By 
 W. B. TRITES 
 
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BARBARA GWYNNE 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2008 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/barbaragwynnelifOOtritrich 
 
BARBARA GWYNNE 
 
 (LIFE) 
 
 BY 
 
 W. B. TRITES 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 1913 
 
Copyright, 191 i, 
 
 BY 
 
 W. B. TRITES 
 Copyright, 1913. 
 
 BY 
 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
BARBARA GWYNNE 
 
 26S635 
 
BARBARA GWYNNE 
 
 Jerome S. McWade, " grocery clerk," dominated 
 the little shop. In and out among his patrons, now 
 after onions, now after starch, he darted with a sure 
 agility. The gaze of a half-dozen women and chil- 
 dren followed his trained movements, and like a 
 juggler he kept afloat in the air before him eggs, 
 lemons, cabbages, tins of tomatoes, bars of soap. 
 
 Tall, robust and pale, he smiled eternally. A 
 pencil was stuck behind his ear, and a white apron. 
 Very smooth and taut about the loins, enveloped him 
 from breast to knee. His blue eyes were quick and 
 sharp. His Roman features, the aquiline nose, firm 
 mouth, square chin, gave him a showy comeliness. 
 He needed shaving badly, and he bore himself with 
 a very jaunty air. 
 * The June morning was awful in its sultry heat, 
 
 7 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 but Jerome S. McWade, tearing about with the skill 
 and speed of an acrobat on a cramped stage, was 
 happy. Work made him happy always. Work 
 meant to him, however, only over-reaching, only 
 legal theft. And the sincere happiness that radiated 
 from his smile, being mistaken by every one for un- 
 selfish good-will, helped him to persuade patron 
 after patron to reject the better articles they really 
 wanted, and to buy instead the worse ones on which 
 he got a good commission. 
 
 There came a lull in trade at last, and Jerome 
 wiped his wet brow with his apron, took a chew of 
 tobacco, and resumed his study of the cash register, 
 a new contrivance that he believed could be out- 
 witted. 
 
 " Always on the make, Jerome ! " 
 
 He abandoned hurriedly the bright machine. 
 
 " Always on the make," repeated Annie Johnson. 
 A smile, parting her shrunken lips, revealed her 
 large false teeth. " Give me a box of Thekla in- 
 sect powder." 
 
 Foisting on her the spurious Thackara powder, 
 he explained rather anxiously to the gossip : 
 
 " The cash register people offer a reward to any- 
 body that can beat their machine. I was just look- 
 ing the works over, Mrs. Johnson ; that was all." 
 
 " Now, Jerome ! " 
 
 " That was all— honest ! " 
 8 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 They laughed enigmatically. Then, about to con- 
 fer a favour, the gossip, her clenched fists on her 
 hips, regarded the young man with shrewd approval. 
 
 " Have you heard the latest about Barbara 
 Gwynne, Jerome ? " 
 
 His smile vanished, a worried look succeeded it. 
 " No " he muttered. 
 
 " You knew she went to the theatre with young 
 Chew last night?" 
 
 He moistened his dry lips. "Yes?" 
 
 " Well, they drove home through the park in a 
 closed cab ! " 
 
 "iMaybe," he said, "they missed the train." 
 
 " Of course they'll say they missed the train," 
 sniffed Annie Johnson. " If anybody'U believe 
 them!" 
 
 " I'll believe them ! " cried Jerome. " You ought 
 to believe them, too." And suddenly his flat, nasal 
 voice rose high in shrill appeal. "Just look back 
 at yourself now. Just look back at yourself when 
 you were a girl of eighteen, Mrs. Johnson. Maybe 
 you did a lot of reckless things then, too. I'll bet 
 you did, a pretty girl like you were ! But was there 
 any harm in it ? Was there now ? " 
 
 His falsetto whine amazed the woman. 
 
 " Why, Jerome, you ain't in love with her, are 
 you?" 
 
 " Me in love with her ! " 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 But for a long time after Annie Johnson's de- 
 parture Jerome S. McWade was not himself. He 
 served his patrons slowly and feebly, like a very old 
 man; a frown wrinkled his brow; when alone he 
 gazed out of the window sadly. 
 
 The Rev. George Harper, dropping in for six 
 yards of clothes-line, was startled by his languor. 
 
 "Is it the heat, Brother McWade?" 
 
 " Oh, no." 
 
 And he shook off his gloom, he tied up the 
 clothes-line with almost magical speed and skill. 
 "And what else. Dr. Harper?" 
 
 " Nothing else, I thank you. Brother McWade." 
 
 Mr. Harper strode to the door, his loose, thin 
 garments of black alpaca shimmering and flut- 
 tering. 
 
 " Oh, by the way," he said, as he put up his sun- 
 shade, " you must join our whistling league." 
 
 "Whistling league?" 
 
 Mr. Harper's large mouth opened wide, emitting 
 a cultivated and sonorous laugh. " We meet in the 
 church parlour at seven-thirty this evening. Don't 
 fail us, brother." 
 
 " But " 
 
 " Not a word of explanation until then ! " 
 
 Another sonorous laugh, and Mr. Harper ven- 
 tured forth into the terrible sunshine of Green Lane. 
 With cautious steps he ascended the hill. His long, 
 
 lO 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 clean-shaven upper lip looked very white by con- 
 trast with his curly black beard. His raiment flut- 
 tered about him, lustrous as silk. His alpaca 
 trousers were so flimsy that through them, in cer- 
 tain strong lights, the leg itself was visible. 
 
 Suddenly Mr. Harper started, smiled, and re- 
 turned to the shop. 
 
 "Brother McWade!" 
 
 "Yes, sir?" 
 
 " I have been thinking — if you would care to 
 mention our whistling league to the editor — ^not, be 
 it understood, as coming direct from me " 
 
 " I'll let him know," said Jerome. " It will be a 
 fine ad. for Ebenezer." 
 
 " I thank you." 
 
 Alone once more, the grocery clerk sighed heavily. 
 He took another chew of tobacco. Then his melan- 
 choly eye, chancing upon the cash register, lit up 
 again with interest. Jerome, deep in little cogs, 
 started at Mrs. Woodford's entrance. 
 
 "Good-morning. Have you got any beeswax?" 
 
 " Good-morning. Yes, ma'am. Certainly." 
 
 And he selected a cake of that brand of beeswax 
 which owed least to the bee. 
 
 " I want two ounces, please," said Mrs. Woodford. 
 " I guess you don't carry rosewater and almond 
 oil?" 
 
 " No, ma'am ; we don't stock them." He bent 
 II 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 over the counter chivalrously. " But we can get 
 them for you?" he cooed. 
 
 " Oh, it's not worth while," said Mrs. Woodford. 
 " It's just a cream I'm making." 
 
 "A cream?" 
 
 She flushed. She was a woman of thirty-five. 
 Her figure was beautiful, and with daring coquetry 
 the cheap gown revealed all her figure's gracious 
 lines. But there was that in her face — a certain 
 heavy and stiff quality, a sexless quality — which 
 doomed her to be undesirable to men. 
 
 "What kind of a cream?" the grocery clerk 
 persisted. 
 
 " A massage cream. A skin food. It's the latest 
 thing. Haven't you seen it advertised ? " 
 
 "Yes, I believe I have. But isn't the recipe a 
 secret ? " 
 
 " I have a friend," Mrs. Woodford answered, 
 " in the Oriental Cream place. She told me how to 
 make it." 
 
 "How is it done?" 
 
 His persistence vexed her; nevertheless she said 
 good-humouredly : 
 
 " You take two ounces of beeswax, four ounces 
 of almond oil, and four ounces of rosewater; you 
 melt the wax in the oil, and then you lift your pot 
 off the fire and stir in the rosewater gently. That's 
 all. It's ever so much cheaper to make than to buy." 
 
 12 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " The idea ! '' said Jerome. He had listened with 
 an intent frown, engraving the recipe upon his mem- 
 ory. Sure now that it was well etched in, he re- 
 sumed his professional glitter. "Anything else 
 to-day, Mrs. Woodford?" 
 
 " Half a dozen eggs, please." 
 
 "McWade new-laids?" 
 
 " No," she answered. " Just store eggs this 
 time." 
 
 After her departure he examined his stock of Mc- 
 Wade eggs with grave care, peering through them 
 towards the light, and in far too many cases shak- 
 ing his head and muttering, "Damn that Bill 
 Stroud." Then he resumed his study of the cash 
 register. 
 
 Though the shop remained open until ten, an 
 evening off was never denied Jerome. He took this 
 evening off, and having finished his supper of cold 
 soup-meat, fried potatoes, stewed prunes and cup- 
 cake, washed down with a pint of boiling cafe-au- 
 lait, he borrowed a small oil-stove from the " hired 
 girl " and retreated to his room. 
 
 In the still twilight his room was stifling. He 
 threw off his outer garments, and in undershirt and 
 drawers began to trot softly in his stocking feet 
 about the little chamber. 
 
 He untied a number of packages. The first was 
 a jar of Oriental Cream. He studied the cream 
 
 13 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 closely. He smelt it. He touched it with his fore- 
 finger. 
 
 " Fat and cologne," he said. 
 
 The other packages contained the ingredients of 
 Oriental Cream as Mrs. Woodford had recounted 
 them to him. He lighted the oil-stove, and, follow- 
 ing Mrs. Woodford's directions, he put the beeswax 
 and the almond oil in a tin pot on the fire. 
 
 Slowly the white cake of wax melted above the 
 flame, melted and mingled with the almond oil in 
 a clear, amber-coloured fluid. 
 
 " So far so good," said Jerome. 
 
 And he extinguished the fire, set the tin pot on 
 his dressing-table, and emptied into it the vial of 
 rosewater. 
 
 "Gee!" 
 
 It was like magic. The rosewater, as it fell into 
 the hot mixture of oil and wax, formed little white 
 curls, little white worms, little white balls ; and in a 
 flash these wriggling shapes all united in one white 
 mass — a mass surrounded by a fluid that had now 
 somehow lost its amber hue, that had now somehow 
 diminished, too, by seventy or eighty per cent. The 
 dish before him resembled a dumpling in a thin, 
 scant sauce. 
 
 "Hell!" 
 
 He snatched his penknife, opened it, and began to 
 stir vigorously with the blade. But the colourless 
 
 14 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 sauce refused to combine with the hard white dump- 
 ling. Still he stirred on. The summer night closed 
 round him. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He lit the 
 gas, and drawing down the blind with one hand, 
 stirred with the other. In vain. The liquid and the 
 solid refused absolutely to unite in a smooth cream, 
 and the young man in his disappointment and rage 
 lifted up the pot to hurl it across the room. Pru- 
 dence, however, restrained him, and, dressing again, 
 he hastened out. 
 
 Up Green Lane he strode in the soft June night. 
 A faint air stirred the maple leaves. The sky was 
 a glancing splendour of clear stars. 
 
 Jerome, as he mopped continually his face and 
 hands and neck, advanced between two parallel lines 
 of cheap brick houses. Each brick house had a tiny 
 flight of white marble steps before its narrow door, 
 and on each flight of steps a girl and a lad sat side 
 by side. To left and right in his progress he saluted 
 that host of amorists politely. He walked amid their 
 soft laughter, amid the murmur of their young 
 voices, as in a very bath of love. 
 
 The west class-room of Ebenezer was brilliantly 
 illuminated, and forth from the open windows 
 poured the strange, shrill sound of a multitude 
 of persons whistling " Beulah Land " together with 
 all their might. Jerome smiled, but kept on his 
 way. 
 
 15 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Seated on her doorstep, Mrs. Woodford looked 
 up in surprise when he stopped before her, and she 
 rose hurriedly. 
 
 " Won't you come in, Jerome ? " 
 
 " No ; I'll just stand here a minute." 
 
 " Isn't it hot? " she sighed. " You might as well 
 come in." 
 
 Her voice was sweet and tremulous. She was 
 almost pretty in the starlight. Her white dress 
 clung to her; the bodice, cut a little low, revealed 
 her throat's soft beauty. But he regarded her with 
 accusing eyes. 
 
 " I want to speak to you about that Oriental 
 Cream." 
 
 "Oh." Mrs. Woodford's voice changed. "Well, 
 what about it ? " 
 
 " You didn't tell me how to make it right." 
 
 "Of course I did. Why are you so interested in 
 it, anyway ? " 
 
 " I tried to make it according to your recipe, and 
 it was no good at all." 
 
 " But what interest " 
 
 " No good at all," he repeated. " Half water and 
 half wax." His voice rose in anger. " It wouldn't 
 mix!" 
 
 She interrogated him. She soon discovered the 
 mistake he had made. And she explained good- 
 humouredly that his vial of rosewater should have 
 
 i6 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 been added very slowly, drop by drop, to the hot 
 wax and oil; she explained that, poured in all at 
 once, it had caused too sudden a hardening of the 
 compound. 
 
 Then she brought out a flagon of cream that she 
 had made herself in the afternoon. He touched and 
 smelt it; he pronounced it a success. 
 
 " But you didn't get all this," he said, " out of 
 ten ounces of raw material ? " 
 
 " Yes, I did." 
 
 " And one little jar of Oriental Cream costs a 
 dollar ! There must be a dozen jars here." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure there must." 
 
 " Well, this beats chicken-farming." 
 
 In his excitement he rubbed the bristles on cheek 
 and chin. The bristles gave forth a harsh, rasping 
 sound, as of the wind in withered leaves. 
 
 " What sound was that ? " cried Mrs. Woodford, 
 startled. 
 
 He pretended not to hear her. " There's money 
 in this," he said. 
 
 " Is there ? " she returned indifferently. 
 
 " I'll give you a dollar," he said, " if you'll make 
 me a hundred jars of this cream." 
 
 She looked interested, pleased, for she was very 
 poor. " All right, thanks," she agreed. 
 
 And now a busy and exciting week ensued for the 
 young man. He believed that his chance, so long 
 
 17 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 awaited, his chance to launch out and grow rich, 
 was at last come. To be sure, he had often be- 
 lieved that his chance was come before. Neverthe- 
 less, with religious zeal, he set to work. 
 
 He bought a hundred jars of white porcelain and 
 a hundred labels inscribed " Zenobia Massage 
 Cream," and he pasted the labels on the jars one 
 evening in his room. He bought twenty ounces of 
 highly adulterated beeswax and forty ounces each 
 of highly adulterated almond oil and rosewater, and 
 Mrs. Woodford made him a large pail of Zenobia 
 Cream. He inserted a very black advertisement, 
 enclosed in a very black border, in the local paper, 
 and this advertisement, thanks to its extreme black- 
 ness, stood out splendidly; it sold in a week the 
 hundred jars at fifty cents a jar. 
 
 The total cost of each jar was nine cents, the 
 chemists paid thirty-five cents; profit, twenty-six 
 cents. 
 
 Twenty-six dollars profit in one week! 
 
 " This beats chicken- farming," cried Jerome. 
 
 And he set down his wheelbarrow at Mrs. Wood- 
 ford's door. He began to unload beeswax, almond 
 oil and rosewater in really alarming quantities. 
 
 l8 
 
n 
 
 Like a battlefield Cinnaminson resounded all night 
 long with fire-crackers. At dawn, fatigued at last, 
 the patriots in the saloons put out their punk and 
 staggered home; but promptly at dawn the little 
 boys of Cinnaminson, leaping from their beds, re- 
 newed the hideous hubbub. And surgeons in white, 
 just as on a battlefield, sped continually hither and 
 yon to minister to hands blown off, to eyes burnt 
 out. It was the Fourth. 
 
 Jerome S. McWade, paler than usual, for he had 
 not slept, rose early. 
 
 With a dismal yawn he strode in his immense 
 nightshirt to the window. Casey's bartender was 
 sweeping from the tavern sidewalk heaps of fluffy 
 scarlet stuff, the debris of innumerable cannon- 
 crackers. Jerome had heard the report of all those 
 crackers, of all without exception. But he would 
 hardly have been able to sleep anyway on account 
 of the heat. Even now, now in the blue dawn, the 
 air was stale. His limbs and body under the long 
 gown were dripping even now. 
 
 19 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 He passed a wet towel over his jaded flesh, and 
 set about the careful toilet demanded by the day. 
 
 Lifting his mattress, he drew from beneath it the 
 trousers that his weight night after night had ad- 
 mirably creased. He polished his shoes with a 
 patent liquid blacking of which he held the local 
 agency. He took up his soiled rubber collar and 
 soiled rubber cuffs — he was the Cinnaminson rep- 
 resentative of a rubber novelty firm — and dipping 
 an old toothbrush in water, with a few strokes he 
 restored to the artificial linen all its snowy efful- 
 gence. Then he dressed rapidly. 
 
 He dressed rapidly in a blue coat, a pink shirt, 
 and black and white check trousers sustained — he 
 wore no waistcoat — ^by both belt and braces. So 
 attired, he regarded himself in the glass with pleas- 
 ure. A small hat of black straw slanted jauntily 
 over his left temple. A shave, perhaps. . . The 
 two days' beard rustled as he touched it thought- 
 fully, and the young men hurried down to break- 
 fast. 
 
 Long before seven, the hour the Sunday school 
 parades were to begin, the Main Street's two side- 
 walks were choked with the young fathers and 
 mothers of Cinnaminson, craning their necks, stand- 
 ing on tiptoe, smiling with foolish delight in the 
 thought that they would soon see their little sons 
 and daughters march by. 
 
 20 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 The green hillside was bathed in morning sun- 
 shine, and down the hillside from the hilltop 
 churches, by this lane and by that, the seven pa- 
 rades of white-clad children at last moved slowly 
 riverward. The blare of their bands sounded faint 
 and clear below. Banners waved. Brass glinted 
 in the sun. Those seven white processions in their 
 winding descent resembled a herd of dragonlike 
 monsters crawling down green slopes in fairyland. 
 
 Amid hurrahs the Catholic parade entered the 
 Main Street. It marched between two low walls 
 of people, between two high walls of bunting-cov- 
 ered house-fronts. The bunting billowed, the peo- 
 ple cheered, and the Catholic parade was deemed 
 the finest that Cinnaminson had ever seen. 
 
 Its marshals, got up as Lafayettes, Washingtons 
 and Uncle Sams, rode lumbering steeds that all the 
 week they drove to carts or drays. Its band wore 
 the feathers, paint and fringed buckskin of Indian 
 chiefs. And the midsummer sun beat on the 
 parade fiercely, revealing without pity the patches 
 and stains on faded cotton velvet, and the lines of 
 sweat crawling down powdered faces. 
 
 But the hot sun could detract nothing from the 
 charm of the children, the mile of children, march- 
 ing gravely, two by two, to patriotic music. The 
 little girls were in white, they carried flags and 
 banners, and they wore on the hip a bright tincup 
 
 21 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 hung from a red, white and blue ribbon. The Ht- 
 tle boys had tincups, too ; many bore toy guns and 
 swords ; tiny epaulettes and plumes were to be seen. 
 
 Jerome S. McWade, bowing to left and right, rode 
 at the head of Ebenezer's parade on Dapple, the tre- 
 mendous bay mare that drew his employer's market 
 wagon. Dapple had a collar of laurel about her 
 thick neck. Her tail and mane were plaited with nar- 
 row red, white and blue ribbon in many infinitesimal 
 plaits. She danced and curvetted to the music, and 
 from the marshal's baton in her rider's hand long 
 streamers of red, white and blue flowed out upon 
 the air. A superb picture. . . But Jerome's left 
 trouser kept slipping up. Up and up it slipped, al- 
 most to the knee. It exposed his sock, a glimpse of 
 pale, plump, hairy leg, a patent garter of which he 
 was the agent. Suddenly aware of this deplorable 
 accident, the young man with a frown rose in the 
 stirrups and pushed the trouser hastily down. Then 
 from his high seat he resumed his gallant bows and 
 smiles, and the trouser resumed its stealthy upward 
 way. 
 
 The Ebenezer parade crossed Green Lane Bridge 
 and toiled in sun and dust out the River Road to 
 Jones's Woods. A young woman was overcome by 
 the heat near the paper mill; they carried her, 
 white and rigid, into a cottage. . . Jones's Woods 
 at last. How cool and green under the trees after 
 
 22 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 the long, hot march! The children, bursting from 
 the ranks, ran to and fro with shrill whoops. 
 
 Scattered through the wood were benches of new 
 pine, one for each class. The classes took their al- 
 lotted benches, the teachers with lemonade buckets 
 and sandwich baskets descended to the magazine, and 
 side by side the pupils awaited the first of the day's 
 five meals. But in the magazine, a square, unroofed 
 enclosure in the shade of three oaks, the purveyors, 
 slicing great hams, opening rolls, and stirring wash- 
 tubs of lemonade, were already far behindhand. 
 
 Jerome, in pink shirtsleeves, stood at the maga- 
 zine counter of rough pine, and from him a long 
 line of teachers with buckets and baskets extended 
 far back into the wood. On his right was a sand- 
 wich barrel, on his left a lemonade tub. His bare 
 forearms were as white as a woman's and as mus- 
 cular as a blacksmith's. 
 
 "Jerome," said Annie Johnson, as he filled her 
 bucket with lemonade, " Barbara Gwynne and Chew 
 were at Island Park last night." 
 
 "Were they?" 
 
 " Barbara was drinking." 
 
 "I don't believe it." 
 
 He did not believe it, but his hands, laden with 
 sandwiches, shook. . . 
 
 The first meal over at last, the little boys rushed 
 from the cool wood out into the blazing meadow to 
 
 23 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 play ball. Under the trees the little girls strolled 
 arm in arm. The teachers, seated on the benches 
 of pale, sweet-smelling pine, conversed quietly. And 
 the urchins of the infant class, the children of five 
 or six years, were everywhere, stumbling busily, 
 gravely, down vast green forest vistas, trudging 
 shoulder deep, like gnomes, among the ferns. 
 
 So the morning passed. There was never much 
 excitement in the morning. 
 
 But in the afternoon the wood filled with the 
 older members of Ebenezer, and by means of rough 
 games and music the new-comers built up gradually 
 a spirit of feverish gaiety in the grove. A spirit of 
 feverish and unwholesome gaiety, growing and 
 growing, becoming finally a delirium wherein these 
 middle-aged persons would manifest in strange and 
 ugly ways a thwarted sexual excitement. 
 
 In the magazine Jerome, now flourishing a knife 
 a yard long, sliced Dutch cake with wonderful ac- 
 curacy and speed. But suddenly, like a hunting 
 dog, he stood motionless, passionately absorbed in 
 something far off. 
 
 A high cart, red and glittering, had swung into 
 the wood. It was driven by a young man in white 
 flannels, beside whom, in a muslin frock, sat a girl 
 of singular beauty. 
 
 " Good-afternoon, Barbara. How are you, Mr. 
 Chew?" 
 
 24 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 The high red cart halted near the magazine. The 
 tiny groom skipped to the grey's tossing head. 
 Elisha Chew, 3rd, placed his long-lashed whip 
 slowly in its socket; and, as he threw the fawn- 
 coloured apron from his knees, he surveyed with 
 calm eyes the gay and crowded wood. 
 
 " Good-afternoon, Barbara. Good-afternoon, Mr. 
 Chew." 
 
 Chew nodded. His nod was an insult. But the 
 beautiful girl beside him smiled her radiant smile. 
 
 She was so beautiful that all men's eyes bright- 
 ened to behold her. She was so beautiful that in 
 her presence all men's faces became a little nobler. 
 Her beauty, like divine music, caressed and forti- 
 fied the soul. 
 
 And Jerome, hurriedly slipping on his rubber 
 cuffs, went to her as the steel goes to the magnet. 
 
 '' I was afraid you weren't coming," he said. 
 
 " Mr. Chew drove me over," the young girl 
 answered. 
 
 She put out her slim foot in its white shoe; he 
 had a confused glimpse of white silk hose, of thin 
 ankles, and Barbara descended as nimbly as a boy 
 from her high seat. 
 
 " Oh, we're only staying an hour or so." 
 
 Chew, as he spoke, allowed his gaze to linger on 
 Jerome's toilet, allowed a sneer to curl his lip. 
 But the sneer was wasted on Jerome. Jerome's 
 
 25 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 eyes, bright and wistful, saw Barbara Gwynne alone. 
 
 " Did you get that cream I sent you, Barbara ? '* 
 he asked gently. 
 
 " Oh, yes, thanks." 
 
 "What cream was that?" Chew inquired. 
 
 Deaf to the question, oblivious of Chew's very 
 presence, he began to praise his Zenobia Cream 
 volubly. The young girl had to interrupt him to 
 answer her companion. 
 
 "Jerome has given me," she said, " a dozen jars 
 of his new skin food. It's going to make him rich, 
 you know." 
 
 " That's what it is. It pays me double my sal- 
 ary in the shop already. I tell you " 
 
 He boasted on interminably, beside himself with 
 happiness, and Elisha Chew, 3rd, American aristo- 
 crat and millionaire, regarded him with a sneer so 
 icy, so contemptuous, that he would assuredly have 
 been cut to the heart had he perceived it. But he 
 perceived nothing save Barbara ; and as he talked on 
 and on to Barbara — talked of his Zenobia Cream, his 
 chicken farm, his patent blacking — he edged in quite 
 unconsciously between Chew and her. Uncon- 
 sciously shouldering Chew aside, he usurped his 
 place. And as he stood in Chew's place, laughing 
 and talking, his broad back like a wall hid Barbara 
 from Chew's sight. 
 
 The band began noisily and unevenly to blare 
 26 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "The Star-Spangled Banner," and Jerome set his 
 palm beneath the young girl's elbow. 
 
 "We'll go further off," he said. "You can't 
 hear yourself think here." 
 
 Clasping her elbow courteously, he led her up the 
 knoll. The next moment, however, he stopped and 
 turned. He had forgotten Chew. 
 
 " Come on, Mr. Chew ! " he cried. 
 
 Barbara looked back. Chew, toiling on behind, 
 glared up at them in haughty and contemptuous 
 silence. She made for his benefit a grimace of 
 amused disdain towards Jerome. But there was 
 mischief in her violet eyes. If Jerome amused her, 
 perhaps Chew amused her too. 
 
 From the top of the knoll they saw the Rev. 
 George Harper rushing about below. 
 
 " He is getting his whistling league together," 
 said the grocery clerk. 
 
 Mr. Harper, in fact, had begun to collect the 
 league immediately on perceiving the editor of the 
 Cinnaminson Scimitar among the afternoon ar- 
 rivals. With theatrical gaiety he hurried from 
 group to group. His diaphanous alpaca raiment 
 flapped. His large mouth opened wide to emit his 
 hollow laugh. His bright black eye shot glance 
 after glance towards the editor. 
 
 " What is this whistling league ? " said Chew. 
 
 " Here is the idea," Jerome explained. " A lot of 
 27 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 promiscuous whistling goes on, but it does no good, 
 because only dance tunes and so forth are whistled. 
 Well, the whistling league is to teach us all to 
 whistle hymns. We are to whistle hymns in the 
 street, before saloons, everywhere. These hymns, 
 Mr. Harper thinks, will bring souls to God." 
 
 "Mr. Harper is a fool," Chew scoffed. 
 
 " He gets his name in the paper," said the young 
 girl, with a knowing smile 
 
 The league burst into " Rock of Ages." 
 
 " I thought of going to Island Park last night," 
 said Jerome. 
 
 " Why, we were there," cried Barbara. " The 
 music and the fireworks were lovely." 
 
 " There's a lot of drinking goes on there, I 
 understand." 
 
 She laughed. " I had a glass of wine myself, 
 Jerome." 
 
 He fell into profound meditation, and Chew, 
 grasping the opportunity, came from behind his 
 broad back and said to Barbara significantly : 
 
 " Shall we move on ? " 
 
 But Jerome moved on with them, still medi- 
 tating, through the gay wood. 
 
 " Lots of people drink," he finally announced. 
 " Your mother, now, Mr. Chew ... a glass of 
 claret, eh. . ." 
 
 He hesitated, fearing to offend. 
 28 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Chew sneered. " Every one drinks at table." 
 
 Jerome became himself again at once. In his 
 high spirits he unconsciously shut Chew off from 
 Barbara as befon:: and at the least obstruction or 
 difficulty — a pebb):: in the path, an orange peel to 
 circle — his palm beneath the young girl's elbow 
 sustained her with the finest Cinnaminson gallantry. 
 
 A sudden shriek, and Annie Johnson ran by them 
 down the knoll at breakneck speed upon the arm of 
 Deacon Kirk. The fat, elderly woman's face was 
 brick-red. Her mouth hung open. A rat-tail of 
 greyish hair fell over her eye. She laughed and 
 panted, laughed and panted, as in hysteria. She 
 seemed doomed to burst a blood-vessel. 
 
 Barbara frowned. " Ugh ! Horrid ! " 
 
 Annie Johnson and the deacon disappeared among 
 the trees. They were running in a race, a race of 
 grandfathers and grandmothers; and Annie would 
 assuredly have won this race, but as she neared the 
 goal she fell and could not rise again. A soft and 
 shapeless mass of fat, hysterically laughing and 
 screaming, she floundered in her white dress on the 
 gr*ass like a great fish just landed. Her ankle was 
 broken, and an ambulance took her home. 
 
 " What book are you reading, Barbara ? " said 
 Jerome. 
 
 Her beauty intoxicated him. He could hardly 
 keep his huge hands off her. Like white birds anx- 
 
 29 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 ious to alight, they hovered continually about her 
 shoulders, her arms, her waist. And now he took the 
 book solely in order to touch her long, cool fingers. 
 
 " It's * The Unhappy Boy,* " she answered. 
 
 "Why, that's a play!" 
 
 " But I love plays. Some day I'm going to be 
 an actress." 
 
 She glanced at Chew with a delicate and tor- 
 menting smile; but Chew's haughty air did not 
 change, and her smile faded. 
 
 A feverish uproar, as of a horde of maniacs, 
 drew them down into the valley again. There, in 
 a hideous " follow-my-leader," twenty-five or thirty 
 middle-aged couples, urged on by the cries of a 
 hundred middle-aged spectators, ran arm-in-arm, 
 one behind the other, singing breathlessly: 
 
 *' We'll buy a horse and steal a gig, 
 And round the world we'll have a jig, 
 And I'll do all that ever I can 
 To follow the steps of the Looney Man! " 
 
 Suddenly the leaders of the rout waved, as they 
 ran, their free hands in the air. Then all the sing- 
 ing, shrieking, leaping couples behind them waved 
 their own free hands in like wise. 
 
 The Looney Man, 
 The Looney Man! 
 I'll follow the steps of the Looney Man! 
 
 30 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 On they rushed, stumbling over the uneven turf, 
 zigzagging among the old, calm, beautiful trees. 
 Their hands tossing above their heads seemed the 
 last assurance of their hopeless madness. 
 
 And I'll do all that ever I can 
 
 To follow the steps of the Looney Man! 
 
 Now the leading couple half leapt, half scrambled, 
 over a fallen trunk of considerable size. Terrific 
 screams greeted the feat, and the couples behind 
 charged the trunk like a troop of decrepit cavalry. 
 
 The men's singing faces wore devil-may-care 
 looks, their thin grey hair stood in disordered tufts 
 on their bony heads. The breathless women stag- 
 gered, their eyes rolled here and there, and they 
 shrieked hideously. 
 
 Over the great trunk they scrambled, the male 
 and female of each pair leaning, like drunkards, 
 heavily on one another. Sometimes a woman fell; 
 she drew her companion down with her; the two 
 floundered in hopeless entanglement on the grass. 
 
 Barbara's lip curled. " Qh, I think it's horrid ! " 
 she cried. " Why do you laugh ? " And she 
 frowned at her young men. 
 
 Jerome at once stopped laughing. " It's going 
 to rain," he said. 
 
 The air, in fact, had grown heavier hour by hour ; 
 and now deep violet clouds obscured the July sun. 
 
 31 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Under her white bodice Barbara's slim bosom 
 rose and fell. With her little handkerchief she 
 wiped tiny beads from the delicate flesh of lip and 
 forehead. " I hope," she panted, " it does rain. I 
 can hardly breathe." 
 
 " We had better go," said Chew. 
 
 "No; you'll be drenched. Stay under cover till 
 the storm is over." And Jerome led them to the 
 ice-cream booth. 
 
 On the way a cold wind engulfed them. They 
 shivered. The trees in the blast waved rhythmically 
 their green plumes. The road below was tormented 
 like a stream; higher and higher rose its dust 
 waves; soon it resembled a cloud rather than a 
 road. A few enormous raindrops fell. 
 
 " Hurry ! " cried Barbara ; and wrenching her 
 elbow from Jerome's grasp, she ran lightly through 
 the storm-swept wood. 
 
 In tattered and transparent sheets fell the tor- 
 rential rain. The thunder crashed murderously in 
 their ears, then rolled with mild grumblings far 
 away. A zigzag of violet fire ran down the sky, 
 and the wet wood burst suddenly into violet 
 light. 
 
 But in the booth they were comfortable enough 
 till other picnickers, drenched to the skin, crowded 
 in on them. The canvas roof began to leak, and the 
 other picnickers fled distractedly, pressing in tight 
 
 32 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 circles about the trunks of trees. But Barbara and 
 her two young men crouched under the counter. 
 
 There it was dry, but the heat was stifling. Their 
 cramped attitudes tortured their muscles. Chew, 
 against whose arm Jerome's great shoulder pressed, 
 suddenly gave the latter a push that caused him to 
 lose his balance and sit down on the wet floor outside. 
 
 Bewildered, yet polite, Jerome stammered from 
 his puddle pleasantly: 
 
 " Why— why did you " 
 
 But Chew's harsh laugh told him that the push 
 had been a deliberate insult. 
 
 Thereupon he rose, and, mechanically releasing 
 with thumb and finger the wet trouser-seat glued 
 to his flesh, he looked sternly down at Chew hud- 
 dled under the counter beside Barbara. 
 
 " You're no gentleman ! " 
 
 " Oh, clear out ! You've hung about here long 
 enough, you mucker ! " 
 
 Silence. Both young men glanced at Barbara. 
 She was still and calm. She looked neither at the 
 one nor at the other. But she seemed to be lis- 
 tening with attention, even with interest. There 
 was no alarm in her beautiful eyes. 
 
 " Mucker ? I'm as good as you are." 
 
 " Clear out, you mucker ! " 
 
 " I'm a mucker, am I ? " Jerome shook his fore- 
 finger at Chew. "And you're a big-bug, eh? 
 
 33 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Well, this is a free country, Mr. Chew. We're all 
 born equal here." 
 
 "Dry up!" 
 
 '' No, I won't dry up " 
 
 " Clear out ! We're sick of the sight of you ! " 
 
 " ' We're ' ? Do you, too, want me to go, 
 Barbara?" 
 
 The young girl looked at him. Her gaze studied 
 him curiously, calmly, intelligently. He was so big 
 and strong, a giant beside Chew, it was rather nice 
 of him to make no use of threats or violence. 
 " You see, Jerome," she said, " I came with " 
 
 " ril go." His voice rose to its shrill, plaintive 
 key. " But I tell you what, Mr. Chew. If Bar- 
 bara prefers you to me, it ain't because you're a 
 big-bug and I'm a mucker. It's because she thinks 
 you're a better man than I am." 
 
 He lifted the black straw hat and turned away. 
 Barbara said: 
 
 " Good-bye, Jerome, and thank you for the cream." 
 
 " You're welcome," he answered sadly. 
 
 And he stalked out into the tempest. The rain 
 deluged his gaudy finery. The thunder leapt upon 
 him. The lightning flashed in his eyes its terrible 
 flame. 
 
 But Jerome, unmindful of the storm, walked 
 through the drenched and writhing wood with slow 
 steps and bowed head. 
 
 34 
 
Ill 
 
 In September he opened his beauty parlour, two 
 spacious rooms down town, delicately gay in white 
 and rose. Mrs. Woodford was his operator, cashier, 
 almost factotum. 
 
 Annie Johnson's story of his discharge from the 
 grocery was false. He resigned from the grocery. 
 But he himself admitted that his resignation may 
 have forestalled — who knows? . . . 
 
 For the old grocer had repeatedly pointed out 
 that Zenobia Cream and McWade eggs occupied 
 the best places in the little shop. The old grocer's 
 complaints were just, and after each of them Jerome 
 hurriedly retired his crates and pots into the dingi- 
 est corner. But little- by little, as time passed, he 
 brought them forward again almost unconsciously. 
 For Jerome, in the pursuit of commercial success, 
 could not help forgetting the old grocer, just as he 
 could not help forgetting Elisha Chew, 3rd, in the 
 pursuit of amorous success on the Fourth of July. 
 
 35 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 It was time to resign. His August profit from 
 Zenobia Cream had been a hundred and twenty- 
 eight dollars. 
 
 Yet only sixteen pharmacies were working for 
 him. Suppose sixteen hundred, suppose sixteen 
 thousand pharmacies were working for him! 
 
 He chuckled excitedly. *' I'm a fool," he said, as 
 he packed in yellow bags an order of rice and 
 prunes. " It's too easy money." And pouring 
 coffee into the splendid scarlet mill, he spun the 
 great wheel so fast that it became a blue-grey mist. 
 
 The old grocer, bathed in sweat, descended from 
 the loft where, on a heap of dirty potato-bags, amid 
 tropical sunshine and a loud buzz of flies, he had 
 taken his afternoon nap. A pyramid of Zenobia 
 Cream stood in the centre of the counter, and a 
 crate of McWade eggs, tilted against a barrel, 
 nearly blocked the shop entrance. The old man 
 kicked the crate. He shouted: 
 
 " I'll fire you if ever again " 
 
 But Jerome, looking up from a calculation that 
 promised him a profit of thirty thousand dollars a 
 week, said hurriedly: 
 
 " I resign, boss." 
 
 Mrs. Woodford a month before had given up her 
 dressmaking to devote herself to his interests. She 
 was on a salary, and in her little house in Wabash 
 
 36 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Avenue the dressmaking litter had been succeeded 
 by a litter of small white pots, boxes of labels, sten- 
 cils, packing-cases, tall bottles. 
 
 Here, all day long, she worked alone. In the 
 early morning she fused oil, wax and rosewater in 
 a porcelain-lined kettle; the rest of the day she 
 spent in labelling the little pots and in filling them. 
 with the smooth, white, perfumed cream. In the 
 solitude and silence of her small house she worked 
 cheerfully, her supple movements full of vigour and 
 grace. But sometimes a frown ruffled her calm 
 brow, and she would stand idle before her table, 
 an erect and robust figure, gazing at the wall with 
 perplexed eyes. If at eighteen she had known what 
 she would be at thirty-five, perhaps she would have 
 killed herself. . . Work, work and self-denial, 
 that was her life. Since Harvey Woodford's de- 
 sertion nine years ago she had remained unswerv- 
 ingly industrious, frugal, good. Why? . . . Banker 
 Treves, when she was sewing for his young wife. 
 . . But Banker Treves was such an old man. . . 
 Well, a little longer, and she herself would be an 
 old woman. Then would she deem these frugal, 
 chaste years of self-denial well spent? ... or 
 would she deem them wasted? . . . Horrible 
 thoughts . . . and with an impatient shrug, taking 
 up her brush again, she sealed pot after pot swiftly. 
 
 The beauty parlour was her own idea, and she 
 
 37 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 rather expected to be a partner in it. It demanded 
 a little detective work at first, and she spent three 
 pleasant days in visiting all the beauty parlours of 
 the town. She was manicured, shampooed, steamed, 
 curled, massaged, and she asked many artless ques- 
 tions. Prodigious was the information she thus 
 acquired. . . A line, too, a line running from the 
 side of her left nostril down to the corner of her 
 mouth, surely became much fainter. Strange that 
 no one spoke of it! Her perfect faith in beauty 
 parlours dated from this time. 
 
 Jerome left to her the decoration of the rooms, 
 and their pink and white harmony was only marred 
 by the umbrella-stand, a frog of yellowish porce- 
 lain, bigger than a trunk, into the vast red cavern 
 of whose open mouth it was almost sickening to 
 thrust an umbrella. He, however, liked the frog. 
 He had bought it at the last moment. " It breaks 
 the sameness," he explained, with a deprecatory 
 gesture towards the white and rose of paper, cur- 
 tains, carpet and upholstery. 
 
 Though on opening day he had not intended to 
 appear, he made two visits before noon. Silence, 
 solitude, even a little gloom possessed the beauty 
 parlour. 
 
 On his return after luncheon, he heard at last a 
 murmur of voices. He tiptoed to the door. Mrs. 
 Woodford moved skilfully about the operating 
 
 38 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 chair, wherein a woman in black reclined, her hair 
 hanging, a greyish tail, down to the carpet. 
 
 " The baggy look under the eyes " 
 
 He started, recognising the voice of Mrs. Chew, 
 whom he had often served in the grocery. 
 
 " Not in one treatment ! " Mrs. Woodford 
 laughed at the preposterous idea. " But if you'll 
 take a full course ticket '' 
 
 " How much ? " said Mrs. Chew. 
 
 " A hundred dollars for the twenty treatments." 
 
 " Well, send me one. In a plain envelope, you 
 know." 
 
 Mrs. Woodford dipped her fingertips in a tiny 
 tray of Zenobia Cream. With outstretched hands 
 she approached the woman in the chair capably. 
 She had, he noted, the air of a distinguished 
 surgeon, of a fashionable barber, an air inspiring 
 confidence and hope. 
 
 " Where did you learn the business ? " 
 
 " I studied Lilia's and Fontaine's methods, but a 
 correspondence course was what helped me most." 
 
 iMrs. Chew, as the massage went on, praised the 
 eloquence of the Rev. George Harper. She praised 
 his eloquence a long time. Then she praised his 
 beauty. 
 
 " He has lovely eyes," assented Mrs. Woodford. 
 
 " And such a delicate skin, like a girl's." 
 
 "A fine physique, too." 
 
 39 
 
Barbara Gwynnc 
 
 "A manly man. . ." And after a pause Mrs. 
 Chew repeated, tenderly, rhythmically, as if it had 
 been a line from a well-loved poem, "A manly 
 man." 
 
 To hear women praising the beauty of the Rev. 
 George Harper, with his black whiskers and his 
 flapping raiment, at once amused and disgusted 
 Jerome. He slipped out. 
 
 On his return at five Mrs. Woodford was alone. 
 
 " We must get," she said, " a good hair-drier. 
 Mrs. Chew was awfully annoyed." 
 
 He threw himself in one of the great pink and 
 white chairs. 
 
 " I never thought Mrs. Chew cared anything 
 about her looks," he said. '* I guess she's gone on 
 Harper." 
 
 He laughed scornfully, and Mrs. Woodford be- 
 gan to praise facial massage. The theory was that, 
 the face being always held in a vertical position, its 
 flesh inevitably sagged down. To correct this sag- 
 ging, a rotary upward massage was required. A 
 rotary upward massage, applied to the face of an 
 old woman, would draw the flaccid and wrinkled 
 flesh up to its proper place again, would fasten it 
 there, would give it a smooth, firm surface. 
 
 " A big thing, massage," he mused. 
 
 And bidding her massage his own face, he re- 
 clined in the operating chair, a " woman's page " 
 
 40 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 from the Sunday Press in his hand, while over his 
 countenance, thickly coated with Zenobia Cream, 
 her firm fingers plied with a rustling sound. 
 
 " Your beard " 
 
 " Yes, I know I need a shave," said he. 
 
 The massage was soothing, pleasant. He closed 
 his eyes. . . Aromatic waters in a fine mist cooled 
 the glowing flesh. Toilet vinegars made the skin 
 tingle and burn. . . 
 
 *'It's fine," he said at the end. ''You do it 
 fine." And he smiled at his reflection in the mir- 
 ror. " Too much make-up for a man, though." 
 
 " Not for a middle-aged woman," said Mrs. 
 Woodford, quickly. " Her eyes are not as sharp 
 as yours." 
 
 " The main idea," he mused, " is to give the face 
 a hot, puffy feeling, and to top off with a showy 
 make-up." 
 
 41 
 
IV 
 
 Barbara's alarm clock awakened her in her narrow 
 bed at six, and she extended her limbs and opened 
 in a yawn a mouth as dainty as a flower. She 
 could not bear to rise. 
 
 Her black hair, tumbling over the pillow, had, 
 where the light struck it, a blue iridescence; and 
 this rich frame of hair about her oval face height- 
 ened the scarlet of the delicate and full lips, the 
 rose of the cheeks, and the smooth brow's translu- 
 cent pallor, while the drowsy eyes, by contrast with 
 the blue-black hair, seemed a purer violet. 
 
 She rose. Seated on the edge of the bed, the 
 tips of her slim feet on the floor, she yawned again 
 daintily, stretching out her arms ; and as she yawned 
 she smiled. . . Then, remembering the hour, she 
 hurried to the bath. 
 
 Despite the African heat of the September morn- 
 ing, her bath refreshed her. She ran back gaily 
 to her room. Her colour was more delicately bril- 
 
 42 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 liant than before. Her eyes, from which all drowsi- 
 ness had fled, resembled dew-drenched violets. 
 
 She combed her black hair, tossing its lustrous 
 masses now to the left, now to the right, arranging 
 it upon her head with long fingers deft as a musi- 
 cian's. Then she dressed in the garments that she 
 had brushed and folded the night before. 
 
 Barbara put on her straw hat like a boy's, she 
 glanced from the mirror to the clock. It was a 
 quarter before seven; therefore she had forty-five 
 minutes to breakfast and make her train. Going 
 to the little bookcase, she stood before the rows 
 of volumes. 
 
 Her very pure profile gave her a haughty air. The 
 white blouse and the blue skirt moulded the long 
 lines of her slim figure. Brown stockings and brown 
 shoes set off the thin ankles and slender feet. 
 
 But what book should she choose? Her fingers 
 touched Hans Andersen, hngered on Plato's " Apol- 
 ogy," but she put " Hamlet " under her arm and ran 
 down to the dining-room. 
 
 With a strange smile Miss Mary brought her a 
 boiled egg. Barbara, however, sipping a glass of 
 water, said: 
 
 " No, thanks. I only want some grapes." 
 
 " But this tgg " 
 
 ** I don't like our boiled eggs ! " said Barbara. 
 "They have, a funny smell." 
 
 43 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "This won't have a funny smell," said Miss 
 Mary. " This is a new-laid egg" 
 
 She opened it as she spoke; its yolk, a soft ball, 
 fell into the cup. 
 
 " That's the way an egg should open ! " Miss 
 Mary thrust the cup under Barbara's nose. 
 "Doesn't that smell good?" 
 
 Barbara, frowning in aversion, drew back her 
 head; but the delicate odour of the new-laid egg 
 caused her to smile. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "it's lovely, isn't it?" 
 
 And she ate the egg with a good appetite. 
 
 " It's a present for you," said Miss Mary, " from 
 Jerome McWade." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " I met Jerome at prayer-meeting last night. He 
 was asking after you, and I told him you worried 
 me — you wouldn't eat your egg at breakfast. So 
 he said he'd send you some eggs you would eat. 
 Bill Stroud is going to bring you two new-laid eggs 
 every morning from the chicken farm. The first 
 two came just now." 
 
 Barbara rose. " It's kind of Jerome, isn't it? " 
 
 " Yes, it is. He's making money, too. He had 
 on a new brown suit last night. He tried to find 
 out where you were, but I never let on. Where 
 were you ? " 
 
 Since everything she told Miss Mary was repeated 
 
 44 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 promptly to the gossips at Brice's bakery, the young 
 girl pretended not to have heard that question. " I'll 
 miss my train," she murmured, taking up her book. 
 
 As Barbara hurried down Green Lane to the sta- 
 tion her carriage was modest, and she glanced 
 neither to right nor left. For if her eyes, shining 
 with the soft and tender gaiety of youth, were ever 
 permitted to wander, they were sure to encounter a 
 man's eyes ; and this man might be a millionaire in 
 a motor-car, he might be a labourer digging in a 
 ditch ; but at any rate his eyes would look deep into 
 hers in an appeal at once so humble and so daring 
 that it would trouble her strangely. Her own eyes 
 she would avert at once. Otherwise, inevitably, the 
 man, nervous, embarrassed, would accost her. 
 
 She was alone in the world. Of her mother she had 
 no memory. Her father, a musician, had played the 
 oboe in the Philharmonic Orchestra for many years. 
 Her father's salary had been fourteen dollars ; work, 
 moreover, was always steady with him ; yet when he 
 died he left behind, as is the way of these bohemians, 
 no rich estate or landed property. All he left to 
 Barbara was his temperament — the love of beautiful, 
 honourable things, the hatred of ugliness and falsity. 
 
 Miss Mary Crocker, with whom he had boarded, 
 kept Barbara on at school till she was fifteen, teach- 
 ing her, at home, morality : the morality of Cinna- 
 minson. Thus she taught the child that theft is 
 
 45 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 immoral because thieves go to jail. She taught 
 her that unchastity is immoral because it results in 
 nameless babes. She taught her, in a word, that 
 immorality is immoral, hell fire being its punishment. 
 
 Barbara worked for Miss Mary after school, and 
 on holidays she worked for her from six in the 
 morning till eight at night. Thus she paid her 
 way, and perhaps a little more. 
 
 At fifteen, through the influence of the Rev. 
 George Harper, she secured a valuable post in 
 Smollett's department store at a salary of two dol- 
 lars and a half a week. Three years of faithful 
 work caused this salary to be nearly doubled. 
 Barbara, at the age of eighteen, got four dollars 
 a week merely for selling enough neckties to give 
 a profit of sixty dollars a week to her employer. 
 
 She administered that income well. She paid her 
 board half in cash and half in labour — evening and 
 Sunday labour — and the balance, two dollars, suf- 
 ficed for car fare, for miscellaneous expenses, and 
 for dress, even though dress at Smollett's must be 
 distinctly smart. 
 
 Of course Barbara would never have gained the 
 necktie counter had she not been pretty. All the 
 girls were pretty at the men's counters. When a 
 man shopped at Smollett's the prettiest girls sur- 
 rounded him. They smiled up in his eyes, they held 
 his hand in fitting a glove, to measure him for a 
 
 46 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 collar they actually put soft, light arms about his 
 neck. . . 
 
 Barbara, as usual, had to stand on the crowded 
 seven-thirty train. The train ride was hot, and 
 hotter still the street-car ride, where again she had 
 to stand, her young flesh pressed against the sweat- 
 ing flesh of men. But it was cool at the necktie 
 counter, and she began her day's work cheerfully. 
 
 A benignant old banker was her first patron. As 
 she gave him his change, he laid his withered, 
 tremulous hand on hers and said: 
 
 " My child, I am a banker. My name is Van 
 Pelt." ' 
 
 She drew her hand away. Mr. Van Pelt resumed : 
 
 " You look pale. You need the air. My carriage 
 is at your disposal. To-night, for instance, if a 
 drive " 
 
 " No, thank you." 
 
 " Then, perhaps, some other time," said Mr. Van 
 Pelt calmly. 
 
 He lifted his hat, and Barbara's kind heart would 
 not let her refuse the hand that he extended 
 frankly, like an old friend of her father's, in farewell. 
 
 Jerome S. McWade bought half a dozen neckties 
 at two dollars apiece. In his new suit of " ox-blood 
 brown " Jerome leaned almost completely across the 
 counter in his desire to be near the beautiful girl. 
 The abandon of his attitude embarrassed and 
 
 47 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 amused her. She thanked him for her eggs, and he 
 praised his skill at chicken-farming warmly. 
 
 At last, with a regretful sigh, he erected himself 
 from the low counter. He drew down his crumpled 
 waistcoat. 
 
 " Well," he said, " will you take dinner with me 
 to-night?" 
 
 " No, thank you. I am going to dine with Mr. 
 Chew." 
 
 His face twisted into a wry smile, a smile sug- 
 gestive of a sudden twinge of toothache. 
 
 " All right. Good-bye," he said ; and he hurried 
 away with his large paper bag of neckties. 
 
 The morning passed. At noon, seated in a lamp- 
 lit subterranean rest-room, she ate without appetite 
 her luncheon — two dried beef sandwiches and a 
 specked banana. A girl on her right recounted a 
 mean squabble : 
 
 ** * Look out, my young lady,' she said, * or I'll 
 report you to the floor walker.' — ' Well/ said I, 
 ' there's Mr. Simpson now. Go and report away.' — 
 So she brought Mr. Simpson over, and he said to me, 
 ' Can't you wait on this lady, Miss Gibbs ? ' — ' No, 
 Mr. Simpson,' I said, * I can't. Don't you see these 
 ladies here I'm waiting on ? ' — ' Why,' she burst out, 
 * she's not waiting on them at all. She's been talking 
 beaux for the last ten minutes.' — ' Oh, the barefaced 
 story ! ' said I. ' Girls, did I mention beaux ? ' " 
 
 48 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Then the conversation turned to dress, and Bar- 
 bara opened her book. But reading was impossi- 
 ble : a hundred girls, in the hot and crowded room, 
 chattered of clothes and men, clothes and men, too 
 shrilly. At last, her half -hour over, she returned, 
 listless, unrefreshed, to the necktie counter. 
 
 A fine spoiled the afternoon, a fine of twenty 
 cents, due to a clerical error in her sales-book. The 
 fine was just, nevertheless it angered her. She 
 would be glad to forget it in the excitement of a 
 dinner with Elisha Chew. 
 
 At the day's end two Cinnaminson girls accom- 
 panied her from the department store. She tried 
 to escape them, but it was impossible. They smiled 
 lewdly when she entered the hansom wherein Chew 
 waited at the corner of Peanut Street. 
 
 Chew, in a suit of yellowish plaid, lounged in his 
 seat, a gold-tipped cigarette in his brown hand. 
 His brown shoes had, in lieu of laces, straps and 
 buckles. His crossed k«ees showed his brown socks 
 of openwork silk. 
 
 Barbara seated herself beside him with delight 
 and awe. How handsome he was, how aristocratic, 
 how rich! And the overworked young girl tried 
 in vain to imagine the beauty of his life of idleness. 
 
 "The Westminster," he bade the driver. 
 
 Lounging in the carriage, he seemed superior to 
 all the troubles of mankind ; and his calm splendour 
 
 49 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 enchanted Barbara — enchanted, and at the same 
 time tempted her — as, in the past, a fine oboe may 
 have tempted her father to try his skill. 
 
 She talked artlessly, as the hansom hurried, of 
 Jerome McWade. Jerome had been very kind, he 
 W2LS going to send her fresh eggs daily, he had spent 
 twelve dollars on cravats. 
 
 And Chew's godlike serenity departed under her 
 prattle. He shifted in his seat. He looked sulky. 
 His voice became cold. Then Barbara, satisfied, 
 praised his yellowish plaid suit, and his serenity 
 returned. 
 
 They dined at six, in the roof-garden of the 
 Westminster, twenty storeys above the heat-tor- 
 mented city. There cool airs blew. Palms waved 
 and flowers nodded. From arbours and trellises on 
 every side came the cheery noise of rustling leaves. 
 
 And all was delightful till Chew's attack on the 
 waiter. The waiter's remark about the heat was 
 only prompted by politeness. How stupid then of 
 Chew to snub him, to mistake his politeness for 
 familiarity! And Barbara's heart ached with pity 
 for the thin, pale waiter, accepting Chew's insolence 
 with such fine humility, limping so hurriedly in 
 Chew's service — poor frail little man — on his great, 
 swollen feet. 
 
 As she descended from the hansom at the sta- 
 tion. Chew suddenly invited her to spend the even- 
 
 50 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 ing at Island Park. She consented, resuming her 
 place with a smile. 
 
 They drove to the pier, and were at once swal- 
 lowed up in a whirlpool of young men and girls, five 
 hundred interlocked young men and girls, shrieking, 
 laughing, grunting. In the heart of this whirlpool 
 they were swung very slowly down the landing-stage. 
 There came a jam, they were lifted off their feet, 
 and the pressure of flesh from all sides actually sus- 
 tained them in mid-air. Then a very strong current 
 seized them, it hurled them across a narrow gang- 
 way, it discharged them, dishevelled but calm, on 
 to the steamer's deck. The crowd was not as bad 
 to-night as usual, and Barbara laughed good-hu- 
 mouredly as she pinned up a rent in her blue skirt. 
 
 The steamer started. A cool wind blew steadily. 
 The young men and girls, in groups of ten or twelve, 
 sang hideous songs ; or, withdrawn in couples, they 
 sat motionless and silent, tightly folded in one an- 
 other's arms, like wrestlers of equal strength. 
 
 Chew took Barbara's hand, but she withdrew it 
 gently. She asked him a question concerning the 
 horse show. Passion was at once driven from his 
 heart, and he talked haughtily and contentedly till 
 the ride's end about a blue ribbon. 
 
 In a damp, hot grove at Island Park they lis- 
 tened for an hour to the deafening uproar of a band 
 seated, in a blaze of light, in an enormous pink 
 
 51 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 shell. Innumerable mosquitoes whined in their ears. 
 Chew crushed mosquito after mosquito on his socks 
 of open-work silk. 
 
 It was necessary to drink deep ; managers, prowl- 
 ing amongst the tables, saw to that. Formidable 
 men in black, they continually beckoned and whis- 
 pered to the waiters, nodding towards such couples 
 as dared to linger over their beer. Then the waiters 
 would dart upon these couples, snatch up their 
 glasses still half-filled, and ask sternly, reproach- 
 fully, what the next order was to be. 
 
 Chew and Barbara returned on one of the earlier 
 boats. It was not crowded. They had the bow 
 almost to themselves. 
 
 They said little, seated side by side. On their 
 moist brows the cool, soft air was delicious after the 
 stuffy grove. Overhead the sky was pale; a pale 
 sky of faint stars, a hidden moon, and luminous, 
 bluish-white clouds. Their shoulders touched. The 
 bluish-white clouds, resembling mountains of foam, 
 drifted from off the moon. The moon floated in a 
 sky so pale and clear that all the stars were faded. 
 
 A deep bass music began to manifest itself in 
 Chew's voice, and on that deep music Barbara's 
 replies, delicate and sweet, fell like harp notes in a 
 symphony. Then, silent, they gazed at one another 
 in the moonlight. Each found the other's moonlit 
 face beautiful with a beauty strangely serene. . . 
 
 52 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Timidly, expecting a rebuff, he slipped his arm 
 around her. She nestled to him with a sigh. He 
 looked down in surprise. She was no longer smil- 
 ing. She no longer thought of playing upon him. 
 Now, for the first time, nature would play upon her. 
 
 Her upturned face was pale, the shadowy eyes 
 were sad, the lips parted. And the world seemed to 
 the young man to disappear. Nothing remained but 
 a girl's beautiful face upturned in the moonlight. 
 Pale, incredibly pale, that moonlit face ; sad, sad be- 
 yond belief the shadowy eyes; and the imperious 
 sweetness of the parted lips . . . the parted lips. . . 
 
 "Barbara!" 
 
 He glued his lips to hers. Shivering, she locked 
 her arms about his neck. A moment, an hour. . . 
 And lo, the boat had struck against the piles, already 
 the excursionists were disembarking. 
 
 On the pier Barbara was taciturn and grave, her 
 lids were lowered, she trembled, she seemed almost 
 ill. 
 
 They entered a carriage, and silently, desper- 
 ately, she flung herself again into his arms. The 
 carriage hastened, and in the darkness, what with 
 her closed eyes and her silence, he might have 
 deemed her unconscious but for her lips' passionate 
 response to his kisses. 
 
 He murmured soothing phrases to the lost girl, 
 while at heart he exulted, " At last! At last! " 
 
 53 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 And he marvelled at her surrender, and he pitied 
 and at the same time he despised her. 
 
 The carriage stopped. He had to rouse her al- 
 most roughly. She descended, leaning on his arm. 
 " But this isn't the station," she protested, in a 
 weak, querulous voice. 
 
 He opened the door of a huge house with boarded 
 windows. 
 
 " Dearest," he said, " we'll stay here to-night." 
 
 She smiled a shocked and weary smile. " But — 
 but — before we're married ? " 
 
 Chew sprang back with a mean look of alarm. 
 " Oh, no, you don't ! I never mentioned mar- 
 riage ! " he cried. 
 
 She burst, to his astonishment, into wild sobs. 
 She turned and, putting up her arm against the 
 wall, she hid her face in it. 
 
 He looked down doubtfully, from the open door 
 of his mother's empty town house, at that tall and 
 slender figure in its attitude of despair. . . Was 
 she shamming? . . . Women are tricky. 
 
 "Barbara!" 
 
 But she would not turn. Her face remained 
 buried in her upraised arm. Her bowed back 
 heaved. Her low sobs had a horrible sound, as 
 though, to get out, they lacerated the flesh of her 
 throat. No; she wasn't shamming. 
 
 He felt ashamed. But he drove away the thought of 
 
 54 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 shame as silly and false. He, a millionaire aristocrat, 
 was treating this low shop-girl as it is right for mil- 
 lionaire aristocrats to treat low shop-girls. Still . . . 
 
 He hesitated, then took her hand. Her cold 
 hand lying limp in his, she wept quietly. 
 
 "Barbara," he whispered. 
 
 She turned to him. " You said you loved me." 
 
 "Barbara, I do love " 
 
 " No ! If you loved me, you'd — ^you'd want to 
 marry me. I can't understand it." 
 
 " I'll explain " 
 
 " You can't love me and think me so beneath you ! " 
 
 Her voice rose in anger. She jerked her hand 
 from him. Chew, angered in his turn, said : 
 
 " Well, I never thought of marriage, and you 
 know it!" 
 
 Again his words drew forth that lamentable wail, 
 and again he felt ashamed. But he remembered his 
 ancestry (he was descended from a milkman whose 
 eighteenth century cow pasture now formed a pes- 
 tiferous slum) and the memory of his ancestry 
 strengthened him. 
 
 " She can't rope me in," he muttered. 
 
 And he turned on his heel and disappeared in the 
 night: an overdressed figure swaggering hurriedly 
 towards a club, swaggering hurriedly towards 
 whiskey, tobacco, laughter, and the swift forgetful- 
 ness of an annoying failure. 
 
 55. 
 
Barbara found, on reaching the station, that the 
 last train was gone. She had no money. What 
 was she to do? 
 
 Her eyes were swollen, and to hide them, ponder- 
 ing her plight, she stood before the closed Cinna- 
 minson gate with bowed head. Though she no 
 longer wept, a nervous shudder now and then 
 seized her, her shoulders jerked, and she gasped. 
 This mortified her exceedingly. 
 
 Pacing the station's marble corridor, she decided 
 to walk home. It was a long walk, eight miles or 
 more. But there was no alternative, and she set 
 out resolutely. 
 
 And hour after hour, on her homeward way, she 
 trudged a mean black avenue: an empty, silent 
 avenue of mean black shops, mean black houses, 
 rows of flickering gas-lamps — nothing but that, 
 hour after hour, mile after mile. 
 
 " I must forget," she whispered. 
 
 56 
 
» Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Now and then, out of the darkness, a black fig- 
 ure lurched, and her heart stopped still in terror. 
 But it would only be a drunkard, muttering his 
 maudlin sorrows, seeing nothing as he staggered 
 past. 
 
 A tall policeman on a corner halted her. He 
 offered her whiskey from a flask; he tried to put 
 his arm about her waist; he threatened to arrest 
 her for street-walking. Frantic, she turned and 
 fled. 
 
 In the neighbourhood of Diamond Square she 
 got lost and wandered for an hour, crying with 
 vexation and fatigue, before she found the silent, 
 empty, lamp-lit avenue again. 
 
 The dawn overtook her at Perkiomen, and in the 
 faint dawn light the landscape seemed as unreal as 
 a dream. How strange, how cruel, that, while all 
 the world slept, she must walk alone amid these 
 vast blue silences of the dreaming dawn. . . 
 
 Life was cruel. She wished that she was dead. 
 Ah, but some day she would be dead. Some day, 
 somewhere, she, she herself, an old woman, would 
 lie dying. Where would that be ? And what would 
 she be dying of ? The thought was horrible. Yet 
 every girl, since the world's beginning, had had that 
 thought. 
 
 Life was cruel. Nevertheless she did not wish to 
 die before her time. And tears, as she trudgfed on, 
 
 57 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 filled her eyes; she wiped them away with a tiny 
 handkerchief which she took from her little pocket- 
 book. 
 
 "Why, Miss Gwynne!" 
 
 She started, a wagon drew up, and Walter John- 
 son, the gossip's husband, looked down at her with 
 a shocked smile. He was returning from market 
 with a load of damaged vegetables and fruit. 
 
 " I missed the last train," said Barbara. 
 
 " But " 
 
 " I had no money, you see." 
 
 " Well, get in here," said Johnson. " You must 
 be dead." 
 
 " I'm almost dead," she confessed. But she 
 climbed up to the high seat with nimble, boyish 
 grace. She sat very erect on a horse-blanket smell- 
 ing of horse, and, feeling Johnson's gaze upon her, 
 she assumed a calm and stately air. " Thank you 
 very much," she said, glancing at him nervously 
 out of the corner of her eye. 
 
 " G'lang ! G'lang there ! What do I feed ye 
 fur?" 
 
 Johnson, a florid man of forty-five, shot, as they 
 jolted on, sly glances at her. But the pure, proud 
 profile inspired him with respect. 
 
 "Have you been to Island Park lately?" 
 
 " Yes," said Barbara ; " I was there last 
 night." 
 
 58 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 He started. He looked at her again. The profile 
 was incredibly grave and pure. 
 
 " Gay place, ain't it ? " 
 
 " No ; it's a stupid place," said she. 
 
 Thereafter they rode on in silence. 
 
 " I'll get out here," said Barbara at Green Lane. 
 
 " Can't I drive you to the door ? " 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 He reined in his horse. " It's just as well not," 
 he said, with a leer, " if you want to slip in quietly." 
 
 "I don't " 
 
 But she stopped short, mortified to think that she 
 had been about to undertake the task, at once shame- 
 ful and futile, of defending her character against 
 a man's slur. Very red, she mumbled a hurried 
 word of thanks, and turned and sped up the hill. 
 
 Shame . . . she had wallowed in shame. . . 
 And she shook herself, in the effort to escape her 
 torturing memories, as one shakes oneself to drive 
 off clouds of gnats. 
 
 " I must forget," she whispered passionately. 
 
 The door was unlocked, and she ascended on 
 tiptoe to her little room. The little room, quiet 
 and white and clean, had a serene air. The little 
 room in its still serenity was beautiful. And yes- 
 terday she had been like it; but to-day she was 
 stained and foul. 
 
 " It isn't my fault," she sobbed, as, in her night- 
 
 59 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 gown, she examined the rent in her skirt. " It 
 was he, it was he ! " And she bent over the skirt 
 anxiously, while tears fell on the cloth. 
 
 The bed welcomed her, she nestled in its soft 
 depths, and at once, so great was her fatigue, she 
 seemed to glide down a smooth incline to sleep. Her 
 eyes opened — opened the next moment, it appeared 
 • — ^yet she was perfectly refreshed, her clock marked 
 three in the afternoon, she had slept nine hours ! 
 
 She would lose a day's work, but that did not 
 trouble her. Nothing troubled her. She felt so 
 extraordinarily well. To fec; like this was happi- 
 ness. 
 
 And she smiled contemptuously at the thought of 
 Elisha Chew, and, rising, she whistled as she made 
 her toilet. 
 
 • She had not loved Chew. She had only loved 
 with a snobbish love his elegance and wealth, the 
 greatest she had yet seen. But Chew himself she 
 had always despised a little, for he was stupid, 
 cruel. She recalled this stupid cruelty and that 
 which he had inflicted on waiters, saleswomen, mes- 
 sengers, on all who served him. 
 
 She had seen his stupid cruelty, but through the 
 golden mist of his wealth and elegance it had ap- 
 peared unimportant. And she would have married 
 him despite it, she would have believed that she loved 
 him, had he not opened her eyes last night. 
 
 60 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 How he had opened her eyes ! He had made his 
 reason for refusing to marry her but too clear. 
 
 Stupid and cruel ! If he had lied : if he had said, 
 for example, tliat he could not marry her because 
 his income would cease if he married against the 
 wishes of his trustees, why, then, perhaps. . . 
 
 Barbara blushed. Remembering his kisses, she 
 blushed more deeply. She pressed her hands to her 
 burning cheeks. . . 
 
 Then she laughed. For last night did not mat- 
 ter, the past did not matter, nothing mattered. To- 
 day she began afresh. 
 
 She descended to the kitchen, and, standing by 
 the window, she ate two large pieces of cake, for 
 she was very hungry, and drank a glass of milk. 
 Then she sought Miss Mary. 
 
 Dressed for the evening, Miss Mary sat in the 
 little parlour. On Barbara's entry she looked up 
 from the Cinnaminson Scimitar with reproachful 
 eyes. 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 The young girl spoke calmly from the doorway. 
 
 " I quarrelled with Elisha Chew, missed the last 
 train, and had to walk home." 
 
 "But why did you walk?" 
 
 " Because I had no money to ride." 
 
 " Km." 
 
 Miss Mary rose and handed her a telegram. 
 6i 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " They brought it this morning," she said. " I 
 knocked at your door, but you were so sound asleep 
 it seemed a shame to wake you." 
 
 Barbara knew the telegram could only come from 
 Chew, and without breaking the seal she tore it into 
 little pieces. 
 
 " I'm done with him ! " she said, and her eyes 
 glittered angrily, she compressed her lips. 
 
 " What has happened ? " asked Miss Mary. 
 
 But the young girl, pretending not to hear, 
 dropped the fragments of the telegram into a vase. 
 
 " I am going out now," she said, " for a long 
 walk." 
 
 And as she descended Green Lane, she could 
 have danced and sung, so light and clean and fresh 
 did she feel from her deep sleep. The sky was 
 blue, the air still and frosty, and the sunshine on 
 wall and tree-trunk had a deep yellow note, an 
 autumn note. Autumn, the season she loved best, 
 was come again. 
 
 " Last night doesn't matter," she told herself. 
 " The past doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I 
 have begun afresh." 
 
 But the gossips of Cinnaminson, seated, a fat, 
 grey, dingy circle, in Brice's bakery, started at 
 sight of the radiant girl, and Annie Johnson rose 
 and hastened forth to meet her. 
 
 " Hello, Barb." Tense with excitement, Annie 
 62 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Johnson looked up eagerly in Barbara's face. " Do 
 you feel all right this afternoon, Barb?" 
 
 There was evil in her question, and her evil eyes 
 searched sharply the beautiful and honourable eyes 
 of the young girl. Barbara, very much offended, 
 said: 
 
 "Yes, thanks; I'm all right." 
 
 " You missed the train last night, didn't you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 From the circle of gossips in the bakery three or 
 four elderly women rose. Their withered faces 
 smiled excitedly, like the faces of cruel children 
 bent on mischief. Drawn close together, almost 
 touching, these faces now peeped out at Barbara, 
 filling the glass panel of the door. She turned and 
 looked at them calmly, and they disappeared. 
 
 " There's no trouble between you and Elisha, I 
 hope ? " Annie Johnson pursued. 
 
 " I must be off," said Barbara. " I'm out for a 
 long walk." 
 
 " But I want to know " 
 
 The young girl, however, had escaped. 
 
 She had escaped, but her walk was spoiled. She 
 crossed Green Lane Bridge, she sauntered down the 
 River Road, and now she read her book, and now 
 she gazed at the blue river winding between green 
 fields. But her walk was spoiled. Very lonely, she 
 hastened home. 
 
 63 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " If they would let me be ! " she sobbed in her 
 room. "If they would only let me be ! " 
 
 With letters and telegrams Chew bothered her 
 for a fortnight. Once he accosted her in Peanut 
 Street. Walking beside her, he pleaded to be for- 
 given. But she ignored him. Chew had opened 
 her eyes, and she would never suffer again at his 
 mean hands. 
 
 He disappeared mysteriously the next week. 
 Strange looks, after his disappearance, were bent 
 upon her, and under those strange looks she 
 blushed, feeling as hideously abased as though in- 
 deed guilty of whatever thing it was they charged 
 her with. 
 
 In the underground rest-room at Smollett's the 
 uglier, older girls spoiled her daily half-hour with 
 vile questions. " Didn't I tell you to look out for 
 Chew?" 
 
 Then Mary Heron, the notorious Mary Heron, 
 essayed to take her up. When Mary, for the first 
 time that year, entered the rest-room, all conversa- 
 tion paused at her appearance. 
 
 She was pretty, very blonde, with brown eyes. 
 Her gown was beautifully cut. She wore about 
 her neck a string of small, pure pearls. 
 
 " Hello, Barbara," she said, with her roguish 
 smile. " Give me a hard-boiled egg, will you ? " 
 She ignored the other girls. 
 
 64 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Barliara. "This is the only 
 one I've got left. But I'll give you half if you 
 like?" 
 
 " Oh, keep It," said Mary. Her beautiful teeth 
 were like snow as she laughed, and she beckoned 
 the juvenile attendant. 
 
 " Get some chocolates," she said, " and some 
 soda-water and cakes and ice-cream at the lunch 
 counter." She took out a two-dollar note. " What 
 flavours do you like, Barbara ? " 
 
 Barbara knew that all the girls in the room were 
 regarding Mary and her; she knew that, if she ac- 
 cepted Mary's hospitality, the girls would believe 
 her fallen to Mary's level. She must now choose 
 quickly between wounding Mary Heron and pre- 
 serving the respect of these suspicious girls. She 
 made her choice without any hesitation. 
 
 " Vanilla soda-water," she said calmly, " and 
 bisque ice-cream." 
 
 The boy departed, and Mary put her pretty feet 
 on the table and looked, with her gay, rather mali- 
 cious smile, about the lamp-lit subterranean room 
 crowded with girls. The girls were neatly dressed, 
 and they had the proud and glittering charm of 
 youth; but, inasmuch as the rich George Smollett 
 worked them so hard that no time was left for 
 sunshine or fresh air, they were pale and sickly; 
 and inasmuch as Smollett did not pay them enough 
 
 65 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 to allow of their proper nourishment, they were 
 very thin. 
 
 These pale, thin, sickly girls, overworked and 
 underfed, talked gaily, in the unwholesome base- 
 ment's artificial light, of clothes and men, clothes 
 and men. And here and there among them, easily 
 to be distinguished, sat a ruined girl. 
 
 The ruined girl's boots were trim and costly, her 
 frock was admirably cut; her eyes, furthermore, 
 were bright and clear, her lips were red, her con- 
 tours firm and vigorous. The soul of the ruined 
 girl was damned, of course, for ever, but her body 
 was in an incomparably better condition than the 
 bony bodies of her saved sisters. 
 
 The boy returned with a luncheon deliciously 
 sweet, and Mary gave him a quarter. 
 
 " I always lunch out," she said, ** but my beau 
 disappointed me to-day." 
 
 She sipped her white and foaming drink. " It's 
 Jack Plummer," she explained. " Do you know 
 him?" 
 
 " I met him once at the Westminster, I think." 
 
 " Yes ; he is a friend of Elisha Chew, 3rd's. So 
 is Maximilian Forrester, Jr. Do you know him, 
 too?" 
 
 " I've met him." 
 
 Mary lowered her voice. " Plummer and I and 
 Maximilian Forrester, Jr., are going to take dinner 
 
 66 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 at the Westminster to-night. Come with us, will 
 you?" 
 
 " But," objected Barbara, " Forrester is mar- 
 ried." 
 
 " He doesn't live with his wife." 
 
 " What difference does that make ? " 
 
 Mary frowned. " I didn't think you were so par- 
 ticular any more." 
 
 " I'm as particular as I ever was," said Barbara. 
 
 **The more fool you." 
 
 Mary Heron rose. She counted her money, and 
 then, unbuttoning her blouse, she thrust her purse 
 down into the front of her corset. She seemed 
 unconscious of the hundred eyes staring at her 
 fresh young bosom, staring at her corset of pale, 
 flowered satin. She calmly smoothed the delicate 
 lace and knots of narrow ribbon that the purse had 
 disarranged, and then, buttoning her blouse again, 
 she gave Barbara a half -contemptuous, half-friendly 
 nod as she lounged forth. 
 
 6? 
 
VI 
 
 " Oh, Fm not going to faint," said Barbara hur- 
 riedly. She rose, but Henry Ford remonstrated 
 from his horse: 
 
 " No ; sit down again/* 
 
 She sank back on the grass, she leaned her head 
 against the rough bark of the oak, closing her eyes. 
 
 The October sky was blue. A cold, pure wind 
 rustled the hilltop foliage. Down in the valley the 
 forest swayed. 
 
 " What was the matter? " he asked. " I thought 
 you'd fall." 
 
 " I felt so light," she answered, " as though I 
 were afloat in the air." 
 
 " Have you been ill ? " 
 
 "Oh, no; I'm never ill." 
 
 " But you're thin and pale." He paused. " You 
 didn't use to be so thin and pale." 
 
 " Have you ever seen me before ? " said Bar- 
 bara carelessly. 
 
 68 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "Yes," he replied, and he dismounted and 
 walked beside her. His horse lingered, cropping the 
 roadside grass. When he whistled, the beautiful 
 animal hesitated, then moved forward, tossing its 
 head, with an obedience reluctant and disdainful. 
 
 " Don't you love the autumn ? " said the young 
 girl. 
 
 " It is the best of the year." 
 
 " Why do the poets call the autumn sad ? I am 
 never so happy as on an autumn day." 
 
 She faced the joyous wind. With shining eyes 
 she gazed down at the tumultuous forest. Her 
 dress, blown backward, revealed the contours of her 
 slender limbs, round arms, and small, girlish breasts. 
 
 " But you are ill. I'm a physician. Did you 
 know that?" 
 
 " Yes, Dr. Ford." 
 
 " Well, I'm going to prescribe for you. You 
 have no appetite." 
 
 " No," she said angrily. " I can't eat at all." 
 
 " Do you work somewhere ? " 
 
 " Yes ; at Smollett's." 
 
 " Then you must take a week off. You must set 
 out every morning with your luncheon and a book 
 '■ — if you like books?" 
 
 " I love books." 
 
 " And you must tramp and read and bask in the 
 sun all day." 
 
 69 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "That would be pleasant," she said, frowning, 
 " if one could leave one's thoughts behind." 
 
 " But you have no ugly thoughts ! " 
 
 " You don't know — ^you don't know what " 
 
 Averting her face, she walked on hurriedly. 
 
 " You shouldn't grieve — you, of all persons ! " 
 He laughed, but his voice was kind. " Wait till 
 you're an old woman to grieve." 
 
 Barbara's lip curled. " You don't know " she 
 
 began. Then, in silence, she stroked his horse's 
 satin neck. But the horse, disturbed in some mild 
 equine reverie, shook off her hand. 
 
 Below them the green world glittered in the sun- 
 shine. Here and there a maple, touched with the first 
 frost, resembled a scarlet flame. Barbara liked this 
 young man. She liked his blond hair. She liked 
 his white teeth. Above all she liked his singularly 
 intelligent and clear eyes. 
 
 " Now I must go," she said. 
 
 *' As your physician," said he, " I'll come and 
 see you, if you'll let me. Miss Gwynne.'* 
 
 " So you know my name, too ! " 
 
 They shook hands. The young girl, strangely 
 elated, hurried away. He stood and watched her, 
 admiring the light and supple elegance of her walk. 
 
 Barbara, as he hoped, looked back at the last turn 
 of the path, she waved her hand and disappeared. 
 
 70 
 
VII 
 
 She sipped the Munich beer, black and velvety, 
 that Dr. Ford had sent her, and, grimacing at its 
 bitter taste, she turned reluctantly again to her un- 
 derdone beef. 
 
 Miss Mary smiled. " Keep on," she said. " You 
 look so much better. There are some little freckles 
 on your nose." 
 
 " It is the wind." 
 
 " Isn't Dr. Ford a fine young man? If he, 
 
 now- 
 
 "Why doesn't he practise medicine?" Barbara 
 asked. 
 
 " You know well enough he's a millionaire. That 
 isn't why he doesn't practice, though. He's a stu- 
 dent. Don't you remember that article in the Cin- 
 naminson Scimitar about a germ he discovered? 
 If he r 
 
 But Barbara, with a laugh, was gone. In her 
 trim blue suit she ascended Green Lane slowly. 
 She got a book at the library, and, going down to 
 
 71 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 the Perkiomen, she spent the afternoon now seated 
 on a bench in the sun, now slowly pacing the path 
 beside the stream. 
 
 It was the middle of October, a windless, silent 
 day. The afternoon sunshine was soft and glit- 
 tering. Dead leaves fell through the crystal air; 
 they lay on the water's surface in a scarlet and gold 
 mosaic. 
 
 Barbara looked up from the beauty of her book, 
 and the profound beauty of the day filled her with 
 happiness. The stream at her feet, a pavement of 
 scarlet and gold, curved down and away through 
 slumbrous, glittering vales. Blue swirls of smoke 
 rose from a hollow. The smell of smoke was in 
 the air. In the distance, in a golden light, the lit- 
 tle, bent figures of old men raked dead leaves into 
 heaps. 
 
 She thrilled to the day's beauty. If life, she 
 thought, were but like this always ! And life would 
 be like this but for the Elisha Chews and Annie 
 Johnsons. She thought of Ford ; she saw again his 
 bright hair, his smile, his intelligent eyes. If Ford 
 but sat beside her amid this beauty! And at the 
 thought she thrilled again ; she thrilled and thrilled, 
 like a violin, to one long, exquisite note. . . 
 
 The sun sank, a luminous pink dust filled the 
 vales, and Barbara rose. As she descended Green 
 Lane, she was accosted by Annie Johnson. 
 
 72 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "Are you feeling all right now, Barbara?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you." 
 
 "How's Miss Mary?" 
 
 " She's very well." 
 
 Suddenly Annie stiffened, and a look of malevo- 
 lence made her horrible and formidable, like a 
 spider or snake. 
 
 " What's been the matter with you, Barbara, that 
 you've had to have the doctor?" 
 
 " It was only weakness — a weakness " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; of course. We know all about that. 
 But what was, really, the matter ? " 
 
 Pale, silent, with shocked, sorrowful eyes, Bar- 
 bara regarded the woman. She opened her lips to 
 speak; then, with a shrug, she hurried away. 
 
 " And no more making up to my husband, do you 
 hear ? " cried Annie Johnson. 
 
 Barbara hurried faster. She found Miss Mary in 
 the kitchen, bending over the yellow batter of a 
 cup-cake. 
 
 " I've just seen Annie Johnson," she panted. " It 
 was — it was abominable. Have you heard anything 
 — about me ? " 
 
 Miss Mary began to cry. " It's all over the 
 town," she wailed. 
 
 "What!" 
 
 " It's all over the town. It's as bad as that poor 
 Mercer girl." 
 
 73 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 Barbara turned and hastened forth again. She 
 descended Green Lane with quick, resolute steps. 
 Those wicked old women were now assembled, she 
 knew, in Brice's bakery. 
 
 She flung open the door of the bakery, she ad- 
 vanced to the middle of the shop, she frowned down 
 on the seated circle of fat, grey, dingy gossips. 
 
 " I want to tell you," she said, " that I am going 
 to leave this town. It is you who drive me away — 
 with your lies." 
 
 The gossips were frightened. Their withered 
 mouths trembled. They exchanged quick glances 
 of alarm. 
 
 " You killed Rose jMercer," she resumed. " I 
 don't know whether what you said about her was 
 true or not. At any rate, when she found out what 
 you said, she drowned herself. Poor thing ! " 
 
 Barbara paused. She looked down at those old 
 women motionless in their seats. With their ugly, 
 withered, upturned faces and their baggy necks 
 they reminded her of toads. Her anger died sud- 
 denly. Shame and disgust succeeded it. Why had 
 she come here? 
 
 As she retreated irresolutely towards the door, a 
 VDice said: 
 
 *' Chew left her in the lurch." 
 
 There was a burst of hateful laughter, and her 
 
 74 
 
Barbara Gwynnc 
 
 anger flamed again. She turned, and meeting Annie 
 Johnson's gaze, she strode to the woman's chair. 
 Annie, fascinated by terror, looked up at the young 
 girl; her mouth worked convulsively; her fright- 
 ened eyes blinked. 
 
 " Why are you so wicked ? " Barbara cried. 
 " Why are you so cruel ? " 
 
 Her voice caught, she gulped and hastened to 
 the door, she was on the verge of tears. 
 
 At the doorway she stood with bowed head. 
 They saw her shoulders jerk and heave. They 
 knew that she was trying to compose herself be- 
 fore going out into the street. 
 
 " I told her how it would end," said Annie 
 Johnson. 
 
 Barbara, without turning, without raising her 
 bowed head, said sadly, in a voice broken by sobs : 
 
 ** I am young and poor, but I try to do what is 
 right. You killed Rose Mercer, you make me run 
 away. Why? You wicked women — ^you wicked, 
 cruel women — why " 
 
 Her sobs overcame her, she rushed forth. 
 
 75 
 
VIII 
 
 " I AM going to leave Cinnaminson," she said to 
 Miss Mary. " I'll pack to-night and start to-mor- 
 row morning." 
 
 Miss Mary, still busy with her cup-cake batter, 
 lamented : 
 
 " But if you leave they'll think it's true." 
 
 " Let them think it's true ! " 
 
 " Barbara, you can't live on your salary." 
 
 " I can if I board at the Young Women's Chris- 
 tian Association." 
 
 " I hate to think of your going there. It's like the 
 poorhouse. Oh, why isn't there a law to make these 
 millionaires pay their hands enough to live on ! " 
 
 Barbara ran upstairs and got out the little trunk 
 of cowhide that had been her father's. There was 
 room enough in it; her possessions were few; and 
 she packed carefully her books, her pictures, her 
 bust of Socrates, her immaculate and cheap linen, 
 and her three little gowns. After dinner she set out, 
 
 76 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 pocket-book in hand, to pay Dr. Ford's bill. SHe 
 told herself it was to pay his bill. . . 
 
 He lived on the Ridge. The Ford house and the 
 Chew house were Cinnaminson's show places. But 
 the former far surpassed the latter in grandeur. 
 
 Barbara, charming in her blue suit, entered an 
 enormous gateway. Two great lamps surmounted 
 the gateway ; there was a lodge to the left ; and be- 
 fore her a broad, pale drive curved away between 
 rows of lights. The drive vanished behind black 
 masses of shrubbery, and above the shrubbery shone 
 the many illuminated windows of the mansion. 
 
 She ascended the curving path. On every side 
 beds of flowers glowed faintly. She came upon a 
 gravelled terrace, mounted a marble stair, and 
 halted before a lofty door between marble pillars. 
 
 In response to her ring a tall youth in blue livery 
 appeared. He held a silver plate in his hand, and 
 his waistcoat was striped black and yellow. Behind 
 him gleamed the rich colours, the subdued magnifi- 
 cence, of a very high and spacious hall. 
 
 " Will you tell Dr. Ford, please, that I'd like to 
 see him ? " 
 
 " Certainly, miss. What name shall I say? " 
 
 "Miss Gwynne." 
 
 With a respectful inclination he made way for 
 her to enter, then swung to the great door with a 
 skilful flourish. He led her across the tessellated 
 
 77 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 marble floor and set an armchair beside a fire of 
 birch logs flaming in a marble chimney. 
 
 His coat-tails, adorned with brass buttons, 
 flapped gracefully as he left her. Another tall 
 youth in blue, a counterpart of himself, made a 
 low, hissing sound from the stairway. He replied, 
 there was a moment of restrained conversation, and 
 the two servants separated and disappeared. 
 
 Barbara put her slim feet on the fender. The 
 beauty of this spacious, lofty, splendid hall glad- 
 dened her heart. Eastern rugs, cream, old rose and 
 blue, lay here and there upon the marble floor. In 
 enormous jars yellow chrysanthemums drooped 
 their long and shaggy locks. There were old black 
 chests whose elaborate carvings seemed to writhe. 
 There were great chairs of dark and lustrous wood, 
 some upholstered in the pale, faded hues of old 
 brocade, some in stamped leather with tarnished, 
 half-obliterated gilding. Very wide and very shal- 
 low, the marble stairway swept upward in a stately 
 curve. She Hfted her head and saw the light, pure 
 columns of a marble gallery running round the 
 hall's three sides. A large tapestry had faded to a 
 silver grey tone. And higher still were windows of 
 stained glass dimly agleam. 
 
 Ford, in evening dress, appeared in the gallery. 
 Leaning his elbows on the balustrade, he smiled 
 down gaily at her. The sharp black and white of 
 
 78 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 his costume made his face look very ruddy and his 
 hair very bright. Between thumb and forefinger he 
 held a cigarette in a long tube of gold and amber. 
 
 " Hello ! " he cried. " You're all right, I hope? " 
 
 " Yes/' said Barbara. " I've come to pay my bill." 
 
 He laughed and hastened to her, but the passage 
 of the marble gallery, the descent of the winding 
 stair, the crossing of the great hall, seemed to take 
 him a long time. She waited, happy and ashamed. 
 
 " So you have come to pay me, eh ? But there 
 was no hurry," said the young man. 
 
 He seated himself beside her, poked the fire, then 
 leaned back and regarded her with his charming 
 smile. 
 
 " You see," said Barbara, *' I am going away." 
 
 " Going away ? For good ? " 
 
 She nodded. " I suppose I'll be lonely." She 
 frowned at the fire. Then, " It's better to be lonely 
 than to have friends ! " she cried. 
 
 ^'Why?" 
 
 She glanced at him. His elbows on his knees, he 
 bent forward, very blond in his black and white 
 dress. The cigarette in its long tube emitted an 
 endless blue thread of aromatic smoke. He gazed 
 at the flame with a strange smile. 
 
 "Why? "he repeated. 
 
 A frown of deep thought puckered her brow, and 
 she repHed slowly: 
 
 79 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "You try to be honourable and good; but your 
 friends do vile things to you; and you feel as 
 ashamed as though you had done vile things your- 
 self." 
 
 " But those who do vile things to us are not our 
 friends," said he. 
 
 ** Well, we think they are till " She gave an 
 
 embarrassed laugh. " No, to be happy, you must have 
 
 no friends — like a nun, you know — serene But 
 
 I can't explain it. I suppose you think I'm silly? " 
 
 *' No, I think you are intelligent." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 " It is true. Why are you going to leave Cinna- 
 minson ? " 
 
 " Those gossips," she stammered, " they have " 
 
 " I see. You are leaving Cinnaminson on ac- 
 count of gossip." 
 
 Barbara flushed. " I am sorry," she said, in a 
 low voice, "if you have heard anything." 
 
 "I? Heavens, no!" 
 
 " Nothing is true that they say." Her lip began to 
 quiver ; she bit it resolutely. Then, with a gulp, she 
 resumed, " Nevertheless their lies make me un- 
 happy." 
 
 "What have they said?" 
 
 *' I hate to tell you." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I don't know. Do you know Mr. Chew ? " 
 80 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "Yes, slightly." 
 
 " He took me about a lot in the summer. Now I 
 have quarrelled with him, and he has gone away. 
 They say my illness — they say — no, I can't tell you." 
 
 She gazed into the fire. Ford, blowing great 
 clouds of smoke, regarded her with his strange smile. 
 
 " Dinner is served, sir." 
 
 A very old man in evening dress drew back a cur- 
 tain upon a vista of faint splendours ; then stood in 
 an erect, stiff attitude, chin high in air, holding 
 embroidered brown folds aside. 
 
 Ford, rising, put out his cigarette. '* Look h®re, 
 dine with me, won't you ? " 
 
 " Dine now ? It's nine o'clock," said Barbara. 
 
 ** Lots of people dine at nine. Stay, do." 
 
 She hesitated. The shadow on the beautiful face, 
 which was still only the face of a child, told him 
 of the debate that went on in her heart. Suddenly 
 she looked up, and in her troubled eyes he read the 
 pathetic search that a maid's eyes make in a man's 
 — the pathetic, timid search for sincerity, truth, 
 fair play. 
 
 " Oh, you must stay." 
 
 He began to draw off her blue coat. 
 
 " Hat, too," he insisted. 
 
 Handing him her hat, she touched her blue-black 
 hair before an oval mirror, and they entered a dining- 
 room that was in shadow save for the white table, 
 
 8r 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 upon which the many candles of two silver cande- 
 labra threw a flood of soft, clear light. The tall 
 young footmen hastened to and fro silently. One of 
 them drew out her chair, and she sat down with a 
 confused impression of carved and gilded wood, of 
 rich pictures in gold frames, and of black, luminous 
 floor spaces as slippery as ice between pale Eastern 
 rugs. 
 
 She felt very small and slim in her armchair. She 
 buried her flushed face in a crystal bowl of red roses. 
 She looked at Ford above the flowers with a smile. 
 
 There were tiny oysters before her, and since she 
 had eaten at six nothing but a slice of toast, she en- 
 joyed the oysters greatly. They gave her an appe- 
 tite for the soup that followed, a soup so pale and 
 transparent that she expected it to be insipid; but 
 no, its flavour was at once delicate and powerful, as 
 though a hundred meats and vegetables had been 
 sacrificed that just their finest, subtlest juices might 
 be given to that exquisite consomme. 
 
 "Where do you think you'll go?" said Ford. 
 
 " To the Young Women's Christian Association, 
 if I can get in." 
 
 " Oh, you're not leaving Smollett's ? " 
 
 " No ; of course not." 
 
 " I'll miss you," he said. " But I can see you 
 still?" 
 
 " Sometimes, perhaps, you*ll want a new neck- 
 82 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 tie. . ." She hid her face in the roses, then 
 looked up and laughed. 
 
 Three small red fish were set before him in a 
 silver platter. They were surrounded by sections of 
 orange in a red-brown sauce. The tart orange, the 
 rich sauce, the delicate mullet itself— Barbara thought 
 that she had never tasted anything so delicious. 
 
 " Why don't you go on the stage ? " he asked. 
 " You say youVe always wanted to go on the stage. 
 Well, now is your chance." 
 
 " My chance to starve ! " 
 
 The aged butler bent respectfully over his chair ; 
 there was a murmured conversation about wine. 
 
 " The 'go brut" said the young man, and he 
 turned again to Barbara. 
 
 " ' Starve ! ' You wouldn't starve. The first 
 manager who saw you would gobble you up. And 
 besides your looks there is your talent. I'll never 
 forget your reading of * The Ugly Duckling.' It 
 brought tears to my eyes." 
 
 " Nonsense. It was the beauty of the story that 
 did that." 
 
 With a course of lamb, new peas and tiny new 
 potatoes, her glass was filled with cold, clear wine. 
 She had tasted champagne before, but never cham- 
 pagne like this. 
 
 " It is so pure," she said, " so pure." 
 
 " But tell me, why do you persist in this dog's 
 
 83 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 life? Don*t you know that Smollett is robbing you 
 of your youth ? Don't you know that at twenty-five 
 you'll be old, with thin, sallow cheeks, a sunken 
 chest, wrinkles ? " 
 
 "True," she admitted, in a low, troubled voice. 
 " There's a girl in my aisle. She was so pretty 
 two years ago. If you could see her now ! " 
 
 " Give the life up." 
 
 " That's easier said than done.'* 
 
 " If I were a beautiful girl like you, I'd do any- 
 thing to get out of it." 
 
 He regarded her thoughtfully. 
 
 "Anything," he repeated. "Anything. I'd sell 
 my beauty to a rich old man." 
 
 " Would you ? " she said coldly. Shocked, even 
 disgusted, she frowned down at her plate, trying 
 to collect her thoughts, which had fled like fright- 
 ened birds. 
 
 " I certainly would." He felt a little ashamed, 
 yet the conversation amused him. 
 
 Barbara spoke slowly. " Then, if you were poor, 
 like me, I suppose you'd sell yourself to an old 
 woman ? " 
 
 In the flash of her contemptuous glance he laughed. 
 
 " No," he admitted. " I see your point. And I 
 withdraw the rich old man. But there are always 
 lots of rich young men about." 
 
 "Then would you, if you were poor," she per- 
 
 84 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 sisted, " sell yourself, in order not to have to work, 
 to a rich woman, even if she were young?" 
 
 " No," he said, " no. It would seem too ignoble. 
 And would it seem just as ignoble to you as it does 
 to me?" 
 
 "Of course!" Her air was at once indignant 
 and triumphant. 
 
 " Well, forgive me," he said. " I have been talk- 
 ing nonsense." 
 
 " I should think so ! " And Barbara, with a lit- 
 ne sigh of relief, dismissed the nonsense that he 
 had been talking from her girlish mind. 
 
 The butler brought in a covered silver platter. 
 Lifting the lid, he bowed and displayed, silently and 
 impressively, a long-billed bird that lay on its back 
 with drawn-up legs. Ford nodded, and the butler 
 retired to carve the woodcock at the sideboard. 
 
 " Why are you smiling ? " the young man asked. 
 
 "I don't know. Was I smiling?" 
 
 "Yes. Why?" 
 
 " Well, it seems odd, so much pomp, every day, 
 for just one person." 
 
 "But I don't live like this," he said. "I live 
 very simply at the Lester Institute. This is my 
 mother's way of living." 
 
 Barbara tasted her rich and delicate breast of 
 woodcock. Then she sipped her cold wine. 
 
 "What is it like at the Lester Institute?" 
 
 85 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Oh, there are a dozen of us there, under Bar- 
 rows, trying to find cures for consumption, sleep- 
 ing sickness, tetanus and other diseases." 
 
 " Is the work interesting? " 
 
 " It is intensely interesting." 
 
 " Tell me about it." 
 
 " Well," he said, " we have recently discovered 
 tliat almost every disease is due to a certain germ. 
 jMan is like a plant, and as this or that insect over- 
 runs a plant and destroys it, so this or that germ 
 attacks and destroys man. We know a few of man's 
 germs; we can kill them; and by killing them we 
 cure the diseases they have caused. But of course 
 there are hundreds of diseases that as yet we know 
 nothing about. At the Lester Institute those dis- 
 eases are studied. We try to find their germs, you 
 know, and after we find the germs, then we find the 
 means to kill them." 
 
 " But how? How do you go about it?" 
 
 " We experiment on animals." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 " Among the millions of germs in existence, you 
 choose one — the one, say, that you suspect causes 
 malaria. You grow this germ, and it soon becomes 
 a great colony. Then you inject it into a guinea 
 pig's blood. If nothing happens to the guinea pig, 
 you know that you have chosen the wrong germ, and 
 you try another one on another guinea pig." 
 
 86 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Barbara mused a moment. 
 
 " Sometimes," she said, " you find the right germ, 
 eh?" 
 
 " Sometimes you find the right germ," he sol- 
 emnly agreed, " and then you gain immortal fame, 
 you save thousands of lives." 
 
 " You do like your work, don't you ? " 
 
 " Like it ? I love it. What would I be without 
 it? Vice is so beautiful. . . But work like ours 
 is such a joy, it promises such good to mankind. 
 . . At the institute we are all glad to live like 
 anchorites, so as to come to our work, every morn- 
 ing, at our very best." 
 
 A smoking souMee was served hastily. 
 
 " And you," said the young man, " you'd make 
 an actress. Then why don't you go on the stage ? " 
 
 " But I don't know how to set about it. It isn't 
 so easy as you think ! " 
 
 " Take the bull by the horns. Go to New York. 
 See all the managers. You'd be sure to get on." 
 
 She mused. " It frightens me, the thought of 
 going to New York alone." 
 
 " Oh, it isn't as easy as remaining at Smollett's, 
 losing your youth. But how exciting it would be ! 
 It would be life." 
 
 From the superb dessert he gave her a large peach. 
 
 " You have no idea," he resumed, " of the joy 
 work is — ^work, I mean, not slavery — it is slavery at 
 
 87 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Smollett's. Why, if you become an actress, you'll 
 be so happy that your present life will seem to have 
 been hell. Work . ;. . there's nothing like it." 
 
 The butler bent over him, and the young man 
 said: 
 
 " Yes, we'll have our coffee out there by the fire." 
 
 They rose, the butler held back stiffly again the 
 brown curtains, and crossing the spacious hall, they 
 resumed their former seats beneath the high white 
 chimney. 
 
 " I love this hall," said Barbara. 
 
 " My grandfather," he answered, " brought it 
 from Italy." 
 
 A little table was set between them. On it a 
 wax candle flamed beside a silver cigarette box. 
 The butler returned with silver filters of coffee, and 
 Barbara, smoking her first cigarette, watched the 
 clear fluid drip slowly into the tall glasses. 
 
 " When do you leave Cinnaminson ? " he asked. 
 
 " To-morrow. I've got to leave to-morrow." 
 
 "Got to? Why?" 
 
 She told him of her visit to the bakery. 
 
 " But it was stupid to go there ! " he cried. 
 " Don't you understand those women ? In youth 
 they were vicious. Now they are old, and their days 
 of vice are over, but their minds run enviously on 
 vice, vice, as a thirsty man's mind runs on water, and 
 Ihey suspect the young of doing all that they 
 
 88 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 would do so gladly if they but had the chance 
 again." 
 
 Eleven o'clock sounded, and she rose hurriedly. 
 He insisted on sending her home in a carriage, and 
 a tiny brougham soon was heard without. 
 
 " Well, is it New York or not ? " he asked, as he 
 leaned in through the brougham's open door and 
 took her hand. 
 
 Her voice came from the darkest corner. " What 
 would you do?" 
 
 " New York, the stage ! " he cried, relinquishing 
 her hand. 
 
 " New York it is, then, since you're so anxious 
 to get rid of me." 
 
 " But I come often to New York." 
 
 " Tell him to start, please. It's very late." 
 
 " But you'll write to me, won't you ? " 
 
 "Why should I?" 
 
 "If you got hard up, you know, over there 
 alone " 
 
 " Tell him to start, please." 
 
 "But will you write?" 
 
 "You don't want me to." 
 
 "I do. Will you?" 
 
 She laughed again. 
 
 " Perhaps— if I get hard up— «." 
 
 89 
 
IX 
 
 Mrs. Woodford and Jerome S. McWade sat in the 
 private office of the beauty parlour. 
 
 The beauty parlour, in its seven weeks of life, had 
 prospered. The private office had been added to it, 
 and an assistant with a complexion singularly pure 
 had been engaged. 
 
 " I know fifteen dollars a week is generous," said 
 Mrs. Woodford, " but I understood " 
 
 " I'll raise you to eighteen the first of the year." 
 
 " But I understood, Jerome, that I was to be 
 your partner ! " 
 
 Through the peep-hole, in the silence that en- 
 sued, the assistant could be heard at work. The 
 assistant was massaging the flabby and wrinkled 
 face of Elisha Chew's mother. Beneath the deli- 
 cate slap-slap sound of finger-tips on flesh, Mrs. 
 Chew's voice rumbled earnestly, indicating the lines 
 to be eradicated and the hollows to be filled, and 
 recurring again and again to a kind of pouch be- 
 neath the chin that was to be taken entirely away. 
 
 90 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 The assistant agreed that all these facial renovations 
 were feasible, but at regular intervals, in a high, 
 pleasant, yet somewhat reproachful voice, she ven- 
 tured the reminder, " But not in one treatment ! " — 
 Not in one treatment: the phrase had already be- 
 come the beauty parlour's refrain. It sounded 
 regularly, like a chorus, through all the daily slap- 
 slap of massage and hiss of face-steamers. 
 
 Jerome S. McWade had assumed a stony look. He 
 hoped that Mrs. Woodford would read in this look a 
 kind superior's pain under an unmerited aspersion. 
 She read in it, however, only the cunning of a 
 money grubber. Yet, with a dry laugh, she submit- 
 ted. She believed she could conquer, could compel 
 him to make her his partner; but in an issue that 
 she deemed ignoble she had no wish to fight. 
 
 " Oh, very well," she said. " Have it your own 
 way, Jerome." 
 
 He was tremendously relieved. " You see," he 
 explained, " you've got no capital. It would be 
 difficult to arrange a fair partnership. I doubt, 
 indeed, if it could legally be done." 
 
 He rose and tiptoed to the peep-hole. In the 
 pink and white operating-room Mrs. Chew, a mass 
 of fat, reclined in the attitude of a man being 
 shaved. Bending over her, the assistant kneaded 
 her face with vigour. Sometimes, under a knead- 
 ing unusually severe, Mrs. Chew would cease her 
 
 91 
 
Barbara Gwynnc 
 
 rumble of talk and screw up her flabby countenance 
 in pain. Then the assistant, recoiling two or three 
 steps, would cry: 
 
 " There ! YouVe brought back the very wrinkles 
 I've been trying to work out! The face perfectly 
 relaxed, please." 
 
 " Miss Maynard seems competent," said Jerome, 
 returning to his chair. 
 
 Mrs. Woodford took from the table a bright 
 instrument of nickel that resembled a coal-scuttle. 
 
 " Jerome," she said, " I am afraid we've made a 
 mistake with this hair-drier, too." 
 
 "Won't it work, either?" 
 
 " No. The hand power idea was good in theory, 
 but in practice it's no better than the water power." 
 
 " Let's see," he said. 
 
 The drier, which had been bought through a lying 
 magazine advertisement, consisted of an alcohol lamp 
 and a fan. The fan ran by hand. Mrs. Woodford lit 
 the lamp, she held the wide mouth of the glittering 
 contrivance to Jerome's face, she turned the handle 
 of the fan with might and main. And he felt on his 
 cheek, instead of the hot and powerful blast pic- 
 tured in the lying magazine, only a faint, cool 
 zephyr. 
 
 " Turn harder." 
 
 " I'm turning now," she panted, " as hard as 
 ever I can." 
 
 92 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 He pushed the drier from him. " Throw it in 
 the ash-barrel," he said bitterly. 
 
 " I suppose we'll have to get an expensive elec- 
 tric drier, after all." 
 
 " That is what I advocated from the first." 
 
 Mrs. Woodford did not contradict this lie, and with 
 a pompous air he bent over the correspondence on 
 his roll-top desk of yellow oak. She regarded him 
 with a wistful smile, then she sighed. She wore a 
 beautiful black gown of silk-cashmere; filmy and 
 clinging, it gave her the figure of a robust girl. But 
 the face above the gown had none of girlhood's fresh 
 and delicate charm. The face was painted, the lips 
 rouged, the carefully curled hair was harsh and 
 wiry. 
 
 " I'm sorry I made you lose that twenty dollars, 
 Jerome." 
 
 " It's all right. No fault of yours." 
 
 " I had faith in the World Magazine," she cried 
 indignantly. "And for pay they help thieves to 
 rob!" 
 
 " Oh, well," said Jerome, " the more fools we." 
 
 She returned to the work-room. The operator 
 had finished Mrs. Chew's massage, and was now 
 applying cosmetics delicately. 
 
 "You need an astringent," the operator said. 
 " I recommend a large four-dollar bottle of our 
 Fatimah. You apply it night and morning." 
 
 93 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "An astringent?" murmured Mrs. Chew, and 
 with a frown she sat erect. But the reflection in 
 the mirror of her brilHant colouring, the rosy cheeks, 
 the scarlet lips, caused her to smile. " An astrin- 
 gent ? " she repeated, in a gentler voice. 
 
 " Yes ; to tighten up the loose flesh." 
 
 And the assistant poked daintily, with her slim 
 forefinger, the pouch beneath the other's chin. 
 Mrs. Chew watched the pouch in the glass. In- 
 dubitably loose, it swung to and fro. 
 
 " You see ? '' said the assistant. " This must be 
 tightened up." 
 
 " Well, send me a bottle." 
 
 Mrs. Chew paid, tipped the girl fifty cents, and 
 waddled forth, lifting her skirts coquettishly above 
 her thick ankles. 
 
 Jerome's face appeared at the peep-hole. *' Do 
 we need any supplies ? " 
 
 "You had better get," said Mrs. Woodford, 
 " some Miramar brunette powder. We sold four 
 boxes yesterday." 
 
 The face at the peep-hole frowned. " We ought 
 to make our own powder. It's nothing but scented 
 chalk." 
 
 And Jerome, a busy day before him, sped like the 
 wind out Peanut Street. He stopped at Smollett's 
 to give the perfumery buyer two opera tickets, and 
 the buyer bought fifty jars of Zenobia Cream. At 
 
 94 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 the drug trust, though he got no orders, Mr. Samp- 
 son accepted a half-dozen boxes of Zenobia Soap on 
 Mrs. Sampson's behalf. And in Bloomingdale's, 
 very carelessly, he mentioned that he desired the 
 recipe of Miramar Powder in all three colours. 
 
 " I know the Miramar agent," said Blooming- 
 dale's buyer. " I dined with him last week. I 
 think he can be approached." 
 
 " Well, those three recipes," mused Jerome, 
 " would be worth to me " 
 
 The buyer nodded. " I'll see what I can do." 
 
 It was now noon, and, since he had breakfasted 
 before seven, Jerome hastened with a splendid ap- 
 petite to Wartog's Spa, his favourite lunching 
 place: a haunt of business men. 
 
 The vestibule of the Spa had on the right a cage 
 containing a beautiful cashier. On the left, before 
 the marble and gold facade of an immense soda 
 fountain, half-a-dozen business men sucked gravely, 
 through straws, sweet, white, foaming drinks. 
 
 Beyond spread the Spa proper: nothing, at this 
 hour, but a black stew of business men. The Spa 
 reverberated, it belched forth powerful and unpleas- 
 ant odours. But Jerome, pulling down his hat, 
 plunged fearlessly in. 
 
 He fought his way through the outer press, he 
 came to the heart of the Spa. There, perched on 
 very high stools — " pegs " in the vernacular — a 
 
 95 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 hundred thin, pale, unshaven business men fed 
 swiftly and alertly at long counters. 
 
 There were no vacant seats. Many ate standing. 
 But Jerome preferred a peg, and after ten minutes 
 he secured one. His lunch consisted of buckwheat 
 cakes and mince pie, washed down with cafe-au-lait. 
 The proprietor of the Spa, while -he was eating, con- 
 descended to pause a moment beneath his lofty peg. 
 
 "Well, how's the boy?" 
 
 " Fine. And what a fine trade you've got here, 
 Mr. Wartog!" 
 
 "Oh, so-so." Mr. Wartog, surveying his steW 
 of business men, swelled with pride. " Oh, so-so." 
 
 " Why don't you enlarge the place ? " 
 
 " Enlarge ? " Wartog laughed scornfully. He 
 waved his hand towards the business men who stood, 
 in huddled, swaying masses, balancing full cups and 
 plates. " The street railways tell you that the strap- 
 hanger pays the dividends. Well, it's the same here." 
 
 " But," said Jerome, " if there's no accommoda- 
 tion, won't the trade go elsewhere ? " 
 
 " Elsewhere the accommodation's the same." 
 
 "That's so." 
 
 Jerome tipped the waitress, slid down to earth, and 
 stuck a toothpick in his mouth. Two business men 
 nearly overset him in their struggle for his still warm 
 peg. Leaping aside, he set out for the chicken farm. 
 
 As, toothpick in mouth, Jerome hastened up Pea- 
 
 96 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 nut Street, he thought tenderly of Barbara Gwynne. 
 He had been away for five days, selling Zenobia 
 Cream in Carbondale, Oil City and Millville, and 
 not until this morning had he heard of Barbara's 
 illness. Should he call at Miss Mary's on the way 
 to the chicken farm? No. 
 
 And he glanced down at his boots, unpolished for 
 three days. He slapped his sleeve, and from the 
 unbrushed cloth a cloud of dust rose up. Passing 
 his hand over cheek and chin, he heard the neg- 
 lected beard's loud rustle. 
 
 No, he would not call on Barbara Gwynne. . . 
 And the young girl's fresh beauty made him, for a 
 moment, ashamed of his slovenliness. When, though, 
 at Wartog's Spa or Silver Grill, had he ever seen a 
 business man better shaved, better brushed, than 
 himself? Business men, naturally, were far too 
 busy for anything of that sort. And Jerome, a 
 business man, strode on with all his confidence re- 
 stored, supporting his slovenliness indifferently, al- 
 most proudly, like those Arthurian knights who 
 forswore ablutions until the ending of their quest. 
 
 As he had assured Bill Stroud that he would not 
 visit the chicken farm again that week, Jerome en- 
 tered the garden cautiously. He tiptoed down the 
 neglected path. Then, in order to take the negro 
 completely by surprise, he burst like an explosion 
 into the chicken house. But there was no one there. 
 
 97 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 He crossed the barnyard to Bill's little cottage. 
 Bill made no answer to his ring, and he opened the 
 door and entered. Though the October afternoon 
 was mild and fine, the roaring stove shone like a 
 sunset, the black iron changed to a translucent rose. 
 The heat of the little room was intolerable; intol- 
 erable, too, the odour, the keen, sweetish odour, 
 the odour of Bill. And above Bill slept. His 
 snores, regular and calm, enraged Jerome. 
 
 An ear-splitting shout awoke the negro, and he de- 
 scended from his chamber, stretching and yawning. 
 At sight of Jerome he started, and his yawns ceased. 
 
 " This is a nice way to look after my chickens ! " 
 
 "Well, Mr. Jerome, I " 
 
 " No wonder the farm is losing money ! " 
 
 " iMr. Jerome," said Bill, in a low voice, " I'm 
 sick." 
 
 " Don't lie now. Don't make matters worse by 
 lying." 
 
 " Who's a-lyin'? " shouted Bill. He glowered at 
 his employer, then turned and stamped out of the 
 cottage. 
 
 Jerome, after a moment's hesitation, followed. 
 
 " Hold on. Bill I " he called, in a conciliatory tone. 
 
 But Bill shook off the hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Sneakin' round here. . . Said he wouldn't 
 come till next week. . . Can't stand this sneakin' 
 round. . . It's time for me to quit." 
 
 98 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Here, Bill, have a cigarette." 
 
 " It's time to quit. . . Can't stand no more of it." 
 
 Jerome, striding along beside the negro, extended 
 his cigarettes impatiently. He was, to tell the truth, 
 fond of Bill. Bill would never get on. Bill was as 
 unreliable as a babe, he could no more look out for 
 himself than a babe, and Jerome, against his own 
 better judgment, liked him and protected him. 
 
 "Cigarette?" 
 
 Bill, haughtily accepting at last a hard, cheap 
 cigarette, followed Jerome into the chicken house. 
 The incubators' thermometers indicated the right 
 temperature, and in one incubator a few chicks had 
 just been hatched. 
 
 " Poor Httle things," said Bill. 
 
 With closed eyes, their fine, pale down still wet, 
 the chicks lay upon the eggs in broken attitudes; 
 and it was strange how, as with overdriven ma- 
 chines, their violent heart-beats shook them visibly. 
 Now they rose and tottered, blindly and feebly, 
 over the uneven floor of eggs, and the next moment 
 they fell, panting, utterly prostrated with the fatigue 
 of that journey of five or six inches. 
 
 Jerome, coming on a hen surrounded by a dozen 
 tiny chicks, paused and frowned. 
 
 "How about this. Bill?!" 
 
 " She was settin' and settin'. She set for days 
 and days on nothin'. I'd throw her off the nest, 
 
 99 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 and she'd fall like a rag and begin to set again right 
 on the ground where she dropped." 
 
 " You took pity on her, eh ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I took pity on her.'' 
 
 Puffing vigorously on their hard cigarettes, they 
 gazed down at the hen. She had an air of absorp- 
 tion, content, happiness. She talked to her yellow 
 chicks with a cluck almost musical, and, to teach 
 them to peck, she kept taking up and dropping 
 jerkily again the grains of millet scattered over 
 the floor. Grouped about her beak, they imitated 
 her quick, sharp movements; only they ate the 
 millet, whilst she ate none of it. She, the mother, 
 would never eat until their hunger was first satisfied. 
 
 There was a basket of eggs on the bench. They 
 were dated, and the egg-dating stamp lay beside the 
 basket. Jerome took up egg after egg, studying 
 their dates silently. One was dated the eleventh of 
 October, another the twelfth, a third the fourteenth, 
 and more than a dozen bore the date of the fifteenth. 
 Yet to-day was but the ninth. 
 
 " Be careful about this," said Jerome sternly. 
 " Remember last year's tests." 
 
 At great personal inconvenience he had tested last 
 year, upon his own palate, a hundred eggs that ranged 
 in age from twenty-four hours up to three weeks. 
 Having eaten the eggs soft-boiled — the strictest test 
 — he was in a position to speak with authority. His 
 lOO 
 
Barbara Gwyhn6 
 
 dictum was that a new-laid egg could conscien- 
 tiously be dated ahead seven days, no more. 
 
 " Be careful about this," he repeated. " Don't go 
 too far." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Bill. '' Trust me ; I know my 
 business." 
 
 " Nothing of this kind goes to Miss Barbara 
 Gwynne, I hope." 
 
 " Miss Barbara Gwynne ? " 
 
 " Don't tell me you've stopped taking her those 
 new-laids ! " 
 
 " But, Mr. Jerome, Miss Barbara Gwynne's run 
 off!" 
 
 Jerome began to tremble. 
 
 " What the— what the devil " 
 
 But he stopped short, ashamed of his grief- 
 stricken voice, embarrassed by Bill's astonishment 
 and pity. 
 
 " She's run off to New York. She's goin' on the 
 stage, sir. Ain't you heard ? " 
 
 "When did this happen?" 
 
 "Yesterday or the day before, Mr. Jerome." 
 
 " Do you know what the trouble was ? " 
 
 " I only know what people say — Mrs. Annie 
 Johnson and that lot. Of course I couldn't swear 
 to nothin'." 
 
 Jerome regarded vacantly the egg which he held 
 in his hand, an egg dated nine days ahead. 
 
 lOI 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " What do they say ? '* he muttered. 
 
 " It seems that Chew feller got her in trouble and 
 she ran off on account of the talk." 
 
 "Has there been much talk?" 
 
 " There's been so much talk that she went to 
 Brice's bakery and told them women she'd kill 'em." 
 
 " But she denied the story, didn't she ? " 
 
 Bill avoided the question. 
 
 " She said she'd kill 'em. Oh, she's got pluck." 
 The negro laughed gently. " And, Mr. Jerome, she 
 certainly is pretty. Ain't she pretty, though?" 
 
 Jerome laid the egg back in the basket. 
 
 "Well," he said, "it's a damned lie. She's not 
 much more than a child. Why can't they leave 
 her alone?" 
 
 " She certainly is pretty." 
 
 " It's a damned lie," Jerome repeated. 
 
 And he lifted his sad eyes and looked at Bill, 
 hoping to find in Bill's face the assurance that he, 
 too, believed firmly in the rectitude of the beautiful 
 young girl. But Bill's face wore a strange smile : a 
 charitable smile, but a very, very wise one : a smile 
 that said, " I know all, I understand all, and I for- 
 give all." 
 
 Jerome turned and left the chicken house. Bill, fol- 
 lowing a moment later, found him, in the barn, en- 
 gaged on a vigorous examination of the huge bags of 
 feed. " Go and get me your account book," he said. 
 
 ,102 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 That night, unable to sleep, he thought continu- 
 ally of Barbara. " Poor girl ! " he muttered, toss- 
 ing about the bed. " Poor girl ! " How could 
 anyone doubt her? 
 
 For to Jerome Barbara's physical beauty was not 
 more real than the beauty of her soul. To say that 
 Barbara had been wicked was, to him, as prepos- 
 terous as to say that she had been ugly — that, on 
 such and such a day, her round arms had been 
 shrivelled, or her abundant black hair dull and thin. 
 
 But in the small hours he admitted the probable 
 truth of the charge. Then, with a glow of deep and 
 joyous emotion, he perceived that the charge's truth 
 could not affect his love for the young girl. If it 
 were true, then there had been unknown circum- 
 stances that prevented it from being vile. . . He 
 recalled a novel about a false marriage ceremony. 
 
 But what a pity ! And she had had to run away ! 
 
 With a groan he rose. He lit the gas. He 
 strode in his voluminous night-shirt to his desk. 
 
 The room was very cold, but for an hour the 
 young man wrote. Unconscious of the icy draughts 
 that swirled about his bare legs, he wrote Barbara 
 a proposal of marriage, a letter ungrammatical and 
 crude. But, through its sincerity, this letter was 
 beautiful, a beautiful, humble letter that would 
 move Barbara to tears. 
 
 103 
 
Jacob Abercrombie sat in his three-hundred-thou- 
 sand-dollar office in the two-million-dollar Aber- 
 crombie Knickerbocker Theatre, and a multitude of 
 young ladies, most of them quite nude, gazed at 
 him and smiled. 
 
 They smiled, those naked girls, from walls and 
 ceiling. They lolled in gracious attitudes upon soft 
 clouds of a delicious blue. Their white, pure, 
 lustrous flesh seemed moulded of cold cream, and, 
 the work of Melcher Dana, the famous fifty-thou- 
 sand-dollar painter, they had cost, according to the 
 best critics, more than nine thousand dollars apiece. 
 
 Mr. Abercrombie was a little below the middle 
 height. Clean-shaven, plump, slightly dried and 
 withered by time, he dressed in black from head to 
 foot; and in this black garb, with his bushy hair 
 of iron-grey, his aquiline and hard profile and his 
 clever eyes, he resembled a bad actor, an immoral 
 clergyman, or the proprietor of a circus side-show. 
 104 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 He sat at a flamboyant Louis Quinze desk in a 
 revolving Grand Rapids chair. His hands were 
 folded upon his stomach, and his stomach, protrud- 
 ing a little, strained at his waistcoat and trousers. 
 Sometimes, by sitting very erect, he eased that 
 strain. Again he eased it by unfastening for a 
 moment a button or two. 
 
 He awaited Barbara Gwynne. He had received 
 yesterday Barbara's photograph, with a letter an- 
 nouncing her desire to become an actress, and, 
 deeply impressed, he had postponed an important 
 visit to Pittsburg in order to meet the beautiful 
 young girl. 
 
 A boy brought in a card. Mr. Abercrombie nod- 
 ded. Then, buttoning quickly the top button of his 
 trousers and the bottom button of his waistcoat, he 
 rose as Barbara entered. 
 
 Pale and grave, she entered timidly. Her violet 
 eyes flashed in affright their radiant glances here 
 and there. But her manner remained, her gentle 
 and cold manner, her protection for three years 
 against the boldest marauders of Smollett's necktie 
 counter ; and as she advanced with slow, light steps, 
 Mr. Abercrombie, weighing her delicate beauty, her 
 shrinking and distinguished carriage, the perfect 
 neatness of her hair, of her gloves and of her shoes, 
 decided that she must be the daughter of some aris- 
 tocratic millionaire. 
 
 105 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Gwynne ? " 
 
 He bowed over her slim hand and led her to a 
 high-backed Jacobean chair. Then, returning to his 
 own chair, he studied from head to foot the tall, 
 supple figure, and he thought, " She is more beau- 
 tiful than I expected. If she carries well — if she 
 only carries well. . ." And he drew in his 
 stomach, bent forward gallantly, and said, with a 
 gallant and hard smile: 
 
 " And so you want to go on the stage ? " 
 
 " Yes, please," said Barbara. She breathed 
 stormily. She bit her red, full lip to stop its 
 trembling. 
 
 With a mellow laugh Mr. Abercrombie rose and 
 paced the room. Halting at the farthest corner, 
 he fixed on her his shrewd, enthusiastic eyes. Her 
 grace, as she sat erect in the straight-backed chair, 
 seemed exquisite. Her beauty, at thirty feet, seemed 
 finer than at three. 
 
 Yes, she carried well. The next question was, 
 had she temperament? 
 
 " Have you got temperament. Miss Gwynne ? " 
 
 " I don't quite know what you mean by tem- 
 perament." 
 
 With mellow laughter, leaning against the man- 
 tel, he proceeded to define temperament and to 
 show off. 
 
 Though some, he said, called it magnetism, tem- 
 
 io6 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 perament was the true term. Bianca had it, Bianca 
 the Itahan, and when, in her great sleep-walking 
 scene, women, though she spoke no word, fainted 
 with horror, it was temperament that triumphed, 
 temperament expressing itself in the slow and 
 tragic gait, the fixed eyes, the . . . and here Mr. 
 Abercrombie, to Barbara's embarrassment, actually 
 crossed the room in a ghastly, paralytic manner 
 which, she knew, must be his conception of Bian- 
 ca's somnambulism. 
 
 " Temperament ! " 
 
 " I see," said the young girl confusedly. 
 
 " What is Hardtbern but temperament ? " he con- 
 tinued. "Take her love scene in 'Antare.' Her 
 voice cooes, her walk undulates, her eyes are sad 
 with love, her hands " 
 
 What Barbara feared now came to pass. Mr. 
 Abercrombie's hands were suddenly clasped in 
 amorous agony, his face darkened in amorous long- 
 ing, and he minced towards her with a movement 
 of the hips evidently intended to be voluptuous. 
 
 " Temperament ! " he cried again. 
 
 " I see," she repeated. 
 
 His hands held high above his head, he began to 
 trip gaily about in a kind of dance. 
 
 ''^And our own little Flo Parsons," he cried, 
 " our sprightly, elfin Flo — she, too, is but one piece 
 of temperament." 
 
 107 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Dancing to and fro, speaking in the high, crisp 
 voice of Flo Parsons, he threw over his shoulder at 
 Barbara quizzical Flo Parsons smiles. 
 
 "Dainty, elfin Flo!" 
 
 " I see," stammered the young girl, erect and 
 gloomy in her chair. " I see." 
 
 Mr. Abercrombie returned to his seat. Panting 
 a Httle, he unfastened two or three buttons. His 
 slightly unpleasant sensation of fatigue and heat 
 reminded him that he was wasting time. 
 
 " Why do you want to go on the stage, Miss 
 Gwynne ? " 
 
 " I've always longed to be an actress." 
 
 "Have you ever done anything?" 
 
 " I know a lot of poems. I've often recited." 
 
 "Suppose you let me hear something?" 
 
 She rose abruptly, and going to his desk, she 
 leaned her elbow on the top; her clear eyes gazed 
 far away while she sought some passage to recite. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " Suddenly she regarded him with 
 knit brows. Her face twitched in distress. " I'm 
 so nervous. I'm sure to do badly." 
 
 The troubled face and the eyes' appeal swept Mr. 
 Abercrombie quite off his feet. Here, too, had he 
 paused to weigh it, was a triumph of temperament. 
 A pale face twitched, thin hands were wrung, 
 frightened violet eyes looked into his: and lo, it 
 seemed to him that all those barriers suddenly dis- 
 io8 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 appeared which separate elderly men from beautiful 
 young girls. It seemed to him that Barbara, as 
 surely as with a caress of her fresh arms, drew him 
 into the most perfect intimacy, showed him, as only 
 mothers or sisters are shown, her girl's soul in 
 undress. This vision raised powerful emotions in 
 his breast: pure, tender, indescribably delicious 
 emotions. 
 
 '' Go on," he said. His voice, become deep and 
 musical, vibrated. " Don't be afraid. I'll make 
 allowances." 
 
 She assumed a charming pose, a virginal, con- 
 strained pose. 
 
 " ' A Young Girl's Complaint on the Death of 
 her Fawn.' " 
 
 And her voice broke sweetly and delicately into 
 the crystalline music of Marvell's verses. Mr. 
 Abercrombie listened first with indulgence, then 
 with a lively interest. Here was a recitation that 
 somehow, perhaps by its purity, perhaps by its 
 deftness, reminded him of France. He clapped 
 his hands at the end, but Barbara cried: 
 
 " I knew I'd fail ! " 
 
 " It wasn't bad," said he. 
 
 "Oh, it was dreadful! I missed every line. 
 There are little shades : I've worked them out. . . 
 But I missed." 
 
 Mr. Abercrombie, cold and shrewd again, in- 
 109 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 sisted that the recitation had been good. Evidently, 
 he said, she had studied : she had learned to recite 
 poetry well. A waste of time. . . Still, the reci- 
 tation showed that she possessed, hidden away 
 somewhere, temperament. Temperament, now and 
 then, peeped out. He paused, regarding her 
 irritably. 
 
 " The question is," he said, " if I took you in 
 hand for a year, would the result be worth my 
 while?" 
 
 Barbara made no reply. He looked her up and 
 down. 
 
 " Can you pay," he asked, " two hundred dollars 
 a week to learn to act ? " 
 
 She rose hurriedly, in her sudden confusion 
 thinking him one of those swindlers who prey upon 
 stage-struck girls. 
 
 " Oh, no," she stammered. She moved towards 
 the door. " I am sorry to have wasted your time. 
 I have no money." 
 
 " No money at all ? " 
 
 " Seventeen dollars." Her hand grasped the 
 knob. 
 
 " Wait a moment. Where are you from ? " 
 
 Closing the door again, she turned to him doubt- 
 fully. " I am from Cinnaminson." 
 
 " Don't your people dislike the idea of the 
 stage?" 
 
 no 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " I have no people." 
 
 " You worked somewhere ? " 
 
 " In Smollett's department store." 
 
 Her grave candour touched him. It was like 
 questioning a child. He pushed her chair to- 
 wards her again, and, as she seated herself, he 
 resumed : 
 
 " How long have you been in New York, Miss 
 Gwynne ? " 
 
 *' Three weeks." 
 
 " Do you find it expensive ? " 
 
 " Not very. I have a little bedroom — ^what they 
 call a ' hall room.' I cook over my gas-jet." 
 
 " What do your room and food cost you? " 
 
 " My room costs two dollars a week, and my food 
 about twenty cents a day." 
 
 " Do you like that kind of life? " 
 
 " It is very lonely," Barbara confessed. 
 
 He mused a moment. He saw in fancy the tiny, 
 bare, clean chamber. The young girl cooked her 
 frugal meal. Then she ate alone. The solitude and 
 the silence of this picture touched him. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, " how many agents have you 
 seen ? " 
 
 ** Should I have seen agents ? I didn't know. I 
 tried to see nine managers, but it was useless. I 
 tried to see you three times. Then I had my photo- 
 graph taken, and I sent it to all the managers I 
 
 III 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 could find — eleven of them. Seven asked me to 
 call/' 
 
 Impressed by this confirmation of his belief in 
 her beauty, Mr. Abercrombie said anxiously : 
 
 " How many have you called on ? '* 
 
 *' You are the first/' 
 
 He pushed out his lips and frowned. For a min- 
 ute or more, lips pushed out, brows knit, he was 
 silent. Then he slapped his desk and rose. 
 
 " |Miss Gwynne," he said briskly, " I am going to 
 put you on in the chorus of ' The Blonde Widow.' 
 The salary will support you, and you'll learn, be- 
 sides, the stage. Meanwhile I'll teach you to act." 
 
 Barbara found herself, somehow, standing before 
 him. His hands upon her shoulders, he shook her 
 gently, while he looked up into her face half in 
 admiration, half in distrust. 
 
 " In a year," he said — and his voice was at once 
 jovial and doubtful — " in a year, if you work hard, 
 if you've got temperament, we'll make a star of 
 you/' 
 
 112 
 
XI 
 
 Mrs. Woodford was answering the morning's cor- 
 respondence — thirty letters, ehcited by a column ad- 
 vertisement, from old women who desired to be- 
 come young and from ugly women who desired to 
 become beautiful. 
 
 She sat at her desk in the private office, thought- 
 fully regarding the sheet of script in her hand. A 
 black gown, very simple and expensive, accented 
 the best lines of her superb figure. Her carefully 
 curled hair was lighter than it had been in the past, 
 and cosmetics made her face charming at a distance 
 of seven or eight yards. 
 
 The young and pretty stenographer, whose dis- 
 tance was but one yard, stared at Mrs. Woodford 
 with an air of mockery. 
 
 Mrs. Woodford began to dictate: 
 
 " Dear Madam, — It was most unfortunate that 
 your son should lose part of his ear, but be thankful 
 that it is nicely healed and that the injury was no 
 worse. I feel quite sure that the loss can be re- 
 
 113 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 placed by an artificial piece, made of vulcanized 
 rubber. Our new department of ornamental or 
 plastic surgery is most efficient, and if you will call 
 with your son by appointment, a free examination 
 could be made and an estimate given for the arti- 
 ficial tip desired. — Faithfully yours." 
 
 In her natural voice she said : 
 
 " Mark that ' Hold for J. S. McW.' " 
 
 Then she dictated another letter: 
 
 " My dear Miss Harrison, — When the forma- 
 tion of the chin is such as you describe in your 
 * No. 2 ' drawing, there is no way to change it to a 
 clear cut chin. We can, however, reduce it and 
 make it firm for you by means of our rotary elec- 
 trical massage. There are also exercises to give 
 elasticity to the muscles and improve the flabby con- 
 dition. The enclosed booklets specify terms and 
 full information. Assuring you of careful personal 
 attention when you call, — Sincerely yours." 
 
 She took up another letter, smiled slightly, and 
 resumed : 
 
 " Dear Sir, — We have a number of creams for 
 use after shaving that would answer the desired 
 purpose, softening the skin and removing lines. 
 The best treatment in your case, however, would be 
 a full massage course. We have a gentlemen's de- 
 partment with private entrance and male or female 
 operator as desired. — Faithfully yours." 
 
 114 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 The last letter ran: 
 
 ** Dear Miss Wilkins, — You are not the only one 
 that mourns the loss of your charms, and while you 
 should have begun long ago to build up the waste 
 that was gradually going on in the system, yet by 
 our patent physical culture exercises your figure 
 will soon improve. The enlarged vertebrae at the 
 back of the neck will disappear under the new ro- 
 tary massage, and Zenobia Skin Food will fill up 
 the hollows behind the ears. We recommend 
 Zenobia Capsuloids to enlarge the bust. Zenobia 
 Hair Tints are permanent and harmless, though 
 best applied by our own specialists. Booklets of 
 rates are enclosed. Get new teeth and you will be 
 entirely transformed. — Yours sincerely." 
 
 Mrs. Woodford pondered three or four other let- 
 ters, and the pretty stenographer gazed at her 
 painted face with mockery and scorn. The pretty 
 stenographer did not realize that she, too, was 
 doomed to grow old ; that she, too, might some day 
 strive foolishly to recover her lost youth. 
 
 " That will do for this morning, Miss Churchill." 
 
 And Mrs. Woodford entered the spacious and 
 gay beauty parlour. Its colouring was still pink 
 and white, and in the vestibule Jerome's frog still 
 yawned; but the parlour now comprised the whole 
 floor. 
 
 There was a reception room, with magazines, 
 
 115 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 writing materials, cigarettes, and here the Zenobia 
 preparations were sold — Zenobia Chin Straps, Zeno- 
 bia Hair Tints, Zenobia Medicated Soap, Zenobia 
 Powder in the three usual hues. 
 
 Passing through the empty reception room, |Mrs. 
 Woodford entered a large salon that pale curtains 
 divided into eight or nine compartments. But the 
 further end of the salon was free, and in this 
 spacious recess a half-dozen manicurists conversed 
 in low tones as they arranged on their white tables 
 the rosewater bowls, the buffers, the orange sticks, 
 the pastes, and the emery files of their craft. 
 
 Mrs. Woodford visited, one after another, the 
 massage cabinets. In each cabinet a woman of 
 fifty or so, expensively dressed, reclined with closed 
 eyes whilst an operator passed over her withered 
 face the electrically-driven instrument that was to 
 make her young and fair again. These women, 
 who were regular patients, Mrs. Woodford com- 
 plimented on the improvement in their looks. Then 
 she sought the ironing cabinet. 
 
 The ironing cabinet was full of steam. Through 
 mists of steam it was difficult to see. She discerned, 
 however, the robust operator. The operator's sleeves 
 were rolled back from her strong arms, and, an iron 
 gripped in both hands, she bent over a long table. On 
 the table, through thick clouds, the prone figure of a 
 very fat woman was visible, like a low range of snow 
 ii6 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 mountains. The iron glided over white hillocks of 
 flesh. Steam swirled up furiously, groans were to 
 be heard, the operator murmured soothing phrases. 
 
 " The abdomen ? " said Mrs. Woodford, peering 
 through the steam. " Ah, no ; the hips." 
 
 " We worked off eight pounds last week,'* said 
 the operator. 
 
 " Not from the hips ! " 
 
 '* Five from the hips, three from the abdomen," 
 came faintly but complacently from the mound of 
 flesh upon the table. 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 Mrs. Woodford approached the manicure room. 
 " I am ready. Miss Atherton," she said. 
 
 Miss Atherton, a pretty girl, made a grimace that 
 caused the manicurists to smile. Then she turned 
 and followed Mrs. Woodford into a vacant 
 cabinet. 
 
 Mrs. Woodford reclined in the operating chair, a 
 hand mirror in her lap. 
 
 " We'll try the forehead lines again to-day, Miss 
 Atherton." 
 
 Miss Atherton dipped her finger-tips in Zenobia 
 Cream and applied the unguent to the other's face, 
 rubbing it into the skin slowly and thoroughly. She 
 fitted to the massage machine an instrument whose 
 slightly convex surface, about one inch square, was 
 composed of twenty or thirty rubber balls, smaller 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 than peas. She turned on the electric current, and 
 the rubber balls began to revolve swiftly. 
 
 Back and forth, up and down, the instrument 
 passed on Mrs. Woodford's forehead, and the flesh 
 became pink and swollen. Mrs. Woodford looked 
 at it in the hand mirror. 
 
 "The lines are fainter, aren't they?" she said. 
 
 " Oh, very much fainter," replied Miss Atherton, 
 with the effusive insincerity of a beauty specialist. 
 
 She laid down the instrument, and, rubbing a lit- 
 tle more cream upon the forehead, she massaged it 
 with her finger-tips. After five minutes of this 
 treatment the forehead was pinker than ever, and 
 the lines were almost gone. 
 
 "It's amazing!" said Mrs. Woodford, as she 
 gazed into the mirror. 
 
 A final massage was given to the entire face, and 
 then Miss Atherton applied powder and rouge 
 deftly. Mrs. Woodford, rising, went to the win- 
 dow in order to see more clearly the result. 
 
 " I think it's wonderful," she said. 
 
 The joy in her voice made Miss Atherton sud- 
 denly feel very sorry for her. 
 
 " Isn't it wonderful ? You look lovely ! " the 
 young girl cried. 
 
 " How you talk ! " said Mrs. Woodford, laughing 
 with delight. 
 
 She found Jerome in the office at his desk. 
 ii8 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " What about this ? " he demanded, extending the 
 letter which proposed an artificial ear. 
 
 " Jerome/' she said, " I am more and more con- 
 vinced that we must take up ornamental surgery." 
 
 " It isn't safe," said he. 
 
 " But if we get good surgeons " 
 
 " That's the point. I asked Ford about it. Good 
 surgeons wouldn't work for us." 
 
 Crumpling the letter, he dropped it into the 
 waste-paper basket. 
 
 " Give that idea up," he ended. 
 
 "Well, just as you say." 
 
 Jerome, with a frown, re-lighted his cigar. He 
 hesitated, glancing at her uneasily, as though he had 
 something difficult and unpleasant to reveal. Then 
 he shrugged, he seemed to change his mind, and, 
 clapping on his hat, he hurried out to luncheon. 
 
 A year of success had altered him a little. He 
 no longer chewed tobacco. His dress was more 
 startling in hue and cut; by Peanut Street stand- 
 ards, that is to say, he was better dressed. Reli- 
 giously, too, every other day, he now visited a 
 barber's to be shaved. And often he was seen at 
 a street corner, seated high above the throng on a 
 kind of throne, smoking and reading a newspaper 
 while a bootblack polished his boots. 
 
 The May morning was divine; but Jerome had 
 not yet outgrown Wartog's Spa, and from the 
 119 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 sweet air, from the mild, glittering sunshine, he 
 passed without a shudder into the eating-house. 
 
 He leapt upon a still warm peg, and, calm amid 
 the stench and uproar, he devoured baked beans and 
 apple-pie. Many of the pale, lean, unshaven busi- 
 ness men at Wartog's had become his friends. 
 They conversed with him dreamily as they bolted 
 indigestible food, their thoughts far away upon 
 "deals" and "dickers." 
 
 " How's business ? " their conversations all began. 
 
 The beauty parlour, on his return, was full. The 
 seven manicurists at their little tables plied the long 
 buffers busily. In the compartments hair curlers 
 clicked, face steamers hissed, and massage machines 
 hummed. Low groans came from the ironing cab- 
 inet, and ever and anon the voice of an operator 
 cried reproachfully, " Not in one treatment ! " 
 
 Mrs. Chew arrived at three. She was led into 
 the private office. The Rev. George Harper fol- 
 lowed her. 
 
 " George wants to see Mr. McWade," Mrs. Chew 
 explained. 
 
 " I'm sorry," said Mrs. Woodford, " but Mr. 
 IMcWade has just gone to Cinnaminson. I don't 
 expect him back to-day." 
 
 " George wants him to use his influence with the 
 newspapers." Mrs. Chew turned to the divine. 
 " Tell her what you want, George." 
 
 120 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " I will do so. Sister Woodford, your heavy 
 advertising gives Brother McWade a vast influ- 
 ence over the local press. Well, I desire him to 
 use this influence in my behalf. A sacrilegious and 
 filthy play, ' Magdalen,' is to be presented at the 
 Peanut Street Theatre next week, and I am getting 
 up a protest. A committee, headed by myself, pur- 
 poses to call on the mayor, the stellar actress, and 
 the impresario, and I desire a very full and com- 
 plete report in the public prints. Now, if the sug- 
 gestion to the press should come from dear Brother 
 McWade instead of me " 
 
 Mr. Harper smoothed his black beard and looked 
 at Mrs. Woodford wistfully. 
 
 " I'm sure Mr. McWade wiU help you," she said. 
 " But ' Magdalen ' isn't such a bad play, is it? " 
 
 '' Sewage." 
 
 " Have you read it? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Well, I'm sure Jerome will help you. 1*11 tell 
 him to-night." 
 
 " I thank you." 
 
 Mr. Harper rose and shook hands gravely with 
 both women. Mrs. Chew said: 
 
 " Take the carriage, George. Then send it back 
 for me." 
 
 And she retired for the afternoon to a rose and 
 white cabinet. She undressed, an operator coated 
 
 121 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 her from head to foot with Zenobia Cream, then 
 massaged her vigorously for half an hour. A 
 manicurist, after she was dressed again, devoted 
 another half-hour to her nails. A hairdresser spent 
 ninety minutes in washing, drying and curling her 
 hair. Then Mrs. Woodford in person gave her 
 facial massage. Her weekly bill at the beauty par- 
 lour was never less than forty dollars. 
 
 " You do look better," said Mrs. Woodford, as, 
 at the end of the massage, she darkened Mrs. 
 Chew's thin eyebrows with a charcoal pencil. 
 
 " Everybody tells me so ! " 
 
 "Well, it's the truth." 
 
 " But I must look my best to-night. Fm enter- 
 taining the Ebenezer Whistling League. I suppose 
 you know I've turned Methodist?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It's made a lot of talk among my friends." Mrs. 
 Chew pushed out her lead-coloured lips to the rouge 
 stick. " I'm old enough, however, to do as I please." 
 
 " That's right,'; said Mrs. Woodford warmly. 
 " Life is so short. Let us enjoy it despite our 
 friends' jeers. Our friends ! They're only friendly 
 when we're wretched. The minute they see us 
 happy they turn jealous." 
 
 She washed her hands. Mrs. Chew, regarding 
 enviously her supple and robust figure, said: 
 
 *' You are looking well." 
 
 122 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Yes, I feel well/' 
 
 " It's the treatments, isn't it? " 
 
 " Yes ; it's the massage and exercise and diet. 
 It makes me think, I feel so well, of the Fountain 
 of Youth. Here, right here, I sometimes think, is 
 the Fountain of Youth that poor old Ponce de Leon 
 sought in Florida." 
 
 " You've had a great success here." 
 
 " A wonderful success." 
 
 The thought of her success exhilarated Mrs. 
 Woodford, and it occurred to her, as she returned 
 to the office, that she had not felt so happy, so 
 young, since the distant days of Harvey Wood- 
 ford's courtship. 
 
 Jerome S. McWade, just back from Cinnaminson, 
 brooded at his desk of yellow oak. On her entrance 
 he scanned her critically. His bright eyes lingered 
 on her face. With a thrill of pleasure she thought 
 that he, too, marvelled at the look of youth and 
 freshness that had returned to her. 
 
 " Mrs. Woodford," he said, " there is one little 
 matter I want to speak to you about." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " You see," — his air was nervous — " our success 
 depends on convincing people that we make them 
 young again — so I think it would be better if Miss 
 Churchill managed the parlour hereafter. You — 
 you will devote yourself to — to executive work in 
 the inner office." 
 
 123 
 
Barbara Gwynnc 
 
 He looked at her with an awkward and obstinate 
 smile. Her over-red lips, he noted, were twitching. 
 They twitched as though unseen threads jerked 
 them this way and that. An odd spectacle. 
 
 A spectacle that meant she took it rather hard. 
 He had known, of course, that she would take it 
 rather hard. And he had had to nerve himself. 
 Again and again he had said, " Now, suppose I, 
 being a barber, went bald in a shop that made a 
 speciality of scalp treatments: wouldn't I expect, 
 then, to be fired?" And knowing just what he 
 would suffer in such a case as that, he thought he 
 knew just what Mrs. Woodford would suffer. Only 
 she would suffer less in her case: for she was not 
 being fired: she was only being thrust into the 
 background. 
 
 *' You want me," she said, " to keep out of 
 sight?" 
 
 Her voice was proud. Her air, too, as she stood 
 before him, was proud, despite the twitching of her 
 lips. But this air of pride did not harden him 
 against her. It softened, on the contrary, his heart. 
 For in it he dimly perceived the pluck, the fine, for- 
 lorn, hopeless pluck, the pluck of a woman. It is 
 the way a woman takes these things. 
 
 " You want me to keep out of sight? " 
 
 " Well, yes." 
 
 124 
 
XII 
 
 In New York Barbara, for the first time, lived. 
 
 She spent her mornings in study before a three- 
 leaved mirror in her room. The afternoons she 
 gave to Mr. Abercrombie's lessons, or to hansom 
 rides, followed by tea, now with Millicent Morti- 
 mer Miller, now with Agnes Atwood. And in the 
 evening, in a skirt reaching nearly to her knees, she 
 displayed her beauty in the ninety-thousand-dollar 
 production of " The Blonde Widow." 
 
 Her boarding-house, in an old-fashioned square 
 down town, was more than comfortable, more than 
 respectable. It had been chosen for her by Mr. 
 Abercrombie himself ; his secretary, too, lived there ; 
 Barbara suspected that Miss Hanch, under orders, 
 spied on her. . . Not that it mattered. 
 
 Barbara's work with Mr. Abercrombie was diffi- 
 cult and delightful. He was writing a play for her, 
 " Vassa," and the scenario was already finished, but 
 whether the play should be termed a one-hundred 
 
 125 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 or a two-hundred-thousand-dollar production had 
 not yet been decided. 
 
 All winter she rehearsed the first act. There 
 were winter afternoons so warm that business men 
 walked in their shirtsleeves to business, and she 
 rehearsed beside an open window. 
 
 Vassa was a beggar girl, a beggar girl in a me- 
 diaeval town. 
 
 " She is Carmen," said Mr. Abercrombie, " with 
 all the wickedness left out." 
 
 And turning off the steam heat, he described the 
 carnival scene of the first act. Mediaeval houses, 
 grey and picturesque, rose to an extraordinary 
 height, and from every storey girls would throw 
 confetti on the glittering, whirling throng below. 
 The whole stage, Mr. Abercrombie said, would 
 glitter and whirl. Changing lights would fall on 
 cloth of gold, on pierrots in black and white, on 
 knights in armour, and on supple dancers. But 
 with her gaiety and beauty Vassa would dominate 
 all, even to the dance of masked revellers culmi- 
 nating in the young king's entrance. And the act 
 would end, naturally, with a scene between Vassa 
 and the king wherein the beggar girl would be so 
 irresistible that Dagobert IX., with respectful 
 ardour, would offer her his hand in marriage. 
 
 The winter pursued its strange course. A day 
 like June would be followed by a blizzard, and 
 126 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Barbara amid six-foot drifts would plod to the 
 Abercrombie Knickerbocker Theatre to learn to 
 play the beggar girl. 
 
 For a week, as a beggar girl, she climbed a high 
 wall to give a knight a rose. The wall was a mas- 
 sive bookcase, which Mr. Abercrombie ascended 
 with her. A hundred times, despite his bulk, Mr. 
 Abercrombie leapt from shelf to shelf to show 
 her how a wall is climbed in a graceful, hoydenish 
 and laughing manner. 
 
 March ushered in the spring. The sky was a 
 raw blue, the harsh sunshine hurt, and at every 
 corner whirlpools of dried filth revolved continu- 
 ally in an abominable wind. Dust was everywhere ; 
 it inflamed the eyes, gritted between the teeth, with- 
 ered the skin. And day and night, like the grey 
 phantoms of indefatigable dervishes, the whirlpools 
 of dried filth revolved. 
 
 Barbara in March began to work on the second 
 act of " Vassa." Vassa was now a Queen. And as, 
 in the first act, she had been the most hoydenish 
 of beggar girls, so, in the second, she was the most 
 superb of queens. Her languid walk, her sweet and 
 supercilious voice; her upHfted chin and cold, proud 
 gaze delighted Mr. Abercrombie, 
 
 But should Vassa be pure or impure? Which 
 would the public prefer? While Mr. Abercrombie 
 pondered this question, Hardtbern and dainty Flo 
 127 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Parsons had a great success as heroines of consid- 
 erable impurity. That decided Mr. Abercrombie, 
 and in the second act he introduced a lover. 
 
 For the love scene he taught Barbara to be volup- 
 tuous, to pant, to walk with slow, dragging feet, and 
 to protrude the abdomen slightly. The act ended 
 with the king's discovery of the guilty pair, a sword 
 fight, the death of Vassa's lover in her bedcham- 
 ber, and the repentant queen's withdrawal to a 
 cloister. 
 
 But if the second act had been impure, the third 
 was in its purity whiter than a snowdrift. 
 
 " White, all white ! " cried Mr. Abercrombie. 
 
 And Vassa, a white-robed nun, counted her beads 
 and fed her doves among the nuns in the convent 
 garden. A short act, relying for its effect upon its 
 purity. But it concluded with a crash of arms. 
 The country was at war, the royal forces were in 
 peril, and in their harness of grey steel the mar- 
 shals and generals, gathering in the convent, be- 
 sought Vassa to lead the troops that would set out 
 that night to save the king. 
 
 " Do you see ? " cried Mr. Abercrombie. " In 
 act four you'll wear chain mail. You'll be a Joan 
 of Arc. You'll absolve your sins by conquering 
 the enemy." 
 
 " But Vassa," Barbara objected, " knows noth- 
 ing about warfare." 
 
 128 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "What did Joan of Arc know about warfare?" 
 Mr. Abercrombie snarled. 
 
 Barbara grasped and executed Mr. Abercrombie's 
 suggestions with an accuracy that caused him, she 
 believed, to overpraise her. For her work was only 
 imitation. Thus, as the queen voluptuary, she imi- 
 tated Hardtbern ; as the queen warrior she imitated 
 Flo Parsons; as the beggar girl she imitated Voe. 
 And she perceived that " Vassa," too, was only imi- 
 tation — the tawdriest act from this success patched 
 awkwardly to the tawdriest act from that. 
 
 Nevertheless, humble and painstaking, she worked 
 hard. To learn merely to imitate often seemed be- 
 yond her powers. And lo, after an infinity of blind, 
 perplexed gropings, after an infinity of failures, she 
 saw Vassa, like a doll in her hands, begin to breathe, 
 begin to move and speak and laugh with a real life 
 of her own. Vassa, though still a composite of imita- 
 tions, was yet — O happy miracle — somehow alive. 
 
 Barbara worked hard, and on Sunday afternoons, 
 under the wing of Millicent Mortimer Miller and 
 Agnes Atwood, she met at teas and receptions the 
 critics, playwrights and novelists of New York. 
 
 Critics, playwrights, novelists — she liked them 
 because they were sincere. They really believed 
 that they were great, they really believed that they 
 made New York, like Paris, a centre and a hotbed 
 of the arts, they really believed that the world's eye 
 129 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 was on them ; and to tlie beautiful and modest girl 
 they boasted so naively that she was always sorry 
 when the time came to return with Millicent Morti- 
 mer Miller and Agnes Atwood to the boarding-house. 
 
 Millicent Mortimer Miller and Agnes Atwood 
 worked on the Dispatch. Day after day, between 
 them, they filled the Dispatch's "woman's page." 
 While the average " woman's page " contained 
 articles about superb waste-paper baskets made of 
 old bowler hats, the Dispatch's was wholly devoted to 
 sexual topics. Millicent Mortimer Miller, for ex- 
 ample, would pretend that a matron had sent her a 
 letter : " I was unfaithful to my marriage vows nine 
 years ago, and conscience now urges me to confess 
 all to my husband. What do you advise ? " Under 
 the pretence that in her dilemma this matron must 
 be helped, Millicent Mortimer Miller would write 
 two or three columns about the dreariness of mari- 
 tal fidelity, the power and delight of passion, and 
 the difficulty that a middle-aged woman must always 
 experience in resisting the advances of a handsome 
 youth. She would cite examples and give details — « 
 Mrs. A's defeat by young B, young D's repulse by 
 Mrs. C — and beneath the thin veil of her hypo- 
 critical sermonizing there writhed and glowed an 
 eroticism almost maniacal. 
 
 But Agnes Atwood reminded Barbara of the Cin- 
 naminson gossips. She was, in fact, a typical village 
 
 130 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 gossip, speaking, in all the village gossip's coarse- 
 ness and ignorance, to a million persons instead of 
 to one. If a drunken reprobate of fifty chanced to 
 carry off a little girl of nine or ten, Agnes Atwood 
 put her foul nose on the scent. She interviewed the 
 reprobate in his cell. She interviewed the little girl 
 on her mother's knee. She gloated, she raged, and 
 incredible in their crude frankness were the revela- 
 tions that she spread before the horrified and eager 
 readers of the Dispatch's " woman's page." 
 
 " Vassa " neared its end. The company began 
 to be engaged. Millicent and Agnes inserted many 
 paragraphs about the new play in the Dispatch, and 
 Mr. Abercrombie sent them tickets for " The 
 Blonde Widow " and gave them remunerative work 
 to do. The critics also got remunerative work 
 from Mr. Abercrombie, and in their tremendous 
 supplements Barbara's photograph as Vassa ap- 
 peared again and again. 
 
 Thus she became a personage. The best shops in- 
 sisted upon selling her the smartest gowns on credit. 
 And in her box at the matinee, in her hansom in 
 Fifth Avenue, Barbara, very elegantly dressed, 
 floated in a delicious bath of flattering glances. 
 
 So her days passed — the morning before the 
 mirror in her room, the afternoon with Mr. Aber- 
 crombie or at matinee or tea, and the evening in 
 the chorus of "The Blonde Widow." 
 
 131 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " The Blonde Widow " was a great success. Its 
 chorus was the most beautiful that New York had 
 ever seen. Barbara herself felt a strange delight 
 as she dressed in the large dressing-room amid the 
 beauty of that band of girls. . . They drove to the 
 theatre in hansoms, and, always late, they disrobed 
 hurriedly, piHng in disordered mounds sables and 
 ermine, Paris gowns, and hats of a strange grace. 
 Their costly lingerie, tossed through the air, fell 
 very slowly, like down, upon the floor in soft, light 
 heaps. On their stockings of gossamer silk gleamed 
 garters whose jewelled clasps contained tiny pow- 
 derpuffs, watches, miniatures. . . And if their 
 apparel was exquisite, they themselves, thanks to 
 the extraordinary and laudable perfection of their 
 toilet, they themselves, as they dressed or un- 
 dressed, as they drew on their little shoes, fastened 
 their stays, stepped out of foamy petticoats, were 
 more exquisite than their apparel. Their white 
 teeth and their pink nails possessed a glancing, 
 gemlike polish. Their slender limbs and bodies had 
 a marble firmness. And when, straight and supple, 
 they ran across the dressing-room, their young 
 flesh, with the light flowing over it, looked translu- 
 cent, luminous. . . They came to the theatre 
 hurriedly in hansoms, departing hurriedly, with 
 elderly millionaires, in little broughams. 
 
 But Barbara always departed alone. 
 132 
 
XIII 
 
 She departed alone until the night Jerome S. Mc- 
 Wade took her out to supper. 
 
 Jerome occupied a stage box that night. There, 
 despite his high opinion of himself, the audience's 
 critical stare oppressed him. Under it he sat mo- 
 tionless, in a wooden and constrained attitude, his 
 white-gloved hands laid awkwardly on his knees. 
 
 In his lapel was a mauve orchid, and at the end 
 of the second act an usher, bearing high in air a 
 great basket of mauve orchids, ran gracefully down 
 the aisle. 
 
 " Miss Gwynne ! " 
 
 From the chorus Barbara in her short skirt came 
 forward to receive the flowers. There was a rattle 
 of applause. Bowing and smiling, she saw Jerome's 
 card pinned to a long mauve ribbon, and she 
 glanced at him coquettishly. But he did not meet 
 her glance. He sat with downcast eyes, alone in 
 the huge, dark box, clapping gloomily. 
 
 " He doesn't like my short skirt," she thought ; 
 
 133 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 and this thought amused and at the same time 
 pained her. 
 
 She found him, at the end of the performance, 
 waiting at the stage door. He stood bareheaded 
 under an electric Hght. His cape-coat was thrown 
 open, reveahng all the elegance of his shirt-Losom, 
 wherein a diamond glittered. In one hand he held 
 a gold-knobbed stick, and in the other his closed 
 opera hat. 
 
 '* Why, Jerome, how grand you are ! " 
 
 He opened the opera hat with a boom, set it hur- 
 riedly on his head, and, as he clasped her slim fin- 
 gers, the gold-knobbed stick fell clattering on the 
 sidewalk. 
 
 A victoria, with two horses and a resplendent 
 coachman, bore them smoothly through the mild 
 April night to the restaurant. Barbara, enjoying 
 the ride, knew that for Jerome this was a night 
 apart, though how supremely it was a night apart 
 she had no means of knowing. How could she 
 know, for example, that in her honour his dress, 
 from top to toe, was quite new, like a bride- 
 groom's ? 
 
 They descended at Delmonico's. Jerome nerv- 
 ously opened and closed his opera hat with sharp 
 reports. The mattre d'hotel led them to a little 
 table covered with orchids. 
 
 ** More orchids ! " the young girl cried. 
 
 134 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 He made no reply. The restaurant, like tHe box, 
 oppressed him. During the first part of the sup- 
 per he drank rather than ate. This wise course 
 soon put him at his ease. 
 
 " How is Cinnaminson, Jerome ? " 
 
 "The same as usual. I suppose youVe heard 
 about Dr. Harper ? " 
 
 "No. What about him?" 
 
 " His sermons are the hit of the year." 
 
 " Are they good sermons ? " 
 
 "Yes; very good and very sensational. He is 
 preaching this month a series on the white slave 
 traffic that the newspapers are giving columns and 
 columns to. It is rumoured that he has had a call 
 to a fashionable Peanut Street charge." 
 
 " And you are succeeding too, aren't you ? " 
 
 He drank off a glass of hock, leaned back, and 
 looked arrogantly at the men and women seated at 
 the hundred little tables of the supper-room. 
 
 " I bet there's more than one chap here I could 
 buy out." 
 
 "Are you as successful as all that?" 
 
 " Nothing to what I will be. I suppose you 
 know I've bought the livery stable and turned it 
 into a cream factory ? " 
 
 " Zenobia Cream ? " 
 
 " Yes ; of course." 
 
 And eating and drinking heartily, he described 
 
 135 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 the chain of beauty parlours wherewith he would 
 soon link New York to San Francisco. With the 
 quail champagne was served, and, to be ready for 
 the champagne, he finished hurriedly a glass of 
 Chateau M out on Rothschild. 
 
 " I think you've overdone the wine," said Bar- 
 'bara. 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 For he had read in a Sunday newspaper that 
 in all properly served meals a different wine went 
 with each course. Six wines, accordingly, accom- 
 panied their supper. His face was flushed by the 
 time the coffee came on. Lighting a very long 
 and black cigar, he swallowed a liqueur thirstily. 
 
 " What a big cigar ! " said the young girl. 
 
 "It's a dollar article." 
 
 " Dear me, you must be getting on, Jerome ! " 
 
 " Well, Barbara " — his red face smiled indul- 
 gently amid blue smoke wreaths — "well, Barbara, 
 I've got fifty girls in the factory, three salesmen 
 on the road, and four new parlours ready for 
 opening." 
 
 " You've built your mother a house, too, haven't 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes, a little gem." 
 
 " Some day you'll be a millionaire." 
 
 " If I can secure a couple of the franchises I've 
 got my eye on, I'll be a multi-millionaire." 
 
 136 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "How happy you'll be then, eh?" 
 
 But he shook his head. 
 
 "No," he said. "No, I never expect to be 
 happy." 
 
 " Why, you look happy now, Jerome ! " 
 
 " I am happy now." 
 
 She blushed, her eyes fell, and, twirling the stem 
 of her glass, she said in a soft, constrained and 
 gentle voice: 
 
 " Any one so kind deserves to be happy." 
 
 137 
 
XIV 
 
 " So in the autumn you'll be a leading lady ! " 
 
 Ford rose, took up his hat and stick, and held 
 out his hand. 
 
 " How funny you look in that rig,** said Barbara. 
 
 He had worn in Cinnaminson country clothes — 
 brown shoes, flannel collars, soft, rough lounge- 
 suits in dull greens or greys — but in New York his 
 dress was rich and lustrous. The black morning 
 coat buttoned tight, and in the dark trousers the 
 pattern could hardly be discerned. The silk hat 
 glittered; the boots with their tops of grey cloth 
 glittered; and even to his bright hair, brushed 
 smoothly back, a glitter had somehow been im- 
 parted. 
 
 "Don*t you like the rig?" he asked. 
 
 " I don't know," said she. She thought him ele- 
 gant, but was not his elegance too quiet? She re- 
 called Elisha Chew's garb, which, like the plumage 
 of a splendid bird, caught the eye at once. " Some 
 
 138 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 young men," she said, "get all their clothes in 
 London." 
 
 " What if I got all my clothes in London ? " 
 
 He extended his hand again, but Barbara, still 
 ignoring it, rose and went restlessly to the open 
 window. The street, grey and old, was gilded with 
 sunshine, and the maples rustled their new foliage 
 softly. The air upon her flesh was a delicious ca- 
 ress ; the magic of the spring filled her with a joy 
 as keen as pain. She said fretfully: 
 
 "Oh, where are you going in such a hurry? 
 What a divine afternoon ! And I must stay in my 
 room and work ! " 
 
 " Come with me." Then he hesitated. " No ; 
 I'm afraid it would bore you." 
 
 " I don't think it would bore me." 
 
 She turned to him with a smile, and her eyes 
 rested in his, her tender, virginal eyes, which 
 seemed at once to offer and to beseech happiness. 
 Her beauty flashed and glowed, it cast a spell over 
 the young man, and with a sigh he approached her. 
 But her eyes fell, she blushed, and turning to the 
 window again, she repeated, in a mechanical and 
 breathless voice: 
 
 " It wouldn't— bore me." 
 
 He thought his air had frightened, even offended 
 her; and to reassure the young girl he assumed a 
 matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 139 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Then get your hat," he said. " Vm going out 
 to our new laboratory." 
 
 In half an hour they were in the country. 
 
 Their carriage advanced slowly, clouds of dust 
 swirling up behind it, along a white road between 
 green hedges. The sun was bright and hot, but 
 cool airs were astir. On every side fresh meadows 
 sloped, and the fruit trees were changed to enor- 
 mous pink and white bouquets. With gentle and 
 delicate grace the snowy fruit trees swayed against 
 a sky of dazzling blue. 
 
 " Why didn't you write to me ? " he said. 
 
 " Well, you see," said Barbara, " I never ran out 
 of money." 
 
 "What has that got to do with it?" 
 
 " Don't you remember the reason you asked 
 me to write? You feared I'd need help, you 
 know." 
 
 She laughed, but he persisted: 
 
 "Why didn't you write?" 
 
 " Because." 
 
 "Because what?" 
 
 " Because," she said, in a low voice, " you didn't 
 want me to." 
 
 " Because I didn't want you to ! " 
 
 " You didn't want me to," she repeated. 
 
 " If you only knew ! " 
 
 "But you didn't, did you?" 
 
 140 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 His air changed suddenly. He blurted, in a 
 harassed and angry tone: 
 
 " No, I didn't. You have your work ; I have 
 mine. Why, then, disturb each other? To work 
 calmly — that is the only happiness. After you went 
 away I thought of you all the time. I was 
 wretched. I did nothing. And now again, this 
 meeting. . .'' 
 
 " You are sorry we met again ! " 
 
 He looked at her. She was dressed in white. 
 Even the little shoe thrust out nervously from be- 
 neath her skirt was white, and on the slender in- 
 step he saw the glimmer of white silk hose. Her 
 delicate, proud profile was troubled under the huge 
 hat wreathed with violets, and through the lace- 
 like broideries of the blouse the pure flesh of her 
 bosom, stormily heaving, gleamed. 
 
 He took her hand, but she withdrew it. He took 
 it again, and it remained, soft and warm, in his. 
 
 From the swaying fruit trees white blossoms fell 
 through the clear air. They lay on her lap, on his 
 coat; they clung like snowflakes to the old horse's 
 coarse mane. 
 
 '' How happy I am," he said. His voice was 
 sincere and humble. " How happy it makes me to 
 be with you, Barbara." 
 
 She turned to him with soft laughter. 
 
 " I, too, am happy," she said. 
 
 141 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 But the carriage entered a white gateway, and 
 two young men in white hurried forth from a long, 
 low building that resembled a very clean factory. 
 
 " Here we are." 
 
 They descended. Other men in white appeared. 
 There were handshakings and introductions, and 
 they went in to tea. 
 
 " Do you see our goldfish ? " said Ford, as he 
 led Barbara past the fishpond. " Our goldfish are 
 full of trypanosomes." 
 
 " Trypanosomes ? " 
 
 " The microbes that cause sleeping sickness. 
 Sheldon is at work on sleeping sickness." 
 
 At tea the young men, having changed their 
 white dress, argued. They argued about books, 
 about religion, about marriage, about the ideas of a 
 Japanese bacteriologist who had visited them that 
 morning. 
 
 Ford turned to Barbara. " Old Harper," he said, 
 " is getting up a campaign against us." 
 
 " What kind of a campaign ? " 
 
 *' An anti-vivisection campaign. We are sup- 
 posed to roast live rabbits — very gradually — for 
 amusement. Our oven is cold at first. We in- 
 crease the heat a degree or two every five minutes." 
 
 The young men laughed. Barbara liked their 
 air very much. For these young men were not 
 absorbed, as were George Smollett and Jerome S. 
 142 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 McWade, in getting rich quickly by means of legal 
 cheats and thefts. No : they were absorbed in really 
 worthy things : they were absorbed in the effort to 
 make longer and happier the life of man. 
 
 And Barbara, before the air of the young scien- 
 tists, saw for the first time how despicable was the 
 air of the Smolletts and McWades, the air of the 
 business man. The scientists seemed to her by con- 
 trast frank and noble. The business man, beneath 
 his jauntiness and flippancy, seemed cunning and 
 contemptible, deluded and mean. 
 
 Ford, after tea, led her over the building. 
 
 " How nice it is here," she said, impressed by the 
 shining cleanliness of the long white suites, the 
 spacious rooms of white enamel, flooded with clear 
 light, where men in snowy linen worked with glit- 
 tering instruments at tables of glass. " What is 
 the work like?" 
 
 " Do you know what serum therapy is ? " 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 He led her to a window, he nodded towards a 
 sunny field where a dozen horses were grazing 
 among daisies in the shadow of white fruit 
 trees. 
 
 " Those horses," he said, " are living pharmacies. 
 They have got in their blood the power to with- 
 stand certain diseases. Suppose a child takes, for 
 example, diphtheria. We draw then from a horse 
 
 143 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 some diphtheria-proof blood, and this blood we 
 inject into the ailing child. It recovers. Other- 
 wise it would have died. That is serum therapy." 
 
 " Strange ! But what makes the horse's blood 
 diphtheria-proof ? " she asked. 
 
 " I'll show you." 
 
 He took from a porcelain incubator a three- 
 necked glass jar which contained an amber-col- 
 oured fluid covered with a greenish crust. 
 
 " The diphtheria germ," he said, " is alive, like 
 you or me. It lodges in a child's throat and multi- 
 plies, and the child sickens as a plant sickens under 
 plant lice. We secure some of the diphtheria 
 germs from the throat of a diphtheritic child, and 
 we raise them in bouillon as a dog fancier raises 
 dogs in a kennel. This fluid is a bouillon, and this 
 hideous green crust is composed of untold myriads 
 of diphtheria germs." 
 
 The young girl shuddered. 
 
 " And the filtered mixture of germs arid bouillon, 
 a mixture called a toxin, is what gives the horse 
 his disease-proof, his antitoxic quality." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 " Come to the stable." 
 
 She followed him, interested, horrified. She 
 liked his grave enthusiasm. But would anyone be 
 so stupid as to attack him if his work really did 
 good? With a puzzled frown she said: 
 144 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Is it much better to treat diphtheria by serum 
 therapy than by drugs ? " 
 
 *' When diphtheria was treated by drugs," he 
 answered, *' it was a deadly ailment. Now that we 
 treat it by serum therapy it is, if taken promptly in 
 hand, as harmless as a cold." 
 
 They entered a white-tiled stable. A horse 
 turned upon them its mild eyes. 
 
 "My little sister," he said, "died of diphtheria. 
 I was very young, but I still remember faintly my 
 mother's tears as she described the atrocious suf- 
 fering of the poor little girl. . . Such suffering 
 is almost banished, such tears are almost banished, 
 thanks to these patient horses." 
 
 They halted at a white box-stall where two young 
 men were at work. The young men were in white 
 from head to foot; even their faces were masked 
 in white cloths. 
 
 " This is a new horse," said Ford. " They are 
 testing him to make sure he is perfectly healthy." 
 
 "And after that what will they do with him?" 
 
 " When a fortnight's tests have assured them of 
 his health, they'll inject into his veins a cubic centi- 
 metre, half a thimbleful, of the toxin you have seen. 
 That will make him very ill. For three days he'll 
 eat nothing, he'll have a fever, his bones will ache. 
 Then he will recover. 
 
 "A week later he will get another injection of 
 
 145 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 toxin, three cubic centimetres this time, a thimbleful 
 and a half. This injection, thrice the size of the 
 first one, will have on him no more than a third 
 of the first's effect. 
 
 "Another week, and he will get an injection of 
 twenty cubic centimetres that he will hardly feel. 
 In short, he will take, before long, an injection of 
 five hundred cubic centimetres of toxin, more than 
 a pint, more than enough to kill a drove of horses ; 
 and this injection will have no effect on him what- 
 ever. None whatever. For his blood, you see, is 
 now antitoxic. It has developed, somehow, the 
 power to conquer the deadly germ of diphtheria." 
 
 They sauntered out again into the field, where 
 the horses grazed under the white fruit trees. 
 
 " Are they all antitoxic ? " Barbara, in an awed 
 voice, asked. 
 
 " Yes. Each of them takes into his veins five 
 hundred cubic centimetres of toxin every ten days. 
 That keeps his antitoxic power at the proper pitch. 
 And every month he is bled. Every month he 
 gives us eight quarts of blood, eight quarts of diph- 
 theria cure." 
 
 " Poor horses ! " said Barbara. She went from 
 one to another. They let her stroke their scarred 
 necks. " Poor, poor horses ! " 
 
 146 
 
XV 
 
 ** Oh, if I were only back at Smollett's again ! " 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Jerome. 
 
 They were driving to the Abercrombie Knicker- 
 bocker Theatre — to the first night of " Vassa." 
 
 " I seem to be wound up too tight — do you know 
 what I mean ? As if something would snap." 
 
 Through the darkness he saw vaguely the pale 
 profile. Her eyes, looking straight before her, had 
 a sombre glow. Her mouth worked, her fingers 
 drummed on the glass, she crossed and uncrossed 
 her knees, rocked back and forth. Jerome, touch- 
 ing her shoulder, was shocked at the violent trem- 
 bling that, like a torrent, coursed through her 
 flesh. 
 
 " Brace up, Barbara." 
 
 " I can't keep still." 
 
 " Brace up." 
 
 But she turned away ; her slim figure writhed in 
 fright. 
 
 147 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "OH, if I forget my lines! I have so many to 
 say, and now I can't remember one. My brain is 
 in a whirl. What do I say on entering? What do 
 I say to the King? I can't remember!" 
 
 Like a brother he laid his huge, strong hand on 
 her arm. 
 
 " I'm ashamed of you. This is childishness. 
 You're sure to succeed; you know it. Why, Bar- 
 bara, do you suppose a business man like Jake 
 Abercrombie would have sunk a quarter of a mil- 
 lion in ' Vassa ' if he " 
 
 She laughed nervously. " Has it risen to a quar- 
 ter of a million now ? " 
 
 "Brace up." 
 
 " I will ! " Barbara frowned, and, clenching her 
 fists, she sat erect and stiff. " I will ! Every one 
 is like this on a first night. You must have pluck, 
 that's all." 
 
 " Oh, you'll succeed. Jake is a business man." 
 
 " Jerome," she said gratefully, " I'd never have 
 got through this terrible last week without you." 
 
 A week ago, when he had dined with her, his 
 perfect confidence had fortified her strangely; and, 
 on her saying that she wished she had his confi- 
 dence to lean on always, he had volunteered to re- 
 main in New York until the production of " Vassa." 
 
 The carriage halted at the stage door, and Bar- 
 bara, pale and resolute, descended. 
 
 148 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " You'll see me in my box," said he. 
 
 "Will there be any one besides Dr. Ford with 
 you?" 
 
 " Ford won't be there. He wired he couldn't 
 come." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 She frowned, hesitated, then hurried away. Her 
 sad face grieved him. He saw it as he entered the 
 crowded lobby, as he followed the usher to his 
 place, as he sat and waited for the rising of the 
 curtain — a pale, troubled face, the eyes tragic, the 
 mouth disappointed, bitter. . . 
 
 And then, to a burst of gay music, she ran laugh- 
 ing on to the stage, a lovely beggar girl with a 
 rose in her mouth. In heavy, blue-black masses 
 fell her hair, and poverty had torn her gold-col- 
 oured gown, so that long slashes, opening with her 
 movements, revealed for an instant gleams of flesh, 
 the beauty of a supple limb, the snow of a curving 
 shoulder. 
 
 She dominated at once the crowded scene. The 
 audience stirred and rustled. Glasses were levelled 
 hurriedly. 
 
 " What a beautiful girl ! " "A dream ! " Such 
 were the whisperings heard by Jerome. 
 
 Vassa, with the lightest, swiftest grace, climbed 
 a high wall to give a knight a rose. The knight 
 would have embraced her, but she made a perilous 
 149 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 leap, was caught in the arms of two soldiers, and 
 stood laughing, breathless. 
 
 The audience gasped; then, enchanted by her 
 daring, her gaiety, her beauty, it broke into ap- 
 plause. Applause, for more than a minute, stopped 
 the play. 
 
 Jerome regarded with awe the young girl in her 
 slashed golden gown. She stood with head slightly 
 lowered ; her smile was demure ; and the limelight, 
 like moonlight, made her remote, pure and fine, 
 lifting her high above the common run of human- 
 ity, changing her from a girl to a nymph, a goddess. 
 
 And he sighed, perceiving the hopelessness of 
 his dream. . . 
 
 The act progressed, the carnival scene being 
 specially applauded — the twenty-thousand-dollar 
 carnival scene wherein, without a spoken word, a 
 multitude of " supers " capered awkwardly for ten 
 minutes under changing lights. 
 
 " There's stage management for you ! " Donald 
 Dhu, the critic, whispered to Jerome. " A twenty- 
 thousand-dollar stage picture." 
 
 " Twenty thousand dollars ! " 
 
 But the dialogue between Vassa and the King 
 fell flat. This dialogue Mr. Abercrombie believed 
 he had written in a vein of delicate and subtle 
 poetry. Nevertheless it brought the curtain down 
 upon a cold house. 
 
 150 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Too literary for them," sighed the critic. He 
 took Jerome's arm. *' We'll have a beer, eh ? " 
 
 They crossed the street, entered a brilliant sa- 
 loon, and fought their way to the bar. 
 
 " Two beers," said Donald Dhu. 
 
 The bartender took two glasses in his wet and 
 sodden hand, filled them with beer, and levelled 
 off the foam with a paper-knife. 
 
 " * Vassa ' is bound to succeed," said Jerome 
 dubiously. 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 ** They didn't clap very much." 
 
 " This is a Broadway production." 
 
 *'0h, I see." 
 
 But Donald Dhu, noting his puzzled frown, ex- 
 plained : 
 
 " A Broadway audience is the most difficult one 
 in the world. A Broadway production — but did 
 you never hear that term before, Mr. McWade ? " 
 
 "What term?" 
 
 " * A Broadway production.' That term means 
 the top notch. Talk about your French endowed 
 theatres! Why, the first act of a Broadway pro- 
 duction like ' Vassa ' costs more money than six 
 endowed plays." 
 
 " You don't say so ! " 
 
 Jerome bent towards two young men who were 
 discussing Barbara. He heard them praise her 
 
 151 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 grace and her talent. Delighted, he laid his hand 
 on the critic's shoulder. 
 
 ** You must have a bottle of champagne," he 
 said. " Isn't Barbara Gwynne splendid ? " 
 
 Donald Dhu drank off his beer and, protruding 
 his lower lip, sucked the froth noisily from his 
 black moustache. 
 
 " Gwynne isn't bad. But of course she'd be 
 nothing without Jake." 
 
 Jerome had great respect for Donald Dhu, hav- 
 ing been told that the critic's salary was eight 
 thousand dollars a year. Nevertheless he said : 
 
 " Don't fool yourself about Miss Gwynne. She's 
 worth twenty Jake Abercrombies." 
 
 " So you say ! " 
 
 A bell tinkled, and finishing their champagne, 
 they hurried to their seats as the curtain rose upon 
 the second act. 
 
 The second act succeeded. The royal Vassa, 
 young and proud and voluptuous, pleased the audi- 
 ence, and when the King slew her lover in her bed- 
 chamber, under her own guilty eyes, the curtain 
 fell to enthusiastic applause, and there were seven 
 curtain calls. 
 
 A boy in the entr'acte went hurriedly among the 
 critics with typewritten slips describing the fur- 
 niture of Vassa's bedchamber. It was all Louis 
 Quinze. The bed, an historic piece, belonging to 
 
 152 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Madame de Pompadour, had cost nine thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 In the lobby Jerome encountered Dr. Ford. 
 
 " I have just dropped in for a minute," the 
 physician explained. 
 
 "Isn't it great?" said Jerome. "A real Broad- 
 way production, eh?" 
 
 But Dr. Ford, with a contemptuous laugh, placed 
 his hand on his white waistcoat. 
 
 " Great ? It makes me sick," he said. 
 
 " Do you mean that ? " 
 
 " Of course I mean it. When the King harangued 
 the lovers I thought I'd have to rush out." 
 
 "But Barbara is good?" 
 
 " Barbara is wonderful. She has the stage tem- 
 perament, the purest, richest vein of it I've ever 
 seen. Vassa needn't speak, she needn't move, she 
 might be naked — ^but her eyes would tell you she 
 was a real queen." 
 
 " That," cried Jerome, " is what I said to Don- 
 ald Dhu ; but Dhu says she would be nothing with- 
 out Abercrombie." 
 
 Dr. Ford put a fresh cigarette in his long amber 
 tube. "Donald Dhu? Who is he?" 
 
 " The Dispatch's critic. He gets eight thousand 
 a year." 
 
 Tinkling bells called them to their seats, but 
 Ford declared that he could stay no longer, that 
 
 153 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Sheldon awaited him at the institute with some 
 remarkable trypanosome slides. Jerome, however, 
 at the end of the third act, saw him still lounging 
 in the lobby. Then Mr. Abercrombie approached. 
 
 " Come on back, McWade. She wants to see 
 you." 
 
 In her dressing-room Barbara, in her beautiful 
 silver armour, leaned against the chimney-piece. 
 She held her visor in her hand. And by contrast 
 with her mailed figure, which symbolised death, 
 her young face, symbolising life and joy, seemed 
 strangely fair. 
 
 " Didn't I say you'd succeed ? " cried Jerome. 
 
 She advanced to meet him with long boyish 
 strides. " But it's not over yet.'* 
 
 " Yes, it is," said Mr. Abercrombie. " I've 
 caught them again. My seventh success in succes- 
 sion." He pushed back the thick grey curls from 
 his brow and turned to go. '' But we'll have to cut 
 the end of the first act/' he said from the doorway. 
 "It's over their heads." 
 
 Jerome took Barbara's hand. " Is your nervous- 
 ness gone now ? " 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 "When did it go?" 
 
 " It is astonishing," she cried joyously. " I don't 
 remember dressing. Mrs. Harrigan was afraid I'd 
 get hysterics. Then, after I was dressed, I looked 
 
 154 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 up my first speech — my speech to the knight — and 
 I kept repeating it over and over. Of all my 
 speeches it was the only one I knew." 
 
 " You must have been frightened ! " 
 
 " I should say I was frightened, Jerome. Why, 
 I don't even remember my first entrance." 
 
 " And you looked as happy ! " 
 
 '' Happy ! Oh, I shudder to think of it. My 
 legs seemed made of lead as I climbed that wall." 
 
 " You went up like a cat ! " 
 
 " I kept telling myself that I'd forgotten all my 
 part; that I'd ruin the play. And then — ^^when I 
 made my flying leap, you know, and when I heard 
 that blessed, blessed applause — I seemed to awake 
 from a horrid nightmare. Suddenly I could do my 
 best, as though I were at home alone. Yes, I could 
 do better than at home alone: the audience keyed 
 me up." 
 
 Flushed, joyous, she regarded Jerome . . . and 
 her beautiful, clear eyes clouded. 
 
 "You didn't see Dr. Ford?" 
 
 " Yes, he's in the lobby now." 
 
 " Send him to me." 
 
 But Ford had left the lobby ; he could be found 
 nowhere. At last he had obeyed, no doubt, his 
 trypanosomes' persistent call. 
 
 " Vassa's " conclusion, the pageant of victory, 
 was a triumph. The grey stone hall of the castle 
 
 155 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 was hung with white flowers. The young queen, 
 slim and grave, sat on a high gold throne. Be- 
 neath her minstrels sang to great harps, mail-clad 
 nobles caroused, nautch girls danced, and continu- 
 ally the thronged scene's stir and glitter was 
 drenched in changing floods of pink light, blue 
 light, green light, yellow light. 
 
 The curtain descended in a tumult of cheers. It 
 rose again, and Barbara stood in the centre of the 
 stage alone. Three ushers ran forward, extending 
 huge baskets of orchids. From Jerome's box sailed 
 a great bouquet; it fell at her feet softly. Then 
 from all the boxes bouquets pelted her, the applause 
 rose to a bellow, and Barbara, very happy amid her 
 flowers, kissed her hands, she bowed and smiled, 
 and the curtain rose and fell a dozen times. 
 
 156 
 
XVI 
 
 Eleven o'clock, a divine May morning, and the 
 Rev. George Harper, in dressing-gown and slip- 
 pers, still dawdled over his breakfast. 
 
 The red dressing-gown was of flowered flannel, 
 and the red velvet slippers, the handiwork of Mrs. 
 Chew, were embroidered with yellow roses. 
 
 As he sipped his weak coffee, as he nibbled his 
 cold bacon, the Rev. George Harper asked himself 
 in pleased amaze what it was that gave him such 
 a holiday feeling. He remembered with a smile. 
 It was the spring. 
 
 He wandered, after breakfast, over the house. 
 He nosed in the dark cellar amongst the contents 
 of the larder. He conversed blandly with the 
 " hired girl " as she scrubbed the kitchen floor. 
 Then, while his wife made their bed, he described, 
 lounging in an armchair by the open window, the 
 larder's sour odour and the greasy look of the 
 cooking utensils — proof that the hired girl needed 
 
 157 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 another reprimand. But his wife accepted this 
 proof drily. 
 
 Dinner, steak and potatoes, was at one. Of 
 course, since he had breakfasted at eleven, he had 
 no appetite for dinner. He ate, however, half a 
 hot cherry-pie brought in to him by Annie Johnson. 
 He still wore the red dressing-gown and the red 
 slippers. 
 
 After a nap in the study, he began, at three, the 
 composition of two sermons. He finished the ser- 
 mons at four. Then, throwing himself on the 
 couch again, he read '' The Opening of a Chestnut 
 Burr " till supper time. 
 
 Mr. Harper was growing. He now got his name 
 occasionally in the press, and when, a momentous 
 question arising, he notified a dozen papers that 
 he had an important interview to give out, one 
 or two of the papers would sometimes send a re- 
 porter to him. 
 
 Mr. Harper hoped soon to outgrow Ebenezer. 
 Meanwhile he did all he could to make Ebenezer 
 attractive. Thus a holiday sermon would be il- 
 lustrated with tableaux, and every five minutes he 
 would pause in his argument, the curtain behind 
 him would be drawn, and in the silence a young 
 girl in a white robe, her eyes closed, her stiffly 
 crimped hair unbound, would be seen on her knees 
 embracing an enormous cross. At the right mo- 
 
 1158 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 ment on Easter Sunday doves were let loose. He 
 had a crowded house when he befouled, in a dis- 
 course entitled '' Sewage," the beauty of a work 
 of art. 
 
 His supper was spoiled by a note, strangely cold, 
 from Mrs. Chew. She said: 
 
 " George, — At your request a detective agency 
 has sent me an estimate of $300 for gathering 
 further evidence against the vivisectors, but as I 
 am rather short just now, I think you had better 
 abandon this expensive project for the present. — 
 C C." 
 
 Mr. Harper trembled. 
 
 "Short!" he cried. "It's Ross Dagar's fault 
 if she's short. I'll see Brother McWade about 
 this." 
 
 In the sitting-room of his apartment at the Hotel 
 Washington, Jerome S. McWade rose to welcome 
 the divine. 
 
 " Doctor, Vm glad to see you." 
 
 " I thank you. Brother McWade." 
 
 " Sit down and have a cigar." 
 
 They drew their chairs close to the radiator, 
 which emitted a faint smell of paint and iron. It 
 was a bitter night, and, taxed to its utmost, the 
 radiator clanked and gurgled. Mr. Harper slapped 
 its hot surface with his icy hands. 
 
 159 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Brr ! This warmth is grateful/' 
 
 " There's nothing Hke steam heat." 
 
 They smoked a while in silence. Then 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't go on with that vivisection 
 business," said Jerome. 
 
 Mr. Harper sighed. " I have called, brother, on 
 a more painful errand." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 Erect on the edge of his chair, holding his cigar 
 between thumb and forefinger at arm's length, Mr. 
 Harper said: 
 
 " Dear Brother McWade, can you, before 
 Heaven, affirm that your several beauty parlours 
 make for righteous and meek living? " 
 
 "Of course I can!" 
 
 Mr. Harper laid his cigar on the radiator. 
 
 " Yet, through your agency, Mrs. Silas Pettit 
 has been swindled out of a hundred and thirty 
 dollars." 
 
 "It's a lie!" 
 
 "Bear with me." Mr. Harper flushed. His 
 hand, clasping his beard, shook. " Bear with me," 
 he resumed. " It is a painful topic. But, brother, 
 your Peanut Street beauty parlour has planted a 
 spirit of vanity in Mrs. Pettit, and a young man, 
 by preying on this spirit, has robbed our dear sis- 
 ter of her savings." 
 
 " What are you talking about ? " 
 i6o 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Listen. Sister Pettit is no longer young. But, 
 thanks to you, her hair is a bright brown, and her 
 painted face has at a distance the look of a girl's, 
 A scoundrel, the son of Doctor Dagar " 
 
 " Do you mean Tank Dagar ? " 
 
 "Yes, Ross Dagar. Ross, in the autumn, made 
 her acquaintance. He pretended to be in love with 
 her. She is fifty-one ; he is twenty-four ; but, if she 
 believed in her rejuvenation, why shouldn't she be- 
 lieve in his love? They met secretly. They wined 
 and dined. I hope and pray they went no further." 
 
 " Young Tank Dagar ! " Jerome's cigar, held in 
 the corner of his mouth, slanted up towards his 
 eye, which was closed to keep out the smoke. 
 "Young Tank Dagar!" 
 
 " I pray they went no further. But, on their 
 last excursion. Sister Pettit had her savings with 
 her. For there had been, I believe, some talk of 
 an elopement. The young man got possession of 
 her purse, and, on taking leave, he forgot to re- 
 turn it. She has never seen him since. He answers 
 none of her letters." 
 
 " But the police " 
 
 " Think of the scandal, brother." 
 
 " Well," said Jerome, " I don't see what's to be 
 done." 
 
 " In this case nothing can be done. But, Brother 
 McWade " 
 
 i6i' 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 The voice of the divine became deep and im- 
 pressive, like a tolling bell. He took up his cigar, 
 but it had gone out. He relighted it, regard- 
 ing Jerome solemnly above the leaping match 
 flame. Then he resumed: 
 
 " Brother McWade, there is another case. This 
 young man has now begun to prey on the vanity 
 which you have likewise planted, albeit uncon- 
 sciously, in our church's benefactress, Mrs. Char- 
 lotte Chew." 
 
 "Oho!" 
 
 " The impudence ! " Mr. Harper began to pace 
 the floor. " Last night, when I called, I found him 
 there, smoking cigarettes. The young degenerate ! " 
 
 "Where is Elisha?" 
 
 " In California." 
 
 " Well," said Jerome, " I don't see how this con- 
 cerns me." 
 
 " Brother McWade, if you would warn 
 her!" 
 
 " That's a delicate job. She's a good customer 
 of mine. Why don't you warn her yourself?" 
 
 " Ah, how can I, without disclosing Sister Pet- 
 tit's secret? A secret, so to speak, of the con- 
 fessional." 
 
 But Jerome shook his head. " I won't inter- 
 fere.'^ 
 
 " Then — ^then — if they marry " 
 
 162 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 In his distress Mr. Harper wrung his hands. 
 Jerome, regarding him curiously, said: 
 
 " Do you know when he will meet her next ? " 
 
 " He will meet her to-morrow afternoon as she 
 leaves your parlour." 
 
 " Well, I'll see what I can do." 
 
 " It is no more than your duty, brother. But, 
 all the same, I thank you. I thank you from my 
 heart." Mr. Harper took up his hat. His manner 
 denoted humble gratitude and unspeakable relief. 
 " Good-night. God bless you, brother ! " 
 
 '' Stay and eat something," Jerome cried heartily. 
 " I always have supper here. It's fine to live in a 
 hotel." 
 
 *' It must be. But isn't it expensive ? " 
 
 " Some weeks my bill will run to sixty dollars." 
 
 "Can you afford that?" 
 
 " I wouldn't be here if I couldn't. I'm a busi- 
 ness man." 
 
 Mr. Harper's roving eye lit on a photograph of 
 Barbara Gwynne. 
 
 " What a success," he said, " Miss Gwynne is 
 having. I understand she gets five hundred. 9 
 week." 
 
 " That's about the figure." 
 
 " My wife saw yesterday at a fashionable mil- 
 liner's a hat labelled ' The Vassa.' " 
 
 "There's a 'Vassa' cigar, too." 
 163 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Jerome rang, and a waiter brought a menu. 
 Studying it, he said: 
 
 " Blue Points on the shell. Stout. Porterhouse 
 steak and mushrooms. Cold boiled ham. Cheddar 
 cheese. How does that suit you, doctor ? " 
 
 Rubbing his hands in delight, Mr. Harper re- 
 plied : 
 
 " Excellently well, all but the stout. As you 
 know, I abstain." 
 
 " Rubbish. It is criminal to refuse a wholesome 
 stimulant on a cold night like this." 
 
 "As you will, then, Brother McWade. As you 
 will." 
 
 Jerome spent the next morning with his adver- 
 tisement writer. He was now advertising, in a 
 hundred newspapers and magazines, the Zenobia 
 products — the skin foods, complexion soaps, black- 
 head lotions, astringents, creams, vinegars, and hair 
 tonics that he made in his Cinnaminson factory. It 
 paid him to advertise — he could afford to advertise 
 — because he sold his wares for ten, twenty, even 
 fifty times their worth. 
 
 After modifying slightly the lies in a dozen ad- 
 vertisements, he lunched at Wilby's Oyster Bay. 
 At Wilby's gathered the fairly prosperous business 
 men, the lawyers and politicians, of the city. These 
 men ate hot instead of cold luncheons, they sat on 
 164 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 chairs instead of pegs, and they shaved thrice in- 
 stead of twice a week. 
 
 He lunched on an oyster stew, hurried back to 
 his desk, and took up a metal contrivance resem- 
 bling a short glove-finger. It was a widely-adver- 
 tised clip that, worn at night, improved the shape 
 of the nose. Though the clip was patented, he had 
 almost resolved to manufacture it himself: the 
 patent could easily be dodged; and he examined a 
 sheet of sketches suggesting such slight variations 
 as would enable him to steal with impunity the 
 patentee's idea. It would be fun to make these clips. 
 They would cost about five cents, they would sell 
 at about fifty cents: a thousand per cent, profit! 
 But the advertising would eat up most of that. 
 
 As he finished a letter asking his lawyers to pass 
 on the legality of the clip's theft, a manicurist in- 
 formed him that Mrs. Chew was about to depart. 
 He hurried to the window. A young man, tall and 
 robust, leaned carelessly against the door-post of 
 the entrance. 
 
 " Hell ! " said Jerome. " This won't do." And 
 he saw in fancy his Peanut Street entrance thronged 
 with young poor men, as a stage-door is thronged 
 with old rich men. 
 
 Ross Dagar, on Mrs. Chew's appearance, gave a 
 start of joy, and, hat in hand, he bent over the 
 squat old woman chivalrously and tenderly. 
 
 i6S 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Jerome followed them. They sauntered out 
 Peanut Street. In front ofvthe Westminster Mrs. 
 Chew extended to Ross Dagar some money which 
 the youth accepted with a hurried, merely formal 
 protest. Then they entered the hotel. 
 
 Jerome was annoyed, but at the same time he 
 could not help admiring Ross Dagar's astuteness. 
 
 " If Tank would brace up," he mused, " what a 
 business man he'd make ! " 
 
 As he paced before the hotel, he could see, by 
 rising on tiptoe, Mrs. Chew's face and the back 
 of Dagar's head. Mrs. Chew drank tea. Dagar 
 consumed great mugs of beer. 
 
 When, a half-hour later, they came forth, Jerome 
 followed them to the station. They took the Cin- 
 naminson train, and he did likewise. But even at 
 Cinnaminson they did not separate. Entering the 
 Chew brougham, they ascended Green Lane. 
 
 Jerome hastened to Garret's. Thence he pur- 
 sued them in a carriage. But half way up the hill 
 he encountered, much to his surprise, Ross Dagar 
 coming down again on foot. 
 
 "Hello, Tank, where are you off to?" 
 
 " I'm going to town to look up some of the 
 boys." 
 
 " Come and have dinner with me, will you ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, with pleasure." 
 
 " We'll just stop at the chicken farm first." 
 i66 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Entering the carriage, Ross Dagar plunged spir- 
 itedly into the narrative of a recent bar-room tri- 
 umph — a victory he had gained over an alderman 
 in a violent political discussion, half argument, half 
 personal abuse. Jerome was reminded of a sting- 
 ing phrase wherewith, as a grocery clerk, he had 
 once silenced the old grocer. Thus the young men, 
 recounting success after success, jolted, through the 
 dismal winter twilight, over the Ridge Road's hum- 
 mocks of frozen mud. The ride to the chicken farm 
 seemed strangely short. 
 
 " We'll make no noise," Jerome whispered, as 
 they got down; and he opened the farm gate very 
 quietly. " I am losing money here. So I like to 
 surprise Bill Stroud now and then." 
 
 " To see how the land lies, eh ? " 
 
 On tiptoe, with pursed lips, they ascended the 
 path. They had a severe and virtuous air. At the 
 sound of music they halted, regarding one an- 
 other with shocked eyes. Then they advanced 
 again. 
 
 Gaining the kitchen window, Jerome peered in 
 with a scowl. Bill Stroud, seated at the head of a 
 long table, was entertaining a dozen friends: a 
 dozen young men and girls, gaudily dressed, whose 
 hue ranged from amber to deep chocolate. Some 
 of the young men and girls were finishing a supper 
 of corn-pone, cabbage, and boiled bacon with a 
 167 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 black molasses sauce. Others bent over a keg of 
 beer that stood in a corner. A blind boy behind 
 the red hot stove played a cake walk, and one lithe 
 couple danced. 
 
 They danced well, that pair. The youth, his 
 arms crooked jauntily, leaning far back, bounded 
 forward in time to the music. The girl, too, leant 
 far back as she advanced ; she held her skirts breast 
 high, lifting her round knees, and swinging white 
 cascades of lace from side to side. 
 
 " Is it any wonder Fm losing money here ? " 
 
 " They dance well," Ross Dagar answered. 
 
 Jerome regarded them. The accordeon crashed, 
 their bodies touched, the white froth of the girl's 
 skirts brushed back and forth across the youth's 
 face. 
 
 "They do dance well," he agreed. 
 
 And he turned away. After all, what good 
 would it do to burst in on his employee? They 
 seemed very happy, those coons. Why spoil their 
 evening? 
 
 " We're all entitled to an occasional good time," 
 he said, leading the way towards the carriage. 
 
 And at dinner, as the second bottle of champagne 
 neared its end, he repeated that perilous opinion. 
 
 " My creed exactly," said Ross Dagar. " Let's 
 have cigars and coffee, and afterwards I'll take you 
 to see two very fine girls." 
 i68 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 But the coffee cleared and strengthened Jerome's 
 mind, and he now approached the task before him 
 calmly. 
 
 " Tank, I want to talk to you." 
 
 " Fire away." 
 
 " You're apt to get yourself in trouble." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "You'll get yourself in trouble, Tank, if you 
 don't stop preying on women." 
 
 " What the devil do you mean, McWade ? " 
 
 " I mean Mrs. Silas Pettit and so forth." 
 
 Ross Dagar flushed, and, bending forward to- 
 wards Jerome, he said eagerly: 
 
 " Preying on women, eh ? Well, what is your 
 business but preying on women ? " 
 
 " You must be drunk," said Jerome haughtily. 
 
 But Ross cried: 
 
 " Don't you get women's money by pretending to 
 make them young and pretty again? Well, I got 
 Mrs. Pettit's money by pretending that she really 
 was young and pretty." 
 
 " You did, eh ? Then you ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself." 
 
 " I am ashamed of myself. But aren't you 
 ashamed of yourself, too ? " 
 
 " Me ashamed ? No, of course not." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because I am engaged in a lawful business. I 
 169 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 improve women's health and looks. But you — 
 why, you're apt to land in gaol." 
 
 " I shouldn't want to go to gaol," Ross Dagar 
 admitted. " Who told you " 
 
 " Never mind about that. You'd better return 
 Mrs. Pettit's money, though." 
 
 " I'm going to, damn you. It's worrying me to 
 death. I never intended to keep it, anyhow. You 
 see, I happened to meet some of the boys that night. 
 But I'll pay her back. Look here." 
 
 Ross Dagar exhibited proudly a large roll of 
 banknotes. 
 
 " Robbing Peter to pay Paul," Jerome said to 
 himself. But this roll of banknotes^ all the same, 
 impressed him deeply. This roll of banknotes had 
 been obtained, as it is every business man's highest 
 ambition to obtain money, with a minimum output 
 of time and labour. This roll of banknotes had 
 cost Dagar only an hour of pleasant converse and 
 beer drinking. 
 
 " Tank," he cried, " I need a man like you. Do 
 you want a job? " 
 
 "What kind of a job?" 
 
 " Well, at the start, I'd put you on the road sell- 
 ing massage machines to barbers." 
 
 "Good pay?" 
 
 " Commission and expenses, with a guarantee of 
 thirty dollars a week." 
 
 170 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 This was the first real appreciation, the first real 
 offer of a job, that Ross Dagar had ever received. 
 It moved him profomidly. 
 
 " Thanks, old man/' he said. " I won't disap- 
 point you. You'll see." 
 
 " And that other business — you'll give it up, eh ? " 
 
 " Sure, old man. I'll return Mrs. Pettit's loan 
 and Mrs. Chew's as well. I'll make a hit with 
 those massage machines." 
 
 " Oh, I know you ! " cried Jerome. " You'll get 
 there. I may give you, before long, some important 
 political work." 
 
 " Politics is my game," said Ross Dagar. He 
 finished in rapid sequence his champagne, coffee 
 and Tarragone. " Now pay your bill, McWade, 
 and we'll look up those two girls." 
 
 But Jerome, swallowing the last of his sweet 
 liqueur, became suddenly a little sick. He threw 
 away his cigar. And in a shuddering revulsion 
 from all that alcohol and tobacco his soul turned 
 to Barbara. The thought of Barbara was like a 
 breath of mountain air. . . Barbara or noth- 
 ing .. . 
 
 " Damn your girls," he said. 
 
 He rose unsteadily. 
 
 " Damn your girls. I'm going to bed." 
 
 171 
 
•r 
 
 XVII 
 
 Mrs. Woodford, after her relegation to the back- 
 ground, decided to open a beauty parlour of her 
 own. To this end she set to work resolutely, but 
 it was a long time ere George Smollett and half-a- 
 dozen other capitalists were persuaded to establish 
 her. 
 
 Established, she plunged at once into " orna- 
 mental " or " plastic " surgery. Ornamental or 
 plastic surgery paid, but she could not delight in 
 it as she had delighted in the old-fashioned beauty 
 treatments — in vibratory massage, face-steaming, 
 hip-ironing — for, with its blood, it sickened her. 
 And she would never forget the horror of Dr. 
 Hilary Patterson's first operation. 
 
 It was an operation for the removal of horizon- 
 tal lines from the brow. The patient, an actor of 
 forty-eight or fifty years, sat, stiif with fright, in 
 the operating chair, listening to Dr. Patterson's 
 jokes with a ghastly smile. 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "You see," said Patterson, passing a razor 
 through a gas-jet, " the skin of the forehead has 
 stretched. It has got too big. Well, we'll tighten 
 it up. Then these nasty wrinkles will all disap- 
 pear.'' 
 
 " It's a simple operation, I presume ? " 
 
 " Oh, very simple." 
 
 Patterson shaved a transverse channel across the 
 patient's scalp above the brow. Then he filled a 
 syringe with cocaine. 
 
 '' It's very simple," he repeated. " I make an 
 incision here " — ^he patted the shaven channel — 
 " I draw the skin up tight, I cut off the half -inch 
 or so of surplus, then I sew up my wound. The 
 hair, growing in again, will hide the scar." 
 
 "It won't be painful?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; the cocaine will deaden the pain." 
 
 He injected the cocaine, he made a graceful pass 
 with a gleaming knife, and blood oozed slowly 
 forth. Dr. Patterson, with hands dabbled in 
 blood, began to pull the skin of the forehead 
 upward. 
 
 Mrs. Woodford broke into a cold sweat. The 
 room swam before her eyes, then changed to grey 
 cloud. A feeling of death overcame her. Totter- 
 ing to her office, she fell on the couch in a 
 faint. 
 
 When she returned to the operating room, the 
 
 173 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 patient, at once jubilant and uneasy, stood before 
 the mirror, stroking his brow's smooth, tight 
 surface. 
 
 " You guarantee this ? " 
 
 " Up to the hilt." 
 
 " The wrinkles are gone ; but I don't like the 
 strained look." 
 
 " Oh, that will pass oflF." 
 
 *' There's some difficulty, too, about closing the 
 eyes." 
 
 " It will pass off," Patterson repeated carelessly. 
 
 A regiment of young women came to purchase 
 the dimples and the permanent flush that Mrs. 
 Woodford advertised. The dimple operation failed 
 from the start, but the permanent flush at the be- 
 ginning promised to yield permanent satisfaction. 
 It was a simple scarlet injection, a kind of tattoo- 
 ing, and it looked very well for a week or two, then 
 it faded away. But when a young woman, furious 
 over its disappearance, demanded her money back, 
 Dr. Patterson would only consent to give her an- 
 other injection free. 
 
 A stream of noseless persons horrified and sad- 
 dened Mrs. Woodford. One by one they entered 
 Patterson's office in gloomy excitement. One by 
 one they departed joyfully, stroking noses that the 
 jocular young surgeon had created by means of 
 paraffine. 
 
 174 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 This operation, a bloodless one, was conducted in 
 an atmosphere of low comedy. Patterson, as he 
 melted over an alcohol lamp a mixture of paraffine, 
 isinglass and vaseline, would say gaily: 
 
 " Of course, my boy, this paraffine nose won't 
 be as beautiful as Dante's, but it will get you a 
 girl and a job, and neither girls nor jobs are open 
 to the noseless." 
 
 Then, having applied the local anaesthetic, he 
 would slowly inject melted paraffine from a 
 syringe into the shapeless lump of flesh above his 
 patient's nostrils. As the paraffine hardened in the 
 tissues, he would mould with his fingers the nose 
 that was gradually rising. 
 
 " What shall we make it — Greek or Roman ? " 
 b-^ would cry. 
 
 And in the end the patient would actually have a 
 nose, a nose of mingled paraffine and flesh, and the 
 improvement in his appearance would be mar- 
 vellous. 
 
 But this paraffine nose would be a peril. It 
 would be apt to cause blood poisoning. Further- 
 more, in hot weather, it would be apt to melt and 
 spread, whereupon its owner, applying ice before 
 a mirror, would have to build it up again with 
 moulding finger strokes. 
 
 Dr. Patterson set back protruding ears. He re- 
 moved scars, moles, birthmarks and superfluous 
 
 175 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 hair. But the majority of his operations failed, 
 most of his work harmed rather than benefited the 
 appearance, and in the shape of furious letters, of 
 terrible scenes, of bland, blackmailing lawyers, dis- 
 aster threatened to overwhelm Mrs. Woodford. 
 
 She would have been quite overwhelmed but for 
 the local press. The local press printed nothing of 
 the harm that the ignorant and reckless Patterson 
 worked daily on the community. But the local 
 press, for betraying its readers, for cheating them 
 of news so important to their welfare, extorted, 
 in the form of advertising, a very heavy bribe. 
 
 George Smollett of course abandoned her. Then 
 Patterson, the week before the first of her eight 
 damage suits was to come on, fled with her pretty 
 secretary. In her despair she appealed to Jerome. 
 
 She had come to this pass through ignorance. 
 She had really believed Patterson a reputable and 
 skilled surgeon. She had really expected, by beau- 
 tifying the ugly, to grow rich. 
 
 In the beginning Patterson's failures had 
 troubled her, but the young man had stifled her 
 incipient fears. This patient had disobeyed his or- 
 ders, that one had ceased her visits too soon; and, 
 at any rate, all Patterson's errors put together were 
 176 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 going to prove infinitesimal — oh, she would see! — • 
 beside his innumerable successes. 
 
 So she had drifted on, perceiving, bit by bit, 
 finally realising to the full, the wickedness, the 
 unprofitable, silly wickedness, of this business on 
 which she was embarked. 
 
 And it was such a loathsome business, a business 
 of groans, hospital smells, blood; whereas in 
 Jerome's gay beauty parlours there had been only 
 laughter, pretty girls and perfumes. 
 
 She had decided to abandon the business, but, as 
 she waited to abandon it without loss or scandal, 
 it entangled her more and more, till now . . . till 
 now. . . 
 
 Jerome, to her astonishment, came to her rescue 
 readily. He made her travelling inspector of his 
 long chain of beauty parlours, and his lawyers set- 
 tled her eight damage suits for a song. 
 
 As, in her new post, she sped luxuriously in a 
 Pullman train from Cleveland to Chicago, from 
 Los Angeles to Monterey, Mrs. Woodford often 
 admitted that she had underrated Jerome, that suc- 
 cess was not so easy as she had thought, that 
 Jerome assuredly owed none of his success to such 
 a failure as herself. 
 
 177 
 
XVIII 
 
 Ford turned from the microscope with a sigh. — Too 
 hot to work. He was, besides, jaded and unstrung 
 from a sleepless night. He sank into a chair and 
 closed his eyes. 
 
 Ford could only work when in a state of perfect, 
 buoyant health. To maintain such health he sacri- 
 ficed, with reluctance, many things. Thus, a dev- 
 otee of tobacco, he only smoked on his holidays; 
 and in like manner he eschewed wine and coffee, 
 though to the flavour and the stimulus of both his 
 being made exquisite response. Furthermore, since 
 work demanded tranquillity and devotion, he 
 shunned love. 
 
 The joys of life all called him, but work, thanks 
 to his intelligence, uttered a more imperious call; 
 and through the turmoil of temptations natural 
 to youth and wealth his intelligence curbed and 
 guided him, as a driver curbs and guides a fiery 
 horse. 
 
 178 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 But last night he could not sleep for thinking of 
 Barbara. . . 
 
 A wave of poisonous fatigue passed over him. 
 Nevertheless he rose again, and, focussing the 
 microscope, he beheld a riot of trypanosomes. The 
 trypanosomes resembled short, fat eels, and fiercely 
 and continually they lashed out with their tails. 
 Before their indomitable energy the phagocytes, 
 the blood police, the slayers and devourers of ma- 
 rauding germs, were helpless. The phagocytes, 
 which were like round jellyfish, could not envelop 
 and absorb these huge and violent germs of sleep- 
 ing sickness as they enveloped and absorbed 
 smaller, quieter germs. The phagocytes were 
 hustled and jostled by the terrible trypanosomes 
 like children in a mob of madmen. 
 
 But fatigue again surged through the young 
 man's veins. He went to the thermometer, it marked 
 eighty-nine degrees, and pushing back his damp 
 hair wearily, he saw the sea. He saw the blue sea 
 tumbHng and flashing in a great sunshine. He 
 felt on his hot brow the cold, pure sea wind. 
 Stately breakers crashed on a lonely beach. 
 Gulls circled in a sky of brilliant blue. And he 
 and Barbara, amid wastes of white sand, amid the 
 vibrating glitter of sunshine, walked slowly, side 
 by side, at the edge of the gliding foam. 
 
 He bathed and dressed, and, hailing a hansom, 
 179 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 he drove through the heat and silence to Barbara's 
 flat. She was at home, Miss Hanch said, and the 
 next moment the young girl herself appeared. 
 
 He took her thin hand. " Barbara, I want to ask 
 a favour of you." 
 
 '' What favour ? " And she withdrew her hand 
 so gently, so reluctantly, its withdrawal seemed a 
 more exquisite caress than its remaining. 
 
 " Come to Cape May with me." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Now; at once." 
 
 Barbara mused. 
 
 " Come, won't you ? " 
 
 She glanced at Miss Hanch. " Would Aber- 
 crombie mind ? " 
 
 " I— er— oh, I don't think so," Miss Hanch fal- 
 tered. 
 
 " Won't you come ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " she cried suddenly. She clapped her 
 hands and laughed. " Oh, it will be jolly ! When 
 can we get a train ? " 
 
 "Good! At noon!" 
 
 They met, at noon, in the empty station, and on 
 the ride to Philadelphia they had a " buffet car " to 
 themselves. They lunched in the buffet car, at an 
 exorbitant cost, on nasty messes taken from tins — '. 
 tinned ham, beans, lobster — and after their abomi- 
 nable lunch they beguiled the hot and dusty ride 
 ii8o 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 with picture magazines. In the parched fields 
 many advertisements of Jerome S. McWade's 
 Zenobia Cream confronted them, and, turning 
 wearily from the parched fields, they met the same 
 advertisements again in all their picture mag- 
 azines. Suddenly Miss Hanch looked up and 
 said: 
 
 " Oh, here is Millicent Mortimer Miller's article 
 on vivisection ! " 
 
 And she read aloud: 
 
 " ' Vivisection, in less than a hundred years, will 
 be regarded by medical men as religious men now 
 regard the burning of witches and the tortures of 
 the Spanish Inquisition.' " 
 
 Barbara laughed. " What is your reply to that, 
 Dr. Ford?" 
 
 " How can one reply to such filth ? " said the 
 young man. " Vivisection has banished small-pox, 
 it has changed diphtheria from a deadly to a harm- 
 less ailment ; and yet this woman, in order to make 
 ten or twelve dollars, likens it to the torturing of 
 witches. The only proper reply to her would be 
 a clout over the head." 
 
 " Read on. Miss Hanch," said Barbara, and Miss 
 Hanch read: 
 
 " ' Dr. Henry Ford, a vivisector at the Lester 
 Institute, declares that vivisected animals are spared 
 all needless suffering, yet here is a description 
 i8i 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 given by Gross of one of his * moral experiments ' : 
 * I cut the unborn puppies from a living mother 
 dog and placed them before her in order to see 
 whether she would exhibit the same affection for 
 them as for those naturally born.' " 
 
 "Lies! Lies!" 
 
 " But why should Millicent Mortimer write 
 lies?" 
 
 " Why should the World Magazine print lies ? 
 To make money, that is why ! " 
 
 Languid with the heat, they reached Cape May at 
 five, and like a host the sea wind welcomed them. 
 Cold, tonic, salt, they breathed it in delightedly. 
 It filled them with energy and joy, colouring their 
 pale faces, brightening their tired eyes. 
 
 " Oh, what big breakers ! " cried Barbara, as they 
 drove to the hotel. " What white dunes ! How the 
 reeds wave in the wind ! " 
 
 The enormous hotel, built of wood, resembled a 
 barn, and their rooms were as bare as cells. But 
 their open windows faced the sea; the salt wind 
 shook their clean white curtains. 
 
 Dinner, in a great, bare dining hall, was ex- 
 ecrable: a tinned soup, a chicken spoiled by years 
 of cold storage, and a couple of tinned vegetables. 
 But before them spread the sea again, and as they 
 182 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 dined the sea grew vague and wistful, a few stars 
 came out, and the ruined pier had a strange, sad 
 beauty in the dusk. 
 
 After dinner they strolled through the town. The 
 town was but an ugly huddle of wooden cottages. 
 And at every cottage window sat, in shirt-sleeves 
 and slippers, a Philadelphia aristocrat, pipe in 
 mouth, reading the Bulletin. 
 
 The next morning Miss Hanch had a headache, 
 and Ford and Barbara, after a seven o'clock break- 
 fast, walked to Cape May Point alone. A long 
 walk, on an immense white beach, amid the joy- 
 ous movement and noise and glitter of sea and 
 wind and sun. 
 
 " How gay it is ! " cried Barbara. 
 
 And breakers crashed. Sheets of snowy foam 
 glided over the level sand. The dunes* coarse 
 grasses waved in the wind. The blue sea tumbled 
 and flashed. 
 
 "If life," said Ford, "could be like this al- 
 ways ! " 
 
 "Couldn't it be?" said Barbara. 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 He regarded her moodily. As though drenched 
 her blown dress clung to her. She was as sweet 
 and fresh as the glittering, windy seascape. Nev- 
 ertheless he said : 
 
 183 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "I'm young, but I know well that life is 
 hideous." 
 
 "It's beautiful now." 
 
 " Not to me." 
 
 " But you just said •" 
 
 " Well, I was wrong. Life is hideous even now." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "Fm in love." 
 
 " If you're in love," said Barbara, " why don't 
 you marry ? " 
 
 He gave her another gloomy glance. She was 
 so exquisite in her white dress, it seemed useless 
 to discuss with her aught save jewels or ribbons; 
 but he knew her sturdy mind, and with a faint smile 
 he said: 
 
 " Marriage is a sin." 
 
 "A sin? How is it a sin?" 
 
 " Because it is based on a lie. It is based on the 
 permanence and holiness of love. But love is a 
 mere transient appetite." 
 
 " Do you mean," she said, " that it's only a girl's 
 beauty you'd love ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you'd stop loving her as soon as her beauty 
 began to fade ? " 
 
 " Ah, long before, perhaps. But no sooner than 
 she'd stop loving me." 
 
 "That isn't true." 
 
 184 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "It's true of everybody. And yet " 
 
 He turned to her, but her gaze was fixed on the 
 sea. 
 
 "And yet I'm in love, and I believe my love is 
 different — I believe it will last for ever." 
 
 " But of course it won't," said Barbara. 
 
 " Of course it won't." 
 
 She laughed oddly. "Well, here, at any rate," 
 she said, " is Cape May Point." 
 
 And dropping their discussion, they strolled a 
 long while, in a kind of awe, through the silent, 
 clean and sun-drenched desolation of the abandoned 
 watering place. Strange were the empty hotels, 
 the empty streets, the empty dancing pavilions, all 
 choked with white sea sand. The clean white sand 
 was winning back the clean white wreck of a town. 
 And from the rank grasses of a hundred forsaken 
 gardens rose, at their approach, the cause of all 
 that ruin — ^blue clouds of mosquitoes, whining 
 faintly, that settled by the score upon their backs 
 and shoulders. 
 
 The sea had fallen when they turned. The 
 beach was vaster. They walked on a floor of fine 
 sand as firm as marble. Here and there, in clear 
 pools left by the tide, small crabs scurried busily. 
 
 " I can't get over what you said about love," 
 Barbara mused. " I know you're wrong." 
 
 " You know I'm right." 
 185 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Well," she said, " it's sad if love doesn't last." 
 
 " It's the saddest thing in life." 
 
 But Barbara, frowning, faltered: 
 
 "All the same, I don't believe this ugly, animal 
 love is the foundation of marriage. No; it's the 
 other love — affection. Marriage is beautiful. A 
 man and a girl love one another, they marry, they 
 have children, they grow old. They comfort one 
 another in the sadness and pain of old age. Their 
 children cheer them. And finally one helps the 
 other to face death. Oh, I can't explain it, but — 
 but — marriage is beautiful." 
 
 Her voice shook. He said gently : 
 
 " But there are no perfect marriages such as you 
 describe." 
 
 " Of course there are no perfect ones," said Bar- 
 bara impatiently. *' We ourselves are not perfect ; 
 we all have blemishes that we hate; but do we kill 
 ourselves on that account? You, though, because 
 marriage has its faults, would do away with it al- 
 together." 
 
 " Marriage," he returned, " is nothing but faults. 
 Its only excuse was the welfare of the children. 
 But children can be avoided now." 
 
 She blushed. *' Oh, can they?" she stammered 
 confusedly. And amid an awkward silence they 
 quickened their pace in order not to miss the bath- 
 ing hour. 
 
 i86 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 The bathing beach on their return swarmed with 
 hundreds of Philadelphia aristocrats in short blue 
 bathing garb. The men's white legs were bare, but 
 the women all wore black stockings. It was an odd 
 and animated scene. Here a half-dozen debutantes, 
 in skirts above their knees, tossed a tennis ball. 
 Here, in order to get very brown, a half-dozen 
 youths lay on their backs upon the sand with faces 
 upturned to the sun. Clubmen and matrons, re- 
 clining side by side as in a bed, flirted elegantly. 
 
 Barbara and Miss Hanch and Ford bathed in the 
 cool sea, and after they were dressed again they 
 basked in the warm sunshine. A group of Phila- 
 delphia aristocrats basked near them. Recognising 
 Barbara, the aristocrats glanced at her continually, 
 while in loud tones they talked of aristocratic things 
 — polo, yachts, Newport. But Barbara, quiet and 
 grave in her chair, seemed to hear none of their talk. 
 
 Three determined college girls advanced. Baggy 
 blouses, cut like men's shirts, made their slim bod- 
 ies resemble those of fat old women. Heavy shoes 
 gave their slender feet the proportions of a 
 waiter's. The sun had turned to a rusty brown the 
 roses and lilies of their cheeks, and from their red, 
 inflamed noses the skin was peeling in white scales. 
 
 "How did our campus dance go?" said one of 
 the college girls, her gaze fixed on Barbara. " Let 
 us see if we remember it." 
 
 187 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 And the resolute trio began to dance on the soft 
 sand. They hopped heavily about, they kicked 
 high, and their clear and innocent eyes sought the 
 young actress's in wistful appeal. Nearer and 
 nearer they drew. But Barbara rose. 
 
 " Come," she said, " it's time for lunch." 
 
 After lunch they went crabbing. In a catboat 
 they sailed up narrow channels amid reedy marshes, 
 and every little while they ran aground in foul 
 black mud. The heat and stench were terrible. 
 Big green flies bit them with a bite like a pin-prick, 
 and they caught, by means of rotten fish-heads 
 tied to ends of twine, eight crabs. 
 
 Miss Hanch, overcome with the fatigue of crab- 
 bing, retired to her room as soon as dinner was 
 over, and Barbara and Ford were left alone. 
 
 Alone, an intense embarrassment seized them. 
 They lingered awhile over their coffee in a distant 
 corner of the huge hall. Then Ford said: 
 
 " It is hot here. Shall we go outside ? " 
 
 Barbara rose. He placed her white cloak on her 
 bare shoulders. She followed him forth in silence, 
 spellbound by a kind of joyous dread. 
 
 On the terrace they found a solitary bench that 
 faced the sea. The sea, vague in a shimmering 
 dusk, crashed on the dim beach softly. A crescent 
 moon trailed luminous silver veils in the restless 
 water. 
 
 i88 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 The young man said: 
 
 " How happy it makes me to be with you, Bar- 
 bara." 
 
 " But you said this morning " 
 
 " Oh, I didn't mean what I said this morning. 
 I love you. Will you marry me ? " 
 
 She hurriedly disengaged her waist from his 
 arm. 
 
 " No," she replied. " If I married you, you'd 
 tire of me." 
 
 « No, I " 
 
 " Yes, you would. You said so." 
 
 "Barbara, listen " 
 
 But, seated upright beside him, she covered her 
 face with her long white hands. The cloak fell 
 from her shoulders. The moonlight flowed and 
 gleamed along her arms and bosom and bowed 
 neck. 
 
 "It's true," she sighed. "And it's cruel, it's 
 too cruel, for I'd never tire of you. Never, never, 
 never." 
 
 " Ah, you would. Everybody tires. You would." 
 
 " Well, then," said Barbara, " we mustn't marry. 
 But we'll always be friends." 
 
 " No. Friendship isn't enough. Is it enough for 
 you?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then a girl is different from a man." 
 
 189 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "How is she different?" 
 
 " How indeed ? Who can know the mystery of 
 a girl's heart ? But tell me : is it possible for a girl 
 in love to be content with her lover's friendship ? " 
 
 " Yes, if that will make him happy. That is 
 what she wants — to make him happy." 
 
 " Do you want to make me happy ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Then . . . Barbara ..." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Will you leave the door of your room unlocked 
 to-night?" 
 
 She shivered violently. " But ..." 
 
 " You are cold. Let me draw your cloak about 
 you." 
 
 " No, I am not cold. But . . . but I . . ." 
 
 " I am ashamed," he said. " I've hurt you." 
 
 " No, you haven't hurt me." 
 
 " Then, Barbara . . . will you ..." 
 
 She rose. She stood and looked down in his face 
 gravely. Then she bent over him, he was envel- 
 oped in beauty and perfume, there fell on his brow 
 the softest, lightest kiss. . . 
 
 " Yes ? " he said. His tone was rather shocked 
 than joyous. 
 
 But she had already gone. 
 
 190 
 
XIX 
 
 Ford, left alone, leaned back upon the bench, 
 thrust his hands in his pockets, and extended his 
 legs. His chin sank on his breast. With brows 
 knit in puzzled thought, he tried to fathom the 
 depths of Barbara's girl soul. 
 
 Had she consented? Yes, perhaps. But why 
 had she consented? For her own sake? Or for 
 his? 
 
 The unfathomable depths of a girl's soul. . . 
 
 She had consented, but he felt no joy. And yet, 
 as an instrument of pleasure, she would surely be 
 incomparable and divine. From her beauty shone 
 a light, and to be drawn, by her fresh arms, into 
 the very heart of that light ... to drown in the 
 exquisite glitter of white flesh . . . But his mind 
 dropped the picture. 
 
 She had consented, and he felt no jnv because he 
 forgot her flesh, absorbed in her soul. 
 
 He rose suddenly. He hurried down the de- 
 191 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 serted boardwalk'. Though it was not yet ten, the 
 Philadelphia aristocrats had all gone home to bed. 
 
 Had he done wrong? No. For he had acted 
 honestly and sincerely, he had done nothing wrong 
 . . . unless, perhaps, he had grieved her ? 
 
 With a sigh he descended to the beach. The 
 moon was gone now. Innumerable stars spangled 
 the sky's soft depths. 
 
 Ford, pacing the sands, thought of marriage. 
 Marriage (if unions so brief and casual might be 
 dignified by that name), marriage with primitive 
 man had begun in childhood, as soon as love began, 
 and the average primitive man and the average 
 primitive woman had doubtless contracted fifty, a 
 hundred, even two hundred marriages — as many 
 almost as the average idler of to-day contracts. 
 And marriage of that casual and brief sort had con- 
 tinued for aeons and aeons. And now the human 
 frame was formed for such marriage as indispu- 
 tably as it was formed for upright walking. The 
 present law of marriage seemed to Ford as irk- 
 some and wrong as a law compelling man to walk 
 on all fours. 
 
 To walk on all fours ! Young men and maidens, 
 intoxicated by passion, believed they could stick to 
 that gait for life. And when, cramped at last be- 
 yond endurance, they erected themselves, what 
 ugly griefs ensued, what scandal, what cruel and 
 192 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 insane laughter, as of a world that had suddenly 
 lost its wits. . . He frowned. . . Yes, marriage 
 was impossible. Marriage suited only those mean 
 souls who broke its law secretly. 
 
 But he realised his youth and inexperience, and 
 above all he realised that he had perhaps hurt Bar- 
 bara . . . Barbara . . . was she now awaiting him ? 
 
 He entered Stewart's. He ordered champagne. 
 There ensued a sound of chopping underground, 
 and the man bore in a huge wooden bucket wherein 
 a half-bottle of wine stood amid bits of ice. 
 
 " Now bring me paper and ink," he said. 
 
 He spoke without premeditation, almost involun- 
 tarily; and almost involuntarily he began to write. 
 And as he wrote his distress vanished; a strange 
 sense of peace and joy uplifted him. 
 
 " Dear Barbara, — My mind tells me that I was 
 right, but something stronger than my mind de- 
 clares that I was wrong. 
 
 " Yes, it was all wrong — pollution. 
 
 " My mind tells me that to say ' pollution ' is 
 absurd. But something stronger than my mind re- 
 peats * Pollution ! ' and though I know that this 
 something is ridiculous, yet I can't help obeying 
 it, and I can't help believing that to obey it is 
 best. 
 
 " After you left me I was wretched. I pictured 
 you, waiting, waiting, in the dark. I tried to read 
 
 193 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 your soul. In what spirit, thinking what thoughts, 
 did you wait? I will never know, you will never 
 say: for you, with the divine and compassionate 
 wisdom of woman, will always in silence let me 
 believe about you what I desire to believe. 
 
 " I forget my unanswerable arguments. All I 
 want is to marry you, to please you, to make you 
 happy." 
 
 Summoning the attendant, he said: 
 
 "Will you have this note delivered at once? 
 There'll be an answer." 
 
 And he lighted a fresh cigarette. The champagne 
 was cooler now. He re-filled his glass and set the 
 bottle back in the wooden bucket. His eyes shone, 
 he smiled dreamily, and blowing clouds of aromatic 
 smoke, sipping the exhilarating and cold wine, he 
 mused. 
 
 His logic had failed him, conquered by his love. 
 From this exquisite young girl he did not want 
 to take : he wanted to give, to give with both hands, 
 to give all — name, fortune, freedom. 
 
 In warm and powerful waves happiness surged 
 through his being. How splendid that he, with his 
 clear mind, could feel like this! He, knowing the 
 absolute falsity and the terrible cost of such feel- 
 ings, was nevertheless borne away by them. Hence 
 they must be very strong. 
 
 He finished his champagne regretfully. It left 
 
 194 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 him without any occupation, though he continued 
 to smoke cigarette after cigarette. His mouth grew 
 dry. An hour passed. The Httle room, so bright 
 and gay before, now seemed a lonely hole. 
 
 " Here is your answer, sir.'' 
 
 He opened the twisted note and read: 
 
 '' If you had asked me yesterday ! — Barbara." 
 
 He turned the note over. " Is this — is this all ? " 
 he faltered. 
 
 '' That's all, sir." 
 
 " What kept you so long, then ? '* 
 
 " Well, sir, she made me wait close on to an 
 hour." 
 
 He cleared his throat. He took up his hat me- 
 chanically. 
 
 " Nothing else, sir ? " 
 
 " No, nothing else." 
 
 After a wretched night he rose early. But Bar- 
 bara, early as it was, had gone. In what spirit had 
 she gone? 
 
 He would never know. 
 
 195 
 
XX 
 
 Jerome S. McWade, spread out like a starfish, was 
 being shaved, and, while the barber shaved him, 
 two bootblacks worked on his boots, and two mani- 
 curists polished his nails. This scene, which illus- 
 trated well his rise in fortune, was laid in New 
 York, under a glare of electricity, in a subter- 
 ranean barber-shop of onyx and gold. A short, 
 swift scene, typical of New York's ostentatious 
 time-saving, and ten minutes later Jerome entered 
 the directors' room of the Universal Bank. 
 
 He owed his first real rise to banking. He said 
 one day to Ross Dagar: 
 
 " Tank, our city deposits its cash in the Com- 
 mercial Trust. Its balance averages three millions, 
 and it draws no interest. Now, Tank, can you get 
 through an ordinance changing the city's account 
 from the Commercial to the Universal ? " 
 
 " I think I can," Ross Dagar answered. " I'll 
 let you know what it will cost." 
 196 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Ross announced, a fortnight later, that it would 
 cost sixty thousand dollars. Jerome accordingly- 
 procured sixty thousand dollars from George Smol- 
 lett, the Universal Bank's chief stockholder, and 
 Ross distributed this bribe among the " city fa- 
 thers." The municipal funds were then transferred 
 from the Commercial to the Universal Bank. 
 
 And Jerome, in recognition of good work, was 
 elected the Universal's president, and one per cent, 
 was allowed him on the great non-interest-bearing 
 account he had secured. 
 
 Investing heavily in a cold storage company, he 
 soon had a stake in a score of cold storage ware- 
 houses. 
 
 There, in a perpetual winter twilight, amid coils 
 of pipes all white with glistening frost, tons of 
 fish, flesh and fowl reposed. They entered those 
 dim Arctic silences when they were at their cheap- 
 est. They remained, frozen hard as granite, till 
 a rise in prices came. Then, with prices at the 
 highest, they emerged, thawed out. 
 
 They took their place in the market as fresh 
 food. They commanded the same price as fresh 
 food. And only experienced marketers could tell 
 them from fresh food. There are no experienced 
 marketers in America. 
 
 197 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 And if they did not rot before the marketer got 
 them home, they proved, on being cooked, to lack 
 all taste. Fish, flesh, fowl — the disappointed mar- 
 keter could hardly tell them apart; but, soft and 
 watery, they seemed to have been soaked together 
 in a tub for years. 
 
 Yet the cold storage company paid good divi- 
 dends, and when a clamour rose up against cold 
 storage food, when some legislator proposed a law 
 for the labelling of all cold storage products, the 
 company never lacked a fund wherewith to kill the 
 mooted legislation. 
 
 Become a heavy shareholder in the Carbondale, 
 he naturally took a leading part in the Oil City 
 and Carbondale merger. A merger's simplicity 
 astonished him. 
 
 The merger was, indeed, simplicity itself. The 
 two lines, bought for thirty millions, were simply 
 merged and sold to the public for seventy millions. 
 Forty millions of profit. 
 
 The Oil City & Carbondale Railroad was, of 
 course, crippled by the dividends it now had to pay. 
 Paying dividends so enormous, it was inevitably 
 undermanned, its roadbed and rolling stock were 
 inevitably bad, its accidents inevitably terrible. On 
 the Oil City & Carbondale it became, indeed, a 
 198 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 common occurrence for a director or a vice-presi- 
 dent, travelling in his private car, to be killed with 
 all his family in a derailment or rear-end collision. 
 
 He belonged to a trust. In this capacity he 
 made tariff laws. Illiterate and unshaven senators, 
 clad in frock coats and sombreros, accepted with a 
 kind of jocular shame his bribes, and in return im- 
 posed a fatal tariff on such goods as he banned. 
 Thus the trust, with foreign and domestic compe- 
 tition alike slain, could charge the American people 
 any price it pleased. 
 
 His work was not all successful. For every suc- 
 cess, indeed, he had a dozen disheartening failures. 
 But he allowed no failure to dishearten him. Fail- 
 ure, on the contrary, acted on the strong young 
 man like a cold bath, like a tonic. After every 
 failure he resumed his work with a more splendid 
 vigour. 
 
 He lived, of course, in New York. His apart- 
 ment fronted the Park. At eight o'clock he rose, 
 at a quarter after eight he plunged into his por- 
 phyry tub, and at nine, in a monumental frock coat, 
 he entered his breakfast room, where, at a little 
 white table by a window, he ate ravenously of grape 
 199 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 fruit, oatmeal, grilled ham, new-laid eggs, fried 
 potatoes and superb coffee. 
 
 He always wore a frock coat and top hat — a 
 New York frock coat with colossal shoulders, a 
 flamboyant New York top hat. His socks, under- 
 wear and pyjamas were of silk. His boots were 
 patent leather. His overcoat was lined with seal- 
 skin. A diamond glittered in his cravat. On his 
 lapel a flower glowed. 
 
 Sleek as a bridegroom — save, perhaps, for some 
 slight need of shaving — he reached his office at 
 ten, and he worked very hard till seven. Then, 
 if he had no banquet to attend, he dined alone. 
 
 He passed the evening at his desk alone, now 
 lost in financial dreams, now figuring feverishly, 
 with his gold fountain-pen, upon the backs of en- 
 velopes, all manner of documents spread before 
 him. At midnight he retired. He always slept 
 like a log . . . unless, indeed, he allowed his 
 thoughts to dwell on Barbara. 
 
 His one social indulgence was the banquet. The 
 banquet was, in fact, the one social indulgence of 
 all those millionaires who, like himself, had 
 swooped down on New York from Des Moines, 
 Pittsburg, Grand Rapids, Saginaw, the ends of the 
 earth. 
 
 They prospered in New York, those millionaires. 
 They built there sumptuous palaces. Their names 
 200 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 were in all mouths. But New York's aristocracy, 
 though hardly a generation removed from just such 
 men as themselves, treated them like dirt. Hence, 
 in their loneliness, their banquets innumerable. 
 
 In the showy black and white of evening dress, 
 ranged in long lines side by side at tables strewn 
 with roses, they all looked alike as they feasted. 
 The same Roman profiles, the same alert, hard air, 
 the same coarse comeliness — they might all have 
 been brothers. 
 
 In their hunger for admiration they presented 
 gold loving-cups to one another, praising in long 
 and eloquent speeches one another's wisdom, cour- 
 age, philanthropy. Strange depths of feeling 
 would then be revealed. The orator's nasal voice 
 would tremble and break, and all those bright, 
 hard eyes would fill with tears. 
 
 Their wives, from balconies, gazed down upon 
 their sentimental orgies. 
 
 They were beyond belief romantic. Hence, as 
 they grew older, their wards, their young and beau- 
 tiful wards, who had formerly been typewriters in 
 their offices. Now and then a ward flashed into 
 sudden notoriety. Her motor-car ran down a 
 drunken policeman, or she was cited as co- 
 respondent in a divorce suit. Then the press would 
 proclaim her Banker Wright's ward, and Banker 
 Wright would announce in voluble and indignant 
 
 201 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 newspaper interviews that his relations with his 
 ward were pure. He was educating her for the 
 stage. 
 
 They were horribly vain. Not their daughters' 
 vanity, but their own it was that continually drove 
 their daughters to contract with noblemen mar- 
 riages tragic and vile. 
 
 And they were as sensitive as flowers. When, 
 having broken this law or that, exposure came, 
 with the certainty of arrest and gaol, they collapsed 
 on the instant. They took immediately to their 
 beds. Shame and fright consumed them like a 
 fire. Surrounded by their families, they soon died. 
 
 Wonderful men! Their incomparable energy 
 might have changed the ugly and wretched world 
 to a happy garden. But they wasted all that en- 
 ergy in gambling, lying, cheating and stealing. 
 
 202 
 
XXI 
 
 On Ford's return to the institute in the autumn, a 
 letter from his chief awaited him. 
 
 " so devote yourself to tetanus. Now that the 
 
 bacillus has been found, there is no reason why we 
 should not get an antitetanic serum. Begin at the 
 beginning, go on to the end, and, when the result is 
 failure, repeat your series of experiments. Repeat 
 them over and over. It is the only way to suc- 
 ceed." 
 
 With a kind of joy he set to work. And he 
 abandoned, in order to work well, all the in- 
 dulgences that since his visit to Cape May he had 
 resumed. Tea, coffee, tobacco and wine no longer 
 jangled his nerves. He exercised vigorously for 
 two hours every afternoon. Thus, in his health at 
 least, he found that perfection for which, hopefully 
 and vainly, he always sought in life. Exuberant 
 health made every moment beautiful and precious. 
 He savoured every delicate moment as an epicure 
 savours every mouthful. 
 
 203 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 His experiments were to begin at the beginning. 
 He would, therefore, catch his own microbes. 
 Since the home of the tetanus microbe is the soil, 
 he took portions of stable mould and inserted them 
 under the skin of guinea pigs. 
 
 One of the guinea pigs developed an abscess. He 
 drew a little matter from the heart of the abscess, 
 and this matter he subjected to a heat of eighty 
 degrees Centigrade — a nearly boiling heat which 
 only tetanus microbes can withstand. Then, in 
 order to find out whether any tetanus microbes now 
 lived in the otherwise sterile matter, he planted it. 
 
 He planted it in a glass test-tube full of a clear, 
 amber-coloured jelly. He set the planting in an 
 incubator room under an airtight bell- jar. He then 
 exhausted the air from the jar with a pump. All 
 the requirements for the growth of tetanus mi- 
 crobes were now met. If a few microbes existed in 
 the jelly, they would grow in twenty-four hours 
 to great colonies. 
 
 In twenty-four hours, on his return to the incu- 
 bator room, colonies of tetanus microbes were 
 visible to the naked eye. They resembled, in the 
 tube of jelly, a fir-tree — a pale, vertical line, with 
 pale, horizontal lines branching out on every side. 
 
 On a platinum loop he drew forth a mass of 
 microbes. He spread this mass on a glass slide, 
 he stained it with a blue dye, and he placed it be- 
 204 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 neath his microscope. The lens revealed to him 
 a dozen of the drumstick-shaped bacilli of tetanus. 
 
 No other microbes were revealed by the lens — he 
 had, therefore, a pure culture. To test this cul- 
 ture he injected a small quantity of it into a guinea 
 pig's hind leg. The leg, after two days, stiffened. 
 The next day the opposite leg also stiffened. Then 
 the muscles of the back, then the front legs, became 
 stiff, and the guinea pig died in tetanic convulsions. 
 Where the injection had been made, a colony of 
 tetanic bacilli throve. 
 
 These bacilli he proceeded to cultivate. And in 
 his incubator room, in the vacuum of his bell- jar, 
 he soon had a great number of colonies growing in 
 a great number of test-tubes. 
 
 Ford worked in a cleanliness beside which the 
 most delicate food is foul. In a world full of 
 microbes, with microbes thick in the air, thick on 
 the floor, thick on walls and tables, he worked very 
 swiftly with instruments and materials that, by 
 actual microscopic test, were free of every vestige 
 of germ life. 
 
 And while he worked on tetanus, Redmond 
 worked on snake venom, Tyson on tuberculosis, and 
 Wallace on malaria. There were a half-dozen 
 other young men at the institute, one preparing 
 serums, another analysing milk, a third photograph- 
 ing bacteria. They had each his laboratory, and, 
 
 205 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 under the veteran Barr, they worked steadily, pa- 
 tiently, cheerfully. In education and ability they 
 were the pick of the youth of America. But they 
 had abandoned all hope of wealth; their salaries 
 were small; small, too, their hope of fame. They 
 devoted their lives proudly and gladly to science. 
 And in that great, clean building, in the heart of 
 a quiet country, working cheerfully in their white 
 dress without thought of money or distinction, they 
 were a brotherhood of monks whose god was 
 knowledge. 
 
 There were similar brotherhoods in Japan, 
 France, England, Germany, in every civilised land. 
 These brotherhoods had sprung up when the dis- 
 covery of bacteria changed medicine from sheer 
 guesswork to a science. Fired by that discovery, 
 which they deemed the grandest in all history, ani- 
 mated by a love of knowledge as ardent and pro- 
 found as the mediaeval monk's love of God, they 
 were glad, in institutions that resembled monas- 
 teries, to abandon the world and consecrate them- 
 selves to research. 
 
 The world only heard of them when they were 
 persecuted — when the high-salaried anti-vivisec- 
 tionists brought against them charges of wanton 
 cruelty. 
 
 Ford rose at eight. He worked from nine till 
 one. After lunch he rode or walked with two or 
 206 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 three companions, or perhaps he exercised in the 
 open-air gymnasium. From four till seven he 
 worked again. Sometimes, indeed, he worked far 
 into the night. But his evenings, as a rule, were 
 devoted to reading. He was a great reader. 
 There were few things he loved more than a good 
 book. 
 
 In a month, having got a multitude of colonies 
 growing, he set about the preparation of an anti- 
 tetanic serum. He was working in new fields, and 
 hence he groped and stumbled. To a student com- 
 ing ten years after him he would seem to have 
 worked with bandaged eyes. 
 
 For his serum he first injected, in gradually in- 
 creasing doses, dead bacilli into a guinea pig. 
 After the pig was become immune to dead bacilli, 
 he gave it injections of the far more toxic living 
 bacilli. It resisted these as well, and he tested it 
 for complete immunity. 
 
 But his test failed — failed not so much on the 
 immunised pig as on the healthy one wherewith 
 his work must be verified. Thus a small injec- 
 tion of living bacilli would sometimes in these tests 
 kill a healthy pig, while again an enormous injec- 
 tion would have no effect whatever. Why? 
 
 A weary series of examinations showed that al- 
 ways, where an injection killed, the bacilli had 
 multiplied; and always, where it had done no 
 207 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 harm, the bacilli, instead of multiplying, had 
 been devoured by the white blood corpuscles. 
 Why? 
 
 Here his work halted. With bandaged eyes he 
 groped. Week after week, month after month, 
 he did not advance a step. 
 
 The autumn passed, the winter passed, and the 
 young man still toiled upon this question. And in 
 France, Japan, England, Germany, an army of sci- 
 entists toiled on it as well. Nor did they, in the 
 hope of fame, toil jealously, hiding their gropings 
 from one another. On the contrary, for one an- 
 other's enlightenment, unselfishly to speed the ques- 
 tion's solution, they published every smallest 
 development as soon as it appeared. 
 
 Thus, regularly, day after day, week after week. 
 Ford took tetanus microbes from the soil, cultivated 
 them, and injected them into guinea pigs, striving 
 to discover why it was that sometimes these 
 microbes killed, while again they were themselves 
 killed. He hoped, but he did not really expect, to 
 make this discovery. For he knew the vastness of 
 science. He knew that he might devote his life to 
 the tetanus microbe, and yet leave nothing behind 
 him but a mistaken theory at which posterity would 
 smile. 
 
 208 
 
XXII 
 
 Barbara's flat hung high in air, the topmost story 
 of an enormous, cream-coloured hotel. Ford, from 
 the window fronting the Park, looked down on 
 trees that, with the grace of dancers, swayed lan- 
 guidly their plumes above green lawns dotted with 
 tiny black figures, and above white driveways 
 whereon tiny black carriages glided. 
 
 " It is splendid to live up so high," he said. 
 " What floor is it? The eighteenth? " 
 
 " The nineteenth," she answered. 
 
 They had just returned from luncheon, and, 
 seated before the fire, her knees crossed and her 
 cheek upon her palm, the young girl still wore 
 her huge and bizarre hat, while her sable stole, 
 with its lining of ermine, still hung from her slim 
 shoulders carelessly. Barbara had played her last 
 part, and they were to be married in a fortnight. 
 
 " Won't you hate to give up the stage, dearest? " 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" 
 
 209 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " There is no need to give it up if " 
 
 " But I want to give it up." 
 
 " Well, success hasn't spoiled you," he said. 
 
 *' ' Success ! ' I had no success. Perhaps, if I 
 could have played good parts . . . But Abercrom- 
 bie's rubbish " 
 
 " You redeemed his rubbish." 
 
 "And the beautiful plays there are in the 
 world ! " she cried. " But, you know, those plays 
 aren't ' breezy,' they aren't * wholesome,' they don't 
 ' leave a good taste in the mouth.' " 
 
 The cold sneer on her girlish face made Ford 
 laugh. He said, " Tell me about your farewell 
 tour." 
 
 " No. Tell me," she rejoined, " about your work 
 instead. Are you still working on tetanus ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I am still on tetanus." 
 
 " Why is it so important to find a cure ? Is 
 tetanus so dreadful?" 
 
 " Dreadful." He shook his head gravely. 
 " Dreadful." 
 
 "Tell me about it. What is it like?" 
 
 " Well," he said, " it starts with a wound or an 
 abrasion. A man, for example, falls and scrapes 
 the skin from his knee. A little earth gets in the 
 cut. There happen to be tetanus germs in the 
 earth. They multiply in the man's blood. And he 
 feels, three or four days after his accident, a slight 
 
 210 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 pain, a slight stiffness, like cramp, at the side of 
 his jaw. That means death." 
 
 "Death?" 
 
 " Certain death. The stiffness increases. It 
 spreads to his arms, legs and back. The pain 
 grows horrible. He can't open his clenched teeth. 
 The final stage soon comes, the stage where a 
 touch, a noise, even a draught of air, bring on ter- 
 rible spasms, and the man's body on the bed rises 
 up, on heels and head, in a high arch." 
 
 " Is he unconscious then ? " Barbara asked. 
 
 " No. His mind to the end is clear. But he is 
 kept drugged. Sometimes, in his convulsions, his 
 tongue gets between his teeth; he bites it. . . Oh, 
 it is a good thing, let me tell you, when he dies." 
 
 " And isn't there any cure ? " 
 
 " An antitetanic serum is the only cure. Some- 
 times it succeeds, sometimes it fails. For the most 
 part it fails. We haven't yet, you see, learnt how 
 to make it right. I have made, myself, four hun- 
 dred kinds of serum. My ' 317 ' is the best." 
 
 " Has your ' 317 ' cured many cases? " 
 
 " It has cured a few light cases, cases with a 
 long interval between the wound and the first 
 cramp. The longer that interval, you know, the 
 lighter the case. If it's an interval of a week or 
 two, '317' will probably effect a cure. But if it's 
 an interval of only a few days ..." 
 211 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Barbara frowned into the fire. " Isn't it dan- 
 gerous," she asked, " to work among such germs ? " 
 
 " No," he said ; " no, there's no danger, if you're 
 careful." 
 
 She looked up at him from her armchair. She 
 said earnestly: 
 
 " It is noble work. I like to think of you doing 
 such noble work." She paused. Her eyes, lifted 
 to his, shone with a grave respect. Then she smiled 
 and added, " But, all the same, after we're mar- 
 ried, I think I'll make you give it up." 
 
 Moved a little, he said hastily: 
 
 " Oh, there's no real danger. Now tell me about 
 your farewell tour." 
 
 "But I've got nothing to tell." 
 
 " You had some wonderful triumphs, I know 
 that." 
 
 " It's true I was the guest of honour at a Phila- 
 delphia camphor ball." 
 
 " What on earth is a Philadelphia camphor ball ? " 
 
 Smiling delicately, she replied : 
 
 " It's the annual subscription dance of the Phila- 
 delphia aristocrats. The Philadelphia aristocrats 
 are so poor that they can only afford one dance 
 a year, and all the rest of the time their evening 
 clothes lie packed in camphor. So, naturally, when 
 they gather in a stuffy hall, their dress gives off 
 an odour " 
 
 212 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "No, not really," she admitted. "It's just an 
 ill-natured Philadelphia joke. The smell of camphor 
 is so faint you hardly notice it." 
 
 " In Chicago, I understand, the women strewed 
 your path with flowers." 
 
 " Don't laugh," said Barbara. She frowned, and, 
 without lifting her eyes from the fire, she resumed 
 in a low voice : 
 
 " It was ugly, like a nightmare ; and yet, some- 
 how, it touched me. It touched me horribly. I 
 can still see those grey-haired women, fat and 
 round-shouldered. They ran before me, trying to 
 be graceful ; they kept turning and throwing hand- 
 f uls of roses at my feet ; some of them even danced. 
 I felt ashamed for them — ashamed. But I felt 
 sorry for them, too. You could hardly tell from 
 their distorted faces whether they were smiling or 
 crying." 
 
 "Hysteria," said he. 
 
 " Well, at any rate, hysteria means sincerity, 
 doesn't it? Those ugly women were so sincere. 
 Some of them had tears in their eyes." 
 
 " In honouring you," he mused, " they were 
 honouring youth. They understood at last, too 
 late, youth's beauty and joy. And they remem- 
 bered wistfully their own youth that they had per- 
 haps wasted." 
 
 213 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " But we all waste our youth," he said. " Did 
 McWade continue to send you flowers ? " 
 
 " Yes. At every first night in every city there 
 was a big bouquet." 
 
 " I suppose you know he's getting frightfully 
 rich?" 
 
 " I always thought Jerome would get rich. He 
 has such energy, hasn't he ? " 
 
 " A typical American business man. Indom- 
 itable energy, and a mind unscrupulous, coarse, and 
 a little mean." 
 
 "Jerome's mind isn't mean." 
 
 " I think it is. In a bargain he*d take every 
 unfair advantage." 
 
 " But Jerome wouldn't consider it unfair ! Busi- 
 ness is like war to him, and nothing is unfair, you 
 know, in war." 
 
 " True." Ford frowned, then added gloomily, 
 " How long would a man last if he played fair 
 in a game where his opponents were all allowed 
 to cheat? But some day there will be no inherited 
 wealth. Then this cheating game of ' business ' 
 will disappear." 
 
 " No inherited wealth ? But, if you had chil- 
 dren " 
 
 " What is worse for a young man than an in- 
 heritance of a million or two? What is better for 
 214 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 him than work? And for girls, too, work would 
 be best. A mother tells her daughters that her one 
 wish for them is a happy marriage. A girl's sole 
 aim in life is to marry well. What a mean 
 aim! But if she worked, if she cultivated her 
 mind. . . For it's on ourselves, it's on no one 
 else, that we must always rely for our life's 
 happiness." 
 
 " But I am relying on you," said Barbara. 
 
 He began to pace the floor. 
 
 " You ought to marry McWade," he said. 
 
 "Jerome? Why?" 
 
 " Because he'd be faithful, he'd trust you im- 
 plicitly. But I " 
 
 He paused before the window. 
 
 " Devotion like Mc Wade's is rare. He has been 
 true to you since your first meeting. With his 
 millions, with his fidelity, with the perfect free- 
 dom he'd give you. . . But I. . ." 
 
 " I don't love Jerome," said Barbara. 
 
 " * Love ! ' " he cried impatiently. " ' Love ' " 
 
 But as he turned from the window, as his eyes 
 rested once more upon her beauty, his mood 
 changed. 
 
 " Forgive me," he said, in a low voice. " I 
 know now that love is divine." 
 
 "Divine," she murmured, gazing into the flame. 
 " Divine. Divine." 
 
 215 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 She smiled dreamily. She had an air of naive 
 happiness. It was Hke a little child. 
 
 And somehow he felt very sorry for her. How 
 sad that a soul so delicate and fine should ever sink 
 itself in a man's coarse soul. 
 
 " And you/' he said, " love me ! What can 
 you — you — see in me ? " 
 
 " What can you see in me ? " said Barbara 
 softly. 
 
 " But you — your beauty " 
 
 " Well, you're not so very ugly yourself." 
 
 But he repeated earnestly: 
 
 " No, I can't understand it. Why should you — 
 love me ? " 
 
 "Ah, but why should you love me?" said the 
 young girl. 
 
 And gazing at one another, admiring one an- 
 other, they wondered, with the profound and beau- 
 tiful humility of youth, through what misconception 
 each had come to gain the other's love. 
 
 " You understand me so," said Barbara. 
 
 " And you understand me." 
 
 " Wherever I am," she said, " if something 
 amusing or interesting happens, my first thought 
 is to tell you." 
 
 With a sigh she rose. 
 
 " Your sympathy ..." she said. And she went 
 slowly to the balcony window. " You always un- 
 216 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 derstand me, always. It's so delightful, your 
 sympathy ... so rare. . ." 
 
 She looked forth over the bay. Her gown, cut 
 with strange skill, caressed and moulded the con- 
 tours of her slender figure. Her every movement 
 was graceful. In her elegant attire she had the 
 free, unconscious grace of a young animal. 
 
 " You make me very happy, Barbara.'* 
 
 The pure profile, delicate and proud, turned to 
 welcome him as he advanced, and side by side they 
 stood at the lofty window. The sun drenched the 
 grey city with golden light. On the bay's blue 
 floor sunbeams danced madly, like a myriad of shin- 
 ing insects. Ships moved, as small as toys, upon 
 that vast, flat, coruscating splendour. Each ship 
 drew religiously a black trail of smoke across the 
 radiance of the October afternoon. 
 
 " I wish we were on one of those ships," she 
 said. 
 
 " We will be soon," said he. 
 
 " Where shall we go ? " 
 
 " We'll take the southern route. We'll slip from 
 frost into May sunshine. Our first stop will be 
 Gibraltar. At Gibraltar we'll ride in little yellow 
 carriages up hills shaded by lemon-trees. Mon- 
 keys will peer down at us from the peaks, and 
 Spanish girls will sell us fresh-plucked pome- 
 granates." 
 
 217 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " How jolly ! Where, though, will we spend the 
 winter ? " 
 
 " On the Riviera. In my mother's white villa 
 near Monte Carlo. It is on a high cliff; cinder- 
 grey mountains rise behind it; but its gardens are 
 gay with bees and flowers all winter long. Every 
 day we'll lunch on the terrace. Our table will be 
 set under a palm on an enormous terrace that looks 
 out over the shining sea.'* 
 
 "And afterwards, our home, where will that 
 be?" 
 
 " Wherever you wish." 
 
 " Our home," she murmured dreamily. " Our 
 home . . . where we'll grow old . . . grow old 
 together . . . with children, perhaps . . . grand- 
 children. . . Can you imagine me a grandmother ? " 
 
 They smiled. It was absurd to think that they 
 fwould ever grow old. 
 
 " Oh, how could you believe," she cried, " that 
 marriage was ugly ? " 
 
 Her reproachful eyes looked into his. Her 
 beauty enveloped him in glittering light. 
 
 " Barbara . . . kiss me. . . Barbara. . . " 
 
 Laughing breathlessly, she turned to him with a 
 tender violence, a soft and passionate grace. 
 
 2l8 
 
XXIII 
 
 Ford, leaving his microscope, glanced at the card : 
 MiLLiCENT Mortimer Miller. 
 
 " Tell her I'll be down in a minute," he said. 
 
 And slipping off his white overall, he descended 
 to the reception room. 
 
 " Good-morning, Dr. Ford." 
 
 " Good-morning, madam." 
 
 He regarded Millicent Mortimer Miller with a 
 lively interest. She was thin and restless; she had 
 copper-coloured hair and rather fine eyes ; she was 
 about forty-seven years of age. " Superbly sexed " 
 — the phrase ran through his mind from one of 
 her poems. " Superbly sexed." What, precisely, 
 had Millicent Mortimer Miller meant when she 
 wrote " superbly sexed ? " 
 
 He smiled, but her first words caused his smile 
 to fade. 
 
 " Here is an affidavit, doctor, that John Tomilson 
 has made about the horrible atrocities inflicted on 
 animals in this institute." 
 219 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Tomilson is a discharged employee. What did 
 his affidavit cost you, madam?" 
 
 " What it cost is not the question. The ques- 
 tion is, are these charges true ? " 
 
 She handed him the statement. Sensational 
 and crude, it had manifestly been composed by 
 a Dispatch writer. Returning it, he shook his 
 head. 
 
 " One long, malicious lie." 
 
 « But " 
 
 " Scientists are not fiends/' he interrupted. 
 " Scientists, as a class, are above the average. 
 They're men of imagination, sympathy. Why ac- 
 cuse them of inflicting wanton pain ? " 
 
 " But- " 
 
 " Pain they do inflict, pain and death — like butch- 
 ers, you know — for the benefit of mankind. Yes, 
 they inflict an abundance of pain and death in the 
 course of their experiments on animals for the 
 cure of disease. And either they must experiment 
 on animals, or they must experiment on men, or 
 the progress of medicine must halt." 
 
 " In God's great scheme — '■ — " 
 
 " ' God's great scheme ? ' Oh, let us stick to 
 the point. The point is this: Man has the right 
 to sacrifice animals for the good of the race. Man 
 sacrifices himself for the race's good. Shall he 
 hesitate, then, over a rabbit or a rat?'* 
 220 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " But he doesn't sacrifice himself, Dr. Ford. If 
 you vivisectors would vivisect one another ! " 
 
 " Lazear and Carroll and Agramonte, three 
 American physicians, submitted their bodies to ex- 
 periment for the cure of yellow fever. Lazear died, 
 Carroll never fully recovered. But still further 
 tests v^ere needed; it was necessary to find out 
 whether the yellow fever germ would pass through 
 a filter; and some young American soldiers oifered 
 themselves. Two of the young soldiers died. . . 
 And yellow fever was stamped out in Cuba. . . 
 But is it not unfair to ask heroes to die when mice 
 or guinea pigs can take their places ? " 
 
 " Still " 
 
 But he rose, flushed and angry, to end the inter- 
 view. The " antivivisectionists " were either cranks 
 or grafters, and this woman was a crank and 
 grafter both. Let her stick to her erotics ! 
 
 But the morning's fine, clear serenity was lost, 
 and he resumed his work with a troubled mind. 
 " Superbly sexed." What an ass she was ! And a 
 million people would read her attack to-morrow, 
 and the State would probably withdraw its promise 
 to aid Barr's splendid experiments in bovine tu- 
 berculosis, and all those long and costly tests on 
 tubercular cattle, halted midway, would be lost. 
 
 In his anger gripping too tight the test-tube in 
 his hand. Ford crushed the thin glass. 
 
 221 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "My God!" 
 
 He stared at his palm. There were three cuts 
 across it; they had not yet begun to bleed; their 
 edges were smeared with glass splinters and an 
 amber-coloured culture of tetanus bacilli. 
 
 Tearing the cuts open, he ran to the spigot 
 and washed them. He disinfected them thor- 
 oughly. 
 
 " If the bacilli are dead. . . If they are only 
 dead!" 
 
 He must see them in the microscope. He must 
 know whether they were dead or not. Dead, they 
 would be harmless. But living . . . 
 
 He hurried to his table. Bending over the 
 broken tube, he took up a little of the culture in 
 a platinum loop. His wounded hand hampered 
 him, but he worked with desperate haste. Repeat- 
 edly, though, he seized the wrong vial, he ran to 
 the wrong cabinet. The sHde, almost finished, 
 dropped and broke. He leapt to the cupboard for 
 another slide, then doubled back, remembering that 
 the box was on the table after all. And continu- 
 ally he trembled as with ague. Continually he 
 seemed to be enduring some incredible, nightmare 
 torture which the microscope would end. 
 
 But when the slide was ready at last, he hesi- 
 tated to look at it. 
 
 *' Life or death," he muttered. 
 
 222 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 And he began to pace the floor. Ugly thoughts 
 buzzed like fat flies in his brain. He thought of 
 tetanus convulsions, Millicent Mortimer Miller, 
 death; though in the turmoil of his mind he did 
 not really grasp those thoughts. 
 
 But suddenly the full horror of death stabbed 
 him. He stopped short. His face contorted, his 
 fists clenched, he cried with subdued violence : 
 
 "For me? Oh! Not for me!" 
 
 And he ran to the microscope for succour, he 
 seated himself upon his stool, he peered down the 
 tube. Then, with a heavy sigh, he bowed his head 
 upon his breast. 
 
 He had seen live bacilli, shaped like drumsticks, 
 moving slowly across the luminous field. 
 
 The young man, weak and faint, sat with his 
 elbow on the table and his cheek on his palm, gaz- 
 ing from the window at the garden. The garden 
 was serene. The sun shone on the goldfish pond. 
 How beautiful . . . beautiful. . . Ah, just to sit 
 like this, just to gaze hke this out of a window 
 on a garden drenched in autumn sunshine — who 
 would ask more of life? But he — he was going 
 to die! 
 
 "No!" he whispered. "No!" 
 223 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Strength returned, hope returned. He leapt to 
 his feet, and, under the illusion that his friends 
 would end his torture, he ran down the long hall 
 shouting. 
 
 His friends surrounded him. They were calm 
 and grave and kind. And surrounded by that 
 friendly, white-clad circle, he smiled apologetically; 
 the quivering tension of his muscles relaxed. 
 
 Redmond, leading him upstairs, gave him an in- 
 jection of his own " 317." 
 
 " And now," said Redmond, " we'll take a drive. 
 Barr will be here on our return." 
 
 But he complained: 
 
 " rd rather walk — an all-day walk, as hard 
 as I could do it. Then, to-night, I'd sleep, per- 
 haps." 
 
 ** No, old man, a drive will be better." 
 
 They drove for two hours, in a still sunshine, 
 down quiet lanes, through woods of gold and scar- 
 let that were like cathedrals in their dreamy 
 splendour. 
 
 " Do you like novels. Ford ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; some novels.*' 
 
 " Then, this afternoon, we might have a little 
 reading. What sort of novels do you like ? " 
 
 Redmond talked ; he saw to it that Ford listened 
 and answered; and all through the ride it seemed 
 to Ford that he was enduring an incredible, a 
 224 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 nightmare torture which would cease when he met 
 Barr. 
 
 " Ford," said Professor Barr, " you know better 
 than any of us the virtues of '317/ But the next 
 few days are going to try your nerves. You'll be 
 calm, just as calm as you can; you'll keep your 
 mind occupied, eh? Don't yield to any morbid 
 desire for solitude. At night a sedative may be 
 necessary." 
 
 " It worries me about Miss Gwynne." 
 
 " Yes, I know. You were to have been married 
 in a few days." 
 
 "I don't suppose I ought to see her?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I must send her a message of some kind." 
 
 " ril call at Miss Gwynne's this afternoon my- 
 self." 
 
 The day passed, passed with walks and books 
 and argument, and not for a minute was he left to 
 brood alone. The night, too, passed: a night of 
 drugged sleep. But when he awoke in the morn- 
 ing, he imagined that he felt a slight stiffness at 
 the side of the jaw. He knew that, even in the 
 most virulent case of tetanus, this symptom could 
 225 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 not manifest itself so early. There, nevertheless, 
 it was. Opening and closing his mouth, he deemed 
 that the muscles worked stiffly. 
 
 Redmond entered, and he forgot his imaginary 
 pain. He rose^ he forced himself to eat a little 
 breakfast, and then the carriage appeared, and the 
 young men drove again till luncheon time. 
 
 With overcoats and rugs they spent the after- 
 noon on the lawn by the fishpond in the sun. Red- 
 mond read aloud, and, to assure himself of Ford's 
 attention, he argued on subjects brought up by 
 his reading. Ford lay back in a deck-chair, reply- 
 ing in faint and weary tones to his friend's ques- 
 tions. It seemed to Ford that he was living in a 
 black nightmare, a black nightmare of unreal tor- 
 ture, which would end in four days' time. If four 
 days passed without the first symptom's appear- 
 ance, then he might hope, perhaps, for a mild, a 
 curable attack. 
 
 He thought of death. Had he ever really be- 
 lieved that he would die ? Now and then, in a mo- 
 ment of solitude — lying awake at night, or walking 
 in cold, bright weather by the sea — he had been 
 suddenly struck by the thought that some day 
 years hence, he, an old man, would lie dying; and 
 in the horror of that thought he had writhed in 
 indescribable anguish; he had shrugged his shoul- 
 ders, threshed about with his arms ; and thus he had 
 226 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 driven the thought away before it came quite home 
 to him. 
 
 But now 
 
 " I claim," said Redmond, " that a dog's affec- 
 tion is purely parasitic." 
 
 " You might as well claim that a wife's affection 
 is purely parasitic." 
 
 « Well " 
 
 But Ford's mind returned to death again. He 
 thought of the Heaven of his childhood. Why, 
 even in childhood, he had not believed in Heaven. 
 What simian intelligences, then, were those that 
 in maturity believed 
 
 " Look here," said Redmond, " I want you to 
 listen." 
 
 "All right, old man, I'll try. I'm awfully wor- 
 ried, though." 
 
 " Take a swallow of this." 
 
 He sipped the brown drug, a sense of peace 
 stole over him. . . 
 
 But every morning, awaking from a long, sound 
 sleep, he felt that pain and stiffness of the jaw. 
 And as he lay rubbing his cheek, vivid pictures 
 of tetanic convulsions rose before him. He saw 
 men biting their tongues, he saw men whose arched 
 bodies rested on head and heels alone. Terrified, 
 he summoned Redmond. . . 
 
 The third day was the most comfortable since 
 227 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 his accident. There had been a consultation in the 
 morning, and Professor Barr and Dr. Howard had 
 shown themselves well pleased. Ford, after the 
 consultation, beheld on all sides relieved and cheer- 
 ful faces. 
 
 But in the evening of that comfortable third day- 
 he became restless. Though he retired later than 
 usual, he could not sleep. A strange, vague horror 
 possessed him. His narcotic was doubled, and, 
 with a weary sigh, he glided into drugged uncon- 
 sciousness. 
 
 He awoke. The October sunlight streamed into 
 the room. The cold, pure air filled him with a 
 sense of joy. Then, suddenly, he clapped his hand 
 to his cheek; the serenity of his face changed to 
 distorted anguish; tears filled his eyes. 
 
 " No hope," he whispered. " There's no hope." 
 
 And sitting erect, his hand pressed to his cheek, 
 he rocked back and forth. 
 
 The pain, the stiffness — he really felt those symp- 
 toms now. And conscious that he was going to 
 die after a few days of horrible and atrocious suf- 
 fering, he pitied himself profoundly. He wept for 
 his hard fate. 
 
 For him no more the beauty of the sunshine, the 
 
 beauty of the moonlight, the beauty of the windy, 
 
 tumbling sea. For him no more the beauty of 
 
 girls' minds and faces, the beauty of Barbara, Bar- 
 
 228 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 bara in whom alone he had found perfection. For 
 him the grave, the cold, black grave, with its 
 worms. 
 
 He would never know now whether marriage 
 was fine or vile. He would never know now 
 whether old age was terrible or calm. Be the cup 
 of life sweet or bitter, he had wanted to drain it 
 to the dregs. . . But this was the end. It was 
 all to end like this ... his strength, his intelli- 
 gence, his splendid thoughts, his hopes ... all to 
 end like this, as though he were a bug, an ant. 
 
 Alas, in the vastness of the universe, men were 
 no more than ants. In the vastness of the uni- 
 verse men, infesting the earth, were no more 
 than the tetanus bacilli that infested his own 
 body. 
 
 The thought, somehow, strengthened him. He 
 rang for his attendant. Death, after all, was noth- 
 ing. It was this fear of death. 
 
 Well, they would keep him drugged. He must 
 get himself thoroughly drugged at once. Hearing 
 footsteps, he composed his countenance; he took 
 his hand from his cheek. On Redmond's entry 
 he contrived to smile. 
 
 But Redmond's cheery air vanished on the 
 threshold. 
 
 " All right ? " said Redmond, in a loud, strange 
 voice. 
 
 229 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Ford smiled disdainfully. . . These helpless 
 fools. . . " It has begun," he said. 
 
 And he regarded Redmond disdainfully. But 
 there was something in Redmond's face . . . some- 
 thing unsuspected, indescribably beautiful . . . 
 that melted his disdain. He turned to the 
 wall. 
 
 " Old man/' said Redmond, stroking his shoul- 
 der, " it has kept off till the fourth day. That's 
 good, you know." 
 
 " I feel," said Ford, " like a wounded rat. I 
 want to crawl into some black hole . . . and 
 brood. . ." 
 
 " Nonsense. Swallow this." 
 
 The drug soothed and stupefied his mind. But 
 the pain in his jaw increased steadily. He kept 
 trying to open his mouth. The pain then jumped 
 like a toothache. 
 
 "Lockjaw," he mused. "Lockjaw. . ." 
 
 But, after all, he was half asleep. 
 
 " Drugged like this," he mused, " I don't really 
 suffer." 
 
 In the evening he awoke with a clear and serene 
 
 mind. Carr, the noted anaesthetist, sat beside 
 
 him. There was an odour of chloroform in the 
 air. 
 
 230 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Carr,'* he said, "where is Redmond?" 
 
 But Redmond, it seemed, was bending over him. 
 
 *' Redmond, send for Barbara Gwynne, will 
 you?" 
 
 " Yes ; I'll go and get her at once." 
 
 While he awaited Barbara, he lay and regarded 
 Carr thoughtfully. Carr, under his gaze, seemed 
 embarrassed, whereat he smiled with sly amuse- 
 ment. He felt strangely remote from the troubled 
 Carr; remote, superior, like a white explorer with 
 a savage. And in a mood of condescending kind- 
 ness he opened his lips to tell Carr a splendid and 
 joyous secret, to tell him how easy it was to die, 
 to tell him what a foolish, wretched mistake was 
 all this fear of death. But the secret would be 
 difficult to tell ... it hurt his jaw to talk . . . 
 and he was tired. . . So he contented himself with 
 touching Carr's knee and whispering: 
 
 " Smooth the road well for me." 
 
 The door opened. Barbara, tall and slender in 
 her black velvet gown, advanced with slow steps. 
 She wore an ermine stole, and her hand, hanging 
 at her side, was thrust into an ermine muff. A 
 huge hat threw its soft shadow on her beautiful 
 face. 
 
 " You have worn," he said, " the dress I like 
 best." 
 
 And, as his attendants withdrew, he looked up at 
 231 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 her gaily. Was her cheek wet? No; for she was 
 smiling. 
 
 " Get well/' she said. 
 
 She stood over him. She enveloped him in the 
 warm radiance of her young and virginal beauty. 
 Strange ! her beauty no longer thrilled him. 
 
 " And to-morrow," he said thoughtfully, '' would 
 have been our wedding-day." 
 
 With a sudden movement she put up her 
 muff before her face. He heard a faint sigh. 
 But, when she lowered the muff, she was still 
 smiling. 
 
 "We must postpone our wedding a week or 
 two," she said. 
 
 " Perhaps," he replied. " But I am going on a 
 long journey." 
 
 " You'll be back," said Barbara, " soon." 
 
 " Perhaps. But it is a long journey ... a hor- 
 rible journey . . . through swamps writhing with 
 reptiles. . ." 
 
 " But you'll return," said the young girl. 
 
 He smiled faintly. He shook his head. She bent 
 over him, and he tried in vain to feel sorry for 
 her. 
 
 "Ah, come back soon," she sighed. 
 
 But, in spite of himself, he shook his head ob- 
 stinately, and there was something elfin and mock- 
 ing in his smile. 
 
 232 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " Ah, come back soon." 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 But he never came back. She saw him but once 
 more alive. The room was darkened, and at his 
 bedside sat the ansesthetist. 
 
 She advanced slowly in the dim light. The anaes- 
 thetist bent forward, a white cone of chloroform 
 in his hand, watching the figure on the bed with 
 the tense and breathless devotion of an antique 
 slave. Now and then a kind of ripple passed over 
 the figure, the anaesthetist applied deftly his chloro- 
 form cone, the ripple ceased. 
 
 Her heart bursting with grief and terror, Bar- 
 bara looked at the unfortunate young man. He 
 lay on his back in a rigid attitude. His head was 
 strangely retroverted. His eyes were closed. 
 
 She kissed the cold 5hd knotted brow. 
 
 A kind of shiver seized him. The head drew 
 further back. The anaesthetist applied the chloro- 
 form cone. The body rose up in a frightful 
 arch. . . 
 
 Barbara ran from the room with a cry of horror 
 and rebellion. 
 
 233 
 
XXIV 
 
 In the middle of a huge office full of clerks stood 
 a kind of glass hutch, through the clear and shin- 
 ing walls whereof Jerome was visible. Jerome, 
 bent over a desk, worked hard. But his eyes looked 
 very tired. 
 
 At a table before the glass hutch Bill Stroud 
 presided, a post Bill had held since the episode of 
 the bomb. 
 
 The episode of the bomb had followed that won- 
 derful cotton combination wherein so many small 
 investors — carpenters, doctors, dressmakers, clergy- 
 men — lost their little all. 
 
 The bomb was a " protest." The bomb thrower, 
 a frail youth, entered the huge office and advanced 
 towards the rear room that Jerome then occupied. 
 He balanced the bomb in his outstretched hand 
 cautiously, and in a shrill voice he protested that, 
 till laws were made to protect the honourable poor 
 from rich thieves, force must protect them. So 
 
 234 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 saying, he drew back his arm as if to hurl the 
 bomb, and he quickened to a trot his progress to- 
 wards the door marked *' Mr. McWade." 
 
 And from his path all Mr. McWade's most 
 trusted advisers, all his most favoured aides, to 
 say nothing of his clerks and bookkeepers, fled like 
 the wind. At the exit they jammed. Their yells, 
 as they climbed over one another to get out, made 
 a horrible noise. 
 
 The amazed Jerome appeared. He saw the up- 
 lifted bomb. He saw his fleeing men. And he 
 thought, face to face with death, of a strange 
 word, a word he never used, the word loyalty. 
 
 Loyalty. . . If some one would steal up from 
 the rear. . . But loyalty existed no longer. 
 
 Then Bill Stroud, the worthless drunkard. Bill 
 whom he employed solely for old times' sake. Bill 
 dropped his brush, he leapt from his ladder, he tore 
 the bomb from the youth's thin hand, he hurled it 
 through the window — ^bang! It exploded in Wall 
 Street, killing only a policeman. 
 
 Since then the hutch of glass, since then Bill's 
 post of guardian, since then, too, Jerome's grad- 
 ual decline. For the " protest " had, to a certain 
 slight extent, achieved its end. A small group of 
 legislators had begun to clamour for laws that 
 would indeed protect the honourable poor from the 
 thefts of the rich, and these legislators, called 
 
 235 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " demagogues " and " fomenters of class hatred," 
 had temporarily convinced the poor that the word 
 of a Wall Street financier was not the same thing 
 as the word of an honest man. That, of course, 
 was bad for business. That was the cause 
 of Jerome's haggard eyes. 
 
 Barbara entered. A thrill ran through the clerks 
 and bookkeepers, and Bill in his blue suit hastened 
 to welcome the beautiful young actress. 
 
 " Good-morning, Bill." 
 
 " Good-morning, Miss Barbara. I certainly am 
 glad to see you again." 
 
 "It is like old times, isn't it? I don't suppose 
 you keep chickens any more ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am ; no more. Lambs is the only things 
 that pay in Wall Street." 
 
 Jerome, as they approached his glass retreat, 
 heard their voices, and lifted his weary head. Then, 
 beaming with delight, he rose and hurried forth. 
 
 " This is a surprise ! " 
 
 "Jerome," said Barbara, in her languid, gentle 
 and cold voice, " you look tired." 
 
 "Yes, I haven't slept well for a month or two. 
 It's nothing." 
 
 He led her into the hutch, he seated her in his 
 236 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 luxurious desk-chair, and, taking the other straight- 
 backed chair himself, he said, eagerly and gladly: 
 
 " Now what can I do for you ? " 
 
 She hesitated, gazing into the distance. Her hat, 
 strangely graceful, set off the purity of her profile, 
 and under the tilted hat-brim her heavy hair flowed 
 in clear and lustrous waves. 
 
 " Jerome, do you still want to back me ? " 
 
 He started. That his offer, refused a hundred 
 times, should be accepted now! But, feigning a 
 joyous enthusiasm, he cried: 
 
 "Of course I do!" 
 
 " Then," she said, " I think I'll let you." 
 
 " Good ! " shouted the ruined man. 
 
 She slowly turned her eyes upon him. And 
 bathed in her eyes' soft light, he forgot his tot- 
 tering fortunes; he felt ineffably happy, ineffably 
 pure and clean and good, as though he were a lit- 
 tle boy again. Barbara, regarding without seeing 
 him, said in a low voice: 
 
 " In the past it didn't matter what I played. I 
 knew my parts were worthless; but I did my best 
 in them; they seemed, somehow, to live, worthless 
 as they were. But when I went back to the stage, 
 I resolved to take my work seriously. How can I 
 take it seriously, though, when it is trash? No, 
 I must play good parts, or ... or ... I don't 
 know what will become of me." 
 
 237 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 She twisted together her long white hands lying 
 in her lap. 
 
 " Get your own theatre/' said Jerome. " Engage 
 your own company. Play anything you choose." 
 
 " If I could succeed. . . " 
 
 " Oh, you'll succeed. Why, Jake Abercrombie 
 has grown rich off you." 
 
 " His new play, Jerome, is the last straw. I 
 have had a good many maudlin parts, but the part 
 of Sweet " 
 
 "Sweet?" 
 
 " Sweet is the name of the heroine and the name 
 of the play as well. ' Sweet ! ' She is a ragged 
 slum dweller, but, oh, so beautiful and good ! She 
 is always praying. You first see her, in her long 
 white nightgown, kneeling in silent prayer at her 
 bedside in her little room. She believes in prayer, 
 and she has reason to. Her prayers change a 
 drunken and libertine old millionaire to a kind of 
 city missionary. They change a burglar to a Sal- 
 vation Army captain. They reform a wifebeater, 
 an opium smoker and a financier — yes, a financier 
 like you, Jerome — and in the last act they prevent 
 a murderer from murdering her millionaire con- 
 vert. Of course she marries her convert. And 
 that's the play, Jerome — a foolish lie about the 
 power of prayer. No, I can't stand it!" 
 238 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 The scorn in her voice amazed him. Her cheeks 
 were flushed, her eyes glittered angrily. Yet 
 *' Sweet " seemed a good play to him, a play with 
 a good moral " uplift." He stammered : 
 
 "Of course the millionaire is too old for Sweet." 
 " He is Mr. Abercrombie's age," said Barbara. 
 " Mr. Abercrombie's heroes are always his own 
 age." 
 
 "Well, what theatre will you take? The 
 Coronet?" 
 
 " Oh, no, Jerome ; that is too big. I want to 
 begin in a little theatre — the Cortlandt, perhaps." 
 " You don't want to begin in a small way ! " 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 " But what is the good of capital, then? " 
 " First I must see if I can fill a small theatre." 
 " But you're filling a big theatre now ! " 
 " Yes, in ' The Queen of Divitia.' My new plays, 
 though, will only appeal to the intelligent." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Take the Coronet. I know you 
 prefer it in your heart." 
 
 At first Mr. Abercrombie would not hear of 
 Barbara's resignation. Then, when he realised that 
 he must lose her, tears filled his large, dark eyes, 
 and in an ugly scene he berated her for ingratitude. 
 
 239 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 The part of Sweet he transferred to Thais Ran- 
 some, a pretty girl of eighteen, and to Thais also he 
 transferred Miss Hanch. 
 
 Barbara chose for her first play " Hilda Muller." 
 For with a god's power, it seemed to her, the stern 
 old Russian playwright revealed in " Hilda Mul- 
 ler " all the strange beauty and mystery of girl- 
 hood. 
 
 She had no difficulty in forming her company. 
 The actors and actresses she desired, the really 
 good actors and actresses, were indeed so glad to 
 appear in a play like " Hilda Muller " that they 
 would have joined her company even at a 
 sacrifice. 
 
 And the rehearsals were a joy. These young men 
 and women had never shared in such rehearsals be- 
 fore. In the past they had always set up at their re- 
 hearsals an imaginary public, a public as crude and 
 restless as a child of five or six years, and they 
 had degraded their art to this public's level, had 
 acted solely to please it, solely to catch and hold 
 its wandering attention. They had capered and 
 crowed before it, as a young father capers and 
 crows to amuse his babe. 
 
 But now, now for the first time, they could act 
 240 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 to please themselves, they could act to please a 
 public as intelligent as themselves; now, careless 
 of all else, they could do their best, their very 
 best. No wonder, then, the rehearsals, under Bar- 
 bara's hand, grew with amazing speed into that 
 firm and lovely form of which she dreamed. 
 
 The success of the rehearsals awed her. She 
 was glad now that, taking Jerome's advice, she had 
 leased the huge and expensive Coronet Theatre. 
 And though in their advance notices the critics 
 were inclined to sneer, some even accusing her of 
 a desire to " elevate the stage," she approached the 
 first night of " Hilda Muller " with almost perfect 
 confidence. 
 
 But alas, from the first night, the critics and 
 the public were alike indiflferent to '* Hilda 
 Muller's " austere beauty. 
 
 Barbara overcame her disappointment quickly. 
 She would not for an instant admit herself beaten. 
 She said that, with a weapon like " Hilda Muller " 
 to fight with, she could never be beaten. This tem- 
 porary set-back was her own fault — she should 
 have insisted on a small theatre — and she declared 
 courageously that they must now shift to a small 
 theatre at once. But to this shift Jerome would not 
 consent. 
 
 Amid the mocking laughter of the critics, Bar- 
 bara played " Hilda Muller " for eight weeks at the 
 241 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Coronet to half-empty houses, while at the Aber- 
 crombie Colonial next door, spurred on by the 
 critics* almost delirious praises, " Sweet " ran to 
 record business. Her manager then drew heavily 
 on Jerome, and " Hilda Muller " went on tour. 
 
 To Jerome that winter was a war, a war wherein 
 he fought alone, the whole world against him. 
 
 Even Barbara seemed to be against him. Bar- 
 bara, had she known, would have helped him. She 
 would have helped him as he had helped her on 
 the first night of " Vassa." But, now that she 
 had accepted his backing, he could not tell her of 
 his troubles, and hence, instead of helping him, she 
 continually harassed him with demands for money. 
 
 His friends, the millionaires whom he met in 
 board rooms and banquet halls, said earnestly that 
 they would be glad to help him if they could; but 
 the public, they pointed out, was still cautious, 
 thanks to the demagogues and fomenters of class 
 hatred; and meanwhile it seemed to Jerome that 
 the millionaires were in secret trying to harm him. 
 
 He grew lean as the winter passed, and he be- 
 gan to suffer horribly from insomnia. He would 
 go to bed dead tired, and, confident of sleeping 
 well, he would turn off the light and settle down 
 242 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 upon his pillow with a sigh of content. But a 
 breath of wind would rattle the pane. A little 
 later a dog would bark. Then he would hear the 
 vile cry of a cat. 
 
 And growing wider and wider awake, he would 
 lie and listen intently in the dark; till at last the 
 faintest sound, the faintest creak, would cause him 
 to jump nearly out of his skin. 
 
 He would then abandon all hope of sleep, and a 
 kind of delirium, not altogether unpleasant, would 
 possess him. Thoughts strangely vivid, thoughts as 
 vivid as dreams, would whirl and race in endless 
 procession through his feverish mind. He would 
 compose long and brilliant letters, conduct master- 
 ful interviews, his difficulties would be nearly con- 
 quered. But a drowsy languor would steal over 
 him. Perhaps he was to get some sleep after all: 
 the night was still young. And opening his eyes, 
 he would see the cold, sad light of the dawn. That 
 unexpected vision would rack him with horror and 
 despair. Too late, too late for sleep, and with a 
 groan he would ask himself where on earth he was 
 to find the strength to face another day. 
 
 Jerome was in a bad way. His nerves of steel 
 had at last yielded to the strain of what in Wall 
 Street was called work. But his were steel nerves, 
 and, if the strain were lightened, they would spring 
 back elastically into place again. 
 
 243 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Jerome was in a bad way. And yet — if he could 
 weather this storm 
 
 For his country's growth was so swift, so mon- 
 strous, that his enterprises, chosen, after all, with 
 acumen, would, if left alone, soon cease to stagger 
 under their load of over-capitalization. Pigmies 
 to-day, crushed to the earth beneath their cruel 
 loads, to-morrow his enterprises would be such vast 
 giants that they would swing easily on their way 
 with those same loads hidden in their pockets. 
 
 If he could weather this storm! 
 
 He rose, after a wretched night, to a day of ut- 
 ter lassitude. A poisonous fatigue made him sick 
 and foul within and without. He cut his lip while 
 shaving with his new safety razor, and at the 
 office he found a telegram from Barbara's man- 
 ager — " Please send eight thousand." He drew 
 the money from certain funds that he had no right 
 to touch. 
 
 Bill Stroud entered. 
 
 " Say, Mr. Jerome, what next ? " 
 
 And with scornful and incredulous laughter Bill 
 spread before him an afternoon paper that con- 
 tained the first article about his tottering fortunes. 
 
 Bill's faith moved him. He said: 
 244 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "Well, Bill, it's pretty nearly true, this 
 yarn." 
 
 Bill started. Then he gave a heavy sigh. 
 
 " If you could think of a coup, Mr. Jerome." 
 
 Ah, that was it — if he could think of a coup. 
 Coups were the life and soul of such plays as Bill 
 and he and all New York frequented. Strangely 
 transparent and weak, coups yet befooled the most 
 astute, they subjugated the most powerful. If he 
 could think of a coup! 
 
 "Bill," he said, "coups don't go in real life." 
 
 " Well, anyhow, you'll pull through, Mr. Jerome. 
 I bank on that." 
 
 " Yes, I'll pull through." 
 
 And he rose resolutely. The crisis was now 
 come, and from somewhere in his splendid constitu- 
 tion reserves of strength flowed in to meet the 
 crisis. 
 
 " I must see Gaines," he said. " Look up the 
 next train for Chicago." 
 
 For a week he fought. For a week he stormed 
 the financial strongholds of Denver, Pittsburg, 
 New York and Philadelphia. For a week, laying 
 bare all his enterprises, he proved to millionaire 
 after millionaire that his ruin would harm and his 
 triumph would benefit the listener. 
 
 He had found a coup, after all. His coup was 
 to ignore friendship, loyalty, every decent feeling, 
 
 245 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 and, relying solely on selfishness, to convince his 
 listener — by any means, fair or foul, to convince 
 him — that their interests were mutual, that, inevi- 
 tably, they must sink or swim together. 
 
 There were strange stories of that week's cam- 
 paign. There were stories of threats, blackmail, 
 physical violence, even tears. But these stories, for 
 all their mocking note, had in them a note of pro- 
 found respect. For the end of the stories was 
 triumphant. 
 
 The day he realised his triumph, the day the 
 great Hodson's telegram of assent at last arrived, 
 Jerome realised as well his weariness, and he rose 
 and stalked forth from his glass retreat. 
 
 " Bill, I'm going home." 
 
 "You look kind of bad, Mr. Jerome. You've 
 been overdoing it. Why don't you take a couple 
 of days off?" 
 
 " I guess maybe I will. Bill, now that I've pulled 
 through." 
 
 His glittering French limousine bore him swiftly 
 and smoothly to his beautiful house. He would lie 
 down awhile. Seeking his bedroom, he took off his 
 coat and waistcoat, then slipped them on again. 
 For he was too restless to lie down. He entered 
 the library and began to pace the floor with quick 
 steps. 
 
 He had weathered the storm 
 246 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 He was glad he had weathered the storm. Had 
 he gone under, a number of irregularities would 
 have been revealed . . . not thefts , . . certainly 
 not intentional thefts ... for he had known, when 
 he utilised those funds, that he would be able to 
 return them . . . and to-morrow, sure enough, he 
 was going to return them. But, all the same, had 
 he gone under, thousands of the provident poor 
 would have lost their savings through him, and it 
 would have been to all intents and purposes just 
 as though he had entered and rifled the little houses 
 of the poor at dead of night. 
 
 A footman brought in Robinson's card. He 
 never saw journalists at his residence, but Robin- 
 son, one of the editors of the Item, had a certain 
 importance. 
 
 " Send him up," he said. 
 
 Robinson entered. His air was sympathetic and 
 uneasy. Of course he did not know that Jerome 
 had pulled through. 
 
 " Mr. McWade," he stammered, " we are going 
 to print a — a story about you to-morrow. I'd like 
 you to confirm it or deny it." 
 
 " Well, what is your story ? " 
 
 There was a slight pause. To Robinson, stand- 
 ing by the door, it occurred that Jerome's figure 
 was herculean, brutally, disagreeably herculean, 
 Robinson regarded the solid neck above the white 
 247 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 collar. He regarded the massive arms and shoul- 
 ders under the soft cloth of the black coat. At 
 last, clearing his throat, he said: 
 
 " Is it true, Mr. McWade, that you have swamped 
 yourself by backing a beautiful young actress with 
 whom you are infatuated ? " 
 
 Jerome turned very red. He rose. 
 
 " What actress do you mean ? " 
 
 *'Miss Barb " 
 
 But Robinson stepped back hurriedly. Jerome 
 was advancing. His blue eyes glittered like steel 
 in his red face. And he seemed, as he drew near, 
 to stiffen and swell. Bigger and bigger he became, 
 a colossus that towered over Robinson, and now 
 this colossus put out its hand. 
 
 " Don't you lay your hands on me ! " 
 
 But Jerome clutched Robinson by the shoulder. 
 An incredible grip. Robinson felt himself being 
 shaken to and fro like a thing of paper. 
 
 " Look here," said Jerome, shaking Robinson 
 with one hand with a kind of calm violence, " I 
 don't often let myself go. It's dangerous. But I 
 want to tell you, if you print a line of that lie, I'll 
 take you by the throat, like this, and kill you. Yes, 
 by God, I'll kill you. Like this. I mean it." 
 
 " Don't ! " gasped Robinson. 
 
 " Do you promise not to print a line ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 248 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 And Robinson departed in haste and silence, 
 nervously settling his disordered tie. 
 
 The episode left Jerome calmer. He did not, 
 truly, often let himself go. He thought it cow- 
 ardly to let himself go ; he thought it unfair. Nev- 
 ertheless it was now and then very pleasant, yield- 
 ing to a sudden storm of rage, to carry all before 
 him by brute strength. And Jerome, smiling faintly 
 over the memory of Robinson's departure, began 
 to read the last annual report of the Hong Kong 
 mission. The eight Hong Kong missionaries, it 
 appeared, had absconded with the mission plate. . ,.j 
 
 A bell rang, and, behind his servant, Barbara 
 entered. 
 
 "Barbara!" 
 
 Running to him silently, she took both his hands 
 in hers. Her air, as she looked up into his eyes, 
 moved him in the strangest way. She had never 
 looked at him like that before, with that radiant 
 and grave approval, that queer humility. 
 
 "Jerome, are you ill? I didn't know till yes- 
 terday you were in trouble. Why didn't you tell 
 me? And here I've been drawing on you, draft 
 after draft!" 
 
 "It's all right now," he said. 
 249 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 ** Oh, have you pulled through? " 
 
 " Yes, I'm stronger than ever now." 
 
 "I am so glad." 
 
 She unfastened her long, grey, fur-lined travel- 
 ling coat. 
 
 " But you should be acting in Dubuque to-night." 
 
 " Oh, Fve given all that up." 
 
 " But I won't let you give it up. I'm stronger 
 than ever now." 
 
 " I am so glad. When I saw the Dispatch yes- 
 terday, I disbanded the company, I took the night 
 express. Why didn't you tell me? Why did you 
 let me " 
 
 "I knew all along I'd pull through." 
 
 " But you were too good. It wasn't right, 
 Jerome." 
 
 " Barbara," he said, turning confusedly to the 
 fire, " Barbara, I was glad to do — I'd do anything 
 for you." 
 
 " I know you would." 
 
 She regarded him compassionately as he leaned, 
 tall and herculean, against the mantel. His eyes 
 looked tired, his face was thin. But he had a 
 manly air, a strong, bold, resolute air, a soldier's air. 
 
 *' I know you would, Jerome. And yet . . . 
 And yet . . ." 
 
 She smiled a strange smile. She mused. Then, 
 blushing a little, she faltered softly: 
 250 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " I have been reading one of your old letters. 
 Jerome, when I ran away from Cinnaminson, from 
 the Cinnaminson gossips, and you wrote me that 
 humble, that generous proposal . . . you thought 
 . . . you thought I was bad, didn't you ? " 
 
 He frowned. He desired to lie. But he had 
 never lied to her. 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 "I knew it!" 
 
 And she rose, she gave him both her hands 
 again. 
 
 " I knew it ! I knew it ! " she repeated, with soft 
 laughter. 
 
 " You see," he stammered, " I was sure that, 
 whatever you did, there would be some justifica- 
 tion for . . . You are, I mean, so honourable, you 
 couldn't degrade . . . soil . . .'' 
 
 " Thank you, Jerome." 
 
 She returned to her chair. The grey fur lapels 
 of her coat were thrown back, and he could see 
 her slim bosom rising and falling. She still re- 
 garded him with that queer humility, that approval 
 radiant and grave. 
 
 " You have paid me," she said, " a great com- 
 pliment, the greatest compliment, perhaps, the 
 highest ..." 
 
 "I don't see how." 
 
 She let her gaze rove over the silver grey 
 
 251 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Velasquez, over the first editions in their morocco 
 boxes. 
 
 '' That doesn't lessen my compliment," she said. 
 " But how tired you look ! Why don't you go 
 abroad a while?" 
 
 " I might, if you were going." 
 
 She mused, her eyes downcast. Then, with a 
 faint flush, a faint smile, she answered: 
 
 " I'll go abroad with you, if you want me to, 
 Jerome." 
 
 252 
 
XXV 
 
 Etchepherdia, a Basque house, stood on a high 
 and narrow cape, breasting the sea Hke a ship. Be- 
 fore it the windy plain of tumbling waters spread 
 in clear greens and blues to the horizon. Past it 
 on both sides great rollers swept eternally shore- 
 ward. The air upon its terraces was sweet and keen 
 and salt. 
 
 Barbara, the evening of her entry, dined on 
 Etchepherdia*s topmost terrace behind a glass wind- 
 screen. The sun was setting as she took her place, 
 the wild sea was flushed here and gilded there with 
 sunset light, the mountains of Spain were pink and 
 clear like vast coals of fire. 
 
 As she dined slowly, she now and then looked 
 up from her book. Before her rolled a sea of rose 
 and gold. To her right the beaches of France, with 
 their white dunes and their green pine-woods, were 
 bathed in an orange glitter. To her left the rocky 
 coast of Spain was all pink, translucent, flaming. 
 
 The twilight turned blue. Two or three stars 
 
 253: 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 came out. The butler brought lighted candles. An 
 enormous moon rose slowly. 
 
 After dinner she paced the great terrace in the 
 moonlight. The sound of the sea was like a deep 
 harp note. The air was sweet and wild, as though 
 she stood at the bow of a ship. 
 
 But in the sound of the sea there was some- 
 thing mournful, there was something mournful in 
 the cold moonlight; and shivering a little, a little 
 lonely, she went indoors. The spacious reception 
 rooms all opened one upon the other, and she 
 strolled down long bright vistas, admiring the pic- 
 tures and the tapestries. Then she went upstairs 
 to her own suite, a suite as delicate and pale as the 
 inside of a shell, and she visited her bath-room of 
 green marble, she visited her bedroom with its gilt 
 bed panelled in wicker, she visited her dressing- 
 room, where a fire of odorous cedar flamed, an arm- 
 chair drawn before it, with a table and a reading- 
 lamp. 
 
 She read till ten before the fire. Then she went 
 out and leaned over the dressing-room balcony. 
 The sea in the moonlight was like frosted silver. 
 
 " I'll get up at sunrise to-morrow," she mused. 
 " I'll spend the whole day in the open air." 
 
 She slept well, and the next morning a little after 
 six Marcelle brought in her breakfast. The golden 
 light of the dawn flooded the room, and her great 
 
 254 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 window framed a wild sea whose foam was turned 
 to gold. 
 
 Delicious on its tray was her breakfast of rich 
 coffee, fresh butter and crisp rolls. Past her 
 window, as she ate, rocked tiny fishing-boats. The 
 Biarritz fishermen, early as it was, were up before 
 her — tiny figures in the vast splendour of the sun- 
 rise pulling lustily at tiny oars. 
 
 She ran to her perfumed bath, and after her bath 
 she dressed in a walking-suit of rough tweed, with 
 brown boots, a trim cloth walking-hat, and brown 
 gloves. Then, a book in her hand, she crossed the 
 garden and descended, by a stairway cut in the 
 rock, to the pale beach. 
 
 It was still hardly seven. The sweet air was 
 cold. But there was warmth already in the sun- 
 shine, and she set out slowly over the soft, coarse 
 sand beside the thundering sea. 
 
 The sea frightened her. Never had she dreamed 
 of such a sea. The rollers, as they curved over 
 to break, were three and four times the height of 
 a man. The beach was like a mountainside for 
 steepness, yet vast sheets of foam swept continu- 
 ally up its sharp incline with a strength and speed 
 that were horrible. It seemed to Barbara that if 
 one of those hissing sheets of foam but curled 
 about her ankle, it would surely drag her down 
 with it to death. 
 
 «55 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 On and on she walked, a solitary figure in an 
 immense and sunlit landscape shaken by the thun- 
 der of the surf. Now she climbed great dunes 
 as white as salt. Now she threaded little clean 
 groves of pines that emitted an odour delicate and 
 stimulating. Here a small, sturdy vineyard, yield- 
 ing the good vin de sable, faced the sea. Here 
 fragrant carnations thrust themselves out of the 
 sand. The gulls were her only company. 
 
 After luncheon, still unwearied, she set out 
 again. But this time she walked inland, following 
 hard white roads that wound through woods and 
 fields. Now and then she met an ox-cart. The 
 huge, cream-coloured oxen, swinging their Oriental 
 trappings of blue and yellow and red, obeyed as 
 intelligently as dogs the cries of the driver who 
 stalked before them, carrying a great goad upright 
 like a spear. Little brown birds darted to and fro 
 in the blue sky, but if they once alighted in the 
 fields, men, stretched on their stomachs behind 
 barriers of reeds, caught them in great nets 
 cleverly. 
 
 She walked home in the twilight, amid a sweet, 
 thin, melancholy music, the Basque songs of the 
 returning mountaineers. She was tired, but at the 
 same time she was incredibly stimulated by the 
 pure air she had breathed all day. And as she 
 dined alone, as she sat before the fire after dinner 
 
 256 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 with a book, it seemed to her that her body had 
 never felt so light and strong, her brain had never 
 felt so powerful and clear. Laying her book upon 
 her knee, she gazed into the flame. Never had she 
 realised like this the joy of life. And so much of 
 life still lay before her, there were so many sensa- 
 tions still to taste. . . She rose and went slowly 
 to the huge mirror. She gazed at her reflection 
 a long while. Yes, men's eyes told her the truth. 
 She was as beautiful as ever, she was perhaps more 
 beautiful than ever. . . But lonely. . . 
 
 Fascinated by Etchepherdia, she had leased the 
 house for a year. Here, their tour ended, Jerome 
 had left her. Here she would rest, after the dis- 
 appointment of " Hilda Muller," until her desire 
 for the stage revived again. 
 
 She would never go back to the stage save in 
 plays of " Hilda Muller's " quality, plays beautiful 
 and sincere. Ford's death had impressed indelibly 
 upon her his own conception of the hideousness of 
 life, but with Ford she believed that life's hideous- 
 ness could be mitigated. By living honestly and 
 fearlessly, by being true to one's own soul alone, 
 life could be made almost happy. She, playing 
 " Hilda Muller " to nearly empty houses, had been, 
 
 257 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 thanks to certain intelligent applause, almost happy. 
 
 But the stage's greatest triumphs did not, after 
 all, promise her enough distraction from the hide- 
 ousness of life; and laying down her book, she 
 dreamed in the nocturnal silence of the marriage 
 whereof she had been robbed. 
 
 She dreamed of a spacious and beautiful house 
 upon a hilltop, a house full of joyous interests, 
 with the fresh, frail voices of little children sound- 
 ing through sunlit halls. 
 
 And overcome with loneliness and sorrow amid 
 those great, silent, illuminated rooms, she took up 
 her book again hurriedly, resolved not to cry. 
 
 Winter came on, winter with its wild, warm 
 storms. For days on end warm winds howled 
 incessantly. And the sea's fury passed all 
 credence. 
 
 Barbara, reading by the fire, would look from 
 her window at a sea turned altogether to white 
 foam, a sea of white foam, eternally flinging gi- 
 gantic white masses up into a low black sky. 
 
 Great flakes of foam rose like white birds on the 
 wind and flew miles inland. The warm, wet, grey, 
 tempestuous days were full of those white foam 
 birds. And through the foam that lay in mounds 
 
 258 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 upon the beach children ran with wild laughter, 
 disappearing altogether in its depths. 
 
 Once, as Barbara trudged in her rubber coat to- 
 wards the Bar, the warm wind turned cold, the rain 
 turned to hail, and struggling onward amid a rat- 
 tle of hail-stones as big as marbles, she passed gull 
 after gull stretched, dead or dying, on the sand. 
 She counted a hundred or more: grey, bedraggled 
 heaps of plumes on which the hail beat fiercely. As 
 she bent over them, shocked and sorrowful, some 
 moved their wings in a feeble eflFort to escape. 
 Poor things! What had killed them? The wild 
 weather ? 
 
 A warm, wet, grey, tempestuous winter, fatten- 
 ing the green land, preparing it for a divine 
 spring. 
 
 The spring came early. In the gayest sunshine, 
 the mildest, sweetest air, the plane-trees put forth 
 a few pale green leaves. The leaves increased. 
 Soon they resembled a flight of green butterflies 
 hanging amid brown boughs. 
 
 Then the pear-trees' gnarled and naked limbs 
 burst into soft masses of snowy blossom, and 
 under a sky ineffably blue and smiling the apple- 
 trees and peach-trees swayed great pink and white 
 bouquets. 
 
 259 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 From the blackberry hedges that bordered all the 
 roads sprang pale and tiny flowers, changing the 
 hedges to white mists. Each white road now ran 
 between two white mists of delicate bloom. 
 
 Over the green fields spread splendid broideries 
 of wild flowers — yellow primroses and buttercups, 
 purple ragged robin and thyme, white daisies. 
 
 And in that great sunshine, in the smile of that 
 pure, blue, transparent sky, amid white fruit-trees, 
 banks of violets, fields glittering with wild flowers, 
 every hen walked amongst a brood of yellow chicks. 
 Every duck swam amongst yellow ducklings. Mares 
 browsed in the vales with long-legged colts at their 
 sides. Cows guarded calves in every meadow. 
 Tiny white lambs, bleating excitedly, scurried to 
 and fro among the sheep. 
 
 One long spring day Barbara walked far back 
 into the mountains. The air was like wine. She 
 lunched on a mossy bank spangled with anemones 
 and violets. Far below the blue sea flashed and 
 glittered. 
 
 After lunch she rested on a stone wall near a 
 little white farmhouse. A hen, in the shadow of a 
 plane-tree, was teaching her chicks to peck. On the 
 hillside a half-dozen young lambs leapt and bounded 
 amongst the flock. An old woman hurried excit- 
 edly down the road with a basket of ducklings that 
 had just been hatched. 
 
 260 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 From the little white farmhouse came a young 
 mother with a babe in her arms. The young mother 
 was beautiful, a girl straight and robust. She 
 seated herself on a bench under a tree, and from 
 her seat she regarded Barbara steadily. 
 
 Her proud and contented eyes fixed on Bar- 
 bara, she pressed her baby's cheek against her own, 
 she kissed her baby's arms and neck, and all the 
 while her clear gaze said to Barbara: 
 
 " There are many triumphs, triumphs of luxury, 
 triumphs of fame, triumphs of love ; but this is the 
 only real triumph. Nothing counts beside this. 
 Wealth and fame are nothing, and the kisses of a 
 lover are but the prelude to these kisses." 
 
 The ascending road left the farmlands far be- 
 hind, and Barbara now walked amid hills all yel- 
 low with gorse. The air, flowing over miles of 
 fragrant gorse, had a faint scent of vanilla. 
 
 She entered an old Basque town. The tall, thin, 
 dark Basques talked to one another in a guttural 
 and sing-song language which resembled Chinese. 
 Their ancient pelote court was built of granite, and 
 about its rectangle ran two rows of granite seats, 
 with patches of moss growing here and there on 
 the old grey stone. 
 
 She returned amid the sweet and wistful music 
 of Basque songs. On one side the sun was setting 
 in the sea, and on the other side a moon larger 
 261 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 than the sun was rising behind an old spire. It was 
 very beautiful, but she was lonely. 
 
 The pink and green and gold faded to the deep 
 blue of twilight, and in the twilight a nightingale 
 began to sing. 
 
 After dinner she could hardly read for the night- 
 ingale's singing. A pair of nightingales had built 
 their nest in a sheltered corner of the garden. The 
 music flooded the room — ^joyous music. She had 
 never heard music so full of joy. 
 
 She turned off her reading-lamp. She drew her 
 chair to the window. She gazed out at the garden, 
 at the trees and flowers dreaming in the moon- 
 light. 
 
 The nightingale sang on. What happiness in its 
 song! A happiness that made her want to weep. 
 
 She thought of the young mother under the plane- 
 tree caressing her baby. She remembered the 
 mother's eyes as she kissed the baby's neck, as she 
 tossed the smiling little creature up and down, as 
 she kissed its pink, round arms. 
 
 On and on sang the nightingale. In the fra- 
 grance of the moonlit garden its heart seemed 
 bursting with joy. 
 
 And Barbara dreamed in the moonlight, to the 
 music of the nightingale, of babies' little faces al- 
 ways turned to their mothers, of babies' eyes always 
 following their mothers, of babies' tiny outstretched 
 262 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 arms, their helpless and appealing little hands . . . 
 
 On and on she dreamed. . . Little clutching 
 hands, little bodies soft and warm, smiling faces, 
 following eyes . . . 
 
 The nightingale sang more loudly. The garden 
 dreamed in the moonlight. And Barbara dreamed. 
 Her dreams had all the passion and sweetness and 
 despair of a young lover's. 
 
 Little, helpless, clutching hands . . . smiling 
 faces . . . following eyes . . . 
 
 263 
 
XXVI 
 
 Jerome, on the completion of the Lawless merger, 
 had built his fourth house. Here, in regal mag- 
 nificence, he lived alone — alone with twenty-six 
 servants. 
 
 He no longer liked to be called a business man, 
 having outgrown that title, as he had outgrown his 
 three other houses. He now liked to be called a 
 financier. 
 
 His energy, as a financier, was even greater than 
 it had been as a simple business man. His intense 
 and devouring energy interfered with his health. 
 Hence he had to curb it somewhat. 
 
 There was something frightening about his en- 
 ergy. He would fall upon a piece of work as if 
 that piece of work were his life's sole object, as 
 if, unless he succeeded in it, he must die. 
 
 And he would toil night and day, week in and 
 week out. And besides giving himself wholly, he 
 would compel a host of other men as well to give 
 264 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 themselves wholly, setting everybody impossible 
 tasks. Thus Brown must increase freight rates 
 and freight carriage. Jones must lower the con- 
 sumption of fuel and the time of trains. Robin- 
 son must cause the number of employees and acci- 
 dents alike to decline. 
 
 He would be told that his requirements were im- 
 possible, but of impossibility he would never hear. 
 What he desired must, must be achieved. And he 
 would argue, storm, quote precedents, suggest ways 
 and means, blazing with energy as with a flame. 
 And the men, leaving his presence with the knowl- 
 edge that they must either satisfy him or resign 
 disgraced, would, to save their skins, work as they 
 had never worked, strive as they had never striven, 
 till at last, to their own astonishment, they would 
 succeed. The impossible would be accomplished. 
 
 Then Jerome, having conquered, having con- 
 quered after months of toil, months of anxiety, 
 months of disappointment, contention and despair, 
 Jerome would heave a great sigh of relief, he would 
 lean back in his desk-chair and smile, but instead 
 of saying, " Now, at last, a rest," he would say, 
 
 " Now, at last, I can get at " And the next 
 
 hour would see him enrapt heart and soul in a more 
 desperate struggle than the one just ended. 
 
 But his energy, as he grew older, spoiled his 
 sleep. Sometimes, after a day unusually tense and 
 
 265 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 exciting, he would toss till dawn. To curb his 
 energy he turned, therefore, under Pat O'Rourke, 
 to exercise. 
 
 Under O'Rourke he built a gymnasium on the 
 top floor of his house, with an elaborate set of 
 needle and shower baths and a great marble pool. 
 Here, every morning, he boxed, wrestled and 
 played hand-ball, concluding with a plunge in the 
 pool's clear depths. 
 
 But O'Rourke preferred open-air exercise, and 
 for every hour spent in the gymnasium Jerome spent 
 two on horseback, on the links, or, in sweater and 
 rubber-soled shoes, on long jogs over country roads. 
 Thus his weight decreased. He became lean and 
 hard and supple. Sun and wind changed his pallor 
 to a ruddy brown. 
 
 He became, too, really elegant, thanks in part 
 to his " house secretary," Lord Seymour's son. 
 Jerome had always sought after elegance, but his 
 standard had been wrong. Now, a correct standard 
 having at last been achieved, his elegance left noth- 
 ing to be desired. 
 
 Every morning at eight he took in bed a cup of 
 coffee and a slice of toast. Then, having exercised 
 and swum, he descended to his dressing-room, 
 where Seymour awaited him with the house mail. 
 While he ran over the house mail, declining this 
 invitation and accepting that, his valet now shaved 
 266 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 him, now buttoned his crisp and delicate shirt, now 
 drew the forms from his shining boots, now handed 
 him his fresh, rich tie. 
 
 He read the papers and finished his private cor- 
 respondence at breakfast. After breakfast the hall 
 porter brought him carefully his well-ironed hat 
 and lustrous overcoat, handed him stick and gloves, 
 and, with profound reverence, ushered him forth 
 into Fifth Avenue. There, instantly, he was saluted 
 by the trim chauffeur at the wheel and by the trim 
 footman at the door of his limousine. He entered 
 the limousine, where another secretary with more 
 mail awaited him, and all the way to Wall Street 
 he read and answered letters. 
 
 In Wall Street every minute was occupied, every 
 minute scheduled. At one he lunched with this 
 partner or that. At two, for a quarter of an hour, 
 he saw reporters. At four he departed, giving the 
 rest of the afternoon to board meetings or to 
 charity conventions. The evening was devoted to 
 society. 
 
 For Jerome was in society. Mrs. Stu^vesant had 
 taken him up. Mrs. Stuyvesant, the week after he 
 helped her husband out of the copper muddle, gave 
 in his honour one of her splendid dinners. Inas- 
 much as he had learned from Charles Seymour the 
 ways of those smart London houses upon which 
 Mrs. Stuyvesant and her friends modelled them- 
 267 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 selves reverently, his success at this dinner was 
 satisfactory. 
 
 He was a good " catch," invitations showered on 
 him, and he, from his beautiful house, showered 
 invitations. His hospitality was extravagant. He 
 set a new standard in plats and vintages. And in 
 his superb dining-hall, while two hundred men and 
 women ate and drank noisily at small tables under 
 tents of roses, a star from the Opera sang sweet, 
 unheeded music, a famous violinist played Bee- 
 thoven amid loud laughter, a beautiful dancer 
 danced to rows of backs. 
 
 268 
 
XXVII 
 
 From her terrace, one radiant September morning, 
 she saw his yacht on the blue horizon — a white 
 speck under a plume of smoke. Bigger and bigger 
 it grew. How white it was ! Its brass cowls shone 
 like gold in the sun. 
 
 The yacht loitered a while before the Bar, then 
 glided into the narrow mouth of the Adour. In 
 its progress Bayonneward it seemed to slide inland 
 across the sands magically. It disappeared, at last, 
 among the pines. 
 
 At noon, in trim blue. Bill Stroud arrived. Mr. 
 Jerome had gone on to the Hotel du Palais with 
 his secretaries, and he would like to come to 
 Etchepherdia, Bill said, for tea. 
 
 After luncheon she drove to Bayonne. On the 
 way the postman handed her another letter from 
 Abercrombie. Again Abercrombie begged her to 
 return, offering better terms than ever; but Bar- 
 bara read his offer with a frown. 
 269 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 She passed the yacht in the Bayonne harbour. 
 How big it was! A half-dozen motor-cars stood 
 before the gangway, and neat, blue-clad officers 
 were leading grandes dames from Biarritz about 
 the deck. 
 
 ''Le millia/rdaire Americain!'' she heard on all 
 sides. And, as her carriage passed, she thought : 
 
 *' How odd ! I'm proud of knowing Jerome." 
 
 He arrived at Etchepherdia at four in a white 
 touring-car, followed by a smaller car wherein sat 
 three enormous and smooth-shaven men in black. 
 
 She welcomed him on the terrace. He advanced, 
 laughing gaily, handsome in the sunshine. His 
 thick, well-brushed hair was stirred a little by the 
 wind, and in the golden brown of his tanned face 
 his blue eyes beamed, his white teeth glittered. 
 
 " Barbara ! " he said. The strong brown hand, 
 as it clasped hers, trembled. 
 
 She withdrew her hand gently. " It's quite an 
 honour to know you now, Jerome. But who are 
 your three friends ? " 
 
 The men in black had left their car, and one 
 strode up and down before Etchepherdia, another 
 stood at the gate, the third circled the court with 
 slow steps. 
 
 " They are guards," he said apologetically. " I 
 have to have them — the newspapers print so many 
 lies about me." 
 
 270 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 As they conversed, they paced the terrace. The 
 sun shone. An air wild and sweet blew from the 
 sea. Past them great green rollers swept shore- 
 ward. 
 
 "Have you been to Cinnaminson lately, 
 Jerome ? " 
 
 " Yes, I was there last month." 
 
 " Are there any changes in Cinnaminson ? " 
 
 " Bishop Harper has built a little country house 
 on the Ridge." 
 
 " Is he a bishop now? How did he manage it? " 
 
 " He managed it with a campaign against the 
 social evil. He and three young men did Tenth 
 Street night after night all winter. Sixty raids 
 followed* Bishop Harper's evidence was — But 
 didn't you read it?" 
 
 "No, thank God!" 
 
 " I knew you wouldn't approve of Bishop Har- 
 per's campaign against the social evil," said Jerome 
 hurriedly. " You always take the under dog's side, 
 Barbara." 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " it was vile ! To climb by 
 means of those poor girls ! " 
 
 A maid came forth with tea, and they seated 
 themselves in the shelter of the glass wind-screen. 
 
 "You still take tea, Jerome?" 
 
 " Yes," he said. " Tea is a good stimulant. I 
 can work like a lion after four cups of tea." 
 271 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 He laughed, radiant with happiness. He was 
 very well dressed. His grey flannels were perfect. 
 Perfect, too, his white shoes, his crisp shirt, his 
 careless tie. Whence, though, came his aristocratic 
 air? Was it that an aristocratic air was but an 
 air of power, and Jerome's power exceeded many 
 a king's? 
 
 He took a tiny foie gras sandwich. 
 
 " Mrs. Chew," he said, " has married a young 
 railway brakeman." 
 
 "Oh, poor Elisha!" 
 
 " Poor Elisha came all the way from Palm 
 Beach to stop the match. He and the brakeman 
 had it out in the Chew dining-room. They smashed 
 a lot of crockery, and Elisha lost a front tooth." 
 
 " Poor Elisha ! " She laughed gently. " He was 
 so pompous, it is hard to imagine him in a vulgar 
 fight." 
 
 After their tea they lounged, facing one another, 
 in great chairs of wicker. 
 
 "Jerome, Bill tells me you actually think of 
 building again." 
 
 " Well, why not ? " He glanced at her, and his 
 face fell. " I don't know, though," he muttered. 
 
 In the silence, conscious of his gaze, she moved 
 
 uneasily. Then her pale lids lifted. Her violet 
 
 eyes, more liquid and more luminous than he had 
 
 ever seen them, met his. And for a moment she 
 
 272 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 allowed him to gaze deep down into the clear depths 
 of her beautiful eyes. . . Those clear and soft and 
 shining depths. . . He bent forward. Through 
 her transparent sleeves he saw the round and sup- 
 ple contours of her arms. And how beautiful were 
 her hands! The long fingers were clasped about 
 her Lnee. He bent nearer, he became conscious 
 of a faint, exquisite perfume, but, with a sudden 
 start, Barbara rose, and laughing breathlessly, with 
 heightened colour, she walked to the balustrade of 
 carved stone. 
 
 " Perhaps . . . '* she was thinking, as, her elbows 
 on the rail, she gazed forth over the blue and green 
 expanse of sea. " I could, perhaps ..." 
 
 " But what is the use of my building another 
 house?" the gloomy and disappointed voice 
 sounded behind her. " The house I live in now is 
 too big for my loneliness." 
 
 She turned, a little astonished. 
 
 "Are you ever lonely, Jerome?" 
 
 " Am I ever lonely ! " 
 
 "But not often?" 
 
 " I fight it," he said. " I get to work. All the 
 same, it isn't very pleasant to look forward to a 
 lonely old age. An old man, all alone, in a big 
 house." 
 
 As they paced the enormous terrace Barbara 
 saidr 
 
 273 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "What are you doing over here with so many 
 secretaries, Jerome?" 
 
 " I'm forming a new combine. If I succeed it 
 
 will be the biggest thing Fve done yet. If I fail 
 
 But I can't fail." 
 
 She faced him, leaning on the balustrade. 
 
 "What is the good of all your money?" 
 
 " I give a lot to charity." 
 
 "To charity?" 
 
 " Foreign missions, for example." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Well, what charities are better?" 
 
 " There's medical research," she mused. 
 
 " Write me," he said eagerly, " a list of the chari- 
 ties you recommend." 
 
 Leaning against the balustrade, her back to the 
 sea, she regarded him in silence. . . And again 
 her violet eyes seemed to grow more liquid and 
 more luminous. She allowed him again to 
 gaze deep down into their soft, clear depths. 
 Jerome, bathed in delicious violet light, whispered 
 sadly : 
 
 "If you would marry me . . ." 
 
 But she shook her head. " Would you have me 
 marry you without loving you ? " 
 
 " Yes ; for I couldn't love you any better if you 
 did love me." 
 
 "Poor Jerome!" 
 
 274 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 " This money of mine . . . Thinlc what you could 
 do with it. Think of the good." 
 
 "Would you have me marry you for your 
 money ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She shook her head. But her smile was tender. 
 Her soft eyes lingered in his. 
 
 "Yes; yes," he repeated desperately. 
 
 But she still shook her head. 
 
 275 
 
XXVIII 
 
 "Yesterday I flew," said Barbara, "and to-day 
 I'm going to see a bull fight." 
 
 The limousine hurried. In her elegant and 
 bizarre toilet, a toilet suggestive somehow of the 
 Orient, she crossed and uncrossed her knees. Her 
 face was pale under the Eastern turban, and she 
 kept biting her red lip nervously. 
 
 "You are more nervous," said he, "than when 
 you flew. Why, you are more nervous than on the 
 first night of ' Vassa.' " 
 
 " * Vassa ! ' " she cried, remembering Abercrom- 
 bie's letter ; and she continued, " Mr. Abercrombie 
 wants me to come back to him, Jerome. He oflfers 
 twice the old salary, and I may play anything I 
 like at matinees." 
 
 All the gaiety vanished from his voice. " Do you 
 think you'll go?" 
 
 "I don't know. The Grand Duke Paul takes 
 276 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 over Etchepherdia next month. I must do some- 
 thing." 
 
 The car stopped, and, surrounded by Jerome's 
 tall guards, they ascended through crowds of well- 
 dressed persons to their box. 
 
 Their lofty box commanded the whole thronged 
 amphitheatre. 
 
 The ring, empty as yet, was gilded with floods of 
 sunshine, and up from the ring rose in widening 
 circles an immense multitude. Like a great garden 
 the multitude moved and rustled, revealing here a 
 snowy plume, there a bright gown, here a beautiful 
 face. And over all spread the blue sky. 
 
 Barbara looked down at the bull ring, then she 
 looked up at the sky; and the pure and serene and 
 tender sky seemed to bend over the earth with a 
 smile, seemed to oflfer mankind the revelation of 
 some profound and precious secret. 
 
 Music struck up, and round the ring a gay little 
 procession of young men clad in silk and velvet 
 followed a gay little band. 
 
 But the procession ended almost as soon as it 
 had begun. The band disappeared. The young 
 men grouped themselves in careless attitudes here 
 and there. A few horsemen with long pikes 
 spurred their blindfolded steeds aimlessly this way 
 and that. Moving, rustling, the multitude waited. 
 
 Then, across the Hng, a great door slid open, 
 277 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 revealing a black maw, and out of that black maw 
 a beautiful bull galloped forth into the sunshine. 
 
 The bull, small, sturdy, nimble, lashed its sides 
 and kicked up its heels as it advanced. Amid such 
 a plethora of enemies it hardly knew whom first to 
 slay. But a youth ran towards it, waving a red 
 cloak. It darted upon him. He halted, awaiting its 
 onslaught with a smile : a gallant figure of a mata- 
 dor, clad in pale blue velvet embroidered with 
 silver: and, when the bull was almost on him, he 
 extended his cloak calmly, negligently, as a child 
 extends a hoop for a trained dog to leap through. 
 
 And the bull, instead of goring the matador, 
 gored the cloak. Its breath could be heard, hissing 
 with eifort, as it struck. A strange sound, that 
 hissing breath, in the great sunshine, amid the vast, 
 tense, silent multitude; and the bull, meeting no 
 resistance, was lifted up on its hind legs. Then 
 another red cloak caught its eye, it dashed across 
 the arena, it struck vainly again. 
 
 A matador in yellow played with it a little while. 
 He held his cloak now to the right, now to the left, 
 now before him, now behind him, and the bull, as 
 though trained, turned nimbly without fail this way 
 and that to butt the scarlet cloth. 
 
 The great throng laughed and applauded. 
 
 " Why, he seems no more dangerous," said Bar- 
 bara, "than a trick animal." 
 278 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 But a picador advanced on his blindfolded horse 
 and pricked the bull with his long pike. 
 
 " Ah, he is dangerous enough," she sighed. 
 
 For now the bull's head, thrust beneath the 
 horse's breast, was lifting it up, up. The rider fell 
 to the ground. The impaled horse, erect, bran- 
 dished its forelegs in the air helplessly. Then it 
 was let down, and the bull, hurriedly shaking its 
 horns free, sped after another red cloak. But Bar- 
 bara, pale, with tragical eyes, watched the poor 
 horse. 
 
 It stood motionless in the sunshine, its feet 
 planted squarely, and it seemed to pay no heed 
 to the red stream which gushed from its breast 
 on to the yellow sand. 
 
 "But," said Barbara, "but " 
 
 And a strange excitement seized her. She had 
 expected to be disgusted, but she was moved, in- 
 stead, like one who witnesses a tragedy. This bull 
 fight was indeed a tragedy wherein even death itself 
 was real. 
 
 " But that horse. . . It will soon die." 
 
 The horse, motionless, seemed to dream. The 
 red stream gushed with incredible abundance from 
 its breast. And amid the glare and heat and noise 
 it stood dying in the tranquil attitude of a horse 
 that stands in the shadow of an oak in a quiet 
 pasture. 
 
 279 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 "Oh," she said, "how strange! To see a huge 
 creature like that die ! " 
 
 Suddenly the horse fell. 
 
 " I don't like it," said Jerome. 
 
 "Don't you like it?" she panted. "I think it 
 is fascinating. It is hideously fascinating. I un- 
 derstand now the hideous fascination of the Roman 
 games. To see men kill and be killed. . . Every- 
 thing would appear tame and trivial after that." 
 
 A youth in pale blue ran into the ring. He held 
 in either hand a dart hung with roses. Laughing, 
 he followed the bull about. At last he caught its 
 eye, and it lowered its head and charged. He stood 
 directly in its path, he laughed gaily and cruelly, a 
 dart extended in each hand, his pose affectedly 
 graceful. 
 
 The bull thundered on him. He waited, mo- 
 tionless, his white teeth gleaming, his eyes dancing 
 with laughter. Nor did he move a muscle until 
 the bull's dreadful horns were within a few feet 
 of his loins. Then, like lightning, he leaned over 
 those dreadful horns, he planted his two darts side 
 by side between the bull's shoulders, and he resumed 
 at once his motionless and gay and graceful pose — ■ 
 for the bull, stung with pain, had straightway halted 
 in its headlong course, and writhing and twisting, 
 leaping high in air like a bucking broncho, it tried in 
 vain to dislodge the banderillero's rose-hung darts. 
 280 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 But another banderillero advanced. It charged 
 him, and he, too, planted in its back his flower- 
 decked banderilles. Then a picador pricked it, and 
 it slew another horse. Then a half-dozen matadors 
 tormented it with their red cloaks. 
 
 But the bull was getting tired. 
 
 " How tired he is," said Barbara. " He has frit- 
 tered away all his strength. He has accomplished 
 nothing. And now " 
 
 A swordsman appeared. He carried a cloak in 
 one hand and in the other a long sword. The bull 
 stood in the sun-drenched ring, tired, hopeless, but 
 still facing its foes with a courage sullen and 
 admirable. 
 
 The swordsman advanced calmly. It turned to 
 meet him. With lowered head it pawed the sand. 
 Planted between its shoulders, a half-dozen darts 
 rose and fell with every movement. 
 
 The swordsman extended his red cloak. The bull 
 butted. And, as it did so, the sword was buried 
 behind its horns. 
 
 The bull, unmindful of its wound, faced its de- 
 stroyer. He watched it, smiling. And it began to 
 cough. It coughed and coughed. Then, suddenly, 
 as though a spring had been touched, it gave a 
 great start and fell. 
 
 "Dead," said Barbara. "Dead." 
 
 The multitude applauded. Four mules, harnessed 
 281 
 
Barbara Gwynnc 
 
 abreast, dragged off the bull at a gay, quick trot. 
 It slid upon its side over the sand behind them, 
 amid a jingle of bells, one sturdy leg stuck up in 
 the air stiffly. 
 
 "To think ..." she said. "A little while ago 
 so strong and indomitable . . . and now dragged 
 ignominiously off, dead, with nothing accomplished 
 . . . It's like men's lives." 
 
 Another bull dashed into the ring. It had a con- 
 quering air. It charged everything. Its strength 
 seemed inexhaustible. 
 
 " But it will soon be dead," she mused. 
 
 And in her strange excitement she compared a 
 bull fight with the life of man. The bull was man ; 
 the picadors and banderilleros were man's vices 
 and temptations ; the swordsman was death. Death 
 none could escape. But vices and temptations and 
 weaknesses might well be escaped. Life's splen- 
 did energy, instead of being dissipated, might be 
 devoted to some one achievement. Something might 
 be accomplished before the swordsman came. 
 
 A second matador faced the tired and sullen 
 bull. But he was not very skilful, that youth. Time 
 after time he thrust in his sword nearly to the hilt, 
 plucked it forth bright red, then took fresh aim 
 and thrust again. The bull faced him always, ac- 
 cepting with an indomitable air those fearful 
 wounds. 
 
 282 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 Barbara looked up from the tragedy of the bull 
 ring to the serene sky. The sky was blue, a pure 
 and tender and smiling blue. . . Down in the ring 
 that horror . . . and up in the sky that serene and 
 gentle beauty. . . Why would not man look up 
 and learn the secret of the sky? 
 
 A bull, beside itself, attacked a dead horse that 
 lay in a corner. The horse^s head, as it was knocked 
 about, lolled strangely; the neck looked incredibly 
 long. 
 
 Her excitement increased. She seemed almost 
 to have the key to life's sorry mystery. 
 
 Death none can escape, but the vices and weak- 
 nesses of life are naught to him who devotes him- 
 self, like Ford and like Jerome, to a single pur- 
 pose. 
 
 And he who devotes his life to a single purpose, 
 whether that purpose be noble like Ford's or igno- 
 ble like Jerome's, has a dignity that others lack. 
 
 Dignity ... It was not much, perhaps. But 
 how few lives possessed it! 
 
 Jerome's aim had been to grow rich, and he had 
 succeeded. But his life had had another aim, and 
 283 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 this he had pursued with nobler means, with hu- 
 mihty, with delicate kindness, with an invincible and 
 touching faith. In this other aim was he to fail? 
 
 She bit her lip, she coloured. Does a woman 
 ever give herself without love? Ah, yes, she often 
 gives herself without love. She gives herself com- 
 passionately, as she might hold water in the hollow 
 of her hands to a stricken wayfarer's parched lips. 
 
 She glanced at him compassionately. How strong 
 he was ! And she remembered her dreams. . . No, 
 they must neither of them fail. 
 
 She remembered her life. She remembered Cin- 
 naminson and the gossips. She remembered Chew, 
 Chew's successors, " Vassa " and the critics' praises, 
 " Hilda Muller " and the critics' sneers. And she 
 remembered Abercrombie's letter, offering her all 
 that life again. It seemed vain and empty to her 
 now beside her dreams. 
 
 Yes, she, too, had frittered away her life. But 
 she was still young. There was still time. They 
 would neither of them fail. 
 
 A half-dozen horses lay here and there at the 
 side of the ring. A black and white bull, sur- 
 rounded by small, glittering, gesticulating figures, 
 pawed the sand in rage, exhaustion and despair. 
 284 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 The flower-hung darts stuck in its flesh rose and 
 fell. And blood, like a red mantle, draped its 
 shoulders. 
 
 The bull, looking mournfully on its bright tor- 
 mentors, bellowed. 
 
 The multitude laughed. 
 
 The bull bellowed again. In that mournful and 
 tragic sound was all the despair of the man who 
 perceives that old age has overtaken him, that he 
 has achieved nothing, that his life has been wasted. 
 
 The multitude roared with laughter, but Barbara, 
 beautiful in her Eastern dress, lifted her soft eyes 
 to the sky. 
 
 Those luminous depths of blue. . . Those pure, 
 serene and tender depths of blue. . . The sky bent 
 over the earth with a divine smile, offering its 
 secret through the ages. . . 
 
 If man would but look up, , ■„, 
 
 The End 
 
 285 
 
Barbara Gwynne 
 
 (LIFE) 
 
 Ss W. B. TRITES 
 
 SOME 
 ENGLISH 
 REVIEWS 
 
By the Same Author. 
 "John Cave." 
 
 " An author of genius — there is really no 
 other word for it. ... A story of vivid 
 and palpitating human interest. . . . One 
 of the most remarkable first novels we have 
 ever read." — Daily Graphic. 
 
 "A strong novel, a powerful story, a most 
 interesting and fascinating book." — Daily Mail. 
 
 ** The book is altogether a remarkable one." 
 — Outlook. 
 
 "A remarkable work, an absorbing picture. 
 Such a book as * John Cave ' is not easily for- 
 gotten; its author should do great things." 
 —Globe. 
 
 " The author knows his hero as one knows 
 one's most intimate friend. . . . Portrayed 
 with accuracy and conviction . . . force 
 and delicacy." — Daily News. 
 
 "Though it may sound extravagant praise 
 to say that * John Cave ' reads like the work 
 of one of the French masters, it is a judg- 
 ment which every chapter of this remarkable 
 first novel confirms." — Glasgow News. 
 
William Dean Howells says in Harper's Magazine for 
 March : " And we would not leave unnamed Mr. W. B. Trites, 
 whose two very extraordinary books, 'John Cave' and Life, 
 are now making him known in England for the mastery of 
 his treatment of local phases not before studied." 
 
 From THRONE AND COUNTRY. 
 
 " One of these days I am going to be the pioneer of a new 
 profession. I shall call myself ' The Library Doctor/ and my 
 business will be to prescribe the right books for you to read. 
 I shall first feel your pulse, demand to inspect your tongue, 
 make solicitous inquiries about your liver and appetite, and 
 perform all the pantomime of Harley Street. It will be neces- 
 sary, of course, to have charts. I see great possibilities here. 
 Perhaps you need more sugar : I should prescribe a course of 
 Mr. Maurice Hewlett's 'The Garden of Renny,' the later 
 works of E. Temple Thurston, and Laurence Sterne in 
 homoeopathic doses. Or it may be you need bromides, and 
 opium to soothe you: what better medicine than a dose of 
 E. V. Lucas or the ' Q ' mixture? You are slothful, and com- 
 placent, and require gentle irritation — I hastily order the li- 
 brary to supply you with : — Marie Corelli, 3 vols. ; William Le 
 Queux, I vol.; Charles Garvice, J^ vol. 
 
 " You begin, I hope, to see the infinite possibilities of my 
 plan. Do you feel the need of a nerve tonic ? Kipling, Joseph 
 Conrad are for you ; are you perfectly normal, with heart beats 
 and pulse beats regular, sleeping and eating with the unthink- 
 ing sameness of the well-ordered life? My chart tells me that 
 only a slight fillip is required — shall we say Anthony Hope, 
 Robert Hichens, and a few doses of the best romantic writers, 
 to be taken as required, and during meals? 
 
 " But there comes a time when you may be well physically, 
 and yet ill at ease within yourself, when you feel that all books 
 that do not treat of the actualities of life fail to hold your 
 interest ; when you cannot attune your mind either to romance 
 or idealism, and your soul cries for a book that is real, that 
 reflects something of the life you have lived yourself. I 
 prescribe the novels of H. G. Wells and Arnold Bennett, and 
 sometimes the meaner medicine of their followers — and I pre- 
 scribe also a remarkable book I have just read called Life. 
 
 " A bold title ! 
 
 " What manner of writer is this who has the hardihood to 
 label two hundred and eighty-three pages of print with one of 
 the three greatest words in the world ? Life, Love and Death 
 
— they have been the themes of a million books through the 
 dead centuries, and yet here is one book that arrogates to it- 
 self the all-sweeping title of Life. Its author is Mr. W. B. 
 Trites, whose former book, * John Cave,' I know only by 
 rumour, and by the extracts from press-notices which face 
 the title page of this book. And having read Life, I am ready 
 to believe the critics who acclaim Mr. Trites as a genius. 
 It is curiously Russian in treatment and method, even to the 
 light of hope and endeavour that shines persistently through 
 the grey clouds of pessimism. 
 
 ** The story passes chiefly in New York and an American 
 town Cinnaminson — which is as petty and gossipy as the fa- 
 mous Barbie of the * House with the Green Shutters.' Here is 
 Jerome McWade, a grocer's assistant, making money as well by 
 chicken farming, and suddenly seeing the vision of a fortune, 
 when a customer comes in to buy beeswax in order to make a 
 face cream. 
 
 "That is the foundation of Jerome's fortune. It is 
 * Tono-Bungay * over again — ^he opens beauty parlours first 
 here, and then everywhere ; he schemes, and cheats, and has 
 only one interest in life — the making of money. 
 
 " He is the type of the American multi-millionaire drawn 
 remarkably, from his mean start to his meaner zenith. What 
 is there truer than the following of the * multis * as a class? 
 
 " ' They were horribly vain. Not their daughters' vanity 
 but their own it was, that continually drove their daughters to 
 contract with noblemen marriages tragic and vile. . . And 
 they were as sensitive as flowers. When, having broken this 
 law or that, exposure came, with the certainty of arrest and 
 gaol, they collapsed on the instant. They took immediately 
 to their beds. Shame and fright consumed them like a fire. 
 Surrounded by their families, they soon die. . . Wonderful 
 men! Their incomparable energy might have changed this 
 ugly and wretched world to a happy garden. But they wasted 
 all that energy in gambling, lying, cheating and steahng.* 
 
 " The contrast to McWade is Ford the doctor, who lives 
 his life in the cloistered calm of the laboratory searching for 
 the germs of disease to cure mankind. And, between these 
 two, there is the girl Barbara Gwynne, a shop assistant who be- 
 comes an actress as great as Bernhardt, striving to create, out 
 of the artificiality of her life, the greatness of art which the 
 world will not have. 
 
 " Those are the three protagonists in the book. You must 
 read how they work out their destinies. They symbolise ma- 
 terial man, and ideal man, and human woman with the eternal 
 conflict and doubt in her soul of right and wrong. 
 
 " This is a noble book, because, though it touches the 
 horror of death, and the ugliness of things, it uplifts with the 
 
pure vein of hope that runs through It. There is a passage 
 where Barbara, walking by the shore, perceives hundreds of 
 grey bedraggled gulls killed by the storm. 
 
 "As she bent over them, shocked and sorrowful, 
 
 some moved their wings in a feeble effort to escape. 
 
 Poor things ! What had killed them? The wild weather? 
 
 .... A warm, wet, grey, tempestuous winter, fattening 
 
 the green land, preparing it for a divine spring. 
 
 "And that is life! Out of death — life; out of evil — 
 good; out of suffering — peace." 
 Mr. Andrew Bede in a page review in Throne and Country. 
 
 "A new style in literature." — New Age. 
 
 " A wViter of great power and originality, gifted with the 
 rare power of forcing home as reality what before has seemed 
 transiency and illusion." — Morning Post. 
 
 From T.P.'s WEEKLY. 
 
 " Mr. W. B. Trites, whose first novel, ' John Cave,' got a 
 good deal of attention from critics because of its conscien- 
 tiousness of workmanship and its sincerity of purpose, makes 
 his second essay in fiction with Life. 
 
 " The book is profoundly interesting, and grows in 
 strength with every page; numerous characters come and go, 
 but no matter how short their time upon the stage, we get 
 to know them with extraordinary vividness. Barbara Gwynne 
 is the heroine of Life. She is a beautiful girl, an orphan 
 living in a small town with an old maid; she works in Smol- 
 lett's large drapery store, to which she goes and comes every 
 day by train. Barbara in her journeys, we are told, glanced 
 neither to the right nor to the left. 
 
 "For if her eyes, shining with the soft and tender 
 gaiety of youth, were ever permitted to wander, they 
 were sure to encounter a man's eyes ; and this man might 
 be a millionaire in a motor car, he might be a labourer 
 digging in a ditch, but at any rate his eyes would look 
 deep into hers in an appeal at once so humble and so 
 daring that it would trouble her strangely. 
 
 " Naturally a girl whose eyes had such magnetic powers 
 could not escape the censure of the gossips of Cinnaminson I 
 
Then she had men friends. How could it be otherwise since 
 she stood behind the men's counters of the stores? 
 
 "When a man shopped at Smollett's the prettiest 
 girls surrounded him. They smiled up in his eyes, they 
 held his hand in fitting a glove, to measure him for a col- 
 lar they actually put soft, light arms about his neck. 
 
 *' It is to be hoped, for self-preservation's sake, that 
 American wives take care to buy their husbands' collars. How- 
 ever, gossip drove Barbara from her home, and she went to 
 New York. There her career was that of all beautiful heroines 
 in novels — she went to the usual theatrical manager and had 
 straight away a * success of temperament.' The shrewd Mr. 
 Abercrombie engaged her there and then, and before a year 
 was out * she became a personage. The best shops insisted 
 upon selling her the smartest gowns on credit' Henceforth 
 there was no looking back for Barbara ! 
 
 " But this hackneyed story of the insignificant shop-girl 
 suddenly taking the theatrical world by storm need not be 
 dwelt upon or taken over-critically. Barbara is merely a pivot 
 round which swings all sorts and conditions of people. Fore- 
 most and smartest among them is Mr. Jerome S. McWade, the 
 triumph of the book. Studies of the self-made millionaire are 
 always interesting; but I do not remember one quite so ruth- 
 less, so vivid, and so fascinating as Jerome. He also starts 
 from Cinnaminson as * grocery clerk * in a little shop. We first 
 meet him in the spare minutes of a very busy June morning 
 examining the cash register, * a new contrivance that he be- 
 lieved could be outwitted.' Into the grocery store came Mrs. 
 Woodford to buy the constituents for the making of a com- 
 plexion cream. Jerome got the recipe, started experimenting, 
 and was soon manufacturing and selling the cream on his own. 
 His next venture was a beauty shop in New York, of which he 
 made Mrs. Woodford the manageress. This poor lady, having 
 given the original recipe, expected a partnership, but Jerome 
 explained to her that as she had no money to put into the busi- 
 ness her proposal was preposterous. The 'beauty' business 
 flourished, and in many pages we see 'Life' through the eyes 
 of the specialist who preys on the ever-present desire of 
 woman for youth and beauty. Skinfoods and tinctures, and 
 washes and powders, with all the accompanying paraphernalia 
 of massage and vibration and kneading, soon brought the en- 
 terprising Jerome wealth. With cold analysis we are intro- 
 duced to his methods. Self first, and everybody else second, 
 is his motto, while work early and late backs it up. He is 
 neither a tyrant or a nigger-driver; he does a good turn if it 
 will not injure his business, and does not begrudge to pay well 
 for the right kind of people. 
 
 6 
 
" One example will show how well Mr. Trites handles this 
 subject of the successful man. Mrs. Woodford had helped in 
 the building up of the business; moreover, she had faith in its 
 powers. She was thirty-seven, but in the * treatments ' she had 
 found the Fountain of Youth. On a day she was feeling par- 
 ticularly confident as to her good looks she had an interview 
 with her employer. 
 
 "Jerome S. Me Wade brooded at his desk of yellow 
 
 oak. On her entrance he scanned her critically. His 
 
 bright eyes lingered on her face. With a thrill of pleasure 
 
 he thought that he, too, marvelled at the look of youth 
 
 nd freshness that had returned to her. 
 
 " ' Mrs. Woodford,' he said, ' there is a little matter 
 [ want to speak to you about.' 
 
 "'Yes?' 
 
 " * You see,' — his air was nervous, — ' our success 
 depends on our convincing people that we make them 
 look young again — so I think it would be better if Miss 
 Churchill managed the parlour hereafter. You — ^you will 
 devote yourself to — to executive work in the inner office.' 
 
 " He looked at her with an awkward and obstinate 
 smile. Her over-red lips, he noted, were twitching. 
 
 "'You want me,' she said, *to keep out of sight?' 
 
 " * Well, yes.' 
 
 "But later, when Mrs. Woodford tried her own wings in 
 business and fell, Jerome helped her up again. Apart from 
 money-making, Jerome has one other purpose in life — he loves 
 Barbara. The story of his wooing is interwoven with his rise 
 to millions, and hers to fame. 
 
 " And the end ? That is held to the very last page ; 
 whether it is true to life or not each reader must decide for 
 himself or herself. The author's sympathy seems to be with 
 the money-maker right through, or rather with the man who 
 devotes himself to a single purpose. ' He who devotes himself 
 to a single purpose, whether that purpose be noble, like Ford's, 
 or ignoble, like Jerome's, has a dignity that others lack.' We 
 take leave of Jerome travelling with a retinue of servants — 
 we see him, in his clothes, his manners, and his style of living, 
 the complete aristocrat. The description of the spending of 
 his day is a delight. From his having eight o'clock coffee and 
 toast in bed and his valet buttoning his ' crisp and delicate 
 shirt,' to his evening dinner party of two hundred guests, who 
 ate and drank noisily to the accompaniment of Beethoven 
 played by a famous violinist, Jerome is superb. Yet, with all 
 the care lavished upon him, we fail to like him — he remains in 
 spite of all that money and clothes can do the * grocery clerk ' 
 on the make. So many novelists to-day glorify money and the 
 
 7 
 
money-maker that an anti-materialist literary cycle is due. 
 Life can be recommended as an interesting, vital, and pains- 
 taking novel making one look forward with eagerness for 
 further books from Mr. Trites's pen." 
 
 N.H.W. in a page review in T.P.'s Weekly. 
 
 " A truly remarkable novel, by a new author • • > blent 
 of irony and sheer beauty, and written by one who is un- 
 equivocally a brilliant artist." — Music. 
 
 " A powerful novel, a remarkable, strong and realistic 
 picture of its subject." — Morning Leader. 
 
 From THE BIRMINGHAM POST. 
 
 " Mr. Trites so far has only given one book to the world, 
 * John Cave/ but it was generally admitted that he had made 
 an excellent beginning. After a substantial interval he has 
 produced the story which he calls Life. The title is in itself 
 a challenge, for life is vast, profound, and complex, and can 
 hardly be depicted within the compass of a six-shilling novel. 
 We readily admit that most of the people to whom Mr. Trites 
 introduces us were chiefly occupied in * seeing life,' as the 
 phrase goes, and a sordid, vulgar, lecherous form of life, too. 
 But the author of Life has the creative power to make some 
 at least of his characters live. Jerome S. McWade, the grocery 
 clerk of Cinnaminson, an American provincial town, displays 
 early in the story the acquisitive instinct which leads him to 
 run a boom in * beauty parlours ' and * youth-renewing ' char- 
 latanry to the highest pinnacle of fame, which in America is 
 the stand occupied by the man who bosses the markets and 
 rigs the Napoleonic deals in finance. He is in love with Bar- 
 bara Gwynne, a surpassingly beautiful and circumspect damsel, 
 who earns eight dollars a week in a dry goods store uptown 
 selling neckties to the dudes. Jerome's charms are for the 
 time being eclipsed by the grosser glitter of Elisha Chew, who 
 has money to burn on dinners and trips to Island Park, which 
 savours of Coney Island. But Elisha one night over-reaches 
 himself in an attempt to entrap Barbara to her undoing, and re- 
 veals himself to her as the atrocious young cad he is. Taunted 
 by her neighbours and friends, the sensitive and ashamed girl 
 resolves to flee, but young Ford, a millionaire — Life throbs with 
 millionaires ! — who has studied medicine, and is now pursuing 
 bacterial research and serum-therapy, counsels her to go to 
 
 8 
 
New York, and become an actress. So she quits the necktie 
 counter and goes West. 
 
 "As a matter of course, Barbara turns out to be a his- 
 trionic genius, and captivates a great entrepreneur, who writes 
 for her a play called ' Vassa ' — * Carmen with the wickedness 
 left out.' Equally of course, she succeeds, and becomes the 
 rage of the town. Jerome, now immensely rich — let it be said 
 Jerome is a real good fellow— and Ford are rivals for her 
 affections. The student's wooing is diversified with disquisi- 
 tions on trypanosomes, the microbes of sleeping sickness, and 
 descriptions of the horrors of death from tetanus, the anti- 
 toxin of which he is trying to discover. This, we are to as- 
 sume, is an episode of real 'Life.' Barbara is pledged to 
 marry Ford, and readers will anticipate the sequel. He breaks 
 a tube of tetanus culture in his hand, the bacilli enter the 
 wound, and in a passage of peculiar horror Barbara is shown 
 rushing from his bedside, before the chloroform cone puts 
 an end to his agonies. Jerome alone is left. In her distrac- 
 tion Barbara returns to the stage, financed by her admirer. 
 Her enterprise fails, and Jerome narrowly escapes ruin in a 
 market slump. But the Napoleon of finance rigs the market 
 for a fresh triumph, and the scene changes to the Basque 
 country, where Barbara rests for a year. By and by comes 
 Jerome in his magnificent yacht, still the devout lover, and 
 so lifelike is the story that the two go together to a San 
 Sebastian bullfight, where in the intervals of a lurid and grue- 
 some description of the tortures of the bulls and the horses 
 we are permitted to witness the climax of their wooing. Bar- 
 bara Gwynne is a true specimen of womanhood, and Jerome's 
 complex and very American personality is vividly and con- 
 vincingly conveyed, for Mr. Trites is an artist, and has 
 written a notable book. But if the whirl of carnality, of 
 extravagance, of selfishness and vanity which he describes be 
 * Life ' as seen in America — there can be little doubt that it 
 is — we must turn aside from it with a sigh of lamentation." 
 
 Birmingham Daily Post. 
 
 "A remarkable novel, strongly written, with marked in- 
 dividuality of style." — Evening Times. 
 
 " Mr. W. B. Trites has written a book which, although 
 eminently American, is extremely French. It might have 
 come from the pen of Maupassant. One very remarkable 
 characteristic in this author's work is his extraordinary ver- 
 satility. He knows how to draw the lights and shades so 
 finely that the figures stand out absolutely lifelike." 
 
 Bristol Times and Mirror. 
 
" A fascinating story told in a style suggestive of some of 
 the great French writers." — Northern Echo (Darlington). 
 
 " Extraordinarily French in all its spirit, its style, its es- 
 sence. ... It reads like life itself, and justifies the title." 
 — The Observer. 
 
 " Mr. Trites's * John Cave ' was so remarkable a first novel 
 that one approaches the present volume expectantly. Nor is 
 expectation disappointed. Life is a thoroughly capable piece 
 of work. It is biting; occasionally it touches unpleasant 
 things; the author displays a weakness for coarse, lurid 
 words; but the book has a message. Life is shown in two 
 aspects — with and without a definite aim. Illustrating the lat- 
 ter are such characters as Elisha Chew, the millionaire, whose 
 gross and unworthy treatment of Barbara is of a piece with 
 his moral and social degeneracy. The former finds exposition 
 in Jerome McWade and Dr. Ford, the one working for him- 
 self, the other for humanity. Woman is loyally presented in 
 the lovely Barbara Gwynne, whose evolution from shop girl 
 to dramatic star is one of the happiest features of the story. 
 The psychology of her love for Ford and of her effect upon 
 him is supremely well worked out. His scientific work had 
 taught this man restraint. It had engendered a cynical atti- 
 tude. But the lure of passion was ever before his eyes. Love 
 co-related these warring tendencies, disproving cynicism and 
 revealing happiness as a perpetual state of giving, wherein 
 restraint is an act of devotion, passion of worship. The 
 descriptions of the beauty parlour and the scientific laboratory 
 are wonderfully reahstic; the author has been at great pains 
 to collect and verify precise information regarding the pro- 
 duction of anti-toxins and sera. . . . The final note of the 
 book — inspired by the tranquil, sunlit sky above the bull-ring — 
 is significant — ' if man would but look up.' " — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 "Vivid and pulsating liie."—Athen(2um. 
 
 From THE SHEFFIELD TELEGRAPH. 
 
 " I have so often inveighed against false realists that it is 
 perhaps incumbent on me to explain what a real realist is. 
 Better than any explanation of mine, however, would be the 
 careful study of three books I am going to discuss this week. 
 In outlook upon life, in treatment and in style, they are as 
 
 10 
 
different from one another as may be. They are only similar 
 in their typical modernity, and their resolute determination 
 from different points of view to see life steadily and to see it 
 whole. They avoid exaggeration and attempt to paint the 
 thing as they see it for the God of things as they are. 
 
 "Your false realist — your Zola without Zola's genius 
 who is happily going out of fashion — would paint all the ugly 
 things he saw well enough. But he would leave out all the 
 pretty things, and insert in their stead all the ugly things he 
 imagined would be there. He would batten upon the vice, 
 the wickedness, the sordidness of the world, and forget, and 
 try to make his reader forget, that the world is, after all, a 
 mixture, not of black and white, but of all sorts of colours 
 and shades. Well, your real realist does not forget that. 
 Even if he has to deal with the ugly, he does not forget that 
 the beautiful exists. He wants truth, whether or not it 
 squares with his philosophy. And the pursuit of truth is, to 
 my mind, the literary quest of the Holy Grail. 
 
 " Since I did not read * John Cave,' which was received 
 with such an unusual chorus of hearty appreciation, I am un- 
 able to judge whether Mr. Trites has or has not advanced. 
 Certainly his Life contains some amazingly clear and vivid 
 passages. In a series of vignettes one gets a wonderful kalei- 
 doscopic picture of Transatlantic life. . . . The young 
 scientist who gives his life in an effort to find a cure for 
 tetanus, the shop-girl who becomes a great actress, and the 
 pushful store-clerk who ends as a millionaire are living fig- 
 ures, while the description of the bullfight, with its allegorical 
 symbolism, is a masterpiece. I shall, for the future, watch 
 Mr. Trites's career with interest." — A.C.W.L. in a column re- 
 view in the Sheffield Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "Life is unquestionably a book which should be read. 
 We will even call it remarkable, in spite of the fact that the 
 page of extracts from reviews of Mr. Trites's earlier book, 
 * John Cave,' shows that this epithet has already been bestowed 
 upon the author at least four times." — Bookman. 
 
 " To Mr. Trites belongs the distinction of having written 
 a really remarkable first novel. There was in 'John Cave' a 
 human interest, a sense of character and a breadth of view 
 which proclaimed the author's skill as a literary craftsman, 
 and placed him at once in the forefront of modern fiction 
 writers. In 'John Cave' Mr. Trites fixed our attention with 
 unerring effect on a central and dominating character. In 
 Life he has widened his canvas in keeping with his subject, 
 and has offered us more than one study in personality, and 
 
 II 
 
several excellently suggested minor figures. . . . An ar- 
 resting novel which shows the sordidness and the nobility of 
 human endeavour with many skilful touches." — Globe. 
 
 "The subject is handled in epic style, based on that of 
 the French realists. The book is certainly a remarkable one, 
 and the author has mastered the art of dramatic narrative." — 
 Irish Times (Dublin). 
 
 From THE DAILY NEWS. 
 
 " Mr. Trites is a realist who is curiously little concerned 
 with detail. He shows us realities, as it were, through the big 
 end of a telescope. In this American story of money-making 
 and love-making in strange towns, we have a number of swift 
 far hints of a real world. We are given glimpses, now of a 
 shop, now of a beauty parlour, now of a theatrical manager's 
 office, but we see each of them as a remote place, and, before 
 we have been able to examine and domesticate its details, it has 
 disappeared. Or one might describe Mr. Trites's novel as life 
 seen in a series of flashlights — flashlights, however, which have 
 been carefully selected and arranged so as to have artistic 
 meaning. 
 
 " For it is no passion for photography that has made Mr. 
 Trites a realist. He feels, no doubt, the sheer intellectual 
 pleasure of accurate observation. Having taken as his hero 
 an ambitious but less than honest young shopman, Jerome S. 
 McWade, he must have enjoyed writing such a passage as that 
 in which he describes Jerome's energetic happiness as he 
 rushed about the shop on a tropical morning * with the skill 
 and speed of an acrobat on a cramped stage.* 
 
 " ' Work made him happy always. Work meant to him, 
 however, only over-reaching, only legal theft. And the sincere 
 happiness that radiated from his smile, being mistaken by 
 everyone for unselfish goodwill, helped him to persuade patron 
 after patron to reject the better articles they really wanted, 
 and to buy instead the worse ones on which he got a good 
 commission.' 
 
 " But it is as a dramatised comment on life, not as a chron- 
 icle of psychological and material facts, that Life is most 
 remarkable. Like the author's previous novel, * John Cave,* it 
 is the comment of a hypersensitive man who has found the 
 civilised earth something of a mistake. His novel is almost 
 as personal as a lyric. Sensitive, like one of his characters, to 
 ' the beauty of the sunshine, the beauty of the moonlight, the 
 beauty of the windy tumbling sea, . . . the beauty of girls' 
 minds and faces/ he seems to be protesting even in the most 
 
 12 
 
apparently objective description against a world in which 
 disease and cheating and meanness are enthroned. 
 
 ** If drama without comment is middling literature, how- 
 ever, comment without drama is no better, and Mr. Trites's 
 novel is worth serious consideration only because it expresses 
 a sincere and personal attitude in terms of men and women 
 who, on the whole, behave like real people and in an interest- 
 ing way. Jerome McWade, the grocery clerk who learns the 
 secret of a complexion cream, and rises through a beauty par- 
 lour business to the position of a multi-millionaire; Ford, a 
 young man of science; and Barbara, an exquisite shop-girl 
 who flies from slanderous tongues and finds refuge in the 
 crowds of the city, where she wins fame as an actress, are the 
 chief characters. And they all have a happy trick of coming 
 out of the remote distance into reality and interesting us in 
 their fates. One wishes at times that the epic of Jerome's 
 fortunes were narrated with fewer omissions; it is for the 
 most part a tale told in dots and dashes. But perhaps this 
 sketchy and peeping sort of realism suits the author's talents 
 best. 
 
 " Barbara Gwynne, the heroine, a poor musician's child, 
 whose father left her nothing but his temperament, has a way 
 of swimming into reality, like a star, and then dwindling away. 
 Or it might be truer to say that, though a susceptible reader 
 might easily fall iA h)ve with her beautiful mouth and eyes, 
 she has the reality of a wraith rather than a hand-shaking 
 human being. She is, as it were, transparent. Rather, let us 
 say—for the word suggests the something lyrical that she per- 
 sonifies — she is translucent. She is a translucent being mov- 
 ing in a translucent world. She is real enough, however, at a 
 crisis. She is real when, a creature of light and flowers and 
 happy, chaste thoughts, she first finds that she has been in 
 love with a swine. She is real again when she falls in love 
 with Ford, who regards marriage as a slavery, and love as an 
 illusion, and Ford is exceedingly real, too, as his logic col- 
 lapses into ruins, and he finds that he cannot accept the 
 sacrifice of Barbara. 
 
 " The pages into which Ford comes, indeed, are the most 
 life-like in the book. Excellently imagined is the scene of the 
 temptation when Barbara's selflessness at once betrays and 
 protects her, Ford being as emancipated from ordinary beliefs 
 and conventions as his counterpart, Bazaroff, in ' Fathers and 
 Sons.' Horrible in its actuality again is the scene of Ford's 
 dying agonies, when, having smashed a test tube filled with 
 tetanus bacilli in his hand, he succumbs to lock-jaw. Those 
 pages recording the progress of the disease are painful read- 
 ing : one shrinks from them as from witnessing hospital hor- 
 rors. One suspects that Mr. Trites may not have introduced 
 
 13 
 
them with a purely artistic purpose, but in order to give an 
 idea of the risks run by vivisectionists, whom he militantly, 
 even shrilly, favours. 
 
 " Perhaps, on the other hand, the agonies were introduced 
 without any propagandist bias, and in accordance with the 
 author's general purpose of revealing the world of facts that 
 entangles the world of men and women. He is very deter- 
 mined to show us life as it is, or as he imagines it is, that we 
 may judge it for ourselves — a place of draughty gloom in 
 which, nevertheless, a httle taper hght of faith may with some 
 resolution waver. Or if he conjures up in your imagination 
 a world of sunlight, it is a world in which monstrous insults 
 to the sun grow thickly. Like the majority of realists he is 
 especially conscious of the manifestation of sex in common 
 and inappropriate places. The ' spirit of feverish and unwhole- 
 some gaiety ' of the holiday makers in wood or meadow on 
 Independence Day becomes, in his vision, ' finally a delirium 
 wherein these middle-aged persons would manifest in strange 
 and ugly ways a thwarted sexual excitement.' Everywhere 
 in the garden of the world he is fascinated and repelled by 
 the appearance of the same treacherous serpent — sex untrans- 
 figured by soul. But he does not limit his observation to 
 ugly and evil things. His book, indeed, has plenty of light 
 as well as shadow. It is, in the everyday phrase, a genuine 
 slice of life — a slice of life cut a little thin, perhaps — a slice 
 with which one may justly quarrel, as I have suggested, on the 
 score of its transparency. But, whatever its shortcomings, it 
 must be appreciated as a novel not written for a market, but 
 to reveal a man's original vision of the world." 
 
 Mr. Robert Lynd in The Daily News. 
 
 "Life is a novel certainly of remarkable abihty, if it 
 be not, indeed, the work of literary genius, for even so has 
 Mr. Trites been hailed as the author of * John Cave.' " — West- 
 ern Morning News (Plymouth). 
 
 "I have read Life with the greatest pleasure." — Mr. 
 Lincoln Springfield, Editor of London Opinion, in London 
 Opinion. 
 
 " Life is as well-written as novel can be." — Mr. C. E. 
 Lawrence in The Book Monthly. 
 
 " Alive, vivid, and realistic. ... A remarkable book." — 
 Mr. H. B. Marriott-Watson in a column review in The Daily 
 Chronicle. 
 
 14 
 
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