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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14645 ***</div>
<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Unleavened Bread, by Robert Grant</h1>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<hr class="full" />
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h1>UNLEAVENED</h1>
<h1>BREAD</h1>
<h2>By Robert Grant</h2>
<div class="center">Author of <i>The Bachelor's Christmas</i>,
etc.</div>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h6>Charles Scribner's Sons<br />
New York</h6>
<h4>1900</h4>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<div class="center"><a href="#BOOK_I"><i>BOOK I</i><br />
THE EMANCIPATION</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="#BOOK_II"><i>BOOK II</i><br />
THE STRUGGLE</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="#BOOK_III"><i>BOOK III</i><br />
THE SUCCESS</a></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>UNLEAVENED BREAD</h2>
<h2><a name="BOOK_I" id="BOOK_I"></a><i>BOOK I.</i></h2>
<h2>THE EMANCIPATION</h2>
<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>
<p>Babcock and Selma White were among the last of the wedding
guests to take their departure. It was a brilliant September night
with a touch of autumn vigor in the atmosphere, which had not been
without its effect on the company, who had driven off in gay
spirits, most of them in hay-carts or other vehicles capable of
carrying a party. Their songs and laughter floated back along the
winding country road. Selma, comfortable in her wraps and well
tucked about with a rug, leaned back contentedly in the chaise,
after the goodbyes had been said, to enjoy the glamour of the full
moon. They were seven miles from home and she was in no hurry to
get there. Neither festivities nor the undisguised devotion of a
city young man were common in her life. Consideration she had been
used to from a child, and she knew herself to be tacitly
acknowledged the smartest girl in Westfield, but perhaps for that
very reason she had held aloof from manhood until now. At least no
youth in her neighborhood had ever impressed her as her equal.
Neither did Babcock so impress her; but he was different from the
rest. He was not shy and unexpressive; he was buoyant and
self-reliant, and yet he seemed to appreciate her quality none the
less.</p>
<p>They had met about a dozen times, and on the last six of these
occasions he had come from Benham, ten miles to her uncle's farm,
obviously to visit her. The last two times her Aunt Farley had made
him spend the night, and it had been arranged that he would drive
her in the Farley chaise to Clara Morse's wedding. A seven-mile
drive is apt to promote or kill the germs of intimacy, and on the
way over she had been conscious of enjoying herself. Scrutiny of
Clara's choice had been to the advantage of her own cavalier. The
bridegroom had seemed to her what her Aunt Farley would call a
mouse-in-the-cheese young man. Whereas Babcock had been the life of
the affair.</p>
<p>She had been teaching now in Wilton for more than a year. When,
shortly after her father's death, she had obtained the position of
school teacher, it seemed to her that at last the opportunity had
come to display her capabilities, and at the same time to fulfil
her aspirations. But the task of grounding a class of small
children in the rudiments of simple knowledge had already begun to
pall and to seem unsatisfying. Was she to spend her life in this?
And if not, the next step, unless it were marriage, was not
obvious. Not that she mistrusted her ability to shine in any
educational capacity, but neither Wilton nor the neighboring
Westfield offered better, and she was conscious of a lack of
influential friends in the greater world, which was embodied for
her in Benham. Benham was a western city of these United States,
with an eastern exposure; a growing, bustling city according to
rumor, with an eager population restless with new ideas and
stimulating ambitions. So at least Selma thought of it, and though
Boston and New York and a few other places were accepted by her as
authoritative, she accepted them, as she accepted Shakespeare, as a
matter of course and so far removed from her immediate outlook as
almost not to count. But Benham with its seventy-five thousand
inhabitants and independent ways was a fascinating possibility.
Once established there the world seemed within her grasp, including
Boston. Might it not be that Benham, in that it was newer, was
nearer to truth and more truly American than that famous city? She
was not prepared to believe this an absurdity.</p>
<p>At least the mental atmosphere of Westfield and even of the
somewhat less solemn Wilton suggested this apotheosis of the
adjacent city to be reasonable. Westfield had stood for Selma as a
society of serious though simple souls since she could first
remember and had been one of them. Not that she arrogated to her
small native town any unusual qualities of soul or mind in
distinction from most other American communities, but she regarded
it as inferior in point of view to none, and typical of the best
national characteristics. She had probably never put into words the
reasons of her confidence, but her daily consciousness was
permeated with them. To be an American meant to be more keenly
alive to the responsibility of life than any other citizen of
civilization, and to be an American woman meant to be something
finer, cleverer, stronger, and purer than any other daughter of
Eve. Under the agreeable but sobering influence of this faith she
had grown to womanhood, and the heroic deeds of the civil war had
served to intensify a belief, the truth of which she had never
heard questioned. Her mission in life had promptly been recognized
by her as the development of her soul along individual lines, but
until the necessity for a choice had arisen she had been content to
contemplate a little longer. Now the world was before her, for she
was twenty-three and singularly free from ties. Her mother had died
when she was a child. Her father, the physician of the surrounding
country, a man of engaging energy with an empirical education and a
speculative habit of mind, had been the companion of her girlhood.
During the last few years since his return from the war an invalid
from a wound, her care for him had left her time for little
else.</p>
<p>No more was Babcock in haste to reach home; and after the
preliminary dash from the door into the glorious night he suffered
the farm-horse to pursue its favorite gait, a deliberate jog. He
knew the creature to be docile, and that he could bestow his
attention on his companion without peril to her. His own pulses
were bounding. He was conscious of having made the whirligig of
time pass merrily for the company by his spirits and jolly quips,
and that in her presence, and he was groping for an appropriate
introduction to the avowal he had determined to make. He would
never have a better opportunity than this, and it had been his
preconceived intention to take advantage of it if all went well.
All had gone well and he was going to try. She had been kind coming
over; and had seemed to listen with interest as he told her about
himself: and somehow he had felt less distant from her. He was not
sure what she would say, for he realized that she was above him.
That was one reason why he admired her so. She symbolized for him
refinement, poetry, art, the things of the spirit&mdash;things from
which in the same whirligig of time he had hitherto been cut off by
the vicissitudes of the varnish business; but the value of which he
was not blind to. How proud he would be of such a wife! How he
would strive and labor for her! His heart was in his mouth and
trembled on his lip as he thought of the possibility. What a joy to
be sitting side by side with her under this splendid moon! He would
speak and know his fate.</p>
<p>"Isn't it a lovely night?" murmured Selma appreciatively. "There
they go," she added, indicating the disappearance over the brow of
a hill of the last of the line of vehicles of the rest of the
party, whose songs had come back fainter and fainter.</p>
<p>"I don't care. Do you?" He snuggled toward her a very
little.</p>
<p>"I guess they won't think I'm lost," she said, with a low
laugh.</p>
<p>"What d'you suppose your folks would say if you <i>were</i>
lost? I mean if I were to run away with you and didn't bring you
back?" There was a nervous ring in the guffaw which concluded his
question.</p>
<p>"My friends wouldn't miss me much; at least they'd soon get over
the shock; but I might miss myself, Mr. Babcock."</p>
<p>Selma was wondering why it was that she rather liked being alone
with this man, big enough, indeed, to play the monster, yet half
school-boy, but a man who had done well in his calling. He must be
capable; he could give her a home in Benham; and it was plain that
he loved her.</p>
<p>"I'll tell you something," he said, eagerly, ignoring her
suggestion. "I'd like to run away with you and be married to-night,
Selma. That's what I'd like, and I guess you won't. But it's the
burning wish of my heart that you'd marry me some time. I want you
to be my wife. I'm a rough fellow along-side of you, Selma, but I'd
do well by you; I would. I'm able to look after you, and you shall
have all you want. There's a nice little house building now in
Benham. Say the word and I'll buy it for us to-morrow. I'm crazy
after you, Selma."</p>
<p>The rein was dangling, and Babcock reached his left arm around
the waist of his lady-love. He had now and again made the same
demonstration with others jauntily, but this was a different
matter. She was not to be treated like other women. She was a
goddess to him, even in his ardor, and he reached gingerly. Selma
did not wholly withdraw from the spread of his trembling arm,
though this was the first man who had ever ventured to lay a finger
on her.</p>
<p>"I'd have to give up my school," she said.</p>
<p>"They could get another teacher."</p>
<p>"<i>Could</i> they?"</p>
<p>"Not one like you. You see I'm clumsy, but I'm crazy for you,
Selma." Emboldened by the obvious feebleness of her opposition, he
broadened his clutch and drew her toward him. "Say you will,
sweetheart."</p>
<p>This time she pulled herself free and sat up in the chaise.
"Would you let me do things?" she asked after a moment.</p>
<p>"Do things," faltered Babcock. What could she mean? She had told
him on the way over that her mother had chosen her name from a
theatrical playbill, and it passed through his unsophisticated
brain that she might be thinking of the stage.</p>
<p>"Yes, do something worth while. Be somebody. I've had the idea I
could, if I ever got the chance." Her hands were folded in her lap;
there was a wrapt expression on her thin, nervous face, and a
glitter in her keen eyes, which were looking straight at the moon,
as though they would outstare it in brilliancy.</p>
<p>"You shall be anything you like, if you'll only marry me. What
is it you're wishing to be?"</p>
<p>"I don't know exactly. It isn't anything especial yet. It's the
whole thing. I thought I might find it in my school, but the
experience so far hasn't been&mdash;satisfying."</p>
<p>"Troublesome little brats!"</p>
<p>"No, I dare say the fault's in me. If I went to Benham to live
it would be different. Benham must be
interesting&mdash;inspiring."</p>
<p>"There's plenty of go there. You'd like it, and people would
think lots of you."</p>
<p>"I'd try to make them." She turned and looked at him judicially,
but with a softened expression. Her profile in her exalted mood had
suggested a beautiful, but worried archangel; her full face seemed
less this and wore much of the seductive embarrassment of sex. To
Babcock she seemed the most entrancing being he had ever seen.
"Would you really like to have me come?"</p>
<p>He gave a hoarse ejaculation, and encircling her eagerly with
his strong grasp pressed his lips upon her cheek. "Selma! darling!
angel! I'm the happiest man alive."</p>
<p>"You mustn't do that&mdash;yet," she said protestingly.</p>
<p>"Yes, I must; I'm yours, and you're mine,&mdash;mine. Aren't
you, sweetheart? There's no harm in a kiss."</p>
<p>She had to admit to herself that it was not very unpleasant
after all to be held in the embrace of a sturdy lover, though she
had never intended that their relations should reach this stage of
familiarity so promptly. She had known, of course, that girls were
to look for endearments from those whom they promised to marry, but
her person had hitherto been so sacred to man and to herself that
it was difficult not to shrink a little from what was taking place.
This then was love, and love was, of course, the sweetest thing in
the world. That was one of the truths which she had accepted as she
had accepted the beauty of Shakespeare, as something not to be
disputed, yet remote. He was a big, affectionate fellow, and she
must make up her mind to kiss him. So she turned her face toward
him and their lips met eagerly, forestalling the little peck which
she had intended. She let her head fall back at his pressure on to
his shoulder, and gazed up at the moon.</p>
<p>"Are you happy, Selma?" he asked, giving her a fond, firm
squeeze.</p>
<p>"Yes, Lewis."</p>
<p>She could feel his frame throb with joy at the situation as she
uttered his name.</p>
<p>"We'll be married right away. That's if you're willing. My
business is going first-rate and, if it keeps growing for the next
year as it has for the past two, you'll be rich presently. When
shall it be, Selma?"</p>
<p>"You're in dreadful haste. Well, I'll promise to give the
selectmen notice to-morrow that they must find another
teacher."</p>
<p>"Because the one they have now is going to become Mrs. Lewis J.
Babcock. I'm the luckiest fellow, hooray! in creation. See here,"
he added, taking her hand, "I guess a ring wouldn't look badly
there&mdash;a real diamond, too. Pretty little fingers."</p>
<p>She sighed gently, by way of response. It was comfortable
nestling in the hollow of his shoulder, and a new delightful
experience to be hectored with sweetness in this way. How round and
bountiful the moon looked. She was tired of her present life. What
was coming would be better. Her opportunity was at hand to show the
world what she was made of.</p>
<p>"A real diamond, and large at that," he repeated, gazing down at
her, and then, as though the far away expression in her eyes
suggested kinship with the unseen and the eternal, he said,
admiringly but humbly, "It must be grand to be clever like you,
Selma. I'm no good at that. But if loving you will make up for it,
I'll go far, little woman."</p>
<p>"What I know of that I like, and&mdash;and if some day, I can
make you proud of me, so much the better," said Selma.</p>
<p>"Proud of you? You are an angel, and you know it."</p>
<p>She closed her eyes and sighed again. Even the bright avenues of
fame, which her keen eyes had traversed through the golden moon,
paled before this tribute from the lips of real flesh and blood.
What woman can withstand the fascination of a lover's faith that
she is an angel? If a man is fool enough to believe it, why
undeceive him? And if he is so sure of it, may it even not be so?
Selma was content to have it so, especially as the assertion did
not jar with her own prepossessions; and thus they rode home in the
summer night in the mutual contentment of a betrothal.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>
<p>The match was thoroughly agreeable to Mrs. Farley, Selma's aunt
and nearest relation, who with her husband presided over a
flourishing poultry farm in Wilton. She was an easy-going, friendly
spirit, with a sharp but not wide vision, who did not believe that
a likelier fellow than Lewis Babcock would come wooing were her
niece to wait a lifetime. He was hearty, comical, and generous, and
was said to be making money fast in the varnish business. In short,
he seemed to her an admirable young man, with a stock of
common-sense and high spirits eminently serviceable for a domestic
venture. How full of fun he was, to be sure! It did her good to
behold the tribute his appetite paid to the buckwheat cakes with
cream and other tempting viands she set before him&mdash;a pleasing
contrast to Selma's starveling diet&mdash;and the hearty smack with
which he enforced his demands upon her own cheeks as his
mother-in-law apparent, argued an affectionate disposition. Burly,
rosy-cheeked, good-natured, was he not the very man to dispel her
niece's vagaries and turn the girl's morbid cleverness into healthy
channels?</p>
<p>Selma, therefore, found nothing but encouragement in her choice
at home; so by the end of another three months they were made man
and wife, and had moved into that little house in Benham which had
attracted Babcock's eye. Benham, as has been indicated, was in the
throes of bustle and self-improvement. Before the war it had been
essentially unimportant. But the building of a railroad through the
town and the discovery of oil wells in its neighborhood had
transformed it in a twinkling into an active and spirited centre.
Selma's new house was on the edge of the city, in the van of real
estate progress, one of a row of small but ambitious-looking
dwellings, over the dark yellow clapboards of which the architect
had let his imagination run rampant in scrolls and flourishes.
There was fancy colored glass in a sort of rose-window over the
front door, and lozenges of fancy glass here and there in the
facade. Each house had a little grass-plot, which Babcock in his
case had made appurtenant to a metal stag, which seemed to him the
finishing touch to a cosey and ornamental home. He had done his
best and with all his heart, and the future was before them.</p>
<p>Babcock found himself radiant over the first experiences of
married life. It was just what he had hoped, only better. His
imagination in entertaining an angel had not been unduly literal,
and it was a constant delight and source of congratulation to him
to reflect over his pipe on the lounge after supper that the
charming piece of flesh and blood sewing or reading demurely close
by was the divinity of his domestic hearth. There she was to smile
at him when he came home at night and enable him to forget the
cares and dross of the varnish business. Her presence across the
table added a new zest to every meal and improved his appetite. In
marrying he had expected to cut loose from his bachelor habits, and
he asked for nothing better than to spend every evening alone with
Selma, varied by an occasional evening at the theatre, and a drive
out to the Farleys' now and then for supper. This, with the regular
Sunday service at Rev. Henry Glynn's church, rounded out the weeks
to his perfect satisfaction. He was conscious of feeling that the
situation did not admit of improvement, for though, when he
measured himself with Selma, Babcock was humble-minded, a cheerful
and uncritical optimism was the ruling characteristic of his
temperament. With health, business fortune, and love all on his
side, it was natural to him to regard his lot with complacency.
Especially as to all appearances, this was the sort of thing Selma
liked, also. Presently, perhaps, there would be a baby, and then
their cup of domestic happiness would be overflowing. Babcock's
long ungratified yearning for the things of the spirit were fully
met by these cosey evenings, which he would have been glad to
continue to the crack of doom. To smoke and sprawl and read a
little, and exchange chit-chat, was poetry enough for him. So
contented was he that his joy was apt to find an outlet in ditties
and whistling&mdash;he possessed a slightly tuneful, rollicking
knack at both&mdash;a proceeding which commonly culminated in his
causing Selma to sit beside him on the sofa and be made much of, to
the detriment of her toilette.</p>
<p>As for the bride, so dazing were the circumstances incident to
the double change of matrimony and adaptation to city life, that
her judgment was in suspension. Yet though she smiled and sewed
demurely, she was thinking. The yellow clapboarded house and metal
stag, and a maid-of-all-work at her beck and call, were gratifying
at the outset and made demands upon her energies. Selma's position
in her father's house had been chiefly ornamental and social. She
had been his companion and nurse, had read to him and argued with
him, but the mere household work had been performed by an elderly
female relative who recognized that her mind was bent on higher
things. Nevertheless, she had never doubted that when the time
arrived to show her capacity as a housewife, she would be more than
equal to the emergency. Assuredly she would, for one of the
distinguishing traits of American womanhood was the ability to
perform admirably with one's own hand many menial duties and yet be
prepared to shine socially with the best. Still the experience was
not quite so easy as she expected; even harassing and mortifying.
Fortunately, Lewis was more particular about quantity than quality
where the table was concerned; and, after all, food and domestic
details were secondary considerations in a noble outlook. It would
have suited her never to be obliged to eat, and to be able to leave
the care of the house to the hired girl; but that being out of the
question, it became incumbent on her to make those obligations as
simple as possible. However, the possession of a new house and gay
fittings was an agreeable realization. At home everything had been
upholstered in black horse-hair, and regard for material
appearances had been obscured for her by the tension of her
introspective tendencies. Lewis was very kind, and she had no
reason to reproach herself as yet for her choice. He had insisted
that she should provide herself with an ample and more stylish
wardrobe, and though the invitation had interested her but mildly,
the effect of shrewdly-made and neatly fitting garments on her
figure had been a revelation. Like the touch of a man's hand, fine
raiment had seemed to her hitherto almost repellant, but it was
obvious now that anything which enhanced her effectiveness could
not be dismissed as valueless. To arrive at definite conclusions in
regard to her social surroundings was less easy for Selma. Benham,
in its rapid growth, had got beyond the level simplicity of
Westfield and Wilton, and was already confronted by the stern
realities which baffle the original ideal in every American city.
We like as a nation to cherish the illusion that extremes of social
condition do not exist even in our large communities, and that the
plutocrat and the saleslady, the learned professions and the
proletariat associate on a common basis of equal virtue,
intelligence, and culture. And yet, although Benham was a
comparatively young and an essentially American city, there were
very marked differences in all these respects in its community.</p>
<p>Topographically speaking the starting point of Benham was its
water-course. Twenty years before the war Benham was merely a
cluster of frame houses in the valley of the limpid, peaceful river
Nye. At that time the inhabitants drank of the Nye taken at a point
below the town, for there was a high fall which would have made the
drawing of water above less convenient. This they were doing when
Selma came to Benham, although every man's hand had been raised
against the Nye, which was the nearest, and hence for a community
in hot haste, the most natural receptacle for dyestuffs, ashes and
all the outflow from woollen mills, pork factories and oil yards,
and it ran the color of glistening bean soup. From time to time, as
the city grew, the drawing point had been made a little lower where
the stream had regained a portion of its limpidity, and no one but
wiseacres and busybodies questioned its wholesomeness. Benham at
that time was too preoccupied and too proud of its increasing
greatness to mistrust its own judgment in matters hygienic,
artistic, and educational. There came a day later when the river
rose against the city, and an epidemic of typhoid fever convinced a
reluctant community that there were some things which free-born
Americans did not know intuitively. Then there were public meetings
and a general indignation movement, and presently, under the
guidance of competent experts, Lake Mohunk, seven miles to the
north, was secured as a reservoir. Just to show how the temper of
the times has changed, and how sophisticated in regard to hygienic
matters some of the good citizens of Benham in these latter days
have become, it is worthy of mention that, though competent
chemists declare Lake Mohunk to be free from contamination, there
are those now who use so-called mineral spring-waters in
preference; notably Miss Flagg, the daughter of old Joel Flagg,
once the miller and, at the date when the Babcocks set up their
household gods, one of the oil magnates of Benham. He drank the
bean colored Nye to the day of his death and died at eighty; but
she carries a carboy of spring-water with her personal baggage
wherever she travels, and is perpetually solicitous in regard to
the presence of arsenic in wall-papers into the bargain.</p>
<p>Verily, the world has wagged apace in Benham since Selma first
looked out at her metal stag and the surrounding landscape. Ten
years later the Benham Home Beautifying Society took in hand the
Nye and those who drained into it, and by means of garbage
consumers, disinfectants, and filters and judiciously arranged
shrubbery converted its channel and banks into quite a respectable
citizens' paradise. But even at that time the industries on either
bank of the Nye, which flowed from east to west, were forcing the
retail shops and the residences further and further away. To
illustrate again from the Flagg family, just before the war Joel
Flagg built a modest house less than a quarter of a mile from the
southerly bank of the river, expecting to end his days there, and
was accused by contemporary censors of an intention to seclude
himself in magnificent isolation. About this time he had yielded to
the plea of his family, that every other building in the street had
been given over to trade, and that they were stranded in a social
Sahara of factories. So like the easy going yet soaring soul that
he was, he had moved out two miles to what was known as the River
Drive, where the Nye accomplishes a broad sweep to the south. There
an ambitious imported architect, glad of such an opportunity to
speculate in artistic effects, had built for him a conglomeration
of a feudal castle and an old colonial mansion in all the grisly
bulk of signal failure.</p>
<p>Considering our ideals, it is a wonder that no one has provided
a law forbidding the erection of all the architecturally
attractive, or sumptuous houses in one neighborhood. It ought not
to be possible in a republic for such a state of affairs to exist
as existed in Benham. That is to say all the wealth and fashion of
the city lay to the west of Central Avenue, which was so literally
the dividing line that if a Benhamite were referred to as living on
that street the conventional inquiry would be "On which side?" And
if the answer were "On the east," the inquirer would be apt to say
"Oh!" with a cold inflection which suggested a ban. No Benhamite
has ever been able to explain precisely why it should be more
creditable to live on one side of the same street than on the
other, but I have been told by clever women, who were good
Americans besides, that this is one of the subtle truths which
baffle the Gods and democracies alike. Central Avenue has long ago
been appropriated by the leading retail dry-goods shops, huge
establishments where everything from a set of drawing-room
furniture to a hair-pin can be bought under a single roof; but at
that time it was the social artery. Everything to the west was new
and assertive; then came the shops and the business centre; and to
the east were Tom, Dick, and Harry, Michael, Isaac and Pietro, the
army of citizens who worked in the mills, oil yards, and pork
factories. And to the north, across the river, on the further side
of more manufacturing establishments, was Poland, so-called&mdash;a
settlement of the Poles&mdash;to reach whom now there are seven
bridges of iron. There were but two bridges then, one of wood, and
journeys across them had not yet been revealed to philanthropic
young women eager to do good.</p>
<p>Selma's house lay well to the south-west of Central Avenue, far
enough removed from the River Drive and the Flagg mansion to be
humble and yet near enough to be called looking up. Their row was
complete and mainly occupied, but the locality was a-building, and
in the process of making acquaintance. So many strangers had come
to Benham that even Babcock knew but few of their neighbors.
Without formulating definitely how it was to happen, Selma had
expected to be received with open arms into a society eager to
recognize her salient qualities. But apparently, at first glance,
everybody's interest was absorbed by the butcher and grocer, the
dressmaker and the domestic hearth. That is, the other people in
their row seemed to be content to do as they were doing. The
husbands went to town every day&mdash;town which lay in the murky
distance&mdash;and their wives were friendly enough, but did not
seem to be conscious either of voids in their own existence or of
the privilege of her society. To be sure, they dressed well and
were suggestive in that, but they looked blank at some of her
inquiries, and appeared to feel their days complete if, after the
housework had been done and the battle fought with the hired girl,
they were able to visit the shopping district and pore over
fabrics, in case they could not buy them. Some were evidently
looking forward to the day when they might be so fortunate as to
possess one of the larger houses of the district a mile away, and
figure among what they termed "society people." There were others
who, in their satisfaction with this course of life, referred with
a touch of self-righteousness to the dwellers on the River Drive as
deserving reprobation on account of a lack of serious purpose. This
criticism appealed to Selma, and consoled her in a measure for the
half mortification with which she had begun to realize that she was
not of so much account as she had expected; at least, that there
were people not very far distant from her block who were different
somehow from her neighbors, and who took part in social proceedings
in which she and her husband were not invited to participate.
Manifestly they were unworthy and un-American. It was a comfort to
come to this conclusion, even though her immediate surroundings,
including the society of those who had put the taunt into her
thoughts, left her unsatisfied.</p>
<p>Some relief was provided at last by her church. Babcock was by
birth an Episcopalian, though he had been lax in his interest
during early manhood. This was one of the matters which he had
expected marriage to correct, and he had taken up again, not merely
with resignation but complacency, the custom of attending service
regularly. Dr. White had been a controversial Methodist, but since
his wife's death, and especially since the war, he had abstained
from religious observances, and had argued himself somewhat far
afield from the fold of orthodox belief. Consequently Selma, though
she attended church at Westfield when her father's ailments did not
require her presence at home, had been brought up to exercise her
faculties freely on problems of faith and to feel herself a little
more enlightened than the conventional worshipper. Still she was
not averse to following her husband to the Rev. Henry Glynn's
church. The experience was another revelation to her, for service
at Westfield had been eminently severe and unadorned. Mr. Glynn was
an Englishman; a short, stout, strenuous member of the Church of
England with a broad accent and a predilection for ritual, but
enthusiastic and earnest. He had been tempted to cross the ocean by
the opportunities for preaching the gospel to the heathen, and he
had fixed on Benham as a vineyard where he could labor to
advantage. His advent had been a success. He had awakened interest
by his fervor and by his methods. The pew taken by Babcock was one
of the last remaining, and there was already talk of building a
larger church to replace the chapel where he ministered. Choir
boys, elaborate vestments, and genuflections, were novelties in the
Protestant worship of Benham, and attracted the attention of many
almost weary of plainer forms of worship, especially as these
manifestations of color were effectively supplemented by evident
sincerity of spirit on the part of their pastor. Nor were his
energy and zeal confined to purely spiritual functions. The scope
of his church work was practical and social. He had organized from
the congregation societies of various sorts to relieve the poor;
Bible classes and evening reunions which the members of the parish
were urged to attend in order to become acquainted. Mr. Glynn's
manner was both hearty and pompous. To him there was no Church in
the world but the Church of England, and it was obvious that as one
of the clergy of that Church he considered himself to be no mean
man; but apart from this serious intellectual foible with respect
to his own relative importance, he was a stimulating Christian and
citizen within his lights. His active, crusading, and emotional
temperament just suited the seething propensities of Benham.</p>
<p>His flock comprised a few of the residents of the River Drive
district, among them the Flaggs, but was a fairly representative
mixture of all grades of society, including the poorest. These last
were specimens under spiritual duress rather than free worshippers,
and it was a constant puzzle to the reverend gentleman why, in the
matter of attendance, they, metaphorically speaking, sickened and
died. It had never been so in England. "Bonnets!" responded one day
Mrs. Hallett Taylor, who had become Mr. Glynn's leading ally in
parish matters, and was noted for her executive ability. She was an
engaging but clear-headed soul who went straight to the point.</p>
<p>"I do not fathom your meaning," said the pastor, a little
loftily, for the suggestion sounded flippant.</p>
<p>"It hurts their feelings to go to a church where their clothes
are shabby compared with those of the rest of the
congregation."</p>
<p>"Yes, but in God's chapel, dear lady, all such distinctions
should be forgotten."</p>
<p>"They can't forget, and I don't blame them much, poor things, do
you? It's the free-born American spirit. There now, Mr. Glynn, you
were asking me yesterday to suggest some one for junior warden. Why
not Mr. Babcock? They're new comers and seem available people."</p>
<p>Mr. Glynn's distress at her first question was merged in the
interest inspired by her second, for his glance had followed hers
until it rested on the Babcocks, who had just entered the vestry to
attend the social reunion. Selma's face wore its worried archangel
aspect. She was on her good behavior and proudly on her guard
against social impertinence. But she looked very pretty, and her
compact, slight figure indicated a busy way.</p>
<p>"I will interrogate him," he answered. "I have observed them
before, and&mdash;and I can't quite make out the wife. It is almost
a spiritual face, and yet&mdash;"</p>
<p>"Just a little hard and keen," broke in Mrs. Taylor, upon his
hesitation. "She is pretty, and she looks clever. I think we can
get some work out of her."</p>
<p>Thereupon she sailed gracefully in the direction of Selma. Mrs.
Taylor was from Maryland. Her husband, a physician, had come to
Benham at the close of the war to build up a practice, and his wife
had aided him by her energy and graciousness to make friends.
Unlike some Southerners, she was not indolent, and yet she
possessed all the ingratiating, spontaneous charm of well-bred
women from that section of the country. Her tastes were
&aelig;sthetic and ethical rather than intellectual, and her
special interest at the moment was the welfare of the church. She
thought it desirable that all the elements of which the
congregation was composed should be represented on the committees,
and Selma seemed to her the most obviously available person from
the class to which the Babcocks belonged.</p>
<p>"I want you to help us," she said. "I think you have ideas. We
need a woman with sense and ideas on our committee to build the new
church."</p>
<p>Selma was not used to easy grace and sprightly spontaneity. It
affected her at first much as the touch of man; but just as in that
instance the experience was agreeable. Life was too serious a thing
in her regard to lend itself casually to lightness, and yet she
felt instinctively attracted by this lack of self-consciousness and
self-restraint. Besides here was an opportunity such as she had
been yearning for. She had met Mrs. Taylor before, and knew her to
be the presiding genius of the congregation; and it was evident
that Mrs. Taylor had discovered her value.</p>
<p>"Thank you," she said, gravely, but cordially. "That is what I
should like. I wish to be of use. I shall be pleased to serve on
the committee."</p>
<p>"It will be interesting, I think. I have never helped build
anything before. Perhaps you have?"</p>
<p>"No," said Selma slowly. Her tone conveyed the impression that,
though her abilities had never been put to that precise test, the
employment seemed easily within her capacity.</p>
<p>"Ah! I am sure you will be suggestive" said Mrs. Taylor. "I am
right anxious that it shall be a credit in an architectural way,
you know."</p>
<p>Mr. Glynn, who had followed with more measured tread, now
mingled his hearty bass voice in the conversation. His mental
attitude was friendly, but inquisitorial; as seemed to him to befit
one charged with the cure of souls. He proceeded to ask questions,
beginning with inquiries conventional and domestic, but verging
presently on points of faith. Babcock, to whom they were directly
addressed, stood the ordeal well, revealing himself as flattered,
contrite, and zealous to avail himself of the blessings of the
church. He admitted that lately he had been lax in his spiritual
duties.</p>
<p>"We come every Sunday now," he said buoyantly, with a glance at
Selma as though to indicate that she deserved the credit of his
reformation.</p>
<p>"The holy sacrament of marriage has led many souls from darkness
into light, from the flesh-pots of Egypt to the table of the Lord"
Mr. Glynn answered. "And you, my daughter," he added, meaningly,
"guard well your advantage."</p>
<p>It was agreeable to Selma that the clergymen seemed to
appreciate her superiority to her embarrassed husband, especially
as she thought she knew that in England women were not expected to
have opinions of their own. She wished to say something to impress
him more distinctly with her cleverness, for though she was
secretly contemptuous of his ceremonials, there was something
impressive in his mandatory zeal. She came near asking whether he
held to the belief that it was wrong for a man to marry his
deceased wife's sister, which was the only proposition in relation
to the married state which occurred to her at the moment as likely
to show her independence, but she contented herself instead with
saying, with so much of Mrs. Taylor's spontaneity as she could
reproduce without practice, "We expect to be very happy in your
church."</p>
<p>Selma, however, supplemented her words with her tense spiritual
look. She felt happier than she had for weeks, inasmuch as life
seemed to be opening before her. For a few moments she listened to
Mr. Glynn unfold his hopes in regard to the new church, trying to
make him feel that she was no common woman. She considered it a
tribute to her when he took Lewis aside later and asked him to
become a junior warden.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>
<p>At this time the necessity for special knowledge as to artistic
or educational matters was recognized grudgingly in Benham. Any
reputable citizen was considered capable to pass judgment on
statues and pictures, design a house or public building, and
prescribe courses of study for school-children. Since then the
free-born Benhamite, little by little, through wise legislation or
public opinion, born of bitter experience, has been robbed of these
prerogatives until, not long ago, the un-American and undemocratic
proposition to take away the laying out of the new city park from
the easy going but ignorant mercies of the so-called city forester,
who had been first a plumber and later an alderman, prevailed. An
enlightened civic spirit triumphed and special knowledge was
invoked.</p>
<p>That was twenty-five years later. Mrs. Hallett Taylor had found
herself almost single-handed at the outset in her purpose to build
the new church on artistic lines. Or rather the case should be
stated thus: Everyone agreed that it was to be the most beautiful
church in the country, consistent with the money, and no one
doubted that it would be, especially as everyone except Mrs. Taylor
felt that in confiding the matter to the leading architect in
Benham the committee would be exercising a wise and intelligent
discretion. Mr. Pierce, the individual suggested, had never, until
recently, employed the word architect in speaking of himself, and
he pronounced it, as did some of the committee, "arshitect," shying
a little at the word, as though it were caviare and anything but
American. He was a builder, practised by a brief but rushing career
in erecting houses, banks, schools, and warehouses speedily and
boldly. He had been on the spot when the new growth of Benham
began, and his handiwork was writ large all over the city. The city
was proud of him, and had, as it were, sniffed when Joel Flagg went
elsewhere for a man to build his new house. Surely, if it were
necessary to pay extra for that sort of thing, was not home talent
good enough? Yet it must be confessed that the ugly splendor of the
Flagg medi&aelig;val castle had so far dazed the eye of Benham that
its "arshitect" had felt constrained, in order to keep up with the
times, to try fancy flights of his own. He had silenced any
doubting Thomases by his latest effort, a new school-house, rich in
rampant angles and scrolls, on the brown-stone front of which the
name <i>Flagg School</i> appeared in ambitious, distorted
hieroglyphics.</p>
<p>Think what a wealth of imagery in the tossing of the second O on
top of the L. If artistic novelty and genius were sought for the
new church, here it was ready to be invoked. Besides, Mr. Pierce
was a brother-in-law of one of the members of the committee, and,
though the committee had the fear of God in their hearts in the
erection of his sanctuary, it was not easy to protest against the
near relative of a fellow member, especially one so competent.</p>
<p>The committee numbered seven. Selma had been chosen to fill a
vacancy caused by death, but at the time of her selection the
matter was still in embryo, and the question of an architect had
not been mooted. At the next meeting discussion arose as to whether
Mr. Pierce should be given the job, under the eagle eyes of a
sub-committee, or Mrs. Taylor's project of inviting competitive
designs should be adopted. It was known that Mr. Glynn, without
meaning disrespect to Mr. Pierce, favored the latter plan as more
progressive, a word always attractive to Benham ears when they had
time to listen. Its potency, coupled with veneration, for the
pastor's opinion, had secured the vote of Mr. Clyme, a banker.
Another member of the committee, a lawyer, favored Mrs. Taylor's
idea because of a grudge against Mr. Pierce. The chairman and
brother-in-law, and a hard-headed stove dealer, were opposed to the
competitive plan as highfalutin and unnecessary. Thus the deciding
vote lay with Selma.</p>
<p>Now that they were on the same committee, Mrs. Taylor could not
altogether make her out. She remembered that Mr. Glynn had said the
same thing. Mrs. Taylor was accustomed to conquests. Without actual
premeditation, she was agreeably conscious of being able to convert
and sweep most opponents off their feet by the force of her
pleasant personality. In this case the effect was not so obvious.
She was conscious that Selma's eyes were constantly fixed upon her,
but as to what she was thinking Mrs. Taylor felt less certain.
Clearly she was mesmerized, but was the tribute admiration or
hostility? Mrs. Taylor was piqued, and put upon her metal. Besides
she needed Selma's vote. Not being skilled in psychological
analyses, she had to resort to practical methods, and invited her
to afternoon tea.</p>
<p>Selma had never been present at afternoon tea as a domestic
function in her life. Nor had she seen a home like Mrs. Taylor's.
The house was no larger than her own, and had cost less. Medicine
had not been so lucrative as the manufacture of varnish. Externally
the house displayed stern lines of unadorned brick&mdash;the
custom-made style of Benham in the first throes of expansion before
Mr. Pierce's imagination had been stirred. Mr. Taylor had bought it
as it stood, and his wife had made no attempt to alter the outside,
which was, after all, inoffensively homely. But the interior was
bewildering to Selma's gaze in its suggestion of cosey comfort.
Pretty, tasteful things, many of them inexpensive knick-knacks of
foreign origin&mdash;a small picture, a bit of china, a
medi&aelig;val relic&mdash;were cleverly placed as a relief to the
conventional furniture. Selma had been used to formalism in
household garniture&mdash;to a best room little used and precise
with the rigor of wax flowers and black horse-hair, and to a living
room where the effect sought was purely utilitarian. Her new home,
in spite of its colored glass and iron stag, was arranged in much
this fashion, as were the houses of her neighbors which she had
entered.</p>
<p>Selma managed to seat herself on the one straight-backed chair
in the room. From this she was promptly driven by Mrs. Taylor and
established in one corner of a lounge with a soft silk cushion
behind her, and further propitiated by the proffer of a cup of tea
in a dainty cup and saucer. All this, including Mrs. Taylor's
musical voice, easy speech, and ingratiating friendliness,
alternately thrilled and irritated her. She would have liked to
discard her hostess from her thought as a light creature unworthy
of intellectual seriousness, but she found herself fascinated and
even thawed in spite of herself.</p>
<p>"I'm glad to have the opportunity really to talk to you," said
Mrs. Taylor. "At the church reunions one is so liable to
interruptions. If I'm not mistaken, you taught school before you
were married?"</p>
<p>"For a short time."</p>
<p>"That must have been interesting. It is so practical and
definite. My life," she added deprecatingly, "has been a thing of
threads and patches&mdash;a bit here and a bit there."</p>
<p>She paused, but without forcing a response, proceeded blithely
to touch on her past by way of illustration. The war had come just
when she was grown up, and her kin in Maryland were divided on the
issue. Her father had taken his family abroad, but her heart was in
the keeping of a young officer on the Northern side&mdash;now her
husband. Loss of property and bitterness of spirit had kept her
parents expatriated, and she, with them, had journeyed from place
to place in Europe. She had seen many beautiful places and
beautiful things. At last Major Taylor had come for her and carried
her off as his bride to take up again her life as an American.</p>
<p>"I am interested in Benham," she continued, "and I count on you,
Mrs. Babcock, to help make the new church what it ought to be
artistically&mdash;worthy of all the energy and independence there
is in this place."</p>
<p>Selma's eye kindled. The allusion to foreign lands had aroused
her distrust, but this patriotic avowal warmed her pulses.</p>
<p>"Every one is so busy with private affairs here, owing to the
rapid growth of the city," pursued Mrs. Taylor, "that there is
danger of our doing inconsiderately things which cannot easily be
set right hereafter. An ugly or tawdry-looking building may be an
eyesore for a generation. I know that we have honest and skilful
mechanics in Benham, but as trustees of the church funds, shouldn't
we at least make the effort to get the best talent there is? If we
have the cleverest architect here, so much the better. An open
competition will enable us to find out. After all Benham is only
one city among many, and a very new city. Why shouldn't we take
advantage of the ideas of the rest of the country&mdash;the older
portion of the country?"</p>
<p>"Mr. Pierce built our house, and we think it very satisfactory
and pretty."</p>
<p>Selma's tone was firm, but she eyed her hostess narrowly. She
had begun of late to distrust the &aelig;sthetic worth of the
colored glass and metal stag, and, though she was on her guard
against effrontery, she wished to know the truth. She knew that Mr.
Pierce, with fine business instinct, had already conveyed to her
husband the promise that he should furnish the varnish for the new
church in case of his own selection, which, as Babcock had
remarked, would be a nice thing all round.</p>
<p>Mrs. Taylor underwent the scrutiny without flinching. "I have
nothing to say against Mr. Pierce. He is capable within his lights.
Indeed I think it quite possible that we shall get nothing more
satisfactory elsewhere. Mr. Flagg's grim pile is anything but
encouraging. That may sound like an argument against my plan, but
in the case of the Flagg house there was no competition; merely
unenlightened choice on the one side and ignorant experimenting on
the other."</p>
<p>"You don't seem to think very highly of the appearance of
Benham," said Selma. The remark was slightly interrogative, but was
combative withal. She wished to know if everything, from the Flagg
mansion down, was open to criticism, but she would fain question
the authority of the censor&mdash;this glib, graceful woman whose
white, starched cuffs seemed to make light of her own sober,
unadorned wrists.</p>
<p>This time Mrs. Taylor flushed faintly. She realized that their
relations had reached a critical point, and that the next step
might be fatal. She put down her teacup, and leaning forward, said
with smiling confidential eagerness, "I don't. I wouldn't admit it
to anyone else. But what's the use of mincing matters with an
intelligent woman like you? I might put you off now, and declare
that Benham is well enough. But you would soon divine what I really
think, and that would be the end of confidence between us. I like
honesty and frankness, and I can see that you do. My opinion of
Benham architecture is that it is slip-shod and mongrel. There! You
see I put myself in your hands, but I do so because I feel sure you
nearly agree with me already. You know it's so, but you hate to
acknowledge it."</p>
<p>Selma's eyes were bright with interest. She felt flattered by
the appeal, and there was a righteous assurance in Mrs. Taylor's
manner which was convincing. She opened her mouth to say
something&mdash;what she did not quite know&mdash;but Mrs. Taylor
raised her hand by way of interdiction.</p>
<p>"Don't answer yet. Let me show you what I mean. I'm as proud of
Benham as anyone. I am absorbed by the place, I look to see it
fifty years hence&mdash;perhaps less&mdash;a great city, and a
beautiful city too. Just at present everything is commercial
and&mdash;and ethical; yes, ethical. We wish to do and dare, but we
haven't time to adorn as we construct. That is, most of us haven't.
But if a few determined spirits&mdash;women though they
be&mdash;cry 'halt,' art may get a chance here and there to assert
herself. Look at this," she said, gliding across the room and
holding up a small vase of exquisite shape and coloring, "I picked
it up on the other side and it stands almost for a lost art. The
hands and taste which wrought it represent the transmitted patience
and skill of hundreds of years. We like to rush things through in a
few weeks on a design hastily conceived by a Mr. Pierce because we
are so earnest. Now, we won't do it this time, will we?"</p>
<p>"No, we won't," said Selma. "I see what you mean. I was afraid
at first that you didn't give us credit for the
earnestness&mdash;for the ethical part. That's the first thing, the
great thing according to my idea, and it's what distinguishes us
from foreigners,&mdash;the foreigners who made that vase, for
instance. But I agree with you that there's such a thing as going
too fast, and very likely some of the buildings here aren't all
they might be. We don't need to model them on foreign patterns, but
we must have them pretty and right."</p>
<p>"Certainly, certainly, my dear. What we should strive for is
originality&mdash;American originality; but soberly, slowly. Art is
evolved painfully, little by little; it can't be bought ready-made
at shops for the asking like tea and sugar. If we invite designs
for the new church, we shall give the youths of the country who
have ideas seething in their heads a chance to express themselves.
Who knows but we may unearth a genius?"</p>
<p>"Who knows?" echoed Selma, with her spiritual look. "Yes, you
are right, Mrs. Taylor. I will help you. As you say, there must be
hundreds of young men who would like to do just that sort of thing.
I know myself what it is to have lived in a small place without the
opportunity to show what one could do; to feel the capacity, but to
be without the means and occasion to reveal what is in one. And now
that I understand we really look at things the same way, I'm glad
to join with you in making Benham beautiful. As you say, we women
can do much if we only will. I've the greatest faith in woman's
mission in this new, interesting nation of ours. Haven't you, Mrs.
Taylor? Don't you believe that she, in her new sphere of
usefulness, is one of the great moving forces of the Republic?"
Selma was talking rapidly, and had lost every trace of suspicious
restraint. She spoke as one transfigured.</p>
<p>"Yes, indeed," answered Mrs. Taylor, checking any disposition
she may have felt to interpose qualifications. She could acquiesce
generally without violence to her convictions, and she could not
afford to imperil the safety of the immediate issue&mdash;her
church. "I felt sure you would feel so if you only had time to
reflect," she added. "If you vote with us, you will have the
pleasant consciousness of knowing that you have advanced woman's
cause just so much."</p>
<p>"You may count on my vote."</p>
<p>Selma stopped on her way home, although it was late, to purchase
some white cuffs. As she approached, her husband stood on the
grass-plot in his shirt sleeves with a garden-hose. He was
whistling, and when he saw her he kissed his hand at her
jubilantly,</p>
<p>"Well, sweetheart, where you been?"</p>
<p>"Visiting. Taking tea with Mrs. Taylor. I've promised her to
vote to invite bids for the church plans."</p>
<p>Babcock looked surprised. "That'll throw Pierce out, won't
it?"</p>
<p>"Not unless some one else submits a better design than he."</p>
<p>Lewis scratched his head. "I considered that order for varnish
as good as booked."</p>
<p>"I'm not sure Mr. Pierce knows as much as he thinks he does,"
said Selma oracularly. "We shall get plans from New York and
Boston. If we don't like them we needn't take them. But that's the
way to get an artistic thing. And we're going to have the most
artistic church in Benham. I'm sorry about the varnish, but a
principle is involved."</p>
<p>Babcock was puzzled but content. He cared far more for the
disappointment to Pierce than for the loss of the order. But apart
from the business side of the question, he never doubted that his
wife must be right, nor did he feel obliged to inquire what
principle was involved. He was pleased to have her associate with
Mrs. Taylor, and was satisfied that she would be a credit to him in
any situation where occult questions of art or learning were
mooted. He dropped his hose and pulled her down beside him on the
porch settee. There was a beautiful sunset, and the atmosphere was
soft and refreshing. Selma felt satisfied with herself. As Mrs.
Taylor had said, it was her vote which would turn the scale on
behalf of progress. Other things, too, were in her mind. She was
not ready to admit that she had been instructed, but she was
already planning changes in her own domestic interior, suggested by
what she had seen.</p>
<p>She let her husband squeeze her hand, but her thoughts were
wandering from his blandishments. Presently she said: "Lewis, I've
begun lately to doubt if that stag is really pretty."</p>
<p>"The stag? Well, now, I've always thought it tasty&mdash;one of
the features of our little place."</p>
<p>"No one would mistake it for a real deer. It looks to me almost
comical."</p>
<p>Babcock turned to regard judicially the object of her
criticism.</p>
<p>"I like it," he said somewhat mournfully, as though he were
puzzled. "But if you don't, we'll change the stag for something
else. I wish you to be pleased first of all. Instead we might have
a fountain; two children under an umbrella I saw the other day. It
was cute. How does that strike you?"</p>
<p>"I can't tell without seeing it. And, Lewis, promise me that you
won't select anything new of that sort until I have looked at
it."</p>
<p>"Very well," Babcock answered submissively. But he continued to
look puzzled. In his estimate of his wife's superiority to himself
in the subtleties of life, it had never occurred to him to include
the choice of every-day objects of art. He had eyes and could judge
for himself like any other American citizen. Still, he was only too
glad to humor Selma in such an unimportant matter, especially as he
was eager for her happiness.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3>
<p>Seven designs for the new church were submitted, including three
from Benham architects. The leaven of influence exercised by
spirits like Mrs. Taylor was only just beginning to work, and the
now common custom of competing outside one's own bailiwick was
still in embryo. Mr. Pierce's design was bold and sumptuous. His
brother-in-law stated oracularly not long before the day when the
plans were to be opened: "Pierce is not a man to be frightened out
of a job by frills. Mark my words; he will give us an elegant
thing." Mr. Pierce had conceived the happy thought of combining a
Moorish mosque and New England meeting-house in a conservative and
equitable medley, evidently hoping thereby to be both picturesque
and traditional. The result, even on paper, was too bold for some
of his admirers. The chairman was heard to remark: "I shouldn't
feel as though I was in church. That dome set among spires is close
to making a theatre of the house of God."</p>
<p>The discomfiture of the first architect of Benham cleared the
way for the triumph of Mrs. Taylor's taste. The design submitted by
Wilbur Littleton of New York, seemed to her decidedly the most
meritorious. It was graceful, appropriate, and artistic; entirely
in harmony with religious associations, yet agreeably different
from every day sanctuaries. The choice lay between his and that
presented by Mr. Cass, a Benham builder&mdash;a matter-of-fact,
serviceable, but very conventional edifice. The hard-headed stove
dealer on the committee declared in favor of the native design, as
simpler and more solid.</p>
<p>"It'll be a massive structure" he said, "and when it's finished
no one will have to ask what it is. It'll speak for itself. Mr.
Cass is a solid business man, and we know what we'll get. The other
plan is what I call dandified."</p>
<p>It was evident to the committee that the stove dealer's final
criticism comprehended the architect as well as his design. Several
competitors&mdash;Littleton among them&mdash;had come in person to
explain the merits of their respective drawings, and by the side of
solid, red-bearded, undecorative Mr. Cass, Littleton may well have
seemed a dandy. He was a slim young man with a delicate, sensitive
face and intelligent brown eyes. He looked eager and interesting.
In his case the almost gaunt American physiognomy was softened by a
suggestion of poetic impulses. Yet the heritage of nervous energy
was apparent. His appearance conveyed the impression of quiet
trigness and gentility. His figure lent itself to his clothes,
which were utterly inconspicuous, judged by metropolitan standards,
but flawless in the face of hard-headed theories of life, and
aroused suspicion. He spoke in a gentle but earnest manner,
pointing out clearly, yet modestly, the merits of his
composition.</p>
<p>Selma had never seen a man just like him before, and she noticed
that from the outset his eyes seemed to be fastened on her as
though his words were intended for her special benefit. She had
never read the lines&mdash;indeed they had not been
written&mdash;</p>
<p>"I think I could be happy with a gentleman like you."</p>
<p>Nor did the precise sentiment contained in them shape itself in
her thought. Yet she was suddenly conscious that she had been
starving for lack of intellectual companionship, and that he was
the sort of man she had hoped to meet&mdash;the sort of man who
could appreciate her and whom she could appreciate.</p>
<p>It did not become necessary for Selma to act as Mr. Littleton's
champion, for the stove dealer's criticism found only one
supporter. The New Yorker's design for the church was so obviously
pretty and suitable that a majority of the Committee promptly
declared in its favor. The successful competitor, who had remained
a day to learn the result, was solemnly informed of the decision,
and then elaborately introduced to the members. In shaking hands
with him, Selma experienced a shade of embarrassment. It was plain
that his words to her, spoken with a low bow&mdash;"I am very much
gratified that my work pleases you" conveyed a more spiritual
significance than was contained in his thanks to the others. Still
he seemed more at his ease with Mrs. Taylor, who promptly broke the
ice of the situation by fixing him as a close relative of friends
in Baltimore. Straightway he became sprightly and voluble, speaking
of things and people beyond Selma's experience. This social jargon
irritated Selma. It seemed to her a profanation of a noble
character, yet she was annoyed because she could not
understand.</p>
<p>Mrs. Taylor, having discovered in Mr. Littleton one who should
have been a friend long before, succeeded in carrying him off to
dinner. Yet, before taking his leave, he came back to Selma for a
few words. She had overheard Mrs. Taylor's invitation, and she
asked herself why she too might not become better acquainted with
this young man whose attitude toward her was that of respectful
admiration. To have a strange young man to dine off-hand struck her
as novel. She had a general conviction that it would seem to Lewis
closely allied to light conduct, and that only foreigners or
frivolous people let down to this extent the bars of family life.
Now that Mrs. Taylor had set her the example, she was less certain
of the moral turpitude of such an act, but she concluded also that
her husband would be in the way at table. What she desired was an
opportunity for a long, interesting chat about high things.</p>
<p>While she reflected, he was saying to her, "I understand that
your committee is to supervise my work until the new church is
completed, so I shall hope to have the opportunity to meet you
occasionally. It will be necessary for me to make trips here from
time to time to see that everything is being done correctly by the
mechanics."</p>
<p>"Do you go away immediately?"</p>
<p>"It may be that I shall be detained by the arrangements which I
must make here until day after to-morrow."</p>
<p>"If you would really like to see me, I live at 25 Onslow
Avenue."</p>
<p>"Thank you very much." Littleton took out a small memorandum
book and carefully noted the address. "Mrs. Babcock, 25 Onslow
Avenue. I shall make a point of calling to-morrow afternoon if I
stay&mdash;and probably I shall."</p>
<p>He bowed and left Selma pleasantly stirred by the interview. His
voice was low and his enunciation sympathetically fluent. She said
to herself that she would give him afternoon tea and they would
compare ideas together. She felt sure that his must be
interesting.</p>
<p>Later in the evening at Mrs. Taylor's, when there was a pause in
their sympathetic interchange of social and &aelig;sthetic
convictions, Littleton said abruptly:</p>
<p>"Tell me something, please, about Mrs. Babcock. She has a
suggestive as well as a beautiful face, and it is easy to perceive
that she is genuinely American&mdash;not one of the women of whom
we were speaking, who seem to be ashamed of their own institutions,
and who ape foreign manners and customs. I fancy she would
illustrate what I was saying just now as to the vital importance of
our clinging to our heritage of independent thought&mdash;of
accepting the truth of the ancient order of things without allowing
its lies and demerits to enslave us."</p>
<p>"I suppose so," said Mrs. Taylor. "She certainly does not belong
to the dangerous class of whom you were speaking. I was flattering
myself that neither did I, for I was agreeing with all you said as
to the need of cherishing our native originality. Yet I must
confess that now that you compare me with her (the actual
comparison is my own, but you instigated it), I begin to feel more
doubts about myself&mdash;that is if she is the true species, and
I'm inclined to think she is. Pray excuse this indirect method of
answering your inquiry; it is in the nature of a soliloquy; it is
an airing of thoughts and doubts which have been harassing me for a
fortnight&mdash;ever since I knew Mrs. Babcock. Really, Mr.
Littleton, I can tell you very little about her. She is a new-comer
on the horizon of Benham; she has been married very recently; I
believe she has taught school and that she was brought up not far
from here. She is as proud as Lucifer and sometimes as beautiful;
she is profoundly serious and&mdash;and apparently very ignorant. I
fancy she is clever and capable in her way, but I admit she is an
enigma to me and that I have not solved it. I can see she does not
approve of me altogether. She regards me with suspicion, and yet
she threw the casting vote in favor of my proposal to open the
competition for the church to architects from other places. I am
trying to like her, for I wish to believe in everything genuinely
American if I can. There, I have told you all I know, and to a man
she may seem altogether attractive and inspiring."</p>
<p>"Thank you. I had no conception that I was broaching such a
complex subject. She sounds interesting, and my curiosity is
whetted. You have not mentioned the husband."</p>
<p>"To be sure. A burly, easy-going manufacturer of varnish,
without much education, I should judge. He is manifestly her
inferior in half a dozen ways, but I understand that he is making
money, and he looks kind."</p>
<p>Wilbur Littleton's life since he had come to man's estate had
been a struggle, and he was only just beginning to make headway. He
had never had time to commiserate himself, for necessity on the one
hand and youthful ambition on the other had kept his energies tense
and his thoughts sane and hopeful. He and his sister Pauline, a
year his senior, had been left orphans while both were students by
the death of their father on the battlefield. To persevere in their
respective tastes and work out their educations had been a labor of
love, but an undertaking which demanded rigorous self-denial on the
part of each. Wilbur had determined to become an architect.
Pauline, early interested in the dogma that woman must no longer be
barred from intellectual companionship with man, had sought to
cultivate herself intelligently without sacrificing her brother's
domestic comfort. She had succeeded. Their home in New York,
despite its small dimensions and frugal hospitality, was already a
favorite resort of a little group of professional people with busy
brains and light purses. Wilbur was in the throes of early
progress. He had no relatives or influential friends to give him
business, and employment came slowly. He had been an architect on
his own account for two years, but was still obliged to supplement
his professional orders by work as a draughtsman for others. Yet
his enthusiasm kept him buoyant. In respect to his own work he was
scrupulous; indeed, a stern critic. He abhorred claptrap and
specious effects, and aimed at high standards of artistic
expression. This gave him position among his brother architects,
but was incompatible with meteoric progress. His design for the
church at Benham represented much thought and hope, and he felt
happy at his success.</p>
<p>Littleton's familiarity with women, apart from his sister, had
been slight, but his thoughts regarding them were in keeping with a
poetic and aspiring nature. He hoped to marry some day, and he was
fond of picturing to himself in moments of reverie the sort of
woman to whom his heart would be given. In the shrine of his secret
fancy she appeared primarily as an object of reverence, a
white-souled angel of light clad in the graceful outlines of flesh,
an Amazon and yet a winsome, tender spirit, and above all a being
imbued with the stimulating intellectual independence he had been
taught to associate with American womanhood. She would be the
loving wife of his bosom and the intelligent sharer of his thoughts
and aspirations&mdash;often their guide. So pure and exacting was
his ideal that while alive to the value of coyness and coquetry as
elements of feminine attraction for others, Wilbur had chosen to
regard the maiden of his faith as too serious a spirit to
condescend to such vanities; and from a similar vein of
appreciation he was prone to think of her as unadorned, or rather
untarnished, by the gewgaws of fashionable dressmaking and
millinery. His first sight of Selma had made him conscious that
here was a face not unlike what he had hoped to encounter some day,
and he had instinctively felt her to be sympathetic. He was even
conscious of disappointment when he heard her addressed as Mrs.
Babcock. Evidently she was a free-born soul, unhampered by the
social weaknesses of a large city, and illumined by the spiritual
grace of native womanliness. So he thought of her, and Mrs.
Taylor's diagnosis rather confirmed than impaired his impression,
for in Mrs. Taylor Wilbur felt he discerned a trace of antagonism
born of cosmopolitan prejudice&mdash;an inability to value at its
true worth a nature not moulded on conventional lines. Rigorous as
he was in his judgments, and eager to disown what was cheap or
shallow, mere conventionalism, whether in art or daily life, was no
less abhorrent to him. Here, he said to himself, was an original
soul, ignorant and unenlightened perhaps, but endowed with swift
perception and capable of noble development.</p>
<p>The appearance of Selma's scroll and glass bedizened house did
not affect this impression. Wilbur was first of all appreciatively
an American. That is he recognized that native energy had hitherto
been expended on the things of the spirit to the neglect of things
material. As an artist he was supremely interested in awakening and
guiding the national taste in respect to art, but at the same time
he was thoroughly aware that the peculiar vigor and independence of
character which he knew as Americanism was often utterly
indifferent to, or ignorant of, the value of &aelig;sthetics. After
all, art was a secondary consideration, whereas the inward vision
which absorbed the attention of the thoughtful among his countrymen
and countrywomen was an absolute essential without which the soul
must lose its fineness. He himself was seeking to show that beauty,
in external material expression, was not merely consistent with
strong ideals but requisite to their fit presentment. He recognized
too that the various and variegated departures from the monotonous
homely pattern of the every-day American house, which were evident
in each live town, were but so many indicators that the nation was
beginning to realize the truth of this. His battle was with the
designers and builders who were guiding falsely and flamboyantly,
not with the deceived victims, nor with those who were still
satisfied merely to look inwardly, and ignored form and color.
Hence he would have been able to behold the Babcocks' iron stag
without rancor had the animal still occupied the grass-plot. Selma,
when she saw the figure of her visitor in the door-way,
congratulated herself that it had been removed. It would have
pleased her to know that Mr. Littleton had already placed her in a
niche above the level of mere grass-plot considerations. That was
where she belonged of course; but she was fearful on the score of
suspected shortcomings. So it was gratifying to be able to receive
him in a smarter gown, to be wearing white cuffs, and to offer him
tea with a touch of Mrs. Taylor's tormenting urbanity. Not so
unreservedly as she. That would never do. It was and never would be
in keeping with her own ideas of serious self-respect. Still a
touch of it was grateful to herself. She felt that it was a grace
and enhanced her effectiveness.</p>
<p>A few moments later Selma realized that for the first time since
she had lived in Benham she was being understood and appreciated.
She felt too that for the first time she was talking to a kindred
spirit&mdash;to be sure, to one different, and more technically
proficient in concrete knowledge, possibly more able, too, to
express his thoughts in words, but eminently a comrade and
sympathizer. She was not obliged to say much. Nor were, indeed, his
actual words the source of her realization. The revelation came
from what was left unsaid&mdash;from the silent recognition by him
that she was worthy to share his best thoughts and was herself a
serious worker in the struggle of life. No graceful but galling
attitude of superiority, no polite indifference to her soul-hunger,
no disposition to criticise. And yet he was no less voluble,
clever, and spirited than Mrs. Taylor. She listened with wrapt
interest to his easy talk, which was ever grave in tone, despite
his pleasant sallies. He spoke of Benham with quick appreciation of
its bustling energy, and let her see that he divined its capacity
for greatness. This led him to refer with kindling eyes to the keen
impulse toward education and culture which was animating the
younger men and women of the country; to the new beginnings of art,
literature, and scientific investigation. At scarcely a hint from
her he told briefly of his past life and his hopes, and fondly
mentioned his sister and her present absorption in some history
courses for women.</p>
<p>"And you?" he said. "You are a student, too. Mrs. Taylor has
told me, but I should have guessed it. Duties even more interesting
claim you now, but it is easy to perceive that you have known that
other happiness, 'To scorn delights and live laborious days.'"</p>
<p>His words sounded musical, though the quotation from Lycidas was
unfamiliar to her ears. Her brain was thrilling with the import of
all he had told her&mdash;with his allusions to the intellectual
and ethical movements of Boston and New York, in which she felt
herself by right and with his recognition a partner and peer.</p>
<p>"You were teaching school when you married, I believe?" he
added.</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"And before that, if I may ask?"</p>
<p>"I lived at Westfield with my father. It is a small country
town, but we tried to be in earnest."</p>
<p>"I understand&mdash;I understand. You grew up among the trees,
and the breezes and the brooks, those wonderful wordless teachers.
I envy you, for they give one time to think&mdash;to expand. I have
known only city life myself. It is stimulating, but one is so
easily turned aside from one's direct purpose. Do you write at
all?"</p>
<p>"Not yet. But I have wished to. Some day I shall. Just now I
have too many domestic concerns to&mdash;"</p>
<p>She did not finish, for Babcock's heavy tread and whistle
resounded in the hall and at the next moment he was calling
"Selma!"</p>
<p>She felt annoyed at being interrupted, but she divined that it
would never do to show it.</p>
<p>"My husband," she said, and she raised her voice to utter with a
sugared dignity which would have done credit to Mrs. Taylor,</p>
<p>"I am in the parlor, Lewis."</p>
<p>"Enter your chief domestic concern," said Littleton blithely. "A
happy home is preferable to all the poems and novels in the
world."</p>
<p>Babcock, pushing open the door, which stood ajar, stopped short
in his melody.</p>
<p>"This is Mr. Littleton, Lewis. The architect of our new
church."</p>
<p>"Pleased to make your acquaintance." And by way of accounting
for the sudden softening of his brow, Babcock added, "I set you
down at first as one of those lightning-rod agents. There was one
here last week who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."</p>
<p>"He has an advantage over me," answered Littleton with a laugh.
"In my business a man can't solicit orders. He has to sit and wait
for them to come to him."</p>
<p>"I want to know. My wife thinks a lot of your drawings for the
new church."</p>
<p>"I hope to make it a credit to your city. I've just been saying
to your wife, Mr. Babcock, that Benham has a fine future before it.
The very atmosphere seems charged with progress."</p>
<p>Babcock beamed approvingly. "It's a driving place, sir. The man
in Benham who stops by the way-side to scratch his head gets left
behind. When we moved into this house a year ago looking through
that window we were at the jumping-off place; now you see houses
cropping up in every direction. It's going to be a big city.
Pleased to have you stop to supper with us," he added with burly
suavity as their visitor rose.</p>
<p>Littleton excused himself and took his leave. Babcock escorted
him to the front door and full of his subject delayed him on the
porch to touch once more on the greatness of Benham. There was a
clumsy method too in this optimistic garrulity, for at the close he
referred with some pride to his own business career, and made a
tender of his business card, "Lewis Babcock &amp; Company,
Varnishes," with a flourish. "If you do anything in my line,
pleased to accommodate you."</p>
<p>Littleton departing, tickled by a pleasant sense of humor,
caught through the parlor window a last glimpse of Selma's inspired
face bowing gravely, yet wistfully, in acknowledgment of his lifted
hat, and he strode away under the spell of a brain picture which he
transmuted into words: "There's the sort of case where the cynical
foreigner fails to appreciate the true import of our American life.
That couple typifies the elements of greatness in our every-day
people. At first blush the husband's rough and material, but he's
shrewd and enterprising and vigorous&mdash;the bread winner. He's
enormously proud of her, and he has reason to be, for she is a
constant stimulus to higher things. Little by little, and without
his knowing it, perhaps, she will smoothe and elevate him, and they
will develop together, growing in intelligence and cultivation as
they wax in worldly goods. After all, woman is our most marvellous
native product&mdash;that sort of woman. Heigho!" Having given vent
to this sigh, Littleton proceeded to recognize the hopelessness of
the personal situation by murmuring with a slightly forced access
of sprightliness</p>
<p>"If she be not fair for me,<br />
What care I how fair she be?"</p>
<p>Still he intended to see more of Mrs. Babcock, and that without
infringing the tenth or any other commandment. To flirt with a
married woman savored to him of things un-American and unworthy,
and Littleton had much too healthy an imagination to rhapsodize
from such a stand-point. Yet he foresaw that they might be mutually
respecting friends.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER V.</h3>
<p>Selma knew intuitively that an American woman was able to cook a
smooth custard, write a poem and control real society with one and
the same brain and hand, and she was looking forward to the
realization of the apotheosis; but, though she was aware that
children are the natural increment of wedlock, she had put the idea
from her ever since her marriage as impersonal and vaguely
disgusting. Consequently her confinement came as an unwelcome
interruption of her occupations and plans.</p>
<p>Her connection with the committee for the new church had proved
an introduction to other interests, charitable and social. One day
she was taken by Mrs. Taylor to a meeting of the Benham Woman's
Institute, a literary club recently established by Mrs. Margaret
Rodney Earle, a Western newspaper woman who had made her home in
Benham. Selma came in upon some twenty of her own sex in a hotel
private parlor hired weekly for the uses of the Institute. Mrs.
Earle, the president, a large florid woman of fifty, with gray hair
rising from the brow, fluent of speech, endowed with a public
manner, a commanding bust and a vigorous, ingratiating smile,
wielded a gavel at a little table and directed the exercises. A
paper on Shakespeare's heroines was read and discussed. Selections
on the piano followed. A thin woman in eye-glasses, the literary
editor of the <i>Benham Sentinel</i>, recited "Curfew must not ring
to-night," and a visitor from Wisconsin gave an exhibition in
melodious whistling. In the intervals, tea, chocolate with whipped
cream and little cakes were dispensed.</p>
<p>Selma was absorbed and thrilled. What could be more to her taste
than this? At the close of the whistling exercise, Mrs. Earle came
over and spoke to her. They took a strong fancy to each other on
the spot. Selma preferred a person who would tell you everything
about herself and to whom you could tell everything about yourself
without preliminaries. People like Mrs. Taylor repressed her, but
the motherly loquacity and comprehension of Mrs. Earle drew her out
and thawed at once and forever the ice of acquaintanceship. Before
she quite realized the extent of this fascination she had promised
to recite something, and as in a dream, but with flushing cheeks,
she heard the President rap the table and announce "You will be
gratified to hear that a talented friend who is with us has kindly
consented to favor us with a recital. I have the honor to introduce
Mrs. Lewis Babcock."</p>
<p>After the first flush of nervousness, Selma's grave dignity came
to her support, and justified her completely in her own eyes. Her
father had been fond of verse, especially of verse imbued with
moral melancholy, and at his suggestion she had learned and had
been wont to repeat many of the occasional pieces which he cut from
the newspapers and collected in a scrap-book. Her own preference
among these was the poem, "O why should the spirit of mortal be
proud?" which she had been told was a great favorite of Abraham
Lincoln. It was this piece which came into her mind when Mrs. Earle
broached the subject, and this she proceeded to deliver with august
precision. She spoke clearly and solemnly without the trace of the
giggling protestation which is so often incident to feminine
diffidence. She treated the opportunity with the seriousness
expected, for though the Institute was not proof against light and
diverting contributions, as the whistling performance indicated,
levity of spirit would have been out of place.</p>
<p>"'Tis a twink of the eye, 'tis a draught of the breath<br />
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death;<br />
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,<br />
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?"</p>
<p>Selma enjoyed the harmony between the long, slow cadence of the
metre and the important gravity of the theme. She rolled out the
verses with the intensity of a seer, and she looked a beautiful
seer as well. Liberal applause greeted her as she sat down, though
the clapping woman is apt to be a feeble instrument at best. Selma
knew that she had produced an impression and she was moved by her
own effectiveness. She was compelled to swallow once or twice to
conceal the tears in her voice while listening to the
congratulations of Mrs. Earle. The words which she had just recited
were ringing through her brain and seemed to her to express the
pitch at which her life was keyed.</p>
<p>Selma was chosen a member of the Institute at the next meeting,
and forthwith she became intimate with the president. Mrs. Margaret
Rodney Earle was, as she herself phrased it, a live woman. She
supported herself by writing for the newspapers articles of a
morally utilitarian character&mdash;for instance a winter's series,
published every Saturday, "Hints on Health and Culture," or again,
"Receipts for the Parlor and the Kitchen." She also contributed
poetry of a pensive cast, and chatty special correspondence
flavored with personal allusion. She was one of the pioneers in
modern society journalism, which at this time, however, was
comparatively veiled and delicate in its methods. Besides, she was
a woman of tireless energy, with theories on many subjects and an
ardor for organization. She advocated prohibition, the free
suffrage of woman, the renunciation of corsets, and was interested
in reforms relating to labor, the pauper classes and the public
schools. In behalf of any of these causes she was ready from time
to time to dash off an article at short notice or address an
audience. But her dearest concern was the promotion of woman's
culture and the enlargement of woman's sphere of usefulness through
the club. The idea of the woman's club, which was taking root over
the country, had put in the shade for the time being all her other
plans, including the scheme of a society for making the golden-rod
the national flower. As the founder and president of the Benham
Institute, she felt that she had found an avocation peculiarly
adapted to her capacities, and she was already actively in
correspondence with clubs of a similar character in other cities,
in the hope of forming a national organization for mutual
enlightenment and support.</p>
<p>Mrs. Earle received Selma by invitation at her lodgings the
following day, and so quickly did their friendship ripen that at
the end of two hours each had told the other everything. Selma was
prone instinctively to regard as aristocratic and un-American any
limitations to confidence. The evident disposition on the part of
Mrs. Earle to expose promptly and without reserve the facts of her
past and her plans for the future seemed to Selma typical of an
interesting character, and she was thankful to make a clean breast
in her turn as far as was possible. Mrs. Earle's domestic
experience had been thorny.</p>
<p>"I had a home once, too," she said, "a happy home, I thought. My
husband said he loved me. But almost from the first we had trouble.
It went on so from month to month, and finally we agreed to part.
He objected, my dear, to my living my own life. He didn't like me
to take an interest in things outside the house&mdash;public
matters. I was elected on the school-board&mdash;the only
woman&mdash;and he ought to have been proud. He said he was, at
first, but he was too fond of declaring that a woman's place is in
her kitchen. One day I said to him, 'Ellery, this can't go on. If
we can't agree we'd better separate. A cat-and-dog life is no life
at all.' He answered back, 'I'm not asking you to leave me, but if
you're set on it don't let me hinder you, Margaret. You don't need
a man to support you. You're as good as a man yourself.' He meant
that to be sarcastic, I suppose. 'Yes,' said I, 'thank God, I think
I can take care of myself, even though I am a woman.' That was the
end of it. There was no use for either of us to get excited. I
packed my things, and a few mornings later I said to him, 'Good-by,
Ellery Earle: I wish you well, and I suppose you're my husband
still, but I'm going to live my own life without let or hindrance
from any man. There's your ring.' My holding out the ring was
startling to him, for he said, 'Aren't you going to be sorry for
this, Margaret?' 'No,' said I, 'I've thought it all out, and it's
best for both of us. There's your ring.' He wouldn't take it, so I
dropped it on the table and went out. Some people miss it, and
misbelieve I was ever married. That was close on to twenty years
ago, and I've never seen him since. When the war broke out I heard
he enlisted, but what's become of him I don't know. Maybe he got a
divorce. I've kept right on and lived my own life in my own way,
and never lacked food or raiment. I'm forty-five years old, but I
feel a young woman still."</p>
<p>Notwithstanding Mrs. Earle's business-like directness and the
protuberance of her bust in conclusion, by way of reasserting her
satisfaction with the results of her action, there was a touch of
plaintiveness in her confession which suggested the womanly author
of "Hints on Culture and Hygiene," rather than the man-hater. This
was lost on Selma, who was fain to sympathize purely from the
stand-point of righteousness.</p>
<p>"It was splendid," she said. "He had no right to prevent you
living your own life. No husband has that right."</p>
<p>Mrs. Earle brushed her eyes with her handkerchief. "You musn't
think, my dear, that I'm not a believer in the home because mine
has been unhappy&mdash;because my husband didn't or couldn't
understand. The true home is the inspirer and nourisher of all that
is best in life&mdash;in our American life; but men must learn the
new lesson. There are many homes&mdash;yours, I'm sure&mdash;where
the free-born American woman has encouragement and the opportunity
to expand."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes. My husband lets me do as I wish. I made him promise
before I accepted him that he wouldn't thwart me; that he'd let me
live my own life."</p>
<p>Selma was so appreciative of Mrs. Earle, and so energetic and
suggestive in regard to the scope of the Institute, that she was
presently chosen a member of the council, which was the body
charged with the supervision of the fortnightly entertainments. It
occurred to her as a brilliant conception to have Littleton address
the club on "Art," and she broached the subject to him when he next
returned to Benham and appeared before the church committee. He
declared that he was too busy to prepare a suitable lecture, but he
yielded finally to her plea that he owed it to himself to let the
women of Benham hear his views and opinions.</p>
<p>"They are wives and they are mothers," said Selma sententiously.
"It was a woman's vote, you remember, which elected you to build
our church. You owe it to Art; don't you think so?"</p>
<p>A logical appeal to his conscience was never lost on Littleton.
Besides he was glad to oblige Mrs. Babcock, who seemed so earnest
in her desire to improve the &aelig;sthetic taste of Benham.
Accordingly, he yielded. The lecture was delivered a few weeks
later and was a marked success, for Littleton's earnestness of
theme and manner was relieved by a graceful, sympathetic delivery.
Selma, whose social aplomb was increasing every day, glided about
the rooms with a contented mien receiving felicitations and passing
chocolate. She enjoyed the distinction of being the God behind the
curtain.</p>
<p>A few days later the knowledge that she herself was to become a
mother was forced upon her attention, and was a little irksome. Of
necessity her new interests would be interrupted. Though she did
not question that she would perform maternal duties fitly and
fully, they seemed to her less peculiarly adapted to her than
concerns of the intellect and the spirit. However, the possession
of a little daughter was more precious to her than she had
expected, and the consciousness that the tiny doll which lay upon
her breast, was flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone affected
her agreeably and stirred her imagination. It should be reared,
from the start, in the creed of soul independence and expansion,
and she herself would find a new and sacred duty in catering to the
needs of this budding intelligence. So she reflected as she lay in
bed, but the outlook was a little marred by the thought that the
baby was the living image of its father&mdash;broad-featured and
burly&mdash;not altogether desirable cast of countenance for a
girl. What a pity, when it might just as well have looked like
her.</p>
<p>Babcock, on his part, was transported by paternity. He was
bubbling over with appreciation of the new baby, and fondly
believed it to be a human wonder. He was solicitous on the score of
its infantile ailments, and loaded it with gifts and toys beyond
the scope of its enjoyment. He went about the house whistling more
exuberantly than ever. There was no speck on his horizon; no fly in
his pot of ointment. It was he who urged that the child should be
christened promptly, though Dr. Glynn was not disposed to dwell on
the clerical barbarism as to the destiny of unbaptized infants.
Babcock was cultivating a conservative method: He realized that
there was no object in taking chances. Illogical as was the theory
that a healthy dog which had bitten him should be killed at once,
lest it subsequently go mad and he contract hydrophobia, he was too
happy and complacent to run the risk of letting it live. So it was
with regard to baby. But Selma chose the name. Babcock preferred in
this order another Selma, Sophia, after his mother, or a compliment
to the wife of the President of the United States. But Selma, as
the result of grave thought, selected Muriel Grace. Without knowing
exactly why, she asked Mrs. Taylor to be godmother. The ceremony
was solemn and inspiring to her. She knew from the glass in her
room that she was looking very pretty. But she was weak and
emotional. The baby behaved admirably, even when Lewis, trembling
with pride, held it out to Mr. Glynn for baptism and held it so
that the blood rushed to its head. "I baptize thee in the name of
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost." She was happy and the
tears were in her eyes. The divine blessing was upon her and her
house, and, after all, baby was a darling and her husband a kind,
manly soul. With the help of heaven she would prove herself their
good angel.</p>
<p>When they returned home there was a whistle of old silver of
light, graceful design, a present from Mrs. Taylor to Muriel. Her
aunt, Mrs. Farley, compared this to its disparagement with one
already purchased by Lewis, on the gaudily embossed stem of which
perched a squirrel with a nut in its mouth. But Selma shook her
head. "Both of you are wrong," she said with authority. "This is a
beauty."</p>
<p>"It doesn't look new to my eyes," protested Mrs. Parley.</p>
<p>"Of course it isn't new. I shouldn't wonder if she bought it
while travelling abroad in Europe. It's artistic, and&mdash;and I
shan't let baby destroy it."</p>
<p>Babcock glanced from one gift to the other quizzically. Then by
way of disposing of the subject he seized his daughter in his arms
and dandling her toward the ceiling cried, "If it's artistic things
we must have, this is the most artistic thing which I know of in
the wide world. Aren't you, little sugar-plum?"</p>
<p>Mrs. Farley, with motherly distrust of man, apprehensively
followed with her eyes and arms the gyrations of rise and fall; but
Selma, though she saw, pursued the current of her own thought which
prompted her to examine her wedding-ring. She was thinking that,
compared with Mrs. Taylor's, it was a cart wheel&mdash;a clumsy,
conspicuous band of metal, instead of a delicate hoop. She wondered
if Lewis would object to exchange it for another.</p>
<p>With the return of her strength, Selma took up again eagerly the
tenor of her former life, aiding and abetting Mrs. Earle in the
development of the Institute. The president was absorbed in
enlarging its scope by the enrollment of more members, and the
establishment of classes in a variety of topics&mdash;such as
literature, science, philosophy, current events, history, art, and
political economy. She aimed to construct a club which should be
social and educational in the broadest sense by mutual co-operation
and energy. Selma, in her eagerness to make the most of the
opportunities for culture offered, committed herself to two of the
new topic classes&mdash;"Italian and Grecian Art," and "The
Governments of Civilization," and as a consequence found some
difficulty in accommodating her baby's nursing hours to these
engagements. It was indeed a relief to her when the doctor
presently pronounced the supply of her breast-milk inadequate. She
was able to assuage Lewis' regret that Muriel should be brought up
by hand with the information that a large percentage of Benham and
American mothers were similarly barren and that bottle babies were
exceedingly healthy. She had gleaned the first fact from the
physician, the second from Mrs. Earle, and her own conclusion on
the subject was that a lack of milk was an indication of feminine
evolution from the status of the brute creation, a sign of
spiritual as opposed to animal quality. Selma found Mrs. Earle
sympathetic on this point, and also practical in her suggestions as
to the rearing of infants by artificial means, recommendations
concerning which were contained in one of her series of papers
entitled "Mother Lore."</p>
<p>The theory of the new classes was co-operation. That is, the
members successively, turn by turn, lectured on the topic, and all
were expected to study in the interim so as to be able to ask
questions and discuss the views of the lecturer. Concerning both
Italian and Grecian Art and the Governments of Civilization, Selma
knew that she had convictions in the abstract, but when she found
herself face to face with a specific lecture on each subject, it
occurred to her as wise to supplement her ideas by a little
preparation. The nucleus of a public library had been recently
established by Joel Flagg and placed at the disposal of Benham.
Here, by means of an encyclop&aelig;dia and two hand-books, Selma
was able in three forenoons to compile a paper satisfactory to her
self-esteem on the dynasties of Europe and their inferiority to the
United States, but her other task was illumined for her by a happy
incident, the promise of Littleton to lend her books. Indeed he
seemed delightfully interested in both of her classes, which was
especially gratifying in view of the fact that Mrs. Taylor, who was
a member of the Institute, had combated the new programme on the
plea that they were attempting too much and that it would encourage
superficiality. But Littleton seemed appreciative of the value of
the undertaking, and he made his promise good forthwith by
forwarding to her a package of books on art, among them two volumes
of Ruskin. Selma, who had read quotations from Ruskin on one or two
occasions and believed herself an admirer of, and tolerably
familiar with, his writings, was thrilled. She promptly immersed
herself in "Stones of Venice" and "Seven Lamps of Architecture,"
sitting up late at night to finish them. When she had read these
and the article in the encyclop&aelig;dia under the head of Art,
she felt bursting with her subject and eager to air her knowledge
before the class. Her lecture was acknowledged to be the most
stirring and thorough of the course.</p>
<p>Reports of its success came back to her from Littleton, who
offered to assist his pupil further by practical demonstration of
the eternal architectural fitness and unfitness of
things&mdash;especially the latter&mdash;in walks through the
streets of Benham. But six times in as many months, however. There
was no suggestion of coquetry on either side in these excursions,
yet each enjoyed them. Littleton's own work was beginning to assume
definite form, and his visits to Benham became of necessity more
frequent; flying trips, but he generally managed to obtain a few
words with Selma. He continued to lend her books, and he invited
her criticism on the slowly growing church edifice. The
responsibility of critic was an absorbing sensation to her, but the
stark glibness of tongue which stood her in good stead before the
classes of the Institute failed her in his presence&mdash;the
presence of real knowledge. She wished to praise, but to praise
discriminatingly, with the cant of &aelig;sthetic appreciation, so
that he should believe that she knew. As for the church itself, she
was interested in it; it was fine, of course, but that was a
secondary consideration compared with her emotions. His
predilection in her favor, however, readily made him deaf in regard
to her utterances. He scarcely heeded her halting, solemn,
counterfeit transcendentalisms; or rather they passed muster as
subtle and genuine, so spell bound was he by the Delphic beauty of
her criticising expression. It was enough for him to watch her as
she stood with her head on one side and the worried archangel look
transfiguring her profile. What she said was lost in his reverie as
to what she was&mdash;what she represented in his contemplation. As
she looked upon his handiwork he was able to view it with different
eyes, to discern its weaknesses and to gain fresh inspiration from
her presence. He felt that it was growing on his hands and that he
should be proud of it, and though, perhaps, he was conscious in his
inner soul that she was more to him than another man's wife should
be, he knew too, that no word or look of his had offended against
the absent husband.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VI.</h3>
<p>By the end of another six months Littleton's work was
practically completed. Only the finishing touches to the interior
decoration remained to be done. The members of Rev. Mr. Glynn's
congregation, including Mrs. Hallett Taylor, were thoroughly
satisfied with the appearance of the new church. It was attractive
in its lines, yet it was simple and, consequently, in keeping with
the resources of the treasury. There was no large bill for extras
to be audited, as possibly would have been the case had a
hard-headed designer like Mr. Pierce been employed. The committee
felt itself entitled to the congratulations of the community. Nor
was the community on the whole disposed to grumble, for home talent
had been employed by the architect; under rigorous supervision, to
be sure, so that poor material and slap-dash workmanship were out
of the question. Still, payments had been prompt, and Benham was
able to admire competent virtue. The church was a monument of
suggestion in various ways, artistic and ethical, and it shone
neatly with Babcock varnish.</p>
<p>One morning Selma set forth by agreement with Littleton, in
order to inspect some fresco work. Muriel Grace was ailing
slightly, but as she would be home by mid-day, she bade the hired
girl be watchful of baby, and kept her appointment. The child had
grown dear to her, for Muriel was a charming little dot, and Selma
had already begun to enjoy the maternal delight of human doll
dressing, an extravagance in which she was lavishly encouraged by
her husband. Babcock was glad of any excuse to spend money on his
daughter, who seemed to him, from day to day, a greater marvel of
precocity&mdash;such a child as became Selma's beauty and
cleverness and his own practical common-sense.</p>
<p>Selma was in a pensive frame of mind this morning. Two days
before she had read a paper at the Institute on "Motherhood," which
had been enthusiastically received. Mrs. Earle had printed a
flattering item concerning it in the <i>Benham Sentinel</i>. It was
agreeable to her to be going to meet Littleton, for he was the most
interesting masculine figure in her life. She was sure of Lewis. He
was her husband and she knew herself to be the apple of his eye;
but she knew exactly what he was going to say before he said it,
and much of what he said grated on her. She was almost equally sure
of Littleton; that is of his admiration. His companionship was a
constant pleasure to her. As a married woman, and as a Christian
and American woman, she desired no more than this. But on the other
hand, she would fain have this admiring companionship continue; and
yet it could not. Littleton had told her the day before that he was
going back to New York and that it was doubtful if he would return.
She would miss him. She would have the Institute and Mrs. Earle
still, but her life would be less full.</p>
<p>Littleton was waiting for her at the church entrance. She
followed him down the nave to the chancel where she listened
dreamily to his presentation of the merits of the new decoration.
He seemed inclined to talk, and from this presently branched off to
describe with enthusiasm the plates of a French book on interior
architecture, which he had recently bought as a long-resisted but
triumphant piece of extravagance. Mechanically, they turned from
the chancel and slowly made the round of the aisles. A short
silence succeeded his professional ardor. His current of thought,
in its reversion to home matters, had reminded him afresh of what
was perpetually this morning uppermost in his
consciousness&mdash;his coming departure.</p>
<p>"Now," he said, abruptly, "is the most favorable opportunity I
shall have, Mrs. Babcock, to tell you how much I am your debtor. I
shan't despair of our meeting again, for the world is small, and
good friends are sure to meet sooner or later. But the past is
secure to me at any rate. If this church is in some measure what I
have dreamed and wished it to be, if my work with all its faults is
a satisfaction to myself, I wish you to know how much you have
contributed to make it what it is."</p>
<p>The words were as a melody in Selma's ears, and she listened
greedily. Littleton paused, as one seriously moved will pause
before giving the details of an important announcement. She,
thinking he had finished, interjected with a touch of modesty, "I'm
so glad. But my suggestions and criticisms have not been what I
meant them to be. It was all new to me, you know."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes. It hasn't been so much what you have said in words
which has helped me, though that has been always intelligent and
uplifting. I did not look for technical knowledge. You do not
possess that, of course. There are women in New York who would be
able to confuse you with their familiarity with these things. And
yet it is by way of contrast with those very women&mdash;fine
women, too, in their way&mdash;that you have been my good angel.
There is no harm in saying that. I should be an ingrate, surely, if
I would not let you know that your sane, simple outlook upon life,
your independent vision, has kept my brain clear and my soul free.
I am a better artist and a better man for the experience. Good-by,
and may all happiness attend you. If once in a while you should
find time to write to a struggling architect named Littleton, he
will be charmed to do your bidding&mdash;to send you books and to
place his professional knowledge at your service. Good-by."</p>
<p>He held out his hand with frank effusion. He was obviously happy
at having given utterance to his sense of obligation. Selma was
tingling from head to foot and a womanly blush was on her cheek,
though the serious seraph spoke in her words and eyes. She felt
moved to a wave of unreserved speech.</p>
<p>"What you have said is very interesting to me. I wish to tell
you how much I, too, have enjoyed our friendship. The first time we
met I felt sure we should be sympathetic, and we have been, haven't
we? One of the fine things about friendships between men and women
in this country is that they can really get to know each other
without&mdash;er&mdash;harm to either. Isn't it? It's such a
pleasure to know people really, and I feel as if I had known you,
as if we had known each other really. I've never known any man
exactly in that way, and I have always wanted to. Except, of
course, my husband. And he's extremely different&mdash;that is, his
tastes are not like yours. It's a happiness to me to feel that I
have been of assistance to you in your work, and you have been
equally helpful to me in mine. As you say, I have never had the
opportunity to learn the technical parts of art, and your books
have instructed me as to that. I have never been in New York, but I
understand what you meant about your friends, those other women. I
suppose society people must be constantly diverted from serious
work&mdash;from the intellectual and spiritual life. Oh yes, we
ought to write. Our friendship mustn't languish. We must let each
other know what we are thinking and doing. Good-by."</p>
<p>As Selma walked along the street her heart was in her mouth. She
felt pity for herself. To just the right person she would have
confessed the discovery that she had made a mistake and tied
herself for life to the wrong man. It was not so much that she
fancied Littleton which distressed her, for, indeed, she was but
mildly conscious of infatuation. What disturbed her was the
contrast between him and Babcock, which definite separation now
forced upon her attention. An indefinable impression that Littleton
might think less of her if she were to state this soul truth had
restrained her at the last moment from disclosing the secret. Not
for an instant did she entertain the idea of being false to Lewis.
Her confession would have been but a dissertation on the inexorable
irony of fate, calling only for sympathy, and in no way derogating
from her dignity and self-respect as a wife. Still, she had
restrained herself, and stopped just short of the confidence. He
was gone, and she would probably not see him again for years. That
was endurable. Indeed, a recognition of the contrary would not have
seemed to her consistent with wifely virtue. What brought the tears
to her eyes was the vision of continued wedlock, until death
intervened, with a husband who could not understand. Could she bear
this? Must she endure it? There was but one answer: She must. At
the thought she bit her lip with the intensity and sternness of a
martyr. She would be faithful to her marriage vows, but she would
not let Lewis's low aims interfere with the free development of her
own life.</p>
<p>It was after noon when she reached home. She was met at the door
by the hired girl with the worried ejaculation that baby was
choking. The doctor was hastily summoned. He at once pronounced
that Muriel Grace had membranous croup, and was desperately ill.
Remedies of various sorts were tried, and a consulting physician
called, but when Babcock returned from his office her condition was
evidently hopeless. The child died in the early night. Selma was
relieved to hear the doctor tell her husband that it was a
malignant case from the first, and that nothing could have averted
the result. In response to questions from Lewis, however, she was
obliged to admit that she had not been at home when the acute
symptoms appeared. This afforded Babcock an outlet for his
suffering. He spoke to her roughly for the first time in his life,
bitterly suggesting neglect on her part.</p>
<p>"You knew she wasn't all right this morning, yet you had to go
fiddle-faddling with that architect instead of staying at home
where you belonged. And now she's dead. My little girl, my little
girl!" And the big man burst out sobbing.</p>
<p>Selma grew deadly pale. No one had ever spoken to her like that
before in her life. To the horror of her grief was added the
consciousness that she was being unjustly dealt with. Lewis had
heard the doctor's statement, and yet he dared address her in such
terms. As if the loss of the child did not fall equally on her.</p>
<p>"If it were to be done over again, I should do just the same,"
she answered, with righteous quietness. "To all appearances she had
nothing but a little cold. You have no right to lay the blame on
me, her mother." At the last word she looked ready to cry, too.</p>
<p>Babcock regarded her like a miserable tame bull. "I didn't mean
to," he blubbered. "She's taken away from me, and I'm so wretched
that I don't know what I'm saying. I'm sorry, Selma."</p>
<p>He held out his arms to her. She was ready to go to them, for
the angel of death had entered her home and pierced her heart,
where it should be most tender. She loved her baby. Yet, when she
had time to think, she was not sure that she wished to have
another. When the bitterness of his grief had passed away, that was
the hope which Lewis ventured to express, at first in a whisper,
and later with reiterated boldness. Selma acquiesced externally,
but she had her own opinions. Certain things which were not
included in "Mother Lore," had been confided by Mrs. Margaret
Rodney Earle by word of mouth in the fulness of their mutual
soul-scourings, and had remained pigeon-holed for future reference
in Selma's inner consciousness. Another baby just at this time
meant interference with everything elevating. There was time
enough. In a year or two, when she had established herself more
securely in the social sphere of Benham, she would present her
husband with a second child. It was best for them both to wait, for
her success was his success; but it would be useless to try to make
that clear to him in his present mood.</p>
<p>So she put away her baby things, dropping tears over the little
socks and other reminders of her sorrow, and took up her life
again, keeping her own counsel. The sympathy offered her was an
interesting experience. Mrs. Earle came to her at once, and took
her to her bosom; Mrs. Taylor sent her flowers with a kind note,
which set Selma thinking whether she ought not to buy mourning
note-paper; and within a week she received a visit of condolence
from Mr. Glynn, rather a ghastly visit. Ghastly, because Lewis sat
through it all with red eyes, very much as though he were listening
to a touching exhortation in church. To be sure, he gripped the
pastor's hand like a vice, at the end, and thanked him for coming,
but his silent, afflicted presence had interfered with the free
interchange of thought which would have been possible had she been
alone with the clergyman. The subject of death, and the whole train
of reflections incident to it, were uppermost in her mind, and she
would have been glad to probe the mysteries of the subject by
controversial argument, instead of listening to hearty, sonorous
platitudes. She listened rather contemptuously, for she recognized
that Mr. Glynn was saying the stereotyped thing in the stereotyped
way, without realizing that it was nothing but sacerdotal pap,
little adapted to an intelligent soul. What was suited to Lewis was
not fit for her. And yet her baby's death had served to dissipate
somewhat the immediate discontent which she felt with her husband.
His strong grief had touched her in spite of herself, and, though
she blamed him still for his inconsiderate accusation, she was fond
of him as she might have been fond of some loving Newfoundland,
which, splendid in awkward bulk, caressed her and licked her hand.
It was pleasant enough to be in his arms, for the touch of
man&mdash;even the wrong man&mdash;was, at times, a comfort.</p>
<p>She took up again with determined interest her relations to the
Institute, joining additional classes and pursuing a variety of
topics of study, in regard to some of which she consulted
Littleton. She missed his presence less than she had expected,
especially after they had begun to correspond and were able to keep
in touch by letter. His letters were delightful. They served her in
her lecture courses, for they so clearly and concisely expressed
her views that she was able to use long extracts from them word for
word. And every now and then they contained a respectful allusion
which showed that he still retained a personal interest in her. So
the weeks slipped away and she was reasonably happy. She was
absorbed and there was nothing new to mar the tenor of her life,
though she was vaguely conscious that the loss of their little girl
had widened the breach between her and her husband&mdash;widened it
for the reason that now, for the first time, he perceived how
lonely he was. The baby had furnished him with constant delight and
preoccupation. He had looked forward all day to seeing it at night,
and questions relating to it had supplied a never-ceasing small
change of conversation between him and her. He had let her go her
way with a smile on his face. Selma did not choose to dwell on the
situation, but it was obvious that Lewis continued to look glum,
and that there were apt to be long silences between them at meals.
Now and again he would show some impatience at the continuous
recurrence of the Institute classes as a bar to some project of
domesticity or recreation, as though she had not been an active
member of the Institute before baby was born.</p>
<p>One of the plans in which Mrs. Earle was most interested was a
Congress of Women's Clubs, and in the early summer of the same
year&mdash;some four months subsequent to the death of Muriel
Grace&mdash;a small beginning toward this end was arranged to take
place in Chicago. There were to be six delegates from each club,
and Selma was unanimously selected as one of the delegation from
the Benham Women's Institute. The opinion was generally expressed
that a change would do her good, and there was no question that she
was admirably fitted to represent the club. Selma, who had not
travelled a hundred miles beyond Benham in her life, was elated at
the prospect of the expedition; so much so that she proudly
recounted to Lewis the same evening the news of her appointment. It
never occurred to her that he would wish to accompany her, and when
he presently informed her that he had been wishing to go to Chicago
on business for some time, and that the date proposed would suit
him admirably, she was dumfounded. Half of the interest of the
expedition would consist in travelling as an independent
delegation. A husband would be in the way and spoil the savor of
the occasion. It would never do, and so Selma proceeded to explain.
She wished to go alone.</p>
<p>"A pack of six women travel by themselves?" blurted Lewis.
"Suppose there were an accident?" he added, after searching his
brain for a less feeble argument.</p>
<p>"We should either be killed or we shouldn't be," said Selma
firmly. "We are perfectly well able to take care of ourselves.
Women travel alone everywhere every-day&mdash;that is, intelligent
American women."</p>
<p>Lewis looked a little sad. "I thought, perhaps, it would seem
nice for you to go with me, Selma. We haven't been off since we
were married, and I can get away now just as well as not."</p>
<p>"So it would have been if I weren't one of the delegation. I
should think you would see, Lewis, that your coming is out of the
question."</p>
<p>So it proved. Selma set forth for Chicago on the appointed day,
made many new acquaintances among the delegates, and was pleased to
be introduced and referred to publicly as Mrs. Selma
Babcock&mdash;a form of address to which she was unaccustomed at
Benham. On the night before her departure, being in pleasant
spirits, she told Lewis that her absence would do him good, and
that he would appreciate her all the more on her return.</p>
<p>She was to be gone a week. The first twenty-four hours passed
gloomily for Babcock. Then he began to take notice. He noticed that
the county fair was fixed for the following days. He had hoped to
carry Selma there, but, as she was not to be had, it seemed to him
sensible to get what enjoyment from it he could alone. Then it
happened that a former companion of his bachelor days and his
bachelor habits, a commercial traveller, whom he had not seen since
his marriage, appeared on the scene.</p>
<p>"The very man for me!" he ejaculated, jubilantly.</p>
<p>The obscurity of this remark was presently made clear to his
friend, who had hoped perhaps to enjoy a snug evening at Babcock's
domestic hearth, but who was not averse to playing a different
part&mdash;that of cheering up a father who had lost his baby, and
whose wife had left him in the lurch. He assured Babcock that a
regular old time outing&mdash;a shaking up&mdash;would do him good,
and Babcock was ready to agree with him, intending thereby a
free-handed two days at the fair. As has been intimated, his manner
of life before marriage had not been irreproachable, but he had
been glad of an opportunity to put an end to the mildly riotous and
coarse bouts which disfigured his otherwise commonplace existence.
He had no intention now of misbehaving himself, but he felt the
need of being enlivened. His companion was a man who delighted in
what he called a lark, and whose only method of insuring a lark was
by starting in with whiskey and keeping it up. That had been also
Babcock's former conception of a good time, and though he had dimly
in mind that he was now a husband and church-member, he strove to
conduct himself in such a manner as to maintain his self-respect
without becoming a spoil sport.</p>
<p>During the first day at the fair Babcock managed to preserve
this nice distinction. On the second, he lost account of his
conduct, and by the late afternoon was sauntering with his friend
among the booths in the company of two suspicions looking women.
With these same women the pair of revellers drove off in top
buggies just before dusk, and vanished in the direction of the open
country.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VII.</h3>
<p>Babcock returned to his home twenty-four hours later like a
whipped cur. He was disgusted with himself. It seemed to him
incredible that he should have fallen so low. He had sinned against
his wife and his own self-respect without excuse; for it was no
excuse that he had let himself be led to drink too much. His heart
ached and his cheek burned at the recollection of his two days of
debauchery. What was to be done? If only he were able to cut this
ugly sore in his soul out with a knife and have done with it
forever! But that was impossible. It stared him in the face, a
haunting reality. In his distress he asked himself whether he would
not go to Mr. Glynn and make a clean breast of it; but his
practical instincts answered him that he would none the less have
made a beast of himself. He held his head between his hands, and
stared dejectedly at his desk. Some relief came to him at last only
from the reflection that it was a single fault, and that it need
never&mdash;it should never be repeated. Selma need not know, and
he would henceforth avoid all such temptations. Terrible as it was,
it was a slip, not a deliberate fault, and his love for his wife
was not in question.</p>
<p>Thus reasoning, he managed by the third day after his return to
reach a less despondent frame of mind. While busy writing in his
office a lady was announced, and looking up he encountered the
meretricious smile of the courtesan with whom he had forgotten
himself. She had taken a fancy to her victim, and having learned
that he was well to do, she had come in order to establish, if
possible, on a more permanent basis, her relations with him. She
was a young woman, who had been drifting from place to place, and
whose professional inclination for a protector was heightened by
the liking which she had conceived for him. Babcock recalled in her
smile merely his shame, and regarded her reappearance as
effrontery. He was blind to her prettiness and her sentimental
mood. He asked her roughly what she wanted, and rising from his
chair, he bade her be gone before she had time to answer. Nine out
of ten women of her class would have taken their dismissal lightly.
Some might have answered back in tones loud enough to enlighten the
clerks, and thus have accomplished a pretty revenge in the course
of retreat. This particular Lesbian was in no humor to be harshly
treated. She was a little desperate and Babcock had pleased her. It
piqued her to be treated in such a fashion; accordingly, she held
her ground and sat down. She tried upon him, alternately, irony and
pathos. He was angry but confused under the first, he became savage
and merciless under the second, throwing back in her teeth the
suggestion of her fondness, and stigmatizing her coarsely. Then she
became angry in her turn&mdash;angry as a woman whose proffered
love is spurned. The method for revenge was obvious, and she told
him plainly what she intended. His wife should know at once how her
husband passed his time during her absence. She had posted herself,
and she saw that her shaft hurt. Babcock winced, but mad and
incredulous, he threatened her with arrest and drove her from the
room. She went out smiling, but with an ominous look in her eyes,
the remembrance of which made him ask himself now and again if she
could be vicious enough, or fool enough, to keep her promise. He
dismissed the idea as improbable; still the bare chance worried
him. Selma was to arrive early the next morning, and he had
reconciled himself to the conclusion that she need never know, and
that he would henceforth be a faithful husband. Had he not given an
earnest of his good faith in his reception of his visitor? Surely,
no such untoward and unnatural accident would dash the cup of
returning happiness from his lips. A more clever man would have
gone straight to police headquarters, instead of trusting to
chance.</p>
<p>A night's rest reassured him as to the idleness of the threat,
so that he was able to welcome Selma at the railroad station with a
comparatively light heart. She was in high spirits over the success
of her expedition, and yet graciously ready to admit that she was
glad to return home&mdash;meaning thereby, to her own bed and
bathing facilities; but the general term seemed to poor Lewis a
declaration of wifely devotion. He went to his business with the
mien of a man who had passed through an ordeal and is beginning
life again; but when he returned at night, as soon as he beheld
Selma, he suspected what had happened.</p>
<p>She was awaiting him in the parlor. Though he saw at a glance
that she looked grave, he went forward to kiss her, but she rose
and, stepping behind the table, put out her hand forbiddingly.</p>
<p>"What is the matter?" he faltered.</p>
<p>"That woman has been here," was her slow, scornful response.</p>
<p>"Selma, I&mdash;" A confusing sense of hopelessness as to what
to say choked Babcock's attempt to articulate. There was a brief
silence, while he looked at her imploringly and miserably.</p>
<p>"Is it true what she says? Have you been false to your marriage
vows? Have you committed adultery?"</p>
<p>"My God! Selma, you don't understand."</p>
<p>"It is an easy question to answer, yes or no?"</p>
<p>"I forgot myself, Selma. I was drunk and crazy. I ask your
pardon."</p>
<p>She shook her head coldly. "I shall have nothing more to do with
you. I cannot live with you any longer."</p>
<p>"Not live with me?"</p>
<p>"Would you live with me if it were I who had forgotten
myself?"</p>
<p>"I think I would, Selma. You don't understand. I was a brute. I
have been wretched ever since. But it was a slip&mdash;an accident.
I drank too much, and it happened. I love you, Selma, with all my
heart. I have never been false to you in my affection."</p>
<p>"It is a strange time to talk of affection. I went away for a
week, and in my absence you insulted me by debauchery with a
creature like that. Love? You have no conception of the meaning of
the word. Oh no, I shall never live with you again."</p>
<p>Babcock clinched his palms in his distress and walked up and
down. She stood pale and determined looking into space. Presently
he turned to her and asked with quiet but intense solicitude, "You
don't mean that you're going to leave me for one fault, we being
husband and wife and the little girl in her grave? I said you don't
understand and you don't. A man's a man, and there are times when
he's been drinking when he's liable to yield to temptation, and
that though he's so fond of his wife that life without her would be
misery. This sounds strange to a woman, and it's a poor excuse. But
it ought to count, Selma, when it comes to a question of our
separating. There would be happy years before us yet if you give me
another chance."</p>
<p>"Not happy years for me," she replied concisely. "The American
woman does not choose to live with the sort of man you describe.
She demands from her husband what he demands from her, faithfulness
to the marriage tie. We could never be happy again. Our ideal of
life is different. I have made excuses for you in other things, but
my soul revolts at this."</p>
<p>Babcock looked at her for a moment in silence, then he said, a
little sternly, "You shouldn't have gone away and left me. I'm not
blaming you, but you shouldn't have gone." He walked to the window
but he saw nothing. His heart was racked. He had been eager to
humiliate himself before her to prove his deep contrition, but he
had come to the end of his resources, and yet she was adamant. Her
charge that she had been making excuses for him hitherto reminded
him that they had not been really sympathetic for some time past.
With his back turned to her he heard her answer:</p>
<p>"It was understood before I agreed to marry you that I was to be
free to follow my tastes and interests. It is a paltry excuse that,
because I left you alone for a week in pursuit of them, I am
accessory to your sin."</p>
<p>Babcock faced her sadly. "The sin's all mine," he said. "I can't
deny that. But, Selma, I guess I've been pretty lonely ever since
the baby died."</p>
<p>"Lonely?" she echoed. "Then my leaving you will not matter so
much. Here," she said, slipping off her wedding-ring, "this belongs
to you." She remembered Mrs. Earle's proceeding, and though she had
not yet decided what course to pursue in order to maintain her
liberty, she regarded this as the significant and definite act. She
held out the ring, but Babcock shook his head.</p>
<p>"The law doesn't work as quick as that, nor the church either.
You can get a divorce if you're set on it, Selma. But we're husband
and wife yet."</p>
<p>"Only the husk of our marriage is left. The spirit is dead," she
said sententiously. "I am going away. I cannot pass another night
in this house. If you will not take this ring, I shall leave it
here."</p>
<p>Babcock turned to hide the tears which blinded his eyes. Selma
regarded him a moment gravely, then she laid her wedding-ring on
the table and went from the room.</p>
<p>She put her immediate belongings into a bag and left the house.
She had decided to go to Mrs. Earle's lodgings where she would be
certain to find shelter and sympathy. Were she to go to her aunt's
she would be exposed to importunity on her husband's behalf from
Mrs. Farley, who was partial to Lewis. Her mind was entirely made
up that there could be no question of reconciliation. Her duty was
plain; and she would be doing herself an injustice were she to
continue to live with one so weak and regardless of the honor which
she had a right to demand of the man to whom she had given her
society and her body. His gross conduct had entitled her to her
liberty, and to neglect to seize it would be to condemn herself to
continuous unhappiness, for this overt act of his was merely a
definite proof of the lack of sympathy between them, of which she
had for some time been well aware at heart. As she walked along the
street she was conscious that it was a relief to her to be
sloughing off the garment of an uncongenial relationship and to be
starting life afresh. There was nothing in her immediate
surroundings from which she was not glad to escape. Their house was
full of blemishes from the stand-point of her later knowledge, and
she yearned to dissociate herself, once and for all, from the
trammels of her pitiful mistake. She barely entertained the thought
that she was without means. She would have to support herself, of
course, but it never occurred to her to doubt her ability to do so,
and the necessity added a zest to her decision. It would be plain
sailing, for Mrs. Earle had more than once invited her to send copy
to the <i>Benham Sentinel</i>, and there was no form of occupation
which would be more to her liking than newspaper work. It was
almost with the mien of a prisoner escaped from jail that she
walked in upon her friend and said:</p>
<p>"I have left my husband. He has been unfaithful to me."</p>
<p>In Mrs. Earle, conventional feminine instincts were apt, before
she had time to think, to get the upper hand of her set theories.
"You, poor, poor child," she cried extending her arms.</p>
<p>Selma had not intended to weep. Still the opportunity was
convenient, and her nerves were on edge. She found herself sobbing
with her head on Mrs. Earle's, bosom, and telling her sad
story.</p>
<p>"He was never good enough for you. I have always said so," Mrs.
Earle murmured stroking her hair.</p>
<p>"I ought to have known from the first that it was impossible for
us to be happy. Why did I ever marry him? He said he loved me, and
I let myself be badgered into it," Selma answered through her
tears. "Well, it's all over now," she added, sitting up and drying
her eyes. "He has given me back my liberty. I am a free woman."</p>
<p>"Yes, dear, if you are perfectly sure of yourself, there is only
one course to pursue. Only you should consider the matter solemnly.
Perhaps in a few days, after he has apologized and shown proper
contrition, you might feel willing to give him another chance."</p>
<p>Selma was unprepared for Mrs. Earle's sentimentality. "Surely,"
she exclaimed with tragic earnestness, "you wouldn't have me live
with him after what occurred? Contrition? He said everything he
could think of to get me to stay, but I made my decision then and
there."</p>
<p>Mrs. Earle put her own handkerchief to her eyes. "Women have
forgiven such things; but I respect you all the more for not being
weak. I know how you feel. It is hard to do, but if I had it to do
over again, I would act just the same&mdash;just the same. It's a
serious responsibility to encourage any one to desert a home, but
under the circumstances I would not live with him another minute,
my child&mdash;not another minute." Thereupon Mrs. Earle protruded
her bosom to celebrate the triumph of justice in her own mental
processes over conventional and maudlin scruples. "You will apply
for a divorce, I suppose?"</p>
<p>"I have not considered that. All I care for is never to see him
again."</p>
<p>"Oh yes, you must get a divorce. It is much better, you know. In
my case I couldn't, for he did nothing public. A divorce settles
matters, and puts you back where you were before. You might wish
some day to marry again."</p>
<p>"I have had enough of marriage."</p>
<p>"It isn't any harm to be a free woman&mdash;free in the eye of
the law as well as of conscience. I know an excellent
lawyer&mdash;a Mr. Lyons, a sympathetic and able man. Besides your
husband is bound to support you. You must get alimony."</p>
<p>"I wouldn't touch a dollar of his money," Selma answered with
scorn. "I intend to support myself. I shall write&mdash;work."</p>
<p>"Of course you will, dear; and it will be a boon and a blessing
to me to have you in our ranks&mdash;one of the new army of
self-supporting, self-respecting women. I suppose you are right. I
have never had a sixpence. But your husband deserves to be
punished. Perhaps it is punishment enough to lose you."</p>
<p>"He will get over that. It is enough for me," she exclaimed,
ardently, after a dreamy pause, "that I am separated from him
forever&mdash;that I am free&mdash;free&mdash;free."</p>
<p>A night's sleep served to intensify Selma's determination, and
she awoke clearly of the opinion that a divorce was desirable. Why
remain fettered by a bare legal tie to one who was a husband only
in name? Accordingly, in company with Mrs. Earle, she visited the
office of James O. Lyons, and took the initiatory steps to dissolve
the marriage.</p>
<p>Mr. Lyons was a large, full-bodied man of thirty-five, with a
fat, cleanly-shaven, cherubic countenance, an aspect of candor, and
keen, solemn eyes. His manner was impressive and slightly
pontificial; his voice resonant and engaging. He knew when to joke
and when to be grave as an owl. He wore in every-day life a shiny,
black frock-coat, a standing collar, which yawned at the throat,
and a narrow, black tie. His general effect was that of a cross
between a parson and a shrewd Yankee&mdash;a happy suggestion of
righteous, plain, serious-mindedness, protected against the wiles
of human society&mdash;and able to protect others&mdash;by a canny
intelligence. For a young man he had already a considerable
clientage. A certain class of people, notably the hard-headed,
God-fearing, felt themselves safe in his hands. His magnetic yet
grave manner of conducting business pleased Benham, attracting also
both the distressed and the bilious portions of the community, and
the farmers from the surrounding country. As Mrs. Earle informed
Selma, he was in sympathy with all progressive and stimulating
ideas, and he already figured in the newspapers politically, and
before the courts as a friend of the masses, and a fluent advocate
of social reforms. His method of handling Selma's case was smooth.
To begin with, he was sympathetic within proper limits, giving her
tacitly to understand that, though as a man and brother, he
deplored the necessity of extreme measures, he recognized that she
had made up her mind, and that compromise was out of the question.
To put it concisely, his manner was grieved, but practical. He told
her that he would represent to Babcock the futility of contesting a
cause, which, on the evidence, must be hopeless, and that, in all
probability, the matter could be disposed of easily and without
publicity. He seemed to Selma a very sensible and capable man, and
it was agreeable to her to feel that he appreciated that, though
divorce in the abstract was deplorable, her experience justified
and called for the protection of the law.</p>
<p>In the meantime Babcock was very unhappy, and was casting about
for a method to induce his wife to return. He wrote to her a
pitiful letter, setting forth once more the sorry facts in the best
light which he could bring to bear on them, and implored her
forgiveness. He applied to her aunt, Mrs. Farley, and got her to
supplement his plea with her good-natured intervention. "There are
lots of men like that," she confided to Selma, "and he's a kind,
devoted creature." When this failed, he sought Rev. Mr. Glynn as a
last resort, and, after he had listened to a stern and fervid
rating from the clergyman on the lust of the flesh, he found his
pastor on his side. Mr. Glynn was opposed to divorce on general
ecclesiastical principles; moreover, he had been educated under the
law of England, by which a woman cannot obtain a divorce from her
husband for the cause of adultery unless it be coupled with
cruelty&mdash;a clever distinction between the sexes, which was
doubtless intended as a cloak for occasional lapses on the part of
man. It was plain to him, as a Christian and as a hearty soul, that
there had been an untoward accident&mdash;a bestial fault, a
soul-debasing carnal sin, but still an accident, and hence to be
forgiven by God and woman. It was his duty to interfere; and so,
having disciplined the husband, he essayed the more delicate matter
of propitiating the wife. And he essayed it without a thought of
failure.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid she's determined to leave me, and that there's not
much hope," said Babcock, despondently, as he gripped the
clergyman's hand in token of his gratitude.</p>
<p>"Nonsense, my man," asserted Mr. Glynn briskly. "All she needs
is an exhortation from me, and she will take you back."</p>
<p>Selma was opposed to divorce in theory. That is, she had
accepted on trust the traditional prejudice against it as she had
accepted Shakespeare and Boston. But theory stood for nothing in
her regard before the crying needs of her own experience. She had
not the least intention of living with her husband again. No one
could oblige her to do that. In addition, the law offered her a
formal escape from his control and name. Why not avail herself of
it? She recollected, besides, that her husband's church recognized
infidelity as a lawful ground of release from the so-called
sacrament of marriage. This had come into her mind as an additional
sanction to her own decision. But it had not contributed to that
decision. Consequently, when she was confronted in Mrs. Earle's
lodgings by the errand of Mr. Glynn, she felt that his coming was
superfluous. Still, she was glad of the opportunity to measure
ideas with him in a thorough interview free from interruption.</p>
<p>Mr. Glynn's confidence was based on his intention to appeal to
the ever womanly quality of pity. He expected to encounter some
resistance, for indisputably here was a woman whose sensibilities
had been justly and severely shocked&mdash;a woman of finer tissue
than her husband, as he had noted in other American couples. She
was entitled to her day in court&mdash;to a stubborn, righteous
respite of indignation. But he expected to carry the day in the
end, amid a rush of tears, with which his own might be mingled. He
trusted to what he regarded as the innate reluctance of the wife to
abandon the man she loved, and to the leaven of feminine Christian
charity.</p>
<p>As a conscientious hater of sin, he did not attempt to minimize
Babcock's act or the insult put upon her. That done, he was free to
intercede fervently for him and to extol the virtue and the
advisability of forgiveness. This plea, however cogent, was narrow,
and once stated admitted merely of duplication in the same form. It
was indeed no argument, merely an appeal, and, in proportion as it
failed to move the listener, became feeble. Selma listened to him
with a tense face, her hands clasped before her in the guise of an
interested and self-scrutinizing spirit. But she betrayed no sign
of yielding, or symptom of doubt. She shook her head once or twice
as he proceeded, and, when he paused, asked why she should return
to a man who had broken faith with her; asked it in such a genuine
tone of conviction that Dr. Glynn realized the weakness of his own
case, and became slightly nettled at the same time.</p>
<p>"True," he said, rather sternly, "your husband has committed a
hideous, carnal sin, but he is genuinely repentant. Do you wish to
ruin his life forever?"</p>
<p>"His life?" said Selma. "It would ruin my life to return to him.
I have other plans&mdash;plans which will bring me happiness. I
could never be happy with him."</p>
<p>The clergyman was baffled. Other plans! The words offended him,
and yet he could not dispute her right to do as she chose. Still he
saw fit to murmur: "He that findeth his life shall lose it, and he
that loseth his life for my sake shall find it."</p>
<p>Selma flushed. To be accused of acting contrary to Christian
precepts was painful and surprising to her. "Mr. Glynn," she said,
"I see you don't understand. My husband and I ought never to have
married. It has all been a dreadful mistake. We have not the same
tastes and interests. I am sorry for him, but I can never consent
to return to him. To do so would condemn us both to a life of
unhappiness. We were not intended for husband and wife, and it is
best&mdash;yes, more Christian&mdash;for us to separate. We
American women do not feel justified in letting a mistake ruin our
lives when there is a chance to escape."</p>
<p>Mr. Glynn regarded her in silence for a moment. He was
accustomed to convince, and he had not succeeded, which to a
clergyman is more annoying than to most men. Still what she said
made his plea seem doubtful wisdom.</p>
<p>"Then you do not love your husband?" he said.</p>
<p>"No," said Selma quietly, "I do not love him. It is best to be
frank with one's self&mdash;with you, in such a matter, isn't it?
So you see that what you ask is out of the question."</p>
<p>Mr. Glynn rose. Clearly his mission had failed, and there was
nothing more to be said. Being a just man, he hesitated to pass an
unkind judgment on this bright-faced, pensive woman. She was within
her moral rights, and he must be careful to keep within his. But he
went away bewildered and discomfited. Selma would have liked to
dismiss the subject and keep him longer. She would have been glad
to branch off on to other ethical topics and discuss them. She was
satisfied with the result of the interview, for she had vindicated
her position and spiked Lewis's last gun.</p>
<p>So, indeed, it proved. Mr. Glynn sent for Babcock and told him
the naked truth, that his wife's love for him was dead and
reconciliation impossible. He properly refrained from expressing
the doubt lurking in his own mind as to whether Selma had ever
loved her husband. Thus convinced of the hopelessness of his
predicament, Babcock agreed to Mr. Lyons's suggestion not to
contest the legal proceedings. The lawyer had been diligent, and
the necessary evidence&mdash;the testimony of the woman&mdash;was
secure. She was ready to carry her revenge to the end, hoping,
perhaps, that the victim of it would return to her when he had lost
his wife. Accordingly, a few weeks later, Selma was granted a
divorce nisi and the right to resume her maiden name. She had
decided, however, to retain the badge of marriage as a decorous
social prefix, and to call herself Mrs. Selma White.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3>
<p>The consciousness that she was dependent for the means of
support solely on her own exertions was a genuine pleasure to
Selma, and she applied herself with confidence and enthusiasm to
the problem of earning her livelihood. She had remained steadfast
to her decision to accept nothing from her husband except the legal
costs of the proceedings, though Mr. Lyons explained to her that
alimony was a natural and moral increment of divorce. Still, after
her refusal, he informed her as a man and a friend that he
respected and admired the independence of her action, which was an
agreeable tribute. She had fixed definitely on newspaper work as
the most inviting and congenial form of occupation. She believed
herself to be well fitted for it. It would afford her an immediate
income, and it would give her the opportunity which she craved for
giving public expression to her ideas and fixing attention on
herself. There was room for more than one Mrs. Earle in Benham, for
Benham was growing and wide-awake and on the alert for originality
of any kind&mdash;especially in the way of reportorial and
journalistic cleverness. Selma had no intention of becoming a
second Mrs. Earle. That is, she promised herself to follow, but not
to follow blindly; to imitate judiciously, but to improve on a
gradually diverging line of progress. This was mere generalization
as yet. It was an agreeable seething brain consciousness for future
development. For the moment, however, she counted on Mrs. Earle to
obtain for her a start by personal influence at the office of the
<i>Benham Sentinel</i>. This was provided forthwith in the form of
an invitation to prepare a weekly column under the caption of "What
Women Wear;" a summary of passing usages in clothes. The woman
reporter in charge of it had just died. Selma's first impulse was
to decline the work as unworthy of her abilities, yet she was in
immediate need of employment to avoid running in debt and she was
assured by Mrs. Earle that she would be very foolish to reject such
an offer. Reflection caused her to think more highly of the work
itself. It would afford her a chance to explain to the women of
Benham, and indirectly to the country at large, that taste in dress
was not necessarily inconsistent with virtue and serious
intentions&mdash;a truth of which she herself had become possessed
since her marriage and which it seemed to her might be utilized
delightfully in her department. She would endeavor to treat dress
from the standpoint of ethical responsibility to society, and to
show that both extravagance and dowdy homeliness were to be
avoided. Clothes in themselves had grown to be a satisfaction to
her, and any association of vanity would be eliminated by the
introduction of a serious artistic purpose into a weekly commentary
concerning them. Accordingly she accepted the position and entered
upon its duties with grave zeal.</p>
<p>For each of these contributions Selma was to receive eight
dollars&mdash;four hundred a year, which she hoped to expand to a
thousand by creative literary production&mdash;preferably essays
and poetry. She hired a room in the same neighborhood as Mrs.
Earle, in the boarding-house district appurtenant to Central
Avenue&mdash;that is to say, on the ragged edge of Benham's social
artery, and set up her new household gods. The interest of
preparing the first paper absorbed her to the exclusion of
everything else. She visited all the dress-making and dry-goods
establishments in town, examined, at a hint from Mrs. Earle, the
fashion departments of the New York papers, and then, pen in hand,
gave herself up to her subject. The result seemed to her a happy
blending of timely philosophy and suggestions as to toilette, and
she took it in person to the editor. He saw fit to read it on the
spot. His brow wrinkled at first and he looked dubious. He re-read
it and said with some gusto, "It's a novelty, but I guess they'll
like it. Our women readers have been used to fashion notes which
are crisp and to the point, and the big houses expect to have
attention called to the goods they wish to sell. If you'll run over
this again and set your cold facts in little paragraphs by
themselves every now and then, I shouldn't wonder if the rest were
a sort of lecture course which will catch them. It's a good idea.
Next time you could work in a pathetic story&mdash;some references
to a dead baby&mdash;verses&mdash;anecdotes&mdash;a little variety.
You perceive the idea?"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes," said Selma, appropriately sober at the allusion yet
ecstatic. "That's just what I should like to do. It would give me
more scope. I wish my articles to be of real use&mdash;to help
people to live better, and to dress better."</p>
<p>"That's right, that's right; and if they make the paper sell,
we'll know that folks like them," responded the editor with Delphic
urbanity.</p>
<p>The first article was a success. That is, Selma's method was not
interfered with, and she had the satisfaction of reading in the
<i>Sentinel</i> during the week an item calling gratified attention
to the change in its "What Women Wear" column, and indicating that
it would contain new features from week to week. It gave her a
pleasant thrill to see her name, "Selma White," signed at the end
of the printed column, and she set to work eagerly to carry out the
editor's suggestions. At the same time she tried her hand at a
short story&mdash;the story of an American girl who went to Paris
to study art, refused to alter her mode of life to suit foreign
ideas of female propriety, displayed exceptional talent as an
artist, and finally married a fine-spirited young American, to the
utter discomfiture of a French member of the nobility, who had
begun by insulting her and ended with making her an offer of
marriage. This she sent to the <i>Eagle</i>, the other Benham
newspaper, for its Sunday edition.</p>
<p>It took her a month to compose this story, and after a week she
received it back with a memorandum to the effect that it was
one-half too long, but intimating that in a revised form it would
be acceptable. This was a little depressing, especially as it
arrived at a time when the novelty of her occupation had worn off
and she was realizing the limitations of her present life. She had
begun to miss the advantages of a free purse and the importance of
a domestic establishment. She possessed her liberty, and was
fulfilling her mission as a social force, but her life had been
deprived of some of its savor, and, though she was thankful to be
rid of Babcock, she felt the lack of an element of personal
devotion to herself, an element which was not to be supplied by
mere admiration on the part of Mrs. Earle and the other members of
the Institute. It did not suit her not to be able to gratify her
growing taste in clothes and in other lines of expenditure, and
there were moments when she experienced the need of being petted
and made much of by a man. She was conscious of loneliness, and in
this mood she pitied herself as a victim of untoward circumstances,
one who had wasted the freshness of her young life, and missed the
happiness which the American wife is apt to find waiting for her.
Under the spell of this nostalgia she wrote a poem entitled "The
Bitter Sweets of Solitude," and disposed of it for five dollars to
the <i>Sentinel</i>. The price shocked her, for the verses seemed
flesh of her flesh. Still, five dollars was better than nothing,
and she discerned from the manner of the newspaper editor that he
cared little whether she left them or not. It was on that evening
that she received a letter from Littleton, stating that he was on
the eve of leaving New York for Benham. He was coming to consult
concerning certain further interior decorations which the committee
had decided to add to the church.</p>
<p>Selma's nerves vibrated blissfully as she read the news. For
some reason, which she had never seen fit definitely to define, she
had chosen not to acquaint Littleton with the fact of her divorce.
Their letters had been infrequent during the last six months, for
this visit had been impending, having been put off from time to
time because the committee had been dilatory and he otherwise
engaged. Perhaps her secret motive had been to surprise him, to let
him find himself confronted with an accomplished fact, which would
obviate argument and reveal her established in her new career, a
happy, independent citizen, without ties. At any rate she smiled
now at the address on the envelope&mdash;Mrs. Lewis Babcock.
Obviously he was still in the dark as to the truth, and it would be
her privilege to enlighten him. She began to wonder what would be
the upshot of his coming, and tears came to her eyes, tears of
self-congratulation that the narrow tenor of her daily life was to
be irradiated by a sympathetic spirit.</p>
<p>When Littleton duly appeared at the committee meeting on the
following day, Selma saw at a glance that he was unaware of what
had happened. He looked slightly puzzled when one of the members
addressed her as Mrs. White, but evidently he regarded this as a
slip of the tongue. Selma looked, as she felt, contented and
vivacious. She had dressed herself simply, but with effective
trigness. To those who knew her experience, her appearance
indicated courage and becoming self-respect. Public opinion, even
as embodied in the church committee, while deploring the necessity,
was not disposed to question the propriety of her action. That is,
all except Mrs. Taylor. In her, Selma thought she had detected
signs of coldness, a sort of suspicious reservation of judgment,
which contrasted itself unpleasantly with the sympathetic attitude
of the others, who were fain to refer to her, in not altogether
muffled whispers, as a plucky, independent, little woman. Hence,
she was glad that Mrs. Taylor happened to be detained at home by
illness on this afternoon, and that, accordingly, she was free to
enjoy unreservedly the dramatic nature of the situation. Her heart
beat a little faster as the chairman, turning to her to ask a
question, addressed her unmistakably as Mrs. White. She could not
refrain from casting half-amused, half-pathetic sheep's eyes at
Littleton. He started visibly, regarded her for, a moment in
obvious amazement, then flushed to the roots of his hair. She felt
the blood rising to her own cheeks, and a sensation of mild
triumph. The meeting was over and the members were merely lingering
to tie up the loose threads of the matter arranged for. In a few
moments Selma found herself with the architect sufficiently apart
from the others for him to ask:</p>
<p>"Two persons have addressed you this afternoon as Mrs. White. I
do not understand."</p>
<p>She cast down her eyes, as a woman will when a question of
modesty is involved, then she raised them and said: "You did not
know, then, that I had left my husband?"</p>
<p>"Left him?"</p>
<p>"Yes. I have obtained a divorce. He was unfaithful to me."</p>
<p>"I see"&mdash;said Littleton with a sort of gasp&mdash;"I see. I
did not know. You never wrote to me."</p>
<p>"I did not feel like writing to any body. There was nothing to
be done but that."</p>
<p>Littleton regarded her with a perturbed, restless air.</p>
<p>"Then you live no longer at 25 Onslow Avenue?"</p>
<p>"Oh, no. I left there more than six months ago. I live in
lodgings. I am supporting myself by literary work. I am Mrs. Selma
White now, and my divorce has been absolute more than a month."</p>
<p>She spoke gravely and quietly, with less than her usual
assurance, for she felt the spell of his keen, eager scrutiny and
was not averse to yield at the moment to the propensity of her sex.
She wondered what he was thinking about. Did he blame her? Did he
sympathize with her?</p>
<p>"Where are you going when you leave here?" he asked.</p>
<p>"Home&mdash;to my new home. Will you walk along with me?"</p>
<p>"That is what I should like. I am astonished by what you have
told me, and am anxious to hear more about it, if to speak of it
would not wound you. Divorced! How you must have suffered! And I
did not have the chance to offer you my help&mdash;my
sympathy."</p>
<p>"Yes, I have suffered. But that is all over now. I am a free
woman. I am beginning my life over again."</p>
<p>It was a beautiful afternoon, and by mutual consent, which
neither put into words, they diverged from the exact route to
Selma's lodging house and turned their steps to the open country
beyond the city limits&mdash;the picturesque dell which has since
become the site of Benham's public park. There they seated
themselves where they would not be interrupted. Selma told him on
the way the few vital facts in her painful story, to which he
listened in a tense silence, broken chiefly by an occasional
ejaculation expressive of his contempt for the man who had brought
such unhappiness upon her. She let him understand, too, that her
married life, from the first, had been far less happy than he had
imagined&mdash;wretched makeshift for the true relation of husband
and wife. She spoke of her future buoyantly, yet with a touch of
sadness, as though to indicate that she was aware that the triumphs
of intelligence and individuality could not entirely be a
substitute for a happy home.</p>
<p>"And what do you expect to do?" he inquired in a bewildered
fashion, as though her delineation of her hopes had been lost on
him.</p>
<p>"Do? Support myself by my own exertions, as I have told you. By
writing I expect. I am doing very well already. Do you question my
ability to continue?"</p>
<p>"Oh, no; not that. Only&mdash;"</p>
<p>"Only what? Surely you are not one of the men who grudge women
the chance to prove what is in them&mdash;who would treat us like
china dolls and circumscribe us by conventions? I know you are not,
because I have heard you inveigh against that very sort of narrow
mindedness. Only what?"</p>
<p>"I can't make up my mind to it. And I suppose the reason is that
it means so much to me&mdash;that you mean so much to me. What is
the use of my dodging the truth, Selma&mdash;seeking to conceal it
because such a short time has elapsed since you ceased to be a
wife? Forgive me if I hurt you, if it seem indelicate to speak of
love at the very moment when you are happy in your liberty. I can't
help it; it's my nature to speak openly. And there's no bar now.
The fact that you are free makes clear to me what I have not dared
to countenance before, that you are the one woman in the world for
me&mdash;the woman I have dreamed of&mdash;and longed to
meet&mdash;the woman whose influence has blessed me already, and
without whom I shall lack the greatest happiness which life can
give. Selma, I love you&mdash;I adore you."</p>
<p>Selma listened with greedy ears, which she could scarcely
believe. It seemed to her that she was in dream-land, so
unexpected, yet entrancing, was his avowal. She had been vaguely
aware that he admired her more than he had allowed himself to
disclose, and conscious, too, that his presence was agreeable to
her; but in an instant now she recognized that this was
love&mdash;the love she had sought, the love she had yearned to
inspire and to feel. Compared with it, Babcock's clumsy ecstasy and
her own sufferance of it had been a sham and a delusion. Of so much
she was conscious in a twinkling, and yet what she deemed proper
self-respect restrained her from casting herself into his arms. It
was, indeed, soon, and she had been happy in her liberty. At least,
she had supposed herself so; and she owed it to her own plans and
hopes not to act hastily, though she knew what she intended to do.
She had been lonely, yes starving, for lack of true companionship,
and here was the soul which would be a true mate to hers.</p>
<p>They were sitting on a grassy bank. He was bending toward her
with clasped hands, a picture of fervor. She could see him out of
the corner of her glance, though she looked into space with her
gaze of seraphic worry. Yet her lips were ready to lend themselves
to a smile of blissful satisfaction and her eyes to fill with the
melting mood of the thought that at last happiness had come to
her.</p>
<p>The silence was very brief, but Littleton, as would have seemed
fitting to her, feared lest she were shocked.</p>
<p>"I distress you," he said. "Forgive me. Listen&mdash;will you
listen?" Selma was glad to listen. The words of love, such love as
this, were delicious, and she felt she owed it to herself not to be
won too easily. "I am listening," she answered softly with the
voice of one face to face with an array of doubts.</p>
<p>"Before I met you, Selma, woman but was a name to me. My life
brought me little into contact with them, except my dear sister,
and I had no temptation to regret that I could not support a wife.
Yet I dreamed of woman and of love and of a joy which might some
day come to me if I could meet one who fulfilled my ideal of what a
true woman should be. So I dreamed until I met you. The first time
I saw you, Selma, I knew in my heart that you were a woman whom I
could love. Perhaps I should have recognized more clearly as time
went on that you were more to me even then than I had a right to
allow; yet I call heaven to witness that I did not, by word or
sign, do a wrong to him who has done such a cruel wrong to
you."</p>
<p>"Never by word or sign," echoed Selma solemnly. The bare
suggestion that Babcock had cause to complain of either of them
seemed to her preposterous. Yet she was saying to herself that it
was easy to perceive that he had loved her from the first.</p>
<p>"And since I love you with all my soul must I&mdash;should I in
justice to myself&mdash;to my own hopes of happiness, refrain from
speaking merely because you have so recently been divorced? I must
speak&mdash;I am speaking. It is too soon, I dare say, for you to
be willing to think of marriage again&mdash;but I offer you the
love and protection of a husband. My means are small, but I am able
now to support a wife in decent comfort. Selma, give me some hope.
Tell me, that in time you may be willing to trust yourself to my
love. You wish to work&mdash;to distinguish yourself. Would I be a
hindrance to that? Indeed, you must know that I would do every
thing in my power to promote your desire to be of service to the
world."</p>
<p>The time for her smile and her tears had come. He had argued his
case and her own, and it was clear to her mind that delay would be
futile. Since happiness was at hand, why not grasp it? As for her
work, he need not interfere with that. And, after all, now that she
had tried it, was she so sure that newspaper work&mdash;hack work,
such as she was pursuing, was what she wished? As a wife,
re-established in the security of a home, she could pick and choose
her method of expression. Perhaps, indeed, it would not be writing,
except occasionally. Was not New York a wide, fruitful field, for a
reforming social influence? She saw herself in her mind's eye a
leader of movements and of progress. And that with a man she
loved&mdash;yes, adored even as he adored her.</p>
<p>So she turned to Littleton with her smile and in tears&mdash;the
image of bewitching but pathetic self-justification and surrender.
Her mind was made up; hence why procrastinate and coyly postpone
the desirable, and the inevitable? That was what she had the
shrewdness to formulate in the ecstasy of her transport; and so
eloquent was the mute revelation of her love that Littleton,
diffident reverencer of the modesty of woman as he was, without a
word from her clasped her to his breast, a victor in a breath. As,
regardless of the possible invasion of interlopers, he took her in
his embrace, she felt with satisfaction once more the grasp of
masculine arms. She let her head fall on his shoulder in delighted
contentment. While he murmured in succession inarticulate terms of
endearment, she revelled in the thrill of her nerves and approved
her own sagacious and commendable behavior.</p>
<p>"Dearest," she whispered, "you are right. We are right. Since we
love each other, why should we not say so? I love you&mdash;I love
you. The ugly hateful past shall not keep us apart longer. You say
you loved me from the first; so did I love you, though I did not
know it then. We were meant for each other&mdash;God meant
us&mdash;did he not? It is right, and we shall be so happy,
Wilbur."</p>
<p>"Yes, Selma." Words seemed to him an inadequate means for
expressing his emotions. He pressed his lips upon hers with the
adoring respect of a worshipper touching his god, yet with the
energy of a man. She sighed and compared him in her thought with
Babcock. How gentle this new lover! How refined and sensitive and
appreciative! How intelligent and gentlemanly!</p>
<p>"If I had my wish, darling," he said, "we should be married
to-night and I would carry you away from here forever."</p>
<p>She remembered that Babcock had uttered the same wish on the
occasion when he had offered himself. To grant it then had been out
of the question. To do so now would be convenient&mdash;a prompt
and satisfactory blotting out of her past and present life&mdash;a
happy method of solving many minor problems of ways and means
connected with waiting to be married. Besides it would be romantic,
and a delicious, fitting crowning of her present blissful mood.</p>
<p>He mistook her silence for womanly scruples, and he recounted
with a little laugh the predicament in which he should find himself
on his own account were they to be so precipitate. "What would my
sister think if she were to get a telegram&mdash;'Married to-night.
Expect us to-morrow?' She would think I had lost my senses. So I
have, darling; and you are the cause. She knows about you. I have
talked to her about you."</p>
<p>"But she thinks I am Mrs. Babcock."</p>
<p>"Oh yes. Ha! ha! It would never do to state to whom I was
married, unless I sent a telegram as long as my arm. Dear Pauline!
She will be radiant. It is all arranged that she is to stay where
she is in the old quarters, and I am to take you to a new house.
We've decided on that, time and again, when we've chanced to talk
of what might happen&mdash;of 'the fair, the chaste and
unexpressive she'&mdash;my she. Dearest, I wondered if I should
ever find her. Pauline has always said that she would never run the
risk of spoiling everything by living with us."</p>
<p>"It would be very nice&mdash;and very simple," responded Selma,
slowly. "You wouldn't think any the worse of me, Wilbur, if I were
to marry you to-night?"</p>
<p>"The worse of you? It is what I would like of all things. Whom
does it concern but us? Why should we wait in order to make a
public spectacle of ourselves?"</p>
<p>"I shouldn't wish that. I should insist on being married very
quietly. Under all the circumstances there is really no
reason&mdash;it seems to me it would be easier if we were to be
married as soon as possible. It would avoid explanations and talk,
wouldn't it? That is, if you are perfectly sure."</p>
<p>"Sure? That I love you? Oh Selma!"</p>
<p>She shut her eyes under the thrill which his kiss gave her.
"Then we will be married whenever you wish," she said.</p>
<p>It was already late in the afternoon, so that the prospects of
obtaining a license did not seem favorable. Still it happened that
Littleton knew a clergyman of his own
faith&mdash;Unitarian&mdash;in Benham, a college classmate, whom he
suggested as soon as he understood that Selma preferred not to be
married by Mr. Glynn. They found him at home, and by diligent
personal effort on his part the necessary legal forms were complied
with and they were made husband and wife three hours before the
departure of the evening train for New York. After the ceremony
they stepped buoyantly, arm in arm in the dusk, along the street to
send the telegram to Miss Littleton, and to snatch a hasty meal
before Selma went to her lodgings to pack. There were others in the
restaurant, so having discovered that they were not hungry, they
bought sandwiches and bananas, and resumed their travels. The
suddenness and surprise of it all made Selma feel as if on wings.
It seemed to her to be of the essence of new and exquisite romance
to be walking at the side of her fond, clever lover in the
democratic simplicity of two paper bags of provender and an open,
yet almost headlong marriage. She felt that at last she was yoked
to a spirit who comprehended her and who would stimulate instead of
repress the fire of originality within her. She had found love and
she was happy. Meanwhile she had decided to leave Benham without a
word to anyone, even Mrs. Earle. She would write and explain what
had happened.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="BOOK_II" id="BOOK_II"></a><i>BOOK II.</i></h2>
<h2>THE STRUGGLE</h2>
<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>
<p>Littleton had not expected that Selma would accede to his
request to be married at once, but he was delighted at her
decision. He had uttered his wish in sincerity, for there was
really no reason for waiting, and by an immediate marriage they
would escape the tedium of an engagement during which they could
hope to see each other but rarely. He was able to support a wife
provided they were to live simply and economically. He felt sure
that Selma understood his circumstances and was no less ready than
he to forego luxuries in order that they might be all in all to
each other spiritually as husband and wife. Besides he had hopes
that his clientage would continue to grow so that he would be able
to provide all reasonable comforts for his new home. Consequently
he drove up from the station in New York with a light heart, fondly
pointing out to his wife this and that building and other objects
of interest. He mistook her pensive silence for diffidence at the
idea of descending suddenly on another woman's home&mdash;a matter
which in this instance gave him no concern, for he had unlimited
confidence in Pauline's executive ability and her tendency not to
get ruffled. She had been his good angel, domestically speaking,
and, indeed, in every way, since they had first begun to keep house
together, and it had rather amused him to let fall such a bombshell
as the contents of his telegram upon the regularity of her daily
life.</p>
<p>"Don't be nervous, darling," he said gayly. "You will find
Pauline bubbling over with joy at our coming, and everything
arranged as though we were expected to live there all our
lives."</p>
<p>Selma looked at him blankly and then remembered. She was not
feeling nervous, and Pauline was not in her thoughts. She had been
lost in her own reflections&mdash;lost in the happy consciousness
of the contrast between her new and her old husband, and in the
increasing satisfaction that she was actually in New York. How
bright and busy the streets looked! The throng of eager passers and
jostling vehicles against the background of brilliant shop-windows
bewildered and stimulated her. She was saying to herself that here
was the place where she was suited to live, and mutely
acknowledging its superiority to Benham as a centre of life. This
was a rash, swift conclusion, but Selma prided herself on her
capacity to arrive at wise judgments by rapid mental processes. So
absorbed was she in the glittering, stirring panorama that Wilbur's
efforts at enlightenment were practically wasted. She was in no
humor for details; she was glorying in the exalted impression which
the whole vivid scene produced upon her.</p>
<p>His remark caused her to realize that they must be near their
destination. She had no misgivings on the score of her own
reception, but she was interested and curious to see Pauline, this
wonderful sister of whom Wilbur was so fond and so proud. Then her
husband cried, "Here we are!" and in another moment she found
herself in the hearty embrace of a large, comely woman who met her
at the door. This of course must be Pauline. Selma was just a
little shocked by the fervor of the greeting; for though she
delighted in rapid intimacies, unexpected liberties with her person
were contrary to her conceptions of propriety. Still it was
delightful to be welcomed so heartily. She returned the embrace
warmly but with dignity, and allowed herself to be convoyed into
the house arm in arm with her new relation who seemed, indeed, to
be bubbling over with joy. It was not until they were in the same
room that Selma could get a good look at her.</p>
<p>Pauline Littleton was fine looking rather than pretty. She was
tall and substantial, with an agreeable face, an intelligent brow,
a firm yet sweet mouth, and steady, honest eyes which now sparkled
with pleasure. Her physique was very different from her brother's.
Selma noticed that she was taller than herself and only a little
shorter than Wilbur. She had Wilbur's smile too, suggesting a
disposition to take things humorously; but her expression lacked
the poetic cast which made him so attractive and congenial to
herself and excused the existence of the lighter vein. Selma did
not admire women who were inclined to be stout. She associated
spareness of person with high thinking, and an abundance of flesh
as an indication of material or commonplace aims. She reflected
that Pauline was presumably business-like and a good house-keeper,
and, very likely, an industrious teacher in her classes, but she
set her down in her mind as deficient in the finer sensibilities of
the spirit belonging to herself and Wilbur. It was instinctive with
Selma to form a prompt estimate of every one she met, and it was a
relief to her to come to the agreeable conclusion that there was
nothing in her sister-in-law's appearance to make her discontented
with herself. This warmed her heart at once toward Pauline. To be
sure Pauline manifested the same sort of social grace which
distinguished Mrs. Hallett Taylor, but Selma, though she still
regarded this with suspicion, for the reason that she had not yet
become mistress of it, was secretly content to know that she had
married into a family which possessed it. Altogether she was
agreeably impressed by her scrutiny of her new sister, who, in her
opinion, would not be an irritating rival either in looks or
character, and yet who was a pleasing and sufficiently
serious-minded person&mdash;in short just the sort of sister-in-law
which she yearned to have.</p>
<p>Pauline, on her part, was duly fascinated by the delicate and
inspiring beauty of her brother's wife. She understood at once why
Wilbur had chosen her in preference to any one of his own circle.
Selma obviously symbolized by her grave, tense, thin face the
serious ideals of living and womanhood, which had been dear to his
meditation as a youth and a part of his heritage from his New
England ancestors. It made her joyous to feel that he had found a
wife who would be a constant source of inspiration to him, for she
knew that Wilbur would not be happy with any one who fell short of
his ideal as to what a woman should be. She knew her brother well,
and she understood how deeply in earnest he was to make the most of
his life, and what an exalted vision he entertained as to the
possibilities for mutual sympathy and help between husband and
wife.</p>
<p>Partly as a consequence of their limited means, partly owing to
absorption in their respective studies and interests, the
Littletons, though of gentle stock, lived simple lives according to
New York standards. They were aware of the growth of luxury
resulting from the accumulation of big fortunes since the war. As
an architect, Wilbur saw larger and more elaborate public and
private buildings being erected on every side. As a house-keeper
and a woman with social interests, Pauline knew that the power of
money was revolutionizing the public taste in the matter of
household expenditure; that in the details of domestic life there
was more color and more circumstance, and that people who were
well-to-do, and many who were not, were requiring as daily comforts
all sorts of things to which they had been unaccustomed. But though
they both thus knew vaguely that the temper of society had changed,
and that sober citizens and their wives, who, twenty years before,
would have prated solemnly against a host of gay, enlivening or
pretty customs as incompatible with American virtue, were now
adopting these as rapidly as money could procure them&mdash;the
brother and sister had remained comparatively unaffected by the
consequences of the transformation scene. Certainly their home had.
It was old-fashioned in its garniture and its gentility. It spoke
of a day, not so many years before, when high thinking had led to
blinking where domestic decoration was concerned, and people had
bought ugly wooden and worsted things to live with because only the
things of the spirit seemed of real importance. Still time, with
its marvellous touch, has often the gift of making furniture and
upholstery, which were hideous when bought, look interesting and
cosey when they have become old-fashioned. In this way Pauline
Wilbur's parlor was a delightful relic of a day gone by. There was
scarcely a pretty thing in it, as Wilbur himself well knew, yet, as
a whole, it had an atmosphere&mdash;an atmosphere of simple
unaffected refinement. Their domestic belongings had come to them
from their parents, and they had never had the means to replenish
them. When, in due time, they had realized their artistic
worthlessness, they had held to them through affection, humorously
conscious of the incongruity that two such modern individuals as
themselves should be living in a domestic museum. Then, presto!
friends had begun to congratulate them on the uniqueness of their
establishment, and to express affection for it. It had become a
favorite resort for many modern spirits&mdash;artists, literary
men, musicians, self-supporting women&mdash;and Pauline's oyster
suppers, cooked in her grandmother's blazer, were still a stimulus
to high thinking.</p>
<p>So matters stood when Selma entered it as a bride. Her coming
signified the breaking up of the household and the establishment.
Pauline had thought that out in her clear brain over night since
receiving Wilbur's telegram. Wilbur must move into a modern house,
and she into a modern flat. She would keep the very old things,
such as the blazer and some andirons and a pair of candlesticks,
for they were ancient enough to be really artistic, but the
furniture of the immediate past, her father and mother's
generation, should be sold at auction. Wilbur and she must, if only
for Selma's sake, become modern in material matters as well as in
their mental interests.</p>
<p>Pauline proceeded to unfold this at the dinner-table that
evening. She had heard in the meanwhile from her brother, the story
of Selma's divorce and the explanation of his sudden marriage; and
in consequence, she felt the more solicitous that her
sister-in-law's new venture should begin propitiously. It was
agreed that Wilbur should make inquiries at once about houses
further uptown, and that his present lease from year to year should
not be renewed. She said to Selma:</p>
<p>"You have saved us from becoming an old-fashioned bachelor and
maid. Our friends began to leave this neighborhood five years ago,
and there is no one left. We are surrounded by boarding-houses and
shops. We were comfortable, and we were too busy to care. But it
would never do for a young married couple to begin house-keeping
here. You must have a brand new house uptown, Selma. You must
insist on that. Don't be alarmed, Wilbur. I know it will have to be
small, but I noticed the other day several blocks of new houses
going up on the side streets west of the Park, which looked
attractive and cheap."</p>
<p>"I will look at them," said Wilbur. "Since you seem determined
not to live with us, and we are obliged to move, we will follow the
procession. But Selma and I could be happy anywhere." He turned
from his sister to her as he spoke with a proud, happy look.</p>
<p>Selma said nothing to mar his confidence. She had no intention
of living either with Pauline or in their present house, and she
felt that her sister-in-law had shown good sense in recognizing
that neither was possible. She necessarily had vague ideas as to
New York houses and locations, but she had seen enough in her drive
from the station to understand that it was a wonderful and
decorative place. Although her experience of Benham had taught her
that some old things&mdash;such as Mrs. Hallett Taylor's gleanings
from Europe&mdash;were desirable, she associated new things with
progress&mdash;especially American progress. Consequently the
Littleton household possessions had puzzled her, for though she
thought them ugly, she was resolved not to commit herself too
hastily. But now that Pauline had sounded a note of warning, the
situation was clear. They had suffered themselves to fall behind
the times, and she was to be her husband's good angel by helping
him to catch up with them. And it was evident that Pauline would be
her ally. Selma for the first time asked herself whether it might
be that Wilbur was a little visionary.</p>
<p>Meanwhile he was saying: "Pauline is right, Selma. I had already
asked myself if it would not be fairer to you to move uptown where
we should be in the van and in touch with what is going on. Pauline
is gently hinting to you that you must not humor me as she has
done, and let me eat bread and milk out of a bowl in this old
curiosity shop, instead of following in the wake of fashion. She
has spoiled me and now she deserts me at the critical moment of my
life. Selma, you shall have the most charming modern house in New
York within my means. It must be love in a cottage, but the cottage
shall have the latest improvements&mdash;hot and cold water, tiles,
hygienic plumbing and dados."</p>
<p>"Bravo!" said Pauline. "He says I have spoiled him, Selma.
Perhaps I have. It will be your turn now. You will fail to convert
him as I have failed, and the world will be the better for it.
There are too few men who think noble thoughts and practice them,
who are true to themselves and the light which is in them through
thick and thin. But you see, he admits himself that he needs to mix
with the world a little more. Otherwise he is perfect. You know
that perhaps, already, Selma. But I wish to tell it to you before
him. Take care of him, dear, won't you?"</p>
<p>"It was because I felt that his thoughts were nobler than most
men's that I wished to marry him," Selma replied, seraphically.
"But I can see that it is sensible to live where your friends live.
I shall try not to spoil him, Pauline." She was already conscious
of a mission which appealed to her. She had been content until now
in the ardor of her love to regard Wilbur as flawless&mdash;as in
some respects superior to herself; but it was a gratification to
her to detect this failing, and to perceive her opportunity for
usefulness. Surely it was important for her husband to be
progressive and not merely a dreamer.</p>
<p>Littleton looked from one to the other fondly. "Not many men are
blessed with the love of two such women," he said. "I put myself in
your hands. I bow my neck to the yoke."</p>
<p>In New York in the early seventies the fashionable quarter lay
between Eighth and Fortieth Streets, bounded on either side by
Fourth and Sixth Avenues. Central Park was completed, but the
region west of it was, from the social stand-point, still a
wilderness, and Fifth Avenue in the neighborhood of Twenty-third
Street was the centre of elegant social life. Selma took her first
view of this brilliant street on the following day on her way to
hunt for houses in the outlying district. The roar and bustle of
the city, which thrilled yet dazed her, seemed here softened by the
rows of tall, imposing residences in brown stone. Along the sunny
sidewalks passed with jaunty tread an ever-hurrying procession of
stylishly clad men and women; and along the roadbed sped an array
of private carriages conducted by coachmen in livery. It was a
brilliant day, and New Yorkers were making the most of it.</p>
<p>Selma had never seen such a sight before. Benham faded into
insignificance in comparison. She was excited, and she gazed
eagerly at the spectacle. Yet her look, though absorbed, was stern.
This sort of thing was unlike anything American within her personal
experience. This avenue of grand houses and this procession of fine
individuals and fine vehicles made her think of that small section
of Benham into which she had never been invited, and the thought
affected her disagreeably.</p>
<p>"Who are the people who live in these houses?" she asked,
presently.</p>
<p>Littleton had already told her that it was the most fashionable
street in the city.</p>
<p>"Oh, the rich and prosperous."</p>
<p>"Those who gamble in stocks, I suppose." Selma wished to be
assured that this was so.</p>
<p>"Some of them," said Littleton, with a laugh. "They belong to
people who have made money in various ways or have inherited
it&mdash;our well-to-do class, among them the first families in New
York, and many of them our best citizens."</p>
<p>"Are they friends of yours?"</p>
<p>Littleton laughed again. "A few&mdash;not many. Society here is
divided into sets, and they are not in my set. I prefer mine, and
fortunately, for I can't afford to belong to theirs."</p>
<p>"Oh!"</p>
<p>The frigidity and dryness of the exclamation Littleton ascribed
to Selma's intuitive enmity to the vanities of life.</p>
<p>"You mustn't pass judgment on them too hastily," he said. "New
York is a wonderful place, and it's likely to shock you before you
learn to appreciate what is interesting and fine here. I will tell
you a secret, Selma. Every one likes to make money. Even clergymen
feel it their duty to accept a call from the congregation which
offers the best salary, and probing men of science do not hesitate
to reap the harvest from a wonderful invention. Yet it is the
fashion with most of the people in this country who possess little
to prate about the wickedness of money-getters and to think evil of
the rich. That proceeds chiefly from envy, and it is sheer cant.
The people of the United States are engaged in an eager struggle to
advance themselves&mdash;to gain individual distinction, comfort,
success, and in New York to a greater extent than in any other
place can the capable man or woman sell his or her wares to the
best advantage&mdash;be they what they may, stocks, merchandise,
law, medicine, pictures. The world pays well for the things it
wants&mdash;and the world is pretty just in the long run. If it
doesn't like my designs, that will be because they're not worth
buying. The great thing&mdash;the difficult thing to guard against
in the whirl of this great city, where we are all striving to get
ahead&mdash;is not to sell one's self for money, not to sacrifice
the thing worth doing for mere pecuniary advantage. It's the great
temptation to some to do so, for only money can buy fine houses,
and carriages and jewels&mdash;yes, and in a certain sense, social
preferment. The problem is presented in a different form to every
man. Some can grow rich honestly, and some have to remain poor in
order to be true to themselves. We may have to remain poor, Selma
mia." He spoke gayly, as though that prospect did not disturb him
in the least.</p>
<p>"And we shall be just as good as the people who own these
houses." She said it gravely, as if it were a declaration of
principles, and at the same moment her gaze was caught and
disturbed by a pair of blithe, fashionably dressed young women
gliding by her with the quiet, unconscious grace of good-breeding.
She was inwardly aware, though she would never acknowledge it by
word or sign, that such people troubled her. More even than Mrs.
Taylor had troubled her. They were different from her and they
tantalized her.</p>
<p>At the same moment her husband was saying in reply, "Just as
good, but not necessarily any better. No&mdash;other things being
equal&mdash;not so good. We mustn't deceive ourselves with that
piece of cant. Some of them are frivolous enough, and dishonest
enough, heaven knows, but so there are frivolous and dishonest
people in every class. But there are many more who endeavor to be
good citizens&mdash;are good citizens, our best citizens. The
possession of money gives them the opportunity to become arbiters
of morals and taste, and to seek culture under the best advantages.
After all, an accumulation of money represents brains and energy in
some one. Look at this swell," he continued, indicating an
attractive looking young man who was passing. "His grandfather was
one of the ablest men in the city&mdash;an intelligent,
self-respecting, shrewd, industrious, public-spirited citizen who
made a large fortune. The son has had advantages which I have never
had, and I happen to know that he is a fine fellow and a very able
one. If it came to comparisons, I should be obliged to admit that
he's a more ornamental member of society than Jones, Brown, or
Robinson, and certainly no less useful. Do I shock you&mdash;you
sweet, unswerving little democrat of the democrats?"</p>
<p>It always pleased Selma to be called endearing names, and it
suited her in her present frame of mind to be dubbed a democrat,
for it did not suit her to be painfully realizing that she was
unable, at one brilliant swoop, to take her place as a leader in
social influence. Somehow she had expected to do this, despite her
first difficulties at Benham, for she had thought of New York as a
place where, as the wife of Littleton, the architect, she would at
once be a figure of importance. She shook her head and said, "It's
hard to believe that these people are really in earnest; that they
are serious in purpose and spirit." Meanwhile she was being haunted
by the irritating reflection that her clothes and her bearing were
inferior to those of the women she was passing. Secretly she was
making a resolve to imitate them, though she believed that she
despised them. She put her hand through her husband's arm and
added, almost fiercely, as she pressed closer to him, "We needn't
trouble our heads about them, Wilbur. We can get along without
being rich and fashionable, you and I. In spite of what you say, I
don't consider this sort of thing American."</p>
<p>"Get along? Darling, I was merely trying to be just to them; to
let you see that they are not so black as they're painted. We will
forget them forever. We have nothing in common with them. Get
along? I feel that my life will be a paradise living with you and
trying to make some impression on the life of this big, striving
city. But as to its not being American to live like these
people&mdash;well you know they are Americans and that New York is
the Mecca of the hard-fisted sons of toil from all over the country
who have made money. But you're right, Selma. Those who go in for
show and extravagance are not the best Americans&mdash;the
Americans whom you and I believe in. Sometimes I get discouraged
when I stop to think, and now I shall have you to keep me steadfast
to our faith."</p>
<p>"Yes, Wilbur. And how far from here are we to live?"</p>
<p>"Oh, a mile or more. On some side street where the land is cheap
and the rent low. What do we care for that, Selma mia?"</p>
<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>
<p>Shortly before Selma Littleton took up her abode in New York,
Miss Florence, or, as she was familiarly known, Miss Flossy Price,
was an inhabitant of a New Jersey city. Her father was a second
cousin of Morton Price, whose family at that time was socially
conspicuous in fashionable New York society. Not aggressively
conspicuous, as ultra fashionable people are to-day, by dint of
frequent newspaper advertisement, but in consequence of elegant,
conservative respectability, fortified by and cushioned on a huge
income. In the early seventies to know the Morton Prices was a
social passport, and by no means every one socially ambitious knew
them. Morton Price's great-grandfather had been a peddler, his
grandfather a tea merchant, his father a tea merchant and bank
organizer, and he himself did nothing mercantile, but was a
director in diverse institutions, representing trusts or
philantrophy, and was regarded by many, including himself, as the
embodiment of ornamental and admirable citizenship. He could talk
by the hour on the degeneracy of state and city politics and the
evil deeds of Congress, and was, generally speaking, a
conservative, fastidious, well-dressed, well-fed man, who had a
winning way with women and a happy faculty of looking wise and
saying nothing rash in the presence of men. Some of the younger
generation were apt, with the lack of reverence belonging to youth,
to speak of him covertly as "a stuffed club," but no echo of this
epithet had ever reached the ear of his cousin, David Price, in New
Jersey. For him, as for most of the world within a radius of two
hundred miles, he was above criticism and a monument of social
power.</p>
<p>David Price, Miss Flossy's father, was the president of a small
and unprogressive but eminently solid bank. Respectable routine was
his motto, and he lived up to it, and, as a consequence, no more
sound institution of the kind existed in his neighborhood. He and
his directors were slow to adopt innovations of any kind; they put
stumbling blocks in the path of business convenience whenever they
could; in short, David Price in his humble way was a righteous,
narrow, hide-bound retarder of progress and worshipper of
established local custom. Therefore it was a constant source of
surprise and worry to him that he should have a progressive
daughter. There were four other children, patterns of quiet,
plodding conservatism, but&mdash;such is the irony of
fate&mdash;the youngest, prettiest, and his favorite, was an
independent, opinionated young woman, who seemed to turn a deaf ear
to paternal and maternal advice of safest New Jersey type. In her
father's words, she had no reverence for any thing or any body,
which was approximately true, for she did not hesitate to speak
disrespectfully even of the head of the house in New York.</p>
<p>"Poppa," she said one day, "Cousin Morton doesn't care for any
of us a little bit. I know what you're going to say," she added;
"that he sends you two turkeys every Thanksgiving. The last were
terribly tough. I'm sure he thinks that we never see turkeys here
in New Jersey, and that he considers us poor relations and that we
live in a hole. If one of us should call on him, I know it would
distress him awfully. He's right in thinking that this is a hole.
Nothing ever happens here, and when I marry I intend to live in New
York."</p>
<p>This was when she was seventeen. Her father was greatly shocked,
especially as he suspected in his secret soul that the tirade was
true in substance. He had been the recipient of Thanksgiving
turkeys for nearly twenty years on the plea that they had been
grown on the donor's farm in Westchester county, and he had seen
fit to invite his fellow-directors annually to dine off one of them
as a modest notice that he was on friendly terms with his
aristocratic New York cousin. But in all these twenty years turkeys
had been the only medium of intercourse between them. David Price,
on the few occasions when he had visited New York, had not found it
convenient to call. Once he had walked by on the other side of
Fifth avenue and looked at the house, but shyness and the thought
that he had no evening clothes in his valise had restrained him
from ringing the doorbell.</p>
<p>"You do your cousin Morton great injustice&mdash;great
injustice, Florence," he answered. "He never forgets to send the
turkeys, and as to the rest of your speech, I have only to say that
it is very disrespectful and very foolish. The next time I go to
New York I will take you to call on your cousins."</p>
<p>"And what would I say to them? No thank you, poppa." The young
woman shook her head decisively, and then she added, "I'm not going
to call on them, until I'm fit to. There!"</p>
<p>The ambiguity of this remark gave Mr. Price the opportunity to
say that, in view of her immediate shortcomings, it was a wise
conclusion, but he knew what she really meant and was distressed.
His feeling toward his cousin, though mildly envious, did not
extend to self-depreciation, nor had it served to undermine his
faith in the innate dignity and worth of New Jersey family life. He
could not only with a straight face, but with a kindling eye
inveigh against the perils of New York fashionable life, and
express gratification that no son or daughter of his had wandered
so far from the fold. It distressed him to think that Florence
should be casting sheep's eyes at the flesh-pots of Gotham, and so
failing to appreciate the blessings and safety of a quiet American
home.</p>
<p>Miss Flossy continued to entertain and to express opinions of
her own, and as a result became socially interesting. At eighteen,
by her beauty, her engaging frankness and lack of
self-consciousness, she spread havoc among the young men of her
native city, several of whom offered her marriage. But marriage was
far from her thoughts. Life seemed too interesting and she wished
to see the world. She was erect and alert looking, with a compact
figure of medium height, large brown eyes and rich red hair, and a
laughing mouth; also an innocent demeanor, which served to give
her, by moonlight, the effect of an angel. She succeeded in
visiting Bar Harbor, where she promptly became a bright particular
star among the galaxy of young women who at that period were
establishing the reputation of the summer girl. She continued to be
a summer girl for four seasons without injury to her own peace of
mind. At the end of the fourth summer she appeared on close
scrutiny to be a little worn, and her innocent air seemed a trifle
deliberate. She returned to her home in New Jersey in not quite her
usual spirits. In fact she became pensive. She had seen the world,
and lo! she found it stuffed with sawdust. She was ready to settle
down, but the only man with whom she would have been willing to
settle had never asked her. He was the brother of one of the girls
who had been forbidden by her mother to stay out in canoes with
young men after nine at night. The rumor had reached Flossy that
this same mother had referred to her in "the fish pond" at Rodick's
as "that dreadful girl." It would have pleased her after that to
have wrung an offer of marriage from the son and heir, who knew her
cousins, the Morton Prices, and to whom she would have been willing
to engage herself temporarily at all events. He was very devoted;
they stayed out in his canoe until past midnight; he wrote verses
to her and told her his innermost thoughts; but he stopped there.
He went away without committing himself, and she was left to chew
the cud of reflection. It was bitter, not because she was in love
with him, for she was not. In her heart she knew he bored her a
little. But she was piqued. Evidently he had been afraid to marry
"that dreadful girl." She was piqued and she was sad. She
recognized that it was another case of not being fit. When would
she be fit? What was she to do in order to become fit&mdash;fit
like the girl who was not allowed to stay on the water after nine
o'clock? She had ceased to think of the young man, but the image of
his sister haunted her. How stylish she was, yet how simple and
quiet! "I wonder," thought Flossy to herself, "if I could ever
become like her." The reflection threw her into a brown study in
which she remained for weeks, and during which she refused the hand
of a staid and respectable townsman, who, in her father's words,
was ready to take her with all her follies. David Price was
disappointed. He loved this independent daughter, and he had hopes
that her demure and reticent deportment signified that the
effervescence of youth had evaporated. But it was only an effort on
Flossy's part to imitate the young man's sister.</p>
<p>At this juncture and just when she was bored and dispirited by
the process, Gregory Williams appeared on the scene. Flossy met him
at a dancing party. He had a very tall collar, a very friendly,
confident, and (toward her) devoted manner, and good looks. It was
whispered among the girls that he was a banker from New York. He
was obviously not over thirty, which was young for a banker, but so
he presently described himself to Flossy with hints of impending
prosperity. He spoke glibly and picturesquely. He had a convincing
eloquence of gesture&mdash;a wave of the hand which suggested
energy and compelled confidence. He had picked her out at once to
be introduced to, and sympathy between them was speedily
established. Her wearing, as a red-headed girl, a white horse in
the form of a pin, in order to prevent the attention of the men to
whom she talked from wandering, delighted him. He said to himself
that here was a girl after his own heart. He had admired her looks
at the outset, but he gazed at her now more critically. He danced
every dance with her, and they sat together at supper, apart from
everybody else. Flossy's resolutions were swept away. That is, she
had become in an instant indifferent to the fact that the New York
girl she had yearned to imitate would not have made herself so
conspicuous. Her excuse was that she could not help herself. It was
a case of genuine, violent attraction, which she made no effort to
straggle against.</p>
<p>The attraction was violent on both sides. Gregory Williams was
not seeking to be married. He had been, until within six months, a
broker's clerk, and had become a banker on the strength of ten
thousand dollars bequeathed to him by a grandmother. He and a clerk
from another broker's office, J. Willett VanHorne, had recently
formed a partnership as Williams &amp; VanHorne, Bankers and
Dealers in Stocks and Bonds. He was not seeking to be married, but
he intended to be married some day, and it was no part of his
scheme of life to deny himself anything he wished. Support a wife?
Of course he could; and support her in the same grandiose fashion
which he had adopted for himself since he had begun business on his
own account. He had chosen as a philosophy of life the smart
paradox, which he enjoyed uttering, that he spent what he needed
first and supplied the means later; and at the same time he let it
be understood that the system worked wonderfully. He possessed
unlimited confidence in himself, and though he was dimly aware that
a very small turn of the wheel of fortune in the wrong direction
would ruin him financially, he chose to close his eyes to the
possibilities of disaster and to assume a bold and important
bearing before the world. He had implicit faith in his own special
line of ability, and he appreciated the worth of his partner,
VanHorne. He had joined forces with VanHorne because he knew that
he was the opposite of himself&mdash;that he was a delving,
thorough, shrewd, keen office man&mdash;and able too. How genuinely
able Williams did not yet know. He himself was to be the showy
partner, the originator of schemes and procurer of business, the
brilliant man before the world. So there was some method in his
madness. And with it all went a cheery, incisive, humorous point of
view which was congenial and diverting to Flossy.</p>
<p>He went away, but he came back once&mdash;twice&mdash;thrice in
quick succession. On business, so he said casually to Mr. and Mrs.
Price, but his language to their daughter was a declaration of
personal devotion. It remained for her to say whether she would
marry him or no. Of one thing she was sure without need of
reflection, that she loved him ardently. As a consequence she
surrendered at once, though, curiously enough, she was conscious
when she permitted him to kiss her with effusion that he was not
the sort of man she had intended to marry&mdash;that he was not fit
in her sense of the word. Yet she was determined to marry him, and
from the moment their troth was plighted she found herself his
eager and faithful ally, dreaming and scheming on their joint
account. She would help him to succeed; they would conquer the
world together; she would never doubt his ability to conquer it.
And in time&mdash;yes, in time they would make even the Morton
Prices notice them.</p>
<p>And so after some bewildered opposition on the part of Mr.
Price, who was alternately appalled and fascinated by the
magniloquent language of his would-be son-in-law, they were
married. Flossy gave but a single sign to her husband that she
understood him and recognized what they really represented. It was
one evening a few months after they had set up housekeeping while
they were walking home from the theatre. They had previously dined
at Delmonico's, and the cost of the evening's entertainment,
including a bottle of champagne at dinner, their tickets and a
corsage bouquet of violets for Flossy, had been fifteen dollars.
Flossy wore a resplendent theatre hat and fashionable
cape&mdash;one of the several stylish costumes with which her
husband had hastened to present her, and Gregory was convoying her
along the Avenue with the air of a man not averse to have the world
recognize that they were a well set up and prosperous couple.
Flossy had put her arm well inside his and was doing her best to
help him produce the effect which he desired, when she suddenly
said:</p>
<p>"I wonder, Gregory, how long it will be before we're really
anybody. Now, of course, we're only make believe swell."</p>
<p>Gregory gave an amused laugh. "What a clever little woman!
That's just what we are. We'll keep it a secret, though, and won't
advertise it to the world."</p>
<p>"Mum's the word," she replied, giving his arm a squeeze. "I only
wished you to know that I was not being fooled; that I
understood."</p>
<p>Fate ordained that the Williamses and the Littletons should take
houses side by side in the same block. It was a new block, and at
first they were the sole occupants. Williams bought his house,
giving a mortgage back to the seller for all the man would accept,
and obtaining a second mortgage from a money lender in
consideration of a higher rate of interest, for practically the
remaining value. He furnished his house ornately from top to bottom
in the latest fashion, incurring bills for a portion of the
effects, and arranging to pay on the instalment plan where he could
not obtain full credit. His reasoning was convincing to himself and
did not alarm Flossy, who was glad to feel that they were the
owners of the house and attractive furniture. It was that the land
was sure to improve in value before the mortgage became due, and as
for the carpets and curtains and other outlays, a few points in the
stock market would pay for them at any time.</p>
<p>Wilbur Littleton did not possess the ready money to buy;
consequently he took a lease of his new house for three years, and
paid promptly for the furniture he bought, the selection of which
was gradual. Gregory Williams had a marvellous way of entering a
shop and buying everything which pleased his eye at one fell swoop,
but Wilbur, who desired to accomplish the best &aelig;sthetic
effects possible consistent with his limited means, trotted Selma
from one shop to another before choosing. This process of selecting
slowly the things with which they were to pass their lives was a
pleasure to him, and, as he supposed, to Selma. She did enjoy
keenly at first beholding the enticing contents of the various
stores which they entered in the process of procuring wall-papers,
carpets, and the other essentials for house-keeping. It was a
revelation to her that such beautiful things existed, and her
inclination was to purchase the most showy and the most costly
articles. In the adornment of her former home Babcock had given her
a free hand. That is, his disposition had been to buy the finest
things which the shopkeepers of Benham called to his attention. She
understood now that his taste and the taste of Benham, and even
her's, had been at fault, but she found herself hampered now by a
new and annoying limitation, the smallness of their means. Almost
every thing was very expensive, and she was obliged to pass by the
patterns and materials she desired to possess, and accept articles
of a more sober and less engaging character. Many of these, to be
sure, were declared by Wilbur to be artistically charming and more
suitable than many which she preferred, but it would have suited
her better to fix on the rich upholstery and solid furniture, which
were evidently the latest fashion in household decoration, rather
than go mousing from place to place, only at last to pick up in the
back corner of some store this or that object which was both
reasonably pretty and reasonably cheap. When it was all over Selma
was pleased with the effect of her establishment, but she had eaten
of the tree of knowledge. She had visited the New York shops.
These, in her capacity of a God-fearing American, she would have
been ready to anathematize in a speech or in a newspaper article,
but the memory of them haunted her imagination and left her
domestic yearnings not wholly satisfied.</p>
<p>Wilbur Littleton's scheme of domestic life was essentially
spiritual, and in the development of it he felt that he was
consulting his wife's tastes and theories no less than his own. He
knew that she understood that he was ambitious to make a name for
himself as an architect; but to make it only by virtue of work of a
high order; that he was unwilling to become a time-server or to
lower his professional standards merely to make temporary progress,
which in the end would mar a success worth having. He had no doubt
that he had made this clear to her and that she sympathized with
him. As a married man it was his desire and intention not to allow
his interest in this ambition to interfere with the enjoyment of
the new great happiness which had come into his life. He would be a
professional recluse no longer. He would cast off his work when he
left his office, and devote his evenings to the &aelig;sthetic
delights of Selma's society. They would read aloud; he would tell
her his plans and ask her advice; they would go now and then to the
theatre; and, in justice to her, they would occasionally entertain
their friends and accept invitations from them. With this outlook
in mind he had made such an outlay as would render his home
attractive and cosey&mdash;simple as became a couple just beginning
life, yet the abode of a gentleman and a lover of inspiring and
pretty things.</p>
<p>As has been mentioned, Littleton was a Unitarian, and one effect
of his faith had been to make his point of view broad and
straightforward. He detested hypocrisy and cant, subterfuge and
self-delusion. He was content to let other people live according to
their own lights without too much distress on their account, but he
was too honest and too clear-headed to be able to deceive himself
as to his own motives and his own conduct. He had no intention to
be morbid, but he saw clearly that it was his privilege and his
duty to be true to both his loves, his wife and his profession, and
that if he neglected either, he would be so far false to his best
needs and aspirations. Yet he felt that for the moment it was
incumbent on him to err on the side of devotion to his wife until
she should become accustomed to her new surroundings.</p>
<p>The problem of the proper arrangement and subdivision of life in
a large city and in these seething, modern times is perplexing to
all of us. There are so many things we would like to do which we
cannot; so many things which we do against our wills. We are
perpetually squinting at happiness, but just as we get a delightful
vision before our eyes we are whisked off by duty or ambition or
the force of social momentum to try a different view. Consequently
our perennial regret is apt to be that we have seen our real
interests and our real friends as in a panorama, for a fleeting
moment, and then no more until the next time. For Littleton this
was less true than for most. His life was deep and stable rather
than many-sided. To be sure his brain experienced, now and then,
the dazing effects of trying to confront all the problems of the
universe and adapt his architectural endeavors to his
interpretation of them; and he knew well the bewildering
difficulties of the process of adjusting professional theories to
the sterile conditions which workaday practice often presented. But
this crowding of his mental canvas was all in the line of his life
purpose. The days were too short, and sometimes left him perplexed
and harassed by their rush; yet he was still pursuing the tenor of
his way. The interest of marriage was not, therefore, in his case a
fresh burden on a soul already laden with a variety of side
pursuits. He was neither socially nor philanthropically active; he
was not a club man, nor an athletic enthusiast; he was on no
committees; he voted on election days, but he did not take an
active part in politics. For Selma's sake all this must be changed;
and he was glad to acknowledge that he owed it to himself as well
as to her to widen his sympathies.</p>
<p>As a first step in reform he began to leave his office daily at
five instead of six, and, on Saturdays, as soon after two as
possible. For a few months these brands of time snatched from the
furnace of his professional ardor were devoted to the shopping
relative to house-furnishing. When that was over, to walking with
Selma; sometimes as a sheer round of exercise in company, sometimes
to visit a print-shop, exhibition of pictures, book-store, or other
attraction of the hour. But the evening was for him the ideal
portion of the day; when, after dinner was done, they made
themselves comfortable in the new library, their living room, and
it became his privilege to read aloud to her or to compare ideas
with her regarding books and pictures and what was going on in the
world. It had been a dream of Littleton's that some day he would
re-read consecutively the British poets, and as soon as the
furniture was all in place and the questions of choice of rugs and
chairs and pictures had been settled by purchase, he proposed it as
a definite occupation whenever they had nothing else in view. It
delighted him that Selma received this suggestion with enthusiasm.
Accordingly, they devoted their spare evenings to the undertaking,
reading aloud in turn. Littleton's enunciation was clear and
intelligent, and as a happy lover he was in a mood to fit poetic
thoughts to his own experience, and to utter them ardently. While
he read, Selma knew that she was ever the heroine of his
imagination, which was agreeable, and she recognized besides that
his performance in itself was &aelig;sthetically attractive. Yet in
spite of the personal tribute, Selma preferred the evenings when
she herself was the elocutionist. She enjoyed the sound of her own
voice, and she enjoyed the emotions which her utterance of the
rhythmic stanzas set coursing through her brain. It was obvious to
her that Wilbur was captivated by her reading, and she delighted in
giving herself up to the spirit of the text with the reservations
appropriate to an enlightened but virtuous soul. For instance, in
the case of Shelley, she gloried in his soaring, but did not let
herself forget that fire-worship was not practical; in the case of
Byron, though she yielded her senses to the spell of his passionate
imagery, she reflected approvingly that she was a married
woman.</p>
<p>But Littleton appreciated also that his wife should have the
society of others beside himself. Pauline introduced her promptly
to her own small but intelligent feminine circle, and pending
Pauline's removal to a flat, the Saturday evening suppers were
maintained at the old establishment. Here Selma made the
acquaintance of her husband's and his sister's friends, both men
and women, who dropped in often after the play and without ceremony
for a weekly interchange of thought and comradeship. Selma looked
forward to the first of these occasions with an eager curiosity.
She expected a renewal of the Benham Institute, only in a more
impressive form, as befitted a great literary centre; that papers
would be read, original compositions recited, and many interesting
people of both sexes perform according to their specialties. She
confidently hoped to have the opportunity to declaim, "Oh, why
should the spirit of mortal be proud?" "Curfew must not ring
to-night," or some other of her literary pieces.</p>
<p>Therefore, it was almost a shock to her that the affair was so
informal, and that the company seemed chiefly occupied in behaving
gayly&mdash;in making sallies at each other's expense, which were
greeted with merriment. They seemed to her like a lot of children
let loose from school. There were no exercises, and no allusion was
made to the attainments of the various guests beyond an occasional
word of introduction by Pauline or Wilbur; and this word was apt to
be of serio-comic import. Selma realized that among the fifteen
people present there were representatives of various interesting
crafts&mdash;writers, artists, a magazine editor, two critics of
the stage, a prominent musician, and a college professor&mdash;but
none of them seemed to her to act a part or to have their
accomplishments in evidence, as she would have liked. Every one was
very cordial to her, and appeared desirous to recognize her as a
permanent member of their circle, but she could not help feeling
disappointed at the absence of ceremony and formal events. There
was no president or secretary, and presently the party went into
the dining-room and sat around a table, at either end of which
Pauline and Wilbur presided over a blazer. Interest centred on the
preparation of a rabbit and creamed oysters, and pleasant badinage
flew from tongue to tongue. Selma found herself between the
magazine editor and a large, powerfully built man with a broad,
rotund, strong face, who was introduced to her as Dr. Page, and who
was called George by every one else. He had arrived late, just as
they were going in to supper, and his appearance had been greeted
with a murmur of satisfaction. He had placed himself between
Pauline and her, and he showed himself, to Selma's thinking, one of
the least dignified of the company.</p>
<p>"My dear Mrs. Littleton," he said, with a counterfeit of great
gravity, "you are now witnessing an impressive example of the
politeness of true friendship. There are cynics who assert that the
American people are lacking in courtesy, and cast in our teeth the
superiority of Japanese manners. I wish they were here to-night.
There is not a single individual present, male or female, married
or single, who does not secretly cherish the amiable belief that he
or she can cook things on a blazer better than any one else. And
yet we abstain from criticism; we offer no suggestions; we accept,
without a murmur, the proportions of cheese and beer and butter
inflicted upon us by our hostess and her brother, and are silent.
We shall even become complimentary later. Can the Japanese vie with
this?"</p>
<p>The contrast between his eager, grave gaze, and the levity of
his words, puzzled Selma. He looked interesting, but his speech
seemed to her trivial and unworthy of the occasion. Still she
appreciated that she must not be a spoil-sport, and that it was
incumbent on her to resign herself to the situation, so she smiled
gayly, and said: "I am the only one then not suffering from
self-restraint. I never made a Welsh rabbit, nor cooked on a
blazer." Then, in her desire for more serious conversation, she
added: "Do you really think that we, as a people, are less polite
than the Japanese?"</p>
<p>The doctor regarded her with solemn interest for an instant, as
though he were pondering the question. As a matter of fact, he was
thinking that she was remarkably pretty. Then he put his finger on
his lips, and in a hoarse whisper, said, "Sh! Be careful. If the
editorial ear should catch your proposition the editorial man would
appropriate it. There!" he added, as her left-hand neighbor bent
toward them in response to the summons, "he has heard, and your
opportunity to sell an idea to the magazine is lost. It is all very
fine for him to protest that he has heard nothing. That is a trick
of his trade. Let us see now if he will agree to buy. If he
refuses, it will be a clear case that he has heard and purloined
it. Come, Dennison, here's a chance for a ten thousand-word
symposium debate, 'Are we, as a nation, less polite than the
Japanese?' We offer it for a hundred and fifty cash, and cheap at
the price."</p>
<p>Mr. Dennison, who was a keen-eyed, quiet man, with a brown,
closely-cut beard, had paused in his occupation of buttering hot
toast for the impending rabbit, and was smiling quizzically. "If
you have literary secrets to dispose of, Mrs. Littleton, let me
warn you against making a confidant of Dr. Page. Had you spoken to
me first, there is no knowing what I might have&mdash;"</p>
<p>"What did I tell you?" broke in the doctor. "A one hundred and
fifty-dollar idea ruthlessly appropriated. These editors, these
editors!"</p>
<p>It was tantalizing to Selma to be skirting the edge of themes
she would have enjoyed to hear treated seriously. She hoped that
Mr. Dennison would inquire if she really wrote, and at least he
would tell her something about his magazine and literary life in
New York. But he took up again his task of buttering toast, and
sought to interest her in that. Presently she was unable to resist
the temptation of remarking that the editorship of a magazine must
be one of the most interesting of all occupations; but he looked at
her with his quizzical smile, and answered:</p>
<p>"Between you and me, Mrs. Littleton, I will confide to you that
a considerable portion of the time it is a confounded bore. To tell
the truth, I much prefer to sit next to you and butter toast."</p>
<p>This was depressing and puzzling to Selma; but after the
consumption of the rabbit and the oysters there was some
improvement in the general tone of the conversation. Yet, not so
far as she was concerned. Mr. Dennison neglected to confide to her
the secrets of his prison house, and Dr. Page ruthlessly refused to
discuss medicine, philosophy, or the Japanese. But here and there
allusion was made by one or another of the company to something
which had been done in the world of letters, or art, or music,
which possessed merit or deserved discouragement. What was said was
uttered simply, often trenchantly and lightly, but never as a
dogma, or with the solemnity which Mrs. Earle had been wont to
impart to her opinions. Just as the party was about to break up,
Dr. Page approached Selma and offered her his hand. "It is a great
pleasure to me to have met you," he said, looking into her face
with his honest eyes. "A good wife was just what Wilbur needed to
insure him happiness and a fine career. His friends have great
confidence in his ability, and we intrust him to you in the belief
that the world will hear from him&mdash;and I, for one, shall be
very grateful to you."</p>
<p>He spoke now with evident feeling, and his manner suggested the
desire to be her friend. Selma admired his large physique and felt
the attraction of his searching gaze.</p>
<p>"Perhaps he did need a wife," she answered with an attempt at
the sprightliness which he had laid aside. "I shall try not to let
him be too indifferent to practical considerations."</p>
<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>
<p>"Who is Dr. Page?" asked Selma of her husband when they left the
house.</p>
<p>"One of our best friends, and one of the leading physicians in
the city. The energy of that man is tireless. He is absorbed in his
profession. The only respite he allows himself are these Saturday
evenings, and his devotion to his little son who has hip disease.
He told me to-night that he had finished his day's work only just
before he came in. What did you think of him? He likes to
tease."</p>
<p>"Then he is married?"</p>
<p>"He is a widower."</p>
<p>"He seems interested in you. He was good enough to say that he
thought you needed a wife."</p>
<p>"Then he must have admired you, Selma. Poor fellow! I wish he
might have that happiness himself. I'll tell you a secret: He has
desired to marry Pauline for years. They are devoted
friends&mdash;but until now that is all. His wife was an
actress&mdash;a handsome creature. Two years after they were
married she ran away with another man and left him. Left him with
one little boy, a cripple, on whom he lavishes all the love of his
big nature."</p>
<p>"How dreadful!"</p>
<p>"Yes, it is a sad story. That was ten years ago. He was very
young and the woman was very beautiful. It has been the making of
him, though, in one way. He had the pride and confidence of
ability, but he lacked sympathy. His experience and the appealing
presence of his son have developed his nature and given him
tenderness. He has not been imbittered; he has simply become
gentle. And how he works! He is already famous in his
profession."</p>
<p>"Does Pauline care for him?"</p>
<p>"I don't know her feelings. I am sure she is fond of him, and
admires him. I fancy, though, that she hesitates to renounce her
own ambitions. As you are aware, she is greatly interested in her
classes, and in matters pertaining to the higher education of
women. George Page knew her at the time of his marriage. I do not
mean that he paid her serious attention then, but he had the
opportunity to ask her instead of the other. Now, when she has
become absorbed in her life-work, she would naturally decline to
give it up unless she felt sure that she could not be happy without
him."</p>
<p>"I would not marry him if I were she," said Selma. "He has given
his best to the other woman. He is the one at fault, not Pauline.
Why should she sacrifice her own career in order to console
him?"</p>
<p>"She might love him sufficiently to be willing to do so, Selma.
Love makes women blind to faults. But poor George was scarcely at
fault. It was a misfortune."</p>
<p>"He made his choice and was deceived. It would be weak of her to
give up her own life merely because he is lonely. We modern women
have too much self-respect for that. Love is love, and it is not to
be trifled with."</p>
<p>"Yes, love is love," murmured Littleton, "and I am happy in
mine."</p>
<p>"That is because neither of us has loved before, you foolish
boy. But as to this evening, it wasn't at all what I expected. Are
your friends always like that?"</p>
<p>Littleton laughed. "Did they seem to you frivolous and
undignified, then?"</p>
<p>"Almost. They certainly said nothing serious."</p>
<p>"It is their holiday&mdash;their evening out. They have to be
serious during the rest of the week&mdash;busy with problems and
cares, for they are a set of hard workers. The stress of life is so
rigorous and constant here in New York that we have learned not to
take our pleasure sadly. When you become accustomed to their way
you will realize that they are no less serious at heart because
they frolic now and then."</p>
<p>Selma was silent a moment; then she said, "That reminds me; have
you found out about our next-door neighbors yet?"</p>
<p>"He is a banker named Williams, I believe."</p>
<p>"I saw his wife pass the window this morning. She was
beautifully dressed. They must be rich."</p>
<p>"I dare say."</p>
<p>"But they live in the same style of house as ours."</p>
<p>"Bankers have mysterious ways of making money. We cannot compete
with those."</p>
<p>"I suppose not. I was thinking that she had the same manner as
some of your friends this evening, only more pronounced. She
stopped to speak to some one just in front of the house, so I could
observe her. I should think she was frivolous, but fascinating.
That must be the New York manner, and, consequently, she may be
very much in earnest."</p>
<p>"It isn't given to every woman to be attractive all the time
just because she looks in earnest, as it is to you, dearest. But
you musn't be too severe on the others."</p>
<p>"On the contrary, I think I shall like Mrs. Williams. She may
teach us to be practical. You know that is what your friends would
like to have me help you to be, Wilbur."</p>
<p>"Then they did talk a word or two of sense?"</p>
<p>"They said that. Do you think it is true that you are
visionary?"</p>
<p>"It is your duty to tell me so, Selma, when you think it, just
as I have told you that we can afford to laugh now and then. Come,
begin."</p>
<p>"I haven't been your wife long enough yet. I shall know better
by the end of another six months."</p>
<p>A fortnight elapsed before Selma made the acquaintance of Mrs.
Gregory Williams. It was not a chance meeting. Flossy rang the bell
deliberately one afternoon and was ushered in, thereby bridging
over summarily the yawning chasm which may continue to exist for an
indefinite period between families in the same block who are
waiting to be introduced.</p>
<p>"I said to my husband last night, Mrs. Littleton, that it was
ridiculous for us to be living side by side without knowing one
another, and that I was going to call. We moved in three weeks
before you, so I'm the one who ought to break the ice. Otherwise we
might have stared at each other blankly for three months, looked at
each other sheepishly out of the corner of our eyes for another
three, half bowed for six months, and finally, perhaps, reached the
stage where we are now. Neighbors should be neighborly, don't you
think so?"</p>
<p>"Indeed I do. Of course I knew you by sight; and I felt I should
like to make your acquaintance." Selma spoke with enthusiasm. Here
was some one whose social deftness was no less marked than Mrs.
Hallett Taylor's, and, to her mind, more brilliant, yet whom she
felt at once to be congenial. Though she perceived that her
neighbor's clothes made her own apparel seem dull, and was
accordingly disposed to be on her guard, she realized instinctively
that she was attracted by the visitor.</p>
<p>"That is very nice of you," said Flossy. "I told my
husband&mdash;Gregory&mdash;the other day that I was sure you were
something literary&mdash;I mean Mr. Littleton, of course&mdash;and
when he found out that he was I said we must certainly cultivate
you as an antidote to the banking business. Gregory's a banker. It
must be delightful to plan houses. This room is so pretty and
tasteful."</p>
<p>"It isn't wholly furnished yet. We are buying things by degrees,
as we find pieces which we like."</p>
<p>"We bought all our things in two days at one fell swoop," said
Flossy with a gay laugh. "Gregory gave the dealers carte blanche.
That's his way," she added with a touch of pride. "I dare say the
house would have been prettier if we could have taken more time.
However, it is all paid for now. Some of it was bought on the
instalment plan, but Gregory bought or sold something in stocks the
next week which covered the furniture and paid for a present for me
of this besides," she said, indicating her seal-skin cape. "Wasn't
he a dear?"</p>
<p>Selma did not know precisely what the instalment plan was, but
she understood that Mr. Williams had been distinctly clever in his
wife's estimation. She perceived that Mrs. Williams had the same
light, half jocular manner displayed by Wilbur's friends, and that
she spoke with bubbling, jaunty assurance, which was suggestive of
frivolity. Still Wilbur had intimated that this might be the New
York manner, and clearly her neighbor had come in a friendly spirit
and was duly appreciative of the distinction of being literary.
Besides, her ready disposition to talk about herself and her
affairs seemed to Selma the sign of a willingness to be truly
friendly. The seal-skin cape she wore was very handsome, and she
was more conspicuously attired from head to foot than any woman
with whom Selma had ever conversed. She was pretty, too&mdash;a
type of beauty less spiritual than her own&mdash;with piquant,
eager features, laughing, restless gray eyes, and light hair which
escaped from her coquettish bonnet in airy ringlets. If they had
met three years earlier Selma would certainly have regarded her as
an incarnation of volatility and servility to foreign fashions.
Now, though she classed her promptly as a frivolous person, she
regarded her with a keen curiosity not unmixed with self-distress,
and the reflection came to her that a little of the New York manner
might perhaps be desirable when in New York.</p>
<p>"Yes, it's beautiful," she replied, referring to the cape.</p>
<p>"Gregory is always making me presents like that. He gave me this
bracelet yesterday. He saw it in the shop-window and went in and
bought it. Speaking of husbands, you won't mind my saying that I
think Mr. Littleton is very distinguished looking? I often see him
pass the window in the morning."</p>
<p>"Of course <i>I</i> think so," said Selma. "I suppose it would
seem flat if I were to say that I admired Mr. Williams's appearance
also."</p>
<p>"The truth is no harm. Wouldn't it be nice if we should happen
to become friends? We are the pioneers in this block, but I hear
three other houses have been sold. I suppose you own your
house?"</p>
<p>"I believe not. We have a lease of it."</p>
<p>"That's a pity, because Gregory bought ours on a mortgage,
thinking the land is sure to become more valuable. He hopes to be
able to sell some day for a great deal more than he paid for it.
May I ask where you lived before you were married?"</p>
<p>Selma told her briefly.</p>
<p>"Then you are almost Western. I felt sure you weren't a New
Yorker, and I didn't think you were from Boston. You have the
Boston earnest expression, but somehow you're different. You don't
mind my analyzing you, do you? That's a Boston habit by the way.
But I'm not from Boston. I've lived all my life in New Jersey. So
we are both strangers in New York. That is, I'm the same as a
stranger, though my father is a cousin of the Morton Prices. We
sent them wedding cards and they called one day when I was out. I
shall return the call and find them out, and that will be the last
move on either side until Gregory does something remarkable. I'm
rather glad I wasn't at home, because it would have been awkward.
They wouldn't have known what to say to me, and they might have
felt that they ought to ask me to dinner, and I don't care to have
them ask me until they're obliged to. Do I shock you running on so
about my own affairs?" Flossy asked, noticing Selma draw herself up
sternly.</p>
<p>"Oh no, I like that. I was only thinking that it was very
strange of your cousins. You are as good as they, aren't you?"</p>
<p>"Mercy, no. We both know it, and that's what makes the situation
so awkward. As Christians, they had to call on me, but I really
think they are justified in stopping there. Socially I'm
nobody."</p>
<p>"In this country we are all free and equal."</p>
<p>"You're a dear&mdash;a delicious dear," retorted Flossy, with a
caressing laugh. "There's something of the sort in the Declaration
of Independence, but, as Gregory says, that was put in as a bluff
to console salesladies. Was everybody equal in Benham, Mrs.
Littleton?"</p>
<p>"Practically so," said Selma, with an air of haughtiness, which
was evoked by her recollection of the group of houses on Benham's
River Drive into which she had never been invited. "There were some
people who were richer than others, but that didn't make them
better than any one else."</p>
<p>"Well, in New York it's different. Of course, every body has the
same right to vote or to be elected President of the United States,
but equality ends there. People here are either in society or out
of it, and society itself is divided into sets. There's the
conservative aristocratic set, the smart rapid set, the set which
hasn't much money, but has Knickerbocker or other highly
respectable ancestors, the new millionaire set, the literary set,
the intellectual philanthropic set, and so on, according to one's
means or tastes. Each has its little circle which shades away into
the others, and every now and then there is a big entertainment to
which they all go."</p>
<p>"I see," said Selma, coldly.</p>
<p>"Now, to make it plain, I will confide to you in strictest
confidence that Gregory and I aren't yet really in any set. We are
trying to get a footing and are holding on by our teeth to the
fringe of the social merry-go-round. I wouldn't admit it to any one
but you; but as you are a stranger like myself and in the same
block, I am glad to initiate you into the customs of this part of
the country," Flossy gave a merry toss to her head which set her
ringlets bobbing, and rose to go.</p>
<p>"And in what set are your cousins?" asked Selma.</p>
<p>"If you wish to hear about them, I shall have to sit down again.
The Morton-Prices belong to the ultra-conservative, solid, stupid,
aristocratic set&mdash;the most dignified and august of all. They
are almost as sacred as Hindoo gods, and some people would walk
over red-hot coals to gain admission to their house. And really,
it's quite just in one way that incense should be burnt before
them. You mustn't look so disgusted, because there's some sense in
it all. As Gregory says, it's best to look things squarely in the
face. Most of the people in these different sets are somebodies
because either their grandfathers or they have done something
well&mdash;better than other people, and made money as a
consequence. And when a family has made money or won distinction by
its brains and then has brushed its teeth twice a day religiously
for two generations, the members of it, even though dull, are
entitled to respect, don't you think so?"</p>
<p>Selma, who brushed her teeth but once a day, looked a little
sharp at Flossy.</p>
<p>"It makes money of too much importance and it establishes class
distinctions. I don't approve of such a condition of affairs at
all."</p>
<p>Flossy shrugged her shoulders. "I have never thought whether I
approve of it or not. I am only telling you what exists. I don't
deny that money counts for a great deal, for, as Gregory says,
money is the measure of success. But money isn't everything. Brains
count and refinement, and nice honorable ways of looking at things.
Of course, I'm only telling you what my ambition is. People have
different kinds of bees in their bonnets. Some men have the
presidential bee; I have the social bee. I should like to be
recognized as a prominent member of the charmed circle on my own
merits and show my cousins that I am really worthy of their
attention. There are a few who are able to be superior to that sort
of thing, who go on living their own lives attractively and finely,
without thinking of society, and who suddenly wake up some day to
find themselves socially famous&mdash;to find that they have been
taken up. That's the best way, but one requires to be the right
sort of person and to have a lot of moral courage. I can imagine it
happening to you and your husband. But it would never happen to
Gregory and me. We shall have to make money and cut a dash in order
to attract attention, and by-and-by, if we are persistent and
clever enough, we may be recognized as somebodies, provided there
is something original or interesting about us. There! I have told
you my secret and shocked you into the bargain. I really must be
going. But I'll tell you another secret first: It'll be a pleasure
to me to see you, if I may, because you look at things differently
and haven't a social bee. I wish I were like that&mdash;really like
it. But then, as Gregory would say, I shouldn't be myself, and not
to be one's self is worse than anything else after all, isn't it?
You and your husband must come and dine with us soon."</p>
<p>After Mrs. Williams had gone, Selma fell into a brown study. She
had listened to sentiments of which she thoroughly disapproved, and
which were at variance with all her theories and conceptions. What
her friendly, frivolous visitor had told her with engaging
frankness offended her conscience and patriotism. She did not
choose to admit the existence of these class-distinctions, and she
knew that even if they did exist, they could not possibly concern
Wilbur and herself. Even Mrs. Williams had appreciated that Wilbur
and her literary superiority put them above and beyond the
application of any snobbish, artificial, social measuring-tape. And
yet Selma's brow was clouded. Her thought reverted to the row of
stately houses on either side of Fifth Avenue, into none of which
she had the right of free access, in spite of the fact that she was
leading her life attractively and finely, without regard to
society. She thought instinctively of Sodom and Gomorrah, and she
saw righteously with her mind's eye for a moment an angel with a
flaming sword consigning to destruction these offending mansions
and their owners as symbols of mammon and contraband to God.</p>
<p>That evening she told Wilbur of Mrs. Williams's visit. "She's a
bright, amusing person, and quite pretty. We took a fancy to each
other. But what do you suppose she said? She intimated that we
haven't any social position."</p>
<p>"Very kind of her, I'm sure. She must be a woman of
discrimination&mdash;likewise something of a character."</p>
<p>"She's smart. So you think it's true?"</p>
<p>"What? About our social position? Ours is as good as theirs, I
fancy."</p>
<p>"Oh yes, Wilbur. She acknowledges that herself. She admires us
both and she thinks it fine that we don't care for that sort of
thing. What she said was chiefly in connection with herself, but
she intimated that neither they, nor we, are
the&mdash;er&mdash;equals of the people who live on Fifth Avenue
and thereabouts. She's a cousin of the Morton Prices, whoever they
may be, and she declared perfectly frankly that they were better
than she. Wasn't it funny?"</p>
<p>"You seem to have made considerable progress for one visit."</p>
<p>"I like that, you know, Wilbur. I prefer people who are willing
to tell me their real feelings at once."</p>
<p>"Morton Price is one of the big bugs. His great grandfather was
among the wise, shrewd pioneers in the commercial progress of the
city. The present generation are eminently respectable, very
dignified, mildly philanthropic, somewhat self-indulgent,
reasonably harmless, decidedly ornamental and rather dull."</p>
<p>"But Mrs. Williams says that she will never be happy until her
relations and the people of that set are obliged to take notice of
her, and that she and her husband are going to cut a dash to
attract attention. It's her secret."</p>
<p>"The cat which she let out of the bag is a familiar one. She
must be amusing, provided she is not vulgar."</p>
<p>"I don't think she's vulgar, Wilbur. She wears gorgeous clothes,
but they're extremely pretty. She said that she called on me
because she thought that we were literary, and that she desired an
antidote to the banker's business, which shows she isn't altogether
worldly. She wishes us to dine with them soon."</p>
<p>"That's neighborly."</p>
<p>"Why was it, Wilbur, that you didn't buy our house instead of
hiring it?"</p>
<p>"Because I hadn't money enough to pay for it."</p>
<p>"The Williamses bought theirs. But I don't believe they paid for
it altogether. She says her husband thinks the land will increase
in value, and they hope some day to make money by the rise. I
imagine Mr. Williams must be shrewd."</p>
<p>"He's a business man. Probably he bought, and gave a mortgage
back. I might have done that, but we weren't sure we should like
the location, and it isn't certain yet that fashion will move in
just this direction. I have very little, and I preferred not to tie
up everything in a house we might not wish to keep."</p>
<p>"I see. She appreciates that people may take us up any time. She
thinks you are distinguished looking."</p>
<p>"If she isn't careful, I shall make you jealous, Selma. Was
there anything you didn't discuss?"</p>
<p>"I regard you as the peer of any Morton Price alive. Why aren't
you?"</p>
<p>"Far be it from me to discourage such a wifely conclusion.
Provided you think so, I don't care for any one else's
opinion."</p>
<p>"But you agree with her. That is, you consider because people of
that sort don't invite us to their houses, they are better than
we."</p>
<p>"Nothing of the kind. But there's no use denying the existence
of social classes in this city, and that, though I flatter myself
you and I are trying to make the most of our lives in accordance
with the talents and means at our disposal, we are not and are not
likely to become, for the present at any rate, socially prominent.
That's what you have in mind, I think. I don't know those people;
they don't know me. Consequently they do not ask me to their
beautiful and costly entertainments. Some day, perhaps, if I am
very successful as an architect, we may come more in contact with
them, and they will have a chance to discover what a charming wife
I have. But from the point of view of society, your neighbor Mrs.
Williams is right. She evidently has a clear head on her shoulders
and knows what she desires. You and I believe that we can get more
happiness out of life by pursuing the even tenor of our way in the
position in which we happen to find ourselves."</p>
<p>"I don't understand it," said Selma, shaking her head and
looking into space with her spiritual expression. "It troubles me.
It isn't American. I didn't think such distinctions existed in this
country. Is it all a question of money, then? Do intelligence
and&mdash;er&mdash;purpose count for nothing?"</p>
<p>"My dear girl, it simply means that the people who are on
top&mdash;the people who, by force of success, or ability, or
money, are most prominent in the community, associate together, and
the world gives a certain prominence to their doings. Here, where
fortunes have been made so rapidly, and we have no formal
aristocracy, money undoubtedly plays a conspicuous part in giving
access to what is known as society. But it is only an entering
wedge. Money supplies the means to cultivate manners and the right
way of looking at things, and good society represents the best
manners and, on the whole, the best way of looking at things."</p>
<p>"Yes. But you say that we don't belong to it."</p>
<p>"We do in the broad, but not in the narrow sense. We have
neither the means nor the time to take part in fashionable society.
Surely, Selma, you have no such ambition?"</p>
<p>"I? You know I disapprove of everything of the sort. It is like
Europe. There's nothing American in it."</p>
<p>"I don't know about that. The people concerned in it are
Americans. If a man has made money there is no reason why he
shouldn't build a handsome house, maintain a fine establishment,
give his children the best educational advantages, and choose his
own friends. So the next generation becomes more civilized. It
isn't the best Americanism to waste one's time in pursuing
frivolities and excessive luxury, as some of these people do; but
there's nothing un-American in making the most of one's
opportunities. As I've said to you before, Selma, it's the way in
which one rises that's the important thing in the individual
equation, and every man must choose for himself what that shall be.
My ambition is to excel in my profession, and to mould my life to
that end without neglecting my duties as a citizen or a husband.
If, in the end, I win fame and fortune, so much the better. But
there's no use in worrying because other people are more
fashionable than we."</p>
<p>"Of course. You speak as if you thought I was envious of them,
Wilbur. What I don't understand is why such people should be
allowed to exist in this country."</p>
<p>"We're a free people, Selma. I'm a good democrat, but you must
agree that the day-laborer in his muddy garb would not find himself
at ease in a Fifth Avenue drawing-room. On that account shall we
abolish the drawing-room?"</p>
<p>"We are not day-laborers."</p>
<p>"Not precisely; but we have our spurs to win. And, unlike some
people in our respectable, but humble station, we have each other's
love to give us courage to fight the battle of life bravely. I had
a fresh order to-day&mdash;and I have bought tickets for to-night
at the theatre."</p>
<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3>
<p>Almost the first persons at the theatre on whom Selma's eyes
rested were the Gregory Williamses. They were in a box with two
other people, and both Flossy and her husband were talking with the
festive air peculiar to those who are willing to be noticed and
conscious that their wish is being gratified. Flossy wore a gay
bonnet and a stylish frock, supplemented by a huge bunch of
violets, and her husband's evening dress betrayed a slight
exaggeration of the prevailing fashion in respect to his standing
collar and necktie. Selma had never had a thorough look at him
before, and she reflected that he was decidedly impressive and
handsome. His face was full and pleasant, his mustache large and
gracefully curved, and his figure manly. His most distinguishing
characteristic was a dignity of bearing uncommon in so young a man,
suggesting that he carried, if not the destiny of republics on his
shoulders, at least, important financial secrets in his brain. The
man and woman with them were almost elderly and gave the effect of
being strangers to the city. They were Mr. and Mrs. Silas S.
Parsons. Mr. Parsons was a prosperous Western business man, who now
and then visited New York, and who had recently become a customer
of Williams's. He had dealt in the office where Williams was a
clerk, and, having taken a fancy to him, was disposed to help the
new firm. Gregory had invited them to dinner and to the theatre, by
way of being attentive, and had taken a box instead of stalls, in
order to make his civility as magnificent as the occasion would
permit. A box, besides being a delicate testimonial to his guest,
would cause the audience to notice him and his wife and to ask who
they were.</p>
<p>In the gradual development of the social appetite in this
country a certain class has been evolved whose drawing-room is the
floor of the leading theatres. Society consists for them chiefly in
being present often at theatrical performances in sumptuous dress,
not merely to witness the play, but to be participants in a social
function which enhances their self-esteem. To be looked at and to
look on these occasions takes the place with them of balls and
dinner parties. They are not theatregoers in the proper sense, but
social aspirants, and the boxes and stalls are for them an arena in
which for a price they can show themselves in their finery and
attractions, for lack of other opportunities.</p>
<p>Our theatres are now in the full blaze of this harmless
appropriation for quasi-ballroom uses. At the time when Selma was a
New York bride the movement was in its infancy. The people who went
to the theatre for spectacular purposes no less than to see the
actors on the stage were comparatively few in number. Still the
device was practised, and from the very fact that it was not freely
employed, was apt to dazzle the eyes of the uninitiated public more
unreservedly than to-day. The sight of Mrs. Williams in a box, in
the glory of her becoming frock and her violets, caused even so
stern a patriot and admirer of simplicity as Selma to seize her
husband's arm and whisper:</p>
<p>"Look." What is more she caught herself a moment later blushing
with satisfaction on account of the friendly bow which was bestowed
on her.</p>
<p>Wilbur Littleton's ambitions were so definite and congenial that
the sight of his neighbors' splendor neither offended nor irritated
him. He did not feel obliged to pass judgment on them while
deriving amusement from their display, nor did he experience any
qualms of regret that he was not able to imitate them. He regarded
Flossy and her husband with the tolerant gaze of one content to
allow other people to work out their salvation, without officious
criticism, provided he were allowed the same privilege, and ready
to enjoy any features of the situation which appealed to his sense
of humor or to his human sympathy. Flossy's frank, open nod and
ingenuous face won his favor at once, especially as he appreciated
that she and Selma had found each other attractive, and though he
tabooed luxury and fashionable paraphernalia where he was
immediately concerned, it occurred to him that this evidently
wide-awake, vivacious-looking couple might, as friends, introduce
just the right element of variety into their lives. He had no wish
to be a banker himself, nor to hire boxes at the theatre, but he
was disposed to meet half-way these entertaining and gorgeous
neighbors.</p>
<p>Selma, in spite of her wish to watch the play, found her glance
returning again and again to the occupants of the box, though she
endeavored to dispose of the matter by remarking presently that she
could not understand why people should care to make themselves so
conspicuous, particularly as the seats in the boxes were less
desirable for seeing the stage than their own.</p>
<p>"We wouldn't care for it, but probably it's just what they
like," said Wilbur. "Some society reporter may notice them; in
which case we shall see in the Sunday newspaper that Mr. Gregory
Williams and party occupied a private box at the Empire Theatre
last Tuesday evening, which will be another straw toward helping
them to carry out their project of attracting attention. I like the
face of your new friend, my dear. I mean to say that she looks
unaffected and honest, and as if she had a sense of humor. With
those three virtues a woman can afford to have some faults. I
suppose she has hers."</p>
<p>Littleton felt that Selma was disposed to fancy her neighbor,
but was restrained by conscientious scruples due to her dislike for
society concerns. He had fallen in love with and married his wife
because he believed her to be free from and superior to the petty
weaknesses of the feminine social creed; but though extremely proud
of her uncompromising standards, he had begun to fear lest she
might indulge her point of view so far as to be unjust. Her
scornful references from time to time to those who had made money
and occupied fine houses had wounded his own sense of justice. He
had endeavored to explain that virtue was not the exclusive
prerogative of the noble-minded poor, and now he welcomed an
opportunity of letting her realize from personal experience that
society was not so bad as it was painted.</p>
<p>Selma returned Mrs. Williams's call during the week, but did not
find her at home. A few days later arrived a note stamped with a
purple and gold monogram inviting them to dinner. When the evening
arrived they found only a party of four. A third couple had given
out at the last minute, so they were alone with their hosts. The
Williams house in its decoration and upholstery was very different
from their own. The drawing-room was bright with color. The
furniture was covered with light blue plush; there were blue and
yellow curtains, gay cushions, and a profusion of gilt
ornamentation. A bear-skin, a show picture on an easel, and a
variety of florid bric-&agrave;-brac completed the brilliant aspect
of the apartment. Selma reflected at once that that this was the
sort of drawing-room which would have pleased her had she been
given her head and a full purse. It suggested her home at Benham
refurnished by the light of her later experience undimmed by the
shadow of economy. On the way down to dinner she noticed in the
corner of the hall a suit of old armor, and she was able to
perceive that the little room on one side of the front door, which
they learned subsequently was Mr. Williams's den, contained
Japanese curiosities. The dinner-table shone with glass and silver
ware, and was lighted by four candles screened by small pink
shades. By the side of Flossy's plate and her own was a small bunch
of violets, and there was a rosebud for each of the men. The
dinner, which was elaborate, was served by two trig maids. There
were champagne and frozen pudding. Selma felt almost as if she were
in fairy-land. She had never experienced anything just like this
before; but her exacting conscience was kept at bay by the
reflection that this must be a further manifestation of the New
York manner, and her self-respect was propitiated by the cordiality
of her entertainers. The conversation was bubbling and
light-hearted on the part of both Mr. and Mrs. Williams. They kept
up a running prattle on the current fads of the day, the theatre,
the doings of well-known social personages, and their own household
possessions, which they na&iuml;vely called to the attention of
their guests, that they might be admired. But Selma enjoyed more
than the general conversation her talk with the master of the
house, who possessed all the friendly suavity of his wife and also
the valuable masculine trait of seeming to be utterly absorbed in
any woman to whom he was talking. Gregory had a great deal of
manner and a confidential fluency of style, which gave distinction
even to commonplace remarks. His method did not condescend to
nudging when he wished to note a point, but it fell only so far
short of it as he thought social elegance required. His
conversation presently drifted, or more properly speaking, flowed
into a graphic and frank account of his own progress as a banker.
He referred to past successful undertakings, descanted on his
present roseate responsibilities, and hinted sagely at impending
operations which would eclipse in importance any in which he had
hitherto been engaged. In answer to Selma's questions he discoursed
alluringly concerning the methods of the Stock Exchange, and gave
her to understand that for an intelligent and enterprising man
speculation was the high road to fortune. No doubt for fools and
for people of mediocre or torpid abilities it was a dangerous
trade; but for keen and bold intellects what pursuit offered such
dazzling opportunities?</p>
<p>Selma listened, abhorrent yet fascinated. It worried her to be
told that what she had been accustomed to regard as gambling should
be so quickly and richly rewarded. Yet the fairy scene around her
manifestly confirmed the prosperous language of her host and left
no room for doubt that her neighbors were making brilliant
progress. Apparently, too, this business of speculation and of vast
combinations of railroad and other capital, the details of which
were very vague to her, was, in his opinion, the most desirable and
profitable of callings.</p>
<p>"Do you know," she said, "that I have been taught to believe
that to speculate in stocks is rather dreadful, and that the people
of the country don't approve of it." She spoke smilingly, for the
leaven of the New York manner was working, but she could not
refrain from testifying on behalf of righteousness.</p>
<p>"The people of the country!" exclaimed Gregory, with a smile of
complacent amusement. "My dear Mrs. Littleton, you must not let
yourself be deceived by the Sunday school, Fourth of July,
legislative or other public utterances of the American people. It
isn't necessary to shout it on the house-tops, but I will confide
to you that, whatever they may declaim or publish to the contrary,
the American people are at heart a nation of gamblers. They don't
play little horses and other games in public for francs, like the
French, for the law forbids it, but I don't believe that any one,
except we bankers and brokers, realizes how widely exists the habit
of playing the stock-market. Thousands of people, big and little,
sanctimonious and highly respectable, put up their margins and reap
their profits or their losses. Oh no, the country doesn't approve
of it, especially those who lose. I assure you that the letters
which pass through the post-office from the godly, freeborn voters
in the rural districts would tell an eloquent story concerning the
wishes of the people of the country in regard to speculation."</p>
<p>Flossy was rising from table as he finished, so he accompanied
the close of his statement with a sweeping bow which comported with
his jaunty dignity.</p>
<p>"I am afraid you are a wicked man. You ought not to slander the
American people like that," Selma answered, pleased as she spoke at
the light touch which she was able to impart to her speech.</p>
<p>"It's true. Every word of it is true," he said as she passed
him. He added in a low tone&mdash;"I would almost even venture to
wager a pair of gloves that at some time or other your husband has
had a finger in the pie."</p>
<p>"Never," retorted Selma.</p>
<p>"What is that Gregory is saying?" interrupted Flossy, putting
her arm inside Selma's. "I can see by his look that he has been
plaguing you."</p>
<p>"Yes, he has been trying to shatter my ideals, and now he is
trying to induce me to make an odious bet with him."</p>
<p>"Don't, for you would be certain to lose. Gregory is in great
luck nowadays."</p>
<p>"That is evident, for he has had the good fortune to make the
acquaintance of Mrs. Littleton," said Williams gallantly.</p>
<p>The two men were left alone with their cigars. After these were
lighted, as if he were carrying out his previous train of thought,
Gregory remarked, oracularly, at the end of a puff: "Louisville and
Nashville is certain to sell higher."</p>
<p>Littleton looked blank for a moment. He knew so little of stocks
that at first he did not understand what was meant. Then he said,
politely: "Indeed!"</p>
<p>"It is good for a ten-point rise in my opinion," Williams
continued after another puff. He was of a liberal nature, and was
making a present of this tip to his guest in the same spirit of
hospitality as he had proffered the dinner and the champagne. He
was willing to take for granted that Littleton, as a gentleman,
would give him the order in case he decided to buy, which would add
another customer to his list. But his suggestion was chiefly
disinterested.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid I know very little about such matters," Littleton
responded with a smile. "I never owned but ten shares of stock in
my life." Then, by way, perhaps, of showing that he was not
indifferent to all the good things which the occasion afforded, he
said, indicating a picture on the opposite wall: "That is a fine
piece of color."</p>
<p>Williams, having discharged his obligations as a host, was
willing to exchange the stock-market as a topic for his own
capacity as a lightning appreciator and purchaser of objects of
art.</p>
<p>"Yes," he said, urbanely, "that is a good thing. I saw it in the
shop-window, asked the price and bought it. I bought two other
pictures at the same time. 'I'll take that, and that, and that,' I
said, pointing with my cane. The dealer looked astonished. He was
used, I suppose, to having people come in and look at a picture
every day for a fortnight before deciding. When I like a thing I
know it. The three cost me eighteen hundred dollars, and I paid for
them within a week by a turn in the market."</p>
<p>"You were very fortunate," said Littleton, who wished to seem
sympathetic.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the two wives had returned to the drawing-room arm in
arm, and established themselves on one of those small sofas for
two, constructed so that the sitters are face to face. They had
taken a strong fancy to each other, especially Flossy to Selma, and
in the half hour which followed they made rapid progress toward
intimacy. Before they parted each had agreed to call the other by
her Christian name, and Selma had confided the story of her
divorce. Flossy listened with absorbed interest and murmured at the
close:</p>
<p>"Who would have thought it? You look so pure and gentle and
refined that a man must have been a brute to treat you like that.
But you are happy now, thank goodness. You have a husband worthy of
you."</p>
<p>Each had a host of things still unsaid when Littleton and
Williams joined them.</p>
<p>"Well, my dear," said Wilbur as they left the house, "that was a
sort of Arabian Nights entertainment for us, wasn't it? A little
barbaric, but handsome and well intentioned. I hope it didn't shock
you too much."</p>
<p>"It struck me as very pleasant, Wilbur. I think I am beginning
to understand New York a little better. Every thing costs so much
here that it seems necessary to make money, doesn't it? I don't see
exactly how poor people get along. Do you know, Mr. Williams wished
to bet me a pair of gloves that you buy stocks sometimes."</p>
<p>"He would have lost his bet."</p>
<p>"So I told him at once. But he didn't seem to believe me. I was
sure you never did. He appears to be very successful; but I let him
see that I knew it was gambling. You consider it gambling, don't
you?"</p>
<p>"Not quite so bad as that. Some stock-brokers are gamblers; but
the occupation of buying and selling stocks for a commission is a
well recognized and fashionable business."</p>
<p>"Mr. Williams thinks that a great many Americans make money in
stocks&mdash;that we are gamblers as a nation."</p>
<p>"I am, in my heart, of the same opinion."</p>
<p>"Oh, Wilbur. I find you are not so good a patriot as I
supposed."</p>
<p>"I hate bunkum."</p>
<p>"What is that?"</p>
<p>"Saying things for effect, and professing virtue which we do not
possess."</p>
<p>Selma was silent a moment. "What does champagne cost a
bottle?"</p>
<p>"About three dollars and a half."</p>
<p>"Do you really think their house barbaric?"</p>
<p>"It certainly suggests to me heterogeneous barbaric splendor.
They bought their upholstery as they did their pictures, with
free-handed self-confidence. Occasionally they made a brilliant
shot, but oftener they never hit the target at all."</p>
<p>"I think I like brighter colors than you do, Wilbur," mused
Selma. "I used to consider things like that as wrong; but I suppose
that was because our fathers wished Europe to understand that we
disapproved of the luxury of courts and the empty lives of the
nobility. But if people here with purpose have money, it would seem
sensible to furnish their houses prettily."</p>
<p>"Subject always to the crucifying canons of art," laughed
Littleton. "I'm glad you're coming round to my view, Selma. Only I
deny the ability of the free-born American, with the overflowing
purse, to indulge his newly acquired taste for gorgeous effects
without professional assistance."</p>
<p>"I suppose so. I can see that their house is crude, though I do
think that they have some handsome things. It must be interesting
to walk through shops and say: 'I'll take that,' just because it
pleases you."</p>
<p>During her first marriage Selma had found the problem of dollars
and cents a simple one. The income of Lewis Babcock was always
larger than the demands made upon it, and though she kept house and
was familiar with the domestic disbursements, questions of
expenditure solved themselves readily. She had never been obliged
to ask herself whether they could afford this or that outlay. Her
husband had been only too eager to give her anything she desired.
Consideration of the cost of things had seemed to her beneath her
notice, and as the concern of the providing man rather than the
thoughtful American wife and mother. After she had been divorced
the difficulty in supplying herself readily with money had been a
dismaying incident of her single life. Dismaying because it had
seemed to her a limitation unworthy of her aspirations and
abilities. She had married Littleton because she believed him her
ideal of what a man should be, but she had been glad that he would
be able to support her and exempt her from the necessity of asking
what things cost.</p>
<p>By the end of their first year and a half of marriage, Selma
realized that this necessity still stood, almost like a wolf at the
door, between her and the free development of her desires and
aspirations. New York prices were appalling; the demands of life in
New York still more so. They had started house-keeping on a more
elaborate scale than she had been used to in Benham. As Mrs.
Babcock she had kept one hired girl; but in her new kitchen there
were two servants, in deference to the desire of Littleton, who did
not wish her to perform the manual work of the establishment. Men
rarely appreciate in advance to the full extent the extra cost of
married life, and Littleton, though intending to be prudent, found
his bills larger than he had expected. He was able to pay them
promptly and without worry, but he was obliged to make evident to
Selma that the margin over and above their carefully considered
expenses was very small. The task of watching the butcher's book
and the provision list, and thinking twice before making any new
outlay, was something she had not bargained for. All through her
early life as a girl, the question of money had been kept in the
background by the simplicity of her surroundings. In her country
town at home they had kept no servants. A woman relative had done
the work, and she had been free to pursue her mental interests and
devote herself to her father. She had thought then that the
existence of domestic servants was an act of treason against the
institutions of the country by those who kept them. Yet she had
accepted, with glee, the hired-girl whom Babcock had provided,
satisfying her own democratic scruples by dubbing her "help," and
by occasionally offering her a book to read or catechising her as
to her moral needs. There is probably no one in the civilized world
more proud of the possession of a domestic servant than the
American woman who has never had one, and no one more prompt to
consign her to the obscurity of the kitchen after a feeble pretence
at making her feel at home. Selma was delighted to have two instead
of one, and, after beholding Mrs. Williams's trig maids, was eager
to see her own arrayed in white caps and black alpaca dresses. Yet,
though she had become keen to cultivate the New York manner, and
had succeeded in reconciling her conscience to the possession of
beautiful things by people with a purpose, it irked her to feel
that she was hampered in living up to her new-found faith by the
bugbear of a lean purse. She had expected, as Wilbur's wife, to
figure quickly and gracefully in the van of New York intellectual
and social progress. Instead, she was one among thousands, living
in a new and undeveloped locality, unrecognized by the people of
whom she read in the newspapers, and without opportunities for
displaying her own individuality and talents. It depressed her to
see the long lines of houses, street after street, and to think
that she was merely a unit, unknown by name, in this great sea of
humanity&mdash;she, Selma Littleton, free-born American, conscious
of virtue and power. This must not be; and she divined clearer and
clearer every day that it need not be if she had more money.</p>
<p>It began to be annoying to her that Wilbur's professional
progress was not more rapid. To be sure he had warned her that he
could not hope to reach the front rank at once; that recognition
must be gradual; and that he must needs work slowly in order to do
himself justice. She had accepted this chiefly as a manifestation
of modesty, not doubting that many orders would be forthcoming,
especially now that he had the new stimulus of her love and
inspiration. Instead there had been no marked increase in the
number of his commissions; moreover he had been unsuccessful in two
out of three competitions for minor public buildings for which he
had submitted designs. From both the pecuniary and professional
point of view these failures had been a disappointment. He was in
good spirits and obviously happy, and declared that he was doing as
well as he could reasonably expect; yet on his discouraged days he
admitted that the cost of retaining his draughtsmen was a drain on
the profit side of his ledger.</p>
<p>In contrast with this the prosperity of her neighbors the
Williamses was a little hard to bear. The sudden friendship
developed into neighborly intimacy, and she and Flossy saw much of
each other, dropping in familiarly, and often walking and shopping
together. The two men were on sufficiently cordial terms, each
being tolerant of the other's limitations, and seeking to recognize
his good points for the sake of the bond between their wives. The
return dinner was duly given, and Selma, hopeless of imitating the
barbaric splendor, sought refuge in the reflection that the
&aelig;sthetic and intellectual atmosphere of her table would atone
for the lack of material magnificence, and limited her efforts to a
few minor details such as providing candles with colored shades and
some bonbon dishes. It was plain that Flossy admired her because
she recognized her to be a fine and superior soul, and the
appreciation of this served to make it more easy not to repine at
the difference between their entertainments. Still the constant
acquisition of pretty things by her frank and engaging friend was
an ordeal which only a soul endowed with high, stern democratic
faith and purpose could hope to endure with equanimity. Flossy
bought new adornments for her house and her person with an amiable
lavishness which required no confession to demonstrate that her
husband was making money. She made the confession, though, from
time to time with a bubbling pride, never suspecting that it could
harass or tempt her spiritual looking friend. She prattled
artlessly of theatre parties followed by a supper at one of the
fashionable restaurants, and of new acquaintances whom she
entertained, and through whom her social circle was enlarged,
without divining that the sprightly narration was a thorn in the
flesh of her hearer. Selma was capricious in her reception of these
reports of progress. At times she listened to them with grave, cold
eyes, which Flossy took for signals of noble disdain and sought to
deprecate by wooing promises to be less worldly. At others she
asked questions with a feverish, searching curiosity, which
stimulated Mrs. Williams's free and independent style into running
commentaries on the current course of social events and the doings
and idiosyncracies of contemporary leaders of fashion whom she had
viewed from afar. One afternoon Selma saw from her window Flossy
and her husband drive jubilantly away in a high cart with yellow
wheels drawn by a sleek cob, and at the same moment she became
definitely aware that her draught from the cup of life had a bitter
taste. Why should these people drive in their own vehicle rather
than she? It seemed clear to her that Wilbur could not be making
the best use of his talents, and that she had both a grievance
against him and a sacred duty to perform in his and her own behalf.
Justice and self-respect demanded that their mutual light should no
longer be hid under a bushel.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER V.</h3>
<p>Pauline Littleton was now established in her new lodgings.
Having been freed by her brother's marriage from the
responsibilities of a housewife, she was able to concentrate her
attention on the work in which she was interested. Her classes
absorbed a large portion of her time. The remainder was devoted to
writing to girls in other cities who sought her advice in regard to
courses of study, and to correspondence, consultation, and
committee meetings with a group of women in New York and elsewhere,
who like herself were engrossed in educational matters. She was
glad to have the additional time thus afforded her for pursuing her
own tastes, and the days seemed too short for what she wished to
accomplish. She occupied two pleasant rooms within easy walking
distance of her brother's house. Her classes took her from home
four days in the week, and two mornings in every seven were spent
at her desk with her books and papers, in the agreeable labor of
planning and correspondence.</p>
<p>Naturally one of her chief desires was to be on loving terms
with her brother's wife, and to do everything in her power to add
to Selma's happiness. She summoned her women friends to meet her
sister-in-law at afternoon tea. All of these called on the bride,
and some of them invited her to their houses. They were busy women
like Pauline herself, intent in their several ways on their
vocations or avocations. They were disposed to extend the right
hand of fellowship to Mrs. Littleton, whom they without exception
regarded as interesting in appearance, but they had no leisure for
immediate intimacy with her. Having been introduced to her and
having scheduled her in their minds as a new and desirable
acquaintance, they went their ways, trusting chiefly to time to
renew the meeting and to supply the evidence as to the stranger's
social value. Busy people in a large city are obliged to argue that
new-comers should win their spurs, and that great minds, valuable
opinions, and moving social graces are never crushed by inhumanity,
but are certain sooner or later to gain recognition. Therefore
after being very cordial and expressing the hope of seeing more of
her in the future, every one departed and left Selma to her duties
and her opportunities as Littleton's wife, without having the
courtesy to indicate that they considered her a superior woman.</p>
<p>Pauline regarded this behavior on the part of her friends as
normal, and having done her social duty in the afternoon tea line,
without a suspicion that Selma was disappointed by the experience,
she gave herself up to the congenial undertaking of becoming
intimate with her sister-in-law. She ascribed Selma's reserve, and
cold, serious manner partly to shyness due to her new surroundings,
and partly to the spiritual rigor of the puritan conscience and
point of view. She had often been told that individuals of this
temperament possessed more depth of character than more emotional
and socially facile people, and she was prepared to woo. In
comparison with Wilbur, Pauline was accustomed to regard herself as
a practical and easy-going soul, but she was essentially a woman of
fine and vigorous moral and mental purpose. Like many of her
associates in active life, however, she had become too occupied
with concrete possibilities to be able to give much thought to her
own soul anatomy, and she was glad to look up to her brother's wife
as a spiritual superior and to recognize that the burden lay on
herself to demonstrate her own worthiness to be admitted to close
intimacy on equal terms. Wilbur was to her a creature of light, and
she had no doubt that his wife was of the same ethereal
composition.</p>
<p>Pauline was glad, too, of the opportunity really to know a
countrywoman of a type so different from her own friends. She, like
Wilbur, had heard all her life of these interesting and inspiring
beings; intense, marvellously capable, peerless, free-born
creatures panoplied in chastity and endowed with congenital mental
power and bodily charms, who were able to cook, educate children,
control society and write literature in the course of the day's
employment. The newspapers and popular opinion had given her to
understand that these were the true Americans, and caused her to
ask herself whether the circle to which she herself belonged was
not retrograde from a nobler ideal. In what way she did not
precisely understand, except that she and her friends did not
altogether disdain nice social usages and conventional womanly
ways. But, nevertheless, the impression had remained in her mind
that she must be at fault somehow, and it interested her that she
would now be able to understand wherein she was inferior.</p>
<p>She went to see Selma as often as she could, and encouraged her
to call at her lodgings on the mornings when she was at home,
expecting that it might please her sister-in-law to become familiar
with the budding educational enterprises, and that thus a fresh
bond of sympathy would be established between them. Selma presented
herself three or four times in the course of the next three months,
and on the first occasion expressed gratifying appreciation of the
cosiness of the new lodgings.</p>
<p>"I almost envy you," she said, "your freedom to live your own
life and do just what you like. It must be delightful away up here
where you can see over the tops of the houses and almost touch the
sky, and there is no one to disturb the current of your thoughts.
It must be a glorious place to work and write. I shall ask you to
let me come up here sometimes when I wish to be alone with my own
ideas."</p>
<p>"As often as you like. You shall have a pass key."</p>
<p>"I should think," said Selma, continuing to gaze, with her far
away look, over the vista of roofs which the top story of the
apartment house commanded, "that you would be a great deal happier
than if you had married him."</p>
<p>The pause which ensued caused her to look round, and add
jauntily, "I have heard, you know, about Dr. Page."</p>
<p>A wave of crimson spread over Pauline's face&mdash;the crimson
of wounded surprise, which froze Selma's genial intentions to the
core.</p>
<p>"I didn't think you'd mind talking about it," she said
stiffly.</p>
<p>"There's nothing to talk about. Since you have mentioned it, Dr.
Page is a dear friend of mine, and will always continue to be, I
hope."</p>
<p>"Oh, I knew you were nothing but friends now," Selma answered.
She felt wounded in her turn. She had come with the wish to be
gracious and companionable, and it had seemed to her a happy
thought to congratulate Pauline on the wisdom of her decision. She
did not like people who were not ready to be communicative and
discuss their intimate concerns.</p>
<p>The episode impaired the success of the first morning visit. At
the next, which occurred a fortnight later, Pauline announced that
she had a piece of interesting news.</p>
<p>"Do you know a Mr. Joel Flagg in Benham?"</p>
<p>"I know who he is," said Selma. "I have met his daughter."</p>
<p>"It seems he has made a fortune in oil and real estate, and is
desirous to build a college for women in memory of his mother,
Sarah Wetmore. One of my friends has just received a letter from a
Mrs. Hallett Taylor, to whom Mr. Flagg appears to have applied for
counsel, and who wishes some of us who are interested in
educational matters to serve as an advisory committee. Probably you
know Mrs. Taylor too?"</p>
<p>"Oh yes. I have been at her house, and I served with her on the
committee which awarded Wilbur the church."</p>
<p>"Why, then you are the very person to tell us all about her. I
think I remember now having heard Wilbur mention her name."</p>
<p>"Wilbur fancied her, I believe."</p>
<p>"Your tone rather implies that you did not. You must tell me
everything you know. My friend has corresponded with her before in
regard to some artistic matters, but she has never met her. Her
letter suggests a lady."</p>
<p>"I dare say you would like Mrs. Taylor," said Selma, gravely.
"She is attractive, I suppose, and seemed to know more or less
about European art and pictures, but we in Benham didn't consider
her exactly an American. If you really wish to know my opinion, I
think that she was too exclusive a person to have fine ideas."</p>
<p>"That's a pity."</p>
<p>"If she lived in New York she would like to be one of those
society ladies who live on Fifth Avenue; only she hasn't really any
conception of what true elegance is. Her house there, except for
the ornaments she had bought abroad, was not so well furnished as
the one I lived in. I wonder what she would think if she could look
into the drawing-room of my friend Mrs. Williams."</p>
<p>"I see," said Pauline, though in truth she was puzzled. "I am
sorry if she is a fine lady, but people like that, when they become
interested, are often excellent workers. It is a noble gift of Mr.
Flagg's&mdash;$500,000 as a foundation fund. He's a good American
at all events. Wilbur must certainly compete for the buildings, and
his having first met you there ought to be an inspiration to him to
do fine work."</p>
<p>Selma had been glad of the opportunity to criticise Mrs. Hallett
Taylor, whom she had learned, by the light of her superior social
knowledge, to regard as an unimportant person. Yet she had been
conscious of a righteous impulse in saying what she thought of her.
She knew that she had never liked Mrs. Taylor, and she was not
pleased to hear that Mr. Flagg had selected her from among the
women of Benham to superintend the administration of his splendid
gift. Benham had come to seem to her remote and primitive, yet she
preferred, and was in the mood, to think that it represented the
principles which were dear to her, and that she had been
appreciated there far better than in her present sphere. She was
still tied to Benham by correspondence with Mrs. Earle. Selma had
written at once to explain her sudden departure, and letters passed
between them at intervals of a few weeks&mdash;letters on Selma's
part fluent with dazzled metropolitan condescension, yet containing
every now and then a stern charge against her new fellow-citizens
on the score of levity and worldliness.</p>
<p>The donation for the establishment of Wetmore College was made
shortly after another institution for the education of women in
which Pauline was interested&mdash;Everdean College&mdash;had been
opened to students. The number of applicants for admission to
Everdean had been larger than the authorities had anticipated, and
Pauline, who had been one of the promoters and most active workers
in raising funds for and supervising the construction of this labor
of love, was jubilant over the outlook, and busy in regard to a
variety of new matters presented for solution by the suddenly
evolved needs of the situation. Among these was the acquisition of
two or three new women instructors; and it occurred to Pauline at
once that Selma might know of some desirable candidate. Selma
appeared to manifest but little interest in this inquiry at the
time, but a few months subsequent to their conversation in regard
to Mrs. Taylor she presented herself at Pauline's rooms one morning
with the announcement that she had found some one. Pauline, who was
busy at her desk, asked permission to finish a letter before
listening; so there was silence for a few minutes, and Selma, who
wore a new costume of a more fashionable guise than her last,
reflected while she waited that the details of such work as
occupied her sister-in-law must be tedious. Indeed, she had begun
to entertain of late a sort of contempt for the deliberate, delving
processes of the Littletons. She was inclined to ask herself if
Wilbur and Pauline were not both plodders. Her own idea of doing
things was to do them quickly and brilliantly, arriving at
conclusions, as became an American, with prompt energy and
despatch. It seemed to her that Wilbur, in his work, was slow and
elaborate, disposed to hesitate and refine instead of producing
boldly and immediately. And his sister, with her studies and
letter-writing, suggested the same wearisome tendency. Why should
not Wilbur, in his line, act with the confident enterprise and
capacity to produce immediate, ostensible results which their
neighbor, Gregory Williams, displayed? As for Pauline, of course
she had not Wilbur's talent and could not, perhaps, be expected to
shine conspicuously, but surely she might make more of herself if
only she would cease to spend so much time in details and
cogitation, with nothing tangible to show for her labor. Selma
remembered her own experience as a small school teacher, and her
thankfulness at her escape from a petty task unworthy of her
capabilities, and she smiled scornfully to herself, as she sat
waiting, at what she regarded Pauline's willingness to spend her
energies in such inconspicuous, self-effacing work. Indeed, when
Pauline had finished her letter and announced that she was now
entirely at leisure, Selma felt impelled to remark:</p>
<p>"I should think, Pauline, that you would give a course of
lectures on education. We should be glad to have them at our house,
and your friends ought to be able to dispose of a great many
tickets." Such a thing had never occurred to Selma until this
moment, but it seemed to her, as she heard her own words, a
brilliant suggestion, both as a step forward for Pauline and a
social opportunity for herself.</p>
<p>"On education? My dear Selma, you have no idea of the depths of
my ignorance. Education is an enormous subject, and I am just
beginning to realize how little I know concerning it. People have
talked and written about education enough. What we need and what
some of us are trying to do is to study statistics and observe
results. I am very much obliged to you, but I should only make
myself a laughing-stock."</p>
<p>"I don't think you would. You have spent a great deal of time in
learning about education, and you must have interesting things to
say. You are too modest and&mdash;don't you think it may be that
you are not quite enterprising enough? A course of lectures would
call public attention to you, and you would get ahead faster,
perhaps. I think that you and Wilbur are both inclined to hide your
light under a bushel. It seems to me that one can be conscientious
and live up to one's ideals without neglecting one's
opportunities."</p>
<p>"The difficulty is," said Pauline, with a laugh, "that I
shouldn't regard it as an opportunity, and I am sure it wouldn't
help me to get ahead, as you call it, with the people I desire to
impress, to give afternoon tea or women-club lectures. I don't know
enough to lecture effectively. As to enterprise, I am busy from
morning until night. What more can a woman do? You mustn't hurry
Wilbur, Selma. All he needs is time to let the world see his
light."</p>
<p>"Very likely. Of course, if you don't consider that you know
enough there is nothing to be said. I thought of it because I used
to lecture in Benham, at the Benham Institute, and I am sure it
helped me to get ahead. I used to think a great deal about
educational matters, and perhaps I will set you the example by
giving some lectures myself."</p>
<p>"That would be very interesting. If a person has new ideas and
has confidence in them, it is natural to wish to let the world hear
them."</p>
<p>Pauline spoke amiably, but she was disposed to regard her sister
with more critical eyes. She felt no annoyance at the patronizing
tone toward herself, but the reference to Wilbur made her blood
rebel. Still she could not bear to harbor distrust against that
grave face with its delicate beauty and spiritualized air, which
was becomingly accommodated to metropolitan conditions by a more
festive bonnet than any which she herself owned. Yet she noticed
that the thin lips had an expression of discontent, and she
wondered why.</p>
<p>Recurring to the errand on which she had come, Selma explained
that she had just received a letter from Benham&mdash;from her
friend, Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle, an authoress and a promulgator
of advanced and original ideas in respect to the cause of
womanhood, asking if she happened to know of an opening for a
gifted young lady in any branch of intellectual work.</p>
<p>"I thought at once of Everdean," said Selma, "and have come to
give you the opportunity of securing her."</p>
<p>Pauline expressed her thanks cordially, and inquired if Mrs.
Earle had referred to the candidate's experience or special fitness
for the duties of the position.</p>
<p>"She writes that she is very clever and gifted. I did not bring
the letter with me, but I think Mrs. Earle's language was that Miss
Bailey will perform brilliantly any duties which may be intrusted
to her."</p>
<p>"That is rather general," said Pauline. "I am sorry that she
didn't specify what Miss Bailey's education has been, and whether
she has taught elsewhere."</p>
<p>"Mrs. Earle wouldn't have recommended her if she hadn't felt
sure that she was well educated. I remember seeing her at the
Benham Institute on one of the last occasions when I was present.
She delivered a whistling solo which every one thought clever and
melodious."</p>
<p>"I dare say she is just the person we are looking for," said
Pauline, leniently. "It happens that Mrs. Grainger&mdash;my friend
to whom Mrs. Taylor wrote concerning Mr. Flagg's gift&mdash;is to
make Mrs. Taylor a visit at Benham next week, in order to consider
the steps to be taken in regard to Wetmore College. She and Miss
Bailey can arrange to meet, and that will save Miss Bailey the
expense of a journey to New York, at the possible risk of
disappointment."</p>
<p>"I thought," said Selma, "that you would consider yourselves
fortunate to secure her services."</p>
<p>"I dare say we shall be very fortunate, Selma. But we cannot
engage her without seeing her and testing her qualifications."</p>
<p>Selma made no further demur at the delay, but she was obviously
surprised and piqued that her offer should be treated in this
elaborate fashion. She was obliged to acknowledge to herself that
she could not reasonably expect Pauline to make a definite decision
without further inquiry, but she had expected to be able to report
to Mrs. Earle that the matter was as good as settled&mdash;that, if
Miss Bailey would give a few particulars as to her accomplishments,
the position would be hers. Surely she and Mrs. Earle were
qualified to choose a school-teacher. Here was another instance of
the Littleton tendency to waste time on unimportant details. She
reasoned that a woman with more wide-awake perceptions would have
recognized the opportunity as unusual, and would have snapped up
Miss Bailey on the spot.</p>
<p>The sequel was more serious. Neither Selma nor Pauline spoke of
the matter for a month. Then it was broached by Pauline, who wrote
a few lines to the effect that she was sorry to report that the
authorities of Everdean, after investigation, had concluded not to
engage the services of Miss Bailey as instructor. When Selma read
the note her cheeks burned with resentment. She regarded the
decision as an affront. Pauline dined with them on the evening of
that day, and at table Selma was cold and formal. When the two
women were alone, Selma said at once, with an attempt at
calmness:</p>
<p>"What fault do you find with my candidate?"</p>
<p>"I think it possible that she might have been satisfactory from
the mere point of scholarship," judicially answered Pauline, who
did not realize in the least that her sister-in-law was offended,
"though Mrs. Grainger stopped short of close inquiry on that score,
for the reason that Miss Bailey failed to satisfy our requirements
in another respect. I don't wish to imply by what I am going to say
anything against her character, or her capacity for usefulness as a
teacher under certain conditions, but I confide to you frankly,
Selma, that we make it an absolute condition in the choice of
instructors for our students that they should be first of all
lady-like in thought and speech, and here it was that she fell
short. Of course I have never seen Miss Bailey, but Mrs. Grainger
reported that she was&mdash;er&mdash;impossible."</p>
<p>"You mean that your friend does not consider her a lady? She
isn't a society lady, but I did not suppose an American girl would
be refused a position as a teacher for such a reason as that."</p>
<p>"A lady is a lady, whether she is what you term a society lady
or not. Mrs. Grainger told us that Miss Bailey's appearance and
manners did not suggest the womanly refinement which we deem
indispensable in those who are to teach our college students. Five
years ago only scholarship and cleverness were demanded, but
experience has taught the educators of women that this was a
mistake."</p>
<p>"I presume," said Selma, with dramatic scorn, "that Mrs. Hallett
Taylor disapproved of her. I thought there would be some such
outcome when I heard that she was to be consulted."</p>
<p>"Mrs. Taylor's name was not mentioned," answered Pauline, in
astonishment. "I had no idea, Selma, that you regarded this as a
personal matter. You told me that you had seen Miss Bailey but
once."</p>
<p>"I am interested in her because&mdash;because I do not like to
see a cruel wrong done. You do not understand her. You allow a
prejudice, a class-prejudice, to interfere with her career and the
opportunity to display her abilities. You should have trusted Mrs.
Earle, Pauline, She is my friend, and she recommended Miss Bailey
because she believed in her. It is a reflection on me and my
friends to intimate that she is not a lady."</p>
<p>She bent forward from the sofa with her hands clasped and her
lips tightly compressed. For a moment she gazed angrily at the
bewildered Pauline, then, as though she had suddenly bethought her
of her New York manner, she drew herself up and said with a forced
laugh&mdash;"If the reason you give were not so ridiculous, I
should be seriously offended."</p>
<p>"Offended! Offended with Pauline," exclaimed Littleton, who
entered the room at the moment. "It cannot be that my two guardian
angels have had a falling out." He looked from one to the other
brightly as if it were really a joke.</p>
<p>"It is nothing," said Selma.</p>
<p>"It seems," said Pauline with fervor, "that I have
unintentionally hurt Selma's feelings. It is the last thing in the
world I wish to do, and I trust that when she thinks the matter
over she will realize that I am innocent. I am very, very
sorry."</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VI.</h3>
<p>"Why don't you follow the advice of Mr. Williams and buy some
shares of stock?" asked Selma lightly, yet coaxingly, of her
husband one day in the third year of their marriage. The Williamses
were dining with them at the time, and a statement by Gregory, not
altogether without motive, as to the profits made by several people
who had taken his advice, called forth the question. He and his
wife were amiably inclined toward the Littletons, and were proud of
the acquaintance. Among their other friends they boasted of the
delightful excursions into the literary circle which the intimacy
afforded them. They both would have been pleased to see their
neighbors more amply provided with money, and Gregory, partly at
the instance of Flossy, partly from sheer good-humor in order to
give a deserving but impractical fellow a chance to better himself,
threw out tips from time to time&mdash;crumbs from the rich man's
table, but bestowed in a friendly spirit. Whenever they were let
fall, Selma would look at Wilbur hoping for a sign of interest, but
hitherto they had evoked merely a smile of refusal or had been
utterly ignored.</p>
<p>Her own question had been put on several occasions, both in the
company of the tempter and in the privacy of the domestic hearth,
and both in the gayly suggestive and the pensively argumentative
key. Why might they not, by means of a clever purchase in the stock
market, occasionally procure some of the agreeable extra pleasures
of life&mdash;provide the ready money for theatres, a larger
wardrobe, trips from home, or a modest equipage? Why not take
advantage of the friendly advice given? Mr. Williams had made clear
that the purchase of stocks on a sufficient margin was no more
reprehensible as a moral proposition than the purchase of cargoes
of sugar, cotton, coffee or tea against which merchants borrowed
money at the bank. In neither instance did the purchaser own
outright what he sought to sell at an advance; merely in one case
it was shares, in the other merchandise. Of course it was foolish
for inexperienced country folk with small means to dabble in stocks
and bonds, but why should not city people who were clever and had
clever friends in the business eke out the cost of living by shrewd
investments? In an old-fashioned sense it might be considered
gambling; but, if it were true, as Wilbur and Mr. Williams both
maintained, that the American people were addicted to speculation,
was not the existence of the habit strong evidence that the
prejudice against it must be ill-founded? The logical and the
patriotic conclusion must needs be that business methods had
changed, and that the American nation had been clever enough to
substitute dealings in shares of stock, and in contracts relating
to cereals and merchandise for the methods of their grandfathers
who delivered the properties in bulk.</p>
<p>To this condensation of Gregory's glib sophistries on the lips
of his wife, Wilbur had seemed to turn a deaf ear. It did not occur
to him, at first, that Selma was seriously in earnest. He regarded
her suggestions of neglected opportunities, which were often
whimsically uttered, as more than half playful&mdash;a sort of
make-believe envy of the meteoric progress in magnificence of their
friendly neighbors. He was even glad that she should show herself
appreciative of the merits of civilized comfort, for he had been
afraid lest her ascetic scruples would lead her judgments too far
in the opposite direction. He welcomed them and encouraged her
small schemes to make the establishment more festive and stylish in
appearance, in modest imitation of the splendor next door. But
constant and more sombre reference to the growing fortunes of the
Williamses presently attracted his attention and made him more
observant. His income sufficed to pay the ordinary expenses of
quiet domestic life, and to leave a small margin for carefully,
considered amusements, but he reflected that if Selma were yearning
for greater luxury, he could not afford at present to increase
materially her allowance. It grieved him as a proud man to think
that the woman he loved should lack any thing she desired, and
without a thought of distrust he applied himself more strenuously
to his work, hoping that the sum of his commissions would enable
him presently to gratify some of her hankerings&mdash;such, for
instance, as the possession of a horse and vehicle. Selma had
several times alluded with a sigh to the satisfaction there must be
in driving in the new park. Babcock had kept a horse, and the
Williamses now drove past the windows daily in a phaeton drawn by
two iron gray, champing steeds. He said to himself that he could
scarcely blame Selma if she coveted now and then Flossy's fine
possessions, and the thought that she was not altogether happy in
consequence of his failure to earn more kept recurring to his mind
and worried him. No children had been born to them, and he pictured
with growing concern his wife lonely at home on this account, yet
without extra income to make purchases which might enable her to
forget at times that there was no baby in the house. Flossy had two
children, a boy and a girl, two gorgeously bedizened little beings
who were trundled along the sidewalk in a black, highly varnished
baby-wagon which was reputed by the dealer who sold it to Gregory
to have belonged to an English nobleman. Wilbur more than once
detected Selma looking at the babies with a wistful glance. She was
really admiring their clothes, yet the thought of how prettily she
would have been able to dress a baby of her own was at times so
pathetic as to bring tears to her eyes, and cause her to deplore
her own lack of children as a misfortune.</p>
<p>As the weeks slipped away and Wilbur realized that, though he
was gaining ground in his profession, more liberal expenditures
were still out of the question, he reached a frame of mind which
made him yearn for a means of relief. So it happened that, when
Selma asked him once more why he did not follow the advice
proffered and buy some stocks, he replied by smiling at Gregory and
inquiring what he should buy. During the dinner, which had been
pleasant, Wilbur's eye had been attracted by the brilliancy of some
new jewels which Mrs. Williams wore, and he had been conscious of
the wish that he were able to make a present like that to his own
wife.</p>
<p>"You take my breath away. Wonders will never cease," responded
Gregory, while both the women clapped their hands. "But you musn't
buy anything; you must sell," he continued. "VanHorne and I both
came to the conclusion to-day that it is time for a turn on the
short side of the market. When the public are crazy and will buy
any thing, then is the time to let them have all they wish."</p>
<p>"What, then, am I to sell?" asked Wilbur "I am a complete lamb,
you know." He was already sorry that he had consented, but Selma's
manifest interest restrained him from turning the matter into a
joke.</p>
<p>"Leave it all to me," said Williams with a magnificent
gesture.</p>
<p>"But you will need some money from me."</p>
<p>"Not at all. If you would feel better, you may send me a check
or a bond for a thousand dollars. But it isn't necessary in your
case."</p>
<p>"I will bring you in a bond to-morrow&mdash;one of the very few
I own."</p>
<p>Wilbur having delivered his security the first thing in the
morning, heard nothing further from Williams for a fortnight. One
day he received a formal account of certain transactions executed
by Williams and VanHorne for Wilbur Littleton, Esq., and a check
for two thousand dollars. The flush which rose to his cheeks was
induced partly by pleasure, partly by shame. His inclination, as he
reflected, was to return the check, but he recognized presently
that this was a foolish idea, and that the only thing to be done
was to deposit it. He wrote a grateful note of acknowledgment to
Williams, and then gave himself up to the agreeable occupation of
thinking what he should buy for Selma with the money. He decided
not to tell her of his good fortune, but to treat her to a
surprise. His first fancy was in favor of jewelry&mdash;some
necklace or lustrous ornament for the hair, which would charm the
feminine eye and might make Selma even more beautiful than she
already appeared in evening dress. His choice settled on a horse
and buggy as more genuinely useful. To be sure there was the feed
of the animal to be considered; but he would be able to reserve
sufficient money to cover this cost for some months, and by the end
of that time he would perhaps be able to afford the outlay from his
income. Horse-flesh and vehicles were not in his line, but he
succeeded by investigation in procuring a modest equipment for
seven hundred dollars, which left him three hundred for fodder, and
the other thousand. This he had decided to hand over to Selma as
pin money. It was for her sake that he had consented to speculate,
and it seemed meet that she should have the satisfaction of
spending it.</p>
<p>He carried out his surprise by appearing one afternoon before
the door and inviting her to drive. Selma became radiant at the
news that the horse and buggy were hers, though, when the
particulars of the purchase were disclosed she said to herself that
she wished Wilbur had allowed her to choose the vehicle. She would
have preferred one more stylish and less domestic looking. She
flung her arms about his neck and gave him a kiss on their return
to show her satisfaction.</p>
<p>"You see how easy it is, Wilbur," she said as she surveyed the
check which he had handed her.</p>
<p>"It was not I, it was Williams."</p>
<p>"No, but you could, if you would only think so. I have the
greatest confidence in you, dear," she added, looking eagerly into
his face; "but don't you sometimes go out of your way to avoid what
is enterprising and&mdash;er&mdash;modern, just because it is
modern?"</p>
<p>"Gambling is as old as the hills, Selma."</p>
<p>"Yes. And if this were gambling&mdash;the sort of gambling you
mean, do you think I would allow you to do it? Do you think the
American people would tolerate it for a minute?" she asked
triumphantly.</p>
<p>"It seems to me that your admiration for the American people
sometimes makes you a little weak in your logic," he answered with
good-humor. He was so pleased by Selma's gratification that he was
disposed to exorcise his scruples.</p>
<p>"I have always told you that I was more of a patriot than you,
Wilbur."</p>
<p>The bond had not been returned by Williams at the time he sent
the money, and some fortnight later&mdash;only a few days in fact
after this drive, Littleton received another cheque for $500 and a
request that he call at the office.</p>
<p>"I thought you would like to see the instruments of torture at
work&mdash;the process of lamb-shearing in active operation,"
Williams explained as he shook hands and waved him into his private
room. After a few easy remarks on the methods of doing business the
broker continued, "I flatter myself that for so small an investment
and so short a time, I have done tolerably well for you."</p>
<p>"I scarcely know how to express my thanks and my admiration for
your skill. Indeed I feel rather awkwardly about&mdash;"</p>
<p>"That's all right, my dear fellow. It's my business; I get my
commission. Still I admit friendly regard&mdash;and this is why I
suggested your dropping in&mdash;by introducing the personal
equation, makes one nervous. If instead of closing out your
account, I had in each instance held on, you would have made more
money. I was glad to take this responsibility at first because you
were a neophyte at the business, but I think it will be more
satisfactory both for you and for me that in future transactions
you should give me the word when to reap the profit. Of course you
shall have all the information which I possess and my advice will
be at your command, but where a man's money is concerned his own
head is apt to be the wisest counsellor. Now I took the liberty
yesterday of selling for you two hundred shares of Reading
railroad. You can cover to-day at a profit of one point&mdash;about
$200. I do not urge it. On the contrary I believe that the market,
barring occasional rallies, is still on the downward track. I wish,
however, to put you in a position where you can, if you desire,
take advantage of the full opportunities of the financial situation
and save myself from feeling that I have robbed you by my friendly
caution."</p>
<p>"In other words you don't wish to speculate with my money," said
Littleton. "You wish me to paddle my own canoe."</p>
<p>Williams' real desire was to escape the bother of personally
superintending an insignificant account. His circumlocution was a
suave way of stating that he had done all that could be expected of
a neighbor and benevolent friend, and that the ordinary relation of
broker and customer ought now be established. As for Littleton, he
perceived that he was not free to retire from the market on the
profits of friendly regard unless he was prepared to fly in the
face of advice and buy in his two hundred Reading railroad. To do
so would be pusillanimous; moreover to retire and abstain from
further dealings would make Williams' two cheques more obviously a
charitable donation, and the thought of them was becoming galling.
Above all there were Selma's feelings to be considered. The
possession of the means to afford her happiness was already a sweet
argument in favor of further experiments.</p>
<p>And so it happened that during the next nine months Littleton
became a frequenter of the office of Williams &amp; VanHorne. He
was not among those who hung over the tape and were to be seen
there daily; but he found himself attracted as the needle by the
magnet to look in once or twice a week to ascertain the state of
the market. His ventures continued to be small, and were conducted
under the ken of Williams, and though the occasional rallies
referred to by the broker harassed Wilbur's spirit when they
occurred, the policy of selling short proved reasonably
remunerative in the course of half a dozen separate speculations.
In round figures he added another $2,500 to that which Williams had
made for him. The process kept him on pins and needles, and led him
to scan the list of stock quotations before reading anything else
in the newspaper. Selma was delighted at his success, and though he
chose not to tell her the details of his dealings, she watched him
furtively, followed the general tendency of the market, and when
she perceived that he was in good spirits, satisfied sufficiently
her curiosity by questions.</p>
<p>On the strength of this addition to their pecuniary resources,
Selma branched out into sundry mild extravagances. She augmented
her wardrobe, engaged an additional house-maid and a more expensive
cook, and entertained with greater freedom and elaboration. She was
fond of going to the theatre and supping afterward at some
fashionable restaurant where she could show her new plumage and be
a part of the gay, chattering rout at the tables consuming
soft-shelled crabs and champagne. She was gradually increasing her
acquaintance, chiefly among the friends of the Williamses, people
who were fond of display and luxury and who seemed to have plenty
of money. In this connection she was glad to avail herself of the
reputation of belonging to the literary circle, and she conceived
the plan of mingling these new associates with Wilbur's former
set&mdash;to her thinking a delightful scheme, which she
inaugurated by means of a dinner party. She included among the
guests Pauline and Dr. Page, and considered that she had acted
gracefully in putting them side by side at table, thus sacrificing
the theory of her entertainment to her feminine interest in
romance. In her opinion it was more than Pauline deserved, and she
was proud of her generosity. There were fourteen in the company,
and after dinner they were regaled by a young woman who had brought
a letter of introduction to Selma from Mrs. Earle, who read from
her own poems. The dinner was given for her, and her seat was
between Wilbur and Mr. Dennison, the magazine editor. Selma had
attended a dinner-party at the Williamses a fortnight earlier where
there had been music in the drawing-room by a ballad-singer at a
cost of $100 (so Flossy had told her in confidence). A poetess
reading from her own works, a guest and not invited in after dinner
on a business footing, appealed to Selma as more American, and less
expensive. She, in her secret soul, would have liked to recite
herself, but she feared to run the gauntlet of the New York manner.
The verses were intense in character and were delivered by the
young woman with a hollow-eyed fervor which, as one of the
non-literary wing of the company stated, made one creep and weep
alternately. There was no doubt that the entertainment was novel
and acceptable to the commercial element, and to Selma it seemed a
delightful reminder of the Benham Institute. She was curious to
know what Mr. Dennison thought, though she said to herself that she
did not really care. She felt that anything free and earnest in the
literary line was likely to be frowned on by the coterie to which
her husband's people belonged. Nevertheless she seized an
opportunity to ask the editor if he did not think the verses
remarkable.</p>
<p>"They are certainly remarkable," answered Mr. Dennison. After a
brief pause he added, "Being a strictly truthful person, Mrs.
Littleton, I do not wish to seek shelter behind the rampart which
your word 'remarkable' affords. A dinner may be
remarkable&mdash;remarkably good, like the one I have just eaten,
or remarkably bad. Some editors would have replied to you as I have
done, and yet been capable of a mental reservation unflattering to
the ambitious young woman to whom we have been listening. But
without wishing to express an opinion, let me remind you that
poetry, like point-lace, needs close scrutiny before its merits can
be defined. I thought I recognized some ancient and well-worn
flowers of speech, but my editorial ear and eye may have been
deceived. She has beautiful hair at all events."</p>
<p>"'Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare;<br />
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">And beauty draws us by a single
hair.'</span></p>
<p>"You cynical personage! I only hope she may prove a genius and
that you will realize when too late that you might have discovered
her," said Selma, looking into his face brightly with a knowing
smile and tapping her fan against her hand. She was in a gay humor
at the success of the entertainment, despite the non-committal
attitude of this censor, and pleased at the appositeness of her
quotation. Her figure had filled out since her marriage. She was
almost plump and she wore a single short fat curl pendent behind
her ear.</p>
<p>A few months subsequent to this dinner party Flossy announced
one day that Mr. Silas S. Parsons, whom Selma had seen with the
Williamses at the theatre nearly three years before, had come to
live in New York with his wife and daughter. Flossy referred to him
eagerly as one of her husband's most valuable customers, a shrewd,
sensible, Western business man, who had made money in patent
machinery and was superbly rich. He had gone temporarily to a
hotel, but he was intending to build a large house on Fifth Avenue
near the park. Selma heard this announcement with keen interest,
asking herself at once why Wilbur should not be the architect. Why
not, indeed? She promptly reasoned that here was her chance to aid
her husband; that he, if left to his own devices, would do nothing
to attract the magnate's attention, and that it behooved her, as an
American wife and a wide-awake, modern woman, to let Mr. Parsons
know his qualifications, and to prepossess him in Wilbur's favor by
her own attractions. The idea appealed to her exceedingly. She had
been hoping that some opportunity to take an active part in the
furtherance of Wilbur's career would present itself, for she felt
instinctively that with her co-operation he would make more rapid
progress. Here was exactly the occasion longed for. She saw in her
mind's eye Mr. Parsons's completed mansion, stately and beautiful,
the admired precursor of a host of important edifices&mdash;a
revolutionizing monument in contemporary architecture. Wilbur would
become the fashion, and his professional success be assured, thanks
to the prompt ability of his wife to take advantage of
circumstances. So she would prove herself a veritable helpmate, and
the bond of marital sympathy would be strengthened and
refreshed.</p>
<p>To begin with, Selma hinted to Mrs. Williams that Mr. Parsons
might do worse than employ Wilbur to design his house. Flossy
accepted the suggestion with enthusiasm and promised her support,
adding that Mr. Parsons was a person of sudden and strong fancies,
and that if he were to take a fancy to Wilbur, the desired result
would be apt to follow. Selma quickly decided that Mr. Parsons must
be made to like her, for she feared lest Wilbur's quiet,
undemonstrative manner would fail to attract him. Evidently he
admired the self-confidence and manly assertion of Gregory
Williams, and would be liable to regard Wilbur as lacking in force
and enterprise. The reflection that she would thus be
working&mdash;as necessarily she would&mdash;for the eternal
progress of truth, added a pleasant savor to the undertaking, for
it was clear that her husband was an ideal architect for the
purpose, and she would be doing a true service to Mr. Parsons in
convincing him that this was so. Altogether her soul was in an
agreeable flutter, notwithstanding that her neighbor Flossy had
recently received invitations to two or three large balls, and been
referred to in the society columns of the newspapers as the
fascinating and clever wife of the rising banker Gregory
Williams.</p>
<p>The Littletons were promptly given by Flossy the opportunity to
make the acquaintance of the Parsons family. Mr. Parsons was a
ponderous man of over sixty, with a solid, rotund, grave face and a
chin whisker. He was absorbed in financial interests, though he had
retired from active business, and had come to New York to live
chiefly to please his wife and daughter. Mrs. Parsons, who was
somewhat her husband's junior, was a devotee, or more correctly, a
debauchee, of hotel life. Since the time when they had become
exceedingly rich, about ten years before, they had made a grand
tour of the hotels of this country and Europe. By so doing Mrs.
Parsons and her daughter felt that they became a part of the social
life of the cities which they visited. Although they had been used
to plain, if not slovenly, house-keeping before the money came,
both the wife and daughter had evolved into connoisseurs of modish
and luxurious hotel apparatus and garniture. They had learned to
revel in many courses, radiantly upholstered parlors, and a close
acquaintance with the hotel register. Society for them, wherever
they went, meant finding out the names of the other guests and
dressing for them, being on easy terms with the head waiter and
elevator boy, visiting the theatres, and keeping up a round of
shopping in pursuit of articles of apparel. They wore rich garments
and considerable jewelry, and plastered themselves&mdash;especially
the daughter&mdash;with bunches of violets or roses self-bestowed.
Mrs. Parsons was partial to perfume, and they both were addicted to
the free consumption of assorted bonbons. To be sure they had made
some acquaintances in the course of their peregrinations, but one
reason for moving to New York was that Mrs. Parsons had come to the
melancholy conclusion that neither the princes of Europe nor the
sons of American leading citizens were paying that attention to her
daughter which the young lady's charms seemed to her to merit. If
living lavishly in hotels and seeing everybody right and left were
not the high-road to elegant existence and hence to a brilliant
match for Lucretia, Mrs. Parsons was ready to try the effect of a
house on Fifth Avenue, though she preferred the comforts of her
present mode of life. Still one advantage of a stable home would be
that Mr. Parsons could be constantly with them, instead of an
occasional and intermittent visitor communicated with more
frequently by electricity than by word of mouth. While Mr. Parsons
was selecting the land, she and Lucretia had abandoned themselves
to an orgy of shopping, and with an eye to the new house, their
rooms at the hotel were already littered with gorgeous fabrics,
patterns of wall-paper and pieces of pottery.</p>
<p>Selma's facility in the New York manner was practised on Silas
Parsons with flattering success. He was captivated by
her&mdash;more so than by Flossy, who amused him as a
flibbertigibbet, but who seemed to him to lack the serious cast of
character which he felt that he discerned beneath the sprightliness
of this new charmer. Mr. Parsons was what he called a "stickler"
for the dignity of a serious demeanor. He liked to laugh at the
theatre, but mistrusted a daily point of view which savored of
buffoonery. He was fond of saying that more than one public man in
the United States had come to grief politically from being a joker,
and that the American people could not endure flippancy in their
representatives. He liked to tell and listen to humorous stories in
the security of a smoking-room, but in his opinion it behooved a
citizen to maintain a dignified bearing before the world. Like
other self-made men who had come to New York&mdash;like Selma
herself&mdash;he had shrunk from and deplored at first the lighter
tone of casual speech. Still he had grown used to it, and had even
come to depend on it as an amusement. But he felt that in the case
of Selma there was a basis of ethical earnestness, appropriate to
woman, beneath her chatty flow of small talk. That she was
comparatively a new-comer accounted partially for this impression,
but it was mainly due to the fact that she still reverted after her
sallies of pleasantry to a grave method of deportment.</p>
<p>Selma's chief hospitality toward the Parsonses took the form of
a theatre party, which included a supper at Delmonico's after the
play. It was an expensive kind of entertainment, which she felt
obliged to justify to Wilbur by the assertion that the Williamses
had been so civil she considered it would be only decent to show
attention to their friends. She was unwilling to disclose her
secret, lest the knowledge of it might make Wilbur offish and so
embarrass her efforts. There were eight in the party, and the
affair seemed to Selma to go off admirably. She was enthralled by
the idea of using her own personal magnetism to promote her
husband's business. She felt that it was just the sort of thing she
would like and was fitted for, and that here was an opportunity for
her individuality to display itself. She devoted herself with
engaging assiduity to Mr. Parsons, pleased during the active
process of propitiation by the sub-consciousness that her table was
one of the centres of interest in the large restaurant. She had
dressed herself with formal care, and nothing in the way of
compliment could have gratified her more than the remark which Mr.
Parsons made, as he regarded her appreciatively, when he had
finished his supper, that she suggested his idea of Columbia. Selma
glowed with satisfaction. The comparison struck her as apt and
appropriate, and she replied with a proud erection of her head,
which imparted to her features their transcendental look, and
caused her short curl to joggle tremulously, "I suppose I see what
you mean, Mr. Parsons."</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VII.</h3>
<p>One evening, four or five days after this supper party, Wilbur
laid down the book which he was pretending to read, and said,
"Selma, I have come to the conclusion that I must give up dabbling
in stocks. I am being injured by it&mdash;not financially, for, as
you know, I have made a few thousand dollars&mdash;but
morally."</p>
<p>"I thought you were convinced that it was not immoral," answered
Selma, in a constrained voice.</p>
<p>"I do not refer to whether speculation is justifiable in itself,
but to its effect on me as an individual&mdash;its distraction to
my mind and consequent interference with my professional work."</p>
<p>"Oh."</p>
<p>"For a year now, the greater portion of the time, I have had
some interest in the market, and as a consequence, have felt
impelled to look in on Williams and VanHorne every
day&mdash;sometimes oftener. I am unable to dismiss my speculations
from my thoughts. I find myself wondering what has happened to the
stocks I am carrying, and I am satisfied that the practice is
thoroughly demoralizing to my self-respect and to my progress. I am
going to give it up."</p>
<p>"I suppose you must give it up if it affects you like that,"
responded Selma drily. "I don't see exactly why it should."</p>
<p>"It may seem foolish to you, but I am unable to put my ventures
out of my mind. The consequences of loss would be so serious to me
that I suppose my imagination becomes unduly active and
apprehensive. Also, I find myself eager to secure large gains. I
must renounce Aladdin's lamp from this day forth, my dear, and
trust to my legitimate business for my income."</p>
<p>Selma folded her hands and looked grave. "It's disappointing
that you feel so just when we are beginning to get on, Wilbur."</p>
<p>"I have realized, Selma, that you have enjoyed
and&mdash;er&mdash;been made happier by the freedom to spend which
this extra money has afforded you. But I know, when you reflect,
you will understand that I am right, and that it would be
disastrous to both of us if I were to continue to do what I believe
demoralizing. It is a mortification to me to ask you to retrench,
but I said to myself that Selma would be the first to insist on our
doing so if she knew my feelings, and it makes me happy to be sure
of your approval."</p>
<p>Littleton spoke with a tender plaintiveness which betrayed that
in his secret soul he was less confident on this score than his
words declared, or than he himself supposed. "Of course," he added,
earnestly, "I shall hope that it will not make much difference. My
business is slowly, but steadily, improving, and I am doing more
this year than last. I am bending all my energies on my plans for
Wetmore College. If I win in that competition, I shall make a
reputation and a respectable commission."</p>
<p>"You have been on those plans three months."</p>
<p>"Yes, and shall not finish them for another two. I wish to do my
best work, and I shall be glad not to hear quotations of the ticker
in my brain. You desire me to be thorough, surely, Selma
<i>mia</i>?"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes. Only, you know people very often spoil things by
pottering over them."</p>
<p>"I never potter. I reject because I am dissatisfied rather than
offer a design which does not please me, but I do not waste my
time."</p>
<p>"Call it over-conscientiousness then. I wish you to do your best
work, of course, but one can't expect to do best work invariably.
Everything was going so nicely that you must perceive it will be
inconvenient to have to economize as we did before."</p>
<p>Littleton looked at his wife with a glance of loving distress.
"You wouldn't really care a button. I know you wouldn't, Selma," he
said, stoutly.</p>
<p>"Of course not, if it were necessary," she answered. "Only I
don't wish to do so unless it is necessary. I am not controverting
your decision about the stocks, though I think your imagination, as
you say, is to blame. I would rather cut my right hand off than
persuade you to act contrary to your conscience. But it <i>is</i>
inconvenient, Wilbur, you must admit, to give up the things we have
become accustomed to."</p>
<p>"We shall be able to keep the horse. I am certain of that."</p>
<p>"I wish you to see my side of it. Say that you do," she said,
with shrill intensity.</p>
<p>"It is because I do see it that I am troubled, Selma. For myself
I am no happier now than I was when we lived more simply. I can't
believe that you will really find it a hardship to deny yourself
such extravagances as our theatre party last week. Being a man," he
added, after a pause, "I suppose I may not appreciate how important
and seductive some of these social observances appear to a woman,
and heaven knows my chief wish in life is to do everything in my
power to make you happy. You must be aware of that, dearest. I
delight to work hard for your sake. But it seems almost ludicrous
to be talking of social interests to you, of all women. Why, at the
time we were married, I feared that you would cut yourself off from
reasonable pleasures on account of your dislike of everything
frivolous. I remember I encouraged you not to take too ascetic a
view of such things. So I am bound to believe that your side is my
side&mdash;that we both will find true happiness in not attempting
to compete with people whose tastes are not our tastes, and whose
aims are not our aims."</p>
<p>"Then you think I have deteriorated," she said, with a superior
smile.</p>
<p>"I think of you as the most conscientious woman I ever met. It
was only natural that you should be spurred by our neighbors, the
Williamses, to make a better showing socially before the world. I
have been glad to see you emulous up to a certain point. You must
realize though, that we cannot keep pace with them, even if we so
desire. Already they are in the public eye. He appears to have made
considerable money, and his views on the stock-market are given
prominence by the press. He and his wife are beginning to be
recognized by people who were ignorant of their existence four
years ago. You told me last week that Mrs. Williams had attended
one of the fashionable balls, and I saw in yesterday's newspaper a
description of her toilette at another. It begins to look as if, in
a few years more, their ambition might be realized, and the doors
of the Morton Price mansion open wide to admit this clever country
cousin to the earthly paradise. It must be evident to you, Selma,
that very shortly we shall see only the dust of their
chariot-wheels in the dim social distance. Williams told me to-day
that he has bought a house near the park."</p>
<p>"He has bought a new house? They are going to move?" exclaimed
Selma, sitting up straight, and with a fierce light in her
eyes.</p>
<p>"Yes. He was going home to tell his wife. It seems that they
have been talking vaguely of moving for some time. An acquaintance
happened to offer him a house, and Williams closed the bargain on
the spot in his customary chain-lightning style. I shall be sorry
to have them go on some accounts, for they have always been
friendly, and you seem fond of the wife, but we shall find it
easier, perhaps, when they are gone, to live according to our own
ideas."</p>
<p>"Flossy has not been quite so nice lately," said Selma; "I am
afraid she is disposed to put on airs."</p>
<p>"Her head may have been turned by her success. She has a kind
heart, but a giddy brain in spite of its cleverness."</p>
<p>"Flossy has been getting on, of course. But so are we getting
on. Why should they be recognized, as you call it, any more than
we? In time, I mean. Not in the same way, perhaps, since you don't
approve of the sort of things&mdash;"</p>
<p>"Since I don't approve? Why, Selma, surely&mdash;"</p>
<p>"Since <i>we</i> don't approve, then. I only mean that Gregory
Williams has shown initiative, has pushed ahead, and
is&mdash;er&mdash;the talk of the town. I expect you to be
successful, too. Is there any reason on earth why the door of the
Morton Prices should open wide to her and not to me?"</p>
<p>"I suppose not, if&mdash;if you wish it."</p>
<p>She made a gesture of impatience and gazed at him a moment with
an imperious frown, then suddenly, with the litheness of a cat, she
slipped from her chair to the floor at his feet, and leaning
against his knee, looked up into his face.</p>
<p>"You dear boy, I am going to tell you something. You said to me
once that if ever the time came when I thought you visionary, I was
to let you know. Of course I understand you are worth a thousand
<i>Gregorys</i>; but don't you think you would get on faster if you
were a little more aggressive in your work?&mdash;if you weren't so
afraid of being superficial or sensational? You were intimating a
few minutes ago," she added, speaking rapidly under the stress of
the message she burned to deliver, "that I seemed changed. I don't
believe I am changed. But, if I seem different, it is because I
feel so strongly that those who wish to succeed must assert
themselves and seize opportunities. There is where it seems to me
that Mr. Williams has the advantage over you, Wilbur. One of the
finest and most significant qualities of our people, you know, is
their enterprise and aggressiveness. Architecture isn't like the
stock business, but the same theory of progress must be applicable
to both. Don't you think I may be right, Wilbur? Don't you see what
I mean?"</p>
<p>He stroked her hair and answered gently, "What is it that I am
not doing which you think I might do?"</p>
<p>Selma snuggled close to him, and put her hand in his. She was
vibrating with the proud consciousness of the duty vouchsafed to
her to guide and assist the man she loved. It was a blissful and a
precious moment to her. "If I were you," she said, solemnly, "I
should build something striking and original, something which would
make everyone who beheld it ask, 'what is the architect's name?' I
would strike out boldly without caring too much what the critics
and the people of Europe would say. You musn't be too afraid,
Wilbur, of producing something American, and you mustn't be too
afraid of the American ways of doing things. We work more quickly
here in everything, and&mdash;and I still can't help feeling that
you potter a little. Necessarily I don't know about the details of
your business, but if I were you, instead of designing small
buildings or competing for colleges and churches, where more than
half the time someone else gets the award, I should make friends
with the people who live in those fine houses on Fifth Avenue, and
get an order to design a splendid residence for one of them. If you
were to make a grand success of that, as you surely would, your
reputation would be made. You ask me why I like to entertain and am
willing to know people like that. It is to help you to get clients
and to come to the front professionally. Now isn't that sensible
and practical and right, too?"</p>
<p>Her voice rang triumphantly with the righteousness of her
plea.</p>
<p>"Selma, dear, if I am not worldly-wise enough, I am glad to
listen to your suggestions. But art is not to be hurried. I cannot
vulgarize my art. I could not consent to that."</p>
<p>"Of course not, Wilbur. Not worldly-wise enough is just the
phrase, I think. You are so absorbed in the theory of fine things
that I am sure you often let the practical opportunities to get the
fine things to do slip."</p>
<p>"Perhaps, dear. I will try to guard against it." Wilbur took her
hands in his and looked down tenderly into her face. His own was a
little weary. "Above everything else in life I wish, to make you
happy," he said.</p>
<p>"I am happy, you dear boy."</p>
<p>"Truly?"</p>
<p>"Yes, truly. And if something happens which I am nearly sure
will happen, I shall be happier still. It's a secret, and I mustn't
tell you, but if it does happen, you can't help agreeing that your
wife has been clever and has helped you in your profession."</p>
<p>"Helped me? Ah, Selma," he said, folding her in his arms, "I
don't think you realize how much you are to me. In this modern
world, what with self-consciousness, and shyness and contemporary
distaste for fulsome expression, it is difficult to tell adequately
those we love how we feel toward them. You are my darling and my
inspiration. The sun rises and sets with you, and unless you were
happy, I could never be. Each man in this puzzling world must live
according to his own lights, and I, according to mine, am trying to
make the most of myself, consistent with self-respect and avoidance
of the low human aims and time-serving methods upon which our new
civilization is supposed to frown. If I am neglecting my lawful
opportunities, if I am failing to see wisely and correctly, I shall
be grateful for counsel. Ah, Selma, for your sake, even more than
for my own, I grieve that we have no children. A baby's hands
would, I fancy, be the best of counsellors and enlighteners."</p>
<p>"If children had come at first, it would have been very nice.
But now&mdash;now I think they might stand in the way of my being
of help to you. And I am so anxious to help you, Wilbur."</p>
<p>As a result of this conversation Littleton devoted himself more
assiduously than ever to his work. He was eager to increase his
earnings so that his income should not be curtailed by his decision
to avoid further ventures in the stock-market. He was troubled in
soul, for Selma's accusation that he was visionary haunted him.
Could it be that he was too scrupulous, too uncompromising, and
lacked proper enterprise? Self-scrutiny failed to convince him that
this was so, yet left a lurking doubt which was harassing. His
clear mind was too modest to believe in its own infallibility, for
he was psychologist enough to understand that no one can be
absolutely sure that his perspective of life is accurate. Possibly
he was sacrificing his wife's legitimate aspirations to too rigid
canons of behavior, and to an unconscious lack of initiative. On
the other hand, as a positive character, he believed that he saw
clearly, and he could not avoid the reflection that, if this was
the case, he and Selma were drifting apart&mdash;the more bitter
alternative of the two, and a condition which, if perpetuated,
would involve the destruction of the scheme of matrimonial
happiness, the ideal communion of two sympathetic souls, in which
he was living as a proud partner. Apparently he was in one of two
predicaments; either he was self deceived, which was abhorrent to
him as a thoughtful grappler with the eternal mysteries, or he had
misinterpreted the character of the woman whose transcendent
quality was a dearer faith to him than the integrity of his own
manhood.</p>
<p>So it was with a troubled heart that he applied himself to more
rigorous professional endeavor. Like most architects he had pursued
certain lines of work because orders had come to him, and the
chances of employment had ordained that his services should be
sought for small churches, school-houses and kindred buildings in
the surrounding country rather than for more elaborate and costly
structures. On these undertakings it was his habit to expend
abundant thought and devotion. The class of work was to his taste,
for, though the funds at his disposal were not always so large as
he desired for artistic effects, yet he enjoyed the opportunity of
showing that simplicity need not be homely and disenchanting, but
could wear the aspect of grace and poetry. Latterly he had been
requested to furnish designs for some blocks of houses in the
outlying wards of the city, where the owners sought to provide
attractive, modern flats for people with moderate means. Various
commissions had come to him, also, to design decorative work, which
interested him and gave scope to his refined and aspiring
imagination, and he was enthusiastically absorbed in preparing his
competitive plans for the building of Wetmore College. His time was
already well occupied by the matters which he had in hand. That is,
he had enough to do and yet did not feel obliged to deny himself
the luxury of deliberate thoroughness in connection with each
professional undertaking. Save for the thought that he must needs
earn more in order to please Selma, he would have been completely
happy in the slow but flattering growth of his business, and in
feeling his way securely toward greater success. Now, however, he
began to ask himself if it were not possible to hasten this or that
piece of work in order to afford himself the necessary leisure for
new employment. He began also to consider whether he might not be
able, without loss of dignity, to put himself in the way of
securing more important clients. To solicit business was not to be
thought of, but now and again he put the question to himself
whether he had not been too indifferent as to who was who, and what
was what, in the development of his business.</p>
<p>While Littleton was thus mulling over existing conditions, and
subjecting his conduct to the relentless lens of his own conscience
and theories, Selma announced to him jubilantly, about a fortnight
subsequent to their conversation, that her secret was a secret no
longer, and that Mr. Parsons desired to employ him to build an
imposing private residence on Fifth Avenue near the Park. Mr.
Parsons confirmed this intelligence on the following day in a
personal interview. He informed Littleton that he was going to
build in order to please his wife and daughter, and intimated that
expense need not stand in the way of the gratification of their
wishes. After the business matters were disposed of he was
obviously ready to intrust all the artistic details to his
architect. Consequently Littleton enjoyed an agreeable quarter of
an hour of exaltation. He was pleased at the prospect of building a
house of this description, and the hope of being able to give free
scope to his architectural bent without molestation made that
prospect roseate. He could desire no better opportunity for
expressing his ideas and proving his capacity. It was an ideal
chance, and his soul thrilled as he called up the shadowy fabric of
scheme after scheme to fill the trial canvas of his fantasy. Nor
did he fail to award due credit to Selma for her share in the
transaction; not to the extent, perhaps, of confessing incapacity
on his own part, but by testifying lovingly to her cleverness. She
was in too good humor at her success to insist on his humiliation
in set terms. The two points in which she was most vitally
interested&mdash;the advantage of her own interference and the
consequent prompt extension of her husband's field of
usefulness&mdash;had been triumphantly proved, and there was no
need that the third&mdash;Wilbur's lack of capacity to battle and
discriminate for himself&mdash;should be emphasized. Selma knew
what she thought in her own mind, and she entertained the hope that
this lesson might be a lamp to his feet for future illumination.
She was even generous enough to exclaim, placing her hands on his
shoulders and looking into his face with complacent fervor:</p>
<p>"You might have accomplished it just as well yourself,
Wilbur."</p>
<p>Littleton shook his head and smiled. "It was a case of witchery
and fascination. He probably divined how eager you were to help me,
and he was glad to yield to the agreeable spell of your wifely
devotion."</p>
<p>"Oh, no," said Selma. "I am sure he never guessed for one moment
of what I was thinking. Of course, I did try to make him like me,
but that was only sensible. To make people like one is the way to
get business, I believe."</p>
<p>Littleton's quarter of an hour of exaltation was rudely checked
by a note from Mrs. Parsons, requesting an interview in regard to
the plans. When he presented himself he found her and her daughter
imbued with definite ideas on the subject of architects and
architecture. In the eyes of Mrs. Parsons the architect of her
projected house was nothing but a young man in the employ of her
husband, who was to guide them as to measurements, carpentry,
party-walls and plumbing, but was otherwise to do her bidding for a
pecuniary consideration, on the same general basis as the waiter at
the hotel or the theatre ticket-agent. As to architecture, she
expected him to draw plans just as she expected dealers in carpets
or wall-papers to show her patterns in easy succession. "I don't
care for that; take it away." "That is rather pretty, but let me
see something else." What she said to Littleton was, "We haven't
quite decided yet what we want, but, if you'll bring some plans the
next time you call, we'll let you know which we like best. There's
a house in Vienna I saw once, which I said at the time to Lucretia
I would copy if I ever built. I've mislaid the photograph of it,
but I may be able to tell you when I see your drawings how it
differed from yours. Lucretia has a fancy for something Moorish or
Oriental. I guess Mr. Parsons would prefer brown-stone, plain and
massive, but he has left it all to us, and both daughter and I
think we'd rather have a house which would speak for itself, and
not be mixed up with everybody else's. You'd better bring us half a
dozen to choose from, and between me and you and Lucretia, we'll
arrive at something elegant and unique."</p>
<p>This was sadly disillusionizing to Littleton, and the second
experience was no less so. The refined outline sketches proffered
by him were unenthusiastically surveyed and languidly discarded
like so many wall-papers. It was evident that both the mother and
daughter were disappointed, and Littleton presently divined that
their chief objection was to the plainness of the several designs.
This was made unmistakably obvious when Mrs. Parsons, after
exhibiting a number of photographs of foreign public buildings with
which she had armed herself, surveyed the most ornate, holding it
out with her head on one side, and exclaimed impressively, "This is
more the sort of thing we should like. I think Mr. Parsons has
already explained to you that he desired our house to be as
handsome as possible."</p>
<p>"I had endeavored to bear that in mind," Littleton retorted with
spirit. "I believe that either of these plans would give you a
house which would be handsome, interesting and in good taste."</p>
<p>"It does not seem to me that there is anything unique about any
of them," said Mrs. Parsons, with a cold sniff intended to be
conclusive. Nor did Littleton's efforts to explain that elaboration
in a private residence was liable to detract from architectural
dignity and to produce the effect of vulgarity fall upon receptive
soil. The rich man's wife listened in stony silence, at times
raising her lorgnette to examine as a curiosity this young man who
was telling her&mdash;an American woman who had travelled around
the world and seen everything to be seen&mdash;how she ought to
build her own house. The upshot of this interview was that
Littleton was sent away with languid instructions to try again. He
departed, thinking melancholy thoughts and with fire in his soul,
which, for Selma's sake, he endeavored to keep out of his eyes.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3>
<p>The departure of the Williamses to a smarter neighborhood was a
trial for Selma. She nursed the dispiriting reflection that she and
Wilbur might just as well be moving also; that a little foresight
and shrewdness on her husband's part would have enabled him to sell
at a handsome profit the house in which they were living; and that
there was no reason, except the sheer, happy faculty of making the
most of opportunities, to account for the social recognition which
Flossy and her husband were beginning to receive. It had not been
easy to bear with equanimity during the last year the ingenuous,
light-hearted warblings in which Flossy had indulged as an outlet
to her triumphant spirits, and to listen to na&iuml;ve recitals of
new progress, as though she herself were a companion or ladies'
maid, to whom such developments could never happen. She was weary
of being merely a recipient of confidences and a sympathetic
listener, and more weary still of being regarded as such by her
self-absorbed and successful neighbor. Why should Flossy be so
dense? Why should she play second fiddle to Flossy? Why should
Flossy take for granted that she did not intend to keep pace with
her? Keep pace, indeed, when, if circumstances would only shape
themselves a little differently, she would be able speedily to
outstrip her volatile friend in the struggle for social
preferment.</p>
<p>Not unnaturally their friendship had been somewhat strained by
the simmering of these thoughts in Selma's bosom. If a recipient of
confidences becomes tart or cold, ingenuous prattle is apt to flow
less spontaneously. Though Flossy was completely self-absorbed, and
consequently glad to pour out her satisfaction into a sympathetic
ear, she began to realize that there was something amiss with her
friend which mere conscientious disapproval of her own frivolities
did not adequately explain. It troubled her somewhat, for she liked
the Littletons and was proud of her acquaintance with them.
However, she was conscious of having acquitted herself toward them
with liberality, and, especially now that her social vista was
widening, she was not disposed at first to analyze too deeply the
cause of the lack of sympathy between them. That is, she was struck
by Selma's offish manner and frigid silences, but forgot them until
they were forced upon her attention the next time they met. But as
her friend continued to receive her bubbling announcements with
stiff indifference, Flossy, in her perplexity, began to bend her
acute mental faculties more searchingly on her idol. A fixed point
of view will keep a shrine sacred forever, but let a worshipper's
perspective be altered, and it is astonishing how different the
features of divinity will appear. Flossy had worshipped with the
eyes of faith. Now that her adoration was rejected without apparent
cause, her curiosity was piqued, and she sought an interpretation
of the mystery from her clever wits. As she observed Selma more
dispassionately her suspicion was stirred, and she began to wonder
if she had been burning incense before a false goddess. This doubt
was agitating her mind at the time when they moved from the
street.</p>
<p>Selma was unconscious of the existence of this doubt as she had
been largely unconscious of her own sour demeanor. She had no wish
to lose the advantages of intimate association with the Williamses.
On the contrary, she expected to make progress on her own account
by admission into their new social circle. She went promptly to
call, and saw fit to show herself tactfully appreciative of the new
establishment and more ready to listen to Flossy's volubility.
Flossy, who was radiant and bubbling over with fresh experiences
which she was eager to impart, was glad to dismiss her doubt and to
give herself up to the delights of unbridled speech. She took Selma
over her new house, which had been purchased just as it stood,
completely furnished, from the previous owner, who had suffered
financial reverses. "Gregory bought it because it was really a
bargain," she said. "It will do very well for the present, but we
intend to build before long. I am keeping my eye on your husband,
and am expecting great things from the Parsons house. Do you know,
I believe in Mr. Littleton, and feel sure that some day we shall
wake up and find him famous."</p>
<p>This was amiable, particularly as Flossy was very busily engaged
in contemplating the brilliant progress of Gregory Williams and his
wife. But Selma returned home feeling sore and dissatisfied. Flossy
had been gracious, but still dense and na&iuml;vely condescending.
Selma chose to foresee that her friend would neglect her, and her
foresight was correct. The call was not returned for many weeks,
although Flossy had assured her when they separated that distance
would make no difference in their intimacy. But in the first place,
her doubts recurred to Flossy after the departure of her visitor,
and in the second, the agitations incident to her new surroundings,
fortified by these doubts, made neglect easy. When she did call,
Selma happened to be out. A few days later an invitation to dine
with the Williamses arrived. Selma would have preferred to remain
at home as a rebuke, but she was miserably conscious that Flossy
would not perceive the point of the refusal. So she went, and was
annoyed when she realized that the guests were only people whom she
knew already&mdash;the Parsonses, and some of Gregory Williams's
former associates, whom she had met at the old house. It was a
pleasant dinner, apparently, to all except Selma. The entertainment
was flatteringly lavish, and both the host and hostess with suavity
put in circulation, under the rose, the sentiment that there are no
friends like old friends&mdash;a graceful insincerity which most of
them present accepted as true. Indeed, in one sense it was not an
insincerity, for Gregory and his wife entertained cordial feelings
toward them all. But on the other hand, Selma's immediate and
bitter conclusion was also true, that the company had been invited
together for the reason that, in the opinion of Flossy, they would
not have harmonized well with anyone else.</p>
<p>Said Wilbur as they drove away from the house&mdash;"Barring a
few moments of agony in the society of my tormentor, Mrs. Parsons,
I had a pleasant evening. They were obviously potting their old
acquaintance in one pie, but to my thinking it was preferable to
being sandwiched in between some of their new friends whom we do
not know and who know nothing of us. It was a little evident, but
on the whole agreeable."</p>
<p>Selma, shrouded in her wraps, made no reply at first. Suddenly
she exclaimed, with, fierceness, "I consider it rank impertinence.
It was as much as to say that they do not think us good enough to
meet their new friends."</p>
<p>Littleton, who still found difficulty in remembering that his
wife would not always enjoy the humor of an equivocal situation,
was sorry that he had spoken. "Come, Selma," he said, "there's no
use in taking that view of the matter. You would not really care to
meet the other people."</p>
<p>"Yes, I would, and she knows it. I shall never enter her house
again."</p>
<p>"As to that, my dear, the probabilities are that we shall not be
asked for some time. You know perfectly well that, in the nature of
things, your intimacy with Mrs. Williams must languish now that she
lives at a distance and has new surroundings. She may continue to
be very fond of you, but you can't hope to see very much of her,
unless I am greatly mistaken in her character."</p>
<p>"She is a shallow little worldling," said Selma, with measured
intensity.</p>
<p>"But you knew that already. The fact that she invited us to
dinner and did not ignore our existence altogether shows that she
likes us and wishes to continue the friendship. I've no doubt she
believes that she is going to see a great deal of us, and you
should blame destiny and the force of fashionable circumstances,
not Flossy, if you drift apart."</p>
<p>"She invited us because she wished to show off her new
house."</p>
<p>"Not altogether. You musn't be too hard on her."</p>
<p>Selma moved her shoulders impatiently, and there was silence for
some moments broken only by the tapping of her foot. Then she
asked, "How nearly have you finished the plans for the Parsons
house?"</p>
<p>Wilbur's brow clouded under cover of the night. He hesitated an
instant before replying, "I am sorry to say that Mrs. Parsons and I
do not seem to get on very well together. Her ideas and mine on the
subject of architecture are wide apart, as I have intimated to you
once or twice. I have modified my plans again, and she has made
airy suggestions which from my point of view are impossible. We are
practically at loggerheads, and I am trying to make up my mind what
I ought to do."</p>
<p>There was a wealth of condensation in the word 'impossible'
which brought back unpleasantly to Selma Pauline's use of the same
word in connection with the estimate which had been formed of Miss
Bailey. "There can be only one thing to do in the end," she said,
"if you can't agree. Mrs. Parsons, of course, must have her house
as she wishes it. It is her house, Wilbur."</p>
<p>"It is her house, and she has that right, certainly. The
question is whether I am willing to allow the world to point to an
architectural hotch-potch and call it mine."</p>
<p>"Isn't this another case of neglecting the practical side,
Wilbur? I am sure you exaggerate the importance of the changes she
desires. If I were building a house, I should expect to have it
built to suit me, and I should be annoyed if the architect stood on
points and were captious." Selma under the influence of this more
congenial theme had partially recovered her equanimity. Her duty
was her pleasure, and it was clearly her duty to lead her husband
in the right path and save him from becoming the victim of his own
shortcomings.</p>
<p>Wilbur sighed. "I have told her," he said, "that I would submit
another entirely new sketch. It may be that I can introduce some of
her and her daughter's splurgy and garish misconceptions without
making myself hopelessly ridiculous."</p>
<p>He entered the house wearily, and as he stood before the hall
table under the chandelier, Selma took him by the arm and turning
him toward her gazed into his face. "I wish to examine you. Pauline
said to me to-day that she thinks you are looking pale. I don't see
that you are; no more so than usual. You never were rosy exactly.
Do you know I have an idea that she thinks I am working you to
death."</p>
<p>"Pauline? What reason has she to think anything of the kind?
Besides, I am perfectly well. It is a delight to work for a woman
like you, dearest." He took her face between his hands and kissed
her tenderly; yet gravely, too, as though the riddle of life did
not solve itself at the touch of her lips. "You will be interested
to hear," he added, "that I shall finish and send off the Wetmore
College plans this week."</p>
<p>"I am glad they are off your hands, for you will have more time
for other work."</p>
<p>"Yes. I think I may have done something worth while," he said,
wistfully.</p>
<p>"And I shall try not to be annoyed if someone else gets the
award," she responded, smoothing down the sheen of her evening
dress and regarding herself in the mirror.</p>
<p>"Of course someone else may have taken equal pains and done a
better thing. It is necessary always to be prepared for that."</p>
<p>"That is the trouble. That is why I disapprove of
competitions."</p>
<p>"Selma, you are talking nonsense," Littleton exclaimed with
sudden sternness.</p>
<p>The decision in his tone made her start. The color mounted to
her face, and she surveyed him for an instant haughtily, as though
he had done her an injury. Then with an oratorical air and her
archangel look, she said, "You do not seem to understand, Wilbur,
that I am trying to save you from yourself."</p>
<p>Littleton was ever susceptible to that look of hers. It
suggested incarnate conscientiousness, and seemed incompatible with
human imperfection or unworthy ambitions. He was too wroth to
relent altogether, but he compressed his lips and returned her look
searchingly, as though he would scrutinize her soul.</p>
<p>"I'm bound to believe, I do believe, that you are trying to help
me, Selma. I need your advice and help, even against myself, I dare
say. But there are some matters of which you cannot judge so well
as I. You must trust my opinion where the development of my
professional life is concerned. I shall not forget your caution to
be practical, but for the sake of expediency I cannot be false to
what I believe true. Come, dear, let us go to bed."</p>
<p>He put his hand on her arm to lead her upstairs, but she turned
from it to collect her fan and gloves. Looking, not at him, but at
herself in the mirror, she answered, "Of course. I trust, though,
that this does not mean you intend to act foolishly in regard to
the Parsons house."</p>
<p>"I have already told you," he said, looking back, "that I am
going to make another attempt to satisfy that exasperating woman
and her daughter."</p>
<p>"And you can satisfy them, I'm sure, if you only choose to,"
said Selma, by way of a firm, final observation.</p>
<p>Littleton's prophecy in regard to the waning of friendship
between his wife and Mrs. Williams proved to be correct.
Propinquity had made them intimate, and separation by force of
circumstances put a summary end to frequent and cordial intercourse
between them. As he had predicted, their first invitation to the
new house was still the last at the end of three months, and save
for a few words on one occasion in the street, Selma and Flossy did
not meet during that period. But during that same three months
Selma's attention was constantly attracted to the Williamses by
prominent newspaper allusions to their prosperity and growing
fashionable prestige. What they did and where they went were
chronicled in the then new style journalistic social gossip, and
the every-day world was made familiar with his financial opinions
and his equipages and her toilettes. The meeting in the street was
an ordeal for Selma. Flossy had been shopping and was about to step
into her carriage, the door of which was held open by an imposing
liveried footman, when the two women nearly collided.</p>
<p>"I have not seen you for an age," Flossy exclaimed, with the
genuine ring of regret in her tone, with which busy people
partially atone for having left undone the things they ought or
would like to have done. "Which way are you going? Can't I take you
somewhere?"</p>
<p>Selma glanced sternly at the snug coupe and stylish horses. "No,
we don't seem to meet very often," she said drily. "I'm living,
though, at the same place," she added, with a determination to be
sprightly.</p>
<p>"Yes, I know; I owe you a call. It's dreadful of me. I've been
intending to come, but you can't imagine how busy I've been. Such a
number of invitations, and new things to be done. I'm looking
forward to giving you a full account of my experiences."</p>
<p>"I've read about them in the newspapers."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes. Gregory is always civil to reporters. He says that the
newspapers are one of the great institutions of the country, and
that it is sensible to keep in touch with them. I will confide to
you that I think the whole business vulgar, and I intend some day,
when we are firmly established, to be ugly to them. But at present
the publicity is rather convenient and amusing," she exclaimed,
with a gay shake of her head, which set her ringlets bobbing.</p>
<p>"I should think it would be unpleasant to have the details of
one's appearance described by the press."</p>
<p>Flossy's doubts had returned in full force during the
conversation. She said to herself, "I wonder if that is true? I
wonder if it wouldn't be the very thing she would like?" But she
answered blithely, "Oh, one gets used to it. Then I can't take you
anywhere? I'm sorry. Some day I hope my round of gayety will cease,
so that we can have a quiet evening together. I miss your husband.
I always find him suggestive and interesting."</p>
<p>"'Her round of gayety! A quiet evening together!'" murmured
Selma as she walked away. "Wilbur is right; purse-proud, frivolous
little thing! She is determined to destroy our friendship."</p>
<p>Four weeks subsequent to this meeting the newspapers contained a
fulsome account of a dancing party given by Mr. and Mrs. Gregory
Williams&mdash;"an elegant and recherch&eacute; entertainment," in
the language of the reporter. A list of the company followed, which
Selma scrutinized with a brow like a thunder-cloud. She had
acquired a feverish habit of perusing similar lists, and she
recognized that Flossy's guests&mdash;among the first of whom were
Mr. and Mrs. Morton Price and the Misses Price&mdash;were chiefly
confined to persons whom she had learned to know as members of
fashionable society. She read, in the further phraseology of the
reporter, that "it was a small and select affair." At the end of
the list, as though they had been invited on sufferance as a
business necessity, were the Parsonses; but these were the only
former associates of the Williamses. Selma had just finished her
second reading of this news item when her meditation was
interrupted by the voice of her husband, who had been silent during
dinner, as though he had some matter on his mind, and was at the
moment sitting close by, on the other side of the lamp which
lighted the library table.</p>
<p>"I fear you will be disappointed, Selma, but I have informed Mr.
Parsons definitely this morning, that he must get another
architect. The ideas of his wife and daughter are hopelessly at
variance with mine. He seemed to be sorry&mdash;indeed, I should
think he was a reasonable and sensible man&mdash;but he said that
he was building to please Mrs. Parsons, and we both agreed that
under the circumstances it was necessary that she should make a
fresh start. He asked me to send my bill, and we parted on the best
of terms. So it is all over, and except from the point of view of
dollars and cents, I am very glad. Only the remembrance that you
had set your heart on my making this my masterpiece, prevented me
from throwing over the contract weeks ago. Tell me, Selma
<i>mia</i>, that you approve of what I have done and congratulate
me." He pulled forward his chair so that he might see her face
without interference from the lamp and leaned toward her with frank
appeal.</p>
<p>"Yes, I had set my heart on it, and you knew it. Yet you
preferred to give up this fine opportunity to show what you could
do and to get business worth having rather than sacrifice your own
ideas as to how a house should be built to the ideas of the women
who were to live in it. I dare say I should agree with them, and
that the things which they wished and you objected to were things I
would have insisted on having."</p>
<p>Littleton started as though she had struck him in the face.
"Selma! My wife! Do you realize what you are saying?"</p>
<p>"Perfectly."</p>
<p>"Then&mdash;then&mdash;. Why, what have I said, what have I done
that you should talk like this?"</p>
<p>"Done? Everything. For one thing you have thrown away the chance
for getting ahead in your profession which I procured for you. For
another, by your visionary, unpractical ways, you have put me in
the position where I can be insulted. Read that, and judge for
yourself." She held out to him the newspaper containing the account
of the dancing party, pointing with her finger to the obnoxious
passage.</p>
<p>With nervous hands Littleton drew the page under the light.
"What is all this about? A party? What has it to do with our
affairs?"</p>
<p>"It has this to do with them&mdash;if you had been more
practical and enterprising, our names would have been on that
list."</p>
<p>"I am glad they are not there."</p>
<p>"Yes, I know. You would be content to have us remain nobodies
all our days. You do not care what becomes of my life, provided you
can carry out your own narrow theory of how we ought to live. And I
had such faith in you, too! I have refused to believe until now
that you were not trying to make the most of your opportunities,
and to enable me to make the most of mine."</p>
<p>"Selma, are you crazy? To think that you, the woman I have loved
with all my soul, should be capable of saying such things to me!
What does it mean?"</p>
<p>She was quick to take advantage of his phrase. "Have loved? Yes,
I know that you do not love me as you did; otherwise you could not
have refused to build that house, against my wish and advice. It
means this, Wilbur Littleton, that I am determined not to let you
spoil my life. You forget that in marrying you I gave up my own
ambitions and hopes for your sake; because&mdash;because I believed
that by living together we should be more, and accomplish more,
than by living apart. You said you needed me, and I was fool enough
to believe it."</p>
<p>The fierce tragedy in her tone lapsed into self-pity under the
influence of her last thought, and Littleton, eager in his
bewilderment for some escape from the horror of the situation, put
aside his anger and dropping on his knees beside her tried to take
her hands.</p>
<p>"You are provoked, my darling. Do not say things which you will
be sorry for to-morrow. I call God to witness that I have sought
above all else to make you happy, and if I have failed, I am
utterly miserable. I have needed you, I do need you. Do not let a
single difference of opinion spoil the joy of both our lives and
divide our hearts."</p>
<p>She pulled her hands away, and shunning his endearment, rose to
her feet.</p>
<p>"I am provoked, but I know what I am saying. A single difference
of opinion? Do you not see, Wilbur, that none of our opinions are
the same, and that we look at everything differently? Even your
religion and the God you call to witness are not mine. They are
stiff and cold; you Unitarians permit your consciences to deaden
your emotions and belittle your outlook on life. When I went with
Mr. Parsons the other day to the Methodist church, I could not help
thinking how different it was. I was thrilled and I felt I could do
anything and be anything. My mother was a Methodist. They sang
'Onward Christian Soldiers,' and it was glorious." She paused a
moment and, with an exalted look, seemed to be recalling the
movement of the hymn. "With you, Wilbur, and the people like
you&mdash;Pauline is the same&mdash;everything is measured and
pondered over, and nothing is spontaneous. I like action, and
progress and prompt, sensible conclusions. That is the American
way, and the way in which people who succeed get on. But you won't
see it&mdash;you can't see it. I've tried to explain it to you, and
now&mdash;now it's too late. We're nobodies, and, if our hearts are
divided, that's fate I suppose. It's a very cruel fate for me. But
I don't choose to remain a nobody."</p>
<p>Littleton's expression as she talked had changed from
astonishment to anger, and from anger to a sternness which gave his
words of response the effect of calm and final decision. "You have
said so many things with which I do not agree, and which I should
have to dispute, that I will not attempt to argue with you
concerning them. One thing is clear, both of us have made a
horrible mistake. Each has misunderstood the other. You are
dissatisfied with me; I realize suddenly that you are utterly
different from what I supposed. I am overwhelmed, but your words
make plain many things which have distressed and puzzled me." He
paused as though in spite of the certainty of his tone, he hoped
that she would see fit to deny his conclusions. "We have made a
mistake and we shall both be miserable&mdash;that must needs
be&mdash;but we must consider whether there is any method by which
we can be less unhappy. What would you like to have me do, Selma?
We have no children, thank heaven! Would it be more agreeable to
live apart from me and receive support? A divorce does not seem
necessary. Besides, our misconception of each other would not be a
legal cause."</p>
<p>Selma flushed at the reference to divorce. Littleton's sad,
simple statement wore on the surface no sign of a design to hark
back to her experience with her first husband, yet she divined that
it must be in his thoughts and she resented the recurrence.
Moreover, separation, certainly for the present, went beyond her
purpose.</p>
<p>"I have no wish for divorce or separation. I see no reason why
we should not continue to live as we are," she answered. "To
separate would cause scandal. It is not necessary that people
should know we have made a mistake. I shall merely feel more free
now to live my own life&mdash;and there is no telling that you may
not some day see things from my point of view and sympathize with
me more." She uttered the last words with a mixture of pathos and
bright solicitation.</p>
<p>Littleton shook his head. "I agree with you that to go on as we
are is our best course. As you say, we ought, if possible, to keep
the knowledge of our sorrow to ourselves. God knows that I wish I
could hope that our life could ever be as it was before. Too many
things have become plain to me in the last half-hour to make that
possible. I could never learn to accept or sympathize with your
point of view. There can be no half-love with me, Selma. It is my
nature to be frank, and as you are fond of saying, that is the
American way. I am your husband still, and while I live you shall
have my money and my protection. But I have ceased to be your
lover, though my heart is broken."</p>
<p>"Very well," said Selma, after a painful pause. "But you know,
Wilbur," she added in a tone of eager protestation, "that I do not
admit for a moment that I am at fault. I was simply trying to help
you. You have only yourself to blame for your unhappiness
and&mdash;and for mine. I hope you understand that."</p>
<p>"Yes, I understand that you think so," he said sadly.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER IX.</h3>
<p>The breach between Littleton and his wife was too serious to be
healed, for he was confronted by the conviction that Selma was a
very different being from the woman whom he had supposed that he
was marrying. He had been slow to harbor distrust, and loath, even
in the face of her own words, to admit that he had misinterpreted
her character; but this last conversation left no room for doubt.
Selma had declared to him, unequivocally, that his ideas and theory
of life were repugnant to her, and that, henceforth, she intended
to act independently of them, so far as she could do so, and yet
maintain the semblance of the married state. It was a cruel shock
and disappointment to him. At the time of his marriage he would
have said that the least likely of possible happenings would be
self-deception as to the character of the woman he loved. Yet this
was precisely what had befallen him.</p>
<p>Having realized his mistake, he did not seek to flinch from the
bitter truth. He saw clearly that their future relations toward
each other must be largely formal; that tender comradeship and
mutual soul alliance were at an end. At the same time his simple,
direct conscience promptly indicated to him that it was his duty to
recognize Selma's point of view and endeavor to satisfy it as far
as he could without sacrifice of his own principles. He chose to
remember that she, too, had made a mistake, and that he was not the
kind of husband whom she desired; that his tastes were not her
tastes, nor his ambitions her's; that she had tastes and ambitions
of her own which he, as the man to whom she was bound by the law,
must not disregard. Thus reasoning, he resolved to carry out the
scheme of life which she appeared to despise, but also to work hard
to provide her with the means to fulfil her own aims. She craved
money for social advancement. She should have it from him, for
there was no other source from which she could obtain it. The
poignancy of his own sorrow should not cause him to ignore that she
had given up her own career and pursuits in order to become his
wife, and was now disappointed and without independent resources.
His pride was sorely wounded, his ideals shattered and his heart
crushed; yet, though he could not forbear from judging Selma, and
was unconscious of having failed in his obligations to her as a
husband and a man, he saw what she called her side, and he took up
the thread of life again under the spur of an intention to give her
everything but love.</p>
<p>On her part Selma felt aggrieved yet emancipated. She had not
looked for any such grave result from her vituperation. She had
intended to reprove his surrender of the Parsons's contract, in
direct opposition to her own wishes, with the severity it deserved,
and to let him understand clearly that he was sacrificing her
happiness, no less than his own, by his hysterical folly. When the
conversation developed stubborn resistance on his part, and she
realized that he was defending and adhering to his purpose, a
righteous sense of injury became predominant in her mind over
everything else. All her past wrongs cried for redress, and she
rejoiced in the opportunity of giving free vent to the pent up
grievances which had been accumulating for many months. Even then
it was startling to her that Wilbur should suddenly utter the
tragic ultimatum that their happiness was at an end, and hint at
divorce. She considered that she loved him, and it had never
occurred to her that he could ever cease to love her. Rather than
retract a word of her own accusations she would have let him leave
her, then and there, to live her own life without protection or
support from him, but his calmer decision that they should continue
to live together, yet apart, suited her better. In spite of his
resolute mien she was sceptical of the seriousness of the
situation. She believed in her heart that after a few days of
restraint they would resume their former life, and that Wilbur, on
reflection, would appreciate that he had been absurd.</p>
<p>When it became apparent that he was not to be appeased and that
his threat had been genuine, Selma accepted the new relation
without demur, and prepared to play her part in the compact as
though she had been equally obdurate in her outcry for her freedom.
She met reserve with reserve, maintaining rigorously the attitude
that she had been wronged and that he was to blame. Meantime she
watched him narrowly, wondering what his grave, sad demeanor and
solicitous politeness signified. When presently it became plain to
her that not merely she was to be free to follow her own bent, but
that he was ready to provide her with the means to carry out her
schemes, she regarded his liberality as weakness and a sign that he
knew in his heart that she was in the right. Immediately, and with
thinly concealed triumph, she planned to utilize the new liberty at
her disposal, purging any scruples from her conscience by the
generous reflection that when Wilbur's brow unbent and his lips
moved freely she would forgive him and proffer him once more her
conjugal counsel and sympathy. She was firmly of the opinion that,
unless he thus acknowledged his shortcomings and promised
improvement, the present arrangement was completely to her liking,
and that confidence and happiness between them would be utterly
impossible. She shed some tears over the thought that unkind
circumstances had robbed her of the love by which she had set such
store and which she, on her part, still cherished, but she
comforted herself with the retort that its loss was preferable to
sacrificing weakly the development of her own ideas and life to its
perpetuation.</p>
<p>Her flush of triumph was succeeded, however, by a discontented
mood, because cogitation constrained her to suspect that her social
progress might not be so rapid as her first rosy visions had
suggested. She counted on being able to procure the participation
of Wilbur sufficiently to preserve the appearance of domestic
harmony. This would be for practical purposes a scarcely less
effective furtherance of her plans than if he were heartily in
sympathy with them. Were there not many instances where busy
husbands took part in the social undertakings of their wives,
merely on the surface, to preserve appearances? The attitude of
Wilbur seemed reasonably secure. That which harassed her as the
result of her reflections and efforts to plan was the unpalatable
consciousness that she did not know exactly what to do, and that no
one, even now that she was free, appeared eager to extend to her
the hand of recognition. She was prompt to lay the blame of this on
her husband. It was he who, by preventing her from taking advantage
of the social opportunities at their disposal, had consigned her to
this eddy where she was overlooked. This seemed to her a complete
excuse, and yet, though she made the most of it, it did not satisfy
her. Her helplessness angered her, and aroused her old feelings of
suspicion and resentment against the fashionable crew who appeared
to be unaware of her existence. She was glad to believe that the
reason they ignored her was because she was too serious minded and
spiritual to suit their frivolous and pleasure-loving tastes.
Sometimes she reasoned that the sensible thing for her to do was to
break away from her present life, where convention and caste
trammelled her efforts, and make a name for herself as an
independent soul, like Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle and other
free-born women of the Republic. With satisfaction she pictured
herself on the lecture platform uttering burning denunciation of
the un-American social proclivities of this shallow society, and
initiating a crusade which should sweep it from existence beneath
the ban of the moral sense of the thoughtful people of the
country.</p>
<p>But more frequently she nursed her resentment against Mrs.
Williams, to whom she ascribed the blame of her isolation,
reasoning that if Flossy had been a true friend, not even Wilbur's
waywardness would have prevented her social recognition and
success. That, instead, this volatile, fickle prattler had used her
so long as she needed her, and then dropped her heartlessly. The
memory of Flossy's ball still rankled deeply, and appeared to Selma
a more obvious and more exasperating insult as the days passed
without a sign of explanation on the part of her late neighbor, and
as her new projects languished for lack of a few words of
introduction here and there, which, in her opinion, were all she
needed to ensure her enthusiastic welcome as a social leader. The
appreciation that without those words of introduction she was
helpless for the time being focused her resentment, already keen,
on the successful Flossy, whose gay doings had disappeared from the
public prints in a blaze of glory with the advent of the Lenten
season. Refusing to acknowledge her dependence, Selma essayed
several spasmodic attempts to assert herself, but they proved
unsatisfactory. She made the most of Mr. Parsons's predilection for
her society, which had not been checked by Wilbur's termination of
the contract. She was thus enabled to affiliate with some of their
new friends, but she was disagreeably conscious that she was not
making real progress, and that Mr. and Mrs. Parsons and their
daughter had, like herself, been dropped by the
Williamses&mdash;dropped skilfully and imperceptibly, yet none the
less dropped. Two dinner parties, which she gave in the course of a
fortnight to the most important of these new acquaintances, by way
of manifesting to Wilbur her intention to enjoy her liberty at his
expense, left her depressed and sore.</p>
<p>It was just at this time that Flossy took it into her head to
call on her&mdash;one of her first Lenten duties, as she hastened
to assure Selma, with glib liveliness, as soon as she entered.
Flossy was in too exalted a frame of mind, too bubbling over with
the desire to recite her triumphs, to have in mind either her
doubts concerning Selma or the need of being more than mildly
apologetic for her lack of devotion. She felt friendly, for she was
in good humor, and was na&iuml;vely desirous to be received in the
same spirit, so that she might unbosom herself unreservedly.
Sweeping into the room, an animated vision of smiling, stylish
cordiality, she sought, as it were, to carry before her by force of
her own radiant mood all obstacles to an amiable reception.</p>
<p>"My dear, we haven't met for ages. Thank heaven, Lent has come,
and now I may see something of you. I said to Gregory only
yesterday that I should make a bee-line for your house, and here I
am. Well, dear, how are you? All sorts of things have happened,
Selma, since we've had a real chat together. Do you remember my
telling you&mdash;of course you do&mdash;not long after Gregory and
I were married that I never should be satisfied until one thing
happened? Well, you may congratulate me; it has happened. We dined
a week ago to-night with my cousins&mdash;the Morton Prices&mdash;a
dinner of fourteen, all of them just the people I wished to know.
Wasn't it lovely? I have waited for it to come, and I haven't moved
a finger to bring it about, except to ask them to my dancing
party&mdash;I had to do that, for after all they are my relations.
They accepted and came and I was pleased by it; but they could
easily have ignored me afterward if they had wished. What really
pleased me, Selma, was their asking me to one of their select
dinners, because&mdash;because it showed that we are&mdash;"</p>
<p>Flossy's hesitation was due partly to the inherent difficulty of
expressing her thought with proper regard for modesty. With her
rise in life she had learned that unlimited laudation of self was
not altogether consistent with "fitness," even in such a
confidential interview as the present. But she was also
disconcerted by the look in Selma's eyes&mdash;a look which, at
first startled into momentary friendliness by the suddenness of the
onslaught, had become more and more lowering until it was
unpleasantly suggestive of scornful dislike. While she thus
faltered, Selma drily rounded out the sentence with the words,
"Because it showed that you are somebodies now."</p>
<p>Flossy gave an embarrassed little laugh. "Yes, that's what I
meant. I see you have a good memory, and it sounds nicer on your
lips than it would on mine."</p>
<p>"You have come here to-day on purpose to tell me this?" said
Selma.</p>
<p>"I thought you would be interested to hear that my cousins had
recognized me at last. I remember, you thought it strange that they
should take so little notice of me." Flossy's festive manner had
disappeared before the tart reception of her confidences, and her
keen wits, baffled in their search for flattery, recalled the
suspicions which were only slumbering. She realized that Selma was
seriously offended with her, and though she did not choose to
acknowledge to herself that she knew the cause, she had already
guessed it. An encounter at repartee had no terrors for her, if
necessary, and the occasion seemed to her opportune for probing the
accumulating mysteries of Selma's hostile demeanor. Yet, without
waiting for a response to her last remark, she changed the subject,
and said, volubly, "I hear that your husband has refused to build
the new Parsons house because Mrs. Parsons insisted on drawing the
plans."</p>
<p>Selma's pale, tense face flushed. She thought for a moment that
she was being taunted.</p>
<p>"That was Mr. Littleton's decision, not mine."</p>
<p>"I admire his independence. He was quite right. What do Mrs.
Parsons or her daughter know about architecture? Everybody is
laughing at them. You know I consider your husband a friend of
mine, Selma."</p>
<p>"And we were friends, too, I believe?" Selma exclaimed, after a
moment of stern silence.</p>
<p>"Naturally," responded Flossy, with a slightly sardonic air,
prompted by the acerbity with which the question was put.</p>
<p>"Then, if we were friends&mdash;are friends, why have you ceased
to associate with us, simply because you live in another street and
a finer house?"</p>
<p>Flossy gave a gasp. "Oh," she said to herself, "it's true. She
is jealous. Why didn't I appreciate it before?"</p>
<p>"Am I not associating with you now by calling on you, Selma?"
she said aloud. "I don't understand what you mean."</p>
<p>"You are calling on me, and you asked us to dinner to
meet&mdash;to meet just the people we knew already, and didn't care
to meet; but you have never asked us to meet your new friends, and
you left us out when you gave your dancing party."</p>
<p>"You do not dance."</p>
<p>"How do you know?"</p>
<p>"I have never associated you with dancing. I assumed that you
did not dance."</p>
<p>"What grounds had you for such an assumption?"</p>
<p>"Really, Selma, your catechism is most extraordinary. Excuse my
smiling. And I don't know how to answer your questions&mdash;your
fierce questions any better. I didn't ask you to my party because I
supposed that you and your husband were not interested in that sort
of thing, and would not know any of the people. You have often told
me that you thought they were frivolous."</p>
<p>"I consider them so still."</p>
<p>"Then why do you complain?"</p>
<p>"Because&mdash;because you have not acted like a friend. Your
idea of friendship has been to pour into my ears, day after day,
how you had been asked to dinner by this person and taken up by
that person, until I was weary of the sound of your voice, but it
seems not to have occurred to you, as a friend of mine, and a
friend and admirer of my husband, to introduce us to people whom
you were eager to know, and who might have helped him in his
profession. And now, after turning the cold shoulder on us, and
omitting us from your party, because you assumed I didn't dance,
you have come here this morning, in the name of friendship, to tell
me that your cousins, at last, have invited you to dinner. And yet
you think it strange that I'm not interested. That's the only
reason you came&mdash;to let me know that you are a somebody now;
and you expected me, as a friend and a nobody, to tell you how glad
I am."</p>
<p>Flossy's eyes opened wide. Free as she was accustomed to be in
her own utterances, this flow of bitter speech delivered with
seer-like intensity was a new experience to her. She did not know
whether to be angry or amused by the indictment, which caused her
to wince notwithstanding that she deemed it slander. Moreover the
insinuation that she had been a bore was humiliating.</p>
<p>"I shall not weary you soon again with my confidences," she
answered. "So it appears that you were envious of me all the
time&mdash;that while you were preaching to me that fashionable
society was hollow and un-American, you were secretly unhappy
because you couldn't do what I was doing&mdash;because you weren't
invited, too. Oh, I see it all now; it's clear as daylight. I've
suspected the truth for some time, but I've refused to credit it.
Now everything is explained. I took you at your word; I believed in
you and your husband and looked up to you as literary
people&mdash;people who were interested in fine and ennobling
things. I admired you for the very reason that I thought you didn't
care, and that you didn't need to care, about society and
fashionable position. I kept saying to you that I envied you your
tastes, and let you see that I considered myself your real inferior
in my determination to attract attention and oblige society to
notice us. I was guileless and simpleton enough to tell you of my
progress&mdash;things I would have blushed to tell another woman
like myself&mdash;because I considered you the embodiment of high
aims and spiritual ideas, as far superior to mine as the poetic
star is superior to the garish electric light. I thought it might
amuse you to listen to my vanities. Instead, it seems you were
masquerading and were eating your heart out with envy of
me&mdash;poor me. You were ambitious to be like me."</p>
<p>"I wouldn't be like you for anything in the world."</p>
<p>"You couldn't if you tried. That's one of the things which this
extraordinary interview has made plain beyond the shadow of a
doubt. You are aching to be a social success. You are not fit to
be. I have found that out for certain to-day."</p>
<p>"It is false," exclaimed Selma, with a tragic intonation. "You
do not understand. I have no wish to be a social success. I should
abhor to spend my life after the manner of you and your associates.
What I object to, what I complain of, is that, in spite of your
fine words and pretended admiration of me, you have preferred these
people, who are exclusive without a shadow of right, to me who was
your friend, and that you have chosen to ignore me for the sake of
them, and behaved as if you thought I was not their equal or your
equal. That is not friendship, it is snobbishness&mdash;un-American
snobbishness."</p>
<p>"It is very amusing. Amusing yet depressing," continued Flossy,
without heed to this asseveration. "You have proved one of my
ideals to be a delusion, which is sad." She had arisen and stood
gently swaying pendent by its crook her gay parasol, with her head
on one side, and seeming for once to be choosing her words
judicially. "When we met first and I nearly rushed into your arms,
I was fascinated, and I said to myself that here was the sort of
American woman of whom I had dreamed&mdash;the sort of woman I had
fondly imagined once that I might become. I saw you were
unsophisticated and different from the conventional women to whom I
was accustomed, and, even at first, the things you said every now
and then gave me a creepy feeling, but you were inspiring to look
at&mdash;though now that the scales have fallen from my eyes I
wonder at my infatuation&mdash;and I continued to worship you as a
goddess on a pedestal. I used to say to Gregory, 'there's a couple
who are to the manner born; they never have to make believe. They
are genuinely free and gentle souls.' Your husband? I can't believe
that I have been deluded in regard to him, also. I just wonder if
you appreciate him&mdash;if it is possible that he has been
deluded, also. That's rank impertinence, I know; but after all, we
are unbosoming our thoughts to each other to-day, and may as well
speak openly. You said just now that it was his decision not to go
on with the Parsons house. Did you disapprove of it?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I disapproved of it," answered Selma with flashing eyes.
"And what if I did?"</p>
<p>She rose and stood confronting her visitor as though to banish
her from the house.</p>
<p>"I'm going," said Flossy. "It's none of my concern of course,
and I'm aware that I appear very rude. I'm anxious though not to
lose faith in your husband, and now that I've begun to understand
you, my wits are being flooded with light. I was saying that you
were not fit to be a social success, and I'm going to tell you why.
No one else is likely to, and I'm just mischievous and frank
enough. You're one of those American women&mdash;I've always been
curious to meet one in all her glory&mdash;who believe that they
are born in the complete panoply of flawless womanhood; that they
are by birthright consummate house-wives, leaders of the world's
thought and ethics, and peerless society queens. All this by
instinct, by heritage, and without education. That's what you
believe, isn't it? And now you are offended because you haven't
been invited to become a leader of New York society. You don't
understand, and I don't suppose you ever will understand, that a
true lady&mdash;a genuine society queen&mdash;represents modesty
and sweetness and self-control, and gentle thoughts and feelings;
that she is evolved by gradual processes from generation to
generation, not ready made. Oh, you needn't look at me like that.
I'm quite aware that if I were the genuine article I shouldn't be
talking to you in this fashion. But there's hope for me because I'm
conscious of my shortcomings and am trying to correct them; whereas
you are satisfied, and fail to see the difference between yourself
and the well-bred women whom you envy and sneer at. You're pretty
and smart and superficial and&mdash;er&mdash;common, and you don't
know it. I'm rather dreadful, but I'm learning. I don't believe you
will ever learn. There! Now I'm going."</p>
<p>"Go!" cried Selma with a wave of her arm. "Yes, I am one of
those women. I am proud to be, and you have insulted by your
aspersions, not only me, but the spirit of independent and aspiring
American womanhood. You don't understand us; you have nothing in
common with us. You think to keep us down by your barriers of caste
borrowed from effete European courts, but we&mdash;I&mdash;the
American people defy you. The time will come when we shall rise in
our might and teach you your place. Go! Envy you? I would not
become one of your frivolous and purposeless set if you were all on
your bended knees before me."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes you would," exclaimed Flossy, glancing back over her
shoulder. "And it's because you've not been given the chance that
we have quarrelled now."</p>
<h3>CHAPTER X.</h3>
<p>The morning after her drastic interview with Mrs. Williams,
Selma studied herself searchingly in her mirror. Of all Flossy's
candid strictures the intimation that she was not and never would
be completely a lady was the only one which rankled. The effrontery
of it made her blood boil; and yet she consulted her glass in the
seclusion of her chamber in order to reassure herself as to the
spiteful falsity of the criticism. Wild horses would not have
induced her to admit even to herself that there was the slightest
ground for it; still it rankled, thereby suggesting a
sub-consciousness of suspicion on the look out for just such a
calumny.</p>
<p>She gave Littleton her own version of the quarrel. Her
explanation was that she had charged Flossy with a lack of
friendship in failing to invite her to her ball, and convicted her
of detestable snobbery; that she had denounced this conduct in
vigorous language, that they had parted in anger, and that all
intercourse between them was at an end.</p>
<p>"We understand each other now," she added. "I have felt for some
time that we were no longer sympathetic; and that something of this
kind was inevitable. I am glad that we had the chance to speak
plainly, for I was able to show her that I had been waiting for an
excuse to cut loose from her and her frivolous surroundings. I have
wearied my spirit long enough with listening to social inanities,
and in lowering my standards to hers for the sake of appearing
friendly and conventional. That is all over now, thank heaven."</p>
<p>It did not occur to Selma that there was any inconsistency in
these observations, or that they might appear a partial vindication
of her husband's point of view. The most salient effect of her
encounter with Flossy had been suddenly to fuse and crystallize her
mixed and seemingly contradictory ambitions into utter hostility to
conventional fashionable society. Even when her heart had been
hungering for an invitation to Flossy's ball, she considered that
she despised these people, but the interview had served to
establish her in the glowing faith that they, by their inability to
appreciate her, had shown themselves unworthy of further
consideration. The desire which she had experienced of late for a
renewal of her intimacy with Mrs. Earle and a reassertion of her
former life of independent feminine activity had returned to her,
coupled with the crusading intention to enroll herself openly once
more in the army of new American women, whose impending victorious
campaign she had prophesied in her retort to Mrs. Williams's
maledictions. She had, in her own opinion, never ceased to belong
to this army, and she felt herself now more firmly convinced than
ever that the course of life of those who had turned a cold
shoulder on her was hostile to the spirit of American institutions.
So far as her husband was concerned, imaginative enterprise and the
capacity to take advantage of opportunities still seemed to her of
the essence of fine character. Indeed, she was not conscious of any
change in her point of view. She had resented Flossy's charge that
she desired to be a social success, and had declared that her
wounded feelings were solely due to Flossy's betrayal of
friendship, not to balked social ambition. Consequently it was no
strain on her conscientiousness to feel that her real sentiments
had always been the same.</p>
<p>Nevertheless she scrutinized herself eagerly and long in her
mirror, and the process left her serious brow still clouded. She
saw in the glass features which seemed to her suggestive of
superior womanhood, a slender clear-cut nose, the nostrils of which
dilated nervously, delicately thin, compressed lips, a pale,
transparent complexion, and clear, steel-like, greenish-brown eyes
looking straight and boldly from an anxious forehead surmounted
with a coiffure of elaborately and smoothly arranged hair. She saw
indisputable evidence that she had ceased to be the ethically
attractive, but modishly unsophisticated and physically undeveloped
girl, who had come to New York five years before, for her figure
was compact without being unduly plump, her cheeks becomingly oval,
and her toilette stylish. There were rings on her fingers, and her
neck-gear was smart. Altogether the vision was satisfactory, yet
she recognized as she gazed that her appearance and general effect
were not precisely those of Flossy, Pauline, or Mrs. Hallett
Taylor. She had always prided herself on the distinction of her
face, and admired especially its freedom from gross or
unintellectual lines. She did not intend to question its
superiority now; but Flossy's offensive words rang in her ears and
caused her to gnaw her lips with annoyance. What was the difference
between them? Flossy had dared to call her common and superficial;
had dared to insinuate that she never could be a lady. A lady? What
was there in her appearance not lady-like? In what way was she the
inferior of any of them in beauty, intelligence or character?
Rigorous as was the scrutiny, the face in the mirror seemed to her
an unanswerable refutation of the slander. What was the difference?
Was it that her eyes were keener and brighter, her lips thinner and
less fleshly, her general expression more wide-awake and
self-reliant? If so, were these not signs of superiority; signs
that they, not she, were deficient in the attributes of the best
modern womanhood in spite of their affectation of
exclusiveness?</p>
<p>The result of this process of self-examination in her
looking-glass, which was not limited to a single occasion,
established more firmly than ever in Selma's opinion the malignant
falsity of the imputation, and yet she was still haunted by it. She
was tortured by the secret thought that, though her ambition had
been to become just like those other women, she was still
distinguishable from them; and moreover, that she was baffled in
her attempt to analyze the distinction. Distinguishable even from
Flossy&mdash;from Flossy, who had slighted and then reviled her!
Why had she ever faltered in her distrust of these enemies of true
American society? Yet this lingering sense of torture served to
whet her new-found purpose to have done with them forever, and to
obtain the recognition and power to which she was entitled, in
spite of their impertinence and neglect.</p>
<p>The announcement was made to her by Wilbur at about this time
that his plans for Wetmore College had been accepted, and that he
was to be the architect of the new buildings. As he told her his
face showed a tremulous animation which it had not worn for many
weeks, and he regarded her for a moment with shy eagerness, as
though he half hoped that this vindication of his purposes by
success might prompt her to tender some sort of apology, and thus
afford him the chance to persuade himself that he had been mistaken
after all in his judgment of her.</p>
<p>"You must be very much pleased," she said. "And so am I, of
course." Then, after a moment of reflective abstraction, she asked
with sudden eagerness, "How long will it take to build them?"</p>
<p>"Two or three years, I suppose."</p>
<p>"And you would be obliged to go frequently to Benham?"</p>
<p>"In order to oversee the work I should have to make short trips
there from time to time."</p>
<p>"Yes. Wilbur," she exclaimed, with her exalted expression, "why
shouldn't we go to Benham to live? I have been thinking a great
deal lately about what we said to each other that time when you
felt so badly, and I have come to the conclusion that our living in
New York is what is really the trouble. I have the feeling, Wilbur,
that in some other place than this cruel, conventional city we
should be happier than we are now&mdash;indeed, very happy. Has it
ever occurred to you? You see, New York doesn't understand me; it
doesn't understand you, Wilbur. It sneers at our aspirations.
Benham is a growing, earnest city&mdash;a city throbbing with the
best American spirit and energy. I suggest Benham because we both
know it so well. The college buildings would give you a grand
start, and I&mdash;we both would be in our proper sphere."</p>
<p>Littleton had started at the suggestion. As a drowning man will
grasp at a straw, his grieving soul for an instant entertained the
plan as a panacea for their woes. But his brow grew grave and sad
under the influence of reflection as she proceeded to set forth her
reasons in her wrapt fashion. If he had not learned to remain cold
under the witchery of her intense moods, he no longer hesitated to
probe her fervid assertions with his self-respecting
common-sense.</p>
<p>"I would he willing to go to the ends of the earth, Selma," he
answered, "if I believed that by so doing you and I could become
what we once were to each other. But I cannot see why we should
hope to be happier in Benham than here, nor do I agree with you
that this is not our proper sphere. I do not share your sentiments
in regard to New York; but whatever its faults, New York is the
place where I have established myself and am known, and where the
abilities which I possess can be utilized and will be appreciated
soonest. Benham is twenty-five years behind this city in all things
which concern art and my professional life, as you well know."</p>
<p>Selma flushed. "On the contrary, I have reason to believe that
Benham has made wonderful progress in the last five years. My
friends there write that there are many new streets and beautiful
buildings, and that the spirit of the place is enthusiastic and
liberal, not luxurious and sneering. You never appreciated Benham
at its true worth, Wilbur."</p>
<p>"Perhaps not. But we chose New York."</p>
<p>"Then you insist on remaining here?"</p>
<p>"I see no reason for sacrificing the fruits of the past five
years&mdash;for pulling myself up by the roots and making a fresh
start. From a professional point of view, I think it would be
madness."</p>
<p>"Not even to save our happiness?" Selma's eyes swam and her lips
trembled as she spoke. She felt very miserable, and she yearned
with the desire that her husband would clasp her in his arms in a
vast embrace, and tell her that she was right and that he would go.
She felt that if he did, the horror of the past would be wiped out
and loving harmony be restored.</p>
<p>Wilbur's lips trembled, too. He gazed at her for a moment
without speaking, in conflict with himself; then passing his hand
across his forehead, as though he would sweep away a misty spell
from his eyes, said, "Be sensible, Selma. If we could be happy in
Benham, we should be happy here."</p>
<p>"Then you refuse?"</p>
<p>"For the present, yes."</p>
<p>"And I must remain here to be insulted&mdash;and a nobody."</p>
<p>"For God's sake, Selma, let us not renew that discussion. What
you ask is impossible at present, but I shall remember that it is
your wish, and when I begin my work at Benham the circumstances and
surroundings may be such that I shall feel willing to move."</p>
<p>Selma turned to the table and took up a book, dissatisfied, yet
buoyed by a new hope. She did not observe the tired lines on her
husband's face&mdash;the weariness of a soul disappointed in its
most precious aspirations.</p>
<p>Within the next month it happened that a terrible and unusual
fatality was the occasion of the death of both Mrs. Parsons and her
daughter. They were killed by a fall of the elevator at the hotel
in which they were living&mdash;one of those dire casualties which
are liable to happen to any one of us in these days of swift and
complicated apparatus, but which always seem remote from personal
experience. This cruel blow of fate put an end to all desire on the
part of the bereaved husband and father to remain in New York,
whither he had come to live mainly to please his women folk, as he
called them. As soon as he recovered from the bewilderment of the
shock, Mr. Parsons sent for the architect who had taken Littleton's
place, and who had just begun the subservient task of fusing
diverse types of architecture in order to satisfy an American
woman's appetite for startling effect, and told him to arrange to
dispose of the lot and its immature walls to the highest bidder.
His precise plans for the future were still uncertain when Selma
called on him, and found comfort for her own miseries in
ministering to his solitude, but he expressed an inclination to
return to his native Western town, as the most congenial spot in
which to end his days. Selma, whose soul was full of Benham,
suggested it as an alternative, enlarging with contagious
enthusiasm on its civic merits. The crushed old man listened with
growing attention. Already the germs of a plan for the disposition
of his large property were sprouting in his mind to provide him
with a refuge from despondency. He was a reticent man, not in the
habit of confiding his affairs until ready to act, but he paid
interested heed to Selma's eulogy of the bustling energy and rapid
growth of Benham. His preliminary thought had been that it would
make him happy to endow his native town, which was a small and
inconspicuous place, with a library building. But, as his visitor
referred to the attractions and admirable public spirit of the
thriving city, which was in the same State as his own home, he
silently reasoned that residence there need not interfere with his
original project, and that he might find a wide and more important
field for his benefactions in a community so representative of
American ideas and principles.</p>
<p>Selma's visits of condolence to Mr. Parsons were interrupted by
the illness of her own husband. In reflecting, subsequently, she
remembered that he had seemed weary and out of sorts for several
days, but her conscious attention was invoked by his coming home
early in the afternoon, suffering from a violent chill, and
manifestly in a state of physical collapse. He went to bed at once;
Selma brought blankets and a hot-water bottle, and Dr. George Page
was sent for. Dr. Page was the one of Littleton's friends whom
Selma had unsuccessfully yearned to know better. She had never been
able to understand him exactly, but he fascinated her in spite
of&mdash;perhaps because of&mdash;his bantering manner. She found
difficulty in reconciling it with his reputation for hard work and
masterly skill in his profession. She was constantly hoping to
extract from him something worthy of his large, solid face, with
its firm mouth and general expression of reserve force, but he
seemed always bent on talking nonsense in her society, and more
than once the disagreeable thought had occurred to her that he was
laughing at her. He had come to the house after her marriage now
and then, but during the past year or two she had scarcely seen
him. The last time when they had met, Selma had taxed him with his
neglect of her.</p>
<p>His reply had been characteristically elusive and
unsatisfactory. "I will not attempt to frame excuses for my
behavior, Mrs. Littleton, for no reason which I could offer would
be a justification."</p>
<p>But on the present occasion his greeting was grave and
eager.</p>
<p>"Wilbur sick? I feared as much. I warned Pauline two months ago
that he was overworking, and only last week I told him that he
would break down if he did not go away for a fortnight's rest."</p>
<p>"I wish you had spoken to me."</p>
<p>Selma noted with satisfaction that there was no raillery in his
manner now. He bent his gaze on her searchingly.</p>
<p>"Have you not noticed that he looked ill and tired?"</p>
<p>She did not flinch. Why indeed should she? "A little. He tired
himself, I think, over the designs for Wetmore College, which he
did in addition to his other work. But since the award was made it
has seemed to me that he was looking better."</p>
<p>She started to lead the way to Wilbur's room, but the doctor
paused, and regarding her again fixedly, as though he had formed a
resolution to ferret the secrets of her soul, said laconically:</p>
<p>"Is he happy?"</p>
<p>"Happy?" she echoed.</p>
<p>"Has he anything on his mind, I mean&mdash;anything except his
work?"</p>
<p>"Nothing&mdash;that is," she added, looking up at her inquisitor
with bright, interested eyes, "nothing except that he is very
conscientious&mdash;over-conscientious I sometimes think." To be
bandying psychological analyses with this able man was an edifying
experience despite her concern for Wilbur.</p>
<p>"I see," he answered dryly, and for an instant there was a
twinkle in his eyes. Yet he added, "To make a correct diagnosis it
is important to know all the facts of the case."</p>
<p>"Of course," she said solemnly, reassured in her belief that she
was being consulted and was taking part in the treatment of her
husband's malady.</p>
<p>She accompanied Dr. Page to Wilbur's bed-side. He conversed in a
cheery tone with his friend while he took his temperature and made
what seemed to her a comparatively brief examination. Selma jumped
to the conclusion that there was nothing serious the matter. The
moment they had left the room, the doctor's manner changed, and he
said with alert concern:</p>
<p>"Your husband is very ill; he has pneumonia. I am going to send
for a nurse."</p>
<p>"A nurse? I will nurse him myself, Dr. Page."</p>
<p>It seemed to her the obvious thing to do. She spoke proudly, for
it flashed into her mind that here was the opportunity to redeem
the situation with Wilbur. She would tend him devotedly and when he
had been restored to health by her loving skill, perhaps he would
appreciate her at her worth, and recognize that she had thwarted
him only to help him.</p>
<p>The doctor's brow darkened, and he said with an emphasis which
was almost stern: "Mrs. Littleton, I do not wish to alarm you, but
it is right that you should know that Wilbur's symptoms are grave.
I hope to save his life, but it can be saved only by trained skill
and attendance. Inexperienced assistance, however devoted, would be
of no use in a case like this."</p>
<p>"But I only wished to nurse him."</p>
<p>"I know it; I understand perfectly. You supposed that anyone
could do that. At least that you could. I shall return in an hour
at the latest with a nurse who was trained for three years in a
hospital to fit her to battle for valuable lives."</p>
<p>Selma flushed with annoyance. She felt that she was being
ridiculed and treated as though she were an incapable doll. She
divined that by his raillery he had been making fun of her, and
forthwith her predilection was turned to resentment. Not nurse her
husband? Did this brow-beating doctor realize that, as a girl, she
had been the constant attendant of her invalid father, and that
more than once it had occurred to her that her true mission in life
might be to become a nurse? Training? She would prove to him that
she needed no further training. These were her thoughts, and she
felt like crying, because he had humiliated her at a time like
this. Yet she had let Dr. Page go without a word. She returned to
Wilbur and established herself beside his bed. He tried to smile at
her coming.</p>
<p>"I think I shall be better to-morrow. It is only a heavy cold,"
he said, but already he found difficulty in speaking.</p>
<p>"I have come to nurse you. The blankets and hot-water bottle
have made you warmer, haven't they? Nod; you mustn't talk."</p>
<p>"Yes," he whispered huskily.</p>
<p>She felt his forehead, and it was burning. She took his hand and
saying, "Sh! You ought not to talk," held it in her own. Then there
was silence save for Wilbur's uneasy turning. It was plain that he
was very uncomfortable. She realized that he was growing worse, and
though she chose to believe that the doctor had exaggerated the
seriousness of the case in order to affront her, the thought came
that he might die. She had never considered such a possibility
before. What should she do? She would be a widow without children
and without means, for she knew that Wilbur had laid up little if
anything. She would have to begin life over again&mdash;a pathetic
prospect, yet interesting. Even this conjecture of such a dire
result conjured up a variety of possible methods of livelihood and
occupation which sped through her mind.</p>
<p>The return of Dr. Page with a nurse cut short these painful yet
engrossing speculations. His offensive manner appeared to have
exhausted itself, but he proceeded to install his companion in
Wilbur's room. Selma would have liked to turn her out of the house,
but realized that she could not run the risk of taking issue with
him at a time when her husband's life might be in danger. With an
injured air yet in silence she beheld the deliberate yet swift
preparations. Once or twice Dr. Page asked her to procure for him
some article or appliance likely to be in the house, speaking with
a crisp, business-like preoccupation which virtually ignored her
existence, yet was free from offence. His soul evidently was
absorbed by his patient, whom he observed with alert watchfulness,
issuing brief directions now and then to his white-capped,
methodical, and noiseless assistant. Selma sat with her hands
before her in a corner of the bed-room, practically ignored. The
shadows deepened and a maid announced dinner. Dr. Page looked at
his watch.</p>
<p>"I shall pass the night here," he said.</p>
<p>"Is he worse?"</p>
<p>"The disease is making progress and must run its course. This is
only the beginning. You should eat your dinner, for you will need
your strength," he added with simple graciousness.</p>
<p>"But I am doing nothing," she blurted.</p>
<p>"If there is anything you can do I will let you know."</p>
<p>Their eyes met. His were gray and steady, but kind. She felt
that he chose to treat her like a child, yet that he was trying to
be considerate. She was galled, but after all, he was the doctor,
and Wilbur had the utmost confidence in him, so she must submit.
She ate her dinner, and when she returned preparations were being
made for the night. The nurse was to use a lounge at the foot of
Wilbur's bed. Dr. Page asked permission to occupy the dressing-room
adjoining, so as to be within easy call. He established himself
there with a book, returning at short intervals to look at his
patient. Selma had resumed her seat. It was dark save for a night
lamp. In the stillness the only sounds were the ticking of the
clock on the mantel-piece and Wilbur's labored breathing. It seemed
as though he were struggling for his life. What should she do if he
died? Why was she debarred from tending him? It was cruel. Tears
fell on her hand. She stared into the darkness, twisting her
fingers, until at last, as though to show her independence, she
stepped to the bed on tip-toe. Wilbur's eyes were open. He put out
his hand, and, taking hers, touched it to his burning lips.</p>
<p>"Good-night, Selma," he murmured.</p>
<p>She stooped and kissed his brow. "I am here beside you,
Wilbur."</p>
<p>A figure stood behind her. She turned, expecting to encounter
the white-capped sentinel. It was Dr. Page. He touched her gently
on the arm. "We must let him rest now. You can do no good. Won't
you go to bed?"</p>
<p>"Oh, no. I shall sit with him all night."</p>
<p>"Very well. But it is important that you should not speak to
him," he said with another touch of emphasis.</p>
<p>She resumed her seat and sat out the night, wide-awake and
conscious of each movement on Wilbur's part. He was restless and
moaning. Twice the nurse summoned the doctor, and two or three
times he came to the bed-side of his own accord. She felt slighted,
and once, when it seemed to her that Wilbur was in distress and
anxious for something, she forestalled the nurse.</p>
<p>"He wishes water," Selma said sternly, and she fetched a glass
from the table and let him drink.</p>
<p>Dr. Page took breakfast with her. She was conscious that somehow
her vigil had affected his estimate of her, for his speech was
frank and direct, as though he considered her now more fit to be
treated with confidence.</p>
<p>"He is very ill, but he is holding his own. If you will lie down
for a few hours, I will call you to take Miss Barker's place while
she rests."</p>
<p>This was gratifying, and tended to assuage her bitterness. But
the doctor appeared to her anxious, and spent only a few minutes at
table. He said as he rose,</p>
<p>"Excuse me, but Pauline&mdash;does she know?"</p>
<p>"I will send her word."</p>
<p>Selma would have been glad to dispense with the presence of her
sister-in-law. Their relations had not been sympathetic since the
episode of Miss Bailey, and, though Pauline still dined at the
house once a week, the intercourse between them had become reserved
and perfunctory. She grudged sharing with her what might be
Wilbur's last hours. She grudged, too, permitting her to help to
nurse him, especially now that her own capabilities were in the way
of being recognized, for she remembered Dr. Page's partiality for
her. Still, she appreciated that she must let her know.</p>
<p>Pauline arrived speedily, and Selma found herself sobbing in her
arms. She was pleased by this rush of feeling on her own part, and,
confirmed in her belief that her sister-in-law was cold because she
did not break down, and, shrinking from her efforts to comfort her,
she quickly regained her self-control. Pauline seemed composed and
cheerful, but the unceasing watchfulness and manifest tension of
the doctor were disconcerting, and as the afternoon shadows
deepened, the two women sat grave and silent, appalled by the
suspicion that Wilbur's condition was eminently critical. Yet Dr.
Page volunteered to say to them presently:</p>
<p>"If his heart holds out, I am hopeful that he will pull
through."</p>
<p>Dr. Page had given up all his duties for the sake of Wilbur. He
never left the house, manifestly devoting, as shown by the
unflagging, absorbed scrutiny with which he noted every symptom and
change, the fullest measure of his professional skill and a
heart-felt purpose to save his friend's life if human brain or
human concentration could avail. And yet he stated to Pauline in
Selma's hearing that, beyond keeping up the patient's strength by
stimulants, science was practically helpless, and that all they
could do was to wait.</p>
<p>And so they sat, still and unemployed watchers, while day turned
into darkness. From time to time, by the night-lamp, Selma saw
Pauline smiling at her as though in defiance of whatever fate might
have in store. Selma herself felt the inclination neither to smile
nor to weep. She sat looking before her with her hands clasped,
resenting the powerlessness of the few remedies used, and impatient
of the inactivity and relentless silence. Why did not the doctor
adopt more stringent measures? Surely there was something to be
done to enable Wilbur to combat the disease. Dr. Page had the
reputation of being a skilful physician, and, presumably, was doing
his best; but was it not possible, was it not sensible, to suppose
there was a different and better way of treating pneumonia&mdash;a
way which was as superior to the conventional and stereotyped
method as the true American point of view was superior in other
matters?</p>
<p>It came over her as a conviction that if she were
elsewhere&mdash;in Benham, for instance&mdash;her husband could be
readily and brilliantly cured. This impassive mode of treatment
seemed to her of one piece with the entire Littleton surroundings,
the culmination of which was Pauline smiling in the face of death.
She yearned to do something active and decided. Yet, how helpless
she was! This arbitrary doctor was following his own dictates
without a word to anyone, and without suspecting the existence of
wiser expedients.</p>
<p>In a moment of rebellion she rose, and swiftly approaching
Wilbur's bed, exclaimed, fervently: "Is there not something we can
do for you, darling? Something you feel will do you good?"</p>
<p>The sufferer faintly smiled and feebly shook his head, and at
the same moment she was drawn away by a firm hand, and Dr. Page
whispered: "He is very weak. Entire rest is his only chance. The
least exertion is a drain on his vitality."</p>
<p>"Surely there must be some medicine&mdash;some powerful
application which will help his breathing," she retorted, and she
detected again the semblance of laughter in the doctor's eyes.</p>
<p>"Everything which modern science can do is being done, Mrs.
Littleton."</p>
<p>What was there but to resume her seat and helpless vigil? Modern
science? The word grated on her ears. It savored to her of narrow
medical tyranny, and distrust of aspiring individuality. Wilbur was
dying, and all modern science saw fit to do was to give him brandy
and wait. And she, his wife&mdash;the one who loved him best in the
world, was powerless to intervene. Nay, she had intervened, and
modern science had mocked her.</p>
<p>Selma's eyes, like the glint of two swords, bent themselves on
her husband's bed. A righteous anger reinforced her grieving heart
and made her spirit militant, while the creeping hours passed. Over
and over she pursued the tenor of her protest until her wearied
system sought refuge in sleep. She was not conscious of slumbering,
but she reasoned later that she must have slept, for she suddenly
became conscious of a touch on the shoulder and a vibrant utterance
of her name.</p>
<p>"Selma, Selma, you must come at once."</p>
<p>Her returning wits realized that it was Pauline who was arousing
her and urging her to Wilbur's bed-side. She sprang forward, and
saw the light of existence fading from her husband's eyes into the
mute dulness of death. Dr. Page was bending over him in a
desperate, but vain, effort to force some restorative between his
lips. At the foot of the bed stood the nurse, with an expression
which betrayed what had occurred.</p>
<p>"What is it, Wilbur? What have they done to you? What has
happened?" Selma cried, looking from one to the other, though she
had discerned the truth in a flash. As she spoke, Dr. Page desisted
from his undertaking, and stepped back from the bed, and instantly
Selma threw herself on her knees and pressed her face upon
Littleton's lifeless features. There was no response. His spirit
had departed.</p>
<p>"His heart could not stand the strain. That is the great peril
in pneumonia," she heard the doctor murmur.</p>
<p>"He is dead," she cried, in a horrified outburst, and she looked
up at the pitying group with the gaze of an afflicted lioness. She
caught sight of Pauline smiling through her tears&mdash;that same
unprotesting, submissive smile&mdash;and holding out her hands to
her. Selma, rising, turned away, and as her sister-in-law sought to
put her arm about her, evaded the caress.</p>
<p>"No&mdash;no," she said. Then facing her, added, with aggrieved
conviction:</p>
<p>"I cannot believe that Wilbur's death was necessary. Why was not
something energetic done?"</p>
<p>Pauline flushed, but, ascribing the calumny to distress, she
held her peace, and said, simply:</p>
<p>"Sh! dear. You will understand better by and by."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="BOOK_III" id="BOOK_III"></a><i>BOOK III.</i></h2>
<h2>THE SUCCESS</h2>
<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>
<p>It had never occurred to Selma that she might lose her husband.
Even with his shortcomings he was so important to her from the
point of view of support, and her scheme of life was so interwoven
with his, she had taken for granted that he would live as long as
she desired. She felt that destiny had a second time been signally
cruel to her, and that she was drinking deeply of the cup of
sorrow. She was convinced that Wilbur, had he lived, would have
moved presently to Benham, in accordance with her desire, and that
they would then have been completely happy again. Instead he was
dead and under the sod, and she was left to face the world with no
means save $5,000 from his life insurance and the natural gifts and
soul which God had given her.</p>
<p>She appreciated that she was still a comparatively young woman,
and that, notwithstanding her love for Wilbur, she had been unable
as his wife to exhibit herself to the world in her true light. She
was free once more to lead her own life, and to obtain due
recognition for her ideas and principles. She deplored with a grief
which depleted the curve of her oval cheeks the premature end of
her husband's artistic career&mdash;an aspiring soul cut off on the
threshold of success&mdash;yet, though of course she never squarely
made the reflection, she was aware that the development of her own
life was more intrinsically valuable to the world than his, and
that of the two it was best that he should be taken. She was sad,
sore against Providence, and uncertain as to the future. But she
was keenly conscious that she had a future, and she was eager to be
stirring. Still, for the moment, the outlook was perplexing. What
was she to do? First, and certainly, she desired to shake the dust
of New York from her feet at the earliest opportunity. She inclined
toward Benham as a residence, and to the lecture platform,
supplemented by literature, and perhaps eventually the stage, as a
means of livelihood. She believed in her secret soul that she could
act. Her supposed facility in acquiring the New York manner had
helped to generate that impression. It seemed to her more than
probable that with a little instruction as to technical stage
business she could gain fame and fortune almost at once as an
actress of tragedy or melodrama. Comedy she despised as unworthy of
her. But the stage appealed to her only on the ground of income.
The life of an actress lacked the ethical character which she liked
to associate with whatever she did. To be sure, a great actress was
an inspiring influence. Nevertheless she preferred some more
obviously improving occupation, provided it would afford a suitable
support. Yet was it fitting that she should be condemned to do hack
work for her daily bread instead of something to enlighten and
uplift the community in which she lived? She considered that she
had served her apprenticeship by teaching school and writing for
the newspapers, and she begrudged spending further time in
subordinate work. Better on the whole a striking success on the
stage than this, for after she had made a name and money she could
retire and devote herself to more congenial undertakings.
Nevertheless her conscience told her that a theatrical career must
be regarded as a last resort, and she appreciated the importance of
not making a hasty decision as to what she would do. The lease of
her house would not expire for six months, and it seemed to her
probable that even in New York, where she was not understood,
someone would realize her value as a manager of some intellectual
or literary movement and make overtures to her. She wrote to Mrs.
Earle and received a cordial response declaring that Benham would
welcome her with open arms, a complimentary though somewhat vague
certificate. She sent a line also to Mr. Dennison, informing him
that she hoped soon to submit some short stories for his magazine,
and received a guarded but polite reply to the effect that he would
be glad to read her manuscripts.</p>
<p>While she was thus deliberating and winding up her husband's
affairs, Mr. Parsons, who had been absent from New York at the time
of Wilbur's decease, called and bluntly made the announcement that
he had bought a house in Benham, was to move there immediately, and
was desirous that she should live with him as his companion and
housekeeper on liberal pecuniary terms.</p>
<p>"I am an old man," he said, "and my health is not what it used
to be. I need someone to look after me and to keep me company. I
like your chatty ways, and, if I have someone smart and brisk
around like you, I sha'n't be thinking so often that I'm all alone
in the world. It'll be dull for you, I guess; but you'll be keeping
quiet for the present wherever you are; and when the time comes
that you wish to take notice again I won't stand in the way of your
amusing yourself."</p>
<p>To this homely plea Selma returned a beatific smile. It struck
her as an ideal arrangement; a golden opportunity for him, and
convenient and promising for her. In the first place she was
accorded the mission of cheering and guarding the declining years
of this fine old man, whom she had come to look on with esteem and
liking. And at the same time as his companion&mdash;the virtual
mistress of his house, for she knew perfectly well that as a
genuine American he was not offering her a position less than
this&mdash;she would be able to shape her life gradually along
congenial lines, and to wait for the ripe occasion for usefulness
to present itself. In an instant a great load was lifted from her
spirit. She was thankful to be spared conscientious qualms
concerning the career of an actress, and thankful to be freed at
one bound from her New York associations&mdash;especially with
Pauline, whose attitude toward her had been further strained by her
continued conviction that Wilbur's life might have been saved.
Indeed, so completely alleviating was Mr. Parsons's proposition
that, stimulated by the thought that he was to be a greater gainer
from the plan than she, Selma gave rein to her emotions by
exclaiming with fervor:</p>
<p>"Usually I like to think important plans over before coming to a
decision; but this arrangement seems to me so sensible and natural
and mutually advantageous, Mr. Parsons, that I see no reason why I
shouldn't accept your offer now. God grant that I may be a worthy
daughter to you&mdash;and in some measure take the place of the
dear ones you have lost."</p>
<p>"That's what I want," he said. "I took a liking to you the first
time we met. Then it's settled?"</p>
<p>"Yes. I suppose," she added, after a moment's
hesitation&mdash;speaking with an accent of scorn&mdash;"I suppose
there may be people&mdash;people like those who are called
fashionable here&mdash;who will criticise the arrangement on the
ground&mdash;er&mdash;of propriety, because I'm not a relation, and
you are not very old. But I despise conventions such as that. They
may be necessary for foreigners; but they are not meant for
self-respecting American women. I fancy my sister-in-law may not
wholly approve of it, but I don't know. I shall take pleasure in
showing her and the rest that it would be wicked as well as foolish
to let a flimsy suggestion of evil interfere with the happiness of
two people situated as we are."</p>
<p>Mr. Parsons seemed puzzled at first, as though he did not
understand exactly what she meant, but when she concluded he
said:</p>
<p>"You come to me, as you have yourself stated, on the footing of
a daughter. If folk are not content to mind their own business, I
guess we needn't worry because they don't happen to be suited.
There's one or two relations of mine would be glad to be in your
shoes, but I don't know of anything in the Bible or the
Constitution of the United States which forbids an old man from
choosing the face he'll have opposite to him at table."</p>
<p>"Or forbids the interchange of true sympathy&mdash;that
priceless privilege," answered Selma, her liking for a sententious
speech rising paramount even to the pleasure caused her by the
allusion to her personal appearance. Nevertheless it was agreeable
to be preferred to his female cousins on the score of
comeliness.</p>
<p>Accordingly, within six months of her husband's death, the
transition to Benham was accomplished, and Selma was able to
encounter the metaphorically open arms, referred to by Mrs. Earle,
without feeling that she was a less important person than when she
had been whisked off as a bride by Littleton, the rising architect.
She was returning as the confidential, protecting companion of a
successful, self-made old man, who was relying on her to make his
new establishment a pleasure to himself and a credit to the
wide-awake city in which he had elected to pass his remaining days.
She was returning to a house on the River Drive (the aristocratic
boulevard of Benham, where the river Nye makes a broad sweep to the
south); a house not far distant from the Flagg mansion at which, as
Mrs. Lewis Babcock, she had looked askance as a monument inimical
to democratic simplicity. Wilbur had taught her that it was very
ugly, and now that she saw it again after a lapse of years she was
pleased to note that her new residence, though slightly smaller,
had a more modern and distinguished air.</p>
<p>The new house was of rough-hewn red sandstone, combining solid
dignity and some artistic merit, for Benham had not stood still
architecturally speaking. The River Drive was a grotesque, yet on
the whole encouraging exhibit. Most of the residences had been
designed by native talent, but under the spur of experiment even
the plain, hard-headed builders had been constrained to dub
themselves "architects," and adopt modern methods; and here and
there stood evidences that the seed planted by Mrs. Hallett Taylor
and Littleton had borne fruit, for Benham possessed at least half a
dozen private houses which could defy criticism.</p>
<p>The one selected by Mr. Parsons was not of these half dozen; but
the plain, hard-headed builder who had erected it for the original
owner was shrewd and imitative, and had avoided ambitious
deviations from the type he wished to copy&mdash;the red sandstone,
swell front variety, which ten years before would have seemed to
the moral sense of Benham unduly cheerful. Mr. Parsons was so
fortunate as to be able to buy it just after it had been completed,
together with a stable and half an acre of ground, from one of the
few Benhamites whose financial ventures had ended in disaster, and
who was obliged to sell. It was a more ambitious residence than Mr.
Parsons had desired, but it was the most available, inasmuch as he
could occupy it at once. It had been painted and decorated within,
but was unfurnished. Mr. Parsons, as a practical business man,
engaged the builder to select and supply the bedroom and solid
fittings, but it occurred to him to invite Selma to choose the
furnishings for what he called the show rooms.</p>
<p>Selma was delighted to visit once more the New York stores, free
from the bridle of Wilbur's criticism and unrestrained by economy.
She found to her satisfaction that the internal decoration of the
new house was not unlike that of the Williamses' first
habitation&mdash;that is, gay and bedizened; and she was resolved
in the selection of her draperies and ornaments to buy things which
suggested by their looks that they were handsome, and whose claim
to distinction was not mere sober unobtrusiveness. She realized
that some of her purchases would have made Wilbur squirm, but since
his death she felt more sure than ever that even where art was
concerned his taste was subdued, timid, and unimaginative. For
instance, she believed that he would not have approved her choice
of light-blue satin for the upholstery of the drawing-room, nor of
a marble statue&mdash;an allegorical figure of Truth, duly draped,
as its most conspicuous ornament.</p>
<p>Selma was spared the embarrassment of her first husband's
presence. Divorce is no bar to ordinary feminine curiosity as to
the whereabouts of a former partner for life, and she had proved no
exception to the rule. Mrs. Earle had kept her posted as to
Babcock's career since their separation, and what she learned had
tended merely to demonstrate the wisdom and justice of her action.
As a divorced man he had, after a time, resumed the free and easy,
coarse companionship to which he had been partial before his
marriage, and had gradually become a heavy drinker. Presently he
had neglected his business, a misfortune of which a rival concern
had been quick to take advantage. The trend of his affairs had been
steadily downhill, and had come to a crisis three months before
Littleton's death, when, in order to avoid insolvency, he sold out
his factory and business to the rival company, and accepted at the
same hands the position of manager in a branch office in a city
further west. Consequently, Selma could feel free from molestation
or an appeal to her sensibilities. She preferred to think of
Babcock as completely outside her life, as dead to her, and she
would have disliked the possibility of meeting him in the flesh
while shopping on Central avenue. It had been the only drawback to
her proposed return to Benham.</p>
<p>During the years of Selma's second marriage Benham had waxed
rapidly in population and importance. People had been attracted
thither by the varied industries of the city&mdash;alike those in
search of fortune, and those offering themselves for employment in
the mills, oil-works, and pork factories; and at the date of
Littleton's death it boasted over one hundred and fifty thousand
inhabitants. It was already the second city of the State in point
of population, and was freely acknowledged to be the most
wide-awake and enterprising. The civic spirit of Benham was reputed
to be constantly and increasingly alert and progressive,
notwithstanding the river Nye still ran the color of bean-soup
above where it was drawn for drinking purposes, and the ability of
a plumber, who had become an alderman, to provide a statue or lay
out a public park was still unquestioned by the majority. Even
to-day, when trained ability has obtained recognition in many
quarters, the Benhamites at large are apt to resent criticism as
aristocratic fault-finding; yet at this time that saving minority
of souls who refused to regard everything which Benham did as
perfection, and whose subsequent forlorn hopes and desperately won
victories have little by little taught the community wisdom, if not
modesty, was beginning to utter disagreeable strictures.</p>
<p>Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle, when she opened her arms to Selma
and folded her to her bosom with a hug of welcome, was raging
inwardly against this minority, and they had not been many minutes
together before she gave utterance to her grievance.</p>
<p>"You have come just in time to give us your sympathy and support
in an important matter, my dear. Miss Bailey has been nominated for
the School Board at the instance of the Executive Committee of the
Benham Institute. We supposed that she would have plain sailing,
for many of the voters have begun to recognize the justice of
having one or two women on the School Board, and by hard work we
had succeeded in getting her name put on the Democratic ticket.
Judge, then, of our feelings when we learned that the Reform Club
had decided to blacklist and refuse to support at the polls three
of the six names on the ticket, including our Luella Bailey, on the
ground of lack of experience in educational matters. The Reform
Club has nominated three other persons&mdash;one of them a woman.
And who do you suppose is the head and front of this unholy
crusade?"</p>
<p>"It sounds like Mrs. Hallett Taylor," answered Selma,
sternly.</p>
<p>"How did you know? What made you think so? How clever of you,
Selma! Yes, she is the active spirit."</p>
<p>"It was she who was at the bottom of Miss Bailey's rejection
when she was my candidate for a position at Everdean College."</p>
<p>"To be sure. I remember. This Reform Club, which was started a
year or so ago, and which sets itself up as a censor of what we are
trying to do in Benham, has nominated a Miss Snow, who is said to
have travelled abroad studying the school systems of Europe."</p>
<p>"As if that would help us in any way."</p>
<p>"Precisely. She has probably come home with her head full of
queer-fangled notions which would be out of keeping with our
institutions. Just the reason why she shouldn't be chosen. We are
greatly troubled as to the result, dear, for though we expect to
win, the prejudice of some men against voting for a woman under any
circumstances will operate against our candidate, so that this
action of the Reform Club may possibly be the means of electing one
of the men on the Republican ticket instead of Luella. Miss Snow
hasn't the ghost of a chance. But that isn't all. These Reform Club
nominations are preliminary to a bill before the Legislature to
take away from the people the right to elect members of the school
committee, and substitute an appointive board of specialists to
serve during long terms of good behavior. As Mr. Lyons says, that's
the real issue involved. It's quixotic and it isn't necessary.
Haven't we always prided ourselves on our ability to keep our
public schools the best in the world? And is there any doubt,
Selma, that either you or I would be fully qualified to serve on
the School Board though we haven't made any special study of
primers and geographies? Luella Bailey hasn't had any special
training, but she's smart and progressive, and the poor thing would
like the recognition. We fixed on her because we thought it would
help her to get ahead, for she has not been lucky in obtaining
suitable employment. As Mr. Lyons says, a serious principle is
involved. He has come out strong against the movement and declares
that it is a direct menace to the intelligence of the plain people
of the United States and a subtle invasion of their liberties."</p>
<p>"Mr. Lyons? What Mr. Lyons is that?"</p>
<p>"Yes, dear, it is the same one who managed your affair. Your Mr.
Lyons. He has become an important man since you left Benham. He
speaks delightfully, and is likely to receive the next Democratic
nomination for Congress. He is in accord with all liberal
movements, and a foe of everything exclusive, unchristian or
arbitrary. He has declared his intention to oppose the bill when it
is introduced, and I shall devote myself body and soul to working
against it in case Luella Bailey is defeated. It is awkward because
Mrs. Taylor is a member of the Institute, though she doesn't often
come, and the club has never been in politics. But here when there
was a chance to do Luella Bailey a good turn, and I'd been able
through some of my newspaper friends to get her on the ticket, it
seems to me positively unchristian&mdash;yes, that's the
word&mdash;to try to keep her off the board. There are some things
of course, Luella couldn't do&mdash;and if the position were
superintendent of a hospital, for instance, I dare say that special
training would be advantageous, though nursing can be picked up
very rapidly by a keen intelligence: but to raise such objections
in regard to a candidate for the School Board seems to me
ridiculous as well as cruel. What we need there are open, receptive
minds, free from fads and prejudice&mdash;wide-awake, progressive
enthusiastic intellects. It worries me to see the Institute dragged
into politics, but it is my duty to resist this undemocratic
movement."</p>
<p>"Surely," exclaimed Selma, with fire. "I am thankful I have come
in time to help you. I understand exactly. I have been passing
through just such experiences in New York&mdash;encountering and
being rebuffed by just such people as those who belong to this
Reform Club. My husband was beginning to see through them and to
recognize that we were both tied hand and foot by their narrowness
and lack of enthusiasm when he died. If he had lived, we would have
moved to Benham shortly in order to escape from bondage. And one
thing is certain, dear Mrs. Earle," she continued with intensity,
"we must not permit this carping spirit of hostility to original
and spontaneous effort to get a foothold in Benham. We must crush
it, we must stamp it out."</p>
<p>"Amen, my dear. I am delighted to hear you talk like that. I
declare you would be very effective in public if you were
roused."</p>
<p>"Yes, I am roused, and I am willing to speak in public if it
becomes necessary in order to keep Benham uncontaminated by the
insidious canker of exclusiveness and the distrust of aspiring
souls which a few narrow minds choose to term untrained. Am
<i>I</i> untrained? Am <i>I</i> superficial and common? Do <i>I</i>
lack the appearance and behavior of a lady?"</p>
<p>Selma accompanied these interrogatories with successive waves of
the hand, as though she were branding so many falsehoods.</p>
<p>"Assuredly not, Selma. I consider you"&mdash;and here Mrs. Earle
gasped in the process of choosing her words&mdash;"I consider you
one of our best trained and most independent minds&mdash;cultured,
a friend of culture, and an earnest seeker after truth. If you are
not a lady, neither am I, neither is anyone in Benham. Why do you
ask, dear?" And without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Earle added
with a touch of material wisdom, "You return to Benham under
satisfactory, I might say, brilliant auspices. You will be the
active spirit in this fine house, and be in a position to promote
worthy intellectual and moral movements."</p>
<p>"Thank heavens, yes. And to combat those which are unworthy and
dangerous," exclaimed Selma, clasping her fingers, "I can count on
the support of Mr. Parsons, God bless him! And it would seem at
last as if I had, a real chance&mdash;a real chance at last. Mrs.
Earle&mdash;Cora&mdash;I know you can keep a secret. I feel almost
as though you were my mother, for there is no one else now to whom
I can talk like this. I have not been happy in New York. I thought
I was happy at first, but lately we have been miserable. My
marriage&mdash;er&mdash;they drove my husband to the wall, and
killed him. He was sensitive and noble, but not practical, and he
fell a victim to the mercenary despotism of our surroundings. When
I tried to help him they became jealous of me, and shut their doors
in our faces."</p>
<p>"You poor, poor child. I have suspected for some time that
something was wrong."</p>
<p>"It nearly killed me. But now, thank heaven, I breathe freely
once more. I have lost my dear husband, but I have escaped from
that prison-house; and with his memory to keep me merciless, I am
eager to wage war against those influences which are conspiring to
fetter the free-born soul and stifle spontaneity. Luella Bailey
must be elected, and these people be taught that foreign ideas may
flourish in New York, but cannot obtain root in Benham."</p>
<p>Mrs. Earle wiped her eyes, which were running over as the result
of this combination of confidence and eloquence.</p>
<p>"If you don't mind my saying so, Selma, I never saw anyone so
much improved as you. You always had ideas, and were well equipped,
but now you speak as though you could remove mountains if
necessary. It's a blessing for us as well as you that you're back
among us once more."</p>
<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>
<p>When Selma uttered her edict that Luella Bailey must be elected
she did not know that the election was only three days off. When
she was told this by Mrs. Earle, she cast about feverishly during a
few hours for the means to compass certain victory, then promptly
and sensibly disclaimed responsibility for the result, suggesting
even that her first appearance as a remover of mountains be
deferred to the time when the bill should be before the
Legislature. As she aptly explained to Mrs. Earle, the canvass was
virtually at an end, she was unacquainted with the practical
features of the situation, and was to all intents a stranger in
Benham after so long an absence. Mrs. Earle was unable to combat
the logic of these representations, but she obtained from Selma a
ready promise to accompany the Benham Institute to the final rally
on the evening before election day and sit in a prominent place on
the platform. The Institute was to attend as a body by way of
promoting the cause of its candidate, for though the meeting was
called in aid of the entire Democratic municipal ticket, Hon. James
O. Lyons, the leading orator of the occasion, had promised to
devote special attention to Miss Bailey, whose election, owing to
the attitude of the Reform Club, was recognized as in doubt. Selma
also agreed to accompany Mrs. Earle in a hack on the day itself,
and career through the city in search of recalcitrant or
indifferent female voters, for the recently acquired right of
Benham women to vote for members of the School Board had not as yet
been exercised by any considerable number of the emancipated
sex.</p>
<p>As a part of the programme of the meeting the Benham Institute,
or the major portion of it (for there were a few who sympathized
openly with Mrs. Taylor), filed showily on to the platform headed
by Mrs. Earle, who waved her pocket handkerchief at the audience,
which was the occasion for renewed hand-clapping and enthusiasm.
Selma walked not far behind and took her seat among the forty other
members, who all wore white silk badges stamped in red with the
sentiment "A vote for Luella Bailey is a vote for the liberty of
the people." Her pulses were throbbing with interest and pleasure.
This was the sort of thing she delighted in, and which she had
hoped would be a frequent incident of her life in New York. It
pleased her to think how naturally and easily she had taken her
place in the ranks of these earnest, enthusiastic workers, and that
she had merely to express a wish in order to have leadership urged
upon her. Matters had shaped themselves exactly as she desired. Mr.
Parsons not only treated her completely as an equal, but consulted
her in regard to everything. He had already become obviously
dependent on her, and had begun to develop the tendencies of an
invalid.</p>
<p>The exercises were of a partisan cast. The theory that municipal
government should be independent of party politics had been an
adage in Benham since its foundation, and been disregarded annually
by nine-tenths of the population ever since. This was a Democratic
love-feast. The speakers and the audience alike were in the best of
spirits, for there was no uncertainty in the minds of the party
prophets as to the result of the morrow's ballot&mdash;excepting
with regard to Miss Bailey. The rest of the ticket would
unquestionably be elected; accordingly all hands and voices were
free to focus their energies in her behalf and thus make the
victory a clean sweep. Nevertheless the earlier speakers felt
obliged to let their eloquence flow over the whole range of
political misgovernment from the White House and the national
platform down, although the actual issue was the choice of a mayor,
twelve aldermen and a school committee, so that only casual
reference was made to the single weak spot on the ticket until the
Hon. James O. Lyons rose to address the meeting. The reception
accorded him was more spontaneous and effusive than that which had
been bestowed on either of his predecessors, and as he stood
waiting with dignified urbanity for the applause to subside, some
rapturous admirer called for three cheers, and the tumult was
renewed.</p>
<p>Selma was thrilled. Her acquaintance with Mr. Lyons naturally
heightened her interest, and she observed him eagerly. Time had
added to his corporeal weight since he had acted as her counsel,
and enhanced the sober yet genial decorum of his bearing. His
slightly pontifical air seemed an assurance against ill-timed
levity. His cheeks were still fat and smooth shaven, but, like many
of the successful men of Benham, he now wore a chin beard&mdash;a
thick tuft of hair which in his case tapered so that it bore some
resemblance to the beard of a goat, and gave a rough-and-ready
aspect to his appearance suggestive alike of smart, solid worth and
an absence of dandified tendencies. Mr. Parsons had a thicker beard
of the same character, which Selma regarded with favor as a badge
of serious intentions.</p>
<p>"My friends," he began when the applause had subsided; then
paused and surveyed his audience in a manner which left them in
doubt as to whether he was struggling with emotion or busy in
silent prayer. "My friends, a month ago to-day the citizens of
Benham assembled to crown with appropriate and beautiful services
the monument which they, the survivors, have erected with pious
hands to perpetuate the memory of those who laid down their lives
to keep intact our beloved union of States and to banish slavery
forever from the confines of our aspiring civilization. A week ago
an equally representative assembly, without regard to creed or
party, listened to the exercises attending the dedication of the
new Court House which we have raised to Justice&mdash;that
white-robed goddess, the guardian of the liberties of the people.
Each was a notable and significant event. On each occasion I had
the honor to say a few poor words. We celebrated with bowed heads
and with garlands the deeds of the heroic dead, and now have
consecrated ourselves to the opportunities and possibilities of
peace under the law&mdash;to the revelation of the temper of our
new civilization which, tried in the furnace of war, is to be a
grand and vital power for the advancement of the human race, for
the righteous furtherance of the brotherhood of man. What is the
hope of the world?" he asked. "America&mdash;these United States, a
bulwark against tyranny, an asylum for the aspiring and the
downtrodden. The eyes of the nations are upon us. In the souls of
the survivors and of the sons and daughters of the patriots who
have died in defence of the liberties of our beloved country abide
the seed and inspiration for new victories of peace. Our privilege
be it as the heirs of Washington and Franklin and Hamilton and
Lincoln and Grant to set the nations of the earth an example of
what peace under the law may accomplish, so that the free-born son
of America from the shores of Cape Cod to the western limits of the
Golden Gate may remain a synonym for noble aims and noble deeds,
for truth and patriotism and fearlessness of soul."</p>
<p>The speaker's words had been uttered slowly at the
outset&mdash;ponderous, sonorous, sentence by sentence, like the
big drops before a heavy shower. As he warmed to his theme the
pauses ceased, and his speech flowed with the musical sweep of a
master of platform oratory. When he spoke of war his voice choked;
in speaking of peace he paused for an appreciable moment, casting
his eyes up as though he could discern the angel of national
tranquillity hovering overhead. Although this opening peroration
seemed scarcely germane to the occasion, the audience listened in
absorbed silence, spell-bound by the magnetism of his delivery.
They felt sure that he had a point in reserve to which these
splendid and agreeable truths were a pertinent introduction.</p>
<p>Proceeding, with his address, Mr. Lyons made a panegyric on
these United States of America, from the special standpoint of
their dedication to the "God of our fathers," a solemn figure of
speech. The sincerity of his patriotism was emphasized by the
religious fervor of his deduction that God was on the side of the
nation, and the nation on the side of God. Though he abstained from
direct strictures, both his manner and his matter seemed to serve a
caveat, so to speak, on the other nations by declaring that for
fineness of heart and thought, and deed, the world must look to the
land "whose wide and well-nigh boundless prairies were blossoming
with the buds of truth fanned by the breeze of liberty and
fertilized by the aspirations of a God-fearing and a God-led
population. What is the hope of the world, I repeat?" he continued.
"The plain and sovereign people of our beloved country. Whatever
menaces their liberties, whatever detracts from their, power and
infringes on their prerogatives is a peril to our institutions and
a step backward in the science of government. My friends, we are
here to-night to protest against a purpose to invade those
liberties&mdash;a deliberately conceived design to take away from
the sovereign people of this city one of their cherished
privileges&mdash;the right to decide who shall direct the policy of
our free public-school system, that priceless heritage of every
American. I beg to remind you that this contest is no mere question
of healthy rivalry between two great political parties; nor again
is it only a vigorous competition between two ambitious and
intelligent women. A ballot in behalf of our candidate will be a
vote of confidence in the ability of the plain people of this
country to adopt the best educational methods without the
patronizing dictation of aboard of specialists nurtured on foreign
and uninspiring theories of instruction. A ballot against Miss
Luella Bailey, the competent and cultivated lady whose name adds
strength and distinction to our ticket, and who has been needlessly
and wantonly opposed by those who should be her proud friends, will
signify a willingness to renounce one of our most precious
liberties&mdash;the free man's right to choose those who are to
impart to his children mastery of knowledge and love of country. I
take my stand to-night as the resolute enemy of this aristocratic
and un-American suggestion, and urge you, on the eve of election,
to devote your energies to overwhelming beneath the shower of your
fearless ballots this insult to the intelligence of the voters of
Benham, and this menace to our free and successful institutions,
which, under the guidance of the God of our fathers, we purpose to
keep perpetually progressive and undefiled."</p>
<p>A salvo of enthusiasm greeted Mr. Lyons as he concluded. His
speeches were apt to cause those whom he addressed to feel that
they were no common campaign utterances, but eloquent expressions
of principle and conviction, clothed in memorable language, as,
indeed, they were. He was fond of giving a moral or patriotic
flavor to what he said in public, for he entertained both a
profound reverence for high moral ideas and an abiding faith in the
superiority of everything American. He had arrayed himself on the
threshold of his legal career as a friend and champion of the mass
of the people&mdash;the plain and sovereign people, as he was apt
to style them in public. His first and considerable successes had
been as the counsel for plaintiffs before juries in accident cases
against large corporations, and he had thought of himself with
complete sincerity as a plain man, contesting for human rights
before the bar of justice, by the sheer might of his sonorous voice
and diligent brain. His political development had been on the same
side. Latterly the situation had become a little puzzling, though
to a man of straightforward intentions, like himself, not
fundamentally embarrassing. That is, the last four or five years
had altered both the character of his practice and his
circumstances, so that instead of fighting corporations he was now
the close adviser of a score of them; not the defender of their
accident cases, but the confidential attorney who was consulted in
regard to their vital interests, and who charged them liberal sums
for his services. He still figured in court from time to time in
his capacity of the plain man's friend, which he still considered
himself to be no less than before, but most of his time was devoted
to protecting the legal interests of the railroad, gas, water,
manufacturing, mining and other undertakings which, the rapid
growth of Benham had forgotten. And as a result of this commerce
with the leading men of affairs in Benham, and knowledge of what
was going on, he had been able to invest his large fees to the best
advantage, and had already reaped a rich harvest from the rapid
rise in value of the securities of diverse successful enterprises.
When new projects were under consideration he was in a position to
have a finger in the pie, and he was able to borrow freely from a
local bank in which he was a director.</p>
<p>He was puzzled&mdash;it might be said distressed&mdash;how to
make these rewards of his professional prominence appear compatible
with his real political principles, so that the plain and sovereign
people would recognize as clearly as he that there was no
inconsistency in his having taken advantage of the opportunities
for professional advancement thrown in his way. He was ambitious
for political preferment, sharing the growing impression that he
was well qualified for public office, and he desired to rise as the
champion of popular ideas. Consequently he resented bitterly the
calumnies which had appeared in one or two irresponsible newspapers
to the effect that he was becoming a corporation attorney and a
capitalist. Could a man refuse legitimate business which was thrust
upon him? How were his convictions and interest in the cause of
struggling humanity altered or affected by his success at the bar?
Hence he neglected no occasion to declare his allegiance to
progressive doctrine, and to give utterance to the patriotism which
at all times was on tap in his emotional system. He had been
married, but his wife had been dead a number of years, and he made
his home with his aged mother, to whom he was apt to refer with
pious tremulousness when he desired to emphasize some domestic
situation before a jury. As a staunch member of the Methodist
Church, he was on terms of intimate association with his pastor,
and was known as a liberal contributor to domestic and foreign
missions.</p>
<p>Selma was genuinely carried away by the character of his
oratory. His sentiments were so completely in accord with her own
ideas that she felt he had left nothing unsaid, and had put the
case grandly. Here at last was a man who shared with her the
convictions with which her brain was seething&mdash;a man who was
not afraid to give public expression to his views, and who
possessed a splendid gift of statement. She had felt sure that she
would meet sympathy and kindred spirits in Benham, but her
experience in New York had so far depressed her that she had not
allowed herself to expect such a thorough-going champion. What a
contrast his solid, devotional, yet business-like aspect was to the
quizzical lightness of the men in New York she had been told were
clever, like Dr. Page and Mr. Dennison! He possessed Wilbur's ardor
and reverence, with a robustness of physique and a practical air
which Wilbur had lacked&mdash;lacked to his and her detriment. If
Wilbur had been as vigorous in body as he ought to have been, would
he have died? She had read somewhere lately that physical delicacy
was apt to react on the mind and make one's ideas too fine-spun and
unsubstantial. Here was the advantage which a man like Mr. Lyons
had over Wilbur. He was strong and thickset, and looked as though
he could endure hard work without wincing. So could she. It was a
great boon, an essential of effective manhood or womanhood. These
thoughts followed in the wake of the enthusiasm his personality had
aroused in her at the close of his address. She scarcely heard the
remarks of the next speaker, the last on the programme. Her eyes
kept straying wistfully in the direction of Mr. Lyons, and she
wondered if there would be an opportunity when the meeting was over
to let him know how much she approved of what he had said, and how
necessary she felt the promulgation, of such ideas was for the
welfare of the country.</p>
<p>She was aroused from contemplation by the voice of Mrs. Earle,
who, now that everybody was standing up preliminary to departure,
bent over her front bench on the platform to whisper, "Wasn't Mr.
Lyons splendid?"</p>
<p>"Yes, indeed," said Selma. "I should like so much to make his
acquaintance, to compare notes with him and thank him for his
brave, true words."</p>
<p>"I know he'd be pleased to meet you. I'll try to catch his eye.
I wish some of those Reform Club people could have heard what he
thought of them. There! He's looking this way. I'm going to attract
his attention." Whereupon Mrs. Earle began to nod in his direction
energetically. "He sees us now, and has noticed you. I shouldn't
wonder if he has recognized you. Follow me close, Selma, and we'll
be able to shake hands with him."</p>
<p>By dint of squeezing and stertorous declarations of her desire,
Mrs. Earle obtained a gradual passage through the crowd. Many from
the audience had ascended to the platform for the purpose of
accosting the speakers, and a large share of the interest was being
bestowed on Mr. Lyons, who was holding an impromptu reception. When
at last Mrs. Earle had worked her way to within a few feet of him,
her wheezing condition and bulk announced her approach, and
procured her consideration from the others in the line, so that she
was able to plant herself pervasively and firmly in front of her
idol and take possession of him by the fervid announcement, "You
were simply unanswerable. Eloquent, convincing, and unanswerable.
And I have brought with me an old friend, Mrs. Littleton, who
sympathizes with your superb utterances, and wishes to tell you
so."</p>
<p>As Selma stepped forward in recognition of this introduction she
vibrated to hear Mr. Lyons say, without a sign of hesitation, "A
friend whom it is a pleasure to welcome back to Benham, Mrs.
Littleton, I am pleased to meet you again."</p>
<p>Selma had hoped, and felt it her due, that he would recognize
her. Still his having done so at once was a compliment which served
to enhance the favorable opinion which she had already formed
regarding him.</p>
<p>"I have been longing for months, Mr. Lyons," she said, "to hear
someone say what you have said to-night. I am concerned, as we all
are of course, in Miss Bailey's election, and your advocacy of her
cause was most brilliant; but what I refer to&mdash;what
interested, me especially, was the splendid protest you uttered
against all movements to prevent the intelligence of the people
from asserting itself. It gave me encouragement and made me feel
that the outlook for the future is bright&mdash;that our truths
must prevail."</p>
<p>It was a maxim with Lyons that it was desirable to remember
everyone he met, and he prided himself on his ability to call
cordially by name clients or chance acquaintances whom he had not
seen for years. Nature had endowed him with a good memory for names
and faces, but he had learned to take advantage of all
opportunities to brush up his wits before they were called into
flattering, spontaneous action. When his glance, attracted by Mrs.
Earle's remote gesticulation, rested on Selma's face, he began to
ask himself at once where he had seen it before. In the interval
vouchsafed by her approach he recalled the incident of the divorce,
that her name had been Babcock, and that she had married again, but
he was still groping for the name of her husband when the necessary
clew was supplied by Mrs. Earle, and he was able to make his
recognition of her exhaustive. He noticed with approval her pretty
face and compact figure, reflecting that the slight gain in flesh
was to her advantage, and noticed also her widow's mourning. But
her eager, fluent address and zealous manner had prevented his
attention from secretly wandering with business-like foresight to
the next persons in the line of those anxious to shake his hand,
and led him to regard her a second time. He was accustomed to
compliments, but he was struck by the note of discriminating
companionship in her congratulation. He believed that he had much
at heart the very issue which she had touched upon, and it
gratified him that a woman whose appearance was so attractive to
him should single out for sympathetic enthusiasm what was in his
opinion the cardinal principle involved, instead of expatiating on
the assistance he had rendered Miss Bailey. Lyons said to himself
that here was a kindred spirit&mdash;a woman with whom conversation
would be a pleasure; with whom it would be possible to discourse on
terms of mental comradeship. He was partial to comely women, but he
did not approve of frivolity except on special and guarded
occasions.</p>
<p>"I thank you cordially for your appreciation," he answered. "You
have grasped the vital kernel of my speech and I am grateful for
your good opinion."</p>
<p>Even in addressing the other sex, Lyons could not forget the
responsibility of his frock-coat and that it was incumbent upon him
to be strictly serious in public. Nevertheless his august but glib
demeanor suited Selma's mood better than more obvious gallantry,
especially as she got the impression, which he really wished to
convey, that he admired her. It was out of the question for him to
prolong the situation in the face of those waiting to grasp his
hand, but Lyons heard with interest the statement which Mrs. Earle
managed to whisper hoarsely in his ear just as he turned to welcome
the next comer, and they were swept along:</p>
<p>"She is one of our brightest minds. The poor child has recently
lost her husband, and has come to keep Mr. Parsons company in his
new house&mdash;an ideal arrangement."</p>
<p>The identity of Mr. Parsons was well known to Lyons. He had met
him occasionally in the past in other parts of the State in
connection with business complications, and regarded him as a
practical, intelligent citizen whose name would be of value to an
aspirant for Congressional honors. It occurred to him as he shook
hands with those next in line and addressed them that it would be
eminently suitable if he should pay his respects to this new-comer
to Benham by a visit. By so doing he world kill two birds with one
stone, for he had reasoned of late that he owed it to himself to
see more of the other sex. He had no specific matrimonial
intentions; that is, he was not on the lookout for a wife; but he
approved of happy unions as one of the great bulwarks of the
community, and was well-disposed to encounter a suitable helpmate.
He should expect physical charms, dignity, capacity and a
sympathetic mind; a woman, in short, who would be an ornament to
his home, a Christian influence in society and a companion whose
intelligent tact would be likely to promote his political fortunes.
And so it happened that in the course of the next few days he found
himself thinking of Mrs. Littleton as a fine figure of a woman.
This had not happened to him before since the death of his wife,
and it made him thoughtful to the extent of asking "Why not?" For
in spite of his long frock-coat and proper demeanor, passion was
not extinct in the bosom of the Hon. James O. Lyons, and he was
capable on special and guarded occasions of telling a woman that he
loved her.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>
<p>Miss Luella Bailey was not elected. The unenlightened prejudice
of man to prefer one of his own sex, combined with the hostility of
the Reform Club, procured her defeat, notwithstanding that the rest
of her ticket triumphed at the polls. There was some consolation
for her friends in the fact that her rival, Miss Snow, had a
considerably smaller number of votes than she. Selma solaced
herself by the reflection that, as she had been consulted only at
the twelfth hour, she was not responsible for the result, but she
felt nerved by the defeat to concentrate her energies against the
proposed bill for an appointed school board.</p>
<p>Her immediate attention and sympathy were suddenly invoked by
the illness of Mr. Parsons, who had seemed lacking in physical
vigor for some weeks, and whose symptoms culminated in a slight
paralysis, which confined him to his bed for a month, and to his
house during the remainder of the autumn. Selma rejoiced in this
opportunity to develop her capacities as a nurse, to prove how
adequate she would have been to take complete charge of her late
husband, had Dr. Page chosen to trust her. She administered with
scrupulous regularity to the invalid such medicines as were
ordered, and kept him cheerful by reading and conversation, so that
the physician in charge complimented her on her proficiency.
Trained nurses were unknown in Benham at this time, and any old or
unoccupied female was regarded as qualified to watch over the sick.
Selma appreciated from what she had observed of the conduct of
Wilbur's nurse that there was a wrong and a right way of doing
things, but she blamed Dr. Page for his failure to appreciate
instinctively that she was sure to do things suitably. It seemed to
her that he had lacked the intuitive gift to discern latent
capabilities&mdash;a fault of which the Benham practitioner proved
blameless.</p>
<p>From the large, sunny chamber in which Mr. Parsons slowly
recovered some portion of his vitality, Selma could discern the
distant beginnings of Wetmore College, pleasantly situated on an
elevation well beyond the city limits on the further side of the
winding river. An architect had been engaged to carry out Wilbur's
plans, and she watched the outlines of the new building gradually
take shape during the convalescence of her benefactor. She
recognized that the college would be theoretically a noble addition
to the standing of Benham as a city of intellectual and
&aelig;sthetic interests, but it provoked her to think that its
management was in the hands of Mrs. Hallett Taylor and her friends,
between whom and herself she felt that a chasm of irreconcilable
differences of opinion existed. Mrs. Taylor had not called on her
since her return. She believed that she was glad of this, and hoped
that some of the severely indignant criticism which she had uttered
in regard to the Reform Club movement had reached her ears. Or was
Mrs. Taylor envious of her return to Benham as the true mistress of
this fine establishment on the River Drive, so superior to her own?
Nevertheless, it would have suited Selma to have been one of the
trustees of this new college&mdash;her husband's handiwork in the
doing of which he had laid down his promising life&mdash;and the
fact that no one had sought her out and offered her the honor as a
fitting recognition of her due was secretly mortifying. The Benham
Institute had been prompt to acknowledge her presence by giving a
reception in her honor, at which she was able to recite once more,
"Oh, why should the Spirit of Mortal be proud?" with old-time
success, and she had been informed by Mrs. Earle that she was
likely to be chosen one of the Vice-Presidents at the annual
meeting. But these Reform Club people had not even done her the
courtesy to ask her to join them or consider their opinions. She
would have spurned the invitation with contempt, but it piqued her
not to know more about them; it distressed her to think that there
should exist in Benham an exclusive set which professed to be
ethically and intellectually superior and did not include her, for
she had come to Benham with the intention of leading such a
movement, to the detriment of fashion and frivolity. With Mr.
Parsons's money at her back, she was serenely confident that the
houses of the magnates of Benham&mdash;the people who corresponded
in her mind's eye to the dwellers on Fifth Avenue&mdash;would open
to her. Already there had been flattering indications that she
would be able to command attention there. She had expected to find
this so; her heart would have been broken to find it otherwise.
Still, her hope in shaking the dust of New York from her feet had
been to find in Benham an equally admirable and satisfactory
atmosphere in regard to mental and moral progress. She had come
just in time, it is true, to utter her vehement protest against
this exclusive, aristocratic movement&mdash;this arrogant
affectation of superiority, and to array herself in battle line
against it, resolved to give herself up with enthusiasm to its
annihilation. Yet the sight of the college buildings for the higher
education of women, rising without her furtherance and supervision,
and under the direction of these people, made her sad and gave her
a feeling of disappointment. Why had they been permitted to obtain
this foothold? Someone had been lacking in vigilance and foresight.
Thank heaven, with her return and a strong, popular spirit like Mr.
Lyons in the lead, these unsympathetic, so-called reformers would
speedily be confounded, and the intellectual air of Benham restored
to its original purity.</p>
<p>One afternoon while Selma's gaze happened to be directed toward
the embryo college walls, and she was incubating on the situation,
Mr. Parsons, who had seemed to be dozing, suddenly said:</p>
<p>"I should like you to write to Mr. Lyons, the lawyer, and ask
him to come to see me."</p>
<p>"I will write to-night. You know he called while you were
ill."</p>
<p>"Yes, I thought him a clever fellow when we met two or three
times on railroad matters, and I gather from what you told me about
his speech at the political meeting that he's a rising man
hereabouts. I'm going to make my will, and I need him to put it
into proper shape."</p>
<p>"I'm sure he'd do it correctly."</p>
<p>"There's not much for him to do except to make sure that the
language is legal, for I've thought it all out while I've been
lying here during these weeks. Still, it's important to have in a
lawyer to fix it so the people whom I don't intend to get my money
shan't be able to make out that I'm not in my right mind. I guess,"
he added, with a laugh, "that the doctor will allow I've my wits
sufficiently for that?"</p>
<p>"Surely. You are practically well now."</p>
<p>Mr. Parsons was silent for a moment. He prided himself on being
close-mouthed about his private affairs until they were ripe for
utterance. His intention had been to defer until after the
interview with his lawyer any statement of his purpose, but it
suddenly occurred to him that it would please him to unbosom his
secret to his companion because he felt sure in advance that she
would sympathize fully with his plans. He had meant to tell her
when the instrument was signed. Why not now?</p>
<p>"Selma," he said, "I've known ever since my wife and daughter
died that I ought to make a will, but I kept putting it off until
it has almost happened that everything I've got went to my next of
kin&mdash;folk I'm fond of, too, and mean to remember&mdash;but not
fond enough for that. If I give them fifty thousand dollars
apiece&mdash;the three of them&mdash;I shall rest easy in my grave,
even if they think they ought to have had a bigger slice. It's hard
on a man who has worked all his days, and laid up close to a
million of dollars, not to have a son or a daughter, flesh of my
flesh, to leave it to; a boy or a girl given at the start the
education I didn't get, and who, by the help of my money, might
make me proud, if I could look on, of my name or my blood. It
wasn't to be, and I must grin and bear it, and do the next best
thing. I caught a glimpse of what that thing was soon after I lost
my wife and daughter, and it was the thought of that more than
anything which kept me from going crazy with despair. I'm a plain
man, an uneducated man, but the fortune I've made has been made
honestly, and I'm going to spend it for the good of the American
people&mdash;to contribute my mite toward helping the cause of
truth and good citizenship and free and independent ideas which
this nation calls for. I'm going to give my money for benevolent
uses."</p>
<p>"Oh, Mr. Parsons," exclaimed Selma, clasping her hands, "how
splendid! how glorious! How I envy you. It was what I hoped."</p>
<p>"I knew you would be pleased. I've had half a mind once or twice
to let the cat out of the bag, because I guessed it would be the
sort of thing that would take your fancy; but somehow I've kept
mum, for fear I might be taken before I'd been able to make a will.
And then, too, I've been of several minds as to the form of my
gift. I thought it would suit me best of all to found a college,
and I was disappointed when I learned that neighbor Flagg had got
the start of me with his seminary for women across the river. I
wasn't happy over it until one night, just after the doctor had
gone, the thought came to me, 'Why, not give a hospital?' And
that's what it's to be. Five hundred thousand dollars for a free
hospital in the City of Benham, in memory of my wife and daughter.
That'll be useful, won't it? That'll help the people as much as a
college? And, Selma," he added, cutting off the assuring answer
which trembled on her tongue and blazed from her eyes, "I shan't
forget you. After I'm gone you are to have twenty thousand dollars.
That'll enable you, in case you don't marry, to keep a roof over
your head without working too hard."</p>
<p>"Thank you. You are very generous," she said. The announcement
was pleasant to her, but at the moment it seemed of secondary
importance. Her enthusiasm had been aroused by the fact and
character of his public donation, and already her brain was dancing
with the thought of the prospect of a rival vital institution in
connection with which her views and her talents would in all
probability be consulted and allowed to exercise themselves. Her's,
and not Mrs. Taylor's, or any of that censorious and restricting
set. In that hospital, at least, ambition and originality would be
allowed to show what they could do unfettered by envy or paralyzed
by conservatism. "But I can't think of anything now, Mr. Parsons,
except the grand secret you have confided to me. A hospital! It is
an ideal gift. It will show the world what noble uses our rich,
earnest-minded men make of their money, and it will give our
doctors and our people a chance to demonstrate what a free hospital
ought to be. Oh, I congratulate you. I will write to Mr. Lyons at
once."</p>
<p>A note in prompt response stated the hour when the lawyer would
call. On his arrival he was shown immediately to Mr. Parsons's
apartments, with whom he was closeted alone. Selma managed to cross
the hall at the moment he was descending, and he was easily
persuaded to linger and to follow her into the library.</p>
<p>"I was anxious to say a few words to you, Mr. Lyons," she said.
"I know the purpose for which Mr. Parsons sent for you. He has
confided to me concerning his will&mdash;told me everything. It is
a noble disposition of his property. A free hospital for Benham is
an ideal selection, and one envies him his opportunity."</p>
<p>"Yes. It is a superb and generous benefaction."</p>
<p>"I lay awake for hours last night thinking about it; thinking
particularly of the special point I am desirous to consult you in
regard to. I don't wish to appear officious, or to say anything I
shouldn't, but knowing from what I heard you state in your speech
the other day that you feel as I do in regard to such matters, I
take the liberty of suggesting that it seems to me of very great
importance that the management of this magnificent gift should be
in proper hands. May I ask you without impropriety if you will
protect Mr. Parsons so that captious or unenthusiastic persons, men
or women, will be unable to control the policy of his hospital? He
would wish it so, I am sure. I thought of mentioning the matter to
him myself, but I was afraid lest it might worry him and spoil the
satisfaction of his generosity or retard his cure. Is what I ask
possible? Do I make myself clear?"</p>
<p>"Perfectly&mdash;perfectly. A valuable suggestion," he said. "I
am glad that you have spoken&mdash;very glad. Alive as I am to the
importance of protecting ourselves at all points, I might not have
realized this particular danger had you not called it to my
attention. Perhaps only a clever woman would have thought of
it."</p>
<p>"Oh, thank you. I felt that I could not keep silence, and run
the risk of what might happen."</p>
<p>"Precisely. I think I can relieve your mind by telling
you&mdash;which under the circumstances is no breach of
professional secrecy, for it is plain that the testator desires you
to know his purpose&mdash;that Mr. Parsons has done me the honor to
request me to act as the executor of his will. As such I shall be
in a position to make sure that those to whom the management of his
hospital is intrusted are people in whom you and I would have
confidence."</p>
<p>"Ah! That is very satisfactory. It makes everything as it should
be, and I am immensely relieved."</p>
<p>"Now that you have spoken," he added, meeting her eager gaze
with a propitiating look of reflective wisdom, "I will consider the
advisability of taking the further precaution of advising the
testator to name in his will the persons who shall act as the
trustees of his charity. That would clinch the matter. The
selection of the individuals would necessarily lie with Mr.
Parsons, but it would seem eminently natural and fitting that he
should name you to represent your sex on such a board. I hope it
would be agreeable to you to serve?"</p>
<p>Selma flushed. "It would be a position which I should prize
immensely. Such a possibility had not occurred to me, though I felt
that some definite provision should be made. The responsibility
would be congenial to me and very much in my line."</p>
<p>"Assuredly. If you will permit me to say so, you are just the
woman for the place. We have met only a few times, Mrs. Littleton,
but I am a man who forms my conclusions of people rapidly, and it
is obvious to me that you are thoughtful, energetic, and
liberal-minded&mdash;qualities which are especially requisite for
intelligent progress in semi-public work. It is essentially
desirable to enlist the co-operation of well-equipped women to
promote the national weal."</p>
<p>Lyons departed with an agreeable impression that he had been
talking to a woman who combined mental sagacity and enterprise with
considerable fascination of person. This capable companion of Mr.
Parsons was no coquettish or simpering beauty, no mere devotee of
fashionable manners, but a mature, well-poised character endowed
with ripe intellectual and bodily graces. Their interview suggested
that she possessed initiative and discretion in directing the
course of events, and a strong sense of moral responsibility,
attributes which attracted his interest. He was obliged to make two
more visits before the execution of the will, and on each occasion
he had an opportunity to spend a half-hour alone in the society of
Selma. He found her gravely and engagingly sympathetic with his
advocacy of democratic principles; he told her of his ambition to
be elected to Congress&mdash;an ambition which he believed would be
realized the following autumn. He confided to her, also, that he
was engaged in his leisure moments in the preparation of a literary
volume to be entitled, "Watchwords of Patriotism," a study of the
requisites of the best citizenship, exemplified by pertinent
extracts from the public utterances of the most distinguished
American public servants.</p>
<p>Selma on her part reciprocated by a reference to the course of
lectures on "Culture and Higher Education," which she had resolved
to deliver before the Benham Institute during the winter. In these
lectures she meant to emphasize the importance of unfettered
individuality, and to comment adversely on the tendencies hostile
to this fundamental principle of progress which she had observed in
New York and from which Benham itself did not appear to her to be
entirely exempt. After delivering these lectures in Benham she
intended to repeat them in various parts of the State, and in some
of the large cities elsewhere, under the auspices of the
Confederated Sisterhood of Women's Clubs of America, the Sorosis
which Mrs. Earle had established on a firm basis, and of which at
present she was second vice-president. As a token of sympathy with
this undertaking, Mr. Lyons offered to procure her a free pass on
the railroads over which she would be obliged to travel. This
pleased Selma greatly, for she had always regarded free passes as a
sign of mysterious and enviable importance.</p>
<p>Two months later Selma, as secretary of the sub-committee of the
Institute selected to oppose before the legislature the bill to
create an appointed school board, had further occasion to confer
with Mr. Lyons. He agreed to be the active counsel, and approved of
the plan that a delegation of women should journey to the capital,
two hours and a half by rail, and add the moral support of their
presence at the hearing before the legislative committee.</p>
<p>The expedition was another gratification to Selma&mdash;who had
become possessed of her free pass. She felt that in visiting the
state-house and thus taking an active part in the work of
legislation she was beginning to fulfil the larger destiny for
which she was qualified. Side by side with Mrs. Earle at the head
of a delegation of twenty Benham women she marched augustly into
the committee chamber. The contending factions sat on opposite
sides of the room. Through its middle ran a long table occupied by
the Committee on Education to which the bill had been referred.
Among the dozen or fifteen persons who appeared in support of the
bill Selma perceived Mrs. Hallett Taylor, whom she had not seen
since her return. She was disappointed to observe that Mrs.
Taylor's clothes, though unostentatious, were in the latest
fashion. She had hoped to find her dowdy or unenlightened, and to
be able to look down on her from the heights of her own New York
experience.</p>
<p>The lawyer in charge of the bill presented lucidly and with
skill the merits of his case, calling to the stand four prominent
educators from as many different sections of the State, and several
citizens of well-known character, among them Babcock's former
pastor, Rev. Henry Glynn. He pointed out that the school committee,
as at present constituted, was an unwieldy body of twenty-four
members, that it was regarded as the first round in the ladder of
political preferment, and that the members which composed it were
elected not on the ground of their fitness, but because they were
ambitious for political recognition.</p>
<p>The legislative committee listened politely but coldly to these
statements and to the testimony of the witnesses. It was evident
that they regarded the proposed reform with distrust.</p>
<p>"Do you mean us to understand that the public schools of this
State are not among the best, if not the best, in the world?" asked
one member of the committee, somewhat sternly.</p>
<p>"I recognize the merits of our school system, but I am not blind
to its faults," responded the attorney in charge of the bill. He
was a man who possessed the courage of his convictions, but he was
a lawyer of tact, and he knew that his answer went to the full
limit of what he could safely utter by way of qualification without
hopelessly imperilling his cause.</p>
<p>"Are not our public schools turning out yearly hundreds of boys
and girls who are a growing credit to the soundness of the
institutions of the country?" continued the same inquisitor.</p>
<p>Here was a proposition which opened such a vista of circuitous
and careful speech, were he to attempt to answer it and be true to
conscience without being false to patriotism, that Mr. Hunter was
driven to reply, "I am unable to deny the general accuracy of your
statement."</p>
<p>"Then why seek to harass those who are doing such good work by
unfriendly legislation?"</p>
<p>The member plainly felt that he had disposed of the matter by
this triumphant interrogation, for he listened with scant attention
to a repetition of the grounds on which, relief was sought.</p>
<p>Mr. Lyons's method of reply was a surprise to Selma. She had
looked for a fervid vindication of the principle of the people's
choice, and an eloquent, sarcastic setting forth of the evils of
the exclusive and aristocratic spirit. He began by complimenting
the members of the committee on their ability to deal intelligently
with the important question before them, and then proceeded to
refer to the sincere but mistaken zeal of the advocates of the
bill, whom he described as people animated by conscientious
motives, but unduly distrustful of the capacity of the American
people. His manner suggested a desire to be at peace with all the
world and was agreeably conciliatory, as though he deprecated the
existence of friction. He said that he would not do the members of
the committee the injustice to suppose that they could seriously
favor the passage of a bill which would deprive the intelligent
average voter of one of his dearest privileges; but that he desired
to put himself on record as thinking it a fortunate circumstance,
on the whole, that the well-intentioned promoters of the bill had
brought this matter to the attention of the legislature, and had an
opportunity to express their views. He believed that the hearing
would be productive of benefit to both parties, in that on the one
hand it would tend to make the voters more careful as to whom they
selected for the important duties of the school board, and on the
other would&mdash;he, as a lover of democratic institutions,
hoped&mdash;serve to convince the friends of the bill that they had
exaggerated the evils of the situation, and that they were engaged
in a false and hopeless undertaking in seeking to confine by hard
and fast lines the spontaneous yearnings of the American people to
control the education of their children. "We say to these critics,"
he continued, "some of whom are enrolled under the solemn name of
reformers, that we welcome their zeal and offer co-operation in a
resolute purpose to exercise unswerving vigilance in the selection
of candidates for the high office of guardians of our public
schools. So far as they will join hands with us in keeping
undefiled the traditions of our forefathers, to that extent we are
heartily in accord with them, but when they seek to override those
traditions and to fasten upon this community a method which is
based on a lack of confidence in democratic theories, then
I&mdash;and gentlemen, I feel sure that you&mdash;are against
them."</p>
<p>Lyons sat down, having given everyone in the room, with the
exception of a few discerning spirits on the other side, the
impression that he had intended to be pre-eminently fair, and that
he had held out the olive branch when he would have been justified
in using the scourge. The inclination to make friends, to smooth
over seamy situations and to avoid repellent language in dealing
with adversaries, except in corporation cases before juries and on
special occasions when defending his political convictions, had
become a growing tendency with him now that he was in training for
public office. Selma did not quite know what to make of it at
first. She had expected that he would crush their opponents beneath
an avalanche of righteous invective. Instead he took his seat with
an expression of countenance which was no less benignant than
dignified. When the hearing was declared closed, a few minutes
later, he looked in her direction, and in the course of his passage
to where she was sitting stopped to exchange affable greetings with
assemblymen and others who came in his way. At his approach Mrs.
Earle uttered congratulations so comprehensive that Selma felt able
to refrain for the moment from committing herself. "I am glad that
you were pleased," he said. "I think I covered the ground, and no
one's feelings have been hurt." As though he divined what was
passing through Selma's mind, he added in an aside intended only
for their ears, "It was not necessary to use all our powder, for I
could tell from the way the committee acted that they were with
us."</p>
<p>"I felt sure they would be," exclaimed Mrs. Earle. "And, as you
say, it is a pleasure that no one's feelings were hurt, and that we
can all part friends."</p>
<p>"Which reminds me," said Lyons, "that I should be glad of an
introduction to Mrs. Taylor as she passes us on her way out. I wish
to assure her personally of my willingness to further her efforts
to improve the quality of the school board."</p>
<p>"That would be nice of you," said Mrs. Earle, "and ought to
please and encourage her, for she will be disappointed, poor thing,
and after all I suppose she means well. There she is now, and I
will keep my eye on her."</p>
<p>"But surely, Mr. Lyons," said Selma, dazed yet interested by
this doctrine of brotherly love, "don't you think our school
committee admirable as it is?"</p>
<p>"A highly efficient body," he answered. "But I should be glad to
have our opponents&mdash;mistaken as we believe them to
be&mdash;appreciate that we no less than they are zealous to
preserve the present high standard. We must make them recognize
that we are reformers and in sympathy with reform."</p>
<p>"I see," said Selma. "For, of course, we are the real reformers.
Convert them you mean? Be civil to them at least? I understand.
Yes, I suppose there is no use in making enemies of them." She was
thinking aloud. Though ever on her guard to resent false doctrine,
she was so sure of the loyalty of both her companions that she
could allow herself to be interested by this new point of
view&mdash;a vast improvement on the New York manner because of its
ethical suggestion. She realized that if Mr. Lyons was certain of
the committee, it was right, and at the same time sensible, not to
hurt anyone's feelings unnecessarily&mdash;although she felt a
little suspicious because he had asked to be introduced to Mrs.
Taylor. Indeed, the more she thought of this attitude, on the
assumption that the victory was assured, the more it appealed to
her conscience and intelligence; so much so that when Mrs. Earle
darted forward to detain Mrs. Taylor, Selma was reflecting with
admiration on his magnanimity.</p>
<p>She observed intently the meeting between Mr. Lyons and Mrs.
Taylor. He was deferential, complimentary, and genial, and he made
a suave, impressive offer of his personal services, in response to
which Mrs. Taylor regarded him with smiling incredulity&mdash;a
smile which Selma considered impertinent. How dared she treat his
courtly advances with flippant distrust!</p>
<p>"Are you aware, Mr. Lyons," Mrs. Taylor was saying, "that one of
the present members of the school board is a milkman, and another a
carpenter&mdash;both of them persons of very ordinary efficiency
from an educational standpoint? Will you co-operate with us, when
their terms expire next year and they seek re-election, to nominate
more suitable candidates in their stead?"</p>
<p>"I shall be very glad when the time comes to investigate
carefully their qualifications, and if they are proved to be
unworthy of the confidence of the people, to use my influence
against them. You may rely on this&mdash;rely on my cordial
support, and the support of these ladies," he added, indicating
Mrs. Earle and Selma, with a wave of his hand, "who, if you will
permit me to say so, are no less interested than you in promoting
good government."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes, indeed. We thought we were making an ideal choice in
Miss Luella Bailey," said Mrs. Earle with effusion. "If Mrs. Taylor
had seen more of her, I feel sure she would have admired her, and
then our Institute would not have been dragged into politics."</p>
<p>Mrs. Taylor did not attempt to answer this appeal. Instead she
greeted Selma civilly, and said, "I was sorry to hear that you were
against us, Mrs. Littleton. We were allies once in a good cause,
and in spite of Mr. Lyons's protestations to the contrary, I assure
you that this is another genuine opportunity to improve the
existing order of things. At least," she added, gayly but firmly,
"you must not let Mr. Lyons's predilection to see everything
through rose-colored spectacles prevent you from looking into the
matter on your own account."</p>
<p>"I have done so already," answered Selma, affronted at the
suggestion that she was uninformed, yet restrained from displaying
her annoyance by the sudden inspiration that here was an admirable
opportunity to practise the proselytizing forbearance suggested by
Mr. Lyons. The idea of patronizing Mrs. Taylor from the
vantage-ground of infallibility, tinctured by magnanimous
condescension, appealed to her. "I have made a thorough study of
the question, and I never could look at it as you do, Mrs. Taylor.
I sided with you before because I thought you were
right&mdash;because you were in favor of giving everyone a chance
of expression. But now I'm on the other side for the same
reason&mdash;because you and your friends are disposed to deprive
people of that very thing, and to regard their aspirations and
their efforts contemptuously, if I may say so. That's the mistake
we think you make&mdash;we who, as Mr. Lyons has stated, are no
less eager than you to maintain the present high character of
everything which concerns our school system. But if you only would
see things in a little different light, both Mrs. Earle and I would
be glad to welcome you as an ally and to co-operate with you."</p>
<p>Selma had not expected to make such a lengthy speech, but as she
proceeded she was spurred by the desire to teach Mrs. Taylor her
proper place, and at the same time to proclaim her own allegiance
to the attitude of optimistic forbearance.</p>
<p>"I knew that was the way they felt," said Lyons, ingratiatingly.
"It would be a genuine pleasure to us all to see this unfortunate
difference of opinion between earnest people obviated."</p>
<p>Mrs. Taylor, as Selma was pleased to note, flushed at her
concluding offer, and she answered, drily, "I fear that we are too
far apart in our ideas to talk of co-operation. If our bill is
defeated this year, we shall have to persevere and trust to the
gradual enlightenment of public sentiment. Good afternoon."</p>
<p>Selma left the State-house in an elated frame of mind. She felt
that she had taken a righteous and patriotic stand, and it pleased
her to think that she was taking an active part in defending the
institutions of the country. She chatted eagerly as she walked
through the corridors with Mr. Lyons, who, portly and imposing,
acted as escort to her and Mrs. Earle, and invited them to luncheon
at a hotel restaurant. Excitement had given her more color than
usual, to which her mourning acted as a foil, and she looked her
best. Lyons was proud of being in the company of such a presentable
and spirited appearing woman, and made a point of stopping two or
three members of the legislature and introducing them to her. When
they reached the restaurant he established them at a table where
they could see everybody and be seen, and he ordered scolloped
oysters, chicken-salad, ice-cream, coffee, and some bottles of
sarsaparilla. Both women were in high spirits, and Selma was
agreeably conscious that people were observing them. Before the
repast was over a messenger brought a note to Mr. Lyons, which
announced that the legislative committee had given the petitioners
leave to withdraw their bill, which, in Selma's eyes, justified the
management of the affair, and set the seal of complete success on
an already absorbing and delightful occasion.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3>
<p>Her mourning and the slow convalescence of Mr. Parsons deprived
Selma of convincing evidence in regard to her social reception in
Benham, for those socially prominent were thus barred from inviting
her to their houses, and her own activities were correspondingly
fettered. Indeed, her circumstances supplied her with an obvious
salve for her proper dignity had she been disposed to let suspicion
lie fallow. As it was a number of people had left cards and sent
invitations notwithstanding they could not be accepted, and she
might readily have believed, had she chosen&mdash;and as she
professed openly to Mr. Parsons&mdash;that everyone had been
uncommonly civil and appreciative.</p>
<p>She found herself, however, in spite of her declared devotion to
her serious duties, noting that the recognition accorded to Mr.
Parsons and herself was not precisely of the character she craved.
The visiting-cards and invitations were from people residing on the
River Drive and in that neighborhood, indeed&mdash;but from people
like the Flaggs, for instance, who, having acquired large wealth
and erected lordly dwellings, were eager to dispense good-natured,
lavish hospitality without social experience. Her sensitive ordeal
in New York had quickened her social perceptions, so that whereas
at the time of her departure from Benham as Mrs. Littleton she
regarded her present neighborhood as an integral class, she was now
prompt to separate the sheep from the goats, and to remark that
only the goats seemed conscious of her existence. With the
exception of Mrs. Taylor, who had called when she was out, not one
of a certain set, the outward manifestations of whose stately being
were constantly passing her windows, appeared to take the slightest
interest in her. Strictly speaking, Mrs. Taylor was of this set,
yet apart from it. Hers was the exclusive intellectual and
&aelig;sthetic set, this the exclusive fashionable set&mdash;both
alike execrable and foreign to the traditions of Benham. As Selma
had discovered the one and declared war against it, so she promised
herself to confound the other when the period of her mourning was
over, and she was free to appear again in society. Once more she
congratulated herself that she had come in time to nip in the bud
this other off-shoot of aristocratic tendencies. As yet either set
was small in number, and she foresaw that it would be an easy task
to unite in a solid phalanx of offensive-defensive influence the
friendly souls whom these people treated as outsiders, and purge
the society atmosphere of the miasma of exclusiveness. In
connection with the means to this end, when the winter slipped away
and left her feeling that she had been ignored, and that she was
eager to assume a commanding position, she began to take more than
passing thought of the attentions of Mr. Lyons. That he was
interested by her there could be no doubt, for he plainly went out
of his way to seek her society, calling at the house from time to
time, and exercising a useful, nattering superintendence over her
lecture course in the other cities of the State, in each of which
he appeared to have friends on the newspaper press who put
agreeable notices in print concerning her performance. She had
returned to Benham believing that her married life was over; that
her heart was in the grave with Wilbur, and that she would never
again part with her independence. The notice which Mr. Lyons had
taken of her from the outset had gratified her, but though she
contrasted his physical energy with Wilbur's lack of vigor, it had
not occurred to her to consider him in the light of a possible
husband. Now that a year had passed since Wilbur's death, she felt
conscious once more, as had happened after her divorce, of the need
of a closer and more individual sympathy than any at her command.
Her relations with Mr. Parsons, to be sure, approximated those of
father and daughter, but his perceptions were much less acute than
before his seizure; he talked little and ceased to take a vital
interest in current affairs. She felt the lack of companionship
and, also, of personal devotion, such personal devotion as was
afforded by the strenuous, ardent allegiance of a man. On the other
hand she was firmly resolved never to allow the current of her own
life to be turned away again by the subordination of her purposes
to those of any other person, and she had believed that this
resolution would keep her indifferent to marriage, in spite of any
sensations of loneliness or craving for masculine idolatry. But as
a widow of a year's standing she was now suddenly interested by the
thought that this solid, ambitious, smooth-talking man might
possibly satisfy her natural preference for a mate without
violating her individuality. She began to ask herself if he were
not truly congenial in a sense which no man had ever been to her
before; also, to ask if their aspirations and aims were not so
nearly identical that he would be certain as her husband to be
proud of everything she did and said, and to allow her to work hand
in hand with him for the furtherance of their common purpose. She
did not put these questions to herself until his conduct suggested
that he was seeking her society as a suitor; but having put them,
she was pleased to find her heart throb with the hope of a
stimulating and dear discovery.</p>
<p>Certain causes contributed to convince her that this hope rested
on a sure foundation&mdash;causes associated with her present life
and point of view. She felt confident first of all of the godliness
of Mr. Lyons as indicated not only by his sober, successful life,
and his enthusiastic, benignant patriotism, but by his active,
reverent interest in the affairs of his church&mdash;the Methodist
Church&mdash;to which Mr. Parsons belonged, and which Selma had
begun to attend since her return to Benham. It had been her
mother's faith, and she had felt a certain filial glow in
approaching it, which had been fanned into pious flame by the
effect of the ministration. The fervent hymns and the opportunities
for bearing testimony at some of the services appealed to her needs
and gave her a sense of oneness with eternal truth, which had
hitherto been lacking from her religious experience. In judging
Wilbur she was disposed to ascribe the defects of his character
largely to the coldness and analyzing sobriety of his creed. She
had accompanied him to church listlessly, and had been bored by the
unemotional appeals to conscience and quiet subjective designations
of duty. She preferred to thrill with the intensity of words which
now roundly rated sin, now passionately called to mind the ransom
of the Saviour, and ever kept prominent the stirring mission of
evangelizing ignorant foreign people. It appeared probable to Selma
that, as the wife of one of the leading church-members, who was the
chairman of the local committee charged with spreading the gospel
abroad, her capacity for doing good would be strengthened, and the
spiritual availability of them both be enhanced.</p>
<p>Then, too, Mr. Lyons's political prospects were flattering. The
thought that a marriage with him would put her in a position to
control the social tendencies of Benham was alluring. As the wife
of Hon. James O. Lyons, Member of Congress, she believed that she
would be able to look down on and confound those who had given her
the cold shoulder. What would Flossy say when she heard it? What
would Pauline? This was a form of distinction which would put her
beyond the reach of conspiracy and exclusiveness; for, as the wife
of a representative, selected by the people to guard their
interests and make their laws, would not her social position be
unassailable? And apart from these considerations, a political
future seemed to her peculiarly attractive. Was not this the real
opportunity for which she had been waiting? Would she be justified
in giving it up? In what better way could her talents be spent than
as the helpmate and intellectual companion of a public man&mdash;a
statesman devoted to the protection and development of American
ideas? Her own individuality need not, would not be repressed. She
had seen enough of Mr. Lyons to feel sure that their views on the
great questions of life were thoroughly in harmony. They held the
same religious opinions. Who could foretell the limit of their
joint progress? He was still a young man&mdash;strong, dignified,
and patriotic&mdash;endowed with qualities which fitted him for
public service. It might well be that a brilliant future was before
him&mdash;before them, if she were his wife. If he were to become
prominent in the councils of the nation&mdash;Speaker of the
House&mdash;Governor&mdash;even President, within the bounds of
possibility, what a splendid congenial scope his honors would
afford her own versatility! As day by day she dwelt on these points
of recommendation, Selma became more and more disposed to smile on
the aspirations of Mr. Lyons in regard to herself, and to feel that
her life would develop to the best advantage by a union with him.
Until the words asking her to be his wife were definitely spoken
she could not be positive of his intentions, but his conduct left
little room for doubt, and moreover, was marked by a deferential
soberness of purpose which indicated to her that his views
regarding marriage were on a higher plane than those of any man she
had known. He referred frequently to the home as the foundation on
which American civilization rested, and from which its inspiration
was largely derived, and spoke feelingly of the value to a public
man of a stimulating and dignifying fireside. It became his habit
to join her after morning service and to accompany her home,
carrying her hymn-books, and he sent her from time to time, through
the post, quotations which had especially struck his fancy from the
speeches he was collecting for his "Watchwords of Patriotism."</p>
<p>Another six months passed, and at its close Lyons received the
expected nomination for Congress. The election promised to be close
and exciting. Both parties were confident of victory, and were
preparing vigorously to keep their adherents at fever pitch by
rallies and torch-light processions. Although the result of the
caucus was not doubtful, it was understood between Lyons and Selma
that he would call at the house that evening to let her know that
he had been successful. She was waiting to receive him in the
library. Mr. Parsons had gone to bed. His condition was not
promising. He had recently suffered another slight attack of
paralysis, which seemed to indicate that he was liable at any time
to a fatal seizure.</p>
<p>Lyons entered smilingly. "So far so good," he exclaimed.</p>
<p>"Then you have won?"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes. As I told you, it was a foregone conclusion. Now the
fight begins."</p>
<p>Selma, who had provided a slight refection, handed him a cup of
tea. "I feel sure that you will be chosen," she said. "See if I am
not right. When is the election?"</p>
<p>"In six weeks. Six weeks from to-morrow."</p>
<p>"Then you will go to Washington to live?"</p>
<p>"Not until the fourth of March."</p>
<p>"I envy you. If I were a man I should prefer success in politics
to anything else."</p>
<p>He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Will you help me to
achieve success? Will you go with me to Washington as my wife?"</p>
<p>His courtship had been formal and elaborate, but his declaration
was signally simple and to the point. Selma noticed that the cup in
his hand trembled. While she kept her eyes lowered, as women are
supposed to do at such moments, she was wondering whether she loved
him as much as she had loved Wilbur? Not so ardently, but more
worthily, she concluded, for he seemed to her to fulfil her maturer
ideal of strong and effective manhood, and to satisfy alike her
self-respect and her physical fancy. A man of his type would not
split hairs, but proceed straight toward the goal of his ambition
without fainting or wavering. Why should she not satisfy her
renewed craving to be yoked to a kindred spirit and companion who
appreciated her true worth?</p>
<p>"I cannot believe," he was saying, "that my words are a surprise
to you. You can scarcely have failed to understand that I admired
you extremely. I have delayed to utter my desire to make you my
wife because I did not dare to cherish too fondly the hope that the
love inspired in me could be reciprocated, and that you would
consent to unite your life to mine and trust your happiness to my
keeping. If I may say so, we are no boy and girl. We understand the
solemn significance of marriage; what it imports and what it
demands. Of late I have ventured to dream that the sympathy in
ideas and identity of purpose which exist between us might be the
trustworthy sign of a spiritual bond which we could not afford to
ignore. I feel that without you the joy and power of my life will
be incomplete. With you at my side I shall aspire to great things.
You are to me the embodiment of what is charming and serviceable in
woman."</p>
<p>Selma looked up. "I like you very much, Mr. Lyons. You, in your
turn, must have realized that, I think. As you say, we are no boy
and girl. You meant by that, too, that we both have been married
before. I have had two husbands, and I did not believe that I could
ever think of marriage again. I don't wish you to suppose that my
last marriage was not happy. Mr. Littleton was an earnest, talented
man, and devoted to me. Yet I cannot deny that in spite of mutual
love our married life was not a success&mdash;a success as a
contribution to accomplishment. That nearly broke my heart, and
he&mdash;he died from lack of the physical and mental vigor which
would have made so much difference. I am telling you this because I
wish you to realize that if I should consent to comply with your
wishes, it would be because I was convinced that true
accomplishment&mdash;the highest accomplishment&mdash;would result
from the union of our lives as the result of our riper experience.
If I did not believe, Mr. Lyons, that man and woman as we
are&mdash;no longer boy and girl&mdash;a more perfect scheme of
happiness, a grander conception of the meaning of life than either
of us had entertained was before us, I would not consider your
offer for one moment."</p>
<p>"Yes, yes, I understand," Lyons exclaimed eagerly. "I share your
belief implicitly. It was what I would have said only&mdash;"</p>
<p>Despite his facility as an orator, Lyons left this sentence
incomplete in face of the ticklish difficulty of explaining that he
had refrained from suggesting such a hope to a widow who had lost
her husband only two years before. Yet he hastened to bridge over
this ellipsis by saying, "Without such a faith a union between us
must fall short of its sweetest and grandest opportunities."</p>
<p>"It would be a mockery; there would be no excuse for its
existence," cried Selma impetuously. "I am an idealist, Mr. Lyons,"
she said clasping her hands. "I believe devotedly in the mission
and power of love. But I believe that our conception of love
changes as we grow. I welcomed love formerly as an intoxicating,
delirious potion, and as such it was very sweet. You have just told
me of your own feelings toward me, so it is your right to know that
lately I have begun to realize that my association with you has
brought peace into my life&mdash;peace and religious
faith&mdash;essentials of happiness of which I have not known the
blessings since I was a child. You have dedicated yourself to a
lofty work; you have chosen the noble career of a statesman&mdash;a
statesman zealous to promote principles in which we both believe.
And you ask me to share with you the labors and the privileges
which will result from this dedication. If I accept your offer, it
must be because I know that I love you&mdash;love you in a sense I
have not loved before&mdash;may the dead pardon me! If I accept you
it will be because I wish to perpetuate that faith and peace, and
because I believe that our joint lives will realize worthy
accomplishment." Selma looked into space with her wrapt gaze,
apparently engaged in an intense mental struggle.</p>
<p>"And you will accept? You do feel that you can return my love? I
cannot tell you how greatly I am stirred and stimulated by what you
have said. It makes me feel that I could never be happy without
you." Lyons put into this speech all his solemnity and all his
emotional beneficence of temperament. He was genuinely moved. His
first marriage had been a love match. His wife&mdash;a mere
girl&mdash;had died within a year; so soon that the memory of her
was a tender but hazy sentiment rather than a formulated impression
of character. By virtue of this memory he had approached marriage
again as one seeking a companion for his fireside, and a comely,
sensible woman to preside over his establishment and promote his
social status, rather than one expecting to be possessed by or to
inspire a dominant passion. Yet he, too, regarded himself
distinctly as an idealist, and he had lent a greedy ear to Selma's
suggestion that mature mutual sympathy and comradeship in
establishing convictions and religious aims were the source of a
nobler type of love than that associated with early matrimony. It
increased his admiration for her, and gave to his courtship, the
touch of idealism which&mdash;partly owing to his own modesty as a
man no longer in the flush of youth&mdash;it had lacked. He
nervously stroked his beard with his thick hand, and gave himself
up to the spell of this vision of blessedness while he eagerly
watched Selma's face and waited for her answer. To combine moral
purpose and love in a pervasive alliance appealed to him
magnetically as a religious man.</p>
<p>Selma, as she faced Lyons, was conscious necessarily of the
contrast between him and her late husband. But she was attuned to
regard his coarser physical fibre as masculine vigor and a protest
against aristocratic delicacy, and to derive comfort and exaltation
from it.</p>
<p>"Mr. Lyons," she said, "I will tell you frankly that the
circumstances of married life have hitherto hampered the expression
of that which is in me, and confined the scope of my individuality
within narrow and uncongenial limits. I am not complaining; I have
no intention to rake up the past; but it is proper you should know
that I believe myself capable of larger undertakings than have yet
been afforded me, and worthy of ampler recognition than I have yet
received. If I accept you as a husband, it will be because I feel
confident that you will give my life the opportunity to expand, and
that you sympathize with my desire to express myself adequately and
to labor hand in hand, side by side, with you in the important work
of the world."</p>
<p>"That is what I would have you do, Selma. Because you are worthy
of it, and because it is your right."</p>
<p>"On that understanding it seems that we might be very
happy."</p>
<p>"I am certain of it. You fill my soul with gladness," he cried,
and seizing her hand he pressed it to his lips and covered it with
kisses, but she withdrew it, saying, "Not yet&mdash;not yet. This
step represents so much to me. It means that if I am mistaken in
you, my whole life will be ruined, for the next years should be my
best. We must not be too hasty. There are many things to be thought
of. I must consider Mr. Parsons. I cannot leave him immediately, if
at all, for he is very dependent on me."</p>
<p>"I had thought of that. While Mr. Parsons lives, I realize that
your first duty must be to him."</p>
<p>The reverential gravity of his tone was in excess of the needs
of the occasion, and Selma understood that he intended to imply
that Mr. Parsons would not long need her care. The same thought was
in her own mind, and it had occurred to her in the course of her
previous cogitations in regard to Lyons, that in the event of his
death it would suit her admirably to continue to occupy the house
as its real mistress. She looked grave for a moment in her turn,
then with a sudden access of coyness she murmured, "I do not
believe that I am mistaken in you."</p>
<p>"Ah," he cried, and would have folded her in his arms, but she
evaded his onset and said with her dramatic intonation, "The
knights of old won their lady-loves by brilliant deeds. If you are
elected a member of Congress, you may come to claim me."</p>
<p>Reflection served only to convince Selma of the wisdom of her
decision to try matrimony once more. She argued, that though a
third marriage might theoretically seem repugnant if stated as a
bald fact, the actual circumstances in her case not merely
exonerated her from a lack of delicacy, but afforded an exhibition
of progress&mdash;a gradual evolution in character. She felt
light-hearted and triumphant at the thought of her impending new
importance as the wife of a public man, and she interested herself
exuberantly in the progress of the political campaign. She was
pleased to think that her stipulation had given her lover a new
spur to his ambition, and she was prepared to believe that his
victory would be due to the exhaustive efforts to win which the
cruel possibility of losing her obliged him to make.</p>
<p>This was a campaign era of torch-light processions. The rival
factions expressed their confidence and enthusiasm by parading at
night in a series of battalions armed with torches&mdash;some
resplendently flaring, some glittering gayly through colored
glass&mdash;and bearing transparencies inscribed with trenchant
sentiments. The houses of their adherents along the route were
illuminated from attic to cellar with rows of candles, and the
atmosphere wore a dusky glow of red and green fire. To Selma all
this was entrancing. She revelled in it as an introduction to the
more conspicuous life which she was about to lead. She showed
herself a zealous and enthusiastic partisan, shrouding the house in
the darkness of Erebus on the occasion when the rival procession
passed the door, and imparting to every window the effect of a
blaze of light on the following evening&mdash;the night before
election&mdash;when the Democratic party made its final appeal to
the voters. Standing on a balcony in evening dress, in company with
Mrs. Earle and Miss Luella Bailey, whom she had invited to view the
procession from the River Drive, Selma looked down on the parade in
an ecstatic mood. The torches, the music, the fireworks and the
enthusiasm set her pulses astir and brought her heart into her
mouth in melting appreciation of the sanctity of her party cause
and her own enviable destiny as the wife of an American
Congressman. She held in one hand a flag which she waved from time
to time at the conspicuous features of the procession, and she
stationed herself so that the Bengal lights and other fireworks set
off by Mr. Parsons's hired man should throw her figure into
conspicuous relief. The culminating interest of the, occasion for
her was reached when the James O. Lyons Cadets, the special body of
youthful torch-bearers devoted to advertising the merits of her
lover, for whose uniforms and accoutrements he had paid, came in
sight.</p>
<p>They proved to be the most flourishing looking organization in
line. They were preceded by a large, nattily attired drum corps;
their ranks were full, their torches lustrous, and they bore a
number of transparencies setting forth the predominant
qualifications of the candidate for Congress from the second
district, the largest of which presented his portrait superscribed
with the sentiment, "A vote for James O. Lyons is a vote in support
of the liberties of the plain people." On the opposite end of the
canvas was the picture of the king of beasts, with open jaws and
bristling mane, with the motto, "Our Lyons's might will keep our
institutions sacred." In the midst of this glittering escort the
candidate himself rode in an open barouche on his way to the hall
where he was to deliver a final speech. He was bowing to right and
left, and constant cheers marked his progress along the avenue.
Selma leaned forward from the balcony to obtain the earliest sight
of her hero. The rolling applause was a new, intoxicating music in
her ears, and filled her soul with transport. She clapped her hands
vehemently; seized a roman-candle, and amid a blaze of fiery sparks
exploded its colored stars in the direction of the approaching
carriage. Then with the flag slanted across her bosom, she stood
waiting for his recognition. It was made solemnly, but with the
unequivocal demonstration of a cavalier or knight of old, for Lyons
stood up, and doffing his hat toward her, made a conspicuous
salute. A salvo of applause suggested to Selma that the multitude
had understood that he was according to her the homage due a
lady-love, and that their cheers were partly meant for her. She put
her hand to her bosom with the gesture of a queen of melodrama, and
culling one from a bunch of roses Lyons had sent her that afternoon
threw it from the balcony at the carriage. The flower fell almost
into the lap of her lover, who clutched it, pressed it to his lips,
and doffed his hat again. The episode had been visible to many, and
a hoarse murmur of interested approval crowned the performance. The
glance of the crowds on the sidewalk was turned upward, and someone
proposed three cheers for the lady in the balcony. They were given.
Selma bowed to either side in delighted acknowledgment, while the
torches of the cadets waved tumultuously, and there was a fresh
outburst of colored fires.</p>
<p>"I can't keep the secret any longer," she exclaimed, turning to
her two companions. "I'm engaged to be married to Mr. Lyons."</p>
<h3>CHAPTER V.</h3>
<p>Lyons was chosen to Congress by a liberal margin. The
Congressional delegation from his State was almost evenly divided
between the two parties as the result of the election, and the
majorities in every case were small. Consequently the more complete
victory of Lyons was a feather in his cap, and materially enhanced
his political standing.</p>
<p>The sudden death of Mr. Parsons within a week of the election
saved Selma's conscience from the strain of arranging a harmonious
and equitable separation from him. She had felt that the
enlargement of her sphere of life and the opportunity to serve her
country which this marriage offered were paramount to any other
considerations, but she was duly conscious that Mr. Parsons would
miss her sorely, and she was considering the feasibility of
substituting Miss Bailey as his companion in her place, when fate
supplied a different solution. Selma had pledged her friends to
secrecy, so that Mr. Parsons need know nothing until the plans for
his happiness had been perfected, and he died in ignorance of the
interesting matrimonial alliance which had been fostered under his
roof. By the terms of his will Selma was bequeathed the twenty
thousand dollars he had promised her. She and Mr. Lyons, with a
third person, to be selected by them, were appointed trustees of
the Free Hospital with which he had endowed Benham, and Mr. Lyons
was nominated as the sole executor under the will.</p>
<p>Selma's conception that her third betrothal was coincident with
spiritual development, and that she had fought her way through
hampering circumstances to a higher plane of experience, had taken
firm hold of her imagination. She presently confessed to Lyons that
she had not hitherto appreciated the full meaning of the dogma that
marriage was a sacrament. She evinced a disposition to show herself
with him at church gatherings, and to cultivate the acquaintance of
his pastor. She felt that she had finally secured the opportunity
to live the sober, simple life appropriate to those who believed in
maintaining American principles, and in eschewing luxurious and
effete foreign innovations; the sort of life she had always meant
to live, and from which she had been debarred. She had now not only
opportunity, but a responsibility. As the bride of a Congressman,
it behooved her both to pursue virtue for its own sake and for the
sake of example. It was incumbent on her to preserve and promote
democratic conditions in signal opposition to so-called fashionable
society, and at the same time to assert her own proper dignity and
the dignity of her constituents by a suitable outward show.</p>
<p>This last subtlety of reflection convinced Selma that they ought
to occupy the house on the River Drive. Lyons himself expressed
some doubts as to the advisability of this. He admitted that he
could afford the expense, and that it was just such a residence as
he desired, but he suggested that their motives might not be
understood, and he questioned whether it were wise, with the State
so close, to give his political enemies the chance to make unjust
accusations.</p>
<p>"Of course you ought to understand about this matter better than
I," she said; "but I have the feeling, James, that your
constituents will be disappointed if we don't show ourselves
appreciative of the dignity of your position. We both agree that we
should make Benham our home, and that it will be preferable if I
visit Washington a month or two at a time during the session rather
than for us to set up housekeeping there, and I can't help
believing that the people will be better pleased if you, as their
representative, make that home all which a beautiful home should
be. They will be proud of it, and if they are, you needn't mind
what a few fault-finders say. I have been thinking it over, and it
seems to me that we shall make a mistake to let this house go. It
just suits us. I feel sure that in their hearts the American people
like to have their public men live comfortably. This house is small
compared to many in New York, and I flatter myself that we shall be
able to satisfy everyone that we are rootedly opposed to unseemly
extravagance of living."</p>
<p>Lyons yielded readily to this argument. He had been accustomed
to simple surroundings, but travel and the growth of Benham itself
had demonstrated to him that the ways of the nation in respect to
material possessions and comforts had undergone a marked change
since his youth. He had been brought in contact with this new
development in his capacity of adviser to the magnates of Benham,
and he had fallen under the spell of improved creature comforts.
Still, though he cast sheep's eyes at these flesh pots, he had felt
chary, both as a worker for righteousness and an ardent champion of
popular principles, of countenancing them openly. Yet his original
impulse toward marriage had been a desire to secure an
establishment, and now that this result was at hand he found
himself ambitious to put his household on a braver footing,
provided this would do injury neither to his moral scruples nor to
his political sincerity. The problem was but another phase of that
presented to him by his evolution from a jury lawyer, whose hand
and voice were against corporations, to the status of a richly paid
chamber adviser to railroads and banking houses. He was exactly in
the frame of mind to grasp at the euphemism offered by Selma. He
was not one to be convinced without a reason, but his mind eagerly
welcomed a suggestion which justified on a moral ground the
proceeding to which they were both inclined. The idea that the
people would prefer to see him as their representative living in a
style consistent with the changes in manners and customs introduced
by national prosperity, affording thereby an example of correct and
elevating stewardship of reasonable wealth, by way of contrast to
vapid society doings, came to him as an illumination which
dissipated his doubts.</p>
<p>The wedding took place about three months after the death of Mr.
Parsons. In her renovated outlook regarding matrimony, Selma
included formal preparations for and some pomp of circumstances at
the ceremony. It suited her pious mood that she was not required
again to be married off-hand, and that she could plight her troth
in a decorous fashion, suitably attired and amid conventional
surroundings. Her dress was a subject of considerable
contemplation. She guided her lover's generosity until it centred
on a diamond spray for her hair and two rings set with handsome
precious stones. She did not discourage Miss Luella Bailey from
heralding the approaching nuptials in the press. She became Mrs.
Lyons in a conspicuous and solemn fashion before the gaze of
everybody in Benham whom there was any excuse for asking to the
church. After a collation at the Parsons house, the happy pair
started on their honeymoon in a special car put at their service by
one of the railroads for which the bridegroom was counsel. This
feature delighted Selma. Indeed, everything, from the complimentary
embrace of her husband's pastor to the details of her dress and
wedding presents, described with elaborate good will in the evening
newspapers, appeared to her gratifying and appropriate.</p>
<p>They were absent six weeks, during which the Parsons house was
to be redecorated and embellished within and without according to
instructions given by Selma before her departure. Their trip
extended to California by way of the Yosemite. Selma had never seen
the wonders of the far western scenery, and this appropriate
background for their sentiment also afforded Lyons the opportunity
to inspect certain railroad lines in which he was financially
interested. The atmosphere of the gorgeous snow-clad peaks and
impressive chasms served to heighten still further the intensity of
Selma's frame of mind. She managed adroitly on several occasions to
let people know who they were, and it pleased her to observe the
conductor indicating to passengers in the common cars that they
were Congressman Lyons and his wife on their honeymoon. She was
looking forward to Washington, and as she stood in the presence of
the inspiring beauties of nature she was prone to draw herself up
in rehearsal of the dignity which she expected to wear. What were
these mountains and canyons but physical counterparts of the human
soul? What but correlative representatives of grand ideas, of noble
lives devoted to the cause of human liberty? She felt that she was
very happy, and she bore testimony to this by walking arm in arm
with her husband, leaning against his firm, stalwart shoulder. It
seemed to her desirable that the public should know that they were
a happy couple and defenders of the purity of the home. On their
way back the train was delayed on Washington's birthday for several
hours by a wash-out, and presently a deputation made up of
passengers and townspeople waited on Lyons and invited him to
deliver an open-air address. He and Selma, when the committee
arrived, were just about to explore the neighborhood, and Lyons,
though ordinarily he would have been glad of such an opportunity,
looked at his wife with an expression which suggested that he would
prefer a walk with her. The eyes of the committee followed his,
appreciating that he had thrown the responsibility of a decision on
his bride. Selma was equal to the occasion. "Of course he will
address you," she exclaimed. "What more suitable place could there
be for offering homage to the father of our country than this
majestic prairie?" She added, proudly, "And I am glad you should
have the opportunity to hear my husband speak."</p>
<p>Some letters requiring attention were forwarded to Lyons at one
of the cities where they stopped. As they lay on his dressing-table
Selma caught sight of the return address, Williams &amp; Van Horne,
printed on the uppermost envelope. The reminder aroused a host of
associations. Flossy had not been much in her thoughts lately, yet
she had not failed to plume herself occasionally with the
reflection that she could afford now to snap her fingers at her.
She had wondered more than once what Flossy would think when she
heard that she was the wife of a Representative.</p>
<p>"Do you know these people personally?" she inquired, holding up
the envelope.</p>
<p>"Yes. They are my&mdash;er&mdash;financial representatives in
New York. I have considerable dealings with them."</p>
<p>Selma had not up to this time concerned herself as to the
details of her husband's affairs. He had made clear to her that his
income from his profession was large, and she knew that he was
interested in a variety of enterprises. That he should have
connections with a firm of New York brokers was one more proof to
her of his common sense and capacity to take advantage of
opportunities.</p>
<p>"Mr. Littleton used to buy stocks through Williams and Van
Horne&mdash;only a few. He was not very clever at it, and failed to
make the most of the chances given him to succeed in that way. We
knew the Williamses at one time very well. They lived in the same
block with us for several years after we were married."</p>
<p>"Williams is a capable, driving sort of fellow. Bold, but on the
whole sagacious, I think," answered Lyons, with demure urbanity. It
was rather a shock to him that his wife should learn that he had
dealings in the stock market. He feared lest it might seem to her
inconsistent with his other propensities&mdash;his religious
convictions and his abhorrence of corporate rapacity. He preferred
to keep such transactions private for fear they should be
misunderstood. At heart he did not altogether approve of them
himself. They were a part of his evolution, and had developed by
degrees until they had become now so interwoven with his whole
financial outlook that he could not escape from them at the moment
if he would. Indeed some of them were giving him anxiety. He had
supposed that the letter in question contained a request for a
remittance to cover depreciation in his account. Instead he had
read with some annoyance a confidential request from Williams that
he would work for a certain bill which, in his capacity as a foe of
monopoly, he had hoped to be able to oppose. It offended his
conscience to think that he might be obliged secretly to befriend a
measure against which his vote must be cast. As has been intimated,
he would have preferred that his business affairs should remain
concealed from his wife. Yet her remarks were unexpectedly and
agreeably reassuring. They served to furnish a fresh indication on
her part of intelligent sympathy with the perplexities which beset
the path of an ambitious public man. They suggested a subtle
appreciation of the reasonableness of his behavior, notwithstanding
its apparent failure to tally with his outward professions.</p>
<p>Selma's reply interrupted this rhapsody.</p>
<p>"I ought to tell you, I suppose, that I quarrelled with Mrs.
Williams before I left New York. Or, rather, she quarrelled with
me. She insulted me in my own house, and I was obliged to order her
to leave it."</p>
<p>"Quarrelled? That is a pity. An open break? Open breaks in
friendship are always unfortunate." Lyons looked grieved, and
fingered his beard meditatively.</p>
<p>"I appreciate," said Selma, frankly, "that our falling out will
be an inconvenience in case we should meet in Washington or
elsewhere, since you and Mr. Williams have business interests in
common. Of course, James, I wish to help you in every way I can. I
might as well tell you about it. I think she was jealous of me and
fancied I was trying to cut her out socially. At all events, she
insinuated that I was not a lady, because I would not lower my
standards to hers, and adopt the frivolous habits of her little
set. But I have not forgotten, James, your suggestion that people
in public life can accomplish more if they avoid showing resentment
and strive for harmony. I shall be ready to forget the past if Mrs.
Williams will, for my position as your wife puts me beyond the
reach of her criticism. She's a lively little thing in her way, and
her husband seems to understand about investments and how to get
ahead."</p>
<p>They went direct to Washington without stopping at Benham. It
was understood that the new session of Congress was to be very
short, and they were glad of an opportunity to present themselves
in an official capacity at the capital as a conclusion to their
honeymoon, before settling down at home. Selma found a letter from
Miss Bailey, containing the news that Pauline Littleton had
accepted the presidency of Wetmore College, the buildings of which
were now practically completed. Selma gasped as she read this. She
had long ago decided that her sister-in-law's studies were
unpractical, and that Pauline was doomed to teach small classes all
her days, a task for which she was doubtless well fitted. She
resented the selection, for, in her opinion, Pauline lacked the
imaginative talent of Wilbur, and yet shared his subjective,
unenthusiastic ways. More than once it had occurred to her that the
presidency of Wetmore was the place of all others for which she
herself was fitted. Indeed, until Lyons had offered himself she had
cherished in her inner consciousness the hope that the course of
events might demonstrate that she was the proper person to direct
the energies of this new medium for the higher education of women.
It irritated her to think that an institution founded by Benham
philanthropy, and which would be a vital influence in the
development of Benham womanhood, should be under the control of one
who was hostile to American theories and methods. Selma felt so
strongly on the subject that she thought of airing her objections
in a letter to Mr. Flagg, the donor, but she concluded to suspend
her strictures until her return to Benham. She sent, however, to
Miss Bailey, who was now regularly attached to one of the Benham
newspapers, notes for an article which should deplore the choice by
the trustees of one who was unfamiliar and presumably out of
sympathy with Benham thought and impulse.</p>
<p>Selma's emotions on her arrival in Washington were very
different from those which she had experienced in New York as the
bride of Littleton. Then she had been unprepared for, dazed, and
offended by what she saw. Now, though she mentally assumed that the
capital was the parade ground of American ideas and principles, she
felt not merely no surprise at the august appearance of the wide
avenues, but she was eagerly on the lookout, as they drove from the
station to the hotel, for signs of social development. The aphorism
which she had supplied to her husband, that the American people
prefer to have their representatives live comfortably, dwelt in her
thoughts and was a solace to her. Despite her New York experience,
she had the impression that the doors of every house in Washington
would fly open at her approach as the wife of a Congressman. She
did not formulate her anticipations as to her reception, but she
entertained a general expectation that their presence would be
acknowledged as public officials in a notable way. She dressed
herself on the morning after their arrival at the hotel with some
showiness, so as to be prepared for flattering emergencies. She had
said little to her husband on the subject, for she had already
discovered that, though he was ambitious that they should appear
well, he was disposed to leave the management of social concerns to
her. His information had been limited to bidding her come prepared
for the reception to be given at the White House at the
reassembling of Congress. Selma had brought her wedding-dress for
this, and was looking forward to it as a gala occasion.</p>
<p>The hotel was very crowded, and Selma became aware that many of
the guests were the wives and daughters of other Congressmen, who
seemed to be in the same predicament as herself&mdash;that is,
without anyone to speak to and waiting in their best clothes for
something to happen. Lyons knew a few of them, and was making
acquaintances in the corridors, with some of whom he exchanged an
introduction of wives. As she successively met these other women,
Selma perceived that no one of them was better dressed than
herself, and she reflected with pleasure that they would doubtless
be available allies in her crusade against frivolity and
exclusiveness.</p>
<p>Presently she set out with her husband to survey the sights of
the city. Naturally their first visit was to the Capitol, in the
presence of which Selma clutched his arm in the pride of her
patriotism and of her pleasure that he was to be one of the makers
of history within its splendid precincts. The sight of the stately
houses of Congress, superbly dominated by their imposing dome, made
them both walk proudly, lost, save for occasional vivid phrases of
admiration, in the contemplation of their own possible future. What
greater earthly prize for man than political distinction among a
people capable of monuments like this? What grander arena for a
woman eager to demonstrate truth and promote righteousness? There
was, of course, too much to see for any one visit. They went up to
the gallery of the House of Representatives and looked down on the
theatre of Lyons's impending activities. He was to take his seat on
the day after the morrow as one of the minority party, but a
strong, vigorous minority. Selma pictured him standing in the aisle
and uttering ringing words of denunciation against corporate
monopolies and the money power.</p>
<p>"I shall come up here and listen to you often. I shall be able
to tell if you speak loud enough&mdash;so that the public can hear
you," she said, glancing at the line of galleries which she saw in
her mind's eye crowded with spectators. "You must make a long
speech very soon."</p>
<p>"That is very unlikely indeed. They tell me a new member rarely
gets a chance to be heard," answered Lyons.</p>
<p>"But they will hear you. You have something to say."</p>
<p>Lyons squeezed her hand. Her words nourished the same hope in
his own breast. "I shall take advantage of every opportunity to
obtain recognition, and to give utterance to my opinions."</p>
<p>"Oh yes, I shall expect you to speak. I am counting on
that."</p>
<p>On their way down they scanned with interest the statues and
portraits of distinguished statesmen and heroes, and the
representations of famous episodes in American history with which
the walls of the landings and the rotunda are lined.</p>
<p>"Some day you will be here," said Selma. "I wonder who will
paint you or make your bust. I have often thought," she added,
wistfully, "that, if I had given my mind to it, I could have
modelled well in clay. Some day I'll try. It would be interesting,
wouldn't it, to have you here in marble with the inscription
underneath, 'Bust of the Honorable James O. Lyons, sculptured by
his wife?'"</p>
<p>Lyons laughed, but he was pleased. "You are making rapid
strides, my dear. I am sure of one thing&mdash;if my bust or
portrait ever is here, I shall owe my success largely to your
devotion and good sense. I felt certain of it before, but our
honeymoon has proved to me that we were meant for one another."</p>
<p>"Yes, I think we were. And I like to hear you say I have good
sense. That is what I pride myself on as a wife."</p>
<p>On their return to the hotel Selma was annoyed to find that no
one but a member of her husband's Congressional delegation had
called. She had hoped to find that their presence in Washington was
known and appreciated. It seemed to her, moreover, that they were
not treated at the hotel with the deference she had supposed would
be accorded to them. To be sure, equality was of the essence of
American doctrine; nevertheless she had anticipated that the
official representatives of the people would be made much of, and
distinguished from the rest of the world, if not by direct
attention, by being pointed out and looked at admiringly. Still, as
Lyons showed no signs of disappointment, she forbore to express her
own perplexity, which was temporarily relieved by an invitation
from him to drive. The atmosphere was mild enough for an open
carriage, and Selma's appetite for processional effect derived some
crumbs of comfort from the process of showing herself in a barouche
by the side of her husband. They proceeded in an opposite direction
from the Capitol, and after surveying the outside of the White
House, drove along the avenues and circles occupied by private
residences. Selma noticed that these houses, though attractive,
were less magnificent and conspicuous than many of those in New
York&mdash;more like her own in Benham; and she pictured as their
occupants the families of the public men of the country&mdash;a
society of their wives and daughters living worthily,
energetically, and with becoming stateliness, yet at the same time
rebuking by their example frivolity and rampant luxury. She
observed with satisfaction the passage of a number of private
carriages, and that their occupants were stylishly clad. She
reflected that, as, the wife of a Congressman, her place was among
them, and she was glad that they recognized the claims of social
development so far as to dress well and live in comfort. Before
starting she had herself fastened a bunch of red roses at her waist
as a contribution to her picturesqueness as a public woman.</p>
<p>While she was thus absorbed in speculation, not altogether free
from worrying suspicions, in spite of her mental vision as to the
occupants of these private residences, she uttered an ejaculation
of surprise as a jaunty victoria passed by them, and she turned her
head in an eager attempt to ascertain if her surprise and annoyance
were well-founded. The other vehicle was moving rapidly, but a
similar curiosity impelled one of its occupants to look hack also,
and the eyes of the two women met.</p>
<p>"It's she; I thought it was."</p>
<p>"Who, my dear?" said Lyons.</p>
<p>"Flossy Williams&mdash;Mrs. Gregory Williams. I wonder," she
added, in a severe tone, "what she is doing here, and how she
happens to be associating with these people. That was a private
carriage."</p>
<p>"Williams has a number of friends in Washington, I imagine. I
thought it likely that he would be here. That was another proof of
your good sense, Selma&mdash;deciding to let bygones be bygones and
to ignore your disagreement with his wife."</p>
<p>"Yes, I know. I shall treat her civilly. But my heart will be
broken, James, if I find that Washington is like New York."</p>
<p>"In what respect?"</p>
<p>"If I find that the people in these houses lead exclusive,
un-American, godless lives. It would tempt me almost to despair of
our country," she exclaimed, with tragic emphasis.</p>
<p>"I don't understand about social matters, Selma. I must leave
those to you. But," he added, showing that he shrewdly realized the
cause of her anguish better than she did herself, "as soon as we
get better acquainted, I'm sure you will find that we shall get
ahead, and that you will be able to hold your own with anybody,
however exclusive."</p>
<p>Selma colored at the unflattering simplicity of his deduction.
"I don't desire to hold my own with people of that sort. I despise
them."</p>
<p>"I know. Hold your own, I mean, among people of the right sort
by force of sound ideas and principles. The men and women of
to-day," he continued, with melodious asseveration, "are the
grand-children of those who built the splendid halls we visited
this morning as a monument to our nation's love of truth and
righteousness. A few frivolous, worldly minded spirits are not the
people of the United States to whom we look for our encouragement
and support."</p>
<p>"Assuredly," answered Selma, with eagerness. "It is difficult,
though, not to get discouraged at times by the behavior of those
who ought to aid instead of hinder our progress as a nation."</p>
<p>For a moment she was silent in wrapt meditation, then she
asked:</p>
<p>"Didn't you expect that more notice would be taken of our
arrival?"</p>
<p>"In what way?"</p>
<p>"In some way befitting a member of Congress."</p>
<p>Lyons laughed. "My dear Selma, I am one new Congressman among
several hundred. What did you expect? That the President and his
wife would come and take us to drive?"</p>
<p>"Of course not." She paused a moment, then she said: "I suppose
that, as you are not on the side of the administration, we cannot
expect much notice to be taken of us until you speak in the House.
I will try not to be too ambitious for you, James; but it would be
easier to be patient," she concluded, with her far-away look, "if I
were not beginning to fear that this city also may be contaminated
just as New York is."</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VI.</h3>
<p>The incidents of the next two days previous to her attendance at
the evening reception at the White House restored Selma's
equanimity. She had the satisfaction of being present at the
opening ceremonies of the House of Representatives, and of
beholding her husband take the oath of office. She was proud of
Lyons as she looked down on him from the gallery standing in the
aisle by his allotted seat. He was holding an improvised reception,
for a number of his colleagues showed themselves desirous to make
his acquaintance. She noticed that he appeared already on familiar
terms with some of his fellow-members; that he drew men or was
drawn aside for whispered confidences; that he joked knowingly with
others; and that always as he chatted his large, round, smooth
face, relieved by its chin beard, wore an aspect of bland dignity
and shrewd reserve wisdom. It pleased her to be assisting at the
dedication of a fresh page of national history&mdash;a page yet
unwritten, but on which she hoped that her own name would be
inscribed sooner or later by those who should seek to trace the
complete causes of her husband's usefulness and genius.</p>
<p>Another source of satisfaction was the visit paid them the day
before at the hotel by one of the United States Senators from their
own State&mdash;Mr. Calkins. The two political parties in their own
State were so evenly divided that one of the Senators in office
happened to be a Republican and his colleague a Democrat. Mr.
Calkins belonged to her husband's party, yet he suggested that they
might enjoy a private audience with the President, with whom,
notwithstanding political differences of opinion, Mr. Calkins was
on friendly terms. This was the sort of thing which Selma aspired
to, and the experience did much to lighten her heart. She enjoyed
the distinction of seeing guarded doors open at their approach, and
of finding herself shaking hands with the chief magistrate of the
nation at a special interview. The President was very affable, and
was manifestly aware of Lyons's triumph at the expense of his own
party, and of his consequent political importance. He treated the
matter banteringly, and Selma was pleased at her ability to enter
into the spirit of his persiflage and to reciprocate. In her
opinion solemnity would have been more consistent with his position
as the official representative of the people of the United States,
and his jocose manifestations at a time when serious conversation
seemed to be in order was a disappointment, and tended to confirm
her previous distrust of him as the leader of the opposite party.
She had hoped he would broach some vital topics of political
interest, and that she would have the opportunity to give
expression to her own views in regard to public questions.
Nevertheless, as the President saw fit to be humorous, she was glad
that she understood how to meet and answer his bantering sallies.
She felt sure that Lyons, were he ever to occupy this dignified
office, would refrain from ill-timed levity, but she bore in mind
also the policy of conciliation which she had learned from her
husband, and concealed her true impressions. She noticed that both
Lyons and Mr. Calkins forebore to show dissatisfaction, and she
reflected that, though the President's tone was light, there was
nothing else in his appearance or bearing to convict him of
sympathy with lack of enthusiasm and with cynicism. It would have
destroyed all the enjoyment of her interview had she been forced to
conclude that a man who did not take himself and his duties
seriously could be elected President of the United States. She was
not willing to believe this; but her suspicions were so far aroused
that she congratulated herself that her political opponents were
responsible for his election. Nevertheless she was delighted by the
distinction of the private audience, and by the episode at its
close, which gave her opportunity to show her individuality. Said
the President gallantly as she was taking leave:</p>
<p>"Will you permit me to congratulate Congressman Lyons on his
good fortune in the affairs of the heart as well as in
politics?"</p>
<p>"If you say things like that, Mr. President," interjected Lyons,
"you will turn her head; she will become a Republican, and then
where should I be?"</p>
<p>While she perceived that the President was still inclined to
levity, the compliment pleased Selma. Yet, though she appreciated
that her husband was merely humoring him by his reply, she did not
like the suggestion that any flattery could affect her principles.
She shook her head coquettishly and said:</p>
<p>"James, I'm sure the President thinks too well of American women
to believe that any admiration, however gratifying, would make me
lukewarm in devotion to my party."</p>
<p>This speech appeared to her apposite and called for, and she
departed in high spirits, which were illuminated by the thought
that the administration was not wholly to be trusted.</p>
<p>On the following evening Selma went to the reception at the
White House. The process of arrival was trying to her patience, for
they were obliged to await their turn in the long file of
carriages. She could not but approve of the democratic character of
the entertainment, which anyone who desired to behold and shake
hands with the Chief Magistrate was free to attend. Still, it again
crossed her mind that, as an official's wife, she ought to have
been given precedence. Their turn to alight came at last, and they
took their places in the procession of visitors on its way through
the East room to the spot where the President and his wife,
assisted by some of the ladies of the Cabinet, were submitting to
the ordeal of receiving the nation. There was a veritable crush, in
which there was every variety of evening toilette, a display
essentially in keeping with the doctrines which Selma felt that she
stood for. She took occasion to rejoice in Lyons's ear at the
realization of her anticipations in this respect. At the same time
she was agreeably stimulated by the belief that her wedding dress
was sumptuous and stylish, and her appearance striking. Her hair
had been dressed as elaborately as possible; she wore all her
jewelry; and she carried a bouquet of costly roses. Her wish was to
regard the function as the height of social demonstration, and she
had spared no pains to make herself effective. She had esteemed it
her duty to do so both as a Congressman's wife and as a champion of
moral and democratic ideas.</p>
<p>The crowd was oppressive, and three times the train of her dress
was stepped on to her discomfiture. Amid the sea of faces she
recognized a few of the people she had seen at the hotel. It struck
her that no one of the women was dressed so elegantly as herself,
an observation which cheered her and yet was not without its thorn.
But the music, the lights, and the variegated movement of the scene
kept her senses absorbed and interfered with introspection, until
at last they were close to the receiving party. Selma fixed her
eyes on the President, expecting recognition. Like her husband, the
President possessed a gift of faces and the faculty of rallying all
his energies to the important task of remembering who people were.
An usher asked and announced the names, but the Chief Magistrate's
perceptions were kept hard at work. His "How do you do, Congressman
Lyons? I am very glad to see you here, Mrs. Lyons," were uttered
with a smiling spontaneity, which to his own soul meant a momentary
agreeable relaxation of the nerves of memory, resembling the easy
flourish with which a gymnast engaged in lifting heavy weights
encounters a wooden dumb-bell. But though his eyes and voice were
flattering, Selma had barely completed the little bob of a courtesy
which accompanied her act of shaking hands when she discovered that
the machinery of the national custom was not to halt on their
account, and that she must proceed without being able to renew the
half flirtatious interview of the previous day. She proceeded to
courtesy to the President's wife and to the row of wives of members
of the Cabinet who were assisting. Before she could adequately
observe them, she found herself beyond and a part once more of a
heterogeneous crush, the current of which she aimlessly followed on
her husband's arm. She was suspicious of the device of courtesying.
Why had not the President's wife and the Cabinet ladies shaken
hands with her and given her an opportunity to make their
acquaintance? Could it be that the administration was aping foreign
manners and adopting effete and aristocratic usages?</p>
<p>"What do we do now?" she asked of Lyons as they drifted
along.</p>
<p>"I'd like to find Horace Elton and introduce him to you. I
caught a glimpse of him further on just before we reached the
President. Horace knows all the ropes and can tell us who everybody
is."</p>
<p>Selma had heard her husband refer to Horace Elton on several
occasions in terms of respectful and somewhat mysterious
consideration. She had gathered in a general way that he was a far
reaching and formidable power in matters political and financial,
besides being the president and active organizer of the energetic
corporation known as the Consumers' Gas Light Company of their own
state. As they proceeded she kept her eyes on the alert for a man
described by Lyons as short, heavily built, and neat looking, with
small side whiskers and a close-mouthed expression. When they were
not far from the door of exit from the East room, some one on the
edge of the procession accosted her husband, who drew her after him
in that direction. Selma found herself in a sort of eddy occupied
by half a dozen people engaged in observing the passing show, and
in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Williams. It was Mr.
Williams who had diverted them. He now renewed his acquaintance
with her, exclaiming&mdash;"My wife insisted that she had met you
driving with some one she believed to be your husband. I had heard
that Congressman Lyons was on his bridal tour, and now everything
is clear. Flossy, you were right as usual, and it seems that our
hearty congratulations are in order to two old friends."</p>
<p>Williams spoke with his customary contagious confidence. Selma
noted that he was stouter and that his hair was becomingly streaked
with gray. Had not her attention been on the lookout for his wife
she might have noticed that his eye wore a restless, strained
expression despite his august banker's manner and showy gallantry.
She did observe that the moment he had made way for Flossy he
turned to Lyons and began to talk to him in a subdued tone under
the guise of watching the procession.</p>
<p>The two women confronted each other with spontaneous
forgetfulness of the past. There was a shade of haughtiness in
Selma's greeting. She was prepared to respect her husband's policy
and to ignore the circumstances under which they had parted, but
she wished Flossy to understand that this was an act of
condescension on her part as a Congressman's wife, whose important
social status was beyond question. She was so thoroughly imbued
with this sense of her indisputable superiority that she readily
mistook Flossy's affability for fawning; whereas that young woman's
ingenuous friendliness was the result of a warning sentence from
Gregory when Selma and her husband were seen
approaching&mdash;"Keep a check on your tongue, Floss. This
statesman with a beard like a goat is likely to have a political
future."</p>
<p>"I felt sure it was you the other day," Flossy said with smiling
sprightliness, "but I had not heard of your marriage to Mr.
Lyons."</p>
<p>"We were married at Benham six weeks ago. We are to live in
Benham. We have bought the house there which belonged to Mr.
Parsons. We have just returned from visiting the superb scenery of
the Yosemite and the Rocky Mountains, and it made me prouder than
ever of my country. If Congressman Lyons had not been obliged to be
present at the opening of Congress, we should have spent our
honeymoon in Europe."</p>
<p>"Gregory and I passed last summer abroad yachting. We crossed on
a steamer and had our yacht meet us there. Isn't it a jam
to-night?"</p>
<p>"There seem to be a great many people. I suppose you came on
from New York on purpose for this reception?"</p>
<p>"Mercy, no. We are staying with friends, and we hadn't intended
to come to-night. But we had been dining out and were dressed, so
we thought we'd drop in and show our patriotism. It's destruction
to clothes, and I'm glad I haven't worn my best."</p>
<p>Selma perceived Flossy's eye making a note of her own elaborate
costume, and the disagreeable suspicion that she was overdressed
reasserted itself. She had already observed that Mrs. Williams's
toilette, though stylish, was comparatively simple. How could one
be overdressed on such an occasion? What more suitable time for an
American woman to wear her choicest apparel than when paying her
respects to the President of the United States? She noticed that
Flossy seemed unduly at her ease as though the importance of the
ceremony was lost on her, and that they group of people with whom
Flossy had been talking and who stood a little apart were obviously
indulging in quiet mirth at the expense of some of those in the
procession.</p>
<p>"Are the friends with whom you are staying connected with the
Government?" Selma asked airily.</p>
<p>"Official people? Goodness, no. But I can point out to you who
everybody is, for we have been in Washington frequently during the
last three sessions. Gregory has to run over here on business every
now and then, and I almost always come with him. To-night is the
opportunity to see the queer people in all their glory&mdash;the
woolly curiosities, as Gregory calls them. And a sprinkling of the
real celebrities too," she added.</p>
<p>Selma's inquiry had been put with a view to satisfy herself that
Flossy's friends were mere civilians. But she was glad of an
opportunity to be enlightened as to the names of her
fellow-officials, though she resented Flossy's flippant tone
regarding the character of the entertainment. While she listened to
the breezy, running commentary by which Flossy proceeded to
identify for her benefit the conspicuous figures in the procession
she nursed her offended sensibilities.</p>
<p>"I should suppose," she said, taking advantage of a pause, "that
on such an occasion as this everybody worth knowing would be
present."</p>
<p>Flossy gave Selma one of her quick glances. She had not
forgotten the past, nor her discovery of the late Mrs. Littleton's
real grievance against her and the world. Nor did she consider that
her husband's caveat debarred her from the amusement of worrying
the wife of the Hon. James O. Lyons, provided it could be done by
means of the truth ingenuously uttered. She said with a
confidential smile&mdash;</p>
<p>"The important and the interesting political people have other
opportunities to meet one another&mdash;at dinner parties and less
promiscuous entertainments than this, and the Washington people
have other opportunities to meet them. Of course the President is a
dear, and everyone makes a point of attending a public reception
once in a while, but this sort of thing isn't exactly an edifying
society event. For instance, notice the woman in the pomegranate
velvet with two diamond sprays in her hair. That's the wife of
Senator Colman&mdash;his child wife, so they call her. She came to
Washington six years ago as the wife of a member of the House from
one of the wild and woolly States, and was notorious then in the
hotel corridors on account of her ringletty raven hair and the
profusion of rings she wore. She used to make eyes at the hotel
guests and romp with her husband's friends in the hotel parlors,
which was the theatre of her social activities. Her husband died,
and a year ago she married old Senator Colman, old enough to be her
grandfather, and one of the very rich and influential men in the
Senate. Now she has developed social ambition and is anxious to
entertain. They have hired a large house for the winter and are
building a larger one. As Mrs. Polsen&mdash;that was her first
husband's name&mdash;she was invited nowhere except to wholesale
official functions like this. The wife of a United States Senator
with plenty of money can generally attract a following; she is
somebody. And it happens that people are amused by Mrs. Cohnan's
eccentricities. She still overdresses, and makes eyes, and she
nudges those who sit next her at table, but she is good-natured,
says whatever comes into her head, and has a strong sense of humor.
So she is getting on."</p>
<p>"Getting on among society people?" said Selma drily.</p>
<p>Flossy's eyes twinkled. "Society people is the generic name used
for them in the newspapers. I mean that she is making friends among
the women who live in the quarter where I passed you the other
day."</p>
<p>Selma frowned. "It is not necessary, I imagine, to make friends
of that class in order to have influence in Washington,&mdash;the
best kind of influence. I can readily believe that people of that
sort would interest most of our public women very little."</p>
<p>"Very likely. I don't think you quite understand me, Mrs. Lyons,
or we are talking at cross purposes. What I was trying to make
clear is that political and social prominence in Washington are by
no means synonimous. Of course everyone connected with the
government who desires to frequent Washington society and is
socially available is received with open arms; but, if people are
not socially available, it by no means follows that they are able
to command social recognition merely because they hold political
office,&mdash;except perhaps in the case of wives of the Cabinet,
of the Justices of the Supreme Court, or of rich and influential
Senators, where a woman is absolutely bent on success and takes
pains. I refer particularly to the wives, because a single man, if
he is reasonably presentable and ambitious, can go about more or
less, even if he is a little rough, for men are apt to be scarce.
But the line is drawn on the women unless they
are&mdash;er&mdash;really important and have to be tolerated for
official reasons. Now every woman who is not <i>persona grata</i>,
as the diplomats say, anywhere else, is apt to attend the
President's reception in all her finery, and that's why I suggested
that this sort of thing isn't exactly an edifying social event.
It's amusing to come here now and then, just as it's amusing to go
to a menagerie. You see what I mean, don't you?" Flossy asked,
plying her feathery fan with blithe nonchalance and looking into
her companion's face with an innocent air.</p>
<p>"I understand perfectly. And who are these people who draw the
line?"</p>
<p>"It sometimes happens," continued Flossy abstractedly, without
appearing to hear this inquiry, "that they improve after they've
been in Washington a few years. Take Mrs. Baker, the Secretary of
the Interior's wife, receiving to-night. When her husband came to
Washington three years ago she had the social adaptability of a
solemn horse. But she persevered and learned, and now as a Cabinet
lady she unbends, and is no longer afraid of compromising her
dignity by wearing becoming clothes and smiling occasionally. But
you were asking who the people are who draw the line. The nice
people here just as everywhere else; the people who have been well
educated and have fine sensibilities, and who believe in modesty,
and unselfishness and thorough ways of doing things. You must know
the sort of people I mean. Some of them make too much of mere
manners, but as a class they are able to draw the line because they
draw it in favor of distinction of character as opposed
to&mdash;what shall I call it?&mdash;haphazard custom-made ethics
and social deportment."</p>
<p>Flossy spoke with the artless prattle of one seeking to make
herself agreeable to a new-comer by explaining the existing order
of things, but she had chosen her words as she proceeded with
special reference to her listener's case. There was nothing in her
manner to suggest that she was trifling with the feelings of the
wife of Hon. James O. Lyons, but to Selma's sensitive ear there was
no doubt that the impertinent and unpatriotic tirade had been
deliberately aimed at her. The closing words had a disagreeably
familiar sound. Save that they fell from seemingly friendly lips
they recalled the ban which Flossy had hurled at her at the close
of their last meeting&mdash;the ban which had decided her to
declare unwavering hostility against social exclusiveness. Its
veiled reiteration now made her nerves tingle, but the personal
affront stirred her less than the conclusion, which the whole of
Flossy's commentary suggested, that Washington&mdash;Washington the
hearth-stone of American ideals, was contaminated also. Flossy had
given her to understand that the houses which she had assumed to be
occupied by members of the Government were chiefly the residences
of people resembling in character those whom she had disapproved of
in New York. Flossy had intimated that unless a woman were hand in
glove with these people and ready to lower herself to their
standards, she must be the wife of a rich Senator to be tolerated.
Flossy had virtually told her that a Congressman's wife was nobody.
Could this be true? The bitterest part of all was that it was
evident Flossy spoke with the assurance of one uttering familiar
truths. Selma felt affronted and bitterly disappointed, but she
chose to meet Mrs. Williams's innocent affability with composure;
to let her see that she disagreed with her, but not to reveal her
personal irritation. She must consider Lyons, whose swift political
promotion was necessary for her plans. It was important that he
should become rich, and if his relations with the firm of Williams
&amp; Van Horne tended to that end, no personal grievance of her
own should disturb them. Even Flossy had conceded that the wives of
the highest officials could not be ignored.</p>
<p>"I fear that we look at these matters from too different a
standpoint to discuss them further," she responded, with an effort
at smiling ease. "Evidently you do not appreciate that to the
majority of the strong women of the country whose husbands have
been sent to Washington as members of the Government social
interests seem trivial compared with the great public questions
they are required to consider. These women doubtless feel little
inclination for fashionable and&mdash;or&mdash;frivolous
festivities, and find an occasion like this better suited to their
conception of social dignity."</p>
<p>A reply by Flossy to this speech was prevented by the
interruption of Lyons, who brought up Mr. Horace Elton for
introduction to his wife. Selma knew him at once from his likeness
to the description which her husband had given. He was portly and
thick-set, with a large neck, a strong, unemotional, high-colored
face, and closely-shaven, small side whiskers. He made her a low
bow and, after a few moments of conversation, in the course of
which he let fall a complimentary allusion to her husband's
oratorical abilities and gave her to understand that he considered
Lyons's marriage as a wise and enviable proceeding, he invited her
to promenade the room on his arm. Mr. Elton had a low but clear and
dispassionate voice, and a concise utterance. His remarks gave the
impression that he could impart more on any subject if he chose,
and that what he said proceeded from a reserve fund of special,
secret knowledge, a little of which he was willing to confide to
his listener. He enlightened Selma in a few words as to a variety
of the people present, accompanying his identification with a
phrase or two of comprehensive personal detail, which had the savor
of being unknown to the world at large.</p>
<p>"The lady we just passed, Mrs. Lyons, is the wife of the junior
Senator from Nevada. Her husband fell in love with her on the stage
of a mining town theatrical troupe. That tall man, with the profuse
wavy hair and prominent nose, is Congressman Ross of Colorado, the
owner of one of the largest cattle ranches in the Far West. It is
said that he has never smoked, never tasted a glass of liquor, and
never gambled in his life."</p>
<p>In the course of these remarks Mr. Elton simply stated his
interesting facts without comment. He avoided censorious or
satirical allusions to the people to whom he called Selma's
attention. On the contrary, his observations suggested
sympathetically that he desired to point out to her the interesting
personalities of the capital, and that he regarded the
entertainment as an occasion to behold the strong men and women of
the country in their lustre and dignity. As they passed the lady in
pomegranate velvet, Selma said, in her turn, "That is Mrs. Colman,
I believe. Senator Colman's child wife." She added what was in her
thoughts, "I understand that the society people here have taken her
up."</p>
<p>"Yes. She has become a conspicuous figure in Washington. I
remember her, Mrs. Lyons, when she was Addie Farr&mdash;before she
married Congressman Polsen of Kentucky. She was a dashing looking
girl in those days, with her black eyes and black ringlets. I
remember she had a coltish way of tossing her head. The story is
that when she accepted Polsen another Kentuckian&mdash;a young
planter&mdash;who was in love with her, drank laudanum. Now, as you
say, she is being taken up socially, and her husband, the Senator,
is very proud of her success. After all, if a woman is ambitious
and has tact, what can she ask better than to be the wife of a
United States Senator?" He paused a moment, then, with a gallant
sidelong glance at his companion, resumed in a concise whisper,
which had the effect of a disclosure, "Prophecies, especially
political prophecies, are dangerous affairs, but it seems to me not
improbable that before many years have passed the wife of Senator
Lyons will be equally prominent&mdash;be as conspicuous socially as
the wife of Senator Colman."</p>
<p>Selma blushed, but not wholly with pleasure. Socially
conspicuous before many years? The splendid prophecy, which went
beyond the limit of Horace Elton's usual caution&mdash;for he
combined the faculty of habitual discretion with his chatty
proclivities&mdash;was dimmed for Selma by the rasping intimation
that she was not conspicuous yet. Worse still, his statement
shattered the hope, which Flossy's fluent assertions had already
disturbed, that she was to find in Washington a company of
congenial spirits who would appreciate her at her full value
forthwith, and would join with her and under her leadership in
resisting the encroachments of women of the stamp of Mrs.
Williams.</p>
<p>"I am very ambitious for my husband, Mr. Elton, and of course I
have hoped&mdash;do hope that some day he will be a Senator. What
you said just now as to the power of his voice to arouse the moral
enthusiasm of the people seemed to be impressively true. I should
be glad to be a Senator's wife, for&mdash;for I wish to help him. I
wish to demonstrate the truth of the principles to which both our
lives are dedicated. But I hoped that I might help him
now&mdash;that my mission might be clear at once. It seems
according to you that a Congressman's wife is not of much
importance; that her hands are tied."</p>
<p>"Practically so, unless&mdash;unless she has unusual social
facility, and the right sort of acquaintances. Beauty, wealth and
ambition are valuable aids, but I always am sorry for women who
come here without friends, and&mdash;er&mdash;the right sort of
introduction. At any rate, to answer your question frankly, a
Congressman's wife has her spurs to win just as he has. If you were
to set up house-keeping, here, Mrs. Lyons, I've no doubt that a
woman of your attractions and capabilities would soon make a niche
for herself. You have had social experience, which Addie Farr, for
instance, was without."</p>
<p>"I lived in New York for some years with my husband, Mr.
Littleton, so I have a number of Eastern acquaintances."</p>
<p>"I remember you were talking with Mrs. Gregory Williams when I
was introduced to you. The people with whom she is staying are
among the most fashionable in Washington. What I said had reference
to the wife of the every-day Congressman who comes to Washington
expecting recognition. Not to Mrs. James O. Lyons."</p>
<p>Selma bit her lip. She recognized the death-knell of her
cherished expectations. She was not prepared to acknowledge
formally her discomfiture and her disappointment. But she believed
that Mr. Elton, though a plain man, had comprehensive experience
and that he spoke with shrewd knowledge of the situation. She felt
sure that he was not trying to deceive or humiliate her. It was
clear that Washington was contaminated also.</p>
<p>"I dare say I should get on here well enough after a time,
though I should find difficulty in considering that it was right to
give so much time to merely social matters. But Mr. Lyons and I
have already decided that I can be more use to him at present in
Benham. There I feel at home. I am known, and have my friends, and
there I have important work&mdash;literary lectures and the
establishment of a large public hospital under way. If the time
comes, as you kindly predict, that my husband is chosen a United
States Senator, I shall be glad to return here and accept the
responsibilities of our position. But I warn you, Mr.
Elton,&mdash;I warn the people of Washington," she added with a
wave of her fan, while her eyes sparkled with a stern light "that
when I am one of their leaders, I shall do away with some of
the&mdash;er&mdash;false customs of the present administration. I
shall insist on preserving our American social traditions
inviolate."</p>
<p>Here was the grain of consolation in the case, which she
clutched at and held up before her mind's eye as a new stimulus to
her patriotism and her conscience. Both Mr. Elton and Flossy had
indicated that there was a point at which exclusiveness was
compelled to stop in its haughty disregard of democratic ideals.
There were certain women whom the people who worshipped lack of
enthusiasm and made an idol of cynicism were obliged to heed and
recognize. They might be able to ignore the intelligence and social
originality of a Congressman's wife, but they dared not turn a cold
shoulder on the wife of a United States Senator. And if a
woman&mdash;if she were to occupy this proud position, what a
satisfaction it would be to assert the power which belonged to it;
assert it in behalf of the cause for which she had suffered so
much! Her disappointment tasted bitterly in her mouth, and she was
conscious of stern revolt; but the new hope had already taken
possession of her fancy, and she hastened to prove it by the
ethical standard without which all hopes were valueless to her.
Even now had anyone told her that the ruling passion of her life
was to be wooed and made much of by the very people she professed
to despise, she would have spurned the accuser as a malicious
slanderer. Nor indeed would it have been wholly true. Mrs. Williams
had practically told her this at their last meeting in New York,
and its utterance had convinced her on the contrary of repugnance
to them, and of her desire to be the leader of a social protest
against them. Now here, in Washington of all places, she was
confronted by the bitter suggestion that she was without allies,
and that her enemies were the keepers of the door which led to
leadership and power. Despondency stared her in the face, but a
splendid possibility&mdash;aye probability was left. She would not
forsake her principles. She would not lower her flag. She would
return to Benham. Washington refused her homage now, but it should
listen to her and bow before her some day as the wife of one of the
real leaders of the State, whom Society did not dare to ignore.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VII.</h3>
<p>At the close of the fortnight of her stay in Washington
subsequent to the reception at the White House, Selma found herself
in the same frame of mind as when she parted from Mr. Elton. During
this fortnight her time was spent either in sight seeing or at the
hotel. The exercises at the Capitol were purely formal, preliminary
to a speedy adjournment of Congress. Consequently her husband had
no opportunity to distinguish himself by addressing the house. Of
Flossy she saw nothing, though the two men had several meetings.
Apparently both Lyons and Williams were content with a surface
reconciliation between their wives which did not bar family
intercourse. At least her husband made no suggestion that she
should call on Mrs. Williams, and Flossy's cards did not appear.
Beyond making the acquaintance of a few more wives and daughters in
the hotel, who seemed as solitary as herself, Selma received no
overtures from her own sex. She knew no one, and no one sought her
out or paid her attention. She still saw fit to believe that if she
were to establish herself in Washington and devote her energies to
rallying these wives and daughters about her, she might be able to
prove that Flossy and Mr. Elton were mistaken. But she realized
that the task would be less simple than she had anticipated.
Besides she yearned to return to Benham, and take up again the
thread of active life there. Benham would vindicate her, and some
day Benham would send her back to Washington to claim recognition
and her rightful place.</p>
<p>Lyons himself was in a cheerful mood and found congenial
occupation in visiting with his wife the many historical objects of
interest, and in chatting in various hotel corridors with the
public men of the country, his associates in Congress. His
solicitude in regard to the account which Williams was carrying for
him had been relieved temporarily by an upward turn in the stock
market, and the impending prompt adjournment of Congress had saved
him from the necessity of taking action in regard to the railroad
bill which Williams had solicited him to support. Moreover Selma
had repeated to him Horace Elton's prophecy that it was not
unlikely that some day he would become Senator. To be sure he
recognized that a remark like this uttered to a pretty woman by an
astute man of affairs such as Elton was not to be taken too
seriously. There was no vacancy in the office of Senator from his
state, and none was likely to occur. At the present time, if one
should occur, his party in the state legislature was in a minority.
Hence prophecy was obviously a random proceeding. Nevertheless he
was greatly pleased, for, after all, Elton would scarcely have made
the speech had he not been genuinely well disposed. A senatorship
was one of the great prizes of political life, and one of the
noblest positions in the world. It would afford him a golden
opportunity to leave the impress of his convictions on national
legislation, and defend the liberties of the people by force of the
oratorical gifts which he possessed. Elton had referred to these
gifts in complimentary terms. Was it not reasonable to infer that
Elton would be inclined to promote his political fortunes? Such an
ally would be invaluable, for Elton was a growing power in the
industrial development of the section of the country where they
both lived. He had continued to find him friendly in spite of his
own antagonism on the public platform to corporate power. A
favorite and conscientious hope in his political outlook was that
he might be able to make capital as well as labor believe him to be
a friend without alienating either; that he might obtain support at
the polls from both factions, and thus be left free after election
to work out for their mutual advantage appropriate legislation. He
had avowed himself unmistakably the champion of popular principles
in order to win the confidence of the common people, but his policy
of reasonable conciliation led him to cast sheep's eyes at vested
interests when he could do so without exposing himself to the
charge of inconsistency. Many of his friends were wealthy men, and
his private ambition was to amass a handsome fortune. That had been
the cause of his speculative ventures in local enterprises which
promised large returns, and in the stock market. Horace Elton was a
friend of but three years' standing; one of the men who had
consulted him occasionally in regard to legal matters since he had
become a corporation attorney. He admired Elton's strong,
far-reaching grasp of business affairs, his capacity to formulate
and incubate on plans of magnitude without betraying a sign of his
intentions, and his power to act with lightning despatch and
overwhelming vigor when the moment for the consummation of his
purposes arrived. He also found agreeable Elton's genial,
easy-going ways outside of business hours, which frequently took
the form of social entertainment at which expense seemed to be no
consideration and gastronomic novelties were apt to be presented.
Lyons attended one of these private banquets while in
Washington&mdash;a dinner party served to a carefully chosen
company of public men, to which newspaper scribes were unable to
penetrate. This same genial, easy-going tendency of Elton's to make
himself acceptable to those with whom he came in contact took the
form of a gift to Mrs. Lyons of a handsome cameo pin which he
presented to her a day or two after their dialogue at the
President's reception, and for which, as he confidentially informed
Selma, he had been seeking a suitable wearer ever since he had
picked it up in an out-of-the-way store in Brussels the previous
summer.</p>
<p>On the day of their departure Selma, as she took a last look
from the car window at the Capitol and the Washington Monument,
said to her husband: "This is a beautiful city&mdash;worthy in many
respects of the genius of the American people&mdash;but I never
wish to return to Washington until you are United States
Senator."</p>
<p>"Would you not be satisfied with Justice of the Supreme Court?"
asked Lyons, gayly.</p>
<p>"I should prefer Senator. If you were Senator, you could
probably be appointed to the Supreme Court in case you preferred
that place. I am relying on you, James, to bring me back here some
day."</p>
<p>She whispered this in his ear, as they sat with heads close
together looking back at the swiftly receding city. Selma's hands
were clasped in her lap, and she seemed to her lover to have a
dreamy air&mdash;an air suggesting poetry and high ethical resolve
such as he liked to associate with her and their scheme of wedded
life. It pleased him that his wife should feel so confident that
the future had in store for him this great prize, and he allowed
himself to yield to the pathos of the moment and whisper in
reply:</p>
<p>"I will say this, Selma. My business affairs look more
favorable, and, if nothing unforeseen happens, I do not see why we
shouldn't get on reasonably fast. Nowadays, in order to be a United
States Senator comfortably, it is desirable in the first place to
have abundant means."</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"We must be patient and God-fearing, and with your help, dear,
and your sympathy, we may live to see what you desire come to pass.
Of course, my ambition is to be Senator, and&mdash;and to take you
back to Washington as a Senator's wife."</p>
<p>Selma had not chosen to confide to Lyons in set terms her social
grievance against the capital of her country. But she was glad to
perceive from his last words that he understood she was not
satisfied with the treatment accorded her, and that he also was
looking forward to giving her a position which would enable her to
rebuke the ungodly and presumptuous.</p>
<p>"Thank you, James," she answered. "When that time comes we shall
be able to teach them a number of things. For the present though, I
feel that I can be of best service to you and to the truths which
we are living for by interesting myself in whatever concerns
Benham. We believe in Benham, and Benham seems inclined to believe
in us and our ideas."</p>
<p>The ensuing year passed uneventfully. Lyons was able to be at
home from the first of April to the reassembling of Congress in the
following December. He was glad to give himself up to the enjoyment
of his handsome establishment. He resumed the tenor of his
professional practice, feeling that as a sober-minded, married
citizen he had become of more importance to the community, and he
was eager to bear witness to his sense of responsibility. He took a
more active part in soliciting contributions for evangelizing
benighted countries, and he consented on several occasions to
deliver an address on "Success in Life" to struggling young men of
Benham and the surrounding towns. His easy flow of words, his
dignity and his sober but friendly mien made him a favorite with
audiences, and constantly broadened his circle of acquaintance.</p>
<p>Selma, on her side, took up the organization of the Free
Hospital provided by Mr. Parsons. Her husband left the decision of
all but legal and financial questions to her and Miss Luella
Bailey, who, at Selma's request, was made the third member of the
board of trustees. She decided to call in a committee of prominent
physicians to formulate a programme of procedure in matters purely
medical; but she reserved a right of rejection of their
conclusions, and she insisted on the recognition of certain
cardinal principles, as she called them. She specified that no one
school of medicine should dictate the policy of the hospital as
regards the treatment of patients. To the young physician whom she
selected to assist her in forming this administrative board she
stated, with stern emotion: "I do not intend that it shall be
possible in this hospital for men and women to be sacrificed simply
because doctors are unwilling to avail themselves of the latest
resources of brilliant individual discernment. I know what it means
to see a beloved one die, who might have been saved had the
physician in charge been willing to try new expedients. The doors
of this hospital must be ever open to rising unconventional talent.
There shall be no creeds nor caste of medicine here."</p>
<p>She also specified that the matron in charge of the hospital
should be Mrs. Earle, whose lack of trained experience was more
than counterbalanced by her maternal, humanitarian spirit, as Selma
expressed it. She felt confident that Mrs. Earle would choose as
her assistants competent and skilful persons, and at the same time
that her broad point of view and sympathetic instincts would not
allow her to turn a deaf ear to aspiring but technically ignorant
ability. This selection of Mrs. Earle was a keen pleasure to Selma.
It seemed to her an ideal selection. Mrs. Earle was no longer
young, and was beginning to find the constant labor of lecture and
newspaper work exhausting. This dignified and important post would
provide her with a permanent income, and would afford her an
attractive field for her progressive capabilities.</p>
<p>Selma's choice of young Dr. Ashmun as the head of the medical
board was due to a statement which came to her ears, that he was
reviled by some of the physicians of Benham because he had patented
certain discoveries of his own instead of giving his
fellow-practitioners the benefit of his knowledge. Selma was prompt
to detect in this hostility an envious disposition on the part of
the regular physicians to appropriate the fruits of individual
cleverness and to repress youthful revolt against conventional
methods. Dr. Ashmun regarded his selection as the professional
chief of this new institution as a most auspicious occurrence from
the standpoint of his personal fortunes. He was ambitious, ardent,
and keen to attract attention, with an abundant fund of energy and
a nervous, driving manner. He was, besides, good looking and
fluent, and he quickly perceived the drift of Selma's intentions in
regard to the hospital, and accommodated himself to them with
enthusiasm. They afforded him the very opportunity which he most
desired&mdash;the chance to assert himself against his critics, and
to obtain public notice. The watchword of liberty and distrust of
professional canons suited his purposes and his mood, and he threw
himself eagerly into the work of carrying out Selma's projects.</p>
<p>As a result of the selection of Dr. Ashmun and of the other
members of the administrative board, who were chosen with a view to
their availability as sympathetic colleagues, letters of protest
from several physicians appeared in the newspapers complaining that
the new hospital was being conducted on unscientific and shallow
principles, disapproved of by the leading men of the profession.
Selma was indignant yet thrilled. She promptly took steps to refute
the charge, and explained that the hostility of these
correspondents proceeded from envy and hide-bound reluctance to
adopt new and revolutionizing expedients. Through the aid of Mrs.
Earle and Miss Luella Bailey a double-leaded column in the Benham
<i>Sentinel</i> set forth the merits of the new departure in
medicine, which was cleverly described as the revolt of the
talented young men of the profession from the tyranny of their
conservative elders. Benham became divided in opinion as to the
merits of this controversy, and Selma received a number of
anonymous letters through the post approving her stand in behalf of
advanced, independent thought. Among the physicians who were
opposed to her administration of the hospital she recognized with
satisfaction the name of a Dr. Paget, who, as she happened to know,
was Mrs. Hallett Taylor's medical adviser.</p>
<p>Another matter in which Selma became interested was the case of
Mrs. Hamilton. She was a woman who had been born in the
neighborhood of Benham, but had lived for twenty years in England,
and had been tried in England by due process of law for the murder
of her husband and sentenced to imprisonment for life. Some of the
people of the state who had followed the testimony as reported in
the American newspapers had decided that she ought not to have been
convicted. Accordingly a petition setting forth the opinion of her
former neighbors that she was innocent of the charge, and should as
an American citizen be released from custody, was circulated for
signature. A public meeting was held and largely attended, at which
it was resolved to send a monster petition to the British
authorities with a request for Mrs. Hamilton's pardon, and also to
ask the government at Washington to intercede on behalf of the
unfortunate sufferer. The statement of the case appealed vividly to
Selma, and at the public meeting, which was attended chiefly by
women, she spoke, and offered the services of her husband to lay
the matter before the President. It was further resolved to obtain
the names of influential persons all over the country in order that
the petition might show that the sentiment that injustice had been
done was national as well as local.</p>
<p>Selma espoused the case with ardor, and busied herself in
obtaining signatures. She called on Miss Flagg and induced her to
sign by the assurance that the verdict was entirely contrary to the
evidence. She then had recourse to her former sister-in-law,
conceiving that the signature of the President of Wetmore College
would impress the English. She and Pauline had already exchanged
visits, and Pauline had shown no umbrage at her marriage. The
possibility of being rebuffed on this occasion did not occur to
Selma. She took for granted that Pauline would be only too glad to
give her support to so deserving a petition, and she considered
that she was paying her a compliment in soliciting her name for
insertion among the prominent signers. Pauline listened to her
attentively, then replied:</p>
<p>"I am sorry for the woman, if she is innocent: and if she has
been falsely accused, of course she ought to be released. But what
makes you think she is innocent, Selma?"</p>
<p>"The testimony did not justify her conviction. Every one is of
that opinion."</p>
<p>"Have you read the testimony yourself, Selma?"</p>
<p>"No, Pauline."</p>
<p>"Or your husband?"</p>
<p>"My husband is satisfied from what others have told him, just as
I am, that this poor American woman is languishing in prison as the
result of a cruel miscarriage of justice, and that she never
committed the crime of which she has been found guilty. My husband
has had considerable legal experience."</p>
<p>Pauline's questions were nettling, and Selma intended by her
response to suggest the presumptuousness of her sister-in-law's
doubts in the face of competent authority.</p>
<p>"I realize that your husband ought to understand about such
matters, but may one suppose that the English authorities would
deliberately allow an innocent woman to remain in prison? They must
know that the friends of Mrs. Hamilton believe her innocent. Why
should we on this side of the water meddle simply because she was
born an American?"</p>
<p>"Why?" Selma drew herself up proudly. "In the first place I
believe&mdash;we believe&mdash;that the English are capable of
keeping her in prison on a technicality merely because she is there
already. They are worshippers of legal form and red tape, my
husband says. And as to meddling, why is it not our duty as an
earnest and Christian people to remonstrate against the continued
incarceration of a woman born under our flag and accustomed to
American ideas of justice? Meddling? In my opinion, we should be
cowards and derelict in our duty if we did not protest."</p>
<p>Pauline shook her head. "I cannot see it so. It seems to me an
interference which may make us seem ridiculous in the eyes of the
English, as well as offensive to them. I am sorry, Selma, not to be
able to do as you wish."</p>
<p>Selma rose with burning cheeks, but a stately air. "If that is
your decision, I must do without your name. Already we have many
signatures, and shall obtain hundreds more without difficulty. We
look at things differently, Pauline. Our point of view has never
been the same. Ridiculous? I should be proud of the ridicule of
people too selfish or too unenlightened to heed the outcry of
aspiring humanity. If we had to depend on your little set to strike
the note of progress, I fear we should sit with folded hands most
of the time."</p>
<p>"I do not know what you mean by my little set," said Pauline
with a smile. "I am too busy with my college duties to belong to
any set. I see my friends occasionally just as you see yours; and
as to progress&mdash;well, I fear that you are right in your
statement that we shall never look at things alike. To me progress
presupposes in the individual or the community attaining it a
prelude of slow struggle, disheartening doubts, and modest
reverence for previous results&mdash;for the accumulated wisdom of
the past."</p>
<p>"I mean by your set the people who think as you do. I understand
your point of view. I should have liked," she added, "to ask you to
share with me the responsibility of directing the policy of the
Benham Free Hospital, had I not known that you would listen to the
voice of conservative authority in preference to that of fearless
innovation."</p>
<p>"I certainly should have hesitated long before I overruled the
experience of those who have devoted their lives to conscientious
effort to discover truth."</p>
<p>"That illustrates admirably the difference between us, Pauline.
No one is more eager to aid the discovery of truth than I, but I
believe that truth often is concealed from those who go on, day
after day, following hum-drum routine, however conscientious. I
recognized that Dr. Ashmun was a live man and had fresh ideas, so I
chose him as our chief of staff, notwithstanding the doctors were
unfriendly to him. As a result, my hospital has individuality, and
is already a success. That's the sort of thing I mean. Good-by,"
she said, putting out her hand. "I don't expect to convert you,
Pauline, to look at things my way, but you must realize by this
time that it is the Benham way."</p>
<p>"Yet the leading physicians of Benham disapprove of your plans
for the management of the hospital," said Pauline firmly.</p>
<p>"But the people of Benham approve of them. I prefer their
sanction to that of a coterie of cautious, unenthusiastic
autocrats."</p>
<p>Selma, true to her intentions, did not return to Washington with
her husband when Congress reassembled in December. While she was
absorbed with her philanthropic plans in Benham, Lyons was
performing his public duties; seeking to do the country good
service, and at the right moment to attract attention to himself.
The opportunity to make a speech along the line of his public
professions in behalf of labor against corporate monopoly did not
offer itself until late in the session. He improved the few minutes
allowed him to such advantage that he was listened to with close
attention, and was at once recognized as one of the persuasive and
eloquent speakers of the minority. Before Congress adjourned he
obtained another chance to take part in debate, by which he
produced an equally favorable impression. The newspapers of the
country referred approvingly to his cogent gift of statement and
dignified style of delivery. Both the bills against which he spoke
were passed by the Republican majority, but echoes of his words
came back from some of their constituents, and Lyons was referred
to as certain to be one of the strong men of the House if he
returned to Congress. He went home at the close of the session in a
contented frame of mind so far as his political prospects were
concerned, but he was not free to enjoy the congratulations
accorded him for the reason that his business ventures were
beginning to give him serious solicitude. The trend of the stock
market was again downward. In expectation of a rise from the
previous depression, he had added to the line of shares which
Williams &amp; Van Horne were carrying for him. A slight rise had
come, sufficient to afford him a chance to escape from the toils of
Wall street without loss. But he needed a profit to rehabilitate
his ventures in other directions&mdash;his investments in the
enterprises of his own state, which had now for some months
appeared quiescent, if not languishing, from a speculative point of
view. Everything pointed, it was said, to a further advance as soon
as Congress adjourned. So he had waited, and now, although the
session was over, the stock market and financial undertakings of
every sort appeared suddenly to be tottering. He had not been at
home a month before prices of all securities began to shrink
inordinately and the business horizon to grow murky with the clouds
of impending disaster. To add to his worry, Lyons was conscious
that he had pursued a fast and loose mental coarse in regard to the
railroad bill in which his broker, Williams, was interested. He had
given Williams to understand that he would try to see his way to
support it; yet in view of his late prominence in Washington, as a
foe of legislation in behalf of moneyed interests, he was more than
ever averse to casting a vote in its favor. The bill had not been
reached before adjournment, a result to which he had secretly
contributed, but it was certain to be called up shortly after
Congress reassembled. It disturbed him to feel that his affairs in
New York were in such shape that Williams could embarrass him
financially if he chose. It disturbed him still more that he
appeared to himself to be guilty of bad faith. His conscience was
troubled, and his favorite palliative of conciliation did not seem
applicable to the case.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3>
<p>Until this time the course of financial events in Benham since
its evolution from a sleepy country town began had been steadily
prosperous. There had been temporary recessions in prices,
transient haltings in the tendency of new local undertakings to
double and quadruple in value. A few rash individuals, indeed, had
been forced to suspend payments and compound with their creditors.
But there had been no real set back to commercial enthusiasm and
speculative gusto. Those who desired to borrow money for
progressive enterprises had found the banks accommodating and
unsuspicious, and to Benham initiative it yet appeared that the
development of the resources of the neighborhood by the unwearying,
masterful energy of the citizens was still in its infancy.</p>
<p>But now, after a few months of inactivity, which holders of
speculative securities had spoken of as another healthy breathing
spell, the tendency of prices had changed. Had not merely halted,
but showed a radical tendency to shrink; even to tumble feverishly.
Buyers were scarce, and the once accommodating banks displayed a
heartless disposition to scrutinize collateral and to ask
embarrassing questions in regard to commercial paper. Rates of
interest on loans were ruthlessly advanced, and additional security
demanded. A pall of dejection hung over Benham. Evil days had come;
days the fruit of a long period of inflation. A dozen leading firms
failed and carried down with them diverse small people. Amid the
general distrust and anxiety all eyes were fixed on Wall street,
the so-called money centre of the country, the Gehenna where this
cyclone had first manifested itself. The newspapers, voicing Benham
public opinion, cast vituperation at the bankers and brokers of
Wall street, whose unholy jugglings with fortune had brought this
commercial blight on the community. Wall street had locked up
money; consequently funds were tight in Benham, and the plans of
its honest burghers to promote enterprise and develop the lawful
industries of the country were interrupted. So spoke public
opinion, and, at the same time, hundreds of private letters were
being despatched through the Benham Post Office in response to
requests for more margins on stocks held for the honest burghers by
the fraternity of Wall street gamblers. There was private wailing
and gnashing of teeth also, for in the panic a few of these bankers
and brokers had been submerged, and the collateral of Benham's
leading citizens had been swept away.</p>
<p>The panic itself was brief as panics always are, but it left
behind it everywhere a paralyzed community. So far as Benham was
concerned, only a few actually failed, but, in a host of instances,
possessors of property who had thought themselves wealthy a year
before found that they were face to face with the knotty problem of
nursing their dwarfed resources so as to avoid eventual insolvency.
Everything had shrunk fifty&mdash;often one hundred&mdash;per
cent., for the basis of Benham's semi-fabulous development had been
borrowed money. Many of Benham's leading citizens were down to hard
pan, so to speak. Their inchoate enterprises were being carried by
the banks on the smallest margins consistent with the solvency of
those institutions, and clear-headed men knew that months of
recuperation must elapse before speculative properties would show
life again. Benham was consequently gloomy for once in despite of
its native buoyancy. It would have arisen from the ashes of a fire
as strenuous as a young lion. But, with everybody's stocks and
merchandise pledged to the money lenders, enterprise was gripped by
the throat. In the pride of its prosperity Benham had dreamed that
it was a law unto itself, and that even Wall street could not
affect its rosy commercial destinies. It appeared to pious owners
of securities almost as though God had deserted his chosen city of
a chosen country.</p>
<p>Lyons was among those upon whom the harrow of this fall in
prices and subsequent hand-to-mouth struggle with the banks pressed
with unpleasant rigor. In business phraseology he was too much
extended. Consequently, as the margins of value of the securities
on which he had borrowed dropped away, he was kept on tenter-hooks
as to the future. In case the process of shrinkage went much
further, he would be required to supply more collateral; and, if
the rate of money did not fall, the banks would refuse to renew his
notes as they became due, unless he could furnish clear evidence of
his solvency. He was owing over one hundred and fifty thousand
dollars on paper secured only by the stock and bonds of brand-new
enterprises, which had no market negotiability. From the money
which he had borrowed he had sent, from time to time, to Williams
and Van Horne an aggregate of forty thousand dollars to protect
some two thousand shares of railroad stocks. Williams had
especially commended the shares of the coal-carrying roads to his
attention, and the drop in prices had been uniformly severe in
these properties. Instead of being the possessor of a stable
quarter of a million, which he considered to be the value of his
property at the time of his election to Congress, Lyons suddenly
realized that he was on the brink of a serious financial collapse
through which he might lose everything before he could discharge
his liabilities. It seemed cruel to him, for he believed that all
his ventures were sound, and that if he were not forced to
sacrifice his possessions, their future value would attest his
sagacity. But at present the securities of speculative enterprises
were practically worthless as procurers of ready money. The extreme
circumstances had come upon him with startling rapidity, so that he
found himself in the unpleasant predicament of having used for
temporary relief some of the bonds belonging to the Parsons estate
which he held as executor. He had forwarded these to Williams
merely as a matter of convenience before he had become anxious,
expecting to be able to replace them with funds coming to him
within thirty days from a piece of real estate for which he had
received an offer. He had held off in the hope of obtaining a
higher price. The following week, when signs of danger were
multiplying, he had found the would-be purchaser unwilling to buy
at any price. Realizing the compromising position in which he had
placed himself by his action, he had cast about feverishly for the
means to redeem the hypothecated securities, but all his resources
were taxed of a sudden by the advent of the panic. It occurred to
him to ask Selma to allow substitution of the twenty thousand
dollars, which had been apportioned, to her as her legacy, for the
bonds, but at first he had shrunk from the mortification of
disclosing his condition to her, and now that the situation had
developed, he feared that he might be obliged to borrow this money
from her for the protection of his other interests. It gave him
sore concern that he, a champion of moral ideas, a leading church
member, and a Representative of the Federal Government should be
put in such an equivocal position. Here again there was no
opportunity for conciliation, and dignified urbanity was of no
avail. If the condition of drooping prices and general distrust, a
sort of commercial dry-rot, which had succeeded the panic,
continued much longer he would be driven to the wall unless relief
were forthcoming. Nor was it much consolation that many others were
on the verge of failure. Financial insolvency for him would mean
the probable loss of his seat in Congress, and the serious
interruption of his political career. From what source could he
hope for relief? The preparations for the autumn campaign were
already being considered, and there was likelihood of another close
contest between the two political parties. But for the worry
occasioned by his plight, he would have resumed the contest with
hopeful ardor, appreciating that the pecuniary distress of the
community would be likely to work to his advantage. His own
nomination was assured; his re-election appeared probable. But
after it what could he expect but the deluge?</p>
<p>One source of the effectiveness of Horace Elton was that he was
wont to exercise foresight, and make his plans in advance while
other men were slumbering. He had been prepared for the panic
because he had been expecting it for more than a year, and the ship
of his financial fortunes was close reefed to meet the fury of the
overdue gale. Also he was quick to recognize that the wide-spread
depreciation of values would inevitably be followed by a period of
business inactivity which would throw out of employment a large
number of wage earners whose ballots as a consequence would be cast
against the political party in power. As far back as the time when
he made the acquaintance of Selma at Washington and selected her as
the wearer of his cameo pin, he had been incubating on a scheme for
the consolidation of the gas companies in the cities and towns of
the state into one large corporation. For this corporation he
required a liberal charter, which the next legislature would be
invited to grant. He expected to be able to procure this franchise
from the legislature, but he judged that the majority in favor of
the bill would not be large enough to pass it over the Governor's
veto. Accordingly it was of the first importance that the Governor
should be friendly to the measure.</p>
<p>This was the year of the Presidential election. Both political
parties were seeking to nominate their strongest candidates for the
various federal and state offices. A promoter of large business
schemes was at a disadvantage in a campaign where party feelings
ran high and national issues were involved, and Elton knew it. He
commonly chose an off year in politics for the consummation of his
business deals. But he had chosen to push his bill this year for
the reason that he wished to be in a position to buy out the
sub-companies cheaply. The community was pressed for ready money,
and many men who would be slow in prosperous times to extract gas
shares from their tin boxes and stockings would be glad to avail
themselves of a reasonable cash offer. Elton was a Republican on
national issues. His experience had been that the Republican Party
was fundamentally friendly to corporations, in spite of occasional
pious ejaculations in party platforms to the contrary. He had a
Republican candidate for Governor in mind who would be faithful to
his interests; but this candidate was put aside in the convention
in deference to the sentiment that only a man of first-rate mental
and moral calibre could command the allegiance of independent
voters, whose co-operation seemed essential to party success. The
Republican state convention was held three weeks prior to the date
fixed for that of their opponents. Within twenty-four hours
subsequent to the nomination of Hon. John Patterson as the
Republican candidate for Governor, while the party organs were
congratulating the public on his selection, and the leaders of the
party were endeavoring to suppress the murmurs of the disappointed
lower order of politicians who, in metaphorical phrase, felt that
they were sewed up in a sack for another two years by the choice of
this strong citizen, one of the most widely circulated democratic
newspapers announced in large type on its front page that Hon.
James O. Lyons was the only Democrat who could defeat him in the
gubernatorial contest. Behind the ledger sheet of this
newspaper&mdash;which was no other than the Benham
<i>Sentinel</i>&mdash;lurked the keen intelligence of Horace Elton.
He knew that the candidate of his own party would never consent to
indicate in advance what his action on the gas bill would be, and
that he would only prejudice his chances of obtaining favorable
action when the time arrived by any attempt to forestall a
decision. This did not suit Horace Elton. He was accustomed to be
able to obtain an inkling before election that legislation in which
he was interested would not encounter a veto. His measures were
never dishonest. That is, he never sought to foist bogus or
fraudulent undertakings upon the community. He was seeking, to be
sure, eventual emolument for himself, but he believed that the
franchise which he was anxious to obtain would result in more
progressive and more effectual public service. He had never before
felt obliged to refrain from asking direct or indirect assurance
that his plans would be respected by the Governor. Yet he had
foreseen the possibility of just such an occurrence. The one chance
in a hundred had happened and he was ready for it. He intended to
contribute to the Republican national campaign fund, but he did not
feel that the interests of his State would suffer if he used all
the influences at his command to secure a Governor who would be
friendly to his scheme, and Congressman Lyons appeared to him the
most available man for his purpose.</p>
<p>It had already occurred to Lyons that his nomination as Governor
was a possibility, for the leaders of the party were ostensibly
looking about for a desirable Democrat with whom to confront
Patterson, and had shown an intention to turn a cold shoulder on
the ambition of several aspirants for this honor who might have
been encouraged in an ordinary year as probable victors. He knew
that his name was under consideration, and he had made up his mind
that he would accept the nomination if it were offered to him. He
would regret the interruption of his Congressional career, but he
felt that his election as Governor in a presidential year after a
close contest would make him the leader of the party in the State,
and, in case the candidate of his party were chosen President,
would entitle him to important recognition from the new
administration. Moreover, if he became Governor, his financial
status would be strengthened. The banks would be more likely to
accommodate one in such a powerful position, and he might be able
to keep his head above water until better times brought about a
return of public confidence and a recovery in prices. Yet he felt
by no means sure that even as Governor he could escape betraying
his financial embarrassment, and his mind was so oppressed by the
predicament in which he found himself that he made no effort on his
own part to cause the party leaders to fix their choice on him. Nor
did he mention the possibility of his selection to Selma.
Mortification and self-reproach had made him for the moment inert
as to his political future, and reluctant to confide his troubles
to her.</p>
<p>The clarion declaration of the Benham <i>Sentinel</i> in favor
of Lyons evoked sympathetic echoes over the State, which promptly
convinced the political chieftains that he was the strongest
candidate to pit against Patterson. The enthusiasm caused by the
suggestion of his name spread rapidly, and at the end of a week his
nomination at the convention was regarded as certain.</p>
<p>The championship of the <i>Sentinel</i> was a complete surprise
to Selma. She had assumed that her husband would return to
Washington, and that political promotion for the present was out of
the question. When she saw her husband's features looking out at
her from a large cut on the front page of the morning newspaper,
and read the conspicuous heading which accompanied it&mdash;"The
<i>Sentinel</i> nominates as Governor the Hon. James O. Lyons of
Benham, the most eloquent orator and most public-spirited citizen
of the State"&mdash;her heart gave a bound, and she eagerly asked
herself, "Why not?" That was just what they needed, what she needed
to secure her hold on the social evolution of Benham. As the wife
of the Governor of the State she would be able to ignore the people
who held aloof from her, and introduce the reforms in social
behavior on which her heart was set.</p>
<p>"James, have you seen this?" she asked, eagerly.</p>
<p>Lyons was watching her from across the breakfast table. He had
seen it, and had laid the newspaper within her reach.</p>
<p>"Yes, dear. It is very complimentary, isn't it?"</p>
<p>"But what does it mean? Are you to be Governor? Did you know of
it, James?"</p>
<p>"I knew that my name, with others, had been mentioned by those
who were looking for a candidate whom we can elect. But this
nomination of the <i>Sentinel</i> comes from a clear sky. Would you
like to have me Governor, Selma?"</p>
<p>"Yes, indeed. If the chance is offered you, James, you will
surely accept it. It would please me immensely to see you Governor.
We should not be separated then part of the year, and&mdash;and I
should be able here in Benham to help you as your wife ought to
help you. I know," she added, "that you have been looking forward
to the next session of Congress, in the hope of distinguishing
yourself, but isn't this a finer opportunity? Doesn't it open the
door to splendid possibilities?"</p>
<p>Lyons nodded. His wife's eager presentation of the case
confirmed his own conclusions. "It is an important decision to
make," he said, with gravity. "If I am not elected, I shall have
lost my place in the Congressional line, and may find difficulty in
recovering it later. But if the party needs me, if the State needs
me, I must not think of that. I cannot help being gratified,
encouraged by the suggestion that my fellow-citizens of my
political faith are turning to me as their standard-bearer at this
time when great public issues are involved. If I can serve God and
my country in this way, and at the same time please you, my wife,
what can I ask better?"</p>
<p>He spoke with genuine feeling and reverence, for it was in
keeping with his religious tendencies to recognize in advance the
solemn responsibilities of high office, and to picture himself as
the agent of the heavenly powers. This attitude of mind always
found Selma sympathetic and harmonious. Her eyes kindled with
enthusiasm, and she replied:</p>
<p>"You view the matter as I would have you view it, James. If this
trust is committed to us by Providence, it is our duty to accept it
as lovers of our country and promoters of true progress."</p>
<p>"It would seem so. And in some ways," he said, as though he felt
the impulse to be reasonably frank toward Providence in his
acceptance of the trust, "my election as Governor would be
advantageous to my political and business interests. I have not
sought the office," he added with dignified unction, "but my
knowledge of local conditions leads me to believe that this action
of the <i>Sentinel</i> signifies that certain powerful influences
are working in my favor. I shall be able to tell you more
accurately in regard to this before long."</p>
<p>Lyons happened to know that the Benham <i>Sentinel</i> had
enlarged its plant two years previous, and that Horace Elton was
still the holder of its notes for borrowed money. The transaction
had passed through his bank, and in the course of his mental search
for reasons to account for the sudden flat-footed stand of the
newspaper, the thought came into his mind and dwelt there that
Elton was at the bottom of it. If so, what was Elton's reason? Why
should Elton, a Republican, desire his nomination? Surely not to
compass his defeat.</p>
<p>In this connection Elton's friendship and the prophecy made to
Selma as to his political future occurred to him and forbade an
invidious supposition. "Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and thou shalt
be what thou art promised!" Lyons left Selma with the conviction
that he would find Elton to be mainly responsible for what had
taken place. Shortly after reaching his office he received a note
from him asking for an appointment. Punctually at twelve o'clock
Elton arrived and was shown into Lyons's private room. Lyons gave
orders that he was not to be disturbed, for he believed that the
results of the interview were likely to have a serious bearing on
his career as a statesman.</p>
<p>Both men were of heavy physique, but as they sat facing each
other an observer would have remarked that Elton's visage possessed
a clean-cut compactness of expression despite its rotund contour.
His closely trimmed whiskers, his small, clear, penetrating eyes,
and the effect of neatness conveyed by his personal appearance were
so many external indications of his mental lucidity and
precision.</p>
<p>In contrast Lyons's moon-shaped face, emphasized by its
smooth-shaven mobile mouth, below which his almost white chin beard
hung pendent, expressed a curious interplay of emotional sanctity,
urbane shrewdness, and solemn self-importance.</p>
<p>"Governor Lyons, at your service," said Elton, regarding him
steadily.</p>
<p>"Do you think so?"</p>
<p>"I know so, if you desire it."</p>
<p>"The nomination, you mean?"</p>
<p>"The election by a comfortable majority."</p>
<p>Lyons breathed hard with satisfaction. "If the people of the
State choose to confide their interests to my custody, I shall not
refuse to serve them."</p>
<p>"So I supposed. You may be wondering, Lyons, why I, a
Republican, should be talking like this. I will tell you.
Observation has led me to believe that the people of this State
will elect a Democratic Governor this year. The hard times will
hurt the administration. Consequently, as your friend and my own
friend, I have taken the liberty to indicate to the managers of
your party their strongest man. I am responsible for what you saw
on the front page of the <i>Sentinel</i> this morning. There need
not be much difficulty," he added, significantly, "in securing
emphatic endorsement throughout the State of the <i>Sentinel's</i>
preference."</p>
<p>Lyons looked grave. "You must be aware that our views on public
questions&mdash;especially those which concern the relations of
capital and labor&mdash;are not the same."</p>
<p>"Certainly. I tell you frankly that while, from a humanitarian
point of view, I respect your desire to relieve the inequalities of
modern civilization, as a business man and a man of some property I
do not regard the remedies presented by your party platform as just
or adequate. I recognize that your opinions are hostile to
corporate interests, but I have gathered also that you are disposed
to be reasonable and conciliatory; that you are not inclined to
regard all men and all measures as dangerous, merely because they
have means or are introduced in the name of capital."</p>
<p>"It has always seemed to me that a conciliatory spirit secures
the most definite results for the public," assented Lyons.</p>
<p>"Precisely. See here, Lyons," Elton said, leaning forward across
the table at which they were sitting, "I wish to be entirely frank
with you. You know me well enough to understand that I have not
offered you my support in any philanthropic spirit. I could not
have deceived you as to this had I tried. I am a practical man, and
have an axe to grind. I am urging your election as Governor because
I believe you to possess intelligent capacity to discriminate
between what is harmful to the community and what is due to
healthy, individual enterprise&mdash;the energy which is the sap of
American citizenship. We capitalists have no fear of an honest man,
provided he has the desire and the ability to protect legitimate
business acumen against the slander of mere demagogues. I have a
bill here," he added, drawing a printed document from his pocket,
"which I am desirous to see passed by the next legislature. It
embodies a charter authorizing the acquisition and merger in one
corporation of all the gas companies of this State, and an
extension of corporate powers so as to cover all forms of municipal
lighting. Were your hands not tied by your prospective election, I
should be glad to offer you an opportunity to become one of the
incorporators, for I believe that the undertaking will be
lucrative. That, of course, is out of the question. Now then, this
is a perfectly honest bill. On its face, to be sure, it secures a
valuable franchise for the petitioners, and consequently may
encounter some opposition. But, on the other hand, no one who
considers the matter candidly and closely can fail to recognize
that the great public will secure cheaper gas and more efficient
service as the result of the consolidation. And there is where I
felt that I could count on your intelligence. You would not allow
the plea that capitalists were interested in obtaining a profitable
franchise to obscure the more vital consideration that the
community will be the true gainers."</p>
<p>Lyons bowed graciously, and stroked his beard. "What is it you
wish me to do?" he asked.</p>
<p>"To read the bill in the first place; to convince yourself that
what I have told you is true; to satisfy yourself that the measure
is essentially harmless. The bill is not long. Read it now and let
me hear your objections. I have some papers here to look over which
will occupy me a quarter of an hour, if you can spare me the
time."</p>
<p>Lyons acquiesced, and proceeded to peruse slowly the document.
When he had finished it he folded it solemnly and returned it to
Elton. "It is a bill framed in the interest of capital, but I
cannot say that the public will be prejudiced by it. On the
contrary, I should judge that the price of gas in our cities and
towns would be lowered as a consequence of the reduction in running
expenses caused by the projected consolidation. What is it that you
wish me to do?"</p>
<p>"Agree to sign the bill as it now stands if it passes the
legislature."</p>
<p>Lyons rested his head on his hand and his mouth moved
tremulously. "If I am elected governor," he said, "I wish to serve
the people honestly and fearlessly."</p>
<p>"I am sure of it. I ask you to point out to me in what manner
this bill trenches upon the rights of the people. You yourself have
noted the crucial consequence: It will lower the price of gas. If
at the same time I am benefited financially, why should I not reap
the reasonable reward of my foresight?"</p>
<p>"I will sign the bill, Elton, if it comes to me for signature. I
may be criticised at first, but the improved public service and
reduction of the gas bills will be my justification, and show that
I have not been unmindful of the interests of the great public
whose burdens my party is seeking to lighten."</p>
<p>"I shall count on you, then," said Elton, after a pause. "The
failure of the bill at the last stage when I was expecting its
passage might affect my affairs seriously."</p>
<p>"If the legislature does its part, I will do mine," responded
Lyons, augustly. "I will sign the bill if it comes to me in the
present form."</p>
<p>"I thank you, Governor."</p>
<p>Lyons looked confused but happy at the appellation.</p>
<p>"By the way," said Elton, after he had returned the papers to
his pocket, "these are trying times for men with financial
obligations. It is my custom to be frank and not to mince matters
where important interests are concerned. A candidate for office in
this campaign will need the use of all his faculties if he is to be
successful. I should be very sorry for the sake of my bill to allow
your mind to be distracted by solicitude in regard to your private
affairs. Some of the best and most prudent of our business men are
pressed to-day for ready money. I am in a position to give you
temporary assistance if you require it. In justice to my interests
you must not let delicacy stand in the way of your accepting my
offer."</p>
<p>Lyons's bosom swelled with the tide of returning happiness. He
had scarcely been able to believe his ears. Yet here was a
definite, spontaneous proposition to remove the incubus which
weighed upon his soul. Here was an opportunity to redeem the bonds
of the Parsons estate and to repair his damaged self-respect. It
seemed to him as though the clouds of adversity which had
encompassed him had suddenly been swept away, and that Providence
was smiling down at him as her approved and favorite son. His
emotion choked his speech. His lip trembled and his eyes looked as
though they would fill with tears. After a brief pause he
articulated that he was somewhat pressed for ready money. Some
explanation of his affairs followed, the upshot of which was that
Elton agreed to indorse Lyons's promissory notes held by the banks
to the amount of $60,000, and to accept as collateral for a
personal loan of $40,000 certain securities of new local
enterprises which had no present marketable value. By this
arrangement his property was amply protected from sacrifice; he
would be able to adjust his speculative account in New York; and he
could await with a tranquil soul the return of commercial
confidence. Lyons's heart was overflowing with satisfaction. He
pressed Elton's hand and endeavored to express his gratitude with
appropriate grandiloquence. But Elton disclaimed the obligation,
asserting that he had acted merely from self-interest to make the
election of his candidate more certain.</p>
<p>The loan of $40,000 was completed within forty-eight hours, and
before the end of another week Lyons had rescued the bonds of the
Parsons estate from pawn, and disposed of his line of stocks
carried by Williams &amp; Van Horne. They were sold at a
considerable loss, but he made up his mind to free his soul for the
time being from the toils and torment of speculation and to nurse
his dwarfed resources behind the bulwark of Elton's relief fund
until the financial situation cleared. He felt as though he had
grown ten years younger, and without confiding to Selma the details
of these transactions he informed her ecstatically that, owing to
certain important developments, due partly to the friendliness of
Horace Elton, the outlook for their future advancement had never
been so bright. When a month later he was nominated as Governor he
threw himself into the contest with the convincing ardor of
sincere, untrammelled faith in the reforms he was advocating. His
speeches reflected complete concentration of his powers on the
issues of the campaign and evoked enthusiasm throughout the State
by their eloquent arraignment of corporate rapacity at the expense
of the sovereign people. In several of his most telling addresses
he accused the national administration of pandering to the
un-American gamblers who bought and sold stocks in Wall street.</p>
<h3>CHAPTER IX.</h3>
<p>Lyons was chosen Governor by a large majority, as Elton had
predicted. The Republican Party was worsted at the polls and driven
out of power both at Washington and in the State. Lyons ran ahead
of his ticket, receiving more votes than the presidential electors.
The campaign was full of incidents grateful to Selma's self esteem.
Chief among these was the conspicuous allusions accorded her by the
newspapers. The campaign itself was a fervid repetition of the
stirring scenes of two years previous. Once more torch-light
processions in vociferous serried columns attested the intensity of
party spirit. Selma felt herself an adept through her former
experience, and she lost no opportunity to show herself in public
and bear witness to her devotion to her husband's cause. It pleased
her to think that the people recognized her when she appeared on
the balcony or reviewing stand, and that her presence evoked an
increase of enthusiasm.</p>
<p>But the newspaper publicity was even more satisfying, for it
centred attention unequivocally on her. Columns of descriptive
matter relative to her husband's personality began to appear as
soon as it became obvious that he was to be Governor. These
articles aimed to be exhaustive in their character, covering the
entire scope of his past life, disclosing pitiless details in
regard to his habits, tastes, and private concerns. Nothing which
could be discovered or ferreted out was omitted; and most of these
biographies were illuminated by a variety of more or less hideous
cuts showing, for example, his excellency as he looked as a school
boy, his excellency as a fledgling attorney, the humble home where
his excellency was born, and his excellency's present stately but
hospitable residence on Benham's River Drive. Almost every
newspaper in the State took its turn at contributing something
which it conceived to be edifying to this reportorial budget. And
after the Governor, came the turn of the Governor's lady, as she
was called.</p>
<p>Selma liked best the articles devoted exclusively to herself;
where she appeared as the special feature of the newspaper issue,
not merely as an adjunct to her husband. But she liked them all,
and she was most benignant in her reception of the several
newspaper scribes, principally of her own sex, who sought an
interview for the sake of copy. She withheld nothing in regard to
her person, talents, household, or tastes which would in her
opinion be effective in print. She had a photograph of herself
taken in simple, domestic matronly garb to supplement those which
she already possessed, one of which revealed the magnificence of
the attire she wore at the President's Reception; another portrayed
Littleton's earnest bride, and still a fourth disclosed her as the
wistful, aspiring school-mistress on the threshold of womanhood.
These, and the facts appropriate to them, she meted out to her
biographers from time to time, lubricating her amiable confidences
with the assertion that both she and her husband felt that the
people were entitled to be made familiar with the lives of their
public representatives. As the result of her gracious behavior, her
willingness to supply interesting details concerning herself, and
her flattering tendency to become intimate on the spot with the
reporters who visited her, the newspaper articles in most cases
were in keeping with Selma's prepossessions. Those which pleased
her most emphasized in the first place her intellectual gifts and
literary talents, intimating delicately that she had refused
brilliant offers for usefulness with her pen and on the lecture
platform in order to become the wife of Congressman Lyons, to whom
her counsel and high ideals of public service were a constant
stimulus. Emphasized in the second place her husband's and her own
pious tastes, and strong religious convictions, to which their
constant church attendance and the simple sanctity of their
American home bore testimony. Emphasized in the third
place&mdash;reproducing ordinarily a sketch and cut of her
drawing-room&mdash;her great social gifts and graces, which had
made her a leader of society in the best sense of the word both in
Benham and in New York. A few of the articles stated in judicious
terms that she had been twice a widow. Only one of them set this
forth in conspicuous and opprobrious terms: "Her Third Husband! Our
Chief Magistrate's Wife's Many Marriages!" Such was the
unsympathetic, alliterative heading of the malicious statement
which appeared in an opposition organ. It did no more than recall
the fact that she had obtained a divorce from her first husband,
who had in his despair taken to drink, and intimate that her second
husband had not been altogether happy. Selma wept when she read the
article. She felt that it was cruel and uncalled for; that it told
only half the truth and traduced her before the American people.
She chose to conceive that it had been inspired by Pauline and Mrs.
Hallett Taylor, neither of whom had sent her a word of
congratulation on her promotion to be the Governor's wife. Who but
Pauline knew that her marriage with Littleton had not been
completely harmonious? Who but Mrs. Taylor or one of her set would
have the malice to insinuate that she had been merciless to
Babcock? This was one libel in a long series of complimentary
productions. The representation of the family group was made
complete by occasional references to the Governor elect's
mother&mdash;"Mother Lyons, the venerable parent of our chief
magistrate." Altogether Selma felt that the picture presented to
the public was a truthful and inspiring record of pious and
enterprising American life, which showed to the community that its
choice of a Governor had been wise and was merited.</p>
<p>Close upon the election and these eulogistic biographies came
the inauguration, with Lyons's eloquent address. Selma, of course,
had special privileges&mdash;a reserved gallery in the State House,
to which she issued cards of admission to friends of her own
selection. Occupying in festal attire the centre of this
conspicuous group, she felt that she was the cynosure of every eye.
She perceived that she was constantly pointed out as the second
personage of the occasion. To the few legislators on the floor whom
she already knew she took pains to bow from her seat with gracious
cordiality, intending from the outset to aid her husband by
captivating his friends and conciliating the leaders of the
opposition party. On her way to and from the gallery she was joined
by several members, to each of whom she tried to convey subtly the
impression that she purposed to take an earnest interest in
legislative affairs, and that her husband would be apt to consult
her in regard to close questions. On the morning after the
inauguration she had the satisfaction of seeing her own portrait
side by side with that of her husband on the front page of two
newspapers, a flattering indication, as she believed, that the
press already recognized her value both as a helpmate to him and an
ornament to the State. She took up her life as the Governor's lady
feeling that her talents and eagerness to do good had finally
prevailed and that true happiness at last was in store for her. She
was satisfied with her husband and recognized his righteous purpose
and capacity as a statesman, but she believed secretly that his
rapid success was due in a large measure to her genius. Her
prompting had inspired him to make a notable speech in his first
Congress. Her charms and clever conversation had magnetized Mr.
Elton so that he had seen fit to nominate him for Governor. A fresh
impulse to her self-congratulation that virtue and ability were
reaping their reward was given a few weeks later by the
announcement which Lyons read from the morning newspaper that the
firm of Williams &amp; Van Horne had failed disastrously. The
circumstances attending their down-fall were sensational. It
appeared that Van Horne, the office partner, who managed the
finances, had shot himself as the culmination of a series of
fraudulent hypothecations of securities and misrepresentations to
which it was claimed that Williams was not a party. The firm had
been hopelessly insolvent for months, and had been forced to the
wall at last by a futile effort on the part of Van Horne to redeem
the situation by a final speculation on a large scale. It had
failed owing to the continuation of the state of dry rot in the
stock market, and utter ruin followed.</p>
<p>The regret which Lyons entertained as he read aloud the tragic
story was overshadowed in his mind by his own thankfulness that he
had redeemed the bonds and settled his account with them before the
crash came. He was so absorbed by his own emotions that he failed
to note the triumphant tone of his wife's ejaculation of amazement.
"Failed! Williams &amp; Van Horne failed! Oh, how did it happen? I
always felt sure that they would fail sooner or later."</p>
<p>Selma sat with tightly folded hands listening to the exciting
narrative, which Lyons read for her edification with the urbanely
mournful emphasis of one who has had a narrow escape. He stopped in
the course of it to relieve any solicitude which she might be
feeling in regard to his dealings with the firm, by the assertion
that he had only two months previous closed out his account owing
to the conviction that prudent investors were getting under cover.
This assurance gave the episode a still more providential aspect in
Selma's eyes. In the first flush of her gratitude that Flossy had
been superbly rebuked for her frivolous existence, she had
forgotten that they were her husband's brokers. Moreover the lack
of perturbation in his manner was not calculated to inspire alarm.
But the news that Lyons had been shrewd enough to escape at the
twelfth hour without a dollar's loss heightened the justice of the
situation. She listened with throbbing pulses to the particulars.
She could scarcely credit her senses that her irrepressible and
light-hearted enemy had been confounded at last&mdash;confronted
with bankruptcy and probable disgrace. She interrupted the reading
to express her scepticism regarding the claim that Williams had no
knowledge of the frauds.</p>
<p>"How could he be ignorant? He must have known. He must have
bribed the reporters to put that in so as to arouse the sympathy of
some of their fashionable friends. Van Horne is dead, and the lips
of the dead are sealed."</p>
<p>Selma spoke with the confidence born of bitterness. She was
pleased with her acumen in discerning the true inwardness of the
case. Her husband nodded with mournful acquiescence. "It would
seem," he said, "as if he must have had an inkling, at least, of
what was going on."</p>
<p>"Of course he had. Gregory Williams, with all his faults, was a
wide-awake man. I always said that."</p>
<p>Lyons completed the reading and murmured with a sigh, which was
half pity, half grateful acknowledgment of his own good
fortune&mdash;"It's a bad piece of business. I'm glad I had the
sense to act promptly."</p>
<p>Selma was ruminating. Her steel bright eyes shone with
exultation. Her sense of righteousness was gratified and
temporarily appeased. "They'll have to sell their house, of course,
and give up their horses and steam-yacht? I don't see why it
doesn't mean that Flossy and her husband must come down off their
pedestal and begin over again? It follows, doesn't it, that the
heartless set into which they have wormed their way will drop them
like hot coals?"</p>
<p>All these remarks were put by Selma in the slightly
interrogative form, as though she were courting any argument to the
contrary which could be adduced in order to knock it in the head.
But Lyons saw no reason to differ from her verdict. "It means
necessarily great mortification for them and a curtailment of their
present mode of life," he said. "I am sorry for them."</p>
<p>"Sorry? Of course, James, it is distressing to hear that
misfortune has befallen any person of one's acquaintance, and so
far as Gregory Williams himself is concerned I have no wish to see
him punished simply because he has been worldly and vainglorious.
You thought him able in a business way, and liked to meet him. But
as for her, Flossy, his wife," Selma continued, with a gasp, "it
would be sheer hypocrisy for me to assert that I am sorry for her.
I should deem myself unworthy of being considered an earnest-minded
American woman if I did not maintain that this disgrace which has
befallen them is the logical and legitimate consequence of their
godless lives&mdash;especially of her frivolity and presumptuous
indifference to spiritual influences. That woman, James, is utterly
hostile to the things of the spirit. You have no conception&mdash;I
have never told you, because he was your friend, and I was willing
to let bygones be bygones on the surface on your account&mdash;you
have no conception of the cross her behavior became to me in New
York. From almost the first moment we met I saw that we were far
apart as the poles in our views of the responsibilities of life.
She sneered at everything which you and I reverence, and she set
her face against true progress and the spread of American
principles. She claimed to be my friend, and to sympathize with my
zeal for social truth, yet all the time she was toadying secretly
the people whose luxurious exclusiveness made me tremble sometimes
for the future of our country. She and her husband were prosperous,
and everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. It may sound
irreverent, James, but there was a time during my life in New York
when I was discouraged; when it seemed as though heaven were
mocking me and my husband in our homely struggle against the forces
of evil, and bestowing all its favors on a woman whose example was
a menace to American womanhood! Sorry? Why should I be sorry to see
justice triumph and shallow iniquity rebuked? I would give Florence
Williams money if she is in want, but I am thankful, very thankful,
that her heartless vanity has found its proper reward."</p>
<p>Lyons fingered his beard. "I didn't know she was as bad as that,
Selma. Now that they have come to grief, we are not likely to be
brought in contact with them, and in all probability they will pass
out of our lives. Williams was smart and entertaining, but I never
liked his taking advantage of the circumstances of my having an
account in his office to urge me to support a measure at variance
with my political convictions."</p>
<p>"Precisely. The trouble with them both, James, is that they have
no conscience; and it is eminently just they should be made to
realize that people who lack conscience cannot prosper in this
country in the long run. 'They have loosed the awful lightnings of
his terrible swift sword.'"</p>
<p>"I say 'amen' to that assuredly, Selma," Lyons answered. His
predilection to palliate equivocal circumstances was never proof
against clear, evidence of moral delinquency. When his religious
scruples were finally offended, he was grave and unrelenting.</p>
<p>The downfall of the Williamses continued to be a sweet solace
and source of encouragement to Selma. It made her, when taken in
conjunction with her own recent progress, feel that the whirligig
of time was working in her behalf after all; and that if she
persevered, not merely Flossy, but all those who worshipped mammon,
and consequently failed to recognize her talents, would be made to
bite the dust. At the moment these enemies seemed to have infested
Benham. Numerically speaking, they were unimportant, but they had
established an irritating, irregular skirmish line, one end of
which occupied Wetmore College, another held secret midnight
meetings at Mrs. Hallett Taylor's. Rumors of various undertakings,
educational, semi-political, artistic, or philanthropic, agitated
or directed by this fringe of society, came to her ears from time
to time, but she heard them as an outsider. When she became the
Governor's wife she had said to herself that now these aristocrats
would be compelled to admit her to their counsels. But she found,
to her annoyance, that the election made no difference. Neither
Pauline nor Mrs. Taylor nor any of the coterie had asked her to
join them, and she was unpleasantly conscious that there were
people on the River Drive who showed no more desire to make her
acquaintance than when she had been Mrs. Lewis Babcock. What did
this mean? It meant simply&mdash;she began to argue&mdash;that she
must hold fast to her faith and bide her time. That if she and her
friends kept a bold front and resisted the encroachments of this
pernicious spirit, Providence would interfere presently and
confound these enemies of social truth no less obviously than it
had already overwhelmed Mrs. Gregory Williams. As the wife of the
Governor, she was clearly in a position to maintain this bold front
effectively. Every mail brought to her requests for her support,
and the sanction of her signature to social or charitable
enterprises. Her hospital was flourishing along the lines of the
policy which she had indicated, and was feeling the advantage of
her political prosperity. She was able to give the petition in
behalf of Mrs. Hamilton, which contained now twenty-five thousand
signatures, fresh value and solemnity by means of an autograph
letter from the Governor's wife, countersigned by the Governor.
This, with the bulky list of petitioners, she addressed and
despatched directly to Queen Victoria. Her presence was in constant
demand at all sorts of functions, at many of which she had the
opportunity to make a few remarks; to express the welcome of the
State, or to utter words of sympathy and encouragement to those
assembled. In the second month of her husband's administration, she
had the satisfaction of greeting, in her double capacity as
newly-elected President of the Benham Institute and wife of the
Governor, the Federation of Women's Clubs of the United States, on
the occasion of its annual meeting at Benham. This federation was
the incorporated fruit of the Congress of Women's Clubs, which
Selma had attended as a delegate just previous to her divorce from
Babcock, and she could not refrain from some exultation at the
progress she had made since then as she sat wielding the gavel over
the body of women delegates from every State in the Union. The
meeting lasted three days. Literary exercises alternated with
excursions to points of interest in the neighborhood, at all of
which she was in authority, and the celebration was brought to a
brilliant close by a banquet, to which men were invited. At this
Selma acted as toastmaster, introducing the speakers of the
occasion, which included her own husband. Lyons made a graceful
allusion to her stimulating influence as a helpmate and her
executive capacity, which elicited loud applause. Succeeding this
meeting of the Federation of Women's Clubs came a series of
semi-public festivities under the patronage of
women&mdash;philanthropic, literary or social in
character&mdash;for the fever to perpetuate in club form every
congregation, of free-born citizens, except on election day, had
seized Benham in common with the other cities of the country in its
grasp, to each of which the Governor's wife was invited as the
principal guest of honor. Selma thus found a dozen opportunities to
exhibit herself to a large audience and testify to her faith in
democratic institutions.</p>
<p>On the 22d of February, Washington's birthday, she held a
reception at their house on River Drive, for which cards had been
issued a fortnight previous. She pathetically explained to the
reporters that, had the dimensions and resources of her
establishment permitted, she and the Governor would simply have
announced themselves at home to the community at large; that they
would have preferred this, but of course it would never do. The
people would not be pleased to see a rabble confound the
hospitality of the chief magistrate and his wife. The people
demanded proper dignity from their representatives in office. The
list of invitations which Selma sent out was, however,
comprehensive. She aimed to invite everyone of social, public,
commercial or political importance. A full band was in attendance,
and a liberal collation was served. Selma confided to some of her
guests, who, she thought, might criticise the absence of wine, that
she had felt obliged, out of consideration for her husband's
political prospects, to avoid wounding the feelings of total
abstainers. The entertainment lasted from four to seven, and the
three hours of hand-shaking provided a delicious experience to the
hostess. She gloried in the consciousness that this crush of
citizens, representing the leaders of the community in the widest
sense, had been assembled by her social gift, and that they had
come to offer their admiring homage to the clever wife of their
Governor. It gratified her to think that Pauline and Mrs. Taylor
and the people of that class, to all of whom she had sent cards,
should behold her as the first lady of the State, and mistress of a
beautiful home, dispensing hospitality on broad, democratic lines
to an admiring constituency. When Mr. Horace Elton approached,
Selma perpetrated a little device which she had planned. As they
were in the act of shaking hands a very handsome rose
fell&mdash;seemingly by chance&mdash;from the bouquet which she
carried. He picked it up and tendered it to her, but Selma made him
keep it, adding in a lower tone, "It is your due for the gallant
friendship you have shown me and my husband." She felt as though
she were a queen bestowing a guerdon on a favorite minister, and
yet a woman rewarding in a woman's way an admirer's devotion. She
meant Elton to appreciate that she understood that his interest in
Lyons was largely due to his partiality for her. It seemed to her
that she could recognize to this extent his chivalrous conduct
without smirching her blameless record as an American
housewife.</p>
<p>Meantime the Governor was performing his public duties with
becoming dignity and without much mental friction. The legislature
was engaged in digesting the batch of miscellaneous business
presented for its consideration, among which was Elton's gas
consolidation bill. Already the measure had encountered some
opposition in committee, but Lyons was led to believe that the bill
would be passed by a large majority, and that its opponents would
be conciliated before his signature was required. Lyons's
reputation as an orator had been extended by his term in the House
of Representatives and his recent active campaign, and he was in
receipt of a number of invitations from various parts of the
country to address august bodies in other States. All of these were
declined, but when, in the month of April, opportunity was afforded
him to deliver a speech on patriotic issues on the anniversary of
the battle of Lexington, he decided, with Selma's approval, to
accept the invitation. He reasoned that a short respite from the
cares of office would be agreeable; she was attracted by the
glamour of revisiting New York as a woman of note. New York had
refused to recognize her superiority and to do her homage, and New
York should realize her present status, and what a mistake had been
made. The speech was a success, and the programme provided for the
entertainment of the orator and his wife included the hospitality
of several private houses. Selma felt that she could afford to hold
her head high and not to thaw too readily for the benefit of a
society which had failed to appreciate her worth when it had the
chance. She was the wife now of one of the leading public men of
the nation, and in a position to set fashions, not to ask favors.
Nevertheless she chose on the evening before their return to Benham
to show herself at dinner at Delmonico's, just to let the world of
so-called fashion perceive her and ask who she was. There would
doubtless be people there who knew her by sight, and who, when they
were told that she was now the wife of Governor Lyons, would regret
if not be ashamed of their short-sightedness and snobbery. She wore
a striking dress; she encouraged her husband's willingness to order
an elaborate dinner, including champagne (for they were in a
champagne country), and she exhibited a sprightly mood, looking
about her with a knowing air in observation of the other occupants
of the dining-room.</p>
<p>While she was thus engaged the entrance of a party of six, whom
the head waiter conducted with a show of attention to a table which
had evidently been reserved for them, fettered Selma's attention.
She stared unable to believe her eyes, then flushed and looked
indignant. Her attention remained rivetted on this party while they
laid aside their wraps and seated themselves. Struck by the annoyed
intensity of his wife's expression, Lyons turned to follow the
direction of her gaze.</p>
<p>"What is the matter?" he said.</p>
<p>For a few moments Selma sat silent with compressed lips, intent
on her scrutiny.</p>
<p>"It's an outrage on decency," she murmured, at last. "How dare
she show herself here and entertain those people?"</p>
<p>"Of whom are you talking, Selma?"</p>
<p>"The Williamses. Flossy Williams and her husband. The two
couples with them live on Fifth Avenue, and used to be among her
exclusive friends. Her husband has just ordered the dinner. I saw
him give the directions to the waiter. It is monstrous that they,
who only a few months ago failed disgracefully and were supposed to
have lost everything, should be going on exactly as if nothing had
happened."</p>
<p>"People in New York have the faculty of getting on their feet
again quickly after financial reverses," said Lyons, mildly. "Like
as not some of Williams's friends have enabled him to make a fresh
start."</p>
<p>"So it seems," Selma answered, sternly. She sat back in her
chair with a discouraged air and neglected her truffled chicken.
"It isn't right; it isn't decent."</p>
<p>Lyons was puzzled by her demeanor. "Why should you care what
they do?" he asked. "We can easily avoid them for the future."</p>
<p>"Because&mdash;because, James Lyons, I can't bear to see godless
people triumph. Because it offends me to see a man and woman, who
are practically penniless through their own evil courses, and
should be discredited everywhere, able to resume their life of
vanity and extravagance without protest."</p>
<p>While she was speaking Selma suddenly became aware that her eyes
had met those of Dr. George Page, who was passing their table on
his way out. Recognition on both sides came at the same moment, and
Selma turned in her chair to greet him, cutting off any hope which
he may have had of passing unobserved. She was glad of the
opportunity to show the company that she was on familiar terms with
a man so well known, and she had on her tongue what she regarded as
a piece of banter quite in keeping with his usual vein.</p>
<p>"How d'y do, Dr. Page? We haven't met for a long time. You do
not know my husband, Governor Lyons, I think. Dr. Page used to be
our family physician when I lived in New York, James. Everyone here
knows that he has a very large practice."</p>
<p>Selma was disposed to be gracious and sprightly, for she felt
that Dr. Page must surely be impressed by her appearance of
prosperity.</p>
<p>"I had heard of your marriage, and of your husband's election. I
congratulate you. You are living in Benham, I believe, far from
this hurly-burly?"</p>
<p>"Yes, a little bird told me the other day that a no less
distinguished person than Dr. Page had been seen in Benham twice
during the last three months. Of course a Governor's wife is
supposed to know everything which goes on, and for certain reasons
I was very much interested to hear this bit of news. I am a very
discreet woman, doctor. It shall go no further."</p>
<p>The physician's broad brow contracted slightly, but his habitual
self-control concealed completely the inclination to strangle his
bright-eyed, over-dressed inquisitor. He was the last man to shirk
the vicissitudes of playful speech, and he preferred this mood of
Selma's to her solemn style, although his privacy was invaded.</p>
<p>"I should have remembered," he said, "that there is nothing in
the world which Mrs. Lyons does not know by intuition."</p>
<p>"Including the management of a hospital, Dr. Page. Perhaps you
don't know that I am the managing trustee of a large hospital?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I was informed of that in Benham. I should scarcely
venture to tell you what my little bird said. It was an old fogy of
a bird, with a partiality for thorough investigation and scientific
methods, and a thorough distrust of the results of off-hand
inspiration in the treatment of disease."</p>
<p>"I dare say. But we are succeeding splendidly. The next time you
come to Benham you must come to see me, and I will take you over
our hospital. I don't despair yet of converting you to our side,
just as you evidently don't despair of inducing a certain lady some
day to change her mind. I, for one, think that she is more fitted
by nature to be a wife than a college president, so I shall await
with interest more news from my little bird." Selma felt that she
was talking to greater advantage than almost ever before. Her last
remark banished every trace of a smile from her adversary's face,
and he stood regarding her with a preternatural gravity, which
should have been appalling, but which she welcomed as a sign of
serious feeling on his part. She felt, too, that at last she had
got the better of the ironical doctor in repartee, and that he was
taking his leave tongue-tied. In truth, he was so angry that he did
not trust himself to speak. He simply glared and departed.</p>
<p>"Poor fellow," she said, by way of explanation to Lyons, "I
suppose his emotion got the better of him, because he has loved her
so long. That was the Dr. Page who has been crazy for years to
marry Pauline Littleton. When he was young he married a woman of
doubtful character, who ran away from him. I used to think that
Pauline was right in refusing to sacrifice her life for his sake.
But he has been very constant, and I doubt if she has originality
enough to keep her position as president of Wetmore long. He
belongs to the old school of medicine. It was he who took care of
Wilbur when he died. I fancy that case may have taught him not to
mistrust truth merely because it isn't labelled. But I bear him no
malice, because I know he meant to do his best. They are just
suited for each other, and I shall be on his side after this."</p>
<p>The interest of this episode served to restore somewhat Selma's
serenity, but she kept her attention fixed on the table where the
Williamses were sitting, observing with a sense of injury their gay
behavior. To all appearances, Flossy was as light-hearted and
volatile as ever. Her attire was in the height of fashion. Had
adversity taught her nothing? Had the buffet of Providence failed
utterly to sober her frivolous spirit? It seemed to Selma that
there could be no other conclusion, and though she and Lyons had
finished dinner, she was unable to take her eyes off the culprits,
or to cease to wonder how it was possible for people with nothing
to continue to live as though they had everything. Her moral nature
was stirred to resentment, and she sat spell-bound, seeking in vain
for a point of consolation.</p>
<p>Meantime Lyons, like a good American, had sent for an evening
paper, and was deep in its perusal. A startled ejaculation from him
aroused Selma from her nightmare. Her husband was saying to her
across the table:</p>
<p>"My dear, Senator Calkins is dead." He spoke in a solemn,
excited whisper.</p>
<p>"Our Senator Calkins?"</p>
<p>"Yes. This is the despatch from Washington: 'United States
Senator Calkins dropped dead suddenly in the lobby of the Senate
chamber, at ten o'clock this morning, while talking with friends.
His age was 52. The cause of his death was heart-failure. His
decease has cast a gloom over the Capital, and the Senate adjourned
promptly out of respect to the memory of the departed
statesman.'"</p>
<p>"What a dreadful thing!" Selma murmured.</p>
<p>"The ways of Providence are inscrutable," said Lyons. "No one
could have foreseen this public calamity." He poured out a glass of
ice-water and drank it feverishly.</p>
<p>"It's fortunate we have everything arranged to return to-morrow,
for of course you will be needed at home."</p>
<p>"Yes. Waiter, bring me a telegram."</p>
<p>"What are you going to do?"</p>
<p>"Communicate to Mrs. Calkins our sympathy on account of the
death of her distinguished husband."</p>
<p>"That will be nice," said Selma. She sat for some moments in
silence observing her husband, and spell-bound by the splendid
possibility which presented itself. She knew that Lyons's gravity
and agitation were not wholly due to the shock of the catastrophe.
He, like herself, must be conscious that he might become the dead
Senator's successor. He poured out and drained another goblet of
ice-water. Twice he drew himself up slightly and looked around the
room, with the expression habitual to him when about to deliver a
public address. Selma's veins were tingling with excitement.
Providence had interfered in her behalf again. As the wife of a
United States Senator, everything would be within her grasp.</p>
<p>"James," she said, "we are the last persons in the world to fail
in respect to the illustrious dead, but&mdash;of course you ought
to have Senator Calkins's place."</p>
<p>Lyons looked at his wife, and his large lips trembled. "If the
people of my State, Selma, feel that I am the most suitable man for
the vacant senatorship, I shall be proud to serve them."</p>
<p>Selma nodded appreciatively. She was glad that her husband
should approach the situation with a solemn sense of
responsibility.</p>
<p>"They are sure to feel that," she said. "It seems to me that you
are practically certain of the party nomination, and your party has
a clear majority of both branches of the Legislature."</p>
<p>Lyons glanced furtively about him before he spoke. "I don't see
at the moment, Selma, how they can defeat me."</p>
<h3>CHAPTER X.</h3>
<p>The body of Senator Calkins was laid to rest with appropriate
ceremonies in the soil of his native State, and his virtues as a
statesman and citizen were celebrated in the pulpit and in the
public prints. On the day following the funeral the contest for his
place began in dead earnest. There had been some quiet canvassing
by the several candidates while the remains were being transported
from Washington, but public utterance was stayed until the last
rites were over. Then it transpired that there were four candidates
in the field; a Congressman, an ex-Governor, a silver-tongued
orator named Stringer, who was a member of the upper branch of the
State Legislature and who claimed to be a true defender of popular
rights, and Hon. James O. Lyons. Newspaper comment concerning the
candidacy of these aspirants early promulgated the doctrine that
Governor Lyons was entitled to the place if he desired it. More
than one party organ claimed that his brilliant services had given
him a reputation beyond the limit of mere political prestige, and
that he had become a veritable favorite son of the State. By the
end of a fortnight the ex-Governor had withdrawn in favor of Lyons;
while the following of the Congressman was recognized to be
inconsiderable, and that he was holding out in order to obtain
terms. Only the silver-tongued orator, Stringer, remained. On him
the opposition within the party had decided to unite their forces.
To all appearances they were in a decided minority. There was no
hope that the Republican members of the Legislature would join
them, for it seemed scarcely good politics to rally to the support
of a citizen whose statesmanship had not been tested in preference
to the Governor of the State. It was conceded by all but the
immediate followers of Stringer that Lyons would receive the
majority vote of either house, and be triumphantly elected on the
first joint ballot.</p>
<p>And yet the opposition to the Governor, though numerically
small, was genuine. Stringer was, as he described himself, a man of
the plain people. That is he was a lawyer with a denunciating
voice, a keen mind, and a comprehensive grasp on language, who was
still an attorney for plaintiffs, and whose ability had not yet
been recognized by corporations or conservative souls. He was where
Lyons had been ten years before, but he had neither the urbanity,
conciliatory tendencies, nor dignified, solid physical properties
of the Governor. He was pleased to refer to himself as a tribune of
the people, and his thin, nervous figure, clad in a long
frock-coat, with a yawning collar and black whisp tie, his fiery
utterance and relentless zeal, bore out the character. He looked
hungry, and his words suggested that he was in earnest, carrying
conviction to some of his colleagues in the Legislature. The
election at which Lyons had been chosen chief magistrate had
brought into this State government a sprinkling of socialistic
spirits, as they were called, who applauded vigorously the thinly
veiled allusions which Stringer made in debate to the lukewarm
democracy of some of the party leaders. When he spoke with stern
contempt of those who played fast and loose with sacred
principles&mdash;who were staunch friends of the humblest citizens
on the public platform, and behind their backs grew slyly rich on
the revenues of wealthy corporations, everyone knew that he was
baiting the Governor. These diatribes were stigmatized as in
wretched taste, but the politicians of both parties could not help
being amused. They admitted behind their hands that the taunt was
not altogether groundless, and that Lyons certainly was on
extremely pleasant terms with prosperity for an out and out
champion of popular rights. Nevertheless the leading party
newspapers termed Stringer a demagogue, and accused him of
endeavoring to foment discord in the ranks of the Democracy by
questioning the loyalty of a man who had led them to notable
victory twice in the last three years. He was invited to step down,
and to season his aspirations until he could present a more
significant public record. What had he done that entitled him to
the senatorship? He had gifts undeniably, but he was young and
could wait. This was a taking argument with the legislators, many
of whom had grown gray in the party service, and Lyons's managers
felt confident that the support accorded to this tribune of the
people would dwindle to very small proportions when the time came
to count noses.</p>
<p>Suddenly there loomed into sight on the political horizon, and
came bearing down on Lyons under full sail, Elton's bill for the
consolidation of the gas companies. The Benham <i>Sentinel</i> had
not been one of the promoters of Lyons's senatorial canvass, but it
had not espoused the cause of any of his competitors, and latterly
had referred in acquiescent terms to his election as a foregone
conclusion. He had not happened to run across Elton during these
intervening weeks, and preferred not to encounter him. He cherished
an ostrich-like hope that Elton was in no haste regarding the bill,
and that consequently it might not pass the legislature until after
his election as Senator. If he were to come in contact with Elton,
the meeting might jog the busy magnate's memory. It was a barren
hope. Immediately after the <i>Sentinel</i> announced that Governor
Lyons was practically sure to be the next United States Senator,
the gas bill was reported favorably by the committee which had it
in charge, and was advanced rapidly in the House. Debate on its
provisions developed that it was not to have entirely plain
sailing, though the majority recorded in its favor on the first and
second readings was large. It was not at first regarded as a party
measure. Its supporters included most of the Republicans and more
than half of the Democrats. Yet the opposition to it proceeded from
the wing of the Democracy with which Stringer was affiliated.
Elton's interest in the bill was well understood, and the work of
pledging members in advance, irrespective of party, had been so
thoroughly done, that but for the exigencies of the senatorial
contest it would probably have slipped through without notice as a
harmless measure. As it was, the opposition to it in the lower
branch was brief and seemed unimportant. The bill passed the House
of Representatives by a nearly two-thirds vote and went promptly to
the Senate calendar. Then suddenly it became obvious to Lyons not
merely that Elton was bent on securing its passage while the
present Governor was in office, but that his rival, Stringer, had
conceived the cruel scheme of putting him in the position, by a hue
and cry against monopoly and corporate interests, where his
election to the senatorship would be imperilled if he did not veto
the measure. By a caustic speech in the Senate Stringer drew public
attention to the skilfully concealed iniquities of the proposed
franchise, and public attention thus aroused began to bristle.
Newspapers here and there throughout the state put forth edicts
that this Legislature had been chosen to protect popular
principles, and that here was an opportunity for the Democratic
party to fulfil its pledges and serve the people. Stringer and his
associates were uttering in the Senate burning words against the
audacious menace of what they termed the franchise octopus. Did the
people realize that this bill to combine gas companies, which
looked so innocent on its face, was a gigantic scheme to wheedle
them out of a valuable franchise for nothing? Did they understand
that they were deliberately putting their necks in the grip of a
monster whose tentacles would squeeze and suck their life-blood for
its own enrichment? Stringer hammered away with fierce and
reiterated invective. He had no hope of defeating the bill, but he
confidently believed that he was putting his adversary, the
Governor, in a hole. It had been noised about the lobbies by the
friends of the measure earlier in the session that the Governor was
all right and could be counted on. Stringer reasoned that Lyons was
committed to the bill; that, if he signed it, his opponents might
prevent his election as Senator on the plea that he had catered to
corporate interests; that if he vetoed it, he would lose the
support of powerful friends who might seek to revenge themselves by
uniting on his opponent. Stringer recognized that he was playing a
desperate game, but it was his only chance. One thing was evident
already: As a result of the exposure in the Senate, considerable
public hostility to the bill was manifesting itself. Petitions for
its defeat were in circulation, and several Senators who had been
supposed to be friendly to its passage veered round in deference to
the views of their constituents. Its defeat had almost become a
party measure. A majority of the Democrats in the Senate were
claimed to be against it. Nevertheless there was no delay on the
part of those in charge in pushing it to final action. They had
counted noses, and their margin of support had been so liberal they
could afford to lose a few deserters. After a fierce debate the
bill was passed to be engrossed by a majority of eleven. The
Democrats in the Senate were just evenly divided on the ballot.</p>
<p>What would the Governor do? This was the question on everyone's
lips. Would he sign or veto the bill? Public opinion as represented
by the newspapers was prompt to point out his duty. The verdict of
a leading party organ was that, in view of all the circumstances,
Governor Lyons could scarcely do otherwise than refuse to give his
official sanction to a measure which threatened to increase the
burdens of the plain people. The words "in view of all the
circumstances" appeared to be an euphemism for "in view of his
ambition to become United States Senator." Several journals
declared unequivocally that it would become the duty of the party
to withdraw its support from Governor Lyons in case he allowed this
undemocratic measure to become law. On the other hand, certain
party organs questioned the justice of the outcry against the bill,
arguing that the merits of the case had been carefully examined in
the Legislature and that there was no occasion for the Governor to
disturb the result of its action. On the day after the bill was
sent to the chief magistrate, an editorial appeared in the Benham
<i>Sentinel</i> presenting an exhaustive analysis of its
provisions, and pointing out that, though the petitioners might
under certain contingencies reap a reasonable profit, the public
could not fail in that event to secure a lower price for gas and
more effective service. This article was quoted extensively
throughout the State, and was ridiculed or extolled according to
the sympathies of the critics. Lyons received a marked copy of the
<i>Sentinel</i> on the morning when it appeared. He recognized the
argument as that which he had accepted at the time he promised to
sign the bill if he were elected Governor. In the course of the
same day a letter sent by messenger was handed to him in the
executive chamber. It contained simply two lines in pencil in
Elton's handwriting&mdash;"It continues to be of vital importance
to my affairs that the pending bill should receive your signature."
That was obviously a polite reminder of their agreement; an
intimation that the circumstances had not altered, and that it was
incumbent on him to perform his part of their compact. Obviously,
too, Horace Elton took for granted that a reminder was enough, and
that he would keep his word. He had promised to sign the bill. He
had given his word of honor to do so, and Elton was relying on his
good faith.</p>
<p>The situation had become suddenly oppressive and disheartening.
Just when his prospects seemed assured this unfortunate obstacle
had appeared in his path, and threatened to confound his political
career. He must sign the bill. And if he signed it, in all
probability he would lose the senatorship. His enemies would claim
that the party could not afford to stultify itself by the choice of
a candidate who favored monopolies. He had given his promise, the
word of a man of honor, and a business man. What escape was there
from the predicament? If he vetoed the bill, would he not be a liar
and a poltroon? If he signed it, the senatorship would slip through
his fingers. The thought occurred to him to send for Elton and
throw himself on his mercy, but he shrank from such an interview.
Elton was a business man, and a promise was a promise. He had
enjoyed the consideration for his promise; his notes were secure
and the hypothecated bonds had been redeemed. He was on his feet
and Governor, thanks to Elton's interposition, and now he was
called on to do his part&mdash;to pay the fiddler. He must sign the
bill.</p>
<p>Lyons had five days in which to consider the matter. At the end
of that time if he neither signed nor vetoed the bill, it would
become law without his signature. He was at bay, and the time for
deliberation was short. An incubus of disappointment weighed upon
his soul and clouded his brow. His round, smooth face looked
grieved. It seemed cruel to him that such an untoward piece of
fortune should confront him just at the moment when this great
reward for his political services was within his grasp and his
opportunities for eminent public usefulness assured. He brooded
over his quandary in silence for twenty-four hours. On the second
day he concluded to speak of the matter to Selma. He knew that she
kept a general run of public affairs. Not infrequently she had
asked him questions concerning measures before the Legislature, and
he was pleasantly aware that she was ambitious to be regarded as a
politician. But up to this time there had been no room for question
as to what his action as Governor should be in respect to any
measure. It had happened, despite his attitude of mental
comradeship with his wife, that he had hitherto concealed from her
his most secret transactions. He had left her in the dark in regard
to his true dealings with Williams &amp; Van Horne; he had told her
nothing as to his straitened circumstances, the compact by which he
had been made Governor, and his relief at the hands of Elton from
threatened financial ruin. Reluctance, born of the theory in his
soul that these were accidents in his life, not typical happenings,
had sealed his lips. He was going to confide in her now not because
he expected that Selma's view of this emergency would differ from
his own, but in order that she might learn before he acted that he
was under an imperative obligation to sign the bill. While he was
sitting at home in the evening with the topic trembling on his
tongue, Selma made his confession easy by saying, "I have taken for
granted that you will veto the gas bill."</p>
<p>Selma had indeed so assumed. In the early stages of the bill she
had been ignorant of its existence. During the last fortnight,
since the controversy had reached an acute phase and public
sentiment had been aroused against its passage, she had been hoping
that it would pass so that Lyons might have the glory of returning
it to the Legislature without his signature. She had reasoned that
he would be certain to veto the measure, for the bill was clearly
in the interest of monopoly, and though her nerves were all on edge
with excitement over the impending election of a Senator, she had
not interfered because she took for granted that it was
unnecessary. Even when Lyons, after reading the article in the
<i>Sentinel</i>, had dropped the remark that the measure was really
harmless and the outcry against it unwarranted, she had supposed
that he was merely seeking to be magnanimous. She had forgotten
this speech until it was recalled by Lyons's obvious state of worry
during the last few days. She had noticed this at first without
special concern, believing it due to the malicious insinuations of
Stringer. Now that the bill was before him for signature there
could be no question as to his action. Nevertheless her heart had
suddenly been assailed by a horrible doubt, and straightway her
sense of duty as a wife and of duty to herself had sought assurance
in a crucial inquiry.</p>
<p>"I was going to speak to you about that this evening. I wish to
tell you the reasons which oblige me to sign the bill," he
answered. Lyons's manner was subdued and limp. Even his phraseology
had been stripped of its stateliness.</p>
<p>"Sign the bill?" gasped Selma. "If you sign it, you will lose
the senatorship." She spoke like a prophetess, and her steely eyes
snapped.</p>
<p>"That is liable to be the consequence I know. I will explain to
you, Selma. You will see that I am bound in honor and cannot help
myself."</p>
<p>"In honor? You are bound in honor to your party&mdash;bound in
honor to me to veto it."</p>
<p>"Wait a minute, Selma. You must hear my reasons. Before I was
nominated for Governor I gave Horace Elton my word, man to man,
that I would sign this gas bill. It is his bill. I promised, if I
were elected Governor, not to veto it. At the time, I&mdash;I was
financially embarrassed. I did not tell you because I was unwilling
to distress you, but&mdash;er&mdash;my affairs in New York were in
disorder, and I had notes here coming due. Nothing was said about
money matters between Elton and me until he had agreed to support
me as Governor. Then he offered to help me, and I accepted his aid.
Don't you see that I cannot help myself? That I must sign the
bill?"</p>
<p>Selma had listened in amazement. "It's a trap," she murmured.
"Horace Elton has led you into a trap." The thought that Elton's
politeness to her was a blind, and that she had been made sport of,
took precedence in her resentment even of the annoyance caused her
by her husband's deceit.</p>
<p>"Why did you conceal all this from me?" she asked,
tragically.</p>
<p>"I should not have done so, perhaps."</p>
<p>"If you had told me, this difficulty never would have arisen.
Pshaw! It is not a real difficulty. Surely you must throw Elton
over. Surely you must veto the bill."</p>
<p>"Throw him over," stammered Lyons. "You don't understand, Selma.
I gave my word as a business man. I am under great obligations to
him." He told briefly the details of the transaction; even the
hypothecation of the Parsons bonds. For once in his life he made a
clean breast of his bosom's perilous stuff. He was ready to bear
the consequences of his plight rather than be false to his man's
standard of honor, and yet his wife's opposition had fascinated as
well as startled him. He set forth his case&mdash;the case which
meant his political checkmate, then waited. Selma had risen and
stood with folded arms gazing into distance with the far away look
by which she was wont to subdue mountains.</p>
<p>"Have you finished?" she asked. "What you are proposing to do is
to sacrifice your life&mdash;and my life, James Lyons, for the sake
of a&mdash;er&mdash;fetish. Horace Elton, under the pretence of
friendship for us, has taken advantage of your necessities to
extract from you a promise to support an evil scheme&mdash;a bill
to defraud the plain American people of their rights&mdash;the
people whose interests you swore to protect when you took the oath
as Governor. Is a promise between man and man, as you call it, more
sacred than everlasting truth itself? More binding than the tie of
principle and political good faith? Will you refuse to veto a bill
which you know is a blow at liberty in order to keep a technical
business compact with an over-reaching capitalist, who has no
sympathy with our ideas? I am disappointed in you, James. I thought
you could see clearer than that."</p>
<p>Lyons sighed. "I examined the bill at the time with some care,
and did not think it inimical to the best public interest; but had
I foreseen the objections which would be raised against it, I admit
that I never would have agreed to sign it."</p>
<p>"Precisely. You were taken in." She meant in her heart that they
had both been taken in. "This is not a case of commercial give and
take&mdash;of purchase and sale of stocks or merchandise. The
eternal verities are concerned. You owe it to your country to break
your word. The triumph of American principles is paramount to your
obligation to Elton. Whom will this gas bill benefit but the
promoters? Your view, James, is the old-fashioned view. Just as I
said to you the other day that Dr. Page is old-fashioned in his
views of medicine, so it seems to me, if you will forgive my saying
so, you are, in this instance, behind the times. And you are not
usually behind the times. It has been one of the joyous features of
my marriage with you that you have not lacked American initiative
and independence of conventions. I wish you had confided in me. You
were forced to give that promise by your financial distress. Will
you let an old-fashioned theory of private honor make you a traitor
to our party cause and to the sovereign people of our country?"</p>
<p>Lyons bowed his head between his hands. "You make me see that
there are two sides to the question, Selma. It is true that I was
not myself when Elton got my promise to sign the bill. My mind had
been on the rack for weeks, and I was unfit to form a correct
estimate of a complicated public measure. But a promise is a
promise."</p>
<p>"What can he do if you break it? He will not kill you."</p>
<p>"He will not kill me, no; but he will despise me." Lyons
reflected, as he spoke, that Elton would be unable to injure him
financially. He would, be able to pay his notes when they became
due, thanks to the improvement in business affairs which had set in
since the beginning of the year.</p>
<p>"And your party&mdash;the American people will despise you if
you sign the bill. Whose contempt do you fear the most?"</p>
<p>"I see&mdash;I see," he murmured. "I cannot deny there is much
force in your argument, dear. I fear there can be no doubt that if
I let the bill become law, public clamor will oblige the party to
throw me over and take up Stringer or some dark horse. That means a
serious setback to my political progress; means perhaps my
political ruin."</p>
<p>"Your political suicide, James. And there is another side to
it," continued Selma, pathetically. "My side. I wish you to think
of that. I wish you to realize that, if you yield to this false
notion of honor, you will interfere with the development of my life
no less than your own. As you know, I think, I became your wife
because I felt that as a public woman working, at your side in
behalf of the high purposes in which we had a common sympathy, I
should be a greater power for good than if I pursued alone my
career as a writer and on the lecture platform. Until to-day I have
felt sure that I had made no mistake&mdash;that we had made no
mistake. Without disrespect to the dead, I may say that for the
first time in my life marriage has meant to me what it should mean,
and has tended to bring out the best which is in me. I have grown;
I have developed; I have been recognized. We have both made
progress. Only a few days ago I was rejoicing to think that when
you became a United States Senator, there would be a noble field
for my abilities as well as yours. We are called to high office,
called to battle for great principles and to lead the nation to
worthy things. And now, in a moment of mental blindness, you are
threatening to spoil all. For my sake, if not for your own, James,
be convinced that you do not see clearly. Do not snatch the cup of
happiness from my lips just as at last it is full. Give me the
chance to live my own life as I wish to live it."</p>
<p>There was a brief silence. Lyons rose and let fall his hand on
the table with impressive emphasis. His mobile face was working
with emotion; his eyes were filled with tears. "I will veto the
bill," he said, grandiloquently. "The claims of private honor must
give way to the general welfare, and the demands of civilization.
You have convinced me, Selma&mdash;my wife. My point of view was
old-fashioned. Superior ethics permit no other solution of the
problem. Superior ethics," he repeated, as though the phrase gave
him comfort, "would not justify a statesman in sacrificing his
party and his own powers&mdash;aye, and his political
conscience&mdash;in order to keep a private compact. I shall veto
the bill."</p>
<p>"Thank God for that," she murmured.</p>
<p>Lyons stepped forward and put his arm around her. "You shall
live your own life as you desire, Selma. No act of mine shall spoil
it."</p>
<p>"Superior ethics taught you by your wife! Your poor, wise wife
in whom you would not confide!" She tapped him playfully on his fat
cheek. "Naughty boy!"</p>
<p>"There are moments when a man sees through a glass, darkly," he
answered, kissing her again. "This is a solemn decision for us,
Selma. Heaven has willed that you should save me from my own
errors, and my own blindness."</p>
<p>"We shall be very happy, James. You will be chosen Senator, and
all will be as it should be. The clouds on my horizon are one by
one passing away, and justice is prevailing at last. What do you
suppose I heard to-day? Pauline Littleton is to marry Dr. Page.
Mrs. Earle told me so. Pauline has written to the trustees that
after the first of next January she will cease to serve as
president of Wetmore; that by that time the college will be running
smoothly, so that a successor can take up the work. There is a
chance now that the trustees will choose a genuine educator for the
place&mdash;some woman of spontaneous impulses and a large outlook
on life. Pauline's place is by the domestic hearth. She could never
have much influence on progress."</p>
<p>"I do not know her very well," said Lyons. "But I know this,
Selma, you would be just the woman for the place if you were not my
wife. You would make an ideal president of a college for
progressive women."</p>
<p>"I am suited for the work, and I think I am progressive," she
admitted. "But that, of course, is out of the question for me as a
married woman and the wife of a United States Senator. But I am
glad, James, to have you appreciate my strong points."</p>
<p>On the following day Lyons vetoed the gas bill. His message to
the Legislature described it as a measure which disposed of a
valuable franchise for nothing, and which would create a monopoly
detrimental to the rights of the public. This action met with much
public approval. One newspaper expressed well the feeling of the
community by declaring that the Governor had faced the issue
squarely and shown the courage of his well-known convictions. The
Benham <i>Sentinel</i> was practically mute. It stated merely in a
short editorial that it was disappointed in Governor Lyons, and
that he had played into the hands of the demagogues and the
sentimentalists. It suggested to the Legislature to show
commendable independence by passing the bill over his veto. But
this was obviously a vain hope.</p>
<p>The vote in the House against the veto not merely fell short of
the requisite two-thirds, but was less than a plurality, showing
that the action of the chief magistrate had reversed the sentiment
of the Legislature. The force of Stringer's opposition was
practically killed by the Governor's course. He had staked
everything on the chance that Lyons would see fit to sign the bill.
When the party caucus for the choice of a candidate for Senator was
held a few days later, his followers recognized the hopelessness of
his ambition and prevailed on him to withdraw his name from
consideration. Lyons was elected Senator of the United States by a
party vote by the two branches of the Legislature assembled in
solemn conclave. Apparently Elton had realized that opposition was
useless, and that he must bide his time for revenge. Booming cannon
celebrated the result of the proceedings, and Selma, waiting at
home on the River Drive, received a telegram from the capital
announcing the glad news. Her husband was United States Senator,
and the future stretched before her big with promise. She had
battled with life, she had suffered, she had held fast to her
principles, and at last she was rewarded.</p>
<p>Lyons returned to Benham by the afternoon train, and a salute of
one hundred guns greeted him on his arrival. He walked from the
station like any private citizen. Frequent cheers attended his
progress to his house. In the evening the shops and public
buildings were illuminated, and the James O. Lyons Cadets, who
considered themselves partly responsible for his rapid promotion,
led a congratulatory crowd to the River Drive. The Senator-elect,
in response to the music of a serenade, stepped out on the balcony.
Selma waited behind the window curtain until the enthusiasm had
subsided; then she glided forth and showed herself at his elbow. A
fresh round of cheers for the Senator's wife followed. It was a
glorious night. The moon shone brightly. The street was thronged by
the populace, and glittered with the torches of the cadets. Lyons
stood bareheaded. His large, round, smooth face glistened, and the
moonbeams, bathing his chin beard, gave him the effect of a
patriarch, or of one inspired. He raised his hand to induce
silence, then stood for a moment, as was his habit before speaking,
with an expression as though he were struggling with emotion or
busy in silent prayer.</p>
<p>"Fellow citizens of Benham," he began, slowly, "compatriots of
the sovereign State which has done me to-day so great an honor, I
thank you for this precious greeting. You are my constituents and
my brothers. I accept from your hands this great trust of office,
knowing that I am but your representative, knowing that my mission
is to bear constant witness to the love of liberty, the love of
progress, the love of truth which are enshrined in the hearts of
the great American people. Your past has been ever glorious; your
future looms big with destiny. Still leaning on the God of our
fathers, to whom our patriot sires have ever turned, and whose
favors to our beloved country are seen in your broad prairies tall
with fruitful grain, and your mighty engines of commerce, I take up
the work which you have given me to do, pledged to remain a
democrat of the democrats, an American of the Americans."</p>
<p>Selma heard the words of this peroration with a sense of
ecstasy. She felt that he was speaking for them both, and that he
was expressing the yearning intention of her soul to attempt and
perform great things. She stood gazing straight before her with her
far away, seraph look, as though she were penetrating the future
even into Paradise.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14645 ***</div>
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