diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 16433-8.txt | 11365 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 16433-8.zip | bin | 0 -> 185539 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 16433-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 313679 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 16433-h/16433-h.htm | 11517 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 16433-h/images/decoration.png | bin | 0 -> 3309 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 16433-h/images/frontis01_full.jpg | bin | 0 -> 101503 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 16433-h/images/frontis01_thumb.jpg | bin | 0 -> 15349 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 16433-h/images/logo.png | bin | 0 -> 2230 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 16433.txt | 11365 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 16433.zip | bin | 0 -> 185500 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 |
13 files changed, 34263 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/16433-8.txt b/16433-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..751609a --- /dev/null +++ b/16433-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11365 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gay Cockade, by Temple Bailey + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Gay Cockade + +Author: Temple Bailey + +Illustrator: C. E. Chambers + +Release Date: August 4, 2005 [EBook #16433] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAY COCKADE *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Laura Wisewell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + +[Illustration: AND HERE, DAY AFTER DAY, HE SAT ALONE] + + + + + THE + GAY COCKADE + + + BY + TEMPLE BAILEY + + AUTHOR OF + THE TRUMPETER SWAN, + THE TIN SOLDIER, Etc. + + + FRONTISPIECE BY + C.E. CHAMBERS + + [Illustration] + + + GROSSET & DUNLAP + PUBLISHERS NEW YORK + Made in the United States of America + + + + COPYRIGHT + 1921 BY + THE PENN + PUBLISHING + COMPANY + + [Illustration] + + Manufacturing + Plant + Camden, N.J. + +Made in U.S.A. + + + The Gay Cockade + + + +For permission to reprint some of the stories in this volume, the author +is indebted to the courtesy of the editors of _Harper's Magazine_, +_Scribner's Magazine_, _Collier's Magazine_, _Ladies' Home Journal_, +_Saturday Evening Post_, _Good Housekeeping_, and _Harper's Bazar_. + + + + +Contents + +THE GAY COCKADE 7 + +THE HIDDEN LAND 33 + +WHITE BIRCHES 84 + +THE EMPEROR'S GHOST 118 + +THE RED CANDLE 132 + +RETURNED GOODS 149 + +BURNED TOAST 165 + +PETRONELLA 187 + +THE CANOPY BED 205 + +SANDWICH JANE 223 + +LADY CRUSOE 272 + +A REBELLIOUS GRANDMOTHER 310 + +WAIT--FOR PRINCE CHARMING 327 + +BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 351 + + + + + THE GAY COCKADE + + + + +THE GAY COCKADE + + +From the moment that Jimmie Harding came into the office, he created an +atmosphere. We were a tired lot. Most of us had been in the government +service for years, and had been ground fine in the mills of departmental +monotony. + +But Jimmie was young, and he wore his youth like a gay cockade. He +flaunted it in our faces, and because we were so tired of our dull and +desiccated selves, we borrowed of him, remorselessly, color and +brightness until, gradually, in the light of his reflected glory, we +seemed a little younger, a little less tired, a little less petrified. + +In his gay and gallant youth there was, however, a quality which partook +of earlier times. He should, we felt, have worn a feather in his +cap--and a cloak instead of his Norfolk coat. He walked with a little +swagger, and stood with his hand on his hip, as if his palm pressed the +hilt of his sword. If he ever fell in love, we told one another, he +would, without a doubt, sing serenades and apostrophize the moon. + +He did fall in love before he had been with us a year. His love-affair +was a romance for the whole office. He came among us every morning +glorified; he left us in the afternoon as a knight enters upon a quest. + +He told us about the girl. We pictured her perfectly before we saw her, +as a little thing, with a mop of curled brown hair; an oval face, +pearl-tinted; wide, blue eyes. He dwelt on all her small +perfections--the brows that swept across her forehead in a thin black +line, the transparency of her slender hands, the straight set of her +head on her shoulders, the slight halt in her speech like that of an +enchanting child. + +Yet she was not in the least a child. "She holds me up to my best, Miss +Standish," Jimmie told me; "she says I can write." + +We knew that Jimmie had written a few things, gay little poems that he +showed us now and then in the magazines. But we had not taken them at +all seriously. Indeed, Jimmie had not taken them seriously himself. + +But now he took them seriously. "Elise says that I can do great things. +That I must get out of the Department." + +To the rest of us, getting out of the government service would have +seemed a mad adventure. None of us would have had the courage to +consider it. But it seemed a natural thing that Jimmie should fare forth +on the broad highway--a modern D'Artagnan, a youthful Quixote, an Alan +Breck--! + +We hated to have him leave. But he had consolation. "Of course you'll +come and see us. We're going back to my old house in Albemarle. It's a +rotten shack, but Elise says it will be a corking place for me to write. +And you'll all come down for week-ends." + +We felt, I am sure, that it was good of him to ask us, but none of us +expected that we should ever go. We had a premonition that Elise +wouldn't want the deadwood of Jimmie's former Division. I know that for +myself, I was content to think of Jimmie happy in his old house. But I +never really expected to see it. I had reached the point of expecting +nothing except the day's work, my dinner at the end, a night's sleep, +and the same thing over again in the morning. + +Yet Jimmie got all of us down, not long after he was married, to what he +called a housewarming. He had inherited a few pleasant acres in +Virginia, and the house was two hundred years old. He had never lived in +it until he came with Elise. It was in rather shocking condition, but +Elise had managed to make it habitable by getting it scrubbed very +clean, and by taking out everything that was not in keeping with the +oldness and quaintness. The resulting effect was bare but beautiful. +There were a great many books, a few oil-portraits, mahogany sideboards +and tables and four-poster beds, candles in sconces and in branched +candlesticks. They were married in April, and when we went down in June +poppies were blowing in the wide grass spaces, and honeysuckle rioting +over the low stone walls. I think we all felt as if we had passed +through purgatory and had entered heaven. I know I did, because this was +the kind of thing of which I had dreamed, and there had been a time when +I, too, had wanted to write. + +The room in which Jimmie wrote was in a little detached house, which had +once been the office of his doctor grandfather. He had his typewriter +out there, and a big desk, and from the window in front of his desk he +could look out on green slopes and the distant blue of mountain ridges. + +We envied him and told him so. + +"Well, I don't know," Jimmie said. "Of course I'll get a lot of work +done. But I'll miss your darling old heads bending over the other +desks." + +"You couldn't work, Jimmie," Elise reminded him, "with other people in +the room." + +"Perhaps not. Did I tell you old dears that I am going to write a play?" + +That was, it seems, what Elise had had in mind for him from the +beginning--a great play! + +"She wouldn't even, have a honeymoon"--Jimmie's arm was around her; "she +brought me here, and got this room ready the first thing." + +"Well, he mustn't be wasting time," said Elise, "must he? Jimmie's +rather wonderful, isn't he?" + +They seemed a pair of babies as they stood there together. Elise had on +a childish one-piece pink frock, with sleeves above the elbow, and an +organdie sash. Yet, intuitively, the truth came to me--she was ages +older than Jimmie in spite of her twenty years to his twenty-four. Here +was no Juliet, flaming to the moon--no mistress whose steed would gallop +by wind-swept roads to midnight trysts. Here was, rather, the cool blood +that had sacrificed a honeymoon--_and, oh, to honeymoon with Jimmie +Harding_!--for the sake of an ambitious future. + +She was telling us about it "We can always have a honeymoon, Jimmie and +I. Some day, when he is famous, we'll have it. But now we must not." + +"I picked out the place"--Jimmie was eager--"a dip in the hills, and big +pines--And then Elise wouldn't." + +We went in to lunch after that. The table was lovely and the food +delicious. There was batter-bread, I remember, and an omelette, and peas +from the garden. + +Duncan Street and I talked all the way home of Jimmie and his wife. He +didn't agree with me in the least about Elise. "She'll be the making of +him. Such wives always are." + +But I held that he would lose something,--that he would not be the same +Jimmie. + + * * * * * + +Jimmie wrote plays and plays. In between he wrote pot-boiling books. The +pot-boilers were needed, because none of his plays were accepted. He +used to stop in our office and joke about it. + +"If it wasn't for Elise's faith in me, Miss Standish, I should think +myself a poor stick. Of course, I can make money enough with my books +and short stuff to keep things going, but it isn't just money that +either of us is after." + +Except when Jimmie came into the office we saw very little of him. Elise +gathered about her the men and women who would count in Jimmie's future. +The week-ends in the still old house drew not a few famous folk who +loathed the commonplaceness of convivial atmospheres. Elise had +old-fashioned flowers in her garden, delectable food, a library of old +books. It was a heavenly change for those who were tired of cocktail +parties, bridge-madness, illicit love-making. I could never be quite +sure whether Elise really loved dignified living for its own sake, or +whether she was sufficiently discriminating to recognize the kind of +bait which would lure the fine souls whose presence gave to her +hospitality the stamp of exclusiveness. + +They had a small car, and it was when Jimmie motored up to Washington +that we saw him. He had a fashion of taking us out to lunch, two at a +time. When he asked me, he usually asked Duncan Street. Duncan and I +have worked side by side for twenty-five years. There is nothing in the +least romantic about our friendship, but I should miss him if he were to +die or to resign from office. I have little fear of the latter +contingency. Only death, I feel, will part us. + +In our moments of reunion Jimmie always talked a great deal about +himself. The big play was, he said, in the back of his mind. "Elise says +that I can do it," he told us one day over our oysters, "and I am +beginning to think that I can. I say, why can't you old dears in the +office come down for Christmas, and I'll read you what I've written." + +We were glad to go. There were to be no other guests, and I found out +afterward that Elise rarely invited any of their fashionable friends +down in winter. The place showed off better in summer with the garden, +and the vines hiding all deficiencies. + +We arrived in a snow-storm on Christmas Eve, and when we entered the +house there was a roaring fire on the hearth. I hadn't seen a fire like +that for thirty years. You may know how I felt when I knelt down in +front of it and warmed my hands. + +The candles in sconces furnished the only other illumination. Elise, +moving about the shadowy room, seemed to draw light to herself. She wore +a flame-colored velvet frock and her curly hair was tucked into a golden +net. I think that she had planned the medieval effect deliberately, and +it was a great success. As she flitted about like a brilliant bird, our +eyes followed her. My eyes, indeed, drank of her, like new wine. I have +always loved color, and my life has been drab. + +I spoke of her frock when she showed me my room. + +"Oh, do you like it?" she asked. "Jimmie hates to see me in dark things. +He says that when I wear this he can see his heroine." + +"Is she like you?" + +"Not a bit. She is rather untamed. Jimmie does her very well. She +positively gallops through the play." + +"And do you never gallop?" + +She shook her head. "It's a good thing that I don't. If I did, Jimmie +would never write. He says that I keep his nose to the grindstone. It +isn't that, but I love him too much to let him squander his talent. If +he had no talent, I should love him without it. But, having it, I must +hold him up to it." + +She was very sure of herself, very sure of the rightness of her attitude +toward Jimmie. "I know how great he is," she said, as we went down, "and +other people don't. So I've got to prove it." + + * * * * * + +It was at dinner that I first noticed a change in Jimmie. It was a +change which was hard to define. Yet I missed something in him--the +enthusiasm, the buoyancy, the almost breathless radiance with which he +had rekindled our dying fires. Yet he looked young enough and happy +enough as he sat at the table in his velvet studio coat, with his crisp, +burnt-gold hair catching the light of the candles. He and his wife were +a handsome pair. His manner to her was perfect. There could be no +question of his adoration. + +After dinner we had the tree. It was a young pine set up at one end of +the long dining-room, and lighted in the old fashion by red wax candles. +There were presents on it for all of us. Jimmie gave me an adorably +illustrated _Mother Goose_. + +"You are the only other child here, Miss Standish," he said, as he +handed it to me. "I saw this in a book-shop, and couldn't resist it." + +We looked over the pictures together. They were enchanting. All the +bells of old London rang out for a wistful Whittington in a ragged +jacket; Bo-Peep in panniers and pink ribbons wailed for her historic +sheep; Mother Hubbard, quaint in a mammoth cap, pursued her fruitless +search for bones. There was, too, an entrancing Boy Blue who wound his +horn, a sturdy darling with his legs planted far apart and distended +rosy cheeks. + +"That picture is worth the price of the whole book," said Jimmie, and +hung over it. Then suddenly he straightened up. "There should be +children in this old house." + +I knew then what I had missed from the tree. Elise had a great many +gifts--exquisite trifles sent to her by sophisticated friends--a +wine-jug of seventeenth-century Venetian glass, a bag of Chinese brocade +with handles of carved ivory, a pair of ancient silver buckles, a box of +rare lacquer filled with Oriental sweets, a jade pendant, a crystal ball +on a bronze base--all of them lovely, all to be exclaimed over; but the +things I wanted were drums and horns and candy canes, and tarletan bags, +and pop-corn chains, and things that had to be wound up, and things that +whistled, and things that squawked, and things that sparkled. And Jimmie +wanted these things, but Elise didn't. She was perfectly content with +her elegant trifles. + +It was late when we went out finally to the studio. There was snow +everywhere, but it was a clear night with a moon above the pines. A +great log burned in the fireplace, a shaded lamp threw a circle of gold +on shining mahogany. It seemed to me that Jimmie's writing quarters were +even more attractive in December than in June. + +Yet, looking back, I can see that to Jimmie the little house was a sort +of prison. He loved men and women, contact with his own kind. He had +even liked our dingy old office and our dreary, dried-up selves. And +here, day after day, he sat alone--as an artist must sit if he is to +achieve--_es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille_. + +We sat around the fire in deep leather chairs, all except Elise, who had +a cushion on the floor at Jimmie's feet. + +He read with complete absorption, and when he finished he looked at me. +"What do you think of it?" + +I had to tell the truth. "It isn't your masterpiece." + +He ran his fingers through his hair with a nervous gesture. "I told +Elise that it wasn't." + +"But the girl"--Elise's gaze held hot resentment--"is wonderful. Surely +you can see that." + +"She doesn't seem quite real." + +"Then Jimmie shall make her real." Elise laid her hand lightly on her +husband's shoulder. Her gown and golden net were all flame and sparkle, +but her voice was cold. "He shall make her real." + +"No"--it seemed to me that as he spoke Jimmie drew away from her +hand--"I am not going to rewrite it, Elise. I'm tired of it." + +"Jimmie!" + +"I'm tired of it--" + +"Finish it, and then you'll be free--" + +"Shall I ever be free?" He stood up and turned his head from side to +side, as if he sought some way of escape. "Shall I ever be free? I +sometimes think that you and I will stick to this old house until we +grow as dry as dust. I want to live, Elise! I want to live--!" + + * * * * * + +But Elise was not ready to let Jimmie live. To her, Jimmie the artist was +more than Jimmie the lover. I may have been unjust, but she seemed to me +a sort of mental vampire, who was sucking Jimmie's youth. Duncan Street +snorted when I told him what I thought. Elise was a pretty woman, and a +pretty woman in the eyes of men can do no wrong. + +"You'll see," I said, "what she'll do to him." + +The situation was to me astounding. Here was Life holding out its hands +to Elise, glory of youth demanding glorious response, and she, +incredibly, holding back. In spite of my gray hair and stiff figure, I +am of the galloping kind, and my soul followed Jimmie Harding's in its +quest for freedom. + +But there was one thing that Elise could not do. She could not make +Jimmie rewrite his play. "I'll come to it some day," he said, "but not +yet. In the meantime I'll see what I can do with books." + +He did a great deal with books, so that he wrote several best-sellers. +This eased the financial situation and they might have had more time for +things. But Elise still kept him at it. She wanted to be the wife of a +great man. + +Yet as the years went on, Duncan and I began to wonder if her hopes +would be realized. Jimmie wrote and wrote. He was successful in a +commercial sense, but fame did not come to him. There was gray in his +burnt-gold hair; his shoulders acquired a scholarly droop, and he wore +glasses on a black ribbon. It was when he put on glasses that I began to +feel a thousand years old. Yet always when he was away from me I thought +of him as the Jimmie whose youth had shone with blinding radiance. + +His constancy to Duncan and to me began to take on a rather pathetic +quality. The others in the office drifted gradually out of his life. +Some of them died, some of them resigned, some of them worked on, plump +or wizened parodies of their former selves. I was stouter than ever, and +stiffer, and the top of Duncan's head was a shining cone. And the one +interesting thing in our otherwise dreary days was Jimmie. + +"You're such darling old dears," was his pleasant way of putting it. + +But Duncan dug up the truth for me. "We knew him before he wrote. He +gets back to that when he is with us." + +I had grown to hate Elise. It was not a pleasant emotion, and I am not +sure that she really deserved it. But Duncan hated her, too. "You're +right," he said one day when we had lunched with Jimmie; "she's sucked +him dry." Jimmie had been unusually silent. He had laughed little. He +had tapped the table with his finger, and had kept his eyes on his +finger. He had been absent-minded. "She has sucked him dry," said +Duncan, with great heat. + +But she hadn't. That was the surprising thing. Just as we were all +giving up hope of Jimmie's proving himself something more than a hack, +he did the great thing and the wonderful thing that years ago Elise had +prophesied. His play, "The Gay Cockade," was accepted by a New York +manager, and after the first night the world went wild about it. + +I had helped Jimmie with the name. I had spoken once of youth as a gay +cockade. "That's a corking title," Jimmie had said, and had written it +in his note-book. + +When his play was put in rehearsal, Duncan and I were there to see. We +took our month's leave, traveled to New York, and stayed at an +old-fashioned boarding-house in Washington Square. Every day we went to +the theatre. Elise was always there, looking younger than ever in the +sables bought with Jimmie's advance royalty, and with various gowns and +hats which were the by-products of his best-sellers. + +The part of the heroine of "The Gay Cockade" was taken by Ursula Simms. +She was, as those of you who have seen her know, a Rosalind come to +life. With an almost boyish frankness she combined feminine witchery. +She had glowing red hair, a voice that was gay and fresh, a temper that +was hot. She galloped through the play as Jimmie had meant that she +should gallop in that first poor draft which he had read to us in +Albemarle, and it was when I saw Ursula in rehearsal that I realized +what Jimmie had done--he had embodied in his heroine all the youth that +he had lost--she stood for everything that Elise had stolen from +him--for the wildness, the impetuosity, the passion which swept away +prudence and went neck to nothing to fulfilment. + +Indeed, the whole play partook of the madness of youth. It bubbled over. +Everybody galloped to a rollicking measure. We laughed until we cried. +But there was more than laughter in it. There was the melancholy which +belongs to tender years set in exquisite contrast to the prevailing +mirth. + +Jimmie had a great deal to do with the rehearsals. Several times he +challenged Ursula's reading of the part. + +"You must not give your kisses with such ease," he told her upon one +occasion; "the girl in the play has never been kissed." + +She shrugged her shoulders and ignored him. Again he remonstrated. +"She's frank and free," he said. "Make her that. Make her that. Men must +fight for her favors." + +She came to it at last, helped by that Rosalind-like quality in herself. +She was young, as he had wanted Elise to be, clean-hearted, +joyous--girlhood at its best. + +Gradually Jimmie ceased to suggest. He would sit beside us in the +dimness of the empty auditorium, and watch her as if he drank her in. +Now and then he would laugh a little, and say, under his breath: "How +did I ever write it? How did it ever happen?" + +Elise, on the other side of him, said, at last, "I knew you could do it, +Jimmie." + +"You thought I could do great things. You never knew I could do--this--" + +It was toward the end of the month that Duncan said to me one night as +we rode home on the top of a 'bus, "You don't suppose that he--" + +"Elise thinks it," I said. "It's waking her up." + +Elise and Jimmie had been married fifteen years, and had never had a +honeymoon, not in the sense that Jimmie wanted it--an adventure in +romance, to some spot where they could forget the world of work, the +world of sordid things, the world that was making Jimmie old. Every +summer Jimmie had asked for it, and always Elise had said, "Wait." + +But now it was Elise who began to plan. "When your play is produced, +we'll run away somewhere. Do you remember the place you always talked +about--up in the hills?" + +He looked at her through his round glasses. "I can't get away from +this"--he waved his hand toward the stage. + +"If it's a success you can, Jimmie." + +"It will be a success. Ursula Simms is a wonder. Look at her, Elise. +Look at her!" + +Duncan and I could look at nothing else. As many times as I had seen her +in the part, I came to it always eagerly. It was her great scene--where +the girl, breaking free from all that has bound her, takes the hand of +her vagabond lover and goes forth, leaving behind wealth and a marriage +of distinction, that she may wander across the moors and down on the +sands, with the wild wind in her face, the stars for a canopy! + +It tugged at our hearts. It would tug, we knew, at the heart of any +audience. It was the human nature in us all which responded. Not one of +us but would have broken bonds. Oh, youth, youth! Is there anything like +it in the whole wide world? + +I do not think that it tugged at the heart of Elise. Her heart was not +like that. It was a stay-at-home heart. A workaday-world heart. Elise +would never under any circumstance have gone forth with a vagabond on a +wild night. + +But here was Ursula doing it every day. On the evening of the first +dress-rehearsal she wore clothes that showed her sense of fitness. As if +in casting off conventional restraints, she renounced conventional +attire; she came down to her lover wrapped in a cloak of the deep-purple +bloom of the heather of the moor, and there was a pheasant's feather in +her cap. + +"_May you never regret it, my dear, my dear_," said the lover on the +stage. + +"_I shall love you for a million years_," said Ursula, and we felt that +she would, and that love was eternal, and that any woman might have it +if she would put her hand in her lover's and run away with him on a +wild night! + +And it was the genius of Jimmie Harding that made us feel that the thing +could be done. He sat forward in his chair, his arms on the back of the +seat in front of him. "Jove!" he kept saying under his breath. "It's the +real thing. It's the real thing--" + +When the scene was over, he went on the stage and stood by Ursula. Elise +from her seat watched them. Ursula had taken off the cap with the +pheasant's feather. Her glorious hair shone like copper, her hand was on +her hip, her little swagger matched the swagger that we remembered in +the old Jimmie. I wondered if Elise remembered. + + * * * * * + +I am not sure what made Ursula care for Jimmie Harding. He was no longer +a figure for romance. But she did care. It was, perhaps, that she saw in +him the fundamental things which belonged to both of them, and which did +not belong to Elise. + +As the days went on I was sorry for Elise. I should never have believed +that I could be sorry, but I was. Jimmie was always punctiliously polite +to her. But he was only that. + +"She's getting what she deserves," Duncan said, but I felt that she was, +perhaps, getting more than she deserved. For, after all, it was she who +had kept Jimmie at it, and it was her keeping him at it which had +brought success. + +Neither Duncan nor I could tell how Jimmie felt about Ursula. But the +thought of her troubled my sleep. Stripped of her art, she was not in +the least the heroine of Jimmie's play. She was of coarser clay, +commoner. And Jimmie was fine. The fear I had was that he might clothe +her with the virtues which he had created, and the thought, as I have +said, troubled me. + +At last Duncan and I had to go home, although we promised to return for +the opening night. Ursula gave a farewell supper for us. She lived alone +with a housekeeper and maid. Her apartment was furnished in good taste, +with, perhaps, a touch of over-emphasis. The table had unshaded purple +candles and heather in glass dishes. Ursula wore woodland green, with a +chaplet of heather about her glorious hair. Elise was in white with +pearls. She was thirty-five, but she did not look it. Ursula was older, +but she would always be in a sense ageless, as such women are--one would +thrill to Sara Bernhardt were she seventeen or seventy. + +Jimmie seemed to have dropped the years from him. He was very confident +of the success of his play. "It can't fail," he said, "with Ursula to +make it sure--" + +I wondered whether it was Ursula or Elise who had made it sure. Could he +ever have written it if Elise had not kept him at it? Yet she had stolen +his youth! + +And now Ursula was giving his youth back to him! As I saw the cock of +his head, heard the ring of his gay laughter, I felt that it might be +so. And suddenly I knew that I didn't want Jimmie to be young again. Not +if he had to take his youth from the hands of Ursula Simms! + +There were many toasts before the supper ended--and the last one Jimmie +drank "To Ursula"! As he stood up to propose it, his glasses dangled +from their ribbon, his shoulders were squared. In the soft and shaded +light we were spared the gray in his hair--it was the old Jimmie, gay +and gallant! + +"To Ursula!" he said, and the words sparkled. "To Ursula!" + +I looked at Elise. She might have been the ghost of the woman who had +flamed in the old house in Albemarle. In her white and pearls she was +shadowy, unsubstantial, almost spectral, but she raised her glass. "To +Ursula!" she said. + +All the way home on the train Duncan and I talked about it. We were +scared to death. "Oh, he mustn't, he must not," I kept saying, and +Duncan snorted. + +"He's a young fool. She's not the woman for him--" + +"Neither of them is the woman," I said, "but Elise has made him--" + +"No man was ever held by gratitude." + +"He'd hate Ursula in a year." + +"He thinks he'd live--" + +"And lose his soul--" + + * * * * * + +Jimmie's play opened to a crowded house. There had been extensive +advertising, and Ursula had a great following. + +Elise and Duncan and I had seats in an upper box. Elise sat where she +was hidden by the curtains. Jimmie came and went unseen by the audience. +Between acts he was behind the scenes. Elise had little to say. Once she +reached over and laid her hand on mine. + +"I--I think I'm frightened," she said, with a catch of her breath. + +"It can't fail, my dear--" + +"No, of course. But it's very different from what I expected." + +"What is different?" + +"Success." + +As the great scene came closer, I seemed to hold my breath. I was so +afraid that the audience might not see it as we had seen it at +rehearsal. But they did see it, and it was a stupendous thing to sit +there and watch the crowd, and know that Jimmie's genius was making its +heart beat fast and faster. When Ursula in her purple cloak and +pheasant's feather spoke her lines at the end of the third act, "_I +shall love you for a million years_," the house went wild. Men and women +who had never loved for a moment roared for this woman who had made them +think they could love until eternity. They wanted her back and they got +her. They wanted Jimmie and they got him. Ursula made a speech; Jimmie +made a speech. They came out for uncounted curtain-calls, hand-in-hand. +The play was a success! + +The last act was, of course, an anti-climax. Before it was finished, +Elise said to me, in a, stifled voice, "I've got to get back to Jimmie." + +It seemed significant that Jimmie had not come to her. Surely he had not +forgotten the part she had played. For fifteen years she had worked for +this. + +We found ourselves presently behind the scenes. The curtain was down, +the audience was still shouting, everybody was excited, everybody was +shaking hands. The stage-people caught at Elise as she passed, and held +her to offer congratulations. I was not held and went on until I came to +where Jimmie and Ursula stood, a little separate from the rest. Although +I went near enough to touch them, they were so absorbed in each other +that they did not see me. Ursula was looking up at Jimmie and his head +was bent to her. + +"Jimmie," she said, and her rich voice above the tumult was clear as a +bell, "do you know how great you are?" + +"Yes," he said. "I--I feel a little drunk with it, Ursula." + +"Oh," she said, and now her words stumbled, "I--I love you for it. Oh, +Jimmie, Jimmie, let's run away and love for a million years--" + +All that he had wanted was in her words--the urge of youth, the beat of +the wind, the song of the sea. My heart stood still. + +He drew back a little. He had wanted this. But he did not want it +now--with Ursula. I saw it and she saw it. + +"What a joke it would be," he said, "but we have other things to do, my +dear." + +"What things?" + +The roar of the crowd came louder to their ears. "Harding, Harding! +Jimmie Harding!" + +"Listen," he said, and the light in his eyes was not for her. "Listen, +Ursula, they're calling me." + +She stood alone after he had left her. I am sure that even then she did +not quite believe it was the end. She did not know how, in all the +years, his wife had molded him. + +When he had satisfied the crowd, Jimmie fought his way to where Elise +and Duncan and I stood together. + +Elise was wrapped in a great cloak of silver brocade. There was a touch +of silver, too, in her hair. But she had never seemed to me so small, so +childish. + +"Oh, Jimmie," she said, as he came up, "you've done it!" + +"Yes"--he was flushed and laughing, his head held high--"you always said +I could do it. And I shall do it again. Did you hear them shout, Elise?" + +"Yes." + +"Jove! I feel like the old woman in the nursery rhyme, 'Alack-a-daisy, +do this be I?'" He was excited, eager, but it was not the old eagerness. +There was an avidity, a greediness. + +She laid her hand on his arm. "You've earned a rest, dearest. Let's go +up in the hills." + +"In the hills? Oh, we're too old, Elise." + +"We'll grow young." + +"To-night I've given youth to the world. That's enough for me"--the +light in his eyes was not for her--"that's enough for me. We'll hang +around New York for a week or two, and then we'll go back to Albemarle. +I want to get to work on another play. It's a great game, Elise. It's a +great game!" + +She knew then what she had done. Here was a monster of her own making. +She had sacrificed her lover on the altar of success. Jimmie needed her +no longer. + +I would not have you think this an unhappy ending. Elise has all that +she had asked, and Jimmie, with fame for a mistress, is no longer an +unwilling captive in the old house. The prisoner loves his prison, +welcomes his chains. + +But Duncan and I talk at times of the young Jimmie who came years ago +into our office. The Jimmie Harding who works down in Albemarle, and who +struts a little in New York when he makes his speeches, is the ghost of +the boy we knew. But he loves us still. + + + + +THE HIDDEN LAND + + +The mystery of Nancy Greer's disappearance has never been explained. The +man she was to have married has married another woman. For a long time +he mourned Nancy. He has always held the theory that she was drowned +while bathing, and the rest of Nancy's world agrees with him. She had +left the house one morning for her usual swim. The fog was coming in, +and the last person to see her was a fisherman returning from his nets. +He had stopped and watched her flitting wraith-like through the mist. He +reported later that Nancy wore a gray bathing suit and cap and carried a +blue cloak. + +"You are sure she carried a cloak?" was the question which was +repeatedly asked. For no cloak had been found on the sands, and it was +unlikely that she had worn it into the water. The disappearance of the +blue cloak was the only point which seemed to contradict the theory of +accidental drowning. There were those who held that the cloak might have +been carried off by some acquisitive individual. But it was not likely; +the islanders are, as a rule, honest, and it was too late in the season +for "off-islanders." + +I am the only one who knows the truth. And as the truth would have been +harder for Anthony Peak to bear than what he believed had happened, I +have always withheld it. + +There was, too, the fear that if I told they might try to bring Nancy +back. I think Anthony would have searched the world for her. Not, +perhaps, because of any great and passionate need of her, but because he +would have thought her unhappy in what she had done, and would have +sought to save her. + +I am twenty years older than Nancy, her parents are dead, and it was at +my house that she always stayed when she came to Nantucket. She has +island blood in her veins, and so has Anthony Peak. Back of them were +seafaring folk, although in the foreground was a generation or two of +cosmopolitan residence. Nancy had been educated in France, and Anthony +in England. The Peaks and the Greers owned respectively houses in Beacon +Street and in Washington Square. They came every summer to the island, +and it was thus that Anthony and Nancy grew up together, and at last +became engaged. + +As I have said, I am twenty years older than Nancy, and I am her cousin. +I live in the old Greer house on Orange Street, for it is mine by +inheritance, and was to have gone to Nancy at my death. But it will not +go to her now. Yet I sometimes wonder--will the ship which carried her +away ever sail back into the harbor? Some day, when she is old, will she +walk up the street and be sorry to find strangers in the house? + +I remember distinctly the day when the yacht first anchored within the +Point. It was a Sunday morning and Nancy and I had climbed to the top of +the house to the Captain's Walk, the white-railed square on the roof +which gave a view of the harbor and of the sea. + +Nancy was twenty-five, slim and graceful. She wore that morning a short +gray-velvet coat over white linen. Her thick brown hair was gathered +into a low knot and her fine white skin had a touch of artificial color. +Her eyes were a clear blue. She was really very lovely, but I felt that +the gray coat deadened her--that if she had not worn it she would not +have needed that touch of color in her cheeks. + +She lighted a cigarette and stood looking off, with her hand on the +rail. "It is a heavenly morning, Ducky. And you are going to church?" + +I smiled at her and said, "Yes." + +Nancy did not go to church. She practiced an easy tolerance. Her people +had been, originally, Quakers. In later years they had turned to +Unitarianism. And now in this generation, Nancy, as well as Anthony +Peak, had thrown off the shackles of religious observance. + +"But it is worth having the churches just for the bells," Nancy conceded +on Sunday mornings when their music rang out from belfry and tower. + +It was worth having the churches for more than the bells. But it was +useless to argue with Nancy. Her morals and Anthony's were +irreproachable. That is, from the modern point of view. They played +cards for small stakes, drank when they pleased, and, as I have +indicated, Nancy smoked. She was, also, not unkissed when Anthony asked +her to marry him. These were not the ideals of my girlhood, but Anthony +and Nancy felt that such small vices as they cultivated saved them from +the narrow-mindedness of their forebears. + +"Anthony and I are going for a walk," she said. "I will bring you some +flowers for your bowls, Elizabeth." + +It was just then that the yacht steamed into the harbor--majestically, +like a slow-moving swan. I picked out the name with my sea-glasses, _The +Viking_. + +I handed the glasses to Nancy. "Never heard of it," she said. "Did you?" + +"No," I answered. Most of the craft which came in were familiar, and I +welcomed them each year. + +"Some new-rich person probably," Nancy decided. "Ducky, I have a feeling +that the owner of _The Viking_ bought it from the proceeds of pills or +headache powders." + +"Or pork." + +I am not sure that Nancy and I were justified in our disdain--whale-oil +has perhaps no greater claim to social distinction than bacon and ham +or--pills. + +The church bells were ringing, and I had to go down. Nancy stayed on the +roof. + +"Send Anthony up if he's there," she said; "we will sit here aloft like +two cherubs and look down on you, and you will wish that you were with +us." + +But I knew that I should not wish it; that I should be glad to walk +along the shaded streets with my friends and neighbors, to pass the +gardens that were yellow with sunlight, and gay with larkspur and +foxglove and hollyhocks, and to sit in the pew which was mine by +inheritance. + +Anthony was down-stairs. He was a tall, perfectly turned out youth, and +he greeted me in his perfect manner. + +"Nancy is on the roof," I told him, "and she wants you to come up." + +"So you are going to church? Pray for me, Elizabeth." + +Yet I knew he felt that he did not need my prayers. He had Nancy, more +money than he could spend, and life was before him. What more, he would +ask, could the gods give? + +I issued final instructions to my maids about the dinner and put on my +hat. It was a rather superlative hat and had come from Fifth Avenue. I +spend the spring and fall in New York and buy my clothes at the smartest +places. The ladies of Nantucket have never been provincial in their +fashions. Our ancestors shopped in the marts of the world. When our +captains sailed the seas they brought home to their womenfolk the +treasures of loom and needle from Barcelona and Bordeaux, from Bombay +and Calcutta, London and Paris and Tokio. + +And perhaps because of my content in my new hat, perhaps because of the +pleasant young pair of lovers which I had left behind me in the old +house, perhaps because of the shade and sunshine, and the gardens, +perhaps because of the bells, the world seemed more than ever good to me +as I went on my way. + +My pew in the church is well toward the middle. My ancestors were +modest, or perhaps they assumed that virtue. They would have neither the +highest nor the lowest seat in the synagogue. + +It happens, therefore, that strangers who come usually sit in front of +me. I have a lively curiosity, and I like to look at them. In the winter +there are no strangers, and my mind is, I fancy, at such times, more +receptive to the sermon. + +I was early and sat almost alone in the great golden room whose +restraint in decoration suggests the primitive bareness of early days. +Gradually people began to come in, and my attention was caught by the +somewhat unusual appearance of a man who walked up the aisle preceded by +the usher. + +He was rather stocky as to build, but with good, square military +shoulders and small hips. He wore a blue reefer, white trousers, and +carried a yachtsman's cap. His profile as he passed into his pew showed +him young, his skin slightly bronzed, his features good, if a trifle +heavy. + +Yet as he sat down and I studied his head, what seemed most significant +about him was his hair. It was reddish-gold, thick, curled, and +upstanding, like the hair on the head of a lovely child, or in the +painting of a Titian or a Tintoretto. + +In a way he seemed out of place. Young men of his type so rarely came to +church alone. Indeed, they rarely came to church at all. He seemed to +belong to the out-of-doors--to wide spaces. I was puzzled, too, by a +faint sense of having seen him before. + +It was in the middle of the sermon that it all connected up. Years ago a +ship had sailed into the harbor, and I had been taken down to see it. I +had been enchanted by the freshly painted figurehead--a strong young god +of some old Norse tale, with red-gold hair and a bright blue tunic. And +now in the harbor was _The Viking_, and here, in the shadow of a +perfectly orthodox pulpit, sat that strong young god, more glorious even +than my memory of his wooden prototype. + +He seemed to be absolutely at home--sat and stood at the right places, +sang the hymns in a delightful barytone which was not loud, but which +sounded a clear note above the feebler efforts of the rest of us. + +It has always been my custom to welcome the strangers within our gates, +and I must confess to a preference for those who seem to promise +something more than a perfunctory interchange. + +So as my young viking came down the aisle, I held out my hand. "We are +so glad to have you with us." + +He stopped at once, gave me his hand, and bent on me his clear gaze. +"Thank you." And then, immediately: "You live here? In Nantucket?" + +"Yes." + +"All the year round?" + +"Practically." + +"That is very interesting." Again his clear gaze appraised me. "May I +walk a little way with you? I have no friends here, and I want to ask a +lot of questions about the island." + +The thing which struck me most as we talked was his utter lack of +self-consciousness. He gave himself to the subject in hand as if it were +a vital matter, and as if he swept all else aside. It is a quality +possessed by few New Englanders; it is, indeed, a quality possessed by +few Americans. So when he offered to walk with me, it seemed perfectly +natural that I should let him. Not one man in a thousand could have made +such a proposition without an immediate erection on my part of the +barriers of conventionality. To have erected any barrier in this +instance would have been an insult, to my perception of the kind of man +with whom I had to deal. + +He was a gentleman, individual, and very much in earnest; and more than +all, he was immensely attractive. There was charm in that clear blue +gaze of innocence. Yet it was innocence plus knowledge, plus something +which as yet I could not analyze. + +He left me at my doorstep. I found that he had come to the island not to +play around for the summer at the country clubs and on the bathing +beach, but to live in the past--see it as it had once been--when its men +went down to the sea in ships. And because there was still so much that +we had to say to each other, I asked him to have a cup of tea with me, +"this afternoon at four." + +He accepted at once, with his air of sweeping aside everything but the +matter in hand. I entered the house with a sense upon me of high +adventure. I could not know that I was playing fate, changing in that +moment the course of Nancy's future. + + * * * * * + +Dinner was at one o'clock. It seems an impossible hour to people who +always dine at night. But on the Sabbath we Nantucketers eat our +principal meal when we come home from church. + +Nancy and Anthony protested as usual. "Of course you can't expect us to +dress." + +Nancy sat down at the table with her hat on, and minus the velvet coat. +She was a bit disheveled and warm from her walk. She had brought in a +great bunch of blue vetch and pale mustard, and we had put it in the +center of the table in a bowl of gray pottery. My dining-room is in gray +and white and old mahogany, and Nancy had had an eye to its coloring +when she picked the flowers. They would not have fitted in with the +decorative scheme of my library, which is keyed up, or down, to an +antique vase of turquoise glaze, or to the drawing-room, which is in +English Chippendale with mulberry brocade. + +We had an excellent dinner, served by my little Portuguese maid. Nancy +praised the lobster bisque and Anthony asked for a second helping of +roast duck. They had their cigarettes with their coffee. + +Long before we came to the coffee, however, Anthony had asked in his +pleasant way of the morning service. + +"Tell us about the sermon, Elizabeth." + +"And the text," said Nancy. + +I am apt to forget the text, and they knew it. It was always a sort of +game between us at Sunday dinner, in which they tried to prove that my +attention had strayed, and that I might much better have stayed at home, +and thus have escaped the bondage of dogma and of dressing up. + +I remembered the text, and then I told them about Olaf Thoresen. + +Nancy lifted her eyebrows. "The pills man? Or was it--pork?" + +"It was probably neither. Don't be a snob, Nancy." + +She shrugged her shoulders. "It was you who said 'pork,' Elizabeth." + +"He is coming to tea." + +"To-day?" + +"Yes." + +"Sorry," said Nancy. "I'd like to see him, but I have promised to drive +Bob Needham to 'Sconset for a swim." + +Anthony had made the initial engagement--to play tennis with Mimi Sears, +"Provided, of course, that you have no other plans for me," he had told +Nancy, politely. + +She had no plans, nor would she, under the circumstances, have urged +them. That was their code--absolute freedom. "We'll be a lot happier if +we don't tie each other up." + +It was to me an amazing attitude. In my young days lovers walked out on +Sunday afternoons to the old cemetery, or on the moor, or along the +beach, and came back at twilight together, and sat together after +supper, holding hands. + +I haven't the slightest doubt that Anthony held Nancy's hands, but there +was nothing fixed about the occasions. They had done away with billing +and cooing in the old sense, and what they had substituted seemed to +satisfy them. + +Anthony left about three, and I went up to get into something thin and +cool, and to rest a bit before receiving my guest. I heard Nancy at the +telephone making final arrangements with the Drakes. After that I fell +asleep, and knew nothing more until Anita came up to announce that Mr. +Thoresen was down-stairs. + +Tea was served in the garden at the back of the house, where there were +some deep wicker chairs, and roses in a riot of bloom. + +"This is--enchanting--" said Olaf. He did not sit down at once. He stood +looking about him, at the sun-dial, and the whale's jaw lying bleached +on a granite pedestal, and at the fine old houses rising up around us. +"It is enchanting. Do you know, I have been thinking myself very +fortunate since you spoke to me in church this morning." + +After that it was all very easy. He asked and I answered. "You see," he +explained, finally, "I am hungry for anything that tells me about the +sea. Three generations back we were all sailors--my great-grandfather +and his fathers before him in Norway--and far back of that--the +vikings." He drew a long breath. "Then my grandfather came to America. +He settled in the West--in Dakota, and planted grain. He made money, but +he was a thousand miles away from the sea. He starved for it, but he +wanted money, and, as I have said, he made it. And my father made more +money. Then I came. The money took me to school in the East--to +college. My mother died and my father. And now the money is my own. I +bought a yacht, and I have lived on the water. I can't get enough of it. +I think that I am making up for all that my father and my grandfather +denied themselves." + +I can't in the least describe to you how he said it. There was a +tenseness, almost a fierceness, in his brilliant blue eyes. Yet he +finished up with a little laugh. "You see," he said, "I am a sort of +Flying Dutchman--sailing the seas eternally, driven not by any sinister +force but by my own delight in it." + +"Do you go alone?" + +"Oh, I have guests--at times. But I am often my own--good company--" + +He stopped and rose. Nancy had appeared in the doorway. She crossed the +porch and came down toward us. She was in her bathing suit and cap, gray +again, with a line of green on the edges, and flung over her shoulders +was a gray cloak. She was on her way to the stables--it was before the +day of motor-cars on the island, those halcyon, heavenly days. The door +was open and her horse harnessed and waiting for her. She could not, of +course, pass us without speaking, and so I presented Olaf. + +Anita had brought the tea, and Nancy stayed to eat a slice of thin bread +and butter. "In this air one is always hungry," she said to Olaf, and +smiled at him. + +He did not smile back. He was surveying her with a sort of frowning +intensity. She spoke of it afterward, "Does he always stare like that?" +But I think that, in a way, she was pleased. + +She drove her own horse, wrapped in her cloak and with an utter +disregard to the informality of her attire. She would, I knew, gather up +the Drakes and Bob Needham, likewise attired in bathing costumes, and +they would all have tea on the other side of the island, naiad-like and +utterly unconcerned. I did not approve of it, but Nancy did not cut her +life to fit my pattern. + +When she had gone, Olaf said to me, abruptly, "Why does she wear gray?" + +"Oh, she has worked out a theory that repression in color is an evidence +of advanced civilization. The Japanese, for example--" + +"Why should civilization advance? It has gone far enough--too far--And +she should wear a blue cloak--sea-blue--the color of her eyes--" + +"And of yours." I smiled at him. + +"Yes. Are they like hers?" + +They were almost uncannily alike. I had noticed it when I saw them +together. But there the resemblance stopped. + +"She belongs to the island?" + +"She lives in New York. But every drop of blood in her is seafaring +blood." + +"Good!" He sat for a moment in silence, then spoke of something else. +But when he was ready to go, he included Nancy in an invitation. "If you +and Miss Greer could lunch with me to-morrow on my yacht--" + +I was not sure about Nancy's engagements, but I thought we might. "You +can call us up in the morning." + +Nancy brought the Drakes and Bob Needham back with her for supper, and +Mimi Sears was with Anthony. Supper on Sunday is an informal +meal--everything on the table and the servants out. + +Nancy, clothed in something white and exquisite, served the salad. "So +your young viking didn't stay, Elizabeth?" + +"I didn't ask him." + +It was then that she spoke of his frowning gaze. "Does he always stare +like that?" + +Anthony, breaking in, demanded, "Did he stare at Nancy?" + +I nodded. "It was her eyes." + +They all looked at me. "Her eyes?" + +"Yes. He said that her cloak should have matched them." + +Anthony flushed. He has a rather captious code for outsiders. Evidently +Olaf had transgressed it. + +"Is the man a dressmaker?" + +"Of course not, Anthony." + +"Then why should he talk of Nancy's clothes?" + +"Well," Nancy remarked, "perhaps the less said about my clothes the +better. I was in my bathing suit." + +Anthony was irritable. "Well, why not? You had a right to wear what you +pleased, but he did not have a right to make remarks about it." + +I came to Olaf's defense. "You would understand better if you could see +him. He is rather different, Anthony." + +"I don't like different people," and in that sentence was a summary of +Anthony's prejudices. He and Nancy mingled with their own kind. +Anthony's friends were the men who had gone to the right schools, who +lived in the right streets, belonged to the right clubs, and knew the +right people. Within those limits, humanity might do as it pleased; +without them, it was negligible, and not to be considered. + +After supper the five of them were to go for a sail. There was a moon, +and all the wonder of it. + +Anthony was not keen about the plan. "Oh, look here, Nancy," he +complained, "we have done enough for one day--" + +"I haven't." + +Of course that settled it. Anthony shrugged his shoulders and submitted. +He did not share Nancy's almost idolatrous worship of the sea. It was +the one fundamental thing about her. She bathed in it, swam in it, +sailed on it, and she was never quite happy away from it. + +I heard Anthony later in the hall, protesting. I had gone to the library +for a book, and their voices reached me. + +"I thought you and I might have one evening without the others." + +"Oh, don't be silly, Anthony." + +I think my heart lost a beat. Here was a lover asking his mistress for a +moment--and she laughed at him. It did not fit in with my ideas of young +romance. + +Yet late that night I heard the murmur of their voices and looked out +into the white night. They stood together by the sun-dial, and his arm +was about her, her head on his shoulder. And it was not the first time +that a pair of lovers had stood by that dial under the moon. + +I went back to bed, but I could not sleep. I lighted my bedside lamp, +and read _Vanity Fair_. I find Thackeray an excellent corrective when I +am emotionally keyed up. + +Nancy, too, was awake; I could see her light shining across the hall. +She came in, finally, and sat on the foot of my bed. + +"Your viking was singing as we passed his boat--" + +"Singing?" + +"Yes, hymns, Elizabeth. The others laughed, Anthony and Mimi, but I +didn't laugh. His voice is--wonderful--" + +She had on a white-crêpe _peignoir_, and there was no color in her +cheeks. Her skin had the soft whiteness of a rose petal. Her eyes were +like stars. As I lay there and looked at her I wondered if it was +Anthony's kisses or the memory of Olaf's singing which had made her eyes +shine like that. + +I had heard him sing, and I said so, "in church." + +Her arms clasped her knees. "Isn't it queer that he goes to church and +sings hymns?" + +"Why queer? I go to church." + +"Yes. But you are different. You belong to another generation, +Elizabeth, and he doesn't look it." + +I knew what she meant. I had thought the same thing when I first saw him +walking up the aisle. "He has asked us to lunch with him to-morrow on +his boat." + +It was the first time that I had mentioned it. Somehow I had not cared +to speak of it before Anthony. + +She showed her surprise. "So soon? Doesn't that sound a +little--pushing?" + +"It sounds as if he goes after a thing when he wants it." + +"Yes, it does. I believe I should like to accept. But I can't to-morrow. +There's a clambake, and I have promised the crowd." + +"He will ask you again." + +"Will he? You can say 'yes' for Wednesday then. And I'll keep it." + +"I am not sure that we had better accept." + +"Why not?" + +"Well, there's Anthony." + +She slid from the bed and stood looking down at me. "You think he +wouldn't like it?" + +"I am afraid he wouldn't. And, after all, you are engaged to him, +Nancy." + +"Of course I am, but he is not my jailer. He does as he pleases and I do +as I please." + +"In my day lovers pleased to do the same thing." + +"Did they? I don't believe it. They just pretended, and there is no +pretense between Anthony and me"--she stooped and kissed me--"they just +pretended, Elizabeth, and the reason that I love Anthony is because we +don't pretend." + +After that I felt that I need fear nothing. Nancy and Anthony--freedom +and self-confidence--why should I try to match their ideals with my own +of yesterday? Yet, as I laid my book aside, I resolved that Olaf should +know of Anthony. + +I had my opportunity the next day. Olaf came over to sit in my garden +and again we had tea. He was much pleased when he knew that Nancy and I +would be his guests on Wednesday. + +"Come early. Do you swim? We can run the launch to the beach--or, better +still, dive in the deeper water near my boat." + +"Nancy swims," I told him. "I don't. And I am not sure that we can come +early. Nancy and Anthony usually play golf in the morning." + +"Who is Anthony?" + +"Anthony Peak. The man she is going to marry." + +He hesitated a moment, then said, "Bring him, too." His direct gaze met +mine, and his direct question followed. "Does she love him?" + +"Of course." + +"It is not always 'of course.'" He stopped and talked of other things, +but in some subtle fashion I was aware that my news had been a shock to +him, and that he was trying to adjust himself to it, and to the +difference that it must make in his attitude toward Nancy. + + * * * * * + +When I told Nancy that Anthony had been invited, she demanded, "How did +Olaf Thoresen know about him?" + +"I told him you were engaged." + +"But why, Elizabeth? Why shout it from the housetops?" + +"Well, I didn't want him to be hurt." + +"You are taking a lot for granted." + +I shrugged my shoulders. "We won't quarrel, and a party of four is much +nicer than three." + +As it turned put, however, Anthony could not go. He was called back to +Boston on business. That was where Fate again stepped in. It was, I am +sure, those three days of Anthony's absence which turned the scale of +Nancy's destiny. If he had been with us that first morning on the boat +Olaf would not have dared.... + +Nancy wore her white linen and her gray-velvet coat, and a hat with a +gull's wing. She carried her bathing suit. "He intends, evidently, to +entertain us in his own way." + +Olaf's yacht was modern, but there was a hint of the barbaric in its +furnishings. The cabin into which we were shown and in which Nancy was +to change was in strangely carved wood, and there was a wolfskin on the +floor in front of the low bed. The coverlet was of a fine-woven red-silk +cloth, weighed down by a border of gold and silver threads. On the wall +hung a square of tapestry which showed a strange old ship with sails of +blue and red and green, and with golden dragon-heads at stem and stern. + +Nancy, crossing the threshold, said to Olaf, who had opened the door for +us, "It is like coming into another world; as if you had set the stage, +run up the curtain, and the play had begun." + +"You like it? It was a fancy of mine to copy a description I found in +an old book. King Olaf, the Thick-set, furnished a room like this for +his bride." + +Olaf, the Thick-set! The phrase fitted perfectly this strong, stocky, +blue-eyed man, who smiled radiantly upon us as he shut the door and left +us alone. + +Nancy stood in the middle of the room looking about her. "I like it," +she said, with a queer shake in her voice. "Don't you, Elizabeth?" + +I liked it so much that I felt it wise to hide my pleasure in a pretense +of indifference. "Well, it is original to say the least." + +But it was more than original, it was poetic. It was--Melisande in the +wood--one of Sinding's haunting melodies, an old Saga caught and fixed +in color and carving. + +In this glowing room Nancy in her white and gray was a cold and +incongruous figure, and when at last she donned her dull cap, and the +dull cloak that she wore over her swimming costume, she seemed a ghostly +shadow of the bright bride whom that other Olaf had brought--a thousand +years before--to his strange old ship. + +I realize that what comes hereafter in this record must seem to the +unimaginative overdrawn. Even now, as I look back upon it, it has a +dream quality, as if it might never have happened, or as if, as Nancy +had said, it was part of a play, which would be over when the curtain +was rung down and the actors had returned to the commonplace. + +But the actors in this drama have never returned to the commonplace. Or +have they? Shall I ever know? I hope I may never know, if Nancy and Olaf +have lost the glamour of their dreams. + +Well, we found Olaf on deck waiting for us. In a sea-blue tunic, with +strong white arms, and the dazzling fairness of his strong neck, he was +more than ever like the figurehead on the old ship that I had seen in my +childhood. He carried over his arm a cloak of the same sea-blue. It was +this cloak which afterward played an important part in the mystery of +Nancy's disappearance. + +His quick glance swept Nancy--the ghostly Nancy in gray, with only the +blue of her eyes, and that touch of artificial pink in her cheeks to +redeem her from somberness. He shook his head with a gesture of +impatience. + +"I don't like it," he said, abruptly. "Why do you deaden your beauty +with dull colors?" + +Nancy's eyes challenged him. "If it is deadened, how do you know it is +beauty?" + +"May I show you?" Again there was that tense excitement which I had +noticed in the garden. + +"I don't know what you mean," yet in that moment the color ran up from +her neck to her chin, the fixed pink spots were lost in a rush of lovely +flaming blushes. + +For with a sudden movement he had snatched off her cap, and had thrown +the cloak around her. The transformation was complete. It was as if he +had waved a wand. There she stood, the two long, thick braids, which she +had worn pinned close under her cap, falling heavily like molten metal +to her knees, the blue cloak covering her--heavenly in color, matching +her eyes, matching the sea, matching the sky, matching the eyes of Olaf. + +I think I must have uttered some sharp exclamation, for Olaf turned to +me. "You see," he said, triumphantly, "I have known it all the time. I +knew it the first time that I saw her in the garden." + +Nancy had recovered herself. "But I can't stalk around the streets in a +blue cloak with my hair down." + +He laughed with her. "Oh, no, no. But the color is only a symbol. Modern +life has robbed you of vivid things. Even your emotions. You +are--afraid--" He caught himself up. "We can talk of that after our +swim. I think we shall have a thousand things to talk about." + +Nancy held out her hand for her cap, but he would not give it to her. +"Why should you care if your hair gets wet? The wind and the sun will +dry it--" + +I was amazed when I saw that she was letting him have his way. Never for +a moment had Anthony mastered her. For the first time in her life Nancy +was dominated by a will that was stronger than her own. + +I sat on deck and watched them as they swam like two young sea gods, +Nancy's bronze hair bright under the sun. Olaf's red-gold crest.... + +The blue cloak lay across my knee. Nancy had cast it off as she had +descended into the launch. I had examined it and had found it of soft, +thick wool, with embroidery of a strange and primitive sort in faded +colors. Yet the material of the cloak had not faded, or, if it had, +there remained that clear azure, like the Virgin's cloak in old +pictures. + +I knew now why Olaf had wanted Nancy on board, why he had wanted to swim +with her in the sea which was as blue as her eyes and his own. It was to +reveal her to himself as the match of the women of the Sagas. I found +this description later in one of the old books in the ship's library: + + * * * * * + +Then Hallgerd was sent for, and came with two women. She wore a blue +woven mantle ... her hair reached down to her waist on both sides, and +she tucked it under her belt. + +And there was, too, this account of a housewife in her "kyrtil": + + The dress-train was trailing, + The skirt had a blue tint; + Her brow was brighter, + Her neck was whiter + Than pure new fallen snow. + +In other words, that one glance at Nancy in the garden, when he had +risen at her entrance, had disclosed to Olaf the fundamental in her. He +had known her as a sea-maiden. And she had not known it, nor I, nor +Anthony. + + * * * * * + +Luncheon was served on deck. We were waited on by fair-haired, but very +modern Norsemen. The crew on _The Viking_ were all Scandinavians. Most +of them spoke English, and there seemed nothing uncommon about any of +them. Yet, in the mood of the moment, I should have felt no surprise had +they served us in the skins of wild animals, or had set sail like +pirates with the two of us captive on board. + +I will confess, also, to a feeling of exaltation which clouded my +judgment. I knew that Olaf was falling in love with Nancy, and I half +guessed that Nancy might be falling in love with Olaf, yet I sat there +and let them do it. If Anthony should ever know! Yet how can he know? As +I weigh it now, I am not sure that I have anything with which to +reproach myself, for the end, at times, justifies the means, and the +Jesuitical theory had its origin, perhaps, in the profound knowledge +that Fate does not always use fair methods in gaining her ends. + +I can't begin to tell you what we talked about. Nancy had dried her +hair, and it was wound loosely, high on her head. The blue cloak was +over her shoulders, and she was the loveliest thing that I ever hope to +see. By the flame in her cheeks and the light in her eyes, I was made +aware of an exaltation which matched my own. She, too, was caught up +into the atmosphere of excitement which Olaf created. He could not take +his eyes from her. I wondered what Anthony would have said could he have +visioned for the moment this blue-and-gold enchantress. + +When coffee was served there were no cigarettes or cigars. Nancy had her +own silver case hanging at her belt. I knew that she would smoke, and I +did not try to stop her. She always smoked after her meals and she was +restless without it. + +It was Olaf who stopped her. "You will hate my bad manners," he said, +with his gaze holding hers, "but I wish you wouldn't." + +She was lighting her own little wax taper and she looked her surprise. + +"My cigarette?" + +He nodded. "You are too lovely." + +"But surely you are not so--old-fashioned." + +"No. I am perhaps so--new-fashioned that my reason might take your +breath away." He laughed but did not explain. + +Nancy sat undecided while the taper burned out futilely. Then she said, +"Of course you are my host--" + +"Don't do it for that reason. Do it because"--he stopped, laughed again, +and went on--"because you are a goddess--a woman of a new race--" + +With parted lips she looked at him, then tried to wrench herself back to +her attitude of light indifference. + +"Oh, we've grown beyond all that." + +"All what?" + +"Goddess-women. We are just nice and human together." + +"You are nice and human. But you are more than that." + +Nancy put her unlighted cigarette back in its case. "I'll keep it for +next time," she said, with a touch of defiance. + +"There will be no next time," was his secure response, and his eyes held +hers until, with an effort, she withdrew her gaze. + +Then he rose, and his men placed deep chairs for us in a sheltered +corner, where we could look out across the blue to the low hills of the +moor. There was a fur rug over my chair, and I sank gratefully into the +warmth of it. + +"With a wind like this in the old days," Olaf said, as he stood beside +me looking out over the sparkling water, "how the sails would have been +spread, and now there is nothing but steam and gasoline and +electricity." + +"Why don't you have sails then," Nancy challenged him, "instead of +steam?" + +"I have a ship. Shall I show you the picture of it?" + +He left to get it, and Nancy said to me, "Ducky, will you pinch me?" + +"You mean that it doesn't seem real?" + +She nodded. + +"Well, maybe it isn't. He said he was a sort of Flying Dutchman." + +"I should hate to think that he wasn't real, Elizabeth. He is as alive +as a--burning coal." + +Olaf came back with the pictures of his ship, a clean-cut, beautiful +craft, very up-to-date, except for the dragon-heads at prow and stem. + +"If I could have had my way," he told us, "I should have built it like +the ship on the tapestry in there--but it wasn't practical--we haven't +manpower for the oars in these days." + +He had other pictures--of a strange house, or, rather, of a collection +of buildings set in the form of a quadrangle, and inclosed by low walls. +There were great gateways of carved wood with ironwork and views of the +interior--a wide hall with fireplaces--a raised platform, with carved +seats that gave a throne-like effect. The house stood on a sort of high +peninsula with a forest back of it, and the sea spreading out beyond. + +"The house looks old," Olaf said, "but I planned it." + +He had, he explained, during one of his voyages, come upon a hidden +harbor. "There is only a fishing village and a few small boats at the +landing place, but the people claim to be descendants of the vikings. +They are utterly isolated, but a God-fearing, hardy folk. + +"It is strangely cut off from the rest of the world. I call it 'The +Hidden Land.' It is not on any map. I have looked and have not found +it." + +"But why," was Nancy's demand, "did you build there?" + +It was a question, I think, for which he had waited. "Some day I may +tell you, but not now, except this--that I love the sea, and I shall end +my days where, when I open my gates, my eyes may rest upon it ... where +its storms may beat upon my roof, and where the men about me shall sail +it, and get their living from it. + +"I have told your cousin," he went on, "something of the life of my +grandfather and of my father. With all of their sea-blood, they were +shut away for two generations from the sea. Can you grasp the meaning of +that to me?--the heritage of suppressed longings? I think my father must +have felt it as I did, for he drank heavily before he died. My +grandfather sought an outlet in founding the family fortunes. But when I +came, there was not the compelling force of poverty to make me work, and +I had before me the warning of my father's excesses. But this +sea-madness! It has driven me on and on, and at last it has driven me +here." He stopped, then took up the theme again in his tense, excited +fashion, "It will drive me on again." + +"Why should it drive you on?" + +When Nancy asked that question, I knew what had happened. The thrill of +her voice was the answer of a bird to its mate. When I think of her, I +see her always as she was then, the blue cloak falling about her, her +hair blowing, her cheeks flaming with lovely color. + +I saw his fingers clench the arm of his chair as if in an effort of +self-control. Then he said: "Perhaps I shall tell you that, too. But not +now." He rose abruptly. "It is warmer inside, and we can have some +music. I am sure you must be tired of hearing me talk about myself." + +He played for us, in masterly fashion, the Peer Gynt suite, and after +that a composition of his own. At last he sang, with all the swing of +the sea in voice and accompaniment, and the song drew our hearts out of +us. + +Nancy was very quiet as we drove from the pier, and it was while I was +dressing for dinner that she came into my room. + +"Elizabeth," she said, "I am not sure whether we have been to a +Methodist revival or to a Wagner music-drama--" + +"Neither," I told her. "There's nothing artificial about him. You asked +me back there if he was real. I believe that he is utterly real, Nancy. +It is not a pose. I am convinced that it is not a pose." + +"Yes," she said, "that's the queer thing. He's not--putting it +on--and he makes everybody else seem--stale and shallow--like +ghosts--or--shadow-shapes--" + + * * * * * + +I read _Vanity Fair_ late into the night, and the morning was coming on +before I tried to sleep. I waked to find Nancy standing by my bed. + +"His boat is gone." + +"Gone?" + +"Yes. It went an hour ago. I saw it from the roof." + +"From the roof?" + +"Yes. I got up--early. I--I could not sleep. And when I looked--it was +gone--your glasses showed it almost out of sight." + +She was wrapped in the blue cloak. Olaf had made her bring it with her. +She had protested. But he had been insistent. + +"I found this in the pocket," Nancy said, and held out a card on which +Olaf had written, "When she lifted her arms, opening the door, a light +shone on them from the sea, and the air and all the world were +brightened for her." + +"What does it mean, Elizabeth?" + +"I think you know, my dear." + +"That he cares?" + +"What do you think?" + +Her eyes were like stars. "But how can he? He has seen me--twice--" + +"Some men are like that." + +"If you only hadn't told him about Anthony." + +"I am glad that I told him." + +"Oh, but he might have stayed." + +"Well?" + +"And I might have loved him." She was still glowing with the fires that +Olaf had lighted in her. + +"But you are going to marry Anthony." + +"Yes," she said, "I am going to marry Anthony. I am going to flirt and +smoke cigarettes and let him--flirt--when I might have been a--goddess." + +It was after breakfast on the same day that a letter came to me, +delivered into my own hands by messenger. It was from Olaf, and he left +it to me whether Nancy should see it. It covered many pages and it shook +my soul, but I did not show it to Nancy. + +There were nights after that when I found it hard to sleep, nights in +which I thought of Olaf sailing toward the hidden land, holding in his +heart a hope which it was in my power to crown with realization or dash +to the ground. Yet I had Nancy's happiness to think of, and, in a sense, +Anthony's. It seemed almost incredible that I must carry, too, on my +heart, the burden of the happiness of Olaf Thoresen. + +When Anthony came back, he and Nancy were caught in a net of +engagements, and I saw very little of them. Of course they romped in now +and then with their own particular crowd, and treated me, as it were, +to a cross-section of modern life. Except for two things, I should have +judged that Nancy had put away all thoughts of Olaf, but these two +things were significant. She had stopped smoking, and she no longer +touched her cheeks with artificial bloom. + +Anthony's amazement, when he offered her a cigarette and she refused, +had in it a touch of irritation. "But, my dear girl, why not?" + +"Well, I have to think of my complexion, Tony." + +I think he knew it was not that and was puzzled. "I never saw you +looking better in my life." + +She was wearing a girdle of blue with her clear, crisp white, and her +fairness was charming. She had, indeed, the look which belongs to young +Catholic girls dedicated to the Virgin who wear her colors. + +It was not, however, until Anthony had been home for a week that he saw +the blue cloak. We were all on the beach--Mimi Sears and Bob Needham and +the Drakes, myself and Anthony. Nancy was late, having a foursome to +finish on the golf grounds. She came at last, threading her way gayly +through the crowd of bathers. She was without her cap, and her hair was +wound in a thick braid about her head. I saw people turning to look at +her as they had never turned to look when she had worn her shadowy gray. + +"Great guns!" said a man back of me. "What a beauty!" + +A deep flush stained Anthony's face, and I knew at once that he did not +like it. It was as if, having attuned his taste to the refinement of a +Japanese print, he had been called upon to admire a Fra Angelico. He +hated the obvious, and Nancy's loveliness at this moment was as definite +as the loveliness of the sky, the sea, the moon, the stars. Later I was +to learn that Anthony's taste was for a sophisticated Nancy, a mocking +Nancy, a slim, mysterious creature, with charms which were caviar to the +mob. + +But Bob Needham spoke from the depths of his honest and undiscriminating +soul. "Heavens! Nancy. Where did you get it?" + +"Get what?" + +"That cloak." + +"Do you like it?" + +"Like it--! I wish Tony would run away while I tell you." + +Anthony, forcing a smile, asked, "Where did you get it, Nan?" + +"It was given to me." She sat down on the sand and smiled at him. + +Mrs. Drake, feeling the thickness and softness, exclaiming over the +embroidery, said finally: "It is a splendid thing. Like a queen's robe." + +"You haven't told us yet," Anthony persisted, "where you got it." + +"No? Well, Elizabeth will tell you. It's rather a long story. I am going +into the water. Come on, Bob." + +She left the cloak with me. Anthony followed her and the others. I sat +alone under a great orange umbrella and wondered if Anthony would ask me +about the cloak. + +He did not, and when Nancy came back finally with her hair down and +blowing in the wind to dry, Anthony was with her. The cloud was gone +from his face, in the battle with the wares he had forgotten his +vexation. + +But he remembered when he saw the cloak. "Tell me about it, Nancy." + +"I got it from Elizabeth's viking." + +That was the calm way in which she put it. + +"He isn't my viking," I told her. + +"Well, you were responsible for him." + +"Do you mean to say," Anthony demanded, "that you accepted a gift like +that from a man you didn't know?" + +Nancy, hugging herself in the cloak, said, "I felt that I knew him very +well." + +"How long was he here?" + +"Three days. I saw him twice." + +"I don't think I quite like the--idea--" Anthony began, then broke off. +"Of course you have a right to do as you please." + +"Of course," said Nancy, with a flame in her cheek. + +"But it would please me very much if you would send it back to him." + +"If I wanted to," she told him, "I couldn't." + +"Why not?" + +"Can you mail parcel post packages to the--Flying Dutchman? Or express +things to--to Odin?" + +"I don't in the least know what you are talking about, Nancy." + +"Well, he sailed in and he sailed out. He didn't leave any address. He +left the cloak--and a rather intriguing memory, Anthony." + +That was all the satisfaction she would give him. And I am not sure that +he deserved more at her hands. The agreement between them had +been--absolute freedom. + +I am convinced that if it had not been for the garden party I should +never have shown Olaf's letter to Nancy. The garden party is an annual +event. We always hold it in August, when the "off-islanders" crowd the +hotels, and when money is more plentiful than at any other time during +the year. + +Nancy had charge of the fish pond. I had helped her to make the fish, +which were gay objects of painted paper, numbered to indicate a +corresponding prize package, and to be caught with a dangling line from +a lily-wreathed artificial pool. + +The day of the garden party was a glorious one--with the air so clear +that the flying pennants of the decorated booths, and the gowns of the +women, gained brilliancy and beauty from the shining atmosphere. + +Nancy wore a broad blue hat which matched her eyes, one of her clear +white dresses, and a silken scarf of the same blue as her hat. She loved +children, and as she stood in a circle of them all the afternoon, +untiring, eager--bending down to them, hooking the fish on the dangling +line--handing out the prizes, smiling into the flushed eager faces, +helping the very littlest ones to achieve a catch, I sat in a chair not +far away from her and watched. I saw Anthony come and go, urging her to +let some one else take her place, pressing a dozen reasons upon her for +desertion of her task, and coming back, when she refused, to complain to +me: + +"Such things are a deadly bore." + +"Not to Nancy." + +"But they used to be. She's changed, Elizabeth." + +"Beautifully changed." + +"I am not sure. She was always such, a good sport." + +"And isn't she now?" + +"She is different," he caught himself up, "but of course--adorable." + +Mimi Sears joined us, and she and Anthony went off together. Bob Needham +hung around Nancy until she sent him away. At last the hour arrived for +the open-air play which was a special attraction, and the crowds surged +toward the inclosure. The booths were deserted, and only one +rapturous child remained by the fish pond. + +Nancy sat down and lifted the baby to her lap. She had taken off her +hat, and her blue scarf fell about her. Something tugged at my heart as +I looked at her. With that little head in the hollow of her arm she was +the eternal mother. + +I saw Anthony approaching. He stopped, and I caught his words. "You must +come now, Nancy. I am saving a seat for you." + +She shook her head, and looked down at the child. "I told his nurse to +go and he is almost asleep." + +He flung himself away from her and came over to me. "I have good seats +for both of you in the enclosure. But Nancy won't go." + +I rose and went with him, although I should have been content to sit +there by the fish pond and feast my eyes on Nancy. + +"It is perfectly silly of her to stay," Anthony fumed as we walked on +together. + +"But she loves the children." + +"I hate children." + +I am sure that he did not mean it. What he hated was the fact that the +child had for the moment held Nancy from him. It was as if, looking +forward into the future, he could see like moments, and set himself +against the thought of any interruption of what might be otherwise an +untrammeled and independent partnership. He had, I think, little +jealousy where men were concerned. He was willing to give Nancy the +reins and let her go, believing that she would inevitably come back to +him. He was not, perhaps, so willing to trust her with ties which might +prove more absorbing than himself. + +If I had not had Olaf's letter, I might not have weighed Anthony's +attitude so carefully, but against those burning words and their +comprehension of the divinity and beauty of my Nancy's nature, Anthony's +querulous complaint struck cold. + +I think it was then, as we walked toward the inclosure, that I made +up my mind to let Nancy hear what Olaf had to say to her. + +She stayed out late that night--there was a dinner and a dance--and +Anthony brought her home. I confess that I felt like a traitor as I +heard the murmur of his voice in the hall. + +But when he had gone, and Nancy passed my door on her way to her room, I +called her, and she came in. + +I was in bed, and I had the letter in my hand. "I want you to read it," +I said. "It is from Olaf Thoresen." + +She looked at it, and asked, "When did it come?" + +"Two months ago. The day that he left." + +"Why haven't you shown it to me?" + +"I couldn't make up my mind. I do not know even now that I am right in +letting you see it. But I feel that you have a right to see it. It is +you who must answer it. Not I." + +When she had gone, I turned to the chapter in my book where Becky weeps +crocodile tears over poor Rawdon Crawley on the night before Waterloo. +There is no scene in modern literature to match it. But I couldn't get +my mind on it. Nancy was reading Olaf's letter! + +I kept a copy of it, and here it is: + + "I knew when I first saw her in the garden that she was the One + Woman. I had wanted sea-blood, and when she came, ready for a dip + in the sea, it seemed a sign. One knows these things somehow, and I + knew. I shan't attempt to explain it. + + "When you told me of her lover, I felt that Fate had played a trick + on me. I could not now with honor pursue the woman who was promised + to another. Yet I permitted myself that one day--the day on my + boat. + + "I learned in those hours that I spent with her that she had been + molded by the man she is to marry and that in the years to come she + will shrink to the measure of his demands upon her. She is feminine + enough to be swayed by masculine will. That is at once her strength + and her weakness. Loving a man who will love her for the wonder of + her womanhood, she will fulfill her greatest destiny. Loving, on + the other hand, one who aspires only to fit her into some + attenuated social scheme, she will wither and fade. I think you + know that this is true, that you will not accuse me of being unfair + to any one. + + "And now may I tell you what my dreams have been for her? + + "I am not young. I mean I am past those hot and early years when + men play--Romeo. The dream that is mine is one which has come to a + man of thirty, who, having seen the world, has weighed it and + wants--something more. + + "I have told you of my house in that hidden land which is washed by + the sea. I want to spend the rest of my days there, and I had hoped + that some woman might be found whose love of life, whose love of + adventure, whose love of me, might be so strong that she would see + nothing strange in my demand that she forsake all others and cleave + only to me. + + "By forsaking all others, I mean, literally, what I say. I should + want to cut her off entirely from all former ties. To let any one + into our secret, to reveal that hidden land to a gaping world, + would be to destroy it. We should be followed, tracked by the + newspapers, written up, judged eccentric--mad. And I do not wish to + be judged at all. My separation from my kind would have in it more + than a selfish whim, an obsession for solitude. I want to get back + to primitive civilization. I want my children to face a simpler + world than the one I faced. Do you know what it means for a man to + inherit money, with nothing back of it for two generations but hard + work, although back of that there were, perhaps, kings? It means + that I had, unaided, to fit myself into a social scheme so complex + that I have not yet mastered its intricacies. I do not want to + master them. I do not want my sons to master them. I want them to + find life a thing of the day's work, the day's worship, the day's + out-of-door delights. I want them to have time to think and to + dream. And then some day they shall come back if they wish to + challenge civilization--young prophets, perhaps, out of the + wilderness--seeing a new vision of God and man because of their + detachment from all that might have blinded them. + + "I have a feeling that your Nancy might, if she knew this, dream + with me of a new race, rising to the level of the needs of a new + world. She might see herself as the mother of such a + race--sheltered in my hidden land, sailing the seas with me, held + close to my heart. I think I am a masterful man, but I should be + masterful only to keep her to her best. If she faltered I should + strengthen her. And I should make her happy. I know that I could + make her happy. And for me there will never be another. + + "I am leaving it to you to decide whether you will show her this. I + want her to see it, because it seems to me that she has a right to + decide between the life that I can offer her and the life she must + live if she marries Anthony Peak. But it all involves a point of + honor which I feel that I am not unprejudiced enough to decide. So + to-morrow I shall go away. I shall sail far in the two months that + I shall give myself before I come back. And when I come, you will + let me know whether I am to turn once more to the trackless seas, + or stay to find my happiness." + +This letter when I had first read it had stirred me profoundly, as I +think it must have stirred any man or woman who has yearned amid the +complexities of modern existence to find some land of dreams. Even to my +island, comparatively untouched by the problems of existence in crowded +centers, come the echoes of discord, of social unrest, of political +upheavals, of commercial greed. In this hidden land of Olaf's would be +life stripped of its sordidness, love free from the blight of cynicism +and disillusion--faith, firm in its nearness to God and the wonder of +His works. I envied Olaf his hidden land as I envied Nancy her +opportunity. My blood is the same as Nancy's, and I love the sea. And as +we grow older our souls adventure! + +When Nancy came in to me, she had put on her white _peignoir_, and she +had Olaf's letter in her hand. + +"Ducky," she said, and her voice shook, "I have read it twice--and--I +shouldn't dare to think he was in earnest." + +"Why not?" + +"I should want to go, Elizabeth." + +"And leave the world behind you?" + +"Oh, I haven't any world. It might be different if mother were alive, or +daddy. There'd be only you, Ducky, my dear, dear Ducky." She caught my +hand and held it. + +"And Anthony--" + +"Anthony would get over it"--sharply. "Wouldn't he, Elizabeth? You know +he would." + +"My dear, I don't know." + +"But I know. If I hadn't been in his life, Mimi Sears would have been, +just as Bob Needham would have been in my life if it hadn't been for +Anthony. There isn't any question between Anthony and me of--one woman +for one man. You know that, Elizabeth. But with Olaf--if he doesn't have +me, there will be no one else--ever. He--he will go sailing on--alone--" + +"My dear, how do you know?" + +She flung herself down beside me, a white rose, all fragrance. "I don't +know"--she began to cry. "How silly I am," she sobbed against my +shoulder. "I--I don't know anything about him, do I, Elizabeth--? But it +would be wonderful to be loved--like that." + +All through the night she slept on my arm, with her hand curled in the +hollow of my neck as she had slept as a child. But I did not sleep. My +mind leaped forward into the future, and I saw my world without her. + + * * * * * + +Nancy stayed with me through September. Anthony's holiday was up the +day after the garden party, and he went back to Boston, keeping touch +with Nancy in the modern way by wire, special delivery, and +long-distance telephone. + +It was on a stormy night with wind and beating rain that Nancy told me +Anthony was insisting that she marry him in December. + +"But I can't, Elizabeth. I am going to write to him to-night." + +"When will it be?" + +"Who knows? I--I'm not ready. If he can't wait--he can let me go." + +She did not stay to listen to my comment on her mutiny--she swept out of +the library and sat down at the piano in the other room, making a +picture of herself between the tall white candles which illumined the +dark mahogany and the mulberry brocades. + +I leaned back in my chair and watched her, her white fingers straying +over the keys, her thin blue sleeves flowing back from her white arms. +Now and then I caught a familiar melody among the chords, and once I was +aware of the beat and the swing of the waves in the song which Olaf had +once sung. + +She did not finish it. She rose and wandered to the window, parting the +curtain and looking out into the streaming night. + +"It's an awful storm, Ducky." + +"Yes, my dear. On nights like this I always think of the old days when +the men were on the sea, and the women waited." + +"I'd rather think of my man on the sea, even if I had to wait for him, +Ducky, than shut up in office, stagnating." + +The door-bell rang suddenly. It was a dreadful night for any one to be +out, but Anita, undisturbed and crisp in her white apron and cap, came +through the hall. A voice asked a question, and the blood began to pound +in my body. Things were blurred for a bit, and when my vision cleared--I +saw Olaf in the shine of the candles in the room beyond, with Nancy +crushed to him, his bright head bent, the sheer blue of her frock +infolding him--the archway of the door framing them like the figures of +saints in the stained glass of a church window! + +I knew then that I had lost her. But she did not yield at once. + +"I love him, of course. But a woman couldn't do a thing like that," was +the way she put it to me the next morning. + +I felt, however, that Olaf would master her. Will was set against will, +mind against mind. And at last she showed him the way. "A thousand years +ago you would have carried me off." + +I can see him now as he caught the idea and laughed at her. "Whether you +go of your own accord or I carry you, you will be happy." He lifted her +in his strong hands as if she were a feather, held her, kissed her, and +flashed a glance at me. "You see how easy it would be, and there's a +chaplain on board." + +There is not much more to tell. Nancy went down one morning to the beach +for her bath--and the fog swallowed her up. I have often wondered +whether she planned it, or whether, knowing that she would be there, he +had come in his launch and had borne her away struggling, but not, I am +sure, unwilling. However it happened, the cloak went with her, and I +like to think that she was held in his arms, wrapped in it, when they +reached the ship. + +I like to think, too, of my Nancy in the glowing room with the wolfskins +and the strange old tapestry--and the storms beating helpless against +her happiness. + +I like to think of her as safe in that hidden land, where most of us +fain would follow her--the mistress of that guarded mansion, the wife of +a young sea god, the mother of a new race. + +But, most of all, I like to think of the children. And I have but one +wish for a long life, which might otherwise weigh upon me, that the +years may bring back to the world those prophets from a hidden land, +those young voices crying from the wilderness--the children of Olaf and +of Nancy Greer. + + + + +WHITE BIRCHES + +I + + +A woman, who under sentence of death could plan immediately for a trip +to the circus, might seem at first thought incredibly light-minded. + +You had, however, to know Anne Dunbar and the ten years of her married +life to understand. Her husband was fifteen years her senior, and he had +few illusions. He had fallen in love with Anne because of a certain gay +youth in her which had endured throughout the days of a dreadful +operation and a slow convalescence. He had been her surgeon, and, +propped up in bed, Anne's gray eyes had shone upon him, the red-gold +curls of her cropped hair had given her a look of almost boyish beauty, +and this note of boyishness had been emphasized by the straight +slenderness of the figure outlined beneath the white covers. + +Anne had married Ridgeley Dunbar because she loved him. And love to Anne +had been all fire and flame and spirit. It did not take her long to +learn that her husband looked upon love and life as matters of flesh and +blood--and bones. By degrees his materialism imposed itself upon Anne. +She admired Ridgeley immensely. She worshiped, in fact, the wonder of +his day's work. He healed the sick, he cured the halt and blind, and he +scoffed at Anne's superstitions--"I can match every one of your Bible +miracles. There's nothing to it, my dear. Death is death and life is +life--so make the most of it." + +Anne tried to make the most of it. But she found it difficult. In the +first place her husband was a very busy man. He seemed to be perfectly +happy with his cutting people up, and his medical books, and the +articles which he wrote about the intricate clockwork inside of us which +ticks off the hours from birth to death. Now and then he went out to the +theatre with his wife or to dine with friends. But, as a rule, she went +alone. She had a limousine, a chauffeur, a low swung touring car--and an +electric. Her red hair was still wonderful, and she dressed herself +quite understanding in grays and whites and greens. If she did not wear +habitually her air of gay youth, it was revived in her now and then when +something pleased or excited her. And her eyes would shine as they had +shone in the hospital when Ridgeley Dunbar had first bent over her bed. + +They shone on Christopher Carr when he came home from the war. He was a +friend of her husband. Or rather, as a student in the medical school, he +had listened to the lectures of the older man, and had made up his mind +to know him personally, and had thus, by sheer persistence, linked their +lives together. + +Anne had never met him. He had been in India When she had married +Ridgeley, and then there had been a few years in Egypt where he had +studied some strange germ, of which she could never remember the name. +He had plenty of money, hence he was not tied to a practice. But when +the war began, he had offered his services, and had made a great record. +"He is one of the big men of the future," Ridgeley Dunbar had said. + +But when Christopher came back with an infected arm, which might give +him trouble, it was not the time to talk of futures. He was invited to +spend July at the Dunbars' country home in Connecticut, and Ridgeley +brought him out at the week-end. + +The Connecticut estate consisted of a rambling stone house, an +old-fashioned garden, and beyond the garden a grove of white birches. + +"What a heavenly place," Christopher said, toward the end of dinner; +"how did you happen to find it?" + +"Oh, Anne did it. She motored for weeks, and she bought it because of +the birches." + +Anne's eyes were shining. "I'll show them to you after dinner." + +She had decided at once that she liked Christopher. He still wore his +uniform, and had the look of a soldier. But it wasn't that--it was the +things he had been saying ever since the soup was served. No one had +talked of the war as he talked of it. There had been other doctors whose +minds had been on arms and legs--amputated; on wounds and shell +shock--And there had been a few who had sentimentalized. But Christopher +had seemed neither to resent the frightfulness nor to care about the +moral or spiritual consequences. He had found in it all a certain beauty +of which he spoke with enthusiasm--"A silver dawn, and a patch of Blue +Devils like smoke against it--;" ... "A blood-red sunset, and a lot of +airmen streaming across--" + +He painted pictures, so that Anne saw battles as if a great brush had +splashed them on an invisible canvas. There were just four at the +table--the two men, Anne, and her second cousin, Jeanette Ware, who +lived the year round in the Connecticut house, and was sixty and +slightly deaf, but who wore modern clothes and had a modern mind. + +It was not yet dark, and the light of the candles in sconces and on the +table met the amethyst light that came through, the wide-flung lattice. +Anne's summer gown was something very thin in gray, and she wore an +Indian necklace of pierced silver beads. Christopher had sent it to her +as a wedding-present and she had always liked it. + +When they rose from the table, Christopher said, "Now for the birches." + +Somewhere in the distance the telephone rang, and a maid came in to say +that Dr. Dunbar was wanted. "Don't wait for me," he said, "I'll follow +you." + +Jeanette Ware hated the night air, and took her book to the lamp on the +screened porch, and so it happened that Anne and Christopher came alone +to the grove where the white bodies of the birches shone like slender +nymphs through the dusk. A little wind shook their leaves. + +"No wonder," said Christopher, looking down at Anne, "that you wanted +this--but tell me precisely why." + +She tried to tell him, but found it difficult. "I seem to find something +here that I thought I had lost." + +"What things?" + +"Well--guardian angels--do you believe in them?" She spoke lightly, as +if it were not in the least serious, but he felt that it was serious. + +"I believe in all beautiful things--" + +"I used to think when I was a little girl that they were around me when +I was asleep-- + + 'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John-- + Bless the bed that I lie on--'" + +her laugh was a bit breathless--"but I don't believe in them any more. +Ridgeley doesn't, you know. And it does seem silly--" + +"Oh, no, it isn't--" + +"Ridgeley feels that it is a bit morbid--and perhaps he is right. He +says that we must eat and drink and--be merry," she flung out her hands +with a little gesture of protest, "but he really isn't merry--" + +"I see. He just eats and drinks?" He smiled at her. + +"And works. And his work is--wonderful." + +They sat down on a stone bench which had been hewn out of solid gray +rock. "I wish Ridgeley had time to play," Anne said; "it would be nice +for both of us--" + +The amethyst light had gone, and the dusk descended. Anne's gray dress +was merged into the gray of the rock. She seemed just voice, and phantom +outline, and faint rose fragrance. Christopher recognized the scent. He +had sent her a precious vial in a sandalwood box. Nothing had seemed too +good for the wife of his old friend Dunbar. + +"Life for you and Ridgeley," he told her, "should be something more than +work or play--it should be infinite adventure." + +"Yes. But Ridgeley hasn't time for adventure." + +"Oh, he thinks he hasn't--" + +As Christopher talked after that, Anne was not sure that he was in +earnest. He complained that romance had fallen into disrepute. "With all +the modern stories--you know the formula--an ounce of sordidness, a +flavor of sensationalism, a dash of sex--" One had to look back for the +real thing--Aucassin and Nicolette, and all the rest. "That's why I +haven't married." + +"Well, I have often wondered." + +"If I loved a woman, I should want to make her life all glow and +color--and mine--with her--" + +Anne's eyes were shining. What a big pleasant boy he was. He seemed so +young. He had a way of running his fingers up through his hair. She was +aware of the gesture in the dark. Yes, she liked him. And she felt +suddenly gay and light-hearted, as she had felt in the days when she +first met Ridgeley. + +They talked until the stars shone in the tips of the birch trees. +Ridgeley did not come, and when they went back to the house, they found +that he had been called to New York on an urgent case. He would not +return until the following Friday. + +Anne and Christopher were thus left together for a week to get +acquainted. With only old Jeanette Ware to play propriety. + + + +II + + +It did not take Christopher long to decide that Ridgeley was no longer +in love with his wife. "Of course he would call it love. But he could +live just as well without her. He has made a machine of himself." + +He spoke to Dunbar one night about Anne. "Do you think she is perfectly +well?" + +"Why not?" + +"There's a touch of breathlessness when we walk. Are you sure about her +heart?" + +"She has never been strong--" and that had seemed to be the end of it. + +But it was not the end of it for Christopher. He watched Anne closely, +and once when they climbed a hill together and she gave out, he carried +her to the top. He managed to get his ear against her heart, and what he +heard drained the blood from his face. + +As for Anne, she thought how strong he was--and how fair his hair was +with the sun upon it, for he had tucked his cap in his pocket. + +That night Christopher again spoke to Ridgeley. "Anne's in a bad way." +He told of the walk to the top of the hill. + +Ridgeley listened this time, and the next day he took Anne down into his +office, and did things to her. "But I don't see why you are doing all +this," she complained, as he stuck queer instruments in his ears, and +made her draw long breaths while he listened. + +"Christopher says you get tired when you walk." + +"Well, I do. But there's nothing really the matter, is there?" + +There was a great deal the matter, but there was no hint of it in his +manner. If she had not been his wife, he would probably have told her +the truth--that she had a few months, perhaps a few years ahead of her. +He was apt to be frank with his patients. But he was not frank with +Anne. He had intended to tell Christopher at once. But Christopher was +away for a week. + +In the week that he was separated from her, Christopher learned that he +loved Anne; that he had been in love with her from the moment that she +had stood among the birches--like one of them in her white +slenderness--and had talked to him of guardian angels;--"_Matthew, Mark, +Luke, and John_!" + +He did not believe in saints, nor in the angels whose wings seemed to +enfold Anne, but he believed in beauty--and Anne's seemed lighted from +within, like an alabaster lamp. + +Yet she was very human--and the girl in her and the boy in him had met +in the weeks that he had spent with her. They had found a lot of things +to do--they had fished in shallow brown streams, they had ridden +through miles of lovely country. They had gone forth in search of +adventure, and they had found it; in cherries on a tree by the road, and +he had climbed the tree and had dropped them down to her, and she had +hung them over her ears--He had milked a cow in a pasture as they +passed, and they had drunk it with their sandwiches, and had tied up a +bill in Anne's fine handkerchief and had knotted it to the halter of the +gentle, golden-eared Guernsey. + +But they had found more than adventure--they had found romance--shining +upon them everywhere. "If I were a gipsy to follow the road, and she +could follow it with me," Christopher meditated as he sat in the train +on his way back to Anne. + +But there was Anne's husband, and Christopher's friend--and more than +all there were all the specters of modern life--all the hideous wheels +which must turn if Anne were ever to be his--treachery to Ridgeley--the +divorce court--and then, himself and Anne, living the aftermath, of it +all, facing, perhaps, disillusion-- + +"Oh, not _that_," Christopher told himself, "she'd never grow +less--never anything less than she is--if she could once--care--" + +For he did not know whether Anne cared or not. He might guess as he +pleased--but there had not been a word between them. + +Once more the thought flashed, "If I were a gipsy to follow the road--" + +As his train sped through the countryside, he became aware of flaming +bill-boards--a circus was showing in the towns--the fences fairly blazed +with golden chariots, wild beasts, cheap gods and goddesses, clowns in +frilled collars and peaked hats. He remembered a glorious day that he +had spent as a boy! + +"I'll take Anne," was his sudden decision. + +He laughed to himself, and spent the rest of the way in seeing her at +it. They would drink pink lemonade, and there would be pop-corn +balls--the entrancing smell of sawdust--the beat of the band. He hoped +there would be a tom-tom, and some of the dark people from the Far East. + +He reached his destination at seven o'clock. Dunbar met him at the +station. Anne sat with her husband, and Jeanette was in the back seat. +Christopher had, therefore, a side view of Anne as she turned a little +that she might talk to him. The glint of her bright hair under her gray +sports hat, the light of welcome in her eyes--! + +"I am going to take you to the circus to-morrow. Ridgeley, you'll go +too?" + +Dunbar shook his head. "I've got to get back to town in the morning. And +I'm not sure that the excitement will be good for Anne." + +"Why not?" quickly. "Aren't you well, Anne?" + +She shrugged her shoulders. "Ridgeley seems to think I'm not. But the +circus can't hurt me." + +Nothing more was said about it. Christopher decided to ask Ridgeley +later. But the opportunity did not come until Anne had gone up-stairs, +and Dunbar and Christopher were smoking a final cigar on the porch. + +"What's the matter with her?" Christopher asked. + +Dunbar told him, "She can't get well." + + + +III + + +Anne, getting ready for bed, on the evening of Christopher's arrival, +felt unaccountably tired. His presence had been, perhaps, a bit +over-stimulating. It was good to have him back. She scarcely dared admit +to herself how good. After dinner she and Ridgeley and Christopher had +walked down to the grove of birches. There had been a new moon, and she +and Ridgeley had sat on the stone bench with Christopher at their feet. +She had leaned her head against her husband's shoulder, and he had put +his arm about her in the dark and had drawn her to him. He was rarely +demonstrative, and his tenderness had to-night for some reason hurt her. +She had learned to do without it. + +She had talked very little, but Christopher had talked a great deal. She +had been content to listen. He really told such wonderful things--he +gave her to-night the full story of her silver beads, and how they had +been filched from an ancient temple--and he had bought them from the +thief. "Until I saw you wear them, I always had a feeling that they +ought to go back to the temple--to the god who had perhaps worn them for +a thousand years. If I had known which god, I might have carried them +back. But the thief wouldn't tell me." + +"It would have done no good to carry them back," Ridgeley had said, "and +they are nice for Anne." His big hand had patted his wife's shoulder. + +"Oh," Christopher had been eager, "I want you to hear those temple bells +some day, Anne. Why won't you take her, Dunbar? Next winter--drop your +work, and we'll all go--" + +"I've a fat chance of going." + +"Haven't you made money enough?" + +"It isn't money. You know that. But my patients would set up a howl--" + +"Let 'em howl. You've got a life of your own to live, and so has Anne." + +Dunbar had hesitated for a moment--then, "Anne's better off here." + +Anne, thinking of these things as she got out of her dinner dress and +into a sheer negligee of lace and faint blue, wondered why Ridgeley +should think she was better off. She wanted to see the things of which +Christopher had told her--to hear the temple bells in the dusk--the beat +of the tom-tom on white nights. + +She stood at the window looking out at the moon. She decided that she +could not sleep. She would go down and get a book that she had left on +the table. The men were out-of-doors, on the porch; she heard the murmur +of their voices. + +The voices were distinct as she stood in the library, and Christopher's +words came to her, "What's the matter with Anne?" + +Then her husband's technical explanation, the scientific name which +meant nothing to her, then the crashing climax, "She can't get well." + +She gave a quick cry, and when the men got into the room, she was +crumpled up on the floor. + +Her husband reached her first. "My dear," he said, "you heard?" + +"Yes. Do you mean that I am--going to die, Ridgeley?" + +There was, of course, no way out of it. "It means, my dear, that I've +got to take awfully good care of you. Your heart is bad." + +Christopher interposed. "People live for years with a heart like that." + +But her eyes sought her husband's. "How long do they live?" + +"Many months--perhaps years--without excitement--" + +This then had been the reason for his tenderness. He had known that she +was going to die, and was sorry. But for ten years she had wanted what +he might have given her--what he couldn't give her now--life as she had +dreamed of it. + +She drew a quivering breath--"It isn't quite fair--is it?" + +It didn't seem fair. The two doctors had faced much unfairness of the +kind of which she complained. But it was the first time that, for either +of them, it had come so close. + +They had little comfort to give her, although they attempted certain +platitudes, and presently Ridgeley carried her to her room. + + + +IV + + +She insisted the next morning on going to the circus with Christopher. +She had not slept well, and there were shadows under her eyes. The +physician in Christopher warred with the man. "You ought to rest," he +said at breakfast. Dunbar had gone to New York in accordance with his +usual schedule. There were other lives to think of; and Anne, when he +had looked in upon her that morning, had seemed almost shockingly +callous. + +"No, I don't want to stay in bed, Ridgeley. I am going to the circus. I +shall follow your prescription--to eat and drink and be merry--" + +"I don't think I have put it quite that way, Anne." + +"You have. Quite. 'Death is death and life is life--so make the most of +it.'" + +Perhaps she was cruel. But he knew, too, that she was afraid. "My dear," +he said gently, "if you can get any comfort out of your own ideas, it +might be better." + +"But you believe they are just my own ideas--you don't believe they are +true?" + +"I should like to think they were true." + +"You ought to rest," said Christopher at the breakfast table. + +"I ought not. There are to be no more oughts--ever--" + +He nodded as if he understood, leaning elbows on the table. + +"I am going to pack the days full"--she went on. "Why not? I shall have +only a few months--and then--annihilation--" She flung her question +across the table. "You believe that, don't you?" + +He evaded. "We sleep--'perchance to dream.'" + +"I don't want to dream. They might be horrid dreams--" + +And then Jeanette came down, and poured their coffee, and asked about +the news in the morning paper. + +Dressed for her trip to the circus, Anne looked like a girl in her +teens--white skirt and short green coat--stout sports shoes and white +hat. She wore her silver beads, and Christopher said, "I'm not sure that +I would if I were you." + +"Why not?" + +"In such a crowd." + +But she kept them on. + +They motored to the circus grounds, and came in out of the white glare +to the cool dimness of the tent as if they had dived from the sun-bright +surface of the sea. But there the resemblance ceased. Here was no +silence, but blatant noise--roar and chatter and shriek, the beat of the +tom-tom, the thin piping of a flute--the crash of a band. But it was the +thin piping which Christopher followed, guiding Anne with his hand on +her arm. + +Following the plaintive note, they came at last to the snake-charmer--an +old man in a white turban. The snakes were in a covered basket. He sat +with his feet under him and piped. + +Christopher spoke to him in a strange tongue. The piping broke off +abruptly and the man answered with eagerness. There was a quick +interchange of phrases. + +"I know his village," Christopher said; "he is going to show you his +snakes." + +A crowd gathered, but the snake-charmer saw only the big man who had +spoken to his homesick heart, and the girl with the silver beads. He +knew another girl who had had a string of beads like that--and they had +brought her luck--a dark-skinned girl, his daughter. Her husband had +bestowed the beads on her marriage night, and her first child had been a +son. + +He put the thin reed to his lips, and blew upon it. The snakes lifted +their heads. He drew them up and out of the basket, and put them through +their fantastic paces. Then he laid aside his pipe, shut them in their +basket, and spoke to Christopher. + +"He says that no evil can teach you while you wear the beads," +Christopher told Anne. + +The old man, with his eyes on her intent face, spoke again. "What you +think is evil--cannot be evil," Christopher interpreted. "The gods know +best." + +They moved toward the inner tent. + +"Are you tired?" Christopher asked. "We don't have to stay." + +"I want to stay," and so they went in, and presently with a blare of +trumpets the great parade began. They looked down on men and women in +Roman chariots, men on horseback, women on horseback, on elephants, on +camels--painted ladies in howdahs, painted ladies in sedan +chairs--Cleopatra, Pompadour--history reduced to pantomime, color +imposed upon color, glitter upon glitter, the beat of the tom-tom, the +crash of the band, the thin piping, as the white-turbaned snake-charmer +showed in the press of the crowd. + +Christopher's eyes went to Anne. She was leaning forward, one hand +clasping the silver beads. He would have given much to know what was in +her mind. How little she was and how young. And how he wanted to get her +away from the thing which hung suspended over her like a keen-edged +sword. + +But to get her away--how? He could never get her away from her thoughts. +Unless.... + +Suddenly he heard her laughing. Two clowns were performing with a lot of +little dogs. One of the dogs was a poodle who played the fool. "What a +darling," Anne was saying. + +There was more than they could look at--each ring seemed a separate +circus--one had to have more than a single pair of eyes. Christopher was +blind to it all--except when Anne insisted, "Look--look!" + +Six acrobats were in the ring--four men and two women. Their tights were +of a clear shimmering blue, with silver trunks. One could not tell the +women from the men, except by their curled heads, and their smaller +stature. They were strong, wholesome, healthy. Christopher knew the +quality of that health--hearts that pumped like machines--obedient +muscles under satin skins. One of the women whirled in a series of +handsprings, like a blue balloon--her body as fluid as quicksilver. If +he could only borrow one-tenth of that endurance for Anne--he might keep +her for years. + +Then came Pantaloon, and Harlequin and Columbine. The old man was funny, +but the youth and the girl were exquisite--he, diamond-spangled and lean +as a lizard, she in tulle skirts and wreath of flowers. They did all the +old tricks of masks and slapping sticks, of pursuit and retreat, but +they did them so beautifully that Anne and Christopher sat +spellbound--what they were seeing was not two clever actors on a sawdust +stage, but love in its springtime--girl and boy--dreams, rapture, +radiance. + +Then, in a moment, Columbine was dead, and Harlequin wept over +her--frost had killed the flower--love and life were at an end. + +Christopher was drawing deep breaths. Anne was tense. But +now--Columbine was on her feet, and Harlequin was blowing kisses to the +audience! + +"Let's get out of this," Christopher said, almost roughly, and led Anne +down the steps and into the almost deserted outer tent. They looked for +the snake-charmer, but he was gone. "Eating rice somewhere or saying his +prayers," Christopher surmised. + +"How could he know about the gods?" Anne asked, as they drove home. + +"They know a great deal--these old men of the East," Christopher told +her, and talked for the rest of the way about the strange people among +whom he had spent so many years. + + + +V + + +Ridgeley did not come home to dinner. He telephoned that he would be +late. It was close and warm. Christopher, sitting with Anne and Jeanette +on the porch, decided that a storm was brewing. + +Anne was restless. She went down into the garden, and Christopher +followed her. She wore white, and he was aware of the rose scent. He +picked a rose for her as he passed through the garden. "Bend your head, +and I'll put it in your hair." + +"I can't wear pink." + +"It is white in the dusk--" He put his hands on her shoulders, stopped +her, and stuck the rose behind her ear. Then he let her go. + +They came to the grove of birches, and sat down on the stone seat. It +had grown dark, and the lightning flashing up from the horizon gave to +the birches a spectral whiteness--Anne was a silver statue. + +"It was queer," she said, "about the old man at the circus." + +"About the beads?" + +"Yes. I wonder what he meant, Christopher? _'What you think is +evil--cannot be evil'?_ Do you think he meant--Death?" + +He did not answer at once, then he said, abruptly, "Anne, how did it +happen that you and Ridgeley drifted apart?" + +"Oh, it's hard to tell." + +"But tell me." + +"Well, when we were first married, I expected so much ... things that +girls dream about--that he would always have me in his thoughts, and +that our lives would be knit together. I think we both tried hard to +have it that way. I used to ride with him on his rounds, and he would +tell me about his patients. And at night I'd wait up for him, and have +something to eat, and it was--heavenly. Ridgeley was so ... fine. But +his practice got so big, and sometimes he wouldn't say a word when I +rode with him.... And he would be so late coming in at night, and he'd +telephone that I'd better go to bed.... And, well, that was the +beginning. I don't think it is really his fault or mine ... it's just +... life." + +"It isn't life, and you know it," passionately. "Anne, if you had +married me ... do you think...?" He reached out in the dark and took +her hand. "Oh, my dear, we might as well talk it out." + +She withdrew her hand. "Talk what out?" + +"You know. I've learned to care for you an awful lot. I had planned to +go away. But I can't go now ... not and leave you to face things alone." + +He heard her quick breath. "But I've got to face them." + +"But not alone. Anne, do you remember what you said ... this morning? +That you were going to pack the days full? And you can't do that without +some one to help you. And Ridgeley won't help. Anne, let me do it. Let +me take you away from here ... away from Ridgeley. We will go where we +can hear the temple bells. We'll ride through the desert ... we'll set +our sails for strange harbors. We'll love until we forget everything, +but the day, the hour,--the moment! And when the time comes for endless +dreams...." + +"Christopher...." + +"Anne, listen." + +"You mustn't say things like that to me ... you must not...!" + +"I must. I want you to have happiness. We'll crowd more in to a few +short months than some people have in a lifetime. And you have a right +to it." + +"Would it be happiness?" + +"Why not? In a way we are all pushing death ahead of us. Who knows that +he will be alive to-morrow? There's this arm of mine ... there's every +chance that I'll have trouble with it. And an automobile accident may +wreck a honeymoon. You've as much time as thousands who are counting on +more." + +The lightning flashed and showed the birches writhing. + +"But afterward, Christopher, _afterward_...?" + +"Well, if it is Heaven, we'll have each other. And if it is Hell ... +there were Paolo and Francesca ... and if it is sleep, I'll dream +eternally of you! Anne ... Anne, do you love me enough to do it?" + +"Christopher, please!" + +But the storm was upon them--rain and wind, and the thunder a cannonade. +Christopher, brought at last to the knowledge of its menace, picked Anne +up in his arms, and ran for shelter. When they reached the house, they +found Ridgeley there. He was stern. "It was a bad business to keep her +out. She's afraid of storms." + +"Were you afraid?" Christopher asked her, as Ridgeley went to look after +the awnings. + +"I forgot the storm," she said, and did not meet his eyes. + + + +VI + + +Lying awake in her wide bed, Anne thought it over. She was still shaken +by Christopher's vehemence. She had believed him her friend, and had +found him her lover--and oh, he had brought back youth to her. If he +left her now, how could she stand it--the days with no one but Jeanette +Ware, and the soul-shaking knowledge of what was ahead? + +And Ridgeley would not care--much. In a week be swallowed up by his +work.... + +She tried to read, but found it difficult. Across each page flamed +Christopher's sentences.... "We'll ride through the desert.... We'll set +our sails for strange harbors...." + +Was that what the old man had meant at the circus.... "What you think is +evil--cannot be evil"? Would Christopher give her all that she had hoped +of Ridgeley? If she lived to be eighty, she and Ridgeley would--jog. Was +Christopher right--"You'll have more happiness in a few months than some +people in a lifetime?" + +She heard her husband moving about in the next room, the water booming +in his bath. A thin line of light showed under his door. + +She shut her book and turned out her lamp. The storm had died down and +the moon was up. Through the open window she could see beyond the garden +to the grove of birches. + +Hitherto, the thought of the little grove had been as of a sanctuary. +She was aware, suddenly, that it had become a place of contending +forces. Were the guardian angels driven out...? + +_But there weren't any guardian angels_! Ridgeley had said that they +were silly. And Christopher didn't believe in them. She wished that her +mother might have lived to talk it over. Her mother had had no doubts. + +The door of her husband's room opened, and he was silhouetted against +the light. Coming up to the side of her bed, he found her wide-eyed. + +"Can't you sleep, my dear?" + +"No." + +"I don't want to give you anything." + +"I don't want anything." + +He sat down by the side of the bed. He had on his blue bathrobe, and the +open neck showed his strong white throat. "My dear," he said, "I've been +thinking of what you said this morning--about my lack of belief and the +effect it has had on yours. And--I'm sorry." + +"Being sorry doesn't help any, does it, Ridgeley?" + +"I should like to think that you had your old faiths to--comfort you." + +She had no answer for that, and presently he said, "Are you warm +enough?" and brought an extra blanket, because the air was cool after +the storm, and then he bent and kissed her forehead. "Shut your eyes and +sleep if you can." + +But of course she couldn't sleep. She lay there for hours, weighing what +he had said to her against what Christopher had said. Each man was +offering her something--Christopher, life at the expense of all her +scruples. Ridgeley, the resurrection of burnt-out beliefs. + +She shivered a bit under the blanket. It would be heavenly to hear the +temple bells--with youth beside her. To drink the wine of life from a +brimming cup. But all the time she would be afraid, nothing could take +away that fear.--Nothing, nothing, _nothing_. + +She was glad that her husband was awake. The thin line of light still +showed beneath his door. It would be dreadful to be alone--in the dark. +At last she could stand it no longer. She got out of bed, wrapped +herself in a robe that lay at the foot of it, and opened the door. + +"May I leave it open?" + +As her husband turned in his chair, she saw his hand go quickly, as if +to cover the paper on which he was writing. "Of course, my dear. Are you +afraid?" + +"I am always afraid, Ridgeley. Always--" + +She put her hands up to her face and began to cry. He came swiftly +toward her and took her in his arms. "Hush," he said, "nothing can hurt +you, Anne." + + + +VII + + +When she waked in the morning, it was with, the remembrance of his +tenderness. Well, of course he was sorry for her. Anybody would be. But +Christopher was sorry, too. And Christopher had something to offer +her--more than Ridgeley--yes, it was more-- + +She was half afraid to go down-stairs. Christopher would be at breakfast +on the porch. Jeanette would be there, pouring coffee, and perhaps +Ridgeley if he had no calls. And Christopher would talk in his gay young +voice--and Ridgeley would read the newspaper, and she and Christopher +would make their plans for the day-- + +She rose and began to dress, but found herself suddenly panic-stricken +at the thought of the plans that Christopher might make. If they motored +off together, he would talk to her as he had talked in the grove of +birches--of the temple bells, and of the desert, and the strange +harbors--and how could she be sure that she would be strong enough to +resist--and what if she listened, and let him have his way? + +She decided to eat her breakfast in bed, and rang for it. A note came up +from Christopher. "Don't stay up-stairs. Ridgeley left hours ago, and I +shan't enjoy my toast and bacon if you aren't opposite me. I have picked +a white rose to put by your plate. And I have a thousand things to say +to you--" + +His words had a tonic effect. Oh, why not--? What earthly difference +would it make? And hadn't Browning said something like that--"_Who knows +but the world may end to-night_?" + +She was not sure that was quite the way that Browning had put it, and +she thought she would like to be sure--she could almost see herself +saying it to Christopher. + +So she went into her husband's room to get the book. + +Ridgeley's books were on the shelf above his desk. They had nothing to +do with his medical library--that was down-stairs in his office, and now +and then he would bring up a great volume. But he had a literary side, +and he had revealed some of it to Anne in the days before he had been +too busy. His Browning was marked, and it was not hard to find "The Last +Ride." She opened at the right page, and stood reading--an incongruous +figure amid Ridgeley's masculine belongings in her sheer negligee of +faint blue. + +She closed the book, put it back on the shelf, and was moving away, when +her eyes were caught by two words--"For Anne," at the top of a sheet of +paper which lay on Ridgeley's desk. The entire page was filled with +Ridgeley's neat professional script, and in a flash the gesture which he +had made the night before returned to her, as if he were trying to hide +something from her gaze. + +She bent and read.... + +Oh, was this the way he had spent the hours of the night? Searching for +words which might comfort her, might clear away her doubts, might bring +hope to her heart? + +And he had found things like this: "_My little sister, Death_," said +good St. Francis; ... "_The darkness is no darkness with thee, but the +night is as clear as day; the darkness and light to thee are both +alike_..." "_Yea, though I Walk through the Valley of the Shadow_ ..." +These and many others, truths which had once been a part of her. + +She read, avidly. Oh, she had been thirsty--for this! Hungry for this! +And _Ridgeley_--! The tears dripped so that she could hardly see the +lines. She laid her cheek against the paper, and her tears blistered it. + +She carried it into her room. Christopher's note still lay on her +pillow. She read it again, but she had no ears now for its call. She +rang for her maid. "I shall stay in bed and write some letters." + +She wrote to Christopher, after many attempts. "We have been such good, +_good_ friends. And we mustn't spoil it. Perhaps if you could go away +for a time, it would be best for both of us. I am going to believe that +some day you will find great happiness. And you would never have found +happiness with me, you would have found only--fear. And I know now what +the old man meant about the beads--'What you think is evil--cannot be +evil.' Christopher, death isn't evil, if it isn't the end of things. And +I am going to believe that it is not the end ..." + +Christopher went into town before lunch, and later Anne sat alone on +the stone bench in her grove of birches. They were serene and still in +the gold of the afternoon. Yet last night they had writhed in the storm. +She, too, had been swept by a storm.... She missed her playmate--but she +had a sense of relief in the absence of her tempestuous lover. + +Ridgeley came home that night with news of Christopher's sudden +departure. "He found telegrams. He told me to say 'good-bye' to you." + +"I am sorry," Anne said, and meant it. Sorry that it had to be--but +being sorry could not change it. + +After dinner Ridgeley had a call to make, and Anne went up to bed. But +she was awake when her husband came in, and the thin line of light +showed. She waited until she heard the boom of water in his bath, and +then she slipped out of bed and opened the door between. She was propped +up in her pillows when he reappeared in his blue bathrobe. + +"Hello," he called, "did you want me?" + +"Yes, Ridgeley." + +He came in. "Anything the matter?" + +"No. I'm not sick. But I want to talk." + +"About what?" + +"This--" She showed him the paper with its caption, "For Anne." + +"Ridgeley, did you write it because I was--afraid?" her hand went out to +him. + +His own went over it. "I think I wrote it because I was afraid." + +"You?" + +His grip almost hurt her. "My dear, my dear, I haven't believed in +things. How could I ... with all the facts that men like me have to deal +with? But when I faced ... losing you...! love's _got_ to be eternal..." + +"Ridgeley." + +"I won't ... lose you. Oh, I know. We've grown apart. I don't know how a +man is going to help it ... in this darned whirlpool.... But you've +always been right ... here.... I've felt I might ... have you, if I ever +had time ..." his voice broke. + +"And I thought you didn't care." + +"I was afraid of that, and somehow I couldn't get ... back ... to where +we began. I was always thinking I would.... And then this came.... + +"I always hated to kill the things that you believed, Anne. I thought I +had to be honest ... that it would be better for you to face the +truth.... But which one of us knows the Truth? Not a man among us. And I +came across this ... '_Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not +quickened except it die_....' We are all fools--the wisest of us...." + +She held out her arms to him, and he gathered her close. She felt that +it had been a thousand years since she had prayed, yet she heard herself +speaking.... And when he laid her back upon her pillows, she was aware +that together they had approached some height from which they would +never again descend. + +"I'll leave the door open," he said, as he left her. "I shall be +reading, and you can see the light." + +It seemed as if the light from his room flooded the world. The four +posts of her bed once more were tipped with shining saints! She turned +on her pillow--beyond the garden, the grove of white birches was steeped +in celestial radiance. + +"_My little sister, Death_," said good St. Francis. + +With her hand under her cheek, she slept at last, as peacefully as a +child. + + + + +THE EMPEROR'S GHOST + +I + + +I had not known Tom Randolph a week before I was aware that life was not +real to him. All his world was a stage, with himself as chief player. He +dramatized everything--actions, emotions, income. Thus he made poverty +picturesque, love a thing of the stars, the day's work a tragedy, or, if +the professors proved kind, a comedy. He ate and drank, as it were, to +music, combed his hair and blacked his boots in the glare of footlights; +made exits and entrances of a kind unknown to men like myself who lacked +his sense of the histrionic. + +He was Southern and chivalric. His traditions had to do with the doffed +hat and the bent knee. He put woman on a pedestal and kept her there. No +man, he contended, was worthy of her--what she gave was by the grace of +her own sweet charity! + +It will be seen that in all this he missed the modern note. As a boy he +had been fed upon Scott, and his later reading had not robbed him of his +sense of life as a flamboyant spectacle. + +He came to us in college with a beggarly allowance from an impoverished +estate owned by his grandfather, a colonel of the Confederacy, who after +the war had withdrawn with his widowed daughter to his worthless acres. +In due time the daughter had died, and her child had grown up in a world +of shadows. On nothing a year the colonel had managed, in some +miraculous fashion, to preserve certain hospitable old customs. +Distinguished guests still sat at his table and ate ducks cooked to the +proper state of rareness, and terrapin in a chafing-dish, with a dash of +old sherry. If between these feasts there was famine the world never +knew. + +It was perhaps from the colonel that Randolph had learned to make +poverty picturesque. His clothes were old and his shoes were shabby. But +his strength lay in the fact that he did not think of himself as poor. +He had so much, you see, that the rest of us lacked. He was a Randolph. +He had name, position, ancestry. He was, in short, a gentleman! + +I do not think he looked upon any of us as gentlemen, not in the Old +Dominion sense. He had come to our small Middle-Western college because +it was cheap and his finances would not compass education anywhere else. + +In an older man his prejudices would have been insufferable, but his +youth and charm made us lenient. We contented ourselves with calling him +"Your Highness," and were always flattered when he asked us to his +rooms. + +His strong suit was hospitality. It was in his blood, of course. When +his allowance came he spent it in giving the rest of us a good time. His +room was as shabby as himself--a table, an ink-spotted desk, a couch +with a disreputable cover, a picture of Washington, a half-dozen books, +and a chafing-dish. + +The chafing-dish was the hump and the hoof of his festivities. He made +rarebits and deviled things with an air that had been handed down from +generations of epicures. I can see him now with his black hair in a +waving lock on his forehead, in worn slippers and faded corduroy coat, +sitting on the edge of the table smoking a long pipe, visualizing +himself as the lord of a castle--the rest of us as vassals of a rather +agreeable and intelligent sort! + +It was perfectly natural that he should stage his first love-affair, and +when he was jilted that he should dramatize his despair. For days after +Madge Ballou had declared her preference for Dicky Carson, Randolph +walked with melancholy. He came to my rooms and sat, a very young and +handsome Hamlet, on my fire-bench, with his chin in his hand. + +"Why should she like Dicky best?" + +"She has no imagination." + +"But Dicky's a--beast--" + +"With a fat bank-account." + +"Money wouldn't count with Madge." + +"I'm not so sure--" + +"Women are not like that, MacDonald." + +I saw, as he went on with his arguments, that she had become to him an +Ophelia, weakly led. Women in his lexicon of romance might be weak but +never mercenary. I think he finally overthrew her in his mind with "_Get +thee to a nunnery!_" I know that he burned her picture; he showed me the +ashes in a silver stamp-box. + +He had, of course, his heroes--there were moments when unconsciously he +aped them. It was after a debate that the boys began to call him +"Bonaparte." He had defended the Little Corporal, and in defending him +had personified him. With that dark lock over his forehead, his arms +folded, he had flung defiance to the deputies, and for that moment he +had been not Tom Randolph but the Emperor himself. + +He won the debate, amid much acclaim, and when he came down to us I will +confess to a feeling, which I think the others shared, of a soul within +his body which did not belong there. Tom Randolph was, of course, Tom +Randolph, but the voice which had spoken to us had rung with the power +of that other voice which had been stilled at St. Helena! + +The days that followed dispelled the illusion, but the name clung to +him. I think he liked it, and emphasized the resemblance. He let his +hair grow long, sunk his head between his shoulders, was quick and +imperious in his speech. + +Then came the war. Belgium devastated, France invaded. Randolph was +fired at once. + +"I'm going over." + +"But, my dear fellow--" + +"There's our debt to Lafayette." + +With his mind made up there was no moving him. The rest of us held back. +Our imaginations did not grasp at once the world's need of us. + +But Randolph saw himself a Henry of Navarre--_white plumes_; a Richard +of the Lion Heart--_crusades and red crosses_; a Cyrano without the +nose--"_These be cadets of Gascony_--" + +"You see, MacDonald," he said, flaming, "we Randolphs have always done +it." + +"Done what?" + +"Fought. There's been a Randolph in every war over here, and before that +in a long line of battles--" + +He told me a great deal about the ancient Randolphs, and the way they +had fought on caparisoned steeds with lances. + +"War to-day is different," I warned him. "Not so pictorial." + +But I knew even then that he would make it pictorial. He would wear his +khaki like chain armor. + +He gave us a farewell feast in his room. It was the season for young +squirrels, and he made us a Brunswick stew. It was the best thing I had +ever tasted, with red peppers in it and onions, and he served it with +an old silver ladle which he had brought from home. + +While we ate he talked of war, of why men should fight--"for your own +honor and your country's." + +There were pacifists among us and they challenged him. He flung them +off; their protests died before his passion. + +"We are men, not varlets!" + +Nobody laughed at him. It showed his power over us that none of us +laughed. We simply sat there and listened while he told us what he +thought of us. + +At last one who was braver than the rest cried out: "Go to it, +Bonaparte!" + +In a sudden flashing change Randolph hunched his shoulders, set his +slouched hat sidewise low on his brows, wrapped the couch-cover like a +cloak about him. His glance swept the room. There was no anger in it, +just a sort of triumphant mockery as he gave the famous speech to +Berthier. + +"They send us a challenge in which our honor is at stake--a thing a +Frenchman has never refused--and since a beautiful queen wishes to be a +witness to the combat, let us be courteous, and in order not to keep her +waiting, _let us march without sleeping as far as Saxony--_!" + +I can't tell you of the effect it had on us. We were gripped by the +throats, and the room was so still that we heard ourselves breathe. Four +of the fellows left next day with Randolph. I think he might have taken +us all if we had not been advised and held back by the protests of our +professors, who spoke of war with abhorrence. + + + +II + + +Three years later I saw him again, in France. Our own country had gotten +into the fight by that time, and I was caught in the first draft. I had +heard now and then from Randolph. He had worked for nearly three years +with the Ambulance Corps, and was now fighting for democracy with his +fellows. + +We had been shivering in the rain for a week in one of the recaptured +French towns when a group of seasoned officers were sent to lick us into +shape. Among the other officers was Randolph, and when he came upon me +he gave a shout of welcome. + +"Good old MacDonald--at last!" + +I'll confess that his "at last" carried a sting, and I remember feeling +the injustice of our equal rank, as I set his years of privation and +hardship against my few weeks in a training camp. + +He was very glad to see me, and the very first night he made me a +Brunswick stew. This time there were no squirrels, but he begged young +rabbits from the old couple who had once been servants in the château +where we were billeted. They had trudged back at once on the retirement +of the Boches, and were making the best of the changed conditions. + +There was, of course, no chafing-dish, and the stew was cooked in an +iron pot which hung over an open fire in the ancient kitchen. Before +they sold the rabbits the old people had made one condition: + +"If we may have a bit for mademoiselle--?" + +"For mademoiselle?" + +"She is here with us, monsieur. She had not been well. We have been +saving the rabbits for her." + +Randolph made the grand gesture that I so well remembered. + +"My good people--if she would dine with us--?" + +The old woman shook her head. She was not sure. She would see. + +Perhaps she said pleasant things of us, perhaps mademoiselle was lonely. +But whatever the reason, mademoiselle consented to dine, coming out of +her seclusion, very thin and dark and small, but self-possessed. + +I have often wondered what she thought, in those first moments of +meeting, of Randolph, as with a spoon for a sceptre, the manner of a +king, he presided over the feast. She spoke very good English, but +needed to have many things explained. + +"Do gentlemen cook in your country?" + +Randolph sketched life as he had known it on his grandfather's +plantation--negroes to do it all, except when gentlemen pleased. + +She drew the mantle of her distaste about her. "Black men? I shouldn't +like it." + +Well, I saw before the evening ended that Randolph had met his peer. For +every one of his aristocratic prejudices she matched him with a dozen. +And he loved her for it! At last here was a lady who would buckle on his +armor, watch his shield, tie her token on his sleeve! + +He sat on the edge of the table in his favorite attitude--hunched-up +shoulders, folded arms. His hair was cut too short now for the dark +lock, but even without it I saw her glance at him now and then in a +puzzled fashion, as if she weighed some familiar memory. + +But it was one of the peasants who voiced it--the old man carrying away +the remains of the stew muttered among the shadows to his wife: + +"C'est Napoleon." + +Mademoiselle caught her breath. "Oui, Gaston." Then to me, in English: +"Do you see it?" + +"Yes. We called him that at school." + +"Bonaparte?" + +"Yes." + +She was thin and dark no longer--illumined, the color staining her +cheeks. "Oh, if he were here--to save France!" + +I protested. "An emperor against an emperor?" + +"He was a great democrat--he loved the common people. For a little while +power spoiled him--but he loved the people. And the Bourbons did not +love them--Louis laughed at them--and lost his head. And Napoleon never +laughed. He loved France--if he had lived he would have saved us." + +Out of the shadows the old woman spoke. "They say he will come again." + +"Oui, Margot." Mademoiselle was standing, with her hand on her heart. +Randolph's eyes devoured her. He had taken no part in the conversation. +It was almost uncanny to see him sitting there, silent, arms folded, +shoulders hunched, sparkling eyes missing nothing. "It is true," +mademoiselle told us earnestly, "that the tra-dee-tion says he will come +back--when France needs him--the soldiers talk of it." + +"In almost every country," I said, "there is a story like that, of +heroes who will come again." + +"But Napoleon, monsieur--surely he would not fail France?" + +The thing that followed was inevitable. Randolph and Mademoiselle Julie +fell in love with each other. He drew her as he had drawn us at school. +She was not a Madge Ballou, mundane and mercenary; she was rather a +Heloise, a Nicolette, a Jeanne d'Arc, self-sacrificing, impassioned. She +met Randolph on equal ground. They soared together--mixed love of +country with love of lovers. They rose at dawn to worship the sun, they +walked forth at twilight to adore together the crescent moon. + +And all the while war was at the gates; we could hear the boom of big +guns. The spring drive was on and the Germans were coming back. + +I shall never forget the night that Randolph and I were ordered to the +front. Mademoiselle had come in with her hands full of violets. +Randolph, meeting her for the first time after a busy day, took her +hands and the frail blossoms in his eager clasp. He was an almost +perfect lover--Aucassin if you will--Abelard at his best. + +"Violets," he said. "May I have three?" + +"Why three, monsieur?" + +"For love, mademoiselle, and truth and constancy." + +He took his prayer-book from his pocket, and she gave him the violets. +He touched them to her lips, then crushed them to his own. I saw +it--sitting back in the shadows. I should never have thought of kissing +a girl like that. But it was rather wonderful. + +He shut the violets in the little book. + +They sat very late that night by the fire. I went in and out, not +disturbing them. I saw him kneel at her feet as he left her, and she +bent forward and kissed his forehead. + +He talked of her a great deal after that. More than I would have talked +of love, but his need of an audience drove him to confidences. He felt +that he must make himself worthy of her--to go back to her as anything +less than a hero might seem to belittle her. I am not sure that he was +braver than other men, but his feeling for effect gave him a sort of +reckless courage. Applause was a part of the game--he could not do +without it. + +And so came that night when a small band of us were cut off from the +rest. We were intrenched behind a small eminence which hid us from our +enemies, with little hope of long escaping their observation. It had +been wet and cold, and there had been no hot food for days. We, French +and Americans, had fought long and hard; we were in no state to stand +suspense, yet there was nothing to do but wait for a move on the other +side, a move which could end in only one way--bayonets and bare hands, +and I, for one, hated it. + +I think the others hated it, too, all but Randolph. The rain had stopped +and the moon flooded the world. He turned his face up to it and dreamed. + +The knowledge came to us before midnight that the Huns had found us. It +became only a matter of moments before they would be upon us, the thing +would happen which we hated--bayonets and bare hands, with the chances +in favor of the enemy! + +Somewhere among our men rose a whimper of fear, and then another. You +see, they were cold and hungry and some of them were wounded, and they +were cut off from hope. It wasn't cowardice. I call no man a coward. +They had faced death a thousand times, some of them. Yet there was +danger in their fears. + +Randolph was next to me. "My God, MacDonald," he said, "they've lost +their nerve--" + +There wasn't a second to spare. I saw him doing something to his hat. + +As I have said, there was a moon. It lighted that battle-scarred world +with a sort of wild beauty, and suddenly in a clear space above us on +the little hill a figure showed, motionless against the still white +night--a figure small yet commanding, three-cornered hat pulled low--oh, +you have seen it in pictures a thousand times--Napoleon of Marengo, of +Austerlitz, of Jena, of Friedland--but over and above everything, +Napoleon of France! + +Of course the Germans shot him. But when they came over the top they +were met by Frenchmen who had seen a ghost. "C'est l'Empereur! C'est +l'Empereur!" they had gasped. "He returns to lead us." + +They fought like devils, and--well, the rest of us fought, too, and all +the time, throughout the bloody business, I had before me that vision of +Randolph alone in the moonlight. Or was it Randolph? Who knows? Do great +souls find time for such small business? And was it small? + +His medals were, of course, sent to the colonel. But the violets in the +little book went back to mademoiselle. And the old hat, crushed into +three-cornered shape, went back. And I told her what he had done. + +She wrote to me in her stiff English: + +"I have loved a great man. For me, monsieur, it is enough. Their souls +unite in victory!" + + + + +THE RED CANDLE + + +It was so cold that the world seemed as stiff and stark as a poet's +hell. A little moon was frozen against a pallid sky. The old dark houses +with their towers and gables wore the rigid look of iron edifices. The +saint over the church door at the corner had an icicle on his nose. +Even the street lights shone faint and benumbed through clouded glass. + +Ostrander, with his blood like ice within his veins, yearned for a +Scriptural purgatory with red fire and flame. To be warm would be +heaven. It was a wise old Dante who had made hell cold! + +As he crossed the threshold of his filthy tenement he felt for the first +time a sense of its shelter. Within its walls there was something that +approached warmth, and in his room at the top there was a bed with a +blanket. + +Making his way toward the bed and its promise of comfort, he was stopped +on the second stairway by a voice which came out of the dark. + +"Mr. Tony, you didn't see our tree." + +Peering down, he answered the voice: "I was going up to get warm." + +"Milly said to tell you that we had a fire." + +"A real fire, Pussy? I didn't know that there was one in the world." + +He came down again to the first floor. Pussy was waiting--a freckled dot +of a child tied up in a man's coat. + +The fire was in a small round stove. On top of the stove something was +boiling. The room was neat but bare, the stove, a table, and three +chairs its only furnishing. In a room beyond were two beds covered with +patchwork quilts. + +On the table was a tree. It was a Christmas tree--just a branch of pine +and some cheap spangly things. The mother of the children sewed all day +and late into the night. She had worked a little longer each night for a +month that the children might have the tree. + +There was no light in the room but that of a small and smoky lamp. + +Milly spoke of it. "We ought to have candles." + +Ostrander, shrugged close to the stove, with his hands out to its heat, +knew that they ought to have electric lights, colored ones, a hundred +perhaps, and a tree that touched the stars! + +But he said: "When I go out I'll bring you a red candle--a long one--and +we'll put it on the shelf over the table." + +Milly, who was resting her tired young body in a big rocker with the +baby in her arms, asked: "Can we put it in a bottle or stand it in a +cup? We haven't any candlestick." + +"We can do better than that," he told her, "with a saucer turned upside +down and covered with salt to look like snow." + +Pussy, economically anxious, asked, "Can we eat the salt afterward?" + +"Of course." + +"Then, may we do it, Milly?" + +"Darling, yes. How nice you always fix things, Mr. Tony!" + +Long before he had known them he had fixed things--things which would +have turned this poor room into an Aladdin's palace. There was that +Christmas Eve at the Daltons'. It had been his idea to light the great +hall with a thousand candles when they brought in the Yule log, and to +throw perfumed fagots on the fire. + +He came back to the round stove and the tiny tree. "I like to fix +things," he said. "Once upon a time--" + +They leaned forward eagerly to this opening. + +"Of course you know it isn't true," he prefaced. + +"Of course it couldn't be true"--Pussy was reassuringly sceptical--"the +things that you tell us couldn't really happen--ever--" + +"Well, once upon a time, there was a tree in a great house by a great +river, and it was set in a great room with squares of black-and-white +marble for a floor, and with a fountain with goldfish swimming in its +basin, and there were red-and-blue parrots on perches, and orange-trees +in porcelain pots, and the tree itself wasn't a pine-tree or a fir or a +cedar; it was a queer round, clipped thing of yew, and it had red and +blue and orange balls on it, and in the place of a wax angel on top +there was a golden Buddha, and there were no candles--but the light +shone out and out of it, like the light shines from the moon." + +"Was it a Christmas tree?" Pussy asked, as he paused. + +"Yes, but the people who trimmed it and the ones who came to see it +didn't believe in the Wise Men, or the Babe in the Manger, or the +shepherds who watched their flocks by night--they just worshiped beauty +and art--and other gods--but it was a corking tree--" + +"You use such funny words," Pussy crowed ecstatically. "Who ever heard +of a corking tree?" + +He smiled at her indulgently. He was warmer now, and as he leaned back +in his chair and unbuttoned his coat he seemed to melt suddenly into +something that was quite gentlemanly in pose and outline. "Well, it +really was a corking tree, Pussy." + +"What's a Buddha?" Milly asked, making a young Madonna of herself as she +bent over the baby. + +"A gentle god that half of the world worships," Ostrander said, "but the +people who put him on the tree didn't worship anything--they put him +there because he was of gold and ivory and was a lovely thing to look +at--" + +"Oh," said Pussy, with her mouth round to say it, "oh, how funny you +talk, Mr. Tony!" She laughed, with her small hands beating her knees. + +She was presently, however, very serious, as she set the table. There +was little formality of service. Just three plates and some bread. + +Milly, having carried the baby into the other room, was hesitatingly +hospitable. "Won't you have supper with us, Mr. Tony?" + +He wanted it. There was a savory smell as Milly lifted the pot from the +stove. But he knew there would be only three potatoes--one for Pussy and +one for Milly and one for the mother who was almost due, and there would +be plenty of gravy. How queer it seemed that his mind should dwell on +gravy! + +"Onions are so high," Milly had said, as she stirred it. "I had to put +in just a very little piece." + +He declined hastily and got away. + +In the hall he met their mother coming in. She was a busy little mother, +and she did not approve of Ostrander. She did not approve of any human +being who would not work. + +"A merry Christmas," he said to her, standing somewhat wistfully above +her on the stairs. + +She smiled at that. "Oh, Mr. Tony, Mr. Tony, they want a man in the +shop. It would be a good way to begin the New Year." + +"Dear lady, I have never worked in a shop--and they wouldn't want me +after the first minute--" + +Her puzzled eyes studied him. "Why wouldn't they want you?" + +"I am not--dependable--" + +"How old are you?" she asked abruptly. + +"Twice your age--" + +"Nonsense--" + +"Not in years, perhaps--but I have lived--oh, how I have lived--!" + +He straightened his shoulders and ran his fingers through his hair. She +had a sudden vision of what he might be if shorn of his poverty. There +was something debonair--finished--an almost youthful grace--a hint of +manner-- + +She sighed. "Oh, the waste of it!" + +"Of what?" + +She flamed. "Of you!" + +Then she went in and shut the door. + +He stood uncertainly in the hall. Then once again he faced the cold. + +Around the corner was a shop where he would buy the red candle. The ten +cents which he would pay was to have gone for his breakfast. He had +sacrificed his supper that he might not go hungry on Christmas morning. +He had planned a brace of rolls and a bottle of milk. It had seemed to +him that he could face a lean night with the promise of these. + +There were no red candles in the shop. There were white ones, but a red +candle was a red candle--with a special look of Christmas cheer. He +would have no other. + +The turn of a second corner brought him to the great square. Usually he +avoided it. The blaze of gold on the west side was the club. + +A row of motors lined the curb. There was Baxter's limousine and +Fenton's French car. He knew them all. He remembered when his own French +car had overshadowed Fenton's Ford. + +There were wreaths to-night in the club windows, and when Sands opened +the doors there was a mass of poinsettia against the hall mirror. + +How warm it looked with all that gold and red! + +In the basement was the grill. It was a night when one might order +something heavy and hot. A planked steak--with deviled oysters at the +start and a salad at the end. + +And now another motor-car was poking its nose against the curb. And +Whiting climbed out, a bear in a big fur coat. + +Whiting's car was a closed one. And it would stay there for an hour. +Ostrander knew the habits of the man. From the office to the club, and +from the club--home. Whiting was methodical to a minute. At seven sharp +the doors would open and let him out. + +The clock on the post-office tower showed six! + +There was a policeman on the east corner, beating his arms against the +cold. Ostrander did not beat his arms. He cowered frozenly in the shadow +of a big building until the policeman passed on. + +Then he darted across the street and into Whiting's car! + +Whiting, coming out in forty minutes, found his car gone. Sands, the +door man, said that he had noticed nothing. The policeman on the corner +had not noticed. + +"I usually stay longer," Whiting said, "but to-night I wanted to get +home. I have a lot of things for the kids." + +"Were the things in your car?" the policeman asked. + +"Yes. Toys and all that--" + +Ostrander, with his hand on the wheel, his feet on the brakes, slipped +through the crowded streets unchallenged. It had been easy to unlock the +car. He had learned many things in these later years. + +It was several minutes before he was aware of faint fragrances--warm +tropical fragrances of flowers and fruits and spices--Christmas +fragrances which sent him back to the great kitchen where his +grandmother's servants had baked and brewed. + +He stopped the car and touched a button. The light showed booty. He had +not expected this. He had wanted the car for an hour, to feel the thrill +of it under his fingers, to taste again the luxury of its warmth and +softness. He had meant to take it back unharmed--with nothing more than +the restless ghost of his poor desires to haunt Whiting when again he +entered it. + +But now here were toys and things which Whiting, in a climax of +generosity, had culled from bake-shop and grocer, from flower-shop, +fruit-shop, and confectioner. + +He snapped out the light and drove on. He had still a half-hour for his +adventure. + +It took just three of the thirty minutes to slide up to the curb in +front of the tall tenement. He made three trips in and up to the top +floor. He risked much, but Fate was with him and he met no one. + +Fate was with him, too, when he left the car at a corner near the club, +and slipped out of it like a shadow, and thence like a shadow back to +the shop whence his steps had tended before his adventures. + +When he returned to the tall tenement the small family on the first +floor had finished supper, and the mother had gone back to work. The +baby was asleep. Milly and Pussy, wrapped up to their ears, were hugging +the waning warmth of the little stove. + +"Mr. Tony, did you get the candle?" Pussy asked as he came in. + +"Yes. But I've been thinking"--his manner was mysterious--"I don't want +to put it on the shelf. I want it in the window--to shine out--" + +"To shine out--why?" + +"Well, you know, there's St. Nicholas." + +"Oh--" + +"He ought to come here, Pussy. Why shouldn't he come here? Why should he +go up-town and up-town, and take all the things to children who have +more than they want?" + +Milly was philosophic. "St. Nicholas is fathers and mothers--" + +But Pussy was not so sure. "Do you think he'd come--if we did? Do you +really and truly think he would?" + +"I think he might--" + +The candle set in the window made a fine show from the street. They all +went out to look at it. Coming in, they sat around the stove together. + +Pussy drew her chair very close to Ostrander. She laid her hand on his +knee. It was a little hand with short, fat fingers. In spite of lean +living, Pussy had managed to keep fat. She was adorably dimpled. + +Ostrander, looking down at the fat little hand, began: "Once upon a +time--there was a doll--a Fluffy Ruffles doll, in a rosy gown--" + +"Oh!" Pussy beat the small, fat hand upon his knee. + +"And pink slippers--and it traveled miles to find some one to--love it. +And at last it said to St. Nicholas, 'Oh, dear St. Nick, I want to find +a little girl who hasn't any doll--'" + +"Like me?" said Pussy. + +"Like you--" + +"And St. Nicholas said, 'Will you keep your pink slippers clean and +your nice pink frock clean if I give you to a poor little girl?' and the +Fluffy Ruffles doll said 'Yes,' so St. Nicholas looked and looked for a +poor little girl, and at last he came to a window--with a red candle--" + +The fat little hand was still and Pussy was breathing hard. + +"With a red candle, and there was a little girl who--didn't have any +doll--" + +Pussy threw herself on him bodily. "Is it true? Is it true?" she +shrieked. + +Milly, a little flushed and excited by the story, tried to say sedately: +"Of course it isn't true. It couldn't be--true--" + +"Let's wish it to be true--" Ostrander said, "all three of us, with our +eyes shut--" + +With this ceremony completed the little girls were advised gravely to go +to bed. "If Fluffy Ruffles and old St. Nick come by and find you up they +won't stop--" + +"Won't they?" + +"Of course not. You must shut the door and creep under your quilt and +cover up your head, and if you hear a noise you mustn't look." + +Milly eyed him dubiously. "I think it is a shame to tell Pussy such--" + +"Corking things?" He lifted her chin with a light finger and looked into +her innocent eyes. "Oh, Milly, Milly, once upon a time there was a +Princess, with eyes like yours, and she lived in a garden where black +swans swam on a pool, and she wore pale-green gowns and there were +poppies in the garden. And a Fool loved her. But she shut him out of the +garden. He wasn't good enough even to kneel at her feet, so she shut him +out and married a Prince with a white feather in his cap." + +He had a chuckling sense of Whiting as the white-feathered Prince. But +Milly's eyes were clouded. "I don't like to think that she shut the poor +Fool out of the garden." + +For a moment he cupped her troubled face in his two hands. "You dear +kiddie." Then as he turned away he found his own eyes wet. + +As he started up-stairs Pussy peeped out at him. + +"Wouldn't it be--corking--to see a Fluffy Ruffles doll--a-walking up the +street?" + +In a beautiful box up-stairs the Fluffy Ruffles doll stared at him. She +was as lovely as a dream, and as expensive as they make 'em. There was +another doll in blue, also as expensive, also as lovely. Ostrander could +see Milly with the blue doll matching her eyes. + +There were toys, too, for the baby. And there was a bunch of violets. +And boxes of candy. And books. And there were things to eat. Besides the +fruits a great cake, and a basket of marmalades and jellies and +gold-sealed bottles and meat pastes in china jars, and imported things +in glass, and biscuits in tins. + +Ostrander, after some consideration, opened the tin of biscuits and, +munching, he wrote a note. Having no paper, he tore a wrapper from one +of the boxes. He had the stub of a pencil, and the result was a scrawl. + + "MY DEAR WHITING: + + "It was I who borrowed your car--and who ran away with your junk. I + am putting my address at the head of this, so that if you want it + back you can come and get it. But perhaps you won't want it back. + + "I have a feeling that to you and your wife I am as good as dead. + If you have any thought of me it is, I am sure, to pity me. Yet I + rather fancy that you needn't. I am down and out, and living on ten + dollars a month. That's all I got when the crash came--it is all I + shall ever get. I pay four dollars a month for my room and twenty + cents a day for food. Sometimes I pay less than twenty cents when I + find myself in need of other--luxuries. Yet there's an adventure in + it, Whiting. A good little woman who lives in this house begs me to + work. But I have never worked. And why begin? I've a heritage of + bad habits, and one does not wish to seem superior to one's + ancestors. + + "The winters are the worst. I spend the summers on the open road. + Ask Marion if she remembers the days when we read Stevenson + together in the garden? Tell her it is like that--under the + stars--Tell her that I am getting more out of it than she is--with + you-- + + "But the winters send me back to town--and this winter Fate has + brought me to an old house in a shabby street just a bit back from + the Club. On the first floor there is a little family. Three + kiddies and a young mother who works to keep the wolf from the + door. There's a Pussy-Kiddie, and a Milly-Kiddie, and a baby, and + they have adopted me as a friend. + + "And this Christmas I had nothing to give them--but a red candle to + light their room. + + "When I got into your car it was just for the adventure. To breathe + for a moment the air I once breathed--to fancy that Marion's ghost + might sit beside me for one little moment, as she will sit beside + you to the end of your days. + + "I have played all roles but that of robber--but when I saw the + things that you had bought with Marion's money for Marion's + children--it went to my head--and I wanted them in the worst way + for those poor kiddies--who haven't any dolls or Christmas dinners. + + "I am playing Santa Claus for them to-night. I shall take the + things down and leave them in their poor rooms. It will be up to + you to come and take them away. It will be up to you, too, to give + this note to the police and steal my freedom. + + "You used to be a good sport, Whiting. I have nothing against you + except that you stole Marion--perhaps this will square our + accounts. And if your children are, because of me, without their + dolls to-morrow, you can remember this, that the kiddies are happy + below stairs--since Dick Turpin dwells aloft! + + "From among the rest I have chosen for myself a squat bottle, a box + of biscuits, and a tin of the little imported sausages that you + taught me to like. + + "Well, my dear fellow, happy days! To-morrow morning I shall + breakfast at your expense, unless you shall decide that I must + breakfast behind bars. + + "If you should come to-night, you will find in the window a red + candle shining. They have put it there to guide St. Nicholas and a + certain Fluffy Ruffles doll! + + "Ever yours, + "Tony." + + +He found an envelope, sealed, and addressed it. Then he went to work. + +Four trips he made down the stairs. Four times he tiptoed into the +shadowed room, where the long red candle burned. And when he turned to +take a last look there on the table beside the tree stood the blue doll +for Milly and the Fluffy Ruffles doll for Pussy and the rattles and +rings and blocks for the baby, and on the chairs and the shelf above the +tree were the other things--the great cake and the fruit and the big +basket and the boxes of candy. + +And for the little mother there were the violets and a note: + +"The red candle winked at your window and brought me in. It is useless +to search for me--for now and then a Prince passes and goes on. And he +is none the less a Prince because you do not know him." + +And now there was that other note to deliver. Out in the cold once more, +he found the moon gone and the snow falling. As he passed the saint on +the old church, it seemed to smile down at him. The towers and gables +were sheeted with white. His footsteps made no sound on the padded +streets. + +He left the note at Whiting's door. He fancied that, as the footman held +it open, he saw Marion shining on the stairs! + +He was glad after that to get home and to bed, and to the warmth of his +blanket. There was the warmth, too, of the wine. + +In a little while he was asleep. On the table by his untidy bed was the +box of biscuits and the bottle and the tin of tiny sausages. + +If all went well he would feast like a lord on Christmas morning! + + + + +RETURNED GOODS + + +Perhaps the most humiliating moment of Dulcie Cowan's childhood had been +when Mary Dean had called her Indian giver. Dulcie was a child of +affluence. She had always had everything she wanted; but she had not +been spoiled. She had been brought up beautifully and she had been +taught to consider the rights of others. She lived in an old-fashioned +part of an old city, and her family was churchly and conscientious. +Indeed, so well-trained was Dulcie's conscience that it often caused her +great unhappiness. It seemed to her that her life was made up largely of +denying herself the things she wanted. She was tied so rigidly to the +golden rule that her own rights were being constantly submerged in the +consideration of the rights of others. + +So it had happened that when she gave to Mary Dean a certain lovely +doll, because her mother had suggested that Dulcie had so many and Mary +so few, Dulcie had spent a night of agonized loneliness. Then she had +gone to Mary. + +"I want my Peggy back." + +"You gave her to me." + +"But I didn't know how much I loved her, Mary. I'll buy you a nice new +doll, but I want my Peggy back." + +It was then that Mary had called her Indian giver. Mary had been a +sturdy little thing with tight-braided brown hair. She had worn on that +historic occasion a plain blue gingham with a white collar. To the +ordinary eye she seemed just an every-day freckled sort of child, but to +Dulcie she had been a little dancing devil, as she had stuck out her +forefinger and jeered "Indian giver!" + +Dulcie had held to her point and had carried her Peggy off in triumph. +Mary, with characteristic independence, had refused to accept the +beautiful doll which Dulcie bought with the last cent of her allowance +and brought as a peace offering. In later years they grew to be rather +good friends. They might, indeed, have been intimate, if it had not been +for Dulcie's money and Mary's dislike of anything which savored of +patronage. + +It was Mary's almost boyish independence that drew Mills Richardson to +her. Mills wrote books and was the editor of a small magazine. He came +to board with Mary's mother because of the quiet neighborhood. He was +rather handsome in a dark slender fashion. He had the instincts of a +poet, and he was not in the least practical. He needed a prop to lean +on, and Mary gradually became the prop. + +She was teaching by that time, but she helped her mother with the +boarders. When Mills came in late at night she would have something for +him in the dining-room--oysters or a club sandwich or a pot of +coffee--and she and her mother and Mills would have a cozy time of it. +In due season Mills asked her to marry him, and his dreams had to do +with increased snugness and with shelter from the outside world. + +They had been engaged three months when Dulcie came home from college. +There was nothing independent or practical about Dulcie. She was a real +romantic lady, and she appealed to Mills on the æsthetic side. He saw +her first in church with the light shining on her from a stained-glass +window. In the middle of that same week Mrs. Cowan gave a garden party +as a home-coming celebration for her daughter. Dulcie wore embroidered +white and a floppy hat, and her eyes when she talked to Mills were +worshipful. + +He found himself swayed at last by a grand passion. He thought of Dulcie +by day and dreamed of her by night. Then he met her by accident one +afternoon on Connecticut Avenue, and they walked down together to the +Speedway, where the willows were blowing in the wind and the water was +ruffled; and there with the shining city back of them and the Virginia +hills ahead, Mills, flaming, declared his passion, and Dulcie, +trembling, confessed that she too cared. + +Mills grew tragic: "Oh, my beloved, have you come too late?" + +Dulcie had not heard of his engagement to Mary. Mills told her, and that +settled it. She had very decided ideas on such matters. A man had no +right to fall in love with two women. If such a thing happened, there +was only one way out of it. He had given his promise and he must keep +it. He begged, but could not shake her. She cared a great deal, but she +would not take him away from Mary. + +Mary knew nothing of what had occurred; she thought that Mills was +working too hard. She was working hard herself, but she was very happy. +She had a hope chest and sat up sewing late o' nights. + +Before Mary and Mills were married Dulcie's mother died, and Dulcie went +abroad to live with an aunt. Five years later she married an American +living in Paris. He was much older than she, and it was rumored that she +was not happy. Ten years after her marriage she returned to Washington a +widow. + +It was at once apparent that she had changed. She wore charming but +sophisticated clothes, made on youthful lines so that she seemed nearer +twenty-five than thirty-five. Her hair was still soft and shining. She +had been a pretty girl, she was a beautiful woman. But the greatest +change was in her attitude toward life. In Paris her golden-rule +philosophy had been turned topsy-turvy. + +Hence when she met Mills and found the old flames lighted in his eyes, +she stirred the ashes of her dead romance and discovered a spark. It was +pleasant after that to talk with him in dim corners at people's houses. +Now and then she invited him and Mary to her own big house with plenty +of other guests, so that she was not missed if she walked with Mills in +the garden. She meant no harm and she was really fond of Mary. + +The years had not been so kind to Mills as to Dulcie. They had stolen +some of his slenderness, and his hair was thin at the back. But he wrote +better books, and it was Mary who had helped him write them. She had +made of his house a home. She was still the same sturdy soul. Her bright +color had faded and her hair was gray. Life with Mills had not been an +easy road to travel. She had traveled it with loss of youth, perhaps, +but with no loss of self-respect. She knew that her husband was in some +measure what he was because of her. She had kept the children away from +his study door; she had seen that he was nourished and sustained. She +had prodded him at times to increased activities. He had resented the +prodding, but it had resulted in a continuity of effort which had added +to his income. + +Dulcie came into Mary's life as something very fresh and stimulating. +She spoke of it to Mills. + +"It is almost as if I had been abroad to hear her talk. She has had such +interesting experiences." + +It was not Dulcie's experiences which interested Mills; it was the +loveliness of her profile, the glint of her hair, the youth in her, the +renewed urge of youth in himself. + +Priscilla Dodd saw what had happened. Priscilla was the aunt with whom +Dulcie had lived in Paris; and she was a wise, if worldly, old woman. +She saw rocks ahead for Dulcie. + +"He's in love with you, my dear." + +Dulcie, in a rose satin house coat which shone richly in the flame of +Aunt Priscilla's open fire, was not disconcerted. + +"I know. Mary doesn't satisfy him, Aunt Cilla." + +"And you do?" + +"Yes." + +"The less you see of him the better." + +"I'm not sure of that." + +"Why not?" + +"I can inspire him, be the torch to illumine his path." + +"So that's the way you are putting it to yourself! But how will Mary +like that?" + +"Oh, Mary"--Dulcie moved restlessly--"I don't want to hurt Mary. I +don't want to hurt Mary," she said again, out of a long silence, "but +after all I have a right to save Mills' soul for him, haven't I, Aunt +Cilla?" + +"Saving souls had better be left to those who make a business of it." + +"I mean his poetic soul." Dulcie studied the toes of her rosy slippers. +"A man can't live by bread alone." + +Yet Mills had thrived rather well on the bread that Mary had given him, +and there was this to say for Mills, he was very fond of his wife. She +was not the love of his life, but she had been a helpmate for many +years. He felt that he owed many things to her affection and strength. +Like Dulcie, he shrank from making her unhappy. + +It was because of Mary, therefore, that the lovers dallied. Otherwise, +they said to each other, Mills would cast off his shackles, ask for his +freedom, and then he and Dulcie would fly to Paris, where nobody probed +into pasts and where they could make their dreams come true. + +They found many ways in which to see each other. Dulcie had a little +town car, and she picked Mills up at all hours and took him on long and +lovely rides, from which he returned ecstatic, with wild flowers in his +coat and a knowledge of work left undone. + +Gossip began to fly about. Aunt Priscilla warned Dulcie. + +"It is a dangerous thing to do, my dear. People will talk." + +"What do Mills and I care for people? Oh, if it were not for Mary--" She +had just come in from a ride with Mills, and her eyes were shining. + +"I wish we were not dining there to-night," said Aunt Priscilla. "I +wonder how Mary manages a dinner of eight with only one servant." + +"She is so splendid and competent, Aunt Cilla. Mills says so. Everybody +says it. Things are easy for her that would be hard for other people." + +"I wonder what she thinks of you?" + +Dulcie, drawing off her gloves, meditated. + +"I fancy she likes me. I know I love her, but not so much as I love +Mills." + +Fifteen years ago Dulcie would have died rather than admit her love for +a married man. But since then she had seen life through the eyes of a +worldly-minded old husband, and it had made a difference. + +At dinner that night Dulcie was exquisite in orchid tulle with a string +of pearls that hung to her knees. Her hair was like ripe corn, waved and +parted on the side with a girlish knot behind. Her skin was as fresh as +a baby's. Mary was in black net. She had been very busy helping the +cook, and she had had little time to spend on her hair. She looked ten +years older than Dulcie, and her mind was absolutely on the dinner. The +dinner was really very good. Mills had been extremely anxious about it. +He had called up Mary from down-town to tell her that he was bringing +home fresh asparagus. He wanted it served as an extra course with +Hollandaise sauce. Mary protested, but gave in. It was the Hollandaise +sauce that had kept her from curling her hair. + +There were orchids for a centerpiece--in harmony with Dulcie's gown. In +fact, the whole dinner seemed keyed up to Dulcie. The guests were for +the most part literary folk, to whom Mills wanted to display his Egeria. +After dinner Dulcie sang for them. She had set to music the words of one +of Mills' poems, and she was much applauded. + +After everybody had gone Mary went to bed with a headache. She was glad +that it was Saturday, for Sunday promised a rest. She decided to send +the children over to her mother and to have a quiet day with Mills. She +wouldn't even go to church in the morning. There was an afternoon +service; perhaps she and Mills might go together. + +But Mills had other plans. He walked as far as the church door with +Mary, and left her there. Mary wasn't sorry to be left; her headache had +returned, and she was glad to sit alone in the peaceful dimness. But the +pain proved finally too much for her, so she slipped out quietly and +went home. + +Clouds had risen, and she hurried before the shower. It was a real April +shower, wind with a rush and a silver downpour. Mary, coming into the +dark living-room, threw herself on the couch in a far corner and drew a +rug over her. The couch was backed up against a table which held a lamp +and a row of books. Mary had a certain feeling of content in the way the +furniture seemed to shut her in. There was no sound but the splashing of +rain against the windows. + +She fell asleep at last, and waked to find that Mills and Dulcie had +come in. No lights were on; the room was in twilight dimness. + +Mills had met Dulcie at her front door. "How dear of you to come," she +had told him. + +He had spoken of his desertion of Mary. "But this day was made for you, +Dulcie." + +They had walked on together, not heeding where they went, and when the +storm had caught them they were nearer Mills' house than Dulcie's and so +he had taken her there. They had entered the apparently empty room. + +"Mary is still at church. Come and dry your little feet by my fire, +Dulcie." Mills knelt and fanned the flame. + +Mary, coming slowly back from her dreams, heard this and other things, +and at last Dulcie's voice in protest: + +"Dear, we must think of Mary." + +"Poor Mary!" + +Now the thing that Mary hated more than anything else in the whole world +was pity. Through all the shock of the astounding revelation that Mills +and Dulcie cared for each other came the sting of their sympathy. She +sat up, a shadow among the shadows. + +"I mustn't stay, Mills," Dulcie was declaring. + +"Why not?" + +"I feel like a--thief--" + +"Nonsense, we are only taking our own, Dulcie. We should have taken it +years ago. Loving you I should never have married Mary." + +"I had a conscience then, Mills, and you had promised." + +"But now you see it differently, Dulcie?" + +"Perhaps." + +Mills was on his knees beside Dulcie's chair, kissing her hands. The +fire lighted them. It was like a play, with Mary a forlorn spectator in +the blackness of the pit. + +"Let me go now, Mills." + +"Wait till Mary comes--we'll tell her." + +"No, oh, poor Mary!" + +Poor Mary indeed! + +"Anyhow you've got to stay, Dulcie, and sing for me, and when Mary comes +back she'll get us some supper and I'll read you my new verses." + +Among the shadows Mary had a moment of tragic mirth. Then she set her +feet on the floor and spoke: + +"I'm sorry, Mills, but I couldn't cook supper to-night if I died for +it--" + +From their bright circle of light they peered at her. + +"Oh, my poor dear!" Dulcie said. + +"I'm not poor," Mary told her, "but I'm tired, dead tired, and my head +aches dreadfully, and if you want Mills you can have him." + +"Have him?" Dulcie whispered. + +"Yes. I don't want him." + +Mills exploded. + +"What?" + +"I don't want you, Mills. I'm tired of being a prop; I'm tired of +planning your meals, I'm tired of deciding whether you shall have +mushrooms with your steak or--onions. You can have him, Dulcie. I know +you think I've lost my mind." She came forward within the radius of the +light. "But I haven't. As long as I thought Mills cared I could stick it +out. But I have learned to-night that he loved you before he married me. +You gave him to me, Dulcie, and now you want him back." + +Indian giver! Like a flash Dulcie's mind went to the little Mary of the +pigtails and pointing forefinger. + +"You want him and you can have him. Perhaps if you had taken him years +ago he might have been different. I don't know. Perhaps even now he can +live up to all the lovely, lovely things that you and he are always +talking about. But I've had to talk to Mills about what he likes to eat +and what we have to pay for things; I've had to push him and prod him +and praise him, and it has been hard work. If you want him you can have +him, Dulcie." + +Mills had a stunned look. + +"Don't you love me, Mary?" + +"I think I've proved it," she said quietly; "but I couldn't possibly go +on loving you now. You have Dulcie to love you, and one woman is enough +for any man. I don't know what you are planning to do, but you needn't +run away or do anything spectacular. I'll make it as easy for you as +possible. And now if you don't mind I'll go up and take a headache +powder; my head is splitting." + +Left alone, they tried to regain their air of high romance. + +"Poor Mary!" + +But the words rang hollow. One couldn't possibly call a woman poor who +had given away so much with a single gesture. + +They tried to talk it over but found nothing to say. At last Mills took +Dulcie home. She asked him in and he went. Aunt Priscilla was out, and +tea was served for the two of them from a lacquered tea cart--Orange +Pekoe and Japanese wafers. It was delicious but unsubstantial. Dulcie +with her coat off was like a wood sprite in leaf green. Her hair was +gold, her eyes wet violets; but Mills missed something. He had a feeling +that he wanted to get home and talk things over with Mary. + +At last he rose, and it was then that Dulcie laid her hand on his arm. + +"Mills, I can't." + +"Can't what?" + +"Let you leave Mary." + +"Why not?" + +"It wouldn't be right." + +"It would be as right as it has ever been, Dulcie." + +"I know how it must look to you, but--but I knew all the time that wrong +is wrong. I thought I was a different Dulcie from the girl of long ago, +but I'm not. I still have a conscience; I can't take you away from +Mary." + +"You're not taking me away. You heard what she said--she doesn't want +me." + +And Dulcie didn't want him! He saw it in that moment! The things that +Mary had said had scared her. She didn't want to prod and push and +praise. She didn't want to decide what he should have for dinner. She +didn't want to weigh the merits of beefsteak and mushrooms or beefsteak +and onions--onions! + +He felt suddenly old, fat, bald-headed! The glow had faded from +everything. He did not protest or attempt to persuade her. He took his +hat, kissed her hand and got away. + +Aunt Priscilla coming in found Dulcie in tears by the fire. + +"I've given him up, Aunt Cilla." + +"Why?" + +"Well, it wouldn't be right." + +She came into Aunt Priscilla's bedroom later to talk it over. She had +on the rosy house coat. She spoke of going back to Paris. + +"It will be better for both of us. After all, Aunt Cilla, we are what we +are fundamentally, and we Puritans can't get away from our consciences, +can we?" + +"Some of us," said Aunt Priscilla, "can't." + +The old woman lay awake a long time that night, thinking it out. She was +glad that Dulcie had stopped the thing in time. But she had a feeling +that the solution of the situation could not be laid to an awakened +conscience. She hoped that some day Dulcie would tell her the truth. + + * * * * * + +It was still raining when Mills reached home. The house was dark, the +fire had died down. He went up-stairs. The boys were in bed. There was a +light in Mary's room. He opened the door. Mary was propped up on her +pillows reading a book. + +He stopped, uncertain, on the threshold. + +"Come in," she said, "my head's better." + +He crossed the room and stood beside her. + +"Oh, Mary," he said, and his face worked. He dropped on his knees by the +bed and cried like a child. + +She laid her hand on his head and smoothed his thin hair. + +"Poor Mills!" she said softly; "poor old Mills!" Then after a moment, +brightly: "It will do us both good to have some coffee. Run along, +Mills, and start the percolator; I'll be down in a minute to get the +supper." + + + + +BURNED TOAST + +I + + +Perry Cunningham and I had been friends for years. I was older than he, +and I had taught him in his senior year at college. After that we had +traveled abroad, frugally, as befitted our means. The one quarrel I had +with fate was that Perry was poor. Money would have given him the +background that belonged to him--he was a princely chap, with a +high-held head. He had Southern blood in his veins, which accounted +perhaps for an almost old-fashioned charm of manner, as if he carried on +a gentlemanly tradition. + +We went through the art galleries together. There could have been +nothing better than those days with him--the Louvre, the Uffizi, the +Pitti Palace. Perry's search for beauty was almost breathless. We swept +from Filippo Lippi to Botticelli and Bellini, then on to Ghirlandajo, +Guido Reni, Correggio, Del Sarto--the incomparable Leonardo. + +"If I had lived then," Perry would say, glowing, "in Florence or in +Venice!" + +And I, smiling at his enthusiasm, had a vision of him among those golden +painters, his own young beauty enhanced by robes of clear color, his +thirst for loveliness appeased by the sumptuous settings of that age of +romance. + +Then when the great moderns confronted us--Sorolla and the rest--Perry +complained, "Why did I study law, Roger, when I might be doing things +like this?" + +"It is not too late," I told him. + +I felt that he must not be curbed, that his impassioned interest might +blossom and bloom into genius if it were given a proper outlet. + +So it came about that he decided to paint. He would stay in Paris a year +or two in a studio, and test his talent. + +But his people would not hear of it. There had been lawyers in his +family for generations. Since the Civil War they had followed more or +less successful careers. Perry's own father had made no money, but +Perry's mother was obsessed by the idea that the fortunes of the family +were bound up in her son's continuance of his father's practice. + +So Perry went home and opened an office. His heart was not in it, but he +made enough to live on, and at last he made money enough to marry a +wife. He would have married her whether he had enough to live on or not. +She was an artist, and she was twenty when Perry met her. We had been +spending a month in Maine, on an island as charming as it was cheap. +Rosalie was there with a great-aunt and uncle. She was painting the sea +on the day that Perry first saw her, and she wore a jade-green smock. +Her hair was red, drawn back rather tightly from her forehead, but +breaking into waves over her ears. With the red of her cheeks and the +red of her lips she had something of the look of Lorenzo Lotto's lovely +ladies, except for a certain sharp slenderness, a slenderness which +came, I was to learn later, from an utter indifference to the claims of +appetite. She was one of those who sell bread to buy hyacinths. + +I speak of this here because Rosalie's almost ascetic indifference to +material matters, in direct contrast to Perry's vivid enjoyment of the +good things of life, came to have a tragic significance in later days. +Perry loved a warm hearth in winter, a cool porch in summer. He had the +Southerner's epicurean appreciation of the fine art of feasting. The +groaning board had been his inheritance from a rollicking, rackety set +of English ancestors, to whom dining was a rather splendid ceremony. On +his mother's table had been fish and game from Chesapeake, fruits and +vegetables in season and out--roast lamb when prices soared high in the +spring, strawberries as soon as they came up from Florida. There had +always been money for these in the Cunningham exchequer, when there had +been money for nothing else. + +Rosalie, on the other hand, ate an orange in the morning, a square of +toast at noon, a chop and perhaps a salad for dinner. One felt that she +might have fared equally well on dew and nectar. She had absolutely no +interest in what was set before her, and after she married Perry this +attitude of mind remained unchanged. + +She was a wretched cook, and made no effort to acquire expertness. She +and Perry lived in a small but well-built bungalow some miles out from +town, and they could not afford a maid. When I dined with them I made up +afterward for the deficiencies of their menu by a square meal at the +club. There was no chance for Perry to make up, and I wondered as the +years went on how he stood it. + +He seemed to stand it rather well, except that in time he came to have +that same sharpened look of delicacy which added a spiritual note to +Rosalie's rich bloom. He always lighted up when he spoke of his wife, +and he was always urging me to come and see them. I must admit that +except for the meals I liked to go. Rosalie's success at painting had +been negligible, but her love of beauty was expressed in the atmosphere +she gave to her little home; she had achieved rather triumphant results +in backgrounds and in furnishing. + +I remember one spring twilight. I was out for the week-end, and we dined +late. The little house was on a hill, and with the French windows wide +open we seemed to hang above an abyss of purple sky, cut by a thin +crescent. White candles lighted the table, and there were white lilacs. +There was a silver band about Rosalie's red hair. + +There was not much to eat, and Perry apologized, "Rose hates to fuss +with food in hot weather." + +Rosalie, as mysterious in that light as the young moon, smiled dreamily. + +"Why should one think about such things--when there is so much else in +the world?" + +Perry removed the plates and made the coffee. Rosalie did not drink +coffee. She wandered out into the garden, and came back with three +violets, which she kissed and stuck in Perry's coat. + +The next morning when I came down Rosalie was cutting bread for toast. +She was always exquisitely neat, and in her white linen and in her +white-tiled kitchen she seemed indubitably domestic. I was hungry and +had hopes of her efforts. + +"Peer is setting the table", she told me. + +She always called him "Peer". She had her own way of finding names for +people. I was never "Roger", but "Jim Crow". When questioned as to her +reason for the appellation she decided vaguely that it might be some +connection of ideas--dances--Sir Roger de Coverley--and didn't somebody +"dance Jim Crow"? + +"You don't mind, do you?" she had asked, and I had replied that I did +not. + +I did not confess how much I liked it. I had always been treated in a +distinctly distant and dignified fashion by my family and friends, so +that Rosalie's easy assumption of intimacy was delightful. + +Well, I went out on the porch and left Rosalie to her culinary devices. +I found the morning paper, and fifteen minutes later there came up +across the lawn a radiant figure. + +Rosalie, hearing the garden call, had chucked responsibility--and her +arms were full of daffodils! + +We had burned toast for breakfast! Rosalie had forgotten it and Perry +had not rescued it until it was well charred. There was no bread to make +more, so we had to eat it. + +For the rest we had coffee and fruit. It was an expensive season for +eggs, and Rosalie had her eye on a bit of old brocade which was to light +a corner of her studio. She breakfasted contentedly on grapefruit, but +Perry was rather silent, and I saw for the first time a shadow on his +countenance. I wondered if for the moment his mind had wandered to the +past, and to his mother's table, with Sunday waffles, omelet, broiled +bacon. Yet--there had been no bits of gay brocade to light the +mid-Victorian dullness of his mother's dining-room, no daffodils on a +radiant morning, no white lilacs on a purple twilight, no slender +goddess, mysterious as the moon. + +It was in the middle of the following winter that I began to realize +that Perry was not well. He had come home on a snowy night, tired and +chilled to the bone. He was late and Rosalie had kept dinner waiting for +him. It was a rather sorry affair when it was served. Perry pushed his +chair back and did not eat. I had as little appetite for it as he, but I +did my best. I had arrived on an earlier train, with some old prints +that I wanted to show him. Rosalie and I looked at them after dinner, +but Perry crouched over the fire and coughed at intervals. + +At last I couldn't stand it any longer. + +"He needs some hot milk, a foot bath, and to be tucked up in bed." + +Rosalie stared at me above the prints. "Perry?" + +"Yes. He isn't well." + +"Don't croak, Jim Crow." + +But I knew what I was talking about. "I am going to get him to bed. You +can have the milk ready when I come down." + +It developed that there was no milk. I walked half a mile to a road +house and brought back oysters and a bottle of cream. I cooked them +myself in the white-tiled kitchen, and served them piping hot in a bowl +with crackers. + +Perry, propped up in bed, ate like a starved bird. + +"I've never tasted anything better," he said; and, warmed and fed, he +slept after a bit as soundly as a satisfied baby. + +It was while he was eating the oysters that Rosalie came to the door and +looked at him. He was not an æsthetic object--I must admit that no sick +man is--and I saw distaste in her glance, as if some dainty instinct in +her shrank from the spectacle. + +When I went down I found her sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in a +Chinese robe of black and gold. You can imagine the effect of that with +the red of her hair and the red of her cheeks and lips. Her feet, in +black satin slippers, were on a jade-green cushion, and back of her head +was the strip of brocade that she had bought with her housekeeping +money. It was a gorgeous bit, repeating the color of the cushion, and +with a touch of blue which matched her eyes. + +She wanted me to show her the rest of the prints. I tried to talk to her +of Perry's health, but she wouldn't. + +"Don't croak, Jim Crow," she said again. + +As I look back at the two of us by the fire that night I feel as one +might who had been accessory to a crime. Rosalie's charm was undoubted. +Her quickness of mind, her gayety of spirit, her passion for all that +was lovely in art and Nature--made her indescribably interesting. I +stayed late. And not once, after my first attempt, did we speak of +Perry. + + + +II + + +It was in March that I made Perry see a doctor. "Nothing organic," was +Perry's report. Beyond that he was silent. So I went to the doctor +myself. + +"What's the matter with him?" + +"He is not getting the proper nourishment," the doctor told me. "He must +have plenty of milk and eggs, and good red meat." + +It sounded easy enough, but it wasn't. Rosalie couldn't grasp the fact +that diet in Perry's case was important. For the first time I saw a +queer sort of obstinacy in her. + +"Oh, my poor Peer!" And she laughed lightly. "Do they want to make a +stuffed pig of you?" + +Well, you simply couldn't get it into her head that Perry needed the +bread that she sold for hyacinths. She cooked steaks and chops for him, +and served them with an air of protest that took away his appetite. + +Of course there remained the eggs and milk, but he didn't like them. +What Perry really needed was three good meals a day according to the +tradition of his mother's home. + +But he couldn't have them. His mother was dead, and the home broken up. +The little bungalow, with its old brocades, its Venetian glass, its +Florentine carvings, its sun-dial and its garden, was the best that life +could offer him. And I must confess that he seemed to think it very +good. He adored Rosalie. When in moments of rebellion against her +seeming indifference I hinted that she lacked housewifely qualities he +smiled and shifted the subject abruptly. + +Once he said, "She feeds--my soul." + +Of course she loved him. But love to her meant what it had meant in +those first days on the Maine coast when she had seen him, slender and +strong, his brown hair blowing back from his sun-tanned skin; it meant +those first days in their new home when, handsome and debonair in the +velvet coat which she had made him wear, he had added a high light to +the picture she had made of her home. + +This new Perry, pale and coughing--shivering in the warmth of the +fire--did not fit into the picture. Her dreams of the future had not +included a tired man who worked for his living, and who was dying for +lack of intelligent care. + +To put it into cold words makes it sound ghoulish. But of course Rosalie +was not really that. She was merely absorbed in her own exalted theories +and she was not maternal. I think when I compared her, unthinking, to +the young moon, that I was subconsciously aware of her likeness to the +"orbed maiden" whose white fire warms no one. + +She tried to do her best, and I am quite sure that Perry never knew the +truth--that he might have been saved if she could have left her heights +for a moment and had become womanly and wifely. If she had mothered him +a bit--poured out her tenderness upon him--oh, my poor Perry. He loved +her too much to ask it, but I knew what it would have meant to him. + +All through his last illness Rosalie clung to me. I think it grew to be +a horror to her to see him, gaunt and exhausted, in the west room. He +had a good nurse, toward the last, and good food. I had had a small +fortune left to me, too late, by a distant relative. I paid for the cook +and the nurse, and I sent flowers to Rosalie that she might take them to +Perry and let his hungry eyes feed upon her. + +It was in the winter that he died, and after all was over Rosalie and I +went out and stood together on the little porch. There was snow on the +ground and the bright stars seemed caught in the branches of the pines. + +Rosalie shook and sobbed. + +"I hate--death," she said. "Oh, Jim Crow, why did God let my poor Peer +die?" She was completely unstrung. "Death is so--ugly." + +I said, "It is not ugly. Peer will live again--like the daffodils in +the spring." + +"Do you believe that, Jim Crow?" + +I did believe it, and I told her so--that even now her Peer was strong +and well; and I think it comforted her. It gave her lover back to her, +as it were, in the glory of his youth. + +She did not wear mourning, or, rather, she wore mourning which was like +that worn by no other woman. Her robes were of purple. She kept Perry's +picture on the table, and out of the frame his young eyes laughed at us, +so that gradually the vision of that ravaged figure in the west room +faded. + +I went to see her once a week. It seemed the only thing to do. She was +utterly alone, with no family but the great-aunt and uncle who had been +with her when she met Perry. She was a child in business matters, and +Perry had left it to me to administer the affairs of his little estate. +Rosalie had her small bungalow, Perry's insurance, and she turned her +knowledge of painting to practical account. She made rather special +things in lamp-shades and screens, and was well paid for them. + +I went, as I have said, once a week. A woman friend shared part of her +house, but was apt to be out, and so I saw Rosalie usually alone. I +lived now at the club and kept a car. Rosalie often dined with me, but I +rarely ate at the bungalow. Now and then in the afternoon she made me a +cup of tea, rather more, I am sure, for the picturesque service with +her treasured Sheffield than for any desire to contribute to my own +cheer or comfort. + +And so, gradually, I grew into her life and she grew into mine. I was +forty-five, she twenty-five. In the back of my mind was always a sense +of the enormity of her offense against Perry. In my hottest moments I +said to myself that she had sacrificed his life to her selfishness; she +might have been a Borgia or a Medici. + +Yet when I was with her my resentment faded; one could as little hold +rancor against a child. + +Thus the months passed, and it was in the autumn, I remember, that a +conversation occurred which opened new vistas. She had been showing me a +parchment lamp-shade which she had painted. There was a peacock with a +spreading tail, and as she held the shade over the lamp the light shone +through and turned every feathered eye into a glittering jewel. Rosalie +wore one of her purple robes, and I can see her now as I shut my eyes, +as glowing and gorgeous as some of those unrivaled masterpieces in the +Pitti Palace. + +"Jim Crow," she said, "I shall do a parrot next--all red and blue, with +white rings round his eyes." + +"You will never do anything better than that peacock." + +"Shan't I?" She left the shade over the lamp and sat down. "Do you think +I shall paint peacocks and parrots for the rest of my life, Jim Crow?" + +"What would you like to do?" I asked her. + +"Travel." She was eager. "Do you know, I have never been to Europe? +Perry used to tell me about it--Botticelli and Raphael--and +Michaelangelo--" + +"We had a great time," I said, remembering it all--that breathless +search for beauty. + +"He promised that some day he and I would go--together." + +"Poor Perry!" + +She rose restlessly. + +"Oh, take me out somewhere, Jim Crow! I feel as if this little house +would stifle me." + +We motored to the country club. She wore the color which she now +affected, a close little hat and a straight frock. People stared at her. +I think she was aware of their admiration and liked it. + +She smiled at me as she sat down at the table. "I always love to come +with you, Jim Crow." + +"Why?" + +"You do things so well, and you're such a darling." + +I do not believe that it was intended as flattery. I am sure that she +meant it. She was happy because of the lights and the lovely old room +with its cavernous fireplace and its English chintzes; and out of her +happiness she spoke. + +She could not, of course, know the effect of her words on me. No one had +ever called me a darling or had thought that I did things well. + +She used, too, to tell me things about my looks. "You'd be like one of +those distinguished gentlemen of Vandyke's if you'd wear a ruff and +leave off your eye-glasses." + +I wonder if you know how it seemed to have a child like that saying such +things. For she was more than a child, she was a beautiful woman, and +everything surrounding her was beautiful. And there had been a great +many gray years before I met Perry and before the money came which made +pleasant living possible. + +"I like you because you are strong," was another of her tributes. + +"How do you know I am strong?" + +"Well, you look it. And not many men could have carried me so easily +up-stairs." + +She had sprained her ankle in getting out of my car on the night that we +had dined at the country club. She had worn high-heeled slippers and had +stepped on a pebble. + +It was on that night that I first faced the fact that I cared for her. +In my arms she had clung to me like a child, her hair had swept my +cheek, there had been the fragrance of violets. + +I did not want to care for her. I remembered Perry--the burned toast +which had seemed to mark the beginning of their tragedy--those last +dreadful days. I knew that Perry's fate would not be mine; there would +be no need to sell bread to buy hyacinths. There was money enough and to +spare, money to let her live in the enjoyment of the things she craved; +money enough to--travel. + +The more I thought of it the more I was held by the thought of what such +a trip would mean to me. It would be like that pilgrimage with young +Perry. There would be the same impassioned interest--there would be more +than that--there would be youth and loveliness--all mine. + +I felt that I was mad to think of it. Yet she made me think of it. It +was what she wanted. She was not in the least unwomanly, but she was +very modern in her frank expression of the pleasure she felt in my +companionship. + +"Oh, what would I do without you, Jim Crow?" was the way she put it. + +I grew young in my months of association with her. I had danced a little +in my college days, but I had given it up. She taught me the new +steps--and we would set the phonograph going and take up the rugs. + +When I grew expert we danced together at the country club and at some of +the smart places down-town. It was all very delightful. I made up my +mind that I should marry her. + +I planned to ask her on Christmas Eve. I had a present for her, an +emerald set in antique silver with seed pearls. It was hung on a black +ribbon, and I could fancy it shining against the background of her +velvet smock. I carried flowers, too, and a book. I was keen with +anticipation. The years seemed to drop from me. I was a boy of twenty +going to meet the lady of my first romance. + +When I arrived at the bungalow I found that Rosalie had with her the old +great-aunt and uncle who had been with her when we first met in Maine. +They had come on for Christmas unexpectedly, anticipating an eager +welcome, happy in their sense of surprise. + +Rosalie, when we had a moment alone, expressed her dismay. + +"They are going to stay until to-morrow night, Jim Crow. And I haven't +planned any Christmas dinner." + +"We'll take them to the country club." + +"How heavenly of you to think of it!" + +I gave her the flowers and the book. But I kept the jewel for the high +moment when I should ask her for a greater gift in exchange. + +But the high moment did not come that night. The old uncle and aunt sat +up with us. They had much to talk about. They were a comfortable +pair--silver-haired and happy in each other--going toward the end of the +journey hand in hand. + +The old man went to the door with me when I left, and we stood for a +moment under the stars. + +"Mother and I miss hanging up the stockings for the kiddies," he said. + +"Were there many kiddies?" + +"Three. Two dead and one married and out West. Rosalie seemed the +nearest that we had, and that's why we came. I thought mother might be +lonely in our big old house." + +The next day at the country club the old gentleman was genial but +slightly garrulous. The old lady talked about her children and her +Christmas memories. I saw that Rosalie was frankly bored. + +As for myself, I was impatient for my high moment. + +But I think I gave the old folks a good time and that they missed +nothing in my manner. And, indeed, I think that they missed nothing in +Rosalie's. They had the gentle complacency of the aged who bask in their +own content. + +It was toward the end of dinner that I caught a look in Rosalie's eyes +which almost made my heart stop beating. I had not seen it since Perry's +death. I had seen it first when she had stood in the door of his room on +the night that I tucked him up in bed and gave him the hot oysters. It +was that look of distaste--that delicate shrinking from an unpleasant +spectacle. + +Following her gaze I saw that the old gentleman had sunk in his chair +and was gently nodding. His wife leaned toward me. + +"Milton always takes a cat nap after meals," she said, smiling. And I +smiled back, she was so rosy and round and altogether comfortable. + +Rosalie and I went with them to the train, and it was as we drove back +that I spoke of them. + +"They are rather great dears, aren't they?" + +Rosalie was vehement. "I hate old people!" + +A chill struck to my bones. "You hate them? Why?" + +"They're--ugly, Jim Crow. Did you see how they had shrunk since I last +saw them--and the veins in their hands--and the skull showing through +his forehead?" + +She was twenty-five, and I was almost twice her age. When I was old she +would still be young--young enough to see my shrunken body and the +skull showing through! + +The look that had been in her eyes for Perry would some day be in her +eyes for me. And I knew that if I ever saw it it would strike me dead. +It might not kill me physically, but it would wither like a flame all +joy and hope forever. + +When we reached the bungalow I built up a fire, and Rosalie, leaving me +for a little, came back in something sheer and lovely in green. It was +the first time since Perry's death that she had discarded her purple +robes. She sank into a big chair opposite me and put her +silver-slippered feet on the green cushion. + +"Isn't it heavenly to be alone, Jim Crow?" + +It was the high moment which I had planned, but I could not grasp it. +Between me and happiness stood the shadow of that other Rosalie, +shrinking from me when I was old as she had shrunk from Perry. + +"My dear," I said, and I did not look at her, "I've been thinking a lot +about you." + +Her chin was in her hand. "I know." + +But she didn't know. + +"I've been thinking, Rosalie; and I want to give you something for +Christmas which will make you happy throughout the year." + +"You are such a darling, Jim Crow." + +"And I have thought of this--a trip to Europe. You'll let me do it, +won't you? There'll be the art galleries, and you can stay as long as +you like." + +I could see that she was puzzled. "Do you mean that I am to go--alone?" +she asked slowly. + +"There may be some one going. I'll find out." + +There was dead silence. + +"You will let me do it?" I asked finally. + +She came over to my chair and stood looking down at me. + +"Why are you sending me alone, Jim Crow?" + +I think, then, that she saw the anguish in my eyes. She sank on her +knees beside my chair. + +"I don't want to go alone, Jim Crow. I want to stay--with--you." + + * * * * * + +Well, the jewel is on her breast and a ring to match is on her finger. +And when the spring comes we are to sail for Italy, for France. + +Perhaps we shall never come back. And I am going to give Rosalie all +the loveliness that life can hold for her. Now and then she whispers +that she never knew love until I taught it to her. That what she felt +for Perry was but the echo of his own need of her. + +"But I'd tramp the muddy roads with you, Jim Crow." + +I wonder if she really means it. I wish with all my heart that I might +know it true. I have never told her of my fears and I believe that I can +make her happy. I shall try not to look too far beyond the days we shall +have in the Louvre and the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace. We shall search +for beauty, and perhaps I can teach her to find it, before it is too +late, in the things that count. + + + + +PETRONELLA + + +"If you loved a man, and knew that he loved you, and he wouldn't ask you +to marry him, what would you do?" + +The Admiral surveyed his grand-niece thoughtfully. "What do you expect +to do, my dear?" + +Petronella stopped on the snowy top step and looked down at him. "Who +said I had anything to do with it?" she demanded. + +The Admiral's old eyes twinkled. "Let me come in, and tell me about +it." + +Petronella smiled at him over her big muff. "If you'll promise not to +stay after five, I'll give you a cup of tea." + +"Who's coming at five?" + +The color flamed into Petronella's cheeks. In her white coat and white +furs, with her wind-blown brown hair, her beauty satisfied even the +Admiral's critical survey, and he hastened to follow his question by the +assertion, "Of course I'll come in." + +Petronella, with her coat off, showed a slenderness which was enhanced +by the straight lines of her white wool gown, with the long sleeves +fur-edged, and with fur at the top of the high, transparent collar. She +wore her hair curled over her ears and low on her forehead, which made +of her face a small and delicate oval. In the big hall, with a roaring +fire in the wide fireplace, she dispensed comforting hospitality to the +adoring Admiral. And when she had given him his tea she sat on a stool +at his feet. "Oh, wise great-uncle," she said, "I am going to tell you +about the Man!" + +"Have I ever seen him?" + +"No. I met him in London last year, and--well, you know what a trip home +on shipboard means, with all the women shut up in their cabins, and with +moonlight nights, and nobody on deck--" + +"So it was an affair of moonlight and propinquity?" + +After a pause: "No, it was an affair of the only man in the world for +me." + +"My dear child--!" + +Out of a long silence she went on: "He thought I was poor. You know how +quietly I traveled with Miss Danvers. And he didn't associate Nell +Hewlett with Petronella Hewlett of New York and Great Rock. And +so--well, you know, uncle, he let himself go, and I let myself go, and +then--" + +She drew a long breath. "When we landed, things stopped. He had found +out who I was, and he wrote me a little note, and said he would never +forget our friendship--and that's--all." + +She finished drearily, and the bluff old Admiral cleared his throat. +There was something wrong with the scheme of things when his Petronella +couldn't have the moon if she wanted it! + +"And what can I do--what can any woman do?" Petronella demanded, turning +on him. "I can't go to him and say, 'Please marry me.' I can't even +think it"; her cheeks burned. "And he'd die before _he'd_ say another +word, and I suppose that now we'll go on growing old, and I'll get +thinner and thinner, and he'll get fatter and fatter, and I'll be an old +maid, and he'll marry some woman who's poor enough to satisfy his pride, +and--well, that will be the end of it, uncle." + +"The end of it?" said the gentleman who had once commanded a squadron. +"Well, I guess not, Petronella, if you want him. Oh, the man's a fool!" + +"He's not a fool, uncle." The sparks in Petronella's eyes matched the +sparks in the Admiral's. + +"Well, if he's worthy of you--" + +Petronella laid her cheek against his hand. "The question is not," she +said, faintly, "of his worthiness, but of mine, dear uncle." + +Dumbly the Admiral gazed down at that drooping head. Could this be +Petronella--confident, imperious, the daughter of a confident and +imperious race? + +He took refuge in the question, "But who is coming at five?" + +"He is coming. He is passing through Boston on his way to visit his +mother in Maine. I asked him to come. I told him I was down here by the +sea, and intended to spend Christmas at Great Rock because you were +here, and because this was the house I lived in when I was a little +girl, and that I wanted him to see it; and--I told him the truth, +uncle." + +"The truth?" + +"That I missed him. That was all I dared say, and I wish you had read +his note of assent. Such a stiff little thing. It threw me back upon +myself, and I wished that I hadn't written him--I wished that he +wouldn't come. Oh, uncle, if I were a man, I'd give a woman the right to +choose. That's the reason there are so many unhappy marriages. Nine +wrong men ask a woman, and the tenth right one _won't_. And finally she +gets tired of waiting for the tenth right one, and marries one of the +nine wrong ones." + +"There are women to-day," said the Admiral, "who are preaching a woman's +right to propose." + +Petronella gazed at him, thoughtfully. "I could preach a doctrine like +that--but I couldn't practice it. It's easy enough to say to some other +woman, 'Ask him,' but it's different when you are the woman." + +"Yet if he asked you," suggested the Admiral, "the world might say that +he wanted your money." + +"Why should we care what the world would say?" Petronella was on her +feet now, defending her cause vigorously. "Why should we care? Why, it's +our love against the world, uncle! Why should we care?" + +The Admiral stood up, too, and paced the rug as in former days he had +paced the decks. "There must be some way out," he said at last, and +stopped short. "Suppose I speak to him--" + +"And spoil it all! Oh, uncle!" Petronella shook him by the lapels of +his blue coat. "A man never knows how a woman feels about such things. +Even you don't, you old darling. And now will you please go; and take +this because I love you," and she kissed him on one cheek, "and this +because it is a quarter to five and you'll have to hurry," and she +kissed him on the other cheek. + +The Admiral, being helped into his big cape in the hall, called back, "I +forgot to give you your Christmas present," and he produced a small +package. + +"Come here and let me open it," Petronella insisted. And the Admiral, +without a glance at the accusing clock, went back. And thus it happened +that he was there to meet the Man. + +It must be confessed that the Admiral suffered a distinct shock as he +was presented to the hero of Petronella's romance. Here was no courtly +youth of the type of the military male line of Petronella's family, but +a muscular young giant of masterful bearing. The Hewlett men had +commanded men; one could see at a glance that Justin Hare had also +commanded women. This, the wise old Admiral decided at once, was the +thing which had attracted Petronella--Petronella, who had held her own +against all masculine encroachments, and who was heart-free at +twenty-five! + +"Look what this dearest dear of an uncle has given me," said Petronella, +and held up for the young surgeon's admiration a string of pearls with a +sapphire clasp. "They belonged to my great-aunt. I was named for her, +and uncle says I look like her." + +"You have her eyes, my dear, and some of her ways. But she was less +independent. In her time women leaned more, as it were, on man's +strength." + +Justin Hare looked at them with interest--at the slender girl in her +white gown, at the tall, straight old man with his air of command. + +"Women in these days do not lean," he said, with decision; "they lead." + +A spark came into Petronella's eyes. "And do you like the modern type +best?" she challenged. + +He answered with smiling directness, "I like you." + +The Admiral was pleased with that, though he was still troubled by this +man's difference from the men of his own race. Yet if back of that +honest bluntness there was a heart which would enshrine her--well, that +was all he would ask for this dearest of girls. + +He glanced at the clock, and spoke hurriedly: "I must be going, my dear; +it is long after five." + +"Must you really go?" asked the mendacious Petronella. + +An hour later she was alone. The visit had been a failure. She admitted +that, as she gazed with a sort of agonized dismay through the wide +window to where the sea was churned by the wildness of the northeast +gale. Snow had come with the wind, shutting out the view of the great +empty hotels on the Point, shutting out, too, the golden star of hope +which gleamed from the top of the lighthouse. + +Petronella turned away from the blank scene with a little shudder. Thus +had Justin Hare shut her out of his life. He had talked of his mother in +Maine, of his hospital plans for the winter, but not a word had he said +of those moonlight nights when he had masterfully swayed her by the +force of his own passion, had wooed her, won her. + +And now there was nothing that she could do. There was never anything +that a woman could do! And so she must bear it. Oh, if she could bear +it! + +A little later, when a maid slipped in to light the candles, Petronella +said out of the shadows, "When Jenkins goes to the post-office, I have a +parcel for the mail." + +"He's been, miss, and there won't be any train out to-night; the snow +has stopped the trains." + +"Not any train!" At first the remark held little significance, but +finally the fact beat against her brain. If the one evening train could +not leave, then Justin Hare must stay in town, and he would have to stay +until Christmas morning! + +Petronella went at once to the telephone, and called up the only hotel +which was open at that season. Presently she had Hare at the other end +of the line. + +"You must come to my house to dinner," she said. "Jenkins has told me +about your train. Please don't dress--there'll be only Miss Danvers and +uncle; and you shall help me trim my little tree." + +Although she told him not to dress, she changed her gown for one of dull +green velvet, built on the simple lines of the white wool she had worn +in the afternoon. The square neck was framed by a collar of Venetian +point, and there was a queer old pin of pearls. + +The Admiral, arriving early, demanded: "My dear, what is this? I was +just sitting down to bread and milk and a handful of raisins, and now I +must dine in six courses, and drink coffee, which will keep me awake." + +She laid her cheek against his arm. "Mr. Hare's train couldn't get out +of town on account of the snow." + +"And he's coming?" + +"Yes." + +"But what of this afternoon, my dear?" + +She slipped her hand into his, and they stood gazing into the fire. "It +was dreadful, uncle. I had a feeling that I had compelled him to +come--against his will." + +"Yet you have asked him to come again to-night?" + +She shivered a little, and her hand was cold. "Perhaps I shall regret +it--but oh, uncle, can't I have for this one evening the joy of his +presence? And if to-morrow my heart dies--" + +"Nella, my dear child--" + +The Admiral's own Petronella had never drawn in this way upon his +emotions. She had been gentle, perhaps a little cold. But then he had +always worshiped at her shrine. Perhaps a woman denied the lore she +yearns for learns the value of it. At any rate, here in his arms was the +dearest thing in his lonely life, sobbing as if her heart would break. + +When Justin came, a half-hour later, he found them still in front of the +fire in the great hall, and as she rose to welcome him he saw that +Petronella had been sitting on a stool at her uncle's feet. + +"When I was a little girl," she explained, when Hare had taken a chair +on the hearth and she had chosen another with, a high, carved back, in +which she sat with her silken ankles crossed and the tips of her slipper +toes resting on a leopard-skin which the Admiral had brought back from +India--"when I was a little girl we always spent Christmas Eve in this +house by the sea instead of in town. We were all here then--mother and +dad and dear Aunt Pet, and we hung our stockings at this very +fireplace--and now there is no one but Miss Danvers and me, and uncle, +who lives up aloft in his big house across the way, where he has a +lookout tower. I always feel like calling up to him when I go there, +'Oh, Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?'" + +She was talking nervously, with her cheeks as white as a lily, but with +her eyes shining. The Admiral glanced at Hare. The young man was +drinking in her beauty. But suddenly he frowned and turned away his +eyes. + +"It was very good of you to ask me over," he said, formally. + +That steadied Petronella. Her nervous self-consciousness fled, and she +was at once the gracious, impersonal hostess. + +The Admiral glowed with pride of her. "She'll carry it off," he said to +himself; "it's in her blood." + +"Dinner is served," announced Jenkins from the doorway, and then Miss +Danvers came down and greeted Justin, and they all went out together. + +There was holly for a centerpiece, and four red candles in silver +holders. The table was of richly carved mahogany, and the Admiral, +following an old custom, served the soup from a silver tureen, upheld by +four fat cupids. From the wide arch which led into the great hall was +hung a bunch of mistletoe; beyond the arch, the roaring fire made a +background of gleaming, golden light. + +To the young surgeon it seemed a fairy scene flaming with the color and +glow of a life which he had never known. He had lived so long surrounded +by the bare, blank walls of a hospital. Even Petronella's soft green +gown seemed made of some mystical stuff which had nothing in common with +the cool white or blue starchiness of the uniforms of nurses. + +They talked of many things, covering with, their commonplaces the +tenseness of the situation. Then suddenly the conversation took a +significant turn. + +"I love these stormy nights," Petronella had said, "with the snow +blowing, and the wind, and the house all warm and bright." + +"Think of the poor sailors at sea," Hare had reminded her. + +"Please--I don't want to think of them. We have done our best for them, +uncle and I. We have opened a reading-room down by the docks, so that +all who are ashore can have soup and coffee and sandwiches, and there's +a big stove, and newspapers and magazines." + +"You dispense charity?" + +"Why not?" she asked him, confidently. "We have plenty--why shouldn't we +give?" + +"Because it takes away from their manhood to receive." + +The Admiral spoke bluntly. "The men don't feel it that way. This +charity, as you call it, is a memorial to my wife. The grandfathers of +these boys used to see her light in the window of the old house on +stormy nights, and they knew that it was an invitation to good cheer. +More than one crew coming in half frozen were glad of the soup and +coffee which were sent down to them in cans with baskets of bread. And +this little coffee-room has been the outgrowth of just such hospitality. +There are too many of the men to have in my house. I simply entertain +them elsewhere, and I like to go and talk to them, and sometimes +Petronella goes." + +"There's a picture of dear Aunt Pet hanging there," said Petronella, +"and you can't imagine how it softens the manners of the men. It is as +if her spirit brooded over the place. They have made it into a sort of +shrine, and they bring shells and queer carved things to put on the +shelf below it." + +"In the city we are beginning to think that such methods weaken +self-respect." + +"That's because," said the wise old Admiral, "in the city there isn't +any real democracy. You give your friend a cup of coffee and think +nothing of it, yet when I give a cup of coffee to a sailor whose +grandfather and mine fished together on the banks, you warn me that my +methods tend to pauperize. In the city the poor are never your +friends--in this little town no man would admit that he is less than I. +They like my coffee and they drink it." + +Petronella, seeing her chance, took it. "I think people are horrid to +let money make a difference." + +"You say that," said Hare, "because you have never had to accept +favors--you have, in other words, never been on the other side." + +The Admiral, taking up cudgels for his niece, answered, "If she had been +on the other side, she would have taken life as she takes it now--like a +gentleman and a soldier," and he smiled at Petronella. + +Hare had a baffled sense that the Admiral was right--that Petronella's +fineness and delicacy would never go down in defeat or despair. She +would hold her head high though the heavens fell. But could any man make +such demands upon her? For himself, he would not. + +So he answered, doggedly, "We shall hope she need never be tested." And +Petronella's heart sank like lead. + +But presently she began to talk about the little tree. "We have always +had it in uncle's lookout tower. That was another of dear Aunt Pet's +thoughts for the sailors. On clear nights they looked through their +glasses for the little colored lights, and on stormy nights they knew +that back of all the snow was the Christmas brightness." + +"I never had a tree," said Justin. "When I was a kiddie we had pretty +hard times, and the best Christmas I remember was one when mother made +us boys put up a shelf for our books, and she started our collection +with 'Treasure Island' and 'Huckleberry Finn.'" + +In the adjoining room, volumes reached from floor to ceiling, from end +to end. Petronella had a vision of this vivid young giant gloating over +his two books on a rude shelf. And all her life she had had the things +she wanted! Somehow the thought took the bitterness out of her attitude +toward him. How strong he must be to deny himself now the one great +thing that he craved when his life had held so little. + +"How lovely to begin with just those two books," she said, softly, and +the radiance of her smile was dazzling. + +When she showed him her presents she was still radiant. There was a +queer opera-bag of Chinese needlework, with handles of jade, a Damascus +bowl of pierced brass, a tea-caddy in quaint Dutch _repoussé_; there was +a silver-embroidered altar-cloth for a cushion, a bit of Copenhagen +faience, all the sophisticated artistry which is sent to those who have +no need for the commonplace. There were jewels, too: a bracelet of +topazes surrounded by brilliants, a pair of slipper buckles of +turquoises set in silver, a sapphire circlet for her little finger, a +pendant of seed pearls. + +As she opened the parcels and displayed her riches Justin felt +bewildered. His gifts to his mother had included usually gloves and a +generous check; if he had ventured to choose anything for Petronella he +would not have dared go beyond a box of candy or a book; he had given +his nurses pocketbooks and handkerchiefs. And the men of Petronella's +world bestowed on her brass bowls and tea-caddies! + +Miss Danvers vanished up-stairs. The Admiral, having admired, slipped +away to the library, encouraged by Petronella's whispered: "Oh, uncle +dear, leave us alone for just a little minute. I've found a way!" + +Then Petronella, with that radiance still upon her, sat down on her +little stool in front of the fire, and looked at Justin on the other +side of the hearth. + +"You haven't given me anything," she began, reproachfully. + +"What could I give that would compare with these?" His hand swept toward +the exquisite display. "What could I give--" + +"There's one thing," softly. + +"What?" + +"That copy of 'Treasure Island' that your mother gave you long ago." + +Dead silence. Then, unsteadily: "Why should you want that?" + +"Because your mother--loved you." + +Again dead silence. Hare did not look at her. His hand clenched the arm +of his chair. His face was white. Then, very low, "Why do you--make it +hard for me?" + +"Because I want--the book"; she was smiling at him with her eyes like +stars. "I want to read it with the eyes of the little boy--with the eyes +of the little boy who looked into the future and saw life as a great +adventure; who looked into the future--and dreamed." + +He had a vision, too, of that little boy, reading, in the old house in +the Maine woods, by the light of an oil-lamp, on Christmas Eve, with the +snow blowing outside as it blew to-night. + +"And your mother loved you because she loved your father," the girl's +voice went on, "and you were all very happy up there in the forest. Do +you remember that you told me about it on the ship?--you were happy, +although you were poor, and hadn't any books but 'Treasure Island' and +'Huckleberry Finn.' But your mother was happy--because she--loved your +father." + +As she repeated it, she leaned forward. "Could you think of your mother +as having been happy with any one else but your father?" she asked. +"Could you think of her as having never married him, of having gone +through the rest of her days a half-woman, because he would not--take +her--into his life? Can you think that all the money in the world--all +the money in the whole world--would--would have made up--" + +The room seemed to darken. Hare was conscious that her face was hidden +in her hands, that he stumbled toward her, that he knelt beside +her--that she was in his arms. + +"Hush," he was saying in that beating darkness of emotion. "Hush, don't +cry--I--I will never let you go--" + +When the storm had spent itself and when at last she met his long gaze, +he whispered, "I'm not sure now that it is right--" + +"You will be sure as the years go on," she whispered back; then, +tremulously: "but I--I could never have--talked that way if I had +thought of you as the man. I had to think of you as the little boy--who +dreamed." + + + + +THE CANOPY BED + + +"My great-grandfather slept in it," Van Alen told the caretaker, as she +ushered him into the big stuffy bedroom. + +The old woman set her candlestick down on the quaint dresser. "He must +have been a little man," she said; "none of my sons could sleep in it. +Their feet would hang over." + +Van Alen eyed the big bed curiously. All his life he had heard of it, +and now he had traveled far to see it. It was a lumbering structure of +great width and of strangely disproportionate length. And the coverlet +and the canopy were of rose-colored chintz. + +"I think I shall fit it," he said slowly. + +Mrs. Brand's critical glance weighed his smallness, his immaculateness, +his difference from her own great sons. + +"Yes," she said, with the open rudeness of the country-bred; "yes, you +ain't very big." + +Van Alen winced. Even from the lips of this uncouth woman the truth +struck hard. But he carried the topic forward with the light ease of a +man of the world. + +"My grandfather had the bed sawed to his own length," he explained; "did +you ever hear the story?" + +"No," she said; "I ain't been here long. They kept the house shut up +till this year." + +"Well, I'll tell you when I come down," and Van Alen opened his bag with +a finality that sent the old woman to the door. + +"Supper's ready," she told him, "whenever you are." + +At the supper table the four big sons towered above Van Alen. They ate +with appetites like giants, and they had big ways and hearty laughs +that seemed to dwarf their guest into insignificance. + +But the insignificance was that of body only, for Van Alen, fresh from +the outside world and a good talker at all times, dominated the table +conversationally. + +To what he had to say the men listened eagerly, and the girl who waited +on the table listened. + +She was a vivid personality, with burnished hair, flaming cheeks, eyes +like the sea. Her hands, as she passed the biscuits, were white, and the +fingers went down delicately to little points. Van Alen, noting these +things keenly, knew that she was out of her place, and wondered how she +came there. + +At the end of the meal he told the story of the Canopy Bed. + +"My great-grandfather was a little man, and very sensitive about his +height. In the days of his early manhood he spent much time in devising +ways to deceive people into thinking him taller. He surrounded himself +with big things, had a big bed made, wore high-heeled boots, and the +crown of his hat was so tall that he was almost overbalanced. + +"But for all that, he was a little man among the sturdy men of his +generation, and if it had not been for the Revolution I think he would +have died railing at fate. But the war brought him opportunity. My +little great-grandfather fought in it, and won great honors, and +straight back home he came and had the bed sawed off! He wanted future +generations to see what a little man could do, and his will provided +that this house should not be sold, and that, when his sons and +grandsons had proved themselves worthy of it by some achievement, they +should come here and sleep. I think he swaggered a little when he wrote +that will, and he has put his descendants in an embarrassing position. +We can never sleep in the canopy bed without taking more upon ourselves +than modesty permits!" + +He laughed, and instinctively his eyes sought those of the girl who +waited on the table. Somehow he felt that she was the only one who could +understand. + +She came back at him with a question: "What have you done?" + +"I have written a book," he told her. + +She shook her head, and there were little sparks of light in her eyes. +"I don't believe that was what your grandfather meant," she said, +slowly. + +They stared at her--three of the brothers with their knives and forks +uplifted, the fourth, a blond Titanic youngster, with his elbows on the +table, his face turned up to her, as to the sun. + +"I don't believe he meant something done with your brains, but something +fine, heroic--" There was a hint of scorn in her voice. + +Van Alen flushed. He was fresh from the adulation of his bookish world. + +"I should not have come," he explained, uncomfortably, "if my mother had +not desired that I preserve the tradition of the family." + +"It is a great thing to write a book"--she was leaning forward, aflame +with interest--"but I don't believe he meant just that--" + +He laughed. "Then I am not to sleep in the canopy bed?" + +The girl laughed too. "Not unless you want to be haunted by his ghost." + +With a backward flashing glance, she went into the kitchen, and Van +Alen, lighting a cigarette, started to explore the old house. + +Except for the wing, occupied by the caretaker, nothing had been +disturbed since the family, seeking new fortunes in the city, had left +the old homestead to decay among the desolate fields that yielded now a +meagre living for Mrs. Brand and her four strapping sons. + +In the old parlor, where the ancient furniture showed ghostlike shapes +in the dimness, and the dead air was like a tomb, Van Alen found a +picture of his great-grandfather. + +The little man had been painted without flattery. There he +sat--Lilliputian on the great charger! At that moment Van Alen hated +him--that Hop-o'-my-Thumb of another age, founder of a pigmy race, who, +by his braggart will, had that night brought upon this one of his +descendants the scorn of a woman. + +And even as he thought of her, she came in, with the yellow flare of a +candle lighting her vivid face. + +"I thought you might need a light," she said; "it grows dark so soon." + +As he took the candle from her, he said abruptly: "I shall not sleep in +the canopy bed; there is a couch in the room." + +"Oh," her tone was startled, "you shouldn't have taken all that I said +in earnest." + +"But you meant it?" + +"In a way, yes. I have been in here so often and have looked at your +grandfather's picture. He was a great little man--you can tell from his +eyes--they seem to speak at times." + +"To you?" + +"Yes. Of how he hated to be little, and how he triumphed when fame came +at last." + +"I hate to be little--" + +It was the first time that he had ever owned it. Even as a tiny boy he +had brazened it out, boasting of his mental achievements and slurring +the weakness of his stunted body. + +"I know," she had shut the kitchen door behind her, and they were +standing in the hallway alone, "I know. Every man must want to be big." + +She was only the girl who had waited on the table, but as she stood +there, looking at him with luminous eyes, he burned with dull +resentment, envying the blond boy who had sprawled at the head of the +supper table. After all, it was to such a man as Otto Brand that this +woman would some day turn. + +He spoke almost roughly: "Size isn't everything." She flushed. "How rude +you must think me," she said; "but I have been so interested in +dissecting your grandfather that I forgot--you--" + +Van Alen was moved by an impulse that he could not control, a primitive +impulse that was not in line with his usual repression. + +"I am tempted to make you remember me," he said slowly, and after that +there was a startled silence. And then she went away. + +As he passed the sitting-room on his way up-stairs, he looked in, and +spoke to Otto Brand. + +More than any of the other brothers, Otto typified strength and beauty, +but in his eyes was never a dream, his brain had mastered nothing. He +was playing idly with the yellow cat, but he stopped at Van Alen's +question. + +"Her great-grandfather and yours were neighbors," the boy said, with his +cheeks flushing; "they own the next farm." + +"The Wetherells?" Van Alen inquired. + +The boy nodded. "They ain't got a cent. They're land poor. That's why +she's here. But she don't need to work." + +"Why not?" + +"There's plenty that wants to marry her round about," was the boy's +self-conscious summing up. + +With a sense of revolt, Van Alen left him, and, undressing in the room +with the canopy bed, he called up vaguely the vision of a little girl +who had visited them in the city. She had had green eyes and freckles +and red hair. Beyond that she had made no impression on his callowness. +And her name was Mazie Wetherell. + +He threw himself on the couch, and the night winds, coming in through +the open window, stirred the curtains of the canopy bed with the light +touch of a ghostly hand. + +Then dreams came, and through them ran the thread of his hope of seeing +Mazie Wetherell in the morning. + +But even with such preparation, her beauty seemed to come upon him +unawares when he saw her at breakfast. And again at noon, and again at +night. But it was the third day before he saw her alone. + +All that day he had explored the length and breadth of the family +estate, finding it barren, finding that the population of the little +village at its edge had decreased to a mere handful of laggards, finding +that there was no lawyer within miles and but one doctor; gaining a +final impression that back here in the hills men would come no more +where once men had thronged. + +It was almost evening when he followed a furrowed brown road that led +westward. Above the bleak line of the horizon the sun hung, a red gold +disk. There were other reds, too, along the way--the sumac flaming +scarlet against the gray fence-rails; the sweetbrier, crimson-spotted +with berries; the creeper, clinging with ruddy fingers to dead +tree-trunks; the maple leaves rosy with first frosts. + +And into this vividness came the girl who had waited on the table, and +her flaming cheeks and copper hair seemed to challenge the glow of the +autumn landscape. + +She would have passed him with a nod, but he stopped her. + +"You must not run away, Mazie Wetherell," he said; "you used to treat me +better than that when you were a little girl." + +She laughed. "Do you remember my freckles and red hair?" + +"I remember your lovely manners." + +"I had to have nice manners. It is only pretty children who can afford +to be bad." + +"And pretty women?" he asked, with his eyes on the color that came and +went. + +She flung out her hands in a gesture of protest "I have seen so few." + +His lips were opened to tell her of her own beauty, but something +restrained him, some perception of maidenly dignity that enfolded her +and made her more than the girl who had waited on the table. + +"You were a polite little boy," she recalled, filling the breach made by +his silence. "I remember that you carried me across the street, to save +my slippers from the wet. I thought you were wonderful. I have never +forgotten." + +Neither had Van Alen forgotten. It had been a great feat for his little +strength. There had been other boys there, bigger boys, but he had +offered, and had been saved humiliation by her girlish slimness and +feather weight. + +"I was a strong little fellow then," was his comment: "I am a strong +little fellow now." + +She turned on him reproachful eyes. "Why do you always harp on it?" she +demanded. + +"On what?" + +"Your size. You twist everything, turn everything, so that we come back +to it." + +He tried to answer lightly, but his voice shook. "Perhaps it is because +in your presence I desire more than ever the full stature of a man." + +He was in deadly earnest. Hitherto he had been willing to match his +brain, his worldly knowledge, his ancestry, against the charms of the +women he had met; but here with this girl, standing like a young goddess +under the wide, sunset sky, he felt that only for strength and beauty +should she choose her mate. + +He wondered what he must seem in her eyes; with his shoulder on a level +with hers, with his stocky build that saved him from effeminacy, his +carefulness of attire--which is at once the burden and the salvation of +the small man. + +As for his face, he knew that its homeliness was redeemed by a certain +strength of chin, by keen gray eyes, and by a shock of dark hair that +showed a little white at the temples. There were worse-looking men, he +knew, but that, at the present moment, gave little comfort. + +She chose to receive his remark in silence, and, as they came to a path +that branched from the road, she said: + +"I am going to help take care of a child who is sick. You see I am +mistress of all trades--nurse, waitress, charwoman, when there is +nothing else." + +He glanced at her hands. "I cannot believe that you scrub," he said. + +"I sit up at night to care for my hands"--there was a note of bitterness +in her tone--"and I wear gloves when I work. There are some things that +one desires to hold on to, and my mother and my grandmother were ladies +of leisure." + +"Would you like that--to be a lady of leisure?" + +She turned and smiled at him. "How can I tell?" she asked; "I have never +tried it." + +She started to leave him as she said it, but he held her with a +question: "Shall you sit up all night?" + +She nodded. "His mother has had no sleep for two nights." + +"Is he very ill?" + +The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Who knows? There is no doctor near, +and his mother is poor. We are fighting it out together." + +There was something heroic in her cool acceptance of her hard life. He +was silent for a moment, and then he said: "Would you have time to read +my book to-night?" + +"Oh, if I might," she said eagerly, "but you haven't it with you." + +"I will bring it," he told her, "after supper." + +"But," she protested. + +"There are no 'buts,'" he said, smiling; "if you will read it, I will +get it to you." + +The sky had darkened, and, as he went toward home, he faced clouds in +the southeast. + +"It is going to rain," Otto Brand prophesied as they sat down to supper. + +The other three men hoped that it would not. Already the ground was +soaked, making the cutting of corn impossible, and another rain with a +frost on top of it would spoil all chance of filling the silo. + +Van Alen could not enter into their technical objections. He hoped it +would not rain, because he wanted to take a book to Mazie Wetherell, and +he had not brought a rain-coat. + +But it did rain, and he went without a rain-coat! + +The house, as he neared it, showed no light, and under the thick canopy +of the trees there was no sound but the drip, drip of the rain. By +feeling and instinct he found the front door, and knocked. + +There was a movement inside, and then Mazie Wetherell asked softly: +"Who's there?" + +"I have brought the book." + +The bolt was withdrawn, and in the hall, scarcely lighted by the shaded +lamp in the room beyond, stood the girl, in a loose gray gown, with +braided shining hair--a shadowy being, half-merged into the shadows. + +"I thought you would not come," in a hushed tone, "in such a storm." + +"I said I should come. The book may help you through the long night." + +She caught her breath quickly. "The child is awfully ill." + +"Are you afraid? Let me stay." + +"Oh, no, no. His mother is sleeping, and I shall have your book." + +She did not ask him in, and so he went away at once, beating his way +back in the wind and rain, fording a little stream where the low +foot-bridge was covered, reaching home soaking wet, but afire with +dreams. + +Otto Brand was waiting for him, a little curious as to what had taken +him out so late, but, getting no satisfaction, he followed Van Alen +up-stairs, and built a fire for him in the big bedroom. And presently, +in the light of the leaping flames, the roses on the canopy of the bed +glowed pink. + +"Ain't you goin' to sleep in the bed?" Otto asked, as he watched Van +Alen arrange the covers on the couch. + +"No," said Van Alen shortly, "the honor is too great. It might keep me +awake." + +"My feet would hang over," Otto said. "Funny thing, wasn't it, for a man +to make a will like that?" + +"I suppose every man has a right to do as he pleases," Van Alen +responded coldly. He was not inclined to discuss the eccentricities of +his little old ancestor with this young giant. + +"Of course," Otto agreed, and his next remark was called forth by Van +Alen's pale blue pajamas. + +"Well, those are new on me." + +Van Alen explained that in the city they were worn, and that silk was +cool, but while he talked he was possessed by a kind of fury. For the +first time the delicate garments, the luxurious toilet articles packed +in his bag, seemed foppish, unnecessary, things for a woman. With all of +them, he could not compete with this fair young god, who used a rough +towel and a tin basin on the kitchen bench. + +"Maybe I'd better go," the boy offered. "You'll want to go to bed." + +But Van Alen held him. "I always smoke first," he said, and, wrapped in +his dressing-gown, he flung himself into a chair on the opposite side of +the fireplace. + +And after a time he brought the conversation around to Mazie Wetherell. + +He found the boy rather sure of his success with her. + +"All women are alike," he said; "you've just got to keep after them long +enough." + +To Van Alen the idea of this hulking youngster as a suitor for such a +woman seemed preposterous. He was not fit to touch the hem of her +garment. He was unmannerly, uneducated; he was not of her class--and +even as he analyzed, the boy stood up, perfect in his strong young +manhood. + +"I've never had much trouble making women like me," he said; "and I +ain't goin' to give up, just because she thinks she's better than the +rest round about here." + +He went away, and Van Alen stared long into the fire, until the flames +left a heart of opal among the ashes. + +He had not been unsuccessful with women himself. Many of them had liked +him, and might have loved him if he had cared to make them. But until +he met Mazie Wetherell he had not cared. + +Desperately he wished for some trial of courage where he might be +matched against Otto Brand. He grew melodramatic in his imaginings, and +saw himself at a fire, fighting the flames to reach Mazie, while Otto +Brand shrank back. He stood in the path of runaway horses, and Otto +showed the white feather. He nursed her through the plague, and Otto +fled fearfully from the disease. + +And then having reached the end of impossibilities, he stood up and +shook himself. + +"I'm a fool," he said to the flames, shortly, and went to bed, to lie +awake, wondering whether Mazie Wetherell had reached that chapter of his +book where he had written of love, deeply, reverently, with a +foreknowledge of what it might mean to him some day. It was that chapter +which had assured the success of his novel. Would it move her, as it had +moved him when he reread it? That was what love ought to be--a thing +fine, tender, touching the stars! That was what love might be to him, to +Mazie Wetherell, what it could never be to Otto Brand. + +At breakfast the next morning he found Mrs. Brand worrying about her +waitress. + +"I guess she couldn't get back, and I've got a big day's work." + +"I'll go and look her up," Van Alen offered; but he found that he was +not to go alone, for Otto was waiting for him at the gate. + +"I ain't got nothin' else to do," the boy said; "everything is held up +by the rain." + +It was when they came to the little stream that Van Alen had forded the +night before that they saw Mazie Wetherell. + +"I can't get across," she called from the other side. + +The bridge, which had been covered when Van Alen passed, was now washed +away, and the foaming brown waters overflowed the banks. + +"I'll carry you over," Otto called, and straightway he waded through the +stream, and the water came above his high boots to his hips. + +He lifted her in his strong arms and brought her back, with her bright +hair fluttering against his lips, and Van Alen, raging impotently, stood +and watched him. + +It seemed to him that Otto's air was almost insultingly triumphant as he +set the girl on her feet and smiled down at her. And as she smiled back, +Van Alen turned on his heel and left them. + +Presently he heard her running after him lightly over the sodden ground. + +And when she reached his side she said: "Your book was wonderful." + +"But he carried you over the stream." + +Her eyes flashed a question, then blazed. "There, you've come back to +it," she said. "What makes you?" + +"Because I wanted to carry you myself." + +"Silly," she said; "any man could carry me across the stream--but only +you could write that chapter in the middle of the book." + +"You liked it?" he cried, radiantly. + +"Like it?" she asked. "I read it once, and then I read it again--on my +knees." + +Her voice seemed to drop away breathless. Behind them Otto Brand +tramped, whistling; but he might have been a tree, or the sky, or the +distant hills, for all the thought they took of him. + +"I wanted to beg your pardon," the girl went on, "for what I said the +other day--it is a great thing to write a book like that--greater than +fighting a battle or saving a life, for it saves people's ideals; +perhaps in that way it saves their souls." + +"Then I may sleep in the canopy bed?" His voice was calm, but inwardly +he was much shaken by her emotion. + +Her eyes, as she turned to him, had in them the dawn of that for which +he had hoped. + +"Why not?" she said, quickly. "You are greater than your +grandfather--you are--" She stopped and laughed a little, and, in this +moment of her surrender, her beauty shone like a star. + +"Oh, little great man," she said, tremulously, "your head touches the +skies!" + + + + +SANDWICH JANE + +I + + +"No man," said O-liver Lee, "should earn more than fifteen dollars a +week. After that he gets--soft." + +"Soft nothing!" + +O-liver sat on a box in front of the post-office. He was lean and young +and without a hat. His bare head was one of the things that made him +unique. The other men within doors and without wore hats--broad hats +that shielded them from the California sun; or, as in the case of Atwood +Jones, who came from the city, a Panama of an up-to-the-minute model. + +But O-liver's blond mane waved in every passing breeze. It was only when +he rode forth on his mysterious journeys that he crowned himself with a +Chinese straw helmet. + +Because he wore no hat his skin was tanned. He had blue eyes that +twinkled and, as I have said, a blond mane. + +"Fifteen dollars a week," he reaffirmed, "is enough." + +Fifteen dollars was all that O-liver earned. He was secretary to an +incipient oil king. As the oil king's monarchy was largely on paper he +found it hard at times to compass even the fifteen dollars that went to +his secretary. + +The other men scorned O-liver's point of view and told him so. They were +a rather prosperous bunch, all except Tommy Drew, who dealt in a +dilettante fashion in insurance, and who sat at O-liver's feet and +worshiped him. + +It was Saturday and some of the men had drifted in from the surrounding +ranches; others from the cities, from the mountains, from the valleys, +from the desert, from the sea. Tinkersfield had assumed a sudden +importance as an oil town. All of the men had business connected in some +way with Tinkersfield. And all of them earned more than fifteen dollars +a week. + +Therefore they disputed O-liver's statement. "If you had a wife--" said +one. + +"Ah," said O-liver, "if I had--" + +"Ain't you got any ambition?" Henry Bittinger demanded. Henry was +pumping out oil in prodigious quantities. He had bought a motor car and +a fur coat. It was too hot most of the time for the coat, but the car +stood now at rest across the road--long and lovely--much more of an +aristocrat than the man who owned it. + +"Ambition for what?" O-liver demanded. + +Henry's eyes went to the pride of his heart. + +"Well, I should think you'd want a car." + +"I'd give," said O-liver, "my kingdom for a horse, but not for a car." + +O-liver's little mare stood quite happily in the shade; she was slim as +to leg, shining as to coat, and with the eyes of a loving woman. + +"I should think you'd want to get ahead," said Atwood Jones, who sold +shoes up and down the coast. He was a junior member of the firm, but +still liked to go on the road. He liked to lounge like this in front of +the post-office and smoke in the golden air with a lot of men sitting +round. Atwood had been raised on a ranch. He had listened to the call of +the city, but he was still a small-town man. + +"Ahead of what?" asked O-liver. + +Atwood was vague. He felt himself a rising citizen. Some day he expected +to marry and set his wife up in a mansion in San Francisco, with +seasons of rest and recreation at Del Monte and Coronado and the East. +If the shoe business kept to the present rate of prosperity he would +probably have millions to squander in his old age. + +He tried to say something of this to O-liver. + +"Well, will you be any happier?" asked the young man with the bare head. +"I'll wager my horse against your car that when you're drunk with +dollars you'll look back to a day like this and envy yourself. It's +happiness I'm talking about." + +"Well, are you happy?" Atwood challenged. + +"Why not?" asked the young man lightly. "I have enough to eat, money for +tobacco, a book or two--an audience." He waved his hand to include the +listening group and smiled. + +It was O-liver's lightness which gave him the whip hand in an argument. +They were most of them serious men; not serious in a Puritan sense of +taking thought of their souls' salvation and the world's redemption, but +serious in their pursuit of wealth. They had to be rich. If they weren't +they couldn't marry, or if they were married they had to be rich so that +their wives could keep up with the wives of the other fellows who were +getting rich. They had to have cars and money to spend at big hotels and +for travel, money for diamonds and furs, money for everything. + +But here was O-liver Lee, who said lightly that money weighed upon him. +He didn't want it. He'd be darned if he wanted it. Money brought +burdens. As for himself, he'd read and ride Mary Pick. + +"Anyhow," said Henry, with his hands folded across his stomach--Henry +had grown fat riding in his car--"anyhow, when you get old you'll be +sorry." + +"I shall never grow old," said O-liver, and stood up. "I shall be +young--till I--die." + +They laughed at him outwardly, but in their hearts they did not laugh. +They could not think of him as old. They felt that in a hundred years he +would still be strong and sure, his blond mane untouched by gray, his +clear blue eyes unblurred. + +Atwood rounding them all up for a drink found that O-liver wouldn't +drink. + +"Drank too much, once upon a time," he confessed frankly. "But I'll give +you a toast." + +He gave it, poised on his box like a young god on the edge of the world. + +"Here's to poverty! May we learn to love her for the favors she denies!" + +"Queer chap," said Atwood to Henry later. + +Henry nodded. "He's queer, but he's great company. Always has a crowd +round him. But no ambition." + +"Pity," said Atwood. "How'd he get that name--O-liver?" + +"One of the fellows got gay and called him 'Ollie.' Lee stopped him. 'My +name is Oliver Lee. If you want a nickname you can say "O-liver." But +I'm not "Ollie" from this time on, understand?' And I'm darned if the +fellow didn't back down. There was something about O-liver that would +have made anybody back down. He didn't have a gun; it was just something +in his voice." + +"Say, he's wasted," said Atwood. "A man with his line of talk might be +President of the United States." + +"Sure he might," Henry agreed. "I've told him a lot of times he's +throwing away his chance." + + + +II + + +The office of the incipient oil king was on the main street of the +straggling town. At the back there was a window which gave a view of a +hill or two and a mountain beyond. The mountain stuck its nose into the +clouds and was whitecapped. + +It was this view at the back which O-liver faced when he sat at his +machine. When he rested he liked to fix his eyes on that white mountain. +O-liver had acquired of late a fashion of looking up. There had been a +time when he had kept his eyes on the ground. He did not care to +remember that time. The work that he did was intermittent, and between +his industrious spasms he read a book. He had a shelf at hand where he +kept certain volumes--Walt Whitman, Vanity Fair, Austin Dobson, Landor's +Imaginary Conversations, and a rather choice collection of Old Mission +literature. He had had it in mind that he might some day write a play +with Santa Barbara as a background, but he had stopped after the first +act. He had ridden down one night and had reached the mission at dawn. +The gold cross had flamed as the sun rose over the mountain. After that +it had seemed somehow a desecration to put it in a painted scene. +O-liver had rather queer ideas as to the sacredness of certain things. + +Tommy Drew, who had a desk in the same office, read Vanity Fair and +wanted to talk about it. "Say, I don't like that girl, O-liver." + +"What girl?" + +"Becky." + +"Why not?" + +"Well, she's a grafter. And her husband was a poor nut." + +"I'm afraid he was," said O-liver. + +"He oughta of dragged her round by the hair of her head." + +"They don't do it, Tommy," O-liver was thoughtful. "After all a woman's +a woman. It's easier to let her go." + +An astute observer might have found O-liver cynical about women. If he +said nothing against them he certainly never said anything for them. And +he kept strictly away from everything feminine in Tinkersfield, in spite +of the fact that his good looks won him more than one glance from +sparkling eyes. + +"He acts afraid of skirts," Henry had said to Tommy on one occasion. + +"He?" Tommy was scornful. "He ain't afraid of anything!" + +Henry knew it. "Maybe it's because you can't do much with women on +fifteen a week." + +"Well, I guess that's so," said Tommy, who made twenty and who had a +hopeless passion. + +His hopeless passion was Jane. Jane lived with her mother in a small +rose-bowered bungalow at the edge of the town. She and her mother owned +the bungalow, which was fortunate; they hadn't a penny for rent. Jane's +father had died of a weak lung and the failure of his oil well. He had +left the two women without an income. Jane's mother was delicate and +Jane couldn't leave her to go out to work. So Jane dug in the little +garden, and they lived largely on vegetables. She sewed for the +neighbors, and bought medicine and now and then a bit of meat. She was +young and strong and she had wonderful red hair. Tommy thought it was +the most beautiful hair in the world. Jane was for him a sort of goddess +woman. She was, he felt, infinitely above him. She knew a great deal +that he didn't, about books and things--like O-liver. She sewed for his +mother, and that was the way he had met her. He would go over and sit on +her front steps and talk. He felt that she treated him like a little dog +that she wouldn't harm, but wouldn't miss if it went away. He told her +of Vanity Fair and of how he felt about Becky. + +"If she had been content to earn an honest living," Jane stated +severely, "the story would have had a different ending." + +"Well, she wanted things," Tommy said. + +"Most women do." Jane jabbed her needle into a length of pink gingham +which, when finished, would be rompers for a youngster across the +street. "I do; and I intend to have them." + +"How?" asked the interested Tommy. + +"Work for them." + +"O-liver says that fifteen dollars a week is enough for anybody to +earn." + +Jane had heard of O-liver. Tommy sang his constant praises. + +"Why fifteen?" + +"After that you get soft." + +Jane laid down the length of pink gingham and looked at him. She hated +to sew on pink; it clashed dreadfully with her hair. + +"I should say," she stated with scorn, "that your O-liver's lazy." + +"No, he isn't. He only wants enough to eat and enough to smoke and +enough to read." + +"That sounds all right, but it isn't. What's he going to do when he's +old?" + +"He ain't ever going to grow old. He said so, and if you'd see him you'd +know." + +Jane felt within her the stirring of curiosity. But she put it down +sternly. She had no time for it. + +"Tommy," she said, "I've been thinking. I've got to earn more money, and +I want your help." + +Tommy's faithful eyes held a look of doglike affection. + +"Oh, if I can--" he quavered. + +"I've got to get ahead." Jane was breathless. Her eyes shone. + +"I've got to get ahead, Tommy. I can't live all my life like this." She +held up the pink strip. "Even if I am a woman, there ought to be +something more than making rompers for the rest of my days." + +"You might," said the infatuated Tommy, "marry." + +"Marry? Marry whom?" + +Tommy wished that he might shout "Me!" from the housetops. But he knew +the futility of it. + +"I shall never marry," she said, "until I find somebody different from +anything I've ever seen." + +Jane's ideas of men were bounded largely by the weakness of her father +and the crudeness of men like Henry Bittinger, Atwood Jones and others +of their kind. She didn't consider Tommy at all. He was a nice boy and a +faithful friend. His mother, too, was a faithful friend. She classed +them together. + +Her plan, told with much coming and going of lovely color, was this: She +had read that the way to make money was to find the thing that a +community lacked and supply it. Considering it seriously she had decided +that in Tinkersfield there was need of good food. + +"There's just one horrid little eating house," she told Tommy, "when the +men come in from out of town." + +"Nothing fit to eat either," Tommy agreed; "and they make up on booze." + +She nodded. "Tommy," she said, and leaned toward him, "I had thought of +sandwiches--home-made bread and slices of ham--wrapped in waxed paper; +and of taking them down and selling them in front of the post-office on +Saturday nights." + +Tommy's eyes bulged. "You take them down?" + +"Why not? Any work is honorable, Tommy." + +Tommy felt that it wouldn't be a goddess role. + +"I can't see it." The red crept up into his honest freckled face. "You +know the kind of women that's round on Saturday nights." + +"I am not that kind of woman." She was suddenly austere. + +He found himself stammering. "I didn't mean--" + +"Of course you didn't. But it's a good plan, Tommy. Say you think it's a +good plan." + +He would have said anything to please her. "Well, you might try." + +The next day he found himself talking it over with O-liver. "She wants +to sell them on Saturday nights." + +"Tell her," said O-liver, "to stay at home." + +"But she's got to have some money." + +"Money," said O-liver, "is the root of evil. You say she has a garden. +Let her live on leeks and lettuce." + +"Leeks and lettuce?" said poor Tommy, who had never heard of leeks. + +"Her complexion will be better," said O-liver, "and her peace of mind +great." + +"Her complexion is perfect," Tommy told him, "and she isn't the peaceful +kind. Her hair is red." + +"Red-haired women"--O-liver had his eye on Vanity Fair--"red-haired +women always flaunt themselves." + +Tommy, softening O-liver's words a bit, gave them in the form of advice +to Jane: "He thinks you'd better live on leeks and lettuce than go +down-town like that." + +Jane gasped. "Leeks and lettuce? Me? He doesn't know what he's talking +about! And anyhow, what can you expect of a man like that?" + + + +III + + +A week later Jane in a white shirt-waist and white apron came down with +her white-covered basket into the glare of the town's white lights. The +night was warm and she wore no hat. Her red hair was swept back from her +forehead with a droop over the ears. She had white skin and strong white +teeth. Her eyes were as gray as the sea on stormy days. Tommy came after +her with a wooden box, which he set on end, and she placed her basket on +it. The principal stores of the small town, the one hotel and the +post-office were connected by a covered walk which formed a sort of +arcade, so that the men lounging against doorways or tip-tilted in +chairs seemed in a sort of gallery from which they surveyed the +Saturday-night crowd which paraded the street. + +Jane folded up the cloth which covered her basket and displayed her +wares. "Don't stick round, Tommy," she said. "I shall do better alone." + +But as she raised her head and saw the eyes of the men upon her a rich +color surged into her cheeks. + +She put out her little sign bravely: + + HOME-MADE SANDWICHES--TWENTY CENTS + +With a sense of adventure upon them the men flocked down at once. They +bought at first because the wares were offered by a pretty girl. They +came back to buy because never had there been such sandwiches. + +Jane had improved upon her first idea. There were not only ham +sandwiches; there were baked beans between brown bread, thin slices of +broiled bacon in hot baking-powder biscuit. Henry Bittinger said to +Atwood Jones afterward: "The food was so good that if she had been as +ugly as sin she'd have got away with it." + +"She isn't ugly," said Atwood, and had a fleeting moment of speculation +as to whether Jane with her red hair would fit into his plutocratic +future. + +Jane had made fifty sandwiches. She sold them all, and took ten dollars +home with her. + +"I shall make a hundred next time," she said to Tommy, whom she picked +up on the way back. "And--it wasn't so dreadful, Tommy." + +But that night as she lay in bed looking out toward the mountain, +silver-tipped in the moonlight, she had a shivering sense of the eyes of +some of the men--of Tillotson, who kept the hotel, and of others of his +kind. + +O-liver had stayed at home that Saturday night to write a certain weekly +letter. He had stayed at home also because he didn't approve of Jane. + +"But you haven't seen her," Tommy protested. + +"I know the type." + +On Sunday morning Tommy brought him a baked-bean sandwich. "It isn't as +fresh as it might be. But you can see what she's giving us." + +There were months of O-liver's life which had been spent with a +grandmother in Boston. His grandmother had made brown bread and she had +baked beans. And now as he ate his sandwich there was the savor of all +the gastronomic memories of a healthy and happy childhood. + +"It's delicious," he said, "but she'd better not mix with that crowd." + +"She doesn't mix," said Tommy. + +"She'll have to." O-liver had in mind a red-haired woman, raw-boned, +with come-hither eyes. Her kind was not uncommon. Tommy's infatuation +would of course elevate her to a pedestal. + +"She's going to make a hundred sandwiches next week," Tommy vouchsafed. + +O-liver's mind could scarcely compass one hundred sandwiches. "She'd +better stick to her leeks and lettuce." + +He rode away the next Saturday night. It was his protest against the +interest roused in the community by this Jane who sold sandwiches. He +heard of her everywhere. Some of the men were respectful and some were +not. It depended largely on the nature of the particular male. + +O-liver rode Mary Pick and wore his straw helmet. His way led down into +the valley and up again and down, until at last he came to the sea. Then +he followed the water's edge, letting Mary Pick dance now and then on +the hard beach, with the waves curling up like cream, and beyond the +waves a stretch of pale azure to the horizon. + +He reached finally a fantastic settlement. Against the sky towered walls +which might have inclosed an ancient city--walls built of cloth and wood +instead of stone. Beyond these walls were thatched cottages which had no +occupants; a quaint church which had no congregation; a Greek temple +which had no vestals, no sacred fire, no altar; hedges which had no +roots. O-liver weighing the hollowness of it all had thought whimsically +of an old nursery rime: + + The first sent a goose without a bone; + The second sent a cherry without a stone; + The third sent a blanket without a thread; + The fourth sent a book that no man could read. + +At the end of the settlement was a vast studio lighted by a glass roof. +Entering, O-liver was transported at once to the dance hall on the +Barbary Coast--a great room with a bar at one end, the musicians on a +platform at the other, a stairway leading upward. Groups of people +waited for a signal to dance, to drink, to act whatever part had been +assigned them--people with unearthly pink complexions. The heat was +intense. + +With her face upturned to the director, who was mounted on a chair, +stood a childish creature who was pinker, if possible, than the rest. +She had fluffy hair of pale gold. She ran up the stairway presently, and +the light was turned on her. It made of her fluffy hair a halo. In the +strong glare everything about her was overemphasized, but O-liver knew +that when she showed up on the screen she would be entrancing. + +He had first seen her on the screen. He had met her afterward at her +hotel. She had seemed as ingenuous as the parts she played. Perhaps she +was. He could never be quite sure. Perhaps the money she had made +afterward had spoiled her. She had jumped from fifty dollars a week to a +thousand. + +After that O-liver could give her nothing. He had an allowance from his +mother of three thousand a year. Fluffy Hair made as much as that in +three weeks. Where he had been king of his own domain he became a sort +of gentleman footman, carrying her sables and her satchels. But that was +not the worst of it. He found that they had not a taste in common. She +laughed at his books, at his love of sea and sky. She even laughed at +his Mary Pick, whose name suggested a hated rival. + +And so he left her--laughing. + +A certain sense of responsibility, however, took him to her once a +month, and a letter went to her every week. She was his wife. He +continued in a sense to watch over her. Yet she resented his watching. + +From her stairway she had seen him, and when a rest was granted she came +down to him. + +"I'll be through presently," she said. "We can go to my hotel." + +Her rooms in the hotel overlooked the sea. There was a balcony, and they +sat on it in long lazy chairs and had iced things to drink. + +O-liver drank lemonade. His wife had something stronger. + +"I have not been well," she said; "it's a part of the doctor's +prescription." + +She had removed the pink from her face, and he saw that she was pale. + +"You are working too hard," he told her. "You'd better take a month in +the desert, out of doors." + +She shivered. She hated the out-of-doors that he raved about. They had +spent their honeymoon in a tent. She had been wild to get back to +civilization. It had been their first moment of disillusion. + +She showed him before he went some of the things she had acquired since +his last visit--an ermine coat, a string of pearls. + +"I saw them in your last picture," he told her. "You really visit me by +proxy. I find your name on the boards, and walk in with a lot of other +men and look at you. And not one of them dreams that I've ever seen the +woman on the screen." + +"Well, they wouldn't of course." She had never taken his name. Her own +was too valuable. + +When he told her good-bye he asked a question: "Are you happy?" + +For a moment her face clouded. "I'm not quite sure. Is anybody? But I +like the way I am living, Ollie." + +He had a sense of relief. "So do I," he said. "I earn fifteen dollars a +week. The papers say that you earn fifteen hundred--and you're not quite +twenty." + +"There isn't a man in this hotel that makes so much," she told him +complacently. "The women try to snub me, but they can't. Money talks." + +It seemed to him that in her case it shouted. As he rode back on Mary +Pick he thought seriously of his fifteen dollars a week and her fifteen +hundred; and of how little either weighed in the balance of happiness. + + + +IV + + +It was not until the following Saturday that he saw Jane. She had made +two hundred sandwiches. She had got Tommy's mother to help her. She had +invented new combinations, always holding to the idea of satisfying the +substantial appetites of men. + +There would be no use, she argued, in offering five-o'clock-tea +combinations. + +She was very busy and very happy and very hopeful. + +"If this keeps up," she told her mother, "I shall rent a little shop and +sell them over the counter." + +Her mother had an invalid's pessimism. "They may tire of them." + +They were not yet tired. They gave Jane and her basket vociferous +greeting, crowding round her and buying eagerly. Atwood and Henry having +placed orders hung back, content to wait for a later moment when she +might have leisure to talk to them. + +Tommy helped Jane to hand out sandwiches and make change. He felt like +the faithful squire of a great lady. He had read much romantic +literature, and he served as well if not as picturesquely as a page in +doublet and hose. + +So O-liver saw them. He had been riding all the afternoon on Mary Pick. +He had gone up into the Cañon of the Honey Pots. No one knew it by that +name but O-liver, but at all the houses one could buy honey. Up and down +the road were little stands on which were set forth glasses and jars of +amber sweet. The bees flashed like motes in the sunlight, the air was +heavy with the fragrance of the flowers which yielded their largess to +the marauders. + +It was dark when he rode down toward the town. It lay before him, all +twinkling lights. Above it hung a thin moon and countless stars. It +might have been a fairy town under the kindly cover of the night. + +But when he reached the central square the illusion ceased. It was what +men had made it--sordid, cheap. He stopped Mary Pick under a pepper tree +and surveyed the scene. + +Jane and her basket were the center of an excited group. She had almost +reached the end of her supplies, and some one had suggested auctioning +off the remainder. Jane had protested, but her protests had not availed. +She had turned to Tommy for help, to Henry, to Atwood. They had done +their best. But the man who led the crowd had an object in his +leadership. It was Tillotson of the little hotel--red-faced, +whisky-soaked. + +"Sandwich Jane, Sandwich Jane!" he shouted. "That's the name for her, +boys." + +And they took it up and shouted "Sandwich Jane!" + +It was at this moment that O-liver stopped under the pepper tree. The +bright light fell directly on Jane's distressed face. He saw the +swept-back brightness of her hair, her clear-cut profile, her white +skin, her white teeth. But he saw more than this. "By Jove," he said, +"she's a lady!" + +If he had been talking to the men he would have said "Gosh!" It was only +when he was alone that he permitted himself the indulgence of more +formal language. + +That Jane was harried he could see. And suddenly he rode forward on Mary +Pick. + +The crowd made way for him expectantly. There were always interesting +developments when O-liver was on the scene. + +"Gentlemen," he said, "let the lady speak for herself. I am not sure +what you are trying to do, but it is evidently something she doesn't +want done." + +Jane flashed a grateful glance up at him. He was the unknown knight +throwing down the gauntlet in her defense. He was different from the +others--his voice was different. + +"They want to auction off my sandwiches," she explained, "and they won't +listen." + +"I'm sure they will listen." O-liver on Mary Pick, with his hat off and +his mane tossed back, might have been Henry of the white plumes. "Of +course they'll listen." + +And they did! + +Jane stood on her box and addressed them. + +"I don't want to get any more for my sandwiches than they are worth," +she said earnestly. "I make good ones, and I sell them for twenty cents +because they are the best of their kind. I am glad you like them. I want +to earn my living and my mother's. She is sick, and I have to stay at +home with her. And I don't mind being called 'Sandwich Jane.' It's a +good name and I shall use it in my business. But I don't like being +treated as you have treated me to-night. If it happens again I shall +have to stop selling sandwiches; and I'd be sorry to have that happen, +and I hope you'd be sorry too." + +Her little speech was over. She stepped down composedly from the box, +folded her cloth and picked up her basket. She said "Thank you" to +O-liver, "Come on" to Tommy, and walked from among them with her light +step and free carriage; and they stared after her. + +O-liver sitting later in front of the post-office with his satellites +round him found himself compelled to listen to praise of Jane. + +"She's made a hit," Atwood said earnestly. "When a woman talks like that +it's the straight goods." + +Henry agreed. "She's got grit. It's her kind that get ahead. But it's a +pity that she's got to work to make a living." + +Atwood, too, thought it was a pity. And presently he and Henry fell into +silence as they fitted Jane into various dreams. Atwood's dream had to +do with a mansion high on Frisco's hills. But Henry saw her beside him +in his long and lovely car. He saw her, too, in a fur coat. + + + +V + + +"I feel," said Jane, "like a murderer." Tommy and O-liver had stopped at +her front gate to leave her some books. + +"Why?" It was O-liver who asked it. + +"Come and see." She led them round the house. Death and destruction +reigned. + +"I poured gasoline into the ants' nests and set them on fire--and now +look at them!" + +There were a few survivors toiling among the ruins. + +"They are taking out the dead bodies," Jane explained. "It's so human +that it's tragic. I'll never do it again." + +"You can't let them eat you up." + +"I know. It's one of the puzzles." She sat looking down at them. "How +busy they are!" + +"Too busy," O-liver stated. "They are worse than bees. There are at +least some drones in the hive." + +"Poor drones," said Jane. + +"Why?" quickly. + +"To miss the best." + +"Is work the best?" + +She said "Yes," adding after a little: "I don't just mean making +sandwiches. That's just a beginning. There's everything ahead." + +She said it as if the world were hers. O-liver, in spite of himself, was +thrilled. "How do you know that everything is ahead?" + +"I shall make it come"--securely. + +They sat in silence for a while; then O-liver said: "I have brought you +a book." + +It was an old copy of Punch. + +"I shall like it," she said. "Sometimes the evenings are dull when my +work is over." + +"Dullness comes for me when work begins." + +Her straight gaze met his. "You say that with your lips; you don't mean +it." + +"How do you know?" + +"I'm not sure how I know. But you haven't found the thing yet that you +like--the incentive." + +"Tommy wants me to go into politics. He and Henry Bittinger. Henry says +I ought to be President." O-liver chuckled. + +But she took it seriously. "Why not? You've the brains and the +magnetism. Can't you see how the crowd draws to you on Saturday nights?" + +"Like bees round a honey pot? Yes." His face grew suddenly stern. "But +so will mosquitoes buzz round a stagnant pool." + +"You're not a stagnant pool and you know it." + +"What am I?" + +She made a sudden gesture as if she gave him up. "Sometimes I think you +are like the sea--on a lazy day--with a storm brewing." + +He wondered as he went home--what storm? + +He had seen a good deal of Jane since that Saturday night when he had +championed her cause. It had been fall then, with the hills brown and +the berries red on the pepper trees. It was spring now, with all the +world green and growing. + +She had spoken of him to Tommy, and Tommy had been a faithful +go-between. He had played upon their mutual love of books. At first +O-liver had sent her books, then he had taken them. He had met her +mother, had seen her in her home doing feminine things, sewing on +lengths of pink and blue--filling the vases with the flowers that he +brought. + +And as they had met and talked his veins had been filled with new wine. +He had never known intimately such a woman. His mother transplanted from +the East by her marriage to a Western man had turned her eyes always +backward. Her son had been born in the East, he had spent his holidays +and vacations with his Eastern relatives. He had gone to an Eastern +school to prepare for an Eastern college. Except for this one obsession +with regard to her son's education his mother was self-centered. She was +an idolized wife, a discontented woman--- she had shown O-liver no +heights to which to aspire. + +And so he had not aspired. He had spent his days in what might be +termed, biblically, riotous living. His mother had hoped for an +aristocratic and Eastern marriage. When he married Fluffy Hair she had +allowed him three thousand a year and had asked him not to bring his +wife to see her. His father had refused to give him a penny. O-liver's +wild oats and wilfulness cut him off, he ruled, from parental +consideration. "You are not my son," he had said sternly. "If the time +ever comes when you can say you are sorry, I'll see you." + +O-liver having married Fluffy Hair had found her also +self-centered--not a lady like his mother, but fundamentally of the same +type. Neither of them had made him feel that he might be more than he +was. They had always shrunk him to their own somewhat small patterns. + +Jane's philosophy came to him therefore like a long-withheld stimulant. +"You might be President of the United States." + +When Henry or Atwood or Tommy had said it to him he had laughed. When +Jane said it he did not laugh. + + + +VI + + +And so it came about that one day he rose and went to his father. And he +said: "Dad, will you kill the fatted calf?" + +His father lived in a great Tudor house which gave the effect of age but +was not old. It had a minstrels' gallery, a big hall and a little hall, +mullioned windows and all the rest of it. It had been built because of a +whim of his wife's. But O-liver's father in the ten years he had lived +in it had learned to love it. But more than he loved the house he loved +the hills that sloped away from it, the mountains that towered above it, +the sea that lay at the foot of the cliff. + +"It is God's country," he would say with long-drawn breath. He had been +born and bred in this golden West. All the passion he might have given +to his alien wife and alien son was lavished on this land which was +bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. + +And now his son had ridden up to him over those low hills at the foot of +the mountain and had said: "Father, I have sinned." + +O-liver had not put it scripturally. He had said: "I'm sorry, dad. You +said I needn't come back until I admitted the husks and swine." + +There was a light on the fine face of the older man. "Oliver, I never +hoped to hear you say it." His hand dropped lightly on the boy's +shoulders. "My son which was dead is alive again?" + +"Yes, dad." + +"What brought you to life?" + +"A woman." + +The hand dropped. "Not--" + +"Not my wife. Put your hand back, dad. Another woman." + +He sat down beside his father on the terrace. The sea far below them was +sapphire, the cliffs pink with moss--gorgeous color. Orange umbrellas +dotted the distant beach. + +"Your mother is down there," Jason Lee said. "Sun baths and all that. +You said there was another woman, Oliver." + +"Yes." Quite simply and honestly he told him about Sandwich Jane. "She's +made me see things." + +"What things?" + +"Well, she thinks I've got it in me to get anywhere. She insists that if +I'd put my heart into it I might be--President." + +One saw their likeness to each other in their twinkling eyes! + +"She says that men follow me; and they do. I've found that out since I +went to Tinkersfield. She wants me to go into politics--there's a gang +down there that rules the town--rotten crowd. It would be some fight if +I did." + +His father was interested at once. "It was what I wanted--when I was +young--politics--clean politics, with a chance at statesmanship. Yes, I +wanted it. But your mother wanted--money." + +"Money hasn't any meaning to me now, dad. If I slaved until I dropped I +couldn't make fifteen hundred a week." + +"Does--your wife make that now?" + +"Yes. She's making it and spending it, I fancy." + +Silence. Then: "What of this--other woman. What are you going to do +about her?" + +O-liver leaned forward, speaking earnestly. "I love her. But I'm not +free. It's all a muddle." + +"Does she know you're married?" + +"No. I've got to tell her. But I'll lose her if I do. Her comradeship, I +mean. And I don't want to give it up." + +"There is of course a solution." + +"What solution?" + +"Divorce." + +"It wouldn't be a solution for Jane. She's not that kind. Marriage with +her means till death parts. I'll have to lose her. But it hurts." + + + +VII + + +It was when Jane rented an empty room fronting on the arcade and set up +a sandwich shop that Tillotson saw how serious the thing was going to +be. + +He had had all the restaurant and hotel trade. Men coming up in motors +or on horseback, dusty and tired, had eaten and drunk at his squalid +tables, swearing at the food but unable to get anything better. And now +here was a woman who covered her counters with snowy oilcloth--who had +shining urns of coffees, delectable pots of baked beans, who put up in +neat boxes lunches that made men rush back for more and more and +more--and whose sandwiches were the talk of the coast! + +It had to be stopped. + +The only way to stop it was to make it uncomfortable for Jane. There +were many ways in which the thing could be done--by small and subtle +persecutions, by insinuations, by words bandied from one man's evil +mouth to another. Tillotson had done the thing before. But he found as +the days went on that he had not before had a Jane to deal with. She was +linked in the minds of most of the men with a whiteness like that of her +own spotless shop. + +Gradually Jane became aware of a sinister undercurrent. She found +herself dealing with forces that threatened her. There were men who came +into her shop to buy, and who stayed to say things that set her cheeks +flaming. She mentioned none of these things to Henry or Atwood or Tommy. +But she spoke once to O-liver. + +"Tillotson must be at the bottom of it. Two drunken loafers stumbled in +the other day, straight from the hotel. And when I telephoned to +Tillotson to come and get them he laughed at me." + +Tillotson was the sheriff. It was an office which he did not honor. In a +month or two his term would be up. O-liver riding alone into the +mountains stated the solution: "I've got to beat Tillotson." + +But first he had things to say to Jane. Since his talk with his father +he had known that it must come. He had stayed away from her as much as +possible. It had not been a conspicuous withdrawal, for she was very +busy and had little time for him. Tommy's mother kept her little home in +order and looked after the invalid, so that Jane could give undivided +attention to her growing business. O-liver saw her most often at the +shop, when he stopped in for a pot of beans--eating them on the spot and +discoursing on many things. + +"My Boston grandmother baked beans like this," he told her on one +occasion. "She was a great little woman, Jane, as essentially of the +East as you are of the West. She held to the traditions of the past; you +are blazing new ways for women, selling sandwiches in the market-place. +By Jove, it was superb the way you did it, Jane!" + +She was always in a glow when he left her. Here was a man different from +her father, different from Henry Bittinger and Atwood Jones. She smiled +a little as she thought of Atwood. He had asked her to marry him. He had +told her of the things he had ahead of him that he wanted her to share. +And he had been much downcast when she had refused him. She had, he +felt, smudged the brightness of his splendid future. He couldn't +understand a woman throwing away a thing like that. + +But he bore her no grudge and was still her friend. Henry, too, was her +friend. He had not yet tried his fate with Jane, but he still dreamed of +her as lovely in his long car and a fur coat. And he hoped to make his +dreams come true. + +Tommy had set aside all selfish hopes. He had a feeling that Jane liked +O-liver. He loved them both. If he could not have Jane he wanted O-liver +to have her. He kept a wary eye therefore on Henry and Atwood. + +It was Tommy who found out first about Fluffy Hair. She had never cared +to have the world know of her marriage. She had felt that those who +loved her on the screen would prefer her fancy free. But it was known at +the studio, and some one drifting up to Tinkersfield recognized O-liver +and told Tommy. + +Tommy for once in his life was stern. "He oughta of told Jane. +Somebody's got to tell her." + +So the next day he took it on himself--feeling a traitor to his friend. + +"Jane," he said, sitting on a high stool in her little sandwich +shop--"Jane, O-liver's married." + +Jane on the other side of the spotless counter gave him her earnest +glance. "Yes," she said; "he told me." + +"He did? Well, I'm glad. It wasn't a thing to keep, was it?" + +"No," said Jane; "it wasn't. But you mustn't blame him, Tommy, and now +that we both know, everything is all right, isn't it?" + +"Yes," Tommy agreed; "if Tillotson doesn't get hold of it." + +For it had been decided that O-liver was to run against Tillotson in the +next election, and beat him if he could. + +O-liver had told Jane about his marriage on the night before Tommy came +to her. He had asked her to ride with him. "If you'll go this afternoon +at four you shall have Mary Pick, and I'll take Tommy's horse." + +They had carried their lunch with them and had eaten it at sunset in a +lovely spot where the cañon opened out to show a shining yellow stretch +of sea, with the hills like black serpents running into it. + +Yet it was dark, with the stars above them and the sea a faint gray +below, before O-liver said to her what he had brought her there to say. + +He told her of his father and mother. Of Fluffy Hair. + +"I waked up at last to the fact that I was letting two women support me. +So I came here and began to work at fifteen dollars a week. And for the +first time in my life I respected myself--and was content. And then I +met you and saw things ahead. You made me see them." + +He turned toward her in the dark. "Jane, I'm finding that I love +you--mightily." He tried to speak lightly. "And I'm not free. And +because I love you I've got to keep away. But I want you to understand +that my friendship is the same--that it will always be the same. But +I've got to keep away." + +She was very honest about it. "I didn't dream that you felt like +that--about me." + +"No, you wouldn't. That's a part of your splendidness. Never taking +anything to yourself. Jane, will you believe this--that what I may be +hereafter will be because of you? If I ever do a big thing or a fine +thing it will be because I came upon you that night with your head high +and that rabble round you. You were light shining into the darkness of +Tinkersfield. Jove, I wish I were a painter to put you on canvas as you +were that night!" + +They had ridden down later under the stars, and as they had stood for a +moment overlooking the lights of the little town O-liver had said: "I +make my big speech to-morrow night to beat Tillotson. I want you to be +there. Will you? If I know you are there somewhere in the dark I shall +pour out my soul--to you." + +Was it any wonder that Jane, talking to Tommy the next morning about +O-liver, felt her pulses pounding, her cheeks burning? She had lain +awake all night thinking of the things he had said to her. It seemed a +very big and wonderful thing that a man could love her like that. As +toward morning the moonlight streamed in and she still lay awake she +permitted herself to let her mind dwell for a moment on what her future +might mean if he were in it. She was too busy and healthy to indulge in +useless regrets. But she knew in that moment in the moonlight if he was +not to be in her future no other man would ever be. + + + +VIII + + +O-liver's speech was made in the open. There was a baseball park in +Tinkersfield, bounded at the west end by a grove of eucalyptus. With +this grove as a background a platform had been erected. From the +platform the rival candidates would speak. At this time of the year it +would be daylight when the meeting opened. Tillotson was not to speak +for himself. He had brought a man down from San Francisco, a big +politician with an oily tongue. O-liver would of course present his own +case. The thing, as Atwood told Henry, promised to be exciting. + +Jane came with Tommy. There was a sort of rude grand stand opposite the +platform, and she had a seat well up toward the top. She wore a white +skirt, a gray sweater and a white hat. She had a friendly smile for the +people about her. And they smiled back. They liked Jane. + +O-liver spoke first. Bare-headed, slender, with his air of eternal +youth, he was silhouetted against the rose red of the afterglow. + +When he began he led them lightly along paths of easy thought. He got +their attention as he had so often got it in front of the post-office. +He made them smile, he made them laugh, he led them indeed finally into +roaring laughter. And when he had brought them thus into sympathy he +began with earnestness to speak of Tinkersfield. + +Jane, leaning forward, not missing a word, felt his magnetism. He spoke +of the future of Tinkersfield. Of what must be done if it was to fulfill +its destiny as a decent town. He did not mince his words. + +"It will be just what you make up your minds now to have it--good and +honest and clean, a place that the right kind of people will want to +live in, or the place that will attract loungers and loafers." + +He laid upon them the burden of individual responsibility. If a town was +honest, he said, it was because the men in it were honest; if it was +clean it was because its men were clean. It was for each man to decide +at this election whether Tinkersfield should have a future of darkness +or of light. There were men in that crowd who squared their shoulders to +meet the blows of his eloquence, who kept them squared as they made +their decision to do their part in the upbuilding of Tinkersfield. + +Yet it was not perhaps so much the things that O-liver said as the way +he said them. He had the qualities of leadership--a sincerity of the +kind that sways men level with their leaders--the sincerity of a +Lincoln, a Roosevelt. For him a democracy meant all the people. Not +merely plain people, not indeed selected classes. Rich man, poor man, +one, working together for the common good. + +Back of his sincerity there was fire--and gradually his audience was +lighted by his flame. They listened in a tense silence, which broke now +and then into cheers. To Jane sitting high up on the benches he was a +prophet--the John the Baptist of Tinkersfield. + +"And he's mine, he's mine!" she exulted. This fineness of spirit, the +fire and flame were hers. "If I know you are there somewhere in the dark +I shall pour out my soul--to you--" + +The darkness had not yet fallen, but the dusk had come. The platform was +illumined by little lights like stars. Back of the platform the +eucalyptus trees were now pale spectres, their leaves hanging nerveless +in the still air. + +O-liver sitting down amid thunders of applause let his eyes go for the +moment to Jane. A lamp hung almost directly over her head. She had taken +off her wide hat and her hair was glorious. She was leaning forward a +little, her lips parted, her hands clasped, as if he still spoke to her. + +As Tillotson's sponsor rose Jane straightened up, smiled at Tommy, and +again set herself to listen. + +The unctuous voice of the speaker was a contrast to O-liver's crisp +tones. There were other contrasts not so apparent. This man was in the +game for what he could get out of it. He wanted Tillotson to win because +Tillotson's winning would strengthen his own position politically. He +meant indeed that Tillotson should win. He was not particular as to +methods. + +He said the usual things: Tinkersfield was no Sunday school; and they +weren't slaves to have their liberty taken from them by a lot of +impractical reformers. And Lee was that kind. What had he ever done to +prove that he'd make good? They knew Tillotson. They didn't know Lee. +Who was Lee anyhow? + +He flung the interrogation at them. "What do you know about Lee?" + +The pebble that he threw had widening circles. People began to ask +themselves what, after all, they knew of O-liver. From somewhere in the +darkness went up the words of an evil chant: + + What's the matter with O-liver, O-liver, + White-livered O-liver? + Ask Jane, Sandwich Jane, + O-liver, white liver, + Jane, Jane, Jane. + +Jane felt her heart stand still. Back of her she heard Tommy swearing: +"It's all their damned wickedness!" She saw O-liver start from his chair +and sink back, helpless against the insidiousness of this attack. + +The speaker went on. It would seem, he said, from what he could learn, +that Tillotson's honorable opponent was sailing under false colors. He +was a married man. He had deserted his wife. He sat among them as a +saint, when he was really a sinner. + +"A sinner, gentlemen." The speaker paused for the effect, then proceeded +with his argument. Of course they were all sinners, but they weren't +hypocrites. Tillotson wasn't a hypocrite. He was a good fellow. He +didn't want Tinkersfield to be a Sunday school. He wanted it to be a +town. You know--a town that every fellow would want to hit on +Saturday night. + +There were those in the crowd who began to feel that a weak spot had +been found in O-liver's armor. Secrecy! They didn't like it. There were +signs of wavering among some who had squared their shoulders. After all, +they didn't want to make a Sunday school of Tinkersfield. They wondered, +too, if there wasn't some truth in the things that were being hinted by +that low chant in the darkness: + + Ask Jane, Sandwich Jane, + O-liver, white liver, + Jane, Jane, Jane. + + +O-liver was restless, his hands clenched at his sides. Atwood and Henry +were restless. Tommy was restless. They couldn't let such insults go +unnoticed. Somebody had to fight for Jane! + +Tillotson's supporters kept the thing stirring. If the meeting could end +in a brawl the odds would be in favor of Tillotson. The effect of +O-liver's uplift would be lost. Even his friends couldn't sway a +fighting crowd back to him. + +But they had forgotten to reckon with Jane! + +She had seen in a sudden crystal flash the thing which might happen. A +fight would end it all for O-liver. She had seen his efforts at +self-control. She knew his agony of soul. She knew that at any moment he +might knock somebody down--Tillotson or Tillotson's sponsor. And it +would all be in the morning papers. There would be innuendo--the hint of +scandalous things. And O-liver's reputation would pay the price. It was +characteristic that she did not at the moment think of her own +reputation. It was O-liver who must be saved! + +And so when Tillotson's backer sat down Jane stood up. + +"Please, listen!" she said; and the crowd turned toward her. "Please, +listen, and stop singing that silly song. I never heard anything so +silly as that song in my life!" + +Before her scorn the chant died away in a gasp! + +"The thing you've got to think about," she went on, "isn't Tillotson or +O-liver Lee. It's Tinkersfield. You want an honest man. And O-liver +Lee's honest. He doesn't want your money. He's got enough of his own. +His father's the richest man in his part of the state and his wife's a +movie actress and makes as much as the President. It sounds like a fairy +tale, but it isn't. If O-liver Lee wanted to live on his father or his +wife he could hold out his hand and let things drop into it. But he'd +rather earn fifteen dollars a week and own his soul. And he isn't a +hypocrite. His friends knew about his marriage. Tommy Drew knew, and I +knew. And there wasn't any particular reason why he should tell the rest +of you, was there? There wasn't any particular reason why he should tell +Tillotson?" + +A murmur of laughter followed her questions. There was a feeling in the +crowd that the joke was on Tillotson. + +"I wonder how many of you have told your pasts to Tinkersfield! How many +of you have made Tillotson your father confessor? + +"As for me"--her head was high--"I sell sandwiches. I am very busy. I +hardly have time to think. But when I do think it is of something +besides village gossip." + +She grew suddenly earnest; leaned down to them. "You haven't time to +think of it either," she told them; "have you, men of Tinkersfield?" + +Her appeal was direct, and the answer came back to her in a roar from +the men who knew courage when they saw it; who knew, indeed, innocence! + +"No!" + +And it was that "No" which beat Tillotson. + +"The way she put it over," Atwood exulted afterward, "to a packed crowd +like this!" + +"The thing about Jane"--Henry was very seriously trying to say the thing +as he saw it--"the thing about Jane is that she sees things straight. +And she makes other people see." + + + +IX + + +Well, Tillotson was beaten, and the men who supported O-liver came out +of the fight feeling as if they had killed something unclean. + +And the morning after the election O-liver had a little note from Jane. + +"I've got to go away. I didn't want to worry you with it before this. I +have saved enough money to start in at some college where I can work for +a part of my tuition. I have had experience in my little lunch room that +ought to be a help somewhere. + +"When I finish college I'm going into some sort of occupation that will +provide a pleasant home for mother and me. I want books, and lovely +things, and a garden; and I'd like to speak a language or two and have +cultured friends. Then some day when you are made President you can say +to yourself: 'I am proud of my friend, Jane.' And I'll come to your +inauguration and watch you ride to the White House, and I'll say to +myself as I see you ride, 'I've loved him all these years.' + +"But I shan't let myself say it now. And that's why I'm going away. And +I'm going without saying good-bye because I think it will be easier for +both of us. You and I can't be friends. What we feel is too big. I found +that out about myself that night when you sat there on the platform, and +I wanted to save you from Tillotson. If I'm going to work and be happy +in my work I've got to get away. And you will work better because I am +gone. I mustn't be here--O-liver." + +Jane had indeed seen straight. O-liver laid the note down on his desk +and looked up at the mountain. He needed to look up. If he had looked +down for a moment he would have followed Jane. + + + +X + + +And now there was no sandwich stand in Tinkersfield. But there was a +good hotel. O-liver saw to that. He got Henry Bittinger to put up the +money, with Tommy and his mother in charge. O-liver lived in the hotel +in a suite of small rooms, and when Atwood Jones passed that way the +four men dined together as O-liver's guests. + +"Some day we'll eat with you in Washington," was Atwood's continued +prophecy. + +They always drank "To Jane." Now and then Atwood brought news of her. +First from the college, and then as the years passed from the beach +resort where she had opened a tea room. She was more beautiful than +ever, more wonderful. Her tea room and shop were most exclusive and +artistic. + +"Sandwich Jane!" said O-liver. "How long ago it seems!" + +It was five years now and he had not seen her. And next month he was to +go to Washington. Not as President, but representing his district in +Congress. Tommy's hotel had outgrown the original modest building and +was now modern and fireproof. Henry was married, he had had several new +cars, and his wife wore sables and seal. + +The old arcade was no more; nor the old post-office. But O-liver still +talked to admiring circles in the hotel lobby or to greater crowds in +the town hall. + +He still would take no money from his father, but he saw much of him, +for Mrs. Lee was dead. The Tudor house was without a mistress. It seemed +a pity that O-liver had no wife to grace its halls. + +The newspapers stated that Fluffy Hair's income had doubled. Whether +this was true or not it sounded well, and Fluffy Hair still seemed young +on the screen. Jane would go now and then and look at her and wonder +what sort of woman this was who had laughed at O-liver. + +Then one day a telegram came to O-liver in his suite of rooms. And that +day and for two nights he rode Mary Pick over the hills and through the +cañon and down to the sea, and came to a place where Jane's tea room was +met in the center of a Japanese garden--a low lovely building, with its +porches open to the wide Pacific. + +He had not seen her for so long that he was not quite prepared for the +change. She was thinner and paler and more beautiful, with an air of +distinction that was new. It was as if in visualizing his future she had +pictured herself in it--as first lady of the land. Such a silly dream +for Sandwich Jane! + +They were quite alone when he came to her. It was morning, and the +porches were empty of guests. Jane was in a long wicker chair, with her +pot of coffee on an hour-glass table. Far down on the terrace two Jap +gardeners clipped and cut and watered and saw nothing. + +"You are younger than ever," Jane said when they had clasped hands. +"Will you ever grow old, O-liver?" + +"The men say not." He seated himself opposite her. "Jane, Jane, it's +heavenly to see you. I've been--starved!" + +She had hungered and thirsted for him. Her hand shook a little as she +poured him a cup of coffee. + +"I told you not to come, O-liver." + +He laid the telegram before her. Fluffy Hair was dead! + +The yellow sheet lay between, defying them to speak so soon of +happiness. + +"To-morrow," O-liver said, "I go to Washington. When will you come to +me, Jane?" + +Her hand went out to him. Her breath was quick. "In time to hear your +first speech, O-liver. I'll sit in the gallery, and lean over and listen +and say to myself, 'He's mine, he's mine!'" + +She heard many speeches in the months that followed, and sometimes Tommy +or Atwood or Henry, traveling across the continent, came and sat beside +her. And Atwood always clung to his prophecy: "He'll be governor next; +and then it'll be the White House. Why not?" + +And Jane, dreaming, asked herself "Why?" + +The East had had its share. Had the time not come for a nation to seek +its leader in the golden West? + + + + +LADY CRUSOE + + +Billy and I came down from the North and opened a grocery store at +Jefferson Corners. It is a little store and there aren't many houses +near it--just the railroad station and a big shed or two. Beyond the +sheds a few cabins straggle along the road, and then begin the great +plantations, which really aren't plantations any more, because nobody +around here raises much of anything in these days. They just sit and +sigh over the things that are different since the war. + +That's what Billy says about them. Billy is up-to-date and he has a +motor-cycle. He made up his mind when he came that he was going to put +some ginger into the neighborhood. So he rides miles every morning on +his motor-cycle to get orders, and he delivers the things himself unless +it is barrels of flour or cans of kerosene or other heavy articles, and +then he hires somebody to help him. At first he had William Watters and +his mule. William is black and his mule is gray, and they are both old. +It took them hours to get anywhere, and I used to feel sorry for them. +But when I found out that compared to Billy and me they lived on flowery +beds of ease, I stopped sympathizing. They both have enough, to eat, and +they work only when they want to. Billy and I work all the time. We have +our way to make in the world, and we feel that it all depends on +ourselves. We started out with nothing ahead of us but my ambitions and +Billy's energy, and a few hundred dollars which my guardian turned over +to me when I married Billy on my twenty-first birthday. + +As soon as we were married, we came to Virginia. Billy and I had an idea +that everything south of the Mason and Dixon line was just waiting for +us, and we wanted to earn the eternal gratitude of the community by +helping it along. But after we had lived at Jefferson Corners for a +little while, we began to feel that there wasn't any community. There +didn't seem to be any towns like our nice New England ones, with +sociable trolley-cars connecting them and farmhouses in a lovely line +between. You can ride for miles through this country and never pass +anything but gates. Then way up in the hills you will see a clump of +trees, and in the clump you can be pretty sure there is a house. In the +winter when the leaves are off the trees you can see the house, but in +the summer there is no sign of it. In the old days they seemed to feel +that they were lacking somewhat in delicacy if they exposed their +mansions to the rude gaze of the public. + +There was one mansion that Billy took me to now and then. It was empty, +and that was why we went. The big houses which were occupied were not +open to us, except in a trades-person sort of fashion, and Billy and I +are not to be condescended to--we had a pair of grandfathers in the +_Mayflower_. But that doesn't count down here, where everybody goes back +to William the Conqueror. + +That great big empty house was a fine place for our Sunday afternoon +outings. We always went to church in the morning, and people were very +kind, but it was kindness with a question-mark. You see Billy and I live +over the store, and none of them had ever lived on anything but +ancestral acres. + +So our Sunday mornings were a bit stiff and disappointing, but our +afternoons were heavenly. We discovered the Empty House in the spring, +and there was laurel on the mountains and the grass was young and green +on the slopes, and the sky was a faint warm blue with the sailing +buzzards black against it. Billy and I used to stop at the second gate, +which was at the top of the hill, and look off over the other hills +where the pink sheep were pastured. I am perfectly sure that there are +no other sheep in the whole wide world like those Albemarle sheep. The +spring rains turn the red clay into a mud which sticks like paint, and +the sheep are colored a lovely terra-cotta which fades gradually to +pink. + +The effect is impressionistic, like purple cows. Billy doesn't care for +it, but I do. And I adore the brilliant red of the roads. Billy says +he'll take good brown earth and white flocks. He might be reconciled to +black sheep but never to pink ones. + +We used to eat our supper on the porch of the Empty House. It had great +pillars, and it was rather awe-inspiring to sit on the front steps and +look up the whole length, of those Corinthian columns. Billy and I felt +dwarfed and insignificant, but we forgot it when we turned our eyes to +the hills. + +The big door behind us and the blank windows were shut and shuttered +close. There were flying squirrels on the roof and little blue-tailed +lizards on the stone flagging in front of the house; and there was an +old toad who used to keep us company. I called him Prince Charming, and +I am sure he was as old as Methuselah, and lived under that stone in +some prehistoric age. + +We just loved our little suppers. We had coffee in our thermos bottle, +and cold fried chicken and bread and butter sandwiches and chocolate +cake. We never changed, because we were always afraid that we shouldn't +like anything else so well, and we were sure of the chicken and the +chocolate cake. + +And after we had eaten our suppers we would talk about what kind of +house we would build when our ship came in. Billy and I both have nice +tastes, and we know what we want; and we feel that the grocery store is +just a stepping-stone to better things. + +The sunsets were late in those spring days, and there would be pink and +green and pale amethyst in the western sky, and after that deep sapphire +and a silver moon. And as it grew darker the silver would turn to gold, +and there would be a star--and then more stars until the night came on. + +I can't tell you how we used to feel. You see we were young and in +love, and life was a pretty good thing to us. There was one perfect +night when the hills were flooded with moonlight. We seemed all alone in +a lovely world and I whispered: + +"Oh, Billy, Billy, and some folks think that there isn't any God--" + +And Billy put his arm around me and patted my cheek, and we didn't say +anything for a long time. + +It was just a week later that Lady Crusoe came. I knew that some one was +in the house as soon as we passed the second gate. The door was still +closed, and the shutters were not opened, but I heard a clock strike--a +ship's clock--with bells. + +I clutched Billy. "Listen," I said. + +He heard it, too; "Who in the dickens?" he demanded. + +"There's somebody in the house--" + +"Nonsense--" + +"Billy, there must be, and we can't sit on the porch." + +"You stay here, and I'll go around to the back." + +But I wouldn't let him go alone. At the back of the house a window was +open, and then we were sure. + +"We'd better leave," I said, but Billy insisted that we stay. "If they +are new people, I'll find out their names, and come up to-morrow and get +their orders." + +We went around to the front door and knocked and knocked, but nobody +answered. So we sat down on the front step and presently Billy said that +we might as well eat our supper, for very evidently nobody was at home. + +I didn't feel a bit comfortable about it, but I opened our basket and +got out our cups and plates, and Billy poured the coffee and passed the +chicken and the bread and butter sandwiches. And just then the door +creaked and the knob turned! + +My first impulse was to gather up the lunch and tumble it into the +basket; but I didn't. I just sat there looking up as calmly as if I were +serving tea at my own table, and Billy sat there too looking up. + +The door opened and a voice said, "Oh, if you are eating supper, may I +have some?" + +It was a lovely voice, and Billy jumped to his feet. A lovely head came +after the voice. Just the head, peeping around--the body was hidden by +the door. On the head was a lace cap with a gold rose, and the hair +under the cap was gold. + +"You see, I just got up," said the voice, "and I haven't had any +breakfast--" + +Billy and I gasped. It was seven P.M., and the meal that we were +serving was supper! + +"Do you mind my coming out?" said the voice. "I am not exactly clothed +and in my right mind, but perhaps I'll do." + +She opened the door wider and stepped down. I saw that her slippers had +gold roses and that they were pale pink like the sunset. She wore a +motor coat of tan cloth which covered her up, but I had a glimpse of a +pink silk negligee underneath. + +She sat quite sociably on the steps with us. "I am famished," she said. +"I haven't had a thing to eat for twenty-four hours." + +We gasped again. "How did it happen?" + +"I was--shipwrecked," she said, "in a motor-car--I am the only +survivor--" + +Her eyes twinkled. "I'll tell you all about it presently." Then she +broke off and laughed. + +"But first will you feed a starving castaway?" + +Yet she didn't really tell us anything. She ate and ate, and it was the +prettiest thing to see her. She was dainty and young and eager like a +child at a party. + +"How good everything is!" she said, at last with a sigh. "I don't think +I was ever so hungry in my life." + +Billy and I didn't eat much. You see we were too interested, and +besides we had had our dinner. + +As I have said, she didn't really tell us anything. "It was an accident, +and I came up here. And the old clock that you heard strike belonged to +my grandfather. He was an admiral, and it was his clock. I used to +listen to it as a child." + +"What happened to the rest--?" Billy asked, bluntly. He was more +concerned about the automobile accident than about her ancestors. + +"Oh, do you mean the others in the car?" she came reluctantly back from +the admiral and his ship's clock. "I am sure I don't know. And I am very +sure that I don't care." + +"But were any of them killed?" + +"No--they are all alive--but you see--it was a shipwreck--and I floated +away--by myself--and this is my island, and you are the nice friendly +savages--" she touched Billy on the arm. He drew away a bit. I knew that +he was afraid she had lost her mind, but I had seen her twinkling eyes. +"Oh, it's all a joke!" I said. + +She shook her head. "It isn't exactly a joke, but it might look like +that to other people." + +"Are you going to stay?" + +"Yes." + +"I'll come up in the morning for orders," said Billy promptly. "I keep +the grocery store at Jefferson Corners." + +"Oh," she said, and seemed to hesitate; "there won't be any orders." + +Billy stared at her. "But there isn't any other store." + +"Robinson Crusoe didn't have stores, did he? He found things and lived +on the land. And I am Lady Crusoe." + +"Really?" I asked her. + +"I've another name--but--if people around here question you--you won't +tell them, will you, that I am here--?" + +She said it in such a pretty pleading fashion that of course we +promised. It was late when we had to go. I insisted that we should leave +what remained of the supper, and she seemed glad to get it. "You are +nice friendly savages," she said, with that twinkle in her eyes, "and I +am very grateful. Come into the house and let me show you my clock--" + +She showed us more than the clock. I hadn't dreamed in those days when +Billy and I sat alone on the steps of the treasures that were shut up +behind us. The old furniture was dusty, but all the dust in the world +couldn't hide its beauty. The dining-room was hung with cobwebs, but +when the candles were lighted we saw the Sheffield on the old +sideboard, the Chinese porcelains, the Heppelwhite chairs, the painted +sheepskin screen-- + +She picked out a lovely little pitcher and gave it to me. I did not +learn until afterward that it was pink lustre and worth a pretty penny. +She paid in that way, you see, for her supper, and something in her +manner made me feel that I must not refuse it. + +She did not ask us to come again, yet I was sure that she liked us. I +felt that perhaps it was the grocery store which had made her hesitate. +But whatever it was, I must confess that I was a little lonely as I went +away. You see we had come to look forward to our welcome at the Empty +House. We had known that we were the honored guests of the flying +squirrels and the lizards and of old Prince Charming. But now that the +house was no longer empty, we would not be welcome. I was sorry that I +had accepted the pink pitcher. I should have preferred to feel that I +owed no favor to the lady with the twinkling eyes. + +It wasn't long after our adventure at the Empty House that Billy asked +William Watters to take a big load to a customer two miles out. But +William couldn't. He was working, he said, at a regular place. We +couldn't imagine William as being regular about anything. He and his +mule were so irregular in their habits. They came and went as they +pleased, and they would take naps whenever the spirit moved them. But +now, as William said, he was "wukin' regular," and he refused to say for +whom he worked. But we found out one day when he drove Lady Crusoe down +in a queer old carriage with his mule as a prancing steed. + +He helped her descend as if she had been a queen, and she came in and +talked to Billy. "You see, I've hunted up my friendly savages," she +said. "I've reached the end of my resources." She gave a small order, +and told Billy that she wasn't at all sure when she could pay her bill, +but that there were a lot of things in her old house which he could have +for security. + +Billy said gallantly that he didn't need any security, and that her +account could run as long as she wished and that he was glad to serve +her. And he got out his pad and pencil and stood in that nice way of his +at attention. + +I listened and looked through a window at the back. I had seen her drive +up, and she was stunning in the same tan motor-coat that she had worn +when we first saw her. But she had on a brown hat and veil and brown +shoes instead of the lace cap and rosy slippers. + +She asked about me, and Billy told her that I was in the garden. And I +was in the garden when she came out; but I had to run. She sat down in a +chair on the other side of my little sewing-table and talked to me. It +is such a scrap of a garden that there is only room for a tiny table and +two chairs, but a screen of old cedars hides it from the road, and +there's a twisted apple-tree, and the fields beyond and a glimpse of the +mountains. + +"How is the island?" Billy asked her. + +She twinkled. "I have a man Friday." + +"William Watters?" + +She nodded. "The Watters negroes have been our servants for generations. +And William thinks that he belongs to me. He cooks for me and forages. +He shot two squirrels one morning and made me a Brunswick stew. But I +couldn't stand that. You see the squirrels are my friends." + +I thought of the flying squirrels and the blue-tailed lizards and the +old toad, and I knew how she felt. And I said so. She looked at me +sharply, and then she laid her hand over mine: "Are you lonely, my +dear?" + +I said that I was--a little. Billy had gone in to wait on a customer, so +I dared say it. I told her that nobody had called. + +"But why not?" she demanded. + +"I think," I said slowly, "it is because we live--over the store." + +"I see." And she did see; it was in her blood as well as in the blood of +the rest of them. + +Presently she stood up and said that she must go, and it was then that +she noticed the work that was in my basket on the table. She lifted out +a little garment and the red came into her cheeks. "Oh, oh!" she said, +and stood looking at it. When she laid it down, she came around the +table and kissed me. "What a dear you are!" she said, and then she went +away. + +William Watters came in very often after that; but he said very little +about Lady Crusoe. He was a faithful old thing, and he had evidently had +instructions. But one morning he brought a fine old Sheffield tray to +Billy and asked him to take his pay out of it, and let Lady Crusoe have +the rest in cash. William Watters didn't call her "Lady Crusoe," he +called her "Miss Lily," which didn't give us the key to the situation in +the least. Billy didn't know how to value the tray, so he asked me. I +knew more than he did, but I wasn't sure. I told him to advance what he +thought was best, and to send it to the city and have it appraised, or +whatever they call it, so he did; and when the check from the antique +shop came it was a big one. + +It wasn't long after that that Lady Crusoe called on me. It was a real +call, and she left a card. And she said as she laid it on the table: "As +I told you, I'd rather the rest of the natives didn't know--they haven't +seen me since I was a child, and they think that I am just some stranger +who rents the old place and who wants to be alone." + +After she had gone I picked up the card, and what I read there nearly +took my breath away. There are certain names which mean so much that we +get to look upon them as having special significance. The name that was +on Lady Crusoe's card had always stood in my mind for money--oceans of +it. I simply couldn't believe my eyes, and I took it down to Billy. + +"Look at that," I said, and laid it before him, "and she has asked us to +supper for next Sunday!" + +Well, we couldn't make anything of it. Why was a woman with a name like +that down here with nothing to eat but the things that William Watters +could forage for, and that Billy could supply from his little store, and +that she paid for with Sheffield trays? + +We had supper that Sunday night in the great dining-room. There was a +five-branched candlestick with tall white candles in the center of the +shining mahogany table and William Watters acted as butler. You never +would have believed how well he did it. And after supper we had coffee +on the front porch and looked out over the hills at the sunset, and the +silver moon and the old toad came out from under his stone and sat with +us. + +Lady Crusoe was in a thin white dress which she had made for herself, +and she talked of the old place and of her childhood there. But not a +word did she say of why she had come back to live alone on the Davenant +ancestral acres. + +It was her mother, we learned, who was a Davenant, and it was her +mother's father who was the old admiral. She said nothing of the man +whose name was on her card. It was as if she stopped short when she came +to that part of her life, or as if it had never been. + +She took me up-stairs after a while and left Billy to smoke on the +porch. She said that she had something that she wanted me to see. Her +room was a huge square one at the southwest corner of the house. There +was a massive four-poster bed with faded blue satin curtains, and there +was a fireplace with fire-dogs and an Adam screen. Lady Crusoe carried a +candle, and as she stood in the center of the room she seemed to gather +all of the light to her, like the saints in the old pictures. She was so +perfectly lovely that I almost wanted to cry. I can't explain it, but +there was something pathetic about her beauty. + +She set the candle down and opened an old brass-bound chest. She took +out a roll of cloth and brought it over and laid it on the table beside +the candle. + +"I bought it with some of the money that your Billy got for my Sheffield +tray," she said. Then she turned to me with a quick motion and laid her +hands on my shoulders. "Oh, you very dear--when I saw you making those +little things--I knew that--that the good Lord had led me. Will +you--will you--show me--how?" + +I told Billy about it on the way home. + +"She doesn't know anything about sewing, and she hasn't any patterns, +and I am to go up every day, and William Watters will come for me with +his mule--" + +Then I cried about her a little, because it seemed so dreadful that she +should be there all alone, without any one to sustain her and cherish +her as Billy did me. + +"Oh, Billy, Billy," I said to him, "I'd rather live over a grocery store +with you than live in a palace with anybody else--" + +And Billy said, "Don't cry, lady love, you are not going to live with +anybody else." + +And he put his arm around me, and as we walked along together in the +April night it was like the days when we had been young lovers, only our +joy in each other was deeper and finer, for then we had only guessed at +happiness, and now we knew-- + +Well, I went up every day. William Watters came for me, and I carried my +patterns and we sat in the big west room, and right under the window a +pair of robins were building a nest. + +We watched them as they worked, and it seemed to us that no matter how +hard we toiled those two birds kept ahead. "I never dreamed," Lady +Crusoe remarked one morning, "that they were at it all the time like +this." + +"You wait until they begin to feed their young," I told her. "People +talk about being as free as a bird. But I can tell you that they slave +from dawn until dark. I have seen a mother bird at dusk giving a last +bite to one squalling baby while the father fed another." + +Lady Crusoe laid down her work and looked out over the hills. "The +father," she said, and that was all for a long time, and we stitched and +stitched, but at last she spoke straight from her thoughts: "How dear +your husband is to you!" + +"That's what husbands are made for." + +"Some of them are not, dear," her voice was hard, "some of them expect +so much and give so little--" + +I kept still and presently she began again. "They give money--and they +think that is--enough. They give jewels--and think we ought to be +profoundly grateful." + +"Well, my experience," I told her, "is that the men give as much love as +the women--" + +She looked at me. "What do you mean?" + +"Love costs them a lot." + +"In what way?" + +"They work for us. Now there's Billy's grocery store. If Billy didn't +have me, he'd be doing things that he likes better. You wouldn't believe +it, but Billy wanted to study law, but it meant years of hard work +before he could make a cent, and he and I would have wasted our youth in +waiting--and so he went into business--and that's a big thing for a man +to do for a woman--to give up a future that he has hoped for--and that's +why I feel that I can't do enough for Billy--" + +"I don't see why you should look at it in that way," she said, and her +eyes were big and bright. "Women are queens, and they honor men when +they marry them--" + +"If women are queens," I told her, "men are kings--Billy honored me--" + +She smiled at me. "Oh, you blessed dear--" she said, and all of a sudden +she came over and knelt beside me. "What would you think of a man who +married a woman whom the world called beautiful and brilliant, and +whom--whom princes wanted to marry--And he was a very plain man, except +that he had a lot of money--millions and millions--and after he married +the woman whom he had said that he worshiped, he wanted to make just an +every-day wife of her. He wanted her to stay at home and look after his +house. He told her one night that it would be a great happiness for him +if he could come in and find her warming--his slippers. And he said that +his ideal of a woman was one who--who--held a child in her arms--" + +I looked down at her. "Well, right in the beginning," I said, "I should +like to know if the woman loved the man--" + +She stared at me and then she stood up. "If she did, what then? She had +not married to be--his slave--" + +I pointed to the mother robin on the branch below. "I wonder if she +calls it slavery! You see--she is so busy--building her nest she hasn't +time to think whether Cock Robin is singing fewer love songs than he +sang early in the spring." + +She laughed and was down on her knees beside me again. "Oh, you funny +little practical thing! But it wasn't because I missed the love songs. +He sang them. But because I couldn't be an every-day wife--" + +"What kind of wife did you want to be?" + +"I wanted to travel with him alone--I planned a honeymoon in the desert, +and we had it--and I planned after that to sail the seas to the land of +Nowhere--and we sailed--and then--I wanted to go to the high plains--and +ride and camp--and into the forests to hunt and fish--but he wouldn't. +He said that we had wandered enough. He wanted to build a house--and +have me warm--his slippers--" + +"And so you quarreled?" + +"We quarreled--great hot heavy quarrels--and we said things--horrid +things--that we can't forgive--" + +She was sobbing on my shoulder and I said softly: "Things that _you_ +can't forgive?" + +"Yes. And that _he_ can't. That's why I ran away from him." + +I waited. + +"I couldn't stand it to see him going around with his face stern and set +and not like my lover's. And he didn't speak to me except to be polite. +And he asked people to go with us--everywhere. And we were never +alone--" + +"What had you said to make him--like that?" + +She raised her head. "I told him that I--hated him--" + +"Oh, oh--" + +She knelt back on her heels. + +"It was a dreadful thing to say, wasn't it? That's why I ran away. I +couldn't stand it. I knew it was a thing no man--could--forgive--" + +I smoothed her hair and rocked her back and forth while she cried. It +was strange how much of a child she seemed to me. And I was only the +wife of a country grocer and lived over the store, and she was the wife +of a man whose name was known from east to west, and all around the +world. But you see she hadn't learned to live. Neither have I, really. +But Billy has taught me a lot. + +I think it was a comfort for her to feel that she had confided in me. +But she made me promise that whatever happened I wouldn't let him know. + +"Unless I--die," she said, and she was as white as a lily, "unless I +die, and then you can--set him--free--" + +Billy was sorry that I had promised. "Somehow I feel responsible, +sweetheart, and I'll bet her poor husband is almost crazy." + +"Would you be, Billy?" + +He caught me to him so quickly that he almost shook the breath out of +me. "Don't ask a thing like that," he said, and his voice didn't sound +like his own. "If anything should happen to you--if anything should +happen--I should--I should--oh, why will women ask things like that--?" + +In the days that followed, Billy didn't want me out of his sight. He +even hated to have me go up to the Davenant house with William Watters. +"Take care of her, William," he would say, and stand looking after us. + +William and I got to be very good friends. He was a wise old darky, and +he was devoted to Lady Crusoe. He usually served tea for us out under +the trees, unless it was a rainy day, and then we had it in the library. + +It was on a rainy day that Lady Crusoe said: "I wonder what has become +of William. I haven't seen him since you came. I have hunted and called, +and I can't find him." + +He appeared at tea time, however, with a plate of hot waffles with +powdered sugar between. When his mistress asked him about his mysterious +disappearance, he said that he had cleaned the attic. + +"But, William, on such a day?" + +"I kain't wuk out in the rain, Miss Lily, so I wuks in--" + +That was all he would say about it, and after we had had our tea, she +said to me, "There are a lot of interesting things in the attic. Let's +go up and see what Willie has been doing--" + +The dim old place was as shining as soap and water could make it, and +there was the damp smell of suds. There was the beat of the rain on the +roof, and the splash of it against the round east window. Through the +west window came a pale green light, and there was a view over the +hills. As we became accustomed to the dimness our eyes picked out the +various objects--an old loom like a huge spider under a peaked gable, a +chest of drawers which would have set a collector crazy, Chippendale +chairs with the seats out, Windsor chairs with the backs broken, gilt +mirror frames with no glass in them--boxes--books--bottles--all the +flotsam and jetsam of such old establishments. Most of the things had +been set back against the wall, but right in the middle of the floor was +an object which I took at first for a small trunk. + +Lady Crusoe reached it first, and knelt beside it. She gave a little +cry. "My dear, come here!" and I went to her, and in another moment, I, +too, was on my knees. For the dark object was a cradle--a lovely hooded +thing of mahogany, in which the Davenants had been rocked for +generations. + +"William got it out," Lady Crusoe said, "ready to be carried down. Oh, +my good old man Friday! Do you mind if I cry a little, you very dear?" + +It rained a great deal that summer, and it was hot and humid. Billy and +I longed for the cold winds that sweep across the sea on the North +Shore, but we didn't complain, for we had each other, and I wouldn't +exchange Billy for any breeze that blows. + +Lady Crusoe suffered less than I, for she was on her native heath, and +in the afternoon when we sewed together William Watters made lemonade, +and in the evening when Billy came up for me we sat out under the stars +until whispers of wind stirred the trees, and then we went away and left +our dear lady alone. + +As the time went on we hated more and more to leave her, but she was +very brave about it. "I have my good man Friday," she told us, "to +protect me, and my grandfather's revolver." + +So the summer passed, and the fall came, and the busy robin and all of +her red-breasted family started for the South, and there was rain and +more rain, so that when October rolled around the roads were perfect +rivers of red mud, and the swollen streams swept under the bridges in +raging torrents of terra-cotta, and the sheep on the hills were pinker +than ever. There was no lack of color in those gray days, for the trees +burst through the curtain of mist in great splashes of red and green and +gold. But now I did not go abroad with William Watters behind his old +gray mule, for things had happened which kept me at home. + +It was on a rainy November night that I came down to the store to call +Billy to supper. I had brought a saucer for old Tid, the store cat, and +when he had finished Billy had cut him a bit of cheese and he was +begging for it. We had taught Tid to sit up and ask, and he looked so +funny, for he is fat and black and he hates to beg, but he loves cheese. +We were laughing at him when a great flash of light seemed to sweep +through the store, and a motor stopped. + +Billy went forward at once. The front door opened, and a man in a +rain-coat was blown in by the storm. + +"Jove, it's a wet night!" I heard him say, and I knew it wasn't any of +Billy's customers from around that part of the country. This was no +drawling Virginia voice. It was crisp and clear-cut and commanding. + +He took off his hat, and even at that distance I could see his shining +blond head. He towered above Billy, and Billy isn't short. "I wonder if +you could help me," he began, and then he hesitated, "it is a rather +personal matter." + +"If you'll come up-stairs," Billy told him, "there'll be only my wife +and me, and I can shut up the store for the night." + +"Good!" he said, and I went ahead of them with old Tid following, and +presently the men arrived and Billy presented the stranger to me. + +He told us at once what he wanted. "I thought that as you kept the +store, you might hear the neighborhood news. I have lost--my wife--" + +"Dead?" Billy inquired solicitously. + +"No. Several months ago we motored down into this part of the country. +Some miles from here I had trouble with my engine, and I had to walk to +town for help. When I came back my wife was gone--" + +I pinched Billy under the table. "Gone?" I echoed. + +"Yes. She left a note. She said that she could catch a train at the +station and that she would take it. Some one evidently gave her a lift, +for she had her traveling bag with her. She said that she would sail at +once for France, and that I must not try to follow her. Of course I did +follow her, and I searched through Europe, but I found no trace, and +then it occurred to me that after all she might still be in this part of +the country--" + +I held on to Billy. "Had you quarreled or anything?" + +He ran his fingers through his hair. "Things had gone wrong somehow," +he said, uncertainly, "I don't know why. I love her." + +If you could have heard him say it! If _she_ could have heard him! There +was a silence out of which I said: "Did you ask her to warm your +slippers?" + +He stared at me, then he reached out his hands across the table and +caught hold of mine in such a strong grip that it hurt. "You've seen +her," he said, "_you've seen her_--?" + +Then I remembered. "I can't say any more. You see--I've promised--" + +"That you wouldn't tell me?" + +"Yes." + +He threw back his head and laughed. "If she's in this part of the +country, I'll find her." And I knew that he would. He was the kind of +man you felt wouldn't know there were obstacles in the way when he went +after the thing he wanted. + +I made him stay to supper. It was a drizzly cold night and he looked +very tired. + +"Jove," he said, "you're comfortable here, with your fire and your +pussy-cat, and your teakettle on the hearth! This is the sort of thing I +like--" + +"You wouldn't like living over a grocery store," I told him. + +"Why not?" + +"Oh, nobody around here ever has, and they are all descended from +signers of the Declaration of Independence and back of that from William +the Conqueror, and they stick their noses in the air." + +"Shades of Jefferson!--why should they?" + +"They shouldn't. But they do--" + +He came back to the subject of his wife. "I didn't want her to warm my +slippers. It was only that I wanted her to feel like warming them," he +appealed to Billy, and Billy nodded. Billy positively purrs when I make +him comfortable after his day's work. He says that it is the homing +instinct in men and that women ought to encourage it. + +"Does she warm yours?" he asked Billy. + +"Not now, she's too busy--" and then as if the stage were set for it, +there came from the next room a little, little cry. + +I went in and brought out--Junior! He was only a month old, but you know +how heavenly sweet they are with their rose-leaf skins, and their little +crumpled hands and their downy heads--Junior's down was brown, for Billy +and I are both dark. + +"You see he keeps me busy," I said. + +I was so proud I am perfectly sure it stuck out all over me, and as for +Billy he beamed on us in a funny fatherly fashion that he had adopted +from the moment that he first called me "Little Mother." + +"Do you wonder that she hasn't time to warm my slippers?" was his +question. + +The stranger held out his arms--"Let me hold the little chap." And he +sat there, without a smile, looking down at my baby. When he raised his +head he said in a dry sort of fashion, "I thought the pussy-cat and the +teakettle were enough--but this seems almost too good to be true--" + +I can't tell you how much I liked him. He seemed so big and fine--and +tender. I came across a poem the other day, and he made me think of it: + + "... the strong" + The Master whispered, "are the tenderest!" + +Before he went away, he took my hand in his. "I want you to play a game +with me. Do you remember when we were children that we used to hide +things, and then guide the ones who hunted by saying 'warmer' when we +were near them, and 'colder' when they wandered away? Will you say +'warm' and 'cold' to me? That won't be breaking your promise, will it?" + +"No." + +"Then let's begin now. To-morrow morning I shall go to the north and +east--" + +"Cold!" + +"To the south and west--" + +"Warmer." + +"Up a hill?" + +"Very warm. But you mustn't ask me any more." + +"All right. But I am coming again, and we will play the game." + +Billy went down with him, and when he came back we stood looking into +the fire, and he said, "You didn't tell him?" + +"Of course not. That's the lovely, lovely thing that he must find out +for himself--" + +The next day I went to see Lady Crusoe. William Watters took me. "They's +a man been hangin' round this mawnin'," he complained, "an' a dawg--" + +"What kind of man, William?" + +"He's huntin', and Miss Lily she doan' like things killed--" + +Half-way up, we passed the man. His hat came off when he saw me. "It's +cold weather we're having," he said pleasantly. + +"It's getting warmer," I flung back at him, and William drove on with a +grunt. + +I had Junior with me, and when I reached the house I went straight +up-stairs. In the very center of the room in the hooded mahogany cradle +was another crumpled rose-leaf of a child. But this was not a "Junior." + +"Robin-son," Lady Crusoe had whispered, when I had first bent over her +and had asked the baby's name. + +"Because of the robins?" I had asked. + +She shook her head. "I couldn't call him Crusoe, could I?" + +So there he lay, little Robinson Crusoe, in a desert expanse of polished +floor, and there he crowed a welcome to my own beautiful baby! + +Lady Crusoe was in a big chair. She was not strong, and William Watters +had brought his sister Mandy to wait on her. She was very pale, this +lovely lady, and there were shadows under her eyes. As I sat down beside +her, she said: "I shall have to have your Billy sell some more things +for me. You see the servants must be paid, and my Robin must be comfy. +There's a console-table that ought to bring a lot from a city dealer." + +"I wish that you needn't be worried," I said. "I wish--I wish--that +you'd let me send for Robin's father--" + +"Robin's father!" she drew a quick breath, "how funny it +sounds!--_Robin's father_--" + +I waited for that to sink in, and then I said: "I know how you feel. +When I think of Billy as Junior's father it is different from thinking +of him as my husband, and it makes a funny sensation in my throat as if +I wanted to cry--" + +"You've nothing to cry about," she told me fiercely, "nothing, but I +sometimes feel as if I could weep rivers of tears!" + +I realized that I must be careful, so I changed the subject. "William," +I said after a pause, "is worrying about a man who is hunting over the +grounds." + +"He told me. I can't understand why any one should trespass when the +place is posted. I sent William to tell him, but it didn't seem to have +any effect. I haven't heard him shoot. When I do, I shall go out and +speak to him myself." + +I wondered if Fate were going to settle it in that way, and I wondered +too if it would be breaking my promise to tell him to shoot! We sewed in +silence for a while, but Lady Crusoe was restless. At last she wandered +to the window. It was a long French window which opened on a balcony. +She parted the velvet curtains and looked out. "There he is again," she +said, with irritation, "by the gate with his gun and dog--" + +I rose and joined her. The man stood by the gate-post, and the dog sat +at his feet. They might have been a pair of statues planted on the round +top of the hill, with the valleys rolling away beneath them and the +mountain peaks and the golden sky beyond. Lady Crusoe was much stirred +up over it. + +"I'll send William again, when he comes with our tea. I won't have my +wild things shot. There was a covey of partridges on the lawn this +morning, and my squirrels come up to the porch to be fed. Men are cruel +creatures with their guns and their traps." + +"Women are cruel, too," I told her, and now I took my courage in my +hands. "Suppose, oh, suppose, that the mother robin had stolen her nest +and had never let the father robin share her happiness, wouldn't you +call that cruel?" + +"What do you mean?" her voice shook. + +"You have stolen your--nest--" + +"Why shouldn't I steal it? I had always felt that when I wanted a real +home it would be here. And the time had come when I wanted a--home. So I +planned to come--with him. It was to be my surprise--he doesn't even +know that the old place belongs to me. He thought it was just another of +my restless demands, but he let me have my way. We had friends with us +when we started; they left us at Washington. It was after we were alone +that--we quarreled--and I ran away. I left a note and told him that I +had gone to France. I suppose he followed and didn't find me. I am not +even sure that he wants to find me." + +"Do you want to be found?" + +"I don't know. I'd rather not talk about it." + +William came in with the tea and was told to send the intruder off. + +"I done sent him, Miss Lily," he said, with dignity, "but he ain't gwine +to go. He say he ain't, and I kain't make him." + +She went again to the window, and this time she drew back the faded +hangings and stepped out on the balcony. + +I heard her utter a cry; then the whole room seemed to whirl about me as +she came in, dragging the curtains together behind her. Every drop of +blood was drained from her face. + +"William," she said, sharply, "that man--is coming toward the house! If +he asks for me--I am not--at home." + +"Nawm," and William went down to answer the blows of the brass knocker. + +We heard him open the door, we heard the crisp, quick voice. We heard +William's stately response. Then the quick voice said: "Will you tell +your mistress that I shall wait?" + +William came up with the message. "He's settin' on the po'ch, an' he +looks like he was makin' out to set there all night." + +"Let him sit," said Lady Crusoe inelegantly. "Lock all of the doors, +William, and serve the tea." + +She sat there and drank a cup of it scalding hot, with her head in the +air and her foot tapping the floor. But I couldn't drink a drop. I was +just sick with the thought of how he loved her, and of how she had +hardened her heart. + +At last I couldn't stand it any longer. The tears rolled down my cheeks. +Lady Crusoe set her cup on the tray and stared at me in amazement. +"What's the matter?" + +"Oh, how can you--when he loves you?" + +I don't know how I dared say it, for her eyes were blazing in her white +face, and my heart was thumping, but there was Robinson Crusoe crowing +in his hooded cradle, and Robin's father was on the front step, with the +old oak door shut and barred against him. + +She leaned forward, and I knew what was coming. "How did you know it +was--my husband?" + +My eyes met hers squarely. "He came to the store. He was looking for +you." + +"And you told him that I was here?" + +"No. I wanted to. But I had promised." + +For a little while neither of us spoke. The silence was broken by a +thud, as if a flying squirrel had dropped from the roof to the balcony. +A stick of wood fell apart in the grate, and the crow of the baby in the +hooded cradle was answered by the baby on my lap. + +Lady Crusoe hugged her knees with her white arms as if she were cold, +although the room was hot with the blazing fire. "I think you might have +told me. It would have been the friendly thing to have told me--" + +"Billy thought it wasn't best." + +"What had Billy to do with it?" + +"Billy has everything to do with me. I talked it over with him--and--and +Billy's such a darling to talk things over--" + +I broke down and sobbed and sobbed, and the tears dripped on Junior's +precious head. And at last she said, her face softened, "You silly +little thing, what do you want me to do?" + +"If it were Billy, I should ask him in--and show him--the baby--" + +"If it were Billy, you would set your heart under his heel for him to +step on. I am not like that--" + +Another squirrel dropped to the balcony. The sun was setting, and +between the velvet curtains I could see it blood-red behind the hills. + +Lady Crusoe rose, pacing the room restlessly. The wind rising rattled +the long windows. A shadow blotted out the sun. + +"I suppose if you were I," she said at last, "you'd take your baby in +your arms, and go down and say to that man on the steps, 'Come in and be +lord of the manor and the ruler of your wife and child.'" + +I held Junior close and my voice trembled. "I should never say a thing +like that to--Billy--" + +"What would you say?" + +"I should say"--I choked over it, and broke down at the end--"oh, lover, +lover, this is your son--and I am his happy mother--" + +She stopped in front of me and stood looking down, with the anger all +gone from her eyes. Then, before she could turn or cry out, the long +windows were struck open by something that was stronger than the wind. +There had been no flying squirrels on the balcony, and the shadow which +had hidden the sun was the breadth and height of the big man who stood +between the velvet curtains! He crossed the room at a stride. + +"Did you think that bolts and bars could keep me from you?" he asked, +and took Lady Crusoe's hands in a tight grip and drew her toward him. +She resisted for a moment. Then her white slenderness was crushed in his +hungry arms. + +Well, as soon as I could gather up Junior and his belongings, I went +down to wait for Billy. But before I went I saw her drop on her knees +beside the hooded cradle and lift out little Robin, and, still kneeling, +hold him up toward his father, as the nun holds up Galahad in the Holy +Grail. + +And what do you think I heard her say? + +_"Oh, lover, lover, this is your son--and I am his happy mother!"_ + +Billy came in glowing from his walk in the sharp air, and I can't tell +you how good it seemed to feel his cold cheek against my cheek, and his +warm lips on mine. We were a rapturous trio in front of the library +fire, and there we were joined presently by the rapturous trio from +above stairs. They treated Billy and me as if we were a pair of guardian +angels. Then we had dinner together, with Mandy and William in the +background beaming. + +And that night I told Billy all about it. "Isn't it beautiful, Billy? +They are going to live on the old Davenant place, and it is to be their +home." + +Everybody calls on us now. You see, Lady Crusoe's family is older than +any of the others, and then there's her husband's money. And I shine in +her reflected light, for our friendship, as she says, is founded on a +rock. But Billy says it is founded on a wreck. Yet while he jokes about +it, I know that he is proud of his friendship with Robin's father. And +when the spring comes, we are to take old Tid and our blessed Junior and +our family effects to an adorable cottage with a garden on all four +sides of it and set well back from the road. You see, we feel that we +can afford it, for we have the exclusive business of supplying the needs +of the Davenant estate, and we are thus financially on our feet. + + + + +A REBELLIOUS GRANDMOTHER + + +Mrs. Cissy Beale and her daughter Cecily sat together in the latter's +bedroom--a bewitching apartment, in which pale-gray paper and pale-gray +draperies formed an effective background for the rosewood furniture and +the French mirrors and tapestried screens. + +Between the two women was a bassinet and a baby. + +"You act," said Cecily, "as if you were sorry about--the baby." + +Her mother, who lay stretched at ease on a pillowed couch, shook her +head. + +"I'm not sorry about the baby--she's a darling--but you needn't think +I'm going to be called 'grandmother,' Cecily. A grandmother is a person +who settles down. I don't expect to settle down. My life has been hard. +I struggled and strove through all those awful years after your +father--left me. I educated you and Bob. And now you've both married +well, and I've a bit of money ahead from my little book. For the first +time in my life I can have leisure and pretty clothes; for the first +time in my life I feel young; and then, absolutely without warning, you +come back from Europe with your beautiful Surprise, and expect me to +live up to it--" + +"Oh, no!" Cecily protested. + +"Yes, you do," insisted little Mrs. Beale. She sat up and gazed at her +daughter accusingly. With the lace of her boudoir cap framing her small, +fair face, she looked really young--as young almost as the demure +Cecily, who, in less coquettish garb, was taking her new motherhood very +seriously. + +"Yes, you do," Mrs. Beale repeated. "I know just what you expect of me. +You expect me to put on black velvet and old lace and diamonds. I shan't +dare to show you my new afternoon frock--it's _red_, Cecily, geranium +_red_; I shan't dare to wear even the tiniest slit in my skirts; I +shan't dare to wear a Bulgarian sash or a Russian blouse, or a low +neck--without expecting to hear some one say, disapprovingly, 'And +she's a _grandmother_!'" She paused, and Cecily broke in tumultuously: + +"I should think you'd be proud of--the baby." + +"No, I'm not proud." Mrs. Beale thrust her toes into a pair of +silver-embroidered Turkish slippers and stood up. "I'm not proud just at +this moment, Cecily. You see--there's Valentine Landry." + +"Mother--!" + +"Now please don't say it that way, Cecily. He's half in love with me, +and I'm beginning to like him, awfully. I've never had a bit of romance +in my life. I married your father when I was too young to know my own +mind, and he was much older than I. Then came the years of struggle +after he went away.... I was a good wife and a good mother. I worshiped +you and Bob, and I gave my youth for you. I never thought of any other +man while your father lived, even though he did not belong to me. And +now he is dead. You'll never know--I hope you may _never_ know--what +drudgery means as I have known it. I've written my poor little screeds +when I was half-dead with fatigue; I've been out in cold and rain to get +news; I've interviewed all sorts of people when I've hated them and +hated the work. And if now I want to have my little fling, why not? +Everybody effervesces some time. This is my moment--and you can't expect +me to spoil it by playing the devoted grandmother." + +The baby was wailing, a little hungry call, which made her mother take +her up and say, hastily: "It's time to feed her. You won't mind, +mother?" + +"Yes, I _do_ mind," said the little lady. "I don't like that Madonna +effect, with the baby in your arms. It makes me feel horribly frivolous +and worldly, Cecily. But it doesn't change my mind a bit." + +After a pause, the Madonna-creature asked, "Who is Valentine Landry?" + +Mrs. Beale had her saucy little cap off, and was brushing out her thin, +light locks in which the gray showed slightly. But she stopped long +enough to explain. "He isn't half as sentimental as his name. I met him +in Chicago at the Warburtons', just before I made a success of my book. +I was very tired, and he cheered me a lot. He's from Denver, and he made +his money in mines. He hasn't married, because he hasn't had time. We're +awfully good friends, but he doesn't know my age. He knows that I have a +daughter, but not a grand-daughter. He thinks of me as a young +woman--not as a grandmother-creature in black silk and mitts--" + +"_Mother_! nobody expects you to wear black silk and mitts--" + +"Well, you expect me to have a black-silk-and-mitt mind. You know you +are thinking this very minute that there is no idiot like an old +one--Cecily--" + +The girl flushed. "I don't think you are quite kind, mother." + +Mrs. Beale laughed and forgot to be cynical. "I know what you'd like to +have me, dearie, but this is my moment of emancipation." She crossed the +room and looked down at the tiny bit of humanity curled like a kitten in +the curve of her daughter's arm. "I'm not going to be your grandmother, +yet, midget," she announced, with decision. Then, "Cecily, I think when +she's old enough I shall have her call me--Cupid--" + +And laughing in the face of her daughter's horrified protest, the +mutinous grandparent retired precipitately to her own room. + +Three hours later, Mrs. Cissy Beale went forth to conquer, gowned in a +restaurant frock of shadow lace topped by a black tulle hat. + +Valentine Landry, greeting her in Cecily's white-and-gold drawing-room, +was breezy and radiant. "You're as lovely as ever," he said, as he took +her hand; "perhaps a bit lovelier because you are glad to see me." + +"I am glad," she assured him; "and it is so nice to have you come before +the summer is at an end. We can have a ride out into Westchester, and +come back by daylight to dinner." + +"And no chaperons?" + +"No." She was looking up at him a little wistfully. "We know each other +too well to have to drag in a lot of people, don't we? It is the men +whom women trust with whom they go alone." + +He met her glance gravely. "Do you know," he said, "that you have the +sweetest way of putting things? A man simply has to come up to your +expectations. He'd as soon think of disappointing a baby as of +disappointing you." + +His selection of a simile was unfortunate. Mrs. Beale's eyes became +fixed upon a refractory button of her glove. + +"Please help me," she said; "your fingers are stronger," and as he bent +above her hand she forgot the baby, forgot her new estate, forgot +everything except the joy she felt at having his smooth gray head so +close to her own. + +When he had her safely beside him in his big car he asked, "What made +you run away from me in Chicago?" + +"My daughter came home from Europe." + +"I can't quite think of you with a grown daughter." + +"Cecily's a darling." Mrs. Beale's voice held no enthusiasm. + +Landry, noting her tone, looked faintly surprised. "You and she must +have great good times together." + +"Oh, yes--" + +Mrs. Beale wished that he wouldn't talk about Cecily. Cecily had married +before good times were possible. They had never played together--she and +the little daughter for whom she had toiled and sacrificed. + +Landry's voice broke in upon her meditations: "I should like to meet +Cecily." + +Mrs. Beale switched him away from the topic expeditiously. He should not +see her as yet in the bosom of her family. _He should not_. He should +not see Cecily with her air of mature motherliness. He should not see +Victor, Cecily's husband, who was ten years older than Cecily and only +ten years younger than herself. He should not hear her big son Bob call +her "Grandma." He should not gaze upon the pretty deference of Bob's +little wife toward the queen-dowager! + +Dining later opposite Landry in a great golden palace, Cissy seemed like +some gay tropical bird. In her new and lovely clothes she was very +pretty, very witty, almost girlishly charming. Yet Landry was conscious +of a vague feeling of disappointment. She had been more serenely +satisfying in Chicago--not so brilliantly hard, not so persistently +vivacious. How could he know that the change was one of desperation? +Cissy, as grandmother, felt that she must prove, even to herself, that +she was not yet a back number. + +With this rift in the lute of their budding romance, they ate and drank +and went to the play and had what might otherwise have been an +enchanted ride home in the moonlight. But when Landry said "Good-night" +Cissy felt the loss of something in his manner. His greeting that +afternoon had had in it something almost of tenderness; his farewell was +commonplace and slightly constrained. + +As Mrs. Beale went through the dimly lighted hall to her room, she met +Cecily in a flowing garment, pacing back and forth with the baby in her +arms. + +"She isn't well," Cecily whispered, as the little lady in the lace frock +questioned her. "I don't know whether I ought to call a doctor or not." + +Mrs. Beale poked the tiny mite with an expert finger. "I'll give her a +drink of hot water with a drop of peppermint in it," she said, "as soon +as I get my hat off, and you'd better go back to bed, Cecily; you aren't +well enough to worry with her." + +Cecily looked relieved. "I was worried," she confessed. "It's nurse's +night out and Victor had to go to a board meeting unexpectedly--and with +you away--I lost my nerve. It seemed dreadful to be alone, mother." + +Mrs. Beale knew how dreadful it was. She had carried the wailing Cecily +in her arms night after night in the weeks which followed the crushing +knowledge of her husband's infidelity. But she had carried a heavier +burden than the child--the burden of poverty, of desertion, of an +unknown future. + +But these things were not to be voiced. "You go to bed, Cecily," she +said. "I'll look after her." + +Walking the floor later with the baby in her arms, Mrs. Beale's mind was +on Landry. "Heavens! if he could see me now!" was her shocked thought, +as she stopped in front of a mirror to survey the picture she made. + +Her hair was down and the grayest lock of all showed plainly. She had +discarded frills and furbelows and wore a warm gray wrapper. She looked +nice and middle-aged, yet carried, withal, a subtle air of +girlishness--would carry it, in spite of storm or stress, until the end, +as the sign and seal of her undaunted spirit. + +The baby stirred in her arms, and again Mrs. Beale went back and forth, +crooning the lullaby with which she had once put her own babies to bed. + +In the morning the baby was much better, but Mrs. Beale was haggard. She +stayed in bed until eleven o'clock, however. Cecily, coming in at +twelve, found her ready to go out. In response to an inquiry, Mrs. Beale +spoke of a luncheon engagement with Valentine Landry. + +"Mother--are you going to marry him?" + +Cissy, studying the adjustment of her veil, confessed, "He hasn't asked +me." + +"But he will--" + +Mrs. Beale shrugged her shoulders. "Who knows?" + +In the weeks which followed, the little lady was conscious that things +were not drawing to a comfortable climax. By all the rules of the game, +Landry should long ago have declared himself. But he seemed to be +slipping more and more into the fatal role of good friend and comrade. + +Cissy's pride would not let her admit, even to herself, that she had +failed to attract at the final moment. But there was something deeper +than her pride involved, and she found her days restless and her nights +sleepless. One night in the dense darkness she faced the truth +relentlessly. "You're in love, Cissy Beale," she told herself, +scornfully. "You're in love for the first time in your life--and you +a--grandmother!" + +Then she turned over on her pillow, hid her face in its white warmth, +and cried as if her heart would break. + +In the meantime the baby drooped. Cecily, worried, consulted her mother +continually. Thus it came about that Mrs. Beale lived a double life. +From noon until midnight she was of to-day--smartly gowned, girlish; +from midnight until dawn she was of yesterday--waking from her fitful +slumbers at the first wailing note, presiding in gray gown and slippers +over strange brews of catnip and of elderflower. + +Cecily's doctor, being up-to-date, remonstrated at this return to the +primitive, but was forced to admit, after the baby had come triumphantly +through a half-dozen critical attacks, that Cissy's back-to-grandma +methods were effective. + +It was on a morning following one of these struggles that Cissy said to +her daughter, wearily, "I can't escape it--" + +"Escape what?" demanded Cecily, who, in the pale-gray bedroom was +endeavoring to observe the doctor's injunction to let the wailing baby +stay in her bassinet, instead of walking the floor with her. + +"The black-silk-and-mitt destiny," said the depressed lady. + +"What has happened?" Cecily demanded. + +"Nothing has happened," responded her weary little mother, and refused +to discuss the matter further. + +But to herself she was beginning to admit that she had lost Landry. An +hour later she had a telephone message from him. + +"I want you to go with me for a last ride together," he said. "I leave +to-morrow." + +"To-morrow!" Her voice showed her dismay. + +"But why this sudden decision--" + +"I have played long enough," he said; "business calls--" + +As Mrs. Beale made ready for the ride she surveyed herself wistfully in +her mirror. There were shadows under her eyes, and faint little lines +toward the corners of her lips--it even seemed to her that her chin +sagged. She had a sudden sense of revolt. "If I were young, _really_ +young," she thought, "he would not be going away--" + +With this idea firmly fixed in her mind, she exerted herself to please +him; and her little laugh made artificial music in his ears, her fixed +smile wore upon his nerves, her staccato questions irritated him. + +Again they had dinner together, and as she sat opposite him, gorgeous +and gay in her gown of geranium red, he began to talk with her of her +daughter. + +"I've never met her. It has seemed to me that you might have let me see +her--" + +Cissy flushed. "She's such a great grown-up," she said. "Somehow when +I'm with her I feel--old--" + +"You will never seem old," he said, with the nearest approach to +tenderness that had softened his voice for days. "You have in you the +spirit of eternal youth--" + +Then he floundered on. "But a mother and a daughter--when you used to +speak of her in Chicago, it seemed to me that I could see you together, +and I liked the sweetness and womanliness of the thought; but I have +never seen you together." + +With a sense of recklessness upon her, Cissy suddenly determined to tell +him the truth. "Cecily hasn't been going out much. You see, there's the +baby--" + +He stared. "The baby--?" + +"Her baby--Cecily's--" + +"_Then you're a grandmother_?" + +It seemed to Cissy that the whole restaurant rang with the emphasis of +the words. Yet he had not spoken loudly; not a head was turned in their +direction; even the waiter stood unmoved. + +When she came to herself Landry was laughing softly. "When are you going +to let me see--the baby--?" + +"Never--" + +"Why not?" + +Cissy went on to her doom. "Because you'll want to put me on the shelf +like all the rest of them. You'll want to see me with--my +hair--parted--and spectacles. And my eyes are perfectly good--and my +hair is my own--" + +She stopped. Landry was surveying her with hard eyes. + +"Don't you love--the baby--?" + +Cissy shrugged. "Perhaps. I don't know yet. Some day I may when I +haven't anything to do but sit in a chimney-corner." + +Thus spoke Cissy Beale, making of herself a heartless creature, flinging +back into the face of Valentine Landry his most cherished ideals. + +But what did it matter? She had known from the moment of her confession +that he would be repelled. What man could stand up in the face of the +world and marry a grandmother!--the idea was preposterous. + +She finished dinner with her head in the air; she was hypocritically +lively during the drive home; she said "Good-night" and "Good-bye" +without feeling, and went up-stairs with her heart like lead to find the +nurse weeping wildly on the first landing. + +The baby, it appeared, was very ill. And the baby's father and mother, +having left the little cherub sleeping peacefully, were motoring +somewhere in the wide spaces of the world. The family doctor was out. +She had called up another doctor, and he would come as soon as he could. +But in the meantime the baby was dying-- + +"Nonsense, Kate," said Cissy Beale, and pulling off her gloves as she +ran, she made for the pale-gray room. + +Now, as it happened, Valentine Landry, driving away in a priggish state +of mind, was suddenly overwhelmed by miserable remorse. Reviewing the +evening, he seemed to see, for the first time, the unhappiness in the +eyes of the little woman who had borne herself so bravely. In a sudden +moment of illumination he realized all that she must have been feeling. +Perhaps it had not been heartlessness; perhaps it had been--heart +hunger. + +Leaning forward, he spoke to his chauffeur. They stopped at the first +drug-store, and Landry called up Cissy. Her voice from the other end +answered, sharply, then broke as he gave his name. + +"I thought it was the doctor," she said. "Can you come back, please? The +baby, oh, the baby is very ill!" + +Five minutes later the nurse let him into the house. He followed her up +the stairs and into the nursery. Cissy sat with the baby in her arms. +The baby was in a blanket and Cissy was in her gray wrapper. She had +donned it while the nurse held the baby in the hot bath which saved its +life. Cissy's hair was out of curl and the color was out of her cheeks. +But to Valentine Landry she was beautiful. + +"It was a convulsion," she told him, simply. "I am afraid she will have +another. We haven't been able to get a doctor--will you get one for us?" + +Out he went on his mission for the lady of his heart, and the lady of +his heart, sitting wet and worried in the pale-gray bedroom, was saying +to herself, monotonously, "It's all over now--no man could see me like +this and love me--" + +Cecily and her husband and the doctor and Landry came in out of the +darkness together. They went up-stairs together, then stopped on the +threshold as Cissy held up a warning hand. + +She continued to croon softly the lullaby which had belonged to her own +babies: "Hushaby, sweet, my own--" + +It was Cecily and the doctor who went in to her, and Landry, standing +back in the shadows, waited. He spoke to Cissy as she came out. + +"I am going so early in the morning," he said, "will you give me just +one little minute now?" + +In that minute he told her that he loved her. + +And Cissy, standing in the library in all the disorder of uncurled locks +and gray kimono, demanded, after a rapturous pause, "But why didn't you +tell me before?" + +He found it hard to explain. "I didn't quite realize it--until I saw you +there so tender and sweet, with the baby in your arms--" + +"A Madonna-creature," murmured Cissy Beale. + +But he did not understand. "It isn't because I want you to sit in a +chimney-corner--it wasn't fair of you to say that--" + +Then in just one short speech Cissy Beale showed him her heart. She told +of the years of devotion, always unrewarded by the affection she craved. +"And here was the baby," she finished, "to grow up--and find somebody +else, and forget me--" + +As he gathered her into his protecting embrace, his big laugh comforted +her. + +"I'm yours till the end of the world, little grandmother," he whispered. +"I shall never find any one else--and I shall never forget." + + + + +WAIT--FOR PRINCE CHARMING + + +Kingdon Knox was not conscious of any special meanness of spirit. He was +a lawyer and a good one. He was fifty, and wore his years with an effect +of youth. He exercised persistently and kept his boyish figure. He had +keen, dark eyes, and silver in his hair. He was always well groomed and +well dressed, and his income provided him with the proper settings. His +home in the suburb was spacious and handsome and presided over by a +handsome and socially successful wife. His office was presided over by +Mary Barker, who was his private secretary. She was thirty-five and had +been in his office for fifteen years. She had come to him an unformed +girl of twenty; she was now a perfect adjunct to his other office +appointments. She wore tailored frocks, her hair was exquisitely dressed +in shining waves, her hands were white and her nails polished, her +slender feet shod in unexceptional shoes. + +Nannie Ashburner, who was also in the office and who now and then took +Knox's dictation, had an immense admiration for Mary. "I wish I could +wear my clothes as you do," she would say as they walked home together. + +"Clothes aren't everything." + +"Well, they are a lot." + +"I would give them all to be as young as you are." + +"You don't look old, Mary." + +"Of course I take care of myself," said Mary, "but if I were as young as +you I'd begin over again." + +"How do you mean 'begin,' Mary?" + +But Mary was not communicative. "Oh, well, I'd have some things that I +might have had and can't get now," was all the satisfaction that she +gave Nannie. + +It was through Mary that Nannie had obtained her position in Kingdon +Knox's office. Mary had boarded with Nannie's mother for five years. +Nannie was fourteen when Mary came. She had finished high school and had +had a year in a business college, and then Mrs. Ashburner had asked Mary +if there was any chance for her in Kingdon Knox's office. + +Mary had considered it, but had seemed to hesitate. "We need another +typist, but I am not sure it is the place for her." + +"Why not?" + +Mary did not say why. "I wish she didn't have to work at all. She ought +to get married." + +"Dick McDonald wants her. But she's too young, Mary." + +"You were married at nineteen." + +"Yes, and a lot I got out of it." Mrs. Ashburner was sallow and cynical. +"I kept boarders to make a living for my husband, Mary; and since he +died I've kept boarders to make a living for Nannie and me." + +"But Dick gets good wages." + +"Well, he can wait till he saves something." + +"Don't make him wait too long." + +It was against her better judgment that Mary Barker spoke to her +employer about Nannie. "I should want her to help me. She is not expert +enough to take your dictation, but she could relieve me of a lot of +detail." + +"Well, let me have a look at her," Kingdon Knox had said. + +So Nannie had come to be looked over, and she had blushed a little and +had been rather breathless as she had talked to Mr. Kingdon, and he had +been aware of the vividness of her young beauty; for Nannie had red hair +that curled over her ears, and her skin was warm ivory, and her eyes +were gray. + +Her clothes were not quite up to the office standard, but Knox, having +hired her, referred the matter to Mary. "You might suggest that she cut +out thin waists and high heels," he had said; "you know what I like." + +Mary knew, and Nannie's first month's salary had been spent in the +purchase of a serge one-piece frock. + +Mrs. Ashburner had rebelled at the expense. But Mary had been firm. "Mr. +Knox won't have anybody around the office who looks slouchy or sloppy. +It will pay in the end." + +Nannie thought Mr. Knox wonderful. "He says that he wants me to work +hard so that I can handle some of his letters." + +"When did he tell you that?" + +"Last night, while you were taking testimony in the library." + +The office library was lined with law books. There were a handsome long +mahogany table, green covered, and six handsome mahogany chairs. Mary, +shut in with three of Knox's clients and a consulting partner, had had a +sense of uneasiness. It was after hours. Nannie was waiting for her in +the outer office. Everybody else had gone home except Knox, who was +waiting for his clients. + +Mary remembered how, when she was Nannie's age, she had often sat in +that outer office after hours, and Knox had talked to her. He had been +thirty-five and she, twenty. He had a wife and a handsome home; she had +nothing but a hall room. And he had made her feel that she was very +necessary to him. "I don't know how we should ever get along without +you," he had said. + +He had said other things. + +It was because he had spoken of her lovely hair that she had kept it +brushed and shining. It was because his eyes had followed her pencil +that she had rubbed cold cream on her hands at night and had looked well +after her nails. It was because she had learned his taste that she wore +simple but expensive frocks. It was because of her knowledge that +nothing escaped him that she shod her pretty feet in expensive shoes. + +He had set standards for her, and she had followed them. And now he +would set standards for Nannie! + +She spoke abruptly. "Is Dick McDonald coming to-night?" + +"Yes. He has had a raise, Mary. He telephoned--" + +The two girls were in Mary's room. Dinner was over and Mary had slipped +on a Chinese coat of dull blue and had settled down for an evening with +her books. Mary's room was charming. In fifteen years she had had gifts +of various kinds from Knox. They had always been well chosen and +appropriate. Nothing could have been in better taste as an offering from +an employer to an employee than the embossed leather book ends and desk +set, the mahogany reading lamp with its painted parchment shade, the +bronze Buddha, the antique candlesticks, the Chelsea teacups, the +Sheffield tea caddy. Mary's comfortable salary had permitted her to buy +the book shelves and the tea table and the mahogany day bed. There was a +lovely rug which Mrs. Knox had sent her on the tenth anniversary of her +association with the office. Mrs. Knox looked upon Mary as a valuable +business asset. She invited her once a year to dinner. + +Nannie wore her blue serge one-piece frock and a new winter hat. The hat +was a black velvet tam. + +"You need something to brighten you up," Mary said; "take my beads." + +The beads were jade ones which Mr. Knox had brought to Mary when he came +back from a six months' sojourn in the Orient. Mary had looked after the +office while he was away. He had clasped the beads about her neck. "Bend +your head while I put them on, Mary," he had commanded. He had been at +his desk in his private office while she sat beside him with her +note-book. And when he had clasped the beads and she had lifted her +head, he had said with a quick intake of his breath: "I've been a long +time away from you, Mary." + +Nannie with the jade beads and her red hair and her velvet tam was +rather rare and wonderful. "Dick is going to take me to the show to +celebrate. He's got tickets to Jack Barrymore." + +"Dick is such a nice boy," said Mary. "I'm glad you are going to marry +him, Nannie." + +"Who said I was going to marry him?" + +"That's what he wants, Nannie, and you know it." + +"Mr. Knox says it is a pity for a girl like me to get married." + +Mary's heart seemed to stop beating. She knew just how Knox had said it. + +She spoke quietly. "I think it would be a pity for you not to marry, +Nannie." + +"I don't see why. You aren't married, Mary." + +"No." + +"And Mr. Knox says that unless a girl can marry a man who can lift her +up she had better stay single." + +The same old arguments! "What does he mean by 'lift her up,' Nannie?" + +"Well"--Nannie laughed self-consciously--"he says that any one as pretty +and refined as I might marry anybody; that I must be careful not to +throw myself away." + +"Would it be throwing yourself away to marry Dick?" + +"It might be. He looked all right to me before I went into the office. +But after you've seen men like Mr. Knox--well, our kind seem--common." + +Mrs. Ashburner was calling that Dick McDonald was down-stairs. Nannie, +powdering her nose with Mary's puff, was held by the earnestness of the +other woman's words. + +"Let Dick love you, Nannie. He's such a dear." + +Dick was, Nannie decided before the evening was over, a dear and a +darling. He had brought her a box of candy and something else in a box. +Mrs. Ashburner had shown him into the dining-room, which she and Nannie +used as a sitting-room when the meals were over. The boarders occupied +the parlor and were always in the way. + +"Say, girlie, see here," Dick said as he brought out the box; and Nannie +had gazed upon a ring which sparkled and shone and which looked, as Dick +said proudly, "like a million dollars." + +"I wanted you to have the best." His arm went suddenly around her. "I +always want you to have the best, sweetheart." + +He kissed her in his honest, boyish fashion, and she took the ring and +wore it; and they went to the play in a rosy haze of happiness, and when +they came home he kissed her again. + +"The sooner you get out of that office the better," he said. "We'll get +a little flat, and I've saved enough to furnish it." + +Nannie was lighting the lamp under the percolator. Mrs. Ashburner had +left a plate of sandwiches on one end of the dining-room table. Nannie +was young and Mrs. Ashburner was old-fashioned. Her daughter was not +permitted to eat after-the-theatre suppers in restaurants. "You can +always have something here." + +"Don't let's settle down yet," Nannie said, standing beside the +percolator like a young priestess beside an altar. "There's plenty of +time---" + +"Plenty of time for what?" asked her lover. "We've no reason to wait, +Nannie." + +So Dick kissed her, and she let him kiss her. She loved him, but she +would make no promises as to the important day. Dick went away a bit +puzzled by her attitude. He wanted her at once in his home. It hurt him +that she did not seem to care to come to him. + +It was a cold night, with white flakes falling, and the policeman on the +beat greeted Dick as he passed him. "It is a nice time in the morning +for you to be getting home." + +"Oh, hello, Tommy! I'm going to be married. How's that?" + +"Who's the girl?" + +"Nannie Ashburner." + +"That little redhead?" + +"You're jealous, Tommy." + +"I am; she'll cook sausages for you when you come home on cold nights, +and kiss you at your front door, and set the talking machine going, with +John McCormack shouting love songs as you come in." + +Dick laughed. "Some picture, Tommy. And a lot you know about it. Why +don't you get married and try it out?" + +Tommy, who was tall and ruddy and forty, plus a year or two, gave a +short laugh. "I might find somebody to cook the sausages, but there's +only one that I'd care to kiss." + +"So that's it. She turned you down, Tommy?" + +"She did, and we won't talk about it." + +"Oh, very well. Good-night, Tommy." + +"Good-night." + +So Dick passed on, and Tommy Jackson beat his hands against his breast +as he made his way through the whirling snow, his footsteps deadened by +the frozen carpet which the storm had spread. + +Mary Barker was delighted when Nannie told of her engagement to Dick. +She talked it over with Mrs. Ashburner. "It will be the best thing for +her." + +Mrs. Ashburner was not sure. "I've drudged all my life and I hate to see +her drudge." + +"She won't have it as hard as you have had it," Mary said. "Dick will +always make a good income." + +"She will have a harder time than you've had, Mary," said Mrs. +Ashburner, and her eyes swept the pretty room wistfully. "Many a time +when I've been down in my steaming old kitchen I have thought of you up +here in your blue coat and your pretty slippers, with your hair +shining, and I've wished to heaven that I had never married." + +"Things haven't been easy for you," said Mary gently. + +"They have been harder than nails, Mary. You've escaped all that." + +"Yes." Mary's eyes did not meet Mrs. Ashburner's. "I have +escaped--that." + +Nannie and her mother slept in the back parlor of the boarding-house. +They had single beds and it was in the middle of the night that Mrs. +Ashburner said: "Are you awake, Nannie?" + +"Yes, I am." + +"Well, I can't seem to get to sleep. Maybe it's the coffee and maybe +it's because I have you on my mind. I keep thinking that I hate to have +you get married, honey." + +"Oh, mother, don't you like Dick?" + +"Yes. It ain't that. But it's nice for you in the office and you don't +have to slave." + +Nannie sat up in bed, and the light from the street lamp shone in and +showed her wide-eyed, with her hair in a red glory. "I shan't slave," +she said. "I told Dick." + +"Men don't know." Mrs. Ashburner spoke with a sort of weary bitterness. +"They'll promise anything." + +"And I am not going to be married in a hurry, mother. Dick's got to wait +for me if he wants me." + +It sounded very worldly-minded and decisive and Mrs. Ashburner gained an +envious comfort in her daughter's declaration. She had never set herself +against a man's will in that way. Perhaps, after all, Nannie would make +a success of marriage. + +But Nannie was not so resolute as her words might have seemed to imply. +Long after her mother slept she lay awake in the dark and thought of +Dick, of the break in his voice when he had made his plea, the light in +his eyes when he had won a response, his flaming youth, his fine boy's +reverence for her own youth and innocence. It would be--rather +wonderful, she whispered to her heart, and fell asleep, dreaming. + +The next morning was very cold, and Nannie, coming early into Kingdon +Knox's office to take his letters, was in a glow after her walk through +the snowy streets. Her cheeks were red, her eyes sparkled, and the ring +on her finger sparkled. + +Knox at once noticed the ring. "So that's it," he said, and leaned back +in his chair. "Let's talk about it a little." + +They talked about it more than a little, and the burden of Kingdon +Knox's argument was that it was a pity. She was too young and pretty to +marry a poor man and live in a funny little flat and do her own work +and spoil her nails with dishwashing. "Personally, I think it's rather +dreadful. A waste of you, if you want the truth." + +Poor Nannie, listening, saw her castles falling. It would be rather +dreadful--dishwashing and a gas stove and getting meals. + +"He is awfully in love with me," she managed to say at last. + +"And you?" He leaned forward a little. Nannie was aware of the feeling +of excitement which he could always rouse in her. When he spoke like +that she saw herself as something rather perfect and princesslike. + +"Wait--for Prince Charming," he said. + +Nannie was sure that when Prince Charming came he would be like Mr. +Knox; younger perhaps, but with that same lovely manner. + +"Of course," Mr. Knox said gently, "I suppose I ought not to advise, but +if I were you"--he touched the sparkling ring--"I should give it back to +him." + +So after several absorbing talks with her employer on the subject, +Nannie gave the ring back, and when poor Dick passed his friend the +policeman on his way home he stopped and told his story. + +"They are all like that," Tommy said, "but if I were you I wouldn't +take 'no' for an answer." + +Dick brightened. "Wouldn't you?" + +"Not if I had to carry her off under my arm," said Tommy between his +teeth. + +"But I can't carry her off, Tommy--and she won't go." + +"She'll go if you ain't afraid of her," Tommy told him with solemn +emphasis. "I was afraid." + +They were under the street lamp, and Dick stared at him in astonishment. +"I didn't know you were afraid of anything." + +"I didn't know it either," was Tommy's grim response, "until I met her. +But I've known it ever since." + +"Well, it's hard luck." + +"It is hardest at Christmas time," said Tommy, "and my beat ain't the +best one to make me cheerful. There are too many stores. And dolls in +the windows. And drums. And horns. And Santa Claus handing out things to +kids. And I've got to see it, with money just burning in my pocket to +buy things and to have a tree of my own and a turkey in my oven and a +table with some one who cares at the other end. And all I'll get out of +the merry season is a table d'hôte at Nitti's and a box of cigars from +the boys." + +"Ain't women the limit, Tommy?" + +"Well"--Tommy's tone held a note of forced cheerfulness--"that little +redhead must have had some reason for not wanting you, Dick. Maybe we +men ain't worth it." + +"Worth what?" + +"Marrying. A woman's got a square deal coming to her, and she doesn't +always get it." + +"She'd get it with you, and she'd get it with me; you know that, Tommy." + +"She might," said Tommy pessimistically, "if the good Lord helped us." + +Nannie on the day after her break with Dick was blushingly aware of the +bareness of her third finger as she took Kingdon Knox's dictation. When +he had finished his letters, Knox smiled at her. "So you gave it back," +he said. + +"Yes." + +"Good little girl. You'll find something much better if you wait. And I +don't want you wasted." He opened a drawer and took out a long box. He +opened it and lifted a string of beads. They were of carved ivory, and +matched the cream of Nannie's complexion. They were strung strongly on a +thick thread of scarlet silk, and there was a scarlet tassel at the end. + +"They are for you," he said. "It is my first Christmas present to you; +but I hope it won't be the last." + +Nannie's heart beat so that she could almost hear it. "Oh, thank you," +she said breathlessly; "they're so beautiful." + +But she did not know how rare they were, nor how expensive until she +wore them in Mary's room that night. + +"Where did you get them, Nannie?" + +"Mr. Knox gave them to me." + +There was dead silence, then Mary said: "Nannie, you ought not to take +them." + +"Why not?" + +"They cost such an awful lot, Nannie. They look simple, but they aren't. +The carving is exquisite." + +"Well, he gave you beads, Mary." + +Mary's face was turned away. "It was different. I have been such a long +time in the office." + +"I don't think it is much different, and I don't see how I can give them +back, Mary." + +Mary did not argue, but when a little later Nannie told of her broken +engagement, Mary said sharply: "But, Nannie--why?" + +"Well, mother doesn't care much for the idea. She--she thinks a girl is +much better off to keep on at the office." + +Mary was lying in her long chair under the lamp. She had a cushion under +her head, and her hand shaded her eyes. "Did--Mr. Knox have anything to +do with it?" + +"What makes you ask that, Mary?" + +"Did he?" + +"Well, yes. You know what I told you; he thinks I'd be--wasted." + +"On Dick?" + +"Yes." + +Mary lay for a long time with her hand over her eyes; then she said: "If +you don't marry Dick, what about your future, Nannie?" + +"There's time enough to think about that. And--and I can wait." + +"For what?" + +Nannie blushed and laughed a little. "Prince Charming." + +After that there was a silence, out of which Nannie asked: "Does your +head ache, Mary?" + +"A little." + +"Can't I get you something?" + +"No. After I've rested a bit I'll take a walk." + +Mary's walk led her by the lighted shop windows. The air was keen and +cold and helped her head. But it did not help her heart. She had a sense +of suffocation when she thought of Nannie. + +She stopped in front of one of the shops. There were dolls in the +window, charming, round-eyed, ringleted. One of them was especially +captivating, with fat blond curls, fat legs, blue silk socks and +slippers, crisp frills and a broad blue hat. + +"How I should have loved her when I was a little girl," was Mary's +thought as she stood looking in. Then: "How a child of my own would have +loved her." + +She made up her mind that she would buy the doll--in the morning when +the shop opened. It was a whimsical thing to do, to give herself a doll +at her time of life. But it would be in a sense symbolic. She had no +child to which to give it; she would give it to the child who was once +herself. + +She came home with a lighter heart and with the knowledge of what she +had to do. She put on her blue house coat and sat down to her desk with +its embossed leather fittings, and there under the lovely, lamp which +Kingdon Knox had given her she wrote to Nannie. + +She gave the letter to Nannie the next morning. "I want you to read it +when you are all alone. Then tear it up. It must always be just between +you and me, Nannie." + +Nannie read the letter in the lunch hour. She got her lunch at a +cafeteria and there was a rest room. It was very quiet and she had a +corner to herself. She wondered what Mary had to say to her, and why she +didn't talk it out instead of writing about it. + +But Mary had felt that she could not trust herself to speak. There would +have been Nannie's eyes to meet, questions to answer; and this meant so +much. Paper and pen were impersonal. + + "It isn't easy to talk such things out, Nannie. I should never have + written this if I had not realized last night that your feet were + following the path which my own have followed for fifteen years. + And I knew that you were envying me and wanting to be like me; and + I am saying what I shall say in this letter so that I may save you, + Nannie. + + "When I first came into Mr. Knox's office I was young like you, and + I had a lover, young and fine like Dick, and he satisfied me. We + had our plans--of a home and the happiness we should have together. + If I had married him, I should now have sons and daughters growing + up about me, and when Christmas came there would be a tree and + young faces smiling, and my husband, smiling. + + "But Mr. Knox talked to me as he talked to you. He told me, too, to + wait--for Prince Charming. He told me I was too fine to be wasted. + He hinted that the man I was planning to marry was a plain fellow, + not good enough for me. He talked and I listened. He opened vistas. + I saw myself raised to a different sphere by some man like Mr. + Knox--just as well groomed, just as distinguished, just as rich and + wonderful. + + "But such men don't come often into the lives of girls like you and + me, Nannie. I know that now. I did not know it then. But Mr. Knox + should have known it. Yet he held out the hope; and at last he + robbed me of my future, of the little home, my fine, strong + husband. He robbed me of my woman's heritage of a child in my arms. + + "And in return he gave me--nothing. I have found in the years that + I have been with him that he likes to be admired and looked up to + by pretty women. He likes to mold us into something exquisite and + ornamental, he likes to feel that he has molded us. He likes to see + our blushes. All these years that I have been with him, he has + liked to feel that I looked upon him as the ideal toward which all + my girlish dreams tended. + + "He is not in love with me, and I am not in love with him. But he + has always known that if he had been free and had wooed me, I + should have felt that King Cophetua had come to the beggar maid. + Yet, too late, I can see that if he had been free he would never + have wooed me. His ambition would have carried him up and beyond + anything I can ever hope to be, and he would have sought some woman + of his own circle who would have contributed to his material + success. + + "And now he is trying to spoil your life, Nannie--to make you + discontented with your future with Dick. You look at him and see in + your life some day a Prince Charming. But I tell you this, Nannie, + that Prince Charming will never come. And after a time all you will + have to show for the years that you have spent in the office will + be just a pretty room, a few bits of wood and leather and bronze in + exchange for warm, human happiness, clinging hands, a husband like + Dick, who adores you, who comes home at night, eager--for you! + + "You can have all this--and I have lost it. And there isn't much + ahead of me. I shan't always be ornamental, and then Mr. Knox will + let me drop out of his life, as he has let others drop out. And + there'll be loneliness and old age and--nothing else. + + "Oh, Nannie, I want you to marry Dick. I want you to know that all + the rest is dust and ashes. I feel tired and old; and when I think + of your youth, and beauty, I want Dick to have it, not Mr. Knox, + who will flatter and--forget. + + "Tear this letter up, Nannie. It hasn't been easy to write. I don't + want anybody but you to read it." + + +But Nannie did not tear it up. + +She tucked it in her bag and went to telephone to Dick. + +And would he meet her on the corner under the street lamp that night +when she came home from the office? She had something to tell him. + +Dick met Nannie, and presently they pursued their rapturous way. A +little later Tommy Jackson passed by. Something caught his eye. + +A bit of white paper. + +He stooped and picked it up. It was Mary's letter to Nannie. Nannie had +cried into her little handkerchief while she talked to Dick, and in +getting the handkerchief out of the bag the letter had come with it and +had dropped unnoticed to the ground. + +It had been years since Tommy had seen any of Mary's writing. A sentence +caught his eye, and he read straight through. After all, there are +things permitted an officer of the law which might be unseemly in the +average citizen. + +And when he had read, Tommy began to say things beneath his breath. And +the chances are that had Kingdon Knox appeared at that moment things +would have fared badly with him. + +But it was Mary Barker who came. She had under her arm in a paper +parcel the fat doll with the blond curls and the blue socks. She did not +see Tommy until she was almost upon him. + +Then she said: "What are you doing here, Tommy?" + +"Why shouldn't I be here?" + +"This isn't your beat." + +"It has been my beat since two weeks ago. I've seen you go by every +night, Mary." + +She stood looking up at him. And he looked down at her; and so, of +course, their gaze met, and something that she saw in Tommy's eyes made +Mary's overflow. + +"Mary, darling," said Tommy tenderly. + +"You said you wouldn't forgive me." + +"That was fifteen years ago." + +"Tommy, I'm sorry." + +Tommy stood very straight as became an officer of the law with, the eyes +of the world upon him. + +"May," he said, "I just read your letter to Nannie. She dropped it. If +I'd known the things in that letter fifteen years ago I'd have stayed on +my job until I got you. But I thought you didn't care." + +"I thought so too," said Mary. + +"But the letter told me that you wanted a husband's loving heart and a +strong arm," said Tommy, "and, please God, you are going to have them, +Mary. And now you run along, girl, dear. I can't be making love when I'm +on duty. But I'll come and kiss you at nine." + +So Mary ran along, and her heart sang. And when she got home she +unwrapped the fat doll and kissed every curl of her, and she set her +under the lovely lamp; and then she got a long box and put something in +it and wrapped it and addressed it to Kingdon Knox. + +And after that she went to the window and stood there, watching until +she saw Tommy coming. + +And the next morning when Kingdon Knox found the long box on his desk, +addressed in Mary's handwriting, he thought it was a Christmas present, +and he opened it, smiling. + +But his smile died as he read the note which lay on top of a string of +jade beads: + + "I am sending them back, Mr. Knox, with my resignation. I should + never have taken them. But somehow you made me feel that I was a + sort of fairy princess, and that jade beads belonged to me, and + everything beautiful, and that some day life would bring them. But + life isn't that, and you knew it and I didn't. Life is just warm + human happiness, and a home, and work for those we love. And so, + after all, I am going to marry Tommy. And Nannie is going to marry + Dick. In a way it is a happy ending, and in a way it isn't, because + I've grown away from the kind of life I must live with Tommy, and I + am afraid that in some ways I am not fitted for it. But Tommy says + that I am silly to be afraid. And in the future I am going to trust + Tommy." + + +And so Mary went out of Kingdon Knox's life. And on Christmas Day at the +head of a great table, with servants to the right of him and servants to +the left, he carved a mammoth turkey; and there was silver shining, and +glass sparkling and lovely women smiling, all in honor of the merry +season. + +But Kingdon Knox was not merry as he thought of the jade beads and of +Mary's empty desk. + + + + +BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK + +I + + +With the Merryman girls economy was a fine art. Money was spent by them +to preserve the family traditions. Nothing else counted. Everything was +sacrificed to the gods of yesterday. + +Little Anne Merryman had shivered all her short life in the bleakness +of this domestic ideal. + +"Why can't I have butter on my bread?" she had demanded in her +long-legged schoolgirl days, when she had worn her fair hair in a fat +braid down her back. + +The answers had never been satisfying. Well-bred people might, Amy +indicated, go without butter. Their income was not elastic, and there +were things more important. + +"What things? Amy, I'm so hungry I could eat a house." + +It was these expressions of Anne's about food which shocked Amy and +Ethel. + +"I'd sell my soul for a slice of roast beef." + +"Anne!" + +"Well, I would!" + +"I--I don't see how you can be so ordinary, Anne." + +"Ordinary" in the lexicon of Amy and Ethel meant "plebeian." No one in +the Merryman family had ever been so ordinary as Anne. Hitherto the +Merrymans had been content to warm themselves by the fires of their own +complacency, to feed themselves on past splendors; for the Merrymans +were as old as Norman rule in England. They had come to America with +grants from the king, they had family portraits and family silver and +family diamonds, and now in this generation of orphaned girls, two of +them at least were fighting the last battles of family pride. The +fortunes of the Merrymans had declined, and Amy and Ethel, with their +backs, as it were, to the wall, were making a final stand. + +"We must have evening clothes, we must entertain our friends, we must +pay for the family pew"; this was their nervous litany. The Merrymans +had always dressed and entertained and worshiped properly; hence it was +for lace or tulle or velvet, as the case might be, that their money +went. It went, too, for the very elegant and exclusive little dinners to +which, on rare occasions, their friends were bidden; and it went for the +high place in the synagogue from which they prayed their pharisaical +prayers. + +"We thank thee, Lord, that we are not as others," prayed Amy and Ethel +fervently. + +But Anne prayed no such prayers. She wanted to be like other people. She +wanted to eat and drink with the multitude, she wanted a warm, warm +heart, a groaning board. She wanted snugness and coziness and comfort. +And she grew up loving these things, and hating the pale walls of their +old house in Georgetown, the family portraits, the made-over dinner +gowns that her sisters wore, her own made-over party frocks. + +"Can't I have a new one, Amy?" + +"It's Ethel's turn." + +So it was when Anne went to a certain diplomatic reception in a +made-over satin slip, hidden by a cloud of snowy tulle, that Murray +Flint first waked to the fact of her loveliness. + +He had waked ten years earlier to the loveliness of Amy, and five years +later to the beauty of Ethel. + +And now here was Anne! + +"She's different though," he told old Molly Winchell; "more spiritual +than the others." + +It was Anne's thinness which deceived him. It was an attractive +thinness. She was pale, with red lips, and the fat fair braids had given +way to a shining knot. She wore the family pearls, and the effect was, +as Murray had said, spiritual. Anne had the look, indeed, of one who +sees heavenly visions. + +Amy had never had that look. She was dark and vivid. If at thirty the +vividness was emphasized by artificial means the fault lay in Amy's +sacrifice to her social ideals, She needed the butter which she denied +herself. She needed cream, and eggs, and her doctor had told her so. And +Amy had kept the knowledge to herself. + +Ethel, eating as little as Amy--or even less--had escaped, miraculously, +attenuation. At twenty she had been a plump little beauty. She was still +plump. Her neck in her low-cut gown was lovely. Her figure was not +fashionable, and she lacked Amy's look of race. + +"They are all charming," Molly Winchell said. "Why don't you marry one +of them, Murray?" + +"Marriage," said Murray, "would spoil it." + +"Spoil what?" + +Murray turned on her his fine dark eyes. "They are such darlings--the +three of them." + +"You Turk!" Molly surveyed him over the top of her sapphire feather fan. +"So that's it, is it? You want them all." + +Murray thought vaguely it was something like that. For ten years he had +had Amy and Ethel--Amy at twenty, fire and flame, Ethel at fifteen, with +bronze locks and lovely color. In those years Anne had promised little +in the way of beauty or charm. She had read voraciously, curled up in +chairs or on rugs, and had waked now and then to his presence and a hot +argument. + +"Why don't you like Dickens, Murray?" + +"Oh, his people, Anne--clowns." + +"They're not!" + +"Boors; beggars." He made a gesture of distaste. + +"They're darlings--Mark Tapley and Ruth Pinch. Murray, if I had a +beefsteak I'd make a beefsteak pie." + +There was more of pathos in this than Murray imagined. There had been no +beef on the Merryman table for many moons. + +"Murray, did you ever eat tripe?" + +"My dear child---" + +"It sounds dee-licious when Toby Veck has it on a cold morning. And +there's the cricket on the hearth and the teakettle singing. I'd love to +hear a kettle sing like that, Murray; wouldn't you?" + +But Murray wouldn't. He had the same kind of mind as Amy and Ethel. He +did not like robust and hearty things or robust and hearty people. He +wore a corset to keep his hips small, and stood up at teas and +receptions with an almost military carriage. Of course he had to sit +down at dinners, but he sat very straight. He, too, had family portraits +and family silver, and he lived scrupulously up to them. His fortunes, +unlike the Merrymans', had not declined. He had money enough and to +spare. He could have made Amy or Ethel very comfortable if he had +married either of them. But he had not wanted to marry. There had been a +time when he had liked to think of Amy as presiding over his table. She +would have fitted in perfectly with the old portraits and old silver and +the family diamonds. Then Ethel had come along. She had not fitted in +with the diamonds and portraits and silver, but she had stirred his +pulses. + +"Anywhere else but in Georgetown," old Molly Winchell was saying, "those +girls would have been snapped up long ago. It's a poor matrimonial +market." + +Murray was complacently aware that he was geographically the only +eligible man on the Merryman horizon. Unless Amy and Ethel could marry +with distinction they would not marry at all. It was not lack of +attraction which kept them single, but lack of suitors in their own set. + +And now here was Anne, with Ethel's loveliness and Amy's look of race. +There was also that look of angelic detachment from the things of earth. + +So Murray's eyes rested on Anne with great content as she came and sat +beside Molly Winchell. + +Other eyes rested on her--Amy's with quick jealousy. "So now it's Anne," +she said to herself as she perceived Murray's preoccupation. Five years +ago she had said, "Now it's Ethel," as she had seen him turn to the +fresher beauty. Before that she had dreamed of herself as loving and +beloved. It had been hard to shut her eyes to that vision. + +Yet--better Anne than an outsider. Amy had a fierce sense of +proprietorship in Murray. If she gave him to Ethel, to Anne, he would be +still in a sense hers. With Anne or Ethel she would share his future, +partake of his present. + +A third pair of eyes surveyed Anne with interest as she sat by Molly. + +"Corking kid," said the owner of the eyes to himself. + +His name was Maxwell Sears. He was not in the least like Murray Flint. +He was from the Middle West, he was red-blooded, and he cared nothing +for the past. He held it as a rather negligible honor that he had a +Declaration-signing ancestor. The important things to Maxwell were that +he was representing his district in Congress; that he was still young +enough to carry his college ideals into politics, and that he had just +invested a small portion of the fortune which his father had left him in +a model stock farm in Illinois. + +For the rest, he was big, broad-shouldered, clean-minded. Now and then +he looked up at the stars, and what he saw there swayed him level with +the men about him. Because of the stars he called no man a fool, except +such as deemed himself wiser than the rest. Because he believed in the +people they believed in him. It was that which had elected him. It was +that which would elect him again. + +"Corking kid," said Maxwell Sears, with his smiling eyes on Anne. + + + +II + + +In the course of the evening Maxwell managed an introduction. He found +Anne quaint and charming. That she was reading Dickens amused him. He +had thought that no one read Dickens in these days. How did it happen? + +She said that she had discovered him for herself--many years ago. + +How many years? + +Well, to be explicit, ten. She had been eleven when she had found a new +world in the fat little books. They had a lot of old books. She loved +them all. But Dickens more than any. Didn't he? + +He did. "His heart beat with the heart of the common people. It was that +which made him great." + +"Murray hates him." + +"Who is Murray?" + +Anne pondered. "Well, he's a family friend. We girls were brought up on +him." + +"Brought up on him?" + +"Yes. Anything Murray likes we are expected to like. If he doesn't like +things we don't." + +"Oh." + +"He's over there by Mrs. Winchell." + +Maxwell looked and knew the type. "But you don't agree about Dickens?" + +"No. And Amy says that Murray's wiser than I. But I'm not sure. Amy +thinks that all men are wiser than women." + +Maxwell chuckled. Anne was refreshing. She was far from modern in her +modes of thought. She was--he hunted for the word and found +it--mid-Victorian in her attitude of mind. + +He wondered what Winifred Reed would think of her. Winifred lived in +Chicago. She was athletic and intellectual. She wrote tabloid dramas, +drove her own car, dressed smartly, and took a great interest in +Maxwell's career. She wrote to him once a week, and he always answered +her letters. Now and then she failed to write, and he missed her letters +and told her so. It was altogether a pleasant friendship. + +She hated the idea of Maxwell's farm. She thought it a backward step. +"Are you going to spend the precious years ahead of you in the company +of cows?" + +"There'll be pigs too, Winifred; and chickens. And, of course, my +horses." + +"You belong in a world of men. It's the secret of your success that men +like you." + +"My cows like me--and there's great comfort after the stress of a +stormy session in the reposefulness of a pig." + +"I wish you'd be serious." + +"I am serious. Perhaps it's a throwback, Winifred. There is farmer blood +in my veins." + +It was something deeper than that. It was his virile joy in +fundamentals. He loved his golden-eared Guernseys and his black +Berkshires and his White Wyandottes--not because of their choiceness but +because they were cows and pigs and chickens; and he kept a pair of +pussy cats, half a dozen dogs, and as many horses, because man +primitively had made friends of the dumb brutes upon whom the ease and +safety of his life depended. + +There was, rather strangely, something about Anne which fitted in with +this atavistic idea. She was, more than Winifred, a hearthstone woman. A +man might carry her over his threshold and find her when he came home o' +nights. It was hard to visualize Winifred as waiting or watching or +welcoming. She was always going somewhere with an air of having +important things to do, and coming back with an air of having done them. +Maxwell felt that these important things were not connected in any way +with domestic matters. One did not, indeed, expect domesticity of +Winifred. + +Thus Anne, drawing upon him by mysterious forces, drew him also by her +beauty and a certain wistfulness in her eyes. He had once had a dog, +Amber Witch, whose eyes had held always a wistful question. He had +tried to answer it. She had grown old on his hearth, yet always to the +end of her eyes had asked. He hoped now that in some celestial hunting +ground she had found an answer to that subtle need. + +He told Anne about Amber Witch. "I have one of her puppies on my farm." + +She was much interested. "I've never had a dog; or a cat." + +He had, he said, a big pair of tabbies who slept in the hay and came up +to the dairy when the milk was strained. There were two blue porcelain +dishes for their sacred use. There was, he said, milk and to spare. He +grew eloquent as he told of the number of quarts daily. He bragged of +his butter. His cheeses had won prizes at county fairs. As for +chickens--they had fresh eggs and broilers without end. He had his own +hives, too, white-clover honey. And his housekeeper made hot biscuit. In +a month or two there'd be asparagus and strawberries. Say! Yes, he was +eloquent. + +Anne was hungry. There had been a meagre dinner that evening. The other +girls had not seemed to care. But Anne had cared. + +"I'm starved," she had said as she had surveyed the table. "Let's pawn +the spoons and have one square meal." + +"Anne!" + +"Oh, we're beggars on horseback"--bitterly--"and I hate it." + +It was her moment of rebellion against the tyranny of tradition. Amy had +had such a moment years ago when her mother had taken her away from +school. Amy had a brilliant mind, and she had loved study, but her +mother had brought her to see that there was no money for college. +"You'd better have a year or two in society, Amy. And this craze for +higher education is rather middle-class." + +Ethel's rebellion had come when she had wanted to marry a round-faced +chap who lived across the street. They had played together from +childhood. His people were pleasant folks but lacked social background. +So Ethel's romance had been nipped in the bud. The round-faced chap had +married another girl. And now Amy at thirty and Ethel at twenty-five +were crystallizing into something rather hard and brilliant, as Anne +would perhaps crystallize if something didn't happen. + +The something which happened was Maxwell Sears. Anne listened to the +things he said about his farm and felt that they couldn't be true. + +"It sounds like a fairy tale." + +"It isn't. And it's all tremendously interesting." + +He looked very much alive as he said it, and Anne felt the thrill of his +energy and enthusiasm. Murray was never enthusiastic; neither were Amy +and Ethel. They were all indeed a bit petrified. + +Before he left her Maxwell asked Anne if he could call. He came promptly +two nights later and brought with him a bunch of violets and a box of +chocolates. Anne pinned the violets in the front of the gray frock that +gave her the look of a cloistered nun, and ate up the chocolates. + +Amy was shocked. "Anne, you positively gobbled--" + +"I didn't." + +"Well, you ate a pound at least." + +Anne protested. Maxwell had eaten a lot, and Ethel and Amy had eaten a +few, and Murray had come in. + +"You remember, Amy, Murray came in." + +"He didn't touch one, Anne. He never eats chocolates." + +"He's afraid of getting fat." + +"Anne!" + +"He is. When he takes me out to lunch he thinks of himself, not of me. +The last time we had grapefruit and broiled mushrooms and lettuce; and I +wanted chops." + +Maxwell had been glad to see Anne eat the chocolates. She had seemed as +happy as a child, and he had liked that. There was nothing childish +about Winifred. She had been always grown-up and competent and helpful. +He felt that he owed Winifred a great deal. They were not engaged, but +he rather hoped that some day they might marry. Of course that would +depend upon Winifred. She would probably make him give up the farm and +he would hate that. But a man might give up a farm for a woman like +Winifred and still have more than he deserved. + +It will be seen that Maxwell was modest, especially where women were +concerned. The complacency of Murray Flint, weighing Amy against Ethel +and Ethel against Amy and Anne against both, would have seemed infamous +to Maxwell. He felt that it was only by the grace of God that any woman +gave herself to any man. He had a sense of honor which was founded on +decency rather than on convention. He had also a sense of high romance +which belonged more fittingly to the fifteenth than to the twentieth +century. He was not, however, aware of it. He looked upon himself as a +plain and practical chap who had a few things to work out politically +before he settled down to the serious business of farming. Of course if +he married Winifred he wouldn't settle down to the farm, but he would +settle down to something. + +In the meantime here was Anne, reading Dickens, eating chocolates, and +leaning over the rail of the House Gallery to listen to his speeches. + +It was rather wonderful to have her there. She wore a gray cape with a +chinchilla collar made out of Amy's old muff. A straight sailor hat of +rough straw came well down over her forehead and showed fluffs of +shining hair at the sides. Her little gray-gloved hands clasped the +violets he had given her. Above the violets her eyes were a deeper blue. + +She came always alone. "Amy doesn't know," she had told him frankly; +"she wouldn't let me, come if she did." + +"Why not?" + +"I am supposed to be chaperoned." + +"My dear child, I told you to bring either or both of your sisters." + +"I don't want them. They would spoil it." + +"How?" + +She tried to explain. He and she could see things in the old Capitol +that Amy and Ethel couldn't. + +He laughed, but knew it true. Anne's imagination met his in a rather +remarkable fashion. When they walked through Statuary Hall they saw not +Fulton and Père Marquette and Carroll of Carrollton; they saw, rather, a +thousand ships issuing forth on the steam of a teakettle; they saw +civilization following a black-frocked prophet; they saw aristocracy +raising its voice in the interest of democracy. + +As for the mysterious whispering echo, they repudiated all talk of +acoustics. It was for them an eerie thing, like the laughter of elves or +the shriek of a banshee. + +"Don't say every-day things to me," Anne had instructed Maxwell when he +had first placed her behind a mottled marble pillar before leaving for +the spot where he could speak to her by this unique wireless. + +There came to her, therefore, a part of a famous speech; the murmured +words flung back by that strange sounding board rang like a bell: + +"Give me liberty or give me death!" + +She emerged from her corner, starry-eyed. "It was as if I heard him say +it." + +"Perhaps it was he, and I was only a mouthpiece." + +"I should think they'd like to come back. Will you come?" + +He laughed. "Who knows? I'll come if you are here." + +To have brought a third into these adventures would have robbed them of +charm. Knowing this he argued that the child was safe with him. Why +worry? + +They always lunched together before he took her up to the Members' +Gallery, and went himself to the floor of the House. He let her order +what she pleased and liked The definite way in which she did it. They +had usually, chops and peas, or steak, and ice-cream at the end. + + + +III + + +Then suddenly; things stopped. The reason that they stopped was Murray. +He saw Anne one day in the House Gallery and asked Amy about it. + +"How did she happen to be up there alone?" + +Amy asked Anne. Anne told the truth. + +"I've had lunch three times with Mr. Sears, and I've listened to his +speeches. It's something about the League of Nations. He believes in it, +but thinks we've got to be careful about tying ourselves up." + +Amy did not care in the least what Maxwell Sears believed. The thing +that worried her was Murray. She wanted him to approve of Anne. If Amy +had thought in a less limited circle she might have worked the thing out +that if Maxwell married Anne it would narrow Murray's choice down to +herself and Ethel. But there was always that vague fear of some outside +siren who would capture Murray. If he had Anne, he would then be safely +in the family. + +She realized, in the days following the revelation of the clandestine +meetings with Maxwell, that Murray was depending upon her to see that +Anne's affections did not stray into forbidden paths. He said as much +one afternoon when he found Amy alone in an atmosphere of old portraits, +old books, old bronzes. She sat in a Jacobean chair and poured tea for +him. The massive lines of the chair made her proportions seem +wraithlike. Her white face with its fixed spots of red was a high light +among the shadows. + +"Where's Anne?" + +"She and Ethel have gone to the matinée with Molly Winchell." + +"Why didn't you go?" + +"Molly never takes but two of us and, of course, this is Anne's first +winter out. I have to step back--and let her have her chance." + +He chose to be gallant. "You are always lovely, Amy." + +His compliment fell cold. Amy felt old and tired. She had a pain in her +side. It had been getting very bad of late, and she coughed at night. +She had been to her doctor, and again he had emphasized the need of a +change of climate and of nourishing food. Amy had come away unconvinced. + +She would have a chance in July when she and her sisters would go to +the Eastern Shore for their annual visit to their Aunt Elizabeth. As for +different food, she ate enough--all the doctors in the world couldn't +make her spend any more money on the table. + +Murray stood up very straight by the mantelpiece, under the portrait of +one of the Merryman great-grandfathers in a bag wig, and talked of Anne: + +"I believe I am falling in love with her, Amy." + +Amy's heart said, "It has come at last." Her brain said, "He has +discovered it because of Maxwell Sears." Her lips said, "I don't wonder. +She's a dear child, Murray." + +"She's beautiful." + +Murray swayed up a little on his toes. It made him seem thinner and +taller. He could see himself reflected in the long mirror on the +opposite wall. He liked the reflection of the thin tall man. + +"She's beautiful, Amy. I am going to ask her to marry me. I can't have +some other fellow running off with her. She belongs to Georgetown." + +He seemed to think that settled it. The pain in Amy's side was sharper. +She felt that she couldn't quite stand seeing Murray happy with Anne. +"She's--she's such a child." Her voice shook. + +"Well," said Murray, glancing at the tall thin man in the mirror, "of +course she is young. But Maxwell Sears is coming here a lot. Is he in +love with her?" + +"I'm not sure. She amuses him. She isn't in love with him or with +anybody." + +"Not even with me?" Murray laughed a little. "But we can remedy that, +can't we, Amy? But you might hint at what I'm expecting of her. I don't +want to startle her." He came and sat down beside her. "You are always a +great dear about doing things for me." + +The pain stabbed her like a knife. "I'll do my best." + +She had a nervous feeling that she must keep Murray from talking to her +like that. She rang for hot water, and their one maid, Charlotte, +brought it in a Sheffield jug. Then Ethel and Anne and Molly Winchell +arrived, and once more Murray stood up, tall and self-conscious as he +stole side glances at himself in the mirror. + +Maxwell Sears had brought the three women home. He had a fashion of +following up Anne's engagements and putting his car at her disposal. +When Amy had vetoed any more adventures at the Capitol he had conceded +good-naturedly that she was right. After that he had always included Amy +or Ethel in his invitations. + +"They are very pretty dragons," he had written to Winifred, "and little +Anne is like a princess shut in a tower." + +Winifred, reading the letter, had brooded upon it. "He's falling in +love. A child like that--she'll spoil his future." + +Congress was having night sessions. "If I could only have you up there," +Maxwell had said to Anne as he had driven her home from the matinée, +with old Molly and Ethel on the back seat. "I should steal you if I +dared." + +"Please dare." + +"Do you mean it?" + +"Yes. To-night. Ethel and Amy are going to a Colonial Dames meeting with +Molly Winchell. I never go. I hate ancestors." + +"I shouldn't let you do it," he hesitated, "but ghosts walk after dark +in the Capitol corridors." + +"I know," she nodded. "Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln." + +"Yes. Then you'll come?" + +"Of course." + +It was the thought of her rendezvous with him that lighted her eyes when +she talked to Murray. But Murray did not know. So he swayed up on his +toes and glanced in the glass and was glad of his thinness and +tallness. + +Maxwell came for Anne promptly. "You must get me back by ten," she told +him. "I have a key, and Charlotte's out." + +It was a night of nights, never to be forgotten. Maxwell did not take +Anne into the Gallery. He had not brought her there to hear speeches or +to be conspicuous in the glare of lights. He led her through shadowy +corridors--up wide dim stairways. + +At one turn he touched her arm. "Look!" he whispered. + +"What?" + +"Lafayette passed us--on the stairs." + +It was a great game! On the east front Columbus spoke to them of ships +that sailed toward the sunset; in the Rotunda they kept a tryst with +William Penn; from the west-front portico they saw a city beautiful--the +streets under the moon were rivers of light--the great monument reached +like the soul of Washington toward the stars! + +Out there in the moonlight Maxwell spoke of another great soul, gone of +late to join a glorious company. + +"It was he who taught me that life is an adventure." + +"Greatheart?" + +"Yes." + +"You loved him too?" + +"Yes." + +Anne caught her breath. "To think of him dead--to think of them +all--dead." + +Maxwell looked down at her. "They live somewhere. You believe that, +don't you?" + +"Yes." + +He was silent for a moment; then he laid his hand lightly on her +shoulder. "I feel to-night as if they pressed close." + +Oh, it was a rare game to meet great souls in odd corners! They could +scarcely tear themselves away. But he got her home before her sisters +arrived, and Anne went to bed soberly, and lay long awake, thinking it +out. She had never before had such a playmate. In all these years she +had starved for other things than food. + + + +IV + + +In due time Congress adjourned, but Maxwell did not go home. He +continued to see Anne. Amy was at last driven to her duty by Murray. She +could not forbid Maxwell the house. There was nothing to do but talk to +Anne. + +Having made up her mind she sought Anne's room at once. Anne, in a +cheap cotton kimono, was braiding her hair for the night. The sleeves of +the kimono were short and showed her thin white arms. Amy had on a +blanket wrapper. Her hair was in metal curlers. She looked old and +tired, and now and then she coughed. + +Anne got into bed and drew the covers up to her chin. "I'm so cold, I +believe there are icicles on my eyebrows. Amy, my idea of heaven is a +place where it is as hot as--Hades." + +"I don't see where you get such ideas. Ethel and I don't talk that way. +We don't even think that way, Anne." + +"Maybe when I am as old as you---" Anne began, and was startled at the +look on Amy's face. + +"I'm not old!" Amy said passionately. "Anne, I haven't lived at all, and +I'm only thirty." + +Anne stared at her. "Oh, my darling, I didn't mean---" + +"Of course you didn't. And it was silly of me to say such a thing. Anne, +I'm cold. I'm going to sit on the foot of your bed and wrap up while I +talk to you." + +Anne's bed had four pineapple posts and a pink canopy. The governor of a +state had slept in that bed for years. He was one of the Merryman +grandfathers. Amy could have bought mountains of food for the price of +that bed. But she would have starved rather than sell it. + +Anne under the pink canopy was like a rose--a white rose with a faint +flush. The color in Amy's cheeks was fixed and hard. Yet even with her +oldness and tiredness and metal curlers she had the look of race which +attracted Murray. + +"Anne," she said, "Murray and I had a long talk about you the other +day." + +"Murray always talks--long." Anne was yawning. + +"Please be serious, Anne. He wants to marry you." + +"Marry me!" incredulously. "I thought it was you; or Ethel." + +"Well, it isn't," wearily. "And it's a great opportunity--for you, +Anne." + +"Opportunity for what?" + +Amy had a sense of the futility of trying to explain. + +"There aren't many men like him." + +"Fortunately." + +"Anne, how can you? He's really paying you a great compliment." + +"Why didn't he ask me himself?" + +"He didn't want to startle you. You're so young. Murray has extreme +fineness of feeling." + +Anne tilted her chin. "I don't see what he finds in me." + +"You're young"--with a tinge of bitterness--"and he says you are +beautiful." + +Anne threw off the covers and set her bare feet on the floor. +"Beautiful!" she scoffed, but went to the mirror. "I'm thin," she +meditated, "but I've got nice hair." + +"We all have nice hair," said Amy; "but you've got Ethel's complexion +and my figure." + +"I don't think I want to be loved for my complexion." Anne turned +suddenly and faced her sister. "Or my figure. I'd rather be loved for my +mind." + +"Men don't love women for their minds," said Amy wearily. "You'll learn +that when you have lived as long as I have. Get back into bed, Anne. +You'll freeze." + +But Anne, shivering in the cotton kimono, argued the question hotly: "I +should think Murray would want to marry someone with congenial tastes. +He hates everything that I like." + +"He'll make an excellent husband. You ought to be happy to know that +he--cares." + +She began to cough--a racking cough that left her exhausted. + +Anne, bending over her, said, "Why, Amy, are you sick?" + +"I'm--I'm rather wretched, Anne." + +"Are you taking anything for your cough?" + +"Yes." + +"You ought to have a doctor." + +"I have had one." + +"What did he say?" + +Amy put her off. "I'll feel better in the morning, Anne. Don't worry." +Again the cough tore her. Anne flew to Ethel. + +"See what you can do for her. There is blood on her handkerchief! I am +going to call a doctor." + +The doctor, arriving, checked the cough. Later he told Anne that Amy +must have a change and strengthening food. + +"At once. She's in a very serious state. I've told her, but she won't +listen." + +In the days that followed Anne arraigned herself hotly. "I've been a +selfish pig--eating up everything--and Amy needed it." + +In this state of mind she fasted--and was famished. + +Maxwell, noting her paleness, demanded, "What's the matter? Aren't you +well?" + +She wanted to cry out, "I'm hungry." But she, too, had her pride. + +"Amy's ill." + +He got it out of her finally. "The doctor is much worried about her. He +says she needs a change." + +"You need it too." + +She needed food, but she couldn't tell him that. The state of their +exchequer was alarming. It had been revealed to her since Amy's illness +that there was really nothing coming in until the next quarter. + +"Why didn't you let Charlotte go, Ethel?" + +"We've always had a maid. What would people think?" + +"And because of what people think, Amy is to starve?" + +"Anne, how can you?" + +"Well, it comes to that. She needs things; and we don't need Charlotte." + +But when they spoke to Amy of sending Charlotte away she was feverishly +excited. "There's nobody to do the work." + +"I can do it," said Anne. + +"We Merrymans have never worked," Amy began to cry. "I'd rather die," +she said, "than have people think we are--poor." + + + +V + + +Maxwell was a man of action. When he saw Anne pale he sought a remedy. +"Look here, why can't you and your sisters come out to my farm?" + +Anne, remembering certain things--broilers and fresh eggs--was thrilled +by the invitation. "I'd love it! But Amy won't accept." + +"Why not?" + +"She's terribly stiff." + +He laughed. "Perhaps I can talk her over." + +Amy, lying on her couch, very weary, facing a shadowy future, felt his +magnetism as he talked to her. It was as if life spoke through his lips. +Murray had sat there beside her only an hour before. He had brought her +roses but he had brought no hope. + +Fear had for weeks kept Amy company. Through her nights and days it had +stalked, a pale spectre. And now Maxwell was saying: "You'll be well in +a month. Of course you'll come! There's room for half a dozen. You three +won't half fill the house." + +It was decided, however, that Ethel must stay in town. Amy had a nervous +feeling that with the house closed Murray might slip away from them. + +Old Molly Winchell, summing up the situation, said to Murray: "Of course +Anne will marry Maxwell Sears. There's nothing like propinquity." + +Murray, startled, admitted the danger. "It would be an awful thing for +Anne." + +"Why?" + +"He's rather a bounder." + +Old Molly Winchell hit him on the arm with her fan. Her eyes twinkled +maliciously. "He's nothing of the sort, and you know it. You're jealous, +Murray." + +Murray's jealousy was, quite uniquely, not founded on any great depth of +love for Anne. His appropriation of the three sisters had been a pretty +and pleasant pastime. When he had finally decided upon Anne as the +pivotal center of his universe he had contemplated a future in which the +other sisters also figured--especially Amy. He had, indeed, not thought +of a world without Amy. + +Her illness had troubled him, but not greatly. Things had always come to +him as he had wanted them, and he was quite sure that if Anne was to be +the flame to light his future, Providence would permit Amy to be, as it +were, the keeper of the light. + +He felt it necessary to warn Anne: "Don't fall in love with Sears." + +"Don't be silly, Murray." + +"Is it silly to say that I love you, Anne?" + +They were alone in the old library, with its books and bronzes and +bag-wigged ancestors. And Murray sat down beside Anne and took her hand +in his and said, "I love you, Anne." + +It was a proposal which was not to be treated lightly. In spite of +herself, Anne was flattered. Murray had always loomed on her horizon as +something of a bore but none the less a person of importance. + +She caught her breath quickly. "Please, Murray"--her blushes were +bewitching--"I'm too young to think about such things. And I'm not in +love with anybody." + +Murray raised her hand to his lips. "Keep yourself for me, little Anne." +He rose and stood looking down at her. "You're a very charming child," +he said. "Do you know it?" + +Anne, gazing at herself in the glass later, wondered if it were true. It +was nice of Murray to say it. But she was not in the least in love with +Murray. He was too old. And Maxwell was too old. Anne's dreams of +romance had to do with glorified youth. She wanted a young Romeo +shouting his passion to the stars! + +She packed her bag, however, in high anticipation. Maxwell was a +splendid playmate, and she thought of his farm as flowing with milk and +honey! + +Maxwell wrote to Winifred that he was coming home and bringing guests. + +"Run down and meet them. Anne's a corking kid." + +Winifred knew what had happened. Some girl had got hold of Maxwell. It +was always the way with men like that--big men; they were credulous +creatures where women were concerned, and it would make such a +difference to Maxwell's future if he married the wrong woman. + +She decided to go down as soon as she could. She felt that she ought to +hurry, but there were things that held her. And so it happened that +before she reached the farm Maxwell had asked Anne to marry him. There +had been a cool evening when the scent of lilacs had washed in great +waves through the open windows. Amy had gone to bed and he and Anne had +dined alone with the flare of candles between them, and the rest of the +room in pleasant shadow. And then their coffee had been served, and Aunt +Mittie, his housekeeper, had asked if there was anything else, and had +withdrawn, and he had risen and had walked round to Anne's place and had +laid his hands on her shoulders. + +"Little Anne," he had said, "I should like to see you here always." + +"Here?" + +"As my wife." + +"Oh!" + +She had had a rapturous week at the farm. She had never known anything +like it. Aunt Elizabeth, of the Eastern Shore, lived in a sleepy town, +and Anne's other brief vacations had been spent in more or less +fashionable resorts. But here was a paradise of plenty; the big wide +house, the spreading barns, the opulent garden, the rolling fields, the +enchanting creatures who were sheltered by the barns and fed by the +fields, and who in return gave payment of yellow cream and warm white +eggs, and who lowed at night and cackled in the morning, and whose days +were measured by the rising and the setting of the sun. + +She loved it all--the purring pussies, the companionable pups, the +steady, faithful older dogs, the lambs in the pasture, the good things +to eat. + +She was glowing with gratitude, and Maxwell was asking insistently, +"Won't you, Anne?" + +She had never been so happy, and he was the source of her happiness. +Against this background of vivid life the thought of Murray was a pale +memory. + +So her wistful eyes met Maxwell's. "It would be lovely--to live +here--always." + +Later, when she had started up-stairs with her candle, he had kissed +her, leaning over the rail to watch her as she went up, and Anne had +gone to sleep tremulous with the thought that her future would lie here +in this great house with this fine and kindly man. + +Winifred, coming down at last, found that she had come too late. Maxwell +told her as they motored up from the station. + +"Wish me happiness, Win. I am going to marry little Anne." + +It did not enter his head for a moment that the woman by his side loved +him. He had thought that if she ever married him it would be a sort of +concession on her part, a sacrifice to her interest in his future. He +had a feeling that she would be glad if such a sacrifice were not +demanded. + +But Winifred was not glad. "You are sure you are making no mistake, +Max?" + +"Wait till you see her." + +Winifred waited and saw. "She's not in the least in love with him. She +likes the warm nest she has fallen into. And she'll spoil his future. +He'll settle down here, and he belongs to the world." + +He belonged at least to his constituency. + +"I've got to make a speech," he told the three women one morning, "in a +town twenty miles away. If you girls would like the ride you can motor +over with me. You needn't listen to my speech if you don't want to." + +Amy and Winifred said that of course they wanted to listen. Anne smiled +happily and said nothing. She was, of course, glad to go, but Maxwell's +speeches were to her the abstract things of life; the concrete things at +this moment were the delicious dinner which was before her and the fact +that in the barn, curled up in the hay, was a new family of +kittens--little tabbies like their adoring mother. + +"Isn't it a lovely world?" she had said to her lover as she had sat in +the loft with the cuddly cats in her lap. + +"Yes." + +He knew that it was not all lovely, that somewhere there were lean and +hungry kittens and lean and hungry folks--but why remind her at such a +moment? + + + +VI + + +On the way over Anne sat with Winifred. She had insisted that Amy should +have the front seat with Max. Amy was much better. Life had begun to +flow into her veins like wine. She had written to Murray: "It is as if a +miracle had happened." + +Winifred, on the back seat, talked to Anne. She had a great deal to say +about Maxwell's future. "I am sorry he bought the farm." + +"Oh, not really." Anne's attention strayed. She had one of the puppies +in her lap. He kept peeping out from between the folds of her cape with +his bright eyes. "Isn't he a darling, Winifred?" + +"He ought to sell it." Winifred liked dogs, but at this moment she +wanted Anne's attention. "He ought to sell the farm. He has a great +future before him. Everybody says it. He simply must not settle down." + +"Oh, well, he won't," said Anne easily. + +"He will if you let him." + +"If I let him?" + +"If he thinks you like it." + +There was a deep flush on Winifred's cheeks. She was really a very +handsome girl, with bright brown hair and brown eyes. She wore a small +brown hat and a sable collar. The collar was open and showed her strong +white throat. + +"If he thinks you like it," she repeated, "he will stay; and he belongs +to the world; nobody must hold him back. He's the biggest man in his +party to-day. There is no limit to his powers." + +Anne stared at her. "Of course there isn't." She wondered why Winifred +seemed so terribly in earnest about it. She pulled the puppy's ears. +"But I should hate to have him sell the farm." + +Winifred settled back with a sharp sigh and gazed at the long gray road +ahead of her. She gazed indeed into a rather blank future. Her talents +would be, she felt, to some extent wasted. If Max rose to greater +heights of fame it would be because of his own unaided efforts. This +child would be no help to him. + +The speech Max made to his constituents was not cool and clear-cut like +the speeches which Anne had heard him make to his colleagues in the +House. He spoke now with warmth and persuasiveness. Anne, sitting in the +big car on the edge of the crowd, found herself listening intently. She +was aware, as he went on, of a new Max. The mass of men who had gathered +were largely foreigners who knew little of the real meanings of +democracy. Max was telling them what it meant to be a good American. He +told it simply, but he was in dead earnest. Anne felt that this +earnestness was the secret of his power. He wanted men to be good +Americans, he wanted them to know the privileges they might enjoy in a +free country, and he was telling them how to keep it free-not by +violence and mob rule but by remembering their obligations as citizens. +He told them that they must be always on the side of law and order, that +they must fight injustice not with the bomb and the red flag but with +their votes. + +"Vote for the man you trust, and not for the man who inflames your +passions. Your vote is a sacred thing; when you sell it you dishonor +yourself. Respect yourself, and you'll respect the country that has made +a man of you." + +The response was immediate, the applause tumultuous. After his speech +they crowded about him. They knew him for their friend. But they knew +him for more than that. He asked nothing of their manhood but the best. +He preached honesty and practiced it. + +Yet as he climbed into the car Anne had little to say to him. Winifred, +leaning forward, was emphatic in her praise: + +"You have no right to bury yourself, Max." + +"My dear girl, I'm not dead yet." He was a bit impatient. He had hoped +for a word from Anne. But she sat silent, pulling the puppy's ears. + +"He's asleep," she said finally as she caught the inquiry in her lover's +eyes. "He's tired out, poor darling." + +She seemed indifferent, but she was not. She had been much stirred. She +had a strange feeling that something had happened to her while she had +listened to Maxwell's speech. Some string had broken and her romance was +out of tune. + +She lay awake for a long time that night, thinking it over. She grew hot +with the thought of the limitations of her previous conception of her +lover. She had considered him a sort of background for the pleasant +things he could do for her. She had fitted him to the measure of the +boxes of candy that he had brought her, the luncheons in the House +restaurant, the bountiful hospitality of the farm. How lightly she had +looked down on him as he had stood below her on the stairs with her +candle in his hand. How casually she had accepted his kiss. She had a +sudden feeling that she must not let him kiss her again! + +Early in the morning she went into Amy's room. "Amy," she said, "how +soon do you think we can go to Aunt Elizabeth's?" + +"Aunt Elizabeth's? Why, Anne?" + +"I want to leave here." + +"To leave here?" Amy sat up. Even in the bright light of the morning her +face looked young. Good food and fresh air had done much for her. It had +been quite heavenly, too, to let care slip away, to have no thought of +what she should eat or what she should drink or what she should wear. +"To leave here? I thought you loved it, Anne." + +"I've got to get away. I'm not going to marry Maxwell, Amy." + +"Anne! What made you change your mind?" + +"I can't tell you. Please don't ask me. But I wish you would write to +Aunt Elizabeth." + +"I had a letter from her yesterday. She says we can come at any time. +But--have you told Max?" + +"Not yet." + +"Has he done anything?" + +"No. It's just--that I can't marry him. Don't ask me, Amy." She broke +down in a storm of tears. + +Amy, soothing her, wondered if after all Anne cared for Murray Flint. It +was, she felt, the only solution possible. Surely a girl would not throw +away a chance to marry a man like Maxwell Sears for nothing. + +For Amy had learned in the days that she had spent at the farm that +Maxwell Sears was a man to reckon with. She was very grateful for what +he had done for her, and she had been glad of Anne's engagement. Murray +would perhaps be disappointed, but there would still be herself and +Ethel. + +It was not easy to explain things to Maxwell. + +"Why are you going now?" he demanded, and was impatient when they told +him that Aunt Elizabeth expected them. "I don't understand it at all. It +upsets all of my plans for you, Anne." + +That night when he brought Anne's candle she was not on the stairs. +Winifred and Amy had gone up. + +"Anne! Anne!" he called softly. + +She came to the top rail and leaned over. "I'm going to bed in the dark. +There's a wonderful moon." + +"Come down--for a minute." + +"No." + +"Then I'll come up," masterfully. + +He mounted the stairs two at a time; but when he reached the landing the +door was shut! + +In the morning he asked her about it. "Why, dearest?" + +"Max dear, I can't marry you." + +"Nonsense!" His voice was sharp. He laid his hands heavily on her +shoulders. "Why not? Look at me, Anne. Why not?" + +"I'm not going to marry--anybody." + +That was all he could get out of her. He pleaded, raged, and grew at +last white and still with anger. "You might at least tell me your +reasons." + +She said that she would write. Perhaps she could say it better on paper. +And she was very, very sorry, but she couldn't. + +Winifred knew that something was up, but made no comment. Amy, carrying +out their program of departure, had a sense of regret. + +After all, it had been a lovely life, and there were worse things than +being a sister to Maxwell Sears. Her voice broke a little as she tried +to thank him on their last morning. + +He wrung her hand. "Say a good word for me with Anne. I don't know +what's the matter with her." + +Neither did Amy. And if she was Maxwell's advocate how could she be +Murray's? She flushed a little. + +"Anne's such a child." + +He remembered how he had called her a corking kid. She was more than +that to him now. She stood in the doorway in her gray sailor hat and +gray cape. + +"Anne," he said, "you must have a last bunch of pansies from the +garden. Come out and help me pick them." + +In the garden he asked, "Are you going to kiss me good-bye?" + +"No, Max. Please--" + +"Then it's 'God bless you, dearest.'" + +He forgot the pansies and they went back to where the car waited. + + + +VII + + +Anne's letter, written from the Eastern Shore, was a long and childish +screed. "We have always been beggars on horseback," she said. "Of course +you couldn't know that, Max. We have gone without bread so that we could +be grand and elegant. We have gone without fire so that we could buy our +satin gowns for fashionable functions. We went without butter for a year +so that Amy could entertain the Strangeways, whom she had met years ago +in Europe. I wouldn't dare tell you what that dinner cost us, but we had +a cabinet member or two, and the British Ambassador. + +"You wondered why I liked Dickens. Well, I read him so that I could get +a good meal by proxy. I used to gloat over the feasts at Wardle's, and +Mr. Stiggins' hot toast. And when I met you you gave me--everything. +Murray Flint thinks that because I am thin and pale I am all spirit, +and I'm afraid you have the same idea. You didn't dream, did you, that I +was pale because I hadn't had enough to eat? And when you told me that +you wanted me to be your wife I looked ahead and saw the good food and +the roaring fires, and I didn't think of anything else. I honestly +didn't think of you for a moment, Max. + +"There were days, though, when you meant more to me than just that. When +we played at the Capitol--that night when we met Lafayette on the +stairs! Nobody had ever played with me. But after we went to the farm I +was smothered in ease. And I loved it. And I didn't love you. You were +just--the man who gave me things. Do you see what I mean? And when you +kissed me on the stairs it was as if I were being kissed by a nice old +Santa Claus. + +"Everybody saw it but you. I am sure Amy knew--and Winifred Reed. +You--you ought to marry Winifred, Max. Perhaps you will. You won't want +me after you read this letter. And Winifred is splendid. + +"It was your speech to the men that waked me. I saw how big you were, +and I just--shriveled up. + +"And you mustn't worry about me. I am not hungry any more. I feel as if +I should never want anything to eat. Perhaps it is because I am older +and haven't a growing appetite. And I am not any of the things you +thought me. And of course you would be disappointed, and it wouldn't be +fair." + +Having posted this, Anne had other things to do. She wrote mysterious +letters, and finally came into a room where her sisters and Aunt +Elizabeth were sewing, with an important-looking paper in her hand. + +"I am going to work, Amy." + +"To work!" + +"Yes." + +Amy and Ethel and Aunt Elizabeth wore white frocks, and looked very cool +and feminine and high-bred. Aunt Elizabeth had a nose like Amy's and the +same look of race. + +It was Aunt Elizabeth who said in her commanding voice: "What are you +talking about, Anne?" + +"I am going to work in the War Risk Bureau, Aunt Elizabeth. I wrote to +two senators, and they helped me." + +No woman of the Merryman family had ever worked in an office. + +Anne faced a storm of disapproval, but she stood there slim and defiant, +and stated her reasons. + +"We need money. I don't see how we can get through a winter like the +last. I can't keep my self-respect if we go on living as we did last +winter." + +"Haven't you any pride, Anne?" + +"I have self-respect." + +She left the room a conqueror. After she had gone the three women talked +about her. They did not say it openly, but they felt that there was +really an ordinary streak in Anne. Otherwise she would not have wanted +to work in an office. + +There was, however, nothing to be done. Anne was twenty-one. She was to +get a hundred dollars a month. In spite of herself, Amy felt a throb of +the heart as she thought of what that hundred dollars would mean to +them. + +Murray Flint was much perturbed when he heard of Anne's decision. He +wrote to her that of course she knew that there was no reason why she +should go into an office--his home and hearthstone were hers. She wrote +back that she should never marry! After that, Murray felt, with Amy and +Ethel and Aunt Elizabeth, that there was an ordinary streak in Anne! + +When he arrived in August at Aunt Elizabeth's he was astonished at the +change in Amy. She looked really very young as she came to meet him, and +Aunt Elizabeth's house was a perfect setting for her charms. Murray was +very fond of Aunt Elizabeth's house. It was an ancient, stately edifice, +and within there were the gold-framed portraits of men and women with +noses like Amy's and Aunt Elizabeth's. + +Murray had missed Amy very much and he told her so. + +"It was a point of honor for me to ask Anne again. But when I thought I +was going to lose you I learned that my life would be empty without +you." + +He really believed what he was telling her. If Amy did not believe it +she made no sign. She was getting much more than she expected, and she +accepted him graciously and elegantly, as became a daughter of the +Merrymans. + +It was when he told Anne of his engagement to Amy that Murray again +offered her a home. "There will always be a place for Amy's sisters, +Anne." + +"You are very good, Murray--but I can't." + +She had said the same thing to Maxwell, who had come hot-footed to tell +her that her letter had made no difference in his feeling for her. + +"How could you think it, Anne? My darling, you are making a mountain of +a molehill!" + +She had been tremulous but firm. "I've got to have my--self-respect, +Max." + +Because he understood men he understood her. And when he had left her he +had said to himself with long-drawn breath, "She's a corking kid." + +And this time there had been no laughter in his eyes. + +All that winter Anne worked, a little striving creature, with her head +held high! + +Maxwell was in town, for Congress had convened. But he had not come to +see her. Now and then when there was a night session she went up to the +House and sat far back in the Gallery, where, unperceived, she could +listen to her lover's voice. Then she would steal away, a little ghost, +down the shadowy stairway; but there were no games now with Lafayette! + +Amy and Murray were to be married in June. They had enjoyed a dignified +and leisurely engagement, and Amy had bloomed in the sunshine of +Murray's approbation. Anne's salary had helped a great deal in getting +the trousseau together. Most of the salary, indeed, had been spent for +that. The table was, as usual, meagre, but Anne had not seemed to care. + +She was therefore rather white and thin when, on the day that Congress +adjourned, Maxwell came out to Georgetown to see her. It had been a long +session, and it was spring. + +There were white lilacs in a great blue jar in the Merryman library, and +through the long window a glimpse of a thin little moon in a faint green +sky. + +As he looked at Anne, Maxwell felt a lump in his throat. She had given +him her hand and had smiled at him. "How are the kittens?" she had asked +in an effort to be gay. + +He did not answer her question. He went, rather, directly to the point. +"Anne, why wouldn't you kiss me on that last night?" + +She flushed to the roots of her hair. "It--it was because I loved you, +Max." + +"I thought so. But you had to prove it to yourself?" + +"Yes." + +"Anne, that's why I've let you alone all winter--so that you might prove +it. But--I can't go on. It has been an awful winter for me, Anne." + +It had been an awful winter for her. But she had come out of it knowing +herself. And even when at last his arms were about her and he was +telling her that he would never let her go, she had a plea to make: + +"Don't let me live too softly, Max. Life isn't a feather bed--You belong +to the world. I must go with you toward the big things. But now and then +we'll run back to the farm." + +"What do I care where we run, so that we run--together!" + + + + + +THE NOVELS OF TEMPLE BAILEY + + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. + +"Although my ancestry is all of New England, I was born in the old town +of Petersburg, Virginia. I went later to Richmond and finally at the age +of five to Washington, D.C., returning to Richmond for a few years in a +girl's school, which was picturesquely quartered in General Lee's +mansion." + + +PEACOCK FEATHERS + +The eternal conflict between wealth and love. Jerry, the idealist who is +poor, loves Mimi, a beautiful, spoiled society girl. + + +THE DIM LANTERN + +The romance of little Jane Barnes who is loved by two men. + + +THE GAY COCKADE + +Unusual short stories where Miss Bailey shows her keen knowledge of +character and environment, and how romance comes to different people. + + +THE TRUMPETER SWAN + +Randy Paine comes back from France to the monotony of every-day +affairs. But the girl he loves shows him the beauty in the commonplace. + + +THE TIN SOLDIER + +A man who wishes to serve his country, but is bound by a tie he cannot +in honor break--that's Derry. A girl who loves him, shares his +humiliation and helps him to win--that's Jean. Their love is the story. + + +MISTRESS ANNE + +A girl in Maryland teaches school, and believes that work is worthy +service. Two men come to the little community: one is weak, the other +strong, and both need Anne. + + +CONTRARY MARY + +An old-fashioned love story that is nevertheless modern. + + +GLORY OF YOUTH + +A novel that deals with a question, old and yet ever new--how far should +an engagement of marriage bind two persons who discover they no longer +love. + + +Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gay Cockade, by Temple Bailey + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAY COCKADE *** + +***** This file should be named 16433-8.txt or 16433-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/4/3/16433/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Laura Wisewell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + +*** END: FULL LICENSE *** + diff --git a/16433-8.zip b/16433-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ef03bf2 --- /dev/null +++ b/16433-8.zip diff --git a/16433-h.zip b/16433-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..31bad42 --- /dev/null +++ b/16433-h.zip diff --git a/16433-h/16433-h.htm b/16433-h/16433-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..26a3fab --- /dev/null +++ b/16433-h/16433-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11517 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html> + +<head> + +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"/> + +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of "The Gay Cockade", by Temple Bailey</title> + + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left:8%; margin-right:8%; } + +p { margin-top: 0.5em; + + margin-bottom: 0; + + line-height: 1.3em; } + +body > p, blockquote.letter > p { text-align: justify; + + text-indent: 1em;} +blockquote.letter > p {line-height: 1.1em;} + +.center { text-align: center; + text-indent: 0;} +p.break {margin-top: 4em;} + +p.endpage {margin-top:0;} + +img { border: none; padding: 0; margin: 5px; } + +p.caption { margin-top: 0; + + font-size: smaller; } + +h1 { text-align:center; } + +h2 { margin-top:3em; + + margin-bottom: 1em; + + text-align:center; + + position:relative; } + +h3 { margin-top: 2em; + + text-align:center; } +h3.endpage { text-align:left; text-decoration:underline; font-weight:normal; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0;} + + +h1+p { text-indent: 0; } + +h2+p { text-indent: 0; } + +h3+p { text-indent: 0; } + + +blockquote.poem { + + text-align:left; + + margin-left:25%; + + margin-right:25%; + + position: relative; } + + +hr.nocss { display:none;} + + + +li { font-variant:small-caps; margin-top: 0.15em; line-height: 1.2em; } + + + +ins.correction { text-decoration:none; + + border-bottom: thin dotted gray; } + +ul.TOC { list-style-type: none; + + position: relative; + + margin-right:20%; + + margin-left: 20%; } + +span.ralign { position: absolute; right: 0; top: auto; } + +</style> + + + +</head> + +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gay Cockade, by Temple Bailey + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Gay Cockade + +Author: Temple Bailey + +Illustrator: C. E. Chambers + +Release Date: August 4, 2005 [EBook #16433] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAY COCKADE *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Laura Wisewell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<div class="center"> + <a id="frontispiece" name="frontispiece"></a> + <a href="images/frontis01_full.jpg" > + <img src="images/frontis01_thumb.jpg" height="400" + alt="Frontispiece, showing a man sat at a desk smoking a pipe." + title="Frontispiece, showing a man sat at a desk smoking a pipe." /> + </a> + <p class="caption"><a href="#frontref">AND HERE, DAY AFTER DAY, HE SAT ALONE</a></p> +</div> + + +<div style="border-width:3pt; border-style:double; padding:1em; margin:3em; margin-bottom:0;"> +<h1>THE<br /> +GAY COCKADE<br /><br /> + +<small>BY</small><br /> +TEMPLE BAILEY</h1> + +<p class="center"><small>AUTHOR OF</small><br /> +THE TRUMPETER SWAN,<br /> +THE TIN SOLDIER, <span style="font-variant:small-caps;">Etc</span>.</p> + + +<p class="center"> +<small>FRONTISPIECE BY</small><br /> +C. E. CHAMBERS</p> + +<div class="center"> + <a id="decoration" name="decoration"></a> + <img src="images/decoration.png" height="78" + alt="Black-and-white decorative mark showing a flower." + title="Black-and-white decorative mark showing a flower." /> +</div> + + +<p class="center">GROSSET & DUNLAP<br /> +PUBLISHERS NEW YORK<br /></p> +</div> +<p class="center" style="margin-top:0; margin-bottom:4em;"><small>Made in the United States of America</small></p> + + + +<p class="center">COPYRIGHT<br /> +1921 BY<br /> +THE PENN<br /> +PUBLISHING<br /> +COMPANY</p> + +<div class="center"> + <a id="logo" name="logo"></a> + <img src="images/logo.png" height="110" + alt="Publisher logo showing a crest." + title="Publisher logo showing a crest." /> +</div> + +<p class="center">Manufacturing<br /> +Plant<br /> +Camden, N. J.</p> + +<p><small>Made in U.S.A.</small></p> + + +<p class="center">The Gay Cockade</p> + + +<blockquote><p>For permission to reprint some of the stories in this volume, the author +is indebted to the courtesy of the editors of <i>Harper's Magazine</i>, +<i>Scribner's Magazine</i>, <i>Collier's Magazine</i>, <i>Ladies' Home Journal</i>, +<i>Saturday Evening Post</i>, <i>Good Housekeeping</i>, and <i>Harper's Bazar.</i></p></blockquote> + + +<h2><a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a>Contents</h2> + + +<ul class="TOC"> +<li>The Gay Cockade <span class="ralign"><a href="#THE_GAY_COCKADE">7</a></span></li> +<li> +The Hidden Land <span class="ralign"><a href="#THE_HIDDEN_LAND">33</a></span></li> +<li> +White Birches <span class="ralign"><a href="#WHITE_BIRCHES">84</a></span></li> +<li> +The Emperor's Ghost <span class="ralign"><a href="#THE_EMPERORS_GHOST">118</a></span></li> +<li> +The Red Candle <span class="ralign"><a href="#THE_RED_CANDLE">132</a></span></li> +<li> +Returned Goods <span class="ralign"><a href="#RETURNED_GOODS">149</a></span></li> +<li> +Burned Toast <span class="ralign"><a href="#BURNED_TOAST">165</a></span></li> +<li> +Petronella <span class="ralign"><a href="#PETRONELLA">187</a></span></li> +<li> +The Canopy Bed <span class="ralign"><a href="#THE_CANOPY_BED">205</a></span></li> +<li> +Sandwich Jane <span class="ralign"><a href="#SANDWICH_JANE">223</a></span></li> +<li> +Lady Crusoe <span class="ralign"><a href="#LADY_CRUSOE">272</a></span></li> +<li> +A Rebellious Grandmother <span class="ralign"><a href="#A_REBELLIOUS_GRANDMOTHER">310</a></span></li> +<li> +Wait—for Prince Charming <span class="ralign"><a href="#WAIT_FOR_PRINCE_CHARMING">327</a></span></li> +<li> +Beggars on Horseback <span class="ralign"><a href="#BEGGARS_ON_HORSEBACK">351</a></span></li> +</ul> + + + +<h1 style="margin-top:3em;">THE GAY COCKADE</h1> + + + + +<h2><a name="THE_GAY_COCKADE" id="THE_GAY_COCKADE"></a>THE GAY COCKADE</h2> + +<p>From the moment that Jimmie Harding came into the office, he created an +atmosphere. We were a tired lot. Most of us had been in the government +service for years, and had been ground fine in the mills of departmental +monotony.</p> + +<p>But Jimmie was young, and he wore his youth like a gay cockade. He +flaunted it in our faces, and because we were so tired of our dull and +desiccated selves, we borrowed of him, remorselessly, color and +brightness until, gradually, in the light of his reflected glory, we +seemed a little younger, a little less tired, a little less petrified.</p> + +<p>In his gay and gallant youth there was, however, a quality which partook +of earlier times. He should, we felt, have worn a feather in his +cap—and a cloak instead of his Norfolk coat. He walked with a little +swagger, and stood with his hand on his hip, as if his palm pressed the +hilt of his sword. If he ever fell in love, we told one another, he +would, without a doubt, sing serenades and apostrophize the moon.</p> + +<p>He did fall in love before he had been with us a year. His love-affair +was a romance for the whole office. He came among us every morning +glorified; he left us in the afternoon as a knight enters upon a quest.</p> + +<p>He told us about the girl. We pictured her perfectly before we saw her, +as a little thing, with a mop of curled brown hair; an oval face, +pearl-tinted; wide, blue eyes. He dwelt on all her small +perfections—the brows that swept across her forehead in a thin black +line, the transparency of her slender hands, the straight set of her +head on her shoulders, the slight halt in her speech like that of an +enchanting child.</p> + +<p>Yet she was not in the least a child. "She holds me up to my best, Miss +Standish," Jimmie told me; "she says I can write."</p> + +<p>We knew that Jimmie had written a few things, gay little poems that he +showed us now and then in the magazines. But we had not taken them at +all seriously. Indeed, Jimmie had not taken them seriously himself.</p> + +<p>But now he took them seriously. "Elise says that I can do great things. +That I must get out of the Department."</p> + +<p>To the rest of us, getting out of the government service would have +seemed a mad adventure. None of us would have had the courage to +consider it. But it seemed a natural thing that Jimmie should fare forth +on the broad highway—a modern D'Artagnan, a youthful Quixote, an Alan +Breck—!</p> + +<p>We hated to have him leave. But he had consolation. "Of course you'll +come and see us. We're going back to my old house in Albemarle. It's a +rotten shack, but Elise says it will be a corking place for me to write. +And you'll all come down for week-ends."</p> + +<p>We felt, I am sure, that it was good of him to ask us, but none of us +expected that we should ever go. We had a premonition that Elise +wouldn't want the deadwood of Jimmie's former Division. I know that for +myself, I was content to think of Jimmie happy in his old house. But I +never really expected to see it. I had reached the point of expecting +nothing except the day's work, my dinner at the end, a night's sleep, +and the same thing over again in the morning.</p> + +<p>Yet Jimmie got all of us down, not long after he was married, to what he +called a housewarming. He had inherited a few pleasant acres in +Virginia, and the house was two hundred years old. He had never lived in +it until he came with Elise. It was in rather shocking condition, but +Elise had managed to make it habitable by getting it scrubbed very +clean, and by taking out everything that was not in keeping with the +oldness and quaintness. The resulting effect was bare but beautiful. +There were a great many books, a few oil-portraits, mahogany sideboards +and tables and four-poster beds, candles in sconces and in branched +candlesticks. They were married in April, and when we went down in June +poppies were blowing in the wide grass spaces, and honeysuckle rioting +over the low stone walls. I think we all felt as if we had passed +through purgatory and had entered heaven. I know I did, because this was +the kind of thing of which I had dreamed, and there had been a time when +I, too, had wanted to write.</p> + +<p>The room in which Jimmie wrote was in a little detached house, which had +once been the office of his doctor grandfather. He had his typewriter +out there, and a big desk, and from the window in front of his desk he +could look out on green slopes and the distant blue of mountain ridges.</p> + +<p>We envied him and told him so.</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't know," Jimmie said. "Of course I'll get a lot of work +done. But I'll miss your darling old heads bending over the other +desks."</p> + +<p>"You couldn't work, Jimmie," Elise reminded him, "with other people in +the room."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not. Did I tell you old dears that I am going to write a play?"</p> + +<p>That was, it seems, what Elise had had in mind for him from the +beginning—a great play!</p> + +<p>"She wouldn't even, have a honeymoon"—Jimmie's arm was around her; "she +brought me here, and got this room ready the first thing."</p> + +<p>"Well, he mustn't be wasting time," said Elise, "must he? Jimmie's +rather wonderful, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>They seemed a pair of babies as they stood there together. Elise had on +a childish one-piece pink frock, with sleeves above the elbow, and an +organdie sash. Yet, intuitively, the truth came to me—she was ages +older than Jimmie in spite of her twenty years to his twenty-four. Here +was no Juliet, flaming to the moon—no mistress whose steed would gallop +by wind-swept roads to midnight trysts. Here was, rather, the cool blood +that had sacrificed a honeymoon—<i>and, oh, to honeymoon with Jimmie +Harding</i>!—for the sake of an ambitious future.</p> + +<p>She was telling us about it "We can always have a honeymoon, Jimmie and +I. Some day, when he is famous, we'll have it. But now we must not."</p> + +<p>"I picked out the place"—Jimmie was eager—"a dip in the hills, and big +pines—And then Elise wouldn't."</p> + +<p>We went in to lunch after that. The table was lovely and the food +delicious. There was batter-bread, I remember, and an omelette, and peas +from the garden.</p> + +<p>Duncan Street and I talked all the way home of Jimmie and his wife. He +didn't agree with me in the least about Elise. "She'll be the making of +him. Such wives always are."</p> + +<p>But I held that he would lose something,—that he would not be the same +Jimmie.</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">Jimmie wrote plays and plays. In between he wrote pot-boiling books. The +pot-boilers were needed, because none of his plays were accepted. He +used to stop in our office and joke about it.</p> + +<p>"If it wasn't for Elise's faith in me, Miss Standish, I should think +myself a poor stick. Of course, I can make money enough with my books +and short stuff to keep things going, but it isn't just money that +either of us is after."</p> + +<p>Except when Jimmie came into the office we saw very little of him. Elise +gathered about her the men and women who would count in Jimmie's future. +The week-ends in the still old house drew not a few famous folk who +loathed the commonplaceness of convivial atmospheres. Elise had +old-fashioned flowers in her garden, delectable food, a library of old +books. It was a heavenly change for those who were tired of cocktail +parties, bridge-madness, illicit love-making. I could never be quite +sure whether Elise really loved dignified living for its own sake, or +whether she was sufficiently discriminating to recognize the kind of +bait which would lure the fine souls whose presence gave to her +hospitality the stamp of exclusiveness.</p> + +<p>They had a small car, and it was when Jimmie motored up to Washington +that we saw him. He had a fashion of taking us out to lunch, two at a +time. When he asked me, he usually asked Duncan Street. Duncan and I +have worked side by side for twenty-five years. There is nothing in the +least romantic about our friendship, but I should miss him if he were to +die or to resign from office. I have little fear of the latter +contingency. Only death, I feel, will part us.</p> + +<p>In our moments of reunion Jimmie always talked a great deal about +himself. The big play was, he said, in the back of his mind. "Elise says +that I can do it," he told us one day over our oysters, "and I am +beginning to think that I can. I say, why can't you old dears in the +office come down for Christmas, and I'll read you what I've written."</p> + +<p>We were glad to go. There were to be no other guests, and I found out +afterward that Elise rarely invited any of their fashionable friends +down in winter. The place showed off better in summer with the garden, +and the vines hiding all deficiencies.</p> + +<p>We arrived in a snow-storm on Christmas Eve, and when we entered the +house there was a roaring fire on the hearth. I hadn't seen a fire like +that for thirty years. You may know how I felt when I knelt down in +front of it and warmed my hands.</p> + +<p>The candles in sconces furnished the only other illumination. Elise, +moving about the shadowy room, seemed to draw light to herself. She wore +a flame-colored velvet frock and her curly hair was tucked into a golden +net. I think that she had planned the medieval effect deliberately, and +it was a great success. As she flitted about like a brilliant bird, our +eyes followed her. My eyes, indeed, drank of her, like new wine. I have +always loved color, and my life has been drab.</p> + +<p>I spoke of her frock when she showed me my room.</p> + +<p>"Oh, do you like it?" she asked. "Jimmie hates to see me in dark things. +He says that when I wear this he can see his heroine."</p> + +<p>"Is she like you?"</p> + +<p>"Not a bit. She is rather untamed. Jimmie does her very well. She +positively gallops through the play."</p> + +<p>"And do you never gallop?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "It's a good thing that I don't. If I did, Jimmie +would never write. He says that I keep his nose to the grindstone. It +isn't that, but I love him too much to let him squander his talent. If +he had no talent, I should love him without it. But, having it, I must +hold him up to it."</p> + +<p>She was very sure of herself, very sure of the rightness of her attitude +toward Jimmie. "I know how great he is," she said, as we went down, "and +other people don't. So I've got to prove it."</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">It was at dinner that I first noticed a change in Jimmie. It was a +change which was hard to define. Yet I missed something in him—the +enthusiasm, the buoyancy, the almost breathless radiance with which he +had rekindled our dying fires. Yet he looked young enough and happy +enough as he sat at the table in his velvet studio coat, with his crisp, +burnt-gold hair catching the light of the candles. He and his wife were +a handsome pair. His manner to her was perfect. There could be no +question of his adoration.</p> + +<p>After dinner we had the tree. It was a young pine set up at one end of +the long dining-room, and lighted in the old fashion by red wax candles. +There were presents on it for all of us. Jimmie gave me an adorably +illustrated <i>Mother Goose</i>.</p> + +<p>"You are the only other child here, Miss Standish," he said, as he +handed it to me. "I saw this in a book-shop, and couldn't resist it."</p> + +<p>We looked over the pictures together. They were enchanting. All the +bells of old London rang out for a wistful Whittington in a ragged +jacket; Bo-Peep in panniers and pink ribbons wailed for her historic +sheep; Mother Hubbard, quaint in a mammoth cap, pursued her fruitless +search for bones. There was, too, an entrancing Boy Blue who wound his +horn, a sturdy darling with his legs planted far apart and distended +rosy cheeks.</p> + +<p>"That picture is worth the price of the whole book," said Jimmie, and +hung over it. Then suddenly he straightened up. "There should be +children in this old house."</p> + +<p>I knew then what I had missed from the tree. Elise had a great many +gifts—exquisite trifles sent to her by sophisticated friends—a +wine-jug of seventeenth-century Venetian glass, a bag of Chinese brocade +with handles of carved ivory, a pair of ancient silver buckles, a box of +rare lacquer filled with Oriental sweets, a jade pendant, a crystal ball +on a bronze base—all of them lovely, all to be exclaimed over; but the +things I wanted were drums and horns and candy canes, and tarletan bags, +and pop-corn chains, and things that had to be wound up, and things that +whistled, and things that squawked, and things that sparkled. And Jimmie +wanted these things, but Elise didn't. She was perfectly content with +her elegant trifles.</p> + +<p>It was late when we went out finally to the studio. There was snow +everywhere, but it was a clear night with a moon above the pines. A +great log burned in the fireplace, a shaded lamp threw a circle of gold +on shining mahogany. It seemed to me that Jimmie's writing quarters were +even more attractive in December than in June.</p> + +<p>Yet, looking back, I can see that to Jimmie the little house was a sort +of prison. He loved men and women, contact with his own kind. He had +even liked our dingy old office and our dreary, dried-up selves. <a href="#frontispiece" name="frontref" id="frontref">And +here, day after day, he sat alone</a>—as an artist must sit if he is to +achieve—<i>es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille</i>.</p> + +<p>We sat around the fire in deep leather chairs, all except Elise, who had +a cushion on the floor at Jimmie's feet.</p> + +<p>He read with complete absorption, and when he finished he looked at me. +"What do you think of it?"</p> + +<p>I had to tell the truth. "It isn't your masterpiece."</p> + +<p>He ran his fingers through his hair with a nervous gesture. "I told +Elise that it wasn't."</p> + +<p>"But the girl"—Elise's gaze held hot resentment—"is wonderful. Surely +you can see that."</p> + +<p>"She doesn't seem quite real."</p> + +<p>"Then Jimmie shall make her real." Elise laid her hand lightly on her +husband's shoulder. Her gown and golden net were all flame and sparkle, +but her voice was cold. "He shall make her real."</p> + +<p>"No"—it seemed to me that as he spoke Jimmie drew away from her +hand—"I am not going to rewrite it, Elise. I'm tired of it."</p> + +<p>"Jimmie!"</p> + +<p>"I'm tired of it—"</p> + +<p>"Finish it, and then you'll be free—"</p> + +<p>"Shall I ever be free?" He stood up and turned his head from side to +side, as if he sought some way of escape. "Shall I ever be free? I +sometimes think that you and I will stick to this old house until we +grow as dry as dust. I want to live, Elise! I want to live—!"</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">But Elise was not ready to let Jimmie live. To her, Jimmie the artist was +more than Jimmie the lover. I may have been unjust, but she seemed to me +a sort of mental vampire, who was sucking Jimmie's youth. Duncan Street +snorted when I told him what I thought. Elise was a pretty woman, and a +pretty woman in the eyes of men can do no wrong.</p> + +<p>"You'll see," I said, "what she'll do to him."</p> + +<p>The situation was to me astounding. Here was Life holding out its hands +to Elise, glory of youth demanding glorious response, and she, +incredibly, holding back. In spite of my gray hair and stiff figure, I +am of the galloping kind, and my soul followed Jimmie Harding's in its +quest for freedom.</p> + +<p>But there was one thing that Elise could not do. She could not make +Jimmie rewrite his play. "I'll come to it some day," he said, "but not +yet. In the meantime I'll see what I can do with books."</p> + +<p>He did a great deal with books, so that he wrote several best-sellers. +This eased the financial situation and they might have had more time for +things. But Elise still kept him at it. She wanted to be the wife of a +great man.</p> + +<p>Yet as the years went on, Duncan and I began to wonder if her hopes +would be realized. Jimmie wrote and wrote. He was successful in a +commercial sense, but fame did not come to him. There was gray in his +burnt-gold hair; his shoulders acquired a scholarly droop, and he wore +glasses on a black ribbon. It was when he put on glasses that I began to +feel a thousand years old. Yet always when he was away from me I thought +of him as the Jimmie whose youth had shone with blinding radiance.</p> + +<p>His constancy to Duncan and to me began to take on a rather pathetic +quality. The others in the office drifted gradually out of his life. +Some of them died, some of them resigned, some of them worked on, plump +or wizened parodies of their former selves. I was stouter than ever, and +stiffer, and the top of Duncan's head was a shining cone. And the one +interesting thing in our otherwise dreary days was Jimmie.</p> + +<p>"You're such darling old dears," was his pleasant way of putting it.</p> + +<p>But Duncan dug up the truth for me. "We knew him before he wrote. He +gets back to that when he is with us."</p> + +<p>I had grown to hate Elise. It was not a pleasant emotion, and I am not +sure that she really deserved it. But Duncan hated her, too. "You're +right," he said one day when we had lunched with Jimmie; "she's sucked +him dry." Jimmie had been unusually silent. He had laughed little. He +had tapped the table with his finger, and had kept his eyes on his +finger. He had been absent-minded. "She has sucked him dry," said +Duncan, with great heat.</p> + +<p>But she hadn't. That was the surprising thing. Just as we were all +giving up hope of Jimmie's proving himself something more than a hack, +he did the great thing and the wonderful thing that years ago Elise had +prophesied. His play, "The Gay Cockade," was accepted by a New York +manager, and after the first night the world went wild about it.</p> + +<p>I had helped Jimmie with the name. I had spoken once of youth as a gay +cockade. "That's a corking title," Jimmie had said, and had written it +in his note-book.</p> + +<p>When his play was put in rehearsal, Duncan and I were there to see. We +took our month's leave, traveled to New York, and stayed at an +old-fashioned boarding-house in Washington Square. Every day we went to +the theatre. Elise was always there, looking younger than ever in the +sables bought with Jimmie's advance royalty, and with various gowns and +hats which were the by-products of his best-sellers.</p> + +<p>The part of the heroine of "The Gay Cockade" was taken by Ursula Simms. +She was, as those of you who have seen her know, a Rosalind come to +life. With an almost boyish frankness she combined feminine witchery. +She had glowing red hair, a voice that was gay and fresh, a temper that +was hot. She galloped through the play as Jimmie had meant that she +should gallop in that first poor draft which he had read to us in +Albemarle, and it was when I saw Ursula in rehearsal that I realized +what Jimmie had done—he had embodied in his heroine all the youth that +he had lost—she stood for everything that Elise had stolen from +him—for the wildness, the impetuosity, the passion which swept away +prudence and went neck to nothing to fulfilment.</p> + +<p>Indeed, the whole play partook of the madness of youth. It bubbled over. +Everybody galloped to a rollicking measure. We laughed until we cried. +But there was more than laughter in it. There was the melancholy which +belongs to tender years set in exquisite contrast to the prevailing +mirth.</p> + +<p>Jimmie had a great deal to do with the rehearsals. Several times he +challenged Ursula's reading of the part.</p> + +<p>"You must not give your kisses with such ease," he told her upon one +occasion; "the girl in the play has never been kissed."</p> + +<p>She shrugged her shoulders and ignored him. Again he remonstrated. +"She's frank and free," he said. "Make her that. Make her that. Men must +fight for her favors."</p> + +<p>She came to it at last, helped by that Rosalind-like quality in herself. +She was young, as he had wanted Elise to be, clean-hearted, +joyous—girlhood at its best.</p> + +<p>Gradually Jimmie ceased to suggest. He would sit beside us in the +dimness of the empty auditorium, and watch her as if he drank her in. +Now and then he would laugh a little, and say, under his breath: "How +did I ever write it? How did it ever happen?"</p> + +<p>Elise, on the other side of him, said, at last, "I knew you could do it, +Jimmie."</p> + +<p>"You thought I could do great things. You never knew I could do—this—"</p> + +<p>It was toward the end of the month that Duncan said to me one night as +we rode home on the top of a 'bus, "You don't suppose that he—"</p> + +<p>"Elise thinks it," I said. "It's waking her up."</p> + +<p>Elise and Jimmie had been married fifteen years, and had never had a +honeymoon, not in the sense that Jimmie wanted it—an adventure in +romance, to some spot where they could forget the world of work, the +world of sordid things, the world that was making Jimmie old. Every +summer Jimmie had asked for it, and always Elise had said, "Wait."</p> + +<p>But now it was Elise who began to plan. "When your play is produced, +we'll run away somewhere. Do you remember the place you always talked +about—up in the hills?"</p> + +<p>He looked at her through his round glasses. "I can't get away from +this"—he waved his hand toward the stage.</p> + +<p>"If it's a success you can, Jimmie."</p> + +<p>"It will be a success. Ursula Simms is a wonder. Look at her, Elise. +Look at her!"</p> + +<p>Duncan and I could look at nothing else. As many times as I had seen her +in the part, I came to it always eagerly. It was her great scene—where +the girl, breaking free from all that has bound her, takes the hand of +her vagabond lover and goes forth, leaving behind wealth and a marriage +of distinction, that she may wander across the moors and down on the +sands, with the wild wind in her face, the stars for a canopy!</p> + +<p>It tugged at our hearts. It would tug, we knew, at the heart of any +audience. It was the human nature in us all which responded. Not one of +us but would have broken bonds. Oh, youth, youth! Is there anything like +it in the whole wide world?</p> + +<p>I do not think that it tugged at the heart of Elise. Her heart was not +like that. It was a stay-at-home heart. A workaday-world heart. Elise +would never under any circumstance have gone forth with a vagabond on a +wild night.</p> + +<p>But here was Ursula doing it every day. On the evening of the first +dress-rehearsal she wore clothes that showed her sense of fitness. As if +in casting off conventional restraints, she renounced conventional +attire; she came down to her lover wrapped in a cloak of the deep-purple +bloom of the heather of the moor, and there was a pheasant's feather in +her cap.</p> + +<p>"<i>May you never regret it, my dear, my dear</i>," said the lover on the +stage.</p> + +<p>"<i>I shall love you for a million years</i>," said Ursula, and we felt that +she would, and that love was eternal, and that any woman might have it +if she would put her hand in her lover's and run away with him on a +wild night!</p> + +<p>And it was the genius of Jimmie Harding that made us feel that the thing +could be done. He sat forward in his chair, his arms on the back of the +seat in front of him. "Jove!" he kept saying under his breath. "It's the +real thing. It's the real thing—"</p> + +<p>When the scene was over, he went on the stage and stood by Ursula. Elise +from her seat watched them. Ursula had taken off the cap with the +pheasant's feather. Her glorious hair shone like copper, her hand was on +her hip, her little swagger matched the swagger that we remembered in +the old Jimmie. I wondered if Elise remembered.</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">I am not sure what made Ursula care for Jimmie Harding. He was no longer +a figure for romance. But she did care. It was, perhaps, that she saw in +him the fundamental things which belonged to both of them, and which did +not belong to Elise.</p> + +<p>As the days went on I was sorry for Elise. I should never have believed +that I could be sorry, but I was. Jimmie was always punctiliously polite +to her. But he was only that.</p> + +<p>"She's getting what she deserves," Duncan said, but I felt that she was, +perhaps, getting more than she deserved. For, after all, it was she who +had kept Jimmie at it, and it was her keeping him at it which had +brought success.</p> + +<p>Neither Duncan nor I could tell how Jimmie felt about Ursula. But the +thought of her troubled my sleep. Stripped of her art, she was not in +the least the heroine of Jimmie's play. She was of coarser clay, +commoner. And Jimmie was fine. The fear I had was that he might clothe +her with the virtues which he had created, and the thought, as I have +said, troubled me.</p> + +<p>At last Duncan and I had to go home, although we promised to return for +the opening night. Ursula gave a farewell supper for us. She lived alone +with a housekeeper and maid. Her apartment was furnished in good taste, +with, perhaps, a touch of over-emphasis. The table had unshaded purple +candles and heather in glass dishes. Ursula wore woodland green, with a +chaplet of heather about her glorious hair. Elise was in white with +pearls. She was thirty-five, but she did not look it. Ursula was older, +but she would always be in a sense ageless, as such women are—one would +thrill to Sara Bernhardt were she seventeen or seventy.</p> + +<p>Jimmie seemed to have dropped the years from him. He was very confident +of the success of his play. "It can't fail," he said, "with Ursula to +make it sure—"</p> + +<p>I wondered whether it was Ursula or Elise who had made it sure. Could he +ever have written it if Elise had not kept him at it? Yet she had stolen +his youth!</p> + +<p>And now Ursula was giving his youth back to him! As I saw the cock of +his head, heard the ring of his gay laughter, I felt that it might be +so. And suddenly I knew that I didn't want Jimmie to be young again. Not +if he had to take his youth from the hands of Ursula Simms!</p> + +<p>There were many toasts before the supper ended—and the last one Jimmie +drank "To Ursula"! As he stood up to propose it, his glasses dangled +from their ribbon, his shoulders were squared. In the soft and shaded +light we were spared the gray in his hair—it was the old Jimmie, gay +and gallant!</p> + +<p>"To Ursula!" he said, and the words sparkled. "To Ursula!"</p> + +<p>I looked at Elise. She might have been the ghost of the woman who had +flamed in the old house in Albemarle. In her white and pearls she was +shadowy, unsubstantial, almost spectral, but she raised her glass. "To +Ursula!" she said.</p> + +<p>All the way home on the train Duncan and I talked about it. We were +scared to death. "Oh, he mustn't, he must not," I kept saying, and +Duncan snorted.</p> + +<p>"He's a young fool. She's not the woman for him—"</p> + +<p>"Neither of them is the woman," I said, "but Elise has made him—"</p> + +<p>"No man was ever held by gratitude."</p> + +<p>"He'd hate Ursula in a year."</p> + +<p>"He thinks he'd live—"</p> + +<p>"And lose his soul—"</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">Jimmie's play opened to a crowded house. There had been extensive +advertising, and Ursula had a great following.</p> + +<p>Elise and Duncan and I had seats in an upper box. Elise sat where she +was hidden by the curtains. Jimmie came and went unseen by the audience. +Between acts he was behind the scenes. Elise had little to say. Once she +reached over and laid her hand on mine.</p> + +<p>"I—I think I'm frightened," she said, with a catch of her breath.</p> + +<p>"It can't fail, my dear—"</p> + +<p>"No, of course. But it's very different from what I expected."</p> + +<p>"What is different?"</p> + +<p>"Success."</p> + +<p>As the great scene came closer, I seemed to hold my breath. I was so +afraid that the audience might not see it as we had seen it at +rehearsal. But they did see it, and it was a stupendous thing to sit +there and watch the crowd, and know that Jimmie's genius was making its +heart beat fast and faster. When Ursula in her purple cloak and +pheasant's feather spoke her lines at the end of the third act, "<i>I +shall love you for a million years</i>," the house went wild. Men and women +who had never loved for a moment roared for this woman who had made them +think they could love until eternity. They wanted her back and they got +her. They wanted Jimmie and they got him. Ursula made a speech; Jimmie +made a speech. They came out for uncounted curtain-calls, hand-in-hand. +The play was a success!</p> + +<p>The last act was, of course, an anti-climax. Before it was finished, +Elise said to me, in a, stifled voice, "I've got to get back to Jimmie."</p> + +<p>It seemed significant that Jimmie had not come to her. Surely he had not +forgotten the part she had played. For fifteen years she had worked for +this.</p> + +<p>We found ourselves presently behind the scenes. The curtain was down, +the audience was still shouting, everybody was excited, everybody was +shaking hands. The stage-people caught at Elise as she passed, and held +her to offer congratulations. I was not held and went on until I came to +where Jimmie and Ursula stood, a little separate from the rest. Although +I went near enough to touch them, they were so absorbed in each other +that they did not see me. Ursula was looking up at Jimmie and his head +was bent to her.</p> + +<p>"Jimmie," she said, and her rich voice above the tumult was clear as a +bell, "do you know how great you are?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said. "I—I feel a little drunk with it, Ursula."</p> + +<p>"Oh," she said, and now her words stumbled, "I—I love you for it. Oh, +Jimmie, Jimmie, let's run away and love for a million years—"</p> + +<p>All that he had wanted was in her words—the urge of youth, the beat of +the wind, the song of the sea. My heart stood still.</p> + +<p>He drew back a little. He had wanted this. But he did not want it +now—with Ursula. I saw it and she saw it.</p> + +<p>"What a joke it would be," he said, "but we have other things to do, my +dear."</p> + +<p>"What things?"</p> + +<p>The roar of the crowd came louder to their ears. "Harding, Harding! +Jimmie Harding!"</p> + +<p>"Listen," he said, and the light in his eyes was not for her. "Listen, +Ursula, they're calling me."</p> + +<p>She stood alone after he had left her. I am sure that even then she did +not quite believe it was the end. She did not know how, in all the +years, his wife had molded him.</p> + +<p>When he had satisfied the crowd, Jimmie fought his way to where Elise +and Duncan and I stood together.</p> + +<p>Elise was wrapped in a great cloak of silver brocade. There was a touch +of silver, too, in her hair. But she had never seemed to me so small, so +childish.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Jimmie," she said, as he came up, "you've done it!"</p> + +<p>"Yes"—he was flushed and laughing, his head held high—"you always said +I could do it. And I shall do it again. Did you hear them shout, Elise?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Jove! I feel like the old woman in the nursery rhyme, 'Alack-a-daisy, +do this be I?'" He was excited, eager, but it was not the old eagerness. +There was an avidity, a greediness.</p> + +<p>She laid her hand on his arm. "You've earned a rest, dearest. Let's go +up in the hills."</p> + +<p>"In the hills? Oh, we're too old, Elise."</p> + +<p>"We'll grow young."</p> + +<p>"To-night I've given youth to the world. That's enough for me"—the +light in his eyes was not for her—"that's enough for me. We'll hang +around New York for a week or two, and then we'll go back to Albemarle. +I want to get to work on another play. It's a great game, Elise. It's a +great game!"</p> + +<p>She knew then what she had done. Here was a monster of her own making. +She had sacrificed her lover on the altar of success. Jimmie needed her +no longer.</p> + +<p>I would not have you think this an unhappy ending. Elise has all that +she had asked, and Jimmie, with fame for a mistress, is no longer an +unwilling captive in the old house. The prisoner loves his prison, +welcomes his chains.</p> + +<p>But Duncan and I talk at times of the young Jimmie who came years ago +into our office. The Jimmie Harding who works down in Albemarle, and who +struts a little in New York when he makes his speeches, is the ghost of +the boy we knew. But he loves us still.</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="THE_HIDDEN_LAND" id="THE_HIDDEN_LAND"></a>THE HIDDEN LAND</h2> + + +<p>The mystery of Nancy Greer's disappearance has never been explained. The +man she was to have married has married another woman. For a long time +he mourned Nancy. He has always held the theory that she was drowned +while bathing, and the rest of Nancy's world agrees with him. She had +left the house one morning for her usual swim. The fog was coming in, +and the last person to see her was a fisherman returning from his nets. +He had stopped and watched her flitting wraith-like through the mist. He +reported later that Nancy wore a gray bathing suit and cap and carried a +blue cloak.</p> + +<p>"You are sure she carried a cloak?" was the question which was +repeatedly asked. For no cloak had been found on the sands, and it was +unlikely that she had worn it into the water. The disappearance of the +blue cloak was the only point which seemed to contradict the theory of +accidental drowning. There were those who held that the cloak might have +been carried off by some acquisitive individual. But it was not likely; +the islanders are, as a rule, honest, and it was too late in the season +for "off-islanders."</p> + +<p>I am the only one who knows the truth. And as the truth would have been +harder for Anthony Peak to bear than what he believed had happened, I +have always withheld it.</p> + +<p>There was, too, the fear that if I told they might try to bring Nancy +back. I think Anthony would have searched the world for her. Not, +perhaps, because of any great and passionate need of her, but because he +would have thought her unhappy in what she had done, and would have +sought to save her.</p> + +<p>I am twenty years older than Nancy, her parents are dead, and it was at +my house that she always stayed when she came to Nantucket. She has +island blood in her veins, and so has Anthony Peak. Back of them were +seafaring folk, although in the foreground was a generation or two of +cosmopolitan residence. Nancy had been educated in France, and Anthony +in England. The Peaks and the Greers owned respectively houses in Beacon +Street and in Washington Square. They came every summer to the island, +and it was thus that Anthony and Nancy grew up together, and at last +became engaged.</p> + +<p>As I have said, I am twenty years older than Nancy, and I am her cousin. +I live in the old Greer house on Orange Street, for it is mine by +inheritance, and was to have gone to Nancy at my death. But it will not +go to her now. Yet I sometimes wonder—will the ship which carried her +away ever sail back into the harbor? Some day, when she is old, will she +walk up the street and be sorry to find strangers in the house?</p> + +<p>I remember distinctly the day when the yacht first anchored within the +Point. It was a Sunday morning and Nancy and I had climbed to the top of +the house to the Captain's Walk, the white-railed square on the roof +which gave a view of the harbor and of the sea.</p> + +<p>Nancy was twenty-five, slim and graceful. She wore that morning a short +gray-velvet coat over white linen. Her thick brown hair was gathered +into a low knot and her fine white skin had a touch of artificial color. +Her eyes were a clear blue. She was really very lovely, but I felt that +the gray coat deadened her—that if she had not worn it she would not +have needed that touch of color in her cheeks.</p> + +<p>She lighted a cigarette and stood looking off, with her hand on the +rail. "It is a heavenly morning, Ducky. And you are going to church?"</p> + +<p>I smiled at her and said, "Yes."</p> + +<p>Nancy did not go to church. She practiced an easy tolerance. Her people +had been, originally, Quakers. In later years they had turned to +Unitarianism. And now in this generation, Nancy, as well as Anthony +Peak, had thrown off the shackles of religious observance.</p> + +<p>"But it is worth having the churches just for the bells," Nancy conceded +on Sunday mornings when their music rang out from belfry and tower.</p> + +<p>It was worth having the churches for more than the bells. But it was +useless to argue with Nancy. Her morals and Anthony's were +irreproachable. That is, from the modern point of view. They played +cards for small stakes, drank when they pleased, and, as I have +indicated, Nancy smoked. She was, also, not unkissed when Anthony asked +her to marry him. These were not the ideals of my girlhood, but Anthony +and Nancy felt that such small vices as they cultivated saved them from +the narrow-mindedness of their forebears.</p> + +<p>"Anthony and I are going for a walk," she said. "I will bring you some +flowers for your bowls, Elizabeth."</p> + +<p>It was just then that the yacht steamed into the harbor—majestically, +like a slow-moving swan. I picked out the name with my sea-glasses, <i>The +Viking</i>.</p> + +<p>I handed the glasses to Nancy. "Never heard of it," she said. "Did you?"</p> + +<p>"No," I answered. Most of the craft which came in were familiar, and I +welcomed them each year.</p> + +<p>"Some new-rich person probably," Nancy decided. "Ducky, I have a feeling +that the owner of <i>The Viking</i> bought it from the proceeds of pills or +headache powders."</p> + +<p>"Or pork."</p> + +<p>I am not sure that Nancy and I were justified in our disdain—whale-oil +has perhaps no greater claim to social distinction than bacon and ham +or—pills.</p> + +<p>The church bells were ringing, and I had to go down. Nancy stayed on the +roof.</p> + +<p>"Send Anthony up if he's there," she said; "we will sit here aloft like +two cherubs and look down on you, and you will wish that you were with +us."</p> + +<p>But I knew that I should not wish it; that I should be glad to walk +along the shaded streets with my friends and neighbors, to pass the +gardens that were yellow with sunlight, and gay with larkspur and +foxglove and hollyhocks, and to sit in the pew which was mine by +inheritance.</p> + +<p>Anthony was down-stairs. He was a tall, perfectly turned out youth, and +he greeted me in his perfect manner.</p> + +<p>"Nancy is on the roof," I told him, "and she wants you to come up."</p> + +<p>"So you are going to church? Pray for me, Elizabeth."</p> + +<p>Yet I knew he felt that he did not need my prayers. He had Nancy, more +money than he could spend, and life was before him. What more, he would +ask, could the gods give?</p> + +<p>I issued final instructions to my maids about the dinner and put on my +hat. It was a rather superlative hat and had come from Fifth Avenue. I +spend the spring and fall in New York and buy my clothes at the smartest +places. The ladies of Nantucket have never been provincial in their +fashions. Our ancestors shopped in the marts of the world. When our +captains sailed the seas they brought home to their womenfolk the +treasures of loom and needle from Barcelona and Bordeaux, from Bombay +and Calcutta, London and Paris and Tokio.</p> + +<p>And perhaps because of my content in my new hat, perhaps because of the +pleasant young pair of lovers which I had left behind me in the old +house, perhaps because of the shade and sunshine, and the gardens, +perhaps because of the bells, the world seemed more than ever good to me +as I went on my way.</p> + +<p>My pew in the church is well toward the middle. My ancestors were +modest, or perhaps they assumed that virtue. They would have neither the +highest nor the lowest seat in the synagogue.</p> + +<p>It happens, therefore, that strangers who come usually sit in front of +me. I have a lively curiosity, and I like to look at them. In the winter +there are no strangers, and my mind is, I fancy, at such times, more +receptive to the sermon.</p> + +<p>I was early and sat almost alone in the great golden room whose +restraint in decoration suggests the primitive bareness of early days. +Gradually people began to come in, and my attention was caught by the +somewhat unusual appearance of a man who walked up the aisle preceded by +the usher.</p> + +<p>He was rather stocky as to build, but with good, square military +shoulders and small hips. He wore a blue reefer, white trousers, and +carried a yachtsman's cap. His profile as he passed into his pew showed +him young, his skin slightly bronzed, his features good, if a trifle +heavy.</p> + +<p>Yet as he sat down and I studied his head, what seemed most significant +about him was his hair. It was reddish-gold, thick, curled, and +upstanding, like the hair on the head of a lovely child, or in the +painting of a Titian or a Tintoretto.</p> + +<p>In a way he seemed out of place. Young men of his type so rarely came to +church alone. Indeed, they rarely came to church at all. He seemed to +belong to the out-of-doors—to wide spaces. I was puzzled, too, by a +faint sense of having seen him before.</p> + +<p>It was in the middle of the sermon that it all connected up. Years ago a +ship had sailed into the harbor, and I had been taken down to see it. I +had been enchanted by the freshly painted figurehead—a strong young god +of some old Norse tale, with red-gold hair and a bright blue tunic. And +now in the harbor was <i>The Viking</i>, and here, in the shadow of a +perfectly orthodox pulpit, sat that strong young god, more glorious even +than my memory of his wooden prototype.</p> + +<p>He seemed to be absolutely at home—sat and stood at the right places, +sang the hymns in a delightful barytone which was not loud, but which +sounded a clear note above the feebler efforts of the rest of us.</p> + +<p>It has always been my custom to welcome the strangers within our gates, +and I must confess to a preference for those who seem to promise +something more than a perfunctory interchange.</p> + +<p>So as my young viking came down the aisle, I held out my hand. "We are +so glad to have you with us."</p> + +<p>He stopped at once, gave me his hand, and bent on me his clear gaze. +"Thank you." And then, immediately: "You live here? In Nantucket?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"All the year round?"</p> + +<p>"Practically."</p> + +<p>"That is very interesting." Again his clear gaze appraised me. "May I +walk a little way with you? I have no friends here, and I want to ask a +lot of questions about the island."</p> + +<p>The thing which struck me most as we talked was his utter lack of +self-consciousness. He gave himself to the subject in hand as if it were +a vital matter, and as if he swept all else aside. It is a quality +possessed by few New Englanders; it is, indeed, a quality possessed by +few Americans. So when he offered to walk with me, it seemed perfectly +natural that I should let him. Not one man in a thousand could have made +such a proposition without an immediate erection on my part of the +barriers of conventionality. To have erected any barrier in this +instance would have been an insult, to my perception of the kind of man +with whom I had to deal.</p> + +<p>He was a gentleman, individual, and very much in earnest; and more than +all, he was immensely attractive. There was charm in that clear blue +gaze of innocence. Yet it was innocence plus knowledge, plus something +which as yet I could not analyze.</p> + +<p>He left me at my doorstep. I found that he had come to the island not to +play around for the summer at the country clubs and on the bathing +beach, but to live in the past—see it as it had once been—when its men +went down to the sea in ships. And because there was still so much that +we had to say to each other, I asked him to have a cup of tea with me, +"this afternoon at four."</p> + +<p>He accepted at once, with his air of sweeping aside everything but the +matter in hand. I entered the house with a sense upon me of high +adventure. I could not know that I was playing fate, changing in that +moment the course of Nancy's future.</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">Dinner was at one o'clock. It seems an impossible hour to people who +always dine at night. But on the Sabbath we Nantucketers eat our +principal meal when we come home from church.</p> + +<p>Nancy and Anthony protested as usual. "Of course you can't expect us to +dress."</p> + +<p>Nancy sat down at the table with her hat on, and minus the velvet coat. +She was a bit disheveled and warm from her walk. She had brought in a +great bunch of blue vetch and pale mustard, and we had put it in the +center of the table in a bowl of gray pottery. My dining-room is in gray +and white and old mahogany, and Nancy had had an eye to its coloring +when she picked the flowers. They would not have fitted in with the +decorative scheme of my library, which is keyed up, or down, to an +antique vase of turquoise glaze, or to the drawing-room, which is in +English Chippendale with mulberry brocade.</p> + +<p>We had an excellent dinner, served by my little Portuguese maid. Nancy +praised the lobster bisque and Anthony asked for a second helping of +roast duck. They had their cigarettes with their coffee.</p> + +<p>Long before we came to the coffee, however, Anthony had asked in his +pleasant way of the morning service.</p> + +<p>"Tell us about the sermon, Elizabeth."</p> + +<p>"And the text," said Nancy.</p> + +<p>I am apt to forget the text, and they knew it. It was always a sort of +game between us at Sunday dinner, in which they tried to prove that my +attention had strayed, and that I might much better have stayed at home, +and thus have escaped the bondage of dogma and of dressing up.</p> + +<p>I remembered the text, and then I told them about Olaf Thoresen.</p> + +<p>Nancy lifted her eyebrows. "The pills man? Or was it—pork?"</p> + +<p>"It was probably neither. Don't be a snob, Nancy."</p> + +<p>She shrugged her shoulders. "It was you who said 'pork,' Elizabeth."</p> + +<p>"He is coming to tea."</p> + +<p>"To-day?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Sorry," said Nancy. "I'd like to see him, but I have promised to drive +Bob Needham to 'Sconset for a swim."</p> + +<p>Anthony had made the initial engagement—to play tennis with Mimi Sears, +"Provided, of course, that you have no other plans for me," he had told +Nancy, politely.</p> + +<p>She had no plans, nor would she, under the circumstances, have urged +them. That was their code—absolute freedom. "We'll be a lot happier if +we don't tie each other up."</p> + +<p>It was to me an amazing attitude. In my young days lovers walked out on +Sunday afternoons to the old cemetery, or on the moor, or along the +beach, and came back at twilight together, and sat together after +supper, holding hands.</p> + +<p>I haven't the slightest doubt that Anthony held Nancy's hands, but there +was nothing fixed about the occasions. They had done away with billing +and cooing in the old sense, and what they had substituted seemed to +satisfy them.</p> + +<p>Anthony left about three, and I went up to get into something thin and +cool, and to rest a bit before receiving my guest. I heard Nancy at the +telephone making final arrangements with the Drakes. After that I fell +asleep, and knew nothing more until Anita came up to announce that Mr. +Thoresen was down-stairs.</p> + +<p>Tea was served in the garden at the back of the house, where there were +some deep wicker chairs, and roses in a riot of bloom.</p> + +<p>"This is—enchanting—" said Olaf. He did not sit down at once. He stood +looking about him, at the sun-dial, and the whale's jaw lying bleached +on a granite pedestal, and at the fine old houses rising up around us. +"It is enchanting. Do you know, I have been thinking myself very +fortunate since you spoke to me in church this morning."</p> + +<p>After that it was all very easy. He asked and I answered. "You see," he +explained, finally, "I am hungry for anything that tells me about the +sea. Three generations back we were all sailors—my great-grandfather +and his fathers before him in Norway—and far back of that—the +vikings." He drew a long breath. "Then my grandfather came to America. +He settled in the West—in Dakota, and planted grain. He made money, but +he was a thousand miles away from the sea. He starved for it, but he +wanted money, and, as I have said, he made it. And my father made more +money. Then I came. The money took me to school in the East—to +college. My mother died and my father. And now the money is my own. I +bought a yacht, and I have lived on the water. I can't get enough of it. +I think that I am making up for all that my father and my grandfather +denied themselves."</p> + +<p>I can't in the least describe to you how he said it. There was a +tenseness, almost a fierceness, in his brilliant blue eyes. Yet he +finished up with a little laugh. "You see," he said, "I am a sort of +Flying Dutchman—sailing the seas eternally, driven not by any sinister +force but by my own delight in it."</p> + +<p>"Do you go alone?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I have guests—at times. But I am often my own—good company—"</p> + +<p>He stopped and rose. Nancy had appeared in the doorway. She crossed the +porch and came down toward us. She was in her bathing suit and cap, gray +again, with a line of green on the edges, and flung over her shoulders +was a gray cloak. She was on her way to the stables—it was before the +day of motor-cars on the island, those halcyon, heavenly days. The door +was open and her horse harnessed and waiting for her. She could not, of +course, pass us without speaking, and so I presented Olaf.</p> + +<p>Anita had brought the tea, and Nancy stayed to eat a slice of thin bread +and butter. "In this air one is always hungry," she said to Olaf, and +smiled at him.</p> + +<p>He did not smile back. He was surveying her with a sort of frowning +intensity. She spoke of it afterward, "Does he always stare like that?" +But I think that, in a way, she was pleased.</p> + +<p>She drove her own horse, wrapped in her cloak and with an utter +disregard to the informality of her attire. She would, I knew, gather up +the Drakes and Bob Needham, likewise attired in bathing costumes, and +they would all have tea on the other side of the island, naiad-like and +utterly unconcerned. I did not approve of it, but Nancy did not cut her +life to fit my pattern.</p> + +<p>When she had gone, Olaf said to me, abruptly, "Why does she wear gray?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, she has worked out a theory that repression in color is an evidence +of advanced civilization. The Japanese, for example—"</p> + +<p>"Why should civilization advance? It has gone far enough—too far—And +she should wear a blue cloak—sea-blue—the color of her eyes—"</p> + +<p>"And of yours." I smiled at him.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Are they like hers?"</p> + +<p>They were almost uncannily alike. I had noticed it when I saw them +together. But there the resemblance stopped.</p> + +<p>"She belongs to the island?"</p> + +<p>"She lives in New York. But every drop of blood in her is seafaring +blood."</p> + +<p>"Good!" He sat for a moment in silence, then spoke of something else. +But when he was ready to go, he included Nancy in an invitation. "If you +and Miss Greer could lunch with me to-morrow on my yacht—"</p> + +<p>I was not sure about Nancy's engagements, but I thought we might. "You +can call us up in the morning."</p> + +<p>Nancy brought the Drakes and Bob Needham back with her for supper, and +Mimi Sears was with Anthony. Supper on Sunday is an informal +meal—everything on the table and the servants out.</p> + +<p>Nancy, clothed in something white and exquisite, served the salad. "So +your young viking didn't stay, Elizabeth?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't ask him."</p> + +<p>It was then that she spoke of his frowning gaze. "Does he always stare +like that?"</p> + +<p>Anthony, breaking in, demanded, "Did he stare at Nancy?"</p> + +<p>I nodded. "It was her eyes."</p> + +<p>They all looked at me. "Her eyes?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He said that her cloak should have matched them."</p> + +<p>Anthony flushed. He has a rather captious code for outsiders. Evidently +Olaf had transgressed it.</p> + +<p>"Is the man a dressmaker?"</p> + +<p>"Of course not, Anthony."</p> + +<p>"Then why should he talk of Nancy's clothes?"</p> + +<p>"Well," Nancy remarked, "perhaps the less said about my clothes the +better. I was in my bathing suit."</p> + +<p>Anthony was irritable. "Well, why not? You had a right to wear what you +pleased, but he did not have a right to make remarks about it."</p> + +<p>I came to Olaf's defense. "You would understand better if you could see +him. He is rather different, Anthony."</p> + +<p>"I don't like different people," and in that sentence was a summary of +Anthony's prejudices. He and Nancy mingled with their own kind. +Anthony's friends were the men who had gone to the right schools, who +lived in the right streets, belonged to the right clubs, and knew the +right people. Within those limits, humanity might do as it pleased; +without them, it was negligible, and not to be considered.</p> + +<p>After supper the five of them were to go for a sail. There was a moon, +and all the wonder of it.</p> + +<p>Anthony was not keen about the plan. "Oh, look here, Nancy," he +complained, "we have done enough for one day—"</p> + +<p>"I haven't."</p> + +<p>Of course that settled it. Anthony shrugged his shoulders and submitted. +He did not share Nancy's almost idolatrous worship of the sea. It was +the one fundamental thing about her. She bathed in it, swam in it, +sailed on it, and she was never quite happy away from it.</p> + +<p>I heard Anthony later in the hall, protesting. I had gone to the library +for a book, and their voices reached me.</p> + +<p>"I thought you and I might have one evening without the others."</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't be silly, Anthony."</p> + +<p>I think my heart lost a beat. Here was a lover asking his mistress for a +moment—and she laughed at him. It did not fit in with my ideas of young +romance.</p> + +<p>Yet late that night I heard the murmur of their voices and looked out +into the white night. They stood together by the sun-dial, and his arm +was about her, her head on his shoulder. And it was not the first time +that a pair of lovers had stood by that dial under the moon.</p> + +<p>I went back to bed, but I could not sleep. I lighted my bedside lamp, +and read <i>Vanity Fair</i>. I find Thackeray an excellent corrective when I +am emotionally keyed up.</p> + +<p>Nancy, too, was awake; I could see her light shining across the hall. +She came in, finally, and sat on the foot of my bed.</p> + +<p>"Your viking was singing as we passed his boat—"</p> + +<p>"Singing?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, hymns, Elizabeth. The others laughed, Anthony and Mimi, but I +didn't laugh. His voice is—wonderful—"</p> + +<p>She had on a white-crêpe <i>peignoir</i>, and there was no color in her +cheeks. Her skin had the soft whiteness of a rose petal. Her eyes were +like stars. As I lay there and looked at her I wondered if it was +Anthony's kisses or the memory of Olaf's singing which had made her eyes +shine like that.</p> + +<p>I had heard him sing, and I said so, "in church."</p> + +<p>Her arms clasped her knees. "Isn't it queer that he goes to church and +sings hymns?"</p> + +<p>"Why queer? I go to church."</p> + +<p>"Yes. But you are different. You belong to another generation, +Elizabeth, and he doesn't look it."</p> + +<p>I knew what she meant. I had thought the same thing when I first saw him +walking up the aisle. "He has asked us to lunch with him to-morrow on +his boat."</p> + +<p>It was the first time that I had mentioned it. Somehow I had not cared +to speak of it before Anthony.</p> + +<p>She showed her surprise. "So soon? Doesn't that sound a +little—pushing?"</p> + +<p>"It sounds as if he goes after a thing when he wants it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it does. I believe I should like to accept. But I can't to-morrow. +There's a clambake, and I have promised the crowd."</p> + +<p>"He will ask you again."</p> + +<p>"Will he? You can say 'yes' for Wednesday then. And I'll keep it."</p> + +<p>"I am not sure that we had better accept."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Well, there's Anthony."</p> + +<p>She slid from the bed and stood looking down at me. "You think he +wouldn't like it?"</p> + +<p>"I am afraid he wouldn't. And, after all, you are engaged to him, +Nancy."</p> + +<p>"Of course I am, but he is not my jailer. He does as he pleases and I do +as I please."</p> + +<p>"In my day lovers pleased to do the same thing."</p> + +<p>"Did they? I don't believe it. They just pretended, and there is no +pretense between Anthony and me"—she stooped and kissed me—"they just +pretended, Elizabeth, and the reason that I love Anthony is because we +don't pretend."</p> + +<p>After that I felt that I need fear nothing. Nancy and Anthony—freedom +and self-confidence—why should I try to match their ideals with my own +of yesterday? Yet, as I laid my book aside, I resolved that Olaf should +know of Anthony.</p> + +<p>I had my opportunity the next day. Olaf came over to sit in my garden +and again we had tea. He was much pleased when he knew that Nancy and I +would be his guests on Wednesday.</p> + +<p>"Come early. Do you swim? We can run the launch to the beach—or, better +still, dive in the deeper water near my boat."</p> + +<p>"Nancy swims," I told him. "I don't. And I am not sure that we can come +early. Nancy and Anthony usually play golf in the morning."</p> + +<p>"Who is Anthony?"</p> + +<p>"Anthony Peak. The man she is going to marry."</p> + +<p>He hesitated a moment, then said, "Bring him, too." His direct gaze met +mine, and his direct question followed. "Does she love him?"</p> + +<p>"Of course."</p> + +<p>"It is not always 'of course.'" He stopped and talked of other things, +but in some subtle fashion I was aware that my news had been a shock to +him, and that he was trying to adjust himself to it, and to the +difference that it must make in his attitude toward Nancy.</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">When I told Nancy that Anthony had been invited, she demanded, "How did +Olaf Thoresen know about him?"</p> + +<p>"I told him you were engaged."</p> + +<p>"But why, Elizabeth? Why shout it from the housetops?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I didn't want him to be hurt."</p> + +<p>"You are taking a lot for granted."</p> + +<p>I shrugged my shoulders. "We won't quarrel, and a party of four is much +nicer than three."</p> + +<p>As it turned put, however, Anthony could not go. He was called back to +Boston on business. That was where Fate again stepped in. It was, I am +sure, those three days of Anthony's absence which turned the scale of +Nancy's destiny. If he had been with us that first morning on the boat +Olaf would not have dared....</p> + +<p>Nancy wore her white linen and her gray-velvet coat, and a hat with a +gull's wing. She carried her bathing suit. "He intends, evidently, to +entertain us in his own way."</p> + +<p>Olaf's yacht was modern, but there was a hint of the barbaric in its +furnishings. The cabin into which we were shown and in which Nancy was +to change was in strangely carved wood, and there was a wolfskin on the +floor in front of the low bed. The coverlet was of a fine-woven red-silk +cloth, weighed down by a border of gold and silver threads. On the wall +hung a square of tapestry which showed a strange old ship with sails of +blue and red and green, and with golden dragon-heads at stem and stern.</p> + +<p>Nancy, crossing the threshold, said to Olaf, who had opened the door for +us, "It is like coming into another world; as if you had set the stage, +run up the curtain, and the play had begun."</p> + +<p>"You like it? It was a fancy of mine to copy a description I found in +an old book. King Olaf, the Thick-set, furnished a room like this for +his bride."</p> + +<p>Olaf, the Thick-set! The phrase fitted perfectly this strong, stocky, +blue-eyed man, who smiled radiantly upon us as he shut the door and left +us alone.</p> + +<p>Nancy stood in the middle of the room looking about her. "I like it," +she said, with a queer shake in her voice. "Don't you, Elizabeth?"</p> + +<p>I liked it so much that I felt it wise to hide my pleasure in a pretense +of indifference. "Well, it is original to say the least."</p> + +<p>But it was more than original, it was poetic. It was—Melisande in the +wood—one of Sinding's haunting melodies, an old Saga caught and fixed +in color and carving.</p> + +<p>In this glowing room Nancy in her white and gray was a cold and +incongruous figure, and when at last she donned her dull cap, and the +dull cloak that she wore over her swimming costume, she seemed a ghostly +shadow of the bright bride whom that other Olaf had brought—a thousand +years before—to his strange old ship.</p> + +<p>I realize that what comes hereafter in this record must seem to the +unimaginative overdrawn. Even now, as I look back upon it, it has a +dream quality, as if it might never have happened, or as if, as Nancy +had said, it was part of a play, which would be over when the curtain +was rung down and the actors had returned to the commonplace.</p> + +<p>But the actors in this drama have never returned to the commonplace. Or +have they? Shall I ever know? I hope I may never know, if Nancy and Olaf +have lost the glamour of their dreams.</p> + +<p>Well, we found Olaf on deck waiting for us. In a sea-blue tunic, with +strong white arms, and the dazzling fairness of his strong neck, he was +more than ever like the figurehead on the old ship that I had seen in my +childhood. He carried over his arm a cloak of the same sea-blue. It was +this cloak which afterward played an important part in the mystery of +Nancy's disappearance.</p> + +<p>His quick glance swept Nancy—the ghostly Nancy in gray, with only the +blue of her eyes, and that touch of artificial pink in her cheeks to +redeem her from somberness. He shook his head with a gesture of +impatience.</p> + +<p>"I don't like it," he said, abruptly. "Why do you deaden your beauty +with dull colors?"</p> + +<p>Nancy's eyes challenged him. "If it is deadened, how do you know it is +beauty?"</p> + +<p>"May I show you?" Again there was that tense excitement which I had +noticed in the garden.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you mean," yet in that moment the color ran up from +her neck to her chin, the fixed pink spots were lost in a rush of lovely +flaming blushes.</p> + +<p>For with a sudden movement he had snatched off her cap, and had thrown +the cloak around her. The transformation was complete. It was as if he +had waved a wand. There she stood, the two long, thick braids, which she +had worn pinned close under her cap, falling heavily like molten metal +to her knees, the blue cloak covering her—heavenly in color, matching +her eyes, matching the sea, matching the sky, matching the eyes of Olaf.</p> + +<p>I think I must have uttered some sharp exclamation, for Olaf turned to +me. "You see," he said, triumphantly, "I have known it all the time. I +knew it the first time that I saw her in the garden."</p> + +<p>Nancy had recovered herself. "But I can't stalk around the streets in a +blue cloak with my hair down."</p> + +<p>He laughed with her. "Oh, no, no. But the color is only a symbol. Modern +life has robbed you of vivid things. Even your emotions. You +are—afraid—" He caught himself up. "We can talk of that after our +swim. I think we shall have a thousand things to talk about."</p> + +<p>Nancy held out her hand for her cap, but he would not give it to her. +"Why should you care if your hair gets wet? The wind and the sun will +dry it—"</p> + +<p>I was amazed when I saw that she was letting him have his way. Never for +a moment had Anthony mastered her. For the first time in her life Nancy +was dominated by a will that was stronger than her own.</p> + +<p>I sat on deck and watched them as they swam like two young sea gods, +Nancy's bronze hair bright under the sun. Olaf's red-gold crest....</p> + +<p>The blue cloak lay across my knee. Nancy had cast it off as she had +descended into the launch. I had examined it and had found it of soft, +thick wool, with embroidery of a strange and primitive sort in faded +colors. Yet the material of the cloak had not faded, or, if it had, +there remained that clear azure, like the Virgin's cloak in old +pictures.</p> + +<p>I knew now why Olaf had wanted Nancy on board, why he had wanted to swim +with her in the sea which was as blue as her eyes and his own. It was to +reveal her to himself as the match of the women of the Sagas. I found +this description later in one of the old books in the ship's library:</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">Then Hallgerd was sent for, and came with two women. She wore a blue +woven mantle ... her hair reached down to her waist on both sides, and +she tucked it under her belt.</p> + +<p>And there was, too, this account of a housewife in her "kyrtil":</p> + +<blockquote class="poem"><p> +The dress-train was trailing,<br /> +The skirt had a blue tint;<br /> +Her brow was brighter,<br /> +Her neck was whiter<br /> +Than pure new fallen snow. +</p></blockquote> + +<p>In other words, that one glance at Nancy in the garden, when he had +risen at her entrance, had disclosed to Olaf the fundamental in her. He +had known her as a sea-maiden. And she had not known it, nor I, nor +Anthony.</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">Luncheon was served on deck. We were waited on by fair-haired, but very +modern Norsemen. The crew on <i>The Viking</i> were all Scandinavians. Most +of them spoke English, and there seemed nothing uncommon about any of +them. Yet, in the mood of the moment, I should have felt no surprise had +they served us in the skins of wild animals, or had set sail like +pirates with the two of us captive on board.</p> + +<p>I will confess, also, to a feeling of exaltation which clouded my +judgment. I knew that Olaf was falling in love with Nancy, and I half +guessed that Nancy might be falling in love with Olaf, yet I sat there +and let them do it. If Anthony should ever know! Yet how can he know? As +I weigh it now, I am not sure that I have anything with which to +reproach myself, for the end, at times, justifies the means, and the +Jesuitical theory had its origin, perhaps, in the profound knowledge +that Fate does not always use fair methods in gaining her ends.</p> + +<p>I can't begin to tell you what we talked about. Nancy had dried her +hair, and it was wound loosely, high on her head. The blue cloak was +over her shoulders, and she was the loveliest thing that I ever hope to +see. By the flame in her cheeks and the light in her eyes, I was made +aware of an exaltation which matched my own. She, too, was caught up +into the atmosphere of excitement which Olaf created. He could not take +his eyes from her. I wondered what Anthony would have said could he have +visioned for the moment this blue-and-gold enchantress.</p> + +<p>When coffee was served there were no cigarettes or cigars. Nancy had her +own silver case hanging at her belt. I knew that she would smoke, and I +did not try to stop her. She always smoked after her meals and she was +restless without it.</p> + +<p>It was Olaf who stopped her. "You will hate my bad manners," he said, +with his gaze holding hers, "but I wish you wouldn't."</p> + +<p>She was lighting her own little wax taper and she looked her surprise.</p> + +<p>"My cigarette?"</p> + +<p>He nodded. "You are too lovely."</p> + +<p>"But surely you are not so—old-fashioned."</p> + +<p>"No. I am perhaps so—new-fashioned that my reason might take your +breath away." He laughed but did not explain.</p> + +<p>Nancy sat undecided while the taper burned out futilely. Then she said, +"Of course you are my host—"</p> + +<p>"Don't do it for that reason. Do it because"—he stopped, laughed again, +and went on—"because you are a goddess—a woman of a new race—"</p> + +<p>With parted lips she looked at him, then tried to wrench herself back to +her attitude of light indifference.</p> + +<p>"Oh, we've grown beyond all that."</p> + +<p>"All what?"</p> + +<p>"Goddess-women. We are just nice and human together."</p> + +<p>"You are nice and human. But you are more than that."</p> + +<p>Nancy put her unlighted cigarette back in its case. "I'll keep it for +next time," she said, with a touch of defiance.</p> + +<p>"There will be no next time," was his secure response, and his eyes held +hers until, with an effort, she withdrew her gaze.</p> + +<p>Then he rose, and his men placed deep chairs for us in a sheltered +corner, where we could look out across the blue to the low hills of the +moor. There was a fur rug over my chair, and I sank gratefully into the +warmth of it.</p> + +<p>"With a wind like this in the old days," Olaf said, as he stood beside +me looking out over the sparkling water, "how the sails would have been +spread, and now there is nothing but steam and gasoline and +electricity."</p> + +<p>"Why don't you have sails then," Nancy challenged him, "instead of +steam?"</p> + +<p>"I have a ship. Shall I show you the picture of it?"</p> + +<p>He left to get it, and Nancy said to me, "Ducky, will you pinch me?"</p> + +<p>"You mean that it doesn't seem real?"</p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>"Well, maybe it isn't. He said he was a sort of Flying Dutchman."</p> + +<p>"I should hate to think that he wasn't real, Elizabeth. He is as alive +as a—burning coal."</p> + +<p>Olaf came back with the pictures of his ship, a clean-cut, beautiful +craft, very up-to-date, except for the dragon-heads at prow and stem.</p> + +<p>"If I could have had my way," he told us, "I should have built it like +the ship on the tapestry in there—but it wasn't practical—we haven't +manpower for the oars in these days."</p> + +<p>He had other pictures—of a strange house, or, rather, of a collection +of buildings set in the form of a quadrangle, and inclosed by low walls. +There were great gateways of carved wood with ironwork and views of the +interior—a wide hall with fireplaces—a raised platform, with carved +seats that gave a throne-like effect. The house stood on a sort of high +peninsula with a forest back of it, and the sea spreading out beyond.</p> + +<p>"The house looks old," Olaf said, "but I planned it."</p> + +<p>He had, he explained, during one of his voyages, come upon a hidden +harbor. "There is only a fishing village and a few small boats at the +landing place, but the people claim to be descendants of the vikings. +They are utterly isolated, but a God-fearing, hardy folk.</p> + +<p>"It is strangely cut off from the rest of the world. I call it 'The +Hidden Land.' It is not on any map. I have looked and have not found +it."</p> + +<p>"But why," was Nancy's demand, "did you build there?"</p> + +<p>It was a question, I think, for which he had waited. "Some day I may +tell you, but not now, except this—that I love the sea, and I shall end +my days where, when I open my gates, my eyes may rest upon it ... where +its storms may beat upon my roof, and where the men about me shall sail +it, and get their living from it.</p> + +<p>"I have told your cousin," he went on, "something of the life of my +grandfather and of my father. With all of their sea-blood, they were +shut away for two generations from the sea. Can you grasp the meaning of +that to me?—the heritage of suppressed longings? I think my father must +have felt it as I did, for he drank heavily before he died. My +grandfather sought an outlet in founding the family fortunes. But when I +came, there was not the compelling force of poverty to make me work, and +I had before me the warning of my father's excesses. But this +sea-madness! It has driven me on and on, and at last it has driven me +here." He stopped, then took up the theme again in his tense, excited +fashion, "It will drive me on again."</p> + +<p>"Why should it drive you on?"</p> + +<p>When Nancy asked that question, I knew what had happened. The thrill of +her voice was the answer of a bird to its mate. When I think of her, I +see her always as she was then, the blue cloak falling about her, her +hair blowing, her cheeks flaming with lovely color.</p> + +<p>I saw his fingers clench the arm of his chair as if in an effort of +self-control. Then he said: "Perhaps I shall tell you that, too. But not +now." He rose abruptly. "It is warmer inside, and we can have some +music. I am sure you must be tired of hearing me talk about myself."</p> + +<p>He played for us, in masterly fashion, the Peer Gynt suite, and after +that a composition of his own. At last he sang, with all the swing of +the sea in voice and accompaniment, and the song drew our hearts out of +us.</p> + +<p>Nancy was very quiet as we drove from the pier, and it was while I was +dressing for dinner that she came into my room.</p> + +<p>"Elizabeth," she said, "I am not sure whether we have been to a +Methodist revival or to a Wagner music-drama—"</p> + +<p>"Neither," I told her. "There's nothing artificial about him. You asked +me back there if he was real. I believe that he is utterly real, Nancy. +It is not a pose. I am convinced that it is not a pose."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "that's the queer thing. He's not—putting it on—and +he makes everybody else seem—stale and shallow—like +ghosts—or—shadow-shapes—"</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">I read <i>Vanity Fair</i> late into the night, and the morning was coming on +before I tried to sleep. I waked to find Nancy standing by my bed.</p> + +<p>"His boat is gone."</p> + +<p>"Gone?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. It went an hour ago. I saw it from the roof."</p> + +<p>"From the roof?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I got up—early. I—I could not sleep. And when I looked—it was +gone—your glasses showed it almost out of sight."</p> + +<p>She was wrapped in the blue cloak. Olaf had made her bring it with her. +She had protested. But he had been insistent.</p> + +<p>"I found this in the pocket," Nancy said, and held out a card on which +Olaf had written, "When she lifted her arms, opening the door, a light +shone on them from the sea, and the air and all the world were +brightened for her."</p> + +<p>"What does it mean, Elizabeth?"</p> + +<p>"I think you know, my dear."</p> + +<p>"That he cares?"</p> + +<p>"What do you think?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes were like stars. "But how can he? He has seen me—twice—"</p> + +<p>"Some men are like that."</p> + +<p>"If you only hadn't told him about Anthony."</p> + +<p>"I am glad that I told him."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but he might have stayed."</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"And I might have loved him." She was still glowing with the fires that +Olaf had lighted in her.</p> + +<p>"But you are going to marry Anthony."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "I am going to marry Anthony. I am going to flirt and +smoke cigarettes and let him—flirt—when I might have been a—goddess."</p> + +<p>It was after breakfast on the same day that a letter came to me, +delivered into my own hands by messenger. It was from Olaf, and he left +it to me whether Nancy should see it. It covered many pages and it shook +my soul, but I did not show it to Nancy.</p> + +<p>There were nights after that when I found it hard to sleep, nights in +which I thought of Olaf sailing toward the hidden land, holding in his +heart a hope which it was in my power to crown with realization or dash +to the ground. Yet I had Nancy's happiness to think of, and, in a sense, +Anthony's. It seemed almost incredible that I must carry, too, on my +heart, the burden of the happiness of Olaf Thoresen.</p> + +<p>When Anthony came back, he and Nancy were caught in a net of +engagements, and I saw very little of them. Of course they romped in now +and then with their own particular crowd, and treated me, as it were, +to a cross-section of modern life. Except for two things, I should have +judged that Nancy had put away all thoughts of Olaf, but these two +things were significant. She had stopped smoking, and she no longer +touched her cheeks with artificial bloom.</p> + +<p>Anthony's amazement, when he offered her a cigarette and she refused, +had in it a touch of irritation. "But, my dear girl, why not?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I have to think of my complexion, Tony."</p> + +<p>I think he knew it was not that and was puzzled. "I never saw you +looking better in my life."</p> + +<p>She was wearing a girdle of blue with her clear, crisp white, and her +fairness was charming. She had, indeed, the look which belongs to young +Catholic girls dedicated to the Virgin who wear her colors.</p> + +<p>It was not, however, until Anthony had been home for a week that he saw +the blue cloak. We were all on the beach—Mimi Sears and Bob Needham and +the Drakes, myself and Anthony. Nancy was late, having a foursome to +finish on the golf grounds. She came at last, threading her way gayly +through the crowd of bathers. She was without her cap, and her hair was +wound in a thick braid about her head. I saw people turning to look at +her as they had never turned to look when she had worn her shadowy gray.</p> + +<p>"Great guns!" said a man back of me. "What a beauty!"</p> + +<p>A deep flush stained Anthony's face, and I knew at once that he did not +like it. It was as if, having attuned his taste to the refinement of a +Japanese print, he had been called upon to admire a Fra Angelico. He +hated the obvious, and Nancy's loveliness at this moment was as definite +as the loveliness of the sky, the sea, the moon, the stars. Later I was +to learn that Anthony's taste was for a sophisticated Nancy, a mocking +Nancy, a slim, mysterious creature, with charms which were caviar to the +mob.</p> + +<p>But Bob Needham spoke from the depths of his honest and undiscriminating +soul. "Heavens! Nancy. Where did you get it?"</p> + +<p>"Get what?"</p> + +<p>"That cloak."</p> + +<p>"Do you like it?"</p> + +<p>"Like it—! I wish Tony would run away while I tell you."</p> + +<p>Anthony, forcing a smile, asked, "Where did you get it, Nan?"</p> + +<p>"It was given to me." She sat down on the sand and smiled at him.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Drake, feeling the thickness and softness, exclaiming over the +embroidery, said finally: "It is a splendid thing. Like a queen's robe."</p> + +<p>"You haven't told us yet," Anthony persisted, "where you got it."</p> + +<p>"No? Well, Elizabeth will tell you. It's rather a long story. I am going +into the water. Come on, Bob."</p> + +<p>She left the cloak with me. Anthony followed her and the others. I sat +alone under a great orange umbrella and wondered if Anthony would ask me +about the cloak.</p> + +<p>He did not, and when Nancy came back finally with her hair down and +blowing in the wind to dry, Anthony was with her. The cloud was gone +from his face, in the battle with the wares he had forgotten his +vexation.</p> + +<p>But he remembered when he saw the cloak. "Tell me about it, Nancy."</p> + +<p>"I got it from Elizabeth's viking."</p> + +<p>That was the calm way in which she put it.</p> + +<p>"He isn't my viking," I told her.</p> + +<p>"Well, you were responsible for him."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to say," Anthony demanded, "that you accepted a gift like +that from a man you didn't know?"</p> + +<p>Nancy, hugging herself in the cloak, said, "I felt that I knew him very +well."</p> + +<p>"How long was he here?"</p> + +<p>"Three days. I saw him twice."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I quite like the—idea—" Anthony began, then broke off. +"Of course you have a right to do as you please."</p> + +<p>"Of course," said Nancy, with a flame in her cheek.</p> + +<p>"But it would please me very much if you would send it back to him."</p> + +<p>"If I wanted to," she told him, "I couldn't."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Can you mail parcel post packages to the—Flying Dutchman? Or express +things to—to Odin?"</p> + +<p>"I don't in the least know what you are talking about, Nancy."</p> + +<p>"Well, he sailed in and he sailed out. He didn't leave any address. He +left the cloak—and a rather intriguing memory, Anthony."</p> + +<p>That was all the satisfaction she would give him. And I am not sure that +he deserved more at her hands. The agreement between them had +been—absolute freedom.</p> + +<p>I am convinced that if it had not been for the garden party I should +never have shown Olaf's letter to Nancy. The garden party is an annual +event. We always hold it in August, when the "off-islanders" crowd the +hotels, and when money is more plentiful than at any other time during +the year.</p> + +<p>Nancy had charge of the fish pond. I had helped her to make the fish, +which were gay objects of painted paper, numbered to indicate a +corresponding prize package, and to be caught with a dangling line from +a lily-wreathed artificial pool.</p> + +<p>The day of the garden party was a glorious one—with the air so clear +that the flying pennants of the decorated booths, and the gowns of the +women, gained brilliancy and beauty from the shining atmosphere.</p> + +<p>Nancy wore a broad blue hat which matched her eyes, one of her clear +white dresses, and a silken scarf of the same blue as her hat. She loved +children, and as she stood in a circle of them all the afternoon, +untiring, eager—bending down to them, hooking the fish on the dangling +line—handing out the prizes, smiling into the flushed eager faces, +helping the very littlest ones to achieve a catch, I sat in a chair not +far away from her and watched. I saw Anthony come and go, urging her to +let some one else take her place, pressing a dozen reasons upon her for +desertion of her task, and coming back, when she refused, to complain to +me:</p> + +<p>"Such things are a deadly bore."</p> + +<p>"Not to Nancy."</p> + +<p>"But they used to be. She's changed, Elizabeth."</p> + +<p>"Beautifully changed."</p> + +<p>"I am not sure. She was always such, a good sport."</p> + +<p>"And isn't she now?"</p> + +<p>"She is different," he caught himself up, "but of course—adorable."</p> + +<p>Mimi Sears joined us, and she and Anthony went off together. Bob Needham +hung around Nancy until she sent him away. At last the hour arrived for +the open-air play which was a special attraction, and the crowds surged +toward the inclosure. The booths were deserted, and only one +rapturous child remained by the fish pond.</p> + +<p>Nancy sat down and lifted the baby to her lap. She had taken off her +hat, and her blue scarf fell about her. Something tugged at my heart as +I looked at her. With that little head in the hollow of her arm she was +the eternal mother.</p> + +<p>I saw Anthony approaching. He stopped, and I caught his words. "You must +come now, Nancy. I am saving a seat for you."</p> + +<p>She shook her head, and looked down at the child. "I told his nurse to +go and he is almost asleep."</p> + +<p>He flung himself away from her and came over to me. "I have good seats +for both of you in the enclosure. But Nancy won't go."</p> + +<p>I rose and went with him, although I should have been content to sit +there by the fish pond and feast my eyes on Nancy.</p> + +<p>"It is perfectly silly of her to stay," Anthony fumed as we walked on +together.</p> + +<p>"But she loves the children."</p> + +<p>"I hate children."</p> + +<p>I am sure that he did not mean it. What he hated was the fact that the +child had for the moment held Nancy from him. It was as if, looking +forward into the future, he could see like moments, and set himself +against the thought of any interruption of what might be otherwise an +untrammeled and independent partnership. He had, I think, little +jealousy where men were concerned. He was willing to give Nancy the +reins and let her go, believing that she would inevitably come back to +him. He was not, perhaps, so willing to trust her with ties which might +prove more absorbing than himself.</p> + +<p>If I had not had Olaf's letter, I might not have weighed Anthony's +attitude so carefully, but against those burning words and their +comprehension of the divinity and beauty of my Nancy's nature, Anthony's +querulous complaint struck cold.</p> + +<p>I think it was then, as we walked toward the inclosure, that I made +up my mind to let Nancy hear what Olaf had to say to her.</p> + +<p>She stayed out late that night—there was a dinner and a dance—and +Anthony brought her home. I confess that I felt like a traitor as I +heard the murmur of his voice in the hall.</p> + +<p>But when he had gone, and Nancy passed my door on her way to her room, I +called her, and she came in.</p> + +<p>I was in bed, and I had the letter in my hand. "I want you to read it," +I said. "It is from Olaf Thoresen."</p> + +<p>She looked at it, and asked, "When did it come?"</p> + +<p>"Two months ago. The day that he left."</p> + +<p>"Why haven't you shown it to me?"</p> + +<p>"I couldn't make up my mind. I do not know even now that I am right in +letting you see it. But I feel that you have a right to see it. It is +you who must answer it. Not I."</p> + +<p>When she had gone, I turned to the chapter in my book where Becky weeps +crocodile tears over poor Rawdon Crawley on the night before Waterloo. +There is no scene in modern literature to match it. But I couldn't get +my mind on it. Nancy was reading Olaf's letter!</p> + +<p>I kept a copy of it, and here it is:</p> + +<blockquote class="letter"> +<p>"I knew when I first saw her in the garden that she was the One Woman. I +had wanted sea-blood, and when she came, ready for a dip in the sea, it +seemed a sign. One knows these things somehow, and I knew. I shan't +attempt to explain it.</p> + +<p>"When you told me of her lover, I felt that Fate had played a trick on +me. I could not now with honor pursue the woman who was promised to +another. Yet I permitted myself that one day—the day on my boat.</p> + +<p>"I learned in those hours that I spent with her that she had been molded +by the man she is to marry and that in the years to come she will shrink +to the measure of his demands upon her. She is feminine enough to be +swayed by masculine will. That is at once her strength and her weakness. +Loving a man who will love her for the wonder of her womanhood, she will +fulfill her greatest destiny. Loving, on the other hand, one who aspires +only to fit her into some attenuated social scheme, she will wither and +fade. I think you know that this is true, that you will not accuse me of +being unfair to any one.</p> + +<p>"And now may I tell you what my dreams have been for her?</p> + +<p>"I am not young. I mean I am past those hot and early years when men +play—Romeo. The dream that is mine is one which has come to a man of +thirty, who, having seen the world, has weighed it and wants—something +more.</p> + +<p>"I have told you of my house in that hidden land which is washed by the +sea. I want to spend the rest of my days there, and I had hoped that +some woman might be found whose love of life, whose love of adventure, +whose love of me, might be so strong that she would see nothing strange +in my demand that she forsake all others and cleave only to me.</p> + +<p>"By forsaking all others, I mean, literally, what I say. I should want +to cut her off entirely from all former ties. To let any one into our +secret, to reveal that hidden land to a gaping world, would be to +destroy it. We should be followed, tracked by the newspapers, written +up, judged eccentric—mad. And I do not wish to be judged at all. My +separation from my kind would have in it more than a selfish whim, an +obsession for solitude. I want to get back to primitive civilization. I +want my children to face a simpler world than the one I faced. Do you +know what it means for a man to inherit money, with nothing back of it +for two generations but hard work, although back of that there were, +perhaps, kings? It means that I had, unaided, to fit myself into a +social scheme so complex that I have not yet mastered its intricacies. I +do not want to master them. I do not want my sons to master them. I +want them to find life a thing of the day's work, the day's worship, the +day's out-of-door delights. I want them to have time to think and to +dream. And then some day they shall come back if they wish to challenge +civilization—young prophets, perhaps, out of the wilderness—seeing a +new vision of God and man because of their detachment from all that +might have blinded them.</p> + +<p>"I have a feeling that your Nancy might, if she knew this, dream with me +of a new race, rising to the level of the needs of a new world. She +might see herself as the mother of such a race—sheltered in my hidden +land, sailing the seas with me, held close to my heart. I think I am a +masterful man, but I should be masterful only to keep her to her best. +If she faltered I should strengthen her. And I should make her happy. I +know that I could make her happy. And for me there will never be +another.</p> + +<p>"I am leaving it to you to decide whether you will show her this. I want +her to see it, because it seems to me that she has a right to decide +between the life that I can offer her and the life she must live if she +marries Anthony Peak. But it all involves a point of honor which I feel +that I am not unprejudiced enough to decide. So to-morrow I shall go +away. I shall sail far in the two months that I shall give myself before +I come back. And when I come, you will let me know whether I am to turn +once more to the trackless seas, or stay to find my happiness."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>This letter when I had first read it had stirred me profoundly, as I +think it must have stirred any man or woman who has yearned amid the +complexities of modern existence to find some land of dreams. Even to my +island, comparatively untouched by the problems of existence in crowded +centers, come the echoes of discord, of social unrest, of political +upheavals, of commercial greed. In this hidden land of Olaf's would be +life stripped of its sordidness, love free from the blight of cynicism +and disillusion—faith, firm in its nearness to God and the wonder of +His works. I envied Olaf his hidden land as I envied Nancy her +opportunity. My blood is the same as Nancy's, and I love the sea. And as +we grow older our souls adventure!</p> + +<p>When Nancy came in to me, she had put on her white <i>peignoir</i>, and she +had Olaf's letter in her hand.</p> + +<p>"Ducky," she said, and her voice shook, "I have read it twice—and—I +shouldn't dare to think he was in earnest."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"I should want to go, Elizabeth."</p> + +<p>"And leave the world behind you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I haven't any world. It might be different if mother were alive, or +daddy. There'd be only you, Ducky, my dear, dear Ducky." She caught my +hand and held it.</p> + +<p>"And Anthony—"</p> + +<p>"Anthony would get over it"—sharply. "Wouldn't he, Elizabeth? You know +he would."</p> + +<p>"My dear, I don't know."</p> + +<p>"But I know. If I hadn't been in his life, Mimi Sears would have been, +just as Bob Needham would have been in my life if it hadn't been for +Anthony. There isn't any question between Anthony and me of—one woman +for one man. You know that, Elizabeth. But with Olaf—if he doesn't have +me, there will be no one else—ever. He—he will go sailing on—alone—"</p> + +<p>"My dear, how do you know?"</p> + +<p>She flung herself down beside me, a white rose, all fragrance. "I don't +know"—she began to cry. "How silly I am," she sobbed against my +shoulder. "I—I don't know anything about him, do I, Elizabeth—? But it +would be wonderful to be loved—like that."</p> + +<p>All through the night she slept on my arm, with her hand curled in the +hollow of my neck as she had slept as a child. But I did not sleep. My +mind leaped forward into the future, and I saw my world without her.</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">Nancy stayed with me through September. Anthony's holiday was up the +day after the garden party, and he went back to Boston, keeping touch +with Nancy in the modern way by wire, special delivery, and +long-distance telephone.</p> + +<p>It was on a stormy night with wind and beating rain that Nancy told me +Anthony was insisting that she marry him in December.</p> + +<p>"But I can't, Elizabeth. I am going to write to him to-night."</p> + +<p>"When will it be?"</p> + +<p>"Who knows? I—I'm not ready. If he can't wait—he can let me go."</p> + +<p>She did not stay to listen to my comment on her mutiny—she swept out of +the library and sat down at the piano in the other room, making a +picture of herself between the tall white candles which illumined the +dark mahogany and the mulberry brocades.</p> + +<p>I leaned back in my chair and watched her, her white fingers straying +over the keys, her thin blue sleeves flowing back from her white arms. +Now and then I caught a familiar melody among the chords, and once I was +aware of the beat and the swing of the waves in the song which Olaf had +once sung.</p> + +<p>She did not finish it. She rose and wandered to the window, parting the +curtain and looking out into the streaming night.</p> + +<p>"It's an awful storm, Ducky."</p> + +<p>"Yes, my dear. On nights like this I always think of the old days when +the men were on the sea, and the women waited."</p> + +<p>"I'd rather think of my man on the sea, even if I had to wait for him, +Ducky, than shut up in office, stagnating."</p> + +<p>The door-bell rang suddenly. It was a dreadful night for any one to be +out, but Anita, undisturbed and crisp in her white apron and cap, came +through the hall. A voice asked a question, and the blood began to pound +in my body. Things were blurred for a bit, and when my vision cleared—I +saw Olaf in the shine of the candles in the room beyond, with Nancy +crushed to him, his bright head bent, the sheer blue of her frock +infolding him—the archway of the door framing them like the figures of +saints in the stained glass of a church window!</p> + +<p>I knew then that I had lost her. But she did not yield at once.</p> + +<p>"I love him, of course. But a woman couldn't do a thing like that," was +the way she put it to me the next morning.</p> + +<p>I felt, however, that Olaf would master her. Will was set against will, +mind against mind. And at last she showed him the way. "A thousand years +ago you would have carried me off."</p> + +<p>I can see him now as he caught the idea and laughed at her. "Whether you +go of your own accord or I carry you, you will be happy." He lifted her +in his strong hands as if she were a feather, held her, kissed her, and +flashed a glance at me. "You see how easy it would be, and there's a +chaplain on board."</p> + +<p>There is not much more to tell. Nancy went down one morning to the beach +for her bath—and the fog swallowed her up. I have often wondered +whether she planned it, or whether, knowing that she would be there, he +had come in his launch and had borne her away struggling, but not, I am +sure, unwilling. However it happened, the cloak went with her, and I +like to think that she was held in his arms, wrapped in it, when they +reached the ship.</p> + +<p>I like to think, too, of my Nancy in the glowing room with the wolfskins +and the strange old tapestry—and the storms beating helpless against +her happiness.</p> + +<p>I like to think of her as safe in that hidden land, where most of us +fain would follow her—the mistress of that guarded mansion, the wife of +a young sea god, the mother of a new race.</p> + +<p>But, most of all, I like to think of the children. And I have but one +wish for a long life, which might otherwise weigh upon me, that the +years may bring back to the world those prophets from a hidden land, +those young voices crying from the wilderness—the children of Olaf and +of Nancy Greer.</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="WHITE_BIRCHES" id="WHITE_BIRCHES"></a>WHITE BIRCHES</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + + +<p>A woman, who under sentence of death could plan immediately for a trip +to the circus, might seem at first thought incredibly light-minded.</p> + +<p>You had, however, to know Anne Dunbar and the ten years of her married +life to understand. Her husband was fifteen years her senior, and he had +few illusions. He had fallen in love with Anne because of a certain gay +youth in her which had endured throughout the days of a dreadful +operation and a slow convalescence. He had been her surgeon, and, +propped up in bed, Anne's gray eyes had shone upon him, the red-gold +curls of her cropped hair had given her a look of almost boyish beauty, +and this note of boyishness had been emphasized by the straight +slenderness of the figure outlined beneath the white covers.</p> + +<p>Anne had married Ridgeley Dunbar because she loved him. And love to Anne +had been all fire and flame and spirit. It did not take her long to +learn that her husband looked upon love and life as matters of flesh and +blood—and bones. By degrees his materialism imposed itself upon Anne. +She admired Ridgeley immensely. She worshiped, in fact, the wonder of +his day's work. He healed the sick, he cured the halt and blind, and he +scoffed at Anne's superstitions—"I can match every one of your Bible +miracles. There's nothing to it, my dear. Death is death and life is +life—so make the most of it."</p> + +<p>Anne tried to make the most of it. But she found it difficult. In the +first place her husband was a very busy man. He seemed to be perfectly +happy with his cutting people up, and his medical books, and the +articles which he wrote about the intricate clockwork inside of us which +ticks off the hours from birth to death. Now and then he went out to the +theatre with his wife or to dine with friends. But, as a rule, she went +alone. She had a limousine, a chauffeur, a low swung touring car—and an +electric. Her red hair was still wonderful, and she dressed herself +quite understanding in grays and whites and greens. If she did not wear +habitually her air of gay youth, it was revived in her now and then when +something pleased or excited her. And her eyes would shine as they had +shone in the hospital when Ridgeley Dunbar had first bent over her bed.</p> + +<p>They shone on Christopher Carr when he came home from the war. He was a +friend of her husband. Or rather, as a student in the medical school, he +had listened to the lectures of the older man, and had made up his mind +to know him personally, and had thus, by sheer persistence, linked their +lives together.</p> + +<p>Anne had never met him. He had been in India When she had married +Ridgeley, and then there had been a few years in Egypt where he had +studied some strange germ, of which she could never remember the name. +He had plenty of money, hence he was not tied to a practice. But when +the war began, he had offered his services, and had made a great record. +"He is one of the big men of the future," Ridgeley Dunbar had said.</p> + +<p>But when Christopher came back with an infected arm, which might give +him trouble, it was not the time to talk of futures. He was invited to +spend July at the Dunbars' country home in Connecticut, and Ridgeley +brought him out at the week-end.</p> + +<p>The Connecticut estate consisted of a rambling stone house, an +old-fashioned garden, and beyond the garden a grove of white birches.</p> + +<p>"What a heavenly place," Christopher said, toward the end of dinner; +"how did you happen to find it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Anne did it. She motored for weeks, and she bought it because of +the birches."</p> + +<p>Anne's eyes were shining. "I'll show them to you after dinner."</p> + +<p>She had decided at once that she liked Christopher. He still wore his +uniform, and had the look of a soldier. But it wasn't that—it was the +things he had been saying ever since the soup was served. No one had +talked of the war as he talked of it. There had been other doctors whose +minds had been on arms and legs—amputated; on wounds and shell +shock—And there had been a few who had sentimentalized. But Christopher +had seemed neither to resent the frightfulness nor to care about the +moral or spiritual consequences. He had found in it all a certain beauty +of which he spoke with enthusiasm—"A silver dawn, and a patch of Blue +Devils like smoke against it—;" ... "A blood-red sunset, and a lot of +airmen streaming across—"</p> + +<p>He painted pictures, so that Anne saw battles as if a great brush had +splashed them on an invisible canvas. There were just four at the +table—the two men, Anne, and her second cousin, Jeanette Ware, who +lived the year round in the Connecticut house, and was sixty and +slightly deaf, but who wore modern clothes and had a modern mind.</p> + +<p>It was not yet dark, and the light of the candles in sconces and on the +table met the amethyst light that came through, the wide-flung lattice. +Anne's summer gown was something very thin in gray, and she wore an +Indian necklace of pierced silver beads. Christopher had sent it to her +as a wedding-present and she had always liked it.</p> + +<p>When they rose from the table, Christopher said, "Now for the birches."</p> + +<p>Somewhere in the distance the telephone rang, and a maid came in to say +that Dr. Dunbar was wanted. "Don't wait for me," he said, "I'll follow +you."</p> + +<p>Jeanette Ware hated the night air, and took her book to the lamp on the +screened porch, and so it happened that Anne and Christopher came alone +to the grove where the white bodies of the birches shone like slender +nymphs through the dusk. A little wind shook their leaves.</p> + +<p>"No wonder," said Christopher, looking down at Anne, "that you wanted +this—but tell me precisely why."</p> + +<p>She tried to tell him, but found it difficult. "I seem to find something +here that I thought I had lost."</p> + +<p>"What things?"</p> + +<p>"Well—guardian angels—do you believe in them?" She spoke lightly, as +if it were not in the least serious, but he felt that it was serious.</p> + +<p>"I believe in all beautiful things—"</p> + +<p>"I used to think when I was a little girl that they were around me when +I was asleep—</p> + +<blockquote class="poem"><p> +'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—<br /> +Bless the bed that I lie on—'" +</p></blockquote> + +<p>her laugh was a bit breathless—"but I don't believe in them any more. +Ridgeley doesn't, you know. And it does seem silly—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, it isn't—"</p> + +<p>"Ridgeley feels that it is a bit morbid—and perhaps he is right. He +says that we must eat and drink and—be merry," she flung out her hands +with a little gesture of protest, "but he really isn't merry—"</p> + +<p>"I see. He just eats and drinks?" He smiled at her.</p> + +<p>"And works. And his work is—wonderful."</p> + +<p>They sat down on a stone bench which had been hewn out of solid gray +rock. "I wish Ridgeley had time to play," Anne said; "it would be nice +for both of us—"</p> + +<p>The amethyst light had gone, and the dusk descended. Anne's gray dress +was merged into the gray of the rock. She seemed just voice, and phantom +outline, and faint rose fragrance. Christopher recognized the scent. He +had sent her a precious vial in a sandalwood box. Nothing had seemed too +good for the wife of his old friend Dunbar.</p> + +<p>"Life for you and Ridgeley," he told her, "should be something more than +work or play—it should be infinite adventure."</p> + +<p>"Yes. But Ridgeley hasn't time for adventure."</p> + +<p>"Oh, he thinks he hasn't—"</p> + +<p>As Christopher talked after that, Anne was not sure that he was in +earnest. He complained that romance had fallen into disrepute. "With all +the modern stories—you know the formula—an ounce of sordidness, a +flavor of sensationalism, a dash of sex—" One had to look back for the +real thing—Aucassin and Nicolette, and all the rest. "That's why I +haven't married."</p> + +<p>"Well, I have often wondered."</p> + +<p>"If I loved a woman, I should want to make her life all glow and +color—and mine—with her—"</p> + +<p>Anne's eyes were shining. What a big pleasant boy he was. He seemed so +young. He had a way of running his fingers up through his hair. She was +aware of the gesture in the dark. Yes, she liked him. And she felt +suddenly gay and light-hearted, as she had felt in the days when she +first met Ridgeley.</p> + +<p>They talked until the stars shone in the tips of the birch trees. +Ridgeley did not come, and when they went back to the house, they found +that he had been called to New York on an urgent case. He would not +return until the following Friday.</p> + +<p>Anne and Christopher were thus left together for a week to get +acquainted. With only old Jeanette Ware to play propriety.</p> + + + +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p>It did not take Christopher long to decide that Ridgeley was no longer +in love with his wife. "Of course he would call it love. But he could +live just as well without her. He has made a machine of himself."</p> + +<p>He spoke to Dunbar one night about Anne. "Do you think she is perfectly +well?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"There's a touch of breathlessness when we walk. Are you sure about her +heart?"</p> + +<p>"She has never been strong—" and that had seemed to be the end of it.</p> + +<p>But it was not the end of it for Christopher. He watched Anne closely, +and once when they climbed a hill together and she gave out, he carried +her to the top. He managed to get his ear against her heart, and what he +heard drained the blood from his face.</p> + +<p>As for Anne, she thought how strong he was—and how fair his hair was +with the sun upon it, for he had tucked his cap in his pocket.</p> + +<p>That night Christopher again spoke to Ridgeley. "Anne's in a bad way." +He told of the walk to the top of the hill.</p> + +<p>Ridgeley listened this time, and the next day he took Anne down into his +office, and did things to her. "But I don't see why you are doing all +this," she complained, as he stuck queer instruments in his ears, and +made her draw long breaths while he listened.</p> + +<p>"Christopher says you get tired when you walk."</p> + +<p>"Well, I do. But there's nothing really the matter, is there?"</p> + +<p>There was a great deal the matter, but there was no hint of it in his +manner. If she had not been his wife, he would probably have told her +the truth—that she had a few months, perhaps a few years ahead of her. +He was apt to be frank with his patients. But he was not frank with +Anne. He had intended to tell Christopher at once. But Christopher was +away for a week.</p> + +<p>In the week that he was separated from her, Christopher learned that he +loved Anne; that he had been in love with her from the moment that she +had stood among the birches—like one of them in her white +slenderness—and had talked to him of guardian angels;—"<i>Matthew, Mark, +Luke, and John</i>!"</p> + +<p>He did not believe in saints, nor in the angels whose wings seemed to +enfold Anne, but he believed in beauty—and Anne's seemed lighted from +within, like an alabaster lamp.</p> + +<p>Yet she was very human—and the girl in her and the boy in him had met +in the weeks that he had spent with her. They had found a lot of things +to do—they had fished in shallow brown streams, they had ridden +through miles of lovely country. They had gone forth in search of +adventure, and they had found it; in cherries on a tree by the road, and +he had climbed the tree and had dropped them down to her, and she had +hung them over her ears—He had milked a cow in a pasture as they +passed, and they had drunk it with their sandwiches, and had tied up a +bill in Anne's fine handkerchief and had knotted it to the halter of the +gentle, golden-eared Guernsey.</p> + +<p>But they had found more than adventure—they had found romance—shining +upon them everywhere. "If I were a gipsy to follow the road, and she +could follow it with me," Christopher meditated as he sat in the train +on his way back to Anne.</p> + +<p>But there was Anne's husband, and Christopher's friend—and more than +all there were all the specters of modern life—all the hideous wheels +which must turn if Anne were ever to be his—treachery to Ridgeley—the +divorce court—and then, himself and Anne, living the aftermath, of it +all, facing, perhaps, disillusion—</p> + +<p>"Oh, not <i>that</i>," Christopher told himself, "she'd never grow +less—never anything less than she is—if she could once—care—"</p> + +<p>For he did not know whether Anne cared or not. He might guess as he +pleased—but there had not been a word between them.</p> + +<p>Once more the thought flashed, "If I were a gipsy to follow the road—"</p> + +<p>As his train sped through the countryside, he became aware of flaming +bill-boards—a circus was showing in the towns—the fences fairly blazed +with golden chariots, wild beasts, cheap gods and goddesses, clowns in +frilled collars and peaked hats. He remembered a glorious day that he +had spent as a boy!</p> + +<p>"I'll take Anne," was his sudden decision.</p> + +<p>He laughed to himself, and spent the rest of the way in seeing her at +it. They would drink pink lemonade, and there would be pop-corn +balls—the entrancing smell of sawdust—the beat of the band. He hoped +there would be a tom-tom, and some of the dark people from the Far East.</p> + +<p>He reached his destination at seven o'clock. Dunbar met him at the +station. Anne sat with her husband, and Jeanette was in the back seat. +Christopher had, therefore, a side view of Anne as she turned a little +that she might talk to him. The glint of her bright hair under her gray +sports hat, the light of welcome in her eyes—!</p> + +<p>"I am going to take you to the circus to-morrow. Ridgeley, you'll go +too?"</p> + +<p>Dunbar shook his head. "I've got to get back to town in the morning. And +I'm not sure that the excitement will be good for Anne."</p> + +<p>"Why not?" quickly. "Aren't you well, Anne?"</p> + +<p>She shrugged her shoulders. "Ridgeley seems to think I'm not. But the +circus can't hurt me."</p> + +<p>Nothing more was said about it. Christopher decided to ask Ridgeley +later. But the opportunity did not come until Anne had gone up-stairs, +and Dunbar and Christopher were smoking a final cigar on the porch.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with her?" Christopher asked.</p> + +<p>Dunbar told him, "She can't get well."</p> + + + +<h3>III</h3> + + +<p>Anne, getting ready for bed, on the evening of Christopher's arrival, +felt unaccountably tired. His presence had been, perhaps, a bit +over-stimulating. It was good to have him back. She scarcely dared admit +to herself how good. After dinner she and Ridgeley and Christopher had +walked down to the grove of birches. There had been a new moon, and she +and Ridgeley had sat on the stone bench with Christopher at their feet. +She had leaned her head against her husband's shoulder, and he had put +his arm about her in the dark and had drawn her to him. He was rarely +demonstrative, and his tenderness had to-night for some reason hurt her. +She had learned to do without it.</p> + +<p>She had talked very little, but Christopher had talked a great deal. She +had been content to listen. He really told such wonderful things—he +gave her to-night the full story of her silver beads, and how they had +been filched from an ancient temple—and he had bought them from the +thief. "Until I saw you wear them, I always had a feeling that they +ought to go back to the temple—to the god who had perhaps worn them for +a thousand years. If I had known which god, I might have carried them +back. But the thief wouldn't tell me."</p> + +<p>"It would have done no good to carry them back," Ridgeley had said, "and +they are nice for Anne." His big hand had patted his wife's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Oh," Christopher had been eager, "I want you to hear those temple bells +some day, Anne. Why won't you take her, Dunbar? Next winter—drop your +work, and we'll all go—"</p> + +<p>"I've a fat chance of going."</p> + +<p>"Haven't you made money enough?"</p> + +<p>"It isn't money. You know that. But my patients would set up a howl—"</p> + +<p>"Let 'em howl. You've got a life of your own to live, and so has Anne."</p> + +<p>Dunbar had hesitated for a moment—then, "Anne's better off here."</p> + +<p>Anne, thinking of these things as she got out of her dinner dress and +into a sheer negligee of lace and faint blue, wondered why Ridgeley +should think she was better off. She wanted to see the things of which +Christopher had told her—to hear the temple bells in the dusk—the beat +of the tom-tom on white nights.</p> + +<p>She stood at the window looking out at the moon. She decided that she +could not sleep. She would go down and get a book that she had left on +the table. The men were out-of-doors, on the porch; she heard the murmur +of their voices.</p> + +<p>The voices were distinct as she stood in the library, and Christopher's +words came to her, "What's the matter with Anne?"</p> + +<p>Then her husband's technical explanation, the scientific name which +meant nothing to her, then the crashing climax, "She can't get well."</p> + +<p>She gave a quick cry, and when the men got into the room, she was +crumpled up on the floor.</p> + +<p>Her husband reached her first. "My dear," he said, "you heard?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Do you mean that I am—going to die, Ridgeley?"</p> + +<p>There was, of course, no way out of it. "It means, my dear, that I've +got to take awfully good care of you. Your heart is bad."</p> + +<p>Christopher interposed. "People live for years with a heart like that."</p> + +<p>But her eyes sought her husband's. "How long do they live?"</p> + +<p>"Many months—perhaps years—without excitement—"</p> + +<p>This then had been the reason for his tenderness. He had known that she +was going to die, and was sorry. But for ten years she had wanted what +he might have given her—what he couldn't give her now—life as she had +dreamed of it.</p> + +<p>She drew a quivering breath—"It isn't quite fair—is it?"</p> + +<p>It didn't seem fair. The two doctors had faced much unfairness of the +kind of which she complained. But it was the first time that, for either +of them, it had come so close.</p> + +<p>They had little comfort to give her, although they attempted certain +platitudes, and presently Ridgeley carried her to her room.</p> + + + +<h3>IV</h3> + + +<p>She insisted the next morning on going to the circus with Christopher. +She had not slept well, and there were shadows under her eyes. The +physician in Christopher warred with the man. "You ought to rest," he +said at breakfast. Dunbar had gone to New York in accordance with his +usual schedule. There were other lives to think of; and Anne, when he +had looked in upon her that morning, had seemed almost shockingly +callous.</p> + +<p>"No, I don't want to stay in bed, Ridgeley. I am going to the circus. I +shall follow your prescription—to eat and drink and be merry—"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I have put it quite that way, Anne."</p> + +<p>"You have. Quite. 'Death is death and life is life—so make the most of +it.'"</p> + +<p>Perhaps she was cruel. But he knew, too, that she was afraid. "My dear," +he said gently, "if you can get any comfort out of your own ideas, it +might be better."</p> + +<p>"But you believe they are just my own ideas—you don't believe they are +true?"</p> + +<p>"I should like to think they were true."</p> + +<p>"You ought to rest," said Christopher at the breakfast table.</p> + +<p>"I ought not. There are to be no more oughts—ever—"</p> + +<p>He nodded as if he understood, leaning elbows on the table.</p> + +<p>"I am going to pack the days full"—she went on. "Why not? I shall have +only a few months—and then—annihilation—" She flung her question +across the table. "You believe that, don't you?"</p> + +<p>He evaded. "We sleep—'perchance to dream.'"</p> + +<p>"I don't want to dream. They might be horrid dreams—"</p> + +<p>And then Jeanette came down, and poured their coffee, and asked about +the news in the morning paper.</p> + +<p>Dressed for her trip to the circus, Anne looked like a girl in her +teens—white skirt and short green coat—stout sports shoes and white +hat. She wore her silver beads, and Christopher said, "I'm not sure that +I would if I were you."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"In such a crowd."</p> + +<p>But she kept them on.</p> + +<p>They motored to the circus grounds, and came in out of the white glare +to the cool dimness of the tent as if they had dived from the sun-bright +surface of the sea. But there the resemblance ceased. Here was no +silence, but blatant noise—roar and chatter and shriek, the beat of the +tom-tom, the thin piping of a flute—the crash of a band. But it was the +thin piping which Christopher followed, guiding Anne with his hand on +her arm.</p> + +<p>Following the plaintive note, they came at last to the snake-charmer—an +old man in a white turban. The snakes were in a covered basket. He sat +with his feet under him and piped.</p> + +<p>Christopher spoke to him in a strange tongue. The piping broke off +abruptly and the man answered with eagerness. There was a quick +interchange of phrases.</p> + +<p>"I know his village," Christopher said; "he is going to show you his +snakes."</p> + +<p>A crowd gathered, but the snake-charmer saw only the big man who had +spoken to his homesick heart, and the girl with the silver beads. He +knew another girl who had had a string of beads like that—and they had +brought her luck—a dark-skinned girl, his daughter. Her husband had +bestowed the beads on her marriage night, and her first child had been a +son.</p> + +<p>He put the thin reed to his lips, and blew upon it. The snakes lifted +their heads. He drew them up and out of the basket, and put them through +their fantastic paces. Then he laid aside his pipe, shut them in their +basket, and spoke to Christopher.</p> + +<p>"He says that no evil can teach you while you wear the beads," +Christopher told Anne.</p> + +<p>The old man, with his eyes on her intent face, spoke again. "What you +think is evil—cannot be evil," Christopher interpreted. "The gods know +best."</p> + +<p>They moved toward the inner tent.</p> + +<p>"Are you tired?" Christopher asked. "We don't have to stay."</p> + +<p>"I want to stay," and so they went in, and presently with a blare of +trumpets the great parade began. They looked down on men and women in +Roman chariots, men on horseback, women on horseback, on elephants, on +camels—painted ladies in howdahs, painted ladies in sedan +chairs—Cleopatra, Pompadour—history reduced to pantomime, color +imposed upon color, glitter upon glitter, the beat of the tom-tom, the +crash of the band, the thin piping, as the white-turbaned snake-charmer +showed in the press of the crowd.</p> + +<p>Christopher's eyes went to Anne. She was leaning forward, one hand +clasping the silver beads. He would have given much to know what was in +her mind. How little she was and how young. And how he wanted to get her +away from the thing which hung suspended over her like a keen-edged +sword.</p> + +<p>But to get her away—how? He could never get her away from her thoughts. +Unless....</p> + +<p>Suddenly he heard her laughing. Two clowns were performing with a lot of +little dogs. One of the dogs was a poodle who played the fool. "What a +darling," Anne was saying.</p> + +<p>There was more than they could look at—each ring seemed a separate +circus—one had to have more than a single pair of eyes. Christopher was +blind to it all—except when Anne insisted, "Look—look!"</p> + +<p>Six acrobats were in the ring—four men and two women. Their tights were +of a clear shimmering blue, with silver trunks. One could not tell the +women from the men, except by their curled heads, and their smaller +stature. They were strong, wholesome, healthy. Christopher knew the +quality of that health—hearts that pumped like machines—obedient +muscles under satin skins. One of the women whirled in a series of +handsprings, like a blue balloon—her body as fluid as quicksilver. If +he could only borrow one-tenth of that endurance for Anne—he might keep +her for years.</p> + +<p>Then came Pantaloon, and Harlequin and Columbine. The old man was funny, +but the youth and the girl were exquisite—he, diamond-spangled and lean +as a lizard, she in tulle skirts and wreath of flowers. They did all the +old tricks of masks and slapping sticks, of pursuit and retreat, but +they did them so beautifully that Anne and Christopher sat +spellbound—what they were seeing was not two clever actors on a sawdust +stage, but love in its springtime—girl and boy—dreams, rapture, +radiance.</p> + +<p>Then, in a moment, Columbine was dead, and Harlequin wept over +her—frost had killed the flower—love and life were at an end.</p> + +<p>Christopher was drawing deep breaths. Anne was tense. But +now—Columbine was on her feet, and Harlequin was blowing kisses to the +audience!</p> + +<p>"Let's get out of this," Christopher said, almost roughly, and led Anne +down the steps and into the almost deserted outer tent. They looked for +the snake-charmer, but he was gone. "Eating rice somewhere or saying his +prayers," Christopher surmised.</p> + +<p>"How could he know about the gods?" Anne asked, as they drove home.</p> + +<p>"They know a great deal—these old men of the East," Christopher told +her, and talked for the rest of the way about the strange people among +whom he had spent so many years.</p> + + + +<h3>V</h3> + + +<p>Ridgeley did not come home to dinner. He telephoned that he would be +late. It was close and warm. Christopher, sitting with Anne and Jeanette +on the porch, decided that a storm was brewing.</p> + +<p>Anne was restless. She went down into the garden, and Christopher +followed her. She wore white, and he was aware of the rose scent. He +picked a rose for her as he passed through the garden. "Bend your head, +and I'll put it in your hair."</p> + +<p>"I can't wear pink."</p> + +<p>"It is white in the dusk—" He put his hands on her shoulders, stopped +her, and stuck the rose behind her ear. Then he let her go.</p> + +<p>They came to the grove of birches, and sat down on the stone seat. It +had grown dark, and the lightning flashing up from the horizon gave to +the birches a spectral whiteness—Anne was a silver statue.</p> + +<p>"It was queer," she said, "about the old man at the circus."</p> + +<p>"About the beads?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I wonder what he meant, Christopher? <i>'What you think is +evil—cannot be evil'?</i> Do you think he meant—Death?"</p> + +<p>He did not answer at once, then he said, abruptly, "Anne, how did it +happen that you and Ridgeley drifted apart?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's hard to tell."</p> + +<p>"But tell me."</p> + +<p>"Well, when we were first married, I expected so much ... things that +girls dream about—that he would always have me in his thoughts, and +that our lives would be knit together. I think we both tried hard to +have it that way. I used to ride with him on his rounds, and he would +tell me about his patients. And at night I'd wait up for him, and have +something to eat, and it was—heavenly. Ridgeley was so ... fine. But +his practice got so big, and sometimes he wouldn't say a word when I +rode with him.... And he would be so late coming in at night, and he'd +telephone that I'd better go to bed.... And, well, that was the +beginning. I don't think it is really his fault or mine ... it's just +... life."</p> + +<p>"It isn't life, and you know it," passionately. "Anne, if you had +married me ... do you think...?" He reached out in the dark and took +her hand. "Oh, my dear, we might as well talk it out."</p> + +<p>She withdrew her hand. "Talk what out?"</p> + +<p>"You know. I've learned to care for you an awful lot. I had planned to +go away. But I can't go now ... not and leave you to face things alone."</p> + +<p>He heard her quick breath. "But I've got to face them."</p> + +<p>"But not alone. Anne, do you remember what you said ... this morning? +That you were going to pack the days full? And you can't do that without +some one to help you. And Ridgeley won't help. Anne, let me do it. Let +me take you away from here ... away from Ridgeley. We will go where we +can hear the temple bells. We'll ride through the desert ... we'll set +our sails for strange harbors. We'll love until we forget everything, +but the day, the hour,—the moment! And when the time comes for endless +dreams...."</p> + +<p>"Christopher...."</p> + +<p>"Anne, listen."</p> + +<p>"You mustn't say things like that to me ... you must not...!"</p> + +<p>"I must. I want you to have happiness. We'll crowd more in to a few +short months than some people have in a lifetime. And you have a right +to it."</p> + +<p>"Would it be happiness?"</p> + +<p>"Why not? In a way we are all pushing death ahead of us. Who knows that +he will be alive to-morrow? There's this arm of mine ... there's every +chance that I'll have trouble with it. And an automobile accident may +wreck a honeymoon. You've as much time as thousands who are counting on +more."</p> + +<p>The lightning flashed and showed the birches writhing.</p> + +<p>"But afterward, Christopher, <i>afterward</i>...?"</p> + +<p>"Well, if it is Heaven, we'll have each other. And if it is Hell ... +there were Paolo and Francesca ... and if it is sleep, I'll dream +eternally of you! Anne ... Anne, do you love me enough to do it?"</p> + +<p>"Christopher, please!"</p> + +<p>But the storm was upon them—rain and wind, and the thunder a cannonade. +Christopher, brought at last to the knowledge of its menace, picked Anne +up in his arms, and ran for shelter. When they reached the house, they +found Ridgeley there. He was stern. "It was a bad business to keep her +out. She's afraid of storms."</p> + +<p>"Were you afraid?" Christopher asked her, as Ridgeley went to look after +the awnings.</p> + +<p>"I forgot the storm," she said, and did not meet his eyes.</p> + + + +<h3>VI</h3> + + +<p>Lying awake in her wide bed, Anne thought it over. She was still shaken +by Christopher's vehemence. She had believed him her friend, and had +found him her lover—and oh, he had brought back youth to her. If he +left her now, how could she stand it—the days with no one but Jeanette +Ware, and the soul-shaking knowledge of what was ahead?</p> + +<p>And Ridgeley would not care—much. In a week be swallowed up by his +work....</p> + +<p>She tried to read, but found it difficult. Across each page flamed +Christopher's sentences.... "We'll ride through the desert.... We'll set +our sails for strange harbors...."</p> + +<p>Was that what the old man had meant at the circus.... "What you think is +evil—cannot be evil"? Would Christopher give her all that she had hoped +of Ridgeley? If she lived to be eighty, she and Ridgeley would—jog. Was +Christopher right—"You'll have more happiness in a few months than some +people in a lifetime?"</p> + +<p>She heard her husband moving about in the next room, the water booming +in his bath. A thin line of light showed under his door.</p> + +<p>She shut her book and turned out her lamp. The storm had died down and +the moon was up. Through the open window she could see beyond the garden +to the grove of birches.</p> + +<p>Hitherto, the thought of the little grove had been as of a sanctuary. +She was aware, suddenly, that it had become a place of contending +forces. Were the guardian angels driven out...?</p> + +<p><i>But there weren't any guardian angels</i>! Ridgeley had said that they +were silly. And Christopher didn't believe in them. She wished that her +mother might have lived to talk it over. Her mother had had no doubts.</p> + +<p>The door of her husband's room opened, and he was silhouetted against +the light. Coming up to the side of her bed, he found her wide-eyed.</p> + +<p>"Can't you sleep, my dear?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to give you anything."</p> + +<p>"I don't want anything."</p> + +<p>He sat down by the side of the bed. He had on his blue bathrobe, and the +open neck showed his strong white throat. "My dear," he said, "I've been +thinking of what you said this morning—about my lack of belief and the +effect it has had on yours. And—I'm sorry."</p> + +<p>"Being sorry doesn't help any, does it, Ridgeley?"</p> + +<p>"I should like to think that you had your old faiths to—comfort you."</p> + +<p>She had no answer for that, and presently he said, "Are you warm +enough?" and brought an extra blanket, because the air was cool after +the storm, and then he bent and kissed her forehead. "Shut your eyes and +sleep if you can."</p> + +<p>But of course she couldn't sleep. She lay there for hours, weighing what +he had said to her against what Christopher had said. Each man was +offering her something—Christopher, life at the expense of all her +scruples. Ridgeley, the resurrection of burnt-out beliefs.</p> + +<p>She shivered a bit under the blanket. It would be heavenly to hear the +temple bells—with youth beside her. To drink the wine of life from a +brimming cup. But all the time she would be afraid, nothing could take +away that fear.—Nothing, nothing, <i>nothing</i>.</p> + +<p>She was glad that her husband was awake. The thin line of light still +showed beneath his door. It would be dreadful to be alone—in the dark. +At last she could stand it no longer. She got out of bed, wrapped +herself in a robe that lay at the foot of it, and opened the door.</p> + +<p>"May I leave it open?"</p> + +<p>As her husband turned in his chair, she saw his hand go quickly, as if +to cover the paper on which he was writing. "Of course, my dear. Are you +afraid?"</p> + +<p>"I am always afraid, Ridgeley. Always—"</p> + +<p>She put her hands up to her face and began to cry. He came swiftly +toward her and took her in his arms. "Hush," he said, "nothing can hurt +you, Anne."</p> + + + +<h3>VII</h3> + + +<p>When she waked in the morning, it was with, the remembrance of his +tenderness. Well, of course he was sorry for her. Anybody would be. But +Christopher was sorry, too. And Christopher had something to offer +her—more than Ridgeley—yes, it was more—</p> + +<p>She was half afraid to go down-stairs. Christopher would be at breakfast +on the porch. Jeanette would be there, pouring coffee, and perhaps +Ridgeley if he had no calls. And Christopher would talk in his gay young +voice—and Ridgeley would read the newspaper, and she and Christopher +would make their plans for the day—</p> + +<p>She rose and began to dress, but found herself suddenly panic-stricken +at the thought of the plans that Christopher might make. If they motored +off together, he would talk to her as he had talked in the grove of +birches—of the temple bells, and of the desert, and the strange +harbors—and how could she be sure that she would be strong enough to +resist—and what if she listened, and let him have his way?</p> + +<p>She decided to eat her breakfast in bed, and rang for it. A note came up +from Christopher. "Don't stay up-stairs. Ridgeley left hours ago, and I +shan't enjoy my toast and bacon if you aren't opposite me. I have picked +a white rose to put by your plate. And I have a thousand things to say +to you—"</p> + +<p>His words had a tonic effect. Oh, why not—? What earthly difference +would it make? And hadn't Browning said something like that—"<i>Who knows +but the world may end to-night</i>?"</p> + +<p>She was not sure that was quite the way that Browning had put it, and +she thought she would like to be sure—she could almost see herself +saying it to Christopher.</p> + +<p>So she went into her husband's room to get the book.</p> + +<p>Ridgeley's books were on the shelf above his desk. They had nothing to +do with his medical library—that was down-stairs in his office, and now +and then he would bring up a great volume. But he had a literary side, +and he had revealed some of it to Anne in the days before he had been +too busy. His Browning was marked, and it was not hard to find "The Last +Ride." She opened at the right page, and stood reading—an incongruous +figure amid Ridgeley's masculine belongings in her sheer negligee of +faint blue.</p> + +<p>She closed the book, put it back on the shelf, and was moving away, when +her eyes were caught by two words—"For Anne," at the top of a sheet of +paper which lay on Ridgeley's desk. The entire page was filled with +Ridgeley's neat professional script, and in a flash the gesture which he +had made the night before returned to her, as if he were trying to hide +something from her gaze.</p> + +<p>She bent and read....</p> + +<p>Oh, was this the way he had spent the hours of the night? Searching for +words which might comfort her, might clear away her doubts, might bring +hope to her heart?</p> + +<p>And he had found things like this: "<i>My little sister, Death</i>," said +good St. Francis; ... "<i>The darkness is no darkness with thee, but the +night is as clear as day; the darkness and light to thee are both alike</i> +..." "<i>Yea, though I Walk through the Valley of the Shadow</i> ..." These +and many others, truths which had once been a part of her.</p> + +<p>She read, avidly. Oh, she had been thirsty—for this! Hungry for this! +And <i>Ridgeley</i>—! The tears dripped so that she could hardly see the +lines. She laid her cheek against the paper, and her tears blistered it.</p> + +<p>She carried it into her room. Christopher's note still lay on her +pillow. She read it again, but she had no ears now for its call. She +rang for her maid. "I shall stay in bed and write some letters."</p> + +<p>She wrote to Christopher, after many attempts. "We have been such good, +<i>good</i> friends. And we mustn't spoil it. Perhaps if you could go away +for a time, it would be best for both of us. I am going to believe that +some day you will find great happiness. And you would never have found +happiness with me, you would have found only—fear. And I know now what +the old man meant about the beads—'What you think is evil—cannot be +evil.' Christopher, death isn't evil, if it isn't the end of things. And +I am going to believe that it is not the end ..."</p> + +<p>Christopher went into town before lunch, and later Anne sat alone on +the stone bench in her grove of birches. They were serene and still in +the gold of the afternoon. Yet last night they had writhed in the storm. +She, too, had been swept by a storm.... She missed her playmate—but she +had a sense of relief in the absence of her tempestuous lover.</p> + +<p>Ridgeley came home that night with news of Christopher's sudden +departure. "He found telegrams. He told me to say 'good-bye' to you."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry," Anne said, and meant it. Sorry that it had to be—but +being sorry could not change it.</p> + +<p>After dinner Ridgeley had a call to make, and Anne went up to bed. But +she was awake when her husband came in, and the thin line of light +showed. She waited until she heard the boom of water in his bath, and +then she slipped out of bed and opened the door between. She was propped +up in her pillows when he reappeared in his blue bathrobe.</p> + +<p>"Hello," he called, "did you want me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Ridgeley."</p> + +<p>He came in. "Anything the matter?"</p> + +<p>"No. I'm not sick. But I want to talk."</p> + +<p>"About what?"</p> + +<p>"This—" She showed him the paper with its caption, "For Anne."</p> + +<p>"Ridgeley, did you write it because I was—afraid?" her hand went out to +him.</p> + +<p>His own went over it. "I think I wrote it because I was afraid."</p> + +<p>"You?"</p> + +<p>His grip almost hurt her. "My dear, my dear, I haven't believed in +things. How could I ... with all the facts that men like me have to deal +with? But when I faced ... losing you...! love's <i>got</i> to be eternal +..."</p> + +<p>"Ridgeley."</p> + +<p>"I won't ... lose you. Oh, I know. We've grown apart. I don't know how a +man is going to help it ... in this darned whirlpool.... But you've +always been right ... here.... I've felt I might ... have you, if I ever +had time ..." his voice broke.</p> + +<p>"And I thought you didn't care."</p> + +<p>"I was afraid of that, and somehow I couldn't get ... back ... to where +we began. I was always thinking I would.... And then this came....</p> + +<p>"I always hated to kill the things that you believed, Anne. I thought I +had to be honest ... that it would be better for you to face the +truth.... But which one of us knows the Truth? Not a man among us. And I +came across this ... '<i>Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not +quickened except it die</i>....' We are all fools—the wisest of us...."</p> + +<p>She held out her arms to him, and he gathered her close. She felt that +it had been a thousand years since she had prayed, yet she heard herself +speaking.... And when he laid her back upon her pillows, she was aware +that together they had approached some height from which they would +never again descend.</p> + +<p>"I'll leave the door open," he said, as he left her. "I shall be +reading, and you can see the light."</p> + +<p>It seemed as if the light from his room flooded the world. The four +posts of her bed once more were tipped with shining saints! She turned +on her pillow—beyond the garden, the grove of white birches was steeped +in celestial radiance.</p> + +<p>"<i>My little sister, Death</i>," said good St. Francis.</p> + +<p>With her hand under her cheek, she slept at last, as peacefully as a +child.</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="THE_EMPERORS_GHOST" id="THE_EMPERORS_GHOST"></a>THE EMPEROR'S GHOST</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + + +<p>I had not known Tom Randolph a week before I was aware that life was not +real to him. All his world was a stage, with himself as chief player. He +dramatized everything—actions, emotions, income. Thus he made poverty +picturesque, love a thing of the stars, the day's work a tragedy, or, if +the professors proved kind, a comedy. He ate and drank, as it were, to +music, combed his hair and blacked his boots in the glare of footlights; +made exits and entrances of a kind unknown to men like myself who lacked +his sense of the histrionic.</p> + +<p>He was Southern and chivalric. His traditions had to do with the doffed +hat and the bent knee. He put woman on a pedestal and kept her there. No +man, he contended, was worthy of her—what she gave was by the grace of +her own sweet charity!</p> + +<p>It will be seen that in all this he missed the modern note. As a boy he +had been fed upon Scott, and his later reading had not robbed him of his +sense of life as a flamboyant spectacle.</p> + +<p>He came to us in college with a beggarly allowance from an impoverished +estate owned by his grandfather, a colonel of the Confederacy, who after +the war had withdrawn with his widowed daughter to his worthless acres. +In due time the daughter had died, and her child had grown up in a world +of shadows. On nothing a year the colonel had managed, in some +miraculous fashion, to preserve certain hospitable old customs. +Distinguished guests still sat at his table and ate ducks cooked to the +proper state of rareness, and terrapin in a chafing-dish, with a dash of +old sherry. If between these feasts there was famine the world never +knew.</p> + +<p>It was perhaps from the colonel that Randolph had learned to make +poverty picturesque. His clothes were old and his shoes were shabby. But +his strength lay in the fact that he did not think of himself as poor. +He had so much, you see, that the rest of us lacked. He was a Randolph. +He had name, position, ancestry. He was, in short, a gentleman!</p> + +<p>I do not think he looked upon any of us as gentlemen, not in the Old +Dominion sense. He had come to our small Middle-Western college because +it was cheap and his finances would not compass education anywhere else.</p> + +<p>In an older man his prejudices would have been insufferable, but his +youth and charm made us lenient. We contented ourselves with calling him +"Your Highness," and were always flattered when he asked us to his +rooms.</p> + +<p>His strong suit was hospitality. It was in his blood, of course. When +his allowance came he spent it in giving the rest of us a good time. His +room was as shabby as himself—a table, an ink-spotted desk, a couch +with a disreputable cover, a picture of Washington, a half-dozen books, +and a chafing-dish.</p> + +<p>The chafing-dish was the hump and the hoof of his festivities. He made +rarebits and deviled things with an air that had been handed down from +generations of epicures. I can see him now with his black hair in a +waving lock on his forehead, in worn slippers and faded corduroy coat, +sitting on the edge of the table smoking a long pipe, visualizing +himself as the lord of a castle—the rest of us as vassals of a rather +agreeable and intelligent sort!</p> + +<p>It was perfectly natural that he should stage his first love-affair, and +when he was jilted that he should dramatize his despair. For days after +Madge Ballou had declared her preference for Dicky Carson, Randolph +walked with melancholy. He came to my rooms and sat, a very young and +handsome Hamlet, on my fire-bench, with his chin in his hand.</p> + +<p>"Why should she like Dicky best?"</p> + +<p>"She has no imagination."</p> + +<p>"But Dicky's a—beast—"</p> + +<p>"With a fat bank-account."</p> + +<p>"Money wouldn't count with Madge."</p> + +<p>"I'm not so sure—"</p> + +<p>"Women are not like that, MacDonald."</p> + +<p>I saw, as he went on with his arguments, that she had become to him an +Ophelia, weakly led. Women in his lexicon of romance might be weak but +never mercenary. I think he finally overthrew her in his mind with "<i>Get +thee to a nunnery!</i>" I know that he burned her picture; he showed me the +ashes in a silver stamp-box.</p> + +<p>He had, of course, his heroes—there were moments when unconsciously he +aped them. It was after a debate that the boys began to call him +"Bonaparte." He had defended the Little Corporal, and in defending him +had personified him. With that dark lock over his forehead, his arms +folded, he had flung defiance to the deputies, and for that moment he +had been not Tom Randolph but the Emperor himself.</p> + +<p>He won the debate, amid much acclaim, and when he came down to us I will +confess to a feeling, which I think the others shared, of a soul within +his body which did not belong there. Tom Randolph was, of course, Tom +Randolph, but the voice which had spoken to us had rung with the power +of that other voice which had been stilled at St. Helena!</p> + +<p>The days that followed dispelled the illusion, but the name clung to +him. I think he liked it, and emphasized the resemblance. He let his +hair grow long, sunk his head between his shoulders, was quick and +imperious in his speech.</p> + +<p>Then came the war. Belgium devastated, France invaded. Randolph was +fired at once.</p> + +<p>"I'm going over."</p> + +<p>"But, my dear fellow—"</p> + +<p>"There's our debt to Lafayette."</p> + +<p>With his mind made up there was no moving him. The rest of us held back. +Our imaginations did not grasp at once the world's need of us.</p> + +<p>But Randolph saw himself a Henry of Navarre—<i>white plumes</i>; a Richard +of the Lion Heart—<i>crusades and red crosses</i>; a Cyrano without the +nose—"<i>These be cadets of Gascony</i>—"</p> + +<p>"You see, MacDonald," he said, flaming, "we Randolphs have always done +it."</p> + +<p>"Done what?"</p> + +<p>"Fought. There's been a Randolph in every war over here, and before that +in a long line of battles—"</p> + +<p>He told me a great deal about the ancient Randolphs, and the way they +had fought on caparisoned steeds with lances.</p> + +<p>"War to-day is different," I warned him. "Not so pictorial."</p> + +<p>But I knew even then that he would make it pictorial. He would wear his +khaki like chain armor.</p> + +<p>He gave us a farewell feast in his room. It was the season for young +squirrels, and he made us a Brunswick stew. It was the best thing I had +ever tasted, with red peppers in it and onions, and he served it with +an old silver ladle which he had brought from home.</p> + +<p>While we ate he talked of war, of why men should fight—"for your own +honor and your country's."</p> + +<p>There were pacifists among us and they challenged him. He flung them +off; their protests died before his passion.</p> + +<p>"We are men, not varlets!"</p> + +<p>Nobody laughed at him. It showed his power over us that none of us +laughed. We simply sat there and listened while he told us what he +thought of us.</p> + +<p>At last one who was braver than the rest cried out: "Go to it, +Bonaparte!"</p> + +<p>In a sudden flashing change Randolph hunched his shoulders, set his +slouched hat sidewise low on his brows, wrapped the couch-cover like a +cloak about him. His glance swept the room. There was no anger in it, +just a sort of triumphant mockery as he gave the famous speech to +Berthier.</p> + +<p>"They send us a challenge in which our honor is at stake—a thing a +Frenchman has never refused—and since a beautiful queen wishes to be a +witness to the combat, let us be courteous, and in order not to keep her +waiting, <i>let us march without sleeping as far as Saxony—</i>!"</p> + +<p>I can't tell you of the effect it had on us. We were gripped by the +throats, and the room was so still that we heard ourselves breathe. Four +of the fellows left next day with Randolph. I think he might have taken +us all if we had not been advised and held back by the protests of our +professors, who spoke of war with abhorrence.</p> + + + +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p>Three years later I saw him again, in France. Our own country had gotten +into the fight by that time, and I was caught in the first draft. I had +heard now and then from Randolph. He had worked for nearly three years +with the Ambulance Corps, and was now fighting for democracy with his +fellows.</p> + +<p>We had been shivering in the rain for a week in one of the recaptured +French towns when a group of seasoned officers were sent to lick us into +shape. Among the other officers was Randolph, and when he came upon me +he gave a shout of welcome.</p> + +<p>"Good old MacDonald—at last!"</p> + +<p>I'll confess that his "at last" carried a sting, and I remember feeling +the injustice of our equal rank, as I set his years of privation and +hardship against my few weeks in a training camp.</p> + +<p>He was very glad to see me, and the very first night he made me a +Brunswick stew. This time there were no squirrels, but he begged young +rabbits from the old couple who had once been servants in the château +where we were billeted. They had trudged back at once on the retirement +of the Boches, and were making the best of the changed conditions.</p> + +<p>There was, of course, no chafing-dish, and the stew was cooked in an +iron pot which hung over an open fire in the ancient kitchen. Before +they sold the rabbits the old people had made one condition:</p> + +<p>"If we may have a bit for mademoiselle—?"</p> + +<p>"For mademoiselle?"</p> + +<p>"She is here with us, monsieur. She had not been well. We have been +saving the rabbits for her."</p> + +<p>Randolph made the grand gesture that I so well remembered.</p> + +<p>"My good people—if she would dine with us—?"</p> + +<p>The old woman shook her head. She was not sure. She would see.</p> + +<p>Perhaps she said pleasant things of us, perhaps mademoiselle was lonely. +But whatever the reason, mademoiselle consented to dine, coming out of +her seclusion, very thin and dark and small, but self-possessed.</p> + +<p>I have often wondered what she thought, in those first moments of +meeting, of Randolph, as with a spoon for a sceptre, the manner of a +king, he presided over the feast. She spoke very good English, but +needed to have many things explained.</p> + +<p>"Do gentlemen cook in your country?"</p> + +<p>Randolph sketched life as he had known it on his grandfather's +plantation—negroes to do it all, except when gentlemen pleased.</p> + +<p>She drew the mantle of her distaste about her. "Black men? I shouldn't +like it."</p> + +<p>Well, I saw before the evening ended that Randolph had met his peer. For +every one of his aristocratic prejudices she matched him with a dozen. +And he loved her for it! At last here was a lady who would buckle on his +armor, watch his shield, tie her token on his sleeve!</p> + +<p>He sat on the edge of the table in his favorite attitude—hunched-up +shoulders, folded arms. His hair was cut too short now for the dark +lock, but even without it I saw her glance at him now and then in a +puzzled fashion, as if she weighed some familiar memory.</p> + +<p>But it was one of the peasants who voiced it—the old man carrying away +the remains of the stew muttered among the shadows to his wife:</p> + +<p>"C'est Napoleon."</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle caught her breath. "Oui, Gaston." Then to me, in English: +"Do you see it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. We called him that at school."</p> + +<p>"Bonaparte?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>She was thin and dark no longer—illumined, the color staining her +cheeks. "Oh, if he were here—to save France!"</p> + +<p>I protested. "An emperor against an emperor?"</p> + +<p>"He was a great democrat—he loved the common people. For a little while +power spoiled him—but he loved the people. And the Bourbons did not +love them—Louis laughed at them—and lost his head. And Napoleon never +laughed. He loved France—if he had lived he would have saved us."</p> + +<p>Out of the shadows the old woman spoke. "They say he will come again."</p> + +<p>"Oui, Margot." Mademoiselle was standing, with her hand on her heart. +Randolph's eyes devoured her. He had taken no part in the conversation. +It was almost uncanny to see him sitting there, silent, arms folded, +shoulders hunched, sparkling eyes missing nothing. "It is true," +mademoiselle told us earnestly, "that the tra-dee-tion says he will come +back—when France needs him—the soldiers talk of it."</p> + +<p>"In almost every country," I said, "there is a story like that, of +heroes who will come again."</p> + +<p>"But Napoleon, monsieur—surely he would not fail France?"</p> + +<p>The thing that followed was inevitable. Randolph and Mademoiselle Julie +fell in love with each other. He drew her as he had drawn us at school. +She was not a Madge Ballou, mundane and mercenary; she was rather a +Heloise, a Nicolette, a Jeanne d'Arc, self-sacrificing, impassioned. She +met Randolph on equal ground. They soared together—mixed love of +country with love of lovers. They rose at dawn to worship the sun, they +walked forth at twilight to adore together the crescent moon.</p> + +<p>And all the while war was at the gates; we could hear the boom of big +guns. The spring drive was on and the Germans were coming back.</p> + +<p>I shall never forget the night that Randolph and I were ordered to the +front. Mademoiselle had come in with her hands full of violets. +Randolph, meeting her for the first time after a busy day, took her +hands and the frail blossoms in his eager clasp. He was an almost +perfect lover—Aucassin if you will—Abelard at his best.</p> + +<p>"Violets," he said. "May I have three?"</p> + +<p>"Why three, monsieur?"</p> + +<p>"For love, mademoiselle, and truth and constancy."</p> + +<p>He took his prayer-book from his pocket, and she gave him the violets. +He touched them to her lips, then crushed them to his own. I saw +it—sitting back in the shadows. I should never have thought of kissing +a girl like that. But it was rather wonderful.</p> + +<p>He shut the violets in the little book.</p> + +<p>They sat very late that night by the fire. I went in and out, not +disturbing them. I saw him kneel at her feet as he left her, and she +bent forward and kissed his forehead.</p> + +<p>He talked of her a great deal after that. More than I would have talked +of love, but his need of an audience drove him to confidences. He felt +that he must make himself worthy of her—to go back to her as anything +less than a hero might seem to belittle her. I am not sure that he was +braver than other men, but his feeling for effect gave him a sort of +reckless courage. Applause was a part of the game—he could not do +without it.</p> + +<p>And so came that night when a small band of us were cut off from the +rest. We were intrenched behind a small eminence which hid us from our +enemies, with little hope of long escaping their observation. It had +been wet and cold, and there had been no hot food for days. We, French +and Americans, had fought long and hard; we were in no state to stand +suspense, yet there was nothing to do but wait for a move on the other +side, a move which could end in only one way—bayonets and bare hands, +and I, for one, hated it.</p> + +<p>I think the others hated it, too, all but Randolph. The rain had stopped +and the moon flooded the world. He turned his face up to it and dreamed.</p> + +<p>The knowledge came to us before midnight that the Huns had found us. It +became only a matter of moments before they would be upon us, the thing +would happen which we hated—bayonets and bare hands, with the chances +in favor of the enemy!</p> + +<p>Somewhere among our men rose a whimper of fear, and then another. You +see, they were cold and hungry and some of them were wounded, and they +were cut off from hope. It wasn't cowardice. I call no man a coward. +They had faced death a thousand times, some of them. Yet there was +danger in their fears.</p> + +<p>Randolph was next to me. "My God, MacDonald," he said, "they've lost +their nerve—"</p> + +<p>There wasn't a second to spare. I saw him doing something to his hat.</p> + +<p>As I have said, there was a moon. It lighted that battle-scarred world +with a sort of wild beauty, and suddenly in a clear space above us on +the little hill a figure showed, motionless against the still white +night—a figure small yet commanding, three-cornered hat pulled low—oh, +you have seen it in pictures a thousand times—Napoleon of Marengo, of +Austerlitz, of Jena, of Friedland—but over and above everything, +Napoleon of France!</p> + +<p>Of course the Germans shot him. But when they came over the top they +were met by Frenchmen who had seen a ghost. "C'est l'Empereur! C'est +l'Empereur!" they had gasped. "He returns to lead us."</p> + +<p>They fought like devils, and—well, the rest of us fought, too, and all +the time, throughout the bloody business, I had before me that vision of +Randolph alone in the moonlight. Or was it Randolph? Who knows? Do great +souls find time for such small business? And was it small?</p> + +<p>His medals were, of course, sent to the colonel. But the violets in the +little book went back to mademoiselle. And the old hat, crushed into +three-cornered shape, went back. And I told her what he had done.</p> + +<p>She wrote to me in her stiff English:</p> + +<p>"I have loved a great man. For me, monsieur, it is enough. Their souls +unite in victory!"</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="THE_RED_CANDLE" id="THE_RED_CANDLE"></a>THE RED CANDLE</h2> + + +<p>It was so cold that the world seemed as stiff and stark as a poet's +hell. A little moon was frozen against a pallid sky. The old dark houses +with their towers and gables wore the rigid look of iron edifices. The +saint over the church door at the corner had an icicle on his nose. +Even the street lights shone faint and benumbed through clouded glass.</p> + +<p>Ostrander, with his blood like ice within his veins, yearned for a +Scriptural purgatory with red fire and flame. To be warm would be +heaven. It was a wise old Dante who had made hell cold!</p> + +<p>As he crossed the threshold of his filthy tenement he felt for the first +time a sense of its shelter. Within its walls there was something that +approached warmth, and in his room at the top there was a bed with a +blanket.</p> + +<p>Making his way toward the bed and its promise of comfort, he was stopped +on the second stairway by a voice which came out of the dark.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Tony, you didn't see our tree."</p> + +<p>Peering down, he answered the voice: "I was going up to get warm."</p> + +<p>"Milly said to tell you that we had a fire."</p> + +<p>"A real fire, Pussy? I didn't know that there was one in the world."</p> + +<p>He came down again to the first floor. Pussy was waiting—a freckled dot +of a child tied up in a man's coat.</p> + +<p>The fire was in a small round stove. On top of the stove something was +boiling. The room was neat but bare, the stove, a table, and three +chairs its only furnishing. In a room beyond were two beds covered with +patchwork quilts.</p> + +<p>On the table was a tree. It was a Christmas tree—just a branch of pine +and some cheap spangly things. The mother of the children sewed all day +and late into the night. She had worked a little longer each night for a +month that the children might have the tree.</p> + +<p>There was no light in the room but that of a small and smoky lamp.</p> + +<p>Milly spoke of it. "We ought to have candles."</p> + +<p>Ostrander, shrugged close to the stove, with his hands out to its heat, +knew that they ought to have electric lights, colored ones, a hundred +perhaps, and a tree that touched the stars!</p> + +<p>But he said: "When I go out I'll bring you a red candle—a long one—and +we'll put it on the shelf over the table."</p> + +<p>Milly, who was resting her tired young body in a big rocker with the +baby in her arms, asked: "Can we put it in a bottle or stand it in a +cup? We haven't any candlestick."</p> + +<p>"We can do better than that," he told her, "with a saucer turned upside +down and covered with salt to look like snow."</p> + +<p>Pussy, economically anxious, asked, "Can we eat the salt afterward?"</p> + +<p>"Of course."</p> + +<p>"Then, may we do it, Milly?"</p> + +<p>"Darling, yes. How nice you always fix things, Mr. Tony!"</p> + +<p>Long before he had known them he had fixed things—things which would +have turned this poor room into an Aladdin's palace. There was that +Christmas Eve at the Daltons'. It had been his idea to light the great +hall with a thousand candles when they brought in the Yule log, and to +throw perfumed fagots on the fire.</p> + +<p>He came back to the round stove and the tiny tree. "I like to fix +things," he said. "Once upon a time—"</p> + +<p>They leaned forward eagerly to this opening.</p> + +<p>"Of course you know it isn't true," he prefaced.</p> + +<p>"Of course it couldn't be true"—Pussy was reassuringly sceptical—"the +things that you tell us couldn't really happen—ever—"</p> + +<p>"Well, once upon a time, there was a tree in a great house by a great +river, and it was set in a great room with squares of black-and-white +marble for a floor, and with a fountain with goldfish swimming in its +basin, and there were red-and-blue parrots on perches, and orange-trees +in porcelain pots, and the tree itself wasn't a pine-tree or a fir or a +cedar; it was a queer round, clipped thing of yew, and it had red and +blue and orange balls on it, and in the place of a wax angel on top +there was a golden Buddha, and there were no candles—but the light +shone out and out of it, like the light shines from the moon."</p> + +<p>"Was it a Christmas tree?" Pussy asked, as he paused.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but the people who trimmed it and the ones who came to see it +didn't believe in the Wise Men, or the Babe in the Manger, or the +shepherds who watched their flocks by night—they just worshiped beauty +and art—and other gods—but it was a corking tree—"</p> + +<p>"You use such funny words," Pussy crowed ecstatically. "Who ever heard +of a corking tree?"</p> + +<p>He smiled at her indulgently. He was warmer now, and as he leaned back +in his chair and unbuttoned his coat he seemed to melt suddenly into +something that was quite gentlemanly in pose and outline. "Well, it +really was a corking tree, Pussy."</p> + +<p>"What's a Buddha?" Milly asked, making a young Madonna of herself as she +bent over the baby.</p> + +<p>"A gentle god that half of the world worships," Ostrander said, "but the +people who put him on the tree didn't worship anything—they put him +there because he was of gold and ivory and was a lovely thing to look +at—"</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Pussy, with her mouth round to say it, "oh, how funny you +talk, Mr. Tony!" She laughed, with her small hands beating her knees.</p> + +<p>She was presently, however, very serious, as she set the table. There +was little formality of service. Just three plates and some bread.</p> + +<p>Milly, having carried the baby into the other room, was hesitatingly +hospitable. "Won't you have supper with us, Mr. Tony?"</p> + +<p>He wanted it. There was a savory smell as Milly lifted the pot from the +stove. But he knew there would be only three potatoes—one for Pussy and +one for Milly and one for the mother who was almost due, and there would +be plenty of gravy. How queer it seemed that his mind should dwell on +gravy!</p> + +<p>"Onions are so high," Milly had said, as she stirred it. "I had to put +in just a very little piece."</p> + +<p>He declined hastily and got away.</p> + +<p>In the hall he met their mother coming in. She was a busy little mother, +and she did not approve of Ostrander. She did not approve of any human +being who would not work.</p> + +<p>"A merry Christmas," he said to her, standing somewhat wistfully above +her on the stairs.</p> + +<p>She smiled at that. "Oh, Mr. Tony, Mr. Tony, they want a man in the +shop. It would be a good way to begin the New Year."</p> + +<p>"Dear lady, I have never worked in a shop—and they wouldn't want me +after the first minute—"</p> + +<p>Her puzzled eyes studied him. "Why wouldn't they want you?"</p> + +<p>"I am not—dependable—"</p> + +<p>"How old are you?" she asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Twice your age—"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense—"</p> + +<p>"Not in years, perhaps—but I have lived—oh, how I have lived—!"</p> + +<p>He straightened his shoulders and ran his fingers through his hair. She +had a sudden vision of what he might be if shorn of his poverty. There +was something debonair—finished—an almost youthful grace—a hint of +manner—</p> + +<p>She sighed. "Oh, the waste of it!"</p> + +<p>"Of what?"</p> + +<p>She flamed. "Of you!"</p> + +<p>Then she went in and shut the door.</p> + +<p>He stood uncertainly in the hall. Then once again he faced the cold.</p> + +<p>Around the corner was a shop where he would buy the red candle. The ten +cents which he would pay was to have gone for his breakfast. He had +sacrificed his supper that he might not go hungry on Christmas morning. +He had planned a brace of rolls and a bottle of milk. It had seemed to +him that he could face a lean night with the promise of these.</p> + +<p>There were no red candles in the shop. There were white ones, but a red +candle was a red candle—with a special look of Christmas cheer. He +would have no other.</p> + +<p>The turn of a second corner brought him to the great square. Usually he +avoided it. The blaze of gold on the west side was the club.</p> + +<p>A row of motors lined the curb. There was Baxter's limousine and +Fenton's French car. He knew them all. He remembered when his own French +car had overshadowed Fenton's Ford.</p> + +<p>There were wreaths to-night in the club windows, and when Sands opened +the doors there was a mass of poinsettia against the hall mirror.</p> + +<p>How warm it looked with all that gold and red!</p> + +<p>In the basement was the grill. It was a night when one might order +something heavy and hot. A planked steak—with deviled oysters at the +start and a salad at the end.</p> + +<p>And now another motor-car was poking its nose against the curb. And +Whiting climbed out, a bear in a big fur coat.</p> + +<p>Whiting's car was a closed one. And it would stay there for an hour. +Ostrander knew the habits of the man. From the office to the club, and +from the club—home. Whiting was methodical to a minute. At seven sharp +the doors would open and let him out.</p> + +<p>The clock on the post-office tower showed six!</p> + +<p>There was a policeman on the east corner, beating his arms against the +cold. Ostrander did not beat his arms. He cowered frozenly in the shadow +of a big building until the policeman passed on.</p> + +<p>Then he darted across the street and into Whiting's car!</p> + +<p>Whiting, coming out in forty minutes, found his car gone. Sands, the +door man, said that he had noticed nothing. The policeman on the corner +had not noticed.</p> + +<p>"I usually stay longer," Whiting said, "but to-night I wanted to get +home. I have a lot of things for the kids."</p> + +<p>"Were the things in your car?" the policeman asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Toys and all that—"</p> + +<p>Ostrander, with his hand on the wheel, his feet on the brakes, slipped +through the crowded streets unchallenged. It had been easy to unlock the +car. He had learned many things in these later years.</p> + +<p>It was several minutes before he was aware of faint fragrances—warm +tropical fragrances of flowers and fruits and spices—Christmas +fragrances which sent him back to the great kitchen where his +grandmother's servants had baked and brewed.</p> + +<p>He stopped the car and touched a button. The light showed booty. He had +not expected this. He had wanted the car for an hour, to feel the thrill +of it under his fingers, to taste again the luxury of its warmth and +softness. He had meant to take it back unharmed—with nothing more than +the restless ghost of his poor desires to haunt Whiting when again he +entered it.</p> + +<p>But now here were toys and things which Whiting, in a climax of +generosity, had culled from bake-shop and grocer, from flower-shop, +fruit-shop, and confectioner.</p> + +<p>He snapped out the light and drove on. He had still a half-hour for his +adventure.</p> + +<p>It took just three of the thirty minutes to slide up to the curb in +front of the tall tenement. He made three trips in and up to the top +floor. He risked much, but Fate was with him and he met no one.</p> + +<p>Fate was with him, too, when he left the car at a corner near the club, +and slipped out of it like a shadow, and thence like a shadow back to +the shop whence his steps had tended before his adventures.</p> + +<p>When he returned to the tall tenement the small family on the first +floor had finished supper, and the mother had gone back to work. The +baby was asleep. Milly and Pussy, wrapped up to their ears, were hugging +the waning warmth of the little stove.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Tony, did you get the candle?" Pussy asked as he came in.</p> + +<p>"Yes. But I've been thinking"—his manner was mysterious—"I don't want +to put it on the shelf. I want it in the window—to shine out—"</p> + +<p>"To shine out—why?"</p> + +<p>"Well, you know, there's St. Nicholas."</p> + +<p>"Oh—"</p> + +<p>"He ought to come here, Pussy. Why shouldn't he come here? Why should he +go up-town and up-town, and take all the things to children who have +more than they want?"</p> + +<p>Milly was philosophic. "St. Nicholas is fathers and mothers—"</p> + +<p>But Pussy was not so sure. "Do you think he'd come—if we did? Do you +really and truly think he would?"</p> + +<p>"I think he might—"</p> + +<p>The candle set in the window made a fine show from the street. They all +went out to look at it. Coming in, they sat around the stove together.</p> + +<p>Pussy drew her chair very close to Ostrander. She laid her hand on his +knee. It was a little hand with short, fat fingers. In spite of lean +living, Pussy had managed to keep fat. She was adorably dimpled.</p> + +<p>Ostrander, looking down at the fat little hand, began: "Once upon a +time—there was a doll—a Fluffy Ruffles doll, in a rosy gown—"</p> + +<p>"Oh!" Pussy beat the small, fat hand upon his knee.</p> + +<p>"And pink slippers—and it traveled miles to find some one to—love it. +And at last it said to St. Nicholas, 'Oh, dear St. Nick, I want to find +a little girl who hasn't any doll—'"</p> + +<p>"Like me?" said Pussy.</p> + +<p>"Like you—"</p> + +<p>"And St. Nicholas said, 'Will you keep your pink slippers clean and +your nice pink frock clean if I give you to a poor little girl?' and the +Fluffy Ruffles doll said 'Yes,' so St. Nicholas looked and looked for a +poor little girl, and at last he came to a window—with a red candle—"</p> + +<p>The fat little hand was still and Pussy was breathing hard.</p> + +<p>"With a red candle, and there was a little girl who—didn't have any +doll—"</p> + +<p>Pussy threw herself on him bodily. "Is it true? Is it true?" she +shrieked.</p> + +<p>Milly, a little flushed and excited by the story, tried to say sedately: +"Of course it isn't true. It couldn't be—true—"</p> + +<p>"Let's wish it to be true—" Ostrander said, "all three of us, with our +eyes shut—"</p> + +<p>With this ceremony completed the little girls were advised gravely to go +to bed. "If Fluffy Ruffles and old St. Nick come by and find you up they +won't stop—"</p> + +<p>"Won't they?"</p> + +<p>"Of course not. You must shut the door and creep under your quilt and +cover up your head, and if you hear a noise you mustn't look."</p> + +<p>Milly eyed him dubiously. "I think it is a shame to tell Pussy such—"</p> + +<p>"Corking things?" He lifted her chin with a light finger and looked into +her innocent eyes. "Oh, Milly, Milly, once upon a time there was a +Princess, with eyes like yours, and she lived in a garden where black +swans swam on a pool, and she wore pale-green gowns and there were +poppies in the garden. And a Fool loved her. But she shut him out of the +garden. He wasn't good enough even to kneel at her feet, so she shut him +out and married a Prince with a white feather in his cap."</p> + +<p>He had a chuckling sense of Whiting as the white-feathered Prince. But +Milly's eyes were clouded. "I don't like to think that she shut the poor +Fool out of the garden."</p> + +<p>For a moment he cupped her troubled face in his two hands. "You dear +kiddie." Then as he turned away he found his own eyes wet.</p> + +<p>As he started up-stairs Pussy peeped out at him.</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't it be—corking—to see a Fluffy Ruffles doll—a-walking up the +street?"</p> + +<p>In a beautiful box up-stairs the Fluffy Ruffles doll stared at him. She +was as lovely as a dream, and as expensive as they make 'em. There was +another doll in blue, also as expensive, also as lovely. Ostrander could +see Milly with the blue doll matching her eyes.</p> + +<p>There were toys, too, for the baby. And there was a bunch of violets. +And boxes of candy. And books. And there were things to eat. Besides the +fruits a great cake, and a basket of marmalades and jellies and +gold-sealed bottles and meat pastes in china jars, and imported things +in glass, and biscuits in tins.</p> + +<p>Ostrander, after some consideration, opened the tin of biscuits and, +munching, he wrote a note. Having no paper, he tore a wrapper from one +of the boxes. He had the stub of a pencil, and the result was a scrawl.</p> + +<blockquote class="letter"><p>"<span style="font-variant:small-caps;">My Dear Whiting:</span></p> + +<p>"It was I who borrowed your car—and who ran away with your junk. I +am putting my address at the head of this, so that if you want it +back you can come and get it. But perhaps you won't want it back.</p> + +<p>"I have a feeling that to you and your wife I am as good as dead. +If you have any thought of me it is, I am sure, to pity me. Yet I +rather fancy that you needn't. I am down and out, and living on ten +dollars a month. That's all I got when the crash came—it is all I +shall ever get. I pay four dollars a month for my room and twenty +cents a day for food. Sometimes I pay less than twenty cents when I +find myself in need of other—luxuries. Yet there's an adventure in +it, Whiting. A good little woman who lives in this house begs me to +work. But I have never worked. And why begin? I've a heritage of +bad habits, and one does not wish to seem superior to one's +ancestors.</p> + +<p>"The winters are the worst. I spend the summers on the open road. +Ask Marion if she remembers the days when we read Stevenson +together in the garden? Tell her it is like that—under the +stars—Tell her that I am getting more out of it than she is—with +you—</p> + +<p>"But the winters send me back to town—and this winter Fate has +brought me to an old house in a shabby street just a bit back from +the Club. On the first floor there is a little family. Three +kiddies and a young mother who works to keep the wolf from the +door. There's a Pussy-Kiddie, and a Milly-Kiddie, and a baby, and +they have adopted me as a friend.</p> + +<p>"And this Christmas I had nothing to give them—but a red candle to +light their room.</p> + +<p>"When I got into your car it was just for the adventure. To breathe +for a moment the air I once breathed—to fancy that Marion's ghost +might sit beside me for one little moment, as she will sit beside +you to the end of your days.</p> + +<p>"I have played all roles but that of robber—but when I saw the +things that you had bought with Marion's money for Marion's +children—it went to my head—and I wanted them in the worst way +for those poor kiddies—who haven't any dolls or Christmas dinners.</p> + +<p>"I am playing Santa Claus for them to-night. I shall take the +things down and leave them in their poor rooms. It will be up to +you to come and take them away. It will be up to you, too, to give +this note to the police and steal my freedom.</p> + +<p>"You used to be a good sport, Whiting. I have nothing against you +except that you stole Marion—perhaps this will square our +accounts. And if your children are, because of me, without their +dolls to-morrow, you can remember this, that the kiddies are happy +below stairs—since Dick Turpin dwells aloft!</p> + +<p>"From among the rest I have chosen for myself a squat bottle, a box +of biscuits, and a tin of the little imported sausages that you +taught me to like.</p> + +<p>"Well, my dear fellow, happy days! To-morrow morning I shall +breakfast at your expense, unless you shall decide that I must +breakfast behind bars.</p> + +<p>"If you should come to-night, you will find in the window a red +candle shining. They have put it there to guide St. Nicholas and a +certain Fluffy Ruffles doll!</p> + +<p class="center"> +"Ever yours,<br /> + "Tony."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>He found an envelope, sealed, and addressed it. Then he went to work.</p> + +<p>Four trips he made down the stairs. Four times he tiptoed into the +shadowed room, where the long red candle burned. And when he turned to +take a last look there on the table beside the tree stood the blue doll +for Milly and the Fluffy Ruffles doll for Pussy and the rattles and +rings and blocks for the baby, and on the chairs and the shelf above the +tree were the other things—the great cake and the fruit and the big +basket and the boxes of candy.</p> + +<p>And for the little mother there were the violets and a note:</p> + +<p>"The red candle winked at your window and brought me in. It is useless +to search for me—for now and then a Prince passes and goes on. And he +is none the less a Prince because you do not know him."</p> + +<p>And now there was that other note to deliver. Out in the cold once more, +he found the moon gone and the snow falling. As he passed the saint on +the old church, it seemed to smile down at him. The towers and gables +were sheeted with white. His footsteps made no sound on the padded +streets.</p> + +<p>He left the note at Whiting's door. He fancied that, as the footman held +it open, he saw Marion shining on the stairs!</p> + +<p>He was glad after that to get home and to bed, and to the warmth of his +blanket. There was the warmth, too, of the wine.</p> + +<p>In a little while he was asleep. On the table by his untidy bed was the +box of biscuits and the bottle and the tin of tiny sausages.</p> + +<p>If all went well he would feast like a lord on Christmas morning!</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="RETURNED_GOODS" id="RETURNED_GOODS"></a>RETURNED GOODS</h2> + + +<p>Perhaps the most humiliating moment of Dulcie Cowan's childhood had been +when Mary Dean had called her Indian giver. Dulcie was a child of +affluence. She had always had everything she wanted; but she had not +been spoiled. She had been brought up beautifully and she had been +taught to consider the rights of others. She lived in an old-fashioned +part of an old city, and her family was churchly and conscientious. +Indeed, so well-trained was Dulcie's conscience that it often caused her +great unhappiness. It seemed to her that her life was made up largely of +denying herself the things she wanted. She was tied so rigidly to the +golden rule that her own rights were being constantly submerged in the +consideration of the rights of others.</p> + +<p>So it had happened that when she gave to Mary Dean a certain lovely +doll, because her mother had suggested that Dulcie had so many and Mary +so few, Dulcie had spent a night of agonized loneliness. Then she had +gone to Mary.</p> + +<p>"I want my Peggy back."</p> + +<p>"You gave her to me."</p> + +<p>"But I didn't know how much I loved her, Mary. I'll buy you a nice new +doll, but I want my Peggy back."</p> + +<p>It was then that Mary had called her Indian giver. Mary had been a +sturdy little thing with tight-braided brown hair. She had worn on that +historic occasion a plain blue gingham with a white collar. To the +ordinary eye she seemed just an every-day freckled sort of child, but to +Dulcie she had been a little dancing devil, as she had stuck out her +forefinger and jeered "Indian giver!"</p> + +<p>Dulcie had held to her point and had carried her Peggy off in triumph. +Mary, with characteristic independence, had refused to accept the +beautiful doll which Dulcie bought with the last cent of her allowance +and brought as a peace offering. In later years they grew to be rather +good friends. They might, indeed, have been intimate, if it had not been +for Dulcie's money and Mary's dislike of anything which savored of +patronage.</p> + +<p>It was Mary's almost boyish independence that drew Mills Richardson to +her. Mills wrote books and was the editor of a small magazine. He came +to board with Mary's mother because of the quiet neighborhood. He was +rather handsome in a dark slender fashion. He had the instincts of a +poet, and he was not in the least practical. He needed a prop to lean +on, and Mary gradually became the prop.</p> + +<p>She was teaching by that time, but she helped her mother with the +boarders. When Mills came in late at night she would have something for +him in the dining-room—oysters or a club sandwich or a pot of +coffee—and she and her mother and Mills would have a cozy time of it. +In due season Mills asked her to marry him, and his dreams had to do +with increased snugness and with shelter from the outside world.</p> + +<p>They had been engaged three months when Dulcie came home from college. +There was nothing independent or practical about Dulcie. She was a real +romantic lady, and she appealed to Mills on the æsthetic side. He saw +her first in church with the light shining on her from a stained-glass +window. In the middle of that same week Mrs. Cowan gave a garden party +as a home-coming celebration for her daughter. Dulcie wore embroidered +white and a floppy hat, and her eyes when she talked to Mills were +worshipful.</p> + +<p>He found himself swayed at last by a grand passion. He thought of Dulcie +by day and dreamed of her by night. Then he met her by accident one +afternoon on Connecticut Avenue, and they walked down together to the +Speedway, where the willows were blowing in the wind and the water was +ruffled; and there with the shining city back of them and the Virginia +hills ahead, Mills, flaming, declared his passion, and Dulcie, +trembling, confessed that she too cared.</p> + +<p>Mills grew tragic: "Oh, my beloved, have you come too late?"</p> + +<p>Dulcie had not heard of his engagement to Mary. Mills told her, and that +settled it. She had very decided ideas on such matters. A man had no +right to fall in love with two women. If such a thing happened, there +was only one way out of it. He had given his promise and he must keep +it. He begged, but could not shake her. She cared a great deal, but she +would not take him away from Mary.</p> + +<p>Mary knew nothing of what had occurred; she thought that Mills was +working too hard. She was working hard herself, but she was very happy. +She had a hope chest and sat up sewing late o' nights.</p> + +<p>Before Mary and Mills were married Dulcie's mother died, and Dulcie went +abroad to live with an aunt. Five years later she married an American +living in Paris. He was much older than she, and it was rumored that she +was not happy. Ten years after her marriage she returned to Washington a +widow.</p> + +<p>It was at once apparent that she had changed. She wore charming but +sophisticated clothes, made on youthful lines so that she seemed nearer +twenty-five than thirty-five. Her hair was still soft and shining. She +had been a pretty girl, she was a beautiful woman. But the greatest +change was in her attitude toward life. In Paris her golden-rule +philosophy had been turned topsy-turvy.</p> + +<p>Hence when she met Mills and found the old flames lighted in his eyes, +she stirred the ashes of her dead romance and discovered a spark. It was +pleasant after that to talk with him in dim corners at people's houses. +Now and then she invited him and Mary to her own big house with plenty +of other guests, so that she was not missed if she walked with Mills in +the garden. She meant no harm and she was really fond of Mary.</p> + +<p>The years had not been so kind to Mills as to Dulcie. They had stolen +some of his slenderness, and his hair was thin at the back. But he wrote +better books, and it was Mary who had helped him write them. She had +made of his house a home. She was still the same sturdy soul. Her bright +color had faded and her hair was gray. Life with Mills had not been an +easy road to travel. She had traveled it with loss of youth, perhaps, +but with no loss of self-respect. She knew that her husband was in some +measure what he was because of her. She had kept the children away from +his study door; she had seen that he was nourished and sustained. She +had prodded him at times to increased activities. He had resented the +prodding, but it had resulted in a continuity of effort which had added +to his income.</p> + +<p>Dulcie came into Mary's life as something very fresh and stimulating. +She spoke of it to Mills.</p> + +<p>"It is almost as if I had been abroad to hear her talk. She has had such +interesting experiences."</p> + +<p>It was not Dulcie's experiences which interested Mills; it was the +loveliness of her profile, the glint of her hair, the youth in her, the +renewed urge of youth in himself.</p> + +<p>Priscilla Dodd saw what had happened. Priscilla was the aunt with whom +Dulcie had lived in Paris; and she was a wise, if worldly, old woman. +She saw rocks ahead for Dulcie.</p> + +<p>"He's in love with you, my dear."</p> + +<p>Dulcie, in a rose satin house coat which shone richly in the flame of +Aunt Priscilla's open fire, was not disconcerted.</p> + +<p>"I know. Mary doesn't satisfy him, Aunt Cilla."</p> + +<p>"And you do?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"The less you see of him the better."</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure of that."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"I can inspire him, be the torch to illumine his path."</p> + +<p>"So that's the way you are putting it to yourself! But how will Mary +like that?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mary"—Dulcie moved restlessly—"I don't want to hurt Mary. I +don't want to hurt Mary," she said again, out of a long silence, "but +after all I have a right to save Mills' soul for him, haven't I, Aunt +Cilla?"</p> + +<p>"Saving souls had better be left to those who make a business of it."</p> + +<p>"I mean his poetic soul." Dulcie studied the toes of her rosy slippers. +"A man can't live by bread alone."</p> + +<p>Yet Mills had thrived rather well on the bread that Mary had given him, +and there was this to say for Mills, he was very fond of his wife. She +was not the love of his life, but she had been a helpmate for many +years. He felt that he owed many things to her affection and strength. +Like Dulcie, he shrank from making her unhappy.</p> + +<p>It was because of Mary, therefore, that the lovers dallied. Otherwise, +they said to each other, Mills would cast off his shackles, ask for his +freedom, and then he and Dulcie would fly to Paris, where nobody probed +into pasts and where they could make their dreams come true.</p> + +<p>They found many ways in which to see each other. Dulcie had a little +town car, and she picked Mills up at all hours and took him on long and +lovely rides, from which he returned ecstatic, with wild flowers in his +coat and a knowledge of work left undone.</p> + +<p>Gossip began to fly about. Aunt Priscilla warned Dulcie.</p> + +<p>"It is a dangerous thing to do, my dear. People will talk."</p> + +<p>"What do Mills and I care for people? Oh, if it were not for Mary—" She +had just come in from a ride with Mills, and her eyes were shining.</p> + +<p>"I wish we were not dining there to-night," said Aunt Priscilla. "I +wonder how Mary manages a dinner of eight with only one servant."</p> + +<p>"She is so splendid and competent, Aunt Cilla. Mills says so. Everybody +says it. Things are easy for her that would be hard for other people."</p> + +<p>"I wonder what she thinks of you?"</p> + +<p>Dulcie, drawing off her gloves, meditated.</p> + +<p>"I fancy she likes me. I know I love her, but not so much as I love +Mills."</p> + +<p>Fifteen years ago Dulcie would have died rather than admit her love for +a married man. But since then she had seen life through the eyes of a +worldly-minded old husband, and it had made a difference.</p> + +<p>At dinner that night Dulcie was exquisite in orchid tulle with a string +of pearls that hung to her knees. Her hair was like ripe corn, waved and +parted on the side with a girlish knot behind. Her skin was as fresh as +a baby's. Mary was in black net. She had been very busy helping the +cook, and she had had little time to spend on her hair. She looked ten +years older than Dulcie, and her mind was absolutely on the dinner. The +dinner was really very good. Mills had been extremely anxious about it. +He had called up Mary from down-town to tell her that he was bringing +home fresh asparagus. He wanted it served as an extra course with +Hollandaise sauce. Mary protested, but gave in. It was the Hollandaise +sauce that had kept her from curling her hair.</p> + +<p>There were orchids for a centerpiece—in harmony with Dulcie's gown. In +fact, the whole dinner seemed keyed up to Dulcie. The guests were for +the most part literary folk, to whom Mills wanted to display his Egeria. +After dinner Dulcie sang for them. She had set to music the words of one +of Mills' poems, and she was much applauded.</p> + +<p>After everybody had gone Mary went to bed with a headache. She was glad +that it was Saturday, for Sunday promised a rest. She decided to send +the children over to her mother and to have a quiet day with Mills. She +wouldn't even go to church in the morning. There was an afternoon +service; perhaps she and Mills might go together.</p> + +<p>But Mills had other plans. He walked as far as the church door with +Mary, and left her there. Mary wasn't sorry to be left; her headache had +returned, and she was glad to sit alone in the peaceful dimness. But the +pain proved finally too much for her, so she slipped out quietly and +went home.</p> + +<p>Clouds had risen, and she hurried before the shower. It was a real April +shower, wind with a rush and a silver downpour. Mary, coming into the +dark living-room, threw herself on the couch in a far corner and drew a +rug over her. The couch was backed up against a table which held a lamp +and a row of books. Mary had a certain feeling of content in the way the +furniture seemed to shut her in. There was no sound but the splashing of +rain against the windows.</p> + +<p>She fell asleep at last, and waked to find that Mills and Dulcie had +come in. No lights were on; the room was in twilight dimness.</p> + +<p>Mills had met Dulcie at her front door. "How dear of you to come," she +had told him.</p> + +<p>He had spoken of his desertion of Mary. "But this day was made for you, +Dulcie."</p> + +<p>They had walked on together, not heeding where they went, and when the +storm had caught them they were nearer Mills' house than Dulcie's and so +he had taken her there. They had entered the apparently empty room.</p> + +<p>"Mary is still at church. Come and dry your little feet by my fire, +Dulcie." Mills knelt and fanned the flame.</p> + +<p>Mary, coming slowly back from her dreams, heard this and other things, +and at last Dulcie's voice in protest:</p> + +<p>"Dear, we must think of Mary."</p> + +<p>"Poor Mary!"</p> + +<p>Now the thing that Mary hated more than anything else in the whole world +was pity. Through all the shock of the astounding revelation that Mills +and Dulcie cared for each other came the sting of their sympathy. She +sat up, a shadow among the shadows.</p> + +<p>"I mustn't stay, Mills," Dulcie was declaring.</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"I feel like a—thief—"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, we are only taking our own, Dulcie. We should have taken it +years ago. Loving you I should never have married Mary."</p> + +<p>"I had a conscience then, Mills, and you had promised."</p> + +<p>"But now you see it differently, Dulcie?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps."</p> + +<p>Mills was on his knees beside Dulcie's chair, kissing her hands. The +fire lighted them. It was like a play, with Mary a forlorn spectator in +the blackness of the pit.</p> + +<p>"Let me go now, Mills."</p> + +<p>"Wait till Mary comes—we'll tell her."</p> + +<p>"No, oh, poor Mary!"</p> + +<p>Poor Mary indeed!</p> + +<p>"Anyhow you've got to stay, Dulcie, and sing for me, and when Mary comes +back she'll get us some supper and I'll read you my new verses."</p> + +<p>Among the shadows Mary had a moment of tragic mirth. Then she set her +feet on the floor and spoke:</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry, Mills, but I couldn't cook supper to-night if I died for +it—"</p> + +<p>From their bright circle of light they peered at her.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my poor dear!" Dulcie said.</p> + +<p>"I'm not poor," Mary told her, "but I'm tired, dead tired, and my head +aches dreadfully, and if you want Mills you can have him."</p> + +<p>"Have him?" Dulcie whispered.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I don't want him."</p> + +<p>Mills exploded.</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"I don't want you, Mills. I'm tired of being a prop; I'm tired of +planning your meals, I'm tired of deciding whether you shall have +mushrooms with your steak or—onions. You can have him, Dulcie. I know +you think I've lost my mind." She came forward within the radius of the +light. "But I haven't. As long as I thought Mills cared I could stick it +out. But I have learned to-night that he loved you before he married me. +You gave him to me, Dulcie, and now you want him back."</p> + +<p>Indian giver! Like a flash Dulcie's mind went to the little Mary of the +pigtails and pointing forefinger.</p> + +<p>"You want him and you can have him. Perhaps if you had taken him years +ago he might have been different. I don't know. Perhaps even now he can +live up to all the lovely, lovely things that you and he are always +talking about. But I've had to talk to Mills about what he likes to eat +and what we have to pay for things; I've had to push him and prod him +and praise him, and it has been hard work. If you want him you can have +him, Dulcie."</p> + +<p>Mills had a stunned look.</p> + +<p>"Don't you love me, Mary?"</p> + +<p>"I think I've proved it," she said quietly; "but I couldn't possibly go +on loving you now. You have Dulcie to love you, and one woman is enough +for any man. I don't know what you are planning to do, but you needn't +run away or do anything spectacular. I'll make it as easy for you as +possible. And now if you don't mind I'll go up and take a headache +powder; my head is splitting."</p> + +<p>Left alone, they tried to regain their air of high romance.</p> + +<p>"Poor Mary!"</p> + +<p>But the words rang hollow. One couldn't possibly call a woman poor who +had given away so much with a single gesture.</p> + +<p>They tried to talk it over but found nothing to say. At last Mills took +Dulcie home. She asked him in and he went. Aunt Priscilla was out, and +tea was served for the two of them from a lacquered tea cart—Orange +Pekoe and Japanese wafers. It was delicious but unsubstantial. Dulcie +with her coat off was like a wood sprite in leaf green. Her hair was +gold, her eyes wet violets; but Mills missed something. He had a feeling +that he wanted to get home and talk things over with Mary.</p> + +<p>At last he rose, and it was then that Dulcie laid her hand on his arm.</p> + +<p>"Mills, I can't."</p> + +<p>"Can't what?"</p> + +<p>"Let you leave Mary."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"It wouldn't be right."</p> + +<p>"It would be as right as it has ever been, Dulcie."</p> + +<p>"I know how it must look to you, but—but I knew all the time that wrong +is wrong. I thought I was a different Dulcie from the girl of long ago, +but I'm not. I still have a conscience; I can't take you away from +Mary."</p> + +<p>"You're not taking me away. You heard what she said—she doesn't want +me."</p> + +<p>And Dulcie didn't want him! He saw it in that moment! The things that +Mary had said had scared her. She didn't want to prod and push and +praise. She didn't want to decide what he should have for dinner. She +didn't want to weigh the merits of beefsteak and mushrooms or beefsteak +and onions—onions!</p> + +<p>He felt suddenly old, fat, bald-headed! The glow had faded from +everything. He did not protest or attempt to persuade her. He took his +hat, kissed her hand and got away.</p> + +<p>Aunt Priscilla coming in found Dulcie in tears by the fire.</p> + +<p>"I've given him up, Aunt Cilla."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it wouldn't be right."</p> + +<p>She came into Aunt Priscilla's bedroom later to talk it over. She had +on the rosy house coat. She spoke of going back to Paris.</p> + +<p>"It will be better for both of us. After all, Aunt Cilla, we are what we +are fundamentally, and we Puritans can't get away from our consciences, +can we?"</p> + +<p>"Some of us," said Aunt Priscilla, "can't."</p> + +<p>The old woman lay awake a long time that night, thinking it out. She was +glad that Dulcie had stopped the thing in time. But she had a feeling +that the solution of the situation could not be laid to an awakened +conscience. She hoped that some day Dulcie would tell her the truth.</p> + + +<p>It was still raining when Mills reached home. The house was dark, the +fire had died down. He went up-stairs. The boys were in bed. There was a +light in Mary's room. He opened the door. Mary was propped up on her +pillows reading a book.</p> + +<p>He stopped, uncertain, on the threshold.</p> + +<p>"Come in," she said, "my head's better."</p> + +<p>He crossed the room and stood beside her.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mary," he said, and his face worked. He dropped on his knees by the +bed and cried like a child.</p> + +<p>She laid her hand on his head and smoothed his thin hair.</p> + +<p>"Poor Mills!" she said softly; "poor old Mills!" Then after a moment, +brightly: "It will do us both good to have some coffee. Run along, +Mills, and start the percolator; I'll be down in a minute to get the +supper."</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="BURNED_TOAST" id="BURNED_TOAST"></a>BURNED TOAST</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + + +<p>Perry Cunningham and I had been friends for years. I was older than he, +and I had taught him in his senior year at college. After that we had +traveled abroad, frugally, as befitted our means. The one quarrel I had +with fate was that Perry was poor. Money would have given him the +background that belonged to him—he was a princely chap, with a +high-held head. He had Southern blood in his veins, which accounted +perhaps for an almost old-fashioned charm of manner, as if he carried on +a gentlemanly tradition.</p> + +<p>We went through the art galleries together. There could have been +nothing better than those days with him—the Louvre, the Uffizi, the +Pitti Palace. Perry's search for beauty was almost breathless. We swept +from Filippo Lippi to Botticelli and Bellini, then on to Ghirlandajo, +Guido Reni, Correggio, Del Sarto—the incomparable Leonardo.</p> + +<p>"If I had lived then," Perry would say, glowing, "in Florence or in +Venice!"</p> + +<p>And I, smiling at his enthusiasm, had a vision of him among those golden +painters, his own young beauty enhanced by robes of clear color, his +thirst for loveliness appeased by the sumptuous settings of that age of +romance.</p> + +<p>Then when the great moderns confronted us—Sorolla and the rest—Perry +complained, "Why did I study law, Roger, when I might be doing things +like this?"</p> + +<p>"It is not too late," I told him.</p> + +<p>I felt that he must not be curbed, that his impassioned interest might +blossom and bloom into genius if it were given a proper outlet.</p> + +<p>So it came about that he decided to paint. He would stay in Paris a year +or two in a studio, and test his talent.</p> + +<p>But his people would not hear of it. There had been lawyers in his +family for generations. Since the Civil War they had followed more or +less successful careers. Perry's own father had made no money, but +Perry's mother was obsessed by the idea that the fortunes of the family +were bound up in her son's continuance of his father's practice.</p> + +<p>So Perry went home and opened an office. His heart was not in it, but he +made enough to live on, and at last he made money enough to marry a +wife. He would have married her whether he had enough to live on or not. +She was an artist, and she was twenty when Perry met her. We had been +spending a month in Maine, on an island as charming as it was cheap. +Rosalie was there with a great-aunt and uncle. She was painting the sea +on the day that Perry first saw her, and she wore a jade-green smock. +Her hair was red, drawn back rather tightly from her forehead, but +breaking into waves over her ears. With the red of her cheeks and the +red of her lips she had something of the look of Lorenzo Lotto's lovely +ladies, except for a certain sharp slenderness, a slenderness which +came, I was to learn later, from an utter indifference to the claims of +appetite. She was one of those who sell bread to buy hyacinths.</p> + +<p>I speak of this here because Rosalie's almost ascetic indifference to +material matters, in direct contrast to Perry's vivid enjoyment of the +good things of life, came to have a tragic significance in later days. +Perry loved a warm hearth in winter, a cool porch in summer. He had the +Southerner's epicurean appreciation of the fine art of feasting. The +groaning board had been his inheritance from a rollicking, rackety set +of English ancestors, to whom dining was a rather splendid ceremony. On +his mother's table had been fish and game from Chesapeake, fruits and +vegetables in season and out—roast lamb when prices soared high in the +spring, strawberries as soon as they came up from Florida. There had +always been money for these in the Cunningham exchequer, when there had +been money for nothing else.</p> + +<p>Rosalie, on the other hand, ate an orange in the morning, a square of +toast at noon, a chop and perhaps a salad for dinner. One felt that she +might have fared equally well on dew and nectar. She had absolutely no +interest in what was set before her, and after she married Perry this +attitude of mind remained unchanged.</p> + +<p>She was a wretched cook, and made no effort to acquire expertness. She +and Perry lived in a small but well-built bungalow some miles out from +town, and they could not afford a maid. When I dined with them I made up +afterward for the deficiencies of their menu by a square meal at the +club. There was no chance for Perry to make up, and I wondered as the +years went on how he stood it.</p> + +<p>He seemed to stand it rather well, except that in time he came to have +that same sharpened look of delicacy which added a spiritual note to +Rosalie's rich bloom. He always lighted up when he spoke of his wife, +and he was always urging me to come and see them. I must admit that +except for the meals I liked to go. Rosalie's success at painting had +been negligible, but her love of beauty was expressed in the atmosphere +she gave to her little home; she had achieved rather triumphant results +in backgrounds and in furnishing.</p> + +<p>I remember one spring twilight. I was out for the week-end, and we dined +late. The little house was on a hill, and with the French windows wide +open we seemed to hang above an abyss of purple sky, cut by a thin +crescent. White candles lighted the table, and there were white lilacs. +There was a silver band about Rosalie's red hair.</p> + +<p>There was not much to eat, and Perry apologized, "Rose hates to fuss +with food in hot weather."</p> + +<p>Rosalie, as mysterious in that light as the young moon, smiled dreamily.</p> + +<p>"Why should one think about such things—when there is so much else in +the world?"</p> + +<p>Perry removed the plates and made the coffee. Rosalie did not drink +coffee. She wandered out into the garden, and came back with three +violets, which she kissed and stuck in Perry's coat.</p> + +<p>The next morning when I came down Rosalie was cutting bread for toast. +She was always exquisitely neat, and in her white linen and in her +white-tiled kitchen she seemed indubitably domestic. I was hungry and +had hopes of her efforts.</p> + +<p>"Peer is setting the table", she told me.</p> + +<p>She always called him "Peer". She had her own way of finding names for +people. I was never "Roger", but "Jim Crow". When questioned as to her +reason for the appellation she decided vaguely that it might be some +connection of ideas—dances—Sir Roger de Coverley—and didn't somebody +"dance Jim Crow"?</p> + +<p>"You don't mind, do you?" she had asked, and I had replied that I did +not.</p> + +<p>I did not confess how much I liked it. I had always been treated in a +distinctly distant and dignified fashion by my family and friends, so +that Rosalie's easy assumption of intimacy was delightful.</p> + +<p>Well, I went out on the porch and left Rosalie to her culinary devices. +I found the morning paper, and fifteen minutes later there came up +across the lawn a radiant figure.</p> + +<p>Rosalie, hearing the garden call, had chucked responsibility—and her +arms were full of daffodils!</p> + +<p>We had burned toast for breakfast! Rosalie had forgotten it and Perry +had not rescued it until it was well charred. There was no bread to make +more, so we had to eat it.</p> + +<p>For the rest we had coffee and fruit. It was an expensive season for +eggs, and Rosalie had her eye on a bit of old brocade which was to light +a corner of her studio. She breakfasted contentedly on grapefruit, but +Perry was rather silent, and I saw for the first time a shadow on his +countenance. I wondered if for the moment his mind had wandered to the +past, and to his mother's table, with Sunday waffles, omelet, broiled +bacon. Yet—there had been no bits of gay brocade to light the +mid-Victorian dullness of his mother's dining-room, no daffodils on a +radiant morning, no white lilacs on a purple twilight, no slender +goddess, mysterious as the moon.</p> + +<p>It was in the middle of the following winter that I began to realize +that Perry was not well. He had come home on a snowy night, tired and +chilled to the bone. He was late and Rosalie had kept dinner waiting for +him. It was a rather sorry affair when it was served. Perry pushed his +chair back and did not eat. I had as little appetite for it as he, but I +did my best. I had arrived on an earlier train, with some old prints +that I wanted to show him. Rosalie and I looked at them after dinner, +but Perry crouched over the fire and coughed at intervals.</p> + +<p>At last I couldn't stand it any longer.</p> + +<p>"He needs some hot milk, a foot bath, and to be tucked up in bed."</p> + +<p>Rosalie stared at me above the prints. "Perry?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He isn't well."</p> + +<p>"Don't croak, Jim Crow."</p> + +<p>But I knew what I was talking about. "I am going to get him to bed. You +can have the milk ready when I come down."</p> + +<p>It developed that there was no milk. I walked half a mile to a road +house and brought back oysters and a bottle of cream. I cooked them +myself in the white-tiled kitchen, and served them piping hot in a bowl +with crackers.</p> + +<p>Perry, propped up in bed, ate like a starved bird.</p> + +<p>"I've never tasted anything better," he said; and, warmed and fed, he +slept after a bit as soundly as a satisfied baby.</p> + +<p>It was while he was eating the oysters that Rosalie came to the door and +looked at him. He was not an æsthetic object—I must admit that no sick +man is—and I saw distaste in her glance, as if some dainty instinct in +her shrank from the spectacle.</p> + +<p>When I went down I found her sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in a +Chinese robe of black and gold. You can imagine the effect of that with +the red of her hair and the red of her cheeks and lips. Her feet, in +black satin slippers, were on a jade-green cushion, and back of her head +was the strip of brocade that she had bought with her housekeeping +money. It was a gorgeous bit, repeating the color of the cushion, and +with a touch of blue which matched her eyes.</p> + +<p>She wanted me to show her the rest of the prints. I tried to talk to her +of Perry's health, but she wouldn't.</p> + +<p>"Don't croak, Jim Crow," she said again.</p> + +<p>As I look back at the two of us by the fire that night I feel as one +might who had been accessory to a crime. Rosalie's charm was undoubted. +Her quickness of mind, her gayety of spirit, her passion for all that +was lovely in art and Nature—made her indescribably interesting. I +stayed late. And not once, after my first attempt, did we speak of +Perry.</p> + + + +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p>It was in March that I made Perry see a doctor. "Nothing organic," was +Perry's report. Beyond that he was silent. So I went to the doctor +myself.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with him?"</p> + +<p>"He is not getting the proper nourishment," the doctor told me. "He must +have plenty of milk and eggs, and good red meat."</p> + +<p>It sounded easy enough, but it wasn't. Rosalie couldn't grasp the fact +that diet in Perry's case was important. For the first time I saw a +queer sort of obstinacy in her.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my poor Peer!" And she laughed lightly. "Do they want to make a +stuffed pig of you?"</p> + +<p>Well, you simply couldn't get it into her head that Perry needed the +bread that she sold for hyacinths. She cooked steaks and chops for him, +and served them with an air of protest that took away his appetite.</p> + +<p>Of course there remained the eggs and milk, but he didn't like them. +What Perry really needed was three good meals a day according to the +tradition of his mother's home.</p> + +<p>But he couldn't have them. His mother was dead, and the home broken up. +The little bungalow, with its old brocades, its Venetian glass, its +Florentine carvings, its sun-dial and its garden, was the best that life +could offer him. And I must confess that he seemed to think it very +good. He adored Rosalie. When in moments of rebellion against her +seeming indifference I hinted that she lacked housewifely qualities he +smiled and shifted the subject abruptly.</p> + +<p>Once he said, "She feeds—my soul."</p> + +<p>Of course she loved him. But love to her meant what it had meant in +those first days on the Maine coast when she had seen him, slender and +strong, his brown hair blowing back from his sun-tanned skin; it meant +those first days in their new home when, handsome and debonair in the +velvet coat which she had made him wear, he had added a high light to +the picture she had made of her home.</p> + +<p>This new Perry, pale and coughing—shivering in the warmth of the +fire—did not fit into the picture. Her dreams of the future had not +included a tired man who worked for his living, and who was dying for +lack of intelligent care.</p> + +<p>To put it into cold words makes it sound ghoulish. But of course Rosalie +was not really that. She was merely absorbed in her own exalted theories +and she was not maternal. I think when I compared her, unthinking, to +the young moon, that I was subconsciously aware of her likeness to the +"orbed maiden" whose white fire warms no one.</p> + +<p>She tried to do her best, and I am quite sure that Perry never knew the +truth—that he might have been saved if she could have left her heights +for a moment and had become womanly and wifely. If she had mothered him +a bit—poured out her tenderness upon him—oh, my poor Perry. He loved +her too much to ask it, but I knew what it would have meant to him.</p> + +<p>All through his last illness Rosalie clung to me. I think it grew to be +a horror to her to see him, gaunt and exhausted, in the west room. He +had a good nurse, toward the last, and good food. I had had a small +fortune left to me, too late, by a distant relative. I paid for the cook +and the nurse, and I sent flowers to Rosalie that she might take them to +Perry and let his hungry eyes feed upon her.</p> + +<p>It was in the winter that he died, and after all was over Rosalie and I +went out and stood together on the little porch. There was snow on the +ground and the bright stars seemed caught in the branches of the pines.</p> + +<p>Rosalie shook and sobbed.</p> + +<p>"I hate—death," she said. "Oh, Jim Crow, why did God let my poor Peer +die?" She was completely unstrung. "Death is so—ugly."</p> + +<p>I said, "It is not ugly. Peer will live again—like the daffodils in +the spring."</p> + +<p>"Do you believe that, Jim Crow?"</p> + +<p>I did believe it, and I told her so—that even now her Peer was strong +and well; and I think it comforted her. It gave her lover back to her, +as it were, in the glory of his youth.</p> + +<p>She did not wear mourning, or, rather, she wore mourning which was like +that worn by no other woman. Her robes were of purple. She kept Perry's +picture on the table, and out of the frame his young eyes laughed at us, +so that gradually the vision of that ravaged figure in the west room +faded.</p> + +<p>I went to see her once a week. It seemed the only thing to do. She was +utterly alone, with no family but the great-aunt and uncle who had been +with her when she met Perry. She was a child in business matters, and +Perry had left it to me to administer the affairs of his little estate. +Rosalie had her small bungalow, Perry's insurance, and she turned her +knowledge of painting to practical account. She made rather special +things in lamp-shades and screens, and was well paid for them.</p> + +<p>I went, as I have said, once a week. A woman friend shared part of her +house, but was apt to be out, and so I saw Rosalie usually alone. I +lived now at the club and kept a car. Rosalie often dined with me, but I +rarely ate at the bungalow. Now and then in the afternoon she made me a +cup of tea, rather more, I am sure, for the picturesque service with +her treasured Sheffield than for any desire to contribute to my own +cheer or comfort.</p> + +<p>And so, gradually, I grew into her life and she grew into mine. I was +forty-five, she twenty-five. In the back of my mind was always a sense +of the enormity of her offense against Perry. In my hottest moments I +said to myself that she had sacrificed his life to her selfishness; she +might have been a Borgia or a Medici.</p> + +<p>Yet when I was with her my resentment faded; one could as little hold +rancor against a child.</p> + +<p>Thus the months passed, and it was in the autumn, I remember, that a +conversation occurred which opened new vistas. She had been showing me a +parchment lamp-shade which she had painted. There was a peacock with a +spreading tail, and as she held the shade over the lamp the light shone +through and turned every feathered eye into a glittering jewel. Rosalie +wore one of her purple robes, and I can see her now as I shut my eyes, +as glowing and gorgeous as some of those unrivaled masterpieces in the +Pitti Palace.</p> + +<p>"Jim Crow," she said, "I shall do a parrot next—all red and blue, with +white rings round his eyes."</p> + +<p>"You will never do anything better than that peacock."</p> + +<p>"Shan't I?" She left the shade over the lamp and sat down. "Do you think +I shall paint peacocks and parrots for the rest of my life, Jim Crow?"</p> + +<p>"What would you like to do?" I asked her.</p> + +<p>"Travel." She was eager. "Do you know, I have never been to Europe? +Perry used to tell me about it—Botticelli and Raphael—and +Michaelangelo—"</p> + +<p>"We had a great time," I said, remembering it all—that breathless +search for beauty.</p> + +<p>"He promised that some day he and I would go—together."</p> + +<p>"Poor Perry!"</p> + +<p>She rose restlessly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, take me out somewhere, Jim Crow! I feel as if this little house +would stifle me."</p> + +<p>We motored to the country club. She wore the color which she now +affected, a close little hat and a straight frock. People stared at her. +I think she was aware of their admiration and liked it.</p> + +<p>She smiled at me as she sat down at the table. "I always love to come +with you, Jim Crow."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"You do things so well, and you're such a darling."</p> + +<p>I do not believe that it was intended as flattery. I am sure that she +meant it. She was happy because of the lights and the lovely old room +with its cavernous fireplace and its English chintzes; and out of her +happiness she spoke.</p> + +<p>She could not, of course, know the effect of her words on me. No one had +ever called me a darling or had thought that I did things well.</p> + +<p>She used, too, to tell me things about my looks. "You'd be like one of +those distinguished gentlemen of Vandyke's if you'd wear a ruff and +leave off your eye-glasses."</p> + +<p>I wonder if you know how it seemed to have a child like that saying such +things. For she was more than a child, she was a beautiful woman, and +everything surrounding her was beautiful. And there had been a great +many gray years before I met Perry and before the money came which made +pleasant living possible.</p> + +<p>"I like you because you are strong," was another of her tributes.</p> + +<p>"How do you know I am strong?"</p> + +<p>"Well, you look it. And not many men could have carried me so easily +up-stairs."</p> + +<p>She had sprained her ankle in getting out of my car on the night that we +had dined at the country club. She had worn high-heeled slippers and had +stepped on a pebble.</p> + +<p>It was on that night that I first faced the fact that I cared for her. +In my arms she had clung to me like a child, her hair had swept my +cheek, there had been the fragrance of violets.</p> + +<p>I did not want to care for her. I remembered Perry—the burned toast +which had seemed to mark the beginning of their tragedy—those last +dreadful days. I knew that Perry's fate would not be mine; there would +be no need to sell bread to buy hyacinths. There was money enough and to +spare, money to let her live in the enjoyment of the things she craved; +money enough to—travel.</p> + +<p>The more I thought of it the more I was held by the thought of what such +a trip would mean to me. It would be like that pilgrimage with young +Perry. There would be the same impassioned interest—there would be more +than that—there would be youth and loveliness—all mine.</p> + +<p>I felt that I was mad to think of it. Yet she made me think of it. It +was what she wanted. She was not in the least unwomanly, but she was +very modern in her frank expression of the pleasure she felt in my +companionship.</p> + +<p>"Oh, what would I do without you, Jim Crow?" was the way she put it.</p> + +<p>I grew young in my months of association with her. I had danced a little +in my college days, but I had given it up. She taught me the new +steps—and we would set the phonograph going and take up the rugs.</p> + +<p>When I grew expert we danced together at the country club and at some of +the smart places down-town. It was all very delightful. I made up my +mind that I should marry her.</p> + +<p>I planned to ask her on Christmas Eve. I had a present for her, an +emerald set in antique silver with seed pearls. It was hung on a black +ribbon, and I could fancy it shining against the background of her +velvet smock. I carried flowers, too, and a book. I was keen with +anticipation. The years seemed to drop from me. I was a boy of twenty +going to meet the lady of my first romance.</p> + +<p>When I arrived at the bungalow I found that Rosalie had with her the old +great-aunt and uncle who had been with her when we first met in Maine. +They had come on for Christmas unexpectedly, anticipating an eager +welcome, happy in their sense of surprise.</p> + +<p>Rosalie, when we had a moment alone, expressed her dismay.</p> + +<p>"They are going to stay until to-morrow night, Jim Crow. And I haven't +planned any Christmas dinner."</p> + +<p>"We'll take them to the country club."</p> + +<p>"How heavenly of you to think of it!"</p> + +<p>I gave her the flowers and the book. But I kept the jewel for the high +moment when I should ask her for a greater gift in exchange.</p> + +<p>But the high moment did not come that night. The old uncle and aunt sat +up with us. They had much to talk about. They were a comfortable +pair—silver-haired and happy in each other—going toward the end of the +journey hand in hand.</p> + +<p>The old man went to the door with me when I left, and we stood for a +moment under the stars.</p> + +<p>"Mother and I miss hanging up the stockings for the kiddies," he said.</p> + +<p>"Were there many kiddies?"</p> + +<p>"Three. Two dead and one married and out West. Rosalie seemed the +nearest that we had, and that's why we came. I thought mother might be +lonely in our big old house."</p> + +<p>The next day at the country club the old gentleman was genial but +slightly garrulous. The old lady talked about her children and her +Christmas memories. I saw that Rosalie was frankly bored.</p> + +<p>As for myself, I was impatient for my high moment.</p> + +<p>But I think I gave the old folks a good time and that they missed +nothing in my manner. And, indeed, I think that they missed nothing in +Rosalie's. They had the gentle complacency of the aged who bask in their +own content.</p> + +<p>It was toward the end of dinner that I caught a look in Rosalie's eyes +which almost made my heart stop beating. I had not seen it since Perry's +death. I had seen it first when she had stood in the door of his room on +the night that I tucked him up in bed and gave him the hot oysters. It +was that look of distaste—that delicate shrinking from an unpleasant +spectacle.</p> + +<p>Following her gaze I saw that the old gentleman had sunk in his chair +and was gently nodding. His wife leaned toward me.</p> + +<p>"Milton always takes a cat nap after meals," she said, smiling. And I +smiled back, she was so rosy and round and altogether comfortable.</p> + +<p>Rosalie and I went with them to the train, and it was as we drove back +that I spoke of them.</p> + +<p>"They are rather great dears, aren't they?"</p> + +<p>Rosalie was vehement. "I hate old people!"</p> + +<p>A chill struck to my bones. "You hate them? Why?"</p> + +<p>"They're—ugly, Jim Crow. Did you see how they had shrunk since I last +saw them—and the veins in their hands—and the skull showing through +his forehead?"</p> + +<p>She was twenty-five, and I was almost twice her age. When I was old she +would still be young—young enough to see my shrunken body and the +skull showing through!</p> + +<p>The look that had been in her eyes for Perry would some day be in her +eyes for me. And I knew that if I ever saw it it would strike me dead. +It might not kill me physically, but it would wither like a flame all +joy and hope forever.</p> + +<p>When we reached the bungalow I built up a fire, and Rosalie, leaving me +for a little, came back in something sheer and lovely in green. It was +the first time since Perry's death that she had discarded her purple +robes. She sank into a big chair opposite me and put her +silver-slippered feet on the green cushion.</p> + +<p>"Isn't it heavenly to be alone, Jim Crow?"</p> + +<p>It was the high moment which I had planned, but I could not grasp it. +Between me and happiness stood the shadow of that other Rosalie, +shrinking from me when I was old as she had shrunk from Perry.</p> + +<p>"My dear," I said, and I did not look at her, "I've been thinking a lot +about you."</p> + +<p>Her chin was in her hand. "I know."</p> + +<p>But she didn't know.</p> + +<p>"I've been thinking, Rosalie; and I want to give you something for +Christmas which will make you happy throughout the year."</p> + +<p>"You are such a darling, Jim Crow."</p> + +<p>"And I have thought of this—a trip to Europe. You'll let me do it, +won't you? There'll be the art galleries, and you can stay as long as +you like."</p> + +<p>I could see that she was puzzled. "Do you mean that I am to go—alone?" +she asked slowly.</p> + +<p>"There may be some one going. I'll find out."</p> + +<p>There was dead silence.</p> + +<p>"You will let me do it?" I asked finally.</p> + +<p>She came over to my chair and stood looking down at me.</p> + +<p>"Why are you sending me alone, Jim Crow?"</p> + +<p>I think, then, that she saw the anguish in my eyes. She sank on her +knees beside my chair.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to go alone, Jim Crow. I want to stay—with—you."</p> + +<hr class="nocss" /> + +<p class="break">Well, the jewel is on her breast and a ring to match is on her finger. +And when the spring comes we are to sail for Italy, for France.</p> + +<p>Perhaps we shall never come back. And I am going to give Rosalie all +the loveliness that life can hold for her. Now and then she whispers +that she never knew love until I taught it to her. That what she felt +for Perry was but the echo of his own need of her.</p> + +<p>"But I'd tramp the muddy roads with you, Jim Crow."</p> + +<p>I wonder if she really means it. I wish with all my heart that I might +know it true. I have never told her of my fears and I believe that I can +make her happy. I shall try not to look too far beyond the days we shall +have in the Louvre and the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace. We shall search +for beauty, and perhaps I can teach her to find it, before it is too +late, in the things that count.</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="PETRONELLA" id="PETRONELLA"></a>PETRONELLA</h2> + + +<p>"If you loved a man, and knew that he loved you, and he wouldn't ask you +to marry him, what would you do?"</p> + +<p>The Admiral surveyed his grand-niece thoughtfully. "What do you expect +to do, my dear?"</p> + +<p>Petronella stopped on the snowy top step and looked down at him. "Who +said I had anything to do with it?" she demanded.</p> + +<p>The Admiral's old eyes twinkled. "Let me come in, and tell me about +it."</p> + +<p>Petronella smiled at him over her big muff. "If you'll promise not to +stay after five, I'll give you a cup of tea."</p> + +<p>"Who's coming at five?"</p> + +<p>The color flamed into Petronella's cheeks. In her white coat and white +furs, with her wind-blown brown hair, her beauty satisfied even the +Admiral's critical survey, and he hastened to follow his question by the +assertion, "Of course I'll come in."</p> + +<p>Petronella, with her coat off, showed a slenderness which was enhanced +by the straight lines of her white wool gown, with the long sleeves +fur-edged, and with fur at the top of the high, transparent collar. She +wore her hair curled over her ears and low on her forehead, which made +of her face a small and delicate oval. In the big hall, with a roaring +fire in the wide fireplace, she dispensed comforting hospitality to the +adoring Admiral. And when she had given him his tea she sat on a stool +at his feet. "Oh, wise great-uncle," she said, "I am going to tell you +about the Man!"</p> + +<p>"Have I ever seen him?"</p> + +<p>"No. I met him in London last year, and—well, you know what a trip home +on shipboard means, with all the women shut up in their cabins, and with +moonlight nights, and nobody on deck—"</p> + +<p>"So it was an affair of moonlight and propinquity?"</p> + +<p>After a pause: "No, it was an affair of the only man in the world for +me."</p> + +<p>"My dear child—!"</p> + +<p>Out of a long silence she went on: "He thought I was poor. You know how +quietly I traveled with Miss Danvers. And he didn't associate Nell +Hewlett with Petronella Hewlett of New York and Great Rock. And +so—well, you know, uncle, he let himself go, and I let myself go, and +then—"</p> + +<p>She drew a long breath. "When we landed, things stopped. He had found +out who I was, and he wrote me a little note, and said he would never +forget our friendship—and that's—all."</p> + +<p>She finished drearily, and the bluff old Admiral cleared his throat. +There was something wrong with the scheme of things when his Petronella +couldn't have the moon if she wanted it!</p> + +<p>"And what can I do—what can any woman do?" Petronella demanded, turning +on him. "I can't go to him and say, 'Please marry me.' I can't even +think it"; her cheeks burned. "And he'd die before <i>he'd</i> say another +word, and I suppose that now we'll go on growing old, and I'll get +thinner and thinner, and he'll get fatter and fatter, and I'll be an old +maid, and he'll marry some woman who's poor enough to satisfy his pride, +and—well, that will be the end of it, uncle."</p> + +<p>"The end of it?" said the gentleman who had once commanded a squadron. +"Well, I guess not, Petronella, if you want him. Oh, the man's a fool!"</p> + +<p>"He's not a fool, uncle." The sparks in Petronella's eyes matched the +sparks in the Admiral's.</p> + +<p>"Well, if he's worthy of you—"</p> + +<p>Petronella laid her cheek against his hand. "The question is not," she +said, faintly, "of his worthiness, but of mine, dear uncle."</p> + +<p>Dumbly the Admiral gazed down at that drooping head. Could this be +Petronella—confident, imperious, the daughter of a confident and +imperious race?</p> + +<p>He took refuge in the question, "But who is coming at five?"</p> + +<p>"He is coming. He is passing through Boston on his way to visit his +mother in Maine. I asked him to come. I told him I was down here by the +sea, and intended to spend Christmas at Great Rock because you were +here, and because this was the house I lived in when I was a little +girl, and that I wanted him to see it; and—I told him the truth, +uncle."</p> + +<p>"The truth?"</p> + +<p>"That I missed him. That was all I dared say, and I wish you had read +his note of assent. Such a stiff little thing. It threw me back upon +myself, and I wished that I hadn't written him—I wished that he +wouldn't come. Oh, uncle, if I were a man, I'd give a woman the right to +choose. That's the reason there are so many unhappy marriages. Nine +wrong men ask a woman, and the tenth right one <i>won't</i>. And finally she +gets tired of waiting for the tenth right one, and marries one of the +nine wrong ones."</p> + +<p>"There are women to-day," said the Admiral, "who are preaching a woman's +right to propose."</p> + +<p>Petronella gazed at him, thoughtfully. "I could preach a doctrine like +that—but I couldn't practice it. It's easy enough to say to some other +woman, 'Ask him,' but it's different when you are the woman."</p> + +<p>"Yet if he asked you," suggested the Admiral, "the world might say that +he wanted your money."</p> + +<p>"Why should we care what the world would say?" Petronella was on her +feet now, defending her cause vigorously. "Why should we care? Why, it's +our love against the world, uncle! Why should we care?"</p> + +<p>The Admiral stood up, too, and paced the rug as in former days he had +paced the decks. "There must be some way out," he said at last, and +stopped short. "Suppose I speak to him—"</p> + +<p>"And spoil it all! Oh, uncle!" Petronella shook him by the lapels of +his blue coat. "A man never knows how a woman feels about such things. +Even you don't, you old darling. And now will you please go; and take +this because I love you," and she kissed him on one cheek, "and this +because it is a quarter to five and you'll have to hurry," and she +kissed him on the other cheek.</p> + +<p>The Admiral, being helped into his big cape in the hall, called back, "I +forgot to give you your Christmas present," and he produced a small +package.</p> + +<p>"Come here and let me open it," Petronella insisted. And the Admiral, +without a glance at the accusing clock, went back. And thus it happened +that he was there to meet the Man.</p> + +<p>It must be confessed that the Admiral suffered a distinct shock as he +was presented to the hero of Petronella's romance. Here was no courtly +youth of the type of the military male line of Petronella's family, but +a muscular young giant of masterful bearing. The Hewlett men had +commanded men; one could see at a glance that Justin Hare had also +commanded women. This, the wise old Admiral decided at once, was the +thing which had attracted Petronella—Petronella, who had held her own +against all masculine encroachments, and who was heart-free at +twenty-five!</p> + +<p>"Look what this dearest dear of an uncle has given me," said Petronella, +and held up for the young surgeon's admiration a string of pearls with a +sapphire clasp. "They belonged to my great-aunt. I was named for her, +and uncle says I look like her."</p> + +<p>"You have her eyes, my dear, and some of her ways. But she was less +independent. In her time women leaned more, as it were, on man's +strength."</p> + +<p>Justin Hare looked at them with interest—at the slender girl in her +white gown, at the tall, straight old man with his air of command.</p> + +<p>"Women in these days do not lean," he said, with decision; "they lead."</p> + +<p>A spark came into Petronella's eyes. "And do you like the modern type +best?" she challenged.</p> + +<p>He answered with smiling directness, "I like you."</p> + +<p>The Admiral was pleased with that, though he was still troubled by this +man's difference from the men of his own race. Yet if back of that +honest bluntness there was a heart which would enshrine her—well, that +was all he would ask for this dearest of girls.</p> + +<p>He glanced at the clock, and spoke hurriedly: "I must be going, my dear; +it is long after five."</p> + +<p>"Must you really go?" asked the mendacious Petronella.</p> + +<p>An hour later she was alone. The visit had been a failure. She admitted +that, as she gazed with a sort of agonized dismay through the wide +window to where the sea was churned by the wildness of the northeast +gale. Snow had come with the wind, shutting out the view of the great +empty hotels on the Point, shutting out, too, the golden star of hope +which gleamed from the top of the lighthouse.</p> + +<p>Petronella turned away from the blank scene with a little shudder. Thus +had Justin Hare shut her out of his life. He had talked of his mother in +Maine, of his hospital plans for the winter, but not a word had he said +of those moonlight nights when he had masterfully swayed her by the +force of his own passion, had wooed her, won her.</p> + +<p>And now there was nothing that she could do. There was never anything +that a woman could do! And so she must bear it. Oh, if she could bear +it!</p> + +<p>A little later, when a maid slipped in to light the candles, Petronella +said out of the shadows, "When Jenkins goes to the post-office, I have a +parcel for the mail."</p> + +<p>"He's been, miss, and there won't be any train out to-night; the snow +has stopped the trains."</p> + +<p>"Not any train!" At first the remark held little significance, but +finally the fact beat against her brain. If the one evening train could +not leave, then Justin Hare must stay in town, and he would have to stay +until Christmas morning!</p> + +<p>Petronella went at once to the telephone, and called up the only hotel +which was open at that season. Presently she had Hare at the other end +of the line.</p> + +<p>"You must come to my house to dinner," she said. "Jenkins has told me +about your train. Please don't dress—there'll be only Miss Danvers and +uncle; and you shall help me trim my little tree."</p> + +<p>Although she told him not to dress, she changed her gown for one of dull +green velvet, built on the simple lines of the white wool she had worn +in the afternoon. The square neck was framed by a collar of Venetian +point, and there was a queer old pin of pearls.</p> + +<p>The Admiral, arriving early, demanded: "My dear, what is this? I was +just sitting down to bread and milk and a handful of raisins, and now I +must dine in six courses, and drink coffee, which will keep me awake."</p> + +<p>She laid her cheek against his arm. "Mr. Hare's train couldn't get out +of town on account of the snow."</p> + +<p>"And he's coming?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"But what of this afternoon, my dear?"</p> + +<p>She slipped her hand into his, and they stood gazing into the fire. "It +was dreadful, uncle. I had a feeling that I had compelled him to +come—against his will."</p> + +<p>"Yet you have asked him to come again to-night?"</p> + +<p>She shivered a little, and her hand was cold. "Perhaps I shall regret +it—but oh, uncle, can't I have for this one evening the joy of his +presence? And if to-morrow my heart dies—"</p> + +<p>"Nella, my dear child—"</p> + +<p>The Admiral's own Petronella had never drawn in this way upon his +emotions. She had been gentle, perhaps a little cold. But then he had +always worshiped at her shrine. Perhaps a woman denied the lore she +yearns for learns the value of it. At any rate, here in his arms was the +dearest thing in his lonely life, sobbing as if her heart would break.</p> + +<p>When Justin came, a half-hour later, he found them still in front of the +fire in the great hall, and as she rose to welcome him he saw that +Petronella had been sitting on a stool at her uncle's feet.</p> + +<p>"When I was a little girl," she explained, when Hare had taken a chair +on the hearth and she had chosen another with, a high, carved back, in +which she sat with her silken ankles crossed and the tips of her slipper +toes resting on a leopard-skin which the Admiral had brought back from +India—"when I was a little girl we always spent Christmas Eve in this +house by the sea instead of in town. We were all here then—mother and +dad and dear Aunt Pet, and we hung our stockings at this very +fireplace—and now there is no one but Miss Danvers and me, and uncle, +who lives up aloft in his big house across the way, where he has a +lookout tower. I always feel like calling up to him when I go there, +'Oh, Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?'"</p> + +<p>She was talking nervously, with her cheeks as white as a lily, but with +her eyes shining. The Admiral glanced at Hare. The young man was +drinking in her beauty. But suddenly he frowned and turned away his +eyes.</p> + +<p>"It was very good of you to ask me over," he said, formally.</p> + +<p>That steadied Petronella. Her nervous self-consciousness fled, and she +was at once the gracious, impersonal hostess.</p> + +<p>The Admiral glowed with pride of her. "She'll carry it off," he said to +himself; "it's in her blood."</p> + +<p>"Dinner is served," announced Jenkins from the doorway, and then Miss +Danvers came down and greeted Justin, and they all went out together.</p> + +<p>There was holly for a centerpiece, and four red candles in silver +holders. The table was of richly carved mahogany, and the Admiral, +following an old custom, served the soup from a silver tureen, upheld by +four fat cupids. From the wide arch which led into the great hall was +hung a bunch of mistletoe; beyond the arch, the roaring fire made a +background of gleaming, golden light.</p> + +<p>To the young surgeon it seemed a fairy scene flaming with the color and +glow of a life which he had never known. He had lived so long surrounded +by the bare, blank walls of a hospital. Even Petronella's soft green +gown seemed made of some mystical stuff which had nothing in common with +the cool white or blue starchiness of the uniforms of nurses.</p> + +<p>They talked of many things, covering with, their commonplaces the +tenseness of the situation. Then suddenly the conversation took a +significant turn.</p> + +<p>"I love these stormy nights," Petronella had said, "with the snow +blowing, and the wind, and the house all warm and bright."</p> + +<p>"Think of the poor sailors at sea," Hare had reminded her.</p> + +<p>"Please—I don't want to think of them. We have done our best for them, +uncle and I. We have opened a reading-room down by the docks, so that +all who are ashore can have soup and coffee and sandwiches, and there's +a big stove, and newspapers and magazines."</p> + +<p>"You dispense charity?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?" she asked him, confidently. "We have plenty—why shouldn't we +give?"</p> + +<p>"Because it takes away from their manhood to receive."</p> + +<p>The Admiral spoke bluntly. "The men don't feel it that way. This +charity, as you call it, is a memorial to my wife. The grandfathers of +these boys used to see her light in the window of the old house on +stormy nights, and they knew that it was an invitation to good cheer. +More than one crew coming in half frozen were glad of the soup and +coffee which were sent down to them in cans with baskets of bread. And +this little coffee-room has been the outgrowth of just such hospitality. +There are too many of the men to have in my house. I simply entertain +them elsewhere, and I like to go and talk to them, and sometimes +Petronella goes."</p> + +<p>"There's a picture of dear Aunt Pet hanging there," said Petronella, +"and you can't imagine how it softens the manners of the men. It is as +if her spirit brooded over the place. They have made it into a sort of +shrine, and they bring shells and queer carved things to put on the +shelf below it."</p> + +<p>"In the city we are beginning to think that such methods weaken +self-respect."</p> + +<p>"That's because," said the wise old Admiral, "in the city there isn't +any real democracy. You give your friend a cup of coffee and think +nothing of it, yet when I give a cup of coffee to a sailor whose +grandfather and mine fished together on the banks, you warn me that my +methods tend to pauperize. In the city the poor are never your +friends—in this little town no man would admit that he is less than I. +They like my coffee and they drink it."</p> + +<p>Petronella, seeing her chance, took it. "I think people are horrid to +let money make a difference."</p> + +<p>"You say that," said Hare, "because you have never had to accept +favors—you have, in other words, never been on the other side."</p> + +<p>The Admiral, taking up cudgels for his niece, answered, "If she had been +on the other side, she would have taken life as she takes it now—like a +gentleman and a soldier," and he smiled at Petronella.</p> + +<p>Hare had a baffled sense that the Admiral was right—that Petronella's +fineness and delicacy would never go down in defeat or despair. She +would hold her head high though the heavens fell. But could any man make +such demands upon her? For himself, he would not.</p> + +<p>So he answered, doggedly, "We shall hope she need never be tested." And +Petronella's heart sank like lead.</p> + +<p>But presently she began to talk about the little tree. "We have always +had it in uncle's lookout tower. That was another of dear Aunt Pet's +thoughts for the sailors. On clear nights they looked through their +glasses for the little colored lights, and on stormy nights they knew +that back of all the snow was the Christmas brightness."</p> + +<p>"I never had a tree," said Justin. "When I was a kiddie we had pretty +hard times, and the best Christmas I remember was one when mother made +us boys put up a shelf for our books, and she started our collection +with 'Treasure Island' and 'Huckleberry Finn.'"</p> + +<p>In the adjoining room, volumes reached from floor to ceiling, from end +to end. Petronella had a vision of this vivid young giant gloating over +his two books on a rude shelf. And all her life she had had the things +she wanted! Somehow the thought took the bitterness out of her attitude +toward him. How strong he must be to deny himself now the one great +thing that he craved when his life had held so little.</p> + +<p>"How lovely to begin with just those two books," she said, softly, and +the radiance of her smile was dazzling.</p> + +<p>When she showed him her presents she was still radiant. There was a +queer opera-bag of Chinese needlework, with handles of jade, a Damascus +bowl of pierced brass, a tea-caddy in quaint Dutch <i>repoussé</i>; there was +a silver-embroidered altar-cloth for a cushion, a bit of Copenhagen +faience, all the sophisticated artistry which is sent to those who have +no need for the commonplace. There were jewels, too: a bracelet of +topazes surrounded by brilliants, a pair of slipper buckles of +turquoises set in silver, a sapphire circlet for her little finger, a +pendant of seed pearls.</p> + +<p>As she opened the parcels and displayed her riches Justin felt +bewildered. His gifts to his mother had included usually gloves and a +generous check; if he had ventured to choose anything for Petronella he +would not have dared go beyond a box of candy or a book; he had given +his nurses pocketbooks and handkerchiefs. And the men of Petronella's +world bestowed on her brass bowls and tea-caddies!</p> + +<p>Miss Danvers vanished up-stairs. The Admiral, having admired, slipped +away to the library, encouraged by Petronella's whispered: "Oh, uncle +dear, leave us alone for just a little minute. I've found a way!"</p> + +<p>Then Petronella, with that radiance still upon her, sat down on her +little stool in front of the fire, and looked at Justin on the other +side of the hearth.</p> + +<p>"You haven't given me anything," she began, reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"What could I give that would compare with these?" His hand swept toward +the exquisite display. "What could I give—"</p> + +<p>"There's one thing," softly.</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"That copy of 'Treasure Island' that your mother gave you long ago."</p> + +<p>Dead silence. Then, unsteadily: "Why should you want that?"</p> + +<p>"Because your mother—loved you."</p> + +<p>Again dead silence. Hare did not look at her. His hand clenched the arm +of his chair. His face was white. Then, very low, "Why do you—make it +hard for me?"</p> + +<p>"Because I want—the book"; she was smiling at him with her eyes like +stars. "I want to read it with the eyes of the little boy—with the eyes +of the little boy who looked into the future and saw life as a great +adventure; who looked into the future—and dreamed."</p> + +<p>He had a vision, too, of that little boy, reading, in the old house in +the Maine woods, by the light of an oil-lamp, on Christmas Eve, with the +snow blowing outside as it blew to-night.</p> + +<p>"And your mother loved you because she loved your father," the girl's +voice went on, "and you were all very happy up there in the forest. Do +you remember that you told me about it on the ship?—you were happy, +although you were poor, and hadn't any books but 'Treasure Island' and +'Huckleberry Finn.' But your mother was happy—because she—loved your +father."</p> + +<p>As she repeated it, she leaned forward. "Could you think of your mother +as having been happy with any one else but your father?" she asked. +"Could you think of her as having never married him, of having gone +through the rest of her days a half-woman, because he would not—take +her—into his life? Can you think that all the money in the world—all +the money in the whole world—would—would have made up—"</p> + +<p>The room seemed to darken. Hare was conscious that her face was hidden +in her hands, that he stumbled toward her, that he knelt beside +her—that she was in his arms.</p> + +<p>"Hush," he was saying in that beating darkness of emotion. "Hush, don't +cry—I—I will never let you go—"</p> + +<p>When the storm had spent itself and when at last she met his long gaze, +he whispered, "I'm not sure now that it is right—"</p> + +<p>"You will be sure as the years go on," she whispered back; then, +tremulously: "but I—I could never have—talked that way if I had +thought of you as the man. I had to think of you as the little boy—who +dreamed."</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="THE_CANOPY_BED" id="THE_CANOPY_BED"></a>THE CANOPY BED</h2> + + +<p>"My great-grandfather slept in it," Van Alen told the caretaker, as she +ushered him into the big stuffy bedroom.</p> + +<p>The old woman set her candlestick down on the quaint dresser. "He must +have been a little man," she said; "none of my sons could sleep in it. +Their feet would hang over."</p> + +<p>Van Alen eyed the big bed curiously. All his life he had heard of it, +and now he had traveled far to see it. It was a lumbering structure of +great width and of strangely disproportionate length. And the coverlet +and the canopy were of rose-colored chintz.</p> + +<p>"I think I shall fit it," he said slowly.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Brand's critical glance weighed his smallness, his immaculateness, +his difference from her own great sons.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, with the open rudeness of the country-bred; "yes, you +ain't very big."</p> + +<p>Van Alen winced. Even from the lips of this uncouth woman the truth +struck hard. But he carried the topic forward with the light ease of a +man of the world.</p> + +<p>"My grandfather had the bed sawed to his own length," he explained; "did +you ever hear the story?"</p> + +<p>"No," she said; "I ain't been here long. They kept the house shut up +till this year."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll tell you when I come down," and Van Alen opened his bag with +a finality that sent the old woman to the door.</p> + +<p>"Supper's ready," she told him, "whenever you are."</p> + +<p>At the supper table the four big sons towered above Van Alen. They ate +with appetites like giants, and they had big ways and hearty laughs +that seemed to dwarf their guest into insignificance.</p> + +<p>But the insignificance was that of body only, for Van Alen, fresh from +the outside world and a good talker at all times, dominated the table +conversationally.</p> + +<p>To what he had to say the men listened eagerly, and the girl who waited +on the table listened.</p> + +<p>She was a vivid personality, with burnished hair, flaming cheeks, eyes +like the sea. Her hands, as she passed the biscuits, were white, and the +fingers went down delicately to little points. Van Alen, noting these +things keenly, knew that she was out of her place, and wondered how she +came there.</p> + +<p>At the end of the meal he told the story of the Canopy Bed.</p> + +<p>"My great-grandfather was a little man, and very sensitive about his +height. In the days of his early manhood he spent much time in devising +ways to deceive people into thinking him taller. He surrounded himself +with big things, had a big bed made, wore high-heeled boots, and the +crown of his hat was so tall that he was almost overbalanced.</p> + +<p>"But for all that, he was a little man among the sturdy men of his +generation, and if it had not been for the Revolution I think he would +have died railing at fate. But the war brought him opportunity. My +little great-grandfather fought in it, and won great honors, and +straight back home he came and had the bed sawed off! He wanted future +generations to see what a little man could do, and his will provided +that this house should not be sold, and that, when his sons and +grandsons had proved themselves worthy of it by some achievement, they +should come here and sleep. I think he swaggered a little when he wrote +that will, and he has put his descendants in an embarrassing position. +We can never sleep in the canopy bed without taking more upon ourselves +than modesty permits!"</p> + +<p>He laughed, and instinctively his eyes sought those of the girl who +waited on the table. Somehow he felt that she was the only one who could +understand.</p> + +<p>She came back at him with a question: "What have you done?"</p> + +<p>"I have written a book," he told her.</p> + +<p>She shook her head, and there were little sparks of light in her eyes. +"I don't believe that was what your grandfather meant," she said, +slowly.</p> + +<p>They stared at her—three of the brothers with their knives and forks +uplifted, the fourth, a blond Titanic youngster, with his elbows on the +table, his face turned up to her, as to the sun.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe he meant something done with your brains, but something +fine, heroic—" There was a hint of scorn in her voice.</p> + +<p>Van Alen flushed. He was fresh from the adulation of his bookish world.</p> + + +<p>"I should not have come," he explained, uncomfortably, "if my mother had +not desired that I preserve the tradition of the family."</p> + +<p>"It is a great thing to write a book"—she was leaning forward, aflame +with interest—"but I don't believe he meant just that—"</p> + +<p>He laughed. "Then I am not to sleep in the canopy bed?"</p> + +<p>The girl laughed too. "Not unless you want to be haunted by his ghost."</p> + +<p>With a backward flashing glance, she went into the kitchen, and Van +Alen, lighting a cigarette, started to explore the old house.</p> + +<p>Except for the wing, occupied by the caretaker, nothing had been +disturbed since the family, seeking new fortunes in the city, had left +the old homestead to decay among the desolate fields that yielded now a +meagre living for Mrs. Brand and her four strapping sons.</p> + +<p>In the old parlor, where the ancient furniture showed ghostlike shapes +in the dimness, and the dead air was like a tomb, Van Alen found a +picture of his great-grandfather.</p> + +<p>The little man had been painted without flattery. There he +sat—Lilliputian on the great charger! At that moment Van Alen hated +him—that Hop-o'-my-Thumb of another age, founder of a pigmy race, who, +by his braggart will, had that night brought upon this one of his +descendants the scorn of a woman.</p> + +<p>And even as he thought of her, she came in, with the yellow flare of a +candle lighting her vivid face.</p> + +<p>"I thought you might need a light," she said; "it grows dark so soon."</p> + +<p>As he took the candle from her, he said abruptly: "I shall not sleep in +the canopy bed; there is a couch in the room."</p> + +<p>"Oh," her tone was startled, "you shouldn't have taken all that I said +in earnest."</p> + +<p>"But you meant it?"</p> + +<p>"In a way, yes. I have been in here so often and have looked at your +grandfather's picture. He was a great little man—you can tell from his +eyes—they seem to speak at times."</p> + +<p>"To you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Of how he hated to be little, and how he triumphed when fame came +at last."</p> + +<p>"I hate to be little—"</p> + +<p>It was the first time that he had ever owned it. Even as a tiny boy he +had brazened it out, boasting of his mental achievements and slurring +the weakness of his stunted body.</p> + +<p>"I know," she had shut the kitchen door behind her, and they were +standing in the hallway alone, "I know. Every man must want to be big."</p> + +<p>She was only the girl who had waited on the table, but as she stood +there, looking at him with luminous eyes, he burned with dull +resentment, envying the blond boy who had sprawled at the head of the +supper table. After all, it was to such a man as Otto Brand that this +woman would some day turn.</p> + +<p>He spoke almost roughly: "Size isn't everything." She flushed. "How rude +you must think me," she said; "but I have been so interested in +dissecting your grandfather that I forgot—you—"</p> + +<p>Van Alen was moved by an impulse that he could not control, a primitive +impulse that was not in line with his usual repression.</p> + +<p>"I am tempted to make you remember me," he said slowly, and after that +there was a startled silence. And then she went away.</p> + +<p>As he passed the sitting-room on his way up-stairs, he looked in, and +spoke to Otto Brand.</p> + +<p>More than any of the other brothers, Otto typified strength and beauty, +but in his eyes was never a dream, his brain had mastered nothing. He +was playing idly with the yellow cat, but he stopped at Van Alen's +question.</p> + +<p>"Her great-grandfather and yours were neighbors," the boy said, with his +cheeks flushing; "they own the next farm."</p> + +<p>"The Wetherells?" Van Alen inquired.</p> + +<p>The boy nodded. "They ain't got a cent. They're land poor. That's why +she's here. But she don't need to work."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"There's plenty that wants to marry her round about," was the boy's +self-conscious summing up.</p> + +<p>With a sense of revolt, Van Alen left him, and, undressing in the room +with the canopy bed, he called up vaguely the vision of a little girl +who had visited them in the city. She had had green eyes and freckles +and red hair. Beyond that she had made no impression on his callowness. +And her name was Mazie Wetherell.</p> + +<p>He threw himself on the couch, and the night winds, coming in through +the open window, stirred the curtains of the canopy bed with the light +touch of a ghostly hand.</p> + +<p>Then dreams came, and through them ran the thread of his hope of seeing +Mazie Wetherell in the morning.</p> + +<p>But even with such preparation, her beauty seemed to come upon him +unawares when he saw her at breakfast. And again at noon, and again at +night. But it was the third day before he saw her alone.</p> + +<p>All that day he had explored the length and breadth of the family +estate, finding it barren, finding that the population of the little +village at its edge had decreased to a mere handful of laggards, finding +that there was no lawyer within miles and but one doctor; gaining a +final impression that back here in the hills men would come no more +where once men had thronged.</p> + +<p>It was almost evening when he followed a furrowed brown road that led +westward. Above the bleak line of the horizon the sun hung, a red gold +disk. There were other reds, too, along the way—the sumac flaming +scarlet against the gray fence-rails; the sweetbrier, crimson-spotted +with berries; the creeper, clinging with ruddy fingers to dead +tree-trunks; the maple leaves rosy with first frosts.</p> + +<p>And into this vividness came the girl who had waited on the table, and +her flaming cheeks and copper hair seemed to challenge the glow of the +autumn landscape.</p> + +<p>She would have passed him with a nod, but he stopped her.</p> + +<p>"You must not run away, Mazie Wetherell," he said; "you used to treat me +better than that when you were a little girl."</p> + +<p>She laughed. "Do you remember my freckles and red hair?"</p> + +<p>"I remember your lovely manners."</p> + +<p>"I had to have nice manners. It is only pretty children who can afford +to be bad."</p> + +<p>"And pretty women?" he asked, with his eyes on the color that came and +went.</p> + +<p>She flung out her hands in a gesture of protest "I have seen so few."</p> + +<p>His lips were opened to tell her of her own beauty, but something +restrained him, some perception of maidenly dignity that enfolded her +and made her more than the girl who had waited on the table.</p> + +<p>"You were a polite little boy," she recalled, filling the breach made by +his silence. "I remember that you carried me across the street, to save +my slippers from the wet. I thought you were wonderful. I have never +forgotten."</p> + +<p>Neither had Van Alen forgotten. It had been a great feat for his little +strength. There had been other boys there, bigger boys, but he had +offered, and had been saved humiliation by her girlish slimness and +feather weight.</p> + +<p>"I was a strong little fellow then," was his comment: "I am a strong +little fellow now."</p> + +<p>She turned on him reproachful eyes. "Why do you always harp on it?" she +demanded.</p> + +<p>"On what?"</p> + +<p>"Your size. You twist everything, turn everything, so that we come back +to it."</p> + +<p>He tried to answer lightly, but his voice shook. "Perhaps it is because +in your presence I desire more than ever the full stature of a man."</p> + +<p>He was in deadly earnest. Hitherto he had been willing to match his +brain, his worldly knowledge, his ancestry, against the charms of the +women he had met; but here with this girl, standing like a young goddess +under the wide, sunset sky, he felt that only for strength and beauty +should she choose her mate.</p> + +<p>He wondered what he must seem in her eyes; with his shoulder on a level +with hers, with his stocky build that saved him from effeminacy, his +carefulness of attire—which is at once the burden and the salvation of +the small man.</p> + +<p>As for his face, he knew that its homeliness was redeemed by a certain +strength of chin, by keen gray eyes, and by a shock of dark hair that +showed a little white at the temples. There were worse-looking men, he +knew, but that, at the present moment, gave little comfort.</p> + +<p>She chose to receive his remark in silence, and, as they came to a path +that branched from the road, she said:</p> + +<p>"I am going to help take care of a child who is sick. You see I am +mistress of all trades—nurse, waitress, charwoman, when there is +nothing else."</p> + +<p>He glanced at her hands. "I cannot believe that you scrub," he said.</p> + +<p>"I sit up at night to care for my hands"—there was a note of bitterness +in her tone—"and I wear gloves when I work. There are some things that +one desires to hold on to, and my mother and my grandmother were ladies +of leisure."</p> + +<p>"Would you like that—to be a lady of leisure?"</p> + +<p>She turned and smiled at him. "How can I tell?" she asked; "I have never +tried it."</p> + +<p>She started to leave him as she said it, but he held her with a +question: "Shall you sit up all night?"</p> + +<p>She nodded. "His mother has had no sleep for two nights."</p> + +<p>"Is he very ill?"</p> + +<p>The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Who knows? There is no doctor near, +and his mother is poor. We are fighting it out together."</p> + +<p>There was something heroic in her cool acceptance of her hard life. He +was silent for a moment, and then he said: "Would you have time to read +my book to-night?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, if I might," she said eagerly, "but you haven't it with you."</p> + +<p>"I will bring it," he told her, "after supper."</p> + +<p>"But," she protested.</p> + +<p>"There are no 'buts,'" he said, smiling; "if you will read it, I will +get it to you."</p> + +<p>The sky had darkened, and, as he went toward home, he faced clouds in +the southeast.</p> + +<p>"It is going to rain," Otto Brand prophesied as they sat down to supper.</p> + +<p>The other three men hoped that it would not. Already the ground was +soaked, making the cutting of corn impossible, and another rain with a +frost on top of it would spoil all chance of filling the silo.</p> + +<p>Van Alen could not enter into their technical objections. He hoped it +would not rain, because he wanted to take a book to Mazie Wetherell, and +he had not brought a rain-coat.</p> + +<p>But it did rain, and he went without a rain-coat!</p> + +<p>The house, as he neared it, showed no light, and under the thick canopy +of the trees there was no sound but the drip, drip of the rain. By +feeling and instinct he found the front door, and knocked.</p> + +<p>There was a movement inside, and then Mazie Wetherell asked softly: +"Who's there?"</p> + +<p>"I have brought the book."</p> + +<p>The bolt was withdrawn, and in the hall, scarcely lighted by the shaded +lamp in the room beyond, stood the girl, in a loose gray gown, with +braided shining hair—a shadowy being, half-merged into the shadows.</p> + +<p>"I thought you would not come," in a hushed tone, "in such a storm."</p> + +<p>"I said I should come. The book may help you through the long night."</p> + +<p>She caught her breath quickly. "The child is awfully ill."</p> + +<p>"Are you afraid? Let me stay."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, no. His mother is sleeping, and I shall have your book."</p> + +<p>She did not ask him in, and so he went away at once, beating his way +back in the wind and rain, fording a little stream where the low +foot-bridge was covered, reaching home soaking wet, but afire with +dreams.</p> + +<p>Otto Brand was waiting for him, a little curious as to what had taken +him out so late, but, getting no satisfaction, he followed Van Alen +up-stairs, and built a fire for him in the big bedroom. And presently, +in the light of the leaping flames, the roses on the canopy of the bed +glowed pink.</p> + +<p>"Ain't you goin' to sleep in the bed?" Otto asked, as he watched Van +Alen arrange the covers on the couch.</p> + +<p>"No," said Van Alen shortly, "the honor is too great. It might keep me +awake."</p> + +<p>"My feet would hang over," Otto said. "Funny thing, wasn't it, for a man +to make a will like that?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose every man has a right to do as he pleases," Van Alen +responded coldly. He was not inclined to discuss the eccentricities of +his little old ancestor with this young giant.</p> + +<p>"Of course," Otto agreed, and his next remark was called forth by Van +Alen's pale blue pajamas.</p> + +<p>"Well, those are new on me."</p> + +<p>Van Alen explained that in the city they were worn, and that silk was +cool, but while he talked he was possessed by a kind of fury. For the +first time the delicate garments, the luxurious toilet articles packed +in his bag, seemed foppish, unnecessary, things for a woman. With all of +them, he could not compete with this fair young god, who used a rough +towel and a tin basin on the kitchen bench.</p> + +<p>"Maybe I'd better go," the boy offered. "You'll want to go to bed."</p> + +<p>But Van Alen held him. "I always smoke first," he said, and, wrapped in +his dressing-gown, he flung himself into a chair on the opposite side of +the fireplace.</p> + +<p>And after a time he brought the conversation around to Mazie Wetherell.</p> + +<p>He found the boy rather sure of his success with her.</p> + +<p>"All women are alike," he said; "you've just got to keep after them long +enough."</p> + +<p>To Van Alen the idea of this hulking youngster as a suitor for such a +woman seemed preposterous. He was not fit to touch the hem of her +garment. He was unmannerly, uneducated; he was not of her class—and +even as he analyzed, the boy stood up, perfect in his strong young +manhood.</p> + +<p>"I've never had much trouble making women like me," he said; "and I +ain't goin' to give up, just because she thinks she's better than the +rest round about here."</p> + +<p>He went away, and Van Alen stared long into the fire, until the flames +left a heart of opal among the ashes.</p> + +<p>He had not been unsuccessful with women himself. Many of them had liked +him, and might have loved him if he had cared to make them. But until +he met Mazie Wetherell he had not cared.</p> + +<p>Desperately he wished for some trial of courage where he might be +matched against Otto Brand. He grew melodramatic in his imaginings, and +saw himself at a fire, fighting the flames to reach Mazie, while Otto +Brand shrank back. He stood in the path of runaway horses, and Otto +showed the white feather. He nursed her through the plague, and Otto +fled fearfully from the disease.</p> + +<p>And then having reached the end of impossibilities, he stood up and +shook himself.</p> + +<p>"I'm a fool," he said to the flames, shortly, and went to bed, to lie +awake, wondering whether Mazie Wetherell had reached that chapter of his +book where he had written of love, deeply, reverently, with a +foreknowledge of what it might mean to him some day. It was that chapter +which had assured the success of his novel. Would it move her, as it had +moved him when he reread it? That was what love ought to be—a thing +fine, tender, touching the stars! That was what love might be to him, to +Mazie Wetherell, what it could never be to Otto Brand.</p> + +<p>At breakfast the next morning he found Mrs. Brand worrying about her +waitress.</p> + +<p>"I guess she couldn't get back, and I've got a big day's work."</p> + +<p>"I'll go and look her up," Van Alen offered; but he found that he was +not to go alone, for Otto was waiting for him at the gate.</p> + +<p>"I ain't got nothin' else to do," the boy said; "everything is held up +by the rain."</p> + +<p>It was when they came to the little stream that Van Alen had forded the +night before that they saw Mazie Wetherell.</p> + +<p>"I can't get across," she called from the other side.</p> + +<p>The bridge, which had been covered when Van Alen passed, was now washed +away, and the foaming brown waters overflowed the banks.</p> + +<p>"I'll carry you over," Otto called, and straightway he waded through the +stream, and the water came above his high boots to his hips.</p> + +<p>He lifted her in his strong arms and brought her back, with her bright +hair fluttering against his lips, and Van Alen, raging impotently, stood +and watched him.</p> + +<p>It seemed to him that Otto's air was almost insultingly triumphant as he +set the girl on her feet and smiled down at her. And as she smiled back, +Van Alen turned on his heel and left them.</p> + +<p>Presently he heard her running after him lightly over the sodden ground.</p> + +<p>And when she reached his side she said: "Your book was wonderful."</p> + +<p>"But he carried you over the stream."</p> + +<p>Her eyes flashed a question, then blazed. "There, you've come back to +it," she said. "What makes you?"</p> + +<p>"Because I wanted to carry you myself."</p> + +<p>"Silly," she said; "any man could carry me across the stream—but only +you could write that chapter in the middle of the book."</p> + +<p>"You liked it?" he cried, radiantly.</p> + +<p>"Like it?" she asked. "I read it once, and then I read it again—on my +knees."</p> + +<p>Her voice seemed to drop away breathless. Behind them Otto Brand +tramped, whistling; but he might have been a tree, or the sky, or the +distant hills, for all the thought they took of him.</p> + +<p>"I wanted to beg your pardon," the girl went on, "for what I said the +other day—it is a great thing to write a book like that—greater than +fighting a battle or saving a life, for it saves people's ideals; +perhaps in that way it saves their souls."</p> + +<p>"Then I may sleep in the canopy bed?" His voice was calm, but inwardly +he was much shaken by her emotion.</p> + +<p>Her eyes, as she turned to him, had in them the dawn of that for which +he had hoped.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" she said, quickly. "You are greater than your +grandfather—you are—" She stopped and laughed a little, and, in this +moment of her surrender, her beauty shone like a star.</p> + +<p>"Oh, little great man," she said, tremulously, "your head touches the +skies!"</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="SANDWICH_JANE" id="SANDWICH_JANE"></a>SANDWICH JANE</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + + +<p>"No man," said O-liver Lee, "should earn more than fifteen dollars a +week. After that he gets—soft."</p> + +<p>"Soft nothing!"</p> + +<p>O-liver sat on a box in front of the post-office. He was lean and young +and without a hat. His bare head was one of the things that made him +unique. The other men within doors and without wore hats—broad hats +that shielded them from the California sun; or, as in the case of Atwood +Jones, who came from the city, a Panama of an up-to-the-minute model.</p> + +<p>But O-liver's blond mane waved in every passing breeze. It was only when +he rode forth on his mysterious journeys that he crowned himself with a +Chinese straw helmet.</p> + +<p>Because he wore no hat his skin was tanned. He had blue eyes that +twinkled and, as I have said, a blond mane.</p> + +<p>"Fifteen dollars a week," he reaffirmed, "is enough."</p> + +<p>Fifteen dollars was all that O-liver earned. He was secretary to an +incipient oil king. As the oil king's monarchy was largely on paper he +found it hard at times to compass even the fifteen dollars that went to +his secretary.</p> + +<p>The other men scorned O-liver's point of view and told him so. They were +a rather prosperous bunch, all except Tommy Drew, who dealt in a +dilettante fashion in insurance, and who sat at O-liver's feet and +worshiped him.</p> + +<p>It was Saturday and some of the men had drifted in from the surrounding +ranches; others from the cities, from the mountains, from the valleys, +from the desert, from the sea. Tinkersfield had assumed a sudden +importance as an oil town. All of the men had business connected in some +way with Tinkersfield. And all of them earned more than fifteen dollars +a week.</p> + +<p>Therefore they disputed O-liver's statement. "If you had a wife—" said +one.</p> + +<p>"Ah," said O-liver, "if I had—"</p> + +<p>"Ain't you got any ambition?" Henry Bittinger demanded. Henry was +pumping out oil in prodigious quantities. He had bought a motor car and +a fur coat. It was too hot most of the time for the coat, but the car +stood now at rest across the road—long and lovely—much more of an +aristocrat than the man who owned it.</p> + +<p>"Ambition for what?" O-liver demanded.</p> + +<p>Henry's eyes went to the pride of his heart.</p> + +<p>"Well, I should think you'd want a car."</p> + +<p>"I'd give," said O-liver, "my kingdom for a horse, but not for a car."</p> + +<p>O-liver's little mare stood quite happily in the shade; she was slim as +to leg, shining as to coat, and with the eyes of a loving woman.</p> + +<p>"I should think you'd want to get ahead," said Atwood Jones, who sold +shoes up and down the coast. He was a junior member of the firm, but +still liked to go on the road. He liked to lounge like this in front of +the post-office and smoke in the golden air with a lot of men sitting +round. Atwood had been raised on a ranch. He had listened to the call of +the city, but he was still a small-town man.</p> + +<p>"Ahead of what?" asked O-liver.</p> + +<p>Atwood was vague. He felt himself a rising citizen. Some day he expected +to marry and set his wife up in a mansion in San Francisco, with +seasons of rest and recreation at Del Monte and Coronado and the East. +If the shoe business kept to the present rate of prosperity he would +probably have millions to squander in his old age.</p> + +<p>He tried to say something of this to O-liver.</p> + +<p>"Well, will you be any happier?" asked the young man with the bare head. +"I'll wager my horse against your car that when you're drunk with +dollars you'll look back to a day like this and envy yourself. It's +happiness I'm talking about."</p> + +<p>"Well, are you happy?" Atwood challenged.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" asked the young man lightly. "I have enough to eat, money for +tobacco, a book or two—an audience." He waved his hand to include the +listening group and smiled.</p> + +<p>It was O-liver's lightness which gave him the whip hand in an argument. +They were most of them serious men; not serious in a Puritan sense of +taking thought of their souls' salvation and the world's redemption, but +serious in their pursuit of wealth. They had to be rich. If they weren't +they couldn't marry, or if they were married they had to be rich so that +their wives could keep up with the wives of the other fellows who were +getting rich. They had to have cars and money to spend at big hotels and +for travel, money for diamonds and furs, money for everything.</p> + +<p>But here was O-liver Lee, who said lightly that money weighed upon him. +He didn't want it. He'd be darned if he wanted it. Money brought +burdens. As for himself, he'd read and ride Mary Pick.</p> + +<p>"Anyhow," said Henry, with his hands folded across his stomach—Henry +had grown fat riding in his car—"anyhow, when you get old you'll be +sorry."</p> + +<p>"I shall never grow old," said O-liver, and stood up. "I shall be +young—till I—die."</p> + +<p>They laughed at him outwardly, but in their hearts they did not laugh. +They could not think of him as old. They felt that in a hundred years he +would still be strong and sure, his blond mane untouched by gray, his +clear blue eyes unblurred.</p> + +<p>Atwood rounding them all up for a drink found that O-liver wouldn't +drink.</p> + +<p>"Drank too much, once upon a time," he confessed frankly. "But I'll give +you a toast."</p> + +<p>He gave it, poised on his box like a young god on the edge of the world.</p> + +<p>"Here's to poverty! May we learn to love her for the favors she denies!"</p> + +<p>"Queer chap," said Atwood to Henry later.</p> + +<p>Henry nodded. "He's queer, but he's great company. Always has a crowd +round him. But no ambition."</p> + +<p>"Pity," said Atwood. "How'd he get that name—O-liver?"</p> + +<p>"One of the fellows got gay and called him 'Ollie.' Lee stopped him. 'My +name is Oliver Lee. If you want a nickname you can say "O-liver." But +I'm not "Ollie" from this time on, understand?' And I'm darned if the +fellow didn't back down. There was something about O-liver that would +have made anybody back down. He didn't have a gun; it was just something +in his voice."</p> + +<p>"Say, he's wasted," said Atwood. "A man with his line of talk might be +President of the United States."</p> + +<p>"Sure he might," Henry agreed. "I've told him a lot of times he's +throwing away his chance."</p> + + + +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p>The office of the incipient oil king was on the main street of the +straggling town. At the back there was a window which gave a view of a +hill or two and a mountain beyond. The mountain stuck its nose into the +clouds and was whitecapped.</p> + +<p>It was this view at the back which O-liver faced when he sat at his +machine. When he rested he liked to fix his eyes on that white mountain. +O-liver had acquired of late a fashion of looking up. There had been a +time when he had kept his eyes on the ground. He did not care to +remember that time. The work that he did was intermittent, and between +his industrious spasms he read a book. He had a shelf at hand where he +kept certain volumes—Walt Whitman, Vanity Fair, Austin Dobson, Landor's +Imaginary Conversations, and a rather choice collection of Old Mission +literature. He had had it in mind that he might some day write a play +with Santa Barbara as a background, but he had stopped after the first +act. He had ridden down one night and had reached the mission at dawn. +The gold cross had flamed as the sun rose over the mountain. After that +it had seemed somehow a desecration to put it in a painted scene. +O-liver had rather queer ideas as to the sacredness of certain things.</p> + +<p>Tommy Drew, who had a desk in the same office, read Vanity Fair and +wanted to talk about it. "Say, I don't like that girl, O-liver."</p> + +<p>"What girl?"</p> + +<p>"Becky."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Well, she's a grafter. And her husband was a poor nut."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid he was," said O-liver.</p> + +<p>"He oughta of dragged her round by the hair of her head."</p> + +<p>"They don't do it, Tommy," O-liver was thoughtful. "After all a woman's +a woman. It's easier to let her go."</p> + +<p>An astute observer might have found O-liver cynical about women. If he +said nothing against them he certainly never said anything for them. And +he kept strictly away from everything feminine in Tinkersfield, in spite +of the fact that his good looks won him more than one glance from +sparkling eyes.</p> + +<p>"He acts afraid of skirts," Henry had said to Tommy on one occasion.</p> + +<p>"He?" Tommy was scornful. "He ain't afraid of anything!"</p> + +<p>Henry knew it. "Maybe it's because you can't do much with women on +fifteen a week."</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess that's so," said Tommy, who made twenty and who had a +hopeless passion.</p> + +<p>His hopeless passion was Jane. Jane lived with her mother in a small +rose-bowered bungalow at the edge of the town. She and her mother owned +the bungalow, which was fortunate; they hadn't a penny for rent. Jane's +father had died of a weak lung and the failure of his oil well. He had +left the two women without an income. Jane's mother was delicate and +Jane couldn't leave her to go out to work. So Jane dug in the little +garden, and they lived largely on vegetables. She sewed for the +neighbors, and bought medicine and now and then a bit of meat. She was +young and strong and she had wonderful red hair. Tommy thought it was +the most beautiful hair in the world. Jane was for him a sort of goddess +woman. She was, he felt, infinitely above him. She knew a great deal +that he didn't, about books and things—like O-liver. She sewed for his +mother, and that was the way he had met her. He would go over and sit on +her front steps and talk. He felt that she treated him like a little dog +that she wouldn't harm, but wouldn't miss if it went away. He told her +of Vanity Fair and of how he felt about Becky.</p> + +<p>"If she had been content to earn an honest living," Jane stated +severely, "the story would have had a different ending."</p> + +<p>"Well, she wanted things," Tommy said.</p> + +<p>"Most women do." Jane jabbed her needle into a length of pink gingham +which, when finished, would be rompers for a youngster across the +street. "I do; and I intend to have them."</p> + +<p>"How?" asked the interested Tommy.</p> + +<p>"Work for them."</p> + +<p>"O-liver says that fifteen dollars a week is enough for anybody to +earn."</p> + +<p>Jane had heard of O-liver. Tommy sang his constant praises.</p> + +<p>"Why fifteen?"</p> + +<p>"After that you get soft."</p> + +<p>Jane laid down the length of pink gingham and looked at him. She hated +to sew on pink; it clashed dreadfully with her hair.</p> + +<p>"I should say," she stated with scorn, "that your O-liver's lazy."</p> + +<p>"No, he isn't. He only wants enough to eat and enough to smoke and +enough to read."</p> + +<p>"That sounds all right, but it isn't. What's he going to do when he's +old?"</p> + +<p>"He ain't ever going to grow old. He said so, and if you'd see him you'd +know."</p> + +<p>Jane felt within her the stirring of curiosity. But she put it down +sternly. She had no time for it.</p> + +<p>"Tommy," she said, "I've been thinking. I've got to earn more money, and +I want your help."</p> + +<p>Tommy's faithful eyes held a look of doglike affection.</p> + +<p>"Oh, if I can—" he quavered.</p> + +<p>"I've got to get ahead." Jane was breathless. Her eyes shone.</p> + +<p>"I've got to get ahead, Tommy. I can't live all my life like this." She +held up the pink strip. "Even if I am a woman, there ought to be +something more than making rompers for the rest of my days."</p> + +<p>"You might," said the infatuated Tommy, "marry."</p> + +<p>"Marry? Marry whom?"</p> + +<p>Tommy wished that he might shout "Me!" from the housetops. But he knew +the futility of it.</p> + +<p>"I shall never marry," she said, "until I find somebody different from +anything I've ever seen."</p> + +<p>Jane's ideas of men were bounded largely by the weakness of her father +and the crudeness of men like Henry Bittinger, Atwood Jones and others +of their kind. She didn't consider Tommy at all. He was a nice boy and a +faithful friend. His mother, too, was a faithful friend. She classed +them together.</p> + +<p>Her plan, told with much coming and going of lovely color, was this: She +had read that the way to make money was to find the thing that a +community lacked and supply it. Considering it seriously she had decided +that in Tinkersfield there was need of good food.</p> + +<p>"There's just one horrid little eating house," she told Tommy, "when the +men come in from out of town."</p> + +<p>"Nothing fit to eat either," Tommy agreed; "and they make up on booze."</p> + +<p>She nodded. "Tommy," she said, and leaned toward him, "I had thought of +sandwiches—home-made bread and slices of ham—wrapped in waxed paper; +and of taking them down and selling them in front of the post-office on +Saturday nights."</p> + +<p>Tommy's eyes bulged. "You take them down?"</p> + +<p>"Why not? Any work is honorable, Tommy."</p> + +<p>Tommy felt that it wouldn't be a goddess role.</p> + +<p>"I can't see it." The red crept up into his honest freckled face. "You +know the kind of women that's round on Saturday nights."</p> + +<p>"I am not that kind of woman." She was suddenly austere.</p> + +<p>He found himself stammering. "I didn't mean—"</p> + +<p>"Of course you didn't. But it's a good plan, Tommy. Say you think it's a +good plan."</p> + +<p>He would have said anything to please her. "Well, you might try."</p> + +<p>The next day he found himself talking it over with O-liver. "She wants +to sell them on Saturday nights."</p> + +<p>"Tell her," said O-liver, "to stay at home."</p> + +<p>"But she's got to have some money."</p> + +<p>"Money," said O-liver, "is the root of evil. You say she has a garden. +Let her live on leeks and lettuce."</p> + +<p>"Leeks and lettuce?" said poor Tommy, who had never heard of leeks.</p> + +<p>"Her complexion will be better," said O-liver, "and her peace of mind +great."</p> + +<p>"Her complexion is perfect," Tommy told him, "and she isn't the peaceful +kind. Her hair is red."</p> + +<p>"Red-haired women"—O-liver had his eye on Vanity Fair—"red-haired +women always flaunt themselves."</p> + +<p>Tommy, softening O-liver's words a bit, gave them in the form of advice +to Jane: "He thinks you'd better live on leeks and lettuce than go +down-town like that."</p> + +<p>Jane gasped. "Leeks and lettuce? Me? He doesn't know what he's talking +about! And anyhow, what can you expect of a man like that?"</p> + + + +<h3>III</h3> + + +<p>A week later Jane in a white shirt-waist and white apron came down with +her white-covered basket into the glare of the town's white lights. The +night was warm and she wore no hat. Her red hair was swept back from her +forehead with a droop over the ears. She had white skin and strong white +teeth. Her eyes were as gray as the sea on stormy days. Tommy came after +her with a wooden box, which he set on end, and she placed her basket on +it. The principal stores of the small town, the one hotel and the +post-office were connected by a covered walk which formed a sort of +arcade, so that the men lounging against doorways or tip-tilted in +chairs seemed in a sort of gallery from which they surveyed the +Saturday-night crowd which paraded the street.</p> + +<p>Jane folded up the cloth which covered her basket and displayed her +wares. "Don't stick round, Tommy," she said. "I shall do better alone."</p> + +<p>But as she raised her head and saw the eyes of the men upon her a rich +color surged into her cheeks.</p> + +<p>She put out her little sign bravely:</p> + +<blockquote><p class="center">HOME-MADE SANDWICHES—TWENTY CENTS</p></blockquote> + +<p>With a sense of adventure upon them the men flocked down at once. They +bought at first because the wares were offered by a pretty girl. They +came back to buy because never had there been such sandwiches.</p> + +<p>Jane had improved upon her first idea. There were not only ham +sandwiches; there were baked beans between brown bread, thin slices of +broiled bacon in hot baking-powder biscuit. Henry Bittinger said to +Atwood Jones afterward: "The food was so good that if she had been as +ugly as sin she'd have got away with it."</p> + +<p>"She isn't ugly," said Atwood, and had a fleeting moment of speculation +as to whether Jane with her red hair would fit into his plutocratic +future.</p> + +<p>Jane had made fifty sandwiches. She sold them all, and took ten dollars +home with her.</p> + +<p>"I shall make a hundred next time," she said to Tommy, whom she picked +up on the way back. "And—it wasn't so dreadful, Tommy."</p> + +<p>But that night as she lay in bed looking out toward the mountain, +silver-tipped in the moonlight, she had a shivering sense of the eyes of +some of the men—of Tillotson, who kept the hotel, and of others of his +kind.</p> + +<p>O-liver had stayed at home that Saturday night to write a certain weekly +letter. He had stayed at home also because he didn't approve of Jane.</p> + +<p>"But you haven't seen her," Tommy protested.</p> + +<p>"I know the type."</p> + +<p>On Sunday morning Tommy brought him a baked-bean sandwich. "It isn't as +fresh as it might be. But you can see what she's giving us."</p> + +<p>There were months of O-liver's life which had been spent with a +grandmother in Boston. His grandmother had made brown bread and she had +baked beans. And now as he ate his sandwich there was the savor of all +the gastronomic memories of a healthy and happy childhood.</p> + +<p>"It's delicious," he said, "but she'd better not mix with that crowd."</p> + +<p>"She doesn't mix," said Tommy.</p> + +<p>"She'll have to." O-liver had in mind a red-haired woman, raw-boned, +with come-hither eyes. Her kind was not uncommon. Tommy's infatuation +would of course elevate her to a pedestal.</p> + +<p>"She's going to make a hundred sandwiches next week," Tommy vouchsafed.</p> + +<p>O-liver's mind could scarcely compass one hundred sandwiches. "She'd +better stick to her leeks and lettuce."</p> + +<p>He rode away the next Saturday night. It was his protest against the +interest roused in the community by this Jane who sold sandwiches. He +heard of her everywhere. Some of the men were respectful and some were +not. It depended largely on the nature of the particular male.</p> + +<p>O-liver rode Mary Pick and wore his straw helmet. His way led down into +the valley and up again and down, until at last he came to the sea. Then +he followed the water's edge, letting Mary Pick dance now and then on +the hard beach, with the waves curling up like cream, and beyond the +waves a stretch of pale azure to the horizon.</p> + +<p>He reached finally a fantastic settlement. Against the sky towered walls +which might have inclosed an ancient city—walls built of cloth and wood +instead of stone. Beyond these walls were thatched cottages which had no +occupants; a quaint church which had no congregation; a Greek temple +which had no vestals, no sacred fire, no altar; hedges which had no +roots. O-liver weighing the hollowness of it all had thought whimsically +of an old nursery rime:</p> + +<blockquote class="poem"><p> +The first sent a goose without a bone;<br /> +The second sent a cherry without a stone;<br /> +The third sent a blanket without a thread;<br /> +The fourth sent a book that no man could read. +</p></blockquote> + +<p>At the end of the settlement was a vast studio lighted by a glass roof. +Entering, O-liver was transported at once to the dance hall on the +Barbary Coast—a great room with a bar at one end, the musicians on a +platform at the other, a stairway leading upward. Groups of people +waited for a signal to dance, to drink, to act whatever part had been +assigned them—people with unearthly pink complexions. The heat was +intense.</p> + +<p>With her face upturned to the director, who was mounted on a chair, +stood a childish creature who was pinker, if possible, than the rest. +She had fluffy hair of pale gold. She ran up the stairway presently, and +the light was turned on her. It made of her fluffy hair a halo. In the +strong glare everything about her was overemphasized, but O-liver knew +that when she showed up on the screen she would be entrancing.</p> + +<p>He had first seen her on the screen. He had met her afterward at her +hotel. She had seemed as ingenuous as the parts she played. Perhaps she +was. He could never be quite sure. Perhaps the money she had made +afterward had spoiled her. She had jumped from fifty dollars a week to a +thousand.</p> + +<p>After that O-liver could give her nothing. He had an allowance from his +mother of three thousand a year. Fluffy Hair made as much as that in +three weeks. Where he had been king of his own domain he became a sort +of gentleman footman, carrying her sables and her satchels. But that was +not the worst of it. He found that they had not a taste in common. She +laughed at his books, at his love of sea and sky. She even laughed at +his Mary Pick, whose name suggested a hated rival.</p> + +<p>And so he left her—laughing.</p> + +<p>A certain sense of responsibility, however, took him to her once a +month, and a letter went to her every week. She was his wife. He +continued in a sense to watch over her. Yet she resented his watching.</p> + +<p>From her stairway she had seen him, and when a rest was granted she came +down to him.</p> + +<p>"I'll be through presently," she said. "We can go to my hotel."</p> + +<p>Her rooms in the hotel overlooked the sea. There was a balcony, and they +sat on it in long lazy chairs and had iced things to drink.</p> + +<p>O-liver drank lemonade. His wife had something stronger.</p> + +<p>"I have not been well," she said; "it's a part of the doctor's +prescription."</p> + +<p>She had removed the pink from her face, and he saw that she was pale.</p> + +<p>"You are working too hard," he told her. "You'd better take a month in +the desert, out of doors."</p> + +<p>She shivered. She hated the out-of-doors that he raved about. They had +spent their honeymoon in a tent. She had been wild to get back to +civilization. It had been their first moment of disillusion.</p> + +<p>She showed him before he went some of the things she had acquired since +his last visit—an ermine coat, a string of pearls.</p> + +<p>"I saw them in your last picture," he told her. "You really visit me by +proxy. I find your name on the boards, and walk in with a lot of other +men and look at you. And not one of them dreams that I've ever seen the +woman on the screen."</p> + +<p>"Well, they wouldn't of course." She had never taken his name. Her own +was too valuable.</p> + +<p>When he told her good-bye he asked a question: "Are you happy?"</p> + +<p>For a moment her face clouded. "I'm not quite sure. Is anybody? But I +like the way I am living, Ollie."</p> + +<p>He had a sense of relief. "So do I," he said. "I earn fifteen dollars a +week. The papers say that you earn fifteen hundred—and you're not quite +twenty."</p> + +<p>"There isn't a man in this hotel that makes so much," she told him +complacently. "The women try to snub me, but they can't. Money talks."</p> + +<p>It seemed to him that in her case it shouted. As he rode back on Mary +Pick he thought seriously of his fifteen dollars a week and her fifteen +hundred; and of how little either weighed in the balance of happiness.</p> + + + +<h3>IV</h3> + + +<p>It was not until the following Saturday that he saw Jane. She had made +two hundred sandwiches. She had got Tommy's mother to help her. She had +invented new combinations, always holding to the idea of satisfying the +substantial appetites of men.</p> + +<p>There would be no use, she argued, in offering five-o'clock-tea +combinations.</p> + +<p>She was very busy and very happy and very hopeful.</p> + +<p>"If this keeps up," she told her mother, "I shall rent a little shop and +sell them over the counter."</p> + +<p>Her mother had an invalid's pessimism. "They may tire of them."</p> + +<p>They were not yet tired. They gave Jane and her basket vociferous +greeting, crowding round her and buying eagerly. Atwood and Henry having +placed orders hung back, content to wait for a later moment when she +might have leisure to talk to them.</p> + +<p>Tommy helped Jane to hand out sandwiches and make change. He felt like +the faithful squire of a great lady. He had read much romantic +literature, and he served as well if not as picturesquely as a page in +doublet and hose.</p> + +<p>So O-liver saw them. He had been riding all the afternoon on Mary Pick. +He had gone up into the Cañon of the Honey Pots. No one knew it by that +name but O-liver, but at all the houses one could buy honey. Up and down +the road were little stands on which were set forth glasses and jars of +amber sweet. The bees flashed like motes in the sunlight, the air was +heavy with the fragrance of the flowers which yielded their largess to +the marauders.</p> + +<p>It was dark when he rode down toward the town. It lay before him, all +twinkling lights. Above it hung a thin moon and countless stars. It +might have been a fairy town under the kindly cover of the night.</p> + +<p>But when he reached the central square the illusion ceased. It was what +men had made it—sordid, cheap. He stopped Mary Pick under a pepper tree +and surveyed the scene.</p> + +<p>Jane and her basket were the center of an excited group. She had almost +reached the end of her supplies, and some one had suggested auctioning +off the remainder. Jane had protested, but her protests had not availed. +She had turned to Tommy for help, to Henry, to Atwood. They had done +their best. But the man who led the crowd had an object in his +leadership. It was Tillotson of the little hotel—red-faced, +whisky-soaked.</p> + +<p>"Sandwich Jane, Sandwich Jane!" he shouted. "That's the name for her, +boys."</p> + +<p>And they took it up and shouted "Sandwich Jane!"</p> + +<p>It was at this moment that O-liver stopped under the pepper tree. The +bright light fell directly on Jane's distressed face. He saw the +swept-back brightness of her hair, her clear-cut profile, her white +skin, her white teeth. But he saw more than this. "By Jove," he said, +"she's a lady!"</p> + +<p>If he had been talking to the men he would have said "Gosh!" It was only +when he was alone that he permitted himself the indulgence of more +formal language.</p> + +<p>That Jane was harried he could see. And suddenly he rode forward on Mary +Pick.</p> + +<p>The crowd made way for him expectantly. There were always interesting +developments when O-liver was on the scene.</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen," he said, "let the lady speak for herself. I am not sure +what you are trying to do, but it is evidently something she doesn't +want done."</p> + +<p>Jane flashed a grateful glance up at him. He was the unknown knight +throwing down the gauntlet in her defense. He was different from the +others—his voice was different.</p> + +<p>"They want to auction off my sandwiches," she explained, "and they won't +listen."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure they will listen." O-liver on Mary Pick, with his hat off and +his mane tossed back, might have been Henry of the white plumes. "Of +course they'll listen."</p> + +<p>And they did!</p> + +<p>Jane stood on her box and addressed them.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to get any more for my sandwiches than they are worth," +she said earnestly. "I make good ones, and I sell them for twenty cents +because they are the best of their kind. I am glad you like them. I want +to earn my living and my mother's. She is sick, and I have to stay at +home with her. And I don't mind being called 'Sandwich Jane.' It's a +good name and I shall use it in my business. But I don't like being +treated as you have treated me to-night. If it happens again I shall +have to stop selling sandwiches; and I'd be sorry to have that happen, +and I hope you'd be sorry too."</p> + +<p>Her little speech was over. She stepped down composedly from the box, +folded her cloth and picked up her basket. She said "Thank you" to +O-liver, "Come on" to Tommy, and walked from among them with her light +step and free carriage; and they stared after her.</p> + +<p>O-liver sitting later in front of the post-office with his satellites +round him found himself compelled to listen to praise of Jane.</p> + +<p>"She's made a hit," Atwood said earnestly. "When a woman talks like that +it's the straight goods."</p> + +<p>Henry agreed. "She's got grit. It's her kind that get ahead. But it's a +pity that she's got to work to make a living."</p> + +<p>Atwood, too, thought it was a pity. And presently he and Henry fell into +silence as they fitted Jane into various dreams. Atwood's dream had to +do with a mansion high on Frisco's hills. But Henry saw her beside him +in his long and lovely car. He saw her, too, in a fur coat.</p> + + + +<h3>V</h3> + + +<p>"I feel," said Jane, "like a murderer." Tommy and O-liver had stopped at +her front gate to leave her some books.</p> + +<p>"Why?" It was O-liver who asked it.</p> + +<p>"Come and see." She led them round the house. Death and destruction +reigned.</p> + +<p>"I poured gasoline into the ants' nests and set them on fire—and now +look at them!"</p> + +<p>There were a few survivors toiling among the ruins.</p> + +<p>"They are taking out the dead bodies," Jane explained. "It's so human +that it's tragic. I'll never do it again."</p> + +<p>"You can't let them eat you up."</p> + +<p>"I know. It's one of the puzzles." She sat looking down at them. "How +busy they are!"</p> + +<p>"Too busy," O-liver stated. "They are worse than bees. There are at +least some drones in the hive."</p> + +<p>"Poor drones," said Jane.</p> + +<p>"Why?" quickly.</p> + +<p>"To miss the best."</p> + +<p>"Is work the best?"</p> + +<p>She said "Yes," adding after a little: "I don't just mean making +sandwiches. That's just a beginning. There's everything ahead."</p> + +<p>She said it as if the world were hers. O-liver, in spite of himself, was +thrilled. "How do you know that everything is ahead?"</p> + +<p>"I shall make it come"—securely.</p> + +<p>They sat in silence for a while; then O-liver said: "I have brought you +a book."</p> + +<p>It was an old copy of Punch.</p> + +<p>"I shall like it," she said. "Sometimes the evenings are dull when my +work is over."</p> + +<p>"Dullness comes for me when work begins."</p> + +<p>Her straight gaze met his. "You say that with your lips; you don't mean +it."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure how I know. But you haven't found the thing yet that you +like—the incentive."</p> + +<p>"Tommy wants me to go into politics. He and Henry Bittinger. Henry says +I ought to be President." O-liver chuckled.</p> + +<p>But she took it seriously. "Why not? You've the brains and the +magnetism. Can't you see how the crowd draws to you on Saturday nights?"</p> + +<p>"Like bees round a honey pot? Yes." His face grew suddenly stern. "But +so will mosquitoes buzz round a stagnant pool."</p> + +<p>"You're not a stagnant pool and you know it."</p> + +<p>"What am I?"</p> + +<p>She made a sudden gesture as if she gave him up. "Sometimes I think you +are like the sea—on a lazy day—with a storm brewing."</p> + +<p>He wondered as he went home—what storm?</p> + +<p>He had seen a good deal of Jane since that Saturday night when he had +championed her cause. It had been fall then, with the hills brown and +the berries red on the pepper trees. It was spring now, with all the +world green and growing.</p> + +<p>She had spoken of him to Tommy, and Tommy had been a faithful +go-between. He had played upon their mutual love of books. At first +O-liver had sent her books, then he had taken them. He had met her +mother, had seen her in her home doing feminine things, sewing on +lengths of pink and blue—filling the vases with the flowers that he +brought.</p> + +<p>And as they had met and talked his veins had been filled with new wine. +He had never known intimately such a woman. His mother transplanted from +the East by her marriage to a Western man had turned her eyes always +backward. Her son had been born in the East, he had spent his holidays +and vacations with his Eastern relatives. He had gone to an Eastern +school to prepare for an Eastern college. Except for this one obsession +with regard to her son's education his mother was self-centered. She was +an idolized wife, a discontented woman—- she had shown O-liver no +heights to which to aspire.</p> + +<p>And so he had not aspired. He had spent his days in what might be +termed, biblically, riotous living. His mother had hoped for an +aristocratic and Eastern marriage. When he married Fluffy Hair she had +allowed him three thousand a year and had asked him not to bring his +wife to see her. His father had refused to give him a penny. O-liver's +wild oats and wilfulness cut him off, he ruled, from parental +consideration. "You are not my son," he had said sternly. "If the time +ever comes when you can say you are sorry, I'll see you."</p> + +<p>O-liver having married Fluffy Hair had found her also +self-centered—not a lady like his mother, but fundamentally of the same +type. Neither of them had made him feel that he might be more than he +was. They had always shrunk him to their own somewhat small patterns.</p> + +<p>Jane's philosophy came to him therefore like a long-withheld stimulant. +"You might be President of the United States."</p> + +<p>When Henry or Atwood or Tommy had said it to him he had laughed. When +Jane said it he did not laugh.</p> + + + +<h3>VI</h3> + + +<p>And so it came about that one day he rose and went to his father. And he +said: "Dad, will you kill the fatted calf?"</p> + +<p>His father lived in a great Tudor house which gave the effect of age but +was not old. It had a minstrels' gallery, a big hall and a little hall, +mullioned windows and all the rest of it. It had been built because of a +whim of his wife's. But O-liver's father in the ten years he had lived +in it had learned to love it. But more than he loved the house he loved +the hills that sloped away from it, the mountains that towered above it, +the sea that lay at the foot of the cliff.</p> + +<p>"It is God's country," he would say with long-drawn breath. He had been +born and bred in this golden West. All the passion he might have given +to his alien wife and alien son was lavished on this land which was +bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh.</p> + +<p>And now his son had ridden up to him over those low hills at the foot of +the mountain and had said: "Father, I have sinned."</p> + +<p>O-liver had not put it scripturally. He had said: "I'm sorry, dad. You +said I needn't come back until I admitted the husks and swine."</p> + +<p>There was a light on the fine face of the older man. "Oliver, I never +hoped to hear you say it." His hand dropped lightly on the boy's +shoulders. "My son which was dead is alive again?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dad."</p> + +<p>"What brought you to life?"</p> + +<p>"A woman."</p> + +<p>The hand dropped. "Not—"</p> + +<p>"Not my wife. Put your hand back, dad. Another woman."</p> + +<p>He sat down beside his father on the terrace. The sea far below them was +sapphire, the cliffs pink with moss—gorgeous color. Orange umbrellas +dotted the distant beach.</p> + +<p>"Your mother is down there," Jason Lee said. "Sun baths and all that. +You said there was another woman, Oliver."</p> + +<p>"Yes." Quite simply and honestly he told him about Sandwich Jane. "She's +made me see things."</p> + +<p>"What things?"</p> + +<p>"Well, she thinks I've got it in me to get anywhere. She insists that if +I'd put my heart into it I might be—President."</p> + +<p>One saw their likeness to each other in their twinkling eyes!</p> + +<p>"She says that men follow me; and they do. I've found that out since I +went to Tinkersfield. She wants me to go into politics—there's a gang +down there that rules the town—rotten crowd. It would be some fight if +I did."</p> + +<p>His father was interested at once. "It was what I wanted—when I was +young—politics—clean politics, with a chance at statesmanship. Yes, I +wanted it. But your mother wanted—money."</p> + +<p>"Money hasn't any meaning to me now, dad. If I slaved until I dropped I +couldn't make fifteen hundred a week."</p> + +<p>"Does—your wife make that now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. She's making it and spending it, I fancy."</p> + +<p>Silence. Then: "What of this—other woman. What are you going to do +about her?"</p> + +<p>O-liver leaned forward, speaking earnestly. "I love her. But I'm not +free. It's all a muddle."</p> + +<p>"Does she know you're married?"</p> + +<p>"No. I've got to tell her. But I'll lose her if I do. Her comradeship, I +mean. And I don't want to give it up."</p> + +<p>"There is of course a solution."</p> + +<p>"What solution?"</p> + +<p>"Divorce."</p> + +<p>"It wouldn't be a solution for Jane. She's not that kind. Marriage with +her means till death parts. I'll have to lose her. But it hurts."</p> + + + +<h3>VII</h3> + + +<p>It was when Jane rented an empty room fronting on the arcade and set up +a sandwich shop that Tillotson saw how serious the thing was going to +be.</p> + +<p>He had had all the restaurant and hotel trade. Men coming up in motors +or on horseback, dusty and tired, had eaten and drunk at his squalid +tables, swearing at the food but unable to get anything better. And now +here was a woman who covered her counters with snowy oilcloth—who had +shining urns of coffees, delectable pots of baked beans, who put up in +neat boxes lunches that made men rush back for more and more and +more—and whose sandwiches were the talk of the coast!</p> + +<p>It had to be stopped.</p> + +<p>The only way to stop it was to make it uncomfortable for Jane. There +were many ways in which the thing could be done—by small and subtle +persecutions, by insinuations, by words bandied from one man's evil +mouth to another. Tillotson had done the thing before. But he found as +the days went on that he had not before had a Jane to deal with. She was +linked in the minds of most of the men with a whiteness like that of her +own spotless shop.</p> + +<p>Gradually Jane became aware of a sinister undercurrent. She found +herself dealing with forces that threatened her. There were men who came +into her shop to buy, and who stayed to say things that set her cheeks +flaming. She mentioned none of these things to Henry or Atwood or Tommy. +But she spoke once to O-liver.</p> + +<p>"Tillotson must be at the bottom of it. Two drunken loafers stumbled in +the other day, straight from the hotel. And when I telephoned to +Tillotson to come and get them he laughed at me."</p> + +<p>Tillotson was the sheriff. It was an office which he did not honor. In a +month or two his term would be up. O-liver riding alone into the +mountains stated the solution: "I've got to beat Tillotson."</p> + +<p>But first he had things to say to Jane. Since his talk with his father +he had known that it must come. He had stayed away from her as much as +possible. It had not been a conspicuous withdrawal, for she was very +busy and had little time for him. Tommy's mother kept her little home in +order and looked after the invalid, so that Jane could give undivided +attention to her growing business. O-liver saw her most often at the +shop, when he stopped in for a pot of beans—eating them on the spot and +discoursing on many things.</p> + +<p>"My Boston grandmother baked beans like this," he told her on one +occasion. "She was a great little woman, Jane, as essentially of the +East as you are of the West. She held to the traditions of the past; you +are blazing new ways for women, selling sandwiches in the market-place. +By Jove, it was superb the way you did it, Jane!"</p> + +<p>She was always in a glow when he left her. Here was a man different from +her father, different from Henry Bittinger and Atwood Jones. She smiled +a little as she thought of Atwood. He had asked her to marry him. He had +told her of the things he had ahead of him that he wanted her to share. +And he had been much downcast when she had refused him. She had, he +felt, smudged the brightness of his splendid future. He couldn't +understand a woman throwing away a thing like that.</p> + +<p>But he bore her no grudge and was still her friend. Henry, too, was her +friend. He had not yet tried his fate with Jane, but he still dreamed of +her as lovely in his long car and a fur coat. And he hoped to make his +dreams come true.</p> + +<p>Tommy had set aside all selfish hopes. He had a feeling that Jane liked +O-liver. He loved them both. If he could not have Jane he wanted O-liver +to have her. He kept a wary eye therefore on Henry and Atwood.</p> + +<p>It was Tommy who found out first about Fluffy Hair. She had never cared +to have the world know of her marriage. She had felt that those who +loved her on the screen would prefer her fancy free. But it was known at +the studio, and some one drifting up to Tinkersfield recognized O-liver +and told Tommy.</p> + +<p>Tommy for once in his life was stern. "He oughta of told Jane. +Somebody's got to tell her."</p> + +<p>So the next day he took it on himself—feeling a traitor to his friend.</p> + +<p>"Jane," he said, sitting on a high stool in her little sandwich +shop—"Jane, O-liver's married."</p> + +<p>Jane on the other side of the spotless counter gave him her earnest +glance. "Yes," she said; "he told me."</p> + +<p>"He did? Well, I'm glad. It wasn't a thing to keep, was it?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Jane; "it wasn't. But you mustn't blame him, Tommy, and now +that we both know, everything is all right, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," Tommy agreed; "if Tillotson doesn't get hold of it."</p> + +<p>For it had been decided that O-liver was to run against Tillotson in the +next election, and beat him if he could.</p> + +<p>O-liver had told Jane about his marriage on the night before Tommy came +to her. He had asked her to ride with him. "If you'll go this afternoon +at four you shall have Mary Pick, and I'll take Tommy's horse."</p> + +<p>They had carried their lunch with them and had eaten it at sunset in a +lovely spot where the cañon opened out to show a shining yellow stretch +of sea, with the hills like black serpents running into it.</p> + +<p>Yet it was dark, with the stars above them and the sea a faint gray +below, before O-liver said to her what he had brought her there to say.</p> + +<p>He told her of his father and mother. Of Fluffy Hair.</p> + +<p>"I waked up at last to the fact that I was letting two women support me. +So I came here and began to work at fifteen dollars a week. And for the +first time in my life I respected myself—and was content. And then I +met you and saw things ahead. You made me see them."</p> + +<p>He turned toward her in the dark. "Jane, I'm finding that I love +you—mightily." He tried to speak lightly. "And I'm not free. And +because I love you I've got to keep away. But I want you to understand +that my friendship is the same—that it will always be the same. But +I've got to keep away."</p> + +<p>She was very honest about it. "I didn't dream that you felt like +that—about me."</p> + +<p>"No, you wouldn't. That's a part of your splendidness. Never taking +anything to yourself. Jane, will you believe this—that what I may be +hereafter will be because of you? If I ever do a big thing or a fine +thing it will be because I came upon you that night with your head high +and that rabble round you. You were light shining into the darkness of +Tinkersfield. Jove, I wish I were a painter to put you on canvas as you +were that night!"</p> + +<p>They had ridden down later under the stars, and as they had stood for a +moment overlooking the lights of the little town O-liver had said: "I +make my big speech to-morrow night to beat Tillotson. I want you to be +there. Will you? If I know you are there somewhere in the dark I shall +pour out my soul—to you."</p> + +<p>Was it any wonder that Jane, talking to Tommy the next morning about +O-liver, felt her pulses pounding, her cheeks burning? She had lain +awake all night thinking of the things he had said to her. It seemed a +very big and wonderful thing that a man could love her like that. As +toward morning the moonlight streamed in and she still lay awake she +permitted herself to let her mind dwell for a moment on what her future +might mean if he were in it. She was too busy and healthy to indulge in +useless regrets. But she knew in that moment in the moonlight if he was +not to be in her future no other man would ever be.</p> + + + +<h3>VIII</h3> + + +<p>O-liver's speech was made in the open. There was a baseball park in +Tinkersfield, bounded at the west end by a grove of eucalyptus. With +this grove as a background a platform had been erected. From the +platform the rival candidates would speak. At this time of the year it +would be daylight when the meeting opened. Tillotson was not to speak +for himself. He had brought a man down from San Francisco, a big +politician with an oily tongue. O-liver would of course present his own +case. The thing, as Atwood told Henry, promised to be exciting.</p> + +<p>Jane came with Tommy. There was a sort of rude grand stand opposite the +platform, and she had a seat well up toward the top. She wore a white +skirt, a gray sweater and a white hat. She had a friendly smile for the +people about her. And they smiled back. They liked Jane.</p> + +<p>O-liver spoke first. Bare-headed, slender, with his air of eternal +youth, he was silhouetted against the rose red of the afterglow.</p> + +<p>When he began he led them lightly along paths of easy thought. He got +their attention as he had so often got it in front of the post-office. +He made them smile, he made them laugh, he led them indeed finally into +roaring laughter. And when he had brought them thus into sympathy he +began with earnestness to speak of Tinkersfield.</p> + +<p>Jane, leaning forward, not missing a word, felt his magnetism. He spoke +of the future of Tinkersfield. Of what must be done if it was to fulfill +its destiny as a decent town. He did not mince his words.</p> + +<p>"It will be just what you make up your minds now to have it—good and +honest and clean, a place that the right kind of people will want to +live in, or the place that will attract loungers and loafers."</p> + +<p>He laid upon them the burden of individual responsibility. If a town was +honest, he said, it was because the men in it were honest; if it was +clean it was because its men were clean. It was for each man to decide +at this election whether Tinkersfield should have a future of darkness +or of light. There were men in that crowd who squared their shoulders to +meet the blows of his eloquence, who kept them squared as they made +their decision to do their part in the upbuilding of Tinkersfield.</p> + +<p>Yet it was not perhaps so much the things that O-liver said as the way +he said them. He had the qualities of leadership—a sincerity of the +kind that sways men level with their leaders—the sincerity of a +Lincoln, a Roosevelt. For him a democracy meant all the people. Not +merely plain people, not indeed selected classes. Rich man, poor man, +one, working together for the common good.</p> + +<p>Back of his sincerity there was fire—and gradually his audience was +lighted by his flame. They listened in a tense silence, which broke now +and then into cheers. To Jane sitting high up on the benches he was a +prophet—the John the Baptist of Tinkersfield.</p> + +<p>"And he's mine, he's mine!" she exulted. This fineness of spirit, the +fire and flame were hers. "If I know you are there somewhere in the dark +I shall pour out my soul—to you—"</p> + +<p>The darkness had not yet fallen, but the dusk had come. The platform was +illumined by little lights like stars. Back of the platform the +eucalyptus trees were now pale spectres, their leaves hanging nerveless +in the still air.</p> + +<p>O-liver sitting down amid thunders of applause let his eyes go for the +moment to Jane. A lamp hung almost directly over her head. She had taken +off her wide hat and her hair was glorious. She was leaning forward a +little, her lips parted, her hands clasped, as if he still spoke to her.</p> + +<p>As Tillotson's sponsor rose Jane straightened up, smiled at Tommy, and +again set herself to listen.</p> + +<p>The unctuous voice of the speaker was a contrast to O-liver's crisp +tones. There were other contrasts not so apparent. This man was in the +game for what he could get out of it. He wanted Tillotson to win because +Tillotson's winning would strengthen his own position politically. He +meant indeed that Tillotson should win. He was not particular as to +methods.</p> + +<p>He said the usual things: Tinkersfield was no Sunday school; and they +weren't slaves to have their liberty taken from them by a lot of +impractical reformers. And Lee was that kind. What had he ever done to +prove that he'd make good? They knew Tillotson. They didn't know Lee. +Who was Lee anyhow?</p> + +<p>He flung the interrogation at them. "What do you know about Lee?"</p> + +<p>The pebble that he threw had widening circles. People began to ask +themselves what, after all, they knew of O-liver. From somewhere in the +darkness went up the words of an evil chant:</p> + +<blockquote class="poem"><p> +What's the matter with O-liver, O-liver,<br /> +White-livered O-liver?<br /> +Ask Jane, Sandwich Jane,<br /> +O-liver, white liver,<br /> +Jane, Jane, Jane. +</p></blockquote> + +<p>Jane felt her heart stand still. Back of her she heard Tommy swearing: +"It's all their damned wickedness!" She saw O-liver start from his chair +and sink back, helpless against the insidiousness of this attack.</p> + +<p>The speaker went on. It would seem, he said, from what he could learn, +that Tillotson's honorable opponent was sailing under false colors. He +was a married man. He had deserted his wife. He sat among them as a +saint, when he was really a sinner.</p> + +<p>"A sinner, gentlemen." The speaker paused for the effect, then proceeded +with his argument. Of course they were all sinners, but they weren't +hypocrites. Tillotson wasn't a hypocrite. He was a good fellow. He +didn't want Tinkersfield to be a Sunday school. He wanted it to be a +town. You know—a town that every fellow would want to <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'hi'">hit</ins> on +Saturday night.</p> + +<p>There were those in the crowd who began to feel that a weak spot had +been found in O-liver's armor. Secrecy! They didn't like it. There were +signs of wavering among some who had squared their shoulders. After all, +they didn't want to make a Sunday school of Tinkersfield. They wondered, +too, if there wasn't some truth in the things that were being hinted by +that low chant in the darkness:</p> + +<blockquote class="poem"><p> +Ask Jane, Sandwich Jane,<br /> +O-liver, white liver,<br /> +Jane, Jane, Jane. +</p></blockquote> + + +<p>O-liver was restless, his hands clenched at his sides. Atwood and Henry +were restless. Tommy was restless. They couldn't let such insults go +unnoticed. Somebody had to fight for Jane!</p> + +<p>Tillotson's supporters kept the thing stirring. If the meeting could end +in a brawl the odds would be in favor of Tillotson. The effect of +O-liver's uplift would be lost. Even his friends couldn't sway a +fighting crowd back to him.</p> + +<p>But they had forgotten to reckon with Jane!</p> + +<p>She had seen in a sudden crystal flash the thing which might happen. A +fight would end it all for O-liver. She had seen his efforts at +self-control. She knew his agony of soul. She knew that at any moment he +might knock somebody down—Tillotson or Tillotson's sponsor. And it +would all be in the morning papers. There would be innuendo—the hint of +scandalous things. And O-liver's reputation would pay the price. It was +characteristic that she did not at the moment think of her own +reputation. It was O-liver who must be saved!</p> + +<p>And so when Tillotson's backer sat down Jane stood up.</p> + +<p>"Please, listen!" she said; and the crowd turned toward her. "Please, +listen, and stop singing that silly song. I never heard anything so +silly as that song in my life!"</p> + +<p>Before her scorn the chant died away in a gasp!</p> + +<p>"The thing you've got to think about," she went on, "isn't Tillotson or +O-liver Lee. It's Tinkersfield. You want an honest man. And O-liver +Lee's honest. He doesn't want your money. He's got enough of his own. +His father's the richest man in his part of the state and his wife's a +movie actress and makes as much as the President. It sounds like a fairy +tale, but it isn't. If O-liver Lee wanted to live on his father or his +wife he could hold out his hand and let things drop into it. But he'd +rather earn fifteen dollars a week and own his soul. And he isn't a +hypocrite. His friends knew about his marriage. Tommy Drew knew, and I +knew. And there wasn't any particular reason why he should tell the rest +of you, was there? There wasn't any particular reason why he should tell +Tillotson?"</p> + +<p>A murmur of laughter followed her questions. There was a feeling in the +crowd that the joke was on Tillotson.</p> + +<p>"I wonder how many of you have told your pasts to Tinkersfield! How many +of you have made Tillotson your father confessor?</p> + +<p>"As for me"—her head was high—"I sell sandwiches. I am very busy. I +hardly have time to think. But when I do think it is of something +besides village gossip."</p> + +<p>She grew suddenly earnest; leaned down to them. "You haven't time to +think of it either," she told them; "have you, men of Tinkersfield?"</p> + +<p>Her appeal was direct, and the answer came back to her in a roar from +the men who knew courage when they saw it; who knew, indeed, innocence!</p> + +<p>"No!"</p> + +<p>And it was that "No" which beat Tillotson.</p> + +<p>"The way she put it over," Atwood exulted afterward, "to a packed crowd +like this!"</p> + +<p>"The thing about Jane"—Henry was very seriously trying to say the thing +as he saw it—"the thing about Jane is that she sees things straight. +And she makes other people see."</p> + + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p>Well, Tillotson was beaten, and the men who supported O-liver came out +of the fight feeling as if they had killed something unclean.</p> + +<p>And the morning after the election O-liver had a little note from Jane.</p> + +<p>"I've got to go away. I didn't want to worry you with it before this. I +have saved enough money to start in at some college where I can work for +a part of my tuition. I have had experience in my little lunch room that +ought to be a help somewhere.</p> + +<p>"When I finish college I'm going into some sort of occupation that will +provide a pleasant home for mother and me. I want books, and lovely +things, and a garden; and I'd like to speak a language or two and have +cultured friends. Then some day when you are made President you can say +to yourself: 'I am proud of my friend, Jane.' And I'll come to your +inauguration and watch you ride to the White House, and I'll say to +myself as I see you ride, 'I've loved him all these years.'</p> + +<p>"But I shan't let myself say it now. And that's why I'm going away. And +I'm going without saying good-bye because I think it will be easier for +both of us. You and I can't be friends. What we feel is too big. I found +that out about myself that night when you sat there on the platform, and +I wanted to save you from Tillotson. If I'm going to work and be happy +in my work I've got to get away. And you will work better because I am +gone. I mustn't be here—O-liver."</p> + +<p>Jane had indeed seen straight. O-liver laid the note down on his desk +and looked up at the mountain. He needed to look up. If he had looked +down for a moment he would have followed Jane.</p> + + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p>And now there was no sandwich stand in Tinkersfield. But there was a +good hotel. O-liver saw to that. He got Henry Bittinger to put up the +money, with Tommy and his mother in charge. O-liver lived in the hotel +in a suite of small rooms, and when Atwood Jones passed that way the +four men dined together as O-liver's guests.</p> + +<p>"Some day we'll eat with you in Washington," was Atwood's continued +prophecy.</p> + +<p>They always drank "To Jane." Now and then Atwood brought news of her. +First from the college, and then as the years passed from the beach +resort where she had opened a tea room. She was more beautiful than +ever, more wonderful. Her tea room and shop were most exclusive and +artistic.</p> + +<p>"Sandwich Jane!" said O-liver. "How long ago it seems!"</p> + +<p>It was five years now and he had not seen her. And next month he was to +go to Washington. Not as President, but representing his district in +Congress. Tommy's hotel had outgrown the original modest building and +was now modern and fireproof. Henry was married, he had had several new +cars, and his wife wore sables and seal.</p> + +<p>The old arcade was no more; nor the old post-office. But O-liver still +talked to admiring circles in the hotel lobby or to greater crowds in +the town hall.</p> + +<p>He still would take no money from his father, but he saw much of him, +for Mrs. Lee was dead. The Tudor house was without a mistress. It seemed +a pity that O-liver had no wife to grace its halls.</p> + +<p>The newspapers stated that Fluffy Hair's income had doubled. Whether +this was true or not it sounded well, and Fluffy Hair still seemed young +on the screen. Jane would go now and then and look at her and wonder +what sort of woman this was who had laughed at O-liver.</p> + +<p>Then one day a telegram came to O-liver in his suite of rooms. And that +day and for two nights he rode Mary Pick over the hills and through the +cañon and down to the sea, and came to a place where Jane's tea room was +met in the center of a Japanese garden—a low lovely building, with its +porches open to the wide Pacific.</p> + +<p>He had not seen her for so long that he was not quite prepared for the +change. She was thinner and paler and more beautiful, with an air of +distinction that was new. It was as if in visualizing his future she had +pictured herself in it—as first lady of the land. Such a silly dream +for Sandwich Jane!</p> + +<p>They were quite alone when he came to her. It was morning, and the +porches were empty of guests. Jane was in a long wicker chair, with her +pot of coffee on an hour-glass table. Far down on the terrace two Jap +gardeners clipped and cut and watered and saw nothing.</p> + +<p>"You are younger than ever," Jane said when they had clasped hands. +"Will you ever grow old, O-liver?"</p> + +<p>"The men say not." He seated himself opposite her. "Jane, Jane, it's +heavenly to see you. I've been—starved!"</p> + +<p>She had hungered and thirsted for him. Her hand shook a little as she +poured him a cup of coffee.</p> + +<p>"I told you not to come, O-liver."</p> + +<p>He laid the telegram before her. Fluffy Hair was dead!</p> + +<p>The yellow sheet lay between, defying them to speak so soon of +happiness.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow," O-liver said, "I go to Washington. When will you come to +me, Jane?"</p> + +<p>Her hand went out to him. Her breath was quick. "In time to hear your +first speech, O-liver. I'll sit in the gallery, and lean over and listen +and say to myself, 'He's mine, he's mine!'"</p> + +<p>She heard many speeches in the months that followed, and sometimes Tommy +or Atwood or Henry, traveling across the continent, came and sat beside +her. And Atwood always clung to his prophecy: "He'll be governor next; +and then it'll be the White House. Why not?"</p> + +<p>And Jane, dreaming, asked herself "Why?"</p> + +<p>The East had had its share. Had the time not come for a nation to seek +its leader in the golden West?</p> + + + + + +<h2><a name="LADY_CRUSOE" id="LADY_CRUSOE"></a>LADY CRUSOE</h2> + + +<p>Billy and I came down from the North and opened a grocery store at +Jefferson Corners. It is a little store and there aren't many houses +near it—just the railroad station and a big shed or two. Beyond the +sheds a few cabins straggle along the road, and then begin the great +plantations, which really aren't plantations any more, because nobody +around here raises much of anything in these days. They just sit and +sigh over the things that are different since the war.</p> + +<p>That's what Billy says about them. Billy is up-to-date and he has a +motor-cycle. He made up his mind when he came that he was going to put +some ginger into the neighborhood. So he rides miles every morning on +his motor-cycle to get orders, and he delivers the things himself unless +it is barrels of flour or cans of kerosene or other heavy articles, and +then he hires somebody to help him. At first he had William Watters and +his mule. William is black and his mule is gray, and they are both old. +It took them hours to get anywhere, and I used to feel sorry for them. +But when I found out that compared to Billy and me they lived on flowery +beds of ease, I stopped sympathizing. They both have enough, to eat, and +they work only when they want to. Billy and I work all the time. We have +our way to make in the world, and we feel that it all depends on +ourselves. We started out with nothing ahead of us but my ambitions and +Billy's energy, and a few hundred dollars which my guardian turned over +to me when I married Billy on my twenty-first birthday.</p> + +<p>As soon as we were married, we came to Virginia. Billy and I had an idea +that everything south of the Mason and Dixon line was just waiting for +us, and we wanted to earn the eternal gratitude of the community by +helping it along. But after we had lived at Jefferson Corners for a +little while, we began to feel that there wasn't any community. There +didn't seem to be any towns like our nice New England ones, with +sociable trolley-cars connecting them and farmhouses in a lovely line +between. You can ride for miles through this country and never pass +anything but gates. Then way up in the hills you will see a clump of +trees, and in the clump you can be pretty sure there is a house. In the +winter when the leaves are off the trees you can see the house, but in +the summer there is no sign of it. In the old days they seemed to feel +that they were lacking somewhat in delicacy if they exposed their +mansions to the rude gaze of the public.</p> + +<p>There was one mansion that Billy took me to now and then. It was empty, +and that was why we went. The big houses which were occupied were not +open to us, except in a trades-person sort of fashion, and Billy and I +are not to be condescended to—we had a pair of grandfathers in the +<i>Mayflower</i>. But that doesn't count down here, where everybody goes back +to William the Conqueror.</p> + +<p>That great big empty house was a fine place for our Sunday afternoon +outings. We always went to church in the morning, and people were very +kind, but it was kindness with a question-mark. You see Billy and I live +over the store, and none of them had ever lived on anything but +ancestral acres.</p> + +<p>So our Sunday mornings were a bit stiff and disappointing, but our +afternoons were heavenly. We discovered the Empty House in the spring, +and there was laurel on the mountains and the grass was young and green +on the slopes, and the sky was a faint warm blue with the sailing +buzzards black against it. Billy and I used to stop at the second gate, +which was at the top of the hill, and look off over the other hills +where the pink sheep were pastured. I am perfectly sure that there are +no other sheep in the whole wide world like those Albemarle sheep. The +spring rains turn the red clay into a mud which sticks like paint, and +the sheep are colored a lovely terra-cotta which fades gradually to +pink.</p> + +<p>The effect is impressionistic, like purple cows. Billy doesn't care for +it, but I do. And I adore the brilliant red of the roads. Billy says +he'll take good brown earth and white flocks. He might be reconciled to +black sheep but never to pink ones.</p> + +<p>We used to eat our supper on the porch of the Empty House. It had great +pillars, and it was rather awe-inspiring to sit on the front steps and +look up the whole length, of those Corinthian columns. Billy and I felt +dwarfed and insignificant, but we forgot it when we turned our eyes to +the hills.</p> + +<p>The big door behind us and the blank windows were shut and shuttered +close. There were flying squirrels on the roof and little blue-tailed +lizards on the stone flagging in front of the house; and there was an +old toad who used to keep us company. I called him Prince Charming, and +I am sure he was as old as Methuselah, and lived under that stone in +some prehistoric age.</p> + +<p>We just loved our little suppers. We had coffee in our thermos bottle, +and cold fried chicken and bread and butter sandwiches and chocolate +cake. We never changed, because we were always afraid that we shouldn't +like anything else so well, and we were sure of the chicken and the +chocolate cake.</p> + +<p>And after we had eaten our suppers we would talk about what kind of +house we would build when our ship came in. Billy and I both have nice +tastes, and we know what we want; and we feel that the grocery store is +just a stepping-stone to better things.</p> + +<p>The sunsets were late in those spring days, and there would be pink and +green and pale amethyst in the western sky, and after that deep sapphire +and a silver moon. And as it grew darker the silver would turn to gold, +and there would be a star—and then more stars until the night came on.</p> + +<p>I can't tell you how we used to feel. You see we were young and in +love, and life was a pretty good thing to us. There was one perfect +night when the hills were flooded with moonlight. We seemed all alone in +a lovely world and I whispered:</p> + +<p>"Oh, Billy, Billy, and some folks think that there isn't any God—"</p> + +<p>And Billy put his arm around me and patted my cheek, and we didn't say +anything for a long time.</p> + +<p>It was just a week later that Lady Crusoe came. I knew that some one was +in the house as soon as we passed the second gate. The door was still +closed, and the shutters were not opened, but I heard a clock strike—a +ship's clock—with bells.</p> + +<p>I clutched Billy. "Listen," I said.</p> + +<p>He heard it, too; "Who in the dickens?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"There's somebody in the house—"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense—"</p> + +<p>"Billy, there must be, and we can't sit on the porch."</p> + +<p>"You stay here, and I'll go around to the back."</p> + +<p>But I wouldn't let him go alone. At the back of the house a window was +open, and then we were sure.</p> + +<p>"We'd better leave," I said, but Billy insisted that we stay. "If they +are new people, I'll find out their names, and come up to-morrow and get +their orders."</p> + +<p>We went around to the front door and knocked and knocked, but nobody +answered. So we sat down on the front step and presently Billy said that +we might as well eat our supper, for very evidently nobody was at home.</p> + +<p>I didn't feel a bit comfortable about it, but I opened our basket and +got out our cups and plates, and Billy poured the coffee and passed the +chicken and the bread and butter sandwiches. And just then the door +creaked and the knob turned!</p> + +<p>My first impulse was to gather up the lunch and tumble it into the +basket; but I didn't. I just sat there looking up as calmly as if I were +serving tea at my own table, and Billy sat there too looking up.</p> + +<p>The door opened and a voice said, "Oh, if you are eating supper, may I +have some?"</p> + +<p>It was a lovely voice, and Billy jumped to his feet. A lovely head came +after the voice. Just the head, peeping around—the body was hidden by +the door. On the head was a lace cap with a gold rose, and the hair +under the cap was gold.</p> + +<p>"You see, I just got up," said the voice, "and I haven't had any +breakfast—"</p> + +<p>Billy and I gasped. It was seven P.M., and the meal that we were +serving was supper!</p> + +<p>"Do you mind my coming out?" said the voice. "I am not exactly clothed +and in my right mind, but perhaps I'll do."</p> + +<p>She opened the door wider and stepped down. I saw that her slippers had +gold roses and that they were pale pink like the sunset. She wore a +motor coat of tan cloth which covered her up, but I had a glimpse of a +pink silk negligee underneath.</p> + +<p>She sat quite sociably on the steps with us. "I am famished," she said. +"I haven't had a thing to eat for twenty-four hours."</p> + +<p>We gasped again. "How did it happen?"</p> + +<p>"I was—shipwrecked," she said, "in a motor-car—I am the only +survivor—"</p> + +<p>Her eyes twinkled. "I'll tell you all about it presently." Then she +broke off and laughed.</p> + +<p>"But first will you feed a starving castaway?"</p> + +<p>Yet she didn't really tell us anything. She ate and ate, and it was the +prettiest thing to see her. She was dainty and young and eager like a +child at a party.</p> + +<p>"How good everything is!" she said, at last with a sigh. "I don't think +I was ever so hungry in my life."</p> + +<p>Billy and I didn't eat much. You see we were too interested, and +besides we had had our dinner.</p> + +<p>As I have said, she didn't really tell us anything. "It was an accident, +and I came up here. And the old clock that you heard strike belonged to +my grandfather. He was an admiral, and it was his clock. I used to +listen to it as a child."</p> + +<p>"What happened to the rest—?" Billy asked, bluntly. He was more +concerned about the automobile accident than about her ancestors.</p> + +<p>"Oh, do you mean the others in the car?" she came reluctantly back from +the admiral and his ship's clock. "I am sure I don't know. And I am very +sure that I don't care."</p> + +<p>"But were any of them killed?"</p> + +<p>"No—they are all alive—but you see—it was a shipwreck—and I floated +away—by myself—and this is my island, and you are the nice friendly +savages—" she touched Billy on the arm. He drew away a bit. I knew that +he was afraid she had lost her mind, but I had seen her twinkling eyes. +"Oh, it's all a joke!" I said.</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "It isn't exactly a joke, but it might look like +that to other people."</p> + +<p>"Are you going to stay?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"I'll come up in the morning for orders," said Billy promptly. "I keep +the grocery store at Jefferson Corners."</p> + +<p>"Oh," she said, and seemed to hesitate; "there won't be any orders."</p> + +<p>Billy stared at her. "But there isn't any other store."</p> + +<p>"Robinson Crusoe didn't have stores, did he? He found things and lived +on the land. And I am Lady Crusoe."</p> + +<p>"Really?" I asked her.</p> + +<p>"I've another name—but—if people around here question you—you won't +tell them, will you, that I am here—?"</p> + +<p>She said it in such a pretty pleading fashion that of course we +promised. It was late when we had to go. I insisted that we should leave +what remained of the supper, and she seemed glad to get it. "You are +nice friendly savages," she said, with that twinkle in her eyes, "and I +am very grateful. Come into the house and let me show you my clock—"</p> + +<p>She showed us more than the clock. I hadn't dreamed in those days when +Billy and I sat alone on the steps of the treasures that were shut up +behind us. The old furniture was dusty, but all the dust in the world +couldn't hide its beauty. The dining-room was hung with cobwebs, but +when the candles were lighted we saw the Sheffield on the old +sideboard, the Chinese porcelains, the Heppelwhite chairs, the painted +sheepskin screen—</p> + +<p>She picked out a lovely little pitcher and gave it to me. I did not +learn until afterward that it was pink lustre and worth a pretty penny. +She paid in that way, you see, for her supper, and something in her +manner made me feel that I must not refuse it.</p> + +<p>She did not ask us to come again, yet I was sure that she liked us. I +felt that perhaps it was the grocery store which had made her hesitate. +But whatever it was, I must confess that I was a little lonely as I went +away. You see we had come to look forward to our welcome at the Empty +House. We had known that we were the honored guests of the flying +squirrels and the lizards and of old Prince Charming. But now that the +house was no longer empty, we would not be welcome. I was sorry that I +had accepted the pink pitcher. I should have preferred to feel that I +owed no favor to the lady with the twinkling eyes.</p> + +<p>It wasn't long after our adventure at the Empty House that Billy asked +William Watters to take a big load to a customer two miles out. But +William couldn't. He was working, he said, at a regular place. We +couldn't imagine William as being regular about anything. He and his +mule were so irregular in their habits. They came and went as they +pleased, and they would take naps whenever the spirit moved them. But +now, as William said, he was "wukin' regular," and he refused to say for +whom he worked. But we found out one day when he drove Lady Crusoe down +in a queer old carriage with his mule as a prancing steed.</p> + +<p>He helped her descend as if she had been a queen, and she came in and +talked to Billy. "You see, I've hunted up my friendly savages," she +said. "I've reached the end of my resources." She gave a small order, +and told Billy that she wasn't at all sure when she could pay her bill, +but that there were a lot of things in her old house which he could have +for security.</p> + +<p>Billy said gallantly that he didn't need any security, and that her +account could run as long as she wished and that he was glad to serve +her. And he got out his pad and pencil and stood in that nice way of his +at attention.</p> + +<p>I listened and looked through a window at the back. I had seen her drive +up, and she was stunning in the same tan motor-coat that she had worn +when we first saw her. But she had on a brown hat and veil and brown +shoes instead of the lace cap and rosy slippers.</p> + +<p>She asked about me, and Billy told her that I was in the garden. And I +was in the garden when she came out; but I had to run. She sat down in a +chair on the other side of my little sewing-table and talked to me. It +is such a scrap of a garden that there is only room for a tiny table and +two chairs, but a screen of old cedars hides it from the road, and +there's a twisted apple-tree, and the fields beyond and a glimpse of the +mountains.</p> + +<p>"How is the island?" Billy asked her.</p> + +<p>She twinkled. "I have a man Friday."</p> + +<p>"William Watters?"</p> + +<p>She nodded. "The Watters negroes have been our servants for generations. +And William thinks that he belongs to me. He cooks for me and forages. +He shot two squirrels one morning and made me a Brunswick stew. But I +couldn't stand that. You see the squirrels are my friends."</p> + +<p>I thought of the flying squirrels and the blue-tailed lizards and the +old toad, and I knew how she felt. And I said so. She looked at me +sharply, and then she laid her hand over mine: "Are you lonely, my +dear?"</p> + +<p>I said that I was—a little. Billy had gone in to wait on a customer, so +I dared say it. I told her that nobody had called.</p> + +<p>"But why not?" she demanded.</p> + +<p>"I think," I said slowly, "it is because we live—over the store."</p> + +<p>"I see." And she did see; it was in her blood as well as in the blood of +the rest of them.</p> + +<p>Presently she stood up and said that she must go, and it was then that +she noticed the work that was in my basket on the table. She lifted out +a little garment and the red came into her cheeks. "Oh, oh!" she said, +and stood looking at it. When she laid it down, she came around the +table and kissed me. "What a dear you are!" she said, and then she went +away.</p> + +<p>William Watters came in very often after that; but he said very little +about Lady Crusoe. He was a faithful old thing, and he had evidently had +instructions. But one morning he brought a fine old Sheffield tray to +Billy and asked him to take his pay out of it, and let Lady Crusoe have +the rest in cash. William Watters didn't call her "Lady Crusoe," he +called her "Miss Lily," which didn't give us the key to the situation in +the least. Billy didn't know how to value the tray, so he asked me. I +knew more than he did, but I wasn't sure. I told him to advance what he +thought was best, and to send it to the city and have it appraised, or +whatever they call it, so he did; and when the check from the antique +shop came it was a big one.</p> + +<p>It wasn't long after that that Lady Crusoe called on me. It was a real +call, and she left a card. And she said as she laid it on the table: "As +I told you, I'd rather the rest of the natives didn't know—they haven't +seen me since I was a child, and they think that I am just some stranger +who rents the old place and who wants to be alone."</p> + +<p>After she had gone I picked up the card, and what I read there nearly +took my breath away. There are certain names which mean so much that we +get to look upon them as having special significance. The name that was +on Lady Crusoe's card had always stood in my mind for money—oceans of +it. I simply couldn't believe my eyes, and I took it down to Billy.</p> + +<p>"Look at that," I said, and laid it before him, "and she has asked us to +supper for next Sunday!"</p> + +<p>Well, we couldn't make anything of it. Why was a woman with a name like +that down here with nothing to eat but the things that William Watters +could forage for, and that Billy could supply from his little store, and +that she paid for with Sheffield trays?</p> + +<p>We had supper that Sunday night in the great dining-room. There was a +five-branched candlestick with tall white candles in the center of the +shining mahogany table and William Watters acted as butler. You never +would have believed how well he did it. And after supper we had coffee +on the front porch and looked out over the hills at the sunset, and the +silver moon and the old toad came out from under his stone and sat with +us.</p> + +<p>Lady Crusoe was in a thin white dress which she had made for herself, +and she talked of the old place and of her childhood there. But not a +word did she say of why she had come back to live alone on the Davenant +ancestral acres.</p> + +<p>It was her mother, we learned, who was a Davenant, and it was her +mother's father who was the old admiral. She said nothing of the man +whose name was on her card. It was as if she stopped short when she came +to that part of her life, or as if it had never been.</p> + +<p>She took me up-stairs after a while and left Billy to smoke on the +porch. She said that she had something that she wanted me to see. Her +room was a huge square one at the southwest corner of the house. There +was a massive four-poster bed with faded blue satin curtains, and there +was a fireplace with fire-dogs and an Adam screen. Lady Crusoe carried a +candle, and as she stood in the center of the room she seemed to gather +all of the light to her, like the saints in the old pictures. She was so +perfectly lovely that I almost wanted to cry. I can't explain it, but +there was something pathetic about her beauty.</p> + +<p>She set the candle down and opened an old brass-bound chest. She took +out a roll of cloth and brought it over and laid it on the table beside +the candle.</p> + +<p>"I bought it with some of the money that your Billy got for my Sheffield +tray," she said. Then she turned to me with a quick motion and laid her +hands on my shoulders. "Oh, you very dear—when I saw you making those +little things—I knew that—that the good Lord had led me. Will +you—will you—show me—how?"</p> + +<p>I told Billy about it on the way home.</p> + +<p>"She doesn't know anything about sewing, and she hasn't any patterns, +and I am to go up every day, and William Watters will come for me with +his mule—"</p> + +<p>Then I cried about her a little, because it seemed so dreadful that she +should be there all alone, without any one to sustain her and cherish +her as Billy did me.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Billy, Billy," I said to him, "I'd rather live over a grocery store +with you than live in a palace with anybody else—"</p> + +<p>And Billy said, "Don't cry, lady love, you are not going to live with +anybody else."</p> + +<p>And he put his arm around me, and as we walked along together in the +April night it was like the days when we had been young lovers, only our +joy in each other was deeper and finer, for then we had only guessed at +happiness, and now we knew—</p> + +<p>Well, I went up every day. William Watters came for me, and I carried my +patterns and we sat in the big west room, and right under the window a +pair of robins were building a nest.</p> + +<p>We watched them as they worked, and it seemed to us that no matter how +hard we toiled those two birds kept ahead. "I never dreamed," Lady +Crusoe remarked one morning, "that they were at it all the time like +this."</p> + +<p>"You wait until they begin to feed their young," I told her. "People +talk about being as free as a bird. But I can tell you that they slave +from dawn until dark. I have seen a mother bird at dusk giving a last +bite to one squalling baby while the father fed another."</p> + +<p>Lady Crusoe laid down her work and looked out over the hills. "The +father," she said, and that was all for a long time, and we stitched and +stitched, but at last she spoke straight from her thoughts: "How dear +your husband is to you!"</p> + +<p>"That's what husbands are made for."</p> + +<p>"Some of them are not, dear," her voice was hard, "some of them expect +so much and give so little—"</p> + +<p>I kept still and presently she began again. "They give money—and they +think that is—enough. They give jewels—and think we ought to be +profoundly grateful."</p> + +<p>"Well, my experience," I told her, "is that the men give as much love as +the women—"</p> + +<p>She looked at me. "What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Love costs them a lot."</p> + +<p>"In what way?"</p> + +<p>"They work for us. Now there's Billy's grocery store. If Billy didn't +have me, he'd be doing things that he likes better. You wouldn't believe +it, but Billy wanted to study law, but it meant years of hard work +before he could make a cent, and he and I would have wasted our youth in +waiting—and so he went into business—and that's a big thing for a man +to do for a woman—to give up a future that he has hoped for—and that's +why I feel that I can't do enough for Billy—"</p> + +<p>"I don't see why you should look at it in that way," she said, and her +eyes were big and bright. "Women are queens, and they honor men when +they marry them—"</p> + +<p>"If women are queens," I told her, "men are kings—Billy honored me—"</p> + +<p>She smiled at me. "Oh, you blessed dear—" she said, and all of a sudden +she came over and knelt beside me. "What would you think of a man who +married a woman whom the world called beautiful and brilliant, and +whom—whom princes wanted to marry—And he was a very plain man, except +that he had a lot of money—millions and millions—and after he married +the woman whom he had said that he worshiped, he wanted to make just an +every-day wife of her. He wanted her to stay at home and look after his +house. He told her one night that it would be a great happiness for him +if he could come in and find her warming—his slippers. And he said that +his ideal of a woman was one who—who—held a child in her arms—"</p> + +<p>I looked down at her. "Well, right in the beginning," I said, "I should +like to know if the woman loved the man—"</p> + +<p>She stared at me and then she stood up. "If she did, what then? She had +not married to be—his slave—"</p> + +<p>I pointed to the mother robin on the branch below. "I wonder if she +calls it slavery! You see—she is so busy—building her nest she hasn't +time to think whether Cock Robin is singing fewer love songs than he +sang early in the spring."</p> + +<p>She laughed and was down on her knees beside me again. "Oh, you funny +little practical thing! But it wasn't because I missed the love songs. +He sang them. But because I couldn't be an every-day wife—"</p> + +<p>"What kind of wife did you want to be?"</p> + +<p>"I wanted to travel with him alone—I planned a honeymoon in the desert, +and we had it—and I planned after that to sail the seas to the land of +Nowhere—and we sailed—and then—I wanted to go to the high plains—and +ride and camp—and into the forests to hunt and fish—but he wouldn't. +He said that we had wandered enough. He wanted to build a house—and +have me warm—his slippers—"</p> + +<p>"And so you quarreled?"</p> + +<p>"We quarreled—great hot heavy quarrels—and we said things—horrid +things—that we can't forgive—"</p> + +<p>She was sobbing on my shoulder and I said softly: "Things that <i>you</i> +can't forgive?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. And that <i>he</i> can't. That's why I ran away from him."</p> + +<p>I waited.</p> + +<p>"I couldn't stand it to see him going around with his face stern and set +and not like my lover's. And he didn't speak to me except to be polite. +And he asked people to go with us—everywhere. And we were never +alone—"</p> + +<p>"What had you said to make him—like that?"</p> + +<p>She raised her head. "I told him that I—hated him—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, oh—"</p> + +<p>She knelt back on her heels.</p> + +<p>"It was a dreadful thing to say, wasn't it? That's why I ran away. I +couldn't stand it. I knew it was a thing no man—could—forgive—"</p> + +<p>I smoothed her hair and rocked her back and forth while she cried. It +was strange how much of a child she seemed to me. And I was only the +wife of a country grocer and lived over the store, and she was the wife +of a man whose name was known from east to west, and all around the +world. But you see she hadn't learned to live. Neither have I, really. +But Billy has taught me a lot.</p> + +<p>I think it was a comfort for her to feel that she had confided in me. +But she made me promise that whatever happened I wouldn't let him know.</p> + +<p>"Unless I—die," she said, and she was as white as a lily, "unless I +die, and then you can—set him—free—"</p> + +<p>Billy was sorry that I had promised. "Somehow I feel responsible, +sweetheart, and I'll bet her poor husband is almost crazy."</p> + +<p>"Would you be, Billy?"</p> + +<p>He caught me to him so quickly that he almost shook the breath out of +me. "Don't ask a thing like that," he said, and his voice didn't sound +like his own. "If anything should happen to you—if anything should +happen—I should—I should—oh, why will women ask things like that—?"</p> + +<p>In the days that followed, Billy didn't want me out of his sight. He +even hated to have me go up to the Davenant house with William Watters. +"Take care of her, William," he would say, and stand looking after us.</p> + +<p>William and I got to be very good friends. He was a wise old darky, and +he was devoted to Lady Crusoe. He usually served tea for us out under +the trees, unless it was a rainy day, and then we had it in the library.</p> + +<p>It was on a rainy day that Lady Crusoe said: "I wonder what has become +of William. I haven't seen him since you came. I have hunted and called, +and I can't find him."</p> + +<p>He appeared at tea time, however, with a plate of hot waffles with +powdered sugar between. When his mistress asked him about his mysterious +disappearance, he said that he had cleaned the attic.</p> + +<p>"But, William, on such a day?"</p> + +<p>"I kain't wuk out in the rain, Miss Lily, so I wuks in—"</p> + +<p>That was all he would say about it, and after we had had our tea, she +said to me, "There are a lot of interesting things in the attic. Let's +go up and see what Willie has been doing—"</p> + +<p>The dim old place was as shining as soap and water could make it, and +there was the damp smell of suds. There was the beat of the rain on the +roof, and the splash of it against the round east window. Through the +west window came a pale green light, and there was a view over the +hills. As we became accustomed to the dimness our eyes picked out the +various objects—an old loom like a huge spider under a peaked gable, a +chest of drawers which would have set a collector crazy, Chippendale +chairs with the seats out, Windsor chairs with the backs broken, gilt +mirror frames with no glass in them—boxes—books—bottles—all the +flotsam and jetsam of such old establishments. Most of the things had +been set back against the wall, but right in the middle of the floor was +an object which I took at first for a small trunk.</p> + +<p>Lady Crusoe reached it first, and knelt beside it. She gave a little +cry. "My dear, come here!" and I went to her, and in another moment, I, +too, was on my knees. For the dark object was a cradle—a lovely hooded +thing of mahogany, in which the Davenants had been rocked for +generations.</p> + +<p>"William got it out," Lady Crusoe said, "ready to be carried down. Oh, +my good old man Friday! Do you mind if I cry a little, you very dear?"</p> + +<p>It rained a great deal that summer, and it was hot and humid. Billy and +I longed for the cold winds that sweep across the sea on the North +Shore, but we didn't complain, for we had each other, and I wouldn't +exchange Billy for any breeze that blows.</p> + +<p>Lady Crusoe suffered less than I, for she was on her native heath, and +in the afternoon when we sewed together William Watters made lemonade, +and in the evening when Billy came up for me we sat out under the stars +until whispers of wind stirred the trees, and then we went away and left +our dear lady alone.</p> + +<p>As the time went on we hated more and more to leave her, but she was +very brave about it. "I have my good man Friday," she told us, "to +protect me, and my grandfather's revolver."</p> + +<p>So the summer passed, and the fall came, and the busy robin and all of +her red-breasted family started for the South, and there was rain and +more rain, so that when October rolled around the roads were perfect +rivers of red mud, and the swollen streams swept under the bridges in +raging torrents of terra-cotta, and the sheep on the hills were pinker +than ever. There was no lack of color in those gray days, for the trees +burst through the curtain of mist in great splashes of red and green and +gold. But now I did not go abroad with William Watters behind his old +gray mule, for things had happened which kept me at home.</p> + +<p>It was on a rainy November night that I came down to the store to call +Billy to supper. I had brought a saucer for old Tid, the store cat, and +when he had finished Billy had cut him a bit of cheese and he was +begging for it. We had taught Tid to sit up and ask, and he looked so +funny, for he is fat and black and he hates to beg, but he loves cheese. +We were laughing at him when a great flash of light seemed to sweep +through the store, and a motor stopped.</p> + +<p>Billy went forward at once. The front door opened, and a man in a +rain-coat was blown in by the storm.</p> + +<p>"Jove, it's a wet night!" I heard him say, and I knew it wasn't any of +Billy's customers from around that part of the country. This was no +drawling Virginia voice. It was crisp and clear-cut and commanding.</p> + +<p>He took off his hat, and even at that distance I could see his shining +blond head. He towered above Billy, and Billy isn't short. "I wonder if +you could help me," he began, and then he hesitated, "it is a rather +personal matter."</p> + +<p>"If you'll come up-stairs," Billy told him, "there'll be only my wife +and me, and I can shut up the store for the night."</p> + +<p>"Good!" he said, and I went ahead of them with old Tid following, and +presently the men arrived and Billy presented the stranger to me.</p> + +<p>He told us at once what he wanted. "I thought that as you kept the +store, you might hear the neighborhood news. I have lost—my wife—"</p> + +<p>"Dead?" Billy inquired solicitously.</p> + +<p>"No. Several months ago we motored down into this part of the country. +Some miles from here I had trouble with my engine, and I had to walk to +town for help. When I came back my wife was gone—"</p> + +<p>I pinched Billy under the table. "Gone?" I echoed.</p> + +<p>"Yes. She left a note. She said that she could catch a train at the +station and that she would take it. Some one evidently gave her a lift, +for she had her traveling bag with her. She said that she would sail at +once for France, and that I must not try to follow her. Of course I did +follow her, and I searched through Europe, but I found no trace, and +then it occurred to me that after all she might still be in this part of +the country—"</p> + +<p>I held on to Billy. "Had you quarreled or anything?"</p> + +<p>He ran his fingers through his hair. "Things had gone wrong somehow," +he said, uncertainly, "I don't know why. I love her."</p> + +<p>If you could have heard him say it! If <i>she</i> could have heard him! There +was a silence out of which I said: "Did you ask her to warm your +slippers?"</p> + +<p>He stared at me, then he reached out his hands across the table and +caught hold of mine in such a strong grip that it hurt. "You've seen +her," he said, "<i>you've seen her</i>—?"</p> + +<p>Then I remembered. "I can't say any more. You see—I've promised—"</p> + +<p>"That you wouldn't tell me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>He threw back his head and laughed. "If she's in this part of the +country, I'll find her." And I knew that he would. He was the kind of +man you felt wouldn't know there were obstacles in the way when he went +after the thing he wanted.</p> + +<p>I made him stay to supper. It was a drizzly cold night and he looked +very tired.</p> + +<p>"Jove," he said, "you're comfortable here, with your fire and your +pussy-cat, and your teakettle on the hearth! This is the sort of thing I +like—"</p> + +<p>"You wouldn't like living over a grocery store," I told him.</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, nobody around here ever has, and they are all descended from +signers of the Declaration of Independence and back of that from William +the Conqueror, and they stick their noses in the air."</p> + +<p>"Shades of Jefferson!—why should they?"</p> + +<p>"They shouldn't. But they do—"</p> + +<p>He came back to the subject of his wife. "I didn't want her to warm my +slippers. It was only that I wanted her to feel like warming them," he +appealed to Billy, and Billy nodded. Billy positively purrs when I make +him comfortable after his day's work. He says that it is the homing +instinct in men and that women ought to encourage it.</p> + +<p>"Does she warm yours?" he asked Billy.</p> + +<p>"Not now, she's too busy—" and then as if the stage were set for it, +there came from the next room a little, little cry.</p> + +<p>I went in and brought out—Junior! He was only a month old, but you know +how heavenly sweet they are with their rose-leaf skins, and their little +crumpled hands and their downy heads—Junior's down was brown, for Billy +and I are both dark.</p> + +<p>"You see he keeps me busy," I said.</p> + +<p>I was so proud I am perfectly sure it stuck out all over me, and as for +Billy he beamed on us in a funny fatherly fashion that he had adopted +from the moment that he first called me "Little Mother."</p> + +<p>"Do you wonder that she hasn't time to warm my slippers?" was his +question.</p> + +<p>The stranger held out his arms—"Let me hold the little chap." And he +sat there, without a smile, looking down at my baby. When he raised his +head he said in a dry sort of fashion, "I thought the pussy-cat and the +teakettle were enough—but this seems almost too good to be true—"</p> + +<p>I can't tell you how much I liked him. He seemed so big and fine—and +tender. I came across a poem the other day, and he made me think of it:</p> + +<blockquote class="poem"><p class="center"> +" ... the strong"<br /> +The Master whispered, "are the tenderest!" +</p></blockquote> + +<p>Before he went away, he took my hand in his. "I want you to play a game +with me. Do you remember when we were children that we used to hide +things, and then guide the ones who hunted by saying 'warmer' when we +were near them, and 'colder' when they wandered away? Will you say +'warm' and 'cold' to me? That won't be breaking your promise, will it?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Then let's begin now. To-morrow morning I shall go to the north and +east—"</p> + +<p>"Cold!"</p> + +<p>"To the south and west—"</p> + +<p>"Warmer."</p> + +<p>"Up a hill?"</p> + +<p>"Very warm. But you mustn't ask me any more."</p> + +<p>"All right. But I am coming again, and we will play the game."</p> + +<p>Billy went down with him, and when he came back we stood looking into +the fire, and he said, "You didn't tell him?"</p> + +<p>"Of course not. That's the lovely, lovely thing that he must find out +for himself—"</p> + +<p>The next day I went to see Lady Crusoe. William Watters took me. "They's +a man been hangin' round this mawnin'," he complained, "an' a dawg—"</p> + +<p>"What kind of man, William?"</p> + +<p>"He's huntin', and Miss Lily she doan' like things killed—"</p> + +<p>Half-way up, we passed the man. His hat came off when he saw me. "It's +cold weather we're having," he said pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"It's getting warmer," I flung back at him, and William drove on with a +grunt.</p> + +<p>I had Junior with me, and when I reached the house I went straight +up-stairs. In the very center of the room in the hooded mahogany cradle +was another crumpled rose-leaf of a child. But this was not a "Junior."</p> + +<p>"Robin-son," Lady Crusoe had whispered, when I had first bent over her +and had asked the baby's name.</p> + +<p>"Because of the robins?" I had asked.</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "I couldn't call him Crusoe, could I?"</p> + +<p>So there he lay, little Robinson Crusoe, in a desert expanse of polished +floor, and there he crowed a welcome to my own beautiful baby!</p> + +<p>Lady Crusoe was in a big chair. She was not strong, and William Watters +had brought his sister Mandy to wait on her. She was very pale, this +lovely lady, and there were shadows under her eyes. As I sat down beside +her, she said: "I shall have to have your Billy sell some more things +for me. You see the servants must be paid, and my Robin must be comfy. +There's a console-table that ought to bring a lot from a city dealer."</p> + +<p>"I wish that you needn't be worried," I said. "I wish—I wish—that +you'd let me send for Robin's father—"</p> + +<p>"Robin's father!" she drew a quick breath, "how funny it +sounds!—<i>Robin's father</i>—"</p> + +<p>I waited for that to sink in, and then I said: "I know how you feel. +When I think of Billy as Junior's father it is different from thinking +of him as my husband, and it makes a funny sensation in my throat as if +I wanted to cry—"</p> + +<p>"You've nothing to cry about," she told me fiercely, "nothing, but I +sometimes feel as if I could weep rivers of tears!"</p> + +<p>I realized that I must be careful, so I changed the subject. "William," +I said after a pause, "is worrying about a man who is hunting over the +grounds."</p> + +<p>"He told me. I can't understand why any one should trespass when the +place is posted. I sent William to tell him, but it didn't seem to have +any effect. I haven't heard him shoot. When I do, I shall go out and +speak to him myself."</p> + +<p>I wondered if Fate were going to settle it in that way, and I wondered +too if it would be breaking my promise to tell him to shoot! We sewed in +silence for a while, but Lady Crusoe was restless. At last she wandered +to the window. It was a long French window which opened on a balcony. +She parted the velvet curtains and looked out. "There he is again," she +said, with irritation, "by the gate with his gun and dog—"</p> + +<p>I rose and joined her. The man stood by the gate-post, and the dog sat +at his feet. They might have been a pair of statues planted on the round +top of the hill, with the valleys rolling away beneath them and the +mountain peaks and the golden sky beyond. Lady Crusoe was much stirred +up over it.</p> + +<p>"I'll send William again, when he comes with our tea. I won't have my +wild things shot. There was a covey of partridges on the lawn this +morning, and my squirrels come up to the porch to be fed. Men are cruel +creatures with their guns and their traps."</p> + +<p>"Women are cruel, too," I told her, and now I took my courage in my +hands. "Suppose, oh, suppose, that the mother robin had stolen her nest +and had never let the father robin share her happiness, wouldn't you +call that cruel?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" her voice shook.</p> + +<p>"You have stolen your—nest—"</p> + +<p>"Why shouldn't I steal it? I had always felt that when I wanted a real +home it would be here. And the time had come when I wanted a—home. So I +planned to come—with him. It was to be my surprise—he doesn't even +know that the old place belongs to me. He thought it was just another of +my restless demands, but he let me have my way. We had friends with us +when we started; they left us at Washington. It was after we were alone +that—we quarreled—and I ran away. I left a note and told him that I +had gone to France. I suppose he followed and didn't find me. I am not +even sure that he wants to find me."</p> + +<p>"Do you want to be found?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. I'd rather not talk about it."</p> + +<p>William came in with the tea and was told to send the intruder off.</p> + +<p>"I done sent him, Miss Lily," he said, with dignity, "but he ain't gwine +to go. He say he ain't, and I kain't make him."</p> + +<p>She went again to the window, and this time she drew back the faded +hangings and stepped out on the balcony.</p> + +<p>I heard her utter a cry; then the whole room seemed to whirl about me as +she came in, dragging the curtains together behind her. Every drop of +blood was drained from her face.</p> + +<p>"William," she said, sharply, "that man—is coming toward the house! If +he asks for me—I am not—at home."</p> + +<p>"Nawm," and William went down to answer the blows of the brass knocker.</p> + +<p>We heard him open the door, we heard the crisp, quick voice. We heard +William's stately response. Then the quick voice said: "Will you tell +your mistress that I shall wait?"</p> + +<p>William came up with the message. "He's settin' on the po'ch, an' he +looks like he was makin' out to set there all night."</p> + +<p>"Let him sit," said Lady Crusoe inelegantly. "Lock all of the doors, +William, and serve the tea."</p> + +<p>She sat there and drank a cup of it scalding hot, with her head in the +air and her foot tapping the floor. But I couldn't drink a drop. I was +just sick with the thought of how he loved her, and of how she had +hardened her heart.</p> + +<p>At last I couldn't stand it any longer. The tears rolled down my cheeks. +Lady Crusoe set her cup on the tray and stared at me in amazement. +"What's the matter?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, how can you—when he loves you?"</p> + +<p>I don't know how I dared say it, for her eyes were blazing in her white +face, and my heart was thumping, but there was Robinson Crusoe crowing +in his hooded cradle, and Robin's father was on the front step, with the +old oak door shut and barred against him.</p> + +<p>She leaned forward, and I knew what was coming. "How did you know it +was—my husband?"</p> + +<p>My eyes met hers squarely. "He came to the store. He was looking for +you."</p> + +<p>"And you told him that I was here?"</p> + +<p>"No. I wanted to. But I had promised."</p> + +<p>For a little while neither of us spoke. The silence was broken by a +thud, as if a flying squirrel had dropped from the roof to the balcony. +A stick of wood fell apart in the grate, and the crow of the baby in the +hooded cradle was answered by the baby on my lap.</p> + +<p>Lady Crusoe hugged her knees with her white arms as if she were cold, +although the room was hot with the blazing fire. "I think you might have +told me. It would have been the friendly thing to have told me—"</p> + +<p>"Billy thought it wasn't best."</p> + +<p>"What had Billy to do with it?"</p> + +<p>"Billy has everything to do with me. I talked it over with him—and—and +Billy's such a darling to talk things over—"</p> + +<p>I broke down and sobbed and sobbed, and the tears dripped on Junior's +precious head. And at last she said, her face softened, "You silly +little thing, what do you want me to do?"</p> + +<p>"If it were Billy, I should ask him in—and show him—the baby—"</p> + +<p>"If it were Billy, you would set your heart under his heel for him to +step on. I am not like that—"</p> + +<p>Another squirrel dropped to the balcony. The sun was setting, and +between the velvet curtains I could see it blood-red behind the hills.</p> + +<p>Lady Crusoe rose, pacing the room restlessly. The wind rising rattled +the long windows. A shadow blotted out the sun.</p> + +<p>"I suppose if you were I," she said at last, "you'd take your baby in +your arms, and go down and say to that man on the steps, 'Come in and be +lord of the manor and the ruler of your wife and child.'"</p> + +<p>I held Junior close and my voice trembled. "I should never say a thing +like that to—Billy—"</p> + +<p>"What would you say?"</p> + +<p>"I should say"—I choked over it, and broke down at the end—"oh, lover, +lover, this is your son—and I am his happy mother—"</p> + +<p>She stopped in front of me and stood looking down, with the anger all +gone from her eyes. Then, before she could turn or cry out, the long +windows were struck open by something that was stronger than the wind. +There had been no flying squirrels on the balcony, and the shadow which +had hidden the sun was the breadth and height of the big man who stood +between the velvet curtains! He crossed the room at a stride.</p> + +<p>"Did you think that bolts and bars could keep me from you?" he asked, +and took Lady Crusoe's hands in a tight grip and drew her toward him. +She resisted for a moment. Then her white slenderness was crushed in his +hungry arms.</p> + +<p>Well, as soon as I could gather up Junior and his belongings, I went +down to wait for Billy. But before I went I saw her drop on her knees +beside the hooded cradle and lift out little Robin, and, still kneeling, +hold him up toward his father, as the nun holds up Galahad in the Holy +Grail.</p> + +<p>And what do you think I heard her say?</p> + +<p><i>"Oh, lover, lover, this is your son—and I am his happy mother!"</i></p> + +<p>Billy came in glowing from his walk in the sharp air, and I can't tell +you how good it seemed to feel his cold cheek against my cheek, and his +warm lips on mine. We were a rapturous trio in front of the library +fire, and there we were joined presently by the rapturous trio from +above stairs. They treated Billy and me as if we were a pair of guardian +angels. Then we had dinner together, with Mandy and William in the +background beaming.</p> + +<p>And that night I told Billy all about it. "Isn't it beautiful, Billy? +They are going to live on the old Davenant place, and it is to be their +home."</p> + +<p>Everybody calls on us now. You see, Lady Crusoe's family is older than +any of the others, and then there's her husband's money. And I shine in +her reflected light, for our friendship, as she says, is founded on a +rock. But Billy says it is founded on a wreck. Yet while he jokes about +it, I know that he is proud of his friendship with Robin's father. And +when the spring comes, we are to take old Tid and our blessed Junior and +our family effects to an adorable cottage with a garden on all four +sides of it and set well back from the road. You see, we feel that we +can afford it, for we have the exclusive business of supplying the needs +of the Davenant estate, and we are thus financially on our feet.</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="A_REBELLIOUS_GRANDMOTHER" id="A_REBELLIOUS_GRANDMOTHER"></a>A REBELLIOUS GRANDMOTHER</h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Cissy Beale and her daughter Cecily sat together in the latter's +bedroom—a bewitching apartment, in which pale-gray paper and pale-gray +draperies formed an effective background for the rosewood furniture and +the French mirrors and tapestried screens.</p> + +<p>Between the two women was a bassinet and a baby.</p> + +<p>"You act," said Cecily, "as if you were sorry about—the baby."</p> + +<p>Her mother, who lay stretched at ease on a pillowed couch, shook her +head.</p> + +<p>"I'm not sorry about the baby—she's a darling—but you needn't think +I'm going to be called 'grandmother,' Cecily. A grandmother is a person +who settles down. I don't expect to settle down. My life has been hard. +I struggled and strove through all those awful years after your +father—left me. I educated you and Bob. And now you've both married +well, and I've a bit of money ahead from my little book. For the first +time in my life I can have leisure and pretty clothes; for the first +time in my life I feel young; and then, absolutely without warning, you +come back from Europe with your beautiful Surprise, and expect me to +live up to it—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!" Cecily protested.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you do," insisted little Mrs. Beale. She sat up and gazed at her +daughter accusingly. With the lace of her boudoir cap framing her small, +fair face, she looked really young—as young almost as the demure +Cecily, who, in less coquettish garb, was taking her new motherhood very +seriously.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you do," Mrs. Beale repeated. "I know just what you expect of me. +You expect me to put on black velvet and old lace and diamonds. I shan't +dare to show you my new afternoon frock—it's <i>red</i>, Cecily, geranium +<i>red</i>; I shan't dare to wear even the tiniest slit in my skirts; I +shan't dare to wear a Bulgarian sash or a Russian blouse, or a low +neck—without expecting to hear some one say, disapprovingly, 'And +she's a <i>grandmother</i>!'" She paused, and Cecily broke in tumultuously:</p> + +<p>"I should think you'd be proud of—the baby."</p> + +<p>"No, I'm not proud." Mrs. Beale thrust her toes into a pair of +silver-embroidered Turkish slippers and stood up. "I'm not proud just at +this moment, Cecily. You see—there's Valentine Landry."</p> + +<p>"Mother—!"</p> + +<p>"Now please don't say it that way, Cecily. He's half in love with me, +and I'm beginning to like him, awfully. I've never had a bit of romance +in my life. I married your father when I was too young to know my own +mind, and he was much older than I. Then came the years of struggle +after he went away.... I was a good wife and a good mother. I worshiped +you and Bob, and I gave my youth for you. I never thought of any other +man while your father lived, even though he did not belong to me. And +now he is dead. You'll never know—I hope you may <i>never</i> know—what +drudgery means as I have known it. I've written my poor little screeds +when I was half-dead with fatigue; I've been out in cold and rain to get +news; I've interviewed all sorts of people when I've hated them and +hated the work. And if now I want to have my little fling, why not? +Everybody effervesces some time. This is my moment—and you can't expect +me to spoil it by playing the devoted grandmother."</p> + +<p>The baby was wailing, a little hungry call, which made her mother take +her up and say, hastily: "It's time to feed her. You won't mind, +mother?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I <i>do</i> mind," said the little lady. "I don't like that Madonna +effect, with the baby in your arms. It makes me feel horribly frivolous +and worldly, Cecily. But it doesn't change my mind a bit."</p> + +<p>After a pause, the Madonna-creature asked, "Who is Valentine Landry?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Beale had her saucy little cap off, and was brushing out her thin, +light locks in which the gray showed slightly. But she stopped long +enough to explain. "He isn't half as sentimental as his name. I met him +in Chicago at the Warburtons', just before I made a success of my book. +I was very tired, and he cheered me a lot. He's from Denver, and he made +his money in mines. He hasn't married, because he hasn't had time. We're +awfully good friends, but he doesn't know my age. He knows that I have a +daughter, but not a grand-daughter. He thinks of me as a young +woman—not as a grandmother-creature in black silk and mitts—"</p> + +<p>"<i>Mother</i>! nobody expects you to wear black silk and mitts—"</p> + +<p>"Well, you expect me to have a black-silk-and-mitt mind. You know you +are thinking this very minute that there is no idiot like an old +one—Cecily—"</p> + +<p>The girl flushed. "I don't think you are quite kind, mother."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Beale laughed and forgot to be cynical. "I know what you'd like to +have me, dearie, but this is my moment of emancipation." She crossed the +room and looked down at the tiny bit of humanity curled like a kitten in +the curve of her daughter's arm. "I'm not going to be your grandmother, +yet, midget," she announced, with decision. Then, "Cecily, I think when +she's old enough I shall have her call me—Cupid—"</p> + +<p>And laughing in the face of her daughter's horrified protest, the +mutinous grandparent retired precipitately to her own room.</p> + +<p>Three hours later, Mrs. Cissy Beale went forth to conquer, gowned in a +restaurant frock of shadow lace topped by a black tulle hat.</p> + +<p>Valentine Landry, greeting her in Cecily's white-and-gold drawing-room, +was breezy and radiant. "You're as lovely as ever," he said, as he took +her hand; "perhaps a bit lovelier because you are glad to see me."</p> + +<p>"I am glad," she assured him; "and it is so nice to have you come before +the summer is at an end. We can have a ride out into Westchester, and +come back by daylight to dinner."</p> + +<p>"And no chaperons?"</p> + +<p>"No." She was looking up at him a little wistfully. "We know each other +too well to have to drag in a lot of people, don't we? It is the men +whom women trust with whom they go alone."</p> + +<p>He met her glance gravely. "Do you know," he said, "that you have the +sweetest way of putting things? A man simply has to come up to your +expectations. He'd as soon think of disappointing a baby as of +disappointing you."</p> + +<p>His selection of a simile was unfortunate. Mrs. Beale's eyes became +fixed upon a refractory button of her glove.</p> + +<p>"Please help me," she said; "your fingers are stronger," and as he bent +above her hand she forgot the baby, forgot her new estate, forgot +everything except the joy she felt at having his smooth gray head so +close to her own.</p> + +<p>When he had her safely beside him in his big car he asked, "What made +you run away from me in Chicago?"</p> + +<p>"My daughter came home from Europe."</p> + +<p>"I can't quite think of you with a grown daughter."</p> + +<p>"Cecily's a darling." Mrs. Beale's voice held no enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>Landry, noting her tone, looked faintly surprised. "You and she must +have great good times together."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes—"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Beale wished that he wouldn't talk about Cecily. Cecily had married +before good times were possible. They had never played together—she and +the little daughter for whom she had toiled and sacrificed.</p> + +<p>Landry's voice broke in upon her meditations: "I should like to meet +Cecily."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Beale switched him away from the topic expeditiously. He should not +see her as yet in the bosom of her family. <i>He should not</i>. He should +not see Cecily with her air of mature motherliness. He should not see +Victor, Cecily's husband, who was ten years older than Cecily and only +ten years younger than herself. He should not hear her big son Bob call +her "Grandma." He should not gaze upon the pretty deference of Bob's +little wife toward the queen-dowager!</p> + +<p>Dining later opposite Landry in a great golden palace, Cissy seemed like +some gay tropical bird. In her new and lovely clothes she was very +pretty, very witty, almost girlishly charming. Yet Landry was conscious +of a vague feeling of disappointment. She had been more serenely +satisfying in Chicago—not so brilliantly hard, not so persistently +vivacious. How could he know that the change was one of desperation? +Cissy, as grandmother, felt that she must prove, even to herself, that +she was not yet a back number.</p> + +<p>With this rift in the lute of their budding romance, they ate and drank +and went to the play and had what might otherwise have been an +enchanted ride home in the moonlight. But when Landry said "Good-night" +Cissy felt the loss of something in his manner. His greeting that +afternoon had had in it something almost of tenderness; his farewell was +commonplace and slightly constrained.</p> + +<p>As Mrs. Beale went through the dimly lighted hall to her room, she met +Cecily in a flowing garment, pacing back and forth with the baby in her +arms.</p> + +<p>"She isn't well," Cecily whispered, as the little lady in the lace frock +questioned her. "I don't know whether I ought to call a doctor or not."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Beale poked the tiny mite with an expert finger. "I'll give her a +drink of hot water with a drop of peppermint in it," she said, "as soon +as I get my hat off, and you'd better go back to bed, Cecily; you aren't +well enough to worry with her."</p> + +<p>Cecily looked relieved. "I was worried," she confessed. "It's nurse's +night out and Victor had to go to a board meeting unexpectedly—and with +you away—I lost my nerve. It seemed dreadful to be alone, mother."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Beale knew how dreadful it was. She had carried the wailing Cecily +in her arms night after night in the weeks which followed the crushing +knowledge of her husband's infidelity. But she had carried a heavier +burden than the child—the burden of poverty, of desertion, of an +unknown future.</p> + +<p>But these things were not to be voiced. "You go to bed, Cecily," she +said. "I'll look after her."</p> + +<p>Walking the floor later with the baby in her arms, Mrs. Beale's mind was +on Landry. "Heavens! if he could see me now!" was her shocked thought, +as she stopped in front of a mirror to survey the picture she made.</p> + +<p>Her hair was down and the grayest lock of all showed plainly. She had +discarded frills and furbelows and wore a warm gray wrapper. She looked +nice and middle-aged, yet carried, withal, a subtle air of +girlishness—would carry it, in spite of storm or stress, until the end, +as the sign and seal of her undaunted spirit.</p> + +<p>The baby stirred in her arms, and again Mrs. Beale went back and forth, +crooning the lullaby with which she had once put her own babies to bed.</p> + +<p>In the morning the baby was much better, but Mrs. Beale was haggard. She +stayed in bed until eleven o'clock, however. Cecily, coming in at +twelve, found her ready to go out. In response to an inquiry, Mrs. Beale +spoke of a luncheon engagement with Valentine Landry.</p> + +<p>"Mother—are you going to marry him?"</p> + +<p>Cissy, studying the adjustment of her veil, confessed, "He hasn't asked +me."</p> + +<p>"But he will—"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Beale shrugged her shoulders. "Who knows?"</p> + +<p>In the weeks which followed, the little lady was conscious that things +were not drawing to a comfortable climax. By all the rules of the game, +Landry should long ago have declared himself. But he seemed to be +slipping more and more into the fatal role of good friend and comrade.</p> + +<p>Cissy's pride would not let her admit, even to herself, that she had +failed to attract at the final moment. But there was something deeper +than her pride involved, and she found her days restless and her nights +sleepless. One night in the dense darkness she faced the truth +relentlessly. "You're in love, Cissy Beale," she told herself, +scornfully. "You're in love for the first time in your life—and you +a—grandmother!"</p> + +<p>Then she turned over on her pillow, hid her face in its white warmth, +and cried as if her heart would break.</p> + +<p>In the meantime the baby drooped. Cecily, worried, consulted her mother +continually. Thus it came about that Mrs. Beale lived a double life. +From noon until midnight she was of to-day—smartly gowned, girlish; +from midnight until dawn she was of yesterday—waking from her fitful +slumbers at the first wailing note, presiding in gray gown and slippers +over strange brews of catnip and of elderflower.</p> + +<p>Cecily's doctor, being up-to-date, remonstrated at this return to the +primitive, but was forced to admit, after the baby had come triumphantly +through a half-dozen critical attacks, that Cissy's back-to-grandma +methods were effective.</p> + +<p>It was on a morning following one of these struggles that Cissy said to +her daughter, wearily, "I can't escape it—"</p> + +<p>"Escape what?" demanded Cecily, who, in the pale-gray bedroom was +endeavoring to observe the doctor's injunction to let the wailing baby +stay in her bassinet, instead of walking the floor with her.</p> + +<p>"The black-silk-and-mitt destiny," said the depressed lady.</p> + +<p>"What has happened?" Cecily demanded.</p> + +<p>"Nothing has happened," responded her weary little mother, and refused +to discuss the matter further.</p> + +<p>But to herself she was beginning to admit that she had lost Landry. An +hour later she had a telephone message from him.</p> + +<p>"I want you to go with me for a last ride together," he said. "I leave +to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"To-morrow!" Her voice showed her dismay.</p> + +<p>"But why this sudden decision—"</p> + +<p>"I have played long enough," he said; "business calls—"</p> + +<p>As Mrs. Beale made ready for the ride she surveyed herself wistfully in +her mirror. There were shadows under her eyes, and faint little lines +toward the corners of her lips—it even seemed to her that her chin +sagged. She had a sudden sense of revolt. "If I were young, <i>really</i> +young," she thought, "he would not be going away—"</p> + +<p>With this idea firmly fixed in her mind, she exerted herself to please +him; and her little laugh made artificial music in his ears, her fixed +smile wore upon his nerves, her staccato questions irritated him.</p> + +<p>Again they had dinner together, and as she sat opposite him, gorgeous +and gay in her gown of geranium red, he began to talk with her of her +daughter.</p> + +<p>"I've never met her. It has seemed to me that you might have let me see +her—"</p> + +<p>Cissy flushed. "She's such a great grown-up," she said. "Somehow when +I'm with her I feel—old—"</p> + +<p>"You will never seem old," he said, with the nearest approach to +tenderness that had softened his voice for days. "You have in you the +spirit of eternal youth—"</p> + +<p>Then he floundered on. "But a mother and a daughter—when you used to +speak of her in Chicago, it seemed to me that I could see you together, +and I liked the sweetness and womanliness of the thought; but I have +never seen you together."</p> + +<p>With a sense of recklessness upon her, Cissy suddenly determined to tell +him the truth. "Cecily hasn't been going out much. You see, there's the +baby—"</p> + +<p>He stared. "The baby—?"</p> + +<p>"Her baby—Cecily's—"</p> + +<p>"<i>Then you're a grandmother</i>?"</p> + +<p>It seemed to Cissy that the whole restaurant rang with the emphasis of +the words. Yet he had not spoken loudly; not a head was turned in their +direction; even the waiter stood unmoved.</p> + +<p>When she came to herself Landry was laughing softly. "When are you going +to let me see—the baby—?"</p> + +<p>"Never—"</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>Cissy went on to her doom. "Because you'll want to put me on the shelf +like all the rest of them. You'll want to see me with—my +hair—parted—and spectacles. And my eyes are perfectly good—and my +hair is my own—"</p> + +<p>She stopped. Landry was surveying her with hard eyes.</p> + +<p>"Don't you love—the baby—?"</p> + +<p>Cissy shrugged. "Perhaps. I don't know yet. Some day I may when I +haven't anything to do but sit in a chimney-corner."</p> + +<p>Thus spoke Cissy Beale, making of herself a heartless creature, flinging +back into the face of Valentine Landry his most cherished ideals.</p> + +<p>But what did it matter? She had known from the moment of her confession +that he would be repelled. What man could stand up in the face of the +world and marry a grandmother!—the idea was preposterous.</p> + +<p>She finished dinner with her head in the air; she was hypocritically +lively during the drive home; she said "Good-night" and "Good-bye" +without feeling, and went up-stairs with her heart like lead to find the +nurse weeping wildly on the first landing.</p> + +<p>The baby, it appeared, was very ill. And the baby's father and mother, +having left the little cherub sleeping peacefully, were motoring +somewhere in the wide spaces of the world. The family doctor was out. +She had called up another doctor, and he would come as soon as he could. +But in the meantime the baby was dying—</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, Kate," said Cissy Beale, and pulling off her gloves as she +ran, she made for the pale-gray room.</p> + +<p>Now, as it happened, Valentine Landry, driving away in a priggish state +of mind, was suddenly overwhelmed by miserable remorse. Reviewing the +evening, he seemed to see, for the first time, the unhappiness in the +eyes of the little woman who had borne herself so bravely. In a sudden +moment of illumination he realized all that she must have been feeling. +Perhaps it had not been heartlessness; perhaps it had been—heart +hunger.</p> + +<p>Leaning forward, he spoke to his chauffeur. They stopped at the first +drug-store, and Landry called up Cissy. Her voice from the other end +answered, sharply, then broke as he gave his name.</p> + +<p>"I thought it was the doctor," she said. "Can you come back, please? The +baby, oh, the baby is very ill!"</p> + +<p>Five minutes later the nurse let him into the house. He followed her up +the stairs and into the nursery. Cissy sat with the baby in her arms. +The baby was in a blanket and Cissy was in her gray wrapper. She had +donned it while the nurse held the baby in the hot bath which saved its +life. Cissy's hair was out of curl and the color was out of her cheeks. +But to Valentine Landry she was beautiful.</p> + +<p>"It was a convulsion," she told him, simply. "I am afraid she will have +another. We haven't been able to get a doctor—will you get one for us?"</p> + +<p>Out he went on his mission for the lady of his heart, and the lady of +his heart, sitting wet and worried in the pale-gray bedroom, was saying +to herself, monotonously, "It's all over now—no man could see me like +this and love me—"</p> + +<p>Cecily and her husband and the doctor and Landry came in out of the +darkness together. They went up-stairs together, then stopped on the +threshold as Cissy held up a warning hand.</p> + +<p>She continued to croon softly the lullaby which had belonged to her own +babies: "Hushaby, sweet, my own—"</p> + +<p>It was Cecily and the doctor who went in to her, and Landry, standing +back in the shadows, waited. He spoke to Cissy as she came out.</p> + +<p>"I am going so early in the morning," he said, "will you give me just +one little minute now?"</p> + +<p>In that minute he told her that he loved her.</p> + +<p>And Cissy, standing in the library in all the disorder of uncurled locks +and gray kimono, demanded, after a rapturous pause, "But why didn't you +tell me before?"</p> + +<p>He found it hard to explain. "I didn't quite realize it—until I saw you +there so tender and sweet, with the baby in your arms—"</p> + +<p>"A Madonna-creature," murmured Cissy Beale.</p> + +<p>But he did not understand. "It isn't because I want you to sit in a +chimney-corner—it wasn't fair of you to say that—"</p> + +<p>Then in just one short speech Cissy Beale showed him her heart. She told +of the years of devotion, always unrewarded by the affection she craved. +"And here was the baby," she finished, "to grow up—and find somebody +else, and forget me—"</p> + +<p>As he gathered her into his protecting embrace, his big laugh comforted +her.</p> + +<p>"I'm yours till the end of the world, little grandmother," he whispered. +"I shall never find any one else—and I shall never forget."</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="WAIT_FOR_PRINCE_CHARMING" id="WAIT_FOR_PRINCE_CHARMING"></a>WAIT—FOR PRINCE CHARMING</h2> + + +<p>Kingdon Knox was not conscious of any special meanness of spirit. He was +a lawyer and a good one. He was fifty, and wore his years with an effect +of youth. He exercised persistently and kept his boyish figure. He had +keen, dark eyes, and silver in his hair. He was always well groomed and +well dressed, and his income provided him with the proper settings. His +home in the suburb was spacious and handsome and presided over by a +handsome and socially successful wife. His office was presided over by +Mary Barker, who was his private secretary. She was thirty-five and had +been in his office for fifteen years. She had come to him an unformed +girl of twenty; she was now a perfect adjunct to his other office +appointments. She wore tailored frocks, her hair was exquisitely dressed +in shining waves, her hands were white and her nails polished, her +slender feet shod in unexceptional shoes.</p> + +<p>Nannie Ashburner, who was also in the office and who now and then took +Knox's dictation, had an immense admiration for Mary. "I wish I could +wear my clothes as you do," she would say as they walked home together.</p> + +<p>"Clothes aren't everything."</p> + +<p>"Well, they are a lot."</p> + +<p>"I would give them all to be as young as you are."</p> + +<p>"You don't look old, Mary."</p> + +<p>"Of course I take care of myself," said Mary, "but if I were as young as +you I'd begin over again."</p> + +<p>"How do you mean 'begin,' Mary?"</p> + +<p>But Mary was not communicative. "Oh, well, I'd have some things that I +might have had and can't get now," was all the satisfaction that she +gave Nannie.</p> + +<p>It was through Mary that Nannie had obtained her position in Kingdon +Knox's office. Mary had boarded with Nannie's mother for five years. +Nannie was fourteen when Mary came. She had finished high school and had +had a year in a business college, and then Mrs. Ashburner had asked Mary +if there was any chance for her in Kingdon Knox's office.</p> + +<p>Mary had considered it, but had seemed to hesitate. "We need another +typist, but I am not sure it is the place for her."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>Mary did not say why. "I wish she didn't have to work at all. She ought +to get married."</p> + +<p>"Dick McDonald wants her. But she's too young, Mary."</p> + +<p>"You were married at nineteen."</p> + +<p>"Yes, and a lot I got out of it." Mrs. Ashburner was sallow and cynical. +"I kept boarders to make a living for my husband, Mary; and since he +died I've kept boarders to make a living for Nannie and me."</p> + +<p>"But Dick gets good wages."</p> + +<p>"Well, he can wait till he saves something."</p> + +<p>"Don't make him wait too long."</p> + +<p>It was against her better judgment that Mary Barker spoke to her +employer about Nannie. "I should want her to help me. She is not expert +enough to take your dictation, but she could relieve me of a lot of +detail."</p> + +<p>"Well, let me have a look at her," Kingdon Knox had said.</p> + +<p>So Nannie had come to be looked over, and she had blushed a little and +had been rather breathless as she had talked to Mr. Kingdon, and he had +been aware of the vividness of her young beauty; for Nannie had red hair +that curled over her ears, and her skin was warm ivory, and her eyes +were gray.</p> + +<p>Her clothes were not quite up to the office standard, but Knox, having +hired her, referred the matter to Mary. "You might suggest that she cut +out thin waists and high heels," he had said; "you know what I like."</p> + +<p>Mary knew, and Nannie's first month's salary had been spent in the +purchase of a serge one-piece frock.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ashburner had rebelled at the expense. But Mary had been firm. "Mr. +Knox won't have anybody around the office who looks slouchy or sloppy. +It will pay in the end."</p> + +<p>Nannie thought Mr. Knox wonderful. "He says that he wants me to work +hard so that I can handle some of his letters."</p> + +<p>"When did he tell you that?"</p> + +<p>"Last night, while you were taking testimony in the library."</p> + +<p>The office library was lined with law books. There were a handsome long +mahogany table, green covered, and six handsome mahogany chairs. Mary, +shut in with three of Knox's clients and a consulting partner, had had a +sense of uneasiness. It was after hours. Nannie was waiting for her in +the outer office. Everybody else had gone home except Knox, who was +waiting for his clients.</p> + +<p>Mary remembered how, when she was Nannie's age, she had often sat in +that outer office after hours, and Knox had talked to her. He had been +thirty-five and she, twenty. He had a wife and a handsome home; she had +nothing but a hall room. And he had made her feel that she was very +necessary to him. "I don't know how we should ever get along without +you," he had said.</p> + +<p>He had said other things.</p> + +<p>It was because he had spoken of her lovely hair that she had kept it +brushed and shining. It was because his eyes had followed her pencil +that she had rubbed cold cream on her hands at night and had looked well +after her nails. It was because she had learned his taste that she wore +simple but expensive frocks. It was because of her knowledge that +nothing escaped him that she shod her pretty feet in expensive shoes.</p> + +<p>He had set standards for her, and she had followed them. And now he +would set standards for Nannie!</p> + +<p>She spoke abruptly. "Is Dick McDonald coming to-night?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He has had a raise, Mary. He telephoned—"</p> + +<p>The two girls were in Mary's room. Dinner was over and Mary had slipped +on a Chinese coat of dull blue and had settled down for an evening with +her books. Mary's room was charming. In fifteen years she had had gifts +of various kinds from Knox. They had always been well chosen and +appropriate. Nothing could have been in better taste as an offering from +an employer to an employee than the embossed leather book ends and desk +set, the mahogany reading lamp with its painted parchment shade, the +bronze Buddha, the antique candlesticks, the Chelsea teacups, the +Sheffield tea caddy. Mary's comfortable salary had permitted her to buy +the book shelves and the tea table and the mahogany day bed. There was a +lovely rug which Mrs. Knox had sent her on the tenth anniversary of her +association with the office. Mrs. Knox looked upon Mary as a valuable +business asset. She invited her once a year to dinner.</p> + +<p>Nannie wore her blue serge one-piece frock and a new winter hat. The hat +was a black velvet tam.</p> + +<p>"You need something to brighten you up," Mary said; "take my beads."</p> + +<p>The beads were jade ones which Mr. Knox had brought to Mary when he came +back from a six months' sojourn in the Orient. Mary had looked after the +office while he was away. He had clasped the beads about her neck. "Bend +your head while I put them on, Mary," he had commanded. He had been at +his desk in his private office while she sat beside him with her +note-book. And when he had clasped the beads and she had lifted her +head, he had said with a quick intake of his breath: "I've been a long +time away from you, Mary."</p> + +<p>Nannie with the jade beads and her red hair and her velvet tam was +rather rare and wonderful. "Dick is going to take me to the show to +celebrate. He's got tickets to Jack Barrymore."</p> + +<p>"Dick is such a nice boy," said Mary. "I'm glad you are going to marry +him, Nannie."</p> + +<p>"Who said I was going to marry him?"</p> + +<p>"That's what he wants, Nannie, and you know it."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Knox says it is a pity for a girl like me to get married."</p> + +<p>Mary's heart seemed to stop beating. She knew just how Knox had said it.</p> + +<p>She spoke quietly. "I think it would be a pity for you not to marry, +Nannie."</p> + +<p>"I don't see why. You aren't married, Mary."</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"And Mr. Knox says that unless a girl can marry a man who can lift her +up she had better stay single."</p> + +<p>The same old arguments! "What does he mean by 'lift her up,' Nannie?"</p> + +<p>"Well"—Nannie laughed self-consciously—"he says that any one as pretty +and refined as I might marry anybody; that I must be careful not to +throw myself away."</p> + +<p>"Would it be throwing yourself away to marry Dick?"</p> + +<p>"It might be. He looked all right to me before I went into the office. +But after you've seen men like Mr. Knox—well, our kind seem—common."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ashburner was calling that Dick McDonald was down-stairs. Nannie, +powdering her nose with Mary's puff, was held by the earnestness of the +other woman's words.</p> + +<p>"Let Dick love you, Nannie. He's such a dear."</p> + +<p>Dick was, Nannie decided before the evening was over, a dear and a +darling. He had brought her a box of candy and something else in a box. +Mrs. Ashburner had shown him into the dining-room, which she and Nannie +used as a sitting-room when the meals were over. The boarders occupied +the parlor and were always in the way.</p> + +<p>"Say, girlie, see here," Dick said as he brought out the box; and Nannie +had gazed upon a ring which sparkled and shone and which looked, as Dick +said proudly, "like a million dollars."</p> + +<p>"I wanted you to have the best." His arm went suddenly around her. "I +always want you to have the best, sweetheart."</p> + +<p>He kissed her in his honest, boyish fashion, and she took the ring and +wore it; and they went to the play in a rosy haze of happiness, and when +they came home he kissed her again.</p> + +<p>"The sooner you get out of that office the better," he said. "We'll get +a little flat, and I've saved enough to furnish it."</p> + +<p>Nannie was lighting the lamp under the percolator. Mrs. Ashburner had +left a plate of sandwiches on one end of the dining-room table. Nannie +was young and Mrs. Ashburner was old-fashioned. Her daughter was not +permitted to eat after-the-theatre suppers in restaurants. "You can +always have something here."</p> + +<p>"Don't let's settle down yet," Nannie said, standing beside the +percolator like a young priestess beside an altar. "There's plenty of +time—-"</p> + +<p>"Plenty of time for what?" asked her lover. "We've no reason to wait, +Nannie."</p> + +<p>So Dick kissed her, and she let him kiss her. She loved him, but she +would make no promises as to the important day. Dick went away a bit +puzzled by her attitude. He wanted her at once in his home. It hurt him +that she did not seem to care to come to him.</p> + +<p>It was a cold night, with white flakes falling, and the policeman on the +beat greeted Dick as he passed him. "It is a nice time in the morning +for you to be getting home."</p> + +<p>"Oh, hello, Tommy! I'm going to be married. How's that?"</p> + +<p>"Who's the girl?"</p> + +<p>"Nannie Ashburner."</p> + +<p>"That little redhead?"</p> + +<p>"You're jealous, Tommy."</p> + +<p>"I am; she'll cook sausages for you when you come home on cold nights, +and kiss you at your front door, and set the talking machine going, with +John McCormack shouting love songs as you come in."</p> + +<p>Dick laughed. "Some picture, Tommy. And a lot you know about it. Why +don't you get married and try it out?"</p> + +<p>Tommy, who was tall and ruddy and forty, plus a year or two, gave a +short laugh. "I might find somebody to cook the sausages, but there's +only one that I'd care to kiss."</p> + +<p>"So that's it. She turned you down, Tommy?"</p> + +<p>"She did, and we won't talk about it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, very well. Good-night, Tommy."</p> + +<p>"Good-night."</p> + +<p>So Dick passed on, and Tommy Jackson beat his hands against his breast +as he made his way through the whirling snow, his footsteps deadened by +the frozen carpet which the storm had spread.</p> + +<p>Mary Barker was delighted when Nannie told of her engagement to Dick. +She talked it over with Mrs. Ashburner. "It will be the best thing for +her."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ashburner was not sure. "I've drudged all my life and I hate to see +her drudge."</p> + +<p>"She won't have it as hard as you have had it," Mary said. "Dick will +always make a good income."</p> + +<p>"She will have a harder time than you've had, Mary," said Mrs. +Ashburner, and her eyes swept the pretty room wistfully. "Many a time +when I've been down in my steaming old kitchen I have thought of you up +here in your blue coat and your pretty slippers, with your hair +shining, and I've wished to heaven that I had never married."</p> + +<p>"Things haven't been easy for you," said Mary gently.</p> + +<p>"They have been harder than nails, Mary. You've escaped all that."</p> + +<p>"Yes." Mary's eyes did not meet Mrs. Ashburner's. "I have +escaped—that."</p> + +<p>Nannie and her mother slept in the back parlor of the boarding-house. +They had single beds and it was in the middle of the night that Mrs. +Ashburner said: "Are you awake, Nannie?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I am."</p> + +<p>"Well, I can't seem to get to sleep. Maybe it's the coffee and maybe +it's because I have you on my mind. I keep thinking that I hate to have +you get married, honey."</p> + +<p>"Oh, mother, don't you like Dick?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. It ain't that. But it's nice for you in the office and you don't +have to slave."</p> + +<p>Nannie sat up in bed, and the light from the street lamp shone in and +showed her wide-eyed, with her hair in a red glory. "I shan't slave," +she said. "I told Dick."</p> + +<p>"Men don't know." Mrs. Ashburner spoke with a sort of weary bitterness. +"They'll promise anything."</p> + +<p>"And I am not going to be married in a hurry, mother. Dick's got to wait +for me if he wants me."</p> + +<p>It sounded very worldly-minded and decisive and Mrs. Ashburner gained an +envious comfort in her daughter's declaration. She had never set herself +against a man's will in that way. Perhaps, after all, Nannie would make +a success of marriage.</p> + +<p>But Nannie was not so resolute as her words might have seemed to imply. +Long after her mother slept she lay awake in the dark and thought of +Dick, of the break in his voice when he had made his plea, the light in +his eyes when he had won a response, his flaming youth, his fine boy's +reverence for her own youth and innocence. It would be—rather +wonderful, she whispered to her heart, and fell asleep, dreaming.</p> + +<p>The next morning was very cold, and Nannie, coming early into Kingdon +Knox's office to take his letters, was in a glow after her walk through +the snowy streets. Her cheeks were red, her eyes sparkled, and the ring +on her finger sparkled.</p> + +<p>Knox at once noticed the ring. "So that's it," he said, and leaned back +in his chair. "Let's talk about it a little."</p> + +<p>They talked about it more than a little, and the burden of Kingdon +Knox's argument was that it was a pity. She was too young and pretty to +marry a poor man and live in a funny little flat and do her own work +and spoil her nails with dishwashing. "Personally, I think it's rather +dreadful. A waste of you, if you want the truth."</p> + +<p>Poor Nannie, listening, saw her castles falling. It would be rather +dreadful—dishwashing and a gas stove and getting meals.</p> + +<p>"He is awfully in love with me," she managed to say at last.</p> + +<p>"And you?" He leaned forward a little. Nannie was aware of the feeling +of excitement which he could always rouse in her. When he spoke like +that she saw herself as something rather perfect and princesslike.</p> + +<p>"Wait—for Prince Charming," he said.</p> + +<p>Nannie was sure that when Prince Charming came he would be like Mr. +Knox; younger perhaps, but with that same lovely manner.</p> + +<p>"Of course," Mr. Knox said gently, "I suppose I ought not to advise, but +if I were you"—he touched the sparkling ring—"I should give it back to +him."</p> + +<p>So after several absorbing talks with her employer on the subject, +Nannie gave the ring back, and when poor Dick passed his friend the +policeman on his way home he stopped and told his story.</p> + +<p>"They are all like that," Tommy said, "but if I were you I wouldn't +take 'no' for an answer."</p> + +<p>Dick brightened. "Wouldn't you?"</p> + +<p>"Not if I had to carry her off under my arm," said Tommy between his +teeth.</p> + +<p>"But I can't carry her off, Tommy—and she won't go."</p> + +<p>"She'll go if you ain't afraid of her," Tommy told him with solemn +emphasis. "I was afraid."</p> + +<p>They were under the street lamp, and Dick stared at him in astonishment. +"I didn't know you were afraid of anything."</p> + +<p>"I didn't know it either," was Tommy's grim response, "until I met her. +But I've known it ever since."</p> + +<p>"Well, it's hard luck."</p> + +<p>"It is hardest at Christmas time," said Tommy, "and my beat ain't the +best one to make me cheerful. There are too many stores. And dolls in +the windows. And drums. And horns. And Santa Claus handing out things to +kids. And I've got to see it, with money just burning in my pocket to +buy things and to have a tree of my own and a turkey in my oven and a +table with some one who cares at the other end. And all I'll get out of +the merry season is a table d'hôte at Nitti's and a box of cigars from +the boys."</p> + +<p>"Ain't women the limit, Tommy?"</p> + +<p>"Well"—Tommy's tone held a note of forced cheerfulness—"that little +redhead must have had some reason for not wanting you, Dick. Maybe we +men ain't worth it."</p> + +<p>"Worth what?"</p> + +<p>"Marrying. A woman's got a square deal coming to her, and she doesn't +always get it."</p> + +<p>"She'd get it with you, and she'd get it with me; you know that, Tommy."</p> + +<p>"She might," said Tommy pessimistically, "if the good Lord helped us."</p> + +<p>Nannie on the day after her break with Dick was blushingly aware of the +bareness of her third finger as she took Kingdon Knox's dictation. When +he had finished his letters, Knox smiled at her. "So you gave it back," +he said.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Good little girl. You'll find something much better if you wait. And I +don't want you wasted." He opened a drawer and took out a long box. He +opened it and lifted a string of beads. They were of carved ivory, and +matched the cream of Nannie's complexion. They were strung strongly on a +thick thread of scarlet silk, and there was a scarlet tassel at the end.</p> + +<p>"They are for you," he said. "It is my first Christmas present to you; +but I hope it won't be the last."</p> + +<p>Nannie's heart beat so that she could almost hear it. "Oh, thank you," +she said breathlessly; "they're so beautiful."</p> + +<p>But she did not know how rare they were, nor how expensive until she +wore them in Mary's room that night.</p> + +<p>"Where did you get them, Nannie?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Knox gave them to me."</p> + +<p>There was dead silence, then Mary said: "Nannie, you ought not to take +them."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"They cost such an awful lot, Nannie. They look simple, but they aren't. +The carving is exquisite."</p> + +<p>"Well, he gave you beads, Mary."</p> + +<p>Mary's face was turned away. "It was different. I have been such a long +time in the office."</p> + +<p>"I don't think it is much different, and I don't see how I can give them +back, Mary."</p> + +<p>Mary did not argue, but when a little later Nannie told of her broken +engagement, Mary said sharply: "But, Nannie—why?"</p> + +<p>"Well, mother doesn't care much for the idea. She—she thinks a girl is +much better off to keep on at the office."</p> + +<p>Mary was lying in her long chair under the lamp. She had a cushion under +her head, and her hand shaded her eyes. "Did—Mr. Knox have anything to +do with it?"</p> + +<p>"What makes you ask that, Mary?"</p> + +<p>"Did he?"</p> + +<p>"Well, yes. You know what I told you; he thinks I'd be—wasted."</p> + +<p>"On Dick?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Mary lay for a long time with her hand over her eyes; then she said: "If +you don't marry Dick, what about your future, Nannie?"</p> + +<p>"There's time enough to think about that. And—and I can wait."</p> + +<p>"For what?"</p> + +<p>Nannie blushed and laughed a little. "Prince Charming."</p> + +<p>After that there was a silence, out of which Nannie asked: "Does your +head ache, Mary?"</p> + +<p>"A little."</p> + +<p>"Can't I get you something?"</p> + +<p>"No. After I've rested a bit I'll take a walk."</p> + +<p>Mary's walk led her by the lighted shop windows. The air was keen and +cold and helped her head. But it did not help her heart. She had a sense +of suffocation when she thought of Nannie.</p> + +<p>She stopped in front of one of the shops. There were dolls in the +window, charming, round-eyed, ringleted. One of them was especially +captivating, with fat blond curls, fat legs, blue silk socks and +slippers, crisp frills and a broad blue hat.</p> + +<p>"How I should have loved her when I was a little girl," was Mary's +thought as she stood looking in. Then: "How a child of my own would have +loved her."</p> + +<p>She made up her mind that she would buy the doll—in the morning when +the shop opened. It was a whimsical thing to do, to give herself a doll +at her time of life. But it would be in a sense symbolic. She had no +child to which to give it; she would give it to the child who was once +herself.</p> + +<p>She came home with a lighter heart and with the knowledge of what she +had to do. She put on her blue house coat and sat down to her desk with +its embossed leather fittings, and there under the lovely, lamp which +Kingdon Knox had given her she wrote to Nannie.</p> + +<p>She gave the letter to Nannie the next morning. "I want you to read it +when you are all alone. Then tear it up. It must always be just between +you and me, Nannie."</p> + +<p>Nannie read the letter in the lunch hour. She got her lunch at a +cafeteria and there was a rest room. It was very quiet and she had a +corner to herself. She wondered what Mary had to say to her, and why she +didn't talk it out instead of writing about it.</p> + +<p>But Mary had felt that she could not trust herself to speak. There would +have been Nannie's eyes to meet, questions to answer; and this meant so +much. Paper and pen were impersonal.</p> + +<blockquote class="letter"><p>"It isn't easy to talk such things out, Nannie. I should never have +written this if I had not realized last night that your feet were +following the path which my own have followed for fifteen years. +And I knew that you were envying me and wanting to be like me; and +I am saying what I shall say in this letter so that I may save you, +Nannie.</p> + +<p>"When I first came into Mr. Knox's office I was young like you, and +I had a lover, young and fine like Dick, and he satisfied me. We +had our plans—of a home and the happiness we should have together. +If I had married him, I should now have sons and daughters growing +up about me, and when Christmas came there would be a tree and +young faces smiling, and my husband, smiling.</p> + +<p>"But Mr. Knox talked to me as he talked to you. He told me, too, to +wait—for Prince Charming. He told me I was too fine to be wasted. +He hinted that the man I was planning to marry was a plain fellow, +not good enough for me. He talked and I listened. He opened vistas. +I saw myself raised to a different sphere by some man like Mr. +Knox—just as well groomed, just as distinguished, just as rich and +wonderful.</p> + +<p>"But such men don't come often into the lives of girls like you and +me, Nannie. I know that now. I did not know it then. But Mr. Knox +should have known it. Yet he held out the hope; and at last he +robbed me of my future, of the little home, my fine, strong +husband. He robbed me of my woman's heritage of a child in my arms.</p> + +<p>"And in return he gave me—nothing. I have found in the years that +I have been with him that he likes to be admired and looked up to +by pretty women. He likes to mold us into something exquisite and +ornamental, he likes to feel that he has molded us. He likes to see +our blushes. All these years that I have been with him, he has +liked to feel that I looked upon him as the ideal toward which all +my girlish dreams tended.</p> + +<p>"He is not in love with me, and I am not in love with him. But he +has always known that if he had been free and had wooed me, I +should have felt that King Cophetua had come to the beggar maid. +Yet, too late, I can see that if he had been free he would never +have wooed me. His ambition would have carried him up and beyond +anything I can ever hope to be, and he would have sought some woman +of his own circle who would have contributed to his material +success.</p> + +<p>"And now he is trying to spoil your life, Nannie—to make you +discontented with your future with Dick. You look at him and see in +your life some day a Prince Charming. But I tell you this, Nannie, +that Prince Charming will never come. And after a time all you will +have to show for the years that you have spent in the office will +be just a pretty room, a few bits of wood and leather and bronze in +exchange for warm, human happiness, clinging hands, a husband like +Dick, who adores you, who comes home at night, eager—for you!</p> + +<p>"You can have all this—and I have lost it. And there isn't much +ahead of me. I shan't always be ornamental, and then Mr. Knox will +let me drop out of his life, as he has let others drop out. And +there'll be loneliness and old age and—nothing else.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Nannie, I want you to marry Dick. I want you to know that all +the rest is dust and ashes. I feel tired and old; and when I think +of your youth, and beauty, I want Dick to have it, not Mr. Knox, +who will flatter and—forget.</p> + +<p>"Tear this letter up, Nannie. It hasn't been easy to write. I don't +want anybody but you to read it."</p></blockquote> + + +<p>But Nannie did not tear it up.</p> + +<p>She tucked it in her bag and went to telephone to Dick.</p> + +<p>And would he meet her on the corner under the street lamp that night +when she came home from the office? She had something to tell him.</p> + +<p>Dick met Nannie, and presently they pursued their rapturous way. A +little later Tommy Jackson passed by. Something caught his eye.</p> + +<p>A bit of white paper.</p> + +<p>He stooped and picked it up. It was Mary's letter to Nannie. Nannie had +cried into her little handkerchief while she talked to Dick, and in +getting the handkerchief out of the bag the letter had come with it and +had dropped unnoticed to the ground.</p> + +<p>It had been years since Tommy had seen any of Mary's writing. A sentence +caught his eye, and he read straight through. After all, there are +things permitted an officer of the law which might be unseemly in the +average citizen.</p> + +<p>And when he had read, Tommy began to say things beneath his breath. And +the chances are that had Kingdon Knox appeared at that moment things +would have fared badly with him.</p> + +<p>But it was Mary Barker who came. She had under her arm in a paper +parcel the fat doll with the blond curls and the blue socks. She did not +see Tommy until she was almost upon him.</p> + +<p>Then she said: "What are you doing here, Tommy?"</p> + +<p>"Why shouldn't I be here?"</p> + +<p>"This isn't your beat."</p> + +<p>"It has been my beat since two weeks ago. I've seen you go by every +night, Mary."</p> + +<p>She stood looking up at him. And he looked down at her; and so, of +course, their gaze met, and something that she saw in Tommy's eyes made +Mary's overflow.</p> + +<p>"Mary, darling," said Tommy tenderly.</p> + +<p>"You said you wouldn't forgive me."</p> + +<p>"That was fifteen years ago."</p> + +<p>"Tommy, I'm sorry."</p> + +<p>Tommy stood very straight as became an officer of the law with, the eyes +of the world upon him.</p> + +<p>"May," he said, "I just read your letter to Nannie. She dropped it. If +I'd known the things in that letter fifteen years ago I'd have stayed on +my job until I got you. But I thought you didn't care."</p> + +<p>"I thought so too," said Mary.</p> + +<p>"But the letter told me that you wanted a husband's loving heart and a +strong arm," said Tommy, "and, please God, you are going to have them, +Mary. And now you run along, girl, dear. I can't be making love when I'm +on duty. But I'll come and kiss you at nine."</p> + +<p>So Mary ran along, and her heart sang. And when she got home she +unwrapped the fat doll and kissed every curl of her, and she set her +under the lovely lamp; and then she got a long box and put something in +it and wrapped it and addressed it to Kingdon Knox.</p> + +<p>And after that she went to the window and stood there, watching until +she saw Tommy coming.</p> + +<p>And the next morning when Kingdon Knox found the long box on his desk, +addressed in Mary's handwriting, he thought it was a Christmas present, +and he opened it, smiling.</p> + +<p>But his smile died as he read the note which lay on top of a string of +jade beads:</p> + +<blockquote class="letter"><p>"I am sending them back, Mr. Knox, with my resignation. I should +never have taken them. But somehow you made me feel that I was a +sort of fairy princess, and that jade beads belonged to me, and +everything beautiful, and that some day life would bring them. But +life isn't that, and you knew it and I didn't. Life is just warm +human happiness, and a home, and work for those we love. And so, +after all, I am going to marry Tommy. And Nannie is going to marry +Dick. In a way it is a happy ending, and in a way it isn't, because +I've grown away from the kind of life I must live with Tommy, and I +am afraid that in some ways I am not fitted for it. But Tommy says +that I am silly to be afraid. And in the future I am going to trust +Tommy."</p></blockquote> + +<p>And so Mary went out of Kingdon Knox's life. And on Christmas Day at the +head of a great table, with servants to the right of him and servants to +the left, he carved a mammoth turkey; and there was silver shining, and +glass sparkling and lovely women smiling, all in honor of the merry +season.</p> + +<p>But Kingdon Knox was not merry as he thought of the jade beads and of +Mary's empty desk.</p> + + + + +<h2><a name="BEGGARS_ON_HORSEBACK" id="BEGGARS_ON_HORSEBACK"></a>BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + + +<p>With the Merryman girls economy was a fine art. Money was spent by them +to preserve the family traditions. Nothing else counted. Everything was +sacrificed to the gods of yesterday.</p> + +<p>Little Anne Merryman had shivered all her short life in the bleakness +of this domestic ideal.</p> + +<p>"Why can't I have butter on my bread?" she had demanded in her +long-legged schoolgirl days, when she had worn her fair hair in a fat +braid down her back.</p> + +<p>The answers had never been satisfying. Well-bred people might, Amy +indicated, go without butter. Their income was not elastic, and there +were things more important.</p> + +<p>"What things? Amy, I'm so hungry I could eat a house."</p> + +<p>It was these expressions of Anne's about food which shocked Amy and +Ethel.</p> + +<p>"I'd sell my soul for a slice of roast beef."</p> + +<p>"Anne!"</p> + +<p>"Well, I would!"</p> + +<p>"I—I don't see how you can be so ordinary, Anne."</p> + +<p>"Ordinary" in the lexicon of Amy and Ethel meant "plebeian." No one in +the Merryman family had ever been so ordinary as Anne. Hitherto the +Merrymans had been content to warm themselves by the fires of their own +complacency, to feed themselves on past splendors; for the Merrymans +were as old as Norman rule in England. They had come to America with +grants from the king, they had family portraits and family silver and +family diamonds, and now in this generation of orphaned girls, two of +them at least were fighting the last battles of family pride. The +fortunes of the Merrymans had declined, and Amy and Ethel, with their +backs, as it were, to the wall, were making a final stand.</p> + +<p>"We must have evening clothes, we must entertain our friends, we must +pay for the family pew"; this was their nervous litany. The Merrymans +had always dressed and entertained and worshiped properly; hence it was +for lace or tulle or velvet, as the case might be, that their money +went. It went, too, for the very elegant and exclusive little dinners to +which, on rare occasions, their friends were bidden; and it went for the +high place in the synagogue from which they prayed their pharisaical +prayers.</p> + +<p>"We thank thee, Lord, that we are not as others," prayed Amy and Ethel +fervently.</p> + +<p>But Anne prayed no such prayers. She wanted to be like other people. She +wanted to eat and drink with the multitude, she wanted a warm, warm +heart, a groaning board. She wanted snugness and coziness and comfort. +And she grew up loving these things, and hating the pale walls of their +old house in Georgetown, the family portraits, the made-over dinner +gowns that her sisters wore, her own made-over party frocks.</p> + +<p>"Can't I have a new one, Amy?"</p> + +<p>"It's Ethel's turn."</p> + +<p>So it was when Anne went to a certain diplomatic reception in a +made-over satin slip, hidden by a cloud of snowy tulle, that Murray +Flint first waked to the fact of her loveliness.</p> + +<p>He had waked ten years earlier to the loveliness of Amy, and five years +later to the beauty of Ethel.</p> + +<p>And now here was Anne!</p> + +<p>"She's different though," he told old Molly Winchell; "more spiritual +than the others."</p> + +<p>It was Anne's thinness which deceived him. It was an attractive +thinness. She was pale, with red lips, and the fat fair braids had given +way to a shining knot. She wore the family pearls, and the effect was, +as Murray had said, spiritual. Anne had the look, indeed, of one who +sees heavenly visions.</p> + +<p>Amy had never had that look. She was dark and vivid. If at thirty the +vividness was emphasized by artificial means the fault lay in Amy's +sacrifice to her social ideals, She needed the butter which she denied +herself. She needed cream, and eggs, and her doctor had told her so. And +Amy had kept the knowledge to herself.</p> + +<p>Ethel, eating as little as Amy—or even less—had escaped, miraculously, +attenuation. At twenty she had been a plump little beauty. She was still +plump. Her neck in her low-cut gown was lovely. Her figure was not +fashionable, and she lacked Amy's look of race.</p> + +<p>"They are all charming," Molly Winchell said. "Why don't you marry one +of them, Murray?"</p> + +<p>"Marriage," said Murray, "would spoil it."</p> + +<p>"Spoil what?"</p> + +<p>Murray turned on her his fine dark eyes. "They are such darlings—the +three of them."</p> + +<p>"You Turk!" Molly surveyed him over the top of her sapphire feather fan. +"So that's it, is it? You want them all."</p> + +<p>Murray thought vaguely it was something like that. For ten years he had +had Amy and Ethel—Amy at twenty, fire and flame, Ethel at fifteen, with +bronze locks and lovely color. In those years Anne had promised little +in the way of beauty or charm. She had read voraciously, curled up in +chairs or on rugs, and had waked now and then to his presence and a hot +argument.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you like Dickens, Murray?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, his people, Anne—clowns."</p> + +<p>"They're not!"</p> + +<p>"Boors; beggars." He made a gesture of distaste.</p> + +<p>"They're darlings—Mark Tapley and Ruth Pinch. Murray, if I had a +beefsteak I'd make a beefsteak pie."</p> + +<p>There was more of pathos in this than Murray imagined. There had been no +beef on the Merryman table for many moons.</p> + +<p>"Murray, did you ever eat tripe?"</p> + +<p>"My dear child—-"</p> + +<p>"It sounds dee-licious when Toby Veck has it on a cold morning. And +there's the cricket on the hearth and the teakettle singing. I'd love to +hear a kettle sing like that, Murray; wouldn't you?"</p> + +<p>But Murray wouldn't. He had the same kind of mind as Amy and Ethel. He +did not like robust and hearty things or robust and hearty people. He +wore a corset to keep his hips small, and stood up at teas and +receptions with an almost military carriage. Of course he had to sit +down at dinners, but he sat very straight. He, too, had family portraits +and family silver, and he lived scrupulously up to them. His fortunes, +unlike the Merrymans', had not declined. He had money enough and to +spare. He could have made Amy or Ethel very comfortable if he had +married either of them. But he had not wanted to marry. There had been a +time when he had liked to think of Amy as presiding over his table. She +would have fitted in perfectly with the old portraits and old silver and +the family diamonds. Then Ethel had come along. She had not fitted in +with the diamonds and portraits and silver, but she had stirred his +pulses.</p> + +<p>"Anywhere else but in Georgetown," old Molly Winchell was saying, "those +girls would have been snapped up long ago. It's a poor matrimonial +market."</p> + +<p>Murray was complacently aware that he was geographically the only +eligible man on the Merryman horizon. Unless Amy and Ethel could marry +with distinction they would not marry at all. It was not lack of +attraction which kept them single, but lack of suitors in their own set.</p> + +<p>And now here was Anne, with Ethel's loveliness and Amy's look of race. +There was also that look of angelic detachment from the things of earth.</p> + +<p>So Murray's eyes rested on Anne with great content as she came and sat +beside Molly Winchell.</p> + +<p>Other eyes rested on her—Amy's with quick jealousy. "So now it's Anne," +she said to herself as she perceived Murray's preoccupation. Five years +ago she had said, "Now it's Ethel," as she had seen him turn to the +fresher beauty. Before that she had dreamed of herself as loving and +beloved. It had been hard to shut her eyes to that vision.</p> + +<p>Yet—better Anne than an outsider. Amy had a fierce sense of +proprietorship in Murray. If she gave him to Ethel, to Anne, he would be +still in a sense hers. With Anne or Ethel she would share his future, +partake of his present.</p> + +<p>A third pair of eyes surveyed Anne with interest as she sat by Molly.</p> + +<p>"Corking kid," said the owner of the eyes to himself.</p> + +<p>His name was Maxwell Sears. He was not in the least like Murray Flint. +He was from the Middle West, he was red-blooded, and he cared nothing +for the past. He held it as a rather negligible honor that he had a +Declaration-signing ancestor. The important things to Maxwell were that +he was representing his district in Congress; that he was still young +enough to carry his college ideals into politics, and that he had just +invested a small portion of the fortune which his father had left him in +a model stock farm in Illinois.</p> + +<p>For the rest, he was big, broad-shouldered, clean-minded. Now and then +he looked up at the stars, and what he saw there swayed him level with +the men about him. Because of the stars he called no man a fool, except +such as deemed himself wiser than the rest. Because he believed in the +people they believed in him. It was that which had elected him. It was +that which would elect him again.</p> + +<p>"Corking kid," said Maxwell Sears, with his smiling eyes on Anne.</p> + + + +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p>In the course of the evening Maxwell managed an introduction. He found +Anne quaint and charming. That she was reading Dickens amused him. He +had thought that no one read Dickens in these days. How did it happen?</p> + +<p>She said that she had discovered him for herself—many years ago.</p> + +<p>How many years?</p> + +<p>Well, to be explicit, ten. She had been eleven when she had found a new +world in the fat little books. They had a lot of old books. She loved +them all. But Dickens more than any. Didn't he?</p> + +<p>He did. "His heart beat with the heart of the common people. It was that +which made him great."</p> + +<p>"Murray hates him."</p> + +<p>"Who is Murray?"</p> + +<p>Anne pondered. "Well, he's a family friend. We girls were brought up on +him."</p> + +<p>"Brought up on him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Anything Murray likes we are expected to like. If he doesn't like +things we don't."</p> + +<p>"Oh."</p> + +<p>"He's over there by Mrs. Winchell."</p> + +<p>Maxwell looked and knew the type. "But you don't agree about Dickens?"</p> + +<p>"No. And Amy says that Murray's wiser than I. But I'm not sure. Amy +thinks that all men are wiser than women."</p> + +<p>Maxwell chuckled. Anne was refreshing. She was far from modern in her +modes of thought. She was—he hunted for the word and found +it—mid-Victorian in her attitude of mind.</p> + +<p>He wondered what Winifred Reed would think of her. Winifred lived in +Chicago. She was athletic and intellectual. She wrote tabloid dramas, +drove her own car, dressed smartly, and took a great interest in +Maxwell's career. She wrote to him once a week, and he always answered +her letters. Now and then she failed to write, and he missed her letters +and told her so. It was altogether a pleasant friendship.</p> + +<p>She hated the idea of Maxwell's farm. She thought it a backward step. +"Are you going to spend the precious years ahead of you in the company +of cows?"</p> + +<p>"There'll be pigs too, Winifred; and chickens. And, of course, my +horses."</p> + +<p>"You belong in a world of men. It's the secret of your success that men +like you."</p> + +<p>"My cows like me—and there's great comfort after the stress of a +stormy session in the reposefulness of a pig."</p> + +<p>"I wish you'd be serious."</p> + +<p>"I am serious. Perhaps it's a throwback, Winifred. There is farmer blood +in my veins."</p> + +<p>It was something deeper than that. It was his virile joy in +fundamentals. He loved his golden-eared Guernseys and his black +Berkshires and his White Wyandottes—not because of their choiceness but +because they were cows and pigs and chickens; and he kept a pair of +pussy cats, half a dozen dogs, and as many horses, because man +primitively had made friends of the dumb brutes upon whom the ease and +safety of his life depended.</p> + +<p>There was, rather strangely, something about Anne which fitted in with +this atavistic idea. She was, more than Winifred, a hearthstone woman. A +man might carry her over his threshold and find her when he came home o' +nights. It was hard to visualize Winifred as waiting or watching or +welcoming. She was always going somewhere with an air of having +important things to do, and coming back with an air of having done them. +Maxwell felt that these important things were not connected in any way +with domestic matters. One did not, indeed, expect domesticity of +Winifred.</p> + +<p>Thus Anne, drawing upon him by mysterious forces, drew him also by her +beauty and a certain wistfulness in her eyes. He had once had a dog, +Amber Witch, whose eyes had held always a wistful question. He had +tried to answer it. She had grown old on his hearth, yet always to the +end of her eyes had asked. He hoped now that in some celestial hunting +ground she had found an answer to that subtle need.</p> + +<p>He told Anne about Amber Witch. "I have one of her puppies on my farm."</p> + +<p>She was much interested. "I've never had a dog; or a cat."</p> + +<p>He had, he said, a big pair of tabbies who slept in the hay and came up +to the dairy when the milk was strained. There were two blue porcelain +dishes for their sacred use. There was, he said, milk and to spare. He +grew eloquent as he told of the number of quarts daily. He bragged of +his butter. His cheeses had won prizes at county fairs. As for +chickens—they had fresh eggs and broilers without end. He had his own +hives, too, white-clover honey. And his housekeeper made hot biscuit. In +a month or two there'd be asparagus and strawberries. Say! Yes, he was +eloquent.</p> + +<p>Anne was hungry. There had been a meagre dinner that evening. The other +girls had not seemed to care. But Anne had cared.</p> + +<p>"I'm starved," she had said as she had surveyed the table. "Let's pawn +the spoons and have one square meal."</p> + +<p>"Anne!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, we're beggars on horseback"—bitterly—"and I hate it."</p> + +<p>It was her moment of rebellion against the tyranny of tradition. Amy had +had such a moment years ago when her mother had taken her away from +school. Amy had a brilliant mind, and she had loved study, but her +mother had brought her to see that there was no money for college. +"You'd better have a year or two in society, Amy. And this craze for +higher education is rather middle-class."</p> + +<p>Ethel's rebellion had come when she had wanted to marry a round-faced +chap who lived across the street. They had played together from +childhood. His people were pleasant folks but lacked social background. +So Ethel's romance had been nipped in the bud. The round-faced chap had +married another girl. And now Amy at thirty and Ethel at twenty-five +were crystallizing into something rather hard and brilliant, as Anne +would perhaps crystallize if something didn't happen.</p> + +<p>The something which happened was Maxwell Sears. Anne listened to the +things he said about his farm and felt that they couldn't be true.</p> + +<p>"It sounds like a fairy tale."</p> + +<p>"It isn't. And it's all tremendously interesting."</p> + +<p>He looked very much alive as he said it, and Anne felt the thrill of his +energy and enthusiasm. Murray was never enthusiastic; neither were Amy +and Ethel. They were all indeed a bit petrified.</p> + +<p>Before he left her Maxwell asked Anne if he could call. He came promptly +two nights later and brought with him a bunch of violets and a box of +chocolates. Anne pinned the violets in the front of the gray frock that +gave her the look of a cloistered nun, and ate up the chocolates.</p> + +<p>Amy was shocked. "Anne, you positively gobbled—"</p> + +<p>"I didn't."</p> + +<p>"Well, you ate a pound at least."</p> + +<p>Anne protested. Maxwell had eaten a lot, and Ethel and Amy had eaten a +few, and Murray had come in.</p> + +<p>"You remember, Amy, Murray came in."</p> + +<p>"He didn't touch one, Anne. He never eats chocolates."</p> + +<p>"He's afraid of getting fat."</p> + +<p>"Anne!"</p> + +<p>"He is. When he takes me out to lunch he thinks of himself, not of me. +The last time we had grapefruit and broiled mushrooms and lettuce; and I +wanted chops."</p> + +<p>Maxwell had been glad to see Anne eat the chocolates. She had seemed as +happy as a child, and he had liked that. There was nothing childish +about Winifred. She had been always grown-up and competent and helpful. +He felt that he owed Winifred a great deal. They were not engaged, but +he rather hoped that some day they might marry. Of course that would +depend upon Winifred. She would probably make him give up the farm and +he would hate that. But a man might give up a farm for a woman like +Winifred and still have more than he deserved.</p> + +<p>It will be seen that Maxwell was modest, especially where women were +concerned. The complacency of Murray Flint, weighing Amy against Ethel +and Ethel against Amy and Anne against both, would have seemed infamous +to Maxwell. He felt that it was only by the grace of God that any woman +gave herself to any man. He had a sense of honor which was founded on +decency rather than on convention. He had also a sense of high romance +which belonged more fittingly to the fifteenth than to the twentieth +century. He was not, however, aware of it. He looked upon himself as a +plain and practical chap who had a few things to work out politically +before he settled down to the serious business of farming. Of course if +he married Winifred he wouldn't settle down to the farm, but he would +settle down to something.</p> + +<p>In the meantime here was Anne, reading Dickens, eating chocolates, and +leaning over the rail of the House Gallery to listen to his speeches.</p> + +<p>It was rather wonderful to have her there. She wore a gray cape with a +chinchilla collar made out of Amy's old muff. A straight sailor hat of +rough straw came well down over her forehead and showed fluffs of +shining hair at the sides. Her little gray-gloved hands clasped the +violets he had given her. Above the violets her eyes were a deeper blue.</p> + +<p>She came always alone. "Amy doesn't know," she had told him frankly; +"she wouldn't let me, come if she did."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"I am supposed to be chaperoned."</p> + +<p>"My dear child, I told you to bring either or both of your sisters."</p> + +<p>"I don't want them. They would spoil it."</p> + +<p>"How?"</p> + +<p>She tried to explain. He and she could see things in the old Capitol +that Amy and Ethel couldn't.</p> + +<p>He laughed, but knew it true. Anne's imagination met his in a rather +remarkable fashion. When they walked through Statuary Hall they saw not +Fulton and Père Marquette and Carroll of Carrollton; they saw, rather, a +thousand ships issuing forth on the steam of a teakettle; they saw +civilization following a black-frocked prophet; they saw aristocracy +raising its voice in the interest of democracy.</p> + +<p>As for the mysterious whispering echo, they repudiated all talk of +acoustics. It was for them an eerie thing, like the laughter of elves or +the shriek of a banshee.</p> + +<p>"Don't say every-day things to me," Anne had instructed Maxwell when he +had first placed her behind a mottled marble pillar before leaving for +the spot where he could speak to her by this unique wireless.</p> + +<p>There came to her, therefore, a part of a famous speech; the murmured +words flung back by that strange sounding board rang like a bell:</p> + +<p>"Give me liberty or give me death!"</p> + +<p>She emerged from her corner, starry-eyed. "It was as if I heard him say +it."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it was he, and I was only a mouthpiece."</p> + +<p>"I should think they'd like to come back. Will you come?"</p> + +<p>He laughed. "Who knows? I'll come if you are here."</p> + +<p>To have brought a third into these adventures would have robbed them of +charm. Knowing this he argued that the child was safe with him. Why +worry?</p> + +<p>They always lunched together before he took her up to the Members' +Gallery, and went himself to the floor of the House. He let her order +what she pleased and liked The definite way in which she did it. They +had usually, chops and peas, or steak, and ice-cream at the end.</p> + + + +<h3>III</h3> + + +<p>Then suddenly; things stopped. The reason that they stopped was Murray. +He saw Anne one day in the House Gallery and asked Amy about it.</p> + +<p>"How did she happen to be up there alone?"</p> + +<p>Amy asked Anne. Anne told the truth.</p> + +<p>"I've had lunch three times with Mr. Sears, and I've listened to his +speeches. It's something about the League of Nations. He believes in it, +but thinks we've got to be careful about tying ourselves up."</p> + +<p>Amy did not care in the least what Maxwell Sears believed. The thing +that worried her was Murray. She wanted him to approve of Anne. If Amy +had thought in a less limited circle she might have worked the thing out +that if Maxwell married Anne it would narrow Murray's choice down to +herself and Ethel. But there was always that vague fear of some outside +siren who would capture Murray. If he had Anne, he would then be safely +in the family.</p> + +<p>She realized, in the days following the revelation of the clandestine +meetings with Maxwell, that Murray was depending upon her to see that +Anne's affections did not stray into forbidden paths. He said as much +one afternoon when he found Amy alone in an atmosphere of old portraits, +old books, old bronzes. She sat in a Jacobean chair and poured tea for +him. The massive lines of the chair made her proportions seem +wraithlike. Her white face with its fixed spots of red was a high light +among the shadows.</p> + +<p>"Where's Anne?"</p> + +<p>"She and Ethel have gone to the matinée with Molly Winchell."</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you go?"</p> + +<p>"Molly never takes but two of us and, of course, this is Anne's first +winter out. I have to step back—and let her have her chance."</p> + +<p>He chose to be gallant. "You are always lovely, Amy."</p> + +<p>His compliment fell cold. Amy felt old and tired. She had a pain in her +side. It had been getting very bad of late, and she coughed at night. +She had been to her doctor, and again he had emphasized the need of a +change of climate and of nourishing food. Amy had come away unconvinced.</p> + +<p>She would have a chance in July when she and her sisters would go to +the Eastern Shore for their annual visit to their Aunt Elizabeth. As for +different food, she ate enough—all the doctors in the world couldn't +make her spend any more money on the table.</p> + +<p>Murray stood up very straight by the mantelpiece, under the portrait of +one of the Merryman great-grandfathers in a bag wig, and talked of Anne:</p> + +<p>"I believe I am falling in love with her, Amy."</p> + +<p>Amy's heart said, "It has come at last." Her brain said, "He has +discovered it because of Maxwell Sears." Her lips said, "I don't wonder. +She's a dear child, Murray."</p> + +<p>"She's beautiful."</p> + +<p>Murray swayed up a little on his toes. It made him seem thinner and +taller. He could see himself reflected in the long mirror on the +opposite wall. He liked the reflection of the thin tall man.</p> + +<p>"She's beautiful, Amy. I am going to ask her to marry me. I can't have +some other fellow running off with her. She belongs to Georgetown."</p> + +<p>He seemed to think that settled it. The pain in Amy's side was sharper. +She felt that she couldn't quite stand seeing Murray happy with Anne. +"She's—she's such a child." Her voice shook.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Murray, glancing at the tall thin man in the mirror, "of +course she is young. But Maxwell Sears is coming here a lot. Is he in +love with her?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure. She amuses him. She isn't in love with him or with +anybody."</p> + +<p>"Not even with me?" Murray laughed a little. "But we can remedy that, +can't we, Amy? But you might hint at what I'm expecting of her. I don't +want to startle her." He came and sat down beside her. "You are always a +great dear about doing things for me."</p> + +<p>The pain stabbed her like a knife. "I'll do my best."</p> + +<p>She had a nervous feeling that she must keep Murray from talking to her +like that. She rang for hot water, and their one maid, Charlotte, +brought it in a Sheffield jug. Then Ethel and Anne and Molly Winchell +arrived, and once more Murray stood up, tall and self-conscious as he +stole side glances at himself in the mirror.</p> + +<p>Maxwell Sears had brought the three women home. He had a fashion of +following up Anne's engagements and putting his car at her disposal. +When Amy had vetoed any more adventures at the Capitol he had conceded +good-naturedly that she was right. After that he had always included Amy +or Ethel in his invitations.</p> + +<p>"They are very pretty dragons," he had written to Winifred, "and little +Anne is like a princess shut in a tower."</p> + +<p>Winifred, reading the letter, had brooded upon it. "He's falling in +love. A child like that—she'll spoil his future."</p> + +<p>Congress was having night sessions. "If I could only have you up there," +Maxwell had said to Anne as he had driven her home from the matinée, +with old Molly and Ethel on the back seat. "I should steal you if I +dared."</p> + +<p>"Please dare."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. To-night. Ethel and Amy are going to a Colonial Dames meeting with +Molly Winchell. I never go. I hate ancestors."</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't let you do it," he hesitated, "but ghosts walk after dark +in the Capitol corridors."</p> + +<p>"I know," she nodded. "Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln."</p> + +<p>"Yes. Then you'll come?"</p> + +<p>"Of course."</p> + +<p>It was the thought of her rendezvous with him that lighted her eyes when +she talked to Murray. But Murray did not know. So he swayed up on his +toes and glanced in the glass and was glad of his thinness and +tallness.</p> + +<p>Maxwell came for Anne promptly. "You must get me back by ten," she told +him. "I have a key, and Charlotte's out."</p> + +<p>It was a night of nights, never to be forgotten. Maxwell did not take +Anne into the Gallery. He had not brought her there to hear speeches or +to be conspicuous in the glare of lights. He led her through shadowy +corridors—up wide dim stairways.</p> + +<p>At one turn he touched her arm. "Look!" he whispered.</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"Lafayette passed us—on the stairs."</p> + +<p>It was a great game! On the east front Columbus spoke to them of ships +that sailed toward the sunset; in the Rotunda they kept a tryst with +William Penn; from the west-front portico they saw a city beautiful—the +streets under the moon were rivers of light—the great monument reached +like the soul of Washington toward the stars!</p> + +<p>Out there in the moonlight Maxwell spoke of another great soul, gone of +late to join a glorious company.</p> + +<p>"It was he who taught me that life is an adventure."</p> + +<p>"Greatheart?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You loved him too?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Anne caught her breath. "To think of him dead—to think of them +all—dead."</p> + +<p>Maxwell looked down at her. "They live somewhere. You believe that, +don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>He was silent for a moment; then he laid his hand lightly on her +shoulder. "I feel to-night as if they pressed close."</p> + +<p>Oh, it was a rare game to meet great souls in odd corners! They could +scarcely tear themselves away. But he got her home before her sisters +arrived, and Anne went to bed soberly, and lay long awake, thinking it +out. She had never before had such a playmate. In all these years she +had starved for other things than food.</p> + + + +<h3>IV</h3> + + +<p>In due time Congress adjourned, but Maxwell did not go home. He +continued to see Anne. Amy was at last driven to her duty by Murray. She +could not forbid Maxwell the house. There was nothing to do but talk to +Anne.</p> + +<p>Having made up her mind she sought Anne's room at once. Anne, in a +cheap cotton kimono, was braiding her hair for the night. The sleeves of +the kimono were short and showed her thin white arms. Amy had on a +blanket wrapper. Her hair was in metal curlers. She looked old and +tired, and now and then she coughed.</p> + +<p>Anne got into bed and drew the covers up to her chin. "I'm so cold, I +believe there are icicles on my eyebrows. Amy, my idea of heaven is a +place where it is as hot as—Hades."</p> + +<p>"I don't see where you get such ideas. Ethel and I don't talk that way. +We don't even think that way, Anne."</p> + +<p>"Maybe when I am as old as you—-" Anne began, and was startled at the +look on Amy's face.</p> + +<p>"I'm not old!" Amy said passionately. "Anne, I haven't lived at all, and +I'm only thirty."</p> + +<p>Anne stared at her. "Oh, my darling, I didn't mean—-"</p> + +<p>"Of course you didn't. And it was silly of me to say such a thing. Anne, +I'm cold. I'm going to sit on the foot of your bed and wrap up while I +talk to you."</p> + +<p>Anne's bed had four pineapple posts and a pink canopy. The governor of a +state had slept in that bed for years. He was one of the Merryman +grandfathers. Amy could have bought mountains of food for the price of +that bed. But she would have starved rather than sell it.</p> + +<p>Anne under the pink canopy was like a rose—a white rose with a faint +flush. The color in Amy's cheeks was fixed and hard. Yet even with her +oldness and tiredness and metal curlers she had the look of race which +attracted Murray.</p> + +<p>"Anne," she said, "Murray and I had a long talk about you the other +day."</p> + +<p>"Murray always talks—long." Anne was yawning.</p> + +<p>"Please be serious, Anne. He wants to marry you."</p> + +<p>"Marry me!" incredulously. "I thought it was you; or Ethel."</p> + +<p>"Well, it isn't," wearily. "And it's a great opportunity—for you, +Anne."</p> + +<p>"Opportunity for what?"</p> + +<p>Amy had a sense of the futility of trying to explain.</p> + +<p>"There aren't many men like him."</p> + +<p>"Fortunately."</p> + +<p>"Anne, how can you? He's really paying you a great compliment."</p> + +<p>"Why didn't he ask me himself?"</p> + +<p>"He didn't want to startle you. You're so young. Murray has extreme +fineness of feeling."</p> + +<p>Anne tilted her chin. "I don't see what he finds in me."</p> + +<p>"You're young"—with a tinge of bitterness—"and he says you are +beautiful."</p> + +<p>Anne threw off the covers and set her bare feet on the floor. +"Beautiful!" she scoffed, but went to the mirror. "I'm thin," she +meditated, "but I've got nice hair."</p> + +<p>"We all have nice hair," said Amy; "but you've got Ethel's complexion +and my figure."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I want to be loved for my complexion." Anne turned +suddenly and faced her sister. "Or my figure. I'd rather be loved for my +mind."</p> + +<p>"Men don't love women for their minds," said Amy wearily. "You'll learn +that when you have lived as long as I have. Get back into bed, Anne. +You'll freeze."</p> + +<p>But Anne, shivering in the cotton kimono, argued the question hotly: "I +should think Murray would want to marry someone with congenial tastes. +He hates everything that I like."</p> + +<p>"He'll make an excellent husband. You ought to be happy to know that +he—cares."</p> + +<p>She began to cough—a racking cough that left her exhausted.</p> + +<p>Anne, bending over her, said, "Why, Amy, are you sick?"</p> + +<p>"I'm—I'm rather wretched, Anne."</p> + +<p>"Are you taking anything for your cough?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You ought to have a doctor."</p> + +<p>"I have had one."</p> + +<p>"What did he say?"</p> + +<p>Amy put her off. "I'll feel better in the morning, Anne. Don't worry." +Again the cough tore her. Anne flew to Ethel.</p> + +<p>"See what you can do for her. There is blood on her handkerchief! I am +going to call a doctor."</p> + +<p>The doctor, arriving, checked the cough. Later he told Anne that Amy +must have a change and strengthening food.</p> + +<p>"At once. She's in a very serious state. I've told her, but she won't +listen."</p> + +<p>In the days that followed Anne arraigned herself hotly. "I've been a +selfish pig—eating up everything—and Amy needed it."</p> + +<p>In this state of mind she fasted—and was famished.</p> + +<p>Maxwell, noting her paleness, demanded, "What's the matter? Aren't you +well?"</p> + +<p>She wanted to cry out, "I'm hungry." But she, too, had her pride.</p> + +<p>"Amy's ill."</p> + +<p>He got it out of her finally. "The doctor is much worried about her. He +says she needs a change."</p> + +<p>"You need it too."</p> + +<p>She needed food, but she couldn't tell him that. The state of their +exchequer was alarming. It had been revealed to her since Amy's illness +that there was really nothing coming in until the next quarter.</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you let Charlotte go, Ethel?"</p> + +<p>"We've always had a maid. What would people think?"</p> + +<p>"And because of what people think, Amy is to starve?"</p> + +<p>"Anne, how can you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it comes to that. She needs things; and we don't need Charlotte."</p> + + +<p>But when they spoke to Amy of sending Charlotte away she was feverishly +excited. "There's nobody to do the work."</p> + +<p>"I can do it," said Anne.</p> + +<p>"We Merrymans have never worked," Amy began to cry. "I'd rather die," +she said, "than have people think we are—poor."</p> + + + +<h3>V</h3> + + +<p>Maxwell was a man of action. When he saw Anne pale he sought a remedy. +"Look here, why can't you and your sisters come out to my farm?"</p> + +<p>Anne, remembering certain things—broilers and fresh eggs—was thrilled +by the invitation. "I'd love it! But Amy won't accept."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"She's terribly stiff."</p> + +<p>He laughed. "Perhaps I can talk her over."</p> + +<p>Amy, lying on her couch, very weary, facing a shadowy future, felt his +magnetism as he talked to her. It was as if life spoke through his lips. +Murray had sat there beside her only an hour before. He had brought her +roses but he had brought no hope.</p> + +<p>Fear had for weeks kept Amy company. Through her nights and days it had +stalked, a pale spectre. And now Maxwell was saying: "You'll be well in +a month. Of course you'll come! There's room for half a dozen. You three +won't half fill the house."</p> + +<p>It was decided, however, that Ethel must stay in town. Amy had a nervous +feeling that with the house closed Murray might slip away from them.</p> + +<p>Old Molly Winchell, summing up the situation, said to Murray: "Of course +Anne will marry Maxwell Sears. There's nothing like propinquity."</p> + +<p>Murray, startled, admitted the danger. "It would be an awful thing for +Anne."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"He's rather a bounder."</p> + +<p>Old Molly Winchell hit him on the arm with her fan. Her eyes twinkled +maliciously. "He's nothing of the sort, and you know it. You're jealous, +Murray."</p> + +<p>Murray's jealousy was, quite uniquely, not founded on any great depth of +love for Anne. His appropriation of the three sisters had been a pretty +and pleasant pastime. When he had finally decided upon Anne as the +pivotal center of his universe he had contemplated a future in which the +other sisters also figured—especially Amy. He had, indeed, not thought +of a world without Amy.</p> + +<p>Her illness had troubled him, but not greatly. Things had always come to +him as he had wanted them, and he was quite sure that if Anne was to be +the flame to light his future, Providence would permit Amy to be, as it +were, the keeper of the light.</p> + +<p>He felt it necessary to warn Anne: "Don't fall in love with Sears."</p> + +<p>"Don't be silly, Murray."</p> + +<p>"Is it silly to say that I love you, Anne?"</p> + +<p>They were alone in the old library, with its books and bronzes and +bag-wigged ancestors. And Murray sat down beside Anne and took her hand +in his and said, "I love you, Anne."</p> + +<p>It was a proposal which was not to be treated lightly. In spite of +herself, Anne was flattered. Murray had always loomed on her horizon as +something of a bore but none the less a person of importance.</p> + +<p>She caught her breath quickly. "Please, Murray"—her blushes were +bewitching—"I'm too young to think about such things. And I'm not in +love with anybody."</p> + +<p>Murray raised her hand to his lips. "Keep yourself for me, little Anne." +He rose and stood looking down at her. "You're a very charming child," +he said. "Do you know it?"</p> + +<p>Anne, gazing at herself in the glass later, wondered if it were true. It +was nice of Murray to say it. But she was not in the least in love with +Murray. He was too old. And Maxwell was too old. Anne's dreams of +romance had to do with glorified youth. She wanted a young Romeo +shouting his passion to the stars!</p> + +<p>She packed her bag, however, in high anticipation. Maxwell was a +splendid playmate, and she thought of his farm as flowing with milk and +honey!</p> + +<p>Maxwell wrote to Winifred that he was coming home and bringing guests.</p> + +<p>"Run down and meet them. Anne's a corking kid."</p> + +<p>Winifred knew what had happened. Some girl had got hold of Maxwell. It +was always the way with men like that—big men; they were credulous +creatures where women were concerned, and it would make such a +difference to Maxwell's future if he married the wrong woman.</p> + +<p>She decided to go down as soon as she could. She felt that she ought to +hurry, but there were things that held her. And so it happened that +before she reached the farm Maxwell had asked Anne to marry him. There +had been a cool evening when the scent of lilacs had washed in great +waves through the open windows. Amy had gone to bed and he and Anne had +dined alone with the flare of candles between them, and the rest of the +room in pleasant shadow. And then their coffee had been served, and Aunt +Mittie, his housekeeper, had asked if there was anything else, and had +withdrawn, and he had risen and had walked round to Anne's place and had +laid his hands on her shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Little Anne," he had said, "I should like to see you here always."</p> + +<p>"Here?"</p> + +<p>"As my wife."</p> + +<p>"Oh!"</p> + +<p>She had had a rapturous week at the farm. She had never known anything +like it. Aunt Elizabeth, of the Eastern Shore, lived in a sleepy town, +and Anne's other brief vacations had been spent in more or less +fashionable resorts. But here was a paradise of plenty; the big wide +house, the spreading barns, the opulent garden, the rolling fields, the +enchanting creatures who were sheltered by the barns and fed by the +fields, and who in return gave payment of yellow cream and warm white +eggs, and who lowed at night and cackled in the morning, and whose days +were measured by the rising and the setting of the sun.</p> + +<p>She loved it all—the purring pussies, the companionable pups, the +steady, faithful older dogs, the lambs in the pasture, the good things +to eat.</p> + +<p>She was glowing with gratitude, and Maxwell was asking insistently, +"Won't you, Anne?"</p> + +<p>She had never been so happy, and he was the source of her happiness. +Against this background of vivid life the thought of Murray was a pale +memory.</p> + +<p>So her wistful eyes met Maxwell's. "It would be lovely—to live +here—always."</p> + +<p>Later, when she had started up-stairs with her candle, he had kissed +her, leaning over the rail to watch her as she went up, and Anne had +gone to sleep tremulous with the thought that her future would lie here +in this great house with this fine and kindly man.</p> + +<p>Winifred, coming down at last, found that she had come too late. Maxwell +told her as they motored up from the station.</p> + +<p>"Wish me happiness, Win. I am going to marry little Anne."</p> + +<p>It did not enter his head for a moment that the woman by his side loved +him. He had thought that if she ever married him it would be a sort of +concession on her part, a sacrifice to her interest in his future. He +had a feeling that she would be glad if such a sacrifice were not +demanded.</p> + +<p>But Winifred was not glad. "You are sure you are making no mistake, +Max?"</p> + +<p>"Wait till you see her."</p> + +<p>Winifred waited and saw. "She's not in the least in love with him. She +likes the warm nest she has fallen into. And she'll spoil his future. +He'll settle down here, and he belongs to the world."</p> + +<p>He belonged at least to his constituency.</p> + +<p>"I've got to make a speech," he told the three women one morning, "in a +town twenty miles away. If you girls would like the ride you can motor +over with me. You needn't listen to my speech if you don't want to."</p> + +<p>Amy and Winifred said that of course they wanted to listen. Anne smiled +happily and said nothing. She was, of course, glad to go, but Maxwell's +speeches were to her the abstract things of life; the concrete things at +this moment were the delicious dinner which was before her and the fact +that in the barn, curled up in the hay, was a new family of +kittens—little tabbies like their adoring mother.</p> + +<p>"Isn't it a lovely world?" she had said to her lover as she had sat in +the loft with the cuddly cats in her lap.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>He knew that it was not all lovely, that somewhere there were lean and +hungry kittens and lean and hungry folks—but why remind her at such a +moment?</p> + + + +<h3>VI</h3> + + +<p>On the way over Anne sat with Winifred. She had insisted that Amy should +have the front seat with Max. Amy was much better. Life had begun to +flow into her veins like wine. She had written to Murray: "It is as if a +miracle had happened."</p> + +<p>Winifred, on the back seat, talked to Anne. She had a great deal to say +about Maxwell's future. "I am sorry he bought the farm."</p> + +<p>"Oh, not really." Anne's attention strayed. She had one of the puppies +in her lap. He kept peeping out from between the folds of her cape with +his bright eyes. "Isn't he a darling, Winifred?"</p> + +<p>"He ought to sell it." Winifred liked dogs, but at this moment she +wanted Anne's attention. "He ought to sell the farm. He has a great +future before him. Everybody says it. He simply must not settle down."</p> + +<p>"Oh, well, he won't," said Anne easily.</p> + +<p>"He will if you let him."</p> + +<p>"If I let him?"</p> + +<p>"If he thinks you like it."</p> + +<p>There was a deep flush on Winifred's cheeks. She was really a very +handsome girl, with bright brown hair and brown eyes. She wore a small +brown hat and a sable collar. The collar was open and showed her strong +white throat.</p> + +<p>"If he thinks you like it," she repeated, "he will stay; and he belongs +to the world; nobody must hold him back. He's the biggest man in his +party to-day. There is no limit to his powers."</p> + +<p>Anne stared at her. "Of course there isn't." She wondered why Winifred +seemed so terribly in earnest about it. She pulled the puppy's ears. +"But I should hate to have him sell the farm."</p> + +<p>Winifred settled back with a sharp sigh and gazed at the long gray road +ahead of her. She gazed indeed into a rather blank future. Her talents +would be, she felt, to some extent wasted. If Max rose to greater +heights of fame it would be because of his own unaided efforts. This +child would be no help to him.</p> + +<p>The speech Max made to his constituents was not cool and clear-cut like +the speeches which Anne had heard him make to his colleagues in the +House. He spoke now with warmth and persuasiveness. Anne, sitting in the +big car on the edge of the crowd, found herself listening intently. She +was aware, as he went on, of a new Max. The mass of men who had gathered +were largely foreigners who knew little of the real meanings of +democracy. Max was telling them what it meant to be a good American. He +told it simply, but he was in dead earnest. Anne felt that this +earnestness was the secret of his power. He wanted men to be good +Americans, he wanted them to know the privileges they might enjoy in a +free country, and he was telling them how to keep it free-not by +violence and mob rule but by remembering their obligations as citizens. +He told them that they must be always on the side of law and order, that +they must fight injustice not with the bomb and the red flag but with +their votes.</p> + +<p>"Vote for the man you trust, and not for the man who inflames your +passions. Your vote is a sacred thing; when you sell it you dishonor +yourself. Respect yourself, and you'll respect the country that has made +a man of you."</p> + +<p>The response was immediate, the applause tumultuous. After his speech +they crowded about him. They knew him for their friend. But they knew +him for more than that. He asked nothing of their manhood but the best. +He preached honesty and practiced it.</p> + +<p>Yet as he climbed into the car Anne had little to say to him. Winifred, +leaning forward, was emphatic in her praise:</p> + +<p>"You have no right to bury yourself, Max."</p> + +<p>"My dear girl, I'm not dead yet." He was a bit impatient. He had hoped +for a word from Anne. But she sat silent, pulling the puppy's ears.</p> + +<p>"He's asleep," she said finally as she caught the inquiry in her lover's +eyes. "He's tired out, poor darling."</p> + +<p>She seemed indifferent, but she was not. She had been much stirred. She +had a strange feeling that something had happened to her while she had +listened to Maxwell's speech. Some string had broken and her romance was +out of tune.</p> + +<p>She lay awake for a long time that night, thinking it over. She grew hot +with the thought of the limitations of her previous conception of her +lover. She had considered him a sort of background for the pleasant +things he could do for her. She had fitted him to the measure of the +boxes of candy that he had brought her, the luncheons in the House +restaurant, the bountiful hospitality of the farm. How lightly she had +looked down on him as he had stood below her on the stairs with her +candle in his hand. How casually she had accepted his kiss. She had a +sudden feeling that she must not let him kiss her again!</p> + +<p>Early in the morning she went into Amy's room. "Amy," she said, "how +soon do you think we can go to Aunt Elizabeth's?"</p> + +<p>"Aunt Elizabeth's? Why, Anne?"</p> + +<p>"I want to leave here."</p> + +<p>"To leave here?" Amy sat up. Even in the bright light of the morning her +face looked young. Good food and fresh air had done much for her. It had +been quite heavenly, too, to let care slip away, to have no thought of +what she should eat or what she should drink or what she should wear. +"To leave here? I thought you loved it, Anne."</p> + +<p>"I've got to get away. I'm not going to marry Maxwell, Amy."</p> + +<p>"Anne! What made you change your mind?"</p> + +<p>"I can't tell you. Please don't ask me. But I wish you would write to +Aunt Elizabeth."</p> + +<p>"I had a letter from her yesterday. She says we can come at any time. +But—have you told Max?"</p> + +<p>"Not yet."</p> + +<p>"Has he done anything?"</p> + +<p>"No. It's just—that I can't marry him. Don't ask me, Amy." She broke +down in a storm of tears.</p> + +<p>Amy, soothing her, wondered if after all Anne cared for Murray Flint. It +was, she felt, the only solution possible. Surely a girl would not throw +away a chance to marry a man like Maxwell Sears for nothing.</p> + +<p>For Amy had learned in the days that she had spent at the farm that +Maxwell Sears was a man to reckon with. She was very grateful for what +he had done for her, and she had been glad of Anne's engagement. Murray +would perhaps be disappointed, but there would still be herself and +Ethel.</p> + +<p>It was not easy to explain things to Maxwell.</p> + +<p>"Why are you going now?" he demanded, and was impatient when they told +him that Aunt Elizabeth expected them. "I don't understand it at all. It +upsets all of my plans for you, Anne."</p> + +<p>That night when he brought Anne's candle she was not on the stairs. +Winifred and Amy had gone up.</p> + +<p>"Anne! Anne!" he called softly.</p> + +<p>She came to the top rail and leaned over. "I'm going to bed in the dark. +There's a wonderful moon."</p> + +<p>"Come down—for a minute."</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Then I'll come up," masterfully.</p> + +<p>He mounted the stairs two at a time; but when he reached the landing the +door was shut!</p> + +<p>In the morning he asked her about it. "Why, dearest?"</p> + +<p>"Max dear, I can't marry you."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" His voice was sharp. He laid his hands heavily on her +shoulders. "Why not? Look at me, Anne. Why not?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not going to marry—anybody."</p> + +<p>That was all he could get out of her. He pleaded, raged, and grew at +last white and still with anger. "You might at least tell me your +reasons."</p> + +<p>She said that she would write. Perhaps she could say it better on paper. +And she was very, very sorry, but she couldn't.</p> + +<p>Winifred knew that something was up, but made no comment. Amy, carrying +out their program of departure, had a sense of regret.</p> + +<p>After all, it had been a lovely life, and there were worse things than +being a sister to Maxwell Sears. Her voice broke a little as she tried +to thank him on their last morning.</p> + +<p>He wrung her hand. "Say a good word for me with Anne. I don't know +what's the matter with her."</p> + +<p>Neither did Amy. And if she was Maxwell's advocate how could she be +Murray's? She flushed a little.</p> + +<p>"Anne's such a child."</p> + +<p>He remembered how he had called her a corking kid. She was more than +that to him now. She stood in the doorway in her gray sailor hat and +gray cape.</p> + +<p>"Anne," he said, "you must have a last bunch of pansies from the +garden. Come out and help me pick them."</p> + +<p>In the garden he asked, "Are you going to kiss me good-bye?"</p> + +<p>"No, Max. Please—"</p> + +<p>"Then it's 'God bless you, dearest.'"</p> + +<p>He forgot the pansies and they went back to where the car waited.</p> + + + +<h3>VII</h3> + + +<p>Anne's letter, written from the Eastern Shore, was a long and childish +screed. "We have always been beggars on horseback," she said. "Of course +you couldn't know that, Max. We have gone without bread so that we could +be grand and elegant. We have gone without fire so that we could buy our +satin gowns for fashionable functions. We went without butter for a year +so that Amy could entertain the Strangeways, whom she had met years ago +in Europe. I wouldn't dare tell you what that dinner cost us, but we had +a cabinet member or two, and the British Ambassador.</p> + +<p>"You wondered why I liked Dickens. Well, I read him so that I could get +a good meal by proxy. I used to gloat over the feasts at Wardle's, and +Mr. Stiggins' hot toast. And when I met you you gave me—everything. +Murray Flint thinks that because I am thin and pale I am all spirit, +and I'm afraid you have the same idea. You didn't dream, did you, that I +was pale because I hadn't had enough to eat? And when you told me that +you wanted me to be your wife I looked ahead and saw the good food and +the roaring fires, and I didn't think of anything else. I honestly +didn't think of you for a moment, Max.</p> + +<p>"There were days, though, when you meant more to me than just that. When +we played at the Capitol—that night when we met Lafayette on the +stairs! Nobody had ever played with me. But after we went to the farm I +was smothered in ease. And I loved it. And I didn't love you. You were +just—the man who gave me things. Do you see what I mean? And when you +kissed me on the stairs it was as if I were being kissed by a nice old +Santa Claus.</p> + +<p>"Everybody saw it but you. I am sure Amy knew—and Winifred Reed. +You—you ought to marry Winifred, Max. Perhaps you will. You won't want +me after you read this letter. And Winifred is splendid.</p> + +<p>"It was your speech to the men that waked me. I saw how big you were, +and I just—shriveled up.</p> + +<p>"And you mustn't worry about me. I am not hungry any more. I feel as if +I should never want anything to eat. Perhaps it is because I am older +and haven't a growing appetite. And I am not any of the things you +thought me. And of course you would be disappointed, and it wouldn't be +fair."</p> + +<p>Having posted this, Anne had other things to do. She wrote mysterious +letters, and finally came into a room where her sisters and Aunt +Elizabeth were sewing, with an important-looking paper in her hand.</p> + +<p>"I am going to work, Amy."</p> + +<p>"To work!"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Amy and Ethel and Aunt Elizabeth wore white frocks, and looked very cool +and feminine and high-bred. Aunt Elizabeth had a nose like Amy's and the +same look of race.</p> + +<p>It was Aunt Elizabeth who said in her commanding voice: "What are you +talking about, Anne?"</p> + +<p>"I am going to work in the War Risk Bureau, Aunt Elizabeth. I wrote to +two senators, and they helped me."</p> + +<p>No woman of the Merryman family had ever worked in an office.</p> + +<p>Anne faced a storm of disapproval, but she stood there slim and defiant, +and stated her reasons.</p> + +<p>"We need money. I don't see how we can get through a winter like the +last. I can't keep my self-respect if we go on living as we did last +winter."</p> + +<p>"Haven't you any pride, Anne?"</p> + +<p>"I have self-respect."</p> + +<p>She left the room a conqueror. After she had gone the three women talked +about her. They did not say it openly, but they felt that there was +really an ordinary streak in Anne. Otherwise she would not have wanted +to work in an office.</p> + +<p>There was, however, nothing to be done. Anne was twenty-one. She was to +get a hundred dollars a month. In spite of herself, Amy felt a throb of +the heart as she thought of what that hundred dollars would mean to +them.</p> + +<p>Murray Flint was much perturbed when he heard of Anne's decision. He +wrote to her that of course she knew that there was no reason why she +should go into an office—his home and hearthstone were hers. She wrote +back that she should never marry! After that, Murray felt, with Amy and +Ethel and Aunt Elizabeth, that there was an ordinary streak in Anne!</p> + +<p>When he arrived in August at Aunt Elizabeth's he was astonished at the +change in Amy. She looked really very young as she came to meet him, and +Aunt Elizabeth's house was a perfect setting for her charms. Murray was +very fond of Aunt Elizabeth's house. It was an ancient, stately edifice, +and within there were the gold-framed portraits of men and women with +noses like Amy's and Aunt Elizabeth's.</p> + +<p>Murray had missed Amy very much and he told her so.</p> + +<p>"It was a point of honor for me to ask Anne again. But when I thought I +was going to lose you I learned that my life would be empty without +you."</p> + +<p>He really believed what he was telling her. If Amy did not believe it +she made no sign. She was getting much more than she expected, and she +accepted him graciously and elegantly, as became a daughter of the +Merrymans.</p> + +<p>It was when he told Anne of his engagement to Amy that Murray again +offered her a home. "There will always be a place for Amy's sisters, +Anne."</p> + +<p>"You are very good, Murray—but I can't."</p> + +<p>She had said the same thing to Maxwell, who had come hot-footed to tell +her that her letter had made no difference in his feeling for her.</p> + +<p>"How could you think it, Anne? My darling, you are making a mountain of +a molehill!"</p> + +<p>She had been tremulous but firm. "I've got to have my—self-respect, +Max."</p> + +<p>Because he understood men he understood her. And when he had left her he +had said to himself with long-drawn breath, "She's a corking kid."</p> + +<p>And this time there had been no laughter in his eyes.</p> + +<p>All that winter Anne worked, a little striving creature, with her head +held high!</p> + +<p>Maxwell was in town, for Congress had convened. But he had not come to +see her. Now and then when there was a night session she went up to the +House and sat far back in the Gallery, where, unperceived, she could +listen to her lover's voice. Then she would steal away, a little ghost, +down the shadowy stairway; but there were no games now with Lafayette!</p> + +<p>Amy and Murray were to be married in June. They had enjoyed a dignified +and leisurely engagement, and Amy had bloomed in the sunshine of +Murray's approbation. Anne's salary had helped a great deal in getting +the trousseau together. Most of the salary, indeed, had been spent for +that. The table was, as usual, meagre, but Anne had not seemed to care.</p> + +<p>She was therefore rather white and thin when, on the day that Congress +adjourned, Maxwell came out to Georgetown to see her. It had been a long +session, and it was spring.</p> + +<p>There were white lilacs in a great blue jar in the Merryman library, and +through the long window a glimpse of a thin little moon in a faint green +sky.</p> + +<p>As he looked at Anne, Maxwell felt a lump in his throat. She had given +him her hand and had smiled at him. "How are the kittens?" she had asked +in an effort to be gay.</p> + +<p>He did not answer her question. He went, rather, directly to the point. +"Anne, why wouldn't you kiss me on that last night?"</p> + +<p>She flushed to the roots of her hair. "It—it was because I loved you, +Max."</p> + +<p>"I thought so. But you had to prove it to yourself?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Anne, that's why I've let you alone all winter—so that you might prove +it. But—I can't go on. It has been an awful winter for me, Anne."</p> + +<p>It had been an awful winter for her. But she had come out of it knowing +herself. And even when at last his arms were about her and he was +telling her that he would never let her go, she had a plea to make:</p> + +<p>"Don't let me live too softly, Max. Life isn't a feather bed—You belong +to the world. I must go with you toward the big things. But now and then +we'll run back to the farm."</p> + +<p>"What do I care where we run, so that we run—together!"</p> + + + + +<hr class="nocss" /> +<h2 style="border-top:double 4pt; margin-bottom:0;"><a name="THE_NOVELS_OF_TEMPLE_BAILEY" id="THE_NOVELS_OF_TEMPLE_BAILEY"></a>THE NOVELS OF TEMPLE BAILEY</h2> + + +<p class="center" style="font-weight:bold; border-top:double; border-bottom:double; margin-top:0;">May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</p> + +<p>"Although my ancestry is all of New England, I was born in the old town +of Petersburg, Virginia. I went later to Richmond and finally at the age +of five to Washington, D.C., returning to Richmond for a few years in a +girl's school, which was picturesquely quartered in General Lee's +mansion.</p> + + +<h3 class="endpage">PEACOCK FEATHERS</h3> + +<p class="endpage">The eternal conflict between wealth and love. Jerry, the idealist who is +poor, loves Mimi, a beautiful, spoiled society girl.</p> + + +<h3 class="endpage">THE DIM LANTERN</h3> + +<p class="endpage">The romance of little Jane Barnes who is loved by two men.</p> + + +<h3 class="endpage">THE GAY COCKADE</h3> + +<p class="endpage">Unusual short stories where Miss Bailey shows her keen knowledge of +character and environment, and how romance comes to different people.</p> + + +<h3 class="endpage">THE TRUMPETER SWAN</h3> + +<p class="endpage">Randy Paine comes back from France to the monotony of every-day +affairs. But the girl he loves shows him the beauty in the commonplace.</p> + + +<h3 class="endpage">THE TIN SOLDIER</h3> + +<p class="endpage">A man who wishes to serve his country, but is bound by a tie he cannot +in honor break—that's Derry. A girl who loves him, shares his +humiliation and helps him to win—that's Jean. Their love is the story.</p> + + +<h3 class="endpage">MISTRESS ANNE</h3> + +<p class="endpage">A girl in Maryland teaches school, and believes that work is worthy +service. Two men come to the little community: one is weak, the other +strong, and both need Anne.</p> + + +<h3 class="endpage">CONTRARY MARY</h3> + +<p class="endpage">An old-fashioned love story that is nevertheless modern.</p> + + +<h3 class="endpage">GLORY OF YOUTH</h3> + +<p class="endpage">A novel that deals with a question, old and yet ever new—how far should +an engagement of marriage bind two persons who discover they no longer +love.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="font-variant:small-caps; border-top:double; border-bottom:double 4pt;">Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York</p> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gay Cockade, by Temple Bailey + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAY COCKADE *** + +***** This file should be named 16433-h.htm or 16433-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/4/3/16433/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Laura Wisewell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + +*** END: FULL LICENSE *** + + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/16433-h/images/decoration.png b/16433-h/images/decoration.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ce4a7f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/16433-h/images/decoration.png diff --git a/16433-h/images/frontis01_full.jpg b/16433-h/images/frontis01_full.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b4d6026 --- /dev/null +++ b/16433-h/images/frontis01_full.jpg diff --git a/16433-h/images/frontis01_thumb.jpg b/16433-h/images/frontis01_thumb.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e3d9662 --- /dev/null +++ b/16433-h/images/frontis01_thumb.jpg diff --git a/16433-h/images/logo.png b/16433-h/images/logo.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..aecb752 --- /dev/null +++ b/16433-h/images/logo.png diff --git a/16433.txt b/16433.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..45625e2 --- /dev/null +++ b/16433.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11365 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gay Cockade, by Temple Bailey + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Gay Cockade + +Author: Temple Bailey + +Illustrator: C. E. Chambers + +Release Date: August 4, 2005 [EBook #16433] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAY COCKADE *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Laura Wisewell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + +[Illustration: AND HERE, DAY AFTER DAY, HE SAT ALONE] + + + + + THE + GAY COCKADE + + + BY + TEMPLE BAILEY + + AUTHOR OF + THE TRUMPETER SWAN, + THE TIN SOLDIER, Etc. + + + FRONTISPIECE BY + C.E. CHAMBERS + + [Illustration] + + + GROSSET & DUNLAP + PUBLISHERS NEW YORK + Made in the United States of America + + + + COPYRIGHT + 1921 BY + THE PENN + PUBLISHING + COMPANY + + [Illustration] + + Manufacturing + Plant + Camden, N.J. + +Made in U.S.A. + + + The Gay Cockade + + + +For permission to reprint some of the stories in this volume, the author +is indebted to the courtesy of the editors of _Harper's Magazine_, +_Scribner's Magazine_, _Collier's Magazine_, _Ladies' Home Journal_, +_Saturday Evening Post_, _Good Housekeeping_, and _Harper's Bazar_. + + + + +Contents + +THE GAY COCKADE 7 + +THE HIDDEN LAND 33 + +WHITE BIRCHES 84 + +THE EMPEROR'S GHOST 118 + +THE RED CANDLE 132 + +RETURNED GOODS 149 + +BURNED TOAST 165 + +PETRONELLA 187 + +THE CANOPY BED 205 + +SANDWICH JANE 223 + +LADY CRUSOE 272 + +A REBELLIOUS GRANDMOTHER 310 + +WAIT--FOR PRINCE CHARMING 327 + +BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 351 + + + + + THE GAY COCKADE + + + + +THE GAY COCKADE + + +From the moment that Jimmie Harding came into the office, he created an +atmosphere. We were a tired lot. Most of us had been in the government +service for years, and had been ground fine in the mills of departmental +monotony. + +But Jimmie was young, and he wore his youth like a gay cockade. He +flaunted it in our faces, and because we were so tired of our dull and +desiccated selves, we borrowed of him, remorselessly, color and +brightness until, gradually, in the light of his reflected glory, we +seemed a little younger, a little less tired, a little less petrified. + +In his gay and gallant youth there was, however, a quality which partook +of earlier times. He should, we felt, have worn a feather in his +cap--and a cloak instead of his Norfolk coat. He walked with a little +swagger, and stood with his hand on his hip, as if his palm pressed the +hilt of his sword. If he ever fell in love, we told one another, he +would, without a doubt, sing serenades and apostrophize the moon. + +He did fall in love before he had been with us a year. His love-affair +was a romance for the whole office. He came among us every morning +glorified; he left us in the afternoon as a knight enters upon a quest. + +He told us about the girl. We pictured her perfectly before we saw her, +as a little thing, with a mop of curled brown hair; an oval face, +pearl-tinted; wide, blue eyes. He dwelt on all her small +perfections--the brows that swept across her forehead in a thin black +line, the transparency of her slender hands, the straight set of her +head on her shoulders, the slight halt in her speech like that of an +enchanting child. + +Yet she was not in the least a child. "She holds me up to my best, Miss +Standish," Jimmie told me; "she says I can write." + +We knew that Jimmie had written a few things, gay little poems that he +showed us now and then in the magazines. But we had not taken them at +all seriously. Indeed, Jimmie had not taken them seriously himself. + +But now he took them seriously. "Elise says that I can do great things. +That I must get out of the Department." + +To the rest of us, getting out of the government service would have +seemed a mad adventure. None of us would have had the courage to +consider it. But it seemed a natural thing that Jimmie should fare forth +on the broad highway--a modern D'Artagnan, a youthful Quixote, an Alan +Breck--! + +We hated to have him leave. But he had consolation. "Of course you'll +come and see us. We're going back to my old house in Albemarle. It's a +rotten shack, but Elise says it will be a corking place for me to write. +And you'll all come down for week-ends." + +We felt, I am sure, that it was good of him to ask us, but none of us +expected that we should ever go. We had a premonition that Elise +wouldn't want the deadwood of Jimmie's former Division. I know that for +myself, I was content to think of Jimmie happy in his old house. But I +never really expected to see it. I had reached the point of expecting +nothing except the day's work, my dinner at the end, a night's sleep, +and the same thing over again in the morning. + +Yet Jimmie got all of us down, not long after he was married, to what he +called a housewarming. He had inherited a few pleasant acres in +Virginia, and the house was two hundred years old. He had never lived in +it until he came with Elise. It was in rather shocking condition, but +Elise had managed to make it habitable by getting it scrubbed very +clean, and by taking out everything that was not in keeping with the +oldness and quaintness. The resulting effect was bare but beautiful. +There were a great many books, a few oil-portraits, mahogany sideboards +and tables and four-poster beds, candles in sconces and in branched +candlesticks. They were married in April, and when we went down in June +poppies were blowing in the wide grass spaces, and honeysuckle rioting +over the low stone walls. I think we all felt as if we had passed +through purgatory and had entered heaven. I know I did, because this was +the kind of thing of which I had dreamed, and there had been a time when +I, too, had wanted to write. + +The room in which Jimmie wrote was in a little detached house, which had +once been the office of his doctor grandfather. He had his typewriter +out there, and a big desk, and from the window in front of his desk he +could look out on green slopes and the distant blue of mountain ridges. + +We envied him and told him so. + +"Well, I don't know," Jimmie said. "Of course I'll get a lot of work +done. But I'll miss your darling old heads bending over the other +desks." + +"You couldn't work, Jimmie," Elise reminded him, "with other people in +the room." + +"Perhaps not. Did I tell you old dears that I am going to write a play?" + +That was, it seems, what Elise had had in mind for him from the +beginning--a great play! + +"She wouldn't even, have a honeymoon"--Jimmie's arm was around her; "she +brought me here, and got this room ready the first thing." + +"Well, he mustn't be wasting time," said Elise, "must he? Jimmie's +rather wonderful, isn't he?" + +They seemed a pair of babies as they stood there together. Elise had on +a childish one-piece pink frock, with sleeves above the elbow, and an +organdie sash. Yet, intuitively, the truth came to me--she was ages +older than Jimmie in spite of her twenty years to his twenty-four. Here +was no Juliet, flaming to the moon--no mistress whose steed would gallop +by wind-swept roads to midnight trysts. Here was, rather, the cool blood +that had sacrificed a honeymoon--_and, oh, to honeymoon with Jimmie +Harding_!--for the sake of an ambitious future. + +She was telling us about it "We can always have a honeymoon, Jimmie and +I. Some day, when he is famous, we'll have it. But now we must not." + +"I picked out the place"--Jimmie was eager--"a dip in the hills, and big +pines--And then Elise wouldn't." + +We went in to lunch after that. The table was lovely and the food +delicious. There was batter-bread, I remember, and an omelette, and peas +from the garden. + +Duncan Street and I talked all the way home of Jimmie and his wife. He +didn't agree with me in the least about Elise. "She'll be the making of +him. Such wives always are." + +But I held that he would lose something,--that he would not be the same +Jimmie. + + * * * * * + +Jimmie wrote plays and plays. In between he wrote pot-boiling books. The +pot-boilers were needed, because none of his plays were accepted. He +used to stop in our office and joke about it. + +"If it wasn't for Elise's faith in me, Miss Standish, I should think +myself a poor stick. Of course, I can make money enough with my books +and short stuff to keep things going, but it isn't just money that +either of us is after." + +Except when Jimmie came into the office we saw very little of him. Elise +gathered about her the men and women who would count in Jimmie's future. +The week-ends in the still old house drew not a few famous folk who +loathed the commonplaceness of convivial atmospheres. Elise had +old-fashioned flowers in her garden, delectable food, a library of old +books. It was a heavenly change for those who were tired of cocktail +parties, bridge-madness, illicit love-making. I could never be quite +sure whether Elise really loved dignified living for its own sake, or +whether she was sufficiently discriminating to recognize the kind of +bait which would lure the fine souls whose presence gave to her +hospitality the stamp of exclusiveness. + +They had a small car, and it was when Jimmie motored up to Washington +that we saw him. He had a fashion of taking us out to lunch, two at a +time. When he asked me, he usually asked Duncan Street. Duncan and I +have worked side by side for twenty-five years. There is nothing in the +least romantic about our friendship, but I should miss him if he were to +die or to resign from office. I have little fear of the latter +contingency. Only death, I feel, will part us. + +In our moments of reunion Jimmie always talked a great deal about +himself. The big play was, he said, in the back of his mind. "Elise says +that I can do it," he told us one day over our oysters, "and I am +beginning to think that I can. I say, why can't you old dears in the +office come down for Christmas, and I'll read you what I've written." + +We were glad to go. There were to be no other guests, and I found out +afterward that Elise rarely invited any of their fashionable friends +down in winter. The place showed off better in summer with the garden, +and the vines hiding all deficiencies. + +We arrived in a snow-storm on Christmas Eve, and when we entered the +house there was a roaring fire on the hearth. I hadn't seen a fire like +that for thirty years. You may know how I felt when I knelt down in +front of it and warmed my hands. + +The candles in sconces furnished the only other illumination. Elise, +moving about the shadowy room, seemed to draw light to herself. She wore +a flame-colored velvet frock and her curly hair was tucked into a golden +net. I think that she had planned the medieval effect deliberately, and +it was a great success. As she flitted about like a brilliant bird, our +eyes followed her. My eyes, indeed, drank of her, like new wine. I have +always loved color, and my life has been drab. + +I spoke of her frock when she showed me my room. + +"Oh, do you like it?" she asked. "Jimmie hates to see me in dark things. +He says that when I wear this he can see his heroine." + +"Is she like you?" + +"Not a bit. She is rather untamed. Jimmie does her very well. She +positively gallops through the play." + +"And do you never gallop?" + +She shook her head. "It's a good thing that I don't. If I did, Jimmie +would never write. He says that I keep his nose to the grindstone. It +isn't that, but I love him too much to let him squander his talent. If +he had no talent, I should love him without it. But, having it, I must +hold him up to it." + +She was very sure of herself, very sure of the rightness of her attitude +toward Jimmie. "I know how great he is," she said, as we went down, "and +other people don't. So I've got to prove it." + + * * * * * + +It was at dinner that I first noticed a change in Jimmie. It was a +change which was hard to define. Yet I missed something in him--the +enthusiasm, the buoyancy, the almost breathless radiance with which he +had rekindled our dying fires. Yet he looked young enough and happy +enough as he sat at the table in his velvet studio coat, with his crisp, +burnt-gold hair catching the light of the candles. He and his wife were +a handsome pair. His manner to her was perfect. There could be no +question of his adoration. + +After dinner we had the tree. It was a young pine set up at one end of +the long dining-room, and lighted in the old fashion by red wax candles. +There were presents on it for all of us. Jimmie gave me an adorably +illustrated _Mother Goose_. + +"You are the only other child here, Miss Standish," he said, as he +handed it to me. "I saw this in a book-shop, and couldn't resist it." + +We looked over the pictures together. They were enchanting. All the +bells of old London rang out for a wistful Whittington in a ragged +jacket; Bo-Peep in panniers and pink ribbons wailed for her historic +sheep; Mother Hubbard, quaint in a mammoth cap, pursued her fruitless +search for bones. There was, too, an entrancing Boy Blue who wound his +horn, a sturdy darling with his legs planted far apart and distended +rosy cheeks. + +"That picture is worth the price of the whole book," said Jimmie, and +hung over it. Then suddenly he straightened up. "There should be +children in this old house." + +I knew then what I had missed from the tree. Elise had a great many +gifts--exquisite trifles sent to her by sophisticated friends--a +wine-jug of seventeenth-century Venetian glass, a bag of Chinese brocade +with handles of carved ivory, a pair of ancient silver buckles, a box of +rare lacquer filled with Oriental sweets, a jade pendant, a crystal ball +on a bronze base--all of them lovely, all to be exclaimed over; but the +things I wanted were drums and horns and candy canes, and tarletan bags, +and pop-corn chains, and things that had to be wound up, and things that +whistled, and things that squawked, and things that sparkled. And Jimmie +wanted these things, but Elise didn't. She was perfectly content with +her elegant trifles. + +It was late when we went out finally to the studio. There was snow +everywhere, but it was a clear night with a moon above the pines. A +great log burned in the fireplace, a shaded lamp threw a circle of gold +on shining mahogany. It seemed to me that Jimmie's writing quarters were +even more attractive in December than in June. + +Yet, looking back, I can see that to Jimmie the little house was a sort +of prison. He loved men and women, contact with his own kind. He had +even liked our dingy old office and our dreary, dried-up selves. And +here, day after day, he sat alone--as an artist must sit if he is to +achieve--_es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille_. + +We sat around the fire in deep leather chairs, all except Elise, who had +a cushion on the floor at Jimmie's feet. + +He read with complete absorption, and when he finished he looked at me. +"What do you think of it?" + +I had to tell the truth. "It isn't your masterpiece." + +He ran his fingers through his hair with a nervous gesture. "I told +Elise that it wasn't." + +"But the girl"--Elise's gaze held hot resentment--"is wonderful. Surely +you can see that." + +"She doesn't seem quite real." + +"Then Jimmie shall make her real." Elise laid her hand lightly on her +husband's shoulder. Her gown and golden net were all flame and sparkle, +but her voice was cold. "He shall make her real." + +"No"--it seemed to me that as he spoke Jimmie drew away from her +hand--"I am not going to rewrite it, Elise. I'm tired of it." + +"Jimmie!" + +"I'm tired of it--" + +"Finish it, and then you'll be free--" + +"Shall I ever be free?" He stood up and turned his head from side to +side, as if he sought some way of escape. "Shall I ever be free? I +sometimes think that you and I will stick to this old house until we +grow as dry as dust. I want to live, Elise! I want to live--!" + + * * * * * + +But Elise was not ready to let Jimmie live. To her, Jimmie the artist was +more than Jimmie the lover. I may have been unjust, but she seemed to me +a sort of mental vampire, who was sucking Jimmie's youth. Duncan Street +snorted when I told him what I thought. Elise was a pretty woman, and a +pretty woman in the eyes of men can do no wrong. + +"You'll see," I said, "what she'll do to him." + +The situation was to me astounding. Here was Life holding out its hands +to Elise, glory of youth demanding glorious response, and she, +incredibly, holding back. In spite of my gray hair and stiff figure, I +am of the galloping kind, and my soul followed Jimmie Harding's in its +quest for freedom. + +But there was one thing that Elise could not do. She could not make +Jimmie rewrite his play. "I'll come to it some day," he said, "but not +yet. In the meantime I'll see what I can do with books." + +He did a great deal with books, so that he wrote several best-sellers. +This eased the financial situation and they might have had more time for +things. But Elise still kept him at it. She wanted to be the wife of a +great man. + +Yet as the years went on, Duncan and I began to wonder if her hopes +would be realized. Jimmie wrote and wrote. He was successful in a +commercial sense, but fame did not come to him. There was gray in his +burnt-gold hair; his shoulders acquired a scholarly droop, and he wore +glasses on a black ribbon. It was when he put on glasses that I began to +feel a thousand years old. Yet always when he was away from me I thought +of him as the Jimmie whose youth had shone with blinding radiance. + +His constancy to Duncan and to me began to take on a rather pathetic +quality. The others in the office drifted gradually out of his life. +Some of them died, some of them resigned, some of them worked on, plump +or wizened parodies of their former selves. I was stouter than ever, and +stiffer, and the top of Duncan's head was a shining cone. And the one +interesting thing in our otherwise dreary days was Jimmie. + +"You're such darling old dears," was his pleasant way of putting it. + +But Duncan dug up the truth for me. "We knew him before he wrote. He +gets back to that when he is with us." + +I had grown to hate Elise. It was not a pleasant emotion, and I am not +sure that she really deserved it. But Duncan hated her, too. "You're +right," he said one day when we had lunched with Jimmie; "she's sucked +him dry." Jimmie had been unusually silent. He had laughed little. He +had tapped the table with his finger, and had kept his eyes on his +finger. He had been absent-minded. "She has sucked him dry," said +Duncan, with great heat. + +But she hadn't. That was the surprising thing. Just as we were all +giving up hope of Jimmie's proving himself something more than a hack, +he did the great thing and the wonderful thing that years ago Elise had +prophesied. His play, "The Gay Cockade," was accepted by a New York +manager, and after the first night the world went wild about it. + +I had helped Jimmie with the name. I had spoken once of youth as a gay +cockade. "That's a corking title," Jimmie had said, and had written it +in his note-book. + +When his play was put in rehearsal, Duncan and I were there to see. We +took our month's leave, traveled to New York, and stayed at an +old-fashioned boarding-house in Washington Square. Every day we went to +the theatre. Elise was always there, looking younger than ever in the +sables bought with Jimmie's advance royalty, and with various gowns and +hats which were the by-products of his best-sellers. + +The part of the heroine of "The Gay Cockade" was taken by Ursula Simms. +She was, as those of you who have seen her know, a Rosalind come to +life. With an almost boyish frankness she combined feminine witchery. +She had glowing red hair, a voice that was gay and fresh, a temper that +was hot. She galloped through the play as Jimmie had meant that she +should gallop in that first poor draft which he had read to us in +Albemarle, and it was when I saw Ursula in rehearsal that I realized +what Jimmie had done--he had embodied in his heroine all the youth that +he had lost--she stood for everything that Elise had stolen from +him--for the wildness, the impetuosity, the passion which swept away +prudence and went neck to nothing to fulfilment. + +Indeed, the whole play partook of the madness of youth. It bubbled over. +Everybody galloped to a rollicking measure. We laughed until we cried. +But there was more than laughter in it. There was the melancholy which +belongs to tender years set in exquisite contrast to the prevailing +mirth. + +Jimmie had a great deal to do with the rehearsals. Several times he +challenged Ursula's reading of the part. + +"You must not give your kisses with such ease," he told her upon one +occasion; "the girl in the play has never been kissed." + +She shrugged her shoulders and ignored him. Again he remonstrated. +"She's frank and free," he said. "Make her that. Make her that. Men must +fight for her favors." + +She came to it at last, helped by that Rosalind-like quality in herself. +She was young, as he had wanted Elise to be, clean-hearted, +joyous--girlhood at its best. + +Gradually Jimmie ceased to suggest. He would sit beside us in the +dimness of the empty auditorium, and watch her as if he drank her in. +Now and then he would laugh a little, and say, under his breath: "How +did I ever write it? How did it ever happen?" + +Elise, on the other side of him, said, at last, "I knew you could do it, +Jimmie." + +"You thought I could do great things. You never knew I could do--this--" + +It was toward the end of the month that Duncan said to me one night as +we rode home on the top of a 'bus, "You don't suppose that he--" + +"Elise thinks it," I said. "It's waking her up." + +Elise and Jimmie had been married fifteen years, and had never had a +honeymoon, not in the sense that Jimmie wanted it--an adventure in +romance, to some spot where they could forget the world of work, the +world of sordid things, the world that was making Jimmie old. Every +summer Jimmie had asked for it, and always Elise had said, "Wait." + +But now it was Elise who began to plan. "When your play is produced, +we'll run away somewhere. Do you remember the place you always talked +about--up in the hills?" + +He looked at her through his round glasses. "I can't get away from +this"--he waved his hand toward the stage. + +"If it's a success you can, Jimmie." + +"It will be a success. Ursula Simms is a wonder. Look at her, Elise. +Look at her!" + +Duncan and I could look at nothing else. As many times as I had seen her +in the part, I came to it always eagerly. It was her great scene--where +the girl, breaking free from all that has bound her, takes the hand of +her vagabond lover and goes forth, leaving behind wealth and a marriage +of distinction, that she may wander across the moors and down on the +sands, with the wild wind in her face, the stars for a canopy! + +It tugged at our hearts. It would tug, we knew, at the heart of any +audience. It was the human nature in us all which responded. Not one of +us but would have broken bonds. Oh, youth, youth! Is there anything like +it in the whole wide world? + +I do not think that it tugged at the heart of Elise. Her heart was not +like that. It was a stay-at-home heart. A workaday-world heart. Elise +would never under any circumstance have gone forth with a vagabond on a +wild night. + +But here was Ursula doing it every day. On the evening of the first +dress-rehearsal she wore clothes that showed her sense of fitness. As if +in casting off conventional restraints, she renounced conventional +attire; she came down to her lover wrapped in a cloak of the deep-purple +bloom of the heather of the moor, and there was a pheasant's feather in +her cap. + +"_May you never regret it, my dear, my dear_," said the lover on the +stage. + +"_I shall love you for a million years_," said Ursula, and we felt that +she would, and that love was eternal, and that any woman might have it +if she would put her hand in her lover's and run away with him on a +wild night! + +And it was the genius of Jimmie Harding that made us feel that the thing +could be done. He sat forward in his chair, his arms on the back of the +seat in front of him. "Jove!" he kept saying under his breath. "It's the +real thing. It's the real thing--" + +When the scene was over, he went on the stage and stood by Ursula. Elise +from her seat watched them. Ursula had taken off the cap with the +pheasant's feather. Her glorious hair shone like copper, her hand was on +her hip, her little swagger matched the swagger that we remembered in +the old Jimmie. I wondered if Elise remembered. + + * * * * * + +I am not sure what made Ursula care for Jimmie Harding. He was no longer +a figure for romance. But she did care. It was, perhaps, that she saw in +him the fundamental things which belonged to both of them, and which did +not belong to Elise. + +As the days went on I was sorry for Elise. I should never have believed +that I could be sorry, but I was. Jimmie was always punctiliously polite +to her. But he was only that. + +"She's getting what she deserves," Duncan said, but I felt that she was, +perhaps, getting more than she deserved. For, after all, it was she who +had kept Jimmie at it, and it was her keeping him at it which had +brought success. + +Neither Duncan nor I could tell how Jimmie felt about Ursula. But the +thought of her troubled my sleep. Stripped of her art, she was not in +the least the heroine of Jimmie's play. She was of coarser clay, +commoner. And Jimmie was fine. The fear I had was that he might clothe +her with the virtues which he had created, and the thought, as I have +said, troubled me. + +At last Duncan and I had to go home, although we promised to return for +the opening night. Ursula gave a farewell supper for us. She lived alone +with a housekeeper and maid. Her apartment was furnished in good taste, +with, perhaps, a touch of over-emphasis. The table had unshaded purple +candles and heather in glass dishes. Ursula wore woodland green, with a +chaplet of heather about her glorious hair. Elise was in white with +pearls. She was thirty-five, but she did not look it. Ursula was older, +but she would always be in a sense ageless, as such women are--one would +thrill to Sara Bernhardt were she seventeen or seventy. + +Jimmie seemed to have dropped the years from him. He was very confident +of the success of his play. "It can't fail," he said, "with Ursula to +make it sure--" + +I wondered whether it was Ursula or Elise who had made it sure. Could he +ever have written it if Elise had not kept him at it? Yet she had stolen +his youth! + +And now Ursula was giving his youth back to him! As I saw the cock of +his head, heard the ring of his gay laughter, I felt that it might be +so. And suddenly I knew that I didn't want Jimmie to be young again. Not +if he had to take his youth from the hands of Ursula Simms! + +There were many toasts before the supper ended--and the last one Jimmie +drank "To Ursula"! As he stood up to propose it, his glasses dangled +from their ribbon, his shoulders were squared. In the soft and shaded +light we were spared the gray in his hair--it was the old Jimmie, gay +and gallant! + +"To Ursula!" he said, and the words sparkled. "To Ursula!" + +I looked at Elise. She might have been the ghost of the woman who had +flamed in the old house in Albemarle. In her white and pearls she was +shadowy, unsubstantial, almost spectral, but she raised her glass. "To +Ursula!" she said. + +All the way home on the train Duncan and I talked about it. We were +scared to death. "Oh, he mustn't, he must not," I kept saying, and +Duncan snorted. + +"He's a young fool. She's not the woman for him--" + +"Neither of them is the woman," I said, "but Elise has made him--" + +"No man was ever held by gratitude." + +"He'd hate Ursula in a year." + +"He thinks he'd live--" + +"And lose his soul--" + + * * * * * + +Jimmie's play opened to a crowded house. There had been extensive +advertising, and Ursula had a great following. + +Elise and Duncan and I had seats in an upper box. Elise sat where she +was hidden by the curtains. Jimmie came and went unseen by the audience. +Between acts he was behind the scenes. Elise had little to say. Once she +reached over and laid her hand on mine. + +"I--I think I'm frightened," she said, with a catch of her breath. + +"It can't fail, my dear--" + +"No, of course. But it's very different from what I expected." + +"What is different?" + +"Success." + +As the great scene came closer, I seemed to hold my breath. I was so +afraid that the audience might not see it as we had seen it at +rehearsal. But they did see it, and it was a stupendous thing to sit +there and watch the crowd, and know that Jimmie's genius was making its +heart beat fast and faster. When Ursula in her purple cloak and +pheasant's feather spoke her lines at the end of the third act, "_I +shall love you for a million years_," the house went wild. Men and women +who had never loved for a moment roared for this woman who had made them +think they could love until eternity. They wanted her back and they got +her. They wanted Jimmie and they got him. Ursula made a speech; Jimmie +made a speech. They came out for uncounted curtain-calls, hand-in-hand. +The play was a success! + +The last act was, of course, an anti-climax. Before it was finished, +Elise said to me, in a, stifled voice, "I've got to get back to Jimmie." + +It seemed significant that Jimmie had not come to her. Surely he had not +forgotten the part she had played. For fifteen years she had worked for +this. + +We found ourselves presently behind the scenes. The curtain was down, +the audience was still shouting, everybody was excited, everybody was +shaking hands. The stage-people caught at Elise as she passed, and held +her to offer congratulations. I was not held and went on until I came to +where Jimmie and Ursula stood, a little separate from the rest. Although +I went near enough to touch them, they were so absorbed in each other +that they did not see me. Ursula was looking up at Jimmie and his head +was bent to her. + +"Jimmie," she said, and her rich voice above the tumult was clear as a +bell, "do you know how great you are?" + +"Yes," he said. "I--I feel a little drunk with it, Ursula." + +"Oh," she said, and now her words stumbled, "I--I love you for it. Oh, +Jimmie, Jimmie, let's run away and love for a million years--" + +All that he had wanted was in her words--the urge of youth, the beat of +the wind, the song of the sea. My heart stood still. + +He drew back a little. He had wanted this. But he did not want it +now--with Ursula. I saw it and she saw it. + +"What a joke it would be," he said, "but we have other things to do, my +dear." + +"What things?" + +The roar of the crowd came louder to their ears. "Harding, Harding! +Jimmie Harding!" + +"Listen," he said, and the light in his eyes was not for her. "Listen, +Ursula, they're calling me." + +She stood alone after he had left her. I am sure that even then she did +not quite believe it was the end. She did not know how, in all the +years, his wife had molded him. + +When he had satisfied the crowd, Jimmie fought his way to where Elise +and Duncan and I stood together. + +Elise was wrapped in a great cloak of silver brocade. There was a touch +of silver, too, in her hair. But she had never seemed to me so small, so +childish. + +"Oh, Jimmie," she said, as he came up, "you've done it!" + +"Yes"--he was flushed and laughing, his head held high--"you always said +I could do it. And I shall do it again. Did you hear them shout, Elise?" + +"Yes." + +"Jove! I feel like the old woman in the nursery rhyme, 'Alack-a-daisy, +do this be I?'" He was excited, eager, but it was not the old eagerness. +There was an avidity, a greediness. + +She laid her hand on his arm. "You've earned a rest, dearest. Let's go +up in the hills." + +"In the hills? Oh, we're too old, Elise." + +"We'll grow young." + +"To-night I've given youth to the world. That's enough for me"--the +light in his eyes was not for her--"that's enough for me. We'll hang +around New York for a week or two, and then we'll go back to Albemarle. +I want to get to work on another play. It's a great game, Elise. It's a +great game!" + +She knew then what she had done. Here was a monster of her own making. +She had sacrificed her lover on the altar of success. Jimmie needed her +no longer. + +I would not have you think this an unhappy ending. Elise has all that +she had asked, and Jimmie, with fame for a mistress, is no longer an +unwilling captive in the old house. The prisoner loves his prison, +welcomes his chains. + +But Duncan and I talk at times of the young Jimmie who came years ago +into our office. The Jimmie Harding who works down in Albemarle, and who +struts a little in New York when he makes his speeches, is the ghost of +the boy we knew. But he loves us still. + + + + +THE HIDDEN LAND + + +The mystery of Nancy Greer's disappearance has never been explained. The +man she was to have married has married another woman. For a long time +he mourned Nancy. He has always held the theory that she was drowned +while bathing, and the rest of Nancy's world agrees with him. She had +left the house one morning for her usual swim. The fog was coming in, +and the last person to see her was a fisherman returning from his nets. +He had stopped and watched her flitting wraith-like through the mist. He +reported later that Nancy wore a gray bathing suit and cap and carried a +blue cloak. + +"You are sure she carried a cloak?" was the question which was +repeatedly asked. For no cloak had been found on the sands, and it was +unlikely that she had worn it into the water. The disappearance of the +blue cloak was the only point which seemed to contradict the theory of +accidental drowning. There were those who held that the cloak might have +been carried off by some acquisitive individual. But it was not likely; +the islanders are, as a rule, honest, and it was too late in the season +for "off-islanders." + +I am the only one who knows the truth. And as the truth would have been +harder for Anthony Peak to bear than what he believed had happened, I +have always withheld it. + +There was, too, the fear that if I told they might try to bring Nancy +back. I think Anthony would have searched the world for her. Not, +perhaps, because of any great and passionate need of her, but because he +would have thought her unhappy in what she had done, and would have +sought to save her. + +I am twenty years older than Nancy, her parents are dead, and it was at +my house that she always stayed when she came to Nantucket. She has +island blood in her veins, and so has Anthony Peak. Back of them were +seafaring folk, although in the foreground was a generation or two of +cosmopolitan residence. Nancy had been educated in France, and Anthony +in England. The Peaks and the Greers owned respectively houses in Beacon +Street and in Washington Square. They came every summer to the island, +and it was thus that Anthony and Nancy grew up together, and at last +became engaged. + +As I have said, I am twenty years older than Nancy, and I am her cousin. +I live in the old Greer house on Orange Street, for it is mine by +inheritance, and was to have gone to Nancy at my death. But it will not +go to her now. Yet I sometimes wonder--will the ship which carried her +away ever sail back into the harbor? Some day, when she is old, will she +walk up the street and be sorry to find strangers in the house? + +I remember distinctly the day when the yacht first anchored within the +Point. It was a Sunday morning and Nancy and I had climbed to the top of +the house to the Captain's Walk, the white-railed square on the roof +which gave a view of the harbor and of the sea. + +Nancy was twenty-five, slim and graceful. She wore that morning a short +gray-velvet coat over white linen. Her thick brown hair was gathered +into a low knot and her fine white skin had a touch of artificial color. +Her eyes were a clear blue. She was really very lovely, but I felt that +the gray coat deadened her--that if she had not worn it she would not +have needed that touch of color in her cheeks. + +She lighted a cigarette and stood looking off, with her hand on the +rail. "It is a heavenly morning, Ducky. And you are going to church?" + +I smiled at her and said, "Yes." + +Nancy did not go to church. She practiced an easy tolerance. Her people +had been, originally, Quakers. In later years they had turned to +Unitarianism. And now in this generation, Nancy, as well as Anthony +Peak, had thrown off the shackles of religious observance. + +"But it is worth having the churches just for the bells," Nancy conceded +on Sunday mornings when their music rang out from belfry and tower. + +It was worth having the churches for more than the bells. But it was +useless to argue with Nancy. Her morals and Anthony's were +irreproachable. That is, from the modern point of view. They played +cards for small stakes, drank when they pleased, and, as I have +indicated, Nancy smoked. She was, also, not unkissed when Anthony asked +her to marry him. These were not the ideals of my girlhood, but Anthony +and Nancy felt that such small vices as they cultivated saved them from +the narrow-mindedness of their forebears. + +"Anthony and I are going for a walk," she said. "I will bring you some +flowers for your bowls, Elizabeth." + +It was just then that the yacht steamed into the harbor--majestically, +like a slow-moving swan. I picked out the name with my sea-glasses, _The +Viking_. + +I handed the glasses to Nancy. "Never heard of it," she said. "Did you?" + +"No," I answered. Most of the craft which came in were familiar, and I +welcomed them each year. + +"Some new-rich person probably," Nancy decided. "Ducky, I have a feeling +that the owner of _The Viking_ bought it from the proceeds of pills or +headache powders." + +"Or pork." + +I am not sure that Nancy and I were justified in our disdain--whale-oil +has perhaps no greater claim to social distinction than bacon and ham +or--pills. + +The church bells were ringing, and I had to go down. Nancy stayed on the +roof. + +"Send Anthony up if he's there," she said; "we will sit here aloft like +two cherubs and look down on you, and you will wish that you were with +us." + +But I knew that I should not wish it; that I should be glad to walk +along the shaded streets with my friends and neighbors, to pass the +gardens that were yellow with sunlight, and gay with larkspur and +foxglove and hollyhocks, and to sit in the pew which was mine by +inheritance. + +Anthony was down-stairs. He was a tall, perfectly turned out youth, and +he greeted me in his perfect manner. + +"Nancy is on the roof," I told him, "and she wants you to come up." + +"So you are going to church? Pray for me, Elizabeth." + +Yet I knew he felt that he did not need my prayers. He had Nancy, more +money than he could spend, and life was before him. What more, he would +ask, could the gods give? + +I issued final instructions to my maids about the dinner and put on my +hat. It was a rather superlative hat and had come from Fifth Avenue. I +spend the spring and fall in New York and buy my clothes at the smartest +places. The ladies of Nantucket have never been provincial in their +fashions. Our ancestors shopped in the marts of the world. When our +captains sailed the seas they brought home to their womenfolk the +treasures of loom and needle from Barcelona and Bordeaux, from Bombay +and Calcutta, London and Paris and Tokio. + +And perhaps because of my content in my new hat, perhaps because of the +pleasant young pair of lovers which I had left behind me in the old +house, perhaps because of the shade and sunshine, and the gardens, +perhaps because of the bells, the world seemed more than ever good to me +as I went on my way. + +My pew in the church is well toward the middle. My ancestors were +modest, or perhaps they assumed that virtue. They would have neither the +highest nor the lowest seat in the synagogue. + +It happens, therefore, that strangers who come usually sit in front of +me. I have a lively curiosity, and I like to look at them. In the winter +there are no strangers, and my mind is, I fancy, at such times, more +receptive to the sermon. + +I was early and sat almost alone in the great golden room whose +restraint in decoration suggests the primitive bareness of early days. +Gradually people began to come in, and my attention was caught by the +somewhat unusual appearance of a man who walked up the aisle preceded by +the usher. + +He was rather stocky as to build, but with good, square military +shoulders and small hips. He wore a blue reefer, white trousers, and +carried a yachtsman's cap. His profile as he passed into his pew showed +him young, his skin slightly bronzed, his features good, if a trifle +heavy. + +Yet as he sat down and I studied his head, what seemed most significant +about him was his hair. It was reddish-gold, thick, curled, and +upstanding, like the hair on the head of a lovely child, or in the +painting of a Titian or a Tintoretto. + +In a way he seemed out of place. Young men of his type so rarely came to +church alone. Indeed, they rarely came to church at all. He seemed to +belong to the out-of-doors--to wide spaces. I was puzzled, too, by a +faint sense of having seen him before. + +It was in the middle of the sermon that it all connected up. Years ago a +ship had sailed into the harbor, and I had been taken down to see it. I +had been enchanted by the freshly painted figurehead--a strong young god +of some old Norse tale, with red-gold hair and a bright blue tunic. And +now in the harbor was _The Viking_, and here, in the shadow of a +perfectly orthodox pulpit, sat that strong young god, more glorious even +than my memory of his wooden prototype. + +He seemed to be absolutely at home--sat and stood at the right places, +sang the hymns in a delightful barytone which was not loud, but which +sounded a clear note above the feebler efforts of the rest of us. + +It has always been my custom to welcome the strangers within our gates, +and I must confess to a preference for those who seem to promise +something more than a perfunctory interchange. + +So as my young viking came down the aisle, I held out my hand. "We are +so glad to have you with us." + +He stopped at once, gave me his hand, and bent on me his clear gaze. +"Thank you." And then, immediately: "You live here? In Nantucket?" + +"Yes." + +"All the year round?" + +"Practically." + +"That is very interesting." Again his clear gaze appraised me. "May I +walk a little way with you? I have no friends here, and I want to ask a +lot of questions about the island." + +The thing which struck me most as we talked was his utter lack of +self-consciousness. He gave himself to the subject in hand as if it were +a vital matter, and as if he swept all else aside. It is a quality +possessed by few New Englanders; it is, indeed, a quality possessed by +few Americans. So when he offered to walk with me, it seemed perfectly +natural that I should let him. Not one man in a thousand could have made +such a proposition without an immediate erection on my part of the +barriers of conventionality. To have erected any barrier in this +instance would have been an insult, to my perception of the kind of man +with whom I had to deal. + +He was a gentleman, individual, and very much in earnest; and more than +all, he was immensely attractive. There was charm in that clear blue +gaze of innocence. Yet it was innocence plus knowledge, plus something +which as yet I could not analyze. + +He left me at my doorstep. I found that he had come to the island not to +play around for the summer at the country clubs and on the bathing +beach, but to live in the past--see it as it had once been--when its men +went down to the sea in ships. And because there was still so much that +we had to say to each other, I asked him to have a cup of tea with me, +"this afternoon at four." + +He accepted at once, with his air of sweeping aside everything but the +matter in hand. I entered the house with a sense upon me of high +adventure. I could not know that I was playing fate, changing in that +moment the course of Nancy's future. + + * * * * * + +Dinner was at one o'clock. It seems an impossible hour to people who +always dine at night. But on the Sabbath we Nantucketers eat our +principal meal when we come home from church. + +Nancy and Anthony protested as usual. "Of course you can't expect us to +dress." + +Nancy sat down at the table with her hat on, and minus the velvet coat. +She was a bit disheveled and warm from her walk. She had brought in a +great bunch of blue vetch and pale mustard, and we had put it in the +center of the table in a bowl of gray pottery. My dining-room is in gray +and white and old mahogany, and Nancy had had an eye to its coloring +when she picked the flowers. They would not have fitted in with the +decorative scheme of my library, which is keyed up, or down, to an +antique vase of turquoise glaze, or to the drawing-room, which is in +English Chippendale with mulberry brocade. + +We had an excellent dinner, served by my little Portuguese maid. Nancy +praised the lobster bisque and Anthony asked for a second helping of +roast duck. They had their cigarettes with their coffee. + +Long before we came to the coffee, however, Anthony had asked in his +pleasant way of the morning service. + +"Tell us about the sermon, Elizabeth." + +"And the text," said Nancy. + +I am apt to forget the text, and they knew it. It was always a sort of +game between us at Sunday dinner, in which they tried to prove that my +attention had strayed, and that I might much better have stayed at home, +and thus have escaped the bondage of dogma and of dressing up. + +I remembered the text, and then I told them about Olaf Thoresen. + +Nancy lifted her eyebrows. "The pills man? Or was it--pork?" + +"It was probably neither. Don't be a snob, Nancy." + +She shrugged her shoulders. "It was you who said 'pork,' Elizabeth." + +"He is coming to tea." + +"To-day?" + +"Yes." + +"Sorry," said Nancy. "I'd like to see him, but I have promised to drive +Bob Needham to 'Sconset for a swim." + +Anthony had made the initial engagement--to play tennis with Mimi Sears, +"Provided, of course, that you have no other plans for me," he had told +Nancy, politely. + +She had no plans, nor would she, under the circumstances, have urged +them. That was their code--absolute freedom. "We'll be a lot happier if +we don't tie each other up." + +It was to me an amazing attitude. In my young days lovers walked out on +Sunday afternoons to the old cemetery, or on the moor, or along the +beach, and came back at twilight together, and sat together after +supper, holding hands. + +I haven't the slightest doubt that Anthony held Nancy's hands, but there +was nothing fixed about the occasions. They had done away with billing +and cooing in the old sense, and what they had substituted seemed to +satisfy them. + +Anthony left about three, and I went up to get into something thin and +cool, and to rest a bit before receiving my guest. I heard Nancy at the +telephone making final arrangements with the Drakes. After that I fell +asleep, and knew nothing more until Anita came up to announce that Mr. +Thoresen was down-stairs. + +Tea was served in the garden at the back of the house, where there were +some deep wicker chairs, and roses in a riot of bloom. + +"This is--enchanting--" said Olaf. He did not sit down at once. He stood +looking about him, at the sun-dial, and the whale's jaw lying bleached +on a granite pedestal, and at the fine old houses rising up around us. +"It is enchanting. Do you know, I have been thinking myself very +fortunate since you spoke to me in church this morning." + +After that it was all very easy. He asked and I answered. "You see," he +explained, finally, "I am hungry for anything that tells me about the +sea. Three generations back we were all sailors--my great-grandfather +and his fathers before him in Norway--and far back of that--the +vikings." He drew a long breath. "Then my grandfather came to America. +He settled in the West--in Dakota, and planted grain. He made money, but +he was a thousand miles away from the sea. He starved for it, but he +wanted money, and, as I have said, he made it. And my father made more +money. Then I came. The money took me to school in the East--to +college. My mother died and my father. And now the money is my own. I +bought a yacht, and I have lived on the water. I can't get enough of it. +I think that I am making up for all that my father and my grandfather +denied themselves." + +I can't in the least describe to you how he said it. There was a +tenseness, almost a fierceness, in his brilliant blue eyes. Yet he +finished up with a little laugh. "You see," he said, "I am a sort of +Flying Dutchman--sailing the seas eternally, driven not by any sinister +force but by my own delight in it." + +"Do you go alone?" + +"Oh, I have guests--at times. But I am often my own--good company--" + +He stopped and rose. Nancy had appeared in the doorway. She crossed the +porch and came down toward us. She was in her bathing suit and cap, gray +again, with a line of green on the edges, and flung over her shoulders +was a gray cloak. She was on her way to the stables--it was before the +day of motor-cars on the island, those halcyon, heavenly days. The door +was open and her horse harnessed and waiting for her. She could not, of +course, pass us without speaking, and so I presented Olaf. + +Anita had brought the tea, and Nancy stayed to eat a slice of thin bread +and butter. "In this air one is always hungry," she said to Olaf, and +smiled at him. + +He did not smile back. He was surveying her with a sort of frowning +intensity. She spoke of it afterward, "Does he always stare like that?" +But I think that, in a way, she was pleased. + +She drove her own horse, wrapped in her cloak and with an utter +disregard to the informality of her attire. She would, I knew, gather up +the Drakes and Bob Needham, likewise attired in bathing costumes, and +they would all have tea on the other side of the island, naiad-like and +utterly unconcerned. I did not approve of it, but Nancy did not cut her +life to fit my pattern. + +When she had gone, Olaf said to me, abruptly, "Why does she wear gray?" + +"Oh, she has worked out a theory that repression in color is an evidence +of advanced civilization. The Japanese, for example--" + +"Why should civilization advance? It has gone far enough--too far--And +she should wear a blue cloak--sea-blue--the color of her eyes--" + +"And of yours." I smiled at him. + +"Yes. Are they like hers?" + +They were almost uncannily alike. I had noticed it when I saw them +together. But there the resemblance stopped. + +"She belongs to the island?" + +"She lives in New York. But every drop of blood in her is seafaring +blood." + +"Good!" He sat for a moment in silence, then spoke of something else. +But when he was ready to go, he included Nancy in an invitation. "If you +and Miss Greer could lunch with me to-morrow on my yacht--" + +I was not sure about Nancy's engagements, but I thought we might. "You +can call us up in the morning." + +Nancy brought the Drakes and Bob Needham back with her for supper, and +Mimi Sears was with Anthony. Supper on Sunday is an informal +meal--everything on the table and the servants out. + +Nancy, clothed in something white and exquisite, served the salad. "So +your young viking didn't stay, Elizabeth?" + +"I didn't ask him." + +It was then that she spoke of his frowning gaze. "Does he always stare +like that?" + +Anthony, breaking in, demanded, "Did he stare at Nancy?" + +I nodded. "It was her eyes." + +They all looked at me. "Her eyes?" + +"Yes. He said that her cloak should have matched them." + +Anthony flushed. He has a rather captious code for outsiders. Evidently +Olaf had transgressed it. + +"Is the man a dressmaker?" + +"Of course not, Anthony." + +"Then why should he talk of Nancy's clothes?" + +"Well," Nancy remarked, "perhaps the less said about my clothes the +better. I was in my bathing suit." + +Anthony was irritable. "Well, why not? You had a right to wear what you +pleased, but he did not have a right to make remarks about it." + +I came to Olaf's defense. "You would understand better if you could see +him. He is rather different, Anthony." + +"I don't like different people," and in that sentence was a summary of +Anthony's prejudices. He and Nancy mingled with their own kind. +Anthony's friends were the men who had gone to the right schools, who +lived in the right streets, belonged to the right clubs, and knew the +right people. Within those limits, humanity might do as it pleased; +without them, it was negligible, and not to be considered. + +After supper the five of them were to go for a sail. There was a moon, +and all the wonder of it. + +Anthony was not keen about the plan. "Oh, look here, Nancy," he +complained, "we have done enough for one day--" + +"I haven't." + +Of course that settled it. Anthony shrugged his shoulders and submitted. +He did not share Nancy's almost idolatrous worship of the sea. It was +the one fundamental thing about her. She bathed in it, swam in it, +sailed on it, and she was never quite happy away from it. + +I heard Anthony later in the hall, protesting. I had gone to the library +for a book, and their voices reached me. + +"I thought you and I might have one evening without the others." + +"Oh, don't be silly, Anthony." + +I think my heart lost a beat. Here was a lover asking his mistress for a +moment--and she laughed at him. It did not fit in with my ideas of young +romance. + +Yet late that night I heard the murmur of their voices and looked out +into the white night. They stood together by the sun-dial, and his arm +was about her, her head on his shoulder. And it was not the first time +that a pair of lovers had stood by that dial under the moon. + +I went back to bed, but I could not sleep. I lighted my bedside lamp, +and read _Vanity Fair_. I find Thackeray an excellent corrective when I +am emotionally keyed up. + +Nancy, too, was awake; I could see her light shining across the hall. +She came in, finally, and sat on the foot of my bed. + +"Your viking was singing as we passed his boat--" + +"Singing?" + +"Yes, hymns, Elizabeth. The others laughed, Anthony and Mimi, but I +didn't laugh. His voice is--wonderful--" + +She had on a white-crepe _peignoir_, and there was no color in her +cheeks. Her skin had the soft whiteness of a rose petal. Her eyes were +like stars. As I lay there and looked at her I wondered if it was +Anthony's kisses or the memory of Olaf's singing which had made her eyes +shine like that. + +I had heard him sing, and I said so, "in church." + +Her arms clasped her knees. "Isn't it queer that he goes to church and +sings hymns?" + +"Why queer? I go to church." + +"Yes. But you are different. You belong to another generation, +Elizabeth, and he doesn't look it." + +I knew what she meant. I had thought the same thing when I first saw him +walking up the aisle. "He has asked us to lunch with him to-morrow on +his boat." + +It was the first time that I had mentioned it. Somehow I had not cared +to speak of it before Anthony. + +She showed her surprise. "So soon? Doesn't that sound a +little--pushing?" + +"It sounds as if he goes after a thing when he wants it." + +"Yes, it does. I believe I should like to accept. But I can't to-morrow. +There's a clambake, and I have promised the crowd." + +"He will ask you again." + +"Will he? You can say 'yes' for Wednesday then. And I'll keep it." + +"I am not sure that we had better accept." + +"Why not?" + +"Well, there's Anthony." + +She slid from the bed and stood looking down at me. "You think he +wouldn't like it?" + +"I am afraid he wouldn't. And, after all, you are engaged to him, +Nancy." + +"Of course I am, but he is not my jailer. He does as he pleases and I do +as I please." + +"In my day lovers pleased to do the same thing." + +"Did they? I don't believe it. They just pretended, and there is no +pretense between Anthony and me"--she stooped and kissed me--"they just +pretended, Elizabeth, and the reason that I love Anthony is because we +don't pretend." + +After that I felt that I need fear nothing. Nancy and Anthony--freedom +and self-confidence--why should I try to match their ideals with my own +of yesterday? Yet, as I laid my book aside, I resolved that Olaf should +know of Anthony. + +I had my opportunity the next day. Olaf came over to sit in my garden +and again we had tea. He was much pleased when he knew that Nancy and I +would be his guests on Wednesday. + +"Come early. Do you swim? We can run the launch to the beach--or, better +still, dive in the deeper water near my boat." + +"Nancy swims," I told him. "I don't. And I am not sure that we can come +early. Nancy and Anthony usually play golf in the morning." + +"Who is Anthony?" + +"Anthony Peak. The man she is going to marry." + +He hesitated a moment, then said, "Bring him, too." His direct gaze met +mine, and his direct question followed. "Does she love him?" + +"Of course." + +"It is not always 'of course.'" He stopped and talked of other things, +but in some subtle fashion I was aware that my news had been a shock to +him, and that he was trying to adjust himself to it, and to the +difference that it must make in his attitude toward Nancy. + + * * * * * + +When I told Nancy that Anthony had been invited, she demanded, "How did +Olaf Thoresen know about him?" + +"I told him you were engaged." + +"But why, Elizabeth? Why shout it from the housetops?" + +"Well, I didn't want him to be hurt." + +"You are taking a lot for granted." + +I shrugged my shoulders. "We won't quarrel, and a party of four is much +nicer than three." + +As it turned put, however, Anthony could not go. He was called back to +Boston on business. That was where Fate again stepped in. It was, I am +sure, those three days of Anthony's absence which turned the scale of +Nancy's destiny. If he had been with us that first morning on the boat +Olaf would not have dared.... + +Nancy wore her white linen and her gray-velvet coat, and a hat with a +gull's wing. She carried her bathing suit. "He intends, evidently, to +entertain us in his own way." + +Olaf's yacht was modern, but there was a hint of the barbaric in its +furnishings. The cabin into which we were shown and in which Nancy was +to change was in strangely carved wood, and there was a wolfskin on the +floor in front of the low bed. The coverlet was of a fine-woven red-silk +cloth, weighed down by a border of gold and silver threads. On the wall +hung a square of tapestry which showed a strange old ship with sails of +blue and red and green, and with golden dragon-heads at stem and stern. + +Nancy, crossing the threshold, said to Olaf, who had opened the door for +us, "It is like coming into another world; as if you had set the stage, +run up the curtain, and the play had begun." + +"You like it? It was a fancy of mine to copy a description I found in +an old book. King Olaf, the Thick-set, furnished a room like this for +his bride." + +Olaf, the Thick-set! The phrase fitted perfectly this strong, stocky, +blue-eyed man, who smiled radiantly upon us as he shut the door and left +us alone. + +Nancy stood in the middle of the room looking about her. "I like it," +she said, with a queer shake in her voice. "Don't you, Elizabeth?" + +I liked it so much that I felt it wise to hide my pleasure in a pretense +of indifference. "Well, it is original to say the least." + +But it was more than original, it was poetic. It was--Melisande in the +wood--one of Sinding's haunting melodies, an old Saga caught and fixed +in color and carving. + +In this glowing room Nancy in her white and gray was a cold and +incongruous figure, and when at last she donned her dull cap, and the +dull cloak that she wore over her swimming costume, she seemed a ghostly +shadow of the bright bride whom that other Olaf had brought--a thousand +years before--to his strange old ship. + +I realize that what comes hereafter in this record must seem to the +unimaginative overdrawn. Even now, as I look back upon it, it has a +dream quality, as if it might never have happened, or as if, as Nancy +had said, it was part of a play, which would be over when the curtain +was rung down and the actors had returned to the commonplace. + +But the actors in this drama have never returned to the commonplace. Or +have they? Shall I ever know? I hope I may never know, if Nancy and Olaf +have lost the glamour of their dreams. + +Well, we found Olaf on deck waiting for us. In a sea-blue tunic, with +strong white arms, and the dazzling fairness of his strong neck, he was +more than ever like the figurehead on the old ship that I had seen in my +childhood. He carried over his arm a cloak of the same sea-blue. It was +this cloak which afterward played an important part in the mystery of +Nancy's disappearance. + +His quick glance swept Nancy--the ghostly Nancy in gray, with only the +blue of her eyes, and that touch of artificial pink in her cheeks to +redeem her from somberness. He shook his head with a gesture of +impatience. + +"I don't like it," he said, abruptly. "Why do you deaden your beauty +with dull colors?" + +Nancy's eyes challenged him. "If it is deadened, how do you know it is +beauty?" + +"May I show you?" Again there was that tense excitement which I had +noticed in the garden. + +"I don't know what you mean," yet in that moment the color ran up from +her neck to her chin, the fixed pink spots were lost in a rush of lovely +flaming blushes. + +For with a sudden movement he had snatched off her cap, and had thrown +the cloak around her. The transformation was complete. It was as if he +had waved a wand. There she stood, the two long, thick braids, which she +had worn pinned close under her cap, falling heavily like molten metal +to her knees, the blue cloak covering her--heavenly in color, matching +her eyes, matching the sea, matching the sky, matching the eyes of Olaf. + +I think I must have uttered some sharp exclamation, for Olaf turned to +me. "You see," he said, triumphantly, "I have known it all the time. I +knew it the first time that I saw her in the garden." + +Nancy had recovered herself. "But I can't stalk around the streets in a +blue cloak with my hair down." + +He laughed with her. "Oh, no, no. But the color is only a symbol. Modern +life has robbed you of vivid things. Even your emotions. You +are--afraid--" He caught himself up. "We can talk of that after our +swim. I think we shall have a thousand things to talk about." + +Nancy held out her hand for her cap, but he would not give it to her. +"Why should you care if your hair gets wet? The wind and the sun will +dry it--" + +I was amazed when I saw that she was letting him have his way. Never for +a moment had Anthony mastered her. For the first time in her life Nancy +was dominated by a will that was stronger than her own. + +I sat on deck and watched them as they swam like two young sea gods, +Nancy's bronze hair bright under the sun. Olaf's red-gold crest.... + +The blue cloak lay across my knee. Nancy had cast it off as she had +descended into the launch. I had examined it and had found it of soft, +thick wool, with embroidery of a strange and primitive sort in faded +colors. Yet the material of the cloak had not faded, or, if it had, +there remained that clear azure, like the Virgin's cloak in old +pictures. + +I knew now why Olaf had wanted Nancy on board, why he had wanted to swim +with her in the sea which was as blue as her eyes and his own. It was to +reveal her to himself as the match of the women of the Sagas. I found +this description later in one of the old books in the ship's library: + + * * * * * + +Then Hallgerd was sent for, and came with two women. She wore a blue +woven mantle ... her hair reached down to her waist on both sides, and +she tucked it under her belt. + +And there was, too, this account of a housewife in her "kyrtil": + + The dress-train was trailing, + The skirt had a blue tint; + Her brow was brighter, + Her neck was whiter + Than pure new fallen snow. + +In other words, that one glance at Nancy in the garden, when he had +risen at her entrance, had disclosed to Olaf the fundamental in her. He +had known her as a sea-maiden. And she had not known it, nor I, nor +Anthony. + + * * * * * + +Luncheon was served on deck. We were waited on by fair-haired, but very +modern Norsemen. The crew on _The Viking_ were all Scandinavians. Most +of them spoke English, and there seemed nothing uncommon about any of +them. Yet, in the mood of the moment, I should have felt no surprise had +they served us in the skins of wild animals, or had set sail like +pirates with the two of us captive on board. + +I will confess, also, to a feeling of exaltation which clouded my +judgment. I knew that Olaf was falling in love with Nancy, and I half +guessed that Nancy might be falling in love with Olaf, yet I sat there +and let them do it. If Anthony should ever know! Yet how can he know? As +I weigh it now, I am not sure that I have anything with which to +reproach myself, for the end, at times, justifies the means, and the +Jesuitical theory had its origin, perhaps, in the profound knowledge +that Fate does not always use fair methods in gaining her ends. + +I can't begin to tell you what we talked about. Nancy had dried her +hair, and it was wound loosely, high on her head. The blue cloak was +over her shoulders, and she was the loveliest thing that I ever hope to +see. By the flame in her cheeks and the light in her eyes, I was made +aware of an exaltation which matched my own. She, too, was caught up +into the atmosphere of excitement which Olaf created. He could not take +his eyes from her. I wondered what Anthony would have said could he have +visioned for the moment this blue-and-gold enchantress. + +When coffee was served there were no cigarettes or cigars. Nancy had her +own silver case hanging at her belt. I knew that she would smoke, and I +did not try to stop her. She always smoked after her meals and she was +restless without it. + +It was Olaf who stopped her. "You will hate my bad manners," he said, +with his gaze holding hers, "but I wish you wouldn't." + +She was lighting her own little wax taper and she looked her surprise. + +"My cigarette?" + +He nodded. "You are too lovely." + +"But surely you are not so--old-fashioned." + +"No. I am perhaps so--new-fashioned that my reason might take your +breath away." He laughed but did not explain. + +Nancy sat undecided while the taper burned out futilely. Then she said, +"Of course you are my host--" + +"Don't do it for that reason. Do it because"--he stopped, laughed again, +and went on--"because you are a goddess--a woman of a new race--" + +With parted lips she looked at him, then tried to wrench herself back to +her attitude of light indifference. + +"Oh, we've grown beyond all that." + +"All what?" + +"Goddess-women. We are just nice and human together." + +"You are nice and human. But you are more than that." + +Nancy put her unlighted cigarette back in its case. "I'll keep it for +next time," she said, with a touch of defiance. + +"There will be no next time," was his secure response, and his eyes held +hers until, with an effort, she withdrew her gaze. + +Then he rose, and his men placed deep chairs for us in a sheltered +corner, where we could look out across the blue to the low hills of the +moor. There was a fur rug over my chair, and I sank gratefully into the +warmth of it. + +"With a wind like this in the old days," Olaf said, as he stood beside +me looking out over the sparkling water, "how the sails would have been +spread, and now there is nothing but steam and gasoline and +electricity." + +"Why don't you have sails then," Nancy challenged him, "instead of +steam?" + +"I have a ship. Shall I show you the picture of it?" + +He left to get it, and Nancy said to me, "Ducky, will you pinch me?" + +"You mean that it doesn't seem real?" + +She nodded. + +"Well, maybe it isn't. He said he was a sort of Flying Dutchman." + +"I should hate to think that he wasn't real, Elizabeth. He is as alive +as a--burning coal." + +Olaf came back with the pictures of his ship, a clean-cut, beautiful +craft, very up-to-date, except for the dragon-heads at prow and stem. + +"If I could have had my way," he told us, "I should have built it like +the ship on the tapestry in there--but it wasn't practical--we haven't +manpower for the oars in these days." + +He had other pictures--of a strange house, or, rather, of a collection +of buildings set in the form of a quadrangle, and inclosed by low walls. +There were great gateways of carved wood with ironwork and views of the +interior--a wide hall with fireplaces--a raised platform, with carved +seats that gave a throne-like effect. The house stood on a sort of high +peninsula with a forest back of it, and the sea spreading out beyond. + +"The house looks old," Olaf said, "but I planned it." + +He had, he explained, during one of his voyages, come upon a hidden +harbor. "There is only a fishing village and a few small boats at the +landing place, but the people claim to be descendants of the vikings. +They are utterly isolated, but a God-fearing, hardy folk. + +"It is strangely cut off from the rest of the world. I call it 'The +Hidden Land.' It is not on any map. I have looked and have not found +it." + +"But why," was Nancy's demand, "did you build there?" + +It was a question, I think, for which he had waited. "Some day I may +tell you, but not now, except this--that I love the sea, and I shall end +my days where, when I open my gates, my eyes may rest upon it ... where +its storms may beat upon my roof, and where the men about me shall sail +it, and get their living from it. + +"I have told your cousin," he went on, "something of the life of my +grandfather and of my father. With all of their sea-blood, they were +shut away for two generations from the sea. Can you grasp the meaning of +that to me?--the heritage of suppressed longings? I think my father must +have felt it as I did, for he drank heavily before he died. My +grandfather sought an outlet in founding the family fortunes. But when I +came, there was not the compelling force of poverty to make me work, and +I had before me the warning of my father's excesses. But this +sea-madness! It has driven me on and on, and at last it has driven me +here." He stopped, then took up the theme again in his tense, excited +fashion, "It will drive me on again." + +"Why should it drive you on?" + +When Nancy asked that question, I knew what had happened. The thrill of +her voice was the answer of a bird to its mate. When I think of her, I +see her always as she was then, the blue cloak falling about her, her +hair blowing, her cheeks flaming with lovely color. + +I saw his fingers clench the arm of his chair as if in an effort of +self-control. Then he said: "Perhaps I shall tell you that, too. But not +now." He rose abruptly. "It is warmer inside, and we can have some +music. I am sure you must be tired of hearing me talk about myself." + +He played for us, in masterly fashion, the Peer Gynt suite, and after +that a composition of his own. At last he sang, with all the swing of +the sea in voice and accompaniment, and the song drew our hearts out of +us. + +Nancy was very quiet as we drove from the pier, and it was while I was +dressing for dinner that she came into my room. + +"Elizabeth," she said, "I am not sure whether we have been to a +Methodist revival or to a Wagner music-drama--" + +"Neither," I told her. "There's nothing artificial about him. You asked +me back there if he was real. I believe that he is utterly real, Nancy. +It is not a pose. I am convinced that it is not a pose." + +"Yes," she said, "that's the queer thing. He's not--putting it +on--and he makes everybody else seem--stale and shallow--like +ghosts--or--shadow-shapes--" + + * * * * * + +I read _Vanity Fair_ late into the night, and the morning was coming on +before I tried to sleep. I waked to find Nancy standing by my bed. + +"His boat is gone." + +"Gone?" + +"Yes. It went an hour ago. I saw it from the roof." + +"From the roof?" + +"Yes. I got up--early. I--I could not sleep. And when I looked--it was +gone--your glasses showed it almost out of sight." + +She was wrapped in the blue cloak. Olaf had made her bring it with her. +She had protested. But he had been insistent. + +"I found this in the pocket," Nancy said, and held out a card on which +Olaf had written, "When she lifted her arms, opening the door, a light +shone on them from the sea, and the air and all the world were +brightened for her." + +"What does it mean, Elizabeth?" + +"I think you know, my dear." + +"That he cares?" + +"What do you think?" + +Her eyes were like stars. "But how can he? He has seen me--twice--" + +"Some men are like that." + +"If you only hadn't told him about Anthony." + +"I am glad that I told him." + +"Oh, but he might have stayed." + +"Well?" + +"And I might have loved him." She was still glowing with the fires that +Olaf had lighted in her. + +"But you are going to marry Anthony." + +"Yes," she said, "I am going to marry Anthony. I am going to flirt and +smoke cigarettes and let him--flirt--when I might have been a--goddess." + +It was after breakfast on the same day that a letter came to me, +delivered into my own hands by messenger. It was from Olaf, and he left +it to me whether Nancy should see it. It covered many pages and it shook +my soul, but I did not show it to Nancy. + +There were nights after that when I found it hard to sleep, nights in +which I thought of Olaf sailing toward the hidden land, holding in his +heart a hope which it was in my power to crown with realization or dash +to the ground. Yet I had Nancy's happiness to think of, and, in a sense, +Anthony's. It seemed almost incredible that I must carry, too, on my +heart, the burden of the happiness of Olaf Thoresen. + +When Anthony came back, he and Nancy were caught in a net of +engagements, and I saw very little of them. Of course they romped in now +and then with their own particular crowd, and treated me, as it were, +to a cross-section of modern life. Except for two things, I should have +judged that Nancy had put away all thoughts of Olaf, but these two +things were significant. She had stopped smoking, and she no longer +touched her cheeks with artificial bloom. + +Anthony's amazement, when he offered her a cigarette and she refused, +had in it a touch of irritation. "But, my dear girl, why not?" + +"Well, I have to think of my complexion, Tony." + +I think he knew it was not that and was puzzled. "I never saw you +looking better in my life." + +She was wearing a girdle of blue with her clear, crisp white, and her +fairness was charming. She had, indeed, the look which belongs to young +Catholic girls dedicated to the Virgin who wear her colors. + +It was not, however, until Anthony had been home for a week that he saw +the blue cloak. We were all on the beach--Mimi Sears and Bob Needham and +the Drakes, myself and Anthony. Nancy was late, having a foursome to +finish on the golf grounds. She came at last, threading her way gayly +through the crowd of bathers. She was without her cap, and her hair was +wound in a thick braid about her head. I saw people turning to look at +her as they had never turned to look when she had worn her shadowy gray. + +"Great guns!" said a man back of me. "What a beauty!" + +A deep flush stained Anthony's face, and I knew at once that he did not +like it. It was as if, having attuned his taste to the refinement of a +Japanese print, he had been called upon to admire a Fra Angelico. He +hated the obvious, and Nancy's loveliness at this moment was as definite +as the loveliness of the sky, the sea, the moon, the stars. Later I was +to learn that Anthony's taste was for a sophisticated Nancy, a mocking +Nancy, a slim, mysterious creature, with charms which were caviar to the +mob. + +But Bob Needham spoke from the depths of his honest and undiscriminating +soul. "Heavens! Nancy. Where did you get it?" + +"Get what?" + +"That cloak." + +"Do you like it?" + +"Like it--! I wish Tony would run away while I tell you." + +Anthony, forcing a smile, asked, "Where did you get it, Nan?" + +"It was given to me." She sat down on the sand and smiled at him. + +Mrs. Drake, feeling the thickness and softness, exclaiming over the +embroidery, said finally: "It is a splendid thing. Like a queen's robe." + +"You haven't told us yet," Anthony persisted, "where you got it." + +"No? Well, Elizabeth will tell you. It's rather a long story. I am going +into the water. Come on, Bob." + +She left the cloak with me. Anthony followed her and the others. I sat +alone under a great orange umbrella and wondered if Anthony would ask me +about the cloak. + +He did not, and when Nancy came back finally with her hair down and +blowing in the wind to dry, Anthony was with her. The cloud was gone +from his face, in the battle with the wares he had forgotten his +vexation. + +But he remembered when he saw the cloak. "Tell me about it, Nancy." + +"I got it from Elizabeth's viking." + +That was the calm way in which she put it. + +"He isn't my viking," I told her. + +"Well, you were responsible for him." + +"Do you mean to say," Anthony demanded, "that you accepted a gift like +that from a man you didn't know?" + +Nancy, hugging herself in the cloak, said, "I felt that I knew him very +well." + +"How long was he here?" + +"Three days. I saw him twice." + +"I don't think I quite like the--idea--" Anthony began, then broke off. +"Of course you have a right to do as you please." + +"Of course," said Nancy, with a flame in her cheek. + +"But it would please me very much if you would send it back to him." + +"If I wanted to," she told him, "I couldn't." + +"Why not?" + +"Can you mail parcel post packages to the--Flying Dutchman? Or express +things to--to Odin?" + +"I don't in the least know what you are talking about, Nancy." + +"Well, he sailed in and he sailed out. He didn't leave any address. He +left the cloak--and a rather intriguing memory, Anthony." + +That was all the satisfaction she would give him. And I am not sure that +he deserved more at her hands. The agreement between them had +been--absolute freedom. + +I am convinced that if it had not been for the garden party I should +never have shown Olaf's letter to Nancy. The garden party is an annual +event. We always hold it in August, when the "off-islanders" crowd the +hotels, and when money is more plentiful than at any other time during +the year. + +Nancy had charge of the fish pond. I had helped her to make the fish, +which were gay objects of painted paper, numbered to indicate a +corresponding prize package, and to be caught with a dangling line from +a lily-wreathed artificial pool. + +The day of the garden party was a glorious one--with the air so clear +that the flying pennants of the decorated booths, and the gowns of the +women, gained brilliancy and beauty from the shining atmosphere. + +Nancy wore a broad blue hat which matched her eyes, one of her clear +white dresses, and a silken scarf of the same blue as her hat. She loved +children, and as she stood in a circle of them all the afternoon, +untiring, eager--bending down to them, hooking the fish on the dangling +line--handing out the prizes, smiling into the flushed eager faces, +helping the very littlest ones to achieve a catch, I sat in a chair not +far away from her and watched. I saw Anthony come and go, urging her to +let some one else take her place, pressing a dozen reasons upon her for +desertion of her task, and coming back, when she refused, to complain to +me: + +"Such things are a deadly bore." + +"Not to Nancy." + +"But they used to be. She's changed, Elizabeth." + +"Beautifully changed." + +"I am not sure. She was always such, a good sport." + +"And isn't she now?" + +"She is different," he caught himself up, "but of course--adorable." + +Mimi Sears joined us, and she and Anthony went off together. Bob Needham +hung around Nancy until she sent him away. At last the hour arrived for +the open-air play which was a special attraction, and the crowds surged +toward the inclosure. The booths were deserted, and only one +rapturous child remained by the fish pond. + +Nancy sat down and lifted the baby to her lap. She had taken off her +hat, and her blue scarf fell about her. Something tugged at my heart as +I looked at her. With that little head in the hollow of her arm she was +the eternal mother. + +I saw Anthony approaching. He stopped, and I caught his words. "You must +come now, Nancy. I am saving a seat for you." + +She shook her head, and looked down at the child. "I told his nurse to +go and he is almost asleep." + +He flung himself away from her and came over to me. "I have good seats +for both of you in the enclosure. But Nancy won't go." + +I rose and went with him, although I should have been content to sit +there by the fish pond and feast my eyes on Nancy. + +"It is perfectly silly of her to stay," Anthony fumed as we walked on +together. + +"But she loves the children." + +"I hate children." + +I am sure that he did not mean it. What he hated was the fact that the +child had for the moment held Nancy from him. It was as if, looking +forward into the future, he could see like moments, and set himself +against the thought of any interruption of what might be otherwise an +untrammeled and independent partnership. He had, I think, little +jealousy where men were concerned. He was willing to give Nancy the +reins and let her go, believing that she would inevitably come back to +him. He was not, perhaps, so willing to trust her with ties which might +prove more absorbing than himself. + +If I had not had Olaf's letter, I might not have weighed Anthony's +attitude so carefully, but against those burning words and their +comprehension of the divinity and beauty of my Nancy's nature, Anthony's +querulous complaint struck cold. + +I think it was then, as we walked toward the inclosure, that I made +up my mind to let Nancy hear what Olaf had to say to her. + +She stayed out late that night--there was a dinner and a dance--and +Anthony brought her home. I confess that I felt like a traitor as I +heard the murmur of his voice in the hall. + +But when he had gone, and Nancy passed my door on her way to her room, I +called her, and she came in. + +I was in bed, and I had the letter in my hand. "I want you to read it," +I said. "It is from Olaf Thoresen." + +She looked at it, and asked, "When did it come?" + +"Two months ago. The day that he left." + +"Why haven't you shown it to me?" + +"I couldn't make up my mind. I do not know even now that I am right in +letting you see it. But I feel that you have a right to see it. It is +you who must answer it. Not I." + +When she had gone, I turned to the chapter in my book where Becky weeps +crocodile tears over poor Rawdon Crawley on the night before Waterloo. +There is no scene in modern literature to match it. But I couldn't get +my mind on it. Nancy was reading Olaf's letter! + +I kept a copy of it, and here it is: + + "I knew when I first saw her in the garden that she was the One + Woman. I had wanted sea-blood, and when she came, ready for a dip + in the sea, it seemed a sign. One knows these things somehow, and I + knew. I shan't attempt to explain it. + + "When you told me of her lover, I felt that Fate had played a trick + on me. I could not now with honor pursue the woman who was promised + to another. Yet I permitted myself that one day--the day on my + boat. + + "I learned in those hours that I spent with her that she had been + molded by the man she is to marry and that in the years to come she + will shrink to the measure of his demands upon her. She is feminine + enough to be swayed by masculine will. That is at once her strength + and her weakness. Loving a man who will love her for the wonder of + her womanhood, she will fulfill her greatest destiny. Loving, on + the other hand, one who aspires only to fit her into some + attenuated social scheme, she will wither and fade. I think you + know that this is true, that you will not accuse me of being unfair + to any one. + + "And now may I tell you what my dreams have been for her? + + "I am not young. I mean I am past those hot and early years when + men play--Romeo. The dream that is mine is one which has come to a + man of thirty, who, having seen the world, has weighed it and + wants--something more. + + "I have told you of my house in that hidden land which is washed by + the sea. I want to spend the rest of my days there, and I had hoped + that some woman might be found whose love of life, whose love of + adventure, whose love of me, might be so strong that she would see + nothing strange in my demand that she forsake all others and cleave + only to me. + + "By forsaking all others, I mean, literally, what I say. I should + want to cut her off entirely from all former ties. To let any one + into our secret, to reveal that hidden land to a gaping world, + would be to destroy it. We should be followed, tracked by the + newspapers, written up, judged eccentric--mad. And I do not wish to + be judged at all. My separation from my kind would have in it more + than a selfish whim, an obsession for solitude. I want to get back + to primitive civilization. I want my children to face a simpler + world than the one I faced. Do you know what it means for a man to + inherit money, with nothing back of it for two generations but hard + work, although back of that there were, perhaps, kings? It means + that I had, unaided, to fit myself into a social scheme so complex + that I have not yet mastered its intricacies. I do not want to + master them. I do not want my sons to master them. I want them to + find life a thing of the day's work, the day's worship, the day's + out-of-door delights. I want them to have time to think and to + dream. And then some day they shall come back if they wish to + challenge civilization--young prophets, perhaps, out of the + wilderness--seeing a new vision of God and man because of their + detachment from all that might have blinded them. + + "I have a feeling that your Nancy might, if she knew this, dream + with me of a new race, rising to the level of the needs of a new + world. She might see herself as the mother of such a + race--sheltered in my hidden land, sailing the seas with me, held + close to my heart. I think I am a masterful man, but I should be + masterful only to keep her to her best. If she faltered I should + strengthen her. And I should make her happy. I know that I could + make her happy. And for me there will never be another. + + "I am leaving it to you to decide whether you will show her this. I + want her to see it, because it seems to me that she has a right to + decide between the life that I can offer her and the life she must + live if she marries Anthony Peak. But it all involves a point of + honor which I feel that I am not unprejudiced enough to decide. So + to-morrow I shall go away. I shall sail far in the two months that + I shall give myself before I come back. And when I come, you will + let me know whether I am to turn once more to the trackless seas, + or stay to find my happiness." + +This letter when I had first read it had stirred me profoundly, as I +think it must have stirred any man or woman who has yearned amid the +complexities of modern existence to find some land of dreams. Even to my +island, comparatively untouched by the problems of existence in crowded +centers, come the echoes of discord, of social unrest, of political +upheavals, of commercial greed. In this hidden land of Olaf's would be +life stripped of its sordidness, love free from the blight of cynicism +and disillusion--faith, firm in its nearness to God and the wonder of +His works. I envied Olaf his hidden land as I envied Nancy her +opportunity. My blood is the same as Nancy's, and I love the sea. And as +we grow older our souls adventure! + +When Nancy came in to me, she had put on her white _peignoir_, and she +had Olaf's letter in her hand. + +"Ducky," she said, and her voice shook, "I have read it twice--and--I +shouldn't dare to think he was in earnest." + +"Why not?" + +"I should want to go, Elizabeth." + +"And leave the world behind you?" + +"Oh, I haven't any world. It might be different if mother were alive, or +daddy. There'd be only you, Ducky, my dear, dear Ducky." She caught my +hand and held it. + +"And Anthony--" + +"Anthony would get over it"--sharply. "Wouldn't he, Elizabeth? You know +he would." + +"My dear, I don't know." + +"But I know. If I hadn't been in his life, Mimi Sears would have been, +just as Bob Needham would have been in my life if it hadn't been for +Anthony. There isn't any question between Anthony and me of--one woman +for one man. You know that, Elizabeth. But with Olaf--if he doesn't have +me, there will be no one else--ever. He--he will go sailing on--alone--" + +"My dear, how do you know?" + +She flung herself down beside me, a white rose, all fragrance. "I don't +know"--she began to cry. "How silly I am," she sobbed against my +shoulder. "I--I don't know anything about him, do I, Elizabeth--? But it +would be wonderful to be loved--like that." + +All through the night she slept on my arm, with her hand curled in the +hollow of my neck as she had slept as a child. But I did not sleep. My +mind leaped forward into the future, and I saw my world without her. + + * * * * * + +Nancy stayed with me through September. Anthony's holiday was up the +day after the garden party, and he went back to Boston, keeping touch +with Nancy in the modern way by wire, special delivery, and +long-distance telephone. + +It was on a stormy night with wind and beating rain that Nancy told me +Anthony was insisting that she marry him in December. + +"But I can't, Elizabeth. I am going to write to him to-night." + +"When will it be?" + +"Who knows? I--I'm not ready. If he can't wait--he can let me go." + +She did not stay to listen to my comment on her mutiny--she swept out of +the library and sat down at the piano in the other room, making a +picture of herself between the tall white candles which illumined the +dark mahogany and the mulberry brocades. + +I leaned back in my chair and watched her, her white fingers straying +over the keys, her thin blue sleeves flowing back from her white arms. +Now and then I caught a familiar melody among the chords, and once I was +aware of the beat and the swing of the waves in the song which Olaf had +once sung. + +She did not finish it. She rose and wandered to the window, parting the +curtain and looking out into the streaming night. + +"It's an awful storm, Ducky." + +"Yes, my dear. On nights like this I always think of the old days when +the men were on the sea, and the women waited." + +"I'd rather think of my man on the sea, even if I had to wait for him, +Ducky, than shut up in office, stagnating." + +The door-bell rang suddenly. It was a dreadful night for any one to be +out, but Anita, undisturbed and crisp in her white apron and cap, came +through the hall. A voice asked a question, and the blood began to pound +in my body. Things were blurred for a bit, and when my vision cleared--I +saw Olaf in the shine of the candles in the room beyond, with Nancy +crushed to him, his bright head bent, the sheer blue of her frock +infolding him--the archway of the door framing them like the figures of +saints in the stained glass of a church window! + +I knew then that I had lost her. But she did not yield at once. + +"I love him, of course. But a woman couldn't do a thing like that," was +the way she put it to me the next morning. + +I felt, however, that Olaf would master her. Will was set against will, +mind against mind. And at last she showed him the way. "A thousand years +ago you would have carried me off." + +I can see him now as he caught the idea and laughed at her. "Whether you +go of your own accord or I carry you, you will be happy." He lifted her +in his strong hands as if she were a feather, held her, kissed her, and +flashed a glance at me. "You see how easy it would be, and there's a +chaplain on board." + +There is not much more to tell. Nancy went down one morning to the beach +for her bath--and the fog swallowed her up. I have often wondered +whether she planned it, or whether, knowing that she would be there, he +had come in his launch and had borne her away struggling, but not, I am +sure, unwilling. However it happened, the cloak went with her, and I +like to think that she was held in his arms, wrapped in it, when they +reached the ship. + +I like to think, too, of my Nancy in the glowing room with the wolfskins +and the strange old tapestry--and the storms beating helpless against +her happiness. + +I like to think of her as safe in that hidden land, where most of us +fain would follow her--the mistress of that guarded mansion, the wife of +a young sea god, the mother of a new race. + +But, most of all, I like to think of the children. And I have but one +wish for a long life, which might otherwise weigh upon me, that the +years may bring back to the world those prophets from a hidden land, +those young voices crying from the wilderness--the children of Olaf and +of Nancy Greer. + + + + +WHITE BIRCHES + +I + + +A woman, who under sentence of death could plan immediately for a trip +to the circus, might seem at first thought incredibly light-minded. + +You had, however, to know Anne Dunbar and the ten years of her married +life to understand. Her husband was fifteen years her senior, and he had +few illusions. He had fallen in love with Anne because of a certain gay +youth in her which had endured throughout the days of a dreadful +operation and a slow convalescence. He had been her surgeon, and, +propped up in bed, Anne's gray eyes had shone upon him, the red-gold +curls of her cropped hair had given her a look of almost boyish beauty, +and this note of boyishness had been emphasized by the straight +slenderness of the figure outlined beneath the white covers. + +Anne had married Ridgeley Dunbar because she loved him. And love to Anne +had been all fire and flame and spirit. It did not take her long to +learn that her husband looked upon love and life as matters of flesh and +blood--and bones. By degrees his materialism imposed itself upon Anne. +She admired Ridgeley immensely. She worshiped, in fact, the wonder of +his day's work. He healed the sick, he cured the halt and blind, and he +scoffed at Anne's superstitions--"I can match every one of your Bible +miracles. There's nothing to it, my dear. Death is death and life is +life--so make the most of it." + +Anne tried to make the most of it. But she found it difficult. In the +first place her husband was a very busy man. He seemed to be perfectly +happy with his cutting people up, and his medical books, and the +articles which he wrote about the intricate clockwork inside of us which +ticks off the hours from birth to death. Now and then he went out to the +theatre with his wife or to dine with friends. But, as a rule, she went +alone. She had a limousine, a chauffeur, a low swung touring car--and an +electric. Her red hair was still wonderful, and she dressed herself +quite understanding in grays and whites and greens. If she did not wear +habitually her air of gay youth, it was revived in her now and then when +something pleased or excited her. And her eyes would shine as they had +shone in the hospital when Ridgeley Dunbar had first bent over her bed. + +They shone on Christopher Carr when he came home from the war. He was a +friend of her husband. Or rather, as a student in the medical school, he +had listened to the lectures of the older man, and had made up his mind +to know him personally, and had thus, by sheer persistence, linked their +lives together. + +Anne had never met him. He had been in India When she had married +Ridgeley, and then there had been a few years in Egypt where he had +studied some strange germ, of which she could never remember the name. +He had plenty of money, hence he was not tied to a practice. But when +the war began, he had offered his services, and had made a great record. +"He is one of the big men of the future," Ridgeley Dunbar had said. + +But when Christopher came back with an infected arm, which might give +him trouble, it was not the time to talk of futures. He was invited to +spend July at the Dunbars' country home in Connecticut, and Ridgeley +brought him out at the week-end. + +The Connecticut estate consisted of a rambling stone house, an +old-fashioned garden, and beyond the garden a grove of white birches. + +"What a heavenly place," Christopher said, toward the end of dinner; +"how did you happen to find it?" + +"Oh, Anne did it. She motored for weeks, and she bought it because of +the birches." + +Anne's eyes were shining. "I'll show them to you after dinner." + +She had decided at once that she liked Christopher. He still wore his +uniform, and had the look of a soldier. But it wasn't that--it was the +things he had been saying ever since the soup was served. No one had +talked of the war as he talked of it. There had been other doctors whose +minds had been on arms and legs--amputated; on wounds and shell +shock--And there had been a few who had sentimentalized. But Christopher +had seemed neither to resent the frightfulness nor to care about the +moral or spiritual consequences. He had found in it all a certain beauty +of which he spoke with enthusiasm--"A silver dawn, and a patch of Blue +Devils like smoke against it--;" ... "A blood-red sunset, and a lot of +airmen streaming across--" + +He painted pictures, so that Anne saw battles as if a great brush had +splashed them on an invisible canvas. There were just four at the +table--the two men, Anne, and her second cousin, Jeanette Ware, who +lived the year round in the Connecticut house, and was sixty and +slightly deaf, but who wore modern clothes and had a modern mind. + +It was not yet dark, and the light of the candles in sconces and on the +table met the amethyst light that came through, the wide-flung lattice. +Anne's summer gown was something very thin in gray, and she wore an +Indian necklace of pierced silver beads. Christopher had sent it to her +as a wedding-present and she had always liked it. + +When they rose from the table, Christopher said, "Now for the birches." + +Somewhere in the distance the telephone rang, and a maid came in to say +that Dr. Dunbar was wanted. "Don't wait for me," he said, "I'll follow +you." + +Jeanette Ware hated the night air, and took her book to the lamp on the +screened porch, and so it happened that Anne and Christopher came alone +to the grove where the white bodies of the birches shone like slender +nymphs through the dusk. A little wind shook their leaves. + +"No wonder," said Christopher, looking down at Anne, "that you wanted +this--but tell me precisely why." + +She tried to tell him, but found it difficult. "I seem to find something +here that I thought I had lost." + +"What things?" + +"Well--guardian angels--do you believe in them?" She spoke lightly, as +if it were not in the least serious, but he felt that it was serious. + +"I believe in all beautiful things--" + +"I used to think when I was a little girl that they were around me when +I was asleep-- + + 'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John-- + Bless the bed that I lie on--'" + +her laugh was a bit breathless--"but I don't believe in them any more. +Ridgeley doesn't, you know. And it does seem silly--" + +"Oh, no, it isn't--" + +"Ridgeley feels that it is a bit morbid--and perhaps he is right. He +says that we must eat and drink and--be merry," she flung out her hands +with a little gesture of protest, "but he really isn't merry--" + +"I see. He just eats and drinks?" He smiled at her. + +"And works. And his work is--wonderful." + +They sat down on a stone bench which had been hewn out of solid gray +rock. "I wish Ridgeley had time to play," Anne said; "it would be nice +for both of us--" + +The amethyst light had gone, and the dusk descended. Anne's gray dress +was merged into the gray of the rock. She seemed just voice, and phantom +outline, and faint rose fragrance. Christopher recognized the scent. He +had sent her a precious vial in a sandalwood box. Nothing had seemed too +good for the wife of his old friend Dunbar. + +"Life for you and Ridgeley," he told her, "should be something more than +work or play--it should be infinite adventure." + +"Yes. But Ridgeley hasn't time for adventure." + +"Oh, he thinks he hasn't--" + +As Christopher talked after that, Anne was not sure that he was in +earnest. He complained that romance had fallen into disrepute. "With all +the modern stories--you know the formula--an ounce of sordidness, a +flavor of sensationalism, a dash of sex--" One had to look back for the +real thing--Aucassin and Nicolette, and all the rest. "That's why I +haven't married." + +"Well, I have often wondered." + +"If I loved a woman, I should want to make her life all glow and +color--and mine--with her--" + +Anne's eyes were shining. What a big pleasant boy he was. He seemed so +young. He had a way of running his fingers up through his hair. She was +aware of the gesture in the dark. Yes, she liked him. And she felt +suddenly gay and light-hearted, as she had felt in the days when she +first met Ridgeley. + +They talked until the stars shone in the tips of the birch trees. +Ridgeley did not come, and when they went back to the house, they found +that he had been called to New York on an urgent case. He would not +return until the following Friday. + +Anne and Christopher were thus left together for a week to get +acquainted. With only old Jeanette Ware to play propriety. + + + +II + + +It did not take Christopher long to decide that Ridgeley was no longer +in love with his wife. "Of course he would call it love. But he could +live just as well without her. He has made a machine of himself." + +He spoke to Dunbar one night about Anne. "Do you think she is perfectly +well?" + +"Why not?" + +"There's a touch of breathlessness when we walk. Are you sure about her +heart?" + +"She has never been strong--" and that had seemed to be the end of it. + +But it was not the end of it for Christopher. He watched Anne closely, +and once when they climbed a hill together and she gave out, he carried +her to the top. He managed to get his ear against her heart, and what he +heard drained the blood from his face. + +As for Anne, she thought how strong he was--and how fair his hair was +with the sun upon it, for he had tucked his cap in his pocket. + +That night Christopher again spoke to Ridgeley. "Anne's in a bad way." +He told of the walk to the top of the hill. + +Ridgeley listened this time, and the next day he took Anne down into his +office, and did things to her. "But I don't see why you are doing all +this," she complained, as he stuck queer instruments in his ears, and +made her draw long breaths while he listened. + +"Christopher says you get tired when you walk." + +"Well, I do. But there's nothing really the matter, is there?" + +There was a great deal the matter, but there was no hint of it in his +manner. If she had not been his wife, he would probably have told her +the truth--that she had a few months, perhaps a few years ahead of her. +He was apt to be frank with his patients. But he was not frank with +Anne. He had intended to tell Christopher at once. But Christopher was +away for a week. + +In the week that he was separated from her, Christopher learned that he +loved Anne; that he had been in love with her from the moment that she +had stood among the birches--like one of them in her white +slenderness--and had talked to him of guardian angels;--"_Matthew, Mark, +Luke, and John_!" + +He did not believe in saints, nor in the angels whose wings seemed to +enfold Anne, but he believed in beauty--and Anne's seemed lighted from +within, like an alabaster lamp. + +Yet she was very human--and the girl in her and the boy in him had met +in the weeks that he had spent with her. They had found a lot of things +to do--they had fished in shallow brown streams, they had ridden +through miles of lovely country. They had gone forth in search of +adventure, and they had found it; in cherries on a tree by the road, and +he had climbed the tree and had dropped them down to her, and she had +hung them over her ears--He had milked a cow in a pasture as they +passed, and they had drunk it with their sandwiches, and had tied up a +bill in Anne's fine handkerchief and had knotted it to the halter of the +gentle, golden-eared Guernsey. + +But they had found more than adventure--they had found romance--shining +upon them everywhere. "If I were a gipsy to follow the road, and she +could follow it with me," Christopher meditated as he sat in the train +on his way back to Anne. + +But there was Anne's husband, and Christopher's friend--and more than +all there were all the specters of modern life--all the hideous wheels +which must turn if Anne were ever to be his--treachery to Ridgeley--the +divorce court--and then, himself and Anne, living the aftermath, of it +all, facing, perhaps, disillusion-- + +"Oh, not _that_," Christopher told himself, "she'd never grow +less--never anything less than she is--if she could once--care--" + +For he did not know whether Anne cared or not. He might guess as he +pleased--but there had not been a word between them. + +Once more the thought flashed, "If I were a gipsy to follow the road--" + +As his train sped through the countryside, he became aware of flaming +bill-boards--a circus was showing in the towns--the fences fairly blazed +with golden chariots, wild beasts, cheap gods and goddesses, clowns in +frilled collars and peaked hats. He remembered a glorious day that he +had spent as a boy! + +"I'll take Anne," was his sudden decision. + +He laughed to himself, and spent the rest of the way in seeing her at +it. They would drink pink lemonade, and there would be pop-corn +balls--the entrancing smell of sawdust--the beat of the band. He hoped +there would be a tom-tom, and some of the dark people from the Far East. + +He reached his destination at seven o'clock. Dunbar met him at the +station. Anne sat with her husband, and Jeanette was in the back seat. +Christopher had, therefore, a side view of Anne as she turned a little +that she might talk to him. The glint of her bright hair under her gray +sports hat, the light of welcome in her eyes--! + +"I am going to take you to the circus to-morrow. Ridgeley, you'll go +too?" + +Dunbar shook his head. "I've got to get back to town in the morning. And +I'm not sure that the excitement will be good for Anne." + +"Why not?" quickly. "Aren't you well, Anne?" + +She shrugged her shoulders. "Ridgeley seems to think I'm not. But the +circus can't hurt me." + +Nothing more was said about it. Christopher decided to ask Ridgeley +later. But the opportunity did not come until Anne had gone up-stairs, +and Dunbar and Christopher were smoking a final cigar on the porch. + +"What's the matter with her?" Christopher asked. + +Dunbar told him, "She can't get well." + + + +III + + +Anne, getting ready for bed, on the evening of Christopher's arrival, +felt unaccountably tired. His presence had been, perhaps, a bit +over-stimulating. It was good to have him back. She scarcely dared admit +to herself how good. After dinner she and Ridgeley and Christopher had +walked down to the grove of birches. There had been a new moon, and she +and Ridgeley had sat on the stone bench with Christopher at their feet. +She had leaned her head against her husband's shoulder, and he had put +his arm about her in the dark and had drawn her to him. He was rarely +demonstrative, and his tenderness had to-night for some reason hurt her. +She had learned to do without it. + +She had talked very little, but Christopher had talked a great deal. She +had been content to listen. He really told such wonderful things--he +gave her to-night the full story of her silver beads, and how they had +been filched from an ancient temple--and he had bought them from the +thief. "Until I saw you wear them, I always had a feeling that they +ought to go back to the temple--to the god who had perhaps worn them for +a thousand years. If I had known which god, I might have carried them +back. But the thief wouldn't tell me." + +"It would have done no good to carry them back," Ridgeley had said, "and +they are nice for Anne." His big hand had patted his wife's shoulder. + +"Oh," Christopher had been eager, "I want you to hear those temple bells +some day, Anne. Why won't you take her, Dunbar? Next winter--drop your +work, and we'll all go--" + +"I've a fat chance of going." + +"Haven't you made money enough?" + +"It isn't money. You know that. But my patients would set up a howl--" + +"Let 'em howl. You've got a life of your own to live, and so has Anne." + +Dunbar had hesitated for a moment--then, "Anne's better off here." + +Anne, thinking of these things as she got out of her dinner dress and +into a sheer negligee of lace and faint blue, wondered why Ridgeley +should think she was better off. She wanted to see the things of which +Christopher had told her--to hear the temple bells in the dusk--the beat +of the tom-tom on white nights. + +She stood at the window looking out at the moon. She decided that she +could not sleep. She would go down and get a book that she had left on +the table. The men were out-of-doors, on the porch; she heard the murmur +of their voices. + +The voices were distinct as she stood in the library, and Christopher's +words came to her, "What's the matter with Anne?" + +Then her husband's technical explanation, the scientific name which +meant nothing to her, then the crashing climax, "She can't get well." + +She gave a quick cry, and when the men got into the room, she was +crumpled up on the floor. + +Her husband reached her first. "My dear," he said, "you heard?" + +"Yes. Do you mean that I am--going to die, Ridgeley?" + +There was, of course, no way out of it. "It means, my dear, that I've +got to take awfully good care of you. Your heart is bad." + +Christopher interposed. "People live for years with a heart like that." + +But her eyes sought her husband's. "How long do they live?" + +"Many months--perhaps years--without excitement--" + +This then had been the reason for his tenderness. He had known that she +was going to die, and was sorry. But for ten years she had wanted what +he might have given her--what he couldn't give her now--life as she had +dreamed of it. + +She drew a quivering breath--"It isn't quite fair--is it?" + +It didn't seem fair. The two doctors had faced much unfairness of the +kind of which she complained. But it was the first time that, for either +of them, it had come so close. + +They had little comfort to give her, although they attempted certain +platitudes, and presently Ridgeley carried her to her room. + + + +IV + + +She insisted the next morning on going to the circus with Christopher. +She had not slept well, and there were shadows under her eyes. The +physician in Christopher warred with the man. "You ought to rest," he +said at breakfast. Dunbar had gone to New York in accordance with his +usual schedule. There were other lives to think of; and Anne, when he +had looked in upon her that morning, had seemed almost shockingly +callous. + +"No, I don't want to stay in bed, Ridgeley. I am going to the circus. I +shall follow your prescription--to eat and drink and be merry--" + +"I don't think I have put it quite that way, Anne." + +"You have. Quite. 'Death is death and life is life--so make the most of +it.'" + +Perhaps she was cruel. But he knew, too, that she was afraid. "My dear," +he said gently, "if you can get any comfort out of your own ideas, it +might be better." + +"But you believe they are just my own ideas--you don't believe they are +true?" + +"I should like to think they were true." + +"You ought to rest," said Christopher at the breakfast table. + +"I ought not. There are to be no more oughts--ever--" + +He nodded as if he understood, leaning elbows on the table. + +"I am going to pack the days full"--she went on. "Why not? I shall have +only a few months--and then--annihilation--" She flung her question +across the table. "You believe that, don't you?" + +He evaded. "We sleep--'perchance to dream.'" + +"I don't want to dream. They might be horrid dreams--" + +And then Jeanette came down, and poured their coffee, and asked about +the news in the morning paper. + +Dressed for her trip to the circus, Anne looked like a girl in her +teens--white skirt and short green coat--stout sports shoes and white +hat. She wore her silver beads, and Christopher said, "I'm not sure that +I would if I were you." + +"Why not?" + +"In such a crowd." + +But she kept them on. + +They motored to the circus grounds, and came in out of the white glare +to the cool dimness of the tent as if they had dived from the sun-bright +surface of the sea. But there the resemblance ceased. Here was no +silence, but blatant noise--roar and chatter and shriek, the beat of the +tom-tom, the thin piping of a flute--the crash of a band. But it was the +thin piping which Christopher followed, guiding Anne with his hand on +her arm. + +Following the plaintive note, they came at last to the snake-charmer--an +old man in a white turban. The snakes were in a covered basket. He sat +with his feet under him and piped. + +Christopher spoke to him in a strange tongue. The piping broke off +abruptly and the man answered with eagerness. There was a quick +interchange of phrases. + +"I know his village," Christopher said; "he is going to show you his +snakes." + +A crowd gathered, but the snake-charmer saw only the big man who had +spoken to his homesick heart, and the girl with the silver beads. He +knew another girl who had had a string of beads like that--and they had +brought her luck--a dark-skinned girl, his daughter. Her husband had +bestowed the beads on her marriage night, and her first child had been a +son. + +He put the thin reed to his lips, and blew upon it. The snakes lifted +their heads. He drew them up and out of the basket, and put them through +their fantastic paces. Then he laid aside his pipe, shut them in their +basket, and spoke to Christopher. + +"He says that no evil can teach you while you wear the beads," +Christopher told Anne. + +The old man, with his eyes on her intent face, spoke again. "What you +think is evil--cannot be evil," Christopher interpreted. "The gods know +best." + +They moved toward the inner tent. + +"Are you tired?" Christopher asked. "We don't have to stay." + +"I want to stay," and so they went in, and presently with a blare of +trumpets the great parade began. They looked down on men and women in +Roman chariots, men on horseback, women on horseback, on elephants, on +camels--painted ladies in howdahs, painted ladies in sedan +chairs--Cleopatra, Pompadour--history reduced to pantomime, color +imposed upon color, glitter upon glitter, the beat of the tom-tom, the +crash of the band, the thin piping, as the white-turbaned snake-charmer +showed in the press of the crowd. + +Christopher's eyes went to Anne. She was leaning forward, one hand +clasping the silver beads. He would have given much to know what was in +her mind. How little she was and how young. And how he wanted to get her +away from the thing which hung suspended over her like a keen-edged +sword. + +But to get her away--how? He could never get her away from her thoughts. +Unless.... + +Suddenly he heard her laughing. Two clowns were performing with a lot of +little dogs. One of the dogs was a poodle who played the fool. "What a +darling," Anne was saying. + +There was more than they could look at--each ring seemed a separate +circus--one had to have more than a single pair of eyes. Christopher was +blind to it all--except when Anne insisted, "Look--look!" + +Six acrobats were in the ring--four men and two women. Their tights were +of a clear shimmering blue, with silver trunks. One could not tell the +women from the men, except by their curled heads, and their smaller +stature. They were strong, wholesome, healthy. Christopher knew the +quality of that health--hearts that pumped like machines--obedient +muscles under satin skins. One of the women whirled in a series of +handsprings, like a blue balloon--her body as fluid as quicksilver. If +he could only borrow one-tenth of that endurance for Anne--he might keep +her for years. + +Then came Pantaloon, and Harlequin and Columbine. The old man was funny, +but the youth and the girl were exquisite--he, diamond-spangled and lean +as a lizard, she in tulle skirts and wreath of flowers. They did all the +old tricks of masks and slapping sticks, of pursuit and retreat, but +they did them so beautifully that Anne and Christopher sat +spellbound--what they were seeing was not two clever actors on a sawdust +stage, but love in its springtime--girl and boy--dreams, rapture, +radiance. + +Then, in a moment, Columbine was dead, and Harlequin wept over +her--frost had killed the flower--love and life were at an end. + +Christopher was drawing deep breaths. Anne was tense. But +now--Columbine was on her feet, and Harlequin was blowing kisses to the +audience! + +"Let's get out of this," Christopher said, almost roughly, and led Anne +down the steps and into the almost deserted outer tent. They looked for +the snake-charmer, but he was gone. "Eating rice somewhere or saying his +prayers," Christopher surmised. + +"How could he know about the gods?" Anne asked, as they drove home. + +"They know a great deal--these old men of the East," Christopher told +her, and talked for the rest of the way about the strange people among +whom he had spent so many years. + + + +V + + +Ridgeley did not come home to dinner. He telephoned that he would be +late. It was close and warm. Christopher, sitting with Anne and Jeanette +on the porch, decided that a storm was brewing. + +Anne was restless. She went down into the garden, and Christopher +followed her. She wore white, and he was aware of the rose scent. He +picked a rose for her as he passed through the garden. "Bend your head, +and I'll put it in your hair." + +"I can't wear pink." + +"It is white in the dusk--" He put his hands on her shoulders, stopped +her, and stuck the rose behind her ear. Then he let her go. + +They came to the grove of birches, and sat down on the stone seat. It +had grown dark, and the lightning flashing up from the horizon gave to +the birches a spectral whiteness--Anne was a silver statue. + +"It was queer," she said, "about the old man at the circus." + +"About the beads?" + +"Yes. I wonder what he meant, Christopher? _'What you think is +evil--cannot be evil'?_ Do you think he meant--Death?" + +He did not answer at once, then he said, abruptly, "Anne, how did it +happen that you and Ridgeley drifted apart?" + +"Oh, it's hard to tell." + +"But tell me." + +"Well, when we were first married, I expected so much ... things that +girls dream about--that he would always have me in his thoughts, and +that our lives would be knit together. I think we both tried hard to +have it that way. I used to ride with him on his rounds, and he would +tell me about his patients. And at night I'd wait up for him, and have +something to eat, and it was--heavenly. Ridgeley was so ... fine. But +his practice got so big, and sometimes he wouldn't say a word when I +rode with him.... And he would be so late coming in at night, and he'd +telephone that I'd better go to bed.... And, well, that was the +beginning. I don't think it is really his fault or mine ... it's just +... life." + +"It isn't life, and you know it," passionately. "Anne, if you had +married me ... do you think...?" He reached out in the dark and took +her hand. "Oh, my dear, we might as well talk it out." + +She withdrew her hand. "Talk what out?" + +"You know. I've learned to care for you an awful lot. I had planned to +go away. But I can't go now ... not and leave you to face things alone." + +He heard her quick breath. "But I've got to face them." + +"But not alone. Anne, do you remember what you said ... this morning? +That you were going to pack the days full? And you can't do that without +some one to help you. And Ridgeley won't help. Anne, let me do it. Let +me take you away from here ... away from Ridgeley. We will go where we +can hear the temple bells. We'll ride through the desert ... we'll set +our sails for strange harbors. We'll love until we forget everything, +but the day, the hour,--the moment! And when the time comes for endless +dreams...." + +"Christopher...." + +"Anne, listen." + +"You mustn't say things like that to me ... you must not...!" + +"I must. I want you to have happiness. We'll crowd more in to a few +short months than some people have in a lifetime. And you have a right +to it." + +"Would it be happiness?" + +"Why not? In a way we are all pushing death ahead of us. Who knows that +he will be alive to-morrow? There's this arm of mine ... there's every +chance that I'll have trouble with it. And an automobile accident may +wreck a honeymoon. You've as much time as thousands who are counting on +more." + +The lightning flashed and showed the birches writhing. + +"But afterward, Christopher, _afterward_...?" + +"Well, if it is Heaven, we'll have each other. And if it is Hell ... +there were Paolo and Francesca ... and if it is sleep, I'll dream +eternally of you! Anne ... Anne, do you love me enough to do it?" + +"Christopher, please!" + +But the storm was upon them--rain and wind, and the thunder a cannonade. +Christopher, brought at last to the knowledge of its menace, picked Anne +up in his arms, and ran for shelter. When they reached the house, they +found Ridgeley there. He was stern. "It was a bad business to keep her +out. She's afraid of storms." + +"Were you afraid?" Christopher asked her, as Ridgeley went to look after +the awnings. + +"I forgot the storm," she said, and did not meet his eyes. + + + +VI + + +Lying awake in her wide bed, Anne thought it over. She was still shaken +by Christopher's vehemence. She had believed him her friend, and had +found him her lover--and oh, he had brought back youth to her. If he +left her now, how could she stand it--the days with no one but Jeanette +Ware, and the soul-shaking knowledge of what was ahead? + +And Ridgeley would not care--much. In a week be swallowed up by his +work.... + +She tried to read, but found it difficult. Across each page flamed +Christopher's sentences.... "We'll ride through the desert.... We'll set +our sails for strange harbors...." + +Was that what the old man had meant at the circus.... "What you think is +evil--cannot be evil"? Would Christopher give her all that she had hoped +of Ridgeley? If she lived to be eighty, she and Ridgeley would--jog. Was +Christopher right--"You'll have more happiness in a few months than some +people in a lifetime?" + +She heard her husband moving about in the next room, the water booming +in his bath. A thin line of light showed under his door. + +She shut her book and turned out her lamp. The storm had died down and +the moon was up. Through the open window she could see beyond the garden +to the grove of birches. + +Hitherto, the thought of the little grove had been as of a sanctuary. +She was aware, suddenly, that it had become a place of contending +forces. Were the guardian angels driven out...? + +_But there weren't any guardian angels_! Ridgeley had said that they +were silly. And Christopher didn't believe in them. She wished that her +mother might have lived to talk it over. Her mother had had no doubts. + +The door of her husband's room opened, and he was silhouetted against +the light. Coming up to the side of her bed, he found her wide-eyed. + +"Can't you sleep, my dear?" + +"No." + +"I don't want to give you anything." + +"I don't want anything." + +He sat down by the side of the bed. He had on his blue bathrobe, and the +open neck showed his strong white throat. "My dear," he said, "I've been +thinking of what you said this morning--about my lack of belief and the +effect it has had on yours. And--I'm sorry." + +"Being sorry doesn't help any, does it, Ridgeley?" + +"I should like to think that you had your old faiths to--comfort you." + +She had no answer for that, and presently he said, "Are you warm +enough?" and brought an extra blanket, because the air was cool after +the storm, and then he bent and kissed her forehead. "Shut your eyes and +sleep if you can." + +But of course she couldn't sleep. She lay there for hours, weighing what +he had said to her against what Christopher had said. Each man was +offering her something--Christopher, life at the expense of all her +scruples. Ridgeley, the resurrection of burnt-out beliefs. + +She shivered a bit under the blanket. It would be heavenly to hear the +temple bells--with youth beside her. To drink the wine of life from a +brimming cup. But all the time she would be afraid, nothing could take +away that fear.--Nothing, nothing, _nothing_. + +She was glad that her husband was awake. The thin line of light still +showed beneath his door. It would be dreadful to be alone--in the dark. +At last she could stand it no longer. She got out of bed, wrapped +herself in a robe that lay at the foot of it, and opened the door. + +"May I leave it open?" + +As her husband turned in his chair, she saw his hand go quickly, as if +to cover the paper on which he was writing. "Of course, my dear. Are you +afraid?" + +"I am always afraid, Ridgeley. Always--" + +She put her hands up to her face and began to cry. He came swiftly +toward her and took her in his arms. "Hush," he said, "nothing can hurt +you, Anne." + + + +VII + + +When she waked in the morning, it was with, the remembrance of his +tenderness. Well, of course he was sorry for her. Anybody would be. But +Christopher was sorry, too. And Christopher had something to offer +her--more than Ridgeley--yes, it was more-- + +She was half afraid to go down-stairs. Christopher would be at breakfast +on the porch. Jeanette would be there, pouring coffee, and perhaps +Ridgeley if he had no calls. And Christopher would talk in his gay young +voice--and Ridgeley would read the newspaper, and she and Christopher +would make their plans for the day-- + +She rose and began to dress, but found herself suddenly panic-stricken +at the thought of the plans that Christopher might make. If they motored +off together, he would talk to her as he had talked in the grove of +birches--of the temple bells, and of the desert, and the strange +harbors--and how could she be sure that she would be strong enough to +resist--and what if she listened, and let him have his way? + +She decided to eat her breakfast in bed, and rang for it. A note came up +from Christopher. "Don't stay up-stairs. Ridgeley left hours ago, and I +shan't enjoy my toast and bacon if you aren't opposite me. I have picked +a white rose to put by your plate. And I have a thousand things to say +to you--" + +His words had a tonic effect. Oh, why not--? What earthly difference +would it make? And hadn't Browning said something like that--"_Who knows +but the world may end to-night_?" + +She was not sure that was quite the way that Browning had put it, and +she thought she would like to be sure--she could almost see herself +saying it to Christopher. + +So she went into her husband's room to get the book. + +Ridgeley's books were on the shelf above his desk. They had nothing to +do with his medical library--that was down-stairs in his office, and now +and then he would bring up a great volume. But he had a literary side, +and he had revealed some of it to Anne in the days before he had been +too busy. His Browning was marked, and it was not hard to find "The Last +Ride." She opened at the right page, and stood reading--an incongruous +figure amid Ridgeley's masculine belongings in her sheer negligee of +faint blue. + +She closed the book, put it back on the shelf, and was moving away, when +her eyes were caught by two words--"For Anne," at the top of a sheet of +paper which lay on Ridgeley's desk. The entire page was filled with +Ridgeley's neat professional script, and in a flash the gesture which he +had made the night before returned to her, as if he were trying to hide +something from her gaze. + +She bent and read.... + +Oh, was this the way he had spent the hours of the night? Searching for +words which might comfort her, might clear away her doubts, might bring +hope to her heart? + +And he had found things like this: "_My little sister, Death_," said +good St. Francis; ... "_The darkness is no darkness with thee, but the +night is as clear as day; the darkness and light to thee are both +alike_..." "_Yea, though I Walk through the Valley of the Shadow_ ..." +These and many others, truths which had once been a part of her. + +She read, avidly. Oh, she had been thirsty--for this! Hungry for this! +And _Ridgeley_--! The tears dripped so that she could hardly see the +lines. She laid her cheek against the paper, and her tears blistered it. + +She carried it into her room. Christopher's note still lay on her +pillow. She read it again, but she had no ears now for its call. She +rang for her maid. "I shall stay in bed and write some letters." + +She wrote to Christopher, after many attempts. "We have been such good, +_good_ friends. And we mustn't spoil it. Perhaps if you could go away +for a time, it would be best for both of us. I am going to believe that +some day you will find great happiness. And you would never have found +happiness with me, you would have found only--fear. And I know now what +the old man meant about the beads--'What you think is evil--cannot be +evil.' Christopher, death isn't evil, if it isn't the end of things. And +I am going to believe that it is not the end ..." + +Christopher went into town before lunch, and later Anne sat alone on +the stone bench in her grove of birches. They were serene and still in +the gold of the afternoon. Yet last night they had writhed in the storm. +She, too, had been swept by a storm.... She missed her playmate--but she +had a sense of relief in the absence of her tempestuous lover. + +Ridgeley came home that night with news of Christopher's sudden +departure. "He found telegrams. He told me to say 'good-bye' to you." + +"I am sorry," Anne said, and meant it. Sorry that it had to be--but +being sorry could not change it. + +After dinner Ridgeley had a call to make, and Anne went up to bed. But +she was awake when her husband came in, and the thin line of light +showed. She waited until she heard the boom of water in his bath, and +then she slipped out of bed and opened the door between. She was propped +up in her pillows when he reappeared in his blue bathrobe. + +"Hello," he called, "did you want me?" + +"Yes, Ridgeley." + +He came in. "Anything the matter?" + +"No. I'm not sick. But I want to talk." + +"About what?" + +"This--" She showed him the paper with its caption, "For Anne." + +"Ridgeley, did you write it because I was--afraid?" her hand went out to +him. + +His own went over it. "I think I wrote it because I was afraid." + +"You?" + +His grip almost hurt her. "My dear, my dear, I haven't believed in +things. How could I ... with all the facts that men like me have to deal +with? But when I faced ... losing you...! love's _got_ to be eternal..." + +"Ridgeley." + +"I won't ... lose you. Oh, I know. We've grown apart. I don't know how a +man is going to help it ... in this darned whirlpool.... But you've +always been right ... here.... I've felt I might ... have you, if I ever +had time ..." his voice broke. + +"And I thought you didn't care." + +"I was afraid of that, and somehow I couldn't get ... back ... to where +we began. I was always thinking I would.... And then this came.... + +"I always hated to kill the things that you believed, Anne. I thought I +had to be honest ... that it would be better for you to face the +truth.... But which one of us knows the Truth? Not a man among us. And I +came across this ... '_Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not +quickened except it die_....' We are all fools--the wisest of us...." + +She held out her arms to him, and he gathered her close. She felt that +it had been a thousand years since she had prayed, yet she heard herself +speaking.... And when he laid her back upon her pillows, she was aware +that together they had approached some height from which they would +never again descend. + +"I'll leave the door open," he said, as he left her. "I shall be +reading, and you can see the light." + +It seemed as if the light from his room flooded the world. The four +posts of her bed once more were tipped with shining saints! She turned +on her pillow--beyond the garden, the grove of white birches was steeped +in celestial radiance. + +"_My little sister, Death_," said good St. Francis. + +With her hand under her cheek, she slept at last, as peacefully as a +child. + + + + +THE EMPEROR'S GHOST + +I + + +I had not known Tom Randolph a week before I was aware that life was not +real to him. All his world was a stage, with himself as chief player. He +dramatized everything--actions, emotions, income. Thus he made poverty +picturesque, love a thing of the stars, the day's work a tragedy, or, if +the professors proved kind, a comedy. He ate and drank, as it were, to +music, combed his hair and blacked his boots in the glare of footlights; +made exits and entrances of a kind unknown to men like myself who lacked +his sense of the histrionic. + +He was Southern and chivalric. His traditions had to do with the doffed +hat and the bent knee. He put woman on a pedestal and kept her there. No +man, he contended, was worthy of her--what she gave was by the grace of +her own sweet charity! + +It will be seen that in all this he missed the modern note. As a boy he +had been fed upon Scott, and his later reading had not robbed him of his +sense of life as a flamboyant spectacle. + +He came to us in college with a beggarly allowance from an impoverished +estate owned by his grandfather, a colonel of the Confederacy, who after +the war had withdrawn with his widowed daughter to his worthless acres. +In due time the daughter had died, and her child had grown up in a world +of shadows. On nothing a year the colonel had managed, in some +miraculous fashion, to preserve certain hospitable old customs. +Distinguished guests still sat at his table and ate ducks cooked to the +proper state of rareness, and terrapin in a chafing-dish, with a dash of +old sherry. If between these feasts there was famine the world never +knew. + +It was perhaps from the colonel that Randolph had learned to make +poverty picturesque. His clothes were old and his shoes were shabby. But +his strength lay in the fact that he did not think of himself as poor. +He had so much, you see, that the rest of us lacked. He was a Randolph. +He had name, position, ancestry. He was, in short, a gentleman! + +I do not think he looked upon any of us as gentlemen, not in the Old +Dominion sense. He had come to our small Middle-Western college because +it was cheap and his finances would not compass education anywhere else. + +In an older man his prejudices would have been insufferable, but his +youth and charm made us lenient. We contented ourselves with calling him +"Your Highness," and were always flattered when he asked us to his +rooms. + +His strong suit was hospitality. It was in his blood, of course. When +his allowance came he spent it in giving the rest of us a good time. His +room was as shabby as himself--a table, an ink-spotted desk, a couch +with a disreputable cover, a picture of Washington, a half-dozen books, +and a chafing-dish. + +The chafing-dish was the hump and the hoof of his festivities. He made +rarebits and deviled things with an air that had been handed down from +generations of epicures. I can see him now with his black hair in a +waving lock on his forehead, in worn slippers and faded corduroy coat, +sitting on the edge of the table smoking a long pipe, visualizing +himself as the lord of a castle--the rest of us as vassals of a rather +agreeable and intelligent sort! + +It was perfectly natural that he should stage his first love-affair, and +when he was jilted that he should dramatize his despair. For days after +Madge Ballou had declared her preference for Dicky Carson, Randolph +walked with melancholy. He came to my rooms and sat, a very young and +handsome Hamlet, on my fire-bench, with his chin in his hand. + +"Why should she like Dicky best?" + +"She has no imagination." + +"But Dicky's a--beast--" + +"With a fat bank-account." + +"Money wouldn't count with Madge." + +"I'm not so sure--" + +"Women are not like that, MacDonald." + +I saw, as he went on with his arguments, that she had become to him an +Ophelia, weakly led. Women in his lexicon of romance might be weak but +never mercenary. I think he finally overthrew her in his mind with "_Get +thee to a nunnery!_" I know that he burned her picture; he showed me the +ashes in a silver stamp-box. + +He had, of course, his heroes--there were moments when unconsciously he +aped them. It was after a debate that the boys began to call him +"Bonaparte." He had defended the Little Corporal, and in defending him +had personified him. With that dark lock over his forehead, his arms +folded, he had flung defiance to the deputies, and for that moment he +had been not Tom Randolph but the Emperor himself. + +He won the debate, amid much acclaim, and when he came down to us I will +confess to a feeling, which I think the others shared, of a soul within +his body which did not belong there. Tom Randolph was, of course, Tom +Randolph, but the voice which had spoken to us had rung with the power +of that other voice which had been stilled at St. Helena! + +The days that followed dispelled the illusion, but the name clung to +him. I think he liked it, and emphasized the resemblance. He let his +hair grow long, sunk his head between his shoulders, was quick and +imperious in his speech. + +Then came the war. Belgium devastated, France invaded. Randolph was +fired at once. + +"I'm going over." + +"But, my dear fellow--" + +"There's our debt to Lafayette." + +With his mind made up there was no moving him. The rest of us held back. +Our imaginations did not grasp at once the world's need of us. + +But Randolph saw himself a Henry of Navarre--_white plumes_; a Richard +of the Lion Heart--_crusades and red crosses_; a Cyrano without the +nose--"_These be cadets of Gascony_--" + +"You see, MacDonald," he said, flaming, "we Randolphs have always done +it." + +"Done what?" + +"Fought. There's been a Randolph in every war over here, and before that +in a long line of battles--" + +He told me a great deal about the ancient Randolphs, and the way they +had fought on caparisoned steeds with lances. + +"War to-day is different," I warned him. "Not so pictorial." + +But I knew even then that he would make it pictorial. He would wear his +khaki like chain armor. + +He gave us a farewell feast in his room. It was the season for young +squirrels, and he made us a Brunswick stew. It was the best thing I had +ever tasted, with red peppers in it and onions, and he served it with +an old silver ladle which he had brought from home. + +While we ate he talked of war, of why men should fight--"for your own +honor and your country's." + +There were pacifists among us and they challenged him. He flung them +off; their protests died before his passion. + +"We are men, not varlets!" + +Nobody laughed at him. It showed his power over us that none of us +laughed. We simply sat there and listened while he told us what he +thought of us. + +At last one who was braver than the rest cried out: "Go to it, +Bonaparte!" + +In a sudden flashing change Randolph hunched his shoulders, set his +slouched hat sidewise low on his brows, wrapped the couch-cover like a +cloak about him. His glance swept the room. There was no anger in it, +just a sort of triumphant mockery as he gave the famous speech to +Berthier. + +"They send us a challenge in which our honor is at stake--a thing a +Frenchman has never refused--and since a beautiful queen wishes to be a +witness to the combat, let us be courteous, and in order not to keep her +waiting, _let us march without sleeping as far as Saxony--_!" + +I can't tell you of the effect it had on us. We were gripped by the +throats, and the room was so still that we heard ourselves breathe. Four +of the fellows left next day with Randolph. I think he might have taken +us all if we had not been advised and held back by the protests of our +professors, who spoke of war with abhorrence. + + + +II + + +Three years later I saw him again, in France. Our own country had gotten +into the fight by that time, and I was caught in the first draft. I had +heard now and then from Randolph. He had worked for nearly three years +with the Ambulance Corps, and was now fighting for democracy with his +fellows. + +We had been shivering in the rain for a week in one of the recaptured +French towns when a group of seasoned officers were sent to lick us into +shape. Among the other officers was Randolph, and when he came upon me +he gave a shout of welcome. + +"Good old MacDonald--at last!" + +I'll confess that his "at last" carried a sting, and I remember feeling +the injustice of our equal rank, as I set his years of privation and +hardship against my few weeks in a training camp. + +He was very glad to see me, and the very first night he made me a +Brunswick stew. This time there were no squirrels, but he begged young +rabbits from the old couple who had once been servants in the chateau +where we were billeted. They had trudged back at once on the retirement +of the Boches, and were making the best of the changed conditions. + +There was, of course, no chafing-dish, and the stew was cooked in an +iron pot which hung over an open fire in the ancient kitchen. Before +they sold the rabbits the old people had made one condition: + +"If we may have a bit for mademoiselle--?" + +"For mademoiselle?" + +"She is here with us, monsieur. She had not been well. We have been +saving the rabbits for her." + +Randolph made the grand gesture that I so well remembered. + +"My good people--if she would dine with us--?" + +The old woman shook her head. She was not sure. She would see. + +Perhaps she said pleasant things of us, perhaps mademoiselle was lonely. +But whatever the reason, mademoiselle consented to dine, coming out of +her seclusion, very thin and dark and small, but self-possessed. + +I have often wondered what she thought, in those first moments of +meeting, of Randolph, as with a spoon for a sceptre, the manner of a +king, he presided over the feast. She spoke very good English, but +needed to have many things explained. + +"Do gentlemen cook in your country?" + +Randolph sketched life as he had known it on his grandfather's +plantation--negroes to do it all, except when gentlemen pleased. + +She drew the mantle of her distaste about her. "Black men? I shouldn't +like it." + +Well, I saw before the evening ended that Randolph had met his peer. For +every one of his aristocratic prejudices she matched him with a dozen. +And he loved her for it! At last here was a lady who would buckle on his +armor, watch his shield, tie her token on his sleeve! + +He sat on the edge of the table in his favorite attitude--hunched-up +shoulders, folded arms. His hair was cut too short now for the dark +lock, but even without it I saw her glance at him now and then in a +puzzled fashion, as if she weighed some familiar memory. + +But it was one of the peasants who voiced it--the old man carrying away +the remains of the stew muttered among the shadows to his wife: + +"C'est Napoleon." + +Mademoiselle caught her breath. "Oui, Gaston." Then to me, in English: +"Do you see it?" + +"Yes. We called him that at school." + +"Bonaparte?" + +"Yes." + +She was thin and dark no longer--illumined, the color staining her +cheeks. "Oh, if he were here--to save France!" + +I protested. "An emperor against an emperor?" + +"He was a great democrat--he loved the common people. For a little while +power spoiled him--but he loved the people. And the Bourbons did not +love them--Louis laughed at them--and lost his head. And Napoleon never +laughed. He loved France--if he had lived he would have saved us." + +Out of the shadows the old woman spoke. "They say he will come again." + +"Oui, Margot." Mademoiselle was standing, with her hand on her heart. +Randolph's eyes devoured her. He had taken no part in the conversation. +It was almost uncanny to see him sitting there, silent, arms folded, +shoulders hunched, sparkling eyes missing nothing. "It is true," +mademoiselle told us earnestly, "that the tra-dee-tion says he will come +back--when France needs him--the soldiers talk of it." + +"In almost every country," I said, "there is a story like that, of +heroes who will come again." + +"But Napoleon, monsieur--surely he would not fail France?" + +The thing that followed was inevitable. Randolph and Mademoiselle Julie +fell in love with each other. He drew her as he had drawn us at school. +She was not a Madge Ballou, mundane and mercenary; she was rather a +Heloise, a Nicolette, a Jeanne d'Arc, self-sacrificing, impassioned. She +met Randolph on equal ground. They soared together--mixed love of +country with love of lovers. They rose at dawn to worship the sun, they +walked forth at twilight to adore together the crescent moon. + +And all the while war was at the gates; we could hear the boom of big +guns. The spring drive was on and the Germans were coming back. + +I shall never forget the night that Randolph and I were ordered to the +front. Mademoiselle had come in with her hands full of violets. +Randolph, meeting her for the first time after a busy day, took her +hands and the frail blossoms in his eager clasp. He was an almost +perfect lover--Aucassin if you will--Abelard at his best. + +"Violets," he said. "May I have three?" + +"Why three, monsieur?" + +"For love, mademoiselle, and truth and constancy." + +He took his prayer-book from his pocket, and she gave him the violets. +He touched them to her lips, then crushed them to his own. I saw +it--sitting back in the shadows. I should never have thought of kissing +a girl like that. But it was rather wonderful. + +He shut the violets in the little book. + +They sat very late that night by the fire. I went in and out, not +disturbing them. I saw him kneel at her feet as he left her, and she +bent forward and kissed his forehead. + +He talked of her a great deal after that. More than I would have talked +of love, but his need of an audience drove him to confidences. He felt +that he must make himself worthy of her--to go back to her as anything +less than a hero might seem to belittle her. I am not sure that he was +braver than other men, but his feeling for effect gave him a sort of +reckless courage. Applause was a part of the game--he could not do +without it. + +And so came that night when a small band of us were cut off from the +rest. We were intrenched behind a small eminence which hid us from our +enemies, with little hope of long escaping their observation. It had +been wet and cold, and there had been no hot food for days. We, French +and Americans, had fought long and hard; we were in no state to stand +suspense, yet there was nothing to do but wait for a move on the other +side, a move which could end in only one way--bayonets and bare hands, +and I, for one, hated it. + +I think the others hated it, too, all but Randolph. The rain had stopped +and the moon flooded the world. He turned his face up to it and dreamed. + +The knowledge came to us before midnight that the Huns had found us. It +became only a matter of moments before they would be upon us, the thing +would happen which we hated--bayonets and bare hands, with the chances +in favor of the enemy! + +Somewhere among our men rose a whimper of fear, and then another. You +see, they were cold and hungry and some of them were wounded, and they +were cut off from hope. It wasn't cowardice. I call no man a coward. +They had faced death a thousand times, some of them. Yet there was +danger in their fears. + +Randolph was next to me. "My God, MacDonald," he said, "they've lost +their nerve--" + +There wasn't a second to spare. I saw him doing something to his hat. + +As I have said, there was a moon. It lighted that battle-scarred world +with a sort of wild beauty, and suddenly in a clear space above us on +the little hill a figure showed, motionless against the still white +night--a figure small yet commanding, three-cornered hat pulled low--oh, +you have seen it in pictures a thousand times--Napoleon of Marengo, of +Austerlitz, of Jena, of Friedland--but over and above everything, +Napoleon of France! + +Of course the Germans shot him. But when they came over the top they +were met by Frenchmen who had seen a ghost. "C'est l'Empereur! C'est +l'Empereur!" they had gasped. "He returns to lead us." + +They fought like devils, and--well, the rest of us fought, too, and all +the time, throughout the bloody business, I had before me that vision of +Randolph alone in the moonlight. Or was it Randolph? Who knows? Do great +souls find time for such small business? And was it small? + +His medals were, of course, sent to the colonel. But the violets in the +little book went back to mademoiselle. And the old hat, crushed into +three-cornered shape, went back. And I told her what he had done. + +She wrote to me in her stiff English: + +"I have loved a great man. For me, monsieur, it is enough. Their souls +unite in victory!" + + + + +THE RED CANDLE + + +It was so cold that the world seemed as stiff and stark as a poet's +hell. A little moon was frozen against a pallid sky. The old dark houses +with their towers and gables wore the rigid look of iron edifices. The +saint over the church door at the corner had an icicle on his nose. +Even the street lights shone faint and benumbed through clouded glass. + +Ostrander, with his blood like ice within his veins, yearned for a +Scriptural purgatory with red fire and flame. To be warm would be +heaven. It was a wise old Dante who had made hell cold! + +As he crossed the threshold of his filthy tenement he felt for the first +time a sense of its shelter. Within its walls there was something that +approached warmth, and in his room at the top there was a bed with a +blanket. + +Making his way toward the bed and its promise of comfort, he was stopped +on the second stairway by a voice which came out of the dark. + +"Mr. Tony, you didn't see our tree." + +Peering down, he answered the voice: "I was going up to get warm." + +"Milly said to tell you that we had a fire." + +"A real fire, Pussy? I didn't know that there was one in the world." + +He came down again to the first floor. Pussy was waiting--a freckled dot +of a child tied up in a man's coat. + +The fire was in a small round stove. On top of the stove something was +boiling. The room was neat but bare, the stove, a table, and three +chairs its only furnishing. In a room beyond were two beds covered with +patchwork quilts. + +On the table was a tree. It was a Christmas tree--just a branch of pine +and some cheap spangly things. The mother of the children sewed all day +and late into the night. She had worked a little longer each night for a +month that the children might have the tree. + +There was no light in the room but that of a small and smoky lamp. + +Milly spoke of it. "We ought to have candles." + +Ostrander, shrugged close to the stove, with his hands out to its heat, +knew that they ought to have electric lights, colored ones, a hundred +perhaps, and a tree that touched the stars! + +But he said: "When I go out I'll bring you a red candle--a long one--and +we'll put it on the shelf over the table." + +Milly, who was resting her tired young body in a big rocker with the +baby in her arms, asked: "Can we put it in a bottle or stand it in a +cup? We haven't any candlestick." + +"We can do better than that," he told her, "with a saucer turned upside +down and covered with salt to look like snow." + +Pussy, economically anxious, asked, "Can we eat the salt afterward?" + +"Of course." + +"Then, may we do it, Milly?" + +"Darling, yes. How nice you always fix things, Mr. Tony!" + +Long before he had known them he had fixed things--things which would +have turned this poor room into an Aladdin's palace. There was that +Christmas Eve at the Daltons'. It had been his idea to light the great +hall with a thousand candles when they brought in the Yule log, and to +throw perfumed fagots on the fire. + +He came back to the round stove and the tiny tree. "I like to fix +things," he said. "Once upon a time--" + +They leaned forward eagerly to this opening. + +"Of course you know it isn't true," he prefaced. + +"Of course it couldn't be true"--Pussy was reassuringly sceptical--"the +things that you tell us couldn't really happen--ever--" + +"Well, once upon a time, there was a tree in a great house by a great +river, and it was set in a great room with squares of black-and-white +marble for a floor, and with a fountain with goldfish swimming in its +basin, and there were red-and-blue parrots on perches, and orange-trees +in porcelain pots, and the tree itself wasn't a pine-tree or a fir or a +cedar; it was a queer round, clipped thing of yew, and it had red and +blue and orange balls on it, and in the place of a wax angel on top +there was a golden Buddha, and there were no candles--but the light +shone out and out of it, like the light shines from the moon." + +"Was it a Christmas tree?" Pussy asked, as he paused. + +"Yes, but the people who trimmed it and the ones who came to see it +didn't believe in the Wise Men, or the Babe in the Manger, or the +shepherds who watched their flocks by night--they just worshiped beauty +and art--and other gods--but it was a corking tree--" + +"You use such funny words," Pussy crowed ecstatically. "Who ever heard +of a corking tree?" + +He smiled at her indulgently. He was warmer now, and as he leaned back +in his chair and unbuttoned his coat he seemed to melt suddenly into +something that was quite gentlemanly in pose and outline. "Well, it +really was a corking tree, Pussy." + +"What's a Buddha?" Milly asked, making a young Madonna of herself as she +bent over the baby. + +"A gentle god that half of the world worships," Ostrander said, "but the +people who put him on the tree didn't worship anything--they put him +there because he was of gold and ivory and was a lovely thing to look +at--" + +"Oh," said Pussy, with her mouth round to say it, "oh, how funny you +talk, Mr. Tony!" She laughed, with her small hands beating her knees. + +She was presently, however, very serious, as she set the table. There +was little formality of service. Just three plates and some bread. + +Milly, having carried the baby into the other room, was hesitatingly +hospitable. "Won't you have supper with us, Mr. Tony?" + +He wanted it. There was a savory smell as Milly lifted the pot from the +stove. But he knew there would be only three potatoes--one for Pussy and +one for Milly and one for the mother who was almost due, and there would +be plenty of gravy. How queer it seemed that his mind should dwell on +gravy! + +"Onions are so high," Milly had said, as she stirred it. "I had to put +in just a very little piece." + +He declined hastily and got away. + +In the hall he met their mother coming in. She was a busy little mother, +and she did not approve of Ostrander. She did not approve of any human +being who would not work. + +"A merry Christmas," he said to her, standing somewhat wistfully above +her on the stairs. + +She smiled at that. "Oh, Mr. Tony, Mr. Tony, they want a man in the +shop. It would be a good way to begin the New Year." + +"Dear lady, I have never worked in a shop--and they wouldn't want me +after the first minute--" + +Her puzzled eyes studied him. "Why wouldn't they want you?" + +"I am not--dependable--" + +"How old are you?" she asked abruptly. + +"Twice your age--" + +"Nonsense--" + +"Not in years, perhaps--but I have lived--oh, how I have lived--!" + +He straightened his shoulders and ran his fingers through his hair. She +had a sudden vision of what he might be if shorn of his poverty. There +was something debonair--finished--an almost youthful grace--a hint of +manner-- + +She sighed. "Oh, the waste of it!" + +"Of what?" + +She flamed. "Of you!" + +Then she went in and shut the door. + +He stood uncertainly in the hall. Then once again he faced the cold. + +Around the corner was a shop where he would buy the red candle. The ten +cents which he would pay was to have gone for his breakfast. He had +sacrificed his supper that he might not go hungry on Christmas morning. +He had planned a brace of rolls and a bottle of milk. It had seemed to +him that he could face a lean night with the promise of these. + +There were no red candles in the shop. There were white ones, but a red +candle was a red candle--with a special look of Christmas cheer. He +would have no other. + +The turn of a second corner brought him to the great square. Usually he +avoided it. The blaze of gold on the west side was the club. + +A row of motors lined the curb. There was Baxter's limousine and +Fenton's French car. He knew them all. He remembered when his own French +car had overshadowed Fenton's Ford. + +There were wreaths to-night in the club windows, and when Sands opened +the doors there was a mass of poinsettia against the hall mirror. + +How warm it looked with all that gold and red! + +In the basement was the grill. It was a night when one might order +something heavy and hot. A planked steak--with deviled oysters at the +start and a salad at the end. + +And now another motor-car was poking its nose against the curb. And +Whiting climbed out, a bear in a big fur coat. + +Whiting's car was a closed one. And it would stay there for an hour. +Ostrander knew the habits of the man. From the office to the club, and +from the club--home. Whiting was methodical to a minute. At seven sharp +the doors would open and let him out. + +The clock on the post-office tower showed six! + +There was a policeman on the east corner, beating his arms against the +cold. Ostrander did not beat his arms. He cowered frozenly in the shadow +of a big building until the policeman passed on. + +Then he darted across the street and into Whiting's car! + +Whiting, coming out in forty minutes, found his car gone. Sands, the +door man, said that he had noticed nothing. The policeman on the corner +had not noticed. + +"I usually stay longer," Whiting said, "but to-night I wanted to get +home. I have a lot of things for the kids." + +"Were the things in your car?" the policeman asked. + +"Yes. Toys and all that--" + +Ostrander, with his hand on the wheel, his feet on the brakes, slipped +through the crowded streets unchallenged. It had been easy to unlock the +car. He had learned many things in these later years. + +It was several minutes before he was aware of faint fragrances--warm +tropical fragrances of flowers and fruits and spices--Christmas +fragrances which sent him back to the great kitchen where his +grandmother's servants had baked and brewed. + +He stopped the car and touched a button. The light showed booty. He had +not expected this. He had wanted the car for an hour, to feel the thrill +of it under his fingers, to taste again the luxury of its warmth and +softness. He had meant to take it back unharmed--with nothing more than +the restless ghost of his poor desires to haunt Whiting when again he +entered it. + +But now here were toys and things which Whiting, in a climax of +generosity, had culled from bake-shop and grocer, from flower-shop, +fruit-shop, and confectioner. + +He snapped out the light and drove on. He had still a half-hour for his +adventure. + +It took just three of the thirty minutes to slide up to the curb in +front of the tall tenement. He made three trips in and up to the top +floor. He risked much, but Fate was with him and he met no one. + +Fate was with him, too, when he left the car at a corner near the club, +and slipped out of it like a shadow, and thence like a shadow back to +the shop whence his steps had tended before his adventures. + +When he returned to the tall tenement the small family on the first +floor had finished supper, and the mother had gone back to work. The +baby was asleep. Milly and Pussy, wrapped up to their ears, were hugging +the waning warmth of the little stove. + +"Mr. Tony, did you get the candle?" Pussy asked as he came in. + +"Yes. But I've been thinking"--his manner was mysterious--"I don't want +to put it on the shelf. I want it in the window--to shine out--" + +"To shine out--why?" + +"Well, you know, there's St. Nicholas." + +"Oh--" + +"He ought to come here, Pussy. Why shouldn't he come here? Why should he +go up-town and up-town, and take all the things to children who have +more than they want?" + +Milly was philosophic. "St. Nicholas is fathers and mothers--" + +But Pussy was not so sure. "Do you think he'd come--if we did? Do you +really and truly think he would?" + +"I think he might--" + +The candle set in the window made a fine show from the street. They all +went out to look at it. Coming in, they sat around the stove together. + +Pussy drew her chair very close to Ostrander. She laid her hand on his +knee. It was a little hand with short, fat fingers. In spite of lean +living, Pussy had managed to keep fat. She was adorably dimpled. + +Ostrander, looking down at the fat little hand, began: "Once upon a +time--there was a doll--a Fluffy Ruffles doll, in a rosy gown--" + +"Oh!" Pussy beat the small, fat hand upon his knee. + +"And pink slippers--and it traveled miles to find some one to--love it. +And at last it said to St. Nicholas, 'Oh, dear St. Nick, I want to find +a little girl who hasn't any doll--'" + +"Like me?" said Pussy. + +"Like you--" + +"And St. Nicholas said, 'Will you keep your pink slippers clean and +your nice pink frock clean if I give you to a poor little girl?' and the +Fluffy Ruffles doll said 'Yes,' so St. Nicholas looked and looked for a +poor little girl, and at last he came to a window--with a red candle--" + +The fat little hand was still and Pussy was breathing hard. + +"With a red candle, and there was a little girl who--didn't have any +doll--" + +Pussy threw herself on him bodily. "Is it true? Is it true?" she +shrieked. + +Milly, a little flushed and excited by the story, tried to say sedately: +"Of course it isn't true. It couldn't be--true--" + +"Let's wish it to be true--" Ostrander said, "all three of us, with our +eyes shut--" + +With this ceremony completed the little girls were advised gravely to go +to bed. "If Fluffy Ruffles and old St. Nick come by and find you up they +won't stop--" + +"Won't they?" + +"Of course not. You must shut the door and creep under your quilt and +cover up your head, and if you hear a noise you mustn't look." + +Milly eyed him dubiously. "I think it is a shame to tell Pussy such--" + +"Corking things?" He lifted her chin with a light finger and looked into +her innocent eyes. "Oh, Milly, Milly, once upon a time there was a +Princess, with eyes like yours, and she lived in a garden where black +swans swam on a pool, and she wore pale-green gowns and there were +poppies in the garden. And a Fool loved her. But she shut him out of the +garden. He wasn't good enough even to kneel at her feet, so she shut him +out and married a Prince with a white feather in his cap." + +He had a chuckling sense of Whiting as the white-feathered Prince. But +Milly's eyes were clouded. "I don't like to think that she shut the poor +Fool out of the garden." + +For a moment he cupped her troubled face in his two hands. "You dear +kiddie." Then as he turned away he found his own eyes wet. + +As he started up-stairs Pussy peeped out at him. + +"Wouldn't it be--corking--to see a Fluffy Ruffles doll--a-walking up the +street?" + +In a beautiful box up-stairs the Fluffy Ruffles doll stared at him. She +was as lovely as a dream, and as expensive as they make 'em. There was +another doll in blue, also as expensive, also as lovely. Ostrander could +see Milly with the blue doll matching her eyes. + +There were toys, too, for the baby. And there was a bunch of violets. +And boxes of candy. And books. And there were things to eat. Besides the +fruits a great cake, and a basket of marmalades and jellies and +gold-sealed bottles and meat pastes in china jars, and imported things +in glass, and biscuits in tins. + +Ostrander, after some consideration, opened the tin of biscuits and, +munching, he wrote a note. Having no paper, he tore a wrapper from one +of the boxes. He had the stub of a pencil, and the result was a scrawl. + + "MY DEAR WHITING: + + "It was I who borrowed your car--and who ran away with your junk. I + am putting my address at the head of this, so that if you want it + back you can come and get it. But perhaps you won't want it back. + + "I have a feeling that to you and your wife I am as good as dead. + If you have any thought of me it is, I am sure, to pity me. Yet I + rather fancy that you needn't. I am down and out, and living on ten + dollars a month. That's all I got when the crash came--it is all I + shall ever get. I pay four dollars a month for my room and twenty + cents a day for food. Sometimes I pay less than twenty cents when I + find myself in need of other--luxuries. Yet there's an adventure in + it, Whiting. A good little woman who lives in this house begs me to + work. But I have never worked. And why begin? I've a heritage of + bad habits, and one does not wish to seem superior to one's + ancestors. + + "The winters are the worst. I spend the summers on the open road. + Ask Marion if she remembers the days when we read Stevenson + together in the garden? Tell her it is like that--under the + stars--Tell her that I am getting more out of it than she is--with + you-- + + "But the winters send me back to town--and this winter Fate has + brought me to an old house in a shabby street just a bit back from + the Club. On the first floor there is a little family. Three + kiddies and a young mother who works to keep the wolf from the + door. There's a Pussy-Kiddie, and a Milly-Kiddie, and a baby, and + they have adopted me as a friend. + + "And this Christmas I had nothing to give them--but a red candle to + light their room. + + "When I got into your car it was just for the adventure. To breathe + for a moment the air I once breathed--to fancy that Marion's ghost + might sit beside me for one little moment, as she will sit beside + you to the end of your days. + + "I have played all roles but that of robber--but when I saw the + things that you had bought with Marion's money for Marion's + children--it went to my head--and I wanted them in the worst way + for those poor kiddies--who haven't any dolls or Christmas dinners. + + "I am playing Santa Claus for them to-night. I shall take the + things down and leave them in their poor rooms. It will be up to + you to come and take them away. It will be up to you, too, to give + this note to the police and steal my freedom. + + "You used to be a good sport, Whiting. I have nothing against you + except that you stole Marion--perhaps this will square our + accounts. And if your children are, because of me, without their + dolls to-morrow, you can remember this, that the kiddies are happy + below stairs--since Dick Turpin dwells aloft! + + "From among the rest I have chosen for myself a squat bottle, a box + of biscuits, and a tin of the little imported sausages that you + taught me to like. + + "Well, my dear fellow, happy days! To-morrow morning I shall + breakfast at your expense, unless you shall decide that I must + breakfast behind bars. + + "If you should come to-night, you will find in the window a red + candle shining. They have put it there to guide St. Nicholas and a + certain Fluffy Ruffles doll! + + "Ever yours, + "Tony." + + +He found an envelope, sealed, and addressed it. Then he went to work. + +Four trips he made down the stairs. Four times he tiptoed into the +shadowed room, where the long red candle burned. And when he turned to +take a last look there on the table beside the tree stood the blue doll +for Milly and the Fluffy Ruffles doll for Pussy and the rattles and +rings and blocks for the baby, and on the chairs and the shelf above the +tree were the other things--the great cake and the fruit and the big +basket and the boxes of candy. + +And for the little mother there were the violets and a note: + +"The red candle winked at your window and brought me in. It is useless +to search for me--for now and then a Prince passes and goes on. And he +is none the less a Prince because you do not know him." + +And now there was that other note to deliver. Out in the cold once more, +he found the moon gone and the snow falling. As he passed the saint on +the old church, it seemed to smile down at him. The towers and gables +were sheeted with white. His footsteps made no sound on the padded +streets. + +He left the note at Whiting's door. He fancied that, as the footman held +it open, he saw Marion shining on the stairs! + +He was glad after that to get home and to bed, and to the warmth of his +blanket. There was the warmth, too, of the wine. + +In a little while he was asleep. On the table by his untidy bed was the +box of biscuits and the bottle and the tin of tiny sausages. + +If all went well he would feast like a lord on Christmas morning! + + + + +RETURNED GOODS + + +Perhaps the most humiliating moment of Dulcie Cowan's childhood had been +when Mary Dean had called her Indian giver. Dulcie was a child of +affluence. She had always had everything she wanted; but she had not +been spoiled. She had been brought up beautifully and she had been +taught to consider the rights of others. She lived in an old-fashioned +part of an old city, and her family was churchly and conscientious. +Indeed, so well-trained was Dulcie's conscience that it often caused her +great unhappiness. It seemed to her that her life was made up largely of +denying herself the things she wanted. She was tied so rigidly to the +golden rule that her own rights were being constantly submerged in the +consideration of the rights of others. + +So it had happened that when she gave to Mary Dean a certain lovely +doll, because her mother had suggested that Dulcie had so many and Mary +so few, Dulcie had spent a night of agonized loneliness. Then she had +gone to Mary. + +"I want my Peggy back." + +"You gave her to me." + +"But I didn't know how much I loved her, Mary. I'll buy you a nice new +doll, but I want my Peggy back." + +It was then that Mary had called her Indian giver. Mary had been a +sturdy little thing with tight-braided brown hair. She had worn on that +historic occasion a plain blue gingham with a white collar. To the +ordinary eye she seemed just an every-day freckled sort of child, but to +Dulcie she had been a little dancing devil, as she had stuck out her +forefinger and jeered "Indian giver!" + +Dulcie had held to her point and had carried her Peggy off in triumph. +Mary, with characteristic independence, had refused to accept the +beautiful doll which Dulcie bought with the last cent of her allowance +and brought as a peace offering. In later years they grew to be rather +good friends. They might, indeed, have been intimate, if it had not been +for Dulcie's money and Mary's dislike of anything which savored of +patronage. + +It was Mary's almost boyish independence that drew Mills Richardson to +her. Mills wrote books and was the editor of a small magazine. He came +to board with Mary's mother because of the quiet neighborhood. He was +rather handsome in a dark slender fashion. He had the instincts of a +poet, and he was not in the least practical. He needed a prop to lean +on, and Mary gradually became the prop. + +She was teaching by that time, but she helped her mother with the +boarders. When Mills came in late at night she would have something for +him in the dining-room--oysters or a club sandwich or a pot of +coffee--and she and her mother and Mills would have a cozy time of it. +In due season Mills asked her to marry him, and his dreams had to do +with increased snugness and with shelter from the outside world. + +They had been engaged three months when Dulcie came home from college. +There was nothing independent or practical about Dulcie. She was a real +romantic lady, and she appealed to Mills on the aesthetic side. He saw +her first in church with the light shining on her from a stained-glass +window. In the middle of that same week Mrs. Cowan gave a garden party +as a home-coming celebration for her daughter. Dulcie wore embroidered +white and a floppy hat, and her eyes when she talked to Mills were +worshipful. + +He found himself swayed at last by a grand passion. He thought of Dulcie +by day and dreamed of her by night. Then he met her by accident one +afternoon on Connecticut Avenue, and they walked down together to the +Speedway, where the willows were blowing in the wind and the water was +ruffled; and there with the shining city back of them and the Virginia +hills ahead, Mills, flaming, declared his passion, and Dulcie, +trembling, confessed that she too cared. + +Mills grew tragic: "Oh, my beloved, have you come too late?" + +Dulcie had not heard of his engagement to Mary. Mills told her, and that +settled it. She had very decided ideas on such matters. A man had no +right to fall in love with two women. If such a thing happened, there +was only one way out of it. He had given his promise and he must keep +it. He begged, but could not shake her. She cared a great deal, but she +would not take him away from Mary. + +Mary knew nothing of what had occurred; she thought that Mills was +working too hard. She was working hard herself, but she was very happy. +She had a hope chest and sat up sewing late o' nights. + +Before Mary and Mills were married Dulcie's mother died, and Dulcie went +abroad to live with an aunt. Five years later she married an American +living in Paris. He was much older than she, and it was rumored that she +was not happy. Ten years after her marriage she returned to Washington a +widow. + +It was at once apparent that she had changed. She wore charming but +sophisticated clothes, made on youthful lines so that she seemed nearer +twenty-five than thirty-five. Her hair was still soft and shining. She +had been a pretty girl, she was a beautiful woman. But the greatest +change was in her attitude toward life. In Paris her golden-rule +philosophy had been turned topsy-turvy. + +Hence when she met Mills and found the old flames lighted in his eyes, +she stirred the ashes of her dead romance and discovered a spark. It was +pleasant after that to talk with him in dim corners at people's houses. +Now and then she invited him and Mary to her own big house with plenty +of other guests, so that she was not missed if she walked with Mills in +the garden. She meant no harm and she was really fond of Mary. + +The years had not been so kind to Mills as to Dulcie. They had stolen +some of his slenderness, and his hair was thin at the back. But he wrote +better books, and it was Mary who had helped him write them. She had +made of his house a home. She was still the same sturdy soul. Her bright +color had faded and her hair was gray. Life with Mills had not been an +easy road to travel. She had traveled it with loss of youth, perhaps, +but with no loss of self-respect. She knew that her husband was in some +measure what he was because of her. She had kept the children away from +his study door; she had seen that he was nourished and sustained. She +had prodded him at times to increased activities. He had resented the +prodding, but it had resulted in a continuity of effort which had added +to his income. + +Dulcie came into Mary's life as something very fresh and stimulating. +She spoke of it to Mills. + +"It is almost as if I had been abroad to hear her talk. She has had such +interesting experiences." + +It was not Dulcie's experiences which interested Mills; it was the +loveliness of her profile, the glint of her hair, the youth in her, the +renewed urge of youth in himself. + +Priscilla Dodd saw what had happened. Priscilla was the aunt with whom +Dulcie had lived in Paris; and she was a wise, if worldly, old woman. +She saw rocks ahead for Dulcie. + +"He's in love with you, my dear." + +Dulcie, in a rose satin house coat which shone richly in the flame of +Aunt Priscilla's open fire, was not disconcerted. + +"I know. Mary doesn't satisfy him, Aunt Cilla." + +"And you do?" + +"Yes." + +"The less you see of him the better." + +"I'm not sure of that." + +"Why not?" + +"I can inspire him, be the torch to illumine his path." + +"So that's the way you are putting it to yourself! But how will Mary +like that?" + +"Oh, Mary"--Dulcie moved restlessly--"I don't want to hurt Mary. I +don't want to hurt Mary," she said again, out of a long silence, "but +after all I have a right to save Mills' soul for him, haven't I, Aunt +Cilla?" + +"Saving souls had better be left to those who make a business of it." + +"I mean his poetic soul." Dulcie studied the toes of her rosy slippers. +"A man can't live by bread alone." + +Yet Mills had thrived rather well on the bread that Mary had given him, +and there was this to say for Mills, he was very fond of his wife. She +was not the love of his life, but she had been a helpmate for many +years. He felt that he owed many things to her affection and strength. +Like Dulcie, he shrank from making her unhappy. + +It was because of Mary, therefore, that the lovers dallied. Otherwise, +they said to each other, Mills would cast off his shackles, ask for his +freedom, and then he and Dulcie would fly to Paris, where nobody probed +into pasts and where they could make their dreams come true. + +They found many ways in which to see each other. Dulcie had a little +town car, and she picked Mills up at all hours and took him on long and +lovely rides, from which he returned ecstatic, with wild flowers in his +coat and a knowledge of work left undone. + +Gossip began to fly about. Aunt Priscilla warned Dulcie. + +"It is a dangerous thing to do, my dear. People will talk." + +"What do Mills and I care for people? Oh, if it were not for Mary--" She +had just come in from a ride with Mills, and her eyes were shining. + +"I wish we were not dining there to-night," said Aunt Priscilla. "I +wonder how Mary manages a dinner of eight with only one servant." + +"She is so splendid and competent, Aunt Cilla. Mills says so. Everybody +says it. Things are easy for her that would be hard for other people." + +"I wonder what she thinks of you?" + +Dulcie, drawing off her gloves, meditated. + +"I fancy she likes me. I know I love her, but not so much as I love +Mills." + +Fifteen years ago Dulcie would have died rather than admit her love for +a married man. But since then she had seen life through the eyes of a +worldly-minded old husband, and it had made a difference. + +At dinner that night Dulcie was exquisite in orchid tulle with a string +of pearls that hung to her knees. Her hair was like ripe corn, waved and +parted on the side with a girlish knot behind. Her skin was as fresh as +a baby's. Mary was in black net. She had been very busy helping the +cook, and she had had little time to spend on her hair. She looked ten +years older than Dulcie, and her mind was absolutely on the dinner. The +dinner was really very good. Mills had been extremely anxious about it. +He had called up Mary from down-town to tell her that he was bringing +home fresh asparagus. He wanted it served as an extra course with +Hollandaise sauce. Mary protested, but gave in. It was the Hollandaise +sauce that had kept her from curling her hair. + +There were orchids for a centerpiece--in harmony with Dulcie's gown. In +fact, the whole dinner seemed keyed up to Dulcie. The guests were for +the most part literary folk, to whom Mills wanted to display his Egeria. +After dinner Dulcie sang for them. She had set to music the words of one +of Mills' poems, and she was much applauded. + +After everybody had gone Mary went to bed with a headache. She was glad +that it was Saturday, for Sunday promised a rest. She decided to send +the children over to her mother and to have a quiet day with Mills. She +wouldn't even go to church in the morning. There was an afternoon +service; perhaps she and Mills might go together. + +But Mills had other plans. He walked as far as the church door with +Mary, and left her there. Mary wasn't sorry to be left; her headache had +returned, and she was glad to sit alone in the peaceful dimness. But the +pain proved finally too much for her, so she slipped out quietly and +went home. + +Clouds had risen, and she hurried before the shower. It was a real April +shower, wind with a rush and a silver downpour. Mary, coming into the +dark living-room, threw herself on the couch in a far corner and drew a +rug over her. The couch was backed up against a table which held a lamp +and a row of books. Mary had a certain feeling of content in the way the +furniture seemed to shut her in. There was no sound but the splashing of +rain against the windows. + +She fell asleep at last, and waked to find that Mills and Dulcie had +come in. No lights were on; the room was in twilight dimness. + +Mills had met Dulcie at her front door. "How dear of you to come," she +had told him. + +He had spoken of his desertion of Mary. "But this day was made for you, +Dulcie." + +They had walked on together, not heeding where they went, and when the +storm had caught them they were nearer Mills' house than Dulcie's and so +he had taken her there. They had entered the apparently empty room. + +"Mary is still at church. Come and dry your little feet by my fire, +Dulcie." Mills knelt and fanned the flame. + +Mary, coming slowly back from her dreams, heard this and other things, +and at last Dulcie's voice in protest: + +"Dear, we must think of Mary." + +"Poor Mary!" + +Now the thing that Mary hated more than anything else in the whole world +was pity. Through all the shock of the astounding revelation that Mills +and Dulcie cared for each other came the sting of their sympathy. She +sat up, a shadow among the shadows. + +"I mustn't stay, Mills," Dulcie was declaring. + +"Why not?" + +"I feel like a--thief--" + +"Nonsense, we are only taking our own, Dulcie. We should have taken it +years ago. Loving you I should never have married Mary." + +"I had a conscience then, Mills, and you had promised." + +"But now you see it differently, Dulcie?" + +"Perhaps." + +Mills was on his knees beside Dulcie's chair, kissing her hands. The +fire lighted them. It was like a play, with Mary a forlorn spectator in +the blackness of the pit. + +"Let me go now, Mills." + +"Wait till Mary comes--we'll tell her." + +"No, oh, poor Mary!" + +Poor Mary indeed! + +"Anyhow you've got to stay, Dulcie, and sing for me, and when Mary comes +back she'll get us some supper and I'll read you my new verses." + +Among the shadows Mary had a moment of tragic mirth. Then she set her +feet on the floor and spoke: + +"I'm sorry, Mills, but I couldn't cook supper to-night if I died for +it--" + +From their bright circle of light they peered at her. + +"Oh, my poor dear!" Dulcie said. + +"I'm not poor," Mary told her, "but I'm tired, dead tired, and my head +aches dreadfully, and if you want Mills you can have him." + +"Have him?" Dulcie whispered. + +"Yes. I don't want him." + +Mills exploded. + +"What?" + +"I don't want you, Mills. I'm tired of being a prop; I'm tired of +planning your meals, I'm tired of deciding whether you shall have +mushrooms with your steak or--onions. You can have him, Dulcie. I know +you think I've lost my mind." She came forward within the radius of the +light. "But I haven't. As long as I thought Mills cared I could stick it +out. But I have learned to-night that he loved you before he married me. +You gave him to me, Dulcie, and now you want him back." + +Indian giver! Like a flash Dulcie's mind went to the little Mary of the +pigtails and pointing forefinger. + +"You want him and you can have him. Perhaps if you had taken him years +ago he might have been different. I don't know. Perhaps even now he can +live up to all the lovely, lovely things that you and he are always +talking about. But I've had to talk to Mills about what he likes to eat +and what we have to pay for things; I've had to push him and prod him +and praise him, and it has been hard work. If you want him you can have +him, Dulcie." + +Mills had a stunned look. + +"Don't you love me, Mary?" + +"I think I've proved it," she said quietly; "but I couldn't possibly go +on loving you now. You have Dulcie to love you, and one woman is enough +for any man. I don't know what you are planning to do, but you needn't +run away or do anything spectacular. I'll make it as easy for you as +possible. And now if you don't mind I'll go up and take a headache +powder; my head is splitting." + +Left alone, they tried to regain their air of high romance. + +"Poor Mary!" + +But the words rang hollow. One couldn't possibly call a woman poor who +had given away so much with a single gesture. + +They tried to talk it over but found nothing to say. At last Mills took +Dulcie home. She asked him in and he went. Aunt Priscilla was out, and +tea was served for the two of them from a lacquered tea cart--Orange +Pekoe and Japanese wafers. It was delicious but unsubstantial. Dulcie +with her coat off was like a wood sprite in leaf green. Her hair was +gold, her eyes wet violets; but Mills missed something. He had a feeling +that he wanted to get home and talk things over with Mary. + +At last he rose, and it was then that Dulcie laid her hand on his arm. + +"Mills, I can't." + +"Can't what?" + +"Let you leave Mary." + +"Why not?" + +"It wouldn't be right." + +"It would be as right as it has ever been, Dulcie." + +"I know how it must look to you, but--but I knew all the time that wrong +is wrong. I thought I was a different Dulcie from the girl of long ago, +but I'm not. I still have a conscience; I can't take you away from +Mary." + +"You're not taking me away. You heard what she said--she doesn't want +me." + +And Dulcie didn't want him! He saw it in that moment! The things that +Mary had said had scared her. She didn't want to prod and push and +praise. She didn't want to decide what he should have for dinner. She +didn't want to weigh the merits of beefsteak and mushrooms or beefsteak +and onions--onions! + +He felt suddenly old, fat, bald-headed! The glow had faded from +everything. He did not protest or attempt to persuade her. He took his +hat, kissed her hand and got away. + +Aunt Priscilla coming in found Dulcie in tears by the fire. + +"I've given him up, Aunt Cilla." + +"Why?" + +"Well, it wouldn't be right." + +She came into Aunt Priscilla's bedroom later to talk it over. She had +on the rosy house coat. She spoke of going back to Paris. + +"It will be better for both of us. After all, Aunt Cilla, we are what we +are fundamentally, and we Puritans can't get away from our consciences, +can we?" + +"Some of us," said Aunt Priscilla, "can't." + +The old woman lay awake a long time that night, thinking it out. She was +glad that Dulcie had stopped the thing in time. But she had a feeling +that the solution of the situation could not be laid to an awakened +conscience. She hoped that some day Dulcie would tell her the truth. + + * * * * * + +It was still raining when Mills reached home. The house was dark, the +fire had died down. He went up-stairs. The boys were in bed. There was a +light in Mary's room. He opened the door. Mary was propped up on her +pillows reading a book. + +He stopped, uncertain, on the threshold. + +"Come in," she said, "my head's better." + +He crossed the room and stood beside her. + +"Oh, Mary," he said, and his face worked. He dropped on his knees by the +bed and cried like a child. + +She laid her hand on his head and smoothed his thin hair. + +"Poor Mills!" she said softly; "poor old Mills!" Then after a moment, +brightly: "It will do us both good to have some coffee. Run along, +Mills, and start the percolator; I'll be down in a minute to get the +supper." + + + + +BURNED TOAST + +I + + +Perry Cunningham and I had been friends for years. I was older than he, +and I had taught him in his senior year at college. After that we had +traveled abroad, frugally, as befitted our means. The one quarrel I had +with fate was that Perry was poor. Money would have given him the +background that belonged to him--he was a princely chap, with a +high-held head. He had Southern blood in his veins, which accounted +perhaps for an almost old-fashioned charm of manner, as if he carried on +a gentlemanly tradition. + +We went through the art galleries together. There could have been +nothing better than those days with him--the Louvre, the Uffizi, the +Pitti Palace. Perry's search for beauty was almost breathless. We swept +from Filippo Lippi to Botticelli and Bellini, then on to Ghirlandajo, +Guido Reni, Correggio, Del Sarto--the incomparable Leonardo. + +"If I had lived then," Perry would say, glowing, "in Florence or in +Venice!" + +And I, smiling at his enthusiasm, had a vision of him among those golden +painters, his own young beauty enhanced by robes of clear color, his +thirst for loveliness appeased by the sumptuous settings of that age of +romance. + +Then when the great moderns confronted us--Sorolla and the rest--Perry +complained, "Why did I study law, Roger, when I might be doing things +like this?" + +"It is not too late," I told him. + +I felt that he must not be curbed, that his impassioned interest might +blossom and bloom into genius if it were given a proper outlet. + +So it came about that he decided to paint. He would stay in Paris a year +or two in a studio, and test his talent. + +But his people would not hear of it. There had been lawyers in his +family for generations. Since the Civil War they had followed more or +less successful careers. Perry's own father had made no money, but +Perry's mother was obsessed by the idea that the fortunes of the family +were bound up in her son's continuance of his father's practice. + +So Perry went home and opened an office. His heart was not in it, but he +made enough to live on, and at last he made money enough to marry a +wife. He would have married her whether he had enough to live on or not. +She was an artist, and she was twenty when Perry met her. We had been +spending a month in Maine, on an island as charming as it was cheap. +Rosalie was there with a great-aunt and uncle. She was painting the sea +on the day that Perry first saw her, and she wore a jade-green smock. +Her hair was red, drawn back rather tightly from her forehead, but +breaking into waves over her ears. With the red of her cheeks and the +red of her lips she had something of the look of Lorenzo Lotto's lovely +ladies, except for a certain sharp slenderness, a slenderness which +came, I was to learn later, from an utter indifference to the claims of +appetite. She was one of those who sell bread to buy hyacinths. + +I speak of this here because Rosalie's almost ascetic indifference to +material matters, in direct contrast to Perry's vivid enjoyment of the +good things of life, came to have a tragic significance in later days. +Perry loved a warm hearth in winter, a cool porch in summer. He had the +Southerner's epicurean appreciation of the fine art of feasting. The +groaning board had been his inheritance from a rollicking, rackety set +of English ancestors, to whom dining was a rather splendid ceremony. On +his mother's table had been fish and game from Chesapeake, fruits and +vegetables in season and out--roast lamb when prices soared high in the +spring, strawberries as soon as they came up from Florida. There had +always been money for these in the Cunningham exchequer, when there had +been money for nothing else. + +Rosalie, on the other hand, ate an orange in the morning, a square of +toast at noon, a chop and perhaps a salad for dinner. One felt that she +might have fared equally well on dew and nectar. She had absolutely no +interest in what was set before her, and after she married Perry this +attitude of mind remained unchanged. + +She was a wretched cook, and made no effort to acquire expertness. She +and Perry lived in a small but well-built bungalow some miles out from +town, and they could not afford a maid. When I dined with them I made up +afterward for the deficiencies of their menu by a square meal at the +club. There was no chance for Perry to make up, and I wondered as the +years went on how he stood it. + +He seemed to stand it rather well, except that in time he came to have +that same sharpened look of delicacy which added a spiritual note to +Rosalie's rich bloom. He always lighted up when he spoke of his wife, +and he was always urging me to come and see them. I must admit that +except for the meals I liked to go. Rosalie's success at painting had +been negligible, but her love of beauty was expressed in the atmosphere +she gave to her little home; she had achieved rather triumphant results +in backgrounds and in furnishing. + +I remember one spring twilight. I was out for the week-end, and we dined +late. The little house was on a hill, and with the French windows wide +open we seemed to hang above an abyss of purple sky, cut by a thin +crescent. White candles lighted the table, and there were white lilacs. +There was a silver band about Rosalie's red hair. + +There was not much to eat, and Perry apologized, "Rose hates to fuss +with food in hot weather." + +Rosalie, as mysterious in that light as the young moon, smiled dreamily. + +"Why should one think about such things--when there is so much else in +the world?" + +Perry removed the plates and made the coffee. Rosalie did not drink +coffee. She wandered out into the garden, and came back with three +violets, which she kissed and stuck in Perry's coat. + +The next morning when I came down Rosalie was cutting bread for toast. +She was always exquisitely neat, and in her white linen and in her +white-tiled kitchen she seemed indubitably domestic. I was hungry and +had hopes of her efforts. + +"Peer is setting the table", she told me. + +She always called him "Peer". She had her own way of finding names for +people. I was never "Roger", but "Jim Crow". When questioned as to her +reason for the appellation she decided vaguely that it might be some +connection of ideas--dances--Sir Roger de Coverley--and didn't somebody +"dance Jim Crow"? + +"You don't mind, do you?" she had asked, and I had replied that I did +not. + +I did not confess how much I liked it. I had always been treated in a +distinctly distant and dignified fashion by my family and friends, so +that Rosalie's easy assumption of intimacy was delightful. + +Well, I went out on the porch and left Rosalie to her culinary devices. +I found the morning paper, and fifteen minutes later there came up +across the lawn a radiant figure. + +Rosalie, hearing the garden call, had chucked responsibility--and her +arms were full of daffodils! + +We had burned toast for breakfast! Rosalie had forgotten it and Perry +had not rescued it until it was well charred. There was no bread to make +more, so we had to eat it. + +For the rest we had coffee and fruit. It was an expensive season for +eggs, and Rosalie had her eye on a bit of old brocade which was to light +a corner of her studio. She breakfasted contentedly on grapefruit, but +Perry was rather silent, and I saw for the first time a shadow on his +countenance. I wondered if for the moment his mind had wandered to the +past, and to his mother's table, with Sunday waffles, omelet, broiled +bacon. Yet--there had been no bits of gay brocade to light the +mid-Victorian dullness of his mother's dining-room, no daffodils on a +radiant morning, no white lilacs on a purple twilight, no slender +goddess, mysterious as the moon. + +It was in the middle of the following winter that I began to realize +that Perry was not well. He had come home on a snowy night, tired and +chilled to the bone. He was late and Rosalie had kept dinner waiting for +him. It was a rather sorry affair when it was served. Perry pushed his +chair back and did not eat. I had as little appetite for it as he, but I +did my best. I had arrived on an earlier train, with some old prints +that I wanted to show him. Rosalie and I looked at them after dinner, +but Perry crouched over the fire and coughed at intervals. + +At last I couldn't stand it any longer. + +"He needs some hot milk, a foot bath, and to be tucked up in bed." + +Rosalie stared at me above the prints. "Perry?" + +"Yes. He isn't well." + +"Don't croak, Jim Crow." + +But I knew what I was talking about. "I am going to get him to bed. You +can have the milk ready when I come down." + +It developed that there was no milk. I walked half a mile to a road +house and brought back oysters and a bottle of cream. I cooked them +myself in the white-tiled kitchen, and served them piping hot in a bowl +with crackers. + +Perry, propped up in bed, ate like a starved bird. + +"I've never tasted anything better," he said; and, warmed and fed, he +slept after a bit as soundly as a satisfied baby. + +It was while he was eating the oysters that Rosalie came to the door and +looked at him. He was not an aesthetic object--I must admit that no sick +man is--and I saw distaste in her glance, as if some dainty instinct in +her shrank from the spectacle. + +When I went down I found her sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in a +Chinese robe of black and gold. You can imagine the effect of that with +the red of her hair and the red of her cheeks and lips. Her feet, in +black satin slippers, were on a jade-green cushion, and back of her head +was the strip of brocade that she had bought with her housekeeping +money. It was a gorgeous bit, repeating the color of the cushion, and +with a touch of blue which matched her eyes. + +She wanted me to show her the rest of the prints. I tried to talk to her +of Perry's health, but she wouldn't. + +"Don't croak, Jim Crow," she said again. + +As I look back at the two of us by the fire that night I feel as one +might who had been accessory to a crime. Rosalie's charm was undoubted. +Her quickness of mind, her gayety of spirit, her passion for all that +was lovely in art and Nature--made her indescribably interesting. I +stayed late. And not once, after my first attempt, did we speak of +Perry. + + + +II + + +It was in March that I made Perry see a doctor. "Nothing organic," was +Perry's report. Beyond that he was silent. So I went to the doctor +myself. + +"What's the matter with him?" + +"He is not getting the proper nourishment," the doctor told me. "He must +have plenty of milk and eggs, and good red meat." + +It sounded easy enough, but it wasn't. Rosalie couldn't grasp the fact +that diet in Perry's case was important. For the first time I saw a +queer sort of obstinacy in her. + +"Oh, my poor Peer!" And she laughed lightly. "Do they want to make a +stuffed pig of you?" + +Well, you simply couldn't get it into her head that Perry needed the +bread that she sold for hyacinths. She cooked steaks and chops for him, +and served them with an air of protest that took away his appetite. + +Of course there remained the eggs and milk, but he didn't like them. +What Perry really needed was three good meals a day according to the +tradition of his mother's home. + +But he couldn't have them. His mother was dead, and the home broken up. +The little bungalow, with its old brocades, its Venetian glass, its +Florentine carvings, its sun-dial and its garden, was the best that life +could offer him. And I must confess that he seemed to think it very +good. He adored Rosalie. When in moments of rebellion against her +seeming indifference I hinted that she lacked housewifely qualities he +smiled and shifted the subject abruptly. + +Once he said, "She feeds--my soul." + +Of course she loved him. But love to her meant what it had meant in +those first days on the Maine coast when she had seen him, slender and +strong, his brown hair blowing back from his sun-tanned skin; it meant +those first days in their new home when, handsome and debonair in the +velvet coat which she had made him wear, he had added a high light to +the picture she had made of her home. + +This new Perry, pale and coughing--shivering in the warmth of the +fire--did not fit into the picture. Her dreams of the future had not +included a tired man who worked for his living, and who was dying for +lack of intelligent care. + +To put it into cold words makes it sound ghoulish. But of course Rosalie +was not really that. She was merely absorbed in her own exalted theories +and she was not maternal. I think when I compared her, unthinking, to +the young moon, that I was subconsciously aware of her likeness to the +"orbed maiden" whose white fire warms no one. + +She tried to do her best, and I am quite sure that Perry never knew the +truth--that he might have been saved if she could have left her heights +for a moment and had become womanly and wifely. If she had mothered him +a bit--poured out her tenderness upon him--oh, my poor Perry. He loved +her too much to ask it, but I knew what it would have meant to him. + +All through his last illness Rosalie clung to me. I think it grew to be +a horror to her to see him, gaunt and exhausted, in the west room. He +had a good nurse, toward the last, and good food. I had had a small +fortune left to me, too late, by a distant relative. I paid for the cook +and the nurse, and I sent flowers to Rosalie that she might take them to +Perry and let his hungry eyes feed upon her. + +It was in the winter that he died, and after all was over Rosalie and I +went out and stood together on the little porch. There was snow on the +ground and the bright stars seemed caught in the branches of the pines. + +Rosalie shook and sobbed. + +"I hate--death," she said. "Oh, Jim Crow, why did God let my poor Peer +die?" She was completely unstrung. "Death is so--ugly." + +I said, "It is not ugly. Peer will live again--like the daffodils in +the spring." + +"Do you believe that, Jim Crow?" + +I did believe it, and I told her so--that even now her Peer was strong +and well; and I think it comforted her. It gave her lover back to her, +as it were, in the glory of his youth. + +She did not wear mourning, or, rather, she wore mourning which was like +that worn by no other woman. Her robes were of purple. She kept Perry's +picture on the table, and out of the frame his young eyes laughed at us, +so that gradually the vision of that ravaged figure in the west room +faded. + +I went to see her once a week. It seemed the only thing to do. She was +utterly alone, with no family but the great-aunt and uncle who had been +with her when she met Perry. She was a child in business matters, and +Perry had left it to me to administer the affairs of his little estate. +Rosalie had her small bungalow, Perry's insurance, and she turned her +knowledge of painting to practical account. She made rather special +things in lamp-shades and screens, and was well paid for them. + +I went, as I have said, once a week. A woman friend shared part of her +house, but was apt to be out, and so I saw Rosalie usually alone. I +lived now at the club and kept a car. Rosalie often dined with me, but I +rarely ate at the bungalow. Now and then in the afternoon she made me a +cup of tea, rather more, I am sure, for the picturesque service with +her treasured Sheffield than for any desire to contribute to my own +cheer or comfort. + +And so, gradually, I grew into her life and she grew into mine. I was +forty-five, she twenty-five. In the back of my mind was always a sense +of the enormity of her offense against Perry. In my hottest moments I +said to myself that she had sacrificed his life to her selfishness; she +might have been a Borgia or a Medici. + +Yet when I was with her my resentment faded; one could as little hold +rancor against a child. + +Thus the months passed, and it was in the autumn, I remember, that a +conversation occurred which opened new vistas. She had been showing me a +parchment lamp-shade which she had painted. There was a peacock with a +spreading tail, and as she held the shade over the lamp the light shone +through and turned every feathered eye into a glittering jewel. Rosalie +wore one of her purple robes, and I can see her now as I shut my eyes, +as glowing and gorgeous as some of those unrivaled masterpieces in the +Pitti Palace. + +"Jim Crow," she said, "I shall do a parrot next--all red and blue, with +white rings round his eyes." + +"You will never do anything better than that peacock." + +"Shan't I?" She left the shade over the lamp and sat down. "Do you think +I shall paint peacocks and parrots for the rest of my life, Jim Crow?" + +"What would you like to do?" I asked her. + +"Travel." She was eager. "Do you know, I have never been to Europe? +Perry used to tell me about it--Botticelli and Raphael--and +Michaelangelo--" + +"We had a great time," I said, remembering it all--that breathless +search for beauty. + +"He promised that some day he and I would go--together." + +"Poor Perry!" + +She rose restlessly. + +"Oh, take me out somewhere, Jim Crow! I feel as if this little house +would stifle me." + +We motored to the country club. She wore the color which she now +affected, a close little hat and a straight frock. People stared at her. +I think she was aware of their admiration and liked it. + +She smiled at me as she sat down at the table. "I always love to come +with you, Jim Crow." + +"Why?" + +"You do things so well, and you're such a darling." + +I do not believe that it was intended as flattery. I am sure that she +meant it. She was happy because of the lights and the lovely old room +with its cavernous fireplace and its English chintzes; and out of her +happiness she spoke. + +She could not, of course, know the effect of her words on me. No one had +ever called me a darling or had thought that I did things well. + +She used, too, to tell me things about my looks. "You'd be like one of +those distinguished gentlemen of Vandyke's if you'd wear a ruff and +leave off your eye-glasses." + +I wonder if you know how it seemed to have a child like that saying such +things. For she was more than a child, she was a beautiful woman, and +everything surrounding her was beautiful. And there had been a great +many gray years before I met Perry and before the money came which made +pleasant living possible. + +"I like you because you are strong," was another of her tributes. + +"How do you know I am strong?" + +"Well, you look it. And not many men could have carried me so easily +up-stairs." + +She had sprained her ankle in getting out of my car on the night that we +had dined at the country club. She had worn high-heeled slippers and had +stepped on a pebble. + +It was on that night that I first faced the fact that I cared for her. +In my arms she had clung to me like a child, her hair had swept my +cheek, there had been the fragrance of violets. + +I did not want to care for her. I remembered Perry--the burned toast +which had seemed to mark the beginning of their tragedy--those last +dreadful days. I knew that Perry's fate would not be mine; there would +be no need to sell bread to buy hyacinths. There was money enough and to +spare, money to let her live in the enjoyment of the things she craved; +money enough to--travel. + +The more I thought of it the more I was held by the thought of what such +a trip would mean to me. It would be like that pilgrimage with young +Perry. There would be the same impassioned interest--there would be more +than that--there would be youth and loveliness--all mine. + +I felt that I was mad to think of it. Yet she made me think of it. It +was what she wanted. She was not in the least unwomanly, but she was +very modern in her frank expression of the pleasure she felt in my +companionship. + +"Oh, what would I do without you, Jim Crow?" was the way she put it. + +I grew young in my months of association with her. I had danced a little +in my college days, but I had given it up. She taught me the new +steps--and we would set the phonograph going and take up the rugs. + +When I grew expert we danced together at the country club and at some of +the smart places down-town. It was all very delightful. I made up my +mind that I should marry her. + +I planned to ask her on Christmas Eve. I had a present for her, an +emerald set in antique silver with seed pearls. It was hung on a black +ribbon, and I could fancy it shining against the background of her +velvet smock. I carried flowers, too, and a book. I was keen with +anticipation. The years seemed to drop from me. I was a boy of twenty +going to meet the lady of my first romance. + +When I arrived at the bungalow I found that Rosalie had with her the old +great-aunt and uncle who had been with her when we first met in Maine. +They had come on for Christmas unexpectedly, anticipating an eager +welcome, happy in their sense of surprise. + +Rosalie, when we had a moment alone, expressed her dismay. + +"They are going to stay until to-morrow night, Jim Crow. And I haven't +planned any Christmas dinner." + +"We'll take them to the country club." + +"How heavenly of you to think of it!" + +I gave her the flowers and the book. But I kept the jewel for the high +moment when I should ask her for a greater gift in exchange. + +But the high moment did not come that night. The old uncle and aunt sat +up with us. They had much to talk about. They were a comfortable +pair--silver-haired and happy in each other--going toward the end of the +journey hand in hand. + +The old man went to the door with me when I left, and we stood for a +moment under the stars. + +"Mother and I miss hanging up the stockings for the kiddies," he said. + +"Were there many kiddies?" + +"Three. Two dead and one married and out West. Rosalie seemed the +nearest that we had, and that's why we came. I thought mother might be +lonely in our big old house." + +The next day at the country club the old gentleman was genial but +slightly garrulous. The old lady talked about her children and her +Christmas memories. I saw that Rosalie was frankly bored. + +As for myself, I was impatient for my high moment. + +But I think I gave the old folks a good time and that they missed +nothing in my manner. And, indeed, I think that they missed nothing in +Rosalie's. They had the gentle complacency of the aged who bask in their +own content. + +It was toward the end of dinner that I caught a look in Rosalie's eyes +which almost made my heart stop beating. I had not seen it since Perry's +death. I had seen it first when she had stood in the door of his room on +the night that I tucked him up in bed and gave him the hot oysters. It +was that look of distaste--that delicate shrinking from an unpleasant +spectacle. + +Following her gaze I saw that the old gentleman had sunk in his chair +and was gently nodding. His wife leaned toward me. + +"Milton always takes a cat nap after meals," she said, smiling. And I +smiled back, she was so rosy and round and altogether comfortable. + +Rosalie and I went with them to the train, and it was as we drove back +that I spoke of them. + +"They are rather great dears, aren't they?" + +Rosalie was vehement. "I hate old people!" + +A chill struck to my bones. "You hate them? Why?" + +"They're--ugly, Jim Crow. Did you see how they had shrunk since I last +saw them--and the veins in their hands--and the skull showing through +his forehead?" + +She was twenty-five, and I was almost twice her age. When I was old she +would still be young--young enough to see my shrunken body and the +skull showing through! + +The look that had been in her eyes for Perry would some day be in her +eyes for me. And I knew that if I ever saw it it would strike me dead. +It might not kill me physically, but it would wither like a flame all +joy and hope forever. + +When we reached the bungalow I built up a fire, and Rosalie, leaving me +for a little, came back in something sheer and lovely in green. It was +the first time since Perry's death that she had discarded her purple +robes. She sank into a big chair opposite me and put her +silver-slippered feet on the green cushion. + +"Isn't it heavenly to be alone, Jim Crow?" + +It was the high moment which I had planned, but I could not grasp it. +Between me and happiness stood the shadow of that other Rosalie, +shrinking from me when I was old as she had shrunk from Perry. + +"My dear," I said, and I did not look at her, "I've been thinking a lot +about you." + +Her chin was in her hand. "I know." + +But she didn't know. + +"I've been thinking, Rosalie; and I want to give you something for +Christmas which will make you happy throughout the year." + +"You are such a darling, Jim Crow." + +"And I have thought of this--a trip to Europe. You'll let me do it, +won't you? There'll be the art galleries, and you can stay as long as +you like." + +I could see that she was puzzled. "Do you mean that I am to go--alone?" +she asked slowly. + +"There may be some one going. I'll find out." + +There was dead silence. + +"You will let me do it?" I asked finally. + +She came over to my chair and stood looking down at me. + +"Why are you sending me alone, Jim Crow?" + +I think, then, that she saw the anguish in my eyes. She sank on her +knees beside my chair. + +"I don't want to go alone, Jim Crow. I want to stay--with--you." + + * * * * * + +Well, the jewel is on her breast and a ring to match is on her finger. +And when the spring comes we are to sail for Italy, for France. + +Perhaps we shall never come back. And I am going to give Rosalie all +the loveliness that life can hold for her. Now and then she whispers +that she never knew love until I taught it to her. That what she felt +for Perry was but the echo of his own need of her. + +"But I'd tramp the muddy roads with you, Jim Crow." + +I wonder if she really means it. I wish with all my heart that I might +know it true. I have never told her of my fears and I believe that I can +make her happy. I shall try not to look too far beyond the days we shall +have in the Louvre and the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace. We shall search +for beauty, and perhaps I can teach her to find it, before it is too +late, in the things that count. + + + + +PETRONELLA + + +"If you loved a man, and knew that he loved you, and he wouldn't ask you +to marry him, what would you do?" + +The Admiral surveyed his grand-niece thoughtfully. "What do you expect +to do, my dear?" + +Petronella stopped on the snowy top step and looked down at him. "Who +said I had anything to do with it?" she demanded. + +The Admiral's old eyes twinkled. "Let me come in, and tell me about +it." + +Petronella smiled at him over her big muff. "If you'll promise not to +stay after five, I'll give you a cup of tea." + +"Who's coming at five?" + +The color flamed into Petronella's cheeks. In her white coat and white +furs, with her wind-blown brown hair, her beauty satisfied even the +Admiral's critical survey, and he hastened to follow his question by the +assertion, "Of course I'll come in." + +Petronella, with her coat off, showed a slenderness which was enhanced +by the straight lines of her white wool gown, with the long sleeves +fur-edged, and with fur at the top of the high, transparent collar. She +wore her hair curled over her ears and low on her forehead, which made +of her face a small and delicate oval. In the big hall, with a roaring +fire in the wide fireplace, she dispensed comforting hospitality to the +adoring Admiral. And when she had given him his tea she sat on a stool +at his feet. "Oh, wise great-uncle," she said, "I am going to tell you +about the Man!" + +"Have I ever seen him?" + +"No. I met him in London last year, and--well, you know what a trip home +on shipboard means, with all the women shut up in their cabins, and with +moonlight nights, and nobody on deck--" + +"So it was an affair of moonlight and propinquity?" + +After a pause: "No, it was an affair of the only man in the world for +me." + +"My dear child--!" + +Out of a long silence she went on: "He thought I was poor. You know how +quietly I traveled with Miss Danvers. And he didn't associate Nell +Hewlett with Petronella Hewlett of New York and Great Rock. And +so--well, you know, uncle, he let himself go, and I let myself go, and +then--" + +She drew a long breath. "When we landed, things stopped. He had found +out who I was, and he wrote me a little note, and said he would never +forget our friendship--and that's--all." + +She finished drearily, and the bluff old Admiral cleared his throat. +There was something wrong with the scheme of things when his Petronella +couldn't have the moon if she wanted it! + +"And what can I do--what can any woman do?" Petronella demanded, turning +on him. "I can't go to him and say, 'Please marry me.' I can't even +think it"; her cheeks burned. "And he'd die before _he'd_ say another +word, and I suppose that now we'll go on growing old, and I'll get +thinner and thinner, and he'll get fatter and fatter, and I'll be an old +maid, and he'll marry some woman who's poor enough to satisfy his pride, +and--well, that will be the end of it, uncle." + +"The end of it?" said the gentleman who had once commanded a squadron. +"Well, I guess not, Petronella, if you want him. Oh, the man's a fool!" + +"He's not a fool, uncle." The sparks in Petronella's eyes matched the +sparks in the Admiral's. + +"Well, if he's worthy of you--" + +Petronella laid her cheek against his hand. "The question is not," she +said, faintly, "of his worthiness, but of mine, dear uncle." + +Dumbly the Admiral gazed down at that drooping head. Could this be +Petronella--confident, imperious, the daughter of a confident and +imperious race? + +He took refuge in the question, "But who is coming at five?" + +"He is coming. He is passing through Boston on his way to visit his +mother in Maine. I asked him to come. I told him I was down here by the +sea, and intended to spend Christmas at Great Rock because you were +here, and because this was the house I lived in when I was a little +girl, and that I wanted him to see it; and--I told him the truth, +uncle." + +"The truth?" + +"That I missed him. That was all I dared say, and I wish you had read +his note of assent. Such a stiff little thing. It threw me back upon +myself, and I wished that I hadn't written him--I wished that he +wouldn't come. Oh, uncle, if I were a man, I'd give a woman the right to +choose. That's the reason there are so many unhappy marriages. Nine +wrong men ask a woman, and the tenth right one _won't_. And finally she +gets tired of waiting for the tenth right one, and marries one of the +nine wrong ones." + +"There are women to-day," said the Admiral, "who are preaching a woman's +right to propose." + +Petronella gazed at him, thoughtfully. "I could preach a doctrine like +that--but I couldn't practice it. It's easy enough to say to some other +woman, 'Ask him,' but it's different when you are the woman." + +"Yet if he asked you," suggested the Admiral, "the world might say that +he wanted your money." + +"Why should we care what the world would say?" Petronella was on her +feet now, defending her cause vigorously. "Why should we care? Why, it's +our love against the world, uncle! Why should we care?" + +The Admiral stood up, too, and paced the rug as in former days he had +paced the decks. "There must be some way out," he said at last, and +stopped short. "Suppose I speak to him--" + +"And spoil it all! Oh, uncle!" Petronella shook him by the lapels of +his blue coat. "A man never knows how a woman feels about such things. +Even you don't, you old darling. And now will you please go; and take +this because I love you," and she kissed him on one cheek, "and this +because it is a quarter to five and you'll have to hurry," and she +kissed him on the other cheek. + +The Admiral, being helped into his big cape in the hall, called back, "I +forgot to give you your Christmas present," and he produced a small +package. + +"Come here and let me open it," Petronella insisted. And the Admiral, +without a glance at the accusing clock, went back. And thus it happened +that he was there to meet the Man. + +It must be confessed that the Admiral suffered a distinct shock as he +was presented to the hero of Petronella's romance. Here was no courtly +youth of the type of the military male line of Petronella's family, but +a muscular young giant of masterful bearing. The Hewlett men had +commanded men; one could see at a glance that Justin Hare had also +commanded women. This, the wise old Admiral decided at once, was the +thing which had attracted Petronella--Petronella, who had held her own +against all masculine encroachments, and who was heart-free at +twenty-five! + +"Look what this dearest dear of an uncle has given me," said Petronella, +and held up for the young surgeon's admiration a string of pearls with a +sapphire clasp. "They belonged to my great-aunt. I was named for her, +and uncle says I look like her." + +"You have her eyes, my dear, and some of her ways. But she was less +independent. In her time women leaned more, as it were, on man's +strength." + +Justin Hare looked at them with interest--at the slender girl in her +white gown, at the tall, straight old man with his air of command. + +"Women in these days do not lean," he said, with decision; "they lead." + +A spark came into Petronella's eyes. "And do you like the modern type +best?" she challenged. + +He answered with smiling directness, "I like you." + +The Admiral was pleased with that, though he was still troubled by this +man's difference from the men of his own race. Yet if back of that +honest bluntness there was a heart which would enshrine her--well, that +was all he would ask for this dearest of girls. + +He glanced at the clock, and spoke hurriedly: "I must be going, my dear; +it is long after five." + +"Must you really go?" asked the mendacious Petronella. + +An hour later she was alone. The visit had been a failure. She admitted +that, as she gazed with a sort of agonized dismay through the wide +window to where the sea was churned by the wildness of the northeast +gale. Snow had come with the wind, shutting out the view of the great +empty hotels on the Point, shutting out, too, the golden star of hope +which gleamed from the top of the lighthouse. + +Petronella turned away from the blank scene with a little shudder. Thus +had Justin Hare shut her out of his life. He had talked of his mother in +Maine, of his hospital plans for the winter, but not a word had he said +of those moonlight nights when he had masterfully swayed her by the +force of his own passion, had wooed her, won her. + +And now there was nothing that she could do. There was never anything +that a woman could do! And so she must bear it. Oh, if she could bear +it! + +A little later, when a maid slipped in to light the candles, Petronella +said out of the shadows, "When Jenkins goes to the post-office, I have a +parcel for the mail." + +"He's been, miss, and there won't be any train out to-night; the snow +has stopped the trains." + +"Not any train!" At first the remark held little significance, but +finally the fact beat against her brain. If the one evening train could +not leave, then Justin Hare must stay in town, and he would have to stay +until Christmas morning! + +Petronella went at once to the telephone, and called up the only hotel +which was open at that season. Presently she had Hare at the other end +of the line. + +"You must come to my house to dinner," she said. "Jenkins has told me +about your train. Please don't dress--there'll be only Miss Danvers and +uncle; and you shall help me trim my little tree." + +Although she told him not to dress, she changed her gown for one of dull +green velvet, built on the simple lines of the white wool she had worn +in the afternoon. The square neck was framed by a collar of Venetian +point, and there was a queer old pin of pearls. + +The Admiral, arriving early, demanded: "My dear, what is this? I was +just sitting down to bread and milk and a handful of raisins, and now I +must dine in six courses, and drink coffee, which will keep me awake." + +She laid her cheek against his arm. "Mr. Hare's train couldn't get out +of town on account of the snow." + +"And he's coming?" + +"Yes." + +"But what of this afternoon, my dear?" + +She slipped her hand into his, and they stood gazing into the fire. "It +was dreadful, uncle. I had a feeling that I had compelled him to +come--against his will." + +"Yet you have asked him to come again to-night?" + +She shivered a little, and her hand was cold. "Perhaps I shall regret +it--but oh, uncle, can't I have for this one evening the joy of his +presence? And if to-morrow my heart dies--" + +"Nella, my dear child--" + +The Admiral's own Petronella had never drawn in this way upon his +emotions. She had been gentle, perhaps a little cold. But then he had +always worshiped at her shrine. Perhaps a woman denied the lore she +yearns for learns the value of it. At any rate, here in his arms was the +dearest thing in his lonely life, sobbing as if her heart would break. + +When Justin came, a half-hour later, he found them still in front of the +fire in the great hall, and as she rose to welcome him he saw that +Petronella had been sitting on a stool at her uncle's feet. + +"When I was a little girl," she explained, when Hare had taken a chair +on the hearth and she had chosen another with, a high, carved back, in +which she sat with her silken ankles crossed and the tips of her slipper +toes resting on a leopard-skin which the Admiral had brought back from +India--"when I was a little girl we always spent Christmas Eve in this +house by the sea instead of in town. We were all here then--mother and +dad and dear Aunt Pet, and we hung our stockings at this very +fireplace--and now there is no one but Miss Danvers and me, and uncle, +who lives up aloft in his big house across the way, where he has a +lookout tower. I always feel like calling up to him when I go there, +'Oh, Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?'" + +She was talking nervously, with her cheeks as white as a lily, but with +her eyes shining. The Admiral glanced at Hare. The young man was +drinking in her beauty. But suddenly he frowned and turned away his +eyes. + +"It was very good of you to ask me over," he said, formally. + +That steadied Petronella. Her nervous self-consciousness fled, and she +was at once the gracious, impersonal hostess. + +The Admiral glowed with pride of her. "She'll carry it off," he said to +himself; "it's in her blood." + +"Dinner is served," announced Jenkins from the doorway, and then Miss +Danvers came down and greeted Justin, and they all went out together. + +There was holly for a centerpiece, and four red candles in silver +holders. The table was of richly carved mahogany, and the Admiral, +following an old custom, served the soup from a silver tureen, upheld by +four fat cupids. From the wide arch which led into the great hall was +hung a bunch of mistletoe; beyond the arch, the roaring fire made a +background of gleaming, golden light. + +To the young surgeon it seemed a fairy scene flaming with the color and +glow of a life which he had never known. He had lived so long surrounded +by the bare, blank walls of a hospital. Even Petronella's soft green +gown seemed made of some mystical stuff which had nothing in common with +the cool white or blue starchiness of the uniforms of nurses. + +They talked of many things, covering with, their commonplaces the +tenseness of the situation. Then suddenly the conversation took a +significant turn. + +"I love these stormy nights," Petronella had said, "with the snow +blowing, and the wind, and the house all warm and bright." + +"Think of the poor sailors at sea," Hare had reminded her. + +"Please--I don't want to think of them. We have done our best for them, +uncle and I. We have opened a reading-room down by the docks, so that +all who are ashore can have soup and coffee and sandwiches, and there's +a big stove, and newspapers and magazines." + +"You dispense charity?" + +"Why not?" she asked him, confidently. "We have plenty--why shouldn't we +give?" + +"Because it takes away from their manhood to receive." + +The Admiral spoke bluntly. "The men don't feel it that way. This +charity, as you call it, is a memorial to my wife. The grandfathers of +these boys used to see her light in the window of the old house on +stormy nights, and they knew that it was an invitation to good cheer. +More than one crew coming in half frozen were glad of the soup and +coffee which were sent down to them in cans with baskets of bread. And +this little coffee-room has been the outgrowth of just such hospitality. +There are too many of the men to have in my house. I simply entertain +them elsewhere, and I like to go and talk to them, and sometimes +Petronella goes." + +"There's a picture of dear Aunt Pet hanging there," said Petronella, +"and you can't imagine how it softens the manners of the men. It is as +if her spirit brooded over the place. They have made it into a sort of +shrine, and they bring shells and queer carved things to put on the +shelf below it." + +"In the city we are beginning to think that such methods weaken +self-respect." + +"That's because," said the wise old Admiral, "in the city there isn't +any real democracy. You give your friend a cup of coffee and think +nothing of it, yet when I give a cup of coffee to a sailor whose +grandfather and mine fished together on the banks, you warn me that my +methods tend to pauperize. In the city the poor are never your +friends--in this little town no man would admit that he is less than I. +They like my coffee and they drink it." + +Petronella, seeing her chance, took it. "I think people are horrid to +let money make a difference." + +"You say that," said Hare, "because you have never had to accept +favors--you have, in other words, never been on the other side." + +The Admiral, taking up cudgels for his niece, answered, "If she had been +on the other side, she would have taken life as she takes it now--like a +gentleman and a soldier," and he smiled at Petronella. + +Hare had a baffled sense that the Admiral was right--that Petronella's +fineness and delicacy would never go down in defeat or despair. She +would hold her head high though the heavens fell. But could any man make +such demands upon her? For himself, he would not. + +So he answered, doggedly, "We shall hope she need never be tested." And +Petronella's heart sank like lead. + +But presently she began to talk about the little tree. "We have always +had it in uncle's lookout tower. That was another of dear Aunt Pet's +thoughts for the sailors. On clear nights they looked through their +glasses for the little colored lights, and on stormy nights they knew +that back of all the snow was the Christmas brightness." + +"I never had a tree," said Justin. "When I was a kiddie we had pretty +hard times, and the best Christmas I remember was one when mother made +us boys put up a shelf for our books, and she started our collection +with 'Treasure Island' and 'Huckleberry Finn.'" + +In the adjoining room, volumes reached from floor to ceiling, from end +to end. Petronella had a vision of this vivid young giant gloating over +his two books on a rude shelf. And all her life she had had the things +she wanted! Somehow the thought took the bitterness out of her attitude +toward him. How strong he must be to deny himself now the one great +thing that he craved when his life had held so little. + +"How lovely to begin with just those two books," she said, softly, and +the radiance of her smile was dazzling. + +When she showed him her presents she was still radiant. There was a +queer opera-bag of Chinese needlework, with handles of jade, a Damascus +bowl of pierced brass, a tea-caddy in quaint Dutch _repousse_; there was +a silver-embroidered altar-cloth for a cushion, a bit of Copenhagen +faience, all the sophisticated artistry which is sent to those who have +no need for the commonplace. There were jewels, too: a bracelet of +topazes surrounded by brilliants, a pair of slipper buckles of +turquoises set in silver, a sapphire circlet for her little finger, a +pendant of seed pearls. + +As she opened the parcels and displayed her riches Justin felt +bewildered. His gifts to his mother had included usually gloves and a +generous check; if he had ventured to choose anything for Petronella he +would not have dared go beyond a box of candy or a book; he had given +his nurses pocketbooks and handkerchiefs. And the men of Petronella's +world bestowed on her brass bowls and tea-caddies! + +Miss Danvers vanished up-stairs. The Admiral, having admired, slipped +away to the library, encouraged by Petronella's whispered: "Oh, uncle +dear, leave us alone for just a little minute. I've found a way!" + +Then Petronella, with that radiance still upon her, sat down on her +little stool in front of the fire, and looked at Justin on the other +side of the hearth. + +"You haven't given me anything," she began, reproachfully. + +"What could I give that would compare with these?" His hand swept toward +the exquisite display. "What could I give--" + +"There's one thing," softly. + +"What?" + +"That copy of 'Treasure Island' that your mother gave you long ago." + +Dead silence. Then, unsteadily: "Why should you want that?" + +"Because your mother--loved you." + +Again dead silence. Hare did not look at her. His hand clenched the arm +of his chair. His face was white. Then, very low, "Why do you--make it +hard for me?" + +"Because I want--the book"; she was smiling at him with her eyes like +stars. "I want to read it with the eyes of the little boy--with the eyes +of the little boy who looked into the future and saw life as a great +adventure; who looked into the future--and dreamed." + +He had a vision, too, of that little boy, reading, in the old house in +the Maine woods, by the light of an oil-lamp, on Christmas Eve, with the +snow blowing outside as it blew to-night. + +"And your mother loved you because she loved your father," the girl's +voice went on, "and you were all very happy up there in the forest. Do +you remember that you told me about it on the ship?--you were happy, +although you were poor, and hadn't any books but 'Treasure Island' and +'Huckleberry Finn.' But your mother was happy--because she--loved your +father." + +As she repeated it, she leaned forward. "Could you think of your mother +as having been happy with any one else but your father?" she asked. +"Could you think of her as having never married him, of having gone +through the rest of her days a half-woman, because he would not--take +her--into his life? Can you think that all the money in the world--all +the money in the whole world--would--would have made up--" + +The room seemed to darken. Hare was conscious that her face was hidden +in her hands, that he stumbled toward her, that he knelt beside +her--that she was in his arms. + +"Hush," he was saying in that beating darkness of emotion. "Hush, don't +cry--I--I will never let you go--" + +When the storm had spent itself and when at last she met his long gaze, +he whispered, "I'm not sure now that it is right--" + +"You will be sure as the years go on," she whispered back; then, +tremulously: "but I--I could never have--talked that way if I had +thought of you as the man. I had to think of you as the little boy--who +dreamed." + + + + +THE CANOPY BED + + +"My great-grandfather slept in it," Van Alen told the caretaker, as she +ushered him into the big stuffy bedroom. + +The old woman set her candlestick down on the quaint dresser. "He must +have been a little man," she said; "none of my sons could sleep in it. +Their feet would hang over." + +Van Alen eyed the big bed curiously. All his life he had heard of it, +and now he had traveled far to see it. It was a lumbering structure of +great width and of strangely disproportionate length. And the coverlet +and the canopy were of rose-colored chintz. + +"I think I shall fit it," he said slowly. + +Mrs. Brand's critical glance weighed his smallness, his immaculateness, +his difference from her own great sons. + +"Yes," she said, with the open rudeness of the country-bred; "yes, you +ain't very big." + +Van Alen winced. Even from the lips of this uncouth woman the truth +struck hard. But he carried the topic forward with the light ease of a +man of the world. + +"My grandfather had the bed sawed to his own length," he explained; "did +you ever hear the story?" + +"No," she said; "I ain't been here long. They kept the house shut up +till this year." + +"Well, I'll tell you when I come down," and Van Alen opened his bag with +a finality that sent the old woman to the door. + +"Supper's ready," she told him, "whenever you are." + +At the supper table the four big sons towered above Van Alen. They ate +with appetites like giants, and they had big ways and hearty laughs +that seemed to dwarf their guest into insignificance. + +But the insignificance was that of body only, for Van Alen, fresh from +the outside world and a good talker at all times, dominated the table +conversationally. + +To what he had to say the men listened eagerly, and the girl who waited +on the table listened. + +She was a vivid personality, with burnished hair, flaming cheeks, eyes +like the sea. Her hands, as she passed the biscuits, were white, and the +fingers went down delicately to little points. Van Alen, noting these +things keenly, knew that she was out of her place, and wondered how she +came there. + +At the end of the meal he told the story of the Canopy Bed. + +"My great-grandfather was a little man, and very sensitive about his +height. In the days of his early manhood he spent much time in devising +ways to deceive people into thinking him taller. He surrounded himself +with big things, had a big bed made, wore high-heeled boots, and the +crown of his hat was so tall that he was almost overbalanced. + +"But for all that, he was a little man among the sturdy men of his +generation, and if it had not been for the Revolution I think he would +have died railing at fate. But the war brought him opportunity. My +little great-grandfather fought in it, and won great honors, and +straight back home he came and had the bed sawed off! He wanted future +generations to see what a little man could do, and his will provided +that this house should not be sold, and that, when his sons and +grandsons had proved themselves worthy of it by some achievement, they +should come here and sleep. I think he swaggered a little when he wrote +that will, and he has put his descendants in an embarrassing position. +We can never sleep in the canopy bed without taking more upon ourselves +than modesty permits!" + +He laughed, and instinctively his eyes sought those of the girl who +waited on the table. Somehow he felt that she was the only one who could +understand. + +She came back at him with a question: "What have you done?" + +"I have written a book," he told her. + +She shook her head, and there were little sparks of light in her eyes. +"I don't believe that was what your grandfather meant," she said, +slowly. + +They stared at her--three of the brothers with their knives and forks +uplifted, the fourth, a blond Titanic youngster, with his elbows on the +table, his face turned up to her, as to the sun. + +"I don't believe he meant something done with your brains, but something +fine, heroic--" There was a hint of scorn in her voice. + +Van Alen flushed. He was fresh from the adulation of his bookish world. + +"I should not have come," he explained, uncomfortably, "if my mother had +not desired that I preserve the tradition of the family." + +"It is a great thing to write a book"--she was leaning forward, aflame +with interest--"but I don't believe he meant just that--" + +He laughed. "Then I am not to sleep in the canopy bed?" + +The girl laughed too. "Not unless you want to be haunted by his ghost." + +With a backward flashing glance, she went into the kitchen, and Van +Alen, lighting a cigarette, started to explore the old house. + +Except for the wing, occupied by the caretaker, nothing had been +disturbed since the family, seeking new fortunes in the city, had left +the old homestead to decay among the desolate fields that yielded now a +meagre living for Mrs. Brand and her four strapping sons. + +In the old parlor, where the ancient furniture showed ghostlike shapes +in the dimness, and the dead air was like a tomb, Van Alen found a +picture of his great-grandfather. + +The little man had been painted without flattery. There he +sat--Lilliputian on the great charger! At that moment Van Alen hated +him--that Hop-o'-my-Thumb of another age, founder of a pigmy race, who, +by his braggart will, had that night brought upon this one of his +descendants the scorn of a woman. + +And even as he thought of her, she came in, with the yellow flare of a +candle lighting her vivid face. + +"I thought you might need a light," she said; "it grows dark so soon." + +As he took the candle from her, he said abruptly: "I shall not sleep in +the canopy bed; there is a couch in the room." + +"Oh," her tone was startled, "you shouldn't have taken all that I said +in earnest." + +"But you meant it?" + +"In a way, yes. I have been in here so often and have looked at your +grandfather's picture. He was a great little man--you can tell from his +eyes--they seem to speak at times." + +"To you?" + +"Yes. Of how he hated to be little, and how he triumphed when fame came +at last." + +"I hate to be little--" + +It was the first time that he had ever owned it. Even as a tiny boy he +had brazened it out, boasting of his mental achievements and slurring +the weakness of his stunted body. + +"I know," she had shut the kitchen door behind her, and they were +standing in the hallway alone, "I know. Every man must want to be big." + +She was only the girl who had waited on the table, but as she stood +there, looking at him with luminous eyes, he burned with dull +resentment, envying the blond boy who had sprawled at the head of the +supper table. After all, it was to such a man as Otto Brand that this +woman would some day turn. + +He spoke almost roughly: "Size isn't everything." She flushed. "How rude +you must think me," she said; "but I have been so interested in +dissecting your grandfather that I forgot--you--" + +Van Alen was moved by an impulse that he could not control, a primitive +impulse that was not in line with his usual repression. + +"I am tempted to make you remember me," he said slowly, and after that +there was a startled silence. And then she went away. + +As he passed the sitting-room on his way up-stairs, he looked in, and +spoke to Otto Brand. + +More than any of the other brothers, Otto typified strength and beauty, +but in his eyes was never a dream, his brain had mastered nothing. He +was playing idly with the yellow cat, but he stopped at Van Alen's +question. + +"Her great-grandfather and yours were neighbors," the boy said, with his +cheeks flushing; "they own the next farm." + +"The Wetherells?" Van Alen inquired. + +The boy nodded. "They ain't got a cent. They're land poor. That's why +she's here. But she don't need to work." + +"Why not?" + +"There's plenty that wants to marry her round about," was the boy's +self-conscious summing up. + +With a sense of revolt, Van Alen left him, and, undressing in the room +with the canopy bed, he called up vaguely the vision of a little girl +who had visited them in the city. She had had green eyes and freckles +and red hair. Beyond that she had made no impression on his callowness. +And her name was Mazie Wetherell. + +He threw himself on the couch, and the night winds, coming in through +the open window, stirred the curtains of the canopy bed with the light +touch of a ghostly hand. + +Then dreams came, and through them ran the thread of his hope of seeing +Mazie Wetherell in the morning. + +But even with such preparation, her beauty seemed to come upon him +unawares when he saw her at breakfast. And again at noon, and again at +night. But it was the third day before he saw her alone. + +All that day he had explored the length and breadth of the family +estate, finding it barren, finding that the population of the little +village at its edge had decreased to a mere handful of laggards, finding +that there was no lawyer within miles and but one doctor; gaining a +final impression that back here in the hills men would come no more +where once men had thronged. + +It was almost evening when he followed a furrowed brown road that led +westward. Above the bleak line of the horizon the sun hung, a red gold +disk. There were other reds, too, along the way--the sumac flaming +scarlet against the gray fence-rails; the sweetbrier, crimson-spotted +with berries; the creeper, clinging with ruddy fingers to dead +tree-trunks; the maple leaves rosy with first frosts. + +And into this vividness came the girl who had waited on the table, and +her flaming cheeks and copper hair seemed to challenge the glow of the +autumn landscape. + +She would have passed him with a nod, but he stopped her. + +"You must not run away, Mazie Wetherell," he said; "you used to treat me +better than that when you were a little girl." + +She laughed. "Do you remember my freckles and red hair?" + +"I remember your lovely manners." + +"I had to have nice manners. It is only pretty children who can afford +to be bad." + +"And pretty women?" he asked, with his eyes on the color that came and +went. + +She flung out her hands in a gesture of protest "I have seen so few." + +His lips were opened to tell her of her own beauty, but something +restrained him, some perception of maidenly dignity that enfolded her +and made her more than the girl who had waited on the table. + +"You were a polite little boy," she recalled, filling the breach made by +his silence. "I remember that you carried me across the street, to save +my slippers from the wet. I thought you were wonderful. I have never +forgotten." + +Neither had Van Alen forgotten. It had been a great feat for his little +strength. There had been other boys there, bigger boys, but he had +offered, and had been saved humiliation by her girlish slimness and +feather weight. + +"I was a strong little fellow then," was his comment: "I am a strong +little fellow now." + +She turned on him reproachful eyes. "Why do you always harp on it?" she +demanded. + +"On what?" + +"Your size. You twist everything, turn everything, so that we come back +to it." + +He tried to answer lightly, but his voice shook. "Perhaps it is because +in your presence I desire more than ever the full stature of a man." + +He was in deadly earnest. Hitherto he had been willing to match his +brain, his worldly knowledge, his ancestry, against the charms of the +women he had met; but here with this girl, standing like a young goddess +under the wide, sunset sky, he felt that only for strength and beauty +should she choose her mate. + +He wondered what he must seem in her eyes; with his shoulder on a level +with hers, with his stocky build that saved him from effeminacy, his +carefulness of attire--which is at once the burden and the salvation of +the small man. + +As for his face, he knew that its homeliness was redeemed by a certain +strength of chin, by keen gray eyes, and by a shock of dark hair that +showed a little white at the temples. There were worse-looking men, he +knew, but that, at the present moment, gave little comfort. + +She chose to receive his remark in silence, and, as they came to a path +that branched from the road, she said: + +"I am going to help take care of a child who is sick. You see I am +mistress of all trades--nurse, waitress, charwoman, when there is +nothing else." + +He glanced at her hands. "I cannot believe that you scrub," he said. + +"I sit up at night to care for my hands"--there was a note of bitterness +in her tone--"and I wear gloves when I work. There are some things that +one desires to hold on to, and my mother and my grandmother were ladies +of leisure." + +"Would you like that--to be a lady of leisure?" + +She turned and smiled at him. "How can I tell?" she asked; "I have never +tried it." + +She started to leave him as she said it, but he held her with a +question: "Shall you sit up all night?" + +She nodded. "His mother has had no sleep for two nights." + +"Is he very ill?" + +The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Who knows? There is no doctor near, +and his mother is poor. We are fighting it out together." + +There was something heroic in her cool acceptance of her hard life. He +was silent for a moment, and then he said: "Would you have time to read +my book to-night?" + +"Oh, if I might," she said eagerly, "but you haven't it with you." + +"I will bring it," he told her, "after supper." + +"But," she protested. + +"There are no 'buts,'" he said, smiling; "if you will read it, I will +get it to you." + +The sky had darkened, and, as he went toward home, he faced clouds in +the southeast. + +"It is going to rain," Otto Brand prophesied as they sat down to supper. + +The other three men hoped that it would not. Already the ground was +soaked, making the cutting of corn impossible, and another rain with a +frost on top of it would spoil all chance of filling the silo. + +Van Alen could not enter into their technical objections. He hoped it +would not rain, because he wanted to take a book to Mazie Wetherell, and +he had not brought a rain-coat. + +But it did rain, and he went without a rain-coat! + +The house, as he neared it, showed no light, and under the thick canopy +of the trees there was no sound but the drip, drip of the rain. By +feeling and instinct he found the front door, and knocked. + +There was a movement inside, and then Mazie Wetherell asked softly: +"Who's there?" + +"I have brought the book." + +The bolt was withdrawn, and in the hall, scarcely lighted by the shaded +lamp in the room beyond, stood the girl, in a loose gray gown, with +braided shining hair--a shadowy being, half-merged into the shadows. + +"I thought you would not come," in a hushed tone, "in such a storm." + +"I said I should come. The book may help you through the long night." + +She caught her breath quickly. "The child is awfully ill." + +"Are you afraid? Let me stay." + +"Oh, no, no. His mother is sleeping, and I shall have your book." + +She did not ask him in, and so he went away at once, beating his way +back in the wind and rain, fording a little stream where the low +foot-bridge was covered, reaching home soaking wet, but afire with +dreams. + +Otto Brand was waiting for him, a little curious as to what had taken +him out so late, but, getting no satisfaction, he followed Van Alen +up-stairs, and built a fire for him in the big bedroom. And presently, +in the light of the leaping flames, the roses on the canopy of the bed +glowed pink. + +"Ain't you goin' to sleep in the bed?" Otto asked, as he watched Van +Alen arrange the covers on the couch. + +"No," said Van Alen shortly, "the honor is too great. It might keep me +awake." + +"My feet would hang over," Otto said. "Funny thing, wasn't it, for a man +to make a will like that?" + +"I suppose every man has a right to do as he pleases," Van Alen +responded coldly. He was not inclined to discuss the eccentricities of +his little old ancestor with this young giant. + +"Of course," Otto agreed, and his next remark was called forth by Van +Alen's pale blue pajamas. + +"Well, those are new on me." + +Van Alen explained that in the city they were worn, and that silk was +cool, but while he talked he was possessed by a kind of fury. For the +first time the delicate garments, the luxurious toilet articles packed +in his bag, seemed foppish, unnecessary, things for a woman. With all of +them, he could not compete with this fair young god, who used a rough +towel and a tin basin on the kitchen bench. + +"Maybe I'd better go," the boy offered. "You'll want to go to bed." + +But Van Alen held him. "I always smoke first," he said, and, wrapped in +his dressing-gown, he flung himself into a chair on the opposite side of +the fireplace. + +And after a time he brought the conversation around to Mazie Wetherell. + +He found the boy rather sure of his success with her. + +"All women are alike," he said; "you've just got to keep after them long +enough." + +To Van Alen the idea of this hulking youngster as a suitor for such a +woman seemed preposterous. He was not fit to touch the hem of her +garment. He was unmannerly, uneducated; he was not of her class--and +even as he analyzed, the boy stood up, perfect in his strong young +manhood. + +"I've never had much trouble making women like me," he said; "and I +ain't goin' to give up, just because she thinks she's better than the +rest round about here." + +He went away, and Van Alen stared long into the fire, until the flames +left a heart of opal among the ashes. + +He had not been unsuccessful with women himself. Many of them had liked +him, and might have loved him if he had cared to make them. But until +he met Mazie Wetherell he had not cared. + +Desperately he wished for some trial of courage where he might be +matched against Otto Brand. He grew melodramatic in his imaginings, and +saw himself at a fire, fighting the flames to reach Mazie, while Otto +Brand shrank back. He stood in the path of runaway horses, and Otto +showed the white feather. He nursed her through the plague, and Otto +fled fearfully from the disease. + +And then having reached the end of impossibilities, he stood up and +shook himself. + +"I'm a fool," he said to the flames, shortly, and went to bed, to lie +awake, wondering whether Mazie Wetherell had reached that chapter of his +book where he had written of love, deeply, reverently, with a +foreknowledge of what it might mean to him some day. It was that chapter +which had assured the success of his novel. Would it move her, as it had +moved him when he reread it? That was what love ought to be--a thing +fine, tender, touching the stars! That was what love might be to him, to +Mazie Wetherell, what it could never be to Otto Brand. + +At breakfast the next morning he found Mrs. Brand worrying about her +waitress. + +"I guess she couldn't get back, and I've got a big day's work." + +"I'll go and look her up," Van Alen offered; but he found that he was +not to go alone, for Otto was waiting for him at the gate. + +"I ain't got nothin' else to do," the boy said; "everything is held up +by the rain." + +It was when they came to the little stream that Van Alen had forded the +night before that they saw Mazie Wetherell. + +"I can't get across," she called from the other side. + +The bridge, which had been covered when Van Alen passed, was now washed +away, and the foaming brown waters overflowed the banks. + +"I'll carry you over," Otto called, and straightway he waded through the +stream, and the water came above his high boots to his hips. + +He lifted her in his strong arms and brought her back, with her bright +hair fluttering against his lips, and Van Alen, raging impotently, stood +and watched him. + +It seemed to him that Otto's air was almost insultingly triumphant as he +set the girl on her feet and smiled down at her. And as she smiled back, +Van Alen turned on his heel and left them. + +Presently he heard her running after him lightly over the sodden ground. + +And when she reached his side she said: "Your book was wonderful." + +"But he carried you over the stream." + +Her eyes flashed a question, then blazed. "There, you've come back to +it," she said. "What makes you?" + +"Because I wanted to carry you myself." + +"Silly," she said; "any man could carry me across the stream--but only +you could write that chapter in the middle of the book." + +"You liked it?" he cried, radiantly. + +"Like it?" she asked. "I read it once, and then I read it again--on my +knees." + +Her voice seemed to drop away breathless. Behind them Otto Brand +tramped, whistling; but he might have been a tree, or the sky, or the +distant hills, for all the thought they took of him. + +"I wanted to beg your pardon," the girl went on, "for what I said the +other day--it is a great thing to write a book like that--greater than +fighting a battle or saving a life, for it saves people's ideals; +perhaps in that way it saves their souls." + +"Then I may sleep in the canopy bed?" His voice was calm, but inwardly +he was much shaken by her emotion. + +Her eyes, as she turned to him, had in them the dawn of that for which +he had hoped. + +"Why not?" she said, quickly. "You are greater than your +grandfather--you are--" She stopped and laughed a little, and, in this +moment of her surrender, her beauty shone like a star. + +"Oh, little great man," she said, tremulously, "your head touches the +skies!" + + + + +SANDWICH JANE + +I + + +"No man," said O-liver Lee, "should earn more than fifteen dollars a +week. After that he gets--soft." + +"Soft nothing!" + +O-liver sat on a box in front of the post-office. He was lean and young +and without a hat. His bare head was one of the things that made him +unique. The other men within doors and without wore hats--broad hats +that shielded them from the California sun; or, as in the case of Atwood +Jones, who came from the city, a Panama of an up-to-the-minute model. + +But O-liver's blond mane waved in every passing breeze. It was only when +he rode forth on his mysterious journeys that he crowned himself with a +Chinese straw helmet. + +Because he wore no hat his skin was tanned. He had blue eyes that +twinkled and, as I have said, a blond mane. + +"Fifteen dollars a week," he reaffirmed, "is enough." + +Fifteen dollars was all that O-liver earned. He was secretary to an +incipient oil king. As the oil king's monarchy was largely on paper he +found it hard at times to compass even the fifteen dollars that went to +his secretary. + +The other men scorned O-liver's point of view and told him so. They were +a rather prosperous bunch, all except Tommy Drew, who dealt in a +dilettante fashion in insurance, and who sat at O-liver's feet and +worshiped him. + +It was Saturday and some of the men had drifted in from the surrounding +ranches; others from the cities, from the mountains, from the valleys, +from the desert, from the sea. Tinkersfield had assumed a sudden +importance as an oil town. All of the men had business connected in some +way with Tinkersfield. And all of them earned more than fifteen dollars +a week. + +Therefore they disputed O-liver's statement. "If you had a wife--" said +one. + +"Ah," said O-liver, "if I had--" + +"Ain't you got any ambition?" Henry Bittinger demanded. Henry was +pumping out oil in prodigious quantities. He had bought a motor car and +a fur coat. It was too hot most of the time for the coat, but the car +stood now at rest across the road--long and lovely--much more of an +aristocrat than the man who owned it. + +"Ambition for what?" O-liver demanded. + +Henry's eyes went to the pride of his heart. + +"Well, I should think you'd want a car." + +"I'd give," said O-liver, "my kingdom for a horse, but not for a car." + +O-liver's little mare stood quite happily in the shade; she was slim as +to leg, shining as to coat, and with the eyes of a loving woman. + +"I should think you'd want to get ahead," said Atwood Jones, who sold +shoes up and down the coast. He was a junior member of the firm, but +still liked to go on the road. He liked to lounge like this in front of +the post-office and smoke in the golden air with a lot of men sitting +round. Atwood had been raised on a ranch. He had listened to the call of +the city, but he was still a small-town man. + +"Ahead of what?" asked O-liver. + +Atwood was vague. He felt himself a rising citizen. Some day he expected +to marry and set his wife up in a mansion in San Francisco, with +seasons of rest and recreation at Del Monte and Coronado and the East. +If the shoe business kept to the present rate of prosperity he would +probably have millions to squander in his old age. + +He tried to say something of this to O-liver. + +"Well, will you be any happier?" asked the young man with the bare head. +"I'll wager my horse against your car that when you're drunk with +dollars you'll look back to a day like this and envy yourself. It's +happiness I'm talking about." + +"Well, are you happy?" Atwood challenged. + +"Why not?" asked the young man lightly. "I have enough to eat, money for +tobacco, a book or two--an audience." He waved his hand to include the +listening group and smiled. + +It was O-liver's lightness which gave him the whip hand in an argument. +They were most of them serious men; not serious in a Puritan sense of +taking thought of their souls' salvation and the world's redemption, but +serious in their pursuit of wealth. They had to be rich. If they weren't +they couldn't marry, or if they were married they had to be rich so that +their wives could keep up with the wives of the other fellows who were +getting rich. They had to have cars and money to spend at big hotels and +for travel, money for diamonds and furs, money for everything. + +But here was O-liver Lee, who said lightly that money weighed upon him. +He didn't want it. He'd be darned if he wanted it. Money brought +burdens. As for himself, he'd read and ride Mary Pick. + +"Anyhow," said Henry, with his hands folded across his stomach--Henry +had grown fat riding in his car--"anyhow, when you get old you'll be +sorry." + +"I shall never grow old," said O-liver, and stood up. "I shall be +young--till I--die." + +They laughed at him outwardly, but in their hearts they did not laugh. +They could not think of him as old. They felt that in a hundred years he +would still be strong and sure, his blond mane untouched by gray, his +clear blue eyes unblurred. + +Atwood rounding them all up for a drink found that O-liver wouldn't +drink. + +"Drank too much, once upon a time," he confessed frankly. "But I'll give +you a toast." + +He gave it, poised on his box like a young god on the edge of the world. + +"Here's to poverty! May we learn to love her for the favors she denies!" + +"Queer chap," said Atwood to Henry later. + +Henry nodded. "He's queer, but he's great company. Always has a crowd +round him. But no ambition." + +"Pity," said Atwood. "How'd he get that name--O-liver?" + +"One of the fellows got gay and called him 'Ollie.' Lee stopped him. 'My +name is Oliver Lee. If you want a nickname you can say "O-liver." But +I'm not "Ollie" from this time on, understand?' And I'm darned if the +fellow didn't back down. There was something about O-liver that would +have made anybody back down. He didn't have a gun; it was just something +in his voice." + +"Say, he's wasted," said Atwood. "A man with his line of talk might be +President of the United States." + +"Sure he might," Henry agreed. "I've told him a lot of times he's +throwing away his chance." + + + +II + + +The office of the incipient oil king was on the main street of the +straggling town. At the back there was a window which gave a view of a +hill or two and a mountain beyond. The mountain stuck its nose into the +clouds and was whitecapped. + +It was this view at the back which O-liver faced when he sat at his +machine. When he rested he liked to fix his eyes on that white mountain. +O-liver had acquired of late a fashion of looking up. There had been a +time when he had kept his eyes on the ground. He did not care to +remember that time. The work that he did was intermittent, and between +his industrious spasms he read a book. He had a shelf at hand where he +kept certain volumes--Walt Whitman, Vanity Fair, Austin Dobson, Landor's +Imaginary Conversations, and a rather choice collection of Old Mission +literature. He had had it in mind that he might some day write a play +with Santa Barbara as a background, but he had stopped after the first +act. He had ridden down one night and had reached the mission at dawn. +The gold cross had flamed as the sun rose over the mountain. After that +it had seemed somehow a desecration to put it in a painted scene. +O-liver had rather queer ideas as to the sacredness of certain things. + +Tommy Drew, who had a desk in the same office, read Vanity Fair and +wanted to talk about it. "Say, I don't like that girl, O-liver." + +"What girl?" + +"Becky." + +"Why not?" + +"Well, she's a grafter. And her husband was a poor nut." + +"I'm afraid he was," said O-liver. + +"He oughta of dragged her round by the hair of her head." + +"They don't do it, Tommy," O-liver was thoughtful. "After all a woman's +a woman. It's easier to let her go." + +An astute observer might have found O-liver cynical about women. If he +said nothing against them he certainly never said anything for them. And +he kept strictly away from everything feminine in Tinkersfield, in spite +of the fact that his good looks won him more than one glance from +sparkling eyes. + +"He acts afraid of skirts," Henry had said to Tommy on one occasion. + +"He?" Tommy was scornful. "He ain't afraid of anything!" + +Henry knew it. "Maybe it's because you can't do much with women on +fifteen a week." + +"Well, I guess that's so," said Tommy, who made twenty and who had a +hopeless passion. + +His hopeless passion was Jane. Jane lived with her mother in a small +rose-bowered bungalow at the edge of the town. She and her mother owned +the bungalow, which was fortunate; they hadn't a penny for rent. Jane's +father had died of a weak lung and the failure of his oil well. He had +left the two women without an income. Jane's mother was delicate and +Jane couldn't leave her to go out to work. So Jane dug in the little +garden, and they lived largely on vegetables. She sewed for the +neighbors, and bought medicine and now and then a bit of meat. She was +young and strong and she had wonderful red hair. Tommy thought it was +the most beautiful hair in the world. Jane was for him a sort of goddess +woman. She was, he felt, infinitely above him. She knew a great deal +that he didn't, about books and things--like O-liver. She sewed for his +mother, and that was the way he had met her. He would go over and sit on +her front steps and talk. He felt that she treated him like a little dog +that she wouldn't harm, but wouldn't miss if it went away. He told her +of Vanity Fair and of how he felt about Becky. + +"If she had been content to earn an honest living," Jane stated +severely, "the story would have had a different ending." + +"Well, she wanted things," Tommy said. + +"Most women do." Jane jabbed her needle into a length of pink gingham +which, when finished, would be rompers for a youngster across the +street. "I do; and I intend to have them." + +"How?" asked the interested Tommy. + +"Work for them." + +"O-liver says that fifteen dollars a week is enough for anybody to +earn." + +Jane had heard of O-liver. Tommy sang his constant praises. + +"Why fifteen?" + +"After that you get soft." + +Jane laid down the length of pink gingham and looked at him. She hated +to sew on pink; it clashed dreadfully with her hair. + +"I should say," she stated with scorn, "that your O-liver's lazy." + +"No, he isn't. He only wants enough to eat and enough to smoke and +enough to read." + +"That sounds all right, but it isn't. What's he going to do when he's +old?" + +"He ain't ever going to grow old. He said so, and if you'd see him you'd +know." + +Jane felt within her the stirring of curiosity. But she put it down +sternly. She had no time for it. + +"Tommy," she said, "I've been thinking. I've got to earn more money, and +I want your help." + +Tommy's faithful eyes held a look of doglike affection. + +"Oh, if I can--" he quavered. + +"I've got to get ahead." Jane was breathless. Her eyes shone. + +"I've got to get ahead, Tommy. I can't live all my life like this." She +held up the pink strip. "Even if I am a woman, there ought to be +something more than making rompers for the rest of my days." + +"You might," said the infatuated Tommy, "marry." + +"Marry? Marry whom?" + +Tommy wished that he might shout "Me!" from the housetops. But he knew +the futility of it. + +"I shall never marry," she said, "until I find somebody different from +anything I've ever seen." + +Jane's ideas of men were bounded largely by the weakness of her father +and the crudeness of men like Henry Bittinger, Atwood Jones and others +of their kind. She didn't consider Tommy at all. He was a nice boy and a +faithful friend. His mother, too, was a faithful friend. She classed +them together. + +Her plan, told with much coming and going of lovely color, was this: She +had read that the way to make money was to find the thing that a +community lacked and supply it. Considering it seriously she had decided +that in Tinkersfield there was need of good food. + +"There's just one horrid little eating house," she told Tommy, "when the +men come in from out of town." + +"Nothing fit to eat either," Tommy agreed; "and they make up on booze." + +She nodded. "Tommy," she said, and leaned toward him, "I had thought of +sandwiches--home-made bread and slices of ham--wrapped in waxed paper; +and of taking them down and selling them in front of the post-office on +Saturday nights." + +Tommy's eyes bulged. "You take them down?" + +"Why not? Any work is honorable, Tommy." + +Tommy felt that it wouldn't be a goddess role. + +"I can't see it." The red crept up into his honest freckled face. "You +know the kind of women that's round on Saturday nights." + +"I am not that kind of woman." She was suddenly austere. + +He found himself stammering. "I didn't mean--" + +"Of course you didn't. But it's a good plan, Tommy. Say you think it's a +good plan." + +He would have said anything to please her. "Well, you might try." + +The next day he found himself talking it over with O-liver. "She wants +to sell them on Saturday nights." + +"Tell her," said O-liver, "to stay at home." + +"But she's got to have some money." + +"Money," said O-liver, "is the root of evil. You say she has a garden. +Let her live on leeks and lettuce." + +"Leeks and lettuce?" said poor Tommy, who had never heard of leeks. + +"Her complexion will be better," said O-liver, "and her peace of mind +great." + +"Her complexion is perfect," Tommy told him, "and she isn't the peaceful +kind. Her hair is red." + +"Red-haired women"--O-liver had his eye on Vanity Fair--"red-haired +women always flaunt themselves." + +Tommy, softening O-liver's words a bit, gave them in the form of advice +to Jane: "He thinks you'd better live on leeks and lettuce than go +down-town like that." + +Jane gasped. "Leeks and lettuce? Me? He doesn't know what he's talking +about! And anyhow, what can you expect of a man like that?" + + + +III + + +A week later Jane in a white shirt-waist and white apron came down with +her white-covered basket into the glare of the town's white lights. The +night was warm and she wore no hat. Her red hair was swept back from her +forehead with a droop over the ears. She had white skin and strong white +teeth. Her eyes were as gray as the sea on stormy days. Tommy came after +her with a wooden box, which he set on end, and she placed her basket on +it. The principal stores of the small town, the one hotel and the +post-office were connected by a covered walk which formed a sort of +arcade, so that the men lounging against doorways or tip-tilted in +chairs seemed in a sort of gallery from which they surveyed the +Saturday-night crowd which paraded the street. + +Jane folded up the cloth which covered her basket and displayed her +wares. "Don't stick round, Tommy," she said. "I shall do better alone." + +But as she raised her head and saw the eyes of the men upon her a rich +color surged into her cheeks. + +She put out her little sign bravely: + + HOME-MADE SANDWICHES--TWENTY CENTS + +With a sense of adventure upon them the men flocked down at once. They +bought at first because the wares were offered by a pretty girl. They +came back to buy because never had there been such sandwiches. + +Jane had improved upon her first idea. There were not only ham +sandwiches; there were baked beans between brown bread, thin slices of +broiled bacon in hot baking-powder biscuit. Henry Bittinger said to +Atwood Jones afterward: "The food was so good that if she had been as +ugly as sin she'd have got away with it." + +"She isn't ugly," said Atwood, and had a fleeting moment of speculation +as to whether Jane with her red hair would fit into his plutocratic +future. + +Jane had made fifty sandwiches. She sold them all, and took ten dollars +home with her. + +"I shall make a hundred next time," she said to Tommy, whom she picked +up on the way back. "And--it wasn't so dreadful, Tommy." + +But that night as she lay in bed looking out toward the mountain, +silver-tipped in the moonlight, she had a shivering sense of the eyes of +some of the men--of Tillotson, who kept the hotel, and of others of his +kind. + +O-liver had stayed at home that Saturday night to write a certain weekly +letter. He had stayed at home also because he didn't approve of Jane. + +"But you haven't seen her," Tommy protested. + +"I know the type." + +On Sunday morning Tommy brought him a baked-bean sandwich. "It isn't as +fresh as it might be. But you can see what she's giving us." + +There were months of O-liver's life which had been spent with a +grandmother in Boston. His grandmother had made brown bread and she had +baked beans. And now as he ate his sandwich there was the savor of all +the gastronomic memories of a healthy and happy childhood. + +"It's delicious," he said, "but she'd better not mix with that crowd." + +"She doesn't mix," said Tommy. + +"She'll have to." O-liver had in mind a red-haired woman, raw-boned, +with come-hither eyes. Her kind was not uncommon. Tommy's infatuation +would of course elevate her to a pedestal. + +"She's going to make a hundred sandwiches next week," Tommy vouchsafed. + +O-liver's mind could scarcely compass one hundred sandwiches. "She'd +better stick to her leeks and lettuce." + +He rode away the next Saturday night. It was his protest against the +interest roused in the community by this Jane who sold sandwiches. He +heard of her everywhere. Some of the men were respectful and some were +not. It depended largely on the nature of the particular male. + +O-liver rode Mary Pick and wore his straw helmet. His way led down into +the valley and up again and down, until at last he came to the sea. Then +he followed the water's edge, letting Mary Pick dance now and then on +the hard beach, with the waves curling up like cream, and beyond the +waves a stretch of pale azure to the horizon. + +He reached finally a fantastic settlement. Against the sky towered walls +which might have inclosed an ancient city--walls built of cloth and wood +instead of stone. Beyond these walls were thatched cottages which had no +occupants; a quaint church which had no congregation; a Greek temple +which had no vestals, no sacred fire, no altar; hedges which had no +roots. O-liver weighing the hollowness of it all had thought whimsically +of an old nursery rime: + + The first sent a goose without a bone; + The second sent a cherry without a stone; + The third sent a blanket without a thread; + The fourth sent a book that no man could read. + +At the end of the settlement was a vast studio lighted by a glass roof. +Entering, O-liver was transported at once to the dance hall on the +Barbary Coast--a great room with a bar at one end, the musicians on a +platform at the other, a stairway leading upward. Groups of people +waited for a signal to dance, to drink, to act whatever part had been +assigned them--people with unearthly pink complexions. The heat was +intense. + +With her face upturned to the director, who was mounted on a chair, +stood a childish creature who was pinker, if possible, than the rest. +She had fluffy hair of pale gold. She ran up the stairway presently, and +the light was turned on her. It made of her fluffy hair a halo. In the +strong glare everything about her was overemphasized, but O-liver knew +that when she showed up on the screen she would be entrancing. + +He had first seen her on the screen. He had met her afterward at her +hotel. She had seemed as ingenuous as the parts she played. Perhaps she +was. He could never be quite sure. Perhaps the money she had made +afterward had spoiled her. She had jumped from fifty dollars a week to a +thousand. + +After that O-liver could give her nothing. He had an allowance from his +mother of three thousand a year. Fluffy Hair made as much as that in +three weeks. Where he had been king of his own domain he became a sort +of gentleman footman, carrying her sables and her satchels. But that was +not the worst of it. He found that they had not a taste in common. She +laughed at his books, at his love of sea and sky. She even laughed at +his Mary Pick, whose name suggested a hated rival. + +And so he left her--laughing. + +A certain sense of responsibility, however, took him to her once a +month, and a letter went to her every week. She was his wife. He +continued in a sense to watch over her. Yet she resented his watching. + +From her stairway she had seen him, and when a rest was granted she came +down to him. + +"I'll be through presently," she said. "We can go to my hotel." + +Her rooms in the hotel overlooked the sea. There was a balcony, and they +sat on it in long lazy chairs and had iced things to drink. + +O-liver drank lemonade. His wife had something stronger. + +"I have not been well," she said; "it's a part of the doctor's +prescription." + +She had removed the pink from her face, and he saw that she was pale. + +"You are working too hard," he told her. "You'd better take a month in +the desert, out of doors." + +She shivered. She hated the out-of-doors that he raved about. They had +spent their honeymoon in a tent. She had been wild to get back to +civilization. It had been their first moment of disillusion. + +She showed him before he went some of the things she had acquired since +his last visit--an ermine coat, a string of pearls. + +"I saw them in your last picture," he told her. "You really visit me by +proxy. I find your name on the boards, and walk in with a lot of other +men and look at you. And not one of them dreams that I've ever seen the +woman on the screen." + +"Well, they wouldn't of course." She had never taken his name. Her own +was too valuable. + +When he told her good-bye he asked a question: "Are you happy?" + +For a moment her face clouded. "I'm not quite sure. Is anybody? But I +like the way I am living, Ollie." + +He had a sense of relief. "So do I," he said. "I earn fifteen dollars a +week. The papers say that you earn fifteen hundred--and you're not quite +twenty." + +"There isn't a man in this hotel that makes so much," she told him +complacently. "The women try to snub me, but they can't. Money talks." + +It seemed to him that in her case it shouted. As he rode back on Mary +Pick he thought seriously of his fifteen dollars a week and her fifteen +hundred; and of how little either weighed in the balance of happiness. + + + +IV + + +It was not until the following Saturday that he saw Jane. She had made +two hundred sandwiches. She had got Tommy's mother to help her. She had +invented new combinations, always holding to the idea of satisfying the +substantial appetites of men. + +There would be no use, she argued, in offering five-o'clock-tea +combinations. + +She was very busy and very happy and very hopeful. + +"If this keeps up," she told her mother, "I shall rent a little shop and +sell them over the counter." + +Her mother had an invalid's pessimism. "They may tire of them." + +They were not yet tired. They gave Jane and her basket vociferous +greeting, crowding round her and buying eagerly. Atwood and Henry having +placed orders hung back, content to wait for a later moment when she +might have leisure to talk to them. + +Tommy helped Jane to hand out sandwiches and make change. He felt like +the faithful squire of a great lady. He had read much romantic +literature, and he served as well if not as picturesquely as a page in +doublet and hose. + +So O-liver saw them. He had been riding all the afternoon on Mary Pick. +He had gone up into the Canon of the Honey Pots. No one knew it by that +name but O-liver, but at all the houses one could buy honey. Up and down +the road were little stands on which were set forth glasses and jars of +amber sweet. The bees flashed like motes in the sunlight, the air was +heavy with the fragrance of the flowers which yielded their largess to +the marauders. + +It was dark when he rode down toward the town. It lay before him, all +twinkling lights. Above it hung a thin moon and countless stars. It +might have been a fairy town under the kindly cover of the night. + +But when he reached the central square the illusion ceased. It was what +men had made it--sordid, cheap. He stopped Mary Pick under a pepper tree +and surveyed the scene. + +Jane and her basket were the center of an excited group. She had almost +reached the end of her supplies, and some one had suggested auctioning +off the remainder. Jane had protested, but her protests had not availed. +She had turned to Tommy for help, to Henry, to Atwood. They had done +their best. But the man who led the crowd had an object in his +leadership. It was Tillotson of the little hotel--red-faced, +whisky-soaked. + +"Sandwich Jane, Sandwich Jane!" he shouted. "That's the name for her, +boys." + +And they took it up and shouted "Sandwich Jane!" + +It was at this moment that O-liver stopped under the pepper tree. The +bright light fell directly on Jane's distressed face. He saw the +swept-back brightness of her hair, her clear-cut profile, her white +skin, her white teeth. But he saw more than this. "By Jove," he said, +"she's a lady!" + +If he had been talking to the men he would have said "Gosh!" It was only +when he was alone that he permitted himself the indulgence of more +formal language. + +That Jane was harried he could see. And suddenly he rode forward on Mary +Pick. + +The crowd made way for him expectantly. There were always interesting +developments when O-liver was on the scene. + +"Gentlemen," he said, "let the lady speak for herself. I am not sure +what you are trying to do, but it is evidently something she doesn't +want done." + +Jane flashed a grateful glance up at him. He was the unknown knight +throwing down the gauntlet in her defense. He was different from the +others--his voice was different. + +"They want to auction off my sandwiches," she explained, "and they won't +listen." + +"I'm sure they will listen." O-liver on Mary Pick, with his hat off and +his mane tossed back, might have been Henry of the white plumes. "Of +course they'll listen." + +And they did! + +Jane stood on her box and addressed them. + +"I don't want to get any more for my sandwiches than they are worth," +she said earnestly. "I make good ones, and I sell them for twenty cents +because they are the best of their kind. I am glad you like them. I want +to earn my living and my mother's. She is sick, and I have to stay at +home with her. And I don't mind being called 'Sandwich Jane.' It's a +good name and I shall use it in my business. But I don't like being +treated as you have treated me to-night. If it happens again I shall +have to stop selling sandwiches; and I'd be sorry to have that happen, +and I hope you'd be sorry too." + +Her little speech was over. She stepped down composedly from the box, +folded her cloth and picked up her basket. She said "Thank you" to +O-liver, "Come on" to Tommy, and walked from among them with her light +step and free carriage; and they stared after her. + +O-liver sitting later in front of the post-office with his satellites +round him found himself compelled to listen to praise of Jane. + +"She's made a hit," Atwood said earnestly. "When a woman talks like that +it's the straight goods." + +Henry agreed. "She's got grit. It's her kind that get ahead. But it's a +pity that she's got to work to make a living." + +Atwood, too, thought it was a pity. And presently he and Henry fell into +silence as they fitted Jane into various dreams. Atwood's dream had to +do with a mansion high on Frisco's hills. But Henry saw her beside him +in his long and lovely car. He saw her, too, in a fur coat. + + + +V + + +"I feel," said Jane, "like a murderer." Tommy and O-liver had stopped at +her front gate to leave her some books. + +"Why?" It was O-liver who asked it. + +"Come and see." She led them round the house. Death and destruction +reigned. + +"I poured gasoline into the ants' nests and set them on fire--and now +look at them!" + +There were a few survivors toiling among the ruins. + +"They are taking out the dead bodies," Jane explained. "It's so human +that it's tragic. I'll never do it again." + +"You can't let them eat you up." + +"I know. It's one of the puzzles." She sat looking down at them. "How +busy they are!" + +"Too busy," O-liver stated. "They are worse than bees. There are at +least some drones in the hive." + +"Poor drones," said Jane. + +"Why?" quickly. + +"To miss the best." + +"Is work the best?" + +She said "Yes," adding after a little: "I don't just mean making +sandwiches. That's just a beginning. There's everything ahead." + +She said it as if the world were hers. O-liver, in spite of himself, was +thrilled. "How do you know that everything is ahead?" + +"I shall make it come"--securely. + +They sat in silence for a while; then O-liver said: "I have brought you +a book." + +It was an old copy of Punch. + +"I shall like it," she said. "Sometimes the evenings are dull when my +work is over." + +"Dullness comes for me when work begins." + +Her straight gaze met his. "You say that with your lips; you don't mean +it." + +"How do you know?" + +"I'm not sure how I know. But you haven't found the thing yet that you +like--the incentive." + +"Tommy wants me to go into politics. He and Henry Bittinger. Henry says +I ought to be President." O-liver chuckled. + +But she took it seriously. "Why not? You've the brains and the +magnetism. Can't you see how the crowd draws to you on Saturday nights?" + +"Like bees round a honey pot? Yes." His face grew suddenly stern. "But +so will mosquitoes buzz round a stagnant pool." + +"You're not a stagnant pool and you know it." + +"What am I?" + +She made a sudden gesture as if she gave him up. "Sometimes I think you +are like the sea--on a lazy day--with a storm brewing." + +He wondered as he went home--what storm? + +He had seen a good deal of Jane since that Saturday night when he had +championed her cause. It had been fall then, with the hills brown and +the berries red on the pepper trees. It was spring now, with all the +world green and growing. + +She had spoken of him to Tommy, and Tommy had been a faithful +go-between. He had played upon their mutual love of books. At first +O-liver had sent her books, then he had taken them. He had met her +mother, had seen her in her home doing feminine things, sewing on +lengths of pink and blue--filling the vases with the flowers that he +brought. + +And as they had met and talked his veins had been filled with new wine. +He had never known intimately such a woman. His mother transplanted from +the East by her marriage to a Western man had turned her eyes always +backward. Her son had been born in the East, he had spent his holidays +and vacations with his Eastern relatives. He had gone to an Eastern +school to prepare for an Eastern college. Except for this one obsession +with regard to her son's education his mother was self-centered. She was +an idolized wife, a discontented woman--- she had shown O-liver no +heights to which to aspire. + +And so he had not aspired. He had spent his days in what might be +termed, biblically, riotous living. His mother had hoped for an +aristocratic and Eastern marriage. When he married Fluffy Hair she had +allowed him three thousand a year and had asked him not to bring his +wife to see her. His father had refused to give him a penny. O-liver's +wild oats and wilfulness cut him off, he ruled, from parental +consideration. "You are not my son," he had said sternly. "If the time +ever comes when you can say you are sorry, I'll see you." + +O-liver having married Fluffy Hair had found her also +self-centered--not a lady like his mother, but fundamentally of the same +type. Neither of them had made him feel that he might be more than he +was. They had always shrunk him to their own somewhat small patterns. + +Jane's philosophy came to him therefore like a long-withheld stimulant. +"You might be President of the United States." + +When Henry or Atwood or Tommy had said it to him he had laughed. When +Jane said it he did not laugh. + + + +VI + + +And so it came about that one day he rose and went to his father. And he +said: "Dad, will you kill the fatted calf?" + +His father lived in a great Tudor house which gave the effect of age but +was not old. It had a minstrels' gallery, a big hall and a little hall, +mullioned windows and all the rest of it. It had been built because of a +whim of his wife's. But O-liver's father in the ten years he had lived +in it had learned to love it. But more than he loved the house he loved +the hills that sloped away from it, the mountains that towered above it, +the sea that lay at the foot of the cliff. + +"It is God's country," he would say with long-drawn breath. He had been +born and bred in this golden West. All the passion he might have given +to his alien wife and alien son was lavished on this land which was +bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. + +And now his son had ridden up to him over those low hills at the foot of +the mountain and had said: "Father, I have sinned." + +O-liver had not put it scripturally. He had said: "I'm sorry, dad. You +said I needn't come back until I admitted the husks and swine." + +There was a light on the fine face of the older man. "Oliver, I never +hoped to hear you say it." His hand dropped lightly on the boy's +shoulders. "My son which was dead is alive again?" + +"Yes, dad." + +"What brought you to life?" + +"A woman." + +The hand dropped. "Not--" + +"Not my wife. Put your hand back, dad. Another woman." + +He sat down beside his father on the terrace. The sea far below them was +sapphire, the cliffs pink with moss--gorgeous color. Orange umbrellas +dotted the distant beach. + +"Your mother is down there," Jason Lee said. "Sun baths and all that. +You said there was another woman, Oliver." + +"Yes." Quite simply and honestly he told him about Sandwich Jane. "She's +made me see things." + +"What things?" + +"Well, she thinks I've got it in me to get anywhere. She insists that if +I'd put my heart into it I might be--President." + +One saw their likeness to each other in their twinkling eyes! + +"She says that men follow me; and they do. I've found that out since I +went to Tinkersfield. She wants me to go into politics--there's a gang +down there that rules the town--rotten crowd. It would be some fight if +I did." + +His father was interested at once. "It was what I wanted--when I was +young--politics--clean politics, with a chance at statesmanship. Yes, I +wanted it. But your mother wanted--money." + +"Money hasn't any meaning to me now, dad. If I slaved until I dropped I +couldn't make fifteen hundred a week." + +"Does--your wife make that now?" + +"Yes. She's making it and spending it, I fancy." + +Silence. Then: "What of this--other woman. What are you going to do +about her?" + +O-liver leaned forward, speaking earnestly. "I love her. But I'm not +free. It's all a muddle." + +"Does she know you're married?" + +"No. I've got to tell her. But I'll lose her if I do. Her comradeship, I +mean. And I don't want to give it up." + +"There is of course a solution." + +"What solution?" + +"Divorce." + +"It wouldn't be a solution for Jane. She's not that kind. Marriage with +her means till death parts. I'll have to lose her. But it hurts." + + + +VII + + +It was when Jane rented an empty room fronting on the arcade and set up +a sandwich shop that Tillotson saw how serious the thing was going to +be. + +He had had all the restaurant and hotel trade. Men coming up in motors +or on horseback, dusty and tired, had eaten and drunk at his squalid +tables, swearing at the food but unable to get anything better. And now +here was a woman who covered her counters with snowy oilcloth--who had +shining urns of coffees, delectable pots of baked beans, who put up in +neat boxes lunches that made men rush back for more and more and +more--and whose sandwiches were the talk of the coast! + +It had to be stopped. + +The only way to stop it was to make it uncomfortable for Jane. There +were many ways in which the thing could be done--by small and subtle +persecutions, by insinuations, by words bandied from one man's evil +mouth to another. Tillotson had done the thing before. But he found as +the days went on that he had not before had a Jane to deal with. She was +linked in the minds of most of the men with a whiteness like that of her +own spotless shop. + +Gradually Jane became aware of a sinister undercurrent. She found +herself dealing with forces that threatened her. There were men who came +into her shop to buy, and who stayed to say things that set her cheeks +flaming. She mentioned none of these things to Henry or Atwood or Tommy. +But she spoke once to O-liver. + +"Tillotson must be at the bottom of it. Two drunken loafers stumbled in +the other day, straight from the hotel. And when I telephoned to +Tillotson to come and get them he laughed at me." + +Tillotson was the sheriff. It was an office which he did not honor. In a +month or two his term would be up. O-liver riding alone into the +mountains stated the solution: "I've got to beat Tillotson." + +But first he had things to say to Jane. Since his talk with his father +he had known that it must come. He had stayed away from her as much as +possible. It had not been a conspicuous withdrawal, for she was very +busy and had little time for him. Tommy's mother kept her little home in +order and looked after the invalid, so that Jane could give undivided +attention to her growing business. O-liver saw her most often at the +shop, when he stopped in for a pot of beans--eating them on the spot and +discoursing on many things. + +"My Boston grandmother baked beans like this," he told her on one +occasion. "She was a great little woman, Jane, as essentially of the +East as you are of the West. She held to the traditions of the past; you +are blazing new ways for women, selling sandwiches in the market-place. +By Jove, it was superb the way you did it, Jane!" + +She was always in a glow when he left her. Here was a man different from +her father, different from Henry Bittinger and Atwood Jones. She smiled +a little as she thought of Atwood. He had asked her to marry him. He had +told her of the things he had ahead of him that he wanted her to share. +And he had been much downcast when she had refused him. She had, he +felt, smudged the brightness of his splendid future. He couldn't +understand a woman throwing away a thing like that. + +But he bore her no grudge and was still her friend. Henry, too, was her +friend. He had not yet tried his fate with Jane, but he still dreamed of +her as lovely in his long car and a fur coat. And he hoped to make his +dreams come true. + +Tommy had set aside all selfish hopes. He had a feeling that Jane liked +O-liver. He loved them both. If he could not have Jane he wanted O-liver +to have her. He kept a wary eye therefore on Henry and Atwood. + +It was Tommy who found out first about Fluffy Hair. She had never cared +to have the world know of her marriage. She had felt that those who +loved her on the screen would prefer her fancy free. But it was known at +the studio, and some one drifting up to Tinkersfield recognized O-liver +and told Tommy. + +Tommy for once in his life was stern. "He oughta of told Jane. +Somebody's got to tell her." + +So the next day he took it on himself--feeling a traitor to his friend. + +"Jane," he said, sitting on a high stool in her little sandwich +shop--"Jane, O-liver's married." + +Jane on the other side of the spotless counter gave him her earnest +glance. "Yes," she said; "he told me." + +"He did? Well, I'm glad. It wasn't a thing to keep, was it?" + +"No," said Jane; "it wasn't. But you mustn't blame him, Tommy, and now +that we both know, everything is all right, isn't it?" + +"Yes," Tommy agreed; "if Tillotson doesn't get hold of it." + +For it had been decided that O-liver was to run against Tillotson in the +next election, and beat him if he could. + +O-liver had told Jane about his marriage on the night before Tommy came +to her. He had asked her to ride with him. "If you'll go this afternoon +at four you shall have Mary Pick, and I'll take Tommy's horse." + +They had carried their lunch with them and had eaten it at sunset in a +lovely spot where the canon opened out to show a shining yellow stretch +of sea, with the hills like black serpents running into it. + +Yet it was dark, with the stars above them and the sea a faint gray +below, before O-liver said to her what he had brought her there to say. + +He told her of his father and mother. Of Fluffy Hair. + +"I waked up at last to the fact that I was letting two women support me. +So I came here and began to work at fifteen dollars a week. And for the +first time in my life I respected myself--and was content. And then I +met you and saw things ahead. You made me see them." + +He turned toward her in the dark. "Jane, I'm finding that I love +you--mightily." He tried to speak lightly. "And I'm not free. And +because I love you I've got to keep away. But I want you to understand +that my friendship is the same--that it will always be the same. But +I've got to keep away." + +She was very honest about it. "I didn't dream that you felt like +that--about me." + +"No, you wouldn't. That's a part of your splendidness. Never taking +anything to yourself. Jane, will you believe this--that what I may be +hereafter will be because of you? If I ever do a big thing or a fine +thing it will be because I came upon you that night with your head high +and that rabble round you. You were light shining into the darkness of +Tinkersfield. Jove, I wish I were a painter to put you on canvas as you +were that night!" + +They had ridden down later under the stars, and as they had stood for a +moment overlooking the lights of the little town O-liver had said: "I +make my big speech to-morrow night to beat Tillotson. I want you to be +there. Will you? If I know you are there somewhere in the dark I shall +pour out my soul--to you." + +Was it any wonder that Jane, talking to Tommy the next morning about +O-liver, felt her pulses pounding, her cheeks burning? She had lain +awake all night thinking of the things he had said to her. It seemed a +very big and wonderful thing that a man could love her like that. As +toward morning the moonlight streamed in and she still lay awake she +permitted herself to let her mind dwell for a moment on what her future +might mean if he were in it. She was too busy and healthy to indulge in +useless regrets. But she knew in that moment in the moonlight if he was +not to be in her future no other man would ever be. + + + +VIII + + +O-liver's speech was made in the open. There was a baseball park in +Tinkersfield, bounded at the west end by a grove of eucalyptus. With +this grove as a background a platform had been erected. From the +platform the rival candidates would speak. At this time of the year it +would be daylight when the meeting opened. Tillotson was not to speak +for himself. He had brought a man down from San Francisco, a big +politician with an oily tongue. O-liver would of course present his own +case. The thing, as Atwood told Henry, promised to be exciting. + +Jane came with Tommy. There was a sort of rude grand stand opposite the +platform, and she had a seat well up toward the top. She wore a white +skirt, a gray sweater and a white hat. She had a friendly smile for the +people about her. And they smiled back. They liked Jane. + +O-liver spoke first. Bare-headed, slender, with his air of eternal +youth, he was silhouetted against the rose red of the afterglow. + +When he began he led them lightly along paths of easy thought. He got +their attention as he had so often got it in front of the post-office. +He made them smile, he made them laugh, he led them indeed finally into +roaring laughter. And when he had brought them thus into sympathy he +began with earnestness to speak of Tinkersfield. + +Jane, leaning forward, not missing a word, felt his magnetism. He spoke +of the future of Tinkersfield. Of what must be done if it was to fulfill +its destiny as a decent town. He did not mince his words. + +"It will be just what you make up your minds now to have it--good and +honest and clean, a place that the right kind of people will want to +live in, or the place that will attract loungers and loafers." + +He laid upon them the burden of individual responsibility. If a town was +honest, he said, it was because the men in it were honest; if it was +clean it was because its men were clean. It was for each man to decide +at this election whether Tinkersfield should have a future of darkness +or of light. There were men in that crowd who squared their shoulders to +meet the blows of his eloquence, who kept them squared as they made +their decision to do their part in the upbuilding of Tinkersfield. + +Yet it was not perhaps so much the things that O-liver said as the way +he said them. He had the qualities of leadership--a sincerity of the +kind that sways men level with their leaders--the sincerity of a +Lincoln, a Roosevelt. For him a democracy meant all the people. Not +merely plain people, not indeed selected classes. Rich man, poor man, +one, working together for the common good. + +Back of his sincerity there was fire--and gradually his audience was +lighted by his flame. They listened in a tense silence, which broke now +and then into cheers. To Jane sitting high up on the benches he was a +prophet--the John the Baptist of Tinkersfield. + +"And he's mine, he's mine!" she exulted. This fineness of spirit, the +fire and flame were hers. "If I know you are there somewhere in the dark +I shall pour out my soul--to you--" + +The darkness had not yet fallen, but the dusk had come. The platform was +illumined by little lights like stars. Back of the platform the +eucalyptus trees were now pale spectres, their leaves hanging nerveless +in the still air. + +O-liver sitting down amid thunders of applause let his eyes go for the +moment to Jane. A lamp hung almost directly over her head. She had taken +off her wide hat and her hair was glorious. She was leaning forward a +little, her lips parted, her hands clasped, as if he still spoke to her. + +As Tillotson's sponsor rose Jane straightened up, smiled at Tommy, and +again set herself to listen. + +The unctuous voice of the speaker was a contrast to O-liver's crisp +tones. There were other contrasts not so apparent. This man was in the +game for what he could get out of it. He wanted Tillotson to win because +Tillotson's winning would strengthen his own position politically. He +meant indeed that Tillotson should win. He was not particular as to +methods. + +He said the usual things: Tinkersfield was no Sunday school; and they +weren't slaves to have their liberty taken from them by a lot of +impractical reformers. And Lee was that kind. What had he ever done to +prove that he'd make good? They knew Tillotson. They didn't know Lee. +Who was Lee anyhow? + +He flung the interrogation at them. "What do you know about Lee?" + +The pebble that he threw had widening circles. People began to ask +themselves what, after all, they knew of O-liver. From somewhere in the +darkness went up the words of an evil chant: + + What's the matter with O-liver, O-liver, + White-livered O-liver? + Ask Jane, Sandwich Jane, + O-liver, white liver, + Jane, Jane, Jane. + +Jane felt her heart stand still. Back of her she heard Tommy swearing: +"It's all their damned wickedness!" She saw O-liver start from his chair +and sink back, helpless against the insidiousness of this attack. + +The speaker went on. It would seem, he said, from what he could learn, +that Tillotson's honorable opponent was sailing under false colors. He +was a married man. He had deserted his wife. He sat among them as a +saint, when he was really a sinner. + +"A sinner, gentlemen." The speaker paused for the effect, then proceeded +with his argument. Of course they were all sinners, but they weren't +hypocrites. Tillotson wasn't a hypocrite. He was a good fellow. He +didn't want Tinkersfield to be a Sunday school. He wanted it to be a +town. You know--a town that every fellow would want to hit on +Saturday night. + +There were those in the crowd who began to feel that a weak spot had +been found in O-liver's armor. Secrecy! They didn't like it. There were +signs of wavering among some who had squared their shoulders. After all, +they didn't want to make a Sunday school of Tinkersfield. They wondered, +too, if there wasn't some truth in the things that were being hinted by +that low chant in the darkness: + + Ask Jane, Sandwich Jane, + O-liver, white liver, + Jane, Jane, Jane. + + +O-liver was restless, his hands clenched at his sides. Atwood and Henry +were restless. Tommy was restless. They couldn't let such insults go +unnoticed. Somebody had to fight for Jane! + +Tillotson's supporters kept the thing stirring. If the meeting could end +in a brawl the odds would be in favor of Tillotson. The effect of +O-liver's uplift would be lost. Even his friends couldn't sway a +fighting crowd back to him. + +But they had forgotten to reckon with Jane! + +She had seen in a sudden crystal flash the thing which might happen. A +fight would end it all for O-liver. She had seen his efforts at +self-control. She knew his agony of soul. She knew that at any moment he +might knock somebody down--Tillotson or Tillotson's sponsor. And it +would all be in the morning papers. There would be innuendo--the hint of +scandalous things. And O-liver's reputation would pay the price. It was +characteristic that she did not at the moment think of her own +reputation. It was O-liver who must be saved! + +And so when Tillotson's backer sat down Jane stood up. + +"Please, listen!" she said; and the crowd turned toward her. "Please, +listen, and stop singing that silly song. I never heard anything so +silly as that song in my life!" + +Before her scorn the chant died away in a gasp! + +"The thing you've got to think about," she went on, "isn't Tillotson or +O-liver Lee. It's Tinkersfield. You want an honest man. And O-liver +Lee's honest. He doesn't want your money. He's got enough of his own. +His father's the richest man in his part of the state and his wife's a +movie actress and makes as much as the President. It sounds like a fairy +tale, but it isn't. If O-liver Lee wanted to live on his father or his +wife he could hold out his hand and let things drop into it. But he'd +rather earn fifteen dollars a week and own his soul. And he isn't a +hypocrite. His friends knew about his marriage. Tommy Drew knew, and I +knew. And there wasn't any particular reason why he should tell the rest +of you, was there? There wasn't any particular reason why he should tell +Tillotson?" + +A murmur of laughter followed her questions. There was a feeling in the +crowd that the joke was on Tillotson. + +"I wonder how many of you have told your pasts to Tinkersfield! How many +of you have made Tillotson your father confessor? + +"As for me"--her head was high--"I sell sandwiches. I am very busy. I +hardly have time to think. But when I do think it is of something +besides village gossip." + +She grew suddenly earnest; leaned down to them. "You haven't time to +think of it either," she told them; "have you, men of Tinkersfield?" + +Her appeal was direct, and the answer came back to her in a roar from +the men who knew courage when they saw it; who knew, indeed, innocence! + +"No!" + +And it was that "No" which beat Tillotson. + +"The way she put it over," Atwood exulted afterward, "to a packed crowd +like this!" + +"The thing about Jane"--Henry was very seriously trying to say the thing +as he saw it--"the thing about Jane is that she sees things straight. +And she makes other people see." + + + +IX + + +Well, Tillotson was beaten, and the men who supported O-liver came out +of the fight feeling as if they had killed something unclean. + +And the morning after the election O-liver had a little note from Jane. + +"I've got to go away. I didn't want to worry you with it before this. I +have saved enough money to start in at some college where I can work for +a part of my tuition. I have had experience in my little lunch room that +ought to be a help somewhere. + +"When I finish college I'm going into some sort of occupation that will +provide a pleasant home for mother and me. I want books, and lovely +things, and a garden; and I'd like to speak a language or two and have +cultured friends. Then some day when you are made President you can say +to yourself: 'I am proud of my friend, Jane.' And I'll come to your +inauguration and watch you ride to the White House, and I'll say to +myself as I see you ride, 'I've loved him all these years.' + +"But I shan't let myself say it now. And that's why I'm going away. And +I'm going without saying good-bye because I think it will be easier for +both of us. You and I can't be friends. What we feel is too big. I found +that out about myself that night when you sat there on the platform, and +I wanted to save you from Tillotson. If I'm going to work and be happy +in my work I've got to get away. And you will work better because I am +gone. I mustn't be here--O-liver." + +Jane had indeed seen straight. O-liver laid the note down on his desk +and looked up at the mountain. He needed to look up. If he had looked +down for a moment he would have followed Jane. + + + +X + + +And now there was no sandwich stand in Tinkersfield. But there was a +good hotel. O-liver saw to that. He got Henry Bittinger to put up the +money, with Tommy and his mother in charge. O-liver lived in the hotel +in a suite of small rooms, and when Atwood Jones passed that way the +four men dined together as O-liver's guests. + +"Some day we'll eat with you in Washington," was Atwood's continued +prophecy. + +They always drank "To Jane." Now and then Atwood brought news of her. +First from the college, and then as the years passed from the beach +resort where she had opened a tea room. She was more beautiful than +ever, more wonderful. Her tea room and shop were most exclusive and +artistic. + +"Sandwich Jane!" said O-liver. "How long ago it seems!" + +It was five years now and he had not seen her. And next month he was to +go to Washington. Not as President, but representing his district in +Congress. Tommy's hotel had outgrown the original modest building and +was now modern and fireproof. Henry was married, he had had several new +cars, and his wife wore sables and seal. + +The old arcade was no more; nor the old post-office. But O-liver still +talked to admiring circles in the hotel lobby or to greater crowds in +the town hall. + +He still would take no money from his father, but he saw much of him, +for Mrs. Lee was dead. The Tudor house was without a mistress. It seemed +a pity that O-liver had no wife to grace its halls. + +The newspapers stated that Fluffy Hair's income had doubled. Whether +this was true or not it sounded well, and Fluffy Hair still seemed young +on the screen. Jane would go now and then and look at her and wonder +what sort of woman this was who had laughed at O-liver. + +Then one day a telegram came to O-liver in his suite of rooms. And that +day and for two nights he rode Mary Pick over the hills and through the +canon and down to the sea, and came to a place where Jane's tea room was +met in the center of a Japanese garden--a low lovely building, with its +porches open to the wide Pacific. + +He had not seen her for so long that he was not quite prepared for the +change. She was thinner and paler and more beautiful, with an air of +distinction that was new. It was as if in visualizing his future she had +pictured herself in it--as first lady of the land. Such a silly dream +for Sandwich Jane! + +They were quite alone when he came to her. It was morning, and the +porches were empty of guests. Jane was in a long wicker chair, with her +pot of coffee on an hour-glass table. Far down on the terrace two Jap +gardeners clipped and cut and watered and saw nothing. + +"You are younger than ever," Jane said when they had clasped hands. +"Will you ever grow old, O-liver?" + +"The men say not." He seated himself opposite her. "Jane, Jane, it's +heavenly to see you. I've been--starved!" + +She had hungered and thirsted for him. Her hand shook a little as she +poured him a cup of coffee. + +"I told you not to come, O-liver." + +He laid the telegram before her. Fluffy Hair was dead! + +The yellow sheet lay between, defying them to speak so soon of +happiness. + +"To-morrow," O-liver said, "I go to Washington. When will you come to +me, Jane?" + +Her hand went out to him. Her breath was quick. "In time to hear your +first speech, O-liver. I'll sit in the gallery, and lean over and listen +and say to myself, 'He's mine, he's mine!'" + +She heard many speeches in the months that followed, and sometimes Tommy +or Atwood or Henry, traveling across the continent, came and sat beside +her. And Atwood always clung to his prophecy: "He'll be governor next; +and then it'll be the White House. Why not?" + +And Jane, dreaming, asked herself "Why?" + +The East had had its share. Had the time not come for a nation to seek +its leader in the golden West? + + + + +LADY CRUSOE + + +Billy and I came down from the North and opened a grocery store at +Jefferson Corners. It is a little store and there aren't many houses +near it--just the railroad station and a big shed or two. Beyond the +sheds a few cabins straggle along the road, and then begin the great +plantations, which really aren't plantations any more, because nobody +around here raises much of anything in these days. They just sit and +sigh over the things that are different since the war. + +That's what Billy says about them. Billy is up-to-date and he has a +motor-cycle. He made up his mind when he came that he was going to put +some ginger into the neighborhood. So he rides miles every morning on +his motor-cycle to get orders, and he delivers the things himself unless +it is barrels of flour or cans of kerosene or other heavy articles, and +then he hires somebody to help him. At first he had William Watters and +his mule. William is black and his mule is gray, and they are both old. +It took them hours to get anywhere, and I used to feel sorry for them. +But when I found out that compared to Billy and me they lived on flowery +beds of ease, I stopped sympathizing. They both have enough, to eat, and +they work only when they want to. Billy and I work all the time. We have +our way to make in the world, and we feel that it all depends on +ourselves. We started out with nothing ahead of us but my ambitions and +Billy's energy, and a few hundred dollars which my guardian turned over +to me when I married Billy on my twenty-first birthday. + +As soon as we were married, we came to Virginia. Billy and I had an idea +that everything south of the Mason and Dixon line was just waiting for +us, and we wanted to earn the eternal gratitude of the community by +helping it along. But after we had lived at Jefferson Corners for a +little while, we began to feel that there wasn't any community. There +didn't seem to be any towns like our nice New England ones, with +sociable trolley-cars connecting them and farmhouses in a lovely line +between. You can ride for miles through this country and never pass +anything but gates. Then way up in the hills you will see a clump of +trees, and in the clump you can be pretty sure there is a house. In the +winter when the leaves are off the trees you can see the house, but in +the summer there is no sign of it. In the old days they seemed to feel +that they were lacking somewhat in delicacy if they exposed their +mansions to the rude gaze of the public. + +There was one mansion that Billy took me to now and then. It was empty, +and that was why we went. The big houses which were occupied were not +open to us, except in a trades-person sort of fashion, and Billy and I +are not to be condescended to--we had a pair of grandfathers in the +_Mayflower_. But that doesn't count down here, where everybody goes back +to William the Conqueror. + +That great big empty house was a fine place for our Sunday afternoon +outings. We always went to church in the morning, and people were very +kind, but it was kindness with a question-mark. You see Billy and I live +over the store, and none of them had ever lived on anything but +ancestral acres. + +So our Sunday mornings were a bit stiff and disappointing, but our +afternoons were heavenly. We discovered the Empty House in the spring, +and there was laurel on the mountains and the grass was young and green +on the slopes, and the sky was a faint warm blue with the sailing +buzzards black against it. Billy and I used to stop at the second gate, +which was at the top of the hill, and look off over the other hills +where the pink sheep were pastured. I am perfectly sure that there are +no other sheep in the whole wide world like those Albemarle sheep. The +spring rains turn the red clay into a mud which sticks like paint, and +the sheep are colored a lovely terra-cotta which fades gradually to +pink. + +The effect is impressionistic, like purple cows. Billy doesn't care for +it, but I do. And I adore the brilliant red of the roads. Billy says +he'll take good brown earth and white flocks. He might be reconciled to +black sheep but never to pink ones. + +We used to eat our supper on the porch of the Empty House. It had great +pillars, and it was rather awe-inspiring to sit on the front steps and +look up the whole length, of those Corinthian columns. Billy and I felt +dwarfed and insignificant, but we forgot it when we turned our eyes to +the hills. + +The big door behind us and the blank windows were shut and shuttered +close. There were flying squirrels on the roof and little blue-tailed +lizards on the stone flagging in front of the house; and there was an +old toad who used to keep us company. I called him Prince Charming, and +I am sure he was as old as Methuselah, and lived under that stone in +some prehistoric age. + +We just loved our little suppers. We had coffee in our thermos bottle, +and cold fried chicken and bread and butter sandwiches and chocolate +cake. We never changed, because we were always afraid that we shouldn't +like anything else so well, and we were sure of the chicken and the +chocolate cake. + +And after we had eaten our suppers we would talk about what kind of +house we would build when our ship came in. Billy and I both have nice +tastes, and we know what we want; and we feel that the grocery store is +just a stepping-stone to better things. + +The sunsets were late in those spring days, and there would be pink and +green and pale amethyst in the western sky, and after that deep sapphire +and a silver moon. And as it grew darker the silver would turn to gold, +and there would be a star--and then more stars until the night came on. + +I can't tell you how we used to feel. You see we were young and in +love, and life was a pretty good thing to us. There was one perfect +night when the hills were flooded with moonlight. We seemed all alone in +a lovely world and I whispered: + +"Oh, Billy, Billy, and some folks think that there isn't any God--" + +And Billy put his arm around me and patted my cheek, and we didn't say +anything for a long time. + +It was just a week later that Lady Crusoe came. I knew that some one was +in the house as soon as we passed the second gate. The door was still +closed, and the shutters were not opened, but I heard a clock strike--a +ship's clock--with bells. + +I clutched Billy. "Listen," I said. + +He heard it, too; "Who in the dickens?" he demanded. + +"There's somebody in the house--" + +"Nonsense--" + +"Billy, there must be, and we can't sit on the porch." + +"You stay here, and I'll go around to the back." + +But I wouldn't let him go alone. At the back of the house a window was +open, and then we were sure. + +"We'd better leave," I said, but Billy insisted that we stay. "If they +are new people, I'll find out their names, and come up to-morrow and get +their orders." + +We went around to the front door and knocked and knocked, but nobody +answered. So we sat down on the front step and presently Billy said that +we might as well eat our supper, for very evidently nobody was at home. + +I didn't feel a bit comfortable about it, but I opened our basket and +got out our cups and plates, and Billy poured the coffee and passed the +chicken and the bread and butter sandwiches. And just then the door +creaked and the knob turned! + +My first impulse was to gather up the lunch and tumble it into the +basket; but I didn't. I just sat there looking up as calmly as if I were +serving tea at my own table, and Billy sat there too looking up. + +The door opened and a voice said, "Oh, if you are eating supper, may I +have some?" + +It was a lovely voice, and Billy jumped to his feet. A lovely head came +after the voice. Just the head, peeping around--the body was hidden by +the door. On the head was a lace cap with a gold rose, and the hair +under the cap was gold. + +"You see, I just got up," said the voice, "and I haven't had any +breakfast--" + +Billy and I gasped. It was seven P.M., and the meal that we were +serving was supper! + +"Do you mind my coming out?" said the voice. "I am not exactly clothed +and in my right mind, but perhaps I'll do." + +She opened the door wider and stepped down. I saw that her slippers had +gold roses and that they were pale pink like the sunset. She wore a +motor coat of tan cloth which covered her up, but I had a glimpse of a +pink silk negligee underneath. + +She sat quite sociably on the steps with us. "I am famished," she said. +"I haven't had a thing to eat for twenty-four hours." + +We gasped again. "How did it happen?" + +"I was--shipwrecked," she said, "in a motor-car--I am the only +survivor--" + +Her eyes twinkled. "I'll tell you all about it presently." Then she +broke off and laughed. + +"But first will you feed a starving castaway?" + +Yet she didn't really tell us anything. She ate and ate, and it was the +prettiest thing to see her. She was dainty and young and eager like a +child at a party. + +"How good everything is!" she said, at last with a sigh. "I don't think +I was ever so hungry in my life." + +Billy and I didn't eat much. You see we were too interested, and +besides we had had our dinner. + +As I have said, she didn't really tell us anything. "It was an accident, +and I came up here. And the old clock that you heard strike belonged to +my grandfather. He was an admiral, and it was his clock. I used to +listen to it as a child." + +"What happened to the rest--?" Billy asked, bluntly. He was more +concerned about the automobile accident than about her ancestors. + +"Oh, do you mean the others in the car?" she came reluctantly back from +the admiral and his ship's clock. "I am sure I don't know. And I am very +sure that I don't care." + +"But were any of them killed?" + +"No--they are all alive--but you see--it was a shipwreck--and I floated +away--by myself--and this is my island, and you are the nice friendly +savages--" she touched Billy on the arm. He drew away a bit. I knew that +he was afraid she had lost her mind, but I had seen her twinkling eyes. +"Oh, it's all a joke!" I said. + +She shook her head. "It isn't exactly a joke, but it might look like +that to other people." + +"Are you going to stay?" + +"Yes." + +"I'll come up in the morning for orders," said Billy promptly. "I keep +the grocery store at Jefferson Corners." + +"Oh," she said, and seemed to hesitate; "there won't be any orders." + +Billy stared at her. "But there isn't any other store." + +"Robinson Crusoe didn't have stores, did he? He found things and lived +on the land. And I am Lady Crusoe." + +"Really?" I asked her. + +"I've another name--but--if people around here question you--you won't +tell them, will you, that I am here--?" + +She said it in such a pretty pleading fashion that of course we +promised. It was late when we had to go. I insisted that we should leave +what remained of the supper, and she seemed glad to get it. "You are +nice friendly savages," she said, with that twinkle in her eyes, "and I +am very grateful. Come into the house and let me show you my clock--" + +She showed us more than the clock. I hadn't dreamed in those days when +Billy and I sat alone on the steps of the treasures that were shut up +behind us. The old furniture was dusty, but all the dust in the world +couldn't hide its beauty. The dining-room was hung with cobwebs, but +when the candles were lighted we saw the Sheffield on the old +sideboard, the Chinese porcelains, the Heppelwhite chairs, the painted +sheepskin screen-- + +She picked out a lovely little pitcher and gave it to me. I did not +learn until afterward that it was pink lustre and worth a pretty penny. +She paid in that way, you see, for her supper, and something in her +manner made me feel that I must not refuse it. + +She did not ask us to come again, yet I was sure that she liked us. I +felt that perhaps it was the grocery store which had made her hesitate. +But whatever it was, I must confess that I was a little lonely as I went +away. You see we had come to look forward to our welcome at the Empty +House. We had known that we were the honored guests of the flying +squirrels and the lizards and of old Prince Charming. But now that the +house was no longer empty, we would not be welcome. I was sorry that I +had accepted the pink pitcher. I should have preferred to feel that I +owed no favor to the lady with the twinkling eyes. + +It wasn't long after our adventure at the Empty House that Billy asked +William Watters to take a big load to a customer two miles out. But +William couldn't. He was working, he said, at a regular place. We +couldn't imagine William as being regular about anything. He and his +mule were so irregular in their habits. They came and went as they +pleased, and they would take naps whenever the spirit moved them. But +now, as William said, he was "wukin' regular," and he refused to say for +whom he worked. But we found out one day when he drove Lady Crusoe down +in a queer old carriage with his mule as a prancing steed. + +He helped her descend as if she had been a queen, and she came in and +talked to Billy. "You see, I've hunted up my friendly savages," she +said. "I've reached the end of my resources." She gave a small order, +and told Billy that she wasn't at all sure when she could pay her bill, +but that there were a lot of things in her old house which he could have +for security. + +Billy said gallantly that he didn't need any security, and that her +account could run as long as she wished and that he was glad to serve +her. And he got out his pad and pencil and stood in that nice way of his +at attention. + +I listened and looked through a window at the back. I had seen her drive +up, and she was stunning in the same tan motor-coat that she had worn +when we first saw her. But she had on a brown hat and veil and brown +shoes instead of the lace cap and rosy slippers. + +She asked about me, and Billy told her that I was in the garden. And I +was in the garden when she came out; but I had to run. She sat down in a +chair on the other side of my little sewing-table and talked to me. It +is such a scrap of a garden that there is only room for a tiny table and +two chairs, but a screen of old cedars hides it from the road, and +there's a twisted apple-tree, and the fields beyond and a glimpse of the +mountains. + +"How is the island?" Billy asked her. + +She twinkled. "I have a man Friday." + +"William Watters?" + +She nodded. "The Watters negroes have been our servants for generations. +And William thinks that he belongs to me. He cooks for me and forages. +He shot two squirrels one morning and made me a Brunswick stew. But I +couldn't stand that. You see the squirrels are my friends." + +I thought of the flying squirrels and the blue-tailed lizards and the +old toad, and I knew how she felt. And I said so. She looked at me +sharply, and then she laid her hand over mine: "Are you lonely, my +dear?" + +I said that I was--a little. Billy had gone in to wait on a customer, so +I dared say it. I told her that nobody had called. + +"But why not?" she demanded. + +"I think," I said slowly, "it is because we live--over the store." + +"I see." And she did see; it was in her blood as well as in the blood of +the rest of them. + +Presently she stood up and said that she must go, and it was then that +she noticed the work that was in my basket on the table. She lifted out +a little garment and the red came into her cheeks. "Oh, oh!" she said, +and stood looking at it. When she laid it down, she came around the +table and kissed me. "What a dear you are!" she said, and then she went +away. + +William Watters came in very often after that; but he said very little +about Lady Crusoe. He was a faithful old thing, and he had evidently had +instructions. But one morning he brought a fine old Sheffield tray to +Billy and asked him to take his pay out of it, and let Lady Crusoe have +the rest in cash. William Watters didn't call her "Lady Crusoe," he +called her "Miss Lily," which didn't give us the key to the situation in +the least. Billy didn't know how to value the tray, so he asked me. I +knew more than he did, but I wasn't sure. I told him to advance what he +thought was best, and to send it to the city and have it appraised, or +whatever they call it, so he did; and when the check from the antique +shop came it was a big one. + +It wasn't long after that that Lady Crusoe called on me. It was a real +call, and she left a card. And she said as she laid it on the table: "As +I told you, I'd rather the rest of the natives didn't know--they haven't +seen me since I was a child, and they think that I am just some stranger +who rents the old place and who wants to be alone." + +After she had gone I picked up the card, and what I read there nearly +took my breath away. There are certain names which mean so much that we +get to look upon them as having special significance. The name that was +on Lady Crusoe's card had always stood in my mind for money--oceans of +it. I simply couldn't believe my eyes, and I took it down to Billy. + +"Look at that," I said, and laid it before him, "and she has asked us to +supper for next Sunday!" + +Well, we couldn't make anything of it. Why was a woman with a name like +that down here with nothing to eat but the things that William Watters +could forage for, and that Billy could supply from his little store, and +that she paid for with Sheffield trays? + +We had supper that Sunday night in the great dining-room. There was a +five-branched candlestick with tall white candles in the center of the +shining mahogany table and William Watters acted as butler. You never +would have believed how well he did it. And after supper we had coffee +on the front porch and looked out over the hills at the sunset, and the +silver moon and the old toad came out from under his stone and sat with +us. + +Lady Crusoe was in a thin white dress which she had made for herself, +and she talked of the old place and of her childhood there. But not a +word did she say of why she had come back to live alone on the Davenant +ancestral acres. + +It was her mother, we learned, who was a Davenant, and it was her +mother's father who was the old admiral. She said nothing of the man +whose name was on her card. It was as if she stopped short when she came +to that part of her life, or as if it had never been. + +She took me up-stairs after a while and left Billy to smoke on the +porch. She said that she had something that she wanted me to see. Her +room was a huge square one at the southwest corner of the house. There +was a massive four-poster bed with faded blue satin curtains, and there +was a fireplace with fire-dogs and an Adam screen. Lady Crusoe carried a +candle, and as she stood in the center of the room she seemed to gather +all of the light to her, like the saints in the old pictures. She was so +perfectly lovely that I almost wanted to cry. I can't explain it, but +there was something pathetic about her beauty. + +She set the candle down and opened an old brass-bound chest. She took +out a roll of cloth and brought it over and laid it on the table beside +the candle. + +"I bought it with some of the money that your Billy got for my Sheffield +tray," she said. Then she turned to me with a quick motion and laid her +hands on my shoulders. "Oh, you very dear--when I saw you making those +little things--I knew that--that the good Lord had led me. Will +you--will you--show me--how?" + +I told Billy about it on the way home. + +"She doesn't know anything about sewing, and she hasn't any patterns, +and I am to go up every day, and William Watters will come for me with +his mule--" + +Then I cried about her a little, because it seemed so dreadful that she +should be there all alone, without any one to sustain her and cherish +her as Billy did me. + +"Oh, Billy, Billy," I said to him, "I'd rather live over a grocery store +with you than live in a palace with anybody else--" + +And Billy said, "Don't cry, lady love, you are not going to live with +anybody else." + +And he put his arm around me, and as we walked along together in the +April night it was like the days when we had been young lovers, only our +joy in each other was deeper and finer, for then we had only guessed at +happiness, and now we knew-- + +Well, I went up every day. William Watters came for me, and I carried my +patterns and we sat in the big west room, and right under the window a +pair of robins were building a nest. + +We watched them as they worked, and it seemed to us that no matter how +hard we toiled those two birds kept ahead. "I never dreamed," Lady +Crusoe remarked one morning, "that they were at it all the time like +this." + +"You wait until they begin to feed their young," I told her. "People +talk about being as free as a bird. But I can tell you that they slave +from dawn until dark. I have seen a mother bird at dusk giving a last +bite to one squalling baby while the father fed another." + +Lady Crusoe laid down her work and looked out over the hills. "The +father," she said, and that was all for a long time, and we stitched and +stitched, but at last she spoke straight from her thoughts: "How dear +your husband is to you!" + +"That's what husbands are made for." + +"Some of them are not, dear," her voice was hard, "some of them expect +so much and give so little--" + +I kept still and presently she began again. "They give money--and they +think that is--enough. They give jewels--and think we ought to be +profoundly grateful." + +"Well, my experience," I told her, "is that the men give as much love as +the women--" + +She looked at me. "What do you mean?" + +"Love costs them a lot." + +"In what way?" + +"They work for us. Now there's Billy's grocery store. If Billy didn't +have me, he'd be doing things that he likes better. You wouldn't believe +it, but Billy wanted to study law, but it meant years of hard work +before he could make a cent, and he and I would have wasted our youth in +waiting--and so he went into business--and that's a big thing for a man +to do for a woman--to give up a future that he has hoped for--and that's +why I feel that I can't do enough for Billy--" + +"I don't see why you should look at it in that way," she said, and her +eyes were big and bright. "Women are queens, and they honor men when +they marry them--" + +"If women are queens," I told her, "men are kings--Billy honored me--" + +She smiled at me. "Oh, you blessed dear--" she said, and all of a sudden +she came over and knelt beside me. "What would you think of a man who +married a woman whom the world called beautiful and brilliant, and +whom--whom princes wanted to marry--And he was a very plain man, except +that he had a lot of money--millions and millions--and after he married +the woman whom he had said that he worshiped, he wanted to make just an +every-day wife of her. He wanted her to stay at home and look after his +house. He told her one night that it would be a great happiness for him +if he could come in and find her warming--his slippers. And he said that +his ideal of a woman was one who--who--held a child in her arms--" + +I looked down at her. "Well, right in the beginning," I said, "I should +like to know if the woman loved the man--" + +She stared at me and then she stood up. "If she did, what then? She had +not married to be--his slave--" + +I pointed to the mother robin on the branch below. "I wonder if she +calls it slavery! You see--she is so busy--building her nest she hasn't +time to think whether Cock Robin is singing fewer love songs than he +sang early in the spring." + +She laughed and was down on her knees beside me again. "Oh, you funny +little practical thing! But it wasn't because I missed the love songs. +He sang them. But because I couldn't be an every-day wife--" + +"What kind of wife did you want to be?" + +"I wanted to travel with him alone--I planned a honeymoon in the desert, +and we had it--and I planned after that to sail the seas to the land of +Nowhere--and we sailed--and then--I wanted to go to the high plains--and +ride and camp--and into the forests to hunt and fish--but he wouldn't. +He said that we had wandered enough. He wanted to build a house--and +have me warm--his slippers--" + +"And so you quarreled?" + +"We quarreled--great hot heavy quarrels--and we said things--horrid +things--that we can't forgive--" + +She was sobbing on my shoulder and I said softly: "Things that _you_ +can't forgive?" + +"Yes. And that _he_ can't. That's why I ran away from him." + +I waited. + +"I couldn't stand it to see him going around with his face stern and set +and not like my lover's. And he didn't speak to me except to be polite. +And he asked people to go with us--everywhere. And we were never +alone--" + +"What had you said to make him--like that?" + +She raised her head. "I told him that I--hated him--" + +"Oh, oh--" + +She knelt back on her heels. + +"It was a dreadful thing to say, wasn't it? That's why I ran away. I +couldn't stand it. I knew it was a thing no man--could--forgive--" + +I smoothed her hair and rocked her back and forth while she cried. It +was strange how much of a child she seemed to me. And I was only the +wife of a country grocer and lived over the store, and she was the wife +of a man whose name was known from east to west, and all around the +world. But you see she hadn't learned to live. Neither have I, really. +But Billy has taught me a lot. + +I think it was a comfort for her to feel that she had confided in me. +But she made me promise that whatever happened I wouldn't let him know. + +"Unless I--die," she said, and she was as white as a lily, "unless I +die, and then you can--set him--free--" + +Billy was sorry that I had promised. "Somehow I feel responsible, +sweetheart, and I'll bet her poor husband is almost crazy." + +"Would you be, Billy?" + +He caught me to him so quickly that he almost shook the breath out of +me. "Don't ask a thing like that," he said, and his voice didn't sound +like his own. "If anything should happen to you--if anything should +happen--I should--I should--oh, why will women ask things like that--?" + +In the days that followed, Billy didn't want me out of his sight. He +even hated to have me go up to the Davenant house with William Watters. +"Take care of her, William," he would say, and stand looking after us. + +William and I got to be very good friends. He was a wise old darky, and +he was devoted to Lady Crusoe. He usually served tea for us out under +the trees, unless it was a rainy day, and then we had it in the library. + +It was on a rainy day that Lady Crusoe said: "I wonder what has become +of William. I haven't seen him since you came. I have hunted and called, +and I can't find him." + +He appeared at tea time, however, with a plate of hot waffles with +powdered sugar between. When his mistress asked him about his mysterious +disappearance, he said that he had cleaned the attic. + +"But, William, on such a day?" + +"I kain't wuk out in the rain, Miss Lily, so I wuks in--" + +That was all he would say about it, and after we had had our tea, she +said to me, "There are a lot of interesting things in the attic. Let's +go up and see what Willie has been doing--" + +The dim old place was as shining as soap and water could make it, and +there was the damp smell of suds. There was the beat of the rain on the +roof, and the splash of it against the round east window. Through the +west window came a pale green light, and there was a view over the +hills. As we became accustomed to the dimness our eyes picked out the +various objects--an old loom like a huge spider under a peaked gable, a +chest of drawers which would have set a collector crazy, Chippendale +chairs with the seats out, Windsor chairs with the backs broken, gilt +mirror frames with no glass in them--boxes--books--bottles--all the +flotsam and jetsam of such old establishments. Most of the things had +been set back against the wall, but right in the middle of the floor was +an object which I took at first for a small trunk. + +Lady Crusoe reached it first, and knelt beside it. She gave a little +cry. "My dear, come here!" and I went to her, and in another moment, I, +too, was on my knees. For the dark object was a cradle--a lovely hooded +thing of mahogany, in which the Davenants had been rocked for +generations. + +"William got it out," Lady Crusoe said, "ready to be carried down. Oh, +my good old man Friday! Do you mind if I cry a little, you very dear?" + +It rained a great deal that summer, and it was hot and humid. Billy and +I longed for the cold winds that sweep across the sea on the North +Shore, but we didn't complain, for we had each other, and I wouldn't +exchange Billy for any breeze that blows. + +Lady Crusoe suffered less than I, for she was on her native heath, and +in the afternoon when we sewed together William Watters made lemonade, +and in the evening when Billy came up for me we sat out under the stars +until whispers of wind stirred the trees, and then we went away and left +our dear lady alone. + +As the time went on we hated more and more to leave her, but she was +very brave about it. "I have my good man Friday," she told us, "to +protect me, and my grandfather's revolver." + +So the summer passed, and the fall came, and the busy robin and all of +her red-breasted family started for the South, and there was rain and +more rain, so that when October rolled around the roads were perfect +rivers of red mud, and the swollen streams swept under the bridges in +raging torrents of terra-cotta, and the sheep on the hills were pinker +than ever. There was no lack of color in those gray days, for the trees +burst through the curtain of mist in great splashes of red and green and +gold. But now I did not go abroad with William Watters behind his old +gray mule, for things had happened which kept me at home. + +It was on a rainy November night that I came down to the store to call +Billy to supper. I had brought a saucer for old Tid, the store cat, and +when he had finished Billy had cut him a bit of cheese and he was +begging for it. We had taught Tid to sit up and ask, and he looked so +funny, for he is fat and black and he hates to beg, but he loves cheese. +We were laughing at him when a great flash of light seemed to sweep +through the store, and a motor stopped. + +Billy went forward at once. The front door opened, and a man in a +rain-coat was blown in by the storm. + +"Jove, it's a wet night!" I heard him say, and I knew it wasn't any of +Billy's customers from around that part of the country. This was no +drawling Virginia voice. It was crisp and clear-cut and commanding. + +He took off his hat, and even at that distance I could see his shining +blond head. He towered above Billy, and Billy isn't short. "I wonder if +you could help me," he began, and then he hesitated, "it is a rather +personal matter." + +"If you'll come up-stairs," Billy told him, "there'll be only my wife +and me, and I can shut up the store for the night." + +"Good!" he said, and I went ahead of them with old Tid following, and +presently the men arrived and Billy presented the stranger to me. + +He told us at once what he wanted. "I thought that as you kept the +store, you might hear the neighborhood news. I have lost--my wife--" + +"Dead?" Billy inquired solicitously. + +"No. Several months ago we motored down into this part of the country. +Some miles from here I had trouble with my engine, and I had to walk to +town for help. When I came back my wife was gone--" + +I pinched Billy under the table. "Gone?" I echoed. + +"Yes. She left a note. She said that she could catch a train at the +station and that she would take it. Some one evidently gave her a lift, +for she had her traveling bag with her. She said that she would sail at +once for France, and that I must not try to follow her. Of course I did +follow her, and I searched through Europe, but I found no trace, and +then it occurred to me that after all she might still be in this part of +the country--" + +I held on to Billy. "Had you quarreled or anything?" + +He ran his fingers through his hair. "Things had gone wrong somehow," +he said, uncertainly, "I don't know why. I love her." + +If you could have heard him say it! If _she_ could have heard him! There +was a silence out of which I said: "Did you ask her to warm your +slippers?" + +He stared at me, then he reached out his hands across the table and +caught hold of mine in such a strong grip that it hurt. "You've seen +her," he said, "_you've seen her_--?" + +Then I remembered. "I can't say any more. You see--I've promised--" + +"That you wouldn't tell me?" + +"Yes." + +He threw back his head and laughed. "If she's in this part of the +country, I'll find her." And I knew that he would. He was the kind of +man you felt wouldn't know there were obstacles in the way when he went +after the thing he wanted. + +I made him stay to supper. It was a drizzly cold night and he looked +very tired. + +"Jove," he said, "you're comfortable here, with your fire and your +pussy-cat, and your teakettle on the hearth! This is the sort of thing I +like--" + +"You wouldn't like living over a grocery store," I told him. + +"Why not?" + +"Oh, nobody around here ever has, and they are all descended from +signers of the Declaration of Independence and back of that from William +the Conqueror, and they stick their noses in the air." + +"Shades of Jefferson!--why should they?" + +"They shouldn't. But they do--" + +He came back to the subject of his wife. "I didn't want her to warm my +slippers. It was only that I wanted her to feel like warming them," he +appealed to Billy, and Billy nodded. Billy positively purrs when I make +him comfortable after his day's work. He says that it is the homing +instinct in men and that women ought to encourage it. + +"Does she warm yours?" he asked Billy. + +"Not now, she's too busy--" and then as if the stage were set for it, +there came from the next room a little, little cry. + +I went in and brought out--Junior! He was only a month old, but you know +how heavenly sweet they are with their rose-leaf skins, and their little +crumpled hands and their downy heads--Junior's down was brown, for Billy +and I are both dark. + +"You see he keeps me busy," I said. + +I was so proud I am perfectly sure it stuck out all over me, and as for +Billy he beamed on us in a funny fatherly fashion that he had adopted +from the moment that he first called me "Little Mother." + +"Do you wonder that she hasn't time to warm my slippers?" was his +question. + +The stranger held out his arms--"Let me hold the little chap." And he +sat there, without a smile, looking down at my baby. When he raised his +head he said in a dry sort of fashion, "I thought the pussy-cat and the +teakettle were enough--but this seems almost too good to be true--" + +I can't tell you how much I liked him. He seemed so big and fine--and +tender. I came across a poem the other day, and he made me think of it: + + "... the strong" + The Master whispered, "are the tenderest!" + +Before he went away, he took my hand in his. "I want you to play a game +with me. Do you remember when we were children that we used to hide +things, and then guide the ones who hunted by saying 'warmer' when we +were near them, and 'colder' when they wandered away? Will you say +'warm' and 'cold' to me? That won't be breaking your promise, will it?" + +"No." + +"Then let's begin now. To-morrow morning I shall go to the north and +east--" + +"Cold!" + +"To the south and west--" + +"Warmer." + +"Up a hill?" + +"Very warm. But you mustn't ask me any more." + +"All right. But I am coming again, and we will play the game." + +Billy went down with him, and when he came back we stood looking into +the fire, and he said, "You didn't tell him?" + +"Of course not. That's the lovely, lovely thing that he must find out +for himself--" + +The next day I went to see Lady Crusoe. William Watters took me. "They's +a man been hangin' round this mawnin'," he complained, "an' a dawg--" + +"What kind of man, William?" + +"He's huntin', and Miss Lily she doan' like things killed--" + +Half-way up, we passed the man. His hat came off when he saw me. "It's +cold weather we're having," he said pleasantly. + +"It's getting warmer," I flung back at him, and William drove on with a +grunt. + +I had Junior with me, and when I reached the house I went straight +up-stairs. In the very center of the room in the hooded mahogany cradle +was another crumpled rose-leaf of a child. But this was not a "Junior." + +"Robin-son," Lady Crusoe had whispered, when I had first bent over her +and had asked the baby's name. + +"Because of the robins?" I had asked. + +She shook her head. "I couldn't call him Crusoe, could I?" + +So there he lay, little Robinson Crusoe, in a desert expanse of polished +floor, and there he crowed a welcome to my own beautiful baby! + +Lady Crusoe was in a big chair. She was not strong, and William Watters +had brought his sister Mandy to wait on her. She was very pale, this +lovely lady, and there were shadows under her eyes. As I sat down beside +her, she said: "I shall have to have your Billy sell some more things +for me. You see the servants must be paid, and my Robin must be comfy. +There's a console-table that ought to bring a lot from a city dealer." + +"I wish that you needn't be worried," I said. "I wish--I wish--that +you'd let me send for Robin's father--" + +"Robin's father!" she drew a quick breath, "how funny it +sounds!--_Robin's father_--" + +I waited for that to sink in, and then I said: "I know how you feel. +When I think of Billy as Junior's father it is different from thinking +of him as my husband, and it makes a funny sensation in my throat as if +I wanted to cry--" + +"You've nothing to cry about," she told me fiercely, "nothing, but I +sometimes feel as if I could weep rivers of tears!" + +I realized that I must be careful, so I changed the subject. "William," +I said after a pause, "is worrying about a man who is hunting over the +grounds." + +"He told me. I can't understand why any one should trespass when the +place is posted. I sent William to tell him, but it didn't seem to have +any effect. I haven't heard him shoot. When I do, I shall go out and +speak to him myself." + +I wondered if Fate were going to settle it in that way, and I wondered +too if it would be breaking my promise to tell him to shoot! We sewed in +silence for a while, but Lady Crusoe was restless. At last she wandered +to the window. It was a long French window which opened on a balcony. +She parted the velvet curtains and looked out. "There he is again," she +said, with irritation, "by the gate with his gun and dog--" + +I rose and joined her. The man stood by the gate-post, and the dog sat +at his feet. They might have been a pair of statues planted on the round +top of the hill, with the valleys rolling away beneath them and the +mountain peaks and the golden sky beyond. Lady Crusoe was much stirred +up over it. + +"I'll send William again, when he comes with our tea. I won't have my +wild things shot. There was a covey of partridges on the lawn this +morning, and my squirrels come up to the porch to be fed. Men are cruel +creatures with their guns and their traps." + +"Women are cruel, too," I told her, and now I took my courage in my +hands. "Suppose, oh, suppose, that the mother robin had stolen her nest +and had never let the father robin share her happiness, wouldn't you +call that cruel?" + +"What do you mean?" her voice shook. + +"You have stolen your--nest--" + +"Why shouldn't I steal it? I had always felt that when I wanted a real +home it would be here. And the time had come when I wanted a--home. So I +planned to come--with him. It was to be my surprise--he doesn't even +know that the old place belongs to me. He thought it was just another of +my restless demands, but he let me have my way. We had friends with us +when we started; they left us at Washington. It was after we were alone +that--we quarreled--and I ran away. I left a note and told him that I +had gone to France. I suppose he followed and didn't find me. I am not +even sure that he wants to find me." + +"Do you want to be found?" + +"I don't know. I'd rather not talk about it." + +William came in with the tea and was told to send the intruder off. + +"I done sent him, Miss Lily," he said, with dignity, "but he ain't gwine +to go. He say he ain't, and I kain't make him." + +She went again to the window, and this time she drew back the faded +hangings and stepped out on the balcony. + +I heard her utter a cry; then the whole room seemed to whirl about me as +she came in, dragging the curtains together behind her. Every drop of +blood was drained from her face. + +"William," she said, sharply, "that man--is coming toward the house! If +he asks for me--I am not--at home." + +"Nawm," and William went down to answer the blows of the brass knocker. + +We heard him open the door, we heard the crisp, quick voice. We heard +William's stately response. Then the quick voice said: "Will you tell +your mistress that I shall wait?" + +William came up with the message. "He's settin' on the po'ch, an' he +looks like he was makin' out to set there all night." + +"Let him sit," said Lady Crusoe inelegantly. "Lock all of the doors, +William, and serve the tea." + +She sat there and drank a cup of it scalding hot, with her head in the +air and her foot tapping the floor. But I couldn't drink a drop. I was +just sick with the thought of how he loved her, and of how she had +hardened her heart. + +At last I couldn't stand it any longer. The tears rolled down my cheeks. +Lady Crusoe set her cup on the tray and stared at me in amazement. +"What's the matter?" + +"Oh, how can you--when he loves you?" + +I don't know how I dared say it, for her eyes were blazing in her white +face, and my heart was thumping, but there was Robinson Crusoe crowing +in his hooded cradle, and Robin's father was on the front step, with the +old oak door shut and barred against him. + +She leaned forward, and I knew what was coming. "How did you know it +was--my husband?" + +My eyes met hers squarely. "He came to the store. He was looking for +you." + +"And you told him that I was here?" + +"No. I wanted to. But I had promised." + +For a little while neither of us spoke. The silence was broken by a +thud, as if a flying squirrel had dropped from the roof to the balcony. +A stick of wood fell apart in the grate, and the crow of the baby in the +hooded cradle was answered by the baby on my lap. + +Lady Crusoe hugged her knees with her white arms as if she were cold, +although the room was hot with the blazing fire. "I think you might have +told me. It would have been the friendly thing to have told me--" + +"Billy thought it wasn't best." + +"What had Billy to do with it?" + +"Billy has everything to do with me. I talked it over with him--and--and +Billy's such a darling to talk things over--" + +I broke down and sobbed and sobbed, and the tears dripped on Junior's +precious head. And at last she said, her face softened, "You silly +little thing, what do you want me to do?" + +"If it were Billy, I should ask him in--and show him--the baby--" + +"If it were Billy, you would set your heart under his heel for him to +step on. I am not like that--" + +Another squirrel dropped to the balcony. The sun was setting, and +between the velvet curtains I could see it blood-red behind the hills. + +Lady Crusoe rose, pacing the room restlessly. The wind rising rattled +the long windows. A shadow blotted out the sun. + +"I suppose if you were I," she said at last, "you'd take your baby in +your arms, and go down and say to that man on the steps, 'Come in and be +lord of the manor and the ruler of your wife and child.'" + +I held Junior close and my voice trembled. "I should never say a thing +like that to--Billy--" + +"What would you say?" + +"I should say"--I choked over it, and broke down at the end--"oh, lover, +lover, this is your son--and I am his happy mother--" + +She stopped in front of me and stood looking down, with the anger all +gone from her eyes. Then, before she could turn or cry out, the long +windows were struck open by something that was stronger than the wind. +There had been no flying squirrels on the balcony, and the shadow which +had hidden the sun was the breadth and height of the big man who stood +between the velvet curtains! He crossed the room at a stride. + +"Did you think that bolts and bars could keep me from you?" he asked, +and took Lady Crusoe's hands in a tight grip and drew her toward him. +She resisted for a moment. Then her white slenderness was crushed in his +hungry arms. + +Well, as soon as I could gather up Junior and his belongings, I went +down to wait for Billy. But before I went I saw her drop on her knees +beside the hooded cradle and lift out little Robin, and, still kneeling, +hold him up toward his father, as the nun holds up Galahad in the Holy +Grail. + +And what do you think I heard her say? + +_"Oh, lover, lover, this is your son--and I am his happy mother!"_ + +Billy came in glowing from his walk in the sharp air, and I can't tell +you how good it seemed to feel his cold cheek against my cheek, and his +warm lips on mine. We were a rapturous trio in front of the library +fire, and there we were joined presently by the rapturous trio from +above stairs. They treated Billy and me as if we were a pair of guardian +angels. Then we had dinner together, with Mandy and William in the +background beaming. + +And that night I told Billy all about it. "Isn't it beautiful, Billy? +They are going to live on the old Davenant place, and it is to be their +home." + +Everybody calls on us now. You see, Lady Crusoe's family is older than +any of the others, and then there's her husband's money. And I shine in +her reflected light, for our friendship, as she says, is founded on a +rock. But Billy says it is founded on a wreck. Yet while he jokes about +it, I know that he is proud of his friendship with Robin's father. And +when the spring comes, we are to take old Tid and our blessed Junior and +our family effects to an adorable cottage with a garden on all four +sides of it and set well back from the road. You see, we feel that we +can afford it, for we have the exclusive business of supplying the needs +of the Davenant estate, and we are thus financially on our feet. + + + + +A REBELLIOUS GRANDMOTHER + + +Mrs. Cissy Beale and her daughter Cecily sat together in the latter's +bedroom--a bewitching apartment, in which pale-gray paper and pale-gray +draperies formed an effective background for the rosewood furniture and +the French mirrors and tapestried screens. + +Between the two women was a bassinet and a baby. + +"You act," said Cecily, "as if you were sorry about--the baby." + +Her mother, who lay stretched at ease on a pillowed couch, shook her +head. + +"I'm not sorry about the baby--she's a darling--but you needn't think +I'm going to be called 'grandmother,' Cecily. A grandmother is a person +who settles down. I don't expect to settle down. My life has been hard. +I struggled and strove through all those awful years after your +father--left me. I educated you and Bob. And now you've both married +well, and I've a bit of money ahead from my little book. For the first +time in my life I can have leisure and pretty clothes; for the first +time in my life I feel young; and then, absolutely without warning, you +come back from Europe with your beautiful Surprise, and expect me to +live up to it--" + +"Oh, no!" Cecily protested. + +"Yes, you do," insisted little Mrs. Beale. She sat up and gazed at her +daughter accusingly. With the lace of her boudoir cap framing her small, +fair face, she looked really young--as young almost as the demure +Cecily, who, in less coquettish garb, was taking her new motherhood very +seriously. + +"Yes, you do," Mrs. Beale repeated. "I know just what you expect of me. +You expect me to put on black velvet and old lace and diamonds. I shan't +dare to show you my new afternoon frock--it's _red_, Cecily, geranium +_red_; I shan't dare to wear even the tiniest slit in my skirts; I +shan't dare to wear a Bulgarian sash or a Russian blouse, or a low +neck--without expecting to hear some one say, disapprovingly, 'And +she's a _grandmother_!'" She paused, and Cecily broke in tumultuously: + +"I should think you'd be proud of--the baby." + +"No, I'm not proud." Mrs. Beale thrust her toes into a pair of +silver-embroidered Turkish slippers and stood up. "I'm not proud just at +this moment, Cecily. You see--there's Valentine Landry." + +"Mother--!" + +"Now please don't say it that way, Cecily. He's half in love with me, +and I'm beginning to like him, awfully. I've never had a bit of romance +in my life. I married your father when I was too young to know my own +mind, and he was much older than I. Then came the years of struggle +after he went away.... I was a good wife and a good mother. I worshiped +you and Bob, and I gave my youth for you. I never thought of any other +man while your father lived, even though he did not belong to me. And +now he is dead. You'll never know--I hope you may _never_ know--what +drudgery means as I have known it. I've written my poor little screeds +when I was half-dead with fatigue; I've been out in cold and rain to get +news; I've interviewed all sorts of people when I've hated them and +hated the work. And if now I want to have my little fling, why not? +Everybody effervesces some time. This is my moment--and you can't expect +me to spoil it by playing the devoted grandmother." + +The baby was wailing, a little hungry call, which made her mother take +her up and say, hastily: "It's time to feed her. You won't mind, +mother?" + +"Yes, I _do_ mind," said the little lady. "I don't like that Madonna +effect, with the baby in your arms. It makes me feel horribly frivolous +and worldly, Cecily. But it doesn't change my mind a bit." + +After a pause, the Madonna-creature asked, "Who is Valentine Landry?" + +Mrs. Beale had her saucy little cap off, and was brushing out her thin, +light locks in which the gray showed slightly. But she stopped long +enough to explain. "He isn't half as sentimental as his name. I met him +in Chicago at the Warburtons', just before I made a success of my book. +I was very tired, and he cheered me a lot. He's from Denver, and he made +his money in mines. He hasn't married, because he hasn't had time. We're +awfully good friends, but he doesn't know my age. He knows that I have a +daughter, but not a grand-daughter. He thinks of me as a young +woman--not as a grandmother-creature in black silk and mitts--" + +"_Mother_! nobody expects you to wear black silk and mitts--" + +"Well, you expect me to have a black-silk-and-mitt mind. You know you +are thinking this very minute that there is no idiot like an old +one--Cecily--" + +The girl flushed. "I don't think you are quite kind, mother." + +Mrs. Beale laughed and forgot to be cynical. "I know what you'd like to +have me, dearie, but this is my moment of emancipation." She crossed the +room and looked down at the tiny bit of humanity curled like a kitten in +the curve of her daughter's arm. "I'm not going to be your grandmother, +yet, midget," she announced, with decision. Then, "Cecily, I think when +she's old enough I shall have her call me--Cupid--" + +And laughing in the face of her daughter's horrified protest, the +mutinous grandparent retired precipitately to her own room. + +Three hours later, Mrs. Cissy Beale went forth to conquer, gowned in a +restaurant frock of shadow lace topped by a black tulle hat. + +Valentine Landry, greeting her in Cecily's white-and-gold drawing-room, +was breezy and radiant. "You're as lovely as ever," he said, as he took +her hand; "perhaps a bit lovelier because you are glad to see me." + +"I am glad," she assured him; "and it is so nice to have you come before +the summer is at an end. We can have a ride out into Westchester, and +come back by daylight to dinner." + +"And no chaperons?" + +"No." She was looking up at him a little wistfully. "We know each other +too well to have to drag in a lot of people, don't we? It is the men +whom women trust with whom they go alone." + +He met her glance gravely. "Do you know," he said, "that you have the +sweetest way of putting things? A man simply has to come up to your +expectations. He'd as soon think of disappointing a baby as of +disappointing you." + +His selection of a simile was unfortunate. Mrs. Beale's eyes became +fixed upon a refractory button of her glove. + +"Please help me," she said; "your fingers are stronger," and as he bent +above her hand she forgot the baby, forgot her new estate, forgot +everything except the joy she felt at having his smooth gray head so +close to her own. + +When he had her safely beside him in his big car he asked, "What made +you run away from me in Chicago?" + +"My daughter came home from Europe." + +"I can't quite think of you with a grown daughter." + +"Cecily's a darling." Mrs. Beale's voice held no enthusiasm. + +Landry, noting her tone, looked faintly surprised. "You and she must +have great good times together." + +"Oh, yes--" + +Mrs. Beale wished that he wouldn't talk about Cecily. Cecily had married +before good times were possible. They had never played together--she and +the little daughter for whom she had toiled and sacrificed. + +Landry's voice broke in upon her meditations: "I should like to meet +Cecily." + +Mrs. Beale switched him away from the topic expeditiously. He should not +see her as yet in the bosom of her family. _He should not_. He should +not see Cecily with her air of mature motherliness. He should not see +Victor, Cecily's husband, who was ten years older than Cecily and only +ten years younger than herself. He should not hear her big son Bob call +her "Grandma." He should not gaze upon the pretty deference of Bob's +little wife toward the queen-dowager! + +Dining later opposite Landry in a great golden palace, Cissy seemed like +some gay tropical bird. In her new and lovely clothes she was very +pretty, very witty, almost girlishly charming. Yet Landry was conscious +of a vague feeling of disappointment. She had been more serenely +satisfying in Chicago--not so brilliantly hard, not so persistently +vivacious. How could he know that the change was one of desperation? +Cissy, as grandmother, felt that she must prove, even to herself, that +she was not yet a back number. + +With this rift in the lute of their budding romance, they ate and drank +and went to the play and had what might otherwise have been an +enchanted ride home in the moonlight. But when Landry said "Good-night" +Cissy felt the loss of something in his manner. His greeting that +afternoon had had in it something almost of tenderness; his farewell was +commonplace and slightly constrained. + +As Mrs. Beale went through the dimly lighted hall to her room, she met +Cecily in a flowing garment, pacing back and forth with the baby in her +arms. + +"She isn't well," Cecily whispered, as the little lady in the lace frock +questioned her. "I don't know whether I ought to call a doctor or not." + +Mrs. Beale poked the tiny mite with an expert finger. "I'll give her a +drink of hot water with a drop of peppermint in it," she said, "as soon +as I get my hat off, and you'd better go back to bed, Cecily; you aren't +well enough to worry with her." + +Cecily looked relieved. "I was worried," she confessed. "It's nurse's +night out and Victor had to go to a board meeting unexpectedly--and with +you away--I lost my nerve. It seemed dreadful to be alone, mother." + +Mrs. Beale knew how dreadful it was. She had carried the wailing Cecily +in her arms night after night in the weeks which followed the crushing +knowledge of her husband's infidelity. But she had carried a heavier +burden than the child--the burden of poverty, of desertion, of an +unknown future. + +But these things were not to be voiced. "You go to bed, Cecily," she +said. "I'll look after her." + +Walking the floor later with the baby in her arms, Mrs. Beale's mind was +on Landry. "Heavens! if he could see me now!" was her shocked thought, +as she stopped in front of a mirror to survey the picture she made. + +Her hair was down and the grayest lock of all showed plainly. She had +discarded frills and furbelows and wore a warm gray wrapper. She looked +nice and middle-aged, yet carried, withal, a subtle air of +girlishness--would carry it, in spite of storm or stress, until the end, +as the sign and seal of her undaunted spirit. + +The baby stirred in her arms, and again Mrs. Beale went back and forth, +crooning the lullaby with which she had once put her own babies to bed. + +In the morning the baby was much better, but Mrs. Beale was haggard. She +stayed in bed until eleven o'clock, however. Cecily, coming in at +twelve, found her ready to go out. In response to an inquiry, Mrs. Beale +spoke of a luncheon engagement with Valentine Landry. + +"Mother--are you going to marry him?" + +Cissy, studying the adjustment of her veil, confessed, "He hasn't asked +me." + +"But he will--" + +Mrs. Beale shrugged her shoulders. "Who knows?" + +In the weeks which followed, the little lady was conscious that things +were not drawing to a comfortable climax. By all the rules of the game, +Landry should long ago have declared himself. But he seemed to be +slipping more and more into the fatal role of good friend and comrade. + +Cissy's pride would not let her admit, even to herself, that she had +failed to attract at the final moment. But there was something deeper +than her pride involved, and she found her days restless and her nights +sleepless. One night in the dense darkness she faced the truth +relentlessly. "You're in love, Cissy Beale," she told herself, +scornfully. "You're in love for the first time in your life--and you +a--grandmother!" + +Then she turned over on her pillow, hid her face in its white warmth, +and cried as if her heart would break. + +In the meantime the baby drooped. Cecily, worried, consulted her mother +continually. Thus it came about that Mrs. Beale lived a double life. +From noon until midnight she was of to-day--smartly gowned, girlish; +from midnight until dawn she was of yesterday--waking from her fitful +slumbers at the first wailing note, presiding in gray gown and slippers +over strange brews of catnip and of elderflower. + +Cecily's doctor, being up-to-date, remonstrated at this return to the +primitive, but was forced to admit, after the baby had come triumphantly +through a half-dozen critical attacks, that Cissy's back-to-grandma +methods were effective. + +It was on a morning following one of these struggles that Cissy said to +her daughter, wearily, "I can't escape it--" + +"Escape what?" demanded Cecily, who, in the pale-gray bedroom was +endeavoring to observe the doctor's injunction to let the wailing baby +stay in her bassinet, instead of walking the floor with her. + +"The black-silk-and-mitt destiny," said the depressed lady. + +"What has happened?" Cecily demanded. + +"Nothing has happened," responded her weary little mother, and refused +to discuss the matter further. + +But to herself she was beginning to admit that she had lost Landry. An +hour later she had a telephone message from him. + +"I want you to go with me for a last ride together," he said. "I leave +to-morrow." + +"To-morrow!" Her voice showed her dismay. + +"But why this sudden decision--" + +"I have played long enough," he said; "business calls--" + +As Mrs. Beale made ready for the ride she surveyed herself wistfully in +her mirror. There were shadows under her eyes, and faint little lines +toward the corners of her lips--it even seemed to her that her chin +sagged. She had a sudden sense of revolt. "If I were young, _really_ +young," she thought, "he would not be going away--" + +With this idea firmly fixed in her mind, she exerted herself to please +him; and her little laugh made artificial music in his ears, her fixed +smile wore upon his nerves, her staccato questions irritated him. + +Again they had dinner together, and as she sat opposite him, gorgeous +and gay in her gown of geranium red, he began to talk with her of her +daughter. + +"I've never met her. It has seemed to me that you might have let me see +her--" + +Cissy flushed. "She's such a great grown-up," she said. "Somehow when +I'm with her I feel--old--" + +"You will never seem old," he said, with the nearest approach to +tenderness that had softened his voice for days. "You have in you the +spirit of eternal youth--" + +Then he floundered on. "But a mother and a daughter--when you used to +speak of her in Chicago, it seemed to me that I could see you together, +and I liked the sweetness and womanliness of the thought; but I have +never seen you together." + +With a sense of recklessness upon her, Cissy suddenly determined to tell +him the truth. "Cecily hasn't been going out much. You see, there's the +baby--" + +He stared. "The baby--?" + +"Her baby--Cecily's--" + +"_Then you're a grandmother_?" + +It seemed to Cissy that the whole restaurant rang with the emphasis of +the words. Yet he had not spoken loudly; not a head was turned in their +direction; even the waiter stood unmoved. + +When she came to herself Landry was laughing softly. "When are you going +to let me see--the baby--?" + +"Never--" + +"Why not?" + +Cissy went on to her doom. "Because you'll want to put me on the shelf +like all the rest of them. You'll want to see me with--my +hair--parted--and spectacles. And my eyes are perfectly good--and my +hair is my own--" + +She stopped. Landry was surveying her with hard eyes. + +"Don't you love--the baby--?" + +Cissy shrugged. "Perhaps. I don't know yet. Some day I may when I +haven't anything to do but sit in a chimney-corner." + +Thus spoke Cissy Beale, making of herself a heartless creature, flinging +back into the face of Valentine Landry his most cherished ideals. + +But what did it matter? She had known from the moment of her confession +that he would be repelled. What man could stand up in the face of the +world and marry a grandmother!--the idea was preposterous. + +She finished dinner with her head in the air; she was hypocritically +lively during the drive home; she said "Good-night" and "Good-bye" +without feeling, and went up-stairs with her heart like lead to find the +nurse weeping wildly on the first landing. + +The baby, it appeared, was very ill. And the baby's father and mother, +having left the little cherub sleeping peacefully, were motoring +somewhere in the wide spaces of the world. The family doctor was out. +She had called up another doctor, and he would come as soon as he could. +But in the meantime the baby was dying-- + +"Nonsense, Kate," said Cissy Beale, and pulling off her gloves as she +ran, she made for the pale-gray room. + +Now, as it happened, Valentine Landry, driving away in a priggish state +of mind, was suddenly overwhelmed by miserable remorse. Reviewing the +evening, he seemed to see, for the first time, the unhappiness in the +eyes of the little woman who had borne herself so bravely. In a sudden +moment of illumination he realized all that she must have been feeling. +Perhaps it had not been heartlessness; perhaps it had been--heart +hunger. + +Leaning forward, he spoke to his chauffeur. They stopped at the first +drug-store, and Landry called up Cissy. Her voice from the other end +answered, sharply, then broke as he gave his name. + +"I thought it was the doctor," she said. "Can you come back, please? The +baby, oh, the baby is very ill!" + +Five minutes later the nurse let him into the house. He followed her up +the stairs and into the nursery. Cissy sat with the baby in her arms. +The baby was in a blanket and Cissy was in her gray wrapper. She had +donned it while the nurse held the baby in the hot bath which saved its +life. Cissy's hair was out of curl and the color was out of her cheeks. +But to Valentine Landry she was beautiful. + +"It was a convulsion," she told him, simply. "I am afraid she will have +another. We haven't been able to get a doctor--will you get one for us?" + +Out he went on his mission for the lady of his heart, and the lady of +his heart, sitting wet and worried in the pale-gray bedroom, was saying +to herself, monotonously, "It's all over now--no man could see me like +this and love me--" + +Cecily and her husband and the doctor and Landry came in out of the +darkness together. They went up-stairs together, then stopped on the +threshold as Cissy held up a warning hand. + +She continued to croon softly the lullaby which had belonged to her own +babies: "Hushaby, sweet, my own--" + +It was Cecily and the doctor who went in to her, and Landry, standing +back in the shadows, waited. He spoke to Cissy as she came out. + +"I am going so early in the morning," he said, "will you give me just +one little minute now?" + +In that minute he told her that he loved her. + +And Cissy, standing in the library in all the disorder of uncurled locks +and gray kimono, demanded, after a rapturous pause, "But why didn't you +tell me before?" + +He found it hard to explain. "I didn't quite realize it--until I saw you +there so tender and sweet, with the baby in your arms--" + +"A Madonna-creature," murmured Cissy Beale. + +But he did not understand. "It isn't because I want you to sit in a +chimney-corner--it wasn't fair of you to say that--" + +Then in just one short speech Cissy Beale showed him her heart. She told +of the years of devotion, always unrewarded by the affection she craved. +"And here was the baby," she finished, "to grow up--and find somebody +else, and forget me--" + +As he gathered her into his protecting embrace, his big laugh comforted +her. + +"I'm yours till the end of the world, little grandmother," he whispered. +"I shall never find any one else--and I shall never forget." + + + + +WAIT--FOR PRINCE CHARMING + + +Kingdon Knox was not conscious of any special meanness of spirit. He was +a lawyer and a good one. He was fifty, and wore his years with an effect +of youth. He exercised persistently and kept his boyish figure. He had +keen, dark eyes, and silver in his hair. He was always well groomed and +well dressed, and his income provided him with the proper settings. His +home in the suburb was spacious and handsome and presided over by a +handsome and socially successful wife. His office was presided over by +Mary Barker, who was his private secretary. She was thirty-five and had +been in his office for fifteen years. She had come to him an unformed +girl of twenty; she was now a perfect adjunct to his other office +appointments. She wore tailored frocks, her hair was exquisitely dressed +in shining waves, her hands were white and her nails polished, her +slender feet shod in unexceptional shoes. + +Nannie Ashburner, who was also in the office and who now and then took +Knox's dictation, had an immense admiration for Mary. "I wish I could +wear my clothes as you do," she would say as they walked home together. + +"Clothes aren't everything." + +"Well, they are a lot." + +"I would give them all to be as young as you are." + +"You don't look old, Mary." + +"Of course I take care of myself," said Mary, "but if I were as young as +you I'd begin over again." + +"How do you mean 'begin,' Mary?" + +But Mary was not communicative. "Oh, well, I'd have some things that I +might have had and can't get now," was all the satisfaction that she +gave Nannie. + +It was through Mary that Nannie had obtained her position in Kingdon +Knox's office. Mary had boarded with Nannie's mother for five years. +Nannie was fourteen when Mary came. She had finished high school and had +had a year in a business college, and then Mrs. Ashburner had asked Mary +if there was any chance for her in Kingdon Knox's office. + +Mary had considered it, but had seemed to hesitate. "We need another +typist, but I am not sure it is the place for her." + +"Why not?" + +Mary did not say why. "I wish she didn't have to work at all. She ought +to get married." + +"Dick McDonald wants her. But she's too young, Mary." + +"You were married at nineteen." + +"Yes, and a lot I got out of it." Mrs. Ashburner was sallow and cynical. +"I kept boarders to make a living for my husband, Mary; and since he +died I've kept boarders to make a living for Nannie and me." + +"But Dick gets good wages." + +"Well, he can wait till he saves something." + +"Don't make him wait too long." + +It was against her better judgment that Mary Barker spoke to her +employer about Nannie. "I should want her to help me. She is not expert +enough to take your dictation, but she could relieve me of a lot of +detail." + +"Well, let me have a look at her," Kingdon Knox had said. + +So Nannie had come to be looked over, and she had blushed a little and +had been rather breathless as she had talked to Mr. Kingdon, and he had +been aware of the vividness of her young beauty; for Nannie had red hair +that curled over her ears, and her skin was warm ivory, and her eyes +were gray. + +Her clothes were not quite up to the office standard, but Knox, having +hired her, referred the matter to Mary. "You might suggest that she cut +out thin waists and high heels," he had said; "you know what I like." + +Mary knew, and Nannie's first month's salary had been spent in the +purchase of a serge one-piece frock. + +Mrs. Ashburner had rebelled at the expense. But Mary had been firm. "Mr. +Knox won't have anybody around the office who looks slouchy or sloppy. +It will pay in the end." + +Nannie thought Mr. Knox wonderful. "He says that he wants me to work +hard so that I can handle some of his letters." + +"When did he tell you that?" + +"Last night, while you were taking testimony in the library." + +The office library was lined with law books. There were a handsome long +mahogany table, green covered, and six handsome mahogany chairs. Mary, +shut in with three of Knox's clients and a consulting partner, had had a +sense of uneasiness. It was after hours. Nannie was waiting for her in +the outer office. Everybody else had gone home except Knox, who was +waiting for his clients. + +Mary remembered how, when she was Nannie's age, she had often sat in +that outer office after hours, and Knox had talked to her. He had been +thirty-five and she, twenty. He had a wife and a handsome home; she had +nothing but a hall room. And he had made her feel that she was very +necessary to him. "I don't know how we should ever get along without +you," he had said. + +He had said other things. + +It was because he had spoken of her lovely hair that she had kept it +brushed and shining. It was because his eyes had followed her pencil +that she had rubbed cold cream on her hands at night and had looked well +after her nails. It was because she had learned his taste that she wore +simple but expensive frocks. It was because of her knowledge that +nothing escaped him that she shod her pretty feet in expensive shoes. + +He had set standards for her, and she had followed them. And now he +would set standards for Nannie! + +She spoke abruptly. "Is Dick McDonald coming to-night?" + +"Yes. He has had a raise, Mary. He telephoned--" + +The two girls were in Mary's room. Dinner was over and Mary had slipped +on a Chinese coat of dull blue and had settled down for an evening with +her books. Mary's room was charming. In fifteen years she had had gifts +of various kinds from Knox. They had always been well chosen and +appropriate. Nothing could have been in better taste as an offering from +an employer to an employee than the embossed leather book ends and desk +set, the mahogany reading lamp with its painted parchment shade, the +bronze Buddha, the antique candlesticks, the Chelsea teacups, the +Sheffield tea caddy. Mary's comfortable salary had permitted her to buy +the book shelves and the tea table and the mahogany day bed. There was a +lovely rug which Mrs. Knox had sent her on the tenth anniversary of her +association with the office. Mrs. Knox looked upon Mary as a valuable +business asset. She invited her once a year to dinner. + +Nannie wore her blue serge one-piece frock and a new winter hat. The hat +was a black velvet tam. + +"You need something to brighten you up," Mary said; "take my beads." + +The beads were jade ones which Mr. Knox had brought to Mary when he came +back from a six months' sojourn in the Orient. Mary had looked after the +office while he was away. He had clasped the beads about her neck. "Bend +your head while I put them on, Mary," he had commanded. He had been at +his desk in his private office while she sat beside him with her +note-book. And when he had clasped the beads and she had lifted her +head, he had said with a quick intake of his breath: "I've been a long +time away from you, Mary." + +Nannie with the jade beads and her red hair and her velvet tam was +rather rare and wonderful. "Dick is going to take me to the show to +celebrate. He's got tickets to Jack Barrymore." + +"Dick is such a nice boy," said Mary. "I'm glad you are going to marry +him, Nannie." + +"Who said I was going to marry him?" + +"That's what he wants, Nannie, and you know it." + +"Mr. Knox says it is a pity for a girl like me to get married." + +Mary's heart seemed to stop beating. She knew just how Knox had said it. + +She spoke quietly. "I think it would be a pity for you not to marry, +Nannie." + +"I don't see why. You aren't married, Mary." + +"No." + +"And Mr. Knox says that unless a girl can marry a man who can lift her +up she had better stay single." + +The same old arguments! "What does he mean by 'lift her up,' Nannie?" + +"Well"--Nannie laughed self-consciously--"he says that any one as pretty +and refined as I might marry anybody; that I must be careful not to +throw myself away." + +"Would it be throwing yourself away to marry Dick?" + +"It might be. He looked all right to me before I went into the office. +But after you've seen men like Mr. Knox--well, our kind seem--common." + +Mrs. Ashburner was calling that Dick McDonald was down-stairs. Nannie, +powdering her nose with Mary's puff, was held by the earnestness of the +other woman's words. + +"Let Dick love you, Nannie. He's such a dear." + +Dick was, Nannie decided before the evening was over, a dear and a +darling. He had brought her a box of candy and something else in a box. +Mrs. Ashburner had shown him into the dining-room, which she and Nannie +used as a sitting-room when the meals were over. The boarders occupied +the parlor and were always in the way. + +"Say, girlie, see here," Dick said as he brought out the box; and Nannie +had gazed upon a ring which sparkled and shone and which looked, as Dick +said proudly, "like a million dollars." + +"I wanted you to have the best." His arm went suddenly around her. "I +always want you to have the best, sweetheart." + +He kissed her in his honest, boyish fashion, and she took the ring and +wore it; and they went to the play in a rosy haze of happiness, and when +they came home he kissed her again. + +"The sooner you get out of that office the better," he said. "We'll get +a little flat, and I've saved enough to furnish it." + +Nannie was lighting the lamp under the percolator. Mrs. Ashburner had +left a plate of sandwiches on one end of the dining-room table. Nannie +was young and Mrs. Ashburner was old-fashioned. Her daughter was not +permitted to eat after-the-theatre suppers in restaurants. "You can +always have something here." + +"Don't let's settle down yet," Nannie said, standing beside the +percolator like a young priestess beside an altar. "There's plenty of +time---" + +"Plenty of time for what?" asked her lover. "We've no reason to wait, +Nannie." + +So Dick kissed her, and she let him kiss her. She loved him, but she +would make no promises as to the important day. Dick went away a bit +puzzled by her attitude. He wanted her at once in his home. It hurt him +that she did not seem to care to come to him. + +It was a cold night, with white flakes falling, and the policeman on the +beat greeted Dick as he passed him. "It is a nice time in the morning +for you to be getting home." + +"Oh, hello, Tommy! I'm going to be married. How's that?" + +"Who's the girl?" + +"Nannie Ashburner." + +"That little redhead?" + +"You're jealous, Tommy." + +"I am; she'll cook sausages for you when you come home on cold nights, +and kiss you at your front door, and set the talking machine going, with +John McCormack shouting love songs as you come in." + +Dick laughed. "Some picture, Tommy. And a lot you know about it. Why +don't you get married and try it out?" + +Tommy, who was tall and ruddy and forty, plus a year or two, gave a +short laugh. "I might find somebody to cook the sausages, but there's +only one that I'd care to kiss." + +"So that's it. She turned you down, Tommy?" + +"She did, and we won't talk about it." + +"Oh, very well. Good-night, Tommy." + +"Good-night." + +So Dick passed on, and Tommy Jackson beat his hands against his breast +as he made his way through the whirling snow, his footsteps deadened by +the frozen carpet which the storm had spread. + +Mary Barker was delighted when Nannie told of her engagement to Dick. +She talked it over with Mrs. Ashburner. "It will be the best thing for +her." + +Mrs. Ashburner was not sure. "I've drudged all my life and I hate to see +her drudge." + +"She won't have it as hard as you have had it," Mary said. "Dick will +always make a good income." + +"She will have a harder time than you've had, Mary," said Mrs. +Ashburner, and her eyes swept the pretty room wistfully. "Many a time +when I've been down in my steaming old kitchen I have thought of you up +here in your blue coat and your pretty slippers, with your hair +shining, and I've wished to heaven that I had never married." + +"Things haven't been easy for you," said Mary gently. + +"They have been harder than nails, Mary. You've escaped all that." + +"Yes." Mary's eyes did not meet Mrs. Ashburner's. "I have +escaped--that." + +Nannie and her mother slept in the back parlor of the boarding-house. +They had single beds and it was in the middle of the night that Mrs. +Ashburner said: "Are you awake, Nannie?" + +"Yes, I am." + +"Well, I can't seem to get to sleep. Maybe it's the coffee and maybe +it's because I have you on my mind. I keep thinking that I hate to have +you get married, honey." + +"Oh, mother, don't you like Dick?" + +"Yes. It ain't that. But it's nice for you in the office and you don't +have to slave." + +Nannie sat up in bed, and the light from the street lamp shone in and +showed her wide-eyed, with her hair in a red glory. "I shan't slave," +she said. "I told Dick." + +"Men don't know." Mrs. Ashburner spoke with a sort of weary bitterness. +"They'll promise anything." + +"And I am not going to be married in a hurry, mother. Dick's got to wait +for me if he wants me." + +It sounded very worldly-minded and decisive and Mrs. Ashburner gained an +envious comfort in her daughter's declaration. She had never set herself +against a man's will in that way. Perhaps, after all, Nannie would make +a success of marriage. + +But Nannie was not so resolute as her words might have seemed to imply. +Long after her mother slept she lay awake in the dark and thought of +Dick, of the break in his voice when he had made his plea, the light in +his eyes when he had won a response, his flaming youth, his fine boy's +reverence for her own youth and innocence. It would be--rather +wonderful, she whispered to her heart, and fell asleep, dreaming. + +The next morning was very cold, and Nannie, coming early into Kingdon +Knox's office to take his letters, was in a glow after her walk through +the snowy streets. Her cheeks were red, her eyes sparkled, and the ring +on her finger sparkled. + +Knox at once noticed the ring. "So that's it," he said, and leaned back +in his chair. "Let's talk about it a little." + +They talked about it more than a little, and the burden of Kingdon +Knox's argument was that it was a pity. She was too young and pretty to +marry a poor man and live in a funny little flat and do her own work +and spoil her nails with dishwashing. "Personally, I think it's rather +dreadful. A waste of you, if you want the truth." + +Poor Nannie, listening, saw her castles falling. It would be rather +dreadful--dishwashing and a gas stove and getting meals. + +"He is awfully in love with me," she managed to say at last. + +"And you?" He leaned forward a little. Nannie was aware of the feeling +of excitement which he could always rouse in her. When he spoke like +that she saw herself as something rather perfect and princesslike. + +"Wait--for Prince Charming," he said. + +Nannie was sure that when Prince Charming came he would be like Mr. +Knox; younger perhaps, but with that same lovely manner. + +"Of course," Mr. Knox said gently, "I suppose I ought not to advise, but +if I were you"--he touched the sparkling ring--"I should give it back to +him." + +So after several absorbing talks with her employer on the subject, +Nannie gave the ring back, and when poor Dick passed his friend the +policeman on his way home he stopped and told his story. + +"They are all like that," Tommy said, "but if I were you I wouldn't +take 'no' for an answer." + +Dick brightened. "Wouldn't you?" + +"Not if I had to carry her off under my arm," said Tommy between his +teeth. + +"But I can't carry her off, Tommy--and she won't go." + +"She'll go if you ain't afraid of her," Tommy told him with solemn +emphasis. "I was afraid." + +They were under the street lamp, and Dick stared at him in astonishment. +"I didn't know you were afraid of anything." + +"I didn't know it either," was Tommy's grim response, "until I met her. +But I've known it ever since." + +"Well, it's hard luck." + +"It is hardest at Christmas time," said Tommy, "and my beat ain't the +best one to make me cheerful. There are too many stores. And dolls in +the windows. And drums. And horns. And Santa Claus handing out things to +kids. And I've got to see it, with money just burning in my pocket to +buy things and to have a tree of my own and a turkey in my oven and a +table with some one who cares at the other end. And all I'll get out of +the merry season is a table d'hote at Nitti's and a box of cigars from +the boys." + +"Ain't women the limit, Tommy?" + +"Well"--Tommy's tone held a note of forced cheerfulness--"that little +redhead must have had some reason for not wanting you, Dick. Maybe we +men ain't worth it." + +"Worth what?" + +"Marrying. A woman's got a square deal coming to her, and she doesn't +always get it." + +"She'd get it with you, and she'd get it with me; you know that, Tommy." + +"She might," said Tommy pessimistically, "if the good Lord helped us." + +Nannie on the day after her break with Dick was blushingly aware of the +bareness of her third finger as she took Kingdon Knox's dictation. When +he had finished his letters, Knox smiled at her. "So you gave it back," +he said. + +"Yes." + +"Good little girl. You'll find something much better if you wait. And I +don't want you wasted." He opened a drawer and took out a long box. He +opened it and lifted a string of beads. They were of carved ivory, and +matched the cream of Nannie's complexion. They were strung strongly on a +thick thread of scarlet silk, and there was a scarlet tassel at the end. + +"They are for you," he said. "It is my first Christmas present to you; +but I hope it won't be the last." + +Nannie's heart beat so that she could almost hear it. "Oh, thank you," +she said breathlessly; "they're so beautiful." + +But she did not know how rare they were, nor how expensive until she +wore them in Mary's room that night. + +"Where did you get them, Nannie?" + +"Mr. Knox gave them to me." + +There was dead silence, then Mary said: "Nannie, you ought not to take +them." + +"Why not?" + +"They cost such an awful lot, Nannie. They look simple, but they aren't. +The carving is exquisite." + +"Well, he gave you beads, Mary." + +Mary's face was turned away. "It was different. I have been such a long +time in the office." + +"I don't think it is much different, and I don't see how I can give them +back, Mary." + +Mary did not argue, but when a little later Nannie told of her broken +engagement, Mary said sharply: "But, Nannie--why?" + +"Well, mother doesn't care much for the idea. She--she thinks a girl is +much better off to keep on at the office." + +Mary was lying in her long chair under the lamp. She had a cushion under +her head, and her hand shaded her eyes. "Did--Mr. Knox have anything to +do with it?" + +"What makes you ask that, Mary?" + +"Did he?" + +"Well, yes. You know what I told you; he thinks I'd be--wasted." + +"On Dick?" + +"Yes." + +Mary lay for a long time with her hand over her eyes; then she said: "If +you don't marry Dick, what about your future, Nannie?" + +"There's time enough to think about that. And--and I can wait." + +"For what?" + +Nannie blushed and laughed a little. "Prince Charming." + +After that there was a silence, out of which Nannie asked: "Does your +head ache, Mary?" + +"A little." + +"Can't I get you something?" + +"No. After I've rested a bit I'll take a walk." + +Mary's walk led her by the lighted shop windows. The air was keen and +cold and helped her head. But it did not help her heart. She had a sense +of suffocation when she thought of Nannie. + +She stopped in front of one of the shops. There were dolls in the +window, charming, round-eyed, ringleted. One of them was especially +captivating, with fat blond curls, fat legs, blue silk socks and +slippers, crisp frills and a broad blue hat. + +"How I should have loved her when I was a little girl," was Mary's +thought as she stood looking in. Then: "How a child of my own would have +loved her." + +She made up her mind that she would buy the doll--in the morning when +the shop opened. It was a whimsical thing to do, to give herself a doll +at her time of life. But it would be in a sense symbolic. She had no +child to which to give it; she would give it to the child who was once +herself. + +She came home with a lighter heart and with the knowledge of what she +had to do. She put on her blue house coat and sat down to her desk with +its embossed leather fittings, and there under the lovely, lamp which +Kingdon Knox had given her she wrote to Nannie. + +She gave the letter to Nannie the next morning. "I want you to read it +when you are all alone. Then tear it up. It must always be just between +you and me, Nannie." + +Nannie read the letter in the lunch hour. She got her lunch at a +cafeteria and there was a rest room. It was very quiet and she had a +corner to herself. She wondered what Mary had to say to her, and why she +didn't talk it out instead of writing about it. + +But Mary had felt that she could not trust herself to speak. There would +have been Nannie's eyes to meet, questions to answer; and this meant so +much. Paper and pen were impersonal. + + "It isn't easy to talk such things out, Nannie. I should never have + written this if I had not realized last night that your feet were + following the path which my own have followed for fifteen years. + And I knew that you were envying me and wanting to be like me; and + I am saying what I shall say in this letter so that I may save you, + Nannie. + + "When I first came into Mr. Knox's office I was young like you, and + I had a lover, young and fine like Dick, and he satisfied me. We + had our plans--of a home and the happiness we should have together. + If I had married him, I should now have sons and daughters growing + up about me, and when Christmas came there would be a tree and + young faces smiling, and my husband, smiling. + + "But Mr. Knox talked to me as he talked to you. He told me, too, to + wait--for Prince Charming. He told me I was too fine to be wasted. + He hinted that the man I was planning to marry was a plain fellow, + not good enough for me. He talked and I listened. He opened vistas. + I saw myself raised to a different sphere by some man like Mr. + Knox--just as well groomed, just as distinguished, just as rich and + wonderful. + + "But such men don't come often into the lives of girls like you and + me, Nannie. I know that now. I did not know it then. But Mr. Knox + should have known it. Yet he held out the hope; and at last he + robbed me of my future, of the little home, my fine, strong + husband. He robbed me of my woman's heritage of a child in my arms. + + "And in return he gave me--nothing. I have found in the years that + I have been with him that he likes to be admired and looked up to + by pretty women. He likes to mold us into something exquisite and + ornamental, he likes to feel that he has molded us. He likes to see + our blushes. All these years that I have been with him, he has + liked to feel that I looked upon him as the ideal toward which all + my girlish dreams tended. + + "He is not in love with me, and I am not in love with him. But he + has always known that if he had been free and had wooed me, I + should have felt that King Cophetua had come to the beggar maid. + Yet, too late, I can see that if he had been free he would never + have wooed me. His ambition would have carried him up and beyond + anything I can ever hope to be, and he would have sought some woman + of his own circle who would have contributed to his material + success. + + "And now he is trying to spoil your life, Nannie--to make you + discontented with your future with Dick. You look at him and see in + your life some day a Prince Charming. But I tell you this, Nannie, + that Prince Charming will never come. And after a time all you will + have to show for the years that you have spent in the office will + be just a pretty room, a few bits of wood and leather and bronze in + exchange for warm, human happiness, clinging hands, a husband like + Dick, who adores you, who comes home at night, eager--for you! + + "You can have all this--and I have lost it. And there isn't much + ahead of me. I shan't always be ornamental, and then Mr. Knox will + let me drop out of his life, as he has let others drop out. And + there'll be loneliness and old age and--nothing else. + + "Oh, Nannie, I want you to marry Dick. I want you to know that all + the rest is dust and ashes. I feel tired and old; and when I think + of your youth, and beauty, I want Dick to have it, not Mr. Knox, + who will flatter and--forget. + + "Tear this letter up, Nannie. It hasn't been easy to write. I don't + want anybody but you to read it." + + +But Nannie did not tear it up. + +She tucked it in her bag and went to telephone to Dick. + +And would he meet her on the corner under the street lamp that night +when she came home from the office? She had something to tell him. + +Dick met Nannie, and presently they pursued their rapturous way. A +little later Tommy Jackson passed by. Something caught his eye. + +A bit of white paper. + +He stooped and picked it up. It was Mary's letter to Nannie. Nannie had +cried into her little handkerchief while she talked to Dick, and in +getting the handkerchief out of the bag the letter had come with it and +had dropped unnoticed to the ground. + +It had been years since Tommy had seen any of Mary's writing. A sentence +caught his eye, and he read straight through. After all, there are +things permitted an officer of the law which might be unseemly in the +average citizen. + +And when he had read, Tommy began to say things beneath his breath. And +the chances are that had Kingdon Knox appeared at that moment things +would have fared badly with him. + +But it was Mary Barker who came. She had under her arm in a paper +parcel the fat doll with the blond curls and the blue socks. She did not +see Tommy until she was almost upon him. + +Then she said: "What are you doing here, Tommy?" + +"Why shouldn't I be here?" + +"This isn't your beat." + +"It has been my beat since two weeks ago. I've seen you go by every +night, Mary." + +She stood looking up at him. And he looked down at her; and so, of +course, their gaze met, and something that she saw in Tommy's eyes made +Mary's overflow. + +"Mary, darling," said Tommy tenderly. + +"You said you wouldn't forgive me." + +"That was fifteen years ago." + +"Tommy, I'm sorry." + +Tommy stood very straight as became an officer of the law with, the eyes +of the world upon him. + +"May," he said, "I just read your letter to Nannie. She dropped it. If +I'd known the things in that letter fifteen years ago I'd have stayed on +my job until I got you. But I thought you didn't care." + +"I thought so too," said Mary. + +"But the letter told me that you wanted a husband's loving heart and a +strong arm," said Tommy, "and, please God, you are going to have them, +Mary. And now you run along, girl, dear. I can't be making love when I'm +on duty. But I'll come and kiss you at nine." + +So Mary ran along, and her heart sang. And when she got home she +unwrapped the fat doll and kissed every curl of her, and she set her +under the lovely lamp; and then she got a long box and put something in +it and wrapped it and addressed it to Kingdon Knox. + +And after that she went to the window and stood there, watching until +she saw Tommy coming. + +And the next morning when Kingdon Knox found the long box on his desk, +addressed in Mary's handwriting, he thought it was a Christmas present, +and he opened it, smiling. + +But his smile died as he read the note which lay on top of a string of +jade beads: + + "I am sending them back, Mr. Knox, with my resignation. I should + never have taken them. But somehow you made me feel that I was a + sort of fairy princess, and that jade beads belonged to me, and + everything beautiful, and that some day life would bring them. But + life isn't that, and you knew it and I didn't. Life is just warm + human happiness, and a home, and work for those we love. And so, + after all, I am going to marry Tommy. And Nannie is going to marry + Dick. In a way it is a happy ending, and in a way it isn't, because + I've grown away from the kind of life I must live with Tommy, and I + am afraid that in some ways I am not fitted for it. But Tommy says + that I am silly to be afraid. And in the future I am going to trust + Tommy." + + +And so Mary went out of Kingdon Knox's life. And on Christmas Day at the +head of a great table, with servants to the right of him and servants to +the left, he carved a mammoth turkey; and there was silver shining, and +glass sparkling and lovely women smiling, all in honor of the merry +season. + +But Kingdon Knox was not merry as he thought of the jade beads and of +Mary's empty desk. + + + + +BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK + +I + + +With the Merryman girls economy was a fine art. Money was spent by them +to preserve the family traditions. Nothing else counted. Everything was +sacrificed to the gods of yesterday. + +Little Anne Merryman had shivered all her short life in the bleakness +of this domestic ideal. + +"Why can't I have butter on my bread?" she had demanded in her +long-legged schoolgirl days, when she had worn her fair hair in a fat +braid down her back. + +The answers had never been satisfying. Well-bred people might, Amy +indicated, go without butter. Their income was not elastic, and there +were things more important. + +"What things? Amy, I'm so hungry I could eat a house." + +It was these expressions of Anne's about food which shocked Amy and +Ethel. + +"I'd sell my soul for a slice of roast beef." + +"Anne!" + +"Well, I would!" + +"I--I don't see how you can be so ordinary, Anne." + +"Ordinary" in the lexicon of Amy and Ethel meant "plebeian." No one in +the Merryman family had ever been so ordinary as Anne. Hitherto the +Merrymans had been content to warm themselves by the fires of their own +complacency, to feed themselves on past splendors; for the Merrymans +were as old as Norman rule in England. They had come to America with +grants from the king, they had family portraits and family silver and +family diamonds, and now in this generation of orphaned girls, two of +them at least were fighting the last battles of family pride. The +fortunes of the Merrymans had declined, and Amy and Ethel, with their +backs, as it were, to the wall, were making a final stand. + +"We must have evening clothes, we must entertain our friends, we must +pay for the family pew"; this was their nervous litany. The Merrymans +had always dressed and entertained and worshiped properly; hence it was +for lace or tulle or velvet, as the case might be, that their money +went. It went, too, for the very elegant and exclusive little dinners to +which, on rare occasions, their friends were bidden; and it went for the +high place in the synagogue from which they prayed their pharisaical +prayers. + +"We thank thee, Lord, that we are not as others," prayed Amy and Ethel +fervently. + +But Anne prayed no such prayers. She wanted to be like other people. She +wanted to eat and drink with the multitude, she wanted a warm, warm +heart, a groaning board. She wanted snugness and coziness and comfort. +And she grew up loving these things, and hating the pale walls of their +old house in Georgetown, the family portraits, the made-over dinner +gowns that her sisters wore, her own made-over party frocks. + +"Can't I have a new one, Amy?" + +"It's Ethel's turn." + +So it was when Anne went to a certain diplomatic reception in a +made-over satin slip, hidden by a cloud of snowy tulle, that Murray +Flint first waked to the fact of her loveliness. + +He had waked ten years earlier to the loveliness of Amy, and five years +later to the beauty of Ethel. + +And now here was Anne! + +"She's different though," he told old Molly Winchell; "more spiritual +than the others." + +It was Anne's thinness which deceived him. It was an attractive +thinness. She was pale, with red lips, and the fat fair braids had given +way to a shining knot. She wore the family pearls, and the effect was, +as Murray had said, spiritual. Anne had the look, indeed, of one who +sees heavenly visions. + +Amy had never had that look. She was dark and vivid. If at thirty the +vividness was emphasized by artificial means the fault lay in Amy's +sacrifice to her social ideals, She needed the butter which she denied +herself. She needed cream, and eggs, and her doctor had told her so. And +Amy had kept the knowledge to herself. + +Ethel, eating as little as Amy--or even less--had escaped, miraculously, +attenuation. At twenty she had been a plump little beauty. She was still +plump. Her neck in her low-cut gown was lovely. Her figure was not +fashionable, and she lacked Amy's look of race. + +"They are all charming," Molly Winchell said. "Why don't you marry one +of them, Murray?" + +"Marriage," said Murray, "would spoil it." + +"Spoil what?" + +Murray turned on her his fine dark eyes. "They are such darlings--the +three of them." + +"You Turk!" Molly surveyed him over the top of her sapphire feather fan. +"So that's it, is it? You want them all." + +Murray thought vaguely it was something like that. For ten years he had +had Amy and Ethel--Amy at twenty, fire and flame, Ethel at fifteen, with +bronze locks and lovely color. In those years Anne had promised little +in the way of beauty or charm. She had read voraciously, curled up in +chairs or on rugs, and had waked now and then to his presence and a hot +argument. + +"Why don't you like Dickens, Murray?" + +"Oh, his people, Anne--clowns." + +"They're not!" + +"Boors; beggars." He made a gesture of distaste. + +"They're darlings--Mark Tapley and Ruth Pinch. Murray, if I had a +beefsteak I'd make a beefsteak pie." + +There was more of pathos in this than Murray imagined. There had been no +beef on the Merryman table for many moons. + +"Murray, did you ever eat tripe?" + +"My dear child---" + +"It sounds dee-licious when Toby Veck has it on a cold morning. And +there's the cricket on the hearth and the teakettle singing. I'd love to +hear a kettle sing like that, Murray; wouldn't you?" + +But Murray wouldn't. He had the same kind of mind as Amy and Ethel. He +did not like robust and hearty things or robust and hearty people. He +wore a corset to keep his hips small, and stood up at teas and +receptions with an almost military carriage. Of course he had to sit +down at dinners, but he sat very straight. He, too, had family portraits +and family silver, and he lived scrupulously up to them. His fortunes, +unlike the Merrymans', had not declined. He had money enough and to +spare. He could have made Amy or Ethel very comfortable if he had +married either of them. But he had not wanted to marry. There had been a +time when he had liked to think of Amy as presiding over his table. She +would have fitted in perfectly with the old portraits and old silver and +the family diamonds. Then Ethel had come along. She had not fitted in +with the diamonds and portraits and silver, but she had stirred his +pulses. + +"Anywhere else but in Georgetown," old Molly Winchell was saying, "those +girls would have been snapped up long ago. It's a poor matrimonial +market." + +Murray was complacently aware that he was geographically the only +eligible man on the Merryman horizon. Unless Amy and Ethel could marry +with distinction they would not marry at all. It was not lack of +attraction which kept them single, but lack of suitors in their own set. + +And now here was Anne, with Ethel's loveliness and Amy's look of race. +There was also that look of angelic detachment from the things of earth. + +So Murray's eyes rested on Anne with great content as she came and sat +beside Molly Winchell. + +Other eyes rested on her--Amy's with quick jealousy. "So now it's Anne," +she said to herself as she perceived Murray's preoccupation. Five years +ago she had said, "Now it's Ethel," as she had seen him turn to the +fresher beauty. Before that she had dreamed of herself as loving and +beloved. It had been hard to shut her eyes to that vision. + +Yet--better Anne than an outsider. Amy had a fierce sense of +proprietorship in Murray. If she gave him to Ethel, to Anne, he would be +still in a sense hers. With Anne or Ethel she would share his future, +partake of his present. + +A third pair of eyes surveyed Anne with interest as she sat by Molly. + +"Corking kid," said the owner of the eyes to himself. + +His name was Maxwell Sears. He was not in the least like Murray Flint. +He was from the Middle West, he was red-blooded, and he cared nothing +for the past. He held it as a rather negligible honor that he had a +Declaration-signing ancestor. The important things to Maxwell were that +he was representing his district in Congress; that he was still young +enough to carry his college ideals into politics, and that he had just +invested a small portion of the fortune which his father had left him in +a model stock farm in Illinois. + +For the rest, he was big, broad-shouldered, clean-minded. Now and then +he looked up at the stars, and what he saw there swayed him level with +the men about him. Because of the stars he called no man a fool, except +such as deemed himself wiser than the rest. Because he believed in the +people they believed in him. It was that which had elected him. It was +that which would elect him again. + +"Corking kid," said Maxwell Sears, with his smiling eyes on Anne. + + + +II + + +In the course of the evening Maxwell managed an introduction. He found +Anne quaint and charming. That she was reading Dickens amused him. He +had thought that no one read Dickens in these days. How did it happen? + +She said that she had discovered him for herself--many years ago. + +How many years? + +Well, to be explicit, ten. She had been eleven when she had found a new +world in the fat little books. They had a lot of old books. She loved +them all. But Dickens more than any. Didn't he? + +He did. "His heart beat with the heart of the common people. It was that +which made him great." + +"Murray hates him." + +"Who is Murray?" + +Anne pondered. "Well, he's a family friend. We girls were brought up on +him." + +"Brought up on him?" + +"Yes. Anything Murray likes we are expected to like. If he doesn't like +things we don't." + +"Oh." + +"He's over there by Mrs. Winchell." + +Maxwell looked and knew the type. "But you don't agree about Dickens?" + +"No. And Amy says that Murray's wiser than I. But I'm not sure. Amy +thinks that all men are wiser than women." + +Maxwell chuckled. Anne was refreshing. She was far from modern in her +modes of thought. She was--he hunted for the word and found +it--mid-Victorian in her attitude of mind. + +He wondered what Winifred Reed would think of her. Winifred lived in +Chicago. She was athletic and intellectual. She wrote tabloid dramas, +drove her own car, dressed smartly, and took a great interest in +Maxwell's career. She wrote to him once a week, and he always answered +her letters. Now and then she failed to write, and he missed her letters +and told her so. It was altogether a pleasant friendship. + +She hated the idea of Maxwell's farm. She thought it a backward step. +"Are you going to spend the precious years ahead of you in the company +of cows?" + +"There'll be pigs too, Winifred; and chickens. And, of course, my +horses." + +"You belong in a world of men. It's the secret of your success that men +like you." + +"My cows like me--and there's great comfort after the stress of a +stormy session in the reposefulness of a pig." + +"I wish you'd be serious." + +"I am serious. Perhaps it's a throwback, Winifred. There is farmer blood +in my veins." + +It was something deeper than that. It was his virile joy in +fundamentals. He loved his golden-eared Guernseys and his black +Berkshires and his White Wyandottes--not because of their choiceness but +because they were cows and pigs and chickens; and he kept a pair of +pussy cats, half a dozen dogs, and as many horses, because man +primitively had made friends of the dumb brutes upon whom the ease and +safety of his life depended. + +There was, rather strangely, something about Anne which fitted in with +this atavistic idea. She was, more than Winifred, a hearthstone woman. A +man might carry her over his threshold and find her when he came home o' +nights. It was hard to visualize Winifred as waiting or watching or +welcoming. She was always going somewhere with an air of having +important things to do, and coming back with an air of having done them. +Maxwell felt that these important things were not connected in any way +with domestic matters. One did not, indeed, expect domesticity of +Winifred. + +Thus Anne, drawing upon him by mysterious forces, drew him also by her +beauty and a certain wistfulness in her eyes. He had once had a dog, +Amber Witch, whose eyes had held always a wistful question. He had +tried to answer it. She had grown old on his hearth, yet always to the +end of her eyes had asked. He hoped now that in some celestial hunting +ground she had found an answer to that subtle need. + +He told Anne about Amber Witch. "I have one of her puppies on my farm." + +She was much interested. "I've never had a dog; or a cat." + +He had, he said, a big pair of tabbies who slept in the hay and came up +to the dairy when the milk was strained. There were two blue porcelain +dishes for their sacred use. There was, he said, milk and to spare. He +grew eloquent as he told of the number of quarts daily. He bragged of +his butter. His cheeses had won prizes at county fairs. As for +chickens--they had fresh eggs and broilers without end. He had his own +hives, too, white-clover honey. And his housekeeper made hot biscuit. In +a month or two there'd be asparagus and strawberries. Say! Yes, he was +eloquent. + +Anne was hungry. There had been a meagre dinner that evening. The other +girls had not seemed to care. But Anne had cared. + +"I'm starved," she had said as she had surveyed the table. "Let's pawn +the spoons and have one square meal." + +"Anne!" + +"Oh, we're beggars on horseback"--bitterly--"and I hate it." + +It was her moment of rebellion against the tyranny of tradition. Amy had +had such a moment years ago when her mother had taken her away from +school. Amy had a brilliant mind, and she had loved study, but her +mother had brought her to see that there was no money for college. +"You'd better have a year or two in society, Amy. And this craze for +higher education is rather middle-class." + +Ethel's rebellion had come when she had wanted to marry a round-faced +chap who lived across the street. They had played together from +childhood. His people were pleasant folks but lacked social background. +So Ethel's romance had been nipped in the bud. The round-faced chap had +married another girl. And now Amy at thirty and Ethel at twenty-five +were crystallizing into something rather hard and brilliant, as Anne +would perhaps crystallize if something didn't happen. + +The something which happened was Maxwell Sears. Anne listened to the +things he said about his farm and felt that they couldn't be true. + +"It sounds like a fairy tale." + +"It isn't. And it's all tremendously interesting." + +He looked very much alive as he said it, and Anne felt the thrill of his +energy and enthusiasm. Murray was never enthusiastic; neither were Amy +and Ethel. They were all indeed a bit petrified. + +Before he left her Maxwell asked Anne if he could call. He came promptly +two nights later and brought with him a bunch of violets and a box of +chocolates. Anne pinned the violets in the front of the gray frock that +gave her the look of a cloistered nun, and ate up the chocolates. + +Amy was shocked. "Anne, you positively gobbled--" + +"I didn't." + +"Well, you ate a pound at least." + +Anne protested. Maxwell had eaten a lot, and Ethel and Amy had eaten a +few, and Murray had come in. + +"You remember, Amy, Murray came in." + +"He didn't touch one, Anne. He never eats chocolates." + +"He's afraid of getting fat." + +"Anne!" + +"He is. When he takes me out to lunch he thinks of himself, not of me. +The last time we had grapefruit and broiled mushrooms and lettuce; and I +wanted chops." + +Maxwell had been glad to see Anne eat the chocolates. She had seemed as +happy as a child, and he had liked that. There was nothing childish +about Winifred. She had been always grown-up and competent and helpful. +He felt that he owed Winifred a great deal. They were not engaged, but +he rather hoped that some day they might marry. Of course that would +depend upon Winifred. She would probably make him give up the farm and +he would hate that. But a man might give up a farm for a woman like +Winifred and still have more than he deserved. + +It will be seen that Maxwell was modest, especially where women were +concerned. The complacency of Murray Flint, weighing Amy against Ethel +and Ethel against Amy and Anne against both, would have seemed infamous +to Maxwell. He felt that it was only by the grace of God that any woman +gave herself to any man. He had a sense of honor which was founded on +decency rather than on convention. He had also a sense of high romance +which belonged more fittingly to the fifteenth than to the twentieth +century. He was not, however, aware of it. He looked upon himself as a +plain and practical chap who had a few things to work out politically +before he settled down to the serious business of farming. Of course if +he married Winifred he wouldn't settle down to the farm, but he would +settle down to something. + +In the meantime here was Anne, reading Dickens, eating chocolates, and +leaning over the rail of the House Gallery to listen to his speeches. + +It was rather wonderful to have her there. She wore a gray cape with a +chinchilla collar made out of Amy's old muff. A straight sailor hat of +rough straw came well down over her forehead and showed fluffs of +shining hair at the sides. Her little gray-gloved hands clasped the +violets he had given her. Above the violets her eyes were a deeper blue. + +She came always alone. "Amy doesn't know," she had told him frankly; +"she wouldn't let me, come if she did." + +"Why not?" + +"I am supposed to be chaperoned." + +"My dear child, I told you to bring either or both of your sisters." + +"I don't want them. They would spoil it." + +"How?" + +She tried to explain. He and she could see things in the old Capitol +that Amy and Ethel couldn't. + +He laughed, but knew it true. Anne's imagination met his in a rather +remarkable fashion. When they walked through Statuary Hall they saw not +Fulton and Pere Marquette and Carroll of Carrollton; they saw, rather, a +thousand ships issuing forth on the steam of a teakettle; they saw +civilization following a black-frocked prophet; they saw aristocracy +raising its voice in the interest of democracy. + +As for the mysterious whispering echo, they repudiated all talk of +acoustics. It was for them an eerie thing, like the laughter of elves or +the shriek of a banshee. + +"Don't say every-day things to me," Anne had instructed Maxwell when he +had first placed her behind a mottled marble pillar before leaving for +the spot where he could speak to her by this unique wireless. + +There came to her, therefore, a part of a famous speech; the murmured +words flung back by that strange sounding board rang like a bell: + +"Give me liberty or give me death!" + +She emerged from her corner, starry-eyed. "It was as if I heard him say +it." + +"Perhaps it was he, and I was only a mouthpiece." + +"I should think they'd like to come back. Will you come?" + +He laughed. "Who knows? I'll come if you are here." + +To have brought a third into these adventures would have robbed them of +charm. Knowing this he argued that the child was safe with him. Why +worry? + +They always lunched together before he took her up to the Members' +Gallery, and went himself to the floor of the House. He let her order +what she pleased and liked The definite way in which she did it. They +had usually, chops and peas, or steak, and ice-cream at the end. + + + +III + + +Then suddenly; things stopped. The reason that they stopped was Murray. +He saw Anne one day in the House Gallery and asked Amy about it. + +"How did she happen to be up there alone?" + +Amy asked Anne. Anne told the truth. + +"I've had lunch three times with Mr. Sears, and I've listened to his +speeches. It's something about the League of Nations. He believes in it, +but thinks we've got to be careful about tying ourselves up." + +Amy did not care in the least what Maxwell Sears believed. The thing +that worried her was Murray. She wanted him to approve of Anne. If Amy +had thought in a less limited circle she might have worked the thing out +that if Maxwell married Anne it would narrow Murray's choice down to +herself and Ethel. But there was always that vague fear of some outside +siren who would capture Murray. If he had Anne, he would then be safely +in the family. + +She realized, in the days following the revelation of the clandestine +meetings with Maxwell, that Murray was depending upon her to see that +Anne's affections did not stray into forbidden paths. He said as much +one afternoon when he found Amy alone in an atmosphere of old portraits, +old books, old bronzes. She sat in a Jacobean chair and poured tea for +him. The massive lines of the chair made her proportions seem +wraithlike. Her white face with its fixed spots of red was a high light +among the shadows. + +"Where's Anne?" + +"She and Ethel have gone to the matinee with Molly Winchell." + +"Why didn't you go?" + +"Molly never takes but two of us and, of course, this is Anne's first +winter out. I have to step back--and let her have her chance." + +He chose to be gallant. "You are always lovely, Amy." + +His compliment fell cold. Amy felt old and tired. She had a pain in her +side. It had been getting very bad of late, and she coughed at night. +She had been to her doctor, and again he had emphasized the need of a +change of climate and of nourishing food. Amy had come away unconvinced. + +She would have a chance in July when she and her sisters would go to +the Eastern Shore for their annual visit to their Aunt Elizabeth. As for +different food, she ate enough--all the doctors in the world couldn't +make her spend any more money on the table. + +Murray stood up very straight by the mantelpiece, under the portrait of +one of the Merryman great-grandfathers in a bag wig, and talked of Anne: + +"I believe I am falling in love with her, Amy." + +Amy's heart said, "It has come at last." Her brain said, "He has +discovered it because of Maxwell Sears." Her lips said, "I don't wonder. +She's a dear child, Murray." + +"She's beautiful." + +Murray swayed up a little on his toes. It made him seem thinner and +taller. He could see himself reflected in the long mirror on the +opposite wall. He liked the reflection of the thin tall man. + +"She's beautiful, Amy. I am going to ask her to marry me. I can't have +some other fellow running off with her. She belongs to Georgetown." + +He seemed to think that settled it. The pain in Amy's side was sharper. +She felt that she couldn't quite stand seeing Murray happy with Anne. +"She's--she's such a child." Her voice shook. + +"Well," said Murray, glancing at the tall thin man in the mirror, "of +course she is young. But Maxwell Sears is coming here a lot. Is he in +love with her?" + +"I'm not sure. She amuses him. She isn't in love with him or with +anybody." + +"Not even with me?" Murray laughed a little. "But we can remedy that, +can't we, Amy? But you might hint at what I'm expecting of her. I don't +want to startle her." He came and sat down beside her. "You are always a +great dear about doing things for me." + +The pain stabbed her like a knife. "I'll do my best." + +She had a nervous feeling that she must keep Murray from talking to her +like that. She rang for hot water, and their one maid, Charlotte, +brought it in a Sheffield jug. Then Ethel and Anne and Molly Winchell +arrived, and once more Murray stood up, tall and self-conscious as he +stole side glances at himself in the mirror. + +Maxwell Sears had brought the three women home. He had a fashion of +following up Anne's engagements and putting his car at her disposal. +When Amy had vetoed any more adventures at the Capitol he had conceded +good-naturedly that she was right. After that he had always included Amy +or Ethel in his invitations. + +"They are very pretty dragons," he had written to Winifred, "and little +Anne is like a princess shut in a tower." + +Winifred, reading the letter, had brooded upon it. "He's falling in +love. A child like that--she'll spoil his future." + +Congress was having night sessions. "If I could only have you up there," +Maxwell had said to Anne as he had driven her home from the matinee, +with old Molly and Ethel on the back seat. "I should steal you if I +dared." + +"Please dare." + +"Do you mean it?" + +"Yes. To-night. Ethel and Amy are going to a Colonial Dames meeting with +Molly Winchell. I never go. I hate ancestors." + +"I shouldn't let you do it," he hesitated, "but ghosts walk after dark +in the Capitol corridors." + +"I know," she nodded. "Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln." + +"Yes. Then you'll come?" + +"Of course." + +It was the thought of her rendezvous with him that lighted her eyes when +she talked to Murray. But Murray did not know. So he swayed up on his +toes and glanced in the glass and was glad of his thinness and +tallness. + +Maxwell came for Anne promptly. "You must get me back by ten," she told +him. "I have a key, and Charlotte's out." + +It was a night of nights, never to be forgotten. Maxwell did not take +Anne into the Gallery. He had not brought her there to hear speeches or +to be conspicuous in the glare of lights. He led her through shadowy +corridors--up wide dim stairways. + +At one turn he touched her arm. "Look!" he whispered. + +"What?" + +"Lafayette passed us--on the stairs." + +It was a great game! On the east front Columbus spoke to them of ships +that sailed toward the sunset; in the Rotunda they kept a tryst with +William Penn; from the west-front portico they saw a city beautiful--the +streets under the moon were rivers of light--the great monument reached +like the soul of Washington toward the stars! + +Out there in the moonlight Maxwell spoke of another great soul, gone of +late to join a glorious company. + +"It was he who taught me that life is an adventure." + +"Greatheart?" + +"Yes." + +"You loved him too?" + +"Yes." + +Anne caught her breath. "To think of him dead--to think of them +all--dead." + +Maxwell looked down at her. "They live somewhere. You believe that, +don't you?" + +"Yes." + +He was silent for a moment; then he laid his hand lightly on her +shoulder. "I feel to-night as if they pressed close." + +Oh, it was a rare game to meet great souls in odd corners! They could +scarcely tear themselves away. But he got her home before her sisters +arrived, and Anne went to bed soberly, and lay long awake, thinking it +out. She had never before had such a playmate. In all these years she +had starved for other things than food. + + + +IV + + +In due time Congress adjourned, but Maxwell did not go home. He +continued to see Anne. Amy was at last driven to her duty by Murray. She +could not forbid Maxwell the house. There was nothing to do but talk to +Anne. + +Having made up her mind she sought Anne's room at once. Anne, in a +cheap cotton kimono, was braiding her hair for the night. The sleeves of +the kimono were short and showed her thin white arms. Amy had on a +blanket wrapper. Her hair was in metal curlers. She looked old and +tired, and now and then she coughed. + +Anne got into bed and drew the covers up to her chin. "I'm so cold, I +believe there are icicles on my eyebrows. Amy, my idea of heaven is a +place where it is as hot as--Hades." + +"I don't see where you get such ideas. Ethel and I don't talk that way. +We don't even think that way, Anne." + +"Maybe when I am as old as you---" Anne began, and was startled at the +look on Amy's face. + +"I'm not old!" Amy said passionately. "Anne, I haven't lived at all, and +I'm only thirty." + +Anne stared at her. "Oh, my darling, I didn't mean---" + +"Of course you didn't. And it was silly of me to say such a thing. Anne, +I'm cold. I'm going to sit on the foot of your bed and wrap up while I +talk to you." + +Anne's bed had four pineapple posts and a pink canopy. The governor of a +state had slept in that bed for years. He was one of the Merryman +grandfathers. Amy could have bought mountains of food for the price of +that bed. But she would have starved rather than sell it. + +Anne under the pink canopy was like a rose--a white rose with a faint +flush. The color in Amy's cheeks was fixed and hard. Yet even with her +oldness and tiredness and metal curlers she had the look of race which +attracted Murray. + +"Anne," she said, "Murray and I had a long talk about you the other +day." + +"Murray always talks--long." Anne was yawning. + +"Please be serious, Anne. He wants to marry you." + +"Marry me!" incredulously. "I thought it was you; or Ethel." + +"Well, it isn't," wearily. "And it's a great opportunity--for you, +Anne." + +"Opportunity for what?" + +Amy had a sense of the futility of trying to explain. + +"There aren't many men like him." + +"Fortunately." + +"Anne, how can you? He's really paying you a great compliment." + +"Why didn't he ask me himself?" + +"He didn't want to startle you. You're so young. Murray has extreme +fineness of feeling." + +Anne tilted her chin. "I don't see what he finds in me." + +"You're young"--with a tinge of bitterness--"and he says you are +beautiful." + +Anne threw off the covers and set her bare feet on the floor. +"Beautiful!" she scoffed, but went to the mirror. "I'm thin," she +meditated, "but I've got nice hair." + +"We all have nice hair," said Amy; "but you've got Ethel's complexion +and my figure." + +"I don't think I want to be loved for my complexion." Anne turned +suddenly and faced her sister. "Or my figure. I'd rather be loved for my +mind." + +"Men don't love women for their minds," said Amy wearily. "You'll learn +that when you have lived as long as I have. Get back into bed, Anne. +You'll freeze." + +But Anne, shivering in the cotton kimono, argued the question hotly: "I +should think Murray would want to marry someone with congenial tastes. +He hates everything that I like." + +"He'll make an excellent husband. You ought to be happy to know that +he--cares." + +She began to cough--a racking cough that left her exhausted. + +Anne, bending over her, said, "Why, Amy, are you sick?" + +"I'm--I'm rather wretched, Anne." + +"Are you taking anything for your cough?" + +"Yes." + +"You ought to have a doctor." + +"I have had one." + +"What did he say?" + +Amy put her off. "I'll feel better in the morning, Anne. Don't worry." +Again the cough tore her. Anne flew to Ethel. + +"See what you can do for her. There is blood on her handkerchief! I am +going to call a doctor." + +The doctor, arriving, checked the cough. Later he told Anne that Amy +must have a change and strengthening food. + +"At once. She's in a very serious state. I've told her, but she won't +listen." + +In the days that followed Anne arraigned herself hotly. "I've been a +selfish pig--eating up everything--and Amy needed it." + +In this state of mind she fasted--and was famished. + +Maxwell, noting her paleness, demanded, "What's the matter? Aren't you +well?" + +She wanted to cry out, "I'm hungry." But she, too, had her pride. + +"Amy's ill." + +He got it out of her finally. "The doctor is much worried about her. He +says she needs a change." + +"You need it too." + +She needed food, but she couldn't tell him that. The state of their +exchequer was alarming. It had been revealed to her since Amy's illness +that there was really nothing coming in until the next quarter. + +"Why didn't you let Charlotte go, Ethel?" + +"We've always had a maid. What would people think?" + +"And because of what people think, Amy is to starve?" + +"Anne, how can you?" + +"Well, it comes to that. She needs things; and we don't need Charlotte." + +But when they spoke to Amy of sending Charlotte away she was feverishly +excited. "There's nobody to do the work." + +"I can do it," said Anne. + +"We Merrymans have never worked," Amy began to cry. "I'd rather die," +she said, "than have people think we are--poor." + + + +V + + +Maxwell was a man of action. When he saw Anne pale he sought a remedy. +"Look here, why can't you and your sisters come out to my farm?" + +Anne, remembering certain things--broilers and fresh eggs--was thrilled +by the invitation. "I'd love it! But Amy won't accept." + +"Why not?" + +"She's terribly stiff." + +He laughed. "Perhaps I can talk her over." + +Amy, lying on her couch, very weary, facing a shadowy future, felt his +magnetism as he talked to her. It was as if life spoke through his lips. +Murray had sat there beside her only an hour before. He had brought her +roses but he had brought no hope. + +Fear had for weeks kept Amy company. Through her nights and days it had +stalked, a pale spectre. And now Maxwell was saying: "You'll be well in +a month. Of course you'll come! There's room for half a dozen. You three +won't half fill the house." + +It was decided, however, that Ethel must stay in town. Amy had a nervous +feeling that with the house closed Murray might slip away from them. + +Old Molly Winchell, summing up the situation, said to Murray: "Of course +Anne will marry Maxwell Sears. There's nothing like propinquity." + +Murray, startled, admitted the danger. "It would be an awful thing for +Anne." + +"Why?" + +"He's rather a bounder." + +Old Molly Winchell hit him on the arm with her fan. Her eyes twinkled +maliciously. "He's nothing of the sort, and you know it. You're jealous, +Murray." + +Murray's jealousy was, quite uniquely, not founded on any great depth of +love for Anne. His appropriation of the three sisters had been a pretty +and pleasant pastime. When he had finally decided upon Anne as the +pivotal center of his universe he had contemplated a future in which the +other sisters also figured--especially Amy. He had, indeed, not thought +of a world without Amy. + +Her illness had troubled him, but not greatly. Things had always come to +him as he had wanted them, and he was quite sure that if Anne was to be +the flame to light his future, Providence would permit Amy to be, as it +were, the keeper of the light. + +He felt it necessary to warn Anne: "Don't fall in love with Sears." + +"Don't be silly, Murray." + +"Is it silly to say that I love you, Anne?" + +They were alone in the old library, with its books and bronzes and +bag-wigged ancestors. And Murray sat down beside Anne and took her hand +in his and said, "I love you, Anne." + +It was a proposal which was not to be treated lightly. In spite of +herself, Anne was flattered. Murray had always loomed on her horizon as +something of a bore but none the less a person of importance. + +She caught her breath quickly. "Please, Murray"--her blushes were +bewitching--"I'm too young to think about such things. And I'm not in +love with anybody." + +Murray raised her hand to his lips. "Keep yourself for me, little Anne." +He rose and stood looking down at her. "You're a very charming child," +he said. "Do you know it?" + +Anne, gazing at herself in the glass later, wondered if it were true. It +was nice of Murray to say it. But she was not in the least in love with +Murray. He was too old. And Maxwell was too old. Anne's dreams of +romance had to do with glorified youth. She wanted a young Romeo +shouting his passion to the stars! + +She packed her bag, however, in high anticipation. Maxwell was a +splendid playmate, and she thought of his farm as flowing with milk and +honey! + +Maxwell wrote to Winifred that he was coming home and bringing guests. + +"Run down and meet them. Anne's a corking kid." + +Winifred knew what had happened. Some girl had got hold of Maxwell. It +was always the way with men like that--big men; they were credulous +creatures where women were concerned, and it would make such a +difference to Maxwell's future if he married the wrong woman. + +She decided to go down as soon as she could. She felt that she ought to +hurry, but there were things that held her. And so it happened that +before she reached the farm Maxwell had asked Anne to marry him. There +had been a cool evening when the scent of lilacs had washed in great +waves through the open windows. Amy had gone to bed and he and Anne had +dined alone with the flare of candles between them, and the rest of the +room in pleasant shadow. And then their coffee had been served, and Aunt +Mittie, his housekeeper, had asked if there was anything else, and had +withdrawn, and he had risen and had walked round to Anne's place and had +laid his hands on her shoulders. + +"Little Anne," he had said, "I should like to see you here always." + +"Here?" + +"As my wife." + +"Oh!" + +She had had a rapturous week at the farm. She had never known anything +like it. Aunt Elizabeth, of the Eastern Shore, lived in a sleepy town, +and Anne's other brief vacations had been spent in more or less +fashionable resorts. But here was a paradise of plenty; the big wide +house, the spreading barns, the opulent garden, the rolling fields, the +enchanting creatures who were sheltered by the barns and fed by the +fields, and who in return gave payment of yellow cream and warm white +eggs, and who lowed at night and cackled in the morning, and whose days +were measured by the rising and the setting of the sun. + +She loved it all--the purring pussies, the companionable pups, the +steady, faithful older dogs, the lambs in the pasture, the good things +to eat. + +She was glowing with gratitude, and Maxwell was asking insistently, +"Won't you, Anne?" + +She had never been so happy, and he was the source of her happiness. +Against this background of vivid life the thought of Murray was a pale +memory. + +So her wistful eyes met Maxwell's. "It would be lovely--to live +here--always." + +Later, when she had started up-stairs with her candle, he had kissed +her, leaning over the rail to watch her as she went up, and Anne had +gone to sleep tremulous with the thought that her future would lie here +in this great house with this fine and kindly man. + +Winifred, coming down at last, found that she had come too late. Maxwell +told her as they motored up from the station. + +"Wish me happiness, Win. I am going to marry little Anne." + +It did not enter his head for a moment that the woman by his side loved +him. He had thought that if she ever married him it would be a sort of +concession on her part, a sacrifice to her interest in his future. He +had a feeling that she would be glad if such a sacrifice were not +demanded. + +But Winifred was not glad. "You are sure you are making no mistake, +Max?" + +"Wait till you see her." + +Winifred waited and saw. "She's not in the least in love with him. She +likes the warm nest she has fallen into. And she'll spoil his future. +He'll settle down here, and he belongs to the world." + +He belonged at least to his constituency. + +"I've got to make a speech," he told the three women one morning, "in a +town twenty miles away. If you girls would like the ride you can motor +over with me. You needn't listen to my speech if you don't want to." + +Amy and Winifred said that of course they wanted to listen. Anne smiled +happily and said nothing. She was, of course, glad to go, but Maxwell's +speeches were to her the abstract things of life; the concrete things at +this moment were the delicious dinner which was before her and the fact +that in the barn, curled up in the hay, was a new family of +kittens--little tabbies like their adoring mother. + +"Isn't it a lovely world?" she had said to her lover as she had sat in +the loft with the cuddly cats in her lap. + +"Yes." + +He knew that it was not all lovely, that somewhere there were lean and +hungry kittens and lean and hungry folks--but why remind her at such a +moment? + + + +VI + + +On the way over Anne sat with Winifred. She had insisted that Amy should +have the front seat with Max. Amy was much better. Life had begun to +flow into her veins like wine. She had written to Murray: "It is as if a +miracle had happened." + +Winifred, on the back seat, talked to Anne. She had a great deal to say +about Maxwell's future. "I am sorry he bought the farm." + +"Oh, not really." Anne's attention strayed. She had one of the puppies +in her lap. He kept peeping out from between the folds of her cape with +his bright eyes. "Isn't he a darling, Winifred?" + +"He ought to sell it." Winifred liked dogs, but at this moment she +wanted Anne's attention. "He ought to sell the farm. He has a great +future before him. Everybody says it. He simply must not settle down." + +"Oh, well, he won't," said Anne easily. + +"He will if you let him." + +"If I let him?" + +"If he thinks you like it." + +There was a deep flush on Winifred's cheeks. She was really a very +handsome girl, with bright brown hair and brown eyes. She wore a small +brown hat and a sable collar. The collar was open and showed her strong +white throat. + +"If he thinks you like it," she repeated, "he will stay; and he belongs +to the world; nobody must hold him back. He's the biggest man in his +party to-day. There is no limit to his powers." + +Anne stared at her. "Of course there isn't." She wondered why Winifred +seemed so terribly in earnest about it. She pulled the puppy's ears. +"But I should hate to have him sell the farm." + +Winifred settled back with a sharp sigh and gazed at the long gray road +ahead of her. She gazed indeed into a rather blank future. Her talents +would be, she felt, to some extent wasted. If Max rose to greater +heights of fame it would be because of his own unaided efforts. This +child would be no help to him. + +The speech Max made to his constituents was not cool and clear-cut like +the speeches which Anne had heard him make to his colleagues in the +House. He spoke now with warmth and persuasiveness. Anne, sitting in the +big car on the edge of the crowd, found herself listening intently. She +was aware, as he went on, of a new Max. The mass of men who had gathered +were largely foreigners who knew little of the real meanings of +democracy. Max was telling them what it meant to be a good American. He +told it simply, but he was in dead earnest. Anne felt that this +earnestness was the secret of his power. He wanted men to be good +Americans, he wanted them to know the privileges they might enjoy in a +free country, and he was telling them how to keep it free-not by +violence and mob rule but by remembering their obligations as citizens. +He told them that they must be always on the side of law and order, that +they must fight injustice not with the bomb and the red flag but with +their votes. + +"Vote for the man you trust, and not for the man who inflames your +passions. Your vote is a sacred thing; when you sell it you dishonor +yourself. Respect yourself, and you'll respect the country that has made +a man of you." + +The response was immediate, the applause tumultuous. After his speech +they crowded about him. They knew him for their friend. But they knew +him for more than that. He asked nothing of their manhood but the best. +He preached honesty and practiced it. + +Yet as he climbed into the car Anne had little to say to him. Winifred, +leaning forward, was emphatic in her praise: + +"You have no right to bury yourself, Max." + +"My dear girl, I'm not dead yet." He was a bit impatient. He had hoped +for a word from Anne. But she sat silent, pulling the puppy's ears. + +"He's asleep," she said finally as she caught the inquiry in her lover's +eyes. "He's tired out, poor darling." + +She seemed indifferent, but she was not. She had been much stirred. She +had a strange feeling that something had happened to her while she had +listened to Maxwell's speech. Some string had broken and her romance was +out of tune. + +She lay awake for a long time that night, thinking it over. She grew hot +with the thought of the limitations of her previous conception of her +lover. She had considered him a sort of background for the pleasant +things he could do for her. She had fitted him to the measure of the +boxes of candy that he had brought her, the luncheons in the House +restaurant, the bountiful hospitality of the farm. How lightly she had +looked down on him as he had stood below her on the stairs with her +candle in his hand. How casually she had accepted his kiss. She had a +sudden feeling that she must not let him kiss her again! + +Early in the morning she went into Amy's room. "Amy," she said, "how +soon do you think we can go to Aunt Elizabeth's?" + +"Aunt Elizabeth's? Why, Anne?" + +"I want to leave here." + +"To leave here?" Amy sat up. Even in the bright light of the morning her +face looked young. Good food and fresh air had done much for her. It had +been quite heavenly, too, to let care slip away, to have no thought of +what she should eat or what she should drink or what she should wear. +"To leave here? I thought you loved it, Anne." + +"I've got to get away. I'm not going to marry Maxwell, Amy." + +"Anne! What made you change your mind?" + +"I can't tell you. Please don't ask me. But I wish you would write to +Aunt Elizabeth." + +"I had a letter from her yesterday. She says we can come at any time. +But--have you told Max?" + +"Not yet." + +"Has he done anything?" + +"No. It's just--that I can't marry him. Don't ask me, Amy." She broke +down in a storm of tears. + +Amy, soothing her, wondered if after all Anne cared for Murray Flint. It +was, she felt, the only solution possible. Surely a girl would not throw +away a chance to marry a man like Maxwell Sears for nothing. + +For Amy had learned in the days that she had spent at the farm that +Maxwell Sears was a man to reckon with. She was very grateful for what +he had done for her, and she had been glad of Anne's engagement. Murray +would perhaps be disappointed, but there would still be herself and +Ethel. + +It was not easy to explain things to Maxwell. + +"Why are you going now?" he demanded, and was impatient when they told +him that Aunt Elizabeth expected them. "I don't understand it at all. It +upsets all of my plans for you, Anne." + +That night when he brought Anne's candle she was not on the stairs. +Winifred and Amy had gone up. + +"Anne! Anne!" he called softly. + +She came to the top rail and leaned over. "I'm going to bed in the dark. +There's a wonderful moon." + +"Come down--for a minute." + +"No." + +"Then I'll come up," masterfully. + +He mounted the stairs two at a time; but when he reached the landing the +door was shut! + +In the morning he asked her about it. "Why, dearest?" + +"Max dear, I can't marry you." + +"Nonsense!" His voice was sharp. He laid his hands heavily on her +shoulders. "Why not? Look at me, Anne. Why not?" + +"I'm not going to marry--anybody." + +That was all he could get out of her. He pleaded, raged, and grew at +last white and still with anger. "You might at least tell me your +reasons." + +She said that she would write. Perhaps she could say it better on paper. +And she was very, very sorry, but she couldn't. + +Winifred knew that something was up, but made no comment. Amy, carrying +out their program of departure, had a sense of regret. + +After all, it had been a lovely life, and there were worse things than +being a sister to Maxwell Sears. Her voice broke a little as she tried +to thank him on their last morning. + +He wrung her hand. "Say a good word for me with Anne. I don't know +what's the matter with her." + +Neither did Amy. And if she was Maxwell's advocate how could she be +Murray's? She flushed a little. + +"Anne's such a child." + +He remembered how he had called her a corking kid. She was more than +that to him now. She stood in the doorway in her gray sailor hat and +gray cape. + +"Anne," he said, "you must have a last bunch of pansies from the +garden. Come out and help me pick them." + +In the garden he asked, "Are you going to kiss me good-bye?" + +"No, Max. Please--" + +"Then it's 'God bless you, dearest.'" + +He forgot the pansies and they went back to where the car waited. + + + +VII + + +Anne's letter, written from the Eastern Shore, was a long and childish +screed. "We have always been beggars on horseback," she said. "Of course +you couldn't know that, Max. We have gone without bread so that we could +be grand and elegant. We have gone without fire so that we could buy our +satin gowns for fashionable functions. We went without butter for a year +so that Amy could entertain the Strangeways, whom she had met years ago +in Europe. I wouldn't dare tell you what that dinner cost us, but we had +a cabinet member or two, and the British Ambassador. + +"You wondered why I liked Dickens. Well, I read him so that I could get +a good meal by proxy. I used to gloat over the feasts at Wardle's, and +Mr. Stiggins' hot toast. And when I met you you gave me--everything. +Murray Flint thinks that because I am thin and pale I am all spirit, +and I'm afraid you have the same idea. You didn't dream, did you, that I +was pale because I hadn't had enough to eat? And when you told me that +you wanted me to be your wife I looked ahead and saw the good food and +the roaring fires, and I didn't think of anything else. I honestly +didn't think of you for a moment, Max. + +"There were days, though, when you meant more to me than just that. When +we played at the Capitol--that night when we met Lafayette on the +stairs! Nobody had ever played with me. But after we went to the farm I +was smothered in ease. And I loved it. And I didn't love you. You were +just--the man who gave me things. Do you see what I mean? And when you +kissed me on the stairs it was as if I were being kissed by a nice old +Santa Claus. + +"Everybody saw it but you. I am sure Amy knew--and Winifred Reed. +You--you ought to marry Winifred, Max. Perhaps you will. You won't want +me after you read this letter. And Winifred is splendid. + +"It was your speech to the men that waked me. I saw how big you were, +and I just--shriveled up. + +"And you mustn't worry about me. I am not hungry any more. I feel as if +I should never want anything to eat. Perhaps it is because I am older +and haven't a growing appetite. And I am not any of the things you +thought me. And of course you would be disappointed, and it wouldn't be +fair." + +Having posted this, Anne had other things to do. She wrote mysterious +letters, and finally came into a room where her sisters and Aunt +Elizabeth were sewing, with an important-looking paper in her hand. + +"I am going to work, Amy." + +"To work!" + +"Yes." + +Amy and Ethel and Aunt Elizabeth wore white frocks, and looked very cool +and feminine and high-bred. Aunt Elizabeth had a nose like Amy's and the +same look of race. + +It was Aunt Elizabeth who said in her commanding voice: "What are you +talking about, Anne?" + +"I am going to work in the War Risk Bureau, Aunt Elizabeth. I wrote to +two senators, and they helped me." + +No woman of the Merryman family had ever worked in an office. + +Anne faced a storm of disapproval, but she stood there slim and defiant, +and stated her reasons. + +"We need money. I don't see how we can get through a winter like the +last. I can't keep my self-respect if we go on living as we did last +winter." + +"Haven't you any pride, Anne?" + +"I have self-respect." + +She left the room a conqueror. After she had gone the three women talked +about her. They did not say it openly, but they felt that there was +really an ordinary streak in Anne. Otherwise she would not have wanted +to work in an office. + +There was, however, nothing to be done. Anne was twenty-one. She was to +get a hundred dollars a month. In spite of herself, Amy felt a throb of +the heart as she thought of what that hundred dollars would mean to +them. + +Murray Flint was much perturbed when he heard of Anne's decision. He +wrote to her that of course she knew that there was no reason why she +should go into an office--his home and hearthstone were hers. She wrote +back that she should never marry! After that, Murray felt, with Amy and +Ethel and Aunt Elizabeth, that there was an ordinary streak in Anne! + +When he arrived in August at Aunt Elizabeth's he was astonished at the +change in Amy. She looked really very young as she came to meet him, and +Aunt Elizabeth's house was a perfect setting for her charms. Murray was +very fond of Aunt Elizabeth's house. It was an ancient, stately edifice, +and within there were the gold-framed portraits of men and women with +noses like Amy's and Aunt Elizabeth's. + +Murray had missed Amy very much and he told her so. + +"It was a point of honor for me to ask Anne again. But when I thought I +was going to lose you I learned that my life would be empty without +you." + +He really believed what he was telling her. If Amy did not believe it +she made no sign. She was getting much more than she expected, and she +accepted him graciously and elegantly, as became a daughter of the +Merrymans. + +It was when he told Anne of his engagement to Amy that Murray again +offered her a home. "There will always be a place for Amy's sisters, +Anne." + +"You are very good, Murray--but I can't." + +She had said the same thing to Maxwell, who had come hot-footed to tell +her that her letter had made no difference in his feeling for her. + +"How could you think it, Anne? My darling, you are making a mountain of +a molehill!" + +She had been tremulous but firm. "I've got to have my--self-respect, +Max." + +Because he understood men he understood her. And when he had left her he +had said to himself with long-drawn breath, "She's a corking kid." + +And this time there had been no laughter in his eyes. + +All that winter Anne worked, a little striving creature, with her head +held high! + +Maxwell was in town, for Congress had convened. But he had not come to +see her. Now and then when there was a night session she went up to the +House and sat far back in the Gallery, where, unperceived, she could +listen to her lover's voice. Then she would steal away, a little ghost, +down the shadowy stairway; but there were no games now with Lafayette! + +Amy and Murray were to be married in June. They had enjoyed a dignified +and leisurely engagement, and Amy had bloomed in the sunshine of +Murray's approbation. Anne's salary had helped a great deal in getting +the trousseau together. Most of the salary, indeed, had been spent for +that. The table was, as usual, meagre, but Anne had not seemed to care. + +She was therefore rather white and thin when, on the day that Congress +adjourned, Maxwell came out to Georgetown to see her. It had been a long +session, and it was spring. + +There were white lilacs in a great blue jar in the Merryman library, and +through the long window a glimpse of a thin little moon in a faint green +sky. + +As he looked at Anne, Maxwell felt a lump in his throat. She had given +him her hand and had smiled at him. "How are the kittens?" she had asked +in an effort to be gay. + +He did not answer her question. He went, rather, directly to the point. +"Anne, why wouldn't you kiss me on that last night?" + +She flushed to the roots of her hair. "It--it was because I loved you, +Max." + +"I thought so. But you had to prove it to yourself?" + +"Yes." + +"Anne, that's why I've let you alone all winter--so that you might prove +it. But--I can't go on. It has been an awful winter for me, Anne." + +It had been an awful winter for her. But she had come out of it knowing +herself. And even when at last his arms were about her and he was +telling her that he would never let her go, she had a plea to make: + +"Don't let me live too softly, Max. Life isn't a feather bed--You belong +to the world. I must go with you toward the big things. But now and then +we'll run back to the farm." + +"What do I care where we run, so that we run--together!" + + + + + +THE NOVELS OF TEMPLE BAILEY + + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. + +"Although my ancestry is all of New England, I was born in the old town +of Petersburg, Virginia. I went later to Richmond and finally at the age +of five to Washington, D.C., returning to Richmond for a few years in a +girl's school, which was picturesquely quartered in General Lee's +mansion." + + +PEACOCK FEATHERS + +The eternal conflict between wealth and love. Jerry, the idealist who is +poor, loves Mimi, a beautiful, spoiled society girl. + + +THE DIM LANTERN + +The romance of little Jane Barnes who is loved by two men. + + +THE GAY COCKADE + +Unusual short stories where Miss Bailey shows her keen knowledge of +character and environment, and how romance comes to different people. + + +THE TRUMPETER SWAN + +Randy Paine comes back from France to the monotony of every-day +affairs. But the girl he loves shows him the beauty in the commonplace. + + +THE TIN SOLDIER + +A man who wishes to serve his country, but is bound by a tie he cannot +in honor break--that's Derry. A girl who loves him, shares his +humiliation and helps him to win--that's Jean. Their love is the story. + + +MISTRESS ANNE + +A girl in Maryland teaches school, and believes that work is worthy +service. Two men come to the little community: one is weak, the other +strong, and both need Anne. + + +CONTRARY MARY + +An old-fashioned love story that is nevertheless modern. + + +GLORY OF YOUTH + +A novel that deals with a question, old and yet ever new--how far should +an engagement of marriage bind two persons who discover they no longer +love. + + +Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gay Cockade, by Temple Bailey + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAY COCKADE *** + +***** This file should be named 16433.txt or 16433.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/4/3/16433/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Laura Wisewell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + +*** END: FULL LICENSE *** + diff --git a/16433.zip b/16433.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2b1b0fd --- /dev/null +++ b/16433.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..96c4a46 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #16433 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16433) |
