I
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE QUEST ETERNAL
 
 "For that moment the quest for him, his eter- 
 nal quest, had ended" 
 
 (p. 326)
 
 The 
 Quest Eternal 
 
 By WILL LILLIBRIDGE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "Ben Blair," "Where the Trail Divides," Etc. 
 
 FRONTISPIECE IN COLORS BT 
 THE KINNEYS 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 COPYMGHT, 1908, 
 
 BT DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 Published September, 1908
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 PROLOGUE vii 
 
 I THE RELEASE I 
 
 II A FLICKER ON THE HEARTH 29 
 
 III INSTINCT, THE UNCONQUERABLE 42 
 
 IV THE LIGHT IN THE DISTANCE 55 
 V FATE, THE SATIRIST 66 
 
 VI A NEW ACTOR 8 1 
 
 VII THE GIANT AND THE PYGMY 95 
 
 VIII A SUGGESTION OF FUTURE 108 
 
 IX DEFEAT 123 
 
 X As GATHERS A CLOUD 134 
 
 XI LIFE'S WHEEL RELENTLESS 151 
 
 XII SACRIFICE 170 
 
 XIII ARCADY 185 
 
 XIV THE WHEEL MOVES ON 206 
 XV A GLIMPSE OF THE QUEST 221 
 
 XVI THE TRAIL DIVIDES 239 
 
 XVII IN THE SHADOW OF PAST 255 
 
 XVIII THE DEAD WALL OF THE INEVITABLE 271 
 
 XIX THE FINAL DEAL 288 
 
 XX WHERE ENDS THE QUEST 309 
 
 1521CS3
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 OUT of doors, in the sleepy heat of the summer 
 afternoon, the indolent little prairie city went dog- 
 gedly about its task of working against time. Six 
 o'clock, the hour when the waterworks whistle and 
 the siren on the one companion brick factory would 
 sound relief, remained yet dim in the distance and 
 from end to end of the main business street the dy- 
 namo of human activity hummed low. 
 
 On the most prominent corner of the thorough- 
 fare, in the heart of this drowsy scene, casting now 
 a welcome shadow-blot far out on the cobbled 
 street, at all times a landmark and a source of civic 
 pride, arose a modern office building. From the 
 multitude of windows which checkered its face, 
 ethically insistent against a common background of 
 gold leaf, stared forth the names of divers profes- 
 sional men who laboured within. Doctors, lawyers, 
 and dentists, specialists and commoners mingled in 
 that glaring directory; but amid the motley a casual 
 observer would at that time have found one sign 
 standing out distinct and prominent from amid the 
 mass. As the lettering of all were uniform in size, 
 had this same mythical observer been curious or 
 analytically inclined, he would have sought for an
 
 viii Prologue 
 
 explanation. By comparison with others adjoining 
 he would have found that solution simple, but his 
 curiosity would not have been satisfied. While, 
 during this the heat of the day, every other window 
 on the north front was open to catch the faintest 
 breath of breeze, in consequence the signs on upper 
 and lower sashes mingling in confusion, the letters 
 on this one were separate and distinct, the windows 
 of this one office alone were closed closed grimly 
 like a pair of tight drawn lips. Had the indolence 
 of the day not been too contagious and the same ob- 
 server continued his inspection, he would of a sud- 
 den have seen something even more curious occur. 
 Just for a second, fair into view, drawn, white, 
 startling, appeared the face of a man a young face 
 close-shaven ; then equally suddenly, blotting it out, 
 the shade was drawn intervening with the violence 
 of an explosion, and against the white background 
 thus formed, in the place of that tragic mask, stared 
 forth anew the simple sign : 
 
 DRS. McLEOD AND STONE 
 Surgeons and Physicians. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Back of that tightly closed window, back of three 
 feet of solid masonry that separated the street and 
 absorbed the rattle of steel on cobblestones until 
 the world without all but ceased to exist, was an 
 office suite of three rooms. One of these, the one
 
 Prologue ix 
 
 in the rear, was a waiting room comfortably fur- 
 nished, with an effort even at cheerfulness. In it 
 now were two people, a man and a woman ; middle 
 aged each, likewise in common nervously restless. 
 They were walking back and forth, back and forth 
 in opposite directions the length of the apartment; 
 and each time they passed they looked each other 
 fair in the face with the silent understanding of 
 those who have faced life for long side by side. 
 
 The room adjoining, the consultation room with 
 its two chairs intimately facing and its stereotyped 
 grouping of diplomas on the wall, was vacant. Be- 
 side the roll-top desk was a bookcase bent with the 
 weight of many volumes enclosed in calf. The 
 air was close and stuffy and the characteristic 
 odour of the leather bindings was unpleasantly 
 insistent. 
 
 The third room, white tiled to the ceiling, grey 
 under foot, all but forbidding in its aseptic sim- 
 plicity, was the operating room. It had one win- 
 dow, the window so significantly closed, and one 
 door, sans glass, leading into the cousultation room. 
 In comparison with the heat outside the air here 
 within was cool. In addition now it was sweetly 
 heavy with the odour of chloroform and held be- 
 neath an irritating, penetrating tang that to the 
 initiated spelled formaldehyde. 
 
 At one side of the room, drawn well to the win- 
 dow for better light, was an iron operating table,
 
 x Prologue 
 
 enamelled white ; and upon it, stretched horizontal, 
 with only a pneumatic rubber cushion intervening, 
 lay a human figure, motionless, the face concealed 
 by a chloroform mask. Beside the table were two 
 men, both young, both clean shaven. Of these, one, 
 in shirt-sleeves, stood very near and held a bottle in 
 his hand; a bottle from which now and then, drop 
 by drop, fell a colourless liquid onto the conical 
 white mask. The other, in a white gown reaching 
 from throat to shoe tops, his arms bare to the el- 
 bow, stood waiting, motionless as fate. 
 
 This the scene within, quiet, orderly, methodical; 
 the scene behind the one closed office window that 
 sultry summer afternoon. The place was very still. 
 The sounds from the street without came deadened 
 to the faintest murmur. The steady tramp of feet 
 on the waiting-room floor was just audible. Against 
 the background of almost silence one sound alone 
 was distinctly heard. That, the breathing of the 
 patient on the table, pulsated through the room. 
 Heavy, stertorous, vibrant, like the subdued exhaust 
 of a gasoline engine, it fairly filled the place, grew 
 louder and louder. In measure as it augmented 
 the intensity of the watchers' attention increased. 
 They scarcely seemed to breathe themselves now, 
 those two conscious men in the room. Drop after 
 drop fell that colourless liquid, vanishing appar- 
 ently into nothing as it struck the muslin mask. 
 The man nearest the table reached over and lifted
 
 Prologue xi 
 
 an arm of the prostrate figure. It hung limp in his 
 hand and as he released his grasp, dropped like a 
 dead weight to its place. Responsive the single ac- 
 tor straightened and cleared his throat uncon- 
 sciously, unnecessarily; the low rasp by comparison 
 sounding startlingly loud. 
 
 "Almost ready, McLeod," he said. 
 
 Answering the lips of the other man tightened; 
 but he made no sound nor stirred otherwise by so 
 much as a muscle. 
 
 A minute dragged by, second by second. The 
 stertorous breathing, having reached its climax, be- 
 came now with each repetition quieter and quieter. 
 In consequence the room returned to its former still- 
 ness. Muffled, regular, just audible, the sound of 
 the steps in the waiting room intruded anew. An- 
 other minute, dragging, tense, gathered into the 
 past. Once more, drop by drop, the colourless 
 liquid fell and disappeared as water on desert sand. 
 In methodic cycle once again the figure in shirt- 
 sleeves leaned forward; but this time his fingers 
 touched the cornea beneath a lifted eyelid. There 
 was no reaction, no shrinking, no trace of conscious- 
 ness in the slightest. It was the moment at last, the 
 arrival of anaesthesia complete, and for the second 
 time the watcher straightened. He half turned. 
 He opened his mouth to speak; the word "ready" 
 formed on his lips, trembled on his tongue then 
 of a sudden died. Instead of speaking he leaned
 
 xii Prologue 
 
 forward swiftly. His ear dropped to the patient's 
 lips, pressed closer and closer. Automatically from 
 reiterated training that had become almost instinct, 
 the palm of his hand struck the chest of the pros- 
 trate figure before him, and again; startlingly, in- 
 sistently, the impact sounding dull through the silent 
 room. Following once more the man's ear dropped 
 to the patient's lips, the lips that were growing 
 greyish already and responsive the fate of the 
 man himself took on the same hue. Involuntarily 
 his breath caught with the suddenness of realisation 
 and to his tongue, unconscious, primitive, there 
 sprang an oath : 
 
 "God damn him, Mac," he imprecated, "he's quit 
 breathing." 
 
 Out of doors the humdrum little city droned on 
 its way; unconscious of tragedy near at hand, un- 
 conscious of aught save physical inertia, lethargic, 
 stolid. In the waiting room the same nervous, rest- 
 less steps pattered on and on, halted and, like a 
 pendulum, swung back, back in the old trail. With- 
 in the tiny operating room, however, was not quiet 
 and order and method now. Unconscious for the 
 moment that a world existed without those four 
 walls the two doctors were working like demons 
 working as human beings only will work when 
 facing death. No thought was in their minds of
 
 Prologue xiii 
 
 time or of heat. The sweat trickled in streams 
 down their faces and they never knew. No thought 
 in their minds of conventional things. Curses, bub- 
 bling, tense, blistering, dripped from the lips of 
 both ; from even the tongue of Andrew McLeod 
 he whom a circle of intimate friends had never 
 heard take the name of Deity in vain. Seconds 
 dragged by and grew into minutes. Minutes that 
 contained the elements of eternities gathered into 
 the past. The piston of a hypodermic syringe 
 clicked again and again. Restoratives one after an- 
 other failed. Probability shaded bit by bit into 
 possibility, possibility into vague hope, hope into 
 a miracle supplicated. And still they worked on. 
 Drone, drone went the indifferent world without. 
 Pat, pat sounded the steps in the waiting room. 
 Once these latter halted as if their maker were 
 listening; then reluctantly moved again, and on. 
 Time slipped by. Again in cycle the steps paused, 
 longer than previously; halted before the interven- 
 ing door. Mechanically, in mere blind persistence 
 ere this, the two men within worked on. That God 
 alone could help them now they both knew yet 
 they worked on. Miracles had happened of old, 
 Deity was still on its throne, by a millionth possi- 
 bility 
 
 "Tap! tap!" interrupting, warning sounded a 
 hesitant knuckle on the oak panel. 
 
 Silence, dead silence, in answer.
 
 xiv Prologue 
 
 "Tap ! tap ! tap !" repeated the knock, insistently, 
 
 all but authoritatively. 
 
 ***** 
 
 It was then that Sidney Stone awoke. Then it 
 was that for a second a ghastly grey face stood 
 framed in the window ere the shade crashed to the 
 ledge below. Following, in the irresponsible terror 
 of realisation, oblivious of its confession, he turned 
 feverishly to the single door leading to the consul- 
 tation room and turned the key. Answering a bolt 
 grated to its place and a second later the two part- 
 ners stood staring each other face to face. It was 
 a psychological moment, a moment of destiny and 
 for a second neither spoke. In that interval the 
 silence held a myriad mental voices; voices whose 
 echo rang in the ears of each man in the darkness 
 of countless nights which followed; voices that to 
 the one at least whispered mockingly to the day of 
 his death; voices of conscience, of suspense, of pre- 
 monition; voices 
 
 "Tap ! tap 1" A hand, a woman's hand, tried the 
 door, found it locked, and unbelieving tried again. 
 
 Answering within there was action. Swiftly, 
 jerkily, from a hook on the wall Stone put on a coat 
 and hat, mopped the sweat from his face with a 
 trembling hand, straightened his tie involuntarily, 
 started without a word for the door. 
 
 "Sid," detained the other. "Wait a bit. Where 
 are you going?"
 
 Prologue xv 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "Sid," preventingly McLeod sprung before the 
 door and stood facing the other, "tell me, what is 
 it you're going to do?" 
 
 "Do!" perforce the drawn grey face met the 
 questioner directly. "Do! I'm going to get out 
 of this while there's time." 
 
 "You're going to run?" 
 
 "I'm going to get out of this," he repeated. 
 
 "And leave me to explain?" 
 
 No reply ; but the listener came a step nearer. 
 
 "Answer me. Have you gone insane? Will you 
 leave me to face this thing alone?" 
 
 Still no reply. 
 
 "I repeat. Have you thought what it means if 
 you leave so?" 
 
 "I've thought what it means if I stay." 
 
 "Stay! You've done no wrong. Neither of us 
 has done wrong." 
 
 "No one will believe so," swiftly. "They'll send 
 us both up as sure as there's a law in the land." 
 
 "Not unless you run." 
 
 "Unless I succeed in getting away." 
 
 "Sidney! Stone!" McLeod's back was to the 
 door. He was fighting as for life. "In God's name, 
 man, think ! Don't lose your nerve, think. It was 
 inevitable. No one could know in advance. Stay. 
 We'll face it together. You'll ruin us both if you 
 go-"
 
 xvi Prologue 
 
 "Ruin 
 
 "Knock! knock! knock!" not trepidation this 
 time but insistence, authority. 
 
 "Let me through !" Responsive, ferocious, men- 
 acing, Stone came a step nearer. "They're suspi- 
 cious already. They'll spread the alarm unless you 
 let them in. I tell you we'll be sent up sure as Hell. 
 Let me out, I say !" 
 
 "I'll not. You're mad." 
 
 "God damn you, McLeod!" 
 
 "Silence!" 
 
 "I won't be silent nor wait a second longer. Stay 
 if you will, but let me out or by " 
 
 "Sid you wouldn't murder me think, for your 
 own sake, Sid, man, think oh, Jesus!"
 
 THE QUEST ETERNAL 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE RELEASE 
 
 A MAN who had once been tall, but was now stoop- 
 shouldered and shuffling of pace, bearing an atti- 
 tude of subserviency as well, the tacit submission of 
 the broken in spirit, emerged from the great arched 
 entrance of the State penitentiary and paused on 
 the steps without. The season was summer; the 
 time mid-afternoon. Upon the cement court all 
 surrounding the sunlight fell dazzlingly white, 
 blindingly so to eyes accustomed to darkened corri- 
 dors, and involuntarily the newcomer put his hand 
 to his face as though to avoid a blow. A moment 
 he stood so, confused, uncertain ; then of a sudden, 
 remembering that the warden himself was watch- 
 ing, without a word or a backward look he drew 
 his hat far over his forehead, half closed his lids 
 and started uncertainly down the steps toward the 
 gravelled walk beyond. 
 
 Bit by bit as he walked his eyes adjusted them- 
 selves to the glare. Shade by shade they lifted 
 from the path at his feet until his field of vision 
 included the immediate surroundings. At either 
 side of the walk was a beautifully kept park. Here 
 and there the shade-blot of a tree rendered the
 
 2 The Quest Eternal 
 
 green more intense. Just to his right, in a clear 
 space, a fountain spouted actively and fell with 
 softest music into a wide marble basin beneath. On 
 its brim a long-tailed brown thrush was perched, 
 drinking thirstily. From an elm tree near by, as 
 the intruder appeared, its mate sounded a warning 
 note and with a flit of brown wings the thirsty one 
 was gone. Save the man himself no other human 
 being was visible. No sound save the patter of the 
 fountain could be heard. The intimate heat of 
 afternoon and the heavy pungent odour of growing 
 things were dominant, ubiquitous. The close- 
 clipped sod, alluringly dark with shade, seemed 
 almost to voice an invitation. The life odour, all 
 prevalent, was like the bouquet of liquor to a drunk- 
 ard. Under its spell, bit by bit, the man slackened 
 his pace. Greedily as the starving child of a city's 
 slums inspects a baker's window, he looked from 
 side to side. His nostrils widened hungrily. He 
 breathed deep; and again and again. As one 
 draught of spirits but whets an inebriate's appetite, 
 it made him wish for more and more. He caught 
 the odour from a late flowering rose tree and his 
 fingers itched with the lust of possession. The 
 path led on and on into the surrounding park, 
 made a turn and, without looking back, he was 
 conscious that the grey stone pile he was leaving, 
 with its windows and its watchful eyes, had disap- 
 peared from view. But still the appeal of turf and
 
 The Release 3 
 
 shade remained, strengthened with the passing 
 moments. For a moment the man's pace quickened. 
 Despite the heat he seemed about to break into a 
 run ; then of a sudden he halted stock still. With 
 the involuntary suspicion of a hunted thing he cast 
 a swift look about him. Still no one was visible. 
 The flowering rose tree was very near now. At its 
 side was a shadow-blot, intoxicatingly dark. It was 
 the crushing straw. With one bound, like a wild 
 animal from its cage, he was outside the path, the 
 crisp sod beneath his feet, the abandon of the re- 
 bellion dominating his brain. With another his 
 fingers had closed on their prize, and again and 
 again; until his hands were full of the fragrant 
 blossoms. The shadow-blot lay at his feet, tempt- 
 ing, compelling. Like a stone, like the nature- 
 starved human that he was, he dropped fair in his 
 tracks, buried his face, his hands, his whole body 
 in the blessed green, for the first time in years it 
 seemed to him relaxed absolutely, in every muscle 
 and every nerve. 
 
 Up the path, gravelled here, dull, grinding, heavy 
 heeled, authoritative, came a step. Its maker was 
 red-faced from the exertion of the rapid motion. 
 The club which dangled from a loop on his wrist 
 was ominous. On and on he came. He did not lift 
 his voice, he merely approached: like an avenging 
 element, like the offended majesty of the law imper- 
 sonate. Very near he drew, so near that, like his
 
 4 The Quest Eternal 
 
 predecessor, he left the path; but if the offender 
 heard he gave no indication of the knowledge. As 
 at first, he lay flat on the ground, his fingers digging 
 hungrily into the cool sod, the face of him pressed 
 close to earth, his whole being drinking deep at the 
 breast of the common mother. Just a moment at his 
 side the newcomer halted, as if in doubt; then a 
 great hairy hand dropped like a tentacle to the neck 
 of the prostrate one and lifted him to his feet. 
 Simultaneously a voice sounded; a voice big and 
 rumbling to match the hand. 
 
 "Can't you read English, man?" it challenged. 
 
 Face to face the two men stood staring at each 
 other; but the culprit made no answer. 
 
 "Speak up there, sulky," repeated the giant, add- 
 ing emphasis with a mighty shake at the victim's 
 collar. "Don't you know the English language 
 when you see it on signs?" 
 
 The other made no defence. His arms hung limp 
 at his side as when he was lifted. 
 
 "Read English?" There was not the ghost 
 of a smile. "How do I know! I haven't 
 tried for so long I've forgotten." A sudden straight 
 look into the inquiring eyes, a peculiar look. "I 
 don't know what is the official language in the 
 place I've been." Then as an afterthought. "Do 
 you?" 
 
 Harder than before stared the custodian of the 
 law.
 
 The Release 5 
 
 "Do I know?" he groped. "How the devil should 
 I know! Where've you been?" 
 
 "Where? Would you really like to know?" 
 
 "That's what I asked you." 
 
 "I'll tell you then. It's a secret, but I'll tell you. 
 I've been in Hell!" 
 
 The officer stared as at a maniac, but the other 
 only wandered on. 
 
 "Yes, I've just come from there, just this minute. 
 If you've any friends in that country I can tell you 
 all about them." Once more the peculiar straight 
 look. "Have you any friends there, officer?" 
 
 The face of the policeman reddened and from 
 force of habit the warning shake was repeated. 
 
 "You're a gay one," he complimented. "But I'll 
 soon take that out of you. Answer my question. 
 Where've you been?" 
 
 "I told you." 
 
 "Well, where're you going, then?" 
 
 "I'm going back very soon in fact, I'm there 
 already. I only escaped for a second. If you've 
 any message " 
 
 "Shut up." 
 
 The other was silent, but his eyes did not drop. 
 
 "That's better. Now explain yourself or I'll run 
 you in." 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "Come, talk up. I'm tired of monkeying with 
 you."
 
 6 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "You told me to be silent." 
 
 "Do you want me to run you in?" threateningly. 
 
 "As you wish." The indifference was not simu- 
 lated. "I don't care. I thought I did for a 
 second; but now I know better. When one is in 
 Hell he doesn't care for anything." 
 
 For the first time the officer released his grip. His 
 free hand scratched at his chin. 
 
 "Well you are a rum one," he emphasised. It 
 was a considerable distance to a place of confine- 
 ment and the day was very hot. Besides, to jug a 
 man who was perfectly reconciled to the fact lost 
 the element of sport. "Come, tell me if you can 
 read," he added; "and I'll let you off." 
 
 "I did tell you that I don't know." A brighten- 
 ing of the face as at a sudden idea. "However, 
 if you were to suggest a test, perhaps then " 
 
 "Look there!" The hairy hand indicated a 
 weather-stained placard. 
 
 "I can read that. It says 'Keep off the grass.' " 
 
 "Exactly." The irony was crushing. 
 
 The captured one was not impressed. 
 
 "Well, you're on the grass aren't you ?" 
 
 "What!" 
 
 "You're a heavy man too, a terrifically heavy 
 man." 
 
 The other's jaw dropped in speechless surprise. 
 
 "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," wandered 
 on the mentor; "you a custodian of the law and with
 
 The Release 7 
 
 a sign like that right under your nose. You " of 
 a sudden the voice halted. Involuntarily the 
 speaker's hands went to his face, locked tight. A 
 moment he stood so. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, officer," he digressed swiftly. 
 "I meant no offence." He was trembling violently. 
 "I we in Hell aren't always responsible. I'll 
 go of course." He had suited action to promise. 
 "You're not to blame because " He had reached 
 the path. He was almost running again. "Good- 
 bye," and he was gone. 
 
 Night had fallen, a night such as the day had 
 presaged : stiflingly hot, unmitigatedly depressing. 
 Everywhere on the downtown streets of the little 
 city thronged a crowd ; a crowd impotently seeking 
 a thing they would not find save in sleep relief. 
 Back and forth they drifted, back and forth, aim- 
 lessly, restlessly ; and in their midst, a part of them 
 and still separate, moved the same man of the after- 
 noon. 
 
 Viewed even by the charity of electric light he was 
 not an imposing figure, this man. His coat was 
 rough and cheap and ready-made. Across his 
 stooped shoulders it stretched to bursting and 
 wrinkled abominably about the neck. His coloured 
 shirt was guiltless of starch and he wore no tie. As 
 he wandered along his hands were hidden in his
 
 8 The Quest Eternal 
 
 pockets and his feet shuffled unconsciously. Most 
 of the time his eyes were on the pavement at his 
 feet; yet now and then he looked about him with 
 a sweeping glance, so swift and intense that it was 
 almost surreptitious; a look that had become a 
 habit. By these glances, seemingly casual as they 
 were, he took in every detail of the scene about 
 him. And everywhere was change. A trolley car 
 droned by and his eyes lifted. There were no 
 trolley cars here before. A pair of matched bays 
 attached to a glittering carriage, with an impassive 
 Jehu on the box, clattered past. Such an apparition 
 would have created a sensation in the town he had 
 known. Electric signs blinked at him mockingly 
 from every side. Gilt paint had been the height of 
 extravagance then. Seemingly aimless though 
 his journey might be it had, nevertheless, a definite 
 destination. Bit by bit he had approached the heart 
 of the town, the corner where once a single modern 
 office building had lifted its head. Now there were 
 four. Once that corner had been a public hack 
 stand. Memory recalled a long line of waiting 
 vehicles ; a line dotted for its length with twinkling 
 lamps, like glowing eyes in pairs. Now he looked 
 for the line in vain. In their place a well-groomed 
 policeman dominated the scene and looked him 
 askance when he paused. 
 
 But changed as the scene was as a whole, one de- 
 tail had not altered. Like a familiar face in a
 
 The Release 9 
 
 strange crowd, one building stood out distinct from 
 amid the mass. And for it the man had eyes alone. 
 Before he had been an intruder, an alien, one re- 
 turned from the dead. Here at last was another of 
 his own time, his own day. His feeling toward it 
 was almost as toward another human. Had he been 
 alone he would have touched it with his hand. As 
 it was he merely looked. For the time being he was 
 unconscious of his surroundings. The passers-by 
 jostled him, the policeman, returning upon his beat, 
 again looked a question ; but the man was oblivious 
 of their presence. Once before this day for a few 
 brief seconds he had escaped from himself. Now 
 the experience was repeated. At that moment he 
 was not living in the present at all, this man. Mem- 
 ory, most marvellous of magicians, had in a flash 
 wiped from the calendar a full decade. No longer 
 was he stooped of shoulder. No longer were his 
 hands stiffened and his brain dulled from manual 
 labour. The earth and the fulness thereof was his ; 
 he had but to prove his title. The surging blood of 
 manhood throbbed in his veins. He could feel it 
 tingle to his finger tips. This, memory's miracle 
 beneath that forbidding exterior. Thus fate the 
 ironic, jested. Then, with the inevitable crash of 
 disillusionment, the present, the real, intruded. 
 When he had first looked the building before him 
 had been dark to the roof. For a moment there- 
 after it had remained so. Then by one of those
 
 10 The Quest Eternal 
 
 infinite coincidences, more frequent in real life than 
 in fiction, something happened. While his eyes 
 were yet upon it, suddenly as the turning of an elec- 
 tric button, one window on the dark face sprang 
 alight. With an odd thrill, a sort of subconscious 
 surprise, the watcher realised that it was the win- 
 dow of windows, the window which had been his 
 own; then equally suddenly, swift as the birth of 
 thought, his whole being underwent a transforma- 
 tion. Every muscle in his body went tense and 
 rigid. His breath came short and quick. His thin 
 face shaded grey. For upon that window, revealed 
 against the background of electric light, stared 
 forth the shameless challenge : 
 
 SIDNEY STONE, M.D. 
 Surgeon and Physician. 
 
 ***** 
 
 In the ground-glass arch over the main entrance 
 to the building was a name "The Mandan," and 
 just for a moment before it the man paused, indeci- 
 sive. The name was unfamiliar. The entrance too 
 was changed and he inspected it narrowly, distrust- 
 fully. To make certain of its identity he moved 
 back to the street and glanced up. The familiar 
 number of stories towered above his head. The 
 stone was the old reddish-brown jasper. Last of 
 all the single lighted window was still aglow. 
 Swiftly, almost precipitately, he returned. The ele-
 
 The Release 1 1 
 
 vator was waiting just within, he could see the light 
 inside the cage, and he advanced toward it hur- 
 riedly. What seemed to him two doorways led 
 thereto and he chose the nearest. It gave an inch 
 two; then stuck and his face met the heavy plate 
 glass with a blow. Baffled, uncomprehending, he 
 tried again, shoved with all his might heard of a 
 sudden a satirically amused laugh behind him. 
 
 "Soak it, mister, soak it," encouraged the owner 
 of the voice. "You don't shove hard enough is all." 
 
 The man turned, and something in his face cleared 
 the mirth from that of the other instantly. The 
 latter was not over three feet six and he prepared 
 to flee. 
 
 "What's wrong?" asked the man abruptly. 
 
 "You," equally promptly; then with the toleration 
 of superior wisdom he added: "Try the other side, 
 neighbour. It works that way, you know." 
 
 Within the corridor the man found his face burn- 
 ing hotly. It was a trifling incident seemingly, yet 
 it sapped at his self-confidence, added to his impres- 
 sion of alienation and incompetency. He had in- 
 tended to take the elevator, the car was waiting, yet 
 under the influence of the new mood he approached 
 the stairs instead. 
 
 "Better ride up, mister," suggested a patronising 
 voice. 
 
 The man halted, looked uncertainly at the uni- 
 formed youth who had spoken, hesitated like a
 
 12 The Quest Eternal 
 
 freed slave who hears a voice of command then 
 instinctively obeyed. "Third floor," he directed. 
 
 "No one on that floor now, mister." 
 
 "Not Dr. Stone?" 
 
 "Just brought him down a couple of minutes ago." 
 
 The passenger shuffled on his feet. "Take me up 
 anyway," he said at last. 
 
 The office, the old office, was empty when the man 
 entered. Just inside the waiting-room door he 
 stopped to glance around him. Evidences of taste 
 and of prosperity were all about. The furniture 
 was uniformly of leather. His feet sank noiselessly 
 into heavy rugs. The latest novels and periodicals 
 lay here and there as they had been cast aside by a 
 waiting throng. Gingerly, all but apologetically, 
 the visitor walked across the room, inspecting by the 
 way. A painting, a signed master, caught his eye 
 and he looked at it dumbly. Bit by bit the white 
 hot flood that had mounted to his brain the instant 
 that window first sprang alight was receding, cool- 
 ing. Fan it with memory as he might he could not 
 maintain the heat. Despite his will, despite all 
 logic he began to feel himself a trespasser. In vain 
 he looked about for a familiar article to testify to 
 his right of presence, to give colour to his conten- 
 tion of equity. There was none nor a suggestion of 
 one. The realisation appalled him, disconcerted 
 him. On the street that first second, with the tingle 
 in his finger tips, he had felt himself the master, the
 
 The Release 13 
 
 avenging spirit, the dictator. Now, the actual not 
 the fancied staring him in the face, he realised with 
 a sickening feeling of incompetency his mistake. 
 He had thought to enter, to take possession, to crush 
 the feeble resistance he anticipated with an over- 
 whelming flood of reprehension. Now, ere the 
 moment arrived, he realised the inadequacy of his 
 weapon, the futility of his design. This his thought, 
 his augmenting conviction as he traversed the 
 length of the outer room. Blindly, unmitigatedly 
 unjust as circumstances had been to him, in result 
 they had, nevertheless, been effective. Rebel as he 
 might against them, their decision had notwithstand- 
 ing been unalterable. Stripped of the garment of 
 bitterness and of self-pity which he had himself 
 woven he saw things as they were, not as they 
 should be; and amid them his own figure glared 
 forth, naked, without resource, beaten. He had 
 reached the end of the room ere this, had thought 
 to pass into the apartment beyond ; but like a barrier 
 the truth prevented him. Miserable, humiliated, 
 vacillating, again he halted, looked about him un- 
 certainly; and that moment his eye fell upon a full- 
 length mirror in the corner and in the centre of 
 the glass, staring him back, his own life-size image. 
 For years, for so long he had forgotten the date, 
 he had not seen his own reflection. In a seemingly 
 endless routine of labour and of sleep and of 
 mingled bitterness the mere thought thereof had
 
 14 The Quest Eternal 
 
 passed into abeyance. Dully, almost indifferently, 
 he had been conscious of a physical alteration. If, 
 however, regret thereat had entered his mind at all 
 it had been ignored as a thing of little moment, the 
 faintest imaginable cloud added to a horizon al- 
 ready black as night. Now of a sudden, confronted 
 unexpectedly by the reality, the revelation of the 
 actual alteration was startling. At first glance he 
 could not comprehend it, could not give it credence. 
 Dumbly, as he had paused before the painting, he 
 went over the revealed actuality line by line. The 
 hair of his own head, prematurely thinned and grey; 
 the great weary eyes with the hollows beneath ; the 
 stooped shoulders ; the awkward, almost grotesque, 
 outline of his body; the hands, big-jointed and cal- 
 lous one by one he took in the details; deliber- 
 ately, critically, with a sort of abstract fascination, 
 gathered bit by bit the impression the ensemble 
 conveyed, in so doing of a sudden moved and that 
 moment the spell of the abstract, the isolate was 
 broken. That instant, in a conquering, overwhelm- 
 ing flood, he realised for the first time to the full 
 what he was. That second, for the first time, like- 
 wise, he comprehended with a crushing certainty the 
 hopeless, pitiful futility of his again taking up the 
 fight. Before, a spark of personal ambition had 
 still lingered. Seemingly extinguished, it had never- 
 the less at unexpected times flashed forth. Now, 
 as there alone he stared his own reflection back, he
 
 The Release 15 
 
 realised to finality absolute that it would never do 
 so again. With wide open eyes he had watched it 
 flicker and go out. With wide open eyes he was 
 observing the blackness where it had been. 
 
 How long he remained there alone he did not 
 exactly know. He seemed of a sudden to have for- 
 gotten time, to have forgotten place. Of one thing 
 alone he was conscious: that he was very weary, 
 and in abandon absolute he flung himself into the 
 nearest seat, his face toward the open window, his 
 wide open eyes staring out into the night. 
 
 Thus he sat as time drifted by. Thus he re- 
 mained as the elevator purred up to the floor and 
 a rapid professional step clicked across the corridor. 
 Thus he sat as the newcomer entered. Then of a 
 sudden he awoke ; and as he arose and involuntarily 
 turned, across the expanse of years, over the graves 
 of hopes and ambitions dead, through memory's 
 haze of cowardice and of bitter injustice, the one- 
 time partners stood facing. 
 
 A moment, a long moment, they stood so while 
 each took the measure of the other. What McLeod 
 saw was a middle-aged man, a bit corpulent, yet 
 active; a full face covered with a closely cropped 
 beard; a general impression of tailoring beyond 
 criticism; a soft white hand outlined against a 
 small black medicine case. What Stone saw we 
 already know. What he thought he did not reveal ; 
 but as, after that first moment of mutual recogni-
 
 1 6 The Quest Eternal 
 
 tion, he passed through the room and mechanically 
 put down hat and case, the silence throbbed with 
 meaning. 
 
 A half minute later he returned, and in that time 
 his decision, whatever it was, was made. 
 
 "Sit down, please," he suggested. He made no 
 advance of friendship nor of enmity, of contrition 
 nor of challenge, but as the other obeyed took a 
 place opposite. "I have expected this," he com- 
 mented simply. "To whatever you wish to say I 
 will listen." 
 
 "I have nothing to say yet," announced a voice 
 low. 
 
 A pause, then the query direct: "Why did you 
 come, then?" 
 
 "I spoke in the present tense." Again the answer- 
 ing voice was low. "I had much to say when I 
 came." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "The mood has passed for the moment at least." 
 
 "And in its place?" 
 
 "I have decided instead to do what you volun- 
 teered to do: to listen." 
 
 Again the eyes of the two men met, in a repetition 
 of that first searching scrutiny. It was Stone who 
 first looked away. 
 
 "You make it difficult for me, very," he said. "I 
 can read human nature a bit and besides I know 
 you of old. An explanation "
 
 The Release 17 
 
 "You may omit that." 
 
 "I thought so. Or an apology " 
 
 "I too can read human nature. It's useless to per- 
 jure yourself." 
 
 Stone nodded gravely ; but on the chair arm where 
 it lay one white hand had clenched tightly. 
 
 "There is but one other thing in which you can be 
 interested then." He looked at his companion ner- 
 vously. "I refer to reparation." 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "I've thought that matter over quite a bit; as I 
 said before, I've been expecting this, and I've 
 come to a decision." Slowly, measuredly came the 
 words, as though the speaker were reading from a 
 printed page. "I have no more inclination than you 
 to go into a discussion of the past. I'll spare you 
 and myself any mention of the motive which 
 prompts the offer I'm going to make. I'll merely 
 say this: I've been fairly prosperous the last few 
 years. I've saved some money, not much but a 
 little. It's in the bank over on the corner. I'll tell 
 you the amount and write you a blank cheque 
 against it. You may fill it out for as much or as 
 little as you wish." Again the grip on the chair 
 arm tightened as he met the other's look. "If you 
 see fit to write the limit I have no comment to make. 
 If less it is as you choose." He looked away and 
 his hand fell loose into his lap. "That, I believe, 
 is all I have to say."
 
 1 8 The Quest Eternal 
 
 Once more silence fell; a long silence broken at 
 last by the single suggestion: "And in return?" 
 
 "I shall expect, demand, that you disappear." 
 Again it was the premeditated, precise and unhesi- 
 tating. "Where or how I shall not ask. You are 
 merely to disappear and never in your life inter- 
 fere with me or mine again. I shall ask your word 
 on this." 
 
 "And your future?" 
 
 "I don't know as that has any bearing on the dis- 
 cussion." 
 
 "Consider it merely curiosity, then." Just per- 
 ceptibly McLeod had straightened in his seat. "I 
 repeat : And you ?" 
 
 Stone hesitated. A tinge of colour appeared on 
 his cheek above the brown beard line. 
 
 "To satisfy your curiosity, I intend to remain 
 right here. I'm a part of the town, of the com- 
 munity. Its life is my life. So far as I know I 
 shall remain here always." 
 
 "Thanks." Again the voice was low; but steady 
 now and cold, icy cold. "And myself? Had 
 you formed any plans as to my future after the 
 disappearance?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "No location to suggest where a practitioner of 
 my qualifications and with capital could find a 
 congenial home?" 
 
 Stone's lips tightened, but in silence.
 
 The Release 19 
 
 "And the sorrow with which my friends would 
 witness my departure I was born within ten miles 
 of here, you know you had arranged to assuage 
 that?" 
 
 Stone's shoulders lifted, tolerantly, eloquently. 
 
 "When you're through with this repartee we'll 
 talk business," he commented. 
 
 "And our own partnership," ignored McLeod, 
 "the contract has never been dissolved you recall 
 did you think how embarrassing that would 
 be?" 
 
 Sidney Stone stiffened. Not a tinge but a wave 
 of red coloured his face. 
 
 "You see fit to be insulting," he remarked. 
 
 "Insulting !" It was the flame to tinder. "Insult- 
 ing ! You with your knowledge of the past, with 
 the words of your proposition still fresh in your 
 mouth, speak to me of insult?" 
 
 The other opened his lips to speak; then closed 
 them again and sat for a moment drumming with 
 his well-manicured fingers on the wood. 
 
 "It's a pure waste of energy to discuss anything 
 except business between yourself and myself," he 
 said slowly at last. "Besides I make it a rule never 
 to bandy words in my own office and I don't choose 
 to break it to please you. As I've told you I've 
 threshed the whole matter out and have made my 
 proposition. It's still open. You can accept or de- 
 cline as you wish."
 
 2o The Quest Eternal 
 
 "Accept I" McLeod stared at the man before him, 
 his deep-set eyes glowing beneath the cavernous 
 brows. "Did you ever in a sane moment fancy 
 that I would accept a cent of your money, Sidney 
 Stone?" His breath was coming short and he 
 halted in a period of involuntary eloquence. "You 
 spoke of insult and voice that suggestion now 
 again?" 
 
 Stone shrugged, elaborately, self-consciously. 
 
 "Cut out heroics, please, and use plain Anglo- 
 Saxon. Yes or no will answer the question." 
 
 For a moment the listener did not speak or stir or 
 utter a sound; merely sat there in his seat, inert, 
 silently struggling, terrible. Unbelievable it seems 
 to chronicle that he did not act. Murder was in his 
 heart that moment, neither more nor less. Relig- 
 ion, moral obligation had passed him by and be- 
 come a myth long ago. It was not that which pre- 
 vented. Fear of punishment he had none. Repara- 
 tion carries no terror to one whom sleep has for- 
 saken for countless inky nights. It was not that. 
 In the back of his very soul, back of civilisation and 
 of reason and of passion, stronger than all, a still 
 small voice was whispering to him that night; whis- 
 pering insistently and he could not act. Ambition 
 of self, consideration of self had burned dead, 
 burned to ashes; but this other something, to it akin, 
 its successor, was alive and glowing brightly, gather- 
 ing strength moment by moment. No one could
 
 The Release 21 
 
 see, no one could know ; yet it was there, dominant, 
 irresistible. Until this time the man himself had 
 scarcely been conscious of its presence. When he 
 had entered that room he had been unconscious 
 thereof; yet now, in the space of seconds, it had 
 developed full grown, had become the motif of his 
 life. 
 
 Thus he sat there and thus opposite the other 
 waited. He likewise did not stir, that man who 
 waited ; yet he knew or thought he knew what was 
 taking place in the other's mind. Indifferent he 
 seemed, this man, calmly observant ; yet that aloof- 
 ness likewise was upon the surface only. Never more 
 alert in his life than at this time was the impassive 
 middle-aged doctor, never more on guard. As he 
 had said, he was expecting the present moment and 
 was prepared. A brooding imagination had pre- 
 saged more than the possibility of violence. Upon 
 it he had planned. To a casual spectator this readi- 
 ness would not have been revealed. One hand 
 still lay as before idly upon his lap; but another, 
 a close observer, would have noted that its 
 mate was not visible. Instead it was hid with- 
 in the pocket of his coat and therein it was not 
 alone. 
 
 Thus they sat there waiting, thus, while a minute 
 drifted by and another; thus, until Sidney Stone, 
 master of the situation as he knew himself to be, 
 could bear the suspense no longer. Against his will,
 
 22 The Quest Eternal 
 
 against a carefully prearranged indifference, he 
 turned to find the other observing him openly, 
 unwaveringly, with an intentness that was all but 
 uncanny. That it was so did not surprise him. He 
 had anticipated the fact, in a subconscious way had 
 felt the gaze even when turned away; but now, the 
 reality before him, something, an indescribable 
 something which he did not understand, warned 
 him that the unexpected was imminent. Had he 
 read menace, hate, physical violence he would not 
 have been surprised; but in a flash he realised that 
 none of these motives were dominant. Something 
 else, something bigger, more masterful, had taken 
 control of the other those last moments of silence; 
 something at which until light came he could but 
 speculate. Wondering, groping for the revelation, 
 he waited. Out of the unexpected at last it came 
 and in the wake of a question. 
 
 "As you know" it was McLeod's voice, but 
 changed now, full, self-controlled, compelling "as 
 you know, I was just released to-day. For that 
 reason I have a question to ask you. Are you mar- 
 ried?" 
 
 Had the other begged his pardon Stone could not 
 have been more surprised, more utterly at sea. Out 
 of the maze, almost involuntarily, he answered the 
 query. 
 
 "No," he said. 
 
 Apparently satisfied, McLeod dropped the lead.
 
 The Release 23 
 
 A moment thereafter he sat as before, mysterious, 
 icy cold; then perforce, swiftly, cumulatively he be- 
 gan to speak. 
 
 "What I am going to say, Sidney Stone," he said, 
 "you do not expect to hear. What I had intended 
 to say when I found that you, of all men, were 
 back here was very different-p- but let that pass. 
 Had some one told me a year ago, an hour ago 
 even, that I would say it at all I should have called 
 that person mad. But let that pass also. Things 
 are as they are. In the years since I have seen you 
 I have lived many lifetimes each different from 
 the others. Since the time when I saw your light 
 and the name on your window I have added an- 
 other." Just perceptibly he stirred in his place but 
 his steady gaze did not waver. 
 
 "You say you have considered the situation which 
 faces us now and threshed it out. You are not 
 alone. Night after night in a place where there 
 are no seasons, I have listened to the footstep of a 
 guard on the tiles outside my cell and thought 
 and ever in my thought you have had a place. I 
 saw then in the future two possible contingencies. 
 In one you were a man and I wished you no evil. 
 In another you were not a man and I am human." 
 Again for an instant the voice halted and for that 
 space Stone had the impression of a menace more 
 terrible than words could convey. "Beyond those 
 two contingencies I could not plan. They seemed
 
 24 The Quest Eternal 
 
 all adequate, to include the possible. With them I 
 walked forth free to-day." 
 
 Involuntarily, momentarily the voice halted; then 
 almost ere the listener had realised the fact it was 
 speaking anew. 
 
 "I repeat this was the way I had threshed it out. 
 This was my ultimatum until an hour ago. Then 
 came the lost life the life which puts me where I 
 am now. Beginning it you know what happened, 
 you had expected it to happen; for it was then I 
 found you. So far all was according to schedule. 
 The one bit of tinder that you knew would survive 
 all these years blazed at sight of your name ex- 
 actly as you anticipated it would do. I didn't know 
 it then, but I realise it all now. It was still burning 
 when I came here ; the last flicker of personal ambi- 
 tion. Then at last something which you did not 
 expect happened. Then I awoke. How or why 
 is immaterial. The fact remains. After that 
 awakening, for the first time I knew myself as I am ; 
 beaten, burned out, cowed. Before, I had deluded 
 myself with dreams of the future. Since then I 
 have done so no more." 
 
 Unexpectedly the voice halted. Simultaneously 
 the long, ungainly figure gathered itself together, 
 leaned far forward in its seat. 
 
 "You are wondering what all this is leading to. 
 I'll not keep you in suspense much longer. Any 
 man with red blood in his veins, who knows the
 
 The Release 25 
 
 difference between you and me, would say there was 
 but one solution. I won't say what it is for you 
 know. You think you are safe and prepared, Sid- 
 ney Stone; but I could bring that solution to pass 
 right now, with my own hands. I know well 
 enough what you have concealed in your hand. It's 
 not fear of that which prevents me doing it now, 
 not that nor because I haven't sufficient reason. It's 
 merely that I see things as they are, see the useless- 
 ness of revenge. What I am I am. What you 
 have done if you would you could not undo. I do 
 not forgive you, I merely accept. For that reason 
 I am going now in a moment. Again I repeat I did 
 not come with that intent, but I have awakened. But 
 before I go I have one thing to say; and if you 
 forget everything else in life, if as in the past you 
 again forget honour and justice and good faith 
 between man and man, don't forget this: for it is 
 a warning and I shall never speak it again." Bit 
 by bit as he had spoken McLeod had leaned far- 
 ther and farther forward. Bit by bit his speech had 
 slackened. Now at last was the climax, the revela- 
 tion, the ultimatum, and the words which bore it 
 came individual and distinct, like drops of falling 
 water. 
 
 "You, Sidney Stone, have ruined my life; ruined 
 it utterly, irrevocably. Out of selfishness and of 
 cowardice you did this thing. That was long ago; 
 but you have not changed. As you were then you
 
 26 The Quest Eternal 
 
 are to-day, now. As you are now you will always be. 
 It was this I had in mind when I asked you the 
 question which you did not understand if you 
 were married. Between you and me things are as 
 they are. Nothing which I can do will alter them. 
 One thing though, Sidney Stone, I can do and as 
 God is my witness I will do. I can prevent a life 
 like yours reproducing in kind. Me you have 
 beaten, man; unfairly, yet nevertheless beaten. I 
 accept the issue. In the big scheme of things, how- 
 ever, your life and mine are mere incidents in par- 
 allel running chains. Please nature, through my 
 chain my life will go on. What I wished to do, 
 what I would have done perhaps, will yet be done, 
 It is for this reason that I accept, that I pass you 
 by. Run out your life of selfishness and of coward- 
 ice as you will. I shall not disturb it or molest it 
 again. But with you, man, it and your name must 
 end. You know me of old, that I never told you a 
 lie nor promised you a thing which I did not fulfil. 
 Now for the second time I swear that with you it 
 shall end. Do not as you value your life marry or 
 think of marriage. I do not wish your blood upon 
 my hands, but I have sworn. If you disobey, as 
 God is watching us I will do this thing." Of a sud- 
 den, with the last words his great clumsy hands 
 dropped to the chair at his side, his fingers closed 
 until the skin blanched white at the knuckles. Simul- 
 taneously his whole body strained forward until
 
 The Release 27 
 
 the big muscles of his neck stood forth clear. 
 Slowly, tensely from his lips dropped the words 
 of a question. "Do you doubt me, Sidney Stone?" 
 For a second, and another, the man opposite did 
 not speak. Not once in all those last minutes had 
 he interrupted, had he uttered a sound. No need to 
 tell him that it was the last word, the ultimatum 
 between the two, the other was speaking. No need 
 to tell him of its deadly earnestness. In every life 
 there is a moment of suspense, a turning point, and 
 as now he listened to that steady, dripping flow he 
 realised to finality that his had come. Far too 
 big was the moment for affectation or dissimulation. 
 They two were down to fundamentals at last, man 
 to man. Thus he, the dictator of a bit ago, sat 
 there passive, listening. Thus bit by bit as the ab- 
 stract merged into the concrete, the personal, he 
 felt the noose tightening. He did not rebel. He 
 did not question. He could not. He was his 
 natural self now, his naked coward self and he 
 listened. Shade by shade as the seconds went by 
 and that relentless drip continued to fall, the colour 
 left his face yet he listened. Shade by shade like- 
 wise, as though the tightening noose were real, not 
 figurative, his muscles relaxed. Thus he sat to the 
 end. Thus he remained after the other's voice was 
 silent and he should have answered. Thus until 
 out of the silence, insistent, compelling, the query 
 was repeated:
 
 28 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "Answer, Sidney Stone," demanded the voice. 
 "Do you doubt me?" 
 
 With an effort the listener roused. Unconscious 
 of the motion one soft white hand sought its mate, 
 gripped tight. 
 
 "No, I do not doubt you, Andrew McLeod," he 
 said. 
 
 "And you abide by the decision?" swiftly. "You 
 swear that while you live you will never marry?" 
 
 "Yes," again monotonously. 
 
 "Swear it!" 
 
 Silence, a speaking, gripping silence. 
 
 "Swear it, I say." 
 
 "I swear it before God." 
 
 A moment they sat so, motionless as figures in 
 clay, unconscious, isolate, vital; then of a sudden, 
 with a flood of realisation, the present, the normal 
 returned. Swift again as the changing scene of a 
 tableau, the tense, dominant figure of McLeod 
 went lax. With an effort he arose ; and as he did 
 so his whole loose-knit, ungainly frame was 
 a-tremble. Awkwardly, consciously, not as a con- 
 queror but as a trespasser, he started for the door. 
 Words, an apology, a petition, sprang to his lips; 
 against his will, mocking, humiliating, found voice. 
 
 "I beg your pardon for intruding, for being 
 rude," he stammered dully. He did not pause, he 
 did not glance back. "I couldn't help it, I I " 
 The door closed behind him.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A FLICKER ON THE HEARTH 
 
 "I WAS thirty-six in May, my last birthday." The 
 voice was matter of fact. The speaker showed 
 neither reserve nor ostentation at the avowal, 
 simply went on with her work as though she had 
 mentioned the time of day. "I'm just two years 
 younger than yourself, you know." 
 
 "Yes, I remember now. It had escaped me for 
 the moment. I find that I've forgotten many little 
 things." One of the speaker's great jointed hands 
 brushed his face absently; then returned to hang 
 awkwardly in his lap, after the manner of a work- 
 ing man's hands when idle. "I," he laughed 
 forcedly, "don't believe I could have told, off-hand, 
 my own age." 
 
 The woman went on with her work, silently, 
 capably. The comment did not seem to call for a 
 rejoinder and she made none. The piece on which 
 she was sewing was fine work, and once she lifted 
 it close to her eyes and peered at it with near- 
 sighted intentness ; then dropped the cloth back to 
 her apron and went on with mechanical accuracy. 
 
 For a long time, for probably longer than either 
 realised, there was silence in the tiny room. The
 
 30 The Quest Eternal 
 
 house was isolate, set far back from the street in a 
 big, old-fashioned lawn. No one else was about. 
 The time was well toward midday, and no inter- 
 ruption came from outside. They merely sat 
 there, the woman working, the man watching her 
 active fingers as though there were a fascination in 
 their capable movement. Not until they again 
 paused and approached their owner's eyes while, 
 with near-sighted effort, she threaded the needle 
 anew, did the man speak. Then abruptly, directly, 
 came a new query. 
 
 "Is that work for yourself, Mary?" he asked. 
 
 "No." Again the voice was matter of fact. "I 
 shouldn't be doing it to-day if it were my own. It's 
 for a customer of mine." 
 
 "You do this sort of thing regularly, then?" 
 
 "One has to live," simply. 
 
 The man shifted restlessly in his seat. Again in 
 unconscious movement one of the labour-stiffened 
 hands stroked his face. 
 
 "Somehow I never thought of you as doing 
 this," he hesitated. "When I heard your father 
 and mother had both gone I imagined " 
 
 "The house is clear," anticipated the other, "but 
 there are taxes and it has to be kept up." The 
 voice halted. "Anyway, it's as well. One can't 
 do nothing when one's alone. It's the short cut to 
 the asylum." 
 
 "Mary! Mary, I "
 
 A Flicker on the Hearth 31 
 
 Again silence fell: the former intimate, isolate 
 silence of two. The man got no further. For a 
 second he had aroused; but for a second only. 
 Then as suddenly he had lapsed into the former 
 lethargic passivity. It was the third day since he 
 had come forth from that frowning pile upon the 
 distant hill, the second time he had called, and they 
 two had been so alive ; yet not once had he passed 
 the dead line of conventional commonplace. At it 
 he halted now, vacillating, procrastinating, self- 
 tortured with his own impotency. Under the in- 
 fluence of the midday heat the low-ceiled room had 
 grown stifflingly close. Through the open windows 
 he caught a glimpse of the green turf without 
 and the shadows from the big trees. The heavy 
 pungent odour of inanimate life drifted in to his 
 nostrils, tantalised him, called to him insistently 
 almost as it had called that first hour of his release. 
 The intensity of its appeal drowned for the moment 
 every other thought, every other sensation, and 
 with a sudden involuntary motion he got to his feet. 
 
 "Would you mind going outside for a bit, 
 Mary?" he asked. "I'm hungry, starving hungry, 
 for it." 
 
 "Mind?" The busy hands stopped their work. 
 "I don't think I understand." 
 
 "You wouldn't care if some one, some one you 
 knew, saw you there with me?" 
 
 A moment Mary Temple was silent, looking at
 
 32 The Quest Eternal 
 
 him. Her glance was level and candid. Her 
 colour did not change. Then rolling her work into 
 a ball she too arose. 
 
 "Come," she said, and led the way without. 
 
 Tacitly, obediently, the man followed; his feet, 
 though he did not know, shuffling tell-tale on the 
 bare floor of the kitchen through which they 
 passed. 
 
 Beneath the largest tree on the lawn was a home- 
 made pine bench ; at one time painted a vivid green, 
 but now faded and weather-marked. Upon it the 
 woman adjusted her work and made room for her 
 companion at her side. But he did not accept. In- 
 stead he remained standing, his eyes shifting from 
 the street in front to the houses at either side. He 
 did not speak a word or even look at her, yet by an 
 instinct the woman understood. 
 
 "Do so if you wish," she said. 
 
 "Thanks." Almost before he had spoken the 
 man was stretched at her feet on the sod. "It's 
 been so long since I've smelled this." He looked 
 up at her steadily. Beneath the overhanging brows 
 his eyes were aglow. His tongue loosened. "I 
 was in the factory, you know," he explained, "and 
 all day from the window in front I saw nothing but 
 stone. At night it was the same. Week after 
 week, month after month, year after year wherever 
 I looked it was but a repetition: granite, granite, 
 nothing but granite. It bounded the earth. It cut
 
 A Flicker on the Hearth 33 
 
 off every living growing thing. Even the sky had 
 it for a border, was set in the same frame." He 
 closed his eyes, his great hands tightened involun- 
 tarily until they were stained with the green of the 
 sod in his grip. "God, how I grew to hate it!" 
 
 The woman had taken up her work anew. Her 
 fingers did not pause nor her needle lose a stitch. 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 "I used to think I'd go insane some time," he wan- 
 dered on, "as a person will out on the desert from 
 thirst; woi ) hope I should. But I couldn't. 
 Every dav would think was the end, that I'd 
 stood it as lono- as I could; and then the next day 
 would corn" T* it would be the same, and the next, 
 and the ne^ 
 
 "Yes," sr he voice; a bit lower than before but 
 even and m; onless. "I think I understand." 
 
 Slowly the -n's lids widened and his eyes sought 
 his companion's face. Silence returned. At last 
 the woman's glance also lifted, met the other. Her 
 fingers halted. Time stood still. 
 
 "And I"- it was the crossing of the dead line 
 "think I also understand, Mary," said the man 
 simply at last. 
 
 Back to work went the fingers, in and out, auto- 
 matically, steadily. 
 
 "We all have to learn our lesson in this world, 
 learn to wait," she said. 
 
 The man sat up, his hands locked across his knees.
 
 34 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "And to admit defeat," he added. 
 
 "Temporarily, yes." 
 
 "Mary!" 
 
 No response. 
 
 "Mary!" The tone was insistent, compelling. 
 
 The eyes of the woman obeyed. 
 
 "Do you mean that?" tensely. "Do you think 
 there is hope yet for me, for both of us?" 
 
 "I" there had been a pause, a long pause "I 
 think there is hope for you." 
 
 "You avoid my question." 
 
 For the first time there came a trace of colour to 
 the woman's cheeks. For the first time, likewise, 
 her voice lost its even tenor. 
 
 "No," she said swiftly, "I avoided nothing. I 
 said what I meant and I meant exactly what I said. 
 There is hope yet for you, worlds of hope. You're 
 not an old man or even a middle-aged man. 
 You've got Scotch blood in your veins and that's 
 good fighting blood. You come of a long-lived 
 race. People have forgotten the past. They'll 
 be ready to take you on trust and judge you by 
 your merits." She halted abruptly and mechani- 
 cally picked up the work she had dropped. "You 
 have more than hope, you have almost assurance," 
 she completed. 
 
 "And you ?" the man's eyes had not left her face 
 "and you, Mary Temple?" 
 
 "Never mind about me," quickly. "I am and
 
 A Flicker on the Hearth 35 
 
 will continue to be as I always have been. I never, 
 you know, had any particular ambition." 
 
 "Mary!" 
 
 "Anyway, I'm a woman. It doesn't matter par- 
 ticularly what becomes of a woman so long as she 
 lives and has enough to wear." 
 
 McLeod's eyes dropped. His big fingers locked 
 over his knees. 
 
 "You know I don't believe you think that," he 
 said simply. 
 
 In and out, in and out went the needle in the 
 woman's fingers. A tiny patch of sunlight, sifting 
 through the trees above, fell on her lap and she 
 brushed at it absently, as though it was a fallen 
 leaf. 
 
 "Yes, you're right," she corroborated, and again 
 the voice was even. "I was bitter for the moment, 
 which was foolish. That doesn't alter what I said 
 about you, however. You can win yet if you wish. 
 It is for you to choose." 
 
 "You really think that?" Involuntarily the man 
 straightened, accentuating thereby the droop of his 
 round shoulders. "You still believe that after all 
 these years I can take my place with other men and 
 hold my own?" 
 
 "Yes, Andrew." No hesitation, nor uncertainty, 
 nor consciousness at the intimacy of a spoken given 
 name, but low pitched and convincing: "Yes, 
 Andrew."
 
 2 6 The Quest Eternal 
 
 Bit by bit the colour mounted the listener's face. 
 In sympathy his deep-set eyes glowed. The opti- 
 mism, the simple certainty of the other was con- 
 tagious, intoxicating. For the moment it overrode 
 all obstacle, all reality. In fancy, time shifted for- 
 ward, months, years; and indefinite, inconsequen- 
 tial time. He saw himself not as he was but as he 
 would be, as he once had every assurance of being: 
 the leading practitioner in the community, cease- 
 lessly busy, prosperous, respected, enthusiastic. 
 Imagination ran on and on. He pictured his office 
 as he would fit it up; the original ideas he would 
 carry out in equipment; the society meetings he 
 would attend; the clinics he would give and see 
 given; the operations he would perform. On and 
 still on he went. It was the brief, inevitable reac- 
 tion from the interminable depression of the past, 
 the intense awakening of a light-starved plant 
 thrown unexpectedly into the sun glow of a domi- 
 nant optimism. Of a sudden he felt the working 
 of a creative instinct within him, the throbbing de- 
 sire to do. The blood coursed swiftly through his 
 arteries, tingled to his finger tips. Instinctively, 
 confidently he began to plan, to lay out a campaign 
 of battle. 
 
 "I'll open up right here," he announced suddenly, 
 "here where I began before." He drew a long 
 breath. "It might be easier elsewhere, but I'll fight 
 it out in the enemy's own country."
 
 A Flicker on the Hearth 37 
 
 "Yes," said Mary Temple, "I would like to see 
 you win here." 
 
 "I'll take a post-graduate course first," dreamed 
 on the man. "It won't take but a few months and 
 some one will lend me the money. Then I'll come 
 back. I'll forget that I haven't been practising all 
 these years, forget everything but the future." 
 
 "Yes," echoed the listener. "I would forget 
 everything but the future if I were you." 
 
 For a second the man was silent, questioningly 
 silent. He had a feeling that there was more in 
 that low-voiced corroboration than appeared. But 
 the mood of the confidante was too strong upon 
 him to remain silent long, the temptation of a sym- 
 pathetic listener too seductive. With a sudden mo- 
 tion of passionate abandon he leaned far forward 
 toward her until, had he stretched out his hand, 
 they would have touched. His thin face lit up un- 
 til it was almost magnetic, almost as it had been of 
 old. 
 
 "I know that any one else would think me a fool 
 to prattle about myself as I'm doing," he began 
 tensely, "but you'll pardon me and understand. I 
 can't avoid it, Mary. I'm helpless. I've been 
 silent so long, been without a human being I could 
 talk to for so long, that I can't resist the tempta- 
 tion now. I've thought and thought alone, day 
 and night and night and day until until " He 
 halted suddenly. His eyes met hers ; direct, appeal-
 
 38 The Quest Eternal 
 
 ing, piteous in their intensity. "Tell me you don't 
 mind, Mary," he said, "that you understand." 
 
 "I understand, Andy McLeod," said the woman 
 simply. "Tell me." 
 
 Involuntarily the man settled back. His eyes left 
 her face, looked away, beyond. 
 
 "I knew you would," he repeated monotonously. 
 "It was the one thing I was always sure of. I grew 
 to doubt everything else, to doubt myself, to ques- 
 tion God; but you you I never doubted you, 
 Mary. I knew that when the time came, when I 
 saw you, when I could talk as I'm talking now, 
 you'd understand." 
 
 "Yes." The woman was working swiftly and 
 more swiftly. A trace of colour was on her cheek 
 likewise now; but in his abstraction the man did 
 not notice. "But you were speaking of what you 
 had planned for the future," she suggested. "Tell 
 me." 
 
 "That's so, I wandered." McLeod had 
 dropped back into his old attitude, his fingers again 
 deep amid the turf. "It seems so good to be here 
 with you, with some one to whom I can say things." 
 As suddenly as he had aroused the fire had left him. 
 His rounded shoulder sagged listlessly, wearily. 
 "Seems as though there never was such green grass 
 as this before," he digressed absently, "such green 
 trees, such oh, it's good, good!" 
 
 Shade by shade, as they had moved more swiftly,
 
 A Flicker on the Hearth 39 
 
 the woman's hands slowed, until finally the work 
 was abandoned. Her eyes lifted until they rested 
 upon the man's face, held there unfalteringly. 
 
 "Your old partner, Sidney Stone, is here now, has 
 been back four years. Did you know that?" she 
 asked suddenly. 
 
 McLeod was not looking at her, apparently did 
 not hear. 
 
 The woman waited a minute, two. Her eyes did 
 not change nor did she move by so much as a 
 muscle. 
 
 "Sidney Stone is back. Have you seen him?" she 
 repeated. 
 
 This time the man aroused, his wandering look 
 returned. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he apologised. 
 
 For the third time Mary Temple repeated the 
 query; without a trace of annoyance, steadily, 
 directly. 
 
 Responsive, just for a second, the old fire re- 
 turned to the man's eyes. Just for an instant the 
 shoulders squared; then as suddenly it died and 
 his eyes dropped. 
 
 "Yes, I knew he was back. I have seen him," he 
 said. 
 
 "You have seen him, you say?" 
 
 "Yes the first night." 
 
 "And he's still here?" 
 
 "Yes," again.
 
 40 The Quest Eternal 
 
 One of the hands in the woman's lap tightened, 
 closed cruelly upon the needle in her work; but she 
 did not notice. 
 
 "You mean that you're going to permit him to 
 remain here, Andy McLeod?" 
 
 The man did not answer nor did he look up. 
 
 "Tell me please. I have the right to know." 
 
 "I told him he could stay." 
 
 Silence fell, a tense silence, a terrible silence to the 
 man. He did not glance up, for long he did not 
 stir; yet as certainly as though he had done so he 
 knew his companion was still looking at him, 
 studying him, reading as from an open book the 
 depth of his humiliation, the extent of his fall. 
 She gave no hint of the fact, she uttered no sound; 
 yet he knew. The thing was taking place, was 
 coming to pass. He, Andrew McLeod, was being 
 judged and found wanting. He, Andrew Mc- 
 Leod, who had spoken so bravely a few minutes 
 before, was being discovered for the coward he 
 was. The suggestion, the knowledge was torture; 
 yet he was helpless. For a moment he tried to 
 brave it out, to affect unconsciousness, indifference ; 
 but it was useless. Telltale, his face shaded scarlet, 
 grew burning hot. He bit at his lips to keep them 
 from trembling. The fingers on his knees tightened 
 until they grew white. Second by second, struggle 
 against it as he might, he felt his self-command 
 slipping from him. He wanted to glance up,
 
 A Flicker on the Hearth 41 
 
 wanted to say something in self-defence, but he 
 could not. And still the silence lasted, still 
 
 "Mary!" The end of endurance had come, the 
 crushing straw had fallen. "Mary, don't! In 
 pity don't!" 
 
 A pause as of one awakening, then: "Don't what, 
 please?" 
 
 "Look at me that way. I can't bear it." 
 
 A moment again there was silence, inaction; then 
 of a sudden, without explanation or apology, Mary 
 Temple arose. 
 
 "Come, please," she said; and silently, without a 
 backward glance, as when she had emerged, she led 
 the way within the house.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 INSTINCT, THE UNCONQUERABLE 
 
 STRAIGHT through the kitchen to the little front 
 room where they had first sat Mary Temple led the 
 way, and as before, with the telltale shuffle, the 
 man followed. Beside her own chair the woman 
 sat down and with a gesture indicated her com- 
 panion's place opposite. Once seated she did not 
 move again. Another woman would have found 
 inactivity intolerable, impossible, could no more 
 have sat there motionless as she sat than she could 
 have stopped the beating of her own heart; but 
 Mary Temple was not another but herself. For 
 another long space she remained so, gazing with 
 unseeing eyes out of the window. Unconsciously 
 she had rolled her work into a tight little ball. 
 Out of doors the needle had pricked her viciously 
 and minute by minute a spot, glaring red against 
 the white of the muslin, was spreading from the 
 wound ; but of it likewise she was unconscious. Far 
 and away beyond trivial circumstance, trivial action, 
 was Mary Temple now. As never before the man, 
 her companion, was at last to see her as she truly 
 was. Looking at that red blot gathering bit by bit 
 he realised the fact to finality. Of a sudden the
 
 Instinct, the Unconquerable 43 
 
 veneer of conventional forbearance, conventional 
 impassivity, which experience like a mask had 
 formed about her was down. Back of it the real 
 Mary Temple, vital, natural, dominantly earnest, 
 stood revealed. It was this Mary Temple who sat 
 there, so motionless, gazing out the tiny paned win- 
 dow into the nothingness beyond. It was this same 
 Mary Temple who at last, still without a motion, 
 began speaking. 
 
 "Andy McLeod," she said, "I didn't mean to hurt 
 you out there, I don't wish to hurt you now ; but the 
 time has come for us to have an understanding, to 
 find out things as they are and meet them frankly." 
 Deliberately, steadily she turned until they were 
 facing, held him so. "First of all I have a question 
 to ask you; not unkindly nor in criticism, but be- 
 cause it is my right. You tell me that with your 
 memory of the past, in spite of the part that Sidney 
 Stone played therein, you have told him he could 
 stay here ; in other words, you have pardoned him. 
 Again you tell me that you are going to fight for a 
 place which you have lost; fight until you win, 
 fight for a lifetime if necessary. Those two state- 
 ments do not conform. I don't need to tell you 
 this. You know it yourself. I ask you now to 
 tell me which you meant. Don't try to make them 
 agree. You can't do so. Don't attempt to 
 delude yourself or me. Tell me, please, which is 
 true."
 
 44 The Quest Eternal 
 
 She was silent, and in his place the man sat staring 
 her back. In swiftly changing cycle the previous 
 mood, the mood of justification had passed. The 
 moment was too big for dissimulation, for artifice. 
 Yet for some reason he did not answer. Not that 
 he was afraid to answer. He was no longer afraid 
 nor ashamed; but as he sat there looking at her, 
 as the moments flew, another incentive, another 
 thought, bigger than all else, big enough to em- 
 brace the universe, had forced all others aside. 
 This it was that held him now in its grip. This it 
 was that made him forget. 
 
 Just perceptibly at last his companion stirred. 
 She moistened her lips. "I'm waiting; tell me, 
 please," she repeated. 
 
 "Mary Temple," digressed the man abruptly, "I 
 love you." 
 
 Swift as thought a trace of flame spran~ to the 
 woman's face, but otherwise she gave no s : gn that 
 she had heard. 
 
 "I'm still waiting," she repeated for t* ~ r - second 
 time. 
 
 "I tell you I love you," reiterated the w- Densely; 
 "I, a gaol bird; I, Andrew McLeo ' n orn-out 
 convict, who haven't a thing on Cod's errth to 
 recommend me or to offer you, I who 
 
 "Don't yet." Dominant, insistent the woman 
 cut him short. She leaned toward him compel- 
 lingly. "I tell you I must know things as they are,
 
 Instinct, the Unconquerable 4$ 
 
 you must tell me. Don't evade my question. An- 
 swer me." 
 
 A moment and a moment only the man met her 
 look; then his eyes dropped. 
 
 "You're right, Mary, in saying an answer is your 
 due," he admitted dully. "I didn't mean to evade 
 it, though I forgot that you had asked the ques- 
 tion." Involuntarily, impotently, one work-hard- 
 ened hand caressed its mate; the fingers lingering 
 absently upon the callous spots in the palm. "I 
 didn't mean to pretend that I'm something that I'm 
 not either, Mary. When I told you of what I was 
 going to do, when I spoke of fighting, I thought 
 I meant it; but nevertheless I realise now that I 
 was only dreaming. I'll never fight again, Mary, 
 never if I were to live a century. The fight is all 
 out of me. They wore it out of me up there on 
 the hill, bit by bit. It took a long time, but they 
 won at last. There's no use pretending otherwise, 
 for it's so, and I know it's so." The voice halted. 
 The head with its sprinkling of grey bent lower 
 and lower. "Whatever I was once, Mary, the 
 fact remains that now I am beaten." 
 
 Not in a muscle did the woman stir nor did she 
 utter a sound. Just for a second the man's gaze 
 lifted, saw her so; then his eyes dropped again as 
 before. 
 
 "I know what you think, what you can't help 
 thinking, Mary," he drifted on. "You despise me.
 
 46 The Quest Eternal 
 
 I would have done the same myself once, for I 
 couldn't have understood." The hands halted in 
 their aimless movement, locked tight. "No one 
 who has not one's self been in Hell can wholly 
 understand. It isn't the physical labour, although 
 that is hard enough, which breaks us, nor the cheap 
 food, nor the monotony; but the eternal dogging 
 subserviency. Every month of the year, every 
 week of the month, every day of the week, every 
 hour of the day, every minute of the hour, every 
 second of the minute we're under surveillance, un- 
 der command. It dogs our every action by day, it 
 dominates every dream by night. It eats into us 
 consciously, against our wills, in spite of us. In 
 time its influence becomes a part of us; as involun- 
 tary as the beating of our own hearts. We know 
 it is coming to pass and still we can't help it. Like 
 slow paralysis we're helpless against it. It's this 
 that breaks us, Mary, this unending obedience to 
 an irresistible dominating force. At first we rebel; 
 but eventually we lose the power of rebellion. We 
 become like water: we merely flow under pressure. 
 It's this which no one who has not been there can 
 understand; but it's the end and inevitable. It's 
 what happened to me. Bit by bit, from before 
 our very eyes, it steals our nerve. Then at last it's 
 satisfied and lets us go; for then at last we are 
 beaten." 
 Silence fell again, but not for long. Of a sudden
 
 Instinct, the Unconquerable 47 
 
 the man looked up, not fearfully as before but de- 
 liberately and of choice. 
 
 "Do you understand why it is that I myself will 
 never fight again?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," said the other, "I understand." 
 
 The man looked at her direct, cruelly direct. 
 
 "Nevertheless you despise me." 
 
 The woman did not answer. 
 
 "Tell me, please, Mary," insisted the other. "I 
 too wish to know the worst. Tell me, do you 
 despise me?" 
 
 "No." There was no hesitation this time, no dis- 
 simulation. "It's not that. I God have mercy 
 on us both, Andy McLeod I only pity you 1" 
 
 "Only pity, Mary?" Swift as thought the man 
 leaned forward, his breath came quickly. "Don't 
 you feel more than pity, nothing more?" 
 
 A second they looked into each other's eyes, a 
 second while each read the other's very soul; then 
 as before the woman looked away, out the window 
 with the tiny panes. 
 
 "I can't seem to misunderstand, Andy," she said 
 gently. "I know only too well what you mean and 
 I wish I could answer you differently; but it's 
 better for us both to know the truth. I'm 
 afraid there is only pity in what I feel for you, 
 Andy man." 
 
 "But I I love you, Mary," said the other desper- 
 ately. "You're all I've got left in the world, all,
 
 48 The Quest Eternal 
 
 all I Doesn't that mean something to you? Tell 
 me, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Yes. It means a great deal." 
 
 "And pity will grow into something closer. I 
 know it. I'll make it do so. I don't you believe 
 me, Mary?" 
 
 "I don't know, Andy. I can't lie to you or to my- 
 self. I don't know." 
 
 A moment longer the man sat so, staring at her, 
 groping for words, for inspiration; then wearily, 
 almost listlessly, he leaned back in his place. 
 
 "I won't bother you much more, Mary," he said 
 dully. "I've made you trouble enough, too much, 
 already." Absently, as before, his hands began 
 their nervous, caressing movement. "Circumstances 
 have been against us both. In beating me they 
 drew you down too, because because we stood 
 together once. It's unjust, horribly unjust, but it's 
 life and we can't help it now." Of a sudden his 
 hands ceased their erratic motion. Like the woman 
 herself he looked away, away far into the future, 
 into the unknown. His voice grew fuller, almost 
 vibrant. "There's just one thing though that I 
 must tell you ; for it's the only hope, the only am- 
 bition they didn't succeed in beating out of me up 
 there in Hell. It's this, Mary. Our life that we 
 live here ourselves isn't the only part that counts. 
 The life that any one person lives one's self isn't 
 all that counts. It's merely a link in a long chain.
 
 Instinct, the Unconquerable 49 
 
 The motive that prompted my desire to do some- 
 thing in the world, that made me fight so long as I 
 could, will go on and on no one can tell how far. 
 Temporarily it is dormant, passive; because I am 
 beaten, cannot carry it farther. But it won't end 
 with me. It shan't. This was the one ray of light 
 they left me up there, the one ambition they couldn't 
 throttle." Abruptly his eyes left the unknown, 
 fastened themselves upon his companion's face ; not 
 diffidently or with shame, but with an intensity that 
 was compelling, a confidence that would not be de- 
 nied or shaken. "It is this which I say I must tell 
 you, Mary Temple," he said tensely, "because it 
 concerns not only me but us both. We are no longer 
 children; but man and woman who know life and 
 have sounded our innermost souls. You and I have 
 lost in the game: I directly, you through me. 
 Whether or no I was at fault it is useless to argue 
 now. Things are so and we are facing them. But 
 the name of McLeod shall mean something yet. 
 It is the best that nature offers us, Mary, the best 
 when all is said that could be offered; for " he 
 looked her deep, the words came slowly, cumula- 
 tively, insistent, "for I love you, Mary Temple, 
 and you, if you do not care so much for me in re- 
 turn, are nevertheless a woman!" A moment he 
 halted but his eyes did not drop. "You asked me 
 for the truth and I have spoken. Don't you believe 
 me at last, Mary?"
 
 $o The Quest Eternal 
 
 The woman was still looking, looking out the 
 window with the tiny panes. Even yet she did not 
 stir; but her face had softened miraculously in those 
 last moments, and despite her will her eyes glistened 
 brightly. 
 
 "Yes, Andy," she said, "I believe now." 
 
 "And " of a sudden the man's tongue was halt- 
 ing and uncertain "you understand all that my 
 solution means, you understand everything?" 
 
 At last the woman's guard was down. Like the 
 man himself, words, adequate words, would not 
 come. 
 
 "Yes, Andy," she repeated, "I understand every- 
 thing. It was, is, the solution of the future I had 
 anticipated my own as well as yours. I was only 
 
 afraid that you, that you oh, Andy! Andy!" 
 ***** 
 
 It was a prosaic wedding a pitifully prosaic 
 wedding. It was unannounced. It passed without 
 comment in a single local paper. When, on the 
 second morning following, the clerk of courts at 
 the county building came to begin his work for the 
 day he found two people waiting for him in the 
 corridor. It was a hot morning and the official was 
 late. As he unlocked the door he apologised for his 
 tardiness perfunctorily; but neither of his visitors 
 seemed to be listening, to be aware that he had 
 spoken. Within the office, he tossed the coat that he 
 had been carrying into a convenient chair and lit
 
 Instinct, the Unconquerable 51 
 
 a cigar. He was human and after his former ex- 
 perience did not ask permission to do either. Once 
 at his desk he looked up inquiring]^; then without 
 a word drew a blank license from a pigeonhole and 
 dipped his pen. 
 
 "I'll take the information if you please," he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "Andrew McLeod is my name," said the man in 
 waiting, repressedly. 
 
 "Age?" 
 
 "Thirty-nine." 
 
 The writer made the entry, paused meaningly. 
 
 "Mary Temple," responded the woman simply. 
 "Thirty-six." 
 
 The pen scratched industriously over the sheet and 
 ended with a flourish. A dollar changed owner- 
 ship. 
 
 "I suppose we will need witnesses," commented 
 the prospective groom as he fumbled the paper in 
 his hands. 
 
 "You're going to be married here, are you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'll see if the judge is in." 
 
 A trail of smoke indicated the way as the clerk 
 crossed the corridor and, without form of knock- 
 ing, entered at a door lettered "County Judge." 
 Docile, in the silence which had accompanied their 
 every movement, the man and the woman followed, 
 stood face to face before the magistrate.
 
 52 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "Want to be married, eh?" comprehended the lat- 
 ter professionally ere a word of explanation had 
 been spoken. Like the clerk, he was in his shirt- 
 sleeves and his black string tie was awry. "Swen- 
 son, come here a minute," he digressed suddenly 
 to some one out in the corridor beyond. 
 
 The man addressed, a big-muscled Swede carry- 
 ing a broom and a pail of dampened sawdust, put 
 down the implements of his calling and responded 
 obediently. He had participated on similar occa- 
 sions before and entered familiarly, polishing his 
 hands on a red bandanna methodically in prepara- 
 tion of future need. 
 
 The judge was an old man, old even for his place. 
 He was likewise curious. Adjusting his horn- 
 rimmed glasses to his nose he inspected the appli- 
 cants individually, critically; but without a trace 
 of recognition. 
 
 "All ready," he announced at length. "Step up 
 to the desk, please." 
 
 The bride and the groom complied, stood side by 
 side. The janitor thrust the bandanna back into 
 his pocket and folded his arms expectantly. The 
 clerk moved over to the window and stood smoking 
 meditatively. Silence fell. 
 
 From memory, an oft-refreshed memory, each 
 sentence exploding individually after a mannerism 
 all his own, the magistrate read the marriage cere- 
 mony, barely pausing for the responses, his eye-
 
 Instinct, the L nconquerable 53 
 
 glasses, which had shaken free from his nose at the 
 first period, dangling meantime from their string 
 before him. At the close he sat down and remained 
 tapping the tips of his four fingers against their 
 mates while the two witnesses affixed their signa- 
 tures and departed. Then, elaborately unconscious 
 of the fee which the groom had laid on the desk 
 before him, he returned the pince-nez to his nose 
 and deferentially arose. 
 
 "I would say, Mr. " he consulted the license 
 
 before him "McLeod, that I congratulate you 
 heartily; and that I wish you, Mrs. McLeod, you 
 both in fact, all possible happiness." He bowed 
 elaborately and held the door for them to pass. "I 
 trust I may see you both often in future." 
 
 As when the clerk had offered an apology the pair 
 seemed unconscious that they were being addressed, 
 they made no rejoinder, and the door closed behind 
 them. 
 
 Going through the corridor on their return it was 
 the same. Absently, repressedly the woman led 
 the way; and in total silence, save for his shuffling 
 feet, the man followed. In passing the janitor the 
 latter touched his cap to them deferentially, but 
 neither noticed; and, halting in his work, the Swede 
 leaned on his broom and watched them curiously 
 until they disappeared down the winding marble 
 stairway. 
 
 Not until it was all over, until they stood again
 
 54 The Quest Eternal 
 
 upon the sidewalk outside the exit, until the hot 
 morning sun met them again face to face did the 
 woman weaken, did reality return; then of a sudden 
 she halted and abruptly looked away. Despite her 
 will, despite all effort at repression, two great tears 
 coursed down her cheeks and dropped spattering 
 on the cement before her. 
 
 McLeod shuffled on his feet miserably, impotently. 
 
 "Mary," he pleaded, "what is it that's wrong? 
 Tell me." 
 
 Abruptly as she had halted, the woman started on. 
 She did not deign to wipe her eyes, she offered no 
 explanation. 
 
 "I didn't mean to do so, Andy man," she apolo- 
 gised gently. "I couldn't help it." With an effort 
 that her companion did not realise she smiled. 
 "Forgive me this time, please. It won't happen 
 again," she said.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE LIGHT IN THE DISTANCE 
 
 "You called to see me about that exchange I ad- 
 vertised." Washburn, the real estate man realty 
 agent he styled himself leaned back in his desk 
 chair and glanced perfunctorily at the morning 
 sheet his visitors had handed him by way of intro* 
 duction. He was a dapper young man with a 
 faintly receding chin, carefully shaved, and a but- 
 terfly tie. He adjusted the latter unnecessarily 
 with a well-kept hand. "You did well to answer 
 promptly. That proposition only came to me 
 yesterday, and farm lands nowadays are in great 
 demand." He tossed the paper back on his desk 
 and looked from one of his visitors to the other 
 deliberately. His eyes halted at last on the man. 
 "To save time, just what would you like to know 
 about it?" he suggested. 
 
 "All that you know, please," answered a voice, a 
 woman's voice. 
 
 Washburn looked politely surprised. 
 
 "Well, to begin with, the farm is owned by a man 
 of the name of Olson, Martin Olson." He paused 
 to introduce a time-honoured witticism. "I gather 
 he's a Scandinavian. It's about one hundred and
 
 56 The Quest Eternal 
 
 fifty miles northwest of here, close to the river the 
 Missouri I mean, of course. The railway station 
 nearest it is twenty-eight miles south." Washburn 
 selected a letter from a pigeonhole and folded it 
 flat on his knee. "Olson writes that his son Hans 
 and his daughter Alma must go to school. He 
 doesn't say it that way exactly, but that's what he 
 means. The farm is a quarter section free of incum- 
 brance. It's improved and has all implements neces- 
 sary for cultivation. He has some stock. Among the 
 latter he says are five jersey red pigs, imported from 
 Iowa, and a shorthorn bull calf a year old. He pro- 
 poses to trade the place as it stands for a house and 
 lot here in town with a piazza and space for a gar- 
 den. He says he's just threshed his wheat and it 
 went twenty-one bushels to the acre." Washburn 
 closed the sheet carefully and tossed it among the lit- 
 ter on his desk. "That's all I know," he completed, 
 "except that in conclusion he says he's in a 'hurry 
 up' to make the change before school opens." 
 
 The listening man looked up for the first time. 
 
 "You've seen the place yourself, have you, Mr. 
 Washburn?" he asked. 
 
 "No, but I know the country. It's new and wild 
 now, of course, and you'll find neighbours a bit 
 scarce; but it's all right." 
 
 The woman was not listening. 
 
 "My house has a big porch and the lot runs clear 
 back to the alley," she remarked.
 
 The Light in the Distance 57 
 
 Washburn began to exhibit decided interest. 
 
 "Where is the place, if I may ask?" he inquired 
 curtly. 
 
 For answer the woman glanced at the man, her 
 companion, and without a word he drew an abstract 
 from his pocket and presented it for inspection. 
 
 Washburn ran over the sheets with a practised 
 eye and thereafter sat staring up at the ceiling med- 
 itatively. McLeod glanced at him once surrepti- 
 tiously, then his gaze dropped as before, to his feet. 
 The woman merely remained as before, her hands 
 passive in her lap, waiting. 
 
 "I've been trying to place the property," com- 
 mented the agent at last. "I recall it now. There 
 are some elms in the front yard and a clump of hard 
 maples in the rear." He looked from one to the 
 other of his visitors. "It's my business to remem- 
 ber all these things, you know." Again his eyes 
 halted on the woman inquiringly. r 'The house is a 
 bit old-fashioned as I remember." 
 
 "Yes. When my father built it was one of the 
 first in the city." The folded hands changed posi- 
 tion absently. "They were rather proud of it here 
 in those days." 
 
 The agent's eyes returned to the ceiling. He 
 scowled thoughtfully. Another period of silence, 
 wherein McLeod shifted restlessly, passed. Then 
 Washburn straightened decisively. 
 
 "Do you wish to make the exchange?" he asked 
 directly.
 
 58 The Quest Eternal 
 
 The woman did not hesitate. 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 McLeod glanced up uncertainly. The agent 
 noticed that his great hands were trembling. 
 
 "Wouldn't it be better to think it over a little be- 
 fore we decide, Mary?" he hesitated. 
 
 Washburn stiffened. 
 
 "I personally guarantee that the facts are as I 
 stated, if you are in doubt on that score," he con- 
 tinued shortly. 
 
 Again the woman seemed unconscious that either 
 had spoken. 
 
 "I'd prefer, if you can, that you'd make the 
 deal at once, to-day." She smiled the smile of 
 one who does so in self-defence. "I've lived in 
 that house for a long time and one has memories. 
 I'd rather it was all over with." She arose as she 
 spoke. "Would you mind letting me know when 
 you have the papers all ready?" 
 
 For once the agent forgot himself, became almost 
 human. 
 
 "You've considered what it means to go away out 
 there, away from every one, Mrs. McLeod?" 
 
 A moment there was silence, an awkward silence ; 
 then the smile was repeated. 
 
 "Yes, I we, I mean have considered every- 
 thing," she said. At the door she turned. The 
 smile repeated itself. "You see I'm in training al- 
 ready," she added. "I'm fully as far, if not farther,
 
 The Light in the Distance 59 
 
 than you say we are going from a neighbour as it 
 is." A second longer the look held, steady, tolerant, 
 wholly unaffected; then ere the man could answer, 
 ere the tragedy that lurked beneath the smile 
 peeped forth, she was gone. 
 
 It was the last night ere the shifting, the final 
 space of the old life. Save the few imperative 
 necessities, the household goods were packed and 
 awaiting the coming of the drayman in the early 
 morning. Semi-darkness, kindly and intimate, 
 wrapped in the earth, obscured the unsightly details 
 of the dismantled house, softened, idealised every- 
 thing. 
 
 On the dimly lighted front porch of the old 
 Temple house, the piazza which Scandinavian Mar- 
 tin Olson coveted, now his own, the work and bustle 
 of the day over, sat the man and the woman. 
 Though they had been married less than a week, 
 though to all intent they were as free from outside 
 interference as if in the heart of a deserted city, 
 they were well apart; as far separate as two merely 
 good friends would sit. Moreover, for long, 
 neither thought of nor cared how long, no word 
 had been spoken. Minute by minute as they sat 
 there the present had drifted into the past; but of 
 the present likewise neither thought nor cared. 
 Verily in a world apart from the thousands of other
 
 60 The Quest Eternal 
 
 humans who surrounded them within the radius of 
 a mile, were these two people. A past they had, a 
 past they could not escape, and a future; but a 
 present, the present in which the other multitude 
 lived, was absent from their scheme of things. And, 
 strange to say, of this lack they were unconscious. 
 Like children before a cherished holiday, the future, 
 big with promise, monopolised their horizon, 
 bounded them in. Like children, to it first, when 
 finally they spoke, they referred. 
 
 "We're going to be very happy out there after a 
 bit," began the man absently. He was not looking 
 at his companion but out, out over the heart of the 
 city, where the electric lights were reflected against 
 the sky. "Here we'd never forget the past, never 
 get away from it; but there, where we'll never see 
 a face we've ever seen before, there's a chance that 
 we may in time forget almost." 
 
 "Yes," echoed the woman. "I think in time we 
 may forget almost." 
 
 The man passed his stiffened hand over his shaven 
 chin absently. His eyes still clung to that bright 
 spot on the sky as though there were a fascination in 
 its location. 
 
 "Time moves very swiftly anywhere in this 
 world," he voiced slowly, "and it'll move even 
 more rapidly out there." His hands went palm to 
 palm. His fingers locked. U A generation seems a 
 long time when we consider it in advance ; but when
 
 The Light in the Distance 61 
 
 it's past and we're back here it'll be like yesterday, 
 we'll wonder where it's gone." 
 
 While he was speaking, on the corner of the block 
 adjoining, an arclight had of a sudden sputtered 
 into being. Simultaneously, out of the shadow, the 
 figures, the faces, of the two humans there on the 
 wide old-fashioned porch came forth, stood re- 
 vealed each to the other. 
 
 "Yes," echoed the woman for the second time, 
 "as I look back the past generation, back to the 
 time when we were both young, I wonder, almost, 
 where the time has gone." 
 
 In the new glow the reflection on the distant sky 
 had vanished and the man's gaze shifted to his 
 companion's face. Abruptly, unconsciously, his 
 thoughts altered likewise; retreated until they 
 halted far back amid the past. 
 
 "Do you remember the first time we ever sat here 
 together, you and I, Mary?" he asked intimately. 
 "You were just home from college, where I'd 
 found you, and I'd called here to see you and to 
 meet your father." 
 
 "Yes," said the woman, "I remember." 
 
 "It was my second year at the university, your 
 first," reminisced the man, "and we were both bub- 
 bling with our plans that night. You recall that 
 too, Mary?" 
 
 "Yes," again monotonously. "Father sat up with 
 us listening to all we had to say, until midnight or
 
 62 The Quest Eternal 
 
 later." She paused. Her voice lowered uncon- 
 sciously. "He expected everything of me, of us 
 both, in those days. He'd sacrificed more than I 
 realised then to send me away." 
 
 "Yes, I know," hurried the man preventingly. "I 
 learned too, afterward." 
 
 But if the woman noticed she did not understand. 
 
 "He'd been a worker with his hands all his life 
 and his father before him," she wandered on. "He 
 knew what it was to be the under dog. He'd never 
 known anything else. But when mother died, out 
 there on the farm, he made up his mind that with 
 me it should be different. That's ,vhy he came here 
 and built this house so I'd have a chance. That's 
 why he sent me away to the university so Fd 
 have a better chance. Somehow I never thought of 
 the reason then, took everything for granted; but 
 meanwhile he was back here working and scrimp- 
 ing alone and and " The narrative halted. 
 The voice that had been speaking swifter and more 
 swiftly became again slow and even, too even. "And 
 it was all such a useless sacrifice, such a pathetically 
 useless sacrifice." 
 
 "No, not useless," said the man quickly. "You 
 forget." 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "I had a mother who worked as hard for me as 
 your father did for you," hurried the speaker, 
 "harder for a man can work better alone than a
 
 The Light in the Distance 63 
 
 woman, and she wore out quicker; long before I 
 even knew you. But her life wasn't wasted, Mary; 
 you and I both came from the bottom and we've 
 gone back to the place from which we came; but 
 nevertheless there's nothing been wasted." He 
 looked at his companion intently, fixedly. The 
 blaze of the fanatic, of the human with one super- 
 lative unconquerable conviction, crept into his face, 
 made it fairly glow. "If I believed that my 
 mother's life, your father's, our own, had all, as 
 you say, been useless I'd curse God and die; but I 
 can't believe it. I won't yet. It would be unthink- 
 able, monstrous. It's against all the laws of na- 
 ture." His hand went mechanically to his neck- 
 band, lingered there as though he were choking. 
 "Because a river has been dammed up doesn't mean 
 that it can never flow again. Because electric 
 energy is locked in a storage battery doesn't mean 
 that it will always be latent. The water's there 
 and the power's there. You can't destroy them. 
 Some time that water will flow again and some 
 time that electricity will move things." He halted 
 for breath. He had forgotten himself and in so 
 doing had become fairly eloquent. "It's the same 
 with you and me. We're both passive now. Cir- 
 cumstances, unavoidable circumstances, have made 
 us so. But the something within us, that I got 
 from my mother and you got from your father, the 
 something indescribable that moves the world, is
 
 64 The Quest Eternal 
 
 not dead. It's only waiting to be released. Until 
 then no one can see it, no one can know. But when 
 that time of release comes, when you and I who 
 have given it release see for ourselves, then 
 then " abruptly the voice halted. Of a sudden 
 self-consciousness had returned and the fluent tongue 
 became clumsy. "Then you will believe with me 
 that, after all, nothing has been wasted, not a single 
 sacrifice," he finished dully. 
 
 For long, for very long, there was silence. Not 
 once while the man was speaking had the woman 
 stirred. She did not do so now. As darkness had 
 gathered, in contrast the zone of light from the arc 
 on the corner had intensified. In it her face stood 
 out distinct and clear, cruelly clear; yet she made 
 no effort to avoid it, no effort at concealment. She 
 merely sat there while the minutes passed, while the 
 man, her companion, waited all but breathlessly for 
 a hint of the something he knew was taking place in 
 her brain. Yet he got no clew. Neither then nor 
 ever afterward did he detect a clew. Once, watch- 
 ing, he saw her eyes grow moist and simultaneously 
 the straight line of her lip grew even firmer; but 
 that was all. Not until, hopeless at last, the watcher 
 had turned away, until with the old restlessness his 
 big, ungainly hands had taken up their aimless 
 caress, did she speak. Then of a sudden she turned 
 facing him, remained so until reluctantly, his glance 
 returned.
 
 The Light in the Distance 65 
 
 "Can you still pray, Andy?" she asked then 
 abruptly. 
 
 The work-crippled hands halted in their motion. 
 The fingers locked. 
 
 "God knows," he answered all but unconsciously. 
 "I have ceased to try." 
 
 Just for a second the woman hesitated. The fine 
 lines with which middle age had marked her face 
 had of a sudden grown deep. The great weary 
 circles beneath her eyes had darkened, intensified. 
 
 "Do so now, then, Andy man," she admonished. 
 "Pray God, as you never prayed before, that our 
 child, if such is to be, may be a boy." With a repe- 
 tition of the other's own motion one hand went to 
 her throat, worked at the collar of her gown. 
 "Pray for this and for this alone, Andy McLeod," 
 she repeated passionately. "Pray, I say." 
 
 A moment she sat there so, throbbingly tense, 
 terribly vital; then, as suddenly as had come that 
 glimpse of the hidden places of her soul, the mood 
 passed. Even as the man looked she became again 
 the normal, passive Mary McLeod known of the 
 world. It was this Mary McLeod who arose de- 
 liberately and started methodically for the door. 
 
 "It's getting late and to-morrow will be a busy 
 day," she said monotonously. "Come, Andy;" 
 and as it was ever to be in the lives of these two, she 
 led the way within.
 
 CH'APTER V 
 
 FATE, THE SATIRIST 
 
 A MAN who might be forty-five or sixty, ill-dressed, 
 stoop-shouldered, with a fringe of snow-white hair 
 encircling a battered black felt hat, and a small 
 boy of eight years, who limped painfully as he 
 walked, moved slowly up the street from the livery 
 barn at the edge of town toward the main business 
 section beyond. Though it was not yet nine o'clock 
 they had already come from far out in the country, 
 twenty-eight miles to be exact, and for them the 
 day was well under way. As they came the man's 
 eyes were on the plank sidewalk at his feet; but out 
 of big blue eyes the boy inspected everything, the 
 buildings, the signs, the few human beings they met, 
 with the frank candour of unaccustomed childhood, 
 with more a microscopic minuteness which noth- 
 ing escaped. 
 
 Not until they had reached the principal square 
 of the town and a two-story stone building, "The 
 Cedar Co. Bank," stood imposingly before them, 
 did the man pause, and then merely to assure him- 
 self of his location. Satisfied on that score he 
 took the boy by the hand and, selecting a back 
 stairway plentifully besprinkled with pine whit-
 
 Fate, the Satirist 67 
 
 tlings of the day before, led the way to the floor 
 above. 
 
 The hallway they entered was ill-kept and greyish 
 brown with the dust of prairie. No human being 
 or live thing was visible. At the end of the corridor 
 a battered tin sign displayed a hand with index 
 finger extended and, following the direction indi- 
 cated, one saw a door on which were three words : 
 
 SAM TREADWAY, 
 Physician. 
 
 Before the doorway the man halted, drawing a 
 long breath after the manner of one unused to meet- 
 ing strangers. Then, lifting his hand, he knocked. 
 
 There was no answer nor response of any kind 
 and the man repeated the knock, louder than be- 
 fore. 
 
 Again there was no response; but this time, with 
 a sudden summoning of resolution, the man tried 
 the door, found it unlocked and, opening it wider, 
 stepped diffidently within. As he did so, from the 
 opposite side of the room, menacing, challenging, 
 there sounded a voice : 
 
 "What the devil do you want?" it screamed; and, 
 almost without interruption, added: "What the 
 devil do you want, I say?" 
 
 As though he had received a buffet on the face the 
 man halted. The little boy felt the big hand that 
 held his own tighten until the grip was painful;
 
 68 The Quest Eternal 
 
 then while they stood there so, ere the man grasped 
 the situation, the same voice sounded anew in a 
 hoarse croaking laugh that ended in a phrase un- 
 mistakable : "Got a cracker with you ? Polly wants 
 a cracker." 
 
 As suddenly as he had gone tense the man relaxed. 
 The boy's hand was released. 
 
 "It's only a parrot, Robbie," he commented re- 
 lievedly. "It startled me for a moment, though." 
 From the main room which they had entered, an- 
 other, with door ajar, led to the left, and he looked 
 at it absently. "I guess the doctor isn't down yet." 
 
 A moment passed, an uncertain moment then: 
 "Up you mean to say," echoed another voice, drily, 
 an unmistakably human voice this time. It came 
 from the darkened room into which the visitor had 
 peered. "Come in. What's wrong?" 
 
 Again the man halted irresolutely. Involuntarily 
 his eyes went to the gaudy coloured bird that stood 
 testing its beak on the wires of its cage. 
 
 "Come in, neighbour," repeated the voice, a bit 
 testily this time. "I'm not dangerous. I was up all 
 night and just got to bed a bit ago is all. Anybody 
 sick?" 
 
 Reluctantly, again unconsciously taking the boy 
 by the hand, the man obeyed. Before the bed he 
 halted, peering hesitatingly through the semi-dark- 
 ness at the man upon it. 
 
 "No, there isn't anybody sick exactly," he ex-
 
 Fate, the Satirist 69 
 
 plained. "I just wanted to talk to you a bit about 
 the boy here." 
 
 Treadway lifted upon his elbows heavily and 
 shook his other arm free of the cover. 
 
 "All right," he said, "I'm listening." 
 
 "I was a doctor once myself," commented the 
 visitor haltingly, "but for certain reasons I ceased 
 practising some time ago." He released his com- 
 panion's hand and shuffled on his feet nervously. 
 "For that reason I felt as though I ought to have 
 the opinion of some one else, some one in active 
 practice," he completed. 
 
 No comment, but the eyes of the man in the bed 
 were inspecting the lad critically from crown to sole. 
 At the latter they halted. 
 
 "The city, Sioux Ridge, was my location," drifted 
 on the visitor, "only in those days it wasn't much of 
 a city, it was just beginning to grow nicely, 
 and " 
 
 "Lame, are you, son?" interrupted Treadway 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Little stiff in the left, eh?" 
 
 "Club foot papa says it is, sir," methodically. 
 
 "Bobby, Tom " 
 
 "Robert is my name, Robert McLeod." 
 
 "All right, Rob. Throw up the shade there at 
 the window for a bit, will you?" 
 
 In silence the lad obeyed, his father standing mean-
 
 jo The Quest Eternal 
 
 time as at first, apparently unconscious of the slight, 
 of the interruption. In equal silence he returned 
 and at a nod from the man in the bed removed 
 the misshapen boot and held up the foot for in- 
 spection. 
 
 Following came another silence, one longer than 
 before; the silence of a court room preceding a 
 sentence. Seemingly roughly, but nevertheless 
 deftly, the big doctor's free hand passed here and 
 there over the clumsy little foot; and keeping pace 
 with its motion followed the blue eyes of the small 
 boy. Once, interrupting, from the room adjoin- 
 ing sounded the rough call of the bird Polly, pro- 
 claiming his need of refreshment, and at the sound 
 McLeod started as he had done at the first chal- 
 lenge; but that was all. Two minutes the inspec- 
 tion took, three perhaps; then with the same word- 
 less nod Treadway indicated release and the stock- 
 ing and the misshapen shoe on the floor resumed 
 their place. Through it all, save with his free 
 hand, the doctor had not stirred. His great shaggy 
 head still lay supported upon his elbow; his eyes 
 merely followed the motions of the lad at work. 
 Not until the boy had finished, until, again erect, 
 he stood by his father's side was a word spoken, and 
 that a single interrogation. 
 
 "Well " suggested Treadway. 
 
 For the third time McLeod started. His hand 
 sought that of the boy, more in than for protection.
 
 Fate, the Satirist 71 
 
 "I we wanted your opinion," he halted. "I 
 thought that you being in active practice " 
 
 "Just what did you wish to know ?" 
 
 The face of McLeod reddened. Then with a 
 trace of his old dignity he straightened. 
 
 "I came to see if you would operate," he said 
 directly. 
 
 For the space of half a minute the two men in- 
 spected each other. The time seemed longer. 
 
 "Before I answer," said Treadway at last, "I'd 
 like to ask you a question. Why hasn't the opera- 
 tion been performed before?" 
 
 "Why?" Again the hand that held that of the 
 little boy in its grip had tightened until the pres- 
 sure was painful; but this time the eyes held their 
 ground. "For the same reason that I quit active 
 practice years ago : because I've lost my nerve." 
 
 "And there were no other surgeons in the coun- 
 try?" 
 
 McLeod's eyes dropped. His lips moved but he 
 said nothing. 
 
 "I repeat," pressed Treadway, "you have just re- 
 membered that there are other surgeons in prac- 
 tice?" 
 
 For a moment McLeod stood irresolute, waver- 
 ing; then swiftly, jerkily he led the little boy to the 
 outer room, closed the door behind him, and re- 
 turned. 
 
 "I know what you think," he said swiftly, "and I
 
 72 The Quest Eternal 
 
 have no defence to offer at least none that you'd 
 understand." He swallowed nervously as though 
 his tongue were painfully dry. "I'd hoped every- 
 thing for that boy, planned everything for him. 
 My own life was a failure. It seemed I had 
 nothing else to live for but hope, and when he was 
 born that way, born " The speaker sat down 
 on the nearest chair, staring straight before him. 
 "As I said, I don't suppose you'll understand. No 
 one can understand who's not been there; but I lost 
 faith in everything, ceased to care. I simply 
 drifted." 
 
 "And now?" Just perceptibly Treadway had 
 lifted in his place. "And now?" he repeated. 
 
 "He's old enough to begin to think for himself. 
 He wanted to come." 
 
 "Just one thing more." The questioner's face was 
 a blank. "His mother didn't she insist?" 
 
 Once again in that interrupted conversation there 
 was a pause; but this time shorter. Breaking it 
 McLeod arose, his work-stiffened fingers inter- 
 locked. 
 
 "His mother," he said simply, "was thirty-seven 
 when he was born. She never lived to see him." 
 
 For the first time in those last minutes Treadway's 
 eyes left his companion, sought the window and the 
 blue of the prairie sky beyond. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said at last and the 
 voice was almost gentle. He pushed his hair back
 
 Fate, the Satirist 73 
 
 from his forehead restlessly. "To answer your 
 question. An operation is necessary for the boy of 
 course, the sooner the better." 
 
 "Will you take the case?" asked McLeod. 
 
 "No." Treadway was still looking out the win- 
 dow, looking away deliberately. "The case has been 
 delayed too long for me, I don't have experience 
 enough here to attempt it. It needs a man who has 
 practice in that sort of thing right along. I'd take 
 him to the city if I were you." 
 
 "To the city I" McLeod had come a step nearer 
 and stood looking down at the man in the bed 
 fixedly, almost with a petition. "I'm poor, poor 
 as an emigrant. I haven't money to do that." 
 
 Still Treadway did not glance up, still almost sym- 
 pathetically lay looking away. 
 
 "You wouldn't be charged much, if you explained 
 that you were in practice once yourself," he refuted. 
 "Anyhow, you must do it some way." 
 
 McLeod walked across the room fair into the 
 other man's range of vision, his bent shoulders out- 
 lined against the light. 
 
 "Who" his face was hid "who is it you have in 
 mind there?" he asked. 
 
 Treadway listened in the fulness of knowledge. 
 Though his companion did not know, he too had 
 once practiced in the prairie metropolis. 
 
 "I think you know without my telling you," he 
 said at last gently. "There's only one man who's
 
 74 The Quest Eternal 
 
 made a specialty and a success of surgery there: 
 Sidney Stone!" 
 
 Down the darkened hallway went McLeod, the 
 boy's hand locked tight in his own, his eyes looking 
 neither to the right nor to the left. Just outside 
 the threshold he stumbled, as one who could not 
 see clearly, over the door mat; but went on uncon- 
 scious of the interruption. On the corner was the 
 village post-office with its accustomed crowd of 
 idling spectators and where he was wont to stop ; but 
 he went past without a pause. As ever, observant, 
 the boy held back and tugged at the leading hand. 
 
 "Don't you want the mail, papa ?" he questioned. 
 
 "No." The voice was almost rough. "I'm in a 
 hurry. I want to get home." 
 
 Down the street they went, a pathetic, almost 
 tragic, pair. Before the single general store and 
 its long row of hitching posts, their nearest neigh- 
 bour, a raw-boned Norwegian of the name of Swen- 
 son, made a motion to halt them; but, ignoring the 
 obvious intent, McLeod led on. Not while they 
 were within the limits of the town was another 
 word spoken, not until the bare prairie road, a 
 narrow ribbon of brown stretching straight as a taut 
 cord into the distance before them, was steadily un- 
 winding was there an interruption. Then, of a 
 sudden, without preface, the boy spoke.
 
 Fate, the Satirist 75 
 
 "What did the doctor say, papa?" he asked di- 
 rectly. 
 
 The reins in McLeod's hands twitched, but he 
 said nothing. 
 
 "Tell me, please, papa," persisted the boy. "I 
 want to know." 
 
 The man clucked at the team, although they were 
 already going at a goodly pace. 
 
 "Treadway said that he didn't want anything to 
 do with the case," he answered shortly. Again he 
 clucked at the horses, unconsciously, nervously. 
 "He was sorry but he didn't want anything to do 
 with the case." 
 
 For a moment there was silence, wherein the little 
 figure by the man's side grew tense, peculiarly tense 
 for a child. Then with a sudden motion he turned, 
 until he looked his father fair in the face. 
 
 "Did he say there was nothing to be done, that I 
 was to be lame always?" he asked. 
 
 Again McLeod seemed not to hear, seemed 
 wrapped in his own thoughts; but the hands that 
 held the reins were still unnaturally rigid. 
 
 'Deliberately, distinctly, without a tremor or a 
 shifting of the uncannily mature gaze the boy re- 
 peated the question. 
 
 "Say ?" It was useless to dissimulate longer. "I 
 told you what he said." Real anger, not feigned, 
 sounded in the hurried voice. "You'll drive me 
 mad with your eternal questioning. I tell you he
 
 76 The Quest Eternal 
 
 didn't want anything to do with the case. He said 
 so." 
 
 A mile they went, another, and another and on 
 until five had reeled beneath the wheels of their 
 wagon. About them was the beauty of early sum- 
 mer, the wonder of prairie distance; but neither 
 noticed, neither cared. Just beneath the surface, 
 thinly veiled, there was war between those two that 
 day; seemingly an unequal warfare because one bel- 
 ligerent was a child and the other a man. Yet age 
 is not always measured by years and to one who 
 knew that slender blue-eyed boy the battle was far 
 from won. For this was not the first time that his 
 will and that of his father had met. But a part of 
 the story had McLeod told the other doctor that 
 morning, a mere suggestion in fact. Tragedy 
 seemed ever lurking in the life of this man, ever 
 appearing as a part of it; but never had it come 
 with such a crushing force as on the day when this 
 his child of hope was born. Words are futile things, 
 a mockery at times. To describe that day of long 
 ago with words were cheap and paltry. It was the 
 crushing straw, the last drop of bitterness in a cup 
 full already to overflowing. Had the mother lived, 
 Andrew McLeod might have accepted this unex- 
 pected curse of partial deformity, recovered his 
 hope and trust. Had the boy been a normal child 
 he might, would, have adjusted himself to the loss, 
 the sacrifice. But that the two came together,
 
 Fate, the Satirist 77 
 
 tragedy heaped upon tragedy the bitterness of 
 that hour never passed from his mind, never grew 
 less. At first he had fought against it, had fought 
 honestly; but the effort was hopeless. The aggra- 
 vation, the offence, the final dictum of fate was ever 
 before his eyes. In his better moments he cursed 
 himself then as now for his weakness, his injustice; 
 but he could not overcome it. Bit by bit he had 
 grown to hate the sight of this his own child; hate 
 it for that which the child was not to blame, hate 
 it as a personification of the dogging adverse fate 
 that pursued him, that crushed him down and 
 down. Tragic beyond all tragedy it was ; but never- 
 theless it was so. Day by day, year by year they 
 had lived side by side ; yet like a spectre the knowl- 
 edge of this hate had ever stood separative between 
 them: a living curse that would go to the elder's 
 grave, a thing to which the passage of time but 
 added bitterness. 
 
 Thus they rode across the prairie that day, thus 
 for the silent five miles; then, abruptly as before, 
 came another question. 
 
 "Haven't you told me again and again, papa," 
 the lad was looking his father direct, "that I could 
 be helped, could be made like other boys?" 
 
 The new attack was like salt on an open wound. 
 McLeod writhed. 
 
 "Don't talk to me now," he objected roughly. 
 "I've been annoyed enough to-day."
 
 78 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "But I want to be sure, now." 
 
 "Yes, then. I thought so when I said it." 
 
 "And the doctor to-day said different, said there 
 was no hope ?" 
 
 Like the baited human that he was McLeod 
 flashed about. 
 
 "I forbid you to ask me another question," 
 he flamed. He halted, his whole body trem- 
 bling "I've told you twice already what he 
 said." 
 
 Jog, jog sounded the horses' feet to the accom- 
 paniment of whirring wheels. Beside the road a 
 meadow lark trilled its five-toned lay, and again. 
 Here and there, darting, circling, passing back and 
 forth, winged a troupe of swallow, following the 
 moving team, reaping a harvest on the insect life 
 startled into motion. For a time the boy was silent, 
 watching them apparently; but in appearance 
 only. Of a sudden his gaze fastened upon his 
 father with a look in which there was no fear, which 
 would not be denied, terrible in its testimony of sus- 
 picion. 
 
 "Papa," he questioned slowly, "have you told me 
 all that Dr. Treadway said, have you told every- 
 thing?" 
 
 With a sound perilously near a curse McLeod 
 turned. He met his son's eyes. He tried to speak; 
 but no words came. A minute passed so. Then 
 again the boy spoke; awful words he could not
 
 Fate, the Satirist 79 
 
 prevent, harvest of months of doubt and bitterness, 
 rebellion open at last. 
 
 "Papa," he said, "I believe you hate me, that you 
 don't care if I am a cripple always, don't care what 
 becomes of me." He did not drop his look, did not 
 pause. "I believe you're hiding something now, 
 something I have a right to know." Of a sudden 
 his tiny hand dropped on the reins, drew tight until 
 the team stopped there on the prairie. "Tell me 
 what it is. I will know. If you don't I'll go back 
 and find out for myself. I will know, I say." 
 
 A moment they sat there so, in a climax greater 
 than the drama, intense as life, vivid thereafter in 
 the memory of both participants as a lightning 
 flash. Then of a sudden, as ever transpired in 
 times of crisis these later years, the will of Andrew 
 McLeod weakened ; weakened until he grew fairly 
 piteous. 
 
 "No" of a sudden he had found tongue "don't 
 go back," he pleaded, "don't. I'll tell you every- 
 thing." He had started the team anew, almost 
 desperately. "I meant to tell you later, but I'll tell 
 you now." 
 
 Word for word he did so, concealing nothing, 
 forgetting nothing. Swiftly he spoke, relentlessly, 
 sparing not himself; and without an interruption 
 the boy listened. "That's all," he said at last. 
 "It's only a matter of money. We must get that 
 first, must save it. We'll begin at once, this very
 
 8o The Quest Eternal 
 
 day. We can and we will we will." He was 
 silent. 
 
 Listening through it all the boy had not spoken a 
 word. Now at the close he did not. Time passed. 
 Monotonously again the miles flowed beneath the 
 droning wheels. Not until from a dot in the dis- 
 tance their own small house became plain to view, 
 until they were all but there was there an interrup- 
 tion. Then in the same unchildlike voice the boy 
 spoke : 
 
 "I'm sorry I had to do as I did, papa," he said 
 slowly. "I don't mean to bother you. I I'm 
 sorry." 
 
 But the father said never a word.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A NEW ACTOR 
 
 "PLEASE, boy, may I have some of them radishes?" 
 
 The time was afternoon, late afternoon, with the 
 sun below the distant horizon line; the place the 
 McLeod garden, just off the main road, ten rods 
 from the house; the one addressed a slender tow- 
 headed boy of eight in baggy cut-down overalls 
 and one suspender. The latter looked up from his 
 work, his hands covered with dirt and green with 
 the stain of weeds against which he had been wag- 
 ing warfare. 
 
 "What did you say you wanted?" he asked de- 
 liberately, though he had heard plainly. 
 
 The question was repeated and meantime the ad- 
 dressed took stock of the applicant. It was why 
 he had asked the question, instead of showing 
 surprise at the unexpected interruption. What he 
 saw was a small dark girl of about his own age, 
 skinny to the point of emaciation, tattered of dress, 
 with great black eyes peering through a tangle of 
 equally black hair. He could not well feign igno- 
 rance again, therefore he temporised. 
 
 "What do you want them for?" he asked. 
 
 "To throw at the birds, of course." The small
 
 82 The Quest Eternal 
 
 girl grimaced wickedly. "What do folks usually 
 want radishes for?" 
 
 Again the boy showed an indication of disturbed 
 composure. 
 
 "I meant who do you want them for?" he said 
 calmly. 
 
 "My folks," laconically. "They sent me. They're 
 unloading out there in the road." 
 
 The boy looked as indicated and understood. Out 
 in the section road, drawn just outside the beaten 
 trail, was a typical prairie schooner; indelibly 
 marked of sun and rain, battered and disreputable. 
 A frowsy-looking woman had alighted and already 
 had a camp-fire aglow; a thin column of smoke 
 therefrom ascended straight as a taut line into the 
 still air. Around her swarmed an uncertain number 
 of smaller editions of herself, varying only in size 
 and comparative disreputability. Near at hand a 
 man with an unshaven face was picketing for the 
 night a bony team. All in all a glance told their 
 story. The land was full of their kind at this time : 
 prairie derelicts, incapables from older settled lands, 
 parasites on the openly hospitable frontier osten- 
 sibly prospective settlers. The boy's glance came 
 back. 
 
 "Help yourself," he granted equally laconically. 
 
 But instead of complying the girl folded her lean 
 arms after the manner of one who was master, or 
 mistress rather, of the situation.
 
 A New Actor 83 
 
 "Gem'men," she mouthed the word adorably, 
 "gem'men should wait on ladies always," she cor- 
 rected. 
 
 Clumsily, with a limp he made no effort to conceal, 
 of which except at times he had grown unconscious, 
 the boy started to comply, when of a sudden the 
 girl's folded arms opened. 
 
 "'Scuse me," she apologised quickly, penitently; 
 and, swifter than the other, did the work herself. 
 "I didn't know you were lame." 
 
 As though he had been struck the boy stiffened, 
 his face went red; then slowly shaded back to nor- 
 mal tan. But what he was about to say remains 
 unrecorded, for that moment the woman in the road 
 lifted her voice. 
 
 "Peg!" she called, and without pausing in her 
 work repeated: "Peg!" 
 
 Instead of answering the girl stood looking at her 
 companion, her gypsy dark eyes penitent. 
 
 "I'm sorry I said that about gem'men," she re- 
 tracted. "I didn't mean to to hurt you." 
 
 "Was that your mother calling?" digressed the 
 boy obviously. 
 
 "No," and the penitent eyes grew to sudden fierce- 
 ness. "I ain't got no mother." 
 
 "That's your father then," deduced the boy and 
 nodding toward the unshaven. 
 
 "Peg!" interrupted the woman again shrilly. 
 "Come here. I want you."
 
 84 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "No," ignored the girl rebelliously. "He ain't 
 my father neither. He married my mother, but 
 she's dead. My pa's dead too." She shrugged her 
 skinny shoulders at the group in the road. "I just 
 go along with them, but I don't belong to neither 
 particularly. I don't belong to nobody." 
 
 "Peg Stanton 1" It was a man's voice this time, 
 surly, domineering, unmistakable. "Peg Stanton, 
 quit chinning that boy and come here this minute 
 
 or " The voice ended in a rumbling that 
 
 might or might not have been profanity. The boy 
 gathered that it was. 
 
 "I think maybe you'd better go," he suggested 
 mildly. 
 
 "I was just going to say," continued the girl from 
 the point of interruption, "that I hate them and 
 they know it." With studied deliberation she 
 turned. "I'm going to run away soon," she said 
 over her shoulder. "I've done it before." 
 
 Slowly, defiantly slowly, the small bit of feminin- 
 ity made her way back to the wagon, where, motion- 
 less now, the woman stood awaiting her coming. 
 The man too had paused and stood with one hand 
 on the canvas schooner-flap, watching. Trouble 
 was in the air, that Robert McLeod saw, and he too 
 remained still in his place, a motionless spectator. 
 
 Slowly, still defiantly slowly, so deliberately that it 
 took full two minutes to cover those two rods inter- 
 vening, went the girl, and meantime not another
 
 A New Actor 85 
 
 figure in the drama stirred. Staring, in anticipa- 
 tion, the group of children about the woman be- 
 came likewise inert, ominously still. Up to this 
 group at last came the little girl, her head held 
 high, the bunch of radishes she had gathered a 
 glaring red spot against the dull background of her 
 faded frock, up until she was within arm's reach 
 of the waiting one. Then of a sudden something 
 happened. Like a flash one of the woman's hands 
 shot out, caught the child with the open palm fair 
 across the mouth with a slap that was distinctly 
 heard. 
 
 "There," said a voice squeaky high with anger, 
 "take that, spunky." Her hand drew back anew, 
 menacingly, unmistakably. "And " 
 
 But the boy waited for no more. With a bound 
 and an odd little hopping motion of his crippled 
 foot he made for the scene of disturbance, his face 
 a sudden flame, the blood of him tingling as he had 
 never felt it tingle before, the garden patch that was 
 his pride suffering at every leap. "Stop that!" he 
 
 shrilled. "You you " He stumbled, choked, 
 
 caught himself and rushed on. "You you stop 
 that, I say." 
 
 Surprised, uncertain, the woman hesitated, her 
 hand dropped; and, panting with the effort, crim- 
 son-faced the rescuer drew up in the roadway. 
 Merely a comedy it all was, but it seemed to him the 
 moment of destiny. Halting, his small fists doubled
 
 86 The Quest Eternal 
 
 hard, his breathing a labour, he waited ; and for the 
 second time in that brief period something, a thing 
 that was not comedy, transpired. Previously the 
 small girl had not stirred, not when the woman 
 struck her, not when she would have struck her 
 again; but now of a sudden she turned and, so 
 strange is life, it was not a child but a woman like- 
 wise that looked from her black eyes. 
 
 "Go back, boy," she said evenly. "I'm 'bliged to 
 you, but I can take care of myself." She turned 
 facing the woman, met her eye to eye. "I dare you 
 to touch me again," she challenged. "I dare you." 
 
 A moment they all stood there so, dominate con- 
 sciously or unconsciously to her will. Then, equally 
 deliberately, for the third time, the defiance was 
 repeated. 
 
 "I dare you to touch me" her glance included 
 the man this time "either of you. I dare you !" 
 
 Still for a moment no one stirred, still she held 
 the mastery. Then as suddenly the strain relaxed. 
 She laughed ; not childishly but with terrible, evolved 
 bitterness. 
 
 "You're cowards, both of you," she goaded. 
 
 "You're afraid, afraid as death and of me!" 
 ***** 
 
 It was some time between evening and morning. 
 The earth and sky were black; black as the syn- 
 onym, black with the inky blackness beneath a 
 clouded vault on a night when there is no moon.
 
 A New Aetor 87 
 
 From the dead sleep of childhood the little boy 
 found himself suddenly awakened, completely and 
 instantly, with the intense alertness of the suddenly 
 conscious. His bed was in the lean-to at the side of 
 the house proper. Across the thin partition, in the 
 main building, his father slept, was sleeping now. 
 Preternaturally sensitive, the boy could hear his 
 regular snoring and the hissing puff that followed 
 each breath. There was a window in the lean-to, 
 a window at this time of the year minus even glass; 
 but, save by memory, on this night he could not 
 have told its location. For all the light which en- 
 tered therein it might have been solid masonry. 
 Waking, he had instinctively risen in bed; but listen- 
 ing now, except for the regular muffled breathing, 
 the place, the surrounding earth, was still as the 
 grave. Yet he was not deceived. From some- 
 where, he knew not where, a voice had whispered. 
 Though he had been asleep this he knew. Why it 
 had done so, or from where, he could only conjec- 
 ture; but that it would repeat itself he did not 
 doubt. Waiting, scarcely breathing, his lips un- 
 consciously parted, the better to hear, he remained 
 motionless, staring into the night. 
 
 A minute passed, or longer; then suddenly, out of 
 
 the blackness, the call was repeated ; a call distinct 
 
 this time, shrilly whispered, penetrating. 
 
 "Boy," it insisted, "wake up quick. I want you." 
 
 With one bound the small listener was out of bed
 
 88 The Quest Eternal 
 
 and feeling his way across the room. No need to 
 tell him who was the possessor of that voice. The 
 simple word "boy" was unmistakable. No need 
 likewise to tell him from whence it came. There 
 was but one opening from without and that the 
 open window. Gingerly he made his way, by the 
 sense of feeling alone, step by step. He was half 
 across the room, the cooler breath of night, enter- 
 ing at the open casement, on his face, when came 
 disaster. In his hurry he had forgotten something 
 and that thing was important. Child's clothes 
 to wear by day he had few. For night he had none. 
 Now as usual he was encased in one of his father's 
 cast-off nightshirts. It was this which brought him 
 to grief. Over the long dragging tails he stumbled 
 and, before he could catch his balance, fell. 
 
 Ere he could rise, ere he had again got his bear- 
 ings, there was a rustle and a tearing of coarse cloth 
 where a nail had done its work. Then, through 
 the open window, like a tossed ball, shot another 
 small piece of humanity; and a second later the two 
 children were lying in a tangled heap upon the lean- 
 to floor. Simultaneously a voice sounded, a voice 
 close to his ear. 
 
 "Sh-h," it whispered. "Don't make a sound. 
 He's looking for me." 
 
 For minutes they lay so, still as young animals when 
 the enemy is abroad and very near at hand ; so still 
 that they could hear the beating of their own hearts.
 
 A New Actor 89 
 
 The lean-to was loosely built, and through the 
 cracks between the boards, almost as the girl had 
 spoken, there sifted the rays of a distant light. Sec- 
 ond by second it drew nearer and nearer ; and, as the 
 glow brightened, there sounded the steps of some one 
 walking. On it came until the filtered light was suf- 
 ficient for the children to see each other's faces; 
 then, when the boy felt certain the searcher 
 had seen his companion enter and would appear 
 the next instant at the open window, of a sud- 
 den the rays began slanting swiftly across the 
 floor, and rapidly as it had brightened, the glow 
 faded. 
 
 Not until the last ray had vanished, until the place 
 was again black as in the beginning and the sound 
 of the footsteps had ceased, did the boy move. 
 Then clumsily he got to his feet and, reaching down 
 where he had seen the small girl's hand, he lifted 
 her beside him. He had been busy thinking those 
 last minutes and he wasted no time on superfluities. 
 
 "Why are you running away?" he whispered. 
 
 Silently, not as a child, but as one old in knowl- 
 edge of life, the other drew the hand which she 
 held in her own, up her small arms and across her 
 shoulders. The dress was very thin and in spite of 
 himself the boy caught his breath at what he felt. 
 
 "That's one reason," she whispered tensely. 
 "They did it to-night, after you left, between 
 them." She did not cry, but her words came chok-
 
 90 The Quest Eternal 
 
 ing, quick. "They didn't dare while it was light, 
 while I could look at them; but afterward, when the 
 fire was out and it was bedtime " She caught 
 herself shortly, with an effort. "But that isn't the 
 real reason. I had meant to leave them to- 
 night anyway. They've been making me steal 
 for them chickens and garden truck and I 
 wouldn't do it any more. That's why they whipped 
 me." 
 
 "And now that you have left " again the 
 questioner was thinking hard. 
 
 "I'll find a place where some one will let me work 
 for my keep or or starve." 
 
 For a moment there was silence. Again the boy 
 was thinking. 
 
 "How did you know I slept here?" he digressed 
 at last, abruptly as before. 
 
 "I peeked while you and your father were at 
 supper. They were watching me to-night, that's 
 how he came to know I was gone and followed me, 
 so quick; and I thought I might want a place to 
 hide." 
 
 For the first time the boy recalled the duties of 
 hospitality and, his companion's hand still in his 
 own, he led the way to the bed and sat down. 
 Though they were very, very old children, prema- 
 turely old, they were still children nevertheless and 
 nestled close to each other in the darkness. 
 
 For a long time, for both were planning now,
 
 A New Actor 91 
 
 there was silence between them, silence over all the 
 earth. It was the girl who spoke at last. 
 
 "What's your name, boy?" she asked suddenly. 
 
 "Robert McLeod." 
 
 "Robert !" For the instant Peg had forgotten her 
 troubles and she mouthed the word disapprovingly. 
 "That's too long. I'm going to call you Bob." 
 Of a sudden she remembered. "I won't have a 
 chance to call you anything for long, though. I'll 
 have to be going pretty soon. He'll be here at the 
 house looking for me as soon as he thinks you folks 
 are up." 
 
 "Aren't you afraid to go away now, afraid of the 
 night, Peg?" asked the boy. 
 
 Had it been light there would have been no need 
 to ask that question. But it was not light. 
 
 "Yes," at last. 
 
 "Have you any idea where you are going?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Again there was a long silence, a silence fraught 
 with meaning, a silence that compassed a decision. 
 
 "Why don't you stay here with us, then?" asked 
 the boy. 
 
 "Oh-h!" whispered Peg; but the hand that still 
 lay within his own trembled. 
 
 The boy understood and his own hand tightened 
 protectingly, decisively. 
 
 "I'll hide you here until the man quits looking. 
 He'll think you've run away for sure after a bit and
 
 92 The Quest Eternal 
 
 give you up. Then you can come out and and 
 stay always." 
 
 "Oh-h!" repeated Peg. That was all. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to stay here?" asked the boy. 
 
 "Like to!" Words failed. "But" a sudden 
 difficulty had appeared on her horizon "but your 
 father?" 
 
 Of a sudden likewise the boy remembered. It was 
 not like him to forget yet he had forgotten. 
 
 "I " there was almost a choke in Peg's voice 
 this time, "I don't believe your father would want 
 me." 
 
 In his short life the boy had not learned to lie and 
 he said nothing. His small hand tightened on the 
 smaller one within his grasp. That was all. 
 
 Silence fell between them ; an intimate silence that 
 took no note of time. Though they did not know 
 it was already nearing morning and while they sat 
 there so, unconscious of the flying minutes, day- 
 break came on apace. Bit by bit the dense darkness 
 all surrounding grew less shadowy. Toward the 
 lean-to wall, where before all was uniform black, 
 now, shade by shade, appeared a greyish square 
 that was the sky beyond the window. Over the 
 earth as a whole, the intense stillness that had 
 wrapped it during the night seemed imperceptibly 
 leaving. Out-of-doors to the east not a suggestion 
 but a definite horizon line appeared. Over it, upon 
 the sky itself, broadened, deepened a tinge of red.
 
 A New Actor 93 
 
 Answering the glow, simultaneous with its appear- 
 ance, startling in its suddenness, unmistakable in its 
 warning, came a call from the McLeod hen-house 
 at the south slope of the barn : the exultant crow of 
 a cock first to awake and announce the coming of 
 day ; and, like an echo, less exultant but convincing 
 its repetition by a mate in a different key. 
 
 Swift as thought, as the return of absent conscious- 
 ness the girl Peg sprang to her feet. 
 
 "Oh, I didn't notice," she whispered. "It's get- 
 ting light. I must be going quick." 
 
 Of a sudden Bob McLeod was erect; but the grip 
 on the little girl's hand did not loosen. Instead it 
 tightened. 
 
 "You aren't going, Peg," he said steadily. They 
 could see each other's faces now and he answered 
 the unspoken question he read. "Papa needn't know 
 until they've gone. Then you will be here and 
 and " his eyes dropped. Unconsciously the grip 
 of his fingers loosened "after a bit he'll learn to 
 like you too." 
 
 This time the girl said nothing; but sympathetic- 
 ally she too looked away. With the leaving of in- 
 timate night, a sudden mutual shyness seemed to 
 have come upon them. A moment it held them 
 speechless, irresolute ; then the practical, never long 
 absent from the queerly matured boy, reasserted 
 itself. 
 
 "Papa'll be up soon, though," he whispered sud-
 
 94 The Quest Eternal 
 
 denly, "and he mustn't see you yet. You must hide 
 somewhere." He glanced about the almost bare 
 room critically, minutely. The solution appeared. 
 "There, under the bed, quick," he warned, for of a 
 sudden the snoring across the partition had ceased; 
 and leading, almost pushing, he bundled the stow- 
 away from sight.
 
 THE GIANT AND THE PYGMY 
 
 ANDREW McLEOD was up but not yet dressed when 
 came the interruption: a mighty rap and a lesser 
 repetition, like an echo on the single cottonwood 
 door. Involuntarily complaisant, forgetful that 
 his feet were still bare, he answered the summons, 
 fumbling with his suspenders on the way. Simul- 
 taneous with the opening of the door, ere an invita- 
 tion had been spoken, one entered. 
 
 "My name's Gordon," announced the newcomer, 
 "and I camped last night out here in the road. 
 Probably you recognise me." He glanced about 
 the room swiftly, with an air of bullying mastery. 
 "I fancy you know without my telling what I came 
 for." 
 
 McLeod was still struggling with his braces. The 
 hand which adjusted them over his rounded shoul- 
 ders trembled. 
 
 "Yes, I recognise you," he hesitated, "but farther 
 than that, what you came for " He halted un- 
 certainly, the sentence unfinished. 
 
 "Don't know, eh?" The inspection of the room 
 ceased, was transferred to its rightful occupant. 
 "Well, then, I'll tell you. I'm looking for my girl I
 
 96 The Quest Eternal 
 
 Peg, we call her. She ran away last night." He 
 had begun swiftly, but now his speech became de- 
 liberate; after the manner of a cat when the mouse 
 is within its power. "I knew very soon after she 
 left last night, and I had a lantern. There was a 
 heavy dew and I followed her easy until I came to 
 the bare place about the house here. Then it quit 
 and I wasn't able to find it going any farther." He 
 halted and looked his companion contemptuously 
 from crown to toe. "Maybe you gather now why 
 I called on you," he completed. 
 
 The braces were adjusted at last and McLeod's 
 hands retreated to his pockets. 
 
 "You think she got in here some way and hid?" 
 he hesitated. 
 
 "Think! I'm not a damn fool. The track came 
 here and quit. She can't fly." 
 
 "But there's only one door and I locked that my- 
 self, before I went to bed." McLeod had become 
 conscious of his bare feet on the rough floor and 
 shifted uneasily. "Besides, I sleep in this room my- 
 self." 
 
 "I've noticed all you say," remarked Gordon sar- 
 castically. 
 
 "She couldn't have come in here without my hear- 
 ing or gotten out and left the door locked, the way 
 it was now," continued McLeod. He looked his 
 big visitor conciliatorily. "You must be mistaken." 
 
 "Mistaken nothing." Gordon's unshaven jaw
 
 The Giant and the Pygmy 97 
 
 settled stubbornly. "I tell you I'm not a damn fool. 
 You can't pull the wool over my eyes. You know 
 where she is right now." 
 
 "You tell me I'm lying to you?" McLeod had 
 stiffened and his hands, released from his pockets, 
 were clasping and unclasping involuntarily. "You 
 insult me in my own house by telling me that?" 
 
 A moment Gordon hesitated. Bully that he was 
 he had not intended going so far. Involuntarily he 
 drew back a step. 
 
 "You're putting it a bit strong," he temporised. 
 "I didn't mean that exactly. I wanted your 
 assurance that you had not seen the girl was 
 all." 
 
 "You have it." McLeod's face was very pale and 
 working jerkily. "I know nothing whatever about 
 your girl either last night or now. Is that suffi- 
 cient?" 
 
 "Perhaps and perhaps not." In measure as the 
 face of the other had whitened that of the speaker 
 had grown dark. It was a quarrel at last, a quarrel 
 with a physical inferior, and he was in his element. 
 "Leastways you won't have any objection to my 
 looking through the house. If you're telling the 
 truth you'll be glad to have it proved." 
 
 A moment again there was silence, wherein 
 McLeod struggled for self-possession; then swiftly, 
 his bare feet pattering on the bare floor, he moved 
 to the door which the other had closed behind him
 
 98 The Quest Eternal 
 
 and swung it wide. "I request you to leave, sir," 
 he said tensely. 
 
 Equally swiftly Gordon turned, suspecting an 
 ambush, moved half way to comply then halted. 
 No one but the same prematurely broken man con- 
 fronted him. Responsive his face shaded darker 
 than before. The great veins in his neck swelled. 
 
 "You request me to leave, do you?" he sneered. 
 "Well I will when I get good and ready. But first 
 I'll find out how big a liar you are." A second he 
 stood so, leering, challenging; then clumping 
 across the room he threw open the door of a closet 
 in one corner and peered within. "I'll find out, I 
 say," he repeated; "and if she's here I'll teach you 
 good and plenty what it means to hide a kid of 
 mine." 
 
 Standing where he was, his hand on the knob of 
 the door, nervously impotent, McLeod watched the 
 other as he went about the inspection. Far from 
 him was thought of his bare feet or the chill of 
 early morning now. Instead the room felt hot and 
 close, so close that he struggled for breath. Since 
 that last request, that last cheap bluff it had proven 
 to be, he had said nothing, done nothing. To save 
 his own self-respect, to avoid this last degradation 
 in his own house he could not. Time after time 
 as the other made his leisurely search he tried ; but 
 each effort ended in failure. Like one in a night- 
 mare he was incapable for the time being of re-
 
 The Giant and the Pygmy 99 
 
 sistance, rendered impotent by his own subervience. 
 Once only, and that when in scowling bravado 
 Gordon had gotten down on his knees to look un- 
 der the table in the corner, had his hands left the 
 knob; and then but for a second. With the other 
 again on his feet, with the scowling, menacing face 
 again turned upon him his courage had ebbed, 
 like a rain-born torrent when the storm is past. 
 Once more in that long series of defeats of the 
 last year he was beaten and he knew he was beaten. 
 Hot as ever burned his anger, his mortal insult; 
 but deeper than this, more overwhelming, was the 
 renewed knowledge of his own incapacity. This 
 it was he felt most now, this that made every other 
 consideration in life, even the sneering face of the 
 intruder, paltry and of little moment. Overwhelm- 
 ing, stifling, the knowledge closed him in, suffocated 
 him. Of a sudden his grip on the door handle 
 loosened loosened though he tried his utmost to 
 retain his grip. Simultaneously the room, the earth 
 without the open door, whirled before his eyes, 
 darkened. Consciousness lapsed. 
 
 How long that black interim lasted he had no way 
 of knowing. Seemingly to him it was long. As a 
 matter of fact it was probably only a minute, min- 
 utes at the most. When again he was conscious 
 that a material world existed it was with an im- 
 pression of dire confusion. The real and the un- 
 real mingling he fancied himself the centre of a
 
 ioo The Quest Eternal 
 
 street fight a brawl the nature of which he 
 was ignorant. He only knew that it had come 
 to pass, that he was prostrate, helpless, that 
 about him were trampling feet, that over him 
 was a great struggling, swaying body, that in his 
 ears was the continuous sound of a mighty voice, 
 obscenely profane. This for a moment his impres- 
 sion, his conviction; then of a sudden, with a flash 
 of swiftly returning consciousness, he was wide 
 awake. Another second thereafter he lay so, as 
 he had dropped, on the floor, unbelieving the testi- 
 mony of his eyes. 
 
 And small wonder; for within that narrow room, 
 in the brief interim of his unconsciousness, a pecu- 
 liar thing had come to pass, a drama that would 
 have been humorous had not the principals therein 
 been so deadly in earnest. For, himself a spectator, 
 he was in the midst of battle none the less real be- 
 cause one belligerent was a giant and the other a 
 pygmy. How it had come about he could not 
 know, he could only guess; but what he saw was 
 this: stumbling erect, writhing, almost helpless 
 was his conqueror of a few minutes ago Gordon 
 the intruder. Fair between his legs, locked in that 
 giant crotch, an arm encircling either pillar and 
 closed like grim death, was his own son Robert 
 McLeod. He still had on the encircling night- 
 gown, swishing with every movement of his big 
 captive and adding to the impediment. His hands
 
 The Giant and the Pygmy 101 
 
 and feet were hid, seemingly fastened to the other 
 like claws. His face at first too was hid; but of a 
 sudden McLeod saw it, very white and unchildlike, 
 the big blue eyes thereof almost black. Then again 
 like a flash it was hid from view and simultaneously 
 a fresh burst of oaths filled the room. That sec- 
 ond McLeod understood. Not merely passive, 
 merely a dead weight was that small demon whose 
 face he had seen. He was biting with all the fero- 
 city of a lesser animal struggling for life, of a 
 human being whose every drop of fighting blood 
 was aroused. 
 
 The audacity, the fearlessness of the example was 
 contagious. From a thing beaten and cowed 
 McLeod felt himself transformed with miracu- 
 lous suddenness into a participant, an aggressor. 
 With a bound he was upon his feet, his fists 
 clenched, the hate of the worm turned in his soul. 
 Without success the big captive was struggling to 
 be free, to get a grip on the menace between his 
 legs. To do so he bent far over and it was the new- 
 comer's chance. With all his force he struck with 
 his fist straight at that cursing face, hit it fair. The 
 impact was intoxication, oblivion. Again and again 
 he struck out, aimlessly now, more often missing 
 than striking true, like a boy in his first battle. The 
 lust of combat gripped him : the feel of a conqueror 
 was his. As Gordon stumbled back in retreat he 
 followed. They reached the doorway and still
 
 102 The Quest Eternal 
 
 he followed. The enemy was beaten now, seeking 
 only escape and his temples throbbed at the knowl- 
 edge. 
 
 "Let go, Bob," he directed breathlessly, "he's 
 got enough. Let him go," and as in the doorway 
 itself the other man finally broke free, McLeod's 
 bent shoulders squared in the magnanimity of vic- 
 tory. 
 
 "Out of this quick, or or " 
 
 But Gordon was gone, the corner of the house 
 around which he had fled hiding him from view. 
 
 A moment McLeod stood there so, one hand sup- 
 porting himself on the casement, the morning sun 
 shining full on his face, the glow of combat still 
 upon him; then, swiftly as ever to him came the 
 reaction from exaltation, reality returned. Bit by 
 bit the glow left his face. His tense muscles re- 
 laxed. Of a sudden he knew himself for the char- 
 latan he was, the mock hero of opera-bouffe. 
 
 "Bob" he hesitated. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "Bob" repeated. 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 Despite the man's will his colour mounted with 
 the shame of a boy caught red-handed pilfering he 
 turned to meet his son's eyes. 
 
 But not a soul was to be seen. Like Gordon him- 
 self, the boy too was gone. 
 
 *****
 
 The Giant and the Pygmy 103 
 
 "Papa !" It was night at last, night following a 
 long, long day for three people whose lives were 
 approaching a climax. "Papa, haven't you ever 
 wished you had another child, a girl?" 
 
 McLeod was sitting in the doorway, his bent 
 shoulders touching the frame at a single spot like 
 a bow, his great hands locked over his knees. He 
 did not glance up at the question, apparently at 
 first he did not hear. At last, however, he stirred 
 preparatorily. He knew his son too well not to do 
 so. "Why?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 "I just wanted to know." The small boy was 
 curled up in a heap opposite, all but his misshapen 
 foot, which was thrust out awkwardly before him. 
 "Most people do have more than one child. Mr. 
 Swenson you know has six. Don't you wish some- 
 times you had a daughter?" 
 
 McLeod stirred restlessly, after the manner of 
 one who is physically too weary to answer. 
 
 "I don't know," he said reluctantly. "I never 
 think about it." 
 
 "Won't you do so now, then, and tell me?" per- 
 sisted the boy. 
 
 Again the man's silence spoke his disapproval 
 and again at last he acquiesced. 
 
 "Why should I want a daughter?" he queried in 
 turn unwillingly. 
 
 "For a lot of reasons," quickly. "To run er- 
 rands, and make garden, and laugh, and sing." A
 
 104 The Quest Eternal 
 
 halt for breath. "And when she got older to keep 
 house and cook and do a lot of things." 
 
 McLeod made no comment. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to have a daughter to do that, 
 papa?" 
 
 "You do most of it for me, don't you?" parried 
 the man. 
 
 "Some, yes. But I can't run very fast you know. 
 I'm lame and she wouldn't be lame. She'd be 
 pretty to look at too, papa. She'd walk straight and 
 when you went to town or anywhere you wouldn't 
 need to be ashamed of her." As he drew the 
 imaginary picture the boy had sat up straighter and 
 straighten In sympathy his eyes had brightened 
 until they fairly glowed. "Wouldn't you like such 
 a daughter as that?" he repeated. 
 
 Countering, defensive, McLeod shifted. With an 
 effort his eyes met those of his son. 
 
 "What makes you fancy I'm ashamed of you?" 
 he asked almost harshly. 
 
 "Aren't you ashamed of me, papa?" directly. 
 
 Impaled on his own query, unable to lie in the face 
 of that candid gaze, McLeod hesitated. Against 
 his will his colour rose. 
 
 "It isn't your fault that you're lame," he di- 
 gressed. 
 
 "Yes, I now that, but just the same it annoys you." 
 On the surface the comment was matter of fact, 
 but beneath was a definite purpose which was
 
 The Giant and the Pygmy 105 
 
 being driven definitely home. "I think you'd get 
 so you'd like a daughter if you had one. You'd be 
 proud of her." 
 
 Again McLeod said nothing. Ordinarily slow of 
 brain the apathy of physical weariness made him 
 slower than usual. He merely returned to his 
 original position, staring blankly out into the star- 
 light. 
 
 For a moment the boy too was silent, gazing at his 
 father with the relentless intensity of one prema- 
 turely old in knowledge of life. But for a moment 
 only. Then deliberately, methodically he took up 
 the inquisition from the point at which it had been 
 dropped. 
 
 "Haven't you thought yet, papa?" he asked. 
 
 In genuine irritation this time the man turned in 
 his place. Something near a curse formed on his 
 lips; then, ere it was spoken, as suddenly died. 
 There was no fear in the face that met his so 
 steadily. 
 
 "Why do you ask, Bob?" he returned at last. 
 
 "Because I've thought often you wished so and 
 I'd like to know." 
 
 "And why do you want to know?" 
 
 "I'll tell you, papa, when you answer me." 
 
 But even yet McLeod could not find words. The 
 old, old hesitation, lack of self-confidence at time of 
 crisis prevented. That the wish upermost in his 
 mind, the wish that had followed him day and
 
 io6 The Quest Eternal 
 
 night for years, had been spoken he could not deny ; 
 yet to speak it openly, most of all to admit it to this 
 small human who never forgot 
 
 "I'm waiting, papa," pressed the boy. 
 
 To hesitate longer was impossible. To lie with 
 those steady eyes looking him through impossible 
 likewise. 
 
 "Yes," he answered. Then as realisation of the 
 admission swept over him his own eyes dropped. 
 "God help me, yes," he repeated. 
 
 For an instant they both sat so, within arm's 
 reach but very, very far apart. Then quietly, 
 steadily the boy got to his feet. 
 
 "I thought so, papa," he said. Standing so, very 
 straight, very quiet he looked down at the huddled 
 figure below. "I'll tell you now, if you wish, why 
 I wanted to know. Do you wish me to, papa?" 
 
 "Yes," said the man. 
 
 "It was because I'm going to give you a daughter 
 in my place." 
 
 Wondering, believing almost the impossible, the 
 man glanced up. That something, something un- 
 expected, was about to occur he could not doubt; 
 but what it was even yet he had not the slightest 
 inkling. He looked at the small silent figure pecu- 
 liarly, a question in his gaze. 
 
 "What do you mean, Bob?" he demanded. 
 
 "I meant what I said, papa, exactly. I'm a 
 cripple and and don't count. I'm going to give
 
 The Giant and the Pygmy 107 
 
 you a daughter in my place." Just for a second 
 he halted, tragic in his earnestness and his lack of 
 pose; then steadily he turned until he was facing 
 the darkened doorway leading to the lean-to. 
 "Peg!" he called. 
 
 For a moment there was no answer, but out of the 
 darkness came a suggestion of some one moving. 
 
 "Peg," he repeated in the same voice, "come." 
 
 This time there was response. From out the door- 
 way, timidly, almost fearfully, there came the figure 
 of a small brown girl; a figure that halted in the 
 light, and advanced a step, and again halted ready 
 to flee. 
 
 "Come, Peg," repeated the boy for the last time. 
 "Don't be afraid. You're to stay." Deliberately 
 as he had done everything he took her hand and led 
 her forward, until she stood in the exact place he 
 had himself before occupied. "You are to stay 
 always." Then, ere the man had recovered from 
 his surprise, ere another word had been spoken, 
 before either of the other two realised what he had 
 done, he released her hand and vanished out of 
 doors into the night.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A SUGGESTION OF FUTURE 
 
 BIT by bit early summer wore on. For long the 
 wheat fields had been green green with an inten- 
 sity which was its own simile. But previously, 
 side by side with them, separating, alternating, like 
 miniature states upon the map of a continent, were 
 patches of dark brown : the darker and browner far 
 by contrast. Yet not by method was this so. 
 Chance it was that guided, chance and the universal 
 law of crop rotation. For corn fields of the future 
 lay just beneath that evenly harrowed mono- 
 chrome; corn fields that at the time Peg Stanton 
 arrived on the scene had barely begun to germinate. 
 But now, with the passing of early summer, all this 
 had altered. Simultaneously, almost, throughout 
 the broad prairie country there had appeared upon 
 the brown blots a suggestion of colour. Not os- 
 tentatiously, but stealthily, they had come; so 
 stealthily that though watched unceasingly day and 
 night, the moment of arrival could not have been 
 told. Yet, having come, they grew daily, hourly; 
 and as they did so, upon the dark background, 
 again, simultaneously, all about, geometrical figures 
 came into being. For each tiny dot of colour was
 
 A Suggestion of Future 109 
 
 in line with each other tiny dot; checked with un- 
 failing accuracy, with mechanical precision. Merely 
 a diagram, an inanimate drawing to illustrate a 
 principle in the abstract, they seemed at first. But 
 by day as they grew this impression in turn faded. 
 Marvellous to one who knew not the energy of the 
 sun in those short northern summers, that growth 
 would have seemed. Under it, as by magic, the 
 suggestion of geometrical figures vanished. Under 
 it likewise the map of a continent in miniature dis- 
 appeared. No longer was the earth mottled brown 
 and green, but of the latter, universal from horizon 
 to horizon. Look where one might on the broad 
 surface of prairie and two colours, and two alone, 
 were visible. Beneath the watcher's feet, all about, 
 was the sea of green. Overhead, likewise all en- 
 folding, all encompassing, was the arch of blue. 
 Together they comprised the universe. Where 
 they met no man could tell. Uniting them, divid- 
 ing them, far in the infinite distance, was a vague 
 intangible haze; but where it began to shade blue 
 or to shade green no man could tell. For it was 
 summer now, no longer early summer nor yet mid- 
 summer, but summer itself and this was the token 
 by which it was known. 
 
 Thus time passed; a week so, two perhaps and 
 again in the change of seasons a new phenomenon 
 overspread the face of earth. Like the change of 
 the corn fields from brown to green its approach
 
 iio The Quest Eternal 
 
 was stealthy ; as stealthy and irresistible as fate the 
 inexorable. Watching, expectant, the observer first 
 caught a suggestion of the alteration on the billowy 
 mass of the wheat fields. Looking at them en masse 
 their colour was less vivid than of yore; duller, 
 lighter, as though faded beneath the sun's level 
 rays. At first this was a mere suggestion, an altera- 
 tion too slight to prove by other test than memory 
 alone. Yet that there was change, though he could 
 not prove the fact, the watcher knew. Once more 
 days dragged by, sultry days, when the breath of 
 prairie ceased to stir and the nights were so warm 
 that dew refused to gather. And all the time the 
 hand of nature was busily at work spreading the new 
 tone, that was unmistakable now, with prodigal 
 strokes. Unbelievably swiftly the work progressed 
 unceasingly, until before the watcher's eyes the 
 miracle was complete. For again upon the surface 
 of the plain the continental map with blocks of 
 colour alternating had come into being. Only now 
 the tint of the individual states was reversed. 
 Where before was the brown of corn fields were 
 now vivid unbroken blots of green; and separating 
 them, filling in the interstices, was not brown but 
 gold the shading of the wheat ripened at last for 
 the harvest. 
 
 And coincident with its arrival appeared other 
 phenomena typical of the new season. Earth was 
 no longer silent now. Instead, a myriad tiny voices
 
 A Suggestion of Future 1 1 1 
 
 had come into being ; born as was the alteration of 
 colour, of heat universal. By day the voice of the 
 cicada purred and rasped and droned in mighty 
 unceasing chorus. Only at nightfall the concert 
 ceased and then to be taken up by other voices, 
 equally countless, equally tireless: the rasp and 
 drone and boom of crickets that filled in every 
 moment of the short hours of sleep and uncon- 
 sciously merged at break of day into the old-new 
 symphony of the cicada orchestra resumed. Verily 
 by its own token was each season known. As the 
 eye had identified summer, now the ear marked 
 midsummer its successor. For the season of teem- 
 ing insect life had come; the season when night and 
 day were alike its playtime, its paradise ; the season 
 when perhaps of all it is best to be alive; the brief 
 space ere the pendulum of time halts on its return 
 cycle toward winter's frost: not summer but mid- 
 summer whose symbol is life ubiquitous. 
 
 Thus in her laboratory, nature, the master work- 
 man, delved; and beneath her, man, her imitator, 
 followed her lead. In winter she toiled not at all 
 but rested; and the prairie farmer, her most inti- 
 mate disciple, rested likewise. With the coming 
 of spring and thawing suns, the new cycle was re- 
 sumed; and reluctantly the imitator, man, re- 
 sponded. At first her hours of labour were but few 
 in a day; and those of man were short likewise. 
 Gradually day by day as frost retreated the daily
 
 112 The Quest Eternal 
 
 task augmented; and equally gradually man's hours 
 of work lengthened to conform. Thus began the 
 speeding up, growing swifter and swifter, more 
 and more intense, as week by week the sun climbed 
 toward the zenith. Steadily the hours of labour 
 encroached upon the hours of rest. From being far 
 in the minority they grew equal, passed the boun- 
 dary and went on: twelve, fourteen, sixteen, 
 eighteen at last, out of the twenty-four. To the 
 limit of physical endurance they went: endurance 
 of man and of beast. Beyond this point, relentless 
 as the necessity seemed, relentlessly as the pace- 
 maker nature led the way, they could not go. 
 Ripening grain waited not for man; but man could 
 only work his limit. And these passing days of 
 midsummer were his limit. In them the gradual 
 process of speeding up reached its climax. From 
 sun to sun and beyond, prairie man and woman and 
 child were in motion. They barely paused for 
 meals. They paused not at all to think. Like the 
 self-binders whose steady purr drowned the cicada 
 chorus surrounding, they themselves seemed mere 
 animate machines bent upon the single purpose of 
 gathering nature's gift; gathering it while it was 
 offered, gathering with feverish haste and in the 
 knowledge that otherwise the boon would be 
 swiftly withdrawn. For, like time, the harvest 
 halted not to suit the pleasure of man her slave. 
 Prodigal as was the liberality of the offer on
 
 A Suggestion of Future 113 
 
 prairie loam it was made but once. If not accepted 
 it was all one with the giver. She merely took 
 back her own, returned it to its elements and went 
 on her placid way heedless of the petitions of the 
 dilatory or the slothful; heedless of all save the 
 unalterable law of seedtime and of harvest. As 
 life ubiquitous was the token of midsummer this 
 was its lesson : one of humility, of tacit trust and of 
 unquestioning conformity. "Accept, little one, 
 while you may," she seemed to say. "Fill your 
 storehouses while you can. For I am passing, tiny 
 one, passing swiftly and the time is long ere I 
 shall again return." 
 
 "Bob, are you awake yet?" 
 
 The time was midsummer, at the height of the 
 speeding; the place a rough porch, open above to 
 the sky and built out to the east from the McLeod 
 farmhouse; the hour near midnight. 
 
 "Yes, Peg." 
 
 Silence save for the voices of the night : the cease- 
 less rasping cricket chorus. At last a creaking of 
 the loosely-nailed boards beneath the thin blanket 
 upon which the two children were lying, marked a 
 restless shifting of position. 
 
 "It's so hot, Bob, I can't sleep. I can hardly 
 breathe." 
 
 "Keep still and after a bit you'll be sleepy and for-
 
 H4 The Quest Eternal 
 
 get it. Anyway, it'll be cooler soon, toward morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Silence again ; then the beginning of conversation 
 to definite purpose. 
 
 "Why aren't you asleep, then, Bob? You've been 
 still." 
 
 "I'm tired and " a pause, then the truth "and 
 my foot hurts a bit." 
 
 Swiftly, femininely responsive, the small girl 
 turned. A tiny hand was laid sympathetically on 
 the other's cheek. 
 
 "It's too bad for you to have to walk so much. I 
 think it's a shame." 
 
 "Some one has to carry the men water, and run 
 errands, and do chores. Besides, every one is tired 
 this time of year." 
 
 "I ain't tired only hot." 
 
 "I meant every one who isn't a girl." 
 
 The one who was a girl cogitated. The tiny hand 
 stroked softly on the cheek beneath. 
 
 "If I were you I wouldn't work so," she an- 
 nounced at last. "I'd play I was sick or or some- 
 thing." 
 
 "No you wouldn't, Peg." 
 
 "Yes I would, too." 
 
 "No." 
 
 Silence for the second time. 
 
 "Bob " 
 
 "Yes."
 
 A Suggestion of Future 115 
 
 "When are you going away to get your foot 
 fixed?" 
 
 It was an oft-repeated query, but the boy showed 
 no annoyance. 
 
 "As soon as papa can get the money. He's sav- 
 ing for it now." 
 
 "The coming winter?" 
 
 "I hardly suppose so." 
 
 "A year from then?" 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 Silence for the third time save for a steady rest- 
 less pat of one stockinged foot against the thinly 
 covered boards. 
 
 "Bob " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Are you going to stay here always?" 
 
 "I don't know, Peg. Always is a long time." 
 
 "I don't mean you to say for truly. I just want to 
 know what you expect. Do you want to raise corn 
 and wheat and radishes always?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What do you want to do, Bob?" 
 
 The boy looked straight up at the stars shining 
 overhead. 
 
 "Papa was a doctor once. I think I'd like to be a 
 doctor too." 
 
 "And straighten folks' crooked feet and such?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 1 1 6 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "That would be nice. I'd like to have you be a 
 doctor, Bob." 
 
 "Rasp, rasp, rasp," went the cricket chorus; 
 "rasp, rasp, rasp," monotonously, unceasingly. 
 
 "Did I ever tell you, Bob, what I'm going to do 
 sometime, when I grow up?" 
 
 "I don't remember that you ever did." 
 
 "Would you like to know?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Awfully much?" 
 
 "Awfully much." 
 
 "You won't ever tell any one unless I let you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Or even make fun of me for telling?" 
 
 "Never, Peg." 
 
 The small girl paused in instinctive art, in fit pre- 
 lude to the great revelation. 
 
 "I'm going to be a singer, Bob." 
 
 No comment. 
 
 "I don't mean a little singer in Sunday schools and 
 things, but a big singer, a 'primmy donny.' ' 
 
 Still no comment. 
 
 A moment there was silence, a moment that to the 
 tiny girl seemed very, very long. Then with a sud- 
 den movement she drew away swiftly, with patent 
 meaning. 
 
 "I don't think I like you, Bob," announced a voice 
 very cold and hard. 
 
 "Peg!"
 
 A Suggestion of Future 117 
 
 "You think that I'm just talking that I can't 
 sing that I never can sing." 
 
 "Peg!" 
 
 "You do. You know you do." 
 
 "Peggy!" 
 
 This time it was the girl who said nothing. 
 
 "You know I think you can do anything, Peg." 
 
 A moment longer the tiny figure lay curled up 
 apart, but anger was melting swiftly. At last the 
 boards creaked anew and a timid, hesitating hand 
 touched the lad's cheek softly. 
 
 "'Scuse me, Bob. I didn't mean to be bad." 
 
 The boy wasted no words on the superfluous. 
 
 "Tell me about it, Peg." 
 
 But the moment for revelation arrived, the small 
 girl became suddenly diffident. 
 
 "You'd think I was just storying if I did," she 
 hesitated. 
 
 "No, I wouldn't. You never story." 
 
 "Maybe I did before you knew me." 
 
 "No, never," stoutly. 
 
 The little girl drew a long breath. It's pleasant 
 to be appreciated even when one is a child. 
 
 "I'll tell you how it was then." In the darkness 
 she tried to look the boy in the face, to measure to 
 the full the depth of the other's surprise. "I met a 
 primmy donny once." 
 
 Silence.
 
 1 1 8 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "Maybe you don't know what a primmy donny 
 is," hesitatingly. 
 
 "I don't." 
 
 "It's a grand lady with jewels and things who 
 sings." 
 
 "Oh!" This time the interest was satisfactory. 
 
 "I never told you before, but there was one thing 
 the Gordons, the folks I ran away from, always 
 made me do for a living. They were forever mov- 
 ing, and whenever they got to a big town Ma Gor- 
 don would dress up in old musty black and paint 
 lines on her face to make her look old and rub snuff 
 in her eyes so they'd be red, and go begging. She'd 
 be a widow and I'd go with her as an orphan, to 
 sing. She'd pick out a good place where lots of 
 folks went by and start me at it; and then when 
 enough people stopped she'd take up a collection." 
 Of a sudden the story ceased and the speaker peered 
 through the dark at the other's face. 
 
 "You listening, Bob?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, I was singing one day as usual. It was 
 late in the fall and cold I was shivering so my 
 teeth chattered; but a crowd had stopped to listen 
 and I was doing my best. I was nearly through, it 
 was almost noon, and Ma Gordon always stopped 
 then to get her dinner, and the street was full of 
 carriages; when of a sudden I saw one stop. I 
 didn't pay much attention, for folks often did that;
 
 A Suggestion of Future 119 
 
 but when I finished I noticed that this one didn't 
 go on. I looked then to see what was the matter, 
 and and what do you suppose happened, Bob?" 
 
 "I don't know, Peg." 
 
 "A lady, the one in the carriage, motioned to me. 
 I thought she wanted to give me something and sa 
 (Ma Gordon was counting the money she'd gotten 
 already) I went out into the street myself. The 
 lady opened the carriage door and was waiting for 
 me, and without thinking I put in my hand." 
 
 For the second time the story halted and, could 
 the boy have seen, he would hardly have recognised 
 his small companion in the sudden alteration she 
 had undergone. 
 
 "Then things happened awful fast, Bob; so fast 
 I can hardly tell about it. For she didn't want to 
 give me anything at all; at least, not in that way. 
 Instead she just reached right out and caught me, 
 and held me fast and began talking. I can't tell 
 you all she said. I was too surprised and she was 
 too fine in all her furs and diamonds and things; 
 but in a minute I understood what she wanted and 
 what do you suppose that was, Bob?" 
 
 "Tell me, Peg." 
 
 "She wanted to take me with her. She did, 
 honest. She wanted to do it right then. Ma Gor- 
 don had come up by this time, she'd 'spicioned 
 something and wanted to hear, and the lady began 
 talking to her. She said I could sing wonderful.
 
 120 The Quest Eternal 
 
 She told her name, Madame Ziska she said it was, 
 and her address. She said she had no children of 
 her own and that she'd take me and bring me up 
 and teach me. I couldn't say anything at first and 
 Ma Gordon didn't neither, but I could see her face 
 getting hard and sharp. The lady saw it too, I 
 guess, and talked faster and faster. She said she'd 
 adopt me as her own girl, that folks often did that, 
 and she offered money to let me go. She said she'd 
 pay it right then and there. She wasn't talking to 
 me at all then, but right past me, and I knew with- 
 out looking myself why she had spoken of money 
 and why she was talking so fast. Quite a crowd 
 had gathered by this time. I could hear them 
 shuffling their feet in the cold; but I'd forgotten 
 all about it myself. I'd forgotten everything. I 
 just stood there listening and holding my breath 
 and then then something happened. All at 
 once the lady bent over and looked me square in 
 the eyes." 
 
 "What's your name, quick, and where do you 
 live?" she asked. 
 
 "Peg Stanton, I said, and " but I couldn't say 
 any more. Just then a hand went over my mouth. 
 Some one I s'pose it was Ma Gordon and how I 
 hated her pulled the cap I had on down over my 
 eyes. That was the last I knew. I remember I 
 yelled and the crowd made a fuss ; I could feel them 
 bumping me, and some one called 'Police.' But
 
 A Suggestion of Future 121 
 
 all the time I was being dragged away, faster than 
 I could walk ; and and the next thing I saw I was 
 a block away with Pa Gordon on one side and Ma 
 Gordon on the other and going in a direction op- 
 posite from the way in which we had come, and as 
 fast as they could go. I tried to scream again, but 
 they stuffed the cap in my mouth and told me if I 
 made a noise they'd wait until night and throw me 
 in the river. And and that's all except that once 
 we passed a tall billboard on a vacant lot and on it, 
 in great big letters, was the name the lady had 
 told me was hers, Madame Ziska, just that alone; 
 and before it, in smaller letters, was that other 
 word I told you primmy donny." 
 
 The story ceased and silence fell; silence with its 
 undertone of teeming insect life; silence that was 
 such only by comparison. A minute perhaps they 
 lay so, the little girl breathing hard, one stockinged 
 foot beating unconsciously on the board beneath, 
 the boy as motionless as death. Then of a sudden, 
 in characteristic alteration, the small woman 
 aroused. The present returned. A moment she in- 
 spected the figure at her side. 
 
 "Bob," she reproached, "I believe you're asleep." 
 
 Still not a motion. 
 
 "No, Peg." 
 
 "Why don't you say something, then?" 
 
 "I've been thinking." 
 
 "Thinking what?"
 
 122 The Quest Eternal 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "What were you thinking, Bob?" 
 
 "Never mind, Peg." 
 
 "But I want to know," insistently. 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 "Bob, tell me." 
 
 "I was thinking that it might be longer than I 
 planned before I went away to become a doctor, 
 Peg." 
 
 The small girl groped. Light failed to come 
 then. 
 
 "I don't understand, Bob." 
 
 "Never mind," quickly. "Go to sleep." 
 
 "But tell me what you mean, Bob." 
 
 "No. It's pretty near morning and I'm tired. 
 Go to sleep." 
 
 For minutes following there was silence; but this 
 time the girl too was thinking. At last came a faint 
 trace of understanding that grew momentarily into 
 conviction. 
 
 "Bob !" the voice was tense with suppressed excite- 
 ment. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "Bob !" do you mean that I'm to go away instead, 
 that I " The suggestion was too much for lan- 
 guage. 
 
 But though the boy lay there with wide open eyes 
 staring up into the night, he said never a word.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 DEFEAT 
 
 FAR out on the open prairie, on the corner of a 
 36th section, where four roads met, a half mile 
 from the nearest residence, stood the district school- 
 house. Not a tree kept it company, not a shrub 
 nor a bush. Beyond the barb-wire fence which sur- 
 rounded it not one interfered to obstruct the view 
 until the farm of Martin Swenson was reached. 
 Just outside the fence of six taut wires was a fire- 
 break, freshly ploughed, and as broad as the right 
 of way to a public road. Within this quadrangle 
 was the schoolhouse itself; one time white but now 
 weathered grey, its cornice dotted with irregular 
 holes through which a man could thrust his fist 
 and which marked the entrance to as many wood- 
 peckers' nests; its four windows, two to the side, 
 staring out like the widely curious eyes of the small 
 urchins who gathered within. In the yard sur- 
 rounding, tramped bald and hard as a village street 
 by many active feet, was the inevitable flag-pole 
 built of cottonwoods spliced and bolted, a shed of 
 poles and thatch which sheltered the ponies of the 
 most distant scholars, and, last of all, a dug well 
 with windlass and buckets. Save one other not an
 
 124 The Quest Eternal 
 
 obstruction the height of a man's hand lifted above 
 the earth; yet to tell a tale of the past, a tale oft 
 repeated throughout the land where watercourses 
 were far between and from frost to snow fire once 
 started raced as the wind, none save this one was 
 necessary. Simple evidence it was, simple as a 
 printed page, as the primer of youth: four low 
 walls there were in the form of a quadrangle, the 
 long diameter stretched north and south, the bricks 
 broken and crumbling, the motar loosened: sur- 
 rounding the quadrangle like pollen from a maize 
 plant, a sprinkling of old-fashioned iron nails bent 
 and rusted; scattered among these latter irregular 
 balls of melted glass, variously coloured with ox- 
 ides like the borax beads of a chemist's laboratory, 
 surrounding all, enfolding all, a colouring of the 
 earth a shade darker than the rich brown of prairie 
 loam the black of wood carbon mixed with earth. 
 This only was the last marking of that school yard, 
 no longer a spot of interest for the scholars them- 
 selves, long since forgotten by the farmers who 
 made up the district; but nevertheless telling to 
 who so would read a chapter in the book of prairie 
 development, a chronicle of the time before the 
 checker-board of black and of green, or of yellow 
 and of green, made its appearance. The condition 
 that made it possible, the day of unbroken prairie 
 for mile after mile, had gone by. The narrow 
 band of ploughing surrounding its successor was
 
 Defeat 125 
 
 now adequate protection. Yet, somewhere, a step 
 westward in the march of civilisation, a hundred 
 miles, two hundred perhaps, other prairie fires 
 would burn invincible, would dominate their brief 
 day; and conquered at last in turn, would vanish 
 before the barrier of the oncoming human wave. 
 
 Up the straight section road leading from the 
 McLeod house to the schoolhouse, in the hardened 
 path packed by the wheels of passing vehicles, 
 bordered on the one side by frost brown grass and 
 the other by the skeletons of dead sunflowers, his 
 body bobbing up and down as he limped along, 
 came a small boy of the age of ten. The time was 
 December, the beginning of the winter term, but 
 not a flake of snow was on the ground. Yet the 
 air was sharp, chilly sharp to one unaccustomed to 
 its touch, and frost crystals glistened everywhere. 
 In the east the sun was just mounting into the sky r 
 the level rays dazzling bright. From far in the 
 distance, distinct over the silent earth, came the 
 muffled hum of a threshing machine. But no as- 
 cending column of smoke marked its location. It 
 was the day of horse power, the predecessor of 
 steam. In the way the boy was headed but one trail 
 of smoke arose into the sky, and toward it he was 
 steadily moving. And thereby hung the solution 
 of his unwonted appearance abroad at this hour of
 
 126 The Quest Eternal 
 
 the day. For that smoke was from the chimney 
 of the old barrel stove in the district schoolhouse, 
 and in the career of Robert McLeod an epoch 
 was beginning. It was to be his first day at 
 school. 
 
 Upon his way, methodically as he did everything, 
 tramped the boy, his dinner of two slices of bread 
 and a single red apple on top in the tin pail firm 
 in his grip; a second-hand First Reader, that An- 
 drew McLeod had purchased in town and that the 
 boy himself had carefully covered with cloth, under 
 his arm. Though it was early, a half hour before 
 opening, from other roads he could see similar 
 figures heading Meccawards ; as he drew nearer 
 could hear them call individual names. But none 
 called his name, even when he came close enough 
 so that faces could be distinguished. A boy, even 
 though he be small and crippled a bit, is a handy 
 piece of machinery on a farm, and on previous 
 years, when the period of usefulness was past, he had 
 been too small to make the long walk to school in 
 the winter's cold. In consequence he was a stranger 
 at the seat of learning, an alien, a knight who had 
 yet to test his spurs. 
 
 Up the narrow path leading to the schoolhouse 
 turned the boy; a non-combatant in his father's 
 cut-off overalls, a human being without malice or 
 guile. A half dozen other boys, big and little, each 
 alike eyeing him askance, were already congregated
 
 Defeat I 27 
 
 at the entrance ; but to him all were strangers and, 
 diffident, he passed them by. As he did so, without 
 turning, of a sudden he was conscious that some- 
 thing unusual had happened, something that con- 
 cerned him. The bare patch was frozen hard as 
 Macadam and, listening, he could hear, like an 
 echo, the patter of six other pairs of feet marking 
 time with his own. It was fifteen rods to the build- 
 ing itself from the road. Five of these he covered 
 steadily, doggedly indifferent; but all the time he 
 was listening and, bit by bit, he understood. With- 
 out a word being spoken he understood. For those 
 steps which echoed his own were not uniform. Al- 
 ternating, forming a cycle, one was heavy and firm 
 and the other unsteady and grinding: the footfall 
 of one who walked with a limp. Yet even then the 
 boy did not glance back, gave no sign that he un- 
 derstood. It was still early. The good-natured 
 farmer who had built the fire for the city girl serv- 
 ing her probation in their midst had long since 
 gone, the teacher herself had not yet come ; but this 
 the boy did not know. Had he known he would 
 not have cared. For shade by shade the slow-rising 
 Scotch blood in the veins of Robert McLeod was 
 warming. Bit by bit he was wandering from the 
 path of a non-combatant. On he went, two rods, 
 three, his ears taking testimony, waiting for cer- 
 tainty; then, when he was almost to the door, came 
 conviction. From behind him, challenging, baiting,
 
 128 The Quest Eternal 
 
 sounded a voice a voice that spoke but a single 
 word yet that word gall. 
 
 "Strawfoot!" sneered the voice. 
 
 Deliberate, Scotch deliberate, the challenged 
 halted. Scotch deliberate for the first time he 
 turned, faced a line, Indian file, in the trail behind 
 him. 
 
 "Who said that?" he asked. 
 
 Silence from the six; but on every face, from the 
 shortest to the tallest, was a grin. 
 
 "Who said that?" repeated the boy steadily, not 
 as a child ordinarily would have asked, but as a 
 man questions. 
 
 Out of the line, number four in order, stepped a 
 youth ; one big as two of the baited, ponderous of 
 foot and of fist, a missing front tooth giving testi- 
 mony of former conflict. 
 
 "Strawfoot, I say," he announced. A leer and 
 the query inevitable, "What're you going to do 
 about it?" 
 
 No delay this time nor courtesy preliminary. 
 Down on the ground went the tin dinner pail and 
 atop the cherished First Reader. 
 
 "Take it back." 
 
 "Make me if you dare." 
 
 They fought; arm over arm, boy fashion, nature 
 fashion, as a puppy instinctively swims; their fists 
 circling like flails, give and take, the smaller 
 silently, the bigger with farm-hand curses on his
 
 Defeat 129 
 
 lips, the five spectators dancing about them and 
 cheering them on. It was a royal moment. 
 
 "Take that," exulted the big one and the blow 
 fell true. "And that, strawfoot, strawfoot, and 
 that!" No need temporarily for more. The 
 smaller was down, the dust of earth in his mouth, 
 the blood from a cut lip staining his face ; but only 
 for a moment. An instant, while in rising he 
 struggled with his ungainly crippled foot, and he 
 was up and, silent as at first, at it again. 
 
 "Want some more, eh, strawfoot?" repeated the 
 voice of exultation. "Take this one, then, and this, 
 and this!" 
 
 Another pause in the hostilities and another puff 
 of dust while the prostrate struggled to his feet. 
 
 Again and again and once again the small boy 
 went down; like a tenpin, his clumsy foot making 
 him an easy target, until sympathy began turning 
 his way ; a sympathy expressed as yet not by words 
 but by silence. Yet each time the boy himself was 
 up again and at it anew. Incredible as it seemed 
 to the watching five, he appeared incapable of de- 
 feat. Long ere this his face was stained with 
 blood and mud and the old coat he wore was ripped 
 to tatters. Still he said nothing, asked not for 
 quarter, spoke no defiance. It was uncanny, that 
 relentless struggle against odds, that silent, in- 
 domitable courage. At last even the spectators, 
 subservient ordinarily to their leader, began to mur-
 
 130 The Quest Eternal 
 
 mur. In instinctive protest, instinctive rebellion they 
 drew together. 
 
 "Let him go, Bud," suggested one hesitatingly to 
 the big aggressor. "He's got enough. Let him 
 
 go-" 
 
 "Yes, enough's enough," seconded another. 
 
 "Let him say so, then," acquiesced the victorious 
 Bud, sullenly. "Got a plenty of it, have you, straw- 
 foot?" 
 
 "Cheese that strawfoot business," echoed the first 
 to protest. "It's a shame to call him that now." 
 
 "Shut up or I'll give you a dose of the same medi- 
 cine," growled the criticised, the lust of battle 
 and of victory hot upon him. 
 
 All this while Bob the valiant was getting him- 
 self together. For though they had protested none 
 had interrupted. While human nature was human 
 and that last threat loomed huge on the horizon, 
 none would interfere. Time had passed while the 
 conflict had waged; time of which all were uncon- 
 scious. For them the outside world had lapsed. 
 School and teachers and other scholars were buried 
 deep in oblivion. They, the spectators, only knew 
 that once again on his feet the new boy had re- 
 sumed the battle, that farm-hand curses were once 
 more in the air; that the untrained fists were work- 
 ing anew; that at last yet once again the big boy 
 had struck true and for the final repetition the 
 smaller boy had gone down in a puff of dust. That
 
 Defeat 131 
 
 then, then, suddenly as from a clear sky a hawk 
 swoops down upon its victim, a new combatant had 
 entered the arena; a combatant not silent but bub- 
 bling with language, with scorn, with menace; a 
 combatant smaller than the boy himself, but never- 
 theless dominating the situation, sweeping all be- 
 fore. For it was a girl who came, a dark little girl, 
 skinny and long of leg and of arm, a single brown 
 braid dangling down her back, one garter loosened 
 and flapping about her knee. Like an avenging 
 demon, she bore down upon the triumphant Bud, 
 while like leaves before a wind the five scattered to 
 give her room. 
 
 "You big beast, you," she challenged fiercely, 
 "you big, big beast!" Before he could escape she 
 was upon him, one hand in his hair, its mate scratch- 
 ing at his face regardless of consequences, devoid 
 of fear. "I'll teach you to pick on some one smaller 
 than yourself, you big bully, I'll " 
 
 But the battle was over, the threat ending in a flow 
 of sympathy intended for one ear alone. For, the 
 enemy in retreat, the girl became suddenly oblivious 
 to their propinquity, oblivious to all except the in- 
 stinct of the maternal. 
 
 "Bob," she assisted the prostrate to his clumsy 
 foot, feeling of him the while here and there to dis- 
 cover possible fracture, "Bob, are you hurt?" 
 
 "No." Impassively as though it were an every- 
 day occurrence the boy rubbed the blood and dirt
 
 132 The Quest Eternal 
 
 from his face with the tail of his coat. "I'm not 
 beaten either." A pause for breath and a glance 
 about for his opponent, with a view to future hostili- 
 ties. "Where's he gone?" 
 
 "Home, I guess. I don't know." From the in- 
 definite supply which every woman child carries in 
 reserve the girl had produced pins and was joining 
 the worst of the tears in the old coat. "Anyway, 
 there isn't time to find out now. Teacher's com- 
 ing." 
 
 Of a sudden the boy remembered. For the time 
 being war had obscured the horizon. Now it in 
 turn yielded precedence. 
 
 "I forgot," explained the boy simply. Inside the 
 schoolhouse a bell was ringing. Outside the other 
 scholars in a staring group were watching the iso- 
 lated two, curiously. Silently the boy picked up the 
 dinner pail and First Reader. Equally silently 
 he started for the entrance. At the second 
 step, however, he halted, looked his companion 
 squarely. 
 
 "Do you think, Peg, if he had stayed he would 
 have licked me?" asked a voice directly. 
 
 A lie, a kind lie, formed on the girl's lips; then 
 as suddenly vanished. She had never yet spoken 
 untruth when those blue eyes met her own. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I think so. He was twice as big 
 as you." 
 
 A second they stood so looking at each other, the
 
 Defeat 133 
 
 first real defeat of his life staring the boy unmistak- 
 ably in the face. Then, without comment, without 
 further question he turned about and, taciturn as at 
 first, led the way within. Simultaneously over the 
 tiny trampled school yard, over the surrounding 
 earth returned silence complete: the silence absolute 
 that on the prairie spelt winter.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 AS GATHERS A CLOUD 
 
 IN the kitchen of the McLeod home was an old- 
 fashioned cupboard. White pine, stained to imi- 
 tate cherry, made up its back and sides and shelves. 
 Tin plates, punctured in designs of fantastic birds 
 and flowers, comprised the panels of its doors. In 
 its entirety it was a relic of the past, a souvenir from 
 a long forgotten auction in the neighbourhood. 
 
 On the lower shelves of the receptacle were the 
 dishes of the household : of china, of glass, and of 
 queensware. On the upper were odds and ends of 
 domestic necesity : nails and screws, twine and ham- 
 mer, garden seeds, half-emptied spice cans, plunder 
 unclassified ; and, last of all, far in the corner, inno- 
 cent-looking, unobtrusive, a cracked bowl, filled 
 apparently with common beans. Of all the articles 
 of uniformly little value contained therein that frac- 
 tured bowl and its contents would have seemed to a 
 casual observer the least promising; yet in a world 
 of deceptive appearances it was of the type true. 
 For in the six years it had occupied that same posi- 
 tion, not a single bean of its contents had disap- 
 peared. Save to be poured out now and then, and 
 as often replaced, they had not been touched. But
 
 As Gathers a Cloud 1 35 
 
 one change in all that time had taken place: and 
 that a seeming miracle. When first they found their 
 resting place within the bowl their level was within 
 an inch of the top. Now, though none had been 
 added to their number, they were fairly flush with 
 the brim. Had they been wet the explanation might 
 have been simple ; but instead they were dry as pow- 
 der. The solution obviously lay beneath the sur- 
 face ; was beneath the surface, for that bowl was the 
 McLeod family bank, and that gradual increase 
 marked the growth of the family surplus in silver 
 dollars. On the day long ago, when McLeod and the 
 boy had gone to town to consult physician Tread- 
 way, on the day Peg Stanton had become a member 
 of the household, the accumulation had begun 
 with two lone representatives. Now, six years later, 
 it had reached high-water mark. A careful inspec- 
 tion would have revealed what that total was. As 
 a matter of fact, but a week before the census had 
 been taken and seventy-eight members had an- 
 swered to the call of the roll. 
 
 For Bob McLeod had not gone to the city to visit 
 a surgeon the year following that journey. In the 
 development of a prairie country there are even 
 cycles, fat years and lean years; and the record 
 shows that the cycle following was lean lean to the 
 point of emaciation. Of those six years four had 
 been blanks; so blank that not even seed was re- 
 turned to the sower. For four years in succession
 
 136 The Quest Eternal 
 
 tke rains had not come, and in consequence the 
 checker-board of prairie had given place to a mono- 
 chrome of brown from horizon to horizon: the 
 brown of vegetation dead. Rivers had become 
 creeks, those years. Creeks had become dry runs 
 sprinkled with the skeletons of strangled bullheads 
 and perch. Shallow prairie lakes lapsed into mea- 
 dows the only spots where a semblance of green 
 maintained throughout the season. Wells perforce 
 went deeper and deeper or dried completely. Only 
 in the unfailing artesian belt, where the lukewarm 
 streams flowed endlessly, was there water for the 
 asking. Elsewhere it was a treasure, guarded as 
 treasure is ever guarded, if necessary with life it- 
 self. 
 
 This the lean cycle when farmers cursed or prayed 
 as was their bent, and travelled far in the spring- 
 time for seed with which to gamble afresh. Then 
 at last the pendulum swung back and the fat cycle 
 returned. Answering, the rivers flushed to their 
 banks, the creeks took up their old, old song. 
 Where the meadows had formed, the teal, the mal- 
 lard, and the widgeon raised their broods as of 
 yore; and as though she had not offended, indif- 
 ferent as a hardened gambler, nature, through the 
 medium of the prairie checker-board of mottled 
 green and brown, proffered challenge afresh for a 
 new game.
 
 As Gathers a Cloud 137 
 
 And among those who accepted issue, among those 
 who temporarily won, were the family McLeod. 
 For harvest was now over, the second fat harvest, 
 and bin and crib were comfortably filled. A fort- 
 night had passed since the fall work was complete. 
 During an equal period, nightly councils had been 
 held in that old farmhouse, unchanged from the 
 day it was built, barren almost as a barn. For years 
 the topic now under discussion had not been 
 broached. Always just beneath the surface in the 
 minds of all three of the members of that council 
 it had not been resurrected. To do so would have 
 been useless pain. With starvation, not theoret- 
 ical but actual, staring them in the face, the lesser 
 evil had been submerged in the greater. But at last 
 all was changed. Prosperity was abroad in the 
 land and they had received their quota. It was the 
 psychological moment, the time to which they had 
 looked forward, the time to do and the council had 
 convened. 
 
 At the beginning no cloud loomed upon the hori- 
 zon, none seemed possible of issue. Then of a sud- 
 den, seemingly from a clear sky where none could 
 gather, one had appeared. For a week the exact 
 day of Robert McLeod's departure had been set. 
 Treadway the silent was to be his companion, had 
 himself suggested the date. To him, two days pre- 
 vious, Andrew McLeod had gone alone. For long, 
 the major part of the day, the two had remained
 
 138 The Quest Eternal 
 
 closeted ; the outer door of the doctor's office locked 
 against all comers. What happened behind those 
 closed doors the two men alone knew ; but when at 
 last Andrew McLeod came forth it was a far differ- 
 ent man from the one who had entered: a man 
 whom the few neighbours he passed on his return 
 scarce recognised. For of a sudden a demon of un- 
 rest, of feverish haste seemed to have possessed the 
 hitherto passive farmer, a demon of fierce silence 
 likewise. It was the cloud accumulating, but the 
 two who watched knew not its cause. Through 
 supper that night no word was spoken. Through 
 the long evening that followed silence still reigned 
 and the cloud grew blacker and blacker. Until 
 the girl went to bed in her own room in the lean-to 
 and the boy climbed to his place in the loft, where 
 for years now he had slept, McLeod sat mute in 
 his chair, his stiffened fingers locked in his lap, his 
 eyes staring straight before him. Then, alone in 
 the single room, the demon had gained mastery and 
 he had begun to walk. Back and forth, back and 
 forth the listeners heard him stride; regularly, un- 
 tiringly, apparently ceaselessly. Until sleep claimed 
 them both, they heard him so, battling with the un- 
 known. Once during the night the boy had 
 aroused; and at last had gone to sleep with the 
 steady tramp still in his ears. When finally he 
 awoke the light of day was filtering through the 
 cracks of the ill-built shanty, but at last the place
 
 As Gathers a Cloud 139 
 
 was still. Almost with premonition he arose. The 
 single bed below, his father's bed, had been un- 
 touched. Out of doors the familiar spring wagon 
 had disappeared. In the barn no answering whinny 
 greeted his coming; the team likewise had gone. 
 With more than premonition now, with all but as- 
 surance, the boy returned to the house. The girl 
 had arisen ere this also and a moment on meeting 
 they looked each other fair in the eyes; looked si- 
 lently, steadily. There was no word spoken, no 
 need for speech. They understood each other in 
 those days, these two. Instead, simultaneously to 
 both minds, sprang a common thought. Answer- 
 ing this, with a nod that was more a command than 
 a suggestion, the girl indicated the old cupboard. 
 Deliberately obedient, the other at his elbow, the 
 boy threw open the fancifully decorated tin doors, 
 gave one glance within ; and stepped back without a 
 word. 
 
 And again no word was necessary. In the far 
 corner, its familiar place, was the cracked bowl 
 with its contents of white; but no longer was its brim 
 full as of yore. Instead the level of its contents 
 was a full inch below the surface of the rim. There 
 against the smooth background it formed a line, a 
 marking which told its own story at a glance: the 
 mark which had been made at the beginning of ac- 
 cumulation six years before !
 
 140 The Quest Eternal 
 
 Not a small boy holding his father's hand, but a 
 slim youth of sixteen, nearly full grown as to height, 
 but thin and narrow chested, climbed the stairs of 
 the Cedar Co. Bank building and made his way 
 down the dingy, dimly lighted hall. Apparently 
 in those years intervening from the former call 
 nothing had changed. Even the town itself had 
 scarcely altered. Like a dwarf it had grown nor- 
 mally, rapidly for a time after its inception; and 
 then apparently, without reason, halted in a qui- 
 escence that was to be perpetual. The entrance 
 through which the visitor had conic was littered 
 with dust and pine shavings precisely as before. To 
 all appearances the corridor itself had meantime 
 remained innocent of a broom. The same battered 
 tin sign with its immovably pointing index was still 
 in place. Only the lettering on the glass panel had 
 yielded to the passage of time and, peeling here and 
 there, still spelled the familiar name of Treadway, 
 but with daylight filtering through as though 
 painted by a stencil. 
 
 Opening the door, the visitor, in a sudden rush of 
 memory, glanced instinctively at the window from 
 whence, on the former visit, had come a challenge. 
 In its place dangled the old cage ; but no voice now 
 came from within. It was empty, empty as the 
 room itself, of life. Uncertain, the newcomer stood 
 there a moment so, glancing about him; then of a 
 sudden, insistently recalling the past, fitting exactly
 
 As Gathers a Cloud 141 
 
 into memory's picture, a voice, abrupt and testy, 
 sounded from the room adjoining. 
 
 "Come in," it demanded. 
 
 Silently, involuntarily anticipating the glimpse of 
 a dishevelled bed and a giant figure prostrate there- 
 in, the visitor obeyed. Instead he found a well- 
 lighted room with a cheap desk and two chairs. In 
 one sat a man, a great pipe between his teeth, a 
 cloud of evil-smelling smoke above his head, all 
 surrounding. His back was toward the door and 
 he was writing laboriously ; his great shoulders fol- 
 lowing the motion of his hand. Deliberately he 
 finished his work, as laboriously turned. "Well," 
 he said. 
 
 For a moment, as on entering the waiting room 
 the boy had halted, he stood so now in the door- 
 way adjoining, his arms folded across his narrow 
 chest, the battered felt hat he had worn dangling 
 from his hand. As a small boy it was his uncon- 
 scious attitude. It was equally involuntary now 
 one of critical almost microscopic observation, 
 of frankest inquiry unmixed with the faintest con- 
 sciousness of self. 
 
 For longer than either realised they remained so, 
 each in silence taking the measure of the other. 
 First to arouse was the visitor. With an uncon- 
 scious limp he entered the room, paused looking 
 down at the man seated before him.
 
 142 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "I came to ask if you know where my father has 
 gone," he explained abruptly. 
 
 "Your father!" In a flash came recognition, un- 
 derstanding; a trace of premonition as well. 
 "You're Bob McLeod?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And your father has disappeared when?" 
 
 "Some time during the night, before daylight." 
 
 "You have no knowledge where or why?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Swift and more swiftly came the questions and an- 
 swers ; then abruptly ceased. For ten seconds there- 
 after Treadway did not stir in his seat; but, looking 
 in his face, observant ever, the visitor saw some- 
 thing like a mask form thereon. Involuntarily the 
 eyelids drooped until pockets formed beneath. 
 Here and there above the beard line a wrinkle 
 vanished as though the muscles beneath had gone 
 lax. For the first time in his life Robert McLeod 
 was gazing upon a gambler's face when the great 
 game was on. Ten seconds the big doctor remained 
 so, passive, scarcely breathing ; then, with a sudden 
 energy of which the spectator had not believed him 
 capable, he aroused. With a glance at his watch 
 he was on his feet and heading straight for the cor- 
 ridor door. He paused not for his hat nor to give 
 explanation; but, almost before the other had re- 
 alised his intent, before, if protest had been in- 
 tended, it could have been spoken, he was gone and
 
 As Gathers a Cloud 143 
 
 the sound of his heavy footfall was echoing down 
 the hall. 
 
 Left solitary, with something akin to inspiration, 
 Robert McLeod crossed to the window and glanced 
 down on the street below. A moment he waited; 
 then suddenly that which it seemed to him he had 
 anticipated occurred. Around the corner of the 
 building, bareheaded, irresistible, came the figure of 
 the big doctor. A farmer in a light road wagon 
 had just driven up to the walk and, preparatory to 
 alighting, was adjusting the reins over the dashboard. 
 Straight toward him came Treadway and in an in- 
 stant was in the seat beside. If he made explana- 
 tion or request or demand the spectator could not 
 see or hear. He merely took the reins and posses- 
 sion, the sound of the whip cut the air, and again 
 the team sprang into a gallop; then down the 
 street in the direction of the railway station arose 
 and advanced a cloud of dust, turned at an angle, 
 was cut from view. Simultaneously at the door- 
 ways of half a score of stores appeared their 
 keepers; shirt-sleeved, curious. In the distance the 
 rattle of the road wagon diminished second by sec- 
 ond. Silence returned. 
 
 A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes perhaps, 
 passed. Curiosity temporarily spent, one by one 
 the figures in the doorways disappeared. Not a 
 sound came from the drowsy street now, not a 
 sound from the building itself. For perhaps half
 
 144 The Quest Eternal 
 
 that time the boy stood as he was, gazing absently 
 out of the window, out beyond the narrow confines 
 of the tiny town onto the broad prairie beyond 
 the only view he had ever known. Conscious at last 
 that he was weary he retraced his steps and sat 
 down on the chair opposite that which Treadway 
 had occupied; his arms involuntarily crossed, the 
 crippled foot thrust out before him, patiently wait- 
 ing. 
 
 Up the stairway to the rear at last, heavy, grind- 
 ing, sounded footsteps ; different as darkness is from 
 light from those which had descended, yet never- 
 theless distinctive, unmistakable. Slowly, with an 
 appreciable interval between, they came up the cor- 
 ridor, the door opened and closed, the floor of 
 the waiting room creaked and Treadway entered. 
 Without a word he resumed his former place. The 
 pipe he had been smoking lay on the desk before 
 him; and, still in silence, he filled the bowl afresh 
 and puffed until a great cloud of smoke towered 
 toward the ceiling. Even then he did not speak but 
 sat staring at his companion with a directness and 
 intensity that in another would have been pure dis- 
 courtesy but with him was unconscious absolutely. 
 Not a minute but minutes passed so ; then abruptly 
 the pipe left his lips. 
 
 "The train was late to-day and I thought perhaps 
 I could make it," he said, "but it was gone. I 
 wired instead."
 
 As Gathers a Cloud 145 
 
 The boy made no comment, but his blue eyes met 
 those of the speaker directly, unshiftingly. 
 
 "If you had been a half hour earlier, if I could 
 have known " 
 
 "I got here as quick as I could. The team you 
 know was gone." 
 
 "You walked" it was almost incredulity 
 "twenty miles with that foot?" 
 
 "I ran most of the way. Finally I overtook a 
 farmer coming to town." 
 
 Once, and again a puff of smoke ascended toward 
 the ceiling. 
 
 "I thought you knew nothing." 
 
 "I suspected that you knew a good deal. He was 
 to see you yesterday, sir." 
 
 "And acted peculiarly when he got home?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "You suspect more now?" 
 
 "I judge you think he left on that train." 
 
 "You know why?" 
 
 "I expect you to tell me." 
 
 Puff, puff, went the pipe again; then the question 
 was repeated. 
 
 "You suspect why already?" 
 
 "I can think of but one reason, sir." 
 
 "An adequate reason?" 
 
 "There is but one." 
 
 For the third time the smoke belched forth, again 
 and again and again.
 
 146 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "Do you know the story of your father's early 
 life?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "All?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Dr. Stone " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " It was he I wired." 
 
 The boy said nothing, but the pupils of his blue 
 eyes widened. 
 
 "Did you know it was he we were going to see 
 to-morrow?" 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "Did you know that?" 
 
 "No. Not before." 
 
 The contents of the pipe had burned to ashes and 
 Treadway replenished the bowl deliberately. 
 
 "Would it have made any difference if you had 
 known?" he asked slowly. 
 
 Silence again. 
 
 "Would it?" 
 
 The arms that had been folded across the boy's 
 chest unclasped, dropped to his lap. 
 
 "After all, I am my father's son," he said. "I 
 couldn't go to him anyway now that I know." 
 
 "When he is the only man near capable of taking 
 your case?" 
 
 "Not if he were the only surgeon in the world." 
 
 Treadway's eyes dropped to the desk before him.
 
 As Gathers a Cloud 147 
 
 "You said 'anyway,' " he suggested. 
 
 "There are other reasons now." 
 
 "Good ones?" 
 
 "Very good." 
 
 The doctor's glance returned to the other's face. 
 
 "Will you go with me somewhere else, to Chicago, 
 say?" 
 
 "Not now." 
 
 "May I ask why?" 
 
 "It would be useless. I can't go." 
 
 "You know what it means to delay much longer, 
 that you will be lame always?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And still you say you can't?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 For the second time Treadway's glance dropped. 
 His hand fumbled absently with a paper on the desk 
 top. 
 
 "Would it be inquisitive if I should ask why?" he 
 suggested. 
 
 "I should perfer you would not ask, sir." 
 
 A pause followed, a meaning pause. Heretofore 
 they had both been merely sparring for time, time 
 to think. The real issue, the vital issue of the 
 moment, was still before them untouched. To it 
 at last they had come. Approaching it the posi- 
 tion of questioner and questioned reversed. 
 
 "You sent a telegram you said." It was the boy 
 who spoke. "What was it, please?"
 
 148 The Quest Eternal 
 
 As though the query were expected the big man 
 fumbled in his pockets and drew out a folded yel- 
 low sheet. "This is a copy," he said. 
 
 Bob McLeod read and with a steady hand gave it 
 back. As he did so his eyes met those of the other, 
 held them so. 
 
 "You know something that I don't know or you 
 wouldn't have sent that warning," he said tensely. 
 "Tell me what it is. It's my right that you should." 
 He halted, unconsciously moistening his lips. 
 "What was it you told my father yesterday, what 
 that he didn't already know?" 
 
 For a moment Treadway did not answer, did not 
 stir. Then of a sudden, reaching over, he drew a 
 folded newspaper from a pigeonhole and indicated 
 a marked item. "It's the Sioux Ridge Times of 
 day before yesterday," he explained simply. 
 
 As before, Bob McLeod read. Despite an effort 
 to prevent, his face twitched; then, ignored, the 
 paper dropped to the floor. 
 
 "You showed him that announcement, that Sid- 
 ney Stone was to be married a week from to-day, 
 Dr. Treadway?" 
 
 For the first time the mask dropped from the big 
 doctor's face and in its stead came a look of under- 
 standing and of sympathy for the boy before him 
 that no human being could question ; that was like 
 a father for his son. 
 
 "Yes, I showed it to him yesterday. He came to
 
 As Gathers a Cloud 149 
 
 me in the morning and wanted the date of our go- 
 ing postponed ; why I don't know. He insisted. I 
 refused positively. I had just noticed that item in 
 the paper the night before, and as a final argument 
 against delay showed it to him. Stone was to be 
 married and going to Europe on a wedding trip ; 
 to be gone months perhaps. We couldn't wait 
 longer. I knew nothing of the trouble between 
 your father and Stone except that partnership of 
 years ago, when practically they were both boys; 
 guessed nothing until the moment when he read 
 that notice for himself." Unconsciously the man 
 had been speaking faster and faster. Now, equally 
 unconsciously, recollection of that moment of which 
 he had spoken held him silent. Five seconds passed, 
 a terrible meaning pause. "Then I knew. What 
 your father said I won't repeat. He was mad. It 
 was, as you know, about train time that he came. 
 An instinct made me lock the door. He tried to 
 get away, to go as he went to-day. I prevented. 
 For four hours I was alone here in this room with a 
 maniac. I am stronger than he. That's all that 
 saved us both. I argued, pleaded, commanded, 
 fought, and at last he grew quiet. Before he left 
 he promised on his word of honour he would go 
 home and stay, promised Stone forgiveness. I be- 
 lieved him. I let him go then and we went down- 
 town together. Before starting he thanked me and 
 promised again." In his narrative the speaker had
 
 150 The Quest Eternal 
 
 forgotten the listener, had been merely living it 
 all over again. Now he remembered. "That was 
 all," he said. "You know the rest." 
 
 For a moment silence reigned in the tiny office, 
 silence doubly intense. Then Robert McLeod 
 stirred in his place. 
 
 "There is nothing more We can do now that I can 
 see," he commented simply. 
 
 "No, we can do nothing but wait." 
 
 "And Sidney Stone " 
 
 "Nothing but a miracle can save Stone now. I 
 know him. He's too stubborn to leave at a warn- 
 ing, and besides he's a lot at stake. He won't leave." 
 
 "You think my father then " 
 
 "Your father's insane. He deceived me yester- 
 day; but now I know better. He said that since 
 Stone had done what he did and broken his word 
 they two would die together and they will. God 
 forgive them, but they will!" 
 
 For the last time fell silence; silence all compre- 
 hending, silence that left no room for words. 
 Breaking it at last the boy arose. In those few 
 moments his prematurely old face had grown 
 months older; but it was steady as the face of a fate, 
 as the face of the fatalist he was. Starting to 
 leave, in silent courtesy he held out his hand, in 
 silence the other took it. That was all and he 
 was gone.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 LIFE'S WHEEL, RELENTLESS 
 
 THE hush of Sunday was upon the little prairie 
 borough. Up and down the length of the single 
 business street not a place was occupied, not a door 
 was open. Though it was past ten o'clock no pe- 
 destrian was visible. Ordinarily the tiny town was 
 plethoric as an Indian camp of dogs; but this day 
 they too had vanished. From end to end it was 
 as the thoroughfare of a deserted village swept 
 free of any vestige of animal life as by the visitation 
 of a pestilence. The Sabbath it was to be sure ; yet 
 not such a Sabbath as the citizens ordinarily knew. 
 Never before in the memory of an inhabitant, while 
 the light of day was upon the land, had the little 
 tobacco store of Dutchman Franz Mueller, mid- 
 way between the bank and the post-office, been de- 
 serted; yet it too was deserted this day, the shade 
 drawn tight over its small-paned windows. It was 
 uncanny to one who knew, that tightly drawn 
 shade; ominous in its testimony of the unusual. For 
 Franz Mueller did not attend church no human 
 being had ever seen him within sanctuary doors 
 it could not be that which had kept him away. He 
 never hunted, nor raced horses, nor coursed with the
 
 152 The Quest Eternal 
 
 hounds. Such explanation for his present absence 
 was unthinkable. Obviously, something unprece- 
 dented was taking place or about to take place; 
 something so extraordinary as to upset the very 
 foundations of local routine, something that 
 occurs but once in the life history of a com- 
 munity and remains thereafter a date from which 
 to reckon: an end thing of one of the two ex- 
 tremes of human fascination the bizarre or the 
 horrible. 
 
 This the main street on that frosty Sabbath morn- 
 ing in early winter. This the first hint of omen. 
 Near at hand, very near at hand, but a block sepa- 
 rating, was the second. The village boasted one 
 church and one alone. Yet, though now the door 
 thereof was invitingly open, though the customary 
 hour for service was at hand, the locality was de- 
 serted as the main street at its side. The long row 
 of hitching posts in front were unused. The frayed 
 rope that dangled from the bell above swung idly 
 back and forth in the prairie breeze. To be sure 
 a thin trail of bituminous smoke curled up and 
 away from the single chimney; but save for that no 
 sign of human interference was manifest, none ap- 
 parent that there had been occupation that day. As 
 the deserted street had been ominous this newer 
 revelation accentuated the impression. The church 
 vacant at time of service on a Sabbath morning was 
 an uncanny thing. Inevitably it struck at the foun-
 
 Life's Wheel, Relentless 153 
 
 dation of established order, bore a suggestion of 
 mystery and of horror; of famine or of pestilence, 
 of license or of sudden death. It was more than 
 unprecedented. It was akin to sacrilege. 
 
 This the second token of the unusual, evidence far 
 more conclusive than the first. Beyond it, at the 
 foot of the same street, was the third and testi- 
 mony final. For by the law of gregarious instinct 
 which made its existence possible, the town had 
 three centres of interest, three areas of convoca- 
 tion and three alone. In the beginning it was so. 
 To the end it would so remain. A main street, a 
 forum it had and now was empty. A sanctuary 
 stood hard by and was likewise forgotten. The 
 third remained: its door of egress or of ingress, its 
 thread of communication with the world that 
 throbbed beyond its distant horizon line. If 
 life remained within its limits of necessity it must 
 there be found. There at last this day it was 
 found. 
 
 For at the single railway station a quarter of a 
 mile from the main street a crowd was gathered; a 
 crowd that had been congregated for long, that 
 apparently took no note of passing time. Almost 
 since break of day on that winter morning some of 
 its individuals had been present. For an hour now 
 it had stood complete: a composite of practically 
 every man and woman and child in the place. As 
 no fantastic amusement could have brought them
 
 154 The Quest Eternal 
 
 they were there; for Deacon Brady, bewhiskered 
 and dignified, president of the Cedar County Bank 
 and not excepting the minister first in church 
 command, was present; his black frock coat but- 
 toned tight, his arms folded across his breast. As 
 no religious rite could have commanded their pres- 
 ence they were there ; for Franz Mueller, the bow- 
 legged agnostic, stood in the front ranks, the smoke 
 from his long pipe curling up toward the grey sky. 
 As humanity responds to nothing but the horrible 
 they had responded : forgetting each their ordinary 
 affairs of life, unsettled each from his individual 
 rut, obeying blindly an instinct that had whispered 
 the single mandate "come." 
 
 Yet from whence the voice that had first begun 
 that lone cry had evolved, they scarcely knew. 
 Early in the morning of the previous day, the big 
 doctor had received a telegram ; a message that had 
 turned white the face of Loomis, the station agent, 
 as he wrote it down and a few idlers saw the 
 change. Later, very shortly thereafter, the boy 
 who did chores for Treadway had mounted a bron- 
 cho and ridden like mad out into the country in the 
 direction of a certain farm. And this same yellow 
 paper was in the boy's hat when he thundered away. 
 A few who watched had seen him place it there. 
 Later still, as much later as it takes a horse to cover 
 twenty odd miles and another to return the same 
 distance, a youth with a club-foot had left his steam-
 
 Life's Wheel, Relentless 155 
 
 ing mount at the one livery and gone straight to 
 the doctor's office. Not a few, but many, had seen 
 him this time, for news of the unusual had spread. 
 For an hour thereafter there was no move; then at 
 last, when patience was all but exhausted, a few 
 minutes before the departure of the single daily 
 train east, Treadway had emerged and, all in rusty, 
 old-fashioned black, an antiquated grip in his hand, 
 had lumbered down toward the station. It was the 
 beginning of action at last, action after apathy, and 
 rapidly as the doctor moved the curious went faster. 
 By side streets they went and when out of sight ran. 
 At the station they crowded the tiny waiting room 
 and overflowed upon the platform: wide-eyed, 
 wide-eared, alert with suspicion. When the travel- 
 ler arrived silence fell; but fifty pairs of eyes 
 focused upon his every movement. Even had he dis- 
 simulated they would have guessed his mission 
 but he did not dissimulate. In the presence of all 
 he bought a ticket. Oblivious, apparently, of their 
 presence he wrote a telegram which they who were 
 standing near read and almost forgot to breathe. 
 Then at last the train pulled out; but before it had 
 vanished over the rolling prairie, almost ere the 
 one man whose presence had held them silent had 
 passed beyond hearing, what the few who had 
 spied had learned, every person present knew. Ten 
 minutes later every human being in the town as 
 well knew; for that telegram of few words had
 
 156 The Quest Eternal 
 
 been addressed to the city, Sioux Ridge, and was of 
 one sentence : 
 
 "Prepare body of McLeod for removal. 
 
 "S. Treadway." 
 
 This the first sensation, seemingly sufficient in the 
 sleepy town to fill the day. Yet all the time another 
 was brewing, and ere the passage of an hour broke. 
 For human nature can bear so much and so much 
 only. Back to town on a weary little mustang came 
 a red-headed Irish boy of the name of Flanagan. 
 For the first time in his life he found himself the 
 centre of attraction, the observed of all observers. 
 For him to keep silence then was to expect water 
 to course up hill. Before he had reached the livery 
 barn the contents of that first message was news as 
 common as was now the purport of the second. 
 But this time something that was almost a hush fell 
 upon the little town at the revelation, something 
 that was akin to awe: the hush which follows a 
 tragedy which comes very near to our own hearth- 
 stones. For not only was Andrew McLeod dead 
 as they already knew; but beyond this, revelation 
 unexpected, thing of gripping horror, a murderer 
 and suicide as well ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 Meantime, in the little parsonage on the rear of 
 the same lot where fronted the church, another 
 drama had been taking place. Straight from the
 
 Life's Wheel, Relentless 157 
 
 doctor's office went the youth with the club-foot, 
 looking neither to the right nor to the left, and 
 pressed the bell button beside the front door. An- 
 swering came a faint purring sound from a care- 
 fully muffled gong; and, a moment later, a timid 
 little woman in a calico gown. 
 
 "Mr. Curtis, if you please," explained the visitor, 
 his hat of soft felt dangling from his hand. 
 
 The little woman opened the door wider as if to 
 admit the other; of a sudden remembered and 
 swung it back as before. 
 
 "This is Saturday, you know," she explained in a 
 voice reduced almost to a whisper, "and Mr. Curtis 
 is preparing his sermon for to-morrow. Fm afraid 
 he won't be able to see you." 
 
 "I must see him." It was neither aggression nor 
 dominance but the insistence of one who was uncon- 
 scious of self. "Tell him, please, I must see him." 
 
 The little woman hesitated, fumbling nervously 
 the while with the sleeves of her gown. "I'm 
 sorry" it was an appeal "but he gave positive in- 
 structions." 
 
 "Where may I find him, please?" 
 
 "Upstairs, the first door to the left." In the voice 
 was relief positive. "Just tap on the door." 
 
 Up the stairs went the youth, trying to do so 
 quietly but failing utterly with his clumsy boot. At 
 the door indicated he paused, his hat still in his 
 hand. He knocked.
 
 158 The Quest Eternal 
 
 For fully half a minute there was no response, no 
 sound even from within. Then came action. A 
 chair creaked on an uncarpeted floor, the soft pat 
 of slippers sounded nearer and nearer, a key turned 
 and, in the aperture of the doorway appeared a 
 figure, very tall and very black, and very forbidding. 
 
 "Rev. Curtis?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "I beg your pardon for interrupting but I'd like 
 to speak with you a moment." 
 
 A keen look from out the minister's eyes, a look 
 of recognition, then : "I'm very busy this morning," 
 sharply, seemingly unjustifiedly sharply, "I think 
 perhaps Mrs. Curtis " 
 
 "I must speak with you or I wouldn't have 
 called." 
 
 While another half minute gathered into the past 
 the two looked at each other, eye to eye; then with- 
 out another word the door was opened and closed 
 and they both stood within. 
 
 Unconscious of what he was doing, unconscious 
 that he had not been requested so to do, the new- 
 comer took a seat. 
 
 "My name is McLeod, Robert McLeod," he said 
 without preface, "and I came to ask you to say 
 something at my father's funeral. It'll be to-mor- 
 row morning, just after the train comes in." 
 
 Throughout the explanation the other had not 
 moved. Very erect, very alien in this setting he
 
 Life's Wheel, Relentless 159 
 
 stood just inside the door; his hands and smooth- 
 shaven face white against his clerical black. At 
 the close he did not stir, but if possible his face 
 seemed paler than before. 
 
 "Your father was Andrew McLeod?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And you live twenty miles or so out in the coun- 
 try?" 
 
 "Yes, again." 
 
 One by one the minister's hands lifted, locked 
 across his chest. 
 
 "Why, please, is the funeral to be to-morrow after 
 train time? What has the train to do with it?" 
 
 "The body will be brought in the morning from 
 the city, sir. Dr. Treadway has gone to bring it." 
 
 "And how did he happen to die there, away from 
 home?" 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "You're keeping something back from me," 
 sharply, "something I should know. Tell me what 
 it is." 
 
 "You're mistaken, sir. I'm not trying to conceal 
 anything. I merely preferred not to be the one 
 to tell." The hat in the visitor's hand revolved 
 half about, and went still. "He killed a certain 
 man in the city and suicided. He was insane, I 
 think." 
 
 Into the white face of the minister there crept a 
 trace of red; then as it had come retreated.
 
 160 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "You ask me to say something at the funeral 
 of a criminal and a suicide? It's this you want?" 
 
 "My father is dead, sir." 
 
 "You think that should condone everything, 
 should make me do what you ask?" 
 
 "You are a minister, Mr. Curtis." 
 
 "And in consequence I must overlook crime and 
 the past." 
 
 Silence absolute as death. 
 
 "Answer me." 
 
 "I have nothing to say. I neither stand in judg- 
 ment nor in defence." 
 
 For the first time the minister moved. A step, 
 and another he came forward, until he almost 
 touched the visitor; halted looking down. 
 
 "I hadn't intended saying anything unkind," he 
 began swiftly, "but although I'm, as you say, a 
 minister, I'm nevertheless a human being." His 
 hands locked as before across his breast; then un- 
 consciously went free. "I knew you before you 
 introduced yourself, and I remember your father. 
 For five years I've been the pastor of the only 
 church hereabout. In all that time he was never 
 inside the walls of that church. When I first came 
 I asked him to attend, and he refused. I asked him 
 again, and he called me a meddler. I asked him 
 the third time and then I asked no more." The 
 voice halted in a meaning pause; a pause more im- 
 pressive than words. "You recall that last time.
 
 Life's Wheel, Relentless 161 
 
 I went clear out to the farm to see him, and you 
 were present at the meeting. You remember what 
 he said." 
 
 "He said there was no God," monotonously, "and 
 gave in evidence his own life." 
 
 "He blasphemed and cursed God and to me." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And still with that in mind, merely because he is 
 dead, you ask me, a servant of the God he despised,, 
 to give him Christian burial 1" 
 
 Around and around in his lap went the visitor's 
 hat. That was all. 
 
 "I repeat and still you ask this." 
 
 "No. I asked something different. I did not 
 mention God or Christian burial." 
 
 The lips of the minister opened to speak; then 
 with an effort he checked himself. Once more the 
 room became very still ; as still as the empty prairie 
 itself. At last of a sudden the man stiffened. He 
 drew back a step. 
 
 "I can't see that there's anything more to be said," 
 he voiced formally, repressedly. "I wish you good- 
 morning." 
 
 For a moment the boy did not stir; but the hat 
 in his hand ceased its motion and a trace of red 
 crept up, up his cheek to his forehead. Then he 
 too arose and stood facing the other ; not doggedly 
 nor defiantly, but nevertheless without a trace of 
 inequality or of self-consciousness.
 
 1 62 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "You refuse the little I ask, Mr. Curtis?" he said. 
 
 "I cannot do otherwise." 
 
 Slowly the boy's glance fell. Equally slowly, 
 without a backward glance or another word, he 
 started to leave. A step he took ; another, and an- 
 other. His hand was upon the knob of the door 
 before he halted. Then he turned. The eyes of 
 the two met. 
 
 "For my father or for myself I wouldn't ask you 
 again, Mr. Curtis," he said. "I don't do so now; 
 but there's another concerned a girl. I mean Peg 
 Stanton. My father was good to her always. She 
 was fond of him. She's been told nothing, knows 
 nothing of what's happened. She thinks you'll do 
 what I asked. Unless you do she'll want to know 
 why and I'll have to tell her to prevent her find- 
 ing out elsewhere. I don't want her to know, Mr. 
 Curtis; I'd give anything, do anything to keep her 
 ignorant. For her sake alone won't you forget?" 
 He had come back a step as he spoke, returned in- 
 voluntarily. Now again he halted looking at the 
 other in a petition no pain or necessity could have 
 made him reveal for himself. "If there were some 
 one else I could go to I wouldn't trouble you; but 
 there is no one else. For Peg's sake alone won't 
 you forget?" 
 
 For the third time in that brief drama silence came 
 upon them; silence complete as at the day of judg- 
 ment, silence as relentless as fate herself. Then
 
 Life's Wheel, Relentless 163 
 
 breaking it, freeing himself from it, the minister 
 stirred. Hastily, jerkily he turned, made his way 
 back to his desk and fumbled with the papers before 
 him. 
 
 "No," he said tensely, "my decision was final. I 
 cannot." 
 
 Still a moment longer the visitor stood gazing at 
 him, his boyish face of a sudden a blank. Then 
 he too turned away; and an instant later the door 
 closed softly behind him. 
 
 But now as the crowd surged in and about the 
 tiny frame station all this was past history; for- 
 gotten in the greater interest of the present, lost in 
 the sea of anticipation. Though the details of the 
 tragedy had come singly, all, to the minutest, were 
 eventually known. From constant discussing they 
 had even ceased to bring a thrill when mentioned. 
 It was not to gather news but to see with their own 
 eyes that this people had gathered this day. It was 
 to see that they had waited long after church time, 
 long after they learned that the train was very late. 
 For the light engines, obsolete in the east, that the 
 road assigned to prairie traffic ever proved inade- 
 quate in time of storm or wind; and a wind raw and 
 heavy blew straight from the northwest now, blew 
 almost without interruption through the tiny town 
 as well. In its path the crowd shivered and moved
 
 164 The Quest Eternal 
 
 about restlessly. The waiting room was crowded 
 to overflowing; but few could find refuge therein. 
 Back and forth the majority vibrated, swung the 
 length of the platform and onto the smooth road- 
 bed beyond; yet ever they waited, waited for the 
 appearance of the black cloud of smoke on the grey 
 sky to the east that meant the fulfilment of promise. 
 And through it all two other humans, not of the 
 curious, waited likewise. At the side of the sta- 
 tion, the side most sheltered from the wind, was a 
 mud-spattered road wagon drawn by a pair of 
 woolly-coated bronchos. It was backed into posi- 
 tion significantly, its rear wheels touching the brick 
 platform, the end gate down and dangling from its 
 hinges in the wind. The single seat was moved 
 far forward leaving the long bed free. No need to 
 tell the purpose of the vehicle there. None other 
 was present and its solitary significance was patent 
 to all. Even had it been otherwise, however, the 
 identity of the two occupants of the single seat gave 
 testimony final. For though the boy and girl who 
 sat thereon had come early neither had descended 
 to mingle with the assembled crowd. Save the 
 station agent alone none had approached them. 
 Every staring man and child knew them, yet not 
 one had volunteered either sympathy or aid. 
 Though no word was spoken their hostility was 
 palpable as the December cold all surrounding. Al- 
 ready in the forum and the homes adjoining they
 
 Life's Wheel, Relentless 165 
 
 had been tried and condemned; ostracised in life 
 like the unclean. They had come to see, these 
 people, curiosity had dominated ; but understanding 
 and tolerance were far as the ends of the earth 
 from their ken. They had passed sentence, and by 
 it the two humans in the old road wagon had be- 
 come aliens in their midst. By it likewise they 
 would so remain for the space of a generation. 
 
 This the boy had known the afternoon preceding 
 as the door of the parsonage study closed behind 
 him. This he had foreseen as by the light of a 
 smoking lantern he had dug a grave beside the 
 grave of his mother in the farmyard back of the 
 house. The girl had not believed so then, though 
 the other had told her all; all to the last bitter truth, 
 that, as he had said, she might not hear the story 
 first from another. But she too knew better now, 
 knew the moment she had seen that silent assembled 
 crowd that stared at her with closed lips. Verily 
 a curse is not always spoken in words. One voice- 
 less, passive, is far more potent, its refinement. 
 
 Thus the time dragged by. Bit by bit the grey 
 sky had thickened. In sympathy the light of mid- 
 day dimmed. At last on the tiled roof of the sta- 
 tion there had sounded a pattering that grew louder 
 and louder. Upon the brown earth appeared tiny 
 dots of white. It was the storm at last, the storm 
 that had threatened all day; not snow but sleet 
 which, driven by the wind, cut like tiny shot. Facing
 
 1 66 The Quest Eternal 
 
 it the bronchos shook their heads restlessly and 
 pawed intermittently at the frozen earth. Minute 
 by minute it augmented, grew thicker until the sky 
 was streaked with fairy lines of slanting white, until 
 the horizon was bounded not by miles but by rods. 
 Under its advent the crowd forgot time, almost 
 forgot place; became temporarily unconscious of all 
 save physical discomfort. Yet still they waited dog- 
 gedly, as animals wait; waited until patience re- 
 ceived its reward. For of a sudden, ere warning 
 had been given, with a rush of displaced air and a 
 grinding roar, straight through the slanting grey 
 wall came the dark shape of the belated train 
 and the end was at hand. 
 
 Then for the first time the boy moved. With the 
 effort of one stiff from the long cold wait he de- 
 scended. A crowd barred his way, a crowd packed 
 tight as a driven wedge; and without attempting 
 to force a path he made a detour around. As he 
 did so, with a grating of rusty iron, the door of the 
 baggage car slid open and, as though facing the 
 lens of a camera, the eyes of the multitude were 
 focussed upon the aperture. Had the train been 
 made up of that single car they would not at that 
 time have noticed the fact. Had a regiment alighted 
 from the rear coaches which were actually present 
 they would not have known. For with the opening 
 of the door the figures of two men came to view: 
 one, the baggageman in overalls and jumper, the
 
 Life's Wheel, Relentless 167 
 
 other Treadway in his rusty black and between 
 them another object, the thing expected: a rough 
 box of unpainted pine, glaring white against the 
 dark background. 
 
 Around the crowd, unconsciously limping, went 
 the boy and made his way to the door. Several 
 times his way was barred by spectators and in each 
 instance he apologised for crowding as he slipped 
 by. Clumsily, with heavy deliberation, the big 
 doctor had descended to the platform and as the 
 newcomer arrived, nodded; but neither spoke. 
 Meanwhile the station agent, shirt-sleeved in spite 
 of the cold, had elbowed his way to them. It was 
 the signal for action. Slowly the rough, oblong 
 box protruded from the aperture. Heretofore not 
 a word had been spoken. To an individual the 
 crowd had remained silent as though frozen in their 
 places. Now, of a sudden, somewhere in the rear, 
 a tongue loosened. Above the noise of the wind 
 and the storm there sounded a hiss; distinct, venom- 
 ous, contagious. It was the flame to powder, the 
 tiny rift that preceded a flood. Instantly not one 
 but a hundred mouths caught the contagion. The 
 verdict of the swarm found voice. Biting, scorch- 
 ing, horrible it rose and augmented and swelled 
 until every other sound was drowned. Answering, 
 with an unconscious muffled curse, Treadway 
 turned, his heavy face of a sudden congested, his 
 great shoulders squared; but ere he could speak a
 
 1 68 The Quest Eternal 
 
 hand was laid insistently on his, the face of Bob 
 McLeod was staring into his face. 
 
 "Don't," said the boy, "it'll only make matters 
 worse." His fingers were gripping like a vise, but 
 of that he was unconscious. "Let's get away, quick." 
 
 A moment Treadway hesitated, breathing hard; 
 but the boy was already back at work and an in- 
 stinctive something which he did not pause to anal- 
 yse made the big man obey. 
 
 The box was clear of the car now and the four 
 started with it across the platform to the waiting 
 wagon. Barring their way was the crowd and 
 against it like a live wall the burden advanced and 
 halted. For the second time a hiss arose; bitterer 
 than the first, more deadly hostile and again the 
 face of Treadway grew livid. But the something 
 which had restrained him before, the something in- 
 definitely compelling, held him silent and he waited. 
 
 A quarter minute they remained there so, motion- 
 less, in a real drama tense as the play; then inevi- 
 tably came the reaction and silence fell. Entering 
 it, dominating it, a voice sounded : in the first words 
 which had been spoken aloud. 
 
 "Make way ahead, please," it said. There was no 
 force used, no menace, no petition; just those four 
 words, spoken even and slow: "Make way ahead, 
 please." 
 
 It was the crisis, the climax, the time of compli- 
 ance or of defiance ; but no one stirred. A moment
 
 Life's Wheel, Relentless 169 
 
 passed wherein there was no sound save the patter 
 of the storm. Then once more, breaking it, even 
 as before, for the second time repeated, the same 
 voice spoke : 
 
 "Room, please, ahead. Make room." 
 
 For still a moment there was no response; then 
 of a sudden, obeying the same influence that had 
 held the doctor silent, a man fair in the path drew 
 back. Opposite him another followed his example, 
 and another, and another. It was the beginning of 
 the end, the finale ere the dropping of the curtain. 
 Into the vacant space moved the four with their 
 load. Before them, without a murmur, the crowd 
 made way. With a dull grind the box slid into the 
 wagon bed, the end gate snapped into place, the 
 two pall bearers mounted with the waiting girl to 
 the single seat and, ere the motley spectators had 
 awakened to the fact that all was over, ere the 
 train had resumed its belated journey to the west, 
 the grey sleet wall had swallowed the retreating 
 equipage from view. 
 
 Thus, silently as he had entered the passing show, 
 Andrew McLeod departed from its realm. As 
 his father and his father's father had sunk beneath 
 the surface leaving no trace behind, so he had gone. 
 In the ever-repeating cycle of life, another revolu- 
 tion was complete. 
 
 But the wheel which had borne and broken him on 
 its way still moved relentlessly on.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 SACRIFICE 
 
 NIGHT had come, night following that dreary grey 
 December Sunday. Upon the face of prairie the 
 snow was still falling, steadily as it had done since 
 noontime. Under its blanket the earth stretched 
 uniform white; white even over a roughly rounded 
 mound that, mushroom like, had sprung up within 
 the last day in the dooryard just back of the house. 
 
 Within the McLeod home a boy of sixteen and a 
 girl a bit younger were alone. Dr. Treadway, the 
 sole participant in the drama of that day, was gone. 
 All in all it was an end and a starting point, a clos- 
 ing chapter and the introduction to a sequel. Of 
 the former, the end, one, the girl, was thinking. 
 In the semi-darkness of the single living room she 
 was crying; softly, unashamed crying for the first 
 time that day, crying as no power could have made 
 her do in the presence of another spectator. Op- 
 posite her, yet very near, so near he could have 
 touched her had he wished, the boy sat silent, his 
 eyes on the glow from the draft of the sheet-iron 
 stove; thinking, thinking and not of the end but 
 of the sequel. 
 
 This the setting and these the actors that winter
 
 Sacrifice 171 
 
 night that closed the day of tragedy. For minutes 
 neither had spoken, neither had thought of speech. 
 For the time being there seemed nothing to say, no 
 need of anything save the mute comradery of mu- 
 tual presence, of mutual understanding. As they 
 sat there so, time drifted by, time which to them 
 meant nothing. Not until the fire in the stove 
 burned low, until the out-door chill advanced in- 
 sistent through the walls of the illy built house, 
 was there action. Then at last the boy aroused. 
 From a hod of soft coal in the corner he replenished 
 the fire and closed the stove door quietly. Equally 
 quietly, quietly as he did everything, he returned to 
 his place; but not as before to muse. Instead his 
 gaze went to his companion, halted thoughtfully. 
 She was still crying. At intervals her whole body 
 trembled with a sob that for his sake she repressed 
 until it was soundless. 
 
 "Peg," he said gently. 
 
 The girl looked up, her eyes moist, her throat 
 a-tremble. 
 
 "Don't, Peg." It was not authority or criticism, 
 but suggestion. "Don't cry any more, please. It's 
 useless absolutely." 
 
 The girl did not answer. He had not expected an 
 
 answer, 
 it 
 
 The past is complete and gone." The voice was 
 even, artfully even. "Whatever we may do won't 
 make it as we wish. When we regret something we
 
 IJ2 The Quest Eternal 
 
 never could have helped we're wrong. Animals 
 don't know the meaning of regret and animals are 
 nearer to nature than man." He shifted in his 
 place unconsciously. "Let's forget the past, you 
 and I, and live the present. Let's begin now." 
 
 Still no answer; but bit by bit the tears were ceas- 
 ing. Less and less frequently came the sobs. 
 
 "I don't believe nature ever intended us to cry 
 over the past," wandered on the speaker, "or to 
 worry over it. She makes it too irrevocable. 
 Human beings alone are the animals that cry and 
 they've made themselves so. I believe it's wrong 
 to regret what already is; something tells me it's 
 wrong. It's so because it's useless and worse. 
 Can't you forget, Peg? Won't you?" 
 
 Tears were still in the girl's dark eyes, tears that 
 she made no effort to wipe away; but they were 
 drying now. 
 
 "I'll try," she said. "I don't know, but I'll 
 try." 
 
 For a space the boy said nothing; but though his 
 face was turned away, his eyes never left that of the 
 girl opposite. Not until the storm was over, until 
 the brown eyes he was watching were dry again as 
 his own, did he speak. Then he looked her openly, 
 compellingly. 
 
 "Peg," he said, "I want to say something to you 
 to-night. Will you listen?" 
 
 The girl looked at him intently. It was not usual
 
 Sacrifice 173 
 
 for this silent youth to offer preface of this kind. 
 It was not usual for him to talk at all. 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 "And you won't interrupt me until I get through, 
 no matter what I say?" 
 
 Wonder on wonder; but the girl did not com- 
 ment thereat. They were alike in some ways, these 
 two. 
 
 "No, I'll not interrupt, if you request it." 
 
 Apparently the boy was satisfied. His gaze 
 dropped, almost consciously. 
 
 "What I have to say then is this. We're not 
 children any longer, either of us. We're sixteen 
 and can't live here any more in the way we've been 
 doing." He glanced up quickly, anticipating the 
 look he met. Then his eyes dropped as before. "I 
 don't need to tell you why. You know already.. 
 We're not really brother and sister and we may as 
 well recognise the fact. You've got to go away, 
 to school, Peg." 
 
 Up went his eyes again, up to meet the refusal he 
 knew he would encounter, the defiance for the 
 opinion of the world he knew he would be com- 
 pelled to combat. He was not disappointed. 
 
 "I won't do anything of the kind," flamed the girl. 
 
 T 
 
 "Peg!" 
 
 "I tell you I won't think of such a thing." 
 
 "You promised me not to interrupt.'*
 
 174 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "But I won't!" 
 
 "You promised " 
 
 Silence, a truce of battle ; then once more the voice 
 of the boy : 
 
 "I had a talk with Dr. Treadway this afternoon 
 and he said the same thing. We simply can't go 
 on so; and even if we could afford to hire a woman 
 to come and live with us we couldn't get one. No 
 woman who knew of to-day would come. She'd be 
 afraid to. But anyway that doesn't make any dif- 
 ference. Father meant you to go soon and I want 
 it, too. You'll be famous some day if you have a 
 chance. I know so and you know so. It sounds 
 foolish to talk that way now, but you've got it in 
 you. You've got to go and go soon, Peg. You've 
 simply got to." 
 
 The room became silent save for the swish of the 
 storm without; the unceasing drone of a prairie 
 blizzard. Breaking it at last the girl stirred in her 
 seat. 
 
 "Is that all you wish to say?" she queried. 
 
 "All for the present, I guess." 
 
 Temporarily the past, the irrevocable past, had 
 lost its grip. Both now alike were staring into the 
 future. 
 
 "And I can interrupt?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I won't go, then. I won't. If there isn't a soul 
 in the country who'll speak to us or look at us I
 
 Sacrifice 1 75 
 
 won't. The first to leave this place is you. I'm not 
 the one who's simply got to go, but you." 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "Ever since I came here eight years ago," rushed 
 on the girl, "you're been going away to see a big 
 doctor; and you haven't gone yet. You'll keep put- 
 ting it off and off until you'll be too late, and be 
 lame always. It's a shame to even talk about my 
 going away while you're as you are now." 
 
 The soft-coal heater had grown very hot and, in- 
 terrupting, the boy arose and closed the draft. Per- 
 haps it was the heat which made his face a shade 
 darker than normal when he returned. Leastways 
 he said nothing and the girl was too absorbed to 
 notice. 
 
 "You'd planned on going now and I want you to 
 go anyway. You can sell something, anything and 
 get the money. I'll stay here while you're gone 
 and feed the stock and take care of things. I'm 
 not afraid to be alone. It's you who must go right 
 away. You simply must, Bob." 
 
 The sudden colour had left the listener's face ere 
 this; but still he said nothing. He merely sat as 
 before, motionless, waiting. 
 
 In her place the girl stirred restlessly, tensely. 
 Farther and farther from her memory had lapsed 
 the events of the afternoon. Nearer and nearer, 
 more vitally real, became the future of her dreams. 
 
 "I don't want to be stubborn, Bob, or foolish,"
 
 176 The Quest Eternal 
 
 she resumed, "and I'd be both if I pretended that 
 I didn't want to go sometime, worse than I want 
 anything else in the world, worse these last few 
 days than ever; but I can wait. I can wait better 
 than you, and I'm going to." 
 
 Jerkily, bit by bit, the drama was moving, the 
 suggestion the boy had sown was bearing fruit. 
 Wise in his day the listener said nothing; and this 
 time the other did not notice his silence. Instead, 
 almost as though she had not paused, she began 
 anew. 
 
 "After you get back and we have another good 
 year or so I'll go, we'll both go, and you can study 
 too. You want to be a doctor just as bad as I want 
 to learn to sing. You've got it in you to be big 
 just as much as I have, more so. I'm ready to go, 
 more than ready, when the time comes; but now 
 you'll make me hate myself if I go now." 
 
 The voice paused, the small thin hands locked in 
 the girl's lap, locked tight. Her lips twitched. 
 
 "I know how you feel, Bob. I understand and I'll 
 never, never forget what you're doing. I'll al- 
 ways " of a sudden the sentence halted midway; 
 halted in an eloquence of silence the boy never for- 
 got, that by comparison made mere speech trite and 
 futile. For a minute perhaps it held, until the sud- 
 den storm it succeeded had passed. Then the boy 
 glanced up. For still a moment longer he sat so ; 
 deliberate, old beyond his years Bob McLeod the
 
 Sacrifice 177 
 
 normal, not the verbose alien of minutes before. 
 It was this Bob McLeod who at last spoke. 
 
 "Do you know where that lady you met once 
 when you were a little girl lives, Peg?" he queried 
 bluntly. "The one who liked your singing, I 
 mean." 
 
 "Bob 1" It was not a pose, that little cry. The 
 ends of the earth were not farther separate than it 
 from affectation. "Bob !" 
 
 "Don't you remember her address, Peg? You 
 said you knew it once." 
 
 "I won't tell you, Bob. You oughtn't to ask 
 me." 
 
 The boy smiled. A slow smile. His normal smile. 
 
 "Just to satisfy my curiosity then and to see how 
 good a memory you've got. Do you remember?" 
 
 "You're trying to make me forget that I 
 oughtn't to remember it." 
 
 "You do remember, then?" 
 
 "I haven't said so." 
 
 Again the boy smiled, a contagious smile, for it 
 was genuine. 
 
 "When did you write her last, Peg?" he queried 
 again, equally bluntly, equally unexpectedly. 
 
 Peg Stanton stared, for she was human. She 
 leaned forward in her seat. Her lips parted. 
 
 "How did you know I've been writing her, Bob 
 McLeod? I never told you or any one. How 
 did you ever guess it?"
 
 178 The Quest Eternal 
 
 Wrinkles formed about the boy's eyes, wrinkles 
 that are seldom seen surrounding the eyes of a 
 youth of sixteen. 
 
 "She's still interested in you, is she; still wants 
 you to come ?" 
 
 "I don't know, Bob." It was defence, oblivion. 
 "Honest I don't. I've written her several times, 
 and the letters never came back, so I know that she 
 got them. But I never told her my address and 
 she's never answered. I don't know whether she 
 wants me or not." 
 
 "Perhaps you told her not to answer, Peg. May- 
 be she thought you didn't want any one to know 
 that you were writing." 
 
 The girl said nothing, but the black eyes were very 
 bright. 
 
 "Between you and me, just between you and me, 
 didn't you ask something of that kind, Peg?" 
 
 It was the crushing straw. Human nature could 
 keep silence no longer. 
 
 "Yes. I don't know how you guessed it, but I 
 did." Of a sudden the eyes which were so bright 
 a moment before were dim. "I was afraid to know 
 for sure; afraid I'd ask something of you and your 
 father that I hadn't ought to ask." 
 
 At last the story was out, one solitary tale se- 
 lected from a countless multitude of repressed 
 human ambitions, one single tiny spark of hope 
 laid bare. Common as life itself it was, common
 
 Sacrifice 179 
 
 as the desire to do which throbs within the breast 
 of man the evolved ; but to the speaker it was gigan- 
 tic, its revelation the marking of an epoch. 
 
 For no sooner had she spoken than she realised 
 the thing she had done, the result the disclosure 
 would inevitably bring. With the certainty came 
 contrition in a flood and self-abasement. Over and 
 over she had promised herself she would not tell 
 still she had told. She had the feeling of one who 
 has violated a trust and in spirit she grovelled. 
 With an unconscious little motion she arose. With 
 another she came forward until she stood beside the 
 boy's chair. Then came abandon absolute and in- 
 stinctively, her arms dropped about his neck, her 
 face pressed close to his face. 
 "Bob," she cried, "why did you make me tell, why 
 did you I I never meant to, not if I lived here until 
 I died. It's wicked of me, awfully wicked, to have 
 let you know now. You can't afford to send me 
 away and I'll never forgive myself." Tears were 
 flowing, tears that moistened the other's cheek, 
 tears that she did not try to repress, could not have 
 repressed had she wished. "Forget that I told you, 
 Bob, please. I'll be good if you will and never, 
 never speak of it again. I shouldn't have written 
 her at all, I know that now, and I'll quit for good. 
 Forgive me, Bob, please ; and and forget." 
 ,, The voice ceased and into the silence, like a live 
 thing wailing, sprang the muffled swish of the
 
 180 The Quest Eternal 
 
 storm; the rasp and grind of myriad ice crystals 
 borne on the breath of the wind. But neither of 
 the two humans there alone heard it, were con- 
 scious of it. What the boy was thinking he alone 
 knew; and he gave no sign. He was an old boy, 
 far older than his years, and this girl so near was 
 not of his blood; but he did not stir. Her arms 
 were still about his neck, her soft cheek was pressed 
 against his cheek; but still he did not move. The 
 blood of Scotch ancestors flowed in the veins of 
 Robert McLeod and Scotch blood is good blood. 
 Their future, the future of this girl and his own, 
 was still far away; so far that neither could more 
 than dream thereof and he did not stir. Thus 
 they remained, thus while the minutes flowed by, 
 thus until the moment of abandon passed and the 
 girl too remembered. Lingeringly, hesitant, she 
 withdrew her arms. With a feeling she had never 
 known before, a feeling she did not try to explain, 
 she drew back, free. To her face came a tinge of 
 red; a colour instinctive as the flush on an autumn 
 leaf. Slowly, different far from the way she had 
 come, she returned to her place. The present re- 
 turned. 
 
 Minutes, not moments this time, passed. Meckan- 
 ically the boy got up and replenished the Maze; 
 mechanically returned. For the first time that long, 
 long day he seemed very tired, and old. Save for 
 his boyish face he was a man mature. Back in his
 
 Sacrifice 1 8 1 
 
 seat he sat for a time as at first, staring into the red 
 of the grate. With a motion that was a positive 
 effort he aroused. 
 
 "We understand each other pretty well, Peg," he 
 said then slowly, "so there's no use of discussing 
 this again. It's settled." He glanced up prevent- 
 ingly, then back again. "I know what you have in 
 mind, but it's impossible now. I can't go just yet. 
 The farm's mortgaged; and anyway there're a lot 
 of things I've got to straighten out first. Besides, 
 so far as I am concerned, a year or so don't cut any 
 figure now. I asked Dr. Treadway that too to-day 
 and he said so. But you " he sat up straight 
 "there's no reason why you shouldn't go now. 
 There's every reason why you should. I'll get the 
 money, you needn't worry about that. The crop 
 isn't all sold yet, you know. I want you to write 
 Madame Ziska at once and tell her you're coming; 
 and that from now on you're going to do exactly 
 as she says. Will you, Peg?" 
 
 "Bob !" The girl's face was in her hands, hid 
 from view. "Bob !" She could say nothing more 
 just then. 
 
 "I don't want you to feel that way," resumed the 
 boy gently, "it isn't right. You'd do exactly the 
 same for me if you were in my place, and you 
 know it. Won't you write her as I asked to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 Slowly from its retreat the girl's brown face came
 
 1 82 The Quest Eternal 
 
 to view. She seemed almost old that moment, 
 older far than the other had ever seen her look. 
 
 "If I say yes you'll promise me that it won't keep 
 you from going too, that you'll leave just as soon 
 as things get straightened out?" 
 
 "Yes, Peg." 
 
 "And that you'll not work too hard when I'm 
 gone and there's no one to take care of you?" 
 
 "Yes," again, "I promise." 
 
 An affirmative formed on the girl's lips; then 
 halted unspoken. A new thought sprang into 
 being. 
 
 "You won't be lonesome when I'm gone and 
 you're all alone? You'll promise that too?" 
 
 For a second the boy did not answer, sat like a 
 statue; then of a sudden he smiled, fair into her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Won't I be allowed to eat, or sleep, or breathe 
 just because you're not around to see that I do it 
 properly?" he laughed. 
 
 The brown head tossed. It was almost convinc- 
 ing. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know. But only a few folks ever came 
 here before, and now there'll be none. I'm afraid 
 you'll get lonesome." 
 
 The boy was still smiling, straight into her eyes. 
 
 "I'll be too busy to think about getting lone- 
 some ; and anyway you'll write now and then. You 
 will sometimes, won't you, Peg?"
 
 Sacrifice 183 
 
 "Bob !" It was capitulation at last. "I'll write 
 you everything, every single thing." 
 
 "You haven't said yes yet, Peg." The smile had 
 become a laugh. 
 
 "Yes, then." The brown eyes were dancing now, 
 the dark face all aglow. "I'll write her to-morrow; 
 and and " Of a sudden the girl was upon her 
 feet and walking back and forth. To keep still 
 longer was impossible. "Oh, it's too good to be 
 true, Bob. I can't really make myself believe it 
 yet." She halted, her whole young body athrob. 
 "And I'll work, work; work as I never worked be- 
 fore. I am getting grown up, as you say, and I 
 realise that I don't know anything now. But I've 
 got a voice, something tells me I have ; and now 
 that I'll have a chance " 
 
 The voice halted, the sentence incomplete. Of a 
 sudden while she was speaking the boy had arisen 
 and hurriedly, almost fumblingly, was getting into 
 his overcoat. 
 
 "Bob," digressed the girl, "what's the matter?" 
 
 The boy did not look at her, did not pause in his 
 hurried movements. 
 
 "Nothing, much," he lied. "I thought I heard a 
 noise from the barn." By no possibility could be 
 have heard a sound. A passing locomotive would 
 have been silent at that distance in the storm; but 
 endurance was at an end. As he wished most of all 
 that she should not know, he must be alone. He
 
 184 The Quest Eternal 
 
 was limping toward the door. "Maybe one of the 
 horses has got hurt or or something." His hand 
 was on the knob, his face turned away. "Go to 
 bed, Peg. I'll be back very soon." 
 
 The door opened, a puff of icy sleet sprang within, 
 the flame of the kerosene lamp flickered in the sud- 
 den draft and the girl was alone.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ARCADY 
 
 IT was the day before the morning of departure, 
 April the 8th by the calendar. Twice during those 
 four months intervening an exact date had been set 
 and twice the unexpected had intervened to delay. 
 First had come the great blizzard of February, 
 when for thirteen days, uncanny number, no train 
 had succeeded in ploughing westward on the prairie 
 division ; and had it done so no inhabitant, however 
 intrepid, would have dared venture beyond the 
 limits of his own dooryard. Thirteen days and 
 nights when the flying sleet had a razor edge; when 
 strayed cattle laid down to sleep and never awoke ; 
 when quail sought the scattered farmsteads and, 
 oblivious to the presence of their enemy, man, went 
 to roost with the domestic poultry; when last of all 
 lean grey prairie wolves, wildest of the wild, forgot 
 fear and in mute animal comradery spent the bitter 
 nights side by side with the frontier mongrels. 
 
 This the first intervention; then, when the later 
 date was set, almost at its fulfilment, came the sec- 
 ond, a bolt from the blue, sickness where sickness 
 had never been known or even considered typhoid 
 pneumonia, with Peg Stanton the victim. Then it
 
 1 86 The Quest Eternal 
 
 was that into the arena came the big morose doctor 
 with a nurse who seemed to have arisen from the 
 earth to meet the need and who the day she was 
 released shook the snow of prairie from her skirts 
 and vanished into the mysterious east from which 
 she had been summoned. Yet, together, these 
 two, the doctor and his assistant, carried the 
 battle which none other could have carried ; and as 
 the days lengthened into spring, out of the chaos 
 of plans temporarily forgotten order returned, am- 
 bition blossomed anew, and the third date, the pres- 
 ent, came into being. 
 
 How the cost of that long period of sickness was 
 met, Peg Stanton was never told and, woman-like, 
 forgot to inquire. How Dr. Treadway, when 
 asked his bill, broke into profanity Bob McLeod 
 knew; and knew also that there are times when the 
 profane is something far different in disguise. But 
 doctor bills were far from alone, and that month, 
 on the Cedar County records, a new mortgage was 
 filed, and simultaneously to the rapidly maturing 
 face of Bob McLeod another year seemed added. 
 
 But now all that was past. Upon the surface at 
 least the normal had returned. Youth and the 
 coming of spring had done their work. In addi- 
 tion, upon the dresser in the girl's room, sole article 
 of luxury recently installed in the place, a letter in 
 a woman's handwriting a letter with a dainty 
 monogram in the corner of the sheet, sympathetic
 
 Arcady 187 
 
 but nevertheless throbbingly vital and insistent 
 was adding its appeal. To have told the truth then 
 would have been brutal. Once, nevertheless, 
 when he and the boy were alone, Dr. Treadway 
 had suggested, suggested merely and had inter- 
 fered no more. The day was set. The money 
 necessary, no matter how secured, was at hand. 
 Nothing should prevent, nothing did prevent, for 
 to-morrow was that day. 
 
 But meanwhile twenty-four hours intervened, a 
 period of unqualified holiday. It was seeding time, 
 the beginning of the season's speeding; yet notwith- 
 standing idleness reigned. Since daylight it had 
 reigned; until the break of another day it would 
 hold sway. Not that either of the two had planned 
 it so. No word had been spoken, no suggestion 
 even hinted ; yet by an instinct each knew it was so 
 to be. In a way both were philosophers; self- 
 taught in the hardest of schools, life itself. Until 
 that moment they had played the game as they 
 found it, played it by the rules already laid down, 
 played it with all their might. To-morrow they 
 would pick up the thread anew where it had been 
 dropped and go on without protest. But this brief 
 time was a recess, a lapse, a stolen thing and as 
 such doubly precious. 
 
 In the morning when they arose they had known 
 it was to be a gala day; for without an understand- 
 ing, each had appeared attired in his best. A piti-
 
 1 88 The Quest Eternal 
 
 fully humble change from the normal it was, too 
 slight to be observed by any save the initiated ; but 
 the spirit was there, big in its tribute to the occa- 
 sion. Likewise, in tribute the least-frayed linen, the 
 china with the smallest nicks appeared to grace the 
 breakfast board. No comment was made thereat. 
 None was necessary. Like the unusual dress, the 
 selection was instinctive. It was a quiet breakfast, 
 more so even than usual. No reference was made 
 to the great event of the holiday, none to the 
 greater event of the morrow. The spring morning 
 was beautiful, warm as early summer, so warm that 
 the door and windows were open wide; and, con- 
 trary to their wont, when the meal was over, they 
 still sat there gazing idly out over the awakening 
 earth into the dim distance to the east, where, be- 
 yond the horizon line, throbbed the life which so 
 soon was to concern them both. Yet of that thing 
 uppermost in their minds neither spoke not then. 
 Instead, the girl first, they arose and, as they had 
 done when children, together cleared the table and 
 put the place in order. They worked leisurely, 
 talking of common things, and time flew. It was 
 mid-forenoon when they completed and, as there- 
 after they stood again a moment side by side in the 
 open doorway, they saw something that held them 
 still. 
 
 To the town, the county seat, it was twenty miles 
 by road, south and west; but to the railway itself
 
 Arcady 189 
 
 it was but half that distance, perhaps less. The 
 day was perfectly still and, looking out now, far in 
 the distance where the railroad ran, dim against the 
 blue background yet nevertheless distinct, they saw 
 an upward trailing cloud of smoke. At first it was 
 faint in the distance as the thinnest fog, visible to 
 the keenest eyes alone. But the eyes that watched 
 were young and they understood. Then as minutes 
 passed and it drew nearer until it was directly south, 
 the bank that was like fog became denser and 
 denser, darker and darker, until rising high in the 
 still air, it stood out against the sky like a thunder- 
 cloud. But, unlike a thunder cloud it was not still. 
 On and on it went, across their horizon ; from black 
 shaded to brown, from brown to grey, from grey to 
 merest mist and then then from beneath their 
 very eyes, consciously yet still unconsciously, the last 
 faint haze was haze no more ; and as from distance it 
 had emerged, in distance it was again swallowed up. 
 
 Not when that first warning haze came into being 
 was a word spoken, not even when its darkness was 
 unmistakable; not until in retreating cycle it had 
 vanished. Then at last came comment, a single 
 word. 
 
 "To-morrow," said the girl; and swift as an 
 echo, as an echo soft, the boy repeated: "Yes, to- 
 
 morrow." 
 
 But it was the breaking of reticence, the key to the 
 topic uppermost in both their minds.
 
 190 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "Let's go out doors some place, Bob," said the 
 girl repressedly, "where we can lie down on the 
 grass and smell it growing." She laughed con- 
 sciously, without music in her voice. "I expect after 
 to-day it'll be a long time before I can be natural 
 again." 
 
 The boy glanced at her quickly, meaningly; but 
 she did not return his look. 
 
 "You'll always be natural, Peg," he said low. 
 "You couldn't be different if you wished." A halt; 
 then instinctively he returned to the safe ground 
 of the commonplace. "Besides, where you are go- 
 ing you'll have parks and such things. All towns 
 have them." 
 
 His companion's dark head shook a negative; but 
 still she did not glance at him. 
 
 "No," she refuted, "I won't have time to be fool- 
 ish after to-day. I've got such a lot to learn and 
 the days go so fast." 
 
 Bob McLeod said nothing. The time was too 
 precious for the inconsequent ; and nothing but the 
 inconsequent suggested itself. 
 
 "Madame Ziska says I'm not to have any music 
 at all for awhile," went on the girl. "She's got it 
 all arranged. I'm to go to school first; and after a 
 while when I begin to be prepared a bit, then 
 then " The voice halted, in instinctive awe of 
 the unknown. A new thought, a new dread, domi- 
 nated the horizon. "I'm afraid it's going to take
 
 Arcady 1 9 1 
 
 me a long time to do anything, Bob," she digressed 
 slowly, "an awfully long time." 
 
 Again the boy said nothing. As the girl talked 
 they had moved away from the house ; bareheaded, 
 the warm morning sun shining full upon them; wan- 
 dered so idly, without destination or consciousness 
 of passing time. But the girl did not mind his 
 silence, was accustomed to it. 
 
 "I expect you'll get through yet before I do, Bob," 
 she continued. "You'll probably be a doctor and 
 have a practice all worked up before any one ever 
 hears of me if they ever do. It makes me afraid, 
 almost, when I think what a lot I have to learn." 
 
 They were out on the prairie now, beyond the 
 bare farm-yard, the soft grass muffling their foot- 
 steps, the soft spring breeze fanning their faces. 
 Look where they might no human being except 
 themselves was in sight, no animal life save a herd 
 of grazing stock far to their left. The appeal of 
 it all, the silence, the isolation, the subtle tang 
 of growing vegetation, was insistent. Idleness, 
 abandon, throbbed in the very air, in the warmth of 
 the sun. Instinctively the girl yielded to the in- 
 fluence. The throbbing youth of her went out to 
 meet this youth of the season, this perennially re- 
 turning youth of the old, old world. Unconscious 
 that she was no longer a child, that neither were 
 children as of old, she halted and, like a wild thing, 
 dropped fair in her place; the heavy turf of prairie
 
 192 The Quest Eternal 
 
 a mat beneath her, her face turned to earth and 
 breathing deep, her hands locked in the grass 
 blades, the blessed spring sun warming her through 
 and through. For a moment she did not speak, 
 did not move; merely lay so, forgetful of the thing 
 she had been saying, forgetful of everything save 
 the present moment, drinking deep, as a drunkard 
 drinks, of the mute passionate life. Then, just 
 perceptibly, she stirred. Her face turned up to meet 
 the blue, her eyes closed. 
 
 "Oh, it's good to be alive, Bob," she voiced, 
 "good, good!" 
 
 Standing as he too had paused, the boy looked 
 down upon her; but it was not his nature to forget, 
 even at this moment. Neither would he lie. 
 Therefore he said nothing, did nothing; merely 
 stood there so, watching, waiting. 
 
 A minute passed, a minute of silence absolute. 
 Then of a sudden the girl remembered. She lifted 
 herself until her face was upon her hand, her elbow 
 on the earth. 
 
 "Sit down please, Bob," she requested smilingly. 
 "I don't believe you know how to enjoy a holiday 
 when you have one." 
 
 The boy obeyed ; clumsily although he tried to be 
 otherwise. 
 
 "Perhaps I don't, Peg," he said. He smiled in 
 turn ; his slow smile. "I'm willing to learn though 
 if you'll teach me."
 
 Arcady 193 
 
 The girl looked at him steadily, lazily; the spirit 
 of the day and of the sun in her big brown eyes. 
 
 "All right, then. But first you must forget that 
 we're poor, and nobody, and have to work always ; 
 that in future we won't see anything of each other 
 for a long time ; that other people are selfish and 
 mean ; you must forget everything but to-day, now, 
 this. You must do that first, Bob." 
 
 The boy folded his hands across his knees. His 
 fingers locked. 
 
 'Til try, Peg," he said. 
 
 "Then you must remember that we're young, and 
 healthy, and alive; that the sun is going to shine, 
 to keep right on shining; that the wind is going to 
 blow soft, as it's blowing now; that whatever comes, 
 good or bad, there's always you and I in the world, 
 you and I and we know each other. You must 
 remember all this, Bob." 
 
 The folded hands on the boy's knees reversed. He 
 smiled again, the slow smile. 
 
 "I'm doing that now," he said. "I'm remem- 
 bering it all." 
 
 The girl lifted herself until her face was free. The 
 smile left her eyes. Another look, intense, vital, 
 compelling in its earnestness, its appeal, took the 
 former place. 
 
 "Tell me then, Bob," she said swiftly, "aren't you 
 happy? Aren't you happy now when you remem- 
 ber?"
 
 194 The Quest Eternal 
 
 A moment the boy was silent; then, deliberately, 
 he met her eyes. 
 
 "Yes, Peg," he said, "I'm happy now when I 
 remember." 
 
 A space longer they remained so, the spell of the 
 moment upon them, the great throbbing world be- 
 yond their horizon forgotten; then in the old mo- 
 tion of idleness and abandon the girl's face dropped 
 to her hand. 
 
 "There's something I want to say to-day, now 
 while I think of it, Bob," she began anew; "some- 
 thing I want you to promise me. It's a little thing, 
 but I want your promise before I go. Will you 
 give it, Bob ?" 
 
 The boy too leaned back, but his eyes were watch- 
 ful. 
 
 "What is it, Peg?" he asked. 
 
 "But promise me," insistently, "without my tell- 
 ing. I want you to do that so I can remember, to 
 show you trust me." 
 
 The listener hesitated no longer. "I promise, 
 Peg," he said. 
 
 The girl looked up at the blue above. A thin cir- 
 rus cloud was drifting with the breeze high over- 
 head and unconsciously she followed its motion 
 with her hand. 
 
 "It isn't much, Bob," she said, "and you've prac- 
 tically promised before; but I want to be sure. I 
 want you to tell me again that no matter what hap-
 
 Arcady 1 9 5 
 
 pens in the future, no matter how hard It seems for 
 you to get away, you will go in spite of it. Will 
 you promise me this again, Bob, before I go?" 
 
 This time the boy did not hesitate. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I'll go away to college some day 
 in spite of everything." 
 
 "And soon next year sure?" 
 
 "I can't promise that, Peg." 
 
 "The year after that, then, at the latest. You'll 
 be eighteen then." 
 
 "I can't promise that either, Peg. I'd like to but 
 I can't." 
 
 The girl had forgotten the cloud. Her hand 
 dropped. 
 
 "Why not, Bob?" 
 
 "Don't ask me why, please, Peg." The boy was 
 speaking swiftly, unusually swiftly. "There're too 
 many things that might possibly prevent. I'll do 
 my best; but I can't set a date." 
 
 For a moment the girl did not answer and, abnor- 
 mally sensitive, the other imagined she was 
 hurt. 
 
 "You know I'll do the best I can, don't you, 
 Peg?" he asked penitently. "You'll trust me for 
 that too." 
 
 "Bob!" The girl had turned swiftly, almost 
 fiercely. "Bob!" That was all. 
 
 The subject dropped. Conversation lapsed. 
 Time, the unhalting, drifted on. Bit by bit the sun
 
 196 The Quest Eternal 
 
 had mounted into the sky, grew hotter and hotter. 
 In sympathy, shade by shade, the distant horizon 
 line drew nearer, became less distinct. Responsive 
 to the warmth, from off the face of earth, wavy 
 intangible lines of radiant heat came into being; 
 danced and swayed on their upward journey. 
 Earth was not silent now. Instead, the aimless 
 prairie breeze had risen, become definite in direc- 
 tion ; and above their heads went droning and purr- 
 ing on its journey. One by one the dots on the 
 horizon that had been the individuals of the graz- 
 ing herd disappeared. Imbued with the ubiquitous 
 langour, their appetities satisfied at last, they had 
 lain down in their places in a mid-day siesta. It 
 was time for dinner, the dinner that this last day 
 was to be an event; and, remembering, the girl 
 arose. Reluctantly, with a last lingering glance at 
 the place she was leaving, she shook the scattered 
 wisps of grass from her skirts. Responsive, the 
 boy also started to follow, but she motioned him 
 back. 
 
 "No, you're not to come for a half hour," she 
 said, "or maybe an hour. I'll call you when I'm 
 ready." She was smiling with lips that repressed 
 a tremble. "It's to be a last big dinner, a surprise." 
 
 Night, the last riight they two were to be together, 
 had come. The big dinner, the surprise, had been
 
 Arcady 1 97 
 
 eaten and cleared away and passed into memory. 
 In the corner of the room a tiny trunk, bought by 
 the boy in the little town and by him likewise care- 
 fully marked on the side with a big M. S. that 
 stood for Margaret Stanton was packed and 
 ready. It had been an event, that packing. The 
 few new articles, recently bought for the journey, 
 must of necessity be duly admired and very, very 
 carefully laid away that no harm might come to 
 them in transit. Small as was the receptacle there 
 was still vacant room when all were in and the 
 house had been rummaged anew to fill the lack. 
 Evening was at hand when the labour was finally 
 complete; and when afterward the farm chores 
 were done night had come. 
 
 All through the day the two had been cheerful, 
 almost gay. That it had been an effort and un- 
 natural each knew; but neither had admitted the 
 fact to the other. But now at last, the day over, the 
 darkness of evening about them, the time of the 
 actual separation drawing so near, the effort was 
 abandoned. For the first time they became really 
 natural. For the first time, their guard down, the 
 loneliness of the future gripped them close. 
 
 Coming up the path from the barn, his work over, 
 the boy had found the other sitting on the doorstep, 
 as on unnumbered similar occasions in the past, 
 when the day's labour was complete, he had found 
 her, apparently in her familiar attitude; and with-
 
 198 The Quest Eternal 
 
 out a word he had sat down beside her. A minute 
 he remained so, gazing out into the night, thinking 
 his own thoughts. It was dark now, so dark that 
 he could not see his companion's face; and he did 
 not disturb her. A second minute passed so, the 
 intimate silence of prairie night, of prairie dark- 
 ness wrapping them in, cutting them off from the 
 world; then of a sudden, breaking the spell, open- 
 ing the wound that he had thought not to open 
 again, came a little choking sound that was unmis- 
 takable, that he feared and still found sweetest 
 music in all the world: the catch of a repressed little 
 sob. For a moment thereafter he still sat so, pre- 
 tending not to hear, struggling for silence; then, 
 scattering determination to the winds, bearing like 
 a flood all before it, the sound was repeated, and 
 again and again ; not repression this time but aban- 
 don at last the weeping of one who could restrain 
 herself no longer, open, unashamed. 
 
 "Peg," with an effort the boy's voice was natural, 
 almost neutral, "you mustn't do that." A pause 
 wherein the speaker groped for an adequate reason 
 why. None that was not sacrilege suggested itself. 
 "You simply mustn't, Peg," he repeated. 
 
 Instead of obeying the sobs were redoubled. The 
 girl's whole body trembled. 
 
 "I can't help it, Bob," pleaded a choking voice. 
 "I've tried to but I can't help it." She covered her 
 face with her hands, a dark shadow against the
 
 Arcady 199 
 
 lighted sky. "It didn't seem so bad when I was 
 only thinking of leaving; but now when the time 
 is so near I see how terribly selfish it is for me to go 
 and leave you to fight alone." Bit by bit, muffled, 
 halting, the explanation had come. Now of a 
 sudden the head lifted, the lines of the face became 
 clear. "It's awful of me, Bob, and I hate myself. 
 I wish I were dead." 
 
 Involuntarily the boy turned toward her, involun- 
 tarily his arms extended; then he remembered and 
 drew back as before. 
 
 "I can't listen if you're going to talk that way, 
 Peg," he said low. "I won't. Your staying 
 wouldn't make any difference. I couldn't go now 
 anyway. You know that. Don't talk so any more. 
 Please don't." 
 
 "But it would make a difference," insistently. "I 
 know better." As suddenly as the sobs had come 
 they had ceased. The moment was too big for 
 tears. "You're telling me what isn't true so as not 
 to hurt me; but just the same my going means so 
 much longer for you to wait. That's what I know 
 and I despise myself." 
 
 Swift as thought a denial sprang to the listener's 
 lips; then halted. It would have been useless that 
 moment to prevaricate. 
 
 "I've never done anything but be in the way since 
 I first came," rushed on the girl. "I took your 
 place here in the house. Your father sent me to
 
 2OO The Quest Eternal 
 
 school instead of you. He bought me clothes when 
 the money ought to have been saved to send you 
 away to a doctor. I've done nothing but keep you 
 down year after year and when you are the only 
 person who was ever really good to me. It's hor- 
 rible ! When I think of it, selfish isn't the word, 
 it's horrible!" 
 
 "Peg!" The listener could stand it no longer. 
 Irresistibly he slipped across the space separating; 
 as though she were a child his hand went over her 
 mouth, cutting off the flow of remorse. "I tell you 
 I won't listen any more," he protested swiftly. 
 "Promise me you won't say such things. Promise 
 me quick." 
 
 A second they remained so, emotionally tense; 
 then of a sudden, instead of resistance, something 
 happened; something unexpected, instinctive, cata- 
 clysmic. Just perceptibly the girl drew back, her 
 breath came quick, her lips moved and she 
 kissed the palm before her face, and ere either 
 had realised the moment of action, again and 
 again. 
 
 As though the hand were lead, it dropped to the 
 boy's lap, lay there very still. 
 
 "Peg!" he said; but volumes could have spoken 
 no more. 
 
 An instant too the girl was still; but the Rubicon 
 had been passed. 
 
 "I couldn't help that either, Bob," she said sud-
 
 Arcady 20 1 
 
 denly, tensely, "and I don't care. I think too much 
 of you to care. I lied to you to-day when I said it 
 was the work ahead I saw to do that I was afraid 
 of. It isn't that, it's the leaving you that hurts." 
 In the darkness a soft warm hand reached for and 
 found the hand her lips had touched, held it cap: 
 tive. "You're the whole world to me, Bob, the 
 whole big round world and I'm leaving you for 
 years." 
 
 On the listener's ear fell the words, the music. 
 On his hand still lay that other small hand, soft and 
 warm. Since that first instinctive move he had not 
 stirred. He could feel her warm young body close 
 beside his own. Darkness was upon them now, the 
 complete darkness of a moonless night. They were 
 alone; as much so as though on the centre of a 
 desert island, as completely as though adrift on the 
 open sea. This the boy knew; and that he was a 
 boy in years only as well. And still time passed 
 and he was silent. A spoken sentence, a mere sug- 
 gestion, and the thing his nature craved would have 
 been his, the future that, so lonely and so dark, 
 stared him in the face would have been altered to 
 suit his wish. This he knew and still he was silent. 
 Many a fight this repressed human had waged in 
 the past, many were yet in store; but never did he 
 battle more bravely than at this moment. For not 
 by a word or action did he betray himself. Not by 
 the merest suggestion was he false to his trust. But
 
 202 The Quest Eternal 
 
 there is a limit to human endurance, even though 
 that endurance be Scotch stolidity. That this limit 
 was all but reached he knew ; and with a last effort 
 supreme, a last determination he acted. Gently, 
 infinitely gently, he released his hand. Just per- 
 ceptibly he drew away until they were no longer 
 touching. 
 
 "I understand, Peg, how you feel," he said low, 
 "and I'll remember always. But we're young yet, 
 both of us, and the thing has got to be." He was 
 choosing his words carefully, convincing both him- 
 self and her. "You'll feel different when once you 
 get away among new people and new surroundings. 
 You won't forget, but you'll feel different. It's 
 better far for you to go." 
 
 The voice halted and once more night closed them 
 around. In the silence of it, his answer spoken, his 
 sacrifice made, the boy sat waiting; a terrible ache 
 tugging like a live thing at his consciousness. As 
 he did so he felt rather than saw that the girl 
 had turned facing him. Before she spoke he felt 
 the change he had so deliberately caused. 
 
 "Is that all you've got to say, all you've got to 
 offer in return?" asked a voice, not a girl's voice, 
 but a woman's this time. 
 
 For an instant the listener did not answer. He 
 could not. His lips were feverishly dry, and he 
 moistened them involuntarily. 
 
 "Yes," he said at last, "that's all I've got to say."
 
 Arcady 203 
 
 A moment they sat there so in the darkness, a 
 moment that to one at least was Hell. 
 
 "All right then, Bob," said the girl at last. "I'm 
 sorry that I said what I did say. I thought " Of 
 a sudden the sentence that had begun so bravely 
 halted, to remain incomplete. Again on the still- 
 ness her breathing became quick, audibly quick. 
 While a minute gathered into the past she remained 
 so, battling with herself, with an instinct that was 
 stronger than her will ; then for the second time she 
 surrendered. For a second time she shifted about. 
 With a little motion of abandon her face came 
 close, until her warm breath was upon the other's 
 cheek. 
 
 "Kiss me, Bob," she said tensely, "this once be- 
 fore I go. To-morrow at the station there'll be 
 folks watching and it will be different. Kiss me 
 now, good-bye, just this once." 
 
 That second for the boy the universe stopped, 
 time stood still. The singing of the hot blood in his 
 ears was as of many cataracts. Darkness denser 
 than that of night enfolded him. As he knew life, 
 himself, human nature, he knew that instant was the 
 test. Preternaturally clearly, preternaturally in- 
 sistently, there flashed through his brain the assur- 
 ance absolute that if he failed that moment it was 
 the end; of his future, of her future, of all the hopes 
 they had together builded. Once he granted her 
 wish, her request but it would not be once. In
 
 204 The Quest Eternal 
 
 years they were boy and girl; but in development 
 they were man and woman. Once he sealed that 
 proffered bond he would never let her leave hdm. 
 No human power but God alone, could take her 
 away. Thus he was made. Thus he knew he was 
 made. And still the face was there beside his face, 
 still 
 
 "Won't you kiss me, Bob," repeated the voice, 
 steady this time, unnaturally steady, "won't you kiss 
 me good-bye, when I ask it?" 
 
 Instinctively the boy turned, instinctively his lips 
 parted; then for an inappreciable space time lapsed. 
 When reality returned he was upon his feet, sway- 
 ing as one drunken, as a runner who has won when 
 the wire is passed. One thing, and one alone was 
 in his mind, the single consciousness that he had 
 not failed. Instead, chronicling this fact, prov- 
 ing it, a voice was speaking, his own voice; and 
 in words that seemed to him pitifully weak and 
 inadequate. 
 
 "No," that voice was saying, "I can't, Peg. I 
 can't. As God is my judge I dare not I" 
 
 Then for the second time the real merged into tHe 
 unreal. Stumblingly, by instinct alone semi-con- 
 sciously, he realised that of a sudden he was fleeing, 
 as a coward flees, from the seat of battle. Again 
 subconsciously he realised that he had said some- 
 thing more trite and inadequate ; something about it 
 being very late and they must both go to bed. A
 
 Arcady 205 
 
 bit later he had felt the rounds of the ladder that 
 led to the garret beneath his hands and he had 
 climbed up and up. At last the thing was done 
 and he was stretched out on his own bed, staring 
 up wide-eyed into the blackness. 
 
 And of the parting that preceded the new epoch 
 that was all.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE WHEEL MOVES ON 
 
 FOUR years drifted by, eventless save for the change 
 of seasons, monotonous as the dripping sands of an 
 hour-glass. Four years, one after the other, prairie 
 had frowned on man, her slave. For the cycle of 
 the lean years was once again upon the land; the 
 old, old cycle of burning suns, of clouded skies that 
 failed in their omen, of burned-brown monochrome 
 stretching from horizon to horizon. For the sec- 
 ond time in the life of Bob McLeod the great 
 change from fertility to sterility had come about 
 and dragged on and on. The very year Peg Stan- 
 ton had gone, in finest irony, the alteration had 
 come. For month after month of the growing 
 period, from frost to frost, the rain had failed. 
 Hoping against hope the boy had worked, his 
 neighbours had worked, the whole frontier had 
 laboured and in vain. The curse was upon them 
 the unalterable mandate of drought. The wheat 
 sprouted and grew, battled with them against the 
 inevitable, approached the time of harvest and, 
 beaten at last, withered as it stood. The corn 
 germinated, dotted the landscape green for a sea- 
 son and likewise burned back to earth. Even the
 
 The Wheel Moves On 207 
 
 prairie grass halted in its growth and, ere the sum- 
 mer was past, rattled crisp beneath the passing 
 foot. It was the old, old tale oft repeated, the pre- 
 ordained halt in the march of civilisation, the ever- 
 recurring lapse in the transformation of a new 
 country to an old; yet to them who struggled and 
 met its decree it was cruel as nature only can be 
 cruel, unjust and unexplained as again nature only 
 can be unjust and inexplicable. 
 
 Thus the pendulum swung and the first lean year 
 came and went; then followed the second. Begin- 
 ning now the shadow of disaster hung dim against 
 the sky ; but, undaunted, man struggled on. Though 
 already the creeks sung to slower measure and wa- 
 tercourses here and there were dry, there was still 
 hope. They sowed and planted the last seed in 
 their midst and waited for the rains. They grum- 
 bled little, some prayed perhaps, but they waited. 
 Yet still the rains did not come. Over them blazed 
 an unrelenting sky or clouded but to clear again and 
 leave the parched earth drier than before. Long 
 before the time of harvest this year they read their 
 answer. Merciful at least in this, nature did not 
 hold them long in doubt. Idle perforce they drifted 
 with the tide or counted the months and days ere, 
 in the routine of the big game, they could call for 
 a new hand. 
 
 This the second year; then came the third. Seed 
 they had none this season, all must needs be brought
 
 208 The Quest Eternal 
 
 in from more favoured lands to the east. Yet 
 somehow they got it ; by what hook or crook would 
 make a volume of individual ingenuity, individual 
 sacrifice. It was the third attempt, logically the 
 winning attempt, and courage revived. Barely a 
 farm in the county was free from its mortgage now ; 
 but still they were cheerful. One good year would 
 make all right, two would leave a surplus against 
 a future repetition. The optimism was contagious, 
 boundless, and settlers who were strangers each 
 to each smiled as they passed each other on the 
 road. 
 
 But for the third time the rains did not come. 
 Once again the newly ploughed fields baked and 
 curled in a season-long drought. Then for the first 
 time despair came upon them, gripped them close. 
 What had been merely murmuring the preceding 
 years was now open invective. What had been dis- 
 content became open revolt. From the abstract, 
 the problem of existence which had confronted 
 them merged swiftly into the concrete. Their re- 
 sources were exhausted, and starvation, not theoret- 
 ical but actual, stared them in the face. Under its 
 pressure like water they flowed. 
 
 For it was then the exodus began; an exodus sec- 
 ond only to that former historical one when Indian 
 warfare and rapine flamed forth in the land. Early 
 in summer it commenced; a scattering trail of 
 prairie schooners headed east and south along the
 
 The Wheel Moves On 209 
 
 section roads. Then as the season advanced the 
 flood augmented until scarcely a night passed with- 
 out disclosing a camper implanted on the right of 
 way in front of the McLeod homestead. Finally 
 as winter approached and the necessity of immedi- 
 ate action became imperative, it reached its height. 
 It was dramatic, epochal, that flitting at the season 
 of the migrating birds; yet more than that it was 
 pathetic, as the simile itself. 
 
 Old and young made up that retreating army, the 
 physically able and the physically disabled. New- 
 comers of the year before mingled with old settlers 
 who had spent the best years of their lives attempt- 
 ing to carve out a home here in this virgin land. 
 But now all were alike in the equality of adversity. 
 What property they had which would sell they had 
 sold. The rest was abandoned, or in the form of 
 live stock trailed along in their wake. A few in- 
 tended to return some time; but the majority did 
 not were shaking the dust of frontier forever 
 from their feet. Like a passing show, like the wild 
 migrants whose example they followed, they came 
 and went and the relentless season drew apace to 
 a close. Here and there, through the long winter 
 nights that followed, a solitary farm-house re- 
 mained dark and deserted; but otherwise their exit 
 from the scene left no trace. Like minor actors, 
 they had taken their cue and played their tiny part. 
 Like minor actors, they had disappeared from the
 
 210 The Quest Eternal 
 
 State. But meanwhile, unhalting, the great play 
 went on. 
 
 Then at last came the fourth year and, side by. 
 side with the abandoned farms of their neighbours, 
 those who remained went doggedly about their 
 work. There were no weaklings on the frontier 
 now, none who repined or murmured. By the 
 gradual process of elimination such had gone. They 
 were fixtures, these humans who remained now; 
 firmly rooted as the native buffalo grass or the wil- 
 lows that sprouted from the creek beds. That to 
 all things there is an end they knew; and in grim 
 tenacity, as though three failures were not already 
 staring them in the face, they made the fight anew. 
 Hardened gamblers, when, early in the season, the 
 spring rains came they showed no elation. When 
 later the brief period of promise vanished and the 
 familiar tale of drought was repeated they still held 
 their peace. Though uniformly in debt, their 
 credit was still good for one more ante in the sea- 
 son to come, and until their last chip vanished from 
 the board they were not beaten. They merely sat 
 back in their seats with inscrutable faces and silently 
 watched the months drag by. 
 
 For this was the last year of the great drought that 
 in aggregate cut the frontier population to half. 
 Of necessity it was likewise the worst year. Human 
 emigration there was little or none; but live stock 
 flowed away in a continual stream, and therefore the
 
 The Wheel Moves On 211 
 
 reason was obvious, imperative. Not only was the 
 need of money insistent, but year by year water had 
 become increasingly difficult of access. Barely a 
 creek on the frontier flowed now and rivers were 
 prohibitorily distant. Wells that heretofore were 
 unfailing went dry. Not a wild fowl nested that 
 year for miles around ; not one halted in its fall mi- 
 gration. Stock grew thinner and thinner despite 
 the native grasses that drought could not entirely 
 suppress. Water they must have or die and water 
 their owners could not furnish. Therefore the ex- 
 odus; by carload and by trainload, by long extra 
 sections that drew away by day and by night. 
 When at last the tardy coming of snow in the 
 fourth year turned the plains white, barely a graz- 
 ing living thing dotted their expanse. Since the 
 coming of the first settlers there had never been 
 such an unbroken expanse of white. It was the end 
 of the evil days, the beginning of a new era of 
 prosperity; but this those grim waiting pioneers 
 could not know. Had they known, they could have 
 done no differently than they had done. Under the 
 stress of necessity they had swept the horizon bare. 
 A blank white page it stretched out around them, 
 awaiting the record of the new era that was at 
 
 hand. 
 
 ***** 
 
 And among those who awaited the coming of the 
 new year, awaited without protest, though his sub-
 
 212 The Quest Eternal 
 
 stance to the last white chip had gone in the game, 
 was a young Scotch- American of the name of 
 McLeod. Dogged patient, year after year, like his 
 neighbours, he had waited; and, like them, season 
 after season had found him more deeply enmeshed 
 in the tangle of debt. The first blank year had 
 passed without surface change. On the Cedar 
 County records a new mortgage, a third mortgage, 
 had come into being. That was all. The year fol- 
 lowing, in advance of the general exodus, his stock 
 had gone all but a handful. But when the draft 
 so obtained went east no hint was given of the way 
 it had been obtained, no suggestion of the blank 
 future or of the barren past. 
 
 The third year, in the tiny private room at the 
 rear of the bank, he faced President Brady, whose 
 name was on the first big mortgage recorded. It 
 was a short interview. He told his story, making 
 no promises for the future, offering no apologies 
 for the past, using not one superfluous word. The 
 other listened. At the close there was a pause 
 wherein the two, both men now, looked each other 
 eye to eye. Then, unbelievable as it may seem, 
 without a suggestion on the part of the younger, the 
 thing he wished was granted. An extension was 
 allowed for a year and a new note, smaller far than 
 its predecessors, but enough to meet imperative 
 need, was drawn. 
 
 And still when that latest draft went east no hint
 
 The Wheel Moves On 213 
 
 of its source accompanied; only a regret, pathetic 
 in its brevity, that the belated visit, which had been 
 deferred year by year, must be again delayed. The 
 letter which he wrote, the letter so carefully 
 worded, was written and rewritten many times, was 
 delayed day after day while its author waited, hop- 
 ing for a miracle; but at last it went, and the game 
 dragged on. 
 
 Then at last came the fourth blank year and with 
 it the end. Early in the summer, when nature had 
 spoken her decision, he came to town; every frag- 
 ment of his possessions packed in the cloth telescope 
 under the buggy seat. The team and the wagon 
 were the only chattels left to the McLeod farm 
 and in another hour they too would not be his. Be- 
 fore he had left the house he had closed the door 
 and turned the key; though the latter precaution 
 was needless. The interior of the house, like the 
 farm-yard beyond, was bare of any article of com- 
 mercial value. Even the sheet-iron stove and the 
 cupboard with the tin doors had gone their way. 
 Methodically, in front of the bank, he drew up the 
 team, tied, and went within. Brady was there, had 
 seen him arrive, and at a gesture led the way to 
 the little room behind. The cloth telescope was 
 still in the visitor's hand. He did not put it down 
 or take a seat. 
 
 "I locked the house before I left," he said. 
 "There's an old cook stove and a pine table and a
 
 214 The Quest Eternal 
 
 few such things left; but that's all." He fumbled 
 in his pocket with his free hand. "Here's the key." 
 
 No other word of explanation was spoken. None 
 other was necessary. 
 
 Mechanically, almost reluctantly, Brady accepted 
 the proffered key. Noticeably ill at ease, in con- 
 trast with his visitor, he cleared his throat. 
 
 "I'm sorry, really, McLeod," he began; "it's hard 
 luck for you I realise, but " 
 
 "I understand," prevented the other quickly. 
 "You've done all you could." The window was 
 open and walking over he leaned on the sill. "I 
 didn't call to bother you or to ask the impossible. 
 I had another object." He looked the other di- 
 rectly. "You'll be working the place next year 
 yourself, I expect?" 
 
 Brady took a seat. He was accustomed to dealing 
 with men, but this specimen was of a new type. 
 "I suppose so, unless I sell," he hesitated. 
 
 "You can't sell now to advantage, Mr. Brady." 
 
 "I suppose not." 
 
 "In case you farm the place you'll need a team. 
 Did you notice the one I drove in?" 
 
 "Yes, a bit." 
 
 "I want to sell them. The wagon isn't worth 
 much, but I'll throw it in." 
 
 Onto the horizon loomed the prospect of business 
 and the banker's eyes narrowed; but he said noth- 
 ing.
 
 The Wheel Moves On 215 
 
 "They're a good team, Mr. Brady, young and 
 kind. I know because I raised them from colts. 
 I'll take two hundred dollars for them." 
 
 "Horses are poor property now, out of demand." 
 
 "I know; but they're worth two fifty. I can sell 
 them even now easy at two hundred." 
 
 The banker cleared his throat unnecessarily. 
 
 "Pardon me for the suggestion, but aren't you a 
 bit foolish to sell at all?" he queried. "You'll be 
 wanting them yourself in a year or so." 
 
 "Perhaps; but I need the money right now. I've 
 got to sell to you or some one." 
 
 "Very well, then, I'll take them." There was posi- 
 tive relief in the voice. One with a conscience must 
 sometimes give advice, even though it be opposed 
 to self-interest; but when all is said a good deal is 
 a good deal. "I'll give you the money as you go 
 out." 
 
 "Just one other thing," quickly. Bob McLeod 
 was no hypocrite and he spoke no thanks. "You'd 
 need a man to work for you next year. If you have 
 no one else in mind I'd like to apply for the place.*' 
 
 As before, the prospect of business loomed in view 
 and again Brady's eyelids narrowed. 
 
 "I won't be able to offer very big wages," he sug- 
 gested, "things are so uncertain just now." 
 
 "I don't expect it. I'll take thirty-five dollars a 
 month and board myself." 
 
 The banker hesitated in seeming uncertainty.
 
 21 6 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "I'll consider the matter," he said at last. 
 
 "I'll have to know now," refused the man before 
 the window evenly. "I'm at the end of my rope 
 and can't have any uncertainty about the future. 
 If you don't want me I'll look for another place." 
 
 Brady did not hesitate this time. He knew it was 
 useless. 
 
 "I'll make a contract with you at the price you 
 named," he accepted. 
 
 "Thank you," said McLeod this time. 
 
 From the bank the man went to Treadway's of- 
 fice. The doctor was not in and, without form of 
 permission, the visitor appropriated his desk and 
 wrote a letter. That is, he wrote several and, after 
 careful revision, finally copied the last and de- 
 stroyed the others. 
 
 "Dear Peg:" he wrote. 
 
 "Once more I'll have to say no to your invitation. 
 I'd like to come mighty well, I think you'll believe 
 that, particularly because I've never seen a com- 
 mencement and more especially because this is your 
 commencement; but I simply can't now. I know 
 you'll do fine and I'm mighty glad for you that 
 you're through college. You'll have time for your 
 music now and won't have to work so hard trying 
 to do two things at one time. Don't let Madame 
 Ziska know I told, but I got a note from her a while
 
 The Wheel Moves On 217 
 
 back and she says you're coming on fast. I did 
 about three men's work the day I got that letter, 
 Peg, I was so proud. You've got a voice, girl; I 
 know it and you know it and Madame Ziska 
 knows it too. You'll win in the end, we all believe 
 that, so whatever happens don't get blue. 
 
 "I expect you'll think I'm awful selfish and don't 
 care a bit what you're doing, when you get this, 
 Peg; but forgive me this once more, please. I'm 
 enclosing a draft for two hundred dollars. I just 
 sold some stock and I thought you'd need the 
 money particularly just now. I'll have some more 
 coming in before winter, so don't worry about 
 finances. And, by the way, you'd better get that 
 new gown you suggested. I think I understand 
 how you feel about being 'like the rest of them.' I 
 certainly want you to be like the other girls. And 
 another thing, Peg. Pay for the things you 
 need yourself, always, please. That new hat with 
 the ostrich tips you said Madame Ziska gave you 
 because your old one looked a bit dingy pay her 
 for it, please. I don't want to interfere ; but some 
 time you'll know I'm right when I ask you to be 
 independent. She's a good friend to you now and 
 mighty kind; but none of us know the future and 
 money favours are different from other kinds. Even 
 though they're small they make one more or less 
 dependent. Won't you do as I ask, please ? 
 
 "I'm pretty busy, Peg, and can't think of anything
 
 2i 8 The Quest Eternal 
 
 particularly new to tell you anyway. I've been 
 reading up on voices a bit since you told me yours 
 was a contralto. You'd have laughed if you'd seen 
 me figuring out the difference between an alto and 
 a soprano and contralto and the rest. I supposed 
 they were all the same before. 
 
 "Good-bye, now and remember what I said 
 about obligations, please. I want you to finish two 
 years from now as you began absolutely inde- 
 pendent." 
 
 Carefully as he had written the letter he addressed 
 the envelope and put the latter in his pocket. After 
 that he sat waiting. A note on the desk said the 
 doctor would return at 9.30 o'clock. It was now 
 nearly ten; but no one had come. On the desk like- 
 wise was a new magazine; but though the visitor 
 saw it he did not take it up. For one of the few 
 times in his life he could not read. Once he arose 
 and walked over to the window; but almost im- 
 mediately he returned. Another man would prob- 
 ably have found it impossible at that time to remain 
 so, inactive, waiting; but Bob McLeod was himself 
 and no other. Now and then, as he sat there, his 
 hands opened and closed tight, unconsciously, 
 tensely; but that was all. Otherwise he seemed 
 merely resting, merely passive. 
 
 It was 10.15 when a familiar step came stumping 
 up the hall; and, responsive, the visitor arose. The 
 cloth telescope was beside his chair and he took it
 
 The Wheel Moves On 219 
 
 up preparatory to leaving. The two, the newcomer 
 and the visitor, met just inside the waiting-room 
 door and as usual between them there were no 
 preliminaries. 
 
 "I'm going east on the morning train, for a while," 
 said the younger, "and I called before going to ask 
 a favour. I get a letter from Peg Stanton now and 
 then, and I'd rather not explain to her that I'm 
 away. I'll be writing occasionally in return, too, 
 and I'd like to have the letters posted from here. 
 I think you understand what I wish." 
 
 Treadway nodded, but he said nothing. 
 
 "I'll send you my address when I get located. 
 It'll be somewhere in Iowa. I don't know exactly 
 where yet." 
 
 The big doctor looked a question, looked it only. 
 
 "Yes, I've given possession," said the other. 
 "There's no use bucking the inevitable any longer; 
 and besides I've simply got to have an income. I'll 
 get where they have a crop in time for harvest and 
 there'll be corn to husk afterwards." 
 
 "You'll be back?" 
 
 "Next spring. I'm under contract to work the 
 place for Brady the coming year." 
 
 Again Treadway nodded. 
 
 "I suppose," he added evenly, "there's no use of 
 my asking you again if you know what all this 
 means?" 
 
 "Yes," quickly, "I know. But I've got to have
 
 22O The Quest Eternal 
 
 a certain income for two years yet and farming's 
 all I know anything about." 
 
 A moment they stood so, each waiting for the 
 other to speak; then meaningly, not cruelly but 
 nevertheless unmistakably, the eyes of the elder 
 man dropped dropped until they rested on a mis- 
 shapen boot on the cottonwood floor. Whether or 
 no he would have spoken remains unrecorded, a 
 secret with him alone ; for, anticipating, preventing, 
 almost as though he had been struck, McLeod drew 
 back. Beneath its coat of tan his face shaded pale. 
 
 "Don't, please," he requested swiftly. "I don't 
 want to argue it to-day. I realise it means never 
 now but no matter. I've gotten along for twenty 
 years so and I guess I can finish the same way." 
 
 Abruptly as the sudden flow of words had begun 
 they halted. Equally abruptly he started for the 
 door. As there had been no introduction, there 
 was no form of parting. Without another word 
 or a single backward glance, he was gone.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF THE QUEST 
 
 THE month was July, the time afternoon. Peace 
 was upon the land the infinite peace of prosperity 
 and of plenty. A light breeze was blowing, not 
 strong, yet enough to keep the mantel of green that 
 covered the earth from horizon to horizon a-sway. 
 Like the surface of a great lake was that stretch of 
 vegetation not a sea, for the surface was even, the 
 wavelets tiny but a lake, hill-surrounded and pro- 
 tected. As the surface of lake water is rippled so 
 pulsated the endless green. For over the face of 
 prairie each growing thing had struck a level; the 
 mature and the immature blending. Knee high 
 was the grass bed of the meadows, mature but not 
 yet passed to the brown of age. Knee high were 
 the fields of wheat and oats and rye, unripe and 
 waiting for the impetus that would send the heads 
 suddenly shooting upward an equal length. Knee 
 high and rankly green were the corn fields, not wait- 
 ing but growing almost visibly day by day under the 
 stimulus of summer and bounteous moisture. All, 
 obeying the unequal laws of awakening and of 
 growth, had met on this neutral ground of early 
 summer. All, under the gentle touch of the wind,
 
 222 The Quest Eternal 
 
 pulsated in unison, as swing pendulums of similar 
 length. 
 
 For it was the second of the fat years, the cycle 
 that had followed the lean four. But already, so 
 short is human memory, recollection of that period 
 of depression had all but passed. Even among 
 those settlers who had stayed through it all the im- 
 pression was becoming dimmed ; like an evil dream 
 when the sun rises on the morrow. Among the 
 newcomers who, like a flood, had inundated the 
 land it was ignored absolutely. Nature, prodigal 
 as a spendthrift of her favours, had covered every 
 trace of her former displeasure; as if penitent had 
 opened her storehouse wide until earth fairly 
 groaned beneath her bounty. It was a time of re- 
 joicing, of ceaseless activity: a veritable saturnalia 
 of animal and vegetable life. Nothing that drew 
 breath could resist the influence. Nothing at- 
 tempted to combat. Thinking man or unthinking 
 beast were the same, were brothers beneath the sun. 
 The common mother was kind, was smiling at them 
 continuously by day and by night. Already her 
 promise of future was spoken in the assurance of a 
 mighty harvest. Energy ubiquitous throbbed all 
 about them, within them. Like children of the 
 sun that they were, they accepted as was offered 
 and in so doing found it very good.
 
 A Glimpse of the Quest 223 
 
 In a corn field that covered one-third of the sur- 
 face of the one-time McLeod farm, now the Brady 
 place, a man was working this afternoon. Since 
 sunrise, with a brief interval of rest at noon, he 
 had been labouring. The field was large, larger 
 than one man ordinarily attempted to cultivate, 
 and the growth of weeds was insistently swift. 
 Therefore he lost no time. Back and forth across 
 the field he vibrated, covering one row at each pas- 
 sage, the trail of green dots an endless ribbon be- 
 hind him reaching out in an endless ribbon before. 
 The cultivator he used was of the old-fashioned 
 walking kind. The team that gave it motion were 
 plodding strong, plodding patient. On and on they 
 went. On and on the man who directed the shovels 
 followed. The reins were tied together and hung 
 across his back, leaving his hands free. Under their 
 direction, automatic from practice, the shovels of 
 the plough moved in and out rhythmically, avoid- 
 ing the growing corn, unerringly cutting out the 
 weeds that interspersed. The eyes of the worker 
 seldom glanced up. They could not do so without 
 halting in his task and he was in a hurry. There- 
 fore now they lifted not at all. 
 
 As he moved along he limped with every other 
 step, this man ; but that, too, from long experience 
 was automatic. Otherwise he was of the type true : 
 the type that could be found working in every field 
 adjoining for miles around. To one of another life
 
 224 The Quest Eternal 
 
 he would have been picturesque. Of the fact him- 
 self he was utterly unconscious. The cotton shirt 
 of brown and white that he wore rolled up to the 
 elbows was unbuttoned and opened wide at the 
 throat. The baggy corduroy trousers were held in 
 place by a leather belt. The big frontier felt hat 
 on his head, weather-stained and misshapen, that 
 waved sympathetically with his every motion, was 
 likewise dull brown. All in all brown was the domi- 
 nating tone from crown to foot, throat, arms, face 
 brown as the kiss of the sun which is tan. In 
 the haunts of evolved civilisation and of fashion so 
 far away, that conformity of colour would have 
 been art. With him it was instinctive, unconscious, 
 natural selection typified. 
 
 And meanwhile the green ribbon was unrolling 
 beneath his bare arms as he moved along, the broad 
 leaves rustling a greeting as he passed each hill. 
 Bordering the field, limiting it at one side, was a 
 section road, and on reaching it he turned about 
 methodically in a return journey. But even then 
 he did not glance up or along its stretch to see if 
 by chance some one were moving. To do so never 
 occurred to him. And therein the aloofness was 
 typical. Whether or no another human was on a 
 journey concerned him not. His affair was to 
 plough corn, to work in the field he had momentarily 
 left. Therefore without a pause he faced the team 
 about, the shovels temporarily lifted, returned to
 
 A Glimpse of the Quest 225 
 
 earth, the swish of the passing corn blades came 
 anew to his ears, the creaking of the harness, the 
 low tinkle of metal against metal 
 
 "Bob !" It was a woman's voice that interrupted, 
 a voice, moreover, that now held an injured note, 
 "BobMcLeod!" 
 
 As though suddenly awakened the man turned. 
 The reins slipped up under his arms, drew tight 
 and the team stopped. Beneath the sun kiss that 
 was tan the face shaded lighter. That was all. 
 
 "Bob," repeated the voice for the second time, and 
 simultaneously from the single livery rig that had 
 drawn up in the road the speaker approached. 
 "Bob, don't you know me?" 
 
 "Peg," said the man simply. And again that was 
 all. 
 
 But still the visitor was coming across the narrow 
 right of way; a vision of white, white from crown 
 to sole, the afternoon sun glistening in her eyes, 
 drawing clear the curve of chin and of throat. At 
 the edge of the field she paused, waiting; for the 
 other had not stirred, only halted watching her. She 
 did not smile, she merely stood so, observing in turn. 
 Ten seconds passed in that unconscious mutual in- 
 spection ; that involuntary bridging of the chasm of 
 time. Then she spoke again. 
 
 "Aren't you coming half way to shake hands?" 
 she asked low. 
 
 Like one aroused from a dream the man came
 
 226 The Quest Eternal 
 
 forward. He was conscious now of himself, of 
 everything, and he limped noticeably. 
 
 "You surprised me so, Peg. I couldn't believe it 
 possible that it was you at first." He halted awk- 
 wardly, equally awkwardly held out his hand ; big, 
 sun-browned, work-hardened a hand in which the 
 other tiny white one vanished into total eclipse. 
 "You don't know how glad I am to see you again, 
 Peg." 
 
 "Glad?" The girl removed her hand, looked the 
 other fair in the eyes. But even yet she did not 
 smile. "Glad and not at the station to meet me 
 when I wrote I was coming? Glad and not one 
 visit in six years, not when I graduated from col- 
 lege or last month when I finished my course in 
 music? Glad and not there when I sang first in 
 public, when two thousand others came and a few 
 spoiled their gloves and things?" The dainty 
 chin trembled a bit though it was high in air, the 
 eyelids were half closed. "Are you really glad, 
 Bob?" 
 
 Slowly, as she spoke, the face of the man shaded 
 red, redder than sun could burn, than winter storms 
 could colour. But he offered no defence. 
 
 "Yes, I'm very glad, Peg," he repeated simply. 
 "More so than you know." 
 
 From the knee-high grass about her the girl 
 reached down and plucked a blade. 
 
 "And still you did not meet me," she said.
 
 A Glimpse of the Quest 227 
 
 "I didn't know you were coming. I haven't got 
 my mail in a long time and I never dreamed of 
 such a thing." 
 
 Bit by bit the grass blade was being torn to frag- 
 ments and, all-seeing, the spectator observed that 
 the destroying fingers were trembling. 
 
 "Didn't you suppose I cared what you were 
 doing even though you hadn't been to see me, 
 Bob?" 
 
 The man's great hands dropped to his side, mak- 
 ing his stooping shoulders seem rounder than be- 
 fore. 
 
 "Yes, I knew that you cared," he echoed. "I 
 never doubted you, Peg." 
 
 Intentionally or unintentionally the reproach 
 passed unheeded. The moment was too big for the 
 girl to notice. Instead, grave as before, she met his 
 eyes. 
 
 "And now that I have come, Bob " she sug- 
 gested. 
 
 For five seconds the man returned the look, the 
 reticence of a lifetime struggling for release, ( a 
 prayer for an explanation that would not be like- 
 wise a disclosure unvoiced throbbing in his brain. 
 But no answer came. Save the truth, which he 
 would not himself reveal, none was possible. As 
 the seconds passed he forgot time. Only the irony 
 of the meeting to which he had looked forward 
 for so long, that should have been so glad and was
 
 228 The Quest Eternal 
 
 not, grew upon him. Silent, he merely returned 
 the look. 
 
 "And now that I have come," repeated the voice, 
 lower than before, the unspoken suggestion more in- 
 sistent, "what now, Bob?" 
 
 "Now?" The man aroused, the self-conscious 
 awkwardness suddenly past. "Now? I hardly 
 know, Peg. I haven't any place decent to invite 
 you to, anything decent to offer " 
 
 Interrupting, the girl's hand indicated the old 
 home. 
 
 "Don't you live there any more?" 
 
 The man hesitated, but only for a moment. It 
 was useless to lie yet. 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 "Let's go there, then." 
 
 Without a word the man returned to the team. 
 As before, of necessity he limped; but not as be- 
 fore, awkwardly conscious. He would not do so 
 again. He had had time to think and knew things 
 as they were. Whatever dreams he may still have 
 cherished, whatever wild fancies of youth that pre- 
 viously lingered, had passed. In the first speechless 
 look they had passed. The way before him was 
 clear now, the only way, and in it, Scotch stolid, 
 Scotch undeviating, he followed. 
 
 Back in the road with his team he halted and 
 helped the girl into the livery buggy, exactly as he 
 would have assisted a chance acquaintance, as
 
 A Glimpse of the Quest 229 
 
 gravely courteous. At the farm-house when he ar- 
 rived he took care of the horses first, as was his 
 wont, as though the visit were one of every-day 
 occurrence. The house to which he returned was 
 unbelievably bare, indescribably hot and stuffy even 
 to one who, like the girl, had memories; but he 
 offered no further apology. Instead he brought 
 the one chair it contained out of doors to the shady 
 east side and found a convenient box for himself. 
 That was all. 
 
 Mechanically as though the whole drama were a 
 dream, an evil dream from which she would pres- 
 ently awaken, the girl followed his lead. Like the 
 man himself, she was undergoing a readjustment of 
 the situation between them; but not like him pas- 
 sively. She was not Scotch and she did not see her 
 way yet. Not until the prologue was complete and 
 they were sitting there face to face in the long after- 
 noon shadow did the full meaning of it all come 
 over her, the ironically bitter alteration take full 
 hold. Then came the overflow, the outburst which 
 the other knew was inevitable, that had been but 
 delayed. 
 
 "Bob," she said suddenly, passionately, "this 
 farce has gone on long enough. What does it all 
 mean : you living so ; the place the way it is ? Why 
 haven't you been to see me or let me come when I 
 asked? I must know now, Bob." Passionate, 
 throbbing she leaned forward, held him with her
 
 230 The Quest Eternal 
 
 eyes. "There's something you've been keeping 
 back from me, something I ought to know. Tell 
 me what it is, Bob ?" 
 
 For a moment the man did not stir in his place, 
 nor speak. Then, deliberately, for the first time 
 that day, he smiled. Into her very eyes, calm as the 
 afternoon sunshine, he smiled; the old, slow, infre- 
 quent smile. 
 
 "I begin to recognise you now, Peg," he said. 
 "You're like you used to be when you were a young- 
 ster and skinny, and the pigs or the chickens got 
 into the garden when we men folks were away at 
 work." He smiled again until the old crow's feet 
 got into the angles of his temples, only their num- 
 ber was augmented now. "I guess you haven't 
 changed much, after all, Peg." 
 
 "But tell me, Bob," insisted the girl. She did not 
 smile, not because she recognised the acting, it was 
 too perfect for that, but because the moment was 
 too big, the shadow too deep. "Tell me what's 
 the matter." 
 
 "What's the matter with what, Peg?" 
 
 "With what ! With everything !" It was almost 
 anger, a hopeful sign. "First of all the farm. I 
 told them in town I wanted a rig to drive out here 
 and they stared. They said there wasn't any such 
 place as McLeod's that they knew of. Then I 
 asked for you and they grinned. You were here, 
 they said, but the place was Brady's place."
 
 A Glimpse of the Quest 231 
 
 The man was still smiling, his hands locked over 
 his knees. 
 
 "It is Brady's place," he explained, "since he 
 bought it. There's nothing the matter there so 
 far as I can see." 
 
 "Why did you sell, Bob?" 
 
 "Because I'm going away this fall for one thing. 
 I wrote you that, you remember. I can't very 
 well plough corn and go to school both at the 
 same time." 
 
 "And the house." It was only half conviction. 
 "There isn't enough in it to keep a cat." 
 
 "Sold too," evenly. "I'm not thinking of furnish- 
 ing a cottage when I go to town." 
 
 Apparently the logic was without a flaw, but com- 
 plete assurance was not yet. 
 
 "How about your not coming to see me when I 
 asked it again and again. I can't quite forgive that, 
 Bob." 
 
 The smile on the man's face faded. For a mo- 
 ment there was silence ; but for a moment only. 
 
 "That was unkind of me, Peg, I know," he said 
 swiftly. "I meant to come, really; but always at 
 the critical time something turned up to prevent." 
 It was a torrent and inadequate that sudden flow of 
 words, but it was the best the man could do. "You 
 know how busy it always is here, especially in the 
 spring at the time you graduated, and help has been 
 hard to get." He did not pause. He dared not.
 
 232 The Quest Eternal 
 
 What hope he had was in sheer quantity of explana- 
 tion. "I've been alone most of the time and it 
 seemed to me just impossible to go. I don't blame 
 you for feeling as you do. I'd feel just the same 
 if I were in your place. But you will forgive it, 
 now that it's all over, won't you, Peg? You will, 
 won't you, if I ask it?" 
 
 Openly now the girl watched him as he was speak- 
 ing. Frankly, unshiftingly the man returned the 
 look. It was the time to lie now and he knew it. 
 Therefore he was lying; by word, by action, by 
 look; with his whole soul, as he did everything. 
 There was no immediate answer, and with his whole 
 soul he lied anew. "You will forgive me, won't 
 you, Peg?" he repeated. 
 
 It was submission absolute, that last query; con- 
 trition unmistakable. Involuntarily the long lashes 
 dropped over the girl's eyes. The small chin that 
 had been so high lowered in surrender. That mo- 
 ment sacrifice had its reward, for that moment came 
 conviction. 
 
 "Yes, I forgive you, Bob," she said low. "I felt 
 hurt terribly when you didn't come ; especially this 
 last time, for I'd planned on it so. It was foolish 
 of me, I know; but it was a kind of triumph, that 
 first appearance, and I wanted you to see." In- 
 voluntarily the long lashes winked hard, for she 
 was a creature of moods, this girl in white. "But I 
 understand now, Bob. I don't blame you any more."
 
 A Glimpse of the Quest 233 
 
 In his place still the other did not stir. Neither 
 did he waste time with the superfluous. Unerr- 
 ingly he had seen his lead. Unerringly he followed 
 his instinct. 
 
 "Tell me about it, Peg, that night," he said. No 
 need to designate what night. "Tell me." 
 
 "Do you want to hear, really ?" The damp lashes 
 had lifted leaving the brown eyes glorious. "Do 
 you really care, Bob?" 
 
 "Care!" No need of acting this time. "Care! 
 More than I care for anything else in the world, 
 Peg." 
 
 It was the last barrier removed from confidence, 
 the opening of the floodgates of speech. 
 
 "It was June 3d, that night; just five weeks ago." 
 The girl straightened unconsciously, unconsciously 
 her breath came quick. "I'd never appeared before, 
 only to a few. Nobody much had ever heard me ; 
 but a lot had heard of me. Madame Ziska had ar- 
 ranged that. She'd arranged everything else, too 
 set the date and sent the announcements. There 
 were three others on the programme : two girls like 
 myself who were making their first appearance, the 
 other a Polish violinist with an unpronounceable 
 name who'd already arrived; but the thing was 
 really for me. Everybody who was invited knew it, 
 and I knew it as well. It was to be the chance of 
 my life, my moment, to make or to fail." 
 
 Instinctively again the girl halted, looking out
 
 234 The Quest Eternal 
 
 over the unkept farm-yard onto the green fields 
 beyond. But that familiar scene was lost upon her 
 now. Far indeed was she from the Dakota frontier 
 that moment, far as the two ends of civilisation. 
 
 "The concert was to be held in the Auditorium 
 and was a Charity Concert. The papers all an- 
 nounced it and commented on it. The big ones of 
 the profession, musicians and others, were all to 
 be there. I knew that too. For months I'd known 
 it was coming, and had been getting ready; but that 
 last day was awful. I wanted to run and hide, to 
 die, anything to escape but I couldn't and time 
 went on. I'd never known what it was to be nerv- 
 ous in my life until that last afternoon, never 
 dreamed there was such torture. But somehow it 
 passed and evening came, the evening, my evening." 
 
 For the second time the speaker paused, her hands 
 locked in her lap, pressed tight. 
 
 "Then followed the end. I came third on the 
 programme and was there all ready awaiting my 
 turn. I couldn't keep still and wandered out into 
 the wings to watch and listen. Before this, time had 
 dragged ; dragged endlessly, an eternity to an hour. 
 Now it flew. I tried to count the minutes to make 
 them last, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything 
 but just walk back and forth, back and forth. But 
 meantime I was listening and all at once the Pole 
 had been playing the music stopped, there was a 
 roar of applause and, bowing to the last, he came
 
 A Glimpse of the Quest 235 
 
 out into the wings. I hoped he would get an encore, 
 prayed for it, but he didn't and it was my turn." 
 
 No pause this time in the flow of words, no halt; 
 but, watching, the listener saw the tiny hands lock 
 tighter than before. 
 
 "Then I went out, the first time I'd ever appeared 
 on any stage, the first time I'd ever looked into a 
 swarm of faces such as that. For the house was 
 packed, packed to the galleries, boxes and all. Yet 
 there wasn't a sound, hardly a motion. They didn't 
 know me yet and were waiting judgment. It seemed 
 to me a place was never so still as that was then. I 
 could hear my slippers patter, and the swish of my 
 dress, and my heart I could fairly hear it beat. 
 But somehow I went on, half across the stage and 
 forward clear to the footlights, and stopped. Then 
 for the first time I really looked around, into the 
 faces of those near, into the blur of the distance 
 and that instant, Bob, something happened some- 
 thing miraculous. Until that second my heart had 
 been in my throat, choking tight, my legs so shaky 
 I could hardly stand but now in a flash that all 
 passed. Almost before the accompanist began, it 
 passed, the very instant I stopped and looked at 
 them, face to face. All at once I was myself again, 
 just as I am now and not afraid in the least, or ner- 
 vous. And that second I knew, Bob, what I'd never 
 known before, what I'd hoped and hoped but never 
 actually known: that I was going to succeed, that
 
 236 The Quest Eternal 
 
 I was at home, In my own place; that I had it in me 
 to be a singer." 
 
 In the girl's lap the clenched fingers loosened. In 
 the far-away eyes a new look appeared; one 
 strange to the watcher, alien : the look of one who 
 has tasted and tasted deep of the cup of life. 
 
 "Then I sang as I never sang before, as maybe 
 I'll never sing again. I sang to all the world that 
 moment : a challenge to it. I seemed to remember 
 everything, live everything, like lightning. My 
 whole life ran through my head, the bitterness and 
 the injustice; and I challenged it too. I guess I 
 was intoxicated, I know I was. The world was 
 mine, mine, the world I'd been crying for, had been 
 looking at so longingly, myself hid; and I was glad. 
 I felt like a bird in the springtime when the skies 
 are blue, like the creek here when the first thaw un- 
 locks it, and I sang it all. As the seconds had 
 dragged through the day, now they flew, for I had 
 forgotten time ; and all at once I was at the end and 
 the place silent. 
 
 "Then, just for a second, the present returned and 
 with a bound my heart came back into my throat. I 
 wondered if they down there, below, the sea of 
 faces, would realise, would understand; if I had 
 really done what I thought I had done. For an 
 instant I grew cold all over, for they were silent. 
 In a dream I bowed, in a dream started to leave 
 and then it came: a whirlwind, a cyclone of ap-
 
 A Glimpse of the Quest 237 
 
 plause such as I had never before heard and 
 sweet ! I could hear then from where I was out in 
 the wing, hear it the applause roll and roll as 
 they called me back. I waited to hear it, it was so 
 sweet, waited as long as I dared. . Finally I went 
 out and bowed, only bowed, and they went wild. 
 I thought it was applause before, but it wasn't. It 
 was only a forestate to this, an introduction. It 
 almost made me afraid. It meant too much, de- 
 manded too much ; but there was no retreating now 
 and at last I returned." 
 
 For the first time the voice halted and remained 
 silent, as though the story was complete. In the 
 great dark eyes the far-away look still held; but 
 from them the mystery was gone. As suddenly as 
 the outburst had come it subsided. The tiny hands 
 lay loose in her lap, brown in contrast with the 
 white background. 
 
 "And then?" suggested the man evenly. "What 
 happened then, Peg?" 
 
 "Then?" The girl roused, but not as before. The 
 fire had burned dead, not to be rekindled. "It was 
 the same thing over. I sang four times before they 
 let me go." 
 
 This time silence fell to remain for long unbroken. 
 To have done so then to the man were sacrilege ; to 
 the girl the lapse was unnoted. She was still look- 
 ing out onto the prairie, over the lengthening 
 shadow of the house; but as before she saw it not.
 
 238 The Quest Eternal 
 
 She had forgotten completely, as from childhood 
 she had a bit of doing, when in the presence of the 
 other. And Bob McLeod waited, patient as time, 
 patient as his race. Minutes passed on; minutes 
 which in the light of what had just transpired was 
 as relentless as fate, that bore their prophecy of 
 future, his and hers, as unmistakably as the hand- 
 writing upon the wall. He was not a fool, or blind, 
 this farmer man, and he knew. Yet he said nothing, 
 gave no hint of the revelation, the knowledge. He 
 only waited. Perhaps he worshipped, for he was 
 forgotten and in so doing he could work no harm. 
 Not until, inevitably changing, the girl's mood 
 altered, until returning, the eyes rested upon him 
 meaningly, questioningly, did he move. Then, pre- 
 venting, he arose. 
 
 "I think I'd better get the horse now, Peg," he 
 said simply. "It's getting late." 
 
 "The horse?" The girl did not stir in her place. 
 "You mean I'm to go back to town now?" 
 
 "Aren't you ready, Peg?" 
 
 Their eyes met in a long look. 
 
 "Do you want me to go so soon, Bob ?" 
 
 The man's gaze did not falter nor did he lie this time. 
 
 "I think it were better, Peg. I'll go with you." 
 
 A moment longer the duel lasted, an eternity to 
 Robert McLeod; then deliberately the girl's eyes 
 dropped. 
 
 "Very well, Bob," she said. "I'm ready."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE TRAIL DIVIDES 
 
 FAR to the west over the level earth the sky blazed 
 red where the sun had set. All about the mat of 
 green that stretched to the horizon lay velvet green, 
 velvet still. The wind of the afternoon had hushed, 
 until its voice had passed into the silence of obliv- 
 ion. Night, prairie night, was approaching and 
 the hush that precedes it was already upon the 
 land. 
 
 Along the road leading to the little town a livery 
 rig was jogging. Although the pace was slow, a 
 typical livery beast amble, neither a walk nor a 
 trot, it was nevertheless surely eating up the miles. 
 Of the twenty odd intervening between the farm 
 and the town, ten were already behind ; but of this 
 fact there was no surface indication, no definite 
 marking on the horizon sky-line to give testimony. 
 Before, stretched two dust brown bands with a 
 wider space of green between. Behind, extended 
 the same perspective; back and back until the two 
 lines merged and mingled with the ubiquitous 
 green. 
 
 Within the rig itself were the same man and girl 
 who had sat in the farm-house shadow. In the time
 
 240 The Quest Eternal 
 
 that had intervened they had of necessity talked; 
 but what they had said neither remembered nor 
 either cared. To conceal thought, not to reveal it, 
 they had spoken ; and to both the artifice had been 
 pitifully apparent. Now at last for minutes they 
 had been silent; an interim of which both knew the 
 meaning, a prelude to the real understanding which 
 likewise both knew was inevitable. 
 
 For as surely as fate had brought their ways to- 
 gether in the past, they were parting. As yet they 
 were not far separate, had not passed beyond touch- 
 ing distance; but day by day they were growing 
 more widely divergent. This the girl had known 
 ere she returned. This the man had realised in 
 that first long look. Ironical as was the fact, un- 
 just as it might be, it was nevertheless true. In- 
 evitably two trails, or one of two, stretched before 
 them. As yet the choosing of that course was 
 theirs; but the time of choice was now and once 
 selected the decision was as unalterable as time. 
 
 This they knew that summer evening as they 
 moved on and on in that interminable jog. This 
 the certainty that held them silent while each waited 
 for the other to speak. This again the motive that 
 prompted a question when at last the girl could keep 
 silence no longer. 
 
 "And you, Bob?" she queried suddenly, as though 
 it were the past second and not two hours before 
 that she had spoken of herself. "I've told you
 
 The Trail Divides 241 
 
 what I've been doing these past six years. What of 
 you?" 
 
 "I?" There was no surprise, no hesitation. 
 "I've been drifting, I guess. I've done nothing 
 much." 
 
 "Nothing?" It was more than a suggestion. 
 
 "Nothing that counts. I've been growing older." 
 
 "And now that you are older?" 
 
 "I'm ready to begin to find out what life has in 
 store for me." A pause. "Ready to learn whether 
 I am to plough corn to the end or not." 
 
 It was neither hopelessness nor optimism that even 
 statement ; but neutral neutral as the colour of the 
 prairie sky between darkness and light. 
 
 "You don't know yet, Bob?" quickly. 
 
 Another halt. 
 
 "How should I know until I try." 
 
 The girl sank back in her seat, her hands closed 
 in her lap ; as they had closed when she was telling 
 of that day in June, her day. 
 
 "Tell me what you intend doing, Bob," she said, 
 "tell me everything frankly. You're not taking me 
 into your confidence, honest, the way you used to. 
 I must know everything, now." 
 
 "Must, Peg?" slowly. 
 
 The girl looked away, at nothing. "Yes, must," 
 she echoed. 
 
 "Why, please? Tell me why." 
 
 No answer.
 
 242 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "Why must you know now, Peg?" 
 
 "I'll answer afterward, if you wish; but first tell 
 me." 
 
 The man pressed the inquiry no further. Seem- 
 ingly he forgot it. 
 
 "There's nothing particular to tell," he said. "I'm 
 going to start in at the Medical School this fall; 
 but you know that already." 
 
 "Yes, I know, Bob; but afterwards? You've got 
 some plans certainly farther than that." 
 
 Slowly the man turned in his place and smiled de- 
 liberately into the earnest restless face so near. 
 
 "No, I have no plans after that, Peg," he said. 
 
 But the girl would not take no for an answer, not 
 then. 
 
 "I can't believe you, Bob," she said swiftly. "You 
 simply must have some ambition beyond the present. 
 You simply must. It's unlike you absolutely not 
 to have." She halted for breath, her words came 
 tumbling fast "After the way we used to plan 
 when we were children; at night, when the day's 
 work was over and we couldn't sleep; after the 
 story you told me of your grandfather, how he 
 tried and tried, and your father " She checked 
 herself, the wordy flow as well. "I can't believe 
 it, Bob. I won't. You haven't changed so abso- 
 lutely in these last years I've been away. Please 
 be honest with me, Bob, and tell me. Please." 
 
 She halted, her breath coming quick, her dark eyes
 
 The Trail Divides 243 
 
 directly upon him in an inspection that was micro- 
 scopic in its intensity. Bit by bit in these last min- 
 utes the commonplace, the prosaic, had passed 
 away. Intentionally she had made it pass. The 
 moment was too vital for it to remain so. Not for 
 nothing had she made that return unbidden. A 
 definite object had prompted; an object of which 
 she was not ashamed, which she made no effort to 
 conceal. It was that object which prompted now, 
 unerringly, insistently ; a purpose that would not be 
 balked, that demanded, as the hungry demand food 
 a response. "Tell me, please, Bob," she repeated 
 low, and like an echo pleadingly insistent: "please 
 tell me." 
 
 In his place the man did not stir, not even to meet 
 her eyes, though he knew she was looking at him. 
 He did not smile now, this man. As nature was 
 his judge he could not. With him, as with the girl, 
 the moment was too big for affectation now, too 
 vital. The comedy of the afternoon had been a 
 prelude. Now at last they were down to funda- 
 mentals. This he knew as he knew his own name, 
 as those past six years he had known life. As cer- 
 tainly as the girl beside him had had her day in 
 June, he was now having his day. Out of choice, 
 of purpose she was giving it to him. Once before, 
 when they were children in years, she had done the 
 same and he had let the time, his day, his moment, 
 pass. Now again, when they were mature, she had
 
 244 The Quest Eternal 
 
 returned to offer it anew. He was not blind, this 
 farmer man, this tiller of corn fields, and he knew. 
 With wide-open eyes he saw the lead she had volun- 
 tarily made. The thought, the knowledge, intoxi- 
 cated him for he was human. Without turning, 
 from memory's picture of the afternoon, he saw 
 her as she was; not the lanky Peg Stanton he had 
 known, but the woman mature, immeasurably more 
 than he had ever dreamed she would be ; a vision of 
 the world which he had never seen, of which he had 
 but dreamed. This she was and she had returned to 
 him, Bob McLeod. He was not God and his heart 
 beat fast at the thought. The thing he desired most 
 on earth was his for the asking, for the taking. He 
 could not misunderstand if he would, would not if 
 he could. 
 
 This the knowledge that confronted him there on 
 the prairie, the peril with only himself to guide. And 
 under it he was silent ; when she had spoken once, 
 when she had repeated the inquiry. Thought is 
 not lagging like words, and now his brain seethed 
 with thought. In a panorama his own life, hers, 
 flashed before him. Through it all his loneliness, 
 his insistent need, mingled, a background colouring 
 the whole. Through it all as well flamed his love, 
 for he could not deny it now, it was useless ; making 
 wrong right, dominating everything. No need of 
 saying what he wanted to tell her, what he wanted 
 to do. To say a living thing wants life were not
 
 The Trail Divides 245 
 
 more superfluous. No need of saying what he felt 
 his due. But still he did not speak. Though it 
 seemed to him the seconds were eternities, he did 
 not speak. Down deep in his soul, beneath his own 
 desire, beneath his own love, was something bigger, 
 stronger, more dominant. This he knew, even now, 
 and he was waiting for it to speak, for it to lead. 
 More vital infinitely than his own happiness was the 
 happiness of another, of this girl beside him. Thus 
 beneath his stolid Scotch exterior, nature had made 
 him. In the decision of what he would say, that 
 consideration would be first. He was facing that 
 necessity now, fairly, unflinchingly; facing it as he 
 faced every other crisis of his life, as forcedly ab- 
 stract as though It was the fate of another. 
 
 And the consideration that would not be evaded 
 was this: Could he, Bob McLeod, the cripple, 
 the frontiersman, make her happy? She had seen 
 life, tasted it, felt its insistent throb in her veins. 
 Once, long before, they were even equally igno- 
 rant. Since then she had grown and he had stood 
 still. That her growth had been from him, at his 
 expense, he did not consider, would not consider. 
 The bare fact alone remained. They were not 
 equal now. Her wants were greater, her ambi- 
 tions bigger, her possibilities infinitely more cer- 
 tain. He could not deceive himself, much as he 
 wished. It was so. His own potentialities were 
 vague, his ambitions brain-creatures alone. In her
 
 246 The Quest Eternal 
 
 own trail she could go on, would go on and up 
 and up. In his trail she must wait and for an un- 
 certainty. Mentally swift he reasoned it all out, 
 for the under voice was speaking now, leading. 
 And what had he to offer in return, what in ex- 
 tenuation ? Nothing that a myriad other men could 
 not give, would not give gladly to her. This he 
 knew also, for he was not blind. The evidence was 
 all against him, all negative. Only the selfish urged 
 him on; his own pleasure against what was best 
 for her. Of this there could be no doubt, now that 
 he had thought. Likewise, now that he had 
 thought, there was no question of what he should 
 do. Like the twin bands of brown that stretched 
 into the green before him his course was plain. 
 This he knew and still he hesitated. As he had 
 never hesitated before a duty in his life, he hesi- 
 tated. For now, to the full, to its bitter certainty, 
 he realised the finality of the course he must choose, 
 the blankness of future absolute it necessitated. To 
 sacrifice one's self for another and die is easy, when 
 the blood is up. To sacrifice and live on and on, 
 
 year after year, inexorably, interminably 
 
 "Bob," interrupting, pleading a tiny brown hand 
 dropped to his shoulder, lay there insistently. 
 "Talk to me, tell me, please. We can't drift any 
 longer, you and I, Bob. We must understand each 
 other, everything. Tell me what I asked, please. It 
 isn't right to keep me in suspense. It isn't fair to me."
 
 The Trail Divides 247 
 
 "Peg !" The touch of her hand that moment was 
 fire. Responsive, unreasoningly, almost fiercely, 
 the man turned. "Peg!" Involuntarily the reins 
 in his grip tightened until the horse stopped there 
 on the prairie. "Peg!" for the third time, and he 
 was looking her fair; the love of a lifetime blaz- 
 ing in his eyes, the desire of present struggling 
 against the inevitable. 
 
 A moment they sat there, the barrier down at last, 
 realities staring fair into each other's faces, things 
 surreptitiously hidden and ignored no longer con- 
 cealed. An instant longer they remained so, each 
 tingling with the sudden knowledge of the revela- 
 tion, each oblivious of passing time; an infinity of 
 suddenly awakened thoughts whirling in their 
 brains. Unconsciously in the fleeting seconds the 
 girl's hand had dropped, equally unconsciously she 
 drew back with the unreasoning terror that is femi- 
 ninity innate. Then as suddenly came the reaction. 
 The present returned. 
 
 "Pardon me, Peg," said the man low. "I didn't 
 mean to do that or to frighten you." He loosened 
 the reins and shook them over the horse's back. "I 
 didn't mean to tell what I did at all." 
 
 The girl said nothing. With the reaction, her 
 face had gone into her hands, hidden as when she 
 was a child. 
 
 The man clucked to the horse monotonously, with 
 studied deliberation.
 
 248 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "I had meant you to go away as you had come, 
 without knowing. I think it would have been bet- 
 ter so for both of us." He was not looking at her 
 but straight ahead. "But now it's too late. I for- 
 got for a second everything. I forgot." 
 
 From out the soft brown hands came a soft brown 
 face, a wondering face. 
 
 "Forgot?" hesitatingly. 
 
 No answer, nor the motion of an eyelash. 
 
 "Forgot what, Bob ?" 
 
 For an instant the man remained so; then, de- 
 liberately as before, without a downward glance, 
 one hand pointed to his crippled foot stretched out 
 before him in the buggy. 
 
 "Forgot that, for one thing," he said. 
 
 "Bob !" The man never ceased hearing that sud- 
 den cry. "Bob !" That was all. 
 
 Still another instant so; then the same monoto- 
 nously deliberate voice: 
 
 "There are other things also; things I forgot for 
 a second." 
 
 No answer, but at last there was a sound ; a sound 
 of hysterical sobbing that would not be smothered. 
 
 Yet, relentlessly, doggedly, the voice went on with 
 its task. 
 
 "As you say, Peg," he reiterated, "we may as well 
 understand everything now and have it over. Our 
 roads don't lie together as I thought once, as I 
 think we both thought when we were children. God
 
 The Trail Divides 249 
 
 knows I wish it were so, I've hoped it were so ; but 
 it isn't and I may as well accept." Involuntarily he 
 straightened, his great work-hardened hands came 
 together in his lap. "We're not equals, Peg, and 
 no power on earth can make us equals. Don't inter- 
 rupt, please," for of a sudden a glorious damp face 
 had lifted, protestingly, defiantly, "let me say what 
 I have in mind. It isn't pleasant I know, but we 
 may as well understand. First of all, Peg, you're 
 beautiful. I know it and you know it, we're neither 
 blind nor fools; and beauty is power, girl. You 
 have this and I am deformed. You think yet I 
 won't be so always perhaps, but I will." Again he 
 halted suddenly in protest. "Please don't, Peg," 
 he pleaded swiftly. "I must tell things as they are, 
 you must know. Maybe if they'd operated when I 
 was young it might have been different. But now 
 the time has gone by. I saw two surgeons last 
 winter, two big surgeons, and they both said the 
 same. I'm a cripple for life, Peg; and you are 
 what you are. If there was nothing else that made 
 us unequal that were enough, more than enough. 
 But there is." 
 
 Of a sudden he halted, on the surface a man of 
 stone; beneath his Maker alone knew what was 
 beneath. For the girl was not listening now. Not 
 that she had interrupted him, not that; but for him 
 worse, infinitely. For as he had never heard a 
 human being weep before she was weeping now;
 
 250 The Quest Eternal 
 
 hysterically, in abandon, the bitterness of a lifetime 
 concentrated in a moment. And he dared not touch 
 her, dared not; could not offer comfort if he would. 
 He could only wait for the storm to abate; wait 
 and think, and think, and think ! 
 
 At last it passed, as everything in life passes. Of 
 a sudden, so swiftly that he could not prevent, could 
 not foresee, a face, tragic in its earnestness, its re- 
 morse, lifted, stared into his face; stared relent- 
 lessly, not to be denied. Simultaneously a voice 
 spoke, a voice not to be halted. 
 
 "Bob," it said, "I'm to blame, I myself. I made 
 you this way; I by going away." 
 
 Just for a second the other halted wordless. Then 
 he lied, the biggest lie of his life. 
 
 "No," he said, "it was already too late then." He 
 met her eyes and lied fair into them. "It was too 
 late long before then. They, the surgeons, said 
 so." 
 
 A second the look held. 
 
 "You swear that is true, Bob, that you're not 
 merely saying it for my sake?" asked the girl 
 tensely. "You swear it?" 
 
 "I swear it, Peg. You are blameless, abso- 
 lutely." 
 
 With something like a sob the tense face relaxed. 
 The eyes dropped. Conviction had come. 
 
 But the man did not wait. He could not wait. 
 
 "I said that was not all," he rushed on. "You
 
 The Trail Divides 251 
 
 remember I told you once when you were a child 
 that you were big. I meant it then and I mean it 
 now. I've never heard you sing yet ; but I know. 
 You'll be famous some day, your name will reach 
 even here; and I am nothing. I can't even offer 
 you a decent living or the assurance of a living for 
 years. I'm not beaten yet, I'll try my best; but 
 nothing short of a miracle can put me where you 
 are now, to-day. This is reality, Peg; and we're 
 looking at realities to-night. Miracles don't hap- 
 pen these days and meanwhile life goes on." He 
 halted. Mechanically he clucked to the horse. "I 
 might say more, but I think I've said enough," he 
 completed dully. 
 
 It was getting dusk now, not darkness but dusk. 
 In the air there was a trace of dampness, of con- 
 densing dew. Far to the east, just above the level 
 of the horizon, mighty in comparative size with 
 earthy things, appeared the red face of the summer 
 moon ; a great disk against the darkened sky. 
 
 For a minute neither spoke. Only the patter, pat- 
 ter, patter of the horse's feet broke the stillness. 
 Then the girl stirred in her place. 
 
 "Don't you think I care for you, Bob?" she asked 
 steadily. 
 
 "Yes," said the other. "I know you do." 
 
 "Enough to ignore everything you've said?" 
 
 "Yes," again. 
 
 "Why, then "
 
 252 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "Because I won't let you," swiftly. "I'd spoil 
 your life and hate myself. I couldn't get away 
 from the fact. I'd never forget it, even in sleep; 
 and it would be Hell." 
 
 "And if you don't let me?" 
 
 "I'll know I've done right." 
 
 "I love you, Bob McLeodl" 
 
 Silence, dead silence. 
 
 "I say I love you, Bob McLeod." 
 
 Again as before the reins in the man's hands went 
 taut. At the angle of his big Scotch jaw the 
 muscles locked. That was all. 
 
 "Bob McLeod!" The girl was facing him now, 
 both hands on his shoulders, her breath on his cheek, 
 her eyes staring into his face. "I tell you I love 
 you, in spite of all you have said, in spite of every- 
 thing. I love you enough to go back to the farm 
 where we met and stay there all my life. I love you 
 enough to go to the Hell you pictured with you." 
 Her hands pressed tighter, her cheek came closer 
 until it touched his cheek, her voice lowered until it 
 was almost a whisper. "Can't you realise, Bob? 
 Won't you? Won't you?" 
 
 Once again in that tensely interrupted journey 
 silence fell upon them, wrapped them in. In the sky 
 the moon had risen; a great oblong ball, sending 
 their shadows wide over the face of earth. They 
 were nearing the tiny town now and in the distance, 
 twinkling at intervals, the lights from the houses
 
 The Trail Divides 253 
 
 stretched out in a line before them. The end was 
 at hand. 
 
 "Bob!" A quarter minute had passed and still 
 the man had not spoken, had not stirred. "Bob," 
 repeated. "Aren't you human?" The voice was 
 choking tense now, choking vibrant. "I tell you for 
 the last time I love you, that nothing matters but 
 you. I'll never tell you this again, never unless you 
 speak to me now. I'll never come back to trouble 
 you, never let you see me if I can help." Her hands 
 still clung to his arm, but her face was withdrawn. 
 "Do you want this to be the end, now, forever, 
 Bob?" 
 
 Still before her stared the man, silent as though no 
 question had been asked, silent as the night sur- 
 rounding. Ahead, nearer and nearer, drew the 
 lights. Patter, patter, patter in its old unceasing 
 music sounded the hoofs of the horse. That was 
 all. 
 
 It was the crushing straw, the snapping of the 
 last thread that bound their ways together. Of a 
 sudden the girl drew away, sat erect. Her hands 
 went palm to palm in her lap, tightened so. Her 
 lips opened to speak, then closed again. Silence 
 anew fell upon them; silence that dragged on and 
 on ; that lasted until the lights that had been in the 
 distance drew very near, closed intimate all about. 
 When at last they drew up in front of the single 
 hotel the man made a motion to alight ; but ere he
 
 254 The Quest Eternal 
 
 could move the girl was already on the ground. A 
 second longer they halted so, the eyes of a dozen 
 curious spectators focussed upon them. Then five 
 words were spoken, and five only. 
 
 "Good-bye, Peg," said the man gently. 
 
 "Good-bye," echoed a voice steadily. 
 
 And volumes could not have spoken more.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 IN THE SHADOW OF PAST 
 
 AGAIN over the broad prairies the pendulum of 
 time followed its monotonous cycle. Back and 
 forth it moved, and a year was complete. Back 
 and forth it repeated, and a second year had 
 gathered into the past. And still it was not satisfied. 
 Relentless, inexorable, it moved along on its endless 
 journey : from summer to autumn, from autumn to 
 winter, from winter to spring until a third cycle, 
 a third year, almost, from the time Peg Stanton had 
 last set foot thereon, was complete. 
 
 For the Dakota frontier knew Peg Stanton no 
 more. The West that gave her birth knew her no 
 more. As the arctic migrants respond to the call 
 of the south land that draws them far, far away 
 from the land of their birth, so she had responded 
 to the siren voice calling from the distant East. Ere 
 the pendulum of time had swung once she had 
 heard it and flown. But, unlike the migrants, as 
 yet she had not returned. Even when it had swung 
 the second time she had not returned ; but from the 
 land which she had now made her own, a tiny voice, 
 small indeed as yet, but growing louder steadily 
 the insistent voice of fame was telling of her do-
 
 256 The Quest Eternal 
 
 ings. For whatever he might make of his own life, 
 as a prophet of the future of Margaret Stanton, 
 Bob McLeod was a seer true. Seemingly a miracle, 
 a possibility too vague to credit, nevertheless that 
 which he had predicted had come to pass. In the 
 space of two seasons it had come to pass. Out of 
 obscurity absolute, a name, a wholly unknown name, 
 was coming to the fore, elbowing other old estab- 
 lished names aside, making room where seemingly 
 there was none. In the face of ridicule, of sceptic- 
 ism, of jealousy it had advanced; dominant, irre- 
 sistible, by the sheer power of genius alone. As yet 
 it had far to travel before it reached the extreme 
 front, had many obstacles to surmount, many pit- 
 falls to avoid; but notwithstanding, on the horizon 
 of names that were big it had appeared, and the 
 eyes of the land were upon it; watching its progress, 
 speculating upon its possibilities, critical, isolate, but 
 ever watching. And that name the country at large 
 was observing, that name struggling on the horizon, 
 was none other than that of a newly caged song 
 bird: Margaret Stanton now, Peg Stanton of 
 old! 
 
 This the first shimmer of the star at the swinging 
 of the prairie pendulum the second time. Then 
 came the winter cycle; and among other twinkling 
 lights the beam found itself, asserted itself. No 
 longer did the watchers question from whence the 
 new name had come. It had arrived, had become a
 
 In the Shadow of Past 257 
 
 part of things as they were ; and instead they went: 
 to hear and to see. Out of habit some, out of curi- 
 osity others, they went and the result was the 
 same. As that first day in June three years before, 
 her day, Peg Stanton had conquered she conquered 
 now. Because unfathomable nature had intended! 
 her to conquer, she conquered. The divine spark 
 that is genius was hers; and, indomitable, she 
 followed its lead. That was the solution 
 all in all, simple as a twice-told tale when spoken; 
 but it was enough. Whether the evolution had 
 taken place in a month or in a decade it had come 
 to pass. In the world of music Peg Stanton had 
 arrived. 
 
 All through that winter, the first winter of her 
 real success, she had stayed East, where her star had- 
 risen. Then as spring drew on, with the appear- 
 ance of the first suggestion of green, there came ar 
 rumour that she too was coming back, was return- 
 ing to the prairie country likewise. At first it was; 
 but a rumour and unauthenticated. Ridiculed if' 
 untrue, ridiculed more if true for the prophet is> 
 ever without honour in his own home it found its 
 way into the news columns of the local papers at a 
 time when news was scarce. This the first sugges- 
 tion : a stray fragment of copy clutched at to fill a 
 paragraph; then, swift following, came certainty. 
 From the manager of the Opera House at Sioux- 
 Ridge itself came assurance ; an announcement posl
 
 258 The Quest Eternal 
 
 tive, studiously brief, artfully suggestive, and a date 
 of appearance. Last of all ere the snow vanished 
 from the north slopes of the rolling prairie, ere the 
 migrants began their northward flight, of a sudden 
 every billboard in the prairie metropolis took on a 
 fresh dress. And upon that space, against a back- 
 ground of white, in gigantic letters of black, stared 
 forth a single name; a new name, yet one familiar 
 withal as that of the city itself : the name of the new 
 prima donna who had come out of the West Mar- 
 garet Stanton. 
 
 Upon that particular day in early spring whose 
 importance was thus emphasised, a man of three and 
 twenty, with a face that seemed far older, emerged 
 from the basement exit of the medical building at 
 the state university campus in the edge of Sioux 
 Ridge and went limping down the cindered path 
 that led to the street. He was dressed in a work- 
 ing suit of brown corduroys and a cap of the same 
 .colour. The hour was five P.M., the clock on the 
 tower had just struck, and he was in a hurry; so 
 much of a hurry that the dust of the laboratory in 
 which he had been working and from which the 
 stroke of the clock had given release was still upon 
 him. 
 
 At the main exit of the building a swarm of other 
 students, likewise released for the day, were pour- 
 ing forth ; in pairs, in bevies, blocking the walk and
 
 In the Shadow of Past 259 
 
 spreading out upon the frost-bound sod beyond. 
 
 But, oblivious, the man passed them by. Many 
 were his classmates, men with whom he had worked 
 for the past three years ; yet, except for an occasional 
 nod, he gave no indication of the fact. It was the 
 normal attitude with him, his customary isolation; 
 and no one noticed the lack of the conventional this 
 day. Long ago his mates had become accustomed 
 to seeing him solitary; and in consequence, the fact 
 that when on reaching the street he took the centre 
 of the open thoroughfare instead of mingling with 
 the others on the congested walk, elicited no sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Down the street he went, his long arms dangling 
 at his side, his body swaying jerkily in rhythm with 
 the step of his crippled foot. Though the day was 
 clear and far from cold, in fact almost mild, he 
 coughed at intervals; chronically, with an effort; 
 and each time as he did so there appeared upon his 
 thin cheeks a distinct trace of red. 
 
 Ere the limit of the campus was complete the other 
 students were well past and he returned to the walk. 
 But still he hurried on. The university was a full 
 mile from the city proper; and at the loop, a block 
 beyond, he caught a car. He had to run to catch it, 
 and as, breathless from the effort, he halted a bit 
 on the rear platfrom he coughed again; and in 
 sympathy, deeper than before, burned the patches 
 of scarlet on his cheeks.
 
 26 o The Quest Eternal 
 
 On the way downtown he sat at a window staring 
 steadily out, but observing nothing. The city had 
 grown remarkably in the last decade ; grown as only 
 Western cities grow ; but so far as he was conscious 
 that day it might have been an open prairie. Block 
 after block that they were passing, filled close with 
 residences, in the time of his father was pasturage 
 for the citizens' cows. In the business section which 
 they were approaching the old-time buildings of one 
 and two stories had been replaced by modern blocks 
 of multiple floors; yet of that metamorphosis like- 
 wise he was unconscious. Not until the centre of 
 the two was reached, the old-time square where the 
 hacks of a generation past foregathered a busy 
 crossing now with steady din of traffic did he 
 arouse. Then as the car stopped and rapidly emp- 
 tied, he too arose and elbowed his way to the street. 
 
 As he did so, above his head, sole landmark of the 
 former regime, towered the old office building of 
 six floors, flanked now by taller neighbours; and 
 toward it he made his way. Inside the entrance, 
 though the purr of the elevator sounded in descent, 
 he did not wait to ride but went stumping up the 
 stairway to the second floor; and, breathing hard 
 from the climb, entered an office at the end of the 
 corridor: an office upon whose door appeared, in 
 contrast to the multiplicity of its companions, a 
 single name Dr. Emil Schoup. 
 
 Following there was a wait. The doctor was en-
 
 In the Shadow of Past 261 
 
 gaged, so he was informed by the maid in diminu- 
 tive cap and apron who took his name and errand, 
 and from the depths of a big leather seat he sat 
 staring about him. Up to that moment he had 
 thought of his errand alone; now as he sat there, 
 of a sudden came recollection of other things. 
 Though he had lived three years in the city, this 
 was the first time he had ever been within this par- 
 ticular building. From youthful recollection, oft 
 refreshed, he well knew its significance in connec- 
 tion with his father's history; yet, Scotch practical, 
 the suggestion had heretofore borne no fruit. Its 
 connection was not of the present but of the past; 
 and the past was a generation dead. But now, 
 waiting there at the very scene, inevitably memory 
 returned. Bit by bit the history of the place in- 
 truded on his consciousness. Now that the thought 
 occurred to him he knew it for what it was, iden- 
 tified it from near forgotten description. 
 
 For it was the old, old office of McLeod and Stone 
 in which he sat; a doctor's office for a generation 
 now and more. In detail and in furnishings it had 
 been changed ; but fundamentally it was unaltered. 
 For years Dr. Schoup, his big German professor 
 of pathology, had been its occupant; but now that 
 recollection had come the observer knew who had 
 been his predecessor. Sidney Stone it was who had 
 worked there before. "Sidney Stone, Surgeon" was 
 the preceding name which had stared from the big
 
 262 The Quest Eternal 
 
 front windows out on the avenue. Precisely as it 
 had been left (after something that was merely a 
 vague recollection to the townspeople now had 
 happened) the newcomer had acquired possession. 
 This the waiting man recalled; and the details of 
 that something which had happened became of a 
 sudden very real and very vital. 
 
 Then as suddenly, under the influence of newly 
 aroused recollection, memory slipped back a decade, 
 two, and another impression, more insistent, took 
 its place. As though the impossible were real and 
 he were himself present, fancy reproduced that first 
 tragic scene which by heritage had left such a stamp 
 on his own life. As Andrew McLeod had seen it, 
 and lived it, and told thereof, fancy counterfeited 
 that long- forgotten midsummer afternoon. Before 
 him the tidy maid in waiting metamorphosed, be- 
 came a middle-aged woman with a restless step and 
 a tense drawn face. From nowhere came into being 
 a man her husband; likewise middle-aged, simi- 
 larly nervous, tense. Back and forth the length of 
 the tiny room, from the door to the window, they 
 vibrated ; too anxious to be still, silent save for the 
 patter of their footsteps. 
 
 From fancy the waiting man pictured it all, felt 
 it all, lived it all. It was not spring but summer 
 now; sultry, oppressive. The window was open; 
 but barely a sound came from the deserted street. 
 On the face of the woman perspiration flowed in
 
 In the Shadow of Past 26 3 
 
 tiny coursing lines and the forehead of the man her 
 companion was dotted with beads. 
 
 This the scene at first, for minutes or seconds per- 
 haps. This the first impression. Then, swiftly 
 following, vitally real, came its successor. For of 
 a sudden the place that had been silent was silent no 
 longer. Just beyond that thin partition which 
 separated the room adjoining something was hap- 
 pening : something that from his own experience of 
 the past three years memory could reproduce true. 
 In it there was the sound of breathing, not normal 
 but abnormal; deep, sibilant, penetrating. As 
 clearly as though the thing were real the dreamer 
 heard it, recognised its meaning. A patient was 
 taking an anaesthetic and consciousness was fading. 
 Again in visionary swiftness, seconds, minutes, 
 passed. Deeper and deeper grew the breathing,, 
 more stertorous. The two middle-aged people had 
 halted in their tramp. They too had heard, under- 
 stood ; and, motionless, stood waiting, listening. As 
 yet all was well. Deep and regular came the 
 breaths ; quicker and quicker. The one on the table 
 was unconscious now, the moment to begin the op- 
 eration had all but arrived. Another minute, a. 
 half minute, a quarter now ah 1 
 
 Fanciful as it all was of a sudden the man .felt 
 every nerve in his body go tense, every muscle in- 
 stinctively tighten. Despite his will his own heart 
 beat quick and his own hands became moist. For
 
 264 The Quest Eternal 
 
 all at once the expected and the unexpected had 
 happened. All at once the sounds from the room 
 adjoining had ceased and the room was still; still 
 with a sinister silence; still with the stillness of 
 death ; silent as though the operating room so near 
 were a void. A space the silence lasted a Hell 
 of suspense; then against its background came a 
 new sound, at first low, suppressed, then hurried, 
 open, an abandon, a fever of activity. Feet shuffled, 
 instruments clicked one fell clattering to the floor 
 voices spoke, jerkily, tensely; a curse, biting, 
 blazing, horrible arose and subsided; exploded 
 again 1 
 
 Out in the tiny waiting room Robert McLeod 
 lived it all. As his father had lived it he lived it. 
 As his father had felt the curse of the place draw- 
 ing tight about him he felt it now. With an effort 
 he had aroused, had banished fancy ; but the impres- 
 sion of disaster, of defeat, would not down. The 
 doctor was still engaged. Through the partition 
 the listener could hear the steady drone of voices. 
 He had nothing to do but wait and thought was 
 sinsistent. 
 
 Ceaselessly busy, he had long battled against 
 thought; but now he could not prevent its coming. 
 His very errand that day stood in the way. The 
 atmosphere of this place, where, distinct, irrevoc- 
 able, his father had seen the hand of fate writing 
 on the wall, added its quota. Facts, suggestions,
 
 In the Shadow of Past 265 
 
 memories long forgotten, came tumbling in upon 
 him. The stories he had been told of his mother's 
 father and of his father's father sprang to memory, 
 passed and repassed with kaleidoscopic swiftness. 
 With a vividness he had never before experienced, 
 he realised their ambitions and hopes. With a 
 distinctness never before vouchsafed he saw them 
 crushed to earth one by one under the slow moving 
 wheel of circumstance that was fate. 
 
 Heretofore he had never thought of them as he 
 had thought of himself, had never compared their 
 lives with his life. Now to his quickened brain the 
 comparison was inevitable. More than this it was 
 parallel. He was not accustomed to shirking the 
 real and now that light had come it was the truth 
 that faced him. Theorise as he might the fact re- 
 mained. These players of the dead past, his ances- 
 tors, were very, very like him. His ambitions had 
 been their ambitions, his desires their desires, the 
 effort he had made, was making still, but paralleled 
 their effort of long before. Patent as was the fact 
 it had never before occurred to him. Now it drove 
 home with belated force. In their day his grand- 
 fathers had met life as they found it, met it fear- 
 lessly. The game life dictated, they had played 
 with all their might, played to the limit, to the bit- 
 ter end. And that end was defeat. Others might 
 soften the word, might juggle with it; but with him- 
 self to do so were puerile. He was facing facts that
 
 266 The Quest Eternal 
 
 late afternoon as he sat there waiting and it was 
 this fact that incontrovertibly stared him back. 
 
 Then followed the next generation; and thicker 
 than before came the evidence tumbling in upon 
 him. He pictured his father at his own age, as 
 others had pictured him ; at the time his name first 
 appeared upon the office windows. What ambi- 
 tion that he himself had cherished had his father 
 not felt before him? What imperative need "to 
 do" had not lived before? The testimony was over- 
 whelmingly convincing. There was none, nor a 
 shadow of one. Save in minor detail, as with the 
 lives of his grandfathers, the careers of his father 
 and of himself were parallel. The incidents, the 
 difficulties that crowded their respective ways were 
 diverse; but the dominant motive was unchanged. 
 And his father had failed. Here in this office fate 
 had spoken and the thing was done. Right or 
 wrong, merited or unmerited the thing was done. 
 Again on its path the slow moving wheel of cir- 
 cumstance, that was fate, had done its work. Be- 
 neath it his father had gone down ; and he was his 
 father's son! 
 
 These the thoughts that went coursing through 
 his brain as he sat there waiting. Time was passing 
 and ere this the town clock had struck the half hour. 
 Promptly at the stroke, the maid in waiting had 
 put on hat and coat and without a word had dis- 
 appeared. No one else had come and he was alone.
 
 In the Shadow of Past 267 
 
 But still through the partition came the drone of 
 voices, muffled, unintelligible, as from a dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Restlessly the man arose and started to walk back 
 and forth. As he did so a fit of coughing seized 
 him, battled with him, left him momentarily weak, 
 and he resumed his place. But, relentless, his brain 
 worked on and on. 
 
 And what was the meaning of it all, the hidden 
 lesson ? There must be one somewhere, there must. 
 Nothing was destroyed in this life, not even the 
 lust to do that men called ambition. It might be 
 halted on its way, circumstances could do that ; but 
 destroyed, wiped out as though it had never been 
 that was unthinkable. It was opposed to all the 
 laws of nature. And yet for two generations it had 
 been defeated. Back of that he had no record; but 
 as nothing can be destroyed, nothing can be pro- 
 duced of itself. It must have existed previously, 
 must have, back, back to where ? His brain stag- 
 gered at the thought, as it had staggered on a clear 
 prairie night when he had gazed up into the infinite 
 and speculated upon what lay beyond. No light 
 could come from that distant past, to search for it 
 was hopeless ; but nevertheless it must have existed. 
 If so, and it must be so, why had it not borne fruit 
 before? Why? He was facing a blank wall, a 
 surface impenetrable, for it was a wall of the dead. 
 He must retrace his steps, go the other way. In
 
 268 The Quest Eternal 
 
 that direction possibly there was light; for thither 
 there was life. 
 
 And in the future, what? He himself was the 
 future, as he was the present; he, Robert McLeod. 
 There was no avoiding the fact, no contesting it. 
 Down from an unknown past, thwarted, retarded, 
 but never completely extinguished, the spark had 
 come until it rested with him. Often as he had 
 thought of his future, often as he had dreamed of 
 it, never until this moment had that particular phase 
 appeared to him. Perhaps it was the atmosphere 
 of the place that brought it home now, perhaps it 
 was other things; but the fact remained. Com- 
 ing, second by second, the responsibility it carried 
 intensified, pressed intimately insistent. Empha- 
 sising, driving it home, new impressions, new evi- 
 dence, came rushing in the sacrifice of his grand- 
 parents when, crippled and beaten, they realised the 
 consummation was not for them; the ambition, 
 the last ray of hope, that shone for his father when 
 fate had spoken and he had bowed to the inevitable. 
 The hands of the man in waiting locked at the 
 thought. He breathed fast as though he had been 
 running. This was the thing they, his ancestors, 
 had bequeathed to him; sole heritage of their ef- 
 fort, thing dearer to them than life. This the re- 
 sponsibility he had inherited and could not escape. 
 And how had he met the trust, the obligation? 
 What of the future, its future? The tense hands
 
 In the Shadow of Past 269 
 
 went lax. The immediate present, to-day now 
 came thundering in as an answer. Ghastly, hor- 
 rible, his present errand intruded. He passed his 
 hand across his face and found it wet. Instinctively 
 he coughed; a cough against which he resisted 
 fiercely, rebelliously, but could not prevent. Was 
 it possible that after all, after the sacrifice of those 
 who had gone before, after his effort, his own best, 
 that this something he could not anticipate, could 
 not avoid would step in and prevent ? Was it pos- 
 sible that after all the germ of success which the 
 others had thought eternal, inevitable of fulfilment 
 some time, was to perish, and with him ? Was this 
 unthinkable thing to be and he, Bob McLeod, the 
 one with whom it was to end, the one to admit be- 
 fore all the world defeat absolute? 
 
 At last the end had come, the final thought, the 
 hidden message for which he had searched. With 
 its coming his brain stood still. It was chaos and 
 demanded time; time to convince, to adjust if ad- 
 justment were necessary. Sitting there in the tiny 
 office the man was oblivious of the passing moments 
 now, all but oblivious of his errand. Mechanically 
 he waited; his head tilted back wearily against the 
 padded seat, his great hands loose in his lap. 
 
 Just how long he remained so he could not have 
 told, he did not care. A sort of dull lethargy was 
 upon him; a lethargy which he made no effort to 
 dispel. It was still upon him when at last, from the
 
 270 The Quest Eternal 
 
 inner room, there mingled with the drone of voices 
 a new sound; the shifting of chairs and the shuffle 
 of feet. It was still upon him when, a moment 
 later, the door of the private office swung open and 
 one man alone emerged. Mechanically, however, 
 he arose. Instinctively again he coughed; and in a 
 flash the present and memory of his appointment 
 returned. Dr. Schoup, the big German, was beck- 
 oning to him, and even at this moment the visitor 
 fancied there was a peculiar look in his eyes. Obe- 
 dient, however, he answered the nod, came limping 
 forward, passed the entrance; and, just within the 
 doorway, stood face to face with Sam Treadway. 
 Simultaneously to his ears there came the sound of 
 a voice speaking: the voice of Dr. Schoup with its 
 familiar German accent. 
 
 "Come in please, Mr. McLeod," it introduced 
 simply. "We have been speaking of you."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE DEAD WALL OF THE INEVITABLE 
 
 MINUTES had passed. In the outer office, in the 
 same seat which Bob McLeod had occupied, sat 
 Sam Treadway; waiting as the other had waited 
 before him. He had not been requested to leave 
 the inner room, yet he had left after the first 
 greeting, without explanation or apology, bluntly 
 as he did everything. Why he had been there at 
 all, why particularly at this time, he did 
 not disclose; and the other had not asked. As 
 though a meeting were of weekly occurrence, in- 
 stead of three years having elapsed since they were 
 together, they had shaken hands. And that was 
 all; no conventional commonplace, no polite affecta- 
 tion. He did not even say he would wait outside; 
 yet as the door closed behind him, Bob McLeod 
 knew to a certainty that he would do so. Likewise 
 that it was not a mere chance which had prompted 
 his coming he also knew. A definite purpose had 
 actuated this infrequent journey from the little 
 frontier town; and as certainly as though he had 
 been told Bob McLeod knew the instant the big 
 doctor's hand closed upon his own that he himself 
 figured therein. What that purpose was he could 
 but speculate yet ; but that eventually it would come
 
 272 The Quest Eternal 
 
 to light, that as inevitable as time it would be car- 
 ried out, he knew. And knowing, impassive now as 
 the big doctor himself, as impenetrably taciturn, he 
 awaited the revelation. 
 
 For with the closing of that inner door behind 
 him, with the uncertainty of the disclosure the next 
 few minutes were to bring, Bob McLeod had be- 
 come a different man. As suddenly as the change 
 from sleep to wakefulness, he had altered, as com- 
 pletely. About him there was no trace of lethargy 
 now nor of nervous restlessness. Self-contained, on 
 the surface cool almost to indifference, he took the 
 seat Dr. Schoup had offered. Scotch passive, Scotch 
 patient, he waited for the older man to speak. 
 
 And for a moment likewise Schoup had been 
 silent, premonitorily silent. He was a great shaggy- 
 haired German with a blonde moustache and near- 
 sighted blue eyes that gazed out at the world 
 through horn-rimmed spectacles. Abstractedly now, 
 with an inspection that was almost childlike in its 
 candour and directness, he sat looking at the man 
 opposite. Then at last, the unconscious observation 
 complete, he spoke; and, in contrast to his bulk, 
 his voice was low and gentle almost as a woman's. 
 
 "It's getting late and besides I've kept you waiting 
 quite a while already," he began, "so I won't take 
 up any more of your time than is necessary. You've 
 come, I take it, to get my microscopical report, and 
 an opinion."
 
 The Dead Wall of the Inevitable 273 
 
 "Yes, sir," laconically. "You told me the time I 
 called before to return to-day." 
 
 "I remember. I've made an examination and 
 have the slides prepared. You can take them and 
 see for yourself if you wish." He halted, leaning 
 farther forward in near-sighted concentration. 
 "But before I make a report I'd like to ask you a 
 few questions. When you called before I 
 thought your face was familiar, but I didn't know 
 you were in the school. Now that they've put on a 
 quiz-master and I do nothing but lecture I don't get 
 a chance to know you boys the way I'd like. But 
 since your first visit I've recalled seeing you in the 
 lecture room; and Dr. Treadway, who dropped in 
 this afternoon, told me considerable more. He's 
 a good deal interested in you, an old friend, he 
 says." The speaker halted a trifle uncertainly. 
 "You won't mind if I seem a bit inquisitive and 
 personal in what I'm going to ask, will you? I'm 
 a good deal older than you; and more interested, 
 perhaps, than you think." 
 
 In his place Bob McLeod returned the other's 
 direct look, fair into the eyes behind the big- 
 rimmed spectacles. 
 
 "No, I won't mind," he said. "You may ask 
 whatever you wish." 
 
 Schoup settled back in his seat. His glance went 
 to the wall opposite; a surface that to him at that 
 distance must have been a blank.
 
 274 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "You're a Junior, are you not, Mr. McLeod?" he 
 asked after a moment. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "The session is over. You must be taking the 
 special course in the biological laboratory." 
 
 "I'm taking care of the laboratory itself and get- 
 ting as much out of the course as I can. I've earned 
 my tuition the last two years by doing janitor work 
 there." 
 
 "And during vacation " 
 
 "I've worked on a farm just out of town." 
 
 The blue eyes clung absently to the wall, the wall 
 they could not see. 
 
 "And before you started here to school you'd 
 lived in the country always." 
 
 "Yes, sir. I was born on a farm." 
 
 "You never had any trouble with the cough 
 while you were there?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Nor the first year you were here in the univer- 
 sity?" 
 
 "Only a little. I didn't think anything about it." 
 
 "And last year " 
 
 "I was bothered in the winter. During the sum- 
 mer it passed away." 
 
 For the first time the questions halted. The blue 
 eyes left the wall, focussed themselves on the 
 other's face. 
 
 "And this year," directly.
 
 The Dead Wall of the Inevitable 275 
 
 "This year it's been worse immeasurably." A 
 pause. u So much so that I couldn't ignore it any 
 longer." 
 
 The big shaggy head nodded comprehension; but 
 the inspection did not shift. 
 
 "I warned you that I might be inquisitive and per- 
 sonal, Mr. McLeod," he said gently. "I'm going 
 to be so now. You were born in the country you 
 say, raised there. The open air life is your natural 
 life. You've proven it yourself. You were healthy 
 there and here you are unhealthy." The voice 
 lowered, became intimate, slow. "We have but one 
 life to live, any of us. Why did you exchange that 
 life, which was natural for you, for this artificial 
 one? Tell me why, please?" 
 
 A moment, a long moment, the listener was silent; 
 for so long that his companion thought he would 
 not answer. Then, just perceptibly, he stirred in 
 his seat. 
 
 "I supposed the reason was obvious," he said. 
 
 "Obvious? I'm serious. I don't know, Mr. 
 McLeod." 
 
 Still an instant the questioned waited; then sud- 
 denly he straightened. His great hands locked on 
 the arms of his chair. 
 
 "Unless the reason is obvious it's hard to explain, 
 professor," he said. "It's difficult to tell in words 
 why a seed put into the ground sends up a shoot 
 toward the surface. It would be easier for it to re-
 
 276 The Quest Eternal 
 
 main passive where it is planted. It's difficult to 
 explain why man, placed originally in the Garden 
 of Eden, as we're told, didn't remain there always. 
 It would have been immeasurably less effort to have 
 done so." The voice spoke quicker and more 
 quickly. The locked fingers grew white. "It's be- 
 cause, I think, I was as nature makes everything 
 that she gives life hopelessly restless. The an- 
 swer you ask is the answer to life universal. It's 
 the reason that sends the little creeks flowing 
 toward the larger waters; the motive that brings 
 the plant up toward the sun ; the instinct that urges 
 mankind perpetually toward a something that seems 
 imperative, just beyond. It was the legacy that 
 came down to me from no one knows how many 
 generations of ancestors; that unless the chain of 
 heredity ends with me will keep on going to the 
 end of time. It's the one thing perpetual, ubiqui- 
 tous, throughout the universe where there's life. It 
 was the instinct of the eternal quest." The voice 
 halted. The locked fingers loosened. Involun- 
 tarily the speaker coughed; laboriously rackingly, 
 until his whole body shook. Then, suddenly as the 
 transformation had come, he lapsed back into the 
 passivity from which he had been unexpectedly 
 aroused an impassivity from which nothing that 
 would follow could stir him again. "I trust I've 
 answered your question, professor," he said. 
 Through it all the big German had not stirred in
 
 The Dead Wall of the Inevitable 277 
 
 his place. Even after the voice had ceased and the 
 room was silent he still sat so; in an abstraction 
 that took no thought of time. Not moments but 
 minutes passed so; then, interrupting for the sec- 
 ond time, laboriously as before, McLeod coughed. 
 
 It was the awakening, and the doctor straight- 
 ened ; but during that interim, short as it was, a new 
 relationship, a new intimacy of understanding had 
 been born. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "you've answered my question 
 and suggested another. "Every human being who 
 feels the necessity of doing, as you felt it, has some 
 definite object in view. He must have. It's na- 
 ture's law. Just what, please, was your ambition, 
 Mr. McLeod, your particular 'eternal quest' ?" 
 
 Through half-closed lids the visitor inspected his 
 host, as he himself had been inspected. 
 
 "To give a concrete example," he said evenly. "I 
 would name yourself." 
 
 The big doctor flushed, almost like a boy. 
 
 "I didn't intend that, McLeod," he hesitated, 
 "really 
 
 "I know you didn't; but it's true, nevertheless." 
 The voice was monotonous, without a trace of the 
 suppressed fire it had held a bit before. "You ex- 
 emplify the type. You've succeeded in your line, 
 done things. You've proved, for instance, what be- 
 fore was only a theory, of a certain infection. A 
 serum is named after you. You lecture anywhere,
 
 278 The Quest Eternal 
 
 and other men, big men too, listen and believe 
 what you say. An article you write is standard in 
 any medical journal in the world. You point a 
 course and doctors everywhere follow your finger. 
 They do it because you're bigger than they are 
 and they know you're bigger. You don't have to 
 prove your leadership, you've done so already ; and 
 they accept without question. I repeat you yourself 
 are the answer, professor." 
 
 The flush had left the other's face now, leaving it 
 almost pale. The great broad shoulders had 
 drooped, narrowed. Only the blue eyes stared out 
 through the big spectacles steady and candid as be- 
 fore. 
 
 "And if I am," he said low, "do you think, Mr. 
 McLeod, I've found the something imperative I'm 
 searching for, my 'eternal quest'? Do you fancy 
 if you were in my place you'd be any nearer to the 
 attainment of yours, any better satisfied?" 
 
 Again the room became silent; so silent that they 
 could hear the muffled purr of the elevator in the 
 corridor without, the thud of a street-car gong a 
 block away. There had been no answer to the 
 query and instinctively Schoup leaned forward, in- 
 sistently. 
 
 "Tell me, Mr. McLeod," he repeated, "do you 
 fancy if you'd gotten where you say I am, you'd be 
 any happier, any nearer the end of the quest than 
 you are now?"
 
 The Dead Wall of the Inevitable 279 
 
 It was a question and still it was not a question. 
 Watching, listening, intensely observant, Bob 
 McLeod knew it was so, knew it for what it was. 
 For it was a page torn from the book of a human 
 life that he was permitted to read that moment; an 
 open page and at the climax. Reading, as he 
 could not help but do, the answer to the question 
 asked was fair before his eyes; an answer final as 
 death itself, as unquestionable and unbelievable 
 almost as it was, that answer was negative ! 
 
 "I had thought so before," he said slowly; "but 
 now now I don't know." 
 
 "You'd thought so," swiftly. "I thought so my- 
 self once, when I was your age; but long ago I 
 knew better." One of the speaker's hands passed 
 absently across his face, dropped to his lap. "I 
 know better," he repeated; "know, not think. If 
 you still believe differently disabuse your mind of 
 that idea now for all time." Again he leaned for- 
 ward; suddenly, insistently, intimately close. 
 "Take the word of one who has travelled the trail 
 there's no such thing as arriving on the road to 
 attainment. It's all a rainbow, a will o' the wisp. 
 The farther you go, the farther it recedes ahead of 
 you. Sometimes, when the blood is hot, you think 
 you've found your destination and reach out your 
 hand to take in the prize and reach into empty 
 space. You work, work, day and night, night and 
 day and fancy at last the thing is yours. But it
 
 280 The Quest Eternal 
 
 isn't. Still just beyond, just out of reach, it dangles 
 there; beckoning you on, tantalising, maddening. 
 Others, watching, not knowing, may give you the 
 credit of attainment; but in your own soul you 
 know better and their applause is hollow. I know 
 this, I say, know it. The road to ambition is one 
 that has no turning; and but one destination and 
 that is death. Don't fancy it's otherwise, my boy; 
 or that there's a resting point before that end. I'm 
 on the trail now, well along toward the end, and I 
 know." 
 
 Suddenly the swiftly flowing stream of words 
 ceased. Absently as before the hand passed over 
 the doctor's face. He breathed deep, as one 
 awakening. 
 
 "I've wandered," he said monotonously, "but I 
 felt somehow that you ought to understand, now; 
 that it was my duty if possible to make you under- 
 stand. If I've meddled I'm sorry, but at least it 
 was meant kindly." 
 
 "I believe you, doctor," said the listener simply, 
 "and I think I understand. I thank you." 
 
 A moment they sat there so, each thinking his own 
 thoughts, each confronting the impenetrable wall 
 that is fate personified. Then, interrupting as it 
 had done before, bringing them both suddenly back 
 to the affair of the moment, McLeod coughed. 
 
 It was the cue to the last act of the drama, the 
 bell that preceded the raising of the curtain on the
 
 The Dead Wall of the Inevitable 281 
 
 final scene. Responsive, the eyes of the two princi- 
 pals met, remained so in mutual attention. 
 
 "If you'd like to hear I'm ready to make my re- 
 port on your case now," said the elder. 
 
 "Yes, I'd like to hear it, doctor," answered the 
 other. 
 
 "You requested me to report exactly, that's the 
 word you used." 
 
 "I remember." 
 
 "I'll do so then. You are consumptive, Mr. 
 McLeod, without a doubt. You're well along in 
 the first stage and approaching the second." 
 
 Not a muscle of the visitor's body stirred at the 
 announcement, not a muscle twitched in his face. 
 
 "And the prognosis, doctor, please?" 
 
 "If you go back, back to nature from which you 
 came, stay there, I believe there's time yet." 
 
 A pause, a terribly meaning pause. 
 
 "You mean I'm to get off the trail indefinitely, 
 forever. I'm merely to live?" 
 
 "Yes. As I said before, that's all any of us can 
 do, live our one life." 
 
 "And if I refuse to leave the game, to go back 
 how long ?" 
 
 "You are a Junior you say?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You'll never live to graduate, Mr. McLeod. 
 Never!"
 
 282 The Quest Eternal 
 
 Outside in the waiting room Treadway arose as 
 the visitor emerged from the inner door. Con- 
 cerning what had passed within, he made no com- 
 ment, spoke no question. To have done so were 
 superfluous, and he seldom did the unnecessary. 
 He simply put on his hat and, as though their 
 meeting in that place were a matter of every-day 
 occurrence, descended with the other to the street. 
 Not until they were outside the arched entrance did 
 either speak; then the elder halted and laid a hand 
 detainingly on his companion's shoulder. 
 
 "I want you to go to dinner with me, McLeod," 
 he said bluntly. "I've got several things to talk 
 over with you." 
 
 The latter did not misunderstand, did not pretend 
 to. 
 
 "Not to-night," he declined hurriedly. Then as 
 suddenly he smiled; the old slow smile that deep- 
 ened the crow's feet about his eyes. "I don't be- 
 lieve I could eat anything just now even with you. 
 I'm going home." 
 
 "All right." The hand left the other's shoulder. 
 "I'll go with you." 
 
 "Not that either to-night, please, doctor." The 
 smile had vanished, but the blue eyes still met the 
 other level and steady. "I'm lost between the devil 
 and the deep sea, and each have points in their 
 favour. I want to be alone for a bit and find my- 
 self."
 
 The Dead Wall of the Inevitable 283 
 
 "And I want to be along, to help you find your- 
 self," echoed his companion bluntly. "I'm going 
 with you." 
 
 A moment they stood so, while the busy town 
 hurried by. 
 
 "Not if I request you otherwise, doctor," said a 
 voice at last. "I meant what I said." 
 
 Treadway pressed the matter no further; but his 
 face was not the face of one who had abandoned 
 his purpose. 
 
 "Very well," he accepted. 
 
 "To-morrow, any time you choose, you can find 
 me at the medical building or I'll look you up." 
 
 "To-morrow will be too late. I go back in the 
 morning." 
 
 "I'm sorry." It was finality; yet finality without 
 affectation. "But when one's in Hell there's no use 
 pretending otherwise. I simply can't talk it over 
 with you to-night. It's all too near." 
 
 They had started up the walk; mechanically, in- 
 stinct leading toward the doctor's hotel. Though 
 it was the dinner hour and business traffic for the 
 day had ceased, the hum of the human hive still 
 came to their ears, the ceaseless beat of the city's 
 heart that never halted night or day. Not until 
 they were at the entrance of the big hostelry, the 
 electric arc that marked its place over their heads, 
 was a word spoken. Then as before Treadway 
 halted, his face an impenetrable mask.
 
 284 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "I saw Peg Stanton this afternoon," he said. "I 
 happened to be in the lobby here when she and her 
 manager first arrived." 
 
 As one whose mind had been far away Bob 
 McLeod aroused. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said. 
 
 Deliberately as before, word for word, Treadway 
 repeated his remark. 
 
 "Peg !" For once in his life at least McLeod was 
 taken absolutely off guard, absolutely without warn- 
 ing. As when he had coughed the hot blood 
 mounted to his temples, burned in crimson blots on 
 his thin face. "Peg here?" he repeated. 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Why?" Treadway stared. "Haven't you read 
 the papers, man?" 
 
 "No. It's been the end of the term with finals 
 every day and the laboratory full and I haven't 
 teen outside the building before for a week. What 
 is it?" 
 
 "Nor you didn't notice the billboards coming 
 down to-day?" 
 
 "I had something on my mind coming down. I 
 saw nothing." 
 
 Unconsciously Treadway passed his hand over his 
 face. He had a premonition that something big- 
 ger even than he had anticipated was about to take 
 place. 
 
 "I never dreamed you didn't know," he hesitated.
 
 The Dead Wall of the Inevitable. 285 
 
 "It was one of the reasons that brought m4 now r 
 when I shouldn't have left. She's here to sing, man, 
 in the Opera House to-night." 
 
 At last it was out and McLeod understood; but 
 if Treadway expected a surface revelation at the 
 demonstration he was to be disappointed. Instead, 
 swiftly as the red blood had come, it vanished from 
 the other's cheeks, leaving them colourless. Simul- 
 taneously about his eyes the crow's feet smoothed,, 
 as though every muscle beneath the skin had gone 
 lax. If ever there was an inscrutable gambler's- 
 face it was that of Robert McLeod at that moment. 
 
 In a flash it was done, swiftly as thought travels, 
 as decision had come. For that instant, clearly as 
 though he had been told, as unmistakably plainly, 
 the man realised the object of the big doctor's com- 
 ing at this time. As by telepathy he knew what was- 
 passing through his mind at this moment. He did 
 not guess, he knew ; and as suddenly his own course 
 was clear. A day previous, perhaps, the way would 
 not have been so easy to decide; but now, with the 
 finality that Schoup had spoken fresh in his mind, 
 there was no alternative, no question. Yet, know- 
 ing, he did not dissimulate. It was not his way. 
 
 "I knew absolutely nothing about it before, doc- 
 tor," he said. "I supposed she was a thousand miles* 
 away." 
 
 "But now that you do know," it was the oppor- 
 tunity for which he had been working and Tread-
 
 286 The Quest Eternal 
 
 way grasped it with both hands, "you won't refuse 
 to see me to-night?" 
 
 "Not if it is before ten o'clock." 
 
 "Before ten! You're crazy, man. Aren't you go- 
 ing to the Opera House to hear her?" 
 
 "I expect to now." 
 
 "And afterward?" 
 
 "I'm going to leave town afterward, immediately, 
 doctor." 
 
 "Leave town for good?" 
 
 "For good or for bad forever at least." 
 
 Again Treadway's hand passed over his face. 
 That which he had presaged had come to pass. 
 
 "And for where ?" he asked. "For where ?" 
 
 "I can't tell you that, doctor." 
 
 "You mean you don't intend me to know, don't 
 intend any one to know." 
 
 "Yes," gently, "I mean that exactly, doctor." 
 
 With a grip like a vice Treadway caught the other 
 by the shoulders, shook them unconsciously. 
 
 "You're mad, man," he blazed, "clean mad!" 
 
 "No. On the contrary, I'm sane; sane for the first 
 time in years." 
 
 The eyes of the two met, steadily, understand- 
 ingly. Before that look the elder was helpless. Of 
 a sudden he turned away. 
 
 "We can't discuss that here," he said swiftly, "but 
 I must see you, talk with you at once. Where 
 do you live ?"
 
 The Dead Wall of the Inevitable 287 
 
 "In the medical building. In the janitor's room 
 back of the biological laboratory." 
 
 A cab was standing by the curb and, turning, 
 Treadway motioned to the driver. 
 
 "You'll let me go along with you, now that you 
 know, won't you?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, if you wish." 
 
 "All right then, come. . . . Medical building, the 
 University, driver;" and leading, almost pushing 
 the other ahead of him, he disappeared within the 
 carriage door.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE FINAL DEAL 
 
 THE naked light from a gas jet inadequately lit up 
 the cluttered stock room at the rear of the bio- 
 logical laboratory, bringing out in shadowy outline 
 the rows of carefully labelled bottles on the shelves, 
 the racks of test tubes, the long line of microscopes, 
 the manifold diverse paraphernalia stored in the 
 place. Flickering from its arm over the single 
 work table it lit up clearly one side of the face of 
 each of the two men who sat beside it, leaving the 
 other half in shadow. Save for that light and the 
 two humans beneath, throughout the extent of the 
 big stone pile, that was the medical building, no 
 sign of life was manifest. Similarly the Hall of 
 Liberal Arts and College of Pharmacy that flanked 
 it on either side were dark, deserted. Like an 
 abandoned village, this lesser city of learning on 
 the outskirts of the greater was muffled for the 
 night in unbroken silence. Within the tiny room, 
 against the background of that stillness all per- 
 vading, the voice of the elder man was speaking; 
 not calmly or disjointedly as was his wont, but flu- 
 ently, almost passionately. 
 "I've lain back and said nothing and watched you
 
 The Final Deal 289 
 
 go your own gait as long as I'm going to," he was 
 saying. "I've hinted to be sure and suggested now 
 and then; and that's been all. But the time for 
 that is past. I didn't simply happen to come down 
 here or merely chance to arrive at this time. I 
 came because I wouldn't keep still, couldn't any 
 longer. Maybe it's an impertinence to crowd my- 
 self into your affairs this way, against your wishes, 
 but I'm going to do it anyway. Knowing you as I 
 have I'd feel like a criminal if I didn't. I like you, 
 Bob McLeod. I've liked you from that morning 
 years ago when your father first brought you into 
 my office. I have a right to have you take 
 me into your confidence. Aren't you going to do 
 so?" 
 
 The younger man addressed did not stir in his 
 place, did not glance up. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I'll be glad to. But it won't 
 make any difference in my decision. I'm right and 
 I know I'm right; and I've made up my mind. 
 Nothing except a miracle could change things as 
 they are, and it isn't an age of miracles. Circum- 
 stances are a mountain, doctor, which even you 
 can't move." 
 
 Treadway's great shoulders shrugged impatiently; 
 eloquently in contrast with his customary impassiv- 
 ity. 
 
 "Very well," he said, "I'll at least have the con- 
 solation of knowing that I tried." His big hand
 
 290 The Quest Eternal 
 
 stretched out on the table before him. "To begin 
 with you still refuse to tell me where you're going 
 when you leave town to-night." 
 
 "I can't do otherwise for the present," dispas- 
 sionately. "Perhaps some time in the future when 
 things are different " 
 
 "Why do you refuse? Tell me that." 
 
 Just for an instant McLeod's eyes lifted, met the 
 other's look; then dropped as before. 
 
 "It's useless to answer that question. You know 
 already." 
 
 "Is it because you don't want to meet Peg again 
 and you think I'm trying to bring it about?" 
 
 The younger man smiled, his slow smile. "Think, 
 doctor?" he echoed. 
 
 Again the great shoulders shrugged, but in silence. 
 
 The smile left the other's face. 
 
 "Yes, that is the reason," he said. 
 
 "And why? Don't say I know already, but tell 
 me exactly why." 
 
 For an instant there was silence; then breaking it, 
 uncanny in its instinctive answer as that moment, 
 McLeod coughed. Silence returned. 
 
 "That's one reason, the latest and best," he said 
 low. 
 
 "You'll get over that," countered Treadway, "if 
 you do as Dr. Schoup advises. He told me so. I 
 asked him." 
 
 "Perhaps," evenly, "if I pay the price."
 
 The Final Deal 291 
 
 "Price isn't to be considered when it's in exchange 
 for life. Life is all we have here." 
 
 "I begin to believe that," echoed a voice. "It's 
 all we have." 
 
 The big hand on the table moved back and forth, 
 drawing invisible, fanciful figures. A moment 
 passed so. 
 
 "The reason you give is inadequate," said the 
 owner of the hand at last, "because it will cease to 
 exist. What other have you?" 
 
 "You really think it inadequate?" 
 
 "Yes. Assuredly yes. Yes to infinity." 
 
 "How about this, then?" Just perceptibly 
 McLeod indicated the clumsy boot stretched out 
 straight before him. "Will that cease to exist 
 too?" 
 
 "I don't see that responsibility cuts any figure 
 now," said McLeod. "The fact remains that it is 
 so." 
 
 "No; but who is responsible for its being so?" 
 
 "No figure, eh! Doesn't it make any difference 
 that it's part of the price paid to make Peg Stan- 
 ton what she is now, the price you paid?" 
 
 "I'd rather you wouldn't say that, doctor, even to 
 me," said McLeod. 
 
 "But I will say it," swiftly. "I tell you the time 
 has gone by for mincing matters or ignoring them. 
 As long as there seemed a show of things working 
 out right without my interference I steered clear.
 
 292 The Quest Eternal 
 
 Give me credit for that. But now you know as well 
 as I know that the game's nearing an end. You've 
 been dealt your last hand. Whether you ever for- 
 give me or not I'm going to help you play it for all 
 it's worth." 
 
 There was no answer and the big doctor paused 
 a moment, breathing hard. 
 
 "I repeat," he rushed on, "that although Peg 
 doesn't realise it, you and I know that she's the 
 cause of your being lame. It's an added reason for 
 your seeing her, not against ! We're looking things 
 squarely in the face now. We're dealing with re- 
 alities, not with ideals. You've lost the thing you 
 were playing for, the cards were against you; but 
 the biggest stake of all is still up. Some day, when 
 you're as old as I am, you'll realise that ambition 
 isn't the largest thing in life after all. I don't ex- 
 pect you to believe this now and I won't try to 
 prove it, but it is so. The biggest thing that life 
 holds is happiness; and that's still possible if you 
 play your hand." 
 
 For the first time McLeod's eyes lifted, met the 
 other fair. 
 
 "Granting for the sake of argument that to be 
 true, just how would you have me play my hand?" 
 he asked. "Just how to bring happiness." 
 
 "How?" Treadway's great fist on the table 
 clenched, then met the board with a crash. "Marry 
 her. Get away from the ideal for once and live
 
 The Final Deal 293 
 
 in reality. Be a human being and cease trying for 
 the impossible. Marry her." 
 
 "Aren't you taking a bit for granted?" asked 
 a quiet voice. "I haven't seen her or had a word 
 from her in three years now. For all I know she's 
 ceased to remember I exist. Seems to me it's you 
 and not myself who are wandering, doctor." 
 
 "It does, does it !" Infinite satire was in the words. 
 "You fancy she's forgotten you entirely, eh!" 
 Irony could go no farther and for a second the 
 voice halted. Then for the second time the fist 
 met the board. "Why, if that's so, do you refuse 
 to see her, to find out for sure? Why, Bob 
 McLeod, tell me that?" 
 
 "Why?" The blue eyes did not droop this time 
 nor shift. "I'll tell you exactly why, doctor and 
 it's not the reason you think either. It's not be- 
 cause I'm afraid of her caring. I'm not egotist 
 enough for that yet. She's met too many successes 
 these last years, known them too well, to care for a 
 failure. She might feel gratitude and sympathy 
 she would, I know her ; but for caring in the 
 way you mean " He halted. His breath came 
 quick. "No, that isn't the reason, doctor. I'm not 
 a fool. It's myself I'm afraid of. It's because 
 I'm the human being you try to make out I'm not. 
 It's because I'm afraid I'd abuse that very grati- 
 tude and do something I'd always regret. As it 
 is we're both well off. The past is dead and the
 
 294 The Quest Eternal 
 
 things of the past. It's because I won't resurrect 
 that past that I won't see her. For that reason 
 and that alone." 
 
 A moment they sat so looking at each other ; then 
 instinctively Treadway leaned forward, compel- 
 lingly. 
 
 "And if she does care the way I said," he goaded, 
 "supposing she herself wants to resurrect that 
 past?" 
 
 "She can't," swiftly. "The suggestion is prepos- 
 terous. She's seen too much, lived too much, grown 
 too fast. She can't." 
 
 "Can't, eh!" The great jaw locked stubbornly. 
 "You're blind or the fool you say you're not, 
 McLeod. Why else do you suppose she came back 
 here to this town a thousand mile jump? Why 
 else than to show you what she's done, to see you, to 
 give you a chance? You're a fool or blind, man, 
 one or the other." 
 
 McLeod laughed, a bitter little laugh. 
 
 "You'd make me the first, if you had your way, 
 doctor," he said simply. 
 
 "Make you ! Make you !" The other struggled 
 for words ; then, impotent, sank back into his place. 
 "I begin to believe that the Lord Himself couldn't 
 make you otherwise, Bob McLeod!" 
 
 A minute they sat so in silence; then as suddenly 
 came a new lead. 
 
 "Supposing I should tell you that she did care.
 
 The Final Deal 295 
 
 that she has written me twice in the last year inquir- 
 ing about you?" asked Treadway. "What then?'* 
 
 "I can't answer suppositions, doctor." 
 
 "Answer realities. It's true." 
 
 "It makes no difference. It simply proves what I 
 knew already, that she's grateful nothing more." 
 
 Treadway passed his hand over his forehead and 
 it came away damp. 
 
 "You're driving me to the last ditch," he halted. 
 "I'm desperate and I'm going to confess something 
 that I didn't mean to confess, that Peg didn't mean 
 I should. I only told you part of the truth when 
 I said I saw her to-day. The fact is I met her by 
 appointment. She wired from Chicago for me to 
 come. She wants to see you, Bob McLeod, asked 
 me to bring you. She's waiting now, this minute. 
 She cares for you, man. Aren't you going?" 
 
 Listening, the face of McLeod grew white, white 
 to the lips; but, notwithstanding, he did not hesi- 
 tate. 
 
 "No," he said. 
 
 "No ?" The other could not believe his ears. 
 
 "No" he repeated. 
 
 "You mean to tell me that, knowing what I tell 
 you, that she loves you you refuse?" 
 
 "She doesn't. She thinks she does, but she doesn't. 
 She's still back ten years in the time when we were 
 children. She can't know me as I am. It's impos- 
 sible."
 
 296 The Quest Eternal 
 
 A full half minute Treadway sat staring at the 
 man opposite, blankly, speechless; then of a sudden 
 he sprang to his feet. 
 
 "God, McLeod," he blazed, "if I hadn't heard 
 with my own ears and seen with my own eyes I 
 wouldn't have believed it possible. For a man to 
 deny his senses, to throw his own happiness and the 
 happiness of another under his feet and trample 
 on them the way you're doing He seized his 
 hat. "I've nothing more to say. I'm going." 
 
 Like a flash McLeod too was erect, his eyes blaz- 
 ing, his narrow shoulders squared. 
 
 "Sit down," he said. 
 
 Treadway did not move. 
 
 "Sit down I say. I mean it." 
 
 This time Treadway obeyed. Why he did so he 
 could not have told, but he obeyed. Over him 
 towered the other; a man he had never seen before; 
 a being whom fancy even could not have pictured; 
 one whom he would never see again. 
 
 "You may go very soon, doctor," said the voice 
 of this man, "but first I've got something I wish to 
 say to you. You talk to me about right and 
 happiness and my due. Did it never occur to you 
 that others had rights and things their due? Do 
 you suppose Peg has none?" He came a step for- 
 ward. His narrow shoulders tightened. "Look 
 at me!" In dead silence he limped the length of 
 the room and back again, halted as before. "Look,
 
 The Final Deal 297 
 
 I say ! It isn't a pleasant matter, I realise, but we 
 may as well have an understanding for all time. 
 You see what I am, what I always will be. Do you 
 fancy for the sake of childish gratitude or the little 
 I've done to help her on her way I'd ask Peg Stan- 
 ton to marry a man like myself?" He halted for 
 breath but not for an answer. "You speak of hap- 
 piness, my happiness. Do you fancy I'd know a 
 second's happiness if I took advantage of the past 
 to do a thing like that? God, man, your opinion 
 of me must be low ! Even a brute mates with its 
 own equal; and I " He caught himself, the sen- 
 tence incomplete; and sat down. But still he did 
 not pause for denial or for answer. 
 
 "I say that while we're on the subject we may as 
 well settle it for all time. I've a little pride and 
 self-respect left even yet. Such being the case, even 
 if I weren't hopelessly crippled I wouldn't drag 
 Peg Stanton down to me now. I'm beaten, doctor, 
 there's no use denying the obvious; and I'll always 
 remain beaten. To live at all it's got to be in the 
 open, away from where other men congregate 
 and that means oblivion. I can earn a few dollars 
 a day, enough by economy to keep me off the county 
 when I get old if I live until then; and that's all. 
 Peg has become accustomed to a different life abso- 
 lutely. It's her right, her due. Do you fancy that 
 if I were physically her equal I'd be selfish enough 
 to drag her down to this other life with me; back
 
 298 The Quest Eternal 
 
 into poverty and work and monotony; back where 
 she was ten years ago, when she broke free? 
 Haven't you ever thought of her side at all? You 
 say we're facing realities and not fancies. That's 
 exactly what I'm doing now." He sank back in 
 his chair. From tension his whole body went lax. 
 "It's exactly the real that makes me refuse to see 
 her now, to ever see her again of my own free will. 
 That's what I wished to say before you go, doc- 
 tor." 
 
 Bit by bit while the other was speaking Treadway 
 had dropped back into his own seat. At the close 
 his great bushy head was sunk low on his shoulders, 
 his hands loose in his lap. But his eyes never left 
 the other's face. 
 
 "I understand your point of view," he said, "and 
 as I told you before it's useless to argue with you 
 now that success isn't the biggest thing in life. I 
 won't try to prove either that, caring for you, Peg 
 would be happier with you and dinginess than 
 elsewhere with her name on every one's lips." The 
 voice was the speaker's normal voice, even and 
 slow. "I'll merely tell you a story; and if that 
 doesn't mean anything to you I'll say good-bye and 
 go." For an instant he halted and, intentionally 
 or unintentionally, shifted in his seat until his face 
 was in shadow. "It's the story of my own failure, 
 Bob McLeod; and when I tell it to you it'll be the 
 first time I've ever done so to man or woman.
 
 The Final Deal 299 
 
 "I was raised in the country like you were; only 
 east in the Michigan timber lands. My father and 
 another man named never mind the name, they 
 were chums were married the same day and went 
 into the backwoods together to clear up farms of 
 their own. The two families built their log houses 
 side by side; worked together, all but lived to- 
 gether. No other settlers for years were within 
 miles, around them was untouched timber it was 
 before the logging days and they were very neces- 
 sary to each other. I was born there ; the first child 
 born to either family. In a month came another, 
 a girl, to the other house. Afterward followed a 
 long line, for both couples had large families; but 
 never mind about them. Mary, Marie they called 
 her they were French that other family and I 
 grew up together; amid the same surroundings, 
 living the same life. As babies, as children, as boy 
 and girl there wasn't a day for eighteen years that 
 we didn't see each other. What one knew the other 
 knew; for at first my mother taught us both, and 
 afterwards, when a district school was started, we 
 attended together: riding the same horse, back 
 and forth through the clearings. What one thought 
 the other thought; for we told each other every- 
 thing. So far, until we were both eighteen, it's 
 the same old story; one that inevitably could have 
 but a single ending. What that was it's useless to 
 tell. Human nature is alike the world over.
 
 300 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "Then something happened. Why or how or 
 from where I got it I don't know; but there came 
 to me an indefinite desire to do more than my 
 father had done, or his father. None of the old 
 folks understood it. They couldn't. When I told 
 them they laughed. When I asked permission to 
 go to the city my father refused, positively. Just 
 one person among them realised that I was in ear- 
 nest; and that was Marie. She understood, felt, I 
 think now, the same desire herself; but she never 
 said so and I never guessed. She urged me on, 
 helped me, planned with me and one night I ran 
 away. 
 
 "That was the beginning. What I did the next 
 five years doesn't matter. I did everything, any- 
 thing, to make a living. The same thing has been 
 gone through a million times by a million other 
 boys, restless like myself with an indefinite lack 
 which they couldn't solve. We were engaged, 
 Marie and myself, when I left as young people 
 are engaged. For a while I kept writing to her; 
 but each time the letters came back unopened, re- 
 turned by her father. She had no chance to get 
 her mail herself, and had no intimate friend to help 
 her; so I quit writing and waited. 
 
 "Then at last I found myself. I'd drifted mean- 
 while to Chicago and got a job as handy man to a 
 doctor in the suburbs. Among other things I used 
 to drive for him ; and one night, in an accident case
 
 The Final Deal 301 
 
 with no one else he could call, I helped him by 
 giving an anaesthetic. For the first time that night 
 I caught my lead, knew what definite ambition 
 meant; and I began to hew to the line. I didn't 
 forget the past. Marie was still in my mind every 
 hour of the day, had a part in every plan; but the 
 new incentive was insistent. Temporarily every- 
 thing made way, went into abeyance 
 
 "Another five years went by. It appears impos- 
 sible now that I drifted that long; but it seemed 
 short enough at the time. With the doctor's help 
 I entered a medical school, went through and grad- 
 uated. In all that time I hadn't heard from home, 
 not a word. I'd written several times; and, as be- 
 fore, each time the letters came back. They were 
 of the old stock and unforgiving. When I finished 
 school the doctor took me in with him. He was 
 getting old and pushed me in his place. I filled it, 
 for it was my work. Chance, or Providence, or 
 whatever it was had put me into one of the best 
 practices of the city. I'd waited so long then that 
 it seemed to me another year would make no dif- 
 ference, and for that time I remained there in prac- 
 tice. I saved money that year; enough to get me 
 started ; enough to make a good payment on a home 
 and I bought one. At last, I thought, I had ar- 
 rived, I was in a position to begin to live, to think 
 of happiness. At last I was ready to go back." 
 
 For the first time in the narrative there was an
 
 302 The Quest Eternal 
 
 appreciable pause, a halt of prophecy. For the 
 first time the steady voice grew uneven, the sen- 
 tences jerky. 
 
 "Then I went back. After I got started all at 
 once I was in the grip of a perfect fever of im- 
 patience. I couldn't find a train that went fast 
 enough. I cursed the little towns with their short 
 pauses and the bigger ones with their longer waits. 
 It was night when I reached our home town and 
 went to the only hotel. I didn't tell any one there, 
 though, who I was. I recognised some of the old 
 people I'd known, but none of them knew me. 
 That set me to thinking. I'd grown a beard and 
 looked older by twenty years than when I'd left; 
 and of a sudden I wondered if she, Marie, would 
 recognise me. The more I thought of it the more 
 I doubted. I wanted her to do so, at sight, incon- 
 testably; and I decided to get rid of the beard. I 
 felt I couldn't wait for morning to do it, wouldn't. 
 I was going out as soon as it was light and I had 
 no razor, so I routed a barber out of bed. He 
 thought I was crazy, I guess ; but he shaved me and 
 my age went back ten years. 
 
 "It was winter and the nights were long, but I 
 didn't sleep any that night. I sat up dressed and 
 ready in my room, smoking and smoking, and 
 thinking and thinking. At daylight I started. It 
 was six miles out and I didn't wait for breakfast. 
 I was my own driver and I was ashamed even then
 
 The Final Deal 303 
 
 of the way I drove that team. I didn't see a thing 
 along the road. I knew it without thinking, instinc- 
 tively. I didn't see anything until the old place 
 came in view. Then at last I began to grow sane. 
 They'd think something terrible had happened if 
 I came rushing in that way, and I didn't want to 
 frighten them ; so I pulled the team down to a walk. 
 Early as it was there was smoke trailing out of both 
 chimneys. When I got near, a dog, a new dog, 
 came rushing out to bark; but otherwise, so far as 
 I could see, there was no change. Maybe the 
 clearings that stretched out back of the farm-yard 
 were larger, and the trees that still remained stand- 
 ing thinner; but I didn't know. Things always 
 look different when one goes back, after years. I 
 drove up to my father's house and stopped. 
 
 "For a bit I sat there in the wagon so. I knew the 
 dog would rouse them and I merely waited. I was 
 right, it did. Slowly at last the door opened, until 
 it was wide enough for a person to stand in the 
 aperture ; and a man therein stared out my father. 
 
 "For a minute I guess neither of us stirred; just 
 looked at each other. I recognised him instantly 
 and he knew me about as quick. His hair was 
 greyer and his shoulders rounder than of old; but 
 that was all. We simply looked at each other, I 
 say, until I could stand it no longer. 
 
 " 'I've come back,' I said then and that was all. 
 
 " 'I see you have' and that was all he said.
 
 304 The Quest Eternal 
 
 ' 'Aren't you glad,' I asked, 'you and mother?' 
 
 "The dog came up, sniffed first at the horses, then 
 at the wheels of the buggy ; and finally laid down on 
 the doorstep watching us. 
 
 "My father never came out, never left the door- 
 way. 
 
 " 'No, I'm not glad particularly,' he said. 
 
 " 'But mother at least she ' I stopped. Before 
 he had told me I knew. 
 
 " 'I'm all alone here now.' He looked at me 
 again. 'Maybe John and Tina and the rest will be 
 glad. I don't know. They're married now.' He 
 stepped back as though I had inquired the road 
 and he had answered. 'You might find out for 
 yourself,' and the door closed behind him. 
 
 "But even after he'd gone I still sat there looking 
 at the closed door, too stunned by the suddenness 
 of it all for a bit to act. I had counted on an in- 
 evitable change, reproaches perhaps ; but open hos- 
 tility, alienation absolute such as this I'd never 
 even conceived of such a thing. I merely remained 
 there, blankly, stupidly, trying to reason it all out; 
 and failing utterly. The horses were steaming in 
 the cold and shifted restlessly; but I scarcely 
 noticed. The dog stood up and barked again; but 
 even that didn't rouse me. I think I must have 
 sat five minutes so, maybe longer. Then of a sud- 
 den interrupting, very near at hand, a voice spoke ; 
 a man's voice.
 
 The Final Deal 305 
 
 " 'What's the matter, stranger,' asked the voice, 
 'lost your way ?' 
 
 "I turned, awake with a rush, with a whirl of 
 recollection. I hadn't noticed any one approach- 
 ing; but instantly I recognised that voice with its 
 nasal drawl, as well as though I'd heard it yester- 
 day. It was the voice of my father's old churn, 
 Marie's father's voice. 
 
 "I turned, I say, and we stared at each other, as 
 my father and I had done. No need to tell him 
 who I was. His face showed instantly that he 
 knew. No need to suggest that I'd returned. He 
 himself it was who first made the announcement. 
 
 " 'So you've come back at last,' he said. 
 
 " 'Yes,' I said. 
 
 "A moment longer he looked at me; then he too 
 turned away. 
 
 " 'I didn't reckon it was you or I wouldn't have 
 bothered to come out,' he sentenced laconically, and 
 started to return. 
 
 " 'Wait,' I said; and again I felt instinctively the 
 premonition of disaster as when I had heard of my 
 mother. 'I was just coming in to see you.' 
 
 "He stopped then; but he said nothing. 
 
 " 'I wanted to see you all, to visit with you.' 
 
 " 'Yes.* 
 
 "I lost myself then. It was all so horrible, so 
 incredible, so relentlessly implacable. 
 
 " 'Good God, man,' I blazed, 'can't you remember
 
 306 The Quest Eternal 
 
 and understand? You know well enough why I'm 
 here, why I've come back. I've come to see 
 Marie!' 
 
 " 'Marie, eh 1* He turned then and looked me 
 fair; and such a look I hope I'll never see on a 
 human face again. 'Marie, eh!' he repeated. 
 'You've come to the wrong place, Sam Treadway. 
 You should have taken the road to the cemetery. 
 She's been there two years now !' 
 
 The voice ceased and the little room grew still, 
 gruesomely still. A moment it remained so ; and a 
 moment only. Then, blunderingly as before, 
 Treadway's great hand crossed his forehead; and 
 as before came back damp. 
 
 "That's all," he said, "except that I never went 
 back to Chicago. I couldn't. It was too vital a 
 part of the past, had too many recollections con- 
 nected. And besides the reason for going was past 
 and would never return. I came West as you know 
 instead, and kept on practising of course. I had to 
 do something. But I left my ambition to accom- 
 plish things behind. It died and I buried it that 
 morning." 
 
 The tale was complete and once more the narrator 
 shifted facing. 
 
 "That's all of the story, Bob," he said; "and 
 every word is true. If it doesn't mean something 
 to you I've nothing more to say. I had my am- 
 hition, bought its fulfilment with the price; and
 
 The Final Deal 307 
 
 after I'd gotten it the thing was clay. I'm an old 
 man now and it doesn't make much difference with 
 me ; but I like you, Bob McLeod, and I don't want 
 you to make the same mistake. I tell you once 
 more the big thing in life isn't ambition and suc- 
 cess, but the love of one man and one woman for 
 it alone is happiness." For the last time he halted 
 until he met the other's eyes, held them. "It's this 
 thing you're giving up now when you refuse to go 
 with me, or to go alone. Won't you reconsider; 
 won't you?" 
 
 Still another moment that look held; and again 
 the face of McLeod grew white to the lips. But 
 when at last he spoke there was no hesitation, nor 
 shadow of doubt. 
 
 "If it were my own happiness we were discussing 
 there'd be no need of reconsidering," he said. "I'd 
 have gone long ago. But it isn't my own happiness 
 I'm thinking of. I'm like yourself. It doesn't 
 make much difference with me now anyway. I'm 
 out of the game and beaten. I can't go, doctor." 
 
 Slowly Treadway arose, adjusting his hat the 
 while with clumsy hand. 
 
 "This is final, absolutely?" 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "Good-night then, and good-bye." 
 
 Slowly as he had risen the big doctor shuffled 
 toward the door. With his hand still on the knob 
 he halted and glanced back. McLeod had not
 
 308 The Quest Eternal 
 
 stirred, still sat as before staring blankly after 
 him. 
 
 "Maybe I'll see you at the Opera House to- 
 night," he hesitated. 
 
 As though of a sudden awakened McLeod started. 
 Then in mute misery his head dropped into his 
 hands. 
 
 "No, you'll not see me there to-night, doctor. God 
 forgive me for the coward I am, but I don't dare 
 to go even there now." Again of a sudden his face 
 lifted, for simultaneously Treadway had started 
 to return. "Don't," he pleaded. "Go, please. I 
 want to be alone. I must I"
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 WHERE ENDS THE QUEST 
 
 ALONE in the basement stock-room, Bob McLeod 
 sat exactly as Treadway had left him, his narrow 
 shoulders contracted, his big work-stiffened hands 
 locked in his lap. Since that single motion, where- 
 by momentarily his face had been concealed, he had 
 not stirred; not when the other left, not after he 
 was gone. For long, dragging minutes he remained 
 so, like one weary to death and asleep in his chair; 
 asleep and resting. Only the eyes, wide open, and 
 the lids that involuntarily opened and closed at in- 
 tervals, testified otherwise. He had eaten no sup- 
 per and it was well past his hour; but of that fact 
 he was oblivious, i There was no steam on in the 
 building and the room was getting chilly; but cold 
 likewise passed him by. For one of the few times 
 in his life he had forgotten time, forgotten the in- 
 sistent necessity for action in the eternal battle that 
 was life, forgotten completely the great world that 
 worked and played and laughed and cursed beyond 
 those four walls. At last the opportunity that he 
 had craved since that hour, that now seemed days 
 ago, when he had faced Dr. Schoup in that private 
 office, had come. At last he was alone alone save
 
 310 The Quest Eternal 
 
 for that grinning spectre of failure absolute that 
 no power of his could banish; and opportunity for 
 thought, for adjustment had come. 
 
 Yet on the surface no hint of the battle raging 
 within was apparent. Save that now and then he 
 coughed, involuntarily as the eyelids moved, he 
 uttered no sound. In his lap the great hands lay 
 locked, motionless. As he had fought every battle 
 of his solitary life he fought this last biggest one; 
 like a wild thing fights silently, relentlessly, with- 
 in the seclusion of its own den. As a wild thing 
 asks, expects, no favour from fate the inexorable, 
 he likewise asked no quarter; as when years be- 
 fore the heavens had smiled day after day and the 
 rains had not come, he did not rebel against the in- 
 evitable that was. Passive, passionless he accepted 
 the decree and adjusted his own tiny affairs thereto. 
 Against the power supreme, called Nature or 
 Chance or Fate, or God as man might choose, he 
 had made his fight and lost. The incident was a 
 closed chapter, a page that was turned. It was not 
 with another but with himself that he was battling 
 now. Against the other, against all others, he had 
 lost. With himself the result was to be different; for 
 when at last the present returned and the locked 
 hands unclasped, the struggle, the last struggle was 
 over and he had won. 
 
 There was nothing to do now but to prepare to 
 leave, and methodically as he did everything he
 
 Where Ends the Quest 311 
 
 went about the task. The laboratory was in con- 
 fusion from the day's work; and turning on the 
 lights he put everything in order. Some of the re- 
 agent bottles were empty and he filled them with a 
 practiced hand. In sweeping he found a fraternity 
 pin that some student had lost and he posted a notice 
 on the bulletin board near the door explaining 
 where it could be reclaimed. He forgot nothing, 
 neglected nothing. There was a faint odour of 
 escaping gas and he went through the long labora- 
 tory cock by cock until the leak was discovered and 
 the error of a careless student remedied. Last of 
 all he wrote a note, a methodically brief note ex- 
 plaining his absence, and left it on the desk, where 
 Holmes, the professor in charge, would find it di- 
 rectly upon his arrival in the morning. Then and 
 not until then he switched off the lights and re- 
 turned to his place in the back room. 
 
 There remained but one thing to do and, methodi- 
 cally as he had gone to work in the laboratory, he 
 set about collecting his few belongings. When he 
 had come they had been packed in the battered old 
 cloth telescope. By it likewise they were to leave. 
 From a packing case which he had converted into 
 a chest and which still bore the warning "Glass 
 with care" he produced his pitifully slender ward- 
 robe and packed it first. From the shelf beneath 
 the lavatory in the corner he selected the toilet 
 articles which were his own. Books he had a few.
 
 312 The Quest Eternal 
 
 a very few, for he had had access to the department 
 library, and they followed; each carefully wrapped 
 in an old newspaper. Last of all he produced a 
 key and from a locked drawer in the table took out 
 several articles therein contained: a bunch of letters 
 tied together with a string, a piece of dotted mus- 
 lin, and a tintype photograph. With the key still 
 in the lock he thrust the drawer back into its place. 
 The letters, no need to tell from whom, he put un- 
 opened into the grip. After a moment the scrap 
 of muslin (a sample of the first dress Peg had 
 bought after she left and of whose fashion, though 
 the original he had never seen, the description was 
 still in mind) followed. Over the tintype, taken 
 by an itinerant photographer at the expense of a 
 day's labour upon a neighbour's farm, he lingered ; 
 then it, too, found a resting place in an old wallet 
 which he took from the breast pocket of his coat. 
 When that was done the packing was complete and 
 the lid of the telescope was strapped into place. 
 On the wall hung an old clock, a discard from the 
 big lecture amphitheatre, which he had patched up 
 so it would run; and now for the first time he 
 glanced thereat. It was only 7.15, earlier appar- 
 ently than he had anticipated, for he glanced a sec- 
 ond time to make sure that the pendulum swung; 
 then, satisfied, he turned away. It was correct 
 doubtless ; and his train did not leave until ten. He 
 could walk to the station in twenty minutes. There
 
 Where Ends the Quest 313 
 
 were still two hours to wait, two hours and 
 over. 
 
 Answering the suggestion, the certainty of vacant 
 time that must be filled, his eyes searched the room 
 for a solution. On a shelf beside the line of micro- 
 scopes were a row of battered reference books 
 awaiting rebinding; and, limping over, he studied 
 their titles, volume by volume. One and all they 
 were medical books: anatomies and physiologies 
 and pathologies and therapeutics. Instinctively as 
 he looked, a smile, grim as fate itself, formed about 
 his eyes. Medical books for him to read now! 
 The irony was fine. What further use had he for 
 their lore, would he ever have ! As suddenly as it 
 had formed the smile passed. Following, the face 
 went blank, inscrutable; and, without another 
 glance, without touching a volume, he returned to 
 the seat under the single gas jet and sat down un- 
 aided to wait. 
 
 It was 7.30 by the big clock in the court-house 
 tower when a young woman came hastily out of the 
 side exit of the Hotel Ridgeway. She was unat- 
 tended, almost unobserved. A long coat of some 
 dark stuff concealed her gown; intentionally it 
 would seem from the way she gathered its folds in 
 front. Its high, upturned collar partially hid her 
 face; again intentionally it would seem, for her chin
 
 314 The Quest Eternal 
 
 was well sunk in its folds. A cab was waiting at the 
 curb, and without a glance to either side she made 
 her way swiftly toward it. The sidewalk was dirty 
 and as she reached it instinct predominated, and in- 
 voluntarily the long coat and the gown beneath 
 were lifted clear of its surface. Simultaneously 
 there appeared distinct against the dark background 
 two telltale dots that were white kid slippers. She 
 stepped inside. 
 
 "The university, medical building," she directed. 
 
 The driver hesitated with his hand on the door. 
 
 "Beg pardon, miss," his free hand touched his cap, 
 "but the place is empty nights now. The session's 
 over." 
 
 "Thank you." The tone was all comprehending, 
 all final. "You'll drive me there, please, neverthe- 
 less." 
 
 The door closed this time, the same hand instinc- 
 tively making its gesture of respect, and a moment 
 later the vehicle went rumbling over the downtown 
 cobblestones. 
 
 Within, the girl leaned back until her face was in 
 shadow and gazed out on the lighted show windows 
 on either side. At first, on the crowded main street, 
 progress was slow and she shifted in her place 
 restlessly, unconsciously as one who is accustomed 
 to utilising seconds. At the corner a partially filled 
 street car passed, and at the noisy clang of the gong 
 she started involuntarily in a nervous tension that
 
 Where Ends the Quest 315 
 
 was unwonted. A block farther, again on the cor- 
 ner, the brilliantly lighted entrance of a building 
 sprang into view, the multiple globes of an electric 
 sign spelling the single word "Theatre" ; and, early 
 though it was, as they swung by she caught the 
 glimpse of a steady stream of humanity flowing 
 along the sidewalk and in at the open door. In- 
 voluntarily, again at the sight her hand went to her 
 throat, fumbled with a clasp and, an instant later, 
 as the lapels of the coat opened a flash of white 
 beneath came to view. 
 
 On they went, faster now, for the congested area 
 was past, the lighted shop fronts less frequent ; but 
 even yet the girl could not be still. Though the 
 team was trotting steadily it seemed to her they 
 barely crawled and she caught herself from calling 
 an order to hurry. Of a sudden, too, the carriage 
 with its closed windows seemed unbearably close 
 and stifling and a gloved hand, white likewise, 
 struggled with a window at the side until it opened 
 and a stream of cool damp spring air drifted 
 within. 
 
 Before the university campus, at the broad flag- 
 stone walk leading to the medical building, the cab 
 drew up with a jolt. Silently this time the driver 
 opened the door, silently stood at attention as his 
 fare alighted. But if she felt any uncertainty the 
 girl showed none, "Wait," she directed simply, 
 and the white slippers went pattering through the
 
 316 The Quest Eternal 
 
 steel arch with the blank lamp posts at either side 
 and along the beaten stones. 
 
 From the front, the big building was dark, its 
 great windows reflecting the city's lights like unsee- 
 ing eyes. But she did not pause at the front. As 
 one with a definite purpose, a definite destination, 
 she chose the narrow cement walk leading around 
 the building to the rear, turned the corner and to 
 the watching driver disappeared from view. As 
 she did so there appeared just before her the thing 
 she had expected: a single curtained window with 
 a light behind and a few steps beyond, a door. 
 
 Before the latter for an instant she halted; tense, 
 listening. There was no sound within; save the 
 glow on the shade no indication of life. Like a 
 child facing the unknown a moment she paused so, 
 breathing hard; then without a glance behind her 
 or about, she tapped softly on the oak panel. 
 
 There was no response, not even an echo, and for 
 another second she waited. The long coat had 
 opened again at the throat and with one hand she 
 clasped it tight. With the other she knocked again, 
 more loudly this time, insistently. 
 
 Answering there was a sound, muffled by the heavy 
 door, yet unmistakable: the grating of a chair on 
 the cement floor. Following, just audible, steps 
 sounded, uneven steps, alternately distinct and 
 shuffling, but coming nearer. Then in the lock be- 
 fore her a key turned gratingly, a narrow aperture
 
 Where Ends the Quest 317 
 
 opened in the dark background of the doorway 
 and she was face to face with Bob McLeod. 
 
 For perhaps five seconds they both stood there so, 
 neither moving nor speaking; then without form 
 of invitation, still grasping the coat at the throat, the 
 girl stepped within. Even yet the other did not 
 move and once more without permission she closed 
 the door behind her. 
 
 Following there was a longer silence, one bigger 
 than words could have filled; so big that for these 
 two it compassed the universe. Infinite in its mean- 
 ing, its prophecy, its possibility, it dragged on and 
 on, bridging the wide chasm of their past separa- 
 tion, drawing their divergent lives momentarily 
 nearer and nearer, rendering all things thereafter 
 possible. To have broken it neither considered. 
 That it was dragging into the space of a minute 
 neither realised. With them it encompassed intro- 
 duction, commonplace, conventionality. When it 
 ended at last they were in the midst of things, far, 
 far away from the beginning, the lapse of three 
 years ignored, the old, old problem of life, their life, 
 dominant between them. Into this chaos the girl 
 plunged; not hesitatingly now or uncertainly all 
 that had passed in the space elapsed but instead 
 irresistibly, cumulatively, with a purpose that noth- 
 ing could deviate. 
 
 "Bob McLeod," she said evenly, "I love you." 
 
 Though the testimony had already been given,
 
 31 8 The Quest Eternal 
 
 heralded incontestably in that preceding silence, the 
 man's face whitened as at the unexpected. As at 
 the unexpected he drew back, involuntarily. 
 
 "Peg," he said, and that was all. 
 
 "It was to tell you this, if necessary, that I came 
 back, that I'm here now. You've made it necessary. 
 It's unavoidable. It's fate." 
 
 "Peg!" With an effort the man looked away, 
 desperately, "don't say any more, please. I can't 
 have you. You mustn't, mustn't " 
 
 "Mustn't?" The girl did not stir in her place. 
 "And why not, please? It's true. I've come a 
 thousand miles to tell you so." 
 
 "Nevertheless, you mustn't," McLeod was grop- 
 ing, his mind in chaos, "and I mustn't listen. I be- 
 lieve you, I can't do otherwise; but you must forget 
 it." His narrow shoulders tightened in the old de- 
 fiance against himself, against fate, against all 
 things that were. "You must go now, at once, be- 
 fore you've said any more, before either of us have 
 said any more ; before it's too late. Please go, Peg. 
 I ask it." 
 
 "Go!" Still the girl did not stir. Still her hand 
 grasped the long coat tight at her throat. "And 
 why? Tell me exactly why." 
 
 No answer this time. Words would not come. 
 
 "Is it because you don't care for me, Bob McLeod, 
 because you don't want to listen?" 
 
 Swift to the man's lips sprang words, a lie; then
 
 Where Ends the Quest 319 
 
 they halted unspoken. He could not lie then, and 
 had he done so she would not have believed. 
 
 "You do care for me, you can't deny it. It's not 
 that." 
 
 "No, it's not that, Peg." 
 
 "What it is, then? I'm listening." 
 
 Still silence. Then a cough, a cough the man 
 struggled to avoid. Again silence. 
 
 "Tell me. I ask it." 
 
 "It's useless. You can't know all or you wouldn't 
 be here. You simply can't realize. Don't ask 
 me." 
 
 For the first time the girl moved, came a step for- 
 ward. The hand at her throat loosened and a flame 
 of white stood out beneath her face. 
 
 "You mean that I don't know all about you?" 
 Her eyes met him level and steady. "That I don't 
 realise you're lame for life; that you're leaving the 
 university never to return; that I don't know you're 
 sick? You fancy I don't realise all that, Bob 
 McLeod ? Is that what you mean ?" 
 
 "Yes, that and more." 
 
 "And what more?" swiftly. "That I don't know 
 you'll never be rich or famous? That I don't un- 
 derstand exactly why you're going now, and where? 
 That it's useless to itemise, childish. Do you 
 fancy still I've anything to learn?" 
 
 No answer this time, no move. But somehow the 
 girl understood.
 
 320 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "You mean myself." Still no halt, no avoiding 
 of realities; only the steady drip of questions that 
 tarried not for answers. "Do you fancy, Bob 
 McLeod, fancy I say, that I don't know what my 
 being here means, what it means to be telling you 
 things as I'm telling them now ? Do you fancy for 
 the fraction of a second that if I hadn't thought it 
 all out before, made up my mind in advance unal- 
 terably, I'd be doing what I'm doing now ? Do you 
 believe, you a man, that I'm still the little girl you 
 knew ten years ago? Do you believe this?" 
 
 "No, but " 
 
 "There is no but," tensely. "I tell you I've de- 
 cided with my eyes open. With my eyes open 
 I've come back; and returned to stay. I've played 
 the game they call success, played it with your help, 
 though I didn't realise it at first, and to the end. I 
 know the taste of it, the bitter and the sweet. I've 
 learned its alphabet from A to Z. No one can tell 
 me more about it. I've known it myself, felt it my- 
 self. And still I've come back, Bob McLeod 
 with my eyes open. I'm leaving the old life to- 
 night, as you're leaving the university, forever. Do 
 you know why I'm leaving it, man, Scotchman, do 
 you know that?" 
 
 She paused at last for a response ; but no response 
 came. She had expected none. 
 
 "I'll tell you why, then," she answered herself. 
 "It's because I've learned something more that I
 
 Where Ends the Quest 321 
 
 haven't told ; learned it in the school that makes no 
 mistakes. Maybe if I'd been a man I'd never have 
 learned, I don't know nor care, for I'm not a man. 
 I've learned this: that a woman must have one 
 thing in life, must ; and one alone. No matter what 
 else she has, no matter how many other things, this 
 one necessity is imperative. Without it all else is 
 empty, worthless ; and that one thing, Bob McLeod, 
 is love. I'm made that way, we're all made that 
 way. It's Nature's law, unalterable. It alone is 
 happiness. That's what I learned and that's why I 
 came back. In comparison with this one thing 
 failure, obscurity, poverty even, means nothing. 
 It's the one end of life, the single thing worth 
 while." The voice lowered, for it was the final 
 word she was speaking, the ultimatum. "In my 
 case the need is you, Bob McLeod, you and no 
 other. It's for you and none other that I'm giving 
 up everything now, that I've given up everything 
 already. For you, man, Scotchman, you and be- 
 cause I love you !" 
 
 Upon the tiny cluttered room fell silence. Her 
 message spoken, her defence, her challenge, the 
 girl waited. Opposite her, in the place from which 
 through it all he had not stirred, the man likewise 
 waited, and for what he knew not. Twice before 
 in their tangled lives there had been climaxes such 
 as this, turning points of future; and he had not 
 hesitated. Twice he had seen his way clear before
 
 322 The Quest Eternal 
 
 him, the one straight and narrow path for him to 
 tread. But this time the way was not clear. He 
 had not planned a miracle ; and now, before his eyes, 
 a miracle had taken place. Occurring, it opened a 
 breach in his philosophy, his wall of defence and of 
 offence; and swift into the aperture sprang the 
 enemy three: desire, selfishness, love. On they 
 came, one and all, gathering power moment by mo- 
 ment; and of a sudden his old strength to battle 
 with them was gone. Something, was it the miracle, 
 had stolen his old weapon of self-denial away from 
 him. He had nothing to fight them with, nothing ; 
 and they were pressing him close. He looked at the 
 girl before him, the girl that meant happiness, ob- 
 livion of failure, all that life held and the enemy 
 pressed closer and closer. Again it was the miracle 
 personified. So short a time ago, a half hour, and 
 she was as far separate as the ends of the earth; and 
 now now she was there, almost within arm's 
 reach and waiting. He passed his hand over his 
 face and it came away damp ; damp as when he was 
 labouring under a summer sun. He tried to think; 
 but he could not think. A hunger was upon him, a 
 hunger that obliterated every other sensation, a 
 hunger for her. And still he would not, could not, 
 give the thing she asked, that he wanted so much 
 to give. Every instinct bade him do so; but he 
 could not yet. Another cord, invisible, intangible, 
 strongest of all, held him back. Seemingly con-
 
 Where Ends the Quest 323 
 
 vinced he was yet not convinced. That she cared he 
 could not longer doubt. That she had demon- 
 strated. That she knew all she had likewise 
 proven, proven incontestably. And still the cord 
 invisible held him back; the something not yet re- 
 vealed, still in doubt. Again groping, tortured, he 
 passed his hand across his face and that second 
 he knew for that second something happened. 
 
 In the brief drama of passion and of events that 
 had filled the past few minutes so full both had 
 forgotten time. That there was still a part on the 
 big stage without for one of them to play, an in- 
 sistent part, they had been temporarily uncon- 
 scious. Their own tiny drama had been too absorb- 
 ing, too dominant. Now, interrupting, came the 
 call of the prompter, the cue. From their very 
 midst, the wall back of them, it came, as relentless 
 as fate, as implacable : the methodical alarm of the 
 old clock that announced the hour of eight. 
 
 Answering, dominated by the same thought, the 
 same remembrance, they both started. Responsive 
 their eyes met; and in a flash of realisation the man 
 knew the thing that held him back. For the girl 
 was not yet free ; not yet. The old life, the old am- 
 bition, at whose altar they had both worshipped, 
 still claimed her. She had thought she was free; 
 but was she ? Could she ever be free, even though 
 she wished ? Could she ? Unspoken, the question 
 flashed between them. Unspoken the moment of
 
 324 The Quest Eternal 
 
 its birth gathered into the past. Then came tardy 
 action. 
 
 "You mustn't stay any longer, Peg," said the man 
 gently, infinitely gently. Behind his back his locked 
 hands clasped, until the fingers dug into the palms ; 
 but his voice gave no sign. "The world, your 
 world is waiting for you, calling. You must go, 
 Peg." 
 
 "Go!" It was the flame at last, the flame that 
 had played for long just beneath the surface. "Go !" 
 Like those of the man her own hands locked tight; 
 but before her where all the world might see if it 
 wished. "Do you imagine I didn't think of this, 
 allow for it? I'll go, but you go with me, Bob 
 McLeod. You've never yet heard me sing in pub- 
 lic; and it's the last time I'll ever appear, your only 
 chance. You'll go with me, I say." 
 
 "No, Peg," said the man. 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Very well, you miss your chance then." With 
 one motion her locked hands opened, simultane- 
 ously loosening the buttons beneath. With another 
 she snatched off the long enveloping coat and tossed 
 it beside the battered telescope. "Can't you under- 
 stand, man, Scotchman, that I'm in dead earnest. 
 I tell you I'll not go near that opera house to-night 
 unless you go with me ; and leave with me. They, 
 the world you call them, can starve in their seats
 
 Where Ends the Quest 325 
 
 before I go. I love you, I say, and nothing can 
 separate us now, not even you. It's life we're liv- 
 ing, Bob McLeod; not some one else's lives but our 
 own." She paused a moment, throbbingly tense, 
 throbbingly vital, and though he had never seen her 
 so, though now he would never so see her, Bob 
 McLeod, the spectator, the worshipper, knew how 
 she had looked in grand opera when she had played 
 the part and at the close the audience had gone wild. 
 All in white, gowned to a detail for the night's ap- 
 pearance, she was unconsciously repeating those 
 former moments; only infinitely more convincingly 
 now, more vitally human, for it was all real, and 
 the passion she was reflecting her own. A moment 
 she paused so, then she crossed to the nearest chair, 
 swung it facing and sat down. "I'm waiting until 
 you are ready, until you're convinced, doubter," she 
 voiced, "waiting." 
 
 "Peg!" It was the crushing straw, the snapping 
 of the final thread of uncertainty. "Peg Stanton 1" 
 The last fragments of the man's philosophy, his 
 reserve, his self-denial, were tumbling about his 
 head. "My Peg! You mean it, you would do this 
 thing for me?" He was coming forward, limping 
 but unconscious of the fact; coming as the iron re- 
 sponds to the magnet, irresistibly as the streamlet 
 follows the law of gravitation to the sea. "You 
 love me so much, you ?" 
 
 The girl did not stir in her place, only waited.
 
 326 The Quest Eternal 
 
 "Yes, Bob." 
 
 "And you'll never regret what you've done, 
 never?" 
 
 "Never, as God hears me, never." 
 
 A moment before her the man halted; worship- 
 ping, scarce believing, the unsatisfied hunger of a 
 lifetime of loneliness and self-repression blazing 
 from his eyes. A second longer he remained so, 
 feasting his fill. Then in sudden abandon he 
 stooped over and, wordless, caught her into his 
 arms, lifted her up, up to him. While in the 
 downtown opera house the great gathered audience 
 waited, he kissed her, for the first time in his life 
 since they were children, passionately, hungrily as 
 though he could not get his fill ; but at last without 
 a doubt of right in his soul. For that moment the 
 quest for him, his eternal quest, had ended. 
 
 THE END
 
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 PUR.T'5 SERIES of STANDARD FICTION, 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers In the 
 Ohio Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth. I2mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson 
 Davis. Price, $i .00. 
 
 A book rather out of the ordinary Is this "Spirit of the Border." The 
 main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian mis- 
 slonartes In the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given details of the 
 frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the wilderness for the plant- 
 Ing of this great nation. Chief among these, as a matter of course, is 
 Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and at the same time the most 
 admirable of all the brave men who spent their lives battling with the 
 savage foe, that others might dwell in comparative security. 
 
 Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian "Village 
 of Peace" are given at some length, and with minute description. The 
 efforts to Christianize the Indian* are described as they never have been 
 before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders of the 
 several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be of Interest to 
 the student. 
 
 By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivfd word* 
 pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings of the beau- 
 ties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests. 
 
 It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by It, 
 perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly braved 
 every privation and danger that the westward progress of the star of em- 
 pire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story, simple and tender, 
 runs through the book. 
 
 CAPTAIN BRAND, OF '*HE SCHOONER C2NTIPEDE. By Ileut. 
 Henry A. Wise, U. S. N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12010. with four illustra- 
 tions by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00. 
 
 The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns 
 who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come through 
 the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea and those 
 "who go down in ships" been written by one more familiar with the scenes 
 depicted. 
 
 The one book of this gifted author which Is best remembered, and which 
 will be read with pleasure for many years to come, Is "Captain Brand," 
 who, as the author states on his title page, was a "pirate of eminence in 
 the West Indies." As a sea story pure and simple, "Captain Brand" has 
 never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told without the usual 
 embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no equal. 
 
 NICK OF THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By 
 Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, I2mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson 
 Davis. Price, $1.00. 
 
 This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life In 
 Kentucky was originally published In the year 1837. The novel, long out of 
 print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic presentation of 
 Indian and frontier life in the early days of settlement In the South, nar- 
 rated in the tale with all the art of a practiced writer. A wry charming 
 love romance runs through the story. This new and tasteful edition of 
 "Nick of the Woods" will be certain to make many new admirers for 
 this enchanting story frum Dr. Bird's clever and versatile pen. 
 
 GUY FAWKES. A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harri- 
 son Ainsworth. Cloth, I2mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. 
 Price, $1.00. 
 
 The "Gunpowder Plot" was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, 
 the King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, 
 was weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of 
 extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In 
 their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits con- 
 eluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were arrested, 
 ftnd the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other prisoners with 
 royal vigor. A very intense lovti/eterx cuo* Ibrough the entire romance
 
 BURT'S SERIES ef STANDARD FICTION. 
 
 TICONDEROG A : A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. 
 By G. P. R. James. Cloth, lamo. with four page illustrations by J. Watson 
 Davis. Price, Ji.oo. 
 
 The setting of the story Is decidedly more picturesque than any ever 
 evolved by Cooper: The frontier of New York State, where dwelt an English 
 gentleman, driven from his native home hy grief over the loss of his wife, 
 with a son and daughter. Thither, brought by the exigencies of war, comes 
 an English officer, who is readily recognized as that Lord Howe who met his 
 death at Ticonderoga. As a most natural sequence, even amid the hostile 
 demonstrations of both French and Indians, Lord Howe and the young girl 
 find time to make most dellclously sweet love, and the son of tbe recluse has 
 already lost his heart to the daughter of a great sachem, a dusky maiden 
 whose warrior-father has surrounded her with all the comforts of a civilized 
 life. 
 
 The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to sacrifice hla 
 own life in order to save tbe son of the Englishman, is not among tbe least 
 of the attractions of this story, which holds the attention of the reader even 
 to the last page. The tribal laws and folk lore of the different tribes of 
 Indians known as the "Five Nations," with which the story is interspersed, 
 shows that the author gave no small amount of study to the work In question, 
 and nowhere else is It shown more plainly than by the skilful manner in 
 which he has interwoven with his plot the "blood" law, which demands a 
 life for a life, whether it be that of the murderer or one of his race. 
 
 A more charming story of mingled love and adventure has never been 
 written than "Ticonderoga." 
 
 ROB OP THE BOWL : A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By John 
 P. Kennedy. Cloth, xztno. with four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis; 
 Price, Ji.oo. 
 
 It was while he was a member of Congress from Maryland that the 
 noted statesman wrote this story regarding the early history of his native 
 State, and while some critics are inclined to consider "Horse Shoe Robinson" 
 as tbe best of his works, it is certain that "Rob of the Bowl" stands at the 
 head of the list as a literary production and an authentic exposition of the 
 manners and customs during Lord Baltimore's rule. The greater portion o 
 the action takes place in St. Mary's the original capital of the State. 
 
 As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, "Rob of the 
 Bowl" has no equal, and the book, having been written by one who had 
 exceptional facilities for gathering material concerning the individual mem- 
 bers of tbe settlements In and about St. Mary's, is a most valuable addition 
 to the history of the State. 
 
 The story Is full of splendid action, with a charming love story, and a 
 plot teat never loosens the grip of its interest to Its last page. 
 
 'BY BERWEN BANKS. By Allen Raine. 
 
 It Is a tender and beautiful romance of the Idyllic. A charming picture 
 of life In a Welsh seaside village. It is something of a prose-poem, true. 
 tender and graceful. 
 
 IN DEFIANCE OF THE KINO. A romance of the American Revolution. 
 By Chauncey C, Hotchkiss. Cloth, I2mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson 
 Davis. Price, Ji.oo. 
 
 The story opens In the month of April, 1775, with the provincial troops 
 hurrying to the defense of Lexington and Concord. Mr. Hotchkiss has etched 
 In burning words a story of Yankee bravery and true love that thrills from 
 beginning to end with the spirit of the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, 
 nd we feel ourselves taking a part In the exciting scenes described. Yon 
 lay the book aside with the feeling that you have seen a gloriously true 
 picture Of the Revolution. Ills whole story i> so absorbing that you will sit 
 op tei Into the night to finish it. As a love wmange it is charming.
 
 SERIES Qf STANDARD F1CTIOM. 
 
 DARNLEY . A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. 
 By G. P. R. James. Cloth, izmo. with four illustrations bj J. Watson Da via., 
 Price, Ji.oo. 
 
 As a historical romance "Darnley" is a book that can be taken up 
 pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm whicl| 
 those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have claimed wa 
 only to be imparted by Dumas. 
 
 If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial attention, 
 the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic "field of the cloth of 
 gold" would entitle the story to the most favorable consideration of every 
 reader. 
 
 There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author has 
 taken care to Imagine love passages only between those whom history has 
 credited with having entertained the tender passion one for another, and 
 he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world must Jove. 
 
 WINDSOR CASTLE. A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII 
 Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth. 
 I2mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price $1.00. 
 
 "Windsor Castle" is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne 
 Boleyn. "Bluff King Hal," although a well-loved monarch, was none too 
 good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable acts, 
 none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and his mar- 
 riage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King's love was as brief as It 
 was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen, attracted him, 
 and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room for her successor. 
 This romance is one of extreme interest to all readers. 
 
 HORSESHOE ROBINSON. A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Caro- 
 lina in 1780. By John P. Kennedy Cloth, lamo. with four illustrations by J. 
 Watson Davis. Price, $1.00. 
 
 Among the old favorites in the .'.eld of what Is known as historical flc 
 tion, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans than 
 Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which depicts 
 with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists in South Caro- 
 lina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression of the British 
 under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton. 
 
 The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread 
 of the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning those 
 times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is never over- 
 drawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared neither 
 time nor labor In his efforts to present in this charming love story all that 
 price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as their share In the 
 winning of the republic. 
 
 Take it all in all, "Horseshoe Robinson" is a work which should be 
 found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining 
 etory, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning the 
 colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once more, well 
 Illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to thousands who have 
 long desired an opportunity to read the story again, and to the many who 
 have tried vainly in these latter days to procure a copy that they might 
 read it for the first time. 
 
 THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND. A story of the Coast of Maine. By 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe. Cloth, I2tno. Illustrated. Price, $1.00. 
 
 Written prior to 1862, the "Pearl of Orr's Island" is ever new; a book 
 filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew each 
 time one reads them. One sees the "sea like an unbroken mirror all 
 around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr's Island," and straightway 
 comes "the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach, like the wild 
 angry howl of some savage animal." 
 
 Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which 
 ,xne Into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel's wings, 
 witnoin having an intense desire to know how the premature bud blos- 
 somed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the char- 
 ter of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid th 
 angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother's breast. 
 
 There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that 
 Mrs. Stowe gives in "The Pearl of GIT'S Island."
 
 BURT'S SERIES of STANDARD FICTION. 
 
 RICHELIEU. A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P, 
 R. James. Cloth, I2mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, Ji.oo 
 
 In 1S?9 Mr. James published his first romance, "Richelieu," and was 
 recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft. 
 
 In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great car- 
 dinal's life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it was 
 yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic outbursts which 
 overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost wav< of prosperity. 
 One of the most striking portions of the story Is that of Cinq Mar's conspir- 
 acy; the method of conducting criminal cases, and the political trickery 
 resorted to by royal favorites, affording a better Insight into the state- 
 craft of that day than can be had even by an exhaustive study of history. 
 It is a powerful romance of love and diplomacy, and In point of thrilling 
 and absorbing- interest has never been excelled. 
 
 A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE. A story of American Colonial Times. By 
 Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, izmo. with four illustrations by J. Watson 
 Davis. Price, $1.00. 
 
 A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary 
 scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true 
 American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter, until 
 the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love story is a 
 Singularly charming idyl. 
 
 THE TOWER OF LONDON. A Historical Romance of the rimes of Lady 
 Jane Grey and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, xzmo. with 
 four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00. 
 
 This romance of the "Tower of London" depicts the Tower as palace, 
 prison and fortress, with many historical associations. The era Is the 
 middle of the sixteenth century. 
 
 The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey, 
 and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable char- 
 acters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the reader 
 In the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably over a 
 half a century. 
 
 IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A Romance of the American Revolution. 
 By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, izmo. with four illustrations by J. Watson 
 Davis. Price, $1.00. 
 
 Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery, 
 and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of the 
 Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a 
 part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so absorbing 
 that you will sit up far Into the night to finish it. As a love romance 
 it is charming. 
 
 GARTHOWEN. A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine, Cloth, 
 izmo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00. 
 
 "This is a little Idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid Dare before 
 us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some strong points of 
 Welsh character the pride, the hasty temper, the quick dying out of wrath. 
 . . . We call this a well-written story, interesting alike through its 
 romance and its glimpses into another life than ours. A delightful and 
 clever picture of Welsh village life. The result is excellent." Detroit Free 
 Press. 
 
 MIFANWY. The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. doth, 
 jzmo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00. 
 
 "This Is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to 
 read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it is ap- 
 parent at once, are as true to life as though the author had known them 
 all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story Is worked up in that 
 touching and quaint strain which never grows wearisome, BO matter how 
 often the lights and shadows of love are Introduced. It rings true, and 
 does not tax the Imagination," Boston Herald.
 
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