ESTHER 
 
 DAMON 
 
 MRS. FREMONT 
 OLDER
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 University of 
 
 California 
 
 Irvine
 
 PS 
 3529 
 
 88
 
 ESTHER DAMON
 
 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. FREMONT OLDER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 1911
 
 COPYKIGHT, 1911, B* 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 Published May, 1911
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK PAGE 
 
 I. THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 3 
 
 II. ESTHER DAMON 71 
 
 III. As YE Sow 157 
 
 IV. THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 209 
 
 V. LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 309
 
 BOOK 1 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN
 
 " What ought to be, can be." 
 
 WILLIAM JAMES.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ORME agreed that what his wife said was true. 
 As yet, not entirely awake, he accepted the blame: 
 the sheriff s subordinates were in possession of the 
 family home. This very minute they were in the 
 act of dismantling it. The officials had arrived early 
 in the morning from Ripon, the county seat. Even 
 ing would find him and his wife without shelter. And 
 though he had reluctantly foreshadowed the con 
 sequences of his conduct in fact, had thrust them 
 into the crowded, unopened store-room of the un 
 pleasant, and turned the key; now they burst the 
 lock, and gravely walked out. He sat up in his wide 
 mahogany bed as if to confront them and Alice. 
 She stood before him and with extravagant gestures, 
 in unlovely fury stridently set down the large figures 
 of her husband s shiftlessness, prodigality, vice, until 
 the total, even to her, was incalculable. Finally, she 
 made sufficient pause in her incoherence to state 
 clearly: "If you were a man, Robert, you d get up 
 and drive these people away." 
 
 He passed an uncertain hand over his gray, glazed 
 face. Bewildered, he looked about him, started to 
 rise, and in half-dazed soliloquy, as if fumbling for 
 his thoughts, he said: "Has it really come to this? 
 The place is worth at least twenty-five thousand
 
 4 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 dollars, and it is mortgaged for only fifteen. They 
 promised to give me another chance." When his 
 blank, wandering eyes settled on his wife s faded, 
 pretty face, he went on: " You poor Alice, it s hide 
 ous for you. I m so sorry for you; but, my girl, 
 it will come out all right in the end." 
 
 The frugal housewife, whose mind was narrowed 
 to the point under discussion, was not to be deflected 
 from her critical duty. She placed herself at the 
 foot of the bed as if she held in her hand the scales 
 of justice, indicating in numerals her husband s de 
 ficiencies. She had no diffidence about weighing 
 the world. "Much good your pity does me, Robert. 
 I hate pity. If you had only looked out, I shouldn t 
 need pity from you or any one else. As it is you 
 never learned that two from four leaves two. I 
 don t believe you ve looked at a clock since you 
 came back from the war. Now, the sheriff is down 
 on us just as I always told you he would be. But 
 whiskey made such a coward of you that you shut 
 your eyes and went pell-mell to ruin." 
 
 Everything about the man his ashen, swollen 
 face, the relaxed pores of his skin, the sunken, rest 
 less, dark eyes, the indeterminate mouth, the mo 
 bile eyebrows, the unsteady hands, bore witness to 
 the truth of the words. But Orme had heard her 
 reproaches too often. He would listen no more. In 
 a voice so delightful that it might have belonged 
 to another being perhaps, indeed, it was a survival 
 of the man who had been he answered, "I m very 
 sorry, Alice, but you mustn t talk. I can t listen. I
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 5 
 
 want to be alone a little while. I ll go down stairs 
 as soon as I m dressed." 
 
 "I will talk," she answered in a flare of wrath. 
 "I ll say just what I please. No one can stop me. 
 Pa always said any one who married a man that 
 didn t know how to do a useful stroke of work would 
 end in the poor-house." 
 
 Alice disdained pauses. Her talk irritated ths 
 nerves like constant ticking on a window pane. 
 The mannerism had developed with the years, but 
 her husband was often unaware of it. Now the 
 mention of her father, whom Orme disliked, rasped 
 his patience. Taking up her note, he interrupted : 
 "Very well, Alice, talk! Talk! Talk! For God s 
 sake, talk! You have the disease of chatter, but I 
 decline to listen." He groaned, sank upon the pil 
 lows and pressed them against his ears. 
 
 When a slammed door proclaimed her departure, 
 again he moaned. He knew he should have borne 
 her upbraidings. He deserved them. If Alice was 
 without gentle graces and courtesies, she but reflected 
 the meagre, barren village of Freedom where they 
 lived. When he saw both her and himself as they 
 were, he rose, tip-toed across the staring red Brussels 
 carpet ; turned the key in the door-lock ; took a water 
 glass from the table; searched the space between 
 the mattresses ; found one of the flasks there secreted 
 and half-filled the glass. 
 
 It was a part of Orme s bacchanalian ceremony, 
 one of his many devices for self-delusion, never to 
 drink from a bottle. A bottle would have implied a
 
 6 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 panting thirst, betrayed a longing more uncontrolled 
 than he desired to acknowledge in the broad sun 
 light at nine o clock on Monday morning. His self- 
 respect had always been buttressed by his belief 
 that he could drink spirits or let them alone; he 
 usually drank as he did now, with large leisure and 
 dignity. The last drop gone, his eyes brightened 
 and his hands became so steady that he proceeded to 
 shave. After a bath he poured out another glass of 
 whiskey. He tippled this with increasing repose and 
 grace. Later he completed his toilet. 
 
 Once dressed, he drank what remained in the 
 bottle. Then unlocking the door, he stood, head 
 poised, like a soldier at "Attention!" ready for battle. 
 Slowly he descended the winding stairs into the long, 
 narrow, white hall which ran through the centre of 
 the house. In the dust stirred by the sheriff s men 
 he could scarcely see. He found the strangers in 
 the nursery of his infancy; in the parlors where the 
 family festivities had been held; in the sitting-room 
 where his mother s face still sweetly hovered ; in the 
 library, inhabited by immortal spirits which had 
 flamed down the centuries and descended on him in 
 their written words. Through the curtainless win 
 dows, the sun streamed on a chaos of chairs, tables, 
 carpets, pictures the accumulation of nearly a hun 
 dred years. All the doors were flung open, and 
 Orme encountered a summer breeze from the lake 
 as he sought Alice. His wife was unresponsive to 
 the sound of his voice. 
 
 Finally he found her in her poor little world, the
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 7 
 
 kitchen, where she had hidden herself from the sight 
 of the upheaval. Here she sat, her head on the table, 
 as though the room were the stronghold of a fallen 
 citadel where she must brave the sword. Her 
 straight thin lips drooped pathetically as her hus 
 band entered. "I can t see my things thrown out 
 of doors, Robert. I m going to stay right here. 
 These men shan t put me out. I won t leave. I 
 can t." 
 
 Orme placed his hands upon her shoulders hesi 
 tatingly. "Don t. I can t stand seeing you like 
 this. Why, Alice, even I don t feel as you do, though 
 this place means much more to me than it can to 
 you. After all, what s a house ? Bricks and wood. 
 We shouldn t desire anything too much." 
 
 "That s just it," she said, flinging back his arm, 
 as she dried her eyes. "That s what you ve always 
 wanted to bring me down to, no roof over our heads. 
 Now it s done, you say it doesn t matter. We re 
 leaving bricks and wood. That s all you get out 
 of books, new reasons for throwing your money 
 away, new arguments about how grand it is to be 
 poor." 
 
 "We aren t poor, Alice. We re young. We have 
 each other." 
 
 "And a lot that is!" she answered. 
 
 With persistent tenderness he tried to take her 
 hand. She drew angrily away. Hurt and depressed, 
 he turned from her and entered the dining-room. 
 The mahogany sideboard, with its silver and glass 
 decanters, was the only article of furniture remaining
 
 8 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 in the room. A glass of whiskey was already at his 
 lips, when Alice opened the door. 
 
 "Robert," she protested, springing to his side, 
 "you re not going to drink on a day like this." 
 
 "This is the day I most need it. One must have 
 some kind of a companion, and whiskey never fails 
 to respond." 
 
 With a quick, adroit movement she dashed the 
 glass to the floor. Orme looked at her for an 
 instant, frowned, filled another glass and slowly 
 drank. Then, to aggravate the act, he repeated it, 
 and turning to his wife, said: "You re a very foolish 
 woman, a very foolish woman." 
 
 There were no tears in her eyes. They had be 
 come hard as gray glass. Standing against the wall, 
 her hands behind her, she answered with contracted 
 lips: "And you re a brute, a heartless brute. I ll 
 never forgive you for this." 
 
 Orme s eyes had an unnatural stare. They seemed 
 to protrude from his head. His cheeks were flushed ; 
 his thick black hair was dishevelled. As he drank 
 his dignity increased and his affection for his wife 
 renewed its courage. Somewhat unsteadily, he ap 
 proached her and said, "Oh, yes, you will, Alice." 
 
 The sheriff s men entered the dining room to re 
 move the sideboard; before they carried it away 
 Orme seized a decanter and a glass. He was hold 
 ing them, when from the verandah entered a short, 
 broad-shouldered, thick-necked old man, with a 
 small tuft of grizzled hair on his chin. He wore a 
 blue broadcloth coat, a black stock, and a hat too
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 9 
 
 large for his head, sinking as it did almost to his 
 ears which were half covered with shaggy hair. 
 
 "Why, pa!" exclaimed Alice Orme. 
 
 "Well, doggone it. If this ain t a mess, daughter," 
 answered Ira Wherritt, gnawing his finger nails. "I 
 heerd about it, and I come right up." 
 
 "I m so glad you did," answered Alice. Orme 
 covered the intruder with hostile, darkening glance. 
 
 "You know, Alice," the old man went on, "this 
 match was your mother s doing and yours. It 
 wasn t any of mine. I was always agin soldiers. 
 But you women folks would have brass buttons, 
 flags, and hurrahs." 
 
 Indignation and spirits loosed Orme s tongue to 
 utter the words for a decade choked down. "Yes, 
 brass buttons, music, and flying flags that was all 
 you knew of it. You stayed at home and shaved 
 notes while we risked our lives to do away with the 
 slave-pen, the whipping-post, the human auction- 
 block, to give you back a nation without a slave, to 
 keep alive this republic." 
 
 As Orme spoke, his rising color emphasized the 
 scar of a sabre-cut on the side of his neck. On 
 his father-in-law the fervor of patriotism was wasted. 
 The skin of Wherritt s long, thin nose seemed too 
 tight, and gave that feature a pinched look as he 
 revealed his first-mortgage view of life. "Yes, in 
 terest was twelve per cent. I wasn t fool enough to 
 get mixed up in any nigger war. I sent a substitute. 
 There were too many youngsters like you who 
 didn t mind a tramp soldier s life. All you fellows
 
 io ESTHER DAMON 
 
 in Freedom that went were ruined by it. Ain t dc 
 a thing but drink since you got back." 
 
 Orme s voice was like a roar of suppressed flan 
 "Yes," he said, "we were tramps, tramping throu 
 fire and hell till our feet bled. Vicksburg, Gett; 
 burg, Libby prison that was the kind of tram; 
 life we led. Of course we drank. Perhaps y 
 would if you had retreated all day, and were ill frc 
 sleeping in marshes, if you d seen three of yc 
 brothers blown to pieces, and buried them yoursc 
 We did break the commandments, but we brou^ 
 something back with us here," he indicated . 
 breast. "You can t buy it. You know nothi 
 about it, though it bears more than twelve per ce 
 interest." 
 
 "Beggars ride high horses, Orme," sneered the ( 
 man, pressing his lips together like a trap. "Yoi 
 be a smarter fellow if you hadn t so much learni 
 and so many idees, and knew how to make an hon 
 living and find a home for Alice. Of course, s 
 always has a home with me, but I don t take a 
 of able-bodied men." 
 
 The muscles underneath Orme s flesh quiven 
 "Mr. Wherritt, I shan t consent to your giving i 
 wife a home. I can take care of myself and Alice, t< 
 
 Both Wherritt and Alice stared at the decanter 
 which Robert was clinging as if to an anchor, j 
 understanding glance swept between father a 
 daughter. "How can you earn a living," s< 
 Alice, "when you ve spent your life drawing, readii 
 fussing in a little rigged-up play workshop over tl
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN n 
 
 awful old stuff you call furniture ? You never did a 
 useful thing. We re as poor as church mice. How 
 can we live?" 
 
 The sheriff s men were transporting the stove from 
 the kitchen to the garden. Alice looked as if her 
 sun had gone down forever. 
 
 "We shall live here, Alice," said Robert. "Our 
 things needn t be taken away. I ll run over to Ripon 
 and have a talk with the bankers. I m sure I can 
 arrange something. I give you my promise we shall 
 be back in the house within a few days. Mean 
 time we can board at Auntie Brewster s." 
 
 Orme s promises, so frequently offered as currency 
 for deeds, long since had lost their value. Now ad 
 versity touched them with irony. 
 
 "For pity s sake, Robert, what are we to live on?" 
 
 "It s only for a week," he urged, "until I can see 
 the bankers." 
 
 She was weary of his evasions, his subterfuges, his 
 flabbiness of character. It mattered little if he was 
 drunk or sober. Even when he was himself, rare of 
 late, his nerves paid for the high tension of years. 
 She was convinced that her husband was dry rot; 
 the time had come when she must be guided by the 
 sane thinking of her father. Presently one of the 
 sheriff s deputies, a long, lanky man in overalls, 
 interrupted: "I don t want to put you out, Mis 
 Orme, but my orders was to lock up the house after 
 all the things were gone." 
 
 To Alice the words seemed echoes of something 
 meant for other ears. Orme, pretending not to hear
 
 12 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 them, turned his back on his wife and his father-in- 
 law and tapped on the window. " Never mind," 
 whispered Ira Wherritt, touching his daughter s 
 elbow. "Get your bonnet on, Sis, and come home 
 with me." 
 
 When Alice went to fetch her hat, Robert started 
 to follow. A look from her stopped him. Alone 
 she passed through the shabby, high-ceilinged rooms, 
 and closed the white shutters of each window as 
 one closes the lids of the precious dead. She was 
 burying her pride. Ten years before, she had come 
 to this fine old house, the bride of the great man of 
 this little cross-roads farming centre of Freedom. 
 The villagers had always imagined that Robert 
 would marry some one from "way-off." When Alice 
 Wherritt became Alice Orme the triumph affected 
 her like wine. She forgot to return the calls of some 
 of her school friends. To-day, with bitterness, she 
 realized what they were smiling and saying. Here 
 and there in her walk through the rooms she paused, 
 leaned against the wall, forced back the tears, 
 clenched her hands in anger and grief. What right 
 had Robert to humiliate her? 
 
 Down stairs once more, face to face with her hus 
 band, she hated him. His flurried manner betrayed 
 that in her absence he again had had recourse to 
 the decanter. Whiskey emboldened him to place 
 his hand upon her shoulder as they passed out of 
 the house. "You don t really mean, little girl, to 
 go home with your father. You re surely coming 
 with me, aren t you, Alice?"
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 13 
 
 She looked up at her husband like the organically 
 moral, unyielding, clear-headed young woman that 
 she was. "I ll go with you when you get a home. 
 Where can we live now?" 
 
 He spoke as if he were a ruler with a kingdom at 
 his disposal. " Wherever you say. Choose." 
 
 She smiled scornfully. "I can t live in a burying- 
 ground. That s all you have left in the world." 
 
 It was the stinging truth. When Alice was pretty 
 vivacious eighteen, her small verbal nettles seasoned 
 conversation ; but these had grown to be ugly thorns 
 marking the distance between the speech of an un 
 thinking girl and that of a humiliated woman, care 
 less of the wounds she made. He hesitated, trying 
 hard to control his trembling nerves. Then wist 
 fully he answered, "If you will remain with me, we ll 
 work together. We ll get back the old place." 
 
 "You re always doing grand things when you re 
 drunk, Robert. Why don t you do something when 
 you re sober?" 
 
 "Plato says " 
 
 "Don t talk to me about Plato," she retorted. 
 "His name makes me sick. I don t read, thank 
 Heaven. You spend all your time with books when 
 you aren t drunk, but what good do they do you? 
 You read philosophy and live like an idiot. Plato 
 doesn t run your life. Pat Clancy, the hotel-keeper 
 who sells you whiskey, does." 
 
 Alice s words gave him a shock. He thought 
 clearly and against himself. He talked about the 
 universe, but he did not control Robert Orme.
 
 I 4 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "Perhaps it s all true, Alice, but let me believe I m 
 better than I am. Help me. I m not poor because 
 I ve lost my money. I m poor because no one has 
 confidence in me. I need a believer badly. Won t 
 you be one?" 
 
 He knew that he might have made this appeal 
 to a finer, more experienced being only to be denied. 
 How then could he expect to move Alice who was 
 burdened with no visions of the impossible? " Be 
 lieve in you!" she repeated, " Believe in you! Be 
 lieve in a shiftless drunkard!" The word was out; 
 the horrible, rankling word held back during their 
 years of prosperity. She knew its weight. She had 
 carried it long on the tip of her tongue. The sen 
 tence was shot at him like a bullet. After a second 
 she saw how Orme felt the hurt of it as it gnawed its 
 way to his heart. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he finally answered. "I may 
 be drunk, but I m not a drunkard." 
 
 "Alice, don t say anything to him," interrupted Ira 
 Wherritt. "You re going home with me. You re 
 not going to trust yourself with a drunkard. You ll 
 always have a home with me, and I ll see that you, 
 Orme, never get a cent of my money." 
 
 Robert always found his father-in-law intolerable 
 in manners, in speech, in his mean game of grab 
 bing. "By all means, do see to it. I never cared 
 for my own money. What use should I have for 
 yours?" Then Orme turned to Alice: "I never 
 told you how much I need you. It s more than 
 you realize. Do remain with me. You laugh be-
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 15 
 
 cause I say I ll get the place back for you, but I will, 
 Alice. I ll do anything if only you ll not leave me. 
 You can make me do what you wish." 
 
 Touched by his appeal, she looked at her father 
 before she replied. The old man warned her, 
 "Every one must look out for himself." 
 
 "What pa says is so, Robert. I ve never had 
 much luck making you do things. If you had a 
 glass of whiskey in front of you now, and you knew 
 I d die if you took it, you d drink it." 
 
 She had not lived with him to be deluded at the 
 end of ten years. Already he was shaking with 
 thirst. He placed his hands in his pockets that she 
 might not see his weakness. "That s your way," he 
 answered, "of saying you re not my friend and you 
 don t intend to be. I need a friend more than any 
 thing else on earth." His lips trembled, and his 
 eyes were misty. 
 
 "I can t be a friend to you, Robert," she returned 
 more gently, "unless you ll first be a friend to your 
 self and get sober." 
 
 "I know I m drunk," he returned bitterly, "but 
 don t remind me of it again. I know I m wrong. 
 That s why I need you. When we re right, we don t 
 need to ask for friends. Friendship means to be 
 loyal, right or wrong, but particularly when you re 
 wrong. You re all I have left, and I want you. 
 Won t you stay with me?" 
 
 Her glance, her attitude said "No." Robert won 
 dered if he were not almost sober. Even on this 
 languorous summer day a blizzard seemed to bite
 
 1 6 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 his flesh as he tried to digest the meaning of his 
 own words, "Then you re not my friend." 
 
 "How can you expect it," the prudent wife re 
 plied, "if it means taking chances with you?" 
 
 He turned the words over in his mind and replied : 
 "We ve lived together ten years, all through the 
 twenties . . . now you leave me. When I was 
 rich and drunk, you were my friend. Now that 
 I m poor and drunk, you re not." Under the influ 
 ence of spirits his penetration was often sharpened. 
 He slowly repeated the sentence until the thought 
 percolated the layers of his perception controlled by 
 alcohol. Finally, it pierced the consciousness that 
 was wholly he. There the words registered them 
 selves in his memory. "Very well, Alice," he said 
 with a courteous bow, always exotic in Freedom, and 
 now travestied by his condition, "I understand." 
 
 "What s the use of talking to a crazy man, Sis?" 
 interrupted Ira Wherritt as he took his daughter by 
 the arm. "Let s go home." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "he s made me trouble 
 enough without this." 
 
 Shabby tragedy was in Alice Orme s manner as 
 she left the porch and with her father took the path 
 which led diagonally from the garden to the village. 
 Robert followed her with his eyes. For him the 
 hour of despair had struck. "Alice," he called out, 
 "I ve been a pretty bad husband, but I give you my 
 word I ll be better." 
 
 Even her back expressed disdain. "If you ve got 
 any mettle in you, you ll show it," Ira Wherritt
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 17 
 
 flung at Robert as he and his daughter continued 
 their way under the pines. The branches of the 
 trees excluded from the garden the noonday sun. 
 For Orme this sheltered light was darkness. 
 
 "You may be sure you ll see it," promised Robert 
 slowly, as he returned to the steps of the veranda. 
 There, unbelieving, he sat looking at those depart 
 ing. The gate clicked. The sound was a physical 
 blow. His nerves crawled like worms. He watched 
 till his wife disappeared. Then he took up the de 
 canter. No longer fastidious as to his manner of 
 drinking, detached from self-respect, he gulped the 
 whiskey until his eyes closed in stupor. "Yes, I ll 
 show you, Alice," he muttered thickly. "I ll show 
 you if it kills me." 
 
 Presently his head hung limp on his chest. He 
 snored heavily through parted lips. When the sher 
 iff s deputies locked the doors and left the house, 
 the decanter rolled away from Orme and broke into 
 pieces.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 FOR an hour Robert lay with life suspended, one 
 foot bent under him exactly as he had sunk. Then, 
 frowning and yawning, he woke, sat up, and rubbed 
 his leg, benumbed by his posture. He looked at the 
 shattered decanter, at the chaos of household be 
 longings under the trees. His books, the pictures he 
 had drawn, the tools he had used while experimenting 
 in making furniture these toys of his manhood, all, 
 without order, had been cast out of the house by 
 indifferent hands. It occurred to him that the 
 strangers had been no more heedless about their 
 work than he in his life. His gaze rested on the 
 vagabond wire fence surrounding the garden, on 
 the wide stone walk intergrown with weeds, on the 
 unpainted brick house, on the uncertain porches 
 with warped floors, on the half-hanging shutters, on 
 the patched window panes. "Yes," he said to him 
 self, "that s I. I m everywhere. It s a photograph 
 of me." 
 
 A nervous chill swept over his frame, and though 
 the day was warm and drowsy, he turned up his 
 coat collar. He had eaten nothing that morning. 
 His head was burning, and his entire body was in a 
 fever which made outcry for the magic of alcohol. 
 Orme did not realize that he was trembling, that red 
 spots had appeared on his dead, sunken cheeks. 
 
 18
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 19 
 
 His one desire was for the cool bar-room at Clancy s 
 Ivy Green. Ah, the color of whiskey! The smell 
 of it! How much it did for his brain! What sun 
 rises it showed him! What sunsets! What bravery, 
 what glory, what love, what beautiful women, what 
 heaven it had given him yes, and what hell ! Inde 
 structible happiness was in a whiskey bottle! 
 
 Under the mastery of the fever for Clancy s he 
 hurried down the walk which Alice and her father 
 had followed. Soon he lifted the broken gate, and 
 struck the gravel path. Before him, in a cup of 
 small hills, lay the village of Freedom, its church 
 spires rising above the trees. Once, as far as he 
 could see all the land belonged to his family. Now, 
 on the right was his sole possession, a lot of two or 
 three acres reserved by his great-grandfather as the 
 family s last resting-place. When Robert looked at 
 the great oaks and maples across the road, the old 
 trees trebled in number. They seemed to sway. As 
 he went on he recalled how the land had been sold, 
 field by field. One lot had been spent at Clancy s. 
 Another had been wasted in New York. Only a 
 small meadow remained his own. And this would 
 be his grave. 
 
 It did not occur to Robert that all Freedom, aware 
 of his misfortune, was watching his unsteady gait 
 and was ready to speak its mind, both the evil and 
 kindly disposed. Among the kindly disposed was 
 the Widow Brewster, the boarding-house keeper. As 
 Orme passed her modest cottage she stood on the 
 steps, enveloped in an ample blue-checked apron,
 
 20 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 her sleeves rolled about her elbows. She was fan 
 ning herself; she had just finished serving dinner to 
 her boarders. Mrs. Brewster was a brawny, florid, 
 heavy woman with bulbous, spectacled blue eyes, 
 and a gentle mouth. Her masculine head and hairy 
 chin gave her the appearance of being a survivor of 
 the mothers of the American Revolution. To Orme 
 she was "Aunty Brewster." He usually stopped to 
 chat with her. Now he passed without speaking. 
 
 Mrs. Snead, wife of the Baptist deacon, was sit 
 ting on her porch. She called over the fence to 
 the Widow Brewster, "And to think that boy et off 
 china as thin as egg-shells every day of his life. 
 Godlessness ruined him. His mother went to our 
 church, but the old Squire read Tom Paine. When 
 the Squire was senator down in Albany, they say 
 and I wouldn t put it beyond him he shook hands 
 with Bob Ingersoll. No family could prosper after 
 that. The judgment of God is on this boy." 
 
 "God, nothing!" snapped the widow, for she was 
 something of an intellectual bully. "It all comes of 
 these city colleges and never learning a boy to work. 
 Ithaca is a regular hell-hole, full of clubs. Clubs 
 would ruin even a preacher, and they don t learn 
 nothing but devilishness in colleges. I told Squire 
 Orme so. I d tell the Governor himself the truth. 
 There never was a finer gentleman than the Squire, 
 and Bob s a chip of the old block if he does drink. 
 Old Wherritt s afraid Bob Orme s a-goin to plant 
 himself on him for the rest of his life. He needn t 
 worry. Bob s a real nice boy." Mrs. Brewster s
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 21 
 
 emphasis carried her as far as the fence separating 
 her lot from the Sneads . "I was up to Orme s the 
 night he was born. I nursed Mis Orme. Bob always 
 talks to me real friendly. He leaves groceries on my 
 stoop and pretends he don t know where they come 
 from. He never put on even after his father took 
 the family down to Albany. They say his wife, that 
 Alice Wherritt I don t see what he ever see in her 
 they say she s goin to leave him. I always said 
 to Brewster I didn t marry his pocketbook, I mar 
 ried him. But these Americans hatched out in the 
 past thirty years ain t got no backbone in em. 
 They re all whitewash. They ain t like the old 
 stock in Marlboro, Massachusetts. I suppose a 
 stuck-up thing like Alice Wherritt will be real citi 
 fied and get a divorce." 
 
 "O, Mis Brewster," said Mrs. Snead, hobbling 
 toward the fence for closer communication with her 
 neighbor, "you don t say! She wouldn t get a di 
 vorce, would she ? That would be awful. If she did 
 I d be ashamed to live in Freedom. What would 
 Attica and Olivet and all the places way off say? 
 They d say we was fast, no better n polygamists." 
 
 A few minutes later Orme burst into the bar-room 
 of the white, ivy-covered tavern at the Four Corners. 
 He had the joy of a young pagan entering the sanct 
 uary of a temple of Dionysus. At last he could 
 be himself. He walked straight to the bar. There 
 stood the hotel keeper s son, Harry Clancy, a tall, 
 athletic youth with romantically waving black hair. 
 The moment Robert entered the door Clancy
 
 22 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 reached for the whiskey. Orme drank and felt 
 peace. He drank again. The blackness of his 
 miserable existence disappeared. He looked about 
 the room. 
 
 An old soldier of his regiment sat alone in a cor 
 ner, whining over an empty glass. "Hello, Mearns," 
 Robert exclaimed convivially. He crossed to the 
 table and touched Mearns s shoulder. "What s 
 the matter, old man?" 
 
 "They say I can never carry the flag again, Dec 
 oration Day, Captain, because I was drunk." 
 
 "Nonsense," laughed Robert. 
 
 Tears streamed down Mearns s cheeks. "They 
 say so, Captain. Tom Tribble is going to carry the 
 flag the Fourth, and he don t know how." 
 
 "Of course he doesn t. You ll carry it yourself 
 I ll arrange that. What ll you have?" 
 
 "I d like some beer, Captain." 
 
 "Beer!" scoffed Orme. "You re not following 
 your regiment. You didn t desert at Cedar Creek." 
 He turned to young Clancy, "Mearns wants beer. 
 Scotch for me. You take something too, Harry." 
 
 Clancy filled the order; for himself he opened a 
 box of cigarettes. 
 
 "It isn t only the flag, Captain," Mearns went on 
 as he drank, "but the old woman made me sleep in 
 the barn last night when I went home. She says 
 I ve got to live there unless I quit drinking." By 
 trade, Mearns was a carpenter; but he seldom 
 worked. His wife was a washer-woman and even 
 her earnings he spent at Clancy s.
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 23 
 
 "Don t mind women, Mearns. My home is 
 yours. There shouldn t be any difference between 
 you and me. There isn t any Mearns. You re my 
 brother. If you re not, there s no such thing as 
 civilization." Robert took another long drink and 
 placed his hand on the workman s shoulder as he 
 continued, "We really aren t civilized, Mearns. Do 
 you know what we are?" 
 
 Mearns always liked to hear Orme talk. It made 
 him seem important. Robert, as usual, answered his 
 own question. His tongue was thick, but his stream 
 of thought flowed on in stammered words: "We re 
 a lot of selfish, industrious insects, like those in a 
 coral reef on the ocean bed of ignorance. Occa 
 sionally one of us rises to the surface for a breath of 
 the civilization we talk about, but rarely see. We 
 can t live more than a second in that air, Mearns. 
 We re not used to it. So we sink back to our home 
 under the sea. But I ll get away from the coral- 
 reef, Mearns, and I ll take you with me." 
 
 The carpenter followed the kindly sound rather 
 than the sense of Orme s words. "That s grand, 
 Captain," he said. 
 
 Robert called for another round of drinks. The 
 two men sat looking like the moral tragedies they 
 were when Orme, in an increase of alcoholic exulta 
 tion, went on: "Life should be poetry, Mearns. 
 This is poetry. This is poets corner." He turned 
 to Clancy. "You re a poet, Harry. We re all 
 poets." 
 
 Clancy, standing near them, smiled, and puffed
 
 24 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 his cigarette, which he smoked to avoid drinking. 
 Tapping Robert on the shoulder, he said, "Yes, 
 I m Shakespeare himself " 
 
 He was about to continue when the eyes of all in 
 the bar-room turned to the green-shuttered door 
 which swung noiselessly open and admitted two 
 women. One, past sixty, had rounded shoulders, 
 deep, sad eyes, and a mouth that drooped. She wore 
 a little black bonnet tied under her chin, and a 
 black print dress buttoned straight up to the throat. 
 The other was taller, more erect, with broader 
 shoulders and of stronger mould. Her large, deep- 
 set, heavy-lidded eyes were reddish brown. Her 
 skin might have been made of creamy roses. Her 
 lips were curved but firm. Her strongly marked 
 chin just escaped a cleft. Masses of dark-red 
 hair, parted in the centre over a wide, fine brow, 
 hung in two heavy braids down her back. She had 
 the aspect both of girl and woman. She was young 
 and old, untouched by life itself; but something in 
 her bearing suggested a pre-existence that had 
 brought experience which would prevent her ever 
 quite knowing the youth of the young. Her attire 
 was austere as that of the older woman and matched 
 it in design. She wore a dark blue print dress, not 
 touching the floor, and a black bonnet with a brim 
 shading her eyes. 
 
 The men looked at one another. Women here in 
 Pat Clancy s! Why, they crossed the street to es 
 cape even the fumes from the bar-room. Women 
 in Clancy s! The hotel for three generations had
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 25 
 
 stood for all there was of vice, of infamy in self- 
 respecting Freedom. For fifty years, since the first 
 Clancy opened his tavern, pulpits had fulminated 
 against the public-house. The youth of Freedom 
 had been warned that the first step to perdition was 
 playing a game of billiards at Clancy s. From that 
 iniquity few, they were daily admonished, had ever 
 been redeemed. To-day the town was saying at 
 Wherritt s, at Spear s, at Hood s, the shops at the 
 Four Corners, in the drug-store, over fences, and 
 from house-top to house-top that the Clancys had 
 bankrupted young Robert Orme. Yet women had 
 come here. And such women! They were as out 
 of place as flowers. It was not surprising that in 
 their presence the men were speechless. 
 
 The girl stood leaning against the wall, her hands 
 behind her, while her eyes studied the linoleum on 
 the floor. After hesitating a second, the older wom 
 an, concentrated on a single devoted idea, stepped 
 forward to the men. Harry Clancy, standing behind 
 the bar, gesticulated to Orme and Mearns. He 
 tapped his forehead solemnly. He recognized the 
 women as the wife and daughter of the Metho 
 dist minister, the Reverend Hezekiah Damon. Mrs. 
 Damon had the bearing of one daunted by no duty. 
 Stopping before the table where the men were 
 seated, she said, "My brothers, we are Methodists. 
 We go wherever there are souls to save. The Spirit 
 calls us to the Ivy Green." 
 
 The intonation of her sweet, sanctified, treble 
 voice indicated that she realized the extraordinary
 
 26 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 nature of what she was doing. Daniel with lions 
 glaring at him was no braver. Harry Clancy moved 
 uneasily toward the intruders. The carpenter stared. 
 Orme, to whom all dogmas were so many illusions 
 of persons not yet out of their intellectual swaddling 
 clothes, placed his glass upon the table and rose. 
 Jesus of Nazareth and Socrates were his two great 
 saints of history. He was in sympathetic relation 
 with all who loved or served either. He regretted 
 that their teachings had not permeated life. He 
 knew Mrs. Damon, and he always felt better after 
 their chance meetings in the street. Her fragrant, 
 divine goodness set her apart from the rest of the 
 world. In emulation of the mother of John Wesley, 
 the minister s wife taught wherever she found 
 listeners. 
 
 "I have come to the tavern, my friends, because 
 so many of our young men lose their lives here," she 
 began. "Years ago, when I was proud and worldly, 
 God, to make me mindful of Him, took from me 
 three little ones. Only one remained and this child 
 too," she smiled in the direction of her daughter, 
 "fell ill. We feared she would be taken home. I 
 made a covenant with Jesus, if her life was spared, 
 to devote the remainder of my days to soul-saving. 
 I promised also to dedicate my daughter to the same 
 holy work." 
 
 Mrs. Damon looked pleadingly at the girl who, 
 awkward, embarrassed, reluctantly came forward 
 and slowly placed her relaxed fingers in those of her 
 mother. "The power of God must come down
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 27 
 
 here," Mrs. Damon went on, "and save this wicked 
 Freedom. Oh, the vanity, the sin of Freedom!" 
 She spoke as if she were a spectator of the tragedy 
 of their lives. "My friends, turn from the error of 
 your ways." Then she said, with exquisite humility: 
 "I know I am a great sinner, but I have passed 
 from death unto life. Have you?" She addressed 
 Clancy, who smoked on without reply, vexed at 
 being questioned by one he considered half-de 
 mented. The end of his patience was reached 
 when Mrs. Damon said: "I m afraid you ve not 
 been born again, my brothers, or you wouldn t 
 drink. Young men, break your idols. Quench the 
 fires of your lusts. Pray until you no longer have 
 unclean lips or thoughts. Come to Jesus. He s 
 better than tobacco and whiskey." 
 
 On account of the comfortless, repressive standard 
 of the early Methodist faith, public sentiment toward 
 it in Freedom was almost like persecution. Un 
 popularity had intensified the fervor of its professors 
 into a passion. "Young men, leave this tavern," 
 Mrs. Damon pleaded in a warm, tender voice. "I 
 see you all asleep in a den of savage beasts. Awake." 
 She turned again to Harry Clancy. "I pray for all 
 you Catholics, my brother. Your soul especially 
 troubles me, for it is written that no idolater has in 
 heritance in the Kingdom of Heaven. Won t you 
 come to Jesus?" 
 
 The confused young man looked at his watch. "I 
 don t talk Jesus here, Mrs. Damon." 
 
 "And I," she answered, "talk of Him wherever I 
 find sin."
 
 28 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Clancy freed himself by stepping out on the 
 veranda. As he turned his back, Mrs. Damon s 
 last word was: "The Lord won t abandon you even 
 if you deny Him, young man. There is always hope. 
 Ask Him." Her sad, sweet smile returned to Orme. 
 "You are not going away too, are you, my friend? 
 I don t talk like this because I wish to intrude on 
 your privacy. I am nothing. The Voice of the 
 Holy Spirit told me to come to you." Her quaint 
 utterance had the calm of one who spoke with 
 angels and with God. "I go where He directs. 
 To-day He says you are sad and no one but Jesus 
 can cure you of your love for strong drink." 
 
 "You re very good, Mrs. Damon, but I m afraid 
 what you re saying is out of the question." Orme 
 found himself again returning to the world as it 
 was without the mystic enchantment of spirits. "No 
 power can help me," he added desperately. "I 
 don t want to be cured. I want to stay drunk." 
 Once more he craved that intensity of consciousness 
 created in him by alcohol. His frayed nerves 
 goaded him. "When I m drunk, life is beautiful. 
 I have everything. I am everything. I live in the 
 world of the ideal, something those who are sober 
 know nothing about. When I m myself life is hell." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "that is what God charges 
 us for false beauty, hell." Robert s hands moved 
 restlessly about his clothes. His forehead was 
 moist. The minister s wife went on compassion 
 ately: "Why not give your life the true beauty? 
 You can if you will try." He looked from one side 
 of the room to the other, wondering how much
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 29 
 
 longer she would remain, how long before he could 
 get another drink. "You don t mean, my friend, 
 you never intend to do better? That would be too 
 sad. The Lord wouldn t allow it. You must do 
 better. Why, you ve lived all your life in the house 
 with the portrait of John Wesley. I ve often gone 
 there to pray with your dear wife. I ve touched 
 that portrait of Wesley. Perhaps Mrs. Orme told 
 you I wished to touch something close to him." 
 He nodded gravely. "I talked with Wesley of you. 
 He promised to save you. Won t you let him lead 
 you to Jesus?" 
 
 Orme s life for a decade had been sinking into 
 shadows. On this sinister day Mrs. Damon s voice 
 was like a beatitude. Her simple emotion of kind 
 ness seemed divine. Deeply touched, he answered 
 gently, "I think not, Mrs. Damon." 
 
 Misinterpreting the gratitude in his tone, the min 
 ister s wife spoke more rapidly: "Of course you 
 will, dear brother. Think of what you were when 
 you came back from the war. People said if you 
 had gone to West Point you d have been as great 
 as General Grant. They wanted to see you, to 
 look at a real hero. You had your pick of the young 
 ladies of the village. My poor boy, go over to that 
 mirror and look at yourself now." 
 
 Instinctively he shrank back. "No, I don t bother 
 myself about mirrors." 
 
 "If you did, my friend, you d see sin written all 
 over you. Do you never pray?" 
 
 "I m afraid I don t think much about a Provi-
 
 3 o ESTHER DAMON 
 
 dence that interferes with the world plans for me. 
 If I could it would be comforting, but, Mrs. Damon, 
 imagine a God that can stand me." 
 
 "Won t you let us pray for you, Captain?" 
 
 Orme perceived the sympathy in her gentle eyes 
 and modified his attitude. "If you think me worth 
 your prayers, ... it is kind of you to trouble." 
 
 Although his nerves squirmed and his mind 
 failed to focus with precision, he noticed that the 
 younger woman seemed weary, as of an oft-told 
 story. So he was not surprised when the minister s 
 wife kneeled down on both knees before the chair 
 vacated by Clancy that she was obliged to pluck 
 the girl s skirt and to repeat, "Esther! Esther 
 Damon!" 
 
 The daughter sank to her knees. Then the 
 mother reverently, fervently, with deep beauty, 
 prayed, prayed as the first believers in their tents 
 beneath the desert sky might have petitioned the 
 Almighty. With bowed head Orme listened to Mrs. 
 Damon s utterance. But he observed that Esther 
 Damon s wandering eyes surveyed the scene through 
 the lattice-work of her fingers.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ORME was exhausted by the effort to talk with 
 Mrs. Damon. When, however, he had drained the 
 glass on the table, he felt a renewal of strength. He 
 said to Clancy who had been studying him with per 
 plexity, "Bring me more of that stuff, Harry." 
 
 Closing his eyes Orme felt no longer defied by 
 black calamity. His calamity was his wife, his life, 
 the village of Freedom and that larger world it min 
 iatured. He opened his eyelids for an anodyne. 
 It was sparkling before him. After filling Mearns s 
 glass he served himself. The sunshine streaming 
 through the window took on new warmth. It beat 
 down from a tropical sun. A voluptuous sense of 
 summer possessed Robert, a summer he had never 
 seen; which never ventured to appear in innocent, 
 cloistered Freedom; a summer he had dreamed 
 might exist in a magnolia forest on some golden 
 Southern island. This sense moved him to exclaim 
 to the soldier: " Whiskey, a lust, an appetite! That 
 was what the preacher s wife said. Little she 
 knows! The only trouble with whiskey is, there 
 isn t half enough in the world. Cheer up, Mearns," 
 he said, shaking the carpenter. "Don t look as if 
 you d lost every friend. If I felt as miserable as 
 you when I drink I d never take a drop. Be happy 
 
 31
 
 32 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 with me. Let us fill ourselves with costly wine, 
 and let no flower of spring pass us by. Let us 
 crown ourselves with rosebuds before they wither. 
 I can quote scripture, too. It doesn t sound like 
 scripture, does it? Let s crown ourselves with 
 rosebuds." 
 
 The slow, phlegmatic carpenter was still suffi 
 ciently sober to regret seeing Captain Orme, whom 
 he had followed for two years over Southern battle 
 fields, now make a fool of himself. Orme con 
 tinued to drink until time was turned backward 
 ten years and there was never a chill, a harsh voice, 
 nor an ugly thing in existence. In his fancy he 
 had just returned from the war, ready and eager to 
 live. Alice was a lovely fair-haired girl. They 
 spoke to each other in the old tones. The old 
 glances were exchanged. This was the evening 
 she promised to be his wife. He took another 
 drink and decided to go to Alice. She must be 
 expecting him. He loved her. They loved each 
 other. He wished to make her happy. He wished 
 to make every one happy. 
 
 As Orme staggered to the door his feet seemed 
 to be made of spongy cushions. He lurched into 
 the street and clung to a hitching-post in front of 
 Clancy s. To the amazement of the lame hostler 
 who was lighting his pipe, Robert, thus anchored, 
 viewed the Four Corners of Freedom: the farm 
 horses drinking out of the trough in front of Wher- 
 ritt s store; the loitering school children just dis 
 persed by the bell of the Freedom Academy; Georg-
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 33 
 
 iana Posey, the milliner, with clusters of brown curls, 
 and a simpering smile, who gave him a swift, ter 
 rified look as she passed into Hood s merchandise 
 store opposite Clancy s. In this attitude he en 
 deavored to get his bearings in an unreal, chaotic 
 blur of dancing shadows. Presently, he moved on 
 ward, only occasionally reeling. He was sustained 
 by the knowledge that he was going to Alice. 
 
 The gate before the white, bank-like, solid-looking 
 Wherritt residence did not open in response to 
 Orme s uncertain fingers, and so he entered through 
 the drive way. As he mounted the steps of the 
 small, inhospitable porch and pulled long at the 
 bell, he saw Ira Wherritt, coatless, clipping a hedge 
 near the barn. There was no response to Robert s 
 demand for admission. He rang long, angrily. 
 Silence. He rang again. No answer. He tugged 
 violently at the bell and wrenched the brass knob 
 from its socket. Then he beat upon the door with 
 such vehemence that even Aunty Brewster over the 
 way came to her window. Again silence. He tried 
 to open the door. It was locked. He threw his 
 body against the door. If they did not open he 
 would break into the house and take Alice away by 
 force. She was his wife. She belonged to him. 
 
 Suddenly the door yielded. Frowning, Ira Wher 
 ritt confronted him. 
 
 "Well?" That was how the money-lender ad 
 dressed a poor man. 
 
 "I want to see Alice." 
 
 "She won t see you."
 
 34 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "She must." 
 
 Wherritt glared at Orme as if he had refused to 
 pay usury. "If you come here again, I ll call in 
 Constable Diggs and have you arrested for beg 
 ging." 
 
 Orme dropped the door-knob. "You ll have 
 me " Had he sunk so low? "Why, you old 
 thief " he said, in a frenzy of rage. Then he 
 stopped and went abruptly down the steps, mum 
 bling, on his way to the tavern. "He ll have me 
 arrested because I want my wife." The azure went 
 out of the sky. The sun was no longer tropical. 
 What was the use? He would drink always, and 
 then sleep. Then drink again. 
 
 Pat Clancy and his son, Harry, sitting on the 
 veranda, feigned not to observe Orme entering 
 the unoccupied bar-room. None came to serve 
 him. He furiously hammered the bar with his 
 fists until some of the glasses rolled upon the floor 
 and broke. The noise brought the heavy figure of 
 the elder Clancy to the threshold. 
 
 "What in hell are you making all that racket 
 for, Orme?" growled the bloated, red-faced tavern 
 keeper. 
 
 Robert stood leaning against the bar. "I want a 
 drink, Clancy," he replied, resentful of the pre 
 meditated indignity of the Clancys. Since coming 
 into his inheritance Orme had for the most part 
 maintained the tavern. The innkeeper filled the 
 glass, but as Robert raised it to his lips, his hand 
 shook until part of the contents spilled upon his
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 35 
 
 coat. After emptying a second, third, and fourth 
 glass he sat before the table and asked for more. 
 
 "Say, Orme " said Pat Clancy, with the bottle 
 in his hand. 
 
 "Mr. Orme, Clancy," corrected Robert. 
 
 "Well, say, Captain, you re damned high-toned all 
 of a sudden. Who s standing for all this stuff you ve 
 taken?" 
 
 "I am, sir," answered Robert, raising his head 
 only to allow it to sink to his breast. 
 
 Clancy stroked his long, silken, iron-gray side 
 whiskers, his manifest glory, and said, "Not in the 
 Ivy Green any more. I m willing to call the bill 
 I ve got against you square if you ll get old Wherritt 
 to go security for you." 
 
 Anew, Robert became acquainted with the squalid 
 infirmity of poverty. "My name is as good se 
 curity as there is in Freedom." 
 
 Clancy glanced at the sheriff s notice on the wall 
 announcing the public auction on the following day 
 of Orme s live-stock. Plainly in his mind there were 
 two sides to the question. "I wish the Ivy Green 
 could run on air, but we ve got to have money." 
 
 Robert s voice was thick and hoarse as he stam 
 mered: "On considering it, Clancy, I can t afford 
 to be seen here any more. I ll have my wine sent 
 from the city. Good-day." 
 
 With the assistance of a chair Orme rose, his 
 hat awry. Both father and son smiled as Robert 
 tottered westward, resting at intervals against fences 
 and the old black-bodied maple trees. With great
 
 36 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 difficulty he proceeded toward what yesterday was 
 his home. 
 
 After passing the straggling cottages on the edge 
 of town, Orme began the toilsome ascent of the hill. 
 Once at the top, as he looked to the left, his stupefied 
 intelligence recognized that he still had a right to 
 the few acres of land long before reserved by his 
 kinsmen as the burial-place for their descendants. 
 It was on an elevation quite ten feet above the road. 
 The height seemed insurmountable to Orme. But 
 here was something belonging to him. From this 
 spot no one had a right to eject him. 
 
 Effort after effort, he put forth in a vain endeavor 
 to clamber up the perpendicular surface. Only 
 through a dumb animal stubbornness did he at last 
 find himself clinging to the fallen stone wall at the 
 top by which the lot was enclosed. He stumbled 
 heedlessly through the wild-rose bushes and seated 
 himself on a thick tangled bed of myrtle. He turned 
 his face toward the sun. 
 
 "The sunset is just as beautiful as ever," he mut 
 tered. "I can look at that." But his heart surged 
 with bitterness against the injustice of the world. 
 "Damn the very words rich and poor. I hate the 
 sound of them. I ll abolish them and substitute 
 happiness." His exaltation was soon swept away 
 by actuality. "No, I can t do it. Some master 
 mind will. I shan t live to see it." The black bar 
 barous centuries inevitable before the great hour 
 should arrive bore down upon Robert. He sank 
 backward in the dumb oblivion of drunkenness.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 BEFORE Orme opened his eyes the following 
 morning, without realizing why, he gave a deep 
 sigh like a groan. His aching head lay lower than 
 his feet. In his suffering he wondered for an instant 
 if he had been wounded. This wasn t that beautiful, 
 tearless world he had always dreamed of. From 
 the chaotic fragments of his brain he tried to recall 
 what had happened the previous day. 
 
 Out of the thicket of yesterday one fact defined 
 itself: he had lost his companion of ten years. 
 Alice was no longer with him. From this nucleus 
 Robert retraced the hours to the visit of the sheriff s 
 deputies in the morning and the eviction from his 
 home. As a final test of fortitude came the igno 
 miny of being turned out of the Ivy Green. How 
 he came to be here in the burial ground he could not 
 surmise. On the whole, he was glad of this mys 
 tery. Knowledge would bring him neither credit 
 nor solace. Alice s barbed words darted through 
 his memory. He accepted Alice s truth. He had 
 lived like a fool. Pat Clancy ruled him. He was 
 an alcoholic slave. 
 
 Orme realized this was deplorable because he had 
 known better. The splendid qualities of his for 
 bears, his liberal education, his love of the noblest 
 
 37
 
 38 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 human attributes must have contributed a moral 
 insight quite wanting in the crude ruminations of 
 Freedom. And yet, notwithstanding his subtler 
 distinctions of right conduct, insidious vice had 
 swept him in the wrong direction, while he, Robert 
 Orme, stood looking on like an impotent spectator. 
 
 Sometimes, it was true, he had protested; again, 
 half resolved, never wholly resolved, never com 
 manded himself. He had usually done the worst 
 that lay in his power. Was he to continue this con 
 tradiction between knowledge and action ? Was his 
 will palsied? Had he no character? Was he to 
 pursue his useless, dreamy, purposeless existence 
 until he should come to this lot to remain ? 
 
 Robert sat reflecting until a chill seized him. His 
 teeth chattered. His hands trembled. He knew his 
 diseased nerves were crying out for reinforcement. 
 "Yes," he said, as he felt himself sink under the 
 assault, "what Alice said was true. I m a drunk 
 ard." 
 
 But no sooner had he made the confession than 
 the words struggled to wriggle away, to deny them 
 selves. No, he was not a drunkard. He drank 
 because he needed a stimulant. He drank with the 
 old soldiers for conviviality, for the sake of the days 
 when they were together on the battle field. He 
 drank to resolve not to drink. His entire mental 
 infirmity summoned a score of perjured witnesses 
 to forswear the truth; but his reason held its own. 
 As a small force of patriots will often overcome an 
 army of mercenaries, the truth was not to be gain-
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 39 
 
 said. It was there in his unfastened boots, in his 
 grimy hands, in his clothing reeking with whiskey. 
 
 "Yes, I m a drunkard," he repeated, " kicked out 
 by every one. I m the town drunkard." He held 
 the thought before him in a kind of triumph. He 
 wished to force himself to face it. He must not 
 allow it to slip away. He must adopt it, affirm it. 
 In this unwonted act he found strength. He tried 
 to take one more step forward and face the crisis; 
 but so great was the opposing force that it was as 
 if within him were two beings. One commanded 
 the other. "Stand up, man. Let me examine you. 
 What is your name ?" 
 
 He rose with difficulty, swaying from weakness. 
 "Robert Orme." 
 
 "What is your occupation?" 
 
 "I m a tramp." 
 
 "What excuse have you for living?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 "Of what use have you ever been?" 
 
 "None. I once thought that to kill men in order 
 to make men free was some use. Now I doubt 
 it." 
 
 Search as he would, his life seemed useless as the 
 wine-bottles he had drained. Behind him was 
 blackness. Into that he could not sink. He must 
 go forward. His mistakes in the past should guide 
 him. It was the first time he had opposed his 
 appetite, and there in the high light of his con 
 sciousness he in this wise condemned himself: 
 "Robert Orme, I give you one more chance. I
 
 40 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 sentence you to go without stimulants of any kind 
 for twenty-four hours." 
 
 These words spoken, his will flagged as though 
 disease were in every cell of his body. He sat down. 
 Soon, however, he rose. His lips, his tongue, his 
 throat were burning. He must have water. Now he 
 recalled that there was a spring on the lot. Here 
 was the first site chosen by the Reverend John Orme 
 when he came to northern New York from Mary 
 land early in the century. The chestnut and oak 
 trees had been left standing and the field appeared 
 to await a dwelling. Orme walked to the farther 
 end of the cemetery. Bubbling out of the ground 
 was the spring which had attracted the attention 
 of the pioneers. He kneeled down and lapped the 
 water. Could he never quench the parching thirst ? 
 When he was able to swallow no more, he moistened 
 his handkerchief, bathed his head, his temples, his 
 eyes, and held it at the base of his throbbing brain. 
 Robert had no sense of hunger, but rather of weak 
 ness. Only when his eyes fell upon a wild cherry 
 tree scarlet with fruit did he realize that he would 
 like to eat something sour, hot, and pungent. Stand 
 ing under the small low tree he refreshed himself 
 with the bitter juice. 
 
 Afterward he walked about the lot. In one corner 
 of the field he came upon the ground where were 
 interred the finer, stronger spirits of his kin, each 
 of whom had left behind him noble traditions. The 
 largest head-stone was that of the first pioneer. 
 Unshaken by the wintry blast, it had stood upright
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 41 
 
 for nearly a century. Reading the epitaph, "He 
 did the best he could," Orme recalled that in his 
 earlier judgment those had seemed tepid, parochial 
 words. This morning they were a reproach to him. 
 Near at hand was the modest monument to the 
 second Reverend John Orme. Farther to the rear 
 lay Robert s own parents. Beside them were three 
 small stones marking the empty graves of his 
 brothers who marched away to war with him, but 
 who did so much better than he. They never re 
 turned. He dared go no farther; dared not shut in 
 between them and himself his recollection of them, 
 and his affront to them as he now appeared. Fleeing 
 from their dust he passed in the opposite direction. 
 
 With such rapidity did he overleap the fence that 
 he surprised himself hurrying down into the road. 
 Where was he going? Into the village with the 
 hope of finding whiskey at the drug-store. He 
 stood amazed. Had he no self-direction? If alco 
 hol had been a reasoning being it could scarce have 
 acted with better intelligence in undermining his 
 will. He called a halt; but urged by the uncanny, 
 treacherous undercurrent of his nature, on he went. 
 Only an hour since he had resolved never to drink 
 again. In sixty minutes his strength had been 
 beaten down. Once he had thought to obtain self- 
 government by one mighty effort; but the years 
 were leagued against him. What could his poor 
 volition do against the bent of time? 
 
 Again he called a halt. His appetite obeyed the 
 lash of the whip of his will. A thrill of power shot
 
 42 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 through him as he obtained his first victory. Hesi 
 tating he stood, his weight on his forward foot. 
 Was this the golden moment in which he should 
 free himself from himself? His moral knowledge 
 came out of the shadows where it had been hiding 
 and warned: "This is your last chance. Now you 
 measure your manhood." He wavered for a second, 
 seeming to go forward. Then, suddenly, with a 
 slow grim heave of the entire will, he turned and 
 walked in the opposite direction. 
 
 This desperate push for self-mastery was the first 
 time he had resisted the full driving force of his vice. 
 Of such far reaching significance was the act that it 
 pervaded his entire existence. Yet the moment was 
 not the magical one in which he had dreamed he 
 should find freedom, but a gray, dingy moment in 
 which the world went black. His feet were weighted 
 as he dragged them away from the town. At the 
 top of the hill he breathed heavily and paused. 
 
 Westward was a lake, sparkling in the sunlight. 
 The smiling placid water summoned him. Swim 
 ming had been his boyhood sport in summer; now 
 he yielded to the azure lure of the water. His first 
 step along the road through the clover and sweet- 
 smelling orchards launched him in an existence of 
 changed intention. As he proceeded he felt him 
 self grow and strengthen. This slight resistance to 
 the habit of years gave his will a motive power, 
 helped him hew a path through the jungle of his 
 nature. 
 
 Swimming washed some of the tavern out of him.
 
 43 
 
 He felt calmer and dozed in the sun. When he woke 
 once more he seemed to have a new will centre. 
 He refused to look at himself as a failure. He 
 could not be a failure while he had youth. His 
 throat swelled as he reflected that some of the best 
 years of his life might still be his years to shape 
 and mould after the pattern in his glowing imag 
 ination. But there was Alice he would yet make 
 her happy. 
 
 How much youth still remained in Orme that 
 he could again have faith in a nobler future for 
 himself! A smile of hope lighted his young-old 
 gray, seamed, flabby face as he went toward Free 
 dom. He had gone nearly a mile when he met a 
 band of wandering players who a few days before 
 had given a tent production of Uncle Tom s Cabin 
 in the village. They were travelling in wagons to 
 Attica and were laughing. It seemed to him strange 
 that any one could laugh to-day. As he gazed after 
 them the sand in the road was blown hither and 
 thither by the summer whirlwind. He sadly likened 
 himself to that dust. 
 
 At the top of the hill, looking down into Freedom, 
 he saw a crowd gathered in the garden of his former 
 home. The auction sale of his belongings was be 
 ing held. Suddenly he recalled his need of a barber. 
 Half-way down the descent to the town he stopped 
 in alarm. Again he was possessed by an alcoholic 
 delusion. The sight of the auction crowd had 
 driven him pell-mell into the village for whiskey. 
 His self-discovery was a shock. He sifted himself
 
 44 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 in disgust. Was he worth saving? Was it not 
 better for him to shrink, nerveless from the fight, as 
 unfit? Of what use was such quicksilver as he? 
 Was the great expenditure of strength with a doubt 
 ful result worth making? Alice was right; he read 
 philosophy as self-indulgence and he lived like a 
 fool. When his need was so great, which one of all 
 those friends, ancient or modern, whose beautiful 
 thoughts had been a sanctuary where he took refuge 
 from the ignorance of Freedom, could help him to 
 new life? Orme passed them in review. Philos 
 ophy wasn t worth a damn when he needed it. 
 
 But there was a hand stretched out the hand that 
 wrote these words, "Whatever ought to be, can be." 
 The sentence had a magnificent redemptive meaning 
 for Robert. He stood repeating, "Whatever ought 
 to be, can be." Tears filled his eyes. These 
 syllables compelled service of his feet, his senses. 
 They became a passionate, flaming faith. With their 
 aid he turned back, and mounted the hills this 
 time with ease. 
 
 "Once! Twice! Three times! And gone!" He 
 heard the auctioneer call. He could listen no more. 
 He lowered his head and went toward the lake re 
 peating, "Whatever ought to be, can be." But 
 the auctioneer s voice followed him, "Going! Going! 
 Gone!" Orme came back, and with every step 
 thorns seemed to press into his flesh. Yet he re- 
 descended the hill, passed to the very edge of the 
 village, then manfully turned round. Thus he 
 wearied himself till twilight when he saw the people
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 45 
 
 leaving the old garden. They had come from all 
 directions and were present in great numbers. The 
 Orme auction was a fashionable event. 
 
 Robert saw the family carriage driven away, the 
 carriage that had been the Sabbath spectacle in Free 
 dom when Squire and Mrs. Orme and their four 
 sons went to the Baptist church, the squire leaning 
 on his gold-headed cane and bowing like a beloved 
 king. Robert s horses were headed for Attica. His 
 cattle had been purchased by a dairy-man. He 
 wished to avoid the faces of their new owners. 
 Creeping up into the burial ground, he seated him 
 self under a cherry tree and held his head. Ten 
 thousand devils were tearing at him. He clenched 
 his hands, frowned and lined his face. What was 
 the use? Why resist the drift of the tide? How 
 could a drowning man swim against the force of 
 the stars? He wished he believed in prayer. 
 
 "This is hell," he said, "the hell of failure and 
 wrecked ideals. But there s one thing no auctioneer 
 can sell. It is What ought to be, can be. That 
 belongs to me."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ORME S self-imposed sentence had expired; one 
 whole day without a drink. He had defied temp 
 tation. His will had not been destroyed. It had 
 slept. Now, at last, awake, refreshed, it took its 
 rightful place and assumed command of his life. 
 He knew habit would not relax its grip without 
 further resistance. Perhaps the four and twenty 
 hours struggle would at times seem futile; but, at 
 least, it was not ignoble. He had made an effort. 
 He had battled against his senses. One day be 
 longed to him. 
 
 The preceding night Orme had slept under a 
 cherry tree, or rather he had suffered and dozed and 
 fought. This morning, as he briskly washed his 
 face at the spring, he paused and ground his teeth. 
 Why did those sparrows make such an infernal 
 noise? Soon he realized that he, not the sparrows 
 discorded with this lovely dawn. He went on with 
 his bath. His mind glowed with the joy of brief 
 self-conquest. He felt capable of enormous things. 
 He would strangle that beast within him. He would 
 lead a clean, useful existence. Yet while he men 
 tally re-created his future, he wavered. He won 
 dered if his was more than the optimism of the 
 drunkard. 
 
 4 6
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 47 
 
 Now a new kind of ambition came to Robert. 
 Like most men deprived by inherited fortune of the 
 discipline of work, he had always looked at life 
 through distorted, flattering lens. Two days pre 
 viously he found out what it meant to be poor. For 
 the first time he learned that the big demand of even 
 obscure little Freedom was for credit at the bank. 
 Alice wanted money. Ira Wherritt pinched, starved, 
 cheated for it, and a church pew made usury look 
 religious. Pat Clancy coined into money the tears 
 of women, the food of children, the blood of men. 
 Since this was the universal ambition, one every 
 where negotiable, Robert determined to have money 
 money for Alice. 
 
 With all haste he sprang over the old stone wall, 
 lightly leaped down the hill, ran across the road, and 
 up the steps leading into the large, neglected, tangled 
 garden. Here he paused. He was confronted by 
 too much that had passed from the spot. He had 
 steeled himself against appetite, but he was helpless 
 against throbbing memories which made the garden 
 seem like his own tomb. He was glad when he 
 came within sight and speech of Carter, an old negro 
 slave whom he had brought back with him from the 
 war. Carter had not deserted him. 
 
 "I mos certainly am powahful glad to see you, 
 Cap in Orme," said the colored man. "I mos cer 
 tainly am. I been busy packin all dese heah things. 
 I reckon yesterday was de grandest auction dey ever 
 had in dis place." 
 
 In the order brought by Carter out of the upheaval
 
 48 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 of books, pictures, and bedding, Orme recognized 
 faithful service. "It was good of you to remain, 
 Carter. I knew I could rely on you." 
 
 Carter was one great grin. "I toted dese boxes 
 up here on my back yesterday, shuah I did. It s 
 a-gwine to rain. Things get spoiled in de wet. We 
 kin put de boxes in Mr. Wherritt s barn." 
 
 "You re right, Carter," Orme agreed. "Every 
 thing must be stored immediately, but there s no 
 room in Mr. Wherritt s barn. As soon as I change 
 my clothes I ll go down to the village and find a 
 place." 
 
 The negro, hammer in hand, was about to nail 
 a cover on a box of pictures when Orme s glance 
 fell on the original portrait of Wesley. Robert 
 looked at the strong, inspiring countenance. He re 
 called Mrs. Damon, and the supernatural spirit with 
 which she had invested the picture. He was well 
 aware that the canvas possessed high value. In his 
 boyhood it had been exhibited in large cities. Squire 
 Orme guarded it as the treasure of the household, 
 and declined to allow it to fall into the hands of 
 prowling art vandals. Robert himself not long be 
 fore had fatuously stood in the way of its sale to a 
 New York collector. Now it came to him that the 
 offer of the antiquarian might enable him to emerge 
 from his difficulties in more ways than one. In 
 addition to material gain, the sale brought a pros 
 pect of a breath of air away from Freedom, the 
 limits of which pressed hard upon him. Yes, he 
 must get away from the village. He would go to-day.
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 49 
 
 Carter had been left by the Ripon bankers in 
 charge of the place until the land could be leased 
 or sold, and presently Orme went to the old servant s 
 room to change his clothing. Clean linen and outer 
 garments, not saturated with whiskey, made him 
 look less like an aging Hamlet who had been drunk 
 for a decade. Hurrying back to Carter he found 
 the negro with the old family Bible in one hand 
 and a bill of currency in the other. Carter was star 
 ing open-mouthed at them. 
 
 "Look heah, Cap n! I dropped de Bible and dis 
 money fell out. Tears it come straight from heaven." 
 
 At first Orme thought this Carter s ruse to compel 
 him to accept some of his savings, but he saw at a 
 glance that the old Bible was filled with family 
 mementoes. The bill was very old, and had prob 
 ably been placed there by his mother. He was the 
 modern man, quite untainted by superstition, but 
 for a moment he seemed to hear his mother s voice. 
 With that gentle woman s blood in his veins, her 
 memory in his heart, her sacred influence on his 
 soul, how had he come to this ? She seemed to plead 
 with him to go on with his effort. So shaken was 
 Orme that to prevent Carter seeing his emotion he 
 bent over the Bible. He pretended to be interested 
 in the family names inscribed there in Latin during 
 the seventeenth century in England. When he 
 remastered himself he laid down the volume, say 
 ing, "Carter, take care of that Bible. It s very 
 interesting and precious." 
 
 Orme rolled up the bill. A minute before it had
 
 50 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 seemed divinely sent by his mother. Now he was 
 tempted to destroy it. Money was only the means 
 for a carousal with his friends. Why not the beau 
 tiful unreality of drunkenness? Dismay crowded 
 upon him as his frail will was buffeted about. 
 Clearly he was more Robert Orme in weakness than 
 in strength. Cunningly, insidiously did his desire 
 for drink spur him to lie to the black man. 
 
 "I m going to New York, Carter, to sell that 
 Wesley portrait. When I come back I ll build a 
 house on the lot across the way. I think I ll set up 
 a select school, then I ll take you back, Carter." 
 
 "Yes, sah." Carter listened to Orme s rapid 
 words, bowed in his best plantation manner, and 
 wondered what more was to come. 
 
 "And, Carter, I wish you d pack me enough 
 clothing for a week and leave the bag at Mrs. 
 Brewster s." 
 
 "Yes, sah." 
 
 "We ll store the furniture in her barn." 
 
 "Yes, sah." 
 
 "You ll find me at her house within an hour, 
 Carter," Orme said in departure. "I ll leave the 
 picture for you to bring. Be sure not to miss me." 
 
 "Yes, sah." 
 
 Again the subtle vice gripped Robert. His new 
 will was throttled as he went toward the village. 
 The words, "I m a drunkard," yesterday so effective 
 a warning, now no longer served as a deterrent. 
 His new controlling formula, "Whatever ought to 
 be, can be," was as handwriting on water. He
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 51 
 
 would give himself to the wine god, that spirit of 
 fire and dew. What offered more sublimity to dull 
 existence ? 
 
 Under a large elm-tree half-way to his goal, the 
 drug-store, he encountered the grenadier-like figure 
 of Mrs. Brewster. She was returning from her 
 morning s marketing. So feverish was Orme s haste 
 that he removed his hat with stinted courtesy. For 
 an instant she stood inspecting him. 
 
 " Ain t my house as good as a tavern, Bobby?" 
 
 "I was just coming to see you," he answered. 
 
 "No, you wasn t neither, Bobby, but come right 
 in now." 
 
 "As soon as I go to the drug-store" he said, 
 moving forward. 
 
 "No!" No was the widow s favorite word. 
 "You come instanter with me. Carry my market- 
 basket." Holding him by the arm she led him 
 through the garden to her porch. Only the holly 
 hocks and the morning glories and Orme knew of 
 the heart hidden under Aunty Brewster s militant 
 manner. 
 
 As Robert opened the green-screened door of the 
 sitting-room, he said, "Indeed I was coming, Aunty. 
 I wanted to ask your advice." 
 
 She untied her bonnet and grunted. "Oh, ye 
 did, did ye?" She squinted at him. "Well, my 
 advice to you is, you d better take the pledge. Have 
 ye took it, Bob?" 
 
 "Yes, a kind of pledge, Aunty." 
 
 "Well, take a real one and keep away from that
 
 52 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 tippling house." Mrs. Brewster carried her bonnet 
 into the bedroom. Now, what do you want to eat ? " 
 
 "Nothing, thanks. May I have a pot of coffee?" 
 Blazing as he was with alcoholic energy, he won 
 dered why he did not break out of the door. 
 
 "You shall eat, Bobby," she said, placing on the 
 table before him mince pie, cakes, and cookies. 
 "You look awful piddlin ." 
 
 "Really, I care for nothing but coffee and rolls," 
 Robert meekly protested. He had forgotten that to 
 decline food from Mrs. Brewster s kitchen was 
 sedition. 
 
 "What s the matter with you, anyway, Bob? I 
 suppose you like your victuals all quiddled up. 
 You used to like my cookin ," she retorted as if she 
 believed the worst Freedom was saying of him. 
 According to Mrs. Brewster s thinking, not to eat 
 pastry for breakfast, was incipient depravity. 
 
 "When I was a youngster I did like cookies." 
 
 While she prepared the coffee, Robert heard her 
 sputter: "Colleges ruins every one who goes to em. 
 Ketch me near em. Mr. Brewster was the best 
 carpenter in Freedom. His head wasn t mussed up 
 with learning. He worked on the finest buildings 
 in town." Soon she emerged from the kitchen 
 carrying a great pot of coffee and a plate of rolls. 
 "Are you too tony to eat these?" 
 
 "They re just what I want." Orme placed him 
 self at the table, but he did not eat. He drank cup 
 after cup of strong coffee. "May I store our fur 
 niture in your barn, Aunty?" he asked.
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 53 
 
 Her reply was another question, "You and your 
 wife ain t a-livin together, be ye?" 
 
 "Not that, Aunty," Orme replied in embarrass 
 ment. "Alice isn t feeling very well, and she s stop 
 ping at her father s house until I get back from 
 New York." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster smiled skeptically. "I suppose New 
 York s one of your jokes." 
 
 "No, I m going on business this afternoon. I 
 take the two o clock stage." 
 
 The widow leaned back in her chair. "You re 
 going to New York!" She took a drink of water. 
 "Why, Bob! Why don t you tell me you re going to 
 Jerusalem?" 
 
 Not more than six persons in Freedom had 
 travelled so far as New York. The last venture 
 some person was Dr. Yates, the village physician. 
 A prejudice against travel had existed in the town 
 ever since Jeremiah Leak was killed by the Ripon 
 "Accommodation," ten years before. Her equilib 
 rium regained, Mrs. Brewster continued: "Well, I 
 suppose it will do you good to get away from this 
 racket for a spell. It will be a change if only from 
 mutton to skunk." Mitigating circumstances arose 
 in her mind. "I don t know as I can blame any 
 body for wanting to ride all day in the stage or on 
 the cars," she said. "If you want my barn, Bobby, 
 you can have it. How are you making out? Can t 
 I get you some ham and eggs?" On his declining, 
 the widow conjectured: "I suppose old Wherritt 
 won t let you have his barn. If I was as tight as
 
 54 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 him old skinflint! These girls nowadays are 
 trash. Send em to a city school and give them 
 music lessons, and that finishes em. Highty-tighty! 
 Give me silk and velvet or I ll go home to pa. I 
 never left Brewster even after he broke his leg. 
 Didn t I take care of him till he died?" 
 
 "There never was any one like you, Aunty." 
 
 The widow pretended to disdain compliments, but 
 a pleased smile played about her mouth. "I tell you 
 the old stock in Massachusetts was different. Not 
 a shilling for you or the barn, Bob. That would be 
 a nice shine, wouldn t it? I d be as bad as old 
 Wherritt to take money from you after all the milk 
 and fruit and groceries you ve give me for years. 
 Keep your money, you ll need it. Have some more 
 coffee." 
 
 When Mrs. Brewster went into the kitchen Robert 
 heard a gentle tap on the screen door. There stood 
 Mrs. Damon and her daughter. He imagined they 
 had come to pray for Aunty Brewster, who as a 
 Universalist was considered by the Methodists as 
 lost" as the Roman Catholics. Orme opened the 
 door and admitted the women. 
 
 "My friend," said Mrs. Damon, her face shining 
 like the face of a saint, "we ve been looking for 
 you. You re stronger to-day, I see, but you re still 
 troubled. You re sad, my brother. You re in dan 
 ger. You have need of higher help." 
 
 All other religions, Robert reflected, might be dead 
 superstition, but this woman s really lived. Her 
 kindliness was a beautiful grace, and her speech es-
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 55 
 
 caped impertinence because of her deep, quiet con 
 viction that she was under divine guidance. "We 
 have all prayed for you," Mrs. Damon continued. 
 "My husband, my daughter, and I have prayed for 
 you." Esther, who towered above her mother as she 
 did over all the women in Freedom, averted her 
 face, but Orme recognized her as a big, fine, natural 
 force. "We fasted and talked with God about 
 you, Captain." 
 
 Orme was exquisitely conscious of every phase of 
 the girl s beauty; the lines, the coloring, the wide 
 range of expression. Again he looked at Esther. 
 Deep in her transparent skin he noticed a blush. 
 He hoped she would speak. He wished to hear the 
 voice of the woman whose dark red hair contradicted 
 her grave, long-lashed eyes; whose vivid, brilliant 
 loveliness protested against her severe, monastic 
 apparel; whose entire person, flashing on him like 
 a page out of history was at variance with little, 
 crude, dingy, characterless Freedom. But she was 
 silent. In the appalling conflict of yesterday there 
 had been manifest to Robert no sense of compan 
 ionship; but it touched him finely that he had not 
 been alone. " Perhaps, Mrs. Damon," he answered, 
 "although I didn t realize it, you helped me. You 
 are very good, and you" he included Esther in his 
 expression of gratitude, "to lend yourselves to the 
 weak. . . . I m afraid I wasn t worth the trouble." 
 
 The older woman shook her head, and her sweet, 
 veiled smile disclosed to him, that, in her youth 
 before she had begun to bear on her shoulders the
 
 56 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 heavy cross of her Redeemer, she must have been 
 very lovely. "Don t thank me, my friend," she re 
 plied. "Every morning I ask Jesus to let me live 
 in His way. Yesterday His voice was as distinct 
 as mine is now: Fast and pray for Robert Orme 
 who is in temptation." 1 He repressed a smile at 
 her primitive belief, but she did not notice it and 
 went on. "Something tells me you are better than 
 you were day before yesterday." 
 
 To Orme, Jesus was only an ideal to work toward. 
 He had never known subjectively the emotion of re 
 ligion; but when Mrs. Damon spoke, there was no 
 longer contention or struggle within. His spirit 
 calmly presided over his body. "Any one should 
 be better for God s best medicine," he answered. 
 "I m sure it is kind words." 
 
 "And you are not going to that wicked tavern, 
 are you, my friend?" the minister s wife pleaded. 
 The girl quickly turned her eyes toward him. 
 Robert observed that, though the countenance of 
 Esther Damon was capable of expressing every 
 thing, as yet it was unawakened. 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Brewster returned to the 
 sitting-room and her native belligerence burst forth. 
 Before her visitors had time to explain, she said, 
 "No, Mis Damon, ye can t pray for me, now or 
 never. When I want any praying done I ll do it 
 myself. Who are ye, anyway Mrs. Jehovah?" 
 
 Esther quietly left the room and stood on the 
 porch, but Mrs. Damon smiled pityingly at the 
 widow like one whose devoted desire was to illu-
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 57 
 
 mine, persuade, and take possession of souls. "I m 
 one who loves you. I would give my life to save 
 you from desiring temporal things, from the gold 
 breast-pin, the gold earrings you are wearing, to save 
 you from hell." 
 
 For years the widow had not entered a house of 
 worship. Mrs. Damon s unfaltering efforts to guide 
 Mrs. Brewster into the spiritual kingdom were by 
 the village thought praiseworthy, but destined to 
 failure. There was no Universalist church in the 
 village, but the widow dearly loved to fly the flag 
 of her unpopular creed. 
 
 "Hell!" she scathingly returned. "Whoever in 
 vented such a place to scare fools with ? Everybody 
 is going to be saved." 
 
 The idea of "universal redemption" destroyed 
 for Mrs. Damon the value of the sacrifice of the 
 Man of Sorrows; but practised as she was in pa 
 tience, she answered gently: "You would like to 
 think there is no hell. I see it right here before 
 me. It s a great burning lake. God needs a hell 
 for those who doubt and trample on His name." 
 
 "Don t talk to me, Mis Damon," said the widow, 
 clenching her hands. "I guess I know as much 
 about the Almighty as you do, if you are a minis 
 ter s wife. Ministers! Churches! Humph! You 
 might just as well go into a store as a church, if you 
 ain t got your pocket-book with you." 
 
 "Ah, sister," chided the plaintive voice of Mrs. 
 Damon, "how you misjudge us. Let the Holy 
 Spirit come to you here."
 
 58 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "There s the door. Get out." Then Mrs. Brews- 
 ter subjoined this annihilating passage of scripture, 
 " Pray not as the hypocrites, on the corners of the 
 street to be seen of men. " 
 
 " Wherever one can lift up holy hands, there let 
 him pray, " promptly quoted Mrs. Damon. 
 
 The visitor kneeled down before the door and 
 Mrs. Brewster raged, "You d better go home and 
 hoe your own house and make a decent dress for 
 yourself. Your other girls died because you was 
 so busy praying you couldn t take care of them, and 
 this one looks like a beggar." 
 
 Indeed, not unlike a superb pagan queen who had 
 laid aside her fantastic head-dress, her strange blaz 
 ing jewels, her robes, to appear in the guise of a 
 beggar, Esther Damon stood within range of Orme s 
 vision. He felt certain the girl had heard though 
 she had moved away from the house. Quickly he 
 raised his eyes in protest from the paper he was 
 pretending to read. "Aunty Brewster, perhaps Mrs. 
 Damon doesn t understand this is just your man 
 ner of speaking. What harm will it do to let her 
 pray?" 
 
 "Now you keep still, Bobby," commanded Mrs. 
 Brewster. " Much you know about praying. These 
 folks can t come around here acting as if I m as 
 low as the Irish and giving themselves sanctimoni 
 ous airs. I won t have a blessed Methodist near 
 me." Then turning to Mrs. Damon, who was some 
 what bewildered by the denunciation, the widow re 
 marked: "You needn t bother any more about me
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 59 
 
 or my soul. You ve spoke your piece. If there is 
 any heaven I guess I ve got as good a chance to 
 see it as you have." 
 
 Mrs. Damon s dignity could not be impaired 
 by ridicule. She rose from her knees with com 
 posure. Whatever she uttered was transfigured by 
 the sweetness of her voice, by the faith in her eyes. 
 "I do want to meet you there, sister, to see you 
 walk the golden streets with a crown of stars in 
 your hair." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster was moved to sardonic mirth. 
 " What do you want gold streets for ? I thought gold 
 was such a terrible sin. I guess Methodists like 
 gold as well as any one, only you re all poor as Job s 
 turkey." 
 
 Mrs. Damon moved slowly away to join her 
 daughter who walked on ahead, dreaming her way 
 through worlds far from the ken of Freedom. 
 
 "Don t I have a siege with folks who won t mind 
 their own p s and q s?" Mrs. Brewster asked of 
 Orme. "Them Methodists are all crazy." 
 
 "I dare say that is exactly what Thessaly, Greece, 
 Rome said of Paul." 
 
 Carter at this moment appeared carrying Orme s 
 valise and, carefully wrapped in paper, the Wesley 
 portrait. After the negro had gone and Mrs. Brews 
 ter busied herself at the loom which occupied a large 
 space in the sitting-room, Orme still sat at the table 
 drinking coffee. It steadied his nerves and was an 
 excellent substitute for whiskey. His mind reverted 
 to the wife and daughter of Elder Damon. How
 
 60 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 pleased they would be with the portrait of Wesley. 
 To no one would it mean more and he had planned 
 to sell it! Life had been too easy for Robert with 
 wealth and honor as an inheritance. Bankrupt as 
 he was, in the joy of doing something for Mrs. 
 Damon and Esther, he forgot that he was giving 
 away his future. He rose to go to the parsonage. 
 
 "Well, Bobby, are you dead set on kiting off to 
 the ends of the earth?" 
 
 "After I take this picture over to Mrs. Damon." 
 "What! You ain t a-going into that crazy wom 
 an s house?" Mrs. Brewster raised her spectacles 
 and allowed them to rest on her forehead, as she 
 always did when astounded. 
 
 "Why not? They ve been very good to me." 
 " Good ! Making a nuisance of themselves ! They ll 
 think you want to jine the Methodist church." 
 
 But Orme was already out of the door, package 
 under his arm, making his way toward the corner, 
 mind-drunk with a new idea. He did not hear.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ELDER HEZEKIAH DAMON lived in a humble little 
 dwelling by the Methodist church. When erected, 
 both the parsonage and the spireless house of wor 
 ship were white; but the paint, peeling, left them a 
 weather-worn drab. In the small garden through 
 which Orme passed, no flowers bloomed; the grass 
 was unmown. In those primitive days of bottom 
 less hell any striving toward material beauty on the 
 part of a Methodist minister might have occasioned 
 suspicion that he, in his heart at least, accepted the 
 values of the worldly Baptists and Congregational- 
 ists, or even of those idolaters, the Roman Catholics. 
 
 There was a silence after Orme rapped for admit 
 tance to the parsonage. He looked round. Per 
 haps Mrs. Damon had not yet returned. No, there 
 was a stir within. Esther Damon opened the door. 
 They stood staring at each other for a long second. 
 In that stare it came over him how dreadful a per 
 son she thought him. He broke the spell of con 
 fusion by asking, "May I see Mrs. Damon?" 
 
 "Mother has gone to pray for the Catholic priest," 
 Esther explained in a silky contralto voice. Father 
 O Darrell was a friend of Robert s. He smiled as he 
 thought of Mrs. Damon struggling with the priest. 
 After a pause the girl went on, "Won t you come in? 
 
 61
 
 62 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 I don t think mother will be gone long. Father 
 O Darrell always gets so cross when she tries to 
 convert him. He thinks he s saved already," she 
 said as she gave Orme a chair. "He doesn t know 
 any better, poor man ! Just think, he smokes cigars." 
 
 Robert was one of those meditative persons who 
 see nothing or everything. To-day he noticed every 
 thing: the rag carpet; the cane-seated chairs; the 
 gray paper shades at the windows; the centre 
 table holding the law-givers of the family a large 
 Bible and a coverless, bethumbed edition of Para 
 dise Lost. An engraving of George Washington 
 and family was the only profane decoration on the 
 walls, hung with tablets of prayers, a leaf of which 
 was turned back daily. What a strange, grim set 
 ting, he thought, for this girl with the glowing hair, 
 and the intense, pale face. She made him think of 
 purple, cloth of gold, emeralds, and diadems. Seeing 
 her was like finding a great surprise of nature. He 
 was glad Mrs. Damon was absent. He wished to 
 hear Esther talk. 
 
 " And you didn t go with Mrs. Damon to help con 
 vert Father O Darrell?" 
 
 "No, mother said I was too bad." 
 
 "Bad?" He wondered what her definition of 
 badness might be. "Not very bad, I fancy?" 
 
 "Terribly!" she said, shaking her head gravely. 
 "Lucy Yates you know her, don t you?" 
 
 "Our fathers were like brothers." 
 
 "Lucy and I have always been seat-mates at 
 school. She has such a good time and goes every-
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 63 
 
 where. Yesterday she took me to see Uncle Tom s 
 Cabin without mother s knowing. It was played in 
 a tent near the school-house." 
 
 "Did you find it interesting?" 
 
 All her repose was gone. Robert had never seen 
 a face so responsive to the vibrations of thought. 
 She clasped her hands as she leaned forward: "It 
 was heavenly. Where do such beautiful people come 
 from?" How inexperienced she was, he thought, 
 when she could idealize those tawdry, wandering 
 players. "But," she added, "it was so wicked." 
 
 "Why wicked?" 
 
 "It was almost a theatre, and theatres are sin," 
 she answered. 
 
 "Are they?" 
 
 " Don t you know it either ? Of course you don t." 
 
 Determined to anticipate her thought, he replied, 
 "No, I m the worst man in Freedom." 
 
 "Mother says you re not so bad as the Clancys or 
 Father O Darrell. The Clancys sell whiskey and 
 Father O Darrell worships idols." 
 
 "That s something, at least," he said with a smile. 
 
 "I shouldn t say anything about other people 
 being wicked because I don t see anything wrong in 
 1 Uncle Tom s Cabin. I told mother so just now. 
 She won t let me see Lucy for a week ... I must 
 stay in my room all that time." 
 
 "Why didn t you ask your mother s permission to 
 go?" 
 
 "What was the use?" she answered wistfully. 
 "She d never let me go; but I m glad I went. I d
 
 64 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 starve for weeks to see Uncle Tom s Cabin over 
 again. I never was so happy in my life." 
 
 "And such innocent happiness." 
 
 Esther shook her head. "Mother doesn t call it 
 innocent. I know I must be terrible. I hate it up 
 in my room. It s so dark and dreary. I came down 
 just to see who was at the door. It s like see 
 ing the stage come in or opening a package to 
 see what is in it." She glanced at the Wesley por 
 trait he had laid down. 
 
 While removing the paper from the picture, Orme 
 watched Esther s face. He wondered what future 
 was coming to this enkindling girl. Loving her 
 would make a saint or a devil, a poet or a beast 
 out of some man, according to the original warp of 
 his fibre. "I m going away from Freedom," he 
 said, as he held the portrait before her. "I brought 
 this picture for your mother. I hope she will ac 
 cept it." 
 
 Esther looked at the canvas in silence. Finally 
 she said, "Oh, it s Wesley!" The corners of her 
 mouth drooped. "The frame is very nice." Her 
 tongue did not readily respond to conventional hy 
 pocrisy, but she finally added, "Mother will be 
 pleased." 
 
 Her disappointment revealed to Orme the truth; 
 he had brought the picture not for the mother, but 
 for the daughter. Esther had seen him at his worst. 
 He wished her to see him at his best. "Don t you 
 like the portrait?" he inquired, the pleasure of giv 
 ing gone.
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 65 
 
 "I hoped it was something beautiful," she ex 
 plained reluctantly. "I saw a corner of the frame." 
 Then, in a gust of passionate thought she burst out, 
 "I can t stand the sight or name of John Wesley- 
 She broke off in alarm, and covered her lips with her 
 fingers. Soon she went on: "I never said it to any 
 one but Lucy Yates before. She promised not to 
 tell. I suppose I oughtn t to say it to you, but 
 Wesley keeps me away from Uncle Tom s Cabin 
 and everything I like. Father s always preaching 
 about him, but I believe he was hateful. I read in 
 a book at Dr. Yates that Wesley couldn t even live 
 with his wife." 
 
 How Esther Damon could judge ! Wesley s weak 
 ness came to Orme as his own indictment. Neither 
 he nor she in their earnest interest in what she was 
 saying realized that Mrs. Damon, standing in the 
 open doorway, had heard Esther s words. 
 
 "Daughter, why are you down here? Go up 
 stairs to your room," came the mother s low and 
 insistent voice. 
 
 Revolt flared in Esther s eyes; Mrs. Damon 
 quelled it with a word, "Daughter, dear!" 
 
 The girl went toward the narrow stairway and 
 closed the door with a bang that shook the house. 
 With every step as she mounted the uncarpeted 
 stairs, she seemed to grind to powder Wesley s bones. 
 Mrs. Damon looked at Orme in alarm. For the 
 first time she realized that a new full-grown individual 
 was in her home, one who could form her own 
 opinion and rebel. She promptly met the situation
 
 66 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 by going to the door: "Esther, come downstairs 
 immediately." 
 
 "Yes, mother." The girl returned meek as a 
 saint. 
 
 "You astonish me, daughter. Say you re sorry, 
 and apologize to Mr. Orme for your unladylike be 
 havior." 
 
 If Esther had a capacity for wounding, she could 
 beautifully atone. Placing her arm affectionately 
 round Mrs. Damon s neck she pleaded, "Mother, 
 dear, forgive me. I don t know why I m so bad." 
 When Mrs. Damon kissed her, the girl turned to 
 Robert, "I m sorry, Mr. Orme." 
 
 "That is nothing," he said. "I like people as 
 much for their imperfections as for their perfections 
 . . . sometimes more. But I hope you won t mis 
 judge Wesley. He was a great man because he 
 protested at a time when protesting was hard. He 
 lived and suffered for an ideal!" 
 
 A wonderful light came into Esther s eyes. "It 
 must be splendid to live and suffer for an ideal," she 
 answered. Then she tiptoed softly upstairs. 
 
 "My daughter isn t usually disobedient, Mr. 
 Orme," was Mrs. Damon s apology. "When she 
 was a child she did some strange things. One day 
 when she was seven she disappeared. Night came 
 and we thought she was dead. At twelve o clock we 
 found her at the lake, asleep. She told us she had 
 started to find the world s end. Now she is grown 
 I m afraid some of her pleasure-loving friends sug 
 gest adventures to Esther. Yesterday Lucy Yates
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 67 
 
 took her to see Uncle Tom s Cabin. I don t like 
 to break off the girls friendship, but Esther must be 
 obedient. I m keeping her in her room for a week." 
 
 "You re not afraid to punish a girl like your 
 daughter so severely?" 
 
 Mrs. Damon looked at Orme blankly: "Afraid of 
 what?" 
 
 "A reaction. Nature, you know " 
 
 "Nature!" Mrs. Damon smiled in pity. "God 
 is nature. How can I be afraid so long as God 
 has her in His care?" Her eyes fell upon the por 
 trait of Wesley. She bent over it, scanning each 
 feature with love. Raising her head, she smiled in 
 ecstasy. "Isn t it beautiful? You brought it for me 
 to see once more?" 
 
 "Yes, I m going away from Freedom for an in 
 definite stay 
 
 "And you d like me to take care of the picture," 
 she interrupted eagerly. 
 
 "I d like to give you the portrait as a memento of 
 your kindness to me." 
 
 Tears stood in Mrs. Damon s eyes. Trembling, 
 she seized his hand and said, "How can you doubt 
 our Heavenly Father, Mr. Orme, when he inspires 
 you to such kindness ? How wonderful that I should 
 have this blessing." Again she bent over the canvas. 
 "Where shall I hang it?" She hurriedly opened the 
 door leading into the parlor and Orme followed her 
 into the room. 
 
 Robert was surprised by an unexpected note of 
 worldliness in the apartment. The mahogany fur-
 
 68 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 niture was of a solid, pleasing mould. It had been 
 inherited by Mrs. Damon from her mother, but she 
 still questioned her right to its possession. Con 
 cerning this self-indulgence she passed many hours 
 in communion with her Maker. Was not this a 
 covert concession to godlessness? 
 
 "I ll place Wesley s portrait there," she said, in 
 dicating a side of the room where hung a card 
 board motto, "God Bless Our Home," worked in 
 crewels. "My husband will be so happy. He is 
 preaching in Attica to-day." Then she turned to 
 Robert and questioned, "Perhaps I oughtn t to take 
 the picture, Mr. Orme? Are you quite sure you 
 will not keep it?" 
 
 "It belongs here. I shall like to think it has found 
 its place at last." As he spoke, he noticed several 
 oblong pieces of cardboard on the marble-top table. 
 Taking one up, he asked, "What are these?" 
 
 "Some of my child s work." And such work 
 odd bits of bright paper skilfully glued to card 
 board gave the effect of weird, tropical landscape 
 painted by one with a sense of color, but without 
 sense of form. 
 
 "They re beautiful," Orme said, holding them at 
 a distance. "How much they suggest. What im 
 agination!" 
 
 "Her father and I thought them rather odd and 
 pretty, and so I kept them. Esther can do anything 
 with her hands. We re very poor. I ve nothing 
 else to offer you. If you care for such a trifle I d 
 like you to take one of those pictures."
 
 THE WORST MAN IN TOWN 69 
 
 Never had a gift so pleased Orme. He chose a 
 picture and placed it in his pocket as if it were a 
 masterpiece. Presently he took leave of Mrs. Da 
 mon. Once out of the front door he raised his eyes 
 to the upper story. Like a beautiful young captive, 
 leaning against the small-paned window, there stood 
 Esther Damon. When she saw him she tapped on 
 the glass and gesticulated furiously. He made out 
 that he should look downward. At his feet fluttered 
 a piece of paper which read: 
 
 Will you please say to Lucy I told mother about " Uncle 
 Tom s Cabin," and that I mayn t see her for a week? Ask 
 Lucy to pass here every day, and she ll find a note on the 
 grass in front of the house. Tell her I adore her always. 
 Thank you. 
 
 ESTHER DAMON. 
 
 P. S. I don t think you are very wicked. E. D. 
 
 Orme read and re-read the note. He studied the 
 eager, reckless handwriting. Poor girl, locked up in 
 that garret. Of course he would take the message 
 to Lucy. He read the postscript aloud. What 
 pleasure there was in helping others, he thought. 
 Then his intellectual honesty caused him to stop 
 short. How sweet it was to serve Esther Damon! 
 In wild confused yearning he longed for youth, 
 decency, and liberty; but this longing was a new 
 abyss in himself. "Good God," he said, "I m glad 
 I m going. I m a new kind of fool."
 
 BOOK TWO 
 ESTHER DAMON
 
 Strange the world about me lies, 
 Never yet familiar grown, 
 Still disturbs me with surprise, 
 Haunts me like a face half known. 
 
 In this world of starry dome, 
 Floored with gem-like plains and seas, 
 Shall I never feel at home, 
 Never wholly be at ease? 
 
 On from room to room I stray, 
 Yet my host can ne er espy, 
 And I know not to this day 
 Whether guest or captive I. 
 
 So between the starry dome, 
 
 And the floor of plains and seas, 
 
 I have never felt at home, 
 
 Never wholly felt at ease. WILLIAM WATSON.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE forum of Freedom was the Four Corners. 
 Here the opinions of Horace Greeley were read aloud 
 and discussed. Here the reputations of the local 
 clergy were established or overthrown. Here inter 
 national questions were solved. Ira Wherritt, Eben- 
 ezer Hood, and Job Spear, the merchant princes of 
 Freedom, were also its philosophers. They dom 
 inated the village, politically, financially, and theo 
 logically. The philosophers were confounded by 
 the disappearance of Robert Orme. Twelve months 
 had passed since they saw him go away in the stage 
 coach to Ripon. Since that time, the very day, 
 they recalled, Enoch Hood s horse died of the colic, 
 no word had come from him. That his absence 
 still remained a mystery discredited the Four Cor 
 ners as the source of absolute knowledge. Who in 
 the future would accept their opinion on the weather, 
 the crops, the president, and God? They plunged 
 about desperately and again questioned the stage 
 driver, who seemed closest to the solution of the 
 mystery. 
 
 For the hundredth time he repeated his story. 
 He had driven the passenger to Ripon where Orme 
 purchased a ticket, the railway agent said, for New 
 York. From that moment speculation wandered 
 
 73
 
 74 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 and lost itself in uncertainty ; but the philosophers of 
 the Four Corners couldn t afford uncertainty. Be 
 sides, the bankruptcy and separation of the Ormes 
 had given them a taste for the sensational. They 
 supplied a melodramatic climax to the missing man s 
 life; Robert Orme had drunk himself to death and 
 his body would be found in the East River. 
 
 No one doubted this inspired information. Alice 
 questioned whether she should wear mourning for 
 such a husband. Her old aunt said that in her time 
 the dead were respected. Alice s more modern school 
 friends reminded her that black is unbecoming and 
 the wearing of it a waste of time. They wondered 
 whom she would marry for a second husband. She 
 bought several new dresses in Buffalo. All thought 
 it best that Robert had died in New York instead of 
 living further to disgrace his family in Freedom. The 
 Methodist church offered prayers for him, and several 
 grateful villagers recounted his acts of kindness. 
 
 After Freedom had solemnly buried Robert the 
 widow Brewster one morning appeared in the post- 
 office. The pale, tenor-voiced clerk gave her the 
 mail, with this astonishing information, "Your postal 
 card is from Bob Orme." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster s joy overflowed into a cackling 
 laugh. "I told em so," she said, looking at the 
 card with the wonder of an inhabitant of Mars. 
 Holding it close to her eyes, she read, "New York 
 City!" "Dear me suz! It s the first time I ever had 
 a postal card from New York City. See," she said 
 to the clerk, indicating the post-mark, "it s printed
 
 ESTHER DAMON 75 
 
 right in front New York. . . . Why, they ve left 
 off the city, but," she questioned a little anxiously, 
 "it means New York City, don t it?" Being as 
 sured of the correctness of her surmise, she read 
 aloud that all loiterers in the drug-store might hear: 
 "Shall be home Tuesday evening, Robert Orme." 
 "Coming home!" she went on to the clerk. "Ain t 
 he a nice boy to write me ? He sent me postal cards 
 from Washington and Philadelphia when he went 
 to the war." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster s abrupt resurrection of Robert 
 Orme was followed by the sudden, smiling con 
 sciousness that her cooking and weaving no longer 
 pressed and that it was vastly important she should 
 buy at Wherritt s a pound of tea she did not need. 
 When she exhibited the post-card to the store 
 keeper the old man changed his spectacles to read 
 the message. "Waal," he declared in astonish 
 ment, "I thought it was good riddance to bad rub 
 bish. Who d ever suppose he d come back to face 
 Freedom? I guess he s got the cheek if he don t 
 get drunk and fall off the cars." 
 
 There was more than usual of Freedom to face 
 this evening when the stage-coach, making an in 
 effectual effort to dash like a Roman chariot up to 
 "Hood s Merchandise Store. Established in 1820," 
 as the sign testified, at last gave up and candidly 
 lumbered its way into the Four Corners. For the 
 second time in the day many irreproachable females 
 had left their sewing and crocheting to appear in 
 the commercial centre. This sort of indiscretion
 
 76 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 was perilous to reputation. But here, with the 
 frivolous, gad-about creatures of the village, they 
 were assembled to witness the arrival of the public 
 conveyance from Ripon. 
 
 The stage disgorged two occupants. The first to 
 alight was an over-fed travelling salesman who, 
 luggage in hand, unmindful that there was anything 
 unusual in the evening event, promptly waddled to 
 the Ivy Green. Orme did not linger. He gave 
 Freedom a surprise. There was no stumbling from 
 the dusty vehicle. He gained the ground with sure, 
 firm step. Clear-eyed, skin bronzed and firm, he 
 walked up the main street toward the Wherritt 
 home with something of his old glowing joy in his 
 strength. The townspeople to whom he nodded 
 thought it strange he did not appear like a beggar. 
 
 Job Spear stopped counting eggs and said to the 
 clerk, "Got a new suit of clothes, ain t he?" 
 
 "Looks so. Wonder where so much money comes 
 from?" 
 
 The answer was poisoned with suspicion. " Money 
 in New York must drop off trees as apples do in 
 Freedom." 
 
 During their separation of a year Orme had re- 
 idealized Alice. Now he hastened to her like a 
 young lover. He would tell her of his new hopes, 
 his new plans, the new clean life he had to offer 
 her. He hoped she would sympathize with his 
 struggles, share his joy in self-mastery. At a dis 
 tance he could see her in a white muslin gown, sit 
 ting on the formal Wherritt porch. The sight of
 
 ESTHER DAMON 77 
 
 her touched him tenderly. There should be no 
 more bitter years in their lives. 
 
 With determined mien he passed through the gate 
 and approached the house. Alice was more charm 
 ing than when he had left Freedom. She had the 
 loveliness of the woman who desires to attract. 
 But it was not possible to him to understand from 
 her falling countenance, as her eyes met his, that 
 the restored grace was not for him. Nor could he 
 know that she had expected never to see him again. 
 Something there was in her appearance, something 
 he could not analyze, that pained and disconcerted 
 him, something that made the few steps between 
 them difficult to traverse. He hoped his presence 
 would not bring back to her their unhappy years. 
 Perturbed as he was, he felt little surprise when she 
 addressed him as if he were an intrusive peddler. 
 "Oh, you ve come back." 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "I m here." He laid his 
 hand upon the valise which rested on the steps. 
 In endeavoring to make the simplest statement to 
 his wife, he trembled before her judgment to a de 
 gree that made him realize the exorbitant cost of 
 the past decade. "There are many things we must 
 say to each other, Alice. Mayn t we go into the 
 house?" 
 
 Her answer took on the character of an appeal 
 to Freedom as a protecting witness: "We can say 
 all we have to say out here." 
 
 "Very well," he said, still standing. "I don t 
 blame you, Alice, for being angry with me for com-
 
 78 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 ing here that last horrible day. It was inexcusable. 
 ... I think I must have been mad. ... I hope 
 you won t find it too hard to forgive me." 
 
 "There is nothing to apologize for," she answered 
 with weary cynicism. "What you did was not un 
 usual for you." 
 
 "I never behaved quite so badly before, but for 
 give me for that and all my life the humiliations 
 and griefs I caused you." 
 
 "Oh, I forgive you," she answered perfunctorily. 
 
 "Don t be impatient with me," he pleaded. 
 
 "Impatient! Do you think I m a woman or an 
 angel, Robert? I m just a woman, and I ve heard 
 the same thing every two months for I don t know 
 how many years." 
 
 "You ve heard the words, Alice never the spirit 
 of them. The words are threadbare, I realize, but 
 I don t know any others. Perhaps I ve forfeited 
 all right to consideration, but if you only knew what 
 I have gone through you d understand I mean what 
 I ask. I ll tell you if you care to hear. Each day 
 was a struggle, but I won every time. I said I 
 wouldn t come back till I proved you might believe 
 in me. You may. When I went away I got off 
 the train near Albany and went out into the fields 
 and sweated the poison out of me. In the city I 
 worked as a carpenter and cabinet maker. I learned 
 so much, Alice. I had looked all my life for phil 
 osophy to save me. I didn t know it was work I 
 needed. Now I don t want whiskey. I ve found a 
 real religion, work. And I m going to build you a
 
 ESTHER DAMON 79 
 
 house. Come over to Aunty Brewster s and live till 
 it s finished." 
 
 Her interest slowly revived. "Is that house an 
 other of your dreams?" 
 
 "No, it s reality, Alice. I ve made some money 
 and in building I m going back to first principles. 
 The first settlers in Freedom hewed their houses out 
 of the forest. It was splendid. I ll do the same." 
 He glowed as he promised. "We ll have a log house 
 on that lot across from the old place. There ll be 
 three or four nice rooms, one with a big fireplace. 
 And I ll do it all myself. We ll imagine we re 
 pioneers." 
 
 Her interest was now extinct. "I was always 
 glad, Robert, I wasn t a pioneer. I like things 
 finished." 
 
 But his enthusiasm expanded into words which 
 even her manner failed to check: "Ours won t be 
 an ordinary log house, Alice. It will be beautiful 
 finished in chestnut. We ll build it under the apple 
 and cherry trees. I ll have a workshop and make 
 furniture. I believe there ll be a market for it in 
 the city. I can make money in that way. Then 
 I ll open a select school to prepare the academy 
 pupils for college." 
 
 "I m not romantic, Robert," she answered judi 
 cially. "Romance doesn t give a good fixed in 
 come. I don t see anything very beautiful in living 
 in a log house with a man who coolly tells me his 
 ambition is to be a carpenter." 
 
 Her cold implacable perception of the prosaic side
 
 8o ESTHER DAMON 
 
 in the plan which meant so much to him routed his 
 self-command, and he said, "For God s sake, Alice, 
 stop thinking about what kind of a house you re 
 to live in. Consider a little that we ll be together. 
 Did you marry me or the house on the hill?" 
 
 He waited for her answer. Without hesitation it 
 came: "I didn t marry you at all. You re a peev 
 ish, ill-tempered drunkard. I should never have 
 married a man with hair gray from drink. I haven t 
 a white hair in my head. I married a handsome 
 young officer." 
 
 "Yes," he answered with a sigh. "I suppose I m 
 the only person in Freedom who has grown old in 
 ten years." 
 
 "You can slur me all you want," she responded 
 in martyred tones. "I can bear it. I m used to it. 
 I expect it. But I don t intend to leave pa s com 
 fortable home. I m sure of bread and butter 
 here." 
 
 "Is there nothing," he asked impatiently, "greater 
 than three meals a day ? It seems to me better to try 
 to make the unhappy a little less sad. I ve never 
 been able to do it, but I will. If I can ever do for 
 any one what I ask of you, I ll be satisfied. All on 
 earth I want, Alice dear, is faith, not much a little. 
 Don t stint me. Be more generous than I deserve. 
 Don t be another of my critics. I have enough of 
 them. If only every morning whether it s true or 
 not you ll tell me you have faith in me, I ll ask 
 no more." Needing her assistance, he seemed to 
 need everything. "I know you have few faults to
 
 ESTHER DAMON 81 
 
 make you indulgent to others. Perhaps I am piti 
 ably weak to urge my request, but I need you." 
 
 "What is the use of trying to pretend, Robert?" 
 she said like an unawakened child with little com 
 prehension of how deep the words cut. "I have no 
 faith in you." 
 
 Now it seemed he had not advanced a step toward 
 the light since that terrible day of blackness, when, 
 alone, he tramped the dusty highway from Freedom 
 to the lake and return. All his future whirled before 
 him as a dreary, dusty road which in solitude with 
 the sun beating on his aching head he must travel. 
 Robert looked at his wife s shallow, pretty gray eyes, 
 and though he shrank from affixing labels or giving 
 judgments, he read in her bloodless fairness a 
 poverty of faith, of love. "Very well, Alice," he said 
 slowly. "I ll not be more abject. You shouldn t 
 desire it. I ll not ask you again. I think I under 
 stand." With abrupt transition he drew from his 
 pocket a leather case containing bills of a large 
 denomination. "Here is half of what I earned last 
 year," he said carelessly. 
 
 Then he saw what would bring the light into her 
 eyes, what would restore the girlish color to her 
 cheeks. "Oh, thank you, Robert," she said, count 
 ing the money before she inquired, "and have you 
 the rest?" 
 
 His astonishment increased as he answered, "Of 
 course. Why?" 
 
 "Don t you think that you d better give it all to 
 me ? You know I manage ever so much better than
 
 82 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 you. You ll never build a house. You ll only drink 
 it all up at Clancy s." 
 
 For the first time Orme entirely realized that he 
 had married Ira Wherritt s daughter. He smiled. 
 But his smile twisted into a queer grimace, as, igno 
 ring her doubt, he insisted. "I think I m entitled to 
 half for the house I shall build, Alice. When it s 
 finished there will always be room in the house in 
 the house, understand for you." 
 
 He took up his valise preparatory to departure. 
 Alice opened her lips to speak. He gathered that now 
 she would have reversed her former decision; but 
 he desired his supreme tribunal to be unbribed. He 
 saw that his wife was shut off from him by the 
 barrier of her nature. Neither knew when one took 
 leave of the other. On his way to the gate he met 
 his father-in-law who was coming from the store. 
 No salutation passed between the two men. 
 
 Orme had intended to go directly to Mrs. Brews- 
 ter s house; but from the excitement of disappoint 
 ment in his interview with Alice suddenly was born 
 in him a devouring thirst, a furious need of rein 
 forcement of strength, a need he thought uprooted 
 and replaced by his new faith, work. On the in 
 stant the drug-store, not the boarding-house, became 
 his objective point. While his new will asserted its 
 restraint, his old will hurried him on his way. He 
 wrestled with something stronger than himself, of 
 treble his strength. Burdened with apprehension he 
 entered the drug-store, and like one bent on suicide, 
 purchased a bottle of brandy. He placed it in his
 
 ESTHER DAMON 83 
 
 pocket as though intending to use it for medicine. 
 And so indifferently do we bear the tragedies of 
 others that the druggist winked at the clerk. 
 
 Two figures were seated on the Wherritt veranda 
 when Orme, in passing, heard his father-in-law 
 drawl, "I don t know, Alice, as you had ought to 
 have took that money." Robert could hear Wher 
 ritt pause to expectorate tobacco-juice. "You ll find 
 out he never come by it honestly. Maybe he stole it." 
 
 Until Robert heard the sneering words he had 
 withstood the brandy. Now, to the devil with re 
 sistance! He wanted to be drunk every day of his 
 life. What a fool he had been to think of namby- 
 pamby repentance. Why not be a man? He 
 emptied the flask. The demon of rage and whiskey 
 was in him. He longed to murder his father-in-law 
 who had taken Alice away. Picking up a stone that 
 lay in the road, Robert heaved it at the Wherritt 
 house. With joy he heard the crashing glass. He 
 hoped he had killed Ira Wherritt. He hadn t. He 
 had broken a window. The typhoon of wrath in 
 his brain calmed suddenly. He was steadied by 
 his violent act. He had no more desire for whiskey. 
 
 Mrs. Brewster had been weaving by the dim fire 
 light. Seeing Robert at the door she left her work. 
 "Why, Bobby, to think you ve come all the way 
 from New York City to-day." She frankly in 
 spected his hat, coat, and boots. "You do look 
 tony, as if you d bought out all New York. Was 
 it nice riding on the cars? What am I talking 
 about? Of course you want supper. Folks never
 
 84 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 get anything to eat in New York. They all starve 
 to death in cities." She saw the despair in his face, 
 the deep chiselled lines about his mouth. "Why, 
 what s the matter, Bobby?" she asked, her gruff 
 voice suddenly betraying a maternal cadence. 
 
 "Man hasn t the contempt for a dog that he has 
 for another who has failed," he burst forth. "But 
 tell me, Aunty Brewster, I may count on you, 
 mayn t I? You are my friend, you believe in me." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster no longer saw the seamed cheeks, 
 the graying hair, the sad eyes. He was merely a 
 cajoling, brown-eyed boy pleading with her to make 
 him a little pie, or to give him three portions of ice 
 cream. She was not entirely certain that she be 
 lieved in his will, but she did believe in his heart. 
 Placing her hand on his head as she had not done 
 since he was a child, she answered. "Why, of 
 course I do, Bobby. You bet I do." He sank 
 into a chair by her loom, and she questioned him 
 no further. But once she paused in her work and 
 shook a fist of anathema in the direction of the 
 Wherritt house. "Oh, these women! these women! 
 I m ashamed I m a woman."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ONE of the fairest recollections of Robert Orme s 
 childhood was his father s talent for recounting tales 
 of adventure. There came a day, however, in 
 Robert s early boyhood, when Squire Orme was no 
 longer called upon to exercise his fancy for his son s 
 amusement. The lad told his parent he could 
 dream more beautiful stories himself. Indeed, his un 
 trammelled, boyish imagination led hiftn into battle 
 fields thick with danger, to the tops of the highest 
 mountains, across the roughest seas. It gave him 
 the companionship of the bravest men, the love of 
 the most beautiful women. 
 
 Orme s first opportunity to satisfy his yearning 
 for the extraordinary, came when at the beginning 
 of the Civil War, a call was made for volunteers. 
 Immediately he and his brothers offered their ser 
 vices, and urged other men in the community to 
 accompany them. After four years of fighting, 
 Robert, returning to the village, found the pursuits 
 of peace flat. This hamlet of Freedom where life 
 was bounded by ignorance, intolerance, and the nar 
 rowest orthodoxy, was entirely without wide, exhil 
 arating reaches of thought or action. He secluded 
 himself from the place, excluded it from his doors; 
 but he flung them open wide to his master whiskey. 
 
 85
 
 86 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Now he was deprived of the fortune raised by him as 
 a drawbridge over the moat of inequality between him 
 and the villagers; and fate pitched him against his 
 will into the life of Freedom. 
 
 After his return from New York, Robert lived at 
 Mrs. Brewster s boarding-house. There he felt more 
 keenly than ever the narrowness and dulness of the 
 town. He was tempted to leave and never come 
 back. For days he fought out with himself the 
 question of his future. Suddenly he felt the good 
 of the world. Surely there was something to be got 
 out of these commonplace days. There must be 
 splendid duties in every obscure life. Perhaps there 
 were great possibilities in this village. It was 
 like a new dawn when he recognized his own duty. 
 Instead of seeking elsewhere for the unusual, the 
 heroic, it would be better, braver to try to find it 
 here. He was as far from perfection as Freedom. 
 He wondered if each could not help the other to 
 create a more decent human society. Robert saw a 
 life work before him. The path he was to follow 
 was so straight as to bestir his wonder that he had 
 not sooner discovered it. 
 
 When he should finish the log-cabin planned by 
 him he would go on working as a carpenter and 
 cabinet-maker. Even in the days of his prosperity 
 he had delighted in reproducing mediaeval furniture. 
 One year s toil with his hands had perfected his 
 skill to such a degree that he now saw a livelihood 
 in manufacturing furniture. If that failed he would 
 be a carpenter. Within a fortnight after his home-
 
 ESTHER DAMON 87 
 
 coming Robert put on a blue shirt and overalls. 
 The Four Corners stared at him as much sober as 
 drunk. But he was happy because he had aban 
 doned a false standard of living. He was no longer 
 a gentleman according to the traditions of his family. 
 He was a man. 
 
 Building was not easy in Freedom. A house was 
 seldom erected; so there were few carpenters. The 
 morning when the ground was to be broken for 
 Orme s log house, Tom Tribble, a clean faced, 
 bright-eyed, young workman arrived before the 
 stone-masons and laborers. Robert noticed that 
 Mearns was absent. Orme found him about to 
 enter Clancy s. Mearns was drafted into imme 
 diate, but reluctant service. 
 
 "No, I won t work on the same house with Tom 
 Tribble," Mearns protested. "He carried the flag 
 Decoration Day, and he didn t know how." 
 
 Orme silenced him. "Excuses, Mearns! Come 
 with me and next year I ll see that you carry the 
 
 There was great activity on the Orme hill. Men 
 unloaded building materials from heavy wagons. 
 The cabin was to face the setting sun and the sweet, 
 beguiling little lake, with its unreal blue. Robert s 
 fancy was that the house should sprawl into left and 
 right wings, forming a court before an old apple- 
 tree. 
 
 When Orme broke the earth, he felt he was 
 enfranchised into the true work of the world. At 
 last he touched the heart of life. But as the day
 
 88 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 wore on he was troubled by his altered attitude 
 toward the men he employed. When he gave work 
 to others, during his period of inherited prosperity, 
 he felt like a philanthropist. One year as a laborer 
 had wrought a change. He recalled that his em 
 ployers in Albany always took from him more than 
 they gave. Now, though he was paying the usual 
 wage, his conscience pricked him. He was not 
 giving his helpers what they earned for him. He 
 threw down the spade and fetched them some water 
 from the spring. Still he was not satisfied with the 
 relations between him and his men. He was rob 
 bing them. Perhaps he ought to apologize to them 
 for being their master. But he had a great charm 
 of being the laborers liked to work for him, and 
 his thoughts were soon for the task. 
 
 Often on this first morning Robert looked across 
 at the family residence hiding among the trees. He 
 believed it had never possessed the meaning for his 
 kinsmen that even this foundation of a cabin bore 
 for him. The four generations of Ormes living in 
 the old home had not known the discipline of manual 
 labor. The pompous brick house stirred in him 
 slight regret. Had he not been dispossessed of his 
 property he would never have learned that the only 
 way to understand life was by work; the only way 
 to love life was by work. Even the philosophies 
 which once lay so near him were chill when com 
 pared with the ecstasy of doing. 
 
 At noon the men seated themselves on the rocks 
 to eat their dinner. Orme went to Mrs. Brewster s
 
 ESTHER DAMON 89 
 
 house, but he felt he should have remained with his 
 workmen. At sight of him the widow exclaimed, 
 " Why, Bobby, your face is as red as the flag." She 
 pointed to the national colors which she, a lineal 
 descendant of a soldier of the American Revolution, 
 kept flying from her roof. In her queer fancy the 
 presence of the flag in that spot indicated that she 
 was a branch of the Federal Government. "I can 
 see you don t have to have work fanned into your 
 hands. You ve been going at it like fun. I was 
 born in a log house, and it will be kind of good to 
 see one again. You don t look like one of them 
 flippy-floppy city fops, now, Bobby. Mr. Brews- 
 ter was a carpenter; I wish he was alive; but he 
 broke his leg before you was born." Mrs. Brewster 
 always spoke of her husband s broken leg as an epic 
 heroism. It really came from slipping on his wife s 
 over-polished kitchen floor. 
 
 Orme, seated at Mrs. Brewster s table, was no 
 longer the gray, trembling wreck of the previous year. 
 His body, hardened by twelve months of manual 
 labor, was holding out beautifully. His new vision 
 of life forbade his resting while his men were un 
 comfortable. After a light meal, in spite of the 
 protests of Mrs. Brewster, he hurried back up the 
 hill, carrying a pot of coffee. She called after him 
 he would make himself sick. He was only pretend 
 ing to be grown. He wasn t. He never would be. 
 When he wanted anything he would move heaven 
 and earth to get it. Then he would play with it 
 day and night until he was tired of it.
 
 90 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 The first day the men worked till twilight. This 
 cabin seemed to belong to them. They wished to 
 see how soon it would be ready. When Robert 
 considered their hours of toil, he said to himself, 
 "I m a robber. I don t waylay strangers. I way 
 lay workmen." 
 
 The following day, in order to compensate the 
 builders, he gave them leave to cease work early in 
 the afternoon ; but his personality had a spell. They 
 did not go to their homes. Sprawled on the grass, 
 they fell to watching the movements of a hill of ants. 
 Observing the interest of the men, Robert, who was 
 pre-eminently a teacher, told them quite simply the 
 story of the ants, their laws, their government, their 
 battles. In response to their questions he talked an 
 hour. When Orme finished, Mearns, who had lis 
 tened with wide eyes and relaxed lips, asked, "Do 
 you know any more, Captain?" It was the pathetic 
 plea of a child for fairy tales. 
 
 "Yes, Captain, do you know any more?" Tribble 
 inquired. 
 
 Robert knew, indeed, many more romances of 
 nature, of the birds, their habits, their flights; of 
 the light-of-love butterflies; of everything they saw 
 about them. As he talked with the men, answering 
 their simple questions, he seemed to give them 
 eyes for seeing the beauty of the landscape, ears for 
 hearing the hidden harmonies of nature. For the 
 first time the toilers found life to be more than the 
 dull routine of poverty. Labor was no longer a 
 disease; it was an ideal. And a change came over
 
 ESTHER DAMON 91 
 
 him as well that afternoon, something which fresh 
 ened, strengthened his existence. When he found 
 himself hearing for his fellow- workers, seeing for 
 them, thinking for them, his own enlightenment be 
 gan. If only he could teach them to hear and see 
 for themselves. 
 
 Each afternoon as the season advanced, Orme 
 spent an hour talking with them. Sometimes Carter 
 sat near by, rolling his eyes in wonder, and shaking 
 his head over the surprises in the unfamiliar alpha 
 bet of the ways of nature. Already at their homes 
 in the evening some of the men were groping through 
 primers of science, delighting in their discoveries. 
 After Orme voluntarily reduced their working hours 
 to six, the men at the close of the day were like 
 ambitious children in their haste once more to enter 
 into the relation of teacher and pupil. Their affec 
 tion for Robert, their belief in him, their faith that 
 he could continue to instruct and lead them, was to 
 him unfailing sustenance. As he worked with them, 
 he reflected that they were building more than a log 
 house. They were building him. They were build 
 ing one another. 
 
 Three months of work in the sun. Three months 
 of sound sleep. Best of all, three months of trying 
 to help his workmen in their development. Orme s 
 eyes glowed with the brilliancy of boyhood. His 
 dark skin was ruddy and clear. Save for the deep 
 lines at the sides of his mouth and the inexpressible 
 sadness of his face when in repose, one would have 
 believed that nature had forgotten and he had re-
 
 92 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 gained uncorrupted youth. Yet when he felt most 
 secure he found an abyss at his feet. 
 
 One morning, when Mearns did not come to 
 work Robert discovered him staggering out of 
 Clancy s. At sight of this flesh and blood ghost of 
 his own past, Orme s heart went terror-sick. Should 
 he himself ever stumble over that precipice? Ah, 
 he would rather die than sink again like poor 
 Mearns! Others might smile at the sight of the 
 helpless drunkard, but Orme led the weakling 
 home, listened to his excuses, and sat with him all 
 night, imagining the horror of a similar plight for 
 himself. Instructed by fear and sorrow, the next 
 day Robert escorted the penitent Mearns back to 
 work. 
 
 The apples were falling, dropping into the open 
 windows of the quaint double-winged cabin, when 
 the work-shop was finished. So zealous had been 
 Orme s effort to be really kind to his employees that 
 the final hours of labor were for the workmen like 
 the closing of a romance. Where should they ever 
 find another Robert Orme? Yet he was not sat 
 isfied. Looking at the house and the work-shop into 
 which the men had put so much of themselves, he 
 believed he should share the home with them. But 
 this appeared impossible. As Robert talked to the 
 men the last time, some vital thing seemed about to 
 leave him. How much he needed them! When 
 Mearns, speaking for the others, asked if they might 
 come evenings to him for lessons, Robert felt he 
 had been saved from a great peril.
 
 ESTHER DAMON 93 
 
 Orme did not meet Alice during the summer. 
 She kept to the Wherritt side of the street; he to 
 Aunty Brewster s. But with obstinate idealism he 
 always felt he was preparing a home for her. If 
 only she could see his beautiful cabin. Dr. Yates 
 and Father O Darrell had both called and admired 
 his work. Alice would surely like it, he reasoned. 
 Any one could buy a handsome house; but this 
 house he had built. He had proved himself. Meas 
 uring his wife by his own overbelief he hoped she 
 would like the home because his brain had conceived 
 it, because his hands had helped in the construction. 
 
 The south wing with its view of the sweet stretch 
 of valley, hills, and lakes, Robert had reserved for 
 her. He decided to place there the conventional 
 mahogany furniture stored in Mrs. Brewster s barn. 
 Thus he would spare Alice the sight of his heavy, 
 massive things, ridiculed by her and the village, 
 in the living-room and the north wing he occupied. 
 
 Orme and Carter drove in a hired lumber wagon 
 to fetch the furniture. 
 
 "Waal, is your house in apple-pie order?" asked 
 Mrs. Brewster, fastening her sleeve, as Orme ap 
 peared at her gate. " Are you going to have a house- 
 warming?" 
 
 "I m afraid no one would come to my party, but 
 I hope you will have dinner with us to-morrow. 
 Carter and I came down to get some of the furniture 
 in the barn." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster rubbed her chin. "What be you 
 talking about?"
 
 94 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "The furniture I stored in your barn a year 
 ago." 
 
 "I ll be switched! Sit down there." Mrs. Brews- 
 ter indicated a green chair behind the morning-glory 
 vines. "Didn t you know the furniture was all sold 
 to a second-hand man in Buffalo?" 
 
 "The bank had no right to it." 
 
 "The bank didn t do it. Your wife sold it a 
 month after you went away." 
 
 "Alice!" 
 
 "Folks in cities are crazy about mahogany. She 
 got top-notch prices. They took the books and all 
 to get the mahogany." 
 
 "Not my books?" he stammered. This was the 
 conclusive blow that demolished the last bit of sen 
 timent lingering in him for Alice. 
 
 "Yes, she s just like her father. They don t come 
 it over her. She made a first-rate bargain." 
 
 Robert caught only the last words. Bargain! 
 Bargain ! Of course she did ! Ira Wherritt was rich 
 and Alice bargained his books away ! Anger burned 
 in his blood. Greed! Greed! How he hated it! 
 How he hated her! She had taken his books. She 
 had sold his dearest friends. He could have strangled 
 the greed out of her. His books! How dared a 
 barbarian like her touch his books? What did she 
 know about them or care? She had bartered his 
 happiness for a savings-bank account. Now he had 
 no money for more books, and heaven only knew 
 when he should have. "My books," he almost 
 moaned. The future closed against him. What
 
 ESTHER DAMON 95 
 
 should he do in the dark, haunted night without his 
 books ? How could he live ? 
 
 Clancy s! How the bottles gleamed like great 
 jewels! How the wine danced and beguiled! How 
 the fumes rose sweet to his nostrils! How the 
 fragrant languorous world reeled ! Ah, wine was the 
 friend when all else failed! 
 
 "Oh, I forgot to tell you, Bobby," broke in Mrs. 
 Brewster, on his meditation. "I bought a few of your 
 books from the Buffalo auctioneer. I ain t got no 
 use for em myself. They only clutter up the par 
 lor." She opened the door leading off the piazza. 
 "But you liked em, and they made me kind of think 
 of you. You see they all said you was dead." 
 
 In the darkened parlor, seldom opened, Robert 
 saw Mrs. Brewster s what-not filled with his best- 
 beloved volumes. Aunty Brewster had chosen those 
 most worn by use. "You can take em up to your 
 house, Bobby. Ketch me reading one of em." 
 
 His anger, the despair caused by losing the books, 
 the surprise of their discovery when he thought he 
 should never see them again, overcame him. He 
 threw his arms round her and sobbed.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 FREEDOM wondered whether Alice Orme would 
 return to Orme. Ira Wherritt, when questioned, be 
 came profane on the subject; he said he d see that 
 scoundrel damned before Alice should go and live 
 with him in a shanty. Would they believe it? 
 Orme tried to murder his wife when he came back 
 from New York. This beautiful ball of scandal was 
 tossed into the Four Corners. Pat Clancy sent it 
 twirling across the street. Job Spear added a gen 
 erous impetus. When it reached Hood s, half a 
 dozen contributed kicks, landing it at its final goal 
 Deacon Snead s house. Then the ball was rolled 
 up and down the winter streets, growing like the 
 great snow monsters made by school-boys on Robert 
 Orme s hill. 
 
 Aunty Brewster warred against Robert s detrac 
 tors, called them "copperheads," accused them of 
 sympathy with the assassination of President Lin 
 coln. Doctor Yates never lost an opportunity to 
 deepen in Robert the sense of his confidence in his 
 friend s new will. The physician, enswathed in 
 mufflers and shawls, early in the winter, stopped his 
 "cutter" before Robert s door. He brought his shy, 
 slender son Irving, with his Keats-like face, to 
 Orme for lessons. Irving must be ready for college 
 next year. 
 
 96
 
 ESTHER DAMON 97 
 
 The following Sunday Dr. Yates was waylaid by 
 Deacon Snead coming out of the Baptist church. 
 
 "Ain t it pretty risky, doctor, to let that Bob 
 Orme teach Irving? Ain t you afraid he ll turn out 
 to be a drunkard or an infidel, or a murderer?" 
 
 "Nonsense," laughed Dr. Yates, shaking his fine 
 old head. "I ve known Robert ever since he was 
 born. He s a hero." 
 
 "They say he was a good soldier," reluctantly 
 conceded the deacon, "but you never can tell. I 
 didn t read anything about it in the Tribune." 
 
 "War! Murder! That s nothing. Robert is a 
 good soldier now, every day. It s much greater. 
 I hope he teaches that to Irving." 
 
 "Do you want Irving to live with tramps?" in 
 sisted the deacon as Dr. Yates slipped on the icy 
 sidewalk in his haste to depart. 
 
 "I d like Irving to give up his bed to a sick tramp 
 and sleep on the floor as Robert did the other night. 
 But I m afraid my boy is too much like me ever to 
 do that." 
 
 When Deacon Snead and his wife met over the 
 mid-day meal, he told her he thought Dr. Yates was 
 crazy. He let Irving go to Bob Orme s every day, 
 and the doctor said he wanted his boy to live with 
 tramps. Mrs. Snead answered that Irving Yates 
 would probably be hanged. 
 
 Robert learned from Aunty Brewster of the con 
 troversy raging about his separation from his wife. 
 He shuddered at the possibility of Alice s return. 
 His marriage was much less marriage than if she
 
 98 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 were dead. She hung like a weight round his neck. 
 With all his strength he wished he could cut the 
 tie binding her to him. He tried to forget her in 
 laughter laughter and work. He sharpened his 
 vigilance, hardened his will with discipline and work. 
 After overcoming his fury for self-abandonment to 
 drink, he was urged into work by an unceasing 
 force. His imagination outran all conceivable hu 
 man capacity for accomplishment; but he kept on 
 as if he could embody all his dreams in achievement. 
 Now that he saw life and knew it, his enthusiasm 
 carried him onward like an eagle s wing. 
 
 He was up early in the morning, shovelling snow 
 away from the path to the gate, cleaning and var 
 nishing furniture in his shop, preparing his first 
 shipment for the market. This was before Irving 
 Yates lesson hours. In the afternoon he experi 
 mented with dyes, improving on what Mrs. Brewster 
 taught him. By lowering and softening the tones 
 of her carpets, he thought they might find sale in the 
 city. She told him his colors weren t colors at all. 
 His yellows weren t yellows. As for red, give her 
 good old-fashioned turkey-red. His blues were all 
 faded out. Yet she followed his suggestions. When 
 later Robert sent to New York a piece of Mrs. 
 Brewster s carpet, with a set of his oak household 
 furniture, she told him she was sure city folks 
 wouldn t want such stuff. But every day she made 
 a point of seeing him and asking for news. None 
 came. 
 
 One December afternoon Robert, leaving Mrs.
 
 ESTHER DAMON 99 
 
 Brewster s, a few minutes after the bell of the 
 academy ceased ringing, found himself in a throng 
 of young people on their way to coast down his 
 hill and to skate on the lake. A dozen lads outran 
 their school -fellows, eager to reach the fort at 
 Orme s gate he had built with them out of snow. 
 They shouted. They threw snowballs. They 
 washed one another s faces. He was on good terms 
 with the very young, the weak, the helpless, but 
 his life had estranged him from most of the villagers. 
 He was acquainted with few of the older students, 
 and so he loitered behind them. 
 
 Lucy Yates helloed to him with her muff as she 
 passed. Lucy, blue-eyed, round-cheeked, downy, 
 dimpled, was the sister of Irving. Light-footed, 
 graceful, fair-haired, she wore a white cap, a pretty 
 gray coat, and a white fur collar. Her right arm 
 encircled the waist of a tall girl enveloped in a large 
 fringed shawl which hung straight and loose from 
 her shoulders to the bottom of the skirt, draping her 
 entire figure with dusky grace. In spite of the 
 dingy black shawl, held together by bare rosy hands, 
 Esther Damon carried her head like a splendid, 
 barbaric chief tainess. As she walked, her slender 
 waist swayed like the stem of a flower. Orme had 
 not seen her in more than a year. He wondered if 
 she would remember him. He almost stopped still 
 as he awaited her recognition. For a second his 
 working clothes served as a disguise. Then she 
 greeted him charmingly. Inherently she knew how 
 to bow. He walked on behind her and Lucy Yates,
 
 ioo ESTHER DAMON 
 
 and it gladdened him to recall that in Esther Da 
 mon s home was the portrait of Wesley. It would 
 always remain there. What if Alice had sold the 
 picture ! 
 
 Among the students were pranks and sallies and 
 laughter. One youth alone was deprived of com 
 radeship. He fairly glittered in his city apparel as 
 he drew after him a bright red coaster. Orme saw 
 that he glittered and flashed alone. This boy was 
 Harry Clancy, who before and after school hours, 
 kept the bar at the Ivy Green. He was better 
 dressed than the others, and handsome in a dash 
 ing, actor-like way; but Orme soon discovered that 
 Clancy was the pariah of the school. Robert had 
 a tenderness for pariahs, being one himself, though 
 in a different category from Clancy. Robert thrust 
 himself on no one. Those who knew him must 
 come every inch of the way. But in the well-clad 
 Clancy, the essence of the tavern and its heart-break 
 ing degradation, Orme observed an effort to bribe 
 his way to village favor. 
 
 Irving began the afternoon sport. He took Es 
 ther Damon and Lucy Yates on his sled. Harry 
 offered his coaster to several of the girls. By each 
 it was declined. Then he invited some boys. They 
 too found places elsewhere or were going to skate. 
 At last Clancy went down the slope alone. When 
 they all came back, frolicking up the hill, puffing, 
 panting, he was still alone. 
 
 There was a second series of invitations. Clancy 
 again made himself a target for village brutality.
 
 ESTHER DAMON 101 
 
 Esther Damon watched the scene. In her intent 
 eyes Orme observed an expression of pain pain 
 she had not herself endured, but which had been 
 transmitted to her by those who sang in flames. 
 Now the meaning in her face which shone, expelled 
 all others, and transformed her, was pity. Ernest 
 Chase, the curly-headed, freckled-nosed son of the 
 druggist, teasingly pulled one of Esther s long auburn 
 braids. "What s the matter, red head?" 
 
 He got no further. Harry leaped upon Ernest, 
 dragged him to the side of the road, thrust his head 
 into a snow-bank, commanded, "Take it back! 
 Say you re sorry." 
 
 "I m sorry," came the half-smothered apology. 
 
 Orme was no longer interested in the battle of 
 Bunker Hill at his gate. He watched the juvenile 
 tournament of chivalry. Esther s hands were clasped. 
 Her eyes followed Clancy. The defender came back 
 for his reward. It was these words, "May I ride 
 with you, Harry?" 
 
 "I d like mighty well to have you, if you would," 
 he answered. 
 
 Orme sickened as he saw Esther take a seat on 
 Clancy s sled. "My goodness! What would Es 
 ther s father say?" Ernest Chase asked. 
 
 Ella Cowley s question was even more confounding. 
 "What would Esther s mother say?" 
 
 Orme wondered, what indeed, if that saint-faced 
 woman had seen her daughter. Yet he fancied 
 somewhere the girl had learned to be strong. Her 
 conduct would often contradict her upbringing.
 
 102 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Mrs. Damon, he believed, could no longer keep 
 Esther in a garret. He turned away from the sight 
 of what he thought was Esther Damon and Harry 
 Clancy coasting down the hill, the girl s red braids 
 waving rebelliously in the breeze. In reality, he 
 turned his back on a miracle, but no one knew it. 
 
 The miracle began this way. Esther looked at 
 Harry. Harry looked at Esther. They smiled. 
 They were close together. The December wind blew 
 on their faces. Their throats swelled. Their hearts 
 beat fast. 
 
 "You re the nicest girl in town," he said. 
 
 "Oh, Harry!" 
 
 "And the prettiest." 
 
 "I, pretty?" The thought made her drunk. 
 "Why . . . I m awfully ugly. . . . I have red hair." 
 
 "I like red hair best of all. Yours is beautiful. 
 Your eyes are so dark." 
 
 It was the first compliment she had ever received, 
 she who had hungered all her life for beauty, who 
 loved Lucy Yates because she thought Lucy beauti 
 ful. Esther was no longer Esther. Harry was no 
 longer Harry. He was a hero. She was one of 
 those wonderful creatures in the "Duchess" that 
 she and Lucy used to read about in Lucy s play 
 house. This wasn t Freedom. Esther and Harry 
 weren t coasting. They were floating over the tops 
 of mountains to Mars or Heaven. 
 
 Orme sat before his large work-desk in the living- 
 room, haunted by what he had seen. The day was 
 stained for him. He opened a drawer, took out a
 
 ESTHER DAMON 103 
 
 note and read the postscript. "I don t think you 
 are very wicked." Who but Esther Damon would 
 have written that to him a year and a half ago? 
 Again this afternoon in this hostile town her eyes 
 had said, "I don t think you re very wicked." How 
 much toleration might she not have for Clancy? 
 Robert looked about the bare cabin walls. The 
 only picture in his possession was this bit of card 
 board in his hand. The green night, the great 
 golden moon, produced a wonderful illusion. He 
 placed the picture over the fireplace. Then he 
 walked_away to look. Near the moon were two 
 strokes of white chalk. They might have been 
 intended for two clouds or for ... two souls. He 
 gazed until he was in a world he had never seen, 
 where nights were emerald and gold. He lived in 
 that world. He was one of those white clouds. 
 This was another miracle. 
 
 He scarce noticed when Carter brought the letters 
 from the post-office and placed them at his side. 
 Not until there was silence without, and the snow fell 
 in large, swift, fast-melting flakes, did he read by 
 the light of the log, that the furniture and carpets 
 at the Exposition in the city had been sold.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ORME S world was transformed. Three persons in 
 New York had bought his furniture. Perhaps there 
 would be thirty. Thirty promised three hundred. 
 Three hundred would span the wide chasm between 
 success and failure. Success was his goal. For he 
 believed he could do a big, permanent thing he 
 could humanize commerce in the village. He sum 
 moned the men who had helped him build the house 
 and work-shop. Mearns and Tribble returned with 
 glad eyes and glad hearts. They sang as they 
 worked. They were paid in more than gold for 
 their toil. Their tools were more than wood and 
 steel. They were love and joy. 
 
 Two expert cabinet-makers came from Buffalo. 
 They did not know what to make of this Robert 
 Orme kind of a world, the doors of which were never 
 closed, which was a hospital for lame dogs, tramps, 
 and sufferers. The little factory was like a house of 
 worship. Robert s living-room was given to the men. 
 His evening hours were theirs. And many strange, 
 pent-up confessions came to his ears. Though he 
 did his best to democratize the industry, to sweep 
 away the cruelties of established society, he was not 
 satisfied. He desired more for the men than they 
 
 104
 
 ESTHER DAMON 105 
 
 hoped for themselves. He determined as soon as 
 possible to cease living on the profits of his em 
 ployees toil. 
 
 The demand for Mrs. Brewster s rag carpets in 
 creased Orme s hopes. The carpets were liked even 
 better than his furniture, especially those of which 
 the greens weren t green and the blues weren t 
 blue. "What city folks can see in those washed- 
 out colors is more than I can understand," was Mrs. 
 Brewster s pleased comment. "I like something I 
 can see without specks." 
 
 But city folks saw so much in the carpets that 
 Mrs. Brewster s shuttle flew all day and far into the 
 night. When spring came, carpet-weaving had ex 
 pelled the boarders. In May she and Orme decided 
 that more looms must be purchased and that ad 
 ditional women must be engaged to sew rags and 
 "trip the treadle." 
 
 Orme placarded Spear s, Hood s, and Chase s 
 drug-store with requests for weavers. Many women 
 in Freedom could weave, and the thrifty creatures 
 pricked up their ears. Making rag carpet was easy. 
 The women saw a means of procuring pin money; 
 but no sooner did they consider working for Orme 
 than the venture took on social and theological as 
 pects. Would it be prudent for young girls, spin 
 sters, and matrons to have even formal business 
 relations with a drunkard like Orme an infidel 
 whose opinions were a crime, a man who attempted 
 to murder his wife ? Of course Orme the employer 
 was a different person from Orme the bankrupt.
 
 io6 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 He was more respectable. He had paid his bill at 
 Clancy s, and the postmaster reported that consider 
 able sums had been transferred by him to Robert. 
 But Mrs. Snead at her quilting-bee decided the so 
 cial side of the question. Grandmother as she was, 
 she wouldn t risk her good name by darkening that 
 man s door. 
 
 The Baptist and Congregational ministers who 
 thought for Freedom, theologically, had not met since 
 an unlucky union revival meeting two years pre 
 viously. Now they came together to define Robert s 
 status among church-members. Backed up with 
 many biblical quotations it was; Christians must 
 draw the line somewhere. The solid element of the 
 community must wash their hands of him. Let 
 Robert Orme find his work-women among the 
 ne er-do-wells gathered about him. 
 
 Such was the little corner of the world where 
 Robert hoped the "I" would be abolished, where 
 the Golden Rule would become second nature, and 
 brotherhood would reign. He realized that his had 
 been a tipsy dream. Kindness had not touched the 
 village to kindness. None would work for him 
 save the wife and daughter of the blacksmith, 
 Michael Magee. Orders for carpets must remain 
 unfulfilled unless Orme should send to Ripon for 
 helpers. The size and uncertainty of the industry 
 rendered this plan impracticable. 
 
 At the same time Mrs. Brewster was almost as 
 trying as Freedom. Her Massachusetts prejudice 
 against those so unfortunate as not to be born in
 
 ESTHER DAMON 107 
 
 the United States was a fresh obstacle. "I m Ameri 
 can, Bobby. None of them amalgamated foreigners 
 in my house, no!" The final syllable was a fiat. 
 "My grandfather fought at Bunker Hill and my 
 father trained in the Massachusetts militia for years. 
 Foreigners are nothing but spies." To Mrs. Brews- 
 ter her house was a fortress held by her in readiness 
 for saving the nation from foreign invasion. 
 
 "But the Magees aren t foreigners," Orme said. 
 "They are decent people, born in America." 
 
 She was not to be shaken in her edict. "They re 
 Catholics." 
 
 "So were we all, Aunty, not so long ago." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster massacred history with, "Mebbe 
 you, Bobby. Never me." 
 
 "What does it matter?" Orme held out in vexa 
 tion. "Why should we care? Those you call real 
 Americans won t work for me. I m grateful to the 
 Magees if they ll come. You ll let them, won t you, 
 Aunty? They ll be here to-morrow morning." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster would give no direct answer; but 
 Robert knew that after she had talked herself out 
 she would yield. This was her way. "I ve had 
 my sleeves rolled up for thirty years, but these 
 people in Freedom won t work," Orme heard her 
 say as he left the house. "They re afraid of you, 
 Bobby. Christianity!" she snorted, "Don t talk to 
 me of Christianity in Freedom. They don t know 
 the meaning of the word. Jesus would be glad to 
 be crucified to get out of this place." 
 
 Ordinarily, Mrs. Brewster s tirades amused Orme,
 
 io8 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 but not to-day. He quitted her because he could 
 endure no more. He was tired of bitterness, anger, 
 hatred, unforgiveness. He longed for solitude. Yes, 
 Freedom was unprepared for brotherhood, and 
 would remain unprepared until some distant Uto 
 pian day never to be seen by him. But this was no 
 reason for altering his course. He was working, 
 not only for Freedom, but for himself. The world 
 would be readier for brotherhood if first he made 
 Robert Orme worthy. 
 
 With a conscious effort of the will he steadied him 
 self for the ascent of the hill, his disjointed thoughts 
 focussed on the hopelessness of his vision. At a 
 certain point in the road, as was his custom, he halted, 
 looking back. Esther Damon, very near, now bounded 
 toward him. When she saw him she paused. The 
 sight of the girl annulled his vexation. He removed 
 his hat. He wondered if she wished to speak with 
 him, or if by any chance she had come to pray. 
 Robert noticed the restlessness of her ungloved hands 
 as she resumed her pace. He suspected she was 
 nervous; but there was no flush in the pale, fine skin. 
 Her large, heavy-lidded eyes gazed at him with the 
 calm of a statue. In the silky, contralto voice he 
 recalled so well, she explained her presence. "Mr. 
 Orme, I read the notice in the post-office that you 
 would like some women to sew rags and learn to 
 weave." 
 
 What destiny sent her to him the second time in a 
 crisis! 
 
 "Yes, I d like to employ some weavers, but people
 
 ESTHER DAMON 109 
 
 are so afraid of me in this village that I can t get 
 them." 
 
 "I m not afraid," she answered. "I tell every one 
 you gave mother that picture of Wesley." The re 
 alization that Esther Damon had defended him gave 
 Orme a dizzy feeling. "Do you think I could ever 
 earn five dollars?" she asked. He did not answer 
 until she said despairingly, "Oh, you don t think so." 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Brewster makes as much weaving as 
 she did with all her boarders." 
 
 "Mrs. Brewster weaves all the time, doesn t she? 
 I couldn t do that. I shouldn t be able to give more 
 than an hour or two a day because 
 
 "Because?" he questioned in gentle scrutiny, 
 "Because?" 
 
 It came out with some difficulty. "Working for 
 you would have to be a secret from my father and 
 mother." 
 
 In this moment he wished she had never seen 
 him at Clancy s. "Because I m so very bad, they 
 think?" 
 
 "Oh, you re not wicked not really wicked. 
 Only you don t believe in God." 
 
 "I really do prefer stars to candles. Is that so 
 bad?" 
 
 "You don t seem very different to me from any one 
 else, Mr. Orme. Perhaps you never heard very much 
 about God. But I m worse. I was brought up on 
 Him. I try to love Him, but I can t. I never saw 
 a spirit or an angel in my life. My mother sees them 
 every day. I love only the things I see. This is the
 
 no ESTHER DAMON 
 
 first time I ever dared say it. But I must talk to 
 some one." He saw how great had been her need of 
 confession, when with such candor she gave him her 
 confidence. " Perhaps I oughtn t to say it, but how 
 can I love God when He wants me to wear such 
 homely things ? I hate everything I have on. Look 
 at my shoes." She made a motion to kick them from 
 her feet. "They re too large for me and were given 
 me by Sister Simpkins. Jesus told her to give them 
 to me after she had worn them out. It was very 
 nice of her, but I m the only girl in Freedom who 
 wears these heavy shoes in the summer. No one ever 
 had a hat like mine." 
 
 Orme believed her. It was a little gray blending 
 of bonnet and hat, and Orme believed too that no 
 one ever looked in it quite as she did. Esther did 
 not realize that the hat seemed exquisitely made for 
 her any more than she knew that the gray gown 
 was a perfect background for her hair. "Isn t it 
 strange," she went on, "that God should ever 
 want any one to look like this? He does and my 
 father and mother say He ll punish me if I ever 
 wear anything else. That s another reason why 
 my work must be a secret. But I d rather God did 
 punish me if I can only have some bright flowers in 
 my^hat, and a bottle of perfume, and some lace col 
 lars and cuffs and a ribbon bow. I think I could 
 get them all for five dollars." 
 
 Orme would have been moved to mirth had he not 
 made out of her words a strong recoil against the 
 restriction of her skimped environment. He won-
 
 ESTHER DAMON in 
 
 dered how far her revolt would carry her. "You 
 ought easily to be able to get those things, but," he 
 hesitated, "where shall you wear them?" 
 
 "When I m at Lucy Yates s, at school, any 
 where except when I m at home. If Father and 
 Mother ever saw such things on me they would 
 think I was lost. They d think I was as bad as 
 
 He supplied the word. "The infidel. Oh, yes, 
 I know what they call me." He had never been 
 so wounded by the disapproval of the village. He 
 longed to beg this girl to believe the best of him. 
 But why should she consider him at all? 
 
 "You ll think I m awfully deceitful in having 
 secrets from my parents, but I can t help it. You ll 
 not tell?" 
 
 "No one." 
 
 "That s splendid," she said, clasping her hands. 
 "And after I ve earned my ribbons and lace. ..." 
 He waited for her words. "I ll work for nothing, if 
 only you ll prepare me for college as you re teaching 
 Lucy Yates. I ll finish the Academy this year, then 
 I ll study for Mount Holyoke and go with Lucy." 
 
 "Why do you want to go to college?" 
 
 "To get away from Freedom and have a chance 
 in life," she exclaimed, her voice vibrant with in 
 tensity. "If I stay here much longer I ll beat the 
 air with my fists. It just chokes me. Do you 
 think I can go?" 
 
 They reached the top of the hill. Her eager glance 
 told him how much his answer meant to her. "I m 
 sure of it," he answered quietly. "Why not?"
 
 112 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 She moved toward him impulsively. "Oh, I m 
 so happy. To-morrow I m going to sit in the stage 
 before it starts and say to it, Some day you re going 
 to take me, too. I ll go to Ripon and then to 
 Mount Holyoke, away into another state." 
 
 His imagination lingered on the possibilities of her 
 future. "And after Mount Holyoke?" 
 
 "After I graduate I want to teach school. Won t 
 that be glorious?" 
 
 He could not see her as a school-teacher; but he 
 smiled at her delight. She went on as if she saw a 
 mirage of splendor. "Some day I ll earn so much 
 money teaching that I ll buy a white dress and one 
 the color of lilacs just like the dress of the city girl 
 who is visiting Harry Clancy s sister. She looks like 
 a fashion plate. I never had a white or lilac dress in 
 my life." Orme observed that Maggie Clancy was 
 merely Harry Clancy s sister. His thought raced 
 back to the December day which still haunted him. 
 Could it be, he asked himself uneasily, that these 
 feminine longings for adornment had been awakened 
 by Harry Clancy? Impossible. "I m away ahead 
 of Irving Yates in school. Do you think you can 
 prepare me for college in a year?" 
 
 "A year!" he repeated. A year of being with her 
 every day! "Let me see " His eyes half closed. 
 "A year." What would he not give for such a year ? 
 Did such years really come to men? His thoughts 
 suffocated him. Of how much had he been cheated ! 
 One year at her side would excuse life. "Yes, I 
 should think so," he added calmly and then ques-
 
 ESTHER DAMON 113 
 
 tioned, "But do your parents wish you to go to 
 college?" 
 
 "No no," she shook her head as if he had thrust 
 a fearful obstacle within her view. "I pray every 
 night to go to college, and I m sure I shall. But 
 they want me to go to Japan as a missionary to the 
 heathen. Sometimes I think I m a heathen myself 
 and it would be wicked of me to go. I d so much 
 rather stay right here and work day and night to 
 get money to go to college." 
 
 Her touching, absorbing little ambition moved 
 Robert. He would have been happy to annul her 
 need of struggle; but he was helpless. He was in 
 so strange and unexpressed a relation to her mother 
 that he could not go farther without reference to 
 the bent and feeble old lady who seemed always to 
 be gazing at a vision of the crucifixion. "What will 
 Mrs. Damon say?" he asked. 
 
 "I don t know, or rather I do know, but I pray 
 she ll change her mind," she answered despair 
 ingly. "I can t be a missionary. All my life I ve 
 committed to memory psalms and I ve read aloud 
 Pilgrim s Progress, Fox s Book of Martyrs, and 
 Jeremy Taylor s Sermons. I ve tried to pray in 
 the streets with my mother, but though I was starved 
 for days, and father carried me to the altar in his 
 arms they broke the ice for my baptism in the 
 dead of winter I was never really converted. I 
 don t see Heaven, nor hell. I don t have visions. 
 I can t be a missionary; yet I can t grieve them by 
 saying so. Sometimes I m afraid my not wishing
 
 114 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 to go means something dreadful. Perhaps I have 
 devils in me. Do you suppose I have?" she anx 
 iously asked. 
 
 When Orme saw the stress under which this ques 
 tion of faith caused her to labor, he wondered if he 
 ought not challenge her home training. He re 
 strained himself out of respect for the sincerity, the 
 self-imposed poverty, and the lives of self-abnega 
 tion of her parents. "Why, you poor child," he 
 answered, "of course you haven t. No one has 
 except perhaps me," he added with a smile. 
 
 "Don t you think so?" she questioned dubiously. 
 
 "You wish to live as all girls should. You dwell 
 on natural human tendencies until you magnify 
 them into wrong doings. That is the history of 
 saints." 
 
 "Saints!" she approached him lest even the air 
 surrounding them should hear. "You don t know." 
 She drew in a deep breath as if preparatory to confess 
 ing a series of Borgian murders. "You don t under 
 stand. Lucy Yates taught me to dance and I love 
 it. We dance at her house. I like Cooper s novels 
 even better than I do Pilgrim s Progress. We don t 
 have music in our church, but I adore it even 
 Catholic music. I stand at the window sometimes 
 during service and feel as if I d like to sing and 
 dance in the streets." 
 
 He watched the play of her great, burning, dark 
 eyes as she recounted her pathetic efforts to live 
 more fervently, to transcend the limits of her nar 
 row life. She was too tempestuous for the every-
 
 ESTHER DAMON 115 
 
 day tranquil, shaded village. Even in the castaway 
 garments of Mrs. Simpkins, as she stood before 
 Orme, he could close his eyes and see her a great 
 tragic actress, on an ancient throne, inspiring a 
 splendid cause. But here she was in Freedom. 
 Could a bottle hold a cyclone ? How was he not to 
 lose sight of the obligation he felt toward her mother, 
 and yet with honesty to counsel her? Lucy Yates 
 would have been a simple case. Why wasn t she 
 Lucy Yates? "Don t trouble yourself about these 
 trivial things," he finally said. "Even your God 
 never thinks of them. They are no more to Him 
 than the shavings are to us cabinet-makers when 
 we make a set of furniture. Life is much bigger 
 than the shavings. It will be for you." 
 
 "And you know so much too Dr. Yates says 
 more than any one in Freedom," she said, visibly 
 awed. "Tell me again you believe I shall really go 
 to college, Mr. Orme." 
 
 He could not connect her with the definite disci 
 pline of Mount Holyoke, but he answered: "I hope 
 you will; and that your parents will give their con 
 sent." 
 
 She drew a long breath. "May I begin work 
 to-day?" 
 
 "Any time you wish. If you will come with me 
 to Mrs. Brewster s I ll explain what there is to do. 
 The carpets are woven there; but as soon as we 
 get space the work will all be done here on the hill." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Brewster." Esther hesitated. "She 
 is the Universalist lady." 
 
 "Do you object to going there?"
 
 n6 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "No, I don t mind," she slowly returned. "I 
 was thinking of how she scolded the last time my 
 mother went. I don t know that I shall blame her 
 if she is very angry with me for coming. Of course 
 she doesn t understand that Jesus tells my mother 
 to pray for her. I m afraid Mrs. Brewster thinks we 
 believe we are better than others; but I know we 
 are all poor sinners." 
 
 For the second time Orme perceived Esther 
 Damon beautifully trying to be nice to him about 
 his moral delinquencies. He stopped in the road 
 as they were making the descent to the village. 
 "Your prayers didn t vex me. They were so many 
 kind thoughts coming when I needed them. I ve 
 always been grateful to you." 
 
 "Were you?" she answered. "I m glad. Peo 
 ple get so vexed when we pray for them. Some 
 times I m afraid not to go the way my mother 
 wants me. She s so sure Jesus is on her side that 
 He must be." 
 
 "No prayers, to-day," Mrs. Brewster called through 
 the green screen door when she saw Esther. "I m 
 busy." 
 
 Robert explained as he opened the door for the 
 girl to pass before him, "Miss Damon has come to 
 sew rags and learn weaving from you." 
 
 "Well, land sakes, have you?" the widow said 
 with one of her infrequent smiles. She even rose 
 from her loom. "I m glad Americans ain t all dead 
 or ashamed to work in this fly-away, scatter-brained 
 town. What s your name?" 
 
 "Esther."
 
 ESTHER DAMON 117 
 
 Orme lingered to interpret gently to the girl the 
 gruffness of Mrs. Brewster. He watched the widow 
 show her pupil how to "fill the loom," "trip the 
 treadle," and "throw the shuttle." Then in a daze 
 of delight he again climbed the hill. Perhaps there 
 would be months like this afternoon. 
 
 There was an unusual stir at his gate. Men 
 were unloading red plush, machine-turned, black 
 walnut furniture from a lumber wagon. Who was 
 hoaxing him? He hastened into the cabin. The 
 living-room was a chaos of chairs and tables. In 
 the south wing was Alice directing Carter in the 
 arrangement of her belongings. Red plush furni 
 ture discorded with his beautiful, simple handicraft 
 no more than Alice s soul with his. 
 
 "You re right, Robert," the wife said amiably, 
 holding out her hand. "It s foolish to live apart in 
 a village like Freedom. I ve decided not to be 
 angry any longer. Brother Trask says we should 
 make the best of marriage. This is the room you 
 intended for me, isn t it?" He could not answer. 
 "Of course this isn t like pa s house, but I can stand 
 it with this new furniture. I had it shipped from 
 Buffalo. Isn t it stylish?" 
 
 Orme leaned heavily against the wall. He tried 
 to keep from speaking. He feared he should turn 
 her out of doors and pitch after her the red plush 
 furniture. Now he knew he had never grown until 
 he was free. He realized in the old days he had 
 often gone to Clancy s to escape her irritating tongue 
 and their life barren of comradeship. There was
 
 u8 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 no fine living with her. Should he allow her to come 
 back and check his development this wife who stood 
 between him and all he desired? No such difficult 
 question had yet presented itself. His new con 
 science asked, was his growth to be selfish? Had 
 he no responsibility to her? 
 
 "Yes, Alice," he said at last. "I mean, this is 
 the room I built for you. ... I hope you will be 
 happy here, and that we shall get on better." He 
 could utter no other words. 
 
 He turned into the living-room. Stumbling over 
 the furniture he crossed to the mantel and took up 
 the little picture made by Esther Damon. During 
 the winter he had kept it there where the firelight 
 might play on it. He placed the card-board on the 
 table. To his horror he recalled it was his wedding 
 anniversary. Only to turn back the calendar and 
 erase that day! Would the afternoon never pass? 
 He entered his own room, then went out to the work 
 shop. Temptation, stiletto in hand, dogged him. 
 He rejoined the cabinet-makers and began planing a 
 table.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 ESTHER stepped into Wherritt s store with her 
 first five dollars earned as a weaver. For a month 
 she had lived for this golden moment. Hitherto 
 Wherritt s had been a place of forbidden splendors. 
 Now the beautiful new green bank-note was a talis 
 man of admission to its marvels. It was like sor 
 cery that she, Esther Damon, should buy a bottle of 
 that perfume in the show-case. She sprayed her 
 handkerchief. The romance was prolonged. She 
 had only to ask for some of the long-coveted lavender 
 ribbon, and it became her very own. Already, she 
 saw the bows she should wear at her throat like 
 those of Lucy Yates. The fashion had been brought 
 to Freedom by that city girl, the guest of the Clancys, 
 who was the local feminine standard of luxury. 
 A pair of white lace mittens and a lavender-bordered 
 pocket handkerchief took their place among Esther s 
 possessions. So little did the minister s daughter, 
 in her life of penury, know of the purchasing power 
 of money, that she was astonished when told by Ira 
 Wherritt that she might still have the lace cuffs and 
 one of those wide collars. The lace was coarse and 
 of common weave; but to Esther s starved senses it 
 was a filmy, fairy web. The magic wand disap 
 peared in the Wherritt till. The door of the palace 
 
 119
 
 120 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 of witchery was closed. To such an extent had the 
 girl s nature been checked that she went homeward 
 pale with joy at the thought of her first little lies 
 secreted in her pocket. 
 
 Mrs. Damon sat by the sitting-room table, reading 
 a religious journal. On Esther s arrival she put 
 aside her paper and removed her spectacles to re 
 ceive her daughter s embrace. At one time the good 
 lady had worn gold-cased glasses; but she felt that 
 her Heavenly Father had severely chastised her for 
 such self-indulgence and vanity. Now her spectacles 
 were encased in nickel. Always when she spoke her 
 countenance showed a sweetly human, sad smile. 
 Caressing her daughter s hand, she said, " I hope 
 Dr. and Mrs. Yates are well." 
 
 "Yes, mother, very well." On her return from 
 work Esther had stopped a moment at the Yates . 
 Now she was aware she had done so to be able 
 truthfully to answer similar questions. She seized 
 the opportunity to acquaint her mother with what 
 was in her mind for the future. "Lucy is going to 
 college two years from now. Mr. Orme, who is pre 
 paring Irving, is to teach her." 
 
 "Of course Lucy will enjoy that, dear little child," 
 Mrs. Damon observed indulgently. "But of what 
 value is mere temporal knowledge ? The only truths 
 are those of the spirit." 
 
 Esther realized that her mother possessed the 
 peaceful wisdom of the spirit; but the girl felt that 
 such knowledge was congenital and could never be 
 hers. "Perhaps I m wrong, mother," she answered,
 
 ESTHER DAMON 121 
 
 "but I want temporal knowledge. I d love to go to 
 college with Lucy. I can be just as good a Christian 
 there as here." To forestall objections, she quickly 
 added, "Why not? I m willing to work my way." 
 
 "You dreaming child!" Mrs. Damon chided. 
 "How can a poor girl like you work your way through 
 a great college?" 
 
 "In Mr. Orme s carpet factory. He finds it hard 
 to get women to weave. Lucy says I can earn lots 
 of money there. Every afternoon he gives a little 
 lecture. If I weave for him Lucy thinks he will 
 prepare me for college for nothing." 
 
 "I m glad Mr. Orme is earning a living." 
 
 "Mother!" the girl began; but Mrs. Damon s 
 forefinger on lips signalled silence. 
 
 At that instant both saw the Reverend Hezekiah 
 Damon on his old black horse pass before the side 
 window on his way to the barn where he kept the 
 faithful, jaded beast which for years had carried him 
 from one charge to another on his circuit. Elder 
 Damon ministered to the souls of Attica and Olivet 
 as well as Freedom. He rose always at fouro clock, 
 Wesley s hour; cared for his horse; opened his 
 church; swept it; cleaned the lamps. For his mani 
 fold duties his salary was two hundred dollars a year. 
 As he entered the sitting-room, his grave lips grimly 
 compressed, his deep gray ascetic eyes set under 
 over- jutting brows, his close-cropped hair suggested 
 a militant priest or an aging Napoleon Bonaparte. 
 Though the preacher had been absent several days, 
 he had only a hand-clasp from his wife and his
 
 122 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 daughter. He invited affection no more than does 
 the Plymouth Rock. 
 
 "Well, husband," asked Mrs. Damon, as he hung 
 up his hat, "have your meetings been blessed this 
 week?" 
 
 "Wonderfully blessed, Prudence," he answered, a 
 smile like a gleam of steel showing in his eyes as he 
 took possession of an arm-chair near his wife. "I 
 never saw anything like it. Olivet astonished me 
 even after my forty years experience. Those big, 
 rough logging-camp workers who drink hard cider 
 came into the meeting. They shouted, fell, and be 
 came Christians. Old members like brother and 
 sister Jenkins got wonderfully blessed." 
 
 "Yes, yes." Mrs. Damon followed her husband s 
 words in delight. "Oh, Hezekiah, I wish this rheu 
 matism I know I violated some of our dear Father s 
 laws or I shouldn t be afflicted with it I wish it 
 hadn t kept me at home. Then Esther and I might 
 have been at the meeting." She glanced at her 
 daughter who was placing some peaches on the oil 
 cloth covered supper table. 
 
 "I felt you and Esther were with me, Prudence, 
 especially in Attica. Our folks in Attica are pretty 
 fashionable ; but the whole congregation rose, shouted 
 and sang. It reminded me of the old days of Brother 
 Cartwright s time, before Methodists became so 
 worldly. But here in Freedom, where I preach and 
 pray, where you exhort wherever you find a sinner, 
 I feel we together don t reach them. I get so dis 
 couraged." His head rested on his hands. In this
 
 ESTHER DAMON 123 
 
 attitude of dejection one noted the pathetic humility 
 of the patched black alpaca coat and the white 
 paper collar. 
 
 "No, no, Hezekiah," his wife consoled, "you must 
 never fail in courage. We can t if we have faith. 
 Pray always for faith." 
 
 "Of course there are the few faithful pilgrims," he 
 said, groping for comfort. "But look at the back 
 sliders. Look at the Nearbys who went to the 
 Baptist church; and the Bares who went to the 
 Congregationalist all enticed by church socials, do 
 nation parties, oyster-suppers, organs, pew-renting, 
 and fine clothes. That s how they want to worship 
 God in Freedom. The Methodists here grow fewer 
 and fewer every day." 
 
 "Never mind, Hezekiah," the wife answered, and 
 he saw that her eyes, the fires of which seemed ex- 
 tinguishable, could flash as in youth. "Let s not 
 feel sorry for ourselves. Rags are our garments, but 
 we re clothed in purple. It doesn t matter if only 
 one of us is left to talk of God ; we shall still be the 
 church. Walls and roofs don t matter. We ll preach 
 in the streets. The forest shall be our temples. 
 Our dome shall be the dome of Heaven. The walls 
 of our church shall be the walls of the universe." 
 Mrs. Damon touched his hand. "Hezekiah, we ll 
 save Freedom yet." She believed all her husband 
 believed, but with a passion he knew not. 
 
 "I don t know, wife. I don t know." He rose, 
 went to the window, and looked out on the unoffend 
 ing village as if it were a half-savage wilderness
 
 124 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 which it was his mission to redeem. "Sometimes," 
 he said, "I think Freedom is the wickedest place in 
 the world. Sometimes I think the devil has Free 
 dom." 
 
 "Oh, father," protested Esther as she indicated 
 that their supper was on the table. "Don t say 
 that." 
 
 "Yes, daughter," he repeated, "I m afraid he 
 has. God doesn t hear my words here. I d gladly 
 go to the stake to break up this ice in the heart 
 of Freedom, to save one soul here." 
 
 To Esther her father was a spectacle, a great 
 tragic spectacle, unintelligible, but moving. Why 
 was she so deficient in his kind of sensibility? The 
 pretty little lies in her pocket throbbed against Jier 
 side. Perfume from the handkerchief filled her 
 nostrils. What would her father say if he saw her 
 baubles? In renewed alarm she wondered if the 
 devil had her as well as Freedom. 
 
 After prayers the Damons sat before the cold 
 supper of milk, boiled eggs, and peaches which 
 they ate from Saturday evening until Sunday at 
 the setting of the sun. At this time candor urged 
 Esther to share with her family her hope of going 
 to college and to gain from her father, especially, 
 some expression of approval. "Father," she began 
 fearfully, "do you mind very much I m very 
 anxious to know what you think of it if I try to 
 go to college? I can, you know at least, I think 
 I can." 
 
 "Yes, Hezekiah," interjected Mrs. Damon, taking
 
 ESTHER DAMON 125 
 
 up her daughter s theme, "Esther has this idea, and 
 you, better than I, can show her its folly. She hopes 
 to go to college by working for Robert Orme, who 
 used to be the town drunkard. He has a carpet 
 factory and employs weavers. You will show 
 Esther that even if she could spare the time to go to 
 college, money from such a source would bring her 
 only doubtful happiness." 
 
 " Of course, Esther." Her father s frown and fall 
 ing inflection crushed her hope. "Mr. Orme denies 
 the Word of God. He profanes the Sabbath. He is 
 one of the worst men in the village." 
 
 "But he s better now," Esther argued gently. 
 "Don t you remember he gave mother that portrait 
 of Wesley?" Elder Damon coughed and looked at 
 his wife. 
 
 Mrs. Damon met the lunge. "And it was very 
 kind of Mr. Orme. I always felt that much good 
 in him was destroyed by his life." 
 
 Esther s courage was high. "He doesn t drink 
 any more. He has built such a pretty house himself. 
 We pass it as we go to the lake to swim and row." 
 
 "I m glad he doesn t drink, child," answered Elder 
 Damon more kindly. "Very glad." 
 
 Esther felt she was gaining. "And he s so very 
 good to every one that works for him. He makes 
 them do beautiful things. If only you could talk 
 with him 
 
 The parents stared at their daughter. Mrs. Da 
 mon said, "But you speak, my dear, as if you 
 knew "
 
 I 2 6 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Esther was all confusion. "Lucy Yates says so. 
 She says Mr. Orme has made a new man of Mr. 
 Mearns, the carpenter the man we tried to get to 
 come to church." 
 
 "Does he do this for Jesus?" Elder Damon 
 questioned. 
 
 "I don t think so," Esther reluctantly admitted, 
 "but Dr. Yates likes him, and Mr. Orme is going 
 to prepare Lucy for college. Dr. Yates thinks he s 
 good enough for that." 
 
 "Dr. Yates goes to the Baptist church about three 
 times a year." The minister s ultimatum con 
 signed the physician to the doom of all idolaters. 
 
 "Perhaps if you d allow me to work for Mr. 
 Orme," Esther persisted, "he might feel sorry he s 
 so bad and become a Christian." 
 
 "No, Esther," the minister returned. "Robert 
 Orme works for this world, not the next. He s not 
 good enough for association with a Christian girl. 
 You must choose between God and the world." 
 Although the minister had seen his own uncushioned 
 pews emptied by the more modern preachers, never 
 had he been tempted to modify his strait-jacket dis 
 cipline. 
 
 The girl leaned over the table in her eagerness. 
 "Perhaps, Father, Mr. Orme s might be the first 
 soul you would save in Freedom." 
 
 Elder Damon was inflexible. "That would make 
 me very happy, Esther; but I can t allow you to 
 work for an infidel. You don t need a college edu 
 cation to be a missionary. People never talked about
 
 ESTHER DAMON 127 
 
 missionaries going to college until their religion lost 
 some of the fire of God. Everything you need to 
 know is in that book." He indicated the Bible. 
 
 Esther s will on crucial occasions beat its wings in 
 protest against the granite force of her father. To 
 day it was to her gain of heredity that she would not 
 abandon her desire. 
 
 "Father, perhaps," she ventured, "I m not fit to 
 be a missionary." 
 
 "Not fit?" He sounded the question as if she 
 were doubting the Bible. "Not fit? If you are not 
 fit, Esther, who is?" 
 
 "It isn t your fault or mother s," she answered. 
 "I know that with my bringing-up I should be 
 ready, but one reason why I want to go to college 
 is to think over and test my belief during four years." 
 
 Elder Damon and his wife were possessed of clear, 
 cloudless faith. Each looked at the other as if 
 their daughter had suddenly become a very terrible 
 young woman. "You are not sure of your faith?" 
 The minister s question was emphasized as if the 
 girl had already said, "I am not sure this is Esther." 
 "Can it be," he went on, "you ve been tempted by 
 the world? Next year when the call for mission 
 aries comes, is there anything to stand in the way 
 of your complete self-surrender to duty?" 
 
 The girl felt the presence of the collar, the cuffs, 
 the bottle of perfume in her pocket. She yearned 
 to cast them all before her parents and to confess the 
 shortcomings which menaced her future. But she 
 could not give up youth. In silence which seemed
 
 128 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 like disobedience she went about her work of carry 
 ing dishes into the kitchen. Prayers in the Damon 
 home that evening were so long and fervent that 
 Esther herself seemed responsible for the wrong 
 doing of the village. 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 Sunday, spoken in whispered emphasis. Sunday 
 in Freedom. Silence at the Four Corners. A 
 drowsy silence, holding the village under a spell 
 until eight o clock when the bell of the little Catholic 
 church summoned Papists to mass. Soon from east, 
 west, north, and south farmers wagons streamed into 
 town. Every one was so solemn that even the trees 
 seemed pulpits. At half after ten the bells of the 
 Baptist and Congregational churches tried to out- 
 clang each other. The call of faith alone fore 
 gathered the Methodists in their humble meeting 
 house. 
 
 First came the Reverend Hezekiah Damon, wear 
 ing the familiar black alpaca coat and brown straw 
 hat. By his side Mrs. Damon kept slow pace. In 
 the little reverential procession followed Esther, 
 heavenly-minded and demure of aspect that is, 
 heavenly-minded and demure as possible for one of 
 her height, eyes, and hair. In her glance was re 
 pressed martyrdom; but she did not raise her gaze 
 above the plane of the psalm-book and the Bible she 
 carried. Mrs. Damon and Esther seated themselves 
 on the second row of the bare benches not far from 
 the large stove, in which there was no fire. The 
 minister s head was bowed over the table on which
 
 ESTHER DAMON 129 
 
 lay the great Bible. Thus the three waited in the 
 empty church. 
 
 Soon after them came Brother Simpkins a lanky, 
 bow-legged man with a sparse gray beard, fringing 
 a florid, thin, peaked face. Sister Simpkins, the 
 female counterpart of her husband, as the wife of 
 the rich man of the church, wore a Paisley shawl 
 and a glittering bonnet which tied under her chin. 
 Hannah Simpkins, their daughter a rounded, podgy 
 girl was like a changeling in the family. The 
 Simpkinses were always first; but subsequently ar 
 rived Brother and Sister Killit, Sister Fish, Brother 
 Grimes, and Brother and Sister Thomson. Carter, 
 the only colored man of the village, in splendid Sun 
 day apparel, humbly took his seat in the rear of the 
 church. Before Elder Damon raised his head the 
 incoming footfalls indicated to him that there were 
 ten persons besides his wife and daughter in the 
 meeting-house. This was the smallest number to 
 which he had ever preached. 
 
 In a moving voice, the minister rose and delivered 
 a sermon on the destruction awaiting those of little 
 faith. As if to punctuate the words of her husband, 
 at intervals, Mrs. Damon looked at her daughter. 
 The father s glance also always lingered near the 
 girl. Brother Simpkins and Carter shouted "Amen ! " 
 and Sister Killitt clapped her hands as the minister 
 exceeded his own eloquence. Esther, alone, sat un 
 heeding, present only in the body. 
 
 In the little church, Elder Damon, in spite of his 
 self-appointed poverty, or because of it, was canon-
 
 130 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 ized. Among the Methodists, Esther, destined as 
 she was for perilous, foreign missionary work, was 
 deferred to as the princess royal of a dynasty of holi 
 ness. At the close of the service the church-mem 
 bers gathered about their pastor and his family. 
 Sister Killitt wiped the tears from her eyes as she 
 kissed Esther. In a voice charged with sanctity she 
 said, "Wasn t that a grand sermon, Sister Esther?" 
 
 The girl gave her unvarying Sunday answer, 
 "Yes, father always preaches beautifully." 
 
 "How blessed you are," went on Sister Killitt, 
 placing her hands upon Esther s shoulders, "to have 
 such parents, such a home, always to have the fire 
 of God poured right into your heart." 
 
 When similar remarks were addressed to Esther, 
 horrid things crowded into her imagination until 
 revolt seemed imminent. She longed to stamp her 
 feet and cry out her dislike of all which kept her a 
 prisoner in this black pit of Sunday. She always 
 shuddered at the possibility that her inclinations 
 should be stifled, her nature thwarted until she made 
 an outbreak. Though the Sunday-school classes 
 were already assembling she hurried to the door for 
 air. 
 
 There was a slight stir in the street. People were 
 leaving the houses of worship. She turned in the 
 direction of the Catholic church and saw Harry 
 Clancy lift his hat. He was nearly a block away, 
 but their young eyes easily travelled the distance. 
 The air, the trees, the sunlight, the wind, the earth, 
 everything separating her from him was also the
 
 ESTHER DAMON 131 
 
 exquisite medium which related them. She was at 
 the age when she was mad to charm and to be 
 charmed. An electric fluid seemed to bathe her. 
 Sparks of fire followed one another through her 
 nerves. Esther flung toward Clancy a graceful, 
 intimate gesture fraught with meaning. 
 
 Her joy was short-lived. Again she looked. Not 
 only Harry s sister at his side, but the girl in the 
 lavender gown. On seeing their pleasing apparel 
 Esther felt that each thread of her own dull gray 
 dress even before its term of service to Sister 
 Simpkins the stuff had cost twelve cents a yard at 
 Wherritt s each coarse thread accentuated her hu 
 miliation. Before her on every hand were girls in 
 lavender dresses. They were in the air, swinging 
 from the trees, mocking her. If only once she could 
 look like that city girl in the lavender gown who 
 spent her summers at the Ivy Green. Esther knew 
 her name was Stella. What a lovely name, she 
 thought, so light and graceful, suited to poems. 
 Her own, Esther, was fit only for prose. Harry 
 would drive with Stella and his sister in the after 
 noon, so he had told Esther, only because she could 
 not go with him. No, she must be confined in that 
 prison of piety, her home. She dragged herself back 
 to her Sunday-school class which she taught because 
 she was the minister s daughter and because she 
 loved children. To-day the children were noisy in 
 their corner. They laughed and talked in a way 
 that would have scandalized the older people had 
 the teacher not been Esther Damon.
 
 132 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 The preacher s family ate no dinner Sundays, 
 taking only a cold supper; so Esther s work con 
 sisted of reading aloud from the Psalms and Pil 
 grim s Progress. The contents of these books were 
 so threadbare to the girl that she followed her own 
 voice only in subconsciousness. After an hour de 
 voted to this duty, she patched together an excuse 
 about a headache. In reality, so splendid was her 
 physical endowment that she had never known pain 
 nor a sense of fatigue; but she was permitted to go 
 upstairs. 
 
 Esther passed through the dark, windowless hall 
 into her room and closed the door. She was free. 
 Her pillow was her treasure chest, and therefrom she 
 drew her precious purchases; the perfume, the lace 
 collar and cuffs, the silk mittens. At first she 
 touched them as if they would vanish if breathed 
 upon. Then impressively she ranged them before her 
 on the bed. They were all hers, quite hers, earned 
 with her own nimble fingers. Each object should help 
 make her more like the girl in the lavender dress. 
 
 Presently she viewed herself in a little broken tri 
 angle of a mirror tacked to the wall, a gift from 
 Lucy Yates. Lucy, a year younger than Esther, had 
 already ceased dressing her hair like a school-girl. 
 Esther would arrange hers like a woman. She used 
 to hate her hair. Now she loved its great billows. 
 Harry said it was beautiful. There it was in his 
 note she drew from her pillow. " Your hair is beauti 
 ful. You are beautiful. I love you." 
 
 When she read the last sentence she stopped
 
 ESTHER DAMON 133 
 
 brushing her hair and buried her face in her hands. 
 How she had always hungered for words like 
 those! How she had envied Lucy her facile con 
 quests ! School-boys had showered Lucy with candy 
 mottoes, "I love you," "Kiss me," and followed 
 them with notes of adoration. Lucy had only to 
 shake her curls to enslave even the school-master. 
 The day before the sex-experienced Lucy had said 
 Harry was the best-looking boy in Freedom. She 
 wished she could invite him to her next party. It 
 was nice of Lucy, Esther reflected. People were so 
 unchristian to Harry. He couldn t help being the 
 son of the tavern-keeper any more than she could 
 help being the daughter of a clergyman. Harry 
 didn t look like the tavern. He grew handsomer 
 every day, and he went to the city so much that his 
 manners were like the "world." Above all, he was 
 Esther s romance. That was the great thing for 
 her starved soul. 
 
 Again she took up the brush, twisted the soft coils 
 about her head until they royally crowned her and 
 formed a classic line of which she was unaware. She 
 bathed her hands and face in violet water until she 
 lost sensibility to the perfume. But her great final 
 rite was putting on the lace collar. Before adjusting 
 the collar to her fine, strong, white neck, where she 
 fastened it with a bow of lavender ribbon, she stroked 
 it as a dear, human thing. Why wouldn t the rib 
 bon expand into a dress ? After pinning on her cuffs 
 Esther felt like a different being. She wasn t queer- 
 looking any more.
 
 134 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Esther did not realize that her usual severity of 
 apparel emphasized her beauty, nor that she was 
 always splendid when unornamented. Nor did she 
 know that for her to accept the silly mode of Free 
 dom was to detract from her appearance. She had 
 the aspect of having crawled into clothes too small 
 for her, but she rejoiced in her dazzling "best" 
 which was her worst. Wouldn t Harry like her so? 
 If only he could see her! Her face clouded. He was 
 with that city girl who was fair and slender. To be 
 like Stella, or to see Harry to-morrow at the lake 
 and hear him say again that no one was so beautiful 
 as she! 
 
 Summoned by her mother to prepare the homely 
 supper, Esther hastily concealed her belongings. 
 Once more downstairs in the atmosphere of piety 
 she was troubled that she knew no sense of sin for 
 her manner of passing the afternoon. Wasn t there 
 something wrong in one who, without turmoil of con 
 science, could joy in vanity and secret love on a 
 Sabbath ? God and Heaven had become stale theo 
 logical phrases; but Harry Clancy was a reality. 
 What did she lack? 
 
 As Esther went about her work, Elder Damon, 
 who was talking with his wife, paused to observe his 
 daughter and to whiff the air. "What is the matter, 
 Hezekiah?" Mrs. Damon asked. 
 
 Dumb, he sat staring at Esther. Finally, as the 
 girl deposited a bowl of rice on the table, she herself 
 put the inquiry, "What is the matter, Father?" 
 
 "Esther, come here," he said gravely. Under his
 
 ESTHER DAMON 135 
 
 scrutiny the girl showed puzzled eyes. She won 
 dered if they had found Harry s letter-box under the 
 front steps. "Daughter, what have you put on 
 yourself this afternoon?" 
 
 "Nothing, Father." 
 
 "Nothing, Esther? You ve something you 
 shouldn t have," he insisted menacingly. 
 
 Had she forgotten to hide the collar? Esther s 
 quick fingers sought her throat. No, the collar was 
 concealed. "I think you are mistaken, Father." 
 
 "You re not given to double-dealing, Esther." 
 The minister marked each word with a gesture of 
 his forefinger. "In Buffalo, where I once went to 
 attend the annual conference of our ministers, I 
 met a woman in the streets, a beautiful, bepainted 
 woman not, I am afraid, a likely one. When I 
 passed her she smiled. Her perfumery smelled like 
 your clothing." 
 
 Mrs. Damon seconded with quaint simplicity, 
 "Esther, I think I smell perfumery, too, but," she 
 concluded with a plaintive plea for denial of the 
 suspicion, "you haven t any, have you, Esther?" 
 
 "Yes, mother, I have," Esther grudgingly con 
 fessed. 
 
 "At least, Hezekiah," said Mrs. Damon sadly, "we 
 can be thankful our daughter hasn t deceived us. 
 I was a naughty child myself." 
 
 "It s only the perfume of violets," resisted the 
 girl. " God made them. I m sure He doesn t care if 
 I smell them or use the perfume from them." 
 
 Elder Damon raised his hands when his daughter
 
 136 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 set up her own judgment. "And do you pretend," 
 he asked of her, "to understand what God wants?" 
 He spoke to his wife in alarm. "Prudence, this is 
 what conies of allowing Esther to associate with 
 children of the world." His severest attention was 
 fixed on his daughter when he asked, "Doesn t God 
 care about how his children pass the Sabbath? 
 Do you believe He gives no heed when a Christian 
 girl besmears herself with perfume until she smells 
 like the wicked women of the streets of Buffalo? 
 If this is what you say, Esther, what is to be ex 
 pected of Freedom?" He clenched his hand as he 
 added to Mrs. Damon, "I tell you, Prudence, there s 
 something corrupting in the very air of the place." 
 
 "Father," Esther timidly put forward, "isn t it 
 possible that the reason why your church-members 
 go to the Congregationalists and Baptists is that you 
 ask too much of them? People can t be happy 
 restrained every minute. If you didn t expect so 
 much of your congregation, would it fall away?" 
 
 For the first time Esther questioned Elder Da 
 mon s tough exactions and he demanded, "What are 
 you, anyway, Baptist, Unitarian, or Universalist ? 
 No wonder you were defending an infidel last night, 
 and you want to work for him. The devil has had 
 many guises in the past two thousand years. I 
 know him. First he talks Catholic style, then 
 Episcopalian style, then Unitarian style, then infidel 
 style something fixed up fine and easy to suit every 
 body. No rough-hewn cross of Christ for him, but 
 a nice, pretty cross of gold. And the devil gets
 
 ESTHER DAMON 137 
 
 along very well if you reckon him by the big grand 
 churches temples of idolaters where knowledge, 
 success, rich men, everything but God is wor 
 shipped. But I ll never give in to him. It s boiled 
 down to this." The minister smote the table in 
 emphasis. "Are you for Christ or against Him? 
 Are you with Jesus when it s costly, unpopular, and 
 uncomfortable? Let other churches compromise 
 with the devil and have their rich men and their 
 great folk. My little meeting-house will see them 
 go to pieces. We have the religion of the fishermen 
 and the tent-makers nothing else, because nothing 
 but the religion of Paul and Silas will last." The 
 old man voiced all the tragic pathos of one who 
 bears the ragged, faded standard of a lost, mag 
 nificent faith. Turning to him Esther took his 
 hand. He looked up at her and asked, "Are you 
 going to be for the devil, or against him?" 
 "You ll always find me where you are, Father."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 ELDER DAMON and his wife had just returned 
 from the camp-meeting when Brother Simpkins 
 knocked timidly at the door of the parsonage. 
 Brother Simpkins for the most part maintained the 
 Methodist church in Freedom; but he was always 
 poor in spirit in the presence of the man of God. 
 To-day the minister himself received the visitor. 
 Brother Simpkins flushed as the preacher s eyes fell 
 on the offerings with which the layman was bur 
 dened. "Well, well, Brother Simpkins," exclaimed 
 the pastor. "If this isn t just like you and Sister 
 Simpkins! Peaches!" There was a basket of them 
 on Brother Simpkins arm. "The first of the season, 
 I m sure. Wife," he called to Mrs. Damon who 
 came from the kitchen wiping her hands, "here are 
 the eggs we prayed for this morning." The min 
 ister often seemed to regard his Maker as a benevo 
 lent, wholesale supply-merchant. 
 
 "Brother Simpkins!" said Mrs. Damon, shaking 
 the hand of the parishioner who was grinning from 
 his own joy in that of the minister and his wife. 
 "And a roll of butter! This is too much! You 
 and Sister Simpkins certainly are the stronghold of 
 the Lord. What should we do without you?" 
 
 "It ain t much," returned the embarrassed brother, 
 
 138
 
 ESTHER DAMON 139 
 
 " but it s all fresh from the farm." Brother Simpkins 
 mopped his head with a large red handkerchief, 
 coughed, blew his nose, and seated himself on the 
 edge of one of the cane-bottomed chairs. 
 
 "I was sorry not to see you and Sister Simpkins at 
 the Attica camp-meeting," said Mrs. Damon. "We 
 were very blessed." 
 
 "Praise the Lord, Sister," returned the brother. 
 "We were dreadful sorry we couldn t go; but it was 
 my busy time and I have such trash for hired men 
 that I have to keep an eye on em every minute." 
 
 "That is the tempter," admonished the clergyman. 
 "Let God farm for you." 
 
 "I would, Brother Damon, if in your travels you d 
 find me a good hired man." Brother Simpkins 
 laughed. He liked his own wit. "But Brother 
 Damon," he continued, after a labored clearance of 
 the throat, "I didn t come over for that. Your 
 folks and my folks have always got along together 
 first-rate. And if friends have got anything to say 
 to each other, don t go beating about the bush, but 
 out with it, I say." 
 
 Hereupon Brother Simpkins halted in advocacy 
 of direct motion, twirled his hat and leaned back 
 against the wall to place himself in equilibrium. 
 In large alarm the minister and his wife followed 
 the visitor s odd conduct. Elder Damon wondered 
 if Brother Simpkins had come to suggest that the 
 church buy an organ. Already the answer was in 
 the preacher s mind. After an awkward pause the 
 brother collected himself and went on with diffi-
 
 140 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 culty: "I told Susan I didn t believe in beating 
 about the bush or backbiting, and I was coming 
 over here to ask you right out if you, Brother Da 
 mon, ain t violating church discipline. Ain t you 
 comin out for showy, gaudy dress? Ain t you 
 gettin too high-toned for the Methodists?" 
 
 For nearly forty years the preacher had held the 
 scales of judgment. Now discovering himself the 
 object weighed, brought a prompt exclamation of 
 surprise. Mrs. Damon, however, unfailing in daily 
 scrutiny of her own life, meekly answered: "I don t 
 blame you, Brother Simpkins. I know the Lord 
 doesn t entirely approve of mahogany horse-hair fur 
 niture. Shall I sell mine and give the proceeds to the 
 heathen? I kept it because it belonged to my dear 
 mother. She was an excellent woman even if she was 
 an Episcopalian." 
 
 "No, Sister," replied Brother Simpkins, "it ain t 
 horse-hair furniture. That s all right. Mebbe you 
 think I m an interferin old fellow; but it s Esther. 
 Folks are waggin their tongues about Esther." 
 
 Elder Damon and his wife looked at each other. 
 Disturbed and uneasy, the minds of both flew to the 
 late revelation concerning Esther. After an interval 
 the minister s thoughts steadied. He offered an ex 
 planation which he felt was a criticism of his own 
 life. "Yes, Brother Simpkins, Lucy Yates did give 
 Esther some perfumery. My wife and I prayed 
 about it, and Esther won t use it again. Perhaps 
 you recall, Brother, that sometimes young people are 
 very wilful."
 
 ESTHER DAMON 141 
 
 "Then I guess it s gone from perfumery to worse 
 things." By softening his tone the visitor endeavored 
 to absorb the force of the shock. "It s wearing lace, 
 bows of ribbon, silk mitts. My daughter Hannah 
 ain t allowed to wear such things. It s looking proud 
 and worldly. Do you think a Methodist minister s 
 daughter ought to do that?" 
 
 "Oh, Brother Simpkins," Mrs. Damon sighed in 
 glad relief, "then it must all be a mistake. I can 
 vouch for Esther. She hasn t one of these things." 
 
 Brother Simpkins shook his head with great 
 solemnity. "I wish there was some mistake about 
 it, but there ain t. I seen her myself. First Susan 
 seen her. Women always do see things first. And 
 then I seen her. It was hard to believe my own 
 eyes." 
 
 "Are you quite sure?" questioned Mrs. Damon. 
 "I ve never seen them. Where could she get such 
 things?" 
 
 "Susan says she gets them at the infidel s," ex 
 plained Brother Simpkins. "She works there with all 
 that trash, them godless folks." 
 
 "Esther did speak about it a long time ago," ad 
 mitted Mrs. Damon, "but I had forgotten." 
 
 "Yes, she weaves carpets at that Universalist s, 
 Mis Brewster s. Everyone s talking about it be 
 cause they think you know it. Brother Killit s mad 
 clean through. He thinks you think we don t pay 
 you enough." 
 
 "I can t say I blame them," Mrs. Damon con 
 ceded.
 
 1 42 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Brother Simpkins was emboldened to continue his 
 revelations. "And that ain t the worst, Brother Da 
 mon. I know this would be tattling if it wasn t for 
 the good of us all." 
 
 "It doesn t seem to me I can bear to hear the 
 worst," said the minister woefully, "but go on, 
 Brother. We are all given strength to meet each day." 
 
 "I wish Susan was here to tell it," began the 
 visitor. "It ain t in my line to carry news. I d 
 rather take a lickin any day; but Esther walks the 
 streets with that miserable, billiard-playing, Irish- 
 Catholic, Harry Clancy." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Mrs. Damon piteously, as though 
 seeking to ward off physical hurt. "You re surely 
 mistaken." 
 
 "I wish I was, Sister, but I ain t. They walked 
 right into the post-office together and they didn t 
 take no notice of me, just as though they were 
 sweethearting." 
 
 Hezekiah Damon s lips set, and his wife, seeing a 
 storm in his eye remonstrated, "No, husband, don t 
 let your anger control you." 
 
 So absorbed were both by Brother Simpkins nar 
 rative that they had not noticed Esther as she came 
 up the steps. Nor had they known of her approach 
 until the door opened and there the girl perfumed, 
 beribboned, bemittened in every detail verified the 
 portrait of her given by the informant. "Esther 
 Damon ! " exclaimed the minister. "Esther Damon ! " 
 he repeated in horror. "So what all the brethren 
 are saying about you is true."
 
 ESTHER DAMON 143 
 
 Her pale face was held so high that she seemed 
 too tall for the small, low-jointed room. Her eyes 
 glowed with dizzying imhuman happiness. Her lips 
 were scarlet, as if fresh from kisses. Everywhere in 
 her aspect was the abandonment of vagrant liberty. 
 "What are they saying, Father?" 
 
 The minister confronted his daughter with bitter 
 ness. "They say you look as you look, like one of 
 those Buffalo women, proud and worldly, walking 
 the streets in gaudy raiment." 
 
 "I know," she answered humbly, "having these 
 ribbons unknown to you seems like telling lies. I 
 hope you ll not be angry. I don t want to deceive 
 you. I came home to show myself to you and mother 
 as I am." 
 
 "As you are!" the minister replied. "Do you 
 recall what the prophet Isaiah said when he saw 
 the perfumed, wanton-eyed, mincing women of Jeru 
 salem in the streets ? Isaiah warned that he would 
 take away their luxuries. He would give them 
 branding instead of beauty. Isaiah lived, not only 
 in Jerusalem, but in Freedom. He knew you, 
 Esther. He saw you steeped in their sins. He saw 
 you turn away from your missionary work and be 
 deck yourself with the finery of unbelievers, your 
 friends, the Catholics." 
 
 "No, husband, don t say that," interposed Mrs. 
 Damon. "Tell me, Esther, at least this isn t true. 
 You didn t walk with the son of the tavern-keeper, 
 did you?" 
 
 "Yes, mother," she answered. " Every one else was 
 horrid to him, and so I walked with him."
 
 144 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Mrs. Damon still hoped for a truth not for her 
 ears. "Not more than once, dear child?" 
 
 "More than once," the girl confessed. 
 
 "Why, Esther, I don t understand." In her in 
 genuousness Mrs. Damon could not comprehend 
 why youth strays afoot with youth. 
 
 "Because " The girl looked toward Brother 
 Simpkins. The mighty word in her throat would 
 not come. 
 
 "Because she wished to make her father s life a 
 mockery," bitterly interpreted the minister. 
 
 "No, far from that, . . . but because " "Dear 
 me," thought Esther, "why don t they know? How 
 can they help seeing? It s in my brain, in my heart, 
 branded in flaming letters, Love! I should think 
 people who meet me in the street would read it." 
 
 "Oh, Esther," the mother exclaimed, her face 
 aglow, "it s because you desired to pray for Harry 
 Clancy." 
 
 "I have prayed for him," the girl admitted. 
 
 "Now, you see, Brother Simpkins," went on Mrs. 
 Damon, her voice mellow with love, "how mistaken 
 you all were. Esther only wanted to pray for the 
 young man. I took her to the tavern myself to 
 labor for those lost souls. Esther wished to have 
 the glory of converting a Catholic before she goes as 
 a missionary. Brother, you must tell your wife not 
 to misjudge Esther. As for her love of laces and 
 perfumery, the poor child inherited that from me. 
 I was full of vanity and folly and very proud. I 
 didn t like to be a Methodist. I thought they were 
 queer people. I went to a dance once and danced
 
 ESTHER DAMON 145 
 
 all night in a pink silk dress. I recall how hard it 
 was to give up my tucks, ruffles, and curls to Jesus. 
 I couldn t part with a black silk shawl. The Lord 
 would say to me the first thing in the morning, Pru 
 dence, are you going to give up the black silk shawl 
 to-day? I couldn t until He made it easy for me." 
 She took her daughter s hand. "You ll put all 
 these baubles from you, won t you, dear child?" 
 
 The girl hesitated. Then, piece by piece, she 
 laid the beautiful beloved lies upon the table, seem 
 ing to sunder herself from living parts of her being. 
 
 " That s a good Esther," approved the mother, 
 "and you ll not walk with that young Mr. Clancy 
 any more in the streets, my dear. You must not be 
 misunderstood." 
 
 "I ll not walk with him in the streets," promised 
 the girl. 
 
 "That s right. We ll go together to the tavern to 
 pray for him." Mrs. Damon turned with pride to 
 her husband and Brother Simpkins. "You see, I 
 understand Esther because she s so much like me. 
 She s scarcely her father s daughter at all." 
 
 Indeed, it was the mother s deep fervor which 
 had intensified the daughter s nature, colored it until 
 it became a rallying point of fancy and stirred the 
 imagination. But Esther was more than her mother. 
 She was a bold, free drawing of her father, from 
 whom came her vigor and strength. "Our daughter 
 is not to work for the infidel any longer," Mrs. 
 Damon gently assured them. "But Mr. Orme 
 seems a kind, well-meaning man. He sent me
 
 146 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 some flowers the other day by Carter. I can make 
 him understand." 
 
 Esther was now prepared for any extreme 
 cruelty. Making a queer, wry face she said, "Very 
 well. Take everything." She drew several bank 
 notes from her pocket. "I earned these this summer 
 weaving carpet. I intended to put them toward my 
 college expenses." 
 
 The currency was the focus of six startled, aged 
 eyes. Mrs. Damon, looking from one to the other, 
 dominated the moment with her question: "What 
 shall we do with the money, Hezekiah? Brother 
 Simpkins, what do you think? Shall we give it to 
 the missionary fund or return it to Mr. Orme?" 
 
 Brother Simpkins surrendered his judicial authority 
 to the Elder who decided, "The money must go 
 back to the infidel. Sweet waters cannot come 
 from a corrupted fountain." 
 
 "You always know best, Hezekiah," agreed Mrs. 
 Damon, "and these furbelows of the world" the 
 old lady glanced at the pathetic little laces and rib 
 bons lying on the table "what shall we do with 
 them?" 
 
 "They will only be testimony against whoever 
 wears them," said the minister sternly. "Throw 
 the fripperies into the fire." Elder Damon took up 
 the silken lace trifles as if he were strangling snakes 
 and swept all into the stove. "Let us fast to-night," 
 he said on his return. "Let us kneel right here and 
 pray for Esther." He seized his daughter s wrist 
 as if not entirely unconvinced that he was touching
 
 ESTHER DAMON 147 
 
 the hand of a witch. "And you, Esther, pray for 
 yourself," he warned. "Pray for the casting out of 
 the devils. These depart from you only by faith. 
 Pray for your life."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ALICE ORME had been unable to endure the 
 obloquy of being the only woman in Freedom not 
 dwelling under the same roof with the man whose 
 name she bore. Robert soon discovered that she 
 had returned not to him, but to her marriage cer 
 tificate. This was as he desired. Their union had 
 been a physiological, never an intellectual nor a 
 spiritual fact. He could not have endured make- 
 believe affection. But, fearing lest he should be 
 unkind to her, he gave Alice elaborate courtesy. 
 Though they lived under the same roof, they were 
 separated by mountain ranges of thought. 
 
 On the evening following the revelations in the 
 Damon household Orme was supping with the 
 workmen in the living-room. Alice was seated on 
 the porch. She refused to break bread with those 
 not of her tier of life, and always ate before the 
 others. When she saw Mrs. Damon and Esther at 
 the gate she fled to call Robert. To Alice, Mrs. 
 Damon was a joke. 
 
 Robert left his companions and immediately went 
 forward to greet the visitors. In a swift approving 
 glance he observed that Esther had returned to her 
 former simplicity of dress. As Mrs. Damon saw 
 Robert, still young even with his graying hair, 
 overflowing with energy and enthusiasm, she held 
 
 148
 
 ESTHER DAMON 149 
 
 out her hands and exclaimed, "Why, Mr. Orme, 
 you ve turned back the clock ten years." 
 
 Esther, endeavoring to delay the inevitable return 
 of the money, made haste to begin, "Mr. Orme, 
 won t you show mother the house and workshop? 
 I want her to see what you have done." 
 
 Robert led his guests through the roomy workshop 
 with its wide windows and pleasing exterior, and ex 
 plained the various stages of manufacturing furni 
 ture. With such applausive grace did Mrs. Damon 
 comment on all she saw that Esther gathered hope. 
 Perhaps her mother would allow her to remain. 
 
 When they came back to the garden Mrs. Damon 
 stopped to look at the flowers and congratulated 
 Orme on choosing this site for his home. They 
 went into the cabin from which the workmen were 
 coming out and Mrs. Damon said, "These log 
 houses are so nice, Mr. Orme. I lived in one 
 when I was a little girl. This takes me back to it." 
 
 Each moment seemed an argument for Esther. 
 She explained to her mother. "People come here 
 from Buffalo just to see Mr. Orme s factory. They 
 all say this is going to be a big institution. Mr. 
 Orme gives the men the freedom of the house, and 
 they don t care to go to the tavern any more." 
 
 Mrs. Damon walked straight to the fireplace, where 
 she saw on the mantel the little picture she had 
 given Orme. "Do you really like this?" she asked, 
 taking up her daughter s work. 
 
 "It s very interesting," Robert answered, somewhat 
 confused.
 
 150 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 " Why, my picture !" Esther exclaimed. "I didn t 
 know you had one." The door to Alice s room 
 closed with a slam. 
 
 "Mrs. Damon gave it to me the day I was at 
 your house," said Orme to Esther. "I like it very 
 much." 
 
 "They are only bits of colored paper," apologized 
 Esther. "I wish I had oils to paint with. I do 
 see pictures." 
 
 "I know you do," Robert answered, and then 
 said to Mrs. Damon. "Really your daughter has 
 great talent for anything she can do with color. 
 She dyes remarkably well. Aunty Brewster is de 
 lighted with her." 
 
 "Yes, yes, she has talent," sighed Mrs. Damon, 
 "and all is very pleasant here. I am not surprised 
 she was happy working for you." 
 
 Robert had an almost feminine sense for shades 
 of inflection. He immediately seized her slight in 
 sistence on the word "was." He looked from 
 mother to daughter. Esther s countenance entreat 
 ing him to intercede for her disclosed the object 
 of their visit. "I hope she is still working with us, 
 Mrs. Damon. You surely have no objection?" 
 
 The mother s smile was very lovely as she an 
 swered, "You have accomplished much and I am 
 glad," unkindness ever faltered on her lips "I 
 am afraid it wasn t done in His name, my friend. 
 After long prayer my husband and I have decided 
 that our daughter must not be where He is not." 
 
 "Please, Mrs. Damon, don t insist on that.
 
 ESTHER DAMON 151 
 
 Esther is an excellent weaver, and I really need her. 
 Consider her own future. She s very anxious to go 
 to college. In another year she ll be ready. By 
 working here during her vacation she can take her 
 degree at Mount Holyoke." 
 
 Esther s eyes followed those of her advocate. Her 
 lips almost moved with his. But the plea broke in 
 vain over Mrs. Damon. When the older woman 
 spoke her mild brown eyes reflected generations 
 which had lived for the spirit. "No, worldly wisdom 
 will avail Esther nothing. Satan is always lurking 
 in our paths. With the money she earned here 
 Satan tempted her to bedeck herself with finery. 
 Our brethren very rightly made a protest; but all 
 will be forgiven Esther if she gives back the money. 
 We came to return it." 
 
 None of the revolt testified to by Esther s counte 
 nance sounded on her lips when at the instance of 
 her mother she handed the bank-notes to Orme. 
 In a struggle for self-mastery she went down the 
 path and stood by a rose-bush, her eyes fixed on 
 the lake below the hill. Burning always in her 
 brain were memories of those scattered, magical 
 meetings with Harry Clancy. There was some 
 rapture and ecstasy in life after all. Her great 
 desire for education might be crushed by that maker 
 of destinies, her mother. Her years of hopes and 
 dreams might come to nothing. Going to college 
 would have involved separation from Harry. Now 
 they should see each other often. Perhaps loving 
 him would be better than going to Mount Holyoke.
 
 152 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 So ran her thoughts as, unconscious of what she 
 was doing, she tore the roses on the bush to pieces 
 and dropped the petals on the ground. 
 
 Orme, in deep sympathy for Esther, started tow 
 ard her; then he hesitated. Her mother was looking 
 at him. "I can t keep your daughter s money, 
 Mrs. Damon," he said. "After all the work she 
 has done, it is too horrible to take it. Don t insist. 
 She is greatly distressed." 
 
 "Of course the poor child finds it hard, Mr. Orme. 
 The tempter doesn t make things easy. God will 
 show her the way to give up this desire. One lives 
 only as one renounces. Jesus life was renunciation." 
 
 Robert felt the need of plain speaking. Yet how 
 could he speak plainly to this dear, unsophisticated 
 old lady who knew so much about Jesus and so 
 little about her daughter. "I don t like to meddle 
 in your family affairs," he began awkwardly, 
 "but I can t feel you re acting for the best. I 
 realize I m very remote from you and you ll find 
 it hard to accept my judgment. Yet it isn t always 
 the bush bearing the rose that understands it, is 
 it ? I ve talked with Esther a good deal and studied 
 her very closely she s a person one does notice 
 and her whole heart is centred on Mount Holyoke. 
 I ve an idea I hope you ll pardon me for express 
 ing it that you ought to be very careful about 
 thrusting her into a life she doesn t like. I shouldn t 
 care to be answerable for it myself." 
 
 "I shall do nothing, Mr. Orme. Our dear Lord 
 performs all."
 
 ESTHER DAMON 153 
 
 Robert felt as if his head had suddenly been 
 thumped against the stone wall of superstition. 
 Agreement was impossible between the minister s 
 wife and him. Their values were too different. 
 But, after an interval he began again, "Does Esther 
 want to go as a missionary, Mrs. Damon?" 
 
 "Not now, but she will." 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 Alarm came into the mother s eyes. "You haven t 
 spoken against it, Mr. Orme?" 
 
 "Never a word," he was glad he could answer, 
 "but you know nature will have its way. Isn t it a 
 violation of youth to send her into that hard, dan 
 gerous life in Asia? Perhaps you don t realize she 
 is beautiful. She hungers for beauty of every kind. 
 No one sees beauty so intensely as the beautiful, 
 and she should have it." 
 
 "Yes, I know, I am greatly blessed in having her. 
 I thank God every day for giving her such outward 
 fairness. Her beauty will aid Jesus. When she 
 speaks of heaven to the poor heathen they will find 
 it easy to believe. I hope I don t inconvenience 
 you, Mr. Orme, by taking her away, but Esther is 
 all I have. I have consecrated her to God. If ever 
 you meet," she entreated pathetically, "I may rely 
 upon you to say nothing to keep her from Him." 
 
 Orme was helpless in the presence of her faith. 
 "Of course! Of course!" he answered. 
 
 "Thank you, my friend, Mrs. Damon said, 
 shaking his hand. "I do wish you were one of 
 His disciples. What a Christian you would be!"
 
 154 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Then she subjoined in almost a whisper, "This 
 evening I have wondered if you hadn t the spirit 
 of the Master without realizing it." 
 
 "My dear lady," Robert replied with a dis 
 couraged smile, "you are so filled with it yourself 
 that you see it everywhere." 
 
 "Oh, no, Carter tells me of you. He prays for 
 you. Carter is one of my boys, you know. Won t 
 you come to church sometime? This hill is too 
 much for my miserable old body or I should have 
 been often to see you. I am so glad," she added, 
 her eyes suffused, "that you keep away from the 
 tavern. I couldn t be happier if you were my own 
 son. God will bless you." 
 
 On the way to the gate whither Orme escorted 
 Mrs. Damon, she met Carter, with whom she shook 
 hands. "Praise the Lord, Brother Carter," she 
 said. 
 
 As Robert looked at Esther s disconsolate eyes it 
 came over him that she saw the air, the great heights, 
 the wide distances of youth, the sun only as some 
 thing in which she had no share save through the 
 bars of her prison. He made one more effort to 
 save her. "Mrs. Damon," he called. She paused. 
 "I hope you understand the spirit in which I make 
 the suggestion. I have found a way for Esther to 
 go to college without working for me." 
 
 The look of gratitude that came into the girl s eyes 
 as he spoke remained with him always. "You have 
 that Wesley portrait at your house. If you sell it 
 you ll get enough for her college expenses."
 
 ESTHER DAMON 155 
 
 Orme now knew how Mrs. Damon stared at 
 blasphemers. "Sell Wesley s portrait!" 
 
 "Yes, I should be very glad if you would." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Orme," she gasped, "I thought you 
 gave it me because it was too precious to be sold 
 because you wanted some one to own the picture 
 who would hold it sacred." 
 
 "That is true," he replied, "but if Esther " 
 
 "And now you would have me take money for 
 it?" she interrupted in a crying tone. "Money"! 
 "Come away, Esther!" she urged in terror, as if 
 Orme had suggested that she sell her God. Esther 
 took her mother s arm in the manner of one whose 
 resistance was broken. In descending the hill, she 
 steadied the body of the older woman to keep her 
 from stumbling. The eyes of Mrs. Damon were 
 dim. 
 
 Orme watched the women disappear. Then he 
 went slowly toward the house. He paused before 
 the June rose leaves scattered on the grass by 
 Esther Damon s rebellious fingers. He threw him 
 self face downward upon the ground and breathed 
 the perfume of the blossoms. Thus he lay, un 
 mindful of all else until he heard the voice of Alice, 
 who was standing over him. 
 
 "For Heaven s sake, Robert, how much longer 
 are you going to lie there? The dew is falling. 
 You ll catch cold."
 
 BOOK THREE 
 AS YE SOW
 
 How shall men feel when the last day begins? 
 Shall they affrighted stand in presence of their sins? 
 Or shall their struggles and the good they sought 
 Deny the shames their wrath and folly wrought? 
 And shall they see, each one in all the others, 
 The self -same love for truth that made them brothers? 
 And shall they find their souls at length 
 Judged, not by weakness, but by their strength? 
 
 JOHN D. BARRY.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IF this were an old-fashioned story to-day the 
 birds would have been voiceless, the wind would 
 have moaned, the sky glowered, the sun turned its 
 face away. In reality, the birds were singing their 
 gayest farewell song. The season was smiling its 
 sweetest farewell smile. It was a golden Indian 
 summer afternoon in a forest carpeted with golden 
 leaves. 
 
 Harry Clancy emerged from the wood, walked 
 along the edge of the lake; threw pebbles across 
 the surface of the lazy water; aimlessly whittled 
 sticks with his knife and cast them aside ; glanced 
 at his watch; impatiently retreated into the narrow 
 glade on his right and here continued the vigil. He 
 no longer appeared with Esther in the streets of 
 Freedom. He waited for her in the forest. Seating 
 himself on an ivy-covered fallen log, he again took 
 note of the hour. Then he ventured to the edge 
 of the wood and waved his hand. Esther was run 
 ning at full speed down the road through the or 
 chards where men were preparing for market the 
 recently harvested fruit. As she made toward 
 Clancy, her quaint, Methodist head-gear fell back 
 from her face. She quickly seized her hat, crushed 
 it under her arm, and avoiding the wagon track, 
 tore her way through crackling brush to him. 
 
 159
 
 160 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "Oh, Harry, isn t it dreadful? I m an hour late." 
 She did not observe that this was less a calamity to 
 him than to her. "Sister Simpkins was ill and I 
 had to read to her. Otherwise I couldn t have come 
 at all. She made me lose an hour of you on this 
 last day." 
 
 Of admirable manly height, filled with the grace 
 and spirit of youth, in her eyes Clancy looked like 
 the hero of a romance as he turned toward her and 
 quickly asked, "Why, what do you mean, Esther? 
 This isn t the last day." 
 
 "Not the last day!" she returned, smoothing his 
 brown hair which was long and had been trained 
 to fall picturesquely over his forehead. "It s the 
 last day for a month. That is forever in Freedom." 
 
 He passed his arm round her waist. As they 
 walked toward a seat he said soothingly, "Freedom 
 is a backwoods place. I couldn t live if I didn t 
 get away from it every little while." Then he 
 looked at her anxiously and added, "You mustn t 
 think so much about this short separation. I ll be 
 back before you know it." 
 
 "You don t understand, Harry," she whispered, 
 quickly raising her pale face. "If only I could go 
 away from Freedom now. You said I could." 
 
 "I wish you could." 
 
 "Perhaps I oughtn t to say it," she went on, her 
 throat contracting before her very words, "but 
 wouldn t it be lovely if I could go to New York 
 with you ?" She left pride behind her and continued 
 rapidly. "We could be married somewhere," she
 
 AS YE SOW 161 
 
 said, aware of the alarm in his blue, girlishly-lashed 
 eyes. "Do take me with you, Harry. It seems to 
 me we can t breathe without each other. Think of 
 being all alone together for days, weeks, months 
 . . . always together. Wouldn t the world simply 
 stand still if we should separate for a second?" 
 
 "We can t be married now, Esther," he answered 
 nervously. The girl was at an age when all spoken 
 words are true, but his tone told her that a gust 
 of new wind was blowing, a wind she had never 
 encountered. "Women are funny," he continued. 
 "They re all so sentimental. They have marriage on 
 the brain." 
 
 She withdrew from his embrace. "Why, Harry!" 
 After an unhappy interval she went on, "Why should 
 what I said seem so curious to you? You always 
 talked about marriage just as they do in books. 
 You know you did. It was beautiful." Her coun 
 tenance became suddenly strange. A look of ris 
 ing tears was in her eyes. Holding herself quite 
 erect she said: "You may call me sentimental if 
 you wish, Harry. If you mean by it that I love 
 you, it s true enough. But I haven t marriage on 
 the brain. I want no one but you. You ve said 
 ever so long you loved me and wanted no one but 
 me." 
 
 "Of course I do, Esther," he answered, touching 
 her hand, "but Father O Darrell made such a fuss 
 about it. My folks were worse. Do you think 
 any minister in Freedom would marry a Catholic 
 and Protestant? Would your father? And if we
 
 1 62 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 were married, would you live down at the Ivy Green 
 on money made from whiskey?" 
 
 His question seemed to bruise and bury her; but 
 she found a way out of the dilemma. "Harry, we 
 don t need to live at the Ivy Green. We can earn 
 a living some other way. I don t mind what we 
 do." 
 
 "I m different," he answered with a superior 
 smile. "I ve got to have good clothes and travel. 
 I can t give things up." 
 
 "Don t talk like that, Harry," she pleaded, her 
 voice freighted with fear. "If I didn t know you, 
 I d say you were selfish." Now she saw in which 
 way the new wind was sweeping her. Its course 
 lay toward bitter doubt, her first doubt of friend 
 ship, of love all concentrated in Clancy. When she 
 slowly spoke it was as if a malevolent power were 
 requiring her to liquidate a debt long overdue. 
 Her words were the first payment. "Harry," she 
 said, clutching his shoulders, "there is nothing I 
 can t do. I ll work for you so hard. I ll never 
 cost you anything. You oughtn t to want money 
 that comes from such unhappiness and sin as the 
 tavern money does. Try to earn a living in some 
 other way. You can have all you make for your 
 self. I don t need clothes. I never had any; so I 
 shan t miss them. All I ask is to be near you and 
 hear you say once in a while that you love me." 
 
 "Oh, don t worry, Esther," he laughingly re 
 plied as he kissed her, "you re a very pretty girl. 
 Lots of fellows will want to marry you."
 
 AS YE SOW 163 
 
 His engaging Celtic eyes were bent on her in a 
 smile. His good looks were never so manifest as 
 now when, gazing at him to gather the implication 
 of his words, she saw the light sifting through the 
 trees turn his shaggy, sylvan head to gold. She 
 pressed her hands hard against her forehead and 
 asked, "Do you think any nice girl would ever let 
 two men kiss her?" His beautifully white teeth 
 glittered in a smile. "What is there funny about 
 that, Harry? Surely no nice man would ever kiss 
 more than the girl he loved. You wouldn t, would 
 you, Harry?" He laughed without restraint while 
 she stared. It was not the man she had known at 
 whom she stared and wondered. With uncertain 
 hands the girl endeavored to put on her gray bonnet ; 
 but her fingers would not respond to her will. The 
 trees seemed to go round and round. Finally she 
 gathered up her fragile strands of courage. She rose 
 immediately, to be followed by Clancy. 
 
 "Now don t, Esther," he said, drawing her face 
 back to his. "I didn t mean to make you feel 
 bad. What you said did sound funny, but that s the 
 sweet thing about you: you don t know. I want to 
 be awfully kind to you." 
 
 Esther shook her shoulders, detaching herself from 
 his embrace. "Don t mind me. Don t try to be 
 kind to me." Her fingers nervously endeavored to 
 tie the knot at her chin. "Laugh at me all you wish. 
 I suppose there are lots of horrid things I don t know. 
 You needn t talk to me as if I were a nuisance, run 
 ning after you and begging you to marry me ...
 
 1 64 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 you begged. I m not looking for you or any one 
 else to marry me." She broke off abruptly and, 
 after a brief collapse into tears, she went on, "Why 
 did you ever mention marriage ? Why couldn t you 
 leave me alone, Harry ? What am I ? You told me 
 I was beautiful . . . I m not . . . I m ugly and 
 ignorant. I m nothing to conquer." 
 
 "Do stop, Esther," he said, seizing one of her 
 fluttering hands. "I didn t mean a word. It was 
 a joke. Don t take on so. I wouldn t have you 
 any different for the world. I can t bear to see you 
 blue. Of course I love you." 
 
 But once having found the touchstone of truth 
 Esther could not again accept falsehood. "Don t 
 come near me. Don t say these things. Your voice 
 hasn t the sound it used to have. It lost that some 
 time ago. No matter what you say, you haven t the 
 right tone. I know you don t love me because I care 
 so much for you that I feel every little change in your 
 voice. I couldn t laugh at you, nor say unkind 
 things to you. You can ... I know what that 
 means. I ll never mention marriage again. . . . 
 You don t want me. I m going home. You may 
 have the entire afternoon to get ready for your trip 
 to New York." 
 
 She walked ahead of him through the narrow 
 path made by their feet during the past months. 
 But he hastened to overtake her. "Don t behave 
 that way, Esther. Be a good girl. You re always 
 so nice. Don t be cross just the last minute. If 
 you keep on you ll spoil my trip . . . that isn t like
 
 AS YE SOW 165 
 
 you. Let s have a swim together and forget this." 
 He was at her side, and again placing his hands 
 upon her shoulders, with an old, familiar gesture he 
 drew her to him. 
 
 She resisted; then seemed to yield to his spell. 
 "Yes, Harry . . . we ll swim together for the last 
 time." 
 
 There was on his part a superabundance of be 
 lated interest, kindness, and affection as he returned, 
 "Not the last time, Esther. We re going to have 
 lots of swims. I ll give you a long start and we ll 
 race. You re the only woman I ever saw who could 
 really swim." 
 
 "It will be the last time this year. When you 
 come back it will be cold. Then winter will come. 
 Who can tell what the spring will be?" 
 
 While struggling with her forebodings she rested 
 her head on his breast. For some minutes only the 
 hum of unseen life was in the air. "After all, Esther, 
 if you re so anxious to get away from this place and 
 I don t blame you why don t you go as a mission 
 ary? It will be seeing something of the world. 
 Anything is better than Freedom. Naturally it 
 would be awful to me, but you were brought up 
 that way. It mightn t be so bad for you." 
 
 She raised her head as though she had much, 
 everything, to say, but she was voiceless. Then she 
 made an odd clutching gesture and went onward as 
 before. They separated at the bath houses which 
 were in a thick grove of willows bordering the lake. 
 Esther was dressed for the swim sooner than Harry.
 
 i66 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 In a long-sleeved cumbrous black garment, dictated 
 by the decorous decree of the village quilting-bee, 
 she walked up and down the lane. 
 
 When Clancy appeared she lightly took his hand 
 and ran with him to an opening in the willows 
 where boats were moored. As she put her foot into 
 the water she drew back, and buried her face in 
 her hands. 
 
 "What is it, Esther?" he asked anxiously. 
 
 She bathed her eyes for some seconds. "Come 
 on, Esther," he urged. "You ll feel better when 
 we re in the water." 
 
 She gave him her hand again, and they picked 
 their way over the sharp pebbles; but presently, to 
 avoid the hurt of them, with identity of impulse the 
 swimmers flung themselves into the lake. Esther 
 swam on her side, and so entirely without effort that 
 it was as if she were at one with the water. 
 
 "When I go into the lake, Harry," she said in a 
 brighter tone, "I forget I m flesh and blood. I m 
 spirit." 
 
 Clancy circled round her with proficiency evolved 
 during many boyhood days of truancy from school. 
 "You re all right now, aren t you?" he asked. 
 "Isn t it bully swimming to-day?" 
 
 "Splendid. The happiest time of my life, Harry, 
 has been here in this lake where you taught me to 
 swim. Let s go over to the water-lily bed. You 
 know where we found those yellow and white lilies 
 in the spring." 
 
 They made for the northern shore and reached
 
 AS YE SOW 167 
 
 the indenture in which were the great flat leaves of 
 lilies. "Not a flower," said Harry. 
 
 "No," she answered ruefully, "they re all gone." 
 Both were floating when she placed her arm under 
 his neck, and with a sudden rise of spirits, said, 
 "Harry, let s have a nice long swim across the lake. 
 We ll play we re going to sea. I can see the waves, 
 can t you?" 
 
 "You re a funny girl. You ve never been to sea 
 in your life." 
 
 "I know I ve never travelled except to go to 
 camp-meetings. You ve been to Asbury Park and 
 everywhere. But I do see the sea all the same. 
 I ve read about it in books. I see all the things I 
 read. It s like this lake, only larger, and it has a 
 great heart which always throbs. I wish we were 
 at sea, don t you, Harry?" She rested her head on 
 his shoulder, using her legs as motive power. 
 
 "You d be wanting to come back mighty quick 
 if we really were." 
 
 "No, I shouldn t. . . .I d go on forever and ever 
 like this. The sea must be like eternity." 
 
 "Esther, you foolish girl, do open your eyes and 
 come along and swim." 
 
 As she looked at the gently rolling hills, the hard, 
 blue sky, she said, "I like this part of the lake. 
 It s so nice and deep here. They say there s no bot 
 tom. Hell is down below." She was swimming 
 with her feet, but she was being carried on at ac 
 celerated speed by Clancy s strong, powerful strokes. 
 
 "For Heaven s sake, Esther, stop talking about
 
 1 68 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 such creepy things. If we both weren t such good 
 swimmers we might lose our nerve out here." 
 
 "You aren t afraid are you, Harry?" she asked, 
 her eyes fixed on him. "You and I couldn t sink 
 if we tried. What difference would it make if we 
 did go right down here together?" 
 
 With her words came the pressure of her lips on 
 his. Her arms and legs were tentacles clutching 
 him. Her body was a weight of stone carrying him 
 down. Harry opened his eyes and saw the black 
 flecks in the water, the darting fish, the tangled, 
 floating weeds. He dug his nails into the back of 
 her neck and began beating her. Esther s desperate 
 grip relaxed. He rose to the surface, dragging her 
 with him by her long, thick braids of hair. He 
 trod water and held her while she choked and 
 strangled, and until exhausted and mute, she lay 
 on her back, her nose pinched, her eyes closed in 
 their large, black sockets. 
 
 "I ll take you to shore," he said with protecting 
 affection. "Float by my side so I can keep watch 
 of you, you bad girl." 
 
 Her voice was throaty from coughing, and she said 
 brokenly, "No, let me swim, Harry. I m such a 
 bother so." 
 
 For an instant he looked at her as if she were an 
 enemy. "Lie right where you are," he commanded. 
 "I won t trust you to swim." 
 
 "I m very strong, Harry," she said meekly. "Let 
 me go on ahead of you. If anything happens you 
 can save me ... if you think it s worth while."
 
 AS YE SOW 169 
 
 Esther in the lead, and he following, they slowly 
 made their way toward the landing. Clancy in 
 sisted that she rest at intervals by lying motionless 
 on her back. Once on the shore, he took her in 
 his arms, shook her playfully and said, "Now you 
 see what comes of talking of such crazy things. If 
 I hadn t been brought up as a fish, nothing could 
 have saved either of us." 
 
 "I ll never do so again," she said penitently, 
 "but I m sorry I came back." Her teeth chattered, 
 her body shook and shivered. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked, his eyes staring 
 into hers. 
 
 "Oh, I m such a trouble . . . that s all." 
 
 "Nonsense. Wait a minute, Esther, I ll get you 
 some brandy." He started to fetch it. "I always 
 take a drink after swimming." 
 
 "No, Harry, not any. Thank you." 
 
 "What cranks you Methodists are." Taking her 
 gently by the arm he led her to the bath house and 
 counselled, "If you won t have brandy, Esther, do 
 hurry and get out of your clothes. You ll catch cold 
 if you don t." 
 
 When she closed the door he leaped to his own 
 room like a healthy, young, frisking animal. He 
 whistled, sang, and reappeared to call, "Esther!" 
 On receiving no response, he again cried, "Esther, 
 Esther, are you nearly ready?" Presently he went 
 to the door and rapped. There was silence. Then he 
 thrust his head within the aperture and found the 
 girl lying on the floor a crouching, outstretched,
 
 170 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 conquered thing in a paroxysm of shuddering. 
 " What s the matter, Esther? Are you crying?" he 
 anxiously asked as he entered the bath house and 
 endeavored to lift her. "Tell me." 
 
 She looked at him with tragic, wounded eyes, like 
 one extracting from mortal affliction its last dregs. 
 "No, Harry." 
 
 "You re cold," he said, bending over her. "Take 
 off those wet things. Be reasonable and let me give 
 you some brandy." 
 
 She shook her head. "I m not cold. You re in a 
 hurry, Harry . . . you go home first. I ll get 
 dressed later." 
 
 "Of course I ll wait for you, Esther. Only please 
 be as quick as you can. I ve lots of things to do 
 before I leave." 
 
 When she emerged from the bath house a veil of 
 imperishable sadness hung over the girl s face. She 
 fell back against the door. Clancy frowned at her. 
 "Esther!" he said sharply. 
 
 "Yes," she answered in a little terrified gasp. 
 
 "Esther . . . I ll bet you did it purposely. If 
 you did, ... it would settle everything between us." 
 
 She shook her head despairingly. "You d like, 
 wouldn t you, Harry, to have something settle every 
 thing ? Don t look for excuses and be cross with me 
 because I got frightened. ... I can t stand it. ... 
 I didn t mean to be a nuisance. ... I hope this 
 hasn t spoiled your last day." She leaned against 
 him limply. "Don t think of this horrid afternoon," 
 she said, fingering the buttons of his coat. "I hope,
 
 AS YE SOW 171 
 
 Harry, you ll be happy. You ll be so busy seeing 
 things in New York that you won t have time to 
 write often, but send me just one letter." 
 
 His arms lightly clasped her waist, as from habit 
 rather than inclination. "Of course I ll write you, 
 Esther." 
 
 Even in the enchantment of the embrace she per 
 ceived his eagerness to be gone. When he touched 
 her his eyes turned toward Freedom. "You re in 
 such a hurry, Harry, you must go first." The 
 lovers never went back to the village together. " Let 
 me wait here." 
 
 "No, I ll not," he replied in scrutiny, as 
 though each second condensed his suspicion into 
 an opinion. "You ll go to town first. I ll walk 
 behind every inch of the way. I won t have any 
 more nonsense. I believe you did do that purposely. 
 If you did, you re crazy. I m afraid of you. All 
 you Methodists are a little off." 
 
 She listened as a mother listens to the brutal ut 
 terance of a child, listened and forgave. "Don t." 
 Esther held her cheek against his, and her every ca 
 dence was a betrayal of the helpless being he had 
 made of her. "I won t be a nuisance again, Harry. 
 Pretend you love me a little . . . won t you dear?" 
 
 "I love you." The avowal was like a well-learned 
 lesson. "Why do you suddenly think I don t?" 
 
 "It isn t sudden, Harry. Don t pretend any 
 more . . . it s too hard for you. Good-by, I ll see 
 you go out on the stage to-morrow night. I ll be 
 somewhere about."
 
 172 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 His face had gone white. "No, you mustn t . . . 
 some one might see you." 
 
 "I don t care . . . I ve got beyond that . . . 
 I m not afraid any more." Then with a sudden 
 accession of strength she added, "This is good-by 
 if you wish it." As she kissed him for the last time 
 her life seemed to go out in that kiss. "Good-by," 
 she repeated, and gasped, "this is hard to bear."* 
 Then she ran from his arms like a wild woman 
 through the elderberry bushes. When she arrived at 
 the end of the lane which was a fork of the townward 
 road, she looked back with a dim smile and made a 
 melancholy gesture of leave-taking.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 LUCY YATES was the young person of high privi 
 lege in Freedom. The Ormes, Mrs. Brewster, the 
 Damons abysmal as was the difference between 
 them united in indulgence for the daughter of the 
 village physician. Since Orme s bankruptcy, Dr. 
 Yates had become the first citizen of the town. Like 
 a little butterfly Lucy hummed about the streets from 
 morning till night, overturning the conventions of the 
 place, improvising her own rules of conduct. From 
 childhood Esther and she had had a romantic friend 
 ship. Each complemented the other. Esther ad 
 mired Lucy s grace, her unrestraint, her prettiness, 
 her worldliness Lucy was almost like a city girl. 
 Lucy adored Esther for her regal beauty, her superi 
 ority in the class-room, her dignity of character. 
 
 The evening following Esther s separation from 
 Harry, while Mrs. Damon and her daughter were at 
 supper, Lucy fluttered into the parsonage. Elder 
 Damon was preaching at Attica, and Mrs. Damon 
 and Esther were alone. Lucy s appearance at the 
 minister s home intensified Mrs. Damon s misgiv 
 ings about allowing Esther to associate with the un 
 righteous. With the girl s presence the sitting-room, 
 perfumed with sanctity and stored with holy tradi 
 tions, seemed to suffer an invasion of the world itself. 
 
 173
 
 174 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 The minister s wife could credit the disquieting 
 rumor that at the last Baptist donation party there 
 had been dancing, with Lucy leading the profane 
 pastime. But Mrs. Damon was genuinely fond of 
 the girl, and was soon cajoled into allowing Esther 
 to go for a walk. 
 
 No sooner were the friends out of the house than 
 Lucy seized Esther s arm. "Your mother said you 
 could be gone an hour. That means two. Let s 
 go to the Catholic church it will be such fun." 
 
 Esther s eyes rested on the little Catholic house of 
 worship. To the daughter of a Methodist preacher, 
 nurtured as she had been on absurd New England 
 traditions concerning the older faith, this was a dar 
 ing suggestion. That cross standing out so clearly 
 on the roof of the church was for her a symbol not 
 of the crucifixion of the Son of Man, but of super 
 stition, idolatry, and persecution. "Why ... I 
 was never in a Catholic church in my life." 
 
 "I ve been three times," boasted Lucy. "It was 
 a lark. We rolled marbles right up against the 
 pulpit, and laughed till Father O Darrell ordered us 
 out; but we didn t go." 
 
 It was true, adventurous young Protestants in 
 Freedom sometimes attended the Catholic service. 
 They went as to a menagerie or as to a Chinese joss- 
 house guided by curiosity for strange incense, mys 
 terious pictures, and weird rites. Lucy s words re 
 vealed to Esther a latent tenderness in her heart for 
 the mother church. After all, it was Harry s place of 
 devotion. He had been reared in the Catholic faith.
 
 AS YE SOW 175 
 
 "I shouldn t like to be rude," Esther answered. "I 
 should be angry if the Catholics caused a disturbance 
 in our meeting-house. But I d love to see what the 
 Catholic church is like. Is there service to-night?" 
 " Something is going on. I saw the light as I came 
 along," replied Lucy, quickening her pace. 
 
 The pink wainscoted walls of the primitive little 
 church entered by the two girls were hung with small 
 chromos marking the stations of the Cross. The 
 Star of Bethlehem was of crudely colored glass ; but 
 the altars were smothered with flowers. To Esther s 
 inexperienced eyes it was as if she were in a mag 
 nificent, mysterious, dim-lighted, tapestry-hung tem 
 ple where an unknown god was worshipped. The 
 church was half filled with a kneeling congregation. 
 Father O Darrell, robed in white, was on his knees, 
 saying something in Latin. 
 
 Esther heard the click of rosaries, the whispers of 
 prayers. Her first impulse was to kneel in this 
 church of Harry s boyhood. If only he were there 
 with the others! Her love now expressed itself in a 
 desire to yield to him her own true faith, born of 
 centuries of suffering and sacrifice. In deep yearn 
 ing for an exalted moment, she thought how splendid 
 it would be here on her knees at his side to give as 
 a supreme offering her soul to his faith. What joy 
 there would be in such self -giving. She checked her 
 self. This was idolatry. She could not fraternize 
 with the spirit of the Catholic church. Hers was the 
 simple religion of the tent-maker, the carpenter. 
 Almost blinded by the blur of flowers and candle-
 
 176 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 lights she sank into the seat by Lucy, breathless to 
 see what would happen. At intervals she caught a 
 word of Father O Darrell s Latin prayer. 
 
 The worshippers resumed their places in the pews. 
 Covert glances were cast in the direction of the two 
 Protestant girls. Esther looked straight before her 
 at Father O Darrell, and at the young man and 
 woman standing before him. Esther knew Harry s 
 back, his handsome, shaggy head. He had not gone 
 to New York the evening before. Why was he at the 
 side of the girl in white? In the stunning force of 
 the blow at first she gathered no meaning from what 
 she saw. Father O Darrell impressively began a 
 service in English. Wild thoughts whirled through 
 Esther s brain. Lucy seized her hand and whisper 
 ing, "Why, it s a wedding!" she snuggled up to 
 Esther and took her arm. "Aren t you glad you 
 came?" Esther s body sagged. Lucy peered for 
 ward. "It s Harry Clancy and that girl at the Ivy 
 Green. Isn t it funny to think we re at their wed 
 ding?" 
 
 Esther could not look at the altar. "I, Harry 
 Clancy " Who was the man she had known? 
 Were those vows she heard ? Was that a ring being 
 blessed ? Could the world be real ? Who was she ? 
 What was she but a burning, bursting heart? Her 
 eyes turned to the altar on the left, above which was 
 the innocent, blue-robed figure of a maiden, her 
 bare shoulders covered with flowing hair, on her 
 head a diadem of gold. At her feet burned rows 
 of candles. For her lilies gave their lives in per-
 
 AS YE SOW 177 
 
 fumed death. That great mother was offering to 
 the world her son. Esther could not take her eyes 
 from the sweet-faced Virgin. She wished to fling 
 herself before the figure and sob. 
 
 Voices at the altar ceased. The organ burst out 
 in triumphant joy. Harry and his wife tried to 
 hasten away; but with shouts and laughter their 
 friends hurled at them rice and slippers. Esther 
 gazed hard at the mother over the altar holding her 
 son in her arms. The girl hoped Harry would not 
 see her; but so closely related to him was she that 
 she knew when he started at sight of her. 
 
 "Wasn t it pretty?" chattered Lucy. "I want a 
 dress made like the one Harry s wife wore. I d like 
 to be married in church with candles and flowers. 
 Wouldn t Feeling Esther s chilled hand, she 
 
 asked quickly, "What is the matter, dear?" 
 
 "I want to go home . . . now. ... I don t feel 
 well." 
 
 "That s too bad, darling," said Lucy, as they fol 
 lowed the gay party out of the church. 
 
 Sounds of gayety from the merrymakers greeted 
 the ears of Esther and Lucy as the girls went toward 
 the parsonage. For the first time in her life Esther 
 leaned heavily on Lucy. Her knees gave at every 
 step. She wished to open her heart to her friend. 
 She turned to do so, but she feared to frighten the 
 little sunshine girl. Lucy was never so inexpressibly 
 dear to Esther as this evening. Perhaps this was the 
 last time they would ever walk together under the 
 great maple and elm trees. In saying good-night,
 
 178 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Esther kissed Lucy many times. "Do you love 
 me?" 
 
 "You re my sister, Esther. You re everything," 
 Lucy answered, glad as always to look up to Esther. 
 
 "Will you love me always?" 
 
 "Always." 
 
 "No, you won t," Esther burst out violently. "No 
 one does." 
 
 "Why, Esther, you are strange to-night. Every 
 one loves you. I wish I were half as perfect. When 
 I get married I want you to be my bridesmaid and 
 I ll be yours. I m going to call my first daughter 
 Esther." 
 
 "You won t, Lucy. I m bad." 
 
 Lucy kissed her. "Oh, you saint. Mrs. Damon 
 always calls herself bad, too. Good-night, dearest. 
 Cheer up." 
 
 "Good-night, dear." As Lucy ran down the 
 street Esther fancied her friend was fleeing from her. 
 
 Esther was glad to be alone so that her great, 
 splashing tears might fall unrestrained. She could 
 not go into the house. Leaning wearily against a 
 tree, she tasted the bitter pangs of disastrous love. 
 Her striking out for liberty and wider experience, her 
 pity for Harry, his bringing romance into her gray 
 life had brought her thus to her father s house. Now 
 her childhood with its discipline, its austerities, its 
 rigors, returned to her as one long summer day of 
 happiness. If only she could go back and bow her 
 head before her parents authority. How easy it 
 would be in comparison with what she must endure.
 
 AS YE SOW 179 
 
 She did not know which way to go. She seemed 
 bewildered, lost. She started toward the house, but 
 she felt a weight on her head and shoulders. She 
 sank to the steps of the porch, but she wept no more. 
 Tears were for those who had hope; for her there 
 was none. 
 
 Again and again she went over the past, erasing 
 it, until her mother called, "Daughter! daughter, 
 dear!" 
 
 Esther rose, her girlhood gone. She was a 
 woman, with a high definite form of life. "I won t 
 be crushed. I won t," she said, as she went into the 
 house.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ESTHER was never less Esther than during the 
 month following Clancy s marriage. She never 
 stamped her feet, nor slammed doors, nor gave 
 way to tempests of anger. She expressed no longing 
 for milliners hats instead of those queer bonnets 
 made by her mother. Her high spirit was all gen 
 tleness and humility. Her obedience was beautiful to 
 see. On Sunday she attended divine service with 
 her parents, and to spare them uneasiness, she still 
 taught her class of children. During the week, when 
 Mrs. Damon went on pilgrimages of prayer, Esther 
 remained at home and worked. Hitherto she had 
 shrunk from unbeautiful household tasks. Now 
 she plunged into them. She scrubbed the floors, 
 she cleaned the windows, she polished the stove. 
 When she beat the soiled linen with her fists it was 
 as if she sought to wound her flesh. 
 
 Mrs. Damon, radiating gentle optimism, came in 
 from the post office. Seeing the violence of the girl s 
 efforts, she said, "Of course, Esther, you should 
 know how to do everything. When you are a mis 
 sionary service will be your life. But, dear child, 
 you look over-tired. You seem quite altered." 
 
 "I want to work hard, mother," answered Esther, 
 her great eyes burning as if feeding on the blood of 
 
 180
 
 AS YE SOW 181 
 
 her white, worn face. "I want to test my strength. 
 Perhaps some day I ll need to be a servant." 
 
 "Oh, my child," protested Mrs. Damon, "dry 
 your hands and come into the sitting-room. I want 
 to speak with you." 
 
 The girl was in the kitchen, bending over a steam 
 ing tub of clothes. Her gray print dress was turned 
 in at the throat; her sleeves were rolled high above 
 the elbows, revealing creamy, soft arms. Esther had 
 worked until drops of perspiration stood on her 
 brow. She divested herself of her apron, closed the 
 collar of her dress, let down the sleeves, fastened the 
 cuffs, went into the room and sat before her mother, 
 whose trembling hands held an envelope. Esther 
 looked at the paper in dumb, increasing alarm. It 
 did not make her less anxious that Mrs. Damon was 
 smiling as if she had just received a rich, new happi 
 ness. "It has come at last, Esther, sooner than I 
 expected." 
 
 "What has come?" Esther s bewilderment was 
 unmistakable. 
 
 "The call, child, direct from the Board of Mis 
 sions for you to go to China. Of course the separa 
 tion will be hard for your father and me, but you ve 
 been reared for missionary labor. We ll keep our 
 eyes fixed on the covenant when He spared your 
 life. What a big, fine, strong woman you will be 
 for the work of the Lord." 
 
 "For the work of the Lord!" Mother and 
 daughter seemed no longer to breathe the same air. 
 
 "Yes, for our dear Saviour," Mrs. Damon went
 
 1 82 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 on beatifically. "Perhaps at first it will be hard for 
 one so young as you. But think of those brave 
 young followers of John Wesley. They left luxury 
 in England to wander through the American wilder 
 ness. They preached in tents and cabins. They 
 forded rivers and almost died in swamps. Often 
 they slept under the stars with a saddle for a pillow 
 and an overcoat for a bed. Your grandfather Da 
 mon was one of them." 
 
 Esther withheld her face from her mother. " Jesus 
 doesn t want me." 
 
 "How can you say such a thing, daughter?" 
 
 "No," insisted the girl, her eyes fixed on the chart 
 of prayers hanging on the wall, "the Lord hasn t 
 the least concern for me." 
 
 Esther seemed to surround herself by a wall not 
 to be penetrated by her mother. Mrs. Damon s dim 
 eyes endeavored to pierce it; but it loomed there, 
 forbidding and chill, a structure of mystery. The 
 mother seized Esther s hands and earnestly ques 
 tioned, "What has come over you, my child ? Why 
 do you speak so strangely? Have you lost your 
 vision of purpose ? It can t be that all your father s 
 teaching is of no avail." 
 
 Esther s ravaged face confronted her mother. 
 "God has forgotten me. If He had one thought 
 for me, He wouldn t allow me to live." 
 
 The mother s hand smoothed the head of her 
 daughter as if she were a child. " Not let you live, 
 dear? Why, you are of His chosen ones. You 
 speak as if you didn t love God."
 
 AS YE SOW 183 
 
 The girl averted her glance. She desired not to 
 behold the anguish her words would cause. Her 
 chair was moved to the opposite side of the table 
 before she responded, "How can I love God? 
 What has He done for me?" 
 
 "Everything, my dear. He saved your life. He 
 made you a joy to your parents. Now you re to 
 carry light to thousands awaiting you." 
 
 With every second, difficulty of speech increased 
 for the girl. Her entire body seemed to contract; 
 but suddenly she turned to her mother as if resolute 
 never again to utter a word not dictated by truth. 
 "Light, mother. I can t do what you expect. I 
 need help more than any heathen." 
 
 The poor woman seemed to feel that in this 
 moment the earth shifted, leaving her suspended in 
 the air; but she finally answered, "Do you realize 
 what you are saying, Esther that you are deaf to 
 the summons of our Master ? " She paused before the 
 overwhelming image. "Aren t you afraid, daughter, 
 God will withdraw His spirit from you?" 
 
 "I have no spirit," the girl returned in slow 
 desperation. "I ve only a miserable, suffering 
 body." 
 
 Mrs. Damon looked at her daughter. Her gentle 
 glance brushed lightly past base and evil things. 
 "How can you so grieve me, dear? I don t under 
 stand the ways of the children of the Lord." 
 
 Esther leaned far over the table, her rigid hands 
 clasped. "That s true. You don t understand. 
 You never understood me ... poor, dear mother."
 
 1 84 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 The girl s lips trembled; her head sank to the 
 table; her force seemed spent, as she added with 
 smothered voice, "I wasn t worth understanding. 
 ... I wasn t worth bringing into the world." 
 With violence she flung out her arms in the piteous, 
 stammering question, "Why was I ever born?" 
 
 Mrs. Damon rose, drew her chair close to that 
 of her daughter, and said softly, "You blessed girl." 
 But Esther shrank from this unmerited tenderness 
 as if touched by fire. "You ve worked too hard. 
 You shouldn t tire yourself so." 
 
 The girl did not look up. She sat dumb with 
 agony, her head swaying back and forth. "No, no! 
 . . . I m not tired. My conscience is scorching me 
 . . . that s all." 
 
 At these words Mrs. Damon lost her way in a 
 thicket of conjecture. "Of course, child, we are all 
 of unseemly heart . . . but there are no grave trans 
 gressions in your sweet, pure, young life." 
 
 Esther raised her head, determined no longer to 
 evade danger. Still she hesitated, heart-broken be 
 fore the knowledge of the blow she was striking: 
 "My life isn t sweet . . . nor pure. My soul is a 
 tangle of sin. I m wicked, mother . . . the wick 
 edest woman you ever heard of." 
 
 A sick, scared look came into the eyes of Mrs. 
 Damon. "Darling daughter, I felt just that way 
 when I had my silk shawl with fringe. Neither 
 your father nor I considered the ribbons and lace 
 very serious, for, child, I never told you before 
 but perhaps you ve heard it from others you re
 
 AS YE SOW 185 
 
 very beautiful. It s natural for you to like luxury. 
 Don t torture yourself over those furbelows." 
 
 These words sounded the depths of despair in the 
 girl s soul. Wrath and anger could not have hurt as 
 did her mother s trembling anxiety to avert fate. 
 But she must speak and at once. "Mother, dear 
 est," she said, "you re not afraid to listen to what I 
 have to tell?" 
 
 What had this good woman who lived for faith 
 and love of God to fear? "No, I m not afraid, 
 Esther." Her eyes were a plea for enlightenment. 
 Her voice craved for mercy. 
 
 "You should be," the girl went on, pressing her 
 teeth against her hands to restrain the sobs. She 
 placed a sustaining arm round her mother. "For 
 give me, dear . . . but how did you who were so 
 good come to be the mother of one so bad as I? 
 Don t you understand ? " The mother s eyes pressed 
 toward her. They could not pierce the veil hanging 
 before them. "Don t you understand? No, how 
 can you ? You never saw sin nor evil. Look at me. 
 Look at me! See how I m changed." 
 
 "My child, you have altered," was the alarmed 
 answer. 
 
 Esther rose and gave her mother a long, charged 
 gaze. "Look at me again through and through. 
 I m all blackness. Make no mistake." 
 
 Mrs. Damon glanced at her daughter s bloodless 
 hands, at her pale, hunted countenance. For a 
 brief, unhappy moment the terrible truth caught and 
 held her. "No, dear," she said.
 
 1 86 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "Yes, yes," Esther went on like an executioner, 
 unable longer to endure the anguish of the victim 
 whose head lay bleeding on the block. "Yes, that 
 was it. You thought it. Look at me again. If I 
 weren t your daughter you d be down on your knees 
 praying for me. You d know I am one of those men 
 have slain." 
 
 The mother did not loudly lament, nor burst into 
 tears; but her changed shrivelled countenance, her 
 sunken eyes in which stood tears that did not fall, 
 told of the pain she kept in her heart. She fixed on 
 the girl the stare of the dying. Then Esther knew 
 how she herself must have looked when the last light 
 of her faith flickered out. She knew, too, she should 
 always recall the silence, the ticking of the clock, the 
 rattle of a passing buggy, the striped carpet, the tab 
 let of prayers, the great Bible, the barren room, the 
 wave in the grizzled hair, the little black bonnet, 
 the black dress with the row of buttons, the bent 
 head, the curved back, the rising and falling of the 
 bosom, the lifeless hands that did not respond to 
 her touch. All her days the poor woman had 
 sought for sinners. This is how it was when she 
 found one on her own hearthstone. 
 
 "Mother!" Esther struggled with words; she 
 seemed to have no right to speak. "You shouldn t 
 have tried to alter the will of God when I was a 
 child. Why didn t you let me die with the others? 
 I ve given you only sorrow." 
 
 The clock ticked on noisily. The mother did not 
 lift her head. The trembling, speechless girl saw the
 
 AS YE SOW 187 
 
 gentle lips move in soundless invocation. Presently 
 Mrs. Damon caressed Esther s long plaits of hair. 
 Then she looked at her daughter, and said, "It isn t 
 I who must suffer most. It s you, dear child . . . oh, 
 my baby ! The other day you were my baby . . . my 
 little baby!" She took her daughter in her arms, and 
 the beauty of what passed between them in their 
 silence and in their tears was never to end. "But 
 who, Esther," Mrs. Damon began; then she hesi 
 tated as if shrinking from the long train of inquiry 
 the question involved, "who is there so base?" 
 
 Esther s head rested on her mother s knee, and 
 the older woman, receiving no answer, repeated the 
 question. The daughter was still silent. "Esther!" 
 The lips of the girl could not be unlocked. Never 
 in the sad eyes of Mrs. Damon was there so rich a 
 consciousness of the crucifixion as when she asked, 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 Esther turned away her head. She seated herself 
 on a low wooden stool and twisted her fingers. 
 "Why ask, dear mother?" 
 
 "Don t you understand it must be known?" 
 
 "Why?" It was one thing to give herself over to 
 her mother. It was quite another to give her lover. 
 
 Mrs. Damon journeyed from one darkness into 
 another darkness even more profound. She seemed 
 to hold out her hands like the blind. "When you 
 become his wife, Esther." 
 
 "I can t . . . mother." 
 
 "What do you mean, child? You can t with 
 honor belong to any other man."
 
 1 88 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "I don t wish to be married at all." 
 
 "Esther, you wish to be an honest woman. You 
 can only be that as the wife of this man." 
 
 "Mother, he doesn t want me." 
 
 The poor woman was laid low as the dust. 
 "Surely there is no one who will refuse to right such 
 a wrong." 
 
 "I am sorry always to grieve you, mother, . . . but 
 I wouldn t marry him." 
 
 Mrs. Damon raised her hands and moaned. 
 "Years ago I used to look at you and wonder if you 
 could be my daughter. Again I ask, can you be my 
 daughter?" 
 
 "I know, poor dearest ... all the reproaches 
 and humiliation this will be to you, but I am your 
 daughter. . . . Don t make me creep and crawl 
 and be despised by some one who doesn t want me. 
 I can never be his wife." 
 
 Mrs. Damon seemed to shrink and wither as she 
 looked at her child, the changeling with whom she 
 must acquaint herself. "What, Esther, do you in 
 tend doing?" 
 
 Esther saw a form coming into the garden the 
 chill, stern, martial form of the Reverend Hezekiah 
 Damon. "Father," she cried in alarm, as if finding 
 herself caught in the whirl of two meeting currents, 
 "Father has come home." She sprang quickly to 
 her mother s side and entreated, "You won t tell 
 him. Promise me ... I can t bear that." 
 
 Before the mother could answer the door opened. 
 The minister himself stood on the threshold. Esther
 
 AS YE SOW 189 
 
 feared. Her words had peopled the parsonage with 
 imperceptible shapes the shapes of dishonor, shame, 
 disgrace, ruin. They crowded against one another 
 in the little sitting-room. The minister felt their 
 presence. With a mortal chill he sensed their rela 
 tion to his child. Esther s back was toward him 
 a back no longer rigid with pride, but relaxed in 
 humility. He turned to Mrs. Damon for enlighten 
 ment. 
 
 "Why, wife, what is the matter? The house 
 seems like desolation." The shapes blew toward 
 him their icy breath. 
 
 "It is desolation, Hezekiah," Mrs. Damon moaned. 
 "How can I tell you? But you are Esther s father. 
 ... I need your strength to endure this calamity." 
 
 "What is it, Prudence?" he asked sternly, though 
 with sinking heart. He fixed his eyes on his daugh 
 ter s back. "Has Esther been working for the in 
 fidel again?" 
 
 "If it were only that," answered Mrs. Damon. 
 "It isn t ribbons . . ." 
 
 "Then what is it?" he insisted. 
 
 It seemed that the cry would always echo in the 
 room, the cry of Mrs. Damon as her voice broke and 
 she sobbed, "Esther isn t a good girl any more. . . . 
 She has started for Hell."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ELDER DAMON thought with the cruel orthodoxy 
 of his fathers, untempered by higher criticism. He 
 saw Esther with their eyes. With their ears, he 
 heard the old-new story of a woman s sin. He 
 thundered at his daughter with their wrath and bit 
 terness; but the girl had his own unyielding will. 
 She would not give him the name of her lover. Then 
 the white-haired man, more a father than a priest of 
 God, gave way and faltered, "I wish I were in my 
 grave!" 
 
 Esther could not remain in the room. The stairs 
 creaked loudly as she mounted them that night in 
 her starless grief. Words scarce felt when they 
 dropped from her father s lips now scorched. She 
 whose childhood had been a dream of martyrs and 
 saints fell lifeless upon her bed. She was stirred to 
 consciousness by a violent electric storm which shook 
 the house like an earthquake. She wished the par 
 sonage would burn, that she might be consumed in 
 its ashes. Even during the storm her father and 
 mother did not come to her. When the thunder 
 ceased there was no sound from below save the pas 
 sionate prayers of Elder Damon and his wife. 
 
 Unable longer to endure the solitude, Esther went 
 downstairs. Her parents were on their knees in 
 
 190
 
 AS YE SOW 191 
 
 the sitting-room, side by side. They were looking 
 upward, wringing their hands. " Don t," she en 
 treated, touching the shoulder of each, "don t do 
 that." But they continued in supplication. Bury 
 ing her face from the sight of their pain, she rested 
 her head on the great Bible on the table in the 
 centre of the room. 
 
 In the morning light the parsonage looked as if it 
 would never recover from what it had seen. A large 
 maple tree in front of the house had been felled by 
 lightning. To the preacher that tree symbolized his 
 life; to Esther it symbolized her own. The father 
 looked at his daughter in new horror. Without his 
 training to what depravity might she not have sunk ? 
 Mrs. Damon wondered wherein the girl s upbringing 
 was at fault; but she had so withheld herself from 
 gross life that Esther seemed a mystery not to be 
 approached or solved. A little white kitten neared 
 the sinner and crept away. Even the tablets of 
 prayer reproached Esther. The old-fashioned Bible 
 assumed a personality, and hurled at her its laws. 
 
 The preacher went to the church, opened the 
 doors, and returned, while Mrs. Damon set about 
 preparation for the morning service. Esther won 
 dered if ever again she should enter the house of 
 God; if the life of her family once more would be 
 hers. The father and mother matchless in their 
 harmony now rested all on their prayers that, in the 
 humble little church, their daughter this morning 
 might find the faith which had strayed, and at last 
 retrace her way to salvation. Elder Damon and
 
 192 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 his wife, Bibles and hymn-books in hand, awaited 
 Esther. She made no motion to join them until 
 her mother, turning to her, said solicitously, "Esther, 
 you re coming with us, of course." 
 
 Even this stinted sign from her family that she was 
 not, as yet, quite estranged, was for the girl a pleasure. 
 To the evident satisfaction of her parents she hast 
 ened to fetch her hat. After all, their daughter had 
 not entirely abandoned the holy traditions of the 
 hearthstone. She was not in brazen rebellion before 
 the little community of Methodists. She did not re 
 fuse to enter the house of their faith. That Esther 
 did not as usual take up her Bible, the Bible she had 
 carried since becoming a member of the church, was 
 a comforting omission. In the girl s reprobate state, 
 such contact would have been profanation of the 
 sacred book. When with reverent bowed head she 
 followed her parents down the board sidewalk to the 
 church, even the sharp eyes of Sister Simpkins noted 
 nothing unusual in the little procession. 
 
 Brother and Sister Simpkins, smiling as if in 
 communion with the shining saints, arrested their 
 steps to attend the arrival of their pastor s family. 
 With solemnity, Elder Damon wrung the hand of 
 Brother Simpkins. While Esther passed on before, 
 and Mrs. Damon conversed with Sister Simpkins, 
 the preacher said, "Brother, pray for me to-day. 
 Pray for us all, especially Esther." 
 
 Brother Simpkins looked at the still, worn face of 
 his pastor. Deeply touched by this humble appeal, 
 he recalled that hideous day when he had seen
 
 AS YE SOW 193 
 
 Esther flaunting ribbons and lace. His lips moved 
 in anxious whisper, "Esther ain t a backslider?" 
 
 Elder Damon s pride of religion was shattered 
 when with motion of the head, he made the admis 
 sion and added, "Tell the brethren and sisters to 
 pray for her. We need your help." 
 
 It was the call of a master to his loyal disciple. 
 "You can rely on me, Brother Damon." 
 
 Presently the minister, his wife, and daughter, 
 after greeting the Killits, the Hames, passed into 
 the house of worship and took their customary 
 seats. The sermon w r as preceded by a love-feast 
 a spontaneous expression of joy, during which the 
 minister sat in the congregation, becoming as one of 
 the humbler servants of the Lord. It fell to Brother 
 Simpkins, the most devout lay Methodist in Free 
 dom, to lead the service. He began by singing in a 
 high, cracked voice, "Rescue the Perishing." He 
 was joined by all save Esther, whose ark of the cov 
 enant was empty. Several sharp, smiling eyes saw 
 Mrs. Damon offer her daughter a hymn-book and 
 enjoin her to take part in the service. When Esther 
 allowed the volume to rest untouched on her knee, for 
 a queer, uncertain moment the voices wavered, but 
 Brother Simpkins, vocalizing the refrain with re 
 doubled stress, rescued the worship of song from 
 interruption. 
 
 To-day Brother Simpkins was in armor. He 
 shrank from no service to his beloved pastor. After 
 another hymn, he rose and testified to his redemption 
 from sin. Far back in his youth he had chewed
 
 194 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 tobacco, smoked, and belonged to secret societies. 
 To-day he might have been entirely lost, had he 
 not in early manhood given himself to God. Facing 
 the congregation he said, "Don t get led into the 
 sins of the world. Come to Jesus while you re 
 young. It makes life so easy. I just laugh all day. 
 I don t care whether it rains on my wheat. I know 
 everything will come out all right. Now, is there 
 any young folks here who think it would be grand 
 if us Methodists would put on more style ? Is there 
 any one who isn t quite sure he s saved? Is there 
 any one who d like to be prayed for?" 
 
 By this time all eyes in the church were fixed on 
 Esther seated between her parents. Her mother 
 touched her hand ; her father s elbow pressed against 
 her arm. To the girl it seemed that every one was 
 looking into the chapter of her life she endeavored 
 to keep closed. The eyes of the congregation were 
 a great eye staring at her. "Esther, ain t you got 
 nothing to say?" questioned Brother Simpkins, 
 beaming indulgence. She did not raise her glance, 
 but shook her head. She wondered if they all had 
 read her secret. 
 
 When it became apparent that Brother Simpkins 
 appeal was futile, the minister, knelt and said, "Let 
 us pray." 
 
 For the first time in public, Esther did not obey 
 the signal. She sat with obdurate, squared shoul 
 ders. At sight of this insurrection, Esther was con 
 scious that little Hannah Simpkins peered at her 
 from the angles of her spectacles as if asking what
 
 AS YE SOW 195 
 
 kind of a person the daughter of their pastor could 
 be. Elder Damon proceeded like one hurt by the 
 wounds from the cross he was carrying. He con 
 cluded with this plea: "Lead her back to Thee, oh, 
 Christ ! lead her back to Thee. Break up the heart 
 of Esther." 
 
 Mrs. Damon, the tears standing hot in her eyes, 
 moaned prayerfully, "Yes, break up her heart." 
 
 Even Carter in the rear of the church echoed the 
 fervent plea, "Lord, break up her heart." There 
 was a reverberation of "Amens." But still the girl 
 did not stir. 
 
 At length the minister paused, took his daughter s 
 hand, coerced her with the presence of almost the 
 entire membership of the church. "Esther, ask 
 Jesus to bear the burden of your sins. Don t sin 
 against the Holy Ghost, my daughter. Mistrust 
 your strength. Throw it away. Don t delay, or the 
 devil, hell, death, and the fearful curse of God will 
 overtake you." 
 
 Mrs. Damon who had only to close her eyes to 
 feel herself surrounded by the divine presence, 
 caressed her daughter s left hand, and exhorted, 
 "Esther, kneel, and ask our Father to forgive. 
 Seek eternal life." 
 
 Though the earnest band of pilgrims remained 
 on their knees and their prayers were never so long, 
 in the girl there was no stirring of divine impulse. 
 She still remained an alien. Their way was not her 
 way. Orme had thought of her that she would be 
 intensely right or intensely wrong. To-day she was
 
 196 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 intensely wrong, but for her it was a saving grace 
 that she was intensely honest. One by one, the wor 
 shippers rose from their knees, the older folk with 
 heads bowed in grief that their beloved pastor and 
 his wife should be so afflicted. 
 
 When Brother Simpkins had begun speaking, it 
 was with mis-measurement of the dire condition of 
 Esther s soul. As her lost state made itself plain, 
 over all hung and brooded calamity. With resultant 
 gravity Brother Simpkins and Brother Hames went 
 about their office of offering the Love-Feast of bread 
 and water. Their boots squeaked as they passed 
 up the main aisle. The minister partook of the 
 divine symbol; but Esther declined the invitation. 
 Thus with all the insolence of her flaming presence 
 she proclaimed her disaccord with the service. 
 Once more that great eye of the congregation cov 
 ered her, now in horror. The church had never 
 been stirred by a like storm. What must not poor 
 Brother and Sister Damon have suffered from such 
 a monster? These Methodists were believers who 
 in their hearts burned unbelievers. Hidden, unused 
 cells of their puritanical heredity recalled the witches 
 of New England. Had such an one survived in 
 Freedom? Could Brother Damon preach on a day 
 like this, a day on which his own hearthstone turned 
 against him? They all looked at the grim face. 
 
 Brother Damon was of extraordinary rectitude of 
 character. Brother Damon was a man of oak. 
 Against him storms might beat in vain. Brother 
 Damon would preach. Brother Damon emerged
 
 AS YE SOW 197 
 
 from his pew as if in obedience to a higher impera 
 tive ; went down the aisle ; mounted the little promi 
 nence called the pulpit. Brother Damon s text, "It 
 is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of an angry 
 God," caused the listeners to stir in their seats. 
 
 There was something strange and unfamiliar in 
 the minister s manner. His face was hard and 
 bloodless as, in a tense voice, he analyzed sin. De 
 spite his Wesleyan training there was always in his 
 sermons the severity of the Calvinism of his more 
 remote theological ancestry. The preacher subdi 
 vided his theme into sins against the family, society, 
 and the Creator. He fixed the responsibility of each 
 individual for his own transgressions. His bitterest 
 denunciation was for the sins of the flesh, for their 
 insidious corruption of the soul, leaving it a hideous, 
 withered thing in the hands of an angry God. As 
 he proceeded in his discourse he drank thirstily of a 
 glass of water standing by the Bible. The minister s 
 overwrought manner, his grating voice, rising in 
 pitch, held the congregation rigid, motionless. He 
 presented terrifying images of the punishment meted 
 out in the final reckoning to victims of the flesh. 
 God was a wrathful, implacable being in whose laws 
 there were no loop-holes. God exacted an eye for 
 an eye and a tooth for a tooth. In one picture, more 
 monstrous than another, he finally likened the angry, 
 pitiless Creator unto a man holding an insect over a 
 white-hot flame, watching it writhe and struggle to 
 escape its fearful end until it curls up into a black 
 cinder and falls into the fire.
 
 198 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 With lids lowered, Esther listened to her father. 
 She did not raise her eyes until the minister, pausing 
 dramatically, fastened his gaze on his daughter, re 
 vealing the particular object of his condemnation. 
 Now that great eye stared close into the eyes of the 
 girl. Her rebellious conduct had released her father s 
 words from all restraint. No tenderness could be 
 expected by her who belonged to him by ties of 
 blood. The preacher justified himself by recalling 
 that even the Master had said His brother was he 
 who did as He did. 
 
 "I believe that our Father did not intend us to be 
 silenced by our vile earthly affections which make 
 truth falter on our lips. Our children should not 
 be loved before God. When we find in our house 
 hold the wayward child which is the abomination 
 of the Lord it is our duty to make of him an ex 
 ample." 
 
 Esther s lips parted in amazement; her cheeks 
 grew livid. Mrs. Damon s mouth sagged at the 
 corners. She seized her daughter s hand. The 
 preacher had proscribed his own happiness. He 
 did not scruple to inflict misery on others. Heavily 
 disappointed in his child, he put aside parental love 
 as a material, detachable object. "I, as your shep 
 herd share this shame which has come upon our 
 church. I blame myself, because I have made an 
 idol of my affection for the disobedient, rebellious 
 girl. I have had unknowing pride in her very fair 
 ness which brought her to sin and disgrace. 
 
 Esther s hymn-book fell with a loud noise to the
 
 AS YE SOW 199 
 
 floor. Elder Damon s steely eyes gleamed in their 
 sockets like lamps in cellars. With some of the ter 
 rible vehemence of the Master when He denounced 
 the Pharisees as whited sepulchres and hissing ser 
 pents, the minister continued in what seemed to him 
 the higher service: "My brethren, make no idols of 
 clay lest they turn your lives to torment, lest the 
 objects of your worship totter and fall. Put not 
 your trust in your own flesh and blood lest one day 
 you look into the face of your daughter and find 
 her a strange woman." 
 
 Esther had withdrawn her hand from her mother s 
 clasp. She sat tensely gripping the back of the 
 low seat before her. At her father s last words, in 
 a storm of fury, she rose to leave the church. The 
 minister, recollecting her iniquity and seeing her 
 again publicly declare herself the foe of his house 
 hold, was driven to an entire loss of self-control. 
 He thundered after his daughter words like the 
 primal curse given the first transgressor: "Woe unto 
 adulterers, for their offspring shall curse them."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 ELDER DAMON S violence carried him farther than 
 he had intended. Esther s senses, straying back to 
 equilibrium, recalled one by one his condemnatory 
 words. Again they cracked brutally in her ears. 
 She should always hear them. The first inhuman 
 truth of the world had issued from her father s lips. 
 How the horror-stricken eye of the congregation 
 followed her. How it penetrated, probed; would 
 have crowded its way into the hurt, into the passion 
 of the scarlet woman s soul. They were all against 
 her. Everything that touched her traditions, up 
 bringing, family, friends, church everything near 
 and far was against her. When her father entered 
 the house she knew it was blood against blood. 
 Each held the other for a foe. 
 
 In silence the minister went to the chimney-place 
 behind the stove, and took a small book in which were 
 enrolled the names of the church members. Hers 
 was the last there inscribed: "Esther Damon, aged 
 twelve, baptized in Freedom, December, 1869." She 
 had been carried to the altar in her father s arms, his 
 last convert in Freedom. Since that day her name 
 had stood alone on the leaf. 
 
 Mrs. Damon, perceiving the drift of her husband s 
 procedure, tried to stop him. Laying an entreating
 
 AS YE SOW 201 
 
 hand on his, she remonstrated, "Hezekiah, you re 
 only a servant of the Lord. Ought you decide who 
 is bad and who is good? The church should pro 
 tect those who stray." 
 
 The preacher paused, but looking like a sponsor 
 for righteousness, he said, "My highest duty is as 
 custodian of the honor of my church. Our own 
 daughter is its first unworthy member." Then with 
 resolute manner he severed the page from the book, 
 tore the leaf into fragments, and cast them into the 
 stove. For Esther, this act was the last degree of 
 humiliation, the breaking of a traitor s sword. 
 
 Mrs. Damon covered her face with her hands, 
 but only to intensify her mental vision. Presently 
 she turned to the preacher a white, afflicted counte 
 nance. "Hezekiah, when you wrote Esther s name 
 in the church book, Jesus wrote it in His heart. 
 Whatever happens, her name will always be there. I 
 shall always have hope for her." 
 
 Elder Damon shook his head doggedly. "No, 
 wife, it s all over. I warned her. Neither you nor 
 I can stay the hand of God." The minister fre 
 quently confused his vetoes with those of the higher 
 power. "The sinner must suffer the consequences 
 of sin." 
 
 For the first time, censure of her husband rose 
 to the lips of the distressed woman. With severity 
 she quoted: " What do ye more than others? " and 
 then more gently she said, "Hezekiah, you behave 
 like one unknowing the mercy and love of God. 
 Christians must meet misfortunes more nobly than
 
 202 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 others. We must show the truth of the Master not 
 in words, but in conduct." 
 
 For a second only the minister wavered; then 
 turning to Esther he said: "You deny Jesus. You 
 refused His body to-day. You think you re above 
 the Ten Commandments, but you ve got to come 
 back to them, you and this wicked world, or perish 
 in lust." 
 
 "You think you re wounding me, father," the 
 girl faintly protested. "You are only wounding 
 yourself." 
 
 "Yes, Hezekiah," seconded Mrs. Damon. "Esther 
 is right. Don t you remember what the Good Book 
 says ? Hereby perceive we the love of God, because 
 He laid down His life for us: and we ought to lay 
 down our lives for the brethren. Then how much 
 more should we do for Esther? She is the child of 
 our prayers. Forget our humiliation and grief. 
 Think of what she must suffer. Let us keep her here 
 with us and in the church." 
 
 Esther looked up in quick plea. " Yes, let me stay, 
 father, I won t do any harm." 
 
 The preacher s face was like a rock. " No, you 
 still cling to the deadly sweetness of the flesh. Your 
 sin and our faith can t live in the same house. Your 
 place is with the father of your child." 
 
 Esther suddenly rose. Her mother started tow 
 ard her, but her father thrust himself between them. 
 This act clarified the girl s thoughts. Esther looked 
 about the home of dear associations, now a vanished 
 enchantment. How strange that she herself had
 
 AS YE SOW 203 
 
 not been the first to recognize her right to dwell here 
 as annulled! But where could she go? Inexperi 
 enced, untravelled, she thought only of Freedom. 
 That was her world. Bewildered by the strange as 
 pect of life, suddenly there came to her a sharp, 
 unmistakable perception of the way she was to 
 follow. Her deep, strange eyes glowed with new 
 hope. "No," she answered with quick decision, 
 "I ll not go to one who doesn t want me, but I 
 have friends." 
 
 "My darling child," interposed the mother, "you 
 don t know the world. I wish you did have friends, 
 but Dr. Yates and his family 
 
 "It isn t the Yates family," corrected Esther. 
 "It s Mr. Orme." 
 
 "The infidel," exclaimed the minister. 
 
 "A stranger!" added Mrs. Damon. 
 
 "Yes," Esther returned defiantly, "I m no rela 
 tion of Mr. Orme. He doesn t believe Jesus died 
 for him, and may be he is wicked. Perhaps that s 
 why he doesn t mind me. He ll give me work and 
 shelter." 
 
 Stung by the implied reproach, Elder Damon 
 stormed, "I forbid a woman like you to criticise me 
 or my religion. Go to the infidel. Evil is a magnet 
 for evil." 
 
 Mrs. Damon touched her husband s arm with her 
 knotted saffron hand. "Don t say that, Hezekiah. 
 You re speaking hastily. Think of the others taken 
 despite our prayers. Don t pass the same sentence 
 on Esther."
 
 204 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 The minister pressed his hand convulsively against 
 his forehead. "Death would have been better than 
 this. I don t want to touch or see her. I can t 
 breathe the same air with her. She s a beautiful 
 flower with a serpent in her heart." 
 
 "Don t send her blindfolded into the wilderness 
 of the world, Hezekiah," pleaded the mother. "She 
 will stumble and fall. I ll never give her up. I 
 want her here with me. I want to soften the jeers 
 of the world. I want to be with her when she needs 
 a friend. Poor broken- winged bird! . . . I ll take 
 care of her and her child." 
 
 To the father it seemed that a sombre ghost had 
 stalked into the room, a ghost which would always 
 prowl and wail about the house the ghost of his 
 daughter s lost, decent life. "How can you speak 
 of such a thing, Prudence ? Can you watch her alter 
 and grow hideous ? Can you see her shame multiply 
 until there are two reproaches instead of one? I 
 can t." 
 
 "Then that is where your faith breaks down, my 
 husband, He that loveth not knoweth not God. 
 That is why you don t convert sinners in Freedom." 
 
 Elder Damon had long thought only on the sins 
 of others. In his austere way of living he was un 
 mindful that there were sins of the heart as well as 
 sins of the flesh, and of these former were his. "It 
 may be," he answered, "that I m weak, Prudence. 
 I m only human, and I can t be accused every day 
 by the presence of my daughter as a Magdalene. 
 If that s weakness I confess I m weak."
 
 AS YE SOW 205 
 
 Esther was at the door, her hand on the knob. 
 With shaken voice she spoke to her father: "I m 
 sinful, a disgrace to myself and you both. ... I 
 suppose I deserve all the blame I shall have, but, 
 father, . . . you always preached forgiveness of 
 sin. Our first disagreement came because you 
 wanted me to go as a missionary. Did you intend 
 me to sacrifice my life to teach the heathen to drive 
 their children into the streets?" 
 
 All self-command gone, the minister cried furi 
 ously: " Don t dare argue with me. You re a fallen 
 woman. In the Scripture, the city of Meroz lives 
 only through the curse launched against it. You ll 
 be recalled only through your sin." 
 
 When her husband lost himself in anger, Mrs. Da 
 mon sometimes interrupted by singing a hymn. 
 Before he had completed his sentence the quavering 
 voice burst out in song. The minister listened with 
 bowed head, but his soul gave no reply. Still in 
 exorable he said to his daughter, "You ll suffer." 
 
 "I can t suffer any more than you have made me, 
 father," she answered. "I m not afraid. I know 
 what s coming misery and shame." Then she fal 
 tered; but she was in the thrall of a strange, sacri 
 ficial ardor which made her more than herself, which 
 inspired her to go out eagerly to her expiation. She 
 raised her fine, white face which seemed to have 
 strayed from an alien age into this. "I ll try to bear 
 it ... whatever comes." 
 
 Even after her destruction, Esther seemed stronger 
 than he. The father looked at his daughter in a 
 kind of awe. There was a mystery about her.
 
 206 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 What was it ? The mother, in her infinite tenderness, 
 answered, " Esther, poor Esther. You think you re 
 a woman, but you re only a big, proud child. You 
 need protection more than ever. My home is always 
 your home, dear." 
 
 It was harder for Esther to suffer the sweet mercy 
 of her mother than the harsh injustice of her father. 
 She swallowed and choked as she stammered, "It 
 hurts me to see you so good, mother, but father is 
 right . . . there is no place for me here. I d like to 
 stay, . . . but I can t without hurting you. You 
 mustn t share my shame ... or try to excuse me. 
 I want to go away. ... I can t endure the thought of 
 your eyes following me. I ll work. Never attempt 
 to see me again. . . . I ll never be the same again." 
 
 Just as on the eve of battle sometimes the highest 
 bravery suddenly shows a fluctuation, so Esther cow 
 ered before the future. But finally she opened the 
 door. When the hour of separation came the minis 
 ter relented a little. For a moment he forgot pride 
 of spirit and remembered his child. He saw her as 
 she was, pale, wan, broken, yet indomitable. In 
 softened tone he made a final peace offering: "Esther, 
 . . . perhaps I ve been too harsh. Tell me the 
 name of that monster . . . marry the man. Give 
 your child a name. . . . Spare me and my church 
 this terrible disgrace, and I ll overlook what you ve 
 done. With God s help I ll forget." 
 
 Knowing her father as she did, Esther realized 
 that words had never passed his lips costing him 
 such pain. But still determined to shield the lover, 
 she answered, "You call him a monster and you ask
 
 AS YE SOW 207 
 
 me to marry him. ... It hurts me as much to say 
 it as it does you to hear it, but I can t, father. I ll 
 live without any thought of being a wife. I ll live for 
 myself, like a man." 
 
 The minister interpreted the girl s disjointed syl 
 lables as flagrant disobedience. He waved his arms 
 in command. "Then go. You re unteachable. 
 Learn for yourself. ... I have no daughter." 
 
 When Esther s foot was on the threshold Mrs. 
 Damon hurried toward her. "If Esther goes I go 
 with her. You shan t send her away, Hezekiah." 
 
 Elder Damon gripped his wife s hand. "Pru 
 dence, sit down." Then he closed the door vio 
 lently that no further words might pass between 
 him and the culprit. 
 
 Elder Damon stood at the window, his eyes fixed 
 on the recreant. Her every step seemed to be on 
 his dull, aching heart. He was old and broken. At 
 the end of the block Esther turned toward the four 
 corners of the village. Then her father noted the 
 barren trees, the leaves whirling on the grass, and 
 that life had moved far toward winter. "That girl 
 has the faith in herself which only the devil can have," 
 he exclaimed, when the gray bonnet disappeared. " I 
 believe she s possessed. Don t utter her name to me, 
 Prudence. We must never see her again. I want 
 never to see this house again. I want never to see 
 Freedom again. I will abandon it. Whosoever 
 shall not hear your words, depart ye out of that house 
 or city. "
 
 BOOK IV 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL
 
 Natheless the woman did not rise; 
 Lifted only her shame-red eyes, 
 Gazing at Jesus in helpless wise: 
 
 "Death and shame await me whether 
 I turn me hither or turn me thither: 
 Go, sayest thou; but, Master, whither?" 
 
 Did Jesus leave her lying low? 
 Gladly the puzzled world would know 
 Whither the Master bade her go. 
 
 WILLIAM HERBERT CARRUTH.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 ESTHER went on, sustained by consciousness of 
 inner power in reserve. But she realized Freedom 
 never before had borne such an aspect, nor had the 
 autumn winds so stung her bare hands. The streets 
 were almost deserted. Hannah Simpkins, a short, 
 podgy, red-faced girl of her own age, was the first 
 person she met. Hannah had been present in the 
 morning at the church. When she saw Esther she 
 took a quick breath, trembled, and hurried on her 
 errand. Poor Hannah! She had suddenly grown 
 young as Esther felt herself old. Two lads on their 
 way to fish made a ribald remark intended for Esther s 
 ears. They knew. She saw a conference of sun- 
 bonnets over a fence. The sunbonnets knew. Ira 
 Wherritt, who was just leaving his store, loitered on 
 the steps, looked at her with something which in his 
 youth had been his rudimentary idea of a leer. He 
 knew. 
 
 Esther stood at the Four Corners for the first time 
 since Harry s marriage. It had taken a month for 
 this hour to arrive; but it was here. The shades of 
 all the stores were drawn. The windows of the Ivy 
 Green were curtained like eyes that dared not meet 
 her own. Harry was on the other side of those cur 
 tains. Being even thus near him registered itself in 
 her heavy heart-beats. The lame hostler appeared
 
 212 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 in a buggy before the tavern and waited until Harry 
 emerged from the front door to take possession of the 
 reins. It was some time before Clancy saw Esther. 
 Then he lighted a cigarette, flicked a fly from his 
 horse s head, and turned the buggy with his back 
 toward her. That was the lover who had brought 
 her here. 
 
 Soon there came a pink and white, fragile, flutter 
 ing girl whom Esther recognized as Stella. Hus 
 band and wife drove away together. Then Esther 
 felt her strength crumble. Something throbbed and 
 throbbed in her brain as on the night of the marriage; 
 but she had no resentment, no desire to proclaim her 
 wrong, no heated, savage jealousy so far beyond 
 herself had she loved. "At least," was her thought, 
 accompanied by a sigh, "it s best everything is over." 
 But she soon realized that all was not over. Noth 
 ing was ever over. She had merely taken a little step 
 toward death, and even now her effort was biting 
 its print into her countenance. 
 
 Before the pharmacy the clerk was recounting to 
 the druggist an amusing story. Conversation was 
 suspended as she appeared. The men looked at 
 her quizzically, made a feint of lifting their hats. 
 When she had passed there was laughter the laughter 
 of men with unclean thoughts in their minds and 
 unclean words on their lips. They knew. She had 
 intended to trample all this under her feet, but her 
 strong, untried will was vanquished when she found 
 herself a joke. Could no one see what she was 
 undergoing?
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 213 
 
 In front of the prosperous, white residence of Ira 
 Wherritt she saw Alice Orme. This matron passed 
 through the gate, closed it with accusation and hast 
 ened into the house. That was what Mrs. Orme 
 thought of her. Esther wondered how Mrs. Orme s 
 husband would look. Would his large tolerance 
 desert him? Soon the girl realized she was running 
 the gantlet of a barricade of curious, vivisecting eyes 
 concealed behind the shutters and the curtains of the 
 houses she passed. All those eyes knew. There was 
 naught save her disgrace and her denunciation in the 
 air. She became frightened ; she wished to hide. All 
 the world was sneering her back to her home. But 
 there was the real furnace. This mockery, this 
 brutality would pursue not only her, but her parents 
 whom she had covered with shame. There could 
 be no wavering, no retreat. The dreadful deed she 
 had done demanded dreadful courage. War was 
 on between her and society. It would be life-long. 
 She wondered if she was strong enough for it. 
 
 As she crept up the hill she thought of other 
 women, outcasts like herself; others who wept alone 
 in secret places, for whose sorrows none sorrowed. 
 What became of them? If only there were one she 
 could talk with. But how, in Freedom, where even 
 the winds were freighted with discretion, could she 
 find another woman in whom self-preservation had 
 not been the sovereign instinct? 
 
 Before she reached the summit of the steep incline 
 she saw Orme already at the entrance to his gate. 
 Till now she had known no dread of asking him for
 
 214 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 work. This purpose had been her mainstay in say 
 ing good-by to her home, in the unfriendly walk 
 through the village. But her courage had been 
 overdrawn. She began to wonder whether he, like 
 the other men, would laugh at her. If not, would he 
 dare offer her shelter and once more affront the solid 
 ified opinion of the community? Even if he would, 
 ought she to ask this of him ? Had she a right to in 
 volve him in the knotted consequences of her mis 
 conduct ? 
 
 Since he and she last met it had come to her ears 
 that he gave employment and refuge to Thomas 
 O Shea who had served a year in the county jail 
 for robbing Wherritt s store to buy whiskey at the 
 Ivy Green. The recollection of this toleration, the 
 tempest in the village it occasioned, stimulated hope 
 in Esther. She judged her position with her own 
 sex to balance that of a thief among men. Perhaps 
 there would be an asylum for her. However, as she 
 approached Orme, the only person of whom she had 
 no dread, she slackened her pace. 
 
 Robert waited at the gate. Like a benediction it 
 came upon her that he was waiting for her. There 
 was no mistaking his profound pity for the infirm. 
 He and she stood for a long moment looking as if 
 each expected the other to give a cue for conversa 
 tion. Orme had the spiritual gift of putting himself 
 in the place of others. He made no circumstance 
 of her thus coming to him. He bent toward her 
 his fine, kind eyes. Of course he knew. 
 
 Esther had not seen him for some months. Dur-
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 215 
 
 ing this interval his countenance had so bloomed 
 with noble sympathies that now his comprehension 
 hurt her more than the derision of the village. Let 
 others understand what they would; for him there 
 should have been no black page. His belief, his 
 faith alone mattered. Why had she not done some 
 sublime thing for him? 
 
 "I ve been thinking of you to-day, Esther," Rob 
 ert began, trying to make it easier for her. "I hope 
 you are coming back to work. It s great selfishness 
 on my part, I know; but no one has ever been able 
 to fill your place." 
 
 It was precisely his fine concern for her which an 
 nihilated Esther s resolution to return to his employ. 
 She turned toward the lake lying there before them 
 with its ever-present invitation to her. "No, Mr. 
 Orme," she answered. "I m stopping a second to 
 catch my breath. Thank you for your offer, but I 
 shan t be able to come back. I ve given up all hope 
 of going to college." 
 
 She resumed her journey like a homeless pilgrim 
 who had paused by the wayside for a glass of water. 
 For a brief interval he watched her melancholy fig 
 ure. "How very bad good people are," he said to 
 himself. "Why didn t I save her from her foolish 
 mother? Why didn t I make a fight for her liberty 
 and send her to college?" 
 
 He would help her yet. To stay behind was 
 desertion. He hastened after her, and entreated, 
 "I don t mean to intrude; but I wish you would re 
 consider, Esther. Your work is invaluable. Re-
 
 2i6 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 member, to-morrow, next week, or next month, any 
 time. . . . I ll be very happy to have you." 
 
 "Thank you, but I shall never return," she 
 answered. "Everything is to be different now." 
 
 Esther so effectually dammed the channel of 
 Orme s consideration that there was nothing for 
 him but withdrawal. He turned back reluctantly, 
 leaving her to hold her course as she had elected. 
 The farther the girl proceeded, to an intenser degree 
 did the lake become a great, irresistible magnet 
 drawing her a poor, impotent fleck of base metal. 
 Its water was a soft, warm mother-embrace to shelter 
 her from the cold face of the world and give her 
 slumber. When she turned into the lane leading 
 from the highway to the lake, she espied a dust-cov 
 ered branch of golden-rod which in its abundant 
 bloom had been plucked by a hostile hand and left 
 to die. She picked it up and carried it with her. 
 
 As Esther found herself at the opening in the 
 willows she gazed into the water in which she used 
 to wade as a child. The yellow leaves at the bot 
 tom of the lake fascinated her. The girl became 
 conscious of a great power within her death. She 
 looked back at the village. She had conquered the 
 mockers. They didn t dare die. She did, and dis 
 grace would be done with. Her father had said 
 death was better than shame ; but the saintly, suffer 
 ing countenance of her mother deterred her for a 
 moment. Esther could hear the plaintive voice, 
 "Ah, daughter, you are dying because you don t 
 dare live." It was true: her bravery was cowardice.
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 217 
 
 Yet why should she live? What could she be but 
 a disgrace to her parents, a village legend gloomy as 
 the legend of Meroz? 
 
 Amidst the death in life of her desires, one, how 
 ever, survived and clamored ; the wish again to pene 
 trate the forest where every leaf lisped syllables of 
 her love. Of the forest alone Esther would take 
 leave. 
 
 She retraced her steps among the aisles of the mag 
 nificent old elm and maple trees where that great 
 fleeting glory, her love, had been born; where it had 
 breathed with bliss equalled in intensity only by its 
 desperate insecurity. One by one its splendid scarlet 
 images wandered out of the past until she forgot that, 
 for her lover, all had been transient as the wooing of 
 birds. His love was dead as the leaves under foot 
 which in the springtime had been its witnesses. And 
 yet, she reflected, its life still survived in her own life. 
 With new despair she realized that in her self -decreed 
 destruction she could not depart alone. She was 
 companioned always. Seating herself on a mossy log 
 where often she had awaited Harry, so vivid was her 
 fancy that she spoke aloud as to one who heard, 
 "You can t ask me to live, can you, my son? You 
 can t ask your mother to endure a lifetime of torture? 
 Now we ll be always together. We ll leave the world 
 which wants us out of it. You forgive me, don t 
 you?" 
 
 Thus Orme found Esther looking straight ahead, 
 sometimes stooping impetuously to seize handfuls 
 of dry leaves, to tear them and absently drop them.
 
 218 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 When he heard her muttered words he said, "For 
 give me for coming. I thought you were speaking to 
 some one were you?" 
 
 As she raised her head she flung at him the entire 
 desperate truth, "Yes, to my son." 
 
 Robert forbore all questions and said simply, 
 "Don t go down before these people, Esther. You re 
 too good for that." 
 
 His kindliness of glance and utterance trans 
 formed her distress into sobs. He seated himself by 
 her side and waited, his eyes closing in pain as she 
 gave her grief to the air. Once he timidly touched 
 her hand, but withdrew it. After her pulses had 
 throbbed themselves into quiet, she said, feebly brush 
 ing at her eyes, "You must go back to your house, Mr. 
 Orme." 
 
 "When you do. ... I came for you," he quietly 
 insisted. 
 
 "No, no!" she burst out. 
 
 "You re not going to be a runaway from life, 
 Esther." 
 
 "Oh, I know what you re thinking of, Mr. Orme 
 . . . but you can t save me. I ll come back here 
 to-morrow, the next day or the next. We don t 
 want to remain in a world where every one hates 
 every one else." 
 
 His voice soothed her ; his presence healed. " Don t 
 judge the world by a few people, Esther. There is 
 kindness even here in Freedom." 
 
 "We haven t found it. ... My son and I have 
 a right to die."
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 219 
 
 "But why give death such an easy victory?" he 
 asked gently. "Why not resist?" 
 
 "Resist? . . . what is there left of me for resist 
 ance? I m a poor, miserable failure." 
 
 "So are we all, Esther." 
 
 "Not you. You re strong." 
 
 "It s good of you to forget, . . . but I m the 
 historic failure of Freedom. We all know that. 
 Yet it is well to know what failure is. Misfortune 
 proves us. Esther, won t you prove yourself?" 
 
 Orme s words were for her strength, and her body 
 cried out to live. "You can say that. You re a 
 man. What chance is there for a woman a woman 
 like me to struggle with the world which has already 
 condemned her?" 
 
 "Existence is battle, Esther. Make yourself 
 stronger than the world. The saints of to-day don t 
 run away from it. They conquer it. You re very 
 young to be asked to do this; but the victory will 
 be all the greater. You ll find unkindness, but for 
 give. People don t know better. Don t lament or 
 regret. Live your part. Live it for the noblest in 
 you." 
 
 "The noblest?" she interrupted incredulously. 
 
 "Yes, you re good enough for anything." 
 
 That Orme who had lived through years of dark 
 ness saw for her light, that he discovered a fineness 
 in her this for Esther was nourishment and warmth. 
 He seemed a great priest of good. "You were 
 created to help others," she answered. "How good 
 you are ... how you have conquered."
 
 220 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "No, Esther, I m a cheat to talk to you at all. 
 I m a miserable weakling. If there s hope for me, 
 there is for any one. I say these things to you to 
 fortify myself. . . . Perhaps it s my way of pray 
 ing." 
 
 Every word uttered by Robert became Esther s 
 own. "When you talk to me," she answered 
 faintly, "I grow strong . . . almost brave. I don t 
 think I m a coward. If I were a man I could die 
 for my country, I believe. The lake doesn t frighten 
 me; but," she spoke with a voice without resonance, 
 like that of one bereft of reason, "I can t go back 
 to Freedom. I can t meet those women who stare 
 at me so. The men are worse. ... I can t listen 
 to their laughter. This place is a prison. ... If I 
 could go away. . . . Another sneer or another 
 jeer . . . and I think I ll lose my senses." 
 
 "I know just how you feel, Esther. I ve gone 
 through it all, but try to bear even Freedom. If you 
 can, and do your best to find happiness in this igno 
 rant, prejudiced village instead of in some dream- 
 country, you ll be happy and you ll be brave." 
 
 Robert s words were like a moral illumination. 
 They set in motion her character as other words of 
 his had given impetus to her intelligence. For a 
 second she looked toward the town as if she beheld 
 a sinister, dreadful thing. Then she shuddered. 
 "Oh, but Freedom . . . you don t know it. That 
 place never looked at you as it did at me. 
 You never felt it give you the blow it gave me. 
 You couldn t. You re a man."
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 221 
 
 Orme s presence promised Esther as much as his 
 words. " Don t mind the little creatures of Free 
 dom. You ll soar over them. They see only 
 shadows. It doesn t matter what they think. Their 
 bad thoughts poison them alone. The only thing 
 which should matter to you, Esther, is what you 
 think of yourself." 
 
 "That s it. I think so horribly of myself." But 
 she dimly felt what he desired her to see. "There 
 isn t much hope for me, but I do believe in you. I 
 don t want to hurt you. Father is right. The spirit 
 of God has deserted me. I ll be a curse to every one 
 who tries to help me." 
 
 Robert had slight sympathy with these little pri 
 vate views of the Creator; but he, too, often lost 
 himself in the wreaths of smoke he blew when dream 
 ing of the First Cause. And so he answered pa 
 tiently, "No, no, Esther, there s no such thing as a 
 curse. We are all cripples, groping and stumbling 
 about in darkness. We only go right after we ve 
 tried most of the ways of going wrong. Even then, 
 we fall back into the wrong. It s a daily fight to keep 
 from it." 
 
 The girl knew that he was thinking not only of 
 her, but of himself. In a second he quickly went 
 on, "But we keep up the struggle because we can t 
 live for ourselves alone. We don t belong to our 
 selves. Everything we do influences some one else. 
 Other lives depend on ours." 
 
 Robert was endeavoring to kindle in her the re 
 alization of the duty she owed her unborn child-
 
 222 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 He counted on this to save her, but it was a part 
 of his delicacy for Esther to insist that she be the 
 first to phrase it. That she could do this was a 
 symptom of her convalescence of mind. Her coun 
 tenance was illumined in the exalted moment when 
 she gained a vision of something to live for. The 
 child should be her new purity, her new honor, her 
 new morality, her new faith, her new love. 
 
 "If I thought he would wish it," her tone be 
 trayed at what cost of anguish this awakened sense 
 of the value of living had been achieved "I d do it. 
 I d do anything ... I d suffer anything. I d starve 
 ... I d live. Even those people in Freedom couldn t 
 hurt me. Tell me," she said with widening eyes, 
 "Do you suppose my cowardice has already been 
 stamped on my son?" 
 
 "Don t think of such a thing, Esther. Come back 
 to Freedom with me. Take up your work with 
 us, and he ll be brave." 
 
 "Do you really think so," she asked doubtfully. 
 "How brave? Brave enough to win battles?" 
 
 "The greatest, Esther." 
 
 Already the future was envisioned in her deep 
 young face. "And if all the time I read beautiful 
 books and think beautiful thoughts, will he do the 
 same?" 
 
 "It can t be otherwise." 
 
 "And if I try to get rid of weakness, vanity, un- 
 kindness, will he?" 
 
 Esther s hope became his own, as he assured her, 
 "Without doubt."
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 223 
 
 She went on in great exultation, "And he ll begin 
 to read while he s very young, like the great phi 
 losopher. Then you ll teach him all the splendid 
 thoughts of those wonderful men who wrote books." 
 
 "Yes. 
 
 "And I ll study so by the time he s wise and 
 great I shan t be too dull a companion. But, . . . 
 what if this horrible stain starts out on his life? 
 What will he think of me?" 
 
 "He ll think of you I promise that much what 
 a saint would think of his mother." 
 
 The pair were standing facing each other, and 
 Esther gave a faint, fluttering gesture to balance her 
 body as once more she betrothed herself to life. 
 When Robert took her hand it seemed sweet not to 
 die. In the contact, an inarticulate pledge passed be 
 tween them. "I believe in you, Mr. Orme," she 
 said. "I shouldn t try to live without you. I know 
 you ll keep me up when I break down." 
 
 "You ll not break down, Esther. You ll redeem 
 every mistake. Perhaps I shall ask you to give me 
 courage." 
 
 Her nature was not changed, but Orme had trans 
 formed her ideal of existence. For her life now had 
 a sacred purpose. "I can go on this way by your 
 side until I drop," she murmured, unafraid.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 WHEN Esther made her way back to Freedom, 
 though Orme was by her side, she walked alone. 
 The stars were the sneering eyes of women. The 
 wind was the derisive laughter of men. Unaided, 
 with her own strength, she found she must bear it. 
 And she had no more strength. When she and Rob 
 ert were near the top of the hill she faltered. Had he 
 not caught her in his arms she would have sunk to 
 the ground. "You mustn t ask me to go farther, 
 Mr. Orme," she gasped. "Let me turn back. . . . 
 I m attempting too much." 
 
 Orme chose well the spur to urge her onward, to 
 recall her to her larger self; "Come, Esther, remem 
 ber the child." 
 
 She lived a minute rich with possibilities; then 
 brightening, she responded, "Yes, I mustn t for 
 get." 
 
 Raising her head quickly she hastened her pace; 
 but at the top of the hill she lingered to breathe 
 awhile in suffering. Though the golden after-glow 
 was fading on the horizon, already the moon was in 
 the sky. "I m glad it s dark so early," Esther said. 
 She was thinking of the hundreds of homes in Free 
 dom, wondering if there was one for her. "Where 
 shall I go to-night?" she asked timidly. 
 
 Orme s first intention had been that she should 
 
 224
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 225 
 
 remain at his house; but as Esther spoke, he saw 
 Alice, returning from the village, pass near him and 
 Esther, and even at close range ignore them both. 
 Robert s care that the girl should not receive a 
 wound, acted as a lever to his answer: "You ll work 
 at Mrs. Brewster s until we build another cabin on 
 the hill or get more room. Perhaps you had better 
 remain with her for a time." 
 
 "Mrs. Brewster doesn t like Methodists even at 
 the best," Esther demurred. "Do you think she d 
 let me come to her house now?" 
 
 "You surely have learned that the worst thing 
 about Aunty Brewster is her tongue. That is un 
 ruly; but she s like a second mother to me, really 
 kind and true-hearted. She doesn t mean a word 
 she says." 
 
 Orme left Esther seated on Mrs. Brewster s ver 
 anda. He entered the sitting-room where the mili 
 tant widow was reading her weekly Boston Trans 
 cript the only newspaper that she believed told 
 the truth. "Ain t somebody on the stoop?" Mrs. 
 Brewster asked, looking at Robert over her glasses. 
 
 "Will you come into the kitchen, Aunty?" he 
 inquired before making response. 
 
 When he closed the door Mrs. Brewster, astonished 
 at such unusual procedure, repeated her question, 
 and Orme answered, "It s Esther " 
 
 "You don t mean it s that whiffle-jigger girl, 
 Bobby!" 
 
 "Esther Damon is on the porch, Aunty Brewster, 
 if you mean her."
 
 226 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Mrs. Brewster stared stonily. "What are you 
 walking the streets with her for, Bobby? Ain t you 
 heard about her?" 
 
 "Yes, it s a tragedy." 
 
 This remark from another than Orme might have 
 interrupted diplomatic relations and perhaps have 
 been followed by a declaration of war. The long 
 hairs on the widow s chin bristled. "Tragedy!" she 
 exclaimed, fortifying herself by putting a few extra 
 pins in the blue and white checked apron which 
 she wore as an emblem of superlative worth a white 
 apron being a vanity to be indulged in only by lazy 
 bones. "Umph! anybody can pull the wool over 
 your eyes, Bobby. That girl is one of those low 
 creatures they have in New York. Don t have no 
 sich folks in Boston." 
 
 "Oh, yes, they do, Aunty Brewster, thousands of 
 them even much worse, because we re all weak." 
 
 "You may be, Bobby although I dare anybody 
 to say it behind your back but I ain t weak. I 
 ain t whiff y-whaffy." To establish the assertion, 
 Mrs. Brewster seated herself by her shining stove 
 and took up a poker. The significance of this act 
 was that the fortress was adequately supplied with 
 munitions of war and could resist any siege likely 
 to be laid. But Orme had known his opponent 
 too long ever to attack with methods familiar to 
 her. 
 
 "I know you re not, Aunty Brewster," he answered 
 with a smile, very winning because so seldom called 
 into service. "You re strong. That s why I come
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 227 
 
 to you when I need a friend. You re the only per 
 son who never fails me. So I m here now." 
 
 It was some seconds before the blaze in Mrs. 
 Brewster s countenance testified to the precision of 
 Orme s aim. The widow menaced him with the 
 poker as she returned fire : " Quit right there, Bobby. 
 None of your lolly-gagging. When you were a 
 little fellow and wanted me to make you a pie or 
 fry you some doughnuts you always used to tell 
 me I was the best cook in Freedom." 
 
 "I still say it." He was determined that no 
 strategic point of vantage should be overlooked. 
 
 "I don t care if you do. I won t have that 
 whiffle-jigger girl here," she stormed. 
 
 He helplessly placed the case in her hands. 
 " Where is the poor girl to go then?" 
 
 Mrs. Brewster knew he was trying to stir her 
 pity. Waving the colors of the fortress, the poker, 
 she resisted, "How do I know? I ain t got any 
 sympathy with such cattle. I always behaved my 
 self and I expect every one to do the same. I want 
 you to understand, Bobby Orme, I was the purest- 
 minded girl in Marlboro, Massachusetts." 
 
 This boast had passed unquestioned through the 
 village clearing-house for reputations on the day of 
 Mrs. Brewster s arrival in Freedom. Robert had 
 often heard it, but he showed no diluted interest 
 in her self-acclaimed attribute. Instead he laid hold 
 of it, and used it as heavy artillery. " That s just 
 why you can let this poor, unfortunate girl come 
 here, Aunty. You are so irreproachable, so big and
 
 228 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 fine and generous-hearted, so full of decent human 
 feeling," he heaped her qualities before her with 
 extravagant hand "that you can afford to let her 
 live with you. Won t you be her protectress? 
 You re so much kinder than any other woman I 
 know, I m sure you will." 
 
 "Live in this house? Do you think I ve got a 
 room to let up here?" Mrs. Brewster s poker in 
 dicated her high, broad forehead over which the 
 white hair was parted. "Say, you re green, green 
 and looney." 
 
 Orme braved it. "Yes, live here with you, Aunty 
 Brewster, and work. You always said Esther Da 
 mon wove beautifully. What is she to do? Think 
 how young she is. You know Elder Damon turned 
 her out of the church and out of the house." 
 
 With this shot the bombarder found an unguarded 
 entrance to the citadel. Mrs. Brewster s features 
 relaxed as she grunted, "Umph! Much religion 
 them Methodists have got anyway. They ve got 
 brass to come up here and try to save my soul 
 because I can afford to wear a breast-pin and gold- 
 rimmed spectacles. I told Mis Damon she d 
 better look out for her own nest. She said hell was 
 for Universalists. I guess Methodists have a little 
 of it too. That s what comes of running around 
 the streets, tending to other folks business." 
 
 At the sight of the drooping colors Orme flanked 
 her and followed with another broadside: "You re 
 quite right, Aunty Brewster. Why have religion if 
 it isn t for use in your own life? The Methodists
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 229 
 
 will feel the rebuke if you shelter Esther Damon. 
 Show them that if you don t accept the divinity of 
 Jesus, you do follow the Golden Rule." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster did not immediately perceive when 
 the enemy planted a standard in the stronghold com 
 manding the fort. A pleased smile played about the 
 corners of her mouth. But discovering the advan 
 tage Orme had gained, she put on her spectacles and 
 once more waved the poker to indicate that the brief 
 truce for the purpose of carrying off the wounded was 
 at an end. "No, Bobby, I won t. She ought to 
 marry the fellow." 
 
 "What if he s already married, Aunty?" 
 
 " A married man ! Worse and worse ! I m ashamed 
 to live in Freedom." Then the widow s curiosity 
 gained ascendency over her horror. "Who is it, 
 Bobby?" 
 
 Orme found the truth not easy to utter, but he ex 
 plained, "It is said she was engaged to young Clancy. 
 He married a few weeks ago and left her." 
 
 "The Catholics and whiskey will be the ruina 
 tion of this country if we don t get rid of them. 
 These furriners hadn t ought to be allowed to build 
 a church. They should be drove out of America." 
 Mrs. Brewster ground her teeth as though by that 
 process to diminish the number of the alien-born. 
 "I d have the law after that scalawag if I was the 
 minister. I d lock him up where he belongs. Why 
 don t they?" 
 
 "Women, I am told, sometimes think a great deal 
 of scoundrels," answered Orme slowly.
 
 230 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 When Mrs. Brewster removed her spectacles, 
 wiped them, and coughed loudly, she gave the signal 
 for the fall of the colors. Resistance was at an 
 end when she said, "Ain t women soft fools?" 
 
 "Not all of them, Aunty Brewster," replied Orme 
 with diplomacy which avoided an implication that 
 there had been a siege or surrender. 
 
 "It s an awful risk," held out Mrs. Brewster. 
 "What will folks think?" 
 
 "What will you think if you don t? This poor 
 girl would be dead now if I hadn t brought her 
 back from the lake." 
 
 With the corner of her apron Mrs. Brewster dried 
 her eyes; but as she snuffled her tears she resisted. 
 "I don t care, Bobby Orme. She s a bad girl, a 
 bad girl. She ought to be punished. She deserves 
 all she gets. But women are the unluckiest critters 
 living. I don t want to pick up a paper and read 
 that the minister s daughter died because I wouldn t 
 take her in. I care that much about my church." 
 
 The widow was silent for a second, during which 
 she reflected that her resistance had done scant 
 credit to her Revolutionary ancestors. Putting on 
 her spectacles, as though astonished to find a be 
 sieger quite making himself at ease in her fortress, 
 she said doughtily, "Now, I suppose you think you 
 can just wind me right around your little finger, 
 and I m an old softy, don t you, Bobby ? Well, you 
 can t. I want you to understand that. No one 
 can. I m of the old New England blood, with not a 
 furriner in it. None of them can come it over me."
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 231 
 
 Then Mrs. Brewster boldly took this leap, "I want 
 that girl to march straight into this house and have 
 something to eat and go to bed." She herself opened 
 the screen door of the sitting-room. " Come in, Miss 
 Whiffle-Whaffle. I can never think of a name." 
 
 "It s Esther," said the girl, warming herself in the 
 welcoming cheer of the room. 
 
 "Of course," answered Mrs. Brewster, "of course 
 it is. What are you doing whick-whacking around 
 there on the stoop? Why didn t you come right in 
 in the first place and not pay any attention to that 
 Bobby Orme. He ain t got manners enough for a 
 chicken, and he s queer besides queer as Dick s 
 hat-band. He thinks I m set in my ways and hard 
 to get along with. I ain t a bit. He s set. Every 
 one in Freedom is terrible set. Never saw such a 
 place. Not much like Marlboro, Massachusetts. I 
 did say I d never take boarders again. Weaving is 
 so much easier than frying over a cook-stove. But 
 any one can get along with me that ain t lazy. I 
 hate folks that lie abed. You ain t got a lazy bone 
 in your body. You look kind o played out, Esther," 
 Mrs. Brewster said, suddenly staring at the girl. 
 "You sit right where you are. No, don t you stir. 
 I guess I can get tea."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WHEN it became known in Freedom that queer 
 old Mrs. Brewster had given shelter to Esther 
 Damon the widow prepared for a "regular old 
 Bunker Hill fight" with the village. In reality she 
 lived at her highest in the smell of powder. Mrs. 
 Brewster s sortie from her house the morning after 
 Esther s arrival was in her thought historic. She 
 imagined she understood how President Lincoln had 
 felt when he declared war. Market basket on arm, 
 she set out for the Four Corners to purchase gro 
 ceries. 
 
 Mrs. Snead, the Baptist deacon s wife, nearest 
 neighbor of the widow, sat at her window reading 
 the Bible. When Mrs. Brewster passed, Mrs. 
 Snead looked up to break a lance: "Good morning, 
 Mis Brewster. Is what Ira Wherritt says true? 
 I told him I guessed no likely woman would have 
 that trollop in the house." Then she blandly ques 
 tioned, "You haven t, have you?" 
 
 The widow laid about her recklessly. "These 
 hard-shelled Baptists would let folks die in the street 
 before they d give em a cup of cold water." 
 
 In triumph Mrs. Brewster proceeded until she 
 met Georgiana Posey, the village milliner. With 
 the painful accumulation of modesty arising from 
 
 232
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 233 
 
 fifty years of spinsterhood, Miss Posey blushed, 
 shook her fair ringlets, fidgeted, and with furtive, 
 averted eyes, inquired concerning the fascinating, 
 proscribed creature. Of course everybody should 
 be charitable, but it was too awful. Such a thing 
 had never happened in Freedom before. 
 
 Mrs. Brewster, emitting a belligerent grunt, bore 
 down upon her. "It would take a standing army 
 to make Freedom hoe its own row first. This town 
 would go to bed with cramps if it minded its busi 
 ness for a week." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster belabored the clerks at Spear s for 
 their curiosity. She pounced upon the sneering Ira 
 Wherritt as a "snoop." She let fly at the druggist. 
 She launched out against numerous other question 
 ers, and returned to her house with a sense of having 
 had a "tantoram of a time." 
 
 Her fondness for Esther began in being obliged to 
 defend her. It increased when she found the girl sit 
 ting stunned before a package of her belongings just 
 received from Elder and Mrs. Damon. Esther s 
 shabby clothing, her religious books, that evidence of 
 her vanity a little triangular piece of mirror were 
 all spread out on the table. What had been intended 
 as a kindness to Esther was for her only another cast- 
 ing-off. Mrs. Brewster took in the situation at a 
 glance. 
 
 "Oh, these I m-better-than-you-are folks! I won 
 der what they re sending you such rubbish as that 
 for," she raged, gathering the things in her capable 
 arms and starting for the kitchen. "Ain t fit to wear.
 
 234 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Let s burn em up and get rid of them an buy some 
 decent things. Look at them shoes." She thrust 
 her finger through a hole. 
 
 "No, no," Esther protested, hurrying after Mrs. 
 Brewster. " Don t do that. I know they re ugly, 
 but ... I wore them before ... a long time ago 
 ... I d like to keep them always." 
 
 "Everybody to his own taste," answered Mrs. 
 Brewster brusquely. " But let s get em out of sight." 
 As she carried the things into the best bedroom 
 which opened off the sitting-room she suddenly de 
 cided, "This spare room is yours, Esther." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Brewster, but don t give 
 me the best room." 
 
 "I will if I want to. What have you got to say 
 about it? I don t have much company anyway." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster s affection for Esther was soon 
 again given another stimulus. The two Butts sis 
 ters, washed-out maidens of indefinite age, came as 
 usual to their work. When they saw Esther "trip 
 ping the treadle" in the sitting-room they learned 
 that the incredible rumor was true. Mrs. Brewster 
 expected them to work in the same house with Esther 
 Damon. Their ideas were few but sharply defined. 
 They wouldn t. After a mute conference with their 
 eyes, they drew their neat skirts about them and de 
 parted, never to return. Esther tossed the shuttle 
 faster than before. She must make up to Orme for 
 his loss of the Butts services. 
 
 The wife and daughter of Michael Magee, the 
 blacksmith, were too poor to pay for the luxury of
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 235 
 
 fastidious discrimination. They would not have 
 touched Esther with the tips of their square fingers; 
 but after a secret conclave with Mrs. Brewster in 
 the kitchen they promised to go on with their work 
 on condition that Esther should never enter the attic 
 where their looms were. 
 
 Mrs. Brewster attempted to keep from the girl the 
 terror incited by her among these women whose 
 lives had been sealed to evil; but Esther s sensibili 
 ties were so sharpened by pain that she guessed all 
 concealed from her. She had always been a dom 
 inating figure in school. From her world of Method 
 ists she had received adulation. Tt was difficult for 
 her to understand that in a few days she had really 
 become a monster. Mrs. Brewster sensed her suffer 
 ing, and, by way of showing sympathy, brought her 
 a piece of mince-pie and some home-made molasses 
 candy. These Esther pretended to eat, but when 
 Mrs. Brewster returned to the kitchen, pie and candy 
 were thrown out of the window. 
 
 The cruelty of the morning but united Esther more 
 closely with the spirit of her unborn child. She could 
 not have braved the day for herself, but it was a sub 
 lime delight to do so for him, to toil with the strength 
 of her love for him. So her shuttle became winged ; 
 her feet knew no rest. 
 
 At noon Esther helped Mrs. Brewster wash the 
 dishes, then she went on with her work at the loom. 
 At four o clock, when the Magees left, so intent was 
 she on her task that she forgot this was the hour 
 for assembling in the work-shop on the hill to hear
 
 236 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Orme s discourse. Half an hour later Mearns ar 
 rived with a note from Robert to Mrs. Brewster. 
 "Kindly insist that Esther come to the lecture this 
 afternoon." The message was shown the girl. 
 
 "I m sorry Mr. Orme wrote," Esther said. "I 
 can t go." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I can t . . . Mrs. Brewster." 
 
 "I hope you don t mind fools and pigs," the 
 widow counselled, less brusquely than usual. "Hold 
 up your head. You ve got as much right to go as 
 any one. Bobby Orme wants you to come. He ll 
 be mad if you don t. I don t take any stock in book 
 learning; but you ve wove like fury since morning, 
 and even books is better n killing yourself." 
 
 That Robert questioned so little, heeded so little 
 the opinions of others, presented itself anew to 
 Esther as a part of the greatness of his attitude 
 toward life. This realization brought her to her 
 feet. Mrs. Brewster wrapped her in a long black 
 shawl Esther had never owned a cloak and the 
 widow insisted that she put on overshoes. The first 
 snow of the season was falling in large, ragged 
 flakes. 
 
 In passing the Orme cabin Esther noticed Alice 
 seated at the window, sewing. The girl s religious 
 environment had rendered Esther singularly devoid 
 of deference to material distinction, but her desire for 
 knowledge gave her humble reverence for superior 
 minds. She wondered how Mrs. Orme could remain 
 away from her husband s lecture. It did not occur
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 237 
 
 to Esther that Alice Orme s absence measured the 
 distance between husband and wife 
 
 When Esther opened the door of the work-shop 
 she was greeted by an atmosphere of warmth and 
 welcome. Logs blazed in the fireplace of the great 
 room, which was wainscoted to the roof and had 
 wide windows looking out on the valley. In the 
 centre of the work-shop was a huge round table 
 littered with books and periodicals, on which stood a 
 large urn filled with branches of oak and evergreen. 
 Before the fire, surrounded by a group of men and 
 women was Orme. He wore the overalls and blouse 
 of the workmen. In one corner stood a youth with 
 honey-colored hair, looking into the eyes of a blush 
 ing country girl. In another corner sat a boy, 
 sketching. Before a small table was a middle-aged 
 woman experimenting with bookbinding. Fully 
 half of the room was occupied by unfinished furni 
 ture. There was laughter, chatter, and good-fellow 
 ship. Esther felt the personality of Orme in every 
 thing. She realized that getting a living was not of 
 necessity a dull kind of business. 
 
 At first the girl was timid before so many unfa 
 miliar faces, but when Orme came forward to greet 
 her she knew what it was to be with one who took 
 life in a fine, free way; who saw beyond her dis 
 grace, against which beat the hard glaring light of 
 Freedom. She did not realize it, but as he looked 
 at Esther he set her apart from all others. "I ve been 
 waiting for you," he said simply as he escorted her 
 to a chair.
 
 238 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Many of the workmen seated themselves on the 
 furniture; some on tables; others on benches. Few 
 of those present knew who Esther was. Most of 
 Orme s recruits came from the boys and girls of 
 the farms and surrounding towns who were strug 
 gling to get an education. The men who lived in 
 Freedom had each in turn been championed by 
 Robert, and they recognized his courage in asking 
 Esther to the lecture. But the women called it au 
 dacity. The Magees and their friends moved their 
 chairs audibly when Esther was seated near them. 
 To avoid the hurt of their hostility, she carried her 
 chair and placed it beside Thomas O Shea, an old 
 soldier who had served a term in the county jail. 
 The shadow of the prison still trailed after the ner 
 vous little man, and he raised eyes glad with grati 
 tude to Esther. His smile gave her a glow of pleas 
 ure, that even her sympathy could confer happiness 
 on one forlorn being. 
 
 For more than a year Esther had wished to hear 
 Orme speak. It was the irony of existence that at 
 last, under such circumstances, her wish should be 
 gratified. This afternoon he talked of Dion, the Dion 
 of Plutarch. Robert s vocabulary was simple. He 
 made no effort. He held in mind all in the room, 
 even Thomas O Shea. With a few simple words he 
 portrayed Dion, his nobility of spirit, his wisdom, his 
 heroism, his great life. In talking, Robert distracted 
 the listeners from their narrow interests and raised in 
 them a new value of living. Esther recognized herself 
 in the presence of a great teacher. As he progressed
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 239 
 
 she surrendered her mind to him. She wished to 
 have him interpret for her the world; to possess no 
 thought but his. Leaning forward, she knew she 
 listened not only for herself but for the unborn 
 being she called her son. Orme s words became 
 part of them both. 
 
 And a wonderful fancy laid hold on her. It was 
 seed, plant, and flower in an instant, abloom with all 
 the hues of a rainbow. Her child should be like 
 the great Greek . . . perhaps a second Dion! One 
 day the little intruder might become her glory. 
 Esther s hope mounted until she even saw him as 
 the torch with which she should blaze through the 
 future, thereby in the truest sense to become im 
 mortal. Who would deprive her of this pleasure 
 dream ? It was to color many a gray day of conflict 
 with the world. 
 
 For the second hour, as a rule, Orme selected a 
 theme from elementary natural science, ethics, or 
 political economy. The previous summer the work 
 ing-people had studied a simple botany. This after 
 noon Robert chose as a topic the history of a piece 
 of chalk. But so profoundly had the first hour 
 penetrated all most vital within Esther that for a 
 second she found her thoughts straying as he held 
 the chalk before his readers. His intention was to 
 outline the evolution of the earth. 
 
 At this period the Academy of Freedom accepted 
 as valid the Mosaic theory of creation. When Orme 
 presented the scientific explanation of comets, me 
 teors, constellations, the earth, he did not realize
 
 240 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 his words were startling or revolutionary. He enu 
 merated the geological ages, the great eras of change, 
 and finally fixed in the earth-story the small piece 
 of chalk. It was all told like romance. He could 
 light up facts until they glowed like fiction. As Orme 
 spoke he seemed to communicate specially with each 
 listener. Toward the close of his talk the dumb 
 fear on the countenance of Esther perplexed him. 
 
 When he finished speaking, the working-people 
 gathered about him, presenting their questions, seek 
 ing suggestions and help. Esther sat still. But when 
 at last only O Shea and Griggs remained, Robert ex 
 cused himself and approached her. "Did I say any 
 thing to trouble you to-day?" he inquired. 
 
 The girl s thoughts rushed forth in a question to 
 meet his query. "Is what you said this afternoon 
 true, Mr. Orme?" 
 
 "I dare say I made errors. What have you in 
 mind?" 
 
 "Your words about the creation of the earth." 
 
 Out of the earnestness of Esther s manner there 
 came to Robert a vision of a splendid edifice, the 
 bricks and mortar of which were centuries of belief, 
 sacrifice, and renunciation. At last he compre 
 hended, and with a fine regret, for so delicate and 
 profound was his respect for the spiritual belief of 
 others that he never intentionally sowed seed for a 
 harvest of doubt. With the consideration of the 
 gentlemanly-minded, he responded, "I think it is, 
 Esther." 
 
 Her expression was a vague blur. She was like
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 241 
 
 the dove of the ark, vainly seeking dry land amidst 
 the waste of waters. "Wasn t the world created 
 in six days by God? ... I d like to know." 
 
 "Science doesn t say so," he answered mildly. 
 
 During the intense interval of silence he could 
 hear her breathe. "Do you think science is right, 
 Mr. Orme?" 
 
 Robert tried to modify his words with his manner 
 as he replied, "I can t help thinking so." 
 
 "Do all wise people agree with you?" 
 
 Orme would have retreated, but his conscience 
 urged him to go on, "Most of those the world calls 
 wise." 
 
 There was a pause in which she seemed to steel 
 herself for the venture of all her faith. "Then wise 
 people don t think the Bible is true?" 
 
 Robert could not commit the sacrilege of interfer 
 ing with the girl s belief, but he was obliged to 
 answer. "No, I shouldn t say that. Rather a col 
 lection of myths. There was probably a Hercules 
 to inspire the Greek legend." 
 
 "Then the Christian God is a legend? Do you 
 think that, Mr. Orme?" 
 
 Robert recalled that twice before she had turned 
 to him for help; but saving her body from death 
 was to his thinking not so grave as directing her 
 spiritual life. He was glad of this third appeal; it 
 brought her close to him. But he shrank from the 
 responsibility it involved. "Does it matter what I 
 think?" 
 
 "It matters very much to me."
 
 242 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Why couldn t she have known how her words 
 turned the room, his life, the world, into magic for 
 him? He wondered that he could speak, but her 
 deep eyes steadied him. "Esther, it might matter if 
 I knew the truth, but no one understands what it 
 is. Perhaps if the real truth, and the truth of re 
 ligion, science, and philosophy should meet, they 
 wouldn t recognize each other. There is no clarion 
 to proclaim truth when it appears. Perhaps it is 
 with us all ... perhaps no one has ever felt it. 
 You Methodists have your belief; so have philoso 
 phers and men of science. Each thinks his own ab 
 solute. No one knows which is right. Perhaps man 
 isn t fit for truth at all. Perhaps he can no more 
 understand it than a dog can understand Aristotle. 
 I was too arrogant about my truth. I had forgotten 
 you hadn t studied geology. I didn t realize how 
 little science is taught at the Academy. Believe what 
 you feel will most help you." 
 
 His care for her faith, his endeavor not to hurt 
 her, was to Esther beautiful; but she replied, "If 
 what science says should be true if God didn t 
 make the world . . . then the prophets ... sin 
 . . . redemption ... all must go." 
 
 Orme realized he had only to reason, to insist, 
 gently to withdraw a few stones from the foundation 
 of her belief, and the entire structure would crash 
 upon her; but he feared that she at present could 
 not survive such a disaster. For this reason he 
 replied, "I don t like to decide for you, Esther." 
 
 Then the girl took a big, glad bound into the sur-
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 243 
 
 face of doubt as if, with the quick perception of 
 genius, she suddenly formulated for herself a chart 
 of its waters. "But, Mr. Orme, if the idea of sin 
 weren t always hanging over us, how free we should 
 be. We could be our own judges." 
 
 "And who of us is fit for that, Esther? I m sorry 
 you heard me, ... sorry I disturbed you for a 
 moment." 
 
 "I thought you were an infidel." 
 
 "They call me that because I m one of those who 
 don t know. I lost faith in the old belief and read 
 and studied to find it, but I only wandered farther 
 away. Every one must have some kind of religion. 
 Hold fast to yours until you re strong enough to shed 
 it. When one is young faith is poetry, promise, 
 hope. It s good for you." 
 
 It was Esther s first venture away from the safe 
 shore of orthodoxy where she had lived for nearly 
 twenty years. She returned to the land with which 
 she was familiar. "I must keep religion," she said. 
 "Perhaps all you wise men are mistaken, and some 
 day you ll find it out. Sometimes," she said, beset 
 by fear, "sometimes I am afraid either . . . there is 
 no God or ... He has withdrawn Himself from 
 me. He never hears my prayers." 
 
 The girl was so much alone in the world that Orme 
 did not have it in his heart to alienate her from the 
 comfort of faith. "Don t feel that way, Esther. . . . 
 If there is a God, and He hears any prayers they 
 will be yours."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 DURING the winter which closed down on Free 
 dom Esther by day never left Mrs. Brewster s cot 
 tage. She found curious peace in work during the 
 week; but when Sunday came and the church bells 
 began to ring, the old ache returned. She knew that 
 the brothers and sisters in the little meeting-house 
 often glanced at the vacant place by her mother s 
 side. Perhaps her parents were never so conscious 
 of her transgression as on the holy day. Sunday, 
 instead of being a time of rest, was for the girl a 
 time of torture. Then came the yearning to see her 
 mother. In her dreams Esther re-lived her father s 
 denunciation. Often on Sunday nights, while the 
 town slept, she rose, dressed and made her way 
 through falling snow and raging wind to the door 
 of the parsonage. She could not enter, but some 
 times she sat on the steps and tried to forget that 
 she was proscribed. She imagined that the door 
 opened and her parents bade her come in. But 
 they never did. Her gliding about in storms after 
 midnight gave rise to the belief still current in Free 
 dom that the village was haunted by a woman in 
 black. 
 
 Visitors seldom came to Aunty Brewster s house, 
 but Orme appeared daily. Yet he did not enter. 
 
 244
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 245 
 
 Sometimes he heard Esther s voice, left a book for 
 her or made an inquiry. Business he transacted with 
 Mrs. Brewster at the door and went away. Though 
 Esther never saw Robert, he lingered in the volumes 
 she opened. His friends became her friends. Those 
 heroes of history who had sustained him through dark 
 days seemed always to have awaited her. They wid 
 ened and enriched her intelligence; they winged her 
 imagination ; they fortified her soul ; they created in 
 her a finer conscience. The girl no longer lived in 
 humdrum, rudimentary Freedom. Robert gave her 
 a world of brave men and women. She kept pace 
 with them through fields of story, poetry, and phil 
 osophy. Their joys became her own, their suffer 
 ings, their faiths, their loves. And Orme was always 
 at her side. She read again each sentence he had 
 underscored. It was a message from him. Robert 
 lived in the world of Stoics. She said she would 
 make it hers. Its thoughts spun themselves into her 
 passionate musings on her unborn child; worked 
 themselves into her blood, into her future, exalted her 
 with a sense of omnipotence. 
 
 By slow degrees, as Esther went from loom to 
 book and from book to loom, her sense of isolation 
 and exile, so natural to one of her youth, lessened. 
 In an old volume she found an engraving of Dion; 
 and she continued to think her son would be like 
 the great Greek. This faith was new strength. 
 From it flowered the finest shades of responsibility 
 for the sacred office of maternity. Her one aspira 
 tion was not to give way to thoughts or feelings un-
 
 246 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 worthy to reappear in her son. In creating her child, 
 she herself was re-created. 
 
 As Esther aged mentally, she went far from the 
 orthodox faith of her parents; but she was never so 
 conscious of a great spiritual destiny. Mrs. Da 
 mon s passion for perfection took possession of her. 
 She wished to cleanse herself of every impurity, to 
 burn evil out of her being. God became greater than 
 the narrow, Hebraic God of her father s church. 
 To this new God, the loving Father of all the world, 
 she often knelt and prayed. At times she wished 
 that in prayer on her knees she might pass the 
 period of suspense until her child should be born. 
 
 But this cloudless communion was inevitably to be 
 interrupted. Strangely enough it was Mrs. Damon 
 who caused Esther to realize that there was a world 
 outside of the one she had created for herself. One 
 day Esther heard labored, heavy feet crunching in 
 the snow. Even before, through the fantastically 
 frosted window pane, the girl espied her mother ap 
 proaching, she guessed who it was. It needed pre 
 cisely this presence for Esther with her higher con 
 science to accuse herself as a monster of selfishness 
 who had wantonly violated her parents home. Her 
 love of pleasure, her impatience, her tempests of 
 passion, her rebellion crowded her brain, as she 
 looked at the wonderful, old, battered face of her 
 mother. Then the stoical calm the girl had tried 
 to acquire became fugitive. She distractedly turned 
 to Mrs. Brewster whose spectacles were interroga 
 tion points.
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 247 
 
 "Well, what shall I do?" that valiant woman 
 asked. "Shall I open the door?" 
 
 What should she do, Esther demanded of herself. 
 There was an interval in which she imagined she 
 could hear her mother breathing on the other side 
 of the door. The two alternatives open seemed 
 equal in their cruelty; one of meeting Mrs. Damon, 
 the other of avoiding her by taking refuge in another 
 room. After hurried, confused consideration, Esther 
 judged it less unkind to spare her mother the sight 
 of her. "I can t meet mother," she said finally. 
 "I can t bear to see her grieve. . . . Her tenderness 
 would kill me. Tell her that, Mrs. Brewster, won t 
 you? Say everything that s kind . . . and promise 
 her some day I ll go to see her ... I can t 
 now." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster imagined herself supremely kind to 
 Mrs. Damon. In truth, the widow was merely less 
 brusque than usual. Yet, it must not go unacknowl 
 edged that she did somewhat repress her inclination 
 to flaunt her satisfaction in the demonstrated un- 
 workability of the Methodist discipline. The visitor 
 was more bent than half a year before. Her smile 
 was richer in pathos. In the soul shining from the 
 pathetic eyes, there was no sign of desistance from 
 the hourly struggle to transform imperfection into 
 perfection. 
 
 "Well, Mis Damon " the widow challenged as 
 if two armed clerical hosts were meeting in combat. 
 
 Mrs. Damon, sitting wearily in her chair, had no 
 show of courage to offer in return. "I ve come to
 
 248 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 see my daughter, Mrs. Brewster. . . . May I speak 
 with her?" 
 
 Mrs. Brewster might have been more generous, 
 but she fairly sputtered, " You ve been a long time 
 about it, it seems to me, for such a Christian as you 
 are." 
 
 The visitor was not a doughty opponent, and the 
 widow experienced none of the thrill of combat. "So 
 it would seem, Mrs. Brewster. But I haven t been 
 very well. ... I thought Jesus would call me home. 
 He didn t. ... I dare say He thinks me unpre 
 pared." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster could now exclaim in triumph, 
 "Oh, you used to think you were the only person 
 in Freedom who wasn t going straight to hell." 
 
 " Did I really speak that way ? I always knew my 
 heart was unseemly. Some shortcoming of mine 
 must be responsible for this misfortune of my poor 
 daughter." Mrs. Damon sat with folded hands and 
 looked up with a touching smile as she asked, "Did 
 you say she would see me soon?" 
 
 "No, Mis Damon, I didn t," confessed the 
 widow, somewhat disconcerted. "Mebbe you know 
 Esther s a terrible headstrong girl. If she gets set 
 in her way you can t change her any more than you 
 can stop six wild horses running away. That s her 
 natural gait. She told me to tell you she just couldn t 
 bear to see you or any one just now. By and by 
 she says she ll go to see you." 
 
 "Poor Esther!" Mrs. Damon made a pathetic 
 effort to control herself as she inspected the broken
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 249 
 
 finger-nails of her yellow hands with their swollen 
 purple veins. "She was always such a proud girl. 
 Just as if I should see anything of her but how she 
 looked when she was a baby, and all the way up 
 through childhood. But I know how she feels. 
 She s a very good child, if one understands her as 
 I do. ... Is she well?" She added anxiously, "I 
 hope she s not too sad." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster rarely confessed herself confounded, 
 but now she admitted, "I don t know whether she 
 is or not. I don t understand her very well. She 
 works and reads her head off, and she s away up in the 
 clouds most of the time. Too much books. I don t 
 know what is in her head, but I guess it s about the 
 future." 
 
 Mrs. Damon rose, and taking Mrs. Brewster s 
 hand in her own said: "You ll take care of my dear 
 child, won t you? Jesus will reward you. I m so 
 grateful you gave Esther such a good home." 
 Glancing toward the loom she asked, "Is this where 
 she works, Mrs. Brewster?" Mrs. Damon looked 
 long at the bright-colored woof with which the loom 
 was filled. "Ah, that was it," she sighed. "The 
 poor girl liked those rich colors, all which allured the 
 eye, but I did, too ... I believed that Jesus would 
 help her as He did me. I m sure He will yet. When 
 the dear child started to weave to buy herself rib 
 bons she wove more than innocent carpets . . . she 
 wove a net of folly and error in which her young feet 
 tripped." Mrs. Damon sat for some time in silence, 
 touching tenderly the shuttle. Presently she asked, 
 "Does Esther work hard?"
 
 250 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "She don t have to work hard, Mrs. Damon, but 
 she does. She works as if she was crazy. She does 
 everything as if she was crazy. And sometimes she 
 looks as if she was crazy, until I just give up." 
 
 "That s just like Esther," said the mother fondly. 
 "Her life was always a fever; but God loves a fiery 
 servant. If only she would come to Him." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster sniffed. "Esther s all right. Lots 
 of folks in this town ain t fit to black her boots. She 
 ain t any lazy-bones. Last week she made eight dol 
 lars. Every week she makes five or six." 
 
 "So much!" exclaimed Mrs. Damon in alarm. 
 "I hope she has no desire to lay up manna. But 
 she ll need money when she s not alone. . . . Do 
 you mind showing me where my little girl sleeps, 
 Mrs. Brewster?" 
 
 "She locked herself in her room," confessed the 
 widow, more distressed than she liked by the emotion 
 in Mrs. Damon s face. 
 
 "Oh, I so wanted to see her," the mother said in 
 unwilling departure, "because . . . we re going to 
 Attica to live. I m not very strong. . . . 
 
 "Goin away to Attica?" Mrs. Brewster had the 
 villager s thrill consequent upon being the first to 
 receive an important official communication. Even 
 Mrs. Snead had not preceded her and wiped the 
 bloom from the freshness of the information. "Why, 
 who s goin to take Elder Damon s place here?" 
 
 " No one. It was decided this morning to close the 
 church." 
 
 The melancholy with which the minister s wife 
 spoke was wasted on Mrs. Brewster. To the widow
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 251 
 
 it was the latest edition of news. "You don t 
 say!" 
 
 "Yes, Brother and Sister Hames didn t like the 
 sermon my husband preached on Esther. Then 
 Brother and Sister Killit don t want to come any 
 more." The mother preferred not to disclose that 
 since the discovery of Esther s disgrace, it had been 
 agreed among the church members that the day of 
 Elder Damon s effectiveness as a minister of the 
 Gospel in Freedom was past. "My husband has 
 had so much encouragement in Attica and Olivet 
 that he will preach only in those two places. Will 
 you kindly say that to Esther, and will you tell her 
 . . . we leave to-morrow?" Mrs. Damon was at 
 the door, and before leaving she added, "Mrs. 
 Brewster, will you make her understand that al 
 though her father will not admit it, I think he regrets 
 tearing her name from the church book. Tell her 
 I pray always for her salvation ... If we never 
 meet here, we shall round the great white throne." 
 
 The mother knelt in silent prayer. 
 
 The long sleigh was heaped high with household 
 belongings of familiar aspect. Esther, looking out 
 at the vehicle which stopped before Mrs. Brewster s 
 house, saw the humble little bed that had been hers, 
 the bed of her girlhood. The portrait of Wesley 
 looked reluctant to depart. It was the beginning of 
 her friendship with Orme. There was the modest 
 mahogany table, the horsehair furniture, and every 
 where the pride of the family uprooted and by her
 
 252 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 turned adrift. Elder Damon, seated on the side 
 farther from Esther, with unremitting severity, 
 looked straight before him; but the mother s tender 
 eyes were gathering one last impression of the house 
 which sheltered her daughter from the pitiless ironies 
 of the world. 
 
 The girl recognized the conveyance as the prop 
 erty of Brother Simpkins. The "hired man" in 
 the employ of that brother was descending from his 
 seat, and clapping his hands to ward off the wintry 
 chill. He brought a parcel to the door. Mrs. 
 Brewster received it while Esther pressed her face 
 against the window pane, her longing glance em 
 bracing and caressing her mother. As the sleigh 
 started off once more toward Attica, Mrs. Damon 
 saw Esther and blessed her with the regard of a 
 saint, a saint who had transcended doubt. But the 
 minister had no benediction for Esther. The last 
 tie between the girl and her home was severed. 
 Her father had abandoned her. He had abandoned 
 Freedom. 
 
 Colder and colder grew the outcast as she turned 
 from the blurred windows. Shivering in her shawl, 
 she huddled piteously over the package in her hands, 
 put there she knew not when. As she broke the 
 wrapping cord, how the sleighbells tolled! How 
 tragic seemed the driving away of a load of furniture ! 
 From the paper fell a fluttering array of little doll- 
 sized dresses, quite discolored with age. Esther per 
 ceived the sweet beauty of intention in the offering, 
 and love and sorrow took her heart by storm in a
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 253 
 
 way unknown to the Stoics. All deepest in her own 
 mother nature possessed her as she buried her face 
 in the tiny flannel garments. Hot tears blurred her 
 eyes, and it was only after a long interval that she 
 could decipher the words scrawled by the rheumatic 
 hands of her mother: 
 
 MY POOR, DARLING ESTHER: 
 
 Every stitch of these things was taken in love and with 
 prayers to our dear God to bless you, the baby who was to 
 wear them. I have always kept them. Now they re yours 
 with the same love and the same prayers. 
 
 I deeply desired to see you yesterday, Esther. I had much 
 to say that my weak hand can ill express. First, I think the 
 sun will soon set for the last time on the wrath of your father. 
 I hope it will not be long before I can persuade him to allow 
 you to come home to us. Your father, however, is not of a 
 spirit that compromises or recants; in this he greatly resem 
 bles the prophets. But my prayers are being answered and 
 his love for you is working in his heart. Though he himself 
 does not mention your name, he has allowed me to speak of 
 you repeatedly during the past fortnight. You know I take 
 no step without first consulting him, and yesterday it filled 
 my heart with bliss and thankfulness that when I told him I 
 was going to see you he offered no objection. On my return 
 he opened the door, came down into the street to assist me, and 
 looked at me with eager questions in his eyes. He said noth 
 ing, but listened; and last evening, despite the fact that it 
 marked a sad event, he seemed very happy. His last prayer 
 in the house was beautiful as I have rarely known his prayers 
 to be. 
 
 Dear Esther, I m going away, but you were never dearer 
 to me than you are now. You have not sinned against me, 
 dear daughter, but against our Heavenly Father. Let Him 
 be your friend. Let Him help you. I leave you in His care.
 
 254 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 And I am beset by no doubts of the outcome; for, dear daughter, 
 of late I have had wonderful manifestations of the blessed Jesus. 
 I saw you in a vision of those clothed in white who come up 
 through great tribulation and are made perfect through suffer 
 ing. I saw you the companion of angels. I saw you crowned. 
 It was sounded from heaven that you were saved. This was 
 while I was ill, and no vision of such beauty ever before blessed 
 me. I believe that after long wandering you will find Him. 
 Some of the greatest saints were those who strayed longest in 
 darkness. 
 
 Remember, dear child, that whatever comes, your mother 
 is always your mother. A bridge of love unites us that can 
 never be destroyed. I will come to you whenever you wish. 
 The Lord watch between me and Thee while we are absent 
 one from another. 
 
 MOTHER.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE larks came north with their southern songs of 
 love. Hyacinths and narcissus, all the fairer in their 
 beauty which had slept under the snow, ruled the day 
 in Freedom. One morning Esther awoke with a 
 sense of renewal of spring in her own heart. Her son 
 was at her side. His dimples, his rosiness, his soft, 
 fuzzy head, his every movement was to her a grace. 
 His every feature was an exquisite flower now for the 
 first time giving its sweet breath to the air. His low 
 wail made her understand why a tigress burned to 
 death in her cage rather than leave her young and 
 escape alone. When the mother felt the contact of 
 the warm, small body; knew the velvety touch of 
 this tiny, appealing creature for whom she had ex 
 changed reputation, parents, home, he was the more 
 dear for his exorbitant cost. 
 
 As Esther regained her strength it came over her 
 that no longer were her own experiences the basis 
 of her life. Nature had taken the plastic, passion 
 ate, self-centred girl and made of her a woman who 
 existed only in her son. Before his birth her every 
 thought and feeling had been concentrated in an en 
 deavor to instil into him some rare super-human per 
 fection. Now her every care was for the child s fut 
 ure. Only that portion of the world relating to him 
 
 255
 
 256 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 concerned his mother, or rather, he became for her 
 the centre of the world. 
 
 That on occasions there rose from the submerged 
 past a reproachful reminder of the girl she once 
 had been, merely caused her to feel more sharply 
 estranged from her buried existence. One of these 
 resurgent images confronted her when Mrs. Brewster 
 deprecatingly, as if ashamed of being entrapped in a 
 kindness, laid at her side a lavender gingham dress. 
 Esther caught herself in the frivolity of liking the 
 lavender dress. Then wonder broke over her that 
 there had been a phase of her existence when rib 
 bons, laces, lavender dresses, and personal adornment 
 were of superlative value. The confirmation of their 
 transient hour of reality was in the lavender gingham. 
 How she must have chattered of it in those far-off, 
 forgotten days before she had a son to nurture, 
 clothe, and protect a son for whom to pass restless 
 nights; to shield from every sound, every treacherous 
 current of air, every unkind look or word. 
 
 Small and dependent as was the baby, he ruled 
 Esther s loom, Mrs. Brewster s house, Mrs. Brewster 
 herself. The women were sorry they couldn t give 
 him the moon and stars. When once more Esther 
 resumed her usual duties she knew the pang of daily 
 separation from her child; but he easily habituated 
 himself to inattention ; with the drone of the loom in 
 his ears, he slept always before his mother s eyes in a 
 dingy little cradle. 
 
 The other weavers had long since been transferred 
 to the new cabin on the hill, and so Esther thus far
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 257 
 
 had encountered none of the villagers. The coming 
 of the child had awakened in Mrs. Brewster un 
 wonted delicacies and consideration for her boarder. 
 She even thought to spare Esther the bulletin of the 
 neighbors comments; suffered her to remain in 
 ignorance of the remark made by Mrs. Snead that it 
 was a pity the Damon girl and her baby hadn t 
 died they both would have been better off. The 
 widow did not mention that the neighbors avoided 
 the house as plague-infested; there was a high ten 
 sion of horror in the community. In consequence, 
 Esther bade fair to forget the irreproachable moral 
 book-keeping of the village. 
 
 Her first reminder of the existence of an extra 
 neous world came one day when she saw Orme ap 
 proach approach slowly, as if to give her time to 
 prepare for his coming, for the pain of it and of his 
 association with the outer facts of life. Sight of him 
 instantly revealed to Esther that her friend was a 
 part of that established conscience which must 
 always remain hostile to her and her child. There 
 was no time to reflect on alternatives. For her, in 
 deed, there was but one. Directly she saw Robert 
 she dropped the shuttle and seized her son in her 
 arms. Thus she sat when the visitor appeared in the 
 doorway. 
 
 Hitherto Orme had seen Esther only in the dull 
 garb of a Methodist. Now she was clad in the 
 lavender gingham dress. Her eyes were downcast. 
 Her flaming hair was in luxuriant plaits which sur 
 mounted and emphasized like a diadem the high
 
 258 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 dignity of her head. There came over him a vision 
 of some immaculate, consecrated mother who, in 
 her human state, blushed and wondered if she had 
 sinned because she had brought into the world and 
 held in her arms a god. Esther raised her glance 
 with unwavering directness to Orme, scanned his 
 every lineament for censure. She saw only gentle 
 ness and consideration. Then she coerced her 
 trembling voice to say, "This is my son, Dion, Mr. 
 Orme." 
 
 "I am glad you look as happy as the mother of 
 Dion should," he answered. The little one held 
 out a rosy finger and gripped Robert s coat. This 
 act seemed to seal a bond between the three. 
 
 "I m happy," Esther went on nervously, as if 
 trying to catch her breath, "for I ve forgotten my 
 self. I know now why you always kept up so 
 splendidly. You adopted all the poor and unhappy. 
 They re your children. . . . But how are you?" 
 
 "Oh, I he smiled deprecatingly, as if em 
 barrassed by the topic. 
 
 "How is the factory getting on?" 
 
 "Splendidly. We have new workmen. One 
 young fellow walked a hundred miles just to come 
 here. He arrived barefoot. He wants to go to 
 college. He understands making stained glass win 
 dows and he wishes to do some for the work-shop. 
 We have given him the opportunity." Robert 
 always used the "we" in preference to "I." "Our 
 botany class is soon going out on an expedition. 
 Can t you join us?"
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 259 
 
 Orme endeavored to speak as if this course for 
 her were generally expected, but his words showed 
 Esther fresh difficulties. "I dread that horribly. 
 I m so happy here. . . . Why should I leave? I 
 like being alone." She looked down at her child as 
 if the breath of the world coming through the open 
 door would blight him. 
 
 "Don t you think, Esther, you should consider 
 your son in coming back?" He paused for her en 
 tirely to grasp this before he added, "It must happen 
 sometime, you know." 
 
 She caught his inference immediately. "I under 
 stand," she said faintly. "You think it best for 
 people to get used to me as soon as possible . . . 
 Yes, the world must get used to me." 
 
 "Don t put it that way, Esther. I only suggest 
 that you take your place in it. You will . . . one 
 day." 
 
 She held her face close to the baby s and sighed. 
 "You re right, Mr. Orme. I should take my place 
 as the mother of Dion . . . the sooner the better." 
 She rose and Orme saw she was prepared for im 
 mediate action. He realized that because of her 
 extraordinary capacity for converting thought into 
 deed, conversation with her was a grave responsi 
 bility. "If I don t go now every one will think I 
 am afraid or ashamed of Dion. . . . I m not. Dion 
 and I were so happy that I wanted to remain here 
 with him and my work. . , . Now I see my doing 
 so was very selfish." 
 
 Robert watched her make preparations to go into
 
 2 6o ESTHER DAMON 
 
 the streets. Understanding the moral climate of the 
 village, he would have had her postpone her first 
 appearance in Freedom; but her courage thrilled 
 him. He walked to the gate with her, the baby coo 
 ing in her arms. She swayed a little as she moved. 
 Catching her breath she offered this explanation : " I 
 haven t walked much before." 
 
 "I don t think I d go to-day," he urged anxiously. 
 "I really didn t mean you should do that. You re 
 not strong enough, Esther. Remain at home a few 
 days longer, and then come up to one of my talks. 
 You can go into the village any time." 
 
 Grateful for his tenderness, still she persisted: 
 "No, I may as well make the start now. If I don t, 
 they ll say I m a coward. If I am one, Dion will 
 be influenced by it ... and so we both must go." 
 
 Robert said good-by, but he did not go away. 
 He remained watching Esther as she plunged into 
 the doubtful medium of the village a magnificent, 
 untrammelled spirit predestined to follow her largest 
 vision. There was no pillory in Freedom, but the 
 forebears of the inhabitants of the hamlet had lived 
 under Connecticut Blue Laws; had branded with 
 hot irons and hanged by the neck until dead such 
 unhappy culprits as Esther Damon. As the woman 
 went her way it was the blood of those Puritans that 
 looked and spoke. It spoke when Mrs. Snead the 
 moral Gibralter of the town an open Bible before 
 her, seated at the window, called to her husband, 
 Snead , come here, Snead . The deacon apparently 
 responded to the summons. The next words whirred
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 261 
 
 into Esther s ears, "Well, if she ain t what I call 
 brassy." 
 
 How the world could hurt! It seemed to Esther 
 as if she could never raise her head again. Just then 
 the baby stirred, smiled, and looked up at his mother 
 with wide blue eyes. And love gave her courage to 
 go on with head uplifted. Freedom, like the larger 
 world, lied about its sins, hid them, strangled them, 
 did all but face them. This girl took refuge in none 
 of these moral obliquities, but with calm courage ap 
 peared in the streets, her unlawful offspring in her 
 arms, as if he had a right to be. Such conduct as 
 tonished the inhabitants and filled them with terror 
 much as if a beast of prey had burst from its cage, 
 and athirst for the blood of innocence, with her sav 
 age young roamed the quiet, shaded thoroughfares. 
 Esther recognized the hostility in the atmosphere. It 
 was difficult for her to breathe this heavy, poisonous 
 air. The young girls she met strolling hatless, arm 
 in arm, as in the old days she had walked with them, 
 cast furtive glances at her. Their whispered com 
 ments were like a loud outcry. 
 
 She entered the post-office, asked for letters 
 sometime she must do this, why not now? The 
 clerk smiled at the oddity of Esther s assumption. 
 Block by block she advanced, occasionally touching 
 her baby s head with her lips. Just as she reached 
 the corner on which stood Wherritt s store she saw, 
 pausing near the watering trough, Lucy Yates, in a 
 stiffly starched pink dress. What a world had come 
 between her and Lucy. Esther wondered if her
 
 262 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 friend had forgotten the years they had played to 
 gether. With a sweet, silent greeting, Esther recog 
 nized Lucy in the distance. At this the terrified 
 little maiden forgot her pretty manners and pro 
 testations. Her one thought was how to avoid her 
 school-fellow. Lucy plainly reasoned that Esther 
 either would enter Wherritt s or follow the direct 
 way to the farther end of the village. So she beat 
 a disconcerted flight across the street to Spear s. 
 
 Esther realized that after so great a violation of the 
 community laws as her own, it was foolish to count on 
 the devotion of her friends. But Lucy s defection 
 showed her in how many ways she could suffer. She 
 determined never again to speak to any one in Free 
 dom. When some of the loungers at the corners 
 saluted her, she gave no sign of observing them. 
 
 The large rambling white residence of Dr. Yates 
 had always been like a second home to Esther. 
 Before it she encountered a kindly voice, that of 
 the physician, who emerged from the well-cared-for 
 garden. As he took his place in his carriage he 
 bade her "good evening"; but already she had 
 begun to live as if she inhabited another universe. 
 Dr. Yates would not allow her to pass. He got 
 down from the vehicle, hastened after Esther, took 
 her hand and said, "Come, Esther, I m not going to 
 allow you to do that. I m your friend. You must 
 always remember it." Her silent, quivering lips 
 were her answer. "I tell my wife and Lucy we are 
 not cannibals, but we all behave as if we were. 
 I d like to have them go to see you."
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 263 
 
 "Thank you," she said, as she went on, unable to 
 utter more. 
 
 She walked to the outer rim of the village, crossed 
 the road, and, trembling, came back on the side of 
 the tavern. Avoiding that would have been to 
 abandon part of her heroism, to admit that she and 
 her son had no right to pass before the place where 
 Dion s father lived. She heard the click of the bill 
 iard balls at the Ivy Green. The sound stirred in 
 her apprehension that Harry would see her, see his 
 son, and seeing him in all his precious beauty, would 
 desire to contend with her for possession of him. 
 This unsophisticated thought caused the mother to 
 startle the child with the violence of her embrace 
 until a long, strange wail echoed through the open 
 space of the Four Corners, filled them and the twi 
 light with horror. "Hush, Dion!" she whispered, 
 "Hush." But already the weird, primitive shriek 
 had pierced the ears of the loiterers. They showed 
 themselves at the entrance of Clancy s, Wherritt s, 
 Spear s, Hood s a great composite countenance in 
 which amusement, revulsion, and ferocity were so 
 unmasked that a spectator might have felt that the 
 village had sinned more than Esther Damon. 
 
 Slowly she came back, as if walking in treacherous, 
 boggy mire. With every step she realized anew the 
 pressure of the hard, accepted laws of life. Home 
 once more. Orme, still waiting, stood motionless, 
 held by amazement, admiration and fear for her. 
 
 "I never thought you d finish it," he said in awe, 
 however did you, Esther?"
 
 264 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "Perhaps I never could," she answered as with a 
 last flicker of strength, "if you hadn t taught me 
 . . . what you have." 
 
 "Ah, no," he replied, "some things can t be 
 taught."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 AFTER their first startling appearance, Esther Da 
 mon and her child no longer occasioned confusion 
 when they showed themselves in the village. Im 
 maculate matrons and maidens were surprised that 
 the offender addressed none and expected no greet 
 ings. Nor did she try to seduce the unspotted from 
 their ways of virtue. She wished to exist alone with 
 her son. Soon the mother and child became an 
 unreal picture floating through the town. But while 
 the lambs and doves were in a measure habituated 
 to the sight of Esther and the evidence of her sin, 
 the sinner stood out against the white background 
 of their own purity as the object of most lurid 
 interest in the annals of the village. 
 
 Every evening, in her determination that Dion 
 should, from the beginning, take his place in the 
 world on the same plane with other children more 
 happily born, Esther walked with the large, blue- 
 eyed, healthy boy in her arms. In her endeavor to 
 avoid the hurt of eyes without tenderness or charity, 
 the mother seldom looked up from Dion s face, but 
 there were felicitous moments when she fancied a 
 stranger smiled upon her son. With a fond, quick 
 ening throb of the spirit she saw her baby compel 
 recognition for himself. Ah, it would come to that! 
 They must all love him as she loved him. 
 
 265
 
 266 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 During one of her evening strolls she paused before 
 the Freedom Academy building. In that formal 
 structure she had skimmed lightly the surface of 
 life. The sight of the school-house door unlatched 
 a wide vision for the future of her son. Here Dion 
 should go to school. But on reflection she thought 
 it wiser that he be kept from others of his own age 
 lest, while too young to accept the truth, he should 
 be saddened by the stain of his mother. She herself 
 would teach him until Orme could take up his edu 
 cation. In the meantime, how she would work! 
 Esther had been thwarted in a desire to go to college; 
 but what self-denial she would make that at the earli 
 est possible age her son might enter the university 
 where Robert had taken his degree. Even this did 
 not satisfy the maternal ambition. Soaring with her 
 fancy, Esther traversed the sea to another more re 
 nowned institution of learning. Under the spell of 
 her vision she walked slowly onward into the country ; 
 and why not abandon herself to the dream ? in the 
 rosy vista of the years she saw herself cross the ocean 
 with Dion. Drifting thus in a fantastic medium she 
 smiled, and smiled as she mused. 
 
 By degrees, however, her dreams were interrupted 
 by the consciousness of a shadow that rose and fell, 
 drew near, paused, and then retreated. Some one 
 was following her noiselessly, as a hunter creeps after 
 a bird. Esther walked on slowly. Advancing, she 
 noticed a familiar sound in the foot-fall, a sound 
 once heard by her in a half swoon of delight. Yes, 
 she was being pursued, and by the man whose name
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 267 
 
 she had not spoken, which none had mentioned in a 
 twelvemonth. In the early days sometimes she had 
 felt she must make an outcry of his name in the street ; 
 that if only once without restraint she might utter it, 
 her tension would be relieved. But she had choked 
 it down until it was suffused throughout all her being. 
 She wondered if his name were not also in the blood 
 of Dion; if the child did not quicken at the approach 
 of his father. So inveterate an idealist was she, and 
 so inaccessible to realization of the baseness which 
 had destroyed her, that often there had risen in her 
 the desire to seek him, to make a sign to him, to 
 speak a word with him of their son. Now here he 
 was. She stood still, as she invited his approach. 
 
 "Esther!" Yes, that was his voice. It yet had for 
 her an agitating charm; it belonged to him who led 
 her into a wonderful garden of romance. "Esther!" 
 He was now quite close at her heels. She listened. 
 No note of tenderness was in the tone. No echo of 
 love lingered in the voice. She turned her head not 
 a hair s-breadth to see him. After so long a delay, he 
 himself must come every inch of the way. Her one 
 thought was the fear that he wanted Dion. She tight 
 ened her embrace of the child and waited. 
 
 Clancy was not embarrassed, nor confused, nor 
 humbled, as he stood in Esther s presence. Nature 
 had protected him at his birth. He was non-moral. 
 All discomposure was for her. She must still con 
 tinue to pay. In the first glance she saw her lover 
 as he was; saw more than the pleasing contour of 
 the handsome face; saw the meaning in the beau-
 
 268 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 tiful, cruel, womanish lips, in the self-indulgent, pro 
 trusive, blue eyes. Though there was no reflection of 
 a lingering afterglow of love in his gaze, Esther dis 
 covered there a premeditated endeavor to re-exert his 
 old charm. But this effort collapsed into clumsi 
 ness. 
 
 A sudden horror of him possessed her. She had 
 desired him to see the child; but now she wanted 
 nothing so much as to separate her son from his father. 
 Dion s gold hair and blue, flower-like eyes seemed to 
 be entirely of her own dreams, of her own heart beats, 
 of her own flesh and blood. Clutching her child in a 
 sudden fear of losing him, she started forward. The 
 baby wailed in terror. Clancy hurried by her side, 
 saying, "Esther, don t run away. I ve wanted to talk 
 with you for a long time. You know how hard it is in 
 a place like this to see any one without its getting out. 
 But I had to meet you." 
 
 She paused to listen. The offence she had feared 
 was some fancied claim of Clancy s upon the child. 
 Now she saw him oblivious, careless of her son s 
 presence. Then something within her died. Her 
 garden of romance withered under the touch of real 
 ity. Harry was as far removed from her as one of 
 the beasts gazing at them over the fence. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked with a show of impa 
 tience. "Is there anything I can do for you?" 
 
 In spite of her tone, chilled with irony, his smile 
 of gratitude came. "You mean, Esther, I m always 
 after you to do things for me." 
 
 "No," she returned, re-experiencing the old fer-
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 269 
 
 ment of horrors and suffering, "I mean nothing 
 except hurry, hurry . . . and have it over with." 
 
 "I guess, Esther, I always do ask things of you. 
 That s because you re such a nice girl. You never 
 would ask anything of me. If you had, things 
 would have been different. Why didn t you tell 
 me? I didn t intend that. ... It was pretty bad." 
 
 Esther shuddered as he endeavored to place her 
 in the wrong and establish himself as a well-meaning, 
 nobly-inclined individual. Determined as she always 
 had been never to thrust herself upon Harry as a 
 sacrifice, she shook the tears back into her eyes and 
 said, "Have I ever complained?" 
 
 "No, Esther, no, you never did." 
 
 "Wait until I do before you talk about the past," 
 she answered, with indignation which saved her from 
 a flood of emotion. "What do you want?" 
 
 "I shouldn t speak of it to you, Esther," he 
 stammered, realizing that the moment was not his, 
 "but you were always such a sweet girl. You 
 might have made a lot of trouble . . . you didn t 
 ... I know you ll help me." He touched surer 
 ground as he proceeded. "I don t know how you 
 feel after all this time . . . but you used to like me. 
 I don t believe you want to worry me now." He 
 paused and looked down at the ground. "Things 
 aren t pleasant at home . . . You can help me out 
 if you will." 
 
 "What can I do?" she asked quietly, looking at 
 the child. 
 
 "Well, Esther," he said, with the awkward manner
 
 270 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 of one who rarely attacks a difficult situation, "it s 
 like this, Esther. Every time you pass the hotel, 
 the fellows joke me about it." He hesitated and 
 then went on, "I don t mind it so much a man must 
 give and take but," he endeavored to touch her arm, 
 as if that assisted him to make his point. "Every 
 time you appear my wife goes off into a faint. She 
 raises an awful fuss. I ll leave Freedom if I have 
 any more of this kind of trouble. What I want to 
 ask is ... if you won t please stop carrying the 
 baby round town every day." 
 
 She raised her eyes. Her glance hushed him as 
 he endeavored to proceed, "I hope " 
 
 She shook herself loose from him, and quickly 
 turned toward the village. But it seemed that some 
 thing of his corruption adhered to her, something 
 she could never throw off. Did one hour bury an 
 other? Could she never advance beyond what was 
 gone? Would the past always creep after her as 
 he had come? 
 
 "Now, Esther," Harry said, pursuing her, "don t 
 go to see my wife, will you? You re sensible and 
 reasonable . . . Don t make a row after being so 
 nice. Listen, Esther," he added, endeavoring to ar 
 rest her hurrying steps. "Don t go back till we ve 
 had this thing out. Stop right here . . . Promise me 
 if you must walk you ll go in another direction." 
 
 She had heard enough, too much. Her shame 
 choked in her throat. Rage of a sort she had never 
 dreamed of shook her. Oh, to have the strength 
 to be a murderer and see his blood run out drop
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 271 
 
 by drop! She tried to speak, but passion made her 
 dumb. After what seemed a long time, but was 
 really only a moment, her voice came in a queer, 
 grating whisper, "Don t you understand I m this 
 child s mother?" 
 
 She ran toward the town, her head sunken to that 
 of her child, fleeing as though from desolation, mad 
 ness, darkness, and death. 
 
 "Esther!" came another voice. She looked up. 
 There was Orme. 
 
 He did not know what had passed between her 
 and Clancy, but she seemed as if huge, brutal hands 
 had crushed her. White of lip and cheek, Robert 
 stood staring after Harry, and Esther realized how 
 men look when they lunge at each other s throats. 
 Orme turned his glance to her, a glance which con 
 cealed much, revealed much. "Let me do something 
 for you . . . everything. I don t care what it is, 
 Esther." 
 
 "Forget what you have seen this evening," was her 
 answer as she went on.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 MRS. BREWSTER was standing at the gate when 
 Esther returned to the house. "You can never 
 guess who s waiting for you." 
 
 "My mother?" the girl questioned in alarm. 
 
 Lucy Yates came to the screen door. "Esther! 
 Esther!" she cried. Mrs. Brewster held the baby 
 while Esther and Lucy embraced like two long 
 separated lovers. They hugged each other, they 
 wept, they laughed. Lucy spoke first: "I ve always 
 wanted to come . . . always, but mamma, poor old 
 dearest, is afraid of everything. Papa and I had 
 our way. You ought to have heard Robert Orme 
 talk, too. I never saw you, but I wanted to touch 
 your hand and tell you I still loved you. No one 
 could make me believe you were bad and horrid 
 and terrible." 
 
 "I m so glad you came to-night," Esther said, 
 caressing Lucy. "I need you ... so much. I m 
 rich . . . I ve a new friend." 
 
 "I m going to stay all night with you, Esther, just 
 as I used to in the old days," said Lucy. And she 
 did. They could not waste time in sleep, and so 
 they talked until dawn. 
 
 Shortly after Lucy s departure, the following morn 
 ing, Robert appeared in Mrs. Brewster s sitting- 
 
 272
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 273 
 
 room, took a seat by Esther s loom, watched the 
 gladness and gratitude in her eyes as she told him 
 of her friend s return. Esther guessed the hours of 
 struggle he and the physician had had with Mrs. 
 Yates to obtain her consent to Lucy s visit. Mrs. 
 Brewster came into the room. "Sit down, Aunty," 
 he said. 
 
 "No, I never loll around and twirl my fingers in 
 the forenoon," she replied. 
 
 "Please do," he insisted. "I d like to talk with 
 both you and Esther." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster compromised by seating herself on 
 the lounge and sewing rags for a carpet. "Fire 
 ahead," she said. 
 
 "I m going to buy back the old home," Orme 
 announced. 
 
 "You be!" Mrs. Brewster pricked her finger 
 with her needle. "Well, you are a smart boy. I 
 tell you what, you ll make these folks squirm yet." 
 
 Esther turned in her chair as Orme gave the news. 
 Her eyes expanded wide. She laid a felicitating 
 hand upon his. "I m so glad for you. Everything 
 will come to you because you are so good to others. 
 I hope you will grow very rich." 
 
 He laughed. "That isn t what I m trying for," 
 he said. "No one is good enough to be rich. I want 
 to make things right with you and Aunty Brewster 
 and all who have worked for me." 
 
 Neither of the women understood. "What do you 
 mean by making things right?" Esther asked. 
 
 "I have several thousand dollars in the bank at
 
 274 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Ripon," Robert explained. "It s all profit from 
 your work. I ve cheated you." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster laid aside her sewing. "Oh, you 
 get out, Bobby. You ve paid me twice as much as 
 any one else ever did." 
 
 "Nevertheless I have cheated you," Robert held 
 out. "Oh, it was legal cheating, but if I paid you 
 what you really earned I should have had no more 
 than you. I didn t. I am very well off while those 
 who created my bank account are poor. I was at 
 best a parasite, and at worst a thief. Now I m 
 going to give the money all back to you who 
 made it." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster allowed her rags to fall in a heap. 
 "You re crazy, plumb crazy! What book did you 
 get all them ideas out of?" 
 
 "Life," Robert explained. "I was a laborer for a 
 year. I saw my employers profit by my work. 
 They were on the way to being rich men. After 
 I established the factory, every day I realized I was 
 robbing the people who worked for me. I tried to 
 teach them, to give them short hours, high wages, 
 the use of my house ; but paternalism doesn t sat 
 isfy. My property is all theft. I ve come to ask 
 you in what form you would like your share re 
 turned." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Orme," Esther replied, "I ve had my 
 share. Every one has, and more. You ve made so 
 many of us happy. You ve brought lots of money to 
 Freedom. Think of all you ve done for the village." 
 
 Robert was a little scornful as he repeated, "Done
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 275 
 
 for the village. I ve robbed it. I have a bank ac 
 count of ill-gotten gains to prove it." 
 
 "But you ve been so kind to every one," Esther 
 argued. "No one has done so much." 
 
 "Perhaps I haven t been quite so brutal in my 
 money-getting as some others, but I robbed you 
 just the same. I can t go back to living on work 
 men. If you re all agreed, we ll buy the old place 
 together as community property. We ll turn the 
 cabins on the hill into shops. My wife and I will 
 move over to the brick house, but it will belong to 
 you as much as it does to us. Everything will be 
 incorporated under the name of the Republic, a real 
 democracy not a warmed-over aristocracy with 
 money as king. We shall all be citizens of the 
 Republic if you like, but I ll not coerce any of you 
 to join us. You may take your choice," he said, 
 including both Mrs. Brewster and Esther, "between 
 citizenship in the Republic and having your share 
 of the money and working for wages." 
 
 Aunty Brewster shook her head as if this plan of 
 Robert s were a new kind of whiskey, but Esther 
 lifted to him a charming smile as she said, "It s 
 splendid. I understand your idea now. You re 
 trying to make life as it should be. I want to be a 
 citizen of the Republic." 
 
 "I m glad of that," he said, clasping her hand 
 gratefully. " One of the cabins shall be yours. When 
 the orchards and the lands are properly cared for, 
 your living will cost you nothing. In a world of 
 abundance no one should worry about the future."
 
 276 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "It s a crack-brained scheme, Bobby," offered 
 Mrs. Brewster. "I did think you was getting horse- 
 sense, but there ain t much horse-sense outside of 
 Massachusetts. If you re bent on giving away the 
 money you honestly made out of carpets and furni 
 ture, I guess I might as well have my share of the 
 what do you call it?" 
 
 "The Republic," he answered. 
 
 "Republic sounds all right," returned the widow, 
 " but I don t want none of your democracies. Demo 
 crats are all copperheads. What does Alice say to 
 this notion of yours?" 
 
 "Alice!" he exclaimed. He and she lived in 
 countries so alien in thought that he sometimes for 
 got she was his wife. "Oh, I haven t told her." 
 
 While Robert worked that morning it frequently 
 occurred to him that he dreaded telling Alice about 
 the Republic. Since his domestic life turned a 
 somersault, by skilled piloting he had avoided the 
 black rock of dissension toward which they seemed 
 always to drift. As he joined her at the mid-day 
 meal he wished the hour were over. He began disclos 
 ing his plans by saying that he had purchased the old 
 home, and they would return there within a week. 
 
 "You are queer, Robert, but you are smart," 
 Alice said, for the first time in years giving him 
 her full approval. "I ll be so glad to leave the 
 cabin. You don t know what I ve suffered here." 
 
 "I m sorry. I ve been very happy," he returned. 
 "I shall regret leaving. This house has been my 
 own work, and I ve enjoyed it immensely. I d like
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 277 
 
 to remain in the cabin if it weren t so well suited to 
 being a shop." 
 
 "How funny you are, Robert." Alice s manner 
 showed indulgence for the eccentricities of success. 
 "I ve higher ideas than yours. I m never satisfied 
 unless I m at the very top. I ll be so glad to get 
 away. I intend giving a church social as soon as I 
 get into the house. You must take off those every 
 day clothes and come. You simply must, Robert. 
 And won t you try to be polite to Brother Duane? 
 You always treat him as if you d like to run away 
 when he calls here. If you ll only go to church with 
 me next Sunday, I ll feel like holding up my head 
 once more and letting people know I m a great 
 deal more than those who ve been feeling sorry for 
 me because I live in a log house." 
 
 He listened as if she were a child prattling of 
 games. "Enjoy your social, Alice, but I m afraid 
 you can t count on me. What you make a god is 
 my devil. I shall be too busy to go. And please 
 don t ask me to listen to the Baptist minister. I 
 want to read and study Sundays instead of going to 
 church. Why bother about conventional religion? 
 If religion isn t a hinge for conduct, it s superfluous. 
 Christianity seems to me so different from the teach 
 ings of Jesus." 
 
 "I knew it," Alice retorted. "Pa said the day we 
 were married you had no stability. I never can be 
 any one in Freedom so long as people say you are 
 an infidel, and you never think or do anything that 
 any one else in Freedom does."
 
 278 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Orme laughed somewhat bitterly. "I can t do 
 things or think them or like them because Freedom 
 does. That s too great a price for being what you 
 call somebody. I ve no ambition, Alice, to be 
 anybody in Freedom if it means doing as Freedom 
 does." He added in another key, "I wish I could 
 show Freedom how to do better " 
 
 "Much good you can do Freedom," she sputtered, 
 "when you have around you the lowest set in town." 
 
 "You don t realize, perhaps, Alice," he inter 
 rupted, setting down his coffee cup with a frown, 
 "that you re speaking of my friends." 
 
 "You ought to be ashamed of such company. 
 You don t care how many snubs I get because you 
 have old O Shea, the jail-bird, as head man in the 
 furniture shop." 
 
 Orme shook his head despairingly. "Will peo 
 ple never forget that? I took O Shea and Mearns 
 when no one would have them. We ve stuck to 
 gether, and we ve founded the Republic." 
 
 "What is the Republic?" Alice asked, as if her 
 husband had led her to the gate of a mad-house and 
 opened it. 
 
 "We are all citizens of it, partners all of us who 
 work in the factory. The land and shops are to be 
 owned by all, and operated for all." 
 
 Breakfast no longer had savor for Alice. She 
 moved her chair from the table. "You ve taken in 
 all the scum of Freedom as partners, Robert?" 
 When there was no denial she moaned angrily, "I 
 knew I could never be any one. It seems to me,"
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 279 
 
 she argued, "you ve been good enough to these 
 people without giving everything we have to such 
 trash." 
 
 He explained to her in full his plan. He refused 
 to coin into money the youth and strength of his 
 employees, to dull their minds and cast them off. 
 The only way to do away with unhappiness and 
 crime was by doing away with poverty and furnish 
 ing equal opportunity. He told her he could not 
 play with his belief; he must live his ideals. 
 
 Alice sat unmoved. "Of course you have no 
 idea, Robert, that I m going to give my half of our 
 money for any such purpose." 
 
 The dart struck home. With amusement she 
 recognized that he had forgotten she was his legal 
 partner. As the fact pierced Orme s mind, with it 
 came the fear of a delay in the formation of the 
 Republic. His disappointment was cruel. If Alice 
 could have awaited Robert s response she would 
 have shown greater discretion. Instead, her prompt 
 words were like a neigh of battle. "I m the only 
 person you don t seem to mind robbing and depriv 
 ing of a home." 
 
 Orme looked at his wife, lighted a cigar, let it go 
 out, rose and walked about the room. "Then, Alice, 
 you don t want to be a citizen of the Republic. I 
 had assumed that you would. I made a mistake." 
 He looked at her steadily. "What do you prefer?" 
 
 Her response had the lack of impulse of a well- 
 regulated cash register: "My half of the money, if 
 you don t mind."
 
 2 8o ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Then he laughed. "Of course. I should have 
 known that before." Again he laughed. "I was 
 foolish not to have understood it. You shall have 
 every cent." His affability was denunciation. "I 
 shall be able now to buy only part of the land, but I 
 hope the rest will come later. I ll try any way. 
 I m sorry you don t like the idea. I had hoped it 
 would interest you." 
 
 "You mean to tell me you re going on with this 
 crazy plan, Robert?" 
 
 He no longer laughed. "Alice," he said slowly, 
 with insistence on each word, "you may have half 
 the money earned by these men. I think it belongs 
 to them, but it is yours. You may always live in 
 the house of the Republic, and of course my share 
 of that community property will be yours. Let s 
 settle it so and not discuss it any more." 
 
 "I know what pa will say about this." Alice s 
 citation of authorities in Freedom was always ex 
 asperating. Ira Wherritt in a judicial capacity was 
 too heavy a test of Robert s patience. "He always 
 said there never was an Orme yet who knew enough 
 to keep a penny. Your grandfather emancipated all 
 his slaves for some wild idea. You re no business 
 man." 
 
 Each sentence came as a messenger of provoca 
 tion. Orme was surprised at his own moderation. 
 "You surely don t want me to be a business man, 
 Alice, if it means preying on others. In an advanced 
 state of civilization the business man of to-day would 
 be as ashamed of his occupation as a burglar or
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 281 
 
 pickpocket now is of his. I ll not profit by a sys 
 tem of robbery even though legalized and estab 
 lished." 
 
 The wings of Alice s mind always took a direct 
 flight to the ultimate. "And are you goose enough 
 to think you re going to succeed?" 
 
 "It depends upon what you mean by success." 
 
 "Do you think it will last?" 
 
 "It doesn t matter whether it lasts until my death 
 and then fails, or whether it breaks down even 
 within a year or so. I ll offer what I have in pro 
 test against the accepted commercial system. If my 
 work gives a flash of right impulse to some one else 
 it will be successful. I don t hope for much. Per 
 haps I shouldn t expect greater success than to 
 restore to each man and woman in the Republic 
 their just share of the proceeds of their toil." 
 
 "Woman!" Alice s surprise was too big for her 
 vocabulary. "Woman!" Now they crashed on the 
 inevitable rock. "Oh, that is what it s all about 
 justice and ideals and that nonsense. Why, they re 
 merely Esther Damon." 
 
 Alice s truths were like those of a child, un- 
 draped and direct. She watched Orme s pale face 
 for signs of their effect. To her intense scrutiny 
 his dark, staring eyes seemed to resemble those 
 of Esther Damon. "You ve been weak enough to 
 be tempted by that woman." Then she summed it 
 up with the opinion, "Men are all alike." 
 
 A picture of Esther as he had last seen her rose 
 before Orme s vision. "You quite misunderstand
 
 282 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Esther Damon. You re judging meanly. She s 
 been wretchedly unhappy and unfortunate ; but she s 
 not base. If I insisted on kindness being shown 
 her, or over-urged her cause it was because others 
 showed so little pity. It remained to me. How 
 could I help it?" he continued, with a calmness he 
 did not feel. "She s the best weaver in the Republic. 
 She has created several new designs. Why should 
 I discriminate against Esther Damon?" 
 
 Alice received the name as a symbol of insult. 
 "I d like to know, Robert Orme," she demanded, 
 with such rapidity that her words sounded like the 
 clicking of a telegraph instrument, "if you have any 
 morals at all, or if you think I have any ? Do you 
 mean to tell me if that woman takes it into her 
 head to come into my house she may? Is that 
 what you do in your Republic?" 
 
 "Why not?" he replied, now more surely master 
 of his feelings. "The house belongs to the Republic, 
 and she ll be a citizen of it." 
 
 "I d like to see her try to enter it. Mrs. Brewster 
 shouldn t have taken her in at all." 
 
 "Don t blame Aunty Brewster. I asked Aunty to 
 give her a home." Now that Orme had begun, he 
 was determined Alice should realize the entire ex 
 tent of his responsibility. "Esther Damon won t 
 trouble you. She ll live on this side of the road, 
 where all the weavers are to be." 
 
 Alice held her ground. " I stand or fall right here. 
 Esther Damon shall never live in any of these cabins 
 or have a room here."
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 283 
 
 "Don t say that, Alice. Why be so hard on her? 
 She s a poor victim." 
 
 "Poor victim! I suppose if I had run away and 
 disgraced myself and my family, I d be a poor, 
 lovely victim. Because I m decent, nobody has any 
 interest in me." 
 
 "You would be an entirely different person to do 
 such a thing," Robert argued as he approached his 
 wife. "And because you are so different, can t you 
 show Esther Damon a little kindness? Why not 
 make her feel now and then that she isn t entirely 
 friendless? I imagine she has a great many sad 
 days." 
 
 "She should have thought of them before. She 
 can t expect good women to know her. The churches 
 have done their duty by her they have prayed for 
 her." 
 
 Orme frowned. "Yes, they pray for her, I sup 
 pose . But who will walk down town with her ? Jesus 
 religion ought to be introduced into the churches. 
 He would have taken her into His home." 
 
 There was an eloquent silence which Alice broke 
 as she said impressively, "There s a very big differ 
 ence between you and Jesus, Robert." 
 
 "But how," Orme asked, "can the good help the 
 bad by living only with the good ? Nothing cures 
 hearts except other warm hearts laid upon them." 
 
 "You wouldn t have me know Esther Damon?" 
 To the wife the possibility was grotesque. 
 
 "Perhaps you know worse women " 
 
 "Worse?"
 
 284 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 "Yes, women who He about one another, perjure 
 and prostitute themselves to marry for a home or 
 money, and then cheat their husbands of affection 
 and consideration. They have marriage certificates, 
 but they are the bad characters to avoid. If you 
 say to women who criticise you for knowing Esther 
 Damon that she broke only one commandment and 
 pays for it every day, while most of them have 
 broken several and pay nothing because they are 
 protected by the marriage trust, you ll do some good. 
 You ll be a missionary, teaching women a little 
 common honor in their marital relations." 
 
 Every word of Orme s indignation Alice knew 
 was levelled at her. "I admit I m a low person," 
 she mockingly stipulated, "but I m not quite low 
 enough to have that creature in the house." 
 
 "Her work has given her the right here," he an 
 swered quietly, as if fearing his own utterance. 
 
 "Even if it has, if she ever sets foot in this cabin 
 to live, you lose me, and you lose the respect of 
 every one in Freedom." 
 
 Orme raised his voice as he leaned forward in his 
 chair. "If with a clear understanding of what it 
 means, Alice, you demand this injustice of me an 
 injustice that would make me contemptible, you lose 
 me; this time for the rest of our lives. I believe I 
 lost you long ago. I m not sure you ever belonged 
 to me. Did you? Or did you marry that house 
 over there? Can you honestly say I ever counted 
 so much as that pile of bricks? Would you have 
 married me if I had been without it?"
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 285 
 
 It was the least of Alice Orme s ambition to be 
 mistaken for a sentimentalist. To concede that her 
 husband outweighed his possessions would have 
 been a confession to a lack of balanced judgment. 
 Her reply to Robert s question was to pelt him with 
 a few last illuminating phrases as she marched 
 toward the door: "I ll not ask you to be unjust to 
 Esther Damon. Stay here on this side of the road 
 where she s to be. I ll live in the other house. I m 
 going over there, but don t imagine that even if I 
 don t read books, I don t know what the real matter 
 is with you. You don t realize it, but I do think 
 occasionally. Sometimes when you ve sat looking 
 as if you d lost every friend and I wanted to have 
 fun I mentioned her name. That was enough. 
 You talked and talked as if you were speaking about 
 an angel. I ve played the joke on you a dozen 
 times and watched you be a donkey. You may be 
 deceiving yourself; you re not deceiving me. . . . 
 You re in love with her. That s all. That s your 
 Republic." 
 
 Alice peered into Robert s face to observe the 
 effect of her words, to see them work like deadly 
 poison in his mind. However, few symptoms of 
 his malady were revealed. He walked across the 
 room, then turned and looked at her as at one who 
 unknowing plays with grave, high words. He 
 waited for her to go on, as she did: "But you won t 
 call it love oh, no! You ll have some fine, grand 
 name for it. It would be friendship, soul-harmony, 
 affinity, even if you were Brigham Young. You ll
 
 286 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 never recognize it for what it is." He stared at her 
 blankly. "Don t you know it yet?" She laughed 
 furiously. "I ll prove it to you." She went to the 
 chimney-piece, took up the little picture made by 
 Esther Damon. "Look at this! It s the only pict 
 ure you would have in the house, isn t it?" 
 
 He did not answer. "You thought I didn t know 
 where it came from. I heard Mrs. Damon say 
 Esther made it. You kept it there where you could 
 always look at it. Well, you ll never look at it 
 again." 
 
 Robert perceived her intention before she began 
 rending the cardboard. "Put it down," he cried, 
 as he sprang forward and seized her wrists. 
 
 It was too late. The picture was torn into pieces. 
 "You re hurting my wrists," she said. He released 
 her, and she threw the fragments of cardboard into 
 his white face. "Now you know." 
 
 Yes, his wife had made all clear to him. Now he 
 knew. He tried no longer to evade the truth. He 
 wished to proclaim it to Alice and the world. From 
 the first day when Esther Damon s face had stirred 
 him to better endeavor he had loved her. Her 
 struggles, her suffering, her persecution, her cour 
 age, every hour of her presence had endeared her 
 to him until his love was his ruler. He stooped to 
 pick up the bits of the cardboard which had always 
 seemed a part of her. His fingers trembled. How 
 dared Alice destroy this symbol of his love! 
 
 "You hate me now," she said, alarmed that she 
 had gone so far.
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 287 
 
 "Go back to your father s home, and never re 
 turn here," he answered, no longer endeavoring to be 
 calm. 
 
 "I ll not," she answered. "You only want me 
 to leave so you can see Esther Damon." 
 
 She went no farther. His fearful anger silenced her. 
 "Don t mention Esther Damon s name. There is 
 no house large enough for you and me to live in 
 again." 
 
 Alice looked at him a long time. She had never 
 seen him before in this state of mind. She recog 
 nized the finality of his fury. She crossed the room 
 in leave-taking and touched the lapel of her hus 
 band s coat. Orme shuddered. He feared some 
 word of apology from her. "I m going to my 
 father, "she said, "but don t forget you re my husband. 
 You belong to me. You shall always belong to me. 
 I ll live just to keep you from her."
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE return of Alice Orme to her father s house 
 surprised no one. Freedom had always wondered 
 how long the apparent domestic happiness of the 
 Ormes would last. But the Four Corners were 
 puzzled by the Republic. Moderate greed was their 
 symbol of respectability. A bank account was a 
 bank account. Dividing money with workmen looked 
 like lunacy. Robert s deficiency in property sense 
 indicated his loose moral fibre. "What could be the 
 matter with him?" the Four Corners asked one 
 another. 
 
 "Whiskey, of course," answered Job Spear. 
 
 "Women!" explained Ira Wherritt with a wink. 
 In order not to lose an entire half day s work, the 
 old man rose early one morning, and drove to Ripon 
 to request a lawyer to have a custodian appointed to 
 take charge of Orme s small fortune. Wherritt s 
 visit was fruitless. He returned to Freedom lament 
 ing that the sacredness of dollars was not sufficiently 
 safeguarded by the law. He guessed anarchists 
 would be running things pretty soon. 
 
 For many months Robert s love for Esther had 
 been a hidden dream of his soul. After Alice re 
 vealed to him its power, at no moment was he en 
 tirely free from longing for the girl. As his love 
 
 288
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 289 
 
 increased he sometimes thought he could see it 
 written in his face. He dreaded lest others should 
 read it there. Away from Esther he idealized her; 
 in her presence he feared lest he should betray him 
 self. At times he thought he would try to forget 
 her. Then he would not if he could ; his love made 
 him too unutterably happy. But when he pre 
 figured the years of silence he must pass without 
 her, life became unendurable. For the first time 
 he hesitated before public opinion. He seldom 
 went to Mrs. Brewster s house; he wished to shield 
 Esther. He could not give her as food to the 
 gossips. 
 
 But in spite of him the gossips were busy. Alice 
 had told. Mrs. Brewster forbade Esther to go to 
 live in the cabin on the hill, offering as a reason 
 that she was a regular old softy about Dion. The 
 widow declared she would mope herself to death 
 without him. Esther promised to remain with 
 Aunty Brewster, but she suspected that the old lady s 
 brusque, affectionate concern screened a pretext. 
 She wondered why Orme never lingered to chat, 
 why he so often came when she was absent. Per 
 haps he was sad because he had separated from his 
 wife. She found herself glad that he was alone; 
 it was as he lived when they first met. Yet she re 
 proached herself for pleasure in anything that caused 
 him pain. By a great tug at the will she tried to 
 say she regretted the change in his life. 
 
 One afternoon in the late autumn she went on an 
 errand for Mrs. Brewster. Returning she met Orme
 
 290 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 at the gate. "Oh," she exclaimed, her eyelids trem 
 bling as she gave him her hand. His face was graver 
 than usual. Evidently his wife s departure had 
 meant much to him. "You never come to see 
 us any more," she said. 
 
 "We ve been building new cabins, moving into 
 the old building," he replied, "but I was just coming 
 to see you now. I m tired of being in the factory. 
 Let s walk under the trees." 
 
 They stepped into the orchard. Her narrow, 
 deep life widened. She always seemed a larger 
 being when near him. For her walking by his 
 side was an adventure. Youth returned again and 
 she knew she was young. She rushed forward 
 breathlessly, following no path through the valley, 
 living thoughtlessly, intensely, with the great free 
 things of nature. He could hardly keep pace with 
 her. "How fast you walk," he said, fearing some 
 subtle betrayal of his love even in this commonplace 
 remark. His hammering heart made him realize 
 that their separation had been over-long. Esther 
 had been too frequently in his thoughts for him to 
 be natural when with her, but he struggled on, 
 "This is the first time you have walked through the 
 orchards of our Republic . . . yours and mine . . . 
 and the others." Despite himself a new cadence 
 came into his tone. 
 
 "Not mine," she corrected. "I ve been wanting 
 to tell you I can t accept your kindness. I ll live 
 at Aunty Brewster s. I d rather work as a wage- 
 
 earner."
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 291 
 
 He brushed aside her sadly embroidered little lie. 
 "I ll not listen to your desertion. You ve always 
 been frank with me before. Life is too short for 
 make-believe between us." 
 
 "I know," she promptly said. When Esther was 
 with him she was more charming, more beautiful, 
 more entirely herself. Then her entire being seemed 
 illumined. " I don t understand why I hesitate . . . 
 or what it is I don t say . . . but I oughtn t to go. 
 I m not wanted in the Republic." 
 
 Delaying their steps, they lingered face to face. 
 "Who is wanted if you are not?" he quietly asked. 
 
 "Every one, I think. . . . You ve been embar 
 rassed by me, you ve had trouble on account of 
 me. ... I can t allow that. You must give me 
 up." She did not notice his quick breathing which 
 spoke louder than any syllable could speak. "When 
 a woman goes . . . out of the beaten track, that s 
 the kindest thing for her. I m Dion s mother, noth 
 ing more." She raised her head aloft. "That s 
 enough for any one. Let me work in the old way. 
 There s no place for me in the Republic." 
 
 A torrent seemed shut in Robert s heart as in the 
 evening quiet he replied. "Then there s no place 
 in the Republic for me, Esther." 
 
 "You mustn t have discord because of me. I shall 
 be unhappy if you suffer on my account." 
 
 He felt himself grow faint. "You are already one 
 of us as long as the Republic lasts. Keeping you 
 with us is ... selfishness." 
 
 She shook her head. "No, you re trying to make
 
 292 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 it easy for me. You re so kind you don t want to 
 let me know how I ve worried you. For two weeks 
 I ve seen you always walking alone up to the top 
 of that high hill before us ... I understand." 
 
 Orme wondered how much longer he could hold 
 out. "Not everything, Esther. We all have our 
 life we can t explain." She felt he was speaking of 
 his wife. "You recall the Hill of Difficulty in Pil 
 grim s Progress. Lions growl at the top to try 
 one s faith. At the left and right are danger and 
 destruction. We can t avoid the Hill of Difficulty. 
 I like to go straight to the top ... I need to meet 
 the lions." His eyes were resting on the hill-crest 
 where once had stood an Indian fort. After a long 
 pause he turned to her quickly. "Will you come 
 with me now to the top, Esther?" 
 
 His voice startled her. She turned away. In the 
 inflection of this simple request she caught some 
 thing which was like "I love you. Do you love 
 me?" There were blind and fatal forces in her. 
 What if there existed the like in him? What if 
 their friendship were a high, exalted pretext? "I 
 must go back," she said in alarm. 
 
 "Don t," he pleaded, shaken by desire to tell her 
 all the ache and longing in his heart. 
 
 "Aunty Brewster will wonder where I ve gone 
 . . . Dion is waiting for me." She went toward 
 the house, but turned her head to say " Good-night." 
 When she saw the pain in his eyes she felt certain 
 she had misjudged him. Of course the Hill of 
 Difficulty was his wife.
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 293 
 
 "I m very lonely," he called after her. Again 
 she caught a new rhythm in his tone, again she 
 reproached herself for doubting him. Her own in 
 satiable need of idolatries found strange cadences 
 in every voice. 
 
 The winter months convinced Esther that Robert 
 had given himself to regret over losing Alice. She 
 seldom saw him alone. When he came to Mrs. 
 Brewster s he was ill at ease and restrained, and 
 he hurried away. Even Aunty Brewster noticed. 
 Once the widow reproached him. "Fools will be 
 fools. What are you worrying yourself to death 
 for over that Alice?" Esther grew to feel estranged 
 from him, and avoided the community house, which 
 was the old Orme residence. The previous winter 
 she had lived with Robert s spirit through his books; 
 but when he seemed so changed, she had little 
 desire to read. Her finer intellectual life was trans 
 muted into devotion to her son. Motherhood became 
 her vocation. 
 
 And the Sabbath bells seemed always to call her 
 to worship. At times she wished to go. Separated 
 from Orme she felt a renewal of religious fervor. 
 She prayed for his happiness; she prayed that he 
 would come back and give her of his strength. She 
 needed him. His absence always reminded her 
 that he was not present. 
 
 One melting afternoon in March, after an hour 
 out of doors, Esther found Dion ill. She sat hold 
 ing him by the sitting-room coal stove all night,
 
 294 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 watching him anxiously. At daybreak his face took 
 on a great and sudden beauty. The child strangled 
 to death in her arms. Dion had always seemed to 
 his mother half divine. She could not believe he 
 was gone. She clung to his body as if to protect 
 it from an invisible monster threatening to absorb 
 it. His flesh was still hers. He seemed struggling 
 to return to her. 
 
 "I once lived for you, Dion," she whispered. 
 "Now come back to me ... I can t go on alone. 
 I can t. Don t leave me, my baby!" 
 
 Esther stirred the fire, wrapped Dion in a heavy 
 quilt, trying to keep the heat in his body; but it grew 
 chill and rigid. Half distraught she opened her 
 dress, pressed his face against her breast, held her 
 lips to his. As she huddled over the baby she grew 
 cold and shivered. When Mrs. Brewster took the 
 child from her, the universe seemed to crash upon 
 the mother. With blank, blurred eyes she stared 
 at the wall and stared and stared while the clock 
 ticked the grimmest passages of Scripture into her 
 mind. "The children of adulterers shall not come 
 to maturity ... if they live long they shall be held 
 of no account." She could feel the syllables tramp 
 through her head. Back and forth they marched. 
 She would have struck them out of her consciousness, 
 but the clock ticked them back again. She went 
 into her room for escape. 
 
 She sank to the bed, flung out her arms and closed 
 them on a great aching void. "Jesus, help me," 
 she prayed. "I can t give my baby up." She
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 295 
 
 sought to feel a response from the Infinite. None 
 came. Where was the mysterious, far-away Master ? 
 Where His promises? If only He would tell her 
 whether Heaven was real, whether God was real. 
 With merciless force the thought crushed her that 
 she was God-estranged. But her sensibilities had 
 been so deadened by pain that she could suffer no 
 more. Exhausted by grief and lack of rest she slept. 
 
 When Esther woke she felt the warmth of the 
 blankets with which Aunty Brewster had covered 
 her. It was delightful to live. Then grief rushed 
 over her. She could not endure the darkness of the 
 room. She could endure no place where Dion was 
 not. Only one more day would her son be hers. 
 She must go to him. Perhaps she had only dreamed. 
 Perhaps he was not dead. Perhaps he would open 
 his eyes when she touched him. Throwing a shawl 
 over her shoulders, she passed through the sitting- 
 room where a fire always blazed in winter, and en 
 tered the parlor, which had the odor of apartments 
 seldom opened. Hyacinths were in the air. On 
 some chairs before a low melodeon near the door 
 was Dion with pots of blooming calla lilies at his 
 feet and a spray of hyacinths in his hand. She 
 gazed at the lovely infant smile; at the white, wavy, 
 silken head covered with a mysterious, impenetrable 
 mask. She had not dreamed. He was dead. She 
 knelt by his side and her lips moved in a last sound 
 less appeal to be at one with him. 
 
 Even in her sorrow she wondered who had loved 
 Dion enough to bring the flowers. She was sure
 
 296 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Lucy had come during the day; but the Yateses 
 possessed no such blossoms. Only Robert did. 
 Turning her head she saw what in the dim light 
 had escaped her. Orme had come to watch, but 
 he had fallen asleep on the couch. When did he 
 ever fail her? To others Dion had been the incar 
 nation of evil. To him the little, misbegotten life 
 had every embodiment of good. She stepped softly 
 toward Orme. When his face was animated he 
 looked young, but now in repose the effort of his life 
 showed. There were lines on either side of his 
 mouth that might have been worn by dropping tears. 
 Asleep on the sofa he was no longer her protector; 
 he seemed only a child. In a wave of maternal 
 tenderness she wished to take him in her arms. 
 He was the one person living who responded to her 
 entirely and she longed to talk with him ; but know 
 ing he was tired she did not speak. Her nearness 
 woke him. 
 
 "Esther! Esther dear!" he said, sitting up 
 quickly and taking her hand. For the moment he 
 forgot that death had brought them together. There 
 was a great, smothered happiness in his eyes. A 
 dream of his had been that one day he might wake 
 to find her bending over him so. 
 
 "Robert," she said, for the first time calling him 
 by his Christian name, "I m so glad you are here. 
 You can help me." 
 
 After a pause he answered, "What can I do?" 
 
 "Cure me." 
 
 Had Esther s life always been bright and happy
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 297 
 
 she would not have been so dear to Orme. He 
 loved her more for her disgrace, her suffering. His 
 sins loved hers. He could not tell her of his great 
 yearning to take her away to that emerald and 
 gold country pictured by her fancy, to fill her life 
 with love, to heal her soul. But he said, "I want 
 to be everything to you. Remember . . . every 
 thing." 
 
 " Being with you is so much," she sighed, un 
 mindful of how the words made his head whirl. 
 "But even you can t make me forget I ve lost Dion." 
 
 She looked at her son as the first mother looked 
 at the first babe, and all within her suffered. The 
 sight of her grief racked Robert. He covered her 
 eyes with his hand. "Don t," he pleaded. There 
 was a spell in his touch ; but she walked toward the 
 body of the child. 
 
 "Can you tell me that that is all I have of my 
 baby?" she burst out. 
 
 His inquiry grappled with the same mystery. 
 "What does any one know?" He led her back to 
 the sofa. "We weren t intended to know. Dion 
 experienced only happiness. He died in your arms 
 . . . that is immortality." 
 
 Esther wrung her hands in suffering. "I can t 
 forget I ve lost him." 
 
 "You haven t, dear. He s free. You wouldn t 
 bring him back, would you ? Why, he s a butterfly 
 out of his chrysalis." 
 
 "Yes, I would," she said, with the fierce resist 
 ance of youth. "I want him just as he was day
 
 298 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 before yesterday. I want him to open his eyes and 
 speak to me." She held her handkerchief over her 
 mouth to subdue her shuddering. "But I wasn t 
 good enough to keep him. He would be ashamed of 
 me. God took him to punish me for my sins. 
 God hates me. I feel it." 
 
 Orme was surprised to find that great grief had 
 brought Esther close to belief in a personal God. 
 "No, no!" he argued. "God isn t the monster you 
 were taught to believe him to be. He s more merci 
 ful than men. We wouldn t punish cripples if we 
 created them. Dion went because death is inevi 
 table. We begin to die with our first breath. If 
 death never came we should long for rest. He s only 
 a little ahead of us. By and by, dear, your grief 
 will soften, . . . you ll forget." 
 
 She stared over his shoulder at the white sheet. 
 "How can I forget after once touching death?" 
 
 "Forgive me for always judging for you, Esther; 
 but you ll forget its anguish. Think of death itself. 
 Face it every day. Let it be a test of your courage." 
 
 She turned toward him. "Whatever you say 
 seems true. Your thoughts are always new to me. 
 I haven t many ideas. Yours help me." Her eyes 
 looked into his as if they were the only light remain 
 ing for her guidance. "But what can I do now?" 
 
 "There s always something. After being so fine 
 you mustn t break down. There s work." 
 
 Esther seized upon his words with swift questions. 
 "Work? Work?" Then she moaned, "Who is 
 there for me to work for, . . . Robert?"
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 299 
 
 "Freedom. Help sow seeds of humanity in this 
 village. Then things will be easier for those who 
 come after us." He took both her hands. His 
 tone promised all one human being can do for 
 another. "Work with the rest of us in the Re 
 public." 
 
 "You can do that, Robert, but " Her fingers 
 dropped lifelessly to the patchwork cushion. "What 
 influence have I? People despise me." 
 
 " I ve been despised . . . you despised me." 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 "Yes, I recall how frightened you were when you 
 first saw me with the Wesley picture." 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 "You got over it, but you were. That wasn t so 
 long ago. Yet now you tell me that what I do 
 matters." 
 
 Her nobly modelled head emphasized her words, 
 "Ever and ever so much." 
 
 His utterance became difficult. "I appear always 
 to speak of myself, but I don t see how I can avoid 
 it. When I went to your home that day and you 
 wrote me that you didn t think I was very wicked 
 ... I was. A hundred fiends within me were 
 hidden from you. Since then every moment I stood 
 off those devils. I have had to fight an army, and 
 be laughed at and lied about while I fought." It 
 was the first time he had ever given voice to his 
 struggles. Esther looked at him through a blur. 
 "Now it s easier. I was in the depths myself that 
 night I found you down by the lake. I don t know
 
 300 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 what would have become of me without you. Your 
 bravery renewed mine. You see courageous acts 
 don t die. They inspire others and increase the 
 total sum of courage." 
 
 After a moment s hesitation she asked, "Isn t 
 that true of wrong-doing also? Doesn t sin like 
 mine produce an endless chain of evil?" 
 
 "I see no sin in you, Esther," he softly answered. 
 
 Under the long, slow strokes of his hand on her 
 hair Esther s eyes grew drowsy; nature asserted its 
 demands for repose. "Has death made all right, 
 Robert?" she asked sleepily. 
 
 "No, your life did. You are a higher kind of 
 truth and a braver kind of virtue than I ve ever 
 known." 
 
 "I am so wicked. . . . You make mistakes in 
 judgment, Robert, but it s pleasant to hear kind 
 words." Then she repeated in child-like gratitude, 
 "I like to hear kind words." Reverting to her son, 
 she said, "To-morrow they re going to take Dion 
 away . . . Will you find a place for hinr, Robert? 
 Not where the others are, but somewhere in the 
 Republic. Let no one touch him but you. Per 
 haps some of the citizens of the Republic will help 
 . . . the ground is frozen deep. Will you do that 
 for me?" 
 
 Repose and tranquillity seemed to emanate from 
 the tips of his fingers. " Anything you wish, Esther," 
 he answered in a soothing tone. "Don t talk any 
 more. Rest." 
 
 "I ask you always to do so much for me, Robert,"
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 301 
 
 she said, with half opened eyes, "but you re the only 
 one I have . . . you re my one bright spot." 
 
 "We ll place him on the mound to the right of the 
 Hill of Difficulty. Do you recall it?" 
 
 "Yes, Robert, there," she nodded. With Orme 
 bending over her, death was less death. Tenderly 
 he placed Esther s head upon the pillow Mrs. 
 Brewster had given him for the night; then he 
 covered her with the shawl. While mother and 
 son slept, he kept a soundless vigil. So intense was 
 her pallor, and so still was she that one might have 
 believed the mother to be a beautiful, antique, 
 marble figure of a woman stretched out on her own 
 tomb.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 ESTHER DAMON passed through a dark period 
 of revolt in which she acquainted herself with the 
 desperate side of her nature. Her son s birth 
 stirred in her sweetness and love ; his death filled her 
 with gall and hatred. Sometimes she carried in her 
 breast a heart of stone; she cried out to her Maker 
 that He was a murderer. 
 
 By slow degrees she emerged from this state of 
 hard wrath; but bereavement had paralyzed her 
 capacity for free thought. Esther s reason, so re 
 cently awakened by Orme, could not combat the 
 influence of her father s instruction. She believed 
 Dion had died to teach her how to live. Her spirit 
 revived in her determination to pass her life as her 
 son s mother should. Her hope was that one day 
 when her purification should be perfected they might 
 again be together. Faithful and brisk as were her 
 hands at the loom, her existence now became sub 
 jective. She wove rainbows. She lived in the 
 precious illusion that her child was struggling to 
 return. Often Esther s consciousness took bold 
 flight to worlds distant, distant as her son. In 
 these large visions she saw herself the first to solve 
 the great mystery. Mankind should at last wake 
 with its eternal question answered. With shattering 
 
 302
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 303 
 
 intensity of soul throughout the long night hours 
 she called to Dion as Mary Magdalene might have 
 called at the tomb of the Man of Sorrows. 
 
 One evening, late, as she was about to extinguish 
 the light, lamp still in hand, she paused to listen. 
 There were footsteps on the board walk experi 
 mental, inquisitive footsteps. Mrs. Brewster had 
 gone to the Centennial Exposition, and their stealthy 
 sound brought uneasiness. It was too late for Lucy 
 to come. When Mrs. Brewster was not at home 
 Orme intentionally remained away, and no others 
 in Freedom disturbed the quiet of the house. Now 
 came the slow, tentative tap of the intruder. Esther 
 placed the lamp upon the table. 
 
 Before she opened the door she thought she had 
 broken with the past ; but before her was a survival. 
 Anew it pressed against her in hideous intimacy. 
 What she had never wanted to see again was here, 
 and would remain so long as the love of Dion was 
 rooted in her being. Silence held both her and 
 Clancy. Esther in the inveterate habit of attribut 
 ing to others her own shades of conscience, inter 
 preted the motive for Harry s coming. The death 
 of his son as an outcast had awakened some latent 
 fineness in his nature. New tones of inner voices 
 had stirred him to remorse. Yet reluctantly she 
 bade him enter. 
 
 The width of the room was between them as she 
 seated herself on the stool before the loom; but she 
 longed to do something violent, to thrust her hands 
 through the window pane for air. The odious dead
 
 304 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 relation peered out of his eyes as with a fine display 
 of candor he began. " Esther, I knew Mrs. Brewster 
 had gone away, and so I came up to tell you I made 
 a mistake. I know it." 
 
 After all she had misjudged him. At last they 
 had identity of thought, and this for the child who 
 was gone. She dropped a shuttle she had been 
 nervously fingering, and awaited silently, gazing at 
 him with the fixedness of eyes of wax. "It wasn t 
 my fault," he blundered on, placing himself in a 
 chair nearer her. "My people talked me into it. 
 Maybe you don t believe that. I guess you think 
 I m pretty bad. Once before I started to explain, 
 . . . you wouldn t listen." 
 
 There was a renewal of the old tones that made 
 her shiver. "I don t care to listen now. Explana 
 tions are too late." 
 
 "But I want you to understand, Esther. Don t 
 be cross," he pleaded. "My family were afraid I d 
 marry a Methodist. They always kept Stella 
 around. She did seem a nice, pretty girl, and she 
 was crazy about me." He did not heed the distress 
 gathering in the listener s eyes. "But blonde angels 
 are always selfish and cold-blooded. Stella never 
 once thought about me." 
 
 "Don t," Esther entreated, as his redoubled 
 treachery defined itself, "don t . . . talk about your 
 wife." 
 
 "I must talk to some one, Esther." 
 
 Turning away her head she picked up the shuttle. 
 "Don t talk to me. . Be faithful to some one."
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 305 
 
 He rose and laid his arm on the back of her chair. 
 Esther s aspect quickly dislodged it. To the un 
 critical eye now he stood a handsome figure of youth. 
 "I am faithful to some one. I know who. I ve 
 had enough of her and every other woman. They 
 only make me realize how much nicer you are. 
 She s gone home to her folks in a tantrum. I hope 
 she stays. You re the one I want. I m sorry I 
 ever left you. You have real blood in your veins." 
 
 "No, no," she cried, in fright, "I m not human 
 for you." 
 
 Unconsciously she clutched the heavy shuttle. 
 Clancy took upon himself all reprobation. "I don t 
 blame you for being angry, Esther. I did behave 
 like a dog; but I wasn t so bad as I seemed. I 
 wouldn t have hurt you as I did . . . not for all 
 of them, if you hadn t been so independent and 
 proud. I d have seen them all hanged before I d 
 have made you suffer for me. It wasn t my fault, 
 Esther ... I didn t know." 
 
 She stood up accusingly. "Is this what you have 
 to say?" 
 
 "No, Esther," he broke forth, baffled in an 
 endeavor to seize her hand, "I ve a lot more. Get 
 over being angry with me and . . . let s be sweet 
 hearts just as we were before." 
 
 With a wild savage thrill like a demon tearing at 
 her throat, there leaped up within Esther anger she 
 had never felt, and the passion for revenge that 
 dominates the common being. She slipped from the 
 high plane on which she had held herself secure, and
 
 306 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 sank to his level. To hate, to crush, to destroy a 
 hundred malignant demons urged her as she stood 
 impotently trembling in her majesty of hatred. 
 
 "Does nothing about me tell you," she sufficiently 
 prevailed over herself to say, "that I m another 
 being? I feel nothing you feel. ... I don t know 
 what you re talking about." 
 
 Morally, Clancy was the aboriginal man. To see 
 Esther thus, enlivened in him the full zest of pur 
 suing a new intensified woman. Now he spoke with 
 an ardor he had not known even when she first fell 
 into his arms. "You imagine that; but people 
 don t change, Esther." He looked at her, his eyes 
 full of the past. "You haven t changed. You 
 can t. I know. . . . We loved each other. Don t 
 you remember that first day we sat under the pine 
 tree? It rained everywhere but on us. For a 
 long time we didn t say a word. Then I bent over 
 and kissed your hair. When I looked at you, you 
 seemed dizzy ... I kissed you a dozen times. 
 We knew we loved each other. I remember it so 
 well, and every time we met in the forest. I always 
 had to wait for you ... it didn t matter. I was so 
 glad to see you coming in the little gray bonnet you 
 used to hate. You were so pretty and sweet. You 
 can t think about those days and say you ve for 
 gotten, can you? You were my first sweetheart 
 and I was yours." 
 
 Clancy spoke with all the tenderness and charm 
 he had summoned in the old time; but Esther 
 showed no response to the recital of the dawn of
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF A SOUL 307 
 
 their relation, save in her eyes, which widened as if 
 she were re-living a hideous dream. "It never 
 happened. . . . Why do you torture me? ... I 
 want to forget." 
 
 "You can t," his voice rang out as he seized her 
 hand. "I won t let you. I ll make you remember. 
 Let me try." 
 
 Once these words might have had a meaning 
 for her; but now he was on the other side of a wide 
 gulf. There was a frown on her fine boyish brow 
 as she released herself from him. "I hate your 
 love . . . I ve done with life here . . .I m perfectly 
 content to live with the love of my son." 
 
 His hands fell limp. He let all his astonishment 
 appear. "Why, Esther . . . Esther, you wouldn t 
 have that boy back if you could?" Lighting a 
 cigarette he shook his head and mused. "Women 
 are funny. I don t understand them. ... It was 
 all for the best, Esther. Every one knew it. There 
 wasn t a person in town that didn t breathe easier 
 when that baby died." 
 
 With the horrible possibility of murder in her 
 flaming eyes, in her heart, in her hands, in her trem 
 bling frame, Esther sprang toward Clancy. She 
 was twice herself in strength ; she had the strength 
 of her love for her wronged son. Her tense, quiver 
 ing fingers clutched Harry s throat. He staggered 
 back against the loom. With an effort he freed 
 himself from her death-grip and thrust her from 
 him. Esther sank into a chair, a panting, tossing 
 piece of driftwood of her own inner storm. Imme-
 
 308 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 diately Clancy bent over her in tenderness. "I m 
 sorry, Esther." Straightening his cravat he smiled 
 as if she were a charming fury. "I love you like 
 that. It s the best thing about you . . . nothing 
 half-way." 
 
 Her eyes were haggard and hollow as she raised 
 her head. She gazed at him in a vain endeavor for 
 utterance. When finally her words came they 
 matched in tone the ghostly horror of her face. 
 "Go. Never speak to me again . . . never come 
 near me again. . . or there ll be an end to us 
 both."
 
 BOOK V 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER
 
 "... That unaccountable passion, of all things the most mys 
 terious, the most terrible and the most divine, whereby bodies and 
 souls are drawn to one another in defiance of all other affinities, 
 be they interests or occupations or convictions, by an impulse so 
 profound that it seems to have its source beyond the portals of life, 
 so imperative that it overrides every other tie, so instinctive that 
 it sweeps Reason like dust before its onset." LOWES DICKINSON.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 WHEN Esther first returned to the loom, it was 
 solely because she had to earn a living; but as she 
 toiled day after day the solace of her necessity was 
 a new-found pleasure in the handiwork. Her imag 
 ination brightened as her fingers touched seductive 
 surfaces of strands of silk dyed by her for hangings 
 in the making. Exquisite colors and fine fabrics 
 were for Esther neighbors to music and poetry. 
 With slow precision and loving care she wove the 
 gorgeous-hued woof, her thoughts intermingled with 
 fancies concerning the far-away woman whose gar 
 ment the silk once had been. In play Esther recon 
 structed the life of that stranger. She wondered 
 how she spoke, what she said, how her existence 
 was passed, and if her happiness were without bounds. 
 The weaver christened the intense purple thread 
 "Esther Damon," because once her own desire had 
 been to wear similar stuffs. After all her office was 
 merely to create objects of beauty for others. 
 
 Once in a rushing recollection of the transient 
 phase of her innocent little vanities and of the scene 
 of their existence, the purple thread deepened into 
 black. Esther rested her head on the loom and 
 gave way to sobs. Could she have altered her life 
 she asked herself. No, her reason answered, she 
 
 3"
 
 3 i2 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 could no more have altered her course of conduct 
 than the strand of silk could resist the hand of the 
 dyer; or the purple thread withstand the quick toss 
 of her shuttle. Her weakness, her strength, were 
 the woof pitched back and forth in the loom of her 
 life. 
 
 When she resumed weaving, her eyes rested 
 blankly on the window. She saw Orme pass from 
 the buildings of the Republic, down through the 
 forests of blooming orchards, up to the crown of the 
 Hill of Difficulty. There was a slow return. Again 
 he went. Again he doggedly repeated his course. 
 While Esther watched him, her sense of sorrow for 
 herself was transformed into pity for Robert. She 
 became conscious of his danger. With reluctance 
 her hands beat down the woof. Her shuttle moved 
 no more. Her loom was motionless. The man be 
 fore her who feared nothing was afraid of himself. 
 He still knew the throb, the fever of the old vice. 
 He was torn by invisible, destructive forces. She 
 recalled with what complete devotion his broad 
 shoulders had offered themselves for her burden. 
 She seemed alien to her friend since he withheld 
 from her his own unhappiness. Above all things 
 she desired him to know that he might count on 
 equal loyalty from her. 
 
 With bared head, her long black shawl falling 
 from her shoulders, Esther went slowly through the 
 beguiling, spring twilight. The thought, the emo 
 tion, the discipline of the years had informed both her 
 outer and her inner life. As she moved among the
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 313 
 
 pinkening blossoms, as she waited for Orme at the 
 foot of the hill, she showed rare perfected beauty. 
 When he looked at her he would have prolonged 
 the moment into eternity. He tried to speak fra 
 ternally, "I m so glad you re better, Esther. I knew 
 you d take hold of yourself. No matter how high 
 my belief in you is, you always justify it." 
 
 She saw that he was talking rapidly in order to 
 prevent her noticing his own restless eyes and 
 shaking hands. Once Orme had thrown a strong 
 revealing light on the violence of these convulsions 
 of temptation; but this was the first time she had 
 seen them in their throes. Though he manfully 
 tried to conceal his agitation, Esther perceived the 
 certainty of defeat that had so pathetically marked 
 him the day long before when they met at the 
 tavern. The sight of him floundering in uncer 
 tainty transmuted her own weakness into strength. 
 With a look of concern she answered, "But you, 
 Robert, . . . you are not better." 
 
 "Never was better in my life," he said, lightly. 
 She felt that she had endeavored to open a stranger s 
 gate and it had slammed in her face. "So Aunty 
 Brewster returns from the Exposition to-morrow," 
 he went on. "Won t it be amusing to hear her?" 
 
 Esther would not be deflected into irrelevance. 
 "Why didn t you come to me?" she asked quietly. 
 "You are always helping me. Won t you let me 
 be to you a little of what you were to me? Show 
 me I can be your friend by telling me all ... 
 everything you endure. I want to remain with
 
 314 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 you until your struggle is over. I can give as you 
 have given. Put me to the test, Robert ... try 
 me." 
 
 Her hand touched his in a pledge of allegiance. 
 Unrebuked he placed her fingers underneath his 
 arm. He and she walked on in peace, unconscious 
 of the sounds coming from a camp-meeting in the 
 forest near the lake. "This is all I ask," he finally 
 said. But neither his voice nor her ears had ever 
 known such tender cadence. 
 
 "Why didn t you come to me, Robert?" 
 
 "I couldn t. You were alone. I should only 
 have injured you." 
 
 That there was one person who would still pro 
 tect her, renewed Esther s gratitude; yet she re 
 sponded bitterly, "What do I matter?" 
 
 His answer was a look that vibrated new mean 
 ing. Then breathless and in silence, together they 
 mounted the steep sides of the Hill of Difficulty. As 
 they zigzagged across its face, in a pause during 
 which she looked back to see how far they had come, 
 she said, "It s very hard, isn t it, Robert?" 
 
 His eyes ranged over the tree tops, pinkish amber 
 with sunset, before he quietly answered, "Very 
 hard, . . . but it s life." Changing his tone he 
 subjoined, "It s the first time you ever climbed to 
 my hill-top, isn t it?" 
 
 "The very first." 
 
 When they had rested for a second he suggested, 
 "Let s go on. It is beautiful up there. We can 
 almost touch the clouds with our hands."
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 315 
 
 Again she took his arm, and while they ascended 
 to the summit his hand clung to hers as to some 
 thing with the saving power of redemption. To 
 them looking down from its crest the hill seemed a 
 gigantic bouquet on the highest spray of which they 
 perched. No further word passed between them 
 until they were seated on the green velvety cushion 
 of grass under a tree stricken to the ground, but 
 with one root in the earth, and like a tenacious old 
 beauty still resolute to bloom. Then Orme turned 
 to Esther his glance dazzling with the wonderful 
 message, "It was easy to make that hard climb with 
 you. ..." The words so long clamoring at his 
 lips for utterance came, "If it might always be with 
 you." 
 
 For Esther it was as if a great new planet sud 
 denly shone on her, and unable to receive its bright 
 ness, she closed her eyes. "Some things can t be, 
 Robert." With her son no longer alive to screen 
 from her the truth, she realized that, after remaining 
 long in hiding, her love had come into the light. 
 It surrounded her on every side. Even from the 
 chamber of the dead came memories of Orme s 
 voice, Orme s touch, which lived again. She did 
 not stand off from reality. She was alive once more 
 to her finger tips. Now she knew that death, like 
 everything else, had united Robert and her, had 
 flung them together on the edge of a flower-smothered 
 precipice. "Don t say any more, Robert, please," 
 she entreated. 
 
 But circumstances had so shaped themselves that
 
 3 i6 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Orme s upbuilded will snapped like the dry branch 
 he was nervously breaking. He was swayed by a 
 mad master. "Why not, Esther? Who has a right 
 to stand between us?" 
 
 "Don t!" she piteously appealed, but he was not 
 to be subdued by a word. 
 
 "Let s break from it all. You saw just now 
 what you do for me, Esther. Your touch, even your 
 word saves me. You and I are on the same journey 
 to the same port happiness. . . . Let s find it 
 together." 
 
 The truth of his words throbbed between them. 
 The greatest peril of the man and woman was their 
 sense of interwoven fate. Deep voices admonished 
 that they were confronted with danger from which 
 they should flee, but the sweetness of the moment 
 sapped Esther s strength and she could scarce 
 whisper, "No, Robert. . . . Don t speak." 
 
 Beneath his very eyes she was thinking, living rap 
 idly. With exultation he saw that a change was tak 
 ing place in her being. "I must . . . I tried to resist 
 what I m saying, Esther, but every day showed me 
 I wasn t living. Neither of us is. We are buried 
 up to our shoulders with only our minds free. We 
 abandon nothing. The world isn t limited to this 
 village. There are places where you ll learn to 
 smile." Both her hands were in his as he bent over 
 her bowed head. "Tell me, Esther . . . you can t 
 live without me ... I can t live without you." 
 
 Suddenly she threw her head backward like one 
 about to swoon. "I need your love, Robert ... I
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 317 
 
 need love, love, love. I m famished, for love and 
 happiness, . . . but it can t be. I want to love you 
 with purity and sublimity no one else ever knew. 
 Our love must be different from others as a rainbow 
 is from a gray sky. ... If it can t be like that, I 
 don t wish to love you at all." 
 
 He did not know it, but she feared the wrath of 
 God which she felt had always followed her in love. 
 
 "That s the way it is, Esther . . . different from 
 the others as the rainbow from the gray sky. We ll 
 go away from here. We ll forget sorrow. We ll lose 
 ourselves in some beautiful solitude. Our entire 
 existence will be love." 
 
 It seemed to Esther that every emotion she had 
 felt was gathered in her heart. Her lips flowered 
 in a smile. Her countenance was transfigured by a 
 fresh illusion of happiness. "Do you really think 
 so? Is it true? Will it always be true! . . . Tell 
 me again." 
 
 "Always. I d rather feel your pity than possess 
 the love of all the women in the world. I ve no 
 life but in you. It has been true from the begin 
 ning of time. ... It will always be true." 
 
 "And I must tell you," she replied rapidly, "I ve 
 always belonged to you ever since we spoke by the 
 lake. . . . Perhaps even earlier it began. I couldn t 
 have existed without you. All I see or know or feel 
 is you, Robert. My life wouldn t have been worth 
 living if it hadn t been for you. I can t live without 
 you." Her head drooped, as though her words were 
 Stirling her. "I ve denied my love ... I closed 
 my eyes to it like a coward, but I ve put it behind
 
 3i8 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 me for the last time. It must be good. ... I feel 
 reborn, pure, raised from the dead. Oh, my love, 
 my life isn t worth very much, . . . what there is of 
 it is yours." Her lips pressed his hand, his coat, 
 his mouth. "This is the first time I ever kissed 
 any one," she said. 
 
 Conscious only of their supreme moment, they 
 clung together as if it must be cherished, prolonged, 
 as if it contained their whole existence. "I ve 
 ceased to live in the flesh," she whispered. "I am 
 spirit that knows nothing but you." As she shivered 
 in his arms, her lips white as the petals on the 
 ground, her soul seemed to become her body and 
 her body her soul. "You must always be near me, 
 Robert," she said in sudden terror. 
 
 He whispered in her ear all the sweet forbidden 
 story of his love until she was smothered by its beauty; 
 until both were intoxicated by it and each other; by 
 the musky air; the witchery of twilight; by the 
 countless blossoms turning their lips toward them. 
 There was sublime delight in surrendering to the 
 storm of their love; in being tossed by its billows 
 to mountainous heights, even if in the end they 
 should be lost in its depths, or find death on its 
 rocks. 
 
 Suddenly Esther became aware that for some time 
 she had been dimly conscious of shouts from the 
 forest below. Following the sound with her eyes, 
 she saw lights flaring in the trees. "Who is it, 
 Robert, down there?" she asked. He offered no 
 explanation, but there floated upward the echoes of 
 song. "Why it s a camp-meeting!" she exclaimed.
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 319 
 
 Orme, his glance meditative, joyless, watched her 
 as he deliberately put the test, "Yes, it s a Metho 
 dist camp-meeting." 
 
 There came the voice of prayer, and the moving, 
 loving force of a hymn. Esther s mind took a back 
 ward flight. The voice of prayer and the hymn 
 invoked the image of parents and home. Robert s 
 eyes rested on her in alarm. For him there was 
 omen in the falling blossoms, in the gathering 
 clouds, in her gesture, which seemed to alter the 
 meaning of their relation. It was as if evil entered 
 their embrace, when Esther realized that below 
 in the forest were men and women seeking selfless 
 ness, men and women seeking a heroic reason for 
 living. The girl companioned them in their strug 
 gle. Once she, too, had dreamed of a life of self- 
 sacrifice. With shamed eyes she demanded of her 
 self what had become of her new morality, her new 
 purity, her new faith ? Where was her lost dignity ? 
 What in her was undefiled? To what could she 
 hold fast? Then she showed on what anvil the 
 iron of her will had been shaped. She withdrew 
 from Robert s arms. 
 
 Orme, watching the mobile face he so well knew, 
 saw the fabric of his happiness collapse through the 
 crystallization of her strength. Insight came to 
 Esther from some dominating power within, greater 
 than herself, which saw what she could not see, knew 
 what she could not know, made of her intended 
 course a moral impossibility, told her that all was 
 to end. Temptation was no more temptation. Some 
 thing in her did not respond. She was no longer a
 
 320 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 collection of impulses. She had become the kind 
 of woman she was to be. 
 
 "Robert," she began, but her voice broke. 
 "Robert ... I lived for you. ... I wanted to be 
 perfect for you. I love you, ... I can t debase 
 our love. What are we if we aren t strong enough 
 to give up ourselves for each other ? . . . How often 
 you ve told me to renounce." 
 
 As he saw the flowering of the seed dropped by 
 him Orme went from his best to his worst. His 
 words turned traitors. His logic became the ser 
 vant of his love. He repudiated all which had once 
 lain nearest to him. "What are philosophy and 
 wisdom, Esther? Ashes. . . . Not worth an hour 
 of life. We shouldn t strain and distort nature in 
 a struggle after the ideal. We weren t intended to 
 give up so much. . . . Who cares if we renounce? 
 I ve denied myself until I feel like a monk in a 
 cramped cell, eyes on the ground, avoiding tempta 
 tion. I ve done with it all. I want to stretch out 
 my body and see the stars." In amazement she 
 looked at him as he flung his head backward in 
 the attitude of wanton, rebellious youth. His voice 
 suddenly softened as he continued, "And you, my 
 poor, dear Esther, you ve had a life of suffering. 
 What has the world for you alone? Sneers, scoffs, 
 hatred. Will it help either of us? Of course not. 
 Separated, we are merely living obituaries. Let s 
 not lose our chance of being together. We ve both 
 gone to the bottom. We know everything. We 
 belong together, Esther . . . you and I." 
 
 Orme was confronted by a piteously wounded,
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 321 
 
 startled face. "Is this you, Robert? . . . Why, 
 you showed me such fine things . . . you don t 
 mean this, do you?" she pleaded pathetically. 
 "Don t mean it, Robert. . . . Let me adore you." 
 She pressed his hands against her eyes, and after a 
 choked pause continued, "We can t have each other. 
 ... I don t expect kindness from the world. I 
 can t alter its opinions. It will always be the same 
 for me. I know I ve squandered the right to live 
 as others live . . . only I don t want to do any more 
 harm. ... I want to save the good in you." 
 
 "You re all the good in me, Esther." 
 
 "No, no, Robert, . . . I m afraid I m the evil, 
 but I love you. Your future is more than mine. . . . 
 If I m not your friend, my love is worse than hate. 
 I can t take your life in my hands and crush it." 
 
 "You ll make my life, Esther. You can do any 
 thing with it you wish." 
 
 "What can I do for you, Robert, in comparison 
 with what you can do for yourself? You told me 
 that. Everything I know comes from you. I was 
 a mere dwarf when we met, but ... I try to re 
 member what you said. What can we do for our 
 selves if our souls accept a bribe? If we degrade 
 our love it will die. ... It must live. That will be 
 existence enough for me. Robert . . . we re living 
 not only for now, but for other days." 
 
 "Other days!" Orme burst forth with a violence 
 she had never seen in him. "What do I care about 
 them? I m living for this minute. Esther, that is 
 the only way ... to live with every fibre of our
 
 322 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 beings, even with pain, but always with intensity." 
 His reasoning became entirely passional as he pro 
 ceeded, "There is no absolute right or wrong. 
 Every right has been questioned, so has every wrong. 
 We ll make our own morality." 
 
 She touched his hair, looked into his eyes and 
 shook her head. "Right for us must be right for 
 every one. I d gladly give you my life ... if you 
 could take it without destroying yours. . . . You 
 can t, Robert. You mean so much to others. Think 
 of how the citizens believe in you. The world is 
 beginning to notice the Republic. It has just been 
 founded, but its influence will go far. What if at 
 the beginning . . . the chief fails ? Be brave." 
 
 "What does it matter what I am or what I do, if I 
 can t have you? You are success, happiness, glory. 
 All I can do is yours, Esther. I want to lose every 
 thing for you ... I give everything to you." 
 
 "You can give me nothing, Robert . . . you can 
 only destroy yourself." 
 
 Suddenly gathering her in his arms, he pleaded, 
 "Don t take your love from me, Esther. Don t 
 strike it dead. I need it desperately." 
 
 Once again the sounds came from below. She 
 released herself and sat gazing at the forest. With 
 out looking at Orme she murmured as if to herself, 
 "What can our love ever be but an ideal? It s too 
 beautiful to be experienced. There must be some 
 other world than this for our love, but we ll always 
 have all there is eternal in it." 
 
 With her words were born Orme s regret that long
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 323 
 
 before, while it was easily within his power, he had 
 not laid in ruins her failing faith. It was on his 
 lips to tell her that there was no eternity save that 
 shared by the earth; the belief of those ignorant 
 people shouting in the woods was fit for the simple- 
 minded alone. Yet he could not bring himself to 
 violate the devotion which had sustained her; and 
 so he said, "But if there is no other world, dear. . . . 
 Are you still willing to risk it?" 
 
 She moved a little away from him, "Yes, . . . 
 even if we never meet again we shan t be separated. 
 We ll be together more than if we saw each other 
 daily. In the silence we ll know each belongs to 
 the other until the end. . . . What more is there 
 in life? Isn t that knowledge the only thing worth 
 having?" 
 
 "I love you, Esther," was his only defence. 
 
 "Wherever I am, Robert . . . wherever you are 
 . . . you ll always be with me." 
 
 But she spoke as if she were existing alone on the 
 highest and most barren peak of life. Orme groped 
 toward her, blinded with anguish. "Esther your 
 face seems veiled. I don t see you. It isn t dark 
 . . . but it s darkness to me. Have you gone?" 
 
 "No, I m here," she said, kneeling beside him, 
 encircling his shoulders with her arm. 
 
 "I ve had only a moment of you and happiness, 
 Esther. . . . Now you re both going away." 
 
 She held her face close to his. "No, I ll be 
 always with you. . . . There ll never be a shadow 
 or tear in our hearts . . . only happiness. Don t
 
 324 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 you recall how those books you used to read from 
 said that the slightest sound in space has no end?" 
 
 "Yes, Esther." 
 
 "Our words of love to-night will reverberate for 
 ever. . . . They ll go side by side through eternity 
 together." 
 
 For a moment she crouched in his embrace, 
 listened to his mad endearments; then she took him 
 in her arms, pressed her lips to his forehead, his 
 cheeks. When she touched his misty eyes he cried 
 out, "You re doing this because you ve already left 
 me, Esther." She pressed and clung to him con 
 vulsively, and his will was blown about by his 
 strongest desire. "Esther, you wanted me to test 
 you ... to prove you. I will. . . . Come to hell 
 with me. I m ready for any crime for you or with 
 you. Your love isn t love unless you are." 
 
 Beautiful with terror she looked at him. Her 
 face fell forward and rested on his knees. Orme 
 felt the throbbing of her heart, as though it were 
 naked. Between sobs she answered, "Don t doubt 
 my love, Robert. You can t, but if you do . . ." 
 In her gaze he saw stir the depths of her terrible 
 temperament. " To prove myself . . . I ll go to hell 
 with you." 
 
 His mind was too keen not to be accompanied by 
 fine lucidity of conscience. He recognized the base 
 ness of the test he had imposed. His own un worthi 
 ness laid hold of him. "I do believe you love me, 
 Esther ... I want you to be wholly happy, without 
 a regret. Forgive me for being such a brute."
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 325 
 
 With a kind of awe he followed her movement to 
 her feet. " Robert, don t speak of forgiveness. 
 There can be nothing for me to forgive you. Think 
 of what you did for the poor wreck I was. You 
 gave me my words and strength to renounce. You 
 gave me your soul. After that ... I can t drag 
 you down!" 
 
 Orme saw in Esther the finest expression of his 
 own, lame spirit. "No, dear, you gave me yours. 
 ... If we were together you would take me higher 
 and higher." 
 
 "No, lower and lower, Robert . . . and all your 
 struggles would be useless. I d destroy the belief 
 of every one in you." 
 
 "I don t care for their belief." 
 
 "You mustn t mind if I say it is very dear to you. 
 I want to stand aside and see it grow. Everything 
 and every one will come to you." There was en 
 treaty in her tone as she continued, "Robert, you ll 
 be kind to yourself and . . . me. You ll not break 
 down. You ll be strong." 
 
 He looked away from her. The old fear she had 
 noticed when they had met earlier in the evening 
 was in his voice. "You take from me all my strength 
 . . . then you ask me to be strong." 
 
 "Robert, ... I can live here only with you. 
 then I ask you to be strong." 
 
 Gazing straight into her eyes he answered, "I ll 
 try. I ll be the best I can if you expect it." Already 
 in imagination he figured her as shut away from 
 him by a barrier. "But what shall you do, Esther?
 
 326 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Won t you live where you are ? If you wish it ... 
 we ll never speak; but remain near me." 
 
 "Robert, . . . I can live here only with you." . . . 
 There s nothing for me but leaving. The roots of 
 sin go deep ... I know what it will be to destroy 
 them. Here with you always present, I can never 
 do it. Reminders must be avoided. I can t live 
 in Freedom." 
 
 His glance swept over the earth. " Where shall 
 you go?" 
 
 "Home to ask forgiveness of my father and 
 mother. Perhaps they will let me live with them 
 in Attica." 
 
 "Attica! Oh, you poor, dear, foolish girl. You 
 can t endure that life. When you were a child you 
 were always in rebellion. Now you ve been free you 
 can t go back to it." 
 
 "I don t want liberty, ... I want peace." 
 
 "But Attica is a new martyrdom, Esther. Don t 
 go. I can t bear the thought of it for you." 
 
 "You forget, Robert," she returned, with a sad, 
 weary smile, "I ve been up here on the Hill of 
 Difficulty with you . . . among the lions that try 
 men s souls. . . . I m not afraid of martyrdoms." 
 
 One more moment they lingered face to face. In 
 the presence of Esther s endurance, a bravery re 
 vived in Orme. "Do you wish me to go now, 
 Esther?" he whispered. 
 
 As he asked the question a new, complete power 
 of surrender rose in the girl, no strength remained 
 her save for an inclination of the head. Bereft as
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 327 
 
 she was of the self-command to dismiss him, the 
 difficulty of departure was reserved for Orme. 
 Now she feared his touch, his last entreaty. But 
 his tenderness for the weak showed itself. Mute 
 and motionless, he perceived her vacillation; yet he 
 uttered no syllable to urge an overthrow of her 
 decision, nor a descent from her chosen high place 
 of renunciation. In the end, when Robert turned 
 away it was as if he died a little in the act. 
 
 She watched him lurch down the hill, and then 
 she covered her eyes with her shawl.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 SHE had conquered her life. She had gained free 
 dom through renunciation. But had she? What 
 ever should prove the value of her achievement, 
 with such violent effort had it been effected that 
 now, as Esther leaned against the tree broken and 
 bankrupt, her face thin, pinched with the ravages 
 of travail only the piteous empty shell of her re 
 mained and this at a touch might be crushed. Lov 
 ing and living in the light, she had been suddenly 
 stricken blind. She found herself in great fear, 
 peering into the darkness, wondering if this dark 
 ness would last forever. She roused herself with the 
 recollection of her promise to Orme that their love 
 should be succeeded by something purer, braver, 
 higher. Her one poor tatter of strength lay in her 
 vow not to hinder him on his upward path. So in 
 silence she stood, and made no sign for him to return. 
 
 Separated from Orme, Esther was still related to 
 him. The air quivered with the color of love. He 
 was there beside her. His face was close to hers. 
 His words murmured in her ears. She clung to 
 him. Held by his memory, she lingered until the 
 voices ascending once more from the forest, quick 
 ened her realization that it was late and that Attica 
 was eight miles distant. With the deepening dusk 
 
 3*8
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 329 
 
 came the thought that in Attica doors would open, 
 but Robert would never enter them. Voices would 
 sound, but his would never be present to soften 
 strange harshnesses. Probing eyes would meet hers, 
 but his gentle glance she should never see. The 
 intervening blooming hills, the singing brooks, the 
 smiling fields were a flat, gray waste. But yonder 
 lay her world. 
 
 With shawl falling from her right arm, she hurried 
 down the hill, across the orchard, as if passing from 
 one strange dream to another yet more strange. 
 Attica was the sole beckoning haven, and that, to 
 her, was distant as another continent. She had no 
 idea of the time her journey would take, but it 
 did not matter. Nothing mattered. In the future, 
 the sun would rise without a reason why. Absorbed, 
 unconscious, she walked on, without fear, under the 
 glittering stars. When she reached the dusty high 
 way leading past the forest and lake, but untravelled 
 by her in long eventful months, she moved with slow, 
 reluctant feet. This was the road she had pro 
 scribed. The memory of the oft-traversed, disas 
 trous thoroughfare caused her to shudder. 
 
 Soon Esther neared the tented forest resonant with 
 the shouts of campers old familiar sounds of her 
 childhood. She stopped to listen. She would hear 
 these in Attica. The wonderful, moving rhythm 
 of the hymn," Rescue the Perishing" reverberated 
 through the trees and recalled the day in church 
 her mother had thrust a hymn-book in her hand. 
 Oh! to be singing with the worshippers those words
 
 330 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 in the old days so threadbare and lifeless, but now 
 bearing a splendid, living message! Not since be 
 coming an outcast had she sung, and Esther believed 
 that if only she could sing she should not weep. 
 
 "Rescue the Perishing" who better than she 
 knew what it was to perish? Everything mortal 
 touched by her had perished. Was there rescue for 
 such as she? As she listened to the hackneyed 
 syllables there played like lightning over her dark 
 ened soul the flash of the child-like, unquestioning, 
 mighty, soul-saving faith of the Methodist church. 
 Once more she felt the spell of old associations. 
 Under their guidance she followed the wagon-road 
 leading into the wood. Unknowing, she passed over 
 the spot where she had yielded to the flood of her 
 first love, where she had known its despair, where 
 Robert had found her and had begun the cure of 
 her soul. 
 
 The forest was filled with the crunching horses of 
 campers who had come from neighboring counties. 
 Through these she made her way until at last she 
 saw the outer circle of the encampment surrounding 
 the great, illuminated white tent from which issued 
 words of praise. For two years she had not been 
 in a church. Now the presence of so many people 
 worshipping God among the trees inspired her with 
 awe. The intonation of prayer frightened her. She 
 would have retreated, but there lived in her the sense 
 that she was perishing, and that, to live, she must 
 come face to face with the Infinite. She needed no 
 human heroes. She was beyond human help. Her
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 331 
 
 anguished heart and soul could not now find in 
 the Stoics what Orme had found there. Only per 
 sonal relation with the great heavenly Father of the 
 old faith could bring peace to her soul. Terrified 
 by even the melancholy hoot of an owl she dared 
 go no farther until she kneeled down upon some 
 branches and tried to pray. The words remained 
 inarticulate upon her lips. A mighty power seemed 
 to mock her. 
 
 Weary and agitated she rose and proceeded toward 
 the large tent which seemed lighted with flame. 
 All the worshippers were within. She was so close 
 to the canvas that she touched it. Through an 
 aperture she observed a throng of familiar faces seen 
 by her since a child at camp-meetings. Brother 
 Simpkins was on his feet saying, "Dear sinner 
 friends, pray. Jesus is trying to save you. He came 
 to call sinners, not the righteous, to repentance. It 
 don t matter whether your prayers are fixed up in 
 grammatical style or not. Pray!" 
 
 Only the phrase "dear sinner friends" remained 
 with Esther. How few had been her friends, how 
 few had not sought her destruction. She so longed 
 to lay her head on the bosom of a friend that the 
 ignorant, simple-hearted old man seemed the very 
 angel of the Lord. Could these people make a 
 friend of her ? Esther moved toward the side of the 
 tent, crawled under the rope supporting it, and her 
 face framed in her shawl, she crept out into the open. 
 Her dread was that all would stare at her as on that 
 last day in her father s church.
 
 332 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 Brother Simpkins looked as if he had seen an 
 apparition ; but, on account of the confusion and en 
 thusiasm of devotion, her presence was not immedi 
 ately noticed. Seated on the platform which served 
 as a pulpit were the ministers of Elder Damon s con 
 ference. Esther was glad her father was not among 
 them, but she read in his absence a resolution not 
 to touch the skirts of Freedom. She stood for a 
 second before she ventured to place herself on the 
 last bench protruding from the tent. Here she was 
 alone. During the exhortation, Esther detected 
 covert glances cast in her direction, and the pain 
 resulting penetrated even her spiritual distress. 
 
 The speaker was a young minister unknown to 
 Esther; Elder Shackelford, of Cleveland. He had 
 the Roman features, the glowing personality, the 
 intensity of voice and manner so often in the old 
 days found among Methodist ministers. After song 
 and prayer he announced his text: "He that con- 
 verteth a sinner from the error of his ways shall save 
 a soul from death and cover a multitude of sins." 
 During his discourse the preacher urged, " Conquer 
 through Jesus, my young friends. Conquer through 
 Him who with spears piercing His sides, nails tear 
 ing His flesh died loving you and me not only you, 
 the spotless, the righteous, the born saved, but you 
 poor, weak, black-hearted sinner. It s you who need 
 Him." 
 
 The minister had much native, uncultivated 
 ability. His earnest, appealing manner warmed and 
 illumined his words. To Esther it seemed that
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 333 
 
 Elder Shackelford, rising on his toes as he made a 
 sharp motion with his index finger, pointed directly 
 at her. This impression did not lift as he proceeded, 
 Let not life nor death, nor things present, nor 
 things to come, nor any creature separate you; 
 you " With quick gestures the speaker pointed 
 to certain unregenerate young people, "from Christ 
 Jesus who lives in the heart of each of you. God 
 gave us the blessed Jesus. We should give ourselves 
 to Him." 
 
 Should she? Could one who had sinned so wo- 
 fully as she ? To Esther it seemed that long before 
 her soul had died, and this minute was shocked back 
 to life to see itself a withered, twisted, seared thing 
 in which survived only a deep longing to return to 
 God. In His love she was bathed. He knew the 
 truth of her wayward and unhappy. And though 
 she had put away her love for Robert, through the 
 lens of its intensely living spirit, for the first time, she 
 realized the boundless love of her Creator and the 
 selflessness of Him w r ho gave His life to teach men 
 how to live. Her finite love was so real a fragment 
 of the Infinite that there was no longer a chasm 
 between her and her Maker. God s mysteries were 
 mysteries no more. The faith never grasped, even 
 questioned, almost rejected by Esther, was now 
 entirely hers. 
 
 Elder Shackelford did not long exhort the young 
 people. He soon passed to the motive for his 
 presence at the camp-meeting. "My brethren and 
 sisters, you not only have a duty to yourselves, but
 
 334 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 to the entire fallen race. You are charged to carry 
 the healing gospel unto all the world. Jesus came 
 not only to save you in Freedom, but the poor people 
 in China, India, Africa. Don t shirk the difficul 
 ties, hardships and perils of those brave Christians 
 who consecrate their lives to the salvation of the 
 heathen over the sea." 
 
 The minister was not a great evangelist, but he 
 spoke at a crisis in Esther s life. She glowed to his 
 words. He described a post in the New Hebrides 
 so girt with danger to health and life that years 
 since it had been abandoned. "I ll tell you a 
 secret, young people," Elder Shackelford said, bend 
 ing forward and speaking in a whisper: "I wouldn t 
 admit it to many. I m ashamed to say it. I ve 
 been trying for years to find a Christian man or 
 woman so filled with the spirit of the Master as to 
 go out to this post in the New Hebrides. I can t. 
 Not one. Don t you blush for the Christian of to 
 day? What must Jesus think of us, the theological 
 descendants of John Wesley, who preached while 
 ignorant men stoned him? Aren t you ashamed to 
 call yourselves Christians ? You re cowards. What 
 is life here in comfort when there is the sacrificial 
 death of the missionary to be died?" 
 
 Elder Shackelford had an intimate, personal form 
 of address. He appealed to several of the children 
 of the clergy and of the conspicuously devout lay 
 men to offer themselves. But they, shamed of 
 countenance, shook their heads. Deep in the sweets 
 of youth they had no years to throw away. Esther,
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 335 
 
 meanwhile, sat nervously moistening her lips her 
 white, rigid hands clasped, her excited eyes half 
 closed. She leaned forward, listening in an ecstasy 
 of self-abandonment, repeating Brother Shackelford s 
 question, "What is life in comfort while there is the 
 sacrificial death of the missionary ? " The suggestion 
 passed into her blood. Agitation showed itself in 
 her swaying body. To put half the world between 
 Robert and her, and then to lend the faded, ragged 
 remnant of her days to whomsoever had need of 
 her what was nobler? 
 
 Elder Shackelford renewed his appeal. Esther 
 looked about anxiously, fearing there should be one 
 to wrest from her the opportunity for atonement. 
 Hymns were sung to stir courage, to incite the young 
 people to sacrifice. The girl sat, her face buried in 
 her hands, so shaken as to imagine her emotion had 
 passed into the spirit of those surrounding her, and 
 that all were burning to accept the Great Commission. 
 
 "No wonder the Holy Ghost don t come down on 
 these meetings," came the reproachful rich-toned 
 voice of Elder Shackelford. "No wonder your 
 hearts don t break up. You re thinking of your 
 comfortable homes, your crops, your money. Jesus s 
 is the only work neglected. Do you call yourselves 
 Christians when you refuse to be the first the very 
 first, to tell the great story? Think of what it 
 means to be the very first to tell the greatest story 
 of history." He looked about him with disgust, and 
 then said with severity, "Oh, you prefer grabbing 
 and grubbing to the work of Peter and Paul. Have
 
 336 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 you ever thought why they re such sublime figures? 
 Because they loved Jesus so much that they weren t 
 afraid of death." Elder Shackelford then sang a 
 stanza of the hymn "From Greenland s icy moun 
 tains to India s coral strands." After a dramatic 
 pause, with a sharp contrast of quietude, he said, 
 "For the last time, I ask, is there one willing to accept 
 this service?" 
 
 Esther rose unsteadily, her eyes overflowing with 
 tears. Now no mortal ties could withhold her from 
 the summons of her childhood religion. When its 
 seed had been implanted in her nature she could not 
 have said; but, in this moment, she realized that 
 when she had thought herself farthest removed 
 from her belief, then was she nearest. Her darkest 
 disobediences, her darkest despairs, her darkest sins 
 all had contributed to the growth of the faith 
 which now mastered and shook her. The girl 
 scarce knew her voice for her own as she said, "Here 
 I am. Will you take me? I ll go." 
 
 "God bless the sister! God bless the sister! 
 Amen! amen! Hallelujah! hallelujah!" the minister 
 shouted. Then he covered his face with a handker 
 chief, while he offered a silent prayer of gratitude. 
 A minute later he clapped his hands. Elder Shackel 
 ford was a stranger to this conference, and so no 
 unpleasant recollection was revived in his mind by 
 Esther s offer. "There s a soldier for the heavenly 
 camp a woman, too. Come right forward, Sister." 
 He stepped down from the pulpit, held out both 
 hands to greet the volunteer. "This is a glorious
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 337 
 
 beginning. Now, isn t there some one else? You 
 brothers won t let the sister go alone." 
 
 Elder Shackelford then sang the Doxology. Not 
 until he finished did he realize the community of 
 astonishment possessing the audience. Even the 
 most impassioned, demonstrative saints of the Lord 
 were voiceless, motionless. Only those on their 
 knees exhorting others still lost in the wilderness of 
 error, were unaware of the extraordinary occurrence 
 which hushed Brother and Sister Simpkins. Swept 
 down the aisle by a terrible ecstasy of self-immola 
 tion, Esther herself was not conscious of the prevail 
 ing amazement, nor of the presence of her father 
 and mother. Elder and Mrs. Damon, kneeling far 
 to the right, pleading with one unregenerate, had 
 not seen their daughter. The girl did not hear the 
 whispers of the sisters nor note the hurried confer 
 ence among the ministers. Her reason and mental 
 pride humbled, immersed in sweet spiritual peace, 
 she kneeled down in the straw covering the ground 
 before the altar a long, thick, rough plank. "Oh, 
 Jesus, teach me how to be like my mother," was all 
 she asked. 
 
 She did not realize that the young girls at her side 
 shrank from her. For them the woman who bathed 
 the feet of Jesus with her tears was a dim, Bib 
 lical figure. Their movement made an opening in 
 the throng of penitents seeking salvation. In this 
 space Esther remained, her head fallen limp to the 
 altar. 
 
 Sister Simpkins, apparently delegated to express
 
 338 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 the feminine sentiment of the evening, approached 
 Esther. "I m sorry, Esther," she whispered, "but 
 the sisters don t think it s just right for you to be 
 here amongst these young girls. You can go out 
 quietly . . . folks won t understand why." 
 
 Esther thought she had woven for herself a cover 
 ing of steel to shield her from the thrusts of the 
 world. But now its hard, firm surface was pierced, 
 and a new, tender sensibility beneath it quivered. 
 "I forgot, I forgot," she stammered, as she fixed the 
 sister with eyes in which were the depths of night, 
 "Perhaps you re right ... I shouldn t be here." 
 
 In a daze she looked about her. Though because 
 of its loss Esther valued innocence higher than did 
 her persecutors, she recognized the error as hers. 
 She had been too indelibly branded ever again to 
 be welcomed by her sex. She should have known 
 conventional decency was not her portion. These 
 unlettered folk, unmindful of the universal nature 
 of error, would have stoned her. They understood 
 only the small, tepid sins the sins of the bright 
 feather, of secret societies not the sins which cause 
 Heaven to shudder. Her bespotted life eclipsed their 
 vision, and when she wished to leave it there was 
 none to care for her soul. She had rejected tempta 
 tion, she reflected, but she had crucified and rejected 
 Jesus until she was undesired by the Infinite. She 
 could pray long and labor until her heart broke, 
 but she was not a chosen vessel of mercy. She 
 had wasted her life. Her soul and Heaven were 
 lost.
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 339 
 
 Blighted and dishonored, Esther rose, and passed 
 from the tent. But so wide a perturbation did she 
 make in her environment that all looked at the tall, 
 supple figure, the pallid cheeks, the staring, burning 
 eyes, as at a strange creature in a dream. For the 
 first time, many of those present beheld a scarlet 
 woman.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 IN her passage from the altar down the aisle 
 Elder Shackelford endeavored to speak with Esther ; 
 but, gazing straight ahead, she went on. Unless she 
 made haste she felt that something within her would 
 burst out into a horrible shriek. She had known 
 every vain hope, every treachery, every cruelty, and 
 her final rejection by the women of the church made 
 her feel again that the wrath of God had fallen 
 upon her. She had sinned until she was an unclean 
 thing. She had sinned the unforgivable sin. 
 
 Her spirit was in the lowest pit of despair as she 
 held her course away from the voices of prayer, from 
 the lights, into the darkness. She could see no path, 
 and she followed none. She longed to lose herself 
 in the forest like one of its leaves, to work out her 
 spiritual destiny. 
 
 The startled rabbits and squirrels fled at her ap 
 proach as if she were a huntress. Bewildered by 
 the falling stars, by the distant thunder, she stum 
 bled at times, but, mindless of her hands scratched 
 with brambles, she picked herself up. Once, unable 
 to move, she lay prostrate on the damp earth. She 
 had come to a place named Gethsemane. How 
 miserable was life when suffering such as that of 
 those in this Garden was permitted. But sud- 
 
 340
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 341 
 
 denly it came to her as an arrow straight from 
 the unerring bow of truth that the Divine One had 
 not driven her from Him. It was His blinded, mis 
 guided children. Their faith, petrified into a shell 
 of superstition, had estranged from their hearts the 
 gentleness, beauty and charity of their Master. 
 When Esther considered their poverty of intelligence 
 and of experience, pity welled up to her dumb 
 lips for those cramped, fettered people in the tent. 
 Such as they in their blindness persecuted even the 
 Son of Man. Those better than they slept while 
 their anguished Master prayed alone that last 
 night under the silver-green, gnarled, olive trees 
 in the Garden. 
 
 Esther saw Him now. Her ardent fancy rejected 
 traditional, insipid conceptions of Jesus. It wrought 
 its own image of Him. For her never was He so 
 sublime as when after His prayers, His struggles 
 with His human self, in supreme majesty, He rose 
 above His carnal nature at last the calm con 
 queror. She beheld Him turn to His derelict dis 
 ciples and heard Him cry aloud to them, " Sleep on!" 
 The realization of His magnificent victory, His 
 splendid emancipation from human limitations, made 
 Esther s breath come fast, lifted her to her feet as 
 she imagined the Man of Sorrows in His triumph 
 had risen. When she faced the tent, she too would 
 have cried, "Sleep on in your ignorance. I ll make 
 my peace not with you, but with my Maker." 
 
 In new strength she retraced her steps, deter 
 mined with all the youth in her blood this very
 
 342 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 hour to achieve the supreme faith. But, in time 
 gone, she had left so much of herself in the forest 
 that now its flaming image confronted her, im 
 portuned her, tempted her. When her courage 
 seemed at its flood she was caught in an undertow 
 which would have carried her backward. Her love 
 was not dead. It survived, greater than her faith. 
 It was the only undying, divine faith. Why should 
 she not follow it? Despite her fierce severance of 
 herself from her love she was still a woman. Did 
 not her highest womanhood lie in love? Why re 
 nounce it? It was so hard for Esther to die to the 
 old existence behind her. It was so hard to live to 
 the new existence before. In this crisis life was 
 one long temptation. With arrogant habit and in 
 tensity, dead vanities, dead sins renewed them 
 selves; entreated her not to desert them; admon 
 ished she could not live without their delight. 
 
 Feeling all against her, Esther could advance no 
 farther. So great was the torment of killing the 
 flesh that she fell upon her knees and held out her 
 hands; but God turned away His face. When she 
 endeavored to speak, her tongue clove to her jaws. 
 A cold hand choked back her words. Two lives, 
 one evil and the other righteous, grappled for do 
 minion of her consciousness. She thought herself 
 abandoned, dying. She feared to die without con 
 fessing her ill deeds. This agitated, tore her, bereft 
 her of her voice, until in abrupt screams there 
 rushed from her torrents of meaning in words dipped 
 in her own blood.
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 343 
 
 "Oh, Jesus, I m perishing. Save me. My mother 
 taught me to trust Thee, dear Jesus. I know I ve 
 been forgetful . . . I ve rebelled . . . I ve hard 
 ened my heart to Thee . . . I ve doubted Thee . . . 
 I ve provoked Thee to anger . . . I ve been evil, 
 blessed Jesus. I loved Thy creatures when I should 
 have loved Thee. I loved my faults. . . . My sins 
 seemed beautiful. I ve no right to expect Thy 
 favor, my Father, but Thou art the God of the 
 poor, the desperate, the broken-hearted. I m lost 
 . . . and Thou didst die for poor sinners like me." 
 
 She prayed as she had loved. All that was purest, 
 noblest in her life went into her plea. Rent by her 
 yearning she lifted her white, woful face to the 
 sky. The black, ominous cloud which obscured 
 the heavens was like a veil before her Father s coun 
 tenance a veil not to be pierced by her supplica 
 tions. Esther s heart was so swollen with prayer 
 that her pulses ached, but she went on lashing her 
 self with a scourge of words. "Forget my terrible 
 sins, blessed Jesus. Show me Thy face even if it 
 kills me. ... I shall die if I don t see Thee. If I 
 am not worthy to look at Thee, O Lord, punish me. 
 ... I know I have struck at Thee. . . . Strike at 
 me with all Thy power." 
 
 Pitching and tossing in the anguish of penitence, 
 Esther was unaware that those within the great tent 
 had heard her voice, and that she was surrounded 
 by a score of worshippers. Knowledge of this first 
 came to the girl when she felt the familiar touch of 
 her mother s hand on her head. Mrs. Damon was
 
 344 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 kneeling by her side. "It s I, your mother, . . . 
 dear Esther. Your father is here, too." The prayer 
 ful old eyes of the mother gazed into those of the 
 daughter. Patient, gnarled hands stroked the girl s 
 head. 
 
 While the sight of Esther in her penitence soft 
 ened Elder Damon, swept his heart clear of anger, 
 it left him bewildered. He was not yet wholly pre 
 pared to accept her redemption. He was still con 
 strained to withhold the parental blessing. He stood 
 in silence by the crushed prisoner of earth. Mrs. 
 Damon, on the other hand, had lived so long in her 
 own heart the highest spiritual truths of the Master, 
 that in this hour for which she had fasted and prayed 
 she enfolded her daughter in her embrace. "Jesus 
 will not spurn you, my child," her soft, quavering 
 tone comforted. "He promised to give to those who 
 asked. You shall not be driven from God s altar. 
 Let us go back to the mourner s bench together." 
 
 Mrs. Damon endeavored to lift the girl, but Esther 
 had no will to rise. Still prostrate, she poured her 
 soul out on her mother s bosom, "Oh, mother, for 
 give me, forgive me." 
 
 "Of course, of course," Mrs. Damon soothed. 
 
 For a moment the past seemed to drop away from 
 Esther. The stain was washed away from the soul. 
 Once more she was a happy child in her mother s 
 arms. But as she realized peace had not come, de 
 spair overwhelmed her. "God won t forgive me, 
 He has forsaken me," she moaned. "There isn t 
 any mercy. I m too wicked."
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 345 
 
 Mrs. Damon held her face close to that of Esther. 
 "No, no, my poor, dear lamb. No one is entirely 
 pure. . . . Even lilies grow in mire. Jesus loves 
 you. He is waiting to forgive. Didn t He promise 
 it in my vision? He endured the cross for you. 
 He ll give you rest. Kneel here beside me, dear. 
 We ll pray together." 
 
 Side by side they knelt, the mother s arm en 
 circling the waist of the daughter. Her lips burn 
 ing with divine love, again Esther sought the God 
 of her childhood. " Jesus, Jesus, merciful Jesus. 
 Come to me, dear Jesus. Show me Thy face or let 
 me die now." 
 
 The eyes of Mrs. Damon filled with light as she 
 supplicated, "Breathe on Esther, Holy Spirit. Let 
 the fires of God come down upon her. She s noth 
 ing without Thee." 
 
 "Amen, amen," intoned Elder Damon, for the 
 first time breaking the silence. 
 
 Even the trees and the night seemed to pray with 
 Esther. The far-away God came nearer. To all 
 witnesses it was as if He descended from heaven 
 to help the girl lift her cross. From the shadows 
 of the trees dusky figures approached closer and 
 closer, a kindly re-enforcement to the suppliant. 
 Esther Damon s words were as sparks. They en 
 kindled the listeners. The men and women knelt 
 and sang a hymn. To the confused mind of the 
 penitent these worshippers were a cloud of strength 
 ening angels. Once more she raised her distressful 
 countenance to the overcast heavens. In the strength
 
 346 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 of her terrible despair, she thought in flashes of fire. 
 Her words were no longer her words. "Help me, 
 Oh Father. Thou art all-powerful. . . . Purify me. 
 . . . Free me, blessed Jesus, and my hands shall toil 
 for Thee, my feet shall walk for Thee, my tongue 
 shall speak for Thee, at no matter what cost. The 
 rack. The stake. The poisoned arrow. Thy will 
 be done." 
 
 Suddenly the heavens were luminous with a light 
 brighter than light. Clearly outlined in the sky 
 was a cross of clouds. For the over-heated imagina 
 tions of Esther and of all these simple worshippers, 
 it was as if they stood in the very presence of the 
 Almighty. The girl liberated herself from her mother. 
 Flinging out her arms, she emitted a passionate cry of 
 redemption which rang through the glade like a 
 baptismal fire, "Oh, Jesus, I am no longer blind. 
 ... I have seen Thee. I feel the strength to save 
 the world." And indeed, in the crisis of revelation, 
 her unbound hair streaming over her shoulders like 
 a mantle of fire, she seemed a creature of miraculous 
 favor. She seemed pre-appointed to transport and 
 regenerate mankind. 
 
 After such visible manifestation of the power of 
 the Holy Spirit there came a moment of breathless 
 awe. Then ineffable songs of joy filled the air. 
 Through the medium of Esther Damon, whose sin 
 had been graven on their hearts with pen of iron 
 and point of diamond, the worshippers believed that 
 they had seen nature suspend its laws. They had 
 beheld the dream ladder leading to heaven.
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 347 
 
 Elder Damon choked with sobs as he realized 
 that in acceptance of service his erring child had 
 outrun him. He touched his daughter and said, 
 "You have the power to save the world ... if you 
 but believe it. Let us three go to the New Hebrides 
 together." Holding Esther by the hand he led the 
 shouting, singing, praying concourse of people back 
 to the deserted tent of worship. As he passed down 
 the aisle, in a thundering voice he cried, "I ve a mes 
 sage from God." It was bliss to Esther once more 
 to have the love and approval of her parents; but 
 she did not need their support. She walked in the 
 power of the spirit. 
 
 The worshippers were so stirred by this unexpected, 
 wondrous spectacle in lost, unregenerate Freedom 
 that all restraint was abandoned. Cries without 
 ceasing shook the quivering crowd. Their joy was 
 deeper over Esther s once despaired-of soul, this 
 moment freed from peril, than had there always been 
 hope for the girl or her danger less. For the first 
 time since the camp-meeting began, barriers to the 
 salvation of souls fell away like the walls of Jericho. 
 Melted, unified by the fire sweeping over their spirits, 
 men, women, and children were reduced into one 
 being, burning with the consuming love of God. 
 
 "The world is coming home to Jesus," cried 
 Brother Shackelford as old ministers burst into tears. 
 Preachers darted out into the crowd exhorting sin 
 ners to go to the altar. The sisters who had driven 
 Esther away in turn became suppliants for her for 
 giveness. They embraced her and fell upon their
 
 348 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 knees. Many of the unregenerate, unable to with 
 stand the hurricane of ecstatic fire laying low the 
 congregation, and determined to escape prayer, fled 
 toward the forest; but in the darkness under the 
 trees they gave way. Some cried aloud for mercy. 
 Others wept for joy. And loud wailing prayers for 
 sinners mounted to heaven. It was faith of the early 
 heroic days when the new belief stirred the world. 
 
 " Christ is a blessed Christ," cried Sister Simpkins, 
 as she went out into the darkness to seek the unre 
 generate. "Don t make your bed in hell. Hell is 
 trembling." 
 
 Brother Simpkins hurled his purse to the altar, 
 confessing at the top of his voice, "I ve cheated the 
 Lord. Jesus forgive me. All my idols have passed 
 away." Some of the unsaved women cast their 
 bracelets, their rings, into the straw. Others, in 
 vehement atonement, tore from their apparel feathers, 
 flowers, buckles, lace, fringe every symbol not in 
 His name. Bearing witness to the strengthening of 
 the weak and the deliverance of the tempted, cold, 
 dead souls were made alive to Jesus. The great 
 deep in hearts was broken by the infection of the 
 fierce Pentacostal spirit which passed over them, 
 bent them, mastered them until it was like faith gone 
 mad. 
 
 Now at the altar, Esther had ascended her Cal 
 vary. She stood as at the foot of the Cross, her extra 
 ordinary beauty of countenance reflecting the light 
 shining from her fervent spirit. Another form of 
 consciousness of which until the present moment she
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 349 
 
 had been unaware, possessed her. The Esther of 
 old had vanished. She was touched by no sorrow, 
 no stress. Her fall had been her leap. All this 
 travail had been necessary to bring her to God. 
 
 So great was her desire to adore that which can 
 never be gauged, named, or known that she bent her 
 knees in the straw. Like a fluid thing she melted in 
 prayer of thanksgiving that she was no longer a sol 
 itary being; that all other forms of realization had 
 passed; that she had found the Eternal, screened by 
 seeming reality ; that at last she was at one with all 
 purity, all truth, with Absolute love. 
 
 On vibrating wings, she seemed to be whirled up 
 ward, but in the culmination of her life so great was 
 her prostration of being that her head fell to the 
 earth. Where she sank, there she lay, outstretched, 
 in the straw.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 DURING the succeeding years, travellers, students, 
 dreamers all those rising to breathe the pure, high 
 air of a nobler development of civilization found 
 their way to the shy, retired village made known to 
 fame by Robert Orme s miniature Republic. Many 
 of the world s weary here long lingered, renewed their 
 spiritual forces, gathered momentum for life. They 
 were happy in the economic and social experiment, 
 despite their apprehension that it was but a brilliant 
 bubble on the illimitable gray surface of ignorance 
 one preappointed to lapse into the all-pervading ele 
 ment from which it rose. 
 
 But in misgivings for their beloved new order the 
 hundreds of loyal citizens of the Republic had no 
 share. They saw its boundaries widen until these 
 included the lake and forest and stretched far be 
 yond. Relieved of the brutal, mechanical monotony 
 which develops mere beasts of burden, the citizens 
 in their wholesome, rational lives, felt themselves to 
 be the men of the future. These dwellers in Utopia 
 did not believe that equality, brotherhood, and love 
 would be permanently submerged by injustice, plu 
 tocracy, and hatred. They held to their faith that 
 their numbers would grow until one day a great 
 army of super-men should surge through life, wipe 
 away every tear, right every wrong, and illumine the 
 
 350
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 351 
 
 sordid soul of their century with the spirit of true 
 democracy. Their leader gave so largely of his 
 own strength and love to his comrades that each man 
 forgot he reflected a great personality. He felt him 
 self to be Robert Orme. 
 
 Owing to Robert s refusal to modify his controlling 
 idea, the original purpose of the Republic was not 
 lost in the material prosperity against which it had 
 been founded in protest. The spirit of fraternity 
 prevailed because he asked of another no service 
 from which he himself shrank. There were neither 
 masters nor servants in the community. Each day 
 Orme continued to exact of himself the discipline of 
 manual labor, and so he learned thoroughly the 
 beautiful handicrafts which were the distinction of 
 the Republic. He was foremost, also, in constructing 
 the new buildings scattered throughout the orchard. 
 His spade broke the ground for the stone chapel 
 which crowned the Hill of Difficulty. He laid out the 
 walk winding round the hill thereto. He planted the 
 grapevines forming the arbor which shelters the path. 
 
 When the plodding villagers, blinking contentedly 
 as they trod their narrow furrows of life reluctantly, 
 as becomes representatives of conservatism and 
 solidity at length realized themselves to be living 
 in a rapidly growing village which hourly communi 
 cated with Ripon by public conveyance, they at 
 tributed their new prosperity to a belated recognition 
 of their own virtues. But when the post-office was 
 enlarged and they were obliged to double their pur 
 chase of merchandise to meet the requirements of 
 the Republic, judgment of Orme relaxed in rigidity.
 
 352 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 The philosophers of the Four Corners guessed maybe 
 the devil wasn t so black as he was painted. How 
 ever, only after most of them had passed away, did 
 a more modern and a kindlier generation see Robert 
 sufficiently in perspective to understand his purpose. 
 They shared his larger, newer vision. They co 
 operated in his work. Gradually most of the vil 
 lagers became either citizens of the Republic or were 
 dependent on its handicrafts. 
 
 Mrs. Brewster was the last of her contemporaries 
 to leave life. She survived even Alice Orme, who 
 died one winter after being for ten years the richest 
 and most respected woman in the village. She left 
 her fortune to foreign missions. Frequently on the 
 arm of Robert, Mrs. Brewster mounted to the chapel 
 on the Hill of Difficulty where she heard him speak 
 so well that her critical genius had only one regret; 
 he was not a Universalist minister. 
 
 Slowly it came over the valiant widow that with 
 each day drew near an universal, invincible foe. On 
 the occasion of Robert s last visit, sitting upright 
 in her rocking-chair, her arms crossed over a blue 
 checked apron, in a premonitory moment she re 
 marked with feeble voice that even the soldiers of 
 the Revolution had to die. When Orme bent over 
 her to utter an encouraging word she touched his 
 head for the last time and said, "You poor boy, 
 your face is kindo young, but your hair is as white 
 as mine. I ve lived most a hundred years, and I ve 
 had pie on the table every meal. Keep the flag 
 flying when I m gone." 
 
 After Mrs. Brewster s burial a curious and char-
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 353 
 
 acteristic testament revealed that she had bequeathed 
 her house and possessions to Esther Damon. When 
 this information stirred the silence and the peace 
 that had gathered over the ill-fated woman s disgrace, 
 her name was mentioned by the older inhabitants 
 with reverence accorded the supernatural. Among 
 the devout of Freedom it was believed that on the 
 night of her conversion she had had a vision of a world 
 veiled from mortals. Esther had never returned to 
 Freedom after she went to the new Hebrides with 
 her parents, and her coming was awaited with awe. 
 Determined that none of her substance should be 
 wasted on yellow foreigners, Mrs. Brewster had made 
 Esther s inheritance contingent upon her occupancy 
 of the house. Should she refuse to comply with the 
 terms of the bequest, so ran the words of the docu 
 ment, the said properties and moneys should be 
 given to Robert Orme. 
 
 For nearly a generation the house remained va 
 cant. Orme laid no claim to his legacy, and Esther 
 Damon still walked the way of the apostles. Follow 
 ing Mrs. Brewster s injunction, Robert renewed the 
 flag when it was faded, and each spring stirred the 
 loam at the roots of the hollyhocks, peonies, and 
 roses. 
 
 Nothing interrupted this routine until one tranquil 
 evening when the orchards were in bloom, by the last 
 stage from Ripon, there arrived a traveller in dusky 
 garments. A lame hostler still lounged before the 
 Ivy Green, and white-haired philosophers congregated 
 on the Four Corners; but to the new-comer all faces
 
 354 ESTHER DAMON 
 
 were unfamiliar. She looked about her like one who 
 missed what she sought. 
 
 Proceeding down the main thoroughfare, she saw 
 enlarged, altered houses and countenances with which 
 she was unacquainted. She encountered a group of 
 hatless, buxom, rosy maidens strolling arm in arm. 
 For an instant she forgot that in grim expiation 
 she had left her youth over the seas. She paused 
 and started to speak with the girls, only to find 
 them strangers. Their young minds were unawak- 
 ened to meanings in faces, but they stopped chat 
 tering to gaze after the phantom-like being whose 
 eyes were so like a flame, and the soul shining there 
 from of such exquisite fairness that the woman her 
 self seemed of a substance different from any known 
 to them. It was not for these thoughtless on-lookers 
 to realize the mysterious correspondence between 
 her and the place where she had lived and suffered. 
 Nor could they know that at every slow step the 
 stranger was confronted by a tragic, passionate image 
 of youth. With her progress the brave woman who 
 had sorrowed, served, and proved herself in supreme, 
 consecrated loyalty, wandered farther into an un 
 familiar country. 
 
 When she came to the gate of Mrs. Brewster she 
 looked in alarm at the new buildings erected in the 
 orchard. Had time left nothing unaltered? Yes, 
 the house before her. Here was one untransformed 
 friend to offer greeting. The flag was still flying 
 from the roof. The same blossoms saluted her in 
 radiant May beauty, called out to her to pluck them.
 
 LOVE AND SOMETHING GREATER 355 
 
 She herself was of the color of that white hyacinth 
 which to-morrow would die. She hastened up the 
 walk, tapped nervously at the door. There was no 
 response, and the meaning of the silence renewed 
 itself. For a moment she clung to the knob, but 
 soon she passed over the threshold. 
 
 At last the dear, homely sitting-room with its 
 quaint pictures, gleaming coal-stove, round table 
 covered with a red spread everything welcomed her. 
 When her glance fell upon the loom, she sprang for 
 ward, tenderly laid hands thereon as if it breathed 
 and had being. And for her had it not ? How often 
 had she communed with it. How often had it been 
 to her a solace and a deliverance. She sank into her 
 old familiar seat, and resting her thin, lovely, aging 
 face on her hands she recalled the afternoon she had 
 gone away. When she saw the purple thread, un- 
 dulled by time, a blur gathered over the loom, causing 
 it to appear distorted, as if viewed beneath water. 
 She raised her head to steady her vision. Before her 
 was an apple-tree, rugged and gnarled as an oak, 
 but joyous as the tenderest lily in its bloom, like unto 
 the white illusion bridal-veil of spring. 
 
 And yet this was not what she saw. Eager youth 
 once more in his eyes, Orme was moving toward her 
 through the orchard. Esther took up the shuttle 
 that had been so long in waiting.
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 GAYLORD 
 
 PRINTED TN U.S.
 
 A 000 589 281 5