to business, and at 
 night to reading. He was determined to be what 
 she would have had him were she still alive. He
 
 HENRY 291 
 
 tried now, as he watched the last outposts of the 
 city melt into the wide grazing lands, to imagine 
 himself as he had been. That noisy self-assertion 
 of the past seemed unreal, vulgar and so it must 
 have seemed to Helen, he thought. He knew that it 
 had sprung from an eager good-will to his fellow- 
 men, hut recognised it now as shallow, closely allied 
 to ostentation, similar to charity that advertises itself 
 in the papers. But through the years, as he had 
 grown more reticent, his sympathy had enlarged and 
 deepened. He did not hesitate to smile or say a 
 kind word where it was needed, but he had learned to 
 respect the privacy, even of fellow-travellers. And 
 at the same time he had begun to cherish his own. 
 He could not be rude to obtrusive train companions, 
 because he remembered his own astonished hurt when 
 in the past he had been curtly repelled, but he held 
 back as long as possible. He liked to think. As 
 the endless plains unrolled themselves he thought 
 sadly now, as he often did, of Helen. How different 
 this trip would have been with her by his side. And 
 yet would he have made it if she had lived? He 
 understood perfectly that Stuyvesant and Bond would 
 never have taken into partnership the crude, blatant 
 Henry Murphy of five years earlier, and if Helen 
 had lived would he have ever changed? He had been
 
 292 THE GREEN .VASE 
 
 too absurdly fr^jl'y in the fulfilment of all his desires 
 to dunk of change. Even her refinement had seemed 
 to him as only an dement in her charm, not as any- 
 thing that he, a man, might emulate. And so his 
 happiness, that had made him selfish, had made her 
 
 Gradually he became conscious that the man and 
 gunman in the opposite section were talking in those 
 penetratingly low tones always adopted by 
 
 enced travellers who have not learned the art of 
 speaking softly, and at the same tune distinctly, in 
 the roar of the train. He could not help catching 
 words, and they ** *! to apply to him. " Fm cer- 
 tain,"" he heard the woman say. " Wefl, wait tin 
 he turns around,"" the man answered. " "Tain't as 
 though we hadn't all day."" ** He might get off at 
 the next station."" "* Guess that's maybe a thousand 
 miles iiiflfc^T' **** 
 
 There was something vaguely familiar in the 
 voices, and Henry turned. " Wefl, well, wen,"* he 
 cried, jumping up. "* Whoever would hare expected 
 to meet Mr. and Mrs. Jennings in the heart of 
 Texas!" 
 
 ""And yon, Henry, my boy,"" Mr. Jennings cried 
 while his wife was still recovering from her surprise 
 at having n^ngpik^i his back. ** Ton don't belong
 
 HEMRY 293 
 
 here modi more than us. Travelling for four 
 health?" 
 
 " Don't he absurd, .Abraham." Mrs. Jennings in- 
 terrupted. " Can't you sec by looking at Mr. Mur- 
 phy that he's just the portrait of health?*' 
 
 H Looks is often only skin deep, my dear." 
 
 " But I am weD, m Henry said. " I am going ID 
 Arizona on business and had to stop in New Orleans 
 on the way which accounts for my being here. And 
 it if pleasant to see you again, Mrs. Jennings. I 
 heard Mr. Jennings had broken down, and then, be- 
 fore I had a chance to see him, heard he had gone 
 South. 1 *^** much ashamed. 
 
 ** Ton hadn't any call to be ashamed,'" Mrs. Jen- 
 nings responded. w You arc a busy man now and 
 a member of high society. Oh, yes, we often sec your 
 name in the Sunday paper and if yon still hare a 
 good word for youf old South Boston friends once 
 and a while,, why then you're kinder than most that 
 gets up in the world."" 
 
 "Nonsense, my dear Mrs. Jennings. I am not 
 the kind to forget old friends. And it's not a matter 
 of conscience, either. If I like people it is for al- 
 ways. And I was really worried about Mr. Jennings. 
 A man who works night and day for the public good 
 is sure to break down sooner or later, and in this
 
 294 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 case it is the breaking down of a heroic fighter. We 
 need him soon again." 
 
 " Whist, whist! " cried Mr. Jennings. " Ye can't 
 make a pheasant out of an English sparrow not by 
 using all the words in the dictionary, my boy. So 
 there's no use trying. You wouldn't condemn me to 
 a life of idle luxury, I suppose." 
 
 " By no means ; but I am thankful that you are 
 resting down here so that you can go back to work 
 again." 
 
 " Resting ! " Mrs. Jennings snorted scornfully. 
 " Much resting he's done. I visibly believe that the 
 only time he's stayed quiet since we left home has 
 been when he got to the city hall in various places 
 and stopped to talk politics with the janitors while 
 I did the sights." 
 
 Mr. Jennings' eyes twinkled. " And then, when 
 I came home as chipper as a squirrel, you draggled in 
 all fagged out. Don't you remember any such times 
 as that, Amanda?" 
 
 " Pooh," she said. " It wouldn't hurt your body 
 to get tired. It's your brain that needs a rest." 
 
 " Oh, well talking with janitors ain't such very 
 strenuous mental exercise. But they haven't all been 
 janitors, by a long shot, Henry. These Southerners 
 is mighty hospitable even if shiftless. And ideas,
 
 HENRY 295 
 
 too they have some good ones. Now down in Gal- 
 veston this idea of city government by commission 
 ain't at all bad the way it works out there, any- 
 how." 
 
 " Yes," his wife interrupted. " We traipsed way 
 down there, where there's nothing at all to see 
 excepting the Gulf of Mexico, just to look into 
 a new idea in bossing towns. It was just stupid 
 there." 
 
 " I know, my love. It must have been. Why, the 
 town was so clean you didn't even have the fun of 
 brushing your skirts and scolding about it when you 
 came in. Of course I don't know how it would work 
 in Boston," he added, turning to Henry. 
 
 " Work in Boston ! Well, I'd like to see any set 
 of men that would keep the streets in Boston clean," 
 Mrs. Jennings said scornfully. " What we need there 
 is woman's suffrage. That would clean things up in 
 short order streets and saloons, too." 
 
 "Has the Club taken up that subject?" Henry 
 asked, smiling. 
 
 " No," Mrs. Jennings answered apologetically. " I 
 am ashamed to say it doesn't dare. For the honour 
 of my sex I'm ashamed. It's the regular thing for 
 ladies' clubs to disbar politics and religion. They 
 can't discuss 'em like men can. They just get mad."
 
 296 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " And yet you think women ought to vote ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do. Argument ain't necessary to vote. 
 I never yet saw a man to say nothing of a lady 
 that had his opinion changed by argument. It's only 
 use is to make folks more set on what they already 
 thought." 
 
 " I remember that Helen often used to speak of 
 that the fact that women, when they got together, 
 usually talked about things that were hardly worth 
 discussing. I believe that in England it is not the 
 case. English women are as interested in questions of 
 the day as the men are." 
 
 " She never was like the rest of us," Mrs. Jennings 
 responded. " I might have learned a whole lot from 
 her, Mr. Murphy, if I hadn't been so chuck full of 
 mean suspicions. Oh, I just hounded that poor inno- 
 cent girl, and if she'd killed herself instead of being 
 took by God's mercy I'd have just never had another 
 minute's peaceful sleep not a minute's." 
 
 " No, none of us understood her," Henry said 
 quietly. " She was too good for us I can say it now, 
 without offence, can't I? It seems to me that she 
 was one of those who were born to be of real influ- 
 ence. And when she could not be, alive, she died, 
 and then her goodness had its effect. She certainly 
 has had power enough over me, at least."
 
 HENRY 297 
 
 Mrs. Jennings opened her bag to find her hand- 
 kerchief. " You do say things beautifully, Mr. Mur- 
 phy," she sniffled. "Just like our minister at a 
 funeral. And if it was anybody else than Helen I'd 
 be surprised you hadn't married again." 
 
 " That's what he ought to do," her husband broke 
 in. " He's too young to spend his life thinking about 
 influences. I never heard of a family raised on influ- 
 ences, what ? And every young fellow ought to fulfil 
 his mission in life by getting married." 
 
 " Why, Abe Jennings, how you talk ! " she gasped. 
 *' And after he's said things so beautifully." 
 
 " That's all right," Henry said. " Mr. Jennings 
 is a practical man. He might easily think that I 
 spend my time dreaming over what can't be helped. 
 And I have no more use than he has for dreamers 
 who do nothing in this world. I am not that 
 kind. It was just the meeting with old friends 
 friends who knew her and who pulled me through 
 those days when there seemed to be nothing to live 
 for yes, you helped me then more than any one else 
 that made me talk. It's not like me to do it. And 
 as to marrying again well, if I can find another 
 woman as fine as Helen, as really fine, then I'll marry 
 her if she'll have me." 
 
 " Huh ! " Mr. Jennings sputtered. " A pretty life
 
 298 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 she'll lead being always compared, weighed in the 
 balance, as my dear wife would say." 
 ' Henry laughed. " Perhaps it would be decent in 
 me to warn her, then," he said. 
 
 " I guess," Mrs. Jennings put in, " that the kind 
 of society lady you'd be apt to marry now would be 
 such as could take care of herself without any warn- 
 ing. And I guess, too, that you know pretty well 
 yourself who she's to be, don't you? I don't take 
 a glance at the Sunday paper without remembering 
 old friends, and it has appeared to me that about 
 every time Miss Katherine Bland is mentioned Mr. 
 Henry Murphy comes in pretty close to her." 
 
 Henry was startled and irritated. He knew that 
 Stuyvesant and his friends talked of his intimacy with 
 Katherine, but that the rumour had penetrated as far 
 as South Boston was amazing. He had seen her 
 often during the last year but he did not love her. 
 She was his guide among the devious windings of 
 Boston society, had pointed out to him the intense 
 in-breeding among the old families which made it 
 clear that caustic comment was always dangerous 
 since the listener was sure to be some kind of a cousin. 
 She had made him feel at home before her fire and 
 had given him the feminine companionship that he 
 needed to complete his education. She had come tq
 
 HENRY 299 
 
 be a very real part of his life so real that the idea 
 of marriage, when it occurred to him, was something 
 that could be contemplated without a shudder. And 
 yet he did not love her. He had only to think of 
 Helen to realise that. He was one of those men 
 who might marry honourably, twice, but who could 
 never love more than once. And because to Mrs. 
 Jennings marriage meant, at its beginning, a kind 
 of sentimental crisis, he could not hear it suggested 
 without dismay. 
 
 " Miss Bland has been a very good friend," he 
 said at last, " more kind, perhaps, than even I 
 realise; but I have never made love to her, Mrs. 
 Jennings, and I never expect to. Are you going far 
 West?" 
 
 She understood, for once, that she had said too 
 much, and dropped the subject. 
 
 " To Los Angeles, perhaps San Francisco. We're 
 going up through Phenix to stop at the Grand Canon 
 where, thank my stars, there ain't any municipal gov- 
 ernment nor even any city hall. And then we're 
 coming back by this same route, so's to get a longer 
 trip no more expensive than a short one, excepting 
 food, which we have to have anyhow and so to 
 Florida, where we're going to rest, and bathe in the 
 sea."
 
 300 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " It's more famous, of course, but I don't calculate 
 to find the ocean in Floridy any better run than it 
 is in Boston," Mr. Jennings remarked. " Still, I 
 admit it'll be a pleasure not to have to wait till sum- 
 mer for a swim. How fur are you travelling? " 
 
 " Only to Tucson, Arizona. It's pronounced 
 Tooson and spelled Tucson." 
 
 " Spanish foolishness, I suppose," Mrs. Jennings 
 commented. " I can't see why we don't call Amer- 
 ican towns by good old American names. It isn't 
 as though we hadn't any. Now, why shouldn't they 
 christen it over again Whittier he's a lovely poet 
 that we discussed in the Club or Dewey, after Ma- 
 nila, though I don't think he was so much, after 
 all." 
 
 " Perhaps that's what Murphy's going out for, 
 Amanda, to negotiate a new name for the place." 
 Mr. Jennings grinned. 
 
 " Are you? " she asked. 
 
 " No," Henry answered. " I might as well tell 
 you. Stuyvesant and Bond are going to take me 
 into partnership, and I'm going to Tucson with the 
 papers for Mr. Bond to sign. He lives there, you 
 know, because he has consumption." 
 
 '* Well, well, Henry, my boy, that is good news. 
 One of the best houses, and you a partner at thirty-
 
 HENRY 301 
 
 five. I guess you have been doing something besides 
 dream." 
 
 " What's their business," Mrs. Jennings asked, 
 "wholesale or retail? I suppose, anyhow, you'll be 
 in the office, being a partner, and won't have to sell 
 things." 
 
 " Yes. I'll be in the office, Mrs. Jennings," Henry 
 laughed. " It's a stock and bond business." 
 
 " Speculating? " she cried. 
 
 " Nonsense, Amanda. It's one of the most re- 
 spectable houses in Boston has all the old families 
 on its books." 
 
 " I don't know as that signifies much. And I only 
 hope, Henry Murphy, that you won't lose what little 
 you've saved by any foolishness. Is this Mr. Bond 
 that you're going to see the one that that one that 
 you used to know?" 
 
 " Yes the same one. He's been sick ever since, 
 poor fellow, and I don't believe has very long to 
 live." 
 
 " Is he married? " 
 
 " Yes, a wife and one child a boy, I think." 
 
 " Was she a Boston girl? " 
 
 " I think not. He married her in New York. I 
 have never seen her. He married her soon after 
 Helen was killed."
 
 302 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 Mrs. Jennings looked at him, then turned to the 
 window. " I do wish I could see a hill," she said. 
 " It's only right to look at the scenery when you're 
 travelling, but it's pretty tiresome always to see the 
 same thing. There seems to be cows and horses, 
 even, always feeding in the same places. If it wasn't 
 for the telegraph poles I'd think we were standing 
 still. It's like some play where the writer didn't 
 have ideas enough to change the scenery between the 
 acts. Not as I entirely approve of plays, anyhow; 
 but if you do go to the theatre you want to see a 
 good one." 
 
 " And yet there is something inspiring in the very 
 endlessness of it all, I think," Henry said. " Don't 
 you want to come and have a smoke, Mr. Jen- 
 nings?" 
 
 " Yes, do," his wife urged. " Only don't let him 
 talk politics, Mr. Murphy." 
 
 " At least I shall not dispute with him. We agree 
 on the essential points." 
 
 Monotonously, interminably, the great plains of 
 Texas rolled back over the edge of the world, only 
 to be replaced by others like them. The train might 
 almost have been standing still, as Mrs. Jennings had 
 said, so like was the outlook from the car windows 
 as the hours slipped away. Mrs. Jennings became
 
 HENRY 303 
 
 gradually almost frantic in her denunciation of this 
 " stupid country," where she was sure that in time 
 " even the cows and the pigs and the darkies would 
 flatten out and turn green like the rest of the land- 
 scape." Henry unwillingly spent most of his time 
 in the smoking car, because her complaining jarred. 
 He felt a strange sympathy with the boundless land 
 that stretched away and away like his own aspira- 
 tions over the horizon that was itself not a limit, but 
 a suggestion of endless space beyond. The sun went 
 down. It seemed to Henry as though they were 
 rushing onward toward some unimagined wonder. 
 He could not keep his mind from Helen. How she 
 would have loved it this freedom, this immensity of 
 sky and plain, this titanic painted sky; she who had 
 pined for air and life, between four dull red walls, 
 made purple by the light; she, who had leaned in 
 ecstasy from her little window to watch the pale, 
 smoke-soiled colours of the sunset brightness on the 
 Dorchester hills because she loved the colour. He 
 had not thought of her with such passionate longing 
 for years. He was almost afraid. 
 
 In the evening at San Antonio he sat in his section 
 talking somewhat listlessly with Mr. and Mrs. Jen- 
 nings. A boy dashed through the car calling, " Tele- 
 gram for Mr. Henry Murphy." He stopped him
 
 304 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 and took the paper. " It's annoying," he said. 
 " One cannot escape business, even here." 
 
 " Business ! My gracious ! " Mrs. Jennings said. 
 " I'm glad you haven't a wife. I'd think it was from 
 her saying she was dead, or at least dying. Tele- 
 grams are dreadful things, I think. They make a 
 body as nervous as a cat." 
 
 Henry smiled as he tore open the envelope. " I 
 haven't a relative in the world, except an old uncle 
 in Chicago." Then, as he read the telegram, his 
 face grew very grave. 
 
 "For mercy sakes, what is it?" she asked 
 sharply. " I do hope it ain't as bad as your face 
 looks." 
 
 " It is rather bad," he answered. " It's from 
 Stuyvesant, in Boston. He says that Bond died two 
 or three days ago." 
 
 " Gee, but that's hard on you, my boy," Mr. Jen- 
 nings said. " All this way for nothing. Are you 
 going on? " 
 
 ' Yes, Stuyvesant says I ought to. The widow 
 may need help and some one from his own office 
 should be there to look out for things." 
 
 " Will you get there for the funeral? " Mrs. Jen- 
 nings asked. " That's, always so consoling." 
 
 " Hardly, I should think," Henry answered.
 
 HENRY 305 
 
 " They probably don't know I'm coming and they 
 wouldn't wait, anyway." 
 
 "When do we get to Tucson?" Mrs. Jennings 
 asked after a time. 
 
 " Not until day after to-morrow. In the early 
 morning, I think. To-morrow we shall still be in 
 Texas." 
 
 " So we'll have you with us a day more. That's 
 good news. You keep Abe cheerful. Is the widow 
 young? It may come out right in the end, you 
 know." 
 
 Henry looked at her sharply. " I know nothing 
 about her," he said, rather gruffly. " I never saw 
 her. Isn't it about time to go to bed? I think I'll 
 have a smoke while the porter makes up the sec- 
 tions."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 HENRY thought he must be almost the only per- 
 son awake in Arizona when he left the train at Tuc- 
 son. The conductor came up, somewhat sleepily, to 
 say, " Good-bye to you, sir. You'll find it a pretty 
 dead place, sir." 
 
 " Not with business to keep me awake," Henry 
 answered. " Good luck." 
 
 He felt a little lonesome as he drove up the de- 
 serted streets to the Santa Anna. He would have 
 a bath, breakfast, read the paper if there was one 
 and then see the town. It would not be decent 
 to arrive at the Bond house before ten o'clock. He 
 might be able to get away the next morning, or at 
 the latest after forty-eight hours. There could 
 hardly be very much business beyond seeing Bond's 
 lawyer. 
 
 The time passed slowly, but he was at last in his 
 carriage and driving away from the town. ' You 
 knew Mr. Bond was dead, I reckon," the driver said. 
 
 "Yes," Henry answered; "I had a telegram at 
 San Antonio." 
 
 " He was a good man," the driver went on. " In 
 306
 
 HENRY 307 
 
 a little place like this we know all the folks that's 
 here any time, and he'd been here going on five years 
 him and his wife and the kid, that was born here. 
 He had a grand funeral. Folks even come down 
 from up Phenix way old college mates, I heard 
 tell. They buried him out in the desert near where 
 he died." 
 
 " He died in the desert? " 
 
 ' Yes. All alone at night. Wandered off some- 
 how. Must 'a' been a shock to his wife, but she's 
 not the kind to take on. Say, do you know Mrs. 
 Bond?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, then, you've got something to live for. 
 She certain is a wonder. Mr. Bond was a fine feller, 
 but he wasn't in the same class with his wife. She's 
 pretty and she's good. I don't reckon there's another 
 girl in the territory can hold a candle to her on either 
 count. If you're looking at her you just think about 
 how pretty she is, an' if you're thinking about her 
 you always remember how good she is." 
 
 Henry laughed. " She must be a remarkable 
 woman to make people so enthusiastic." 
 
 "Well, I guess! I ain't the only one, by a long 
 shot, that thinks so. I just naturally was took with 
 her because we both came from the North, and she's
 
 3 o8 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 been in my home town in Vermont; but even the 
 Mexicans are crazy about her. You'll be just like 
 the rest, mister, when you see her. Why she ever 
 took Bond I don't see, when she could 'a' had her 
 pick and that's not saying nothing against him." 
 
 " Whip up your horse," Henry said. " I am eager 
 to see her." 
 
 The driver chuckled as he prodded his frowsy 
 steed. " There's the Bond layout over on yonder 
 hill." 
 
 Henry looked at it curiously, the long, low, white 
 house with its red-tiled roof, the garden, lying like 
 a flower in the brown bosom of the desert. He could 
 not imagine Stephen there. He belonged on Beacon 
 Hill, where, through the windows of his house, one 
 saw the ancient elms of the Common, looked on an 
 almost rural picture, and yet heard from all sides 
 the rumble of a great city. He had not been, Henry 
 thought, a man who could live contentedly in the 
 desert away from his fellows. And yet Stuyvesant 
 had told him that Bond seemed happier here than 
 he had ever been in Boston, more contented with his 
 life, even sick and broken as he was. Henry had 
 found it hard to understand then. He found 
 it still harder to understand now, when the 
 bleak solitude of the desert was before him. Such
 
 HENRY 309 
 
 solitude would only be tolerable with the best of 
 companions. Perhaps she, this wife who was forcing 
 herself into the foreground of his consciousness 
 perhaps she had been compensation for all the ameni- 
 ties of civilised life. 
 
 The carriage turned in at the gate, passed between 
 the palms, and stopped. As Henry stepped out a 
 man on the piazza came forward, looked at him, 
 and threw up his hands in amazement. 
 
 " In the name of all that's holy," Moncrieff cried, 
 " how did you get here so soon? " 
 
 " So soon? I was on my way here to see Bond 
 on business when the telegram came. Stuyvesant told 
 me to keep on, as I might be able to help the widow." 
 
 " So you know nothing ! Good heavens !" Mon- 
 crieff looked nervously toward the door. 
 
 " What is there to know? " 
 
 " What isn't there ! Lord ! You don't even sus- 
 pect?" 
 
 "Nothing! Look here, Moncrieff. I'm not a 
 fool. Tell me what's up or let me see Mrs. Bond. 
 Perhaps she has some sense. Or isn't Bond dead, 
 after all?" 
 
 " Oh, he's dead, right enough poor chap. But 
 I can't tell you what's up. I'd make the mess worse. 
 What's more I don't dare." And then, " Lucia,"
 
 3 io THE GREEN VASE 
 
 he called, going to the door, " tell your mistress 
 there's a gentleman here to see her a gentleman 
 from Boston. I'm off, Murphy. The desert for 
 me." He started for the steps, then turned sud- 
 denly. " Don't make an ass of yourself. Remem- 
 ber that she's good. Hold fast to that good, good. 
 And faithful, too. Don't forget that, either." He 
 was off at top speed toward the little gate through 
 which the boy had strayed and through which, so re- 
 cently, Stephen had stumbled to the blessed death 
 that waited for him. 
 
 Henry paced angrily back and forth on the 
 veranda. He was thoroughly disgusted with the 
 turn events had taken; with this mystery that 
 seemed so unnecessary; with Moncrieff, in the first 
 place for being there at all, in the second for running 
 away. At the end of the veranda he stopped to look 
 down into the garden. There were beds of blazing 
 red gladioli " strange, at this time of year," he said 
 to himself. And at the end of the path, by the edge 
 of the fountain, a little boy sat on the ground, ar- 
 ranging pebbles in squares and circles. Henry felt 
 a catch in his throat. " To leave the boy not to 
 be able to see him grow that must have been 
 bitterly hard." He took a long breath and turned 
 away. As he turned Helen came through the door.
 
 HENRY 311 
 
 "You are Mr. Murphy, I suppose?" she said 
 quietly. 
 
 Henry stood motionless, only reaching out his 
 hands to seize the back of a chair. He simply looked 
 at her. She meant nothing to him at least he 
 thought not. Yet she looked like but no Helen 
 had no white scar across her forehead. He closed 
 his eyes, shaking his head to clear his vision. He 
 remembered what Moncrieff had said. " She is 
 good." The driver had said the same thing. He 
 wondered whether they all knew, all the world except 
 himself. Knew what? Had the desert driven him 
 crazy? 
 
 And then she spoke again, hurriedly, in a fright- 
 ened voice: "What is it, Mr. Murphy? Are you 
 sick?" 
 
 He looked at her once more. " No no I'm not 
 sick." He laughed harshly. " I'm just a fool." 
 
 He watched her closely, her motion while she 
 walked, as though she were frightened, to a chair. 
 "Won't you sit down?" she asked tremblingly. 
 
 " No," he answered, still staring at her brutally. 
 "Who are you?" 
 
 Helen started and passed her hand wearily across 
 her eyes. " Oh the shadows. Why do they come 
 back now? " she murmured, so low that he hardly
 
 3 i2 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 caught the words. Then she leaned forward, her 
 elbow resting on the arm of her chair, her chin in 
 her hand, and gazed out across the desert that wa- 
 vered, yellow in the sunlight. She seemed to have 
 forgotten him. 
 
 Still Henry watched her, the lines of his face, 
 growing harder, the light in his eyes more bitter. 
 Gradually, very gradually, he was realising the truth, 
 and as his mind accepted that truth all the sacred- 
 ness of life, all the sweet memories that had been 
 transmuted through the years into aspiration, crum- 
 bled away. He had worshipped a star, the brightest 
 in the pure fields of heaven and the star was it 
 only a lamp in the house of prostitution? He 
 clenched his fists in sorrow, and in speechless agony 
 of spirit. And yet all the while in the back of his 
 brain the words kept throbbing, " She is good, good, 
 good." 
 
 u The veil was lifting," he heard her say, " and it 
 has fallen again." 
 
 "Who are you?" he cried again, and the agony 
 of the appeal rang in his voice. 
 
 Slowly she turned toward him. Her eyes looked 
 far beyond, and it seemed to him that all the mystery 
 and beauty of the desert were reflected there, but none 
 of its cruelty.
 
 HENRY 313 
 
 " I am Helen," she said dreamily. 
 
 He drew back, throwing up his arms with a ges- 
 ture of despair. Still she seemed unconscious of him, 
 and yet he felt that she ought to stand up and fight 
 for her good name, or throw herself at his feet. 
 " But your eyes are pure! " he said suddenly, he did 
 not know why. 
 
 " Yes," she answered slowly, " they have seen 
 much, but they have forgotten more. In the shadows 
 they look for reality and they have never found it." 
 Very sadly she spoke, as though she were alone, com- 
 muning with herself. But her voice had in it the 
 old, golden melody that had haunted him through the 
 years, and he could not bear it. 
 
 "You have forgotten!" he echoed. "Has God 
 made nothing unf orgetable ? Is it possible to forget 
 everything happiness and sorrow and love? For 
 there was love, Helen. Only death could end that 
 if even death. And I thought it was death. My 
 heart died, too, it seemed, and then, in the eternal 
 life of memory it beat again to make me more wor- 
 thy of that memory. And now ! " He stopped de- 
 spairingly. 
 
 " Go on," she whispered. 
 
 He looked at her. He saw fear, and wonder, and 
 longing in her eyes, and the longing he mistook for
 
 3H THE GREEN VASE 
 
 some inhuman curiosity to see fully the ruin she had 
 accomplished. One part of him could have killed her 
 as she sat there, so beautiful oh, God, so beauti- 
 ful with the light red-gold in her hair and so 
 cold. But the better part of him, the manlier, more 
 sensitive part, was still unconvinced, still under the 
 sway of that irrepressible refrain of " good, good, 
 good." His years of striving to make himself finer, 
 more as the Helen of his dreams would have had 
 him, had overlaid his character with a gentleness that 
 even this misery could not break through. But he 
 could not repress one outcry. " No, that is all ex- 
 cept a word. Then I will go. Thank Heaven that 
 Stephen Bond is dead. I would have had no mercy for 
 him. If ever there was a devil it was in that man." 
 Suddenly he remembered their conversation of years 
 ago when he had said, " Her future? Yes, that you 
 can have. I have her past." And now there was no 
 past. He shuddered and put his hands over his face. 
 
 She was on her feet at last. " I wanted you to 
 go on," she said bitterly. " I wanted you to talk 
 of the long-distant past. But of the present you shall 
 not speak. You shall not curse my husband." 
 
 "Your husband?" 
 
 4 Yes my husband. I never loved him, but he 
 was good to me and he is dead. That last night
 
 HENRY 3 i 5 
 
 before he went away into the desert, he told me to 
 remember, whatever happened, that he had loved me 
 too much, perhaps. He was going to tell me all 
 about the past that night when he died. And you 
 I was silent at first because I wanted to know 
 however terrible, I wanted to know. And then you 
 broke the thread. Who am I ? " 
 
 1 You said you were Helen." His voice trembled 
 still, but with a strange, new hope. 
 
 " Did I? " she said, passing her hand across her 
 eyes again. " Why did I say that to you ? Did you 
 know me, long ago, in the days that I have for- 
 gotten?" 
 
 " Did I know you ? " he cried. " Don't you know 
 me, now? " 
 
 " I suppose you are Mr. Murphy," she answered 
 simply. ' They told me you were coming." 
 
 " I don't understand," he cried, and sat down in 
 a chair before her. " What is it that you can't re- 
 member? Tell me the truth. I can't stand much 
 more." 
 
 " I remember nothing," she said. " There was an 
 accident; and I was hurt; and I woke up after months 
 in a house in New Jersey. Stephen was there, my 
 husband, and nurses. They were very good to me. 
 He was sick, and we came out here for him."
 
 316 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " And before that you remember nothing? " he 
 whispered. 
 
 " Oh, yes, many things. I remember my child- 
 hood in Cambridge, and my mother, who was al- 
 ways sick. And I think we were very poor. But 
 after that nothing until I awoke in New Jersey 
 and Stephen was beside me." 
 
 He leaned forward, his head between his hands. 
 "And he told you nothing?" 
 
 " Much. I thought once that he had told me 
 everything. But I was never sure. Lately I knew 
 he had not. He was very strange. He said he knew 
 I did not love him and that he had ruined my life. 
 At first I thought he meant because of his sickness, 
 poor boy, and our living here away from people. But 
 at last I came to know that he meant more than that. 
 Do you know what it was, Mr. Murphy? " 
 
 Henry did not answer. He could not. " She is 
 good. She is good." The words kept ringing in 
 his ears and the wild mockery of them began to melt 
 into a kind of joyous hymn. The desert people, who 
 did not love her, had seen it. Moncrieff, the cynical, 
 had been conquered by it. Only he, who loved her 
 he had never dreamed how much only he had 
 missed it, and missing it, how nearly he had brought 
 the world crashing down upon them both. And he
 
 HENRY 317 
 
 had almost cursed her! He sat up suddenly. He 
 was surprised to find his face wet with tears, but he 
 was not ashamed. " Can you ever forgive me?" he 
 said brokenly. 
 
 She looked away from him, not to see a sorrow she 
 could not understand, but he knew that behind the 
 tears she must see the joy in his eyes. She only bowed 
 her head. 
 
 " I did not understand it all that you said," she 
 answered. " I was dreaming." 
 
 " As you used to do, long ago," he cried invol- 
 untarily. 
 
 " Then you knew me in those dead days? That 
 was one of the things I most dreaded in meeting peo- 
 ple," she added, " the having to explain. Somehow 
 I do not mind with you because I feel that you can 
 understand." 
 
 " Yes I knew you," he answered, and stopped. 
 
 "Well?" she questioned. "Won't you tell me 
 about it?" 
 
 He gazed at her, longingly. Her black dress 
 brought out the pallor of her face. She looked tired, 
 worn beyond her strength. He realised that he must 
 not tell her now, so suddenly and yet he must an- 
 swer, and he dared not trust himself to speak. He 
 got up and walked again to the end of the veranda.
 
 3i8 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 The boy was still playing with his pebbles. The boy ! 
 He had forgotten him. For an instant the thought 
 stabbed him. Must there be anything between them 
 now? But the feeling was gone as soon as it had 
 come. Helen loved the child. Nothing else must 
 count. And then it all came over him with a rush 
 never, never must he let her know. He must win 
 her again. The second courtship would be sweeter 
 than the first, because that had been the crude man 
 reaching out to his mate. This would be more. Her 
 death had raised him to a plane where he could at 
 last appreciate her as he never had before. 
 
 " Can't you answer me? " she said, behind him. 
 
 He turned instantly. " I must have been dream- 
 ing, too," he said. " Something of the past, and 
 more of the present. Yes, I knew you in those dead 
 years, as you call them. Knew you and was very 
 fond of you. And then you disappeared and I lost 
 you. Some time I shall tell you all about it. And 
 now may I see the boy? " 
 
 "Of course," she said, and tried to smile; "the 
 best little fellow that ever lived." She went quickly 
 to the railing. " Hoo, hoo! " two musical notes 
 that made Henry's heart beat at the love that was in 
 them. " Come, darling. I want you to come and 
 see Mr. Murphy."
 
 HENRY 319 
 
 4 Yes, mother; one moment." 
 
 " He always says ' one moment/ " she said, turn- 
 ing to Henry. " It's because his nurse, Miss Gor- 
 don, says it." 
 
 "Is he like you?" 
 
 " Not in the last, though he pretends he wants to 
 be, the little flatterer." 
 
 " I don't blame him. Here he is." 
 
 " Come, my child," Helen said, taking his hand; 
 " this is Mr. Murphy, my friend and your father's." 
 Henry winced, but her eyes were on the boy. " You 
 must tell him all about yourself and take care of him 
 while I go in to see about luncheon. He's a friendly 
 young man, Mr. Murphy. You will stay to luncheon, 
 of course." 
 
 " If I may." He watched her go into the house 
 and then turned to the boy. He would rather have 
 been alone since he could not be with Helen. " Do 
 you want to sit on my lap ? " he asked, sitting down. 
 
 " Yes, please; I'm tired. Did you know my father 
 died? They took him away, away where the sun 
 goes at night." 
 
 " Yes, I knew about it. But you have your 
 mother." 
 
 " Yes, and I love her more than my father, but 
 I want my father, too. He told me stories." His
 
 320 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 eyes filled with tears, but he choked them back. " Can 
 you tell stories? " 
 
 " Well, I really don't know. I never tried. I'll 
 think about it and see whether I can remember any. 
 But you haven't told me about yourself. Why, I 
 don't even know your name." 
 
 "Don't you? And I know yours only I can't 
 remember it. Guess what mine is." 
 
 "Stephen, like your father's?" 
 
 " No. A nicer name Harry." 
 
 "Harry? But, my boy, are you sure? Who 
 named you Harry? " 
 
 " It's a nice name," he answered, pouting, " nicer 
 than Stephen. And my beautiful mother likes it 
 better because she likes me better." 
 
 " How old are you? " 
 
 " Almost six. I'm a big boy now. I can take care 
 of mother. Why do you shake like that? " 
 
 "Was I shaking? Stand up and let me look at 
 you. Do you know when your birthday is? " 
 
 " Of course I do. When I'm seven I'm going to 
 have a pony." 
 
 "When is that?" 
 
 " A year from next February, on the nineteenth." 
 
 Henry slid from the chair onto his knees in front 
 of the child. Then he caught him in his arms and
 
 HENRY 321 
 
 kissed him. " Oh, you wonderful, blessed child," he 
 cried. " And I've missed almost six years out of 
 your precious life." 
 
 Harry backed away indignantly. " Boys aren't 
 good to kiss," he said. " Mr. Moncrieff told me. 
 Why you're crying, mister I don't know your 
 name." 
 
 "Am I?" Henry said, wiping his eyes. "Isn't 
 that silly? You won't tell your mother about it, will 
 you?" 
 
 The child looked dubiously at him. Then his face 
 brightened. " No, I won't tell. Miss Gordon says 
 men must not cry, and she doesn't tell my mother 
 sometimes when I forget. Are you very sorry about 
 something? " 
 
 " Yes, dear," he said, taking the boy's hand as he 
 got up. " A little sorry, and very glad. Sometimes 
 people cry because they're glad, you know." 
 
 " Yes, I know. Mother cried when they brought 
 me back from the desert." 
 
 " But I'm not going to cry any more," Henry said, 
 falling insensibly into the childish vernacular. " I'm 
 just going to be very glad all the time and tell you 
 lots of stories and perhaps don't you think your 
 beautiful mother would let me give you a pony when 
 you are six? "
 
 322 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 "A real pony?" 
 
 " Yes, a real one but don't ask her now. We'll 
 have a secret." 
 
 The boy's eyes sparkled. " I won't tell. Sh ! 
 she's coming." 
 
 Henry went to meet her. It seemed to him that 
 the black years of sorrow had been wiped away, that 
 the whole world was radiant. 
 
 " You may stay," she said, laughing. " There will 
 be enough to eat." 
 
 " It really wouldn't much matter," Henry said. 
 " Oh, we have been having a wonderful time, Harry 
 and I. He's my little namesake, you know." 
 
 " And he's going to give 
 
 " No, no, no," Henry interrupted. " That's a se- 
 cret, you know." The boy crowded close against 
 his leg and he laid one hand on the curly head. He 
 was so near Helen that he felt he must touch her. 
 " He's not like you in looks," he said, " except here." 
 He brushed his hand across her hair. " The same 
 beautiful gold, like a bit of the sunset, strayed into 
 the day."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 AN hour later Henry sat alone on the veranda, 
 gazing across the great, glowing desert wastes. He 
 was smoking, as a man must smoke to reestablish his 
 calm after the stress of soul-tearing excitement. He 
 knew but little that " she was good," that he had 
 found a son. He was trying to piece together the 
 bits of knowledge that he had. That old story of 
 the ship which had picked up a man and woman 
 after the explosion, the newspaper report which he 
 had substantiated in New York, but which had ended 
 there the sailors could give him no descriptions 
 all this must be the solution of Helen's disappear- 
 ance. There had been nothing in it to suggest 
 Stephen. And with the thought of Stephen came 
 a shudder of loathing. He could find no excuse there. 
 Stephen must have known what he was doing all 
 along. Perhaps the papers that Helen was even now 
 sorting might reveal something. He almost hoped 
 not. After all, Stephen was dead, and the only really 
 important thing was that he had found Helen and 
 her boy and his. He was thankful that he had 
 
 323
 
 324 THE GREEN YASE 
 
 known nothing of the coming baby when she died. 
 He lay back in his chair infinitely content as he 
 watched the desert through the pale-blue rings of 
 smoke from his cigar. 
 
 "Hello, old man. Making yourself at home?" 
 Moncrieff said suddenly, popping over the railing. 
 " I walked all over the desert, afraid to come back. 
 Then I reconnoitred and at last discovered that you 
 were alone." 
 
 "Little thanks to you that there was not a dis- 
 aster. You might have warned me," Henry an- 
 swered sternly. " How in the devil do you happen 
 to be here, anyway? " 
 
 " I don't expect thanks and I did expect that ques- 
 tion. I ran out here to cheer up poor old Steve- 
 thought he'd probably endured the society of women 
 and priests and doctors about long enough. Then 
 he died, and I couldn't with decency run off and 
 leave the the widow all alone." 
 
 "Don't," Henry said sharply. " It isn't funny." 
 
 " You don't think so? I wager you'd do your best 
 to find humour, even the most distorted humour, if 
 you'd spent the week I have in this damned desert. 
 When you came it was the last straw. I ran. I'm 
 sorry, but I knew you'd see it right somehow, and 
 that means I knew you to be a man in a thousand.
 
 HENRY 325 
 
 Steve never could have told her decently. How'd she 
 take it?" 
 
 " I haven't told her." 
 
 " You don't mean to " 
 
 " No," Henry interrupted. " I don't mean to do 
 any of the hundred brutal or idiotic things you may 
 think me capable of." A plan was shaping itself 
 in his mind as he talked. " She is my wife as much 
 as she ever was and as dear as she ever was. But 
 she has been through a lot lately. She can't bear 
 much more, and she's altogether too fine to be pleased 
 to have a stranger announce himself suddenly as her 
 husband. At first I thought she must never know 
 the past on the child's account " 
 
 But " 
 
 " Yes. He told me himself, God bless him. That 
 alters the situation. Some time she must know, but 
 not now not when she's grieving for a man she 
 thought was her husband. She has all the years of 
 her life to hate him. Let her have peace now." 
 
 " But she won't hate him," Moncrieff said ear- 
 nestly. " She is too fine for that, too and then 
 well, she's a woman, and women like incense." 
 
 " She will hate him. The adoration of a brute is 
 no flattery." 
 
 " Wait, I'm serious now. The Lord knows I Vc
 
 326 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 been serious enough during the last week to last a 
 lifetime. Listen you've got to hear sooner or later. 
 It won't make you love him, but well, you're a fair 
 man. I found Stephen at the old Mission church. 
 He was dying, and he knew it. What was life for 
 him? He told me his story, and there was nothing 
 in it but tragedy. Even his love, at the very first, was 
 tragedy, because it came too late. He was going 
 away for always. Perhaps he went to South Bos- 
 ton to tell her so. He was in the car with her when 
 the bridge was wrecked. In the water he thought 
 she was dead, and when they took him and her on 
 the ship and he found she was alive, the restraint 
 of his whole life and of his whole inheritance gave 
 way. Nothing else counted but that one woman 
 honour, position all were nothing. During the 
 months that she was unconscious he found reasons 
 for believing he was right. He even talked with 
 you, I think. But he expected her to die or to wake 
 up an idiot. In that case he was going to give up his 
 life to her and the queer part is that he would have 
 done it. She was not an idiot, but she did not re- 
 member. Fate played into his hands. The thought 
 of the child nearly killed him but still he could not 
 give her up. It was he who named the boy Harry. 
 She never knew why. And then, out here, his whole
 
 HENRY 327 
 
 life was punishment. She was good to him, but she 
 did not love him and he knew it. Imagine that if 
 you can the agony of it. So at last he made up his 
 mind to tell her everything the very day I came. 
 But he died before he had a chance." 
 
 Henry seemed hardly to be listening. " He was 
 no more punished than he deserved," he said at last. 
 
 " I don't say he was, but his repentance was com- 
 plete. He thought she would leave him and he was 
 not afraid to die alone. He found peace at last." 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 " He went into the desert, alone, at night to find 
 words, I suppose, to tell her. And there he died. 
 Father Ignatius discovered him and took me to him. 
 Such peace after the torture of the day ! My God, 
 Murphy, if you could have seen him as I saw him 
 there, lying asleep in the moonlight. His face posi- 
 tively shone. It was really as if an angel had come 
 to wash away his sin " Moncrieff's voice broke. 
 
 Henry was silent. 
 
 " All this sounds melodramatic," Moncrieff went 
 on. Then he laughed suddenly. " Now do you 
 wonder that I try to find humour in everything? It's 
 the only way I can forget his face when I'm laugh- 
 ing. He left a letter for you. Father Ignatius had 
 it that night."
 
 328 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 "Who is Father Ignatius?" 
 
 " The priest at San Xavier. He must have mailed 
 the letter before this." 
 
 " It can wait until I get back to Boston. I'm glad 
 you told me about him, Moncrieff although what 
 you said does not make me forgive. It only makes 
 me glad that he suffered." 
 
 " Remember that what he did was to love too 
 much." 
 
 " Perhaps. But there's nothing fine in a love that's 
 selfish like his. It isn't love, really. It's a kind of 
 wrecking passion." 
 
 " Something I could never feel, nor you either, 
 Murphy." 
 
 "You feel it? No I don't believe you go 
 deep enough. Nor could I for another man's 
 wife." 
 
 " That's what takes the courage." 
 
 Henry shrugged his shoulders. " There is more 
 courage in restraint, Moncrieff " 
 
 " And more things in this world than you dream 
 of, Horatio. Here comes the lady." 
 
 " You won't tell her." 
 
 " Not I. With all my motley, I'm true at heart. 
 A little chaffing, an inborn love of skating on thin 
 ice, a little innuendo which no one can understand
 
 HENRY 329 
 
 that's my manner. And my morals get all the pleas- 
 ure I can from life without being a bounder." 
 
 ' What was that you were saying? " Helen asked. 
 " Nonsense, I suppose, as usual." 
 
 " No, dear lady, just my theory of life and I be- 
 lieve I was saying was I not, Murphy? that the 
 call of the further West was on me and that I must 
 pack myself off." 
 
 "And leave us so soon, Mr. Moncrieff? I know 
 you came for Stephen, and I am sure he would be 
 happier if he could know that you stayed a little for 
 Harry and me." 
 
 ' There's nothing I wouldn't do for a lady ex- 
 cept give up smoking but I'm not leaving you alone. 
 Murphy is a capable person." 
 
 " But the call of the East is on me," Henry said, 
 looking at Helen. " And that is the imperative call 
 of business." 
 
 " I shall not try to keep you, Mr. Murphy. I 
 know that if you could, you would stay for the sake 
 of old times." 
 
 " Nor can you keep me," said Moncrieff, " even 
 if you want to. I'm really off for the West, madame. 
 The Arizona air is too keen, too exciting for my tem- 
 perament. May I telephone for reservations? " 
 
 " He's a curious fellow," Henry said, when Mon-
 
 330 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 crieff had gone in. " I don't like him, but oddly 
 enough I trust him." 
 
 " He has been really good to me," Helen re- 
 sponded, " thoughtful and efficient. He did every- 
 thing after Stephen died he and Father Ignatius. 
 I don't know what I should have done without them." 
 
 " Poor child," Henry said. " It must all have been 
 very hard for you." 
 
 " It was hard," she answered, " because it was so 
 sudden. And I am afraid my disappointment made 
 it harder. How could I think of myself when he 
 had always been so good to me always, always." 
 Tears were in her eyes. 
 
 " Tell me, if you want to. Sometimes talking 
 makes things easier." He was ready to listen and 
 strained every nerve not to show his own emotion, his 
 instinctive shrinking when she spoke of Stephen. 
 
 " I don't know why I should talk to you. It is the 
 knowledge, perhaps, that you were my friend long 
 ago. You were ? " 
 
 "Yes oh, yes! Goon." 
 
 " I had known for months that Stephen could not 
 live long. I could not want life for him. He suf- 
 fered so not from pain, but from some past sorrow, 
 something that made him think he had been unfair 
 to me. At first it was not so bad, I caught a look
 
 HENRY 33 i 
 
 in his eyes sometimes that frightened me. But lately 
 oh, it has been terrible. He wanted to speak and 
 could not. He wanted to give his life to me, he said, 
 to do with as I would. That was after I had brought 
 him back from the brink when he nearly lost his life 
 for Harry." 
 
 " He did that? Risked his life for Harry? " 
 ' Yes. But still he could not speak. He was go- 
 ing to, that night that he died. He promised, and 
 I never knew Stephen to break a promise. Then he 
 went out into the desert and that was all." There 
 was a sob in her voice. " I wanted so much to know." 
 
 " And you had a right to know." 
 
 " But not a right to think of my own disappoint- 
 ment at such a time. The remembrance of his good- 
 ness should have been all that remained. My curi- 
 osity could have waited. No what was bitter was 
 my forgetting. If I could forget then, perhaps I 
 may have forgotten when he was alive. His suffer- 
 ing, his belief that I did not love him. Did he think 
 that because I was unkind? Was it my neglect that 
 made him suffer? I put Harry first always but I 
 thought Stephen did not see. And the little boy I 
 loved him so much, and he seemed so alone." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 " Yes. I don't know why. Perhaps " she
 
 332 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 smiled " perhaps because he seemed so terribly little 
 in the desert. Stephen loved him, but not as I did. 
 And he seemed to have no part in him no real part. 
 That was because the past was blank to me and be- 
 cause Stephen was sick, I suppose. But his sickness 
 became so natural to me that I did not always think 
 of it. You see, I had only known him sick." 
 ' You were always kind to him, I know." 
 
 " Kind? Oh, I suppose I was kind. I'm sure I 
 always meant to be. But he loved me so much that 
 he did not want kindness. Should you be satisfied 
 with that?" 
 
 Henry got up and turned his back to Helen. The 
 temptation to speak, to tell everything, was almost 
 too strong to be resisted. Everything about her was 
 full of a mute appeal. The past called to him across 
 the years and cried out that it could no longer be 
 severed from the future, which was but itself grown 
 more comely. Anywhere else he would have spoken. 
 Here, in the face of the everlasting hills, in the heart 
 of the changeless desert, he could be steadfast. A lit- 
 tle longer only a little longer as length of days is 
 measured in eternity. 
 
 " Sometimes a husband demands more than he 
 has a right to ask," he said, still looking away. 
 " Love is deaf and blind. In fulfilling its own hap-
 
 HENRY 333 
 
 piness its eyes are closed with the brightness, its ears 
 with the music. I was cruel, without knowing it 
 and my wife died. I was cruel in the little things." 
 
 " As I was in the big things," Helen said. 
 
 " Perhaps," he responded. " I cannot imagine you 
 as cruel. No," he added, almost fiercely. " You 
 gave six years, the best six years, of your life to Bond. 
 He could not ask for more than that. Have you 
 the papers for me to look at? " 
 
 ' Yes here," she said, holding them out. And 
 then, a little tremulously, " I did not know that you 
 had been married." 
 
 " It was years ago." 
 
 " Before you knew me? " 
 
 " Before? Yes I had met you. I did not know 
 you." 
 
 " Could you tell me a little, of that past? " 
 
 He looked at her a long minute without speaking. 
 There was a longing in her face that he could not 
 deny. " Yes," he said, " a little. You remember 
 your childhood? " 
 
 " Yes with my mother. We were very poor." 
 
 " After that you went to a business college. You 
 had to earn a living, poor child. You were Mr. 
 Stuyvesant's secretary." 
 
 "Oh!" she cried sharply. "Then Stephen was
 
 334 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 glad to keep me away from Boston because of that. 
 People would have been unkind." 
 
 " Nonsense," he said gruffly. " You were of gentle 
 birth. In the end they would have remembered 
 that." 
 
 She shook her head. " Stephen never told them 
 who I was. That was why Mr. Moncrieff was sur- 
 prised, and you. How did it happen that you knew 
 me?" 
 
 " I? " he laughed. " I was not much better off 
 a struggling young lawyer, with no position. It is 
 I who have changed, not you. Mr. Stuyvesant intro- 
 duced you one day. I had never met a lady hardly, 
 it seems to me. You were kind. I can't understand 
 it now why you were, I mean." 
 
 " It was your strength." 
 
 He looked at her quickly, but she was lost, appar- 
 ently, in her own thoughts. 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " There was not much more. You were wonder- 
 fully kind. You went with me to lunch sometimes 
 hurried business lunches, for we were working peo- 
 ple. But we didn't care for that." He checked him- 
 self suddenly. " Then one day you were gone." 
 
 Together they sat in silence while the wind whis- 
 pered in the palms and the far desert quivered in the
 
 HENRY 335 
 
 sunlight. At last she spoke, very softly, so that 
 Henry hardly caught the words. " I understand 
 a little, still only a little." Then she turned to him. 
 " Thank you for telling me and, oh remember this. 
 It is I who have changed I must have changed 
 not you. Shall we look over the papers? "
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 A WEEK only Henry lingered in Arizona. He could 
 not go sooner and dared not stay longer. Helen had 
 barely mentioned Stephen again, except when they 
 talked on business, but he knew that every morning 
 before breakfast she stole out alone to put fresh flow- 
 ers on his grave. They took long rides across the 
 desert, and once, when she was busy, Henry went 
 alone to the Mission. 
 
 He found Father Ignatius in the church. " I am 
 Henry Murphy," he said, " the one to whom you 
 sent Mr. Bond's letter." 
 
 " Your voice is good," the Father answered. 
 " Come into the light that I may see your face." He 
 led Henry down the dim nave to the open space 
 before the chancel where fell the single shaft of sun- 
 light. He looked at him, then leaned toward him, 
 catching him fiercely by the shoulders. " You! " he 
 cried. "You!" 
 
 Henry was startled. " Have you seen me be- 
 fore?" 
 
 The priest hesitated. " Are you, perhaps, a 
 brother of the lady." 
 
 336
 
 HENRY 337 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Nor of Mr. Bond? but that could not be." 
 
 " I am not. Why do you ask? " 
 
 The old priest took his arm, and led him to one 
 of the rude pews. " Sit down." Then he went to 
 the altar and knelt for a moment, silently. 
 
 ' Your face is good," he said, when he returned. 
 " But the face of the lady is like an angel's. How 
 may this be possible if you are the father of the 
 boy?" 
 
 Henry grew very pale. He could not speak at 
 first. 
 
 " I have a right to know the mystery, for my right 
 to believe in human nature as God reveals it in the 
 faces of men and women is sacred. Speak." 
 
 " It is true, Father," Henry said at last. " The 
 boy is mine. I should not have told you, but you 
 knew. The lady was and is, thank God, my wife." 
 
 " I do not understand." 
 
 " There was a terrible accident. She was injured. 
 She forgot the past such things are possible." 
 
 " But Stephen knew." 
 
 " Yes. Stephen knew." 
 
 "Then his suffering was deserved. Ah! but he 
 wanted to confess, my friend. Here, on the last day 
 he came here, and was alone with God. He was
 
 33* THE GREEN VASE 
 
 about to make reparation as he could. And then 
 death took him but the Blessed Virgin b pitiful. 
 She saw that he had suffered and in death she made 
 his repentance complete. I wish you might have seen 
 his face. It would have made your heart less hard." 
 
 M Monciieff said the same thing. But it is better 
 as it is." 
 
 rVrfaaps. Anger, even righteous anger, is crueL 
 Yet even when there can be no forgiveness there may 
 be charity. Read his letter, my son. It was the con- 
 fession of a dying man and try to read it with char- 
 ily. The lady? Does she know? n 
 
 M Not yet. I am going away to-morrow. When 
 I return there will be time enough to tell her." 
 
 The priest's eyes sparkled. "Ton are wise, my 
 son, as well as good. But some time she must know, 
 that she, too, may repent." 
 
 Henry rode back, oppressed and yet glad. He 
 feared that others, less discreet, mipni puf-^% his sc- 
 cret, but was happy that he could share it with some 
 one who understood, as Moocriefi could not under- 
 stand. 
 
 Before leaving, too, he divuwd with Helen her 
 plans for the future. She was to stay in Arizona for 
 the winter and for the summer go West. He had 
 feared that she might insist on going to Boston, but
 
 HENRY 339 
 
 instead she agreed willingly to all his suggestions. 
 She knew, he felt, that he had only told her a small 
 part of the past and that she was in his hands. He 
 had said nothing of his return and yet knew that she 
 expected him. Only to Harry he had made a prom- 
 ise. " Before you are seven years old, my boy, I shall 
 come back to see how well you have learned to ride 
 the pony.'* And Harry had kissed him good-bye and 
 dung to him, die little arms tight around his neck 
 until Miss Gordon had come to carry him off. 
 
 So it was over this new chapter and most won- 
 derful in his life. Henry lived back through the days 
 as he sat in the car, watching the first sun-rays touch 
 the white cupolas of the Mission St. Xavier. And 
 most of all, his mind and his heart rested on this very 
 morning. He had said his farewells to Helen the 
 night before formal, they had been, devoid of any 
 deeper meaning. But in the early morning, when the 
 stars were paling, he had gone to the veranda and 
 found her waiting. 
 
 " I could not let you go like one who goes without 
 gratitude and love," she had said. 
 
 They had stood there together, in silence, through 
 long minutes, while the pure grey light slowly flowed 
 over the surface of the desert and the hills loomed 
 out of the shadows. He had not spoken, even when
 
 340 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 they heard the wheels of his carriage crunching on 
 the gravel. He had hardly looked at her for fear 
 that a breath of emotion might shatter the sacred- 
 ness of that overwhelming peace. It was enough to 
 feel her beside him. Only when Pedro had swung 
 his bag into the carriage he leaned toward her, and 
 seizing her hand, kissed it. 
 
 And now the train was sweeping him away from 
 her away from his little son. All that day and the 
 next he sat almost motionless at his window while he 
 watched the deserts of Arizona merge into those of 
 New Mexico, and so the deserts of New Mexico melt 
 into the endless farms of Kansas. It seemed to him 
 then that he had dreamed, a wonderful dream that 
 was the most splendid reality of his life. But now 
 the great peace of the wilderness was left behind, and 
 in the wilderness the dream, and the reality. Among 
 men once more, the habit of years took hold of him 
 again. He was himself, the keen, practical man of 
 affairs, self-reliant, eager to learn, his eyes always 
 open to opportunity. But he was no longer me- 
 chanical. People who saw him looked at him again, 
 for behind the honest eyes there was a flame of hap- 
 piness; across the practical mouth flickered the smile 
 of one whose vision had come true. 
 
 Before reaching St. Louis he was planning eagerly
 
 HENRY 341 
 
 for the future. He remembered Mr. and Mrs. Jen- 
 nings, and after a moment of hesitation decided to 
 write them. After all, he had few more loyal friends. 
 It was not easy, but he told them the whole story. 
 " And now," he added, " will you add one more to 
 your many kindnesses? Will you stop in Tucson on 
 your way back, to see Helen? In no other way can 
 you understand. Tell her as much of me as you will, 
 except, of course, the one great fact of my life. That 
 she must learn from me how, I do now know, but 
 if it can be through her own awakening it must be. 
 You are rejoicing with me. I shall think of you 
 happy with her. And, by the way, Tucson is quite 
 worth visiting, if only to see the Mission St. Xavier. 
 Father Ignatius there is a friend of mine and of hers. 
 Don't misjudge him because he wears a cassock. And 
 kiss the child for me over and over again. You 
 will not be able to help it, anyway." 
 
 Then he wrote to Helen. It was not the first time. 
 There seemed so much to say of the deserts and of 
 the people standing in the crude stations, and of 
 her, and of the boy. He told her of his letter to 
 Mrs. Jennings. " She is a common woman with a 
 kind heart and a noble husband. You will seldom 
 see her when the time comes for you to return to 
 Boston. And for that reason you may think it strange
 
 342 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 that I want you to know her. But I do, and much 
 more I want her to know you. Will you trust me to 
 see for you this time? " Then he told her about Mr. 
 and Mrs. Jennings, their peculiarities and the fine 
 qualities that he feared she might miss under the 
 superficial vulgarity; and about the Club. There was 
 no difficulty in writing. The only trouble was to 
 come to an end. 
 
 In St. Louis he found letters from Boston waiting. 
 In the heavy envelope from Stuyvesant and Bond's 
 office was the letter from Tucson, and next it a square, 
 lavender note mailed only two days before in Boston. 
 More on account of these two envelopes than any real 
 desire for solitude he changed from his section into 
 the stateroom. 
 
 But the train was well on its way before he broke 
 the seals. Toward both, the letter forwarded by Fa- 
 ther Ignatius and the scented missive from Katherine 
 Bland, he felt a curious repugnance. One must in- 
 evitably tear open old wounds he wanted only to 
 forget Stephen. The other brought back into his life 
 a woman who, for her sake, if not for his, he thought, 
 should never have been there. 
 
 He opened Stephen's letter first and read it merci- 
 lessly, his teeth clenched. Then he folded it pre- 
 cisely and put it into his pocketbook. There was
 
 HENRY 343 
 
 nothing he had not known, nothing he could forgive. 
 But as he sat staring out over the snow-dotted fields, 
 he felt in spite of himself a kind of savage pity for 
 this weakling, this creature whom generations of vir- 
 tue had made vicious. Stephen's " strength," his be- 
 lief that he was " reconquering the freedom of his 
 primeval ancestors," all this seemed to him the boast- 
 ing of a madman who was afraid frankly to admit 
 himself a sinner. And yet, at the end, Stephen had 
 confessed his sin, admitted it with profound sorrow. 
 It had brought him, in the final count, no joy. He 
 did not ask forgiveness. He only begged for Helen, 
 and that was what seemed to Henry so bitter, so 
 unendurable. What right had this man to ask fa- 
 vours for her? How did he dare to suggest that she 
 needed an advocate? Should a sinner plead for a 
 saint? But Henry was too honest with himself to 
 ignore the pathos of the letter. One sentence kept 
 ringing in his mind. " I had everything except 
 Helen. And without Helen everything was noth- 
 ing." That was true, true. Had he not realised it 
 all these years while all the good things of life came 
 to him, tasteless, meaningless, because she was not 
 there to share them ? Nor did he read any sophistry 
 into the letter. It was too clearly a death-cry to 
 sound any note but that of passionate truth. Stephen
 
 THE GREEM VASE 
 
 ; : -. : i " : r : ~ : ; ; : : ~ : ~' : : . : ~ ~ : : * r~. :.: ~ ~.i : 
 P*gAJ one; for hamscu,. he cvidcntlj knew., no ; 
 :i. ::*r i"i:r i: _':^.j r.r N: i* :~. :; i i i; 
 
 uttered, hot only 
 dnodU not he made to think more 
 luiiMy of hmi than she nnst. Henry sltiuggtd his 
 r. Helm was infinitely kind; bat she 
 let cifdi of lorep irifcih, cruel love, blind 
 to the troth. Katherine Bbnd nngjht do that 
 who had longed for lowe and bad never 
 rownd tt^ wno nao *^^^^mftl ox passMHi ^*" bad frffn 
 
 r. 
 
 He lute open her note somewhat: angiuj. He had 
 
 *_ J M ^_ ** __j, ^ 
 
 ner, nowv ana the uLuut or a 
 
 the paper rrolkdh 
 
 leaBy a pernmc that f^HiM be denned as 
 vas it cessation of other "*, as 
 a inrilh of mountain air r pungent with the 
 r of open pastnns, had cut suddenly 
 a city street. Henry saghed and read. 
 
 HEXKT: I haw mined TOO 
 
 '.'-. 2.~~- '- -'- '.--'-'--'---- '.-..',.'. 
 teatmes. They ask. me what I hear 
 I have not heard. Of cpune they don't
 
 HENRY 345 
 
 believe it, all of which bores me. Mr. Stnyi 
 made love to me at dinner last night he is perennially 
 young and told me that you would be back on 
 Wednesday. Come to see me that evening. I need 
 a bit of desert air, much as I should hate it in large 
 doses. Sincerely, KATHEKDCE. 
 
 " P. S. It was very sad about Stephen, I sup- 
 pose. Somehow it didn't touch me much. He 
 had drifted away so far from everything that 
 concerns us. But I do want to hear about his 
 wife. She was always mysterious, and I suppose that 
 with the mystery gone she will prove as banal as all 
 the rest. Still, I want to know about her. One more 
 illusion gone won't matter. I wish some one would 
 do something really exciting to think about. 1L" 
 
 That was alL There was nothing of the slightest 
 importance in the ultimate scheme of things, and the 
 train was racing across the thickly populated state of 
 Illinois. Yet here was the picture of a woman for 
 whom life held no dreams sad, the saddest thing in 
 the whole cirde of ebdstence. She was holding out 
 her hands to Henry in one last pitiful request that 
 she might have a little of the truly vital happiness 
 of the world. And the very fulness of his own joy 
 made the request impossible to grant. 
 
 He turned resolutely to his batch of business pa- 
 pers. In the days when there had been no hope for
 
 346 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 him work had saved him. But now it was not his 
 sorrow he was fighting. It was rather that his hap- 
 piness might not make him blind. Katherine's face 
 kept appearing. He could not shut it out. Her 
 problems were heavy on him as well as his own, and 
 Helen's, which were but another aspect of his own. 
 
 So the hours dragged, night was torture, and it 
 seemed months before the golden dome of the Bos- 
 ton State House glowed at last through the afternoon 
 mist. 
 
 Henry went directly to the office, where he found 
 Stuyvesant. " Good to see you, old man. I was be- 
 ginning to find sole tenure irksome. Beastly sad about 
 Steve, wasn't it. Hard he couldn't even live to see 
 you." 
 
 " He wouldn't have wanted to. Life had nothing 
 for him. Death, I imagine, was the most welcome 
 change that he could have had." 
 
 " Good Lord ! I knew he was sick suffering, most 
 likely. But he had his wife and his kid. Or were 
 they an impossible pair? " 
 
 ".He had neither wife nor child." 
 
 " Had no Good Lord, Murphy, are you 
 
 drunk or haven't you been in Arizona all these days? " 
 
 " I can only repeat what I said." 
 
 " Well, you needn't," Stuyvesant said angrily, " un-
 
 HENRY 347 
 
 less you will tell me what in the devil you are talking 
 about." 
 
 Henry took out Stephen's letter. " I don't feel up 
 to it," he said. " I'm tired, and want a bath. This 
 will explain. I sha'n't show it to any one else, but 
 you have a right to see it. I shall be in my rooms 
 at eleven o'clock to-night if you want to see me. I 
 don't need to ask you to say nothing of the letter or 
 its contents." 
 
 " All this mystery seems moderately silly. But 
 have your own way. " Only," he called, as Henry 
 opened the door, " I can't go to your rooms. I'm 
 booked for the opera."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Katherine Bland reached die age of twenty- 
 
 hcstth "** broken 
 
 _ ! *^^^^M. 
 
 OK stfaai of a f|uaitei century of almost i..ni;e 
 social gaiety, refused any longer to keep house and 
 tool., an apartment on Commonwealth Avenue, Ka th- 
 ctine had rebelled against being " cooped up," as she 
 ' with querulous parents."* and had com- 
 by taking her own apartment just below 
 She was thus "under the shadow of the 
 parental wing,*" but was still able to lead her own 
 independent fife. And mdcprndrnt it certainly had 
 become during the last four years. From an un- 
 sophisticated girl she had developed into a sophis- 
 icatrd and consciously uocouveuljonal wimun. As 
 a girl she had lived in a world of romance, and as a 
 woman she was a brutal reafist. 
 
 ha<| tp*t c"ny tmr i-g almost- 
 
 On this Wednesday ewenmg she lay back in her 
 chair, actually l.M.iiig again, and the ok! habit 
 some of the glow back into her pale cheeks.
 
 HENRY 549 
 
 Her dinner gown was of delicate lavender, trimmed 
 with silver lace, and the chair in which die sat was 
 upholstered in old, black, stamped leather. The con- 
 trast was startling, but supremely effective, and Katfa- 
 erine never missed effects. She watched the hands 
 of the dock as they approached nine. Henry would 
 come almost before the quiver of the stroke had died 
 away. That was one of the surprises of the man, 
 the fact that he was always punctual A year ago, 
 when she had met him, it had irritated her. It 
 seemed one of the many indications of lack of 
 imagination on his part, a stain of the past that still 
 dung to him But she had soon learned to daUngunli 
 between traits of his character and of his raining, 
 and, as she knew him better, had come to reverence 
 the former even his faults as she set herself to 
 eradicate the latter. Only a few days previously 
 Stnyvesant had complimented her on having cre- 
 ated a gentleman."* "But no," she had protested 
 with a sincerity that had startled her partner " Bat 
 no, I have not created a gentleman. I have only 
 pulled off some of the awkward garments that hid 
 him from imdiscernmg eyes. She had been keenly 
 interested in her experiment, and then Henry had 
 gone away, and she had suddenly become aware of 
 herself through her own loneliness All these years
 
 350 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 she had waited for a fairy prince to come to her 
 from the skies, to hang ropes of pearls around her 
 neck, and to carry her off in his golden chariot. And 
 instead had come a plain man of the people for her 
 to educate, and she wanted no better chariot than a 
 common cab so long as he carried her off. 
 
 " Mr. Henry Murphy, Miss Bland," the maid 
 said. 
 
 Katherine looked at the clock. It had just struck 
 the hour and she had not heard She did not rise 
 as Henry came in, merely held out her hand and 
 smiled at him " The West has not made you un- 
 punctual. Will you smoke? " 
 
 " Thank you." He took a cigar from the box on 
 her table. " Shall I light your cigarette? " 
 
 " No. I have been smoking. Besides, you don't 
 like women who smoke." 
 
 " That is not fair. I like women I am fond of 
 not to smoke." 
 
 " Do you want me to stop? " 
 
 " I think you do it too much for your health." 
 
 " Do you want me to stop? " 
 
 " It seems to me purely a matter of health," he 
 said, smiling. " And it does not suit the outdoor 
 freshness of your rooms. I noticed the perfume 
 when I opened your letter on the train. It is curi-
 
 HENRY 351 
 
 ously unlike you. I think of you rather with the 
 odour of violets and hothouse flowers." 
 
 " It is a relic of my youth," she said. " It makes 
 people forget that I am growing old. When I am 
 alone well, then I fill the room with gardenias and 
 burn a thin stream of incense. It really suits me bet- 
 ter, as you say, and when all my hope is gone, when I 
 am willing that people should take me for an old 
 maid, then I shall have gardenias always. The per- 
 fume of youth will give way to the cloying sweetness 
 of middle life that must fascinate, like a chorus girl, 
 by means of the externals. Then, my friend, you 
 may find gardenias here. But not till then. Are 
 you glad to be at home? " 
 
 " Yes, because I have work to do and yet no 
 because there is a freedom in the deserts that I have 
 always longed for." 
 
 She looked at him closely. " It was sad about 
 Stephen." 
 
 "Why? You said it did not touch you his 
 death." 
 
 " I said not much. I wanted to marry him at one 
 time. Indeed, I think I always wanted to marry 
 him after we were children. We spent the night 
 once in the woods together and watched the sun rise. 
 He was thirteen and I was ten. Before we had
 
 352 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 breakfast, I remember, he went off through the woods 
 and had a swim. I can feel the touch of his wet 
 hair on my cheek as he kissed me, now. Then I 
 sprained my ankle and he carried me home." 
 
 " But you did not marry him." 
 
 " No. He loved me a little. But my mother 
 laid her trap for him too openly. Stephen was never 
 one to be caught." 
 
 " Not unless he loved greatly." 
 
 " What do you mean ? Or perhaps I know. Let 
 me tell you another incident that I remember. It 
 was the last time I saw him. I had been dining 
 alone with Sally Fisher and was crossing the Com- 
 mon on my way home. I met Stephen, who was 
 wild-eyed and strange. He had been dining with a 
 woman somewhere I remember I was startled to 
 find he was that kind. It was the breaking of one 
 of my most cherished illusions. He talked incoher- 
 ently, but I gathered that he was asking me to solve 
 some great social problem whether the man who 
 started at the bottom of the ladder could ever build 
 for himself a social position that could place him on 
 an equal footing with those of us who were gently 
 born. I told him that it was not possible. I was 
 young then, and had not thought. The next day he 
 went away."
 
 HENRY 353 
 
 " So you, too ! You, too, had your part in it all." 
 
 " In what? You are breaking your cigar, Henry." 
 
 He tossed it into the fire. " Bond had been dining 
 with my wife." 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry." 
 
 1 You need not be not in that way. I knew all 
 about it, insisted on it, in fact." 
 
 " He must have married immediately afterward." 
 
 " No. He was a man who could love once only. 
 He loved my wife." 
 
 " And after she was killed he could not come back. 
 Poor Stephen! But I thought he was married. I 
 have heard he had a wife and child Oh ! " she cried, 
 looking at Henry. " It could not have been " 
 
 " Yes," he answered, . " my wife and my child were 
 with him when he died." 
 
 "How terrible!" 
 
 " No, I will tell you about it." She sat listening, 
 losing not an expression on his face as. he told his 
 story. She felt herself in the grip of a growing ter- 
 ror, but could not give up hope. 
 
 " I feel still that it is horrible for you," she said 
 at last, tremblingly. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Oh the shock of it all the publicity. You will 
 get a divorce, of course."
 
 354 ^HE GREEN VASE 
 
 "Why? Has she done anything to deserve such 
 treatment? " 
 
 " No, of course not. But surely you are free. 
 You have outgrown her. You can't go back in life 
 tie yourself to a common woman fall again into 
 the position of six years ago." Henry got up from 
 his chair and walked across the room. "It is 
 quixotic. I know your chivalry, how good you are, 
 but you must think of yourself. What would Mr. 
 Stuyvesant think his secretary ! " 
 
 Henry stood in front of her. " What reason can 
 you give? " she added, her words almost inaudible. 
 
 " The one real, great, eternal reason," he said 
 sternly. " Because I love her. Because I have al- 
 ways loved her and always shall her and no one 
 else." 
 
 Katherine bowed her head into her hands, seemed 
 to crumple in her chair, and Henry, standing over her, 
 looked down on her black hair, where a single dia- 
 mond ornament, trembling, gave focus to his vision. 
 " I love her," he continued sternly, " because when I 
 was struggling she helped me to rise and blessed 
 me with her love. She was born a lady and her 
 troubles never roughened the surface. When I mar- 
 ried her she suffered because I did not understand 
 her point of view, because I was too crude to see her
 
 HENRY 3 jj 
 
 as she really was. Now I can make her happy 
 thanks to what I have learned, and thanks, most of 
 all, to you." He saw her shiver. " You were right 
 what you said to Stephen that the man who 
 starts at the bottom can never reach the position of 
 those who are gently born, your place and 
 Helen's. But his children can in this country, 
 thank God. I can only worship her and work for 
 Harry." 
 
 Katherine raised her head. Her face was paper- 
 white except for two burning spots on her cheeks. 
 Her eyes looked like ashes under which the fire still 
 glowed. " Can you forgive me ? " she whispered. 
 
 He leaned down and took her hands in his and 
 kissed them. 
 
 Then she went on. " I have no shame, Henry. 
 All my life I have longed for a fairy-prince and I 
 thought I had found him. He belonged to another 
 woman. What colour is her hair, Henry? " 
 
 " Red-gold." 
 
 " I thought so and mine is black. My dreams 
 are over now but I love you, dear, and because of 
 that I will help you. Only tell me what to do. It 
 cannot be too hard. And then, perhaps, by-and- 
 by, I shall marry Moncrieff," she laughed. ' Two 
 such cynics as we well, we should save each other
 
 356 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 from making others unhappy. Kiss me, now, please 
 Helen would not mind and then go. I am very 
 tired." 
 
 Henry drew her up from her chair and kissed her. 
 He could hardly see her. Then he dashed from the 
 room, but as he reached the door he heard her say, 
 " God bless you." 
 
 He walked rapidly down Commonwealth Avenue, 
 taking long breaths of the cold night air. He could 
 not know that she was lying face-downward on her 
 sofa, sobbing as though her heart would break. He 
 did know that even in her suffering she would be his 
 friend, and for that was glad he had told her. 
 
 In his rooms he found Stuyvesant waiting for him. 
 " I thought you were at the opera." 
 
 " Opera be hanged ! I went to my dinner because 
 nothing short of death should break a dinner engage- 
 ment. But, my heavens, man, when a fellow has 
 just read a dying confession that proves his best friend 
 a scoundrel, he can't sit through three acts of idiocy 
 set to a more or less tuneful accompaniment. Do you 
 mean to tell me that until she saw you, your wife 
 that was didn't know that she had been breaking all 
 the laws?" 
 
 " She doesn't know it now." 
 
 " But, good Lord, she's got to know it some time.
 
 HENRY 357 
 
 I say, old man, it must have been something of a 
 shock to you." 
 
 " It was. The luck was that I didn't quite make a 
 fool of myself and spoil everything at once." 
 
 " Spoil everything? It's pretty thoroughly spoiled 
 now, I should think. How are you going to dispose 
 of her?" 
 
 " Dispose of her? What do you mean? One 
 doesn't dispose of one's wife." 
 
 ' You don't mean to say you are going to take up 
 with her again? " 
 
 " What else could I mean? She is as innocent as 
 I am and, what's more, I happen to love her." 
 
 Stuyvesant whistled. " Of all the you'll have 
 to tell Katherine Bland." 
 
 " I have told her." 
 
 ' You don't waste time, do you ? Poor Katherine 
 if I weren't such a confirmed bachelor I'd marry her 
 myself." 
 
 " She wouldn't have you." 
 
 " Possibly. She's a queer one but pathetic just 
 now. Always has been, I think, and this must have 
 hit hard all around. Did you know she used to be 
 in love with Steve? Damn him. Why couldn't he 
 let a respectable family name rest clean as it always 
 had been ? He was the very last one, too. They're
 
 358 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 all dead now the Bonds. Died out like so many 
 of our old New England families. It will save a 
 beastly contest over the will. I suppose he left 
 everything to her." 
 
 " Yes. That's the hardest thing to swallow. 
 You are trustee. The will was probated in Arizona. 
 By the way, I have a letter to you from him. I for- 
 got it this afternoon." He went to his bedroom and 
 returned immediately. 
 
 Stuyvesant tore open the envelope. " You know," 
 he said, " I've never been what they call a saint. But 
 this the whole thing so cold-blooded I mean as 
 time went on. It makes me crawl to touch his writ- 
 ing even. This is probably meant for you as much 
 as for me." He read aloud. " ' Yesterday I made 
 my will, leaving everything to my wife and child. I 
 have no wife, no child, but if ever the will should be 
 contested I wish this statement to be conclusive as to 
 its meaning. By my wife I mean Helen Smith Mur- 
 phy, who has lived with me as my wife for five years, 
 not knowing that she had a husband. By my son I 
 mean her son, Harry Murphy, who has been my great 
 consolation in these days of sickness. I pray God to 
 make her life, which I have done my best to ruin, as 
 noble in its later years as it has been in its earlier, and 
 that my fortune may bring her what happiness it may.
 
 HENRY 359 
 
 I trust you, as my friend and the executor of my will, 
 to see that its provisions are carried out as I meant 
 them.' By gad, he's had it witnessed. He has 
 done his best, poor fellow. Your wife is one of the 
 richest women in Boston, Murphy." 
 
 " Yes. The income she can give away. The prin- 
 cipal must go eventually to Harry. I shall not mind 
 that so much. Now as to the future. What am I 
 to do?" 
 
 Stuyvesant looked at him and a queer smile played 
 over his face. " I think that that you'll have to settle 
 yourself, old man. I'm neither a divorce court nor a 
 matrimonial agency. Katherine might help you. 
 The quickest cure for her would be just that probing 
 of the wound. She's queer, but her heart is in the 
 right place if she has any left. If not, her wit will 
 pretty well supply the deficiency. Think it over. I 
 am going to the Club to drink at least ten long Bour- 
 bon highballs and curse the world for upsetting itself. 
 It had no right at its age and mine. Some day you 
 must tell me about what happened in Arizona. Not 
 now I should just swear. And if Katherine is ob- 
 streperous let me know." 
 
 Henry threw off his coat and waistcoat, and, light- 
 ing a pipe, sat down before the fire. " Poor Kath- 
 erine ! " he thought, and the world seemed very
 
 360 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 strange, a topsy-turvy universe where it was hard to 
 believe that " all things work together for good." 
 Helen, cursed by too much love, Katherine by lack 
 of it. And why? God knew. Both were good to 
 look upon, both had intellect, both had that strange 
 fascination that is sometimes the dower even of ugly 
 women charm. Katherine had them all in greater 
 measure, even, than Helen and yet he did not love 
 her; Stephen, also, had not loved her; no man had 
 ever loved her as two had loved Helen. She would 
 not marry Moncrieff, he was sure. That binding of 
 a restless mind to a restless body could only bring 
 disaster. No, she would live her lonely life, a fac- 
 tor in the world's eager search for diversion, herself 
 diverting, but never amused. He saw the dead years 
 stretching before her, and the years were like the 
 desert, and Katherine a gay, sad flower lying there, 
 tossed by the winds, shrinking from the soil that 
 would give her life, and drooping, drooping very 
 slowly, and bravely, and beautifully until the winds 
 carried her away, into the dark canons where the 
 souls of the sorrowful weep together. And nothing 
 would be left but a perfume the treasured memory 
 of the wild freshness of her youth. 
 
 He was dreaming. Never had it happened be- 
 fore this seeing visions in the night. And he knew
 
 HENRY 361 
 
 that the sad dream of another woman came, through 
 space, from Helen. For she was in the desert, and 
 she drew her life from the elemental soil from which 
 Katherine shrank daintily away. Was this an answer 
 to his question ?
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 TUCSON, ARIZONA, Feb. 25. 
 MY DEAR MR. MURPHY: Here Mr. Jennings 
 and I are with your beautiful wife. If ever there 
 was a hard-used angel it is surely her. Since receipt 
 of your letter I have not had time to write, what with 
 the powerful excitement and the job of getting Mr. 
 Jennings to leave Los Angeles at once. What is cor- 
 rupt city government to me, says I, in collusion with 
 a lady in distress. Nothing, I answered myself, we 
 leave Los Angeles to-day, and if you can't get a 
 berth I can, if we have to go in two uppers. Mr. 
 Jennings went to the depo and came back with 
 nothing. Then I went and I was real cross with 
 that poor young man behind the wicket, although 
 it was not his fault that we had to waste a whole day. 
 Then I tried to write you, but my pen kept getting 
 broke so with anger about that man that I even for- 
 got my spelling and had to give it up. As president 
 of a Literary Society I could not send a miss-spelled 
 letter. Well on the next day we left without Mr. J 
 reforming Los Angeles. They say that means the 
 Angels, but I guess the folks that made out the hotel- 
 prices were no very close relations to the founders. 
 My, but that train was slow. We were due to ar- 
 rive in Tucson (I wish they would spell it the way 
 
 363
 
 HENRY 363 
 
 they say it) at six a. m. I was up and dressed by 
 five and we did not arrive until 10 a. m. and I 
 would not have breakfast because I was afraid we 
 might not have time to finish and we had spent enough 
 money at that hotel not to want to waste any more. 
 Will you believe it Helen was at the station to meet 
 us in a cunning carriage with two black horses. I 
 told her it was mortal cruel to cut their tails, but she 
 said she did not do it. Sometimes she doesn't an- 
 swer questions as I would like but I wouldn't let that 
 pregudice me to one thats been through what she has 
 and more to come. About the boy I have nothing 
 to say but good. The little lamb ! His cunning 
 face and bright eyes and looking just like his daddy 
 all just made me want to cry and I kissed him so 
 hard that his cheek hurt so he had to have his mother 
 kiss it again. I aint going to say anything about 
 Mr. Bond. I only wish he'd been the man I said 
 those things to in the park instead of that English- 
 man. He was just a snake that God forgot to take 
 the legs off of, I guess. Helen showed us his grave 
 and I most screamed I wanted so to do something de- 
 graded to it. It has a white cross on it that seems 
 to me not right even if that Father at the Mission 
 says it is, being a sign of suffering. If that man suf- 
 fered I'm glad of it and I would not say that about 
 a porcupine. I won't say a word about the country 
 either. There's fresh air aplenty, but so is there in 
 South Boston when the wind's right. And we don't 
 have to look at sand all day. The doctor came to
 
 364 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 call yesterday before supper and he just raved about 
 the view. Now what is there in it? says I. Nothing 
 but sand and some places the Creator of us all has 
 raised it up higher than other places. I can see all 
 the sand I want on the beach at home and water to 
 go with it as is proper. He looked kinder supprised 
 but I guess he was only saying it to make himself 
 feel contented with his lot. There's a great deal in 
 being cheerful under adversaries, even sand. But 
 here I've been running on and using up all of Helen's 
 paper and not saying what I set down to say at all. 
 She loves you. I'm sure of it and I don't know what 
 to think about it. In the first place it doesn't seem 
 hardly decent for her to be loving with what she be- 
 lieved was her husband hardly cold yet. And in the 
 second place if she didn't love you I would think 
 her natural instinct was dead in her. Mr. Jennings 
 says its that and I guess he is about right for once. 
 Only it all goes to show she could not have loved that 
 man. I am telling you this because you will want to 
 marry her again or something as soon as he has been 
 out of the way long enough so folks won't talk and 
 because it's just as bad for her to be living in this 
 pesky place as it is for you to be eating your heart 
 out (I always did think that was a foolish remark) 
 about her in Boston. Mr. J. is fretting to go so I 
 suppose we must in a day or two and I am willing 
 now I have seen her and am in a torment all the 
 time for fear I will say something I oughtnt to. If 
 there was politics in Tucson I suppose we would stay
 
 HENRY 365 
 
 a month, and I could not hold out all that time. 
 When we get to Boston we will see you right away 
 and you can depend on us. I haven't written to any 
 of my friends about it, only as a queer story I 
 heard. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 AMANDA JENNINGS. 
 
 Henry read the letter with some amusement, some 
 trepidation, and profound happiness. It told him 
 nothing that he did not really know, but it was still 
 a relief to be assured that Helen loved him. The 
 scruples of Mrs. Jennings as to her right to love him 
 so soon he could explain to himself by the fact that 
 she had always loved him. Stephen she had cared 
 for, nursed, respected, but, after all was said, he had 
 merely floated on the surface of the deep current of 
 her love. 
 
 Much time, since this letter, as measured by days 
 and longing, had passed since he left Arizona. Much 
 more must pass before he could return. Outwardly 
 he had been caught up once more in the stream of 
 his customary existence. He worked hard, dined 
 out, went occasionally to the theatre, and was always 
 in his seat at the Symphony Concert on Saturday 
 evening. The only change that people noticed was 
 that he was no longer to be seen with Katherine
 
 366 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 Bland. But in his outward life he only went through 
 the motions, so to speak. Inwardly he lead a life 
 of his own, intense, unrelated to the world about him, 
 feeding emotionally on Helen's letters. They were 
 his delight and his wonder. She wrote much of 
 the boy, of his learning to ride. A letter had come 
 from Harry himself when the pony had arrived in 
 Tucson, a letter wonderfully misspelled and sprawling 
 over two large sheets on which Helen had ruled 
 lines that seemed to serve as verbal clothes-lines, the 
 words clinging to them somehow, but waving in all 
 directions as though a gust had struck the page. 
 There was also a picture of the pony, looking like a 
 cork stood up on toothpicks. Beneath it was the 
 legend, " This is Mister Murphy, my hors, who runs 
 faster than a rattul snak." Now they had gone 
 west, and Harry was learning to swim at Monterey, 
 while his mother wandered about the beautiful 
 grounds of Del Monte, worshipped discreetly by all 
 the men and outwardly by most of the women. This 
 Henry learned from other sources, and it almost sent 
 him flying to California. But Helen's letter re- 
 assured him. She was evidently quietly happy, and 
 was waiting. Her past was still a mystery, though 
 he had told her something and written more. She 
 never asked him to tell her now. She was content
 
 HENRY 367 
 
 to wait, not tremulously, as when Stephen was alive, 
 but confidently. 
 
 Just before the summer exodus from Boston, when 
 furniture vans appeared in daily increasing numbers 
 on Commonwealth Avenue and Beacon Street, and 
 wooden shutters made one house after another blind 
 to the world, Katherine Bland sent for him again. 
 He found her as usual, sitting before her fire, al- 
 though it was warm outdoors and all her windows 
 were open. 
 
 " Thank you for coming," she said. " It seems 
 a long time since you were last here." 
 
 " It does. You have been well? " 
 
 " Well enough," she answered, lightning a cigar- 
 ette. " I consider it vulgar to be boundingly, ex- 
 plosively well, like the buds of to-day. But I ex- 
 pect to live as long as they do." She smiled faintly 
 and the smile seemed to him to accentuate the pallor 
 of her cheeks. He noticed the tiny wrinkles at the 
 corners of her eyes and thought in contrast of the 
 untouched freshness of Helen, her cheeks warmed by 
 the desert sun. 
 
 "Tell me about her," she fcdded. "You are 
 thinking of her. That is what men do, in stories, 
 about the women they love only usually they are not 
 married. You are a story-book man."
 
 368 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " I am ? Surely I should be a very plain and un- 
 romantic hero." 
 
 " You don't know heroic qualities. They consist 
 in always living up to the reader's expectations." 
 
 " How uninteresting." 
 
 " On the contrary, how thrilling, in real life, be- 
 cause so unexpected. In that the romantic consists. 
 You were thinking of her." 
 
 " Yes. It's a habit I have." 
 
 " A good one," she said a little sadly, " a good 
 one the habit of thinking about the right people. 
 It makes for peace. But it can't be very exciting." 
 
 " Peace is better. That's what makes the desert 
 so wonderful. You're just swept up into the calm 
 of it. You become a part of it and forget to worry." 
 
 " I shouldn't," she said sharply. " I should be ten 
 thousand times more restless. I should hate it. 
 Does Helen like it?" 
 
 " Yes loves it." 
 
 " Because she has no past. The shadows would 
 follow one and torture one who had. Is she there 
 now?" 
 
 " No in California. The Arizona summer is too 
 hot." 
 
 " Have you a plan? " 
 
 " No. Things must happen as they will."
 
 HENRY 369 
 
 ' You must marry her." 
 
 " Mrs. Jennings suggested that. But I am al- 
 ready married." 
 
 " All the better. It can't harm you to go 
 through the ceremony again, even if Mrs. Jennings, 
 whoever she is, did suggest it." 
 
 " It would be a travesty." 
 
 ' You are too old and too modern to talk that 
 way. It would be a ceremony to her to you an ex- 
 pedient. Is hot expedience the rule of modern life? " 
 
 " The misfortune, I should say, not the rule." 
 
 " It's a mere matter of wording, like everything 
 else," she said. 
 
 " But afterward if I do it. What will she think 
 of me?" 
 
 " Let the future care for itself. Marry her. 
 Then when she learns the truth, when something has 
 made her remember, you will have her just where 
 you want her, as Moncrieff would quote from his book 
 of American slang." 
 
 " It would be taking an unfair advantage, it 
 seems." 
 
 "Why? You won't say that after you have 
 thought about it. And unless you do it well, you 
 will have a hard time to carry your point." 
 
 Henry shook his head. " I can't see it. After
 
 370 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 she knows me well again is used to me and then I 
 tell her. What could be more reasonable? " 
 
 " Yes, what, for a man. But man's reason is 
 woman's folly. She doesn't think like a man. If 
 she did she would be intolerable and you would never 
 love her. No, I'm sure of this, Henry. If you tell 
 her first and then ask her to take up the old life 
 again, she won't do it. She will think you are acting 
 through duty, and nothing would more surely repel 
 a woman than that. Why did she marry you origi- 
 nally? You were very crude." 
 
 " I haven't the faintest idea never have had." 
 
 " I know. It was because you were strong. You 
 did things. In spite of yourself you fascinated her. 
 And then you carried her by storm. You appealed 
 to her imagination You were a knight of the ro- 
 mantic ages. Like him you acted first and gave your 
 reasons afterward. Do it again. It is your only 
 chance of happiness." 
 
 " A good deal of all that is in your imagination. 
 But there's just enough truth to make me think. 
 You can look at it from her point of view. I can't." 
 
 " Think about it. You business men, especially 
 you old, conservative Stuyvesant and Bond people, 
 are never willing to decide anything quickly. 
 Stephen, for example. I am sure that if you had
 
 HENRY 371 
 
 asked him whether that bright ball over there were the 
 rising sun, he would have looked at his watch and 
 compared the time with an almanac before answering. 
 And even then he might not have been willing to 
 commit himself. Where did you live when you were 
 married? " 
 
 " On the Park, in South Boston." 
 
 ' You needn't be ashamed of it. A furniture- 
 maker I know lives there, and I always tell him 
 that his chairs are better because they come from 
 such an attractive place. Do you still own your 
 house? " 
 
 "Yes. It's rented. Why?" 
 
 " It just occurred to me that you might evict the 
 tenants and take your wife there next spring." 
 
 " You seem to be sure that she will be my wife. 
 But why take her back to a place she hated." 
 
 "She did hate it? So much the better. The 
 memories to be roused would be all the stronger. 
 Are you going away this summer? " 
 
 " No. I've had my vacation. Boston is not at 
 all bad in summer if you don't think about it. I 
 shall get out of town for Sunday usually. Shall you 
 be near here? " 
 
 "I? Oh, no. I am going West next week. I 
 usually go abroad, but it occurred to me that there
 
 372 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 might be something worth seeing in my own country. 
 My friends all say it's absurd, and that has deter- 
 mined me. What my friends consider absurd would 
 probably be very amusing." 
 
 " You're going West. You'll see Helen? " He 
 said it eagerly. 
 
 " Why, yes," she answered. " I suppose I shall. 
 People inevitably do meet in the West, don't they? 
 The distances are so restricted. But it might be 
 simpler if you told me exactly where she is and gave 
 me a card. That is, if you can trust me." 
 
 ' Trust you, Katherine? " he said impulsively. " I 
 feel as though you were arranging all my happiness 
 for me. I love her and I'm her husband and I feel 
 as helpless as a child. You are making my life for 
 me." 
 
 " I shouldn't advise you to tell Helen that." She 
 got up and went to her desk. Henry sat looking into 
 the fire, thinking. Her plans all seemed so reason- 
 able and she was going to see Helen. It would 
 be wonderful for both of them. And then he be- 
 came conscious that the minutes were passing and 
 that the room was very still. He turned in his chair, 
 and saw her, a dim white figure sitting at the desk, her 
 head bowed on her arms. 
 
 " Oh what a selfish brute I am ! " he cried, jump-
 
 HENRY 373 
 
 ing up. " I come here and talk about myself, and 
 never think of you." 
 
 She shivered a little and then raised her head. 
 Standing beside her, his hand on her arm, he saw the 
 struggle in her face. Then she laughed, a little 
 sharply, and wiped away the tears. " How silly I 
 am," she said in a childish voice. " Just like an un- 
 fledged girl who goes to the theatre and cries at the 
 happy ending. I ought to laugh, and instead I cry. 
 But the curtain is down now, finally, and I am going 
 to put on my just ordinary clothes and smile all the 
 rest of my life. Just this time why, do you know, 
 Henry, the play was so well done that I imagined 
 myself as taking part in it. And my part was as real 
 as the others and just as happy although for a 
 moment it did not seem so. Now sit down here 
 and write me a note to Helen. No, don't kiss me. 
 The play is over, remember, and in real life a wife is 
 not pleased when her husband kisses other women. 
 She is very selfish that way. Now write, please. I 
 am going to get some whiskey and water so that you 
 won't want to go as soon as you have finished." 
 
 When he took the note to her she was sitting be- 
 fore the fire again, smoking her cigarette. Once 
 more she was the cool, satirical woman whom the 
 world of Boston knew, and liked, and was a little
 
 374 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 afraid of. For an hour she kept him laughing with 
 her gossip, a trifle more malicious than usual, a trifle 
 more worldly, as if her own hidden pain sharpened 
 her tongue. But only Henry knew that, and she went 
 far toward making even him forget it. 
 
 " I shan't see you again," she said with a return 
 to her old seriousness when he got up to leave. " You 
 must write me sometimes. My father's agents in San 
 Francisco can always reach me. And I will write 
 of Helen, when I see her. In the meantime think 
 over what I said about your marriage, and about 
 the house. Good-bye." 
 
 " I know your advice is good," he said. ' Thank 
 you for that and everything." He leaned over and 
 kissed her hand. And as he did it he thought of that 
 other night when he had kissed Helen's hand, when 
 the gray light was stealing over the desert, and the 
 keen, pure air filled his lungs. Here the air was 
 heavy, he noticed for the first time, heavy with the 
 perfume of gardenias.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 TIME ! It was sleepy with the centuries it had seen, 
 lazily uncoiling its heavy length, until it seemed to 
 Henry that the interminable spirals carried him 
 further from Helen, instead of nearer. And yet the 
 date at the head of the papers each morning showed 
 that the year was passing. The flame of the tulips 
 in the Public Garden had burned itself out; the cam- 
 panulas and Madonna lilies had carried the summer 
 insensibly to the cool blue of larkspurs that tempered 
 the iron heat of August; the Garden had warmed it- 
 self in September with glowing gladioli and in Oc- 
 tober with the hotter red of chrysanthemums that 
 persisted until quenched by the first snows of No- 
 vember. And then the Christmas spirit had been 
 in the air. Holly wreaths had decked the windows 
 and florists' wagons had carried gorgeous loads of 
 poinsettias and brilliant azaleas that mocked winter 
 with pictures of another spring. 
 
 Henry worked as he had never worked before. It 
 was harder to push back the beckoning finger of his 
 joy than it had been to forget the shadow of his 
 sorrow. There was little to do but work. He 
 
 375
 
 376 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 could not sit through a performance at the theatre. 
 Even the concert on Saturday night was losing its 
 power. Music, that had seemed to him to express 
 all emotion, now seemed to touch only the surface, 
 to weave a veil that did not hide, but rather revealed, 
 his quivering soul. Helen's letters he lived for day 
 by day, and they were filled with a happiness, a joy, 
 that was sometimes almost lyric in its outbursts. For 
 the first time in her life she had found a friend, a 
 woman with eyes which saw as she had always tried 
 to see; a woman, to be sure, somewhat weary of life, 
 like Moncrieff inclined to be cynical, but still clinging 
 to her own dreams, and, what was more important, 
 able to appreciate Helen's, and to enrich them. She 
 had met Katherine Bland in Monterey, and they had 
 been together ever since. 
 
 " She is wonderful," Helen wrote. " She said 
 she would hate the desert, but I think that perhaps 
 she sees it through my eyes." Henry stopped there 
 for a moment. Yes, Katherine was one who would 
 naturally hate the desert. But she was also wise 
 enough to be able to " see through other eyes " 
 when that other vision was finer and truer. That 
 had been his weakness years ago. He had clung 
 obstinately to his own narrow horizon, never once 
 had tried to look through Helen's eyes. That had
 
 HENRY 377 
 
 been his weakness. That shrinking from the larger 
 view had cost him dear. Now, thank God, the win- 
 dows were open but it had taken the shock of death 
 to open them. 
 
 " She is wonderful," the letter continued. " I 
 say it to myself every morning when I come down 
 to breakfast with Harry, and I say it every evening 
 when we sit on the veranda in the starlight, wrapped 
 up against the keen desert winds, and she carries me 
 back with her vivid descriptions of all the gay, good 
 times in Boston back, I said, because they all seem 
 so natural, so a part of me, that I must have known 
 them, somehow, in those years that are lost. And 
 forward, too, she takes me, to the good times that 
 are coming the operas, and the concerts, and the 
 theatres, and the dinners. I am young yet, you 
 know, my friend, and all these joys are ahead. I am 
 the mother of a boy, a splendid, beautiful six-year-old 
 boy, and yet I have the outlook of a girl just going 
 into the world. Is it wrong, do you think? It 
 makes me remember something that Stephen said long 
 ago. " Thank God for your innocence and your sim- 
 plicity of heart ' or something like that. ' It is the 
 best influence your child can have.' But sometimes I 
 wonder. I have told Katherine, and she agrees. I think 
 I could keep that innocence, even if I knew every-
 
 378 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 thing and it proved very terrible even worse than I 
 imagine and knowing, perhaps, I should be a better 
 mother. That is what I live for to be happy for his 
 sake, to understand for his sake, to give him all that 
 I have missed. This is very real to me, dear friend. 
 You won't despise me for talking so much of myself, 
 will you? I say every day that I am only Harry's 
 mother and to be that is to be very, very much." 
 
 Such letters stirred Henry to the depths of his 
 nature. He was continually amazed at the new 
 knowledge they brought him, the sight of the woman 
 he had never been able to discover the real woman 
 who underlay the wife he had blindly thought to 
 know and had not known at all. He began to realize 
 something of what she had suffered, released sud- 
 denly, as she had been, from the necessity of work 
 that had kept her from thinking, into a freedom 
 where she expected to find happiness, but where, in- 
 stead, she was hemmed in by conditions that must 
 have been infinitely more galling than were the mere 
 limitations of work. He wanted to tell her that he 
 understood. 
 
 Katherine, too, wrote occasionally, and her letters 
 told him sometimes much that he longed to know, 
 " Never," she said, " had I supposed that the world 
 contained a woman with so few unspoiled illusions.
 
 HENRY 379 
 
 Yet why not, in her case? As a child she had no 
 time, no opportunity to learn the world. And what 
 little she must have learned is gone, like all the rest. 
 Here well, in the desert one does not find out the 
 perfidy of man: There is something enormously 
 cleansing about the atmosphere just as you told me. 
 I feel so clean, morally, that I hardly dare to leave. 
 You see, I am not like Helen. She, dear child, will 
 go through the world unspotted because she will never 
 see, never no, not even when she knows and the 
 only way to keep clean is not to see. All the lying, 
 and the intrigue, and the gossip all of it stains, if 
 you recognize it. I do, almost before it occurs, 
 and it makes me cynical, like Moncrieff. She never 
 will. And, by the way, I almost accepted Moncrieff 
 in San Francisco. He is coming here, and here he 
 will have no chance unless the desert and Helen affect 
 him as they do me. She is not a woman. She is a 
 child whom I am educating for you/' 
 
 The letters carried him far from the bleak east 
 winds of Boston, away in imagination over the endless 
 prairies to Arizona. And a month must pass before 
 he could go. He had enough to keep him busy. On 
 January first the house in South Boston had come into 
 his hands again, and he went there almost daily. 
 Workmen were restoring it as nearly as possible to
 
 3 8o THE GREEN VASE 
 
 its original appearance. The black walnut was newly 
 varnished; on the parlour walls was new paper of 
 the same gory red, with the same purple shadows; 
 new lace curtains were at the windows, the same 
 dead white of years ago. 
 
 Henry lighted the gas one evening after the work- 
 men had gone and sat down to look around. The 
 sofa was as unyielding as it had been. It seemed 
 to him as though Helen must come through the 
 door, Helen as she was then, pale and out of place, 
 not as she was now, browned with the desert sun, 
 and free, with the look of great spaces in her eyes. 
 He took out his watch, as though to see how long 
 there might be yet to wait, got up and placed the 
 hideous green vase with its sprawling roses precisely 
 in the middle of the mantel. For a moment he 
 thought of taking it away, but dared not. It was the 
 keynote of the room, and the room was a plot to en- 
 trap Helen's wandering memory. 
 
 The door-bell rang, amazingly shrill in the op- 
 pressive silence of the house. He was glad of the 
 interruption. He went into the hall and opened the 
 door to Mrs. Jennings. 
 
 " Mrs. Salsbury, next-door, saw a light and tele- 
 phoned over. She has a telephone now on account 
 of that rich boarder that took one flight front. Of
 
 HENRY 381 
 
 course, it's a party-line and don't cost much. So I 
 came over to see if things was all right and thinking I 
 might find you here and have a little needful talk. 
 Are the workmen still here ? " she asked, taking off 
 her coat. 
 
 " No. They have gone home. I was all alone 
 and am glad to see you." 
 
 " Oh ! If you're alone " she said, taking up her 
 coat again. " I don't know as I ought to stay. It 
 mightn't be proper." 
 
 " Nonsense, Mrs. Jennings. Surely you and I 
 have reached the age of discretion." 
 
 ' Just a minute or two couldn't be any harm, I 
 guess. But sakes alive, folks do say such things. 
 Every Sunday it certainly seems to me as if the ears 
 of some of the audience must burn when the minister 
 preaches about talebearing." 
 
 " That was what Helen found so hard when we 
 lived here." 
 
 " I know poor innocent. I came over to tell you 
 I had a letter from Helen." 
 
 "Did you? When?" 
 
 " Only just yesterday it came and I must remark, 
 Henry Murphy, that I didn't like it." 
 
 "Didn't like it?" 
 
 " Exactly so." Mrs. Jennings compressed her
 
 382 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 lips and sat very straight in her chair, her whole 
 attitude radiating self-conscious and condemnatory 
 virtue. " I answered right off, as was my duty." 
 
 " What was wrong? " 
 
 " That Bland woman." 
 
 " Katherine Bland? But, Mrs. Jennings, nothing 
 could be happier for Helen than to have her there." 
 
 She tossed her head contemptuously. " I tell you 
 it ain't proper, and the poor child deserved to be 
 warned. She's going to have her chance this time." 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't understand of what she must 
 be warned. Certainly she could not be with a more 
 delightful person than Katherine Bland." 
 
 "There you are!" Mrs. Jennings ejaculated 
 " just what I was afraid of all the time ! There are 
 snakes and snakes, ' male and female created He 
 them,' as the Good Book says." 
 
 " But, Mrs. Jennings " 
 
 " Don't interrupt," she cried. " I made a bad 
 enough mess before with not understanding the poor 
 child. This time I'm going to prevent a mess if I 
 can. Helen's as innocent as a child, and as unselfish 
 as a lamb. Do you suppose that woman, who's 
 nothing but a high-society butterfly, is good for her, 
 filling her head with nonsense and selfishness and 
 stories of card-playing and drinking champagne?"
 
 HENRY 383 
 
 " Is that what you warned her about ? " he asked 
 sarcastically. 
 
 " No, it isn't. I told her about how you and Miss 
 Bland was always together last year, about how folks 
 all thought you were going to marry, and that, since 
 you were rich, she probably still wanted you. I just 
 warned her to be on the lookout for her own rights." 
 
 "Mrs. Jennings!" 
 
 " Yes, I did," she asserted firmly. " And glad I 
 was of the chance to do her a good turn after all 
 the bad feeling I'd had for her before." 
 
 " Does it ever occur to you, Mrs. Jennings," he 
 said quietly, walking about the room, " that you know 
 as little of Miss Bland, even less, than you formerly 
 knew of Helen, that you may misjudge her as seri- 
 ously, and also bring sorrow into Helen's life again 
 by destroying the first real friendship she has ever 
 had and for no reason whatever? " 
 
 Mrs. Jennings tossed her head scornfully. " I 
 guess I know more about women than you do, Henry 
 Murphy. Talk about friendship! Do you think 
 a swell like Miss Bland is going to come over here 
 to South Boston to visit your wife? " 
 
 " There is no reason why she should. I have no 
 intention of living here." 
 
 "Then why are you fixing up the house again?
 
 384 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 And I must say it's old-fashioned, too. Nobody has 
 lace curtains now. And if you're going to bring her 
 here -just at first, why spend the money? You've got 
 sweet things, like that lovely green vase your Uncle 
 John sent you, and those would keep her happy a few 
 days." 
 
 Henry glanced involuntarily at the vase. Its ugli- 
 ness was amazing and yet, because Mrs. Jennings 
 liked it, he realized that it was somehow typical of the 
 people whom he had wanted Helen to have as friends. 
 He himself, six years ago, had not known how bad it 
 was, nor how offensive they were, with all their good- 
 ness of heart. " I want it to look as familiar as 
 possible," he said, realising that he must say some- 
 thing. 
 
 " I guess she'd just as soon have you save the 
 money for something else," Mrs. Jennings said heav- 
 ily, and went toward the door. " I must say, Henry 
 Murphy, that I do hope things will come out all right 
 and I'm glad I wrote Helen and I'm glad I told 
 you so you'd know I wasn't doing anything behind 
 your back and was really your friend." 
 
 Henry could not trust himself to speak, but merely 
 bowed as he opened the door. 
 
 After she had gone he found himself trembling. 
 He went to the dining-room and, unlocking the side-
 
 HENRY 385 
 
 board, took out a bottle of whiskey and poured him- 
 self a stiff drink. " I needed just this lesson," he 
 said to himself. " To think that this is the kind of 
 thing Helen endured while I sat by and told her to be 
 friendly. God! And I didn't even defend her! 
 When Bond sent those orchids I sat bade and ex- 
 plained to the woman. To-night I could not explain. 
 Like her I have grown more like her and am a little 
 more worthy." Again the door-bell jangled in the 
 silence of the house. "Why can't people let me 
 alone?" 
 
 " My, but it's good to see you, Henry. I don't 
 often get to town, there being enough to keep me 
 jumping here. But you're looking glum. What's 
 up?" 
 
 " Nothing, Mr. Jennings. Your wife has just 
 gone." 
 
 "Has she been here? Jumping Jupiter then I 
 reckon I know what's wrong." 
 
 " She wrote Helen I don't know what exactly. I 
 am sorry but probably no harm is done." 
 
 " I'm sorrier than you. Amanda hasn't anything 
 to do except look after die rest of the world. I 
 let her get another maid the other day. What in 
 tarnation she wants three for I don't know. But 
 it did some good, because she has to spend hours a
 
 3 86 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 day hunting for something for No. 3 to do. But 
 it don't go far enough, what?" 
 
 " It really does not matter," Henry said again. 
 " She was so good to me after the accident that she 
 has a right to say what she pleases. It was only my 
 wish for Helen that nothing should happen to 
 trouble her." 
 
 " Right you are, young man. Amanda's a good 
 woman, but she has a tongue that runs away with 
 her. She never does things underhanded, though. 
 She always tells, but, sometimes, after the mischief is 
 done." He shook his head and Henry s<aw that he 
 looked old and tired. " It's no shucks trying to man- 
 age a woman. Don't let your wife get the top hand 
 at the beginning. That just about doubles the work 
 later on. Helen's a good woman so was Amanda, 
 and is now, bless her. But your wife's a woman, like 
 mine, and just for that she'll try to run you. And 
 it don't pay to let her, my boy. It don't pay in the 
 end. Women need training, and a master, like dogs. 
 If we'd had children well, it might 'a been different 
 then. I don't know. Something to do it don't 
 matter much what. They all need it." He blew his 
 nose violently and then held out his hand. " You'll 
 shake? Thank you. Good-night, my boy." 
 
 Henry turned wearily to the parlour. Was it
 
 HENRY 387 
 
 worth the game all this plotting, all this misunder- 
 standing? Yes, he was sure of that. If anything 
 could bring back her memory no effort was too 
 great. And if not, little harm would be done. Then 
 he must tell her, and the hideous story would be easier 
 to tell in the familiar, hideous surroundings. But 
 the physical ugliness of it all sank out of sight in 
 comparison with the mental and moral sordidness. 
 That he had never known until to-night, and even sin 
 seemed less horrible than this suburban virtue that 
 so stridently triumphed over taste and sense. He 
 realised at last the full depth of what Helen had en- 
 dured, and his heart cried out over her suffering. He 
 could not protect her from the world no man can 
 do that for the woman he loves but he could shield 
 her. He knew where danger lay. ' The tongue 
 is a fire." The Bible never spoke a truer word than 
 that. 
 
 And then he remembered the letter that Mrs. Jen- 
 nings had sent. Of what was in it he had no idea, 
 but that it would trouble her he felt almost certain. 
 It was a little cloud thrusting its intimation of storm 
 over the serene horizon of his happiness. And yet it 
 could not be explained by another letter. He walked 
 slowly back and forth, stopped under the light and 
 again took out his watch. " I'll do it," he muttered.
 
 388 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " I'll telegraph to-night and leave to-morrow. She 
 shall not worry longer than I can help." Then he 
 turned out the lights. " Helen," he whispered into 
 the darkness, " a few days longer, my dearest, and 
 the weary waiting will be over. I'm coming, dear, 
 coming at last."
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 " DON'T look so distressed, dear man," Katherine 
 cried, laughing, as Henry ran to the carriage back of 
 the station in Tucson. " Helen is all right. You 
 should show that you are glad to see me." She 
 laughed and held out her hand. " Get in now. The 
 horses are fast. Pedro will see to the luggage." 
 
 Henry climbed to the seat beside her and the 
 horses started. "The boy is he well?" 
 
 " Rather. He doesn't know how to be sick. We 
 shall meet him somewhere beyond the town. He is 
 not allowed to ride actually into the town for fear 
 that Mr. Murphy the pony, you know might mis- 
 behave. Tell me why you came so suddenly. I 
 was not expecting you for a month." 
 
 " I just couldn't wait." 
 
 Katherine laughed again. " You really have been 
 a saint, Henry. I expected you long ago." 
 
 " I was under orders, you know. You gave me 
 permission to come late in February. This is the 
 last day in January." 
 
 " It would be an excellent thing if all lovers be- 
 haved as well." 
 
 389
 
 390 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " I'm really a husband, you know." 
 
 " And therefore not so eager. But no. We don't 
 
 say sarcastic things out here. This air is too 
 clean." 
 
 " It is," he assented, breathing deeply. " The air, 
 and the space, and the splendid freedom of it all 
 make life a finer thing than we poor city mortals 
 ever realise. I'm thankful you had a chance to learn 
 it." 
 
 " I needed it, you think. But that is foolish. I 
 know I did needed the tonic of it all. Not for al- 
 ways, though. I grow here only in order to use 
 that growth in Boston. It's curious loving the 
 desert as I do makes me love the city more. To 
 Helen, Boston will be heaven." 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 " I know it. She had never been really happy. 
 She will be now." 
 
 ' Why didn't she come to the station? " he asked 
 irrelevantly. 
 
 Katherine laughed. " You held back that ques- 
 tion a long time. And, to be honest, I am not per- 
 fectly sure. She planned to come, but her courage 
 failed. At least, it was partly that. She had a let- 
 ter yesterday that worried her. I don't know what 
 it was."
 
 HENRY 391 
 
 " I do. It hurried me out here. It was just a 
 meddling letter from a meddling woman told 
 nothing, I imagine, but would have troubled her. I 
 didn't want that." 
 
 ' You are not very specific." 
 
 " Such stuff does not deserve it." 
 
 " Certainly not, unless I can help. Look ! Here 
 comes the boy. He's on the desert, where he has 
 no business to be." 
 
 In a cloud of dust the pony galloped toward them 
 at full speed. The little boy waved his whip and 
 shouted as he approached. " Hello, Mr. Pony-man. 
 Stop, Mr. Murphy. Whoa ! " He tugged at the 
 reins with both hands, and the horse came to a 
 standstill beside the carriage. 
 
 Henry was already on the ground and caught 
 the boy from the saddle. " Hello, you blessed lit- 
 tle rascal," he cried, holding him high in the air. 
 "My! But I'm glad to see you." 
 
 " Thank you for the pony," the child said breath- 
 lessly. " Now put me in the saddle, please. My 
 mother says I'm not fit to touch when I'm riding. I 
 get so dusty." 
 
 " You won't sit in my lap and let us lead the 
 horse." 
 
 11 Please, I don't want to," he answered, his lips
 
 392 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 quivering as he settled himself into place and thrust 
 his feet into the stirrups. " Mr. Murphy likes bet- 
 ter to gallop, and I want to ride fast to my mother 
 and tell her you're corning. Can I ? " 
 
 " Of course. But are you glad to see me? " 
 
 " Yes, if you let me ride. Did you bring me a 
 present? " 
 
 "Oh, Harry! You must not ask that," Kather- 
 ine said. 
 
 " I didn't think you would hear, Auntie Kate. 
 Don't tell mother. Good-by, Mr. Pony-man. I 
 can't say Mr. Murphy, you see, 'cause that's the 
 pony's name." 
 
 " Isn't he a wonder? " Henry said, as he took his 
 seat beside Katherine " See how well he rides 
 and not yet seven years old, the rascal. I wish I 
 could have seen him when he was little." He 
 watched the dust cloud that marked the boy until it 
 vanished around the turn of the road. 
 
 The horses traveled fast, and the long, low houses 
 soon came into view. " You are pale, my friend," 
 Katherine said, looking at him. " There is nothing 
 to be afraid of. I have helped your cause when 
 it needed help." 
 
 Henry put his hand for a moment over hers, but 
 she drew away. " No flirting," she said, with a
 
 HENRY 393 
 
 twisted smile. " I don't allow that with other peo- 
 ple's husbands not here, at least." 
 
 Then they saw Helen on the steps. She waved 
 as they came between the palm trees. She was 
 dressed in white, and the sunlight on her hair made 
 her look like a queen, crowned with a golden crown. 
 Henry could not speak. It seemed to him that the 
 moment was the culmination of years of blind seek- 
 ing for a happiness that was found at last. 
 He leaped from the carriage and took her hand, 
 silently. He saw that the tears were very near her 
 eyes. 
 
 " I'll leave you people," he heard Katherine say. 
 " I promised Harry to take him to see the Indian 
 children. Good-by." Still he did not turn as the 
 carriage drove away. He could not take his eyes 
 from Helen's face. 
 
 And then, when they were alone, he took her into 
 his arms and kissed her, on the forehead, the cheeks, 
 the mouth. She leaned against him, and slowly her 
 arms went up until they were clinging about his neck. 
 Neither spoke. At last he led her to the hammock 
 and they sat down, his arm holding her close, she 
 nestling against him. 
 
 " So it was not true," she whispered. 
 
 " Nothing is true, my darling," he answered, " but
 
 394 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 this this only that I love you more than all the 
 world." 
 
 She looked into his eyes, and each saw the other's 
 soul shine out. There was no need for speech. 
 They listened to the wind in the palm branches, and 
 to the birds that sang of love. They looked out 
 over the wide, sunlighted spaces, and it seemed to 
 them as though the desert smiled. 
 
 " And yet I know she loves you," Helen said. 
 
 "And Stephen loved you" he added. "But only 
 this is right." 
 
 " Yes," she whispered, " only this. For love is 
 not complete until it meets a full response."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 " ARE you really my father now " ? Harry asked a 
 month later. "Can I call you father?" 
 
 " Of course, my son. And we're going to have 
 wonderful times together back in Boston." 
 
 " Can I have Mr. Murphy there? " 
 
 " Surely. But we might give him another name, 
 perhaps. How would Arizona do? He comes 
 from here, you see." 
 
 The little boy drew away, and stood first on one 
 foot, then on the other, looking a little dubiously at 
 Henry. 
 
 " I don't believe you are really my father." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because because I said I can two times, 
 and you didn't tell me not to. Fathers always 
 do." 
 
 Henry laughed aloud and caught the child up 
 into his lap. ' That's because I'm not very much 
 used to being a father yet, you see. I haven't had 
 you for a son very long, and so I haven't learned 
 just what to do." 
 
 " I didn't know people had to learn how to be 
 
 395
 
 396 THE GREEN .VASE 
 
 fathers. My mother didn't have to learn to be a 
 mother. Did I have to learn to be a boy? " 
 
 " You had to learn to be a brave boy who could 
 ride a horse." 
 
 " I haven't a horse. I have a pony," he said 
 gravely. " Can I have a horse when I'm big? " 
 
 ' You may, not can, my son." Harry smiled up 
 at him mischievously. " See, here come Miss Bland 
 and Mr. Moncrieff. You run in to Miss Gordon 
 now." 
 
 "Alone, Henry?" Moncrieff said. "Where's 
 Mrs. Murphy? Thank the Lord there's something 
 I can decently call her at last." 
 
 " She never notices what you call her, Philip," 
 Katherine remarked. 
 
 " I know she doesn't," he said with simulated ir- 
 ritation. " And no more do you when Murphy's 
 around. I am beginning to think you're in love with 
 him yourself." 
 
 "Beginning to think?" she cried. "I thought 
 you prided yourself on your powers of observation. 
 I've been desperately in love with him for years." 
 
 " Then, my dear Henry, I challenge you to a duel. 
 This accounts for her having refused me again to- 
 day." 
 
 "She did, did she?" Henry said, laughing. He
 
 HENRY 397 
 
 was glad to get away from the subject of himself, be- 
 cause Moncrieff, like all careless speakers, was touch- 
 ing on more dangerous ground than he dreamed. 
 " I'm glad of it. She always will refuse you in the 
 desert, Phil. It's altogether too close to the real 
 thing to bring out the good points of such city 
 products as yourself." 
 
 " That's the danger," Katherine put in. " I'm 
 always afraid he may strike me quite differently 
 when I meet him next winter at the Elliots' at din- 
 ner." 
 
 " So your refusal is not final? " 
 
 " Oh, quite for the time being. I know you 
 will ask me again, unless you happen to marry 
 someone, somewhere. Besides, I always find you 
 amusing, and don't want to cut myself off from see- 
 ing you." 
 
 " But here and now I'm down and out. All this 
 trip for nothing." 
 
 " I thought you came on Helen's account, and 
 mine," Henry remarked. 
 
 " What," Moncrieff cried, " to be an imitation 
 witness at an imitation wedding! It was a more in- 
 teresting experience than weddings usually are, I ad- 
 mit, but the whole situation makes me nervous." 
 
 Katherine laughed at him. " Go and pack your
 
 398 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 bags, poor nervous invalid," she said. " I want to 
 talk with Henry. He leaves to-night, you know." 
 
 " Make her unhappy over what might have been," 
 he said to Henry as he went toward the door. 
 " Then she may, in self-defence, attempt what might 
 be." 
 
 1 You are wonderfully good, Katherine." Henry 
 walked across the veranda and stood beside her 
 chair. " And now to take the boy East with you. 
 There hasn't been a thing that you did not think of." 
 
 " Nonsense. It has all been fun for me." Her 
 voice broke, but she pretended she was coughing, 
 and Henry did not appear to notice. " But there is 
 one thing," she went on a little hysterically " one 
 mean thing I've wished all day, even in the Church 
 this morning, and that is, that Harry were not your 
 son, but Steve's. Then you might let me have 
 him." 
 
 "Katherine!" 
 
 " Yes, I know it was brutal on your wedding 
 day but I have learned to love the boy and he 
 gives me something to do. That is what I need, 
 Henry, just as you have always said. And then, you 
 know, I am really not responsible for what I say 
 to-day losing Helen, and turning my face toward 
 the city, with all the gossip and the petty jealousies,
 
 HENRY 399 
 
 and the dead dreams that make up my life. Will 
 you forgive me? " 
 
 " I should forgive anything." 
 
 " Look," she continued, pointing to the desert. 
 ' That is real, and the people here are real. The 
 doctor with ' Old Faithful ' and his stories and his 
 great big heart, is real. Father Ignatius, simple, 
 loving, never thinking of himself, has made me un- 
 derstand what a true man may be. And one other 
 thing I want to say, my friend. Stephen was real. 
 He could not have lived here, and yet have been 
 quite untrue to himself. I loved him, Henry, more 
 than I ever loved you, I think. He was my hero, 
 ever since I remember anything. And in these 
 months here I have thought of him, dreamed of him 
 the kind of true dreams that the desert gives. He 
 was carried away by a love he did not know how to 
 cope with. He thought himself noble in what he 
 did at first. And then, month by month and year 
 by year, the desert this great, wonderful, true 
 desert, entered into him and made him, once more, 
 true, as he had been, but finer, because he had found 
 himself." She spoke passionately, and, as she spoke, 
 rose from her chair and put both hands on his shoul- 
 ders. " I tell you this, Henry, because I do not 
 want Helen to think too hardly of him. She never
 
 400 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 loved him, but she ought to pity more than blame him. 
 She can never fully understand, as I can, because the 
 months here have given me back the hero of my 
 childish dreams, and, with him, the dreams them- 
 selves. I shall be hard and cynical again I know 
 that but it will all be superficial. Underneath, in 
 my soul, the power to dream has been made im- 
 mortal." 
 
 He leaned toward her and kissed her forehead. 
 He could say nothing felt there was nothing to say 
 but smiled, and she knew that he understood. 
 
 " Go in now," she said. " I have said my say, 
 and you have seen deep, deep into me for the last 
 time. In the future you must try to understand 
 Helen and don't forget this you are always, ap- 
 parently, on the verge that she is a woman, not an 
 angel, and that women need the lash sometimes. I 
 have no sympathy for other men's wives, and if ever 
 I find a man I am deluded enough to marry, I shall 
 know how to look out for myself. So it's not trea- 
 son to my sex, you see." 
 
 Henry left her standing in the sunlight. For a 
 moment he had almost forgotten his wife. But not 
 quite. It would have been easier to forget himself. 
 
 Helen met him at the foot of the stairs. " I 
 have been saying good-by to Harry," she said, a
 
 HENRY 401 
 
 little tremulously. " I don't think I could leave 
 him unless I were going with you." 
 
 ' We shall never have to be separated from him 
 again," he answered. " I don't want to lose a mo- 
 ment of his young life any more than you do, dear. 
 But now we have so much to talk over. We shall 
 both know it was best when we have him again." 
 ' You are so good to me, Henry." 
 
 Nearly the whole town of Tucson was at the sta- 
 tion to bid them God-speed. Pedro sobbed aloud 
 when he kissed Helen's hand. " Come back to us," 
 he blubbered, " we shall never have such another 
 mistress and the little master, who has learned so 
 well to speak our language, he, too, must come 
 back to us." Father Ignatius blessed her. " Your 
 husband is a noble man," he said. " Love him al- 
 ways, and obey him when you do not fully compre- 
 hend. My children's prayers, the love of the sim- 
 ple Indians, will be always with you." The doctor 
 wiped his eyes vigorously. " Old Faithful will al- 
 ways take the turn to the hill, Mrs. Murphy. And 
 sometime he will turn because you are there. The 
 houses will hem you in and soon you will return, 
 because the desert always calls its friends." 
 
 " I shall see you very soon, dear, and bring the 
 boy safely," Katherine said, as she kissed her.
 
 402 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 " And when you think there's hope for me," Mon- 
 crieff cried as the train started, " cable me in China." 
 
 They sat hand in hand as the train sped along 
 the straight track. They saw the low, white house 
 where Helen had lived so long, touched with the pink 
 of sunset; saw the Mission fade into the darkness 
 as the shadows welled up from the valleys; watched 
 until the desert was wrapped in night, and the stars, 
 the lamps of heaven, were kindled one by one. Then 
 Helen leaned to him and put her head on his shoul- 
 der. " I have never known any other home than 
 the desert, dear," she whispered, " and yet, with you, 
 I feel that in leaving it I am truly going home." 
 
 They reached Boston in the evening, a cold, blus- 
 tering March night that made Henry think of the 
 ending of that other wedding journey, eight years 
 before. Again she did not know where they were 
 going, but this time she had no feeling of distrust 
 as to his judgment. She loved him, as she had loved 
 him before, but now with no reservations, expressed 
 or subconscious. 
 
 " I wish we could go straight home," Henry said, 
 " but, as you know, the house is not ready, and so I 
 shall take you to a house I have in South Boston. 
 I have not lived there for years, you remember, but 
 I have never sold the house."
 
 HENRY 403 
 
 " It does not matter where we go, dear," she an- 
 swered, " so long as I can be with you." 
 
 Henry was silent during the drive, oppressed with 
 the feeling that he was plotting against her, not 
 treating her fairly; fearful of the effect that re- 
 turning memory might have on her, and equally 
 dreading the ordeal of telling her the past, should 
 she not remember. He realized that she must 
 know that here in Boston, where she must adjust 
 herself to new conditions, anything less than full 
 knowledge would be fatal to her happiness. Her 
 happiness ! It seemed to him, now, so based on the 
 lie of seven years that he wondered whether she 
 could ever reconquer it when that lie was shat- 
 tered. His fears seemed to him to charge the 
 very atmosphere. He knew that they affected 
 her, that she trembled, not knowing why she was 
 afraid. 
 
 As the carriage climbed the short hill to the Park 
 she put her hand in his. " Henry," she said, " now 
 that we are at home, may I not know? It is very 
 terrible, I think all that I have forgotten. But 
 with you, dear, I can bear it, and until I know 
 there will always be a tiny, tiny cloud throwing its 
 little shadow across my happiness." 
 
 He pressed her hand close in his. " And if you
 
 404 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 knew, and it was terrible, could you still be 
 happy? " 
 
 " I could not be unhappy with you." 
 
 " You shall learn everything, to-night," he said. 
 " Here we are." 
 
 They climbed the steep steps together, and he 
 turned the key in the lock. Then he took her hand 
 and led her, in the darkness, to the parlour. He 
 left her standing while he went to the chandelier, 
 and, as quickly as his trembling fingers would allow, 
 lighted all the gas. He threw the burned match into 
 the fireplace, and then, leaning on the mantelpiece to 
 support himself, turned to look at her. 
 
 She stood in the centre of the room, looking from 
 side to side. Her eyes were shining, terrified. He 
 watched her as, mechanically, she put up her hands 
 and unpinned her hat. She let it fall to the floor. 
 Neither spoke. As she looked at him he moved, 
 nervously, and his arm touched the green vase. 
 
 " Be careful ! " she cried sharply. 
 
 The sudden breaking of the silence startled him, 
 and he moved again, convulsively. The vase 
 toppled, and, before he could catch it, crashed to 
 the floor. 
 
 Helen screamed. "Henry! What have you 
 done? What will Uncle John say?" She sank
 
 HENRY 405 
 
 to her knees and began wildly to pick up the pieces, 
 green glaze, and bits of roses, red and yellow. 
 
 He watched her, still leaning against the mantel. 
 Tears came to his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. 
 He watched her, as gradually her hands moved more 
 slowly, until they stopped. Her head bowed, and 
 she knelt there, hardly breathing, it seemed to him. 
 
 Then he went to her, and knelt beside her, and 
 put his arms around her. " Uncle John died a year 
 ago," he whispered. 
 
 She shivered, and pressed close against him. 
 " Once," she said at last, " I lived here. Since then 
 I have had a dream of the great desert. And I was 
 afraid because you were not there to protect me. 
 Stephen was there, and I was afraid." 
 
 He drew her more closely to him. " Was it a 
 true dream, Henry ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes, dear. But now it is only a dream a 
 dream that we shall forget together." 
 
 She sighed, a long, shuddering sigh, and he heard 
 her say " Poor Stephen." 
 
 She was quiet a moment. But, suddenly, she 
 drew away and cried in agony of fear, " And Harry 
 my little boy ? " 
 
 " We have found him together, dear. Harry is 
 my son as well as yours."
 
 4 o6 THE GREEN VASE 
 
 Then, finally, she turned to him, and threw her 
 arms around his neck and looked into his eyes. 
 And he knew, at last, that in this truth she had 
 found a joy that transcended all sorrow, all regret, 
 all pain.
 
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