THE HONOR OF 
 HIS HOUSE 
 
 BY 
 
 ANDREW SOUTAR; 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 ENTERED FOR COPYRIGHT, FEBROART ti; 1915 
 
 UNDER THE TITLE OF 
 
 CHARITY CORNER 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 UNDER THE TITLE OF 
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 
 CHAPTER PAG* 
 
 I. THE HOPE OF THE FAMILY ..... 5 
 
 II. THE MACWHINNIE STRAIN ..... 14 
 
 III. THE MEETING WITH MARGARET DRENDER ... 22 
 
 IV. "A E FOND Kiss" ....... 30 
 
 V. MRS. MACWHINNIE WRITES A LETTER ... 35 
 
 VI. MILLSTONES ........ 42 
 
 VII. CHARITY CORNER ....... 54 
 
 VIII. THE WAY BACK ....... 61 
 
 IX. MASTER AND MAN ....... 74 
 
 X. TEARS BEHIND THE SMILES ..... 84 
 
 XI. TEMPERAMENT ........ 92 
 
 XII. PAINTED HOURS ........ 103 
 
 XIII. AT THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND JOYS . . .116 
 
 XIV. A SERMON ON THE VERANDA ..... 126 
 XV. UNDEFINED HOPES ....... 136 
 
 XVI. GOD'S PLEASURE ........ 143 
 
 XVII. THE BURDEN-BEARER ....... 146 
 
 XVIII. A TEST AND A DISAPPOINTMENT .... 150 
 
 XIX. SANCTUARY ........ 159 
 
 PART II 
 
 I. THE PILLAR OF THE HOUSE ..... 167 
 
 IL "MACWHINNIE BROTHERS" ..... 185 
 18
 
 4 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 III. SYMPATHY 199 
 
 IV. WEAK LINKS 204 
 
 V. THE TOUCH OF A CHILD 213 
 
 VI. SISTER MARGARET 225 
 
 VII. THE DIVIDED HOUSE 230 
 
 VIII. AT "JARROWSIDE" 244 
 
 IX. THE WEAKER SEX 254 
 
 X. THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 260 
 
 XI. WHERE DUTY ENDS 280 
 
 XII. A NIGHT OF CONFIDENCES 292 
 
 XIII. DICK MORROW'S GOOD-BY 310 
 
 XIV. OUT OF BONDAGE 316 
 
 XV. THE PRODIGAL BROTHERS 326 
 
 XVL TO-MOBROW 333
 
 THE HONOR OF 
 HIS HOUSE 
 
 PART ONE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE HOPE OF THE FAMILY 
 
 IN the first place, I plead for the woman in this 
 story the woman who erred. She was just an 
 ordinary woman, without much time for leisure 
 or cultivation; but there was a desire for develop- 
 ment. She had ideals, as all women have, no matter 
 what their station in life, but her ideals were not clear- 
 ly definable; she was ambitious without having any 
 avowed objective. Her greatest need was sympathy. 
 The craving for sympathy overwhelmed her ; the long- 
 ing for sanctuary from what she believed to be the op- 
 pressive was too insistent to give the more rational 
 faculties an opportunity to exert themselves and save 
 her. The sanctuary she sought has been found by 
 thousands of misunderstood women and the world is 
 full of that class ; but in her case there was Interposi- 
 tion the sanctuary was denied. 
 
 In the second place, I plead in behalf of the man, 
 
 5
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 whose line of conduct may meet with the criticism, if 
 not the stern disapproval, of many. He is not ad- 
 vanced as a martyr, as a Quixote, as a Galahad, or 
 anything very ethereal ; it is not suggested that he was 
 so broad-minded that all the rest of the world was 
 cramped and crushed by comparison. But if it is to be 
 argued that his line of action was irrational, it can- 
 not be advanced that it was pseudo-heroic. 
 
 Among my notes on the character of Robert Mac- 
 Whinnie, the man on whom the burden of the woman 
 fell, I find that I have written this : 
 
 "To die for another is not the sublimest form of 
 self-sacrifice : the giving up of breath is not all that is 
 implied in that most beautiful expression of Christian 
 thought 'Greater love hath no man than this, that he 
 lay down his life for his friends.' ' 
 
 There may be circumstances, as in the case of 
 Robert MacWhinnie, whose life story is here set forth, 
 when to go on living for others requires greater cour- 
 age than to die for them. Perhaps the Reward is 
 greater. 
 
 As I write, I have before me a mind-picture of 
 Robert MacWhinnie as I knew him. He was the 
 kind of man to whom one looks, intuitively, to bear 
 the burdens of other people strong-featured and yet 
 wondrously tender in expression; almost before he 
 reached his twenties his temples were grayed; the 
 eyes showed the insatiable ambition of the man; the 
 inexpressible softness of the voice was evidence of 
 the absence of ambition's usual concomitant prag- 
 matism. Nature had endowed him with great physical 
 strength, else he might never have achieved the prodi-
 
 THE HOPE OF THE FAMILY 
 
 gious tasks to which he set his hand. When he was a 
 boy his hair was deep brown in color, somewhat thin, 
 always untidy ; in manhood his face was kept smooth, 
 so that the strong lines of the mouth were probably 
 accentuated. Had there been any pronounced weak- 
 ness in his character, he would never have survived 
 the prejudices in his favor as a boy, for always he was 
 hailed as the clever one of the family, the one on 
 whom the hopes of the MacWhinnies were based. 
 The family came to lean on him. 
 
 The MacWhinnies Donald and his wife and five 
 children came south from the banks of the Clyde 
 when the youngest member of the family was four 
 years of age. They came down the North Sea in a 
 cargo-boat, that being the cheapest form of travel, and 
 when they disembarked at Rotherhithe the wealth of 
 Donald MacWhinnie was twenty pounds in gold, and 
 the most cherished of his prejudices a deep-seated con- 
 tempt for the Sassenach. The MacWhinnies were 
 friendless when they arrived; they came without let- 
 ters of recommendation without the backing of suf- 
 ficient influence to gain the father a private interview 
 with the meanest foreman of the meanest ironworks 
 on the Thames; they came without any prospect of 
 doing better than in Ballyhoustie, where, at least, they 
 had the sympathy of accent. The natural question is : 
 Why did the MacWhinnies, having no prospects, come 
 to England ? And the only reply is another question : 
 Why do Scotsmen leave their native country? 
 
 The cargo-boat reached the Thames an hour before 
 daybreak, and such was the amazing industry of 
 Donald MacWhinnie and his wife that before night-
 
 8 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 fall the family was occupying half a furnished house 
 in Rotherhithe. They might have been comfortably 
 installed by midday, but for the innate caution of 
 Donald and an unfortunate sixpence which the land- 
 lord of the house insisted on having as part of the 
 rent, and which Donald insisted on denouncing as ex- 
 tortionate. At five o'clock the following morning 
 Jean, the second child and only daughter, brewed a 
 pot of tea for her father by holding a can of water 
 over a gas-jet. The little man Donald was very 
 short of stature watched the girl with admiring eyes 
 as she moved briskly about the "foreign hoose," as 
 she called it. 
 
 "Jean, ma bonnie lass," he said to her, as he laced 
 his boots, "dinna let y'r mither worrit; and if th' lad- 
 dies at the door should ca' ye 'Scotty/ tak' nae heed." 
 
 Jean was thirteen years of age; she could look 
 twenty on occasions, and this was one of them. 
 
 "They'll no ca' me 'Scotty' twice, faither. . . . 
 When'llyebeback?" 
 
 "Six to-night, as like as not." 
 
 "The man!" Jean fetched a deep sigh of well- 
 feigned wonder. "Ye talk as though ye had the 
 wor-r-k to gae tae." 
 
 "I didna lam ma trade on the Clyde for naethin'." 
 He stamped his toes well into his boots and braced 
 his shoulders with a flourish. Jean watched him 
 closely. 
 
 "Ye' re awf'y conceited, faither." 
 
 "Hae I nowt tae be conceited aboot, Jean?" he 
 asked. "Did ye ever know y'r faither beaten?"
 
 THE HOPE OF THE FAMILY 
 
 Jean brushed the wisps of brown hair from the cor- 
 ners of her eyes, and raised her face to be kissed. 
 
 At six-thirty Donald MacWhinnie was leaning 
 against the jamb of an engine-room door. His small 
 eyes, looking from under a bush of eyebrows, were 
 twinkling contemptuously; the short, stubby beard 
 seemed to enjoy the caress of the fingers. Inside, half 
 a dozen engineers were cursing the stubbornness of a 
 silent donkey-engine. The foreman turned a grease- 
 splashed face in Donald's direction, and was obvi- 
 ously grateful for the timely appearance of something 
 on which he could expend a little of the pent-up fury 
 with which he was consumed. Donald merely smiled 
 at the flow of invective; he didn't budge. 
 
 "It's an engineer ye want," said Donald, infusing 
 reproach into his voice. "An' I'm looking for a job." 
 
 The foreman cast some bitter aspersions on the 
 land and race to which Donald belonged, and, having 
 done what he believed to be his duty in that direction, 
 inquired of the little man if he knew anything about 
 donkey-engines. 
 
 "I've built them," said Donald "hundreds of 
 them." 
 
 "Take your coat off," said the foreman by way of 
 invitation. 
 
 Donald removed his coat and approached the sullen 
 engine. 
 
 "I served ma trade on the Clyde," he said proudly; 
 then, surveying those standing around : "Wull ye get 
 rid o' yer friends here and let me have a couple o' 
 laborers ?" 
 
 Within half an hour the engine was running freely,
 
 10 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 and Donald MacWhinnie was standing at a lathe in 
 the ironworks of Drender, Masters and Co. He re- 
 mained a servant of the company until those with 
 whom he had labored on the Clyde were mere mem- 
 ories. He never attained greater prominence in the 
 eyes of his masters than "the man who stepped in at 
 the right moment to correct the faults of half a dozen 
 engineers" ; he derived no greater joy from the record 
 of personal achievement than the thrill which came, 
 even in his declining years, of the reminiscent : "Did 
 ye ever hear o' the first day I cam' to Drender's, an' 
 th' donkey-engine that ..." But he brought up his 
 family step by step, and the romance or tragedy 
 that was destined to weave its way through the history 
 of the MacWhinnies did not owe its inception to any 
 recognized flaw in the code by which he governed 
 and was governed. 
 
 The early days were hard to fight through, and, 
 to be generous, one may ascribe the narrowness of 
 outlook, the smallness of the point of view, the the 
 selfishness of later days, to those early struggles. Cer- 
 tainly, Mrs. MacWhinnie never forgot what she had 
 been through; never not even when affluence be- 
 came the portion of the family through the genius 
 of Robert, the second son would she consent to live 
 in the present ; the memories of hoarding and scraping 
 when the children were young refused to be eradicated 
 by the knowledge of acquired wealth and the dis- 
 position to hoard and scrape and keep at bay those 
 who, she argued, would not have "spiered" her in the 
 beginning, clung to her to the very end. Donald, the 
 father, was more philosophic, and although he would
 
 THE HOPE OF THE FAMILY 11 
 
 never abate his claim to having inspired the genius of 
 Robert, he was content to take what the genius of 
 Robert brought him, and thank God for it. 
 
 It was in accordance with tradition that the hopes 
 of the Mac Whinnies came to be reposed in Robert. 
 The head of the house having established himself in 
 the firm of Drender, Masters and Co., his boys fol- 
 lowed into the works as a natural sequence. Thomas, 
 the eldest son, a moody, unsociable fellow, with a 
 fondness for trying to understand literature that was 
 not rightly understood by those who wrote it, was a 
 fitter's laborer. James, the third son, went into the 
 offices as a clerk; David, the youngest, was a boy 
 about the works, with a promise that one day he should 
 be put on a lathe like his father. Robert MacWhinnie, 
 the second son, attracted the attention of Mr. John 
 Drender from the very first. He summoned the father 
 to his private office. 
 
 "MacWhinnie," he said, "that boy of yours Robert 
 - he's worth looking after." 
 
 The little man nodded in the manner of one who 
 gives thanks for nothing. 
 
 "I ken that weel, Mr. Drender he's a son o' his 
 faither." 
 
 "A remarkably intelligent boy," said the ironmas- 
 ter, ignoring the turning of the phrase. "And if I 
 were you I should give him every encouragement." 
 
 MacWhinnie struck an attitude. 
 
 "His grandfaither my faither laid the keel of the 
 finest boat that ever left the Clyde." 
 
 "He's much too clever to be at the beck and call of
 
 12 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 second-class engineers in the shop, MacWhinnie. You 
 should apprentice him." 
 
 "I'm no an ironmaster." 
 
 "And he should be given an opportunity to attend 
 night-schools, so that he might benefit from the wis- 
 dom of those who are most likely to help him." 
 
 "That costs money, Mr. Drender, and I'm still at 
 the lathe." 
 
 "If you're a true Scot, MacWhinnie, you won't ask 
 the assistance of outsiders to give your boy the chance 
 he deserves." 
 
 Donald inflated his lungs and dared to scowl. 
 
 "It wull be time, when I ask it, sir, to question my 
 nationality." 
 
 "Very well," said Mr. Drender. "Do your best for 
 the boy ; he'll repay you." 
 
 And that night, after the family had retired, Donald 
 MacWhinnie and his wife discussed the future of 
 Robert, the second son. They decided that he should 
 have all the assistance the other members of the family 
 could give him. They were satisfied in their hearts 
 that he would justify the sacrifices to be made in his 
 behalf. It would mean a little more scraping, and the 
 other sons would have to subordinate their ambitions 
 to those of Robert. These two parents approached 
 their subject with the inborn deliberateness that is 
 peculiarly Scottish; they argued and reasoned and 
 asked God's blessing on their decision ; and in the end 
 Mrs. MacWhinnie said, with a sigh that carried her 
 over the intervening distance to her native Bally- 
 houstie : 
 
 "Donald, if it's a' for the best, so be it; but some-
 
 THE HOPE OF THE FAMILY IS 
 
 times I wonder if bairns are the blessin' some wad hae 
 ye believe. Ye gae through the Valley o' the Shadow 
 to bring them into the wor-rld, ye wor-rk and ye slave 
 for them when they're bairns, and when they're 
 growed up they gae awa' the lassie wi' th' first laddie 
 that sets his cap at her, an' th' laddie wi' th' first 
 pair o' blue een that looks at him." 
 
 And Donald stroked the ends of his reddish-gray 
 beard and said: 
 
 "Mebbe, Martha, lass; but wull ye tell me how 
 much has a parent a richt to expect f rae her bairns ?"
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE MACWHINNIE STRAIN 
 
 THE romance of Robert, the second son of Don- 
 ald MacWhinnie, is not the romance of the boy 
 who commences life with every conceivable 
 handicap. Considering the environment of the Mac- 
 Whinnie family, and the tendencies of the age at that 
 time, it may be said, without denying him full credit 
 for all that he achieved, that he started on the long 
 road to greatness with everything in his favor. In 
 the first place, he was a MacWhinnie, and Donald, his 
 father, never lost an opportunity to impress on the 
 young man's mind the incalculableness of that asset. 
 Robert was eighteen years of age when his little 
 father took him aside to speak with pride of the Mac- 
 Whinnies who had gone before. By this time the 
 family was comfortably settled in a comfortably fur- 
 nished home overlooking the river. Like most Scots, 
 Donald had some sense of the dramatic. He knew 
 how to obtain the greatest effect by the subtle arrange- 
 ment of simple episode, and so, in seeking to impress 
 his second son with the importance of the MacWhin- 
 nie line, he commenced with a little word-picture of 
 the scene at Rotherhithe that morning when Robert 
 and his brothers and sister disembarked from the 
 cargo-boat. 
 
 14-
 
 THE MACWHINNIE STRAIN 15 
 
 "Some men," said the little man, resting his hands 
 on his son's shoulders, "would hae been dismayed 
 because there was nae welcome for them. We'd on'y 
 twenty pounds amang us ; but we had brains at least, 
 one of us had. But what was more valuable than 
 onything was the knowledge that, not so many years 
 before, the name of Angus MacWhinnie was always 
 mentioned when a boat crossed the Clyde. It's a gran' 
 thing, Robert, to be able to say to the wor-rld that 
 one o' your forebears did something for it for which 
 the world ought to be etarnally grateful. The fact 
 that Donald MacWhinnie, your faither, is just an engi- 
 neer amang engineers, can't rob ye o' the glory o* 
 being the great-grandson of Angus MacWhinnie, the 
 finest man that ever crossed the Border. It doesna 
 concern me a bit that Angus MacWhinnie's family left 
 nae mair than was requisite to bury them and I 
 dinna suppose it disturbs them noo. They were a 
 gran' family, wi' just one weakness, which those that 
 cam' after endeavored to eradicate from the race. 
 Sometimes I feel awf'y ashamed of that weakness, but 
 the years have softened the blow. Angus MacWhin- 
 nie and his brithers took more money out o' the Clyde 
 than any firm I can think of, and just because of that 
 weakness of theirs they got rid of it. It was always 
 said of the MacWhinnies that in every family there 
 was one fool, one who had no richt to be called a true 
 Scot, one who would gae out o' his way on some mad 
 enterprise to help one who was nae mair than a 
 stranger to him. Blood is thicker than water, Robert. 
 Dinna forget that. And charity begins in y'r ain 
 hame, amang those who hae suffered and worked for
 
 16 
 
 ye. It was Angus MacWhinnie who went back on his 
 breeding, and poured his hard-earned money into the 
 coffers of a meeserable little state away on the Pacific 
 somewhere. I've ne'er ta'en the trouble to find out if 
 the state is on the map, or if they ever thanked Angus 
 MacWhinnie for ignoring the just claims of those who 
 were bound to come after him. It might hae been a 
 gran' thing to do, but it wasna Scottish. Up in my 
 oak locker ye'll find a piece o' parchment, and a medal 
 wi' a couple o' ribbons tied tae it. They represent the 
 gratitude of the little state. That's a' the MacWhin- 
 nies got out o' it. Mind ye, it's something to be proud 
 of to feel that ye might meet a royal personage driv- 
 ing through the streets in all his pomp and vanity, and 
 be able to say, 'If it hadna been for the MacWhinnies 
 ye might be standing at an old-fashioned lathe in an 
 engineer's shop.' Ye'll be going out into the world 
 before long, Robert, an' th' greatness o' th' Mac- 
 Whinnies o' the past should be a spur. When ony- 
 body mentions the Clyde, up ye jump an' say, T'm a 
 MacWhinnie.' There'll be nae need to say vera much 
 about your faither. Remember, too, that we hae erad- 
 icated that weakness of which I spoke a minute ago, 
 and that the MacWhinnies, no matter what their cir- 
 cumstances, are chiels amang men. Be just to yersel' 
 and your family, and ye'll be just to your fellows out- 
 side the house. Sin' Angus MacWhinnie made a fule 
 of himsel' there has been nae record against the name 
 of which ony o' us need be ashamed. Honor is a gran' 
 word, Robert, and 'Honor First' has been the motto of 
 the MacWhinnies frae the time when the first Mac- 
 Whinnie is mentioned in history."
 
 THE MACWHINNIE STRAIN 
 
 Which was a great deal for a man like Donald Mac- 
 [Whinnie to say, but no one could have been more ap- 
 preciative of the opportunity of saying it. 
 
 Then, again, Robert, the hope of the family, had 
 the assistance of his brothers and his sister in prepar- 
 ing for his long journey to greatness. Perhaps the 
 little sacrifices which they were called on to make were 
 impregnated with selfishness. Bluntly Jean must not 
 be included in this, for her love for her brother Robert 
 was very near to idolatry, as was his for her -bluntly, 
 the elder brother, Thomas, and the younger brothers, 
 James and David, contributed to the advancement of 
 Robert in the spirit of those who finance a prodigy 
 in the hope and belief that the investment would show 
 a handsome profit in the end. There was no sus- 
 picion of jealousy in the minds of the other boys. 
 From the first they were ready to admit that Robert 
 had the brains of the family. Even Thomas, the 
 eldest son, showed no resentment at being passed 
 over, and this is all the more remarkable from the 
 fact that he had imbibed the teachings of the acknowl- 
 edged authorities on Socialism. A brooding, sullen 
 fellow was Thomas, who never gave any sign that 
 he would rise above the comparative ignominy of 
 being an unskilled laborer. He was twenty-one when 
 Robert entered upon his eighteenth year. The other 
 boys were aged thirteen and eleven respectively. 
 
 The word "sacrifice" may strike one as being rather 
 strained in the circumstances, because the members 
 of this family had so little to sacrifice. Still, it is 
 only fair to assume that they relinquished any am- 
 bition that they might have had when they combined
 
 18 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 to give Robert the great chance. Again, there were 
 night-school fees to be paid, and in order to attend 
 demonstrations and lectures it was necessary that 
 Robert should be clad a little above his station. It 
 was during these studies that the beautiful love of 
 Jean for her brother was most exemplified. The 
 little girl with wispy brown hair and an accent that 
 reminded one of the sharp edges of a broken flint 
 had developed into a handsome woman of twenty, and 
 the accent had died gradually away until only the 
 faintest burr remained. While there had never been 
 any rupture within the family circle, it was only in 
 Robert that Jean found the sympathy for which she 
 hungered, and the encouraging of his hopes was the 
 swelling of her own. Contrary to the usual condition 
 of things when there is only one girl child in the fam- 
 ily, there was a pitiable lack of understanding be- 
 tween Mrs. MacWhinnie and her daughter. It was 
 in her sons that Mrs. MacWhinnie lived; she seemed 
 unable to forgive Jean for growing up without en- 
 countering the hardships which she herself had been 
 compelled to face. Jean, she appeared to think, had 
 in some degree drifted from the family by reason 
 of her lack of accent and her tendency to appreciate 
 and assimilate English customs. 
 
 In the circumstances, then, the great love that ex- 
 isted between Jean and Robert was not surprising. 
 She was a clever, thoughtful girl. Robert used to 
 say that, had she been a boy, the hopes of the Mac- 
 Whinnies could never have been misplaced. These 
 two studied together or, rather, Robert was never 
 able to concentrate his thoughts on his work unless
 
 THE MACWHINNIE STRAIN 19 
 
 Jean were on the other side of the table. She read to 
 him; she prepared his papers; the pencils were al- 
 ways sharpened by her; pens were never out of place 
 when he needed them. His desk, in the top back 
 room, was a model of preparedness. And his crea- 
 ture comforts, too, were studied by her. Quietly, 
 unostentatiously, she performed for him a thousand 
 and one little functions that made life all the smoother 
 for him. There were many little dishes which only 
 he could appreciate; it was Jean who prepared them. 
 He had many moods, which sometimes came peril- 
 ously near to disturbing the serenity of the house- 
 hold, but Jean always understood them and was ready 
 with an excuse. It was to Jean that Robert outlined 
 his ambitions, and those hours when they sat together 
 in the top back room, one on each side of the table, 
 and he allowed his imagination to carry him far afield 
 they were the happiest hours of Jean's life. 
 
 There was an atmosphere of delightful tranquillity 
 in that top back room, with its gently sloping ceiling 
 and broad roof window that took in sky and river. 
 The furnishing was of the simplest, but the touch of 
 the sympathetic woman was on everything. Jean had 
 a pronounced sense of the artistic, although it was 
 only in Robert's room that she was allowed to exercise 
 it. Always there were flowers, but the colors were 
 never out of harmony with the fixtures; they were 
 part of the tranquillity, as it were. No matter how 
 fatiguing the day had been, Robert found rest in the 
 little room; no matter how disturbed his mind had 
 been by human or other elements, there was always a 
 soothing influence the moment he crossed the threshold
 
 20 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 and came to rest on the ottoman near the window, 
 or the cavernous basket chair at the fireplace. The 
 most even-tempered of men are not without their mo- 
 ments of bitterness when the spirit of retaliation cries 
 insistently for expression; but in the corner near the 
 window, with Jean opposite him, and the low, pathetic 
 calling of the steamers in his ears, the bitterness was 
 forgotten ; her gentle, "Let's be charitable, Rob," soft- 
 ened his thoughts of those who had affronted, and in a 
 little while brother and sister had soared high above 
 the turmoil of the river and the city beyond, and 
 were resting on the silver turrets of their castles in 
 the clouds. When the knots of the engineering 
 problems refused to be undone at the square deal table 
 in the middle of the room, the two closed the books, 
 and stole into the corner "to give the mind a bit 
 rest," as she said coaxingly. It was Jean who chris- 
 tened the alcove "Charity Corner," following that oft- 
 repeated plea of hers, "Let's be charitable," and his 
 cheery response: "Ay, Jean, for there's awf'y little 
 charity in the world outside." 
 
 In the days of sadness that were to come when the 
 burden he had taken on his broad shoulders weighed 
 him down until his heart was nigh to bursting the 
 memory of those hours in "Charity Corner" came like 
 an invisible hand to soothe him in his grief. . . . Her 
 elbows rested on the table, her chin was supported 
 by her hands, her big, encouraging eyes were dwelling 
 lovingly on his face. 
 
 "Jean," he would say, breaking off from his studies 
 to grasp her hand across the table, "it's tough work, 
 but I'll never give in."
 
 THE MACWHINNIE STRAIN 21 
 
 " 'Deed, no, Robert. It's not like you even to talk 
 of giving in." 
 
 "I'm going to win, Jean." 
 
 "Who could doubt it?" 
 
 "And half the credit will be yours. I could never 
 have done what I have if it hadn't been for you." 
 
 "And now you're havering, Robert." 
 
 "It's true, Jean." 
 
 And then that oft-repeated cry of his when, in im- 
 agination, he had completed some stupendous feat of 
 engineering skill that would startle the world : "Jean, 
 you do believe in me, don't you?" And her tender, 
 "Ay, Rob, I do."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE MEETING WITH MARGARET DRENDER 
 
 SMILE indulgently on those cold cynics who sneer 
 at the suggestion of love at first sight, who 
 urge that it is but the folly of the immature. 
 Robert MacWhinnie fell in love the first time his 
 eyes rested on Margaret Drender, the daughter of 
 the principal in the firm of Drender, Masters and 
 Co., and the story of the love, the wooing, serves to 
 emphasize the argument that when he went out into 
 the world to make the fortunes of the MacWhinnies 
 he went under the most inspiriting of conditions. It 
 came to him, that love, in a wave that enveloped him, 
 uplifting even as it enveloped. Before, the road 
 ahead was cast about with stones; there were pits to 
 be crossed, hills to traverse, and the only incentive 
 was the joy of realizing the hopes of those who had 
 pinned their faith to the natural gifts that had been 
 given him. This love inspired him as nothing else 
 had done; the long road caught the rays of the sun, 
 the pits were blotted out, the hills were made to ap- 
 pear as ant-heaps. 
 
 The two met, for the first time, in Mr. Drender's 
 study, whither Robert had been invited by the iron- 
 master to elucidate the plans of an invention on which 
 the young man had labored many months. Mr. Dren- 
 
 22
 
 'MEETING WITH MARGARET DRENDER 23 
 
 der himself had shown Robert a great deal more sym- 
 pathy than he gained at home, but while encouraging 
 him to prosecute his studies with zeal and ambition, 
 he had never hesitated to play the part of critic. On 
 this night, when Robert was admitted into the pri- 
 vacy of his employer's house, he had dressed himself 
 with scrupulous care; Jean, with the fussiness of a 
 valet, superintended the setting of his necktie, the 
 hang of his coat, the gleam of his shoes. The plans 
 were carried in a leathern wallet, and his air was 
 that of a man who has mastered at least one of the 
 problems of the age. Jean, reading him as easily as 
 she would an open book, and fearing for his peace 
 of mind if Mr. Drender should overthrow his high 
 spirit by curt and ill-considered phrase, sought rightly 
 to prepare him for the interview. 
 
 "They tell me, Robert, that he's terribly short with 
 his words, but he means well. Take his 'yes' as a 'no,' 
 and his frown as a smile, and he'll think the more of 
 you for it. Some men, Robert" and she shook her 
 brown head so sagely that he laughed outright and 
 pinched her cheeks "some men are like wee dogs 
 they bark an awfu' lot to hide their smallness." 
 
 This first visit to Mr. Drender's house, "Jarrow- 
 side," had been freely discussed in the MacWhinnie 
 household. Thomas, the surly, had said : "Don't get 
 it into your head, Rob, that he wants to make a friend 
 of you. Capital never stoops to pick up nothing." 
 And Mrs. MacWhinnie had prophesied a hundred 
 times in as many minutes that John Drender meant 
 to sap her boy's brains, then fling him aside as so
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 many of the Mac Whinnies had been thrown by those 
 more cunning than themselves. . . . 
 
 Robert accepted their warnings and forebodings 
 with customary good humor, and left with them an 
 impression that he was quite capable of looking after 
 himself, although he wasn't likely to lose his balance 
 because of the consideration of Mr. Drender. Only; 
 to Jean did he betray his elation. 
 
 "Jean, girl, this is the beginning," he told her, his 
 cheeks glowing like a schoolboy's. "Mr. Drender 
 isn't the man to waste his sympathies. I believe he 
 means to give me the chance I want." 
 
 And as she gave his clothes a final survey Jean re- 
 plied, with native caution: 
 
 "Just steady yourself, Rob. Keep your feet firmly 
 on the ground, and your head'll no be in danger of 
 flying away." 
 
 "Yes, yes, Jean," he said impatiently; "but you 
 know that I only need the chance, and nothing will 
 hold me back." 
 
 "Nothing will ever hold you back, Rob," she said 
 admiringly. "You'll make a chance, even if Mr. Dren- 
 der doesn't feel disposed to give you one." 
 
 He kissed her impulsively. 
 
 "A few more years, Jean," he cried gayly, "and you 
 and I will be making things hum. There never was 
 a sister like you. If this invention should come to 
 anything - " 
 
 She turned him round that she might note his waist- 
 line. 
 
 "Awa' wi' ye !" she laughed. "Ye' re getting as tire-
 
 'MEETING WITH MARGARET DRENDER 25 
 
 some as father with your inventions only father's 
 are all on paper and easily burned." 
 
 He walked through Rotherhithe with his head erect 
 and his hopes higher than the tallest mast on the river. 
 "Jarrowside" lay well back from the water's edge, and 
 the grounds were so well wooded that, in a district 
 where beauty of landscape had long since been sac- 
 rificed to the needs of commerce, they seemed utterly 
 incongruous. 
 
 Much of Robert's enthusiasm left him as the servant 
 opened the hall door ; he was almost apologetic in mien 
 as he hesitated on the threshold of the study, and only 
 feebly returned the gruff welcome of the old Northum- 
 brian. It was not the burly figure of the ironmaster, 
 at the writing-desk, that unnerved him. Margaret 
 Drender was seated on the top of a library ladder. 
 She had been rummaging among the shelves for the 
 volume required by her father, and it seemed to Rob- 
 ert, as for a moment he gazed at her, that a giant book 
 had suddenly opened to show him a picture. 
 
 "Come in, MacWhinnie," Mr. Drender said, glanc- 
 ing over his shoulder. "Margaret, hinny, move the 
 reading-lamp so that Mr. MacWhinnie may be seated 
 at the table near me. . . . My daughter" (to Robert). 
 "Margaret, you've heard me mention the name of this 
 young man." 
 
 Nervously Robert held out his hand, fearful that 
 he was taking an unconscionable liberty. She placed 
 her hand in his, and without any sign of embarrass- 
 ment allowed her dark eyes to rest on him. 
 
 "Father has often mentioned your name," she said, 
 smiling encouragingly as she indicated the chair near
 
 26 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 the table which had been placed in readiness for him. 
 "I am all impatience to see the plans." 
 
 "Be seated, MacWhinnie," said Mr. Drender 
 brusquely. "Don't mind Margaret; she's one of the 
 partners in the firm the principal, in fact." 
 
 Margaret, standing behind her father's chair, 
 laughed deprecatingly ; and there was music in the 
 laugh for Robert. Shyly he opened the leathern wal- 
 let and drew forth the plans. He handed them to his 
 employer, and sat back in his chair. The old iron- 
 master adjusted his glasses and bent over the papers. 
 Once or twice he commented on them, but received 
 no reply. Robert MacWhinnie was watching the face 
 of Margaret. For him Mr. Drender had passed away 
 into the shadows of the study; only the daughter re- 
 mained in the circle of light thrown by the reading- 
 lamp. He saw a woman of his own age, whose deep 
 black hair glistened in the light, whose eyes were full 
 of a tender sympathy that awakened new emotions in 
 him. An hour before Jean had filled his world 
 Jean and his ambitions ; but now the world had moved, 
 had shifted, and revealed another vision. Jean was 
 a sister, to be loved and teased and coaxed a woman 
 privy to every thought he conceived, a woman from 
 whom he would not dream of keeping any hope that 
 rose within him. Margaret Drender she was a 
 woman from whom he would hide the meanest and 
 the greatest of his projects, lest they should never be 
 achieved. That evening Margaret was wearing a 
 dress of bronze satin that rustled musically when she 
 stirred. It was trimmed with intricate weavings of 
 Indian beads, but, when he returned home, Robert
 
 MEETING WITH MARGARET DRENDER 27 
 
 MacWhinnie was able to describe to Jean every fold 
 and twist and loop. 
 
 The plans were studied and put away; and then 
 John Drender, with the curtness of the man who lives 
 for iron and absorbs some of its hardness, pushed back 
 his chair and said : 
 
 "That'll do, MacWhinnie. I'll see my partner about 
 the matter to-morrow, and you'll be communicated 
 with in the ordinary way. I thank you for coming 
 to see me. This idea of yours may be worth some- 
 thing or nothing; it's the trying that appeals to me. 
 Go on trying." 
 
 It was Margaret who accompanied him to the hall, 
 and the echo of her "Good-night" sang in his ears 
 until he reached home. 
 
 Mrs. MacWhinnie, who seemed always to have just 
 taken her arms from a baking-bowl, gave him a 
 searching glance as he entered the house. He tried 
 to avert his face, although he would have been 
 ashamed to give a reason. 
 
 "Oot wi' it, Rob!" For the first time the accent 
 grated on his nerves. "Is he gaein' to buy it frae 
 ye, or filch it ?" 
 
 The father broke in with a quiet : "Martha, woman, 
 ye're a' on th' mak'." 
 
 "I marrit a MacWhinnie," she gave him, with a 
 shake of the head, and he subsided immediately. 
 "Brains is brains, Donald," she added, "and it's for 
 some o' us to remind Rob that his are no his ain." 
 
 Robert kissed her affectionately on the cheek. 
 
 "It's all right, mother," he assured her. "Mr.
 
 28 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Drender will give the matter his consideration, and 
 some day " 
 
 "Did ye bring the papers back wi' ye ?" she queried, 
 impatiently thrusting a rebellious end of hair back 
 to its place in the chenille net. 
 
 He tried to evade the piercing scrutiny, although 
 he was conscious that all eyes in the little red-papered 
 sitting-room were turned on him. His father was 
 sitting in the rocking-chair that had been the ground- 
 work of a scoic of "inventions," and his fingers were 
 feeling "prongs" of the short, stubbly beard; his ears 
 were wide open. Thomas, the eldest son, had not as 
 yet raised his eyes from his book, but his whole body 
 was watching. Even the texts on the wall and there 
 were many seemed to curl their wool-worked scrolls 
 into eyes. 
 
 "And some day, mother," he said dully, "you shall 
 be repaid for all you've done for me." 
 
 "Hear him havering!" And two arms, bared to 
 the elbow, were raised in an attitude of supplication. 
 "As if onythin' had been done for him that he didna 
 deserve. Ye gran' lad, but how cam' ye to leave your 
 bit papers? Like as no, he'll copy them then whaur 
 wull ye be? . . . Donald MacWhinnie, dinna shake 
 y'r head at me. If y'r grandfaither had been blessed 
 wi' a body who could hae looked after his interests ye 
 wad no be settin' there awonderin' who's to bury ye 
 decently when ye gae." 
 
 Jean came into the room, and instantly she divined 
 that something had happened at Mr. Drender's house. 
 
 "The casting of that model has come from the 
 foundry, Rob," she said. "It's on your desk."
 
 "I'll come upstairs immediately, Jean," he replied, 
 and a minute later he had reached the sanctuary of 
 "Charity Corner." Jean, who had led the way, closed 
 and locked the door. She watched him fling himself 
 down on the ottoman and turn his flushed face to the 
 window, through which the twinkling lights of the 
 river craft were peering inquisitively. 
 
 "What ails you, Robert?" she asked. "You're all 
 of a tremble." 
 
 And into her ears he poured his panegyrics. She 
 listened, first with the tender sympathy of the sister, 
 then with the doubting heart of the woman slightly 
 aroused by jealousy. Not until he held her cheeks be- 
 tween his palms and kissed her brown hair again and 
 again, saying, "Of course, she's no like you, Jean," 
 was she content to be seated at the table and to listen 
 quietly to his further lavish praise.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 "AE FOND KISS" 
 
 THE acquaintance developed, as it was bound to 
 do, for, once awakened, real love never sleeps 
 again. And Margaret Drender, too, was 
 haunted by a vision after that first meeting in her 
 father's study. Matters relating to the invention 
 purely a minor one, by the way demanded the pres- 
 ence of Robert MacWhinnie at "Jarrowside" on in- 
 numerable occasions, and the moments in the hall, 
 after he had taken leave of the ironmaster, lengthened 
 on each successive visit. 
 
 And John Drender, his child's happiness at heart, 
 watched the bursting of the bud watched, not fear- 
 fully, but with the solicitude of the gardener whose 
 mind's eye is filled with the glory of the promise. 
 
 Robert MacWhinnie was twenty- four years of age 
 when the great chance came to put to the test the 
 genius which those who had sponsored him believed 
 he possessed. Through the influence of Mr. Drender 
 he secured a position under the Japanese Government, 
 and was urged to make hasty preparations for crossing 
 the world. The conditions of the contract into which 
 he entered were that he should remain in Japan for 
 three years, with the option of continuing for another 
 
 80
 
 "AE FOND KISS" 31 
 
 two years, if he found the climate and work to his 
 liking. 
 
 "They're making a new nation out there," Mr. 
 Drender said, "and the foundations that you are to 
 lay will be built on, maybe, for centuries. That's how 
 you must look at it. You're a young man to take 
 over a responsible position of this sort, but I've sel- 
 dom made a mistake in my judgment. Remember 
 that the reputation of Drender, Masters and Co. is 
 at stake. We shall always be pleased to give advice 
 when approached in the right manner." 
 
 And half an hour after leaving his presence Robert 
 MacWhinnie had taken the heart of John Drender's 
 daughter into his keeping. She had hurried from her 
 room when she heard him bidding her father good- 
 night, and as the hall door closed behind him she 
 came from out of the shadows of the rhododendrons 
 and held out her hand. He wasn't surprised to see 
 her there. All the while he was with the parent his 
 heart had been calling to the daughter. She accom- 
 panied him through the grounds, and for some time 
 no word was spoken. The year was beginning to 
 die; a cold wind came from the river and snatched 
 greedily at her hair. With a simple movement he 
 raised the lace shawl about her shoulders, and, plac- 
 ing it over her head, tied the corners beneath her 
 chin. Her eyes were riveted on his the while he per- 
 formed the task, and once, for an instant, as his hand 
 touched her face, she seemed to press forward as 
 though afraid that he would take it away. 
 
 "I'm going abroad," he said at last, and waited, 
 almost coward-like, for her to voice that which was
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 in both hearts. "I was full of it of enthusiasm a 
 while back," he stumbled on, "but it's different 
 now." 
 
 And still she remained quiet, although her eyes were 
 eloquent enough. 
 
 "Going away for three years. . . . Has Mr. Dren- 
 der told you?" 
 
 She nodded very slowly; then looked away from 
 him. 
 
 "It's the chance that we've been praying for Jean 
 and I." 
 
 At last she opened her lips : 
 
 "Jean is a splendid sister. . . . There are great pos- 
 sibilities in the country to which you are going. You 
 will not let them slip." 
 
 He trembled a little with pride. 
 
 "You know Jean only through what I have told 
 you about her. I wish you were better acquainted. 
 She is splendid. I would do anything for her." 
 
 "I'm certain of that." 
 
 "Three years! It'll be a lonely time for her, be- 
 cause because Jean needs to be understood; she 
 wants sympathy ; she's like me in. that way. Jean and 
 I have been friends ever since we were bairns." 
 
 Margaret's voice was very low-pitched as she 
 said: 
 
 "If only for her sake because of the hopes she re- 
 poses in you you must win abroad." 
 
 "Yes," he said, without enthusiasm. Then : "When 
 we were mere babes we used to dream of of some- 
 thing like this happening; she was always afraid that 
 some day I should go away and leave her." He tried
 
 ( AE FOND KISS" 
 
 to laugh at a thought that came into his head. "She 
 would always have it that, just when she needed me 
 most, some some woman would creep into my 
 life. . . ." 
 
 Margaret had moved nearer to him; unconsciously 
 he had grasped her two hands. Of a sudden there 
 came a rush of courage, and nervousness, faltering, 
 doubt, embarrassment, fled precipitately before that 
 rush; his eyes glowed with the spark of love; the 
 warmth of her presence enveloped him. 
 
 "Margaret ! It's you you who have crept into my 
 life," he said, his lips hardly moving to the words. 
 He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them with 
 passion, and when he lowered them he seemed to be 
 ashamed of what he had said and done. A great fear 
 took hold of him, for she was standing like one trans- 
 fixed, and her face was so white that the heart might 
 have called back the flow from the body. . . . 
 
 "I have offended you?" It was no more than a 
 whisper. He released her hands. "But I had to say 
 it, Margaret. I could not go away without saying it. 
 And if if I could have gone with the knowledge 
 that you cared, even a little, I should have been 
 strengthened a hundredfold. It means so much to 
 a man, Margaret to a young man this love, and the 
 strength of it. Ambition without love what is it? 
 Effort for effort's sake alone. An empty thing a sel- 
 fish thing. Oh! I could have done so much out yon- 
 der. . . ." 
 
 She stayed him with a sigh. The freed hands crept 
 again into captivity, this time around his neck.
 
 34 THE HOXOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "I do love you, Robert," she whispered, and, whis- 
 pering, hid her face against his breast. 
 
 He folded her tightly to him. He could not speak 
 for a while he dared not open his lips, for that were 
 near to sacrilege. He pressed his lips to her forehead ; 
 the wild beating of his heart found a response in hers. 
 
 And so they lingered in the shadows, and when at 
 last she spoke again it was like one who now belonged 
 to another. 
 
 "You will succeed, Robert," she said; "and I shall 
 wait here, hoping and praying for your return. Three 
 years! Yes, it is a long while, but your love will 
 soften the pain of waiting." 
 
 "My Margaret!" 
 
 "But there is one promise I wish you to make me." 
 
 "It is made already." 
 
 "Love our love must be only the incentive. All 
 your energies, your thoughts, must be given first to 
 your work. And when you have won success I shall 
 be able to feel that in some measure I contributed 
 to it." 
 
 "With your love to fortify me how can I fail?" 
 
 "You have not promised." 
 
 "I promise." 
 
 "Work must come first. There is so much in the 
 world for you to attempt to achieve." 
 
 "It shall be achieved." 
 
 With a quick movement she pulled his face down 
 to hers and kissed him twice. Then, before he could 
 reach out to prevent her, she had turned and fled 
 back to the house.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 MRS. MACWHINNIE WRITES A LETTER 
 
 WHEN all the circumstances are weighed, it 
 must be acknowledged that Robert Mac- 
 Whinnie sailed for the Far East a favored 
 man. He had youth, strength, ambition, and unques- 
 tionable ability; he had the stimulus of a sister's de- 
 votedness, and the confidence of parents who were sat- 
 isfied that they had given to the world a genius, even 
 if they did not seek to take to themselves more of 
 the credit than was really due. Behind him he had 
 the influence of Mr. John Drender, head of one of 
 the most reputable ironworks on the Thames; and, 
 above all, he had the love of John Drender 's daughter. 
 It is hardly essential thus early in the romance of 
 Robert MacWhinnie to describe the work which he 
 actually achieved in Japan during those three years 
 that he served under a Government whose spirit was 
 as progressive as his own. Enough that he fulfilled 
 all the prophecies of Mr. John Drender, and laid 
 foundations on which many of the marvels of engi- 
 neering of to-day were built. The railways, then in 
 their infancy, bridge-building, and the development 
 of national ability all these were part of his labors. 
 From Tokio to Kobe, from Nagasaki to Hakodate his 
 
 35
 
 86 THE HOXOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 operations were spread; there was no cramping of his 
 efforts, and ideas were seized upon and developed 
 without regard for the cost. It was just the en- 
 couragement most calculated to bring out the genius 
 he possessed, and long before his term of three years 
 was run he had reached a height that would have 
 turned the head of one less absorbed in the work itself. 
 
 The love of a good woman never retards the labors 
 of a good workman. During those years Robert's 
 love for Margaret Drender deepened; in the letters 
 which passed between them there was a beauty and 
 breadth that ennobled both writers. Frequently Mr. 
 John Drender himself volunteered advice which he 
 hoped would be of immense value to a young man 
 in a foreign country, and that advice was always ac- 
 cepted in the spirit of one who believed in himself but 
 was ever ready to sit at the feet of wisdom and ex- 
 perience. 
 
 It will be gathered from this that the romance 
 which had commenced in the study was not unknown 
 to the old ironmaster. It is not to anticipate the de- 
 velopment of that romance to say that while Mr. John 
 Drender made no verbal reference to it, he was con- 
 tent to abide by the choice of Margaret. In his heart 
 he was deeply attached to the man whom he had 
 watched from boyhood. He believed that the name of 
 Robert MacWhinnie would one day be a force of 
 which the engineering world might speak with some- 
 thing akin to reverence. 
 
 In one of his letters to Robert he made pointed 
 inquiry of his intentions when the three years' con- 
 tract should have expired, and in phrases which could
 
 MRS. MACWHINNIE WRITES A LETTER 37 
 
 not be misunderstood, and which could not be said 
 in any way to detract from his sense of dignity, he 
 hinted at the time when increasing years should pre- 
 vent his giving so much time to the ironworks, and 
 when the infusion of new blood in the form of a 
 junior partner might mean the granting of a new lease 
 of life to the firm. Bearing upon this, the letter which 
 Robert MacWhinnie wrote to Margaret was some in- 
 dex to those intentions of his : 
 
 "YOKOHAMA. 
 
 "SWEETHEART. The mail arrived this morning. From 
 my bungalow on the top of the Bluff I watched the boat 
 come out of the morning haze into the harbor; for mail 
 days mean so much to us we who are separated from those 
 we love by nearly twelve thousand miles of land and water. 
 
 "Your father fras written me a charming letter. It is as 
 though he had read and understood all that has been in my 
 heart since I left home. A junior partnership in the firm of 
 Drender and Masters seems like a crown of triumph to all 
 the work I have endeavored to do while out here. Think 
 what it would mean to you and me ! Truly, I am favored. 
 Sometimes, when I reflect on all the happiness that is mine, 
 on all the silver with which my path has been strewn, I 
 feel that the gods, in shaping my destiny, had some great 
 and special mission for me." (Truly prophetic words, in 
 the light of what was to come!) 
 
 "At present we are bridge-building in the north of the 
 island, but with a continuance of the native energy that 
 has been manifested since my arrival, the work will be com- 
 pleted some weeks before my contract with the Government 
 is due to expire. I shall come home, Margaret. Success in 
 itself has its grandeur, but no amount of success can com- 
 pensate for the pain of the solitude without you. 
 
 "Jean writes regularly, but of late there has been a brevity 
 about her letters that puzzles me. Usually, she is so com- 
 municative, so 'newsy/ that the falling off is all the more 
 emphasized. If I didn't know Jean so intimately, and wasn't 
 so closely acquainted with all her views on life, I should 
 say that my little brown-haired mentor had fallen in love.
 
 38 THE HOXOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 I shall send her a letter by this mail to inquire his name, and 
 when you see her again, you may pinch her cheeks for me." 
 
 And the reply which Margaret Drender sent to that 
 letter affords some indication of the workings of her 
 mind: 
 
 "JARROWSIDE. 
 
 "My ROBERT. Before he wrote to you, father spoke to 
 me about the prospects of your becoming a junior partner 
 in the firm ; and so great was my excitement, that I has- 
 tened to your mother's house to convey to her the news. 
 She was delighted, so much so that she had a little weep all 
 to herself. 
 
 "You are doing splendidly out there; but, then, I always 
 knew that no goal would be too distant for you, no height 
 too difficult to climb. We follow the record of your achieve- 
 ments through the trade journals, and we don't hesitate 
 to criticize any of your projects which do not fit in with 
 our old-fashioned ideas. Only three years ! Father says it's 
 little short of miraculous. And I what would you have 
 me say? Your dear reminder that in a short while the 
 contract will expire filled me with joy which my poor pen 
 refuses to describe. Not that I needed a reminder, for 
 every day has been ticked off, and every to-morrow has 
 come with a swifter rush than the last. How like children 
 we become when love enters in ! I have made of the calen- 
 dar of days to come a kind of long white road, with the 
 figure of you at the end. In my own little study there is a 
 great map of the world, disfigured by an impetuous pen 
 a pen that has written down the distance between each port 
 of call. 
 
 "Robert, I never dreamed that love was half so great a 
 thing as this. It has taken possession of me. It has filled 
 my whole life. You are never absent from my thoughts. 
 But, Robert, I have not surrendered the promise you made 
 me on the night our hearts were opened. Let it be work 
 first. Let it never be said that because of the selfishness 
 of my love your greatness was retarded or limited. (I 
 wonder if in your mind's eye you can see my poor fingers
 
 MRS. MACWHINNIE WRITES A LETTER 39 
 
 trembling as I write that? They are feverish to write that 
 which the heart dictates.) 
 
 "I'm afraid that you'll say that my letters are never 
 'newsy,' like Jean's; but then, there is only one absorbing 
 subject. 
 
 "Your references to dear Jean's letters amused me. In- 
 deed, you are a prophet, for when I last met her she made 
 me her confidante. No, I must let Jean herself break the 
 news. She is very happy almost as happy as I am." 
 
 By the same mail Robert received a letter from his 
 mother. It was written on a page taken from a school 
 copy-book, and it was singularly expressive, if lacking 
 eloquence : 
 
 "My BOY. We've done with the flitting, and the new 
 house is 'Fern Brae,' River Bank, Greenwich. The flitting 
 cost an awful sight, but I managed to put past nearly half of 
 what you sent, aye, and without letting your father know 
 a word about it. He was all for stopping in the old house 
 and spending the money on another idea of his making 
 the harmonyam play by clockwork, as if my poor head didn't 
 get enough of it without. I told him: 'Donald, if you think 
 you can make the thing a pair of real legs, so's it can 
 walk out of the house and drown itself, I'll sell my best 
 bonnet to help you with the models.' And up he jumps, 
 saying that if it hadn't been for him, where would Robert 
 have got his brains? 
 
 "Now, my boy, blood's thicker than water, and charity 
 begins at home. John Drender knows your worth. So do 
 I. Don't give any more of your brains away for nothing, 
 and don't let him flatter you into softness. Margaret Dren- 
 der is a nice bit woman, but if you hadn't any brains, do 
 you think her father would let her look at you? When 
 they come talking to me about what you're doing, and what 
 you're going to do, I say to them, 'Would one of you have 
 knitted him a pair of socks if he'd growed up without 
 brains?' Your father says I'm teaching you to be selfish. 
 Rubbish, I say. You'll find as you grow older that the more 
 you study yourself and your own, the more the world studies
 
 40 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 you. They used to call my grandfather a hard old devil in 
 Ballyhoustie, but they were always taking off their hats to 
 him in the hope of finding a soft spot. 
 
 "You will be pleased to hear Thomas is doing awful well 
 outside his work. He spoke a speech at the Socialists' last 
 week, and he fair made me cry with the way he downed 
 them as always wanted to be on top. Jamie's a grand lad, 
 and is likely to be a rare comic. When you come home, he'll 
 sing to you. David's still his mother's boy, and as for your 
 father, he's still borrowing money from us to make inven- 
 tions that somebody made years before. His latest is a rub- 
 ber ball let into the legs of chairs, because he can't stand 
 the scraping ^n the floor. Your father might have been 
 a rich man to-day, if he hadn't invented so much. 
 
 "I'm trying hard to get used to this new house, but I 
 weary for the old one. There's always something about a 
 new house that reminds you of how much you've left behind 
 in the old one. A body grows into a house, but she can't 
 grow out of it. Do you know the feeling, Rob? I think I 
 do, because Jean was awful keen on having your study in 
 the new house just as it was in the old one. And it's in the 
 same place right on the top and all the old furniture is 
 like as you left it. Jean keeps the key." 
 
 Two months before he left Yokohama for home 
 Robert wrote a letter to Margaret, in which he care- 
 fully balanced all the prospects, arriving at the con- 
 clusion that, without the joy of her presence near him, 
 further success would be hollow. He was coming 
 home, he said, and he would lose no time in visiting 
 "Jarrowside." He added : 
 
 "My bonnie Jean has told me everything, and although 
 at first I was as jealous as a lover in disfavor, I'm just dying 
 to pick her up and kiss her for very joy. She tells me that 
 the lucky man is 'Wullie' Henderson, who attended the 
 classes with me when I was serving my apprenticeship. He 
 was only a youngster then, but I dare say that he's grown 
 into a fine young man. You can't imagine how I felt when
 
 MRS. MACWHINNIE WRITES A LETTER 413 
 
 I learned that Jean had given her heart to someone, for 
 always I have been inclined to regard her as belonging 
 peculiarly to me. Always, she has been a little girl with 
 long brown hair. Isn't it strange that during this absence 
 from home I have never been able to think of Jean as a 
 woman ? I remember how she used to mother me, when she 
 couldn't have been more than thirteen how she chased the 
 MacKendricks down the street with a broom-handle for in- 
 terfering with 'her bairn/ It was Jean who cut down 
 Thomas's clothes for me, and made them less unseemly than 
 when my mother had finished with them Jean who helped 
 to make my kites, and who would run a mile over ditches 
 and fences to recover the kite when the string broke 
 Jean who pleaded for me when father took the 'tawse' down 
 from the nail on the wall Jean who smuggled my dinner 
 into the garret where I was kept a prisoner for three days 
 for stealing the eggs of a setting hen. And now Jean has 
 fallen in love with another man! Bless me, I must be 
 selfish, but I wanted Jean to go on living for me! Willie 
 Henderson's a lucky man." 
 
 And about the time that Robert MacWhinnie was 
 writing that letter, the heart of his sister Jean was 
 being torn asunder.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 MILLSTONES 
 
 THE ship entered the river an hour after sunset, 
 and by the time she was berthed and the pas- 
 sengers disembarked it was nearly ten o'clock. 
 Since daybreak Robert MacWhinnie had been on deck, 
 afraid to miss a single point in the coast-line, for a 
 sight of which he had been hungering for three years. 
 Although he had expressed a wish that they should 
 not make the journey from Greenwich to the docks 
 if the boat should arrive late, he was a little hurt to 
 find no one there to give him a welcome. He engaged 
 a cab, and when at last it stopped at the door of his 
 father's house the feeling of disappointment gave way 
 to one of pleasurable excitement. In a few seconds 
 he became a boy again, and with all the boisterous- 
 ness of youth he leaped up the steps and gave the door 
 a vigorous knock. The next minute his arms were 
 tightly wrapped around his mother, and she was 
 laughing and sobbing in turns. 
 
 "Rob, man ! Is it really ye ? I want tae greet an' 
 greet. . . . Man, ye're the color of a Pathan, an' as 
 big as big! ... An' is a' that luggage yours? . . . 
 An' a cab, Rob? Eh! the extravagance of the man! 
 . . . Ye'll be awf'y rich? . . . Whaur's y'r faither? 
 He never was just there when I wanted him." 
 
 42
 
 MILLSTONES 43 
 
 "When ye've finished wi' the laddie," came from 
 the diminutive Donald behind her, "I'll hae a word to 
 say to him. . . . Hie, Jamie ! and ye, David ! shoulder 
 this luggage. Rob, man, it's pleased I am to see ye 
 back! . . . Eh, Rob, but it's a long time sin' ye did 
 that." For Robert had kissed him as heartily as he 
 had kissed his mother. And Jamie and David were 
 kissed in turn, although they frowned as in shame. 
 
 Robert was hurried almost carried into the din- 
 ing-room, where everything had been arranged in 
 readiness for his return. The table was spread, his 
 old chair was in its customary place, his old slippers 
 were on the hearthrug. Mrs. MacWhinnie forced him 
 into a chair and insisted on taking off his boots, de- 
 fying any of the others to interfere. He allowed her 
 to perform the task, understanding the joy she derived 
 from it. And all the while she knelt at his feet she 
 poured out a torrent of criticism. They were grand 
 boots, and they must have cost a sight of money, but 
 did he think the welts would be strong enough when 
 the winter came? And who had knitted his stock- 
 ings? No one who had any idea of how stockings 
 ought to be knitted. And how were his flannels? 
 And wasn't he thankful that he'd reached home in 
 safety? And had he never thought of her, sitting 
 there night after night while he was on the water, and 
 tormenting herself into a fever lest the engines in the 
 ship should stop, or the ship itself be piled up on the 
 rocks ? 
 
 And Donald, his father, was plying him with ques- 
 tions about all that had happened in Japan. Were 
 the Japanese really as small as they were said to be?
 
 44 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Were they getting over cannibalism? How had he 
 understood their language? How had they paid him, 
 and was he satisfied that their money was good ? 
 
 The two voices blended disturbingly, Donald's ris- 
 ing shrilly when he feared that his wife's was getting 
 an audience to the prejudice of his own ; and frequently 
 she shouted an injunction to him to "bide his while" 
 and to remember that Robert was her son. 
 
 Thomas, thin, almost gaunt, and sour of temper, 
 had been reading near the window. He had shown 
 no particular concern in his brother's return, but as 
 the babel rose he flung down his books and asked how 
 any man could be expected to understand his subject 
 while so much noise was going on. 
 
 "Thomas," cried Robert, flinging out a hand toward 
 his brother, "you haven't given me a grip! How are 
 you, old fellow, and how's the world wagging with 
 you?" 
 
 "Same as it always did," came sullenly from 
 Thomas. 
 
 "Pay no heed, Robert," the father interrupted. 
 "Tammas is no hissel' these days. It's liver or litera- 
 ture wi' him, an' the ane is as bad as th' ither." 
 
 And the slippers were on, and he had risen to his 
 feet to stamp the hearthrug with that last mark of 
 gratification, when, in a voice that was lowered in 
 self-reproach, Robert exclaimed: 
 
 "Jean! Where's my bonnie Jean? I almost ex- 
 pected her to be at the docks awaiting me, but I sup- 
 pose " He was going to smile, but of a sudden he 
 
 felt that something was wrong. His brothers glanced 
 at each other, and then at their parents, as though
 
 MILLSTONES 45 
 
 urging them to take the lead, and Donald looked at 
 his wife and frowned. 
 
 "Jean's in her ain room," he said to Robert, with 
 a sigh. "She's never out o' it these days." 
 
 "Draw up to the table, Robert," Mrs. MacWhin- 
 nie urged. "Dinna let the greetin' of a lassie rob ye 
 of an appetite." 
 
 But Robert's face was all wrinkles, and he looked 
 first at one, then at the other, as if he doubted that 
 they were not playing some practical joke upon him. 
 
 "But, mother, I must see Jean!" he protested. 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 "In her room, didna y'r f aither tell ye ? ... Do sit 
 down, man, and hae some food." 
 
 "Is she ill?" 
 
 "She's no ill bodily, and if she had the strength o' 
 mind that God was good enough tae gi'e her mither, 
 she'd no be ill i' ither respects. Rob, I hae no patience 
 wi' grief when it lasts that long ye're not certain it 
 isna a selfish grief." 
 
 "Grief? What grief has Jean suffered?" 
 
 Mrs. MacWhinnie turned to her husband. 
 
 "Ye'd better tell him, Donald. He'll no eat a bite 
 till he kens it a'." 
 
 Donald MacWhinnie nodded his acceptance of the 
 duty. 
 
 "It happened two months ago, Rob. We would 
 hae sent ye word, if we hadna thought it might in- 
 terfere wi' y'r work." 
 
 "What could work mean if anything were wrong 
 with Jean?" Robert asked, a suspicion of anger in 
 his voice.
 
 46 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Mr. MacWhinnie gave his little beard an upward 
 flick with the side of his forefinger. 
 
 "Well, we didna send word, that's a'," he said ; "an' 
 I may tell ye it was the lassie's wish ye shouldna 
 ken onything about it till ye reached hame. We wrote 
 ye about Wullie Henderson?" 
 
 Robert was blinking helplessly. 
 
 "Jean told me all about it," he managed to say. 
 
 "Ay. A gran' lad, Wullie." 
 
 "I remember him well. He and I studied together." 
 
 "Of course ye did. He was a gran' lad, and we 
 thought a great deal about him." 
 
 "Was a grand lad? What mean you, father?" 
 
 "He's dead," said Donald laconically. 
 
 Robert leaned heavily against the table. 
 
 "Dead !" he repeated. "My poor Jean !" 
 
 "He had the makin's of a fine engineer, Robert. 
 Through my word and influence Mr. Drender would 
 hae gi'en him the chance he needed. But God's ways 
 are mysterious, an' it's no for us to complain. Wul- 
 lie was killed i' the works. God was merciful. It 
 was soon over. A cracked pulley flew to bits, and 
 Wullie was hit. Your brither Tammas picked him up, 
 but the laddie said nae mair than: 'God be good to 
 Jean!'" 
 
 Robert had covered his eyes with his hand while 
 his father was speaking, and his bronzed cheeks were 
 wet with tears. 
 
 "You should have written and told me," he said, in 
 a broken voice. "Why, I must have sent two or three 
 letters to Jean since her bereavement, and they were 
 letters full of my foolish teasing. In my trunk there's
 
 MILLSTONES 47 
 
 yards and yards of silk that I've brought home for her 
 wedding. What can I say to her?" 
 
 As he spoke, Mrs. MacWhinnie, who had left the 
 room, was heard calling up the stairs: 
 
 "Jean! Do ye no ken that y'r brither's hame? 
 Come down immediate. There's a time to greet an' 
 a time no to greet." 
 
 "Mother!" Robert cried out sharply, "let me go to 
 Jean." 
 
 He left his father standing near the fire, and crossed 
 the room in a few strides. 
 
 "Jean, my bonnie lass," he called, "I'm coming up 
 to you!" 
 
 And the next moment he was in her room. Poor 
 Jean ! She had altered so much that he threw up his 
 hands, and uttered a low cry of dismay. There was 
 not a particle of color in her cheeks; the eyes were 
 dark-ringed and weary with weeping. 
 
 "Rob!" she sobbed, and slowly slipped into the com- 
 fort of his arms. 
 
 Her dear brown head was pillowed on his breast, 
 her arms tightened around his neck as though she 
 feared he might slip away, and as she continued to 
 sob he kissed her hair again and again. 
 
 "Jean," he murmured, "they should have told me 
 they should have told me. My poor, heartbroken 
 Jean!" 
 
 She raised her head, but still held tightly to him. 
 
 "It was my wish, Robert," she said. "It was my 
 grief. Why should you be asked to share it?" 
 
 "Why?" he echoed. "Because if Jean MacWhin- 
 nie shared all the joys of her life with her brother,
 
 48 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 should not he expect to share the sorrows ? Jean, you 
 can't tell how I've wanted you out yonder. It would 
 have been fine, woman, to have had you looking after 
 my little bungalow. You would have fallen in love 
 with it at first sight, Jean. It was so wee, I couldn't 
 stand upright without pushing my head through the 
 bamboo ceiling! And no beds to make, Jean; just a 
 rice-mat to lie down on. And my fish-pond in the 
 garden especially in the cherry-blossom season ! Ah ! 
 if you had been there, Jean. ..." 
 
 "You remember Willie?" Her mind was too grief- 
 laden to be moved by his description of his Japanese 
 home. 
 
 "Yes, Jean," he answered softly; "and if I had 
 been asked to choose a man for you I could not have 
 thought of a better." 
 
 She had lowered her face again, and now her sob- 
 bing shook both her and him. 
 
 "I understand, Jean," he whispered, stroking her 
 brown hair. "To-morrow I'm going to see my Mar- 
 garet. I can imagine her feelings, if anything like 
 this had happened to me." 
 
 "You've written to her, Robert?" Her face was 
 still hidden against his breast. 
 
 "Yes. She knows that I'm going to Jarrowside 
 in the morning." 
 
 "You're going to marry her, Robert?" 
 
 "God grant it," he said. "It's because I love her 
 so deeply that I can well understand and sympathize 
 with you in your sorrow." 
 
 "You'll be going back to Japan?" 
 
 "No, Jean. I'm going to stay here with you and
 
 MILLSTONES 49 
 
 Margaret. I have to write to the Government to- 
 morrow, to say whether or no I shall go back. There's 
 a great deal of work yet to be done, but there's a 
 rare lot of genius among the natives of the country." 
 
 "Robert" she spoke hesitantly, nervously "I wish 
 you were going back." 
 
 Surprised, he held her at arm's length and looked 
 into her eyes. 
 
 "What mean you, Jean?" he exclaimed. "Why 
 should you wish that?" 
 
 "I wish that you were going to take Margaret with 
 you and me." 
 
 "And you, Jean?" 
 
 "Because no one understands me like you. If I'd 
 had your sympathy, lately " 
 
 He kissed her again. 
 
 "Jean," he said, "you're going to have my sym- 
 pathy for the rest of your life. . . . Now I'm going 
 downstairs, but I'm fair drouthy to see the new 'Char- 
 ity Corner.' I have so much to tell you, so much to 
 show you." 
 
 "It's not a new 'Charity Corner/ Rob. God grant" 
 she lowered her head again '"God grant that ye'll 
 be your ain sweet self in it." 
 
 Impulsively she wound her arms around his neck, 
 and pressed her cheek against his. 
 
 "Rob," she said, "why did you come back ? Oh, 
 why did you come back?" 
 
 He knew she had not told him all. He was shak- 
 ing his head in a bewildered way. 
 
 "My own self ?" he said ; "why, did you expect me
 
 50 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 to be different? And why have I come back? Jean, 
 woman, they're strange words from you." 
 
 Fears which he could not define came into his mind. 
 They dazed him. Jean had never been hysterical. 
 There was something looming phantom-like out of the 
 shadows of her grief. 
 
 "You have something to tell me, Jean; there's 
 something else?" 
 
 "There's nothing to tell you, Robert." 
 
 "Thank God for that, Jean," he said, without know- 
 ing why he said it. 
 
 Jamie called to him from the foot of the stairs. 
 
 "We'll have a long talk to-morrow, Jean, lass," he 
 whispered tenderly. "I would like you to come down 
 and unpack my boxes. There's a kimono in one of 
 them that will send mother into a sermon on extrava- 
 gance. You'd think it had been made for a princess." 
 
 "I'll not come down, Robert, to-night. I want to 
 sit here and think. I'll listen for you going to bed, 
 and I'll call out good-night to you. . . . Robert" 
 she kissed him again "Margaret will not sleep to- 
 night, thinking about you. You're finer than ever. 
 But I wish I wish you were going back." 
 
 "Jean!" he cried. "That's twice you've said that." 
 
 She urged him toward the door. 
 
 "Go down, Robert," she said. "Jamie's calling. 
 To-morrow we'll talk to each other." 
 
 Robert went back to the dining-room, and, believ- 
 ing that he was studying Jean's wishes, he made no 
 reference to the death of Henderson. They all sat 
 down to supper, and during the meal he endeavored 
 to answer all the questions that were put to him. It
 
 MILLSTONES 51 
 
 was when they sat back in their chairs and began to 
 speak of the future that he felt for the first time the 
 weight of the millstones around his neck. 
 
 "Ye'll be awa' i' th' morning to see Margaret Dren- 
 der?" Mrs. MacWhinnie said. 
 
 "Yes, mother," he replied. "I would have gone 
 to-night, if the ship had been berthed earlier. She 
 knows that I shall be there to-morrow." 
 
 "Aye, aye," said Mrs. MacWhinnie, and sighed 
 deeply. " 'A son's a son till he gets a wife.' ' 
 
 Thomas laughed harshly. 
 
 "You wouldn't keep Robert tied to your apron- 
 strings all his life, mother?" he suggested, and before 
 she could make reply he added: "Robert's only hu- 
 man, and a wife's a wife." 
 
 "We're no going to talk about that," Mr. Mac- 
 Whinnie burst in. "What I want you to tell me, Rob- 
 ert, is this : Do the people in that country appreciate 
 genius? Man, I have an awf'y clever idea for a child's 
 toy, that would bring in thousands if it was properly 
 worked." 
 
 Mrs. MacWhinnie looked across at Robert, and 
 there was a note of anxiety in her voice as she said : 
 "It'll be a long time before ye think o' gettin' marrit, 
 Rob?" 
 
 "Don't let's talk about it, mother," he answered. 
 "Let's talk about you, yourselves. How have you 
 been getting along without me?" 
 
 "I couldna bear the thought of your leaving me 
 just when I'm beginning tae look forward to the 
 fruits o' all I've done for you."
 
 52 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 And again Thomas laughed, saying : " 'A son's a 
 son till he gets a wife/ mother." 
 
 "Ye can't tell how y'r brothers have been looking 
 forward to y'r home-coming. They think the world 
 of you, Rob. They think there's no one like you. 
 Your faither's never been able to gi'e them the chance 
 they deserved, but I've said to them again and again, 
 'Wait till Rob comes into his ain.' ' 
 
 "I mind the day when we first cam' to Rotherhithe." 
 Donald MacWhinnie was stroking the points of his 
 beard. "There was twenty pound amang us " 
 
 "If ye want to please Rob," said Thomas, "ye'll 
 no talk so much about what has been. If there's any- 
 thing a man dislikes more than another, it's to be re- 
 minded of his humble start in life. If you talk like 
 that now, faither, how are you going to talk when 
 you have to touch your cap to Mr. Robert MacWhin- 
 nie, junior partner in the firm of Drender, Masters 
 and Co.?" 
 
 "Tammas," said his father, "I wad thank ye to 
 keep y'r sentiments for the Park o' th' Sunday morn- 
 ings. It's no respectfu' to y'r faither, and it shows a 
 lack of sympathy with the Mac Whinnies that are dead. 
 Man ! if you'd talked to them as you're talking to me 
 now, they'd hae taken ye out into the back yard, and 
 put some sense where ye hae nane now." 
 
 Jamie said, with some degree of importance: 
 "When Rob has charge of the works there are one or 
 two persons in them that I'd like to square things 
 with." 
 
 And so they went on for an hour or so, until at 
 last the father intimated that it was time for the
 
 MILLSTONES 53 
 
 evening reading, after which they would be glad to 
 get to their beds. 
 
 "Robert," said Mr. MacWhinnie, as he wiped his 
 spectacles with the corner of a red check handker- 
 chief and looked down at the Book, "we've thought 
 of ye every night when it cam' to the readin'." He 
 opened the Book and commenced: 
 
 "My son, keep thy father's commandment, and for- 
 sake not the law of thy mother. . . ."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 CHARITY CORNER 
 
 THEY had all retired, leaving him to write some 
 letters of importance. He was in the study 
 in "Charity Corner." Jamie had led the way 
 and left him there. The same old study, the same col- 
 ored walls, the same sloping ceiling, and the cherished 
 red ottoman near the window; it was as though the 
 old room had been lifted in its entirety and carried 
 across the river. The furniture was arranged as he 
 would have it ; he could sit on the ottoman and watch 
 the twinkling mast-lights of the outward-bound steam- 
 ers until they disappeared around the bend of the 
 river. And she had placed the old bowls of flowers 
 in the old favored positions. 
 
 "And, Jean," he whispered, as he drew a chair to 
 the table and reached for a pen, "there's the same old 
 feeling of peace and quiet." 
 
 He wrote steadily for half an hour; then the pen 
 dropped from his fingers. Someone was coming 
 slowly up the stairs. He knew that it was she; but 
 not until he heard her pause outside in the corridor 
 did he rise and go to the door, carrying the shaded 
 oil-lamp with him. 
 
 She was leaning against the jamb of the door, and 
 the yellow light of the lamp gave her thin, pinched 
 
 54
 
 CHARITY CORNER 55 
 
 face an unnatural color. She had taken down her long 
 brown hair; it was flowing over her shoulders. She 
 might have been about to retire for the night, when 
 the breaking heart urged her to creep upstairs in 
 search of further sympathy. 
 
 "Jean!" he whispered, holding the lamp above his 
 head. 
 
 "I startled you, Rob?" 
 
 "I was writing. . . . Everything was so quiet." 
 
 He stepped back into the room, and she followed, 
 noiselessly, closing the door behind her, and turning 
 the key in the lock. He replaced the lamp on the 
 table, and held out his hands toward her. She might 
 not have seen the action, for she moved past him, and 
 crept to the ottoman. For a long while he looked at 
 her without speaking; then he seated himself by her 
 side, and placed his right arm around her shoulders. 
 She half-covered her face against his breast. He could 
 feel her trembling. 
 
 "Jean! What is it?" 
 
 She opened her lips so slightly that the words were 
 hardly distinguishable, running into each other as 
 they did. 
 
 "I couldn't sleep, Robert, until I had seen you 
 again." 
 
 He gathered up a handful of the brown hair, and 
 dropped it again. 
 
 "Your mind is all anyhow," he whispered sooth- 
 ingly. "What can I say or do?" 
 
 "Don't say anything yet, Rob. I I want to tell 
 you why I came up here."
 
 56 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "I'm listening, Jean." And now he was trembling 
 as with apprehension. 
 
 "I lied to you, Robert, and I couldn't sleep. I 
 daren't lie to you." 
 
 "You lied to me, Jean? What do you mean?" 
 
 "You asked me to-night, when first you came in, 
 if there was anything else, and I said there wasn't." 
 
 "There was something else?" 
 
 She moved her head in affirmation; then her emo- 
 tions broke in a turbulent stream; she lifted her hands 
 to her face and sobbed: "Oh, Rob, Rob, I wish we 
 were bairns again!" 
 
 He tightened his arms about her, and pressed her 
 to him, vainly trying to still her sobs. 
 
 "Ma heirt is breakin', Rob" in grief she rushed 
 back to the accent of their childhood "just breakin', 
 and it's no because o' masel'. It's because o' what 
 I've brought ye tae." 
 
 He allowed her to sob uninterruptedly for a mo- 
 ment. Then : 
 
 "Don't you think you had better go to bed, Jean, 
 woman?" he whispered soothingly; "you're all upset. 
 In the morning we'll talk about it." 
 
 "No, Rob. It must be talked about now. I lied 
 to you. There was something else." 
 
 For a second he dared not ask her what that some- 
 thing was; but when he pressed his lips against her 
 cheek, and reminded her of the confidence they had 
 exchanged as children, she sank slowly to the floor, 
 and hid her face in her hands, resting those hands 
 on his knee. 
 
 "There's no one in the world who would under-
 
 CHARITY CORNER 57 
 
 stand me, save you, Rob. There's no one but you who 
 would forgive me." 
 
 "Jean, my bonnie lass," he whispered, "what are 
 you talking about? What is it that you want to say 
 to me ? Why don't you say it ?" 
 
 "Don't you guess, Robert? Have you no idea?" 
 
 "Guess, Jean?" 
 
 "This grief of mine as it all because Willie Hen- 
 derson's dead?" 
 
 And still he plunged in doubt and misunderstand- 
 ing. 
 
 "Tell me, Jean!" he said, in desperation. "Tell me 
 everything." 
 
 "Willie, he loved me, and, oh! Rob, it meant so 
 much to me after you'd gone, because no one in this 
 house tried to 'understand me. It was sympathy I 
 wanted, and you'd gone! Why did you go? Why 
 didn't you take me with you? Robert, don't you un- 
 derstand?" 
 
 He passed his hand over his forehead, and looked 
 at her through half -closed eyes. 
 
 "For the love of God, Jean," he said, "tell me the 
 truth." 
 
 She raised her head so that he might look into 
 her eyes, eyes through which the heart was laid bare. 
 With a peculiar cry he pushed her from him and 
 leaped to his feet. 
 
 "Jean!" there was horror in his eyes "you don't 
 mean that? You can't mean that! It isn't true! 
 You're fooling me?" 
 
 Her lips twitched pitiably. 
 
 "I'm no fooling you, Robert."
 
 58 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Damn him !" 
 
 She threw out her hands imploringly. 
 
 "Hush, Robert ! For the love of God, have a little 
 pity! He loved me. He was kind to me. I wanted 
 his sympathy. He gave it to me. We were to be 
 married soon. Nobody understood me, only him and 
 you. Nobody in this house ; they were all so different. 
 You understood." 
 
 "The damned villain " 
 
 "Robert ! Try to believe that he loved me. No one 
 knows what I've passed through. No one knows what 
 he suffered, in that last minute when he was dying. 
 He loved me truly. Don't raise your voice, Robert. 
 They'll hear, and they won't understand. They'll 
 never understand. They're all so narrow. They'd 
 despise me, Robert ; they'd send me out. I nearly went 
 out, after he died, but I thought of you, Robert, and 
 I knew that out of the past you would drag some 
 memory of when we were boy and girl together, and 
 you'd find in your heart just a grain of pity. That's 
 why I waited for your return ; I didna dare go with- 
 out seein' you, although I was sairly tempted." 
 
 He had crossed over to the table; he was staring 
 at the blank notepaper before him. The word "Dis- 
 honor" seemed to emerge from the whiteness and 
 laugh mockingly in his face. He looked up at the 
 farther wall; the scriptural texts, worked in wool by 
 her hand, had taken to themselves the same hideous 
 word. He thought he thought of Margaret Dren- 
 der and of her father, and he saw the horror on their 
 faces. . . . 
 
 "Rob. , ."
 
 CHARITY CORNER 59 
 
 He didn't hear her ; he didn't look round. His ears 
 were full of a rushing noise, his eyes were watching 
 the tumbling and crumbling of dream-castles castles 
 which he and she had built together. 
 
 "Rob, will ye no forgive me?" 
 
 "Hush, Jean!" And his voice was strained and 
 hoarse. 
 
 "Ye canna find it in your heirt to forgive me. . . . 
 Rob ! Look ! It's in 'Charity Corner* that I'm kneel- 
 ing. Can ye no think of the hours. . . . Oh, Rob! 
 Rob!" 
 
 He had come again to her side. He had crushed 
 her to him, the while the tears flowed from his eyes, 
 dripping on her dear brown hair. He saw not the 
 woman who had sinned ; he held not the woman who 
 had yielded in a weak moment; he kissed not the 
 woman who had sinned for the sake of sinning, or 
 because of the passion of the moment ; he kissed, and 
 forgave, and asked God to help him to protect the 
 little sister of thirteen who had mothered him when 
 the MacKendricks fought him on the banks of the 
 Clyde, and she chased them down the street with a 
 broomstick in her hand. He thought not of the dis- 
 honor that had come upon the MacWhinnies. He 
 thought only of the sanctuary to which he must carry 
 the poor, tortured soul of his little sister. He thought 
 not of his own ambitions not even of the woman 
 who had lifted him toward the heavens; he thought 
 only of brown-haired Jean, and how he might help 
 her. 
 
 And in the end he lifted her from her knees, whence 
 she had sunk again, and placed her on the old red
 
 60 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 ottoman. Then he went back to the table, saying: 
 "Wait a minute, Jean ; wait till my head clears. Don't 
 speak. Just look out of the window and watch the 
 lights go by." 
 
 He picked up the pen and commenced to write. He 
 spoke to her over his shoulder: 
 
 "I do understand, Jean. Better than you imagine. 
 . . . Thank God I came back in time." 
 
 Then he changed his tone of voice. There was no 
 inflection that would lead her to suppose he regarded 
 what he contemplated doing as a sacrifice. 
 
 "Jean, I'm going back to Japan. There's work to 
 be done out there good work, and big. And I want 
 a housekeeper a housekeeper just like you; and 
 you're going with me. We're sailing by the next boat. 
 Keep quiet. Tell no one of what you've told me. 
 Don't speak. I know you're thinking of her. But 
 you mustn't. I'm writing to the Government to say 
 that I'm coming back by the next boat. They had a 
 shrewd idea that I would return. They said to me: 
 'You'll not be able to stay away; you'll feel the call 
 in your blood, just as they all do.' And and I'm 
 writing to her, Jean." 
 
 She was huddled up on the ottoman, and her eyes 
 were fixed on him as though all her hopes of eternal 
 peace rested on his decision. 
 
 He wrote to Margaret Drender : 
 
 "MARGARET. I arrived home to-night. Something has 
 happened to prevent my seeing you to-morrow. You were 
 right. Love should be only an incentive to work, and there 
 is work for me to do on the other side of the world. I am 
 going away almost at once, without even seeing you, lest the 
 seeing should mean the staying. ROBERT."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE WAY BACK 
 
 IMPULSIVENESS is not heroism, although it is 
 very closely related. The coldly analytical mind 
 may suggest many reasons for the sudden re- 
 solve of Robert MacWhinnie to defend his sister Jean, 
 whatever might be the consequences. That he acted 
 quickly on the spur, as it were is not to be argued 
 in his favor nor to his prejudice. The moment was 
 one in which the brain was bound to be speeded one 
 of those moments when the intricate machinery of the 
 mind seems to concentrate its energy to one end. The 
 way out of the difficulty that he conceived in that mo- 
 ment was possibly the most natural in the circum- 
 stances. Perhaps it is somewhat easy to attribute to 
 him the virtues of a hero, but it is not to lessen his 
 worth to suggest that he was not without the weak- 
 nesses of the race. It would be unjust to deprive 
 him of a shred of credit for what he proposed to do 
 and sacrifice in behalf of his sister; but, in trying 
 to be just, one is tempted to believe that his own 
 pride had been wounded by Jean's disclosure, and that, 
 great as was his love for Margaret Drender, he was 
 ready to set it on one side rather than that she should 
 know of the disgrace. 
 
 "Disgrace" is a hard word to use, but this is a con- 
 61
 
 62 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 ventional world, and Jean's predicament was one that 
 will never be known as anything else but disgrace 
 until the world widens its point of view and considers 
 circumstances before condemning. In Jean's case, her 
 own confession to Robert must be recalled whether 
 it be to her advantage or otherwise. It was sympathy 
 for which she hungered, the sympathy that was de- 
 nied her at home. Long afterward Robert came to 
 understand the difference, in her case, between love 
 and sympathy. 
 
 To revert to Robert. It may be put forward that, 
 in acting as he did, he paid no tribute to his parents. 
 If they could not find it in their hearts to pity their 
 daughter, whence was she to seek pity at all? The 
 only reply to that thought is that no one in the house 
 of MacWhinnie understood better the mind of the 
 Mac Whinnies than did Robert. The experience which 
 he had gained of men and matters during his sojourn 
 abroad had widened the mind that would otherwise 
 have remained cramped. The narrow points of view 
 which had been inculcated during youth were changed ; 
 he had a wider conception of human nature ; so broad- 
 ened had his mind become that he was able to appre- 
 ciate the smallness of the MacWhinnie mind at 
 home, and make allowance for, or tolerate it. Therein 
 lay one of Robert MacWhinnie's greatest qualities. 
 He could come back to that narrow circle, yet retain 
 the broadened view without comment or protest. 
 
 One is tempted to ask, "Could his love for Mar- 
 garet Drender have been very sincere, if he was so 
 ready to cast it on one side for the sake of pride, for 
 the sake of his sister?" When this story of the
 
 THE WAY BACK 63 
 
 Mac Whinnies shall have neared its end, none will deny 
 that few women were loved so deeply as was Mar- 
 garet. Those three years in the Far East could never 
 have been lived by him if it had not been for the stimu- 
 lating memories of Margaret Drender. His ambition, 
 always swift and strong, was given greater impetus 
 by her letters of devotedness and encouragement. He 
 worked for her, making her the starting-point and 
 the goal. 
 
 And so it is difficult rightly to describe all that 
 Robert MacWhinnie felt that night in the little study, 
 when the broken-hearted sister knelt at his feet and 
 poured out her grief incoherently, yet with terrible 
 significance. There is another line of thought to be 
 pursued. What of Jean? What nobleness could 
 there have been in her heart? Had she deliberately 
 allowed herself to accept his sacrifice at the expense 
 of the other woman? Was the great love which he 
 manifested being requited by her willingness to say 
 "yes" to the proposals he made? Is it inconceivable, 
 or unkind to suggest, that Jean herself felt that she 
 was paying some penalty for her lapse by going out of 
 the country, so that none save he might know of her 
 shame? Wasn't it to save the honor of the family, 
 and of Robert MacWhinnie? 
 
 But maybe this is not the time to be didactic, or to 
 argue the many phases of the situation. Enough 
 that he saw his path lying white and shining before 
 him, that he believed it was his duty. Has it not been 
 said already that Robert MacWhinnie, with his broad, 
 open face and prematurely silvered temples, was just 
 the man to be born to trouble, just the kind of man
 
 one would expect to meet at that stile of the proverb 
 where lame dogs foregather and whine for help ? 
 
 On the day following the confession, Jean kept 
 to her room. Robert's instructions had been very ex- 
 plicit. Their first anxiety must be to keep suspicion 
 from the minds of their parents. He knew, and Jean 
 knew, that there is nothing so terrible to overcome 
 as the prejudice of the religionist who sets his religion, 
 or his conception of religion, before pity, blinding 
 himself the while to the fundamental truth that pity 
 is the greater part of religion. 
 
 "Jean," he told her, "you and I will go out there, 
 and you shall help me to make the name of MacWhin- 
 nie honored by that nation which is just emerging 
 from feudalism. We shall go almost immediately, for 
 I promised the Government out there that they should 
 have an answer to their proposals before I had been 
 in the Old Country a week." 
 
 She spoke of Margaret, fearfully, falteringly, but 
 with adroitness he led her to believe that he could 
 satisfactorily explain everything to the woman whose 
 heart was in his keeping. Long after Jean went to 
 her room that night his mind grappled with the new 
 task that had arisen. He anticipated all the ques- 
 tioning that was likely to be aroused by his sudden 
 decision, and psychologically he studied aright. 
 
 At midday he was still in the house, and had given 
 no sign of any intention to visit the Drenders. Mrs. 
 MacWhinnie, with the observancy of her sex, re- 
 marked the fact to her husband; then very tactfully 
 urged the rest of the family out of earshot while 
 she questioned her son.
 
 THE WAY BACK 65 
 
 He was writing at a table near the window; she 
 was standing a few paces behind him. She studied 
 him intently for a moment; the rough, red fingers 
 plucked the hem of her apron. 
 
 "Robert, man, ye'll be going over to 'Jarrowside' 
 to-day?" 
 
 "No, mother." He went on writing. 
 
 "Margaret will be coming here ?" 
 
 "I don't think so, mother. I wrote to her last 
 night." 
 
 "Ye've no quarreled?" 
 
 "No, mother! Nobody could quarrel with Mar- 
 garet. I thought you would have known her by this 
 time." 
 
 "I know her fine. But a's no weel wi' ye?" 
 
 He leaned back in his chair, and, looking out of 
 the window, replied: "Mother, do you remember 
 what you once said to me about what I owed to the 
 family ? I have been thinking about that a great deal 
 lately. I'm still a young man." 
 
 "An' a grand man!" Her voice trembled with 
 pride. 
 
 "And there's so much to be done before I should 
 think of considering myself < " 
 
 "Before ye marry, Robert?" 
 
 He nodded, and kept his lips tightly closed, so that 
 she should be deceived by his apparent calmness. 
 
 "I've written to Margaret." 
 
 "Ye said that before, Robert." Now she was 
 screwing up a corner of her lace apron between finger 
 and thumb. 
 
 "Margaret will be the last person in the world to
 
 66 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 allow our engagement to hinder me in my ambitions." 
 
 "The very last, Robert. She told me that hersel'." 
 
 He was still gazing out at the river. 
 
 "Out yonder, in the Far East, a man who has his 
 wits about him, and who is unfettered by sentiment 
 of any kind, may rise to any height. He may achieve 
 anything. It is a country full of promise, and, what 
 is more, there are other lands within a week's sail 
 where brains are at a premium." He closed his eyes, 
 as though he were recalling reminiscences for her ben- 
 efit. In truth, he was afraid that his eyes would be- 
 tray him. "I met many influential men out there, 
 mother." 
 
 "None better than ye, Robert." 
 
 "And they tried to persuade me not to return so 
 early." 
 
 "We were just dyin' to see ye." 
 
 "Three years is a very little time, and I had achieved 
 so much. Those men whom I met men of capital 
 and position told me that in Korea, or Siberia, or 
 even in the island of Formosa, a man who knew his 
 profession might perform miracles in the space of 
 ten years. But I wanted to come home " (It 
 came out suddenly, and with the suggestion of a sob.) 
 "I'm not a man entirely without sentiment 1 I never 
 knew a Scot who was." 
 
 "Robert, man!" Her hand was on his shoulder. 
 "Pit marriage oot o' y'r heid for a bit Wait till y'r 
 brithers have had the chance that y'r faither was able 
 to gi'e you." 
 
 He smiled a little sadly. He could feel the weight 
 of the millstones.
 
 THE WAY BACK 67 
 
 "They were awfu' guid lads when we set about 
 making a man of ye." 
 
 "I don't forget that, mother." 
 
 "They worked hard, and for very little, but they 
 never complained." 
 
 "I shall try to do what is right by them, mother." 
 
 "I know ye will, my bonnie lad." Then, with a 
 sigh, half relief, half regret: "Margaret's an awf'y 
 fine woman, but I think she'll say all that I've said, 
 if ye put it to her in the right way." 
 
 "I've already done that, mother," he said quietly; 
 "and that's what I wanted to talk to you about." 
 
 "I knew there was something on your mind, Rob- 
 ert. I was watching ye all the breakfast hour." 
 
 "I have decided to go back," he said, without ap- 
 pearing to have heard her remark. "There's a mail 
 boat sailing at the end of the week." 
 
 As though she had been anticipating this hoping 
 for it and had rehearsed the reply, she said : 
 
 "But, Robert, man, ye'll have been hame on'y a few 
 days!" 
 
 There was no outburst of disappointment at the 
 thought of parting again so soon. 
 
 The holder of the pen snapped under the pressure 
 of his fingers. 
 
 "It's the fear, mother, that if I stay longer, the 
 longer I shall want to stay. The East is calling to 
 me, just as it calls to everybody. I feel that if I go 
 out now, at once, everything will be just as I left it. 
 I'm hungering to see it again, to take up the work 
 where I left it. Who but a MacWhinnie can finish 
 it? Moreover, the Government out there has been
 
 68 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 exceedingly kind and considerate. I don't want to 
 play the part of pioneer only. I want to go on with 
 the work and see it to its finish. There's a delicate 
 piece of work to be done in Tokio Harbor, and I have 
 a great scheme in my mind for circumventing the 
 usual results of a seismic disturbance an earthquake, 
 mother. . . . I've decided to go back by the ship that 
 sails at the end of the week. And I've been thinking, 
 mother, that, if anything will help to soften the grief 
 of Jean, it will be a trip to the Far East." 
 
 He kept his eyes on the writing-table as he said 
 this, expecting a torrent of surprised questioning. 
 But, instead of that, Mrs. MacWhinnie said very 
 calmly : 
 
 "That's fine, Robert that's fine." 
 
 He glanced up at her, suspicion in his mind; but 
 her next words quieted it : 
 
 "I shall be easier in my mind if Jean is wi' ye to 
 manage y'r bit hoose. And, after a', a man wi' am- 
 bition needs on'y a housekeeper." 
 
 At the moment he was grateful for this attitude of 
 hers, but there came a day when he realized the sel- 
 fishness of it. That was long afterward, when the 
 burden of the "duty" that was expected of him be- 
 cause he had chosen to struggle above the level of 
 the other members of the family weighed down upon 
 him until his crushed spirit groaned beneath it. Jean 
 was to be a kind of chaperon a restraining influence ! 
 
 In the evening, when all the members of the fam- 
 ily were gathered together, Robert's decision was made 
 known to them by the mother. It did not come as a 
 surprise to Donald, the father, because, as he said,
 
 THE WAY BACK 69 
 
 the MacWhinnies had been rovers for centuries, and 
 there wasn't a known part of the inhabited globe 
 where the MacWhinnies or one of the immediate 
 offshoots of the family had not left an indelible mark. 
 They would have questioned Jean about her feelings 
 on the proposal, but here Robert intervened. And 
 of all the chivalry that he showed toward his sister, 
 perhaps this part of it was greatest; for he under- 
 stood completely the drama on which he and she had 
 entered, and he played his part with wonderful sub- 
 tlety. It was through him with his lips that silent 
 Jean reveled in the prospect; through him that she 
 described the glory of sitting with him on the veranda 
 of a Japanese bungalow, of reading with him in the 
 hazy nights, when the cicada were crooning their love 
 songs in the cherry trees; of watching from the near 
 distance the certain progress he would make, of being 
 near him in the moment of his triumph. 
 
 Donald MacWhinnie did not concern himself with 
 the feelings of Margaret Drender, nor did the other 
 members of the family. Among them, at that time, 
 there was a spirit of jealousy. Anything that sug- 
 gested intrusion on what they had come to regard 
 as theirs alone was keenly, yet almost unwittingly, re- 
 sented. During that week Margaret Drender's name 
 was mentioned only once, and then by David, the 
 youngest brother. He wondered aloud, and in the 
 presence of his mother, what Margaret would think 
 about it all, and why Robert hadn't visited "Jarrow- 
 side." He answered his own questions, by saying 
 musingly: "Maybe Rob thinks he has a big enough 
 family now."
 
 70 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Mrs. MacWhinnie had paused in crossing the floor 
 to listen to David's words. As he made that last 
 remark she drew in a deep breath, as though about to 
 add her opinion; but apparently she deemed it best 
 to let well alone, for all that she said, as she continued 
 her way to the door, was : "Ye haver, David ye do." 
 
 And so, within a week after his arrival from the 
 Far East, Robert MacWhinnie began to repack his 
 oaken chest and portmanteaux, and turn his face to 
 the river leading out to the open sea. And if, now, 
 he was only playing the part of one whose ambition 
 could not be satiated one whose nervous system 
 would not admit of a moment's bodily rest he played 
 it like a master of histrionics. Throughout the prep- 
 arations Jean maintained an attitude of resignation 
 equally calculated to disarm suspicion; she was con- 
 tent to leave everything to this great, broad-shouldered 
 brother who had taken her burden to himself; and 
 the seeming lightness with which he regarded it 
 lessened in her the pain of obligation. Indeed, she 
 became much brighter as the day for sailing ap- 
 proached, and manifested interest in the readings 
 about Japan which her father insisted on giving of 
 an evening. 
 
 Robert went out of the house only seldom during 
 that week. Always he was writing. Not for an 
 instant did he raise a fear in Jean's mind that he was 
 suffering any regret for the self-imposed task. So 
 buoyant was he in spirit, and so ready to give laugh 
 for laugh, that she came to believe he was glad of 
 the chance to resume the work that had been left 
 unfinished.
 
 THE WAY BACK 71 
 
 During the week Robert was able to study the bent 
 of each of his brothers, and if he did not come to 
 the conclusion that, without the knowledge of pos- 
 sessing a leaning-post, they might have shown greater 
 promise, it was because of his simple generosity of 
 mind. Even David, the youngest, had come to rest 
 against that post. He, too, was now engaged in the 
 offices of Drender, Masters and Co., and, as his father 
 said, if he paid half the attention to the keeping of 
 the books that he did to the set of his coat and collar, 
 Mr. John Drender received value for money. 
 
 "You're growing into a giant of a MacWhinnie," 
 Robert said playfully. "By the time Jean and I come 
 back you'll be a man." 
 
 "A married man," put in Jamie slyly. "Dave has a 
 way with him already." 
 
 Robert frowned his displeasure at the lightness of 
 the remark. 
 
 "When I was David's age " he began. 
 
 David selected a cigarette from a silver case and 
 jauntily placed it between his lips. 
 
 "I never work after hours, Rob," he said, with a 
 jerk of the head; and he strutted out of the room 
 to the accompaniment of laughter from Jamie. 
 
 Thomas kept his distance during the week; and 
 Robert did not attempt to draw him out of his reserve. 
 Once, he ventured a question about the labor condi- 
 tions prevailing in the Far East, but added, in a 
 casual way, and before a reply could be given, that 
 he supposed there was sufficient iniquity among the 
 moneyed classes of England to keep him at home 
 for some years to come.
 
 72 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Not one of the brothers conveyed any expression of 
 appreciation of what had been done for them by Rob- 
 ert; the fact that month after month they had enjoyed 
 increased comfort in the home from the liberal por- 
 tion of his salary which he sent to the parents ap- 
 peared to have been overlooked. Robert offered no 
 comment on this. 
 
 It may truthfully be said that, in the few days prior 
 to sailing again, Robert MacWhinnie showed abun- 
 dant heroism. But this must be told, and no one, not 
 even Jean, ever knew of it. The night before the 
 ship sailed Robert went down to "Jarrowside." He 
 was closely muffled up, so that none should recognize 
 him, and for two long hours he walked around and 
 about the house, hoping, even praying, that he might 
 catch one glimpse of the woman whose letters he treas- 
 ured as stepping-stones to triumph. He stood by the 
 gate where she had rested for a moment in his arms; 
 he lived that scene over again he lived it over a 
 thousand times and more before he saw her again. 
 And in her room, even as he stood there at the gate, 
 Margaret Drender was sitting with his letter crushed 
 in her hand. She misjudged him, as everyone who 
 was dear to him, save Jean, misjudged him through- 
 out his life; but she was too proud in spirit to seek 
 comfort from the rugged ironmaster in the study 
 beneath. Robert MacWhinnie had said very little in 
 his letter, but to a woman of imagination it was easy 
 of expansion. 
 
 The ship sailed on the first tide in the morning. 
 The MacWhinnies were gathered on the quay, and as 
 the vessel backed away into mid-river the brothers
 
 THE WAY BACK 73 
 
 gave a final cheer, while Mrs. MacWhinnie wiped the 
 tears out of her eyes with a bonnet string, saying to 
 her husband as she did so : "Donald, man, it's just 
 awfu' to hae bairns, because if they're no breakin' 
 y'r heirt wi' their comings hame, they're breakin' it 
 wi' their gaein's awa'!"
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 MASTER AND MAN 
 
 ALTHOUGH Mr. John D render was one of the 
 first to be advised of Robert MacWhinnie's 
 departure from Japan, he did not learn of the 
 arrival in England, and the hasty decision to leave 
 it again, until the outward-bound ship must have been 
 breaking into the swells of the Bay of Biscay. His 
 daughter Margaret had not as yet acquainted him with 
 the blow that had been aimed at her, preferring to 
 suffer in silence until she should have had some fur- 
 ther letter of explanation from Robert. The news of 
 the arrival and the departure was gathered from the 
 lips of Donald MacWhinnie, and the conversation 
 that took place in the ironmaster's private office at 
 the works is helpful in the study of the relations be- 
 tween master and man the man whom he was com- 
 pelled to regard as one having a stronger claim on 
 his sympathies than any of the other employees. It 
 was characteristic of the ironmaster that he learned 
 of or, rather, guessed at the sufferings of his 
 daughter without a quiver of the eyelids, or an ex- 
 clamation that would betray his emotion. In the 
 conversation with Donald MacWhinnie he main- 
 tained the attitude of the employer throughout, giv- 
 
 74
 
 MASTER AND MAN 75 
 
 ing no sign that he was aware of the attachment 
 between his daughter and Robert. As the little Scots- 
 man came into the office, thoughtfully stroking his 
 short, grizzled beard, Mr. Drender, without looking 
 up, dismissed his secretary, and said: "You may be 
 seated, MacWhinnie." 
 
 "I prefer to stand," said the little man. 
 
 "As you please," said Mr. Drender. "I was only 
 studying your comfort." 
 
 "It's the 'may be seated' I don't like." 
 
 Mr. Drender pushed back his chair and carefully 
 studied the small, flinty eyes. 
 
 "You have been with the firm a long while now, 
 MacWhinnie." 
 
 "Longer than I care to think about, Mr. Drender 
 and I seem to be where I started from." 
 
 "Whose fault is that?" 
 
 "I'm makin' no complaints." 
 
 "And I've heard none against you, MacWhinnie 
 none that I can remember." 
 
 "Ye didna send for me to tell me that, Mr. Dren- 
 der." 
 
 "No, I didn't. Dickenson has been here this morn- 
 ing the foreman of the lathe-shop." 
 
 MacWhinnie squinted suspiciously along his nose. 
 There was belligerency in the way he fingered his. 
 beard. 
 
 "To complain? I'm no certain in my mind that 
 I've had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Dickenson." 
 
 "He came to talk to me about your son Thomas." 
 
 "Ye might have had a worse subject, Mr. Drender." 
 He was shaping himself for a quarrel.
 
 76 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "In ordinary circumstances I should have had no 
 hesitation in acting on my foreman's advice. As it 
 is, having regard to your long service, I thought I 
 would like to speak to you about him first." 
 
 "About Tammas? What's he been doing?" 
 
 "To be candid," said Mr. Drender, "your son 
 Thomas would be all the better for a little heart-to- 
 heart talk with his father." 
 
 MacWhinnie gave the points of his beard an up- 
 ward flick a certain sign of heated temper. 
 
 "Tammas is ma first-born, an' I'm ready to hear 
 an' answer onythin' that ony man has to say agin' 
 him. He knows his work none better." 
 
 "I don't doubt that he knows his work, MacWhin- 
 nie. Apparently, the only thing he doesn't know is 
 which side his bread is buttered on." 
 
 "Ye might ha'e said the same thing about Robert." 
 The little head nodded as to say, "That's one to me." 
 
 Mr. Drender frowned impatiently. 
 
 "We're not discussing Robert at the moment," he 
 said. "Unfortunately, there's seldom more than one 
 clear head in a family." 
 
 "Which is no paying much of a tribute to me, Mr. 
 Drender me, that brought them up." 
 
 "It's because I'm anxious to pay a tribute to your 
 worth, MacWhinnie, that I have sent for you to-day 
 to discuss this trouble about Thomas. He talks too 
 much." 
 
 "It's no a sin." 
 
 "That depends on his choice of subject, and to 
 whom he talks. Your son Thomas appears to have 
 imbibed a great deal of nonsense, doled out to him,
 
 MASTER AND MAN 
 
 and those like him, by orange-box orators on a Sunday 
 morning. You should keep him out of the parks, Mac- 
 Whinnie." 
 
 "Tammas is no boy. He's a man. He's older than 
 Robert." 
 
 "I think I said just now, MacWhinnie, that we 
 were not discussing Robert." 
 
 "If Robert's no less a MacWhinnie than he was 
 a while ago, he would be wi' me in saying that when 
 ye discuss one MacWhinnie ye discuss them a'." 
 
 "MacWhinnie, I want you thoroughly to under- 
 stand that, in sending for you this morning, I broke 
 one of the iron rules of Drender, Masters and Com- 
 pany. I preferred to give another chance to one who 
 had been ear-marked by a trusted foreman." 
 
 "I've asked you," said MacWhinnie truculently, 
 "to tell me what it is that Tammas has done. He 
 doesna gae to the park when he should be in the shop." 
 
 "No," said Mr. Drender; "but he brings the park 
 to the shop; and if there is one person against whom 
 I set my face it is the sower of discord." 
 
 "Tammas is a mischief-maker is that what ye're 
 telling me?" 
 
 "I'm merely repeating to you the information that 
 has been brought to me by one who has been with the 
 firm nearly thirty years, and whose character is as 
 white as that sheet of notepaper before me. Your 
 son Thomas appears to have some grievance. He 
 has been asked to state it, but prefers to go among 
 the men preaching, as I said just now, something 
 very much like rebellion." 
 
 "It's the first time I've ever heard of Tammas doing
 
 78 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 ony thing o' the sort. If I have one quiet son, Mr. 
 Drender, it's my boy Tammas. Rebellion? I like 
 that. Mebbe there's mair in it than you think." 
 
 "Exactly what I was about to say, MacWhinnie." 
 
 "Ay from Tammas's point o' view. It's no likely 
 that Dickenson " 
 
 "Mr. Dickenson, MacWhinnie." 
 
 "Then Mr. MacWhinnie, Mr. Drender. It's no 
 likely, I was sayin', that your foreman" he paused, 
 and there was a flash of triumph in his eyes "would 
 tell ye Tammas's side o' the case." 
 
 "I'm not going to argue about the matter, Mac- 
 Whinnie." And here, also, there was a dramatic 
 pause, with just as much triumph in Mr. Drender's 
 eyes. "Your son Thomas was taken into these works 
 when he was a boy, and he's been shown every con- 
 sideration by those above him. So far as I am con- 
 cerned, he may climb his orange boxes and tell every 
 wind of heaven what he thinks about the oppression 
 of labor by capital ; but he mustn't do it in my works. 
 Capital or as much of it as I and my partner repre- 
 sent provides your son with food and clothing, just 
 so long as he gives an honest return for the money 
 we pay him. If, in his opinion, that wage is too small, 
 let him come into this office, as you have come this 
 morning, and convince us that he's worth more. But 
 it must be understood that, if we cannot have loyalty 
 in a servant, we don't want that servant. And I 
 thought that, in taking this course in appealing to 
 you, as his father I was doing a kindness to both 
 of you. Apparently, I was mistaken." 
 
 "Ye were no mistaken about Robert, were ye, Mr.
 
 MASTER AND MAN 79 
 
 Drender? I suppose that if Robert had no gi'en ye 
 evidence of his ability ye wad ha'e been ready to 
 treat him as ye're treating Tammas now?" 
 
 "MacWhinnie, you try my patience." 
 
 "Does it no occur to ye, Mr. Drender, that Tammas 
 is no without brains?" 
 
 "I'm not concerned with his brains at the moment. 
 I'm disturbed by his stupidity." 
 
 "Mebbe, it's because Tammas has mair brains than 
 Robert that ye're so oneasy in your mind. Tammas 
 has a faculty for inventin', Mr. Drender. So had 
 Robert, ye say? Ay, but mebbe Tammas has the 
 brains to keep his inventions to hisself. Does that 
 sink in, Mr. Drender?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't understand you." 
 
 "No; but I'll warrant that ye'll think it out before 
 nicht." 
 
 "There's no more to be said, MacWhinnie. Al- 
 ready you have been given too much latitude. You 
 may go back to your shop. Again I beg of you to 
 speak to your son Thomas, and advise him that, if he 
 would keep his place in the firm of Drender, Masters 
 and Company, he must learn first to keep a still 
 tongue in his head. Our men are not slaves. We 
 pay the union rate of wages. We endeavor to be con- 
 siderate to everyone, from the highest to the lowest. 
 That is one of the main principles on which the repu- 
 tation of the firm has been built up. Drive that into 
 your son's head. Good-morning, MacWhinnie." 
 
 "Nay, nay!" said Donald. "I'm no going to be 
 dismissed like that, Mr. Drender. Ye can't insult a 
 faither and stop at 'guid-morning.' I'll speak to Tarn-
 
 80 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 mas, and I'll advise him that it's about time he placed 
 a richt value on his brains, and found another place 
 where he'd be mair appreciated." 
 
 Mr. Drender had resumed his writing. MacWhin- 
 nie backed to the door. 
 
 "I've already told his faither that," he said de- 
 fiantly. "I'm leaving Drender, Masters and Company 
 to-day. Mebbe they'll get on without me, mebbe 
 they won't ; but I'll no stay here to be insulted, when 
 it's plain to everybody as has the eyes to see" he 
 raised his voice "that if it hadna been for Donald 
 MacWhinnie's son Robert the firm of Drender, Mas- 
 ters and Company wouldna be where it is to-day. And 
 ye can let that sink in, Mr. Drender. On'y three 
 days ago I said to Robert ' 
 
 The gray head was lifted from the writing-table. 
 
 "Ah!" MacWhinnie said sneeringly, "ye didna ken 
 that Robert was hame. And has naebody told ye that 
 he's gone awa' again before ye or your partner had 
 time to profit further frae the lad's brains?" 
 
 Again Mr. Drender picked up his pen. 
 
 "Close the door quietly as you go out, MacWhin- 
 nie," he said. 
 
 That night, and while they were dining alone, as 
 usual, John Drender suddenly looked up at Margaret. 
 
 "When did Robert MacWhinnie reach England?" 
 he asked. 
 
 She answered him promptly, and without a tremor 
 in her voice. 
 
 "You didn't tell me about it?" 
 
 "No, father. You were so preoccupied with the 
 Odessa contract."
 
 MASTER AND MAN 81 
 
 He muttered "H'm!" and resumed his meal. Then, 
 and with equal suddenness : "When did he go away?" 
 
 And again she answered him without betraying 
 herself. She knew that, from under the shelter of 
 his bushy gray eyebrows, he was watching her closely, 
 but she had perfect command of herself. 
 
 Mr. Drender bent again to his plate. 
 
 "He didn't tell me that he was going back. Quick 
 work, wasn't it? home and away again within a 
 week?" 
 
 The tears were ready to flood into her eyes, but 
 with great courage she mastered them, and prepared 
 to utter the lie that had been framing itself for days. 
 
 "It was my wish that he should return," she said. 
 
 "Your wish, Margaret ?" 
 
 "He was doing so splendidly out there, and it 
 seemed well, the right thing to do : to encourage him, 
 to urge him to greater success. They were anxious 
 that he should go back, although I don't suppose they 
 expected him to return so soon." 
 
 "You urged him to go back?" 
 
 "He was always so ready to take the advice offered 
 by me or you." 
 
 "What do you think about it now ?" 
 
 "I think he did the right thing don't you? He 
 will probably be away another three years. In that 
 time he should be able to lay the foundations of a 
 great future." 
 
 John Drender remained silent for a while, but his 
 eyes never left her face. Then, in a voice that 
 throbbed with admiration, he said: 
 
 "Margaret, you're a wonderful girl ! A level-headed
 
 82 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 girl like you is all that a man needs to help him along. 
 Well done, Margaret and well done, Robert Mac- 
 Whinnie! Work first!" 
 
 Another period of silence; then, as he sipped his 
 coffee, he recalled the incident of the morning. 
 
 "I sent for Donald MacWhinnie this morning," he 
 said, "and I'm sorry now that the conversation took 
 the turn it did, after what you've told me." 
 
 "I'm listening, father." And for the first time she 
 showed some nervousness. 
 
 "It was a very different MacWhinnie from the one 
 I knew some years ago. I sent for him to advise him 
 about his son Thomas." 
 
 "Robert's elder brother?" 
 
 John Drender nodded. 
 
 "He's been making a fool of himself agitating the 
 men. He has what his kinsfolk call a bee in the bon- 
 net, and I hoped that when his father had heard me, 
 he'd do his best to get rid of it. But, oh, no ! He took 
 the wrong attitude. He was rude and resentful. The 
 truth is, Margaret, that Robert MacWhinnie must ex- 
 pect to carry the whole family on his back. They're 
 living on his success. . . . He was very rude, and 
 gave me to understand that to-day would be the last 
 day he would spend with the firm." 
 
 Her cheeks had become pale of a sudden. 
 
 "Father, you don't mean that?" 
 
 "And if he hadn't given me his notice, I would 
 have given it to him ; and Thomas will follow him to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "Father" she moved to his chair, rested her hands
 
 MASTER 'AND MAN 83 
 
 on his shoulders, and looked away from him "do you 
 want to please me more than ever before?" 
 
 "What is it, Margaret?" 
 
 "I want you to write to Donald MacWhinnie, and 
 withdraw everything you said about his son Thomas. 
 And I want you to ask Thomas in a quiet way to go 
 on with his work, and bring any grievance he may 
 have before you, so that it may be inquired into." 
 
 "My dear Margaret!" He half turned, so that she 
 couldn't avoid his eyes. "Do you know what you're 
 asking?" 
 
 "I have a reason for it a strong reason." 
 
 "You're thinking of Robert, and of what he'll 
 think." 
 
 "Yes, I'm thinking of Robert, and of what he'll 
 think; and it's because I know what he'll think that I 
 want you to do as I have suggested." 
 
 "You can't be serious, Margaret! You wouldn't 
 have me apologize to the likes of them?" 
 
 "It wouldn't be an apology; at least, not to those 
 intelligent enough to understand your relative posi- 
 tions. And I would much rather you apologize than 
 seem to be mean and spiteful." 
 
 His manner changed at once. 
 
 "You shall have your own way, little girl." 
 
 And as she went to her own room that night, the 
 kindly look in his eyes deceived her. 
 
 There was something wrong, he said to himself.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 TEARS BEHIND THE SMILES 
 
 A WOMAN is never so lovable as when she is 
 trying to deceive the world about her own 
 unhappiness. During the few weeks immedi- 
 ately following the departure of Robert MacWhinnie 
 and his sister, Margaret Drender crept closer than 
 ever to the heart of her father. Not once in that time 
 did she give him an opportunity to question her. 
 Throughout the day the laughter of the wind as it 
 swept up the river was in her voice ; only the sun was 
 reflected in her great dark eyes. Courage is the pre- 
 rogative of woman, no matter what the claims of man. 
 Margaret completely deceived the gray old ironmas- 
 ter, who secretly guessed at a rupture. She almost 
 deceived herself. 
 
 And then came his letter. In a measure it was ex- 
 pected by her, for even in those moments when she 
 had tried her hardest to steel her heart against him, she 
 could not accuse him of cowardice; he was bound to 
 write something. If it were only a threadbare excuse, 
 he would write it. The letter came on a morning when 
 she was wondering how much longer she would be 
 able to keep up the deceit of indifference, when she 
 was doubting her strength of mind to go through an- 
 
 84
 
 TEARS BEHIND THE SMILES 85 
 
 other day with a smile in her eyes and a pain in her 
 heart. And although the letter left her practically 
 where she was, it palliated the pain. 
 
 "S. S. Hikasa Maru. 
 "COLOMBO. 
 
 "My DEAR MARGARET. Every day since we left Tilbury 
 I have sat down in the quiet of my cabin to write this 
 letter, and the task has been as great a torture as the read- 
 ing of the letter must be to you. Your love the love that 
 I joyed in the love that showed me the stars when all else 
 was dark and forbidding, must be changed to scorn. You 
 must in your heart believe that God would have been kinder 
 had we never been allowed to meet, to know each other, to 
 share the confidences of each other. You are gone from 
 me. I know that. I feel it. I have sacrificed that which 
 I held most dear, and yet, even in this calm which comes 
 after the storm of impulse, even now, when I can sit alone 
 and reflect on all that has happened, I feel that if you were 
 cognizant of the facts, your love, instead of changing to 
 scorn, would be deepened. And I dare not plead for a 
 continuance of that love, for even you, my Margaret, must 
 not be privy to my thoughts. Would that you could think 
 of me as on that dear night when first I held you in my 
 arms. 
 
 "I am on my way back to the Far East, where work 
 awaits me, and Jean, my beloved sister, is accompanying me. 
 She seems to be very happy. Only a few minutes ago I 
 heard her voice, singing an old Scottish ballad that we used 
 to sing as children. I want her to be happy. I know that 
 you, with your great heart, would like her to be happy. Out 
 yonder she is going to be my housekeeper. I listen to her 
 talking of the prospect with my heart aching. Is it pos- 
 sible for you to believe this: When I arrived in England 
 a few weeks ago my heart was bursting for sight of you. I 
 remember that when first the white cliffs of Dover broke 
 through the haze of morning as we steamed up the Channel, 
 I leaned over the side and held out my arms toward them ; 
 it was your dear face that I saw, your arms that were held 
 out to mine. In the East I had applied myself to work even
 
 86 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 as you had wished. With the promise of your dear self 
 before me I set out to achieve that which would have seemed 
 hopeless of achievement without your love and encourage- 
 ment. Among the whites out yonder I was known as 'The 
 lucky dog.' They had no such stimulus as I possessed. 1 
 used to laugh at their envy good-natured envy. I wonder 
 if I shall be able to laugh now. They will call me 'The 
 lucky dog' again, for I mean to work as I never worked be- 
 fore. If they only knew! 
 
 "Margaret, bear with me a little while. When I reached 
 the river on my way home it was as though the whole world 
 had moved aside to show me you, awaiting me. And yet I 
 left the country without seeing you, without exchanging 
 a single word. The short note I dispatched to 'Jarrowside' 
 was terrible in its brevity. You must have thought that for 
 three years I had been devising the letter that would hurt 
 the most. But if I had seen you, Margaret, I could not 
 have done that which I have done, and I am satisfied that 
 the task I have undertaken was meant for me. How easy 
 it is to encourage fatalism ! I am beginning to believe that 
 in the beginning some men and some women are deliberately 
 chosen for sacrifice that others may be guided chosen, not 
 because of omissions, but because they are regarded as the 
 right and proper instruments. Are they to be rewarded for 
 those sacrifices ? Does God mean that a man or a woman 
 shall undergo pain and suffering without their having mer- 
 ited it ? . . . Oh ! I could fight this out to a thousand 
 conclusions, but I must learn so to school myself that the 
 joy of the last three years will stand as the reward in ad- 
 vance of the duty undertaken. 
 
 ''How I loved you, Margaret loved you as I believe few 
 men could have loved ! And you loved me. I was happy 
 in that knowledge. Margaret, dare I ask you to go on be- 
 lieving? Dare I suggest that the greatest test of a wom- 
 an's love for a man is her profound belief in him until, from 
 his own lips, not from his actions, she learns the truth? 
 
 "ROBERT." 
 
 If Margaret could have seen Robert MacWhinnie 
 writing that letter, or overheard what followed when
 
 TEARS BEHIND THE SMILES 87 
 
 Jean came to interrogate him on it, she might have 
 been kinder in her reply. . . . 
 
 The ship had dropped anchor within Colombo Har- 
 bor at sunrise. At nine o'clock Jean, dressed in white 
 and reveling in the wonders of the most beautiful 
 garden in the world, came to him while he was on 
 deck, with a proposal that they should go ashore. For 
 the first time since they left England he refused her 
 request; but, rather than that she should be disap- 
 pointed, he arranged for her to join a party of passen- 
 gers; and as she went over the side, he told her to 
 enjoy herself to the full, and that by the time she re- 
 turned he would have finished all his correspondence, 
 and if there were time they would dine that evening 
 at the Galle Face Hotel. 
 
 "So don't exhaust all your interest in Colombo, 
 Jean," he said cheerfully. "The real beauties of this 
 island are never apparent until nightfall. Wait till 
 you see the moon hanging over the town like a silver 
 lantern, and the stars so clear and near to you that 
 you feel you want to reach up and steal them from 
 their setting. I have already promised the first officer 
 to go ashore with him when the cargo is finished with 
 and the hatches closed. We'll have a ricksha' ride by 
 moonlight, and we'll select the bungalow we mean to 
 settle in when all the work is finished, and we can 
 bring the family out. So, off you go, and don't worry 
 about me. There are piles and piles of letters to be 
 written, and the homeward-bound mail boat will be in 
 to-morrow, just before we sail." 
 
 And, as the launch blustered its way across the 
 water to the landing-stage, Robert went down below,
 
 88 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 and commenced the hardest task he had yet under- 
 taken. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when he heard Jean's 
 voice calling to him from the alleyway outside the 
 cabin. She had returned, hot and flushed and full of 
 the wonders of the island. 
 
 "Robert, man, are you not finished yet ? Here's the 
 purser asking for letters. They must go ashore to- 
 night." 
 
 "Coming, Jean!" he called back. "My letters will 
 be posted, even if I have to swim ashore." He closed 
 down his letter, gathered up the few others of a busi- 
 ness nature that lay on his table, and hurried out. Jean 
 wanted to take them to the agent herself, but he clung 
 to them with suspicious tightness. The letters were 
 handed over to the agent. The launch whistled her 
 "Good night" to the ship, and with the sigh of one 
 who feels that the greatest labor of his life is con- 
 cluded, Robert slipped his arm round Jean's waist, and 
 they went for'ard to watch the swift coming of night 
 and listen to the crooning of the island, quarter of a 
 mile away. They had an hour in which to talk and 
 dream, before it would be necessary to dress for their 
 visit to the hotel. 
 
 Jean, who had been very reserved since leaving Eng- 
 land, suddenly rested her hand on his. Darkness had 
 come with tropical swiftness, so that he could not 
 clearly distinguish her face ; but the throb in her voice 
 told him how deeply she had been thinking, and how 
 feigned had been her joy throughout the day. 
 
 "You wrote some very long letters, Robert," she 
 whispered.
 
 TEARS BEHIND THE SMILES 89 
 
 "Not very long, Jean ; but a spanner is more famil- 
 iar to my fingers than a pen." 
 
 "I knew you were going to write a lot of letters." 
 
 "How did you know that?" 
 
 "Because you've been writing them ever since you 
 left home writing them in your mind. I've seen 
 your lips moving, even when you have been lying back 
 in a deck chair pretending to be asleep." 
 
 "Jean, woman, you're suffering from the effects of 
 the tropical night! That sky, and the music of that 
 sea, and the aroma of spices would turn a dictionary 
 into a romance." 
 
 "And you're an awfully good actor, Robert. To 
 see you lying there with your eyes half closed, anyone 
 would think that your mind was at peace with the 
 world." 
 
 "Well, isn't it ? Shouldn't it be at peace ? Haven't 
 I every reason to be happy ?" 
 
 "Robert, dear, don't let me think that you have so 
 poor an opinion of me. You're not saying to yourself, 
 'She's happy because she believes me to be happy?' 
 You're not thinking that because I smile and run about 
 the decks all day, and talk and make myself agreeable 
 to the other passengers you're not thinking that I'm 
 putting a mean price on what you've done for me ?" 
 
 "My dear Jean, I've done for you only what any 
 brother would do for his sister." 
 
 "Ah, no, Robert! You've done something so big 
 that I can't yet estimate it. I have been wondering if 
 I shall ever estimate it rightly. . . . Have you written 
 to Margaret?" 
 
 "Naturally."
 
 90 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "And not so naturally, either, Robert. I know that 
 you've been trying to write to her every minute of the 
 weeks we've been away." 
 
 "I told you I'm not good at writing." 
 
 "No, and you're not good at forgetting, either." 
 
 "I'm afraid you are, Jean, because I told you dis- 
 tinctly that it was Margaret's wish that I should go 
 back to the Far East." 
 
 "You didn't tell me that you'd seen her." 
 
 "Jean, you've a very bad memory. I told you that 
 I was going down to Jarrowside." 
 
 "But did you go, Robert?" 
 
 "Why should you worry your head about it ?" 
 
 "I'll tell you why, Robert. It's because I've been 
 wondering lately how much a sister has a right to ex- 
 pect from a brother." 
 
 "Jean, didn't you promise me, a few minutes after 
 we cast off at Tilbury, that not until I broached the 
 subject should it be mentioned again?" 
 
 She lay back on the chair, and said, very slowly, but 
 with great determination: 
 
 "I, myself, shall write to Margaret." 
 
 Instantly he gripped her wrist. 
 
 "That will be a poor reward for anything I may 
 have done," he said. "I don't wish you to write to 
 her. Margaret and I thoroughly understand each 
 other. Now promise me again that you will do no 
 such thing." 
 
 She was silent for a moment, and the light of the 
 moon showed him the tears in her eyes. 
 
 "It's a simple promise to make, Jean," he urged 
 gently.
 
 TEARS BEHIND THE SMILES 91 
 
 "You loved Margaret, Robert?" 
 
 "I love her now." 
 
 "You'll never love another woman as you love her?" 
 
 "No, I don't think so." 
 
 "And there's only one thing you love more than 
 life." 
 
 He looked the question. 
 
 "I mean your honor, Robert ; the honor of the Mac- 
 Whinnies." 
 
 He did not answer, and she took his silence for an 
 affirmative. With the tears streaming down her 
 cheeks, she said brokenly : 
 
 "I understand, Robert. That is why you're taking 
 me away." 
 
 And Robert MacWhinnie said to himself : "So long 
 as she understands that, she will not attempt to write 
 to anyone at home." 
 
 The quartermaster came along the deck. 
 
 "Mr. Tyson's compliments, sir, and he will be ready 
 to go ashore within half an hour." 
 
 "My compliments to Mr. Tyson," said Robert firm- 
 ly. "We shall be ready. Come, Jean."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 TEMPERAMENT 
 
 MARGARET DRENDER'S reply to Robert's 
 letter reached him a month after he landed 
 at Kobe. It was very short, and contained 
 no more and no less than he expected. It was ad- 
 dressed to him at the shipping agent's office, and he 
 carried it unopened in his pocket for an hour before he 
 had the courage to break the seal. 
 
 "No one" [she wrote] "could doubt the sincerity of your 
 letter. But if you loved me as you say you did, and do, 
 is there proof of that love in your reluctance to take me 
 into your confidence? If I could not have helped you in 
 your difficulty, whatever it is, at least I could not have made 
 it greater. You ask me to believe in you until I have 
 learned the truth from your own lips. I will ; because, 
 whatever happens now, it cannot make any difference. But, 
 Robert, you are asking a great deal of a woman. When 
 you wrote your letter, had you in your mind the fear that 
 this separation was to be for all time? Had you in your 
 mind the belief that as the years crept in between, the pain 
 would be forgotten the pain, not only of the heart, but of 
 the mind, the pain of humbled pride? If that was your idea, 
 I will for a moment put my modesty aside, and ask you to 
 remember that I was not a girl when your letter came." 
 
 By this time Jean's sorrow had been partially for- 
 gotten in the joyous contemplation of her new sur- 
 roundings. While at Nagasaki Robert had been able 
 
 92
 
 TEMPERAMENT 93 
 
 to arrange for the tenancy of a bungalow on the east- 
 ern fringe of Kobe, and under the brow of the hill 
 that looks across the harbor; so that when they 
 reached the port there was no necessity to stay at a 
 hotel and court the inquisitiveness of any Europeans 
 who might be staying there. He put it in another way 
 when speaking to her about it, fearing to awaken sad- 
 nesses. It was with the delighted laughter of a child 
 that she went from room to room. It was the doll's 
 house of her girlhood dreams the house in which the 
 dolls were actually alive. The quaint little charcoal 
 stove, the hibachi, the little shrine in the corner, the 
 lily-white rice mats, and, above all, the doll, O Yucha 
 San, who had served the previous tenant two years, 
 and had eagerly awaited the arrival of the MacWhin- 
 nies from Nagasaki. Jean surveyed the little kneeling 
 figure in sheer delight, and begged Robert to keep 
 talking to the girl so that she might listen to her 
 tongue. In the compound there was the most fairy- 
 like of gold-fish ponds, fringed by dwarf plum trees 
 and ferns. From the steps of the veranda a perfect 
 panorama of sea and land spread itself out; and of 
 an evening, when the masthead lights of incoming 
 ships twinkled like so many stars when the scream 
 and hum of the cicada deepened the romance of the 
 atmosphere, Jean felt that the other world had passed 
 away and life was beginning anew. 
 
 Jean was in the compound behind the bungalow 
 when Robert returned from the shipping office with 
 Margaret's letter in his pocket. The little Japanese 
 maid, who had been sitting with her and endeavoring 
 to teach her the rudiments of the native language,
 
 94 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 shuffled backward out of hearing as he came on to the 
 veranda and called to his sister. He had not told her 
 why he went to the shipping office, but she shrewdly 
 guessed at the nature of his errand. And narrowly 
 she scrutinized his open face for any sign of depres- 
 sion. But it was in a cheery voice that he called to 
 her, and as he flung his topee on the rice-matted floor 
 he signaled to her to come up from the garden and 
 listen to the news he had for her. 
 
 "Jean, girl, I'm going to leave you to yourself for 
 three or four days. Any objection?" 
 
 She shook her head ; but there was an anxious look 
 on her face. 
 
 "There you are," he said, almost boisterously, as he 
 flung a letter toward her. "Read it, if you can." 
 
 It was in Japanese, and gravely she handed it back. 
 
 "Come," he laughed, "for what am I paying O 
 Yucha San ten yen a month, if you haven't yet mas- 
 tered the simplest language in the world ?" 
 
 "Who interpreted it for you, Robert?" 
 
 "Never mind," he laughed. "I have a translation 
 here. I'm going down to Tokio to see one of the gov- 
 ernment officials, and I shall be away no more than 
 four days at the most. I shall then know what I am 
 going to do during the next six months at least. From 
 what I have been able to gather, these people are in- 
 tent on pushing the railway to the northwest of the 
 island as fast as possible, and the amusing part of it 
 is that they have no reason for it, or, rather, none that 
 they care to divulge, even to Robert MacWhinnie. 
 Oh, they're an amazing people, but not nearly so clever
 
 TEMPERAMENT 95 
 
 as they imagine themselves to be ! Still, that's not our 
 concern, is it, Jean?" 
 
 "No, Robert." She was watching him with set eyes. 
 What he had already said hadn't interested her in the 
 slightest. She was waiting for something which she 
 knew he would not tell her. 
 
 "Our concern is to give them brains for their 
 money. Isn't that it, Jean? And when we've sold 
 enough of the commodity, back we go. I'm still keen 
 on Colombo. It's time the MacWhinnies took up their 
 estate there. You'll be all right, Jean? I'll arrange 
 with O Yucha San to look after you, and I've already 
 seen the serjeant de ville, as my old acquaintance 
 Hiraki likes to call himself. You need have no fear, 
 for the burglars in this country are very discriminat- 
 ing. They seldom get farther than the servants' quar- 
 ters." 
 
 "When are you going, Robert ?" 
 
 "To-night. It's a long train journey thirty-six 
 hours and more, but the sooner I start, the sooner it 
 will be finished. Now, help me to pack." 
 
 She obeyed like any well-trained housekeeper, not 
 forgetting a single article her mother would have 
 thought of had she been sending him away. And she 
 went to the station with him, and laughed and jested 
 while she stood with him awaiting the departure of 
 the train. She promised him that before he saw her 
 again she would know as much about the language as 
 he could wish her to know, and she kissed him with 
 all the love of a sister, assuring him that he need have 
 no anxiety about her while he was away; and her 
 "Sayonara" rang with hope and happiness.
 
 96 THE HOXOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 He returned to Kobe five days later, arriving late 
 at night He had telegraphed to Jean the time of his 
 arrival, and, although he did not expect her to be 
 awaiting him at the station, he was greatly surprised 
 to find the bungalow in complete darkness. He dis- 
 missed his jinrickisha boy, and went quickly up the 
 veranda steps. The sliding door was unlocked. As 
 he set his foot across the threshold, he called out in a 
 nervous voice: "Jean, where are you?" 
 
 He fancied that he heard a movement in their little 
 sitting room, and he turned quickly and walked in, 
 striking a vesta as he went. 
 
 Jean was there seated at the table and before 
 the name of the match died out, he marked the hollow- 
 ness of her cheeks, the haggard, weary look in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Jean, light the lantern !" he cried, trying to appear 
 calm. 
 
 But it was he, himself, who lit it. Then, as he 
 turned again in her direction, the deep red light of the 
 paper lantern resting on her face, he held up his hands 
 in cilcinn. 
 
 "What has happened, Jean? Why don't you 
 speak? 9 
 
 She had put on a grav silk kimono ; the folds of her 
 hair had not been unfastened, but it was all loose, as 
 though in pain she had continually brushed it back 
 with her hands. 
 
 "Why are you sitting here in the darkness?" He 
 approached her chair, holding out a hand imploringly. 
 "Jean, have you gone out of your mind ? Why do you 
 $it there staring at me in that manner? I ask you, why
 
 TEMPERAMENT 97 
 
 are you sitting here in the darkness, and what has hap- 
 pened ?" 
 
 And before she could answer he understood. The 
 agitation of his mind passed. He became calm, ter- 
 ribly calm, in an instant. 
 
 "Jean, my bonnie girl," he said soothingly, and 
 leaned over the table toward her, "give it to me." 
 
 She raised her right hand, and very gently he took 
 the pistol from it. 
 
 "Where did you get this this toy from?" 
 
 "O Yucha San." 
 
 "Now, show me what you have in the other hand." 
 And mechanically she brought that into the light, and 
 showed him the crumpled note paper. He took it 
 from her. It was Margaret Drender's letter, which 
 had been addressed to the shipping office. 
 
 "The servants are out, I suppose?" he said. 
 
 She moved her head very slightly. 
 
 "You sent them away for the night." 
 
 He went across the floor, lit a second lantern, and 
 brought it near the table. Then he sat down, and, 
 placing his elbows on the table, rested his chin in his 
 hands, looking at her intently the while. 
 
 "I thought you were much stronger than that, 
 Jean," he said sadly. "I thought your love for me 
 was greater. Did you try to think what my feelings 
 would be, had 'had anything happened? . . . This 
 letter where did you find it? In my pocket, I sup- 
 pose, when you came to brush my clothes ? You must 
 have done that the morning after I left. How long 
 have you been sitting there making up your mind what 
 to do?"
 
 98 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Since yesterday morning, Robert." 
 
 "You've been here alone since yesterday morning? 
 And in all that time you never thought of me and my 
 feelings ?" 
 
 "It's because you haven't been out of my mind since 
 yesterday morning." 
 
 "Did you really mean to take your life ?" 
 
 "Why should I rob you of yours ?" 
 
 "Who told you that you'd robbed me of mine ?" 
 
 "Of your happiness, your hopes." 
 
 "Have I ever shown you that I was unhappy ? Have 
 I ever said anything that would lead you to believe 
 that my hopes were not even greater now than ever 
 they were?" 
 
 "It is because you haven't said anything that I 
 meant to do it. It's because I know that all this time 
 you've been acting, you've been sacrificing yourself. 
 It was I who sinned, not you, Robert. Why should 
 you pay the penalty?" 
 
 "Who told you that you'd sinned ?" 
 
 "Else, why did you bring me away?" 
 
 "To be my housekeeper; to make this exile for it 
 is exile less lonely. There w T as no one in the world 
 whom I would have preferred to you." 
 
 "You're saying that because " 
 
 "Because what, Jean ?" 
 
 "Because you're my brother that's all. I don't 
 believe that you, yourself, realize what you've given 
 up for me." 
 
 "It was my duty, Jean." 
 
 "Rob, don't say that!"
 
 TEMPERAMENT 99 
 
 "No, not my duty. It was because of the love I 
 have for you." 
 
 "No one else the others wouldn't have done it." 
 
 "You never loved the others as you loved me. Jean, 
 do you mean to tell me that you've forgotten the time 
 when we were boy and girl ? Have you forgotten that 
 Saturday afternoon, in Bally houstie, when Sandy Mac- 
 Cormick made my nose bleed, and you 'paid' him with 
 your own bare hands? Have you forgotten the time 
 when we were lost together, on the Haddington 
 moors?" he slipped naturally into the accent of his 
 youth "when we had to stay out a' the nicht, and 
 ye took off your wee bit petticoat and wrapped it 
 around me? Have ye forgotten how we used to read 
 together, and you drew 'Robert MacWhinnie as a 
 boy, Robert MacWhinnie as a man, and Robert Mac- 
 Whinnie as a millionaire'? Oh, Jean, have you for- 
 gotten all that? Because not a single incident of those 
 days has left my memory. Why, when I was out 
 here before, sitting alone in a place just like this, I 
 used to talk to you to your memory. And you were 
 ready to do this this thing to-night !" 
 
 She had dropped her head on her arm, and her sobs 
 shook the table. He left his chair and went over to 
 her, placing his arm around her neck and raising her 
 head so that he could press cheek against cheek. 
 
 "Jean, my bonnie lass," he whispered tenderly, "I 
 know all that you're suffering, but I want you to be- 
 lieve that there are bright days ahead. You've robbed 
 me of nothing. I still have my hopes and ambitions, 
 and it's work that I want, Jean. I want to be big and 
 important ay! as important as old Baillie MacGrath
 
 100 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 of Ballyhoustie, and ye mind how important he was! 
 Jean, it's just grand to realize that I have so fine a 
 sister ! I should never have done the work that I have 
 done if it hadn't been for you, and I shouldn't attempt 
 what I'm going to attempt in the future, if you were 
 not here with me." 
 
 "It's the shame, Robert, the shame." 
 
 And he could tell by the depth of her voice how 
 acute was the mental pain. 
 
 "I've thought of all that," he said softly, hoping to 
 pacify her. 
 
 "And it's not right that my shame should be visited 
 on you." 
 
 "Would it have helped, if I had arrived too late to- 
 night? Jean, you must never again allow your mind 
 to get into this state. The shame that you speak of is 
 one that one that your Maker would understand. 
 The other that you contemplated is one that you 
 couldn't expect Him to forgive." 
 
 "But why are you doing this for me? Why should 
 you do it ?" 
 
 "For only one reason : You're my sister." 
 
 She hesitated, and, covering her eyes again, said 
 plaintively : "You're not doing it, Robert, because of 
 the disgrace to you if it were known at home?" 
 
 "No," he said, very firmly. 
 
 "Then, tell me, Robert, what is your plan? What 
 have you in your mind?" 
 
 "At present, nothing; although the news I was 
 bringing you was helping me to think. We're leaving 
 Kobe at once. I'm going up to Sendai, to take charge 
 of a couple of hundred native engineers bridge-
 
 TEMPERAMENT 101 
 
 building. You and I are going, Jean. Probably you'll 
 be the only white woman there. It will be lonely for 
 you." 
 
 "It couldn't be lonely, Robert, with you." 
 
 "That's the way to look at it. We shall be up there 
 probably some months. The government are doing 
 everything they can for our comfort." 
 
 "Our comfort, Robert?" 
 
 "They understand that my sister is with me. To- 
 morrow we shall see about the packing up." He re- 
 peated the word "to-morrow," paused, and looked at 
 her. "What a to-morrow it would have been for me, 
 Jean, if " 
 
 She rose from her chair, and placed her arms around 
 his neck. 
 
 "Robert," she whispered, "will you kiss me?" 
 
 He held her tightly in his arms, and kissed her 
 brow again and again. 
 
 "I shall always think of to-morrow," she said. 
 "Robert, you've shamed me." 
 
 "No, not shamed you, Jean," he answered. "I've 
 only tried to open your eyes, for if there's work out 
 here for me to do, there's work for you." 
 
 "God give me work!" she said, and hid her face 
 against his breast. 
 
 In a little while, and when her sobs had ceased, he 
 led her to her room, and in the absence of the servants 
 unrolled her rice-mat. He kissed her good night, and 
 went back to the sitting room. He filled his pipe, lit it, 
 turned out the lanterns, and went onto the veranda. 
 
 Dawn was breaking, and, as he watched, a full- 
 rigged ship sailed from beyond the rim of the ocean
 
 102 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 full into the crimson light of the breaking day sailed 
 with white wings stretched full out to the welcome 
 wind, like a great bird of hope, nearing the long- 
 sought haven.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 PAINTED HOURS 
 
 THAT scene in the bungalow at Kobe was never 
 again referred to by Robert, although on many 
 occasions Jean sought to plumb the depths of 
 his mind. But it was characteristic of him that, hav- 
 ing once set a seal on something which he intended to 
 be closed, nothing could induce him to break it. None 
 could have doubted the intensity of his grief on that 
 night, but once the word of contrition had been spo- 
 ken, once the promise had been given that never again 
 would her mind turn in that direction, he freed him- 
 self of it all, and just as the sun breaks through the 
 darkness of night, so his ambition and natural bright- 
 ness broke through the darkness of what had almost 
 been a tragedy. His strength of mind and unfailing 
 optimism was infectious, and long before Sendai 
 was reached Jean had recalled some of the lightness of 
 her girlhood days. The natural wonders of the coun- 
 try through which they traveled stirred her to out- 
 bursts of admiration, and, although it was all very old 
 and familiar to Robert, he derived a new joy from 
 looking at it through her eyes. Always he was prom- 
 ising her that it was nothing to what she should see. 
 The evenings she loved the best, when the orange and 
 
 103
 
 104 THE HOXOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 amber sunsets made appeal to all that was artistic in 
 her. 
 
 On the outskirts of Sendai, a bungalow had been 
 placed at their disposal, and almost immediately they 
 settled down to what Robert declared was to be the 
 work of his lifetime. Those early days in Sendai 
 were full of promise, and Jean, as if in atonement for 
 the pain she had caused him at Kobe, threw her whole 
 heart into the duties of housekeeper. Often he won- 
 dered aloud how he had managed without her, or how 
 he could hope to manage in the future if she were not 
 with him. She loved the new country to which he had 
 brought her, and learned to assimilate customs in 
 weeks where he had floundered in years. 
 
 "Never be able to manage without you, Jean," he 
 would murmur, as she flitted about the veranda, ar- 
 ranging his papers, or gathering together his models. 
 
 "But I shall always be with you, Robert," she would 
 say, and his reply, half in jest, never varied : "It's all 
 a matter for yourself, Jean." 
 
 Oh, they were beautiful days of dreams and newly 
 planted hopes. It may be that, in the minds of those 
 who look upon these two from afar, there is a halting 
 fear that in Jean's nature there was a seed of selfish- 
 ness that developed as the days wore on. But who 
 shall blame her? Perhaps, if Robert had hinted at 
 the presence of such a seed, she would have shown by 
 her next action that she, herself, had been unaware of 
 it ; but in everything that he said and did there was the 
 warmth of a love that neither could estimate. 
 
 Wonderful days and wonderful nights, when all 
 the romance of an eastern sky and climate crept into
 
 PAINTED HOURS 105 
 
 their very souls, all the picturesqueness of the most 
 picturesque country in the world making appeal to 
 their sense of the beautiful. For reasons which he 
 plausibly explained to her, he made no attempt to cul- 
 tivate the acquaintance of the few Europeans engaged 
 in business in Sendai. His work was of such a char- 
 acter that throughout the day it was essential that he 
 should concentrate the whole of his thoughts upon it, 
 and in the evening he was too tired, physically and 
 mentally, to do more than rest on a rattan chair and 
 listen to Jean as she read, or sang, or wrote letters 
 aloud a habit of hers. Jean never allowed a mail to 
 leave without a letter from her to the people at home, 
 and sometimes, when she paused in the writing of one, 
 and the tears gushed to her eyes, he would take the 
 pen from her fingers and complete the task himself. 
 
 The railway was being constructed with all pos- 
 sible haste, and under him Robert had over two hun- 
 dred natives. The route kept to the coastline far be- 
 yond Sendai, and the bridge-building that had to be 
 undertaken demanded the most careful of workman- 
 ship. When Jean and Robert arrived at Sendai, they 
 found the work in charge of a European engineer, a 
 Scot like themselves. He had taken over the duties 
 temporarily, and was awaiting Robert with impatience. 
 A little, weazened man of sixty, he welcomed the 
 brother and sister with the enthusiasm that he would 
 have shown had he heard the skirl of the bagpipes, 
 and both of them could well understand the flooded 
 eyes and the peculiar little breaks in his voice when 
 he told them that they were the first Scots he had met 
 in ten years. His name was MacConnachie, and he
 
 106 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 came from Kilmarnock. He had been in the East 
 nearly thirty years, and yet there wasn't a family in 
 the town of Kilmarnock whose name he didn't remem- 
 ber. Jean asked him if he were going home, he hav- 
 ing told her that he had made as much as he was 
 likely to need. He shook his head, and with an accent 
 so broad and homelike that it brought a sob into Jean's 
 throat, he said he feared that long association with the 
 East had made him a foreigner to his own people. He 
 was returning to Nagasaki, where he intended to take 
 over the license of a tea garden. There, he said, he 
 would end his days, watching the ships come in, watch- 
 ing the "Blue Peter" go up, "and sighin' like a wee 
 bit lassie." 
 
 During the few days that he remained before relin- 
 quishing everything to Robert, MacConnachie spent a 
 great deal of time in the MacWhinnie bungalow ; and 
 he helped more than anyone else to give Jean an in- 
 sight into the native mind which was to strengthen her 
 in the days to come against the fears and forebodings 
 which were natural in her. 
 
 "For five years," MacConnachie said, "I was at 
 wor-rk away up in Canton. I like the Chinamen mair 
 than I like these people ; but I found that while I could 
 manage a hundred Chinks wi' a full-hearted flow of 
 Glasgie-Irish an' a monkey-wrench, I could do any- 
 thing wi' these people so long as I made them believe 
 that I had mair brains than themsel's." 
 
 Robert, after the departure of MacConnachie, was 
 the only European engaged on the work of construc- 
 tion, but from the Government engineering shops at 
 Kure had been sent a number of young men educated
 
 PAINTED HOURS 107 
 
 in England and Germany. They worked under him 
 as his immediate subordinates, and, although, as he 
 told Jean with a smile, they were there for the ex- 
 press purpose of profiting from his knowledge as an 
 engineer, both he and she found their companionship 
 a comfort in the long weeks when rain and frequent 
 earthquakes interfered with the progress of the rail- 
 way work. The principal of these young men of the 
 New Japan was Taro Yuchi, who, by reason of his 
 perfect command of English and his poetic fancies, 
 seemed to become almost indispensable to the Mac- 
 Whinnie household. For Robert he had a respect that 
 amounted almost to reverence ; Jean might have been 
 an empress, and her accent, given free rein on occa- 
 sions, the most wonderful music that had ever broken 
 on his ears. In those days, when the demands of the 
 railway work occupied most of his time and attention, 
 Robert was very grateful for the friendship of Taro 
 Yuchi and the little circle of subordinates who gath- 
 ered at his bungalow of an evening. 
 
 Robert's one great fear was now for Jean. While 
 he never gave any sign of allowing his thoughts to 
 dwell on that night in Kobe, while he was always 
 bright and cheerful in her presence, yet was he tor- 
 tured by thoughts of the future. There were days to 
 come when her courage would be tested with greater 
 severity. He hardly dared to think about those days, 
 and whenever she gave him the impression that her 
 own mind was wandering in that direction, he quickly 
 evolved some topic or controversy that would tend to 
 divert her thoughts. It was very seldom that her 
 mood aroused those fears in him. It was as though
 
 108 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 she had secretly reproached herself for the lack of 
 gratitude shown at Kobe, and had determined to do 
 her best to brighten the voluntary exile. From out of 
 the past she might have recalled the joyous tempera- 
 ment which had made her so beloved of him in the 
 Ballyhoustie days; indeed, she appeared to have made 
 up her mind to show him how great was her apprecia- 
 tion of all that he had done for her, and to make his 
 self-sacrifice less of a burden to him. She might have 
 had no thought of the future ; she was just a laughing 
 Scottish girl, and he was the one man in the world 
 that mattered. 
 
 The work of constructing the railway helped to keep 
 Robert's mind from thoughts that would be likely to 
 betray his feelings. Although he had laid the founda- 
 tions of success during his three years in the country, 
 there was a reputation to maintain. This strip of 
 country through which the line was to be carried pre- 
 sented so many natural difficulties that no greater test 
 of his skill as an engineer could have been imposed. 
 Many times did he and Taro Yuchi, the second in 
 command, sit out on the veranda of the bungalow, 
 wrestling with the problems before them, until the 
 stars paled and the drapings of the morning sun were 
 drawn aside. 
 
 In addition to the topographical difficulties, the hu- 
 man element had to be considered, and here it was 
 that Jean discovered in herself a strength that was to 
 help him when the trouble came. The number of men 
 placed at Robert's disposal was far from being suffi- 
 cient, and the authorities, imbued with vast ambitions, 
 but lacking financial resource, trimmed their expendi-
 
 PAINTED HOURS 109 
 
 ture with laudable economy but deplorable tact. The 
 natives engaged on the work of construction were 
 miserably paid, unfair advantage being taken of the 
 new spirit of patriotism that had come to stir the 
 semi-moribund life of the nation. The community of 
 workers was housed in the most primitive manner 
 imaginable, and, although something like organiza- 
 tion was attempted, the strain on Robert MacWhin- 
 nie's courage became greater as the weeks went by. 
 There were swamps to be crossed, which meant great- 
 er vigilance on the part of the two or three med- 
 ical students sent up from Tokio; and as Robert was 
 compelled to superintend the energies even of these 
 auxiliaries, he had little time for rest. During the 
 first two months, there was a great deal of sickness in 
 the camp, and it was here that Jean found a new field, 
 a new niche of which she had never dreamed. O 
 Yucha San, her little Kobe maid, would have re- 
 mained on her knees for days in admiration and awe 
 could she have marked the amazing progress which 
 Jean made in the study of the native language. More 
 than that, she had entered so deeply into the charac- 
 ter of the people that, within three months, she un- 
 derstood what was much more important than lan- 
 guage the temperament of the people among whom 
 she and her brother had come to live. When sickness 
 fell on the camp, she begged Robert to allow her to 
 interrogate the pathetically incompetent medical staff, 
 to find out how far they were able to combat the 
 common enemy, and to aid them with her advice in 
 matters of segregation and nursing generally. Before 
 the dread of this half-expected handicap had left Rob-
 
 110 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 ert's mind free to deal with the main work before 
 him, the outbreak of sickness had passed, and "O Jean 
 San" had been raised to a dazzlingly white throne in 
 the primitive minds of the native toilers. 
 
 But the work had been retarded, and Robert made 
 repeated requests to the authorities for additional la- 
 bor. The response was excessive politeness, without 
 a refusal, and without additional labor. The official 
 Japanese, who keeps his position so long as he obeys 
 orders and never gives affront, has an indescribable 
 faculty for making a pleader feel ashamed of his own 
 plea; he can garnish a refusal with so much flowery 
 language and delightful politeness that the "no" be- 
 comes more desirable than a "yes." 
 
 Robert pushed on bravely, content to place reliance 
 on the patriotism of the men under him. He was 
 less observant than Jean, who warned him on in- 
 numerable occasions that patriotism can stand any test 
 save that of actual want. "Robert, man," she would 
 say when they fell to discussing this aspect of the 
 work, "according to your expense sheets, you're paying 
 these men an average of fifty sen a day a shilling 
 and you expect them to drag their bones through 
 swamps and risk all the dangers of a treacherous cli- 
 mate for that. Dinna fling out your excuses about 
 patriotism, because patriotism is no fattening eno' for 
 them. Patriotism and a full stomach gae togither." 
 
 Jean was a world of sunshine in herself when the 
 clouds threatened Robert's sky, and, perhaps, he was 
 too absorbed in the work before him to pay tribute to 
 the greatness of her spirit in those Sendai months. 
 There might have been no shadow creeping toward
 
 PAINTED HOURS 111 
 
 her; she gave no sign of anticipating it. He never 
 saw a tear in her eyes during the two months after 
 leaving Kobe until that morning when he came back 
 from the cutting unexpectedly. 
 
 And, again, it was a letter or, rather, many letters 
 that had torn the mask from her face. Letters from 
 home! Letters to Robert, upon whom the family 
 leaned. One from Mrs. MacWhinnie : 
 
 "You must be getting a sight of money, Rob, and it's 
 grand to think that your own stand first. We thank you 
 for the fifty pounds. John Drender's cashier was in the 
 bank when I went with your father to get the money, and 
 we just flashed the bit papers in his face. Did you hear 
 from your father how Drender wanted to play the high and 
 mighty because you had brains and the sense to keep them 
 in the family? He'll never forgive your father for letting 
 you go back so as he couldn't pluck you any more. Was 
 all for turning your father and Tammas away from his 
 works, he was, but your father soon showed him what was 
 what. Don't say anything to Jean about it; she has had 
 worry enough, and we hope this holiday will do her good. 
 We owe a deal to Jean, Rob ; I've realized that sin you went 
 away. The boys are awful good to their mother, and Tam- 
 mas is doing that splendid with the speaking. We shall all 
 be proud of the lad yet, and I hear, although he hasn't said 
 anything to his mother, yet, that a fine bit lassie has her 
 eye on him. Jean'll know her Maggie Drummond; her 
 father came from Glasgow a year before you came back 
 from abroad." 
 
 And there was a letter from David, thanking Robert 
 for the check which had settled his "trouble" nicely; 
 and a bundle of crude drawings from the father, who 
 was certain that he had invented an "eye-opener," and 
 wondered what Robert thought about the traveling
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 crane, and whether he felt inclined to put down the 
 money for the models. 
 
 Jean had come on the letters in the same way that 
 she had found the Kobe one, and she held them to- 
 ward him with the tears raining down her cheeks. 
 
 "My heart's just bleeding for ye, Rob," she sobbed. 
 "Is it no enough that ye should have my trouble to 
 bear?" 
 
 "Jean," he warned her, somewhat sternly, "I shall 
 burn all the letters immediately after reading them, if 
 you persist in allowing them to make you unhappy. 
 Why" he lowered his voice "I was beginning to be- 
 lieve that you'd seen the silver lining of the cloud, and 
 that you understood how perfectly content I am." 
 
 "That's like you, Rob," she said, drying her eyes. 
 "But so many things creep up to remind me of the 
 past, even if I do sometimes bring myself to forget." 
 
 "And, Jean," he said, with a sigh, "your gratitude 
 would be all the more convincing if you said no more 
 about it. My mind's just filled with the work that's 
 going on here. If only I could persuade these people 
 to let me have double the staff, I could put this job 
 through in half the contract time ; and what a feather 
 in my cap that would be! And, Jean, there's some- 
 thing else to live for out here." 
 
 She threw him a look of inquiry he had taken to 
 pacing the floor. 
 
 "I had decided not to say anything to you about it 
 until the evidences were stronger; I didn't want to 
 raise false hopes." 
 
 "False hopes, Robert? What about?" 
 
 "Yuchi was the first to convey the information. H:
 
 PAINTED HOURS 113 
 
 is a clever little fellow, and, although he has no con- 
 ception of the importance o,f the discovery, he seems 
 to understand that we're on a pretty good thing, if 
 only v^e can get the authorities to grant the conces- 
 sions we intend to seek." 
 
 "Robert, are you talking like this just to turn my 
 thoughts ?" 
 
 "No. I'm going to tell you of something that ought 
 to strengthen you in your determination to forget the 
 past and to march onward. Jean, my girl, you and I 
 have never thrashed out this trouble together, and I 
 don't intend to do so now, because if I said to you that 
 I thought nothing of it, that it was nothing, a matter 
 of indifference, you wouldn't believe me; and I can't 
 tell you that it is something so terrible that all the 
 world would be justified in turning its back upon you. 
 But I do insist that in all the circumstances you have 
 no right to see only the dark side of everything. After 
 all, Jean, I owe a great deal to you. I wish you could 
 realize that. Call it what you will telepathy, trans- 
 mission of thought, or inspiration I know only this : 
 that when you're about, when I can hear your voice, I 
 feel brighter, my brain works more actively." 
 
 "Was there ever such a man !" she murmured. 
 
 "Now, this thing that has happened, or is going to 
 happen. For the first time since I commenced to earn 
 an appreciable salary, I regretted that it had been 
 necessary to send so much to the old people. If I 
 could put my hand on all that I have sent to them dur- 
 ing the last few years, I might be an immensely rich 
 man in less than twelve months from now. But that's 
 the luck of the MacWhinnies."
 
 114 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "It's not like you to regret what you've done for 
 them." 
 
 "I'm not complaining, Jean ; only it's hard to be led 
 right up to the verge of wealth and not to be allowed 
 to stretch forth a hand to take some of it. Still, I'm 
 not complaining, as I said just now. I am in a position 
 to put my hand on a certain amount, and Taro Yuchi 
 has several influential friends in Tokio who, he says, 
 will come forward at the right moment." 
 
 "But for what, Robert? What is it that you're talk- 
 ing about?" 
 
 "We touched coal the other day. There's no doubt 
 about it coal ! And unless I'm greatly mistaken, the 
 seam runs for miles, and near the surface." 
 
 "And what then?" Her eyes were glowing with 
 wonder. 
 
 - "What then, Jean? If we can obtain a concession 
 from the Government to mine the district well, you 
 wouldn't be able to calculate the worth of it as the 
 result of two years' working. Yuchi discovered it. 
 I'll give him credit for that. I was the first that he 
 took into his confidence. I once rendered a little serv- 
 ice to Yuchi a very small matter but I don't think 
 he'll ever forget it. There's a lot in that old injunc- 
 tion of casting your bread upon the waters. . . . Any- 
 way, you keep that to yourself, and as soon as there's 
 any development of the project you shall know all 
 about it. Try to think of it, Jean, as something to live 
 for, and that'll keep your mind off other matters. 
 Now, having dried those tears, I've something else to 
 tell you. Three or four of Yuchi's friends came up 
 from the south by this morning's train. He is enter-
 
 PAINTED HOURS 115 
 
 taining them at a tea house, and you and I will join 
 the party. You'll enjoy it, Jean. It's about the only 
 interesting feature of this country, in my opinion. I 
 don't know much about the tea houses of Sendai, but 
 Yuchi tells me there is one which he calls 'The House 
 of a Thousand Joys.' We are to dine a la Japonaise, 
 and if you get half as much fun out of it as I did out 
 of one at Tokio, you'll talk about it for the rest of 
 your life. The party commences to-morrow after- 
 noon at four. I shall come home early, and we'll go 
 down in jinrikishas." 
 
 She grasped his hand impulsively, and her eyes 
 danced as she said : 
 
 "Robert, you're always thinking of how you can 
 please me." 
 
 "And you'll always please me," he replied gravely, 
 "if you'll try to remember that when you're depressed, 
 I'm depressed when you're elated, my sky is full of 
 sunshine."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 AT THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND JOYS 
 
 THE finishing touch to a simple, yet exquisite, 
 toilet was a maple leaf loosely threaded in 
 Jean's bronze hair; the dress was of plain white 
 muslin, and made by herself during the voyage from 
 England; a tartan sash clasped the waist. As she 
 came down from her room, Robert caught her up, and 
 with boyish enthusiasm kissed her on both cheeks, de- 
 claring that not until that moment had he realized how 
 beautiful she was. And though she bade him "ha'e 
 done wi' his havering/' her cheeks blushed with pride. 
 They drove in a double jinrikisha to the House of 
 a Thousand Joys, and whirled up to the veranda in a 
 cloud of dust. A line of geisha awaited them on the 
 veranda, their gaudily colored kimonos suggesting a 
 strip from a rainbow. Behind the line were Yuchi 
 and his friends; the little man came down the steps 
 and, with excessive politeness, assisted Jean to alight. 
 Robert had leaped from the flimsy conveyance as soon 
 as the shafts were lowered to the ground by the "boy," 
 and, after slapping Yuchi heartily on the shoulders, 
 ran lightly up the steps to grasp the hand of a tall, 
 bronzed European who was standing among Yuchi's 
 friends like a Gulliver among the Lilliputians. 
 
 "Morrow! Dick Morrow!" he cried delightedly. 
 116
 
 AT THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND JOYS 117 
 
 "Who arranged this pleasant surprise?" He swung 
 round, Morrow's hand still grasped in his, and hailed 
 Jean, who was returning the welcomes of the geisha 
 in their own language, and enjoying her slips as much 
 as was Yuchi. "Jean, my dear, come here at once and 
 let me introduce you to the whitest man in the East." 
 
 She went forward slowly, falteringly. Somehow a 
 shadow had fallen on the House of a Thousand Joys. 
 She felt nervous, afraid, and there was deep reproach 
 in the glance she gave her brother. 
 
 "Dick Morrow, dear" he was too excited to read 
 aright the look in her eyes "the Reverend Richard 
 Morrow, to give him his full handle, but 'Dick' suits 
 him better than all the titles even the Mikado could 
 heap upon him." 
 
 A geisha came sliding out of the house, and with a 
 smile and a word of Japanese, Morrow handed her 
 his topee, then moved toward Jean. She held out her 
 hand ; all the laughter had fled from her face. Robert 
 brought the two together. 
 
 "My sister Jean, Dick. You remember how I used 
 to rave about her?" 
 
 Jean raised her eyes, to meet a pair as blue as her 
 own. 
 
 "Dick's a missionary, dear," Robert explained, "but 
 different from all the missionaries you ever heard of." 
 
 To Jean, Richard Morrow was more like a guards- 
 man than the missionary of her conception; he was 
 taller even than Robert, and there was greater breadth 
 of shoulder ; the hair was fair and thin, the high tem- 
 ples fully exposed. 
 
 "Your brother and I are old friends," he said, as he
 
 118 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 pressed her hand, "and although this is the first time 
 I have had the pleasure of seeing you, I can assure you 
 that you are no stranger. Robert and I shared a 
 bungalow in Tskijui for a time, and generally the 
 evening was spent in talking of the old people and 
 you." 
 
 "That'll do, Dick," came from Robert. "Jean 
 knows enough, without telling her more. . . . Jean, 
 you have a natural taste for stories of adventure 
 get Dick to yarn about his China days: pirates, Box- 
 ers, and all that kind of thing." 
 
 Richard Morrow shook his head deprecatingly. 
 
 "Miss MacWhinnie doesn't want to hear those 
 stories," he said smilingly; "they're for men men 
 who are tired of listening to the cicada screaming and 
 the the samisen. You have heard the samisen, Miss 
 MacWhinnie?" 
 
 Jean nodded dolefully. 
 
 "I've been listening to it for twelve weary years," 
 he told her, "and I've given up hope of convincing 
 these dear people that it isn't musical. . . . And how 
 long have you been in the country?" 
 
 "Only a month or so," said Jean, with another side- 
 long glance at Robert. 
 
 "And you've come out for a holiday and been dis- 
 appointed." 
 
 "Why should I be disappointed?" she asked, in the 
 far-away tone of one who had nothing else to say. 
 
 "Everyone professes to be disappointed in the coun- 
 try, but there is a charm about it quite distinct from 
 the flowery pictures painted by some of the Western- 
 ers. It isn't a land of toy people, and they're not so
 
 AT THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND JOYS 119 
 
 clever that the wonder is they haven't conquered the 
 world and all that sort of thing. Those Western word 
 painters have a great deal to answer for.'* 
 
 "I've found it very interesting thus far," Jean ven- 
 tured. 
 
 "Of course you have; and there's much more to 
 interest you. Personally, I should like to have another 
 
 glimpse of the old country, but '' He held up his 
 
 hand in a gesture of despair. 
 
 "Can't you afford it ?" she asked seriously. "It's an 
 awful lot of money isn't it?" 
 
 He smiled at her ingenuousness, but immediately 
 confessed that he wasn't able to charter a steamship, 
 and never would be, so long as he remained a mission- 
 ary. 
 
 "If I told you that I couldn't leave the country be- 
 cause I was so much in love with my work, the chances 
 are that you'd dub me a hypocrite. And I hate hy- 
 pocrisy." 
 
 She averted her face. Robert had returned to 
 Yuchi, and was being introduced to the other guests 
 officials who had come up from Tokio. 
 
 "Shall we go inside?" Morrow inquired of her, 
 offering an arm. 
 
 She held back; she was anticipating a thousand 
 questions. 
 
 "I think Robert would like me to speak to his 
 friends," she said shyly. 
 
 "Oh! they'll introduce themselves," he assured her. 
 "This banquet will last longer than you think." 
 
 She gave a final glance in Robert's direction. Then : 
 
 "Are you staying in Sendai?"
 
 120 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "I wish I were" and his eyes, in meeting hers, em- 
 phasized the wish. 
 
 "You're going away to-morrow?" 
 
 Her face was so grave and her voice so full of anx- 
 iety that he hardly knew what response to make. 
 
 "There's a little trouble in the north," he said, at 
 last. "I was on my way there when I ran across Yuchi 
 in Tokio. Yuchi helped me out of a difficulty eight 
 years ago, and we've been very good friends since. I 
 was young and green in those days, and went the 
 wrong way to work to soothe an angry village." 
 
 She sighed, and looked at him whimsically. 
 
 "Are you a monkey-wrench man, then ?" 
 
 He shook his head in wonder. 
 
 "It was a while ago that we met a man here; he 
 told me that the best way to handle a native was with 
 a monkey-wrench." 
 
 He laughed at the story of MacConnachie, the little 
 engineer, and confessed that there were times when a 
 monkey-wrench would be much more useful than a 
 hymn-book. 
 
 "Then why do missionaries come here?" she asked 
 quietly, secretly glad of the turn of the conversation. 
 
 "I could tell you why I came," he said, with a half 
 sigh, "but I don't suppose it would interest you. I 
 cannot tell why the majority come." 
 
 "To convert the people, I suppose," suggested Jean. 
 
 He took a deep breath. 
 
 "Then, I'm a failure," he said. "I never seek to 
 convert them " 
 
 "Then you're not earning your wages." 
 
 "No. And they haven't been paid for a long while
 
 AT THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND JOYS 121 
 
 ... I teach them, or try to teach them, to respect the 
 religion of the foreigner." 
 
 "And you're going away to-morrow?" dreamily. 
 
 "There's an outbreak or something up there." 
 
 "Fever?" 
 
 "Maybe. . . . Probably too much sake." 
 
 "And you'll be there a long while?" 
 
 "Not very long. Probably six months." 
 
 She smiled at the gestures of a geisha on the ve- 
 randa a few yards from where they were standing. 
 
 "I'm going to enjoy this banquet," she said, in a 
 bright voice. 
 
 Robert came up with the other guests and intro- 
 duced them, and while they were bowing and hissing 
 around her, Jean heard her brother inviting Richard 
 Morrow to stay with him at least a few days before 
 going up country. 
 
 With a quickening of the breath she waited for 
 Morrow's reply, dreading an acceptance. Yuchi had 
 been at pains to describe the origin of the tea house, as 
 the result of a casual remark by her, but disinterested- 
 ness was betrayed by the wandering eyes, so he began 
 it all over again, believing that she had not heard. She 
 nodded listlessly, her head slightly turned toward her 
 brother. 
 
 ". . . and this Daimio had a beautiful daughter, 
 who played all day by the banks of the Yedo. ..." 
 Yuchi paused to take breath. 
 
 "My dear Robert," Morrow was saying, "I must 
 press on ; even this delay is unfair to the poor beggar 
 awaiting me, but when Yuchi told me that you were 
 here I couldn't resist the .
 
 122 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 ". . . and one day there came up the river in a gold- 
 en sampan . . ." 
 
 "Very well. I'll stay over to-morrow night, and we 
 can make our plans for the future." 
 
 There was a lull. Jean's face was pathetically dole- 
 ful. Morrow's next words set her heart a-beating: 
 "You haven't said a word about the subject that was 
 so dear to your soul a year ago your prospective mar- 
 riage?" 
 
 Robert's voice dropped to a whisper. 
 
 Richard Morrow exclaimed : "My dear old fellow !" 
 and his voice teemed with pity. 
 
 Jean turned to Yuchi. 
 
 "Shall we go in, Mr. Yuchi?" she said. "I'm dying 
 to see the inside of the house." 
 
 Richard Morrow broke away from Robert, and 
 came over to Jean. She accepted the proffered arm, 
 and, their shoes having been removed, in accordance 
 with custom, and soft slippers fitted in their place, the 
 party passed into the tea house. Within ten minutes, 
 Jean was completely at ease in her mind. Yuchi, as 
 the host, was in the middle of the arc which the guests 
 formed in the banqueting room. Jean sat on his left ; 
 then came Richard Morrow and two of Yuchi's com- 
 patriots; Robert was on the right of the host. A band 
 of daintily clad musumes brought in the inevitable tea, 
 each guest having a personal attendant; Morrow in- 
 sisted on Jean sipping from his cup, assuring her that 
 it was a custom of the country, and confessing to a 
 faulty knowledge the moment after. 
 
 "And yet I've been to scores of these banquets. 
 They grow on one."
 
 T AT THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND JOYS 123 
 
 Jean glanced down at the second course, which had 
 been placed on the mat at her side. 
 
 "Hi-okwashi," whispered Morrow, "and much nicer 
 than oatmeal cakes." 
 
 "Do you value Robert's good opinion?" Jean asked, 
 with feigned seriousness. 
 
 "I think I value yours more," he replied; and he 
 never could tell why, from that moment, she gave no 
 lead to the conversation. 
 
 He must have gathered from her reticence that his 
 remark was liable to be misconstrued ; but he was not 
 the kind of man to apologize for a liberty which he 
 had never intended to take. Nor was he affronted by 
 her sudden coldness; instead, like the big-hearted, 
 open-minded fellow that he was, he tried to call back 
 the smiles by jest and story. In a little while he knew 
 that he had won, for Jean was hanging on his words 
 like a child in an Eastern courtyard listening to some 
 story-teller of the desert. He had led an adventurous 
 life from his early boyhood, and although behind the 
 seeming lightness of his mood there was a faint note 
 of pathos, of regret, he lifted her out of herself, and 
 invested the moment with a romance of which she 
 had never before dreamed. His stories were told in 
 simple language, not so modestly that he was likely to 
 arouse her admiration in himself, but with a directness 
 that made strong appeal to her simple mind. There 
 were tales of China, of days when missionaries were 
 never certain which weapon would be most effective 
 against the superstitious ; tales of gun-running before 
 he became a missionary; of expeditions in Formosa, 
 when the head-hunters were enjoying their day of un-
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 interrupted carnage. He had planted tea in Ceylon, 
 and hunted elephants in Southern India. He seemed 
 to have covered the whole world in his travels ; he was 
 familiar with every port ; he knew the line to which a 
 steamer belonged by a single glance at her flags or 
 funnels; he could speak a dozen tribal languages, and 
 was as well versed in medicine as many a practitioner 
 at home. The one thing he didn't know, or rather 
 didn't try to explain, when with natural inquisitive- 
 ness she interjected a question, was why he became a 
 missionary. 
 
 It was a wonderful night for Jean, for this man 
 with the broad, bronzed face and eyes so blue and 
 honest that the mind could almost be read through 
 them, taught her the sublimest of gifts : how to forget. 
 What had been might never have been. All the sobs 
 and heartaches of the last few months might never 
 have existed ; she might never have known what it was 
 to hide the light of day from her little room at home 
 and pray that the darkness would give her courage to 
 do that which she premeditated. He made of her in 
 those few hours in the tea house he made of her a 
 girl, just as she was when she played the mother to 
 Robert in the narrow, cobbled streets of Ballyhoustie. 
 He brought back laughter, though she had told herself 
 that never again could she smile in earnest. He made 
 her feel that the old world in the West had passed 
 away in a whirl of cloud, and that a new earth had 
 appeared in the Eastern hemisphere. He had told her 
 that for twelve years his life had been lived exclusive- 
 ly among the natives of the interior ; he told her, also, 
 that they had been the happiest years of his life.
 
 AT THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND JOYS 125 
 
 "Lonely? No, I've never been lonely," he said. 
 "Loneliness is generally the result of selfishness. You'll 
 always find something of interest in the smallest thing 
 created, if by the exercise of a little imagination you 
 will invest that smallest thing with the importance with 
 which it was dignified in the beginning." 
 
 During the banquet, Robert came over to them, and 
 the glow on her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes, was a 
 greater joy to him than any he could remember since 
 they sailed from the Thames. 
 
 There was dancing and samisen playing, and a 
 group of geisha gave an exhibition of posturing. A 
 little singing girl paid court to Morrow in a dainty 
 fantasy by one of the native poets, and Morrow de- 
 lighted everyone by blending his rich baritone with the 
 singing girl's voice in a duet. 
 
 It was nearly midnight when the banquet came to 
 an end. Shawls of Indian silk were brought for "O 
 Jean San." The veranda was strung with lighted lan- 
 terns, and the waiting jinrikisha in which she was to 
 drive back to the bungalow was covered with blossoms, 
 while a painted lantern hung from each shaft. Mor- 
 row assisted Jean into her carriage, and turned to call 
 Robert to take his place by her side; but impulsively 
 Jean moved her white skirt, and there was a look of 
 invitation in her eyes. He climbed up beside her. 
 Robert, coming down the steps at that moment, hailed 
 a second vehicle, and promised the "boy" an extra yen 
 if he won the race home.
 
 A SERMON ON THE VERANDA 
 
 THE run through the cool night air was a perfect 
 antidote to the fatigue of the long hours in the 
 tea house, and by the time the bungalow was 
 reached Jean was as wide awake as when first she set 
 out. All three were in high spirits, and to lessen the 
 risks of the banquet Robert insisted on a Western 
 supper. Jean herself prepared it, rather than arouse 
 the sleeping servants; and if Robert had not been so 
 preoccupied, he would have marked the admiring looks 
 Richard Morrow gave Jean as she went to and fro in 
 the preparing of that meal. And when, at last, they 
 pushed back their chairs, Jean urged them to the ve- 
 randa while she cleared away the things. 
 
 They were lying back in rattan chairs, burning to- 
 bacco with the luxuriousness of sybarites, when she 
 rejoined them; and Richard Morrow was saying: 
 "And now let's hear about your work." 
 
 She seated herself in a chair between them, after 
 her brother had been assured that they were not keep- 
 ing her up. 
 
 ''Work?" said Robert, reaching out for the match 
 that Jean seemed always to have ready. "It's going 
 so smoothly, Dick, that I almost feel ashamed of the 
 progress made. I like to feel that I've earned what 
 
 126
 
 A SERMON ON THE VERANDA 127 
 
 I'm paid. In another month or two we shall have 
 linked up the two lines." 
 
 "And then?" asked Morrow, and his eyes sought 
 Jean's. 
 
 "What should you think?" said Robert. 
 
 "You'll go back home, of course. That's what they 
 all do when they've made enough." 
 
 "But I shall never have made enough," said Robert. 
 
 "Avarice is surely the last of your vices," Morrow 
 said. 
 
 "I'm not sure that it is," said Robert. "In fact, 
 during the last month or two I have been thinking per- 
 haps a little too much about the power of wealth. It's 
 so easy to make the gaining of money the first ambi- 
 tion in life." 
 
 "And that's not like you. What does your sister 
 say?" 
 
 "Whatever Robert says is right," said Jean. 
 
 "I'm on a big thing out here, Dick." And Robert 
 gave his friend a searching look, as though he were 
 calculating his loyalty. 
 
 "You've been doing big things ever since you came 
 first to the country," said Morrow. "What's the latest 
 plan?" 
 
 "Would you like to come into it?" 
 
 Jean blew out the match after lighting Robert's 
 pipe. 
 
 "Would you go into anything yourself, Robert," 
 she asked, "if you didn't know anything at all about 
 it?" 
 
 "I've made a big discovery," said Robert to Mor- 
 row, "and when I'm through with this work I'm going
 
 128 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 down to see them at Tokio, with the object of getting 
 a concession. It's coal. Yuchi is in it. It was he 
 who put me up to it. Yuchi has a good head on his 
 shoulders." 
 
 "They all have good heads, these Japanese," said 
 Morrow, not in the least enthusiastic. 
 
 "I can trust Yuchi. He's the most loyal man that 
 I've had under me. He has influence, as I have, and 
 the concession is as good as granted. Why don't you 
 come in, Dick? You're pessimistic about it?" 
 
 "About the coal ? Oh, no ! I shouldn't be surprised 
 to learn that there is more coal in this country than in 
 your own, although there would be much greater 
 chance of success if you searched for gold." 
 
 "You know something, Dick?" 
 
 Morrow was calmly recharging his pipe. 
 
 "Perhaps I do," he said ; "but it never interested me 
 sufficiently, so that I can't speak with the detail of a 
 prospector." 
 
 Robert's eyes were blinking thoughtfully. 
 
 "It was only a jest, wasn't it the gold, I mean? 
 You don't mean to say that you've come across evi- 
 dences of it?" 
 
 "My dear fellow," said Morrow, "don't look at me 
 like a company promoter! It isn't like you. It isn't 
 like the Robert MacWhinnie I knew two years ago. 
 What if I said yes ?" 
 
 "I should doubt it," said Robert. 
 
 "And that's not like you, either. But if it will turn 
 your mind from this coal business, I will tell you that 
 during the last twelve years I have come across gold- 
 bearing quartz, silver ore, and tin."
 
 A SERMON ON THE VERANDA 129 
 
 "Dick, you've had too much sake." 
 
 "I never touch it," said Morrow. 
 
 "And you mean to say that you've never tried to 
 exploit these discoveries ?" 
 
 "Why should I ? It isn't my profession." 
 
 "But, think of it, man! I could get together a hun- 
 dred capitalists to-morrow, if I could give them proof 
 of the existence of gold-bearing quartz !" 
 
 "I dare say I could interest a thousand ; but I don't 
 wish to." 
 
 "I didn't know you were so wealthy as all that," 
 said Robert, with a sigh. 
 
 "I'm so wealthy," said Morrow, "that, as your dear 
 sister suggested at the banquet, I couldn't afford to go 
 home if I wished to. ... Robert, old fellow" he 
 leaned over and tapped Robert's chair with the bowl 
 of his pipe '"don't let avarice get into your soul. 
 Once it gets in, you'll never get it out, and it can eat 
 into a good heart with the deadly effect of a canker- 
 worm eating into an apple. You're doing splendid 
 work out here. Surely that ought to be enough for 
 you. In a few years, if you progress at the same rate, 
 you will be able to do what you used to say was the 
 height of your ambition." 
 
 "I've forgotten it," said Robert sullenly. 
 
 "I can't believe it. There used to be a picture in 
 your mind you described it to me a thousand times. 
 It was a huge signboard over the gates of an engineer- 
 ing yard on the banks of the Thames 'MacWhinnie 
 Brothers.' " 
 
 Robert shrugged his shoulders, as though he didn't 
 care to pursue those lines.
 
 130 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "My dear Morrow, you're allowing your profession- 
 al spirit to override sound judgment." 
 
 "No, I never do that." 
 
 "You have it in your mind that Yuchi has taken 
 advantage of me of my greenness." 
 
 "Knowing Yuchi as I do," said Morrow, "I'm cer- 
 tain that he wouldn't do anything of the kind. But, 
 tell me do you think these people over here are so 
 childish that they would grant you the concessions 
 you sought if they had the slightest inkling of what 
 was behind your application?" 
 
 "Now, you're preaching," said Robert. "You don't 
 suppose for one minute that I should go to them and 
 inform them that here was coal easily to be worked, 
 and that I wanted a concession for a nominal sum? 
 Naturally they wouldn't grant it." 
 
 "All right, Robert," said Morrow lightly. "Don't 
 let me interfere with your plans. I told you in the 
 first place that I wasn't interested, personally. Only I 
 think it would hurt if the old Robert MacWhinnie did 
 anything that wasn't strictly honorable." 
 
 Robert straightened himself in his chair. 
 
 "Honorable! My dear Dick, you're the last person 
 in the world I would accuse of narrow-mindedness; 
 but, really, it's too absurd." 
 
 "No, I don't think it is. Wait till you come to 
 think it out calmly. These people have treated you 
 very well. You used to say that yourself. And it's a 
 bankrupt country. They need all the money they can 
 get hold of for the educating of their people. During 
 the last few years there have been many instances of
 
 A SERMON ON THE VERANDA 131 
 
 the cunning of the Westerner outwitting a primitive 
 people." 
 
 "But, if they should grant me this concession, you're 
 not going to suggest that there is anything dishonor- 
 able in the working of a coal mine? It's ridiculous!" 
 
 "To tell you the truth," said Morrow, "Im trying 
 to save you from your own impulsiveness. Here, in 
 this country, you have a chance to realize all the ambi- 
 tions that were yours two years ago. And you can 
 realize them honorably. I want to see you do that. I 
 hope I may live to see the day when these people will 
 recognize you as you deserve to be recognized. Why, I 
 doubt that any man has earned so much respect as you 
 have during the last three years. Down in Tokio, the 
 name of Robert MacWhinnie is synonymous with 
 honor. The natives speak of you in Osaka, Naga- 
 saki, Kobe as the one man they have met to whom 
 honor appears to be as dear as life itself. You might 
 go through a thousand battles, winning victory after 
 victory, without gaining for yourself so great a tribute. 
 . . . And, having preached so much, I'll enjoy another 
 pipe, if I may, and then I'll turn in. Your sister isn't 
 interested in our conversation. She's tired she must 
 be and I should be a very ungrateful guest if I kept 
 you up any longer." 
 
 Jean leaned over the back of Robert's chair and 
 kissed him on the cheek. 
 
 "Good night," she said ; and to Richard Morrow she 
 held out her hand. 
 
 When she was gone, Robert leaned toward his 
 friend's chair and whispered very earnestly : 
 
 "I'm keen on this coal business, Dick, and it isn't
 
 132 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 avarice that has hold of me. Between you and me, 
 the striving to accumulate money helps to deaden a 
 lot of pain in one's life." 
 
 Morrow maintained a sympathetic silence for a 
 minute. 
 
 "Bearing in mind what you told me at the banquet, 
 Robert," he said presently, "I can almost understand 
 your feelings ; but, believe me, great wealth is seldom 
 a solatium. Very often it makes grief greater than it 
 really is, because it serves to excite the imagination. 
 It urges you to think of what might have been, and 
 to dwell too long on the supposed ironies of life. 
 There ! That is the last word from me on the subject. 
 Now don't continue the argument, because this is the 
 first night of thorough enjoyment that I've had for 
 nearly twelve years. I want to sit here, smoking 
 quietly, for half an hour, before I curl up on my rice- 
 mat. By this time to-morrow night I shall be plug- 
 ging northward, with the prospect of being buried for 
 six or seven months. Maybe you will have moved 
 from Sendai by that time." 
 
 "It's almost certain," said Robert, "but you'll al- 
 ways be able to trace me by applying to headquarters. 
 When did you say you were coming back ?" 
 
 "Seven months, at the latest." 
 
 Robert blew out a cloud of smoke. His eyes were 
 nearly closed. 
 
 "Seven months," he echoed. "Ah, yes! That's 
 all right, Dick, and we'll have a great night when you 
 come back. . . . Come along, and I'll show you your 
 room."
 
 A SERMON ON THE VERANDA 133 
 
 Robert left his pipe on the table near his chair, and 
 Dick drew his attention to it. 
 
 "I shall have another smoke," said Robert. "There 
 are two or three specifications to work out for Yuchi. 
 We hope to get through with the bridge across the 
 river before the next big tides." 
 
 "You'll get through with it, Robert," said Dick 
 encouragingly, "if you show anything like the old 
 spirit." 
 
 "Maybe," said Robert, "but these natives are not so 
 submissive as they were three years ago. They're be- 
 ginning to understand that a man is worthy of his hire. 
 They used to work for thirty sen a day, these laborers ; 
 but you don't get them to do it nowadays." 
 
 "That's the finest tribute that has ever been paid to 
 my work," said Dick. 
 
 "Oh, it's not religion that's doing it!" said Robert, 
 always ready for an argument. 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Dick. "You see, we haven't 
 come to that stage yet. We're teaching them first to 
 appreciate the fact that they are men. By the time 
 you get that coal concession, Robert I must have an- 
 other last word! you'll find that your thirty sen la- 
 borer will ask for his three yen a day, and a day of 
 eight hours." And with a light laugh Richard Mor- 
 row went to his room. 
 
 Robert returned to the veranda. It was a perfect 
 night, with the faintest puff of breeze to stir the air. 
 
 He left the veranda, and went down into the com- 
 pound, where he sat by the side of Jean's gold-fish 
 pond. The moon, looking down from straight over-
 
 head, painted many faces on the placid water. He saw 
 only one. 
 
 Richard Morrow was right. Honor represented 
 everything to Robert MacWhinnie. And Robert was 
 right. Only in work hard, unsparing work could 
 he find relief from the pain that was always there. 
 
 His pipe had gone out ; he was staring at the water, 
 his head moving slowly to the current of his thoughts, 
 when someone in a purple kimono came softly down 
 the veranda steps. He half turned as she neared him. 
 
 "All right, Jean," he said, in a tired voice. "I was 
 just enjoying the peace of the moment. Couldn't you 
 sleep?" 
 
 "Not until I had seen you alone, Robert" 
 
 "How now?" he exclaimed, rising and placing his 
 hand on her shoulder. 
 
 "I want you to tell me," she said, in a trembling 
 voice, "and I promise you that I'll never broach the 
 subject again without your permission." 
 
 He frowned slightly, but said: "Yes; what is it?" 
 
 "I want you to tell me what you said to Mr. Morrow 
 in the tea house when he asked you about about your 
 marriage ?" 
 
 "I told him a lie," said Robert, "and if you don't go 
 straight back to your room, I shall tell you one ; and I 
 don't want two to my discredit." 
 
 He said it laughingly, but Jean knew that he was 
 not to be moved. She tried another way. 
 
 "Robert," she said, and her eyelids drooped, "don't 
 you think that Richard Morrow is too good a man to 
 be lied to?"
 
 A SERMON ON THE VERANDA 135 
 
 "He's too good a friend," said Robert, "not to un- 
 derstand if he should learn the truth." 
 
 "You've been lying to me, Robert, all along. I 
 heard you say to Mr. Morrow I hadn't gone to bed, 
 and I couldn't help overhearing I heard you say that 
 the accumulating of wealth helped to deaden the pain 
 in one's life. He didn't understand, but I did. Your 
 heart's just full of pain." 
 
 "Anxiety, you mean, Jean. That coal has got hold 
 of me, and especially his yarns about gold and silver. 
 Morrow knows what he's talking about, and . . . 
 Jean! there's a lizard under your feet! Get back to 
 your room."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 UNDEFINED HOPES 
 
 THE next morning, Robert went down to super- 
 intend the work at the bridge, leaving Jean to 
 entertain Dick until he should return in the 
 late afternoon. Throughout the day, the two Jean 
 and Morrow enjoyed themselves like two children 
 wandering over the moors at home. Never for a mo- 
 ment was there the slightest embarrassment on either 
 side not even when he carried her in his arms across 
 a patch of swamp. When they went down the slope to 
 meet Robert on his return from the labors of the day, 
 one would have thought that they had known each 
 other from childhood. 
 
 It was a joyous evening that followed, with Richard 
 Morrow playing the role of raconteur, and seemingly 
 making it the height of his ambition to part Jean's lips 
 in laughter. He left long before the native watchman 
 stole round the grounds with his wooden click-clack. 
 He left in anything save an atmosphere of misgiving, 
 although they knew, as he did, of the dangers that lay 
 before him. And when Jean and Robert were alone 
 again just when that feeling of loneliness that fol- 
 lows, inevitably, a parting, came creeping into the 
 bungalow, when the shaded lights were beginning to 
 burn low 'Robert looked up from his book to see 
 
 136
 
 UNDEFINED HOPES 13? 
 
 Jean's eyes dim with tears, and tears that were not of 
 sadness. With a half smile that he hoped would hide 
 his own emotions, he dropped back into the accent of 
 earlier days : 
 
 "He's an awf'y nice man, Jean." 
 
 "Ay, Robert," she said, and looked away. 
 
 "I'm glad you liked him." 
 
 "Could a body help liking him?" 
 
 "It doesna seem altogether right that he should be 
 wasting his life out here." 
 
 "Wad ye call it wasting, Robert?" 
 
 "A straight man" reflectively. 
 
 "Awf'y straight." 
 
 "And open, Jean." 
 
 "As your ain guid sel'." 
 
 "And yet, Jean and yet there's something about 
 Dick Morrow that I've never been able to under- 
 stand." 
 
 "Why he should be here?" 
 
 "That's it." 
 
 "He's no hypocrite, Robert." 
 
 "I grant ye that. But it seems to me that he was 
 never made for this work. Do you know what oc- 
 curred to me when he was sitting on the veranda last 
 night and speaking first with the carelessness of a boy 
 and then with the solemnity of an old man? It oc- 
 curred to me, Jean, that Dick Morrow was undergoing 
 shall I say it? a kind of penance." 
 
 "Robert, man, how ye haver!" 
 
 "Maybe it's my imagination. . . . Wasted that's 
 what I call it. And yet I have heard that Dick Mor- 
 row can do more out in the wilds, among the most
 
 138 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 primitive of these people these villagers who haven't 
 yet learned even of the evolution of their own country 
 I have heard that he can do more with these people 
 than the authorities themselves." 
 
 "Does that surprise you, Robert?" 
 
 "I don't mean that he has so impressed them with 
 his with his faith that he has awed them. I don't 
 mean that at all. To tell you the truth, I don't believe 
 Dick ever tries to set them a better example than his 
 own. Do you quite follow me, Jean? What kind of 
 an influence did he have upon you ?" 
 
 She looked up suddenly. 
 
 "Why do you ask me that, Robert?" 
 
 And he returned her startled look. 
 
 "I mean, did you feel the personality of the man, 
 the magnetism?" 
 
 "Ye were always generous to your friends, Robert." 
 
 "One couldn't be too generous to Richard Morrow. 
 I assure you, Jean, that when he's near me, when he's 
 in my company, and whether or not I'm speaking to 
 him, I feel him. He seems to pick out all the good- 
 ness that is in a man and all the badness. Ye mind 
 how quick he was to take me up about that concession. 
 I don't believe that he saw any wrong in it. There is 
 no wrong in it. It's only business. But I fancy that 
 he was looking ahead, looking past the time when the 
 concession was mine, and thinking of all the disap- 
 pointments that might come to me. He has a wonder- 
 ful faculty for looking far ahead. And the best of 
 Dick Morrow, if you take him as a missionary, is that 
 he never bores you with the demands of his calling.
 
 UNDEFINED HOPES 139 
 
 No, Jean, there's something very human about Dick 
 Morrow." 
 
 He paused, and returned the steady look she was 
 giving him. She was very still; she didn't appear to 
 be breathing. She was waiting. 
 
 "Jean," he said, without raising his voice above the 
 quiet, musing tone with which he had opened the con- 
 versation, "I'm more than glad that you like Dick, 
 although I cannot explain exactly why." 
 
 "No, Robert" her fingers were playing fitfully with 
 the while fringe of her blouse. 
 
 "A perfect ladies' man and so gentle." 
 
 "Very gentle, Robert." 
 
 "And broad-minded although he annoyed me by 
 his preaching on the coal sermon. . . . What did you 
 find to talk about to-day, while I was at the bridge ?" 
 
 "A thousand and one things. I don't think he was 
 feeling too brave about this new expedition." 
 
 "Oh ! That's because you don't understand Dick 
 yet. If he felt that he was really needed at the North 
 Pole, he'd plug ahead, as he calls it." 
 
 "He'll be away a long while." 
 
 "Seven months I was careful to ask him that." 
 
 "Why should you ask him that, Robert?" Her 
 voice shook a little; he half turned in his chair, and 
 saw how it was with her. 
 
 "Why?" he echoed. "Because I want to get ahead 
 with the coal project before he returns." 
 
 "Ah!" . . . 
 
 "Fill my pipe, Jean there's a good girl." 
 
 She filled the pipe from the tobacco jar and handed
 
 140 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 it to him. He fancied that her fingers trembled as 
 she held the flame of the match to the bowl. 
 
 "We used to talk a great deal about you, Jean 
 Dick and I." His eyes were following the rings of 
 smoke to the ceiling. "I believe believe that he was 
 almost in love with you before he set eyes on you " 
 
 "Robert !" Her face reflected the pain of the mind. 
 
 His eyes were still following the drifting smoke. 
 
 "It was one of the dearest wishes of my heart at 
 the time." He stopped, abruptly, and looked across at 
 her. "And there's no reason why you shouldn't " 
 
 "Robert !" she pleaded. 
 
 "No reason whatever, Jean" now he was leaning 
 over the back of her chair. "He spoke to you before 
 he went away? You can't deny it, Jean. I saw it in 
 your eyes when you came down the hill to meet me 
 this afternoon. He spoke to you, Jean?" 
 
 Slowly she raised her face and looked at him as he 
 bent over the chair. 
 
 "Yes, Robert, he did," she said in a whisper. "I 
 meant to tell you to-night about it. I gave him no 
 answer." 
 
 Anything might have happened in the minute that 
 followed. An ill-chosen word by him would have flung 
 her back, a crushed, despairing woman. But he sprang 
 from behind the chair, and in a second she was in his 
 arms. 
 
 "Don't tell me any more," he said, laughingly, and 
 yet there was a break in the laugh. "Not a word, 
 Jean. I understand, and I tell you frankly that, if all 
 the men in the world could have been arrayed before 
 me, only to Dick Morrow would I have pointed as the
 
 UNDEFINED HOPES 141 
 
 one man likely to make you happy. Jean, I have never 
 felt so full of contentment as I do now. It seems 
 as though the sky had suddenly opened to let the 
 sun stream down untrammeled by a single wisp of 
 cloud." 
 
 "Rob, man," she sobbed, and pressed her face 
 against his breast, the while his arms tightened around 
 her shoulders. "Rob, you don't know what you're 
 saying." 
 
 "I do, Jean. I tell you again, there's no reason 
 why you shouldn't make Dick Morrow as happy as 
 happy as I am to-night. And there's a man for you, 
 who would lay down his very life to give the woman 
 he loved one moment of pleasure. Dick Dick is a 
 knight, as big and fine as any knight of Elizabeth's 
 time, and with a grander temperament. Oh ! you lucky 
 Jean!" 
 
 She struggled to free herself. 
 
 "Rob, Rob! For God's sake, listen!" 
 
 He shook her playfully by the shoulders. 
 
 "I shall listen to nothing. You're going to be happy, 
 Jean, and if you allow one thought to interfere with 
 your happiness I shall call you ungrateful. I'll I'll 
 send you back home. I will ! And I'll go on building 
 this old railway alone." 
 
 "Rob ! You're forgetting " 
 
 "I'm forgetting nothing. It's you who have to for- 
 get." 
 
 "What was it that I said to you, Robert, last night ? 
 He's too good a man to be lied to." 
 
 "And what did I say to you, Jean? He's too good
 
 142 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 not to understand if he were told the truth. You've 
 promised him, Jean?" 
 
 "Nothing, Robert." 
 
 "Ay, but was it a nothing that meant everything?" 
 
 "Robert, let me go to my room. My heart's 
 just " 
 
 "You shall go to your room, Jean, after you've 
 looked me straight in the eyes and shown me the truth. 
 Now, Jean?" And he held her from him, and com- 
 pelled her to look up. 
 
 And before her head could droop to the bidding of 
 her heart, he had pressed his hands on her cheeks and 
 kissed her on the brow. 
 
 "Then, to bed with you, Jean, and no more tears, 
 no more doubtings, no more looking for clouds when 
 there's only the sun in the sky. Lie to him? No, 
 we'll not lie to him. I'll talk to Dick Morrow. If 
 Dick is as big-hearted and noble as he used to be, I 
 know what his answer will be. There, Jean! Awa' 
 wi' ye." 
 
 With a little cry of pain and joy commingled she 
 flung her arms around his neck, crying: "Robert, 
 man, ye bear burdens so lightly!" 
 
 "Well, Jean, aren't my shoulders broad enough?" 
 And he stretched himself to his full height, then 
 picked her up as though she were a child and carried 
 her to the door. And when he heard the customary 
 call, "Good-night," from her little room, he went back 
 to the table in the dining-room, turned the shaded 
 lamp very low, and said very softly and to himself : 
 
 "I could bear the burden even more lightly, Mar- 
 garet, if only I knew that you understood."
 
 GOD S PLEASURE 
 
 THERE is nothing like work for keeping the 
 mind free from morbid and depressing 
 thoughts. With right good will Robert applied 
 himself to his labors, and in the few weeks immedi- 
 ately following the departure of Richard Morrow, he 
 succeeded in convincing Jean that his heart was at 
 perfect peace. Night after night, in the silence of the 
 bungalow on the hill, he gave himself up to a study 
 of the potentialities that might have to be combated in 
 the further work that lay before him, and when these 
 tended to weary, he gave up an hour or two to some 
 of the crude drawings that came by every mail from 
 the little father at home, who was certain that a for- 
 tune was contained in each one. On these nights, Jean 
 sat on the other side of the table, reading or writing, 
 and there was always half an hour before retiring for 
 the night when they found joy in recounting the inci- 
 dents of their childhood. Seldom did he mention Dick 
 Morrow, and then only to wonder how he was man- 
 aging among the people to whom he had dedicated 
 his life; he never broached the subject that was con- 
 stantly in her mind, in spite of the smiling eyes she 
 turned upon him. 
 
 And then trouble occurred among the natives en- 
 143
 
 144 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 gaged on the railway. As Dick Morrow had prophe- 
 sied, the laborer was beginning to realize that he was 
 worthy of his hire; and at a time when every hour 
 was of supreme value because of the approach of the 
 high tides, they rebelled against the shortage of labor 
 and the excessive hours they were asked to work. 
 Yuchi brought the news ; it was something so new and 
 startling to him that he almost alarmed Robert with 
 his forebodings. Jean was less susceptible; for some 
 time she had closely identified herself with the bridge- 
 building, and by organizing small nursing-camps 
 among the women and children, and assisting in a 
 hundred ways to make their life possible, had endeared 
 herself to them. For three days the men held back 
 from work; for Yuchi they expressed supreme con- 
 tempt; for Robert they had but an expressive shrug 
 of the shoulders. But Jean impressed them; they 
 could not associate her with gain at their expense, and 
 when the women added their pleas to hers, the work 
 was resumed. It was a triumph for which Robert gave 
 her the fullest credit, and, in a way, the influence which 
 she had been able to exert strengthened in her certain 
 hopes and ambitions which Richard Morrow had in- 
 spired. 
 
 At last, the work was completed. Robert went 
 down to Tokio, leaving Jean in the bungalow with her 
 servants for several days. When he returned, it was 
 with news which he hoped would lessen the Shadow 
 that both of them were dreading in secret. 
 
 "Jean, my bonnie girl," he cried, as he ran lightly 
 up the veranda steps, "we're striking camp at once. 
 [Three months' rest in Nagasaki, where I'm to report
 
 GOD'S PLEASURE I4S 
 
 on a new scheme. Don't ask me the nature of it; I 
 don't know it myself yet. The orders are there, await- 
 ing me. But it's a big thing, and if all the promises 
 are fulfilled we shall have that signboard up on the 
 banks of the Thames before we're many years older." 
 
 They went to Nagasaki, and it was there, a month 
 later, that the Shadow came and passed, leaving in 
 their care a girl-child from out of whose eyes Jean 
 looked and smiled. 
 
 And Robert, who had awaited this evidence of God's 
 pleasure as one awaiting the silver and gold of dawn 
 after the long night awaited it in the stillness of the 
 garden behind the bungalow in the stillness of the 
 Eastern night, when the imagination is attuned to the 
 romance of the diamond-studded Vault, sighed, softly, 
 "God be good to ye, Jean my little sister," then as 
 softly Petitioned.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE BURDEN-BEARER 
 
 THEY stayed in Nagasaki only three months, and 
 who shall attempt to describe those months 
 and what they held for Robert MacWhinnie ? 
 They were going back to Kobe, thence to Tokio, where 
 they were to meet officials, and (this news came 
 through the capital, and reached them after many 
 weeks) Richard Morrow! 
 
 "There's always something to be done some- 
 where," he had written in his scrawling hand, "and as 
 I shall have only a week in Tokio I must see as much 
 of you and Jean as possible. They tell me that the 
 Sendai task is finished. Don't develop swelled, head, 
 and race back to England with your belt well-lined ; 
 there may come an earthquake to crumble everything 
 that you've done, and it may be necessary to start it 
 all over again. Blame the heat and the trying work in 
 this swamp of a place for the strain of pessimism. 
 We've had a rough time of it here, and little Murgat- 
 royd, the only other white in the district, went under 
 at the end of the first month. And here am I, as 
 strong and healthy as ever vulgarly healthy, in fact, 
 and I'm coming down to Tokio to receive all the re- 
 ward. Pretty rough on poor Murgatroyd! I'm ar- 
 ranging for the organization of a band of white work- 
 
 146
 
 THE BURDEN-BEARER 147 
 
 ers to go to where should you think? Sendai, or 
 rather, within five miles of the town. The rice harvest 
 has failed floods at the wrong time of the year and 
 what with starvation conditions, and lack of spirit, the 
 natives are down with some kind of disease. The Mis- 
 sionary Society is doing its best, but we want twenty 
 or thirty men and women who are not afraid of real 
 hard work to which there is not nearly so much profit 
 as bridge-building." 
 
 Before leaving Nagasaki, Robert and Jean fought 
 out the greatest issue between them. He compelled 
 her to sit down, and urged her to keep silence while 
 he "laid down the law," as he put it ; he, himself, paced 
 to and fro while he was speaking. 
 
 "Jean," he said, "you have shown wonderful cour- 
 age during the months you have been out here cour- 
 age I never thought a woman was capable of. And 
 now, you are to be tested even more severely. I prom- 
 ised you that" his voice wavered slightly "that I 
 would speak to Dick Morrow. I will when the right 
 time comes. Dick is too good to be lied to even as 
 you said. Well, I'll test Dick's goodness again, when 
 the right time comes. But until then" he came up 
 to her and folded his arms around her neck "until 
 then, my bonnie sister, the child is mine mine ! Don't 
 speak" (she had clutched at his hands). "It's not the 
 idea of a moment; it's been in my head for months, 
 and I've wrestled with it from every point of view. 
 Try to be brave, Jean. I know that your heart is nigh 
 to bursting ; I know what you are just dying to cry out. 
 But keep quiet till I'm through with it. God never 
 meant you to suffer for what has happened; there's
 
 148 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 work for you in this world somewhere. And you'll 
 do it. Once, you said to me that I had been lying all 
 along that I had been pretending to be happy. 
 Whatever truth there was in it then, I swear to you 
 that never in my life was I so happy as I am now. 
 It's just as though a mission I had set my heart on 
 was nearing its completion. The child is mine for 
 the time being. You may protest, plead, or do any- 
 thing you please, but did you ever know me to be 
 turned from anything on which I had set my heart? 
 There's something else. If it's in your mind that you 
 can turn me from this purpose, I'll show you some- 
 thing that ought to convince you of the impossibility. 
 It's too late. Read that." 
 
 From a wallet he took a newspaper cutting, and 
 handed it to her. 
 
 "That was mailed to the home papers the night after 
 the little one came to to fill my life." 
 
 She read it aloud, while he remained with his arms 
 around her neck. It was an obituary notice. 
 
 "DOLORES, the wife of Robert MacWhinnie, at Nagasaki, 
 September childbirth." 
 
 'That's a part of the lie I told Dick Morrow," he 
 said in a whisper ; "he believed that she was at Naga- 
 saki while you and I were at Sendai. . . . It's not 
 easy to lie, Jean." 
 
 She was ready to fight, but he had anticipated every 
 mood. 
 
 "It's not the idea of a moment," he repeated. "It 
 came to me that night when we sat together in in
 
 THE BURDEN-BEARER U9 
 
 dear old 'Charity Corner.' And I'm going on with 
 it for your dear sake, for Dick's sake, for my own 
 sake." 
 
 Jean held her peace, but not through selfishness.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A TEST AND A DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 IT was the same old Richard Morrow that greeted 
 them when they reached the capital. A little 
 thinner, perhaps, and with tiny white channels 
 running from the corners of the eyes Jean could vis- 
 ualize him peering through the heat-waves of the in- 
 terior but the same Dick in spirits. He was full of 
 enthusiasm for his new project, and as eager to get 
 back to work as a natural fighter to the firing line. 
 He had been in the city only a few hours when they 
 arrived, but he had struggled through an amazing 
 amount of work. He had seen everybody who was 
 anybody, he said, and scores who were nobodies ; and 
 the greatest triumph to his credit as the result of the 
 morning's work was that Lady Chiseldon, the widow 
 of an ex-consul, had volunteered to take charge of any 
 nursing mission that should be formed. 
 
 The greeting between the two men was what might 
 have been expected of them. Morrow's first words 
 were of condolence, but it required no warning from 
 Robert to show him that the right way to sympathize 
 is to point to the sun, not to turn one's back upon it. 
 Jean didn't overhear the words that passed between 
 them when first they met in the vestibule of the hotel 
 in Tokio, and when she joined them they were both 
 
 150
 
 A TEST AND A DISAPPOINTMENT 151 
 
 laughing and jesting as though the whole world were 
 nothing but a playground. 
 
 That afternoon, Jean went with Dick Morrow to 
 the house of Lady Chiseldon, Robert being summoned 
 to the residence of the minister for railways. The 
 three dined together in the hotel at night, and Jean 
 left them immediately after dinner. 
 
 "She is like me," said Robert, with a light laugh; 
 "she must always be doing something. We have been 
 here only a day, and yet she is as anxious as I am 
 to be up and doing." 
 
 "I was afraid that I should get back too late," said 
 Dick, flicking the ash from his cigar and keeping his 
 eyes down. 
 
 "I don't follow you," said Robert. 
 
 "The last few months have been very successful, 
 haven't they ?" 
 
 "Very," Robert admitted. "More successful than 
 ever I imagined." 
 
 "Ah!" Dick sighed, "I had visions of your sailing 
 before I had time to get across the country sailing 
 with your belt full." 
 
 "It will be many a long year before I leave this 
 country," said Robert, "and when I go, it will not be 
 like a thief in the night. Did you ever think of re- 
 turning?" 
 
 "Why should I ?" Dick asked. "What is there for 
 me in England?" 
 
 "I should think that there's many a niche that you 
 could fill admirably." 
 
 "I don't know the right end of a hammer, and I
 
 152 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 should be a hopeless failure in any business you could 
 think of." 
 
 "We'll talk about that some day," said Robert 
 quietly. "The thing is, what are you going to do now ? 
 What's this new project of yours? Where are you 
 going? And how long are you going to be away? 
 And aren't you tired of shuffling through swamps 
 without hope of any higher reward than a pile of 
 stones' with a rude cross thrust in the middle when 
 you're gone?" 
 
 "Success," said Dick with a smile, "has a deplorable 
 tendency to develop gloominess in a man." 
 
 "I'm not gloomy," said Robert, with a smile of pro- 
 test; "I have no reason to be. But I'm getting more 
 practical every day, Dick. I believe that I'm begin- 
 ning to set a right value on my brains." 
 
 "Money-grubber !" 
 
 "Rubbish. I don't want money so much as I want 
 power. I assure you, Dick, I have scores of ideas, 
 each one of which is full of possibilities. When I get 
 back to the old country if I should go back I'm 
 going to exploit those ideas, and with the experience I 
 have gained I shall be able to teach some of the old 
 fogeys at home that old-fashioned methods cannot 
 hope to live when the new come thrusting in. Come 
 up to my room, and we'll talk it over." 
 
 But even after they were comfortably settled in the 
 private room, no more was said about Robert's plans 
 for the future. Dick was the first to speak. 
 
 "There are twenty of us going out on this trip," he 
 said, "and it's going to be a real adventure. I wish
 
 A TEST AND A DISAPPOINTMENT 153 
 
 you could forget your old work, Robert, and come 
 with us." 
 
 "To Sendai?" 
 
 "As I told you, it is about five miles out. There 
 are four or five villages all lumped together. And we 
 want money badly for the organizing of the expedi- 
 tion." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "Five thousand yen at the very least." 
 
 "What's the Government doing?" 
 
 "That's in addition to what the Government has 
 done already." 
 
 "Do you expect to get it in a week?" 
 
 "If the country wasn't in such a bankrupt condition, 
 I should have no difficulty in raising it in two days." 
 
 "Why should you interest yourself in these beg- 
 gars? Why do you give up your life to the natives, 
 who probably don't appreciate it ? I've never argued 
 with you on this point, Dick, but I think you know 
 what my feelings are. My boy, you ought to live on 
 the banks of the Thames for a year or so; then you'd 
 understand the meaning of poverty and want. One of 
 these days, you'll get back to England, and you'll rea- 
 lize that there's enough work there not only for you, 
 but for every missionary that ever went out into the 
 colonies." 
 
 "Two years ago," said Dick, with mock reproach, 
 "Robert MacWhinnie would have stumped through 
 the foreign quarters of half a dozen countries with me 
 in order to raise five thousand yen for such a project 
 as we're embarking on now. Money's spoiling you, 
 Robert."
 
 154 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Not in the slightest," Robert retorted. "I heard 
 this morning that you needed that five thousand yen. 
 You're staying with the same people at Tskijui, aren't 
 you? You'll find a cheque for five thousand there 
 when you get back." 
 
 Dick Morrow didn't give way to an outburst of 
 gratitude. He knew his man. All that he said was : 
 "Five thousand won't delay the erection of that sign- 
 board a single day, Robert." Then he lit a fresh 
 cigar, and puffed slowly the while his big blue eyes 
 were narrowly scrutinizing Robert's face. 
 
 "Has Jean said anything to you ?" he inquired pres- 
 ently. 
 
 Robert gave him a rapid glance. 
 
 "What about?" he asked, without pretending to be 
 more than ordinarily interested. 
 
 "She went with me this afternoon to see Lady 
 Chiseldon, who is to take charge of the nurses. Her 
 ladyship made a great fuss of Jean." 
 
 Robert simply nodded, as though it were only what 
 one might expect. 
 
 "And she asked Jean what I didn't dare ask." 
 
 Robert took the cigar from between his lips and 
 waited expectantly. Dick rose from his chair, and 
 said, with some warmth : 
 
 "Robert, old fellow, don't get it into your head that 
 I've been trying to influence your sister. I haven't, 
 because I know the risks." 
 
 "You want her to go out with this party ?" 
 
 Dick nodded. 
 
 "Have you spoken to her?" 
 
 "I didn't say a word. Lady Chiseldon did all the
 
 A TEST AND A DISAPPOINTMENT 155 
 
 talking. And Jean she told me that ever since I was 
 with you in Sendai it had been a big hope in her heart. 
 Not only is she willing, she's anxious to go. And I'll 
 be frank with you, Robert. If she were there, it 
 would make a great deal of difference to to me. I 
 want to talk to you about that." 
 
 Robert took a turn around the room. When he 
 came to a halt his back was turned to Dick. 
 
 "I'm ready to listen to anything you have to say, 
 Dick," he said, and his voice was hardly audible. 
 
 "If I told you that the last few months would have 
 broken me entirely if it hadn't been for her for mem- 
 ories of her what would you say?" 
 
 "Jean is my sister, Dick, and you're one of the best 
 friends I ever had in my life. Why don't you speak 
 plainly?" 
 
 "There's only one reason why I hesitate," said Dick, 
 dropping his voice; "is it fair to talk of such things 
 when at this moment you yourself are suffering " 
 
 "I think I asked you to say no more about that." 
 
 "All right, Robert. I understand. Then let me go 
 on. Am I worthy of your sister?" 
 
 "I know of none worthier." 
 
 "Have you guessed have you seen that I love 
 Jean?" 
 
 "My mind has been too full of other things. Be- 
 sides, I can never think of Jean as being other than a 
 girl. We have been close friends from childhood, and 
 I believe that if she went away from me now, it would 
 be like losing. . . . But have you spoken to Jean 
 herself?"
 
 156 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Yes and no," said Dick. "I wanted your permis- 
 sion." 
 
 "And supposing she said yes, what would be your 
 intentions ?" 
 
 "This work at Sendai must be finished first." 
 
 Robert remained silent for a while. This man near 
 him was the last in the world that he would wrong 
 by so much as a word, but he had to fight for Jean 
 as hard as he would fight for the honor of Richard 
 Morrow. 
 
 "Look here, Dick," he said, with sudden warmth, 
 "you and I will come to a bargain over this matter, 
 and we won't consult Jean at all. If it is her wish, 
 she shall go to Sendai, and you shall promise me that, 
 if personally or by influence I can do anything for the 
 proper equipment of the expedition in addition to 
 what has been done you will let me know." 
 
 "I will," said Dick, with enthusiasm. 
 
 "And you will not say anything to Jean about 
 well, you know what until you're through with 
 this?" 
 
 "I promise. She will be in Lady Chiseldon's charge. 
 And you, Robert?" 
 
 "I shall be here for a long while yet. When you 
 come back we can talk this matter over again." 
 
 "And you're satisfied, Robert? I'm a penniless beg- 
 gar with nothing but my work before me, but I know 
 that I could do big things out here if I had the love 
 and sympathy of a woman like Jean." 
 
 Robert grasped the extended hand. 
 
 "Money could make no difference to Dick Morrow," 
 he said. "You'd always be the same."
 
 A TEST AND A DISAPPOINTMENT 157 
 
 He handed him a box of cigars. 
 
 "I was going to write to you last month," he said, 
 slowly, as he regained his chair, "but, of course, I had 
 no idea where you were, or how to get a letter 
 through." 
 
 "Nothing to do with coal, I hope?" with a whim- 
 sical smile. 
 
 "Nothing," said Robert. "It was a letter that came 
 to me from a man who needed better advice than I 
 could give him." 
 
 "And you thought my poor advice would be of 
 use?" 
 
 "I was certain of it at the time, because of your 
 profession; and you're a very broad-minded man, 
 Dick. I think you know enough of the world to be 
 able to give what I might call a mature judgment." 
 
 "Was he in trouble?" 
 
 "Yes, very serious trouble. This was the case : He 
 was in love with a woman, and at the last moment 
 she made a confession to him. . . . You've dropped 
 the ash on your knee. . . . Don't give me your an- 
 swer in a hurry, Dick, because I don't want to send 
 this man a hastily considered judgment, because I 
 know he'll take it to heart. I don't think I would have 
 asked anyone but you. This woman made a confes- 
 sion. There was a child. Are you listening, Dick?" 
 
 "Intently." 
 
 "The other man was dead. Now, what would be 
 your attitude in such a case?" 
 
 There was no spontaneous outburst of generosity 
 as Robert expected. Dick lay back in his chair and 
 smoked hard for a few minutes before replying.
 
 158 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "You mean to ask me if the existence of the child 
 would make any difference in my affection for the 
 woman? No, Robert, it wouldn't not if I loved 
 the woman deeply; but it is a more abstruse problem 
 than you yourself seem to think it." 
 
 "How, abstruse?" And Robert's brows were over- 
 shadowed. 
 
 "You and I could settle it m a second," said Dick. 
 "Neither you nor I would allow a thing like that to 
 interfere. But there's the world to consider." 
 
 "Hang the world ! . . . I beg your pardon, Dick. 
 But I always thought you were so broad-minded." 
 
 "I hope I am," said Dick. "Surely that point 
 doesn't arise." 
 
 "Then, why should you consider the world? Why 
 should you trouble your head about what the world 
 might think?" 
 
 "Perhaps," said Dick, "it's because I haven't had 
 much experience ; or, again, it may be that I have had 
 too much. Still, there's no reason why you and I 
 shouldn't give this young man the best of our advice." 
 
 "I'm writing by the next mail. I want your advice." 
 
 "If he loves this woman, and she loves him, and 
 if her love for him is so great that she is willing to 
 make a sacrifice, I should say the best thing to do 
 would be to let the child go away, to be placed in 
 the care of someone whom they both of them could 
 trust. They might watch over the child with almost 
 as much care as if it were under their own roof. 
 That's all I can say." 
 
 "I had almost decided to send him such a reply,'* 
 said Robert quietly.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 SANCTUARY 
 
 IN the north, so it is said, they grow men; in the 
 south they grow trees. Mr. John Drender, head 
 of the firm of Drender, Masters and Company, 
 would rather have sacrificed his Northumbrian burr 
 strong as ever, even after twenty or thirty years of 
 Thames-side toil than have confessed to injured 
 pride when Robert MacWhinnie offered him the 
 greatest slight the human heart can receive. Mar- 
 garet was as proud as her father; by no sign did 
 she convey to him how deep was her wound, but he 
 understood, and wisely held his peace. The name, 
 MacWhinnie, dropped out of their conversations after 
 the day when Robert and his sister sailed for the Far 
 East; when she received Robert's letter from Colombo, 
 Margaret was tempted to take the grizzled old iron- 
 master into her confidence, but in the end she let well 
 alone, fearing to betray her innermost feelings by tell- 
 ing him of a hope that might not be realized. Masked 
 by rugged lines and that beloved burr, John Drender 
 hid from her the pain in his own heart. Even when 
 he came upon the obituary notice in the Times: 
 "Dolores, the wife of Robert MacWhinnie . . ."he 
 merely glanced at it a second time and idly turned 
 over the page. He said nothing about it to Margaret 
 
 159
 
 160 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 that night ; but he found a copy of another newspaper 
 in the house with a cut from its obituary column, and 
 though she laughed and sang that night as never be- 
 fore, he could feel the sobs that were tearing her. 
 
 Six weeks after the conversation between Robert 
 and his friend Dick Morrow in the hotel at Tokio, 
 the half-yearly meeting of Drender, Masters and Com- 
 pany was held. The old ironmaster went to Jarrow- 
 side that night with beetling brows, and lips tightly 
 compressed. And yet the evening newspapers were 
 able to inform the readers of the financial news that 
 the half-yearly report of Drender, Masters and Com- 
 pany was a strong answer to those who were ever be- 
 wailing the decaying industries of the country. 
 
 Margaret was in the garden when her father came 
 through the gateway. She threaded the stem of a 
 flower into the lapel of his coat and slipped an arm 
 through his. 
 
 "We'll have dinner first, father," she whispered 
 coaxingly, "and then you shall tell me all about it." 
 
 "You've an observant eye, Margaret." 
 
 "You frown so terribly. If a contract had been 
 lost you- couldn't show your disappointment more 
 plainly." 
 
 "It's not a contract lost, it's a contract offered " 
 
 He stopped, as though ashamed of his ill-temper. Not 
 for the first time, he saw a film as of sadness creeping 
 over her dark eyes. She seemed always to be nerving 
 herself for a further blow. He drove the angry light 
 from his own, tenderly patted the white hand that 
 was resting on his arm, and playfully hurried her 
 toward the house.
 
 SANCTUARY 161 
 
 "Dinner, Margaret, my little housekeeper, and then 
 we'll have a crack. By the lord Harry ! but the Tyne- 
 side'll have something to sharpen their teeth on to-mor- 
 row, when they read the report of Drender and Mas- 
 ters! Up ten thousand on the corresponding half- 
 year. What do you think of that?" 
 
 "Splendid! Splendid!" 
 
 "Ay, and friend Masters is strutting about like a 
 dawg with a tin tail. Talks about taking his bit wife 
 to Mentone for a holiday, as if the poor body isn't 
 just wearying for a sight of Durham. Masters hasn't 
 taken a holiday for ten years." 
 
 "I know someone else who hasn't been away from 
 the Thames for fifteen years," she put in slyly. 
 
 "Hoots, hinny," he chided, "isn't every day a holi- 
 day at Jarrowside? Would you have me roaming 
 about the country like a commercial traveler?" 
 
 "You'll never be different, father," she said, laugh- 
 ingly, and as they reached the hall she began to remove 
 the knitted scarf and the "chimney-pot" hat. His 
 newspapers of the day, which always he brought back 
 from the office, were thrown on the hall stand. She 
 gave him ten minutes to prepare for dinner. . . . 
 
 "Coffee and a pipe and you, my lass." 
 
 He dragged the heavy divan chair toward the fire; 
 she sat at his feet and charged the massive bowl with 
 the strongest-flavored tobacco the south could pro- 
 vide. 
 
 "Now for the trouble, father." She tapped his knee 
 with the pipe. 
 
 He shook his gray head deprecatingly.
 
 162 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Hoots, hinny, it's nothing at all. The dinner's done 
 me good." 
 
 "You'll get hungry again" insinuatingly. 
 
 "What a body you are, Margaret. Nothing else' 11 
 satisfy you, I suppose?" 
 
 "Nothing. If you keep a trouble to yourself you're 
 ill for days." 
 
 "It's about MacWhinnie Robert MacWhinnie." 
 
 "Oh!" She turned her head quickly, and stared at 
 the firebars. 
 
 "Do you want me to go on?" he asked, sympa- 
 thetically. 
 
 "Why shouldn't you?" 
 
 He stooped and brushed her hair with his rough- 
 grained hand. 
 
 "Ay, why shouldn't I, my lass?" he said softly. 
 "His name came up at the meeting to-day. He had 
 written to the firm 'his old firm,' as he had the impu- 
 dence to call it." 
 
 "Father! What are you saying?" She had swung 
 round ; her cheeks aflame. 
 
 John Drender nodded reassuringly. 
 
 "It was the tone of his letter that nettled me," he 
 told her. "He was in a position to 'confer' a contract 
 on Drender and Masters to confer it in the name of 
 the Government he represented." 
 
 She had turned back to the fire. 
 
 "Why should you take umbrage at that ?" she asked 
 in a whisper, and it was well that he could not see 
 the quivering of her lips. 
 
 "There was a smack about the letter that I didn't 
 like." He grabbed at the match-box on the smoking-
 
 SANCTUARY 163 
 
 table near him, and viciously struck a match against 
 the side of the pipe-bowl. 
 
 "You would find in the letter just what your mind 
 was anxious to find you'd probably find more than 
 was written there, or intended to be written." She 
 spoke half to herself eager to defend him even now. 
 
 "It was patronizing. Masters saw it before I did." 
 
 "Mr. Masters doesn't know Robert MacWhinnie." 
 
 "He knows enough of the family, anyway, Mar- 
 garet enough to last him for the rest of his life. 
 That fool, Thomas " 
 
 "You told me that he left the works some time 
 ago." 
 
 "So he did, but he was safer inside than out. We 
 paid six claims for compensation last week minor 
 injuries that would have been laughed at by the men 
 themselves if he hadn't put the devil into their minds." 
 
 She made no reply to that, but continued to stare 
 at the firebars, as though in the dull embers she were 
 visualizing the scene. 
 
 "Margaret" he ran the side of his forefinger across 
 the gray mustache "I'm sorry I said that about young 
 Robert a minute ago. I'm sorry for the lad. Some- 
 how somehow I fancy he'd have had a bigger chance 
 if he'd been the fool instead of the brainy one of the 
 family. I thought like that the other day when I saw 
 his two younger brothers sauntering past the yard and 
 trying to put a sneer on as the men went out for 
 their dinner hour. And it was as much as I could 
 do to keep myself from going up to them and lacing 
 them for a couple of young vagabonds."
 
 164 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "What business was it of yours, Mr. John Dren- 
 der?" 
 
 "True, true, Margaret, but, you see, I kind of 
 brought up young Robert he said as much in his 
 letter. . . . Ay, ay, Robert MacWhinnie, I'll take 
 back a deal of what I said just now. . . . They're 
 living on him, Margaret that's my opinion, but I 
 suppose he knows what he's about. . . . Margaret, 
 you knew that he had married ?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered quickly, and though she turned 
 a brave face upward, he could not fail to mark the 
 gathering of the tears. "I wrote to him." 
 
 "You wrote to him?" 
 
 "A letter of condolence." 
 
 His pipe had gone out again. He struck another 
 match, and just before applying the flame to the 
 tobacco 
 
 "So did I," he said softly. 
 
 And then, silence again, save his steady pulling at 
 the briar pipe. Of a sudden, he leaned fonvard and 
 drew her head backward so that he might look into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Hinny," he said fondly, "I'm afraid I'm getting 
 old and selfish." 
 
 "Selfish!" she smiled. 
 
 "I was wondering, to-day, what I should do without 
 you that's all." 
 
 She rose to her feet, and pushed the gray hair back 
 from his temples. 
 
 "You're not going to get rid of me as easily as all 
 that," she said laughingly. 
 
 "Ah! you're a wonderful little woman, Margaret,"
 
 SANCTUARY 165 
 
 and he patted the cheek that was pressed against his 
 own. . . . "Up ten thousand on the previous half- 
 year did you catch that? And every penny's yours 
 when I'm gone. . . . Margaret, I wish I hadn't said 
 that of young MacWhinnie." 
 
 A shadow rested on her face for a second. 
 
 "He'll forgive you, I'm sure," she said in a tone of 
 voice that pleaded for the end of the subject. 
 
 "He's made wonderful headway out there." 
 
 'We always said that he would." 
 
 "We did, Margaret we did. And he couldn't for- 
 get the old firm could he? If we hadn't been full 
 up with contracts at the moment, the chances are that 
 I shouldn't have misread that letter of his. It was 
 the 'in a position to confer' that I didn't like, although 
 I can guess the official eye was on him while he was 
 writing. . . . Margaret, my lass, let's have the 
 'nightcap,' and away I'll go to my roost. We're test- 
 ing the boilers of a cruiser, first thing to-morrow 
 morning, and if John Drender isn't there, the beg- 
 gars'll scamp the job, and bang goes the reputation of 
 the firm." 
 
 Margaret brought the decanter from the sideboard, 
 and he filled his glass. 
 
 "Here's luck to you, Robert MacWhinnie." he said, 
 shaking his head. "You didn't forget the old firm 
 did you? I'll not forget you for that. The luck's 
 coming your way, or I'm a Dutchman." 
 
 And about the same time, twelve thousand miles 
 away, Robert MacWhinnie was seated at a table, his 
 head resting on his outstretched arms, his shoulders
 
 166 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 shaking with sobs. The letter crushed in his right 
 hand was from Dick Morrow: 
 
 "Robert, old friend, my heart is nigh breaking, and as I 
 think of you reading this letter I am torn with grief. My 
 poor Jean is gone. She died this morning died in my 
 arms, after only a few hours of suffering. All day yester- 
 day she was at work with Lady Chiseldon and two other 
 nurses; she came back to headquarters complaining only of 
 slight fatigue; this morning, Lady Chiseldon summoned me. 
 I saw, at once, that my brave Jean had contracted the 
 scourge which we came here to fight. We did all we possibly 
 could, but succeeded only in lessening the pain. Robert, I 
 cannot write more. It is as though the roof of the world 
 had fallen upon me. May God help you to bear the blow, 
 even as I pray for strength. As soon as I can get away, 
 I shall hurry to Tokio to see you. 
 
 "DICK."
 
 PART TWO 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE PILLAR OF THE HOUSE 
 
 MORI, the child, was nearly ten years of age, 
 and for two years she had been watching the 
 fairy stories come true stories told her be- 
 neath the cherry blossom from which she had stolen 
 the pink and white of her cheeks, among the chrysan- 
 themums where the elves had wandered to find the 
 right shade of bronze and the wave for her hair, 
 among the iris that had spared a little of their won- 
 drous blue for the coloring of her big eyes. The 
 great house had arisen on the banks of the Thames, 
 just as he had said it would; the garden sloped to the 
 very edge of the water, and there was the pagoda of 
 her baby dreams, from which she could watch the 
 silent flitting of the brown sails as they headed toward 
 the open sea. 
 
 And half a mile farther down the river bank were 
 the engineering works of MacWhinnie Brothers, with 
 a massive signboard over the gates. The firm had 
 been established two years. When Robert MacWhin- 
 nie returned from the Far East, eight years after the 
 death of his sister, Jean, he took over a going concern 
 
 167
 
 168 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 from a company that had fallen behind the times, and, 
 with his two brothers, James and David, as junior 
 partners, commenced by brushing the cobwebs from 
 the corners of the yard, installing new machinery and 
 instituting new methods. 
 
 "It'll be tough work for the first two years," he 
 had warned them, "but once we are firmly established, 
 there'll be no holding of us back." 
 
 The same generous disposition, the same manly 
 striving to march straight forward as though there 
 had never been a doubt in his heart or a speck to 
 mar his sky ; the temples were grayer, a few more lines 
 ran away from the corners of the clear, resolute eyes 
 and the determined mouth ; but there was even greater 
 energy in the throw of the broad shoulders, a stronger 
 and more resonant ring in the voice. Ambition had 
 not been checked by the burden imposed on him, rather 
 had it received a spur. Mori, the child, had opened 
 out before his eyes a new world of which he had 
 never dreamed until she came; she almost almost 
 filled his life with her quaint imaginings and the ful- 
 ness of her joy in his love. The eight years in the 
 Eastern hemisphere had been wonder years, with new 
 phases revealing themselves each succeeding day. 
 
 No need to dwell on the homecoming. The chance 
 had occurred to take over the affairs of the old com- 
 pany, and it wasn't likely that a similar chance would 
 occur for years. The fact that the firm of Drender, 
 Masters and Co. was on the other side of the river, 
 no more than a mile away, was not to be considered. 
 This was the chance, and and the child had reached 
 an age when Western environment was essential. It
 
 THE PILLAR OF THE HOUSE 169 
 
 was for the child that he had to live now ; but it wasn't 
 a burden ; he had come to regard it as the reward. 
 
 It was half an hour before dinner, and he had just 
 changed "from a snow man into a cosy daddy." Mori 
 came to the study and locked the door so that the 
 governess should not interrupt ; she settled the cushions 
 in the big easy chair, and "snuggled in" with him. 
 This was the fairy hour that had never been forgotten 
 or put aside for other things since she was three years 
 old. It was the hour when the joy of possession, of 
 guardianship, drove everything else from his mind 
 the hour of stories for which she would never be too 
 old. . . . He had drawn the curtains aside so that 
 she could watch the snow falling through the beam of 
 light thrown across the grounds by the great lamp over 
 the hall door, and, "You start it, darling," he whis- 
 pered, pressing his cheek against hers. 
 
 "You're not too tired, are you, daddy?" 
 
 "I'm never too tired, Mori, darling, but you start 
 it. What has it to be, to-night?" 
 
 "One day, daddy >" 
 
 "One day?" he echoed softly. 
 
 "One day, there was a man, and his name was " 
 
 "And his name was Morrow. Ah! yes, you love 
 that old story, don't you? Well, this man Morrow 
 had traveled all over the world, all over the seas and 
 the mountains, among the snow where all the houses 
 were made of ice and the children went to school on 
 sleighs ; among the black men near the Equator, where 
 it was so hot that he could boil his kettle by setting it 
 down in the sun. He was a splendid fellow, always 
 laughing and trying to make other people laugh,
 
 170 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 and " 
 
 adventures that made her big eyes sparkle, the while 
 she "snuggled" closer. 
 
 And on this night there was a new story to add 
 to the old ones; the hero of them all had suddenly 
 emerged from a dark corner of the world; he had 
 written to say that before many months had passed 
 he might have crossed the ocean and arrived in Eng- 
 land. Robert read portions of the letter to the de- 
 lighted child : 
 
 "And tell my little sweetheart, O Mori San, that all these 
 lone years I have been watching her grow up, watching 
 from afar. She was only three years old when last I kissed 
 her on the Bluff at Yokohama, but I seem to know exactly 
 how tall she is, the particular shade of her curls, the length 
 of her nose it must be freckled, or I shall be keenly dis- 
 appointed and the color of her eyes. And tell her, daddy, 
 that I'm bringing her a wonderful piece of ivory carving, 
 carved by an old blind Filipino ; and there's a tiger-skin rug, 
 and a boa constrictor that took such a fancy to me that he 
 wanted to hug me until I hadn't any breath left to say 
 'Thank you !' Tell her, daddy, that she mustn't pretend not 
 to understand when I speak to her in Japanese, or how to 
 blow out the match when my tobacco is well alight." 
 
 And Mori, shaking her head sagely, protested again 
 and again that she hadn't forgotten a single feature. 
 
 "He was very fond of you, Mori, darling," Robert 
 told her, with a little break in his voice, "so fond of 
 you that when he stayed with us in the bungalow just 
 before starting for the Philippines, I had to lie awake 
 at night fearing that he would carry you off if I closed 
 my eyes for an hour." 
 
 And the stories being told, he rang for the govern-
 
 THE PILLAR OF THE HOUSE 171 
 
 ess; there was the usual plea for just one more, and 
 the usual reply that grandfather would never forgive 
 her for keeping him from his dinner. 
 
 Donald MacWhinnie, alert as ever, although the 
 tinge of red had almost disappeared from the short, 
 pointed beard, was already seated at the table in the 
 long, oak-paneled dining room. He heard the "Good 
 nights" at the foot of the stairs, the sound of the 
 tender kisses as Mori wound her arms around Rob- 
 ert's neck, and he called out his promises of a "better 
 story than daddy can tell ye, if ye wait till the morn'." 
 As Robert came into the dining room, the little father 
 gave him a sympathetic nod. 
 
 "A wonderfu' comfort, bairns, Rob?" he said 
 gently. 
 
 "Wonderful." He was slipping the ring from his 
 serviette. 
 
 "Fill your life just when you're when you're be- 
 ginning to think that there's naethin' left that's worth 
 while." He was approaching the tragedy of "Dolores," 
 and Robert was quick to divert the trend of conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 "Been down to the works to-day, father?" 
 
 "I just looked in, Rob." 
 
 Robert smiled. He knew that never a day passed 
 without a visit being paid by the little gray-haired 
 father who had come into his own, as always he had 
 said he would. 
 
 "Just looked in," he repeated musingly, "an' had a 
 bit crack wi' that new manager o' yours." 
 
 "MacGowan?" 
 
 "I didna ask his name; I asked him his job."
 
 172 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "A first-class man, father. He served his time with 
 Drender and Masters." 
 
 "I dinna doubt it, Rob; I'd hae thought mair of 
 him if he'd sarved it on the Clyde." 
 
 From which Robert gathered that MacGowan had 
 placed a difficulty in the way of a model being made 
 for Mr. Donald MacWhinnie, inventor. They had 
 almost finished dinner before the little man spoke 
 again, although his eyes had constantly sought 
 Robert's. 
 
 "Ye havena been in the yard yoursel', Rob?" 
 
 "No," said Robert casually; "I had business in the 
 city." 
 
 "Contracts?" 
 
 "Yes; rather important ones. I left David in 
 charge." 
 
 The father sighed; then rested an elbow on the 
 table. 
 
 "Did the little maid say onythin' about about 
 Tammas 'Uncle Tammas?" he inquired. 
 
 Robert looked up quickly. 
 
 "Nothing at all. What do you mean, father?" 
 
 "He was here, to-day." 
 
 "Here! In my house?" 
 
 Donald's face straightened. 
 
 "Ye hae no objection, Rob ? He's your brither." 
 
 Robert laughed at the suggestion. 
 
 "My dear father," he said, "my only regret is that 
 I wasn't here to give him a welcome. It's the first 
 time Thomas has paid us a call." 
 
 "There's nae need for a' the regrets, Rob," said the
 
 THE PILLAR OF THE HOUSE 173 
 
 little man, with a shake of the head. "Tammas didna 
 come wi' ony olive-branch in his hand." 
 
 Robert's face assumed a serious expression. 
 
 "Why should he come in any other spirit?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "No reason at a' ; but ye know what Tammas is, or 
 ought to by this time. In all my life I've never met 
 a man sae discontented. And he's my ain son, too. 
 Tammas is a' looking for trouble, an' he's a' findin' it. 
 I'm no so sure that his marriage did a' we hoped it 
 would." 
 
 "But surely Thomas hasn't very much to be discon- 
 tented about?" 
 
 Donald lifted his shoulders expressively. 
 
 "Ah, weel !" he said, "ye can bet she'll help him to 
 find somethin'." 
 
 "Did he bring his wife with him?" 
 
 "She followed him in followed him in." 
 
 Robert frowned, got up from his chair, and closed 
 the door. He went back to the fireplace, and stood 
 with his shoulders leaning against the mantelshelf. 
 
 "What did you mean by asking if Mori had said 
 anything, father?" 
 
 The little man flicked his beard with the tip of a 
 finger before replying. 
 
 "Because Mori was here when he cam'; that's a'; 
 and Maggie had a word wi' the bairn just a friendly 
 word, Rob. Said she ought to feel that she was a 
 lucky bairn, an' a' the rest of it. Ye know how a 
 jealous woman havers when she thinks another body's 
 bairns are better off than her ain?"
 
 174 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Robert's eyes were half closed, and the little father 
 seemed unwilling to look up. 
 
 "Mori didn't say a word about it to me," said Rob- 
 ert, in a perplexed tone of voice. "I wonder why?" 
 
 "Mebbe," said Donald, "it was because I asked her 
 to say naethin' about it." 
 
 "Father" Robert's frown had deepened "I hope 
 you will never do anything of the sort again. Mori 
 has never been taught to keep anything from me. . . . 
 Now, let me hear about Thomas's trouble. I under- 
 stood that he was doing splendidly with his dairy 
 farm." 
 
 Donald's laugh began like wind escaping through a 
 distant keyhole. 
 
 "Tammas is done wi' coos," he said, "an' it's nae 
 mair than I expected. Ye should hae kept him at 
 the lathe, Rob. Ye gave him too much time to think 
 aboot ither things." 
 
 "He was asked to say what appealed most to him," 
 said Robert, somewhat impatiently, "and he confessed 
 that his heart wasn't in machinery. He wanted the 
 open air ''God's free air,' were his words ; to be con- 
 fined in such a business as ours at the yard represented 
 slavery to him." 
 
 "Ay, mebbe. But he's sold the business, anyway." 
 
 "It cost three thousand, all told." 
 
 "Wi' every modern invention. I dinna doubt ye 
 for a moment. An' I'll wager he didna get half the 
 amount for it.'* 
 
 Robert made no inquiry about the whereabouts of 
 the money, although every penny had come out of his 
 own pocket.
 
 THE PILLAR OF THE HOUSE 175 
 
 "And now?" he asked. 
 
 "Tammas has achieved the ambition of his life," 
 said the little man ; "he's joined politics a paid man, 
 if ye please paid for speech-makin' an' inspecting 
 the conditions of labor. That's how he put it put it 
 to me, Rob. What do ye think of that? 'Ye're a 
 comparatively young man,' he said, 'an' there's plenty 
 of work for you to do if you feel like doin' it.' 
 'Thanks, Tarn/ I said, 'but I'm awf'y comfortable here 
 wi' Rob, an' naethin' short of a stick of dynamite'll 
 get me out.' 'This is not your place,' he said; 'you 
 should be in your ain house along wi' mither.' 'That's 
 all right, Tarn,' I said. 'Your mither is quite happy 
 in the house that Rob had built for her at Ballyhoustie, 
 where she can lord it over her neighbors; her sym- 
 pathies are no wi' engineers, and my hairt is just sair 
 wi'oot them. That's why I'm here instead o' vegetat- 
 ing at Ballyhoustie; the booming an' the hammering 
 on the river is meat and drink to me, and I'm tired of 
 running between Ballyhoustie and Rob's house like a 
 dog humping round a strange kennel. Seems to me, 
 Tammas/ I said, 'that I no sooner get a chair warmed 
 in ane hoose or th' ither, but what someone comes 
 along tae push me oot o' it.' ' 
 
 Robert was very moody for a moment; then he said, 
 with deep regret in his voice : 
 
 "I'm very sorry this should have happened. I had 
 come to believe that we had done our best for every- 
 body." 
 
 "An' so we hae," said Donald, content to take some 
 share of the credit. "Frae the very first, Rob, we've 
 considered the ithers, instead of considering ourselves
 
 176 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 a little mair. But don't tak' this to hairt. Let Tammas 
 gae his ain gait. And it's no Tammas so much as 
 Mrs. Tammas." 
 
 Robert held up his hand reproachfully. 
 
 "You mustn't blame her, father," he said. "I've 
 seen her only twice, but she gave me the impression 
 of being a very simple-minded and worthy woman." 
 
 "It's the simple-minded anes, Rob, that ye have tae 
 keep y'r eye on. The way she was talkin' tae the little 
 maid ! Why shouldna ye keep a governess ? It's y'r 
 ain money, an' y'r ain child. Why shouldna you have 
 her taught paintin' an' music an' a' the rest of it? 
 You dinna ask them tae pay the piper, do ye? An' if 
 ye've been clever enough to mak' it possible for her 
 tae be brought up as a lady, who should stand up an' 
 protest agin it? Now, if it were somebody else's child 
 that ye were wastin' y'r money on, they might hae 
 something tae grumble about. An' ye are makin' a 
 lady of her, Robert. The way she ups and says: 
 'Grand faither, that's no grammar.' 'Grandfaither, ye 
 shouldna eat wi' y'r knife.' 'Ye shouldna light y'r 
 cigar twice.' The little rascal ! She'll be a gran' lady 
 some day, Rob. And, man, I'm tellin' ye, when I was 
 your age an' younger, I wad hae gi'en the wor-rld to 
 hae been able to do for my lass what ye are doin' for 
 yours. Don't let this Tammas business upset ye. I 
 dinna ken why he cam' down here, unless it was at the 
 bidding o' that wife o' his. I always said that Tam- 
 mas wad mak' a mistake, an' so he has. God be 
 thankit that neither Jamie nor David hae offended 
 agin their faither by marryin' beneath them. I dinna 
 suppose either o' them will ever get marrit. They're
 
 THE PILLAR OF THE HOUSE 177 
 
 no given that way. An' I tremble, Rob, when I think 
 what y'r mither wad do if onything happened to Tam- 
 mas's wife. There wadna be a single soul left for 
 her tae quarrel wi'." 
 
 Robert paid little attention to the old man's ram- 
 blings. He was wondering what had actually been 
 said to the child, and he felt it keenly that anyone 
 should go out of their way to teach her to keep any- 
 thing from him. Apparently Donald divined what 
 was passing in his son's mind, for, lowering his voice, 
 he said : 
 
 "There was nae mention, Rob, o' the bairn's mither, 
 so dinna let that disturb you. A' that Tammas's wife 
 said a' that you could tak' ony exception tae was 
 her reference tae John Drender's daughter; an' I dinna 
 see how that had onything to do wi' her. An' what's 
 mair, I dinna suppose that onythin' she or Tammas 
 might say wad stay on John Drender's mind ony 
 longer than water wad stay on a duck's back." 
 
 "After all these years," said Robert, infusing a little 
 bitterness into his voice, "they might allow Mr. Dren- 
 der's name to rest." 
 
 "Exactly what I said, Rob. It was a matter for 
 y'rsel', no for them." 
 
 "I don't follow you, father." 
 
 The little man fidgeted with his beard. 
 
 "What I mean is," he said falteringly, "that what 
 happened between you and John Drender's daughter 
 didna affect them in the slightest. Probably they'd 
 hae been nae better off if you were John Drender's 
 son-in-law to-day." 
 
 Robert crossed from the fireplace to the table, and
 
 178 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 placed his hand on his father's shoulder. Speaking 
 very gently almost entreatingly he said to him: 
 
 "I thought it was agreed between us, father, that 
 no further mention should be made in this house of 
 Miss Drender. I say again I am deeply sorry that 
 Thomas and his wife should have come here in my 
 absence and said anything that would lend false im- 
 pressions to my little girl. I thought that everything 
 was going along so smoothly. And only to-night I 
 was telling Mori of a great joy that was coming to us 
 the return of an old friend whom I had given up 
 for dead. When I came in to dinner to-night, I was 
 feeling like a boy, instead of an old man of thirty- 
 seven ; but what you've told me seems to have damped 
 my spirits. Understand me rightly, father, for you 
 may have an opportunity of meeting Thomas before 
 long. I have made up my mind to live for my little 
 girl. My life, although it has been successful, as you 
 like to say, has not been so full of happiness that I 
 can afford to lose one smile of Mori's; and to teach 
 her to hide things from me would be the crudest 
 reward that either Thomas or anyone else could con- 
 ceive. If I thought that the foolish jealousies of 
 which you spoke a moment ago actually existed, I 
 should be tempted to close the doors of my house. Do 
 you quite understand?" 
 
 "Quite," said the little man. . . . "Ye're no greet- 
 in', are ye, Rob? If I'd thought you'd tak' it like this, 
 I'd hae said naethin' about it." 
 
 "I'm trying to take it in the right way," said Robert, 
 "and while we're in this mood and on this subject, 
 we'll deal with another matter, which may appear
 
 THE PILLAR OF THE HOUSE 179 
 
 trivial to you; but I fancy that when I've expressed 
 my feelings on it, you'll see how wrong it was, and 
 how undignified." 
 
 "It's my turn now, Rob, I suppose?" said the little 
 man. "Mebbe ye want tae git rid o' me? Say the 
 wor-rd, an' I'm off to Ballyhoustie before ye know 
 whaur ye are. But how I should get along wi'oot th* 
 wee maid to talk tae, I dinna ken." 
 
 Robert patted him on the shoulder. 
 
 "I don't want to get rid of you, father. I like you 
 to be here. I like to feel that you're happy, and that 
 you have no responsibilities to weigh you down. But 
 I've heard from two or three sources that you can't 
 allow your old antipathy to Drender and Masters to 
 die down." 
 
 Donald sat bolt upright in his chair, and the small 
 eyes flashed indignantly. 
 
 "What wad ye hae me do, Rob?" he asked. "Tak' 
 off ma hat when Mr. John Drender rolls by in his 
 carriage ? Wad ye hae me do that ?" 
 
 "Not if Mr. John Drender didn't remove his hat 
 to you," said Robert. "But, knowing him as I do, and 
 feeling, as I do, that he takes some little pride in 
 having given Robert MacWhinnie his start in life, I 
 doubt that he would forget that courtesy." 
 
 "Man, what a tradesman ye mak'! If ye were in 
 the grocery line, ye'd hang out a sign that the goods o' 
 the man on the ither side o' the street were better than 
 your ain." 
 
 "And that's another fallacy that you must get out 
 of your mind, father. I have noticed that both David 
 and Jamie encourage it, but it's wrong. Drender and
 
 180 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Masters are not rivals of MacWhinnie Brothers, al- 
 though we are engineers even as they. But their work 
 is of a totally different nature. They cover phases of 
 engineering work which we do not touch. But the 
 point I was coming to : I have heard of your haunting 
 the gates of Drender and Masters about the time the 
 workmen are coming out. I don't believe that you've 
 ever said anything that was uncalled for, but the mere 
 fact of your being there is not to the credit of our firm. 
 And I hear, too, that on several occasions you have 
 patronized shall I say? Drender and Masters, by 
 giving them commissions to execute some model or 
 other." 
 
 The little man laughed softly to himself. 
 
 "Bless ye, Rob," he said, "I hae naethin' but kind- 
 ness in my hairt for John Drender, an' if I've waited 
 outside his works so that he should see me wi' a cigar 
 in my mouth and comfort in my body, it was just be- 
 cause I wanted tae show him what a clever son I had. 
 And, Robert, if ye were my age, an' if ye'd led the 
 hard life I've led, ye'd understand the wonder fu' joy 
 I get out of walking up to the gates of Drender and 
 Masters a minute after the time when, as a younger 
 man, I was supposed to be on the lathe walkin' up 
 tae them, and walkin' back, an' saying to masel' (al- 
 though, mebbe, the gatekeeper might overhear me), 'I 
 dinna think I'll come in to-day, Mr. Drender. I'm 
 takin' a holiday.' " 
 
 "All right," said Robert. "I'm more than pleased 
 to find that there's no malice at the bottom of it all. 
 There's room on this river for both Drender and Mas- 
 ters and MacY/hinnie Brothers ; and I may assure you,
 
 THE PILLAR OF THE HOUSE 181 
 
 father, that I regard the old firm with the deepest of 
 respect. I'm proud to think that it was from that 
 yard I set out for the Far East. I'm grateful, and al- 
 ways shall be, for the splendid opportunities which 
 John Drender went out of his way to give me." 
 
 "The old man is ageing," Donald interrupted, in a 
 conciliatory manner. "I always had a profound re- 
 spect for John Drender masel'. But that's neither 
 here nor there. They tell me, Rob, they tell me that 
 the old man doesna expect to hae control of the yard 
 very much longer." 
 
 "That's news to me," said Robert. 
 
 "What I mean is that he's no as active as he used 
 to be. We a' hae to go some time or ither." 
 
 "He's the halest man on the river, father. Only 
 yesterday I saw him, in the distance, superintending 
 the setting of a propeller blade." 
 
 "An' cussin' an' swearin', I'll be bound." 
 
 "There you go again, father." 
 
 "Ay, Rob, but the old man was always sae interest- 
 in' when he was cussin' an' swearin'. Larned it on 
 the Tyne, he did, an' it's the ane thing a Clyde man 
 envies in a Tynesider. But I believe there's some- 
 thing in what I'm tellin' on ye, that he's no long for 
 this wor-rld. Else, wad he be content tae let his 
 daughter gi'e so much o' her time to charity an' that- 
 like? There was a time when he couldna bear her 
 out o' his sight, but now it seems the right thing for 
 her to be awa' on church work, or nursing, or ony- 
 thin' that'll wipe out some o' the sins o' her old faither 
 agin the time when he'll hae to answer for them." 
 
 "Miss Drender is doing a very noble work, father,"
 
 182 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 said Robert earnestly, "and I don't doubt that her 
 father has encouraged it. Only the other day the 
 Bishop paid a high tribute to the work that Miss 
 Drender has done in the slums. It was she who or- 
 ganized the Nursing Society. She's given up the 
 whole of her life to the helping of the poor, and that 
 without any promise of reward." 
 
 "She's a fine woman," said the old man, nodding 
 his head, "and God forbid that Donald MacWhinnie 
 should ever say onythin' to her detriment. . . . An* 
 she does get the money out o' the stony anes, Rob. 
 She must hae raised some thousands of pounds for 
 these funds of hers." 
 
 "She is tireless in her work," said Robert, and for 
 an instant his eyes glowed. 
 
 "Ay," said the old man. "And for his ain sake I 
 hope John Drender isna allowed to handle them." 
 
 "Father," said Robert quietly, "I'm beginning to 
 fear that you live too near Drender and Masters." 
 
 "But she's a fine woman, Rob," said the old man, 
 swerving dexterously away, "an' when I pass her in 
 the street I'm a-feelin' like greetin'." 
 
 "Why, father?" 
 
 "Such a waste, Rob ! There's a woman for ye !" he 
 sighed. "An' when I think o' the Maggie Drummonds 
 . . . Rob, ye've been awf'y blunt wi' me. I'll be blunt 
 wi' ye, just for ance. There never was an' never will 
 be another man like ye, an' if I thought that it wad be 
 for your benefit, I'd give up this old carcass as willin' 
 as willin'. But somehow I dinna think I shall ever 
 forgi'e ye for leaving Margaret."
 
 THE PILLAR OF THE HOUSE 183 
 
 Robert turned to the cigar cabinet, so that his father 
 should not see his twitching face. 
 
 "We must have an early interview with Thomas," 
 he called over his shoulder, affecting brightness. "We 
 must set the old fellow's mind at ease." 
 
 "An 5 that's like ye, too, Rob. . . . Thousands of 
 pounds she must hae raised for charity, an* on'y yes- 
 terday I met her in the street, an' if I'd had a few 
 coppers they'd hae been hers. Smiled that nicely, too, 
 she did, same as we were old friends. That's what I 
 like aboot her. And there wasn't a dry stitch on her. 
 She'd been makin' a round of a' the collectors for 
 some Christmas fund or ither. She must have been 
 dead tired, because the snow was lyin' heavy, but there 
 she was, carryin' around new bills for the collectors 
 tae paste over their stalls. 'Only a Thousand Pounds 
 More Required' 'Only Eight Hundred More' 
 'Only Seven Hundred More.' One o' the little women 
 told me that John Drender's daughter came round 
 every hour. It's for a new nursing home or somethin'. 
 . . . Are ye listenin' tae me, Robert, or are ye count- 
 in' y'r cigars?" 
 
 "I'm listening to every word, father." 
 
 "They've been tryin' tae raise five thousand, but" 
 with a touch of exultation "they didna get it. They 
 were five hundred pounds short when they gi'ed up 
 the collectin' for the day. . . . What was it ye said 
 about Tammas?" 
 
 "I was saying that we must get hold of him as soon 
 as possible, and find out exactly how he is situated." 
 
 "I'll find out what he's done wi' the money that he 
 got for the farm," said Donald, with a knowing wink.
 
 184 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Like as not, the Drummond brood are fattening on 
 it." 
 
 When the old man had retired for the night, Robert 
 MacWhinnie wrote a letter to his bankers, instructing 
 them to send anonymously the sum of five hundred 
 pounds to the nursing fund organized by Miss Mar- 
 garet Drender. And, that done, he made the round 
 of the house, as was his custom, then slipped noise- 
 lessly into Mori's room to kiss the little sleeper before 
 retiring to his own couch.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "MACWHINNIE BROTHERS" 
 
 THE opportunity to interview Brother Thomas 
 did not occur until some months later, and then 
 the task fell to Robert. By this time, the little 
 father had gone north, to warm another chair in the 
 house at Ballyhoustie, which had been one of Robert's 
 first considerations when he became a man of means. 
 These visits to the north were never of very long dura- 
 tion, for the changed conditions of life had brought 
 but little sobered sweetness to Mrs. MacWhinnie. The 
 old neighbors whom she had hoped to impress with 
 the greatness of her sons had offered no opening for 
 such impressions. They had drifted from her, or, 
 rather, from the changed Mrs. MacWhinnie ; they had 
 known her as a hard-working, companionable body in 
 the old days. Indeed, the new environment had im- 
 posed so many penalties that she was unable rightly 
 to appreciate the privileges. 
 
 It was in the late afternoon when Robert received 
 word that Mr. Thomas MacWhinnie was awaiting him 
 in the office. At the time, Robert was stripped to the 
 waist in the engine room, and as grimy as any of the 
 engineers gathered about him. The trouble with the 
 mechanism was hard to locate, and three valuable 
 hours had been spent by the senior partner of the firm, 
 
 185
 
 186 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 who would have stayed there all night rather than con- 
 fess failure to the men who had come to regard him 
 as the finest engineer on the river. 
 
 When he reached the office, he found his eldest 
 brother restlessly pacing the floor of the private room 
 into which he had been ushered. It might be a most 
 inconvenient time to receive visitors, but there was no 
 doubting the sincerity of Robert's welcome. 
 
 "Sit down, Thomas, old fellow, and let me have all 
 the news. I've been trying to get into touch with you 
 for some months, but this new work of yours seems 
 to hurry you from one place to another without giving 
 you any time to see your brothers. How's the world 
 using you? And how's your good wife?" 
 
 The years had dealt very unkindly with Thomas. 
 He had never been robust, but at forty he was thinner, 
 and more haggard, and more discontented-looking 
 than when at twenty he had satisfied himself that he 
 was an Ishmael. He had grown a beard, long and 
 ragged, and with some of the fiery hue that had once 
 distinguished his father's. He wore his hair long in 
 sympathy, and that, too, was ragged; but his clothes 
 were of fairly smart cut, and the broad-brimmed felt 
 hat rested jauntily, if not defiantly, on his head. 
 
 "Sit down, Thomas," Robert urged, "and take your 
 hat off. Try to make yourself comfortable. We're 
 not accustomed to receiving visitors here, so we don't 
 stand on ceremony." 
 
 "I can talk better if I walk about," said Thomas, 
 with the gesture of the paid orator. "I called to see 
 you some months ago, but you were out." 
 
 "Yes, father told me about your visit. I was in
 
 "MACWHINNIE BROTHERS" 187 
 
 the city that day, trying to worry contracts out of 
 old-fashioned people who seem to look at a young 
 concern with suspicion, as though it were natural so 
 to do." 
 
 "And how is trade?" Thomas was walking some- 
 what rapidly up and down the floor; he appeared to 
 be stamping inspiration out of the carpet. 
 
 "Quite good," said Robert cheerfully. "We're 
 young, as I say, so we mustn't expect too much. We 
 have several contracts in hand that should leave a 
 sound margin if we get them through as speedily as I 
 anticipate. But you never can tell, Thomas. You 
 never know what may happen. But with the loyalty of 
 the men beyond doubt, we're comparatively free from 
 what, with all due deference to you, we may regard as 
 the greatest danger of all a strike at a most inoppor- 
 tune time." 
 
 "Don't be too optimistic," said Thomas warningly. 
 "Human nature is only human nature, and nowadays 
 working men have greater minds than their own to 
 think for them." 
 
 Robert nodded pleasantly. 
 
 "You haven't come here to talk politics, have you, 
 Thomas ? No, of course not. Father told me quite a 
 lot of news about you, and I was somewhat anxious to 
 get in touch with you, to find out how you're fixed." 
 
 "I haven't been out of the country," said Thomas 
 coldly, and to insinuate that he might have been found, 
 if the seeker had shown any spirit in his search. 
 
 Robert changed his tone immediately. 
 
 "You must forgive me, Thomas. We've had a
 
 188 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 busy time of it during the last few months, and con- 
 siderable worry." 
 
 "There are three of you to share it, anyway." 
 
 "True," said Robert, still in a brisk, cheerful tone, 
 "but even three heads can't overcome everything, 
 when the question of capital arises." 
 
 "You fog me, Robert." 
 
 "Simple enough. If we could have increased our 
 capital six months ago, we might have undertaken a 
 great deal more work more profitable work." 
 
 "And why don't you increase your capital?" 
 
 Thomas had assumed the attitude of a cross-exam- 
 ining lawyer, but Robert refused to see it. 
 
 "My dear Thomas," he said half jocularly, "where 
 do you suppose we were to get it ?" 
 
 Thomas turned to face him. 
 
 "I don't understand you," he said, in a monotone. 
 
 "/ couldn't put in any more." 
 
 "No, of course not" 
 
 "Why that, Thomas why that cynical note?" 
 
 "Did it sound cynical? I was only surprised by 
 your reply." 
 
 "Why should you be surprised, Thomas ?" A slight 
 pallor showed beneath the grime on Robert's face; 
 Thomas's demeanor was arousing a spirit of resent- 
 ment. 
 
 "You're talking as though you were on the verge of 
 bankruptcy as they all talk when they fear an appeal 
 to their pockets." 
 
 "What appeal were you going to make, Thomas?" 
 
 "I haven't said that I was going to make any ap- 
 peal. I was only feeling my way."
 
 "MACWHINNIE BROTHERS" 189 
 
 "To my pocket ?" 
 
 Thomas threw up his head indignantly. 
 
 "Don't give yourself airs, Robert. You have the 
 reputation for being stand-offish, but but I know 
 you." 
 
 Robert forced back the natural retort, and waved 
 his hand genially. 
 
 "Thomas, old fellow," he said, "if you're worried 
 in the slightest about the farm and the sale and so 
 forth, take it for granted that it's quite all right. Look 
 here, why don't you come down to my " 
 
 "Of course it's all right. What have you at the 
 back of your mind, Robert?" He had stopped in his 
 perambulations, and was glaring at his brother. 
 
 Robert took a deep breath to steady himself. 
 
 "Supposing supposing that you hadn't made a bad 
 shot when you spoke of the verge of bankruptcy; 
 what then ?" 
 
 Thomas started at the change of tone, but some- 
 thing like a sneer crept into his face. 
 
 "If there were anything in it," he replied, "I should 
 have only one comment to make." 
 
 "Now's your chance," said Robert challengingly. 
 
 "That you ought to be ashamed of yourself." 
 
 "Why, pray?" The smile that flickered in Robert's 
 eyes at the preposterousness of the remark died quick- 
 ly away. 
 
 Thomas asked superciliously : 
 
 "Well, whose fault would it be?" 
 
 "I don't follow you." 
 
 "You mean that you don't wish to follow me. The 
 suggestion's plain enough."
 
 190 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Too plain to be serious." 
 
 "This is not my day for jesting" lugubriously and 
 in his best platform manner. "I came to see you on a 
 matter which ought to have made direct appeal to 
 your sense of justice the sense of justice with which 
 you're credited." 
 
 "And you haven't even hinted at the nature of it." 
 
 "No, because you anticipated me, as they all do 
 when they smell a rat." 
 
 "I've been in an engine pit all the afternoon," said 
 Robert, a little wearily, "and the only smell in my 
 nostrils is that of grease and carbon." 
 
 "You anticipated me by holding up the bogey of 
 bankruptcy." 
 
 "It was half in jest." 
 
 "And I told you that this wasn't the time for jest- 
 ing." 
 
 "Thomas Thomas, where is your sense of hu- 
 mor?" 
 
 "Where would it be, if I returned to my committee, 
 and informed them that the reputedly wealthy man, 
 described in the newspapers as the genius of the river 
 the man who had brought a fortune out of the Far 
 East my own brother had flung lame subterfuge in 
 my face when asked to show his appreciation of hu- 
 manity's demands?" 
 
 "What committee? And what evidence of my ap- 
 preciation do you require?" 
 
 "Perhaps you haven't heard of the New England- 
 ers?" 
 
 "Fm sorry to say that my reading is practically con- 
 fined to the trade papers."
 
 "MACWHINNIE BROTHERS" 191 
 
 "We're not Utopian in our ideals." 
 
 "You're terribly lachrymose, old fellow" with a 
 cheery smile. 
 
 "One cannot look on misery abject misery with 
 laughter in one's heart." 
 
 "Come, Thomas, let's have it!" 
 
 "It's a regeneration scheme." 
 
 "And a very worthy one." 
 
 "There are thousands of men who are waiting for 
 the one chance, and we're going to give it to them." 
 
 "Where are they? And what are they doing?" 
 
 "In prison, breaking their hearts because of the 
 hardness of the world." 
 
 "You're going to take them out?" 
 
 "Organize a colony and attempt a task from which 
 successive governments have always shrunk." 
 
 Robert rose from his chair, and slapped his brother 
 on the shoulder. 
 
 "Thomas, my boy, I'll take it back. You have a 
 sense of humor." 
 
 Thomas swung round angrily. 
 
 "To laugh at a man's principles, Robert, is the 
 cheapest form of criticism. All principles deserve 
 some consideration." 
 
 Robert affected gravity on the instant. 
 
 "I'm not laughing at your principles, Thomas," he 
 said, "because I'm not certain in my own mind what 
 they amount to." 
 
 "Anyway, you're inclined to treat my remarks 
 lightly." 
 
 "On the contrary, I should never treat lightly any- 
 thing that you might say. It was the somewhat airy
 
 192 THE PIONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 way in which you talked of regenerating a horde of 
 worthless scoundrels, men who wouldn't work even if 
 they had the opportunity given them." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Thomas, with a bitter smile, "you 
 have imbibed all the old prejudices against the work- 
 ingman, against " 
 
 "You're wrong, Thomas. I set great store by the 
 ability of the average workingman. Are we not de- 
 pendent on his loyalty and his skill?" 
 
 "If you valued their loyalty, you wouldn't be so 
 ready to smile at the suggestion I have put before you. 
 One of these days, Robert, you will be made to value 
 the loyalty of the workingman." 
 
 A message was brought in from the yard. Mr. 
 MacGowan, the manager, wished to speak to Mr. 
 Robert. 
 
 "Five minutes," said Robert to the boy, "and I shall 
 be there." 
 
 Thomas watched the closing of the door with bel- 
 ligerency glowing in his eyes. 
 
 "Now," said Robert, "let's settle this little trouble 
 of yours, if we can, Thomas. Tell me exactly what 
 it is that you require. Not money, I hope ?" 
 
 Thomas made no reply. 
 
 "Because I'll tell you frankly that at present the 
 firm isn't in a position to be philanthropic. In fact, 
 if we, ourselves, could lay our hands on a little more 
 capital, we might be in a much better position than 
 we are." 
 
 "May I ask what's happened to the capital?" 
 
 "You may ask, Thomas, but I don't know that I'm 
 under any obligation to answer you."
 
 "MACWHINNIE BROTHERS" 193 
 
 "I think you are," said Thomas. "I'm asking you 
 as a brother. Not that I shall be surprised or disap- 
 pointed if you don't answer me. There's nothing dis- 
 creditable about the firm, is there, that you're afraid 
 to tell me ? Or, shall I ask David ? I suppose David 
 would be in a better position even than you to say 
 what was wrong with the firm. I understand that you 
 keep his nose to the desk pretty closely. I was sorry 
 for him when last I saw him. And then there's Jamie. 
 Is he another of your slaves? Robert, I'm sorry that 
 I've had to speak like this to you ; but you've brought 
 it on yourself." 
 
 "Do I understand," said Robert quietly and now 
 there was nothing like mirth in either his voice or his 
 eyes "that you were sent by your committee, or vol- 
 unteered to come, to find out if we were ready to con- 
 tribute to any wild-cat scheme?" 
 
 "I came of my own free will," said Thomas, "be- 
 lieving that my brother Robert hadn't changed that 
 a little success hadn't turned his head. And it's not a 
 wild-cat scheme. It's one based on careful analysis of 
 human nature, and behind it all is the ennobling desire 
 to help those who are unable to help themselves." 
 
 "We were talking about the farm just now," said 
 Robert. "May I ask what has become of the pur- 
 chase money? . . . You needn't answer, Thomas. I 
 can quite believe that it forms the basis of the fund for 
 the regeneration, et cetera. Well, there's an end 
 of it." 
 
 "No, it's not an end of it, Robert!" Thomas strucl: 
 the table with his fist. "I remember the day," he said, 
 with increasing violence, "when you used to say that
 
 194 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 nothing should stand between you and your ambition. 
 Robert, you're not the only one in the family that has 
 ambition ; and if mine doesn't tend toward the accumu- 
 lation of wealth, it's equally great and worthy. I've 
 flung my whole heart into the work I've taken up. I 
 feel it. It has become part of me. The cries of the 
 oppressed are insistent, and if I die fighting their cause 
 I shall feel that there is some glory in it." 
 
 Robert regarded him pathetically. 
 
 "There was always a revolutionary banner over 
 your head, Thomas," he said, "and no one admired 
 you more than I did for the hours you used to devote 
 to your subject. You're older than I am, but I think 
 that I have seen as much of the world as you have. 
 .Leave these hastily conceived schemes to the others. 
 There's plenty of good work to which you may put 
 your hand, and I'm willing to talk it over with David 
 and Jamie to see what we can do in the way of mak- 
 ing a fresh start for you." 
 
 "I'm not a beggar," Thomas retorted. "I don't 
 know that I owe you anything, and after that remark 
 of yours we'll forget any tie that used to bind us." 
 
 "Thomas, man! You can't be serious. You're so 
 different from what you used to be ! I can hardly be- 
 lieve that it's my brother that's standing there doing 
 his level best to provoke a quarrel." 
 
 "And I warn you, Robert, that my interest in the 
 workers, in humanity, is so great that I should never 
 allow family ties to sway me. The Cause should come 
 first." 
 
 "There's been a stoppage in the engine room," said 
 Robert, somewhat curtly, "and every minute that en-
 
 "MACWIIINN1E BROTHERS" 195 
 
 gine's stopped means a loss to the firm. Somebody 
 must do some work. And I say again that I'm sorry 
 you should have come to see me in this spirit." 
 
 "Don't drive me too far, Robert," and Thomas 
 wagged a forefinger warningly. "I could say things 
 that would hurt you deeply, but I don't want to say 
 them. You're not playing the game." 
 
 "What game?" asked Robert, wondering how long 
 this burlesque was going to continue. 
 
 "You're different, that's ail," said Thomas. "When 
 you whine to me about a shortage of capital " 
 
 "I'm not whining at all. We're doing very nicely, 
 thank you, and if we get the contracts we expect, the 
 firm will be able to hold its head as high as any other 
 on the river." 
 
 "It's a good thing for the firm," said Thomas dryly, 
 "that David and Jamie haven't added to their respon- 
 sibilities. They're both single men and likely to re- 
 main so." 
 
 "You're drifting again, Thomas." 
 
 "I mean that if there is anything in your story about 
 this shortage of capital, it would be much more serious 
 if David and Jamie were married and had children, 
 and lived in fashionable houses on the river, and kept 
 armies of servants to look after their children 
 French governesses, music masters, and what not 
 and if " 
 
 "Thomas, old fellow !" Robert's voice was full of 
 pain. 
 
 "And if, in order to feed their vanity, they gave 
 away large sums of money to questionable charities." 
 
 Robert held out his hand.
 
 196 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Come again another time, Thomas," he said coax- 
 ingly. "I refuse to believe that this is my brother 
 talking." 
 
 "I'll repeat everything I've said," was the truculent 
 reply. "You owe a duty to your brothers, Robert 
 MacWhinnie. I want nothing that you've got, but I 
 warn you that David and Jamie are not serfs, and the 
 time will come when they'll have done with what I 
 call the arrogance of newly acquired wealth. Those 
 who stand outside see a deal of what's going on in- 
 side. I suppose that if I went to David and Jamie to 
 enlist their sympathies in the Cause I have at heart, 
 they would be able only to shrug their shoulders and 
 point to you. I know that in your mind you're saying 
 that it's your money, that you made it, that you started 
 the firm of MacWhinnie Brothers. But, did you? Do 
 you ever try to think of what we went through as 
 youngsters in order that you might be given an oppor- 
 tunity to push yourself to the front?" 
 
 Robert went to the door. 
 
 "I'll ring for Jamie," he said. "I'm afraid I can- 
 not spare you any more of my time." 
 
 A clerk answered the bell. 
 
 "Ask Mr. James if he can spare me a moment," 
 said Robert. 
 
 The clerk gave the visitor a quick glance, then 
 looked again at Robert. 
 
 "Mr. James is away, sir," he said falteringly, "at 
 Liverpool. The Waterloo Cup is being run to-day." 
 
 Robert dismissed the clerk with a nod, and closed 
 the door. Without looking at Thomas, he said mus- 
 ingly: "Jamie is very interested in another regenera-
 
 "MACWHINNIE BROTHERS" 197 
 
 tion scheme, Thomas the regeneration of grey- 
 hounds. We'll try David." 
 
 The reply brought by the clerk was that Mr. David 
 was in Paris, on firm's business. And, again, Robert 
 nodded a dismissal ; and as he went back to the middle 
 of the room, he said, in a casual way: "I do hope the 
 boy didn't forget his golf clubs." 
 
 It was a mere coincidence that three minutes later 
 the telephone bell rang. The call was from the Gratz 
 Hotel; the head chef wished to speak to Mr. David 
 MacWhinnie. Robert held a second receiver toward 
 Thomas, who took it. 
 
 "Mr. David MacWhinnie is in Paris at the mo- 
 ment," he replied to the chef, "but I'll take any mes- 
 sage that you may have for him." 
 
 "In Paris?" came a surprised voice. "But what of 
 ze banquet to Mam'selle Fricot?" 
 
 "Don't know her," said Robert. 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" came an excited exclamation. 
 "Mam'selle Fricot premiere danseuse! Mr. Mac- 
 Whinnie is giving a banquet in her honor to-night at 
 the Gratz Hotel, and I wished to know " 
 
 "Yes, I'll take it all down," said Robert, reaching 
 for a pencil, and sighing deeply as he did so. 
 
 "It isn't fair to David," said Thomas sullenly, 
 throwing down his receiver. 
 
 "I'll take his message, anyway," said Robert. . . . 
 "Yes, M'sieur le chef ? I'll take the message." 
 
 "Bien! I have created ze great dish ze Fricasse 
 Fricot." 
 
 "Spell it," said Robert dully. There was a moment 
 of silence. "Cut off," he said at last, turning to
 
 198 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Thomas. Then, as he rolled up his sleeves preparatory 
 to returning to the engine room : "I'm sorry to hear 
 you say that David wasn't looking himself when you 
 met him the other day," he said. "Good-by, Thomas. 
 Somebody must do some work."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 SYMPATHY 
 
 THE day's work done, he was on his way home, 
 and the aching of his limbs because of the ex- 
 ertions in the yard was nothing to the pain in 
 his heart. To Thomas he had shown a brave face, 
 but not since the death of brown-haired Jean in far- 
 away Japan had he been so utterly crushed in spirit. 
 He had asked no reward for baring his shoulders to 
 another's burden, and the world seemed determined 
 that he should have none. He walked home, as always 
 he did, that being the only form of exercise his work 
 would permit of. Usually the roar and hum of the 
 traffic and the droning of the city's workers as they 
 spread homeward, away from the hub of toil, kept his 
 mind from dwelling on the past, even exalted him, for 
 it was good to feel that he was one of them one who 
 filled a niche in God's scheme of labor; this night the 
 droning seemed to have changed to sighing sighing 
 because he was not of them; he was alone, and the 
 sense of loneliness weighed upon him. Among all 
 those thousands he was a stranger. His heart might 
 be aching what was it to them ? 
 
 And Jean's broken words came back over the years 
 the strained, pleading cry as she knelt in "Charity 
 
 199
 
 200 THE HOXOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Corner" and called to him for pity : "I wanted sym- 
 pathy, and you'd gone!" 
 
 A little sympathy would have meant so much to 
 him. A little sympathy, a little less of the selfishness 
 that was making his burden greater than it was, and 
 he could have "plugged ahead/' as dear old Dick Mor- 
 row would have said, believing that some day the 
 clouds would break, and the sun come streaming forth. 
 
 "I wanted sympathy, and you'd gone." 
 
 And somewhere, on the farther bank of the river, 
 hidden behind the gaunt masts of idle ships that 
 fringed the water, among the black and gray of hulls 
 and warehouse walls, yonder, where his eyes turned 
 every morning when he rose from sleep, where they 
 rested for a little while before he turned away from 
 the window at night, there was the sympathy of which 
 he couldn't avail himself. If only he could brush 
 aside the mist that separated them! If only he could 
 forget one phase of the burden, he knew that her dear 
 heart would come back to his for the sheltering love 
 that he could give it. 
 
 And the years were as cruel as the world ; they were 
 rushing on, forgetful of what he had sacrificed, of 
 what he had missed ; indifferent to the deeper gray of 
 the temples. . . . 
 
 He saw her that evening as he walked homeward. 
 Her dear face, yearning, wistful, and as old as his 
 own, yet retaining all its early beauty of repose, lifted, 
 as it were, from out of the throng, and looked toward 
 him. A cab drew up beside the pavement ; she stepped 
 out of the jostling crowd. The driver leaned forward 
 to receive his instructions how Robert envied the
 
 SYMPATHY 201 
 
 man his privilege! and just before she passed into 
 the vehicle she looked back again. He was twenty or 
 thirty yards from her, but he knew that a gentle smile 
 of forgiveness dwelt for an instant in her eyes; he 
 knew that the tears welled up to hide him from her. 
 And she was gone, leaving her name trembling upon 
 his lips. But fleeting though the vision had been, it 
 gave him fresh courage; the tired limbs swung more 
 freely and without the pain that had wracked them a 
 moment before; his eyes cleared; he saw the beacon 
 in the far distance, and his ears caught the laughter 
 of the river as it tumbled toward the sea; the droning 
 of the city toilers as they recounted to each other the 
 incidents of the day swelled into music, and the 
 warmth of the evening sky enfolded him. 
 
 It was dusk when he reached the garden gate. A 
 Japanese lantern glowed in the tiny pagoda set among 
 the rhododendrons, and a slim little elf stole out of 
 the deepening gray of twilight to give him welcome. 
 
 "Mori, darling!" 
 
 "Dear daddy!" 
 
 And gone was the memory of base ingratitude. He 
 picked the child up in his arms, and pressed his cheek 
 against hers; and as she wound her little warm arms 
 around his neck, as her long brown hair was blown 
 against his face, as he felt her heart beating in ecstasy 
 against his, he knew that no sacrifice is ever allowed 
 to pass unnoticed. 
 
 Mori was permitted to stay up to dinner that night 
 (he wanted sympathy) ; she was his little housekeeper 
 for once; she waited upon him, urged him to have 
 some more of this and the merest portion of that, and
 
 202 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 wondered aloud if he had been trying to do too much 
 during the day, and if he were looking quite so well 
 as when he left in the morning, and whatever he would 
 be likely to do if she were not there to attend to him. 
 And when coffee was cleared, she found his big briar 
 pipe, and insisted on charging it insisted on trying 
 the draught and then and then she "snuggled in" 
 beside him on the deep-seated armchair, and: 
 
 "You start it, my darling," he whispered tenderly. 
 
 "One day, daddy, one day there was a man." 
 
 He had turned the lights low; the corners of the 
 room were in shadow, and out of the shadow the faces 
 of Jean and Margaret seemed to creep as though they, 
 too, wished to listen to the story. 
 
 "One day, my darling, there was a poor man, a 
 beggar, who loved a beautiful princess. And she loved 
 him because she believed in him. But something hap- 
 pened to keep them apart. Something happened to 
 lead the princess to fear that the man didn't love her 
 any more." 
 
 "But why didn't he tell her, daddy?" 
 
 "Because because he couldn't tell her without hurt- 
 ing someone else. But he did love her ; he knew that 
 he would never love anyone as he loved her. The 
 years passed, and he saw her only seldom, and then 
 from a great distance. And he began to grow old, or 
 to think that he was growing old; and everybody 
 well, nearly everybody was unkind to him. They 
 shrugged their shoulders when they passed him on the 
 road, and soon soon they began to throw mud and 
 stones when they saw him coming. He bore with it 
 all, because he believed that the princess still loved
 
 SYMPATHY 203 
 
 him, and that one day they would meet and love each 
 other as they used to. But the days went by, and the 
 distance between them widened, and he began to ask 
 himself if there was any more joy in life for him. 
 And just when he had almost persuaded himself that 
 there was nothing for him save stones and mud, a 
 little fairy just like you, my darling crept out of 
 the grass and weeds by the side of the road crept to 
 where he was sitting with his hands over his eyes. 
 She called to him so softly that for a long while he 
 paid no attention. Then she drew away one of his 
 hands, and when she saw the tears flowing down his 
 cheeks, she climbed on his knee and kissed them all 
 away. He opened his eyes, and placed his arm around 
 her just like this, darling for he saw how beautiful 
 she was, and feared that she might fly away. He 
 asked her: 'Where did you come from?' and she 
 said, 'I have been near you a long while, but your eyes 
 were so full of trouble that you couldn't see me.' 
 'What an old duffer I must be!' he said, and already 
 he was feeling as happy as could be. 'Where have 
 you been hiding?' 'Just behind your trouble,' she 
 told him, and laughed so heartily that the echoes raced 
 over the banks at the side of the road. 'If you hadn't 
 been thinking so much about your troubles, you would 
 have seen me long ago,' she told him. 'And where are 
 you going?' he asked very nervously, because he felt 
 that he didn't deserve so beautiful a fairy. Til stay 
 with you,' she said, 'but you must never let Trouble 
 come between us again.' And so he tightened his arms 
 around her just like this, darling! and he held her 
 to him, and . . ."
 
 WEAK LINKS 
 
 THE pagoda at the bottom of the garden had 
 been transformed by the snow and a little im- 
 agination on the part of Robert into an Esqui- 
 mau's hut when Mrs. MacWhinnie, in Ballyhoustie, 
 decided that Robert had been left long enough in 
 peace. She wrote him a letter of many pages, and 
 it was not without pathos when the narrowness of it 
 all was set on one side. 
 
 "My DEAR BOY. I've begged and prayed of your father 
 to write this for me, but you know what he is. There are 
 times, Rob, when I ask myself if all this change has been 
 for the best that's when I look at your father. If I said 
 that he was getting sairly fat and lazy, it would no be a sin 
 against him or my conscience. I mind the time when he 
 was a riveter on the Clyde and had to get out of his bed 
 at six in the morning, rain, hail, or shine. 'Ay, ay,' he 
 used to grummel, 'it's a dog's life. Gie me a cottage and 
 a pound a week and I'll ask no mair.' And what's hap- 
 pened? There he sets on the fence watching the potatoes 
 grow and thinking out an invention to dig them up in the 
 autumn by machinery. Anything to save himself a bit of 
 labor. 
 
 "Tammas's wife, Maggie, came to Ballyhoustie a week or 
 two gone, and I've no been myself sin. She went about the 
 house with a look in her eyes that telled me as plain as plain 
 that she didn't think I was fit for my new surroundings. 
 Sat down on the chair as if she expected it to squeak, and 
 
 204
 
 WEAK LINKS 205 
 
 said it fair brought her hairt into her mouth to see your 
 father on the carpet with his dirty boots. She's a nice bit 
 body, but her tongue seems to be loose at both ends. It 
 seems you've been having her down there on a visit. She'll 
 no get over your furniture till her dying day, and wee Mori 
 has reminded her of all she never got herself when she wr.s 
 a baby. Poor jealous body, she didn't know how to hold 
 herself as she reckoned up what it must have cost ye to 
 bring the bairn up as far as you have. Tarn's not having 
 much luck, and from what I could gather from her, he's no 
 happy in his mind. Rob, man, we'll have to put our heads 
 together to see what can be done for him. 
 
 "I suppose Jamie told you that he came up to see his old 
 mother a while back. I hardly knew the lad, he was that 
 fine. Like he would do, he went to the old cottage first, for- 
 getting that we'd been here for a couple of years and more. 
 He said that he walked right up to the old door before he 
 noticed that we must have gone, for the creature that's liv- 
 ing there now had cut down all the hollyhocks in the cor- 
 ner of the garden by the rockery, and there was no a sweet- 
 william in the place, you know how I loved sweet-williams; 
 and the white rose by the gate was no there, and she had 
 chickens and young ducks running about the bit grass under 
 the window. Rob, man, you'll think your old mother's get- 
 ting saft, but it fair made my hairt bleed to listen to him. 
 When you were all bairns long before we went to the 
 south I used to spend hours in that bit garden, and there 
 was no a flower in it that I hadn't bred from cuttings 
 and the like. If I'd been slapped in the face I couldn't 
 have been hurt more than when Jamie told me what the 
 creature had done. 
 
 "How's David? I worrit a deal about him, 'cause after all 
 he's only a bairn he'll always be a bairn to me. 
 
 "When the weather clears a bit, I'll try to get down, but 
 it's a sight of money to spend on the railways; they'd take 
 your last penny from you and no say thanks; that's the 
 way of the world, so I tell your father: 'Get it, stick to it, 
 and get some more.' 
 
 "If you should happen to have a little to spare, you could 
 make your old mother wonderfully happy by buying that 
 -ottage. I'd turn the creature out of it, to-morrow.
 
 206 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Your father is awfy happy and fat as I said, and if he 
 could only leave the inventing alone for a while he'd be a 
 better man in temper than he is." 
 
 Mr. MacWhinnie had enclosed a note of his own : 
 
 "Robert, boy, if you should happen to think of anything I 
 might be doing down your way, you'd better drop me a 
 line. I'm sick for a change." 
 
 But Robert was not disposed to let his mind dwell 
 on the bubbles of trouble that had arisen in Bally- 
 houstie; for the news that had come in the second 
 letter overshadowed all else. Even Mori was a victim 
 to his ecstatic mood, for he was all impatience to reach 
 the office. He was burning with a desire to be first 
 with the news, but the morning newspapers antici- 
 pated him. When he arrived at the office, David and 
 Jamie were awaiting him. He clashed the door be- 
 hind him, and cried out like a schoolboy : 
 
 "Boys, I have great news !" 
 
 "We've had it already," said David. "The news- 
 papers are full of it/' and he flung a copy across the 
 table in Robert's direction. 
 
 Jamie, tall and thin, like his brother Thomas, and 
 somewhat esthetic of bearing, affected calm, although 
 David had impressed on him the significance of the 
 news. Robert picked up the newspaper, and read 
 aloud the column that had been marked by his brother. 
 
 MacWhinnie Brothers, the youngest firm on the 
 river, had been honored that was how the newspaper 
 writer put it had been honored by the Chilian Gov- 
 ernment. The firm was to "engine" three destroyers,
 
 WEAK LINKS 207 
 
 and the most remarkable part about it was that their 
 tender had been higher than the tenders of three or 
 four old-established firms. The writer of the article 
 found in this fact a tribute to the genius of Robert 
 MacWhinnie, whose name had been made in the Far 
 East. Following the comments of the trade writer 
 were abbreviated interviews with several well-known 
 firms of engineers, the heads of which had been asked 
 to express an opinion on the Chilian decision. The 
 name of John Drender, of Drender, Masters and Com- 
 pany, was prominent at least, to Robert's eyes 
 among those who had been drawn by the interviewer. 
 And John Drender had said this : "The honor is 
 shared by Drender and Masters, for it was here that 
 Robert MacWhinnie learned his trade. If the work 
 depends on the skill of Robert MacWhinnie, it will be 
 well done." 
 
 Robert dropped the newspaper. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked of the 
 other two. "Isn't it just splendid ?" 
 
 "It's a kick in the ribs for old Drender," said Da- 
 vid superciliously. 
 
 "If we can put it through," said Jamie, still affect- 
 ing a calm that he didn't feel. 
 
 Robert turned on him with an outburst almost of 
 indignation. 
 
 "// we can put it through?" he echoed. "Of course 
 we shall put it through! Somehow, I felt that this 
 was coming to us, just when we needed it most. This 
 is going to be the making of the firm, if we put our 
 backs into it ... David, what have you to say about 
 it?"
 
 208 THE HOXOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "I haven't had time to think about it yet," said 
 David cautiously. 
 
 "And you, Jamie? Come, now, be candid. Don't 
 you think that this is the greatest thing that's hap- 
 pened to us?" 
 
 "I was thinking," said Jamie, "that we should look 
 rather cheap in the eyes of our rivals, if we found that 
 we'd bitten off more than we could comfortably chew." 
 
 "Rivals ?" said Robert, with a laugh. "We have no 
 rivals. If you and David put your hearts into it, we'll 
 show this sleepy old river how work should be done." 
 
 Jamie glanced at David, as for instruction. David 
 was idly turning over the pages of the newspaper, as 
 though contracts, even of this magnitude, were a mere 
 detail in his life. 
 
 "Yes," he said, in a casual way, "I suppose a great 
 deal does depend on Jamie and me." 
 
 "Of course," said Robert, his cheeks aglow with 
 enthusiasm. "If we don't stand together, the chances 
 are that we shall fail. But we mustn't fail. This is 
 an honor to the firm, and we have to show the world 
 that we're capable of appreciating it." 
 
 "When are you going to sign the contracts ?" David 
 asked, peeping over the top of his paper. 
 
 "I have the letter here," said Robert. "It came this 
 morning. I have an appointment at two o'clock with 
 the Government's representative." 
 
 "There's a time limit, of course?" said Jamie in- 
 quiringly. 
 
 "Of course," said Robert, glancing again at his 
 letter. 
 
 "What is it?"
 
 "WEAK LINKS 209 
 
 Robert might have read what was in his brother's 
 mind, for a change came over him instantly. 
 
 "That has to be discussed," he said evasively, and 
 put the letter in his pocket. Then he fell again to 
 exulting. "Apart from the margin we may make on 
 this contract," he said, pounding the palm of his left 
 hand with his right fist, "there's the tremendous pub- 
 licity attached the advertisement. Wait till the trade 
 papers come out. Won't they screech ! And the fact 
 that our tender wasn't the lowest is the grandest thing 
 of all it implies so much !" 
 
 "You're very excited about it, Robert," said Jamie, 
 looking down his nose. "It wouldn't do for the rep- 
 resentative to see you so elated. The proper thing to 
 do is to convince him that we're not at all anxious for 
 the contract." 
 
 "Ah ! Jamie," said Robert, "I never was a hypocrite 
 thank God for that ! and if you think that you can 
 convey a false impression in that way you're greatly 
 mistaken. We are glad of the contract at least, I 
 am." 
 
 "Then, for your sake," said Jamie, with a mock 
 sigh, "I hope we shall be able to put it through." 
 
 Robert frowned slightly. 
 
 "Why are you so anxious to raise doubts in that 
 direction ?" he asked. 
 
 Jamie made an expressive gesture. 
 
 "All right, Robert," he said shortly. "It's just as 
 well that one of us should try to remain calm and col- 
 lected. And, of course, I have no knowledge of the 
 time limit. One of the newspapers sent a man down
 
 210 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 half an hour before you arrived. He wanted to know, 
 for the benefit of his readers." 
 
 "You keep the newspaper men out of this office," 
 said Robert. "We're going to get all the publicity we 
 need without their help." 
 
 "Naturally, I couldn't tell him," said Jamie, "being 
 only a junior partner. But if he were to ask me again 
 if he were to suggest that the work must be com- 
 pleted in, say, six months, I think I know what I 
 should be able to tell him." 
 
 "What?" asked Robert quickly. 
 
 "That it couldn't be done." 
 
 "My dear Jamie," said Robert, refusing to be 
 piqued, "you must never show the world a tearful 
 face. You must never raise doubts in other people's 
 minds that you're certain of yourself. If you were 
 to tell the newspapers that you didn't think that the 
 firm of MacWhinnie Brothers could put this contract 
 through, the newspapers would see to it that you 
 didn't. What we have to do is to square our shoul- 
 ders, turn up our sleeves, and get to work, asking no 
 one's advice, thinking nothing of the possibilities of 
 failure, never dreaming of them, but assuming from 
 the very beginning that the work will be completed 
 within the stipulated time." 
 
 "We have a dozen or more small contracts in hand 
 now," said Jamie. "I hope you're not forgetting 
 those." 
 
 "I never forget anything," said Robert. "I can't 
 afford to forget." 
 
 "Oh, I only mentioned them, that's all !" said Jamie, 
 in a haughty tone of voice. "There was one came in
 
 WEAK LINKS. 211 
 
 a few weeks ago one that will take us a considerable 
 time to complete." 
 
 "You mean the Johnson rotary ? I remember. The 
 contract was signed the day 'Ballydoud' won the 
 Waterloo Cup the day Mademoiselle Fricot was ban- 
 queted at the Gratz by one of her many admirers. 
 Well, what about these smaller contracts ?" 
 
 "We'll have to complete them," said Jamie, whose 
 cheeks were scarlet because of the reference to the 
 Waterloo Cup. 
 
 "We shall complete them, all right." 
 "Then you intend to increase the wage-list?" 
 "I do not," said Robert. "We have sufficient men 
 here to put everything through satisfactorily." 
 "I doubt it very seriously, I doubt it." 
 "You should get rid of some of your doubts, Jamie. 
 I warrant that when the men hear of this honor that's 
 been paid the firm, they'll take it in a personal sense, 
 and they'll put their hearts into the work. See if they 
 don't." 
 
 "If I know anything about the demands of such a 
 contract," said Jamie sententiously, "we'll need to take 
 on an additional hundred hands." 
 
 "If you'll tell me who's going to pay them, I'll fall 
 in with your argument," said Robert. 
 
 "It's either that, or making a mess of the contract." 
 "We shall not take on a single additional hand," 
 said Robert, "and we're going to win." 
 
 "All right," said Jamie, waving a hand, and moving 
 toward the door. "You always were optimistic, even 
 when you had no reason to be. Anyway, don't blame
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 me if anything happens. It was my duty to point out 
 to you - " 
 
 "Of course it was your duty," said Robert. 
 "There's no reason to get up on your hind legs, Jamie. 
 We are here to inquire into such problems. You've 
 raised your points, and I'm satisfied that we can over- 
 come the difficulties that you anticipate. There's an 
 end of it. What do you say, David?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" said David, lowering his 
 newspaper. "I wasn't listening." 
 
 Robert's face changed instantly. 
 
 "There's a couple of your clerks coming through the 
 yard," he said, somewhat grimly. "They're half an 
 hour late. Most certainly we shall not be able to put 
 the contract through if we give time away like that." 
 
 David's reply was to drop the newspaper and saun- 
 ter out of the office. When Robert passed through 
 the clerical department on his way to the yard to see 
 MacGowan, the manager, he noticed a letter lying in 
 the post-basket and near the elbow of David's stenog- 
 rapher. It was addressed to Thomas MacWhinnie, 
 Esq.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE TOUCH OF A CHILD 
 
 ROBERT lunched with the Chilian representa- 
 tive. The contract was signed, and there was 
 the promise of more, if this one should be suc- 
 cessfully carried through. It was late in the after- 
 noon when he returned to the works, and his two 
 brothers had already left. The scene in the office 
 earlier in the day had threatened to disturb his peace 
 of mind, but as he turned the key in the lock and pre- 
 pared for the journey home, he fell back on a little of 
 his own philosophy, or, rather, the philosophy with 
 which he had invested the fairy of his imagination. It 
 had hurt him keenly to find that Thomas had not been 
 so wide of the mark, after all, in his references to the 
 two younger brothers. It hurt him, because he real- 
 ized how important it was that they should stand to- 
 gether, believing and feeling that their interests were 
 the same. But when one goes out to look for trouble 
 one is seldom disappointed, and as his fairy had said, 
 he should not concern himself too much with it, but 
 look behind and beyond. Apart from that scene, the 
 day had been one of triumph for him, for he was well 
 able to appreciate the magnitude of the honor that had 
 been paid the firm. He went home with a heart that 
 became lighter at every step. There would be a new 
 
 213
 
 214 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 story for Mori that night, and together they would 
 weave romances for the future even as he and some- 
 one else had woven them, years before. 
 
 And another joy awaited him. As the hall door 
 opened, he heard a burst of childish laughter coming 
 from the head of the stairway, and, following the 
 outburst, a rumbling crashing, as someone slid down 
 the stairs on a tray. Mori shrieked out : "Do it again ! 
 Do it again!" There was a mass of sprawling legs 
 and ruffled hair at the foot of the stairs, and as it 
 slowly extricated itself, Robert fell upon it. 
 
 "Dick!" he cried. "I knew that it could be only 
 you who would do such a mad thing !" and those two 
 men began to behave like a couple of girls who had 
 been separated for years and years. And as they 
 couldn't very well kiss each other, they kissed Mori by 
 turns. 
 
 "I've always said," laughed Robert, as he dragged 
 the new arrival into the study, with Mori now upon 
 his shoulder, "I've always said that you'd come back 
 like this." 
 
 "Well, and how would you have me come back? 
 . . . O Mori San, leave me just a little bit of hair 
 I've lost so much already." 
 
 "And you're as gray as a badger," said Robert. 
 
 "Ah, but an uncommonly active badger, Robert ! I 
 would like to see the dog that could draw me. And 
 you? You're looking remarkably well fed. That 
 must be O Mori San. What a housekeeper ! She fat- 
 tens and she spoils you, I'll be bound, while poor old 
 Uncle Dick has had to be content with bananas, and a 
 few nuts, and rice bound up in seaweed that's the
 
 THE TOUCH OF A CHILD 215 
 
 tack don't you remember it, Robert, when you first 
 went out?" 
 
 "Dick, you're getting older!" Robert was holding 
 him at arm's length and shaking his head in pretended 
 sympathy. "You're getting older and yet, I think 
 you must have caught something of the perpetual 
 youth of which the musumes used to talk. And I'm 
 not so sure that you're not getting positively ugly. 
 Where did you get that gash on the cheek?" 
 
 "Ah!" said Dick, holding up his finger, "that's a 
 story for you, O Mori San a story of the most won- 
 derful fish I ever saw and I was the bait, for the 
 time being." 
 
 "And you're nearly bald" laughingly. 
 
 "That's O Mori San." 
 
 "And where have you been, and when did you re- 
 turn, and what have you been doing in this country ?" 
 
 "I've been returning for five years," said Dick, "but 
 I couldn't raise the money to get home. My boy, if 
 you could have seen me stoking on a tramp steamer, 
 you'd have pitied me ! I worked my passage back." 
 
 "Rubbish!" Robert laughed. "I don't believe it." 
 
 "I did. Just for the fun of the thing. We're not 
 all millionaires, Robert else there wouldn't be any 
 interest in life, would there?" 
 
 "How long have you been back ?" 
 
 "A fortnight, and I haven't met a single person who 
 had the common decency to ask me if I'd like some- 
 thing to eat! What time do you have dinner here, 
 Robert ? We used to have it at any old time didn't 
 we? But now that you're a great man I suppose 
 you're a slave to the usual conventions."
 
 216 THE HOXOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "We shall have dinner at once, old fellow. Give me 
 a few minutes to change and to pack Mori off to 
 bed " 
 
 "You can stop the dinner, then, Robert, for O Mori 
 San is not going to bed before dinner. Oh, we're 
 great friends ! She's going back with me." 
 
 "Then there'll be three of us, Dick." 
 
 "And first-class company, too. We'll be your lov- 
 ers, O Mori San, and we'll fight duels just to please 
 you. We'll do anything won't we, Robert?" 
 
 "But what are you doing over here ?" Robert urged. 
 
 "What would you have me do? working, of 
 course." 
 
 "Working?" 
 
 "Don't say it as though it were something new to 
 me." 
 
 "What kind of work?" 
 
 "The usual occupation, Robert whipping up the 
 black sheep and stealing a little of their wool." 
 
 "Begging again?" 
 
 "Quite right, my boy. I shall be begging from you, 
 after I've had dinner. I must get that out of you 
 first." 
 
 "Can't be done, Dick. But you shall have the din- 
 ner, and you shall stay in this house until we let you 
 go. What do you say, Mori ?" 
 
 Mori's big eyes had taken to themselves a wonder- 
 ing expression, and she looked from one face to the 
 other and asked plaintively if Uncle Dick were the 
 beggar of the fairy story. She seemed quite disap- 
 pointed that he wasn't. 
 
 At dinner, Dick Morrow was given an opportunity
 
 THE TOUCH OF A CHILD 217 
 
 to answer some of the hundreds of questions that 
 were rushed across the table to him. During the last 
 few years he had been in the Philippines, in Korea, 
 Manchuria, and even as high up as the northeast cor- 
 ner of Siberia. He had been down with fever, and 
 was back in England for a rest. In spite of Robert's 
 jesting remarks about his looks, there was very little 
 change in Dick Morrow. True, his hair was very 
 thin ; there was little color in his cheeks, and the wrin- 
 kles across his forehead, and the ruts in the eye-cor- 
 ners were much more pronounced ; but the eyes were 
 still full of the old fire, the old indomitable, restless 
 spirit. He told Robert that he had been doing a little 
 slumming by way of a holiday, and had found it to be 
 full of interest. 
 
 "Of course," said Robert, "slumming was much 
 more important than Mori or I, so you didn't trouble 
 to hurry to our rescue?" 
 
 "You're quite right, Robert," said Dick, "and being 
 a cautious man yourself, I should have thought that 
 you'd admire that in me. I wanted to find out if Scot- 
 land stood where it did, because out yonder people 
 were talking about MacWhinnie Brothers as though 
 the Thames had only just commenced to live, and I 
 wasn't certain that you'd care to recognize me. Or, 
 put it this way, for I can see that you're getting on 
 your toes : I fancied that my long absence from home 
 might have made me a little uncouth. . . . What 
 would you say, Mori, if you saw me eating with my 
 fingers, instead of a knife and fork? It's much easier, 
 I can assure you. You can always pick out the best 
 bits from the common pot. Can't you see your Uncle
 
 218 
 
 Dick sitting in the circle of natives, with long finger 
 and thumb poised, just so, ready to grab when the 
 chief says grab? ... A nice thing, Robert, if I'd 
 walked into your house and found you entertaining the 
 President of Chili. . . . Oh, yes, I've heard all about 
 it! ... If I'd walked in and left my boots on the 
 doorstep, or greeted your distinguished guest by rub- 
 bing noses with him, or followed one of the many 
 customs I've had to assimilate! No, no, Robert; I 
 went about it cautiously; and, besides, I had to com- 
 mence my holiday at once when I got here. Oh, it's a 
 great life, this slumming, Robert. I assure you that 
 I've found less interest in some of the outposts of 
 the Empire where everything is supposed to be pic- 
 turesque and romantic. I fought three sharp rounds 
 last night with the toughest 'pug' that's what you 
 call them, isn't it? imaginable. I wished you'd been 
 there to give me a knee, Robert. And there was an- 
 other fellow with him, who might have given you a 
 bit of exercise. I thought of you, as I swung a left to 
 the beggar's point. I remembered how you handled 
 the Manilla gentleman who kicked a jinrikisha boy 
 into the creek at Tokio." 
 
 "Bruiser!" murmured Robert delightedly. 
 
 "He would have bruised me if I hadn't got in first," 
 said Dick seriously. "He was just the kind of fellow 
 that makes you understand why they build the prison 
 walls so thick a loafer a never-work a not-worth- 
 whiler; he came into a little mission room where we 
 were trying to fill forty small stomachs with the first 
 wholesome food they had set their eyes on, and he 
 was rude to one of the little Sisters the one whom
 
 THE TOUCH OF A CHILD 219 
 
 you would have thought no living soul would have 
 wronged by a look. He wanted food, he said, and he 
 would have snatched it from the mouth of the 
 youngest kiddy there rather than go out and work 
 for it. I led him out, coaxed him out, and shut the 
 door so that the noise might be kept from those inside. 
 . . . He could hit, mark you! And he crossed me 
 with a beautiful left before I knew what was happen- 
 ing. He told his friends afterward that I had no 
 business to be a parson, and when he had fully recov- 
 ered he was a different man in many respects quite 
 meek, and willing to try his hand at any sort of work 
 that might happen along. He finished up by washing 
 the dishes for us, and he begged the little Sister's 
 pardon like a man before he went away, and offered 
 his services as an escort whenever she should be walk- 
 ing through slumland of a night. . . . O Mori San, 
 I've talked so much that I've grown hungry again." 
 
 And Mori was at his side in an instant, because she 
 wanted him to hurry the meal in order that he might 
 begin a story that should be her very own. They had 
 a merry evening, those three, and when the stories 
 were told, and the lids began to droop over the large 
 eyes, there was the semblance of a quarrel between the 
 two big fellows on a question of privilege who 
 should carry the child to bed. It ended by their both 
 going, and as they came away from the room on tip- 
 toe, each was glad of the darkness. 
 
 Down in the study, the two old friends smoked, 
 and talked, and smoked, until they could barely dis- 
 tinguish each other through the blue haze. Jean's 
 name wasn't mentioned once. And toward the end :
 
 220 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "It's done me a world of good to see you again, 
 Dick," said Robert, in a half whisper. "We've been 
 passing through a somewhat anxious time the firm, 
 I mean." 
 
 Dick nodded sympathetically. 
 
 "Money is very tight just now." 
 
 "I have good reason to know that," said Dick. 
 "But I thought that if anyone was in a position 
 
 "There you go ! Everyone seems to have that idea 
 in their heads. I blame the newspapers for it. I 
 returned from the Far East in a whirl of romance 
 from log house to white palace sort of thing, with 
 millions lying to my credit." 
 
 "You didn't work your passage back on a tramp 
 steamer, Robert." 
 
 "I might have come back a millionaire if I hadn't 
 been so influenced by you." 
 
 "Now we're going to quarrel! Where do I come 
 in?" 
 
 "Do you remember that night at Sendai when I was 
 fool enough to tell you about the coal, and " 
 
 "You didn't touch it?" 
 
 "No" regretfully "I allowed myself to be talked 
 out of it by you." 
 
 "Well done, Dick Morrow ! You can exercise some 
 influence, no matter what your critics may say." 
 
 "It was the chance of a lifetime," said Robert, "and 
 I threw it away." 
 
 "And yet they tell me that in something like seven 
 years you must have accumulated a large fortune." 
 
 "Half of it is sunk in the firm of MacWhinnie
 
 THE TOUCH OF A CHILD 
 
 Brothers, and if it hadn't been for this Chilian contract 
 coming through, I should have begun to ask myself 
 serious questions. We're terribly short of capital, 
 and no one seems overanxious to come in." 
 
 "I'm not quick at figures, old boy, but if you put in 
 only half - " 
 
 Robert shook his head. 
 
 "The other half is hers, Dick," he said quietly; "I 
 wouldn't touch it no, not if it could save the firm 
 from disaster. It's well invested, every penny of it, 
 and that is the one secret that I keep from from the 
 firm." 
 
 Dick's eyes were smoldering behind the tobacco 
 haze. 
 
 "But why keep it secret?" he said slowly, and as 
 though he didn't require an answer. "Your brains ac- 
 quired the money you performed wonders out yon- 
 der and from what I hear you have behaved hand- 
 somely to the members of your family." 
 
 Robert's low laugh had in it the faintest suspicion 
 of hysteria behind the broad open face a thousand 
 doubts and fears were at war with each other. 
 
 "I've done all I could in the circumstances," he said 
 jerkily; "I might have done more if if something 
 hadn't happened." He stopped, at a loss for words 
 that would rightly express his feelings and yet hide 
 his secret from the only man in the world that he 
 could call "friend." He rose from his chair, and 
 paced the floor behind Dick, so that the nervous work- 
 ing of the facial muscles should not betray him. "Dick, 
 old fellow," he said, in a deep whisper, "you under-
 
 222 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 stand most things, but you can't feel the grip of a 
 child the grip on the heart." 
 
 "No," said Dick, removing his pipe from his lips 
 and staring hard at the firebars. 
 
 Robert leaned over the back of the chair and 
 gripped a forearm. 
 
 "I'm sorry I said that, Dick," he said, and there 
 was a break in his voice. "I know what you lost." 
 
 And back again to the restless pacing. 
 
 "The child has made so much difference," he said. 
 "There was a time when all my hopes were centered 
 in the family I wanted to do so much for them, be- 
 cause because when I was a kiddy, Dick, the old 
 people had to fight hard to keep body and soul to- 
 gether. I've been able to do a little for them I be- 
 lieve that they're comfortable but I should like to 
 have done more. But Mori came, and you can't im- 
 agine the hold she has upon me. She's a wonderful 
 child, Dick." 
 
 "Beautiful," said Dick, and his eyes were full. 
 
 "So quaint in her ways; she's almost womanly in 
 her childhood. Out yonder and here she has filled 
 my life so completely. I may come home, tired out, 
 and feeling that a great many things are vain, but 
 when she curls up on my knee and we fall to telling 
 stories, I I . . . your pipe's gone out, Dick. Let me 
 tell you about this contract we've secured." 
 
 Dick half turned in his chair. 
 
 "I don't like to think that you've worried about the 
 child, Robert," he said gently; "is there anything that 
 I can do?" 
 
 "I'm not worried" doubt fu! 1 y "but, as I was go-
 
 THE TOUCH OF A CHILD 223 
 
 ing to say, there are times when I feel what most 
 most fathers must feel that when they're gone the 
 fathers, I mean the child or the children, as the 
 case may be will never again get the same kind of 
 sympathy. Do you follow ?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "That's why I wish to make certain, so far as a man 
 can make certain that Mori shall not be handicapped 
 by lack of means. I'm going to have her thoroughly 
 educated she must be sent to the Continent, although 
 I hate to think of the day when it will be necessary to 
 part with her I dare say I shall be catching every 
 second boat across the Channel ; I hope to make a lady 
 of her, and to provide for her in so liberal a way that 
 she shall never feel any sense of handicap. . . . That's 
 all, Dick, and I'll thank you not to interfere with my 
 plans by urging me to give the world greater credit 
 for kindness than is due. I know something about the 
 world." 
 
 "No one could help loving Mori, Robert." 
 
 "I've tried to believe that, Dick, but I'm not going 
 to take the risk. There! We'll change the subject. 
 I want to hear all about yourself what you've been 
 doing, and what you're going to do in the future." 
 
 "I've told you practically everything, my dear boy. 
 At present, I'm slumming, and enjoying it; possibly, 
 before long, I shall be scenting the old aroma of spices 
 and swamps, and slip down to the docks before day- 
 break." 
 
 Robert went back to his chair. 
 
 "I wish I could persuade you to stay with me," he 
 said wistfully, "but I know that independent spirit of
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 yours, and sometimes sometimes I can feel the wan- 
 derlust that consumes you. . . - About this slum- 
 ming?" 
 
 "The old, old story, Robert I want money. I in- 
 tended to touch you to-night, but you've headed me 
 off." 
 
 "I hope I shall never do that. What is it this time ?" 
 
 "Breakfasts for three or four hundred kiddies." 
 
 Robert laughed quietly. 
 
 "The same old Dick. Write Mori and me down 
 for as much as you require." 
 
 "On one condition: that you come along to see 
 how well your money has been spent, and how it is ap- 
 preciated." 
 
 "Appreciation means a lot these days we'll come." 
 
 "You'll bring Mori?" 
 
 "She would love to play the hostess. Bless your 
 heart, she would talk about it for months !" 
 
 Dick gripped the other's hand. 
 
 "I'm a splendid beggar, Robert eh ?" 
 
 "The finest in the world." 
 
 "And you're a splendid giver.'' 1
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SISTER MARGARET 
 
 1TOLD them," said Dick he and Robert and 
 Mori were driving through the slushy streets to 
 the mission hall where the breakfast was to be 
 held '"I told them the other night that you were a 
 sort of jinni, and that probably when they were half- 
 way through the meal you would drop through the 
 roof, or slide through a window, bringing with you an 
 attendant fairy. It's a pity you're getting so fat we 
 might have arranged a little surprise for them on 
 those lines. Poor little beggars ! They know so little 
 of fairyland." 
 
 They were early. None of the other workers had 
 arrived, but there was a queue of two or three hun- 
 dred gutter sparrows stretching from one end of the 
 street to the other. It was a bitterly cold morning, 
 and most of the children had taken off their caps and 
 shawls and were standing on them to warm their bare 
 toes. As the cab came along, Dick was recognized, 
 and a yell of delight swept along the ragged line. 
 
 "They've half an hour to wait, but we'll get them 
 inside," said Dick ; and when the doors of the mission 
 house were thrown open, Robert took off his coat 
 and helped to arrange the tables, while little Mori 
 went among the "sparrows" with all the self-assur- 
 
 225
 
 226 THE HONOR OF PUS HOUSE 
 
 ance of Dick himself. A little Irish priest came in 
 while the work of preparation was going on, and with 
 a cheery "Good morning" to Dick, and a nod for the 
 visitors, he turned up the sleeves of his cassock and 
 helped to lay the tables. After a few minutes, two 
 young women Dick addressed them as Sisters ar- 
 rived at the hall, and lost no time in getting to work. 
 
 "Hurry up," Robert whispered to his friend, "these 
 poor little beggars are simply dying to fall upon the 
 grub. Where on earth did you find them?" 
 
 "We shan't keep them long," said Dick cheerily, 
 and, raising his voice, called to one of the young 
 women: "Are you nearly ready, Sister?" he in- 
 quired. 
 
 She came over to where he was at work, and her 
 whisper, overheard by Robert, left him undecided what 
 to do. He was trembling, and constantly glanced at 
 the door. 
 
 "Nearly ready," said Dick . . . "here, Robert, give 
 me a hand with this urn. I expected one or two of 
 my pugilistic friends here this morning. They prom- 
 ised to act as waiters. I shall have to talk to them 
 very sternly when they do arrive, and . . . Ah ! here's 
 the little Sister I told you about, Robert," and he 
 rushed away to greet Margaret D render, all snow and 
 smiles. 
 
 Robert, white-faced and trembling, called sharply to 
 Mori, but she was at the other end of a long table in 
 the center of the hall, coaxing a shock-headed boy of 
 six to "go on eating as if no one was looking." Rob- 
 ert was in his shirt sleeves; his hair was all awry, 
 through lifting grubby children into their places ; and
 
 SISTER MARGARET 227 
 
 the little priest was by his side, clasping his hands and 
 murmuring a blessing. 
 
 "Robert !" Dick cried, and he was compelled to raise 
 his eyes to meet hers. She was stronger than he, for 
 her embarrassment was gone. She came forward with 
 Dick's arm through hers, and not until she was stand- 
 ing in front of Robert did she say to the big-hearted 
 Morrow: "We are not strangers Mr. MacWhinnie 
 and I." 
 
 "Bless me !" and Dick's arms dropped to his sides. 
 "I thought I was going to give you as big a surprise 
 as I hoped to give the children, for this, my old friend 
 Robert, is the jinni I told you about." 
 
 She was wonderfully brave in those few minutes, 
 meeting his eyes with beautiful calm as though they 
 were friends, but nothing more. And when she said 
 to him, "It was very kind of you to do this for the 
 children," her voice didn't shake in the slightest. 
 
 He made no reply. He could not trust himself to 
 speak. He hardly dared meet her steady gaze, lest 
 the pain of subterfuge should become so acute that, 
 ignoring everything and everybody around them, he 
 should cry out the words that had been fighting for 
 expression through ten weary years. 
 
 "And so you're not strangers?" Dick was survey- 
 ing them both. "Well, I'm glad to hear that; and if 
 I were you, Sister Margaret, I should develop the 
 friendship, because Robert, here, has a soft heart, and 
 is always approachable when you have a scheme of 
 this sort in hand. But, tell me, Sister, have you 
 
 seen-
 
 228 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 And this time Robert had to turn his head away, 
 lest he should cry out to Dick, "Don't!" But Mori 
 came up to them at that moment, an empty dish in 
 each hand, and a plea on her lips for the shock-headed 
 boy, who had finished three helpings, so she said, and 
 was equal to another, if he kept his eyes shut. 
 
 Margaret took the empty dishes from the child. It 
 seemed to Robert that there was just a single second of 
 hesitation then, she drew Mori to her, and kissed 
 her with a warmth that could not be misunderstood. 
 Years afterward, the memory of that scene was fresh 
 in Robert's mind, and not only the scene, but all that 
 it conjured up. His sensitive mind could read hers. 
 He could feel the pain that she must have felt, if only 
 for a second. But her courage was so great that in 
 no way, not even by a quiver of the eyelids, did she 
 show how poignant the occasion had been. 
 
 The breakfast was finished. The little priest led 
 the gathering in grace. And then came the parting. 
 Robert had to return to the works. Dick was going 
 to take Mori home. Margaret would remain behind 
 with the other Sisters, to clear up the tables and repack 
 the crockery. Dick accompanied his friend to the 
 cab, and as he opened the door he said ecstatically: 
 "I wish you knew more of her, Robert. She's one of 
 those women who make the world all the better for 
 their having lived in it." 
 
 And just before the cab rolled away, Robert, lean- 
 ing forward, saw her standing in the doorway of the 
 mission hall. It was as though she couldn't let him 
 go without another look as though she were inviting
 
 SISTER MARGARET 229 
 
 him to say something as though the courage and re- 
 serve and apparent indifference were weakening. 
 
 He fell back against the cushions of the cab and 
 closed his eyes.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE DIVIDED HOUSE 
 
 TWO months had passed since the first of a series 
 of breakfasts to poor children was given in the 
 mission hall. And now the moment of crisis 
 had come at the works. An ultimatum was to be pre- 
 sented, and, although in the conceiving, or, rather, the 
 considering, of it for the conception was Thomas's 
 Jamie and David had been fired with a certain amount 
 of enthusiasm and ambition, there was a painful si- 
 lence now that the task was to be entered upon. 
 
 The two younger brothers arrived early at the office 
 that morning, and not until Thomas, gaunt and deadly 
 earnest as usual, made his appearance were they able 
 to address each other calmly. Neither of them had 
 much relish for the task, although they were quite 
 ready to see eye to eye with Thomas, especially when 
 he had taunted them with their subordinacy. Thomas 
 took up his position near the fireplace. Standing with 
 hands clasped behind his back, he looked at the other 
 two as though calculating their moral strength; then 
 he said tentatively : 
 
 "I suppose they'll be knighting him before long. 
 He's headed another fund with a hundred." 
 
 David pretended to open a newspaper and glance at 
 its contents, but he dropped it impatiently, irritably, 
 
 230
 
 THE DIVIDED HOUSE 231 
 
 and, looking at Thomas, said with some acerbity: 
 "You quite understand that this has got to be done 
 gently? I wouldn't have the old fellow upset for 
 anything." 
 
 "You can go out, if you like," said Thomas. "Jamie 
 and I are not fighting only your battles." 
 
 Jamie turned to him. "You're going to do the 
 talking, Thomas, I suppose? I confess that I don't 
 like the idea of meeting his eyes when he has the truth 
 thrown at him." 
 
 For days and weeks Jamie had been nursing the 
 ultimatum outlined by Thomas, rehearsing it, reason- 
 ing it, arguing with it; he had felt the justice of it, 
 so he believed, but now, as the critical moment ap- 
 proached, he felt very uncomfortable. If he could 
 have relegated the whole of the business to the more 
 voluble Thomas if, without loss of dignity, he could 
 have left his younger brother to face the music with 
 Thomas he wouldn't have hesitated to do so. 
 
 All three started, perceptibly, as the door opened 
 and closed. Jamie and David glanced furtively at the 
 rebel leader. He was studiously examining the ceil- 
 ing. Robert had reached the center of the room be- 
 fore anyone spoke. He looked from under his brows 
 at his younger brothers, as for an explanation of 
 Thomas's presence. Then he said to the first-born : 
 
 "It's a long while since we met, Thomas. How's 
 all with you?" 
 
 "Thank you for inquiring," said Thomas, not un- 
 pleasantly. "I never felt better in my life. It is a 
 long time since we met ; and I don't forget that last 
 meeting."
 
 232 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Again Robert looked at his younger brothers. 
 
 "Has MacGowan been in yet?" he inquired of 
 Jamie. 
 
 "I haven't seen him," was the reply. 
 
 "Come, boy," said Robert reproachfully, "it's after 
 his time with yesterday's report. Hasn't he had any 
 orders for the day ?" 
 
 "Not that I know of," said Jamie, a suggestion of 
 hauteur in his voice. 
 
 "What's wrong?" asked Robert sharply. "Has this 
 anything to do with your visit, Thomas?" 
 
 "It has," said Thomas, stirring himself. "There's 
 going to be a change, Robert. Jamie and David have 
 deputed me to lay the facts before you in a convincing 
 way." 
 
 Robert hesitated only a moment. The clock on the 
 mantel-shelf struck the hour. 
 
 "You've chosen an inconvenient time," he said terse- 
 ly. "There's work to be done ; when it's finished, we'll 
 endeavor to find time to listen to you." He turned on 
 his heel. "Jamie, I want to see MacGowan at once." 
 
 Jamie commenced to roll a cigarette. 
 
 "You'd better hear Thomas through," he said, with 
 some show of spirit. "I've been taking orders too 
 long." 
 
 The big, patient eyes were appealing for enlighten- 
 ment, but there was strength and determination in the 
 deep voice as he swung round on David and said : 
 
 "I want to look at those quantities your department 
 has been getting out. You're wasting a lot of valuable 
 time standing there." 
 
 "Wasting time and manhood," said David correc-
 
 THE DIVIDED HOUSE 233 
 
 tively, shooting a glance of inquiry at Thomas, who 
 was thoughtfully stroking the red beard. "Like Jamie, 
 I'm tired of being bullied, and I've come to the con- 
 clusion that something must be done, and done 
 quickly." 
 
 "Very well," said Robert, with wonderful calm. 
 "I'll speak to your head clerk." He walked to the 
 door. 
 
 "Stay," said Thomas, holding up a hand, "there's 
 something I wish you to hear." 
 
 "It'll keep," Robert retorted; "we're very busy in 
 these works just now, Thomas, and there's too much 
 responsibility to leave anything to chance." 
 
 "It will not keep, Robert, so don't try to shut me up 
 in that manner. I'm not a boy." 
 
 . Robert took two strides toward the eldest brother, 
 but it was not a threatening movement ; and there was 
 nothing harsh in his voice as he said : 
 
 "If I say it will keep, it will keep, Thomas. And 
 I'm the senior partner in the firm of MacWhinnie 
 Brothers. Understand that." 
 
 David was near the door; he must have fancied that 
 Thomas was vacillating, and that here was a chance to 
 reveal his courage. He placed his hand on the knob 
 of the door, as though he would prevent a retreat. 
 
 "Look here, Robert," he said desperately, "we've 
 been talking things over Jamie, Thomas, and I." 
 
 "Talking what over?" It required a great deal of 
 provocation to rouse Robert, but they were perilously 
 near the achievement; his brows were lowered, his 
 mouth was set in a firm, straight line, and if they had 
 dared to look down at his hands they would have seen
 
 234 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 that they were clenched the nails were biting into 
 the palms. 
 
 "Our position our position in this firm," said Da- 
 vid waveringly. 
 
 "You have no position in this firm at least, not a 
 position that entitles you to dictate to me." 
 
 Jamie leaped into the breach. 
 
 "I agree," he exclaimed, "and it's because we have 
 no position that we've made up our minds to get out 
 of it, unless there is some alteration." 
 
 Robert took the blow with only a slight paling of 
 the cheeks. 
 
 "I don't understand you, Jamie," he said weakly; 
 "they're strange words from you." 
 
 Thomas walked to the window and drummed fitfully 
 on the pane. 
 
 "You've brought this on yourself, Robert," he said, 
 in a sing-song voice, and throwing his words over his 
 shoulder. "The boys are quite justified in the attitude 
 they are taking up." 
 
 "At your instigation, Thomas?" 
 
 "That's as it may be. I'm the eldest of the family, 
 and it's only natural that they should turn to me for 
 guidance. Don't think for a minute that the decision 
 has been come to without careful thought. The boys 
 realize that they owe something to you." 
 
 "Oh ! they realize that, do they ?" And Robert slow- 
 ly inclined his head, as if in acknowledgment. 
 
 "Just as you owe something to them," Thomas 
 added. 
 
 "It seems to me," said Robert, with a weary sigh, 
 "that I owe something to everybody. But since you've
 
 THE DIVIDED HOUSE 235 
 
 commenced, Thomas, you may go on. If work has 
 been at a standstill for half an hour, another half 
 won't make very much difference. What is it that 
 David and Jamie want? What have you put into 
 their minds?" 
 
 "I've put nothing into their minds that wasn't there 
 already," said Thomas, affecting dignity. "To-day, 
 I'm only their spokesman. They've come to the con- 
 clusion that you're not treating them fairly." 
 
 "And what is your own personal complaint?" 
 
 "I," said Thomas, with something like a flourish, 
 "I never allow personal matters to overshadow the 
 claims of the great unrepresented. The boys have 
 been suffering in silence for a long while now; but 
 they're only human, and you may take it from me, 
 Robert, that their grievances have extended to the men 
 in the yard. The day will come when you will find 
 that they are not without a leader, one who can show 
 them the folly of serfdom." 
 
 "Once again," said Robert, "I ask you you, David, 
 and you, Jamie what is it that you really wish to put 
 before me? I thought that we were getting along so 
 splendidly " 
 
 "And yet," said David, a little bitterly, "you can't 
 have hidden from yourself the fact that we have made 
 practically no progress during the last twelve months. 
 There has been no attempt on your part to take advan- 
 tage of the counsel that Jamie and I were in a position 
 to give." 
 
 Robert's sense of humor overcame the anger that 
 was seeking expression. 
 
 "Really, David," he said, "I had no idea that your
 
 236 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 mind was so absorbed by the potentialities of the firm. 
 Indeed, I was beginning to believe that so long as the 
 wheels went round, you were satisfied, and I was hop- 
 ing that the day would come when you'd realize more 
 fully that you were a partner, if only a junior, in one 
 of the most talked-of firms on the river to-day." 
 
 "And I thank you," said David superciliously, "and 
 may I suggest that if you went into the world of men 
 and women a little more than you do the world which 
 you are hinting I go into you'd have a better appreci- 
 ation of the needs of expansion. Long ago, it was put 
 to you that if we had more capital we might improve 
 our methods, and deserve the reputation you speak 
 of." 
 
 "Have I ever said anything to suggest that so con- 
 servative were my views " 
 
 "A little more capital," David persisted; "it would 
 have meant so much if it had been put in at the right 
 time." 
 
 Robert had great difficulty in keeping his patience. 
 He felt that he ought to put down his foot with the 
 determination of one who means to be obeyed; but 
 he was not certain how far Thomas had eaten into the 
 loyalty of the two younger men. In argument lay the 
 only hope of an amicable settlement. 
 
 "But where were we to get the capital?" he asked. 
 "I agree with you that certain improvements might 
 have been made both in the equipment of the works 
 and the conditions of the men who are on our pay 
 sheet ; but the first axiom you have to appreciate when 
 you commence in any business is that relating to the
 
 THE DIVIDED HOUSE 237 1 
 
 cutting of your coat according to the cloth at your 
 disposal." 
 
 David had prepared himself for this line of argu- 
 ment. It was the most natural thing in the world that 
 Robert should urge upon them that it was his money 
 with which the firm was started ; but 
 
 "We're junior partners, Jamie and I," he said; 
 "we're ready to admit that we didn't put anything into 
 the firm save brains," and he said it without a blush. 
 "But in the beginning it was understood that if we 
 were content to accept a salary considerably lower than 
 that paid to some of your under- foremen it was un- 
 derstood that when we arrived at a certain point there 
 would be a general leveling up an acknowledgment 
 of our relative positions. What has been the result? 
 Jamie and I are where we started. The whole of our 
 time is given to working out estimates, and superin- 
 tending a crowd of clerks. You get all the credit. 
 You get everything. You ask me where the additional 
 capital is to come from. According to this newspaper" 
 and he flung one on the table " 'Robert MacWhin- 
 nie, Esq., so well known and honored for his char- 
 itableness, is the donor of another hundred' to a 
 wretched soup kitchen, or something of the sort. Of 
 course, we can't expect to expand, if the senior part- 
 ner insists on withholding capital, and not only with- 
 holding it, but preventing fresh capital from coming 
 in." 
 
 Robert's face assumed a pathetic expression as he 
 glanced at the newspaper. Obviously, Dick Morrow 
 was responsible for the undesirable publicity; but,
 
 238 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 then, he had never urged that undesirability upon his 
 old friend. 
 
 "I wish you'd be frank, and tell me what's in your 
 minds," he said at last, holding out his right hand in a 
 conciliatory manner. "I'm willing to do all that's pos- 
 sible for me to do ; but I assure you there are reasons 
 why I, personally, cannot put in any more capital. My 
 dear boys" and, now, it was the generous-hearted 
 Robert again "I would rather have parted with I 
 don't know what than that this should have hap- 
 pened. Why didn't you come to me in the first place ? 
 Why weren't you open " 
 
 Thomas made a movement as though he would in- 
 terrupt, and Robert turned upon him quickly. 
 
 "I'll thank you to remain quiet, Thomas," he said, 
 and the others could see that he meant it. "You are 
 here on sufferance and I'm sorry to have to say 
 that. These family quarrels are the most wretched 
 things imaginable. I tell you, without any hesitation, 
 
 that if there were no blood ties between you and 
 
 > 
 me 
 
 "You'd order me out, I suppose?" said Thomas, 
 with the semblance of a sneer. 
 
 "No," said Robert, "I shouldn't waste words on 
 ordering you out. . . . Now, boys" and he turned 
 again to David and Jamie "you must realize that 
 you've caught me at a most inopportune time. You 
 know as well as I do that the very existence of the 
 firm depends on the successful carrying out of this 
 Chilian contract." 
 
 "Which has to be completed within three months 
 from date" and David smiled knowingly.
 
 THE DIVIDED HOUSE 239 
 
 "Believe me," said Robert, "the date was not kept 
 from you or Jamie because of any distrust. It was 
 one of those matters on which I, as the senior partner, 
 had to make a rapid decision." 
 
 "Well, we know, so there's no more to be said about 
 it." 
 
 "Oh, yes there is," said Robert, "because I can see, 
 now, that you're relying that Thomas has taught you 
 to rely on the knowledge you've gained to rely on 
 it as if it were a weapon against which I should be 
 helpless. Well, boys, it'll be a grand victory for you. 
 You've cornered me let's put it like that. I, who 
 have tried to do my very best by you all. Oh, I'm 
 not complaining. My shoulders are broad enough, 
 and always have been. What are the terms of the ulti- 
 matum ?" 
 
 "It's not an ultimatum, Robert," said David. "If 
 you had been more observant, you'd have seen this 
 coming along for months and months." 
 
 "No," said Robert, "what you mean is that if I'd 
 regarded you as a workman, instead of a brother, 
 suspicion would have come naturally. . . . There are 
 going to be no alterations in our methods yet awhile. 
 There ! I have given you an answer. What have you 
 got to say to it ?" 
 
 "We had already made up our minds to that an- 
 swer. We're going to leave you " 
 
 "In the lurch." 
 
 "You're too sentimental, Robert. I may tell you 
 that Jamie and I are men of the world, and quite equal 
 to that subterfuge." 
 
 "I can fill your places within twenty-four hours,"
 
 240 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 said Robert, and, now, sternness had taken the place of 
 conciliation. "What have you to say to that?" 
 
 "It doesn't interest me in the slightest," David re- 
 plied. ". . . There will be some sort of a settlement 
 you won't oppose that, of course ? Under the terms 
 of our agreements and we have to thank Thomas for 
 the precaution that brought those agreements into 
 existence- we are entitled to a proportionate valua- 
 tion." 
 
 "I can give you the figures now," said Robert, with- 
 out hesitation. "According to the agreements, you 
 are entitled to about six thousand each, and those 
 amounts are based on the profits that have accrued 
 under contracts completed during the last two years. 
 I'll see my solicitors to-night. Since you are intent on 
 driving a bargain, I'll fall in with you ; but it shall be 
 a hard one. There's no need to stay in the yard one 
 minute longer than you desire. That's finished the 
 sorry business. Now, let me, as a brother, ask you, 
 what do you intend to do in the future?" 
 
 "Look here, Robert," said Jamie falteringly, and 
 as though he were ashamed of the part that he had 
 played in the proceedings, "when this subject was put 
 up to me, I laid it down that we shouldn't overlook 
 what you have done for the family " 
 
 "That's all right, Jamie," said Robert. "It's settled, 
 now. There's no need to reopen it. As I said just 
 now, I'm only sorry that you didn't take me more 
 fully into your confidence. But I'm used to shocks. 
 Sometimes I think I've borne so many that I've be- 
 come impervious to them. I wish you well, Jamie. 
 But what are you going to do ?"
 
 THE DIVIDED HOUSE 241 
 
 They told him, in a hesitant manner, that having 
 been promised a certain amount of support, financial 
 and otherwise, they intended to go to the Clyde, there 
 to open a small yard of their own. They went so far 
 as to hint at the amount of capital they expected, and 
 he offered no criticism, although he could foresee the 
 end. In truth, they were to be but the representatives 
 of a syndicate, to be registered as the Scottish Pinion 
 Company. And when the story was told they broke 
 into lighter spirits, believing that already they had 
 repaired the broken road. Jamie said, with some de- 
 gree of unctuousness : 
 
 "I'm glad that you agree with us, Robert, that am- 
 bition cannot be held in check. I'm glad that you are 
 not disposed to place any difficulties in our way. If 
 I had thought that we were to part bad friends, I 
 shouldn't have had anything to do with this. It will 
 be some time before the changes take place, and you 
 may rest assured that we shall do our very best to see 
 that you're not let down " 
 
 Robert stopped him by holding out a hand as in 
 farewell. 
 
 "Thank you, Jamie," he said curtly, yet not without 
 pleasantness, "but the needs of this firm are such that 
 no time must be allowed to elapse before the changes 
 take place. I will wish you good morning, and the 
 best of luck; and you, David" he held out his hand 
 to the younger brother. 
 
 For a moment, they were riveted to their places by 
 stupefaction. Then David said : 
 
 "You're not serious, Robert ?" 
 
 "There's work to be done," said Robert briskly,
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "and I have no time to be other than serious. . . . 
 And good-by to you, Thomas." 
 
 Thomas urged the younger brothers to the door, 
 whispering to them as he went He looked around 
 just before leaving the room. 
 
 "As a brother, Robert," he said 'Robert had turned 
 his back, and one elbow was resting on the mantel- 
 shelf "as a brother, Robert, it's my duty to warn 
 you that each succeeding day brings more enlighten- 
 ment to the minds of the workers. There is work to 
 be done, and it must be done quickly, if you set any 
 store by loyalty." 
 
 The door closed. For a long while Robert remained 
 standing near the fireplace, his face turned to the win- 
 dow. He fought a great fight with himself in that 
 time ; and when he felt brave enough to look another 
 man in the face, he rang for a messenger. 
 
 "Ask Mr. MacGowan if he will be kind enough to 
 come here at once," he said. 
 
 And when MacGowan appeared, tall, grimy, dour, 
 Robert, without turning round, said to him : 
 
 "There are going to be some changes here, Mac- 
 Gowan. Mr. James and Mr. David are leaving us, 
 to take over a new concern. . . . How's the work 
 going?" 
 
 "First-rate, sir," said MacGowan. "We shall be 
 through before the end of three months." 
 
 "And how are the men their feelings, I mean ?" 
 
 MacGowan stroked his chin. 
 
 "I was going to speak to ye about that, sir," he 
 said. "And if ye'll pardon me mentioning it, the
 
 THE DIVIDED HOUSE 243 
 
 men wad be a' the better if they saw less o' Mr. 
 Thomas " 
 
 "I asked you a straightforward question, Mac- 
 Gowan," said Robert quickly, "and I don't pardon 
 your taking liberties of any sort." 
 
 "I was on'y going to say, sir, that Mr. Thomas has 
 the run of the yard " 
 
 "Mr. Thomas has every right to enter the yard or 
 the shops, if I say so, MacGowan." 
 
 "Ah, weel !" sighed MacGowan, and braced himself 
 for further orders. 
 
 "You say the work should be through before the 
 end of three months?" 
 
 "If we progress at the same rate. Ye can never 
 depend on the humor o' the men." 
 
 "We're going to depend on it, MacGowan, and this 
 contract must be through within three months from 
 now. Do you understand that?" 
 
 "I can on'y answer for myself, sir. I want no bet- 
 ter master." 
 
 "Then, return to the yard, MacGowan, and let it 
 go forth that if this contract is completed by the time 
 I have mentioned, two and a half per cent, of the 
 profits will be distributed as a bonus among the men. 
 If we can't have loyalty for nothing, we'll pay for it."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 AT "JARROWSIDE" 
 
 EVERYTHING was done with dispatch ; the dis- 
 solution of partnership was accomplished much 
 more speedily than the younger brothers had 
 imagined would be the case. Thomas had prepared 
 them for arguments and reproaches which even he 
 believed to be natural in the circumstances ; but Robert 
 accepted the situation with calmness, resignation, and 
 a smile of encouragement that left them doubting that 
 they had come out of the battle victorious. There 
 wasn't the slightest trace of acrimony in his demeanor 
 when, the lawyers having set their seal upon the new 
 arrangement, he bade them good-by and good luck; 
 indeed, he said he almost wished they had come to 
 some such decision earlier, so that he might have been 
 able to give them a substantial start in the new enter- 
 prise. He begged them earnestly to apply themselves 
 to the demands of the company on the Clyde, assuring 
 them, in a gentle, generous way, that only by personal 
 endeavor could they hope to achieve success; they 
 must not place too much reliance on the capabilities of 
 whatever manager they might engage; always, they 
 should be able to place their finger on a weak spot in 
 their organization without having to await a report 
 from manager or foreman. He reminded them of 
 
 244
 
 AT "JARROWSIDE" 245 
 
 their youth they must not lose heart if success were 
 coy during the first year. And if they were ever in 
 need of his advice, they had only to write to him. 
 
 He did not speak to Thomas, although the elder 
 brother kept close to the young men during the last 
 day. And the final words he addressed to David be- 
 fore taking leave of him were : 
 
 "This firm will continue as 'MacWhinnie Brothers.' 
 I shall miss you two, sorely, so don't forget to write." 
 The next few weeks would have been very lonely 
 for him had it not been for Mori. He did not deem it 
 necessary to acquaint her with what had happened 
 in fact, he allowed her to go on talking about Uncle 
 David and Uncle Jamie as though they were still at 
 the works but the child seemed to divine that some- 
 thing had happened, or, perhaps, in his loneliness, he 
 derived greater joy from her sympathy. 
 
 New appointments were made at the works without 
 any loss of time, and the passing of the junior partners 
 made no appreciable difference in the conduct of busi- 
 ness. The little father, learning of the dissolution, 
 wrote to express his and Mrs. MacWhinnie's grati- 
 tude for the fresh start he was giving his younger 
 brothers. It was easy to read between the lines of that 
 letter the young men had led the father to believe 
 that they had merely left the Thames in order to man- 
 age a new concern in which Robert was interested. 
 Mr. Donald MacWhinnie added in a postscript that he 
 had not yet succeeded in "running the dairy farm 
 money to earth," but he was hot on the scent, and 
 Robert might expect to hear from him any day. 
 Dick Morrow was in the north of Ireland during
 
 246 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 the few weeks immediately following the departure of 
 the brothers, and the first intimation that Robert re- 
 ceived of his return was a telephone message from the 
 riverside house. He had taken the liberty of lunching 
 with O Mori San in the absence of her father, he said, 
 and if the father had no objection he was going to 
 take O Mori San out to tea that afternoon. They 
 would be back before dinner. He did not say that he 
 was invited to Mr. John Drender's house, but he left 
 a note for Robert should he arrive home before their 
 return. 
 
 That afternoon at "Jarrowside" was a memorable 
 one for the child; frequently, she had inquired of 
 Dick why they never visited the lady who was so 
 sweet to her at the slum breakfast, and he had made 
 her many promises. On this afternoon, he had occa- 
 sion to consult Margaret Drender on one of her many 
 charitable interests, and Mori had pleaded so hard 
 that he had agreed to telephone to Robert for per- 
 mission to take her out. "You see, we're bound to ask 
 daddy," he told her gravely, "else he might come back 
 to an empty house and imagine that someone had run 
 off with you." And she had tickled his chin with the 
 petals of a flower, asking the while : "Who would run 
 off with me, silly uncle ?" "I would," he had told her, 
 and he said it very seriously. 
 
 Margaret Drender was in the garden when they 
 reached "Jarrowside." The moment they passed 
 through the gateway, Mori left Dick's side and raced 
 across the lawn. When he came up, Margaret's right 
 arm was around the child's neck, and her own cheeks 
 were flushed as with joy.
 
 AT "J ARROW SIDE" 247 
 
 her stolen her for the afternoon," 
 said Dick, wagging a finger at Mori, "but we've given 
 our bond that we shall be home before dinner. . . . 
 O Mori San, my fate is in your hands." 
 
 And O Mori San, tightening her hold of Margaret's 
 arm, said, with a shake of her curls: "Daddy will 
 know where we are, so why be nervous ?" 
 
 Mr. John Drender, grim as the iron on which he 
 lived, was in the study, nursing a crushed toe. Mar- 
 garet introduced Dick ; Mori introduced herself : "My 
 name's Mori it means a forest. What's yours?" 
 
 The old man gave Dick a careful look over, as he 
 himself would have put it. Then, pointing to the 
 bandaged foot : "That's through not relying on your 
 men thinking they couldn't set a plate without your 
 help. Not in your line. Eh ?" 
 
 "No," said Dick, with a laugh; he expected the 
 usual criticism of his calling. 
 
 Mr. Drender made an ear trumpet of his left hand, 
 then asked, with brows lowered : 
 
 "Do you smoke ?" 
 
 "Like a chimney," said Dick. 
 
 "Fill up," said the old man. "I like you. Thought 
 you were one of the other sort." 
 
 Margaret slipped an arm around Mori's neck, and 
 they went out of the study to superintend the making 
 of tea. Dick lit his pipe and commenced to read John 
 Drender's face ; John Drender had read his already. 
 
 "Been through the works yet?" 
 
 Dick shook his head. 
 
 "Not interested eh?" 
 
 "On the contrary "
 
 248 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Too noisy too much hammering and shouting?" 
 
 "I enjoy anything that has a 'punch.' ' 
 
 "Punch?" 
 
 "Go action movement. " 
 
 "So do I. Take me out of those works, and I'm 
 duller than an undertaker's mute." 
 
 "I'm aware of that." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "You keep tapping the arm rest with the bowl of 
 your pipe, and there's a sort of rhythm about the tap- 
 ping. . . . D render and Masters are known all over 
 the world." 
 
 The iron-gray head bowed an acknowledgment. 
 
 "We've turned out some fine engineers," said the 
 old man proudly. "Ye should meet my partner, Jim 
 Masters. He's not one of the praying sort you know 
 what I mean? but Jim has done things he's made 
 things he hasn't buried his talent, as you would say." 
 
 "I'm a personal friend of Mr. Robert Mac- 
 Whinnie." 
 
 The old man said "Oh !" and kept his wrinkled face 
 set in a frown for fully thirty seconds. Then, resum- 
 ing the tapping on the arm rest of the chair, he said 
 thoughtfully: "Ye'll not find many better engineers 
 than Robert MacWhinnie." 
 
 Dick accepted the tribute as though it were a per- 
 sonal one. 
 
 "I'm not going to look for a better," he said, with 
 conviction. 
 
 "He made his start with Drender and Masters." 
 
 "He himself told me and with pride." 
 
 "He did well abroad. I always said he would."
 
 AT "J ARROW SIDE" 249 
 
 "He's going to make a name for himself at home." 
 
 Mr. Drender made a clicking noise in his throat. 
 
 "Ay if his family will let him," he said. "Do ye 
 know the family, Mr. Morrow?" 
 
 "Slightly," said Dick. 
 
 "Well, that's as much as ye'll need to know them. 
 . . . I'm sorry for the lad." 
 
 "Sorry, Mr. Drender?" 
 
 "Ay, sorry. Reminds me of a man I once saw try- 
 ing to swim across the Tyne with a couple of weights 
 tied round his neck. . . . There's never more than 
 one clever lad in a family, and his cleverness becomes 
 a curse if he's afflicted with sentiment. . . . You 
 know that his brothers have left him?" 
 
 Dick pursed his lips. 
 
 "I've been out of the country for some time," he 
 explained. 
 
 The old man gave the arm rest a vicious tap. 
 
 "Left him and a good thing for him, I should say. 
 Couple of empty-headed asses! But they'll come back 
 you mark my words." 
 
 Dick would have questioned him, but the old iron- 
 master changed the subject with characteristic abrupt- 
 ness. Margaret had told her father a great deal about 
 Morrow, about his travels and adventures ; he wanted 
 to hear more, for 
 
 "It was as much as I could do a year or so back to 
 keep my daughter from going out as a missionary." 
 
 "She is very earnest in her work," said Dick ad- 
 miringly ; "she would be a splendid acquisition to the 
 ranks of the brave women scattered throughout the 
 East."
 
 250 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "She's all I have, Mr. Morrow," said the old man, 
 dropping his voice, "and I suppose it's natural, in the 
 circumstances, for me to be a little selfish. I don't 
 know what I should have done without her all these 
 years." 
 
 Dick nodded understandingly, and glanced through 
 the window to where Margaret and the child were 
 wandering hand in hand in the shrubbery. 
 
 "Don't know what I should have done without her," 
 Mr. Drender repeated, half to himself, as he followed 
 Dick's eyes. . . . "Mebbe I'm selfish." 
 
 Tea was laid in the study, and Mori crept right into 
 John Drender's heart by carrying his cup to him in 
 the mincing, shuffling manner of a musume. She was 
 a delightful mimic, and the louder the old ironmaster 
 laughed the more emphatic and expressive were her 
 gestures. And, tea over, he insisted on her sitting at 
 his feet and going through the pantomime again. 
 
 Margaret and Dick went into the grounds, where 
 they talked of the work in which they, both of them, 
 were interested. Again and again the name of Robert 
 MacWhinnie passed his lips, until, at last, she looked 
 up at him, and said almost in a criticizing voice : "You 
 are a very close friend of Mr. MacWhinnie?" 
 
 Dick started slightly, and replied: 
 
 "Of course. ... I am always mentioning his 
 name ?" 
 
 "Say 'frequently/ " and she smiled as to add : "I 
 wonder why?" 
 
 Dick lowered his eyes. "Robert MacWhinnie is very 
 close to my heart, Miss Drender. I am one of those
 
 AT "JAP ROW SIDE" 251 
 
 men who make few friends in life, being so nomadic, 
 so so erratic." 
 
 She looked at him, almost shyly. 
 
 "Hardly erratic, Mr. Morrow. I should have said 
 that you were a man who would never be without a 
 friend." 
 
 "Perhaps I'm too exacting. A man must possess 
 so many qualities to satisfy my demands; he must 
 make up for my own shortcomings." 
 
 "And Mr. MacWhinnie possesses all those quali- 
 ties?" She was half amused, half grave. 
 
 "He possesses them all save one," said Dick, with a 
 great deal of earnestness, and as though she were chal- 
 lenging him to defend the honor of his old friend ; "all 
 save one. . . . He's too unselfish, he takes too serious 
 a view of life, and of what is meant by the word 
 'duty.' " 
 
 She sighed, and her cheeks reddened because of that 
 sigh; there was still a smile in her eyes as she said: 
 
 "How splendidly you champion a friend !" 
 
 "How splendid a friend to champion !" he answered 
 quietly. "I met Robert MacWhinnie during his first 
 month in Japan, and I was still there when he came 
 out with his sister." 
 
 The big dark eyes filled as she murmured : 
 
 "Poor Jean!" 
 
 "You knew her well, Miss Drender?" 
 
 "Yes" very softly. 
 
 "She died in my arms" his voice trembled. 
 
 Margaret placed her hand on his arm. 
 
 "I didn't know that," she said, pausing in the path 
 to look into his face.
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "And sometimes I feel that my heart died with her, 
 and . . . You're the first woman to whom I have 
 spoken about her." His eyes were bright, and the 
 lines of his rugged face seemed to soften. 
 
 "Poor Jean !" she whispered again ; adding, almost 
 inaudibly, "and poor you!" 
 
 He shook himself, and infused a more determined 
 note into his voice. 
 
 "Poor me?" he laughed softly. "No, no; I am rich 
 in memories and they count for a lot in a life like 
 mine. . . . Do you understand, now, why Robert and 
 I dwell so closely together in friendship?" 
 
 "He loved his sister," Margaret said, and lowered 
 her eyes. 
 
 "There's something else. It's because I feel that 
 behind his quiet resignation there is a tragedy similar 
 to my own, that I look upon him well, as a brother." 
 
 She turned her head to listen to the burst of laugh- 
 ter coming from the direction of the study. 
 
 "Mori in her most piquant mood," Dick guessed. 
 "If I could think ill of Robert for just one hour, I 
 should run away with Mori." 
 
 Margaret was all smiles as she inclined her ear to- 
 ward the house. 
 
 "It's a long while since I heard father laugh like 
 that," she told him. 
 
 "Mori has driven the tears out of my heart many a 
 time." 
 
 "Let us go in," she urged ; "we cannot afford to lose 
 bright moments." 
 
 Dick followed her to the door; they had to pass the 
 study window, and it was natural to glance in. John
 
 AT "JARROWSIDE" 253 
 
 Drender was lying back in his chair and laughing while 
 the tears rolled down his cheeks. Mori, in the center 
 of the room, was playing a mythical samisen, and 
 screeching after the manner of a geisha in song. 
 
 Long after Dick and the child were gone from 
 "Jarrowside," o ld Drender sat in the study nodding to 
 his laughing thoughts. Margaret came in to read to 
 him. He looked up, placed his hand to his ear, and 
 asked : 
 
 "Whose bairn is yon, Margaret?" 
 
 "Robert MacWhinnie's, father," she said, and her 
 lips quivered. 
 
 A shadow came to his face, but only for a fleeting 
 second. Then he held out his hand toward her. 
 
 "We'll have the reading, my bonnie lass," he said. 
 And as she came closer, he reached up and gently 
 stroked her hair. He said no word, but there was that 
 in his tender touch that murmured : 
 
 "And you're mine you're mine."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE WEAKER SEX 
 
 MORI fell ill, at a time when the governess was 
 away on a visit to her parents and the old 
 housekeeper was confined to her room with a 
 pain which she could not locate. Robert returned 
 from the works to find the child huddled up on the 
 couch in the study ; she was hot and feverish, and there 
 was considerable sickness; the eyes were puffed, the 
 cheeks flushed, and as he fell on his knees beside the 
 couch she allowed her head to loll toward him. His 
 cry of "Mori, darling, what ails you?" frightened 
 rather than soothed her; for the fear in his eyes was 
 strange to her. He looked about him, and never had 
 his sense of loneliness been so acute. Lonely and 
 helpless! He rang for the servants, ran to the door 
 and called anxiously, angrily. They came at his bid- 
 ding, and were as helpless as he. How long had Miss 
 Mori been ill ? They didn't know. How long had she 
 been on the couch ? They couldn't tell him ; they had 
 not missed her she seldom went into the servants' 
 quarters. 
 
 "The doctor quickly !" he said sharply. "See that 
 her room is ready; I'll take her upstairs immediately." 
 
 Is there anything so pathetic as a lonely man with a 
 sick child in his arms ? All that day Robert had toiled
 
 THE WEAKER SEX 255 
 
 as hard as any laborer in his works, and toward the 
 end only the thought of the waiting child had pre- 
 vented his sinking down on an office chair and sleep- 
 ing. Fear easily masters the bodily weak man. As he 
 carried the child to her room, a thousand phantoms 
 seemed to crowd around him, their hands outstretched 
 to snatch her from his grasp. The maid who followed 
 him into the room shrank from him as he turned upon 
 her to ask why she was standing there like a block of 
 wood. 
 
 "Undress the child and do it gently." And he 
 rushed down the stairs to make certain that someone 
 had gone for the doctor. Then back again to the sick 
 room. Mori was moaning and wetting her dry lips 
 with her tongue. Roughly he thrust the frightened 
 maid aside, and with a moistened sponge brushed the 
 curls from the child's forehead, the while he called to 
 her, gently, pleadingly. 
 
 He heard the hall door open, and with a cry of relief 
 ran to the landing and called out urgently : 
 
 "Hurry, doctor; for the love of Heaven, hurry!" 
 
 It was Dick Morrow, and he came up the stairs 
 three at a time. Robert turned on him fiercely. 
 
 "I thought you were the doctor, Dick. Get away, 
 man, and fetch one make him come carry him 
 don't waste a second. Mori's ill." 
 
 A maid called up the stairs. The doctor was on his 
 way to the house. 
 
 "Mori ill!" Dick pushed him aside and went into 
 the room to the child. His fear was as great as Rob- 
 ert's. He leaned over the bed, and his fingers shook 
 like reeds in the wind as he touched her hair.
 
 256 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Do something, Dick," Robert whispered. "Don't 
 let her lie there in pain." 
 
 "What can I do, old fellow?" Dick threw out his 
 hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Who's been with 
 her all day? What has she been eating? Don't you 
 know? Haven't you inquired of the servants?" 
 
 Robert took a deep breath. 
 
 "My dear Dick," he burst out, "why stand there ask- 
 ing questions ? I've only just returned from the works. 
 I found her lying on the couch, all crumpled up, Dick, 
 like a crushed flower, and no one near her no one 
 taking the least interest in her. Can't you do any- 
 thing? I thought you knew something about ail- 
 ments." 
 
 Dick clenched his hands. 
 
 "My dear Robert, don't be a fool ! What can I do ? 
 I'm I'm as big a fool as you are where children are 
 concerned. . . . My little sweetheart !" He was bend- 
 ing over the bed again, but all that he could do to re- 
 lieve her was to brush back the damp curls from a 
 damper brow. 
 
 They, both of them, were helpless. They were near 
 to anger with each other, and when they heard the 
 rattling of the wheels on the drive they cried, together, 
 "Thank God !" and hurried down the stairs. The doc- 
 tor went back with them, looking from one to the 
 other as though he were in doubt which to address. 
 They leaned over his shoulder as he stooped to touch 
 the sick child, and they waited with lips parted for 
 the result of his examination. 
 
 "Is there a woman in the house?" he inquired, at 
 last. "If not, telephone for a nurse."
 
 THE WEAKER SEX 25? 
 
 Robert caught at his arm. The doctor shook his 
 head warningly. 
 
 "You had better go downstairs," he said. "I will 
 come to you presently, when the nurse arrives." 
 
 In the study Robert found Dick, who had preceded 
 him from the sick room. He closed the door and went 
 over to the couch. 
 
 "She was lying there just there, when I came in," 
 he said, biting at his lips to keep back the sobs. 
 
 Dick's wretchedness of mind was to be seen in his 
 eyes. He nodded mechanically. 
 
 Robert sat down on the couch and stared at the car- 
 pet. With a little laugh of bitterness he muttered : 
 
 "Presentiments, presentiments all day long pre- 
 sentiments. Dick, this would be the last blow that I 
 could stand." 
 
 "Steady yourself, Robert," said Dick feebly; "it 
 may be nothing serious." 
 
 "I think I could stand anything save that. I mean 
 it, Dick. I'm sorry if I spoke roughly to you upstairs. 
 You can understand my feelings ?" 
 
 "Quite," said Dick, without appearing to have 
 heard. 
 
 "It hurt me, stabbed me, to think that we two could 
 do nothing to help her while she was lying there. You 
 heard her moan, Dick? That was the first time I 
 heard a child moan, and I never want to hear it 
 again." 
 
 "It may be nothing." 
 
 "And the strange part about it is that all these years 
 I've never even thought of the contingency ; she's al- 
 ways been so strong, so vigorous, so full of life "
 
 258 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "May be nothing at all." 
 
 "So full of energy that I've never associated her 
 with illness. . . . Dick Dick, it'll break my faith. 
 . . . What do you mean by 'nothing at all' ? How can 
 you stand there, man, and talk such arrant nonsense, 
 
 and Forgive me, Dick. My head's all anyhow." 
 
 He covered his face with his hands ; the muscles of his 
 arms were taut. "We've had a tiring day in the 
 works, old fellow. Everything seemed to go wrong 
 just as though the inanimate things knew that some- 
 thing was going to happen. You heard what the doc- 
 tor said? 'Isn't there a woman in the house?' Oh, 
 Dick, if anything should happen to my Mori, there'd 
 be nothing left. . . . Everything seemed to go wrong ; 
 
 the machinery knew, and Ring the bell gently, 
 
 old boy, and inquire if that nurse has arrived. Where 
 the devil has she got to ?" 
 
 "Robert, have patience." 
 
 "I am patient. . . . Can you hear anything up- 
 stairs? Dick, I'm all of a tremble. . . . 'Isn't there a 
 woman in the house?' Say, Dick, it's terrible when 
 there isn't a woman in the in a case like this. Eh ?" 
 
 "Terrible," Dick agreed. 
 
 "Everything seems to go dead wrong, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Everything." 
 
 "I wish you knew how I felt when we couldn't do 
 anything up there." 
 
 "I knew." 
 
 Robert started to his feet. There was a step on the 
 stair. The doctor pushed open the study door. Both 
 Robert and Dick held out their hands imploringly. 
 
 "The nurse is with her," said the doctor cheerily.
 
 THE WEAKER SEX 259 
 
 He looked at Robert. "You are Mr. MacWhinnie, I 
 believe? Keep the child warm; but the nurse will see 
 to that, in any case; leave everything to her she 
 knows her work." 
 
 He buttoned his coat collar and held out his hand to 
 Robert. 
 
 "Measles," he said abruptly.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 
 
 THE child had reached that stage of convales- 
 cence when fret fulness takes the place of mute 
 appeal. She was restless and impatient, and he 
 must always be near the bedside when she awoke, and 
 be ready to amuse her with new stories, and to tell her 
 of all that was going on in the house and at the works. 
 No parent was ever more solicitous than Robert Mac- 
 Whinnie. His patience was inexhaustible, and even 
 when her eyes remained open till long after midnight, 
 he never seemed to tire, no matter how arduous had 
 been the exertions of the day. 
 
 And then came the menace which he had never even 
 considered possible. The portent to which the social- 
 istic Thomas had endeavored to direct his attention 
 arose at a time when he was actually feeling the ex- 
 hilaration of a triumph that seemed assured. The 
 Chilian contract was nearly completed, and in the 
 stories to the child he had outlined a holiday which he 
 intended to take with her. For some days he had been 
 in the habit of leaving the works half an hour before 
 work ceased, in order that he might sit with Mori as 
 long as possible before dinner. Those who were di- 
 rectly responsible for the rude awakening of Robert 
 MacWhinnie could not have timed their actions more 
 
 260
 
 THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 261 
 
 cruelly. Before leaving the office that afternoon, Rob- 
 ert had sent for his manager, MacGowan, and inti- 
 mated that while he was satisfied they could finish well 
 within the contract time, he wished to be on the safe 
 side, and gave instructions for a number of the men to 
 work overtime. 
 
 "They will be well paid for it," he had said; "but 
 not for a moment do I believe that the promise will 
 weigh with them. I am content to rely on their loy- 
 alty. Indeed, I feel that the majority of them are as 
 anxious as I am for the good reputation of the firm." 
 
 Mori had been more than usually fretful that day, 
 and when Robert reached home he found her crying; 
 as tears had never been associated with a disposition 
 that was very like his own, he was thrown into great 
 alarm. Her imagination had been running riot, and 
 the nurse had become impatient, and rebuked her. She 
 didn't want to listen to Mori's stories of fairy archi- 
 pelagoes and lands where the sun went to bed so 
 quickly that one never saw it undress; she wanted 
 Mori to try to sleep, and she was very angry with the 
 father who filled the child's head with such nonsense. 
 
 But within five minutes the child was happy. He 
 had lifted her out of bed, wrapped a blanket around 
 her shoulders, and was sitting with her near the win- 
 dow from which they could see the river craft. He 
 believed in all her fairy people ; he was certain that at 
 one time or another he must have been there among 
 them; and, best of all, he had made up his mind that 
 when she was strong again they would set out to find 
 these places. She went to sleep in his arms, and he 
 placed her back in the bed, lying down by her side for
 
 262 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 some time, lest she should awaken suddenly and be 
 afraid because he wasn't there. 
 
 When at last he left the room he was so tired that 
 he could scarcely keep his eyes open. He did not wish 
 for dinner. He felt that he hadn't the strength to 
 change. He went to the study, and touched the bell 
 before flinging himself down on the couch. He told 
 the maid that he would do without dinner, or, at least, 
 rest for an hour before having it. And he had hardly 
 closed his eyes when the girl returned. MacGowan, 
 the manager of the works, wished to see Mr. Mac- 
 Whinnie at once. 
 
 "Show him in," said Robert, without rising. 
 
 He overheard MacGowan saying to someone in the 
 hall: "No, I must see him first. Dinna mind me, 
 lassie." Then the door was thrown open, and the 
 angular Scot stumbled in. He was still in his over- 
 alls, and there was blood on his face. 
 
 "Man, it's come !" he burst out. 
 
 Robert sprang from the couch with a wild exclama- 
 tion, and thrust MacGowan into a chair. 
 
 "What's come? What's this blood on your face? 
 What has happened?" 
 
 "Everything's happened," said MacGowan dole- 
 fully. "I've been fearin' it this mony a day, but I lis- 
 tened to ye, sir. Ye were always so ready to gi'e them 
 credit for loyalty." 
 
 "You're talking about the men?" Robert's face 
 had gone suddenly pale. "What has happened, Mac- 
 Gowan ?" 
 
 "It was the overtime notice that seemed to do it." 
 
 "Do what, man? Why don't you speak out?"
 
 THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 263 
 
 "They've gone on strike, sir." And MacGowan 
 gave two nods as in emphasis. 
 
 Robert was too dazed for a moment to do more 
 than stare at the man in the chair. Then he cried out 
 in a peculiar, unnatural voice : 
 
 "You're mad, MacGowan! You must be mad!" 
 And, as MacGowan didn't speak : "I don't believe you, 
 MacGowan. You're doing this to annoy me. You've 
 been talking to somebody, and you have some griev- 
 ance." 
 
 MacGowan wiped his brow with the back of his oily 
 hand. 
 
 "That's no like ye, Mr. MacWhinnie," he said re- 
 proachfully. "I've sarved ye weel." 
 
 "But do you know what you're saying?" Robert's 
 face was pitiable, and his fingers were working as 
 though he would take MacGowan by the shoulders 
 and shake a coherent story from him. 
 
 "I'm telling ye the truth, Mr. MacWhinnie. It hap- 
 pened soon after you left this afternoon, but they've 
 been brooding a long while. Didna I say to ye that 
 brother of yours > " 
 
 "Hold your tongue, MacGowan!" said Robert 
 sharply; but in that minute he felt the pain of a knife- 
 stab. Was it possible that his own brother had done 
 this thing? He had never regarded Thomas's leanings 
 as other than harmless. He had never for a moment 
 imagined that he would allow those leanings to preju- 
 dice his own flesh and blood. The whole idea was pre- 
 posterous. 
 
 "Half an hour after ye'd gone," MacGowan went 
 on, "a dozen o' them cam' into the office to see ye.
 
 261 THE HOXOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 They'd torn down the notice about overtime, and they 
 flung it in my face when I opened the door. They 
 were not going to be dictated to, they said. Ye'd ca- 
 joled them into working like slaves for the last month 
 or two, and they were not certain that you meant to do 
 what was right by them. They were in a position to 
 dictate. That's how they talked, sir." 
 
 "Dictate ! But what do they wish to dictate ?" 
 
 "They had set out their demands. They thrust it 
 into my hand that paper ! and asked for ye. They 
 wouldna believe that ye'd gone. Two o' them tried to 
 get past me into the office two o' the young uns, who 
 were out for devilment. They wanted nae mair than 
 a spark to set them on fire, and and, man, they got 
 it! I've worked too lang as an engineer; I've helped 
 too many bairns to climb into manhood and to larn 
 their trade, to stand that sort o' thing. 'Ye're lyin' to 
 us, MacGowan,' one said; an' I felled him as he 
 spoke." 
 
 "MacGowan, you shouldn't have done that." 
 
 "You'd hae done the same y'rself, sir. They had 
 nae respect for my gray hair, but they had some for 
 my fist. Look at their terms." 
 
 "Of course, they're impossible." 
 
 "They demand a percentage on accountants' fig- 
 ures." 
 
 Robert was reading what the leaders of the men had 
 written. 
 
 "They can't be serious," he said. 
 
 "They're serious eno'," said MacGowan, "because 
 they know we've on'y four days left." 
 
 "Four days in w r hich to complete the contract. Yes,
 
 THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 265 
 
 MacGowan, and they know something else. They 
 know that I'm a small man, and that this is the hardest 
 fight that we've had to put up thus far. How can we 
 temporize with them?" 
 
 "Ye'll no do that, sir. They're too cunning. 
 They're aware that the advantages are a' on their side. 
 I could see it in their faces ; they had been waiting for 
 this moment." 
 
 "But, MacGowan, they were so peaceful. Every- 
 thing was in^such perfect order when I left this after- 
 noon. This is like a nightmare." 
 
 "They deceived ye, but they didna quite deceive 
 me," said MacGowan. "They went about it quietly, 
 and if I hadna been a suspicious man, they'd hae taken 
 me in badly." 
 
 "What are they doing now?" 
 
 "They're outside the gates. Work's stopped. They 
 guess that I've come to see ye. I wish ye'd taken my 
 advice, sir, when I hinted that the room of certain 
 persons who cam' to the yard was mair desirable than 
 their company." 
 
 "Hold your tongue," said Robert again, "if it's Mr, 
 Thomas MacWhinnie to whom you're referring." 
 
 "I'll grant ye, sir, that he hasna been near the works 
 since the day the young maisters left; but he dropped 
 the seed behind him, and it grows awf'y quick. An* 
 if it's no him, I can put my hand on the other body. 
 Do you ken, sir, that Drender and Masters hae no 
 been havin' a vera flush time lately ?" 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "They havena had mony contracts in. Work's been 
 a little slack."
 
 266 
 
 "I know nothing about it." 
 
 "An' I shouldna wonder if they've never got over 
 the slight that was put on them when we got this con- 
 tract." 
 
 Robert thrust aside his own interests, fears, and 
 anxieties in that minute. 
 
 "MacGowan," he said sternly, "when you speak of 
 Drender and Masters, you will please me and do credit 
 to yourself as an engineer you will pay a tribute to 
 your judgment by remembering that if our firm has 
 one consuming ambition, it is to achieve the reputation 
 of Drender and Masters. Now we'll go down to the 
 works. There's no time to be lost. These men must 
 be brought to realize that, although the advantages of 
 the moment are on their side, we're not going to throw 
 down our weapons and surrender tamely." 
 
 He left the manager in the study for a moment, and 
 went out to give instructions to the nurse that Mori 
 was to be kept quiet and in ignorance of the fact that 
 he was out. 
 
 When he and MacGowan arrived at the works, they 
 found a hundred or so of the men gathered about the 
 gates. The youths raised an ironical cheer as Robert 
 leaped from the cab, followed by MacGowan. The 
 older men kept in the background, seemingly content 
 to leave the excitement of the hour to the others. The 
 gates of the works were wide open. Robert forced his 
 way through the press till he reached the entrance; 
 then he turned and faced the malcontents. MacGowan 
 was on his right hand, his angular features set in defi- 
 ance. Someone on the fringe of the crowd shouted:
 
 THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 267 
 
 "What's your answer, Robert MacWhinnie? We're 
 waiting for it, and we want 'Yes' or 'No.' " 
 
 MacGowan raised a grimy fist, and shook it men- 
 acingly in the direction of the voice, but Robert turned 
 upon him angrily. 
 
 "We'll pay you for that, MacGowan !" shouted some 
 of the youths. 
 
 One of the older men called out, in a semi-apolo- 
 getic tone : "It's the principle we're fighting, not Rob- 
 ert MacWhinnie." A cheer followed, and when it 
 had died down Robert raised his hand for silence. 
 
 "If you had any principles," he said, and he was un- 
 able to conceal his bitterness, "you have forfeited 
 them ; for when did I refuse to listen to any grievances 
 you might have had to lay before me? Have I ever 
 treated you as other than men ?" 
 
 "The principle!" they shouted again, but there was 
 a tinge of shame in their voices. 
 
 "Only a short while ago I made what I believed to 
 be a generous offer." 
 
 "It was the time to make offers, Mr. MacWhinnie," 
 a thick-set engineer shouted back. "You had every- 
 thing to gain, and we were not in a position 
 
 "To thank me for it," Robert helped him out. 
 
 "You were getting value for your money." 
 
 "And this," said Robert, pointing back at the empty 
 yard, "this is the value. Where are your leaders ?" 
 
 A dozen names were shouted in chorus, but no one 
 moved forward. 
 
 "You have our terms," said someone in the crowd ; 
 "this matter can be easily adjusted if you like to exer- 
 cise the spirit of fair play."
 
 268 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "The terms set out on this paper," said Robert, "are 
 preposterous," and with that he tore the paper in 
 halves and flung the pieces in the direction of the 
 crowd. "There's my answer," he said, and then waved 
 his hand toward the works. "The gates are open. 
 Finish your work, and then I may be disposed to dis- 
 cuss any proposals you have to make." 
 
 They laughed in his face. 
 
 "We're not fools, Robert MacWhinnie," an old man 
 cried. "If we give way now, what chance have we of 
 getting redress when the contract's finished." 
 
 "Point to a single instance of redress having been 
 denied you." 
 
 "You'll have to give way," said the man, making 
 no attempt to reply to the question. "You have only 
 four days left." 
 
 "You chose your time well," said Robert. "It does 
 great credit to your sense of loyalty. I'll show you 
 how I appreciate it. MacGowan, stand by that gate." 
 He turned back to the men. "The gates are open 
 now," he said, "and my offer stands. Go back to your 
 shops, and when the work is through I'll receive any 
 deputation you care to send to me, and endeavor to 
 meet all your demands. Refuse to go in, and I close 
 the gates. The majority of you are union men, but I 
 doubt if you have the support of your union in this 
 matter, for no union worthy the name condones what 
 is little removed from sheer treachery. After those 
 gates are closed, I shall refuse to listen to anyone here. 
 I shall discuss the trouble only with representatives 
 from headquarters. Now, what is your answer?" 
 
 Again he was rewarded with a taunting laugh.
 
 THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 269 
 
 "Close the gates, MacGowan." He stepped back, 
 and the gates swung together. It was strength of 
 character, yet even MacGowan, rude and unpolished, 
 shook his head in disapproval. 
 
 "Man, they'll wreck the works!" he said, as he 
 watched Robert shoot home the bolts that held the 
 gate. 
 
 "Go into the office quickly," said Robert, "and tele- 
 phone to the police." 
 
 "I did that before I cam' to see ye, sir," said Mac- 
 Gowan. "They will be here shortly." 
 
 "That's all right," said Robert calmly. "The men 
 may do whatever their treachery dictates, but at the 
 first sign of attack on those gates, MacGowan, they 
 will learn what it is to defy a desperate man." 
 
 They were hurrying toward the office. From be- 
 yond the gates came shouts and howls of derision. 
 
 "Loyalty !" muttered Robert. "That's loyalty, Mac- 
 Gowan, when you're compelled to buy it. If I were 
 in a position to do it, I'd keep those gates locked until 
 they were brought to their knees by hunger. It's this 
 kind of thing that adds bricks to the wall between 
 capital and labor, in spite of all the attempts to break 
 down that wall. Four days, working at top speed!" 
 
 He went into the office, and MacGowan could see 
 that the great heart was wavering. Robert sat down 
 at the table, resting his elbows upon it and staring 
 vacantly in front of him. The gate was fifty yards 
 from the office. The men outside had taken to sing- 
 ing, but Robert did not hear them. 
 
 "After the singing, the stones," MacGowan mut- 
 tered. "I know them. I've been through this before."
 
 270 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Robert turned to him. 
 
 "I don't want to keep you here, MacGowan," he 
 said, "if you'd feel safer at home. It would be quite 
 easy for you to leave the works by way of the river." 
 
 "Ay," said MacGowan, and there was a frown on 
 his rugged face. 
 
 "Quite easy," said Robert. "I'll go down with you, 
 if you wish." 
 
 "Ay," said MacGowan again. "Mebbe you'd like 
 me to go out there an' tell them that Sandy Mac- 
 Gowan was just as big a reprobate as theirsel's. It 
 would be much easier for me to go amang them wi' a 
 crowbar." 
 
 "You're a Scot, MacGowan," said Robert, smiling 
 gratefully, "and there's a lot in that. . . . You think 
 I was right in my assumption that their union knows 
 nothing of this ?" 
 
 "I'm certain of it, sir. I tell you that I could put 
 my finger on the right spot." 
 
 Robert shook his head. 
 
 "They know their strength. Four days ! But even 
 if I dared concede their terms, they would take it in 
 the wrong spirit. They would laugh at me laugh at 
 my helplessness. MacGowan, there seems to be no 
 other way out of it." 
 
 A volley of stones rattled against the gates. 
 
 "On'y the youngsters," said MacGowan soothingly. 
 "They'll soon get tired of that, and they're mighty 
 good gates. I'll mak' some of the beggars put the 
 paint back when they've come to their senses." 
 
 "We can't afford to lose an hour." Robert was 
 biting his lips in desperation.
 
 THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 271 
 
 The clamour outside died suddenly away. 
 
 MacGowan went quickly to the door of the office. 
 The bell hanging from the gatepost was rung loudly. 
 
 "They're coming to their senses sooner than I 
 thought," and MacGowan rolled up his sleeves. 
 "They've sung their song. I'll be singin' mine in a 
 few minutes." 
 
 "Will you go and see what they want?" said Rob- 
 ert. "I shall receive only their acknowledged leaders, 
 and you may as well inform them that there will be 
 no compromise. The terms which they set out are 
 still preposterous." 
 
 He heard MacGowan running swiftly across the 
 yard. He heard the withdrawing of the bolts. He 
 heard the gates clang together again. Then came the 
 sound of footsteps returning to the office. He was 
 still seated at the table, his back to the door; he was 
 trying to plan some answer that would neither com- 
 promise him nor prejudice the situation. The door 
 behind him opened. "Sir," said MacGowan mean- 
 ingly. Robert looked around. Thomas, the elder 
 brother, was standing on the threshold; there was a 
 faint sneer on his thin lips and an expression of "I 
 told you so I warned you" in his eyes. 
 
 "Close that door, MacGowan," said Robert coldly, 
 "and if I should need you I will call out." 
 
 MacGowan's seared face wrinkled in an exulting 
 smile, and as he backed away he made a feint with his 
 clenched fist at an imaginary opponent. 
 
 Robert pushed the table to one side. Thomas, 
 standing near the closed door, watched him curiously. 
 A burst of cheering from the men outside the gates
 
 was the cue for which Robert might have been wait- 
 ing. 
 
 "Your friends are rather noisy, to-night," he said, 
 with a cynical smile. "Why have you left them?" 
 
 Thomas frowned dismally, and shot out his nether 
 
 HP. 
 
 "I came to advise you for your own good, Robert 
 MacWhinnie," he said. 
 
 "Very noisy," mused Robert, as though he hadn't 
 heard ; "but they'll find that it isn't a brainless fanatic 
 they have to deal with. One fool is enough in any 
 family." 
 
 Thomas shifted his position. 
 
 "Guard your tongue," he said warningly, "or I'll 
 forget that you are any brother of mine." 
 
 "Forget! You'll forget?" Robert's great shoul- 
 ders were moving rhythmically. "I've already forgot- 
 ten. It would be an insult to my intelligence an af- 
 front to to my little girl to regard you as a brother." 
 He laughed outright, and it was a dangerous laugh. 
 "Why, your friends outside those gates would jeer at 
 me for a fool if they heard me call you 'brother.' ' 
 
 Thomas was not without a certain amount of cour- 
 age, and although it was patent to his eyes that the 
 man in front of him was near to desperation, he stood 
 his ground and was ready to fling back taunt for taunt. 
 
 "One fool in a family !" he echoed. "We're agreed 
 on that point. Do we rightly understand which mem- 
 ber of the family is the fool?" 
 
 A fusillade of stones rattled against the yard gates. 
 
 "Your friends are impatient," said Robert, still in
 
 THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 273 
 
 that cold, cynical tone of voice. "What message have 
 you brought from them?" 
 
 "Robert MacWhinnie, keep a tight hold of your 
 tongue ! I'm here to help you with advice." 
 
 Robert straightened himself, until he towered high 
 above his brother. 
 
 "To help me! You! After lighting the fire which 
 you hoped would burn me and my little girl; after 
 applying the torch to that mass of brushwood! You 
 talk about helping me. My dear fool, your proper 
 place is out there, among them; you should be stand- 
 ing on a platform in their midst, waving your arms 
 about and shrieking and exhorting. Brother of mine F 
 My eldest brother is dead. The brother for whom I 
 tried to do so much died a long while ago." 
 
 "You think that I am responsible for what is hap- 
 pening out there?" 
 
 "I'm certain of it. They are shouting your name. 
 Listen! Three cheers for Tom MacWhinnie!' 
 Doesn't it thrill you? They call you 'Tom.' Listen 
 again ! Can't you hear them saying 'He is so loyal to 
 us that he would betray his own brother' ?" 
 
 Robert's eyes were blazing, and his hands were 
 opening and shutting. 
 
 "I heard of it only a few hours ago," Thomas said 
 protestingly. 
 
 "That was before the flame burst out ; you knew that 
 the match had been applied. What a triumph for you ! 
 Betrayed his own brother, and his brother's little girl ! 
 And if David and Jamie had been here, the triumph 
 would have been all the greater."
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "I have come to help you. The men outside sent 
 for me to arbitrate. That was a concession to you." 
 
 "Oh! Wonderful! What did they say when they 
 sent for you 'Come along, Iscariot; the kiss is the 
 signal'?" 
 
 "You are wronging me." 
 
 "No one could do that." 
 
 "You're making me responsible for your own folly 
 and conceit It has been coming about for a long 
 while ever since you became too big for your shoes 
 ever since you became the gentleman of the family 
 ever since the family became too humble for you to 
 recognize them." 
 
 A storm of yells from the men outside. 
 
 "Very impatient." Robert flung open the office 
 door. "What message did you bring?" 
 
 Thomas squared himself, and set his broad-brimmed 
 hat at a firmer angle. 
 
 "The men are willing to return to work," he said, 
 with some show of dignity, "if you consent to discuss 
 terms with me or any representative they may feel dis- 
 posed to select." 
 
 Robert made a most exaggerated bow. 
 
 "How kind of them ! How kind of you ! How they 
 must respect you ! And honor you !" He was fast los- 
 ing control of himself. All sense of brotherhood had 
 already departed. This man before him was a 
 stranger, a menace a menace to the happiness of his 
 little girl, Mori. He wasn't thinking of himself, in 
 that moment. Mori filled his thoughts. Here was the 
 danger to her of which he had dreamed. The shouts 
 of execration that were going up outside the gates were
 
 THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 275 
 
 directed at her. The threatening attitude of the man 
 near him was because of the child. 
 
 "It can be settled in five minutes," Thomas mut- 
 tered ; and, now, he was watching a light in the other's 
 eyes a light he had never before seen. 
 
 "Five minutes!" Robert flung off his coat. "It 
 will not take so long as that. They shall have their 
 answer in less than a minute." He strode to the open 
 door and raised his voice for MacGowan. "Swing 
 open the gates, MacGowan," he shouted, "and tell 
 them that I am bringing the answer." 
 
 Then he turned upon the quivering Thomas and 
 gripped him around the middle. 
 
 "You have given them one lesson in brotherly 
 love," he cried; "they shall have another." 
 
 In vain Thomas struggled to free himself. The 
 arms that held him were as strong as steel bands 
 Mori's face, dancing before the eyes of the desperate 
 Robert, were strengthening them. MacGowan raced 
 on ahead, shouting as he raced. Once he turned back, 
 and, flinging the restraint of the employee aside, held 
 out his brawny arms : "Gi'e him to me, sir," he cried ; 
 but Robert was making light of his burden; he was 
 nearly up to the gates. MacGowan opened the side 
 door. Robert pushed his way through. The amazed 
 men outside moved back, and there was silence for a 
 second. Thomas was still struggling and shouting. 
 
 "Your answer!" cried Robert, and with a heave of 
 the shoulders he hurled Thomas against the foremost 
 of the strikers. 
 
 "Judas !" yelled MacGowan.
 
 276 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 And then the stones came volley after volley. 
 MacGowan leaped in front of Robert, but not before 
 a flint had struck the white, quivering cheek. The 
 blood spurted as Robert stumbled forward, dazed and 
 helpless. MacGowan picked him up as though he were 
 a child. Someone, more daring than the rest, surged 
 forward. MacGowan might have anticipated this, for 
 he turned, and freeing his right hand swung hard for 
 the face. The next minute he was through the gate, 
 the bolts were shot into their sockets, and setting 
 Robert on his feet, he assisted him to the office. The 
 hammering on the gates ceased abruptly, the shouts 
 died down; the men were drawing off. "Mebbe the 
 police ; mebbe Judas," growled MacGowan. 
 
 In the office, Robert bathed his wounded cheek, then 
 sank dejectedly into a chair at the table, resting his 
 forehead in the palms of his hands. A great weariness 
 came over him. "Leave me a while, MacGowan," he 
 said, in a tired voice. "If the police are there, give 
 them every assistance. I'm all right" as the burly 
 manager bent over his shoulder "just a little dazed 
 that's all." 
 
 But MacGowan was away only a few minutes. He 
 returned to the office. "Mr. MacWhinnie," he said, 
 in a whisper. 
 
 Robert turned slowly, and then he sprang to his 
 feet, his eyes lowered. 
 
 "Margaret !" he cried faintly. 
 
 She was leaning against the door which MacGowan 
 had closed, and there was as great embarrassment in 
 her face as in his. She must have hurried in her jour-
 
 THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 277 
 
 ney; her cheeks glowed, and for a while she was un- 
 able to speak. At last she said : 
 
 "We heard of this only half an hour ago. I rowed 
 across the river. My father would have come him- 
 self, had he not been indisposed. There was no one 
 else, save save me. Is it very serious ?" 
 
 "It is very serious," said Robert, making no attempt 
 to mask his fears. 
 
 "One of your own men brought the news to father," 
 she said, "an old apprentice of Drender and Masters 
 so that father had little time to do anything." 
 
 "To do anything?" Robert echoed, still in that 
 strained, whispering voice. 
 
 "You have his deep sympathy." 
 
 "I thank him from the bottom of my heart," said 
 Robert. "It was what I might have expected from 
 Mr. John Drender." 
 
 "And mine," she added, and lowered her eyes even 
 as his were lowered. 
 
 He made no reply to that, but the corners of his 
 mouth twitched. 
 
 "Father said that according to his reckoning you'd 
 be placed in a very difficult position." 
 
 "We have only four days," said Robert, "in which 
 to finish a very important contract, one on the suc- 
 cessful execution of which the firm's chances practi- 
 cally depend." 
 
 She nodded sympathetically. 
 
 "I think that my father must have known that," she 
 said, "because he gave me some hint of it. This let- 
 ter" she handed it to him "he wrote himself. He 
 said that you would understand."
 
 278 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Robert's eyelids flickered as he recognized the fa- 
 miliar handwriting. John Drender had written : 
 
 "ROBERT MACWHINNIE. Drender and Masters gave you 
 your start. For the sake of the reputation of our firm we 
 can't see you go down. I understand that you have a local 
 strike, and that you have only four days in which to finish 
 a big contract. I don't know who's to blame, but I think I 
 could put my hand on him. Take my advice, and make 
 your yard as private as you would your bedroom. Blood 
 may be thicker than water, but there are times when it may 
 become too thick for circulation. We're running short time 
 at the works here, and we have five hundred men who 
 would be only too glad to work overtime to work double 
 shifts, if you like. We can finish the job for you at a price 
 that'll not hurt you; but I'm thinking that if you show that 
 hand to the men outside your gates they won't hesitate long !" 
 
 The letter was shaking ; she knew that his heart was 
 full. 
 
 "Father regards your firm with a great deal of af- 
 fection," she said softly, adding, as though she would 
 lessen the significance of the offer: "He was always 
 the same ; he takes so much interest in those who have 
 learned their profession under his eye." 
 
 Robert folded the letter. Although his eyes were 
 averted, she filled his vision. 
 
 "I don't know what to say," he murmured; "this 
 has taken all the strength out of me." 
 
 He ventured another glance. She had placed one 
 hand on the door ; her big eyes were glowing. 
 
 "There was no one else to bring it" as though 
 some excuse were needed for her presence. 
 
 "Some day," he said dreamily, "some day I shall 
 tell you how much I appreciate "
 
 THE STRENGTH OF PRIDE 279 
 
 MacGowan opened the door. Robert beckoned to 
 him, and again unfolded John Drender's letter. 
 
 "I'll write a notice, and get you to fix it on the gates, 
 MacGowan. Meanwhile, go down to the water and 
 make ready the dinghy there; I'm going to row Miss 
 Drender across the river; then I'll return for you."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 WHERE DUTY ENDS 
 
 THERE was no need for Robert to avail himself 
 of the offer made by Mr. Drender; in itself, it 
 was sufficient to show the men the folly of the 
 attitude they had been induced to take up. The prom- 
 ise which had been held out to them of a speedy vic- 
 tory was more than nullified by the fear that Capital, 
 after all, was the stronger that when capitalists chose 
 to unite their forces or to bring up reinforcements to 
 those who appeared to be weakening in the battle, La- 
 bor had nothing to fall back upon. Moreover, the 
 generous position which Robert had taken up, the open 
 manner in which he had bared his confidences to them, 
 appealed more strongly to their sense of justice as hour 
 succeeded hour. They went back, and as a result of 
 the eruption, loyalty received stimulus rather than the 
 reverse, because Robert was careful not to convey a 
 sense of defeat to their minds. A few tactful words 
 left them with the belief that a moral victory had been 
 gained by both sides, and that, after all, is the most 
 desirable end to all quarrels. 
 
 Events followed each other quickly. Robert seemed 
 not to have rested from the moment the ultimatum 
 was presented until, at last, the Chilian contract was 
 
 280
 
 WHERE DUTY ENDS 281 
 
 completed, and he could afford to lean back and say, 
 "Now, I can look about me !" 
 
 During the period of stress no word was received 
 from the prodigal brothers, and it was not until Dick 
 Morrow returned from a visit to the country, and came 
 to the house, that Robert allowed his thoughts to turn 
 to them. Dick had been on a journey of investigation, 
 and the news of the "ten-minute strike," as the news- 
 papers called it, was unknown to him until he re- 
 turned. It was long after dinner when he reached the 
 house, and everyone, save Robert, was in bed. Dick 
 was agitated, almost to the point of bitterness. 
 
 "As soon as I learned the facts," he said, striding to 
 and fro in the study, "I came straight away to see you. 
 My dear old fellow, you've had a rough time, and I 
 can well imagine how you felt, to be standing there 
 fighting a lone hand." 
 
 Robert was lying back in his chair, with his hands 
 folded behind his head. The mental and physical 
 strain of the last few days had paled him somewhat, 
 and he was content to nod and smile. 
 
 "Fighting a lone hand," Dick repeated, "and any- 
 thing might have happened." 
 
 "No, no, Dick," said Robert quietly. "We're not 
 in the wilds now. You're talking as though we were 
 back in Sendai, building bridges with ill-paid labor. 
 There was some chance of a rough-up in those days." 
 
 "I've read the papers," Dick interrupted, with a 
 shake of the head, as to imply that nothing could be 
 hidden from him. "Those men showed that they had 
 carefully sized up the situation before they attempted
 
 282 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 to strike. They knew that you were anxious about 
 this contract " 
 
 Robert waved his hand deprecatingly. 
 
 "We can't blame them for that," he said, still in the 
 quiet voice of one who is content to let the past bury 
 itself. "You would have blamed them had they gone 
 into the fight without any preparation, without a 
 weapon of any sort. Of course, it was their only 
 chance, if they needed a chance, although, God knows, 
 I've always tried to be fair." 
 
 "You couldn't be unfair, if you tried, Robert." 
 
 "Don't attribute to me qualities I don't possess, 
 Dick. I can drive as hard a bargain as any man." 
 
 Dick turned his head, and, speaking in a lower tone, 
 said: 
 
 "I don't know what your thoughts on the matter 
 are, Robert, so I can't say how you'll receive my com- 
 ments; but the thing that has hurt me most in this 
 business is the the estrangement between you and 
 your brothers." 
 
 Robert's eyelids drooped for a second. In the midst 
 of this trouble, he had striven manfully to set "family 
 affairs" on one side. 
 
 "Come, Dick," he said gently, "you're talking as 
 though you were part of Robert MacWhinnie him- 
 self- 
 
 "Sometimes I think I am," was the reply. 
 
 " and that what affects me must necessarily af- 
 fect you." 
 
 "I'm supposed to be a Christian man," said Dick 
 solemnly, "but if what I hear is true, I shall find it 
 difficult to forgive them. They left you didn't they?"
 
 WHERE DUTY ENDS 283 
 
 "They are men, Dick. They have their own careers 
 before them. They are entitled to look ahead, and to 
 strive to make a niche for themselves." 
 
 "They came to you like prodigal sons, demanding 
 their portion " 
 
 "Someone seems to have been talking about mat- 
 ters that don't concern them." 
 
 "They came to you you, who had done so much 
 for them and at a time when you most needed their 
 sympathy, they cut themselves adrift, and left you to 
 fight the battle alone." 
 
 "Someone's been talking very loudly," murmured 
 Robert, with a faint smile that hinted at his not being 
 displeased that someone should have talked. 
 
 "They must have known that this labor trouble was 
 in the air." 
 
 "Let's be charitable," came from the tired man in 
 the chair. "It's not like you, Dick, to reveal a vin- 
 dictive spirit." 
 
 Dick came to rest opposite his old friend came 
 into the arc of light thrown by the reading lamp on 
 the table, so that Robert could see the working of the 
 nomad's rugged face. 
 
 "Robert," he said, in a softer voice, "I didn't know 
 that I had a vindictive spirit, until I learned this story 
 of the breaking away of your brothers, and I suppose 
 I suppose that I shouldn't be sitting here talking to 
 you about them as though I were their judge. But you 
 and I are not ordinary friends." 
 
 "No," whispered Robert gratefully. 
 
 "I'd like to say more than that, but I hate playing 
 the woman, even to a fellow like you."
 
 284- THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "There's no need to say any more," said Robert. 
 "Friends such as we have no use for words when try- 
 ing to estimate friendship." 
 
 "And if I'm disposed to roast these these prodi- 
 gals you're not likely to get up and order me out of 
 the house." 
 
 Robert laughed at the suggestion. 
 
 "Because I shouldn't go, even if you did," said Dick. 
 ... "I myself have no brothers, so, perhaps, I am 
 unable to preach about what we may call the duty of 
 one brother to another." 
 
 Robert moved uneasily in his chair. 
 
 "My dear Dick," he said, "why upset yourself about 
 them? Everything is settled. The battle's over, and 
 the firm is going to move ahead as though nothing had 
 happened. That's something to be thankful for, so 
 why let the past come back like a gray phantom?" 
 
 "I have no brothers," Dick repeated slowly, "but if 
 I had, and they behaved to me as yours did to 
 you " 
 
 "Well?" with a quiet smile. 
 
 "Well, I shouldn't have brothers any longer." 
 
 "I've always feared that a mistake was made when 
 they put you into the missionary profession." 
 
 "I don't think so," said Dick quite seriously ; "other- 
 wise, I might have been hanged for homicide. My 
 dear Robert, for a long while now I have taken the 
 liberty of looking into your life " 
 
 Robert reached for his pipe, so that the shadow that 
 flitted across his face was unnoticed by his friend. 
 
 "And I'm beginning to realize how big you are."
 
 WHERE DUTY ENDS 285 
 
 "Only beginning, Dick? And yet you used to say 
 such nice things about my work out yonder." 
 
 "Leave work alone for a minute. Let's get let's 
 get nearer to each other, Robert. I don't owe you a 
 cent that I know of, except what I've borrowed from 
 you in the name of charity, so that I'm at liberty to 
 speak my mind. You're the only man in the world 
 whom I have been able to call friend, investing the 
 word with everything that it means. Robert, you've 
 been the leaning post too long." 
 
 "My dear Dick, I don't think that you've met my 
 brothers more than three times in your life." 
 
 "Perhaps not ; but I summed them up the first time. 
 They might have been exceedingly clever men, if you 
 hadn't spoiled them." 
 
 "Darts come from all quarters," said Robert, feign- 
 ing reproach fulness. 
 
 "It's true," said Dick, shaking his head vigorously. 
 "Look at it calmly. Think it out. Analyze the situa- 
 tion without leaving a single part untouched, and what 
 would be the result? You must realize that your 
 great-heartedness, your disposition to play the fairy 
 godfather at every turn, has robbed them of the most 
 valuable asset a man can have independence of spirit. 
 If they had been compelled to start life as you started 
 it, they might have done as much, and more. Instead 
 of that, you've taught them to prop their shoulders 
 against that metaphorical leaning post, and to expect 
 somebody or everybody to do their work for them." 
 
 "Dick! Dick! You're forgetting your profes- 
 sion." 
 
 "I'm not. It's because I feel that one of the first
 
 286 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 duties in that profession is to make men out of neg- 
 lected material that I'm speaking to you like this. 
 Robert, it may sound incongruous in me to say it, but 
 there is a limit to forbearance. To go beyond that 
 limit is very near to sin. You didn't take up the right 
 attitude when they came to you for their portion." 
 
 "Do tell me who's been talking, Dick ?" 
 
 Dick gave him a quick glance. 
 
 "No," he said, "I won't tell you, because it wouldn't 
 help 'just now. But it's obvious that the person was 
 well-informed. Bless me! I was told of the exact 
 amount you parted with, and yet" he smiled dryly 
 "I have to go on my hands and knees to you for a 
 paltry hundred. No, you should have been strong 
 then, Robert, much stronger than you were. Because 
 they were your brothers, you had no right to assume 
 that they were not men." 
 
 "Steady, Dick!" 
 
 "Oh, I'm going steadily! There's a lot more to 
 come because I'm going away, Robert." 
 
 "Going away? Again?" The smile left Robert's 
 face. 
 
 "And I may not have another opportunity of telling 
 you of all that's in my mind, and has been there for a 
 long while. I don't know your brother Thomas. If I 
 should have an opportunity of meeting him " 
 
 Robert rose from his chair and went over to his 
 friend. 
 
 "Look here, Dick," he said, "you're a good fellow, 
 one of the best I have ever met, but it's obvious to me 
 that you don't know as much as you profess to know 
 about me and the members of my family. So don't
 
 WHERE DUTY ENDS 287 
 
 say any more, because it might hurt both you and me. 
 Family claims are not to be discussed like this." 
 
 Dick shrugged his shoulders and walked across the 
 room. 
 
 "I don't want to say anything that would hurt you, 
 Robert," he said ; "but it's my experience that family 
 claims give rise to more unhappiness, they stifle more 
 ambition, they crush more hopes, than any other phase 
 of human life. I know that I'm not talking like a mis- 
 sionary. I confess that I don't feel like one, at the 
 moment. I'm putting myself in your place, or trying 
 to, and the nearer I get to it the harder I want to 
 strike out in your defense." 
 
 "My dear boy, I'm quite strong enough to defend 
 myself." 
 
 "I know you are, but you're not strong enough to 
 understand yourself. You never attempt to ask the 
 why and the wherefore. You're an anomaly. You're 
 an enigma to me, because you're so unnaturally good 
 I nearly said soft, which is a word that is possibly 
 more familiar to you than to me. I know what you've 
 done for the MacWhinnie family. I guessed it while 
 you were out yonder. You were always catching the 
 mail, and always with a registered envelope. No one 
 knows better than I what you went through out yon- 
 der. You suffered enough to crush a hundred men, 
 but you went through it so bravely that to judge from 
 your face and your manner, you might never have felt 
 it." 
 
 "Why wear your heart on your sleeve ?" 
 
 "True, the world has no sympathy for the lachry- 
 mose. The world is terribly selfish ; it must always be
 
 288 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 entertained ; if it can transmit jts sympathy through 
 a wave of laughter, so much the better. I wonder if 
 they, your brothers, have any knowledge of all you 
 suffered out there, and, if they have, what do they 
 think of it?" 
 
 "Ah, you don't know them, Dick, although you 
 think you do ! They're good boys, all of them, and no 
 matter what you may say, I shall never feel that the 
 duty I owe them is liquidated." 
 
 "What duty?" 
 
 "They had to stand by while I was given my chance. 
 Those were the days when we counted, not only our 
 pennies, but the mouthfuls with which we were fed. 
 iYou argue that they ought to be grateful to me for 
 what I was able to do for them when they reached 
 manhood, but you make no allowance for what they 
 did for me when I was a youngster, and it's when 
 you're young that you need most help. They had to 
 subdue any ambitions they might have had, in order 
 that I should realize mine." 
 
 "They couldn't put brains into your head if they 
 were not there already." 
 
 "You're ungenerous, Dick, and it isn't like you." 
 
 "But think what you were able to do for them later 
 what you did for them. Why, it's hardly conceiv- 
 able that you should have done so much. It's a strain- 
 ing of the duty of brotherhood. Not that I would 
 say a word about it, if they had been blessed with the 
 slightest spark of gratitude. It was your money that 
 made 'MacWhinnie Brothers' possible. I remember 
 how you used to talk about that dream when we were
 
 WHERE DUTY ENDS 289 
 
 in the Far East. Always, you had before your mind a 
 vision of a signboard " 
 
 "Don't, Dick," said Robert suddenly. 
 
 "You haven't forgotten the dream?" 
 
 "No; but it calls up other things." 
 
 "I know," said Dick, with great tenderness, and for 
 a while neither of them spoke. On Dick's face there 
 was an expression of sadness as deep as that on Rob- 
 ert's. Both of them were journeying back over the 
 twelve thousand miles of land and water. 
 
 And, after that pause, Dick went back to his subject 
 as though he were not to be shaken off. 
 
 "I came here to-night to have it out with you, Rob- 
 ert," he said, "for you need to have it out with some- 
 body. It's time you awakened." 
 
 "Almost time I was in bed," said Robert, with a 
 little laugh. 
 
 "What did they say when they heard of this trou- 
 ble at the works?" 
 
 "Let the boys alone," Robert urged. "They have 
 enough trouble of their own just now." 
 
 "Ah! you know that, do you? Someone told me 
 that you were so preoccupied with your own affairs 
 that you were not likely to have seen it the failure, 
 I mean." 
 
 "The failure of the Scottish Pinion Company?" 
 
 "After only three months. What did I say about 
 brains, just now?" 
 
 "Don't be cruel, Dick. I dare say the boys didn't 
 receive the encouragement they expected." 
 
 "Certainly they didn't receive much financial back- 
 ing, for according to the papers the failure will not be
 
 290 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 a heavy one. They lacked a head, and if this failure 
 isn't the swiftest retribution " 
 
 Robert knocked the ashes from his pipe. 
 
 "I do wish you'd alter that note, Dick," he said. 
 "You can't imagine how it grates. Even a friend, a 
 friend like you, has no right to assume that a man can 
 listen calmly while his brothers are being attacked. I 
 tell you that I'm satisfied the boys did their best, and I 
 would have given anything to have saved them this 
 setback. If it had come in two or three years' time, 
 it wouldn't have been so bad, because they would have 
 gained at least experience of managing a concern; and 
 it's no easy matter, Dick." 
 
 "I suppose they had it in their minds that with the 
 capital they obtained from you they would be able suc- 
 cessfully to run a concern of the nature of the Scot- 
 tish Pinion Company?" 
 
 "I don't know what was in their minds," said Rob- 
 ert. "I only know that they must be going through a 
 heart-breaking job just now." 
 
 "Did they appeal to you for advice ?" 
 
 "No ; but I sent it, all the same." 
 
 "You would that's like you. And I'll wager that 
 it didn't stop at advice." 
 
 "I'm a creditor, if that's what you mean." 
 
 "I thought so. And I know another." 
 
 Robert raised his eyes inquiringly. 
 
 "Mr. John Drender," said Dick, in a whisper; and 
 again there came a period of silence. Then Robert 
 said, with the slightest break in his voice : 
 
 "I wish they'd told me that I wish I had known." 
 Then, he looked the question.
 
 WHERE DUTY ENDS 291 
 
 "No," said Dick, "he was not the petitioning cred- 
 itor. I can tell you that without fear of contradiction. 
 In fact, I happen to know that if they had appealed to 
 Mr. Drender, he would have endeavored to help them 
 out of their difficulties. John Drender has a big heart, 
 Robert. . . . Have I said anything to offend you ?" 
 
 "No," said Robert quietly, but his back was turned, 
 all the same. 
 
 "I'm a frequent visitor at Jarrowside, Robert you 
 know that? Since I have been in England I have seen 
 a great deal both of Mr. Drender and his daughter. 
 She's doing a splendid work, for the sheer love of 
 working. I admire these brave, independent women 
 who creep about furtively doing all the good they can, 
 and fearing all the while that someone will learn of it. 
 . . . Yes, John Drender was a pretty substantial cred- 
 itor." 
 
 "Let's talk of something else," said Robert, catching 
 at his breath. 
 
 "Yes, if it pleases you, old fellow. But before we 
 leave the subject, I should dearly like to learn what 
 you intend to do in the matter of the Scottish Pinion 
 Company." 
 
 "I've already done it," said Robert. "The boys are 
 coming back. The firm of MacWhinnie Brothers is 
 making a fresh start."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A NIGHT OF CONFIDENCES 
 
 FOR fully a minute after Robert's statement Dick 
 Morrow stared at him in amazement. Then 
 the outburst : 
 
 "Is there no limit to your generosity? Man, do 
 you never think of yourself?" And before Robert 
 could reply, the missionary overcame the candid 
 friend. Dick reached for Robert's hand. "You may 
 never receive here the appreciation you deserve," he 
 said, "but a man cannot do all that you've done and 
 be overlooked." 
 
 He walked to the door, keeping his eyes down. 
 Robert called to him : "You're not gx)ing, Dick ?" 
 
 "I'm only going to close this door," said Dick. Then 
 he came back, and Robert could see by the expression 
 of his face that he was struggling with a doubt. He 
 sat down on his chair, got up again, and walked about 
 the floor ; he charged his pipe, lighted it, and allowed it 
 to go out. And at last it came. He was standing be- 
 hind Robert at the time, resting a hand on his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 "Robert," he said, in a low breath, and his face was 
 working pitiably, "give me all the latitude you can. I 
 told you a little while ago that I was going away again. 
 It may be for the last time. . . . No, I'm not going to 
 
 292
 
 A NIGHT OF CONFIDENCES 293 
 
 trot out all the old platitudes. You know me better 
 than that. But you know, also, the chances a man has 
 to take in the East, especially when those hours of 
 loneliness come, when he wonders if he's doing any- 
 thing in the Big Scheme that is worthy of notice, and 
 doubts. . . . I'm going away, because I like taking 
 chances, but perhaps there's another reason. Here, 
 I'm too fettered. I don't get the air my lungs need. I 
 never feel that well, that I'm a missionary. I feel 
 too much like a paid servant not that they pay much. 
 That's a deplorable confession for a missionary to 
 make. Nevertheless, I'm sincere. Everything here is 
 so terribly congested. There are no openings in the 
 press through which the wind may sweep. And 
 there's a lack of understanding among the people, a 
 lack of sympathy. I know what is on your lips; but 
 I've confessed to you over and over again that as a 
 missionary I'm something of an anomaly, as I said 
 about you. I can do good work out in the wild places ; 
 I know I can; I've had proof of it again and again. 
 I take credit for having made some really first-class 
 men out of the blackest material, inside and out, that 
 ever lived in the corners of the world. And it's been 
 work that I joyed in, and I don't mind telling you 
 why : it's helped me to forget things that I was all the 
 better for forgetting. . . . Don't interrupt me, Rob- 
 ert. This is an opportunity that may never occur 
 again, and I do want to take advantage of it, every 
 minute, Robert" he stooped a little, so that his brow 
 almost touched Robert's crown "since we've been to- 
 gether this time we have never mentioned her name > 
 once."
 
 294 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Jean," said Robert, without moving his lips. 
 
 "Yes 'Jean," said Dick. "And yet, I've known all 
 along that you wanted to speak about her." 
 
 "I was thinking of you, old man." 
 
 "Yes, you're always thinking of the other fellow. I 
 wonder if you have any idea of what her death meant 
 to me? I don't think I myself have any adequate idea, 
 because when I allow my mind to dwell on it, I can 
 hardly believe that God could have been so cruel. 
 . . . No, Robert, forget that. It wasn't right. But a 
 man does become embittered." 
 
 Robert raised his hand over his shoulder, and Dick 
 grasped it. 
 
 "When she died, Robert and this is an awful thing 
 for any man to say, and especially so in my case I 
 almost became a skeptic. But you saved me." 
 
 "I ?" 
 
 "Yes, you. Just for a while I felt as though a 
 small world had fallen on my shoulders. I was groan- 
 ing beneath the weight. I felt that it would be better 
 to sink beneath it. And then I saw another man you 
 and on your shoulders was a world greater than 
 mine, and on your face was the smile of the hero. 
 You made me feel a horrible coward. You were bear- 
 ing your greater burden with so much pluck, with so 
 much sunshine in your face, though all the while your 
 heart must have been bursting; while I I was whin- 
 ing ; and yet I should have been the stronger, because 
 of the Service into which I had entered." 
 
 Robert was holding his breath, and staring straight 
 in front of him. 
 
 "You did a wonderful lot for me in those days,
 
 A NIGHT OF CONFIDEXCES 295 
 
 Robert," Dick went on. "In the years that immedi- 
 ately followed her death, I attempted much from which 
 others shrank; but when it was sought to give me 
 credit for it, I felt like turning round and shouting, 
 shouting at the top of my voice: Thank Robert 
 MacWhinnie, not me !' And then I came home to find 
 you here, not relieved of your burden, but shouldering 
 even a greater. Robert, old man, do you know that 
 you're not nearly so young as you used to be? I no- 
 ticed it to-night, when I came in first. Your hair's 
 grayer, and although you pretend to think nothing of 
 the injustices, of the pain, of the ingratitude that have 
 been your portion, I think I can see beneath that grave 
 smile of yours. In fact, I know I can. . . . Robert! 
 . . . Robert, I know of your love for Margaret Dren- 
 der." 
 
 He didn't move. 
 
 "I didn't know the whole of the facts until a month 
 ago. You will remember that while out yonder you 
 never mentioned the name of the woman who was in- 
 spiring you, the woman for whose sake you were al- 
 ways climbing, climbing. I came back, and I hardly 
 liked to tell even you, the broadest-minded man in the 
 world, why I came. I told you that it was for a rest, 
 or something like that; but it wasn't, Robert. At the 
 time I decided to come, I was away up in the north 
 of Manchuria, and then, as always, I was practically 
 without money. But something urged me to come. 
 It was time, so the something said, that I stirred my- 
 self, and showed a deeper appreciation of a great 
 man's friendship than thinking kindly of him while 
 sitting in a mud hut in the swamps. Something said :
 
 296 
 
 'Morrow, you've never tried to get beneath that quiet, 
 cheerful smile of Robert MacWhinnie.' I wanted to 
 do something for you, Robert, and I felt that I could 
 do it. Believe me, I was ignorant of the true state of 
 things at that time ; but I got down to Vladivostock by 
 degrees, and I'm not saying this to enlist your sym- 
 pathies I came back to England as a stoker on a 
 tramp steamer. And then I learned the truth. . . . 
 Robert, you still love her. You have always loved her. 
 There has been only one woman in your life since you 
 were a young man, and she's going to remain in your 
 life until the material Robert MacWhinnie has passed 
 on. And here you are, suffering in silence, receiving 
 all the slings and arrows without a murmur without 
 the sympathy of a single soul." 
 
 "You're wrong, Dick you're wrong," came from 
 Robert, and his voice was very weak. "I have the 
 sympathy of one." 
 
 "Robert, you have her sympathy. She, too, is suf- 
 fering in silence, and, like you, she's going about with 
 a brave face, as though nothing had ever happened to 
 lead her away from happiness. Why don't you go to 
 her, Robert? Do you know that she's waiting there, 
 waiting a word from you ? Why do you allow her to 
 suffer? Why do you allow yourself to suffer?" 
 
 "It isn't all suffering," said Robert quietly. "And 
 there are reasons, Dick, which must be kept even from 
 you, old friend." 
 
 "They cannot be kept from me, Robert, because I 
 know them already." 
 
 He came from behind the chair, and Robert rose to
 
 A NIGHT OF CONFIDENCE;* 2S7 
 
 his feet, his lips parted, and in his eyes an expression 
 almost of fear. 
 
 "It's true," said Dick, and his words were all bro- 
 ken. "It was Jean who told me." His voice sank to 
 a whisper. 
 
 "Jean told you?" Robert was swaying slightly. 
 His shoulders brushed the mantelshelf, and he leaned 
 heavily against it, as though thankful for its support. 
 
 "She knew that she was going to die," said Dick, 
 "and she told me of what you had done told me 
 about Mori." 
 
 The house was very quiet. There was no wind out- 
 side. Robert's breathing was so hard and labored that 
 the sound filled the room. 
 
 "At first, I thought that it was but the wandering of 
 her poor sick mind, for she was undergoing a great 
 deal of pain; but toward the end she became clearer, 
 and more rational. Indeed, the change in her was so 
 marked that I believed she had turned the corner. I 
 know, now, that she herself believed that. I raised 
 her head, and she lay in my arms. I begged her to 
 make a great effort, and said to her, 'You are my 
 bride, Jean don't you see what it all means to me?' 
 And then she told me the story. She said that she had 
 meant to tell me for a long while, and she wanted my 
 forgiveness. There was another relapse, and almost 
 the last words she spoke were 'My poor Robert' !" 
 
 Dick walked to the window and drew aside the cur- 
 tain. He said with a little laugh, vainly forced to hide 
 his emotions: "How she used to talk of the mast- 
 head lights, as they twinkled down the river of a 
 night!"
 
 298 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 Robert waited a moment; then he called his friend 
 back to the fireplace. 
 
 "Tell me this," he said, and his voice was quite firm, 
 
 "knowing what you do, is Jean, my sister, still " 
 
 Although he had commenced it bravely, he couldn't 
 finish the sentence ; but Dick understood. 
 
 "She's in here, old fellow," he said, touching his 
 breast, "and she'll always be there, until there's no 
 Dick Morrow. What would you have ? Is your con- 
 ception of my friendship such that for a moment, for 
 a second, you could think that that could make any 
 difference?" 
 
 "Thanks," said Robert, and now he turned to pace 
 the floor. Dick watched him in silence for a while. 
 Then he said to him : 
 
 "If I could go away with the knowledge that I had 
 brought you two together again, I should feel that 
 some good purpose had been served by my coming into 
 the world." 
 
 Robert returned to his side, and shook his head. 
 
 "No, Dick, old fellow," he said. "What you have 
 said to-night has lifted lifted from my shoulders 
 nearly the whole of that world you were speaking 
 about. But you can't bring us together. . . . Yes, I 
 do love her. I never loved another woman as I loved 
 her, and I see, now, because I know I shall have your 
 sympathy, what it has cost me to watch her growing 
 older, to see myself growing older, and knowing that 
 we cannot become younger, we cannot retrace our 
 steps. Dick, there have been times, especially when the 
 work wasn't going right, when those slings and arrows 
 seemed the thickest there have been times when I
 
 A NIGHT OF CONFIDENCES 299 
 
 have been almost tempted to brush everything aside 
 and go to her. But it's too late." 
 
 Dick's eyes were shining in the subdued light of the 
 lamp. He clapped Robert on the shoulder and laughed, 
 because he didn't fully comprehend the significance of 
 the words. 
 
 "Too late ?" he echoed. "Nonsense ! You're going 
 to be happy, Robert." 
 
 "Yes, it is too late," was the reply. "I'm thinking 
 of the child." 
 
 "My dear fellow" Dick stepped back from him 
 "do you suppose that for one minute she would hesi- 
 tate? She loves the child already. You must have 
 seen that yourself." 
 
 Robert asked him, almost fiercely: "You haven't 
 told her, Dick? Say you haven't told her! I believe 
 that would be the only thing I couldn't forgive." 
 
 "No, I haven't told her," said Dick. "You and I 
 are the only two living persons who know." 
 
 Robert felt for the other's hand. 
 
 "Good!" he said, with a deep sigh. "I can trust 
 you, Dick." 
 
 "But why why should you maintain that attitude? 
 You cannot doubt that Margaret " 
 
 "That's not everything," said Robert. "I took my 
 poor sister's burden on my shoulders because I loved 
 her, and because I loved to think of the honor of the 
 Mac Whinnies. I pledged myself to protect her be- 
 cause the world is very cruel, Dick. I gave my prom- 
 ise when she was alive. Death didn't relieve me of it. 
 It strengthened it. If you could go on loving Jean 
 after death, what of me?"
 
 300 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "But, Robert, Jean would never have permitted you 
 to suffer as you have suffered. If she was brave 
 enough to put my love to the test, do you think that, 
 had she been able to foresee all that was likely to 
 happen to you, she would have hesitated? Indeed, 
 there would have been no need of it, because" and 
 Dick's voice broke again "because, Robert, the joy 
 that is yours now would have been mine. Oh ! How 
 I have envied you Mori! No, Robert, I think that 
 you're wrong in your assumptions." 
 
 "And I know that I'm right," said Robert. "Lis- 
 ten: Don't imagine for one moment that when this 
 happened, when Mori came into the world at Naga- 
 saki and when Jean went out of it a few months later 
 don't imagine that I was so heroic that I never con- 
 sidered for a minute what I had sacrificed. I did. I 
 fought many a battle with my weaker self, up in the 
 hills. Once God forgive me! I looked at the child 
 as a slave might look at the chain that bound him to 
 the galley. That went on for some time meanwhile, 
 there was plenty of work to do, and that helped to 
 keep my mind from the morbid side of it. But one 
 morning, Dick and I can't explain this to you I 
 awoke early, jumped into a jinrikisha, and went five 
 miles up-country to inspect a culvert that we had been 
 engaged on. There was no one about, and while I 
 was examining a sluice, a pinion broke, and the next 
 thing I remember was finding half a dozen of the 
 workmen kneeling by my side trying to pump the water 
 out of me. They told me that had they arrived a min- 
 ute or two later, I should have been drowned. "While 
 I was lying there on the bank, I seemed to hear a voice
 
 A NIGHT OF CONFIDENCES 301 
 
 calling to me : 'What should 7 have done, if anything 
 had happened to you?' And then, Dick, I began to 
 feel a pair of soft little arms entwining themselves 
 around my heart. A little more, and she was running 
 about the compound and chattering. I began to look 
 for her, became jealous of the native nurse, when the 
 child wouldn't come to me from her arms. And then 
 her face commenced to creep into my work, no matter 
 where I was. When the hammers were ringing against 
 the girders, it was her voice. When I sat down near a 
 brook, the singing of the water was her voice again. 
 And then, quite suddenly, Dick, it came to me that I 
 hadn't made any sacrifice at all. I had been given a 
 reward, a greater reward than I had ever dreamed of. 
 When she was no more than three, we began to talk to 
 each other just as though we were both grown-up. I 
 used to tell her stories, and it was wonderful the 
 light of understanding in her little face. A little more, 
 Dick, only a little, and she began to tell me stories. 
 Ah ! that was the most wonderful part of all, the great- 
 est joy of all. There never was a child with such an 
 imagination. The compound, where the wistaria and 
 the cherry trees blossomed as though it were to please 
 her, was a place of mystery, of fairy lore. She and I 
 had fallen off the edge of the world in our dreams, so 
 she imagined, and dropped through a sea of silver 
 cloud to another world of flowers. . . . Oh, how it 
 all comes back, Dick, old man ! . . . She gave every 
 flower, every reed, every nook in that compound a 
 baby name of her own, and sometimes sometimes I 
 believed that they answered her when she called to 
 them. The work, the struggles, the fever of competi-
 
 302 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 tion everything that has come into my life since those 
 dear days has made no impression on those mem- 
 ories ; they are still fresh as though the dew of early 
 morning drenched them and made them sweeter than 
 yesterday." 
 
 He quickened his pace across the floor, and his 
 hands were opening and shutting convulsively, as the 
 mind swung back. The weariness of the day slipped 
 from him; his eyes were glowing with the ecstasy of 
 youth; the color had returned to his cheeks. It 
 seemed to the watching friend that all along a great 
 joy had dwelt behind a grave and patient mask, and 
 was now finding expression for the first time. 
 
 "Dick" he had turned on his heel, and his head 
 was slightly bowed "if the joy of parenthood is more 
 intense, it must be grandeur. How it gripped, thrilled, 
 lifted me the joy of her companionship ! The strain- 
 ing of the heart when she was out of my sight the 
 bursting of all that was in me when I held her in my 
 arms of an evening! 
 
 "I wish you could have seen that compound as we 
 saw it. There was the great, gray ocean that would 
 take us years and years to cross it was only the 
 goldfish pond ; there was the mighty liner on which we 
 were to set out it was only a piece of cork with a 
 feather for a sail; there was the treasure island, just 
 beyond the horizon, where the fairies stored their 
 jewels only the rockery that Mimosa San had made ! 
 
 ". . . And a little more, Dick, and she was my 
 housekeeper, who must needs shake her curls and won- 
 der and wonder if my flannels were aired, if my topee 
 were properly ventilated, if my appetite was all that it
 
 A NIGHT OF CONFIDENCES 303 
 
 ought to be, if I really ought to have a second cup of 
 tea at breakfast, and if ... Oh, God! Don't you 
 understand, Dick ?" He stopped, and covered his face 
 with his hands, his great shoulders shaking to his sobs. 
 . . . "Dick, can't you see her baby face as I unwind 
 her arms from my neck and say 'No, you are not my 
 little girl! I am not your daddy! I've been lying 
 lying lying, all these years, and what they say is true. 
 You are nobody nobody's child, and if the world 
 chooses to spurn you, darling, I can't prevent it." 
 
 Dick dared not trust himself to speak; his heart and 
 his eyes were full; but he went over to the shaking 
 man and placed his arm on his shoulder with all the 
 tenderness of a woman. 
 
 "All right, old fellow," said Robert, raising his 
 head and smiling with courage. "It's not going to 
 happen. I'm living for her, my little girl. Everything 
 I do is for her. I know what you would say; that no 
 one would be so uncharitable as to give her needless 
 pain that is the thought of a Christian man; the pity 
 of it is that we Christians, as we call ourselves, always 
 look for Christian thought in the other man. And 
 this 'this namelessness of my darling is one of the 
 difficulties, one of the barriers which your Christian- 
 ity makes no attempt to surmount. Oh, I've thought 
 of it, wrestled with it, given credit for this, considered 
 that, but in the end the result has always been the 
 same ! There is only one kind of armor that will save 
 her because, Dick, even the law sets its face against 
 her! The smug, sanctimonious, hypocritical law it 
 points its finger at that child the child that God made 
 in His image and made so beautiful it points its
 
 304 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 finger at her and says, in effect : 'You are a pariah ! 
 You are a symbol of immorality ' " 
 
 "Robert my dear old Robert !" 
 
 "You cannot get away from it, Dick. I've tried to 
 think as you are thinking now. But it's no good. 
 Make all the allowance you please, and you're bound 
 to come back to the starting point. Your law your 
 Society shakes its sentient head ; it would rather in- 
 sult God for giving the child an existence than offend 
 the susceptibilities of its members." 
 
 "You've allowed it to prey on your mind, Robert. 
 It has become an obsession " 
 
 "Nothing of the sort. It was an obsession in the 
 first place, but I've had ten years in which to think 
 it all out. That's why I'm living for her now. I 
 shall have her educated in the finest seminary in the 
 world; the investments I have made in her behalf are 
 gilt-edged I am taking no risks and when she is a 
 woman she will have that armor at which I hinted a 
 moment ago. Work! Yes, I'm working hard now, 
 but I'm going to work harder so that there shall be no 
 flaw in that armor if I can help it. ... Wait ! I know 
 what you are going to say. There is no phase that I 
 have overlooked. The day may come when her heart 
 will be given. . . . Yes" he gulped down the sob 
 "I am prepared for that. I shall take the man aside and 
 talk to him just as I am talking to you now. And if 
 his love is not strong enough to bear the test " 
 
 He turned his head quickly, for Dick had seen some- 
 thing in the blue eyes that brought fear into his own. 
 
 "But he will stand the test," said Robert, with an 
 access of courage and determination. "There ! I have
 
 A NIGHT OF CONFIDENCES 805 
 
 told you everything; there is no other man in the 
 world to whom I would have said as much, but you 
 you are Dick Morrow, and that means such a lot. Be- 
 sides, you loved you loved Jean. You love her now. 
 . . . Dick, I'll never forget you for that." 
 
 Dick's lips tightened ; he closed his eyes for a second. 
 
 "And she loved you," Robert went on, "although 
 I don't suppose you need to be told that. I think she 
 loved you the first time she met you at the tea house 
 in Sendai ; because when we returned to the bungalow 
 there was a different note in her voice. . . . We 
 talked it over, Dick, after you went. Her heart was 
 very near to breaking I'm certain of that. And 
 later, after Mori came, there was no evading the 
 shadow, but I promised her, then, that I would speak 
 to you." 
 
 "Don't, Robert. Let's speak of you, yourself." 
 
 "Why worry about me, my dear old friend ? I have 
 Mori." 
 
 "If only Margaret knew!" 
 
 "She must never know." 
 
 "Is it fair to her to yourself?" 
 
 "I have to consider what is fair to the child. Mar- 
 garet, if I read her eyes aright, has got past the pain 
 it happened so long ago. I think we both of us found 
 the palliative in work." 
 
 Dick returned to his chair near the fire; he was 
 leaning forward, his chin resting in his hands. 
 
 "Time has made no change in your feelings in 
 your love?" he said softly. 
 
 "Is it possible?"
 
 306 
 
 "And yet you are unwilling to put her love to the 
 test ? You seem afraid to trust your secret to her." 
 
 "It's not that, Dick. I want you thoroughly to un- 
 derstand my point of view. It's Mori's secret as much 
 as it is mine, and I cannot ask her to let me confide 
 in another." 
 
 "But, Robert, Margaret would be the last person 
 in the world to " 
 
 "I grant you that. But you must look ahead. Mori 
 will soon begin to ask questions. Margaret would 
 have to lie to her, and and a girl is so sensitive to 
 hesitancy." 
 
 "I have met few women like Margaret Drender, 
 Robert." 
 
 "There is no other." 
 
 "And I know that she's suffering, just as you are. 
 Oh ! she's grand, man, in her courage . . . and life is 
 so very short." 
 
 Robert was facing the door. 
 
 "Grand!" he echoed. "How great a woman can 
 be! You heard that it was Mr. Drender who saved 
 me the other day when the situation looked so black 
 that I was as near as possible to sheer desperation?" 
 
 "I heard of it, Robert." 
 
 "He offered to place his works and men at my dis- 
 posal until the Chilian contract was finished. He 
 hinted that the reputation of his firm was at stake- 
 it was he who had given me my start in engineering." 
 
 "I can well imagine his doing it." 
 
 Robert gripped the edge of the table. 
 
 "It took my breath away," he said; "such magna- 
 nimity gives one a firmer faith in human nature. . . .
 
 A NIGHT OF CONFIDENCES 307 
 
 There was no one to bring his message, save Mar- 
 garet herself. She came she came like a vision in a 
 dream. One moment, I was crushed, defeated. I felt 
 that the whole world had turned its back upon me. 
 And then the door opened, and she was standing there 
 with compassion in her beautiful eyes. She gave me 
 her father's letter, and conveyed an expression of his 
 sympathy, and and oh ! you can't get into my mind, 
 Dick." 
 
 "I can I can." 
 
 "The men were clamoring at the gates. I fancied 
 that they might guess the object of her visit, so I 
 rowed her across the river to 'Jarrowside.' . . . Dick, 
 it seemed so strange, so ludicrous, that we should be 
 sitting in that boat, talking to each other as though we 
 were merely acquaintances. You cannot imagine how 
 hard I had to fight with myself. . . . Will she ever 
 forgive me?" 
 
 "If she learned the truth yes; if not, what can 
 you expect ? You should have told her long ago." 
 
 Robert flung out his hands despairingly. 
 
 "How can I hope to make anyone understand ?" he 
 exclaimed. "I know thaft my actions throughout must 
 convey an impression of of stupidity; but ponder 
 the circumstances, Dick, and you will find a reason 
 for them. You may suggest that when Jean died I 
 became a free agent well, I have told you of my 
 thoughts of Mori. You may say that when I returned 
 to England, it would have been the right and proper 
 thing to go to Margaret and . . . But you overlook 
 the fact that I had slighted her, brutally insulted her. 
 And then there was the difficulty
 
 308 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Of the lie you caused to be published?" 
 
 "Enough, Dick! There's nothing to be gained by 
 going over the old ground, although I'm better for 
 having told you all this. Now, let's talk about your 
 plans." 
 
 "I'm sailing in a few weeks' time. I'm not certain 
 of the date/' 
 
 Robert went back to the fireplace. 
 
 "Why don't you settle down?" he asked persuasive- 
 ly. "Why not stay with me ? I'll do anything to keep 
 you at home." 
 
 "Thanks, Robert. I'm not an invalid yet; and I 
 couldn't stand the rattle of the hammers in your 
 yard." 
 
 "The same independent, crazy old Dick !" 
 
 "Wait till I make the acquaintance of Yellow Jack, 
 or lose a leg to an alligator, or get snake-bite so bad 
 that I can't walk without crutches then I'll take up 
 my abode with you." 
 
 "I never met a man like you. I don't think you'll 
 ever come to an anchor." 
 
 "Not so long as the engines keep going, Robert." 
 
 "And yet, you get nothing out of it this restless 
 wandering from swamp to swamp. Do you?" 
 
 "No" very quietly "nothing save peace forget- 
 fulness." He was staring at the ceiling, and the big 
 eyes were glistening again. 
 
 "Ah, yes !" Robert sighed. "But, before Jean came 
 into your life " 
 
 "I was a wanderer. I'll tell you why. Somewhere 
 in the world there is a foster-brother of mine. I 
 wronged him, misjudged him, while we were at col-
 
 A NIGHT OF CONFIDENCES 309 
 
 lege together, and he went away no one knows where. 
 Then I discovered my mistake, and since that day I 
 have been looking for him. . . . Good night, Robert." 
 He was at the door before Robert could open his 
 lips. "I'll be round to see Mori to-morrow or the 
 following day. Don't trouble to get up. I can let 
 myself out."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 DICK MORROW'S GOOD-BY 
 
 THAT parting from Dick Morrow left a deeper 
 impression on Robert's mind than any other he 
 could remember; there was something pro- 
 phetic about it, and presentiments disturbed him as he 
 paced to and fro. The study seemed strangely empty 
 and lonely. 
 
 "I wonder if he meant it the going away?" he 
 muttered to himself. "I wish that I'd called him 
 back." 
 
 Although the hour was late, he sat down and wrote 
 a long letter to his old friend, begging him to refrain 
 from making any arrangements to leave the country 
 until they should have an opportunity of further dis- 
 cussing the matter. "Mori and I would miss you more 
 than I could say," he wrote, "but even if my friend- 
 ship must not stand in the way of what you believe to 
 be your duty, try to strain a point in her favor. How 
 is she to get along without you ? I want you to watch 
 her grow up into womanhood, Dick, and (perhaps this 
 is only sentiment engendered by our talk to-night) I 
 should like to think that if anything happened to me, 
 say, in the works, there would still be Uncle Dick on 
 whom she could lean, to whom she could turn for 
 advice. To-morrow, I shall tell her that in you she 
 
 310
 
 DICK MORROW'S GOOD-BY 311 
 
 has a kind of sanctuary whose beauty is never to be 
 doubted." 
 
 But he was not allowed to tell Mori. There was a 
 telegram awaiting him at the works the next morning : 
 "Don't say anything to my little sweetheart. Am 
 writing. DICK." 
 
 And nearly a week passed before he heard from 
 him again. 
 
 "The Wakasa Maru is going out on the second tide 
 to-morrow night and I'm going with her. For 
 three days I have been haunting the river. The smell 
 of the tarred ropes is in my nostrils; my heart is just 
 aching for the East. We weigh anchor at nine o'clock 
 willjou come down to have a last word? Please 
 don't bring my little O Mori San. Think of all the 
 sweetest stories you have told her during the last ten 
 years, and invent a sweeter to deceive her. I shall 
 write to her from the land of chrysanthemums and 
 sunsets and muddy creeks." 
 
 Robert went down to Tilbury, and the Dick Mor- 
 row he encountered on the foredeck of the ship was 
 far different from the one he had known a few days 
 before. There were not many passengers, for which 
 fact Dick expressed his gratitude. 
 
 "I couldn't stand them on this trip, old boy," he said 
 to Robert. "I want to be alone. Do you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 "No, I don't," Robert replied. "I don't think that 
 I shall ever get into the depths of your mind." 
 
 Dick tried to laugh in the old, old way, but there 
 was no ring in it. Subterfuge was not for that mo- 
 ment.
 
 812 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "You will, some day, Robert," he said, slipping his 
 arm under that of his friend and urging him into a 
 promenade of the deck. "I want to be by myself on 
 this occasion, and I've tipped the chief steward to 
 give me a berth in the officers' alleyway, where I 
 shan't run the risk of having inquisitive people burst- 
 ing into my cabin to smoke their last pipes of a night. 
 You know the kind of thing ? I'm going to do a pile 
 of work reading up and so forth. When I come 
 back" he paused '"when I come back, I may sur- 
 prise you with my theoretical knowledge of engineer- 
 ing." 
 
 He became more excited as the bustling on the 
 gangway increased, and he seemed intent on monopo- 
 lizing the conversation; he hardly allowed Robert a 
 word. 
 
 "Don't waste time by asking me a lot of questions I 
 can't answer," he said. "I've written to you you'll 
 find the letter at home, if your postal service is all 
 that you boast of and in that letter I've answered 
 every question that is on your lips now. Don't talk, 
 old boy; it's the quiet, reticent Robert MacWhinnie 
 that I love the most, and that's the impression I want 
 to take away with me. . . . What did you say to my 
 little sweetheart? . . . No, don't tell me not yet. 
 Write to me at Colombo, and I shall look for a line 
 when we touch Singapore, and if the agent doesn't 
 bring me a letter at Hongkong I shall cable to learn 
 the reason. . . . The child is in my mind, Robert; I 
 can't get her out of it. ... Couple of old fools 
 aren't we? you and I. ... Say, Robert, I'm just 
 dying to get back to the East Take that in the right
 
 DICK MORROW'S GOOD-BY 313 
 
 way. It sounds like rudeness, but it isn't anything of 
 the sort. ... I was at headquarters yesterday the 
 Missionary Society and they told me that there's 
 more work awaiting me than when I first went out as 
 a young man. That's what I want work gruelling 
 work and I don't care what kind of work it is. ... 
 Look out, Robert, there's a sling coming over the side, 
 and these beggars don't know the elementary rules of 
 running a winch " 
 
 "Dick Dick " 
 
 "Don't talk there's a good fellow." In the flare 
 of the arc lamp hung against the mast, Dick's face was 
 unnatural in color, and his eyes were brighter than 
 ever; he was trembling with excitement, but stead- 
 fastly refused to allow Robert a word. "I've obtained 
 a berth on the starboard side. Cunning old sea-dog 
 eh ? When we strike the monsoon I shall have all the 
 air, so that there'll be no need to get on deck for it. 
 Oh ! there isn't a single thing forgotten : acid drops to 
 quench the thirst until we reach the 'line,' where limes 
 are to be bought, boracic powder to keep the prickly 
 heat away, and all the rest of it. ... We ought to 
 make a good trip, Robert. How I wish you were 
 coming with me. . . . No, no, I didn't mean that. 
 You have to stay. Your work is here and what work 
 it is! And you're going to be happy, Robert happier 
 than ever you've been in the past. Bless me, I shan't 
 be surprised if there isn't a letter at Hongkong. In 
 your happiness, you'll forget me as you would an 
 uneventful yesterday. ... Oh ! I shall miss this ham- 
 mering on the river. I used to think that silence was 
 grandeur, but I know different, now. . . . Skip that
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 hawser. . . . You don't want to inspect my cabin, do 
 you? No, it's chockablock with books and packages 
 and what not. I'm an untidy beggar, but there'll be 
 plenty of time to put things shipshape before we strike 
 the Inland Sea. . . . I'll write to you, Robert every 
 other mail and I shall always be thinking of you, 
 and of the hammering. What a glorious chorus when 
 the beggars are rattling the rivets home ! I was watch- 
 ing a kiddy throw red-hot 'uns to a riveter yesterday. 
 Never saw such skill. Oh ! I shall miss the noise when 
 I'm out yonder away up in the hills where you smell 
 the sulphur and wait in silence for a mountain to yawn 
 and spit out its fire. Awful silence isn't it? You 
 remember. Reminds you of of a blind elephant try- 
 ing to pick up a needle in a dead world. Eh? . . . 
 There goes the bell. Visitors ashore. Off you go. 
 . . . Here ! Give me another grip - " 
 
 There was a great lump in Robert's throat, but as 
 he grasped the extended hand and held it tight, he 
 managed to burst out : 
 
 "Dick! You dear old roamer. You haven't given 
 me a chance. I can't let you go like this." 
 
 "All visitors ashore," Dick urged. "Can't you hear 
 the little Japanese quartermaster with his hayaku! 
 hayaku!" 
 
 He hurried his friend to the side, almost thrust him 
 on the gangway, then ran quickly along the deck to 
 the stern, where he leaned over the rails and waved a 
 handkerchief. The men on the wharf cast off; the 
 great ropes splashed into the water, to be hauled out 
 by the little, brown-faced, slanty-eyed deck hands gath- 
 ered in the bows. The engine telegraph clanged, the
 
 DICK MORROW'S GOOD-DY 315 
 
 propellers gurgled as they smote the water; the Blue 
 Peter on the mainmast straightened itself out in the 
 wind; the ship backed slowly into midstream; from 
 the direction of the steerage came the whining of a 
 melodeon, and in the stern a white handkerchief flut- 
 tered. 
 
 Robert turned away. Very little was needed to 
 make him play the woman. He forced a path through 
 the crowd of laborers and people who had come on a 
 similar errand to his own, and as he reached the gate- 
 way a soft hand was placed on his arm. 
 
 Margaret Drender! 
 
 She, too, had come out of the press from the wharf, 
 and her eyes were filled even as his. 
 
 "You came to see him off?" Robert offered his 
 arm, and she did not hesitate to take it. "And you 
 didn't see him?" 
 
 "Yes, I saw him," she replied, brushing the unruly 
 hair from her eyes. "I was here an hour ago. Poor 
 fellow ! He could scarcely contain himself ; and usual- 
 ly he is so calm and deliberate in his movements." 
 
 Robert nodded. "He hurried me ashore," he said, 
 "as though he were glad to get rid of me." 
 
 "He told me" they were crossing the road toward 
 the railway station "he told me that you would be 
 here." 
 
 "And you waited?" Robert's left hand lifted to 
 where hers was resting on his forearm. He was con- 
 scious of a great peace of the approach of a great 
 joy. She made no reply to his remark. They reached 
 the entrance to the station.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 OUT OF BONDAGE 
 
 ON the way to Fenchurch Street Station, they 
 had the carriage to themselves, and yet they 
 had almost covered the distance before either 
 of them spoke. Frequently, he caught himself peeping 
 furtively at the big understanding eyes, and it was 
 hard to remember that he was no more than an ac- 
 quaintance a friend. The imagination that had built 
 so many fairy worlds for Mori was barren when it 
 tried to forget the years, and all that happened in 
 those years, between the night when he wound his 
 arms around her neck when her dear arms encircled 
 his, and they looked to the future like two privileged 
 ones gazing into paradise. There was a streak of gray 
 a very faint one in the dark, wavy hair; it should 
 not have been there, considering her years; but grief 
 and regret find their reflection in gray; there were 
 tiny creases across the dear forehead that had been so 
 white and smooth, and there was a calm in the repose 
 of the features that comes only from resignation. He 
 was sitting very close to her ; he could feel the warmth 
 of her shoulder; and had he dared incline his head, 
 never so slightly, he could have brushed her hair with 
 his lips. . . . 
 
 "I wanted sympathy, and you'd gone !" 
 
 316
 
 OUT OF BONDAGE 317 
 
 Poor Jean! Her white face was looking at him 
 through the darkened window of the carriage; and 
 she was smiling so encouragingly; it was as though she 
 knew he was nearing the happiness for which she had 
 prayed even when the film was drifting across her 
 vision and the promise of everlasting peace was numb- 
 ing the pain of the fever. . . . 
 
 Margaret looked up. 
 
 "You will miss him Mr. Morrow?" 
 
 "One makes so few friends," he said, "that it will 
 be a long while before the pain of his absence is for- 
 gotten." 
 
 "And Mori the little girl. How she will miss him! 
 He loved her very dearly." 
 
 The train came to a stop. He assisted her to alight. 
 
 "If you will wait here a moment," he said, "I will 
 endeavor to get a cab." 
 
 He left her on the platform for a while, her cheeks 
 as flushed as his. When he returned she was in the 
 center of a throng that had just poured from a second 
 train, so that he was compelled to force his way to her 
 side. In the circumstances, it was only natural that 
 he should place his arm around her waist ; it was only 
 natural that she should press closer to him. The joy 
 of the protector moved him. Once, he had to bend 
 low his head to catch an inquiry from her lips; his 
 cheek touched hers, slightly brushed it no more but 
 his heart beat the faster. They reached the waiting 
 cab. The driver leaned forward for instructions. 
 Robert turned to Margaret, and there was a plea in 
 his voice as he said : "Mori may be awake. It will 
 not take a moment to look in and see if she is all
 
 318 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 right." Margaret inclined her head, and stepped into 
 the cab; he seated himself beside her, but the words 
 that he wished to utter refused to break through his 
 lips. 
 
 She spoke to him about the work, the effects of the 
 recent trouble with the men, the promise of lasting 
 success that seemed to be held out to MacWhinnie 
 Brothers. And, then, as Dick had done, she inquired 
 the intentions of the head of the firm so far as the 
 younger brothers were concerned. He told her that 
 they were returning, that a fresh start was to be made, 
 and that he was looking to the future with a hopeful 
 heart. She remained quiet for a moment, then in a 
 breath she whispered : "Do you never think of your- 
 self?" 
 
 Before he could reply, the cab stopped. He alighted, 
 and glanced at his watch. 
 
 "It is not very late," he said entreatingly. "Will 
 you " 
 
 She smiled back at him, and held out her hand so 
 that he might assist her from the cab. 
 
 "If Mori is awake I should love to give her Mr. 
 Morrow's message," she said, but her eyes were more 
 eloquent. 
 
 He dismissed the driver, and led the way through 
 the garden to the hall door. The old housekeeper 
 placed a crooked finger on her lips. Mori was asleep, 
 but she had left a note, in which she requested to be 
 awakened as soon as he returned. Robert handed the 
 note to Margaret and laughed softly. 
 
 "Presently," he whispered "presently." He opened 
 the study door, and she followed him in.
 
 OUT OF BONDAGE 319 
 
 "This belonged to Dick as much as to me," he said, 
 and his voice was shaking because of her presence. 
 "Shall I open the windows? Dick was never com- 
 fortable unless his pipe was burning." 
 
 "I love it," she said, with a smile that lit up her 
 face. "I can almost see him sitting there," and she 
 pointed to the chair opposite. 
 
 He followed her eyes, and nodded, slowly. 
 
 "There never was a man like Dick," he said, with 
 a sigh. "It will be very lonely without him." 
 
 "You have Mori!" She loosened the fur around 
 her neck; he took it from her and placed it on the 
 couch. 
 
 "Yes, I have Mori," he said softly, "but time slips 
 along so quickly that . . ." He shook himself, as 
 though he didn't care to dwell on the subject. "If 
 you stand here at the window," he said, brushing aside 
 the curtain as he spoke, "you may see Mr. Drender's 
 house on the other side of the river." 
 
 She left her chair and came to where he was stand- 
 ing. 
 
 "Mori blows you a kiss every night," he whispered, 
 and again his lips failed him. 
 
 "I came to see Mori," she reminded him. 
 
 "Ah, yes!" he said absently, then looked again at 
 the window. His courage came with the rush of the 
 wind, just as it did that night at the gate of "Jarrow- 
 side." The "Margaret! Oh, Margaret!" was full 
 and bold before he wheeled from the curtains. The 
 door of the study was standing slightly ajar; he 
 stepped quickly across the floor and closed it. She 
 was still standing by the window; her eyes wore a
 
 320 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 startled expression, but not one of fear; her bosom 
 was heaving with emotion; her hands were held out 
 feebly, nervously. He stopped two paces from her 
 and hung his head. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said dully. "It overcame me 
 just for the moment I'm sorry I've frightened 
 you." 
 
 She opened her lips, and her voice was very sweet 
 and tender. 
 
 "Frightened me! You!" She slipped her hand 
 into his his back was toward her. "Why should I 
 be frightened? Mr. Morrow told me that you had 
 something to say to me something of great impor- 
 tance." 
 
 He raised his eyes. 
 
 "Dick said that? Why should he say that?" 
 
 "I believe he was thinking of Mori. . . . We talked 
 a great deal about the child the last time he was at 
 'Jarrowside.' ' 
 
 His big eyes were blinking pathetically. 
 
 "Help me," he said weakly. 
 
 "Mori is growing in a little while she will become 
 a young woman." 
 
 "I am going to send her away to the Continent 
 soon." 
 
 "How lovely for her!" 
 
 "How lonely for me !" 
 
 "And Dick said" she might not have heard his 
 sighing words "that it was just now that she needed 
 most the companionship of of a woman. You un- 
 derstand don't you? You can't always be with her. 
 And I 1 should dearly love to have her near me.
 
 OUT OF BONDAGE 321 
 
 She might come so often to 'J arrows ide.' We'd 
 we'd share her, and " 
 
 "Margaret !" his lips were a-tremble ; now he was 
 holding both her hands "Margaret, how you humble 
 me!" 
 
 "Humble you! Humble you!" She half turned 
 from him. "How can you say that?" 
 
 "I, who have brought so much sadness into your 
 life " 
 
 "Was it all sadness ?" She was stronger than he 
 her words came with greater resolution, greater firm- 
 ness. 
 
 "I broke your life, and yet you are here, in my 
 lonely house, ready to to '" 
 
 "Pity you in your loneliness." 
 
 Their eyes met; they read each other's mind. His 
 face was set, tensely, but hers was soft and beaming 
 with the light of forgiveness. 
 
 "Margaret, how I loved you !" And her head moved 
 slightly forward till he was unable to see her face. 
 "How I loved you in those dear dead days!" He 
 crushed back the sobs that were choking him, and 
 kissed her hair kissed it almost roughly. She did 
 not stir ; it was as though for ten weary years she had 
 been waiting for this moment, and dared not raise her 
 eyes lest it should be unreal. "Margaret!" he cried 
 again, and his voice was all broken with sobs, "no 
 man ever loved a woman as I loved you." 
 
 "Loved me, Robert?" 
 
 "No, as I love you now now," and he raised her 
 head and compelled her to look him in the face. "Oh, 
 Margaret, if only you could come back into my life!
 
 322 
 
 If only I could set back the universe and make you 
 forget the dead years !" 
 
 "Not dead years, Robert," she murmured, again 
 hiding her burning face against his breast. "There 
 were the memories to live for, and I never never 
 wholly doubted you." 
 
 "Hush !" His cheek was resting against her bowed 
 head. "Don't speak, Margaret, lest this should be 
 what indeed it seems a dream the dream that has 
 been with me for ten long years; the dream that has 
 kept my eyes set toward the sun even when the shad- 
 ows were most inviting." 
 
 "Poor Robert !" she whispered. 
 
 "No, not poor, Margaret, if this moment be real 
 if this is you I am holding to my heart." 
 
 "I have always been close to your heart, Robert 
 always." 
 
 "Even in the the dark days ?" 
 
 "Even in the darkest days." 
 
 "When you believed that I had wronged you ?" 
 
 "You have never wittingly wronged anyone save 
 yourself." 
 
 "I left you without a word a word that might 
 comfort you might help you to understand." 
 
 "I understand, now I have understood for some 
 time." 
 
 He cried out as with pain; she felt his arms slide 
 weakly from her shoulders. 
 
 "You understand ! You have understood for some 
 time ? Margaret !" 
 
 She lifted her head, and her hands crept lovingly 
 around his neck.
 
 OUT OF BONDAGE 823 
 
 "Robert" her eyes were glistening in the soft glow 
 of the lamp "for many, many years I only guessed 
 the truth- 
 He closed his eyes, and reached for the hands that 
 encircled his neck. 
 
 "Dick Dick told you?" 
 
 "Told me what I already knew; told me only two 
 days ago." 
 
 "God forgive you, Dick." 
 
 "Robert, you don't mean that?" And now the tears 
 were racing down her cheeks. "Dick loves you. I 
 never knew that one man could love another so dearly 
 until I met him " 
 
 "He gave me his word of honor " His eyes 
 were still closed ; there was unutterable agony in every 
 line of his face. 
 
 "Robert! Is his honor sullied because because I 
 know the truth?" 
 
 He opened his eyes, and they dwelt on hers. 
 
 "Margaret, how great you are!" he breathed. 
 
 "If only you had trusted me, there would have been 
 no dead years, as you call them." 
 
 "I promised Jean my poor broken-hearted Jean; 
 and then then there was the child to think of." 
 
 "Hush!" she said gently. "I know all that's pass- 
 ing in your mind all that has passed through it. I 
 know what you've suffered : Dick told me. Oh, if you 
 had seen him two nights ago when he sought me out 
 'to ease an aching heart,' as he put it !" 
 
 "I understand, now, why he was so anxious to send 
 me ashore. Oh! you great, big-hearted Dick. . . ."
 
 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 And then, for the first time, he noticed the letter on 
 
 the mantelshelf. 
 
 "He said that he had written to me - " 
 
 She reached for the letter and handed it to him. He 
 
 read it aloud, the while Margaret remained standing 
 
 by his side : 
 
 "My DEAR OLD ROBERT. I have broken the promise I 
 gave you, because you sought to invest me with a silence 
 that would mean the blighting of two lives. It is amazing 
 to me, now, that I should have been here in England so 
 long without discovering where your heart was buried. 
 You big, foolish fellow ! Did you think that I was going 
 to stand idly by and watch you two steal like sad-faced 
 ghosts into the evening of life, when a word of explanation 
 was all that was required to make you happier than I ever 
 hope to be? 
 
 "Robert MacWhinnie, you should go down on your knees 
 and beg her forgiveness. Was she ever to be doubted? Do 
 you really think that a woman so good as she is would 
 bring one moment of pain into the life of my little darling, 
 
 Mori San? I dare not call you Quixotic, because you 
 liave been so extraordinarily rational in other matters most 
 other matters; but it is astounding that you should be pre- 
 pared to set her great love on one side. It may be a trait of 
 Scottish character I cannot say. I meant to bring you two 
 together again, even if it cost me the best friend I have 
 ever known. Anyway, I am free from your displeasure, 
 unless you take it into your head to charter a swifter vessel 
 and catch us up. 
 
 "Go to her, man. The child needs her sympathy. And 
 you need the sympathy of a woman like Margaret Drender. 
 
 1 am going back to Japan. I don't think I shall ever return. 
 I am going to build a bungalow away up at Sendai. My 
 heart is there now; it has been there for ten years. My 
 dear Robert, if you loved as I have loved, you would go to 
 her in sackcloth and ashes, and you'd bow your head in 
 humility. 
 
 "And, Robert, if you have any friendship left for me,
 
 OUT OF BONDAGE 325 
 
 don't let my little sweetheart forget me. Tell her that Uncle 
 Dick has gone back among the chrysanthemums and the 
 lotus and that he's always thinking of her. And, E.obcrc, 
 I would like to think that if the world the world you talked 
 about that night were unkind to my Mori, you would show 
 her the way to sanctuary . . . here !" 
 
 The letter fluttered to the floor. For a moment he 
 stood irresolute; then he held out his hands toward 
 her. 
 
 "Do you forgive me ?" he asked, in a breaking whis- 
 per. 
 
 And as she rested her head against his breast, as she 
 had done a little while before, he tenderly stroked her 
 hair as though he would efface the faint touches of 
 gray. 
 
 "It has been a long, long night, sweetheart," he 
 said, "but the gold of morning has come at last. I 
 gave you pain you whom I loved better than life 
 itself but God gave you strength and work to soften 
 that pain." He paused; the sobs were back in his 
 throat. "God gave me you to soften mine."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE PRODIGAL BROTHERS 
 
 THE two prodigals, Jamie and David, awaited 
 their brother in the study, and Donald, the 
 little father, was seated between them, nursing 
 his hat on his knees and whiling away the time by 
 recalling their many sins of omission. He had brought 
 them back, as he might have brought two truants back 
 to school, and although Robert's letter to them had 
 been couched in the kindliest terms, the old man would 
 not allow them to derive any comfort or self-assurance 
 from it. 
 
 "I canna say what ye expect" and he wagged his 
 head to and fro "but if Robert were tae put ye each 
 to a lathe, it wad be nae mair than ye desarved." 
 
 From several sources he had learned the truth about 
 the dissolution of partnership; but what was more 
 significant to his mind was the news that Robert was 
 likely to become the son-in-law of John Drender. This 
 was a moment when humility was not only meet, but 
 advisable. 
 
 "Ye're two men," he told them, "and yet ye've be- 
 haved like a couple o' bairns. When I was your age, I 
 was a marrit man wi' a family, an' recognized my re- 
 sponsibilities. Frae what I can see of it, the two of 
 ye havena growed out of y'r babyhood yet. . . . And, 
 
 326
 
 THE PRODIGAL BROTHERS 327 
 
 David, who valeted ye this morn, wi' y'r pink tie and 
 pretty striped suitin'? A nice figure ye'll cut at a 
 lathe, i' them duds. Not that Robert is like tae put 
 ye to a lathe. I dinna see that ye can expect as much 
 as that. Mebbe he'll keep ye runnin' errands in the 
 yard for a while, just to knock the nonsense out o' ye. 
 Now, when he comes in, let's hae no dour faces, and 
 no pretendin' that ye' re something that ye're not. 
 Ye've had y'r lesson, and ye've paid for it then dinna 
 lose the benefit of it. Like as no, Robert'll be for 
 gi'eing ye a good lacin' and he's just the man tae do 
 it. I canna think of aught that I might say for ye in 
 mitigation, so if ye're turning over onything in y'r 
 minds, best get it ready." 
 
 And then Robert came down the stairs. He came 
 in with a rush, with a cheery: "Splendid, boys! I 
 didn't expect you so early. There's nothing like beat- 
 ing the clock. And you, father! You're looking 
 younger! How's Ballyhoustie, and mother, and all 
 the old neighbors?" 
 
 He was wringing their hands, and capering about 
 them as though he hadn't seen them for years, and 
 had been longing all the while to meet them. The 
 greeting was the reverse of what the brothers had ex- 
 pected, and they remained standing like two culprits 
 come to judgment. They were waiting for sentence, 
 for any leniency which he might be disposed to exer- 
 cise, and this boisterous good humor only increased 
 their nervousness. The little father tried to put them 
 at their ease by assuring Robert that never in all his 
 life had he come upon two more glaring instances of 
 downright ingratitude and unappreciated chances.
 
 328 THE HOXOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "Robert, man," he said, "they're no expecting any 
 fatted calf. I could tell ye what they desarve, but it 
 wad tak' up too much time. The thing is, what are ye 
 gaein' tae do wi' them?" 
 
 "Do?" Robert laughed. "It's already done. We're 
 taking on fifty additional hands this morning, and I 
 want you, Jamie, to go down and look them over. 
 You will find MacGowan in the office. He's had his 
 instructions, and he'll bring you up to date, as it were. 
 You and I, David, are going over a couple of esti- 
 mates together, and I should say that before noon we 
 shall thoroughly understand each other." 
 
 David, having greater courage than his brother 
 Jamie, raised his eyes to meet Robert's. 
 
 "You're heaping a deal of coals on our heads, Rob- 
 ert," he said sullenly. 
 
 "Ay, an' ye desarve it," chimed in the little father. 
 
 "We came here to accept any ultimatum that you 
 might feel disposed to lay down." 
 
 "Ay, that ye did" from Donald. 
 
 "We're men, Jamie and I, but I don't think that 
 either of us had any sense of manhood until your letter 
 came, a few days ago." 
 
 Robert dropped his hands on his brother's shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "What are you havering about, David?" he said, 
 with a laugh. "Didn't I tell you that if anything 
 should go wrong on the Clyde and I'm bound to 
 confess that I was very apprehensive at the time 
 didn't I say that the old signboard would be up above 
 the gates, and that I should welcome your return ?" 
 
 "Two spoilt bairns," said the little man ; but his de-
 
 THE PRODIGAL BROTHERS 329 
 
 light at Robert's attitude showed itself in the dancing 
 of his eyes. "Jamie, hae ye naethin' to say?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Jamie "I haven't the strength to 
 say anything, except this : we've had a bitter experi- 
 ence, and I think it will do us both good." 
 
 "That's right," said Robert, "and you're going to 
 bring that experience to bear, so long as you are a 
 member of the firm of MacWhinnie Brothers. Ex- 
 perience is more valuable than all the good intentions 
 you might think of in a lifetime." He turned to his 
 father. "You haven't said a word about Thomas. 
 Where is he? I haven't set eyes on him since ' 
 since You know, I suppose." 
 
 "Dinna fash y'rsel' about Tammas," said the little 
 man. "If I ken onything about human nature, he's 
 tryin' to digest the porridge that I gave him for his 
 supper the last time I set eyes on him. Tammas, by 
 now, ought to be in sight of the west coast of Africky. 
 He's gone out there tae preach Equality to the 
 heathens, an' if I ken onything about heathens, Tam- 
 mas will need tae do very little preachin'. . . . How's 
 the wee maid, Robert ?" 
 
 "Never better in her life," said Robert. "She's 
 going away next month going to a school in Ger- 
 many. Miss Drender is going to take her, and you 
 can well understand that the packing is a most impor- 
 tant business. She'll be down presently, father. I 
 told her last night that you were coming. You'll mark 
 a wonderful change. A thorough little woman, and 
 as brave as brave about the going away. But I know 
 who'll suffer the most." 
 
 "Ay," said the little man. "Ye'll be awf'y lonely."
 
 330 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 And he looked at Robert, as though he expected some 
 news about Margaret. 
 
 Robert changed the subject. 
 
 "You'll find the place pretty much as when you left 
 it," he said to Jamie. "I don't think you can do better 
 than go down there at once, to get your bearings. We 
 shall expect you back here to dinner to-night. Then 
 we can talk about the future." 
 
 The little father looked from one to the other. 
 
 "Then ye're no gaein' tae put them on the lathes, 
 Robert?" 
 
 "No," said Robert, laughing outright. "But" the 
 pause kept them very still '"I'm going to put them on 
 the salary list." 
 
 Donald MacWhinnie sighed. 
 
 "That's the way, Rob," he said. "I was awf 'y feared 
 ye were gaein' tae put them back on the board. Did 
 ye hear that, you two ? Ye're on the salary list ; and 
 let me tell ye this : when ye're on the salary list ye hae 
 to wor-rk, because if ye dinna wor-rk ye're soon off the 
 salary list." 
 
 The two brothers went down to the works, leaving 
 their father with Robert. 
 
 "Robert," said the little man, "I canna say ony- 
 thing. I feel like greetin'." 
 
 "Why should you say anything at all?" said Rob- 
 ert cheerily. 
 
 Donald passed a hand over his wrinkled forehead. 
 
 "Somethin' comes back into my mind same as it 
 was said yesterday. It was when ye were a lad, an' y'r 
 mither an' I were arguin' an' arguin' about what we 
 should do for ye. And your mither one of the grand-
 
 THE PRODIGAL BROTHERS 331 
 
 est women that ever breathed, Robert, even if her 
 tongue be a little sharp now an' then ye'r mither was 
 say in' that she wondered if bairns were the blessing 
 some wad hae ye believe. I mind her words : 'Ye gae 
 through the Valley o' the Shadow/ she said, 'tae 
 bring them into the wor-rld ; ye work an' ye slave for 
 them when they're bairns, and when they're growed 
 up, they gae awa', the lassie wi* th' first laddie that 
 sets his cap at her, an* th' laddie wi' th' first pair o' 
 blue een that looks at him/ And I remember I said 
 tae her: 'Tell me, Martha, how much has a parent 
 a richt to expect f rae her bairns ?' . . . Ye'll no think 
 me haverin', Robert ?" 
 
 "No, father," said Robert. "I think that I thor- 
 oughly understand what is in your mind." 
 
 "I'm glad of it, Robert, because it'll save me sayin' 
 a lot that mebbe I couldna say properly. We've ex- 
 pected mair than eno' f rae ye, an' I suppose we shall 
 gae on expectin' ... an' gettin'. Man, ye hae me 
 greeting. Sometimes, I've thought that we'd hae been 
 happier if we'd kept tae the lathe a' of us." 
 
 "I've tried to do my best to make you happy," said 
 Robert gently. 
 
 "Of course ye hae. Ye've been tryin' all the while. 
 Ye've never let up, an' it's no your fault that we 
 havena been happy. Eh, Rob, if ye could hae seen y'r 
 mither's face when I went hame a month ago an' told 
 her the cottage was ready " 
 
 "The cottage, father?" 
 
 "Ay. We've sold the house, and the main part o' 
 the furniture. It was no for the likes o' we, Robert. 
 Y'r mither was never happy in it. 'Gi'e me the cot-
 
 332 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 tage, Donald,' she kept on sayin', 'where a body can 
 lay her hands on what she wants/ Rob, man, she 
 never left the cottage, in spirit, an' if ye'd seen her 
 face that night when we got back, an' when she was 
 settin' on the edge o' th' fender, ye'd hae known the 
 meanin' o' real joy. It was like gaein' hame after 
 bein' in the wilderness. Ay, we sold the house. I 
 made a clear fifty on the deal, Robert. Y'r mither 
 wad tell ye that she did it, but ye know what y'r 
 mither is. And, look ye here: There's the balance 
 o' the purchase money. I've paid for the cottage. It's 
 ours. And we've sent Tammas and his wife abroad. 
 There's the balance, Robert MacWhinnie, so dinna 
 shake y'r heid an' say ye'll no tak' it. I'm as inde- 
 pendent as ye are. But if in y'r hairt ye wad like tae 
 do one thing for me, I'll be etarnally grateful." 
 
 "Anything you like to ask, father !" 
 
 The old man lowered his voice to an anxious whis- 
 per. 
 
 "Hae ye got an old lathe in the shop that ye're no 
 usin' ? Now that we hae no bairns, the cottage is awf 'y 
 roomy, an' if I could hae a lathe awa' up in the attic 
 where y'r mither couldna interrupt me, I could work 
 out an idea o' mine that'll mean a fortune tae the man 
 that puts it on the market." 
 
 Robert raised his hand. 
 
 "Mori's coming down the stairs," he said. . . . 
 "You shall have that lathe, father, even if I have to 
 carry one up to Ballyhoustie on my back."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 TO-MORROW 
 
 MORI had run ahead, and was across the lawn 
 and halfway through the study window be- 
 fore Robert reached the gates of "J arrow " 
 side"; he heard her twang an imaginary samisen, 
 heard a deep gruff Northumbrian voice cry out: 
 "Come in, hinny!" and then Margaret was by his 
 side. She had been waiting among the laurels, and 
 had allowed the child to slip past her. 
 
 "I'll call her back," she whispered, her fingers tight- 
 ening on his. "I think only think that he has some- 
 thing very important to say to you. ... Mr. Masters 
 is going abroad his health is not very good. . . . 
 There ! Go in quickly." She hurried him to the door, 
 and called out: "Mori! Mori, darling!" The child 
 came to her side at once, and she led her away into the 
 garden. 
 
 Old John Drender was sitting with his back to the 
 Window, so that his face was in shadow when Robert 
 hesitated on the threshold. 
 
 "Come in, MacWhinnie," said the old ironmaster. 
 "It's a long time sin' I set eyes on ye. How's the work 
 going? And have you had any more trouble with 
 
 your men?' 
 
 333
 
 334 THE HONOR OF HIS HOUSE 
 
 "It's that I came to see you about, sir," said Robert, 
 his cheeks aflame. 
 
 "Ay, ay." Mr. Drender pulled out his pipe. "Shut 
 that door, MacWhinnie," he said, in a furtive way. 
 "She's cut me down to three pipes an afternoon, as if 
 a body could exist on that." 
 
 "You might buy a larger pipe, sir" anxious to sus- 
 tain the spirit of the moment. 
 
 "So I might. Never thought of it. There ye are, 
 the brains of youth again. I must be getting old. 
 . . . What's the news ?" 
 
 Robert stirred uneasily. 
 
 "I came to thank you in person, sir," he began, but 
 the old man checked him. 
 
 "Still on about that strike, MacWhinnie? Yester- 
 day's gone." 
 
 "I shall never forget you for it, sir." 
 
 "Do you think I did it for ye, alone? . . . Got a 
 match handy? . . . Nice thing if ye'd made a mess of 
 it. 'One of John Drender's old apprentices' ! That's 
 what they would have said. I know 'em. Now, let's 
 hear how you're fixed for the future. . . . They tell 
 me ye've brought those brothers of yours back to the 
 river. Ah, well, I can't find it in my heart to blame 
 you! There's a deal of good in both of them, if you 
 know how to bring it out." 
 
 "I'm certain of that, sir. David has already shown 
 me that the engineer was hidden behind a little affec- 
 tation." 
 
 "A deal of good if you bring it out. Don't be too 
 lavish with your praise, keep him in place, and give 
 him a kick in the ribs once a fortnight that's the way
 
 TO-MORROW 3.-J5 
 
 to make a man of a snob. I like ye, Robert MacWhin- 
 nie. Ye've been doing some fine work on the Thames 
 sin' ye came back. I wish I could find a man like ye 
 to take Jim Masters' place. He's going away." 
 
 Robert made no comment. 
 
 "And I'm too old to go down there every day. 
 Seems as though the old firm will have to drop out. 
 . . . Ay" Robert had opened his lips "we might do 
 worse, MacWhinnie. Amalgamation would mean put- 
 ting younger blood into Drender and Masters, and 
 more experience in MacWhinnie Brothers. We'll talk 
 it over another time. . . . Do you see that bairn in 
 the garden?" 
 
 Robert went to the door immediately and called to 
 Mori ; then he stole gently in the direction whence the 
 child had come. The afternoon sun was sinking away, 
 leaving a trail of gold on the face of the slow-moving 
 river; the tide was turning, and a faint wind came 
 whimpering from the sea. 
 
 Margaret asked no question; everything was to be 
 read in his open face. And he asked no question of 
 her. What John Drender knew he knew, and . . . 
 shrieks of childish laughter were pealing through the 
 study window. 
 
 Near the gate, the lovers paused; his arms were 
 around her as on that night ten years before. The twi- 
 light deepened ; the breeze trailed a wisp of dark hair 
 over her eyes ; tenderly he brushed it away. 
 
 "Margaret" . . . he held her face between his hands 
 "something your father said a moment ago " 
 
 "Yes, Robert," she whispered, her eyes on his.
 
 336 
 
 " 'Yesterday's gone/ he said." 
 
 "Gone," she murmured. 
 
 He stooped and kissed her. 
 
 "And thus thus we await to-morrow,"
 
 A 000128821 6