3 1822 01101 8470
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO
 
 3 1822 01101 8470 
 
 US" 
 1103 
 
 THE LION AND 
 THE UNICORN
 
 fc 
 
 Instead . . . buried her face in its folds.
 
 THE LION AND 
 THE UNICORN 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 Howard Chandler Christy 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 NEW YORK::::::::::::::::: 1908
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1898, 1899, 1903, BV 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 MANY HOT DAYS AND SOME HOT CORNERS 
 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO 
 
 LIEUT.-COL. ARTHUR H. LEE, R.A. 
 
 BRITISH MILITARY ATTACHE WITH THE 
 UNITED STATES ARMY
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 ** In this volume are included " Cinderella,** " Miss Delamar's Under- 
 ttudy," "The Editor's Story," and "An Assisted Emigrant,** heretofore 
 published in the volume entitled " Cinderella and Other Stories.** 
 
 PACK 
 
 THE LION AND THE UNICORN i 
 
 CINDERELLA *^3 
 
 Miss DELAMAR'S UNDERSTUDY 95 
 
 ON THE FEVER SHIP 131 
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE TALENT 159 
 
 THE VAGRANT 199 
 
 THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER 241 
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY 253 
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT .281
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Instead . . . buried her face in its folds . . . Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 Consumed tea and thin slices ot bread . . . . . 12 
 
 . - 
 
 Saw her staring down at the tumult 54 
 
 "Listen," he said 148 
 
 " You are like a ring of gamblers around a gaming 
 
 table" 192 
 
 The young man stood staring up at the white figure or 
 
 the girl 236
 
 THE LION AND THE 
 UNICORN
 
 PRENTISS had a long lease on the house, 
 and because it stood in Jermyn Street the 
 upper floors were, as a matter of course, turned 
 into lodgings for single gentlemen; and because 
 Prentiss was a Florist to the Queen, he placed a 
 lion and unicorn over his flower-shop, just in front 
 of the middle window on the first floor. By stretch 
 ing a little, each of them could see into the win 
 dow just beyond him, and could hear all that was 
 said inside ; and such things as they saw and heard 
 during the reign of Captain Carrington, who 
 moved in at the same time they did! By day the 
 table in the centre of the room was covered with 
 maps, and the Captain sat with a box of pins, with 
 different-colored flags wrapped around them, and 
 amused himself by sticking them in the maps and 
 measuring the spaces in between, swearing mean 
 while to himself. It was a selfish amusement, but 
 it appeared to be the Captain's only intellectual 
 pursuit, for at night the maps were rolled up, and 
 a green cloth was spread across the table, and there 
 was much company and popping of soda-bottles, 
 
 3
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 and little heaps of gold and silver were moved this 
 way and that across the cloth. The smoke drifted 
 Dut of the open windows, and the laughter of the 
 Captain's guests rang out loudly in the empty 
 street, so that the policeman halted and raised his 
 eyes reprovingly to the lighted windows, and cab 
 men drew up beneath them and lay in wait, dozing 
 on their folded arms, for the Captain's guests to 
 depart. The Lion and the Unicorn were rather 
 ashamed of the scandal of it, and they were glad 
 when, one day, the Captain went away with his tin 
 boxes and gun-cases piled high on a four-wheeler. 
 Prentiss stood on the sidewalk and said, "I 
 wish you good luck, sir." And the Captain said, 
 "I'm coming back a Major, Prentiss." But he 
 never came back. And one day the Lion remem 
 bered the day very well, for on that same day the 
 newsboys ran up and down Jermyn Street shouting 
 out the news of "a 'orrible disaster" to the British 
 arms. It was then that a young lady came to the 
 door in a hansom, and Prentiss went out to meet 
 her and led her upstairs. They heard him un 
 lock the Captain's door and say, "This is his 
 room, miss," and after he had gone they watched 
 her standing quite still by the centre-table. She 
 stood there for a very long time looking slowly 
 about her, and then she took a photograph of the 
 Captain from the frame on the mantel and slipped 
 
 4
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 it into her pocket, and when she went out again 
 her veil was down, and she was crying. She must 
 have given Prentiss as much as a sovereign, for 
 he called her "Your ladyship," which he never did 
 under a sovereign. 
 
 And she drove off, and they never saw her again 
 either, nor could they hear the address she gave 
 the cabman. But it was somewhere up St. John's 
 Wood way. 
 
 After that the rooms were empty for some 
 months, and the Lion and the Unicorn were forced 
 to amuse themselves with the beautiful ladies and 
 smart-looking men who came to Prentiss to buy 
 flowers and "buttonholes," and the little round 
 baskets of strawberries, and even the peaches at 
 three shillings each, which looked so tempting as 
 they lay in the window, wrapped up in cotton-wool, 
 like jewels of great price. 
 
 Then Philip Carroll, the American gentleman, 
 came, and they heard Prentiss telling him that 
 those rooms had always let for five guineas a week, 
 which they knew was not true; but they also knew 
 that in the economy of nations there must always 
 be a higher price for the rich American, or else 
 why was he given that strange accent, except to 
 betray him into the hands of the London shop 
 keeper, and the London cabby? 
 
 The American walked to the window toward 
 5
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 the west, which was the window nearest the Lion, 
 and looked out into the graveyard of St. James's 
 Church, that stretched between their street and 
 Piccadilly. 
 
 "You're lucky in having a bit of green to look 
 out on," he said to Prentiss. "I'll take these rooms 
 at five guineas. That's more than they're worth, 
 you know, but as I know it, too, your conscience 
 needn't trouble you." 
 
 Then his eyes fell on the Lion, and he nodded 
 to him gravely. "How do you do?" he said. 
 "I'm coming to live with you for a little time. 
 I have read about you and your friends over 
 there. It is a hazard of new fortunes with me, 
 your Majesty, so be kind to me, and if I win, I 
 will put a new coat of paint on your shield and 
 gild you all over again." 
 
 Prentiss smiled obsequiously at the American's 
 pleasantry, but the new lodger only stared at him. 
 
 "He seemed a social gentleman," said the Uni 
 corn, that night, when the Lion and he were talk 
 ing it over. "Now the Captain, the whole time 
 he was here, never gave us so much as a look. 
 This one says he has read of us." 
 
 "And why not?" growled the Lion. "I hope 
 Prentiss heard what he said of our needing a new 
 layer of gilt. It's disgraceful. You can see that 
 Lion over Scarlett's, the butcher, as far as Regent 
 
 6
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 Street, and Scarlett is only one of Salisbury's crea 
 tions. He received his Letters-Patent only two 
 years back. We date from Palmerston." 
 
 The lodger came up the street just at that mo 
 ment, and stopped and looked up at the Lion and 
 the Unicorn from the sidewalk, before he opened 
 the door with his night-key. They heard him en 
 ter the room and feel on the mantel for his pipe, 
 and a moment later he appeared at the Lion's 
 window and leaned on the sill, looking down into 
 the street below and blowing whiffs of smoke up 
 into the warm night-air. 
 
 It was a night in June, and the pavements were 
 dry under foot and the streets were filled with 
 well-dressed people, going home from the play, 
 and with groups of men in black and white, mak 
 ing their way to supper at the clubs. Hansoms 
 of inky-black, with shining lamps inside and out, 
 dashed noiselessly past on mysterious errands, 
 chasing close on each other's heels on a mad race, 
 each to its separate goal. From the cross streets 
 rose the noises of early night, the rumble of the 
 'buses, the creaking of their brakes as they un 
 locked, the cries of the "extras," and the merging 
 of thousands of human voices in a dull murmur. 
 The great world of London was closing its shut 
 ters for the night and putting out the lights; and 
 the new lodger from across the sea listened to it 
 
 7
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 with his heart beating quickly, and laughed to stifle 
 the touch of fear and homesickness that rose in 
 him. 
 
 "I have seen a great play to-night," he said to 
 the Lion, "nobly played by great players. What 
 will they care for my poor wares? I see that I 
 have been over-bold. But we cannot go back now 
 not yet." 
 
 He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and 
 nodded "good-night" to the great world beyond 
 his window. "What fortunes lie with ye, ye lights 
 of London town?" he quoted, smiling. And they 
 heard him close the door of his bedroom, and 
 lock it for the night. 
 
 The next morning he bought many geraniums 
 from Prentiss and placed them along the broad 
 cornice that stretched across the front of the house 
 over the shop-window. The flowers made a band 
 of scarlet on either side of the Lion as brilliant 
 as a Tommy's jacket. 
 
 "I am trying to propitiate the British Lion by 
 placing flowers before his altar," the American 
 said that morning to a visitor. 
 
 "The British public, you mean," said the vis 
 itor; "they are each likely to tear you to pieces." 
 
 "Yes, I have heard that the pit on the first 
 night of a bad play is something awful," hazarded 
 the American. 
 
 8
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 "Wait and see," said the visitor. 
 
 "Thank you," said the American, meekly. 
 
 Everyone who came to the first floor front 
 talked about a play. It seemed to be something 
 of great moment to the American. It was only 
 a bundle of leaves printed in red and black inks 
 and bound in brown paper covers. There were 
 two of them, and the American called them by 
 different names: one was his comedy and one was 
 his tragedy. 
 
 "They are both likely to be tragedies," the 
 Lion heard one of the visitors say to another, as 
 they drove away together. "Our young friend 
 takes it too seriously." 
 
 The American spent most of his time by his 
 desk at the window writing on little blue pads and 
 tearing up what he wrote, or in reading over one 
 of the plays to himself in a loud voice. In time 
 the number of his visitors increased, and to some 
 of these he would read his play; and after they 
 had left him he was either depressed and silent or 
 excited and jubilant. The Lion could always tell 
 when he was happy because then he would go to 
 the side table and pour himself out a drink and 
 say, "Here's to me," but when he was depressed 
 he would stand holding the glass in his hand, and 
 finally pour the liquor back into the bottle again 
 and say, "What's the use of that?" 
 
 9
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 After he had been in London a month he wrote 
 less and was more frequently abroad, sallying forth 
 in beautiful raiment, and coming home by daylight. 
 
 And he gave suppers too, but they were less 
 noisy than the Captain's had been, and the women 
 who came to them were much more beautiful, and 
 their voices when they spoke were sweet and low. 
 Sometimes one of the women sang, and the men 
 sat in silence while the people in the street below 
 stopped to listen, and would say, "Why, that is 
 So-and-So singing," and the Lion and the Unicorn 
 wondered how they could know who it was when 
 they could not see her. 
 
 The lodger's visitors came to see him at all 
 hours. They seemed to regard his rooms as a 
 club, where they could always come for a bite to 
 eat or to write notes; and others treated it like a 
 lawyer's office and asked advice on all manner of 
 strange subjects. Sometimes the visitor wanted to 
 know whether the American thought she ought to 
 take 10 a week and go on tour, or stay in town 
 and try to live on 8 ; or whether she should paint 
 landscapes that would not sell, or race-horses that 
 would; or whether Reggie really loved her and 
 whether she really loved Reggie; or whether the 
 new part in the piece at the Court was better than 
 the old part at Terry's, and wasn't she getting too 
 old to play "ingenues" anyway. 
 
 10
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 The lodger seemed to be a general adviser, and 
 smoked and listened with grave consideration, and 
 the Unicorn thought his judgment was most sym 
 pathetic and sensible. 
 
 Of all the beautiful ladies who came to call on 
 the lodger the one the Unicorn liked the best was 
 the one who wanted to know whether she loved 
 Reggie and whether Reggie loved her. She dis 
 cussed this so interestingly while she consumed tea 
 and thin slices of bread that the Unicorn almost 
 lost his balance in leaning forward to listen. Her 
 name was Marion Cavendish, and it was written 
 over many photographs which stood in silver 
 frames in the lodger's rooms. She used to make 
 the tea herself, while the lodger sat and smoked; 
 and she had a fascinating way of doubling the thin 
 slices of bread into long strips and nibbling at 
 them like a mouse at a piece of cheese. She had 
 wonderful little teeth and Cupid's-bow lips, and 
 she had a fashion of lifting her veil only high 
 enough for one to see the two Cupid-bow lips. 
 When she did that the American used to laugh, at 
 nothing apparently, and say, "Oh, I guess Reggie 
 loves you well enough." 
 
 "But do I love Reggie?" she would ask, sadly, 
 with her teacup held poised in air. 
 
 "I am sure I hope not," the lodger would re 
 ply, and she would put down the veil quickly, as 
 
 ii
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 one would drop a curtain over a beautiful picture, 
 and rise with great dignity and say, "If you talk 
 like that I shall not come again." 
 
 She was sure that if she could only get some 
 work to do her head would be filled with more im 
 portant matters than whether Reggie loved her or 
 not. 
 
 "But the managers seem inclined to cut their 
 cavendish very fine just at present," she said. "If 
 I don't get a part soon," she announced, "I shall 
 ask Mitchell to put me down on the list for reci 
 tations at evening parties." 
 
 "That seems a desperate revenge," said the 
 American; "and besides, I don't want you to get 
 a part, because someone might be idiotic enough 
 to take my comedy, and if he should, you must 
 play Nancy" 
 
 "I would not ask for any salary if I could play 
 Nancy" Miss Cavendish answered. 
 
 They spoke of a great many things, but their 
 talk always ended by her saying that there must 
 be someone with sufficient sense to see that his 
 play was a great play, and by his saying that none 
 but she must play Nancy. 
 
 The Lion preferred the tall girl with masses 
 and folds of brown hair, who came from America 
 to paint miniatures of the British aristocracy. Her 
 name was Helen Cabot, and he liked her because 
 
 12
 
 Consumed tea and tUn dices of bread
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 she was so brave and fearless, and so determined 
 to be independent of everyone, even of the 
 lodger especially of the lodger, who, it ap 
 peared, had known her very well at home. The 
 lodger, they gathered, did not wish her to be in 
 dependent of him, and the two Americans had 
 many arguments and disputes about it, but she al 
 ways said, "It does no good, Philip; it only hurts 
 us both when you talk so. I care for nothing, and 
 for no one but my art, and, poor as it is, it means 
 everything to me, and you do not, and, of course, 
 the man I am to marry, must." Then Carroll would 
 talk, walking up and down, and looking very fierce 
 and determined, and telling her how he loved her 
 in such a way that it made her look even more 
 proud and beautiful. And she would say more 
 gently, "It is very fine to think that anyone can 
 care for me like that, and very helpful. But unless 
 I cared in the same way it would be wicked of me 
 to marry you, and besides " She would add very 
 quickly to prevent his speaking again "I don't 
 want to marry you or anybody, and I never shall. 
 I want to be free and to succeed in my work, just 
 as you want to succeed in your work. So please 
 never speak of this again." When she went away 
 the lodger used to sit smoking in the big arm-chair 
 and beat the arms with his hands, and he would 
 pace up and down the room, while his work would 
 
 13
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 lie untouched and his engagements pass for 
 gotten. 
 
 Summer came and London was deserted, dull, 
 and dusty, but the lodger stayed on in Jermyn 
 Street. Helen Cabot had departed on a round of 
 visits to country-houses in Scotland, where, as she 
 wrote him, she was painting miniatures of her 
 hosts and studying the game of golf. Miss Cav 
 endish divided her days between the river and one 
 of the West End theatres. She was playing a 
 small part in a farce-comedy. 
 
 One day she came up from Cookham earlier 
 than usual, looking very beautiful in a white boat 
 ing-frock and a straw hat with a Leander ribbon. 
 Her hands and arms were hard with dragging a 
 punting-pole, and she was sunburnt and happy, and 
 hungry for tea. 
 
 "Why don't you come down to Cookham and 
 get out of this heat?" Miss Cavendish asked. 
 "You need it; you look ill." 
 
 "I'd like to, but I can't," said Carroll. "The 
 fact is, I paid in advance for these rooms, and if 
 I lived anywhere else I'd be losing five guineas 
 a week on them." 
 
 Miss Cavendish regarded him severely. She 
 had never quite mastered his American humor. 
 
 "But five guineas why, that's nothing to 
 you," she said. Something in the lodger's face 
 
 made her pause. "You don't mean " 
 
 14
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 "Yes, I do," said the lodger, smiling. "You 
 see, I started in to lay siege to London without 
 sufficient ammunition. London is a large town, 
 and it didn't fall as quickly as I thought it would. 
 So I am economizing. Mr. Lockhart's Coffee 
 Rooms and I are no longer strangers." 
 
 Miss Cavendish put down her cup of tea un- 
 tasted and leaned toward him. 
 
 "Are you in earnest?" she asked. "For how 
 long?" 
 
 "Oh, for the last month," replied the lodger; 
 "they are not at all bad clean and wholesome 
 and all that." 
 
 "But the suppers you gave us, and this," she 
 cried, suddenly, waving her hands over the pretty 
 tea-things, "and the cake and muffins?" 
 
 "My friends, at least," said Carroll, "need not 
 go to Lockhart's." 
 
 "And the Savoy?" asked Miss Cavendish, 
 mournfully shaking her head. 
 
 "A dream of the past," said Carroll, waving 
 his pipe through the smoke. "Gatti's? Yes, on 
 special occasions; but for necessity the Chancel 
 lor's, where one gets a piece of the prime roast 
 beef of Old England, from Chicago, and pota 
 toes for ninepence a pot of bitter twopence-half 
 penny, and a penny for the waiter. It's most 
 amusing on the whole. I am learning a little about 
 
 15
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 London, and some things about myself. They are 
 both most interesting subjects." 
 
 "Well, I don't like it," Miss Cavendish de 
 clared, helplessly. "When I think of those sup 
 pers and the flowers, I feel I feel like a robber." 
 
 "Don't," begged Carroll. "I am really the 
 most happy of men that is, as the chap says in 
 the play, I would be if I wasn't so damned miser 
 able. But I owe no man a penny and I have as 
 sets I have 80 to last me through the winter 
 and two marvellous plays ; and I love, next to your 
 self, the most wonderful woman God ever made. 
 That's enough." 
 
 "But I thought you made such a lot of money 
 by writing?" asked Miss Cavendish. 
 
 "I do that is, I could," answered Carroll, "if 
 I wrote the things that sell; but I keep on writing 
 plays that won't." 
 
 "And such plays!" exclaimed Marion, warmly; 
 "and to think that they are going begging." She 
 continued, indignantly, "I can't imagine what the 
 managers do want." 
 
 "I know what they don't want," said the Amer 
 ican. Miss Cavendish drummed impatiently on 
 the tea-tray. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't be so abject about it, n 
 she said. "If I were a man I'd make them take 
 those plays." 
 
 16
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 "How?" asked the American; "with a gun?" 
 
 "Well, I'd keep at it until they read them," 
 declared Marion. "I'd sit on their front steps all 
 night and I'd follow them in cabs, and I'd lie in 
 wait for them at the stage-door. I'd just make 
 them take them." 
 
 Carroll sighed and stared at the ceiling. "I 
 guess I'll give up and go home," he said. 
 
 "Oh, yes, do, run away before you are beaten," 
 said Miss Cavendish, scornfully. "Why, you 
 can't go now. Everybody will be back in town 
 soon, and there are a lot of new plays coming on, 
 and some of them are sure to be failures, and that's 
 our chance. You rush in with your piece, and 
 somebody may take it sooner than close the thea 
 tre." 
 
 "I'm thinking of closing the theatre myself," 
 said Carroll. "What's the use of my hanging 
 on here?" he exclaimed. "It distresses Helen to 
 know I am in London, feeling about her as I do 
 and the Lord only knows how it distresses me. 
 And, maybe, if I went away," he said, consciously, 
 "she might miss me. She might see the differ 
 
 ence." 
 
 Miss Cavendish held herself erect and pressed 
 her lips together with a severe smile. "If Helen 
 Cabot doesn't see the difference between you and 
 the other men she knows now," she said, "I doubt 
 
 17
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 if she ever will. Besides " she continued, and 
 then hesitated. 
 
 "Well, go on," urged Carroll. 
 
 "Well, I was only going to say," she explained, 
 "that leaving the girl alone never did the man 
 any good unless he left her alone willingly. If 
 she's sure he still cares, it's just the same to her 
 where he is. He might as well stay on in London 
 as go to South Africa. It won't help him any. 
 The difference comes when she finds he has stopped 
 caring. Why, look at Reggie. He tried that. He 
 went away for ever so long, but he kept writing 
 me from wherever he went, so that he was per 
 fectly miserable and I went on enjoying myself. 
 Then when he came back, he tried going about 
 with his old friends again. He used to come to 
 the theatre with them oh, with such nice girls ! 
 but he always stood in the back of the box and 
 yawned and scowled so I knew. And, anyway, 
 he'd always spoil it all by leaving them and waiting 
 at the stage entrance for me. But one day he got 
 tired of the way I treated him and went off on a 
 bicycle-tour with Lady Hacksher's girls and some 
 men from his regiment, and he was gone three 
 weeks, and never sent me even a line; and I got 
 so scared; I couldn't sleep, and I stood it for three 
 days more, and then I wired him to come back or 
 I'd jump off London Bridge; and he came back 
 
 18
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 that very night from Edinburgh on the express, 
 and I was so glad to see him that I got confused, 
 and in the general excitement I promised to marry 
 him, so that's how it was with us." 
 
 "Yes," said the American, without enthusiasm; 
 "but then I still care, and Helen knows I care." 
 
 "Doesn't she ever fancy that you might care 
 for someone else? You have a lot of friends, 
 you know." 
 
 "Yes, but she knows they are just that 
 friends," said the American. 
 
 Miss Cavendish stood up to go, and arranged 
 her veil before the mirror above the fireplace. 
 
 "I come here very often to tea," she said. 
 
 "It's very kind of you," said Carroll. He was 
 at the open window, looking down into the street 
 for a cab. 
 
 "Well, no one knows I am engaged to Reg 
 gie," continued Miss Cavendish, "except you and 
 Reggie, and he isn't so sure. She doesn't know 
 it." 
 
 "Well?" said Carroll. 
 
 Miss Cavendish smiled a mischievous kindly 
 smile at him from the mirror. 
 
 "Well?" she repeated, mockingly. Carroll 
 stared at her and laughed. After a pause he said : 
 "It's like a plot in a comedy. But I'm afraid I'm 
 too serious for play-acting." 
 
 19
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 "Yes, it is serious," said Miss Cavendish. She 
 seated herself again and regarded the American 
 thoughtfully. "You are too good a man to be 
 treated the way that girl is treating you, and no 
 one knows it better than she does. She'll change 
 in time, but just now she thinks she wants to be 
 independent. She's in love with this picture-paint 
 ing idea, and with the people she meets. It's all 
 new to her the fuss they make over her and 
 the titles, and the way she is asked about. We 
 know she can't paint. We know they only give 
 her commissions because she's so young and pretty, 
 and American. She amuses them, that's all. Well, 
 that cannot last ; she'll find it out. She's too clever 
 a girl, and she is too fine a girl to be content with 
 that long. Then then she'll come back to you. 
 She feels now that she has both you and the others, 
 and she's making you wait; so wait and be cheer 
 ful. She's worth waiting for; she's young, that's 
 all. She'll see the difference in time. But, in the 
 meanwhile, it would hurry matters a bit if she 
 thought she had to choose between the new friends 
 and you." 
 
 "She could still keep her friends and marry 
 me," said Carroll; "I have told her that a hun 
 dred times. She could still paint miniatures and 
 marry me. But she won't marry me." 
 
 "She won't marry you because she knows she 
 20
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 can whenever she wants to," cried Marion. "Can't 
 you see that? But if she thought you were going 
 to marry someone else now?" 
 
 "She would be the first to congratulate me," 
 said Carroll. He rose and walked to the fireplace, 
 where he leaned with his arm on the mantel. There 
 was a photograph of Helen Cabot near his hand, 
 and he turned this toward him and stood for some 
 time staring at it. "My dear Marion," he said 
 at last, "I've known Helen ever since she was as 
 young as that. Every year I've loved her more, 
 and found new things in her to care for; now I 
 love her more than any other man ever loved any 
 other woman." 
 
 Miss Cavendish shook her head sympathet 
 ically. 
 
 "Yes, I know," she said; "that's the way Reg 
 gie loves me, too." 
 
 Carroll went on as though he had not heard 
 her. 
 
 "There's a bench in St. James's Park," he said, 
 "where we used to sit when she first came here, 
 when she didn't know so many people. We used 
 to go there in the morning and throw penny buns 
 to the ducks. That's been my amusement this sum 
 mer since you've all been away sitting on that 
 bench, feeding penny buns to the silly ducks 
 especially the black one, the one she used to like 
 
 21
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 best. And I make pilgrimages to all the other 
 places we ever visited together, and try to pretend 
 she is with me. And I support the crossing sweep 
 er at Lansdowne Passage because she once said 
 she felt sorry for him. I do all the other absurd 
 things that a man in love tortures himself by do 
 ing. But to what end? She knows how I care, 
 and yet she won't see why we can't go on being 
 friends as we once were. What's the use of it 
 all?" 
 
 "She is young, I tell you," repeated Miss Cav 
 endish, "and she's too sure of you. You've told 
 her you care; now try making her think you don't 
 care." 
 
 Carroll shook his head impatiently. 
 
 "I will not stoop to such tricks and pretence, 
 Marion," he cried, impatiently. "All I have is 
 my love for her; if I have to cheat and to trap 
 her into caring, the whole thing would be de 
 graded." 
 
 Miss Cavendish shrugged her shoulders and 
 walked to the door. "Such amateurs!" she ex 
 claimed, and banged the door after her. 
 
 Carroll never quite knew how he had come to 
 make a confidante of Miss Cavendish. Helen and 
 he had met her when they first arrived in London, 
 and as she had acted for a season in the United 
 States, she adopted the two Americans and told 
 
 22
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 Helen where to go for boots and hats, and advised 
 Carroll about placing his plays. Helen soon 
 made other friends, and deserted the artists with 
 whom her work had first thrown her. She seemed 
 to prefer the society of the people who bought her 
 paintings, and who admired and made much of the 
 painter. As she was very beautiful and at an age 
 when she enjoyed everything in life keenly and 
 eagerly, to give her pleasure was in itself a distinct 
 pleasure; and the worldly tired people she met 
 were considering their own entertainment quite as 
 much as hers when they asked her to their dinners 
 and dances, or to spend a week with them in the 
 country. In her way, she was as independent as 
 was Carroll in his, and as she was not in love, 
 as he was, her life was not narrowed down to but 
 one ideal. But she was not so young as to con 
 sider herself infallible, and she had one excellent 
 friend on whom she was dependent for advice and 
 to whose directions she submitted implicitly. This 
 was Lady Gower, the only person to whom Helen 
 had spoken of Carroll and of his great feeling for 
 her. Lady Gower, immediately after her mar 
 riage, had been a conspicuous and brilliant figure 
 in that set in London which works eighteen hours 
 a day to keep itself amused, but after the death 
 of her husband she had disappeared into the coun 
 try as completely as though she had entered a con- 
 
 23
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 vent, and after several years had then re-entered 
 the world as a professional philanthropist. Her 
 name was now associated entirely with Women's 
 Leagues, with committees that presented petitions 
 to Parliament, and with public meetings, at which 
 she spoke with marvellous ease and effect. Her 
 old friends said she had taken up this new pose 
 as an outlet for her nervous energies, and as an 
 effort to forget the man who alone had made life 
 serious to her. Others knew her as an earnest 
 woman, acting honestly for what she thought was 
 right. Her success, all admitted, was due to her 
 knowledge of the world and to her sense of hu 
 mor, which taught her with whom to use her 
 wealth and position, and when to demand what 
 she wanted solely on the ground that the cause 
 was just. 
 
 She had taken more than a fancy for Helen, 
 and the position of the beautiful, motherless girl 
 had appealed to her as one filled with dangers. 
 When she grew to know Helen better, she recog 
 nized that these fears were quite unnecessary, and 
 as she saw more of her she learned to care for her 
 deeply. Helen had told her much of Carroll and 
 of his double purpose in coming to London; of 
 his brilliant work and his lack of success in having 
 it recognized; and of his great and loyal devotion 
 to her, and of his lack of success, not in having 
 
 24
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 that recognized, but in her own inability to return 
 it. Helen was proud that she had been able to 
 make Carroll care for her as he did, and that 
 there was anything about her which could inspire 
 a man whom she admired so much to believe in 
 her so absolutely and for so long a time. But 
 what convinced her that the outcome for which 
 he hoped was impossible, was the very fact that 
 she could admire him, and see how fine and un 
 selfish his love for her was, and yet remain un 
 touched by it. 
 
 She had been telling Lady Gower one day of 
 the care he had taken of her ever since she was 
 fourteen years of age, and had quoted some of the 
 friendly and loverlike acts he had performed in 
 her service, until one day they had both found out 
 that his attitude of the elder brother was no lon 
 ger possible, and that he loved her in the old and 
 only way. Lady Gower looked at her rather 
 doubtfully and smiled. 
 
 "I wish you would bring him to see me, Helen," 
 she said; "I think I should like your friend very 
 much. From what you tell me of him I doubt if 
 you will find many such men waiting for you in 
 this country. Our men marry for reasons of prop 
 erty, or they love blindly, and are exacting and 
 selfish before and after they are married. I know, 
 because so many women came to me when my 
 
 25
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 husband was alive to ask how it was that I con 
 tinued so happy in my married life." 
 
 "But I don't want to marry anyone," Helen re 
 monstrated, gently. "American girls are not al 
 ways thinking only of getting married." 
 
 "What I meant was this," said Lady Gower: 
 "that, in my experience, I have heard of but few 
 men who care in the way this young man seems 
 to care for you. You say you do not love him; 
 but if he had wanted to gain my interest, he could 
 not have pleaded his cause better than you have 
 done. He seems to see your faults and yet love 
 you still, in spite of them or on account of them. 
 And I like the things he does for you. I like, for 
 instance, his sending you the book of the moment 
 every week for two years. That shows a most un 
 swerving spirit of devotion. And the story of the 
 broken bridge in the woods is a wonderful story. 
 If I were a young girl, I could love a man for that 
 alone. It was a beautiful thing to do." 
 
 Helen sat with her chin on her hands, deeply 
 considering this new point of view. 
 
 "I thought it very foolish of him," she con 
 fessed, questioningly, "to take such a risk for such 
 a little thing." 
 
 Lady Gower smiled down at her from the height 
 of her many years. 
 
 "Wait," she said, dryly, "you are very young 
 26
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 now and very rich; everyone is crowding to give 
 you pleasure, to show his admiration. You are 
 a very fortunate girl. But later, these things which 
 some man has done because he loved you, and 
 which you call foolish, will grow large in your life, 
 and shine out strongly, and when you are discour 
 aged and alone, you will take them out, and the 
 memory of them will make you proud and happy. 
 They are the honors which women wear in se 
 cret." 
 
 Helen came back to town in September, and for 
 the first few days was so occupied in refurnishing 
 her studio and in visiting the shops that she neg 
 lected to send Carroll word of her return. When 
 she found that a whole week had passed without 
 her having made any effort to see him, and appre 
 ciated how the fact would hurt her friend, she 
 was filled with remorse, and drove at once in great 
 haste to Jermyn Street, to announce her return in 
 person. On the way she decided that she would 
 soften the blow of her week of neglect by asking 
 him to take her out to luncheon. This privilege 
 she had once or twice accorded him, and she felt 
 that the pleasure these excursions gave Carroll 
 were worth the consternation they caused to Lady 
 Gower. 
 
 The servant was uncertain whether Mr. Carroll 
 was at home or not, but Helen was too intent 
 
 27
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 upon making restitution to wait for the fact to be 
 determined, and, running up the stairs, knocked 
 sharply at the door of his study. 
 
 A voice bade her come in, and she entered, ra 
 diant and smiling her welcome. But Carroll was 
 not there to receive it, and, instead, Marion Cav 
 endish looked up at her from his desk, where she 
 was busily writing. Helen paused with a sur 
 prised laugh, but Marion sprang up and hailed 
 her gladly. They met half way across the room 
 and kissed each other with the most friendly feel 
 ing. 
 
 Philip was out, Marion said, and she had just 
 stepped in for a moment to write him a note. If 
 Helen would excuse her, she would finish it, as she 
 was late for rehearsal. 
 
 But she asked over her shoulder, with great 
 interest, if Helen had passed a pleasant summer. 
 She thought she had never seen her looking so 
 well. Helen thought Miss Cavendish herself was 
 looking very well also, but Marion said no ; that she 
 was too sunburnt, she would not be able to wear 
 a dinner-dress for a month. There was a pause 
 while Marion's quill scratched violently across 
 Carroll's note-paper. Helen felt that in some way 
 she was being treated as an intruder; or worse, as 
 a guest. She did not sit down, it seemed impos 
 sible to do so, but she moved uncertainly about
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 the room. She noted that there were many 
 changes, it seemed more bare and empty; her 
 picture was still on the writing-desk, but there 
 were at least six new photographs of Marion. 
 Marion herself had brought them to the room 
 that morning, and had carefully arranged them 
 in conspicuous places. But Helen could not 
 know that. She thought there was an unneces 
 sary amount of writing scribbled over the face 
 of each. 
 
 Marion addressed her letter and wrote "Imme 
 diate" across the envelope, and placed it before 
 the clock on the mantel-shelf. "You will find 
 Philip looking very badly," she said, as she pulled 
 on her gloves. "He has been in town all summer, 
 working very hard he has had no holiday at 
 all. I don't think he's well. I have been a great 
 deal worried about him," she added. Her face 
 was bent over the buttons of her glove, and when 
 she raised her blue eyes to Helen they were filled 
 with serious concern. 
 
 "Really," Helen stammered, "I I didn't know 
 in his letters he seemed very cheerful." 
 
 Marion shook her head and turned and stood 
 looking thoughtfully out of the window. "He's 
 in a very hard place," she began, abruptly, and 
 then stopped as though she had thought better 
 of what she intended to say. Helen tried to ask 
 
 29
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 her to go on, but could not bring herself to do 
 so. She wanted to get away. 
 
 "I tell him he ought to leave London," Marion 
 began again; "he needs a change and a rest." 
 
 "I should think he might," Helen agreed, "after 
 three months of this heat. He wrote me he in 
 tended going to Herne Bay or over to Ostend." 
 
 "Yes, he had meant to go," Marion answered. 
 She spoke with the air of one who possessed the 
 most intimate knowledge of Carroll's movements 
 and plans, and change of plans. "But he couldn't," 
 she added. "He couldn't afford it. Helen," she 
 said, turning to the other girl, dramatically, "do 
 you know I believe that Philip is very poor." 
 
 Miss Cabot exclaimed, incredulously, "Poor!" 
 She laughed. "Why, what do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that he has no money," Marion an 
 swered, sharply. "These rooms represent nothing. 
 He only keeps them on because he paid for them 
 in advance. He's been living on three shillings 
 a day. That's poor for him. He takes his meals 
 at cabmen's shelters and at Lockhart's, and he's 
 been doing so for a month." 
 
 Helen recalled with a guilty thrill the receipt 
 of certain boxes of La France roses cut long, in 
 the American fashion which had arrived within 
 the last month at various country-houses. She felt 
 indignant at herself, and miserable. Her indigna- 
 
 30
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 tion was largely due to the recollection that she 
 had given these flowers to her hostess to decorate 
 the dinner-table. 
 
 She hated to ask this girl of things which she 
 should have known better than anyone else. But 
 she forced herself to do it. She felt she must 
 know certainly and at once. 
 
 "How do you know this?" she asked. "Are you 
 sure there is no mistake?" 
 
 "He told me himself," said Marion, "when he 
 talked of letting the plays go and returning to 
 America. He said he must go back; that his 
 money was gone." 
 
 "He is gone to America !" Helen said, blankly. 
 
 "No, he wanted to go, but I wouldn't let him," 
 Marion went on. "I told him that someone might 
 take his play any day. And this third one he has 
 written, the one he finished this summer in town, 
 is the best of all, I think. It's a love-story. It's 
 quite beautiful." She turned and arranged her 
 veil at the glass, and as she did so, her eyes fell 
 on the photographs of herself scattered over the 
 mantel-piece, and she smiled slightly. But Helen 
 did not see her she was sitting down now, pull 
 ing at the books on the table. She was confused 
 and disturbed by emotions which were quite 
 strange to her, and when Marion bade her good- 
 by she hardly noticed her departure. What im-
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 pressed her most of all in what Marion had told 
 her was, she was surprised to find, that Philip was 
 going away. That she herself had frequently 
 urged him to do so, for his own peace of mind, 
 seemed now of no consequence. Now that he 
 seriously contemplated it, she recognized that his 
 absence meant to her a change in everything. She 
 felt for the first time the peculiar place he held 
 in her life. Even if she had seen him but seldom, 
 the fact that he was within call had been more of 
 a comfort and a necessity to her than she under 
 stood. 
 
 That he was poor, concerned her chiefly because 
 she knew that, although this condition could only 
 be but temporary, it would distress him not to 
 have his friends around him, and to entertain them 
 as he had been used to do. She wondered eagerly 
 if she might offer to help him, but a second thought 
 assured her that, for a man, that sort of help from, 
 a woman was impossible. 
 
 She resented the fact that Marion was deep in 
 his confidence; that it was Marion who had told 
 her of his changed condition and of his plans. It 
 annoyed her so acutely that she could not remain 
 in the room where she had seen her so complacently 
 in possession. And after leaving a brief note for 
 Philip, she went away. She stopped a hansom at 
 the door, and told the man to drive along the Em- 
 
 32
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 bankment she wanted to be quite alone, and she 
 felt she could see no one until she had thought it 
 all out, and had analyzed the new feelings. 
 
 So for several hours she drove slowly up and 
 down, sunk far back in the cushions of the cab, 
 and staring with unseeing eyes at the white enam 
 elled tariff and the black dash-board. 
 
 She assured herself that she was not jealous of 
 Marion, because, in order to be jealous, she first 
 would have to care for Philip in the very way 
 she could not bring herself to do. 
 
 She decided that his interest in Marion hurt her, 
 because it showed that Philip was not capable of 
 remaining true to the one ideal of his life. She 
 was sure that this explained her feelings she was 
 disappointed that he had not kept up to his own 
 standard; that he was weak enough to turn aside 
 from it for the first pretty pair of eyes. But she 
 was too honest and too just to accept that diagnosis 
 of her feelings as final she knew there had been 
 many pairs of eyes in America and in London, and 
 that though Philip had seen them, he had not an 
 swered them when they spoke. No, she confessed 
 frankly, she was hurt with herself for neglecting 
 her old friend so selfishly and for so long a time; 
 his love gave him claims on her consideration, at 
 least, and she had forgotten that and him, and had 
 run after strange gods and allowed others to come 
 
 33
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 in and take her place, and to give him the sym 
 pathy and help which she should have been the 
 first to offer, and which would have counted more 
 when coming from her than from anyone else. 
 She determined to make amends at once for her 
 thoughtlessness and selfishness, and her brain was 
 pleasantly occupied with plans and acts of kind 
 ness. It was a new entertainment, and she found 
 she delighted in it. She directed the cabman to 
 go to Solomons's, and from there sent Philip a 
 bunch of flowers and a line saying that on the fol 
 lowing day she was coming to take tea with him. 
 She had a guilty feeling that he might consider 
 her friendly advances more seriously than she 
 meant them, but it was her pleasure to be reck 
 less: her feelings were running riotously, and the 
 sensation was so new that she refused to be circum 
 spect or to consider consequences. Who could 
 tell, she asked herself with a quick, frightened 
 gasp, but that, after all, it might be that she was 
 learning to care? From Solomons's she bade the 
 man drive to the shop in Cranbourne Street where 
 she was accustomed to purchase the materials she 
 used in painting, and Fate, which uses strange 
 agents to work out its ends, so directed it that the 
 cabman stopped a few doors below this shop, and 
 opposite one where jewelry and other personal ef 
 fects were bought and sold. At any other time, 
 
 34
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 or had she been in any other mood, what followed 
 might not have occurred, but Fate, in the person 
 of the cabman, arranged it so that the hour and 
 the opportunity came together. 
 
 There were some old mezzotints in the window 
 of the loan-shop, a string of coins and medals, a 
 row of new French posters; and far down to the 
 front a tray filled with gold and silver cigarette- 
 cases and watches and rings. It occurred to Helen, 
 who was still bent on making restitution for her 
 neglect, that a cigarette-case would be more appro 
 priate for a man than flowers, and more lasting. 
 And she scanned the contents of the window with 
 the eye of one who now saw in everything only 
 something which might give Philip pleasure. The 
 two objects of value in the tray upon which her eyes 
 first fell were the gold seal-ring with which Philip 
 had sealed his letters to her, and, lying next to it, 
 his gold watch ! There was something almost hu 
 man in the way the ring and watch spoke to her 
 from the past in the way they appealed to her 
 to rescue them from the surroundings to which 
 they had been abandoned. She did not know what 
 she meant to do with them nor how she could re 
 turn them to Philip; but there was no question of 
 doubt in her manner as she swept with a rush into 
 the shop. There was no attempt, either, at bar 
 gaining in the way in which she pointed out to the 
 
 35
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 young woman behind the counter the particular 
 ring and watch she wanted. They had not been 
 left as collateral, the young woman said; they had 
 been sold outright. 
 
 "Then anyone can buy them?" Helen asked, 
 eagerly. "They are for sale to the public to any 
 one?" 
 
 The young woman made note of the customer's 
 eagerness, but with an unmoved countenance. 
 
 "Yes, miss, they are for sale. The ring is four 
 pounds and the watch twenty-five." 
 
 "Twenty-nine pounds!" Helen gasped. 
 
 That was more money than she had in the world, 
 but the fact did not distress her, for she had a true 
 artistic disregard for ready money, and the ab 
 sence of it had never disturbed her. But now it 
 assumed a sudden and alarming value. She had 
 ten pounds in her purse and ten pounds at her 
 studio these were just enough to pay for a quar 
 ter's rent and the rates, and there was a hat and 
 cloak in Bond Street which she certainly must have. 
 Her only assets consisted of the possibility that 
 someone might soon order a miniature, and to 
 her mind that was sufficient. Someone always 
 had ordered a miniature, and there was no reason 
 able doubt but that someone would do it again. 
 For a moment she questioned if it would not be 
 sufficient if she bought tfec ring and allowed the 
 
 36
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 watch to remain. But she recognized that the 
 ring meant more to her than the watch, while the 
 latter, as an old heirloom which had been passed 
 down to him from a great-grandfather, meant 
 more to Philip. It was for Philip she was doing 
 this, she reminded herself. She stood holding his 
 possessions, one in each hand, and looking at the 
 young woman blankly. She had no doubt in her 
 mind that at least part of the money he had re 
 ceived for them had paid for the flowers he had 
 sent to her in Scotland. The certainty of this left 
 her no choice. She laid the ring and watch down 
 and pulled the only ring she possessed from her 
 own finger. It was a gift from Lady Gower. She 
 had no doubt that it was of great value. 
 
 "Can you lend me some money on that?" she 
 asked. It was the first time she had conducted a 
 business transaction of this nature, and she felt as 
 though she were engaging in a burglary. 
 
 "We don't lend money, miss," the girl said, "we 
 buy outright. I can give you twenty-eight shil 
 lings for this," she added. 
 
 "Twenty-eight shillings !" Helen gasped. "Why, 
 it is worth oh, ever so much more than that!" 
 
 "That is all it is worth to us," the girl answered. 
 She regarded the ring indifferently and laid it away 
 from her on the counter. The action was final. 
 
 Helen's hands rose slowly to her breast, where 
 37
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 a pretty watch dangled from a bow-knot of crushed 
 diamonds. It was her only possession, and she 
 was very fond of it. It also was the gift of one 
 of the several great ladies who had adopted her 
 since her residence in London. Helen had painted 
 a miniature of this particular great lady which had 
 looked so beautiful that the pleasure which the 
 original of the portrait derived from the thought 
 that she still really looked as she did in the minia 
 ture was worth more to her than many diamonds. 
 
 But it was different with Helen, and no one 
 could count what it cost her to tear away her one 
 proud possession. 
 
 "What will you give me for this?" she asked, 
 defiantly. 
 
 The girl's eyes showed greater interest. "I can 
 give you twenty pounds for that," she said. 
 
 "Take it, please," Helen begged, as though she 
 feared if she kept it a moment longer she might 
 not be able to make the sacrifice. 
 
 "That will be enough now," she went on, taking 
 out her ten-pound note. She put Lady Gower's 
 ring back upon her finger and picked up Philip's 
 ring and watch with the pleasure of one who has 
 come into a great fortune. She turned back at 
 the door. 
 
 "Oh," she stammered, "in case anyone should 
 inquire, you are not to say who bought these." 
 
 38
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 "No, miss, certainly not," said the woman. 
 Helen gave the direction to the cabman and, clos 
 ing the doors of the hansom, sat looking down at 
 the watch and the ring, as they lay in her lap. 
 The thought that they had been his most valued 
 possessions, which he had abandoned forever, and 
 that they were now entirely hers, to do with as she 
 liked, filled her with most intense delight and pleas 
 ure. She took up the heavy gold ring and placed 
 it on the little finger of her left hand; it was much 
 too large, and she removed it and balanced it for 
 a moment doubtfully in the palm of her right hand. 
 She was smiling, and her face was lit with shy and 
 tender thoughts. She cast a quick glance to the 
 left and right as though fearful that people pass 
 ing in the street would observe her, and then 
 slipped the ring over the fourth finger of her left 
 hand. She gazed at it with a guilty smile, and 
 then, covering it hastily with her other hand, 
 leaned back, clasping it closely, and sat frowning 
 far out before her with puzzled eyes. 
 
 To Carroll all roads led past Helen's studio, 
 and during the summer, while she had been absent 
 in Scotland, it was one of his sad pleasures to make 
 a pilgrimage to her street and to pause opposite 
 the house and look up at the empty windows of 
 her rooms. It was during this daily exercise that 
 he learned, through the arrival of her luggage, of 
 
 39
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 her return to London, and when day followed day 
 without her having shown any desire to see him 
 or to tell him of her return, he denounced himself 
 most bitterly as a fatuous fool. 
 
 At the end of the week he sat down and con 
 sidered his case quite calmly. For three years he 
 had loved this girl, deeply and tenderly. He had 
 been lover, brother, friend, and guardian. During 
 that time, even though she had accepted him in 
 every capacity except as that of the prospective 
 husband, she had never given him any real affec 
 tion, nor sympathy, nor help; all she had done 
 for him had been done without her knowledge or 
 intent. To know her, to love her, and to scheme 
 to give her pleasure had been its own reward, and 
 the only one. For the last few months he had 
 been living like a crossing sweeper in order to be 
 able to stay in London until she came back to it, 
 and that he might still send her the gifts he had 
 always laid on her altar. He had not seen her 
 in three months. Three months that had been 
 to him a blank, except for his work which, like 
 all else that he did, was inspired and carried on 
 for her. Now at last she had returned and had 
 shown that, even as a friend, he was of so little 
 account in her thoughts, of so little consequence 
 in her life, that after this long absence she had 
 no desire to learn of his welfare or to see him 
 
 40
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 she did not even give him the chance to see 
 her. And so, placing these facts before him for 
 the first time since he had loved her, he considered 
 what was due to himself. "Was it good enough?" 
 he asked. "Was it just that he should continue to 
 wear out his soul and body for this girl who did 
 not want what he had to give, who treated him 
 less considerately than a man whom she met for 
 the first time at dinner?" He felt he had reached 
 the breaking-point; that the time had come when 
 he must consider what he owed to himself. There 
 could never be any other woman save Helen; but 
 as it was not to be Helen, he could no longer, 
 with self-respect, continue to proffer his love only 
 to see it slighted and neglected. He was humble 
 enough concerning himself, but of his love he was 
 very proud. Other men could give her more in 
 wealth or position, but no one could ever l4ve her 
 as he did. "He that hath more let him give," he 
 had often quoted to her defiantly, as though he 
 were challenging the world, and now he felt he 
 must evolve a make-shift world of his own a 
 world in which she was not his only spring of 
 acts; he must begin all over again and keep his 
 love secret and sacred until she understood it and 
 wanted it. And if she should never want it he 
 would at least have saved it from many rebuffs 
 and insults.
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 With this determination strong in him, the note 
 Helen had left for him after her talk with Marion, 
 and the flowers, and the note with them, saying 
 she was coming to take tea on the morrow, failed 
 to move him except to make him more bitter. He 
 saw in them only a tardy recognition of her neglect 
 an effort to make up to him for thoughtlessness 
 which, from her, hurt him worse than studied 
 slight. 
 
 A new regime had begun, and he was deter 
 mined to establish it firmly and to make it impos 
 sible for himself to retreat from it; and in the 
 note in which he thanked Helen for the flowers 
 and welcomed her to tea, he declared his ultima 
 tum. 
 
 "You know how terribly I feel," he wrote; "I 
 don't have to tell you that, but I cannot always 
 go on dragging out my love and holding it up to 
 excite your pity as beggars show their sores. I 
 cannot always go on praying before your altar, 
 cutting myself with knives and calling upon you 
 to listen to me. You know that there is no one 
 else but you, and that there never can be anyone 
 but you, and that nothing is changed except that 
 after this I am not going to urge and torment you. 
 I shall wait as I have always waited only now 
 I shall wait in silence. You know just how little, 
 in one way, I have to offer you, and you know 
 
 42
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 just how much I have in love to offer you. It is 
 now for you to speak some day, or never. But 
 you will have to speak first. You will never hear 
 a word of love from me again. Why should you ? 
 Ycra know it is always waiting for you. But if 
 you should ever want it, you must come to me, 
 and take off your hat and put it on my table and 
 say, 'Philip, I have come to stay.' Whether you 
 can ever do that or not can make no difference in 
 my love for you. I shall love you always, as no 
 man has ever loved a woman in this world, but it 
 is you who must speak first; for me, the rest is 
 silence." 
 
 The following morning as Helen was leaving 
 the house she found this letter lying on the hall- 
 table, and ran back with it to her rooms. A week 
 before she would have let it lie on the table and 
 read it on her return. She was conscious that this 
 was what she would have done, and it pleased her 
 to find that what concerned Philip was now to her 
 the thing of greatest interest. She was pleased 
 with her own eagerness her own happiness was 
 a welcome sign, and she was proud and glad that 
 she was learning to care. 
 
 She read the letter with an anxious pride and 
 pleasure in each word that was entirely new. 
 Philip's recriminations did not hurt her, they were 
 the sign that he cared; nor did his determination 
 
 43
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 not to speak of his love to her hurt her, for she 
 believed him when he said that he would always 
 care. She read the letter twice, and then sat for 
 some time considering the kind of letter Philip 
 would have written had he known her secret had 
 he known that the ring he had abandoned was now 
 upon her finger. 
 
 She rose and, crossing to a desk, placed the 
 letter in a drawer, and then took it out again and 
 reread the last page. When she had finished it 
 she was smiling. For a moment she stood irreso 
 lute, and then, moving slowly toward the centre- 
 table, cast a guilty look about her and, raising her 
 hands, lifted her veil and half withdrew the pins 
 that fastened her hat. 
 
 "Philip," she began, in a frightened whisper, 
 "I have I have come to " 
 
 The sentence ended in a cry of protest, and she 
 rushed across the room as though she were run 
 ning from herself. She was blushing violently. 
 
 "Never!" she cried, as she pulled open the door; 
 "I could never do it never!" 
 
 The following afternoon, when Helen was to 
 come to tea, Carroll decided that he would re 
 ceive her with all the old friendliness, but that he 
 must be careful to subdue all emotion. 
 
 He was really deeply hurt at her treatment, and 
 had it not been that she came on her own invita- 
 
 44
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 tion he would not of his own accord have sought 
 to see her. In consequence, he rather welcomed 
 than otherwise the arrival of Marion Cavendish, 
 who came a half-hour before Helen was expected, 
 and who followed a hasty knock with a precipitate 
 entrance. 
 
 "Sit down," she commanded, breathlessly, "and 
 listen. I've been at rehearsal all day, or I'd have 
 been here before you were awake." She seated 
 herself nervously and nodded her head at Carroll 
 in an excited and mysterious manner. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked. "Have you and Reg 
 gie" 
 
 "Listen," Marion repeated. "Our fortunes are 
 made; that is what's the matter and I've made 
 them. If you took half the interest in your work 
 I do, you'd have made yours long ago. Last 
 night," she began, impressively, "I went to a large 
 supper at the Savoy, and I sat next to Charley 
 Wimpole. He came in late, after everybody had 
 finished, and I attacked him while he was eating 
 his supper. He said he had been rehearsing 
 'Caste' after the performance; that they've put it 
 on as a stop-gap on account of the failure of 'The 
 Triflers,' and that he knew revivals were of no 
 use; that he would give any sum for a good mod 
 ern comedy. That was my cue, and I told him 
 I knew of a better comedy than any he had pro- 
 
 45
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 duced at his theatre in five years, and that it was 
 going begging. He laughed, and asked where was 
 he to find this wonderful comedy, and I said, 'It's 
 been in your safe for the last two months and you 
 haven't read it.' He said, 'Indeed, how do you 
 know that?' and I said, 'Because if you'd read it, 
 it wouldn't be in your safe, but on your stage.' 
 So he asked me what the play was about, and I 
 told him the plot and what sort of a part his was, 
 and some of his scenes, and he began to take no 
 tice. He forgot his supper, and very soon he grew 
 so interested that he turned his chair round and 
 kept eying my supper-card to find out who I was, 
 and at last remembered seeing me in 'The New 
 Boy' and a rotten part it was, too but he re 
 membered it, and he told me to go on and tell 
 him more about your play. So I recited it, bit by 
 bit, and he laughed in all the right places and got 
 very much excited, and said finally that he would 
 read it the first thing this morning." Marion 
 paused, breathlessly. "Oh, yes, and he wrote your 
 address on his cuff," she added, with the air of 
 delivering a complete and convincing climax. 
 
 Carroll stared at her and pulled excitedly on 
 his pipe. 
 
 "Oh, Marion!" he gasped, "suppose he should? 
 He won't, though," he added, but eying her eager 
 ly and inviting contradiction. 
 
 46
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 "He will,'* she answered, stoutly, "if he reads 
 it." 
 
 "The other managers read it," Carroll suggest 
 ed, doubtfully. 
 
 "Yes, but what do they know?" Marion re 
 turned, loftily. "He knows. Charles Wimpole 
 is the only intelligent actor-manager in London." 
 
 There was a sharp knock at the door, which 
 Marion in her excitement had left ajar, and Pren- 
 tiss threw it wide open with an impressive sweep, 
 as though he were announcing royalty. "Mr. 
 Charles Wimpole," he said. 
 
 The actor-manager stopped in the doorway 
 bowing gracefully, his hat held before him and his 
 hand on his stick as though it were resting on a 
 foil. He had the face and carriage of a gallant 
 of the days of Congreve, and he wore his modern 
 frock-coat with as much distinction as if it were 
 of silk and lace. He was evidently amused. "I 
 couldn't help overhearing the last line," he said, 
 smiling. "It gives me a good entrance." 
 
 Marion gazed at him blankly. "Oh," she 
 gasped, "we we were just talking about you." 
 
 "If you hadn't mentioned my name," the actor 
 said, "I should never have guessed it. And this 
 is Mr. Carroll, I hope." 
 
 The great man was rather pleased with the situ 
 ation. As he read it, it struck him as possessing 
 
 47
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 strong dramatic possibilities : Carroll was the strug 
 gling author on the verge of starvation; Marion, 
 his sweetheart, flying to him gave him hope; and 
 he was the good fairy arriving in the nick of time 
 to set everything right and to make the young 
 people happy and prosperous. He rather fancied 
 himself in the part of the good fairy, and as he 
 seated himself he bowed to them both in a manner 
 which was charmingly inclusive and confidential. 
 
 "Miss Cavendish, I imagine, has already warned 
 you that you might expect a visit from me," he 
 said, tentatively. Carroll nodded. He was too 
 much concerned to interrupt. 
 
 "Then I need only tell you," Wimpole contin 
 ued, "that I got up at an absurd hour this morn 
 ing to read your play; that I did read it; that I 
 like it immensely and that if we can come to 
 terms I shall produce it. I shall produce it at once, 
 within a fortnight or three weeks." 
 
 Carroll was staring at him intently and contin 
 ued doing so after Wimpole had finished speak 
 ing. The actor felt he had somehow missed his 
 point, or that Carroll could not have understood 
 him, and repeated, "I say I shall put it in rehearsal 
 at once." 
 
 Carroll rose abruptly, and pushed back his chair. 
 "I should be very glad," he murmured, and strode 
 over to the window, where he stood with his back 
 
 48
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 turned to his guests. Wimpole looked after him 
 with a kindly smile and nodded his head appre 
 ciatively. He had produced even a greater effect 
 than his lines seemed to warrant. When he spoke 
 again, it was quite simply, and sincerely, and 
 though he spoke for Carroll's benefit, he addressed 
 himself to Marion. 
 
 "You were quite right last night," he said; "it 
 is a most charming piece of work. I am really 
 extremely grateful to you for bringing it to my 
 notice." He rose, and going to Carroll, put his 
 hand on his shoulder. "My boy," he said, "I con 
 gratulate you. I should like to be your age, and 
 to have written that play. Come to my theatre 
 to-morrow and we will talk terms. Talk it over 
 first with your friends, so that I sha'n't rob you. 
 Do you think you would prefer a lump sum now, 
 and so be done with it altogether, or trust that the 
 royalties may " 
 
 "Royalties," prompted Marion, in an eager 
 aside. 
 
 The men laughed. "Quite right," Wimpole 
 assented, good-humoredly ; "it's a poor sportsman 
 who doesn't back his own horse. Well, then, un 
 til to-morrow." 
 
 "But," Carroll began, "one moment, please. 
 I haven't thanked you." 
 
 "My dear boy," cried Wimpole, waving him 
 49
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 away with his stick, "it is I who have to thank 
 you." 
 
 "And and there is a condition," Carroll said, 
 "which goes with the play. It is that Miss Cav 
 endish is to have the part of Nancy." 
 
 Wimpole looked serious and considered for a 
 moment. 
 
 "Nancy" he said, "the girl who interferes 
 a very good part. I have cast Miss Maddox for 
 it in my mind, but, of course, if the author in 
 sists " 
 
 Marion, with her elbows on the table, clasped 
 her hands appealingly before her. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Wimpole !" she cried, "you owe me 
 that, at least." 
 
 Carroll kaned over and took both of Marion's 
 hands in one of his. 
 
 "It's all right," he said; "the author insists." 
 
 Wimpole waved his stick again as though it 
 were the magic wand of the good fairy. 
 
 "You shall have it," he said. "I recall your 
 performance in 'The New Boy' with pleasure. I 
 take the play, and Miss Cavendish shall be cast 
 for Nancy. We shall begin rehearsals at once. 
 I hope you are a quick study." 
 
 "I'm letter-perfect now," laughed Marion. 
 
 Wimpole turned at the door and nodded to 
 them. They were both so young, so eager, and 
 
 50
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 so jubilant that he felt strangely old and out of it 
 "Good-by, then," he said. 
 
 "Good-by, sir," they both chorused. And 
 Marion cried after him, "And thank you a thou 
 sand times." 
 
 He turned again and looked back at them, but 
 in their rejoicing they had already forgotten him. 
 "Bless you, my children," he said, smiling. As 
 he was about to close the door a young girl came 
 down the passage toward it, and as she was ap 
 parently going to Carroll's rooms, the actor left 
 the door open behind him. 
 
 Neither Marion nor Carroll had noticed his 
 final exit. They were both gazing at each other 
 as though, could they find speech, they would ask 
 if it were true. 
 
 "It's come at last, Marion," Philip said, with 
 an uncertain voice. 
 
 "I could weep," cried Marion. "Philip," she 
 exclaimed, "I would rather see that play succeed 
 than any play ever written, and I would rather 
 play that part in it than Oh, Philip," she ended, 
 "I'm so proud of you !" and rising, she threw her 
 arms about his neck and sobbed on his shoulder. 
 
 Carroll raised one of her hands and kissed the 
 tips of her fingers gently. "I owe it to you, Mari 
 on," he said "all to you." 
 
 This was the tableau that was presented through
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 the open door to Miss Helen Cabot, hurrying on 
 her errand of restitution and good-will, and with 
 Philip's ring and watch clasped in her hand. 
 They had not heard her, nor did they see her at 
 the door, so she drew back quickly and ran along 
 the passage and down the stairs into the street. 
 
 She did not need now to analyze her feelings. 
 They were only too evident. For she could trans 
 late what she had just seen as meaning only one 
 thing that she had considered Philip's love so 
 lightly that she had not felt it passing away from 
 her until her neglect had killed it until it was 
 too late. And now that it was too late she felt 
 that without it her life could not go on. She tried 
 to assure herself that only the fact that she had 
 lost it made it seem invaluable, but this thought 
 did not comfort her she was not deceived by 
 it, she knew that at last she cared for him deep 
 ly and entirely. In her distress she blamed herself 
 bitterly, but she also blamed Philip no less bitterly 
 for having failed to wait for her. "He might 
 have known that I must love him in time," she 
 repeated to herself again and again. She was so 
 unhappy that her letter congratulating Philip on 
 his good fortune in having his comedy accepted 
 seemed to him cold and unfeeling, and as his suc 
 cess meant for him only what it meant to her, he 
 was hurt and grievously disappointed. 
 
 52
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 He accordingly turned the more readily to 
 Marion, whose interests and enthusiasm at the re 
 hearsals of the piece seemed in contrast most 
 friendly and unselfish. He could not help but com 
 pare the attitude of the two girls at this time, 
 when the failure or success of his best work was 
 still undecided. He felt that as Helen took so 
 little interest in his success he could not dare to 
 trouble her with his anxieties concerning it, and 
 she attributed his silence to his preoccupation and 
 interest in Marion. So the two grew apart, each 
 misunderstanding the other and each troubled in 
 spirit at the other's indifference. 
 
 The first night of the play justified all that 
 Marion and Wimpole had claimed for it, and was 
 a great personal triumph for the new playwright. 
 The audience was the typical first-night audience 
 of the class which Charles Wimpole always com 
 manded. It was brilliant, intelligent, and smart, 
 and it came prepared to be pleased. 
 
 From one of the upper stage-boxes Helen and 
 Lady Gower watched the successful progress of 
 the play with an anxiety almost as keen as that of 
 the author. To Helen it seemed as though the 
 giving of these lines to the public these lines 
 which he had so often read to her, and altered to 
 her liking was a desecration. It seemed as 
 though she were losing him indeed as though 
 
 S3
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 he now belonged to these strange people, all of 
 whom were laughing and applauding his words, 
 from the German Princess in the Royal box to 
 the straight-backed Tommy in the pit. Instead 
 of the painted scene before her, she saw the birch- 
 trees by the river at home, where he had first read 
 her the speech to which they were now listening 
 so intensely the speech in which the hero tells 
 the girl he loves her. She remembered that at the 
 time she had thought how wonderful it would 
 be if some day someone made such a speech to 
 her not Philip, but a man she loved. And now ? 
 If Philip would only make that speech to her 
 now! 
 
 He came out at last, with Wimpole leading him, 
 and bowed across a glaring barrier of lights at a 
 misty but vociferous audience that was shouting 
 the generous English bravo ! and standing up to 
 applaud. He raised his eyes to the box where 
 Helen sat, and saw her staring down at the tumult, 
 with her hands clasped under her chin. Her face 
 was colorless, but lit with the excitement of the 
 moment; and he saw that she was crying. 
 
 Lady Gower, from behind her, was clapping 
 her hands delightedly. 
 
 "But, my dear Helen," she remonstrated, 
 breathlessly, "you never told me he was so good- 
 looking." 
 
 54
 
 Saw her staring down at the tumult.
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 "Yes," said Helen, rising abruptly, "he is very 
 good-looking." 
 
 She crossed the box to where her cloak was 
 hanging, but instead of taking it down, buried her 
 face in its folds. 
 
 "My dear child!" cried Lady Gower, in dis 
 may. "What is it? The excitement has been too 
 much for you." 
 
 "No, I am just happy," sobbed Helen. "I am 
 just happy for him." 
 
 "We will go and tell him so, then," said Lady 
 Gower. "I am sure he would like to hear it from 
 you to-night." 
 
 Philip was standing in the centre of the stage, 
 surrounded by many pretty ladies and elderly 
 men. Wimpole was hovering over him as though 
 he had claims upon him by the right of discovery. 
 
 But when Philip saw Helen, he pushed his way 
 toward her eagerly and took her hand in both of 
 his. 
 
 "I am so glad, Phil," she said. She felt it all 
 so deeply that she was afraid to say more, but 
 that meant so much to her that she was sure he 
 would understand. 
 
 He had planned it very differently. For a year 
 he had dreamed that, on the first night of his 
 play, there would be a supper, and that he would 
 rise and (kink her health, and tell his friends and 
 
 55
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 the world that she was the woman he loved, and 
 that she had agreed to marry him, and that at 
 last he was able, through the success of his play, 
 to make her his wife. 
 
 And now they met in a crowd to shake hands, 
 and she went her way with one of her grand 
 ladies, and he was left among a group of chatter 
 ing strangers. The great English playwright took 
 him by the hand and in the hearing of all praised 
 him gracefully and kindly. It did not matter to 
 Philip whether the older playwright believed 
 what he said or not; he knew it was generously 
 meant. 
 
 "I envy you this," the great man was saying. 
 "Don't lose any of it, stay and listen to all they 
 have to say. You will never live through the first 
 night of your first play but once." 
 
 "Yes, I hear them," said Philip, nervously; 
 "they are all too kind. But I don't hear the voice 
 I have been listening for," he added, in a whisper. 
 The older man pressed his hand again quickly. 
 "My dear boy," he said, "I am sorry." 
 
 "Thank you," Philip answered. 
 
 Within a week he had forgotten the great man's 
 fine words of praise, but the clasp of his hand he 
 cherished always. 
 
 Helen met Marion as she was leaving the stage- 
 door and stopped to congratulate her on her suc-
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 cess in the new part. Marion was radiant. To 
 Helen she seemed obstreperously happy and ju 
 bilant. 
 
 "And, Marion," Helen began, bravely, "I also 
 want to congratulate you on something else. You 
 you neither of you have told me yet," she 
 stammered, "but I am such an old friend of both 
 that I will not be kept out of the secret." At 
 these words Marion's air of triumphant gayety 
 vanished; she regarded Helen's troubled eyes 
 closely and kindly. 
 
 "What secret, Helen?" she asked. 
 
 "I came to the door of Philip's room the other 
 day when you did not know I was there," Helen 
 answered, "and I could not help seeing how mat 
 ters were. And I do congratulate you both and 
 wish you oh, such happiness!" Without a word 
 Marion dragged her back down the passage to 
 her dressing-room, and closed the door. 
 
 "Now tell me what you mean," she said. 
 
 "I am sorry if I discovered anything you didn't 
 want known yet," said Helen, "but the door was 
 open. Mr. Wimpole had just left you and had 
 not shut it, and I could not help seeing." 
 
 Marion interrupted her with an eager exclama 
 tion of enlightenment. 
 
 "Oh, you were there, then," she cried. "And 
 you?" she asked, eagerly "you thought Phil 
 
 57
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 cared for me that we are engaged, and it hurt 
 you; you are sorry? Tell me," she demanded, 
 "are you sorry?" 
 
 Helen drew back and stretched out her hand 
 toward the door. 
 
 "How can you !" she exclaimed, indignantly. 
 "You have no right." 
 
 Marion stood between her and the door. 
 
 "I have every right," she said, "to help my 
 friends, and I want to help you and Philip. And, 
 indeed, I do hope you are sorry. I hope you are 
 miserable. And I'm glad you saw me kiss him. 
 That was the first and the last time, and I did it 
 because I was happy and glad for him ; and because 
 I love him, too, but not in the least in the way he 
 loves you. No one ever loved anyone as he loves 
 you. And it's time you found it out. And if I 
 have helped to make you find it out, I'm glad, and 
 I don't care how much I hurt you." 
 
 "Marion!" exclaimed Helen, "what does it 
 mean? Do you mean that you are not engaged; 
 that " 
 
 "Certainly not," Marion answered. "I am go 
 ing to marry Reggie. It is you that Philip loves, 
 and I am very sorry for you that you don't love 
 him." 
 
 Helen clasped Marion's hands in both of 
 hers. 
 
 58
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 "But, Marion!" she cried, "I do, oh, I do!" 
 
 There was a thick yellow fog the next morning, 
 and with it rain and a sticky, depressing dampness 
 which crept through the window-panes, and which 
 neither a fire nor blazing gas-jets could overcome. 
 
 Philip stood in front of the fireplace with the 
 morning papers piled high on the centre-table and 
 scattered over the room about him. 
 
 He had read them all, and he knew now what 
 it was to wake up famous, but he could not taste 
 it. Now that it had come it meant nothing, and 
 that it was so complete a triumph only made it the 
 harder. In his most optimistic dreams he had 
 never imagined success so satisfying as the reality 
 had proved to be; but in his dreams Helen had 
 always held the chief part, and without her, suc 
 cess seemed only to mock him. 
 
 He wanted to lay it all before her, to say, "If 
 you are pleased, I am happy. If you are satisfied, 
 then I am content. It was done for you, and I 
 am wholly yours, and all that I do is yours." 
 And, as though in answer to his thoughts, there 
 was an instant knock at the door, and Helen en 
 tered the room and stood smiling at him across the 
 table. 
 
 Her eyes were lit with excitement, and spoke 
 with many emotions, and her cheeks were brilliant 
 
 59
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 with color. He had never seen her look more 
 beautiful. 
 
 "Why, Helen!" he exclaimed, "how good of 
 you to come. Is there anything wrong? Is any 
 thing the matter?" 
 
 She tried to speak, but faltered, and smiled at 
 him appealingly. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked in great concern. 
 
 Helen drew in her breath quickly, and at the 
 same moment motioned him away and he stepped 
 back and stood watching her in much perplexity. 
 
 With her eyes fixed on his she raised her hands 
 to her head, and her fingers fumbled with the knot 
 of her veil. She pulled it loose, and then, with a 
 sudden courage, lifted her hat proudly, as though 
 it were a coronet, and placed it between them on 
 his table. 
 
 "Philip," she stammered, with the tears in her 
 voice and eyes, "if you will let me I have come 
 to stay." 
 
 The table was no longer between them. He 
 caught her in his arms and kissed her face and 
 her uncovered head again and again. From out 
 side the rain beat drearily and the fog rolled 
 through the street, but inside before the fire the 
 two young people sat close together, asking eager 
 questions or sitting in silence, staring at the flames 
 with wondering, happy eyes. 
 
 60
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn 
 
 The Lion and the Unicorn saw them only once 
 again. It was a month later when they stopped 
 in front of the shop in a four-wheeler, with their 
 baggage mixed on top of it, and steamer-labels 
 pasted over every trunk. 
 
 "And, oh, Prentiss!" Carroll called from the 
 cab-window. "I came near forgetting. I prom 
 ised to gild the Lion and the Unicorn if I won 
 out in London. So have it done, please, and send 
 the bill to me. For I've won out all right." And 
 then he shut the door of the cab, and they drove 
 away forever. 
 
 "Nice gal, that," growled the Lion. "I always 
 liked her. I am glad they've settled it at last." 
 
 The Unicorn sighed sentimentally. "The other 
 one's worth two of her," he said. 
 
 61
 
 CINDERELLA.
 
 Cinderella 
 
 THE servants of the Hotel Salisbury, which 
 is so called because it is situated on Broad 
 way and conducted on the American plan by a 
 man named Riggs, had agreed upon a date for 
 their annual ball and volunteer concert, and had 
 announced that it would eclipse every other annual 
 ball in the history of the hotel. As the Hotel 
 Salisbury had been only two years in existence, 
 this was not an idle boast, and it had the effect of 
 inducing many people to buy the tickets, which 
 sold at a dollar apiece, and were good for "one 
 gent and a lady," and entitled the bearer to a 
 hat-check without extra charge. 
 
 In the flutter of preparation all ranks were tem 
 porarily levelled, and social barriers taken down 
 with the mutual consent of those separated by 
 them; the night-clerk so far unbent as to person 
 ally request the colored hall-boy Number Eight to 
 play a banjo-solo at the concert, which was to fill 
 in the pauses between the dances, and the chamber 
 maids timidly consulted with the lady telegraph- 
 operator and the lady in charge of the telephone, 
 as to whether or not they intended to wear hats. 
 
 From " Cinderella and Other Steries." Copyright, 1898. by Charles Scribner's Sons.
 
 Cinderella 
 
 And so every employee on every floor of the 
 hotel was working individually for the success of 
 the ball, from the engineers in charge of the elec 
 tric-light plant in the cellar to the night-watchman 
 on the ninth story, and the elevator-boys, who be 
 longed to no floor in particular. 
 
 Miss Celestine Terrell, who was Mrs. Grahame 
 West in private life, and young Grahame West, 
 who played the part opposite to hers in the Gilbert 
 and Sullivan Opera that was then in the third 
 month of its New York run, were among the hon 
 ored patrons of the Hotel Salisbury. Miss Ter 
 rell, in her utter inability to adjust the American 
 coinage to English standards, and also in the kind 
 ness of her heart, had given too generous tips to 
 all of the hotel waiters, and some of this money 
 had passed into the gallery window of the Broad 
 way Theatre, where the hotel waiters had heard 
 her sing and seen her dance, and had failed to 
 recognize her young husband in the Lord Chan 
 cellor's wig and black silk court-dress. So they 
 knew that she was a celebrated personage, and they 
 urged the maitre d' hot el to invite her to the ball, 
 and then persuade her to take a part in their vol 
 unteer concert. 
 
 Paul, the head-waiter, or "Pierrot," as Grahame 
 West called him, because it was shorter, as he ex 
 plained, hovered over the two young English peo- 
 
 66
 
 Cinderella 
 
 pie one night at supper, and served them lavishly 
 with his own hands. 
 
 "Miss Terrell," said Paul, nervously "I beg 
 pardon, Madam, Mrs. Grahame West, I should 
 say I would like to make an invitation to you." 
 
 Celestine looked at her husband inquiringly, 
 and bowed her head for Paul to continue. 
 
 "The employees of the Salisbury give the an 
 nual ball and concert on the sixteenth of Decem 
 ber, and the committee have inquired and request 
 ed of me, on account of your kindness, to ask you 
 would you be so polite as to sing a little song for 
 us at the night of our ball?" 
 
 The head-waiter drew a long breath and 
 straightened himself with a sense of relief at hav 
 ing done his part, whether the Grahame Wests 
 did theirs or not. 
 
 As a rule, Miss Terrell did not sing in private, 
 and had only broken this rule twice, when the 
 inducements which led her to do so were forty 
 pounds for each performance, and the fact that 
 her beloved Princess of Wales was to be present. 
 So she hesitated for an instant. 
 
 "Why, you are very good," she said, doubt 
 fully. "Will there be any other people there 
 anyone not an employee, I mean?" 
 
 Paul misunderstood her and became a servant 
 again. 
 
 67
 
 Cinderella 
 
 "No, I am afraid there will be only the em 
 ployees, Madam," he said. 
 
 "Oh, then, I should be very glad to come," mur 
 mured Celcstinc, sweetly. "But I never sing out of 
 the theatre, so you mustn't mind if it is not good." 
 
 The head-waiter played a violent tattoo on the 
 back of the chair in his delight, and balanced and 
 bowed. 
 
 "Ah, we are very proud and pleased that we 
 can induce Madam to make so great exceptions," 
 he declared. "The committee will be most happy. 
 We will send a carriage for Madam, and a bou 
 quet for Madam also," he added, grandly, as one 
 who was not to be denied the etiquette to which 
 he plainly showed he was used. 
 
 "Will we come?" cried Van Bibber, incredu 
 lously, as he and Travers sat watching Grahame 
 make up in his dressing-room. "I should say we 
 would come. And you must all take supper with 
 us first, and we will get Letty Chamberlain from 
 the Gaiety Company and Lester to come, too, and 
 make them each do a turn." 
 
 "And we can dance on the floor ourselves, can't 
 we?" asked Grahame West, "as they do at home 
 Christmas-eve in the servants' hall, when her lady 
 ship dances in the same set with the butler, and the 
 men waltz with the cook." 
 
 68
 
 Cinderella 
 
 "Well, over here," said Van Bibber, "you'll 
 have to be careful that you're properly presented 
 to the cook first, or she'll appeal to the floor com 
 mittee and have you thrown out." 
 
 "The interesting thing about that ball," said 
 Travers, as he and Van Bibber walked home that 
 night, "is the fact that those hotel people are get 
 ting a galaxy of stars to amuse them for nothing 
 who wouldn't exhibit themselves at a Fifth Ave 
 nue dance for all the money in Wall Street. And 
 the joke of it is going to be that the servants will 
 vastly prefer the banjo-solo by hall-boy Number 
 Eight." 
 
 Lyric Hall lies just this side of the Forty- 
 second Street station along the line of the Sixth 
 Avenue Elevated road, and you can look into 
 its windows from the passing train. It was after 
 one o'clock when the invited guests and their 
 friends pushed open the storm-doors and were rec 
 ognized by the anxious committee-men who were 
 taking tickets at the top of the stairs. The com 
 mittee-men fled in different directions, shouting for 
 Mr. Paul, and Mr. Paul arrived beaming with 
 delight and moisture, and presented a huge bou 
 quet to Mrs. West, and welcomed her friends with 
 hospitable warmth. 
 
 Mrs. West and Miss Chamberlain took off their 
 hats and the men gave up their coats, not with- 
 
 69
 
 Cinderella 
 
 out misgivings, to a sleepy young man who said 
 pleasantly,, as he dragged them into the coat-room 
 window, "that they would be playing in great luck 
 if they ever saw them again." 
 
 "I don't need to give you no checks," he ex 
 plained; "just ask for the coats with real fur on 
 'em. Nobody else has any." 
 
 There was a balcony overhanging the floor, and 
 the invited guests were escorted to it, and given 
 seats where they could look down upon the dancers 
 below, and the committee-men, in dangling badges 
 with edges of silver fringe, stood behind their 
 chairs and poured out champagne for them lav 
 ishly, and tore up the wine-check which the bar 
 keeper brought with it, with princely hospitality. 
 
 The entrance of the invited guests created but 
 small interest, and neither the beauty of the two 
 English girls nor Lester's well-known features, 
 which smiled from shop-windows and on every 
 ash-barrel in the New York streets, aroused any 
 particular comment. The employees were much 
 more occupied with the Lancers then in progress 
 and with the joyful actions of one of their number 
 who was playing blind-man's-buff with himself, 
 and swaying from set to set in search of his part 
 ner, who had given him up as hopeless and retired 
 to the supper-room for crackers and beer. 
 
 Some of the ladies wore bonnets, and others 
 70
 
 Cinderella 
 
 wore flowers in their hair, and a half-dozen were 
 in gowns which were obviously intended for dan 
 cing and nothing else. But none of them were in 
 decollete gowns. A few wore gloves. They had 
 copied the fashions of their richer sisters with the 
 intuitive taste of the American girl of their class, 
 and they waltzed quite as well as the ladies whose 
 dresses they copied, and many of them were ex 
 ceedingly pretty. The costumes of the gentlemen 
 varied from the clothes they wore nightly when 
 waiting on the table, to cutaway coats with white 
 satin ties, and the regular blue and brass-buttoned 
 uniform of the hotel. 
 
 "I am going to dance," said Van Bibber, "if 
 Mr. Pierrot will present me to one of the ladies." 
 
 Paul introduced him to a lady in a white cheese 
 cloth dress and black walking-shoes, with whom 
 no one else would dance, and the musicians struck 
 up "The Band Played On," and they launched 
 out upon a slippery floor. 
 
 Van Bibber was conscious that his friends were 
 applauding him in dumb show from the balcony, 
 and when his partner asked who they were, he re 
 pudiated them altogether, and said he could not 
 imagine, but that he guessed from their bad man 
 ners they were professional entertainers hired for 
 the evening. 
 
 The music stopped abruptly, and as he saw Mrs.
 
 Cinderella 
 
 West leaving the balcony, he knew that his turn 
 had come, and as she passed him he applauded 
 her vociferously, and as no one else applauded 
 even slightly, she grew very red. 
 
 Her friends knew that they formed the audi 
 ence which she dreaded, and she knew that they 
 were rejoicing in her embarrassment, which the 
 head of the downstairs department, as Mr. Paul 
 described him, increased to an hysterical point by 
 introducing her as "Miss Ellen Terry, the great 
 English actress, who would now oblige with a 
 song." 
 
 The man had seen the name of the wonderful 
 English actress on the bill-boards in front of Ab 
 bey's Theatre, and he had been told that Miss 
 Terrell was English, and confused the two names. 
 As he passed Van Bibber he drew his waistcoat 
 into shape with a proud shrug of his shoulders, 
 and said, anxiously, "I gave your friend a good 
 introduction, anyway, didn't I?" 
 
 "You did, indeed," Van Bibber answered. 
 "You couldn't have surprised her more; and it 
 made a great hit with me, too." 
 
 No one in the room listened to the singing. The 
 gentlemen had crossed their legs comfortably and 
 were expressing their regret to their partners that 
 so much time was wasted in sandwiching songs 
 between the waltzes, and the ladies were engaged 
 
 72
 
 Cinderella 
 
 in criticising Celestine's hair, which she wore in 
 a bun. They thought that it might be English, 
 but it certainly was not their idea of good style. 
 
 Celestine was conscious of the fact that her hus 
 band and Lester were hanging far over the bal 
 cony, holding their hands to their eyes as though 
 they were opera-glasses, and exclaiming with ad 
 miration and delight; and when she had finished 
 the first verse, they pretended to think that the 
 song was over, and shouted, "Bravo, encore !" and 
 applauded frantically, and then, apparently over 
 come with confusion at their mistake, sank back 
 entirely from sight. 
 
 "I think Miss Terrell's an elegant singer," Van 
 Bibber's partner said to him. "I seen her at the 
 hotel frequently. She has such a pleasant way 
 with her, quite lady-like. She's the only actress 
 I ever saw that has retained her timidity. She acts 
 as though she were shy, don't she?" 
 
 Van Bibber, who had spent a month on the 
 Thames the summer before with the Grahame 
 Wests, surveyed Celestine with sudden interest, as 
 though he had never seen her before until that 
 moment, and agreed that she did look shy, one 
 might almost say frightened to death. Mrs. West 
 rushed through the second verse of the song, bowed 
 breathlessly, and ran down the steps of the stage 
 and back to the refuge of the balcony, while the 
 
 73
 
 Cinderella 
 
 audience applauded with perfunctory politeness 
 and called clamorously to the musicians to "Let 
 her go!" 
 
 "And that is the song," commented Van Bibber, 
 "that gets six encores and three calls every night 
 on Broadway!" 
 
 Grahame West affected to be greatly chagrined 
 at his wife's failure to charm the chambermaids 
 and porters with her little love-song, and when 
 his turn came, he left them with alacrity, assuring 
 them that they would now see the difference, as 
 he would sing a song better suited to their level. 
 
 But the song that had charmed London and 
 captured the unprotected coast-town of New York, 
 fell on heedless ears; and, except the evil ones in 
 the gallery, no one laughed and no one listened, 
 and Lester declared with tears in his eyes that he 
 would not go through such an ordeal for the re 
 ceipts of an Actors' Fund Benefit. 
 
 Van Bibber's partner caught him laughing at 
 Grahame West's vain efforts to amuse, and said, 
 tolerantly, that Mr. West was certainly comical, 
 but that she had a lady friend with her who could 
 recite pieces which were that comic that you'd die 
 of laughing. She presented her friend to Van Bib 
 ber, and he said he hoped that they were going 
 to hear her recite, as laughing must be a pleasant 
 death. But the young lady explained that she btd 
 
 74
 
 Cinderella 
 
 had the misfortune to lose her only brother that 
 summer, and that she had given up everything but 
 dancing in consequence. She said she did not think 
 it looked right to see a girl in mourning recite 
 comic monologues. 
 
 Van Bibber struggled to be sympathetic, and 
 asked what her brother had died of. She told 
 him that "he died of a Thursday," and the con 
 versation came to an embarrassing pause. 
 
 Van Bibber's partner had another friend in a 
 gray corduroy waistcoat and tan shoes, who was 
 of Hebraic appearance. He also wore several 
 very fine rings, and officiated with what was cer 
 tainly religious tolerance at the M. E. Bethel 
 Church. She said he was an elegant or gan ist, 
 putting the emphasis on the second syllable, which 
 made Van Bibber think that she was speaking of 
 some religious body to which he belonged. But 
 the organist made his profession clear by explain 
 ing that the committee had just invited him to 
 oblige the company with a solo on the piano, but 
 that he had been hitting the champagne so hard 
 that he doubted if he could tell the keys from the 
 pedals, and he added that if they'd excuse him he 
 would go to sleep, which he immediately did with 
 his head on the shoulder of the lady recitation- 
 ist, who tactfully tried not to notice that he was 
 there. 
 
 75
 
 Cinderella 
 
 They were all waltzing again, and as Van Bib 
 ber guided his partner for a second time around 
 the room, he noticed a particularly handsome girl 
 in a walking-dress, who was doing some sort of 
 a fancy step with a solemn, grave-faced young 
 man in the hotel livery. They seemed by their 
 manner to know each other very well, and they 
 had apparently practised the step that they were 
 doing often before. 
 
 The girl was much taller than the man, and was 
 superior to him in every way. Her movements 
 were freer and less conscious, and she carried her 
 head and shoulders as though she had never bent 
 them above a broom. Her complexion was soft 
 and her hair of the finest, deepest auburn. Among 
 all the girls upon the floor she was the most re 
 markable, even if her dancing had not immediately 
 distinguished her. 
 
 The step which she and her partner were ex 
 hibiting was one that probably had been taught 
 her by a professor of dancing at some East Side 
 academy, at the rate of fifty cents per hour, and 
 which she no doubt believed was the latest step 
 danced in the gilded halls of the Few Hundred. 
 In this waltz the two dancers held each other's 
 hands, and the man swung his partner behind him, 
 and then would turn and take up the step with 
 her where they had dropped it; or they swung 
 
 76
 
 Cinderella 
 
 around and around each other several times, as 
 people do in fancy skating, and sometimes he spun 
 her so quickly one way that the skirt of her walk 
 ing-dress was wound as tightly around her legs 
 and ankles as a cord around a top, and then as he 
 swung her in the opposite direction, it unwound 
 again, and wrapped about her from the other side. 
 They varied this when it pleased them with bal 
 ancings and steps and posturings that were not suf 
 ficiently extravagant to bring any comment from 
 the other dancers, but which were so full of grace 
 and feeling for time and rhythm, that Van Bibber 
 continually reversed his partner so that he might 
 not for an instant lose sight of the girl with auburn 
 hair. 
 
 "She is a very remarkable dancer," he said at 
 last, apologetically. "Do you know who she is?" 
 
 His partner had observed his interest with in 
 creasing disapproval, and she smiled triumphantly 
 now at the chance that his question gave her. 
 
 "She is the seventh-floor chambermaid," she 
 said. "I," she added in a tone which marked the 
 social superiority, "am a checker and marker." 
 
 "Really?" said Van Bibber, with a polite accent 
 of proper awe. 
 
 He decided that he must see more of this Cin 
 derella of the Hotel Salisbury; and dropping his 
 partner by the side of the lady recitationist, he 
 
 77
 
 Cinderella 
 
 bowed his thanks and hurried to the gallery for 
 a better view. 
 
 When he reached it he found his professional 
 friends hanging over the railing, watching every 
 movement which the girl made with an intense 
 and unaffected interest. 
 
 "Have you noticed that girl with red hair?" he 
 asked, as he pulled up a chair beside them. 
 
 But they only nodded and kept their eyes fast 
 ened on the opening in the crowd through which 
 she had disappeared. 
 
 "There she is !" Grahame West cried, excitedly, 
 as the girl swept out from the mass of dancers into 
 the clear space. "Now you can see what I mean, 
 Celestine," he said. "Where he turns her like that. 
 We could do it in the shadow-dance in the second 
 act. It's very pretty. She lets go his right hand 
 and then he swings her and balances backward un 
 til she takes up the step again, when she faces him. 
 It is very simple and very effective. Isn't it, 
 George ?" 
 
 Lester nodded and said, "Yes, very. She's a 
 born dancer. You can teach people steps, but you 
 can't teach them to be graceful." 
 
 "She reminds me of Sylvia Grey," said Miss 
 Chamberlain. "There's nothing violent about it, 
 or faked, is there? It's just the poetry of motion, 
 without any tricks." 
 
 78
 
 Cinderella 
 
 Lester, who was a trick-dancer himself, and 
 Grahame West, who was one of the best eccen 
 tric dancers in England, assented to this cheer 
 fully. 
 
 Van Bibber listened to the comments of the 
 authorities and smiled grimly. The contrast which 
 their lives presented to that of the young girl whom 
 they praised so highly, struck him as being most 
 interesting. Here were two men who had made 
 comic dances a profound and serious study, and 
 the two women who had lifted dancing to the 
 plane of a fine art, all envying and complimenting 
 a girl who was doing for her own pleasure that 
 which was to them hard work and a livelihood. 
 But while they were going back the next day to 
 be applauded and petted and praised by a friendly 
 public, she was to fly like Cinderella, to take up 
 her sweeping and dusting and the making of beds, 
 and the answering of peremptory summonses from 
 electric buttons. 
 
 "A good teacher could make her worth one hun 
 dred dollars a week in six lessons," said Lester, 
 dispassionately. "I'd be willing to make her an 
 offer myself, if I hadn't too many dancers in the 
 piece already." 
 
 "A hundred dollars that's twenty pounds," 
 said Mrs. Grahame West. "You do pay such 
 prices over here! But I quite agree that she is 
 
 79
 
 Cinderella 
 
 very graceful; and she is so unconscious, too, isn't 
 she?" 
 
 The interest in Cinderella ceased when the 
 waltzing stopped, and the attention of those in 
 the gallery was riveted with equal intensity upon 
 Miss Chamberlain and Travers, who had faced 
 each other in a quadrille, Miss Chamberlain hav 
 ing accepted the assistant barkeeper for a partner, 
 while Travers contented himself with a tall, elder 
 ly female, who in business hours had entire charge 
 of the linen department. The barkeeper was a 
 melancholy man with a dyed mustache, and when 
 he asked the English dancer from what hotel she 
 came, and she, thinking he meant at what hotel 
 was she stopping, told him, he said that that was 
 a slow place, and that if she would let him know 
 when she had her night off, he would be pleased to 
 meet her at the Twenty-third Street station of the 
 Sixth Avenue road on the uptown side, and would 
 take her to the theatre, for which, he explained, 
 he was able to obtain tickets for nothing, as so 
 many men gave him their return checks for drinks. 
 
 Miss Chamberlain told him in return that she 
 just doted on the theatre, and promised to meet 
 him the very next evening. She sent him anony 
 mously instead two seats in the front row for her 
 performance. She had much delight the next night 
 
 80
 
 Cinderella 
 
 in watching his countenance when, after arriving 
 somewhat late and cross, he recognized the radiant 
 beauty on the stage as the young person with whom 
 he had condescended to dance. 
 
 When the quadrille was over she introduced him 
 to Travers, and Travers told him he mixed drinks 
 at the Knickerbocker Club, and that his greatest 
 work was a Van Bibber cocktail. And when the 
 barkeeper asked for the recipe and promised to 
 "push it along," Travers told him he never made 
 it twice the same, as it depended entirely on his 
 mood. 
 
 Mrs. Grahame West and Lester were scandal 
 ized at the conduct of these two young people and 
 ordered the party home, and as the dance was 
 growing somewhat noisy and the gentlemen were 
 smoking as they danced, the invited guests made 
 their bows to Mr. Paul and went out into cold, 
 silent streets, followed by the thanks and compli 
 ments of seven bare-headed and swaying commit 
 tee-men. 
 
 The next week Lester went on the road with 
 his comic opera company; the Grahame Wests 
 sailed to England; Letty Chamberlain and the 
 other "Gee Gees," as Travers called the Gaiety 
 Girls, departed for Chicago, and Travers and 
 Van Bibber were left alone. 
 
 81
 
 Cinderella 
 
 The annual ball was a month in the past when 
 Van Bibber found Travers at breakfast at their 
 club, and dropped into a chair beside him with a 
 sigh of weariness and indecision. 
 
 "What's the trouble? Have some breakfast?" 
 said Travers, cheerfully. 
 
 "Thank you, no," said Van Bibber, gazing at 
 his friend doubtfully; "I want to ask you what 
 you think of this. Do you remember that girl at 
 that servants' ball?" 
 
 "Which girl? Tall girl with red hair did 
 fancy dance? Yes why?" 
 
 "Well, I've been thinking about her lately," said 
 Van Bibber, "and what they said of her dancing. 
 It seems to me that if it's as good as they thought 
 it was, the girl ought to be told of it and encour 
 aged. They evidently meant what they said. It 
 wasn't as though they were talking about her to 
 her relatives and had to say something pleasant. 
 Lester thought she could make a hundred dollars 
 a week if she had had six lessons. Well, six les 
 sons wouldn't cost much, not more than ten dollars 
 at the most, and a hundred a week for an original 
 outlay of ten is a good investment." 
 
 Travers nodded his head in assent, and whacked 
 an egg viciously with his spoon. "What's your 
 scheme?" he said. "Is your idea to help the lady 
 for her own sake sort of a philanthropic snap 
 
 82
 
 Cinderella 
 
 or as a speculation? We might make it pay as a 
 speculation. You see nobody knows about her 
 except you and me. We might form her into a 
 sort of stock company and teach her to dance, and 
 secure her engagements and then take our com 
 mission out of her salary. Is that what you were 
 thinking of doing?" 
 
 "No, that was not my idea," said Van Bibber, 
 smiling. "I hadn't any plan. I just thought I'd 
 go down to that hotel and tell her that in the 
 opinion of the four people best qualified to know 
 what good dancing is, she is a good dancer, and 
 then leave the rest to her. She must have some 
 friends or relations who would help her to make 
 a start. If it's true that she can make a hit as a 
 dancer, it seems a pity that she shouldn't know it, 
 doesn't it? If she succeeded, she'd make a pot of 
 money, and if she failed, she'd be just where she 
 is now." 
 
 Travers considered this subject deeply, with 
 knit brows. 
 
 "That's so," he said. "I'll tell you what let's 
 do. Let's go see some of the managers of those 
 continuous performance places, and tell them we 
 have a dark horse that the Grahame Wests and 
 Letty Chamberlain herself and George Lester 
 think is the coming dancer of the age, and ask 
 them to give her a chance. And we'll make some
 
 Cinderella 
 
 sort of a contract with them. We ought to fix it 
 so that she is to get bigger money the longer they 
 keep her in the bill, have her salary on a rising 
 scale. Come on," he exclaimed, warming to the 
 idea. "Let's go now. What have you got to 
 do?" 
 
 "I've got nothing better to do than just that," 
 Van Bibber declared, briskly. 
 
 The managers whom they interviewed were in 
 terested but non-committal. They agreed that the 
 girl must be a remarkable dancer indeed to war 
 rant such praise from such authorities, but they 
 wanted to see her and judge for themselves, and 
 they asked to be given her address, which the im 
 presarios refused to disclose. But they secured 
 from the managers the names of several men who 
 taught fancy dancing, and who prepared aspirants 
 for the vaudeville stage, and having obtained from 
 them their prices and their opinion as to how long 
 a time would be required to give the finishing 
 touches to a dancer already accomplished in the 
 art, they directed their steps to the Hotel Salis 
 bury. 
 
 " 'From the Seventh Story to the Stage,' " said 
 Travers. "She will make very good newspaper 
 paragraphs, won't she? 'The New American 
 Dancer, indorsed by Celestine Terrell, Letty 
 Chamberlain, and Cortlandt Van Bibber.' And 
 
 84
 
 Cinderella 
 
 we could get her outside engagements to dance at 
 studios and evening parties after her regular per 
 formance, couldn't we?" he continued. "She 
 ought to ask from fifty to a hundred dollars a 
 night. With her regular salary that would aver 
 age about three hundred and fifty a week. She is 
 probably making three dollars a week now, and 
 eats in the servants' hall." 
 
 "And then we will send her abroad," interrupt 
 ed Van Bibber, taking up the tale, "and she will 
 do the music-halls in London. If she plays three 
 halls a night, say one on the Surrey Side, and 
 Islington, and a smart West End hall like the 
 Empire or the Alhambra, at fifteen guineas a turn, 
 that would bring her in five hundred and twenty- 
 five dollars a week. And then she would go to the 
 Folies Bergere in Paris, and finally to St. Peters 
 burg and Milan, and then come back to dance in 
 the Grand Opera season, under Gus Harris, with 
 a great international reputation, and hung with 
 flowers and medals and diamond sunbursts and 
 things." 
 
 "Rather," said Travers, shaking his head en 
 thusiastically. "And after that we must invent a 
 new dance for her, with colored lights and mechan 
 ical snaps and things, and have it patented; and 
 finally she will get her picture on soda-cracker 
 boxes and cigarette advertisements, and have a 
 
 85
 
 Cinderella 
 
 race-horse named after her, and give testimonials 
 for nerve-tonics and soap. Does fame reach far 
 ther than that?" 
 
 "I think not," said Van Bibber, "unless they 
 give her name to a new make of bicycle. We must 
 give her a new name, anyway, and rechristen her, 
 whatever her name may be. We'll call her Cin 
 derella La Cinderella. That sounds fine, doesn't 
 it, even if it is rather long for the very largest 
 type." ^ 
 
 "It isn't much longer than Carmencita," sug 
 gested the other. "And people who have the 
 proud knowledge of knowing her like you and me 
 will call her 'Cinders' for short. And when we 
 read of her dancing before the Czar of All the 
 Russias, and leading the ballet at the Grand Op 
 era House in Paris, we'll say, 'that is our handi 
 work,* and we will feel that we have not lived in 
 
 vain." 
 
 "Seventh floor, please," said Van Bibber to the 
 elevator-boy. 
 
 The elevator-boy was a young man of serious 
 demeanor, with a smooth-shaven face and a square, 
 determined jaw. There was something about him 
 which seemed familiar, but Van Bibber could not 
 determine just what it was. The elevator stopped 
 to allow some people to leave it at the second 
 
 86
 
 Cinderella 
 
 floor, and as the young man shoved the door to 
 again, Van Bibber asked him if he happened to 
 know of a chambermaid with red hair a tall girl 
 on the seventh floor, a girl who danced very 
 well. 
 
 The wire rope of the elevator slipped less rapid 
 ly through the hands of the young man who con 
 trolled it, and he turned and fixed his eyes with 
 sudden interest on Van Bibber's face, and scru 
 tinized him and his companion with serious con 
 sideration. 
 
 "Yes, I know her I know who you mean, any 
 way," he said. "Why?" 
 
 "Why?" echoed Van Bibber, raising his eyes. 
 "We wish to see her on a matter of business. Can 
 you tell me her name?" 
 
 The elevator was running so slowly now that 
 *;ts movement upward was barely perceptible. 
 
 "Her name's Annie Annie Crehan. Excuse 
 me," said the young man, doubtfully, "ain't you 
 the young fellows who came to our ball with that 
 English lady, the one that sung?" 
 
 "Yes," Van Bibber assented, pleasantly. "We 
 were there. That's where I've seen you before. 
 You were there, too, weren't you?" 
 
 "Me and Annie was dancing together most all 
 the evening. I seen all youse watching her." 
 
 "Of course," exclaimed Van Bibber. "I re- 
 87
 
 Cinderella 
 
 member you now. Oh, then you must know her 
 quite well. Maybe you can help us. We want 
 to put her on the stage." 
 
 The elevator came to a stop with an abrupt jerk, 
 and the young man shoved his hands behind him, 
 and leaned back against one of the mirrors in its 
 side. 
 
 "On the stage," he repeated. "Why?" 
 
 Van Bibber smiled and shrugged his shoulders 
 in some embarrassment at this peremptory chal 
 lenge. But there was nothing in the young man's 
 tone or manner that could give offence. He 
 seemed much in earnest, and spoke as though they 
 must understand that he had some right to ques 
 tion. 
 
 "Why? Because of her dancing. She is a very 
 remarkable dancer. All of those actors with us 
 that night said so. You must know that yourself 
 better than anyone else, since you can dance with 
 her. She could make quite a fortune as a dancer, 
 and we have persuaded several managers to prom 
 ise to give her a trial. And if she needs money 
 to pay for lessons, or to buy the proper dresses 
 and slippers and things, we are willing to give it 
 to her, or to lend it to her, if she would like that 
 better." 
 
 "Why?" repeated the young man, immovably. 
 His manner was not encouraging. 
 
 88
 
 Cinderella 
 
 "Why what?" interrupted Travers, with grow 
 ing impatience. 
 
 "Why are you willing to give her money? You 
 don't know her." 
 
 Van Bibber looked at Travers, and Travers 
 smiled in some annoyance. The electric bell rang 
 violently from different floors, but the young man 
 did not heed it. He had halted the elevator be 
 tween two landings, and he now seated himself 
 on the velvet cushions and crossed one leg over 
 the other, as though for a protracted debate. 
 Travers gazed about him in humorous apprehen 
 sion, as though alarmed at the position in which 
 he found himself, hung as it were between the 
 earth and sky. 
 
 "I swear I am an unarmed man," he said, in a 
 whisper. 
 
 "Our intentions are well meant, I assure you," 
 said Van Bibber, with an amused smile. "The 
 girl is working ten hours a day for very little 
 money, isn't she? You know she is, when she 
 could make a great deal of money by working half 
 as hard. We have some influence with theatrical 
 people, and we meant merely to put her in the way 
 of bettering her position, and to give her the 
 chance to do something which she can do better 
 han many others, while almost anyone, I take it, 
 can sweep and make beds. If she were properly 
 
 89
 
 Cinderella 
 
 managed, she could become a great dancer, and 
 delight thousands of people add to the gayety 
 of nations, as it were. She's hardly doing that 
 now, is she? Have you any objections to that? 
 What right have you to make objections, any 
 way?" 
 
 The young man regarded the two young gen 
 tlemen before him with a dogged countenance, but 
 there was now in his eyes a look of helplessness 
 and of great disquietude. 
 
 "We're engaged to be married, Annie and me," 
 he said. "That's it." 
 
 "Oh," exclaimed Van Bibber, "I beg your par 
 don. That's different. Well, in that case, you 
 can help us very much, if you wish. We leave 
 it entirely with you!" 
 
 "I don't want that you should leave it with 
 me," said the young man, harshly. "I don't w r ant 
 to have nothing to do with it. Annie can speak 
 for herself. I knew it was coming to this," he said, 
 leaning forward and clasping his hands together, 
 "or something like this. I've never felt dead sure 
 of Annie, never once. I always knew something 
 would happen." 
 
 "Why, nothing has happened," said Van Bib 
 ber, soothingly. "You would both benefit by it. 
 We would be as willing to help two as one. You 
 would both be better off." 
 
 90
 
 Cinderella 
 
 The young man raised his head and stared at 
 Van Bibber reprovingly. 
 
 "You know better than that," he said. "You 
 know what I'd look like. Of course she could 
 make money as a dancer I've known that for 
 some time but she hasn't thought of it yet, and 
 she'd never have thought of it herself. But the 
 question isn't me or what I want. It's Annie. Is 
 she going to be happier or not, that's the question. 
 And I'm telling you that she couldn't be any hap 
 pier than she is now. I know that, too. We're 
 just as contented as two folks ever was. We've 
 been saving for three months, and buying furni 
 ture from the instalment people, and next month 
 we were going to move into a flat on Seventh Ave 
 nue, quite handy to the hotel. If she goes onto 
 the stage could she be any happier? And if you're 
 honest in saying you're thinking of the two of us 
 I ask you where would I come in ? I'll be pull 
 ing this wire rope and she'll be all over the coun 
 try, and her friends won't be my friends and her 
 ways won't be my ways. She'll get out of reach 
 of me in a week, and I won't be in it. I'm not the 
 sort to go loafing round while my wife supports 
 me, carrying her satchel for her. And there's 
 nothing I can do but just this. She'd come back 
 here some day and live in the front floor suite, and 
 I'd pull her up and down in this elevator. That's 
 
 QI
 
 Cinderella 
 
 what will happen. Here's what you two gentle 
 men are doing." The young man leaned forward 
 eagerly. "You're offering a change to two people 
 that are as well off now as they ever hope to be, 
 and they're contented. We don't know nothin' 
 better. Now, are you dead sure that you're giving 
 us something better than what we've got? You 
 can't make me any happier than I am, and as far 
 as Annie knows, up to now, she couldn't be better 
 fixed, and no one could care for her more. 
 
 "My God ! gentlemen," he cried, desperately, 
 "think! She's all I've got. There's lots of dan 
 cers, but she's not a dancer to me, she's just Annie. 
 I don't want her to delight the gayety of nations. 
 I want her for myself. Maybe I'm selfish, but I 
 can't help that. She's mine, and you're trying to 
 take her away from me. Suppose she was your 
 girl, and someone was sneaking her away from 
 you. You'd try to stop it, wouldn't you, if she 
 was all you had?" He stopped breathlessly and 
 stared alternately from one to the other of the 
 young men before him. Their countenances 
 showed an expression of well-bred concern. 
 
 "It's for you to judge," he went on, helplessly; 
 "if you want to take the responsibility, well and 
 good, that's for you to say. I'm not stopping 
 you, but she's all I've got." 
 
 The young man stopped, and there was a pause 
 92
 
 Cinderella 
 
 while he eyed them eagerly. The elevator-bell 
 rang out again with vicious indignation. 
 
 Travers struck at the toe of his boot with his 
 stick and straightened his shoulders. 
 
 "I think you're extremely selfish, if you ask me," 
 he said. 
 
 The young man stood up quickly and took his 
 elevator-rope in both hands. "All right," he said, 
 quietly, "that settles it. I'll take you up to Annie 
 now, and you can arrange it with her. I'm not 
 standing in her way." 
 
 "Hold on," protested Van Bibber and Travers 
 in a breath. "Don't be in such a hurry," growled 
 Travers. 
 
 The young man stood immovable, with his 
 hands on the wire and looking down on them, his 
 face full of doubt and distress. 
 
 "I don't want to stand in Annie's way," he re 
 peated, as though to himself. "I'll do whatever 
 you say. I'll take you to the seventh floor or I'll 
 drop you to the street. It's up to you, gentle 
 men," he added, helplessly, and turning his back 
 to them threw his arm against the wall of the ele 
 vator and buried his face upon it. 
 
 There was an embarrassing pause, during which 
 Van Bibber scowled at himself in the mirror oppo. 
 site as though to ask it what a man who lookedl 
 like that should do under such trying circumstances. 
 
 93
 
 Cinderella 
 
 He turned at last and stared at Travers. 
 " 'Where ignorance is bliss, it's folly to be wise,' " 
 he whispered, keeping his face toward his friend. 
 "What do you say? Personally I don't see myself 
 in the part of Providence. It's the case of the 
 poor man and his one ewe lamb, isn't it?" 
 
 "We don't want his ewe lamb, do we?" growled 
 Travers. "It's a case of the dog in a manger, I 
 say. I thought we were going to be fairy god 
 fathers to 'La Cinderella.' ' 
 
 "The lady seems to be supplied with a most 
 determined godfather as it is," returned Van 
 Bibber. 
 
 The elevator-boy raised his face and stared at 
 them with haggard eyes. 
 
 "Well?" he begged. 
 
 Van Bibber smiled upon him reassuringly, with 
 a look partly of respect and partly of pity. 
 
 "You can drop us to the street," he said. 
 
 94
 
 MISS DELAMAR'S 
 UNDERSTUDY
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 A YOUNG man runs two chances of marry 
 ing the wrong woman. He marries her 
 because she is beautiful, and because he persuades 
 himself that every other lovable attribute must be 
 associated with such beauty, or because she is in 
 love with him. If this latter is the case, she gives 
 certain values to what he thinks and to what he 
 says which no other woman gives, and so he ob 
 serves to himself, "This is the woman who best 
 understands me." 
 
 You can reverse this and say that young women 
 run the same risks, but as men are seldom beauti 
 ful, the first danger is eliminated. Women still 
 marry men, however, because they are loved by 
 them, and in time the woman grows to depend 
 upon this love and to need it, and is not content 
 without it, and so she consents to marry the man 
 for no other reason than because he cares for her. 
 For if a dog, even, runs up to you wagging his 
 tail and acting as though he were glad to see you, 
 you pat him on the head and say, "What a nice 
 
 From " Cinderella and Other Stories." Copyright, 1898, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
 97
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 dog." You like him because he likes you, and not 
 because he belongs to a fine breed of animal and 
 could take blue ribbons at bench shows. 
 
 This is the story of a young man who was in 
 love with a beautiful woman, and who allowed her 
 beauty to compensate him for many other things. 
 When she failed to understand what he said to 
 her he smiled and looked at her and forgave her 
 at once, and when she began to grow uninteresting, 
 he would take up his hat and go away, and so he 
 never knew how very uninteresting she might pos 
 sibly be if she were given time enough in which 
 to demonstrate the fact. He never considered 
 that, were he married to her, he could not take up 
 his hat and go away when she became uninterest 
 ing, and that her remarks, which were not brilliant, 
 could not be smiled away either. They would rise 
 up and greet him every morning, and would be 
 the last thing he would hear at night. 
 
 Miss Delamar's beauty was so conspicuous that 
 to pretend not to notice it was more foolish than 
 well-bred. You got along more easily and simply 
 by accepting it at once, and referring to it, and 
 enjoying its effect upon other people. To go out 
 of one's way to talk of other things when every 
 one, even Miss Delamar herself, knew what must 
 be uppermost in your mind, always seemed as ab 
 surd as to strain a point in politeness, and to 
 
 98
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 pretend not to notice that a guest had upset his 
 claret, or any other embarrassing fact. For Miss 
 Delamar's beauty was so distinctly embarrassing 
 that this was the only way to meet it to smile 
 and pass it over and to try, if possible, to get on 
 to something else. It was on account of this ex 
 traordinary quality in her appearance that every 
 one considered her beauty as something which 
 transcended her private ownership, and which be 
 longed by right to the polite world at large, to 
 anyone who could appreciate it properly, just as 
 though it were a sunset or a great work of art 
 or of nature. And so, when she gave away her 
 photographs no one thought it meant anything 
 more serious than a recognition on her part of the 
 fact that it would have been unkind and selfish 
 in her not to have shared the enjoyment of so 
 much loveliness with others. 
 
 Consequently, when she sent one of her largest 
 and most aggravatingly beautiful photographs to 
 young Stuart, it was no sign that she cared espe 
 cially for him. 
 
 How much young Stuart cared for Miss Dela- 
 mar, however, was an open question, and a condi 
 tion yet to be discovered. That he cared for some 
 one, and cared so much that his imagination had 
 begun to picture the awful joys and responsibilities 
 of marriage, was only too well known to himself, 
 
 99
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 and was a state of mind already suspected by his 
 friends. 
 
 Stuart was a member of the New York bar, and 
 the distinguished law firm to which he belonged 
 was very proud of its junior member, and treated 
 him with indulgence and affection, which was not 
 unmixed with amusement. For Stuart's legal 
 knowledge had been gathered in many odd corners 
 of the globe, and was various and peculiar. It 
 had been his pleasure to study the laws by which 
 men ruled other men in every condition of life, 
 and under every sun. The regulations of a new 
 mining camp were fraught with as great interest 
 to him as the accumulated precedents of the Eng 
 lish Constitution, and he had investigated the rul 
 ings of the mixed courts of Egypt and of the gov 
 ernment of the little Dutch republic near the Cape 
 with as keen an effort to comprehend, as he had 
 shown in studying the laws of the American colo 
 nies and of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. 
 
 But he was not always serious, and it sometimes 
 happened that after he had arrived at some queer 
 little island where the native prince and the Eng 
 lish governor sat in judgment together, his interest 
 in the intricacies of their laws would give way to 
 the more absorbing occupation of chasing wild 
 boar or shooting at tigers from the top of an ele 
 phant. And so he was not only regarded as an 
 
 100
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 authority on many forms of government and of 
 law, into which no one else had ever taken the 
 trouble to look, but his books on big game were 
 eagerly read and his articles in the magazines were 
 earnestly discussed, whether they told of the di 
 vorce laws of Dakota, and the legal rights of 
 widows in Cambodia, or the habits of the Mexican 
 lion. 
 
 Stuart loved his work better than he knew, but 
 how well he loved Miss Delamar neither he nor 
 his friends could tell. She was the most beautiful 
 and lovely creature that he had ever seen, and of 
 that only was he certain. 
 
 Stuart was sitting in the club one day when the 
 conversation turned to matrimony. He was among 
 his own particular friends, the men before whom 
 he could speak seriously or foolishly without fear 
 of being misunderstood or of having what he said 
 retold and spoiled in the telling. There was Sel- 
 don, the actor, and Rives, who painted pictures, 
 and young Sloane, who travelled for pleasure and 
 adventure, and Weimer, who stayed at home and 
 wrote for the reviews. They were all bachelors, 
 and very good friends, and jealously guarded their 
 little circle from the intrusion of either men or 
 women. 
 
 "Of course the chief objection to marriage," 
 Stuart said it was the very day in which the 
 
 101
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 picture had been sent to his rooms "is the old one 
 that you can't tell anything about it until you are 
 committed to it forever. It is a very silly thing 
 to discuss even, because there is no way of bring 
 ing it about, but there really should be some sort 
 of a preliminary trial. As the man says in the 
 play, 'You wouldn't buy a watch without testing 
 it first.' You don't buy a hat even without putting 
 it on, and finding out whether it is becoming or 
 not, or whether your peculiar style of ugliness can 
 stand it. And yet men go gayly off and get mar 
 ried, and make the most awful promises, and alter 
 their whole order of life, and risk the happiness 
 of some lovely creature on trust, as it were, know 
 ing absolutely nothing of the new conditions and 
 responsibilities of the life before them. Even a 
 river-pilot has to serve an apprenticeship before 
 he gets a license, and yet we are allowed to take 
 just as great risks, and only because we want to 
 take them. It's awful, and it's all wrong." 
 
 "Well, I don't see what one is going to do about 
 it," commented young Sloane, lightly, "except to 
 get divorced. That road is always open." 
 
 Sloane was starting the next morning for the 
 Somali Country, in Abyssinia, to shoot rhinoceros, 
 and his interest in matrimony was in consequence 
 somewhat slight. 
 
 "It isn't the fear of the responsibilities that 
 1 02
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 keeps Stuart, nor any one of us back," said Wei- 
 mer, contemptuously. "It's because we're selfish. 
 That's the whole truth of the matter. We love 
 our work, or our pleasure, or to knock about the 
 world, better than we do any particular woman. 
 When one of us comes to love the woman best, his 
 conscience won't trouble him long about the re 
 sponsibilities of marrying her." 
 
 "Not at all," said Stuart. "I am quite sincere; 
 I maintain that there should be a preliminary 
 stage. Of course there can't be, and it's absurd 
 to think of it, but it would save a lot of unhappi- 
 ness." 
 
 "Well," said Seldon, dryly, "when you've in 
 vented a way to prevent marriage from being a 
 lottery, let me know, will you?" He stood up 
 and smiled nervously. "Any of you coming to 
 see us to-night?" he asked. 
 
 "That's so," exclaimed Weimer; "I forgot. It's 
 the first night of 'A Fool and His Money,' isn't 
 it? Of course we're coming." 
 
 "I told them to put a box away for you in case 
 you wanted it," Seldon continued. "Don't expect 
 much. It's a silly piece, and I've a silly part, and 
 I'm very bad in it. You must come around to 
 supper, and tell me where I'm bad in it, and we 
 will talk it over. You're coming, Stuart?" 
 
 "My dear old man," said Stuart, reproachfully, 
 103
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 "of course I am. I've had my seats for the last 
 three weeks. Do you suppose I could miss hearing 
 you mispronounce all the Hindostanee I've taught 
 you?" 
 
 "Well, good-night then," said the actor, waving 
 his hand to his friends as he moved away. " 'We, 
 who are about to die, salute you !' ' 
 
 "Good luck to you," said Sloane, holding up his 
 glass. "To the Fool and His Money," he laughed. 
 He turned to the table again, and sounded the bell 
 for the waiter. "Now let's send him a telegram 
 and wish him success, and all sign it," he said, 
 "and don't you fellows tell him that I wasn't in 
 front to-night. I've got to go to a dinner the 
 Travellers' Club are giving me." There was a 
 protesting chorus of remonstrance. "Oh, I don't 
 like it any better than you do," said Sloane, "but 
 I'll get away early and join you before the play's 
 over. No one in the Travellers' Club, you see, 
 has ever travelled farther from New York than 
 London or the Riviera, and so when a member 
 starts for Abyssinia they give him a dinner, and 
 he has to take himself very seriously indeed, and 
 cry with Seldon, 'I, who am about to die, salute 
 you !' If that man there was any use," he added, 
 interrupting himself and pointing with his glass 
 at Stuart, "he'd pack up his things to-night and 
 come with me." 
 
 104
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 "Oh, don't urge him," remonstrated Weimer, 
 who had travelled all over the world in imagina 
 tion, with the aid of globes and maps, but never 
 had got any farther from home than Montreal. 
 "We can't spare Stuart. He has to stop here and 
 invent a preliminary marriage state, so that if he 
 finds he doesn't like a girl, he can leave her before 
 it is too late." 
 
 "You sail at seven, I believe, and from Hobo- 
 ken, don't you?" asked Stuart, undisturbed. "If 
 you'll start at eleven from the New York side, I 
 think I'll go with you, but I hate getting up early; 
 and then you see I know what dangers lurk in 
 Abyssinia, but who could tell what might not hap 
 pen to him in Hoboken?" 
 
 When Stuart returned to his room, he found a 
 large package set upright in an arm-chair and en 
 veloped by many wrappings; but the handwriting 
 on the outside told him at once from whom it came 
 and what it might be, and he pounced upon it 
 eagerly and tore it from its covers. The photo 
 graph was a very large one, and the likeness to 
 the original so admirable that the face seemed to 
 smile and radiate with all the loveliness and 
 beauty of Miss Delamar herself. Stuart beamed 
 upon it with genuine surprise and pleasure, and 
 exclaimed delightedly to himself. There was a 
 living quality about the picture which made him 
 
 105
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 almost speak to it, and thank Miss Delamar 
 through it for the pleasure she had given him and 
 the honor she had bestowed. He was proud, flat 
 tered, and triumphant, and while he walked about 
 the room deciding where he would place it, and 
 holding the picture respectfully before him, he 
 smiled upon it with grateful satisfaction. 
 
 He decided against his dressing-table as being 
 too intimate a place for it, and so carried the pict 
 ure on from his bedroom to the dining-room be 
 yond, where he set it among his silver on the side 
 board. But so little of his time was spent in this 
 room that he concluded he would derive but little 
 pleasure from it there, and so bore it back again 
 into his library, where there were many other pho 
 tographs and portraits, and where to other eyes 
 than his own it would be less conspicuous. 
 
 He tried it first in one place and then in another ; 
 but in each position the picture predominated and 
 asserted itself so markedly, that Stuart gave up 
 the idea of keeping it inconspicuous, and placed it 
 prominently over the fireplace, where it reigned 
 supreme above every other object in the room. 
 It was not only the most conspicuous object there, 
 but the living quality which it possessed in so 
 marked a degree, and which was due to its natural 
 ness of pose and the excellence of the likeness, 
 made it permeate the place like a presence and with 
 
 1 06
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 the individuality of a real person. Stuart observed 
 this effect with amused interest, and noted also 
 that the photographs of other women had become 
 commonplace in comparison like lithographs in a 
 shop-window, and that the more masculine acces 
 sories of a bachelor's apartment had grown sud 
 denly aggressive and out of keeping. The liquor- 
 case and the racks of arms and of barbarous weap 
 ons which he had collected with such pride seemed 
 to have lost their former value and meaning, and 
 he instinctively began to gather up the mass of 
 books and maps and photographs and pipes and 
 gloves which lay scattered upon the table, and to 
 put them in their proper place, or to shove them 
 out of sight altogether. "If I'm to live up to that 
 picture," he thought, "I must see that George 
 keeps this room in better order and I must stop 
 wandering round here in my bath-robe." 
 
 His mind continued on the picture while he was 
 dressing, and he was so absorbed in it and in ana 
 lyzing the effect it had had upon him, that his 
 servant spoke twice before he heard him. 
 
 "No," he answered, "I shall not dine here to 
 night." Dining at home was with him a very 
 simple affair, and a somewhat lonely one, and he 
 avoided it almost nightly by indulging himself in 
 a more expensive fashion. 
 
 But even as he spoke an idea came to Stuart 
 107
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 which made him reconsider his determination, and 
 which struck him as so amusing, that he stopped 
 pulling at his tie and smiled delightedly at him 
 self in the glass before him. 
 
 "Yes," he said, still smiling, "I will dine here 
 to-night. Get me anything in a hurry. You need 
 not wait now ; go get the dinner up as soon as pos 
 sible." 
 
 The effect which the photograph of Miss Dela- 
 mar had upon him, and the transformation it had 
 accomplished in his room, had been as great as 
 would have marked the presence there of the girl 
 herself. While considering this it had come to 
 Stuart, like a flash of inspiration, that here was 
 a way by which he could test the responsibilities 
 and conditions of married life without compromis 
 ing either himself or the girl to whom he would 
 suppose himself to be married. 
 
 "I will put that picture at the head of the table," 
 he said, "and I will play that it is she herself, her 
 own, beautiful, lovely self, and I will talk to her 
 and exchange views with her, and make her answer 
 me just as she would were we actually married and 
 settled." He looked at his watch and found it 
 was just seven o'clock. "I will begin now," he 
 said, "and I will keep up the delusion until mid 
 night. To-night is the best time to try the ex 
 periment, because the picture is new now, and its 
 
 1 08
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 influence will be all the more real. In a few weeks 
 it may have lost some of its freshness and reality 
 and will have become one of the fixtures in the 
 room." 
 
 Stuart decided that under these new conditions 
 it would be more pleasant to dine at Delmonico's, 
 and he was on the point of asking the Picture 
 what she thought of it, when he remembered that 
 while it had been possible for him to make a prac 
 tice of dining at that place as a bachelor, he could 
 not now afford so expensive a luxury, and he de 
 cided that he had better economize in that particu 
 lar and go instead to one of the table tfhdte restau 
 rants in the neighborhood. He regretted not 
 having thought of this sooner, for he did not care 
 to dine at a table tfhdte in evening dress, as in some 
 places it rendered him conspicuous. So, sooner 
 than have this happen he decided to dine at home, 
 as he had originally intended when he first thought 
 of attempting this experiment, and then conducted 
 the Picture in to dinner and placed her in an arm 
 chair facing him, with the candles full upon the 
 face. 
 
 "Now this is something like," he exclaimed, joy 
 ously. "I can't imagine anything better than this. 
 Here we are all to ourselves with no one to bother 
 us, with no chaperone, or chaperone's husband 
 either, which is generally worse. Why is it, my 
 
 IOO
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 dear," he asked, gayly, in a tone that he considered 
 affectionate and husbandly, "that the attractive 
 chaperones are always handicapped by such stupid 
 husbands, and vice versa?" 
 
 "If that is true," replied the Picture, or replied 
 Stuart, rather, for the picture, "I cannot be a very 
 attractive chaperone." Stuart bowed politely at 
 this, and then considered the point it had raised 
 as to whether he had, in assuming both characters, 
 the right to pay himself compliments. He decided 
 against himself in this particular instance, but 
 agreed that he was not responsible for anything 
 the Picture might say, so long as he sincerely and 
 fairly tried to make it answer him as he thought 
 the original would do under like circumstances. 
 From what he knew of the original under other 
 conditions, he decided that he could give a very 
 close imitation of her point of view. 
 
 Stuart's interest in his dinner was so real that 
 he found himself neglecting his wife, and he had 
 to pull himself up to his duty with a sharp re 
 proof. After smiling back at her for a moment 
 or two until his servant had again left them alone, 
 he asked her to tell him what she had been doing 
 during the day. 
 
 "Oh, nothing very important," said the Picture. 
 "I went shopping in the morning and " 
 
 Stuart stopped himself and considered this last 
 no
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 remark doubtfully. "Now, how do I know she 
 would go shopping?" he asked himself. "People 
 from Harlem and women who like bargain-coun 
 ters, and who eat chocolate meringue for lunch, 
 and then stop in at a continuous performance, go 
 shopping. It must be the comic-paper sort of 
 wives who go about matching shades and buying 
 hooks and eyes. Yes, I must have made Miss 
 Delamar's understudy misrepresent her. I beg 
 your pardon, my dear," he said aloud to the Pict 
 ure. "You did not go shopping this morning. 
 You probably went to a woman's luncheon some 
 where. Tell me about that." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I went to lunch with the Antwerps," 
 said the Picture, "and they had that Russian wom 
 an there who is getting up subscriptions for the 
 Siberian prisoners. It's rather fine of her, because 
 it exiles her from Russia. And she is a princess." 
 
 "That's nothing," Stuart interrupted; "they're 
 all princesses when you see them on Broadway." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said the Picture. 
 
 "It's of no consequence," said Stuart, apologet 
 ically, "it's a comic song. I forgot you didn't like 
 comic songs. Well go on." 
 
 "Oh, then I went to a tea, and then I stopped 
 in to hear Madame Ruvier read a paper on the 
 Ethics of Ibsen, and she " 
 
 Stuart's voice had died away gradually, and he 
 in
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 caught himself wondering whether he had told 
 George to lay in a fresh supply of cigars. "I beg 
 your pardon," he said, briskly, "I was listening, 
 but I was just wondering whether I had any cigars 
 left. You were saying that you had been at Ma 
 dame Ruvier's, and " 
 
 "I am afraid that you were not interested," said 
 the Picture. "Never mind, it's my fault. Some 
 times I think I ought to do things of more interest, 
 so that I should have something to talk to you 
 about when you come home." 
 
 Stuart wondered at what hour he would come 
 home now that he was married. As a bachelor 
 he had been in the habit of stopping on his way 
 uptown from the law-office at the club, or to 
 take tea at the houses of the different girls he 
 liked. Of course he could not do that now as a 
 married man. He would instead have to limit his 
 calls to married women, as all the other married 
 men of his acquaintance did. But at the moment 
 he could not think of any attractive married wom 
 en who would like his dropping in on them in such 
 a familiar manner, and the other sort did not as 
 yet appeal to him. 
 
 He seated himself in front of the coal-fire in 
 the library, with the Picture in a chair close beside 
 him, and as he puffed pleasantly on his cigar he 
 thought how well this suited him, and how de- 
 
 112
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 lightful it was to find content in so simple and con 
 tinuing a pleasure. He could almost feel the press 
 ure of his wife's hand as it lay in his own, as 
 they sat in silent sympathy looking into the friend 
 ly glow of the fire. 
 
 There was a long, pleasant pause. 
 
 "They're giving Sloane a dinner to-night at the 
 'Travellers',' " Stuart said, at last, "in honor of 
 his going to Abyssinia." 
 
 Stuart pondered for some short time as to what 
 sort of a reply Miss Delamar's understudy ought 
 to make to this innocent remark. He recalled the 
 fact that on numerous occasions the original had 
 shown not only a lack of knowledge of far-away 
 places, but, what was more trying, a lack of inter 
 est as well. For the moment he could not see her 
 robbed of her pretty environment and tramping 
 through undiscovered countries at his side. So 
 the Picture's reply, when it came, was strictly in 
 keeping with several remarks which Miss Dela- 
 mar herself had made to him in the past. 
 
 "Yes," said the Picture, politely, "and where is 
 Abyssinia in India, isn't it?" 
 
 "No, not exactly," corrected Stuart, mildly; 
 "you pass it on your way to India, though, as you 
 go through the Red Sea. Sloane is taking Win 
 chesters with him and a double express and a 'five 
 fifty.' He wants to test their penetration. I think
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 myself that the express is the best, but he says 
 Selous and Chanler think very highly of the Win 
 chester. I don't know, I never shot a rhinoceros. 
 The time I killed that elephant," he went on, point 
 ing at two tusks that stood with some assegais in 
 a corner, "I used an express, and I had to let go 
 with both barrels. I suppose, though, if I'd needed 
 a third shot, I'd have wished it was a Winchester. 
 He was charging the smoke, you see, and I couldn't 
 get away because I'd caught my foot but I told 
 you about that, didn't I ?" Stuart interrupted him 
 self to ask politely. 
 
 "Yes," said the Picture, cheerfully, "I remem 
 ber it very well; it was very foolish of you." 
 
 Stuart straightened himself with a slightly in 
 jured air and avoided the Picture's eye. He had 
 been stopped midway in what was one of his favor 
 ite stories, and it took a brief space of time for 
 him to recover himself, and to sink back again into 
 the pleasant lethargy in which he had been bask 
 ing. 
 
 "Still," he said, "I think the express is the bet 
 ter gun." 
 
 "Oh, is an 'express' a gun?" exclaimed the Pict 
 ure, with sudden interest. "Of course, I might 
 have known." 
 
 Stuart turned in his chair, and surveyed the Pict 
 ure in some surprise. "But, my dear girl," he
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 remonstrated, kindly, "why didn't you ask, if you 
 didn't know what I was talking about? What did 
 you suppose it was?" 
 
 "I didn't know," said the Picture; "I thought 
 it was something to do with his luggage. Abys 
 sinia sounds so far away," she explained, smiling 
 sweetly. "You can't expect one to be interested 
 in such queer places, can you?" 
 
 "No," Stuart answered, reluctantly, and looking 
 steadily at the fire, "I suppose not. But you see, 
 my dear," he said, "I'd have gone with him if I 
 hadn't married you, and so I am naturally inter 
 ested in his outfit. They wanted me to make a 
 comparative study of the little semi-independent 
 states down there, and of how far the Italian Gov 
 ernment allows them to rule themselves. That's 
 what I was to have done." 
 
 But the Picture hastened to reassure him. "Oh, 
 you mustn't think," she exclaimed, quickly, "that 
 I mean to keep you at home. I love to travel, too. 
 I want you to go on exploring places just as you've 
 always done, only now I will go with you. We 
 might do the Cathedral towns, for instance." 
 
 "The what!" gasped Stuart, raising his head. 
 "Oh, yes, of course," he added, hurriedly, sinking 
 back into his chair with a slightly bewildered ex 
 pression. "That would be very nice. Perhaps 
 your mother would like to go, too; it's not a dan-
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 gerous expedition, is it? I was thinking of taking 
 you on a trip through the South Seas but I sup 
 pose the Cathedral towns are just as exciting. Or 
 we might even penetrate as far into the interior 
 as the English lakes and read Wordsworth and 
 Coleridge as we go." 
 
 Miss Delamar's understudy observed him close 
 ly for a moment, but he made no sign, and so she 
 turned her eyes again to the fire with a slightly 
 troubled look. She had not a strong sense of 
 humor, but she was very beautiful. 
 
 Stuart's conscience troubled him for the next 
 few moments, and he endeavored to make up for 
 his impatience of the moment before by telling the 
 Picture how particularly well she was looking. 
 
 "It seems almost selfish to keep it all to myself," 
 he mused. 
 
 "You don't mean," inquired the Picture, with 
 tender anxiety, "that you want anyone else here, 
 do you? I'm sure I could be content to spend 
 every evening like this. I've had enough of going 
 out and talking to people I don't care about. Two 
 seasons," she added, with the superior air of one 
 who has put away childish things, "was quite 
 enough of it for me." 
 
 "Well, I never took it as seriously as that," 
 said Stuart, "but, of course, I don't want anyone 
 else here to spoil our evening. It is perfect." 
 
 116
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 He assured himself that it was perfect, but he 
 wondered what was the loyal thing for a married 
 couple to do when the conversation came to a dead 
 stop. And did the conversation come to a stop 
 because they preferred to sit in silent sympathy 
 and communion, or because they had nothing inter 
 esting to talk about? Stuart doubted if silence 
 was the truest expression of the most perfect con 
 fidence and sympathy. He generally found when 
 he was interested, that either he or his companion 
 talked all the time. It was when he was bored 
 that he sat silent. But it was probably different 
 with married people. Possibly they thought of 
 each other during these pauses, and of their own 
 affairs and interests, and then he asked himself 
 how many interests could one fairly retain with 
 which the other had nothing to do? 
 
 "I suppose," thought Stuart, "that I had better 
 compromise and read aloud. Should you like me 
 to read aloud?" he asked, doubtfully. 
 
 The Picture brightened perceptibly at this, and 
 said that she thought that would be charming. 
 "We might make it quite instructive," she suggest 
 ed, entering eagerly into the idea. "We ought to 
 agree to read so many pages every night. Sup 
 pose we begin with Guizot's 'History of France.* 
 I have always meant to read that, the illustrations 
 look so interesting." 
 
 117
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 "Yes, we might do that," assented Stuart, doubt 
 fully. "It is in six volumes, isn't it? Suppose 
 now, instead," he suggested, with an impartial air, 
 "we begin that- to-morrow night, and go this even 
 ing to see Seldon's new play, 'The Fool and His 
 Money.' It's not too late, and he has saved a box 
 for us, and Weimer and Rives and Sloane will be 
 there, and " 
 
 The Picture's beautiful face settled for just an 
 instant in an expression of disappointment. "Of 
 course," she replied, slowly, "if you wish it. But 
 I thought you said," she went on with a sweet 
 smile, "that this was perfect. Now you want to 
 go out again. Isn't this better than a hot theatre ? 
 You might put up with it for one evening, don't 
 you think?" 
 
 "Put up with it!" exclaimed Stuart, enthusias 
 tically; "I could spend every evening so. It was 
 only a suggestion. It wasn't that I wanted to go 
 so much as that I thought Seldon might be a little 
 hurt if I didn't. But I can tell him you were not 
 feeling very well, and that we will come some other 
 evening. He generally likes to have us there on 
 the first night, that's all. But he'll understand." 
 
 "Oh," said the Picture, "if you put it in the 
 light of a duty to your friend, of course we will 
 
 go-" 
 
 "Not at all," replied Stuart, nearly; "I will 
 ix8
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 read something. I should really prefer it. How 
 would you like something of Browning's?" 
 
 "Oh, I read all of Browning once," said the 
 Picture. "I think I should like something 
 new." 
 
 Stuart gasped at this, but said nothing, and be 
 gan turning over the books on the centre-table. 
 He selected one of the monthly magazines, and 
 choosing a story which neither of them had read, 
 sat down comfortably in front of the fire, and fin 
 ished it without interruption and to the satisfac 
 tion of the Picture and himself. The story had 
 made the half hour pass very pleasantly, and they 
 both commented on it with interest. 
 
 "I had an experience once myself something 
 like that," said Stuart, with a pleased smile of 
 recollection; "it happened in Paris" he began 
 with the deliberation of a man who is sure of his 
 story "and it turned out in much the same way. 
 It didn't begin in Paris; it really began while we 
 were crossing the English Channel to " 
 
 "Oh, you mean about the Russian who took you 
 for someone else and had you followed," said the 
 Picture. "Yes, that was like it, except that in 
 your case nothing happened." 
 
 Stuart took his cigar from between his lips and 
 frowned severely at the lighted end for some little 
 time before he spoke. 
 
 119
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 "My dear," he remonstrated, gently, "you 
 mustn't tell me I've told you all my old stories 
 before. It isn't fair. Now that I'm married, you 
 see, I can't go about and have new experiences, 
 and I've got to make use of the old ones." 
 
 "Oh, I'm so sorry," exclaimed the Picture, re 
 morsefully. "I didn't mean to be rude. Please 
 tell me about it. I should like to hear it again, 
 ever so much. I should like to hear it again, 
 really." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Stuart, laughing and shaking 
 his head. "I was only joking; personally I hate 
 people who tell long stories. That doesn't matter. 
 I was thinking of something else." 
 
 He continued thinking of something else, which 
 was, that though he had been in jest when he spoke 
 of having given up the chance of meeting fresh 
 experiences, he had nevertheless described a con 
 dition, and a painfully true one. His real life 
 seemed to have stopped, and he saw himself in 
 the future looking back and referring to it, as 
 though it were the career of an entirely different 
 person, of a young man, with quick sympathies 
 which required satisfying, as any appetite requires 
 food. And he had an uncomfortable doubt that 
 these many ever-ready sympathies would rebel if 
 fed on only one diet. 
 
 The Picture did not interrupt him in his 
 120
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 thoughts, and he let his mind follow his eyes as 
 they wandered over the objects above him on the 
 mantel-shelf. They all meant something from the 
 past a busy, wholesome past which had formed 
 habits of thought and action, habits he could no 
 longer enjoy alone, and which, on the other hand, 
 it was quite impossible for him to share with any 
 one else. He was no longer to be alone. 
 
 Stuart stirred uneasily in his chair and poked 
 at the fire before him. 
 
 "Do you remember the day you came to see 
 me," said the Picture, sentimentally, "and built 
 the fire yourself and lighted some girl's letters to 
 make it burn?" 
 
 "Yes," said Stuart, "that is, I said that they 
 were some girl's letters. It made it more pictur 
 esque. I am afraid they were bills. I should say I 
 did remember it," he continued, enthusiastically. 
 "You wore a black dress and little red slippers 
 with big black rosettes, and you looked as beauti 
 ful as as night as a moonlight night." 
 
 The Picture frowned slightly. 
 
 "You are always telling me about how I 
 looked," she complained; "can't you remember 
 any time when we were together without remem 
 bering what I had on and how I appeared?" 
 
 "I cannot," said Stuart, promptly. "I can re 
 call lots of other things besides, but I can't forget 
 
 121
 
 Miss Delamar v s Understudy 
 
 how you looked. You have a fashion of empha 
 sizing episodes in that way which is entirely your 
 own. But, as I say, I can remember something 
 else. Do you remember, for instance, when we 
 went up to West Point on that yacht? Wasn't it 
 a grand day, with the autumn leaves on both sides 
 of the Hudson, and the dress parade, and the 
 dance afterward at the hotel?" 
 
 "Yes, I should think I did," said the Picture, 
 smiling. "You spent all your time examining can 
 non, and talking to the men about 'firing in open 
 order,' and left me. all alone." 
 
 "Left you all alone 1 I like that," laughed Stu 
 art; "all alone with about eighteen officers." 
 
 "Well, but that was natural," returned the Pict 
 ure. "They were men. It's natural for a girl to 
 talk to men, but why should a man want to talk 
 to men?" 
 
 "Well, I know better than that now," said 
 Stuart. 
 
 He proceeded to show that he knew better by 
 remaining silent for the next half hour, during 
 which time he continued to wonder whether this 
 effort to keep up a conversation was not radically 
 wrong. He thought of several things he might 
 say, but he argued that it was an impossible situ 
 ation where a man had to make conversation with 
 his own wife. 
 
 122
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 The clock struck ten as he sat waiting, and he 
 moved uneasily in his chair. 
 
 "What is it?" asked the Picture; "what makes 
 you so restless?" 
 
 Stuart regarded the Picture timidly for a mo 
 ment before he spoke. "I was just thinking," he 
 said, doubtfully, "that we might run down after 
 all, and take a look in at the last act; it's not too 
 late even now. They're sure to run behind on the 
 first night. And then," he urged, "we can go 
 around and see Seldon. You have never been be 
 hind the scenes, have you ? It's very interesting." 
 
 "No, I have not; but if we do," remonstrated 
 the Picture, pathetically, "you know all those men 
 will come trooping home with us. You know they 
 will." 
 
 "But that's very complimentary," said Stuart. 
 "Why, I like my friends to like my wife." 
 
 "Yes, but you know how they stay when they 
 get here," she answered; "I don't believe they ever 
 sleep. Don't you remember the last supper you 
 gave me before we were married, when Mrs. Starr 
 and you all were discussing Mr. Seldon's play? 
 She didn't make a move to go until half-past two, 
 and I was that sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes 
 open." 
 
 "Yes," said Stuart, "I remember. I'm sorry. 
 I thought it was very interesting. Seldon changed 
 
 123
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 the whole second act on account of what she said. 
 Well, after this," he laughed with cheerful des 
 peration, "I think I shall make up for the part of 
 a married man in a pair of slippers and a dressing- 
 gown, and then perhaps I won't be tempted to 
 roam abroad at night." 
 
 "You must wear the gown they are going to 
 give you at Oxford," said the Picture, smiling 
 placidly. "The one Aunt Lucy was telling me 
 about. Why do they give you a gown?" she asked. 
 "It seems such an odd thing to do." 
 
 "The gown comes with the degree, I believe," 
 said Stuart. 
 
 "But why do they give you a degree?" persisted 
 the Picture; "you never studied at Oxford, did 
 you?" 
 
 Stuart moved slightly in his chair and shook his 
 head. "I thought I told you," he said, gently. 
 "No, I never studied there. I wrote some books 
 on things, and they liked them." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I remember now, you did tell me," 
 said the Picture; "and I told Aunt Lucy about it, 
 and said we would be in England during the sea 
 son when you got your degree, and she said you 
 must be awfully clever to get it. You see she 
 does appreciate you, and you always treat her so 
 distantly." 
 
 "Do I?" said Stuart, quietly. "I'm sorry." 
 124
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 "Will you have your portrait painted in it?" 
 asked the Picture. 
 
 "In what?" 
 
 "In the gown. You are not listening," said the 
 Picture, reproachfully. "You ought to. Aunt 
 Lucy says it's a beautiful shade of red silk, and 
 very long. Is it?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Stuart. He shook his head, 
 and dropping his chin into his hands, stared coldly 
 down into the fire. He tried to persuade himself 
 that he had been vainglorious, and that he had 
 given too much weight to the honor which the 
 University of Oxford would bestow upon him; 
 that he had taken the degree too seriously, and that 
 the Picture's view of it was the view of the rest 
 of the world. But he could not convince himself 
 that he was entirely at fault. 
 
 "Is it too late to begin on Guizot?" suggested 
 his Picture, as an alternative to his plan. "It 
 sounds so improving." 
 
 "Yes, it is much too late," answered Stuart, de 
 cidedly. "Besides, I don't want to be improved. 
 I want to be amused, or inspired, or scolded. The 
 chief good of friends is that they do one of these 
 three things, and a wife should do all three." 
 
 "Which shall I do?" asked the Picture, smiling 
 good-humoredly. 
 
 Stuart looked at the beautiful face and at the 
 125
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 reclining figure of the woman to whom he was to 
 turn for sympathy for the rest of his life, and felt 
 a cold shiver of terror, that passed as quickly as 
 it came. He reached out his hand and placed it 
 on the arm of the chair where his wife's hand 
 should have been, and patted the place kindly. 
 He would shut his eyes to everything but that she 
 was good and sweet and his wife. Whatever else 
 she lacked that her beauty had covered up and 
 hidden, and the want of which had lain unsuspect 
 ed in their previous formal intercourse, could not 
 be mended now. He would settle his step to hers, 
 and eliminate all those interests from his life which 
 were not hers as well. He had chosen a beautiful 
 idol, and not a companion, for a wife. He had 
 tried to warm his hands at the fire of a diamond. 
 Stuart's eyes closed wearily as though to shut 
 out the memories of the past, or the foreknowledge 
 of what the future was sure to be. His head sank 
 forward on his breast, and with his hand shading 
 his eyes, he looked beyond, through the dying fire, 
 into the succeeding years. 
 
 The gay little French clock on the table sounded 
 the hour of midnight briskly, with a pert insistent 
 clamor, and at the same instant a boisterous and 
 unruly knocking answered it from outside the li 
 brary door. 
 
 126
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 Stuart rose uncertainly from his chair and sur 
 veyed the tiny clock face with a startled expression 
 of bewilderment and relief. 
 
 "Stuart !" his friends called impatiently from the 
 hall. "Stuart, let us in!" and without waiting fur 
 ther for recognition a merry company of gentle 
 men pushed their way noisily into the room. 
 
 "Where the devil have you been?" demanded 
 Weimer. "You don't deserve to be spoken to at 
 all after quitting us like that. But Seldon is so 
 good-natured," he went on, "that he sent us after 
 you. It was a great success, and he made a rattling 
 good speech, and you missed the whole thing; and 
 you ought to be ashamed of yourself. We've 
 asked half the people in front to supper two 
 stray Englishmen, all the Wilton girls and their 
 governor, and the chap that wrote the play. And 
 Seldon and his brother Sam are coming as soon 
 as they get their make-up off. Don't stand there 
 like that, but hurry. What have you been doing?" 
 
 Stuart gave a nervous, anxious laugh. "Oh, 
 don't ask me," he cried. "It was awful. I've 
 been trying an experiment, and I had to keep it 
 up until midnight, and I'm so glad you fellows 
 have come," he continued, halting midway in his 
 explanation. "I was blue." 
 
 "You've been asleep in front of the fire," said 
 young Sloane, "and you've been dreaming." 
 
 127
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 "Perhaps," laughed Stuart, gayly, "perhaps. 
 But I'm awake now, in any event. Sloane, old 
 man," he cried, dropping both hands on the young 
 ster's shoulders, "how much money have you? 
 Enough to take me to Gibraltar? They can cable 
 me the rest." 
 
 "Hoorah!" shouted Sloane, waltzing from one 
 end of the room to the other. "And we're off to 
 Ab-yss-in-ia in the morn-ing," he sang. "There's 
 plenty in my money belt," he cried, slapping his 
 sides; "you can hear the ten-pound notes crackle 
 whenever I breathe, and it's all yours, my dear 
 boy, and welcome. And I'll prove to you that the 
 Winchester is the better gun." 
 
 "All right," returned Stuart, gayly, "and I'll 
 try to prove that the Italians don't know how to 
 govern a native state. But who is giving this sup 
 per, anyway?" he demanded. "That is the main 
 thing that's what I want to know." 
 
 "Ifou've got to pack, haven't you?" suggested 
 Rives. 
 
 "I'll pack when I get back," said Stuart, strug 
 gling into his greatcoat, and searching in his pock 
 ets for his gloves. "Besides, my things are always 
 ready and there's plenty of time; the boat doesn't 
 leave for six hours yet." 
 
 "We'll all come back and help," said Weimer. 
 
 "Then I'll never get away," laughed Stuart. 
 128
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 He was radiant, happy, and excited, like a boy 
 back from school for the holidays. But when they 
 had reached the pavement, he halted and ran his 
 hand down into his pocket, as though feeling for 
 his latch-key, and stood looking doubtfully at his 
 friends. 
 
 "What is it now?" asked Rives, impatiently. 
 "Have you forgotten something?" 
 
 Stuart looked back at the front door in mo 
 mentary indecision. 
 
 "Ye-es," he answered. "I did forget something. 
 But it doesn't matter," he added, cheerfully, tak 
 ing Sloane's arm. 
 
 "Come on," he said, "and so Seldon made a 
 hit, did he? I am glad and tell me, old man, 
 how long will we have to wait at Gib for the 
 P. &O.?" 
 
 Stuart's servant had heard the men trooping 
 down the stairs, laughing and calling to one an 
 other as they went, and judging from this that 
 they had departed for the night, he put out all 
 the lights in the library and closed the piano, and 
 lifted the windows to clear the room of the to 
 bacco-smoke. He did not cotice the beautiful pho 
 tograph sitting upright in the arm-chair before the 
 fireplace, and so left it alone in the deserted li 
 brary. 
 
 The cold night-air swept in through the open 
 129
 
 Miss Delamar's Understudy 
 
 wirJow and chilled the silent room, and the dead 
 coals in the grate dropped one by one into the 
 fender with a dismal echoing clatter; but the 
 Picture still sat in the arm-chair with the same 
 graceful pose and the same lovely expression, 
 and smiled sweetly at the encircling darkness. 
 
 130
 
 ON THE FEVER SHIP
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 THERE were four rails around the ship's 
 sides, the three lower ones of iron and 
 the one on top of wood, and as he looked between 
 them from the canvas cot he recognized them as 
 the prison-bars which held him in. Outside his 
 prison lay a stretch of blinding blue water which 
 ended in a line of breakers and a yellow coast with 
 ragged palms. Beyond that again rose a range 
 of mountain-peaks, and, stuck upon the loftiest 
 peak of all, a tiny block-house. It rested on the 
 brow of the mountain against the naked sky as 
 impudently as a cracker-box set upon the dome of 
 a great cathedral. 
 
 As the transport rode on her anchor-chains, the 
 iron bars around her sides rose and sank and di 
 vided the landscape with parallel lines. From his 
 cot the officer followed this phenomenon with se 
 vere, painstaking interest. Sometimes the wooden 
 rail swept up to the very block-house itself, and 
 for a second of time blotted it from sight. And 
 
 133
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 again it sank to the level of the line of breakers, 
 and wiped them out of the picture as though they 
 were a line of chalk. 
 
 The soldier on the cot promised himself that 
 the next swell of the sea would send the lowest 
 rail climbing to the very top of the palm-trees or, 
 even higher, to the base of the mountains; and 
 when it failed to reach even the palm-trees he felt 
 a distinct sense of ill use, of having been wronged 
 by someone. There was no other reason for sub 
 mitting to this existence save these tricks upon the 
 wearisome, glaring landscape; and now, whoever 
 it was who was working them did not seem to be 
 making this effort to entertain him with any hearti 
 ness. 
 
 It was most cruel. Indeed, he decided hotly, it 
 was not to be endured ; he would bear it no longer, 
 he would make his escape. But he knew that this 
 move, which could be conceived in a moment's 
 desperation, could only be carried to success with 
 great strategy, secrecy, and careful cunning. So 
 he fell back upon his pillow and closed his eyes, as 
 though he were asleep, and then opening them 
 again, turned cautiously, and spied upon his keep 
 er. As usual, his keeper sat at the foot of the cot 
 turning the pages of a huge paper filled with 
 pictures of the war printed in daubs of tawdry 
 colors. His keeper was a hard-faced boy without
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 human pity or consideration, a very devil of ob 
 stinacy and fiendish cruelty. To make it worse, 
 the fiend was a person without a collar, in a suit of 
 soiled khaki, with a curious red cross bound by a 
 safety-pin to his left arm. He was intent upon the 
 paper in his hands; he was holding it between his 
 eyes and his prisoner. His vigilance had relaxed, 
 and the moment seemed propitious. With a sud 
 den plunge of arms and legs, the prisoner swept 
 the bed-sheet from him, and sprang at the wooden 
 rail and grasped the iron stanchion beside it. He 
 had his knee pressed against the top bar and his 
 bare toes on the iron rail beneath it. Below him 
 the blue water waited for him. It was cool and 
 dark and gentle and deep. It would certainly put 
 out the fire in his bones, he thought; it might even 
 shut out the glare of the sun which scorched his 
 eyeballs. 
 
 But as he balanced for the leap, a swift weak 
 ness and nausea swept over him, a weight seized 
 upon his body and limbs. He could not lift the 
 lower foot from the iron rail, and he swayed diz 
 zily and trembled. He trembled. He who had 
 raced his men and beaten them up the hot hill to 
 the trenches of San Juan. But now he was a baby 
 in the hands of a giant, who caught him by the 
 wrist and with an iron arm clasped him around 
 his waist and pulled him down, and shouted, bru- 
 
 135
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 tally, "Help, some of youse, quick! he's at it 
 again. I can't hold him." 
 
 More giants grasped him by the arms and b) 
 the legs. One of them took the hand that clung 
 to the stanchion in both of his, and pulled back 
 the fingers one by one, saying, "Easy now, Lieu 
 tenant easy." 
 
 The ragged palms and the sea and block-house 
 were swallowed up in a black fog, and his body 
 touched the canvas cot again with a sense of home 
 coming and relief and rest. He wondered how he 
 could have cared to escape from it. He found it 
 so good to be back again that for a long time he 
 wept quite happily, until the fiery pillow was moist 
 and cool. 
 
 The world outside of the iron bars was like a 
 scene in a theatre set for some great event, but the 
 actors were never ready. He remembered con 
 fusedly a play he had once witnessed before that 
 same scene. Indeed, he believed he had played 
 some small part in it ; but he remembered it dimly, 
 and all trace of the men who had appeared with 
 him in it was gone. He had reasoned it out that 
 they were up there behind the range of mountains, 
 because great heavy wagons and ambulances and 
 cannon were emptied from the ships at the wharf 
 above and were drawn away in long lines behind 
 the ragged palms, moving always toward the passes 
 
 136
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 between the peaks. At times he was disturbed by 
 the thought that he should be up and after them, 
 that some tradition of duty made his presence with 
 them imperative. There was much to be done 
 back of the mountains. Some event of momentous 
 import was being carried forward there, in which 
 he held a part; but the doubt soon passed from 
 him, and he was content to lie and watch the iron 
 bars rising and falling between the block-house and 
 the white surf. 
 
 If they had been only humanely kind, his lot 
 would have been bearable, but they starved him 
 and held him down when he wished to rise; and 
 they would not put out the fire in the pillow, which 
 they might easily have done by the simple expedi 
 ent of throwing it over the ship's side into the sea. 
 He himself had done this twice, but the keeper 
 had immediately brought a fresh pillow already 
 heated for the torture and forced it under his head. 
 
 His pleasures were very simple, and so few that 
 he could not understand why they robbed him of 
 them so jealously. One was to watch a green clus 
 ter of bananas that hung above him from the awn 
 ing, twirling on a string. He could count as many 
 of them as five before the bunch turned and swung 
 lazily back again, when he could count as high as 
 twelve; sometimes when the ship rolled heavily he 
 could count to twenty. It was a most fascinating 
 
 137
 
 
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 game, and contented him for many hours. But 
 when they found this out they sent for the cook 
 to come and cut them down, and the cook carried 
 them away to his galley. 
 
 Then, one day, a man came out from the shore, 
 swimming through the blue water with great 
 splashes. He was a most charming man, who 
 spluttered and dove and twisted and lay on his 
 back and kicked his legs in an excess of content 
 and delight. It was a real pleasure to watch him ; 
 not for days had anything so amusing appeared on 
 the other side of the prison-bars. But as soon as 
 the keeper saw that the man in the water was 
 amusing his prisoner, he leaned over the ship's 
 side and shouted, "Sa-ay, you, don't you know 
 there's sharks in there?" 
 
 And the swimming man said, "The h 11 there 
 is!" and raced back to the shore like a porpoise 
 with great lashing of the water, and ran up the 
 beach half-way to the palms before he was satis 
 fied to stop. Then the prisoner wept again. It 
 was so disappointing. Life was robbed of every 
 thing now. He remembered that in a previous 
 existence soldiers who cried were laughed at and 
 mocked. But that was so far away and it was such 
 an absurd superstition that he had no patience with 
 it. For what could be more comforting to a man 
 when he is treated cruelly than to cry. It was so 
 
 138
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 obvious an exercise, and when one is so feeble 
 that one cannot vault a four-railed barrier it is 
 something to feel that at least one is strong enough 
 to cry. 
 
 He escaped occasionally, traversing space with 
 marvellous rapidity and to great distances, but 
 never to any successful purpose; and his flight in 
 evitably ended in ignominious recapture and a sud 
 den awakening in bed. At these moments the 
 familiar and hated palms, the peaks, and the block 
 house were more hideous in their reality than the 
 most terrifying of his nightmares. 
 
 These excursions afield were always predatory; 
 he went forth always to seek food. With all the 
 beautiful world from which to elect and choose, 
 he sought out only those places where eating was 
 studied and elevated to an art. These visits were 
 much more vivid in their detail than any he had 
 ever before made to these same resorts. They 
 invariably began in a carriage, which carried him 
 swiftly over smooth asphalt. One route brought 
 him across a great and beautiful square, radiating 
 with rows and rows of flickering lights; two foun 
 tains splashed in the centre of the square, and six 
 women of stone guarded its approaches. One of 
 the women was hung with wreaths of mourning. 
 Ahead of him the late twilight darkened behind 
 a great arch, which seemed to rise on the horizon 
 
 139
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 of the world, a great window into the heavens be 
 yond. At either side strings of white and colored 
 globes hung among the trees, and the sound of 
 music came joyfully from theatres in the open air. 
 He knew the restaurant under the trees to which 
 he was now hastening, and the fountain beside it, 
 and the very sparrows balancing on the fountain's 
 edge; he knew every waiter at each of the tables, 
 he felt again the gravel crunching under his feet, 
 he saw the maitre d'hotel coming forward smiling 
 to receive his command, and the waiter in the green 
 apron bowing at his elbow, deferential and im 
 portant, presenting the list of wines. But his ad 
 venture never passed that point, for he was capt 
 ured again and once more bound to his cot with 
 a close burning sheet. 
 
 Or else, he drove more sedately through the 
 London streets in the late evening twilight, leaning 
 expectantly across the doors of the hansom and 
 pulling carefully at his white gloves. Other han 
 soms flashed past him, the occupant of each with 
 his mind fixed on one idea dinner. He was one 
 of a million of people who were about to dine, 
 or who had dined, or who were deep in dining. 
 He was so famished, so weak for food of any qual 
 ity, that the galloping horse in the hansom seemed 
 to crawl. The lights of the Embankment passed 
 like the lamps of a railroad station as seen from 
 
 140
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 the window of an express; and while his mind 
 was still torn between the choice of a thin or thick 
 soup or an immediate attack upon cold beef, he 
 was at the door, and the chasseur touched his cap, 
 and the little chasseur put the wicker guard over 
 the hansom's wheel. As he jumped out he said, 
 "Give him half-a-crown," and the driver called 
 after him, "Thank you, sir." 
 
 It was a beautiful world, this world outside of 
 the iron bars. Everyone in it contributed to his 
 pleasure and to his comfort. In this world he was 
 not starved nor man-handled. He thought of this 
 joyfully as he leaped up the stairs, where young 
 men with grave faces and with their hands held 
 negligently behind their backs bowed to him in po 
 lite surprise at his speed. But they had not been 
 starved on condensed milk. He threw his coat 
 and hat at one of them, and came down the hall 
 fearfully and quite weak with dread lest it should 
 not be real. His voice was shaking when he asked 
 Ellis if he had reserved a table. The place was 
 all so real, it must be true this time. The way 
 Ellis turned and ran his finger down the list showed 
 it was real, because Ellis always did that, even 
 when he knew there would not be an empty table 
 for an hour. The room was crowded with beau 
 tiful women; under the light of the red shades 
 they looked kind and approachable, and there was 
 
 141
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 food on every table, and iced drinks in silver buck 
 ets. It was with the joy of great relief that he 
 heard Ellis say to his underling, "Numero cinq, 
 sur la terrace, un couvert." It was real at last. 
 Outside, the Thames lay a great gray shadow. 
 The lights of the Embankment flashed and twin 
 kled across it, the tower of the House of Com 
 mons rose against the sky, and here, inside, the 
 waiter was hurrying toward him carrying a smok 
 ing plate of rich soup with a pungent, intoxicating 
 odor. 
 
 And then the ragged palms, the glaring sun, 
 the immovable peaks, and the white surf stood 
 again before him. The iron rails swept up and 
 sank again, the fever sucked at his bones, and the 
 pillow scorched his cheek. 
 
 One morning for a brief moment he came back 
 to real life again and lay quite still, seeing every 
 thing about him with clear eyes and for the first 
 time, as though he had but just that instant been 
 lifted over the ship's side. His keeper, glancing 
 up, found the prisoner's eyes considering him 
 curiously, and recognized the change. The in 
 stinct of discipline brought him to his feet with 
 his fingers at his sides. 
 
 "Is the Lieutenant feeling better?" 
 
 The Lieutenant surveyed him gravely. 
 
 "You are one of our hospital stewards.'* 
 142
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 "Yes, Lieutenant." 
 
 "Why ar'n't you with the regiment?" 
 
 "I was wounded, too, sir. I got it same time 
 you did, Lieutenant." 
 
 "Am I wounded? Of course, I remember. Is 
 this a hospital ship?" 
 
 The steward shrugged his shoulders. "She's 
 one of the transports. They have turned her over 
 to the fever cases." 
 
 The Lieutenant opened his lips to ask another 
 question ; but his own body answered that one, and 
 for a moment he lay silent. 
 
 "Do they know up North that I that I'm all 
 right?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, the papers had it in there was pict 
 ures of the Lieutenant in some of them." 
 
 "Then I've been ill some time?" 
 
 "Oh, about eight days." 
 
 The soldier moved uneasily, and the nurse in 
 him became uppermost. 
 
 "I guess the Lieutenant hadn't better talk any 
 more," he said. It was his voice now which held 
 authority. 
 
 The Lieutenant looked out at the palms and 
 the silent gloomy mountains and the empty coast 
 line, where the same wave was rising and falling 
 with weary persistence. 
 
 "Eight days," he said. His eyes shut quickly, 
 143
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 as though with a sudden touch of pain. He turned 
 his head and sought for the figure at the foot of 
 the cot. Already the figure had grown faint and 
 was receding and swaying. 
 
 "Has anyone written or cabled?" the Lieuten 
 ant spoke, hurriedly. He was fearful lest the 
 figure should disappear altogether before he could 
 obtain his answer. "Has anyone come?" 
 
 "Why, they couldn't get here, Lieutenant, not 
 yet." 
 
 The voice came very faintly. "You go to 
 sleep now, and I'll run and fetch some letters and 
 telegrams. When you wake up, maybe I'll have 
 a lot for you." 
 
 But the Lieutenant caught the nurse by the 
 wrist, and crushed his hand in his own thin fin 
 gers. They were hot, and left the steward's skin 
 wet with perspiration. The Lieutenant laughed 
 gayly. - 1 
 
 "You see, Doctor," he said, briskly, "that you 
 can't kill me. I can't die. I've got to live, you 
 understand. Because, sir, she said she would 
 come. She said if I was wounded, or if I was ill, 
 she would come to me. She didn't care what 
 people thought. She would come anyway and 
 nurse me well, she will come. 
 
 "So, Doctor old man " He plucked at the 
 steward's sleeve, and stroked his hand eagerly, 
 
 144
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 "old man " he began again, beseechingly, "you'll 
 not let me die until she comes, will you? What? 
 No, I know I won't die. Nothing made by man 
 can kill me. No, not until she comes. Then, after 
 that eight days, she'll be here soon, any moment? 
 What? You think so, too? Don't you? Surely, 
 yes, any moment. Yes, I'll go to sleep now, and 
 when you see her rowing out from shore you wake 
 me. You'll know her; you can't make a mistake. 
 She is like no, there is no one like her but you 
 can't make a mistake." 
 
 That day strange figures began to mount the 
 sides of the ship, and to occupy its every turn and 
 angle of space. Some of them fell on their knees 
 and slapped the bare deck with their hands, and 
 laughed and cried out, "Thank God, I'll see God's 
 country again!" Some of them were regulars, 
 bound in bandages; some were volunteers, dirty 
 and hollow-eyed, with long beards on boys' faces. 
 Some came on crutches; others with their arms 
 around the shoulders of their comrades, staring 
 ahead of them with a fixed smile, their lips drawn 
 back and their teeth protruding. At every second 
 step they stumbled, and the face of each was swept 
 by swift ripples of pain. 
 
 They lay on cots so close together that the nurses 
 could not walk between them. They lay on the 
 wet decks, in the scuppers, and along the transoms 
 
 145
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 and hatches. They were like shipwrecked mari 
 ners clinging to a raft, and they asked nothing 
 more than that the ship's bow be turned toward 
 home. Once satisfied as to that, they relaxed into 
 a state of self-pity and miserable oblivion to their 
 environment, from which hunger nor nausea nor 
 aching bones could shake them. 
 
 The hospital steward touched the Lieutenant 
 lightly on the shoulder. 
 
 "We are going North, sir," he said. "The 
 transport's ordered North to New York, with 
 these volunteers and the sick and wounded. Do 
 you hear me, sir?" 
 
 The Lieutenant opened his eyes. "Has she 
 come?" he asked. 
 
 "Gee!" exclaimed the hospital steward. He 
 glanced impatiently at the blue mountains and the 
 yellow coast, from which the transport was draw 
 ing rapidly away. 
 
 "Well, I can't see her coming just now," he 
 said. "But she will," he added. 
 
 "You let me know at once when she comes." 
 
 "Why, cert'nly, of course," said the steward. 
 
 Three trained nurses came over the side just 
 before the transport started North. One was a 
 large, motherly looking woman, with a German 
 accent. She had been a trained nurse, first in Ber 
 lin, and later in the London Hospital in White- 
 
 146
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 chapel, and at Bellevue. The nurse was dressed 
 in white, and wore a little silver medal at her 
 throat; and she was strong enough to lift a vol 
 unteer out of his cot and hold him easily in her 
 arms, while one of the convalescents pulled his 
 cot out of the rain. Some of the men called her 
 "nurse"; others, who wore scapulars around their 
 necks, called her "Sister"; and the officers of the 
 medical staff addressed her as Miss Bergen. 
 
 Miss Bergen halted beside the cot of the Lieu 
 tenant and asked, "Is this the fever case you spoke 
 about, Doctor the one you want moved to the 
 officers' ward?" She slipped her hand up under 
 his sleeve and felt his wrist. 
 
 "His pulse is very high," she said to the stew 
 ard. "When did you take his temperature ?" She 
 drew a little morocco case from her pocket and 
 from that took a clinical thermometer, which she 
 shook up and down, eying the patient meanwhile 
 with a calm, impersonal scrutiny. The Lieutenant 
 raised his head and stared up at the white figure 
 beside his cot. His eyes opened and then shut 
 quickly, with a startled look, in which doubt strug 
 gled with wonderful happiness. His hand stole 
 out fearfully and warily until it touched her apron, 
 and then, finding it was real, he clutched it des 
 perately, and twisting his face and body toward 
 her, pulled her down, clasping her hands in both 
 
 147
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 of his, and pressing them close to his face and 
 eyes and lips. He put them from him for an in 
 stant, and looked at her through his tears. 
 
 "Sweetheart," he whispered, "sweetheart, I 
 knew you'd come." 
 
 As the nurse knelt on the deck beside him, her 
 thermometer slipped from her fingers and broke, 
 and she gave an exclamation of annoyance. The 
 young Doctor picked up the pieces and tossed them 
 overboard. Neither of them spoke, but they 
 smiled appreciatively. The Lieutenant was look 
 ing at the nurse with the wonder and hope and 
 hunger of soul in his eyes with which a dying man 
 looks at the cross the priest holds up before him. 
 What he saw where the German nurse was kneel 
 ing was a tall, fair girl with great bands and 
 masses of hair, with a head rising like a lily from 
 a firm, white throat, set on broad shoulders above 
 a straight back and sloping breast a tall, beauti 
 ful creature, half-girl, half-woman, who looked 
 back at him shyly, but steadily. 
 
 "Listen," he said. 
 
 The voice of the sick man was so sure and so sane 
 that the young Doctor started, and moved nearer 
 to the head of the cot. "Listen, dearest," the 
 Lieutenant whispered. "I wanted to tell you be 
 fore I came South. But I did not dare; and then 
 J was afraid something might happen to me, and 
 
 148
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 I could never tell you, and you would never know. 
 So I wrote it to you in the will I made at Baiquiri, 
 the night before the landing. If you hadn't come 
 now, you would have learned it in that way. You 
 would have read there that there never was any 
 one but you ; the rest were all dream people, fool 
 ish, silly mad. There is no one else in the world 
 but you; you have been the only thing in life that 
 has counted. I thought I might do something 
 down here that would make you care. But I got 
 shot going up a hill, and after that I wasn't able 
 to do anything. It was very hot, and the hills 
 were on fire; and they took me prisoner, and kept 
 me tied down here, burning on these coals. I can't 
 live much longer, but now that I have told you I 
 can have peace. They tried to kill me before you 
 came; but they didn't know I loved you, they 
 didn't know that men who love you can't die. 
 They tried to starve my love for you, to burn it 
 out of me; they tried to reach it with their knives. 
 But my love for you is my soul, and they can't kill 
 a man's soul. Dear heart, I have lived because 
 you lived. Now that you know now that you 
 understand what does it matter?" 
 
 Miss Bergen shook her head with great vigor. 
 "Nonsense," she said, cheerfully. "You are not 
 going to die. As soon as we move you out of this 
 
 rain, and some food cook " 
 
 149
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 "Good God!" cried the young Doctor, savage 
 ly. "Do you want to kill him?" 
 
 When she spoke, the patient had thrown his 
 arms heavily across his face, and had fallen back, 
 lying rigid on the pillow. 
 
 The Doctor led the way across the prostrate 
 bodies, apologizing as he went. "I am sorry I 
 spoke so quickly," he said, "but he thought you 
 were real. I mean he thought you were some 
 one he really knew " 
 
 "He was just delirious," said the German nurse, 
 calmly. 
 
 The Doctor mixed himself a Scotch and soda 
 and drank it with a single gesture. 
 
 "Ugh!" he said to the ward-room. "I feel as 
 though I'd been opening another man's letters." 
 
 The transport drove through the empty seas 
 with heavy, clumsy upheavals, rolling like a buoy. 
 Having been originally intended for the freight- 
 carrying trade, she had no sympathy with hearts 
 that beat for a sight of their native land, or for 
 lives that counted their remaining minutes by the 
 throbbing of her engines. Occasionally, without 
 apparent reason, she was thrown violently from 
 her course; but it was invariably the case that when 
 her stern went to starboard, something splashed 
 in the water on her port side and drifted past her, 
 
 150
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 until, when it had cleared the blades of her pro 
 peller, a voice cried out, and she was swung back 
 on her home-bound track again. 
 
 The Lieutenant missed the familiar palms and 
 the tiny block-house; and seeing nothing beyond 
 the iron rails but great wastes of gray water, he 
 decided he was on board a prison-ship, or that he 
 had been strapped to a raft and cast adrift. Peo 
 ple came for hours at a time and stood at the foot 
 of his cot, and talked with him and he to them 
 people he had loved and people he had long for 
 gotten, some of whom he had thought were dead. 
 One of them he could have sworn he had seen 
 buried in a deep trench, and covered with branches 
 of palmetto. He had heard the bugler, with tears 
 choking him, sound "taps"; and with his own hand 
 he had placed the dead man's campaign hat on the 
 mound of fresh earth above the grave. Yet here 
 he was still alive, and he came with other men 
 of his troop to speak to him ; but when he reached 
 out to them they were gone the real and the un 
 real, the dead and the living and even She dis 
 appeared whenever he tried to take her hand, and 
 sometimes the hospital steward drove her away. 
 
 "Did that young lady say when she was coming 
 back again?" he asked the steward. 
 
 "The young lady! What young lady?" asked 
 the steward, wearily.
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 "The one who has been sitting there," he an 
 swered. He pointed with his gaunt hand at the 
 man in the next cot. 
 
 "Oh, that young lady. Yes, she's coming back. 
 She's just gone below to fetch you some hard 
 tack." 
 
 The young volunteer in the next cot whined 
 grievously. 
 
 "That crazy man gives me the creeps," he 
 groaned. "He's always waking me up, and look 
 ing at me as though he was going to eat me." 
 
 "Shut your head," said the steward. "He's a 
 better man crazy than you'll ever be with the little 
 sense you've got. And he has two Mauser holes 
 in him. Crazy, eh? It's a damned good thing 
 for you that there was about four thousand of us 
 regulars just as crazy as him, or you'd never seen 
 the top of the hill." 
 
 One morning there was a great commotion on 
 deck, and all the convalescents balanced themselves 
 on the rail, shivering in their pajamas, and pointed 
 one way. The transport was moving swiftly and 
 smoothly through water as flat as a lake, and 
 making a great noise with her steam-whistle. The 
 noise was echoed by many more steam- whistles; 
 and the ghosts of out-bound ships and tugs and 
 excursion steamers ran past her out of the mist 
 and disappeared, saluting joyously. All of the 
 
 152
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 excursion steamers had a heavy list to the side 
 nearest the transport, and the ghosts on them 
 crowded to that rail and waved handkerchiefs and 
 cheered. The fog lifted suddenly, and between 
 the iron rails the Lieutenant saw high green hills 
 on either side of a great harbor. Houses and trees 
 and thousands of masts swept past like a pano 
 rama; and beyond was a mirage of three cities, 
 with curling smoke-wreaths and sky-reaching build 
 ings, and a great swinging bridge, and a giant 
 statue of a woman waving a welcome home. 
 
 The Lieutenant surveyed the spectacle with cyn 
 ical disbelief. He was far too wise and far too 
 cunning to be bewitched by it. In his heart he 
 pitied the men about him, who laughed wildly, 
 and shouted, and climbed recklessly to the rails 
 and ratlines. He had been deceived too often not 
 to know that it was not real. He knew from cruel 
 experience that in a few moments the tall buildings 
 would crumble away, the thousands of columns of 
 white smoke that flashed like snow in the sun, the 
 busy, shrieking tug-boats, and the great statue 
 would vanish into the sea, leaving it gray and bare. 
 He closed his eyes and shut the vision out. It was 
 so beautiful that it tempted him; but he would 
 not be mocked, and he buried his face in his hands. 
 They were carrying the farce too far, he thought. 
 It was really too absurd; for now they were at a 
 
 153
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 wharf which was so real that, had he not known 
 by previous suffering, he would have been utterly 
 deceived by it. And there were great crowds of 
 smiling, cheering people, and a waiting guard of 
 honor in fresh uniforms, and rows of police push 
 ing the people this way and that; and these men 
 about him were taking it all quite seriously, and 
 making ready to disembark, carrying their blan 
 ket-rolls and rifles with them. 
 
 A band was playing joyously, and the man in 
 the next cot, who was being lifted to a stretcher, 
 said, "There's the Governor and his staff; that's 
 him in the high hat." It was really very well done. 
 The Custom-house and the Elevated Railroad and 
 Castle Garden were as like to life as a photograph, 
 and the crowd was as well handled as a mob in 
 a play. His heart ached for it so that he could 
 not bear the pain, and he turned his back on it. 
 It was cruel to keep it up so long. His keeper 
 lifted him in his arms, and pulled him into a dirty 
 uniform which had belonged, apparently, to a 
 much larger man a man who had been killed 
 probably, for there were dark-brown marks of 
 blood on the tunic and breeches. When he tried 
 to stand on his feet, Castle Garden and the Bat 
 tery disappeared in a black cloud of night, just as 
 he knew they would; but when he opened his eyes 
 from the stretcher, they had returned again. It 
 
 154
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 was a most remarkably vivid vision. They kept 
 it up so well. Now the young Doctor and the 
 hospital steward were pretending to carry him 
 down a gangplank and into an open space; and he 
 saw quite close to him a long line of policemen, 
 and behind them thousands of faces, some of them 
 women's faces women who pointed at him and 
 then shook their heads and cried, and pressed their 
 hands to their cheeks, still looking at him. He 
 wondered why they cried. He did not know them, 
 nor did they know him. No one knew him; these 
 people were only ghosts. 
 
 There was a quick parting in the crowd. A 
 man he had once known shoved two of the police 
 men to one side, and he heard a girl's voice speak 
 ing his name, like a sob; and She came running 
 out across the open space and fell on her knees 
 beside the stretcher, and bent down over him, and 
 he was clasped in two young, firm arms. 
 
 "Of course it is not real, of course it is not She," 
 he assured himself. "Because She would not do 
 such a thing. Before all these people She would 
 not do it." 
 
 But he trembled and his heart throbbed so 
 cruelly that he could not bear the pain. 
 
 She was pretending to cry. 
 
 "They wired us you had started for Tampa on 
 the hospital ship," She was saying, "and Aunt and 
 
 155
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 I went all the way there before we heard you had 
 been sent North. We have been on the cars a 
 week. That is why I missed you. Do you un 
 derstand? It was not my fault. I tried to come. 
 Indeed, I tried to come." 
 
 She turned her head and looked up fearfully 
 at the young Doctor. 
 
 "Tell me, why does he look at me like that?" 
 she asked. "He doesn't know me. Is he very ill? 
 Tell me the truth." She drew in her breath quick 
 ly. "Of course you will tell me the truth." 
 
 When she asked the question he felt her arms 
 draw tight about his shoulders. It was as though 
 she was holding him to herself, and from some 
 one who had reached out for him. In his trouble 
 he turned to his old friend and keeper. His voice 
 was hoarse and very low. 
 
 "Is this the same young lady who was on the 
 transport the one you used to drive away?" 
 
 In his embarrassment, the hospital steward 
 blushed under his tan, and stammered. 
 
 "Of course it's the same young lady," the Doc 
 tor answered, briskly. "And I won't let them 
 drive her away." He turned to her, smiling 
 gravely. "I think his condition has ceased to be 
 dangerous, madam," he said. 
 
 People who in a former existence had been his 
 friends, and Her brother, gathered about his 
 
 156
 
 On the Fever Ship 
 
 stretcher and bore him through the crowd and 
 lifted him into a carriage filled with cushions, 
 among which he sank lower and lower. Then She 
 sat beside him, and he heard Her brother say to 
 the coachman, "Home, and drive slowly and keep 
 on the asphalt." 
 
 The carriage moved forward, and She put her 
 arm about him, and his head fell on her shoulder, 
 and neither of them spoke. The vision had lasted 
 so long now that he was torn with the joy that 
 after all it might be real. But he could not bear 
 the awakening if it were not, so he raised his head 
 fearfully and looked up into the beautiful eyes 
 above him. His brows were knit, and he strug 
 gled with a great doubt and an awful joy. 
 
 "Dearest," he said, "is it real?" 
 
 "Is it real?" she repeated. 
 
 Even as a dream, it was so wonderfully beau 
 tiful that he was satisfied if it could only continue 
 so, if but for a little while. 
 
 "Do you think," he begged again, trembling, 
 "that it is going to last much longer?" 
 
 She smiled, and, bending her head slowly, kissed 
 him. 
 
 "It is going to last always," she said. 
 
 157
 
 THE MAN WITH ONE 
 TALENT
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 THE mass-meeting in the Madison Square 
 Garden which was to help set Cuba free 
 was finished, and the people were pushing their 
 way out of the overheated building into the snow 
 and sleet of the streets. They had been greatly 
 stirred and the spell of the last speaker still hung 
 so heavily upon them that as they pressed down 
 the long corridor they were still speaking loudly 
 in his praise. 
 
 A young man moved eagerly among them, and 
 pushed his way to wherever a voice was raised 
 above the rest. He strained forward, listening 
 openly, as though he tried to judge the effect of 
 the meeting by the verdict of those about him. 
 
 But the words he overheard seemed to clash 
 with what he wished them to be, and the eager 
 look on his face changed to one of doubt and of 
 grave disappointment. When he had reached the 
 sidewalk he stopped and stood looking back alter 
 nately into the lighted hall and at the hurrying 
 crowds which were dispersing rapidly. He made 
 a movement as though he would recall them, as 
 
 161
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 though he felt they were still unconvinced, as 
 though there was much still left unsaid. 
 
 A fat stranger halted at his elbow to light his 
 cigar, and glancing up nodded his head approv 
 ingly. 
 
 "Fine speaker, Senator Stanton, ain't he?" he 
 said. 
 
 The young man answered eagerly. "Yes," he 
 assented, "he is a great orator, but how could he 
 help but speak well with such a subject?" 
 
 "Oh, you ought to have heard him last Novem 
 ber at Tammany Hall," the fat stranger answered. 
 "He wasn't quite up to himself to-night. He 
 wasn't so interested. Those Cubans are foreign 
 ers, you see, but you ought to have heard him last 
 St. Patrick's day on Home Rule for Ireland. Then 
 he was talking! That speech made him a United 
 States senator, I guess. I don't just see how he 
 expects to win out on this Cuba game. The Cu 
 bans haven't got no votes." 
 
 The young man opened his eyes in some bewil 
 derment. 
 
 "He speaks for the good of Cuba, for the sake 
 of humanity," he ventured. 
 
 "What?" inquired the fat stranger. "Oh, yes, 
 of course. Well, I must be getting on. Good 
 night, sir." 
 
 The stranger moved on his way, but the young 
 162
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 man still lingered uncertainly in the snow-swept 
 corridor, shivering violently with the cold and 
 stamping his feet for greater comfort. His face 
 was burned to a deep red, which seemed to have 
 come from some long exposure to a tropical sun, 
 but which held no sign of health. His cheeks were 
 hollow and his eyes were lighted with the fire of 
 fever, and from time to time he was shaken by 
 violent bursts of coughing which caused him to 
 reach toward one of the pillars for support. 
 
 As the last of the lights went out in the Garden, 
 the speaker of the evening and three of his friends 
 came laughing and talking down the long corridor. 
 Senator Stanton was a conspicuous figure at any 
 time, and even in those places where his portraits 
 had not penetrated he was at once recognized as 
 a personage. Something in his erect carriage and 
 an unusual grace of movement, and the power and 
 success in his face, made men turn to look at him. 
 He had been told that he resembled the early por 
 traits of Henry Clay, and he had never quite for 
 gotten the coincidence. 
 
 The senator was wrapping the collar of his fur 
 coat around his throat and puffing contentedly at 
 a fresh cigar, and as he passed, the night-watch 
 man and the ushers bowed to the great man and 
 stood looking after him with the half-humorous, 
 half-envious deference that the American voter 
 
 163
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 pays to the successful politician. At the sidewalk, 
 the policemen hurried to open the door of his car 
 riage, and in their eagerness made a double line, 
 through which he passed nodding to them grave 
 ly. The young man who had stood so long in wait 
 ing pushed his way through the line to his side. 
 
 "Senator Stanton," he began timidly, "might 
 I speak to you a moment? My name is Ark- 
 wright; I am just back from Cuba, and I want 
 to thank you for your speech. I am an American, 
 and I thank God that I am since you are too, sir. 
 No one has said anything since the war began that 
 compares with what you said to-night. You put 
 it nobly, and I know, for I've been there for three 
 years, only I can't make other people understand 
 it, and I am thankful that someone can. You'll 
 forgive my stopping you, sir, but I wanted to 
 thank you. I feel it very much." 
 
 Senator Stanton's friends had already seated 
 themselves in his carriage and were looking out 
 of the door and smiling with mock patience. But 
 the senator made no move to follow them. 
 Though they were his admirers they were some 
 times sceptical, and he was not sorry that they 
 should hear this uninvited tribute. So he made 
 a pretence of buttoning his long coat about him, 
 and nodded encouragingly to Arkwright to con 
 tinue. "I'm glad you liked it, sir," he said with 
 
 164
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 the pleasant, gracious smile that had won him a 
 friend wherever it had won him a vote. "It is 
 very satisfactory to know from one who is well 
 informed on the subject that what I have said is 
 correct. The situation there is truly terrible. You 
 have just returned, you say? Where were you 
 in Havana?" 
 
 "No, in the other provinces, sir," Arkwright 
 answered. "I have been all over the island; I am 
 a civil engineer. The truth has not been half told 
 about Cuba, I assure you, sir. It is massacre 
 there, not war. It is partly so through ignorance, 
 but nevertheless it is massacre. And what makes 
 it worse is, that it is the massacre of the innocents. 
 That is what I liked best of what you said in that 
 great speech, the part about the women and chil 
 dren." 
 
 He reached out his hands detainingly, and then 
 drew back as though in apology for having al 
 ready kept the great man so long waiting in the 
 cold. "I wish I could tell you some of the terrible 
 things I have seen," he began again, eagerly, as 
 Stanton made no movement to depart. "They are 
 much worse than those you instanced to-night, and 
 you could make so much better use of them than 
 anyone else. I have seen starving women nursing 
 dead babies, and sometimes starving babies suck 
 ing their dead mothers' breasts; I have seen men 
 
 165
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 cut down in the open roads and while digging in 
 the fields and two hundred women imprisoned 
 in one room without food and eaten with small 
 pox, and huts burned while the people in them 
 slept " 
 
 The young man had been speaking impetuous 
 ly, but he stopped as suddenly, for the senator 
 was not listening to him. He had lowered his 
 eyes and was looking with a glance of mingled 
 fascination and disgust at Arkwright's hands. In 
 his earnestness the young man had stretched them 
 out, and as they showed behind the line of his 
 ragged sleeves the others could see, even in the 
 blurred light and falling snow, that the wrists of 
 each hand were gashed and cut in dark-brown lines 
 like the skin of a mulatto, and in places were a 
 raw red, where the fresh skin had but just closed 
 over. The young man paused and stood shiver 
 ing, still holding his hands out rigidly before him. 
 
 The senator raised his eyes slowly and drew 
 away. 
 
 "What is that?" he said in a low voice, point 
 ing with a gloved finger at the black lines on the 
 wrists. 
 
 A sergeant in the group of policemen who had 
 closed around the speakers answered him prompt 
 ly from his profound fund of professional knowl 
 edge. 
 
 166
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 "That's handcuffs, senator," he said important 
 ly, and glanced at Stanton as though to signify 
 that at a word from him he would take this sus 
 picious character into custody. The young man 
 pulled the frayed cuffs of his shirt over his wrists 
 and tucked his hands, which the cold had frozen 
 into an ashy blue, under his armpits to warm them. 
 
 "No, they don't use handcuffs in the field," he 
 said in the same low, eager tone; "they use ropes 
 and leather thongs; they fastened me behind a 
 horse, and when he stumbled going down the trail 
 it jerked me forward and the cords would tighten 
 and tear the flesh. But they have had a long time 
 to heal now. I have been eight months in prison." 
 
 The young men at the carriage window had 
 ceased smiling and were listening intently. One 
 of them stepped out and stood beside the carriage 
 door looking down at the shivering figure before 
 him with a close and curious scrutiny. 
 
 "Eight months in prison !" echoed the police 
 sergeant with a note of triumph; "what did I tell 
 you?" 
 
 "Hold your tongue !" said the young man at the 
 carriage door. There was silence for a moment, 
 while the men looked at the senator, as though 
 waiting for him to speak. 
 
 "Where were you in prison, Mr. Arkwright?" 
 he asked. 
 
 167
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 "First in the calaboose at Santa Clara for two 
 months, and then in Cabanas. The Cubans who 
 were taken when I was were shot by the fusillade 
 on different days during this last month. Two of 
 them, the Ezetas, were father and son, and the 
 Volunteer band played all the time the execution 
 was going on, so that the other prisoners might 
 not hear them cry 'Cuba Libre!' when the order 
 came to fire. But we heard them." 
 
 The senator shivered slightly and pulled his fur 
 collar up farther around his face. "I'd like to 
 talk with you," he said, "if you have nothing to 
 do to-morrow. I'd like to go into this thing thor~ 
 oughly. Congress must be made to take some 
 action." 
 
 The young man clasped his hands eagerly. 
 "Ah, Mr. Stanton, if you would," he cried, "if 
 you would only give me an hour ! I could tell you 
 so much that you could use. And you can believe 
 what I say, sir it is not necessary to lie God 
 knows the truth is bad enough. I can give you 
 names and dates for everything I say. Or I can 
 do better than that, sir. I can take you there 
 yourself in three months I can show you all you 
 need to see, without danger to you in any way. 
 And they would not know me, now that I have 
 grown a beard, and I am a skeleton to what I 
 was. I can speak the language well, and I know 
 
 168
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 just what you should see, and then you could come 
 back as one speaking with authority and not have 
 to say, 'I have read,' or 'have been told,' but you 
 can say, 'These are the things I have seen' and 
 you could free Cuba." 
 
 The senator coughed and put the question aside 
 for the moment with a wave of the hand that held 
 his cigar. "We will talk of that to-morrow also. 
 Come to lunch with me at one. My apartments 
 are in the Berkeley on Fifth Avenue. But aren't 
 you afraid to go back there?" he asked curiously. 
 "I should think you'd had enough of it. And 
 you've got a touch of fever, haven't you?" He 
 leaned forward and peered into the other's eyes. 
 
 "It is only the prison fever," the young man 
 answered; "food and this cold will drive that out 
 of me. And I must go back. There is so much 
 to do there," he added. "Ah, if I could tell them, 
 as you can tell them, what I feel here." He 
 struck his chest sharply with his hand, and on the 
 instant fell into a fit of coughing so violent that 
 the young man at the carriage door caught him 
 around the waist, and one of the policemen sup 
 ported him from the other side. 
 
 "You need a doctor," said the senator, kindly. 
 "I'll ask mine to have a look at you. Don't for 
 get, then, at one o'clock to-morrow. We will go 
 into this thing thoroughly." He shook Arkwright 
 
 169
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 warmly by the hand and, stooping, stepped into the 
 carriage. The young man who had stood at the 
 door followed him and crowded back luxuriously 
 against the cushions. The footman swung himself 
 up beside the driver, and said "Uptown Delmon- 
 ico's," as he wrapped the fur rug around his legs, 
 and with a salute from the policemen and a scrap 
 ing of hoofs on the slippery asphalt the great man 
 was gone. 
 
 "That poor fellow needs a doctor," he said as 
 the carriage rolled up the avenue, "and he needs 
 an overcoat, and he needs food. He needs about 
 almost everything, by the looks of him." 
 
 But the voice of the young man in the corner 
 of the carriage objected drowsily 
 
 "On the contrary," he said, "it seemed to me 
 that he had the one thing needful." 
 
 By one o'clock of the day following, Senator 
 Stanton, having read the reports of his speech in 
 the morning papers, punctuated with "Cheers," 
 "Tremendous enthusiasm" and more "Cheers," 
 was still in a willing frame of mind toward Cuba 
 and her self-appointed envoy, young Mr. Ark- 
 wright. 
 
 Over night he had had doubts but that the 
 young man's enthusiasm would bore him on the 
 morrow, but Mr. Arkwright, when he appeared, 
 developed, on the contrary, a practical turn of 
 
 170
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 mind which rendered his suggestions both flatter 
 ing and feasible. He was still terribly in earnest, 
 but he was clever enough or serious enough to see 
 that the motives which appealed to him might not 
 have sufficient force to move a successful statesman 
 into action. So he placed before the senator only 
 those arguments and reasons which he guessed 
 were the best adapted to secure his interest and his 
 help. His proposal as he set it forth was sim 
 plicity itself. 
 
 "Here is a map of the island," he said; "on it 
 I have marked the places you can visit in safety, 
 and where you will meet the people you ought to 
 see. If you leave New York at midnight you can 
 reach Tampa on the second day. From Tampa 
 we cross in another day to Havana. There you 
 can visit the Americans imprisoned in Morro and 
 Cabanas, and in the streets you can see the starving 
 pacificos. From Havana I shall take you by rail 
 to Jucaro, Matanzas, Santa Clara and Cienfuegos. 
 You will not be able to see the insurgents in the 
 fields it is not necessary that you should but 
 you can visit one of the sugar plantations and 
 some of the insurgent chiefs will run the forts by 
 night and come in to talk with you. I will show 
 you burning fields and houses, and starving men 
 and women by the thousands, and men and women 
 dying of fevers. You can see Cuban prisoners 
 
 171
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 shot by a firing squad and you can note how these 
 rebels meet death. You can see all this in three 
 weeks and be back in New York in a month, as 
 anyone can see it who wishes to learn the truth. 
 Why, English members of Parliament go all the 
 way to India and British Columbia to inform 
 themselves about those countries, they travel thou 
 sands of miles, but only one member of either of 
 our houses of Congress has taken the trouble to 
 cross these eighty miles of water that lie between 
 us and Cuba. You can either go quietly and in 
 cognito, as it were, or you can advertise the fact 
 of your going, which would be better. And from 
 the moment you start the interest in your visit 
 will grow and increase until there will be no topic 
 discussed in any of our papers except yourself, and 
 what you are doing and what you mean to do. 
 
 "By the time you return the people will be wait 
 ing, ready and eager to hear whatever you may 
 have to say. Your word will be the last word for 
 them. It is not as though you were some dema 
 gogue seeking notoriety, or a hotel piazza corre 
 spondent at Key West or Jacksonville. You are 
 the only statesman we have, the only orator Amer 
 icans will listen to, and I tell you that when you 
 come before them and bring home to them as only 
 you can the horrors of this war, you will be the 
 only man in this country. You will be the Patrick 
 
 172
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 Henry of Cuba ; you can go down to history as the 
 man who added the most beautiful island in the 
 seas to the territory of the United States, who 
 saved thousands of innocent children and women, 
 and who dared to do what no other politician 
 has dared to do to go and see for himself 
 and to come back and speak the truth. It only 
 means a month out of your life, a month's trouble 
 and discomfort, but with no risk. What is a month 
 out of a lifetime, when that month means immor 
 tality to you and life to thousands? In a month 
 you would make a half dozen after-dinner speeches 
 and cause your friends to laugh and applaud. 
 Why not wring their hearts instead, and hold this 
 thing up before them as it is, and shake it in their 
 faces? Show it to them in all its horror bleed 
 ing, diseased and naked, an offence to our human 
 ity, and to our prated love of liberty, and to our 
 God." 
 
 The young man threw himself eagerly forward 
 and beat the map with his open palm. But the 
 senator sat apparently unmoved, gazing thought 
 fully into the open fire, and shook his head. 
 
 While the luncheon was in progress the young 
 gentleman who the night before had left the car 
 riage and stood at Arkwright's side had entered 
 the room and was listening intently. He had in 
 vited himself to some fresh coffee, and had then 
 relapsed into an attentive silence, following what 
 
 173
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 the others said with an amused and interested coun 
 tenance. Stanton had introduced him as Mr. Liv 
 ingstone, and appeared to take it for granted that 
 Arkwright would know who he was. He seemed 
 to regard him with a certain deference which Ark 
 wright judged was due to some fixed position the 
 young man held, either of social or of political 
 value. 
 
 "I do not know," said Stanton with considera 
 tion, "that I am prepared to advocate the annex 
 ation of the island. It is a serious problem." 
 
 "I am not urging that," Arkwright interrupted 
 anxiously; "the Cubans themselves do not agree 
 as to that, and in any event it is an afterthought. 
 Our object now should be to prevent further blood 
 shed. If you see a man beating a boy to death, 
 you first save the boy's life and decide afterward 
 where he is to go to school. If there were any 
 one else, senator," Arkwright continued earnestly, 
 "I would not trouble you. But we all know your 
 strength in this country. You are independent 
 and fearless, and men of both parties listen to you. 
 Surely, God has given you this great gift of ora 
 tory (if you will forgive my speaking so) to use 
 only in a great cause. A grand organ in a cathe 
 dral is placed there to lift men's thoughts to high 
 resolves and purposes, not to make people dance. 
 A street organ can do that Now, here is a cause 
 
 174
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 worthy of your great talents, worthy of a Daniel 
 Webster, of a Henry Clay." 
 
 The senator frowned at the fire and shook his 
 head doubtfully. 
 
 "If they knew what I was down there for," he 
 asked, "wouldn't they put me in prison too?" 
 
 Arkwright laughed incredulously. 
 
 "Certainly not," he said; "you would go there 
 as a private citizen, as a tourist to look on and 
 observe. Spain is not seeking complications of 
 that sort. She has troubles enough without im 
 prisoning United States senators." 
 
 "Yes; but these fevers now," persisted Stanton, 
 "they're no respecter of persons, I imagine. A 
 United States senator is not above small-pox or 
 cholera." 
 
 Arkwright shook his head impatiently and 
 sighed. 
 
 "It is difficult to make it clear to one who has 
 not been there," he said. "These people and sol 
 diers are dying of fever because they are forced 
 to live like pigs, and they are already sick with 
 starvation. A healthy man like yourself would 
 be in no more danger than you would be in walk 
 ing through the wards of a New York hospital." 
 
 Senator Stanton turned in his arm-chair, and 
 held up his hand impressively. 
 
 "If I were to tell them the things you have
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 told me," he said warningly; "if I were to say I 
 have seen such things American property in 
 flames, American interests ruined, and that five 
 times as many women and children have died of 
 fever and starvation in three months in Cuba as 
 the Sultan has massacred in Armenia in three 
 years it would mean war with Spain." 
 
 "Well?" said Arkwright. 
 
 Stanton shrugged his shoulders and sank back 
 again in his chair. 
 
 "It would either mean war," Arkwright went 
 on, "or it might mean the sending of the Red 
 Cross army to Cuba. It went to Constantinople, 
 five thousand miles away, to help the Armenian 
 Christians why has it waited three years to go 
 eighty miles to feed and clothe the Cuban women 
 and children ? It is like sending help to a hungry 
 peasant in Russia while a man dies on your door 
 step." 
 
 "Well, said the senator, rising, "I will let you 
 know to-morrow. If it is the right thing to do, 
 and if I can do it, of course it must be done. We 
 start from Tampa, you say? I know the presi 
 dents of all of those roads and they'll probably 
 give me a private car for the trip down. Shall 
 we take any newspaper men with us, or shall I 
 wait until I get back and be interviewed? What 
 do you think?" 
 
 176
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 "I would wait until my return," Arkwright an 
 swered, his eyes glowing with the hope the sena 
 tor's words had inspired, "and then speak to a 
 mass-meeting here and in Boston and in Chicago. 
 Three speeches will be enough. Before you have 
 finished your last one the American warships will 
 be in the harbor of Havana." 
 
 "Ah, youth, youth!" said the senator, smiling 
 gravely, "it is no light responsibility to urge a 
 country into war." 
 
 "It is no light responsibility," Arkwright an 
 swered, "to know you have the chance to save the 
 lives of thousands of little children and helpless 
 women and to let the chance pass." 
 
 "Quite so, that is quite true," said the senator. 
 "Well, good-morning. I shall let you know to 
 morrow." 
 
 Young Livingstone went down in the elevator 
 with Arkwright, and when they had reached the 
 sidewalk stood regarding him for a moment in 
 silence. 
 
 "You mustn't count too much on Stanton, you 
 know," he said kindly; "he has a way of disap 
 pointing people." 
 
 "Ah, he can never disappoint me," Arkwright 
 answered confidently, "no matter how much I ex 
 pected. Besides, I have already heard him 
 speak." 
 
 177
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 "I don't mean that; I don't mean he is disap 
 pointing as a speaker. Stanton is a great orator, 
 I think. Most of those Southerners are, and he's 
 the only real orator I ever heard. But what I 
 mean is, that he doesn't go into things impulsive 
 ly ; he first considers himself, and then he considers 
 every other side of the question before he commits 
 himself to it. Before he launches out on a popu 
 lar wave he tries to find out where it is going to 
 land him. He likes the sort of popular wave that 
 carries him along with it where everyone can see 
 him; he doesn't fancy being hurled up on the 
 beach with his mouth full of sand." 
 
 "You are saying that he is selfish, self-seeking?" 
 Arkwright demanded, with a challenge in his voice. 
 "I thought you were his friend." 
 
 "Yes, he is selfish, and yes, I am his friend," 
 the young man answered, smiling; "at least, he 
 seems willing to be mine. I am saying nothing 
 against him that I have not said to him. If you'll 
 come back with me up the elevator I'll tell him 
 he's a self-seeker and selfish, and with no thought 
 above his own interests. He won't mind. He'd 
 say I cannot comprehend his motives. Why, 
 you've only to look at his record. When the 
 Venezuelan message came out he attacked the 
 President and declared he was trying to make po 
 litical capital and to drag us into war, and that 
 
 178
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 what we wanted was arbitration; but when the 
 President brought out the Arbitration Treaty he 
 attacked that too in the Senate and destroyed it. 
 Why? Not because he had convictions, but be 
 cause the President had refused a foreign appoint 
 ment to a friend of his in the South. He has 
 been a free-silver man for the last ten years, he 
 comes from a free-silver state, and the members 
 of the legislature that elected him were all for 
 silver, but this last election his Wall Street friends 
 got hold of him and worked on his feelings, and 
 he repudiated his party, his state, and his con 
 stituents, and came out for gold." 
 
 "Well, but surely," Arkwright objected, "that 
 took courage? To own that for ten years you 
 had been wrong, and to come out for the right 
 at the last." 
 
 Livingstone stared and shrugged his shoulders. 
 "It's all a question of motives," he said indiffer 
 ently. "I don't want to shatter your idol; I only 
 want to save you from counting too much on 
 him." 
 
 When Arkwright called on the morrow Senator 
 Stanton was not at home, and the day following 
 he was busy, and could give him only a brief in 
 terview. There were previous engagements and 
 other difficulties in the way of his going which he 
 had not foreseen, he said, and he feared he should 
 
 179
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 have to postpone his visit to Cuba indefinitely. 
 He asked if Mr. Arkwright would be so kind as 
 to call again within a week; he would then be 
 better able to give him a definite answer. 
 
 Arkwright left the apartment with a sensation 
 of such keen disappointment that it turned him 
 ill and dizzy. He felt that the great purpose of 
 his life was being played with and put aside. But 
 he had not selfish resentment on his own account; 
 he was only the more determined to persevere. 
 He considered new arguments and framed new 
 appeals; and one moment blamed himself bitterly 
 for having foolishly discouraged the statesman 
 by too vivid pictures of the horrors he might en 
 counter, and the next, questioned if he had not 
 been too practical and so failed because he had 
 not made the terrible need of immediate help his 
 sole argument. Every hour wasted in delay meant, 
 as he knew, the sacrifice of many lives, and there 
 were other, more sordid and more practical, rea 
 sons for speedy action. For his supply of money 
 was running low and there was now barely enough 
 remaining to carry him through the month of 
 travel he had planned to take at Stanton's side. 
 What would happen to him when that momentous 
 trip was over was of no consequence. He would 
 have done the work as far as his small share in it 
 lay, he would have set in motion a great power 
 
 180
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 that was to move Congress and the people of the 
 United States to action. If he could but do that, 
 what became of him counted for nothing. 
 
 But at the end of the week his fears and mis 
 givings were scattered gloriously, and a single line 
 from the senator set his heart leaping and brought 
 him to his knees in gratitude and thanksgiving. 
 On returning one afternoon to the mean lodging 
 into which he had moved to save his money, he 
 found a telegram from Stanton, and he tore it cpen 
 trembling between hope and fear. 
 
 "Have arranged to leave for Tampa with you 
 Monday, at midnight," it read. "Call for me at 
 ten o'clock same evening. STANTON." 
 
 Arkwright read the message three times. There 
 was a heavy, suffocating pressure at his heart as 
 though it had ceased beating. He sank back limp 
 ly upon the edge of his bed and, clutching the 
 piece of paper in his two hands, spoke the words 
 aloud triumphantly as though to assure himself 
 that they were true. Then a flood of unspeakable 
 relief, of happiness and gratitude, swept over him, 
 and he turned and slipped to the floor, burying 
 his face in the pillow, and wept out his thanks 
 upon his knees. 
 
 A man so deeply immersed in public affairs as 
 181
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 was Stanton, and with such a multiplicity of per 
 sonal interests, could not prepare to absent him 
 self for a month without his intention becoming 
 known, and on the day when he was to start for 
 Tampa the morning newspapers proclaimed the 
 fact that he was about to visit Cuba. They gave 
 to his mission all the importance and display that 
 Arkwright had foretold. Some of the newspapers 
 stated that he was going as a special commissioner 
 of the President to study and report; others that 
 he was acting in behalf of the Cuban legation in 
 Washington and had plenipotentiary powers. Op 
 position organs suggested that he was acting in the 
 interests of the sugar trust, and his own particular 
 organ declared that it was his intention to free 
 Cuba at the risk of his own freedom, safety, and 
 even life. 
 
 The Spanish minister in Washington sent a cable 
 for publication to Madrid, stating that a distin 
 guished American statesman was about to visit 
 Cuba, to investigate, and, later, to deny the truth 
 of the disgraceful libels published concerning the 
 Spanish officials on the island by the papers of the 
 United States. At the same time he cabled in 
 cipher to the captain-general in Havana to see 
 that the distinguished statesman was closely spied 
 upon from the moment of his arrival until his de 
 parture, and to place on the "suspect" list all 
 
 182
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 Americans and Cubans who ventured to give him 
 any information. 
 
 The afternoon papers enlarged on the impor 
 tance of the visit and on the good that would 
 surely come of it. They told that Senator Stanton 
 had refused to be interviewed or to disclose the 
 object of his journey. But it was enough, they 
 said, that someone in authority was at last to seek 
 out the truth, and added that no one would be 
 listened to with greater respect than would the 
 Southern senator. On this all the editorial writers 
 were agreed. The day passed drearily for Ark- 
 wright. Early in the morning he packed his va 
 lise and paid his landlord, and for the remainder 
 of the day walked the streets or sat in the hotel 
 corridor waiting impatiently for each fresh edition 
 of the papers. In them he read the signs of the 
 great upheaval of popular feeling that was to re 
 store peace and health and plenty to the island 
 for which he had given his last three years of 
 energy and life. 
 
 He was trembling with excitement, as well as 
 with the cold, when at ten o'clock precisely he 
 stood at Senator Stanton's door. He had forgot 
 ten to eat his dinner, and the warmth of the dimly 
 lit hall and the odor of rich food which was wafted 
 from an inner room touched his senses with tan 
 talizing comfort.
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 "The senator says you are to come this way, 
 sir," the servant directed. He took Arkwright's 
 valise from his hand and parted the heavy cur 
 tains that hid the dining-room, and Arkwright 
 stepped in between them and then stopped in 
 some embarrassment. He found himself in the 
 presence of a number of gentlemen seated at a 
 long dinner-table, who turned their heads as he 
 entered and peered at him through the smoke that 
 floated in light layers above the white cloth. The 
 dinner had been served, but the senator's guests 
 still sat with their chairs pushed back from a table 
 lighted by candles under yellow shades, and cov 
 ered with beautiful flowers and with bottles of 
 varied sizes in stands of quaint and intricate de 
 sign. Senator Stanton's tall figure showed dimly 
 through the smoke, and his deep voice hailed Ark- 
 wright cheerily from the farther end of the room. 
 "This way, Mr. Arkwright," he said. "I have a 
 chair waiting for you here." He grasped Ark 
 wright's hand warmly and pulled him into the 
 vacant place at his side. An elderly gentleman 
 on Arkwright's other side moved to make more 
 room for him and shoved a liqueur glass toward 
 him with a friendly nod and pointed at an open 
 box of cigars. He was a fine-looking man, and 
 Arkwright noticed that he was regarding him 
 with a glance of the keenest interest. All of those 
 
 184
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 at the table were men of twice Arkwright's age, 
 except Livingstone, whom he recognized and who 
 nodded to him pleasantly and at the same time 
 gave an order to a servant, pointing at Arkwright 
 as he did so. Some of the gentlemen wore their 
 business suits, and one opposite Arkwright was 
 still in his overcoat, and held his hat in his hand. 
 These latter seemed to have arrived after the din 
 ner had begun, for they formed a second line back 
 of those who had places at the table; they all 
 seemed to know one another and were talking 
 with much vivacity and interest. 
 
 Stanton did not attempt to introduce Arkwright 
 to his guests individually, but said: "Gentlemen, 
 this is Mr. Arkwright, of whom I have been tell 
 ing you, the young gentleman who has done such 
 magnificent work for the cause of Cuba." Those 
 who caught Arkwright's eye nodded to him, and 
 others raised their glasses at him, but with a smile 
 that he could not understand. It was as though 
 they all knew something concerning him of which 
 he was ignorant. He noted that the faces of some 
 were strangely familiar, and he decided that he 
 must have seen their portraits in the public prints. 
 After he had introduced Arkwright, the senator 
 drew his chair slightly away from him and turned 
 in what seemed embarrassment to the man on his 
 other side. The elderly gentleman next to Ark- 
 
 185
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 wright filled his glass, a servant placed a small 
 cup of coffee at his elbow, and he lit a cigar and 
 looked about him. 
 
 "You must find this weather very trying after 
 the tropics," his neighbor said. 
 
 Arkwright assented cordially. The brandy was 
 flowing through his veins and warming him; he 
 forgot that he was hungry, and the kind, inter 
 ested glances of those about him set him at his 
 ease. It was a propitious start, he thought, a 
 pleasant leave-taking for the senator and himself, 
 full of good-will and good wishes. 
 
 He turned toward Stanton and waited until he 
 had ceased speaking. 
 
 "The papers have begun well, haven't they?" 
 he asked, eagerly. 
 
 He had spoken in a low voice, almost in a whis 
 per, but those about the table seemed to have heard 
 him, for there was silence instantly, and when he 
 glanced up he saw the eyes of all turned upon him 
 and he noticed on their faces the same smile he 
 had seen there when he entered. 
 
 "Yes," Stanton answered constrainedly. "Yes, 
 I " he lowered his voice, but the silence still con 
 tinued. Stanton had his eyes fixed on the table, 
 but now he frowned and half rose from his chair. 
 
 "I want to speak with you, Arkwright," he 
 said. "Suppose we go into the next room. I'll 
 
 186
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 be back in a moment," he added, nodding to the 
 others. 
 
 But the man on his right removed his cigar 
 from his lips and said in an undertone, "No, sit 
 down, stay where you are"; and the elderly gen 
 tleman at Arkwright's side laid his hand de- 
 tainingly on his arm. "Oh, you won't take Mr. 
 Arkwright away from us, Stanton?" he asked, 
 smiling. 
 
 Stanton shrugged his shoulders and sat down 
 again, and there was a moment's pause. It was 
 broken by the man in the overcoat, who laughed. 
 
 "He's paying you a compliment, Mr. Ark 
 wright," he said. He pointed with his cigar to 
 the gentleman at Arkwright's side. 
 
 "I don't understand," Arkwright answered, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "It's a compliment to your eloquence he's 
 afraid to leave you alone with the senator. Liv 
 ingstone's been telling us that you are a bet 
 ter talker than Stanton." Arkwright turned a 
 troubled countenance toward the men about the 
 table, and then toward Livingstone, but that young 
 man had his eyes fixed gravely on the glasses 
 before him and did not raise them. 
 
 Arkwright felt a sudden, unreasonable fear of 
 the circle of strong-featured, serene, and confident 
 men about him. They seemed to be making him 
 
 187
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 the subject of a jest, to be enjoying something 
 among themselves of which he was in ignorance, 
 but which concerned him closely. He turned a 
 white face toward Stanton. 
 
 "You don't mean," he began piteously, "that 
 that you are not going? Is that it tell me 
 is that what you wanted to say?" 
 
 Stanton shifted in his chair and muttered some 
 words between his lips, then turned toward Ark- 
 wright and spoke quite clearly and distinctly. 
 
 "I am very sorry, Mr. Arkwright," he said, 
 "but I am afraid I'll have to disappoint you. 
 Reasons I cannot now explain have arisen which 
 make my going impossible quite impossible," he 
 added firmly "not only now, but later," he went 
 on quickly, as Arkwright was about to interrupt 
 him. 
 
 Arkwright made no second attempt to speak. 
 He felt the muscles of his face working and the 
 tears coming to his eyes, and to hide his weakness 
 he twisted in his chair and sat staring ahead of 
 him with his back turned to the table. He heard 
 Livingstone's voice break the silence with some 
 hurried question, and immediately his embarrass 
 ment was hidden in a murmur of answers and the 
 moving of glasses as the men shifted in their 
 chairs and the laughter and talk went on as brisk 
 ly as before. Arkwright saw a sideboard before 
 
 188
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 him and a servant arranging some silver on one 
 of the shelves. He watched the man do this with 
 a concentrated interest as though the dull, numbed 
 feeling in his brain caught at the trifle in order 
 to put off, as long as possible, the consideration 
 of the truth. 
 
 And then beyond the sideboard and the tapes 
 try on the wall above it, he saw the sun shining 
 down upon the island of Cuba, he saw the royal 
 palms waving and bending, the dusty columns of 
 Spanish infantry crawling along the white roads 
 and leaving blazing huts and smoking cane-fields 
 in their wake; he saw skeletons of men and women 
 seeking for food among the refuse of the street; 
 he heard the order given to the firing squad, the 
 splash of the bullets as they scattered the plaster 
 on the prison wall, and he saw a kneeling figure 
 pitch forward on its face, with a useless bandage 
 tied across its sightless eyes. 
 
 Senator Stanton brought him back with a sharp 
 shake of the shoulder. He had also turned his 
 back on the others, and was leaning forward with 
 his elbows on his knees. He spoke rapidly, and in 
 a voice only slightly raised above a whisper. 
 
 "I am more than sorry, Arkwright," he said 
 earnestly. "You mustn't blame me altogether. I 
 have had a hard time of it this afternoon. I want 
 ed to go. I really wanted to go. The thing ap- 
 
 189
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 pealed to me, it touched me, it seemed as if I 
 owed it to myself to do it. But they were too 
 many for me," he added with a backward toss of 
 his head toward the men around his table. "If 
 the papers had not told on me I could have got 
 well away," he went on in an eager tone, "but as 
 soon as they read of it, they came here straight 
 from their offices. You know who they are, don't 
 you?" he asked, and even in his earnestness there 
 was an added touch of importance in his tone as 
 he spoke the name of his party's leader, of men 
 who stood prominently in Wall Street and who 
 were at the head of great trusts. 
 
 "You see how it is," he said with a shrug of 
 his shoulders. "They have enormous interests at 
 stake. They said I would drag them into war, 
 that I would disturb values, that the business in 
 terests of the country would suffer. I'm under 
 obligations to most of them, they have advised me 
 in financial matters, and they threatened they 
 threatened to make it unpleasant for me." His 
 voice hardened and he drew in his breath quickly, 
 and laughed. "You wouldn't understand if I were 
 to tell you. It's rather involved. And after all, 
 they may be right, agitation may be bad for the 
 country. And your party leader after all is your 
 party leader, isn't he, and if he says 'no' what are 
 you to do? My sympathies are just as keen for 
 
 190
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 these poor women and children as ever, but as 
 these men say, 'charity begins at home,' and we 
 mustn't do anything to bring on war prices again, 
 or to send stocks tumbling about our heads, must 
 we?" He leaned back in his chair again and 
 sighed. "Sympathy is an expensive luxury, I find," 
 he added. 
 
 Arkwright rose stiffly and pushed Stanton away 
 from him with his hand. He moved like a man 
 coming out of a dream. 
 
 "Don't talk to me like that," he said in a low 
 voice. The noise about the table ended on the 
 instant, but Arkwright did not notice that it had 
 ceased. "You know I don't understand that," he 
 went on; "what does it matter to me?" He put 
 his hand up to the side of his face and held it 
 there, looking down at Stanton. He had the dull, 
 heavy look in his eyes of a man who has just come 
 through an operation under some heavy drug. 
 " 'Wall Street,' 'trusts,' 'party leaders,' " he re 
 peated, "what are they to me? The words don't 
 reach me, they have lost their meaning, it is a 
 language I have forgotten, thank God!" he added. 
 He turned and moved his eyes around the table, 
 scanning the faces of the men before him. 
 
 "Yes, you are twelve to one," he said at last, 
 still speaking dully and in a low voice, as though 
 he were talking to himself. "You have won a 
 
 191
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 noble victory, gentlemen. I congratulate you. 
 But I do not blame you, we are all selfish and self- 
 seeking. I thought I was working only for Cuba, 
 but I was working for myself, just as you are. I 
 wanted to feel that it was I who had helped to 
 bring relief to that plague-spot, that it was through 
 my efforts the help had come. Yes, if he had done 
 as I asked, I suppose I would have taken the 
 credit." 
 
 He swayed slightly, and to steady himself 
 caught at the back of his chair. But at the same 
 moment his eyes glowed fiercely and he held him 
 self erect again. He pointed with his finger at the 
 circle of great men who sat looking up at him in 
 curious silence. 
 
 "You are like a ring of gamblers around a 
 gaming table," he cried wildly, "who see nothing 
 but the green cloth and the wheel and the piles 
 of money before them, who forget, in watching 
 the money rise and fall, that outside the sun is 
 shining, that human beings are sick and suffering, 
 that men are giving their lives for an idea, for a 
 sentiment, for a flag. You are the money-chang 
 ers in the temple of this great republic; and the 
 day will come, I pray to God, when you will be 
 scourged and driven out with whips. Do you 
 think you can form combines and deals that will 
 cheat you into heaven? Can your 'trusts' save 
 
 192
 
 V 
 
 <^ , -:-. . . : 
 
 You are like a ring of gamblers around a gaming table.
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 your souls is 'Wall Street' the strait and nar 
 row road to salvation?" 
 
 The men about the table leaned back and stared 
 at Arkwright in as great amazement as though he 
 had violently attempted an assault upon their 
 pockets, or had suddenly gone mad in their pres 
 ence. Some of them frowned, and others appeared 
 not to have heard, and others smiled grimly and 
 waited for him to continue as though they were 
 spectators at a play. 
 
 The political leader broke the silence with a low 
 aside to Stanton. "Does the gentleman belong 
 to the Salvation Army?" he asked. 
 
 Arkwright whirled about and turned upon him 
 fiercely. 
 
 "Old gods give way to new gods," he cried. 
 "Here is your brother. I am speaking for him. 
 Do you ever think of him? How dare you sneer 
 at me?" he cried. "You can crack your whip 
 over that man's head and turn him from what in 
 his heart and conscience he knows is right; you 
 can crack your whip over the men who call them 
 selves free-born American citizens and who have 
 made you their boss sneer at them if you like, 
 but you have no collar on my neck. If you are 
 a leader, why don't you lead your people to what 
 is good and noble? Why do you stop this man 
 in the work God sent him here to do ? You would 
 
 193
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 make a party hack of him, a political prostitute, 
 something lower than the woman who walks the 
 streets. She sells her body this man is selling his 
 soul." 
 
 He turned, trembling and quivering, and shook 
 his finger above the upturned face of the senator. 
 
 "What have you done with your talents, Stan- 
 ton?" he cried. "What have you done with your 
 talents?" 
 
 The man in the overcoat struck the table before 
 him with his fist so that the glasses rang. 
 
 "By God," he laughed, "I call him a better 
 speaker than Stanton! Livingstone's right, he is 
 better than Stanton but he lacks Stanton's knack 
 of making himself popular," he added. He looked 
 around the table inviting approbation with a smile, 
 but no one noticed him, nor spoke to break the 
 silence. 
 
 Arkwright heard the words dully and felt that 
 he was being mocked. He covered his face with 
 his hands and stood breathing brokenly; his body 
 was still trembling with an excitement he could 
 not master. 
 
 Stanton rose from his chair and shook him by 
 the shoulder. "Are you mad, Arkwright?" he 
 cried. "You have no right to insult my guests or 
 me. Be calm control yourself." 
 
 "What does it matter what I say?" Arkwright 
 194
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 went on desperately. "I am mad. Yes, that is it, 
 I am mad. They have won and I have lost, and 
 it drove me beside myself. I counted on you. 1 
 knew that no one else could let my people go. But 
 I'll not trouble you again. I wish you good-night, 
 sir, and good-by. If I have been unjust, you 
 must forget it." 
 
 He turned sharply, but Stanton placed a detain 
 ing hand on his shoulder. "Wait," he command 
 ed querulously; "where are you going? Will you, 
 still ?" 
 
 Arkwright bowed his head. "Yes," he an 
 swered. "I have but just time now to catch our 
 train my train, I mean." 
 
 He looked up at Stanton, and taking his hand 
 in both of his, drew the man toward him. All 
 the wildness and intolerance in his manner had 
 passed, and as he raised his eyes they were full of 
 a firm resolve. 
 
 "Come," he said, simply; "there is yet time. 
 Leave these people behind you. What can you 
 answer when they ask what have you done with 
 your talents?" 
 
 "Good God, Arkwright," the senator exclaimed, 
 angrily, pulling his hand away; "don't talk like a 
 hymn-book, and don't make another scene. What 
 you ask is impossible. Tell me what I can do to 
 
 help you in any other way, and " 
 
 195
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 "Come," repeated the young man, firmly. "The 
 world may judge you by what you do to 
 night." 
 
 Stanton looked at the boy for a brief moment 
 with a strained and eager scrutiny, and then turned 
 away abruptly and shook his head in silence, and 
 Arkwright passed around the table and on out of 
 the room. 
 
 A month later, as the Southern senator was pass 
 ing through the reading-room of the Union Club, 
 Livingstone beckoned to him, and handing him an 
 afternoon paper pointed at a paragraph in silence. 
 The paragraph was dated Sagua la Grande, and 
 read: 
 
 "The body of Henry Arkwright, an American 
 civil engineer, was brought into Sagua to-day by 
 a Spanish column. It was found lying in a road 
 three miles beyond the line of forts. Arkwright 
 was surprised by a guerilla force while attempting 
 to make his way to the insurgent camp, and on 
 resisting was shot. The body has been handed 
 over to the American consul for interment. It is 
 badly mutilated." 
 
 Stanton lowered the paper and stood staring 
 out of the window at the falling snow and the 
 cheery lights and bustling energy of the ave 
 nue. 
 
 "Poor fellow," he said, "he wanted so much 
 196
 
 The Man with One Talent 
 
 to help them. And he didn't accomplish anything, 
 did he?" 
 
 Livingstone stared at the older man and laughed 
 shortly. 
 
 "Well, I don't know," he said. "He died. 
 Some of us only live." 
 
 197
 
 THE VAGRANT
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 HIS Excellency Sir Charles Greville, K. C. 
 M. G., Governor of the Windless Islands, 
 stood upon the veranda of Government House 
 surveying the new day with critical and searching 
 eyes. Sir Charles had been so long absolute mon 
 arch of the Windless Isles that he had assumed 
 unconsciously a mental attitude of suzerainty over 
 even the glittering waters of the Caribbean Sea, 
 and the coral reefs under the waters, and the rain 
 bow skies that floated above them. But on this 
 particular morning not even the critical eye of the 
 Governor could distinguish a single flaw in the 
 tropical landscape before him. 
 
 The lawn at his feet ran down to meet the daz 
 zling waters of the bay, the blue waters of the 
 bay ran to meet a great stretch of absinthe green, 
 the green joined a fairy sky of pink and gold and 
 saffron. Islands of coral floated on the sea of 
 absinthe, and derelict clouds of mother-of-pearl 
 swung low above them, starting from nowhere 
 and going nowhere, but drifting beautifully, like 
 giant soap-bubbles of light and color. Where the 
 
 201
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 lawn touched the waters of the bay the cocoanut- 
 palms reached their crooked lengths far up into the 
 sunshine, and as the sea-breeze stirred their fronds 
 they filled the hot air with whispers and murmurs 
 like the fluttering of many fans. Nature smiled 
 boldly upon the Governor, confident in her boun 
 tiful beauty, as though she said, "Surely you can 
 not but be pleased with me to-day." And, as 
 though in answer, the critical and searching glance 
 of Sir Charles relaxed. 
 
 The crunching of the gravel and the rattle of 
 the sentry's musket at salute recalled him to his 
 high office and to the duties of the morning. He 
 waved his hand, and, as though it were a wand, 
 the sentry moved again, making his way to the 
 kitchen-garden, and so around Government House 
 and back to the lawn-tennis court, maintaining in 
 his solitary pilgrimage the dignity of her Majes 
 ty's representative, as well as her Majesty's power 
 over the Windless Isles. 
 
 The Governor smiled slightly, with the ease of 
 mind of one who finds all things good. Supreme 
 authority, surroundings of endless beauty, the re 
 spectful, even humble, deference of his inferiors, 
 and never even an occasional visit from a superior, 
 had in four years lowered him into a bed of ease 
 and self-satisfaction. He was cut off from the 
 world, and yet of it. Each month there came, 
 
 202
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 via Jamaica, the three weeks' old copy of The 
 Weekly Times; he subscribed to Mudie's Colonial 
 Library; and from the States he had imported an 
 American lawn-mower, the mechanism of which 
 no one as yet understood. Within his own bor 
 ders he had created a healthy, orderly seaport out 
 of what had been a sink of fever and a refuge for 
 all the ne'er-do-wells and fugitive revolutionists 
 of Central America. 
 
 He knew, as he sat each evening on his veran 
 da, looking across the bay, that in the world be 
 yond the pink and gold sunset men were still pant 
 ing, struggling, and starving; crises were rising 
 and passing; strikes and panics, wars and the ru 
 mors of wars, swept from continent to continent; 
 a plague crept through India; a filibuster with 
 five hundred men at his back crossed an imaginary 
 line and stirred the world from Cape Town to 
 London; Emperors were crowned; the good 
 Queen celebrated the longest reign; and a captain 
 of artillery imprisoned in a swampy island in the 
 South Atlantic caused two hemispheres to clamor 
 for his rescue, and lit a race war that stretched 
 from Algiers to the boulevards. 
 
 And yet, at the Windless Isles, all these hap 
 penings seemed to Sir Charles like the morning's 
 memory of a dream. For these things never 
 crossed the ring of the coral reefs; he saw them 
 
 203
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 only as pictures in an illustrated paper a month 
 old. And he was pleased to find that this was so. 
 He was sufficient to himself, with his own respon 
 sibilities and social duties and public works. He 
 was a man in authority, who said to others, 
 "Come!" and "Go!" Under him were commis 
 sioners, and under the commissioners district in 
 spectors and boards of education and of highways. 
 For the better health of the colony he had planted 
 trees that sucked the malaria from the air; for its 
 better morals he had substituted as a Sunday 
 amusement cricket-matches for cock-fights; and to 
 keep it at peace he had created a local constabu 
 lary of native negroes, and had dressed them in 
 the cast-off uniforms of London policemen. His 
 handiwork was everywhere, and his interest was 
 all sunk in his handiwork. The days passed gor 
 geous with sunshine, the nights breathed with 
 beauty. It was an existence of leisurely occupa 
 tion, and one that promised no change, and he 
 was content. 
 
 As it was Thursday, the Council met that morn 
 ing, and some questions of moment to the colony 
 were to be brought up for consideration. The 
 question of the dog-tax was one which perplexed 
 Sir Charles most particularly. The two Council 
 lors elected by the people and the three appointed 
 by the crown had disagreed as to this tax. Of 
 
 204
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 the five hundred British subjects at the seaport, 
 all but ten were owners of dogs, and it had oc 
 curred to Sassoon, the chemist, that a tax of half- 
 a-crown a year on each of these dogs would meet 
 the expense of extending the oyster-shell road to 
 the new cricket-grounds. To this Snellgrove, who 
 held the contract for the narrow-gauge railroad, 
 agreed; but the three crown Councillors opposed 
 the tax vigorously, on the ground that as scaven 
 gers alone the dogs were a boon to the colony and 
 should be encouraged. The fact that each of these 
 gentlemen owned not only one but several dogs 
 of high pedigree made their position one of great 
 delicacy. 
 
 There was no way by which the Governor could 
 test the popular will in the matter, except through 
 his secretary, Mr. Clarges, who, at the cricket- 
 match between the local eleven and the officers 
 and crew of H. M. S. Partridge, had been in 
 formed by the other owners of several fox-terriers 
 that, in their opinion, the tax was a piece of "con 
 demned tommy-rot." From this the Governor 
 judged that it would not prove a popular meas 
 ure. As he paced the veranda, drawing deliber 
 ately on his cigar, and considering to which party 
 he should give the weight of his final support, his 
 thoughts were disturbed by the approach of a 
 stranger, who advanced along the gravel walk, 
 
 205
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 guarded on either side by one of the local constab 
 ulary. The stranger was young and of poor ap 
 pearance. His bare feet were bound in a pair of 
 the rope sandals worn by the natives, his clothing 
 was of torn and soiled drill, and he fanned his 
 face nonchalantly with a sombrero of battered 
 and shapeless felt. 
 
 Sir Charles halted in his walk, and, holding his 
 cigar behind his back, addressed himself to the 
 sergeant. 
 
 "A vagrant?" he asked. 
 
 The words seemed to bear some amusing sig 
 nificance to the stranger, for his face lit instantly 
 with a sweet and charming smile, and while he 
 turned to hear the sergeant's reply, he regarded 
 him with a kindly and affectionate interest. 
 
 "Yes, your Excellency." 
 
 The Governor turned to the prisoner. 
 
 "Do you know the law of this colony regarding 
 vagrants ?" 
 
 "I do not," the young man answered. His tone 
 was politely curious, and suggested that he would 
 like to be further informed as to the local pecul 
 iarities of a foreign country. 
 
 "After two weeks' residence," the Governor re 
 cited, impressively, "all able-bodied persons who 
 will not work are put to work or deported. Have 
 you made any effort to find work?" 
 
 206
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 Again the young man smiled charmingly. He 
 shook his head and laughed. "Oh dear no," he 
 said. 
 
 The laugh struck the Governor as imperti 
 nent. 
 
 "Then you must leave by the next mail-steamer, 
 if you have any money to pay your passage, or, if 
 you have no money, you must go to work on the 
 roads. Have you any money?" 
 
 "If I had, I wouldn't be a vagrant," the 
 young man answered. His voice was low and 
 singularly sweet. It seemed to suit the indolence 
 of his attitude and the lazy, inconsequent smile. 
 "I called on our consular agent here," he contin 
 ued, leisurely, "to write a letter home for money, 
 but he was disgracefully drunk, so I used his offi 
 cial note-paper to write to the State Department 
 about him instead." 
 
 The Governor's deepest interest was aroused. 
 The American consular agent was one of the se 
 verest trials he was forced to endure. 
 
 "You are not a British subject, then? Ah, I 
 see and er your representative was unable to 
 assist you?" 
 
 "He was drunk," the young man repeated, plac 
 idly. "He has been drunk ever since I have been 
 here, particularly in the mornings." He halted, 
 as though the subject had lost interest for him, 
 
 207
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 and gazed pleasantly at the sunny bay and up at 
 the moving palms. 
 
 "Then," said the Governor, as though he had 
 not been interrupted, "as you have no means of 
 support, you will help support the colony until 
 you can earn money to leave it. That will do, 
 sergeant." 
 
 The young man placed his hat upon his head 
 and turned to move away, but at the first step he 
 swayed suddenly and caught at the negro's shoul 
 der, clasping his other hand across his eyes. The 
 sergeant held him by the waist, and looked up at 
 the Governor with some embarrassment. 
 
 "The young gentleman has not been well, Sir 
 Charles," he said, apologetically. 
 
 The stranger straightened himself up and smiled 
 vaguely. "I'm all right," he murmured. "Sun's 
 too hot." 
 
 "Sit down," said the Governor. 
 
 He observed the stranger more closely. He 
 noticed now that beneath the tan his face was deli 
 cate and finely cut, and that his yellow hair clung 
 closely to a well-formed head. 
 
 "He seems faint. Has he had anything to eat?" 
 asked the Governor. 
 
 The sergeant grinned guiltily. "Yes, Sir 
 Charles; we've been feeding him at the barracks. 
 It's fever, sir." 
 
 208
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 Sir Charles was not unacquainted with fallen 
 gentlemen, "beach-combers," "remittance men," 
 and vagrants who had known better days, and 
 there had been something winning in this vagrant's 
 smile, and, moreover, he had reported that thorn 
 in his flesh, the consular agent, to the proper au 
 thorities. 
 
 He conceived an interest in a young man who, 
 though with naked feet, did not hesitate to corre 
 spond with his Minister of Foreign Affairs. 
 
 "How long have you been ill?" he asked. 
 
 The young man looked up from where he had 
 sunk on the steps, and roused himself with a 
 shrug. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I've had 
 a touch of Chagres ever since I was on the Isth 
 mus. I was at work there on the railroad." 
 
 "Did you come here from Colon?" 
 
 "No ; I worked up the Pacific side. I was clerk 
 ing with Rossner Brothers at Amapala for a while, 
 because I speak a little German, and then I footed 
 it over to Puerto Cortez and got a job with the 
 lottery people. They gave me twenty dollars a 
 month gold for rolling the tickets, and I put it 
 all in the drawing, and won as much as ten." He 
 laughed, and, sitting erect, drew from his pocket 
 a roll of thin green papers. "These are for the 
 next drawing," he said. "Have some?" he added. 
 He held them toward the negro sergeant, who, 
 
 209
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 under the eye of the Governor, resisted, and then 
 spread the tickets on his knee like a hand at cards. 
 "I stand to win a lot with these," he said, with a 
 cheerful sigh. "You see, until the list's published 
 I'm prospectively worth twenty thousand dollars. 
 And," he added, "I break stones in the sun." He 
 rose unsteadily, and saluted the Governor with a 
 nod. "Good-morning, sir," he said, "and thank 
 you." 
 
 "Wait," Sir Charles commanded. A new form 
 of punishment had suggested itself, in which jus 
 tice was tempered with mercy. "Can you work 
 one of your American lawn-mowers?" he asked. 
 
 The young man laughed delightedly. "I never 
 tried," he said, "but I've seen it done." 
 
 "If you've been ill, it would be murder to put 
 you on the shell road." The Governor's dignity 
 relaxed into a smile. "I don't desire international 
 complications," he said. "Sergeant, take this 
 him to the kitchen, and tell Corporal Mallon to 
 give him that American lawn-mowing machine. 
 Possibly he may understand its mechanism. Mal 
 lon only cuts holes in the turf with it." And he 
 waved his hand in dismissal, and as the three men 
 moved away he buried himself again in the per 
 plexities of the dog-tax. 
 
 Ten minutes later the deliberations of the Coun 
 cil were disturbed by a loud and persistent ratrb, 
 
 210
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 like the whir of a Maxim gun, which proved, on 
 investigation, to arise from the American lawn- 
 mower. The vagrant was propelling it triumph 
 antly across the lawn, and gazing down at it with 
 the same fond pride with which a nursemaid leans 
 over the perambulator to observe her lusty and 
 gurgling charge. 
 
 The Councillors had departed, Sir Charles was 
 thinking of breakfast, the Maxim-like lawn-mower 
 still irritated the silent hush of mid-day, when from 
 the waters of the inner harbor there came sud 
 denly the sharp report of a saluting gun and the 
 rush of falling anchor-chains. There was still a 
 week to pass before the mail-steamer should ar 
 rive, and H. M. S. Partridge had departed for 
 Nassau. Besides these ships, no other vessel had 
 skirted the buoys of the bay in eight long smiling 
 months. Mr. Clarges, the secretary, with an ef 
 fort to appear calm, and the orderly, suffocated 
 with the news, entered through separate doors at 
 the same instant. 
 
 The secretary filed his report first. "A yacht's 
 just anchored in the bay, Sir Charles," he said. 
 
 The orderly's face fell. He looked aggrieved. 
 "An American yacht," he corrected. 
 
 "And much larger than the Partridge" contin 
 ued the secretary. 
 
 211
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 The orderly took a hasty glance back over his 
 shoulder. "She has her launch lowered already, 
 sir," he said. 
 
 Outside the whir of the lawn-mower continued 
 undisturbed. Sir Charles reached for his ma 
 rine-glass, and the three men hurried to the 
 veranda. 
 
 "It looks like a man-of-war," said Sir Charles. 
 "No," he added, adjusting the binocular; "she's 
 a yacht. She flies the New York Yacht Club pen 
 nant now she's showing the owner's absent pen 
 nant. He must have left in the launch. He's 
 coming ashore now." 
 
 "He seems in a bit of a hurry," growled Mr. 
 Clarges. 
 
 "Those Americans always " murmured Sir 
 Charles from behind the binocular. He did not 
 quite know that he enjoyed this sudden onslaught 
 upon the privacy of his harbor and port. 
 
 It was in itself annoying, and he was further 
 annoyed to find that it could in the least degree 
 disturb his poise. 
 
 The launch was growing instantly larger, like 
 an express train approaching a station at full 
 speed; her flags flew out as flat as pieces of paint 
 ed tin; her bits of brass-work flashed like fire. Al 
 ready the ends of the wharves were white with 
 groups of natives. 
 
 212
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 "You might think he was going to ram the 
 town," suggested the secretary. 
 
 "Oh, I say," he exclaimed, in remonstrance, 
 "he's making in for your private wharf." 
 
 The Governor was rearranging the focus of the 
 glass with nervous fingers. "I believe," he said, 
 "no yes upon my word, there are there are 
 ladies in that launch!" 
 
 "Ladies, sir!" The secretary threw a hasty 
 glance at the binocular, but it was in immediate 
 use. 
 
 The clatter of the lawn-mower ceased sudden 
 ly, and the relief of its silence caused the Gov 
 ernor to lower his eyes. He saw the lawn-mower 
 lying prostrate on the grass. The vagrant had 
 vanished. 
 
 There was a sharp tinkle of bells, and the launch 
 slipped up to the wharf and halted as softly as a 
 bicycle. A man in a yachting-suit jumped from 
 her, and making some laughing speech to the two 
 women in the stern, walked briskly across the lawn, 
 taking a letter from his pocket as he came. Sir 
 Charles awaited him gravely; the occupants of 
 the launch had seen him, and it was too late to 
 retreat. 
 
 "Sir Charles Greville, I believe," said the yachts 
 man. He bowed, and ran lightly up the steps. 
 "I am Mr. Robert Collier, from New York," he 
 
 213
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 said. "I have a letter to you from your ambassa 
 dor at Washington. If you'll pardon me, I'll pre 
 sent it in person. I had meant to leave it, but 
 seeing you " He paused, and gave the letter 
 in his hand to Sir Charles, who waved him toward 
 his library. 
 
 Sir Charles scowled at the letter through his 
 monocle, and then shook hands with his visitor. 
 "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Collier," he said. 
 "He says here you are preparing a book on our 
 colonies in the West Indies." He tapped the let 
 ter with his monocle. "I am sure I shall be most 
 happy to assist you with any information in my 
 power." 
 
 "Well, I am writing a book yes," Mr. Collier 
 observed, doubtfully, "but it's a log-book. This 
 trip I am on pleasure bent, and I also wish to 
 consult with you on a personal matter. However, 
 that can wait." He glanced out of the windows 
 to where the launch lay in the sun. "My wife 
 came ashore with me, Sir Charles," he said, "so 
 that in case there was a Lady Greville, Mrs. Col 
 lier could call on her, and we could ask if you 
 would waive etiquette and do us the honor to dine 
 with us to-night on the yacht that is, if you are 
 not engaged." 
 
 Sir Charles smiled. "There is no Lady Grev 
 ille," he said, "and I personally do not think I am 
 
 214
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 engaged elsewhere." He paused in thought, as 
 though to make quite sure he was not. "No," he 
 added, "I have no other engagement. I will come 
 with pleasure." 
 
 Sir Charles rose and clapped his hands for the 
 orderly. "Possibly the ladies will come up to the 
 veranda?" he asked. "I cannot allow them to re 
 main at the end of my wharf." He turned, and 
 gave directions to the orderly to bring limes and 
 bottles of soda and ice, and led the way across 
 the lawn. 
 
 Mrs. Collier and her friend had not explored 
 the grounds of Government House for over ten 
 minutes before Sir Charles felt that many years 
 ago he had personally arranged their visit, that 
 he had known them for even a longer time, and 
 that, now that they had finally arrived, they must 
 never depart. 
 
 To them there was apparently nothing on his 
 domain which did not thrill with delightful inter 
 est. They were as eager as two children at a pan 
 tomime, and as unconscious. As a rule, Sir Charles 
 had found it rather difficult to meet the women 
 of his colony on a path which they were capable 
 of treading intelligently. In fairness to them, he 
 had always sought out some topic in which they 
 could take an equal part something connected 
 with the conduct of children, or the better ventila- 
 
 215
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 tion of the new school-house and chapel. But 
 these new-comers did not require him to select 
 topics of conversation; they did not even wait for 
 him to finish those which he himself introduced. 
 They flitted from one end of the garden to the other 
 with the eagerness of two midshipmen on shore 
 leave, and they found something to enjoy in what 
 seemed to the Governor the most commonplace 
 of things. The Zouave uniform of the sentry, the 
 old Spanish cannon converted into peaceful gate 
 posts, the aviary with its screaming paroquets, the 
 botanical station, and even the ice-machine were 
 all objects of delight. 
 
 On the other hand, the interior of the famous 
 palace, which had been sent out complete from 
 London, and which was wont to fill the wives of 
 the colonials with awe or to reduce them to whis 
 pers, for some reason failed of its effect. But 
 they said they "loved" the large gold V. R.'s on 
 the back of the Councillors' chairs, and they ex 
 claimed aloud over the red leather despatch-boxes 
 and the great seal of the colony, and the mysteri 
 ous envelopes marked "On her Majesty's ser 
 
 vice." 
 
 "Isn't it too exciting, Florence?" demanded 
 Mrs. Collier. "This is the table where Sir Charles 
 sits and writes letters 'on her Majesty's service,' 
 and presses these buttons, and war-ships spring up 
 
 216
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 fn perfect shoals. Oh, Robert," she sighed, "I do 
 wish you had been a Governor I" 
 
 The young lady called Florence stood looking 
 down into the great arm-chair in front of the Gov 
 ernor's table. 
 
 "May I?" she asked. She slid fearlessly in 
 between the oak arms of the chair and smiled 
 about her. Afterward Sir Charles remembered 
 her as she appeared at that moment with the red 
 leather of the chair behind her, with her gloved 
 hands resting on the carved oak, and her head on 
 one side, smiling up at him. She gazed with 
 large eyes at the blue linen envelopes, the stiff 
 documents in red tape, the tray of black sand, and 
 the goose-quill pens. 
 
 "I am now the Countess Zika," she announced; 
 "no, I am Diana of the Crossways, and I mean 
 to discover a state secret and sell it to the Daily 
 Telegraph. Sir Charles," she demanded, "if I 
 press this electric button is war declared anywhere, 
 or what happens?" 
 
 "That second button," said Sir Charles, after 
 deliberate scrutiny, "is the one which communi 
 cates with the pantry." 
 
 The Governor would not consider their return 
 ing to the yacht for luncheon. 
 
 "You might decide to steam away as suddenly 
 as you came," he said, gallantly, "and I cannot 
 
 217
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 take that chance. This is Bachelor's Hall, so you 
 must pardon my people if things do not go very 
 smoothly." He himself led them to the great 
 guest-chamber, where there had not been a guest 
 for many years, and he noticed, as though for the 
 first time, that the halls through which they passed 
 were bare, and that the floor was littered with 
 unpacked boxes and gun-cases. He also observed 
 for the first time that maps of the colony, with 
 the coffee-plantations and mahogany belt marked 
 in different inks, were not perhaps so decorative 
 as pictures and mirrors and family portraits. And 
 he could have wished that the native servants had 
 not stared so admiringly at the guests, nor direct 
 ed each other in such aggressive whispers. On 
 those other occasions, when the wives of the Coun 
 cillors came to the semi-annual dinners, the native 
 servants had seemed adequate to all that was re 
 quired of them. He recollected with a flush that 
 in the town these semi-annual dinners were de 
 scribed as banquets. He wondered if to these 
 visitors from the outside world it was all equally 
 provincial. 
 
 But their enjoyment was apparently unfeigned 
 and generous. It was evident that they had known 
 each other for many years, yet they received every 
 remark that any of them made as though it had 
 been pronounced by a new and interesting acquaint- 
 
 218
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 ance. Sir Charles found it rather difficult to keep 
 up with the talk across the table, they changed 
 the subject so rapidly, and they half spoke of so 
 many things without waiting to explain. He 
 could not at once grasp the fact that people who 
 had no other position in the world save that of 
 observers were speaking so authoritatively of pub 
 lic men and public measures. He found, to 
 his delight, that for the first time in several 
 years he was not presiding at his own table, 
 and that his guests seemed to feel no awe of 
 him. 
 
 "What's the use of a yacht nowadays?" Collier 
 was saying "what's the use of a yacht, when you 
 can go to sleep in a wagon-lit at the Gare du Nord, 
 and wake up at Vladivostok? And look at the 
 time it saves ; eleven days to Gib, six to Port Said, 
 and fifteen to Colombo there you are, only half 
 way around, and you're already sixteen days be 
 hind the man in the wagon-lit." 
 
 "But nobody wants to go to Vladivostok," said 
 Miss Cameron, "or anywhere else in a wagon-lit. 
 But with a yacht you can explore out-of-the-way 
 places, and you meet new and interesting people. 
 We wouldn't have met Sir Charles if we had wait 
 ed for a wagon-lit." She bowed her head to the 
 Governor, and he smiled with gratitude. He had 
 lost Mr. Collier somewhere in the Indian Ocean, 
 
 219
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 and he was glad she had brought them back to 
 the Windless Isles once more. 
 
 "And again I repeat that the answer to that is, 
 'Why not? said the March Hare,' " remarked 
 Mr. Collier, determinedly. 
 
 The answer, as an answer, did not strike Sir 
 Charles as a very good one. But the ladies seemed 
 to comprehend, for Miss Cameron said: "Did I 
 tell you about meeting him at Oxford just a few 
 months before his death at a children's tea- 
 party? He was so sweet and understanding with 
 them! Two women tried to lionize him, and he 
 ran away and played with the children. I was 
 more glad to meet him than anyone I can think 
 of. Not as a personage, you know, but because 
 I felt grateful to him." 
 
 "Yes, that way, distinctly," said Mrs. Collier. 
 "I should have felt that way toward Mrs. Ewing 
 more than anyone else." 
 
 "I know, 'Jackanapes,' ' remarked Collier, 
 shortly; "a brutal assault upon the feelings, I say." 
 
 "Someone else said it before you, Robert," 
 Mrs. Collier commented, calmly. "Perhaps Sir 
 Charles met him at Apia." They all turned and 
 looked at him. He wished he could say he had 
 met him at Apia. He did not quite see how they 
 had made their way from a children's tea-party 
 at Oxford to the South Pacific islands, but he was 
 
 220
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 anxious to join in somewhere with a clever obser 
 vation. But they never seemed to settle in one 
 place sufficiently long for him to recollect what 
 he knew of it. He hoped they would get around 
 to the west coast of Africa in time. He had been 
 Governor of Sierra Leone for five years. 
 
 His success that night at dinner on the yacht 
 was far better. The others seemed a little tired 
 after the hours of sight-seeing to which he had 
 treated them, and they were content to listen. In 
 the absence of Mr. Clarges, who knew them word 
 by word, he felt free to tell his three stories of life 
 at Sierra Leone. He took his time in the telling, 
 and could congratulate himself that his efforts had 
 never been more keenly appreciated. He felt that 
 he was holding his own. 
 
 The night was still and warm, and while the 
 men lingered below at the table, the two women 
 mounted to the deck and watched the lights of 
 the town as they vanished one by one and left the 
 moon in unchallenged possession of the harbor. 
 For a long time Miss Cameron stood silent, look 
 ing out across the bay at the shore and the hills 
 beyond. A fish splashed near them, and the sound 
 of oars rose from the mist that floated above the 
 water, until they were muffled in the distance. The 
 palms along the shore glistened like silver, and 
 overhead the Southern Cross shone white against 
 
 221
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 a sky of purple. The silence deepened and con 
 tinued for so long a time that Mrs. Collier felt 
 its significance, and waited for the girl to end it. 
 
 Miss Cameron raised her eyes to the stars and 
 frowned. "I am not surprised that he is content 
 to stay here," she said. "Are you? It is so beau 
 tiful, so wonderfully beautiful." 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Collier made no answer. 
 "Two years is a long time, Florence," she said; 
 "and he is all I have; he is not only my only 
 brother, he is the only living soul who is related 
 to me. That makes it harder." 
 
 The girl seemed to find some implied reproach 
 in the speech, for she turned and looked at her 
 friend closely. "Do you feel it is my fault, Alice ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 The older woman shook her head. "How 
 could it be your fault?" she answered. "If you 
 couldn't love him enough to marry him, you 
 couldn't, that's all. But that is no reason why 
 he should have hidden himself from all of us. 
 Even if he could not stand being near you, caring 
 as he did, he need not have treated me so. We 
 have done all we can do, and Robert has been 
 more than fine about it. He and his agents have 
 written to every consul and business house in Cen 
 tral America, and I don't believe there is a city 
 that he hasn't visited. He has sent him money 
 
 222
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 and letters to every bank and to every post- 
 office " 
 
 The girl raised her head quickly. 
 
 " but he never calls for either," Mrs. Collier 
 continued, "for I know that if he had read my 
 letters he would have come home." 
 
 The girl lifted her head as though she were 
 about to speak, and then turned and walked slow 
 ly away. After a few moments she returned, and 
 stood, with her hands resting on the rail, looking 
 down into the water. "I wrote him two letters," 
 she said. In the silence of the night her voice was 
 unusually clear and distinct. "I you make me 
 wonder if they ever reached him." 
 
 Mrs. Collier, with her eyes fixed upon the girl, 
 rose slowly from her chair and came toward her. 
 She reached out her hand and touched Miss Cam 
 eron on the arm. "Florence," she said, in a whis 
 per, "have you " 
 
 The girl raised her head slowly, and lowered 
 it again. "Yes," she answered; "I told him to 
 come back to come back to me. Alice," she 
 cried, "I I begged him to come back!" She 
 tossed her hands apart and again walked rapidly 
 away, leaving the older woman standing motion 
 less. 
 
 A moment later, when Sir Charles and Mr. Col 
 lier stepped out upon the deck, they discovered 
 
 223
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 the two women standing close together, two white, 
 ghostly figures in the moonlight, and as they ad 
 vanced toward them they saw Mrs. Collier take 
 the girl for an instant in her arms. 
 
 Sir Charles was asking Miss Cameron how long 
 she thought an immigrant should be made to work 
 for his freehold allotment, when Mr. Collier and 
 his wife rose at the same moment and departed 
 on separate errands. They met most mysteriously 
 in the shadow of the wheel-house. 
 
 "What is it? Is anything wrong with Flor 
 ence?" Collier asked, anxiously. "Not homesick, 
 is she?" 
 
 Mrs. Collier put her hands on her husband's 
 shoulder and shook her head. 
 
 "Wrong? No, thank Heaven! it's as right as 
 -* right can be !" she cried. "She's written to him 
 to come back, but he's never answered, and so 
 and now it's all right." 
 
 Mr. Collier gazed blankly at his wife's upturned 
 face. "Well, I don't see that," he remonstrated. 
 "What's the use of her being in love with him 
 now when he can't be found? What? Why 
 didn't she love him two years ago when he was 
 where you could get at him at her house, for 
 instance. He was there most of his time. She 
 *&l would have saved a lot of trouble. However," 
 
 he added, energetically, "this makes it absolutely 
 
 224
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 necessary to find that young man and bring him 
 to his senses. We'll search this place for the next 
 few days, and then we'll try the mainland again. 
 I think I'll offer a reward for him, and have it 
 printed in Spanish, and paste it up in all the pla 
 zas. We might add a line in English, 'She has 
 changed her mind.' That would bring him home, 
 wouldn't it?" 
 
 "Don't be unfeeling, Robert," said Mrs. Col 
 lier. 
 
 Her husband raised his eyes appealingly, and 
 addressed himself to the moon. "I ask you now," 
 he complained, "is that fair to a man who has 
 spent six months on muleback trying to round up 
 a prodigal brother-in-law?" 
 
 That same evening, after the ladies had gone 
 below, Mr. Collier asked Sir Charles to assist him 
 in his search for his wife's brother, and Sir Charles 
 heartily promised his most active co-operation. 
 There were several Americans at work in the in 
 terior, he said, as overseers on the coffee-planta 
 tions. It was possible that the runaway might 
 be among them. It was only that morning, Sir 
 Charles remembered, that an American had been 
 at work "repairing his lawn-mower," as he con 
 siderately expressed it. He would send for him 
 on the morrow. 
 
 But on the morrow the slave of the lawn-mower 
 225 
 
 .
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 was reported on the list of prisoners as "missing," 
 and Corporal Mallon was grieved, but refused to 
 consider himself responsible. Sir Charles himself 
 had allowed the vagrant unusual freedom, and the 
 vagrant had taken advantage of it, and probably 
 escaped to the hills, or up the river to the logwood 
 camp. 
 
 "Telegraph a description of him to Inspector 
 Garrett," Sir Charles directed, "and to the heads 
 of all up stations. And when he returns, bring 
 him to me." 
 
 So great was his zeal that Sir Charles further 
 offered to join Mr. Collier in his search among 
 the outlying plantations; but Mr. Collier preferred 
 to work alone. He accordingly set out at once, 
 armed with letters to the different district inspect 
 ors, and in his absence delegated to Sir Charles 
 the pleasant duty of caring for the wants of Miss 
 Cameron and his wife. Sir Charles regarded the 
 latter as deserving of all sympathy, for Mr. Col 
 lier, in his efforts to conceal the fact from the 
 Governor that Florence Cameron was responsible, 
 or in any way concerned in the disappearance of 
 the missing man, had been too mysterious. Sir 
 Charles was convinced that the fugitive had swin 
 dled his brother-in-law and stolen his sister's 
 Jewels. 
 
 The days which followed were to the Governor 
 226
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 days and nights of strange discoveries. He rec 
 ognized that the missionaries from the great out 
 side world had invaded his shores and dis 
 turbed his gods and temples. Their religion of 
 progress and activity filled him with doubt and 
 unrest. 
 
 "In this century," Mr. Collier had declared, 
 "nothing can stand still. It's the same with a 
 corporation, or a country, or a man. We must 
 either march ahead or fall out. We can't mark 
 time. What?" 
 
 "Exactly certainly not," Sir Charles had an 
 swered. But in his heart he knew that he himself 
 had been marking time under these soft tropical 
 skies while the world was pushing forward. The 
 thought had not disturbed him before. Now he 
 felt guilty. He conceived a sudden intolerance, 
 if not contempt, for the little village of white 
 washed houses, for the rafts of mahogany and of 
 logwood that bumped against the pier-heads, for 
 the sacks of coffee piled high like barricades un 
 der the corrugated zinc sheds along the wharf. 
 Each season it had been his pride to note the in 
 crease in these exports. The development of the 
 resources of his colony had been a work in which 
 he had felt that the Colonial Secretary took an 
 immediate interest. He had believed that he was 
 one of the important wheels of the machinery 
 
 227
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 which moved the British Empire: and now, in a 
 day, he was undeceived. It was forced upon him 
 that to the eyes of the outside world he was only 
 a green-grocer operating on a large scale; he pro 
 vided the British public with coffee for its break 
 fast, with drugs for its stomach, and with strange 
 woods for its dining-room furniture and walking- 
 sticks. He combated this ignominious character 
 ization of his position indignantly. The new ai> 
 rivals certainly gave him no hint that they con 
 sidered him so lightly. This thought greatly com 
 forted him, for he felt that in some way he was 
 summoning to his aid all of his assets and re 
 sources to meet an expert and final valuation. As 
 he ranged them before him he was disturbed and 
 happy to find that the value he placed upon them 
 was the value they would have in the eyes of a 
 young girl not a girl of the shy, mother-obeying, 
 man-worshipping English type, but a girl such as 
 Miss Cameron seemed to be, a girl who could un 
 derstand what you were trying to say before you 
 said it, who could take an interest in rates of ex 
 change and preside at a dinner table, who was 
 charmingly feminine and clever, and who was re 
 spectful of herself and of others. In fact, he de 
 cided, with a flush, that Miss Cameron herself 
 was the young girl he had in his mind. 
 "Why not?" he asked. 
 228
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 The question came to him in his room, the sixth 
 night of their visit, and he strode over to the long 
 pier-glass and stood studying himself critically for 
 the first time in years. He was still a fine-looking, 
 well-kept man. His hair was thin, but that fact 
 did not show; and his waist was lost, but riding 
 and tennis would set that right. He had means 
 outside of his official salary, and there was the 
 title, such as it was. Lady Greville the wife of 
 the birthday knight sounded as well as Lady 
 Greville the marchioness. And Americans cared 
 for these things. He doubted whether this par 
 ticular American would do so, but he was adding 
 up all he had to offer, and that was one of the 
 assets. He was sure she would not be content to 
 remain mistress of the Windless Isles. Nor, in 
 deed, did he longer care to be master there, now 
 that he had inhaled this quick, stirring breath from 
 the outer world. He would resign, and return 
 and mix with the world again. He would enter 
 Parliament; a man so well acquainted as himself 
 with the Gold Coast of Africa and with the trade 
 of the West Indies must always be of value in the 
 Lower House. This value would be recognized, 
 no doubt, and he would become at first an Under 
 secretary for the Colonies, and then, in time, Co 
 lonial Secretary and a cabinet minister. She would 
 like that, he thought. And after that place had 
 
 229
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 been reached, all things were possible. For years 
 he had not dreamed such dreams not since he 
 had been a clerk in the Foreign Office. They 
 seemed just as possible now as they had seemed 
 real then, and just as near. He felt it was all ab 
 solutely in his own hands. 
 
 He descended to the dining-room with the air 
 of a man who already felt the cares of high re 
 sponsibility upon his shoulders. His head was 
 erect and his chest thrown forward. He was ten 
 years younger; his manner was alert, assured, and 
 gracious. As he passed through the halls he was 
 impatient of the familiar settings of Government 
 House; they seemed to him like the furnishings 
 of a hotel where he had paid his bill, and where 
 his luggage was lying strapped for departure in 
 the hallway. 
 
 In his library he saw on his table a number of 
 papers lying open waiting for his signature, the 
 dog-tax among the others. He smiled to remem 
 ber how important it had seemed to him in the 
 past in that past of indolence and easy content. 
 Now he was on fire to put this rekindled ambition 
 to work, to tell the woman who had lighted it 
 that it was all from her and for her, that without 
 her he had existed, that now he had begun to 
 live. 
 
 They had never found him so delightful as he 
 230
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 appeared that night. He was like a man on the 
 eve of a holiday. He made a jest of his past 
 efforts; he made them see, as he now saw it for the 
 first time, that side of the life of the Windless 
 Isles which was narrow and petty, even ridiculous. 
 He talked of big men in a big way; he criticised, 
 and expounded, and advanced his own theories of 
 government and the proper control of an em 
 pire. 
 
 Collier, who had returned from his unsuccess 
 ful search of the plantations, shook his head. 
 
 "It's a pity you are not in London now," he 
 said, sincerely. "They need someone there who 
 has been on the spot. They can't direct the colo 
 nies from what they know of them in White 
 hall." 
 
 Sir Charles fingered the dinner-cloth nervously, 
 and when he spoke, fixed his eyes anxiously upon 
 Miss Cameron. 
 
 "Do you know," he said, "I have been thinking 
 of doing that very thing, of resigning my post 
 here and going back, entering Parliament, and all 
 the rest of it." 
 
 His declaration met with a unanimous chorus 
 of delight. Miss Cameron nodded her head with 
 eager approval. 
 
 "Yes, if I were a man, that is where I should 
 wish to be," she said, "at the heart of it. Why, 
 
 231
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 whatever you say in the House of Commons is 
 heard all over the world the next morning." 
 
 Sir Charles felt the blood tingle in his pulses. 
 He had not been so stirred in years. Her words 
 ran to his head like wine. 
 
 Mr. Collier raised his glass. 
 
 "Here's to our next meeting," he said, "on the 
 terrace of the House of Commons." 
 
 But Miss Cameron interrupted. "No; to the 
 Colonial Secretary," she amended. 
 
 "Oh, yes," they assented, rising, and so drank 
 his health, smiling down upon him with kind, 
 friendly glances and good-will. 
 
 "To the Colonial Secretary," they said. Sir 
 Charles clasped the arms of his chair tightly with 
 his hands; his eyes were half closed, and his lips 
 pressed into a grim, confident smile. He felt that 
 a single word from her would make all that they 
 suggested possible. If she cared for such things, 
 they were hers; he had them to give; they were 
 ready lying at her feet. He knew that the power 
 had always been with him, lying dormant in his 
 heart and brain. It had only waited for the touch 
 of the Princess to wake it into life. 
 
 The American visitors were to sail for the main 
 land the next day, but he had come to know them 
 so well in the brief period of their visit that he 
 felt he dared speak to her that same night. At 
 
 232
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 least he could give her some word that would keep 
 him in her mind until they met again in London, 
 or until she had considered her answer. He could 
 not expect her to answer at once. She could take 
 much time. What else had he to do now but to 
 wait for her answer? It was now all that made 
 life. 
 
 Collier and his wife had left the veranda and 
 had crossed the lawn toward the water's edge. 
 The moonlight fell full upon them with all the 
 splendor of the tropics, and lit the night with a 
 brilliant, dazzling radiance. From where Miss 
 Cameron sat on the veranda in the shadow, Sir 
 Charles could see only the white outline of her 
 figure and the indolent movement of her fan. Col 
 lier had left his wife and was returning slowly 
 toward the step. Sir Charles felt that if he meant 
 to speak he must speak now, and quickly. He 
 rose and placed himself beside her in the shadow, 
 and the girl turned her head inquiringly and looked 
 up at him. 
 
 But on the instant the hush of the night was 
 broken by a sharp challenge, and the sound of 
 men's voices raised in anger; there was the noise 
 of a struggle on the gravel, and from the corner 
 of the house the two sentries came running, drag 
 ging between them a slight figure that fought and 
 wrestled to be free. 
 
 233
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 Sir Charles exclaimed with indignant impatience, 
 and, turning, strode quickly to the head of the 
 steps. 
 
 "What does this mean?" he demanded. "What 
 are you doing with that man ? Why did you bring 
 him here?" 
 
 As the soldiers straightened to attention, their 
 prisoner ceased to struggle, and stood with his 
 head bent on his chest. His sombrero was pulled 
 down low across his forehead. 
 
 "He was crawling through the bushes, Sir 
 Charles," the soldier panted, "watching that gen 
 tleman, sir," he nodded over his shoulder toward 
 Collier. "I challenged, and he jumped to run, 
 and we collared him. He resisted, Sir Charles." 
 
 The mind of the Governor was concerned with 
 other matters than trespassers. 
 
 "Well, take him to the barracks, then," he said. 
 "Report to me in the morning. That will do." 
 
 The prisoner wheeled eagerly, without further 
 show of resistance, and the soldiers closed in on 
 him on either side. But as the three men moved 
 away together, their faces, which had been in 
 shadow, were now turned toward Mr. Collier, who 
 was advancing leisurely, and with silent footsteps, 
 across the grass. He met them face to face, and 
 as he did so the prisoner sprang back and threw 
 out his arms in front of him, with the gesture of 
 
 234
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 a man who entreats silence. Mr. Collier halted 
 as though struck to stone, and the two men con 
 fronted each other without moving. 
 
 "Good God!" Mr. Collier whispered. 
 
 He turned stiffly and slowly, as though in a 
 trance, and beckoned to his wife, who had fol 
 lowed him. 
 
 "Alice!" he called. He stepped backward 
 toward her and, taking her hand in one of his 
 drew her toward the prisoner. "Here he is!" he 
 said. 
 
 They heard her cry "Henry!" with the fierce 
 ness of a call for help, and saw her rush forward 
 and stumble into the arms of the prisoner, and 
 their two heads were bent close together. 
 
 Collier ran up the steps and explained breath 
 lessly. 
 
 "And now," he gasped, in conclusion, "what's 
 to be done? What's he arrested for? Is it bail 
 able? What?" 
 
 "Good heavens!" exclaimed Sir Charles, mis 
 erably. "It is my fault entirely. I assure you I 
 had no idea. How could I? But I should have 
 known, I should have guessed it." He dismissed 
 the sentries with a gesture. "That will do," he 
 said. "Return to your posts." 
 
 Mr. Collier laughed with relief. 
 
 "Then it is not serious?" he asked. 
 235
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 "He he had no money, that was all,' y ex 
 claimed Sir Charles. "Serious? Certainly not. 
 Upon my word, I'm sorry " 
 
 The young man had released himself from his 
 sister's embrace, and was coming toward them; 
 and Sir Charles, eager to redeem himself, ad 
 vanced hurriedly to greet him. But the young 
 man did not see him; he was looking past him 
 up the steps to where Miss Cameron stood in the 
 shadow. 
 
 Sir Charles hesitated and drew back. The 
 young man stopped at the foot of the steps, and 
 stood with his head raised, staring up at the white 
 figure of the girl, who came slowly forward. 
 
 It was forced upon Sir Charles that in spite of 
 the fact that the young man before them had but 
 just then been rescued from arrest, that in spite 
 of his mean garments and ragged sandals, some 
 thing about him the glamour that surrounds the 
 prodigal, or possibly the moonlight gave him an 
 air of great dignity and distinction. 
 
 As Miss Cameron descended the stairs, Sir 
 Charles recognized for the first time that the young 
 man was remarkably handsome, and he resented 
 it. It hurt him, as did also the prodigal's youth 
 and his assured bearing. He felt a sudden sinking 
 fear, a weakening of all his vital forces, and he 
 drew in his breath slowly and deeply. But no 
 
 236
 
 The young man stood staring up at the white figure of 
 the girl.
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 one noticed him; they were looking at the tall 
 figure of the prodigal, standing with his hat at his 
 hip and his head thrown back, holding the girl 
 with his eyes. 
 
 Collier touched Sir Charles on the arm, and 
 nodded his head toward the library. "Come," 
 he whispered, "let us old people leave them to 
 gether. They've a good deal to say." Sir Charles 
 obeyed in silence, and, crossing the library to the 
 great oak door, seated himself and leaned wearily 
 on the table before him. He picked up one of 
 the goose quills and began separating it into little 
 pieces. Mr. Collier was pacing up and down, 
 biting excitedly on the end of his cigar. "Well, 
 this has certainly been a great night," he said. 
 "And it is all due to you, Sir Charles all due to 
 you. Yes, they have you to thank for it." 
 
 "They?" said Sir Charles. He knew that it 
 had to come. He wanted the man to strike 
 quickly. 
 
 "They? Yes Florence Cameron and Henry," 
 Mr. Collier answered. "Henry went away because 
 she wouldn't marry him. She didn't care for him 
 then, but afterward she cared. Now they're re 
 united, and so they're happy; and my wife is 
 more than happy, and I won't have to bother any 
 more; and it's all right, and all through you." 
 
 "I am glad," said Sir Charles. There was a 
 237
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 long pause, which the men, each deep in his own 
 thoughts, did not notice. 
 
 "You will be leaving now, I suppose?" Sir 
 Charles asked. He was looking down, examining 
 the broken pen in his hand. 
 
 Mr. Collier stopped in his walk and considered. 
 "Yes, I suppose they will want to get back,*' he 
 said. "I shall be sorry myself. And you ? What 
 will you do?" 
 
 Sir Charles started slightly. He had not yet 
 thought what he would do. His eyes wandered 
 over the neglected work which had accumulated 
 on the desk before him. Only an hour before he 
 had thought of it as petty and little, as something 
 unworthy of his energy. Since that time what 
 change had taken place in him? 
 
 For him everything had changed, he answered, 
 but in him there had been no change; and if this 
 thing which the girl had brought into his life had 
 meant the best in life, it must always mean that. 
 She had been an inspiration; she must remain his 
 spring of action. Was he a slave, he asked him 
 self, that he should rebel? Was he a boy, that 
 he could turn his love to aught but the best ac 
 count ? He must remember her not as the woman 
 who had crushed his spirit, but as she who had 
 helped him, who had lifted him up to something 
 better and finer. He would make sacrifice in her 
 
 238
 
 The Vagrant 
 
 name ; it would be in her name that he would rise 
 to high places and accomplish much good. 
 
 She would not know this, but he would know. 
 
 He rose and brushed the papers away from him 
 with an impatient sweep of the hand. 
 
 "I shall follow out the plan of which I spoke 
 at dinner," he answered. "I shall resign here, 
 and return home and enter Parliament." 
 
 Mr. Collier laughed admiringly. "I love the 
 way you English take your share of public life," 
 he said, "the way you spend yourselves for your 
 country, and give your brains, your lives, every 
 thing you have all for the empire." 
 
 Through the open window Sir Charles saw Miss 
 Cameron half hidden by the vines of the veranda. 
 The moonlight falling about her transformed her 
 into a figure which was ideal, mysterious, and elu 
 sive, like a woman in a dream. He shook his head 
 wearily. "For the empire?" he asked. 
 
 239
 
 THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER
 
 The Last Ride Together 
 
 A SKETCH CONTAINING THREE 
 POINTS OF VIEW 
 
 What the Poet Laureate wrote 
 
 rr^HERE are girls in the Gold Reef City, 
 
 A There are mothers and children too! 
 And they cry 'Hurry up, for pityl* 
 So what can a brave man do? 
 
 "I suppose we were wrong, were mad men, 
 Still I think at the Judgment Day, 
 
 When God sifts the good from the bad men, 
 There'll be something more to say." 
 
 What more the Lord Chief Justice found to say 
 
 "In this case we know the immediate conse 
 quence of your crime. It has been the loss of 
 human life, it has been the disturbance of public 
 peace, it has been the creation of a certain sense 
 of distrust of public professions and of public 
 
 243
 
 The Last Ride Together 
 
 faith. . . . The sentence of this court there 
 fore is thatj as to you, Leander Starr Jameson, 
 you be confined for a period of fifteen months with 
 out hard labor; that you, Sir John Willoughby, 
 have ten months' imprisonment; and that you, 
 etc., etc." 
 
 London Hints, July 29th. 
 
 What the Hon. "Reggie" Blake thought about it 
 
 ** H. M. HOLLOWAY PRISON, 
 "July a8th. 
 
 "I am going to keep a diary while I am in 
 prison; that is, if they will let me. I never kept 
 one before, because I hadn't the time. When I 
 was home on leave there was too much going on to 
 bother about it, and when I was up country I al 
 ways came back after a day's riding so tired that 
 I was too sleepy to write anything. And now that 
 I have the time, I won't have anything to write 
 about. I fancy that more things happened to me 
 to-day than are likely to happen again for the 
 next eight months, so I will make this day take up 
 as much room in the diary as it can. I am writing 
 this on the back of the paper the Warder uses for 
 his official reports, while he is hunting up cells to 
 put us in. We came down on him rather unex 
 pectedly and he is nervous. 
 
 244
 
 The Last Ride Together 
 
 "Of course, I had prepared myself for this 
 after a fashion, but now I see that somehow I 
 never really did think I would be in here, and all 
 my friends outside, and everything going on just 
 the same as though I wasn't alive somewhere. 
 It's like telling yourself that your horse can't pos 
 sibly pull off a race, so that you won't mind so 
 much if he doesn't, but you always feel just as bad 
 when he comes in a loser. A man can't fool him 
 self into thinking one way when he is hoping the 
 other. 
 
 "But I am glad it is over, and settled. It was 
 a great bore not knowing your luck and having 
 the thing hanging over your head every morning 
 when you woke up. Indeed it was quite a relief 
 when the counsel got all through arguing over 
 those proclamations, and the Chief Justice summed 
 up, but I nearly went to sleep when I found he 
 was going all over it again to the jury. I didn't 
 understand about those proclamations myself, and 
 I'll lay a fiver the jury didn't, either. The Colonel 
 said he didn't. I couldn't keep my mind on what 
 Russell was explaining about, and I got to think 
 ing how much old Justice Hawkins looked like the 
 counsel in 'Alice in Wonderland' when they tried 
 the knave of spades for stealing the tarts. He 
 had just the same sort of a beak and the same sort 
 of a wig, and I wondered why he had his wig 
 
 245
 
 The Last Ride Together 
 
 powdered and the others didn't. Pollock's wig 
 had a hole in the top; you could see it when he 
 bent over to take notes. He was always taking 
 notes. I don't believe he understood about those 
 proclamations, either; he never seemed to listen, 
 anyway. 
 
 "The Chief Justice certainly didn't love us very 
 much, that's sure; and he wasn't going to let any 
 body else love us either. I felt quite the Christian 
 Martyr when Sir Edward was speaking in de 
 fence. He made it sound as though we were all 
 a lot of Adelphi heroes and ought to be promoted 
 and have medals, but when Lord Russell started 
 in to read the Riot Act at us I began to believe 
 that hanging was too good for me. I'm sure I 
 never knew I was disturbing the peace of nations; 
 it seems like such a large order for a subaltern. 
 
 "But the worst was when they made us stand 
 up before all those people to be sentenced. I must 
 say I felt shaky about the knees then, not because 
 I was afraid of what was coming, but because it 
 was the first time I had ever been pointed out be 
 fore people, and made to feel ashamed. And 
 having those girls there, too, looking at one. That 
 wasn't just fair to us. It made me feel about ten 
 years old, and I remembered how the Head Mas 
 ter used to call me to his desk and say, 'Blake 
 Senior, two pages of Horace and keep in bounds 
 
 246
 
 The Last Ride Together 
 
 for a week.' And then I heard our names and 
 the months, and my name and 'eight months' im 
 prisonment,' and there was a bustle and murmur 
 and the tipstaves cried, 'Order in the Court,' and 
 the Judges stood up and shook out their big red 
 skirts as though they were shaking off the contam 
 ination of our presence, and rustled away, and I 
 sat down, wondering how long eight months was, 
 and wishing they'd given me as much as they gave 
 Jameson. 
 
 "They put us in a room together then, and our 
 counsel said how sorry they were, and shook hands, 
 and went off to dinner and left us. I thought they 
 might have waited with us and been a little late 
 for dinner just that once; but no one waited ex 
 cept a lot of costers outside whom we did not 
 know. It was eight o'clock and still quite light 
 when we came out, and there was a line of four- 
 wheelers and a hansom ready for us. I'd been 
 hoping they would take us out by the Strand en 
 trance, just because I'd like to have seen it again, 
 but they marched us instead through the main 
 quadrangle a beastly, gloomy courtyard that 
 echoed and out into Carey Street such a dirty, 
 gloomy street. The costers and clerks set up a 
 sort of a cheer when we came out, and one of them 
 cried, 'God bless you, sir,' to the doctor, but I 
 was sorry they cheered. It seemed like kicking 
 
 247
 
 The Last Ride Together 
 
 against the umpire's decision. The Colonel and I 
 got into a hansom together and we trotted off into 
 Chancery Lane and turned into Holborn. Most 
 of the shops were closed, and the streets looked 
 empty, but there was a lighted clock-face over 
 Mooney's public-house, and the hands stood at a 
 quarter past eight. I didn't know where Hollo- 
 way was, and was hoping they would have to take 
 us through some decent streets to reach it; but we 
 didn't see a part of the city that meant anything 
 to me, or that I would choose to travel through 
 again. 
 
 "Neither of us talked, and I imagined that the 
 people in the streets knew we were going to prison, 
 and I kept my eyes on the enamel card on the back 
 of the apron. I suppose I read, 'Two-wheeled 
 hackney carnage: if hired and discharged within 
 the four-mile limit, 15.' at least a hundred times. 
 I got more sensible after a bit, and when we had 
 turned into Gray's Inn Road I looked up and saw 
 a tram in front of us with 'Holloway Road and 
 King's X,' painted on the steps, and the Colonel 
 saw it about the same time, I fancy, for we each 
 looked at the other, and the Colonel raised his 
 eyebrows. It showed us that at least the cabman 
 knew where we were going. 
 
 : 'They might have taken us for a turn through 
 the West End first, I think,' the Colonel said. 
 
 248
 
 The Last Ride Together 
 
 Td like to have had a look around, wouldn't you ? 
 This isn't a cheerful neighborhood, is it?' 
 
 "There were a lot of children playing in St. 
 Andrew's Gardens, and a crowd of them ran out 
 just as we passed, shrieking and laughing over 
 nothing, the way kiddies do, and that was about 
 the only pleasant sight in the ride. I had quite 
 a turn when we came to the New Hospital just 
 beyond, for I thought it was Holloway, and it 
 came over me what eight months in such a place 
 meant. I believe if I hadn't pulled myself up 
 sharp, I'd have jumped out into the street and 
 run away. It didn't last more than a few seconds, 
 but I don't want any more like them. I was 
 afraid, afraid there's no use pretending it was 
 anything else. I was in a dumb, silly funk, and 
 I turned sick inside and shook, as I have seen a 
 horse shake when he shies at nothing and sweats 
 and trembles down his sides. 
 
 "During those few seconds it seemed to be more 
 than I could stand; I felt sure that I couldn't do 
 it that I'd go mad if they tried to force me. The 
 idea was so terrible of not being master over 
 your own legs and arms, to have your flesh and 
 blood and what brains God gave you buried alive 
 in stone walls as though they were in a safe with 
 a time-lock on the door set for eight months ahead. 
 There's nothing to be afraid of in a stone wall 
 
 249
 
 The Last Ride Together 
 
 really, but it's the idea of the thing of not being 
 free to move about, especially to a chap that has 
 always lived in the open as I have, and has had 
 men under him. It was no wonder I was in a 
 funk for a minute. I'll bet a fiver the others were, 
 too, if they'll only own up fo it. I don't mean 
 for long, but just when the idea first laid hold 
 of them. Anyway, it was a good lesson to me, 
 and if I catch myself thinking of it again I'll whis 
 tle, or talk to myself out loud and think of some 
 thing cheerful. And I don't mean to be one of 
 those chaps who spends his time in jail counting 
 the stones in his cell, or training spiders, or meas 
 uring how many of his steps make a mile, for mad 
 ness lies that way. I mean to sit tight and think 
 of all the good times I've had, and go over them 
 in my mind very slowly, so as to make them last 
 longer and remember who was there and what we 
 said, and the jokes and all that; I'll go over 
 house-parties I have been on, and the times I've 
 had in the Riviera, and scouting parties Dr. Jim 
 led up country when we were taking Matabele 
 Land. 
 
 "They say that if you're good here they give 
 you things to read after a month or two, and then 
 I can read op all those instructive books that a 
 felloe never does read until he's laid up in bed. 
 
 "But that's crowding ahead a bit; I must keep 
 250
 
 The Last Ride Together 
 
 to what happened to-day. We struck York Road 
 at the back of the Great Western Terminus, and 
 I half hoped we might see some chap we knew 
 coming or going away : I would like to have waved 
 my hand to him. It would have been fun to have 
 seen his surprise the next morning when he read 
 in the paper that he had been bowing to jail-birds, 
 and then I would like to have cheated the tip 
 staves out of just one more friendly good-by. I 
 wanted to say good-by to somebody, but I really 
 couldn't feel sorry to see the last of anyone of 
 those we passed in the streets they were such a 
 dirty, unhappy-looking lot, and the railroad wall 
 ran on forever apparently, and we might have 
 been in a foreign country for all we knew of it. 
 There were just sooty gray brick tenements and 
 gas-works on one side, and the railroad cutting 
 on the other, and semaphores and telegraph wires 
 overhead, and smoke and grime everywhere, it 
 looked exactly like the sort of street that should 
 lead to a prison, and it seemed a pity to take a 
 smart hansom and a good cob into it. 
 
 "It was just a bit different from our last ride 
 together when we rode through the night from 
 Krugers-Dorp with hundreds of horses' hoofs 
 pounding on the soft veldt behind us, and the car 
 bines clanking against the stirrups as they swung 
 on the sling belts. We were being hunted then, 
 
 251
 
 The Last Ride Together 
 
 harassed on either side, scurrying for our lives like 
 the Derby Dog in a race-track when everyone 
 hoots him and no man steps out to help we were 
 sick for sleep, sick for food, lashed by the rain, 
 and we knew that we were beaten; but we were 
 free still, and under open skies with the derricks 
 of the Rand rising like gallows on our left, and 
 Johannesburg only fifteen miles away." 
 
 252
 
 THE EDITOR'S STORY
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 IT was a warm afternoon in the early spring, 
 and the air in the office was close and heavy. 
 The letters of the morning had been answered and 
 the proofs corrected, and the gentlemen who had 
 come with ideas worth one column at space rates, 
 and which they thought worth three, had com 
 promised with the editor on a basis of two, and 
 departed. The editor's desk was covered with 
 manuscripts in a heap, a heap that never seemed 
 to grow less, and each manuscript bore a character 
 of its own, as marked or as unobtrusive as the 
 character of the man or of the woman who had 
 written it, which disclosed itself in the care with 
 which some were presented for consideration, in 
 the vain little ribbons of others, or the selfish 
 manner in which still others were tightly rolled 
 or vilely scribbled. 
 
 The editor held the first page of a poem in his 
 hand, and was reading it mechanically, for its 
 length had already declared against it, unless it 
 might chance to be the precious gem out of a 
 thousand, which must be chosen in spite of its 
 
 From " CindcreJla and Other Stories." Copyright, 1898, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
 25 c
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 twenty stanzas. But as the editor read, his in 
 terest awakened, and he scanned the verses again, 
 as one would turn to look a second time at a face 
 which seemed familiar. At the fourth stanza his 
 memory was still in doubt, at the sixth it was 
 warming to the chase, and at the end of the page 
 was in full cry. He caught up the second page 
 and looked for the final verse, and then at the 
 name below, and then back again quickly to the 
 title of the poem, and pushed aside the papers 
 on his desk in search of any note which might 
 have accompanied it. 
 
 The name signed at the bottom of the second 
 page was Edwin Aram, the title of the poem was 
 "Bohemia," and there was no accompanying note, 
 only the name Berkeley written at the top of the 
 first page. The envelope in which it had come 
 gave no further clew. It was addressed in the 
 same handwriting as that in which the poem had 
 been written, and it bore the postmark of New 
 York city. There was no request for the return 
 of the poem, no direction to which either the poem 
 itself or the check for its payment in the event of 
 its acceptance might be sent. Berkeley might be 
 the name of an apartment-house, or of a country 
 place, or of a suburban town. 
 
 The editor stepped out of his office into the 
 larger room beyond and said: "I've a poem here 
 
 256
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 that appeared in an American magazine about 
 seven years ago. I remember the date, because I 
 read it when I was at college. Someone is either 
 trying to play a trick on us, or to get money by 
 stealing some other man's brains." 
 
 It was in this way that Edwin Aram first intro 
 duced himself to our office, and while his poem 
 was not accepted, it was not returned. On the 
 contrary, Mr. Aram became to us one of the most 
 interesting of our would-be contributors, and there 
 was no author, no matter of what popularity, for 
 whose work we waited with greater impatience. 
 But Mr. Aram's personality still remained as com 
 pletely hidden from us as were the productions 
 which he offered from the sight of our subscribers; 
 for each of the poems he sent had been stolen 
 outright and signed with his name. 
 
 It was through no fault of ours that he con 
 tinued to blush unseen, or that his pretty taste in 
 poems was unappreciated by the general reader. 
 We followed up every clew and every hint he 
 chose to give us with an enthusiasm worthy of a 
 search after a lost explorer, and with an animus 
 worthy of better game. Yet there was some rea 
 son for our interest. The man who steals the 
 work of another and who passes it off as his own 
 is the special foe of every editor, but this particu 
 lar editor had a personal distrust of Mr. Aram. 
 
 257
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 He Imagined that these poems might possibly be 
 a trap which someone had laid for him with the 
 purpose of drawing him into printing them, and 
 then of pointing out by this fact how little read 
 he was, and how unfit to occupy the swivel-chair 
 into which he had so lately dropped. Or if this 
 were not the case, the man was in any event the 
 enemy of all honest people, who look unkindly on 
 those who try to obtain money by false pre 
 tences. 
 
 The evasions of Edwin Aram were many, and 
 his methods to avoid detection not without skill. 
 His second poem was written on a sheet of note- 
 paper bearing the legend "The Shakespeare De 
 bating Club. Edwin Aram, President." 
 
 This was intended to reassure us as to his lit 
 erary taste and standard, and to meet any sus 
 picion we might feel had there been no address 
 of any sort accompanying the poem. No one we 
 knew had ever heard of a Shakespeare Debating 
 Club in New York city; but we gave him the 
 benefit of the doubt until we found that this poem, 
 like the first, was also stolen. His third poem 
 bore his name and an address, which on instant 
 inquiry turned out to be that of a vacant lot on 
 Seventh Avenue near Central Park. 
 
 Edwin Aram had by this time become an ex 
 asperating and picturesque individual, and the 
 
 358
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 editorial staff was divided in its opinion concern 
 ing him. It was argued on one hand that as the 
 man had never sent us a real address, his object 
 must be to gain a literary reputation at the expense 
 of certain poets, and not to make money at ours. 
 Others answered this by saying that fear of detec 
 tion alone kept Edwin Aram from sending his 
 real address, but that as soon as his poem was 
 printed, and he ascertained by that fact that he 
 had not been discovered, he would put in an appli 
 cation for payment, and let us know quickly enough 
 to what portion of New York city his check should 
 be forwarded. 
 
 This, however, presupposed the fact that he 
 was writing to us over his real name, which we 
 did not believe he would dare to do. No one in 
 our little circle of journalists and literary men had 
 ever heard of such a man, and his name did not 
 appear in the directory. This fact, however, was 
 not convincing in itself, as the residents of New 
 York move from flat to hotel, and from apart 
 ments to boarding-houses as frequently as the Arab 
 changes his camping-ground. We tried to draw 
 him out at last by publishing a personal para 
 graph which stated that several contributions re 
 ceived from Edwin Aram would be returned to 
 him if he would send stamps and his present ad 
 dress. The editor did not add that he would re- 
 
 259
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 turn the poems in person, but such was his war 
 like intention. 
 
 This had the desired result, and brought us a 
 fourth poem and a fourth address, the name of a 
 tall building which towers above Union Square. 
 We seemed to be getting very warm now, and the 
 editor gathered up the four poems, and called to 
 his aid his friend Bronson, the ablest reporter on 
 
 the New York , who was to act as chronicler. 
 
 They took with them letters from the authors of 
 two of the poems and from the editor of the 
 magazine in which the first one had originally 
 appeared, testifying to the fact that Edwin Aram 
 had made an exact copy of the original, and wish 
 ing the brother editor good luck in catching the 
 plagiarist. 
 
 The reporter looked these over with a critical 
 eye. "The City Editor told me if we caught him," 
 he said, "that I could let it run for all it was 
 Worth. I can use these names, I suppose, and I 
 guess they have pictures of the poets at the office. 
 If he turns out to be anybody in particular, it 
 ought to be worth a full three columns. Sunday 
 paper, too." 
 
 The amateur detectives stood in the lower hall 
 in the tall building, between swinging doors, and 
 jostled by hurrying hundreds, while they read the 
 pames on a marble directory. 
 
 260
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 "There he is!" said the editor, excitedly. 
 " 'American Literary Bureau.' One room on the 
 fourteenth floor. That's just the sort of a place 
 in which we would be likely to find him." But 
 the reporter was gazing open-eyed at a name in 
 large letters on an office door. "Edward K. 
 
 Aram," it read, "Commissioner of , and 
 
 City ." 
 
 "What do you think of that?" he gasped, tri 
 umphantly. 
 
 "Nonsense," said the editor. "He wouldn't 
 dare; besides, the initials are different. You're 
 expecting too good a story." 
 
 "That's the way to get them," answered the re 
 porter, as he hurried toward the office of the City 
 
 . "If a man falls dead, believe it's a suicide 
 
 until you prove it's not; if you find a suicide, be 
 lieve it's a murder until you are convinced to the 
 contrary. Otherwise you'll get beaten. We don't 
 want the proprietor of a little literary bureau, we 
 want a big city official, and I'll believe we have 
 one until he proves we haven't." 
 
 "Which are you going to ask for?" whispered 
 the editor, "Edward K. or Edwin?" 
 
 "Edwin, I should say," answered the reporter. 
 "He has probably given notice that mail addressed 
 that way should go to him." 
 
 "Is Mr. Edwin Aram in?" he asked. 
 261
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 A clerk raised his head and looked behind him. 
 "No," he said; "his desk is closed. I guess he's 
 gone home for the day." 
 
 The reporter nudged the editor savagely with 
 his elbow, but his face gave no sign. "That's a 
 pity," he said; "we have an appointment with 
 him. He still lives at Sixty-first Street and Madi 
 son Avenue, I believe, does he not?" 
 
 "No," said the clerk; "that's his father, the 
 
 Commissioner, Edward K. The son lives at . 
 
 Take the Sixth Avenue elevated and get off at 
 1 1 6th Street." 
 
 "Thank you," said the reporter. He turned a 
 triumphant smile upon the editor. "We've got 
 him!" he said, excitedly. "And the son of old 
 Edward K., too ! Think of it ! Trying to steal 
 a few dollars by cribbing other men's poems; that's 
 the best story there has been in the papers for the 
 past three months, 'Edward K. Aram's son a 
 thief!' Look at the names politicians, poets, 
 editors, all mixed up in it. It's good for three 
 columns, sure." 
 
 "We've got to think of his people, too," urged 
 the editor, as they mounted the steps of the ele 
 vated road. 
 
 "He didn't think of them," said the re 
 porter. 
 
 The house in which Mr. Aram lived was an 
 262
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 apartment-house, and the brass latchets in the hall 
 way showed that it contained three suites. There 
 were visiting-cards under the latchets of the first 
 and third stories, and under that of the second a 
 piece of note-paper on which was written the auto 
 graph of Edwin Aram. The editor looked at it 
 curiously. He had never believed it to be a real 
 name. 
 
 "I am sorry Edwin Aram did not turn out to be 
 a woman," he said, regretfully; "it would have 
 been so much more interesting." 
 
 "Now," instructed Bronson, impressively, 
 "whether he is in or not we have him. If he's 
 not in. we wait until he comes, even if he doesn't 
 come until morning; we don't leave this place until 
 we have seen him." 
 
 "Very well," said the editor. 
 
 The maid left them standing at the top of the 
 stairs while she went to ask if Mr. Aram was m, 
 and whether he would see two gentlemen who did 
 not give their names because they were strangers 
 to him. The two stood silent while they waited, 
 eying each other anxiously, and when the girl re 
 opened the door, nodded pleasantly, and said, 
 "Yes, Mr. Aram is in," they hurried past her as 
 though they feared that he would disappear in 
 mid-air, or float away through the windows before 
 they could reach him. 
 
 263
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 And yet, when they stood at last face to face 
 with him, he bore a most disappointing air of 
 every-day respectability. He was a tall, thin 
 young man, with light hair and mustache and 
 large blue eyes. His back was toward the win 
 dow, so that his face was in the shadow, and he 
 did not rise as they entered. The room in which 
 he sat was a prettily furnished one, opening into 
 another tiny room, which, from the number of 
 books in it, might have been called a library. The 
 .rooms had a well-to-do, even prosperous, air, but 
 they did not show any evidences of a pronounced 
 taste on the part of their owner, either in the way 
 in which they were furnished or in the decora 
 tions of the walls. A little girl of about seven 
 or eight years of age, who was standing between 
 her father's knees, with a hand on each, and with 
 her head thrown back on his shoulder, looked up 
 at the two visitors with evident interest, and smiled 
 brightly. 
 
 "Mr. Aram?" asked the editor, tentatively. 
 
 The young man nodded, and the two visitors 
 seated themselves. 
 
 "I wish to talk to you on a matter of private 
 business," the editor began. "Wouldn't it be bet 
 ter to send the little girl away ?" 
 
 The child shook her head violently at this, and 
 crowded up closely to her father; but he held her 
 
 264
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 away from him gently, and told her to "run and 
 play with Annie." 
 
 She passed the two visitors, with her head held 
 scornfully in air, and left the men together. Mr. 
 Aram seemed to have a most passive and incuri 
 ous disposition. He could have no idea as to who 
 his anonymous visitors might be, nor did he show 
 any desire to know. 
 
 "I am the editor of ," the editor began. 
 
 "My friend also writes for that periodical. I 
 have received several poems from you lately, Mr. 
 Aram, and one in particular which we all liked 
 very much. It was called 'Bohemia.' But it is so 
 like one that has appeared under the same title 
 
 in the Magazine that I thought I would 
 
 see you about it, and ask you if you could explain 
 the similarity. You see," he went on, "it would 
 be less embarrassing if you would do so now than 
 later, when the poem has been published and when 
 people might possibly accuse you of plagiarism." 
 The editor smiled encouragingly and waited. 
 
 Mr. Aram crossed one leg over the other and 
 folded his hands in his lap. He exhibited no 
 interest, and looked drowsily at the editor. When 
 he spoke it was in a tone of unstudied indiffer 
 ence. "I never wrote a poem called 'Bohemia,' ' 
 he said, slowly; "at least, if I did I don't remem 
 ber it." 
 
 265
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 The editor had not expected a flat denial, and it 
 irritated him, for he recognized it to be the safest 
 course the man could pursue, if he kept to it. "But 
 you don't mean to say," he protested, smiling, 
 "that you can write so excellent a poem as 'Bohe 
 mia' and then forget having done so?" 
 
 "I might," said Mr. Aram, unresentfully, and 
 with little interest. "I scribble a good deal." 
 
 "Perhaps," suggested the reporter, politely, with 
 the air of one who is trying to cover up a difficulty 
 to the satisfaction of all, "Mr. Aram would re 
 member it if he saw it." 
 
 The editor nodded his head in assent, and took 
 the first page of the two on which the poem was 
 written, and held it out to Mr. Aram, who ac 
 cepted the piece of foolscap and eyed it listlessly. 
 
 "Yes, I wrote that," he said. "I copied it out 
 of a book called 'Gems from American Poets.' ' 
 There was a lazy pause. "But I never sent it to 
 any paper." The editor and the reporter eyed 
 each other with outward calm but with some in 
 ward astonishment. They could not see why he 
 had not adhered to his original denial of the thing 
 in toto. It seemed to them so foolish to admit 
 having copied the poem and then to deny having 
 forwarded it. 
 
 "You see," explained Mr. Aram, still with no 
 apparent interest in the matter, "I am very fond 
 
 266
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 of poetry; I like to recite it, and I often write it 
 out in order to make me remember it. I find it 
 impresses the words on my mind. Well, that's 
 what has happened. I have copied this poem out 
 at the office probably, and one of the clerks there 
 has found it, and has supposed that I wrote it, and 
 he has sent it to your paper as a sort of a joke on 
 me. You see, father being so well known, it would 
 rather amuse the boys if I came out as a poet. 
 That's how it was, I guess. Somebody must have 
 found it and sent it to you, because / never 
 sent it." 
 
 There was a moment of thoughtful considera 
 tion. "I see," said the editor. "I used to do that 
 same thing myself when I had to recite pieces at 
 school. I found that writing the verses down 
 helped me to remember them. I remember that 
 I once copied out many of Shakespeare's sonnets. 
 But, Mr. Aram, it never occurred to me, after 
 having copied out one of Shakespeare's sonnets, 
 to sign my own name at the bottom of it." 
 
 Mr. Aram's eyes dropped to the page of manu 
 script in his hand and rested there for some little 
 time. Then he said, without raising his head, "I 
 haven't signed this." 
 
 "No," replied the editor; "but you signed the 
 second page, which I still have in my hand." 
 
 The editor and his companion expected some 
 267
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 expression of indignation from Mr. Aram at this, 
 some question of their right to come into his house 
 and cross-examine him and to accuse him, tenta 
 tively at least, of literary fraud, but they were dis 
 appointed. Mr. Aram's manner was still one of 
 absolute impassibility. Whether this manner was 
 habitual to him they could not know, but it made 
 them doubt their own judgment in having so quick 
 ly accused him, as it bore the look of undismayed 
 innocence. 
 
 It was the reporter who was the first to break 
 the silence. "Perhaps someone has signed Mr. 
 Aram's name the clerk who sent it, for in 
 stance." 
 
 Young Mr. Aram looked up at him curiously, 
 and held out his hand for the second page. "Yes," 
 he drawled, "that's how it happened. That's not 
 my signature. I never signed that." 
 
 The editor was growing restless. "I have sev 
 eral other poems here from you," he said; "one 
 written from the rooms of the Shakespeare De 
 bating Club, of which I see you are president. 
 Your clerk could not have access there, could he? 
 He did not write that, too ?" 
 
 "No," said Mr. Aram, doubtfully, "he could 
 not have written that." 
 
 The editor handed him the poem. "It's yours, 
 then?" 
 
 "Yes, that's mine," Mr. Aram replied. 
 268
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 "And the signature?" 
 
 "Yes, and the signature. I wrote that myself," 
 Mr. Aram explained, "and sent it myself. That 
 other one ('Bohemia') I just copied out to remem 
 ber, but this is original with me." 
 
 "And the envelope in which it was enclosed," 
 asked the editor, "did you address that also?" 
 
 Mr. Aram examined it uninterestedly. "Yes, 
 that's my handwriting too." He raised his head. 
 His face wore an expression of patient politeness. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed the editor, suddenly, in some 
 embarrassment. "I handed you the wrong enve 
 lope. I beg your pardon. That envelope is the 
 one in which 'Bohemia' came." 
 
 The reporter gave a hardly perceptible start; 
 his eyes were fixed on the pattern of the rug at his 
 feet, and the editor continued to examine the pa 
 pers in his hand. There was a moment's silence. 
 From outside came the noise of children play 
 ing in the street and the rapid rush of a passing 
 wagon. 
 
 When the two visitors raised their heads Mr. 
 Aram was looking at them strangely, and the fin 
 gers folded in his lap were twisting in and out. 
 
 "This Shakespeare Debating Club," said the 
 editor, "where are its rooms, Mr. Aram?" 
 
 "It has no rooms, now," answered the poet. 
 "It has disbanded. It never had any regular 
 rooms; we just met about and read." 
 
 269
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 "I see exactly," said the editor. "And the 
 house on Seventh Avenue from which your third 
 poem was sent did you reside there then, or have 
 you always lived here?" 
 
 "No, yes I used to live there I lived there 
 when I wrote that poem." 
 
 The editor looked at the reporter and back at 
 Mr. Aram. "It is a vacant lot, Mr. Aram," he 
 said, gravely. 
 
 There was a long pause. The poet rocked slow 
 ly up and down in his rocking-chair, and looked 
 at his hands, which he rubbed over one another 
 as though they were cold. Then he raised his head 
 and cleared his throat. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen," he said, "you have made 
 out your case." 
 
 "Yes," said the editor, regretfully, "we have 
 made out our case." He could not help but wish 
 that the fellow had stuck to his original denial. It 
 was too easy a victory. 
 
 "I don't say, mind you," went on Mr. Aram, 
 "that I ever took anybody's verses and sent them 
 to a paper as my own, but I ask you, as one gen 
 tleman talking to another, and inquiring for infor 
 mation, what is there wrong in doing it ? I say, if 
 I had done it, which I don't admit I ever did, 
 where's the harm?" 
 
 "Where's the harm?" cried the two visitors in 
 chorus. 
 
 270
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 "Obtaining money under false pretences," said 
 the editor, "is the harm you do the publishers, and 
 robbing another man of the work of his brain and 
 what credit belongs to him is the harm you do him, 
 and telling a lie is the least harm done. Such a 
 contemptible foolish lie, too, that you might have 
 known would surely find you out in spite of the 
 trouble you took to " 
 
 "I never asked you for any money," interrupted 
 Mr. Aram, quietly. 
 
 "But we would have sent it to you, neverthe 
 less," retorted the editor, "if we had not dis 
 covered in time that the poems were stolen." 
 
 "Where would you have sent it?" asked Mr. 
 Aram. "I never gave you a right address, did I? 
 I ask you, did I?" 
 
 The editor paused in some confusion. "Well, if 
 you did not want the money, what did you 
 want?" he exclaimed. "I must say I should like 
 to know." 
 
 Mr. Aram rocked himself to and fro, and gazed 
 at his two inquisitors with troubled eyes. "I didn't 
 see any harm in it then," he repeated. "I don't 
 see any harm in it now. I didn't ask you for any 
 money. I sort of thought," he said, confusedly, 
 "that I should like to see my name in print. I 
 wanted my friends to see it. I'd have liked to have 
 shown it to to well, I'd like my wife to have 
 seen it. She's interested in literature and books 
 
 271
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 and magazines and things like that. That was all 
 I wanted. That's why I did it." 
 
 The reporter looked up askance at the editor, 
 as a prompter watches the actor to see if he is 
 ready to take his cue. 
 
 "How do I know that?" demanded the editor, 
 sharply. He found it somewhat difficult to be se 
 vere with this poet, for the man admitted so much 
 so readily, and would not defend himself. Had 
 he only blustered and grown angry and ordered 
 them out, instead of sitting helplessly there rocking 
 to and fro and picking at the back of his hands, 
 it would have made it so much easier. "How do 
 we know," repeated the editor, "that you did not 
 intend to wait until the poems had appeared, and 
 then send us your real address and ask for the 
 money, saying that you had moved since you had 
 last written us?" 
 
 "Oh," protested Mr. Aram, "you know I never 
 thought of that." 
 
 "I don't know anything of the sort," said the 
 editor. "I only know that you have forged and 
 lied and tried to obtain money that doesn't belong 
 to you, and that I mean to make an example of 
 you and frighten other men from doing the same 
 thing. No editor has read every poem that was 
 ever written, and there is no protection for him 
 from such fellows as you, and the only thing he 
 
 272
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 can do when he does catch one of you is to make 
 an example of him. That's what I am going to 
 do. I am going to make an example of you. I 
 am going to nail you up as people nail up dead 
 crows to frighten off the live ones. It is my inten 
 tion to give this to the papers to-night, and you 
 know what they will do with it in the morning." 
 
 There was a long and most uncomfortable pause, 
 and it is doubtful if the editor did not feel it as 
 much as did the man opposite him. The editor 
 turned to his friend for a glance of sympathy, or 
 of disapproval even, but that gentleman still sat 
 bending forward with his eyes fixed on the floor, 
 while he tapped with the top of his cane against 
 his teeth. 
 
 "You don't mean," said Mr. Aram, in a strange 
 ly different voice from which he had last spoken, 
 "that you would do that?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," blustered the editor. But even as 
 he spoke he was conscious of a sincere regret that 
 he had not come alone. He could intuitively feel 
 Bronson mapping out the story in his mind and 
 memorizing Aram's every word, and taking men 
 tal notes of the framed certificates of high mem 
 bership in different military and masonic associa 
 tions which hung upon the walls. It had not been 
 long since the editor was himself a reporter, and 
 he could see that it was as good a story as Bronson 
 
 273
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 could wish it to be. But he reiterated, "Yes, I 
 mean to give it to the papers to-night." 
 
 "But think," said Aram "think, sir, who I am. 
 You don't want to ruin me for the rest of my life 
 just for a matter of fifteen dollars, do you? Fif 
 teen dollars that no one has lost, either? If I'd em 
 bezzled a million or so, or if I had robbed the city, 
 well and good ! I'd have taken big risks for big 
 money; but you are going to punish me just as hard 
 because I tried to please my wife, as though I had 
 robbed a mint. No one has really been hurt," he 
 pleaded; "the men who wrote the poems they've 
 been paid for them; they've got all the credit for 
 them they can get. You've not lost a cent. I've 
 gained nothing by it; and yet you gentlemen are 
 going to give this thing to the papers, and, as you 
 say, sir, we know what they will make of it. What 
 with my being my father's son, and all that, my 
 father is going to suffer. My family is going to 
 suffer. It will ruin me " 
 
 The editor put the papers back into his pocket. 
 If Bronson had not been there he might possibly 
 instead have handed them over to Mr. Aram, and 
 this story would never have been written. But he 
 could not do that now. Mr. Aram's affairs had 
 become the property of the New York newspaper. 
 
 He turned to his friend doubtfully. "What do 
 you think, Bronson?" he asked. 
 
 274
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 At this sign of possible leniency Aram ceased 
 in his rocking and sat erect, with eyes wide open 
 and fixed on Bronson's face. But the latter trailed 
 his stick over the rug beneath his feet and shrugged 
 his shoulders. 
 
 "Mr. Aram," he said, "might have thought of 
 his family and his father before he went into this 
 business. It is rather late now. But," he added, 
 "I don't think it is a matter we can decide in any 
 event. It should be left to the firm." 
 
 "Yes," said the editor, hurriedly, glad of the 
 excuse to temporize, "we must leave it to the 
 house." But he read Bronson's answer to mean 
 that he did not intend to let the plagiarist escape, 
 and he knew that even were Bronson willing to 
 do so, there was still his City Editor to be per 
 suaded. 
 
 The two men rose and stood uncomfortably, 
 shifting their hats in their hands and avoiding 
 each other's eyes. Mr. Aram stood up also, and 
 seeing that his last chance had come, began again 
 to plead desperately. 
 
 "What good would fifteen dollars do me?" he 
 said, with a gesture of his hands round the room. 
 "I don't have to look for money as hard as that. 
 I tell you," he reiterated, "it wasn't the money I 
 wanted. I didn't mean any harm. I didn't know 
 it was wrong. I just wanted to please my wife 
 
 275
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 that was all. My God, man, can't you see that 
 you are punishing me out of all proportion?" 
 
 The visitors walked toward the door, and he fol 
 lowed them, talking the faster as they drew near 
 to it. The scene had become an exceedingly pain 
 ful one, and they were anxious to bring it to a 
 close. 
 
 The editor interrupted him. "We will let you 
 know," he said, "what we have decided to do by 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 "You mean," retorted the man, hopelessly and 
 reproachfully, "that I will read it in the Sunday 
 papers." 
 
 Before the editor could answer they heard the 
 dooi 7 leading into the apartment open and close, 
 and someone stepping quickly across the hall to 
 the room in which they stood. The entrance to 
 the room was hung with a portiere, and as the 
 three menpaused in silence this portiere was pushed 
 back, and a young lady stood in the doorway, hold 
 ing the curtains apart with her two hands. She 
 was smiling, and the smile lighted a face that was 
 inexpressibly bright and honest and true. Aram's 
 face had been lowered, but the eyes of the other 
 two men were staring wide open toward the un 
 expected figure, which seemed to bring a taste of 
 fresh pure air into the feverish atmosphere of the 
 place. The girl stopped uncertainly when she saw 
 
 276
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 the two strangers, and bowed her head slightly as 
 the mistress of a house might welcome anyone 
 whom she found in her drawing-room. She was 
 entirely above and apart from her surroundings. 
 It was not only that she was exceedingly pretty, 
 but that everything about her, from her attitude 
 to her cloth walking-dress, was significant of good 
 taste and high breeding. 
 
 She paused uncertainly, still smiling, and with 
 her gloved hands holding back the curtains and 
 looking at Aram with eyes filled with a kind con 
 fidence. She was apparently waiting for him to 
 present his friends. 
 
 The editor made a sudden but irrevocable re 
 solve. "If she is only a chance visitor," he said to 
 himself, "I will still expose him; but if that woman 
 in the doorway is his wife, I will push Bronson 
 under the elevated train, and the secret will die 
 with me." 
 
 What Bronson's thoughts were he could not 
 know, but he was conscious that his friend had 
 straightened his broad shoulders and was holding 
 his head erect. 
 
 Aram raised his face, but he did not look at the 
 woman in the door. "In a minute, dear," he said; 
 "I am busy with these gentlemen." 
 
 The girl gave a little "oh" of apology, smiled 
 at her husband's bent head, inclined her own again 
 
 277
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 slightly to the other men, and let the portiere close 
 behind her. It had been as dramatic an entrance 
 and exit as the two visitors had ever seen upon the 
 stage. It was as if Aram had given a signal, and 
 the only person who could help him had come in 
 the nick of time to plead for him. Aram, stupid 
 as he appeared to be, had evidently felt the effect 
 his wife's appearance had made upon his judges. 
 He still kept his eyes fixed upon the floor, but he 
 said, and this time with more confidence in his 
 tone : 
 
 "It is not, gentlemen, as though I were an old 
 man. I have so very long to live so long to try 
 to live this down. Why, I am as young as you are. 
 How would you like to have a thing like this to 
 carry with you till you died?" 
 
 The editor still stood staring blankly at the cur 
 tains through which Mr. Aram's good angel, for 
 whom he had lied and cheated in order to gain 
 credit in her eyes, had disappeared. He pushed 
 them aside with his stick. "We will let you know 
 to-morrow morning," he repeated, and the two 
 men passed out from the poet's presence, and on 
 into the hall. They descended the stairs in an un 
 comfortable silence, Bronson leading the way, and 
 the editor endeavoring to read his verdict by the 
 back of his head and shoulders. 
 
 At the foot of the steps he pulled his friend by 
 278
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 the sleeve. "Bronson," he coaxed, "you are not 
 going to use it, are you?" 
 
 Bronson turned on him savagely. "For Heav 
 en's sake!" he protested, "what do you think I 
 am; did you see her?" 
 
 So the New York lost a very good story, 
 
 and Bronson a large sum of money for not writing 
 it, and Mr. Aram was taught a lesson, and his 
 young wife's confidence in him remained unshaken. 
 The editor and reporter dined together that night, 
 and over their cigars decided with sudden terror 
 that Mr. Aram might, in his ignorance of their 
 good intentions concerning him, blow out his 
 brains, and for nothing. So they despatched a 
 messenger-boy up town in post-haste with a note 
 laying that "the firm" had decided to let the mat 
 ter drop although, perhaps, it would have been 
 better to have given him one sleepless night at 
 least. 
 
 That was three years ago, and since then Mr. 
 Aram's father has fallen out with Tammany, and 
 has been retired from public service. Bronson has 
 been sent abroad to represent the United States at 
 a foreign court, and has asked the editor to write 
 the story that he did not write, but with such 
 changes in the names of people and places that no 
 one save Mr. Aram may know who Mr. Aram 
 really was and is. 
 
 279
 
 The Editor's Story 
 
 This the editor has done, reporting what hap 
 pened as faithfully as he could, and in the hope 
 that it will make an interesting story in spite of 
 the fact, and not on account of the fact, that it is 
 a true one. 
 
 280
 
 AN ASSISTED EMIGRANT
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 GUIDO stood on the curb-stone in Fourteenth 
 Street, between Fifth Avenue and Sixth 
 Avenue, with a row of plaster figures drawn up on 
 the sidewalk in front of him. It was snowing, and 
 they looked cold in consequence, especially the 
 Night and Morning. A line of men and boys 
 stretched on either side of Guido all along the curb 
 stone, with toys and dolls, and guns that shot corks 
 into the air with a loud report, and glittering dress 
 ings for the Christmas-trees. It was the day be 
 fore Christmas. The man who stood next in line 
 to Guido had hideous black monkeys that danced 
 from the end of a rubber string. The man danced 
 up and down too, very much, so Guido thought, 
 as the monkeys did, and stamped his feet on the 
 icy pavement, and shouted: "Here yer are, lady, 
 for five cents. Take them home to the children." 
 There were hundreds and hundreds of ladies and 
 little girls crowding by all of the time; some of 
 them were a little cross and a little tired, as if 
 Christmas shopping had told on their nerves, but 
 the greater number were happy-looking and warm, 
 
 From " Cinderella and Other Stories." Copyright, 1898, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
 283
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 and some stopped and laughed at the monkeys 
 dancing on the rubber strings, and at the man with 
 the frost on his mustache, who jumped too, and 
 cried, "Only five cents, lady nice Christmas pres 
 ents for the children." 
 
 Sometimes the ladies bought the monkeys, but 
 no one looked at the cold plaster figures of St. 
 Joseph, and Diana, and Night and Morning, nor 
 at the heads of Mars and Minerva not even at 
 the figure of the Virgin, with her two hands held 
 out, which Guido pressed in his arms against his 
 breast. 
 
 Guido had been in New York city just one 
 month. He was very young so young that he 
 had never done anything at home but sit on the 
 wharves and watch the ships come in and out of 
 the great harbor of Genoa. He never had wished 
 to depart with these ships when they sailed away, 
 nor wondered greatly as to where they went. He 
 was content with the wharves and with the narrow 
 streets near by, and to look up from the bulkheads 
 at the sailors working in the rigging, and the 'long 
 shoremen rolling the casks on board, or lowering 
 great square boxes into the holds. 
 
 He would have liked, could he have had his 
 way, to live so for the rest of his life; but they 
 would not let him have his way, and coaxed him 
 on. a ship to go to the New World to meet his 
 
 284
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 uncle. He was not a real uncle, but only a make- 
 believe one, to satisfy those who objected to as 
 sisted immigrants, and who wished to be assured 
 against having to support Guido, and others like 
 him. But they were not half so anxious to keep 
 Guido at home as he himself was to stay there. 
 
 The new uncle met him at Ellis Island, and em 
 braced him affectionately, and put him in an ex 
 press wagon, and drove him with a great many 
 more of his countrymen to where Mulberry Street 
 makes a bend and joins Hester. And in the Bend 
 Guido found thousands of his fellows sleeping 
 twenty in a room and overcrowded into the street ; 
 some who had but just arrived, and others who 
 had already learned to swear in English, and had 
 their street-cleaning badges and their pedler's li 
 censes, to show that they had not been overlooked 
 by the kindly society of Tammany, which sees 
 that no free and independent voter shall go un 
 rewarded. 
 
 New York affected Guido like a bad dream. It 
 was cold and muddy, and the snow when it fell 
 turned to mud so quickly that Guido believed they 
 were one and the same. He did not dare to think 
 of the place he knew as home. And the sight of 
 the colored advertisements of the steamship lines 
 that hung in the windows of the Italian bankers 
 hurt him as the sound of traffic on the street cuts 
 
 285
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 to the heart of a prisoner in the Tombs. Many 
 of his countrymen bade good-by to Mulberry Street 
 and sailed away; but they had grown rich through 
 obeying the padrones, and working night and 
 morning sweeping the Avenue uptown, and by 
 living on the refuse from the scows at Canal Street. 
 Guide never hoped to grow rich, and no one 
 stopped to buy his uncle's wares. 
 
 The electric lights came out, and still the crowd 
 passed and thronged before him, and the snow 
 fell and left no mark on the white figures. Guido 
 was growing cold, and the bustle of the hurrying 
 hundreds which had entertained him earlier in the 
 day had ceased to interest him, and his amusement 
 had given place to the fear that no one of them 
 would ever stop, and that he would return to his 
 uncle empty-handed. He was hungry now, as well 
 as cold, and though there was not much rich food 
 in the Bend at any time, to-day he had had nothing 
 of any quality to eat since early morning. The 
 man with the monkeys turned his head from time 
 tfc time, and spoke to him in a language that he 
 could not understand ; although he saw that it was 
 something amusing and well meant that the man 
 said, and so smiled back and nodded. He felt it 
 to be quite a loss when the man moved away. 
 
 Guido thought very slowly, but he at last began 
 to feel a certain contempt for the stiff statues and 
 
 286
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 busts which no one wanted, and buttoned the figure 
 of the one of the woman with her arms held out 
 inside of his jacket, and tucked his scarf in around 
 it, so that it might not be broken, and also that 
 it might not bear the ignominy with the others of 
 being overlooked. Guido was a gentle, slow-think 
 ing boy, and could not have told you why he did 
 this, but he knew that this figure was of different 
 clay from the others. He had seen it placed high 
 in the cathedrals at home, and he had been told 
 that if you ask certain things of it it will listen 
 to you. 
 
 The women and children began to disappear 
 from the crowd, and the necessity of selling some 
 of his wares impressed itself more urgently upon 
 him as the night grew darker and possible custom 
 ers fewer. He decided that he had taken up a 
 bad position, and that instead of waiting for cus 
 tomers to come to him, he ought to go seek for 
 them. With this purpose in his mind he gathered 
 the figures together upon his tray, and, resting it 
 upon his shoulder, moved further along the street, 
 to Broadway, where the crowd was greater and the 
 shops more brilliantly lighted. He had good cause 
 to be watcliful, for the sidewalks were slippery 
 with ice, and the people rushed and hurried and 
 brushed past him without noticing the burden he 
 carried on one shoulder. He wished now that he 
 
 287
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 knew some words of this new language, that he 
 might call his wares and challenge the notice of 
 the passers-by, as did the other men who shouted 
 so continually and vehemently at the hurrying 
 crowds. He did not know what might happen if 
 he failed to sell one of his statues; it was a possi 
 bility so awful that he did not dare conceive of its 
 punishment. But he could do nothing, and so 
 stood silent, dumbly presenting his tray to the 
 people near him. 
 
 His wanderings brought him to the corner of 
 a street, and he started to cross it, in the hope of 
 better fortune in untried territory. There was no 
 need of his hurrying to do this, although a car 
 was coming toward him, so he stepped carefully 
 but surely. But as he reached the middle of the 
 track a man came toward him from the opposite 
 pavement; they met and hesitated, and then both 
 jumped to the same side, and the man's shoulder 
 struck the tray and threw the white figures flying 
 to the track, where the horses tramped over them 
 on their way. Guido fell backward, frightened 
 and shaken, and the car stopped, and the driver 
 and the conductor leaned out anxiously from each 
 end. 
 
 There seemed to be hundreds of people all 
 around Guido, and some of them picked him up 
 and asked him questions in a very loud voice, as 
 
 288
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 though that would make the language they spoke 
 more intelligible. Two men took him by each 
 arm and talked with him in earnest tones, and 
 punctuated their questions by shaking him gently. 
 He could not answer them, but only sobbed, and 
 beat his hands softly together, and looked about 
 him for a chance to escape. The conductor of the 
 car jerked the strap violently, .and the car went on 
 its way. Guido watched the conductor, as he stood 
 with his hands in his pockets looking back at him. 
 Guido had a confused idea that the people on the 
 car might pay him for the plaster figures which 
 had been scattered in the slush and snow, so that 
 the heads and arms and legs lay on every side or 
 were ground into heaps of white powder. But 
 when the car disappeared into the night he gave up 
 this hope, and pulling himself free from his cap 
 tor, slipped through the crowd and ran off into a 
 side street. A man who had seen the accident had 
 been trying to take up a collection in the crowd, 
 which had grown less sympathetic and less numer 
 ous in consequence, and had gathered more than 
 the plaster casts were worth; but Guido did not 
 know this, and when they came to look for him 
 he was gone, and the bareheaded gentleman, with 
 his hat full of coppers and dimes, was left in much 
 embarrassment. 
 
 Guido walked to Washington Square, and sat
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 down on a bench to rest, and then curled over 
 quickly, and, stretching himself out at full length, 
 wept bitterly. When anyone passed he held his 
 breath and pretended to be asleep. He did not 
 know what he was to do or where he was to go. 
 Such a calamity as this had never entered into his 
 calculations of the evils which might overtake him, 
 and it overwhelmed him utterly. A policeman 
 touched him with his night-stick, and spoke to him 
 kindly enough, but the boy only backed away 
 from the man until he was out of his reach, and 
 then ran on again, slipping and stumbling on 
 the ice and snow. He ran to Christopher 
 Street, through Greenwich Village, and on to 
 the wharves. 
 
 It was quite late, and he had recovered front 
 his hunger, and only felt a sick tired ache at his 
 heart. His feet were heavy and numb, and he was 
 very sleepy. People passed him continually, and 
 doors opened into churches and into noisy, glaring 
 saloons and crowded shops, but it did not seem pos 
 sible to him that there could be any relief from 
 any source for the sorrow that had befallen him. 
 It seemed too awful, and as impossible to mend 
 as it would be to bring the crushed plaster into 
 shape again. He considered dully that his uncle 
 would miss him and wait for him, and that his 
 anger would increase with every moment of his 
 
 290
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 delay. He felt that he could never return to his 
 uncle again. 
 
 Then he came to another park, opening into a 
 square, with lighted saloons on one side, and on the 
 other great sheds, with ships lying beside them, 
 and the electric lights showing their spars and 
 masts against the sky. It had ceased snowing, but 
 the air from the river was pierOPg and cold, and 
 swept through the wires overhead, with a ceaseless 
 moaning. The numbness had crept from his feet 
 up over the whole extent of his little body, and 
 he dropped upon a flight of steps back of a sailors' 
 boarding-house, and shoved his hands inside of his 
 jacket for possible warmth. His fingers touched 
 the figure he had hidden there and closed upon it 
 lightly, and then his head dropped back against 
 the wall, and he fell into a heavy sleep. The night 
 passed on and grew colder, and the wind came 
 across the ice-blocked river with shriller, sharper 
 blasts, but Guido did not hear it. 
 
 "Chuckey" Martin, who blacked boots in front 
 of the corner saloon in summer and swept out the 
 barroom in winter, came out through the family 
 entrance and dumped a pan of hot ashes into the 
 snow-bank, and then turned into the house with a 
 shiver. He saw a mass of something lying curled 
 up on the steps of the next house, and remembered 
 it after he had closed the door of die family en- 
 
 291
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 trance behind him and shoved the pan under the 
 stove. He decided at last that it might be one of 
 the saloon's customers, or a stray sailor with loose 
 change in his pockets, which he would not miss 
 when he awoke. So he went out again, and pick 
 ing Guido up, brought him In in his arms and laid 
 him out on the floor. 
 
 There were <wcr thirty men in the place; they 
 had been celebrating the coming of Christmas ; and 
 three of them pushed each other out of the way in 
 their eagerness to pour very bad brandy between 
 Guide's teeth. "Chuckey" Martin felt a sense of 
 proprietorship in Guido, by the right of discovery, 
 and resented this, pushing them away, and pro 
 testing that the thing to do was to rub his feet 
 with snow. 
 
 A fat, oily chief engineer of an Italian tramp 
 steamer dropped on his knees beside Guido and 
 beat the boy's hands, and with unsteady fingers 
 tore open his scarf and jacket, and as he did this 
 the figure of the plaster Virgin with her hands 
 stretched out looked up at him from its bed on 
 Guido's chest. 
 
 Some of the sailors drew their hands quickly 
 across their breasts, and others swore in some 
 alarm, and the barkeeper drank the glass of whis 
 key he had brought for Guido at a gulp, and then 
 readjusted his apron to show that nothing had dis- 
 
 292
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 turbed his equanimity. Guido sat up, with his 
 head against the chief engineer's knees, and opened 
 his eyes, and his ears were greeted with words in 
 his own tongue. They gave him hot coffee and 
 hot soup and more brandy, and he told his story 
 in a burst of words that flowed like a torrent of 
 tears how he had been stolen from his home at 
 Genoa, where he used to watch the boats from the 
 stone pier in front of the custom-house, at which 
 the sailors nodded, and how the padrone, who was 
 not his uncle, finding he could not black boots nor 
 sell papers, had given him these plaster casts to 
 sell, and how he had whipped him when people 
 would not buy them, and how at last he had tripped 
 and broken them all except this one hidden in his 
 breast, and how he had gone to sleep, and he asked 
 now why had they wakened him, for he had no 
 place to go. 
 
 Guido remembered telling them this, and fol 
 lowing them by their gestures as they retold it to 
 the others in a strange language, and then the 
 lights began to spin, and the faces grew distant, 
 and he reached out his hand for the fat chief en 
 gineer, and felt his arms tightening around him. 
 
 A cold wind woke Guido, and the sound of 
 something throbbing and beating like a great clock. 
 He was very warm and tired and lazy, and when 
 he raised his head he touched the ceiling close 
 
 293
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 above him, and when he opened his eyes he found 
 himself in a little room with a square table covered 
 with oilcloth in the centre, and rows of beds like 
 shelves around the walls. The room rose and fell 
 as the streets did when he had had nothing to eat, 
 and he scrambled out of the warm blankets and 
 crawled fearfully up a flight of narrow stairs. 
 There was water on either side of him, beyond and 
 behind him water blue and white and dancing in 
 the sun, with great blocks of dirty ice tossing on 
 its surface. 
 
 And behind him lay the odious city of New 
 York, with its great bridge and high buildings, and 
 before him the open sea. The chief engineer 
 crawled up from the engine-room and came toward 
 him, rubbing the perspiration from his face with 
 a dirty towel. 
 
 "Good-morning," he called out. "You are feel 
 ing pretty well?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It is Christmas day. Do you know where you 
 are going? You are going to Italy, to Genoa. It 
 is over there," he said, pointing with his finger. 
 "Go back to your bed and keep warm." 
 
 He picked Guido up in his arms, and ran with 
 him down the companion-way, and tossed him back 
 into his berth. Then he pointed to the shelf at 
 one end of the little room, above the sheet-iron 
 
 294
 
 An Assisted Emigrant 
 
 stove. The plaster figure that Guido had wrapped 
 in his breast had been put there and lashed to its 
 place. 
 
 "That will bring us good luck and a quick voy 
 age," said the chief engineer. 
 
 Guido lay quite still until the fat engineer had 
 climbed up the companion-way again and permitted 
 the sunlight to once more enter the cabin. Then 
 he crawled out of his berth and dropped on his 
 knees, and raised up his hands to the plaster figure 
 which no one would buy. 
 
 295