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THE FIRST PERSON 
 SINGULAR 
 
 WILLIAM ROSE BENET 
 
THE FIRST PERSON 
 SINGULAR 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM ROSE BENET 
 
 
 
 NEW Xr YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1922, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
TO MY FRIEND 
 DMITRI 
 
 M295968 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER * AGB 
 
 I SUPPOSE WE HAVE LUNCH n 
 
 II RICHARD TERRILL SPEAKING 19 
 
 III THE PERSISTENCE OF JANE 25 
 
 IV MR. GARTNER GETS A LETTER 33 
 
 V TUPTON AND THE TEN 37 
 
 VI UNCLE ARTHUR THINKS NOTHING OF IT 45 
 
 VII BESSIE, SOLUS 50 
 
 VIII "THE GIRL WHO WAS BURNED UP" 54 
 
 IX ORDEAL 7 
 
 X UNCLE ARTHUR SYMPATHIZES WITH 
 
 XERXES 91 
 
 XI HELEN AND THE CHINA ANIMALS 100 
 
 XII THE CHRISTIAN MARTYR OF "THE COLOS 
 SEUM" 113 
 
 XIII Ms. BY ANON 125 
 
 XIV CORY AT CAN T REMEMBER 135 
 XV "I AM RICHARD TERRILL" 144 
 
 XVI TRAGIC INTERLUDE 155 
 
 XVII MR. DUFFITT is QUITE MISTAKEN 158 
 
 XVIII BESSIE ENLIVENS BREAKFAST 166 
 
 XIX ADELA LOOKS EIGHTEEN 173 
 
 XX SIRENA UNDER SUSPICION 182 
 
 XXI A QUIET EVENING 194 
 
 XXII WHO SHE MIGHT BE 203 
 
 XXIII IT COMES TO Miss CROME 214 
 
 XXIV UNCLE ARTHUR S BOMBSHELL 221 
 
 vii 
 
Till 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXV CORYAT is INOPPORTUNE 
 
 XXVI A FERMENT OF MINDS 
 
 XXVII THE MISOGYNIST CALLS 
 
 XXVIII A REVELATION AND A RESCUE 
 
 XXIX Miss ANN COLE AGAIN 
 
 XXX SLADE FACES THE INCREDIBLE 
 
 XXXI ADELA THINKS IT OVER 
 
 XXXII AWAKENING 
 
 XXXIII UNMISTAKABLY MRS. VENTRESS 
 
 XXXIV THE PERPLEXITY OF BEING A CROWD 
 XXXV UNCLE ARTHUR S HOUR 
 
 XXXVI FINALLY, THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 243 
 248 
 
 253 
 26l 
 266 
 269 
 
 275 
 282 
 
 287 
 293 
 295 
 
THE FIRST PERSON 
 SINGULAR 
 
THE FIRST PERSON 
 SINGULAR 
 
 CHAPTER I: SUPPOSE WE HAVE LUNCH 
 
 FLORA SIBLEY stood just outside the bronze doors of 
 the north entrance to the New York Public Library, 
 drawing on her suede gloves. From the top of the marble 
 steps to Forty-second Street she surveyed the passersby 
 without any real apprehension of their existence. She was 
 slightly above the average height, rather slender. She wore, 
 if exactitude be demanded, a navy-blue tricotine and a smart 
 black hat, the latter nicely adjusted upon her dexterously 
 arranged brown hair. She had a straight nose and a pleas 
 ing, quizzical mouth. Her eyebrows were pronouncedly 
 curved, giving her an expression of surprise even when she 
 was not particularly surprised. She had dark eyes. 
 
 But how many men can describe a woman ? I shall dodge 
 hastily behind the useful phrase "unique charm". Flora 
 had it. It was enhanced by an aloof, slightly astringent 
 manner, an innate shyness she had never quite conquered 
 from girlhood. 
 
 Flora was a "pP" novelist but you wouldn t have known 
 it. In conversation you could not have connected her with 
 the lapses into mediocrity and sentimentality so frequent 
 in her books, with the facile literary compromises she had 
 made for so many years. You could only feel, if you hap 
 pened to know who she was at a dinner or a reception, that 
 such dual personality bordered upon the incredible. In 
 conversation she could be witty, even brilliant. It was her 
 
 ii 
 
12 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 quotidian return to the typewriter, upon which she "dashed 
 off" both first drafts and revisions, that exerted the malign 
 influence. Then, from her flying ringers, spattered that 
 treacle of romance without which the mere bread and butter 
 of life is, to most of us, both stale and unprofitable. Most of 
 us were, after all, responsible for Flora. 
 
 By the courage and cleverness of her own brain she had 
 forged a weapon of style. After persistent unsuccess she 
 had also forged the tools to blunt and dull it. Finally she 
 had fashioned her literary self not in her own but in the 
 Public s image. Yet nobility persisted in her face, for she 
 was fundamentally a fighter, possessed of a natural spiritual 
 courage against odds. She had merely misapplied it. 
 
 Her maternal instinct was strong. She often pitied other 
 people to excruciation, quite sincerely. Her characters be 
 came to her as the people she pitied. Then she could refuse 
 them nothing, money, children, countryhouses, candy-box 
 love-affairs, hairbreadth rescues, hummingbirds and roses. 
 It wasn t good for them. And any social criticism implied 
 in the works of this authoress was always smoothed over 
 with a large solution of faith, hope and charity. Some 
 problems necessitated laying it on pretty thick. 
 
 Flora was thirty-five. She had begun writing novels ten 
 years ago and had produced just exactly ten. She had made 
 a pot of money. O Flora ! But I like Flora very much, in 
 spite of my natural brutality. You couldn t help it. 
 
 So she stood, half-smiling at her own thoughts, at the top 
 of marble steps to a tawdry newspaper-blown street. Any 
 man in love with her, as he looked at her, might have felt 
 his pulse accelerate. Her small pugnacious chin was tilted 
 upward. 
 
 Wherever she went, would not her thousand photo 
 graphic likenesses follow her? But that was what gave her 
 the half -smile. She recalled some of them. She took such 
 an abominable picture. She remembered her own particular 
 gallery of them: Orphant Annie, The Pride of the Harem, 
 The Super-Clubwoman, Pride s Purge, Maybelle the Movie 
 
SUPPOSE WE HAVE LUNCH 13 
 
 Star, Old Mother Hubbard, Vampirina, She herself had 
 bestowed the titles. No, they d never in the world ! 
 
 She grasped her small suede handbag with decision. Sun 
 light and a breeze brought colour to her cheek. Her air was 
 distinguished. She was almost beautiful. 
 
 She was beautiful to a certain straw-hatted gentleman in 
 heather-mixture cheviot, pausing in his stride along the 
 opposite side of Forty-Second Street. He halted in front 
 of a window displaying a large oil portrait of an atrabilious 
 individual whose painted nose supported a pair of imita 
 tion tortoiseshell eyeglasses. The eyeglasses were real. That 
 was what people said when they loitered in front of the win 
 dow. But Richard Coryat s back was toward it. 
 
 He got himself immediately across the street between a 
 Dodge, a cross-town car and a brown and white taxi. He 
 met Flora as she descended to the pavement. 
 
 "I called last night, but " 
 
 "O, I m so sorry. A friend of mine was ill and leaving 
 town. (Well, Lucy had certainly been leaving town, in 
 a month, and she looked ill!) I should have called you up, 
 or left a message. I forgot. How are you ?" 
 
 "Splendidly now," he couldn t help adding. " Which way 
 are you going? Mightn t we ?" 
 
 "Well, to tell the truth," Flora smiled, "I m sure I don t 
 
 know. I ve just been looking) up something in there, 
 j 
 
 "Won t you lunch with me?" 
 
 "No I m afraid that yes, suppose we do. Dutch. 
 
 I m an independent person, you know, Mr. Coryat." 
 
 After all, why not? She had been rather mean to him 
 probably. She could go back to her Gramercy Park apart 
 ment or to the National Arts Club. But after all, why not? 
 He looked agreeable. He was interesting if too persistent. 
 They were at the corner. His fingers barely touched her el 
 bow as they crossed Forty-Second Street. They walked 
 slowly up the Avenue. 
 
 "You got my note about Golden Windfall ?" 
 
14 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Her eyes had turned toward him, her head was slightly 
 bent. 
 
 "Yes. I m glad you agree with me. But I knew you d 
 appreciate it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Why, because oh, I don t know. It s your sort of a 
 book." 
 
 "How about my own books?" 
 
 "Well, to make a horrible confession, I ve been so busy 
 this last month getting settled I haven t had a chance to 
 read them yet. And you see I was away from America 
 for ten years. I m frightfully ignorant about your work 
 really. But I certainly intend to remedy that." 
 
 "Don t!" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "They re awful!" 
 
 "I refuse to believe it !" he laughed. 
 
 "They are, they re atrocious. I m sick of them. It s your 
 fault though." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Terrill s book. Don t you know that you and he are 
 responsible for a positively suicidal mood on the part of 
 this particular lady novelist?" 
 
 "Good Lord, what do you mean?" 
 
 "Oh, don t be scared," she laughed, and then was grave. 
 "I simply mean I seem to have come to a turning-point. 
 Golden Windfall did it. Of course you couldn t know. 
 And you couldn t know that I opened Terrill s book with 
 a feeling of great superiority and a decided aversion to him. 
 But, it s curious, he has convinced me as no one else has 
 ever been able to convince me of the obligations of a talent. 
 The artistic conscience ! ( She laughed shortly rather 
 harshly.) You see I had become pretty case-hardened, I 
 guess. And then, of course, I have made money. And 
 there s so much trifling and idling in the name of Art. So 
 much buncombe. But he got me." 
 
 "But I know you re exaggerating " 
 
SUPPOSE WE HAVE LUNCH 15 
 
 Flora gave him a swift side-glance. 
 
 "No," she almost snapped, with an expressionless face. 
 "It s worse than you think." 
 
 He changed the topic to suggest a tea-room on West 
 Forty-sixth Street. Seated at a corner table near the win 
 dow, they confided the appeasement of their hunger to an 
 entirely indifferent waitress. She returned in five minutes 
 having forgotten the order. "What was it you said ?" They 
 told her all over again. 
 
 Flora opened her handbag and scrutinized its interior 
 intently, moving her face about with great seriousness. Rich 
 ard Coryat realised, when she raised her eyes, that he had 
 been staring at her. He thought he had rarely seen such 
 a thoroughly honest gaze. Yet it was veiled to him. Her 
 own work must be infinitely better than she thought. 
 
 "Do you know," said Flora, and then suddenly curtailed 
 her sentence. What she had been going to ask would never 
 do. She must escape him. Yes, even after his introducing 
 her to Terr ill s book. He had become altogether too inter 
 ested. She wished, in fact, to get rid of all of them, editors, 
 publishers, literary acquaintances. The thing to do was to 
 
 make a complete break. She would go back . She as 
 
 suddenly smiled to herself at this persistent invasion of her 
 creative imagination. 
 
 The fish and salad having made its appearance, with rolls 
 and pots of tea, she listened to Coryat as he talked of Paris 
 and the Riviera. His voice was light, high, with a certain 
 harsh, hurt strain in it. He told some interesting stories. 
 He became animated as he talked, his greenish blue eyes 
 sparkled. His lean brown face with its deep but not promi 
 nent jaw and somewhat broad and uptilted nose was at 
 tractively homely. His light brown hair was thick, difficult 
 to part properly and inclined toward curliness. He had a 
 characteristic habit of tilting his head upward and back with 
 great suddenness. He betrayed nervousness by the restless 
 gestures of his hands. His ears were too large, his mouth 
 was broad and firm, half-hidden beneath a close-cropped 
 
16 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 mustache that had come out sandy. He was not above the 
 average height and, in the street, save for the keenness of 
 his gaze, you might easily have passed him as the average 
 man. 
 
 "What do you intend to do now, Mr. Coryat?" 
 
 "Not foreign correspondence any more at any rate. I 
 don t really know. I m tired of journalism. This inheri 
 tance I told you about . Of course I really intend to 
 
 write, but I don t know exactly what. There s a different 
 feel to things over here, on first reacquaintance at any rate. 
 Seems so much all Business. But then Europe s a ruin. 
 France is about the only real intellectual centre. But the 
 War s spoiled most things. I certainly got fed up on fracas 
 as well as on discipline in the Legion. Yet it seems to me 
 I hate worse the stupor I find over here a stupor as to 
 ideas. Of course that sounds superior. I don t mean it 
 so. As a matter of fact I am getting back my old love for 
 New York, love like hatred. It certainly hasn t lost its 
 fascination, though it s changed. But socially and politically 
 and so on, doesn t the country seem dead to you ? Look at 
 this administration." 
 
 "Well, I admit we seem to care very little for personality 
 over here. At least now. It wasn t so, certainly. But in 
 dustrialism has us, and moulds. Take our writers. Well," 
 she smiled ruefully, "take me. I m a grand example of the 
 American idea of success, in literature. You d better go 
 home and read my books if you can stand it." 
 
 "Oh, come !" he said unbelievingly ; "but if standardisation 
 is the cry to-day, as it certainly was in the War, I think just 
 the same that we re bound to swing out of it again. There 
 are a number of signs. Certainly order and system under 
 special privilege and convention are really figments of the 
 imagination any real order, any real system " 
 
 "You re a Socialist, are you?" 
 
 "No. Not an anything-ist. Satisfactory social systems are 
 a problem. The point is, under any system, the attitude 
 of the people. I m certainly not for the present amount of 
 
SUPPOSE WE HAVE LUNCH 17 
 
 special privilege. Yet there s personal liberty too. Maybe 
 the anarchists have, after all, the best doctrine for the indi 
 vidual soul. Only I don t believe it. I believe in some sys 
 tem. Not too much. Socialism might easily become as auto 
 cratic as capitalism, in a different way. Here s what I 
 mean. The spirit in this country. I believe you re right 
 about the individual. Who wants another war? I certainly 
 don t. War is a rotten thing. I ve seen it and I know. But 
 in a crisis like a great war there comes certainly a new spirit, 
 a solidarity. Something more than mere comfort and ease. 
 An ideal. Something burning. Now that that s left us " 
 
 "Maybe it hasn t !" 
 
 "Yes, I think it has. The present lies with the individual. 
 If I m purged of any jingoism I had, as well as of old-line 
 socialism for I had both in a sense I m also against the 
 moulds of this present phase of industrialism. I m for the 
 growth of the individual now as the only thing that will 
 resurrect us from the grave we ve fallen into with our dead. 
 And I don t mean the old Puritanical idea of character either. 
 I mean the life that makes itself felt by courage and pioneer 
 ing, by thinking for itself not by mob formulas." 
 
 Like the opinions voiced in most casual conversation, his 
 own tripped and stumbled over each other. You could have 
 annihilated some of his easy summaries. Flora, like most 
 of us, picked out merely the phrases that applied to her own 
 immediate problem. She liked the eagerness in his eyes and 
 a certain suppressed scorn in his voice. Also, he seemed to 
 know the names of things. 
 
 "So you re an individualist?" 
 
 "H m," he drew his compressed lips inward. "I don t 
 know. At present we re all slaves to mechanism. Perhaps 
 more so because we re a democracy, we re f ormularised. The 
 proper expression of personality the characteristic differ 
 ences between human beings well, call it the first person 
 singular, in two senses, is what interests me most. Over 
 here I find types, not people. In Europe, and even para 
 doxically in the war, despite all the regimenting of every- 
 
18 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 thing, and the discipline I found people. It was due, I 
 guess, to the crisis. Men and women revealed themselves. 
 Now, over here at least, they ve crept back into convention. 
 There s more real life in Minetta Lane than all upper New 
 York. There s a type of business man, a type of society 
 woman, a type of flapper, yes, and a type of everything else. 
 You say there s a type of American novelist. There s the 
 suburb type and the city type. It may be silly of me or it 
 may be a snap-judgment but I want people, not types." 
 
 "People," murmured Flora Sibley. "Yes. Real people. 
 I want them too." 
 
 A silence fell between them as he drew out a silver ciga 
 rette case, chose a cigarette, and tapped it upon the table. 
 
CHAPTER II: RICHARD TERRILL SPEAKING 
 
 MR. CORYAT was interesting, yes. But the fact re 
 mained that she wanted to escape him, to escape them 
 all. She sat at the window of her sitting-room looking out 
 over green, sunny Gramercy Park. The things she had lived 
 for seemed now particularly worthless. She had fulfilled 
 certain responsibilities, of course, paid certain debts. That 
 much was true, but . 
 
 Why had he happened to lend her that book? She didn t 
 know. But wasn t she glad after all? She knew she was. 
 However, the mental disgust returned. She could see her 
 self as she must have looked at two of that last Sunday 
 morning, when she had finished the last page of "Golden 
 Windfall." She could see herself getting up from the dav 
 enport, walking slowly toward the open window, standing 
 staring out upon the mysteriously moonlit park. The mental 
 nausea. Good Heavens! Well, it was true. And it was 
 the test. 
 
 She had never heard of the writer before. Richard Ter- 
 rill. Richard Terrill. What in heaven s name was the mat 
 ter with American publishers not to have heard of him? 
 Well, they would now. That was her first duty, to spread 
 knowledge of his book. He must be an Englishman. It was 
 an English book. How old was he, she wondered. How in 
 heaven s name had he managed to show her her very own 
 problem so keenly yet so kindly? 
 
 First emotional impressions did not live. But he had said 
 something living. The truth of it was burned in her heart. 
 Yet, on analysis, it was simple enough and something she 
 had seen all along. However, the words were now a part 
 of her, they had irrevocably changed her. 
 
 19 
 
20 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 The puppet procession began again to pass through the 
 clear light of what he had said. The puppets proceeded out 
 of the shadow, showed in the light for an instant with a 
 startling clarity of detail, sank again into the shadow. She 
 had been so proud of Sallie Pryor at least leave her Sallie 
 Pryor! Sallie stood in that light with the jerky gestures of 
 a grimacing doll, leered, disappeared grotesquely. The light 
 was utterly pitiless. 
 
 Clarriby Null of "The Wiseacres". Clarriby came creep 
 ing avoidingly into the light stood and blinked in it. The 
 light began to blacken his edges. It burst through. It con 
 sumed him with little eating flames. He was a slight shower 
 of infinitesimal ashes. 
 
 Tortured, lugubrious shapes, pitifully processional. Bar 
 ker Straik, George Phillips, little laughing Nelly Madox, 
 Jane Orgue, the Cranes, the Busbees all incredibly gal 
 vanized painted pasteboard. Or floating ghosts that faded 
 piecemeal in the light. The words of their wraithlike voices 
 hummed about her. The lives of her puppets swept round 
 her like a sea voices of age, of childhood, from the froth 
 and ferment of her brain. The skein of all their lives hung 
 on a hook in the blank wall of her mind. She had tugged 
 threads from it, knotted them into patterns, patterns that 
 also passed into that light and were consumed like a spider- 
 web under a burning-glass. It was too awful ! 
 
 It was desperately unkind not even to leave her Sallie 
 Pryor. An enormous public had liked Sallie. One hun 
 dred thousand copies of "The June Bug" had been printed. 
 Sallie had made her fortune. The light was cruel, unkind. 
 The man s book was hideous, untrue. The man was an 
 idiot, or simply an ineffectual angel. What he saw as art 
 was really a supersensitive and impossibly stern avoidance 
 of the compromises necessary in real life. Life was simple. 
 You needed distraction and money. You worked for money. 
 You made the most of your ability. The public would buy 
 certain things. You gave them that. No one who had not 
 come the hard, practical road to financial success could pos- 
 
RICHARD TERRILL SPEAKING 21 
 
 sibly know how sweet it was to have fought your way, met 
 your obligations, gained once more ease, leisure, a bright 
 world of royalties, nice clothes, decorous applause. And 
 
 no one who had not been through ! Her indignant 
 
 thought paused. 
 
 But she had made her way, at least. She saw perfectly 
 clearly the road behind her. A girl s idealistic decision and 
 disastrous experiment; the escape; persistent brave effort; 
 the man, the woman who had helped her. The development 
 of a gift at first desperately meagre.; the bleak interim; 
 finally what the world knew as "success". Suddenly, one 
 day, the grasp of the box-of-tricks, the formula. Labour 
 ing over the denouement of her tenth short story, she had 
 seen. She was perfectly conscious at the time, she must 
 have been; yet, somehow, not at all conscious. She knew 
 that it was not her idea of good writing, of what she could 
 really do. But the desperation of her mind at the time 
 stifled the thought. And the formula had proved correct. 
 Read the reviews ! 
 
 Then why had this book of Terrill s intruded to shatter 
 the dream? It was surely a beneficent dream enough. A 
 world of bright laughter, sound sermons, happy people, 
 wholesome moods. A beneficent dream that had cheered the 
 lives of thousands ! She smiled grimly. That phrase was 
 from the jacket of "Rosemary and Rue". But wasn t it 
 true? It had. Always the happy ending. Always the 
 sweetmeats and bonbons tucked into the lavendered folds 
 of the story. Always the delight in life or had it been 
 merely in "laying it on thick"? Had she grown to believe 
 it was life? She must have. It was accepted as life. It 
 was thoroughly wholesome and uplifting. Good heavens ! 
 
 That girl had been so excruciatingly unhappy. Wistful, 
 hard-worked, hungry, romantic, sentimental, then crushed. 
 Then so bravely trying to build up the fairy story that might 
 have come true. She had thought, at least, to make it come 
 true for others. Then how had she lost the substance for 
 the shadow? 
 
22 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 A long accumulation of small scraps of advice and coun 
 sel came to her, from many a successful writer, from many 
 a seasoned editor ; advice to which she hungrily listened, ad 
 vice that had finally crystallised itself into The Formula. 
 She remembered now beginnings in so different a vein. Two 
 pages of that third, often-rejected story for instance, "The 
 Barrier". She closed her eyes to see the two figures in 
 those pages pass under that scathing light of Ten-ill s words. 
 Of all the characters her teeming thought had created those 
 two alone did not move like automata. Their small but 
 distinct voices rang true in her inner ear. She had finally 
 torn that story into strips, and from strips into fine frag 
 ments. 
 
 That girl; the girl of those days, lean, suffering, puzzled, 
 embittered, in her frayed grey wrapper and tousled hair, 
 scribbling desperately in that back hall room of Mrs. Mur- 
 trie s, writing on the varnish-peeled wash hand-stand, the 
 big white crockery basin and pitcher (with their impossible 
 red-lily decoration) standing beside her upon the thread 
 bare piece of carpet to which she had removed them. Oh 
 (suddenly), to have her back, that thin, passionate, intoler 
 ably shy, madly battling girl of ten years ago ! 
 
 Well, to work! That manuscript in the binder had to be 
 shipped off to Harvey Wick of "The Criterion". She 
 rose from her cretonned chair, unlocked her desk, and spent 
 the next fifteen minutes or so correcting a few sentences. 
 Then she reached for the notebook she had tossed on the 
 table and worked steadily for half an hour "pointing up" the 
 reference to the Boxer outbreak. It was four o clock when 
 she had finished, and she had invited Mr. Seelye to tea at 
 the National Arts at 4:30. He was connected with the Bo- 
 zarre Picture Corporation. The moving-picture rights of 
 "Rosemary and Rue" were under consideration. Flora Sib- 
 ley sighed, closed and locked her big desk, and called softly 
 
 for Marie. 
 
 * * * 
 
RICHARD TERRILL SPEAKING 23 
 
 Flora nibbled a butter-thin and listened to Mr. Irwin 
 Seelye. His face distinctly resembled a Regensburg cigar 
 sign. It had creamed lobster and "The Follies of 1920" 
 Written large all over it. Mr. Seelye inhaled his tea. 
 
 "They ll eat it!" pronounced Mr. Seelye. "See if they 
 don t. They ll eat it. Home and mother." He beamed 
 gelatinously at her. 
 
 "The only trouble being," said Flora sweetly, "that I ve 
 chucked the whole business now, Mr. Seelye." 
 
 "You mean the royalties? Well now I ll tell you " 
 
 "No, I mean I m tired of the whole business. I m going 
 away." 
 
 "Oh! Oh, vacation. Course you re tired. Should think 
 so. Mount of work you turn out. But you needn t worry 
 bout the picture till you get good and rested. We could go 
 right ahead with it. We d have to do that anyway." 
 
 "You don t understand me. I ve just delivered my last 
 novel to Harvey Wick according to contract. I had to. 
 But I m out of it now. I ve decided not to sell any more 
 movie rights." 
 
 "Well, what is your figure?" 
 
 "I must repeat that you misunderstand me, Mr. Seelye. 
 The rights to Rosemary and Rue simply aren t on the 
 market. I should have told you that at once but you looked 
 tired and I wanted you to have some tea. Pardon me if I 
 haven t broken it especially gently." 
 
 "Well, what d you why, but but, Miss Sibley, you 
 really don t mean that?" 
 
 "I m afraid I do. You see I m just sickened suddenly 
 of the whole thing." 
 
 "But of what?" 
 
 "Of writing rot, of purveying rot, of stuffing the public 
 with rot. I m through." 
 
 The belligerent small chin was in evidence. Flora s eyes 
 stared straight ahead of her at nothing in particular. 
 
 "Well, now of course, Miss Sibley," the tone was meant 
 to be pacifying. "You know really that there s no reason 
 
24 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 at all for you to talk that way. Not the slightest. Look 
 how your work goes. Look how good it is. Haven t I 
 just been telling you that the public 11-eat up Rosemary and 
 Rue ?" 
 
 "Yes, that s the whole trouble. I believe they would." 
 
 "But isn t this reasonable!" Flora suddenly sat up very 
 straight and looked at him with clear wideieyes. "Isn t this 
 reasonable. I have made all the money I want. That, as all 
 of us know is the object in view . Well, I ve made enough. 
 But I ve just come to see what I ve made it by. We needn t 
 go into that. I m through, that s all." 
 
 "Sorry," she said a few moments later, at the doorof the 
 National Arts, to this rather dazed myrmidon of the pro 
 ducers. "I see you don t quite understand it. Perhaps I m 
 wrong. Only I don t think so. Good-bye!" 
 
 Mr. Irwin Seelye paused to light a fat cigar as he reached 
 Fourth Avenue. He tilted it toward the not- far-distant 
 Metropolitan Tower and looked vaguely up and down the 
 street. 
 
 "Now I wonder," he said to himself, "just what she is 
 holding out for ! Well, she s bound to snap out of it." 
 
 He began to walk slowly south on Fourth Avenue. He 
 continued to wonder. 
 
 Flora, meanwhile, returning to her apartment, called in 
 Marie. It was not on the matter of dinner. Later she held 
 several telephone conversations and made several tappoint- 
 ments, one with her friend Phil Bruston of the Park Avenue 
 Bank. Fortunately he was not out of town. She experi 
 enced a strange thrill in the thought that she was setting 
 wheels in motion. She knew now that she had finally de 
 cided. 
 
CHAPTER III: THE PERSISTENCE OF JANE 
 
 THREE weeks later, in his rooms on the opposite side 
 of Gramercy Park, Richard Coryat was filling a pipe 
 from a large glass humidor on the table in his sitting-room. 
 He had seen Flora several times lately. Now, it seemed, 
 she was gone. Still vivid before the lens of his thought 
 floated a likeness of her face. He liked smart black hats 
 and blue tricotine. He liked peculiarly-arched eyebrows. He 
 
 liked dark eyes. He liked . His mouth drew down 
 
 lugubriously at the corners. He exhaled through his nose 
 sharply and shook his head. He shrugged. He went over 
 and relapsed deeply into the Chesterfield before the empty 
 fireplace. He sat puffing at a pipe he had forgotten to light. 
 
 His face sharpened as he sat in thought, his cheeks drew 
 gaunt. His left arm came up on the back of the Chester 
 field, and his head leaned upon his left hand. His hand 
 kept smoothing back his hair with a softly grinding motion 
 of the heel of it upon his left temple. His teeth showed as 
 he bit the stem of his pipe again and again. 
 
 Flora and Jane. He wondered what on earth Jane 
 could be doing now. He wondered for the ten thousand 
 two hundred and twenty-fifth time in eighteen years whether 
 he had acted like a cad. He didn t see how he had. But 
 he wondered. That the ache should be so keen still at 
 times what did that imply? Well then, the implication 
 was correct. He still loved her. 
 
 But was it that ? A man s physical hunger was so treacher 
 ous; and he had avoided women. Was it that? Could it 
 be that only? Was it the old possessiveness, that issue on 
 which they had broken? No. That wasn t true. It simply 
 wasn t. He had learned that lesson. 
 
 25 
 
26 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Had he? And should he want to find her? He cer 
 tainly wondered what she was doing. 
 
 She had dismissed him. He was young what a kid he 
 was then, what an infant ! What a goings-on he had made 
 within himself about his pride! What a horrible thing, 
 and what an incredibly childish thing it had been anyway! 
 How proud they both were! As Lucifer. Lucifer had 
 brought the light. Lucifer matches. His pipe wasn t lit! 
 He felt along the table backing the couch for matches. The 
 tobacco seethed as it caught and he popped his lips with the 
 first exhalations. 
 
 Nineteen years ago he had been one of the most prom 
 ising young newspapermen in New York. A year later, in 
 considerable bitterness of spirit, he had decided to leave the 
 United States altogether. He had. 
 
 He had gone first to South America on a fruit company 
 steamer. He had knocked around Rio and then sailed for 
 France. Journalistic facility, an ability to live through dis 
 comforts and rough experiences, kept him on his feet. Also, 
 despite his sorrow, he possessed an intense interest in life. 
 He enjoyed new sights and new people. Once in France he 
 had gained a livelihood by writing for the Paris edition of 
 a Chicago paper. He applied himself to a work of fiction 
 and went to England. It found a publisher and actually 
 brought him some royalties. He lived in cheap lodgings and 
 made enough pickings from journalism to support mind and 
 body for several years. This whole period of his life, how 
 ever, was somewhat depressing to remember. But his fasci 
 nation with the human comedy had pulled him through. He 
 had made friends and acquaintances. He had returned to 
 France before the War, sporadically affluent, in general im 
 pecunious. When the War broke out he had enlisted in the 
 Foreign Legton at the instance and for the companionship of 
 a friend. He had certainly seen action? He had been 
 wounded and had spent several months in a French hospital. 
 After the Armistice he had gone back to journalism. The 
 War had not improved his position. For all the rapid-fire 
 
THE PERSISTENCE OF JANE 27 
 
 work he had turned out in fifteen years no literary reputa 
 tion was his. His one novel was now completely forgotten. 
 He wondered to-day, rather dismally, how it had ever man 
 aged to sell at all. 
 
 He had expected things of the War. A gallant end in ac 
 tion. The nearest he got to it was being buried by a shell 
 in an abri. After that it seemed to him that anticlimax piled 
 upon anticlimax, until, after he recovered from his wound, 
 he was reduced to the position of a mere military clerk in 
 a Paris office. Once out of uniform he had begun to write 
 again, from his war experience and from various memories 
 of his intermittent wanderings before the war, in Spain, 
 in South America, in Algeria. 
 
 One morning he had experienced mental paralysis in the 
 news that his Aunt Clara Bowers of Pittsburgh had chosen 
 to remember him upon her deathbed to this end, that, "I give, 
 devise and bequeath to my nephew, Richard Ripston Coryat, 
 his heirs and assigns forever, one undivided half of the re 
 mainder of my estate real and personal." Aunt Clara had 
 died a wealthy old lady. It came to ten thousand a year, 
 that remainder. He had forgotten all about Aunt Clara. 
 Hadn t seen her since he was a freckled boy of ten who 
 used to greatly prize the pumpkin pie she was fond of mak 
 ing. The only reason he could attribute in his own mind 
 for this startling bequest was a remark that floated back 
 through the shimmering mists of time, made by him in a 
 voice breaking, no, not with emotion, with the advance of 
 young manhood : "Gee, Aunt Clara, I like your pies !" 
 
 It was the truth. And it was all he could remember. Out 
 of the conquered past unravishable financial relief born of 
 an early passion for pie. Superb irony. He hardly remem 
 bered even what Aunt Clara had looked like, save that she 
 wore a silk shawl and was rather stout, and that her house 
 on a hill had two cast-iron dogs on the front lawn. Well, 
 God bless her anyway! He pinched himself a number of 
 times. It was, to him, one of the oddest things that could 
 possibly have happened. Which was, after all, a strange 
 
28 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 belief to be cherished by one so familiar with the news of 
 the world in the daily press. 
 
 For a while after that it was difficult for him to take him 
 self seriously. He strove hard enough, of course, to remem 
 ber Aunt Clara and evoke some more fundamental reason 
 than pie for the bequest. He tried to imagine he had always 
 been her favourite nephew that she had loved little boys 
 that his father had been her favourite brother. He simply 
 couldn t remember. His mother had still been alive when 
 Aunt Clara was indulging her culinary propensities. His 
 father had followed her to the grave while Richard was a 
 senior in high school. Uncle Jim had taken him to live in 
 Brooklyn. Aunt Clara was never mentioned by Uncle Jim. 
 They were not related and did not like each other. Aunt 
 Clara had completely faded out of all recollection. She had 
 never written, certainly. Yet she had been "of sound and 
 disposing mind, and capable of executing a valid deed". 
 There was no flaw in the disposition of her property. There 
 you were. 
 
 It irritated him in a manner he discovered to be petty, that 
 after a tragic love-affair and an ensuing life of rather 
 threadbare grimness, after a war hallucination that broke 
 down in absurd unheroic anticlimax, after days and weeks 
 and months he so well remembered in which he had seemed 
 the sport of destiny, he should suddenly be set upon his 
 feet with genuine opportunity after the manner of a short 
 story in the Saturday Evening Post. Had life then any 
 genuine sequence or dignity? But there it was. The gro 
 tesque side of life was always poking its waggish face around 
 the corner of his mind whenever he became comfortable in 
 one of his dream selves; those dream selves we all fashion 
 of a high solitary grandeur. 
 
 No. Jane would have made her way. But why hadn t 
 he heard of it? She was going to write books. He knew 
 books. There were no books of hers on the market. But 
 then she had also begun to be interested in social conditions. 
 Perhaps she had "gone in" for that. He had inquired. She 
 
THE PERSISTENCE OF JANE 29 
 
 had left the "Sphere", oh, it must have been that next year. 
 Nobody knew down there where she was now. New city 
 editors, new managing editors had come and gone. Blakely 
 and Fitch, those two old timers, remembered, remembered 
 her and him. Remembered their engagement. He remem 
 bered that one Spring. Benches in Washington Square. 
 Hansoms. Good God, there were hansoms then, not taxis ! 
 Eighteen years ago. "The Black Cat". Finzetti s. Well. 
 "The Cat" was still in evidence. Finzetti had gone back to 
 Italy before the War, he heard. 
 
 And Lord, how different prices were then, not to mention 
 wages. How could a girl like that live on twelve dollars a 
 week. But she did. And really they both had lived rather 
 royally, in spite of the boarding house. The basement din 
 ing-room where that strange Mr. Quigley who worked in a 
 bank had put a bunch of violets at her place the day after 
 they had announced their engagement. The fuss of pleasure 
 old Mrs. Staples had made, the woman who looked exactly 
 like a head of lettuce, with her green flounces. How they 
 had laughed at that! What a string of intimately amused 
 little jokes they had had over the others. That person 
 what was his name? that man who had been a policeman. 
 The one they called between themselves The Habitual 
 Henchman. What in the devil was his name? 
 
 Well, who could possibly have imagined he wouldn t have 
 found anyone else after all, anyone to supplant those mem 
 ories. In a certain light it was rather ridiculous. But then 
 . . . Miss Sibley now was certainly charming . . . But . . . 
 
 Jane often came in and sat on a chair in his living-room. 
 She had done that in Paris and in London too, in Rio and 
 at Cairo. She still had on the brown street dress in which 
 he had last seen her, and the hat so out of fashion nowadays. 
 She tortured a minute cambric handkerchief in small square 
 hands and her eyes were full of tears. She had brown hair 
 and brown eyes, like pools in a forest. He had once told 
 her that. She looked at him under level brows. Her chin 
 trembled but her lower lip was bitten white. She sat and 
 
30 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 looked at him, without anger. Looked through him. He 
 had been a cad. 
 
 Of course you could always see the door- jamb or the 
 wall-corner, or whatever was hung upon or stood against the 
 wall, through the diaphaneity of Jane. She usually came 
 after midnight. Once she came in the afternoon on a street 
 in Pernambuco. That was a comparatively short time after 
 the break. She looked up at him and took his arm. That 
 was the hardest to bear. Walking in the sunlight, along 
 the white street, with the white houses glaring. With Jane 
 on his arm a Jane no one else could see. She suddenly left 
 him, crossing a square . . . 
 
 No, all this money meant for him must be the opportunity 
 to do some really creative writing, the chance he had cov 
 eted through years of time-serving. Could he ever do an 
 other novel? Should he begin with what? Some more 
 articles, till he got his hand in ? 
 
 Another thing that perplexed him was his having gone 
 over to call on Flora Sibley that afternoon and his finding out 
 from the elevator-man at the desk that she had sublet her 
 apartment and vanished. He had talked to the sub-leasers. 
 They did not know her plans or where she had gone. A 
 Mr. Bruston was handling the matter for her. Coryat had 
 not seen her for a week. He had called up three days before 
 and had heard her voice. She had given him no intimation of 
 her intention. Oh, well, after all, why should she? Yet 
 her going seemed to leave a certain vacancy. He must read 
 that book of hers he had bought to-day at Brentano s. Her 
 books couldn t be as bad as she had intimated. 
 
 He settled himself under the standing lamp in a comfort 
 able corner. He was in his brown dressing-gown. He began 
 to read "Rosemary and Rue". The small cased clock ticked 
 upon the mantle across the room. The light from the lamp 
 lay in a golden pool -about him. Outside the nearby window 
 vines dripped and the rain whispered softly. 
 
 The expression upon Richard Coryat s face grew more 
 and more pained. Twice he snorted, twice he sniffed, thrice 
 
THE PERSISTENCE OF JANE 31 
 
 he stared up with harassed disbelief in his eyes. Finally 
 the book dropped from his hands. It was too unbelievable ! 
 
 She couldn t have written it. A woman like that couldn t. 
 He closed the book and took it up in its picture jacket. The 
 cover design was that of a stalwart young man in khaki and 
 high-laced boots embracing a frail, blonde young woman 
 clad in some material that looked like window-curtain. The 
 young woman clung to him upon a rocky hilltop. The young 
 man s face was uplifted. The illustrator had evidently in 
 tended to endue him with exaltation. He had succeeded in 
 making him look as if he were sniffing a smelter. Some 
 thing was evidently burning. This impression was increased 
 by a conflagrate sunset behind the two figures. 
 
 Unfortunately the contents of the book was of a piece 
 with the cover. 
 
 She couldn t have written it. 
 
 She had. There was her name. Under it, God save the 
 mark, "Thirtieth Thousand". 
 
 He opened the book and began to go through it again, 
 hastily, but with a careful scanning of pages. One halted 
 him. He settled himself to read. He read it and the two 
 following. The tension in his face relaxed. Then it came 
 again. He skipped several chapters. Again a page halted 
 him. Again he read. 
 
 A half hour passed. At the end of it, Coryat laid the 
 book down again with a sigh. Flashes decided flashes 
 amid a welter of absolutely inexcusable sentimentality. She 
 could write like that on the pages whose corners he had dog 
 eared, and yet, she could write all the rest! 
 
 He stared at nothing, and Jane grew out of the chair op 
 posite. She sat demurely, hands quiet in her lap. They 
 were working at the diminutive handkerchief. Her eyes 
 were on him now. They were full of tears. 
 
 "Oh, Jane, Jane, Jane!" 
 
 He had not spoken the words, but it was exactly as if he 
 had spoken them. The room was full of words. Full of 
 her own low last word to him. "Good-bye!" 
 
32 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 He wondered what she was doing. 
 
 She had built a new life by now. She did not need or 
 want him. She had fought through to some new happiness. 
 He was still a selfish fool. An incredibly selfish fool. 
 
 He wanted somebody. He was intolerably lonely. 
 
 He was a beastly idiot, a perfect infant. Strong, per 
 haps, when the outlook was absolutely blank. Weak in the 
 hour of opportunity. This money. His writing. 
 
 He wanted Jane. 
 
 His loneliness illuminated his mind with a dry, harsh light 
 that showed it intolerably empty. Across the cracked and 
 broken tesserae of the floor of a ruined palace sparse thought 
 rustled like dry leaves. He had actually seen such a ruin 
 once. Near Ombos. 
 
 He sat up and looked around him. He felt weak in bone 
 and sinew. Outside his window the rain rustled. It had 
 probably suggested the rustling of those leaves. 
 
 Jane. Flora. Why had she left without a single word for 
 him? But why should she? 
 
 He would sleep like the dead to-night. He hoped he 
 would never wake up. After all, who was dependent upon 
 him? 
 
 "Oh, what did I do to you, Jane?" 
 
 He was in a nice state of mind indeed He was a pre 
 posterous ass. He had better go to bed. 
 
 He would start the first of those articles to-morrow. To 
 morrow he was to lunch with Lin Jessup at the Players. And 
 with an old acquaintance who had arranged the meeting at 
 Coryat s intimation. "The Coming Age", after all, might 
 want what he wanted to write . . . 
 
CHAPTER IV: MR. GARTNER GETS A LETTER 
 
 ON a certain afternoon in May, Jake Gartner, post 
 master of Tupton, Pennsylvania, came out of the yel 
 low-painted brick building at the corner of Market and 
 Willow Streets and stood looking across at the platform of 
 the Railroad Station, where a seedy individual in a grey 
 sweater occupied himself with a painted tin chocolate and 
 gum machine that stood against the station building. He 
 had removed the front of the machine and was scooping 
 chinking handfuls of change into the pocket of his sweater. 
 He returned the front to its place, locked it with a click and 
 jingle of keys, and picked up the long container he had re 
 moved for replenishment. He came across the street toward 
 Mr. Gartner. 
 
 "Been a hot day a ready, ain t it Abe? * The gentleman 
 addressed as Abe jerked his head in reply and spat accu 
 rately over his shoulder into the gutter. His agency for the 
 station candy machines gave him, over and above his com 
 bination news room and billiard parlor, an importance in 
 his own eyes. 
 
 "Yeah. Any nooze?" 
 
 "Not much. Jase ll have a chance to get their place rented 
 for the Battells now though." 
 
 "Who? Jase Duffit? Why?" 
 
 "Letter from a New York lady. Thinks she wants to 
 live here. Askin about proputty." 
 
 "Thasso ? That s a queer one. Thinka wantin here when 
 yeh could live in N York." 
 
 "What I thought. We-el, I guess I ll be gettin home to 
 supper. Goin home yerself ?" 
 
 "Yeah. It s after seven aint it. That six o clock train 
 
 33 
 
84 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 makes me a busy time thout help. S pose you ll be back here 
 again workin till all hours." 
 
 "Not to-night. Got another touch o my asthmy. Kil- 
 kevin ll do the extra sortin . We-el, I ll be movin , I guess. 
 S long Abe." 
 
 "S long Jake. See ye to-morrow." 
 
 Mr. Gartner passed rather importantly down Willow 
 Street, looking across at the Livery Stable. He waved with 
 a loose gesture to Jackson Weil who sat just outside the 
 door of the latter smoking a pipe and caressing a black- 
 spotted carriage dog. He turned into Monument and crossed 
 the street toward a decent white house with a small iron- 
 fenced front yard. 
 
 Mr. Gartner found supper already upon the table and 
 his wife, coming in from the kitchen, with flushed face and 
 disordered hair, her hands disposing the latter s moist tend 
 rils, sat down to help him to a veal chop and smoking 
 baked beans. She began to discuss the salient features of 
 the day s routine. 
 
 "Got a letter I got to take up to Jase Duffit," remarked 
 Mr. Gartner, finally, after rolling his secret for a while 
 luxuriously upon his mental palate. He produced it with 
 that casualness that always lends such flavor to a matter 
 of import. 
 
 "What s that?" returned his wife, halting mid-way in 
 mastication. She looked at him with frank suspicion, the 
 way of most indurated wives. 
 
 "Lady in New York wants to rent a furnished house 
 here. References look good. Seems sort of high-toned. 
 You know the Battells have been after Jase to rent their 
 place if he could fer summer an fall." 
 
 "Huh. My land, what s she want t come here fer? 
 How many of her is there?" 
 
 To this odd mathematical question Mr. Gartner returned 
 simply : 
 
 "Self and maid." 
 
MR. GARTNER GETS A LETTER 35 
 
 "Maid," sniffed Mrs. Gartner. "Maid, indeed." Which 
 latter ejaculation seemed strikingly inferential. 
 
 "Well," she added, rising to clear away the plates and 
 bring back saucers for the apple-sauce, "Some has them, 
 I s pose. New York must be a queer place. So full o 
 these transients. But what s my lady think she s goin to 
 do in Tupton, I wonder?" 
 
 "Do?" Mr. Gartner s tone expressed a mild surprise. 
 "Do? Nothing. Why should she? Live here." 
 
 Mrs. Gartner vouchsafed a somewhat acrid smile in the 
 general direction of the knitted dining-room motto. 
 
 "She ll find it dead. Dead enough." She said between 
 mouthfuls of apple-sauce. "Guess she thinks she s comin 
 here fer peace and quiet. Plenty o that. An niggers. 
 Let s see the letter," she added suddenly, a new acquisitive 
 note in her voice. 
 
 Her husband drew an envelope from his inner breast 
 pocket. "Careful of it," he warned. "Gotta show it to 
 Jase." 
 
 Mrs. Gartner s only reply to this was a rather embittered 
 stare which she meant to make dignified. She held the blue 
 notepaper somewhat away from her and read it with her 
 head turned slightly sideways and tilted. Her lips were 
 primly drawn together. 
 
 "I don t know as we want her in Tupton," she remarked 
 as she finished deciphering. "It smells," she added, sniffing. 
 "Vi lets." 
 
 "Well, what if it does? Jase wants to rent that house, 
 don t he? And you can see by the way she writes she s a 
 lady. (Mrs. Gartner interrupted at this point with another 
 sardonic sniff.) See what she says about a quiet spot " 
 
 "Why don t she go to the mountains? Don t she know 
 it s hot as the hinges down here along in July?" 
 
 "Guess she don t. But what have you got against her, 
 Ag? You don t even know her. Here, gimme that letter 
 back !" 
 
 Mrs. Gartner returned it with a somewhat contemptuous 
 
36 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 flirt. "Adela Ventress," was all she would add, "Ain t it 
 a name !" Mr. Gartner ignored this cryptic addition. 
 
 "Guess I ll go over to Jase s right now/ he said, a trifle 
 importantly, after a second or two. His wife made no reply 
 but rose to clear away the dishes. 
 
 When Mr. Gartner returned an hour later he heard the 
 creak of his wife s rocking on the porch as he stooped to 
 unlatch the gate. A midge-infested arc-lamp on Willow 
 near the Livery Stable threw jigging shadows from the 
 young leafage of the trees. The lisp of his step as he came 
 up the walk stopped the rocking. His shoes thumped on 
 the steps. The other rocker, the one with the leather seat, 
 complained of his weight. A slow creaking, now duo- 
 toned began again. 
 
 "Jase say?" questioned Mrs. Gartner after a while in a 
 a low voice. 
 
 "Thinks the Battell place might suit her. He ll write her 
 to-morra." 
 
 "Warm, aint it?" His wife s voice was almost wistful. 
 His own rocking stopped. Then, "Yeah," he said. "It s 
 a warm evening." He began rocking again. 
 
 The minute, melodic sawing sound of an insect in the 
 grass proceeded intermittently. Down Monument Street 
 the Courthouse clock struck its faint half -hour chime. 
 Voices came indistinguishably from Elm Street. 
 
CHAPTER V: TUPTON AND THE TEN 
 
 ONCE round the curve behind Meldon Ridge, with the 
 Knob lifting into prominence above low rolling hills on 
 your right, before the iron forefoot of the swaying train 
 the land dipped into sunlight from the shadows between 
 high slopes. At the risk of a weeping eye, if you craned 
 from a clicked-up window on the right side of the train, 
 the silver cincture of the Passamint River glittered full into 
 view, and beyond it the red and white toy-box town set in 
 its nest of green. 
 
 But the first you really saw of Tupton was the Jail. The 
 further shore of the Passamint lifted an abrupt embank 
 ment crowned by old Court Street, and on the other side of 
 old Court Street rose that high, brown, barred bastille. 
 Churlishly it faced inward toward the town, its back to the 
 river. 
 
 Nearer, as the train rumbled on the high trestled bridge, 
 the eye overlooked Courthouse Square down Monument 
 Street. Then, with a steady clanging from the engine s bell, 
 the train slowed past Wilder s farm and the Poplar Street 
 crossing, brazenly tolling its way through the heart of Tup- 
 ton and past a solid block of old-fashioned red brick resi 
 dences, upright as prim old ladies in lace and mitts, the 
 cushioned stone stoops below their Corinthian-pilastered 
 doorways set back from a clean and wide brick walk. 
 
 But if you watched Tupton approach from a window on 
 the left-hand side of the train, no such portent as the Jail 
 suddenly stabbed you in the eye. Beyond the silver eddies 
 of the Passamint, there bending south and running west, 
 slept the green pastures and the red and cream buildings 
 of The Three Farms Cripps , beyond the weeping wil- 
 
 37 
 
88 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 lows on the river-bank, Sayres , with the flashing weather 
 cock of a running horse, Wilder s furthest off ; beyond them 
 all the dim roofs of residences on Popular and Sycamore. 
 
 Northwest also rose the Hill, the yellow roof of the Insti 
 tute gleaming over the trees behind .the Axter Road; east 
 of it the Hyde place with its strange Gothic tower, between 
 them Judge Lindon s old mansion, white and sprawled. And 
 for backdrop of the scene the pale spires of smoke from 
 The Works still further north seemed phantom fingers 
 weaving a perspicuous curtain of faint lemon and violet, that 
 floated and veiled the further valley. 
 
 Thus the first two views of Tupton. The tracks of the 
 Meldon Valley Railroad cleft the town in two like a sword. 
 
 The first settlers of that part of Pennsylvania were Scotch- 
 Irish and German. The Scotch-Irish were bitterish Pres 
 byterians. Isaiah Scott, Prothonotary of Meldon County, 
 had entertained greasy Tuscarora and Shawnee sachems at 
 dinner in the courthouse in Tupton s early years, dispensing 
 cider and wine. Wolves from the lower slopes of the Blue 
 Ridge had howled around the frontier town. As far back 
 as 1760 a worthy settler named Ephraiam Axter had re 
 ceived by patent some three hundred acres that became 
 known as Quarry Hill. That part of the country was 
 found to be fairly rich in areas of iron ores and limestone. 
 This Axter had later purchased three ore banks in North 
 Mountain. He then took out a patent for some sixteen hun 
 dred acres including the land between the ore banks. Such 
 was the rise of the present Meldon Iron Works that con 
 stituted the largest industry near Tupton. Far back a 
 certain shrewd Adolphus Hyde had become sole owner. 
 
 Yet in spite of its iron works, Tupton had remained 
 fairly obscure, while the town of Barrack Falls further north 
 and the real shipping point for Hyde s manufactured iron 
 had grown into a cheap, blatant, noisy young metropolis. 
 Meanwhile the descendants of the original Scotch-Irish and 
 German families of Tupton, with a strong infusion of Eng- 
 
TUPTON AND THE TEN 39 
 
 lish stock, had replenished the earth in conservatism and 
 strong provincial pride. 
 
 The town was small, the principal families traced back 
 to the Revolution. Southeast of the town was a negro set 
 tlement in the region locally known as the Bottom. The 
 principal residence section was now on the Northwest side 
 of Market Street, along which ran the somewhat antiquated 
 rolling-stock of the Meldon Railroad. Here Poplar, Syca 
 more and Ivy ran northwest from Market in parallel maple 
 and chestnut-shaded lines. Market was some ninety feet 
 wide, Poplar, Sycamore and Ivy at least sixty. Northeast 
 of The Old Residence Block on the opposite side of Market 
 was the Railroad Station. On this side of town Laurel 
 Street ran straight north from the stone-parapeted vehicle 
 bridge over the Passamint, to turn northeast across Oak, 
 Elm, and Willow at the intersection of Oak and Monument. 
 The large and ancient Presbyterian Church occupied a tree- 
 shaded green at this point. The lane to the Bottom mean 
 dered off downhill from a point southeast of the church. 
 On both sides, between the old residence block and the sta 
 tion, Market Street was lined with quite modern stores. 
 There were other stores along Monument and Laurel. There 
 was also a Memorial Library, and there was the historic 
 Tupton Institute, which had never had more than one hun 
 dred pupils. The latter was a semi-colonial structure, with 
 a yellow roof and a monstrosity of a cupola. It looked 
 down upon the chief residence district of Tupton from the 
 lower slope of The Hill. 
 
 Within the last twenty-five years a change had gradually 
 come upon the town. Certain newer tradespeople had pros 
 pered. The descendants of more ancient tradespeople looked 
 upon their inevitable advance in social standing with per 
 plexity and suspicion. Manners had changed also, strange 
 opinions were often heard in certain quarters. Deference 
 to family and professional standing was felt to be going 
 by the board. 
 
 That, at least, was the undercurrent of much of the con- 
 
40 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 versation in the Old Residence Block. The families of the 
 Old Residence Block were intimate with each other since 
 childhood. They comprised, on Market Street, the Brattles, 
 the Corneliuses, the Jeremiah Mixters, the Uttersons, the 
 Adolphus Frazees. In their high-stooped brick residences 
 they formed the thin red line of Tupton s defence, the front 
 line. Separated from them only by adjoining rear lawns, 
 trim garden paths, berry bushes and, in several instances, 
 a tall shady chestnut encircled near its base by a green 
 wooden seat, the six corresponding residences on Monu 
 ment Street might have been called the second line. Flank 
 ing these were the three houses facing Oak and the three 
 facing Larch, namely the Burleys, the Syles, the Reynolds; 
 the MacConliss s, the Vrooms, the Webbers. Against the 
 invasion of questionable taste, odd manners, unconvention- 
 ality, any new ideas, the old Residence Block presented a 
 compactness of resistance comparable, in a military sense, 
 only to that of the old-time British Square. 
 
 In the Old Residence Block life was primarily a matter 
 of ritual. It still proceeded with a leisurely decorum. It 
 acknowledged without unseemly question the pre-eminence of 
 its fathers gods. Whether this was manifested in the per 
 petual asseveration of Mr. Utterson, the retired lawyer, that 
 "You will never change human nature, sir !" or in the ex 
 asperation of Jeremiah Mixter with the successes of woman 
 suffrage; with Adolphus Frazee, the Railroad Official s 
 staunch Republicanism and implacable hatred of Woodrow 
 Wilson, with old General Brattle s passionate militarism or 
 Dr. John Cornelius s impending apoplexy at any mention of 
 a world-state, the governing principles remained the same. 
 
 True, the Monument Street phalanx was perhaps weak 
 ened by the presence of the young Harry Persons and the 
 temperamental Rebecca Stone, but, after all, these younger 
 folk were saplings of the same soil, seeded from equally 
 venerable family trees. And they were insulated respec 
 tively, to mix a metaphor, by the Miss Babbitts and the 
 Cravens, by Alexander Pennyfeather and Miss Sophia 
 
TUPTON AND THE TEN 41 
 
 Crome. Besides, Harry Persons was a trusted protege of 
 Cephas Hyde, present lord of the Hill; the temperamental 
 Rebecca Stone s great-grandfather had raised the Meldon 
 Fencibles and his Revolutionary sword still hung in the hall. 
 "These young people under our wing," as old General Brat 
 tle had been heard to refer to them with leonine rumbling, 
 "are, after all, ahem! sound to the core." They were 
 therefore generously permitted a somewhat lighter attitude 
 toward life, they were indulged in a few harmless heresies. 
 
 It did not even matter that Rebecca Stone was known 
 to peruse both Schopenhauer and Nietzche, and sometimes 
 quoted openly and without shame from Bernard Shaw. 
 True, at the very beginning of the war she had announced 
 herself a pacifist, thereby giving General Brattle one of the 
 shocks of his life, but she had shown her mettle eventually, 
 having probably made more Red Cross bandages than any 
 other woman in Tupton. True it irritated Adolphus Frazee 
 that she seemed, in spite of everything, still to admire Wil 
 son; it rubbed Dr. John Cornelius decidedly the wrong 
 way that she would not admit the League of Nations to 
 be the abhorrent sham he considered it. Nevertheless, she 
 remained a Stone. 
 
 So the Ten of Tupton, despite immaterial inner dif 
 ferences, stood foursquare to every changing wind of doc 
 trine. Within their portiered drawing-rooms and behind 
 their bowed green and white wooden shutters they con 
 served the aristocratic social principle. By their edict alone 
 all real amenities in intercourse with the other less fortu 
 nate inhabitants of the town were fostered and perpetu 
 ated. The smoke of their chimneys spiring bluely upward 
 through the hushed evening must have been a delicious in 
 cense in the nostrils of the Most High. 
 
 They bowed the knee in two temples only, both gleaming 
 sepulchrally white from the triangular Green faced by the 
 houses on Monument Street. There the First Presbyterian 
 and the Protestant Episcopal churches stood side by side. 
 Between these two denominations there had existed feuds 
 
42 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 of old. To-day, however, in face of the invasion of "these 
 tradespeople", all differences had been buried. The old 
 residents were the principal pew-holders in both edifices, 
 the largest donators in both to the salary of minister and 
 rector and to the weekly collections, the staunch backbone of 
 customary observance. Hardly one Sunday of the year 
 saw any one of them missing from their ancient seats. To 
 the devout in Tupton, and there were many, this was a con 
 tinual source of edification and self-congratulation. With 
 such a solid phalanx of respectability their rooted centre, 
 they need certainly never fear for the moral tone of their 
 town. 
 
 But there were also, alas, the outliers. Take Arthur Pol 
 lock, for instance. While he held, unquestionably, the re 
 gard of the first families and also came of old stock, he 
 resided on Sycamore Street. His Emporium was certainly 
 nothing against him. His fathers had founded it. As a 
 general store it was rooted in the memory of all the old 
 inhabitants. Pollock was also a Republican in sympathy, 
 though not what could ever satisfy the high principles of 
 Adolphus Frazee as a wholly loyal party man. He was too 
 subject to eccentric outbursts of irascibility against what he 
 denounced as "peculation" and "outrageous imbecility in 
 office". This was applied principally, it must be admitted, 
 to officials in the State capitol. 
 
 But then Pollock was a thorn in the flesh of those who 
 sought to conserve that high tradition of manners dating 
 from the period of the Civil War. Pollock was sometimes 
 too outspoken, too brusque, too careless of the conventions. 
 Certain of his stories in mixed gatherings had been thought 
 in questionable taste. He lacked respect for a number of 
 criteria of conduct essentially sacred to the Ten. He had 
 upon occasion proved too rude and boisterous. This at 
 least was the opinion of the women who upheld the social 
 standards of the inner citadel, and their men, with a se 
 cret somewhat lugubrious regard for Pollock, outwardly at 
 least concurred. At stag gatherings they greeted him more 
 
TUPTON AND THE TEN 43 
 
 genially, but theirs after all was not the ball and sceptre 
 of social office. 
 
 And if Arthur Pollock was an outlier, how much more so 
 his brother-in-law, Dr. Charles Gedney. He was the recluse 
 of the town. He had married one of the Cripps girls, as 
 Martha, his late wife, was still referred to by some, an 
 odd, saturnine woman who had experienced, it seemed, 
 more than her share of family tragedy. She had not sought 
 to mingle with the elect of the town, and, to tell the truth, 
 after a few vague first advances, had not been sought after. 
 Before the death of Arthur Pollock s wife these two families 
 had kept a good deal to themselves. Twenty years ago the 
 Gedney s eldest daughter, Gertrude, had disappeared from 
 home and had never been heard from since. It had been the 
 nine-days wonder of the time. 
 
 To-day the relicts of both the House of Pollock and the 
 House of Gedney were still asked to the various Tupton 
 entertainments. They were not unkindly discussed by the 
 arbiters of taste. The men were greeted by their first names 
 by the men of the Ten. Dr. Gedney had, after all, been for 
 many years one of the bulwarks of the Institute whither the 
 few scions of the Ten had repaired for their earlier educa 
 tion before departing for boarding-school or college. But 
 he and his wife had seemed to hide themselves away. After 
 his daughter s disappearance and his wife s later death his 
 younger growing adopted daughter came only gradually 
 within cognizance of the first families. 
 
 Then Bessie Cripps Gedney, orphaned child of Martha s 
 brother, had formed school friendships with young Betty 
 Cornelius and young Laura Brattle. Mrs. Brattle and Mrs. 
 Cornelius found her a well-behaved young person. They 
 politely permitted the friendship. It remained in both cases, 
 however, tinged with formality. 
 
 Aside from the outliers and others who should be men 
 tioned were the James Battells (whose home a Mrs. Ven- 
 tress from New York had just rented for the summer), not 
 to say Mrs. Ralph Harris the stoic of Sycamore Street, now 
 
44. THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 last remaining evidence of her scattered family, her boys 
 being prominent elsewhere in politics and industry most 
 of the underlings and tradespeople lived on the wrong side 
 of town (in the Ten s opinion, at least,) infesting Ivy, Syca 
 more, and Poplar Streets, where both Arthur Pollock and 
 Doctor Gedney happened to be so unfortunately situated. 
 Moreover, the new mercantile class whose invasion the Old 
 Residence Block so patricianly resisted, had, in many in 
 stances, blossomed forth with pleasant brand-new houses set 
 in their own comfortable gardens. They had brought the 
 raucous Victrola and the ubiquitous Ford to Tupton. Their 
 young people formed their own chattering society. Some 
 of them chewed gum, most of them indulged in slang, many 
 of them forced their way into the hallowed Institute to re 
 ceive their education. 
 
 They permeated the town like a not yet virulent pestilence. 
 They quickened its life with the cheap and noisy. Their 
 fathers made money and instituted new places of amuse 
 ment, like turning the old Fair Grounds into a Midway Park, 
 like starting the Star Theatre, a moving-picture "palace" on 
 Willow Street, like proclaiming a new young people s tennis 
 club beyond Ivy Street. Was not the dignified if dilapidated 
 tan-bark court under the weeping willow trees in a corner 
 of the Institute Grounds enough in all conscience? These 
 young people in the summer buzzed about Tupton in white 
 flannel trousers, and striped sport skirts, in sport shirts, 
 sneakers, and georgette blouses, to the scandalisation by fits 
 of giggles and gawkish horseplay of the sedate older resi 
 dents. They went often on unchaperoned picnics into the 
 country, and they danced eternally on their porches to the 
 most rackety music. They destroyed the evening hush of 
 the streets and their observance of the Sabbath was a dis 
 grace or rather, their lack of observance. So much, then, 
 for the patricians and the hoi polloi. 
 
CHAPTER VI: UNCLE ARTHUR THINKS NOTH 
 ING OF IT 
 
 I THINK nothing of it!" said Uncle Arthur Pollock 
 stoutly, rising slightly on his toes as he stood braced 
 before the empty fireplace. He thrust out his lower lip in 
 a way that made his chin recede. His sack suit (in much 
 need of pressing) was dark blue with the faintest thread of 
 red in it. It had been made to order. Uncle Arthur s clothes 
 had to be made to order. Across one of the gray corduroy 
 waistcoats he affected ran a heavy red-gold watch-chain. 
 
 He was huge. He had a scar that ran across his left 
 cheek from under the eye over to opposite the lobe of the 
 ear. He had large stick-out oyster-shaped ears that were 
 always fiery-red and gave an aggressive, attentive aspect to 
 his face. He had a wide mouth drooping at the corners. 
 His countenance was ruddy and round. His sandy hair was 
 thinned and fragile, yet stood up with remarkable wiriness 
 across the arc of his pate, from ear to ear. His mustache 
 was sandy, brief and irregular as if bitten. One eyebrow 
 was perpetually higher than the other and the eye under it 
 slightly bloodshot and strained. For Uncle Arthur was 
 astigmatic and would not admit it. He also would not wear 
 glasses. He thought nothing of them. That was his fa 
 vourite expression. 
 
 You may be surprised and a bit perturbed by Uncle 
 Arthur. All I can say is that he did really have that effect 
 upon people. He wore his clothes baggilly, yet they were 
 never old clothes. He had partially retired from business, 
 but still kept a watchful eye on his famous store, a drygoods 
 store, the oldest and largest in Tupton. He had not got his 
 scar shooting wildebeeste or struggling with catamounts 
 
 45 
 
46 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 on the brinks of terrific precipices. He had got it by falling 
 downstairs at the age of thirty-seven and hitting his face 
 on a brass stair-tread. It had cut his face open and he had 
 been in bed for two months. Partly shock and partly be 
 cause Uncle Arthur was a person who liked to be petted 
 while he damned it. Nowadays he spent most of his time 
 thinking nothing of it and watching the hennery life of some 
 gamecocks he kept in a wired enclosure in his back-yard on 
 Poplar Street, though he paid a visit to the store every day 
 also. His house on Poplar Street was an enormous affair, 
 the oldest house in Tupton. It was full of glass cases of 
 stuffed things, birds, small animals, even reptiles stuffed. 
 Cases of butterflies. That is, those were in the library and 
 drawing-room on the lower floor. 
 
 Dr. Gedney, who sat regarding his brother-in-law, was 
 a man of about fifty-five, Uncle Arthur s age. He was as 
 neat as wax. Black clothes, a black bow tie, very white linen, 
 a prominent nose long and earnest, and small, black eyes 
 that bored like gimlets. Pronounced chin and a high white 
 forehead. Black hair a black mustache. 
 
 There was a pervasive eccentricity about Uncle Arthur 
 and a sort of sunset glow. His spasmodic irascibilty and 
 overwhelming scorn of most ideas hardly mitigated this 
 effect. They only made the sunset somewhat stormy. But 
 the black and white of Dr. Gedney for his countenance was 
 of a fine clear pallor accentuated by jetty mustache and 
 hair conferred more true restfulness, if more astringency. 
 Where Uncle Arthur s presence was pervasive but ambigu 
 ous, Dr. Gedney s had the compactness and accentuation of 
 an exclamation point and the frosty stillness of a winter s 
 night. His lips were thinly chiselled his teeth white 
 and regular where Uncle Arthur s were extraordinarily 
 crooked and coloured like old ivory. Till he spoke you 
 would have taken Dr. Gedney for a man of infinite deter 
 mination. When he did speak, however, his voice had the 
 still-born quality of the utterance of a very shy man who 
 talks little and only to his intimates. It rustled dry and un- 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR THINKS NOTHING OF IT 47 
 
 certainly. His eyes changed when he spoke. They dimmed. 
 They dreamed. When roused, however, he became aston 
 ishingly staccato. 
 
 "Now, Arthur," said Dr. Gedney. "Don t adopt that in 
 sufferable attitude. There isn t the slightest reason to sup- 
 pose 
 
 Uncle Arthur unexpectedly flirted a large blue and white 
 handkerchief from some bulge of his person and snorted 
 into it. His slightly bulbous nose became even redder. 
 
 " nothing of it!" said Uncle Arthur from behind his 
 
 handkerchief. "Positively nothing!" 
 
 Bessie had been watching all this from the ottoman in 
 front of a book-case on the opposite side of the room, the 
 book-case that had the big luggable books in it. She was 
 also looking at the illustrations of Le Sage s "Gil Bias". She 
 would look and then watch. She wondered what Uncle 
 Arthur was "nothing"ing about this time. Her mind was 
 not on her elders. A thin sunbrowned child of sixteen, 
 black hair still tied behind with a dark blue ribbon. A cross- 
 barred blue gingham dress. Black stockings and sandals. 
 Large dark eyes with long lashes, elfishly bright. A slightly 
 uptilted nose, a short upper lip and a mouth the colour and 
 texture of a roseleaf. Very much the amusing child still, 
 in many ways, but with a mind of her own. 
 
 All that there were of the Gedneys now the Doctor and 
 Bessie and Bessie was really a Cripps. Then there was 
 Annie, in the kitchen, cook, housemaid and nurse of old. 
 
 "There isn t the slightest reason to suppose," went on Dr. 
 Gedney, in his rustly voice, "that this Mrs. Ventress could 
 possibly be a bad influence upon anybody. The drawings 
 Bessie has shown me are excellent, I think, and she is most 
 interested. I think my plan an admirable one." 
 
 Bessie was not listening. 
 
 "At your age !" puffed Uncle Arthur, for answer. "Don t 
 fool yourself, Charley !" 
 
 "Arthur," said the Doctor in an even fainter voice than 
 
48 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 before, "I had thought better of your intelligence. Well, 
 we ll talk about something else." 
 
 In the pause that followed, Bessie heard the hall clock 
 ticking. She realised that this murmuring on the part of her 
 adopted father and explosiveness on the part of her uncle 
 must have been just another of the only semi-intelligible 
 wrangles between older people. It touched her conscious 
 ness only as blurry noise that distracted her a little from con 
 templation of the pictures. Her father and her uncle were 
 always arguing something usually something that seemed 
 to her incredibly uninteresting. Meanwhile Dr. Gedney, ris 
 ing to get his briar pipe from the table, discovered her pres 
 ence. 
 
 "Doing, Bessie?" he asked. 
 
 "A ah," Bessie exhaled in a soft sigh. 
 
 "Reading," with a comfortable unction. 
 
 " Gil Bias", said the Doctor, looking. "Too old for you." 
 To him she remained about eight years old. 
 
 "Fun," returned Bessie succinctly. 
 
 "Damn excuse me," said the Doctor stumbling on the 
 rug. "Where s my pipe?" 
 
 "On the Bible," said Bessie without looking up. She 
 turned a page. 
 
 The Doctor refilled his pipe at the green bowl on the 
 table and made some pother about getting it to draw. 
 Bessie, regarding him from behind his back, thought him a 
 straight and nice-looking father. She felt sorry for him, in 
 the way all women do. 
 
 Uncle Arthur was running his large hands through his 
 hair. He felt somewhat put upon by the discovery of Bessie. 
 Nevertheless . 
 
 "Phryne has four chicks, Bess!" he boomed. 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Bessie, raising a flushed beaming counten 
 ance from the estimation of a wood-cut. "Oh, I must see 
 them!" 
 
 Outside the house the late spring afternoon was still 
 bright. The low-ceilinged long brown room, with its two 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR THINKS NOTHING OF IT 49 
 
 book-cluttered tables and its walls of glass-doored book 
 cases, was mellowed with late light. Uncle Arthur, before 
 the empty fireplace, seemed a romantic, somewhat Falstaffian 
 figure. 
 
 To-morrow," he announced, "come round in the morn 
 ing. They re in the brood coop. I must go. Charley, do 
 not be a fool. I ve told you my reasons. " 
 
 He glared, yet with a certain benignancy, upon Dr. Ged- 
 ney. 
 
 "Oh, it s settled," said the Doctor s wispy voice that so 
 belied his authoritative face. "But you ll see." 
 
 "Well great hippopotami !" ejaculated Uncle Arthur de 
 spairingly, and departed with rolling gait from the room. 
 In the hall and before the hall-door slammed, Bessie heard 
 him conclude with superb abnegation, 
 
 "As for me I utterly refuse to be a party to it. I repeat 
 that I think absolutely nothing of it nothing whatever !" 
 
CHAPTER VII: BESSIE, SOLUS 
 
 THE design, topped by two reclining cupids who sup 
 ported a medallion with plump shoulders and faced out 
 wards to confront two balancing butterflies, enclosed what 
 looked like a black slate. On it, in white lettering, stood the 
 words : 
 
 HERE 
 
 Is INTERRED 
 THE SOUL 
 
 OF THE LICENTIATE 
 PETER GARCIAS 
 
 This volume of the picaresque adventures of the Sage of 
 Santillane was Smollett s translation illustrated by Jean 
 Gigoux. The book was backed with tooled almost olive 
 green leather. It had leather corners. Its boards were 
 covered inside and out with that streaked paper used for 
 legal volumes, looking as if bands of color had run on a 
 stained glass pane and congealed in irregular layers of drops. 
 Blue, yellow and green, on an ox-blood foundation. 
 
 Aqui est a encerranda et alma del Pedro Garcias! Bessie 
 pondered the finding of the hundred ducats in the leathern 
 purse under the tombstone. One hundred ducats the soul 
 of the Licentiate! Yet the adventures were said to contain 
 "moral instructions." The idea that Alain Rene Le Sage 
 had also made a paraphrastic translation of the Letters of 
 Aristenetus delighted her. She had such a wholly dim and 
 glamorous idea of what it might all be about. "The Devil 
 on Two Sticks." That was another name that intrigued her. 
 Le Sage s character was said to have been "truly amiable". 
 This pleased her especially. She smiled to herself. 
 
 50 
 
BESSIE, SOLUS 51 
 
 At the top of Book IV an engraving of Gil Bias reclin 
 ing on a couch and reading in a long-paged narrow book was, 
 to her mind, extremely well drawn. His face, with its sparse 
 square beard and aristocratic mustache, his romantic cam 
 bric shirt with open collar and deep rolled-back cuffs, be 
 came, as she gazed, the very face and habiliments of her 
 Ideal. The hands were well-treated, the left especially, in a 
 position that showed the draughtsman s knowledge of anat 
 omy. On the other hand, how monstrously insipid was the 
 picture of the jade Laura on the page preceding ! What an 
 idiot mouth. If that were a coquette! She was so much 
 more convincing in the thumbnail panel, the various faces of 
 her "crowd of relations" so amusing. But living with the 
 seven deadly sins must, somehow, have been quite too 
 treacly. Gil Bias had surely exhibited his good sense by 
 revolting from it. 
 
 The pages of the book were rough and yellowed, and the 
 queer pictures seemed rooted in the text. In modern books 
 they were so detached, so unlike the people one imagined. 
 These seemed to fit better, even at their worst. How many 
 initial letters, tailpieces, thumbnail decorations and vignettes 
 there were! That seemed the only way a book should be 
 illustrated in some such apparently impromptu fashion. 
 The "go-to," formal sort of pictures, were the worst; posy, 
 attitudinizing, simpering, losing all grace and motion of line, 
 hard and wooden. That sketch of the horrible face of the 
 crone Leonarda on page fifty-eight, just a bare outline, but 
 worth a hundred Spencerian-haired Lauras. That was it, 
 such drawing was like those flourishy eagles with sheaves of 
 arrows in their claws that went with advertisements of 
 courses in "expert penmanship." Ugh! How she hated 
 Spencerian handwriting ! 
 
 Bessie suddenly raised her eyes from the page and won 
 dered what Uncle Arthur s "reasons" had been. They must 
 have been divulged before her wraithlike entry into the liv 
 ing room. She came even farther awake from the book 
 upon her knee and her fascination with its illustrations. 
 
52 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 What was her father s plan? Was he going to do what she 
 asked? She shoved the big leather-backed book into its 
 opening in the shelf and remained on her knees for a mo 
 ment, thinking. Then she dusted her hands, scrambled up, 
 and went slimly into the hall, arms at sides, thin hands point 
 ing slightly behind her. She tilted on her toes and peered. 
 There was no one in the rather dim hall. Her father had 
 gone into his study (which should have been the parlor) on 
 the other side of the newel-posted stair-foot. There he 
 would be refilling his pipe from the hammered brass bowl at 
 the large table. He would be doing it by the open window 
 that looked out on the side yard where the leaves of the 
 apple-tree glittered in the six o clock sunlight. 
 
 The hall was dim and somewhat dingy. Bessie climbed 
 the stairs. Oh, that was it of course ! Uncle Arthur didn t 
 want Mrs. Ventress to teach her drawing. She wondered 
 again as to his "reasons". 
 
 Bessie s room had a marble mantlepiece over a now empty 
 coal grate. The China Animals were its chief feature. 
 These were mainly an array of those fascinating families one 
 could procure some twenty years ago in small brown paste 
 board boxes stuffed with cotton. They had been bequeathed 
 her by her cousin, Slade Breckinridge, an editor on the 
 Colosseum Magazine in New York. Slade s typhoid at the 
 age of six, when he had lost his curls and the gnome-like 
 voice of his emaciated convalescence had croaked at his 
 mother, "Pack boxes!" was the primary association these 
 tiny purplish spaniels, bears and deer evoked. Bessie had 
 been told it many times by Aunt Sally. Then there was the 
 "gentle face" dog (first g hard, as in gutter). He had abided 
 with sundry chippings and regluings from the same precari 
 ous past. There were the See, Hear and Speak-No-Evil 
 Monkeys, in their bright jackets, given her by Slade on his 
 return from that trip to San Francisco. There was Eunice, 
 the china cow, forever at grazing gaze with a slight cast in 
 her eye and one foreleg gone at the knee. Eunice had an 
 incision in her back. She was a bank. The Chinaness of the 
 
BESSIE, SOLUS 53 
 
 Animals gleamed across Bessie s bedroom. Dimity curtains 
 fluttered at her window. The woolly brown hearthrug un 
 der the black tin shield of the grate was often a seat more 
 favoured than either the cretonned wicker basket-chair or the 
 gray corduroy cushioned window-seat. She dove now for 
 the hearthrug and sat quiet upon it, in the dusk, under the 
 China Animals, nursing her knees. 
 
 She breathed a name all to herself, after a moment. Her 
 thoughts were in another house entirely. Her expression 
 was dreamy and benign. "Adda!" said Bessie. "Adela!" 
 And then, with enormous satisfaction, "I simply didn t know 
 there were such people !" There was a pleasant sympathetic 
 silence. Bessie cupped her chin in both palms. "She gives 
 you the impression," pronounced the young pythoness sol 
 emnly and finally, "of of a great unhappy grandeur!" 
 
 But even by this last remark the China Animals seemed to 
 remain quite unimpressed. 
 
CHAPTER VIII: "THE GIRL WHO WAS BURNED 
 UP" 
 
 DR. GEDNEY did not practice medicine. He had been 
 an instructor at the Tupton Institute. Now he had re 
 lapsed into doing nothing much, so far as Tupton could dis 
 cover. He had written several school-books. He was now 
 engaged, it was rumoured, upon a history of Meldon County. 
 His father had been old Judge Gedney of the Circuit Court. 
 Dr. Gedney himself had a Litt.D. from a small New Eng 
 land college. 
 
 His wife s death had driven a naturally recluse tempera 
 ment even more in upon itself, that and the loss of his daugh 
 ter. Yet there were those who let it be understood that they 
 considered him better off since his wife had died. "She was 
 certainly very peculiar," Mrs. Harris, the stoic of Sycamore 
 Street, would often allow, folding stout, work-creased hands 
 in her ample lap. Mrs. Harris spoke little and was rarely 
 moved toward censure. She knew what she knew about life, 
 but she kept it mostly to herself. She irradiated benignancy. 
 Hers was a strong character that had endured much with 
 out embitterment. But when she said that about Mrs. Ged 
 ney, now fifteen years deceased, her eyes narrowed a little 
 and her mouth was firm. 
 
 Miss Sophia Crome, whose house was the last in the Old 
 Residence Block at the corner of Monument and Oak, was 
 of the opposite opinion. But then Miss Crome would doubt 
 less have found the personality of John Calvin wholly 
 charming. She was a relic was Miss Crome. At least, that 
 was what Uncle Arthur called her: "That relic!" He never 
 got any farther in his description. It was Miss Crome s 
 opinion that Mrs. Gedney had been "a most upright 
 
 54 
 
"THE GIRL WHO WAS BURNED UP" 55 
 
 She said that with an unctuous pursing of dry 
 lips. Her steel spectacles glimmered like the eyes of a cat 
 as she said it. 
 
 As for Dr. Gedney, he rarely saw any neighbours. He 
 read, wrote, or pottered about his yard during the day. 
 He read with or without Bessie at home in the even 
 ings. He and Bessie usually had dinner at the Pollocks 
 once a week. Several times a week he and Uncle Arthur 
 would play checkers together, visiting each other s homes. 
 But most of his life was submerged in that other life af 
 forded by books. He read chiefly philosophy and history 
 (pastimes unbewildering, even fascinating, to his retentive 
 memory and analytical mind). Contemporary affairs, the 
 affairs of the town of Tupton, made little impression upon 
 him. He poked his pipe full of rather rank tobacco, with 
 one long, lean forefinger, and went on reading. 
 
 Bessie went in and out of his house as she listed. He 
 usually knew why she was out at school, at the gymnasium, 
 at the library, at the Brattles, at the Corneliuses. It was one 
 of those places. She was a dear child, dark and quiet and 
 quite fond of reading. With a head in the air of her own. 
 No need to worry about her. Arthur worried entirely too 
 much. Arthur was so fussy. Fussiness ran in that family. 
 Dr. Gedney smiled a sad, haunted smile. Ineffably silly of 
 Arthur, this last business. . . . 
 
 Bessie s father was sitting in a large leather chair by the 
 window. The seams of the back of it had burst and the 
 black horsehair stuffing was apparent. He arose now, in his 
 absent-minded way, and went over to his desk by the south 
 wall. After some fumbling he produced from a side-drawer 
 an oblong box of unpainted tin. There was more fumbling 
 with his key-ring, which he wore at the end of his watch- 
 chain instead of a watch. His watch he always carried 
 without fob or other attachment in his upper vest-pocket on 
 the right-hand side. That was typical. Yet he had not 
 broken the crystal once in ten years. That also was typical. 
 He was an unhandy man though. The key stuck in the lock 
 
56 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 of the box and he made some pother getting it open. He 
 kept saying something softly under his breath. As a matter 
 of record the words were, "Oh, dear, oh, dear. . . ." They 
 were his habitual method of expression of his sense of minor 
 annoyances. 
 
 In the box, with some other papers, was a small packet 
 secured by a rubber band. Beside this band were traces of 
 another, dark vestiges of rubber. The packet had at one 
 time been put away for a long period. The paper in the 
 packet proved somewhat discoloured and faded as Dr. Ged- 
 ney unfolded it. He removed the outer sheet and spread 
 it out upon his knee. It was the first picture she had ever 
 drawn. 
 
 Three remarkable individuals could be distinguished in 
 the foreground. The hat of one floated in a detached man 
 ner half an inch above its head. The arms and legs were 
 excessively spidery. The hands were equipped with at least 
 ten skeleton fingers arranged like rays. The faces of the 
 figures were noseless and their eyes and mouths were large 
 wobbly circles. This gave them an aspect of breathless sur 
 prise. Their hair was a voluminous huddle of scratchy lines. 
 To their left a house half their height and even narrower 
 than any one bulging body blazed merrily with carmine 
 water-color flames. In the midst of it stood "The Girl Who 
 Was Burned Up". She was twice as tall as the house and 
 bore a certain weird facial resemblance to a cat. Her writh 
 ing mien expressed considerable discomfort. This effort at 
 art was entitled "The Flight of the Family". The printing 
 necessary to display the slogan properly wandered all over 
 the bottom half of the large sheet of ruled tablet paper. The 
 printed letters were enormous and askew. 
 
 Dr Gedney had seated himself with the tin box in his lap. 
 He studied the picture without smiling. His eyes wandered 
 from it and came to rest on a large framed photograph in the 
 shadow of the southeast corner of the room. It had been 
 done by that man in Barrack Falls. 
 
 Gertrude had looked nothing like her. It was astonishing 
 
"THE GIRL WHO WAS BURNED UP" 57 
 
 that any mother and daughter could have so little resem 
 bled each other. Martha had always taken a good photo 
 graph. The querulous lines about the mouth had been 
 retouched away in the photograph. The hard glint in the 
 eyes was not apparent. The bearing of the sitter possessed 
 dignity. The thin aquiline nose alone gave indication in its 
 curve of nostril of that remorseless, accipitrine will. Yet 
 the mouth was smiling a little. The pose was placid. Mar 
 tha s figure had always been rather graceful. Her head, 
 with its now absurdly out-of-date bonnet, was held high. 
 Her burnt-umber hair had its decided fluffiness. Her large 
 hands clutched each other in her lap. It was an example of 
 photography before the days of softening artistic shadows 
 and blurred outlines and backgrounds. Simply a likeness. 
 A very good likeness in everything but the essentials of 
 character. A proud and resolute woman, you would have 
 said, but possessed also of wisdom and kindliness. That 
 was how most of them had seen her, he supposed. Yes, he 
 supposed so. 
 
 It was strange about Martha. Martha had always acted 
 from the first as if, if he had not actually ever been unfaith 
 ful to her, he were, nevertheless, always upon the verge of 
 being so. This attitude was implicit. It had been conveyed 
 for many years by an accumulation of eyebrow-raisings, 
 acrid half-sentences, slight shrugs, impatient sighs, hours of 
 taciturn surveillance. It had been emphasized by furious 
 unexplained tearfulness that ceased as swiftly as it came, 
 typhoons of unreasonableness that whirled and passed. 
 Completely erased, so far as Martha was concerned, but not 
 from his own consciousness. Phenomena of woman nature. 
 These exhibitions did not occur, either, at those times when 
 all women are overwrought and strange to themselves. 
 They were not the result of illness or poor health. They 
 were simply habitual. In self-defense, Dr. Gedney had come 
 to disregard them entirely. He could never hope to unravel 
 the devious tangle of reasoning or was it merely perverted 
 instinct which precipitated them upon him. He had tried 
 
i58 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 to analyze in the earlier days, to explain Martha to herself. 
 A disastrous idea ! Then he had tried to discover in himself 
 the faults and shortcomings that might account for Martha s 
 suspicions. He had tried to remedy them. But he groped 
 in the dark. 
 
 Yet, in tender moments that constantly grew fewer, she 
 softened and became again some likeness of the girl he had 
 loved, standing under the peach-trees of her father s farm. 
 She was again, fleetmgly, the kind-eyed person in whose 
 voice he could never have imagined that harsh querulousness, 
 in whose heart he would never have thought of suspecting 
 that self-consuming frenzy of jealousy. Here also was no 
 matter of spirit fighting body and agonising a delicately- 
 adjusted soul between two intense passions. Dr. Gedney 
 had always exercised punctilious consideration toward his 
 wife. Martha cared little for the pleasures of the mind. 
 She was a regular church-goer. She was regular in the 
 conventional duties of housekeeping. But from the first 
 moment she had entered their new home she had commenced 
 a frustrated brooding. She made few friends. In the early 
 days she had seemed ardent. He had loved her, certainly, 
 both with passion and devotion. But gradually she had re 
 vealed herself in intimacy as what he came to privately call 
 "a secret woman." She read little and soon lost interest in 
 his study and teaching, save as the means which procured 
 them their livelihood. She allowed its claims up to a cer 
 tain point. But if, in scholarly absorption, he transgressed 
 the tacitly-understood time-limit of devotion to these mat 
 ters by so much as fifteen minutes, there was always immi 
 nence of hurricane. His natural absent-mindedness had 
 fought against him in this regard for years. He had striven 
 to conquer it. How faint the victory had been was shown 
 by the fact that after her death he had easily relapsed into his 
 old bookwormish habits. Yet that very absent-mindedness 
 had appeared to be one of his peculiar charms to her during 
 their courtship. It was an odd mismating. 
 
 It was not excitement or gaiety that she desired. At first 
 
"THE GIRL WHO WAS BURNED UP" 59! 
 
 he had actually proved more gregarious than she. But all 
 simple foregatherings became a strain. Afterward a mood 
 he had never understood settled upon her. She looked side- 
 wise at him with deep suspicion. She said cutting things 
 that misinterpreted and perverted his innermost thoughts. 
 Such misunderstanding at first aroused chill surprise, then 
 protest. Then came dumbness. How could he ever make 
 her see ? There came also, with time, a mechanical deafness 
 to insinuation. An elaborate ritual of forgetting was formu 
 lated. It served, finally. It was like repeating a cabalistic 
 sentence. Boiled down, it doubtless seems ridiculously 
 naive. Its sum and substance were the words, eternally re 
 peated in his thought, "Pay no attention, pay no attention, 
 pay no attention!" 
 
 The pass to which he came increased his insulation from 
 intuitive contacts with actual life. His absentmindedness 
 had already begun, the instinct for self-preservation had 
 completed the process. Charles Gedney began to move 
 through life like a noctambulist. He also stood in the midst 
 of his married life like Abednego in the furnace. Sometimes 
 the heat of that irradiating jealousy might have shrivelled his 
 soul if he had not refused to be conscious of it. It took such 
 strange forms. He had even known it to obtain to a fav 
 ourite chair of his, to a stray cat he had fed with milk and 
 kept in the house overnight, to a term s examination papers. 
 
 Yet she did not desire a passionate devotion. Not at all. 
 She simply doubted entirely and yet desired entire allegiance. 
 He had never been critical of her thought or action. Mildly 
 remonstrative on occasion, perhaps. But even such mild 
 remonstrances added fuel to the furnace. In one aspect it 
 was supremely pathetic, this coinstantaneous wretchedness, 
 and rage that his every thought could not be completely hers. 
 The many other women she imagined existed only in her 
 imagination. But that made them no less actual to her. And 
 a wildly passionate nature in bond to a narrow, fearful, un- 
 discriminating mind, fashioned brightly burning hell of her 
 peculiar temperament. 
 
60 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Gertrude had been born in a period of comparative peace, 
 though to outward appearances the Gedney household was 
 never otherwise. Gertrude had been loved hungrily by her 
 mother through her earliest years. She was more drawn 
 toward her father. A tragic triangular situation came into 
 being. First it was that her mother occupied the position of 
 slaving for Gertrude, while Gertrude besieged a somewhat 
 disturbed father with endearments. Some premonition told 
 Charles Gedney what might come of his too easy and natu 
 ral manifestation of parental pleasure. But he came to think 
 that Gertrude had charms to soothe any breast, to obliterate 
 the strained strangeness of past years. Besides, she was too 
 entirely adorable and amusing in her attentions. He remem 
 bered the very hour when he had seen his mistake inevit 
 able perhaps. 
 
 It was the story of "The Three Bears". Gertrude had 
 come into his study uninvited and had sidled up to the desk 
 where he was correcting papers about five o clock of a rainy 
 Sunday afternoon in the Fall. She stood by the side of the 
 desk with her large brown eyes and floppy curls. A flat 
 green book was clutched to her side. 
 
 "You will read," she said in her amusingly solemn voice, 
 with its intonation unconsciously imitated from that of her 
 mother, "here." Then she held the book up in front of her 
 face in an embarrassed manner. Then she laughed. Ger 
 trude s early laughter could almost be said to crinkle her 
 hair. It filled the small face with delightful animation. 
 Suddenly she was beside him, clasping him round the arm 
 tightly and burying her curls in his sleeve. She looked up 
 again, mischievously, and began to climb upon his knee. He 
 gave over Latin exercises for the afternoon. 
 
 It was half through the story of "The Three Bears" that 
 Martha appeared in the doorway. Though not a particu 
 larly thin woman she had a way of looking gaunt upon 
 occasion. She stood in the door Gertrude had left open and 
 regarded the two figures silhouetted against the sunset light 
 of the window. Gertrude was curled in her father s lap. 
 
"THE GIRL WHO WAS BURNED UP" 61 
 
 His head was bent to read properly. It was almost time to 
 light the gas. 
 
 "Gertrude, you have disobeyed me," said Martha in a 
 queer, repressed tone. 
 
 Gertrude looked up and brushed the brown curls back 
 from her face with a small hand. "Father s readin !" she 
 said succinctly. 
 
 "Gertrude, you have disobeyed me," repeated Martha in 
 that same strained tone. As Charles Gedney peered round 
 his small daughter s shoulder at his wife her eyes actually 
 seemed to him to gleam like a cat s in the gathering shadows 
 of the room? It was an impression he was a long time for 
 getting. "I m reading to her," said the husband, his soul 
 suddenly shaken by a strange tremor that he did not like to 
 acknowledge. 
 
 "Gertrude, come here," said Mrs. Gedney, as if unaware 
 of the intrusion of his remark. 
 
 For answer Gertrude clasped both arms about her father s 
 neck and he felt her whole small body quiver as she snuggled 
 farther into his arms. 
 
 "What is the matter, Martha? What is it? What is it, 
 Gertrude?" the confused man asked. 
 
 "I am speaking to Gertrude," said his wife. She had 
 moved farther into the room. By the conflagration of the 
 sunset without, which now lit the room with weird brilliance, 
 he suddenly perceived the glittering tears in her eyes. But 
 her features were set in a strange inexorable mould. 
 
 "What is the matter?" he said again, uncomfortably. 
 "Won t you explain to me?" Gertrude s head burrowed 
 further into his waistcoat. 
 
 "I am speaking to Gertrude," his wife repeated. "If she 
 does not choose to hear me " 
 
 "But what has she done? What is it, Martha? I was 
 just reading her a story. Surely " 
 
 He had made a bad blunder. There was a hint, if only 
 a hint, of aggravation in his tone, but worse than that, there 
 was a hint of partnership in this difference, with Gertrude, 
 
62 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 and a suspicion, unbearable to his wife, that he perceived an 
 emotion in her which she had never admitted to herself. 
 
 "Is is this my child or yours?" The voice seemed 
 strained almost to breaking. It was not her ordinary voice. 
 "Gertrude," this strange voice said again, and this time it 
 quavered with a note of hysteria, "Come here at once !" 
 
 "Shan t", vouchsafed Gertrude muffled into her father s 
 watch pocket. But he was sure that only he had heard it. 
 
 Suddenly Martha Gedney s face broke into one of those 
 distortions that precede weeping. Her arms shook at her 
 sides. She controlled her features by a violent effort. She 
 turned. With a fierce rustle of her dress she left the room. 
 But not before she had directed at the two a glance the in 
 tensity of which Dr. Gedney had never forgotten. Her 
 teeth had showed above her lower lip as her eyes blazed 
 green. 
 
 The instant her mother left the room, Gertrude s head had 
 bobbed up. With another shock, Dr. Gedney perceived that 
 she was laughing. His involuntary championship had been 
 for a child in terror. But Gertrude was gay. 
 
 "Nice Fa-ther," she said in her rich drawl. "Poo-oor 
 Maw-ther," she added astonishingly. She slipped hastily 
 from his arms and ran out of the room. 
 
 The next development had been that, on ascending the 
 stairs, Dr. Gedney had found Gertrude beating at her 
 Mother s locked door with soft calls to her within. There 
 was no response. The questions, and then the entreaties of 
 Dr. Gedney elecited no response either. Finally there came 
 a single harsh, "Go away!" 
 
 In misery of mind he gave Gertrude her supper and put 
 her to bed. In the same misery and growing fear of what 
 might though it seemed a nightmarish impossibility hap 
 pen behind that locked door, he tried to eat his evening meal, 
 and cursed himself for his nerves. In the midst of the meal 
 he heard a footstep on the stair and his wife walked into the 
 room. Her hair showed no disorder, her eyes no trace of 
 tears, her face was composed though unsmiling. "You can 
 
"THE GIRL WHO WAS BURNED UP" 63 
 
 help me to some of those scrambled eggs," she remarked in 
 her peremptory manner, unfolding her napkin. 
 
 Neither then nor thereafter was the incident of her 
 father s reading to Gertrude alluded to between them. He 
 read to her afterwards, frequently. But from that moment 
 he perceived the change between mother and daughter. 
 Now it was the small person who had to sue for attention. 
 The indifference of her mother became a permanent silent 
 indictment. And often now the small cheeks burned from 
 the irradiation of the furnace. Nothing was said, everything 
 was implied. After repeated repulses of affection, Gertrude 
 lived through her most bitter moment of deep realisation. 
 
 The upshot of it all was that she ran away from home at 
 the age of sixteen, and Tupon had never seen her again. 
 There had been after a merely formal relation for several 
 years a most violent difference of opinion with her mother 
 as to the choice of a career. It was a scene Dr. Gedney had 
 come in upon about eight o clock one July evening, after a 
 visit to the Pollocks a scene he never sought to remember 
 and hustled from his thought as soon as it began to be 
 visualized. And Martha had accepted Gertrude s disap 
 pearance far more stoically than anyone else in the town. 
 In fact, he had once or twice caught her smiling a strange 
 secret smile to herself. Some years later she had adopted 
 the orphan baby of her brother, George Cripps, whose wife 
 had died several years before he himself had been killed in a 
 railway accident just beyond Barrack Falls. Then, sud 
 denly, after a brief illness, Martha herself had died with 
 stony decision. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Only a minute or two had elapsed since Dr. Gedney had 
 first taken up the drawing of "The Girl Who Was Burned 
 Up." He roused himself with a sigh and replaced it in the 
 tin box. He replaced the tin box in the desk drawer. There 
 was Annie s step in the hall. The door squeaked its usual 
 squeak as she gingerly opened it. 
 
 "Supper s ready, sir." 
 
64 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "Thank you, Annie. Call Miss Bessie." 
 
 But Bessie s own voice said from behind the portly, 
 kindly-faced figure, 
 
 "I m all ready, father." 
 
 They sat down in the pleasant dining-room to the blue and 
 white china and the jade bowl on the centerpiece wherein 
 Bessie had just arranged some nasturtiums from the border. 
 Bessie fidgeted a little upon her chair and then broke a raisin 
 bun. 
 
 "Uncle Arthur s funny, isn t he?" she ventured with an 
 absent-minded air. 
 
 "Eh?" said Doctor Gedney. "Funny? Oh, yes. Arthur 
 is amusing. But irritating, sometimes," he added. 
 
 "Why?" said Bessie, round-eyed. 
 
 "Why, Bess, I thought that was what you meant. You 
 said he was funny." 
 
 "Oh, no, not that way. He doesn t irritate me at least. 
 But he s so so pishing and pshawing." 
 
 The corners of her father s eyes wrinkled with his smile. 
 
 "You find that amusing? It is, of course." 
 
 "What were his reasons ?" 
 
 "Reasons for what? Oh, but why, when were you 
 listening? When did you come in?" 
 
 "Oh, Fa-ther," Bessie laughed. "You are you are ador 
 able!" 
 
 "Adorable? How?" 
 
 "Why, I was there all the time. Just quietly. Don t you 
 know I m always there quietly?" 
 
 "Well I must say ! Why, of course I don t know it. You 
 shouldn t do that, Bess. What did you hear?" 
 
 "Oh, Uncle Arthur pishing and pshawing. Why doesn t 
 he like Mrs. Ventress?" 
 
 The question came in a more serious tone. Dr. Gedney 
 regarded his younger daughter for so she had become to 
 him with surprised eyes. 
 
 "Well, it was about that, if you want to know. Of course, 
 Arthur " 
 
"THE GIRL WHO WAS BURNED UP" 65 
 
 "But I do know. He s the funniest thing about women, 
 don t you think? He s so distrustful." 
 
 Doctor Gedney looked at her without answering immedi 
 ately. He remembered Arthur s wife. A faint ironic smile 
 tinged his lips. They were all in the same boat human 
 beings. 
 
 "Arthur, I admit, is rather a misogynist," he said. 
 
 "A what ?" asked Bessie. "I suppose that means he hates 
 women. Well, he does." 
 
 "Not hate them," returned her father, helping himself to 
 another creamed potato. "I don t suppose he does trust 
 them, exactly. Well, his reasons were rather absurd in this 
 case, if you ask me." 
 
 "I do. What were they?" 
 
 "He simply says we know nothing about Mrs. Ventress, 
 and that I haven t even seen her yet, and that, being a 
 stranger here, she may be anything or anybody, and that she 
 may be a bad influence for you and oh, Arthur is rather 
 annoying." 
 
 "Amusing," substituted Bessie. "How could he know" 
 her eyes took on again that far-away expression. "How 
 could he poss-ibly know " She left her sentence un 
 finished. 
 
 "Know what?" 
 
 "My dear good angel father," said his daughter, teetering 
 on her chair with some suppressed excitement and waving a 
 creamed potato on her fork as if she were conducting an 
 orchestra, "how could you know either?" 
 
 "What on earth do you mean, Bess ? Do stop waving that 
 thing. What is it?" 
 
 "Mrs. Ventress," intoned Bessie, her eyes sparkling with 
 amusement at her own solemnity of utterance, "is a mythical 
 woman." 
 
 "What on earth ? Here, have a bun. What on earth 
 
 do you mean by that?" 
 
 "She is too lovely. I simply didn t know there were such 
 
66 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 people. And, oh, Father, she can draw like a streak," she 
 finished hurriedly. 
 
 "Yes, that s what you told me. But I must see her, I 
 suppose. If only to be able to answer Arthur more cate 
 gorically. He never will. Catch him out of his museum or 
 his chicken yards. Yet he comes around and paints this 
 direful portrait " 
 
 "My, and how she has improved that house already," ex 
 claimed his daughter, teetering still more before his anxious 
 eyes. "The loveliest blue curtains. Oh, she does look so 
 perfectly adorable in that big grey hat when she s weeding. 
 I don t know, I m sure," Bessie wondered, her eyes blissful 
 and her mouth full of chop, "why she should have taken such 
 a fancy to me!" 
 
 "Yes, I wonder," returned Dr. Gedney, affectionately 
 ironical. "But you really don t know much about her, 
 Bessie, after all." 
 
 "Plenty. She s true-blue. You can tell. And she s so 
 interesting. And there is," his daughter s voice filled with 
 genuine gravity, "such a real affinity between us." 
 
 "Oh, there is," the Doctor s eyebrows lifted in an amazed 
 way and he laughed suddenly through his nose. "Oh, there 
 is I must say well, well is there really?" He recovered 
 his gravity. "Well, Bess, of course I shall have to look into 
 this but, I dare say you re right, I dare say. Affinity. 
 Well, well. Remarkable. Affinity. Remarkable, I must 
 say." 
 
 "It s a perfectly good word," said Bessie, "isn t it?" 
 
 "To be sure. Certainly. A perfectly good word. Affinity. 
 My soul. Yes, of course. A perfectly good word." 
 
 It was easy enough to see, by the way he looked at her 
 and by the manner of his teasing, that Doctor Gedney quite 
 adored his adopted and now his only child. But after 
 sparkling, his eyes dimmed to dreaminess again. Again Ger 
 trude came to him, but this time as the girl of sixteen, the 
 girl of twenty-one years ago. It was almost as if she, in 
 stead of Bessie, were sitting on the opposite side of the table, 
 
"THE GIRL WHO WAS BURNED UP" 67 
 
 lifting her knapkin. A slight, shadowy figure to be sure, with 
 braided brown hair, and eyes of a thoughtful brown as she 
 lifted them. She had grown up a silent and studious girl 
 who kept her thoughts to herself. She had read much with 
 her father in that household so overshadowed by her 
 mother s strangeness. Demonstrative at first, and flighty in 
 temperament, the growing aloofness and attitude of morose 
 disinterest in her mother had gradually changed her. Her 
 school life became her main interest. She moved about her 
 home intent only upon the books she was studying. Her 
 happiest hours seemed those in her father s study of an 
 evening, when he was outlining to her some epoch of history 
 or helping her with a Latin translation. Then her eyes 
 brightened in a way he loved, and her head tilted more and 
 more on one side in some animated discussion. She kindled 
 to a scene in history or to a beautiful line of verse with 
 charming exclamation and gesture. But at meals or in the 
 library living-room she was almost completely silent under 
 the continual sidewise scrutiny of her mother. What she 
 said then was neither inspired or delighted. She dealt in 
 practical things, ordinary bits of town news, mere requests 
 for things on the table, and departed as soon as possible to 
 her own room on the second floor, from which she would 
 descend later to her father s study. 
 
 Dr. Gedney usually sat alone for half an hour or so with 
 his wife after supper. Martha Gedney always had her knit 
 ting. The long ivory needles clicked continually. Little was 
 said. There was always a certain amount of distrust in the 
 occasional glances Martha raised. She sat rehearsing in 
 wardly all the things she could never forgive. The dreamy 
 scholar opposite searched his mind for the millionth time or 
 the ways of his offending. Upstairs for this half hour Ger 
 trude was alone with her green-shaded lamp and her scat 
 tered papers. She had come to love her own book-cluttered 
 room as a fortress into which she could retire from the at 
 mosphere of the house. 
 
 The ticking click of the ivory needles, that long stern face 
 
68 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 above them, eyelids dropped as the compressed lips counted. 
 "Spin, spin, Atropos, spin The intermittent glitter of 
 raised eyes and raised needles. Again the desolating dili 
 gence of dark stitching. 
 
 Dr. Gedney would knock out his pipe carefully into the 
 proper receptacle and rise with an embarassed murmur to his 
 wife. He would cross the room and the hall, closing the 
 door of his study softly behind him. For another half hour 
 or so the three persons in their separate rooms were silent, 
 the two scholars immersed in their books, the third waiting 
 and thinking. With the sound of Gertrude s light step on 
 the stair, Martha Gedney would finally raise her bent head 
 and nod to herself slowly. The signification of a pythia who 
 sees the decree of unjust gods fulfilled. Dr. Gedney had 
 overseen it, without intending to twice, from the hall. 
 
 The ticking click of the ivory needles, knitting time to 
 eternity, knitting his thought to a close-stitched web-work of 
 pain. The desolating diligence of that dark stitching. . , 
 forever and forever. . . . 
 
 "Oh, you funny father do pay some attention !" It was 
 Bessie s voice. "You re not eating your baked apple." 
 
 -Why oh, I m sorry. What is it, Bess?" 
 
 "Are you going to call on Mrs. Ventress, and tell her 
 or shall I? I ll see her to-morrow." 
 
 "I why no, I hadn t intended calling just yet. When 
 will you see her? After school?" 
 
 "Yes. I m always passing her house then and she s usu 
 ally in the garden. Shall I tell her I can take drawing les 
 sons?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so. Why, yes, I guess so. I must call on 
 her, of course. I suppose so. Why, yes, you can arrange it, 
 can t you, Bess?" 
 
 His absent-minded eyes hardly saw her. 
 
 "And Uncle Arthur didn t have any effect, did he?" 
 
 "Arthur? What? Oh, Arthur! Oh, that! Oh, no, Ar 
 thur is rather impetuous, you know. Gets these remarkable 
 ideas. I didn t really pay attention to him this afternoon. 
 
"THE GIRL WHO WAS BURNED UP" 69 
 
 He means well, of course. He s very fond of you, Bess. 
 As long as you learn drawing. That s what you want, isn t 
 it? Well so you really think Mrs. Ventress can help you?" 
 
 "Oh, you remarkable father ! Was anyone ever so way off 
 in space. Why, you saw those drawings of hers. Don t you 
 remember ?" 
 
 "Of course. Yes, of course. So I did. I told Arthur 
 about them, in fact. Didn t I ? Well, you ll see her tomor 
 row. Fix it up." 
 
 He had finished his coffee and rose, a rapier-like figure 
 in black and white, despite his scholar s stoop. He smiled 
 benignly in the general direction of Bessie, and turned to 
 ward the living-room. 
 
CHAPTER IX: ORDEAL 
 
 THE Battell place stood at the intersection of the Axter 
 Road and the Farm Road beyond Wilder s. The Axter 
 Road, paralleling Tupton s Market Street, ran on past the 
 Battell place and more recently built bungalows or more pre 
 tentious houses to the County line. It was unmacadamed, 
 but well kept, lined with tall and beautiful trees. The houses 
 were set back from it with lawns and low hedges. 
 
 Architecturally the Battell place had no claims to beauty. 
 It was gambrel-roofed with three projecting second story 
 windows in front that gave it an appearance somewhat snail- 
 eyed. A north wing had been tacked on which entirely de 
 stroyed whatever original symmetry it may have had. A 
 porch projected to the west, a very pleasant place to spend 
 the morning sewing, but having nothing at all to do with 
 mass values. It was a wooden house, and therefore a myth 
 ological sort of edifice in times like these. It had a de 
 lightful small apple-orchard behind it, a high box hedge all 
 around, pleasant flower beds and a broad white gravel path 
 leading up to it. It had, I fear, a good deal of unnecessary 
 gimcrackery about its trimmings. It had originally loath 
 some thought been painted maroon. Now it was white 
 with cream facings, and that helped a little. It was a stiff 
 and antique house with what seemed a pleasanter smile than 
 formerly. 
 
 Inside the staircase climbed too rigidly and turned too 
 abruptly, but time had given it the tone of old oak and its 
 carpet, its wall on the left, and the rear wall on the landing 
 repeated the pleasing blue of the hall. A short window-seat 
 had been built below the too-narrow window on the landing. 
 The effect was cramped but rather quaint. An atrocious 
 
 70 
 
ORDEAL 71 
 
 chandelier had, however, been removed from the lower hall 
 ceiling. By squinting upward you could but barely mark the 
 slight scar it had left on the creamy surface. 
 
 Mrs. Ventress had done little "making over" of the house, 
 hers being such a short period of occupancy. But her eye 
 for harmonizing colour was excellent and she had improved 
 certain details. 
 
 To-day she stood near the hedge about her front lawn, 
 with clippers poised in her hand. On the other side of the 
 hedge and up the white, hot Axter Road, proceeded an 
 abundant coloured woman with a laundry basket on her 
 head. Her shuffling footsteps came nearer. She stopped 
 suddenly, put down the basket, and, with arms akimbo, 
 spoke over her shoulder: 
 
 "C mon now, Jazz! C mon, baby! Else ah gwine leave 
 yuh. Nobuddy ain gwine huht yuh, Jazz. C mon, baby. 
 Don ack so carntakerous." 
 
 Mrs. Ventress, in her wide floppy hat, peered to see what 
 person had evoked this deluge of ejaculation. Some twenty 
 yards back on the white road she espied the cause of it. A 
 large black cat was sitting on the crown of the road washing 
 its paws with its tongue. 
 
 Suddenly it looked up, licked its whiskers in a sly fashion 
 and then came flexuously bounding toward the coloured 
 woman, tail held erect. Ten yards off it as suddenly stopped 
 again and resumed a sedentary paw-washing. 
 
 "C mon now, Ja-azz," complained the laundress with a 
 rich intonation, rolling the cat s name forth with unction. 
 "Yuh do beat Hell. C mon, baby. Ain t no one gwine huht 
 yuh." 
 
 She was aware of Mrs. Ventress s light laughter from 
 across the hedge. She faced it with a sudden sunrise grin 
 of domino teeth. "Ay-yah," she chuckled wheezily, "ain t 
 dat cat a caution. Ah ll say she is." She stooped to resume 
 her burden, then straightened. "Youse Miss Ventress, 
 aincha. Raickon dis yoh landry. Wait, ah ll bring it in." 
 
72 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "That s a very modern name you ve got for your cat," 
 said Adela from behind the hedge. 
 
 "Yas m. Cat s name Jazzbell, out de Bible. Ise Mefdis 
 Pisk mahseff. Wait hyah, I ll tote dis up n yoh po ch. Well, 
 say, dat s some wash." 
 
 The heavily laden wicker basket scraped on the boards 
 under the wistaria vine. 
 
 "You re Dinah White, aren t you?" Mrs. Ventress asked, 
 coming across the grass. 
 
 "Yas m. Ise Dinah. Gotta lotta linen aincha?" The 
 broad face beamed. "You wan t in, time I got it las Mon 
 day." 
 
 "No, I had gone down street to get one or two things." 
 
 "Yas m. Rele nice maid dat Murree yoh got. Speaks 
 funny donshe?" 
 
 "She s French," said Adela. 
 
 "Dasso? French? Dasso? Hey now, yoh Jazzbell, aincha 
 comin long, tall?" 
 
 The cat so continually addressed lifted large expression 
 less topaz eyes. Perceiving nothing of particular interest in 
 the white face and the black face lifted above the hedge, it 
 relapsed again to licking. 
 
 "You said you were when you were talking about the cat 
 that you were I didn t quite catch it," said Adela, smiling 
 quizzically at her. 
 
 "Wot I say? Bout her name out de Bible? Ise Mefdis 
 Pisk. Pasto Robutts circumjexted dat name." 
 
 "You re what?" asked Adela, her brows even more 
 wrinkled. 
 
 "Mefdis Pisk. Down tuh de Mefdis Pisk Chu ch. Dat s 
 mah damnation. Ah goes reglah. Well now, Jazz, you n 
 Ise bettuh be movin fo home." 
 
 With an ample wave of her arm in farewell and an as 
 surance that she would be "dis way t morrah" to collect her 
 basket with more soiled linen, she swayed with a rolling gait 
 out of the front yard. She halted in the middle of the road 
 again with arms akimbo, regarding the cat. 
 
ORDEAL 73 
 
 "My gawd, Jazz," she ejaculated finally, "yoh is a trile on 
 mah patience. You suah is. Wuss dan wot dat Patch is you 
 is. Ah, clah " 
 
 "Who s Patch?" Mrs. Ventress exhibited further interest. 
 
 "Patch? Oh, he s mah dawg. Rele name s Patcherotter. 
 Some artis tole me dat name. See, Patch s had a lotta dis- 
 tempah. Sump n book bout it same kinda case. All ah 
 know. He sho was one quaint an quizzical man, dat Mistah 
 Lanyon. He paint hyah all one summah. Kin to de Co - 
 neliuses. . . . Well, Jazz," Dinah suddenly bawled, "aincha 
 gwine come. C mon, baby, Ise gwine way f m hyah. Ise 
 gwine leave yuh. Cross mah heaht, ah is. Ise through." 
 
 She turned with an indignant waddle. Her puffing form 
 diminished down the road. The black cat finally bestirred 
 itself. It ceased to polish its fur, looked around idly, got up 
 and stretched. Then suddenly it was away again after 
 Dinah, with light pantherine leaps, and its tail waving like a 
 plume. 
 
 Adela turned back toward the porch after an amused 
 assimilation of this episode. Her eyes and mouth were still 
 puckered as she bent over the laundry basket. Tupton was 
 certainly proving a town for character. She thought them 
 over as she propped open the screen door and began lifting 
 and carrying the laundered linen into the cool and high- 
 ceilinged hall that held the scent of heliotrope she had picked 
 from one of the flower-beds that morning. Marie would 
 carry the linen upstairs for her. As she went back and 
 forth she cast occasional glances into the two large rooms on 
 either side of the hall. In the northeast parlour there was 
 haircloth, of course, and that big framed steel-engraving of 
 "The Stag at Bay". But, despite her own modern ideas of 
 interior decoration, it only seemed an added piquancy. Be 
 sides, it was where one "received callers". The southwest 
 parlour, opening upon the dining-room behind it was the room 
 she had chosen for actually living in. There she had re 
 arranged the furniture and removed or rehung pictures to 
 excite Bessie s admiration. What an odd little girl, Bessie ! 
 
74 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 She and that Miss Crome had so far been the only visitors. 
 What a contrast ! 
 
 Bessie had come in impulsively, yet shyly, peering about 
 her like a bird. The screen door had squeaked, and there 
 was Bessie. Adela had been discovered on her knees in the 
 southwest room beside a large trunk-suitcase containing, 
 among other impedimenta, an old portfolio. She looked up 
 and smiled. Bessie smiled. "Hello !" said Bessie. "I hope 
 you don t mind. I ve come to see you." Five minutes after 
 they were both sitting together on the floor, turning over the 
 drawings. 
 
 "But my ! why didn t you keep it up ?" asked the dark 
 child after a while, fixing adoring eyes upon the older 
 woman. 
 
 "Well," said Adela slowly, "oh, that s a long story. I got 
 turned off took up something else. And now I m sick of 
 
 that. This seems " she held one drawing up at arm s 
 
 length and cocked her head on one side. "It really isn t so 
 bad, is it? You see, I haven t resurrected these for a long, 
 long time." 
 
 "Bad?" said Bessie. "I should say not. Where did you 
 study?" 
 
 "I had a knack, as a girl. You ll let me see some of your 
 own things some time?" 
 
 "Oh, but mine are so awful! You won t want to." 
 
 "Yes, but I do. Maybe I could help you. I m just going 
 to take it up again for fun. Once for a short while I did 
 
 some regular work at it " Mrs. Ventress s voice rather 
 
 trailed away. 
 
 "Oh, would you ?" Bessie s eyes were sparkling. "There s 
 no really good course at the Institute. At least I think and 
 Slade says he s sure I could make lots of money in adver 
 tising." 
 
 "Oh, that s your ambition? And who s Slade?" 
 
 "My cousin. He s an editor in New York. He really is 
 awfully clever. He writes poetry. And I do so want to do 
 
ORDEAL 75 
 
 something. But but I m not father s real daughter, you 
 know. You see you see, Gertrude " 
 
 Adela realised. She looked at Bessie long and search- 
 ingly. The child s eyes were cast down. There was a 
 silence. 
 
 Then Bessie lifted her own eyes and Adela s turned aside. 
 
 "You ll know it sooner or later," said the child to the 
 woman. "You know she ran away Gertrude; well, she 
 was really my cousin; her mother adopted me, afterward. 
 I never knew her, or or my own parents. I was just think 
 ing, Father you see I always think of him as my father 
 says she used to draw too. She was valedictorian, the year 
 she ran away. Then her mother died. It s it s all made 
 father pretty sad," she finished awkwardly. 
 
 Adela sat without replying, her head bent over the draw 
 ings. She nodded her head in sympathy. Bessie could not 
 see her face. "I see," said Mrs. Ventress softly, sympa 
 thetically. "I see," she repeated in an even lower tone, 
 slightly shuffling the drawings. 
 
 "But can t we draw together some evenings at any 
 time that s convenient to you. I really would love to help 
 if there s any way I can. I could show you everything I 
 know myself. Of course, not regular lessons, and just for 
 
 our amusement " She was not looking directly at the 
 
 child. 
 
 "Oh, you are an angel! I d simply adore to. But 
 wouldn t it be imposing ? Could we, next Monday evening ? 
 Today s Friday. Do you suppose we could?" 
 
 "Why, of course, if your father doesn t mind. Could you 
 have supper here on Monday evening?" 
 
 "Oh, could we ? Oh, I really would so love to. I m sure 
 father won t mind. I ll tell him all about it," stated Bessie, 
 scrambling up. "It s awfully kind of you. But you re sure. 
 It won t be imposing. I shouldn t impose." 
 
 "No," said Adela in amusement. "It certainly won t be 
 imposing. And I ll make a nice salad for us. 
 
76 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "And then we ll draw. And you must bring your own 
 work to show me." 
 
 Bessie departed as one walking in a trance, looking back 
 ward and smiling. She waved joyfully from beyond the 
 high hedge. Her hair tossed and flopped as she started 
 briskly toward Poplar Street. 
 
 The visit of Miss Crome had been otherwise. Marie had 
 informed Adela, who was lying down one afternoon, that 
 a lady was in the parlour (the real northeast parlour it 
 proved). Entering the doorway, Adela had felt Marie to 
 be mistaken. This was not so much a lady as a ramrod. 
 
 Miss Sophia Crome sat stiffly upon the extreme edge of 
 the most uncomfortable hair-cloth upholstered chair, clutch 
 ing tightly in her right hand the ivory handle of a faded 
 lavendar sunshade. Her nose seemed as sharp as an awl, 
 and her steel spectacles, supported by its bony ridge, seemed 
 to glitter with something beyond the ordinary properties of 
 steel and glass. Her dress was stiff gray poplin, high at 
 the neck and long in the sleeves. It gave the effect of 
 crackling fiercely as she shifted in her chair. Her lisle 
 thread gloves seemed permanently to clothe her discoverably 
 bony hands. 
 
 She looked up with bright eyes and compact creased jaws 
 that reminded Adela at once of the ebony-plastroned turtle 
 with which a passing black boy had frightened Marie the 
 day before. She bobbed at Adela a bonnet badly mismated 
 to her tightly slicked and knotted iron-gray hair. She sat 
 then with an entirely artificial smile, rubbing the fingers of 
 her gloved hands together, fidgeting in her seat, nodding 
 slightly as if to peculiarly satisfactory thoughts within 
 herself. 
 
 Adela seated herself opposite upon the small sofa, in her 
 gracefully lounging way. She smiled and attempted to be 
 affable. 
 
 "We are glad to greet a newcomer " began Miss 
 
 Crome. She smiled, and Adela immediately distrusted her 
 entirely. Miss Crome hugged herself, bent forward a little, 
 
ORDEAL 77 
 
 and began to put questions. She nodded at the replies. She 
 nodded and looked, with down-drawn upper lip, at the ceil 
 ing. Immediately she discovered that Adela, though evi 
 dently married, did not mention her husband. She nodded 
 at that. She nodded at the indefinite reply to her question 
 as to Adela s occupation in New York. To the general rea 
 son for Adela s coming to Tupton, rest and change of scene, 
 she nodded still more briefly with eyes uplifted. She went 
 on nodding like a mandarin, till, from initial irritation, sup 
 pressed laughter began to rise and fill the whole being of 
 her hostess, showing itself only in the added sparkle of her 
 eyes, which eyelids strove to veil. But, despite all subter 
 fuge, once Miss Crome caught and understood that laugh 
 ing light. She nodded at the discovery till the stiff feather 
 of her bonnet quivered vehemently. 
 
 Thereafter the inquisition ceased. Local history began. 
 The Corneliuses were a most estimable family. Mr. Cor 
 nelius was a victim of hay-fever, a positive victim. He was 
 the town s oldest physician. Mrs. Cornelius was a godly 
 woman. She was also President of the Ladies Aid. The 
 Cornelius children were flighty. This evidently, but not 
 in the same sense as charity, covered a multitude of sins. 
 Dr. Gedney was a queer man. Miss Crome could not un 
 derstand him. His wife had been most estimable most 
 estimable. Mr. Pollock was the brother-in-law. His wife 
 was deceased. This particular calamity was mentioned as 
 with implication. Bessie and Gertrude were touched upon. 
 Very sad, that case. The Brattles kept a good deal to them 
 selves. A very old family. The father, who held an inter 
 est in the Meldon Ironworks, had been brevetted a General 
 in the Civil War. In line with the Brattles, the really old 
 residents of Tupton kept to themselves. Stores had ruined 
 Tupton. Tupton had a proud colonial history. 
 
 The families at the three different farms did not mingle 
 much with the people of the town. Never had. The Say res 
 were recent. The Cripps were an old and peculiar family. 
 Mr. Whinnymuir was the undertaker, a god-fearing man. 
 
,78 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Mr. Brixton was the sexton of the Presbyterian Church. 
 He lived next to Mr. Whinnymuir on Laurel Street. Miss 
 Crome supposed that Mrs. Ventress was a Presbyterian. 
 No? How strange! Dr. Amendis was the pastor of the 
 Presbyterian Church. He was indeed the Lord s right hand 
 and had seven children. Mrs. Ventress would doubtless 
 take an interest in the Ladies Aid of the Episcopal Church. 
 No? She was not an Episcopalian? Doubtless she was a 
 Methodist. It would be so strange to think that she was a 
 Unitarian! A Quaker? There were several Quakers in 
 Tupton. Surely not a Catholic? 
 
 Miss Crome was puzzled. No, but Mrs. Ventress must 
 be joking. She must have some real religion. An Agnos 
 tic? Of what denomination was that a sect? Of none? 
 Surely but that was being the same as an atheist! The 
 bonnet nodded violently. The jaws became still more 
 creased, the lips still more pursed. The spectacles flashed 
 in positive agitation. The ramrod began to quiver. The 
 eyes sought far corners for refuge and found none. Miss 
 Crome was standing. Her head was nodding like that of 
 one with an uncontrollable nervous affection. She really 
 must be going. She hoped Mrs. Ventress would call. She 
 had come to welcome her to Tupton. Agnostic but, dear, 
 dear! Yes, a pretty house. Mr. and Mrs. Battell were 
 such estimable, god-fearing people. Estimable. So estim 
 able. Moving stiffly to the door, it was most unfortunate that 
 at that very moment Miss Crome suddenly came face to 
 face with The Desecration. This was in the shape of a 
 small jade dish of Adela s set upon a pie-crust table belong 
 ing to the Battells. 
 
 Marie had been requested to remove what reposed in it, 
 and had forgot. Miss Crome s eyes stared unbelievingly 
 as she glared at the half-smoked Melachrino which had long 
 since gone out and now presented but a blackened stump. 
 Miss Crome s eyes rolled heavenward and she sniffed an 
 imperceptible sniff. She said nothing, however. She 
 paused only an instant. She smiled in a glaringly arti- 
 
ORDEAL 79 
 
 ficial way as she said good-bye at the door. She did not 
 repeat her invitation to call. She moved down the path like 
 a rigid automaton in bristling poplin. Turning toward Pop 
 lin Street her acute, parrot-like profile swam along the top 
 of the hedge, austere and forbidding. Behind her the clouds 
 above the Hill were piled grey for rain. The sunlight of 
 the day had gone. In the porch Adela stood with finger 
 and thumb at her mouth, biting her lip. But when her hand 
 dropped she was seen to be smiling. Her laughter, the 
 moment that she entered the house, surprised Marie in the 
 upper hall. Marie was glad that this strange change of 
 scene seemed to be doing her mistress so much good. 
 
 Yes, there were characters in Tupton. Indubitably ! Mr. 
 Gartner, for instance, at the Post Office, who had, ever since 
 her arrival, treated her with special consideration. A funny 
 little embarrassed man. Jason Duffit who was rather portly, 
 almost incoherent, and puffed. There was something pe 
 culiar about his eyes. She did not quite like the look in 
 them. The tradespeople she had found inquisitive and ap 
 praising, but pleasant and obliging upon the whole. By 
 now the town seemed to have accepted her. She had arrived 
 quietly and had been driven to her new home in the herdic 
 of Alexis White. He wore a faded and tattered porter s 
 cap and a permanent placating smile. He met all trains for 
 the Conestoga House and conveyed many old residents to 
 their destinations. A new and extremely intermittent trol 
 ley system, running down one street only, hardly availed 
 for proper transportation to the station, though it was some 
 times useful if one wished to get, between trains, to Barrack 
 Falls. Alexis White was as black and shiny as a shoe- 
 button. He was the husband of Dinah, and they lived in a 
 small house on the road to the Bottom, with the cat Jezebel, 
 the dog, Patch, and an odd assortment of piccaninnies. 
 Dinah always seemed to be vague about the exact number. 
 But the Bottom was so full of picanninies, and they mingled 
 so together, that this was, perhaps, excusable. 
 
80 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Adela finished removing and folding the laundry and 
 called to Marie. It was half-past three in the afternoon. 
 
 While the maid disposed of the linen, Mrs. Ventress pro 
 ceeded about the mahogany dining-room table in a leisurely 
 manner, setting it for a simple supper. This was the eve 
 ning of Bessie s coming, to which Dr. Gedney had assented. 
 She was glad Bessie was coming. She wondered certain 
 things about the child, wistfully, And, laying down a but- 
 terknife at Bessie s place, the old dull pain manifested itself 
 again, the perpetuated pain of lovely memory. If he had 
 only lived . . . Their home. She might have been setting 
 the table . . . Two deep lines came between her brows. 
 
 That was why there had never been any other, never 
 could be any other. A strange thing, but true. All that she 
 would have done for him . . . Oh, well, her temperament 
 was not to be sad. Suddenly she shrugged and snapped her 
 fingers. Then she stood perfectly quiet, rigidly erect. Her 
 face set. It looked ten years older. They had understood, 
 they two. They had understood. Life. That was all. Her 
 
 tenseness relaxed and she went on quietly setting the table. 
 * * * 
 
 Miss Crome had been a self-appointed pursuivant. Miss 
 Crome considered herself the Eyes of Tupton. Half of 
 Tupton looked upon Miss Crome as a silly eccentric old 
 gossip, and half of it accepted her at her own valuation. 
 The half that accepted her were The Ten. Not so the hoi 
 polloi whose number increased and flourished. This also 
 was the half of Tupton that evinced only a passing interest 
 in the coming of Adela Ventress. They, in their own par 
 lance had "sized her up" early. She was a "good-looker" 
 but quiet, retiring, "slow" (in some mysterious connota 
 tion), and too old. They put her down immediately as a 
 "lady". They supposed The Ten would take her up. But 
 she was not for them, though they had adopted an affable 
 enough attitude toward her with some covert admiration, 
 on the part of the girls, for the way she dressed. And that 
 she was "from New York" leant a certain glamour. They 
 
ORDEAL 81 
 
 returned her courtesy with their own best courtesy, but she 
 was not one of them. They passed her by. 
 
 Of course, upon the part of the whole town there had 
 originally been much conjecture and gossip about the new 
 comer. If she had appeared in an underslung French car, 
 with a theatrical rake to her hat, and evidences of over- 
 preparation in her complexion, the sprightlier element of 
 Tupton would have solidly been "for her", no matter how the 
 Old Residence Block might have shivered with repulsion. 
 As it was, Adela repelled them somewhat by a cultivated 
 intonation and an aloofness from their festivities. When 
 ever any of the "newer element" passed her gate afoot or 
 in somewhat rattling cars, she was perceived quietly weed 
 ing, picking flowers, or reading upon the porch. Again, 
 they had several times met her walking alone, a book tucked 
 under her arm, a sunshade resting against her shoulder. 
 They had decided that she was partly a snob and partly 
 "queer". 
 
 In the stores of the shopping block on Market Street you 
 would have heard only vague expressions of goodwill. If 
 Dinah White might speak for The Bottom, the impression 
 was that Adela was a "right stylish lady" and "she treats 
 yuh right". Mrs. Gartner represented another stratum of 
 local opinion. 
 
 "Something funny about that New York lady of yours, / 
 think," she told her husband, the possessive intimation being 
 mere domestic malice. "I hear nobody gets on with her 
 very well. She s too standoffish. About the only one seems 
 real friendly to her is that young Bessie Gedney. And an 
 older woman like that s not good for such a young girl. 
 They re together all the time. That Doctor Gedney don t 
 seem to have the sense he was born with. He never seems 
 to know whether he has a child or not. Those two are 
 thicker n thieves. Wish she was my child. I d put a stop 
 to it. It s got around she s teaching her drawing " 
 
 "Who s teaching which ?" interrupted Mr. Gartner, spear 
 ing a fried potato at his supper. 
 
82 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "That Mrs. Ventress teaching Bessie of course. A child 
 like that. There s something wrong about it." 
 
 " Bout what? Drawin pictures? Seems sort of foolish 
 but I can t say s I see any harm to it," returned Mr. Gartner. 
 
 "Course not," his spouse glared. "I mean such a friend 
 ship. And this Mrs. Ventress never does go to church 
 either. Ain t been seen in one. And both the Presbyterian 
 and Piscopal ministers have called." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Gartner liberally. "There s some don t 
 hold by religion " 
 
 Mrs. Gartner bristled. 
 
 " Tain t whether you hold by it or don t hold by it/ she 
 pronounced. "It s goin to church and keepin civilised." 
 
 This way of putting it seemed final. 
 
 "Jase Duffit was sayin somethin to me like that," an 
 swered Mr. Gartner. "He s real shocked at some things 
 that Miss Crome told him about Mrs. Ventress. B lieve she 
 found her smokin a cigarette. We-el, I told him, there s 
 no countin for tastes. Guess it won t more n give her a 
 sore throat." 
 
 "S pose you d like to see me smokin a pipe? his wife in 
 terrogated acidly. 
 
 "We-el," returned Mr. Gartner, "at that, my grandmam 
 done it. Remember as a boy seein her puff at a clay. It 
 looked rele perculiar." 
 
 This anecdote had never yet failed to plunge Mrs. Gart 
 ner into resentful and morose brooding. Her lips puckered 
 tightly. She answered nothing. 
 
 Mr. Gartner felt the silence. "Come, Ag," he remarked 
 with a lugubrious smile. "Come out of it. I m sorry. I 
 didn t mean nothin . But I daresay that woman s all right," 
 he added. "You know well as I how talk gits around." 
 
 "After all," he continued later, "Jase Duffitt rented her 
 the house and the Battells was satisfied. Jase even met that 
 New York feller come down to vouch f er her. An I under 
 stand she paid up in advance. But Jase is perculiar too. 
 He s always believin stories, ever since I ve known m. He s 
 
ORDEAL 83 
 
 fidgety-like. And you know after all there s somethin sly 
 about Jase, somethin I never liked someway. Can t just 
 explain it. He s honest enough, I guess. But he listens too 
 much to that Miss Crome, an her tongue wags at both ends. 
 Do you like that woman, Ag?" 
 
 "Miss Sophia Crome is a perfect lady s far s I ve seen," 
 said Mrs. Gartner, with asperity, rattling dishes in the sink. 
 "She may wag her tongue, but I m sure she don t mean no 
 harm by it. She ain t standoffish and peculiar anyway. 
 She s rele neighbourly." 
 
 "Yes," ruminated Mr. Gartner. "She s neighbourly, as 
 you call it, and then again she ain t. That is, you might put 
 it, she s too nosey. She goes around too much spreading 
 gossip." 
 
 "I ain t," was Mr. Gartner s last remark on that particular 
 subject that evening, "I ain t so keen f er that Sophia Crome." 
 
 And, after all, Adela s relations with the tradespeople of 
 the town excited no criticism. She seemed to know how 
 to run her own house and she paid her bills. True, there 
 was some discussion of the occupation and whereabouts of 
 her husband. She was evidently not a widow. She was, as 
 evidently, a lady. A few ingenuously inquisitive souls who 
 had evinced an undue interest in her married state had re 
 tired baffled, not by ambiguity or rudeness, but by a calm 
 and dexterous changing of the subject, with perfect good 
 nature. Not possessing Mrs. Ventress s aplomb they with 
 drew to mull over their own conjectures. It was believed, 
 however, that she and her husband had separated. 
 
 There was much conjecture in certain quarters. Two 
 people in the town never met now that they did not con 
 jecture. Miss Crome already knew all that Jason Duffitt 
 could supply as to Mrs. Ventress s identity. It was not much, 
 save that she had been properly vouched for and had paid 
 for the house in advance. On the other hand Jason listened 
 with puffy interest to Miss Crome s weighing of probabili 
 ties. Meanwhile a shadow like a dark dog lay asleep in the 
 June sunshine of Market Street, where daily the conversing 
 
84 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 and huckstering populace passed. The shadow sometimes 
 raised a vague ill-shapen head to sniff at trivial things. 
 Adela, as she passed back and forth to market or her favour 
 ite stores walked unaware of the shadow, that potential 
 guardian of the public peace of mind that can be tragically 
 aroused to run baying through the streets of the most som 
 nolent of villages. 
 
 Miss Crome s call had resulted in what, to her, seemed 
 dubious discoveries. Several other incursions upon Adela s 
 initial isolation thickened the mystery. Mrs. Adolphus 
 Frazee, for instance, had called, in the Frazee s new and 
 glossy Packard, a magnificent concession to the spirit of the 
 times. Mrs. Frazee, sleek, pursed and portly in her blue 
 dress with white facings, her blue but otherwise indescrib 
 able hat perking neatly from above her eminently sensible 
 coiffure, had laid, with an air, upon Marie s extended tray, 
 two cards engraved "Mr. Adolphus Frazee", "Mrs. Frazee". 
 With the phantom presence of the temporarily absent 
 Adolphus supporting her, she had swept into the northeast 
 parlour. 
 
 Adela had come in from the vegetable garden. She wore 
 a dark blue house dress with a Dutch neck and elbow sleeves. 
 It gave her a youthful appearance. She had stopped to wash 
 her hands and tidy her hair, but she still looked slightly 
 distrait with digging. 
 
 "How do you do. I am Mrs. Frazee," said that lady, with 
 quite a self-satisfied intonation, nodding slightly, slightly 
 rising. 
 
 "Don t get up," said Adela quickly. "How do you do. 
 I ve been gardening. You ll excuse me, won t you." 
 
 They exchanged the ordinary conversational openings for 
 several minutes, during which time Mrs. Frazee noted that 
 Adela s skirt was quite short and that she crossed her knees. 
 
 By a most unfortunate turn of topic they got on the sub 
 ject of Labour, and Mrs. Ventress expressed a rather cloudy 
 sympathy with the West Virginian miners. Upon the sub 
 ject of Servants she seemed, however, more "sound" ex- 
 
ORDEAL 85 
 
 cept that she declared she had had small trouble in securing 
 a cook. 
 
 "Do you expect your husband to join you for the sum 
 mer?" inquired Mrs. Frazee in her impeccable manner. 
 
 "My husband!" Adela returned, evidently quite at sea 
 for a moment. "Oh ! My husband ! No. No, he won t be 
 out here. Business, business in New York." 
 
 Mrs. Frazee nodded gravely and let it be understood that 
 she saw. She cast down her eyes as Adela slightly turned 
 her head away. Evidently, considered Mrs. Frazee, viewing 
 nevertheless the bitten lip and half-closed eyes of her agi 
 tation, quite evidently they were, as people had said, sep 
 arated. 
 
 Mrs. Frazee said nothing more for a moment. Mrs. 
 Ventress turned the subject to other matters. Mrs. Vent- 
 ress s lips were certainly very red. Mrs. Frazee won 
 dered . Mrs. Ventress spoke of herself, in passing, as 
 
 a feminist. Mrs. Frazee did not exactly understand, but 
 
 she thought that Adolphus . Mrs. Ventress certainly 
 
 was not so enthusiastic about the League of Nations as was 
 Rebecca Stone. Still, she quoted from one of Senator 
 Lodge s speeches and ridiculed it in one biting sentence. 
 
 Tht tht Mrs. Frazee was sure that Adolphus ! 
 
 Adolphus, however, did not believe in Prohibition either. 
 Mrs. Ventress had said she saw no harm in cocktails. Well, 
 of course, Mrs. Frazee had known that that was New York. 
 Mrs. Ventress got on books and mentioned several novels 
 Mrs. Frazee had not read. Mrs. Frazee spoke of "Pen- 
 dennis. Mrs. Ventress got Mrs. Frazee mixed up on "Pen- 
 
 dennis." She had not read it for so long . Mrs. Ventress 
 
 begged her pardon, but wasn t Rosie Mackenzie in "The 
 Newcomes" instead? And didn t Mrs. Frazee like Captain 
 Costigan? Well, no, Mrs. Frazee had never quite approved 
 Captain Costigan. He was, well, rather outlandish. Mrs. 
 Frazee quoted inaccurately in illustration. Mrs. Ventress 
 said wasn t that said, though, by Major Pendennis? Mrs. 
 Ventress quoted smilingly to the point. Mrs. Frazee felt un- 
 
86 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 comfortable. Mrs. Frazee must be going. Couldn t Mrs. 
 Ventress come to dinner next Monday? So delighted to 
 have her. She would like her to see her new dahlias. Well, 
 good-bye. yes, yes, good-bye. . . . 
 
 Others from the Old Residence Block had called. The 
 Miss Babbitts had found her too girlish. "She is rather 
 pretty, but she seems too well aware of it. She swears too. 
 She said Damn ! when her dress caught in the door. You 
 heard her, Clara!" Thus the elder Miss Babbitt, whose 
 idea of extreme frivolity was still a game of croquet on 
 their seemly back lawn. The Miss Babbitts were fifty and 
 fifty-two. They lived in the days of the Civil War. They 
 wore black for parents dead thirty years ago. They re 
 sembled perambulating vegetables. They had vegetable 
 faces. The stouter Miss Babbitt looked like a potato, the 
 leaner like a carrot. Their entire lives had been spent in 
 provincial affluence and the parental domicile. Life was 
 something they had heard about, but they had not been in 
 troduced. 
 
 "Hardly pretty, I should say," the Potato Miss Babbitt 
 supplied. "Rather affected for a woman of her evident 
 age. But what seems rather sad is that she has so little 
 sense of humour. She did not smile once at that story of 
 Uncle Harry and Mrs. Mixter s horse. That is always the 
 test, to me." 
 
 Mrs. Ventress had come to dinner at Mrs. Frazee s in 
 what seemed a very sheer black net. She seemed entirely 
 unconscious of her white neck and arms. Mrs. Frazee could 
 not be unconscious of them. It was apparent that neither 
 General Brattle nor young Harry Persons were uncon 
 scious. It was grave that Adolphus seemed so Conscious. 
 It was unnecessary that Mrs. Ventress should have dressed 
 in that manner. 
 
 It went quite smoothly for a while. Mrs. Ventress was 
 perhaps too much engaged in conversation with the men on 
 her right and left. Conversation should be more general. 
 However, Mr. Mixter launched forth on the subject of 
 
ORDEAL 87 
 
 women. It was as certain as fate. Mrs. Ventress spiritedly 
 did not concur. She was being satiric. She was making Mr. 
 Mixter listen. The whole table was listening. 
 
 Mr. Jeremiah Mixter was answering. He was annoyed. 
 Adolphus was plunging in. Adolphus always plunged so. 
 Mrs. Ventress was a bright defiance. Rebecca Stone, though 
 she could not get a word in, was looking at Mrs. Ventress 
 with a new interest, from the opposite side of the table. Mrs. 
 Ventress had shrugged very slightly and had resumed eating 
 her fish. She was talking to young Harry Persons on her 
 left. 
 
 General Brattle and Dr. John Cornelius had joined in 
 anathematising the world-state idea. Mrs. Ventress was 
 still talking to Harry Persons, about the theatre. The con 
 versation anent the world-state crackled generally. Mrs. 
 Ventress had ventured the opinion that an international 
 court to adjudicate the claims of all nations, might, in spite 
 of present disappointments, lie among the possibilities of 
 future civilisation. Dr. John was sonorously quoting Sena 
 tor Borah. Mrs. Ventress had said something flippant about 
 Senator Borah. Rebecca Stone laughed at it, and Mrs. 
 Ventress looked across the table, smiling at her. Finally, 
 it seemed that she was somehow teasing General Brattle 
 about Preparedness. General Brattle was gobbling like a 
 bubblyjock. He was being very crushing, saying, "But my 
 dear young lady !" Mrs. Ventress was being humour 
 ous about her age. Mrs. Frazee sighed heavily. This would 
 never do. Really, really! She signalled her husband that 
 they were to rise. 
 
 Harry Persons said afterward that Mrs. Ventress was 
 an extraordinarily interesting woman. General Brattle had, 
 however, departed without saying good-night to her. 
 Adolphus was irritated. Jeremiah Mixter seemed for once 
 to have nothing to say. Next day the feminine element, 
 meeting at tea at the Miss Babbitts expressed in various 
 feminine fashion their distaste. There was something un 
 womanly ; there was a hard veneer, a sophistication ; she had 
 
88 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 told Mr. Burley a story, oh, no, not exactly improper, but 
 just a trifle too witty. She was a pretty little thing, but 
 Randolph Utterson had used the right word, "opinionated" ; 
 she was faded looking and General Brattle, even though so 
 Conscious, had said she was tiresome ; she moved in quite 
 oh, quite a different world, the Carrotish Miss Babbitt was 
 sure. Only Rebecca Stone, coming in late, with her air of 
 eye-glassed independence, absent-mindedly asked them all 
 what on earth they were all talking about and pronounced 
 Mrs. Ventress "an acquisition". She, Rebecca, intended go 
 ing to see her to-morrow. She, Mrs. Ventress, had read 
 "Candide". 
 
 No one else present had read "Candide". And anyway 
 that was exactly like Rebecca. There was a feeling that 
 she would not be at all good for Rebecca. She would "en 
 courage" her. 
 
 Mrs. Ventress called upon Mrs. Frazee when Mrs. Fra- 
 zee was out. She did not leave a card. That seemed, well 
 too casual. Mrs. Ventress was passing Jeremiah Mixter 
 on the street, with the Gedney girl, and did not see him. 
 Mrs. Ventress and the Gedney girl seemed too intimate. 
 Rebecca Stone had borrowed several books from Mrs. Vent 
 ress. They were French novels. It was no secret now that 
 Mrs. Ventress smoked cigarettes. Caroline Utterson also 
 had heard her swear again. She did not go to church. She 
 rarely crossed Market Street. Rebecca Stone reported that 
 Mrs. Ventress was now reading Nietzche. Harry Persons 
 had met Mrs. Ventress by accident one afternoon or was 
 it? and had walked down Sycamore Street with her. Mrs. 
 Harry Persons declared herself not at all worried, but both 
 the Miss Babbitts felt outraged. Poor little Ethel ! 
 
 There is no predicting the silliness of small communities 
 and then, of course, there are innumerable instances large 
 and small beside that of Giordano Bruno who was burned 
 at the stake because he felt that Aristotle was, perhaps, too 
 provincially hasty in believing the earth to be the centre of 
 the universe. 
 
ORDEAL 89 
 
 Adela took many long walks by herself past the farms 
 and through the fields near Tupton. Unwittingly by so 
 doing she broke unwritten law for one of her caste. She 
 was seen climbing over a rail fence. She was even, once, * 
 and this was regarded as a fiery portent overlooked from 
 the passing car of Dr. John Cornelius, wading in the shal 
 lows of the Passamint near the bridge beyond the Cripps 
 farm. True, the place chosen was secluded. If Dr. Cor 
 nelius had not had carburetor trouble at that point . A 
 
 book lay open on the bank, beside a pair of small discarded 
 Oxfords. But really ! A married woman ! By the way, you 
 know, she never mentions her husband! No, Mrs. Frazee 
 is absolutely certain he is not dead. Not dead but wading ! 
 
 There is some wildness there is something . It was 
 
 agreed that There Was Something. 
 
 Meanwhile, except for her roaming and reading, (the 
 scandalous incident of the wading was the only occasion of 
 its kind, fortunately) the subject of all these almost daily 
 discussions continued to conduct her household and her daily 
 affairs in a competent, unobtrusive manner. At least she 
 had sealed to her Dinah White. At least the grocery boy 
 from Ratcliffe s confided to her the true facts about his 
 collection of snapping-turtles and his mastery of an out- 
 drop. At least Bessie Gedney continued to find her a won 
 derful exemplar in the art of making things look like some 
 thing in a few lines. At least the tradespeople with whom 
 she had to do began to look forward to her pleasant manner 
 and her smile and her pretty clothes as she entered their 
 stores from the morning glare of Market Street. 
 
 As to Tupton society, it is indubitable that Adela s des 
 tiny was to fall between two stools. While the all-powerful 
 Ten certainly accepted her as a "lady", they soon came to 
 look upon her askance. She seemed to them a potential in 
 cendiary. She puzzled and irritated them by possession of 
 too much general information. She had an exasperating 
 way of questioning all statements made ex cathedra. And 
 that was the prerogative, unimpeached heretofore, of their 
 
90 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 accepted leaders. That her manner in argument was charm 
 ingly well-bred made it particularly hard to bear. Their 
 pet prejudices seemed to cause her more quiet amusement 
 than discomfiture. She had now withdrawn gracefully into 
 her own silence. She bowed agreeably to all of them upon 
 the street, but had quietly manoeuvred herself into the posi 
 tion of remaining quite outside their influence. Finally, she 
 had committed the unpardonable sin of momentarily shak 
 ing The Ten s confidence in themselves. Highly Abderitan ! 
 The natives of that section of Thrace were famed of old, as 
 you know, for a certain lack of intelligence. They could 
 not forgive her, so they tried to forget her. And as the 
 Other Half Rome had already adopted that attitude, for 
 other reasons, Adela found herself singularly alone in Tup- 
 ton, so far as local society was concerned. And this suited 
 he r exactly. It was deeply restful. 
 
CHAPTER X: UNCLE ARTHUR SYMPATHIZES 
 WITH XERXES 
 
 IN the rear of Uncle Arthur s big back-yard was a chicken- 
 house about fourteen by twenty-four with shrubbery 
 against the fence to the north of it and a wired run extending 
 parallel to its westward facing front. Its ridgepole was 
 about seven feet from the ground, its roof covered with tar- 
 paper. In the run the game chickens strutted and pecked. 
 The black-breasted ones with their greyish-brown, salmon- 
 breasted hens; the red pyle cocks with orange hackle and 
 saddle, and their white hens; the orange-legged Cornish 
 Indians in bright brown and glossy green. They made a 
 fine showing. 
 
 "And what s the jet black one?" asked Bessie. 
 
 "Black Sumatra. You don t see so many round here. 
 There s the hen too good layer and a good mother. I ll 
 bet that s a seven-pound hen. The blacks have heavier feath 
 ers. But that red Game s the standard fowl. Those Indian 
 Games are the heaviest. There s a hen weighs eight and a 
 half. I cured that brown red Game hen, that dark one with 
 the lemon hackle cured her of the roup. You can t if it s 
 advanced. That one over there, with the lemon colour 
 lacing." 
 
 "How did you?" 
 
 "That !" Uncle Arthur turned around and pointed to the 
 cellar-door near which stood a red-banded silverly shining 
 kerosene oil can. 
 
 "Or rather I filled a sewing-machine can from it and got 
 the oil into her nose and beak. Then of course I put some 
 condition powder into her mash and aconite in her drinking 
 water. Looks pretty now, don t she?" 
 
 Bessie nodded. 
 
 91 
 
92 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Uncle Arthur was meditatively full of his subject and 
 went on spasmodically. 
 
 "Of course these aren t what they call pit fowl. They re 
 exhibition birds. Remember when I showed them at the 
 Meldon County Fair ? Long leg and neck s what you want. 
 What you must have. Short-feathered saddle. Short 
 hackle. Pit fowl have lots of hackle. Notice these don t. 
 There s a duck-wing. Ain t that a beauty?" 
 
 He pointed out a golden male with straw-coloured neck 
 and saddle and a shining coppery back. A blue-black bar 
 striped each wing. 
 
 "Where s Ptolemy?" asked Bessie, peering. 
 
 "The one your father named? He s that Sumatra with 
 the long tail. The one lifting his feet over there. Got three 
 spurs on his leg see?" 
 
 "My, you know a lot about them, Uncle Arthur !" 
 
 "Oh, no. Very little. A hobby of mine. Old man must 
 have his hobby, you know. Want to see inside?" 
 
 He entered the small door in the west end and stood in 
 the four-foot alleyway on the north side of the building. 
 Bessie peered around at the nest-boxes, the platform-raised 
 roosts and the dust-box in the corner. It was smelly. The 
 feed-trough ran low near the floor in front and beyond her. 
 There was a water-dish at the end of the feed-trough. The 
 floor was boarded. 
 
 "What s that box for?" 
 
 "Dust. Fowls get verminous in late fall and winter if 
 they can t get a dust-bath. Get it in the summer but in 
 cold weather they re so cooped up. I ll fill that from the 
 Axter Road. Good fine dust there." 
 
 They returned outside and visited the several brood coops 
 set in another wired inclosure. The flaps of the coops were 
 up and yellow and brown puffballs cheeped up and down 
 behind a netting to the spasmodic clucking of their alert 
 mothers. Bessie indulged in many pointings, adorations, 
 exclamations. Uncle Arthur puffed at his pipe and went 
 over to examine a ripening pear-tree for scale. 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR SYMPATHIZES 93 
 
 "So Slack s coming for the Fourth/ he remarked finally, 
 when he had satisfied himself that the spray-pump was not 
 needed just yet. 
 
 Bessie turned and came over to him. 
 
 "He ll get here to-morrow night. Won t it be nice to 
 see him?" 
 
 "Right you are, Bess. It will be nice. How long is he 
 going to stay?" 
 
 "Just till Monday. Over the Fourth. But he s promised" 
 Bessie emphasized, "to come later for his vacation too. 
 Don t you like Slade, Uncle Arthur ? I think he s fine, don t 
 you?" 
 
 Her relative cast a sidelong quizzical glance at her, re 
 moved his grey cap and scratched the top of his head. His 
 astigmatic eye twinkled like a spark. "Yes," he nodded 
 judgmatically. "I like Slade. Like him all right. He s a 
 nice boy. Don t understand some of his ideas. That stuff 
 he writes is way over my head. But I like Slade. He s got 
 a lot to learn, but he knows it. His mother used to 
 worry about him, but he seems doing well in this magazine 
 work. Haven t seen him, let s see, going on two years. He s 
 got good manners, that boy. He may amount to something." 
 
 "But he isn t a boy, Uncle Arthur! Why he s really 
 assistant editor of the Colosseum. And there s that book 
 of his poetry. He didn t have to pay for it being published, 
 you know. They " 
 
 "Poetry mm !" said Uncle Arthur, rolling his astigmatic 
 eye. "Well, you know, Bess, my taste runs to chickens. He 
 didn t have to pay for it no. But neither did it pay him. 
 Fell pretty flat. He told me so himself. Well, it s his 
 hobby only it seems to me hobbies are more in line for us 
 old fellows. Still, he s done well for himself." 
 
 "But Uncle Arthur you are er preposterous. Slade s 
 a real writer. He has the gift. Father thinks so. Don t 
 you see that what he writes is the really important thing 
 not the magazine work? Don t you see that, you funny 
 old Uncle Arthur?" 
 
94 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 In her Bessieish way she was doing what looked like a 
 few minuet steps in front of him. Her black hair was in a 
 tangle about her face and her black eyes were sparkling. 
 She tossed her hair back from her eyes with the aid of both 
 hands, and then stood gracefully slouching with a hand on 
 either hip, her head slightly cocked on one side. 
 
 Uncle Arthur was looking away over the top of the house. 
 
 "Eh ! Oh, all right, Bess. Well, what s he going to bring 
 with him? Fire-crackers?" 
 
 "Fire-crackers !" Bessie s lip curled with pleasing scorn. 
 "Though of course we ll have some fireworks in the orchard 
 that night. Uncle Arthur, you know we ll have fireworks 
 in the orchard?" she finished pleadingly, with a strangely 
 childish reversal of the semi-adult tone with which she had 
 begun. 
 
 "Oh, absolutely, Bess, we ll have fireworks," Uncle Ar 
 thur promised, his enormous girth slightly agitated by inner 
 laughter. "Slade ll make a fizzle of the pinwheels again, 
 though. Remember two years ago?" 
 
 "He won t!" she answered with spirit. "You know he 
 won t. You re teasing. And of course I suppose Adela 
 will be invited," she added in a very dignified tone. 
 
 "Adela?" Uncle Arthur immediately frowned suspicion. 
 "Adela who?" 
 
 "Mrs. Ventress. She s my best friend now in Tupton 
 and she s the most adorable person and you know she has 
 been teaching me drawing and she would simply love the 
 fireworks I m sure and she gets so little fun." 
 
 The sentence streamed forth with a total lack of punc 
 tuation. It was possessed of cumulative earnestness. 
 
 Uncle Arthur s frown had deepened. He bit his lip. The 
 grey cap had been replaced, much over his nose. He seemed 
 extremely interested in contemplating the ridgepole of his 
 house from several angles. His colour heightened and a 
 certain stubborn oaken quality seemed to creep into the bag- 
 giness of his clothes. 
 
 "Look here, Bess, I think nothing of it!" he said. "I 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR SYMPATHIZES 95 
 
 er I ve been meaning to speak to you for some time about 
 
 that. I er you know I don t like I mean to say " 
 
 his voice got thicker, preluding, as Bessie well knew, some 
 sort of outburst. Uncle Arthur could never express his 
 deepest emotions. His endeavours at tact always culmi 
 nated in some explosive phrase which hardly clarified the 
 situation. 
 
 "Oh, Goliath," he suddenly exclaimed. "It s the trouble 
 is well, what do any of us know about that woman, Bess. 
 I ve been seriously worried. About you. You know Charley 
 oh Mammonites ! you know your father. It seems ut 
 terly inexcusable of him. Why did he do it? Oh, great 
 leaping trout! I am inclined utterly to give it up!" 
 
 His agitation was apparent in the irascible bumbling of 
 his syllables and the vast shrugging of his shoulders. He 
 began to walk up and down with his hands behind his back. 
 
 Bessie had expected something of the kind. She stood 
 slowly scraping the toe of one low tan shoe into the dirt 
 around the root of an apple tree. Her hair flopped over her 
 eyes. She said nothing. 
 
 Uncle Arthur quickened the pace of his short walking to 
 and fro. He glanced at her ever and anon worriedly out 
 of the corner of his better eye. He crammed his cap more 
 fiercely upon his head. He bit upon his pipe. 
 
 Suddenly Bessie raised her head, shook back her hair 
 and laughed. He halted with pipe drooping from his lip, 
 in front of her. 
 
 "Oh, you great goose," she said in the occasional ageless 
 feminine tone that always checkmated him. "What is the 
 matter? As if she could hurt me!" 
 
 "Well, it is that !" said her huge relative in a tone singu 
 larly boyish and contrite for all his years. But he reverted 
 almost immediately to the more pompous. 
 
 "It s this, Bess. If Charley won t see it properly, why I 
 do. There s talk about it already in the town. It isn t good 
 for you to see so much of a so much older woman none of 
 us know hardly at all. It isn t good for any young girl, 
 
96 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 these sudden great intimacies with older women least of 
 all when no one knows anything about her. Now she may 
 be all right she may be all right (though Uncle Arthur s 
 eyes denied the possibility of it) I m not saying she isn t," 
 he hastened on as he saw Bessie opening her mouth to reply. 
 "I ain t saying she isn t she may be all right " (he was 
 obviously stalling for another flow of ideas), "she may be, 
 but the fact is your father and I are your guardians and we 
 can t see you running into any harm and oh, Charley 
 wouldn t see the side of a barn until he ran into it so I 
 
 have to take it upon myself, to take it upon myself Bess, 
 
 you simply oughtn t to see any more of that woman. It s 
 bad for you, and you must know it yourself, and the whole 
 town is talking!" 
 
 He ended with great vehemence, avoided his niece s di 
 lating eyes and, removing his jammed cap with some diffi 
 culty, again applied hands to his hair, which now stood up 
 in every direction across his pate like the ill-arranged halo 
 of some wild and preposterous saint. 
 
 Bessie s eyes grew wider and wider and her mouth opened 
 and shut. She began to teeter toe and heel and swing her 
 arms a little. A bon chat bon rat! 
 
 "Uncle Arthur," she said quite primly, "while appreciat 
 ing your your solicitation but that s not the word I mean, 
 I must tell you that Mrs. Ventress is one of the finest 
 women I have ever met. And furthermore (how well that 
 word rolled off the tongue) and furrrthermore," said Bessie 
 impressively, "I consider her in every way a perfectly fit 
 companion for me. And furrrthermore after that (Her 
 head was back and her mouth open to draw breath for a 
 crushing climax). "Furthermore, after that," she repeated, 
 "if you think I care what the sneaky gossips of this town 
 like Miss Crome say about my most utterly and extremely 
 nice Adela, why I can tell you I simply don t care what that 
 Miss Crome or any other slithery gossip in this town says, 
 and it isn t true anyway and if you don t let her come to 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR SYMPATHIZES 97 
 
 the fireworks, I mean Adela, which I know you wouldn t 
 really not do, you will most certainly break my heart." 
 
 It was not so arresting a group of closing periods as she 
 had planned. It did not satisfy her. But she delivered it 
 in a most dignified manner. Any ambiguity could not be 
 mistaken by Uncle Arthur. 
 
 He remained planted before her like a solid oak. But 
 then he began to walk up and down again. He blew his 
 nose violently. The scar on his left cheek burned. He put 
 on an evidently artificial smile, as convincing to Bessie as 
 if he had suddenly attached to his chin a false purple beard. 
 He waved large hands. 
 
 "Now, Bess," he said, "you know perfectly well I in 
 tended no insult to your friend. I she may be all right, 
 perfectly all right. I don t really think, though, that we 
 should invite her to the fireworks. And then do think of 
 Slade too, you know. (This was deep.) He won t want 
 to have strangers about I m sure, just a family party. And 
 we ll have such a pleasant time. Don t spoil it. It " sud 
 denly the explosiveness returned. The mask dropped. The 
 incoherently incensed small-boy face purpled. "It ain t fair, 
 Bess. Who is this woman, anyhow? Great Hippopotami, 
 who is she? I d like to know. Oh, holy dancing Zebra, it 
 does seem too bad, I must say " 
 
 "Uncle Arthur," his niece answered, standing straight and 
 speaking gravely, "I do believe you re jealous." 
 
 "Jealous! Great painted Snails! Jealous? Of what? 
 Of that woman? Bess, can t you see that you really ought 
 not to go around there so much? You ought not to,^I 
 should think, (aggrievedly) if only that it worries your poor 
 old uncle. I think absolutely nothing of it!" 
 
 Bessie stamped her small foot. "Stop it, Arthur. (It 
 had long been her custom to call him Arthur when she was 
 angry with him.) I won t have you saying this woman , 
 this woman , this woman . It s too silly. And you seem 
 
 to think me " the voice melted all at once into a tone of 
 
 the most intense lassitude. "Oh, Arthur, you seem to think 
 
98 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 me such a child. I m not a child any more, I m not, I m not. 
 And you know it! You know perfectly well I can take 
 care of myself. You know perfectly well I m fond of you 
 too, and still at the same time that I won t be bossed. Father 
 doesn t boss me " 
 
 (At this point the enormous relative raised hands, but 
 not in piety, to heaven, and ejaculated a smothered "Char 
 ley!") "I won t be. I won t be. Now you know you ll be 
 polite and ask my dear, my adored, my beloved Adela to 
 the fireworks, and say no more about it!" 
 
 "I will if I don t see her I will if I don t see her " 
 
 interrupted Uncle Arthur with wide waving of his hands. 
 "Oh, well, have it your own way! But I refuse to be a 
 party to it. I utterly refuse to be a party to it. You may 
 bring her if you like, and I will sit indoors among all the 
 vicious mosquitoes and suffer from my hay fever. What 
 does it matter. Infernal hinges of Erebus, what does it 
 matter! You always have your own way. I tell you it is 
 stark peril. But who am I then. Only your uncle. Why 
 should I be listened to? And I had looked forward so to 
 seeing Slade. Oh, well, I sympathize with Xerxes ! Whips 
 and manacles ! It is all too horrible !" 
 
 He waved his hands and heaved his girth in a Gargantaun 
 gesture of abandonment and stumped off toward the house, 
 his grey cap in his hand. Bessie recognised his complete 
 capitulation in the reference to Xerxes. Uncle Arthur al 
 ways fell back upon the famous Persian s passion whenever 
 the last remnants of his inexpressiveness utterly failed. His 
 mortal despair in any given situation was inseparably con 
 nected in his mind with that indignant monarch striving 
 to chasten the Hellespont. But who shall bridle the sea? 
 
 The sixteen-year-old child stood staring after him with 
 her head on one side. Her inner being was far more de 
 lighted than depressed. She even did several more minuet 
 steps. She then started after him, in a half-skipping run, 
 had caught his arm before he had reached the steps of the 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR SYMPATHIZES 99 
 
 side-porch, and five minutes later they were bending together 
 over a case of stuffed birds in the parlour, with the utmost 
 affection and mutual interest. Mrs. Ventress was not al 
 luded to again that afternoon. 
 
CHAPTER XI: HELEN AND THE CHINA 
 ANIMALS 
 
 nOP pop-pop BANG ! pop pop-pop-pop ! 
 JL The heavy breather on the bed flung one brown arm 
 across his chest. His body looked shapeless under the 
 wrinkled sheet, hunched up like a bundle. His open eyes 
 were rested by the white ceiling, but it was smotheringly 
 warm. With an effort of will he turned on his side and 
 picked up his watch from the chair. 
 
 6:30. 
 
 He sat up, his light hair in great disorder, his blue eyes 
 wild and staring. They calmed as he regarded the green 
 bureau, the lighter apple-green of the wall-paper, his clothes 
 in a heterogeneous huddle upon a chair, his collar and 
 necktie in disorder upon the bureau. The Glorious Fourth! 
 
 Pop pop-pop - Bang ! Bang pop - pop. 
 
 Slade s lean brown hands went round his knees. His 
 chin lay for a moment upon them. He yawned enormously. 
 
 Too early for breakfast. Breakfast was at eight. When 
 had he better take his bath? Did Uncle Charles get up 
 early ? 
 
 He scrambled from bed and padded to the door, opened 
 it a crack, listened. The bathroom was across the hall. A 
 thin mosquitoish sound came from Dr. Gedney s room be 
 yond it. Otherwise the house was quite quiet. Should he 
 run his bath ? 
 
 Too early. Might disturb them. He went back and sat 
 on his bed, scratching his head. 
 
 Rafe s voice, the voice of memory, sang clearly in his 
 inner ear. 
 
 100 
 
HELEN AND THE CHINA ANIMALS 101 
 
 "Keep your head down Alleymand! 
 Keep your head down Alleymand ! 
 Late last night, by the jfar-shell light, 
 We sa-aw you we sa-a-aw you ! 
 You were something something wire 
 When we 0/>ened up with rapid-fire. 
 If you want to see your father 
 In the .Fa-ther-land, 
 Keep your head down, Alley mand !" 
 
 Ground school at Columbus. Singing along the barrack 
 bunks at night, after lights out, promptly cut into by a 
 snarling yelp from the cadet in charge. Texas. Coughing 
 at Kelly Field. Coughing your heart out. The fine black 
 Texas dust. Stealing into the lavatory to choke off your 
 coughing that roused grumblings and pyrotechnic cursing, 
 and to smoke the fag that sometimes helped. 
 
 The War! Good heavens, how infinitely far away that 
 all was! 
 
 The patriotism of The Colosseum. Maybe that was 
 the only reason they had taken him on after the War, even 
 though he had never got across, and the Armistice had found 
 him bored to tears at desk work in Washington. About ten 
 Lieutenants for every trivial job. Damn the War! How 
 terribly excited he had been and to be stuck in the D.M.A. ! 
 Well, he wanted to forget all that forever. Fizzle. Fail 
 ure. Bunk. Such bunk! So much hideous bunk! Good 
 lord! 
 
 Stagger, camber, angle of incidence, flying wires, landing 
 wires, joy-stick, elevators, "keep her nose on the hori 
 zon". . . 
 
 "Keep your head down, Alleymand. . . !" 
 
 Good fun though at Hicks especially when they 
 
 thought their squadron was going to Mineola. The eternal 
 morning drone of the planes. "Con-tact!" The leather- 
 hooded figure in goggles peering over the coaming of the 
 cockpit. The mechanic revving-up, then dangerously but 
 dexterously swinging the prop. The roar of it, and the 
 
102 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 rushing wind. The bus turned toward the field and let 
 go. The cold air in his face. The jouncing rush, tail up, 
 diminishing across the turf, blowing off the ground like a 
 feather, rising, rising ... a droning speck in the clean, 
 clear blue of the Texas sky. . . 
 
 Gosh! 
 
 What an incredible other life it all seemed ! Raf e thought 
 go too. Rafe and he had long since talked themselves out 
 upon it all. Fed up. Forever. Completely. But some 
 times it sang in the blood again. 
 
 Who is this woman Bess wants me to meet? Bess is 
 certainly getting darn pretty. Did I send that man s manu 
 script back with my letter? Must have. No? Sure, I 
 must have. Didn t they ever know what was good, though? 
 Why the devil did Old T. B. turn down that poem of Jean 
 Doncett s? 
 
 Have to go around the Village more with Rafe. How 
 he loved it! Oh, well, when you re working in advertising. 
 A relief, maybe. But you ran into so many of the same 
 people in an editorial office. Mustn t get stodgy, though. 
 Wonder when I d better manoeuvre for another raise? 
 
 Wasn t it warm! Whew! Must be hot in New York. 
 Always hot on the Fourth. Was that a tap? "Yes?" 
 
 "Slade, you can get your bath now." 
 
 "Thanks, Bess. All right." 
 
 * * * 
 
 Clothed in blue coat and white flannels, and considerably 
 cooler, he sat at breakfast with Bessie and his uncle. 
 
 "What are you two doing this morning?" asked the 
 Doctor. 
 
 "I m going to take Slade over to see Adela," Bessie said. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Ventress. Well oh, all right. Not going 
 
 to stay there all morning though, are you?" 
 
 "Oh, no, that s just part of it. I m going to take Slade 
 for a walk if it isn t too hot." 
 
 "Thought Slade wanted to play tennis? 
 
 "The Institute court is so bad this year " 
 
HELEN AND THE CHINA ANIMALS 103 
 
 "Oh, no, I really don t care at all about that," interrupted 
 Slade. "Anything Bessie wants to do, Uncle Charles. You 
 aren t coming with us?" 
 
 "I think not. I ve got some pottering about to do," Dr. 
 Gedney always referred thus to his writing. "You two go. 
 You ll meet the famous Mrs. Ventress, Slade. Bessie s 
 told you about her?" 
 
 "Yes. Sounds nice. My, your drawing has improved, 
 Bess," he added, turning to his cousin. 
 
 "Do you really think so? It s all her. But you hadn t 
 seen anything for some time, had you?" 
 
 "Not for two years. Why, you certainly ought to be 
 able to get work to do in New York." 
 
 "Oh, Slade! Really?" 
 
 "Sure. I m positive of it. But what do you think, Uncle 
 Charles? Would you let her go?" 
 
 "Well," said Dr. Gedney, "Bessie s young yet not 
 through school. Better let that rest a little while. But I 
 know she wants it. And I think she could do it. But we d 
 
 better let it " His voice trailed away into silence. It 
 
 always made him rather nervous to think of Bessie s leaving 
 
 him, 
 
 * * * 
 
 "There she is," said Bessie, clutching Slade s arm and 
 pointing over the hedge. What he saw was principally a 
 hat and a grey dress. Mrs. Ventress was bending over a 
 small flower-bed of blue lobelia edged with white alyssum. 
 She had chamois gloves on, with holes for the knuckles. 
 She was doing something with a trowel. 
 
 "Oo-oo !" called Bessie softly. 
 
 Adela straightened and turned. Her wide grey hat and 
 the cool daintiness of her dress set off her pretty colour. 
 Her fair skin had gained a tanned warmth from walks and 
 working in the garden. Her smile was odd and delightful. 
 
 "Hello. Who have you there?" 
 
 "This is my cousin, Slade," Bessie presented, as Mrs. 
 Ventress came toward them. Slade removed his straw hat 
 
104 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 and shook hands over the hedge. He had a pleasant three- 
 cornered grin. 
 
 "Bessie s certainly been singing your praises," he said. 
 
 "Has she? Well, we ve had some nice times, haven t we, 
 Bessie? Won t you come in? Do you mind sitting on the 
 porch steps? I like it." 
 
 Slade sat on the step below the two women. 
 
 "Isn t he nice?" asked Bessie, suddenly tousling his hair. 
 "Now Slade will hate me. He hates that." 
 
 "Oh, I don t really believe so," said Adela, amused. 
 
 Slade dug in the walk with a small stick. "You ve cer 
 tainly helped her a lot with her drawing," he said seriously, 
 looking up. "I want her to come to New York and try her 
 luck after she graduates. By the way, you come from 
 there don t you?" 
 
 "Yes. I m here resting. I was doing a little work " 
 
 "What kind of work?" 
 
 "Oh, a little writing. I got tired of it. As I had a little 
 money, I decided to come here for a while." 
 
 "Writing? What kind of thing?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing much," said Mrs. Ventress. "Nothing you 
 ever read, I m sure. Quite unimportant. Just a sort of 
 means of making a living. But I ve stopped it. I don t 
 have to any more. I m in a way trying to find myself." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Oh, thinking of taking up something else and wonder 
 ing what it is to be. Anyway, this is a vacation. So don t 
 let s talk about my work ." She smiled. 
 
 "I know she writes awfully well," said Bessie with con 
 viction, "and that she s hiding it from us. She won t tell 
 me a thing, Slade. She s the worst woman!" 
 
 She looked at Adela adoringly. 
 
 "I m sure she does," said Slade. "You re coming over 
 to Uncle Arthur s this evening, aren t you?" he asked Mrs. 
 Ventress. "For the fireworks?" 
 
 "Why, Bessie has been kind enough to invite me. But 
 I haven t met your Uncle as a matter of fact I haven t 
 
HELEN AND THE CHINA ANIMALS 105 
 
 even met your Uncle Charles yet so I hardly know " 
 
 "Oh, yes, you are/ said Bessie. "That s all settled. This 
 afternoon there s a parade too, the firemen s, down Market 
 Street. But I don t suppose you d care to come with us?" 
 
 "Well, I ll tell you, you d better leave me out of that. You 
 two go along. I m an old and stodgy person. You d bet 
 ter, really. I don t care much for fanfare. Didn t they 
 start in early this morning with the fire-crackers though? 
 Of course you heard them?" 
 
 "They woke me up," answered Slade. "I sleep very 
 lightly they always do." 
 
 As he looked at Adela he felt that he had never seen a 
 more charming face. How pretty and graceful she was, 
 and how young she looked. What was her story? 
 
 "Do you like New York?" he asked. 
 
 "I did, I used to. I don t know. I wanted to get away 
 from it. It s a fascinating city, of course and I ve oc 
 casionally hated it as I ve hated nothing else in the world." 
 
 "Check," said Slade. "So have I. Gets on all one s 
 nerves sometimes. Too many impressions to take in at once. 
 Three ring circus. 
 
 "You re on a magazine there, aren t you? I wonder if 
 you know " But Adela caught herself up. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing just someone I used to know who was in 
 the publishing business. But that was long before your time 
 of course. Do you like it?" she added to change the 
 subject. 
 
 "Yes. It s good fun. I ve learned a lot. I wanted to 
 write myself " 
 
 "Slade does write," interpolated Bessie. "Beautiful 
 poetry." 
 
 "Oh no" said Slade embarrassedly. "No, Bess. I brought 
 out one book. That was a year ago. But that teaches you 
 something." 
 
 "I can see it sometime, can t I ?" asked Adela. 
 
 "Why, yes," said Slade, looking up again with the same 
 
106 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 half-embarrassed, half -speculative expression in his eyes. 
 "If you want to. Do you write poetry?" 
 
 "Oh, no. But there are certain things I like. I might like 
 yours." 
 
 "You wouldn t," said Slade promptly, slightly gloomy. 
 "But I m going on with it," he added. He laughed rather 
 ruefully. "I can t seem to cure myself." 
 
 "That s a good sign, I should think. But you re pretty 
 busy, aren t you, with the office?" 
 
 "Fairly. And of course it s congenial work. But after 
 all, it s all in myself if I ever amount to anything. I may 
 come to the point where I see I can t write. I haven t yet. 
 Meanwhile, as I said, I m learning." 
 
 "How do you like it here ?" he asked a moment later. 
 
 "Very much. I m not so sure the people like me " 
 
 "Oh, they do I" Bessie sprang to her defence against her 
 own suspicion. 
 
 "No, I m not at all so sure they do. Perhaps I ve kept 
 too much to myself. But after all, that s what I came down 
 here for. And I am getting a thorough rest. Oh, I love this 
 old garden. I love the quiet. I think I ll stand the hot 
 weather all right, too. It hasn t proved so very hot yet. 
 Well, you two will want to be running along. What time 
 am I expected at your Uncle s, Bessie?" 
 
 "Oh, Slade and I will call for you," said Bessie. "About 
 eight o clock." 
 
 "Good. I ll be ready." 
 
 "There ll be some ice-cream!" (Bessie smiled at her own 
 childishness.) 
 
 "Better still ! Good-bye," laughed Adela. 
 
 "Good-bye," they smiled from the gate. 
 
 "Yes, she certainly is most attractive," commented Slade 
 as they walked home. "Awfully nice. She has beautiful 
 eyes, hasn t she?" 
 
 He seemed abstracted. Bessie ran into a eulogium of 
 Mrs. Ventress s many singular merits. 
 
 The afternoon proved hot and noisy. Standing on grocery 
 
HELEN AND THE CHINA ANIMALS 107 
 
 boxes, Slade and Bessie watched for a little while the Fire 
 men s parade. Then it bored them. A small hole was 
 burned in Bessie s dress by a youthful patriot s brown stick 
 of punk. The pervading gunpowdery smell was everywhere 
 in their nostrils, and the dust. Desultory popping and 
 crackling down Market Street continued through their light 
 supper. They stopped for Mrs. Ventress while the day was 
 still light. She awaited them all in white. She looked per 
 fectly attired and dainty and cool. Slade noticed the rose- 
 leaf colour in her face. He did not realise that he was 
 staring. 
 
 "Oh, how lovely you look," called the more articulate Bes 
 sie, and ran up the steps to kiss her friend. They linked 
 arms. They proceeded toward Sycamore Street and Uncle 
 Arthur s. 
 
 It was dusk by the time they arrived. It was just the 
 family. Dr. Gedney and Uncle Arthur were already taking 
 a turn under the apple trees. Uncle Arthur was a white 
 blur in a panama suit, Dr. Gedney a blur, as to clothes, of 
 dark blue. The faces of both were indistinct in the shadowy 
 orchard. Slade began to light the Chinese lanterns that 
 lay telescoped upon the grass. 
 
 After the introduction of a slightly shy Adela, Uncle 
 Arthur turned to a wooden box in which reposed the pin- 
 wheels, flower-pots and Roman candles. Wicker chairs had 
 been set out. Dr. Gedney seated himself in the dim light 
 next to Mrs. Ventress with Bessie on his other side. The 
 Chinese lanterns swayed to a slight breeze and hung like 
 bizarre softly-glowing giant fruit from the glimmering 
 boughs. Slade set off some red fire and came distributing 
 sparklers. 
 
 Uncle Arthur attached a pinwheel and delivered himself 
 of several of his odd exclamations as it stuck and spent its 
 golden stream of fire upon the ground. Slade grinned. 
 Presently the company were busy with the Roman candles. 
 
 Mrs. Ventress even lighted a nigger-chaser which imper 
 illed her silk stockings. Coloured fire burnt about them, 
 
108 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 smokily and vividly. Outside the illumination made by the 
 fireworks the night upon the orchard was blue-black, sil 
 vered by the faint moon. 
 
 Dr. Gedney was a shy man. He had exchanged a few 
 rather stereotyped remarks with Adela, always looking at 
 her sideways, not seeing her very well. Bessie had rattled 
 on at a great rate. Slade had been rather silent, absorbed 
 in their entertainment. So had Uncle Arthur. After the 
 fireworks faded they all seated themselves in the last glim 
 mering of the lanterns. "Slade," said Uncle Arthur, "the 
 ice-cream s on the back steps." "I ll help," said Bessie, 
 jumping up. "And can t I?" asked Adela, rising. For 
 answer Bessie reached for her hand. She nodded apology 
 to the two men, who murmured something. Slade leading, 
 Adela and Bessie picked their way up a shadowy and crunchy 
 gravel path, and, in the light of the unshaded electric bulb 
 in the ceiling of the back porch, found the freezer. 
 
 Slade s first attempt to disinter the ice-cream from its 
 ice-pack was clumsy, and before he knew it a pair of firm 
 white arms had taken his task away. His own hands, at 
 the slight brushing touch, suddenly seemed enormous and 
 ungainly. The scent of Adela s hair was upon his senses 
 as she bent her head. She became very small, to be pro 
 tected. He stepped quickly away from her. He stood re 
 garding her as she knelt over the dasher, and began a prac 
 tical skillful disinterment of the metal container of the 
 ice-cream. 
 
 "Slade ! Don t let her do that ! She s not strong enough." 
 Bessie was at the top of the porch steps, entering the kitchen 
 for the cakes. 
 
 He came forward again, protesting, but Mrs. Ventress 
 waved him aside. She could do it. Give her a chance. 
 
 A miller moth fluttered and blundered about the electric 
 bulb above the porch steps. The nape of Adela s neck was 
 white, the dark bronze hair above it strayed in two crinkly 
 curls. Her white forearms tugged at the dasher. 
 
 Slade leaned forward and her face turned upward toward 
 
HELEN AND THE CHINA ANIMALS 109 
 
 him. Her eyes danced. "Beautiful ice-cream!" she said 
 with mock awe. It came out really perfectly and was dis 
 tributed to the plates Bessie had brought. Slade reached 
 over and purloined a piece of less salty ice from the freezer. 
 It bulged his cheek. He looked up at Bessie, now standing 
 with a plate in each hand. His light hair curled moistly 
 upon his forehead. 
 
 "With neatness and dispatch," remarked Slade. 
 
 "Yes, but Adela did all the work," said Bessie. 
 
 Slade was repentant. "I m so sorry. You certainly 
 did," he turned to Adela. She evidently wasn t listening. 
 
 She was standing on the lower step gazing out into the 
 dark orchard. Her profile caught the light. Her brows 
 seemed sombre. 
 
 "What?" she asked, turning toward him with the vague 
 expression of a person interrupted in reverie. 
 
 "I say you were so quick I m afraid I wasn t much help." 
 
 "What? Oh no! No indeed. But look, children!" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Just the moon!" 
 
 It had floated clear of silver-edged cloud, cloud that had 
 long dimmed it. It glowed as bright as a fire-balloon above 
 the massed mysterious shadow of the trees, round and buoy 
 ant. The night sky was a deep plum-blue. Adela had 
 raised one arm, pointing toward it, her face lifted. 
 
 It lasted but an instant. Slade drew in his breath. His 
 face looked puzzled. But Bessie s eyes were quick. She was 
 glancing at him keenly. Meanwhile her friend had turned 
 perfectly naturally and picked up a plate. Slade secured 
 two. The next instant they were all on their way over 
 the wet grass, Indian file, rejoining Dr. Gedney and Uncle 
 Arthur. 
 
 In deep shadow they sat in a half-circle, eating ice-cream, 
 pistache and vanilla, aware of the bright moon through 
 black raggedly-silhouetted foliage. A silence held them, 
 broken only by the tink of spoon on plate and the scratch 
 of the match to Uncle Arthur s cigar. 
 
110 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Slade stood on the other side of Scamander under high 
 dark battlements. On the broad height of those battle 
 ments a woman of silver walked in blue moonlight. In his 
 mouth was a taste of blood and tears. In his heart was a 
 murmuring of fire. The dark, blood-stained shadows of the 
 plain were beautiful, beautiful as the strictness of a sword 
 the metallic brilliance of the moon. Most beautiful the poise 
 and sway of the woman who walked between earth and 
 heaven, slowly and proudly. 
 
 A young, plantigrade, biped mammal in trouble as usual. 
 
 Mrs. Ventress was laughing at him softly. "You are 
 a thousand miles away. Your uncle asked you something." 
 
 Uncle Arthur was leaning forward. "Eh, Slade?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir. I didn t hear you." 
 
 "I was saying that the pinwheels were managed better 
 this Fourth." 
 
 "Not the one I watched you with. How about that one?" 
 
 "Oh, well," returned Uncle Arthur. "Aren t there excep 
 tions to every rule?" 
 
 Both laughed. 
 
 Uncle Arthur resumed his smoking. Slade was sitting 
 next to his Uncle Charles. Adela and Bessie on his other 
 side were talking together in low voices. The ice-cream was 
 finished. The sitters were blurred in shadow. 
 
 "Well," said Dr. Gedney s voice, "I think we shall have 
 to go, Arthur. This has certainly been very pleasant. What 
 do you think, Bess?" 
 
 "Yes, we ought to," said Bessie, rising, after a murmur 
 to Mrs. Ventress who answered it with an assenting mur 
 mur. She rose also. 
 
 "I m very glad to have met you," Uncle Arthur was all 
 courtesy. "Bessie has told me " 
 
 Bessie smiled to herself in the darkness. Slade moved 
 past her toward Mrs. Ventress. 
 
 "Have a nice time?" asked his cousin, peering for his 
 face. 
 
 "Great! Wasn t it? (Good-night, sir!) Yes, I cer- 
 
HELEN AND THE CHINA ANIMALS 111 
 
 tainly did. Good night for a poem, isn t it. Something 
 
 He broke off. Dr. Gedney and Mrs. Ventress were ahead 
 of them. He could hear his uncle answering a question in 
 that shy, dry voice of his. 
 
 Of course she wasn t Trojan Helen at all. But what a 
 beautiful gesture ! And how darned nice and natural ! What 
 had her life been? Why had she looked so sad? 
 
 "Slade!" Bessie was lightly shaking his arm. 
 
 "Yeah I m sorry what?" 
 
 "Don t push me off the path like that, that s all. Here s 
 the gate." 
 
 "I am sorry." 
 
 "Thinking up your poem?" 
 
 "Uh oh, no I was just mooning, I guess. Isn t it a 
 nice night?" 
 
 Bessie did not answer immediately. Then she said in- 
 consequently. 
 
 "The moonlight s so bright on the road, I think I ll dance." 
 
 She was suddenly on ahead of them, running, twirling. 
 If she had not been so graceful you might have called it 
 capering. She skipped. 
 
 The Scythe hung low in the Eastern heaven, Regulus 
 its bright star near the earth. The sky coruscated with an 
 incrustation of stars. Up to them, up and up, glittered the 
 Dream, beatific, solitary as their light. . . . 
 
 Bessie was waiting for Slade and the other two at Mrs. 
 Ventress s gate. They were all mildly amused at her. 
 There was persiflage. Adela thanked them all and said good 
 night. Bessie waved at her in an airy manner. Adela 
 flirted her hand and smiled. Bessie wove a saraband ahead 
 of the two men on the way home. Her father kept saying 
 absently, "No, do come back here !" Slade seemed absent- 
 minded. At the Gedney gate Bessie fell into step with 
 them. "Ooh, I m tired. Wasn t it fun though." She was 
 a little breathless. "I am tired. I m going right up. Good 
 night." She had disappeared when they entered the small 
 hall. 
 
THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 She stood in the dark of her room, slowly undressing and 
 regarding the China Animals. In the dark, she made a 
 face at them. She moved over to the window and stood, 
 her dark hair falling below her shoulders, regarding the now 
 golden moon. She straightened her shoulders with a shrug, 
 cocked her head. 
 
 "I don t care," she said, almost inaudibly. 
 
 She made another face at the China Animals before she 
 knelt to say her prayer. 
 
CHAPTER XII: THE CHRISTIAN MARTYR OF 
 "THE COLOSSEUM" 
 
 SLADE journeyed back to the junction the next morning, 
 where you caught the train for Philadelphia. Bessie 
 had seemed to him a little odd at breakfast. Some new ele 
 ment had entered their natural camaraderie, or did he only 
 fancy it? He didn t quite understand. 
 
 When the time had come to go down to the station she 
 accompanied him naturally enough, in the rattly herdic, but 
 she had little to say. She said good-bye with some humour 
 ous remark and urged him to come again soon, waved even, 
 as the weathered old cars got under way and the windows 
 began to pass. But there was something that his subcon 
 scious mind stored away, something puzzling. 
 
 Bessie was a clever child. He liked to be with her. She 
 was vivid and refreshing. They had been companions off 
 and on for a number of years, from the time when a young 
 ster of fourteen had sat on the porch of the Gedney house 
 (upon a certain visit his father and he had paid their 
 cousins) drawing misshapen caricatures for the delectation 
 of a black-eyed, black-haired infant of six. The infant of 
 six had beamed upon him with whole-hearted appreciation 
 of his amazing artistry. She was growing up fast, cer 
 tainly. She was one of the few relatives he cared about. 
 She was a nice child. 
 
 She certainly could draw, if he knew anything about it. 
 How nice of Mrs. Ventress to help her! What was Mrs. 
 Ventress s story ? Wasn t she reticent about herself ! How 
 kind though, kind and beautiful. "Really one of the love 
 liest looking women I ve ever seen in my life!" 
 
 A fantastic joke occurred to him that he would like to 
 
 113 
 
THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 write her. It referred to the ice-cream. It would amuse 
 her. He could see her smile and the way her eyebrows 
 went up even more. He could hear, faintly, her laughter. 
 He wondered, innocently enough, whether she wrote an 
 
 amusing letter. Sure to. ... 
 
 * * * 
 
 Bessie was singularly quiet when she came to Adela for 
 drawing on Tuesday. Teased gently as to her thoughts, she 
 assumed a far-away smile that held the faintest touch of 
 bitterness. She then favoured her older friend with a long 
 candid glance. She then burst into a typically Bessieish 
 fit of high spirits, and rattled off a lot of nonsense. But she 
 did not answer directly any questions. She turned them off 
 with the mischievousness of an elf. She was moody youth 
 personified. Once she actually seemed to be trying to pick 
 a slight quarrel with Adela over a discussion of illustrators. 
 But she left the house waving a gay farewell. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Slade found the manuscripts piled up for him on his 
 desk at The Colosseum office. The mousy Associate Editor 
 hardly seemed aware of his absence or return. He was still 
 hunting in the rat s nest of his roll-top for the papers he 
 seemed always just on the point of finding and never quite 
 did. He was scratching his head in the same way, behind the 
 ear; stalking into the office of the Editor-in-Chief to voice 
 opinions on current politics in the same resonant accents, 
 thence to return to the inextricable mixing of the papers 
 upon his desk. 
 
 Slade departed that evening for his room on Charles 
 Street in Greenwich Village, with a brief-case full of manu 
 scripts he intended reading overnight. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The offices of The Colosseum Publishing Company were 
 in a high building on the North side of Union Square, 
 directly below the offices of a prominent collar company and 
 above those of an Armenian Rug Firm. The gold-lettered 
 firm-names of all three emblazoned the rather dingy stone 
 
CHRISTIAN MARTYR OF "THE COLOSSEUM" 115 
 
 structure and called to you from across the Square. The 
 rather cramped and rickety elevator, in which you ascended 
 in charge of a lean and seedy individual, was quite behind the 
 times so far as modern efficiency was concerned. It let you 
 out in a narrow hallway, confronted by a length of plate 
 glass behind which the accounting department fussed with 
 its ledgers and comptometers. On your left a glass-panelled 
 door opened upon an information desk and telephone switch 
 board in close proximity to the Cashier s cage. The further 
 semicircular sweep of the enclosing counter held books dis 
 played under glass. Beyond and behind it were various 
 desks, back of them all the offices of the officers of the Com 
 pany. Passing around the enclosing counter and to the rear, 
 away from the tall south-facing windows on Union Square, 
 you turned to your left again into a dark high-ceilinged hall 
 way. The first spacious and portiered door to your right 
 admitted you to the reception room of The Colosseum- 
 Magazine. It was all impressive, the thick carpets under 
 your feet made progress noiseless. 
 
 The offices were ancient, an antique legend haunted about 
 their shape, immaterial trumpets seemed softly to bruit an 
 cient fame from the four dusty corners of that high-ceilinged 
 reception-room, so secretly placed in the very heart of this 
 aloof and eminent publishing organization that its one small 
 window, opening upon an air-shaft, was totally insufficient to 
 provide it with illumination. All day through, winter or 
 summer, a large shallow marble-white bowl hung upon four 
 bronze chains above the center of the room, suffused gold- 
 tinged reflected lighting, a subdued radiance inoffensive to 
 the hallowed walls hung with the choicest work of now- 
 eminent illustrators. 
 
 On your left, as you entered the doorway, stood a small 
 brown-corduroy-upholstered sofa, catacornered between the 
 door you had entered and the high wide entrance to the fur 
 ther realms of the Art Department. Across the room, 
 directly in front of you, in limine of a further vista of large 
 apartments, stood two desks. The one on the left-hand, in 
 
116 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 full view against the wall, was a wide typewriter desk with a 
 drop-light over it. The one on the opposite side of the 
 vaulted entrance to the editorial rooms was a high roll-top 
 tucked away in the corner by the air-shaft window and 
 backed by a green-curtained book-case. These flanked the 
 awe-inspiring vista of more soft-piled carpet under high ceil 
 ings, with glimpses of two desks in the editorial rooms be 
 yond and of the tall south windows beside them that again 
 caught sight of the sky above the Square. 
 
 The atmosphere of the editorial rooms was a vatic silence, 
 broken only by occasional soft footsteps, whisperings, rust 
 lings of papers, and undertoned by the hum of distant con 
 versation. The penetrator into these mystic precincts was 
 bound to feel the unbidden awe steal over him. 
 
 At a flat-topped desk in the room beyond the reception- 
 room, Slade sat all day, reading or editing manuscripts. 
 Across the room sat Miss Peabody in her immaculate neat 
 ness of dress, with her pleasantly sardonic smile. She sat 
 up very straight and read book manuscripts, while Slade 
 read for the magazine. She knew exactly how to manage 
 any man in the office. She had been known to remark that 
 any man was shamefully easy to manage. Few could equal 
 her sedate but withering scorn of the things she didn t like. 
 Also there was always a mischievous look in her eyes. 
 
 Slade liked her for these things, and for the fact that his 
 occasional outbursts, when manuscripts were turned down 
 that he had wanted accepted, and vice versa, appeared both 
 to amuse and please her. In a less childish and far more 
 effective way she often herself besieged the Powers that 
 Were. Her feeling for good writing was uncompromising 
 and intuitive. Both she and Slade frequently held con 
 ferences of mutiny against some of the policies and pre 
 dilections of the Editor and Associate Editor. 
 
 From nine in the morning till five in the evening, with an 
 hour off for lunch which was frequently stretched to an 
 hour and a half, Slade pored over the literary work of other 
 people and secretly wrote an occasional verse. He was not 
 
CHRISTIAN MARTYR OF "THE COLOSSEUM" 117 
 
 especially gregarious at lunch-time. Sometimes he called up 
 Rafe who toiled in an advertising agency on 44th Street, and 
 they met at some half-way point for a meal together. Some 
 times he went out with a group of other men in the office. 
 Sometimes he wandered alone over to Scheffel Hall on East 
 1 7th Street or up Broadway to Madison Square lunchrooms. 
 At five o clock he left the office, usually to walk home, 
 though he quite as usually came to work in the morning via 
 
 the Sixth Avenue "L." 
 
 * * * 
 
 Upon this particular hot afternoon he turned south on 
 Broadway past Union Square, traversed I4th Street to Fifth 
 Avenue and proceeded down that thoroughfare toward the 
 Washington Square Arch, where the zone of high buildings 
 sacred to silks, stockings, cloaks and suits became a district 
 of lower buildings mixed with apartment houses and private 
 residences, and marked off by two historic churches. 
 
 Young Breckinridge was slightly above the average height, 
 fair of skin, blue-eyed, with close-cropped light brown hair. 
 His clothes were never sufficiently pressed. His neckties 
 displayed too great an affection for raw color. His fingers, 
 that were now occupied with pipe-bowl and brief-case, bore 
 stains of ink and nicotine. He was twenty-four. He had 
 been with the Colosseum for four years. He had, within 
 that time, risen from addressing envelopes and entering 
 manuscripts to first reader of all manuscripts submitted, at 
 a salary amounting to forty dollars a week. His features 
 had a certain healthy and agreeable ugliness, and he needed 
 to shave only every other day. His teeth were white and 
 regular, his grin frank and pleasant. His eyes were always 
 either absent-minded or amused. His temperament was 
 essentially easygoing, with spasms of red rebellion, against 
 everything, spasms that usually manifested themselves only 
 in his poetry. 
 
 He and Rafe lived in two rooms upon the top floor of a 
 tall, narrow, high-stooped brick house in the upper part of 
 Charles Street. The smaller room was Slade s. There was 
 
118 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 just space enough in it for a bed, a bureau and a diminutive, 
 rickety-legged table. It had two doors, one at the head of 
 his bed, opening directly on the dingy, dark, narrow hall, 
 one near the window opening upon Rafe s larger room. 
 Rafe s wider bed was made up like a couch in the daytime, 
 with a worn imitation tapestry cover. Both rooms were lit 
 at night by tattered redly-glowing welsbachs. In an alcove 
 at the rear of Rafe s room was a washstand. At the front 
 of the room were two windows, with a large writing table 
 between, under the light. The street in the summer even 
 ings was full of the wild din of all the children of the neigh 
 borhood at play. Later, when the children went to bed, the 
 cats came out and started musical activities. The windows 
 across the street always showed stout women in kimonos or 
 bovine men in shirt-sleeves elbow-hunched upon the sills. 
 The house always smelt slightly of mould and cooking vege 
 tables. On the floor below them lived a Village dramatist 
 who believed he was a Rosicrucian. In another cubby-hole 
 hall bedroom in the rear on their own floor slept a Princeton 
 man of their own ages who declaimed Homer in the original 
 Greek every morning while dressing. His name was Jerry 
 Callender, and he assisted in running the Book Review Sec 
 tion of a large metropolitan newspaper. As he had a wide 
 circle of friends he was always out in the evenings. In the 
 mornings, when all three were up and hanging over the stair- 
 rail to see if the bathroom on the floor below was clear, they 
 mutually indulged in song, dance and badinage. The Rosi 
 crucian had filed several claims that this disturbed his mystic 
 morning slumbers. But they were three against one. 
 
 This evening, when -he had entered the dark first-floor 
 hallway, at about a quarter of six, and mounted creakingly 
 and with long-legged strides to the top and third floor, Slade 
 found Rafe sprawled out upon his couch bed, reading "The 
 Lake", by George Moore. 
 
 "H lo," said Rafe. 
 
 "H lo. You re early." 
 
 "Yeah. They turned that account over to Lapham after 
 
CHRISTIAN MARTYR OF "THE COLOSSEUM" 119 
 
 all. Know what I mean? Made me sore. I got that bank 
 stuff in shape to-day, but there wasn t much else to do. I 
 quit at half-past four. Old Pooley was out and you could 
 have fried eggs on his desk. Maybe that damned mouser 
 Mitchell will chalk it up against me, but I don t care. Old 
 Pooley likes my stuff and I don t soldier usually. . . . A- 
 a-a-a-a-h!" Rafe raised his long corded brown arms and 
 stretched with a grotesque yawn. "Why be a slave all your 
 life. Damn advertising. It s the greatest lot of bunk in the 
 world. But a man must live. Where you going to dinner ?" 
 
 "I don t know. I ve got some stuff to read to-night." 
 
 Slade had divested himself of coat and shirt and stood in 
 a singlet lighting a cigarette in cupped hands. He threw the 
 burnt match in the general direction of the window. 
 
 "Here, quit that! Who keeps this room clean? Defilin 
 house of refuge !" 
 
 "House of ill-fame," returned Slade grinning, and knelt 
 upon the chest of the prostrate figure whereupon the pros 
 trate figure arose and wrestled with him. 
 
 But it was too warm. After a few seconds of grinning, 
 gasping gripping of each other, swaying back and forth in 
 unsuccessful attempts at a throw, they desisted. Rafe went 
 back to the wash-basin and began soaking his head with a 
 great splutter. Slade returned to his room, completely re 
 moved all apparel and wrapped himself in a towel-material 
 dressing-gown. A moment later he was running a bath be 
 low. 
 
 "Hey!" Rafe shouted down the stair-well, "want to go 
 over to Christine s?" 
 
 "Don t care," Slade yelled back. ! Sure!" 
 
 Half an hour later they left the house together. 
 * * * 
 
 Slade returned to his hall-bedroom at about ten o clock. 
 He had broken away from a group who were going over to 
 the Blue Horse on Christopher Street. As he climbed the 
 stairs the tag-end of an economic argument between Bur- 
 wash, a Socialist, and Edgren, who upheld something called 
 
120 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 the sovereignty of the Ultimate Consumer, still rang in his 
 ears. 
 
 "You mean to tell me," it was Burwash on the aggressive, 
 "that for a hundred million people in close communication, 
 the social organization originally intended for about one- 
 sixth that number, loosely in touch, is suitable?" 
 
 "No, but " 
 
 "If institutions don t accord with the facts of nature they 
 result in revolution!" 
 
 "Yes, but " 
 
 "To-day we have substituted the the turbine for the pad 
 dle wheel, the telegraph and telephone for the ox-cart, and 
 yet " 
 
 "But you don t get me, Bur. What s the purpose of an 
 industrial system anyway? To feed the ultimate consumer. 
 And right to-day the ultimate consumer has a certain 
 sovereignty over conditions as they are, if he knew how to 
 use it. They aren t organised, that s all. The drift is out 
 of productive and into negotiative occupations, and into an 
 accelerated accumulation of interest-bearing securities. The 
 shop-counter 
 
 "Oh, I know, now you re going into commercial credit. 
 But I tell you that doesn t touch the root of it." 
 
 "And I say it does." 
 
 "Property is robbery!" 
 
 "Very likely; but don t forget the rest of Prudhomme. 
 Possession is liberty !" 
 
 "And we mean to get it " 
 
 "But not in the right way. Over the shop-counter " 
 
 The argumentative voices died away in Slade s brain. He 
 entered his room and stood lighting the Welsbach while an 
 "L" train groaned raucously on a far curve. It was very hot 
 in the cubicle when the Welsbach was lit. A baby was crying 
 like a saw in the crowded house opposite. A cat was meow- 
 ling and rummaging in the garbage can. A kale and cabbage 
 smell insinuated itself via the hall door, but it was too hot to 
 close it. Slade opened his brief-case and took out some 
 
CHRISTIAN MARTYR OF "THE COLOSSEUM" 121 
 
 manuscripts. He removed his damp soft collar and un 
 buttoned his collar button, turning the neck-band of his shirt 
 under all around the neck. He donned a pair of horn glasses 
 that made him look like an owl. He tilted his small chair 
 back against the wall next the door to Rafe s room, which 
 was open for coolness, and put his feet upon the table. 
 
 He stuffed and lit his Dunhill. With a sigh he began to 
 read typewritten pages. Several manuscripts in covers 
 stamped with the imprint of different agents he finally tossed 
 upon the bed. He flipped open a third, after removing it 
 from its envelope. It had evidently been sent in direct by 
 the writer. It was typed neatly, but the top sheet was newly 
 folded and stiff, while those beneath were far more worn 
 and pliable. The thing was called "The Crystal Castle." 
 Slade s eyes travelled down the first two paragraphs with 
 only a gradually mitigating boredom. Then he began to 
 read intently. 
 
 There was no sound in the room for fifteen minutes, ex 
 cept the occasional rustle of a page. Then the reader stirred, 
 sighed, tossed the manuscript upon the table and scrapingly 
 removed his feet therefrom. He arose and stood staring at 
 the five-thousand word story, which he had carefully read 
 through twice. 
 
 "Holy cat!" he muttered. "Holy cat!" He whistled 
 softly. 
 
 He entered Rafe s room and ran the cold tap in the alcove. 
 Reading under that Welsbach was warm work. He washed 
 his face and let the water run upon his wrists. He poured a 
 drink for himself in the glass he carefully rinsed. He re 
 turned to the room and again stood over the table, looking 
 down at the manuscript and scratching his head. Then he 
 settled himself and read it through all over again. 
 
 Rafe came in at 12 130. Slade was just finishing the rest 
 of his stint. On the bed lay all the MSS. that had come home 
 in his brief-case. Four short stories, two articles, ten poems. 
 On the table reposed one lonely folded packet of typewriter- 
 paper. 
 
122 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "Hey," exclaimed Slade, as his room-mate stood in the 
 doorway, pretending to regard him with dour displeasure. 
 "For God s sake read this !" 
 
 Rafe lounged in. 
 
 "Rejecting em, eh? Sort of policy worse-oh of the Colos 
 seum, what?" 
 
 "Oh, my God," groaned Slade. "Have a heart, Rafe!" 
 
 His room-mate grinned rather sheepishly. He seated 
 himself on the bed without more ado, supporting his feet 
 upon the jutting brass handles of the bureau. He took the 
 manuscript Slade tossed him. 
 
 He began with his head on the pillow and the typewritten 
 sheets held on high. Rafe was a little far-sighted. He 
 ended with his feet on the floor and his head bent over the 
 story. After he had read the last word he sat staring at 
 the page. 
 
 Then, "Damn good, isn t it?" he said laconically, and 
 tossed the thing at Slade. "Damn good," he said again as he 
 rose and stretched. "Certainly is. Who s it by?" 
 
 "That s just what I don t know," said Slade. "There 
 isn t hide or hair of an address on it. Not on the envelope. 
 Not on this. No envelope enclosed either. May have been. 
 I ll see when I go down to-morrow. But isn t it good? My 
 lord where the fox-terrier stands up at the window. My 
 gosh! Why, it s a wonderful yarn and so beautifully writ 
 ten." 
 
 "Yep. Bet anything it s by a well-known man, though. 
 Probably the agent ll ask you five hundred for it, or a thou 
 sand." 
 
 "But it didn t come through an agent." 
 
 "Didn t, eh? Well, it s by some well-known crab, any 
 way. You can tell. Yeah, it s a story you ought to use. 
 Well, I shook that gas-bag Burwash finally. There was 
 dancing down in the Blue Horse. You ought to have come." 
 
 "Not me. I stay at home and discover masterpieces." 
 
 "Oh, you do, do you, my young friend. By the way, what 
 kind of a time did you have in Tupton?" 
 
CHRISTIAN MARTYR OF "THE COLOSSEUM" 
 
 "Great. Met a wonderful person." 
 
 "What s her name?" 
 
 "Not so fast, old leather-f ace ! Not so fast! Don t culti 
 vate that stage humour." 
 
 "Well, what was it?" 
 
 Slade was standing in the doorway of Raf e s room emerg 
 ing from the shirt that now lay across his arms. 
 
 "You ruffian!" was all he would answer. His grin was 
 large and bland. 
 
 "You re too young, Slade," said Rafe from the alcove, 
 foamily toothbrushing. His tousled head stuck out to scan 
 his room-mate. "You re too pitifully young, kid. My 
 Gawd, you need me along all the time. Who have you fallen 
 for now?" 
 
 "Cut it," said Slade. "I told you this was a wonderful 
 woman." 
 
 He walked over to Rafe s bureau and stood before the 
 glass with one hand negligently upon his hip. 
 
 Rafe spluttered a laugh. "You did not. Wonderful per 
 son was what you said. Oh, la la la! They all flop some 
 day!" 
 
 "What the hell do you mean?" asked Slade with a great 
 pretense of wrath. 
 
 "Who? Me? My brand of light persiflage." 
 
 "Well, you re a damned old fool, Rafe. You ought to 
 have seen her." 
 
 "Sally is all I want to see," returned Rafe. "Sally," he 
 yelled suddenly, seizing a chair with which he began to pivot 
 about the room. "Sally, I adore you! God, you ought to 
 see that girl one-step!" 
 
 "Don t be an ass," said Slade. "You poor fish. I suppose 
 you actually think you re in love!" 
 
 With vast superiority he entered his own room, "doused" 
 (as he always expressed it) "the glim", and, after throwing 
 the manuscripts in the general direction of the table, com 
 posed himself for slumber. 
 
 "So she s a wonder, is she," remarked Rafe in a loud con- 
 
THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 versational tone from his own couch, its gaudy cover now 
 sprawling on the floor. He sat up, grinning at the wall be 
 tween his room and Slade s. Histrionically he raised one 
 hand to his ear to listen. 
 
 But there was no answer to his query, save a very bogus 
 snore. 
 
CHAPTER XIII: MS. BY ANON. 
 
 THE first thing Slade did next morning at the office was 
 to make a thorough search through all his papers for 
 one of those stamped, self-addressed envelopes usually in 
 closed by contributors. It refused to turn up. His ques 
 tioning resulted in nothing. After he had described to her 
 the nature of the manuscript, Miss Peabody became inter 
 ested. Between them they had the editorial rooms ransacked. 
 No luck. Slade took the manuscript in to the Editor-in- 
 Chief, in one of the latter s spare moments unconferential, 
 and said what he thought of its excellence. He was so press 
 ing that he actually left that notability reading it. Fifteen 
 minutes later the Chief emerged excitably from his sanctum 
 and came over to Slade s desk fluttering the typewritten 
 sheets. "Accepted, Breckinridge," he called, in his voice so 
 singularly boyish when contrasted with his somewhat elderly 
 features. "This is excellent. I- 
 
 "Hold on, sir," said Slade. "We can t find any trace of 
 who wrote it." He explained in detail. 
 
 The Editor-in-Chief immediately had a second search in 
 stituted which covered exactly the same ground as the first, 
 to the harassment of several underlings. It was, of course, 
 unsuccessful. Manuscripts coming to The Colosseum were 
 entered on cards upon their return or acceptance. For this 
 reason there was as yet no card for "The Crystal Castle" 
 and no sign of a return envelope anywhere. 
 
 "Well, we shall just have to wait till the author comes in. 
 He s sure to. You hold it, Breckinridge. I might be able 
 to put a note at the end of the editorial section of the August 
 number about the author communicating with us to hear 
 something to his advantage. But no, we d better wait the 
 
 125 
 
126 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 author is sure to inquire, and, after all, there s no great 
 hurry. A fine piece of work, though!" 
 
 The impeccably-dressed Art Editor stood at that moment 
 at the Chief s elbow. In his hand was a large drawing. 
 Hovering in the background, its creator waited to be intro 
 duced, noting with some hidden amusement the dignified 
 eccentricity of appearance peculiar to the widely-known Bar- 
 rington Tudor Brush "Old Toothbrush" or "Old T. B.", 
 as he was flippantly referred to in many unconscionable 
 studios. 
 
 Brush was an editor of the old school, an essayist of al 
 most overpowering urbanity, an executive of great moral 
 earnestness. To him the ancient routine of the Colosseum 
 was invested with a sacred character. It had been with the 
 greatest difficulty that Slade had finally prevailed upon him 
 to install a card-filing system in place of the previous un 
 wieldy ledger-method of entering and keeping track of 
 manuscripts. The first assault upon this holy institution had 
 resulted merely in long impressive soliloquies in which the 
 immediate topic was expanded to the proportions of a 
 fatherly lecture upon Slade s evidently radical sympathies in 
 art, politics and sociology. Barrington Tudor Brush s face 
 was set like flint (he said) against the increasing Lawless 
 ness of the present day. Lawlessness was a favourite word 
 upon his lip. Manners was another. He deprecated th de 
 cline of Manners. Somehow the idea of a card-index system 
 at first filled his mind with earnest fears for the insidious 
 penetration of Goth and Vandal into the high and austere 
 citadel of the Colosseum. 
 
 It took a little time to work him round from this attitude. 
 It took a deal of diplomacy to keep him to the single point. 
 He had to be diverted from strayings-off into indictments of 
 Nietzche and irritated slaps at Socialism. With finger and 
 thumb tips pressed lightly together, leaning back in his 
 leather-cushioned swivel-chair, his heavy reddish-gray mus 
 tache fluffed out at the calf-bound works of James Russell 
 Lowell that topped the high old-fashioned desk in the corner 
 
MS. BY ANON. 127 
 
 of his sanctum, he would round and polish his periods with 
 precise delight in the sound of his musically mellow voice. 
 Slade found this particularly hard to bear whenever he re 
 ceived a summons to hastily review the merits of such manu 
 scripts as he had reserved through the day as valuable 
 enough for the editorial eye. Coming in promptly and sit 
 ting down promptly with a wire basket in your lap and brief 
 but descriptive comments well- formulated in your mind, 
 seemed to accomplish little. 
 
 "This article on the court of an Indian Maharajah/* Slade 
 might begin, "doesn t seem to me particularly well written, 
 
 and " But the word India was enough. There would 
 
 follow a long and impressive discourse upon the Taj Mahal. 
 
 "Old T. B." was interesting too. That was the deuce of 
 it. His memory held a brilliant accumulation of odd infor 
 mation, splendid material with which to make essays allusive 
 and scholarly, encumbering mental lumber, however, so far 
 as the egress of prompt, time-saving decisions was con 
 cerned. And yet the prime necessity of such decisions was 
 a point constantly stressed. 
 
 "Save me time, Breckinridge. Editorial time is valuable. 
 Give me that in a nutshell. Now let s have it!" 
 
 But, when he had it (Slade often thought) he didn t know 
 what to do with it. 
 
 "Well, I suppose I shall have to read all those myself. 
 Get Miss Paxton to put them in my brief-case. A dog s 
 life, Breckinridge, a dog s life. This multiplicity of manu 
 scripts. No way that an editor can shift responsibility. Yes, 
 well, suppose you return those poems. Is that all?" 
 
 And Barrington Tudor Brush was a stickler for little 
 amenities in the office. "Always a good morning to every 
 one," he would enunciate distinctly. "We must always pre 
 serve the greatest punctilio toward our feminine assistants. 
 The most complete courtesy in office relationships is indis 
 pensable. Manners makyth man." 
 
 Perhaps the next moment the official buzzer would rasp 
 frantically in outer limbo. "Oh, Lord," Mrs. Swan would 
 
128 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 moan, rising from her cluttered desk, "there he is again!" 
 
 He was a very nervous man, Barrington Brush. She 
 would find him searchingly wildly upon his editorial table. 
 "The shears, Mrs. Swan," he would ejaculate. "This has 
 happened before. Someone is always taking my shears. . . . 
 The memorandum for Mr. Aquamarine. Where is that mem 
 orandum?" 
 
 He had his periods of jocularity. They showed him sud 
 denly, incredibly boyish, erupting with classical quotation 
 and absent-minded chuckles. 
 
 He had a special small yellow pad upon which, day and 
 night, he scribbled important memoranda addressed hap 
 hazard to any member of the office force upon any subject 
 that happened to occur to him. These oracular leaves in 
 pestilence-stricken multitudes fluttered about the ears of the 
 outer office every day. Their injunctions were, however, 
 completely forgotten as soon as written. Reference to them 
 afterward evoked only a wild-eyed stare and then a wholly 
 vague "Quite right, quite right!" Mrs. Swan had a private 
 collection of these memorabilia in a japanned tin box. She 
 took them out and read them over whenever she felt de 
 pressed. She had ceased paying the slightest attention to 
 them some years before. 
 
 Brush was a man in hfs middle fifties, with nearsighted 
 blue eyes behind strong-lensed gold-rimmed glasses. He 
 was moon-faced, bald, and pink of complexion. He usually 
 came to the office in a cutaway, on special occasions in a 
 frock-coat. He was short, but held himself erect, and 
 walked with an absent-minded scuffing step. He was al 
 ways cleanly shaved save for the predominant reddish-grey 
 mustache. He was much seen in quasi-literary society. He 
 was fundamentally highly benevolent, and drawled. 
 
 Slade had grown genuinely fond of him, despite his pe 
 culiarities, rather because of them. Brush was rarely iras 
 cible, though frequently plaintive. He strove to consider 
 and aid his subordinates. His editorial standards were of a 
 high integrity, if of a strict, old-fashioned classicism. Miss 
 
MS. BY ANON. 129 
 
 Peabody, with her fine taste but far more open mind, had 
 proved a good influence upon him. She often had her own 
 way in spite of him. In the present instance, "The Crystal 
 Castle" had succeeded miraculously. Never before in 
 Slade s experience had a manuscript of his own unhesitating 
 choice been so quickly approved also by the editorial judg 
 ment. And this in spite of the fact that there were several 
 passages in it Slade had feared 
 
 Now he took it over to Miss Peabody s desk and stood 
 holding it aloft as if in offering to the gods. 
 
 "A miracle," he said quizzically. "Behold a miracle!" 
 
 "What?" She looked up with clever brown eyes and the 
 faint one-sided smile with which she always greeted her 
 friends. 
 
 "T. B. likes this and so do I. Awfully. Ever know us to 
 agree before?" 
 
 "Never. But I ve been eavesdropping the loud editorial 
 Yea! So it s good, is it?" 
 
 "I hope you ll think so. I tremble." 
 
 "Well, this thing I m reading is utterly atrocious. Be 
 sides, the anonymity charms me. I ll read it right away." 
 
 "Isn t it good !" she called across to him a moment or so 
 later. 
 
 "Isn t it!" returned Slade. "Finished it?" 
 
 "Not yet. Wait a minute." 
 
 When she had, she arose crisply and brought it over to 
 his desk. 
 
 "It s darn good," said Miss Peabody. 
 
 At that moment the telephone on Slade s desk rang 
 sharply. 
 
 He nodded and grinned at Miss Peabody as he disen 
 tangled the receiver-cord. 
 
 "Hello. Yeah, this is Breckinridge. Oh, hello, Lin!" 
 
 "Yeah. Sure can. What time?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "How do you spell it?" 
 
 <Y not T? Oh, I see. How quaint!" 
 
130 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "Sure I d like to meet him. Sure, I m supercilious. This 
 is the Colosseum, isn t it?" 
 
 "Twelve-thirty? Right. I ll be there." 
 
 "Yeah. G -bye." 
 
 * * * 
 
 Slade entered the Players an hour later. "Mr. Jessup," 
 he said, as he gave his straw hat to the rubicund mulberry- 
 uniformed attendant. He looked down into the billiard room 
 where smoke drifted and ivory clicked, and up the short 
 stretch of stair to the main floor. Lin Jessup, thin, sallow- 
 faced, hawk-eyed, his height of brow exaggerated by the 
 fact that his sandy hair had receded from above his temples, 
 came gangling down the few brass-treaded steps and shook 
 his hand in a large loose grasp. 
 
 "Come up, fellow. I want you to meet this man Coryat." 
 
 A little later they were seating themselves at a table on 
 the rear veranda, overlooking the inclosed court, having tra 
 versed the main room with its big leather lounge and, pass 
 ing between glass cases of thespian relics, the shadowy din 
 ing-room where a few lunching groups gave them curious 
 casual glances. 
 
 Slade thought Coryat interesting looking. He liked his 
 lean brown face and the tilt of his nose. His green-blue eyes 
 seemed cognizant of everything. His sandy mustache gave 
 his face an indescribably foreign touch. Beside him Jessup 
 looked, as Slade put it to himself, "as yellow as a lemon", 
 and his lanky, loose-jointed body unusually awkward. Cor 
 yat sat up with nervous erectness, crumbling bread, Jessup 
 hunched over the table, head sunk between narrow shoulders, 
 chin stuck out. 
 
 "What ll you have, Coryat? I ll have the cold consomme 
 and then the fish," he said to the waiter. 
 
 "Coryat s been doing some articles for us," Jessup ex 
 plained. "We publish the first one next week. He thinks 
 the Colosseum might be interested in a couple on another 
 phase of the European situation. It s this well, you ex 
 plain, Coryat." 
 
MS. BY ANON. 131 
 
 Richard began to do so. All three proceeded with their 
 meal. In half an hour Slade was in possession of the whole 
 idea and had promised to take it up with Mr. Brush and 
 arrange to have Coryat come in and discuss it with him. 
 After their coffee they wandered back into the main room 
 and found seats on the big leather lounge that faced the 
 fireplace. Jessup was called away to the telephone. 
 
 He returned a moment later. "I m sorry. I have to go 
 uptown. Don t you men hurry. Why don t you sit around 
 a while? Hate to rush off this way, but I ve got to." 
 
 "I m sorry too. Maybe we will sit for just a few 
 minutes," said Slade. "So long. Thank you a lot, Lin." 
 Coryat also made his adieus. "How did it come out?" asked 
 Slade, as they reseated themselves. He had been listening 
 to a war reminiscence. Coryat completed it. 
 
 "Yes, that was queer," said Slade. 
 
 "Speaking of anonymity, though," he went on, after a 
 second, "we ve just had a case at the office. And I happen 
 to have the evidence with me now." His left hand went 
 inside his coat. "I brought it over, as a matter of fact, 
 thinking it would interest Lin. Then I got so interested in 
 
 what you were talking about Here it is. Careful of it 
 
 we think it s valuable. A remarkable story. Came in the 
 other day without the slightest identification on it. We re 
 holding it until the author remembers that fact or gets tired 
 of waiting for us to return it, and comes in." 
 
 "Mind if I look at it?" asked Coryat. 
 
 "Not at all. I d like you to. By the way but no, I sup 
 pose that would be a bore. Only it is quite remarkable." 
 
 "What? Want me to read it ? Now?" 
 
 "Would you? I d really like an outside opinion on it. 
 Sure it won t bore you?" 
 
 "Not a bit. Give me a minute or two." 
 
 He took ten. 
 
 Slade sat and smoked. 
 
 "Well, I ll be jiggered," remarked Coryat, softly. 
 
 "What?" 
 
132 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "Wait a minute. This is queer." 
 
 He finished the story rapidly, muttering unintelligibly 
 every now and then. 
 
 He looked up and handed back the manuscript. 
 "I know the author," said Coryat simply. 
 "You do? How do you? Who is it?" 
 "It s a man named Terrill. He wrote only one book I 
 know of, Golden Windfall . It was published in England. 
 It s very rare. In my opinion he s an undiscovered genius. 
 I ve tried to trace some facts about him, but I could find out 
 precious little. His book was brought out by a small Lon 
 don firm that failed soon after. It got practically no notices. 
 I talked to several critics in London about him last year. 
 They d never heard of him or of the book. I lent them the 
 book. One of them, old De Sayyes, got really interested. 
 He did some sleuthing. But one partner of the firm that 
 had brought out the book was dead and the other was 
 somewhere in Europe. None of those I interested could find 
 out anything definite. The first and only edition of the book 
 was small, and the remainders must be widely scattered. De 
 Sayyes said something about it in his page in The London 
 Weekly, but nothing has turned up yet. I m hoping to get 
 someone over here interested. We think the author died 
 some years ago. At least, he s never appeared in literature 
 again. But this manuscript why, the man had an ab 
 solutely individual style. I could tell his fine Italian hand in 
 the dark. This seems to me unmistakable. I could show 
 you if I had the book." 
 
 "Thought you said you did have it?" 
 
 "Silly of me perhaps 1 lent my only copy to to a 
 
 friend of mine. I ll have to wait till it s returned." 
 "You re sure are you?" 
 
 "About who wrote this ? Oh, I m certain I couldn t mis 
 take the style. It s as unmistakable as as Chesterton or 
 or Thomas Carlyle." 
 
 "Somebody imitating but that doesn t seem reasonable 
 
MS. BY ANON. 133 
 
 either, does it with the writer absolutely unknown over 
 here." 
 
 "Oh, Lord, no " Coryat stopped. His mouth remained 
 
 slightly open, his brow wrinkled. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 Coryat s lips closed. "Oh, nothing. * 
 
 "No," he said slowly. "I don t believe anyone could imi 
 tate Terrill as well as that. Even if it were a good imitation 
 I think I d know it. I ve lived with his book too long. It s 
 sui generis. But I ll swear he wrote this story. I ll swear 
 it. The point is to find him." 
 
 "Well this is certainly darned interesting," said Slade. 
 "I ll have to tell old T. B. But surely, if it is this man Ter 
 rill, he ll eventually turn up for his manuscript. Now, look 
 here will you give me his full name again and the name of 
 his book?" 
 
 "Richard Terrill," began Coryat slowly, "Golden Wind 
 fall " 
 
 * * * 
 
 It was a number of days before Slade saw Richard again. 
 In the meanwhile, between cogitations about the mysterious 
 Richard Terrill, his thoughts recurred quite regularly to 
 Adela Ventress. He had only seen her twice, but he found 
 that he missed seeing her. There were amusing incidents 
 arising out of his daily editorial toil and nightly jaunts 
 around the Village with Rafe that he found he wanted to 
 share with her. There was the incident of the anarchist in 
 the crumpet-shop on Christopher Street, there was the in 
 cident of Mr. Spofford, the Associate Editor s falling asleep 
 in his chair and sliding under his desk at three o clock of a 
 rainy afternoon; there was the incident of the three small 
 boys and the baffled sandwich-man, which had amused him 
 one morning as he hurried up the northwest side of Union 
 Square; there was above all the incident of the Mysteri 
 ous Manuscript. But there was no excuse for writing Mrs. 
 Ventress, at least no proper excuse that he could think of. 
 
134 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 And, after all, why should he want to write to her? Oh, I 
 don t know ! 
 
 Slade had retailed to the impressed Harrington Tudor 
 Brush all that Richard Coryat had vouchsafed about the 
 author named Richard Terrill. Brush had called up several 
 rare book dealers and collectors of his acquaintance, and the 
 New York Public Library. The only thing he discovered 
 was, from the New York Public Library, after some research, 
 the name of the original publishers of the book which Cor 
 yat had already communicated to Slade. The New York 
 Public Library had no copy. Brush dictated several polite 
 and affable communications of generous proportions to emi 
 nent literary friends in England. With properly dignified cir 
 cumlocution he approached them for any possible knowledge 
 they might have of the book. These letters were duly typed, 
 signed and dispatched, after having been transferred by im 
 print into the ancient blotter letter-books of the "Colos 
 seum", amid whose undecipherable tissue sheets it had 
 grown utterly impossible to find any given communication at 
 any given time in any such state of preservation as could 
 render it useful for reference. 
 
 As for the mysterious manuscript, it was locked in the 
 safe. Coryat kept the appointment Slade had made for him 
 with Barrington Tudor Brush. He emerged slightly pale be 
 neath his tan, after a protracted interview. Nevertheless, he 
 was to submit a first article, and he had impressed the Edi 
 tor-in-Chief with the potential value of his own work and 
 the indubitable value of that of Richard Terrill whoever he 
 was. Not to speak of the interesting mystery of the latter. 
 
 Meanwhile, as has been noted, Mrs. Ventress recurred. 
 She remained like the memory of a familiar tune somewhere 
 in the back of Slade s brain. Once or twice, out of a blank 
 day-dreaming, a startlingly photographic image of her would 
 amaze his mind. Bending over the lobelia in her garden, 
 standing on the steps of Uncle Arthur s back porch pointing 
 at the moon. Slade began to plan another visit to Tupton. 
 
CHAPTER XIV: CORYAT CAN T REMEMBER 
 
 A WEEK had passed when Coryat called Slade on the 
 phone. 
 
 "Can t you have dinner with me tonight? You live down 
 in the Village, don t you? By the way, what luck about 
 Terrill any?" 
 
 "Sure; that ll be fine," Slade answered the first question. 
 "Terrill ? No. The mysterious author hasn t turned up yet. 
 Still, you know, it hasn t been so long. How about Chris- 1 
 tine s? Ever been there? Let this be my party. I ll see if 
 I can get my room-mate to come along, can I ? Like you to 
 meet him. What time do you say ?" 
 
 As certain exigencies of make-up would keep him late 
 that day at the office, he agreed to join Coryat at his Gram- 
 ercy Park apartment about 6:30. Meantime, he phoned 
 Rafe and found that "demon of advertising" had a date with 
 Sally Pasquale for dinner at The Black Cat. Sorry he 
 couldn t join them. Like to meet this fellow. What s his 
 name ? Oh, yes, you told me. What are you up to ? Going 
 to sleuth the author of the "Crystal Castle" ? Hope you find 
 him. Ask him if he can write good copy for air brakes, if 
 you do. I can t. Want to hear about the Swenson Axle? 
 No? Want to hear about Rubbitonya the Tony Talcum? 
 No? Well, well, well, what do you want to know, young 
 fella? After several normally gratuitous insults, exchanged 
 in genuine affection, Slade snicked the receiver back, grin 
 ning. 
 
 About seven o clock he piloted Coryat down MacDougall 
 Street and they climbed the steep, gloomy stairway, from the 
 equally gloomy doorway next the livery-stable theatre of the 
 Provincetown Players. The door above was opened on 
 
 135 
 
136 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 smoke and noisy chatter. The long tables nearest held ban 
 tering groups of oddly assorted habitues of the Village. 
 "Momma" presided with her usual abundant good-nature. 
 You helped yourself to stew and bread-and-butter and cof 
 fee. Slade spoke to several acquaintances. He procured 
 the necessary viands for Coryat and himself. Threading 
 their way through the intensely conversational diners, they 
 found a blue-painted table for two near the front of the 
 room, under posters of the Barbarian s Ball and Harry 
 Kemp s Minetta Lane Theatre. They began to eat and talk. 
 
 The conversation drifted to the unfair sex finally. It 
 usually does. Though Slade was some ten years younger 
 than Richard Coryat, they met upon fairly equal terms until 
 they touched this topic. Coryat was not the type desirous 
 of impressing people with his experiences in knocking 
 around the world. He simply retailed the most interesting 
 of them quite naturally, with amusing comment. Slade had 
 grown, through his magazine experience, to be a good lis 
 tener. He was also well-read and well-informed. The 
 questions he asked, the interpolations he made, were to the 
 point. He too was interesting as well as interested. But he 
 brought up the subject of Mrs. Ventress rather naively. 
 
 "I met a remarkable woman on my vacation Fourth of 
 July," he said so seriously, digging his cigarette butt into 
 the china saucer of his cup, and frowning with such gravity 
 that Coryat had to check a twitch of the lips. "A remarkable 
 woman," he repeated, raising his head and staring at the 
 opposite wall. In an older man the statement would have 
 been accepted with the proper serious interest usual between 
 acquaintances, but the thought and feeling working in Slade 
 suddenly showed through his eyes in worshipping youthful- 
 ness. As suddenly something appealing about it touched 
 Coryat and he kicked himself inwardly for his desire to 
 laugh. After all, he remembered Jane. 
 
 "Who was she?" he asked gravely enough. 
 
 "That s a mystery too rather," said Slade, still staring 
 at the wall. "No one in Tupton this town where my 
 
CORYAT CAN T REMEMBER 137 
 
 Uncle lives seems to know exactly who she is. She used 
 to live in New York. She s come out there for the sum 
 
 mer 
 
 Coryat s eyes roved from corner to corner of the low ceil 
 ing in sudden thought. 
 
 "What s her name?" he asked. 
 
 Their eyes met. 
 
 "Why why it s she s a Mrs. Ventress. I believe her full 
 name s Adela Ventress. You don t know her, do you?" 
 
 "No, not at all," Coryat shook his head. "Never heard of 
 her." 
 
 "Do you know anyone in Tupton? I didn t know you 
 did." 
 
 "I don t. Just a thought. Go on." 
 
 "There s some woman on his mind. That s certain," 
 thought Slade. 
 
 "Look here, don t think me impertinent, but you sound as 
 if you were oh, well never mind. Excuse me," he said 
 aloud. 
 
 "As if I were what?" Coryat had flushed a little. But 
 he was smiling. 
 
 "Oh, no. Only that s the second time." 
 
 "Second time what? What do you mean?" 
 
 Still he was smiling. 
 
 "Oh, I was going to say second time you ve been specu 
 lating about somebody. But I m sorry. None of my busi 
 ness." 
 
 Richard laughed, though his colour had slightly deepened. 
 
 "No I m not. Well it is No, indeed I m not." 
 
 His laugh was just a trifle forced. It was he, now, who 
 looked boyish. But the man-of-the-world expression re 
 turned almost immediately. With the colour a certain light 
 seemed to fade from his face. 
 
 "Always think I might know people. I ve knocked around 
 so much. That s all. Go on." 
 
 "Oh, well," said Slade. "Nothing much." 
 
 He too had withdrawn into his shell. 
 
138 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "Fine woman, that s all. She s teaching my young cousin 
 drawing. I was rather impressed by her." This last with 
 the transparent disinterest affected by youth. "I ve just been 
 wondering what her story could be, that s all. You know 
 how you meet well, interesting people." 
 
 Coryat guarded his voice. And then he too was thinking 
 of an interesting woman he had met oh, very ! 
 
 "I know," he said. He thought of speaking of Flora ; and 
 
 then he thought he wouldn t. Nice kid, Slade, but still 
 
 He was continually wondering these days where the deuce 
 Flora Iwd gone. He had even inquired by telephone of her 
 publishers. If they knew they were not giving out her ad 
 dress. They must know, but evidently had their instruc 
 tions. He did not feel that he ought to pursue the matter. 
 
 "Very beautiful, though," said Slade absently, and startled 
 him. The very words had been in his mind. It irritated 
 him too, slightly. Here he was mooning exactly like this 
 boy. 
 
 "Very beautiful," murmured Slade to himself, sipping 
 his coffee. "Oh, well," he looked up with an entirely charm 
 ing expression. "The devil, aren t they?" 
 
 "What? women?" returned Coryat, entirely disarmed, 
 highly amused. "Yes, my son, they re very likely to prove 
 so." 
 
 "Yes, I guess so," contributed Slade with a certain non 
 chalance. "But, by golly, I ve got to see her again!" 
 
 He sat inhaling his Fatima. His smile was saved from 
 fatuousness by his youth. Coryat laughed openly now and 
 Slade joined him, a trifle ruefully. "Oh, well," he remarked 
 detachedly, "you must think me an awful ass." 
 
 "No," returned Coryat, considering. "On the whole I 
 don t. There have been times," he added, with amusement 
 in his eyes and voice, "when I ve felt that way myself." 
 
 His face relapsed into seriousness. It seemed older. His 
 eyes strayed over the cutlery-clinking groups about them. 
 
 "We-el," he said slowly, "you think I m speculating about 
 somebody. I am. About several people, in fact. No, it s 
 
CORYAT CANT REMEMBER 139 
 
 not you (he answered Slade s eyes). Some day I might tell 
 you my story. You say you wonder what your new friend s 
 is. Her name was why, good Lord, just what did you say 
 her name was?" 
 
 To tell the truth he surprised himself quite as much as he 
 did Slade. A memory had suddenly clicked into place, in 
 the eerie way of memories. It seemed preposterous of him 
 to have forgotten that name. 
 
 "Gosh," said Slade with round eyes, "That is funny of 
 you. It was Ventress. Adela Ventress." 
 
 "How do you spell it?" 
 
 "Why, V-e-n-t-r-e-double-s, so far as I know." 
 
 "Is it? Isn t it? Do you know, I don t really remember!" 
 
 Richard Coryat was undoubtedly looking queer. 
 
 "To think that / don t really remember," he repeated, 
 his chin cupped in his hands. He sank his forehead for a 
 moment between them, his hands ruffling his hair. 
 
 "What do you mean ? What is it? I m all at sea, old man. 
 What s up?" 
 
 Slade was concerned. Coryat raised strange absent-look 
 ing eyes, staring at him. 
 
 "No. I can t remember," he said slowly, shaking his 
 head. "Ventress. Ventress. PFa.y it that ? Ventress. Ven 
 
 "I m awfully sorry if I - " began Slade. Then, as sud 
 denly as the fit had fallen, his companion resumed com 
 posure. 
 
 "No. Oh, no ! That s all right," he stated, with a slight 
 tremor in his voice. "I was just trying to recall something 
 it s that I once knew a name that I can t quite remember, 
 that must have been something like that. It s a long time 
 ago. It gets so mixed up. Good heavens, what a queer 
 life! No of course, it couldn t have anything to do with 
 that. Nothing at all. It couldn t possibly have any connec 
 tion." 
 
 "I m just thinking aloud. Don t think I m crazy," he 
 added, now with quite a normal smile, "It s nothing I can ex- 
 
140 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 plain, but there s nothing you need worry about. I ve been 
 rather oh, well sorry! Shall we take in that Province- 
 town place?" 
 
 "Why, yes let s," returned Slade slowly. He was still 
 rather bewildered by Coryat s agitation, and his poetic 
 imagination was at work. Slade was an ingrained romantic. 
 He went down the room to pay "Momma", while Coryat 
 followed. 
 
 "You certainly do make a fellow curious, though," said 
 Slade, as they began descending the stairs together. "You 
 gave me a considerable start." 
 
 His companion put his head back and expelled air from 
 his nostrils sharply with a slight but ironically mirthful 
 sound. 
 
 "Too bad. I suppose I must have. But after all, I haven t 
 had as strange a life as you might imagine from that. Still 
 He shrugged decisively and changed the subject to a 
 discussion of Eugene O Neill. Next door, without purchas 
 ing season tickets, they managed to get seats for the several 
 one-act plays then running. 
 
 "Look here," said Coryat, as they parted several hours 
 later at the bus terminus on the south side of the Square, 
 the writer of foreign articles having declared for a ride home 
 up the Avenue, "look here, don t think of me as a man of 
 mystery or anything like that. The man of mystery you 
 want is this man Terrill. Keep me informed if anything 
 turns up, won t you?" 
 
 "I certainly will," said Slade. "I certainly will. No sign 
 so far. But I m going to try to get another week-end at 
 Tupton sometime soon. I need a complete change, don t you 
 think," he laughed, "from all these peculiar circumstances?" 
 
 Coryat smiled. "Well," he said, "take care of yourself." 
 
 "Oh," said Slade, laughing again, "no fear, thank you. 
 You ought to see her though. She s a corker. I ve talked 
 rather like an ass I m afraid. Well. It s been a fine even 
 ing. Thanks a lot for your company. We must do this 
 again." 
 
CORYAT CANT REMEMBER 
 
 "We must," returned Coryat, swinging up on the frog- 
 green bus. "Good night. Good luck!" 
 
 * * * 
 
 It was another week, the twentieth of July, to be exact, 
 before Slade had manoeuvred old T. B. into a position to 
 grant him a week-end off. Letters from Slade s parents, 
 who had been for a year in Nevada, Slade s father being a 
 mining engineer of some prominence, opportunely assisted 
 him. They contained certain affectionate inquiries, on his 
 mother s part, as to the well-being of "your Uncle Charles", 
 "your Uncle Arthur", and "little Bessie". His father, fur 
 thermore, wanted to know, though the matter was not pres 
 sing, if Arthur had yet tried his, Mr. Breckinridge s, pre 
 scription for hay-fever, and whether he had yet made up his 
 mind to visit them when the Breckinridges returned to Long 
 Island thus autumn. 
 
 His father always wrote with his tongue in his cheek, and 
 his letters both teased and amused Slade. They invariably 
 ended with the words "Your respectable father," above a 
 copperplate signature. This terminology was a pleasure of 
 long standing to the elder Breckinridge. Its inception had 
 been several protracted arguments a year earlier upon the 
 status of labour and the future of modern social movements. 
 Slade was rebellious and eager, his father intelligent but 
 disillusioned. "You have more faith in human nature than 
 I have, my son." His father had managed men under stress. 
 Slade had not. His father s mind was packed with practical 
 instances, historical parallels. Slade fulminated from the 
 latest books of Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells, Thorstein Veb- 
 len, and from articles in "The New Republic". 
 
 Unfortunately he could only quote, rather patchily. He 
 did not possess the dialectical power of the authors men 
 tioned. Against them his father quoted Montaigne, Gibbon, 
 James Bryce, John Stuart Mill. He also fell back on W. 
 H. Mallock, whose sociology Slade derided with the burning 
 scorn of a true Shavian. Nevertheless, in historical purview, 
 statistical corroboration and the concrete instance, Slade 
 
THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 came off badly. But the force of his insurgence was funda 
 mentally emotional and, though he were beaten in argument, 
 
 he felt that his father was wrong. There was a spirit ! 
 
 He opposed a fighting optimism and abundant energy of 
 imagination to his father s dry experiences of the working 
 out of ambitious schemes in the hands of erring humanity. 
 It was the eternal antagonism of disillusioned age and eleo- 
 trically potential youth. 
 
 They had sat across the fireplace from each other in the 
 long, low-ceilinged Long Island library, conversing late into 
 the night. Slade had a genuine love and respect for his 
 father. This tempered the asperity of some of their more 
 clashing encounters. His father had a sense of humour and 
 the philosophic cast of mind, adumbrating opinions formed 
 a generation earlier. In spite of his decidedness he could 
 conduct long arguments in the abstract without recourse to 
 personalities. They usually ended by differing completely 
 upon every main point at issue without, however, losing in 
 terest in each other. This is not to say that they did not 
 sometimes find each other an irritation and a considerable 
 trial. But they agreed to differ. Mr. Breckinridge s atti 
 tude toward Slade s future was, "Well, you ve got to find 
 out. Go and see." Meanwhile he accepted in jocular 
 fashion the hypothesis that his son was a bomb-and-torch 
 radical and he himself the epitome of aristocratic respecta 
 bility. Occasionally he sent Slade communications written 
 in red ink, addressing him as "Comrade" and referring to 
 startling plots brewing against the "craven capitalists". Yet, 
 as a matter of fact, whatever exasperation with the social 
 order Slade evinced he inherited direct from his forebear, 
 who had early renounced all established religion and had al 
 ways ordered his own life according to the demands of his 
 own nature. 
 
 Mr. Breckinridge regarded his relations and his wife s 
 relations with a tempered amusement. He regarded the 
 human spectacle not without kindliness but with a keen 
 appreciation of the absurdity of many conventions, the trivi- 
 
CORYAT CANT REMEMBER 
 
 alty of human aims, a delight in the extraordinary working- 
 out of unanalysed human passions. His cool, detached tem 
 perament derived much sustenance of enjoyment from the 
 antics of the actors in the human comedy. 
 
 Old T. B., thought Slade, might have irritated the elder 
 Breckinridge, but he would have been sure to furnish him 
 taciturn delight. Slade now approached his Chief in the 
 matter of a short leave of absence, with tact, and, it must 
 be confessed, a quite self-interested appeal to the really 
 very kindly heart of Barrington Tudor Brush. It was rep 
 resented that there were certain definite commissions that 
 Slade must discharge in person on behalf of his far-distant 
 parents. They concerned the future well-being of his most 
 immediate relatives. The impression was urgently con 
 veyed. Old T. B. capitulated. It was arranged that Slade 
 should leave on the next Friday and need not return until 
 the following Tuesday. So on Friday, the twentieth, he 
 turned over certain important manuscripts to Miss Peabody, 
 drawing a long face of regret which did not impress her 
 in the slightest, joined her upon a short excursion into per 
 siflage, beamed upon and gesticulated farewells at everyone 
 in the office, with the exception of Mr. Spofford who was, 
 as usual, closeted with Mr. Brush inveighing against the 
 latest demands of the A. F. of L., and hastily departed, with 
 incredibly battered suitcase, for the Pennsylvania Station. 
 
 His train left for Philadelphia at eleven o clock. He 
 would arrive in Tupton at eleven that night. Uncle Charles 
 would not mind. He always sat up reading until after 
 twelve, and Slade could have found the Poplar Street house 
 in an eclipse. It was no walk at all for a young man, from 
 the station. To-morrow then, Saturday, he might see her. 
 He began to go over certain things they had talked about. 
 Her mystery enthralled him again, as the long, sluglike sur 
 face-car slid, clanged and hissed its airbrakes up Broadway. 
 
CHAPTER XV: "I AM RICHARD TERRELL * 
 
 IT was the next morning, Saturday, at 9 130, that a woman 
 stood hesitatingly on the threshold of the reception room 
 of The Colosseum. Her figure still showed lines of youth. 
 Her face was pale but attractive. She held her head erect, 
 as though confronting danger. Bright eyes, pleasant fea 
 tures. Under her hat, a glint of bronze on soft hair. She 
 carried a black leather brief-case. 
 
 She came tentatively into the open, from between the long 
 dark-red portieres. She glanced at the shut glass-panelled 
 door on her right, at the wide open doorway to the domain 
 of the Art Department on her left. She proceeded toward 
 the imitation-mahogany typewriter-desk under the green- 
 shaded, gold-nimbussing droplight. Behind the desk sat a 
 young woman with fluffy yellow hair, horn glasses, and a 
 white shirtwaist. She was typing cards. 
 
 She looked up and smiled pleasantly as the stranger stood 
 in front of her. "Yes?" she inquired. 
 
 "I I should like to see one of the editors. I sent in a 
 manuscript some time ago " 
 
 "Certainly. Won t you," indicating, "just wait a moment. 
 Someone will see you " 
 
 The visitor retired to the corduroy-upholstered sofa. The 
 yellow-haired girl finished typing in their proper columns 
 "6/3/20", "S.B.", "6/5/20" under the column headings 
 "RECD", "READER", "RET". The title of the ill- 
 fated manuscript and the name of the ill-starred author had 
 already been entered as "Beneath the Weeping Willow" 
 Mignon Foley Verse. 
 
 The yellow-haired girl flipped her card from the ma 
 chine. She arose and vouchsafed a languid remark about 
 
 144 
 
"I AM RICHARD TERRILL" 145 
 
 the weather to her companion in outer darkness, the square- 
 visaged kindly-looking elder woman behind the roll-top, who 
 was estimating costs on the August number and munching 
 a peppermint. She turned toward the awe-inspiring vista 
 of the editorial rooms and the woman sitting nervously 
 upright on the sofa saw her cross toward the left, inside. 
 
 "Somebody to see the editor. Will you see her, Miss Pea- 
 body? Mr. Breckinridge isn t here you know." 
 
 "Yes, I know. Just a moment. One minute. I ll be 
 there." 
 
 The yellow-haired girl departed with this information. 
 Having delivered it, she sat down, inserted another card in 
 her Underwood and rattled off "His Proper Sphere" 
 T. F. Zalinski Fiction 
 
 Miss Peabody advanced from the inner room. Her crisp 
 and cleanly presence had always reminded Slade of freshly- 
 cut sweet-peas. She usually wore a high jabot collar to her 
 handkerchief linen shirtwaists. Even in the present late 
 July heat they did not wilt. Miss Peabody s nose was promi 
 nently acquiline, her smile delicately satiric. Her dark eyes 
 surveyed you with frank interest. Her dark-brown hair 
 was dexterously and attractively arranged, never straying. 
 She had a dash of New England and a Puckish strain often 
 overcoming much natural dignity. Her eye was keen for 
 character. All sorts of people interested her. She greeted 
 the woman on the couch with entire naturalness, and sat 
 down beside her. "I am the Dragon s assistant," she said, 
 smiling with a gleam of white teeth. "What can I do ?" 
 
 The woman on the brown corduroy sofa clasped and un 
 clasped her hands. She looked up at Miss Peabody in 
 tently, enlarging her eyes. She moistened her lips with a 
 minute pink tongue-tip. She reminded Miss Peabody, some 
 how, of a stray kitten. 
 
 "I submitted a manuscript some weeks ago," she said 
 softly. "I haven t heard. I wondered whether you could 
 tell me " 
 
 "What was the title of it?" 
 
146 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 " The The Crystal Castle*. It just occurred to me this 
 morning that, in retyping my first page, I might have forgot 
 to put my name and address on it. You you see, it s been 
 around so often before though not lately it got so shabby. 
 I I didn t have an envelope at the time to enclose for re 
 turn, but I inclosed stamps. Anyway, I am quite sure," she 
 added, with a disheartened glance, "that that it won t be 
 available; so I thought I d come for it. Have you seen it?" 
 
 Miss Peabody had been scanning her face intently. 
 
 "Why, of course I ve seen it," she said slowly, her eyes 
 still trying to analyse the woman s character. She smiled 
 too, for she found much appeal in that face. "Of course 
 I ve seen it. We all think it remarkably good. But there s 
 a point, you see. One of the Noted Sex," she smiled f emin- 
 istically, "has has well, did you submit it for somebody 
 else, perhaps, or did you write it?" 
 
 "I wrote it," said the woman simply. 
 
 "Well, I ll tell you do you mind waiting? Mr. Brush the 
 editor would like to see you about it, I m sure. I know he 
 wants to accept it if well there are several points he would 
 like to talk over with you. Will you wait just a minute?" 
 
 "Oh oh, surely," murmured the other. Colour had come 
 back into her cheeks. Yet her eyes stared. "You think 
 there s really he really likes it?" 
 
 Miss Peabody had risen. "Why of course," she said. "It s 
 a beautiful piece of work. But you know that !" 
 
 "Yes, of course I do know," murmured the woman. "But 
 you know most magazines " 
 
 A few moments later she was entering the sanctum sane- 
 torum. 
 
 "A-ah, Miss, Miss I am afraid I didn t quite catch your 
 name aah, won t you sit down," said Barrington Tudor 
 Brush, rising as Miss Peabody ushered the visitor in. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Miss Peabody, "I completely 
 forgot to ask it?" 
 
 "Cole," said the visitor. "Ann Cole." 
 
 "Aah er I see. Well, won t you sit down, Miss Cole. 
 
"I AM RICHARD TERRILL" 147 
 
 Right there," said the Editor-in-Chief. "That s it. Aah 
 er thank you, Miss Peabody. Thank you very much. 
 Now aah er Miss Pole; no, Cole you said, Cole, Cole; 
 yes, exactly, aah er well, the fact is Miss Cole, the fact 
 is that er it s a very good story now, isn t it?" 
 
 The great T. B. was functioning in perfect form. 
 
 Miss Cole s somewhat strained face took on a puzzled ex 
 pression. There was a slight twitching of the corners of her 
 mouth. 
 
 "I was, in fact, greatly impressed by that story, Miss Cole. 
 There are one or two points about it. Aah as I remember 
 it, several misspellings and a prepositional ending. A prepo 
 sitional ending, you know, Miss Cole, is very unfortunate, 
 and so easily avoided something the true stylist shrinks 
 from. But the story has impressed me, I must say, has 
 genuinely impressed me. Now, I must ask your indulgence, 
 Miss Cole. There is another point there has been a per 
 son well, in fact, Miss Cole, there has been a sugges 
 tion . I suppose you have never heard of a writer an 
 
 Englishman named Richard Terrill?" the great T. B. fin 
 ished. 
 
 He was sitting, knees crossed, plumply filling his round- 
 backed upholstered desk chair. His pepper-and-salt suit 
 was deeply wrinkled around the vest. His near-sighted blue 
 eyes blinked at her through the gold-rimmed spectacles. The 
 back of his plump right hand drew her eyes to its pinkness 
 as that hand judicially stroked his fluff ed-out reddish mus 
 tache. 
 
 There was no denying the flush that had come to her 
 cheek at the mention of Terrill. It was momentary but dis 
 tinct. Her lips opened and closed. Her eyes seemed to 
 widen in that way they had. 
 
 "I see what you mean," she said. "You think I have 
 stolen from Richard Terrill." 
 
 Directness always confused T. B., and dismayed him a 
 little. There was something in candid abruptness that re 
 minded him of the Decline of Manners. He waved both 
 
14*8 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 hands in intended affability. He pointed his ruddy chin 
 high and caressed his mustache with fervour. He brought 
 his feet down square upon the floor and leaned forward in 
 an earnestly confidential manner. 
 
 "Not at all, my dear lady, not at all," said old T. B. "Not 
 for an instant did I intend any such implication. I only 
 heard that the man existed a short while ago. I merely de 
 sired to know whether by any chance " 
 
 A small but peculiarly grim smile came to Miss Cole s 
 face, a smile that did not part her lips. The pupils of her 
 eyes revealed secret mischief. 
 
 "Well, you see, Mr. Brush, I am Richard Terrill," said the 
 lady, leaning forward also. 
 
 "My dear lady, why I think it astounding enough for you 
 to manifest acquaintance with the work of this writer, of 
 whom I heard only very recently through the friend of one 
 of my assistants. Aah er I believe he is the author of 
 but one book, and that an exceedingly rare volume. At all 
 events I have never chanced upon it myself and have so far 
 been unable to locate it in New York, though I have been 
 in touch with several of the rare book-dealers and book- 
 collectors. But really, my dear lady, it is a certainty in the 
 opinion of this friend of my assistant s, whose name I 
 need not divulge, that the author of that volume, and, 
 through extreme similarity of style, the author of this story 
 we hold, is one and the same person and a man. Hence 
 you will see " 
 
 It was rather tortuously presented, but Ann Cole saw. 
 
 "The book you refer to is Golden Windfall ," she said 
 with composure. "It was published in England five years 
 ago, Swain and Higgins, five hundred copies. I wrote it 
 under the name of Richard Terrill. I wrote the story you 
 have in your safe. / am Richard Terrill. There is no 
 other." 
 
 She was emphatic. 
 
 "But my dear lady, are you sure?" 
 
"I AM RICHARD TERRILL" 
 
 Once an idea was in his head, T. B. could be exasperating 
 about any effort to change it. 
 
 Miss Cole s voice trembled slightly. She bit her lip. 
 
 "Perfectly. Really, I ought to know." 
 
 "But aah er my dear Miss Cole, I have never seen 
 you before you know. I should be extremely glad to accept 
 
 you as the author of the story " He turned to his desk 
 
 and possessed himself of the manuscript Miss Peabody had 
 forethoughtedly exhumed for him, "I haven t the slight 
 est doubt not the slightest doubt " he waved at her as 
 
 he discovered the first glimmer of balefulness in her eyes. 
 "I haven t the slightest doubt that what you say is true. 
 I simply must have some means of identification. You 
 doubtless possess contracts, letters, all that. If you will be 
 so kind as to let me see " 
 
 "I can prove it," said Miss Cole. She said it calmly enough. 
 "Yes, that will be the best way. Yes. I am glad you like 
 the story. I think it is good myself. I will bring you the 
 proof sufficient proof that I wrote both it and Golden 
 Windfall ." 
 
 She rose. Barrington Tudor Brush also rose. He bent 
 toward her from the waist. He extended his hand. Her 
 tight little nervous grip closed -upon *his kindly but rather 
 flabby one. She was gone, quickly, decisively. 
 
 She left Barrington Tudor Brush rather at a loss. He 
 sat down in his round-backed chair again and stroked his 
 mustache. He blinked through his glasses. He did not 
 really believe that neat little person. He had already visual 
 ised Richard Terrill. If Richard Terrill were still alive he 
 was short, ruddy, mustached, his heart and his manner 
 charmingly youthful. He bowed from the waist. He was 
 urbane and most certainly executive. . . . No, he could not 
 see Miss Ann Cole writing "The Crystal Castle". Where 
 had she come from? Who was she? True, she had known 
 all the details that he knew or that Coryat knew about 
 "Golden Windfall". But then there was the Library. They 
 had given him those bare facts. She might even be em- 
 
150 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 ployed at the Library. She might know in some way . 
 
 Good Heavens, for all his urbanity and executiveness, he 
 had forgotten, completely forgotten to ascertain her ad 
 dress ! He bounced into the outer editorial room. 
 
 "Miss Peabody aah er did you take Miss Cole s ad 
 dress?" 
 
 "Why, no, Mr. Brush, I thought she had left it with you." 
 
 "Has she gone? Can t you run after her to the elevator 
 or or something. An oversight. We decidedly should 
 have taken her address. We know so little about her. I 
 don t really think, you know ." 
 
 But Miss Peabody, rising without appearance of haste, 
 had vanished through the reception-room into the hall. She 
 returned without haste but swiftly. "I m sorry, Mr. 
 Brush " 
 
 "Aah well, well, never mind. You know I don t really 
 at all believe that young lady " 
 
 "She stopped at my desk just a second," said Miss Pea- 
 body, "and then she went out so quickly, saying she was 
 coming back on Monday " 
 
 "I know. She is to bring some means of identification. 
 But really, Miss Peabody, I though it s quite extraor 
 dinary " 
 
 He stood by Miss Peabody s desk for a moment or so, 
 while she deftly drew from him just exactly what Miss Cole 
 had said. 
 
 "No," said Miss Peabody. "You know I am inclined to 
 believe that she really did write it." 
 
 "But we really know nothing about her, and it would 
 seem too extraordinary " 
 
 "Well, we ll know on Monday anyway," said Miss Pea- 
 body briskly, adjusting her desk-light, since the sultry day 
 outside had darkened for storm, and dropping her eyes to 
 the pile of manuscript before her. Barrington Tudor Brush 
 wandered absent-mindedly back into his office. 
 
"I AM RICHARD TERRILL" 151 
 
 Miss Ann Cole had paused in the doorway of the build 
 ing that housed the Colosseum, the Armenian rug firm 
 and the New York branch of the famous Collar Company. 
 The sky was dark over Union Square and the heat of the 
 day was stirred by a rising breeze. It was going to storm 
 and pour. Her best plan was to hurry over to the Sixth 
 Avenue "L" at i8th Street. She could make it, she thought, 
 before the rain. Then she could scuttle, when she descended 
 at 8th. 
 
 She turned west toward Broadway and took the corner 
 there. She had brought no umbrella. Just opposite a bak 
 ery lunch room she started and almost halted. 
 
 A man was swinging toward her, a man in straw hat 
 and heather-mixture cheviot, wagging a light wanghee cane. 
 His face was lean and brown, with a deep but not promi 
 nent jaw and a somewhat broad and uptilted nose. He was 
 not looking at her. He was gazing reflectively at the pave 
 ment, striding deliberately. Several people, going Miss 
 Cole s way, intervened between them. Now he suddenly 
 tilted his head upward and back and directed an intent glance 
 at the cornice of a building across the street. Then his head 
 came down. Then he jerked it up again. He swung his 
 stick. He had passed. 
 
 Involuntarily she whirled upon her heel. She had a 
 glimpse of his back as he turned the corner. She bumped 
 into a Roumanian shopkeeper who had stepped out of his 
 store in his shirt-sleeves for a breath of the cooler air now 
 blowing. She apologized dazedly and crossed the street, 
 hurrying along i8th Street, her face burning. Traffic 
 blocked her on Fifth Avenue. As she waited, her mind 
 raged. He must have seen her he must have seen her. The 
 traffic jarred to a halt. She scurried across the Avenue. 
 He must have seen her. She passed along beneath gloomy 
 high buildings of a sooty grey. He must have known who 
 she was. Finally, toiling up the high iron-bound elevated 
 stairs, with the first grumble of the summer thunder in her 
 ears, the thumping of her heart seemed a louder, more 
 
152 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 menacing sound by far. She squeezed into a fissure between 
 two fat Jewesses, on the varnished wicker seat; gates 
 clashed, the train s first jerk set them all swaying. 
 
 Miss Ann Cole clutched her black brief-case and stared at 
 the Sealect car-card opposite, without seeing it. She en 
 visaged also a gaudy parrot and did lip service to the legend, 
 "A Parrot can Say, Just As Good ". Shac. Fermillac. 
 Nujol. Mazola. Rinso. She shook her head slightly. She 
 compressed her lips. He must have known her. He must 
 have known. 
 
 "Eight Street !" emitted the conductor, between a yelp and 
 a groan. 
 
 As Miss Cole stepped out from under the hooded "L" 
 stairs, the first rain was falling. Scuttling was in demand. 
 She scuttled. When she had climbed the stairs to her dingy 
 room and removed her hat, whose protection by the news 
 paper she carried had not been altogether complete, she shook 
 out her skirts and sank into the one easy-chair by the win 
 dow. She stared out on red brick and dusty leafage pattered 
 upon by the soft surge of the rain. It increased. It hissed 
 in the court below. It filled the room with a cool earthy 
 
 smell. It descended steadily. Endless and grey. . . . 
 * * * 
 
 Richard Coryat came briskly into the reception-room and 
 paused before the yellow-haired girl still typing cards. "Mr. 
 Breckinridge ?" he asked. 
 
 "He s gone for the week-end. I m sorry," said Miss Hud 
 son. 
 
 "Maybe I could see Mr. Brush then. . . . Mr. Coryat," 
 he supplied, as her mouth opened for a question. 
 
 He found the great T. B. looking somewhat distraught. 
 
 "Well, well, Mr. Coryat, yes, how are you. This is 
 really quite peculiar." 
 
 Peculiar, ruminated Richard s subconscious, peculiar, 
 what was? who? 
 
 But his conscious mind was listening attentively to the 
 great T. B. 
 
"I AM RICHARD TERRILL" 153 
 
 " came in here," the great T. B. was saying, "and told 
 me she had written, not only the story we hold but TerriU s 
 book also. She has gone away again, to bring me identifica 
 tion and proofs." 
 
 "What?" You don t mean it! A woman?" exclaimed 
 Coryat. 
 
 "Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane had a lame tame crane," his sub 
 conscious mind murmured indistinctly, reviving a rhyme of 
 his Aunt Clara s that he had forgotten for years. "Aunt 
 Clara Pie Jane had Jane had " 
 
 "Coming in on Monday, eh?" Coryat s full consciousness 
 heard itself remark. "I hope you ll let me meet her ?" 
 
 ("Jane had Jane had Jane had a lame tame crane.") 
 
 "I should like you to be here certainly, if you can ar 
 range it?" 
 
 "What time?" 
 
 "Well aah er as to that, Miss aah er Cole didn t 
 stipulate. But er " 
 
 "Well, let s see. Can you call me, Mr. Brush? It s Gram- 
 recy 7230. I wish you would, when she comes. I expect 
 to be in all day Monday, finishing that first article for you, 
 and I can hurry right over. This really interests me ex 
 tremely." 
 
 "Of course I am inclined utterly to disbelieve " Mr. 
 
 Brush negated. He spread his hands. "But still, you 
 know, stranger things " 
 
 "Exactly. It really would be quite surprising. Well, I 
 won t keep you from your work. I just dropped in to see 
 Breckinridge. He s away I understand?" 
 
 "He will be back on Tuesday." 
 
 "Well, don t let me detain you. You surely will call me, 
 though, won t you? Quite remarkable, isn t it? But I sup 
 pose you editors have many such experiences. And after all, 
 of course, this young lady may be an utter impostor. 
 
 Still . Well, good afternoon. By the way, I ll be in 
 
 on Tuesday anyway, to deliver that first article." 
 
THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 He bowed and smiled to Miss Peabody as he passed her 
 desk. Slade had introduced them originally. 
 
 "Is nt it thur-rilling !" came the mock-awful voice of Miss 
 Peabody. 
 
 "Quite," returned Coryat, halting. "Oh, quite. I intend 
 to be in at the death on Monday though. Couldn t possibly 
 forego it. You saw her, of course ?" 
 
 "Yes, I talked to her. She really has considerable dis 
 tinction. She seems somebody. I m interested in her. 
 What s more, I believe she wrote that story." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, I don t know. She looks it. She looks like a writer. 
 And her eyes my bottom dollar she s absolutely honest." 
 
 "Queer though isn t it. Well, I must on. I repeat, 
 I ll be in at the death." 
 
 "No, not that phrase, Mr. Coryat. I m standing up for 
 her." 
 
 "Oh, but good Lord, so am I for that matter. Only I can t 
 believe she s really Richard Terrill. Well, till we meet 
 again." 
 
 He nodded and smiled. Miss Peabody smiled, lifting her 
 satiric eyebrow. 
 
 As he pressed the elevator button his subconscious mind 
 became almost audible. 
 
 "Jane s crane was tame and lame, her crane was lame and 
 tame; Jane had Jane had " 
 
 "What the devil," thought Coryat. "What the devil s 
 that from? Who the devil? What the devil ? What?" 
 
 He found no answer. 
 
CHAPTER XVI: TRAGIC INTERLUDE 
 
 THE grey rain fell. The woman had been sitting by the 
 window for half an hour. She withdrew her eyes 
 from the falling rain and looked at her leather-strapped 
 wrist watch. She raised her eyes to the rain again. She sat 
 quietly, chin on hand, watching the rain. 
 
 What proofs had she thought she had? Anyway, what 
 did that matter either? What did anything matter, now? 
 
 Dick indeed! Dick indeed! Oh, Dick! . . . Dick and 
 Jane . . . 
 
 Life assumed its true outline. Hard, grey, dull. The 
 softest thing in it was the whispering of the rain. Whisper 
 ing, "Go to sleep! Go to sleep!" 
 
 It was impossible to imagine the energy that could even 
 arise and put a teakettle on the burner. Even that. Impos 
 sible to imagine. 
 
 Dick indeed! After all this time. Dick indeed. After 
 all this time. After all that. What sorry nonsense! 
 
 What a perfect faculty for remembrance and recognition 
 she possessed, she thought bitterly. 
 
 But then, after all, he had changed so little. Had she 
 changed so much? 
 
 The exhaustion that couldn t rise to put on the kettle 
 could rise to stare in the mirror. Yes, she must have 
 changed a great deal. Dick and Jane. Bah! Horrible 
 ugly face. She ground her teeth at it. She clacked the 
 hanging mirror to the wall. Ugly lath. She turned it round 
 again. 
 
 Dick and Jane. . . . Good heavens, what a metronome! 
 Damn it! It was infuriating. 
 
 i55 
 
156 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 She leaned against the mantle-shelf looking- at the backs of 
 Bergson and Freud and Lytton Strachey. She meditated the 
 years. Well, why hadn t they changed him too? Why 
 hadn t they changed him? 
 
 She never kept letters. Besides, there had been a holo 
 caust of them years back. She had discovered the loss of 
 that old contract two years ago. She had burdened herself 
 with no papers. Prove that she was Richard Terrill ? Only 
 George Higgins was alive. She had not even kept that 
 postal from George Higgins dated at Palermo, received last 
 fall. And he had sent no forwarding address. Lord knows 
 where he was now. There had never been a deader failure 
 than that book, a greater disappointment. She could prob 
 ably get in touch with a few people in England, by writing, 
 after weeks, maybe months. But, what in heaven s name did 
 it all matter now. . . . 
 
 It wasn t fair. It never had been fair. It never had been 
 fair. She was weak. She was snivelling. She shook the 
 angry tears out of her eyes. 
 
 She went back and ground her teeth and glared her 
 worst at the mirror. The metronome had stopped. What 
 was there to do. 
 
 She hated him, she loathed him, she detested him! Ha! 
 ha! ha! think of letting him know. Just imagine it, 
 will you? Just picture it! Ha. Ha-ha. Dick and . . . ! 
 
 Yes, of course, that was what all these last weeks had been 
 saying. It was a failure. Writing. Life. Talent? Yes, 
 she had had it. Heartbreak didn t break you. You learned 
 to write in it. Write well. It never broke you. It never 
 would break you. You would break yourself in two, some 
 time, with your bare hands like that snap! But it would 
 never be heartbreak that broke you. No. O, indeed not! 
 Heartbreak! She sniffed contemptuously, her lower lip 
 bitten by her upper teeth. She straightened her shoulders 
 and turned away from the mantle, stood with drawn cheeks 
 and intolerably bright eyes, staring, wire-drawn, scornful. 
 
TRAGIC INTERLUDE 157 
 
 Her right arm lay along the mantle as she faced the win 
 dow. Her head was high. 
 
 Her head lay on her right arm, in the crook of her 
 left arm, too. Her fingers twisted and twisted and twisted 
 together. Her face was hidden. 
 
CHAPTER XVII: MR. DUFFITT IS QUITE MIS 
 TAKEN 
 
 MR. JASON DUFFITT, brooding over Miss Sophia 
 Crome s conjectures, encountered disaster. Mrs. 
 Ventress had expressed acquiescence, at length, in reply to 
 his urgent request to show her some of the possible building 
 sites beyond the Axter Road. He had brushed aside with 
 a fat hand her assurances that she had no intention of buying 
 or building. "Do no harm," he remarked. "Like to show 
 you." One morning he turned up about ten o clock. The 
 day was still fairly cool. After an exchange of politenesses 
 they started forth together. 
 
 As Mr. Gartner had remarked, there was something ob 
 scurely unlikable about Jason Duffit. He had a secretive 
 nervous side. No one had ever known much about his 
 private life, except that he seemed a plethoric rather mum- 
 chance bachelor, employing a grey-haired negro woman from 
 the Bottom to cook his meals. His business in Coal and 
 Wood had always been conducted in an affable manner 
 enough. He seemed strictly honest. He had handled matters 
 of real estate in an acceptable manner. He was acquainted 
 with everybody in a breezy, offhand fashion, and friends 
 with none. That he seemed susceptible to feminine beauty 
 had been remarked, but no breath of scandal had touched 
 him. He went to church regularly of a Sunday, and his at 
 titude in conducting business dealings was sufficiently dig 
 nified. He was "good ole Jase" to many. His political opin 
 ions were comfortably conservative. 
 
 Romance, however, is an odd mistress. Jason had no 
 mind, knew hardly anything about books. Nevertheless he 
 had once subscribed for a set of Court Memoirs that an 
 
 158 
 
MR. DUFFITT IS QUITE MISTAKEN 159 
 
 itinerant book-agent offered him with certain remarks made 
 in a lowered voice. He had added to these, several bulky 
 volumes bound in bright red which he had purchased in a 
 second-hand store in Barrack Falls. These purchases he 
 had always kept dark. The books stood under glass and be 
 hind curtains in a small locked book-case in his bedroom. Of 
 a summer evening he was accustomed to unlock that book 
 case, to sit by a very hot lamp at the rear window of his 
 bedroom, with his stockinged feet upon the sill, and peruse 
 the pages with a constantly wetted thumb and an odd gloat 
 ing. He read slowly, almost painfully, assimilating not at all 
 the historical or literary values of the volumes. Fascinating 
 court favourites and redolent amours were the things that 
 feasted his eyes. 
 
 There was, indeed, something Heliogabalan about the se 
 cret imagination of Jason Duffitt. It was reflected in that 
 odd look in his eyes. Outwardly he was quite shamefacedly 
 moral, uprightly conservative ; inwardly, how he would have 
 enjoyed the license of old Rome in her decline! It would 
 seem a pity that Jason had been born so far out of his proper 
 period. 
 
 Sophia Crome, with spinsterish if perfectly maidenly in 
 sinuation about people of the town, fed his fancy. He had 
 always like Sophia for that reason. And then he never re 
 garded Sophia as a woman. Hers was rather the tongue of 
 an extremely weak and diluted Aretino. She could, for 
 instance, never have blasted a reputation she would, of 
 course, never have indulged in "language" she merely never 
 ceased insinuating. 
 
 Her conjectures about the lady up at the Battell place 
 had, unfortunately, fed Jason s fancy too spicily. The side 
 of his mind affected by her gossip germinated a barbaric 
 illusion. Which was really too bad. 
 
 He and Mrs. Ventress took their way across a field under 
 the Hill on the upper slope of which the white portico 
 of the Institute gleamed in the morning sunshine. 
 
 "Yeah," Duffitt was saying. "Good bit o property that. 
 
160 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Bill Farrein hang on to it too. Not thinkin of buyin here, 
 you say, Mrs. Ventress?" 
 
 "Why no, as I told you," returned Adela. 
 
 "Do worse," said Duffitt. "Coin t be garden spot, some 
 day. Garden spot." 
 
 "You know I m just here for the summer," said Adela. 
 "Though I like it here." 
 
 "Do worse," repeated Duffitt. "Do worse." 
 
 The churring of the crickets was loud all around them as 
 they crossed the unploughed part of the field. 
 
 Suddenly the stout Duffitt stopped and began mopping his 
 brow. He shot a sidewise glance at the lady under the sun 
 shade. She was, as he expressed it to himself, "easy to 
 look at." 
 
 "Old style," he assured himself, thinking aloud. 
 
 "What? I didn t hear." 
 
 "Thinkin . So many women runnin* crazy these days. 
 Tearin round, yellin , votin . Like the old style, m self. 
 You you look it." 
 
 "Thank you. But that s amusing too." 
 
 "Why? You know you re that kinu." 
 
 "You don t believe then in woman suffrage?" 
 
 "Humph. Say not. Jew? 
 
 It was not a question of race. 
 
 "Why certainly you don t believe there are more idiotic 
 women than there are men?" 
 
 "Huh?" 
 
 Mr. Duffitt seemed surprised. 
 
 "There are equally as many women who can use the bal 
 lot with intelligence. And then we have quite as much 
 natural solidarity with a little education." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Duffitt sombrely. "Well," He seemed 
 unable to get on. They were walking again and had come 
 to a tree at the other end of the meadow. There was a 
 humped spreading root of it that made a convenient seat. 
 As Duffitt halted once more, Mrs. Ventress sat down on 
 the root. 
 
MR. DUFFITT IS QUITE MISTAKEN 161 
 
 "Well," summoned Jason. "Well now I m s prised hear 
 you say that. But that ain t it after all, y know. Runnin 
 roun, shoutin " 
 
 "But after all," returned Adela, "it s hardly an issue any 
 longer. Of course," she added, "Socialism still is." 
 
 "What?" Mr. Duffitt was really shocked. "You re not 
 a socialist, Mrs. Ventress? I ll say not. I ll certainly 
 say not." 
 
 "There are so many kinds. I m my kind." 
 
 "An an free love an , an all that?" 
 
 Adela s smile was deeply amused. Inadvertently she 
 raised her eyebrows even more. It gave her a piquant ap 
 pearance. 
 
 "Sex," said Adela, "is another perplexing question. Ber 
 nard Shaw " 
 
 "Well," said Duffitt, mopping his face again. "Well," 
 said Jason, turning toward the sun and pulling his hat- 
 brim over his eyes. 
 
 As he stood so, his cigar raked upward at an angle from 
 his puffy mouth. He regarded a distant church spire with 
 the minutest attention. Adela had an impish prompting to 
 tell him to stand on his head and regard it from that point 
 of view. However, she didn t. 
 
 "Huh," said Mr. Duffitt, removing his cigar and trans 
 ferring his gaze to it with an evident wonder at its inani 
 mate existence, a childlike stupidity. "Well now " He 
 
 reinserted the cigar. He began clipping the grass with his 
 stick. 
 
 "Don t you think so?" Adela couldn t help saying quite 
 gravely. 
 
 "Well now, y know," said the utterly unskilled Jason, 
 removing his hat and looking inside it as if he expected to 
 find an Easter egg, "well y know, speakin as a man of the 
 world, o course I know o course I know " 
 
 He puffed his mouth even more, endeavouring to assume 
 a judicial demeanour. 
 
162 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "O course, Mrs. Ventress," he remarked suddenly, 
 "There s them as does and them as don t." 
 
 "Don t believe in Bernard Shaw? But I don t believe 
 Shaw believes in free love. And then it all depends so much 
 upon the definition of course." 
 
 She had really forgotten him. She was really thinking, 
 trying to think honestly. There was something pathetic 
 about him and he was puzzled. Puzzled by large abstrac 
 tions. 
 
 "Well I" Mr. Duffitt suddenly began to walk to and 
 fro. He looked at her swiftly askance several times. He 
 was visibly out of his element, but he was inordinately at 
 tracted by her as he looked at her. 
 
 Finally he made a sort of swimming gesture with his 
 hands. Perhaps this restored him to his element, because 
 he began to speak again. 
 
 "Breaks up families," quoth he, and puffed heavily upon 
 his cigar, regarding it ever and anon as if surprised that 
 it remained with him. 
 
 "Yet " said Mrs. Ventress, trying to think it out, and 
 paused. Her chin was cupped in one hand, one elbow on her 
 knee. She gazed over the field. She made a charming 
 picture in her gardening hat. 
 
 Mr. Duffitt had never seen such a woman. He was per 
 turbed but strangely and deeply thrilled by her. He hung 
 on to his cigar. He walked up and down. 
 
 "Free love," Mr. Duffitt affirmed, "is a sin." 
 
 "As I said," returned Adela, "or as I meant to say, so 
 much depends upon your definition. When you think of 
 present conditions in marriage, things could hardly be worse. 
 You ll grant that?" 
 
 She looked at him, quite seriously. 
 
 "Know what you mean," said Jason, meaning he thought 
 he did. "Your idea is ?" 
 
 "I don t know," said Adela simply, spreading her hands. 
 
 "You ?" said Mr. Duffitt, stopping and looking at 
 
 her, rather flushed. 
 
MR. DUFFITT IS QUITE MISTAKEN 163 
 
 Mrs. Ventress was slowly aware that there was some 
 thing not quite agreeable in his tone. She was tired of 
 the subject anyway, and perhaps she should not have entered 
 upon it with this comic creature. But such subjects always 
 drew her into argument. 
 
 She got up. "Well, shall we turn back?" she said. 
 
 Jason stood watching her. His colour was high. A 
 strange expression had come about his mouth and eyes. All 
 that Miss Crome had implied so subtly seemed flagrantly 
 manifest. He said quite clearly "Hey?" 
 
 Adela looked at him astonished. But also he did look 
 amusing. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. As he raised his eyes to her 
 hair, "My hat?" Her hands went up to her hat while her 
 sunshade trailed. 
 
 Suddenly she realised that Mr. Duffitt had made a move 
 ment to embrace her. 
 
 "Here ! What ?" said Mrs. Ventress, stepping back. 
 
 "Aw now !" said Mr. Duffitt with a rather hoarse chuckle. 
 
 She was extremely astonished. She could not help think 
 ing, as she stepped behind the tree, that this was colossally, 
 flagrantly absurd. But certainly scary. 
 
 She made a mistake in stepping behind the tree. Mr. 
 Duffitt stepped behind the tree. He also had mistaken. 
 Suddenly Adela became very cold and angry. Her muscles 
 tightened to steel wire and she jabbed Mr. Duffitt accurately 
 in the neck with the ferule of her sunshade. It was a short- 
 arm thrust, it hurt his neck. He thought it must have gone 
 through it. 
 
 And she was suddenly very sorry. But she remained 
 in the same posture, erect, furious. Mr. Duffitt regarded 
 his fingers several times, astonished at not seeing them cov 
 ered with blood, evidently. He backed off. 
 
 He did not say anything. He eyed her with astonish 
 ment. The longer he eyed her the rounder his eyes became. 
 He halted and regarded her. His eyes fell before hers. 
 There was something that prevented his approaching her 
 
164 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 again. Something that prevented him from speaking to her 
 again. 
 
 Suddenly he turned and began to walk with odd hitchi- 
 ness, as though he were not quite sober, across the ploughed 
 part of the field, stumbling among the clods. He made a 
 wavering course toward the far-off Axter Road. He di 
 minished in the distance. 
 
 Mrs. Ventress came slowly from behind the tree. She 
 stood watching him. She raised her sunshade. She was 
 still astonished and shivering from the reaction from anger. 
 But her fear had been only momentary. She was actually 
 sorry for that diminishing lurching figure. He became, with 
 the distance, more and more grotesque. 
 
 "We-el " said Mrs. Ventress to herself, in the abso- 
 
 lutely-giving-it-up manner. 
 
 "We-el," said Mrs. Ventress. "Well, really!" 
 
 She began to pick her way across the grass, biting her lip 
 and raising her eyebrows at the sun-speckled leaves. 
 
 By the time she regained the Axter Road there remained 
 only a faint, incredulous disgust. An ordinary, apparently 
 mentally responsible person had suddenly turned into a par 
 ticularly unpleasant kind of lunatic. The metamorphosis 
 
 had been scary but not so much scary as . Adela 
 
 wrinkled her small nose, shrugged nervously. How could 
 you possibly be angry, however, with a man so much like a 
 mountebank? Besides she was really sorry if she had hurt 
 his neck. The whole episode was entirely unreal. As she 
 clicked her front gate, she decided just to forget it. It was 
 both undignified and utterly absurd. 
 
 As she went upstairs she remembered Mr. Duffitt looking 
 into his hat as if to find an Easter egg. At that she sud 
 denly stopped and laughed. The still house echoed her. 
 
 As for Jason, he hurried down the Farm Road. He was 
 beginning to realise just what a mammoth ass he had made 
 of himself. To his disordered mind she had been both 
 taunting and tempting him. The groove worn smooth in 
 his brain by much secret lascivious thinking had seemed to 
 
MR. DUFFITT IS QUITE MISTAKEN 165 
 
 broaden and tilt like the bed of a torrent under a quicken 
 ing current of delirious surmise. Now the colour of actual 
 grass, the colour of actual dust ached upon his sight. The 
 reality of the whitewashed fence he was passing, of the 
 Cripps red barn showing distantly southward, panged his 
 senses. His ordinary caution and shrewdness ranted in his 
 brain like demons, "You fool!" 
 
 And about his heart, faint as a thin trickle of icy water, 
 ran a little cold fear. What impulse could possibly have led 
 him to affront a lady of evident position and importance in 
 New York, to whom he had rented the Battells house? 
 Suppose this came out ? What of the Battells ? What would 
 the town say ? How could he explain ? What had possessed 
 him? 
 
 He became aware of the necessity of presenting an un 
 ruffled front to Market Street. At the lower end of the 
 Farm Road he stopped his heavy padding, straightened his 
 tie, mopped his forehead, flicked his shoes with his bandanna 
 handkerchief. He adopted as nonchalant a manner as pos 
 sible crossing the street. The rest of the day he sat closely 
 confined to his office, suffering the tortures of damned spir 
 its. When he saw Mrs. Ventress in the distance, on the 
 station platform, a few days later, it disturbed him con 
 siderably. When, still later, he learned that she was pre 
 sumably going to Philadelphia for a couple of days, he be 
 gan fearfully to speculate. He passed through a period of 
 being extremely scared. Out of fear comes hate. Hate is 
 anything but reasonable. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII: BESSIE ENLIVENS BREAK 
 FAST 
 
 ON Saturday morning, the twenty-first of July, Slade sat 
 at breakfast with Dr. Gedney in the house on Poplar 
 Street. Bessie was not yet down. Annie set scrambled eggs 
 on toast before them and disposed their cups of coffee. 
 
 "Anything exciting been happening?" asked Slade. 
 
 "Arthur s worried about the store, but then he s always 
 worried about the store. After all, the store is one of our 
 institutions and likely to remain so. Then too he had a 
 black Sumatra die the other day." 
 
 "Too bad. And your history?" 
 
 "Progressing. Still in the period of the Civil War." 
 
 "What s Bess been doing?" 
 
 "Reading. Going around. Still taking drawing with Mrs. 
 Ventress. Determined to try her hand in New York once 
 she gets her last year finished at the Institute. Well, I 
 suppose that s the thing for her to do. Pretty quiet here 
 for a young girl. I get fearful of her leaving. Still, it s 
 always been my belief that for good or bad they must try 
 their own wings. Bessie s sensible. And she d have you 
 there, of course, to turn to." 
 
 "Surely would. I think you re broad-minded about it, 
 Uncle Charles. Most fathers " 
 
 "Oh, well, remember Gertrude. After all, you can t 
 keep them." 
 
 They both fell silent. Slade remembered Gertrude. His 
 own mother had never forgiven Gertrude. He himself did 
 not quite understand it. His father thought that Gertrude 
 must have died. How and why she should so utterly have 
 disappeared? His father said it was her mother. His 
 
 166 
 
BESSIE ENLIVENS BREAKFAST 167 
 
 mother defended her mother. Uncle Charles never men 
 tioned his wife. 
 
 It must have been a terrific thing for them at the time 
 the Gedneys. To Slade it was largely hearsay at long dis 
 tance, a story in which for a long time he had had no con 
 cern. He had been a five-year-old when it happened. His 
 first real appreciation of it was some ten years later. Her 
 brother Charles was very dear to his mother. He found 
 her crying over a letter of his one morning when Slade came 
 home early from school. The story came out gradually as 
 a secret a narration of old unhappy far-off things. Now 
 Uncle Charles could speak of Gertrude quite calmly, with 
 out a quiver in his voice, though with a distinct hint of sad 
 ness. The stream of days and hours had flowed on steadily 
 over the sunken and dulled brightness of those earlier years. 
 Their silver was drifted over with sand, though the immu 
 table memory persisted under the settling silt of grief and 
 run and ripple of time, brighter and clearer in its occasional 
 resurrection than ever the reality had been, perhaps. 
 
 Slade had never known his Aunt Martha at all. Though 
 his mother loved her brother, strangely enough she had never 
 said a word against his wife. Slade s father really under 
 stood Dr. Gedney far better, although he felt no particular 
 warmth toward him. Slade had heard him say frankly a 
 number of times that he had "never liked that woman". 
 Slade s mother retorted that nevertheless "Charles was al 
 ways so wrapped up in Gertrude. How could she leave him 
 that way?" 
 
 Then there were the usual speculations concerning what 
 could ever have happened to her. If not dead surely she 
 would have come back. 
 
 "Well, my dear, I don t pretend to understand it myself. * 
 Mr. Breckinridge would say. "But I must say I can t blame 
 her for wanting to get away from that woman " 
 
 "What did you know of Martha? You only saw her twice 
 in your life." 
 
 "I know the type." 
 
168 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "She was always very nice to us. She was devoted to 
 him." 
 
 "You mean she never let go of him. That s true enough." 
 
 "I don t know what you mean. Charles has always been 
 perfectly contented in Tupton. She made his life hers." 
 
 "Too much so, I should say. She had no life of her own. 
 She was viciously jealous of Gertrude." 
 
 "Why, George, how can you say such a thing ? You have 
 absolutely nothing to go on." 
 
 "I know, that s all. I know Charles. You don t." 
 
 "Not know my own dear brother! Why I love him bet 
 ter than anyone in the world!" 
 
 "Thanks," said Mr. Breckinridge dryly. "Yes, I know 
 you love him ; but you don t understand him." 
 
 The argument was unacrimonious but endless. 
 
 It always broke off with his mother s final comprehensive 
 indictment of Gertrude s action, during which his father 
 would sit silently smoking. Was it because of his ingrained 
 perversity that his father always took the side of the chil 
 dren against the parents when his mother took the side of 
 the parents against the children? Slade had known his 
 father take exactly the opposite position in arguments with 
 himself. But was it all perversity? No. 
 
 Once his father had said to him quietly, "There s a cer 
 tain type of woman I d run a thousand miles from; so why 
 blame Gertrude?" And once, to his mother, "It s my be 
 lief, you know, that Charles heard from her." 
 
 "Why, George, you never said that before. When, pos 
 sibly ? And surely he would have told us. There is nothing 
 hidden about Charles." 
 
 "Why should he have told us. I don t mean that he heard 
 immediately. But, after a while after Martha s death, I 
 believe he did. And why should he have told us anyone. 
 There s something hidden about every man the things that 
 go deepest. Why should he have told?" 
 
 "Well I never thought of that possibility at all. I shall 
 certainly find occasion " 
 
BESSIE ENLIVENS BREAKFAST 169 
 
 "My dear Sally, he wouldn t tell you. You would only 
 hurt him needlessly by a question. It s all over long ago 
 now. Let it rest. You love him, so let it rest." 
 
 "Then why wouldn t the ungrateful girl have come back 
 to him, knowing how he loved her?" 
 
 "Pride perhaps. Complications. Who can tell? There s 
 a great deal of pride on both sides of that family. You 
 ought to know your brother s pride. And there s more to 
 any situation than meets the eye. Gertrude might have 
 thought 
 
 "Well, I simply don t understand it!" 
 
 "Yes, it s hard to understand life," Slade had heard his 
 father say, musing. "Very hard sometimes." 
 
 After getting to know his Uncle Charles Slade often 
 thought his father might have divined the truth. He could 
 not understand what went on under Uncle Charles quiet ex 
 terior. Now as he glanced at him across the breakfast table, 
 he thought what a mystery every single human being is to 
 every other, in spite of the deep fundamental likenesses. 
 A singular, silent man, his Uncle Charles. A wasted life 
 in many peoples opinion. An eccentric character. Probably 
 far more deeply emotional than he ever permitted to be 
 shown. A mind that seemed to enjoy losing itself in the 
 record of other times, without any strong desire for ac 
 quaintance with his own. A dreamer, a solitary; yet with 
 no urgency upon him of a message to deliver. Taciturn 
 without moroseness, seeking always through books and never 
 finding. Contemplating. A man of few words and scarcely 
 any friends. A man with a peculiar innocence of outlook, 
 contented with simple things. A sensitive, half-paralysed 
 being stunned by certain early blows, after which the soul 
 had never regained full consciousness. All in the mind. Mys 
 teriously secret. The riddle of temperament. Vaguely, in 
 such fashion, Slade saw his uncle as the latter masticated 
 and sipped coffee, sitting with that scholar s droop of 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Hello, Slade!" said Bessie brightly, coming quietly into 
 
170 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 the small dining-room and around the table toward him. 
 His chair gave a squeak on the rug as he half-rose. "No, 
 sit down. Good-morning!" Her cool lips just brushed his 
 forehead. She looked pretty, dainty and cool in her apple- 
 green frock. She seated herself at the side of the table 
 between the two men. 
 
 She was graver, though, more sedate, somehow older. 
 The expression on her face was as brightly youthful as ever, 
 but some quality Slade did not understand had crept into her 
 voice. He recognised a difference. It made his expression 
 absent-minded as he looked at her. 
 
 "Sorry Adela s been away in Philadelphia for a few days," 
 Bessie vouchsafed after a minute of banter. Slade felt some 
 what clumsy in answering, through his disappointment, "That 
 so? How s she been?" 
 
 "Oh, as lovely as usual ; and I must show you the drawing 
 I made of her. She thinks it s very good. It really isn t 
 bad at all, if I do say it. But she went on this trip. How 
 ever, we ll see if she s back by to-morrow. She intended 
 to get back late to-night." 
 
 "That so? Love to see your drawing. I m sure it s 
 good." 
 
 "But there are some of the meanest people in this town," 
 pronounced Bessie decidedly. "I think Miss Brattle and 
 those two old Babbitt spinsters are the most horrid gossips 
 I ever met with. And as for Miss Crome ! They ve spread 
 around a sort of general feeling against Adela. It s been 
 growing and it s all their fault. I d like to choke them. 
 I ve run up against it several times. There s nothing definite 
 said so it s hard to know what to do. But she s beginning to 
 feel it too; that s the awful part of it. It s perfectly hor 
 rid/ 
 
 "Really?" said Slade. "That s rotten." 
 
 "It s all so rid/culous too," cried Bessie. "When you think 
 of her fine mind and the quiet, lovely way she lives. Of 
 course we don t know much about her. I know / don t, 
 and I m certainly her most intimate friend here. But I 
 
BESSIE ENLIVENS BREAKFAST 171 
 
 know she has an adorable mind and a very generous dis 
 position, and never could possibly have done anyone any 
 harm. Of course I know nothing of her past life nor do 
 I care nor do I care one snap!" announced Bessie, waving 
 a piece of toast. " Od rot em ! " 
 
 Dr. Gedney looked up in mild surprise. "Well, Bess!" 
 he cautioned in amusement. 
 
 "I mean it," said Bessie. "I never knew before that some 
 of the people in this town could be so picayune. It isn t the 
 way I ve been brought up anyway. Small-minded, suspicious 
 gossipers, always chattering behind each other s backs. . . . 
 And I hate that Mr. Duffitt. I overheard him say something 
 sneering about Adela the other morning when I was down 
 at the market. I was passing him to buy some vegetables. 
 He was talking to Mr. Whinnymuir. I just turned around 
 and went right up to him and said, "Mr. Duffitt, that s a lie ; 
 and to say the least it is in the worst possible taste for you 
 to speak that way of a rentee of yours. I am perfectly 
 surprised at you !" 
 
 "Why, Bess!" But the smile twitched about the corners 
 of her father s mouth. "Rentee" was good. Decidedly. 
 "But it really seems to me most remarkable of Mr. Duffitt. 
 What did he say?" 
 
 "Oh, he said then that I had completely misunderstood 
 him, and turned several colours and explained and explained. 
 But I know I didn t misunderstand him though there s 
 no use going over it." Bessie bit into a piece of toast almost 
 viciously. "I can trust my own ears. Yes, it does make me 
 furious, as nothing else does. I never liked that Mr. Duffitt 
 anyway. He s too fat." 
 
 "But your Uncle Arthur is ah well, portly?" said her 
 father soothingly. 
 
 "But that isn t at all the same thing. Uncle Arthur is 
 an innocent. Mr. Duffitt is meandering and sly. I don t 
 like him. Of course I wouldn t tell Adela what I heard 
 him say, but I asked her if she liked him." 
 
 "Does she?" 
 
172 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "She simply said, Why should I like him or dislike him? 
 I suppose he s a good enough real-estate agent/ " 
 
 "Well he certainly isn t, and he can t to say the least 
 have any brains," said Slade, "if he goes around talking like 
 that. He must be a fool." 
 
 He liked the fervour with which Bessie had taken up the 
 cudgels for her friend. But then, of course, he very much 
 liked the friend. The morning seemed sunnier and cooler 
 in the thought of her. 
 
 "All small towns are small-minded," he said. "You and 
 Uncle Charles are exceptions here. You " 
 
 "Oh, no, Slade, it isn t as bad as all that," interrupted his 
 uncle. "It isn t as bad as all that. It s simply that many 
 people here have nothing else to do except talk particularly 
 the women." 
 
 "I don t know about that last, adorable individual," Bessie 
 usually took this half-teasing attitude toward her father. 
 "I m for my own sex. And remember that though Uncle 
 Arthur is a particular lamb of mine, why, he tried to say 
 the most absurd things to me about Adela. I wouldn t have 
 it. I simply had to speak to him." 
 
 Slade grinned at this and then laughed. Dr. Gedney 
 smiled his thorough amusement. Bessie smiled secretly at 
 her own feminine thoughts. 
 
 Bessie was the boss, thought Slade. 
 
CHAPTER XIX: ADELA LOOKS EIGHTEEN 
 
 SLADE and Bessie took a long walk on Saturday. That 
 evening Uncle Arthur came to dinner. On Sunday 
 morning Bessie decided to forego church in order to take 
 Slade over to Mrs. Ventress s. They could see, anyway, 
 whether she had returned from Philadelphia. 
 
 "Adela never goes to church/ said his cousin as they left 
 the house. "She doesn t believe in churches. She says there 
 was once something very unhappy in her life over which 
 she prayed a great deal, and nothing happened. I can see 
 why she doesn t want to go. Sometimes I don t exactly 
 know why 7 go, myself. I wonder. Don t you, Slade? I 
 don t really believe in it all at all." 
 
 It was the first time he and his cousin had ever got upon 
 the topic of religion. 
 
 "I don t," returned Slade honestly. "I never go in the 
 city. I used to really love the Christian religion. I still 
 admire it, in a way. I don t care for the squabbling denomi 
 nations. I d rather be a Catholic if I were anything. It s cer 
 tainly the most logical. But I m really an agnostic. Father 
 is. It seems the most honest to me. No, I don t care about 
 churches much. If the Christian religion has done a great 
 deal of good it s also done a great deal of harm. It kills the 
 natural kindness and honesty in so many people. And people 
 use it as a club and a bogie-man to get their own way. I 
 don t think much of Christian morality, so-called." 
 
 Bessie thought that over. 
 
 "That s about the way I feel," she said finally. "Only 
 I guess I like the service better than you do." 
 
 "I like to roar hymns," said Slade. "Only I notice the 
 most devout people don t either have a very pleasant time 
 
 173 
 
174? THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 themselves or want anyone else to have one. When you see 
 a person whose religion does them some real good and helps 
 them to help other people, well I suppose that s all right. 
 But if you believe there s only one way of spiritual salvation 
 for the soul you ought to be able to see the point of view of 
 a Torquemada. I can see his point of view myself. Only 
 I don t agree with it. Oh, well, don t let me fill you up with 
 my heresies, Bess. But they re all so afraid of something, 
 afraid that if they don t do a thing some one particular way 
 something will happen to them. And that s so cowardly. 
 Well, nevertheless, I admire the bravery of Christ. He 
 turned his back on his enemies and wrote in the sand." 
 
 Pastors had called on Dr. Gedney. He had been absent- 
 minded and vague and had never entered their churches. 
 Religious people regarded him simply as a harmless old 
 idiot and ceased to be concerned about his soul. Bessie was 
 a puzzle to them also, but she usually came to church. They 
 said among themselves that she was a nice good child and 
 
 that it was a Shame. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A cool Sunday morning for late July. A sky of light 
 and tremulous blue. A garden vivid with patches and blots 
 of colour, pale blue, deep blue, velvet purple, shattering crim 
 son, dull gold, licking tongues of scarlet. 
 
 A lady in the garden. A lady alone. In a wide grey hat, 
 in a frock of figured blue-grey with an organdie collar, her 
 pretty feet and ankles trimly shod with grey. She moved 
 about her garden singing an old song, singing it softly. 
 
 " And the bonny Earl o Murray 
 O he might ha been a king!" 
 
 Daintily, dexterously she clipped flowers into her plaited 
 basket. 
 
 She was back in the garden under the apple-tree, a grace 
 ful sun-misted figure in its shade. Her singing floated and 
 drifted faintly on the still morning air. 
 
ADELA LOOKS EIGHTEEN 175 
 
 She bent over, straightened, turned, came picking her way 
 daintily toward the front of the house. 
 
 "Lang, lang may his lady 
 
 Look o er the castle doun 
 Ere she see the Earl o Murray 
 Come sounding through the toun!" 
 
 "Good morning!" 
 
 She looked up, a little startled. Then she smiled. In 
 Mrs. Ventress s smile the ordinarily grave expression of her 
 face broke into one both merry and childlike. Smiling, she 
 suddenly seemed so much younger. It was in the way the 
 corners of her mouth went up and in the clear and innocent 
 amusement of her eyes. Though not much over the average 
 height, her slimness and her springlike dress gave her some 
 what the appearance of a tall young girl. 
 
 "Hello !" she said frankly to Slade. 
 
 "I came past with Bessie. You didn t see us. She has to 
 run over to Uncle Arthur s a minute, but she ll be right 
 back. How are you ? It s awfully nice to see you again." 
 
 He extended his hand. 
 
 "It s nice to see you. How have you been?" 
 
 "Oh, very well, indeed. It s been hot, of course, in New 
 York. Still I ve managed to worry through. You look nice 
 and cool this morning." 
 
 "Yes, it s a lovely morning, isn t it ? Do you like flowers ?" 
 
 She extended the basket. 
 
 "My, they re beautiful," said Slade, leaning over. "What 
 was that you were singing just now?" he asked, interested. 
 
 "Oh," Mrs. Ventress laughed apologetically. "But I can t 
 sing. I was trying to sing that old ballad, The Earl o 
 Murray ." 
 
 "Sing some more," requested Slade forthrightly, and then, 
 at his abruptness, they both laughed a little together. 
 
 "But do," said Slade. "Won t you?" 
 
 "Well, I ll try," returned Mrs. Ventress. She was look- 
 
176 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 ing at him as honestly as a child. She raised her bright face 
 and 
 
 "Ye highlands and ye lawlands, 
 
 O where hae ye been; 
 They ha slain the Earl o Murr-rray 
 And laid him on the green " 
 
 Slightly swinging the plaited basket, she sang it all through, 
 without the slightest self -consciousness, a being rejoicing in 
 clear sunlight. Her voice had a childlike reediness, but she 
 held the air perfectly. Slade stood silent watching her. 
 Her eyes closed as she sang. 
 
 They were open and full of laughing light. 
 
 "But how nice of you to listen! Did you like it?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Did I !" said Slade, and was dumb. 
 
 "They re lovely, those old things, don t you think so?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "That was," murmured Slade, looking dazedly away, as 
 if he had seen a ghost. "How talented you are!" 
 
 "I oh, no, indeed !" returned Adela. "You know I can t 
 sing. I can t sing for sour apples. But, good Lord, how I 
 do love it !" 
 
 They both laughed again. 
 
 Bessie came in at the gate. She hesitated for an instant, 
 came across the grass to them. 
 
 "O Adela, I want to show Slade that drawing I made of 
 you. You know I left it here. Can I get it?" 
 
 "You most certainly can. Wait, I ll find it for you." 
 
 They went up the steps and into the house together, in 
 that sudden intimate conversation so ready between women. 
 
 Slade sat down on the lowest step of the porch arid began 
 to fill his pipe from a circular red-rubber pouch. After it 
 was lit he drew upon it lazily. He gazed out over the 
 hedge at the green sunny fields opposite, at the rise of the 
 Hill and the white gleam of the Institute afar. 
 
 What a remarkable being! She looked about eighteen, 
 standing there singing. 
 
ADELA LOOKS EIGHTEEN 177 
 
 He relit his pipe as steps scuffed behind him on the porch. 
 
 "Here it is. Now Slade, don t you think it s good ?" 
 
 As Bessie bent over him her soft hair brushed his face, 
 her soft young cheek touched his. He examined the draw 
 ing intently. It was excellent. 
 
 In it Mrs. Ventress was reclining in that long Chinese 
 wicker chair up on the porch. She was leaning on one elbow, 
 her face half-turned toward you. The grave contemplative 
 expression upon the face was perfect. 
 
 "Darn good/ said Slade finally. "Only I ve seen you look 
 merrier " 
 
 He twisted round to his left to look at Adela. Bessie re 
 possessed herself of the drawing. Adela merely smiled and 
 went over to look at the drawing over Bessie s shoulder. 
 Her hand fell naturally upon that shoulder and stayed there. 
 Bessie was looking at the drawing with knitted brows. She 
 tilted it once. Now she looked up at Adela suddenly, with 
 dark eyes. "Shall I tear it up?" she asked. 
 
 "Tear it up? Most certainly not," said Mrs. Ventress. 
 "Why on earth ?" 
 
 "It isn t very nice," Bessie replied, tossing it suddenly 
 upon a chair. "But you are," she said, gripping her friend s 
 arms. "You are you are, you are!" 
 
 As swiftly she loosed them and looked at Slade. He felt 
 that it was a cold little look, cold and dark. He wondered 
 why. 
 
 "It s darn good, Bess," he repeated. "Darn good. 
 Really." 
 
 "Oh, I can do better," remarked his cousin, her expression 
 bright again. "I will some day. Well, what shall we do? 
 Just sit and talk?" 
 
 "Well, I have a good story," said Slade. "It s called The 
 Mysterious Manuscript ." 
 
 "Oh, let s hear it," returned Adela seating herself on the 
 foot of the long wicker chair and drawing Bessie down beside 
 her. Slade got up and sat down again nearer them, his back 
 against a porch pillar. He began to tell them the story of 
 
178 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "The Crystal Castle". He arrived at the point of Coryat s 
 revelations. 
 
 "This man," Slade went on, "is a friend of a friend of 
 mine in town. He s been doing some articles for The New 
 
 Age. An interesting chap. His name s Coryat. Well, 
 t i) 
 
 "What Richard Coryat?" Mrs. Ventress asked suddenly, 
 
 "Why, yes? Do you know him?" 
 
 "I I have some friends who do." 
 
 The slip had been clumsy. She bit her lip. 
 
 Slade was surprised, puzzled. However, he recovered and 
 went on smoothly. 
 
 "Richard Coryat. Well, he said it was undoubtedly the 
 work of a man named Richard Terrill " 
 
 Again Adela could not disguise a start. But, "Go on!" 
 she begged as Slade seemed about to stop. 
 
 No. He couldn t understand it. There was something 
 peculiar. He kept his eyes on hers. Hers turned aside to 
 seek Bessie s. Bessie was looking at her too, but only in a 
 vague way. 
 
 "Well, he said a man named Terrill who had written one 
 remarkable book, Golden Windfall , must certainly be the 
 author of this story. Anyway, I had him in afterward to see 
 old T. B. He convinced old T. B. 
 
 "That s what they call the editor of The Colosseum" 
 Bessie supplied. 
 
 "Unfortunately though, though he had had a copy of the 
 book " Slade paused. 
 
 "Yes, go on," said Adela, smiling naturally. "I m inter 
 ested." 
 
 "Well, he had lent a copy to a friend. The friend had 
 gone out of town. I don t know who it was. Anyway, it s 
 been impossible as yet to get hold of a copy ; and the author 
 of the manuscript hasn t shown up. But I do believe you ve 
 read the book, or know Terrill, or something, Mrs. Ventress. 
 You look so queerly." 
 
 "I? Did I?" she half-laughed. "Well, I ll confess that 
 
ADELA LOOKS EIGHTEEN 179 
 
 I have read the book. It s rare, but wonderful. It s all 
 this Mr. what was it? Coryat? has said about it." 
 
 "You ve read it?" asked Bessie in joy. "Really?" 
 
 "Really. That s why I started, if I did start. Of course 
 I ve heard of Mr. Coryat as one of the admirers of 
 the book through acquaintances, mutual acquaintances. I 
 know nothing of the author, Richard Terrill. But I don t 
 see how this manuscript you speak of, Mr. Breckinridge, 
 could possibly be by the same person. I thought he was sup 
 posed to be an Englishman, and that he is supposed to have 
 died some years ago?" 
 
 "So Coryat said. But he s not sure now. He s not at 
 all sure. He says there are tricks of style and a general at 
 mosphere that only Terrill could give it. Odd, isn t it?" 
 
 "And the writer of the manuscript hasn t come in at all?" 
 put in Bessie. 
 
 "Hadn t, up to the time I left. We have the manuscript 
 in the safe. All we can do is wait." 
 
 Mrs. Ventress was silent. 
 
 "But look here, you haven t your copy here have you?" 
 asked Slade suddenly. 
 
 "I ? Oh, why no. No, I m sorry, I haven t it." 
 
 "Well, that s too bad," said Slade. "I would have bor 
 rowed it, with your permission, to show to old T. B." 
 
 "I think it s the most remarkable thing" said Bessie. She 
 was looking at her friend with wondering eyes. She slipped 
 a hand in Mrs. Ventress s hand. 
 
 Adela began to say, "It is most remarkable. I certainly 
 hope you find out the truth, but of course I believe myself 
 that Richard Terrill is dead." 
 
 "In that case," returned Slade, "it might be somebody 
 copying his work." 
 
 "Oh, no, I really don t think anyone could copy him," said 
 Adela hastily. She wanted to evince interest, but she wanted 
 to get off the subject of Terrill. It was thin ice. 
 
 What nice children they were, though, she thought, watch 
 ing them pass out of her gate. They both waved. Slade had 
 
180 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 not worn a hat and the sunlight struck a gleam from his hair 
 like that on old furbished brass. His ruddy, sunburned com 
 plexion and well-cut features were refreshing and clean. He 
 walked with the elasticity of youth. His grey clothes, white 
 soft-collared shirt and grey and yellow tie became him. His 
 dark-haired cousin in her apple-green frock, with her vivid 
 colour and quick graceful gestures was a charming contrast. 
 Slade bent his head toward Bessie, to say something, and 
 they both laughed. What nice white teeth they both had ! 
 Adela smiled at herself. Was she growing into a sentimental 
 match-maker ? 
 
 No. They were just nice children, both rather gloriously 
 immature. Bessie was, of course, in love with Slade. Slade 
 had his stupid side. All men had their stupid side. As for 
 
 her oh, well ! She had known one man at least . One 
 
 and so many others. It was pleasant to recline here in 
 the sunlight and the leaf-shadows, doing nothing. Marie 
 and the cook were inside seeing to small necessities. As for 
 
 her what had she accomplished down here so far? She 
 
 had rested. She had written a little. She flushed faintly 
 when she thought of it. She had intended to read a good 
 deal and expand her philosophy. As a matter of fact, she 
 had lazed. She must have been more tired than she thought. 
 Much more tired. Tired of the hectic artificiality of the 
 city, tired of the urgency to essentially unimportant industry, 
 tired of "L" and surface-car and Subway and the interfluc- 
 tuant masses of people surging in from nowhere and hurry 
 ing nowhither. Tired of the eternal racket of the streets 
 and the unintermittent impact of ocular and auditory impres 
 sions upon the quivering nerves. Here, there was silence 
 and the white road outside her hedge a church-bell mel 
 lowed by distance. Only a soothing if continuous insect 
 sound throbbing in the stillness like the sifting shifting of 
 fine sand shaken rapidly back and forth in a tube of thin 
 glass. The sunlight drowsed her. An occasional "pr-reep, 
 pr-reep" from some bird in the vines. The faint sound of 
 tinware in the kitchen. She relaxed and dreamed. 
 
ADELA LOOKS EIGHTEEN 181 
 
 Perhaps she had merely been overtired. No, she knew it 
 was deeper than that. O, if only he had lived! As she 
 thought of him she recalled the other life too, her marriage. 
 Good heavens, she actually had not thought of him for years! 
 It hadn t been his fault really, she supposed. But how im 
 possible their marriage had become. Good heavens ! 
 
 He had certainly come on quite well as an illustrator since 
 then. She now remembered that she had seen a page- 
 advertisement he had drawn, recognising his technique on 
 the back-cover of a large popular magazine over a year ago. 
 He was doubtless perfectly well-off, if he got commissions 
 like that. Well, it had been as much her fault as his call 
 it that. She smiled at her magnanimity. He was probably 
 with that big syndicate in Chicago. He had most probably 
 found someone else. Good lord, how long ago that all 
 seemed! What a wild, frightened, bewildered, but deter 
 mined girl had turned up that blowing Fall evening at Ethel 
 Aspern s on Park Avenue. How she had clung to Ethel 
 for weeks. How wonderfully good and kind Ethel had 
 been. How nearly crazed she must have been, she herself, 
 now that she looked back upon it. No, it couldn t have gone 
 on. He was even more ill-adjusted to life than she had been 
 then, and far more uncontrolled. Then, later, had come 
 the idyl. But idyls didn t last. And there was no substi 
 tute for his love never could be. She knew. That had been 
 the one perfect thing sealed away. If he had lived . 
 
 But that, anyway, was not what she was seeking. What 
 she was seeking was something in which she knew that, after 
 all, she had come nearer to him than for a long while; yes, 
 even though she couldn t talk to him about it. And she 
 would put it through. She would for him. It was that. 
 She had suddenly realised it. It was for him, after all. It 
 was for him that she was here that she had turned sharp 
 on her life and determined 
 
CHAPTER XX: SIRENA UNDER SUSPICION 
 
 BESSIE had an engagement for a walk with one of her 
 few girl friends that Sunday afternoon. 
 
 "Why don t you go over and see Adela ?" she herself sug 
 gested, when Doctor Gedney had retired to his study after 
 the mid-day dinner. Bessie had set herself a quixotic task. 
 Why she had done so she had not the slightest idea. But 
 in it she experienced a Scaevolan enjoyment. It seemed a 
 present need of her nature. 
 
 Slade felt awkward. "Maybe I will. I guess I ll take a 
 walk over toward the Institute anyway. Which way are 
 you girls going?" 
 
 "Oh, Jean wants me to go over with her to the Wilder 
 farm. The Wilder girl s sick and she s taking some things 
 over. I have to meet her at the corner up here. I m sorry 
 to desert you this way, Slade; but wander over and see 
 Adela. She s nice. You ll have a good time." 
 
 With a bright smile but an enigmatic glance, she was gone. 
 
 Well, he thought, why not? 
 
 Mrs. Ventress was not on her porch. He rang the bell. 
 
 Marie smiled and nodded at him and indicated the north 
 east parlour. A moment later he saw Adela in the hall. 
 She caught sight of him. 
 
 "Gracious, what did Marie put you in there for! You 
 look so very polite sitting up in thai straight chair. Come 
 across the hall ! Where s Bessie ?" 
 
 "She s gone over to the Wilders with a friend. She sug 
 gested that I come over. I hope you weren t lying down. I 
 haven t disturbed you, have I?" 
 
 The southwest parlour was certainly much more attrac 
 tive. The blue curtains, the grey-blue-figured rug, the few 
 
 182 
 
SIRENA UNDER SUSPICION 183 
 
 pictures, the flowers in the big bowl on the table, all charming. 
 
 "Oh, no, indeed! I never lie down during the day. I 
 know it s the custom here Sunday afternoons, but I never 
 keep customs. Take that chair. It s much the most com 
 fortable." 
 
 "Thank you," said Slade. "I " he began. For a mo- 
 
 ment he could think of nothing to say. 
 
 She still wore the grey-blue dress. Her brown hair with 
 the sunlight in it, her piquant face, her intelligent eyes, her 
 slim graceful figure in the old high-backed chair, her pale 
 hand fingering a paper-cutter upon the table, he felt he 
 would like to sit there and look forever. 
 
 Adela, meeting the direct gaze of his eyes, suddenly real 
 ised that she had known this since that Fourth of July eve 
 ning, and not known it. It was too bad. What was she 
 going to do about it? 
 
 She didn t realise that she was also thinking it nice to 
 be looked at in that way. It was the same expression with 
 which Slade had gazed into space, sitting with Coryat up 
 in Christine s. 
 
 Oh, this was too bad. Why would they do it? Couldn t 
 you be friends with anybody any man. This boy, this child, 
 this infant. He changed visibly before her eyes. He sat in 
 knickerbockers before her, with a smeary freckled face. He 
 sat in short clothes beseeching her with galvanically waving 
 arms and the same bland beatific expression. She wanted to 
 pick him up and comfort him. 
 
 How utterly, preposterously absurd! She bent her head 
 slightly to hide her smile at herself. She brushed an imagi 
 nary thread from her knee. She began to ask him what he 
 had read lately. 
 
 Her eyes were wide open and perfectly candid. She was 
 trying to be entirely kind. She had been a perfect fool to 
 sing to him this morning. 
 
 Such a child! Why on earth couldn t he see that Bes 
 sie ! What was there about her? When love wasn t 
 
 what she wanted at all. At least, she wanted something she 
 
184 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 could never have now, wanted someone who wasn t there, 
 never could be ... Mr. Coryat had been interested, doubt 
 less. Doubtless. Mr. Coryat. O heavens no! Not for a 
 good deal. 
 
 But there was a childlike side to Adela, and she was quick 
 to pity. 
 
 Her tongue turned question and answer. They were talk 
 ing about Gilda Varesi s acting in "The Jest". They were 
 talking of modern poetry. 
 
 "Yes, I ve read a good deal, off and on," said Mrs. Vent- 
 ress. "Robinson interests me most. He seems to have most 
 to say." 
 
 "Don t you like Frost?" 
 
 "Oh, of course one could do worse than be a swinger 
 of birches . I adore it and his philosophically reticent way 
 of presenting tragedy." 
 
 "Lindsay?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly. The Broncho that would not be broken 
 of dancing/ Splendid ! He s superb an electrical person." 
 
 "But then, of course," confessed Mrs. Ventress, "I m one 
 of those old-fashioned people old-fashioned nowadays 
 who still swear by and not at the Oxford Book." 
 
 "O good!" exclaimed Slade. "So am I. The Scholar 
 Gipsy " 
 
 "Yes, and further back, too," returned Adela. "Don t 
 forget Drayton or Skelton. 
 
 " Near to the silver Trent 
 Sirena dwelleth " 
 
 She began to quote in the voice Slade remembered. 
 
 " She to pearl paragon 
 Turneth thy gravel " 
 
 He had found the name for her Sirena, of course. He 
 
 applauded himself inwardly. 
 
 "But you must be a poet too," he said with shining eyes, 
 after a short appreciative silence following her quotation. 
 
SIRENA UNDER SUSPICION 185 
 
 "No one who wasn t could repeat those things like that." 
 
 Adela shook her head. 
 
 "I couldn t write a line of poetry to save my life," she 
 said. "It s been a relief, that s all from, from other 
 things. You see my work, what writing I ve ever done, has 
 been so entirely different. After all, I m not sorry I did 
 it," she added, a trifle defiantly, with a decisive motion of her 
 head, "but I ve been rather ruined by it. Oh, well, let s talk 
 of your poetry. Can t you quote me some ?" 
 
 "I I don t think I will, if you don t mind, so soon after 
 Sirena," said Slade. "I don t believe your writing has been 
 bad at all, though. What have you written? Why won t you 
 tell us?" 
 
 Adela shook her head again. 
 
 "It s really not worth talking about. Are you interested 
 in drawing, though, as Bessie is? I d show you " 
 
 "Oh, fine," answered Slade. "Do. I d like to see them 
 so much." 
 
 The next half hour was spent over a portfolio. Mrs. 
 Ventress took a chair nearer him. 
 
 "This is something I could never do," said Slade. "Where 
 did you study?" 
 
 "Oh, I studied at one time, for several years," replied 
 Mrs. Ventress vaguely. 
 
 "But this is the best," she reached an arm across his and 
 shook one sheet out from between two others. A quiet, 
 heart-thudding paralysis stole over Slade. 
 
 "That s awfully good," he said in a moment, rather breath 
 lessly. 
 
 "Well, I did learn at one time a good many of the things 
 soft pencil can do; though I couldn t do anything as good 
 as that to-day. Still, I m glad I ve taken it up again. You 
 see, I could never have been a really good draughtsman 
 or draughtswoman, whichever you say," she ended, smiling, 
 closing the green and black board portfolio and tying up its 
 black strings. "That s all too evident. But I had consider 
 able ambition at one time. Then well, my life turned a 
 
186 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 corner, and I got more interested in writing. But I m glad 
 I did draw once, if only that it s some help now to your 
 cousin." 
 
 "Well, I ll tell you, Bessie appreciates it. You ve been 
 simply wonderful to her, Mrs. Ventress. I really think she 
 has a genuine gift. Don t you?" 
 
 "I do. And she s lovely. Remarkably fine and sensitive," 
 said Adela, reseating herself in her original chair. "I hope 
 you ll help her all you can to get to New York and get a 
 chance. I shall. For I believe her father is very nice about 
 it and wants her to go, when she s ready?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Uncle Charles is really a brick. Of course it s 
 rather sad for him too. You see " 
 
 "Yes, I know. Bessie has told me." 
 
 There was a short silence. 
 
 "Do smoke," said Mrs. Ventress then. "I know you want 
 to. As a matter of fact, I do too. You wouldn t be shocked 
 if I did?" 
 
 "Certainly not!" said Slade. "Will you have one of 
 mine?" as she turned to look about on the table. 
 
 "Oh, thank you ! I will. Oh, Fatimas ! I like them." 
 
 He held the match. He lit his own. 
 
 "I m not an addict, smiled Adela. "But do you see any 
 possible harm in women smoking?" 
 
 "Of course not," said Slade. "Though it s funny. A 
 friend of mine has something to do with the Movies and he 
 told me that when they wanted to symbolise badness in a 
 woman, in a film, all they had to do was to make her light 
 a cigarette. Isn t that ridiculous? He said there was only 
 one way the audience would ever take it." 
 
 Mrs. Ventress smiled. She held her cigarette the English 
 way, between forefinger and thumb. She held it daintily 
 away from her. Like most women she did not inhale. 
 
 "But you don t think I m bad, do you ?" she asked naively. 
 
 "Well, hardly," rejoined Slade. He had never seen a per 
 son more fascinating without meaning to be. 
 
SIRENA UNDER SUSPICION 187 
 
 "Silly of me to say that," said Adela, smiling at herself. 
 "I m a child. I m afraid I have a pretty silly mind." 
 
 "I shouldn t say so," returned Slade earnestly. "I think 
 you have one of the most remarkable minds I ever knew. 
 Really." 
 
 He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and 
 regarding his cigarette with great intentness. His eyes were 
 morosely thoughtful. 
 
 "No, I haven t," said Adela quickly, almost sharply. Her 
 heart was touched, though. She frowned. Inwardly she 
 was shaking herself energetically and roughly. "I really 
 have a very silly mind that I m trying to turn into a better 
 one. O are you going?" for Slade was murmuring some 
 thing and rising. "But won t you let me make you some 
 tea?" 
 
 Well, he was afraid that . Why, yes, he would. It 
 
 was the pleasantest tea he had ever had. They talked of the 
 Theatre Guild and the situation in Ireland, of kings and cab 
 bages this last quite literally, for Mrs. Ventress had dis 
 covered an interest in the vegetable garden on the Battell 
 place as well as in the flower-garden. She informed him 
 that the young Dante had auburn hair, and that the English 
 never shifted their forks from the left to the right hand, 
 that the Irish name of Patrick was principally in honour of 
 General Patrick Sarsfield of Limerick fame, not a tribute 
 to St. Patrick, that W. L. George s full first names were 
 Walter Leonard, and that, in her opinion, he did not under 
 stand women; that Slade ought to see the Cellini cup in 
 the Metropolitan and that she shared his delight in Vermeer ; 
 and all this as an entertaining and unscholastic by-product 
 of smooth and occasionally witty conversation. The quaint 
 reconditeness of her mind interested him immensely. She 
 could kindle with enthusiasm over paintings and books, she 
 could flash with a sudden anger at political tyranny, she 
 could laugh as delightedly as a child, she could suddenly 
 turn as grave as a nun. Through it all there was not the 
 slightest unnaturalness. And in some strange way that he 
 
188 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 did not understand Bessie was always entering into the 
 conversation. 
 
 "I m afraid you don t quite see how remarkable she is," 
 said Adela. "It s funny that I should seem to see it so much 
 more clearly. Why is it? Bessie is quite a little wonder. 
 She s going far. You watch her." 
 
 It was in the middle of some remark like this, as they sat 
 near each other behind the wicker-trayed wheeled tea-table, 
 that the door-bell rang peremptorily from the hall. Marie 
 must have been out of the house, for it rang again, and then, 
 before Mrs. Ventress could rise, a black-dressed, close black- 
 bonneted figure stood opposite the door, peering first into 
 the northeast parlour. She turned almost immediately 
 and peered directly into the room in which they were sitting. 
 It was Miss Crome. 
 
 "Oh, I I beg your pardon," she murmured hastily and 
 recoiled in a positive flutter. Both Slade and Mrs. Ventress 
 had risen, the latter putting down her cigarette in the saucer 
 of her teacup. 
 
 "Oh, won t you come in, Miss Crome? This is Mr. 
 Breckinridge. Do come in and have some tea." 
 
 "No no, thank you," stammered Miss Crome. "I I was 
 just passing. I merely thought I would call. No. No, in 
 deed, thank you. I must be going. I just stepped in the 
 bell no, I really must be going. I am so sorry. I did not 
 mean to intrude. I really did not. I am afraid that I must 
 be going." 
 
 The words came from her rapidly, as she averted her 
 face. She had vanished from the doorway and was at the 
 gate by the time Mrs. Ventress had got into the hall. Her 
 black bonnet was bobbing rapidly along the box-hedge. She 
 seemed to accelerate her head and did not look back. Mrs. 
 Ventress stood in her doorway, with Slade just behind her. 
 Her face was puzzled and somewhat irritated. 
 
 "That is the most peculiar woman," said Adela. "What 
 on earth! What on earth do you suppose was the matter 
 with her?" 
 
SIRENA UNDER SUSPICION 189 
 
 " the most remarkable thing I ever saw " commented 
 
 Slade, well-intentioned, if somewhat inaccurate. 
 
 "Why do you suppose she wouldn t come in and have some 
 tea ?" questioned Adela, looking at him blankly. 
 
 Slade shook his head. "I m sure I don t know," said he. 
 His forehead was a little flushed with rising anger. "Idiot !" 
 he muttered, his jaw setting. "I m terribly sorry " 
 
 "There s nothing to be sorry for," said Mrs. Ventress 
 practically. "Only it annoys me to have that person act as 
 if she had discovered something improper about me. It s 
 rather idiotic. Come back and have some more tea. I sup 
 pose she thought it perfectly awful to find me smoking a 
 cigarette on Sunday, in the company of a young and not 
 unattractive male." 
 
 Slade flushed a little more. Then he laughed. Mrs. 
 Ventress laughed with him, genuinely. 
 
 "Come back and have some more tea," she advised. 
 "Maybe Bessie will drop in after her walk. If I am being 
 very wicked this afternoon I might as well continue. Miss 
 Crome, after all, may as well be forgotten. She seems to 
 me rather more impertinent than pertinent." 
 
 Adela had analysed Miss Crome s emotions exactly, ex 
 cept that she had not credited her with the secret high 
 delight now almost stifling her heart with its intensity. 
 "Cigarettes on Sunday" she hissed from between properly 
 pursed lips. Her small teeth gritted. "CYgarettes on Sun 
 day! . . . And that young man!" she added, with a sig 
 nificant balefulness in the thought of Slade s sex. "That 
 young man!" 
 
 She hugged the truth to herself deliciously. She almost 
 staggered in her walk with the choiceness of her private 
 information. It so perfectly bore out well, everything. 
 
 She was passing Mrs. Hoyle s large iron-fenced lawn. It 
 was four o clock. Across the lawn she suddenly noted a 
 stout figure proceeding up Ivy Street. It turned the corner 
 of the fence into the Axter Road and came toward her. 
 
 She had thought it was Arthur Pollock, at first. Who 
 
190 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 could it be, though? It was certainly no one she knew. 
 
 It was a large man in a rather flashy grey-checked suit. 
 He had dove-coloured spats to his now dusty brown shoes. 
 He wore a round-crowned Panama. As he came nearer she 
 noted the gold pin in his peacock-green necktie, the seal 
 ring on the third finger of his left hand, the bright gold and 
 red cigar-band on the cigar he rolled in his mouth, the flicker 
 of his light cane. His face was ruddy, jowl and double 
 chin sufficiently evident. She was for slipping rapidly past 
 him, but he raised his hat and spoke to her. 
 
 "Pardon me, Madam," he held the cigar with the hat. 
 "Lookin for a Miss Ventress place. Understand it s along 
 here. Could you direct me?" 
 
 He beamed upon her. He puffed from his walk, blowing 
 out his cheeks. 
 
 "Oh why certainly, yes, you you go right along the 
 way you re going. You pass two streets, and it s the last 
 house, the corner lot, just before you reach the Farm Road. 
 Are are you a friend of hers?" 
 
 "Friend? Oh, yes, say so, old friend," he vouchsafed af 
 fably. "Right up along here ? Thanks. Much obliged." 
 
 Miss Crome tried to incline her head with slow dignity. 
 She achieved a bob. At the corner she turned and, trepi- 
 datingly, found the gentleman looking back at her. She 
 hurried past the protecting corner of Mrs. Hoyle s house; 
 then slowed her steps, stopped, fluttered. Her hand went 
 up to her back hair. She retraced her steps slowly, cau 
 tiously, gazing at the ground as if for something she had 
 lost. She peered past the corner of Mrs. Hoyle s house, ad 
 vancing inch by inch, head down, eyes on the cinder foot 
 path, looking for the imaginary lost hairpin. 
 
 Inch by inch. He wasn t there. She came boldly out 
 beyond Mrs. Hoyle s house and peered up the road. He 
 was trudging along steadily, swinging his cane. Miss 
 Crome s bosom boiled with excitement. What was hap 
 pening? Outraged husband, discovered lover, her mind 
 leapt to this immediately, and yet, even to her it seemed 
 
SIRENA UNDER SUSPICION 191 
 
 a little improbable. Or, to put it more accurately, perhaps, 
 it seemed a little too good to be true. But what and who 
 and why? Her mind bristled with interrogation points. 
 She had advanced to the corner of the fence before she 
 knew it. He was not looking back. He was in his stride, 
 swinging along under the occasional maples, quite brandish 
 ing his stick, though in a wholly insouciant fashion, turn 
 ing his head to look out over the fields, followed by a thin 
 wavering trail of cigar-smoke. 
 
 He had passed Sycamore, Poplar, diminishing in the dis 
 tance. But the road took an almost imperceptible rise at 
 this point, enough to keep him in view. Miss Crome could 
 see where the Battell hedge began. She distinctly saw him 
 stop midway along it, disappear. 
 
 She would go back and call on the Rogers. They had the 
 next house to Mrs. Ventress s, separated on that side by a 
 screen of trees. But as she hesitated, she perceived another 
 distant figure coming down the Axter Road, a slimmer fig 
 ure, straw-hatted, walking slowly. It passed the Rogers 
 as Miss Crome bristled back to the protection of Mrs. 
 Hoyle s house. It turned into Poplar Street and disap 
 peared. That Mr. Breckinridge, of course, that young 
 man! What had happened? Miss Crome suddenly per 
 ceived Mrs. Hoyle beckoning her from between the curtains 
 of a front window. The door opened and Mrs. Hoyle 
 came out on the porch. 
 
 "I saw you passing, and stopping, Sophia. Have you lost 
 something?" she called. 
 
 But the something Miss Crome was seeking she had no 
 intention of losing. 
 
 "Just a hairpin/ she replied. "I ve got it though/ 
 
 "Come in and have a cup of tea," said Mrs. Hoyle. At 
 the invitation Miss Crome almost bounced through the gate. 
 From the side window of the Hoyle parlour, by skillful 
 manoeuvering, she felt sure she could see the return of the 
 stout loudly-dressed man. Of course, he might go down 
 the Farm Road. That was really the quickest way back to 
 
192 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 the Station. But she must take that chance. She wondered 
 where he had come from? While sipping her tea she in 
 quired casually as to evening trains to the Junction. 
 
 "Why, so far as I know, Sophia, there s only the one 
 every Sunday evening," returned Mrs. Hoyle. "That one 
 comes through here bout eight o clock." 
 
 "Of course. Of course," said Miss Crome, nodding with 
 pursed lips. She was not going to spoil her secret until 
 
 she had acquired more evidence. This new development . 
 
 There was plenty of time. 
 
 He would have to stay in town till eight o clock. Would 
 he have supper with Mrs. Ventress? What could be his 
 errand? It was simply too exciting. Miss Crome s teacup 
 trembled in her hand till Mrs. Hoyle enquired whatever 
 was the matter with her. Miss Crome declared that there 
 was nothing absolutely nothing. She had never felt better 
 in her life. Which was, to be sure, no less than the truth. 
 
 Slade had been taking his leave when the stout figure 
 swung in at the gate. He turned on the steps as the gate 
 clicked. He heard Adela s breath indrawn. He turned 
 again to find her staring with some perturbation at the 
 stranger. Slade lingered. 
 
 "Pardon me" began the man. "How do " 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Ventress rather hurriedly to Slade. 
 
 "Yes, good-bye, good-bye, do come in again, Mr. Breckin- 
 ridge!" 
 
 It would undoubtedly be best for him to go. He took in 
 the bland stoutness of the stranger, and his slight leeri- 
 ness, with dislike. But he went out of the gate, after bid 
 ding a formal good-bye. He glanced once over the hedge. 
 The stranger was ascending the porch steps. Slade heard, 
 
 "Well, how do, Miss " 
 
 He walked off slowly, wondering. 
 
 He wondered considerably. Evidently not her husband. 
 In so many ways, what a remarkable afternoon ! How much 
 was he in love with her? But who on earth was the stout 
 person? Oh, probably just someone he had never seen be- 
 
SIRENA UNDER SUSPICION 193 
 
 fore, who lived in Tupton. But he didn t look like a Tupton 
 character! He bore unmistakable earmarks of the city. 
 Cheap though. What on earth had he to do with Mrs. 
 Ventress ? 
 
 She was certainly one of the most attractive women he 
 had ever met. Was she still married? She was so fine, 
 so absolutely sincere, so pretty, so wise, so witty. But of 
 course she couldn t be interested in him in the slightest. 
 Being kind. 
 
 What on earth was that woman doing down by the Hoyle s 
 fence? It certainly had looked like Miss Crome. 
 
 As he approached the Gedney house, after turning into 
 Poplar, he saw Bessie coming up the street from the op 
 posite direction. He waved to her. She moved through 
 the sun-speckled shadow of the tall horse-chestnut trees. 
 Slade was first at the gate and waited for her. She was 
 somewhat dusty and breathless. 
 
 "Find your friend all right? Have a nice walk?" he 
 smiled. 
 
 "Yes. Oo, I m tired though. Have a nice time at 
 Adela s?" 
 
 "Yes. I went over. She showed me some of her draw^ 
 ings. She certainly is awfully nice." 
 
 Bessie gave him a keen glance. 
 
 "She s a darling," she said, though with a rather prim 
 mouth. She ran up the steps quickly, Slade following at 
 his leisure. He was still wondering about the stout gen 
 tleman in the rather loud suit. 
 
CHAPTER XXI: ON A QUIET EVENING 
 
 JASON DUFFITT was eating a late cold supper that 
 Pansie had left for him in the ice-box when his door 
 bell rang. He had been nervous about all sounds lately, 
 and it was a queer hour for anyone to call on him. A figure 
 of stout proportions stood in the shadow of the vines of the 
 porch. 
 
 "You don t remember me, I ll bet," said the broad fig 
 ure, having removed a round-crowned panama and applied 
 a coloured silk handkerchief to a beady brow. It extended 
 a pudgy, broad-fingered hand. "But I seen your name on 
 your office and asked round. Gotta take that eight-ten out 
 o here. H are ye, Jase, anyway. Remember me?" 
 
 Jason came out of the door, started to shake his head. 
 Then, 
 
 "Why, sure, sure, Podge. Sure I do. Gosh, I ain t seen 
 you fer five or six years, must be. Well, if this ain t funny. 
 Comical. How s the world been treatin you anyway? 
 Come in! I was jest gettin m self a snack. Have any- 
 thin ? (He slowly closed one eye.) No? Thanks, don t 
 mind if I do," as he accepted a cigar. "Set down, Podge. 
 Well, man, you re lookin fine. Gosh, if this ain t comical !" 
 
 The screen-door had flacked to behind them. Some ani 
 mated conversation ensued. 
 
 Miss Crome s vigil, though she stayed at Mrs. Hoyle s 
 almost till dinner-time, had been totally unsuccessful. He 
 had stayed at Mrs. Ventress s to dinner. He would be tak 
 ing that eight o clock train after. Miss Crome bade her 
 hostess farewell, descended Ivy Street and crossed Market 
 to Oak. She got herself some supper about six-thirty and 
 had occasion to wander up past the Post-Office to the Sta- 
 
 194 
 
ON A QUIET EVENING 195 
 
 tion about three-quarters of an hour later. She wandered 
 back again in the cool of the evening, meeting several ladies 
 with whom she stopped to chatter for considerable periods. 
 Nearing Oak again she nearly ran into the individual of 
 her real search just turning out of it. To her surprise she 
 saw that he was walking with Jason Duffitt. 
 
 "How do, Miss Crome," said the latter in passing. He 
 tipped his faded straw, and his companion lifted a panama 
 and nodded affably enough in recognition. 
 
 "Who s that female, Jase? She directed me up there 
 to to Miss er Ventress 
 
 "Mrs. Ventress?" Duffitt almost halted. Then, with a 
 nervous look in his eyes, "That who you were callin on? 
 
 His companion remembered Adela s parting words. "I 
 am extremely sorry but I trust you to keep my secret/ 
 He had promised. Still, it riled him. It certainly did rile 
 him. He had hoped so . 
 
 "Yeah," he said uninformatively. "Know her?" His 
 eyes looked keenly at his companion, an old school friend. 
 
 "Sure," said Duffitt, recovering somewhat from suspicion. 
 "Rented her that house. Comes from N York. What do 
 you know about her?" 
 
 "She s all right. Guess you found that out before you 
 rented her the house didn t you?" 
 
 "Oh, sure. Good references. Perf ly sat sfactry. But 
 there s been a lotta talk about her. Money end s been all 
 reglar enough. But she s a queer one, sorta. People don t 
 like her. There s somethin queer " 
 
 "How s that?" 
 
 "Well, it ain t my place to say nothin , perhaps ; but she s 
 got queer opinions, and who s her husband anyway, an 
 where is he? I got talkin to her one day. She s got queer 
 opinions." 
 
 His secret fears as to the upshot of his recent assininity 
 had never materialised. Adela had made no sign. From 
 day to day he had breathed more freely and gone about 
 his business. Still, he felt that something was hovering 
 
196 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 over him, and he wasn t going to let a chance slip to insinu 
 ate things opposed to the real truth if he built up thereby 
 some kind of a wall of defence. 
 
 "Funny ideas. She don t seem to me a good infloonce 
 on this town " 
 
 "Aw, that s all yuh know, Jase. She s all right. Ye re 
 crazy. She s all right. Why, she s " 
 
 He stopped. He saw that in saying anything further he 
 wouldn t be keeping his promise. Still, he was riled. As 
 train-time got nearer and he plainly saw that he was de 
 parting with his confident plan utterly ruined, it certainly 
 riled him and worked him the wrong way. 
 
 So, "Course there is a kinda mystery," he hinted, his 
 conscience, it must be said, twingeing him. After all he 
 was not at all a bad-hearted person. But women were cer 
 tainly aggravating. 
 
 Duffitt was on him like a flash. 
 
 "What say? Kinda mystery?" 
 
 "Well," said the stout man, pulling on his cigar. But 
 no should he betray her. Dirty. Still business was busi 
 ness. Might result in . 
 
 "That name " he said. They had come to the station 
 
 platform and he set down upon it the light bag he had picked 
 up at the Conestoga House. The two men stood, hearing the 
 far whistle of the approaching train, feeling the faint vibra 
 tion of it, coming round the curve from Barrack Falls. 
 
 "Yes?" asked Duffitt, teetering and waving a greeting to 
 a wandering acquaintance. "Yes, well, what about her 
 name ?" 
 
 The train was near. The hiss of air brakes and the loud 
 rumbling racket of its approach almost drowned out the 
 stout man s words, as he hitched up his bag. The black 
 puffing engine had slid to a stop beyond them before he 
 had made his meaning quite clear. 
 
 "That name Ventress. That ain t her real name. That s 
 all I ll tell ye," he blurted out. "Well, s long, Jase. S long. 
 Any time y git t N York look me up." 
 
ON A QUIET EVENING 19T 
 
 He had heavily climbed the steps and was waving from 
 the moving train. Duffitt stood and stared after its tail- 
 lights, as it clanged slowly up Market Street. So many 
 thoughts were working within him that he had forgotten 
 to wave back. 
 
 He met Miss Crome again opposite Elm Street. Miss 
 Crome seemed to be especially peripatetic this evening. His 
 eyes lit as they fell upon her. He stopped to talk. 
 
 "What d ye know about that, Miss Crome?" he asked, 
 after a weighty exposition. He could not keep a note of 
 exultation out of his voice. "Fact though. This feller s 
 n ole f rien o mine. Said he wasn t at lib ty to tell me why 
 he was down here. I know he s in some big corp ration 
 up in New York, but he acted indef nite. Wouldn t tell me 
 his business. Finally though he comes out with that, just as 
 he was gettin on th train. Sounds mighty queer, don t it? 
 Ain t her rele name. Whaddya know about that anyway?" 
 
 Miss Crome s head swam that night as she tried to com 
 pose herself for sleep. She felt that she was in the midst 
 of the most throbbing melodrama. She was a little fright 
 ened, in fact, by some of the suspicions aroused in her 
 breast. Mr. Duffitt s friend had had supper at Mrs. Ven- 
 tress s. He had stayed there from four o clock until nearly 
 half -past seven. What his errand had been no one knew. 
 He had conveyed the startling information that Mrs. Vent- 
 ress s apparent name was not her real name. What did his 
 acquaintance with her signify? And what of this young 
 Mr. Breckinridge she was most evidently trying to lead 
 astray? What of it all? What of it all indeed? Miss 
 Crome s head began to throb till she had to arise and hunt 
 
 for the squat blue bottle of bromo-seltzer. 
 * * * 
 
 Meanwhile Slade and his cousin Bessie had passed a quiet 
 evening. He was puzzled certainly by the later develop 
 ments of his visit to Mrs. Ventress s, but he explained the 
 appearance of the stranger acceptably enough to himself by 
 
198 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 the phrase, "None of my business why shouldn t she have 
 a caller?" 
 
 That evening Uncle Arthur had asked them all to his house 
 to dinner, and now Slade and Bessie had been strolling down 
 dim-lit Sycamore Street. They had stood on the other side 
 of Market as the evening train went by. Slade saw a man s 
 face he thought he recognised at one window. The tail- 
 lights dwindled down the street. 
 
 "It s sad, isn t it," Bessie said in a small voice, as if to 
 herself. Her head was turned away. Slade was roused from 
 one of his reveries. 
 
 "Sad? What? How do you mean, Bess?" 
 
 "Oh, you ll think it silly. That train made me sad for a 
 minute. Listen, you can t hear it now. The sound of the 
 bell s dying over the bridge." 
 
 "I know what you mean, though. I ve lain awake listen 
 ing to the whistle of trains in the night going somewhere." 
 
 "You re nice not to laugh, Slade," her voice was soft- 
 "Oh, my, how much easier it is for men than it is for 
 women !" 
 
 Slade did not even smile at that. She went on with a rush, 
 
 "Men can pick up and pull out as they call it. Men can 
 make their lives what they want them. Men can go away 
 to other places and live as they want to. It s all right for 
 men" There was scorn in her emphasis. "We re supposed 
 to stay around and keep house and look pretty." 
 
 Her cousin had never heard anything like this from her 
 before. Her tone hurt him, for her. He dug the toe of his 
 shoe in the edge of the road and looked down. 
 
 "Yes, I guess that s about it," he said gruffly. 
 
 "Well, I am going to get to New York and I am going 
 to make my living and live as I want to. You see if I don t," 
 said Bessie decidedly. "Only, what on earth will I do about 
 father?" 
 
 "The whole trouble is he s such a perfect dear" she went 
 on. "What would he ever do without me? Just what? 
 That may sound conceited, but it s really not. I try to do 
 
ON A QUIET EVENING 199 
 
 things for him and amuse him. I do try. He would miss 
 me around the house. Of course he has enough to live on 
 the rest of his life, without his doing anything, but he just 
 shuts himself up all the time with his books and reads and 
 reads. That s what he likes, I know, that s what makes 
 him happy. But he depends on me too. I can t think of 
 him as all alone in that house, even with Uncle Arthur so 
 near, all alone and missing me. He d do it for me I know. 
 Oh, well, Slade, you have troubles of your own. After all, 
 I ve got a lot to live yet ; and father s not. I can help my 
 self, he can t. I shouldn t yelp." 
 
 "You re not yelping," said Slade. "I see. I understand. 
 I guess I never gave it much thought. I get selfish. But, 
 listen, Bess, it can be fixed up. I m sure. It will all come 
 right." 
 
 "Just how?" 
 
 She looked up at him with dark and brooding eyes. 
 
 "Gertrude took it her happiness. Poor Gertrude. She 
 broke away. But I haven t Gertrude s excuse. You see I 
 know all about it. I I ve pieced it all together. I ve drawn 
 it out of father bit by bit, though he firmly believes he s 
 never told me anything. I ve done a lot of thinking about 
 Gertrude. I don t blame her. Her mother was too much 
 for her and too much for father too, for that matter. 
 And Gertrude must have been different from me wilder. 
 O Slade, do you really think she ever found her happiness ?" 
 
 He had never known his cousin in such a grave mood. 
 Usually there was merely affectionate bantering between 
 them. Bessie was not the kind that told her troubles. Now 
 her confidence in him touched him. 
 
 "I certainly hope so. I believe so," he stammered. 
 
 "But you don t really, do you?" The dark eyes searched 
 his. Not a child but a woman was questioning him. "You 
 think and I believe I believe she s dead." 
 
 The last word was only breathed. They turned slowly and 
 re-entered Sycamore. Slade was still looking at the ground. 
 
 "Well, even if she were, Bessie," he said finally and softly, 
 
200 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "there s no harm in believing she was happy in the life she 
 made for herself." 
 
 "I wonder," he said after a while, pondering. "I wonder 
 if I could ask you something?" 
 
 She glanced at him quickly and was away from his shoul 
 der to the inner edge of the path. She halted facing him. 
 
 "What is it? Gee, I m sorry," murmured Slade, halting 
 too. 
 
 "No, go on," said Bessie in a dry voice. 
 
 "Why, I was only going to say, I wonder you see 
 Father has a theory " 
 
 She was in step with him again, they were resuming their 
 slow walk. 
 
 "Father has this theory," continued Slade slowly, "that 
 Uncle Charles heard from from her after after her 
 mother s death. Do you " 
 
 He saw that her head was slowly nodding. "Yes," she 
 said, just audibly. 
 
 "Truly ? How do you know ?" 
 
 Bessie looked up at him, her face quite pale. She did 
 not answer immediately. There had been a Gordon setter 
 in Slade s boyhood, a favourite dog of his father s, dead 
 some ten years ago. It used to sit and look up at you, fol 
 lowing the movements of your head and hand with its own 
 head, eyes never leaving your face. A beautiful, noble, 
 faithful creature. The gaze came back to Slade poignantly, 
 as he looked at Bessie. He felt his own eyes burn sud 
 denly, for some inexplicable reason. What on earth was 
 the matter with him ? A warmth grew about his heart. 
 
 "You d think me horrible," said his cousin, dropping her 
 eyes abruptly. "You d think me perfectly horrid." 
 
 His mouth and eyes went open. "Wha-at? Why, I 
 couldn t possibly, Bess. What do you mean ?" 
 
 "I ve read her letter," she said, her face still turned from 
 him. Her voice did not quiver. It was a little louder than 
 breathing. 
 
 He found nothing to say for the few seconds that elapsed 
 
ON A QUIET EVENING 201 
 
 before her words rushed on in a voice low but perfectly 
 distinct. 
 
 "I found it. Two years ago. I came in for something 
 and found it on his desk. He had gone out and forgotten 
 to lock it up. I didn t know what it was. Then I guessed. 
 It was open. Out of the envelope. I knew it was Gertrude, 
 of course. It opened, Dearest Father . It was dated the 
 month after her mother s death from England. I couldn t 
 go out of the room without knowing, then. I couldn t. I 
 couldnt. I read it all through." 
 
 "Well, why shouldn t you?" asked Slade defensively. "I 
 don t see any harm in that. It hasn t hurt anybody, has it ?" 
 
 Again her face turned to him. Her hand was on his arm. 
 
 "You don t think so, do you?" she said quickly, "and, 
 Slade, you ll never tell?" 
 
 "I should say not," he returned stoutly. "Nonsense. Of 
 course it s all right. Tell me, though, tell me about " 
 
 "Oh, she said she was so sorry. That she was very un 
 happy. That she had been unhappy for a long time. That 
 it had been her pride. There must have been a big scene 
 of some kind, you know, shortly before she ran away with 
 her mother. She sort of hinted too at something else. It 
 sounded as though she had been married, and been unhappy, 
 and they had separated. She told father how much she loved 
 him. She had never meant to hurt him. All about her 
 pride too, and that she had made up her mind she wasn t 
 going to come back beaten, if things went wrong with her, 
 or worry him with her troubles. Then she ended by saying 
 that he musn t worry about her now. She was all right, had 
 a good position, was doing some writing. She sent him all 
 the love she had for anyone, she said. She had just heard 
 of her mother s death. She knew about me. She explained 
 a lot about how it had been between her mother and her. 
 But there must have been a a love-affair too. I don t un 
 derstand, though, certainly I ve never heard from anybody 
 around here that there was anything like that. I think I 
 know all father knows, and he thinks nothing of the kind. 
 
202 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 But I could read it in the letter, even if it wasn t written 
 out." 
 
 "What where did the letter come from, you say?" 
 
 "From England London she was evidently over there 
 as a sort of secretary-companion to a rich woman." 
 
 "And he never told you?" 
 
 "No. Never. He must have worked it all out by him 
 self and decided it was better not to. She told him where 
 to send an answer, if he wanted to. It wasn t her real ad 
 dress. I don t know whether he ever did or not." 
 
 "Strange. It s all very strange," said Slade. 
 
 They had come opposite the Pollock house and Bessie s 
 last words had been in a very low voice. Slade nodded 
 only. But he slipped his arm through his cousin s and sud 
 denly gripped her hand, withdrawing his own immediately. 
 Then they went up the steps together to the dim forms of 
 their two relatives on the porch above. 
 
CHAPTER XXII: WHO SHE MIGHT BE 
 
 SLADE took a morning train back on Monday as he had 
 to be in the city by evening. He and Bessie together 
 ran over a moment to allow him a formal good-bye to Adela. 
 They found her in her garden as usual. She did not refer 
 to her Sunday caller of the afternoon before. Nor did 
 Slade. She put in Bessie s hand a flower for Slade s button 
 hole. Bessie walked back with him to the house and down 
 with him to the station. 
 
 As the train pulled out he waved to her and she waved 
 back at him with bright eyes. There was no badinage. He 
 sat looking straight ahead of him for several minutes as 
 the train clanged through the town. His interest in the dusty 
 plush back of the seat in front of him seemed enormous. 
 
 Between Tupton and the Pennsylvania Station in New 
 York, with time out for a change at the Junction, there was 
 plenty of opportunity for reflection. Slade extracted a 
 novel from his bag but let it lie unopened upon the maroon 
 seat. He rested his chin upon his hand and gazed out upon 
 the dipping and soaring telegraph wires combed through 
 their green glass insulators on the tall double-armed poles 
 that rose at him and flashed past by the wayside. Behind 
 them the country was sunny and green. But the heat of 
 the day was oppressive. He removed his coat and suffered 
 from sifting cinders that ticked against the wire netted open 
 space at the bottom of the window. He felt both grimy and 
 deliquescent. 
 
 Really, it was all darned interesting. The manuscript, 
 Ten-ill s mysterious book, Mrs. Ventress, Gertrude, Mrs. 
 Ventress s visitor, Coryat, Bessie . . . They mixed in his 
 mind to the rhythm of the train, the surging sound of it 
 
 203 
 
204 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 mingled with the clicking of rail- joints and the creak and 
 clank of couplings. His head wagged against the maroon 
 back of the seat as he closed his eyes. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Ventress s face, in surprise, in alarm. No, not at 
 that loud-suited individual s greeting so much, at his own 
 mention of Richard Coryat. No, she had supplied the 
 "Richard". That s so. She knew him through acquaint 
 ances. But still, but still. . . . 
 
 And wasn t there some confusion about the book? 
 Something queer about the whole thing. He didn t know 
 just what. Of course that man wasn t her husband ! Cor 
 yat? But how on earth could that be. Impossible. 
 Names. . . . 
 
 He was conscious of a voice that penetrated to him over 
 the back of the seat ahead, of two nodding bonnets that had 
 not been there before. He did not recognise the two Miss 
 Babbitts, going to Philadelphia. They had fussily changed 
 their seats. But he was conscious of the voice because it 
 had just said "Mrs. Ventress" in a derogatory tone. "Aha, 
 aha, aha," came the queerly mechanical laugh of the other 
 Miss Babbitt. 
 
 ". . . . if you think it s just silly . . . for Sophia saw him 
 herself " 
 
 "No, it s probably true," the sister answered. "She s a 
 most peculiar woman and it s probably quite true. But who 
 could he have been?" 
 
 "No one knows. Except that he was rather loudly dressed 
 and was there practically all the afternoon, and stayed to 
 supper certainly. He left on the eight-ten." 
 
 "He said it wasn t her real name?" 
 
 "So Jason Duffitt swore to Sophia. She s a thorough 
 minx in my opinion. And who knows anything about her. 
 Don t you think it was extremely rude of her the way she 
 called so casually on Mrs. Mixter, after she d been to dinner 
 there? And then she goes mysteriously out of town for 
 several days and then this strange man turns up. But 
 
WHO SHE MIGHT BE 205 
 
 you see it s all of a piece. And little Mrs. Persons says 
 she has a really horridly insinuating way with men." 
 
 "What did you say he looked like?" 
 
 "Who? Oh, he! Like a drummer, like a flashy type of 
 travelling salesman. Caroline Utterson saw him too. He 
 passed her house coming back. I believe he s her husband." 
 She meant Adela s. 
 
 "Oh, no, Phoebe," said the younger Miss Babbitt, incredu 
 lous. "I don t really believe he could be." 
 
 "Well, what then. Do you think he could be a relative?" 
 
 "He must have been. So she isn t what she represents 
 herself to be?" 
 
 "Well, I trust Sophia. That s all I know." 
 
 "But then, who is she?" 
 
 "Who knows ? I think she s a wealthy divorcee from New 
 York myself. This man might have been who might he 
 not have been. Why did he stay the entire afternoon?" 
 
 "Well, really now, Phoebe, I think Sophia has rather in 
 fected your mind. He was probably merely a relative. . . ." 
 
 "But such a relative! 
 
 "Yes. Well, after all, Phoebe, she may not be to the 
 manner born, for all her airs. She didn t seem so, in fact, 
 to me, when I first met her. Her manner is so flippant and 
 casual. Oh, no, these people creep in everywhere nowadays. 
 But (with high rectitude) I refuse to believe ill of anyone, 
 until it is proved. Did you say Aunt Sara would meet us 
 at the Broad Street Station?" 
 
 Slade thought that the person they were discussing bore 
 no more actual resemblance to the charming individual he 
 had had tea with on Sunday than did Bloody Mary to 
 Atalanta. He was extremely annoyed. So this was the 
 kind of thing! As for that man, he might have been 
 oh, well, never mind ; good Lord, who cared ! Anyone with 
 an eye could see what she really was. As for this business 
 of her name not being her own hm. Well, suppose it 
 
 wasn t? Nobody like that . Oh, the old cackling hens, 
 
 what preposterous spinsterish nonsense! At this point in 
 
206 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 his exasperated thought he recalled Dr. Gedney s answer on 
 the way home from that Fourth of July affair, an answer 
 to some spontaneously enthusiastic remark of Slade s. 
 
 "Arthur is so absurd about her!" 
 
 "But what does he say, Uncle Charles?" 
 
 "Oh, that he distrusts her. Maybe he changed his opinion 
 to-night. But you know, probably, how Arthur has been 
 about women, ever since Miriam s death. I was certainly 
 very pleasantly impressed by her this evening." 
 
 "Does he mind Bessie and her being together so much?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. You know Bessie is Arthur s ewe-lamb. And 
 I believe there is some sort of talk in the town. But isn t 
 there always. (Dr. Gedney s lip had curled.) Look at the 
 ridiculous, criminally ridiculous things that were said after 
 Gertrude after Gertrude ran away. I simply paid no at 
 tention. There s no nonsense about Bessie. She knows the 
 substance from the shadow. Mrs. Ventress came here with 
 excellent recommendations or however you put it from 
 New York. She has lived in a very quiet and dignified way. 
 Of course, there are some outrageous gossips in this town; 
 that Miss Crome, for instance " 
 
 Slade wondered, remembering, whether either of the stiff 
 angular women on the seat ahead could be Sophia Crome. 
 
 Well, it was interesting at any rate. What a wonderful 
 
 companion bosh! Of what was he thinking. He knew 
 
 now. It had been completely evident to him in her dismis 
 sal of him at the approach of that stout person she didn t 
 really care, couldn t possibly how could she? Why, but 
 she was married, wasn t she? He suddenly smiled very 
 wrily at his own goings-on. If he wasn t a blasted idiot! 
 She had been extremely nice to him and he had let himself 
 go, in a day-dream . . . When the stout person approached 
 she had hustled him off absent-mindedly . . . That was all 
 right, of course. But, equally of course, oh, what an ass 
 he had been! But she was wonderful. He would always 
 admire her anyway. . . . 
 
 Bessie had never seen Gertrude. What a peculiar girl 
 
WHO SHE MIGHT BE 207 
 
 Gertrude must have been, what an extremely peculiar 
 woman his Aunt Martha ! What a tragedy when it all hap 
 pened! He wondered if there had been a love-affair for 
 Gertrude. He wondered. Was she still in London? Sup 
 pose she were, by any chance, in New York. Suppose 
 under a changed name, if she had married, she were now 
 wealthy and famous. Suppose ... by George! 
 
 Slade s eyes opened. His brow wrinkled. What did Mrs. 
 Ventress write? Suppose . . . Oh, what nonsense! What 
 a nut he was ! What an utter nut ! His imagination again. 
 He was always spinning impossible stories about people. 
 Gertrude. Mrs. Ventress. What nonsense! 
 
 Nevertheless he wondered. . . . 
 
 * * * 
 
 Upon his return to the office on Tuesday, Slade learned 
 all about the feminine claimant to authorship of the mys 
 terious "Crystal Castle". He also learned that she had not 
 put in an appearance on Monday. Not at all. Coryat had 
 come in and enquired for him, leaving his first article. 
 Toward the end of a crowded afternoon, Coryat s voice 
 floated into his ear blurred by the telephone-receiver. 
 
 "Hello ! Have a good time ? I left my first article with 
 your chief yesterday. Oh, he told you ? Did that phantasmal 
 young woman turn up to-day? No? Isn t it damned 
 curious ?" 
 
 "You know I believe you re all kidding me," said Slade, 
 holding the phone in his lap and turning an eye on Miss 
 Peabody opposite. "There wasn t really any bright young 
 female, was there?" 
 
 "All I know is your Chief swore to me that there was, 
 and told me all she had said." 
 
 "Ha !" said Miss Peabody with mock-acidity as she caught 
 Slade s "Really?" "Ha! Corroboration, I see, corrobora- 
 tion!" 
 
 "Well," laughed Slade into the mouthpiece, "I refuse to 
 believe it until I see her, that s all. It strikes me as entirely 
 
208 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 too melodramatic. Oh, by the way, I have a startling bit 
 of news for you. . . . 
 
 "Yeah. Remember that friend of my cousin s I spoke 
 to you about? Yeah. Well, it seems she owns Terrill s 
 book and has read it. Honestly . . . No, I didn t; because 
 she said she had left her copy in town. She comes from here, 
 you know . . . What? No, neither did I, from what you 
 told me but it seems there are three anyway, you, your 
 friend and my friend . . . Yes, you ought to. She s a most 
 charming person . . . Oh, she writes. I don t know. She 
 never will tell us just what she writes. She s rather mys 
 terious about it ... Dinner? Why let s see why, yes, 
 I guess I can make it. What time?" 
 
 So it happened that that evening Slade and Richard Coryat 
 again sat facing each other across a small table, this time 
 in the rear open dining-room of the Golden Eagle on Mac- 
 Dougall Street. 
 
 "Look here, who is this friend of your cousin s, this 
 Mrs. Ventress?" inquired Coryat directly. "You certainly 
 interested me a lot by what you said over the phone." 
 
 "Mrs. Ventress? Why, I ve told you all I know about 
 her, and that I think she s an exceptionally charming per 
 son," returned Slade, his eyes betraying fear of teasing. 
 "She s been awfully nice to my cousin. She evidently lives 
 here in the city mostly and writes. As I said over the phone, 
 we ve never been able to find out just what she writes ; and 
 she implies that she s given it up. She s taken to drawing 
 again she really draws awfully well. She studied it some 
 years ago. Your guess is as good as mine. Only she s 
 evidently well-off and quite independent, possibly with a 
 husband somewhere, but I ve never heard her speak of him, 
 or of her family. I don t know, I m sure, whether her hus 
 band is dead or well, of course, she may be divorced. I 
 believe it s rather set opinion in the town against her that 
 she s never produced her husband. There s some mystery 
 there. She s a woman, I should say, of about thirty, maybe 
 older. She looks very young sometimes, though. (Coryat 
 
WHO SHE MIGHT BE 209 
 
 repressed a smile.) She has a fine mind, knows good poetry, 
 told me all sorts of interesting things. I should think she 
 had travelled. Sounds like it. She s the kind of person 
 who would have been likely to pick up Ten-ill s book in Lon 
 don and treasure it distinctly the kind. She was certainly 
 enthusiastic about it. She knew your name, by the way." 
 
 "Knew my name how?" 
 
 "Through mutual acquaintances, she said. Knew of your 
 knowing about the book." 
 
 "That s funny. I know so few people in New York. You 
 see I have been abroad such a long time. It might have 
 been someone in England if she s been over there. But " 
 
 "She didn t specify. It might." 
 
 "That seems funny to me though funny that I shouldn t 
 have heard the name. The name I was thinking of the other 
 night " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "I m puzzled, and I m interested in this," he said again, 
 after a moment. "What does she look like? Tell me more 
 about her." 
 
 "You do seem to think you know her," laughed Slade. 
 "Well, she s about the average height. Looks tall some 
 times. Brown hair, brown eyes, dresses charmingly. Oval 
 face I don t know, did you ever try describing a woman? 
 Has nice eyes, is witty and quick. Gosh, it sounds like a 
 Situation Wanted in the Times!" 
 
 Coryat smiled. 
 
 "That certainly might describe a number of quite different 
 people at that. She looks successful, does she?" 
 
 "Well, she evidently has enough money and has not led 
 a particularly hard life, lately anyhow. Her writing doesn t 
 seem to have pleased her " 
 
 "Oh, it doesn t," said Coryat. "Then that wouldn t be- 
 but, by George, I wonder " 
 
 "What do you wonder?" 
 
 "Sorry, Breckinridge. I always seem to be doing this. 
 But the fact is I speculate sometimes oh, well ! . . . Well, 
 
210 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 you come in with a mysterious feminine person, and my 
 mind leaps to probably inane conclusions, that s all. And 
 then this matter of her having read Golden Windfall . That s 
 peculiar too. And then this mysterious claimant of author 
 ship of Terrill s story for that s what I think it is ... 
 I d certainly like to take a look at that lady of yours !" 
 
 "Well certainly nothing s to prevent your coming down 
 to Tupton with me next time I go," offered Slade. "Uncle 
 Charles or Uncle Arthur could put you up. I d like nothing 
 better than to have you. Come along!" 
 
 "Well, that s mighty kind of you. When are you going 
 again ?" 
 
 "Oh, I don t know. I don t believe I can get off again 
 for two weeks anyway, and then I d have to leave there on 
 Sunday. Still though I d intended taking my two weeks 
 vacation at the end of August, I might manage to ad 
 vance it." 
 
 "Well I really am strongly tempted to take you up. Mean 
 while, it seems that this claimant has vanished from the face 
 of the earth." 
 
 "Yes, doesn t it. Maybe she ll come in to-morrow. Won 
 der what on earth happened to her?" 
 
 "I wonder. I wish to blazes the friend of mine who bor 
 rowed Golden Windfall would make some sign. I have no 
 idea where she is, and " 
 
 "Oh, she s a woman!" 
 
 "Yes, she s a woman, a darn fine one too." 
 
 Again Coryat was tempted to tell Slade all about Flora. 
 Yet, just because he actually found himself missing her, for 
 all their brief and curtailed acquaintance, he refrained. He 
 wished to keep Flora out of this. He had had certain absurd 
 suspicions of course. And then too he had recently had 
 a peculiar dream. 
 
 He had stood in front of a misty blank window and seen 
 two figures moving dimly about behind it. One suddenly 
 blurred nearer and larger, and a white face pressed against 
 the pane. It was Flora s face, distinctly recognisable. But 
 
WHO SHE MIGHT BE 
 
 she stared straight into his eyes without the slightest rec 
 ognition. And as he looked, her face faded, and he 
 was looking into the eyes of Jane. Then her face faded 
 also. But before it faded she had smiled at him. There 
 were tears in her eyes no longer. And as he stared he was 
 reading some words in gigantic type upon what seemed to 
 be the huge opened page of a book. They were the opening 
 words of Richard Terrill s first chapter in "Golden Wind 
 fall", in which he analyses the strange purblindness of the 
 seeking soul. Then that great page of terrifying black type 
 faded too . . . He could make nothing of the dream. 
 
 But he was thinking of it as he lit his cigarette from the 
 match Slade held. He would say nothing. He would find 
 out for himself. 
 
 "It s an easy trip," Slade was saying. "It s not so very 
 far from Philadelphia. Mrs. Ventress had been visiting 
 there for a day or so, when I came down. I didn t see her 
 Saturday as I expected. She got back some time late Satur 
 day night. She must have friends in Philadelphia ." 
 
 "Indeed," returned Coryat slowly. He was thinking. 
 
 "This woman who turned up at the office," he said after 
 a moment. "She, for instance, as well as the friend I men 
 tioned, would answer to the description you gave of Mrs. 
 Ventress." 
 
 "Would she?" asked Slade. "But what do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, old T. B. f as you call him, said she was about 
 average height but looked taller when she stood up about 
 to go. She seems to have had brown hair and brown eyes, 
 according to your general description, though of course 
 people s memories differ as to the shade of colour in eyes. 
 Miss Peabody spoke of her as having "considerable dis 
 tinction and believes she did write the story. She seems 
 to have been something of a personality " 
 
 "But what are you getting at," laughed Slade. "You mean 
 to imply that Mrs. Ventress could have come all the way to 
 
 New York and . Besides, that s implying she knowingly 
 
 imitated Terrill s style, which would be a literary crime. 
 
THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Besides, again, this woman said she had written Golden 
 Windfall !" 
 
 "Well, my dear Breckinridge, we don t really know who 
 wrote Golden Windfall . Do we?" 
 
 "But, why, good heavens! You mean to say ?" 
 
 "I don t mean to say anything. I m just thinking. Prob 
 ably I m way off. But your friend is agitated when you 
 mention Terrill s book. You said she was. You know she 
 writes, but she s mysterious about it. She s away from Tup- 
 ton for several days, not back till very late Saturday night. 
 Well, if she left here on the eleven o clock train she d have 
 been in Tupton by eleven that night that was the train you 
 took, wasn t it ? And she could conceivably have come on to 
 New York, instead of stopping at Philadelphia. She has 
 plenty of money to indulge herself in such a trip, plenty of 
 time on her hands. This claimant was in The Colosseum 
 office only till about 10:15, according to what your Chief 
 told me. That gives her time to catch her train and =" 
 
 Slade was somewhat staggered. 
 
 "But she said she knew you?" 
 
 "Only through mutual acquaintances. Anyone may meet 
 an anonymous author sometime without knowing it. Rich 
 ard Terrill may be an assumed name. I ve never thought of 
 it before I had a picture of the man so clearly in my mind 
 but it may be. And all that I m saying may be proved the 
 most utter nonsense, but " 
 
 "But why didn t she turn up with her proofs? Why all 
 this concealment? I don t understand." 
 
 "Neither do I. I m just guessing maybe wildly " 
 
 "You gentlemen feel in any need of inspiration this eve 
 ning? Are you familiar with the psychological properties 
 of my soul candy? Ah, pardon me, I see you are en 
 gaged " It was Tiny Tim, bare-headed, with white 
 
 shirt and flowing black hair and tie. He passed with friend 
 ship s offering in neat packages upon his tray. He stopped 
 at the next table and engaged in a philosophical dissertation 
 
WHO SHE MIGHT BE 213 
 
 with a gentleman in cloaks and suits. The lady with the 
 gentleman kept up an uninterrupted giggle. 
 
 "Well," said Slade, "you ve certainly given me something 
 to think about. What do you say ? Shall we go ?" 
 
 As they paused before the counter-gate in the outer hall, 
 where the Frenchwoman in attendance procured their hats, 
 Coryat said, 
 
 "I will take advantage of your invitation if it still holds, 
 and go down with you when you go next. Meanwhile, well, 
 let us wait and find out." 
 
 "All right," said Slade. "You mean don t say anything 
 about it . I won t. Of course, as you say, it may all be a 
 pipe-dream. It certainly has that appearance to me and 
 
 yet Well, all I know is that Mrs. Ventress is as straight 
 
 as a string as well as being a remarkably interesting woman. 
 If by any wild possibility she were Richard Terrill, she s 
 given up attempting to convince old T. B. for some very 
 good reason." 
 
 "Oh, I m sure of that," said Coryat hastily. "There s no 
 question of that. But then " 
 
 As he walked home up Fourth Avenue later in the eve 
 ning he wondered he certainly wondered 
 
CHAPTER XXHI: IT COMES TO MISS CROME 
 
 TWO weeks passed, Miss Ann Cole had not reappeared 
 at The Colosseum office. "The Crystal Castle" still 
 reposed in the safe. Slade, busied with many manuscripts, 
 with foundry proofs and "signatures", with constant callers, 
 luncheon engagements and dinner engagements, with Rafe s 
 affairs and the affairs of other friends, almost forgot Tup- 
 ton in the interim. Mrs. Ventress recurred occasionally. 
 Bessie entered his thoughts as often. He speculated a good 
 deal about the author of "The Crystal Castle". He had come 
 greatly to discount Coryat s wild conjecture. But in his 
 peregrinations about the Village he often stopped and looked 
 after ladies with brown eyes and brown hair, even if the 
 latter were bobbed. Rafe began to rag him about it. 
 
 Bessie wrote him, a pleasant, friendly letter, informing 
 him that everything was much as he had left it in the small 
 town. She inveighed again in no uncertain terms against 
 Miss Crome and village gossip in general. She also sus 
 pected Jason Duffitt of secretly running down Adela s repu 
 tation. She was not so far mistaken. 
 
 They were much together these days, Jason and Miss 
 Crome. Jason would come over and sit on Miss Crome s 
 cushioned stone stoop of an evening, if he were passing by, 
 and he usually was, somehow. On one of these evenings 
 Miss Crome hit upon a most remarkable elucidation of the 
 principal matter that had been perplexing them an elucida 
 tion Bessie had no cognizance of. 
 
 They were speaking of the name that was not Mrs. Vent- 
 ress s. Miss Crome had already spread broadcast insinua 
 tion concerning cigarettes on Sunday, "that young Mr. 
 
 214 
 
IT COMES TO MISS CROME 
 
 Breckinridge", and, as we have heard, the mysterious indi 
 vidual in the loud suit. The Miss Babbitts had got hold, 
 of course, of the rumour about the name, but they were 
 still in Philadelphia, and that had gone no farther in the 
 town as yet. Miss Crome, seeing this, hoarded it; she en 
 joined Mr. Duffitt to hoard it. She said she must "turn it 
 over in her mind". Several days of turning it over pro 
 duced A Theory. 
 
 "It s come back to me," announced Miss Crome conspira- 
 torially one evening, in an awed voice. "It was before your 
 time here, Mr. Duffitt. But it s come back to me !" 
 
 "What has?" 
 
 "Well, it s this way. Did you ever hear of Gertrude 
 Gedney?" 
 
 "Yes, o course. I know the story. She run away from 
 home about twenty years ago, didn t she ? She never turned 
 up. Guess everyone s lived here at all knows about that." 
 
 "Yes and " Miss Crome rocked back and forth, her 
 
 arms clasping each other in her lap. (She was a ferment 
 of excitement within) "I ve got a theory!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The name comes back to me now. He was a nephew of 
 Judge Lindon, up on the Hill " 
 
 "Who was?" 
 
 "Roger Ventress. That was his name. I d take my oath 
 it was the same name. I d swear to it. Besides, I ve been 
 enquiring round. There re a few still remember. Mrs. 
 Hoyle thinks so. But Sally Barber s got the best memory 
 in this town and has lived here the longest; only she s old 
 and hasn t got out and around much. She says it was Vent 
 ress. She says she thought it was funny when this woman 
 first came to live here. Only she doesn t talk much, does 
 Sally. You have to get it out of her. Judge Lindon, you 
 know, lived rather removed, up there on the Hill. Not many 
 even of the old residents knew him, and those not well. But 
 he had this nephew. People have forgotten. Roger Vent 
 ress came to visit his uncle we ve pieced it out, Sally and 
 
216 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 I and was at the Institute dance at Gertrude Gedney s 
 Commencement. He stayed a week or so. Even Sally 
 Barber don t remember whether they saw much of each 
 other. But / remember now one evening he took her home 
 from a young people s party. Then he went away. That 
 would have been the end of June. About a week later 
 Gertrude disappeared. Some connected it up then, but the 
 idea died out. There was some talk about it it all comes 
 back to me but well, you see, this happened " 
 
 She lifted a skinny forefinger and became impressive. 
 
 "It was what made Judge Lindon move away, and it was 
 common talk at the time, but everybody s forgotten the name 
 now. Roger Ventress got a heat-stroke in that hot spell in 
 New York. The Judge left here to go to him, found him 
 in a New York hospital where he d been taken after he fell 
 in the street. He lived only twenty-four hours. That much 
 was in our local paper and you can find it there. Ventress s 
 parents lived in New York. Judge Lindon, though, was very 
 fond of the young man, and the end of that summer the 
 Lindons moved away from Tupton, I d forgotten about 
 them for a long time. Now I remember. And Sally Barber 
 filled out what I didn t remember " 
 
 "But lookee here !" exclaimed the bewildered Mr. 
 
 Duffitt. "Yer past me, Miss Crome." 
 
 "This Mrs. Ventress why don t you see. She s Gertrude 
 Gedney come back. It seems to me plain as the nose on your 
 face. She thought, after all these years, that no one would 
 remember. She knew the Judge s family weren t here any 
 more. It s my belief she and that boy, Roger Ventress, got 
 married secretly as soon as she got to the city. It s my 
 belief she went right to New York and married him. Then 
 he died suddenly in the street that way and she got fright 
 ened. Hid away somewhere. Afraid to go back, afraid to 
 let on where she was. After that, I don t know." 
 
 "But wouldn t such a marriage have come out. Don t 
 seem reasonable, Miss Crome." 
 
 "Why would it? If his parents had known they d surely 
 
IT COMES TO MISS CROME 217 
 
 have written Dr. Gedney. But I know O I could tell ! he 
 didn t ever hear from them or through Judge Lindon. The 
 marriage was being kept quiet Maybe," ventured Miss 
 Crome recalling the movies, "maybe it was a mock-mar 
 riage." 
 
 "But why in time would she come back here with that 
 name specially if it weren t her own?" 
 
 "Why," asked Miss Crome dramatically, "is there sin 
 and shame in this world?" 
 
 Mr. Duffitt didn t know the answer to that. 
 
 "It was a secret marriage," elaborated Miss Crome. 
 "After his death she may have fallen into sin and shame. 
 But she s come into a portion of this world s goods through 
 it. And she s come back here to flaunt it in our faces. I 
 don t believe there s one mite smitch of repentance in her 
 heart. But of course she s afraid to tell who she is to her 
 own people. She s still afraid. But why, look at the way 
 she s taken up with Bessie Gedney, her own sister-by-adop 
 tion. Isn t it reasonable?" 
 
 She paused dramatically. 
 
 Mr. Duffitt scratched his head. He didn t think it was. 
 Still, the sin and shame element appealed to his highly- 
 coloured imagination. He smoked and stared for several 
 minutes. 
 
 "It ain t reasonable she d a come back with that name. 
 Besides, what about what Todge said about it not bein her 
 rele name?" 
 
 "Well, yes, there might be a point. But I say she d think 
 everybody d forgotten about that young man, it s all so long 
 ago. I nearly had, not about the Judge, but about his 
 nephew s name. Matter of fact, she s right. Who has 
 remembered ? The town s changed. All these new people 
 you can t keep up with them. But I think what your friend 
 was trying to say was that her real name was Gedney. It 
 is, it was, before she was married. Of that I m sure. And 
 she couldn t give the Ventress name up because she had a 
 sentiment about it. She must have thought she was mightily 
 
218 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 in love with that young man to run off to him that way. 
 Probably she s just taken it up again lately, didn t dare use 
 it after his death. But everything s queer enough about 
 her and / zvouldn t put it past her I" 
 
 Jason said nothing, but he shook his head several times. 
 
 "No, Miss Crome," he said. "You ain t convinced me. 
 Her front name s this now A-deal-er." 
 
 "Why, but of course she wouldn t give herself away by 
 using her real first name. She thinks we ve all -forgotten, 
 that s the whole point. And how that pleases her!" 
 
 "Yeah, but, Miss Crome, she s met Dr. Gedney an* Mr. 
 Pollock. She was over to his house Fourth o July. I 
 heard him say so. * 
 
 "Once at night outdoors. And you know he doesn t 
 trust her. As for Dr. Gedney, he doesn t hardly know what 
 Bessie looks like, he s so absent-minded. And after twenty 
 years. Why she d have changed out of all recognition, Mr. 
 Duffitt. 
 
 But Mr. Duffitt still demurred. He shook his head a good 
 deal more. 
 
 "Well, all I ask you is to think it over," said Miss Sophia 
 Crome. "There s no hurry. But listen to me. If it is 
 so and I become surer of it every minute I breathe it s 
 our duty, our sacred duty (she was positively quivering) to 
 see that the Gedneys know. You know and I know that 
 that woman up there is a bad influence upon this town, how 
 ever you look at it. I ll bet she s led a hard life. She s no 
 proper influence for Bessie Gedney either. With her Sun 
 day cigarettes and her vampish ways and her strange vis 
 itors ! In my opinion she s a bad influence and a bad woman. 
 O, I know she s quiet quiet is the worst kind. And look 
 at her opinions is that being an honest, God-fearing 
 woman? No. No, Mr. Duffitt. It s our sacred duty to 
 get this to the Gedneys. You think it over." 
 
 Mr. Duffitt did so, during the ensuing days. He came 
 gradually to believe Miss Crome must be right. She seemed 
 to have an answer for every objection. As for "sacred 
 
IT COMES TO MISS CROME 
 
 duty", but he was still highly nervous as to what Adela 
 might be plotting against him in secret. "Quiet is the worst 
 kind" ! That phrase had a special meaning for him. And 
 wasn t letting the truth get about merely the truth, under 
 stand an excellent way forever to forestall the chance of 
 her telling lies about him ? She d be sure to twist it all into 
 lies. The more he considered, in his dull, suspicious, timor 
 ous mind, the more Mr. Duffitt was convinced. 
 
 One evening, several days later, he told Miss Crome so. 
 They discussed the best way for the news to be broken to 
 the town. They decided to disseminate it with caution. 
 They nobly waived the opportunity to crusade openly. They 
 felt no fear that, in the end, the father Gertrude had aban 
 doned so cruelly would desire her continuing presence in 
 Tupton. The main thing was to get public opinion excited, 
 anyway. As for Uncle Arthur, they felt quite sure of him, 
 in his affection for Bessie and his well-known irascibility. 
 And he was, with Dr. Gedney, such an influence. 
 
 In the meantime, two weeks passed. One day Slade 
 phoned Coryat from The Colosseum office. 
 
 "Oh, look here; I m going to Tupton on Friday, to begin 
 my two weeks vacation. It s all fixed. Want to come? 
 Love to have you." 
 
 The answer was in the decided affirmative. But it was 
 on Thursday that Miss Crome began her devious campaign. 
 
 She began it by treating conjecture as fact. After all, 
 she was sure in her own mind. Why weaken the argument 
 for truth with Possiblys and Perhapses. Also, why not 
 tell a good story while you were about it. Therefore, in the 
 first breathing of her belief to Mrs. Mixter she referred 
 to a wholly reliable source of information she was in honour 
 bound not to reveal. After all, similar references had been 
 made by certain minor, and even major prophets of old 
 at least they had stated the case in a generalisation. It all 
 depends upon one s assurance of divine afflatus. Miss Crome 
 had ever been a crusader, though a modest one. Her picture 
 of herself would not have been recognised as authentic, per- 
 
220 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 haps, by the outside observer. But in her own breast, she 
 felt positive, burned a like spiritual fire to that uplifting the 
 hearts of saints and martyrs. The singularity of the first 
 person, the mighty I Am and I Do, which allays all our 
 suspicions of ourselves and routs our sudden discomfiting 
 visions of our motives, had reached its most eccentric flower 
 ing in the mind of Saint Sophia. 
 
 A tale retold develops like a negative in a bath of acid. 
 In the acid bath of Miss Crome s thought it developed beau 
 tifully. It assumed the sharp outlines of conviction and 
 a thoroughly photographic realism. As her story spread it 
 even began to convince certain men of the town. And "good 
 ole Jase" was always nearby with sober-sided substantiation. 
 Mr. Duffitt believed it himself, now. Miss Sally Barber, the 
 Cumsean Sibyl of Sycamore Street, could check up on the 
 name, even if Mrs. Harris, the Stoic, hotly pooh-poohed the 
 whole story. Sally Barber was also, surely, a quite dis 
 interested party, an old bed-ridden woman who had no par 
 ticular axe to grind for or against anybody in Tupton. She 
 remembered, down to exact dates, all about Roger Ventress ; 
 and on this foundation Miss Crome exercised her great nat 
 ural gifts for embroidered narrative. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV: UNCLE ARTHUR S BOMB 
 SHELL 
 
 D 
 
 R. GEDNEY was reading: 
 
 " announced his hypothesis that it is an impossibility 
 
 to determine by physical experiment the velocity of the earth 
 relative to ether, moreover, that an immobile or rigid ether 
 is unthinkable, and that there is no such thing as absolute 
 velocity through space for any body, and that measured time 
 and space do not exist as independent and self-contained con 
 cepts, but are always conditioned by the phenomena that they 
 are used to describe " 
 
 Through it he heard the gruff voice of George Syle (the 
 only man who really interested him in Tupton) dilating upon 
 Emmanuel Kant s antinomies, and the penalty of reality. 
 There were always cigar ashes on Syle s vest. He never 
 made the slightest attempt to brush them off. But then he 
 was one of The Ten. 
 
 Dr. Gedney read : 
 
 "It is this phase of the Einstein theory that makes it ex 
 pressible in terms of the fourth dimensional calculus of 
 Minkowski wherein the distinction between time and space 
 vanishes " 
 
 True. What were space and time ? What was anything ? 
 Nothing. He heard the wheezy spasmodic laughter of Syle 
 as he descended suddenly to that old one that very old 
 one : "What is mind ? No matter. What is matter ? Never 
 mind." Syle was growing very bald, and yet his coat collar 
 was always speckled with dandruff. That was, if not an 
 antinomy, a paradox. 
 
 221 
 
222 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Dr. Gedney screwed up his eyes and regarded one thumb 
 tack of his blotter with great intensity. His book lay on his 
 knees, between his hands that suddenly clutched and shook 
 the covers. No way to treat a book. 
 
 He was on a long journey, a long and burning journey, 
 through lisping wastes of sand, sand, sand. 
 
 "As an Arab journeyeth through the sands of Ayaman " 
 
 Quotations had a way of coming into his head like that. 
 You read and forgot. And then quotations came into your 
 head. Like confirmations, like warnings, like prophecies. 
 
 "And no live comfort near on either hand " 
 
 "On either hand" ? That couldn t be right. Yes. It must 
 be. Another quotation. They had all been through it, you 
 see. All been through it. Most, those poets. 
 
 No. They had not been through it. They only guessed. 
 Guessed right but only guessed. If they had known they 
 would not have been able to write. Would they? 
 
 Sand. 
 
 Arabs. The Arabian Nights. Burton. 
 
 His explication of native poronography. Quite horrible. 
 Interesting. After all we were all like that buried. Then 
 it shook the bars and rage. It consumed the sun. 
 
 Polygamy. Decidedly more to be said for it than 
 
 But the Northern races were, after all, less occupied with 
 these matters. Thought they were,, anyway. He differed 
 with Burton about frank nastiness being less harmful than 
 insidious allusiveness. Depended upon your psychological 
 makeup. 
 
 Hunger. 
 
 The mind went on. There was some salvation in the mind. 
 Passion was a weird thing. The satisfaction of passion was 
 a matter of so brief a period of time. Why then, when satis 
 faction was out of the question, did it gradually take hold of 
 a major part of one s mental life till it strove and raged 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR S BOMB-SHELL 
 
 and wept and shook the pillars of the dusty world with 
 furred and ape-like strength? It was unconscionable. 
 
 It was disgusting. 
 
 " wherein the distinction between space and time van 
 ishes. The two become complementary and inseparable and 
 cannot exist independently " 
 
 Dr. Gedney cleared his throat painfully, 
 
 " and cannot exist independently any more than the 
 
 two components of a force can exist by themselves. They 
 are simply two aspects of a greater construct or entity." 
 
 That "greater construct"? Every approach to the riddle 
 involved merely new phrasemongering. The riddle re 
 mained. Why? Why this peculiar passion for irreconcil 
 able mystery on the part of omnipotence ? To what possible 
 end? Evolution? People did not evolve. They stopped at 
 a certain point and then began either to ossify or retrograde. 
 Back to childhood. Like Jeremiah Mixter on Child Labour. 
 Pterodactyl. What was that, said about the old Speaker of 
 the House? "If he had been present at the Creation he 
 would have been on the side of Chaos"? Ha! 
 
 About "as little children entering the kingdom of 
 heaven". . . 
 
 At the last she had looked just like a little child. 
 
 Then so stern. Noble. Somewhere else. Removed. 
 Alone. Forever ? 
 
 Pain drove men mad. Madmen s raving. Silence an 
 swered. Silence. Silence. Only silence. Forever? 
 
 Sphinxlike. Inscrutable. Not grief. Not happiness. 
 Understanding. Knowing. Knowing at last. 
 
 Afternoon sunlight had touched her hair. Fixed entirely 
 impassive. Stillness, and flowers. The inscrutable. And 
 yet, in life If it were all worth anything 
 
 Some way it must be. 
 
 Death, after all, was man s one moment of real nobility. 
 In some strange way, an accolade. To the worst as to the 
 best. The mockery vanished. A door opened. Come. . . . 
 
 Dr. Gedney heard the voices of some children in the street, 
 
THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 chattering, calling. Scuff of footsteps. A whistle. "Oo-oo 
 Kay tee! Oo-oo /Cavtee!" A bar of sunlight lay across his 
 desk. Leaves moved at the window. 
 
 "To get a clear conception of the Einstein theory of rela 
 tivity we must abandon the Newtonian idea that absolute 
 space exists and extends indefinitely in all directions and 
 that absolute time flows on . There is, moreover, no con 
 stant mass and no force acting independently of the velocity 
 of the body upon which it acts. Changes in the shape of 
 bodies and changes in their properties occur when changes 
 take place in their velocities " 
 
 Uncle Arthur would have thought "nothing of" the Ein 
 stein theory. Change had taken place in his velocity, how 
 ever, though he confuted Einstein in the detail that it had 
 not changed the shape of his body. It had certainly, how 
 ever, changed the mental, physical and spiritual properties 
 appertaining to Uncle Arthur. 
 
 He whooshed open the door of the study and stood pant 
 ing upon the threshold. He clutched at his collar. He was 
 as crimson in the face as a turkey-cock s wattles. His astig 
 matic eyes bulged. 
 
 Dr. Gedney s mouth was open. 
 
 "Charley !" gulped the sunset monolith, banging the door. 
 "Wake up! For God s sake!" 
 
 "What !" Dr. Gedney sat up straight. 
 
 Uncle Arthur swayed, lowered himself into a large leather 
 chair with a resounding thump. His arms spread in wide 
 arcs and flopped down the sides of the chair. He "snorted 
 like a buffalo". 
 
 Then he began staring hypnotically at his toes, his cheeks 
 working something like a fish s gills. 
 
 Dr. Gedney peered at him. "What under heaven is it, 
 Arthur. What is the matter with you?" 
 
 "I begin to doubt my sanity," rejoined Mr. Pollock in a 
 hoarse, muffled voice. "I begin to doubt my sanity." 
 
 "Well, you certainly supply me with every reason for 
 doubting it. Please explain yourself." 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR S BOMB-SHELL 225 
 
 "Do not think that I have been sleeping," returned his 
 huge connection-by-marriage with a sepulchral groan. 
 "While others slept I have kept watch I have kept watch !" 
 
 This seemingly irrelevant information seemed to supply 
 a deep satisfaction in the midst of the woe apparent upon his 
 face. "I have kept watch," he repeated. 
 
 Dr. Gedney was annoyed. 
 
 "What on earth are you talking about?" 
 
 "But you closeted in your study aloof from the world. 
 However ." 
 
 "Really, Arthur, if it is impossible for you to be intelli- 
 gible 
 
 "I can be all too intelligible/ returned his brother-in-law, 
 looking at him with a portentous frown. "I apologise for 
 having allowed my feelings to master me. My first impulse 
 : an overpowering one was to cry to us all with the voice 
 of a Stentor, Wake up! But I apologise for it. I am 
 shaken, Charley, badly shaken!" 
 
 "Yes?" returned Dr. Gedney. He glared at him. Well- 
 meaning though he was, Arthur was so emotional, so like a 
 bomb. Hence, probably, the word bombastic. In the midst 
 of Einstein too ! 
 
 Mr. Pollock passed a large sanguine-coloured handker 
 chief across his brow. 
 
 "I have been impetuous," he cleared his throat. "I have 
 been impetuous, unthinking. Still, the suspicion is all over 
 town. The occasion is grave. My feelings have mas 
 tered me." 
 
 A puzzled, pathetic expression had come upon his face, 
 now fading from its apoplectic hue. He heaved a great sigh. 
 He sat as one exhausted. There was no doubting the sin 
 cerity of his emotional mood. The desk clock ticked only 
 three times before he went on. 
 
 "I have come to tell you what is being said, and to consult 
 you. Jeremiah Mixter came to the store this morning and I 
 talked to him in my office. He had first gone to my house. 
 Mrs. Mixter had insisted that he speak to me. She is in- 
 
226 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 clined to believe How it has all got about I do not 
 
 know, nor do they. I suspect that chattering Miss Crome 
 that relic. But no one knows how such suspicions 
 spread " 
 
 "Yes, but out with it!" said Dr. Gedney sharply. "You 
 have told me nothing yet." 
 
 "I am coming to it. I am earnestly endeavouring to spare 
 you, Charles. I I it all concerns Bessie s friend Mrs. 
 Ventress. She is she is " 
 
 "Yes, yes?" 
 
 "She is they are all saying she is all thinking she is 
 Gertrude." 
 
 Dr. Gedney stared at him a moment in complete amaze 
 ment. Then a queer twisted smile came upon his face. Not 
 his natural smile but an indication of the sudden strain he 
 had been under. 
 
 "Gertrude?" he said softly, incredulously, in his rustling 
 voice. "Gertrude?" as the significance of the name seemed 
 for the first time to be borne in upon him. "Mrs. Ventress 
 Gertrude! What supreme lunacy is this?" 
 
 "So I said at first in my own manner. But the story has 
 been very cleverly spread through the town. The Block 
 is talking about it, and the newer people. I am met with 
 commiserating glances in the stores, in my very own store 
 glances and remarks overheard that I was at first at a loss 
 to understand. Something is in the air. I knew it. I felt 
 it. Then this revelation. My emotions mastered me. I was 
 badly shaken but I confronted Jeremiah Mixter with a face 
 of fury " 
 
 But really, Arthur, I- 
 
 "A-ah ! Still you don t see !" It could not be denied that 
 his own rhetoric worked upon Mr. Pollock as a stimulant. 
 He had hardly ever been able to do anything by halves. In 
 repose he could be colloquially genial, odd but easy to get 
 along with. Once his sentiment was touched, however, there 
 was no telling to what lengths the emotion it engendered 
 would carry him. Now he actually gulped and mopped his 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR S BOMB-SHELL 227 
 
 face again. His eyes bulged as he endeavoured to speak 
 calmly. 
 
 "We must go back, Charles, go back to the day when 
 I first protested to you against allowing Bessie to take draw 
 ing lessons with this this Mrs. Ventress." 
 
 "But I fail to see " The whole subject of discussion 
 
 was becoming unreal to the Doctor. What was this utterly 
 absurd hypothesis he was listening to ? 
 
 "Yes that has been in it. I am convinced that has been 
 in it. And I don t know what subtle machinations that 
 woman may have woven about her. I ve always distrusted 
 that friendship. I ve endeavoured to argue with Bessie. 
 I ve endeavoured to make some impression upon your aloof 
 ness. I have listened to all the ugly rumours " 
 
 "But it seems to me you are mixing the whole ridiculous 
 matter up frightfully, Arthur. And just what ugly ru 
 mours ?" 
 
 "Last Sunday," said Uncle Arthur weightily, "one to 
 whom I may only refer as an Individual arrived at our town 
 and called upon upon Mrs. Ventress. He was there the 
 major portion of the afternoon and stayed to supper. This 
 they assert in various quarters. He left on the eight-ten 
 train Sunday night. He turned out to be an old school- 
 friend of Jason Duffitt s. Mr. Duffitt has corroborated Jere 
 miah Mixter s statement that the man had remarked to him 
 personally that Ventress was not this lady s real name. 
 This individual was flashily dressed and employed by some 
 corporation in New York. Further than this he refused 
 to reveal his identity." 
 
 "Still, why that is mere hearsay !" 
 
 "Hearsay it may be," returned the mountain in labour. 
 "Hearsay it may be. But it is believed. Further than that 
 further than that you have been blind and deaf yes, though 
 I share your sense of shock and outrage (which was not so 
 extremely apparent) I must say it. You have been both 
 blind and deaf, Charles, to the spread of opinion in this town 
 against this friend of Bessie s. I repeat that I have kept 
 
228 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 watch. I have heard again and again what was being said. 
 I have apprised myself (Uncle Arthur paused he could 
 not help it over the rotundity of the phrase), I have ap 
 prised myself of of her reputation for secrecy and a certain 
 what may, I feel, only be termed looseness of living. 
 You are witness that I have spoken to you of this before, 
 many times ! You have seen fit in each case to pooh-pooh 
 my warnings. I have seen Slade, our innocent nephew, be 
 coming vitally interested in this woman. He spent the major 
 part of Sunday afternoon in her company smoking ciga 
 rettes " 
 
 "I thought you just told me that this man you speak of 
 spent the major part (as you term it) " 
 
 "That is neither here nor there* Slade was there for 
 several hours " 
 
 "Well, really, Arthur, that is no secret. Bessie told me 
 herself she suggested his going over. As for the ciga 
 rettes " 
 
 "But this woman was smoking with him, all afternoon. 
 She was seen smoking with him " 
 
 Dr. Gedney could not check an exasperated snort. 
 
 "For heaven s sake, Arthur! I may be remote from the 
 world s affairs, but I do know that many women smoke, 
 nowadays ; especially in the larger cities. In England " 
 
 "Possibly ! Possibly ! My views, as you know, are not 
 governed in these matters by the opinion of the herd ; but it 
 was Sunday and Slade s stay was long. They were seen by 
 casual passersby sitting openly upon the front porch smok 
 ing cigarettes. They were sitting very close together. She 
 is a much older woman. This naturally has made much dis 
 agreeable talk. There has also been a great deal of talk 
 about her friendship with Bessie a so much older woman. 
 Then this this Individual, with his mysterious information. 
 Mrs. Ventress is known throughout the town for her pro 
 nouncedly radical opinions and she makes friends with none. 
 True, she seemed pleasant enough and well-behaved at the 
 fireworks I know that is what you are opening your mouth 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR S BOMB-SHELL 229 
 
 to say ! but remember that your instincts are blinded, often, 
 by chivalry. I, Charles, I am a sophisticated man of the 
 world ! You have simply no conception of the talk that has 
 now got about. Mrs. Ventress is a common topic in the 
 Old Residence Block, as well as among those who matter 
 much less. I have been deeply and seriously concerned for 
 us all. This could not well go on. Then this visit from 
 Jeremiah." 
 
 He had proved a Jeremiah indeed. Uncle Arthur paused, 
 gulping. 
 
 "Then, this visit from Jeremiah/ he went on hastily as 
 Dr. Gedney snorted again. "This new and, to me as to you, 
 unbelievable tale concerning the identity of this Mrs. Vent 
 ress with one, who, in spite of who, in spite of, whose 
 memory will what ever fools may think always be dear 
 to us all 1 !" 
 
 The trumpet sang truce in the shape of Uncle Arthur s 
 handkerchief applied to his nose. He shook his head vio 
 lently and stamped one foot upon the floor. By an equally 
 violent effort he remained in his chair, tapping his foot and 
 clenching and unclenching his big fists upon his knees. 
 
 "Moreover," he suddenly bawled (that is the only term 
 for it). "Moreover when has she ever mentioned her 
 husband tell me that! When has she ever explained the 
 absence of her husband? They are saying that that " 
 
 "Come, come, Arthur. I am not deaf, you know ! This 
 
 all sounds to me like the most unutterable What are 
 
 they saying then?" 
 
 "It goes back even farther. Do not think that I wish to 
 recall a sorrow past and gone ." 
 
 His brother-in-law certainly did exasperate Dr. Gedney. 
 As if the past had not gone permanently and indelibly 
 deeper with him than it could ever by any possibility have 
 gone with Arthur. Arthur knew practically nothing sub 
 stantially nothing at all how could he ever possibly know ? 
 
 "Go on!" Dr. Gedney s voice was very dry. 
 
 "This then. Do you remember a young man years ago, 
 
230 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 a distant relative, a protege of Judge Lindon s, who came 
 to this town for a week or so, about the time of about the 
 time of well, of that Commencement at the Institute years 
 ago. He called here once did he not? on Gertrude " 
 
 "A young man? There were several young men. I don t 
 
 recall O, why, I believe I do recall that there was some 
 
 nephew of Judge Lindon s Gertrude once spoke of, but 
 only casually " 
 
 "Do you remember his name?" 
 
 "I do not. Let me see. Something is coming back though. 
 Surely it was that nephew of Judge Lindon s who met with 
 an accident or something in New York. The Judge went on 
 to see him. He died in hospital there. That precipitated the 
 Lindens moving away. But I don t recall the name." 
 
 "Exactly. He was prostrated in the heat wave in New 
 York in the summer of 1900. The Lindons left here that 
 fall. I had completely forgotten the whole matter. In 
 fact, it seems that hardly anyone remembers the nephew 
 except Miss Barber on Sycamore Street. That old woman 
 remembers everything about this town. Ain t it strange 
 that you who are writing a history " 
 
 "But what are you driving at? I see no possible con 
 nection." 
 
 "You don t? Simply this. It is now asseverated that 
 the young man s name was Ventress, that I must speak 
 openly, Charles; it is not that I desire any more than you 
 to revive the past that Gertrude and he had some sort 
 of an understanding, that she joined him in New York, mar 
 ried him, and then, after his sudden accident and death, in 
 panic disappeared again, neither desiring to come in con 
 tact with his parents or Judge Lindon or have us know 
 anything about it. They are sure it was a secret marriage. 
 But all that we might pass by. However it is asserted 
 that now, after years of obscurity, she has come again to 
 Tupton the name being the same 
 
 "Who made up this vicious cock-and-bull story? Who 
 concocted this cruel lie?" 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR S BOMB-SHELL 
 
 Dr. Gedney s eyes were blazing. His hand shook upon 
 the table. For the first time that afternoon he was thor 
 oughly roused. Uncle Arthur stared at him with an expres 
 sion of Gargantuan alarm. Dr. Gedney had risen and stood 
 erect by his desk, gripping the chair-back till his knuckles 
 whitened. 
 
 "Of all the preposterous gossip I ever heard! Of all the 
 malicious lies ! I ! No. No. I can talk perfectly calmly. 
 I will" He sat down again. 
 
 "Now listen to me, Arthur. It is time that you listened 
 to me!" 
 
 He spoke again in a calm dry voice, sitting slimly upright ; 
 and, for all his bulk, the large figure opposite looked lugu 
 briously pathetic beside him. 
 
 "I shall tell you something I have never told a living 
 soul. But before I begin, may I point out a palpable incon 
 sistency in your emotional point of view. If Mrs. Ventress 
 were Gertrude which she is not I should not tolerate for 
 one instant your suspicions against her or your criticisms of 
 her. As it is, I think you have been badly misled by en 
 tirely distorted rumours. Some of your charges seem to 
 me utterly absurd. 
 
 "Now, I shall tell you something. 
 
 "I heard from Gertrude in the month after her mother s 
 death. For reasons sufficient to myself, and because no 
 other human being has any right to intrude upon my feel 
 ings in this matter, most of what was written in that letter 
 shall remain sealed. But in it she said that, though unhappy, 
 she had made a new life for herself and wished to work out 
 her own destiny. We need not go in to her self-reproaches 
 or her natural grief. That chapter is closed. She would 
 come back to me, she said, if I needed her. She described 
 her circumstances at that time. She was the secretary- 
 companion to a rich woman travelling in England. She was 
 doing some writing under another name. Naturally she had 
 not retained the name of Gedney either. But she told me 
 the address of a friend in London to whom I might write her 
 
THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 under her real name. She did not tell me the name she had 
 now assumed. 
 
 "I spent days thinking it over. I saw that her real happi 
 ness must lie in her chosen work. She knew about Bessie 
 and wanted to help me with Bessie. But I could take care 
 of Bessie and I tried to look ahead. If Gertrude returned 
 here she would have our love and our protection. On the 
 other hand she was now earning her own living and if she 
 returned to Tupton she would well, you have seen what 
 this town is for gossip, you must see what the atmosphere 
 outside of our own home would have been for her. She was 
 evidently in a good position and in a livelier, more interest 
 ing atmosphere. I wrote immediately after I had come to 
 my decision. I assured her both of my forgiveness and my 
 love, of my most earnest wish to have her call upon me at 
 any time when things went wrong, when she was in the 
 slightest trouble or perplexity. I told her to return when 
 ever she had need of us. Meanwhile I tried to take an un 
 derstanding point of view toward her work. I received a 
 most lovely letter in reply, thanking me and, well, you 
 know Gertrude my Gertrude. She assured me that she 
 was all right, that they would probably be indefinitely in 
 England ; that she would come home at the first opportunity 
 when they returned. Since then I have received two letters 
 a year regularly, one upon my birthday in April, one on 
 Christmas day. They have been continually cheerful. Con 
 tinually brave. She was this lady s companion for ten years, 
 during the War she held a British Government position, she 
 has never been very specific, but I have been able to follow 
 her in general through her life. I have guarded this matter 
 of her letters with the most extreme care. I have guarded 
 it even from Bessie. I took the precaution of taking a lock- 
 box, through a friend, in the large Post Office at Barrack 
 Falls and instructed Gertrude to address me there. I see 
 now that I have been too secret. Perhaps this thing has 
 now come upon me because I have been too secret. Well, 
 my only excuse must be, that it all has gone too deep. Martha 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR S BOMB-SHELL 233 
 
 never referred again to Gertrude while she lived. Her atti 
 tude drove me in upon myself. After her death, for a long 
 time, there were things we could not speak about even you 
 
 and I. My pride " Dr. Gedney looked stonily ahead 
 
 of him. "Well, so it is anyway. So it has been. Bessie 
 has sometimes been curious. I have always tried to assure 
 her of my belief in Gertrude s happiness though I could not 
 give her exact reasons. Lately I have several times intended 
 to tell her the whole truth, especially since Gertrude s last 
 letter to me in last April. It was a buoyant letter. It 
 cheered me very much. She said she had money, friends, 
 easy employment and a fine outlook. She has never exactly 
 specified, gone into details, but I could see that everything 
 was well with her. 
 
 "But now knowing all this and knowing her nature 
 do you see what a farrago of utter nonsense this is that you 
 have brought to me. As for Mrs. Ventress " 
 
 Uncle Arthur was silent. He had been staring at his 
 brother-in-law without the ability to speak. He opened and 
 shut his mouth. Finally he brought out, 
 
 "Well well well, but Charley " 
 
 "Yes ?" enunciated Dr. Gedney crisply. 
 
 "This is an utter revelation, of course, an utter revela 
 tion. And I do not understand why you But Charley. 
 
 But Mrs. Ventress too, Bessie says, has been a writer ?" 
 
 "Arthur ! How can you be so purblind. In the first place, 
 even after all these years, to think that I would not recognise 
 my own daughter! And is it conceivable that Gertrude 
 would return to Tupton, after what I have told you, bearing 
 the name of this man she is supposed to have married " 
 
 "Has she ever married?" 
 
 "To judge from her letters, never." 
 
 "She never said anything?" 
 
 "About this Ventress, you mean? Nothing." 
 
 "Well !" 
 
 "Why, would she make this friendship with Bessie under 
 my very eyes, when she loves me? Why, Arthur, we have 
 
234 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 both seen her. Would I " Do what he could his voice 
 
 trembled slightly. "Is it conceivable that I would not recog 
 nise her ? I looked at Mrs. Ventress that evening most par 
 ticularly ." 
 
 "O," he suddenly cried, rising abruptly, "this is vicious, 
 positively vicious! Whoever has fomented these lies, these 
 utter lies! It is the one way they could have stabbed me. 
 How they must hate me !" 
 
 Uncle Arthur was more than dismayed. As his brother- 
 in-law s burning eyes looked into his he saw that they glit 
 tered with tears. He felt utterly unequal to the situation. 
 He suddenly wished that he had never been born. He never 
 would have thought that Charley He never remem 
 bered, since Martha s death, having felt such a miserable 
 intruder. 
 
 "Who Mrs. Ventress really is," Dr. Gedney went on, 
 resuming control of his voice, "I have not the slightest idea. 
 If it is not her real name, there is something we must find 
 out. My own opinion is that all these rumours are of a 
 piece, a tissue of lies. Vicious scandal spread by half-witted 
 busybodies. I have trusted Bessie s instinct throughout and 
 I will most certainly not distrust it now till we have more 
 to go on. I can still see nothing whatever prima facie 
 against Mrs. Ventress. No, we do not know who her hus 
 band is, nor whether she is divorced or widowed. From 
 what I have heard I gathered they had separated. I trust 
 Slade s instinct also. 
 
 "To return to to Gertrude. It is just barely possible 
 that, after a strange life, if it had been unhappy, we would 
 not immediately recognise her. We have only seen her once. 
 It is barely possible; but to me it is thoroughly impossible 
 that I would not have known that night. But to even imag 
 ine that Gertrude I refuse to retain for an instant any 
 such nauseating suspicions. As for this trumped-up story, 
 it is thoroughly malicious " 
 
 "We must immediately confront the perpetrators and dis 
 perse it then," cried Uncle Arthur, lumbering up. 
 
UNCLE ARTHUR S BOMB-SHELL 235 
 
 "No! No, I tell you. I will not have Gertrude s name 
 bandied about this town. Let it die, in our scorn. Lies die 
 of themselves." 
 
 "But you have no conception of how far it has spread!" 
 
 "Arthur ! My daughter s life is her own. To refute these 
 absurd allegations I should have to speak of her letters. That 
 I will never do. I have asked little of life. There is one 
 thing I intend to keep. I intend to keep the love between 
 my daughter and myself sacred. That is the very little to 
 which I claim the right, but I claim it absolutely. If you 
 ever so much as mention " 
 
 Uncle Arthur s face wavered mountainously. The scar 
 burned on his face. He could only make vague elephantine 
 gestures. 
 
 "But we must find some way. This situation is perfectly 
 intolerable !" 
 
 "Yes. I agree. We must find some way. But not 
 through a secret which is mine and mine only. I will 
 never 
 
 "No. No. I know, Charles. But I intend to " 
 
 "Arthur, if you arrive at any plan I exact your promise 
 that you will do or say nothing without first consulting me !" 
 
 "All right. But I intend to find out " 
 
 "Arthur! You know that your emotions easily run away 
 with you that you are hasty and impulsive " 
 
 "I know I know O great Xerxes but this is utterly 
 intolerable. I mean to find out. I I mean to go and see 
 Mrs. Ventress ! I mean to find out who she really is !" 
 
CHAPTER XXV: CORYAT IS INOPPORTUNE 
 
 SHE lay lazily watching the gilding sunlight. The white 
 curtains across the room below the foot of her bed 
 waved idly. She heard Marie moving about upstairs. It 
 must be very early. 
 
 Yes, she had found a certain peace of mind here, time 
 to think it all over. People, of course, had intruded. People 
 always intruded. She was aware that she had not put her 
 self out for them, that she had withdrawn. But that was 
 a necessity of this interim of her life. 
 
 She had done one good piece of work at least. That was 
 an idea, to try it on some good magazine without letting 
 them be in the slightest degree aware of who really had writ 
 ten it. ... 
 
 From consideration of which her mind turned to marvel 
 ling at his audacity and pertinacity. To have ferreted out 
 her whereabouts and followed her. . . . 
 
 And she could see, lately, that Bessie had been wondering 
 more and more. She couldn t keep it up much longer. She 
 certainly had not planned a masquerade that might turn 
 cruel. No, that would have been too cruel. And she had 
 been careful about questioning Bessie, particularly careful 
 and tactful. She hoped she would be able to do things for 
 Bessie some day. She had already done something. 
 
 But once people knew, there would be no escape. How it 
 clung to one. And they were bound to find out. It was re 
 markable that they had not done so before this. It had been 
 an entirely impulsive and sentimental mistake to come here. 
 It had been a mistake to want to see them all. And prob 
 ably it had been cruel, even though they did not know. 
 Sometimes she didn t have the sense she was born with ! 
 
 236 
 
CORY AT IS INOPPORTUNE 237 
 
 And now it was Slade who was getting too interested. 
 That must be stopped ; that must always be stopped. In 
 Slade s case Slade and Bessie. That must be arranged. At 
 all events she, Adela, had escaped that other "interested 
 party". . . . 
 
 People probably thought hers was a cold nature. If they 
 only knew! After the smash-up of her marriage, if Ethel 
 Aspern hadn t had this brother. . . . 
 
 Idyllic was the word. Perhaps it was better that way, now 
 that the most frantic pain was over forever, pain that had 
 driven her more savagely to work, work, work, while breath 
 was in her. Just blind work at first, and work for so long, 
 and work she had come to see that amounted to so little. 
 And then that desperate feeling that she must accomplish 
 in the eyes of the world. How he had helped during the 
 mere half-successes, with a perfectly rational but beautiful 
 idealism. After he well, after he went away (after all 
 what compulsion was there upon her to say he had died, 
 when she couldn t bear it?) then, in her pain, in her almost 
 frenzy, she had laid the ideals away, with the thoughts of 
 him, in that secret place. It couldn t be work like that any 
 more. That had been what it was going to be, when 
 when No, it must be something hard, strange, disagree 
 able at first, with the tang of bitterness of spirit in it. That 
 had been the mistake, the way she had taken, at first in 
 thorough irony; the wrong turning. Then then, ac 
 cepting, it had grown easy ; Nirvana, the narcotic. And 
 gradually the insidious change in her own point of view. 
 If she could have kept her original attitude toward it, but 
 "we first endure, then pity, then embrace." She smiled 
 twistedly as the quotation crossed her mind. Vice. Well 
 if it had been true vice it might even have been better, in 
 a way. 
 
 But now it would cling to her forever. No, she could not 
 confess ! 
 
 Help and affection from the only one in her family that 
 she loved, and money, had been there if she wished to call 
 
238 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 upon him for them. Well, she had kept up the affectionate 
 bond in letters, occasional letters, but she had had her pride 
 too. That had been one reason, she had had to make good 
 to repay people people who had trusted her. 
 
 Well, this one thing was good this secret of her recent 
 absence from Tupton. No one had known her. She had 
 left it. It was good. . . . 
 
 If he had only lived . . . But now it was the right track. 
 She had come nearer to him than for a long while . . . She 
 would put it through ! 
 
 It was going to be a hot day. She would do a few er 
 rands on Market Street, after breakfast, before it got too 
 hot. . . . 
 
 Dinah White was the first encounter. She met Dinah 
 and the cat Jezebel as she was closing her front gate. Dinah 
 rolled her eyes at her. She sputtered over her answer to 
 Adela s smiling "good morning !" She kept looking at Mrs. 
 Ventress curiously. It was odd in Dinah. It continued to 
 puzzle Adela as she turned down the Farm Road. 
 
 She nearly ran into Jason Duffttt at the corner of the Farm 
 Road and Market Street. She was satisfied to see his colour 
 intensify and to hear him mutter something, with head 
 averted, as he hurried away. He seemed in a great hurry. 
 She had looked straight at him but had not inclined her 
 head. It was their first encounter since the occasion of his 
 conduct. 
 
 In the drug-store two of the Other Half Rome, in striped 
 sport skirts and georgette blouses, were giggling and gos- 
 sipping with Jimmy Hale, the clerk, over foamy and sickly- 
 tinted ice-cream sodas. They stared at Adela s entrance. 
 They began talking very low to each other and more than 
 once exploded in a muffled laugh. Then they were very 
 grave again. 
 
 "Good morning!" said Adela pleasantly to young Hale. 
 He nodded, and answered her, but flushed a little. He 
 looked somewhat sheepish. He attended to her purchase in 
 silence. The two girls followed her about the store with 
 
CORYAT IS INOPPORTUNE 239 
 
 their eyes in the mirror behind the soda-fountain. She 
 caught them doing it. Not since the first few days of her 
 arrival in Tupton had so much interest been publicly evinced. 
 
 Mrs. Mixter was in the grocery. She hurried out to her 
 waiting car. She overlooked seeing Adela. Heads and 
 glances were turned away as Mrs. Ventress looked around. 
 It was confusing and a little frightening. Could it be? Yes, 
 of course, that was it. They had found out. But really 
 after all 
 
 She could not keep the colour from coming into her face, 
 though she felt it pale again almost immediately. Well, what 
 of it. Her eyes narrowed. She met the nearest person s 
 gaze with a cold, abstract, measuring glance. It happened, 
 however, to be Rebecca Stone, who immediately came over 
 and spoke to her. As Rebecca seemed natural enough, 
 Adela s heart softened. But she did not understand. Why 
 did they all seem so avoiding except Rebecca? That was 
 the peculiar part of it. You would have thought 
 
 Rebecca seemed to be speaking needlessly loud, too. She 
 had an attitude of defiance about something. There was 
 more to this. What on earth was it? General Brattle en 
 tered the store with a market-basket, shopping for his wife. 
 
 Adela took her package from the grocer who gazed at her 
 curiously. There was a smiling droop to one corner of his 
 mouth. He acted as if he were in a secret. 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Ventress was overcome by a positive wave 
 of shyness. She turned to get out get out of that store 
 and get home. Even if they had found out, there was some 
 thing about it she couldn t understand. Of course, she might 
 have known it would come out; still Maybe they sus 
 pected all sorts of things just because Oh, that was it, 
 
 was it ? She suddenly met the eyes of General Brattle. 
 
 He gave a very low bow. He turned away. He began 
 talking loudly to the clerk. 
 
 Adela paused an instant. Then she was in the street. 
 Rebecca was still beside her. Adela looked at her with 
 
240 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 parted lips and wide open eyes. "Tell me what it is, Re 
 becca?" she asked simply. 
 
 "What? Why, there s nothing" 
 
 "Don t be silly with me," returned Adela sharply. "Tell 
 me." 
 
 "It s just their idiocy," burst out Rebecca. "I don t be 
 lieve it, myself. Don t think / believe it." 
 
 "But what is it? I must know. Is it what 7 think it is? 
 Do they think (she hedged. Perhaps it wasn t, and there 
 was no use giving it away, if not.), do they think I am " 
 
 Rebecca looked at her with dawning wonder. Her ex 
 pression slowly assumed the tragic. She began a nod like 
 that of a tranced automaton. 
 
 At this moment a familiar voice behind Mrs. Ventress 
 said "Good morning!" It was Slade. 
 
 Adela turned to him with a rather bewildered expression, 
 but his face reassured her. It was smiling and natural. 
 
 "Fine morning, isn t it?" 
 
 "Oh, how do you do. I didn t know you had returned." 
 
 "Came down for my holiday and, by the way, I ve 
 brought a friend." Slade smiled with teasing in his eyes. 
 "Someone you know of, at least. Here he is," as a figure 
 approached from the drug-store, a straw-hatted figure. Mrs. 
 Ventress gazed dumbly. 
 
 "Mrs. Ventress, this is Mr. Coryat." 
 
 She had tried to say something. Richard Coryat stood 
 holding his straw hat at a stiffly frozen angle of fifty-five 
 degrees. His mouth, I regret to say, was open. 
 
 Slade looked puzzledly from one to the other. 
 
 "Uh uh why, how d ye do!" emitted Coryat like a 
 clock-work doll. His mouth began twitching. 
 
 "How do you do, Mr. Coryat," Adela had recovered her 
 voice and held his eye. He read hers unmistakably. 
 
 "I believe you people do know each other," blurted Slade 
 with an embarrassed laugh. 
 
 "Very slightly," returned Coryat, all politesse but still a 
 
CORYAT IS INOPPORTUNE 
 
 trifle glassy. "I have had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. 
 er Ventress before." 
 
 "Yes, I quite recall it now," said Adela hurriedly. She 
 began to rattle on about something, about New York and 
 mutual acquaintances, all the while aware that General 
 Brattle had paused not two feet off, overhearing the entire 
 introduction, and that Rebecca Stone had slipped away to 
 the other side of the street and was walking slowly down it, 
 head bent in thought. 
 
 Several passersby, who seemed mere peering phantoms to 
 Adela, stared at the three now turning into the Farm Road. 
 Slade walked on her left, Coryat on her right. She was 
 perfectly furious with Richard Coryat. 
 
 A graven calm came upon her. She felt as though she 
 could exchange conspicuously inane remarks forever. She 
 was aware that she was talking rapidly and not particularly 
 well. If a bolt of lightning had at that moment reduced 
 Richard Coryat to ashes she would only have raised a wild, 
 hysterical shout of joy. Could it have been through him 
 that the town knew 
 
 As she glanced at him balefully through the formal courte- 
 ousness of her last remark, she noted that he looked com 
 paratively well and cheerful. It was an insult that he should 
 look so cheerful. Then she caught him covertly smiling. 
 Rage seethed within her. 
 
 It was too much altogether. What was the matter with 
 this morning? It had become a thoroughly perplexing un 
 reality. The distance to her gate which now flashed into her 
 mind like an arbour entrance to Paradise, seemed enormous. 
 Her suede shoes were dusty. She had forgotten to raise her 
 parasol. She glanced at Slade and caught him looking at 
 her with bewilderment. Why should he be bewildered? 
 What casual, clumsy infants men were ! She hated him too. 
 She loathed both her escorts suddenly with all the intensity 
 of her sex. 
 
 She was finally nodding and smiling to them at her gate. 
 She was answering their request to call with an acquiescence 
 
THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 she immediately regretted. Again she fixed her eyes on 
 Coryat s face. 
 
 They were going down the road toward Poplar Street. 
 Thank Heaven! 
 
 She was lying back in the Chinese wicker chair, fanning 
 herself with her handkerchief. But if her secret were dis 
 covered anyway But was it discovered? The whole 
 
 morning had dismayed her. It had done something queer 
 to her nerves. What was it? Did they know, those people? 
 
 But they had behaved so queerly! Even if they did 
 
 What on earth else did they know ? What did they imagine ? 
 
CHAPTER XXVI: A FERMENT OF MINDS 
 
 SLADE was silent for a moment, as they walked on. 
 "Well, now you ve seen her and I see you know 
 her do you think ?" 
 
 "Oh, no !" returned Coryat. "I had no idea " 
 
 "I didn t know !" he said again. 
 
 "But you do know her?" 
 
 "Why uh yes I uh I ve met her before. I uh 
 didn t quite remember " 
 
 Slade did not speak his thought. He said: 
 
 "Isn t she delightful?" 
 
 "Yes uh charming." 
 
 As Slade turned his own eyes away Coryat s side-glance 
 examined him. 
 
 "I suppose," said Slade, "that was why you thought you 
 remembered the name?" 
 
 "Yes I suppose, no, you see I I had only met her 
 very casually." 
 
 Slade knew that was a lie. 
 
 A black cloud unaccountably rilled his mind. There was 
 something wrong about the whole business. There was 
 something wrong about the silence and slight references to 
 Mrs. Ventress on the part of both his Uncle Charles and 
 Bessie at breakfast that morning. Both, it had been plain, 
 were worried about something. But neither one, on the 
 other hand, seemed to be in the other s confidence. He 
 caught each glancing at the other when the other was pre 
 occupied. As for Coryat, he was turning over in his mind 
 the cryptic conversation he had overheard in the drugstore. 
 
 "Aw," said the soda clerk to the Other Half Rome. "Aw, 
 
 I really don t believe that. It stands to reason .," 
 
 243 
 
244 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "That s what they re all saying," said the girl with the 
 bronze hair and orange hair-ribbon. "But, good grief, they 
 do believe it. They re talkin about nothing else. It seems 
 she ran away with this feller ." 
 
 "And she d be libel to come back here with the same 
 name," retorted the clerk, dipping glasses, his bare brown 
 arms plunged beneath the counter. It was satire. 
 
 "Well, I don t know about that," retorted the bronze- 
 haired girl, swinging herself on her high stool by means of 
 a supporting hand against the marble slab. "She wanted to 
 give em the once-over. She s rich now, ain t she?" 
 
 " Scuse me, May belle, yer crazy. She wouldn t be that 
 kind." 
 
 "Well, buh-lieve me, now, I ve heard things about this 
 Mrs. Ventress might prove she was any kind. I heard " 
 
 But just what Maybelle had heard was interrupted by 
 Coryat s request for shaving-cream. 
 
 7 b lieve she s this Gedney girl," he heard Maybelle s 
 partner say, as he went out through the door. What on 
 earth had she meant by that? What was it all about? 
 
 Slade had heard nothing that morning. He had entered 
 no stores, and people always glanced at him curiously any 
 way, his visits being rare in Tupton. 
 
 The minds of all of them were well enough occupied that 
 Saturday, the first of August. 
 
 So it was she! Coryat thought But now of course his 
 wild surmise was proved utterly absurd. Well, he would 
 preserve her secret. Yet, despite his best efforts, a small 
 suspicion persisted in whispering. It was all so very pe 
 culiar. 
 
 The more Slade thought, the less he understood it. That 
 
 other man. Now Coryat. Was Coryat Was she ? 
 
 Coryat s search. Had she a husband? He must know, he 
 must know definitely. 
 
 The more Bessie thought, the less she made of certain 
 insinuations she had heard in the town. She only knew now 
 that Ventress was not Adela s real name. For Slade, if not 
 
A FERMENT OF MINDS 245 
 
 for herself, though this was merely the pride of the martyr 
 she must know. 
 
 The more Dr. Gedney thought, the less he knew how to 
 deal with the situation. Arthur was certain to do something 
 rash. Make it worse. There was no one less the silent 
 sleuth than Arthur. How had the absurd rigmarole started ? 
 
 As for Uncle Arthur, he paced up and down, up and down 
 his cool parlour full of cases of stuffed birds and cabinets 
 of silicates, with grim lips tightened about his cigar. His 
 crooked teeth macerated it. His nimbus of hair stood out 
 every which way from his head. He stumped stertorously. 
 He was almost as cross-eyed as Ben Turpin with the effort 
 to think straight. 
 
 Meanwhile the town mumbled and murmured. Three- 
 fourths of it was sure on insufficient evidence that the Ged 
 ney girl had come home. Mankind is an ingrained myth- 
 maker. 
 
 The young people went for a walk in the afternoon, not 
 in the direction of Mrs. Ventress s, if indeed we can in 
 clude Coryat in the term "young people". Dr. Gedney spent 
 the afternoon in his study and garden, trying to make ug, 
 his mind to go over and see Mrs. Ventress himself. He did 
 not want to see her. 
 
 Miss Crome was satisfied. She sat in her parlour like 
 the famous arachnid of nursery-rhyme. She fanned her 
 self with a palm-leaf fan and waited the event. 
 
 Jason Duffitt was not satisfied. Too many were talking. 
 Miss Crome had been too hasty. He did not see the end. 
 He did not know exactly what he feared, but he feared. 
 
 It was very hot in the afternoon train that rumbled into 
 Tupton at three o clock. The few arrivals were weary and 
 perspiring. The desk-clerk in the Conestoga House was 
 somnolent. He sat drowsing in a chair whose straw bottom 
 was broken and filled with old rubbed newspapers. His feet 
 were elevated to the ledge of the window. He finally re 
 sponded to the woman who rapped on the desk. She looked 
 shabby and weary from the train. She wanted a room. 
 
246 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 He drawled out information about rooms. An equally som 
 nolent negro in a faded, stained blue uniform whose jacket 
 was open revealing a soiled and collarless shirt, leaned heav 
 ily on the wire cable of the most ancient type of elevator, 
 which creaked and trembled in revolt, with the utmost de 
 liberation, up to the next floor. The hall was thick-car 
 peted with dusty and spotted crimson, even in this weather. 
 Silent as the grave. Down it they padded to a slatted door. 
 The negro clicked a large nickel-plated key in a scratched 
 lock and left the lady to the mercies of a broad, flimsily- 
 curtained window looking out on a drowsy dusty street 
 wherein the only object of interest was an aged horse in a 
 fly-net, hitched to a sagging surrey. The horse switched a 
 discouraged tail across bony flanks. 
 
 There were four articles of furniture in the room, gleam 
 ing with cracked white paint. Viz: One large double bed, 
 one bureau, one tin wash-stand holding a white china basin 
 and pitcher figured with forget-me-nots, and one rocking- 
 chair with a bumper of stuffed lace tied to the top of its 
 back by soiled baby-blue ribbon. The Conestoga House had 
 once been the pride of the Valley. 
 
 The recent arrival sighed briefly. She was very tired. 
 She removed shirtwaist and skirt and bathed her face, neck 
 and arms with water from the china pitcher. She loosened 
 her hair. She had already drawn down the wrinkled green 
 blind, a spiderweb of white cracks. She lay down upon the 
 stuffy bed with the spread drawn over her knees. Her eyes 
 pricked with dust. The room was too hot and the sunlight 
 streamed past the edges of the blind in dusty bars. The ar 
 rival lay staring. She would close her eyes only for fugi 
 tive moments. Her white face lay immobile in the dark 
 pool of her hair. She was trying to rest. She felt utterly 
 
 exhausted. 
 
 * * * 
 
 After supper Coryat explained to Slade that he thought 
 he ought to step over and just speak to Adela a polite call. 
 Of course, in the Terrill matter, there was nothing to find 
 
A FERMENT OF MINDS 
 
 out. He thought he manoeuvred well. Slade, however, on 
 his part, disdained to show that he had any Interest in 
 whether Coryat went over there or went to Jericho. He 
 said, "Why, certainly, why don t you?" with a smile. But 
 his heart beat. 
 
 He knew now once and for all, of course, that she didn t 
 care a bean for him. He had seen it in her coldness to him 
 that morning. He had his pride. He would always, of 
 course, distantly adore her. Which attitude would cer 
 tainly have made Adela contrite, had she realised it, but she 
 also would have heaved a sigh of relief. 
 
 There was a good deal of childishness still in Slade. 
 
 Doctor Gedney said nothing when he heard that Coryat 
 was going. He would go alone, when he went. He went 
 into his study. 
 
 "How about a walk, Bess?" asked Slade. "It s rather 
 cooler this evening." 
 
CHAPTER XXVII: THE MISOGYNIST CALLS 
 
 CORYAT sat with Adela in the chequer of vineleaf 
 shadows. Beyond the porch the fireflies winked inces 
 santly. 
 
 "It has seemed a long time to me," he said gravely. "How 
 have you been?" 
 
 "I thought I could find myself," she replied. "I think 
 I have made a start." 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 "Something you ve written? he asked then. 
 
 "Yes, something I ve written." 
 
 "Good. By the way, I suppose you haven t heard about 
 the claimant to authorship of The Crystal Castle you 
 remember, that story Slade tells me he told you about, that 
 came into The Colosseum anonymously?" 
 
 "Why, no !" Adela turned toward him sharply. The next 
 instant she sat upright in her long chair. A large figure 
 had mounted the porch steps and stood bulking out some of 
 the moonlight. 
 
 "Mrs. Ventress?" a deep voice said courteously. "I am 
 Mr. Pollock. Oh, pardon me, I didn t see " He re 
 ferred to Richard. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Coryat?" he said peering closer. "I I met 
 you this morning. You er a fine night isn t it?" 
 
 "Yes ; " returned Coryat, who had risen. "Er Mrs. Ven 
 tress turns out to be an old acquaintance. We were " 
 
 "An old acquaintance mm indeed," said Uncle Arthur. 
 "But I was just passing. I merely I will go along." 
 
 "Oh," said Adela, wondering, wondering. "Won t you 
 sit down?" 
 
 248 
 
THE MISOGYNIST CALLS 249 
 
 "Thank you, Mrs. er Ventress, the uh the fact is 
 well " 
 
 "But perhaps I am in the way ?" suggested Coryat quickly. 
 "I suppose I " 
 
 "Oh, no, no indeed, not at all, I was just passing by. 
 I " He seemed inscrutably vague. 
 
 "If there is anything particular," offered Adela, "Mr. Cor 
 yat will, I m sure, excuse us a few moments. I wanted you 
 to look at my garden anyway Mr. Coryat. It s rather 
 pretty by moonlight." 
 
 This last was said as he stood on the steps. Taking her 
 hint he descended. It left Uncle Arthur decidedly uncom 
 fortable, but he lowered himself into a porch chair with 
 something like a groan. There seemed to be nothing else 
 to do. 
 
 "I uh really," he began. "It is uh I don t know 
 exactly." He produced the ever-present handkerchief an4 
 applied it to his face. 
 
 "I can help you, perhaps," said Adela in a low tone. Her 
 nerves had been enough played upon this day. She was 
 almost at the end of her patience. 
 
 "Don t think I am unaware," she hurried on tensely, "of 
 the gossip that has recently centred around my name in this 
 town, for very little reason, I must say. But in coming here 
 I suppose I let myself in for it. But I see your point before 
 you have made it, Mr. Pollock. It is doing Bessie harm, 
 whom I know you love, and our friendship must stop. That 
 is what you have come to say. Well, I will spare you the 
 trouble. Since my name is assumed " 
 
 "Assumed?" gasped Uncle Arthur. "Then you admit it?" 
 He was leaning forward, trying to see her face. 
 
 "Why, certainly. I know now you all know it." 
 
 "Assumed ?" mumbled Uncle Arthur, groping. "But then 
 you are but who are you then?" 
 
 "Do you mean to say," returned Mrs. Ventress with some 
 asperity, for her nerves had been sorely tried bv the day s 
 
250 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 experience, "do you mean to tell me that you don t really 
 know?" 
 
 She saw Uncle Arthur s face actually pale in the moon 
 light. 
 
 "You will pardon me ah er but I have been seriously 
 wrought up seriously wrought up. I " 
 
 His voice gave a queer quaver. He stopped and mopped 
 his brow. His staring eyes never left her face. She was 
 sorry for him. 
 
 "Are you then? Can it be ? But it is all so so ex 
 tremely difficult to say " 
 
 Again he paused. 
 
 "But what is it, Mr. Pollock? You alarm me." 
 
 She was also bending forward, her eyes wide as she looked 
 at him. 
 
 He gathered all his resources. He made the porch chair 
 tremble with his agitation. He evidently braced himself. 
 Then the question burst from him: 
 
 "Are you Gertrude?" 
 
 "What what you mean you have thought that they 
 have thought " 
 
 "No one would have thought it, but there has been an 
 insidious scandal spread by malicious miscreants. They 
 
 have spread the rumour that you But you seem to 
 
 have expected to have known !" 
 
 "Well, naturally, Mr. Pollock, I have known of of your 
 niece, through Bessie. Naturally I have thought it all over. 
 But how can you have suspected ! How could it pos 
 sibly be that I " 
 
 "Then why is your name Mrs. Ventress ?" asked Uncle 
 Arthur, point-blank. 
 
 "But my name is not Gertrude! * 
 
 "No, but it is Mrs. Ventress." 
 
 "Why why, now you ask me, I m sure I don t know. I 
 mean, I told you it was an assumed name. Quite assumed. 
 It just came into my head. And what has Ventress to do 
 with it?" 
 
THE MISOGYNIST CALLS 251 
 
 "Mrs. if you are or are not Mrs. Ventress," rejoined 
 Uncle Arthur heavily, "I have paced my bedroom by night 
 striving to solve this ghastly mystery. I have laboured under 
 a heavy weight of thought. I have delved in our public 
 archives" (he meant, as a matter of fact, that he had visited 
 the Tupton Memorial Library for back files of the old Tup- 
 ton Crier). "It stands in black and white upon this public 
 print that a Roger Ventress was present in this town in late 
 
 June, 1900 " He drew from his pocket a slim yellowed 
 
 newspaper and slapped his knee with it. Flakes of yellow 
 drifted from it. 
 
 "I purloined this document from the files. Deny the 
 name, if you can!" 
 
 Adela rose somehow and took the paper from him. She 
 stood by the porch pillar. She read the item signifying that 
 "Mr. Roger Ventress, nephew of Judge Lindon, is now in 
 our midst, visiting his uncle upon the Hill. Mr. Ventress 
 comes from New York, where he is highly esteemed in the 
 brokerage business." 
 
 "That is extremely strange," admitted Adela. "But still, 
 I don t see " She held the paper out to him. 
 
 The mountain looked upon her. Suddenly it arose and 
 came close to her, searching her face with astigmatic eyes. 
 
 "God help me, / would not know," it avouched dramati 
 cally, and again subsided slowly into a chair. 
 
 "Do you actually mean to say, Mr. Pollock," said Adela 
 slowly, "that you doubt whether I am Gertrude Gedney or 
 not? Oh, I see, now," she added. "That was what they 
 were believing down-town to-day. That was it !" 
 
 "If you are not, Mrs. Ventress, you will, I feel sure, ex 
 plain why you took the name " 
 
 "But I don t see," returned Adela, passing a hand over 
 her forehead. "Still I don t see what connection this man 
 had " 
 
 "I say, none whatever," exclaimed Uncle Arthur suddenly 
 from the gloom. It was rather frightening. "I say, none 
 whatever, and that it is a horrible and malicious slander 
 
THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 upon the upon But there is this suspicion, spread 
 
 by God knows what abominable miscreants." 
 
 "I see," murmured Mrs. Ventress. Her imagination hov 
 ered. 
 
 Suddenly a feeling of shame overcame her. Why had 
 she come here? Why had she followed her impulse? How 
 she had managed to hurt them all, somehow, even Bessie, 
 Bessie, of whom she was so genuinely fond. How could 
 she ever really explain? It would seem to them, wouldn t 
 it, like such witless cruelty? 
 
 She stood silent. 
 
 "Mr. Pollock," she cried then impulsively. "Won t you 
 believe that I am telling you the truth, even if I can t tell 
 you the whole truth. Won t you believe that I am not 
 not your niece. I am not. And I will explain. But but 
 I can t just yet. Won t you trust me?" 
 
 "If I could understand that name " Uncle Arthur 
 
 muttered in the shadow. "If I could understand that 
 
 
 "But I don t know where I got it !" cried Adela agitatedly. 
 
 Coryat s figure glimmered out of the garden. He came up 
 to the steps. The raised voices had made him return. 
 
 "Mr. Coryat," she turned to him on impulse. "Please 
 come up here. You know who I am. Tell him! Tell him 
 the truth!" 
 
 It was absurd and impossible to hope to keep that a secret 
 any longer. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII: A REVELATION AND A 
 RESCUE 
 
 BESSIE and Slade had accompanied Coryat to Mrs. Ven- 
 tress s gate, passing on. They had turned down the 
 Farm Road. They walked in silence, each with their own 
 thoughts. 
 
 "I don t care," Bessie was saying to herself. "I don t care, 
 I know she s true blue. And I don t care about Slade 
 either," she added to herself, hardly realising it. She ought 
 to speak to him about it, she supposed. She supposed she 
 ought not to have told him to go over and see Adela that 
 afternoon. She knew that Fourth of July evening that he 
 had fallen in love with Adela. She ought to have reminded 
 him that perhaps, after all, Adela was still married. But 
 how could you ? And the way she herself felt about Adela. 
 You couldn t, that was all. 
 
 Maybe others would have, maybe others could have ques 
 tioned Adela, advised Slade. How could she, so much 
 younger? If they were separated then it would be all 
 
 right, maybe, eventually . She didn t know. She didn t 
 
 know how anything would come out. How could she? 
 People had their own lives to live, didn t they? It wasn t 
 so impossible, if two people loved each other. Did Adela 
 love him? She didn t believe so. But she might. Who 
 wouldn t ! Still. Was it her responsibility to speak to him, 
 about this rumour? She couldn t. Why was it? Maybe 
 she could tell Slade so that he would trust Adela as she, 
 Bessie, trusted her. . . . 
 
 Slade was thinking: What are they talking about now? 
 Of course she didn t write it. Well, why is he so mysterious 
 about her? Why do they, somehow, seem so intimate? It 
 
 253 
 
254 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 must be she he had been trying to find. You could see how 
 well they knew each other. He just pretended to think she 
 might have written the story in order to make an excuse 
 to come down here. He didn t want her to think he was 
 running after her, but he wants to make up. Oh, no, maybe 
 that s all rot. Still. Well, what did it matter. But maybe 
 she had changed her name. That was it, that was why it 
 had startled him when he heard it. She had got it out of 
 something in their past Ventress. And he hadn t forgot 
 ten altogether. They had separated, and she changed her 
 name, and he was hunting for her. That must be it! 
 (Slade s imagination was burning.) It was clear, clear as 
 day! Well, after all, one couldn t help liking him, and, 
 somehow, adoring her. Fini, though. Oh, well, oh, well! 
 
 "Slade," said Bessie, "I don t want you to think what I 
 am going to tell you changes my opinion of Adela one par 
 ticle or alters one particle my love for her. But I just want 
 to tell you that Ventress, they are saying, not that it s 
 necessarily true at all isn t her real name. I thought I 
 ought to tell you but I don t want you to think " 
 
 Of course, it wasn t. Confirmation. 
 
 "I knew it," said Slade. "Or rather, I guessed it." 
 
 "You did? How?" 
 
 "Why because I think, no, now I know " 
 
 Suddenly he found himself telling her the thoughts his 
 mind had just traversed, the exact thoughts. Then, as some 
 elaboration was demanded, he recounted to her the main 
 points of his conversations with Coryat. Meanwhile they 
 had crossed Market Street, they had lingered along Larch 
 to Laurel. They turned south on Laurel along the silent 
 moonlit road. Bessie was listening intently. When he fin 
 ished there was a silence. 
 
 Then, "I m very sorry if that s true, because I know," 
 she said in a low voice. 
 
 "Know what? What do you mean Bess?" 
 
 "That you re in love with her." 
 
 Softly as they had been spoken the words rang in Slade s 
 
A REVELATION AND A RESCUE 255 
 
 ears. And the ringing of them raised a sudden question he 
 had never expected. 
 
 The slim figure beside him continued to move on silently. 
 Then Bessie stopped and turned her full face toward him. 
 
 "Aren t you?" she asked honestly. 
 
 She asked that. 
 
 He looked at her. Why had they grown so grave, so 
 much older with each other lately? He looked at her. His 
 eyes could not leave her face. 
 
 "I I admire Mrs. Ventress very much. I I adore her 
 in a certain way. She doesn t care one particle for me. 
 You know that." 
 
 Was it he, standing there, awkwardly stirring the white 
 dust with his shoe, almost like a school-boy? Was it 
 Bessie? She stood gracefully, her head bent toward him, 
 dark and somehow burning, her face a moonlit pallor under 
 her dark straying hair, against the hedge brightened to a 
 theatrical green by the arc-light on its high pole, sizzing 
 beyond them. 
 
 Who were these people ? 
 
 People who had come a long way. Two from the ends of 
 the earth, somehow; and somehow two who had always 
 known each other profoundly. 
 
 "I know," said Bessie. Her hand touched his arm as 
 lightly as a mist. "But, Slade, if you think she doesn t love 
 you now, she would, you know, I m Fm sure " 
 
 He looked at her. 
 
 Her eyes were dark for his pain. 
 
 They turned and walked slowly on without words. Un 
 consciously they drew closer to each other. They passed 
 the arc-light, stepped into the shadow. Ahead of them 
 loomed the old Laurel Street Bridge. Nothing seemed real 
 to either but their own hearts beating. 
 
 Slade s blurred eyes searched the road ahead. He stared 
 blindly. He saw 
 
 He saw a part of the right-hand parapet of the bridge 
 across the Passamint rise up and topple over the edge. A 
 
256 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 full second later, as he halted, brushing a hand over his 
 eyes, he heard a faint splash. 
 
 "Bess !" he cried, and before his mind could catch up, his 
 feet had started running. 
 
 His heart thumped as he ran. He heard Bessie s foot 
 fall behind him and the swish of her skirt. 
 
 "What is it, Slade?" 
 
 He was at the parapet, leaning over. 
 
 "Dunno. It s there s " 
 
 In a flash he remembered from boyhood. The river was 
 deep under the bridge. 
 
 "Slade!" As he wrenched off his coat, poised in white 
 flannel trousers and white shirt, he heard her behind him. 
 His knees bent. His sneakers gripped the parapet. By the 
 moonlight he saw the blot moving in the water below. 
 
 It was a pretty dive. Slade had always been a pretty 
 swimmer. 
 
 It was the longest three seconds of Bessie s life. 
 
 His hand flashed up in the moonlight to reassure her. 
 He and whoever it was were struggling. She saw the heads 
 together, an arm up. They disappeared in a splatter of sil 
 ver. They bobbed up again. Silver began to trail. Slade 
 was towing for the right bank. 
 
 Bessie was down through brush and brambles at the edge 
 of the road. Her foot turned on a sliding stone. She was 
 up again, her dress torn, panting. She was jumping ac 
 curately from rubble to turf, stooping under a low-swung 
 branch, out by the water. 
 
 The dark heads moved in slowly, one dim blot. She 
 could hear Slade s laboured breathing. A gulp. He was 
 towing backward, swimming on his back. They were nearer. 
 Bessie, careless of white shoes, was splashing into the shal 
 lows. 
 
 Her arm was under the back of the limp wet thing. The 
 head rolled over, sagging in its soggy hair. Slade was 
 threshing to his knees, to his feet, his skin showed pink 
 through his soaked clinging shirt. Her dragging feet scored 
 
A REVELATION AND A RESCUE 257 
 
 the gravel, as they lifted her. Slade was standing over her, 
 moving her arms up and down, up and down. "Thank God," 
 gasping, "there s a log." 
 
 It was not needed. Horrible as some details seemed, 
 ghastly as the face was, the eyes finally opened, staring at 
 nothing. The teeth thinly rattled. "Ooo!" moaned Bessie. 
 "She s shivering," said Slade. "She s soaked." He saw 
 his coat in Bessie s hand and, lifting the woman, got it around 
 her shoulders. "We must get her up to the house." 
 
 There was a faint ripple of boards from the bridge above. 
 
 "Hey!" shouted Slade. "Hey! Got a car?" 
 
 "What?" yelled a voice back. 
 
 "Quick!" shouted Slade. "Come down here!" 
 
 "What is it ?" A form appeared at the parapet. 
 
 "Woman tried to drown herself. Can you drive us? 
 Come down and help lift her, will you?" 
 
 "Sure. Wait a minute." 
 
 It turned out to be young Wilder in the farm Ford. He 
 had a flask, too. The two young men staggered up the bank 
 with the inert but breathing woman. Bessie picked her way, 
 following. 
 
 The woman leaned helplessly against Slade s shoulder in 
 the Ford. Bessie chafed one hand and arm, clammy as wet 
 seaweed. The engine was running. The car jerked for 
 ward. There was a rasp of gears. 
 
 "Yeah, better drive her right up to Dr. Gedney s," said 
 Slade. The Wilder boy was excited, but he drove carefully. 
 The woman s eyelids fluttered and fluttered. Her breath 
 came fluttering. 
 
 Dr. Gedney had been alone in his study, reading under 
 his green-shaded drop-light. Finally he had glanced up from 
 the volume of Voltaire s General History lying before him. 
 He had been renewing his acquaintance with Scanderbeg of 
 Albania. There was full moonlight in the side yard, 
 
258 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 twisted old apple-tree writhed dark, pooling shadow. Did 
 something move beneath it? He distinctly saw something 
 move. The window was open. He called, "Bessie !" 
 
 A form had detached itself, had made indistinctly across 
 the yard to the street. Somebody. He could not see accu 
 rately. "Who is it?" he had called in his high mild voice. 
 Whoever it was had disappeared. He went out into the hall, 
 out on the porch. He went down the porch steps, down the 
 path to the gate. He had looked up and down Poplar Street. 
 Nobody. The branching elms were thick and shady down 
 Poplar Street. Perhaps that was why it was called Poplar 
 Street. There was a street lamp five yards off beyond that, 
 thickening shadow. Could that be someone moving, far off ? 
 Still. "Funny," Dr. Gedney had mused. 
 
 "Some boy playing tricks," Dr. Gedney had decided, 
 mounting the steps. 
 
 Coryat had finished his explanation. Mrs. Ventress had 
 finished her addenda. Uncle Arthur was finished. 
 
 The rushing rattle of a car came up the Farm Road. It 
 slowed, slurred, rasped, rattled into the Axter Road. Coryat 
 turned on the steps. Adela stood distinct in the moonlight. 
 She heard a voice call something beyond the hedge, as the 
 car volleyed past, swaying in a rut. Had it been Bessie s 
 voice ? 
 
 "What s that?" asked Uncle Arthur, lumbering up. Cor 
 yat had run down to the gate. "They re turning into Pop 
 lar. Someone called to us, didn t they?" 
 
 "I thought it sounded like Bessie," answered Adela, be 
 wildered. 
 
 "Let s " began Coryat. But crises are felt, not talked 
 
 about. They were all three out of the gate and moving to 
 ward the Poplar Street corner before they realised they had 
 acted at all. Looking from the corner they saw by the nearby 
 lamp a group of figures near the Gedney gate. The tail- 
 
A REVELATION AND A RESCUE 259 
 
 light of the Ford. It was drawn up in the gutter with throb 
 bing engine. 
 
 By the time Uncle Arthur, Coryat and Mrs. Ventress ar 
 rived on the spot, someone had been hurriedly carried up the 
 porch-steps by Slade and the Wilder boy. Bessie explained 
 to them breathlessly. Mrs. Ventress followed her into the 
 house and upstairs. 
 
 "Run around on Sycamore and ask Mrs. Harris if she ll 
 come over. Tell her it s an emergency. Tell her Arthur 
 Pollock is asking," said Uncle Arthur to the somewhat dazed 
 driver of the car as he descended again from the upper floor. 
 "She ll come. We ll need her. Then I ll be mightily grate 
 ful will you go for Dr. John ?" 
 
 "My land," said Mrs. Harris. Then "No need to explain. 
 Here ; that s all right. Door didn t snap, that s all. I m in." 
 She paused for nothing, not even for her hat. 
 
 Dr. John Cornelius might not believe in the world state, but 
 he was at the Gedney house within fifteen minutes. 
 
 Mrs. Ventress was sitting by the bedside upstairs. She 
 had been displaying great practicality. Slade had insisted 
 that it be his room, properly the spare-room. Mrs. Harris 
 was moving about efficiently. Bessie hovered. 
 
 In the long living-room below the four men stepped about 
 awkwardly over each other s feet, gathered near the fire 
 place. They conversed in low voices. 
 
 After some waiting, the stairs creaked. Dr. John Cor 
 nelius said from the doorway, "She s all right. Exhausted, 
 that s all. Nothing s been found to identify her. She s been 
 conscious but too dazed to talk. A little out of her head too. 
 Let her sleep, that s all." 
 
 Slade had immediately been bundled away to change. He 
 was now clothed dryly, though not altogether in his right 
 mind. 
 
 "My nephew, Doctor," said Dr. Gedney. Dr. John shook 
 hands with Slade. 
 
 "Quick work," he said dryly. "That lady owes you her 
 life, eh? (He winked.) No need to notify anyone Gedney. 
 
260 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Attempted suicide s not a felony in this state. Guess that 
 was it, what? She s absolutely all right. Keep her quiet. 
 That s all. You can keep her here to-night, can t you ?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly, certainly!" 
 
 "Right. Course it may have been an accident. We ll try 
 to find out who she is. G night." 
 
CHAPTER XXIX: MISS ANN COLE AGAIN 
 
 YOU didn t see her?" Uncle Arthur turned to Dr. Ged- 
 ney. 
 
 "Just a bare glimpse. A white face. Closed eyes." 
 
 "There s something fine about her face," said Slade. "She 
 seems awfully frail, though. I hope the shock " 
 
 "Well, Dr. John seems to think it s all right," returned 
 his bulky uncle. 
 
 "I know. But you can t tell." 
 
 "I suppose there s no use going up?" asked Dr. Gedney 
 nervously. "I I don t think we should make Mrs. Ven- 
 tress " 
 
 "I don t think she should have any worry about this, 
 either/ said Slade quickly, "I ll go up and see if I can t 
 persuade her " 
 
 He went out of the door. 
 
 "You may set your mind at rest about one thing, Charles," 
 said Uncle Arthur. "About Mrs. Ventress. Mr. Coryat 
 and I " 
 
 They heard Slade s voice overhead. The shutting of a 
 door. The murmuring of voices. Uncle Arthur began to 
 explain what he meant. 
 
 "So you see," he concluded, "we have all been under a 
 grave misapprehension. She still doesn t know how the 
 name but really, I er er I somehow I feel as though 
 we owed her an apology." 
 
 They heard a woman s step, and a heavier one, coming 
 downstairs. 
 
 "I m taking Mrs. Ventress home," said Slade in the door- 
 . 
 
 "Good night, Doctor. She s sleeping quietly," said Adela s 
 
 261 
 
THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 own voice at Slade s shoulder. All three men moved for 
 ward. Mrs. Ventress nodded and said good night. Dr. 
 Gedney accompanied her and Slade through the screen door 
 out onto the porch. Under the porch light she knew his eyes 
 upon her. She gazed back at him frankly, sadly, sympathis 
 ing. He extended his hand. 
 
 "Good night, Mrs. Mrs. Ventress," said the Doctor rust- 
 lingly. "You have been extremely kind. I feel that we owe 
 you an apology especially for the for these for the atti 
 tude of the town." 
 
 Certainly one should never have distrusted her eyes. Well, 
 he had not. 
 
 "No," she said slowly. "In some ways I have been at 
 fault, myself, I think. I can understand Mr. Pollock s agita 
 tion, anyway. I feel you know how I must feel about this 
 other rumor do you not?" 
 
 He bowed, courteously. 
 
 "I am so sorry," she said gravely. She shook his hand. 
 
 "I should have known anyway," he said to his brother-in- 
 law and Coryat, when he had returned to the living-room. 
 He shook his head slowly. 
 
 They were speculating on who the woman upstairs might 
 be, when there was a step outside on the porch. 
 
 "The constable?" wondered Uncle Arthur, with his usual 
 Hair for the dramatic. But it was Mr. James White, pro 
 prietor of the Conestoga House. 
 
 "How r ye, Doctor ? Met Doctor Cornelius. Tells me you 
 got a woman here rescued from the river. My clerk tells 
 me there s a woman came in to-day on the three o clock, got 
 a room, had supper at the hotel, went out soon after supper. 
 
 Stranger. Ain t back yet. It s " he glanced at his watch. 
 
 All had completely forgotten the time. "It s a quarter to 
 twelve. Course she may come in. He didn t know who she 
 was, had only a suitcase. Didn t explain herself though she 
 paid fer the room. He don t know where she went. I m 
 going on home. Told the night clerk to watch out for her. 
 If she don t come in we ll give you a ring in the morning. 
 
MISS ANN COLE AGAIN 263 
 
 Registered as Miss Ann Cole, New York. Find any identi 
 fication on this woman?" 
 
 "No. None. She s resting now. She mustn t be dis 
 turbed. Miss Ann Cole, did you say?" 
 
 "Why, but, good Lord," said Coryat, starting forward. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Why that s the name of the woman who but there s no 
 use going into the whole thing now. It s extremely odd, 
 that s all. Most extremely. That s the woman who sub 
 mitted that manuscript !" 
 
 He tried to explain what he meant. James White shrugged. 
 What he "got" was that this man knew something about her. 
 Well, he d stop in to-morrow. They could straighten it out 
 in the morning. 
 
 "If it is Miss Ann Cole," remarked Coryat, after the pro 
 prietor had gone, pacing the floor and ruffling his hair, "This 
 certainly is the queerest !" 
 
 He retold the story of the manuscript to Uncle Arthur, 
 who knew something about it, vaguely, from Slade. Dr. 
 Gedney listened with interest. 
 
 Slade and Mrs. Ventress had paused at the latter s gate. 
 He had just learned who she really was. He had learned 
 indirectly that Coryat was nothing to her. And as she stood 
 there and talked to him, every tone of her voice, every direct 
 look, though entirely kind, showed him once and for all that 
 neither was he. Of course she must know that he had 
 cared, that he still admired her tremendously. He tried in 
 the blundering way of men to put something into words. 
 The peculiar vanity of men, and especially young ones, made 
 him feel a little ashamed. He blundered on Bessie s name 
 
 "You are going to tell her?" she asked with swift divina 
 tion, and he saw that she was really very happy about some 
 thing. She reached out her hands to him impulsively. "Tell 
 her, tell her," she said, and shook his hands up and down. 
 
264 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Her eyes sparkled. "Good night! Good luck!" she waved 
 from the porch. 
 
 "My soul! It s a quarter to one," said Uncle Arthur. 
 Just then Slade came blinking into the room. He had taken 
 a turn along the Axter Road, thinking. His hair was 
 tousled. 
 
 "Well, she told me too," he said, looking at Uncle Arthur. 
 "But you didn t tell me, Coryat !" semi-rep roachf ully. 
 
 "Didn t have much time, old fellow. And I had to keep 
 her secret, till she chose to have it told. By the way, we 
 think that s Miss Ann Cole upstairs !" 
 
 "Christmas!" cried Slade, "How?" 
 
 Then that had to be explained. 
 
 Uncle Arthur had departed groaning. He had been heard 
 to murmur as he went out of the house that he thought posi 
 tively nothing of it. 
 
 "I ll sleep on the sofa down here," said Slade. He looked 
 at Coryat out of the corner of his eye. Of course it was 
 darned nice of Mrs. Ventress to be so happy for him and 
 Bessie, but, after all, she needn t have been quite so happy. 
 But then, as he scratched his head, the humour of his own 
 wanting to have it both ways struck him. In compunction 
 he prevailed upon Coryat, finally, not to give up his room. 
 Dr. Gedney and Richard went upstairs as softly as possible. 
 The Doctor paused at the door of the converted sick-room. 
 It was opened a crack by Bessie. 
 
 "Good night, father! Mrs. Harris insists on staying. 
 We re both going to sit up" 
 
 "But Bess, that s not right. Is there any real necessity?" 
 
 "You can t be sure. We d really rather. And Mrs. Har 
 ris simply won t leave me." 
 
 A dim stout form appeared behind her. 
 
 "Make the child go to bed, Doctor. I m absolutely all 
 right. I ll watch. Many s the time I ve watched. This 
 
MISS ANN COLE AGAIN 265 
 
 won t be the first. I don t mind. I can sleep all day to 
 morrow if I want to. There s a big easy rocker here and a 
 couch. I can lie down if I want to. Make the child go to 
 bed." 
 
 "Well, but Mrs. Harris, this is an imposition. I " 
 
 "Nonsense." (all this in the same stage whisper.) "To 
 please me, Miss Bessie. Go along. I ll call you if there s 
 anything. It ll be all right." 
 
 Gently she pushed Bessie into the hall. Bessie turned to 
 whisper with her for a moment through the crack of the 
 door. 
 
CHAPTER XXX: SLADE FACES THE INCREDI 
 BLE 
 
 THE Doctor kissed his daughter and passed into his own 
 room. Bessie suddenly knuckled her forehead and flew 
 downstairs. 
 
 "Slade !" she called softly, outside the closed sitting-room 
 door. It opened wide. 
 
 "What is it, Bess? I m making up the sofa here. I m 
 going to sleep down here. I was going upstairs to see if I 
 could get my pajamas." 
 
 Bessie had entered the living-room, where the light still 
 burned. 
 
 "Oh, Slade!" she cried almost tearfully. He had dragged 
 the sofa over nearer the largest window, which was wide 
 open and screened. He had left one sofa pillow on it. The 
 others remained on the floor where the sofa once had been. 
 
 "Oh, Slade, you re not going to sleep that way, you silly 
 goop!" 
 
 "Sure, why not?" he asked, running one hand through his 
 disordered hair. "I did think of a sheet but we only had 
 blankets in the army !" 
 
 "You just wait a minute . . . you silly goop!" dimin- 
 uendoed her voice from the hall. She went lightly upstairs 
 and, in an incredibly short time, returned. She brought a 
 pair of neatly folded sheets and a pillow which she held in 
 her teeth as she shook it into a clean slip. He stepped for 
 ward to help her, but in a moment she had the sofa meta 
 morphosed into a bed. "There!" said Bessie, triumphantly. 
 
 "It s a darn shame of them to leave you to sleep down 
 here. Why didn t Mr. Coryafc =?" 
 
 "Oh, but, Bess! He s a guest." 
 
 266 
 
SLADE FACES THE INCREDIBLE 267 
 
 "Still ; I don t care ; it was mean of him. Here, I brought 
 your things." 
 
 She tossed his bundled-up wrapper upon a chair. 
 
 "Oh, gosh, thank you ever so much. Lord, I m so-o 
 slee-eepy !" 
 
 Slade flexed his arms and yawned, entirely unheroically. 
 He had removed his tie and his throat showed brown in his 
 open soft collar. Suddenly his attitude snapped back. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Bess. But I am sleepy." 
 
 She was at the door. "I know. Good night." 
 
 "Good night. Oh, by the way," said Slade, coming over. 
 Hastily he told her about Adela s real name and about the 
 new Ann Cole complication. They discussed these revela 
 tions in low excited voices. 
 
 Then, "Well, good night," said Bessie, hovering in the 
 hall. "We ll know in the morning." 
 
 "Good " returned Slade, leaning from the open door. 
 
 Suddenly she came up to him. 
 
 "You know I think you were a perfect wonder this even 
 ing, don t you, Slade?" 
 
 He bent his head. "Oh, no," he muttered. "Oh, no " 
 
 "Bess," he said muffledly. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I oh, Bess, Bess I " 
 
 He stooped suddenly, further, caught up her small sun- 
 browned hand and kissed it quickly. He held it. 
 
 "Bess, I love you," said Slade. 
 
 An instant later she freed herself. 
 
 He had never known such brightness could be in such eyes. 
 She stood holding his hands for a breath, gripping them with 
 all her small might. She turned suddenly and was flitting 
 up the stairs. "Good night !" she whispered clearly, turning 
 again. She was gone. 
 
 It was incredible. He stood behind the closed door of the 
 living-room, staring. Staring at the lamp. It was simply 
 incredible to be so happy. How blind he had been ! But it 
 didn t matter. It didn t matter. 
 
268 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Everything was changed ? They couldn t be the same peo 
 ple ! How could they ? How the deuce was it ? He would 
 be afraid ever even to touch her again. She was so fragile, 
 so delicate, ethereal. . . . She was inexpressible ! 
 
 The young gentleman in love sat down by the window. 
 He sat there without stirring and without closing his eyes 
 until four o clock in the morning. All this time he held an 
 unlit cigarette in his hand. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI: ADELA THINKS IT OVER 
 
 MRS. VENTRESS also sat by her window, her bedroom 
 window, till the small clock on her bureau thinly 
 chimed twice. She had almost begun to doubt her own 
 identity. As she had mounted to her room, heartily glad 
 for Slade and Bessie, her mind had flashed back to Coryat 
 and the point in their earlier conversation when they had 
 been interrupted by Uncle Arthur. 
 
 She knew now, from what he had said later, about this 
 Miss Ann Cole having called at The Colosseum. But she 
 wondered whether he could possibly have thought that she, 
 Adela, had what? had been that mysterious claimant of 
 the authorship of "The Crystal Castle" ? He had been specu 
 lating after she told him she had written something down 
 
 here. If he had dared to think But she dismissed the 
 
 idea. Still, Uncle Arthur had believed her, for some min 
 utes, she was sure, to be Gertrude Gedney. And that was 
 what the town certainly believed, now. She wondered after 
 all just who she really was, as she put it to herself in intimate 
 amusement. She was most certainly not Adela Ventress ! 
 
 Ah, that was indeed the mystery ! A phrase from Coryat s 
 conversation floated strangely into her mind. "The proper 
 expression of personality the first person singular." And 
 again, "I want people not types." Well! Her lip curled. 
 She had expressed her personality, with a vengeance. Then 
 she had tried to run away from it and people had dis 
 trusted her. She had found them, the people the real peo 
 ple. People who distrusted her. People with the most child 
 ish suspicions. Singular enough, certainly! Singular, the 
 whole situation! 
 
 No, that was too bitter. Dr. Gedney, Bessie, Slade, had 
 
 269 
 
270 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 not distrusted her. Uncle Arthur in spite of his distrust 
 she certainly adored. Mr. Coryat certainly did not matter. 
 She had been furious at him for rinding out her hiding-place ; 
 but that was over now. After all, she supposed he was inter 
 ested. Well, she had discouraged him as promptly as pos 
 sible. . . . 
 
 What an extraordinary thing though, this drama of other 
 lives. Yes, she had found real people, she had begun to live. 
 It was all around her, the real material. Had she been cruel 
 in making for it instinctively ? But how could she ever have 
 guessed ? 
 
 It all came back so clearly now. . . . That morning she 
 had gone up to the library to fill in a certain reference she 
 had made in her latest manuscript novel to the time of the 
 Boxer outbreak. She had spoken of her hero s exploits in 
 the Rebellion. But she was shaky as to details. It had oc 
 curred to her that any New York paper of the time would 
 give her enough material for vivid reference. By bus up 
 Fifth she had finally reached her goal, the newspaper room 
 in the northwest corner of the Library. 
 
 An obliging attendant had dumped down before her two 
 enormous brown-cloth-bound files for the year 1900. She 
 remembered that she had turned dusty brown-edged pages 
 not without lamenting their soilure of her fingers. She could 
 distinctly recall the white ceiling of the long room with its 
 reflected lighting fixtures like inverted helmets, the brown 
 wall of file on superimposed file of heavy bound newspapers, 
 the tables on the opposite side of the room, with slanted 
 rests of open papers, where early habitues stood to read. 
 Outside the 42nd Street Crosstown cars had jarred and 
 clanked, passing footfalls slurred. There was a constant low 
 murmuring of voices. She had read of the hottest July 
 seventeenth in the history of the Weather Bureau in fifteen 
 years. There seemed to have been a great many deaths and 
 prostrations. But her real curiosity had been the at-one-time 
 vastly important news of Tien-Tsin captured. The Chinese, 
 she read, had invaded Russian territory in the Amur district. 
 
ADELA THINKS IT OVER 271 
 
 They had bombarded some unpronounceable city. Officials 
 at Washington were confident that they would definitely 
 know the fate of the envoys in a day or two. Li-Hung- 
 Chang had started for Peking and had been appointed Vice 
 roy of the Province which was the centre of the Boxer out 
 break. She had felt close upon the track, now, of her neces 
 sary material. She read on. 
 
 She rustled back the unwieldy pages as she pencilled her 
 notes. The particular issue before her was now the first 
 week in July, and her eyes had strayed to other phenomena 
 of the summer. It was the year, she rediscovered, when 
 "The Helmet of Navarre" was one of the popular novels. 
 A three-inch advertisement of "Bonnie Briar Bush" in 
 formed her that "The Country is Flooded With Scotch 
 Whiskey." The King of Italy had been assassinated at 
 Monza. Amos Rusie had remarried his wife, the male shirt 
 waist was coming in, Sparklet bottles were popular, and a 
 sea-horse on an exhibition pier at Atlantic City had given 
 birth to one thousand baby sea-horses. Poring over such 
 elegant trifles, on one page that bore the usual lists headed 
 "At the Hotels" and "Arrival of Buyers," her novelist s eye 
 had halted before the merest scrap of an A. P. despatch : 
 
 GIRL RUNS AWAY 
 
 She could still see the head, "Tupton, Pa.," it ran and the 
 date. Some such collocation of words as 
 
 Gertrude Gedney, only daughter of Dr. Charles 
 Gedney and Mrs. Gedney of this town was found 
 missing from her home this morning. She had left 
 a note for her parents, explaining her action, the 
 contents of which remain unrevealed. Miss Gedney 
 was high-school valedictorian this June. She is of 
 average height, with brown hair and brown eyes. 
 
 The words had fixed her attention. It was some time be 
 fore she had turned the page. Unaccountably this curt mem- 
 
272 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 orandum of implicit tragedy had held her eye. Turning 
 many pages in a reverie she found herself again at the list 
 of heat prostrations for that memorable day in July. Her 
 eye had carelessly strayed down it. She remembered now 
 why, she remembered that she had been attracted by an odd 
 name in it a man s name, one that struck her mind with a 
 queer euphony. . . . 
 
 Could it be possible? 
 
 She believed that that was it! The name. Why, she 
 believed it had been "Roger Ventress" ! Now she put her 
 hands to her head and concentrated. Deep lines came be 
 tween her brows. She concentrated with all her power. 
 
 "Overcome at Wall and William Streets; Hudson Street/ 
 the accompanying text, from somewhere, floated back into 
 her consciousness. All the hospitals to which the sufferers 
 from heat collapse were taken were so listed. 
 
 So that was how she had unconsciously concocted that 
 name of hers ! 
 
 The "Adela" though? Adela. Adela. She could not ac 
 count for it. It must merely have been that same author s 
 feeling for names of a queer euphony. . . . She remembered 
 having used the name for two separate characters in several 
 of her novels. She had always rather fancied it. 
 
 Well, it was certainly a night for revelations ! 
 
 She leaned her forehead against the window-frame, en 
 veloped by the thick August darkness that flowed in upon 
 her, with the heavy scent of flowers and the tiny sawing 
 underhum of insects. 
 
 She felt the faint throb of a coming headache. She had 
 felt it that morning at the library, she remembered, after 
 having turned over all those pages. She had leaned back 
 uncomfortably and put her hands to her blurring eyes. Her 
 novelist s imagination had conjured up the picture of a slim 
 figure hurrying through hot fields to the squat brown build 
 ing of a junction station. Gertrude Gedney, running away. 
 Why? Tupton. Gertrude Gedney. "She is of average 
 height, with brown hair and brown eyes." How serviceable ! 
 
ADELA THINKS IT OVER 273 
 
 How could you find any lost girl through any such descrip 
 tion! 
 
 What would it be like to return to such a town after 
 twenty years ? In the state wrought by Terrill s book, she had 
 fancied herself this girl, returning. She wanted to get away 
 from them all, from her infernal literary reputation, any 
 way. She had also wanted to escape Coryat s attentions that 
 had grown a bit too assiduous. Coryat. She had not yet 
 quite forgiven him for the slight suspicion she believed he 
 had harboured! 
 
 Her novelist s imagination had begun to revel. Suppose 
 
 she should try it and see pretend . Oh, heavens no, 
 
 that would be too cruel, well, just pretend to herself. She 
 would not pry into the affairs of these Gedneys, if they were 
 still living. But she would like to see Tupton. It was a 
 whim. But she would like to see Tupton. 
 
 She certainly had the money to indulge herself in whims 
 if she wished. Her friend Phil Brmston, of the Park Ave 
 nue Bank, could advise her as to how to arrange things finan 
 cially. 
 
 So she actually had done it. She wanted to get away. 
 Why not Tupton as well as any other place? Her friend, 
 Ethel Aspern, had not at all understood her desire for Tup- 
 ton, but she had agreed to receive a certain Mrs. Ventress s 
 mail from that place. Mr. Duffitt s first letter had come to 
 her that horrible, ludicrous man! There had been an 
 other conference with Phil. Phil had taken over the trans 
 action of the renting of a house very kindly. What an 
 enormous help he had been ! 
 
 She had rented the Battell House, furnished, until the -first 
 of November. They were contemplating a summer s visit to 
 their daughter in Oswego. Phil had attended to making 
 Mrs. Ventress s references impeccable. He had even himself 
 paid a flying visit to Tupton as a side trip to a business jaunt 
 to Philadelphia. Phil and Ethel had always stood by her; 
 Phil had been his best friend the best friend of Ethel s 
 brother, Lawrence. 
 
274 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 If Lawrence had lived. . . . 
 
 No, she would never have dreamed of impersonating Ger 
 trude. She had immediately rejected any such fantastic 
 idea. Yet she had indulged her creative imagination fa? 
 enough to pretend to herself she was Gertrude returning, as 
 the Meldon Valley Railroad bore her into the town. Any 
 such private theatricals had, however, ceased, of course, the 
 moment she saw Bessie. Since then her only idea had been 
 to help. And yet, she had been mistaken for Gertrude after 
 all! 
 
 How utterly irrational life was ! How queer that Ger 
 trude s own adopted sister had become her most intimate 
 friend. And how strange that Richard Coryat should mix 
 himself up in all this again. She could never, never, never, 
 of course, tell the Gedneys that she had chosen Tupton out 
 of an idle curiosity and in a mood of whim. The motives had 
 been innocent enough, with no cruel intention, but her mo 
 tives had already been enough misunderstood. She did not 
 know whether she could ever make Uncle Arthur quite 
 understand about the name either the name, Ventress. But 
 she would try. 
 
 The one thing she deeply regretted was that the now prob 
 ably long-dead or far-flown Gertrude s story was being re 
 vived in connection with this Roger Ventress. That hurt 
 Dr. Gedney cruelly, she could see. It had worked Uncle 
 Arthur nearly into a state of hysteria. It was, undoubtedly, 
 a fantastic and puerile slander. But well, she would try to 
 see if, through some way of showing sympathy, she could 
 not help Dr. Gedney. 
 
 And then there was this woman who had just nearly 
 drowned herself. Who on earth was she? Well, at any 
 rate, no one at all connected with this particular tangle of 
 lives. . . . 
 
 Aa-ah, well ! Goo-ood Heavens ! That was two o clock 
 striking ! 
 
CHAPTER XXXII: AWAKENING 
 
 IT was four hours later that the woman in Slade s room 
 upstairs stirred and sat up. Mrs. Harris sat humped in 
 the big rocker, snoring gently. The pale woman in the bed 
 felt wonderingly of her dark hair, so carefully and neatly 
 braided. She put one hand over her forehead. She looked 
 around the room rather wildly. She did not at all under 
 stand. What was this room, where was this house, who was 
 this woman? 
 
 Mrs. Harris opened one eye. She blinked sleepily. Then 
 she gave a prodigious sigh. 
 
 "Awake, dearie ?" asked Mrs. Harris. "Better go to sleep 
 again now. There!" 
 
 "Where am I ?" 
 
 "You re safe, dearie. You re all right. It s so early yet. 
 You get your sleep out." 
 
 "But but I don t don t want sleep. I want where 
 cm I?" 
 
 "Well, now, dearie, you know something er hap 
 pened." 
 
 The woman in the bed stared at her. Slowly something 
 dawned in her eyes. On an indrawn breath, a desperate 
 shivering sobbing began to shake her. Her right hand 
 clenched, went to her mouth. She continued to stare at Mrs. 
 Harris and to sob convulsively. 
 
 "There, there," said Mrs. Harris, stirred to her depths. 
 She was by the woman s side, her stout arm about the shaken 
 shoulders. "There, there, dearie. It s all right." 
 
 "Oh oh oh o-oh!" desperately sobbed the woman. 
 
 "Does it come back to you, dearie, does it come back? 
 Well, don t you mind now, don t you mind !" 
 
 275 
 
276 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "Why are you but why are you so kuk-kuk-ki-ind ?" 
 sobbed the woman. 
 
 "There, there, dearie, really you d best sleep !" 
 
 "But I can t sleep I can t I tell you I can t. I tried to 
 I tried to oh, why, why, why didn t you let me?" coughed 
 the woman hoarsely. 
 
 "Well, dearie," said Mrs. Harris practically, drawing up 
 the big rocker, seating herself, and possessing herself of the 
 white, blue-veined hand that quivered upon the light blanket, 
 "Perhaps you d better talk, then, if it will help you. Try 
 to talk low. I ll listen. I understand." 
 
 The woman continued to stare at her. 
 
 "But you know all about it," she said finally. "You know 
 all about it. Did you did you get me out?" 
 
 Her eyes widened as she stared ; and then a croaking sound 
 escaped her. Her mouth writhed. It was laughter. She 
 had visualised Mrs. Harris as rescuer, plunging into the 
 river. She could not help it. ... 
 
 But she as quickly extended her hand, with a lovely, 
 pathetic gesture. "Oh, I m so sorry," she said, her voice 
 much more normal. "I guess I ve been a little crazy. I do 
 think you re most extremely kind and good. I was deter 
 mined I d end it. And here I haven t. Just another instance 
 
 of the complete irony ." She shrugged. "I see. I m 
 
 meant for some villainously inexplicable reason just to 
 go on with it, interminably. Oh, very well. I m sure you 
 
 meant the best. You couldn t know. But " A further 
 
 realisation crept into her face. Again she looked around the 
 
 room. "But you see I was ," vaguely. "You see I 
 
 they mustn t why, why it is it is it s so familiar. They ve 
 moved the bed, but oh, oh, oh, it isn t; oh, it can t be!" 
 
 Then "I can t bear it ! I can t bear it !" 
 
 Her hands were snatched from Mrs. Harris, her head 
 down in her hands again, her shoulders shaking. "Oh, I 
 can t, I can t, I can t " she raved. 
 
 There was a movement at the door of the room. It was 
 slowly opened. It was Bessie. 
 
AWAKENING 277 
 
 "Mrs. Harris?" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I heard. Can I help? Is there ? Oh!" She came 
 
 timidly into the room in her grey wrapper. "She s awake !" 
 
 The woman in the bed stared at the girl in the grey wrap 
 per, with her disarrayed dark hair and her face still flushed 
 with sleep. 
 
 "Who are you ?" she asked, hardly above a whisper. 
 
 "Now, now, that s Miss Bessie Miss Bessie Gedney," 
 said Mrs. Harris with the intention of being soothing. 
 "You re all right. You re in Dr. Gedney s house, Dr. Ged- 
 ney s house in Tupton " 
 
 "Oh, I guessed, I guessed. Oh, I knew !" 
 
 Suddenly the woman raised from the drowned seemed to 
 take a tight grip upon herself. Though her shoulders shiv 
 ered, her arms went straight down by her sides, the white 
 tense hands clutched grimly. Her face set. It was very 
 pale, the eyes in it burned. 
 
 "You re Bessie," she said, after a minute. Her chin rose. 
 
 "You re Bessie, aren t you you re Oh, aren t you 
 
 coming to me, aren t you coming to me, aren t you ?"* 
 
 Her arms were out, white, slender, imploring. Bessie, 
 puzzled and amazed, was before her. She saw that the wom 
 an s face was working, that tears were in her eyes. She 
 knelt with a swift motion and they were in each other s 
 arms. 
 
 "Why, I m Gertrude, I m Gertrude, Bessie, I m Ger 
 trude, Gertrude . . , !" her half-sister was sobbing and sob 
 bing. , . . 
 
 "Father, I must speak to you." 
 "But just a moment, Bess. I m finishing shaving." 
 "But, father, I must speak to you !" 
 
 Dr. Gedney came to the door of his room. He looked out, 
 still drying his face with a towel. His daughter was leaning 
 
278 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 against the door-frame. Her eyes were tearful, her voice, 
 when she tried to speak, husky. 
 
 "Father, finish quickly ; go in there. It s someone, some 
 one. Oh, father " 
 
 She grasped his arms and the towel and clung to them. 
 He was surprised, embarrassed, he paled. 
 
 "Listen, father. It s nothing terrible. Don t worry. Only 
 I m so glad, so glad !" 
 
 She was crying in his arms, quivering, quivering all over. 
 
 "Bess, my darling, what is it? Tell me, tell me?" 
 
 "It s, it s, it s, oh, it s Gertrude, father, Gertrude come 
 home!" 
 
 Slade sat up. Someone was rapping on the door. 
 
 "Ye-es?" sleepily. 
 
 "Slade!" 
 
 "Yes, yes indeed, one moment !" 
 
 He threw his wrapper around him. 
 
 "Slade, who do you think it is ? Oh, Slade !" 
 
 He also was enveloped in an embrace. His head swam. 
 
 "Who is what? What? What?" 
 
 "Oh, Slade," Bessie said, as quickly releasing him in a 
 wave of shyness, and standing away. "I couldn t help that. 
 I m wild this morning wild and happy. It isn t any of your 
 Miss Coles at all, you great silly ! It isn t. You don t know. 
 You couldn t guess " 
 
 "Angel, what are you talking about?" 
 
 "It s Gertrude, Gertrude, Gertrude! What do you think 
 of it ? Just what do you ?" 
 
 But of course, it was Miss Cole. It was, to be exact, Miss 
 Ann Cole of Jenison Place, New York City. It was there 
 fore bound to be the lady who had called at The Colosseum 
 office. That had come out and been discussed before and 
 
AWAKENING 279 
 
 during breakfast. Breakfast that Sunday morning was a 
 meal that no one remembered how they got through after 
 ward. Which is a frightfully constructed sentence, but so 
 well expresses the state of mind of everyone that I shall let 
 it stand. 
 
 There is a fine old rural word to describe the feelings of 
 both Slade and Richard. They were both completely "flab 
 bergasted." As for Dr. Gedney, he appeared only after 
 both had finished whatever they had eaten they could not 
 quite remember and were lingering in earnest converse, 
 interrupted by Bessie, over their second cups of coffee. Dr. 
 Gedney looked more amazed than he would probably ever 
 look in his life again. His thin hair was all astray. He had 
 forgotten to brush it. He had also forgotten to put on a 
 necktie and no one thought of reminding him of it. He sat 
 down like one in a trance and began to stir his coffee with 
 his butter knife. 
 
 "It is certainly Gertrude, certainly Gertrude. It is per 
 fectly amazing," was all he could say. 
 
 Bessie was radiant. Nothing could dash her this morning. 
 She kissed Slade behind the hat-rack in the hall, but would 
 not have him follow her as she hurried down to the gate and 
 over to Mrs. Ventress s. However, she looked back so fre 
 quently to smile reassuringly that she ran plump into Uncle 
 Arthur. Then there were explanations indeed! 
 
 "My soul," said Uncle Arthur, standing later, porpoise- 
 like, before the fireplace. "My soul !" he puffed. "My soul, 
 Mr. Coryat, my soul !" The cigar in his mouth was terribly 
 maltreated. He kept on reaffirming the existence of his in 
 ward and spiritual grace. He seemed incapable of anything* 
 consecutive. 
 
 It had been insisted upon by Mrs. Harris that the lady 
 should go back to her interrupted sleep. By tact and perse 
 verance that only Mrs. Harris knew the way of, she had 
 
280 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 finally been soothed off. The other inhabitants of the house 
 hold moved about on tiptoe. Annie in the kitchen was com 
 pletely bewildered. She wondered how she had managed to 
 get through the dishes. 
 
 Bessie stayed at Mrs. Ventress s a full hour. She had 
 left Gertrude sleeping. Within that hour Adela had ex 
 plained to her what she and Coryat had already made quite 
 clear to Uncle Arthur. There was also talk about Slade on 
 Bessie s part and the truth came out. Over and above that 
 Bessie and Adela put their heads together about this Miss 
 Ann Cole complication. Bessie s opinion of Coryat in this 
 connection, with regard to his suspicion, if any, of Mrs. 
 Ventress, was that, if that were so, he was most certainly 
 insufferable. As to Gertrude that was, of course, the news 
 Bessie had burst in with. 
 
 But one thing was evident, Gertrude, as Miss Ann Cole, 
 had told the editor of The Colosseum that she was also 
 Richard Terrill. Coryat, on the Gedney porch, racked his 
 brains over this until he simply gave it up. Uncle Arthur, 
 puffingly rocking beside him, had no interest in that side of 
 the situation; his mind was completely occupied with one 
 cataclysmic fact. "So Gertrude has come back!" he kept 
 repeating. 
 
 The proprietor of the Cones toga House found him dis 
 trait, simply asseverating that it was Miss Cole, that the pa 
 tient herself had admitted it, and that she would most cer 
 tainly remain at Dr. Gedney s for the present. Her bag 
 could be sent up. (Dr. Gedney had not wanted the real 
 truth known just yet.) 
 
 "I was going to be very angry with you," said Mrs. Ven 
 tress, frankly humorous, to Richard Coryat, when he ap 
 peared about eleven, having been able to offer no distraction 
 to Uncle Arthur s incessant rocking and groaning, and hav- 
 
AWAKENING 281 
 
 ing become too intensely sorry for his still unlighted and 
 now utterly chewed-up cigar. 
 
 "Yes, I was going to be very angry with you. You have 
 suspected me of writing that story. Don t try to deny it! 
 I don t know why you did and it was ludicrous but you 
 did. But now, since we all seem to be caught up in a perfect 
 whirl of the impossible and I m seriously inclined to think 
 we ve all gone crazy, I have decided to forgive you. Won t 
 you sit down?" 
 
 "Thank you. Indeed I really didn t! How could I pos 
 sibly know who this Mrs. Ventress really was ? The name 
 there was another suspicion entirely in my mind." 
 "Oh, all right ; we ll wipe that score off." 
 
 "But everything seemed so baffling !" 
 
 Mrs. Ventress smiled, looking away from him. She was in 
 full possession of herself to-day. 
 
 What do you think?" asked Richard, missing that smile 
 
 only for the playful gods. "You think she actually is ?" 
 
 "Richard Terrill? Yes, I think so." 
 
 "But how on earth " 
 
 "Oh, / don t know how on earth ! For that matter I 
 
 don t know how on earth anyone could write so well as that. 
 But I might have known it couldn t be a man. (There was 
 a thrust in this.) I simply know now that I should have 
 known all along it was a woman." 
 "Well, it s all beyond me." 
 "Have you seen her yet ?" 
 
 "No. Hadn t even a glimpse of her face when they were 
 carrying her in last night. Is she pretty ?" 
 
 "How typically masculine," said Mrs. Ventress. She 
 laughed. "Why she was very nearly drowned !" 
 
 "And Slade rescued her " he mused, seriously. 
 
 "That s another strange thing!" 
 
 "Oh, there are plenty of strange things this morning," re 
 marked Adela. "Plenty. As for me, I don t know. Life is 
 rather too exciting in rural communities. I m beginning to 
 yearn for the strident monotony of New York !" 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII: UNMISTAKABLY MRS. 
 VENTRESS 
 
 GERTRUDE was able to talk to her father on Sunday 
 afternoon. The Doctor even thought she might come 
 downstairs for lunch in several days. Of course they 
 wouldn t worry her with questions about the Richard Ter- 
 rill business, not just at first. It was after having had a re 
 freshing sleep on Sunday that, about four in the afternoon, 
 she asked for her father. 
 
 She was quite calm now and a little colour had come back 
 into her face. Her brown hair was braided demurely. Her 
 brown eyes were soft. Dr. Gedney thought sadly to what 
 fineness pain and trouble had chiselled her profile. She held 
 him with her eyes. If he got up for any reason and moved 
 about, her eyes followed him. She had held his hand quite 
 simply all the time they talked together. They had already 
 gone into the events preceding her running away. Dr. Ged 
 ney had avoided, however, as much as possible, much refer 
 ence to Martha. It seemed to reopen tragic discussion un 
 necessarily. 
 
 "But, my dear child," he said, after she had recounted 
 some of her real experiences in England, "why did you al 
 ways tell me everything was going so well ?" 
 
 "Because oh, because, father, every year I lived I came 
 more to realise well, you know I wouldn t have had you 
 worried . . . though I suppose that sounds so strange a 
 thing to say, considering . . . considering . . ." 
 
 "No. I understand. But I think you should have told 
 me. I m not blaming you for anything, you know !" 
 
 "Oh, Father, but don t think even though even though 
 
 -. that I was so so horribly selfish as as " 
 
 282 
 
UNMISTAKABLY MRS. VENTRESS 283 
 
 "I don t mean you were selfish, my dear child. Indeed 
 I don t." 
 
 "I know, Father. I know. But truly it wasn t that! It 
 was just that I hated failure so ; that I wanted to show I had 
 the stuff in me; that every year slipped and slipped away 
 from me without anything to show. I soon had to give up 
 being her secretary. She was a very perverse and demand 
 ing woman. The relationship became impossible. I got odd 
 jobs. I lived along. I tried my hardest. And I d have only 
 been I d have only been such a nuisance " 
 
 Her voice broke on that last trivial word. 
 
 "I knew of Bessie. I wanted to help her. Maybe you 
 can t believe it, but, oh, how I wanted to help her ! And yet, 
 I couldn t give up still trying to make my own way, to make 
 a success of my life. Oh, I tried a lot of things ! And I tried 
 to write. But it s amazingly difficult it isn t that you re 
 superior it s amazingly difficult to write if you really if 
 you really Oh, if you re not easily satisfied with what you 
 do. It s difficult to write the kind of thing that gets you 
 ahead financially. It s just that it s so difficult. I have my 
 own talent. I wrote a book that was published in England. 
 I knew it was good. It was good. It fell perfectly flat. My 
 vein was thin. Then I got sick. Oh, well, that all sounds 
 so like special pleading, I know ; but you see you see my 
 heart was " 
 
 She broke off. He hardly heard the last words. Gradually 
 what she had said was borne in upon him. 
 
 "My dear, dear child ! Can you tell me anything more ?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I ll tell it all," the low monotonous voice went 
 
 on. "When I ran away Oh, you ll have to know. That 
 
 is the least I can do now. There was a man a boy who 
 
 came here. You wouldn t remember him. He I 
 
 thought I loved him." 
 
 Dr. Gedney was holding her hands tightly. 
 
 "Who was he, dear?" 
 
 "His name " the monotone hovered. "His name was 
 
 Roger Ventress. He was Judge Lindon s nephew," she said 
 
284 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 tiredly, "I met him at that Institute dance at my Com 
 mencement. He " 
 
 "Yes, dear," said the Doctor, but his breath drew in aud 
 ibly and his teeth clenched. 
 
 "Oh, it s not a very bad story. Just that he persuaded me 
 to to run away and meet him in New York. There was 
 nothing else between us before before we were mar 
 ried ." 
 
 "Married ? . . . Yes, go on, dear," said Dr. Gedney. The 
 thin, tired voice went on, pitiful in its cadence. 
 
 "Yes, you see, I met him in New York and we were mar 
 ried. And then there was a terrible heat-wave in New 
 York that summer. Roger was prostrated. He was down 
 town and he fell in the street. I never used to look at the 
 papers. They took him to the Hudson Street Hospital. I 
 didn t know where he was for twenty-four hours. I was all 
 alone. When I finally found out and called up the hospital 
 they they told me Roger was dead." 
 
 She paused again. 
 
 "It was rather horrible. You see, our marriage was such 
 a secret. No one knew. He wasn t ... we weren t living 
 together just at first. . . . He used to come to me. . . . You 
 see, he was going to fix it up, but he had to break it to his 
 parents. So of course they didn t know then. And they 
 were there at the hospital ; and Judge Lindon too, who had 
 come on. The hospital people said so. And Roger was 
 dead. . . . And what did anything matter. ... So I packed 
 a suitcase and left the apartment and hunted up a boarding 
 house, a cheap one. ... I called myself Jane Bartlett. . . "* 
 
 She stopped to smile a haggard smile. "I ve " she said, 
 
 "I ve had so many names !" 
 
 ". . . And then, you see, I got sick. I was very ill for 
 two months. . . . I ll never forget how Mrs. Sullivan that 
 was my landlady mothered me and saw me through. . . . 
 And then there was this young newspaper man who lived in 
 the same house, and began to be very nice to me ; and through 
 him I got a job. . . . And it was really through his encour- 
 
UNMISTAKABLY MRS. VENTRESS 285 
 
 agement I later began writing. . . . Well, finally we were 
 engaged. I told him I told him the story not who Roger 
 was or about Tupton but, the story. . . . He said he un 
 derstood, he didn t want details. ... It was all so happy 
 after that for a while, for a little while. . . . Then we 
 quarrelled. . . . 
 
 "You see, we got to differing over what we both considered 
 fundamental principles of life. . . . So, though we both 
 loved each other, we broke off the engagement. . . . He 
 went away. ..." 
 
 Dr. Gedney could not look at her face. But now her voice 
 gathered strength. 
 
 "Well, after after he went away or no, that isn t fair 
 either, for I know, too, that I sent him. . . . We were both 
 proud and fierce. I don t think we ever really differed, it 
 was seeing the same thing in different lights. And I always 
 had a will. He had too. We were both proud and fierce. 
 ... It was one of those things. . . . Well, after that, I did 
 get along a little better with writing, and sold a few maga 
 zine stories ; and I met men of course, but no one interested 
 me in the same way. . . . And then I got this chance to go 
 to England. . . . That was when I wrote you. That was 
 when I wrote my novel, under a pen-name, Richard Ter- 
 
 "Richard Terrill!" murmured the Doctor. 
 
 "What?" a little plaintively. 
 
 "Nothing, dearest. It s all right. Go on." 
 
 "Oh, in some way you ve heard of it. Well, yes, it was 
 mine. It never made anything though. No attention was 
 paid it. Well this Spring I came back. ... I had a little 
 money. I tried again to do something with my writing. I 
 lived in a small two-room affair on Jenison Place. There 
 were a few of us trying to write, down there. We scrabbled 
 along somehow. You see well, I wasn t very happy, and 
 it didn t seem to matter finally much what I did, or whether 
 I ever got anywhere or not, for I d never been able to do 
 what I wanted to be a real financial success, so I could 
 
286 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 come back to you to really help. . . . And of course oh, 
 Father, you will know, anyway, how unhappy I have been !" 
 "I know, I know," he said huskily. "My dear, dear child !" 
 "Well, that s it. Then I did get a magazine interested in 
 a story that had gone begging. But some one found out that 
 it was like Golden Windfall that had been my novel 
 how they knew it over here I can t imagine! and so I 
 couldn t convince the editor I d written it. You see, he 
 wanted proofs that I was Richard Terrill. And I hadn t any 
 real proofs except a copy of the book which was no proof 
 at all. . . . The firm failed long ago, and one of the original 
 publishers is dead, and one I don t know where and I 
 hadn t kept my contract or royalty statement. . . . There 
 was only one small royalty ever. . . . And so they thought I 
 was a liar, and I didn t see any real way of convincing them 
 I wasn t ... at least for a long while. ... It was the 
 only thing I d ever written under the name of Terrill, 
 Golden Windfall. . . . Well. ... So there it was. . . . 
 And then, of course, there was something else something 
 else that that well, another thing that had hurt me awfully. 
 ... So I thought I d crawl back here. I even stole up to 
 the house, last night before. . . . Oh, it was sentimental 
 and cowardly but Fve been strange to myself for 
 months. Everything has just seemed ... at an end. And 
 now you see the irony of it all !" 
 
 Her voice died out. Her profile, with locked lips, was 
 white and grim. Her eyes stared brightly at the wall. It 
 scared Dr. Gedney, but it was a full moment before he could 
 speak. Then he began to reassure her slowly, calmly, quietly, 
 with infinite tenderness. Her eyes never left his face. 
 
 Fragmentarily Slade gathered the story after supper, 
 partly from Dr. Gedney s jerky remarks, partly from Bessie, 
 on the long walk they took out the Axter Road. Mrs. Ven- 
 tress had called in the afternoon, when Dr. Gedney was with 
 his daughter. Coryat gathered little from the Doctor that 
 evening. Uncle Arthur came over for a little while. The 
 three men sat and talked, mostly of other things. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV: THE PERPLEXITY OF BEING 
 A CROWD 
 
 WHEN it was announced that Gertrude was coming 
 down to lunch the next day that the Doctor thought 
 it would be quite all right Coryat asked to be allowed to 
 take lunch at the hotel. He insisted. It would be their first 
 reunion; Uncle Arthur was to be there; he, Richard, would 
 certainly not intrude. He finally had his own way to their 
 relief as well as his, if the truth be told. 
 
 It was not till dessert that the pale, frail, brown-eyed lady, 
 sitting upright at the side of the table beside Slade, eating 
 little and constantly turning her eyes from one to the other, 
 was able to say very much to them all. A bold sort of shyness 
 seemed to hold her silent. She smiled at almost everything 
 they said. All the others somehow felt themselves amaz 
 ingly awkward. 
 
 It was a strangely quiet meal, for all their happiness. 
 Uncle Arthur blew his nose several times and gazed at the 
 ceiling. His rhetoric had quite deserted him. 
 
 "Poor Coryat," said Slade finally, in a long pause that 
 made him feel uncomfortable. "He thinks he s been per 
 fectly awful, now he knows Gertrude wrote that story 
 awful, I mean, because, without knowing it, he made old 
 T. B. suspect her." 
 
 It was the first direct reference any of them had made to 
 the manuscript. 
 
 As Gertrude now turned her head toward Slade, startled, 
 Bessie began to explain. 
 
 "You see, Gertrude dear, Slade is on The Colosseum, that 
 magazine you took your manuscript to. He was away, 
 though; out here in fact, that day you came in for it. But 
 
 when he got back, of course he heard " 
 
 287 
 
288 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "Yes. Oh, yes I ve realised. I suppose old T. B. is the 
 editor I talked to. But now you believe I wrote it, don t 
 you?" 
 
 "Of course. We all know it." 
 
 "But Slade mentioned a man s name I didn t quite catch 
 it the man who suspected I was imitating Terrill; or, I 
 mean, that it was by Terrill ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Slade. "Richard Coryat. He- 
 Gertrude s face had gone as white as wax. She seemed 
 actually to sway in her chair. She opened her lips to speak, 
 and closed them. 
 
 "What is it?" asked everyone in different degrees of 
 alarm. 
 
 "You " said Gertrude. "You said his name " 
 
 "Why," said Slade, round-eyed, "his he s I mean, it s 
 Richard Coryat. He s my guest here now you know. He 
 would have been here to lunch " 
 
 "Richard Coryat here ? 
 
 "You you say he s Gertrude s stupefied whisper 
 went on. 
 
 One moment she was staring blankly at Slade, the next 
 she was bending forward over the cloth, like a person pre 
 paring to say grace, slipping sideways. . . . 
 
 Bessie caught her in her arms. 
 
 "Give me that glass of water, Slade," she said in an eerily 
 controlled voice, as they all leaned forward. "She s fainted." 
 
 Coryat had returned to find that Gertrude had gone up 
 stairs again; Dr. Gedney asked him if he wouldn t speak to 
 him a moment in his study. The Doctor had been thinking 
 considerably, in his unrevealing, taciturn fashion. Coryat 
 would know a Jane Bartlett or he would not. He did. 
 
 More than that, he was thunderstruck by the name. The 
 Doctor had not revealed it yet to the family. Certain things 
 Gertrude had told him still remained secret between herself 
 
THE PERPLEXITY OF BEING A CROWD 289 
 
 and him. When she chose to tell but not before. Now, 
 however, the mention of this particular name had seemed 
 necessary. 
 
 Coryat came out of the study finally looking somewhat 
 haggard yet wildly glad. Dr. Gedney s hand was on his 
 shoulder. Slade had gone out for a walk. Bessie had been 
 with Gertrude. Slade was furiously cogitating. When she 
 had recovered from her faint Gertrude would say nothing. 
 Bessie and her father had helped her upstairs. Mrs. Harris 
 had gone home that morning. 
 
 It was four o clock. Bessie informed her father, in a 
 stage whisper from the head of the stairs, that she had told 
 Gertrude that Richard was in the house. They had just had 
 a talk. Gertrude wanted Richard to come up. 
 
 The room was dim. Gertrude was sitting up in the large 
 rocker. Afternoon sunlight sifted across the floor, across 
 her knees, through the closed slats of the white shutters 
 at the window. Coryat, from the doorway, saw a white 
 blurred face, a figure in white muslin it was with some 
 sort of a blue scarf about her shoulders. Large eyes watched 
 but no voice spoke to him. 
 
 Richard s head bent as he went toward her. He stood in 
 front of her with his eyelids drooped till his eyes seemed 
 closed. Then he opened them and their eyes met. 
 
 He was on his knees beside her chair. Her right hand 
 hesitatingly disengaged itself and rested lightly upon his 
 hair. 
 
 "Oh, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane " 
 
 "Still," said Gertrude softly, after a long, long while, 
 "You know you did not recognise me. You know you didn t. 
 , . . . That that hurt my feelings. . . ." 
 
 Considering everything, that was not an overstatement. 
 
290 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 Richard, unaesthetically, gave a loud hysterical gulp. Jane 
 Gertrude, I mean was crying quietly. Well, I suppose it 
 must be confessed that Richard was, too. Neither did it 
 add any particular coherence to the situation that he con 
 tinued calling upon an entirely mythical female alternating 
 her name with that of his maker. 
 
 "Oh, Jane my Lord, Jane oh, Jane, oh, my Lord!" 
 You see that last remark had been Jane all over. 
 
 "Well, honestly," said Slade, sprawled limply in a big 
 leather chair in the living-room after Bessie had told him. 
 "Well, honestly! No, Bess, you re making it up!" 
 
 That nearly precipitated their first quarrel. 
 
 "Slade," said Bessie, quite seriously for a moment, "I 
 thought you had more romance !" 
 
 "Romance, angel, isn t enough. It doesn t seem to me 
 to cover the situation. My head s spinning. Who is this 
 cousin of mine, after all? I ll bet to-morrow she ll turn 
 out to be somebody else. Think of it ! Jane what-did-you- 
 say?" 
 
 "Jane Bartlett. Really, Slade, you shouldn t make fun 
 of her." 
 
 "Make fun of her, angel! Lord knows I m not making 
 fun of her. I m just trying to keep my reason. Let s see. 
 Jane Bartlett, Ann Cole, Gertrude Gedney, and why not 
 even content with her own sex Richard Terrill! Is it 
 any wonder ! Oh, I m not being unkind ! But how does she 
 think of herself? Talk about multiple personality and all 
 that sort of thing. Talk about the first person sing 
 golly, that s good! The first person singular! Singular 
 enough. What ?" 
 
 Bessie had been regarding him not altogether with ap 
 proval ; but now her lips twitched. They were laughing to 
 gether. 
 
 "But, but still, Slade, you don t seem to realise that it s 
 so real to them!" 
 
THE PERPLEXITY OF BEING A CROWD 
 
 "Oh, you bet I do ! Isn t something pretty real to us too ? 
 Listen!" 
 
 They could hear the voices still murmuring on the floor 
 above. 
 
 "What I m really worrying about," said Slade twinkling, 
 "is how this is going to hit Uncle Arthur. Honestly I don t 
 believe Uncle Arthur will be able to assimilate much more 
 of this without a stroke." 
 
 When Coryat came down, looking dazed and yet strangely 
 smiling, Slade repeated this to him, after the first fitting re 
 marks had been made. It was appreciated. 
 
 "I m taking my bag down to the Conestoga House, as I ll 
 be staying on till Jane uh, well, I mean Gertrude, I sup 
 pose gets absolutely well." 
 
 "But look here, Richard," said Slade, "You don t mind 
 do you since you since it " 
 
 "I wish you wouldn t refer to my fiancee as It," returned 
 Richard. 
 
 Slade blushed. "Well, I mean didn t Gertrude well, 
 long ago tell you anything about about us I mean, about 
 her her family?" 
 
 Coryat shook his head. 
 
 "She told me do you know? of her marriage," he said 
 
 in a low voice. "And she would have told me . But she 
 
 only mentioned the man s name once to me, as I remember. 
 I told her not to tell me anything if it hurt her. But now 
 you see, that was the name I was trying to remember. She 
 was always Jane, to me Jane Bartlett. But when you said 
 Mrs. Ventress , it worried me it worried me. I couldn t 
 really remember, and yet I remembered dimly." 
 
 Later, when the conversation took a lighter turn, Slade 
 took hold of Coryat s arm. 
 
 "Richard, don t don t think I m, well, inopportunely 
 jocular; but I had forgotten the Mrs. Ventress , and now 
 she s going to change her name again. Do you see what I 
 mean. It really is extraordinary when you stop to think of 
 
892 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 it. I mean I mean that makes six names in all, counting 
 in Ten-ill !" 
 
 "Yes. it is so," said Coryat, with a rather strained smile. 
 "Well. tell you one tiling. Slade. If she doesn t want to 
 keep this one till the end of her life, it ll he because my best 
 is no good, no good at all. Catch me boasting any more 
 but, wait and sir !" 
 
 "1 believe you !" answered Slade. 
 
 "By the way," he added, "in this rush of events a small 
 matter not small to us. though. -is likely to be overlooked. 
 We haven t told anyone yet but 
 
 "You mean." said Itessie truthfully, "that you -rr told no 
 one hut Uncle Charles, and I ve spoken to no one hul (in 
 trude and Adela. Well, now we re even. Two eaeli!" 
 
 "Another facer for Uncle Arthur, though," moaned Slade 
 mock-tragically. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV: UNCLE ARTHUR S HOUR 
 
 THEY were still laughing at that when Uncle Arthur 
 loomed upon them from the doorway. 
 
 1 ut his expression stopped them. 
 
 "I am glad you young people can enjoy the situation," he 
 boomed sepulch rally. "I I have been enjoying myself in 
 a very different fashion." 
 
 He stood before the fireplace and regarded the knuckles 
 of his right hatid. They seemed to be somewhat bruised. 
 
 "Mrs. Ventress and I " he began. 
 
 Slade stared his wonder. 
 
 "Mrs. Ventress and I," continued Uncle Arthur, sol 
 emnly, "I happened to meet her on Sycamore Street we 
 were walking along the Axter Road. I was escorting her 
 back to her residence " 
 
 "Oh," breathed Slade relievedly. 
 
 Uncle Arthur breathed also, but heavily. He had flirted 
 out his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. 
 
 "I shall have to go farther back, however," he resumed. 
 "The information came to me recently as to our friend Mr. 
 Duffitt namely, that he has had a considerable hand in these 
 recent atrocious rumours. About, for instance, Mrs. Vent 
 ress being Gertrude." 
 
 "What!" ejaculated Slade and Bessie. 
 
 Uncle Arthur merely nodded. 
 
 "I entirely agree with you. But such rumours have been 
 widely spread. You can imagine what your Uncle Charles 
 and myself have been going through. But now now I have 
 met this miscreant. . . !" 
 
 Uncle Arthur s jaw had become prognathous. 
 
 " 1 had been talking to Mrs. Ventress about it. She 
 
 293 
 
294 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 informed me that this, this person, had been insulting to her 
 upon a certain fairly recent occasion. She did not tell me 
 
 much but I could gather She had decided to let the 
 
 whole matter drop. She told me about it simply to offer 
 a possible motive for his spreading scandal. Well, sud 
 denly " Uncle Arthur paused dramatically. 
 
 "Suddenly we came face to face with with this this 
 creature, turning out of Poplar. I stopped him. I charged 
 him with the entire matter. The wretch cringed before me. 
 He attempted flight, he attempted," said Uncle Arthur, "to 
 turn and flee. . . . 
 
 "I have discovered that I am still agile for my years, and 
 (if I may be allowed to speak of it) for my weight. He 
 he did not escape me." 
 
 His face, somewhat pale with excitement when he began, 
 had now a ruddy satisfaction upon it. "Why, bully for you, 
 sir!" exclaimed Slade, choking. 
 
 "Mrs. Ventress," continued Uncle Arthur, "attempted to 
 dissuade me. At the moment, however, even at her re 
 quest . I I am afraid I have seriously abraded my 
 
 knuckles upon the miscreant," the Colossus said thought 
 fully. "But," he added with tremendous unction, "in the 
 words of the fabled Irishman if I have done anything I am 
 sorry for I am glad of it ! " 
 
 "Oh, to have been there !" Slade grinned afterward. "But 
 the recital in itself " 
 
 As for the Coryat-and- Gertrude, Slade-and-Bessie busi 
 ness, that all came out later in the evening. They spared 
 Uncle Arthur any additional excitement. Dr. Gedney broke 
 the news to him in the study. 
 
 "Charles," was Uncle Arthur s final wild ejaculation, "am 
 I dead, or living in a dream? I think nothing I mean, 
 heavenly Xerxes!" 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI: FINALLY, THE FIRST PER 
 SON SINGULAR 
 
 IT took Gertrude two weeks fully to recover her strength. 
 In the meanwhile Mr. Duffitt had gone on a protracted 
 visit to Barrack Falls. That Autumn he removed there per 
 manently. He never swore out a warrant against Mr. Pol 
 lock for assault. So far as Tupton was concerned he never 
 applied for postliminy. 
 
 Miss Crome kept closely to her domicile even when the 
 astonishing news about the real Gertrude Gedney and the 
 real Mrs. Ventress began to filter through to the town. Miss 
 Crome felt discomfited. It may have been because of a 
 description Jason had given her, ere he departed, of Mr. 
 Pollock s state of mind. And then Miss Crome had run 
 into Rebecca Stone shortly after the real truth was known. 
 
 "Miss Crome/ said Rebecca, stepping implacably in front 
 of her, "my first impulse was to cut you cut you dead. 
 But I won t. But I should like to tell you what I think of 
 you. Well, I only hope you will never speak to me again, 
 Miss Crome, never, never, never speak to me again !" She 
 had turned her back and marched off with flashing glasses. 
 So exactly like Rebecca. But Rebecca was a Stone. 
 
 Upon one morning of her convalescence Gertrude sat 
 talking to well, shall we continue to call her "Adela"? 
 At all events the two Mrs. Ventresses were sitting in the 
 living-room of the Gedney house talking things over. 
 
 To be even more exact, Gertrude was lying upon the 
 couch, Adela if we are to continue calling her that sat 
 beside her. 
 
 "How did you happen to call yourself Adela ?" 
 
 "For much the same reason, my dear, that you happened 
 to call yourself Jane. It occurred to me!" 
 
 295 
 
296 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 "Wasn t it strange the Ventress ?" 
 
 "Yes, wasn t it but haven t you ever done that had 
 a name or a phrase, perhaps sink into your brain, without 
 your knowing it, to be resurrected " 
 
 "Oh, yes, often. It s queer." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "I ve brought you a book, Richard TerriHV 
 
 Gertrude raised her head. Flora laid the gaudily- jacketed 
 volume upon her lap. She took it up. 
 
 "That s the kind of thing, you see. Isn t it terrible !" 
 
 "Well " 
 
 "You know it is. But will you give me a copy of your 
 book some day, for my own. I ve returned I suppose you 
 call the villain Richard I ve returned him his own copy." 
 
 Gertrude smiled. 
 
 "If you really want my book " 
 
 "Why, child, child, haven t I just been telling you all it s 
 done for me!" 
 
 "No. Not all that. Look how you can write. That 
 story " 
 
 "Oh, the story I took to Philadelphia to have typed, the 
 story I thought I d try on some publisher anonymously? But 
 that s all your doing !" 
 
 "Why, it s entirely your own!" 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "You darling to think so! I hope so. I ve sent it off 
 to-day, but I m going to use my own name after all. I m 
 sure I don t know what my agent will think of it !" 
 
 "What does that matter. It s remarkable. You it s 
 wonderful." 
 
 "Then maybe I have accomplished something, after all, 
 by coming down here?" 
 
 "But of course you have. Can t you see it? Why you 
 can do anything !" 
 
 "Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley ! But I am glad. You d 
 
FINALLY, THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 297 
 
 never have guessed, would you, that I had written, so much 
 of that!" 
 
 She touched the volume on Gertrude s lap lightly, with her 
 forefinger. 
 
 Gertrude laughed. 
 
 "But I m not going to let you run down your work this 
 way. I m sure there s a lot of remarkable writing in 
 this " 
 
 Flora shook her head violently. 
 
 Gertrude went on. 
 
 "I knew your name of course. Who doesn t. But I cer 
 tainly never thought I d meet you. And now you say my 
 book had all this influence. It s very strange. And so you 
 sent the poor movie man away? I somehow feel rather 
 sorry for him." 
 
 "So did I. Poor Mr. Seelye. But imagine his ferreting 
 me out like that! He admitted he got the information 
 through a stenographer in the office of my publishers, a girl 
 he happened to know, who blabbed. Anyway, I gave him 
 some supper. It was rather pathetic the way he talked and 
 talked and tried to convince me." 
 
 "Well, to think," said Gertrude dreamily, "that I could 
 ever any help to anyone. Do you think," naively, "that I m 
 very bad, Flora?" 
 
 "I think you re perfectly wonderful! 
 
 "I don t. I m pretty bad. Pretty selfish. Prettyoh, 
 but it is all right now. With Richard." 
 
 Flora looked up and away. She did not answer. Not that 
 she was thinking of Coryat. She was thinking of Lawrence, 
 Ethel Aspern s brother. She was thinking. . . . 
 
 "Jane," she said then. "You know / think Jane really 
 suits you far better than Gertrude ! Jane, I want to tell 
 you something. I ve never told it " 
 
 "If you want to, Flora. You know you can trust me." 
 
 "I know. Jane, you you silly darling you ask me if 
 
 I think you re bad. You! Do you think I m bad? That s 
 
298 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 more to the point . . . But why should you have to listen 
 to a life-story?" 
 
 "Tell me. Please." 
 
 "Well, I ll spare you a lot of it. I was born in Chicago. 
 My family were very wealthy. I was very very society; 
 came out, one of the younger set all that. Then I decided 
 one day there was nothing in it wanted to make my own 
 way. The only person who retained any interest in me after 
 that was my brother. My father tried to do what is known 
 as putting your foot down . My mother simply thought 
 I was demented. I did what I wanted to, though, and went 
 in for studying illustrating. There was a man at the school. 
 Harry Walker. There were a good many scenes at home 
 about that time. I married Harry. My parents were furi 
 ous. Marrying Harry almost completely estranged me. But 
 I saw my brother occasionally. 
 
 "Well, there s no use raking up the details of an unhappy 
 marriage. It turned out that way. Harry was absolutely un 
 controlled, irresponsible. He drank, and so on. I got to a 
 point where I couldn t stand it. I consulted with my brother. 
 I ran away to a friend of mine, Ethel Aspern, in New 
 York. My mother and father had acted so badly to me that 
 I wouldn t have thought of going back to them. 
 
 "My brother stuck by me. Sent me money, promised me 
 help, financial and otherwise, whenever I wanted it. I had 
 no money of my own, wouldn t have taken any from the 
 family. Ethel helped me. A friend of theirs, a Mr. Brus- 
 ton, helped me. I was set and determined to repay them all 
 they had lent me and make my way by my own efforts. I 
 finally did through that kind of thing." 
 
 She tapped the book on Gertrude s lap. 
 
 "Still I began differently. You see Well Well, 
 tkere was Lawrence Ethel s brother. Lawrence and I fell 
 in love. Lawrence died. Typhoid. So, that was that. 
 
 "Well, after that, I just went ahead blindly. Determined 
 to make money. Determined to be dependent upon or under 
 
FINALLY, THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 299 
 
 obligation to no one. Had my pride. You see he had been 
 the One. No one else " 
 
 Gertrude had taken her hand and held it in a firm, warm 
 grasp. Neither of the women spoke for a few moments. 
 Flora suddenly turned and bent her head to Gertrude s. For 
 another few moments they sat so, nothing said, little mur 
 mured. Then Flora detached herself, sat upright. 
 
 "I had written to please him at first. But I laid all that 
 aside as he had to be laid aside. I concentrated on becom 
 ing independent. Hence! And now I know that writing 
 that kind of stuff worked me round into the state where I 
 had ceased to see how really atrocious it was. Then your 
 book came along, your Richard lent it to me, another singu 
 larity. And so here we are." 
 
 "But good heavens, 7 think you ve done wonders. Just 
 what 7 failed at. Meeting your obligations and all that. I 
 wasn t courageous or clever enough " 
 
 "Clever enough!" Flora s lip curled. "Well, I suppose 
 it s what they call being clever. The great American fal 
 lacy. No, you couldn t write badly enough, I guess." 
 
 "But you fulfilled your obligations?" 
 
 "Yes, in a way. There was another it was to Lawrence. 
 I forgot that. But that I see now since the worst of the 
 pain is over that is really the only one that matters. You 
 see he ! Well, I ll fulfil it yet!" 
 
 "You certainly will. And bad ? Well, you surely know 
 what 7 think about that!" 
 
 "Thank you! God bless you," said Flora simply, turn 
 ing to her and taking both her hands. Then she leaned 
 and kissed Gertrude upon the forehead. 
 
 "God bless you, Richard Terrill. Here, I think, comes the 
 other Richard." 
 
 "I think I ll write your story some day," added Flora as 
 she rose and stood looking down on Gertrude. Coryat was 
 coming across from the door. 
 
 "Heavens! Never! There s . Why, I don t know 
 
 what 7 can ever write about now, I m sure," Gertrude smiled 
 
300 THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 wanly. "Too much has happened to me, actually. You 
 can t write it." 
 
 Flora smiled. She turned to Coryat. She beckoned to 
 him mysteriously. 
 
 "By the way/ she said, quite gravely, in a low tone, "do 
 you know come over here I have a theory. I really sus 
 pect her," she nodded slightly at Gertrude, "of being Richard 
 Terrill!" 
 
 Coryat flushed, as she suddenly smiled at him with su 
 preme mirth, her lower lip caught between her teeth. "No, 
 there, I m unkind," she said. "But I couldn t resist it!" 
 
 "No, as for me," she said a moment later, from the door 
 way, "I forgive everybody, as I hope to be forgiven. All 
 I am aware of is that Richard Terrill Bartlett Ventress Cole 
 Gedney there thinks this last story of mine is really good." 
 
 Flora passed out into high noon on Poplar Street. 
 
 THE END 
 
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