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diff --git a/29561-h/29561-h.htm b/29561-h/29561-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f0e8c04 --- /dev/null +++ b/29561-h/29561-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11457 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of In A Little Town, by Rupert Hughes. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +.space {padding-left: 1em; padding-right: 1em;} + +p.citation {text-align: right;} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} /* page numbers */ + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.border {border-color: black; + border: 1px solid} + +/* Poetry */ +.poem { + margin-left:30%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left; +} + +.poem br {display: none;} + +.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + +.poem span.i0 { + display: block; + margin-left: 0em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i2 { + display: block; + margin-left: 2em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of In a Little Town, by Rupert Hughes + +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: In a Little Town + +Author: Rupert Hughes + +Release Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29561] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN A LITTLE TOWN *** + + + + +Produced by Colin Bell, Woodie4, Michael and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figcenter border" style="width: 600px; height: 317px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="600" height="317" alt="Cover" title="" /> +</div> + +<h1>IN A LITTLE TOWN</h1> + +<h3><span class="smcap">Books by</span></h3> + +<h2>RUPERT HUGHES</h2> + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Book list"> + +<tr><td align="left">IN A LITTLE TOWN</td> +<td align="left">Illustrated.</td> +<td align="left">Post 8vo</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left">THE THIRTEENTH COMMANDMENT</td> +<td align="left">Illustrated.</td> +<td align="left">Post 8vo</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left">CLIPPED WINGS.</td> +<td align="left">Frontispiece.</td> +<td align="left">Post 8vo</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left">WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?</td> +<td align="left">Illustrated.</td> +<td align="left">Post 8vo</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left">THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.</td> +<td align="left">Frontispiece.</td> +<td align="left">16mo</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left">EMPTY POCKETS.</td> +<td align="left">Illustrated.</td> +<td align="left">Post 8vo</td></tr> + +</table></div> + +<hr style="width: 15%;" /> + +<h3>HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK</h3> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<div class="figcenter border" style="width: 395px; height: 600px;"> +<img src="images/frontispiece.png" width="395" height="600" alt="Frontispiece" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<h1>In a Little Town</h1> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/004.png" width="400" height="179" alt="Title page decoration" title="" /> +</div> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>RUPERT HUGHES</h2> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 85px;"> +<img src="images/004a.png" width="85" height="100" alt="Publisher's mark" title="" /> +</div> + +<h2>HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS</h2> + +<h3>NEW YORK AND LONDON</h3> + +<h5><span class="smcap">In A Little Town</span> + +Copyright, 1917, by Harper & Brothers<br /> + +Printed in the United States of America<br /> + +Published March, 1917</h5> + +<h2><span class="smcap">to<br /> +Frederick Atherton Duneka<br /> +as an i-o-u of<br /> +heartfelt esteem</span><br /><br /><br /> +</h2> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td align="left"></td> +<td align="right">PAGE</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Don't You Care!</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Pop</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Baby Talk</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Mouth of the Gift Horse</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_106">106</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Old Folks at Home</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">And This Is Marriage</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Man That Might Have Been</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Happiest Man in Ioway</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Prayers</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_224">224</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Pain</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_232">232</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Beauty and the Fool</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_262">262</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Ghostly Counselors</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_267">267</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Daughters of Shiloh</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_285">285</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"A" as in "Father"</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_356">356</a></td></tr> + +</table></div> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3>FOREWORD</h3> + +<p>There are two immortal imbecilities that I have no patience for.</p> + +<p>The other one is the treatment of little towns as if they were +essentially different from big towns. Cities are not "Ninevehs" and +"Babylons" any more than little towns are Arcadias or Utopias. In fact +we are now unearthing plentiful evidence of what might have been safely +assumed, that Babylon never was a "Babylon" nor Nineveh a "Nineveh" in +the sense employed by poets and praters without number. Those old cities +were made up of assorted souls as good and as bad and as mixed as now.</p> + +<p>They do small towns a grievous injustice who deny them restlessness, +vice, ostentation, cruelty; as they do cities a grievous injustice who +deny them simplicity, homeliness, friendship, and contentment. It is one +of those undeniable facts (which everybody denies) that a city is only a +lot of small towns put together. Its population is largely made up of +people who came from small towns and of people who go back to small +towns every evening.</p> + +<p>A village is simply a quiet street in the big city of the world. Quaint, +sweet happenings take place in the avenues most thronged, and desperate +events come about in sleepy lanes. People are people, chance is chance.</p> + +<p>My novels have mainly concerned themselves with New York, and I have +tried therein to publish bits of its life as they appear to such eyes +and such mind as I have. Though several of my short stories have been +published in single volumes, this is the first group to be issued. They +are all devoted to small-town people. In them I have sought the same end +as in the city novels: to be true to truth, to observe with sympathy and +explain with fidelity, to find the epic of a stranger's existence and +shape it for the eyes of strangers—to pass the throb of another heart +through my heart to your heart.</p> + +<p>The scene of these stories lies pretty close to the core of these United +States, in the Middle West, in the valley of the Mississippi River. I +was born near that river and spent a good deal of my boyhood in it.</p> + +<p>Though it would be unfair, false, and unkind to fasten these stories on +any definite originals, they are centered in the region about the small +city of Keokuk, Iowa, from which one can also see into Illinois, and +into Missouri, where I was born. Comic poets have found something comic +in the name of Keokuk, as in other town names in which the letter "K" is +prominent. Why "K" should be so humorous, I can't imagine. The name of +Keokuk, however, belonged to a splendid Indian chief who was friendly +to the early settlers and saved them from massacre. The monument over +his bones in the park, on the high bluff there, now commands one of the +noblest views in the world, a great lake formed in the Mississippi River +by a dam which is as beautiful as if the Greeks had built it. It was, in +fact, built by a thousand Greeks who camped there for years. As an +engineering achievement it rivals the Assouan dam and as a manufacturer +of electricity it is a second to Niagara Falls. But it has not yet +materially disturbed the rural quality of the country.</p> + +<p>The scenery thereabout is very beautiful, but I guarantee you against +landscape in these stories. I cannot, however, guarantee that the +stories are even based on fact. Yet I hope that they are truth.</p> + +<p>The characters are limited to a small neighborhood, but if they are not +also faithful to humanity in general, then, as we would say out there, +"I miss my guess."</p> + +<p class="citation"><span class="smcap">Rupert Hughes</span>.<br /></p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h1>IN A LITTLE TOWN</h1> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + +<h2>DON'T YOU CARE!</h2> + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>When she was told it was a girl, Mrs. Govers sighed. "Well, I never did +have any luck, anyway; so I d' know's I'm supprised."</p> + +<p>Later she wept feebly:</p> + +<p>"Girls are easier to raise, I suppose; but I kind of had my heart set on +namin' him Launcelot." After another interval she rallied to a smile: "I +was prepared for the worst, though; so I picked out Ellaphine for a name +in case he was a her. It's an awful pirty name, Ellaphine is. Don't you +think so?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," said the nurse, who would have agreed to anything then.</p> + +<p>After a time Mrs. Govers resumed: "She'll be an awful pirty girl, I +hope. Is that her makin' all that noise? Give me a glimpse of her, will +you? I got a right, I guess, to see my own baby. Oh, Goshen!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span> Is that +how she looks?" A kind of swoon; then more meditation, followed by a +courageous philosophy: "Children always look funny at first. She'll +outgrow it, I expect. Ellaphine is such an elegant name. It ought to be +a kind of inducement to grow up to. Don't you think so?"</p> + +<p>The nurse, who was juggling the baby as if it were red-hot, mumbled +through a mustache of safety-pins that she thought so. Mrs. Govers +echoed, "I thought so, too." After that she went to sleep.</p> + +<p>Ellaphine, however, did not grow up elegant, to fit the name. The name +grew inelegant to fit her. During her earliest years the witty little +children called her Elephant until they tired of the ingenuity and +allowed her to lapse indolently from Ellar to El.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Govers for some years cherished a dream that her ugly duckling +would develop into a swan and fly away with a fabulously wealthy prince. +Later she dwindled to a prayer that she might capture a man who was +"tol'able well-to-do."</p> + +<p>The majority of ugly ducklings, however, grow up into uglier ducks, and +Mrs. Govers resigned herself to the melancholy prospect of the widowed +mother of an old maid perennial.</p> + +<p>To the confusion of prophecy, among all the batch of girls who descended +on Carthage about the time of Ellaphine's birth—"out of the nowhere +into the here"—Ellaphine was the first to be married! And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> she cut out +the prettiest girl in the township—it was not such a small township, +either.</p> + +<p>Those homely ones seem to make straight for a home the first thing. +Ellaphine carried off Eddie Pouch—the very Eddie of whom his mother +used to say, "He's little, but oh, my!" The rest of the people said, +"Oh, my, but he's little!"</p> + +<p>Eddie's given name was Egbert. Edward was his taken name. He took it +after his mother died and he went to live at his uncle Loren's. Eddie +was sorry to change his name, but he said his mother was not responsible +at the time she pasted the label Egbert on him, and his shy soul could +not endure to be called Egg by his best friends—least of all by his +best girl.</p> + +<p>His best girl was the township champion looker, Luella Thickins. From +the time his heart was big enough for Cupid to stick a child's-size +arrow in, Eddie idolized Luella. So did the other boys; and as Eddie was +the smallest of the lot, he was lost in the crowd. Even when Luella +noticed him it was with the atrocious contempt of little girls for +little boys they do not like.</p> + +<p>Eddie could not give her sticks of candy or jawbreakers, for his uncle +Loren did not believe in spending money. And Eddie had no mother to go +to when the boys mistreated him and the girls ignored him. A dismal life +he led until he grew up as far as he ever grew up.</p> + +<p>Eddie reached his twenty-second birthday and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> was working in Uncle +Loren's factory—one of the largest feather-duster factories in the +whole State—when he observed a sudden change in Luella's manner.</p> + +<p>She had scared him away from paying court to her, save from a distance. +Now she took after him, with her aggressive beauty for a club and her +engaging smiles for a net. She asked him to take her to the +Sunday-school picnic, and asked him what he liked best for her to put in +for him. She informed him that she was going to cook it for herself and +everybody said she could fry chicken something grand. So he chose fried +chicken.</p> + +<p>He was so overjoyed that it was hard for him to be as solemn about the +house as he ought to have been, in view of the fact that Uncle Loren had +been taken suddenly and violently ill. Eddie was the natural heir to the +old man's fortune.</p> + +<p>Uncle Loren was considered close in a town where extravagance was almost +impossible, but where rigid economy was supposed to pile up tremendous +wealth. Hitherto it had pained Uncle Loren to devote a penny to anything +but the sweet uses of investment. Now it suddenly occurred to the old +miser that he had invested nothing in the securities of New Jerusalem, +Limited. He was frightened immeasurably.</p> + +<p>In his youth he had joined the Campbellite church and had been baptized +in the town pond when there was a crust of ice over it which the pastor +had to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> break with a stick before he immersed Loren. Everybody said the +crust of ice had stuck to his heart ever since.</p> + +<p>In the panic that came on him now he craftily decided to transfer all +his savings to the other shore. The factory, of course, he must leave +behind; but he drafted a hasty will presenting all his money to the +Campbellite church under conditions that he counted on to gain him a +high commercial rating in heaven.</p> + +<p>Over his shoulder, as he wrote, a shadow waited, grinning; and the old +man had hardly folded his last testament and stuffed it into his +pillow-slip when the grisly hand was laid on his shoulders and Uncle +Loren was no longer there.</p> + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>His uncle's demise cut Eddie out of the picnic with Luella; but she was +present at the funeral and gave him a wonderful smile. Uncle Loren's +final will was not discovered until the pillow-slip was sent to the +wash; and at the funeral Eddie was still the object of more or less +disguised congratulations as an important heir.</p> + +<p>Luella solaced him with rare tact and tenderness, and spoke much of his +loneliness and his need of a helpmate. Eddie resolved to ask her to +marry him as soon as he could compose the speech.</p> + +<p>Some days later Uncle Loren's farewell will turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> up, and Eddie fell +from grace with a thump. The town laughed at him, as people always laugh +when a person—particularly so plump a person as Eddie was—falls hard +on the slippery sidewalk of this icy world.</p> + +<p>In his dismay he hastened to Luella for sympathy, but she turned up +missing. She jilted him with a jolt that knocked his heart out of his +mouth. He stood, as it were, gaping stupidly, in the middle of the +highway.</p> + +<p>Then Ellaphine Govers came along, picked his heart out of the road, +dusted it, and offered it back. He was so grateful that he asked her to +keep it for him. He was so pitiable an object that he felt honored even +by the support of Ellar Govers.</p> + +<p>He went with Ellar quite a lot. He found her very comfortable company. +She seemed flattered by his attention. Other people acted as if they +were doing him a favor by letting him stand around.</p> + +<p>He had lost Uncle Loren's money, but he still had a small job at the +factory. Partly to please Ellar and partly to show certain folks that he +was not yet dead, he took her out for a drive behind a livery-stable +horse. It was a beautiful drive, and the horse was so tame that it +showed no desire to run away. It was perfectly willing to stand still +where the view was good.</p> + +<p>He let Ellar drive awhile, and that was the only time the horse +misbehaved. It saw a stack of hay, nearly went mad, and tried to climb a +rail fence;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> but Ellar yelled at it and slapped the lines at it and got +it past the danger zone, and it relapsed into its usual mood of despair.</p> + +<p>Eddie told Ellar the horse was "attackted with haydrophobia." And she +nearly laughed herself to death and said:</p> + +<p>"You do say the funniest things!"</p> + +<p>She was a girl who could appreciate a fellow's jokes, and he saw that +they could have awful good times together. He told her so without +difficulty and she agreed that they could, and they were as good as +engaged before they got back as far as the fair-grounds. As they came +into the familiar streets Eddie observed a remarkable change in the +manner of the people they passed. People made an effort to attract his +eye. They wafted him salutes from a distance. He encountered such a +lifting of hats, elaborateness of smiles and flourish of hands, that he +said to Ellaphine:</p> + +<p>"Say, Pheeny, I wonder what the joke is!"</p> + +<p>"Me, I guess," sighed Ellaphine. "They're makin' fun of you for takin' +me out buggy-ridin'."</p> + +<p>"Ah, go on!" said Eddie. "They've found out something about me and +they're pokin' fun."</p> + +<p>He was overcome with shame and drove to Ellaphine's house by a side +street and escorted the horse to the livery-stable by a back alley. On +his way home he tried in vain to dodge Luella Thickins, but she headed +him off with one of her Sunday-best smiles. She bowled him over by an +effusive manner.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, Eddie, you haven't been round to see me for the longest time! +Can't you come on over 'safternoon? I'd just love to see you!"</p> + +<p>He wondered whether she had forgotten how she had ground his meek heart +under her heel the last time he called.</p> + +<p>She was so nice to him that she frightened him. He mumbled that he would +certainly call that afternoon, and got away, wondering what the trick +was. Her smile seemed less pretty than it used to be.</p> + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>A block farther on Eddie met a man who explained the news, which had run +across the town like oil on water. Tim Holdredge, an idle lawyer who had +nothing else to do, looked into the matter of Uncle Loren's will and +found that the old man, in his innocence of charity and his passion for +economy, had left his money to the church on conditions that were not +according to the law. The money reverted to the estate. Eddie was the +estate.</p> + +<p>When Tim Holdredge slapped Eddie on the shoulder and explained the +result of what he called "the little joker" in Uncle Loren's will, Eddie +did not rejoice, as Tim had a right to expect.</p> + +<p>Eddie was poisoned by a horrible suspicion. The logic of events ran +through his head like a hateful tune which he could not shake off:</p> + +<p>"When Luella thought I was coming into a pile of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> money she was nice to +me. When she heard I wasn't she was mean to me. Now that my money's +coming to me, after all, she's nice again. Therefore—" But he was +ashamed to give that ungallant <i>ergo</i> brain room.</p> + +<p>Still more bewildering was the behavior of Ellaphine. As soon as he +heard of his good fortune he hurried to tell her about it. Her mother +answered the door-bell and congratulated him on his good luck. When he +asked for Ellar, her mother said, "She was feelin' right poorly, so +she's layin' down." He was so alarmed that he forgot about Luella, who +waited the whole afternoon all dressed up.</p> + +<p>After supper that night he patrolled before Ellaphine's home and tried +to pluck up courage enough to twist that old door-bell again. Suddenly +she ran into him. She was sneaking through the front gate. He tried to +talk to her, but she said:</p> + +<p>"I'm in a tur'ble hurry. I got to go to the drug-store and get some +chloroform liniment. Mamma's lumbago's awful bad."</p> + +<p>He walked along with her, though she tried to escape him. The first +drowsy lamp-post showed him that Ellaphine had been crying. It was the +least becoming thing she could have done. Eddie asked whether her mother +was so sick as all that. She said "No"—then changed to "Yes"—and then +stopped short and began to blubber uncouthly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> dabbing her eyes +alternately with the backs of her wrists.</p> + +<p>Eddie stared awhile, then yielded to an imperious urge to clasp her to +his heart and comfort her. She twisted out of his arms, and snapped, +"Don't you touch me, Eddie Pouch!"</p> + +<p>Eddie mumbled, inanely, "You didn't mind it this mornin', buggy-ridin'."</p> + +<p>Her answer completely flabbergasted him:</p> + +<p>"No; because you didn't have all that money then."</p> + +<p>"Gee whiz, Pheeny!" he gasped. "What you got against Uncle Loren's +money? It ain't a disease, is it? It's not ketchin', is it?"</p> + +<p>"No," she sobbed; "but we—Well, when you were so poor and all, I +thought you might—you might really like me because I could be of +some—of some use to you; but now you—you needn't think I'm goin' to +hold you to any—anything against your will."</p> + +<p>Eddie realized that across the street somebody had stopped to listen. +Eddie wanted to throw a rock at whoever it was, but Ellaphine absorbed +him as she wailed:</p> + +<p>"It 'd be just like you to be just's nice to me as ever; but I'm not +goin' to tie you down to any homely old crow like me when you got money +enough to marry anybody. You can get Luella Thickins back now. You could +marry the Queen of England if you'd a mind to."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> + +<p>Eddie could find nothing better to say than, "Well, I'll be dog-on'd!"</p> + +<p>While he gaped she got away.</p> + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>Luella Thickins cast her spells over Eddie with all her might, but he +understood them now and escaped through their coarse meshes. She was so +resolute, however, that he did not dare trust himself alone in the same +town with her unless he had a chaperon.</p> + +<p>He sent a note to Ellaphine, saying he was in dire trouble and needed +her help. This brought him the entree to her parlor. He told her the +exact situation and begged her to rescue him from Luella.</p> + +<p>Ellaphine's craggy features grew as radiant as a mountain peak in the +sunrise. The light made beautiful what it illumined. She consented at +last to believe in Eddie's devotion, or at least in his need of her; and +the homely thing enjoyed the privilege of being pleaded for and of +yielding to the prayers of an ardent lover.</p> + +<p>She assumed that the marriage could not take place for several years, if +ever. She wanted to give Eddie time to be sure of his heart; but Eddie +was stubborn and said:</p> + +<p>"Seein' as we're agreed on gettin' married, let's have the wedding right +away and get it over with."</p> + +<p>When Ellaphine's mother learned that Ellaphine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> had a chance to marry an +heir and was asking for time, Mrs. Govers delivered an oration that +would have sent Ellaphine to the altar with almost anybody, let alone +her idolized Eddie.</p> + +<p>The wedding was a quiet affair. Everybody in Carthage was invited. Few +came. People feared that if they went they would have to send +wedding-presents, and Eddie and Ellar were too unimportant to the social +life of Carthage to make their approval valuable.</p> + +<p>Eddie wore new shoes, which creaked and pinched. He looked twice as +uncomfortable and twice as sad as he had looked at his uncle Loren's +obsequies; and he suffered that supreme disenchantment of a too-large +collar with a necktie rampant.</p> + +<p>In spite of the ancient and impregnable theory that all brides are +beautiful, was there ever a woman who looked her best in the uniform of +approaching servitude? In any case, Ellaphine's best was not good, and +she was at her worst in her ill-fitting white gown, with the veil askew. +Her graceless carriage was not improved by the difficulty of keeping +step with her escort and the added task of keeping step with the music.</p> + +<p>The organist, Mr. Norman Maugans, always grew temperamental when he +played Mendelssohn's "Wedding March," and always relieved its monotonous +cadence with passionate accelerations and abrupt retardations. That made +walking difficult.</p> + +<p>When the minister had finished with the couple<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> and they moved down the +aisle to what the paper called the "Bridle March, by Lohengrin," Mr. +Maugans always craned his neck to see and usually put his foot on the +wrong pedal, with the startling effect of firing a cannon at the +departing guests.</p> + +<p>He did not crane his neck, however, to see Mr. and Mrs. Pouch depart. +They were too commonplace entirely. He played the march with such +doleful indifference that Eddie found the aisle as long as the distance +from Marathon to Athens. Also he was trying to walk so that his pinching +shoes would not squeak.</p> + +<p>At the end of the last pew Eddie and Ellaphine encountered Luella +Thickins leaning out into the aisle and triumphantly beautiful in her +finest raiment. Her charms were militant and vindictive, and her smile +plainly said: "Uh-huh! Don't you wish you'd taken me instead of that +thing you've hitched up with for life?"</p> + +<p>Eddie gave her one glance and found her hideous. Ellaphine lowered her +eyelids in defeat and slunk from the church, thinking:</p> + +<p>"Now he's already sorry that he married me. What can he see in me to +love? Nothing! Nothing!"</p> + +<p>When they clambered into the carriage Eddie said, "Well, Mrs. Pouch, +give your old husband a kiss!"</p> + +<p>Ellaphine shrank away from him, however, crying again. He was hurt and +puzzled until he remembered that it is the business of brides to cry. +He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> held her hand and tried to console her for being his victim, and +imagined almost every reason for her tears but the true one.</p> + +<p>The guests at the church straggled to Mrs. Govers's home, drawn by the +call of refreshments. Luella was the gayest of them all. People wondered +why Eddie had not married her instead of Ellaphine. Luella heard some +one say, "What on earth can he see in her?"</p> + +<p>Luella answered, "What on earth can she see in him?" It was hardly +playing fair, but Luella was a poor loser. She even added, to clinch it, +"What on earth can they see in each other?"</p> + +<p>That became the town comment on the couple when there was any comment at +all. Mainly they were ignored completely.</p> + +<p>Eddie and Ellar were not even honored with the usual outburst of the +ignoblest of all sports—bride-baiting. Nobody tied a white ribbon to +the wheel of the hack that took them to the depot. Old shoes had not +been provided and rice had been forgotten. They were not pelted or +subjected to immemorial jokes. They were not chased to the train, and +their elaborate schemes for deceiving the neighbors as to the place of +their honeymoon were wasted. Nobody cared where they went or how long +they stayed.</p> + +<p>They returned sheepishly, expecting to run a gantlet of humor; but +people seemed unaware that they had been away. They settled down into +the quiet pool of Carthage without a splash, like a pair<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> of mud-turtles +slipping off a log into the water. Even the interest in Eddie's +inheritance did not last long, for Uncle Loren's fortune did not last +long—not that they were spendthrift, for they spent next to nothing; +but money must be fed or it starves to death. Money must grow or wither.</p> + +<h4>V</h4> + +<p>Eddie found that his uncle's reputation for hard dealing had been a +condition of his success. He soon learned that the feather-duster +factory could be run at a profit only by the most microscopic care. +Wages must be kept down; hours kept up; the workers driven every minute, +fined if they were late, nagged if they dawdled. Profit could be wrung +from the trade only by ugly battles with dealers and purchasers. Raw +material had to be fought down, finished product fought up; bills due +fought off, accounts fought in; the smallest percentage of a percentage +wrestled for.</p> + +<p>Eddie was incapable of such vigilant hostility toward everybody. The +factory almost immediately ceased to pay expenses. Eddie was prompt to +meet debts, but lenient as a collector. The rest of his inheritance +fared no better. Eddie was an ideal mortgagee. The first widow wept him +out of his interest in five tears. Having obliged her, he could hardly +deny the next person, who had money but wanted more, "to carry out a big +deal."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p> + +<p>Eddie first gained a reputation for being a kind-hearted gentleman and a +Christian, and later a notoriety for being an easy mark. Eddie overheard +such comment eventually, and it wounded him as deeply as it bewildered +him. Bitterer than the contempt for a hard man is the contempt for a +soft man who is betrayed by a vice of mercy. Eddie was hopelessly +addicted to decency.</p> + +<p>Uncle Loren had been a miser and so close that his nickname had implied +the ability to skin a flint. People hated him and raged against him; but +it suddenly became evident that they had worked hard to meet their bills +payable to him. They had sat up nights devising schemes to gain cash for +him. He was a cause of industry and thrift and self-denial. He paid poor +wages, but he kept the factory going. He squeezed a penny until the +eagle screamed, but he made dusters out of the tail feathers, and he was +planning to branch out into whisk brooms and pillows when, in the words +of the pastor, he was "called home." The pastor liked the phrase, as it +did not commit him to any definite habitat.</p> + +<p>Eddie, however, though he worked hard and used thrift, and, with +Ellaphine's help, practised self-denial, found that he was not so big a +man as the small man he succeeded. He increased the wages and cut down +the hours, and found that he had diminished the output of everything +except complaints. The men loafed shamelessly, cheated him of the energy +and the material that belonged to him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> and whined all the time. His +debtors grew shiftless and contemptuous.</p> + +<p>It is the irony, the meanness, of the trade of life that virtue may +prove vicious in effect; and viciousness may produce good fruit. Figs do +grow from thistles.</p> + +<p>For a time the Pouch couple attracted a great deal of attention from the +people of Carthage—the sort of attention that people on shore devote to +a pair of capsized canoeists for whom nobody cares to risk his life.</p> + +<p>Luella Thickins had forced the note of gaiety at the wedding, but she +soon grew genuinely glad that Eddie had got away. She began to believe +that she had jilted him.</p> + +<h4>VI</h4> + +<p>People who wondered what Mr. and Mrs. Pouch saw in each other could not +realize that he saw in her a fellow-sufferer who upheld him with her +love in all his terrors. She was everything that his office was +not—peace without demand for money; glowing admiration and raptures of +passion.</p> + +<p>What she saw in him was what a mother sees in a crippled child that runs +home to her when the play of the other boys is too swift or too rough. +She saw a good man, who could not fight because he could not slash and +trample and loot. She saw what the Belgian peasant women saw—a little +cottage holder staring in dismay at the hostile armies crashing about +his homestead.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> + +<p>The only comfort Eddie found in the situation was the growing +realization that it was hopeless. The drowsy opiate of surrender began +to spread its peace through his soul. His torment was the remorse of +proving a traitor to his dead uncle's glory. The feather-dustery that +had been a monument was about to topple into the weeds. Eddie writhed at +that and at his feeling of disloyalty to the employees, who would be +turned out wageless in a small town that was staggering under the burden +of hard times.</p> + +<p>He made a frantic effort to keep going on these accounts, but the battle +was too much for him. He could not imagine ways and means—he knew +nothing of the ropes of finance. He was like a farmer with a scythe +against sharpshooters. Ellaphine began to fear that the struggle would +break him down. One night she persuaded him to give up.</p> + +<p>She watched him anxiously the next morning as his fat little body, +bulging with regrets, went meekly down the porch steps and along the +walk. The squeal of the gate as he shoved through sounded like a groan +from his own heart. He closed the gate after him with the gentle care he +gave all things. Then he leaned across it to wave to his Pheeny. It was +like the good-by salute of a man going to jail.</p> + +<p>Ellaphine moped about the kitchen, preparing him the best dinner she +could to cheer him when he came home at noon. To add a touch of grace +she decided to set a bowl of petunias in front of him. He loved<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> the +homely little flowers in their calico finery, like farmers' daughters at +a picnic. Their cheap and almost palpable fragrancy delighted him when +it powdered the air. She hoped that they would bring a smile to him at +noon, for he could still afford petunias.</p> + +<p>She was squatting by the colony aligned along the walk, and her big +sunbonnet hid her unbeautiful face from the passers-by and theirs from +her, when she caught a glimpse of Luella Thickins coming along, giggling +with the banker's son. Luella put on a little extra steam for the +benefit of Ellaphine, who was glad of her sunbonnet and did not look up.</p> + +<p>Later there came a quick step, thumping the boardwalk in a rhythm she +would have recognized but for its allegrity. The gate was opened with a +sweep that brought a shriek from its old rheumatic hinge, and was +permitted to swing shut with an unheeded smack. Ellaphine feared it was +somebody coming with the haste that bad news inspires. Something awful +had happened to Eddie! Her knees could not lift her to face the evil +tidings. She dared not turn her head.</p> + +<p>Then she heard Eddie's own voice: "Pheeny! Pheeny, honey! Everything's +all right!"</p> + +<p>Pheeny spilled the petunias and sat down on them. Eddie lifted her up +and pushed his glowing face deep into her sunbonnet, and kissed her.</p> + +<p>Luella Thickins was coming back and her giggling stopped. She and the +banker's son, who were just<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> sauntering about, exchanged glances of +disgust at the indecorous proceeding. Later Luella resumed her giggle +and enjoyed hugely her comment:</p> + +<p>"Ellar looks fine in a sunbonnet! The bigger it is, the better she +looks."</p> + +<h4>VII</h4> + +<p>Meantime Eddie was supporting his Pheeny into the house. His path was +strewn with petunias and she supposed he had some great victory to +announce. He had; but he was the victim.</p> + +<p>The conqueror was the superintendent of the factory, Jabez Pittinger, +who had survived a cycle of Uncle Loren's martinetism with less +resentment than a year of Eddie's lenience. But Eddie is telling +Ellaphine of his glorious achievement:</p> + +<p>"You see, I went to the fact'ry feeling like I was goin' to my grave."</p> + +<p>"I know," she said; "but what happened?"</p> + +<p>"I just thought I'd rather die than tack up the notice that we were +going to shut down and turn off those poor folks and all."</p> + +<p>"I know," said Ellaphine; "but tell me."</p> + +<p>"Well, finally," Eddie plodded along, "I tried to draw up the +'nouncement with the markin'-brush; but I just couldn't make the +letters. So I called in Jabe Pittinger and told him how it was; and I +says to him: 'Jabe, I jest naturally can't do it m'self. I wisht you'd +send the word round that the factory's goin' to stop next Sat'd'y.' I +thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> he'd show some surprise; but he didn't. He just shot a splash +of tobacco-juice through that missin' tooth of his and says, 'I wouldn't +if I's you.' And I says, 'Goodness knows I hate to; but there's no way +out of it.' And he wopsed his cud round and said, 'Mebbe there is.' +'What do you mean?' I says. And he says, 'Fact is, Eddie'—he always +called me Mr. Pouch or Boss before, but I couldn't say anything to him, +seeing—"</p> + +<p>"I know!" Ellaphine almost screamed. "But what'd he say? What's the +upshot?"</p> + +<p>Eddie went on at his ox-like gait. "'Well,' he he says, 'fact is, +Eddie,' he says, 'I been expectin' this, and I been figgerin' if they +wasn't a way somewhere to keep a-runnin',' says he; 'and I been talkin' +to certain parties that believes as I do, that the fault ain't with the +feather-duster business, but with the way it's run,' he says. 'People +gotter have feather dusters,' he says; 'but they gotter be gave to 'em +right.' O' course I knew he was gettin' at me, but I was in no p'sition +to talk back."</p> + +<p>"Oh, please, Eddie!" Ellaphine moaned. "Please tell me! I'm goin' crazy +to know the upshot of it, and I smell the pie burnin'—it's rhubob, +too."</p> + +<p>"You got rhubob pie for dinner to-day?" Eddie chortled. "Oh, crickety, +that's fine!"</p> + +<p>He followed her into the kitchen and helped her carry the things to the +dining-room, where they waited on each other in alternate dashes and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +clashes of "Lemme get it!" and "You set right still!"</p> + +<p>Eventually he reached the upshot, which was that Mr. Pittinger thought +he might raise money to run the factory if Eddie would give him the +control and drop out. Eddie concluded, with a burst of rapture: "I'm so +tickled I wisht I could telegraft poor Uncle Loren that everything's all +right!"</p> + + +<h4>VIII</h4> + +<p>It was an outrageous piece of petty finance on high models, and it +euchred Eddie out of everything he had in the world except his illusion +that Jabez was working for the good of the factory.</p> + +<p>Eddie always said "The Fact'ry" in the tone that city people use when +they say "The Cathedral."</p> + +<p>Ellaphine saw through the wiles of Jabez and the measly capitalists he +had bound together, and she was ablaze with rage at them and with pity +for her tender-hearted child-husband; but she did not reveal these +emotions to Eddie.</p> + +<p>She encouraged him to feast on the one sweetmeat of the situation: that +the hands would not be turned off and the factory would keep open doors. +In fact, when doubt began to creep into his own idle soul and a feeling +of shame depressed him, as the butt of the jokes and the pity that the +neighbors flung at him, Ellaphine pretended to be overjoyed at the +triumph he had wrested from defeat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> + +<p>And when he began to chafe at his lack of occupation, and to fret about +their future, she went to the factory and invaded the office where the +usurper, Jabez Pittinger, sat enthroned at the hallowed desk, tossing +copious libations of tobacco-juice toward a huge new cuspidor. She +demanded a job for Eddie and bullied Jabez into making him a bookkeeper, +at a salary of forty-five dollars a month.</p> + +<p>Thus, at last, Eddie Pouch found his place in the world. There are +soldiers who make ideal first sergeants and are ruined and ruinous as +second lieutenants; and there are soldiers who are worthless as first +sergeants, but irresistible as major-generals. Eddie was a born first +sergeant, a routine man, a congenital employee—doomed, like fire, to be +a splendid servant and a disastrous master.</p> + +<p>Working for himself, he neglected every opportunity. Working for +another, he neglected nothing. Meeting emergencies, tricking creditors +and debtors, and massacring competitors were not in his line; but when +it came to adding up columns of figures all day, making out bills, +drawing checks for somebody else to sign, and the Santa Claus function +of stuffing the pay-roll into the little envelopes—Eddie was there. +Shrewd old Jabez recognized this. He tried him on a difficult collection +once—sent him forth to pry an ancient debt of eighteen dollars and +thirty-four cents out of the meanest man in town, vice Uncle Loren. +Eddie came back with a look of contentment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Did you git it?" said Jabez.</p> + +<p>"Well, you see, it was like this: the poor feller—"</p> + +<p>"Poor heller! Did you git it?"</p> + +<p>"No; he was so hard up I lent him four dollars."</p> + +<p>"What!"</p> + +<p>"Out of my own pocket, o' course."</p> + +<p>Jabez remarked that he'd be hornswoggled; but he valued the incident and +added it to the anecdotes he used when he felt that he had need to +justify himself for playing Huerta with his dreamy Madero.</p> + + +<h4>IX</h4> + +<p>After that the most Jabez asked of Eddie was to write "Please remit" or +"Past due" on the mossier bills. Eddie preferred an exquisite poem he +had copied from a city creditor: "This account has no doubt escaped your +notice. As we have several large obligations to meet, we should greatly +appreciate a check by return mail."</p> + +<p>Eddie loved that. There was a fine chivalry and democracy about it, as +one should say: "We're all debtors and creditors in this world, and we +big fellows and you little fellows must all work together."</p> + +<p>Life had a regularity now that would have maddened a man more ambitious +than Eddie or a woman more restless than Ellaphine. Their world +was like the petunia-garden—the flowers were not orchids or +telegraph-pole-stemmed roses; but the flower<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> faces were joyous, their +frocks neat, and their perfume savory.</p> + +<p>Eddie knew just how much money was coming in and there was no temptation +to hope for an increase. They knew just how much time they had, and one +day was like another except that along about the first of every month +Eddie went to the office a little earlier and went back at night to get +out the bills and adjust his balances.</p> + +<p>On these evenings Ellaphine was apt to go along and sit with him, +knitting thick woolen socks for the winter, making him shirts or +nightgowns, or fashioning something for herself or the house. Her +loftiest reach of splendor was a crazy quilt; and her rag carpets were +highly esteemed.</p> + +<p>On Sundays they went to church in the morning and again in the evening. +Prayer-meeting night saw them always on their way to the place where the +church bell called: "Come! Come!"</p> + +<p>Sometimes irregular people, who forgot it was prayer-meeting night, +would be reminded of it by seeing Eddie and Ellar go by. They went so +early that there was time for the careless to make haste with their +bonnets and arrive in time.</p> + +<p>It was a saying that housewives set their kitchen clocks by Eddie's +transits to and from the factory. At any rate, there was no end to the +occasions when shiftless gossips, dawdling on their porches, were +surprised to see Eddie toddle homeward, and scurried away, cackling:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> + +<p>"My gracious! There goes Eddie Pouch, and my biscuits not cut out!"</p> + + +<h4>X</h4> + +<p>The whole year was tranquil now for the Pouches, and the halcyon brooded +unalarmed in the waveless cove of their life. There were no debtors to +be harassed, no creditors to harass them. They paid cash for +everything—at least, Ellaphine did; for Eddie turned his entire +forty-five dollars over to her. She was his banker and his steward.</p> + +<p>She could not persuade him to smoke, or to buy new clothes before the +old ones grew too shabby for so nice a man as a bookkeeper is apt to be. +He did not drink or play cards or billiards; he did not belong to any +lodge or political organization.</p> + +<p>The outgo of money was as regular as the income—so much for the +contribution-basket on Sundays; so much for the butcher; so much for the +grocer; so much for the coal-oil lamps. The baker got none of their +money and the druggist little.</p> + +<p>A few dollars went now and then to the dry-goods store for dress goods, +which Pheeny made up; and Eddie left an occasional sum at the +Pantatorium for a fresh alpaca coat, or for a new pair of trousers when +the seat of the old ones grew too refulgent or perilously extenuate. As +Eddie stood up at his tall desk most of the time, however, it was rather +his shoes than his pantaloons that felt the wear and tear of attrition.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> + +<p>And yet, in spite of all the tender miserhood of Ellaphine and the +asceticism of Eddie, few of the forty-five dollars survived the thirty +days' demands. Still, there was always something for the savings-bank, +and the blessing on its increment was that it grew by exactions from +themselves—not from their neighbors.</p> + +<p>The inspiration of the fund was the children that were to be. The fund +had ample time for accretion, since the children were as late as Never +is.</p> + +<p>Such things are not discussed, of course, in Carthage. And nobody knew +how fiercely they yearned. Nobody knew of the high hopes that flared and +faded.</p> + +<p>After the first few months of marriage Eddie had begun to call Pheeny +"Mother"—just for fun, you know. And it teased her so that he kept it +up, for he liked a joke as well as the next fellow. Before people, of +course, she was "Pheeny," and, on very grand occasions, "the wife." +"Mrs. Pouch" was beyond him. But once, at a sociable, he called across +the room, "Say, mother!"</p> + +<p>He was going to ask her whether she wanted him to bring her a piece of +the "chalklut" cake or a hunk of the "cokernut," but he got no farther. +Nobody noticed it; but Eddie and Pheeny were consumed with shame and +slunk home scarlet. Nobody noticed that they had gone.</p> + +<p>Time went on and on, and the fund grew and grew—a little coral reef of +pennies and nickels and dimes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> The amusements of the couple were +petty—an occasional church sociable was society; a revival period was +drama. They never went to the shows that came to the Carthage Opera +House. They did not miss much.</p> + +<p>Eddie wasted no time on reading any fiction except that in the news +columns of the evening paper, which a boy threw on the porch in a +twisted boomerang every afternoon, and which Eddie untwisted and read +after he had wiped the dishes that Pheeny washed.</p> + +<p>Ellaphine spent no money on such vanities as novels or short stories, +but she read the edifying romances in the Sunday-school paper and an +occasional book from the Sunday-school library, mainly about children +whose angelic qualities gave her a picture of child life that would have +contrasted strongly with what their children would have been if they had +had any.</p> + +<p>Their great source of literature, however, was the Bible. Soon after +their factory passed out of their control and their evenings ceased to +be devoted to riddles in finance, they had resolved to read the Bible +through, "from kiver to kiver." And Eddie and Ellaphine found that a +chapter read aloud before going to bed was an excellent sedative.</p> + +<p>They had not invaded Genesis quite three weeks before the evening when +it came Eddie's turn to read aloud the astonishing romance of Abram, who +became Abraham, and of Sarai, who became Sarah.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> It was very exciting +when the child was promised to Sarah, though she was "well stricken in +age." Eddie smiled as he read, "Sarah laughed within herself." But +Pheeny blushed.</p> + +<p>Ellaphine was far from the ninety years of Sarah, but she felt that the +promise of a son was no laughing matter. These poignant hopes and awful +denials and perilous adventures are not permitted to be written about or +printed for respectable eyes. If they are discussed it must be with +laughing ribaldry.</p> + +<p>Even in their solitude Eddie and Pheeny used modest paraphrases and +breathed hard and looked askance, and made sure that no one overheard. +They whispered as parents do when their children are abed up-stairs.</p> + +<p>The neighbors gave them hardly thought enough to imagine the lofty +trepidation of these thrilling hours. The neighbors never knew of the +merciless joke Fate played on them when, in their ignorance, they +believed the Lord had sent them a sign. They dwelt in a fools' paradise +for a long time, hoarding their glorious expectations.</p> + +<p>At length Pheeny grew brazen enough to consult the old and peevish +Doctor Noxon; and he laughed her hopes away and informed her that she +need never trouble herself to hope again.</p> + +<p>That was a smashing blow; and they cowered together under the shadow of +this great denial, each telling the other that it did not matter, since +children were a nuisance and a danger anyway.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> + +<p>They pretended to take solace in two current village tragedies—the +death of the mayor's wife in childbed and the death of the minister's +son in disgrace; but, though they lied to each other lovingly, they were +neither convincing nor convinced.</p> + + +<h4>XI</h4> + +<p>Year followed year as season trudged at the heel of season. The only +difference it made to them was that now Ellaphine evicted weeds from the +petunia-beds, and now swept snow from the porch and beat the broom out +on the steps; now Eddie carried his umbrella up against the sun or rain +and mopped his bald spot, and now he wore his galoshes through the slush +and was afraid he had caught a cold.</p> + +<p>The fund in the bank went on growing like a neglected garden, but it was +growing for nothing. Eddie walked more slowly to and from the office, +and Pheeny took a longer time to set the table. She had to sit down a +good deal between trips and suffered a lot of pain. She said nothing +about it to Eddie of evenings, but it grew harder to conceal her +weakness from him when he helped her with the Sunday dinner.</p> + +<p>Finally she could not walk to church one day and had to stay at home. He +stayed with her, and their empty pew made a sensation. Eddie fought at +Pheeny until she consented to see the doctor again—on Monday.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> + +<p>The doctor censured her for being foolish enough to try to die on her +feet, and demanded of Eddie why they did not keep a hired girl. Eddie +had never thought of it. He was horrified to realize how heartless and +negligent he had been. He promised to get one in at once.</p> + +<p>Pheeny stormed and wept against the very idea; but her protests ended on +the morning when she could not get up to cook Eddie's breakfast for him. +He had to get his own and hers, and he was late at the office for the +first time in years. Two householders, seeing him going by, looked at +their clocks and set them back half an hour.</p> + +<p>Jabez spoke harshly to Eddie about his tardiness. It would never do to +ignore an imperfection in the perfect. Eddie was Pheeny's nurse that +night and overslept in the morning. It would have made him late again if +he had stopped to fry an egg or boil a cup of coffee. He ran +breakfastless to his desk.</p> + +<p>After that Pheeny consented to the engagement of a cook. They tried five +or six before they found one who combined the traits of being both +enduring and endurable.</p> + +<p>Eddie was afraid of her to a pitiful degree. She put too much coffee in +his coffee and she made lighter bread than Pheeny did.</p> + +<p>"There's no substance to her biscuits!" Eddie wailed, hoping to comfort +Pheeny, who had leisure<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> enough now to develop at that late date her +first acquaintance with jealousy.</p> + + +<h4>XII</h4> + +<p>The cook was young and vigorous, and a hired man on a farm might have +called her good-looking; but her charms did not interest Eddie. His soul +was replete with the companionship of his other self—Pheeny; and if +Delia had been as sumptuous a beauty as Cleopatra he would have been +still more afraid of her. He had no more desire to possess her than to +own the Kohinoor.</p> + +<p>And Delia, in her turn, was far more interested in the winks and +flatteries of the grocer's boy and the milkman than in any conquest of +the fussy little fat man, who ate whatever she slammed before him and +never raised his eyes.</p> + +<p>Pheeny, however, could not imagine this. She could not know how secure +she was in Eddie's heart, or how she had grown in and about his soul +until she fairly permeated his being.</p> + +<p>So Pheeny lay up in the prison of her bed and imagined vain things, +interpreting the goings-on down-stairs with a fantastic cynicism that +would have startled Boccaccio. She did not openly charge Eddie with +these fancied treacheries. She found him guilty silently and silently +acquitted him of fault, abjectly asking herself what right she had to +deny him all acquaintance with beauty, hilarity, and health.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> + +<p>She remembered her mother's eternal moan, "All men are alike." She +dramatized her poor mouse of a husband as a devastating Don Juan; and +then forgave him, as most of the victims of Don Juan's ruthless piracies +forgave him.</p> + +<p>She suffered hideously, however. Eddie, seeing the deep, sad look of her +eyes as they studied him, wondered and wondered, and often asked her +what the matter was; but she always smiled as a mother smiles at a child +that is too sweet to punish for any mischief, and she always answered: +"Nothing! Nothing!" But then she would sigh to the caverns of her soul. +And sometimes tears would drip from her brimming lids to her pillow. +Still, she would tell him nothing but "Nothing!"</p> + +<p>Finally the long repose repaired her worn-out sinews and she grew well +enough to move about the house. She prospered on the medicine of a new +hope that she should soon be well enough to expel the third person who +made a crowd of their little home.</p> + +<p>And then Luella Thickins came back to town. Luella had married long +before and moved away; but now she came back a widow, handsome instead +of pretty, billowy instead of willowy, seductive instead of spoony, and +with that fearsome menace a widow carries like a cloud about her.</p> + +<p>Eddie spoke of meeting her "down-town," and in his fatuous innocence +announced that she was "as pirty as ever." If he had hit Pheeny with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +hatchet he would have inflicted a less painful wound.</p> + + +<h4>XIII</h4> + +<p>Luella's presence cast Pheeny into a profounder dismay than she had ever +felt about the cook. After all, Delia was only a hired girl, while +Luella was an old sweetheart. Delia had put wicked ideas into Eddie's +head and now Luella would finish him. As Ellaphine's mother had always +said, "Men have to have novelty."</p> + +<p>The Lord Himself had never seen old Mr. Govers stray an inch aside from +the straight path of fidelity; but his wife had enhanced him with a +lifelong suspicion that eventually established itself as historical +fact.</p> + +<p>Pheeny could find some excuse for Eddie's Don Juanity with the common +clay of Delia, especially as she never quite believed her own beliefs in +that affair; but Luella was different. Luella had been a rival. The +merest courtesy to Luella was an unpardonable affront to every sacred +right of successful rivalry.</p> + +<p>The submerged bitternesses that had gathered in her soul like bubbles at +the bottom of a hot kettle came showering upward now, and her heart +simmered and thrummed, ready to boil over if the heat were not removed.</p> + +<p>One day, soon, Luella fastened on Eddie as he left the factory to go +home to dinner. She had loitered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> about, hoping to engage the eye of +Jabez, who was now the most important widower in town. Luella had +elected him for her next; but he was away, and she whetted her wits on +Eddie. She walked at his side, excruciating him with her glib memories +of old times and the mad devotion he had cherished for her then.</p> + +<p>He felt that it was unfaithful of him even to listen to her, but he +could not spur up courage enough to bolt and run. He welcomed the sight +of his own gate as an asylum of refuge. To his horror, Luella stopped +and continued her chatter, draping herself in emotional attitudes and +italicizing her coquetries. Her eyes seemed to drawl languorous words +that her lips dared not voice; and she committed the heinous offense of +plucking at Eddie's coat-sleeve and clinging to his hand. Then she +walked on like an erect cobra.</p> + +<p>Eddie's very back had felt that Pheeny was watching him from one of the +windows or from all the windows; for when, at last, he achieved the rude +victory of breaking away from Luella and turned toward the porch, every +window was a somber eye of reproach.</p> + +<p>He would not have looked so guilty if he had been guilty. He shuffled +into the house like a boy who comes home late from swimming; and when he +called aloud "Pheeny! Oh, Pheeny!" his voice cracked and his throat was +uncertain with phlegm.</p> + +<p>He found Pheeny up-stairs in their room, with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> door closed. He +closed it after him when he went in. He feigned a care-free joy at the +sight of her, and stumbled over his own foot as he crossed the room and +put his arms about her, where she sat in the big rocking-chair; but she +brushed his arms aside and bent her cheek away from his pursed lips. +This startled him, and he gasped:</p> + +<p>"Why, what's the matter, honey? Why don't you kiss me?"</p> + +<p>"You don't want to kiss me," she muttered.</p> + +<p>"Why don't I?" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Because I'm not pirty. I'm not young. I'm not round or tall. I haven't +got nice clothes or those terrible manners that men like in women. +You're tired of me. I don't blame you; but you don't have to kiss me, +and you don't want to."</p> + +<p>It was a silly sort of contest for so old a couple; but their souls felt +as young as childhood, or younger, and this debate was all-important. He +caught at her again and tried to drag her head to his lips, pleading +inanely:</p> + +<p>"Of course I want to kiss you, honey! Of course I do! Please—please +don't be this way!"</p> + +<p>But she evaded him still, and glared at him as from a great distance, +sneering rather at herself than him and using that old byword of +Luella's:</p> + +<p>"What can you see in me?" Suddenly she challenged him: "Who do you kiss +when you kiss me?"</p> + +<p>He stared at her for a while as if he were not sure who she was. Then he +sat down on the broad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> arm of her chair and took one of her hands in +his—the hand with the wedding-ring on it—and seemed to talk to the +hand more than to her, lifting the fingers one after another and +studying each digit as though it had a separate personality—as perhaps +it had.</p> + + +<h4>XIV</h4> + +<p>"Who do I kiss when I kiss you? That's a funny question!"</p> + +<p>He laughed solemnly. Then he made a very long speech, for him; and she +listened to it with the attention due to that most fascinating of +themes, the discussion of oneself by another.</p> + +<p>"Pheeny, when I was about knee-high to a grasshopper I went over to play +in Tim Holdredge's father's orchard; and when I started for home there +was a big dawg in old Mrs. Pittinger's front yard, and it jumped round +and barked at me. I guess it was just playing, because, as I remember it +now, it was wagging its tail, and afterward I found out it was only a +cocker spaniel; but I thought it was a wolf and was going to eat me. I +begun to cry, and I was afraid to go backward or to go forward. And by +and by a little girl came along and asked me what I was crying about, +and I said, 'About the dawg!' And the little girl said: 'O-oh! He's big, +ain't he?' And I said, 'He's goin' to eat one of us all up!' And the +little girl said: 'Aw, don't you care! You take a-holt of my hand and +I'll run past with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> you; and if he bites he'll bite me first and you can +git away!' She was as scared as I was, but she grabbed my hand and we +got by without being et up. Do you remember who that little girl was?"</p> + +<p>The hand in his seemed to remember. The fingers of it closed on his a +moment, then relaxed as if to listen for more. He mused on:</p> + +<p>"I wasn't very big for my size even then, and I wasn't very brave ever. +I didn't like to fight, like the other boys did, and I used to rather +take a lickin' than give one. Well, one day I was playin' marbles with +another boy, and he said I cheated when I won his big taw; but I didn't. +He wanted to fight, though, and he hit me; and I wouldn't hit back. He +was smaller than what I was, and he give me a lot of lip and dared me to +fight; and I just couldn't. He said I was afraid, and so did the other +boys; and I guess I was. It seemed to me I was more afraid of hurtin' +somebody else than gettin' hurt myself; but I guess I was just plain +afraid. The other boys began to push me round and call me a cowardy +calf, and I began to cry. I wanted to run home, but I was afraid to +start to run. And then a little girl came along and said: 'What's the +matter, Eddie? What you cryin' for?' And I said, 'They're all pickin' on +me and callin' me cowardy calf!' And she said: 'Don't you care! You come +right along with me; and if one of 'em says another word to you I'll +scratch their nasty eyes out!' Do you remember that, Pheeny?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> + +<p>Her other hand came forward and embraced his wrist.</p> + +<p>"And another time you found me cryin'. I was a little older, and I'd +studied hard and tried to get my lessons good; but I failed in the +exam'nations, and I was goin' to tie a rock round my neck and jump in +the pond. But you said: 'Aw, don't you care, Eddie! I didn't pass in +mine, either!'</p> + +<p>"And when I wanted to go to college, and Uncle Loren wouldn't send me, I +didn't cry outside, but I cried inside; and I told you and you said: +'Don't you care! I don't get to go to boardin'-school myself.'</p> + +<p>"And when I was fool enough to think I liked that no-account Luella +Thickins, and thought I'd go crazy because her wax-doll face wouldn't +smile for me, you said: 'Don't you care, Eddie! You're much too good for +her. I think you're the finest man in the country.'</p> + +<p>"And when the baby didn't come and I acted like a baby myself, you said: +'Don't you care, Eddie! Ain't we got each other?'</p> + +<p>"Seems like ev'ry time I been ready to lay down and die you've been +there with your old 'Don't you care! It's going to be all right!'</p> + +<p>"Just last night I had a turrible dream. I didn't tell you about it for +fear it would upset you. I dreamed I got awful sick at the office. I +couldn't seem to add the figures right and the old desk wabbled. Finally +I had to leave off and start<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> for home, though it was only a quarter of +twelve; and I had to set down on Doc Noxon's horse-block and on +Holdredge's wall to rest; and I couldn't get our gate open. And you run +out and dragged me in, and got me up-stairs somehow, and sent Delia +around for the doctor.</p> + +<p>"Doc Noxon made you have a trained nurse, but I couldn't stand her; and +I wouldn't take medicine from anybody but you. I don't suppose I was +dreamin' more 'n a few minutes, all told; but it seemed like I laid +there for weeks, till one day Doc Noxon called you out of the room. I +couldn't hear what he was saying, but I heard you let out one horrible +scream, and then I heard sounds like he was chokin' you, and you kept +sayin': 'Oh no! No! No!'</p> + +<p>"I tried to go and help you, but I couldn't lift my head. By and by you +come back, with your eyes all red. Doc Noxon was with you and he called +the nurse over to him. You come to me and tried to smile; and you said:</p> + +<p>"'Well, honey, how are you now?'</p> + +<p>"Then I knew what the doctor had told you and I was worse scared than +when the black dawg jumped at me. I tried to be brave, but I never could +seem to be. I put out my hands to you and hollered:</p> + +<p>"'Pheeny, I'm goin' to die! I know I'm goin' to die! Don't let me go! +I'm afraid to die!'"</p> + +<p>Now the hands clenched his with a frenzy that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> hurt—but beautifully. +And he kissed the wedding-ring as he finished:</p> + +<p>"And you dropped down to me on the floor by the bed and took my +hands—just like that. And you whispered: 'Don't you care, honey! I'll +go with you. Don't you care!'</p> + +<p>"And the fever seemed to cool out of me, and I kind of smiled and wasn't +afraid any more; and I turned my face to you and kissed you—like this, +Pheeny.</p> + +<p>"Why, you've been cryin', haven't you? You mustn't cry—you mustn't! All +those girls I been tellin' you about are the girl I kiss when I kiss +you, Pheeny. There couldn't be anybody as beautiful as you are to me.</p> + +<p>"I ain't 'mounted to much; but it ain't your fault. I wouldn't have +'mounted to anything at all if it hadn't been for you, Pheeny; and I +been the happiest feller in all this world—or I have been up to now. +I'm awful lonedsome just now. Don't you s'pose you could spare me a +kiss?"</p> + +<p>She spared him one.</p> + +<p>Then the cook pounded on the door and called through in a voice that +threatened to warp the panels: "Ain't you folks ever comin' down to +dinner? I've rang the bell three times. Everything's all cold!"</p> + +<p>But it wasn't. Everything was all warm.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> + +<h2>POP</h2> + + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>They made a handsome family group, with just the one necessary element +of contrast.</p> + +<p>Father was the contrast.</p> + +<p>They were convened within and about the big three-walled divan which, +according to the fashion, was backed up against a long library-table in +what they now called the living-room. It had once been the sitting-room +and had contained a what-isn't-it and a sofa like an enormous bald +caterpillar, crowded against the wall so that you could fall off only +one side of it.</p> + +<p>It was a family reunion and unexpected. Father was not convened with the +rest, but sat off in the shadow and counted the feet sticking out from +the divan and protruding from the chairs. He counted fourteen feet, +including his wife's and excluding his own. All the feet were +expensively shod except his own.</p> + +<p>Three of the children had come home for a visit, and father, glad as he +was to see them, had a vague feeling that they had been brought in by +some other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> motive than their loudly proclaimed homesickness. He was +willing to wait until they disclosed it, for he had an idea what it was +and he was always glad to postpone a payment. It meant so much less +interest to lose. Father was a business man.</p> + +<p>Father was also dismally computing the addition to the grocery bills, +the butchery bills, and livery bills, and the others. He was figuring +out the added expense of the dinner, with roast beef now costing as much +as peacocks' tongues. He had raised a large family and there was not a +dyspeptic in the lot—not even a banter.</p> + +<p>They had been photographed together the day before and the proof had +just come home. Father was not in the picture. It was a handsome +picture. They admitted it themselves. They had urged father to come +along, but he had pleaded his business, as usual. As they studied the +picture they would glance across at father and realize how little the +picture lost by his absence. It lost nothing but the contrast.</p> + +<p>While they were engaged each in that most fascinating of +employments—studying one's own photograph—they were all waiting for +the dining-room maid to appear like a black-and-white sketch and crisply +announce that dinner was served. They had not arrived yet at having a +man. Indeed, that room could still remember when a frowsy, blowsy hired +girl was wont to stick her head in and groan, "Supper's ready!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p> + +<p>In fact, mother had never been able to live down a memory of the time +when she used to put her own head in at a humbler dining-room door and +call with all the anger that cooks up in a cook: "Come on! What we got's +on the table!" But mother had entirely forgotten the first few months of +her married life, when she would sing out to father: "Oh, honey, help me +set the table, will you? I've a surprise for you—something you like!"</p> + +<p>This family had evolved along the cycles so many families go +through—from pin feathers to paradise plumes—only, the male bird had +failed to improve his feathers or his song, though he never failed to +bring up the food and keep the nest thatched.</p> + +<p>The history of an American family can often be traced by its monuments +in the names the children call the mother. Mrs. Grout had begun as—just +one Ma. Eventually they doubled that and progressed from the accent on +the first to the accent on the second ma. Years later one of the +inarticulate brats had come home as a collegian in a funny hat, and Mama +had become Mater. This had lasted until one of the brattines came home +as a collegienne with a swagger and a funny sweater. And then her Latin +title was Frenchified to <i>Mčre</i>—which always gave father a shock; for +father had been raised on a farm, where only horses' wives were called +by that name.</p> + +<p>Father had been dubbed Pop at an early date. Efforts to change this +title had been as futile as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> terrific endeavors to keep him from +propping his knife against his plate. He had been browbeaten out of +using the blade for transportation purposes, but at that point he had +simply ceased to develop.</p> + +<p>Names like Pappah, Pater, and <i>Pčre</i> would not cling to him; they fell +off at once. Pop he was always called to his face, whether he were +referred to abroad as "the old man," "the governor," or "our dear +father."</p> + +<p>The evolution of the Grout family could be traced still more clearly in +the names the parents had given the children. The eldest was a daughter, +though when she grew up she dropped back in the line and became ever so +much younger than her next younger brothers. She might have fallen still +farther to the rear if she had not run up against another daughter who +had her own age to keep down.</p> + +<p>The eldest daughter, born in the grim days of early penury, had been +grimly entitled Julia. The following child, a son, was soberly called by +his father's given and his mother's maiden names—John Pennock Grout, or +Jno. P., as his father wrote it.</p> + +<p>A year or two later there appeared another hostage. Labeling him was a +matter of deep concern. John urged his own father's name, William; but +the mother wafted this away with a gesture of airy disgust. There was a +hired girl in the kitchen now and mother was reading a good many novels +between stitches. She debated long and hard while the child waited +anonymous. At length she ven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>tured on Gerald. She changed that two or +three times and the boy had a narrow escape from Sylvester. He came +perilously near to carrying Abélard through an amused world; but she +harked back to Gerald—which he spelled Jerrold at times.</p> + +<p>Then two daughters entered the family in succession and were stamped +Beatrice—pronounced Bay-ah-treat-she by those who had the time and the +energy—and Consuelo, which Pop would call Counser-eller.</p> + +<p>By this time Julia had grown up and was beginning at finishing-school. +She soon saw that Julia would never do—never! She had started with a +handicap, but she caught up with the rest and passed them gracefully by +ingeniously altering the final <i>a</i> to an <i>e</i>, and pronouncing it +Zheelee.</p> + +<p>Her father never could get within hailing distance of the French <i>j</i> and +<i>u</i>, and teetered awkwardly between Jilly and Jelly. He was apt to relax +sickeningly into plain Julia—especially before folks, when he was +nervous anyway. Only they did not say "before folks" now; the Grouts +never said "before folks" now—they said, "In the presence of guests."</p> + +<p>By the time the next son came the mother was shamelessly literary enough +to name him Ethelwolf, which his school companions joyously abbreviated +to Ethel, overlooking the wolf.</p> + +<p>Ethelwolf was the last of the visitors. For by this time <i>Mčre</i> had +accumulated so many absolutely unforgivable grievances against her +absolutely impossible husband that she felt qualified for that crown of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +comfortable martyrhood, that womanly ideal, "a wife in name only"—and +only that "for the sake of the children."</p> + +<p>By this time the children, too, had acquired grievances against Pop. The +more refined they grew the coarser-grained he seemed. They could not +pulverize him in the coffee-mill of criticism. He was as hopeless in +ideas as in language. It was impossible to make him realize that the +best is always the cheapest; that fine clothes make fine people; that +petty economies are death to "the larger flights of the soul"; and that +parents have no right to have children unless they can give them what +other people's children have.</p> + +<p>If John Grout complained that he was not a millionaire the younger +Grouts retorted that this was not their fault, but their misfortune; and +it was "up to Pop" to do the best he could during what <i>Mčre</i> was now +calling their "formative years." The children had liberal ideas, +artistic and refined ideals; but Pop was forever talking poor, always +splitting pennies, always dolefully reiterating, "I don't know where the +money is coming from!"</p> + +<p>It was so foolish of him, too—for it always came from somewhere. The +children went to the best schools, traveled in Europe, wore as good +clothes as anybody—though they did not admit this, of course, within +father's hearing, lest it put false notions into his head; and the sons +made investments that had not yet begun to turn out right.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> + +<p>Parents cannot fool their children long, and the Grout youngsters had +learned at an early date that Pop always forked over when he was nagged +into it. Any of the children in trouble could always write or telegraph +home a "must have," and it was always forthcoming. There usually +followed a querulous note about "Sorry you have to have so much, but I +suppose it costs a lot where you are. Make it go as far as you can, for +I'm a little pinched just now." But this was taken as a mere detail—an +unfortunate paternal habit.</p> + +<p>That was Pop's vice—his only one and about the least attractive of +vices. It was harrowing to be the children of a miser—for he must have +a lot hoarded away. His poor talk, his allusions to notes at the bank +and mortgages and drafts to meet, were just bogies to frighten them with +and to keep them down.</p> + +<p>It was most humiliating for high-spirited children to be so +misunderstood. Pop lacked refined tastes. It was a harsh thing to say of +one's parent, but when you came right down to it Pop was a hopeless +plebeian.</p> + +<p>Pop noticed the difference himself. He would have doubted that these +magnificent youngsters could be his own if that had not implied a +criticism of his unimpeachable wife. So he gave her all the credit. For +<i>Mčre</i> was different. She was well read; she entertained charmingly; she +loved good clothes, up-to-the-minute hats; she knew who was who and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +what was what. She was ambitious, progressive. She nearly took up French +once.</p> + +<p>But Pop was shabby. Pop always wore a suit until it glistened and his +children ridiculed him into a new one. As for wearing evening dress, in +the words of Gerald they "had to blindfold him and back him into his +soup-and-fish, even on the night the Italian Opera Company came to +town."</p> + +<p>Pop never could take them anywhere. A vacation was a thing of horror to +him. It was almost impossible to drag him to a lake or the sea, and it +was quite impossible to keep him there more than a few days. His +business always called him home.</p> + +<p>And such a business! Dry-goods!—and in a small town.</p> + +<p>And such a town, with such a name! To the children who knew their Paris +and their London, their New York and their Washington, a visit home was +like a sentence to jail. It was humiliating to make a good impression on +acquaintances of importance and then have to confess to a home town +named Waupoos.</p> + +<p>People either said, "I beg your pardon!" as if they had not heard it +right, or they laughed and said, "Honestly?"</p> + +<p>The children had tried again and again to pry Pop out of Waupoos, but he +clung to it like a limpet. He had had opportunities, too, to move his +business to big cities, but he was afraid to venture. He was fairly sure +of sustenance in Waupoos so long as he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> nursed every penny; but he could +never find the courage to transplant himself to another place.</p> + +<p>The worst of his cowardice was that he blamed the children—at least, he +said he dared not face a year or two of possible loss lest they might +need something. So he stayed in Waupoos and managed somehow to keep the +family afloat and the store open.</p> + +<p>When <i>Mčre</i> revolted and longed for a glimpse of the outer world he +always advised her to take a trip and have a good time. He always said +he could afford that much, and he took an interest in seeing that she +had funds to buy some city clothes with; but he never had funds enough +to go along.</p> + +<p>That was one of mother's grievances. Pop bored her to death at home and +she wanted to scream every time he mentioned his business—it was so +selfish of him to talk of that at night when she had so much to tell him +of the misbehavior of the servants. But, greatly as he annoyed her round +the house, she cherished an illusion that she would like him in a hotel.</p> + +<p>She had tried to get him to read a certain novel—a wonderful book +mercilessly exposing the curse of modern America; which is the men's +habit of sticking to their business so closely that they give their poor +wives no companionship. They leave their poor wives to languish at home +or to go shopping or gossiping, while they indulge themselves in the +luxuries of vibration between creditor and debtor.</p> + +<p>In this novel, and in several others she could have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> named, the poor +wife naturally fell a prey to the fascinations of a handsome devil with +dark eyes, a motor or two, and no office hours.</p> + +<p><i>Mčre</i> often wondered why she herself had not taken up with some +handsome devil fully equipped for the entertainment of neglected wives.</p> + +<p>If she had not been a member of that stanch American womanhood to which +the glory of the country and its progress are really due, she might have +startled her husband into realizing too late, as the too-late husbands +in the novels realized, that a man's business is a side issue and that +the perpetuation of romance is the main task. Her self-respect was all +that held <i>Mčre</i> to the home; that and—whisper!—the fact that no +handsome devil with any kind of eyes ever tried to lure her away.</p> + +<p>When she reproached Pop and threatened him he refused to be scared. He +paid his wife that most odious of tributes—a monotonous trust in her +loyalty and an insulting immunity to jealousy. Almost worse was his +monotonous loyalty to her and his failure to give her jealousy any +excuse.</p> + +<p>They quarreled incessantly, but the wrangles were not gorgeously +dramatic charges of intrigue with handsome men or painted women, +followed by rapturous make-ups. They were quarrels over expenditures, +extravagances, and voyages.</p> + +<p><i>Mčre</i> charged Pop with parsimony and he charged her with recklessness. +She accused him of trying to tie them down to a village; he accused her +of trying<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> to drive him to bankruptcy. She demanded to know whether he +wanted his children to be like children of their neighbors—clerks in +small stores, starveling tradespeople and wives of little merchants. He +answered that she was breeding a pack of snobs that despised their +father and had no mercy on him—and no use for him except as a lemon to +squeeze dry. She answered with a laugh of scorn that lemon was a good +word; and he threw up his hands and returned to the shop if the war +broke out at noon, or slunk up to bed if it followed dinner.</p> + +<p>This was the pattern of their daily life. Every night there was a new +theme, but the duet they built on it ran along the same formulas.</p> + +<p>The children sided with <i>Mčre</i>, of course. In the first place, she was a +poor, downtrodden woman; in the second, she was their broker. Her job +was to get them things. They gave her the credit for what she got them. +They gave Pop no praise for yielding—no credit for extracting somehow +from the dry-soil of an arid town the money they extracted from him. +They knew nothing of the myriad little agonies, the ingenuity, the +tireless attention to detail, the exquisite finesse that make success +possible in the męlée of competition. Their souls were above trade and +its petty nigglings.</p> + +<p>Jno. P., who was now known as J. Pennock, was aiming at a million +dollars in New York, and his mother was sure that he would get it next +time if Pop would only raise him a little more money to meet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> an +irritating obligation or seize a glittering opportunity. Pop always +raised the money and J. Pennock always lost it. Yet Pennock was a +financier and Pop was a village merchant. And now Pen had come home +unexpectedly. He was showing a great interest in Pop's affairs.</p> + +<p>Gerald was home also unexpectedly. He was an artist of the most +wonderful promise. None of his promises was more wonderful than those he +made his father to repay just one more loan—to tide him over until he +sold his next picture; but it never sold, or it sold for a mere song. +Gerald solaced himself and <i>Mčre</i> solaced him for being ahead of his +time, unappreciated, too good for the public. She thanked Heaven that +Gerald was a genius, not a salesman. One salesman in the family was +enough!</p> + +<p>And Gerald had beaten Pen home by one train. He had greeted Pen somewhat +coldly—as if Pen were a trespasser on his side of the street. And when +it was learned that Julie had telegraphed that she would arrive the next +day, both the brothers had frowned.</p> + +<p>Pop had sighed. He was glad to see his wonderful offspring, but he had +already put off the grocer and the butcher—and even his life-insurance +premium—because he had an opportunity by a quick use of cash to obtain +the bankrupt stock of a rival dealer who had not nursed his pennies as +Pop had. It was by such purchases that Pop had managed to keep his store +alive and his brilliant children in funds.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> + +<p>He had temporarily drawn his bank account down to the irreducible +minimum and borrowed on his securities up to the insurmountable maximum. +It was a bad time for his children to tap him. But here they were—Jno. +P., Jerry, and Julia—all very unctuous over the home-coming, and yet +all of them evidently cherishing an ulterior idea.</p> + +<p>He watched them lounging in fashionable awkwardness. They were brilliant +children. And he was as proud of them as he was afraid of them—and for +them.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>If the children looked brilliant to Pop he did not reflect their +refulgence. As they glanced from the photographer's proof to Pop they +were not impressed. They were not afraid of him or for him.</p> + +<p>His bodily arrangement was pitifully gawky; he neither sat erect nor +lounged—he slumped spineless. Big spectacles were in style now, but +Pop's big spectacles were just out of it. His face was like a parchment +that had been left out in the rain and had dried carelessly in deep, +stiff wrinkles—with the writing washed off.</p> + +<p>Ethelwolf, the last born, had no ulterior idea. He always spent his +monthly allowance by the second Tuesday after the first Monday, and +sulked through a period of famine and debt until the next month. It was +now the third Tuesday and he was disposed to sarcasm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Look at Pop!" he muttered. "He looks just like the old boy they put in +the cartoons to represent The Common People."</p> + +<p>"He's the Beau Brummel of Waupoos, all right!" said Bayahtreatshe, who +was soon returning to Wellesley. And Consuelo, who was preparing for +Vassar, added under her breath, "Mčre, can't you steal up on him and +swipe that already-tied tie?"</p> + +<p>Had Pop overheard, he would have made no complaint. He had known the +time when they had thrown things at him. The reverence of American +children for their fathers is almost as famous as the meekness of +American wives before their husbands. Yet it might have hurt Pop a +little to see Mother shake her head and hear her sigh:</p> + +<p>"He's hopeless, children! Do take warning from my misfortune and be +careful what you marry."</p> + +<p>Poor <i>Mčre</i> had absolutely forgotten how proud she had been when Johnnie +Grout came courting her, and how she had extracted a proposal before he +knew what he was about, and had him at the altar before he was ready to +support a wife in the style she had been accustomed to hope for. She +remembered only the dreams he had not brought true, the harsh realities +of their struggle upward. She had worked and skimped with him then. Now +she was like a lolling passenger in a jinrikisha, who berates the shabby +coolie because he stumbles where the roads are rough and sweats where +they are steep.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> + +<p>Julie spoke up in answer to her mother's word of caution:</p> + +<p>"There's one thing better than being careful what you marry—and that's +not marrying at all!"</p> + +<p>The rest of them were used to Julie's views; but Pop, who had paid +little heed to them, almost collapsed from his chair. Julie went on:</p> + +<p>"Men are all alike, Mčre. They're very soft-spoken when they come to +make love; but it's only a bluff to make us give up our freedom. Before +we know it they drag us up before another man, a preacher, and make us +swear to love, honor, and obey. They kill the love, make the honor +impossible, and the obey ridiculous. Then they coop us up at home and +expect us to let them run the world to suit themselves. They've been +running it for thousands of years—and look at the botch they've made of +it! It's time for us to take the helm."</p> + +<p>"Go to it, sis," said Ethelwolf. "I care not who makes the laws so long +as I can break them."</p> + +<p>"Let your sister alone!" said <i>Mčre</i>. "Go on, Julie!"</p> + +<p>"I've put it all in the address I read before the Federation last week," +said Julie. "It was reported at length in one of the papers. I've got a +clipping in my handbag here somewhere."</p> + +<p>She began to rummage through a little condensed chaos of handkerchiefs, +gloves, powder-puff, powdery dollar bills, powdery coins, loose bits of +paper,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> samples, thread, pins, buttons—everything—every-whichway.</p> + +<p>J. Pennock laughed. "Pipe what's going to run the world! Better get a +few pockets first."</p> + +<p>"Don't be a brute, Pen!" said <i>Mčre</i>.</p> + +<p>At last Julie found the clipping she sought and, shaking the powder from +it, handed it to her mother.</p> + +<p>"It's on the strength of this speech that I was elected delegate to the +international convention at San Francisco," she said.</p> + +<p>"You were!" <i>Mčre</i> gasped, and Beatrice and Consuelo exclaimed, +"Ripsnorting!"</p> + +<p>"Are you going?" said <i>Mčre</i> when she recovered from her awe.</p> + +<p>"Well, it's a pretty expensive trip. That's why I came home—to see +if—Well, we can take that up later. Tell me how you like the speech."</p> + +<p><i>Mčre</i> mumbled the report aloud to the delighted audience. Pop heard +little of it. He was having a chill. It was very like plain ague, but he +credited it to the terror of Julie's mission home. All she wanted him to +do was to send her on a little jaunt to San Francisco! The tyrant, as +usual, was expected to finance the rebellion.</p> + +<p>When <i>Mčre</i> had finished reading everybody applauded Julie except Pop. +<i>Mčre</i> overheard his silence and rounded on him across the aristocratic +reading-glass she wielded.</p> + +<p>"Did you hear that?"</p> + +<p>Pop was so startled that he answered, "Uh-huh!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Didn't you think it was splendid?" <i>Mčre</i> demanded.</p> + +<p>"Uh-huh!" said Pop.</p> + +<p>"What didn't you like about it?"</p> + +<p>"I liked it all first-rate. Julie is a smart girl, I tell you."</p> + +<p><i>Mčre</i> scented his evasion, and she would never tolerate evasions. She +repeated:</p> + +<p>"What didn't you like about it?"</p> + +<p>"I liked all I could understand."</p> + +<p>"Understand!" snapped <i>Mčre</i>, who rarely wasted her culture on Pop. +"What didn't you understand? Could anything be clearer than this? +Listen!" She read in an oratorical voice:</p> + +<p>"'Woman has been for ages man's mere beast of burden, his household +drudge. Being a wife has meant being a slave—the only servant without +wages or holiday. But the woman of to-day at last demands that the +shackles be stricken off; she demands freedom to live her life her own +way—to express her selfhood without the hampering restrictions imposed +on her by the barbaric customs inherited from the time of the +cave-man.'"</p> + +<p><i>Mčre</i> folded up the clipping and glared defiance at the cave-man +slumped in the uneasy chair.</p> + +<p>"What's clearer than that?" she reiterated.</p> + +<p>Pop was at bay. He was like a desperate rabbit. He answered:</p> + +<p>"It's clear enough, I guess; but it's more than I can take in. Seems to +me the women folks are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> hollering at the men folks to give 'em what the +men folks have never been able to get for themselves."</p> + +<p>It was peevish. Coming from Pop, it amounted to an outburst, a riot, a +mutiny. Such a tendency was dangerous. He must be sharply repressed at +once—as a new servant must be taught her place. <i>Mčre</i> administered the +necessary rebuke, aided and abetted by the daughters. The sons did not +rally to their father's defense. He was soon reduced to submission, but +his apology was further irritation:</p> + +<p>"I'm kind of rattled like. I ain't feeling as chipper as usual." +"Chipper" was bad enough, but "ain't" was unendurable! They rebuked him +for that and he put in another irrelevant plea: "I had a kind of sick +spell at the store. I had to lay down."</p> + +<p>"Lie down!" Beatrice corrected.</p> + +<p>"Lie down," he accepted. "But as soon as I laid down—"</p> + +<p>"Lay down!"</p> + +<p>"Lay down—I had chills and shootin' pains; and I—"</p> + +<p>"It's the weather," <i>Mčre</i> interrupted, impatiently. "I've had a +headache all day—such a headache as never was known! It seemed as if +hammers were beating upon my very brain. It was—"</p> + +<p>"I'm not feeling at all well myself," said Consuelo.</p> + +<p>There was almost a tournament of rivalry in describing sufferings.</p> + +<p>Pop felt as if he had wakened a sleeping hospital.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> He sank back ashamed +of his own outburst. He rarely spoke of the few ailments he could +afford. When he did it was like one of his new clerks pulling a bolt of +goods from the shelf and bringing down a silken avalanche.</p> + +<p>The clinic was interrupted by the crisp voice of Nora: "Dinner is +served!"</p> + +<p>Everybody rose and moved to the door with quiet determination. Pop alone +failed to rise. <i>Mčre</i> glowered at him. He pleaded: "I don't feel very +good. I guess I'd better leave my stummick rest."</p> + +<p>The children protested politely, but he refused to be moved and <i>Mčre</i> +decided to humor him.</p> + +<p>"Let him alone, children. It won't hurt him to skip a meal."</p> + +<p>They said: "Too bad, Pop!"—"You'll be all right soon," and went out and +forgot him.</p> + +<p>Pop heard them chattering briskly. It was polite talk. If slang were +used it was the very newest. He gleaned that Pen and Gerald were +opposing Julie's mission to San Francisco on the ground of the expense. +He smiled bitterly to hear that word from them. He heard Julie's retort:</p> + +<p>"I suppose you boys want the money yourselves! Well, I've got first +havers at Pop. I saw him first!"</p> + +<p>At about this point the conversation lost its coherence in Pop's ears. +It was mingled with a curious buzzing and a dizziness that made him grip +his chair lest it pitch him to the floor. Chills, in which his bones +were a mere rattlebox, alternated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> with little rushes of prairie fire +across his skin. Throes of pain wrung him.</p> + +<p>Also, he was a little afraid—he was afraid he might not be able to get +to the store in the morning. And important people were coming! He had to +make the first payment on the invoice of that bankrupt stock. A +semiannual premium was overdue on his life insurance. The month of grace +had nearly expired, and if he failed to pay the policy would lapse—now +of all times! He had kept it up all these years; it must not lapse now, +for he was going to be right sick. He wanted somebody to nurse him: his +mother—or that long-lost girl he had married in the far past.</p> + +<p>His shoes irked him; his vest—what they wanted called his +waistcoat—was as tight as a corset. He felt that he would be safer in +bed. He'd better go up to his own room and stretch out. He rose with +extraordinary difficulty and negotiated a swimming floor on swaying +legs.</p> + +<p>The laughter from the dining-room irritated him. He would be better off +up-stairs, where he could not hear it. The noise in his ears was all he +could stand. He attained the foot of the stairs and the flight of steps +seemed as long and as misty as Jacob's Ladder. And he was no angel!</p> + +<p>The Grouts lingered at dinner and over their black coffee and tobacco +until it was time to dress for the reception at Mrs. Alvin Mitnick's, at +which Waupoos society would pass itself in review. The later you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> got +there the smarter you were, and most people put off dressing until the +last possible minute in order to keep themselves from falling asleep +before it was time to start.</p> + +<p>The Grouts, however, were eager to go early and get it over with. They +loved to trample on Waupoos traditions. As they drifted into the hall +they found it dark. They shook their heads in dismal recognition of a +familiar phenomenon, and Ethelwolf groaned:</p> + +<p>"Pop has gone up-stairs. You can always trace Pop. Wherever he has +passed by the lights are out."</p> + +<p>"He has figured out that by darkening the halls while we are at dinner +he saves nearly a cent a day," <i>Mčre</i> groaned.</p> + +<p>"If Pop were dying he'd turn out a light somewhere because he wouldn't +need it." And Ethelwolf laughed.</p> + +<p>But <i>Mčre</i> groaned again: "Can you wonder that I get depressed? Now, +children, I ask you—"</p> + +<p>"Poor old Mčre! It's awful!"—"Ghastly!"—"Maddening!"</p> + +<p>They gathered round her lovingly, echoing her moans. They started up the +dark stairway, Consuelo first and turning back to say to Beatrice:</p> + +<p>"Pop can cut a penny into more slices than—" Then she screamed and +started back.</p> + +<p>Her agitation went down the stairway through the climbing Grouts like a +cold breeze. What was it? She looked close. A hand was just visible on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +the floor at the head of the stairs. She had stepped on it.</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>Pop had evidently reached the upper hall, when the ruling passion +burning even through his fever had led him to grope about for the +electric switch. His last remaining energy had been expended for an +economy and he had collapsed.</p> + +<p>They switched the light on again; they were always switching on currents +that he switched off—and paid for. They found him lying in a crumpled +sprawl that was awkward, even for Pop.</p> + +<p>They stared at him in bewilderment. They would have said he was drunk; +but Pop never drank—nor smoked—nor played cards. Perhaps he was dead!</p> + +<p>This thought was like a thunderbolt. There was a great thumping in the +breasts of the Grouts.</p> + +<p>Suddenly <i>Mčre</i> strode forward, dropped to her knees and put her hand on +Pop's heart. It was not still—far from that. She placed her cold palm +on his forehead. His brow was clammy, hot and cold and wet.</p> + +<p>"He has a high fever!" she said.</p> + +<p>Then, with a curious emotion, she brushed back the scant wet hair; +closed her eyes and felt in her bosom a sudden ache like the turning of +a rusty iron. She felt young and afraid—a young wife who finds her man +wounded.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> + +<p>She looked up and saw standing about her a number of tall ladies and +gentlemen—important-looking strangers. Then she remembered that they +had once been nobodies. She felt ashamed before them and she said, +quickly:</p> + +<p>"He's going to be ill. Telephone for the doctor to come right away. And +you girls get his bed ready. No, you'd better put him in my room—it +gets the sunlight. And you boys fill the ice-cap—and the hot-water bag +and—hurry! Hurry!"</p> + +<p>The specters vanished. She was alone with her lover. She was drying his +forehead with her best lace handkerchief and murmuring:</p> + +<p>"John honey, what's the matter! Why, honey—why didn't you tell me?"</p> + +<p>Then a tall gentleman or two returned and one of them said:</p> + +<p>"Better let us get him off the floor, Mčre."</p> + +<p>And the big sons of the frail little man picked him up and carried him +into the room and pulled off his elastic congress gaiters, and his coat +and vest, and his detached cuffs, and his permanently tied tie, and his +ridiculous collar.</p> + +<p>Then <i>Mčre</i> put them out, and when the doctor arrived Pop was in bed in +his best nightshirt.</p> + +<p>The doctor made his way up through the little mob of terrified children. +He found Mrs. Grout vastly agitated and much ashamed of herself. She did +not wish to look sentimental. She had reached the Indian-summer modesty +of old married couples.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> + +<p>The doctor went through the usual ritual of pulse-feeling and +tongue-examining and question-asking, while Pop lay inert, with a little +thermometer protruding from his mouth like a most inappropriate +cigarette.</p> + +<p>The doctor was uncertain yet whether it were one of the big fevers or +pneumonia or just a bilious attack. Blood-tests would show; and he +scraped the lobe of the ear of the unresisting, indifferent old man, and +took a drop of thin pink fluid on a bit of glass. The doctor tried to +reassure the panicky family, but his voice was low and important.</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>The brilliant receptions and displays that <i>Mčre</i> and the children had +planned were abandoned without regret. All minor regrets were lost in +the one big regret for the poor old, worn-out man up-stairs.</p> + +<p>There was a dignity about Pop now. The lowliest peasant takes on majesty +when he is battling for his life and his home.</p> + +<p>There was dismay in all the hearts now—dismay at the things they had +said and the thoughts and sneers; dismay at the future without this +shabby but unfailing provider.</p> + +<p>The proofs of the family photograph lay scattered about the living-room. +Pop was not there. They had smiled about it before. Now it looked +ominous!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> What would become of this family if Pop were not there?</p> + +<p>The house was filled with a thick sense of hush like a heavy fog; but +thoughts seemed to be all the louder in the silence—jumbled thoughts of +selfish alarm; filial terror; remorse; tenderness; mutual rebuke; dread +of death, of the future, of the past.</p> + +<p>The day nurse and the night nurse were in command of the house. The only +events were the arrivals of the doctor, his long stops, his whispered +conferences with the nurses, and the unsatisfactory, evasive answers he +gave as the family ambushed him at the foot of the stairs on his way +out.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile they could not help Pop in his long wrestle. They had drained +his strength and bruised his heart while he had his power, and now that +he needed their help and their youth they could not lend him anything; +they could not pay a single instalment on the mortgages they had +incurred.</p> + +<p>They could only stand at the door now and then and look in at him. They +could not beat off one of the invisible vultures of fever and pain that +hovered over him, swooped, and tore him.</p> + +<p>They could not even get word to him—not a message of love or of +repentance or of hope. His brain was in a turmoil of its own. His white +lips were muttering delirious nonsense; his soul was fluttering from +scene to scene and year to year, like a restless dragon-fly. He was +young; he was old; he was married; he was a bachelor; he was at home;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +he was in his store; he was pondering campaigns of business, slicing +pennies or making daring purchases; he was retrenching; he was +advertising; but he was afraid always that he might sink in the bog of +competition with rival merchants, with creditors, debtors, bankers, with +his wife, his children, his neighbors, his ideals, his business +axioms——</p> + +<p>"Ain't the moon pirty to-night, honey! Gee! I'm scared of that preacher! +What do I say when he says, 'Do you take this woman for your'—The +pay-roll? I can't meet it Saturday. How am I going to meet the pay-roll? +I don't see how we can sell those goods any cheaper, but we got to get +rid of 'em. My premium! My premium! I haven't paid my premium! What'll +become of the children? Three cents a yard—it's robbery! Eight cents a +yard—that's givin' it away! Don't misunderstand me, Sally. It's my way +of making love. I can't say pirty things like some folks can, but I can +think 'em. My premium—the pay-roll—so many children! Couldn't they do +without that? I ain't a millionaire, you know. Every time I begin to get +ahead a little seems like one of the children gets sick or in +trouble—the pay-roll! Three cents a yard—the new invoice—I can't buy +myself a noo soot. The doctor's bills! I ain't complaining of 'em; but +I've got to pay 'em! Let me stay home—I'd rather. I've had a hard day. +My premium! Don't put false notions in their heads! The pay-roll! Don't +scold me, honey! I got feelings, too. You haven't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> said a word of love +to me in years! I'll raise the money somehow. I know I'm close; but +somebody's got to be—the pay-roll—so many people depending on me. So +many mouths to feed—the children—all the clerks—the delivery-wagon +drivers—the advertising bills—the pay-roll—the children! I ain't as +young as I was—honey, don't scold me!"</p> + +<p>The ceaseless babbling grew intolerable. Then it ceased; and the stupor +that succeeded was worse, for it meant exhaustion. The doctor grew more +grave. He ceased to talk of hope. He looked ashamed. He tried to throw +the blame from himself.</p> + +<p>And one dreadful day he called the family together in the living-room. +Once more they were all there—all those expensively shod feet; those +well-clothed, well-fed bodies. In the chair where Pop had slumped the +doctor sat upright. He was saying:</p> + +<p>"Of course there's always hope. While there's life there's always hope. +The fever is pretty well gone, but so is the patient. The crisis left +him drained. You see he has lived this American business man's life—no +exercise, no vacations, no change. The worst of it is that he seems to +have given up the fight. You know we doctors can only stand guard +outside. The patient has to fight it out inside himself. It's a very +serious sign when the sick man loses interest in the battle. Mr. Grout +does not rally. His powerful mind has given up."</p> + +<p>In spite of themselves there was a general lifting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> of the brows of +surprise at the allusion to Pop's poor little footling brain as a +powerful mind. Perhaps the doctor saw it. He said:</p> + +<p>"For it was a powerful mind! Mr. Grout has carried that store of his +from a little shop to a big institution; he has kept it afloat in a dull +town through hard times. He has kept his credit good and he has given +his family wonderful advantages. Look where he has placed you all! He +was a great man."</p> + +<p>When the doctor had gone they began to understand that the town had +looked upon Pop as a giant of industry, a prodigal of vicarious +extravagance. They began to feel more keenly still how good a man he +was. While they were flourishing like orchids in the sun and air, he had +grubbed in the earth, sinking roots everywhere in search of moisture and +of sustenance. Through him, things that were lowly and ugly and cheap +were gathered and transformed and sent aloft as sap to make flowers of +and color them and give them velvet petals and exquisite perfume.</p> + +<p>They gathered silently in his room to watch him. He was white and still, +hardly breathing, already the overdue chattel of the grave.</p> + +<p>They talked of him in whispers, for he did not answer when they praised +him. He did not move when they caressed him. He was very far away and +drifting farther.</p> + +<p>They spoke of how much they missed him, of how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> perfect a father he had +been, competing with one another in regrets and in praise. Back of all +this belated tribute there was a silent dismay they did not give voice +to—the keen, immediately personal reasons for regret.</p> + +<p>"What will become of us?" they were thinking, each in his or her own +terrified soul.</p> + +<p>"I can't go back to school!"</p> + +<p>"This means no college for me!"</p> + +<p>"I'll have to stay in this awful town the rest of my life!"</p> + +<p>"I can't go to San Francisco! The greatest honor of my life is taken +from me just as I grasped it."</p> + +<p>"I had a commission to paint the portrait of an ambassador at +Washington—it would have been the making of me! It meant a lot of +money, too. I came home to ask Pop to stake me to money enough to live +on until it was finished."</p> + +<p>"My business will go to smash! I'll be saddled with debts for the rest +of my life. If I could have hung on a little longer I'd have reached the +shore; but the bank wouldn't lend me a cent. Nobody would. I came home +to ask Pop to raise me some cash. I counted on him. He never failed me +before."</p> + +<p>"What will become of us all?"</p> + +<p>There was a stir on the pillow. The still head began to rock, the throat +to swell, the lips to twitch.</p> + +<p><i>Mčre</i> ran to the bedside and knelt by it, laying her hand on the +forehead. A miracle had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> wrought in the very texture of his brow. +He was whispering something. She put her ear to his lips.</p> + +<p>"Yes, honey. What is it? I'm here."</p> + +<p>She caught the faint rustling of words. It was as if his hovering soul +had been eavesdropping on their thoughts. Perhaps it was merely that he +had learned so well in all these years just what each of them would be +thinking. For he murmured:</p> + +<p>"I've been figuring out—how much the—funeral will cost—you know +they're awful expensive—funerals are—of course I wouldn't want +anything fancy—but—well—besides—and I've been thinking the children +have got to have so many things—I can't afford to—be away from the +store any longer. I ain't got time to die! I've had vacation enough! +Where's my clothes at?"</p> + +<p>They held him back. But not for long. He was the most irritatingly +impatient of convalescents. In due course of time the family was +redistributed about the face of the earth. Ethelwolf was at preparatory +school; Beatrice and Consuelo were acquiring and lending luster at +Wellesley and Vassar; Gerald was painting a portrait at Washington; and +J. Pennock was like a returned Napoleon in Wall Street.</p> + +<p>Pop was at his desk in the store. All his employees had gone home. He +was fretfully twiddling a telegram from San Francisco:</p> + +<p> +Julie's address sublime please telegraph two hundred more love<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mere.</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> + +<p>Pop was remembering the words of the address: "Woman has been for ages +man's mere beast of burden.... Being a wife has meant being a slave."</p> + +<p>Pop could not understand it yet. But he told everybody he met about the +first three words of the telegram, and added:</p> + +<p>"I got the smartest children that ever was and they owe it all to their +mother, every bit."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> + +<h2>BABY TALK</h2> + + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>The wisest thing Prof. Stuart Litton was ever caught at was the thing he +was most ashamed of. He had begun to accumulate knowledge at an age when +most boys are learning to fight and to explain at home how they got +their clothes torn. He wore out spectacles almost as fast as his +brothers wore out copper-toed boots; but he did not begin to acquire +wisdom until he was just making forty. Up to that time, if the serpent +is the standard, Professor Litton was about as wise as an angleworm.</p> + +<p>He submerged himself in books for nearly forty years; and then—in the +words of Leonard Teed—then he "came up for air." This man Teed was the +complete opposite of Litton. For one thing he was the liveliest young +student in the university where Litton was the solemnest old professor. +Teed had scientific ambitions and hated Greek and Latin, which Litton +felt almost necessary to salvation. Teed regarded Litton and his Latin +as the sole obstacles to his success in college; and, though Litton was +too much of a gentle heart to hate anybody, if he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> could have hated +anybody it would have been Teed. A girl was concerned in one of their +earliest encounters, though Litton's share in it was as unromantic as +possible.</p> + +<p>Teed, it seems, had violated one of the rules at Webster University. He +had chatted with Miss Fannie Newman—a pretty student in the Woman's +College—after nine o'clock; nay, more, he had sat on a campus bench +bidding her good night for half an hour, and, with that brilliant +mathematical mind of his, had selected the bench at the greatest +possible distance from the smallest cluster of lampposts.</p> + +<p>On this account he was haled before the disciplinary committee of the +faculty. Litton happened to be on that committee. Teed made the best +fight he could. He showed himself a Greek—in argument at least—and, +like an old sophist, he tried to prove, first, that he was not on the +campus with the girl and never had spooned with her; second, that if he +had been there and had spooned with her it was too dark for them to be +seen; and third, that he was engaged to the girl, anyway, and had a +right to spoon with her.</p> + +<p>The accusing witness was a janitor whom Teed had played various jokes on +and had neglected to appease with tips. Teed submitted him to a fierce +cross-examination; forced him to admit that he could not see the loving +couple and had identified them solely by their voices. Teed demanded +the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> exact words overheard; and, as often happens to the too-ardent +cross-examiner, he got what he asked for and wished he had not. The +janitor, blushing at what he remembered, pleaded:</p> + +<p>"You don't vant I should say it exectly vat I heered?"</p> + +<p>"Exactly!" Teed answered in his iciest tone.</p> + +<p>"Vell," the janitor mumbled, "it vas such a foolish talk as—but—vell, +ven I come by I hear voman's voice says, 'Me loafs oo besser as oo loafs +me!'"</p> + +<p>Teed flushed and the faculty sat forward.</p> + +<p>"Den I hear man's voice says,'Oozie-voozie, mezie-vezie—' Must I got to +tell it all?"</p> + +<p>"Go on!" said Teed, grimly; and the old German mopped his brow with +anguish and snorted with rage: "'Mezie-vezie loafs oozie-voozie +bestest!'"</p> + +<p>The purple-faced members of the faculty were hanging on to their own +safety-valves to keep from exploding—all save Professor Litton, who +felt that his hearing must be defective. Teed, fighting in the last +ditch, said:</p> + +<p>"But such language does not prove the identity of the—er—participants. +You said you knew positively."</p> + +<p>The janitor, writhing with disgust and indignation, went on:</p> + +<p>"Ven I hear such nonsunse I stop and listen if it is two people escapet +from de loonatic-houze. And den young voman says, 'It doesn't loaf its +Fannie-vannie one teeny-veeny mite!' And young man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> says, 'So sure my +name is Lennie Teedie-veedie, little Fannie Newman iss de onliest gerl I +ever loafed!'"</p> + +<p>The cross-examiner crumpled up in a chair, while the members of the +faculty behaved like children bursting with giggles in church—all save +Litton, who had listened with increasing amazement and now leaned +forward to demand of the janitor:</p> + +<p>"Mr. Kraus, you don't mean to say that two of our students actually +disgraced this institution with conversation that would be appropriate +only to a nursery?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Kraus thundered: "De talk of dose stoodents vould disgrace de +nursery! It vas so sickenink I can't forget ut. I try to, but I keep +rememberink Oozie-voozie! Mezie-vezie!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Kraus was excused in a state of hydrophobic rage and Teed withdrew +in all meekness.</p> + +<p>Litton had fallen into a stupor of despair at the futility of learning. +He remained in a state of coma while the rest of the committee laughed +over the familiar idiocies and debated a verdict. Two of the professors, +touched by some reminiscence of romance, voted to ignore the incident as +a trivial commonplace of youth. Two others, though full of sympathy for +Teed—Miss Fannie was very pretty—voted for his suspension as a +necessary example, lest the campus be overrun by duets in lovers' Latin. +The result was a tie and Litton was roused from his trance to cast the +deciding vote.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> + +<p>Now Professor Litton had read a vast amount about love. The classics are +full of its every imaginable version or perversion; but Litton had seen +it expressed only in the polished phrases of Anacreon, Bion, Propertius, +and the others. He had not guessed that, however these men polished +their verses, they doubtless addressed their sweethearts with all the +imbecility of sincerity.</p> + +<p>Litton's own experience gave him little help. In his late youth he had +thought himself in love twice and had expressed his fiery emotions in a +Latin epistle, an elegy, and a number of very correct Alcaics. They +pleased his teacher, but frightened the spectacles off one bookish young +woman, and drove the other to the arms of a prescription clerk, who knew +no Latin except what was on his drug bottles.</p> + +<p>Litton had thenceforward been wedded to knowledge. He had read nearly +everything ancient, but he must have forgotten the sentence of Publilius +Syrus: "Even a god could hardly love and be wise." He felt no mercy in +his soft heart for the soft-headed Teed. He was a worshiper of language +for its own sake and cast a vote accordingly.</p> + +<p>"I do not question the propriety of the conduct of these young people," +he said. "Mr. Teed claims to be engaged to the estimable young woman."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said Professor Mackail, delightedly.</p> + +<p>Teed was the brightest pupil in his laboratory and he had voted for +acquittal. His joy vanished as Professor Litton went on:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But"—he spoke the word with emphasis—"but waiving all questions of +propriety, I do feel that we should administer a stinging rebuke to the +use of such appallingly infantile language by one of our students. +Surely a man's culture should show itself, above all, in the addresses +he pays to the young lady of his choice. What vanity to build and +conduct a great institution of learning, such as this aims to be, and +then permit one of its pupils to express his regard for a student from +the Annex in such language as even Mr. Kraus was reluctant to quote: +'Mezie-wezie loves oozie-woozie bestest!'—if I remember rightly. +Really, gentlemen, if this is permitted we might as well change the +university to a kindergarten. For his own sake I vote that Mr. Teed be +given six months of meditation at home; and I trust that the faculty of +the Woman's College will have a similar regard for its ideals and the +welfare of the misguided young woman."</p> + +<p>Professor Mackail protested furiously, but his advocacy only embittered +Litton—for Mackail was the leader of the faction that had tried for +years to place Webster University in line with others by removing Latin +and Greek from the position of required studies.</p> + +<p>Mackail and his crew pretended that French and German, or science, were +appropriate substitutes for the classic languages in the case of those +whose tastes were not scholastic; but to Litton it was a religion that +no man should be allowed to spend four<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> years in college without at +least rubbing up against Homer, Ćschylos, Vergil, and Horace.</p> + +<p>As Litton put it: "No man has a right to an Alma Mater who doesn't know +what the words mean; and nobody has a right to graduate without knowing +at least enough Latin to read his own diploma."</p> + +<p>This old war had been fought with all the bitterness and professional +jealousies of scholarship, which rival those of religion and exceed +those of the stage. For yet a while Litton and his followers had +vanquished opposition. He little dreamed what he was preparing for +himself in punishing Teed.</p> + +<p>Teed accepted his banishment with poor grace, but a magnificent +determination to come back and graduate. The effect of his punishment +was shown when, after six months of rustic meditation, he set out for +the university, leaving behind him his Fannie, who had been too timid to +return to the scene of her discomfiture. Teed's good-by words ran +something like this:</p> + +<p>"Bess its ickle heartums! Don't se care! Soonie as Teedle-weedle gets +graduated he'll get fine job and marry his Fansy-pansy very first sing." +Then he kissed her "Goo'byjums"—and went back with the face of a +Regulus returning to be tortured by the enemy.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>Teed had a splendid mind for everything material and modern, but he +could not and would not master<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> the languages he called dead. His +mistranslations of the classics were themselves classics. They sent the +other students into uproars; but Litton saw nothing funny in them. When +he received Teed's examination papers he marked them with a pitiless +exactitude.</p> + +<p>Teed reached the end of his junior year with a heap of conditions in the +classics. Litton insisted that he should not be allowed to graduate +until he cleaned them up. This meant that Teed must tutor all through +his last vacation or carry double work throughout his senior year—when +he expected to play some patriotic or Alma-Matriotic football.</p> + +<p>Teed had no intention of enduring either of these inconveniences; he +trusted to fate to inspire him somehow with some scheme for attaining +his diploma without delay. His future job depended on his diploma—and +his girl depended on his job.</p> + +<p>He did not intend to be kept from either by any ancient authors. He had +not the faintest idea how he was going to bridge that chasm—but, as he +wrote his Fansy-pansy, "Love will find the way."</p> + +<p>While Teed was taking thought for the beginning of his life-work Litton +was completing his—or at least he thought he was. With the splendid +devotion of the scholar he had selected for his contribution to human +welfare the best possible edition of the work least likely to be read by +anybody. A firm of publishers had kindly consented to print it—at +Litton's expense.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p> + +<p>Litton would donate a copy to his own university; two or three college +libraries would purchase copies out of respect to the learned professor; +and Litton would give away a few more. The rest would stand in an +undisturbed stack of increasing dust, there to remain unread as long +perhaps as the myriads of Babylonian classics that Assurbani-pal had +copied in brick volumes for his great library at Nineveh.</p> + +<p>Professor Litton had chosen for his life-work a recension of the +ponderous epic in forty-eight books that old Nonnus wrote in Egypt, the +labyrinthine Dionysiaka describing the voyage of Bacchus to India and +back.</p> + +<p>A pretty theme for an old water-drinker who had never tasted wine! But +Litton toiled over the Greek text, added copious notes as to minute +variants, appallingly learned prolegomena, an index, and finally an +English version in prose. He had begun to translate it into hexameters, +but he feared that he would never live to finish it. It was hard enough +for a man like Litton to express at all the florid spirit of an author +whose theme was "the voluptuous phalanxes" of Bacchus' army—"the heroic +race of such unusual warriors; the shaggy satyrs; the breed of centaurs; +the tribes of Sileni, whose legs bristle with hair; and the battalions +of Bassarids."</p> + +<p>He had kept at it all these years, however, and it was ready now for the +eyes of a world that would never see it. He had watched it through the +com<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>positors' hands, keeping a tireless eye on the infinite nuisance of +Greek accents. He had read the galley proofs, the page proofs, and now +at last the black-bordered foundry proofs. He scorned to write the +bastard "O. K." of approval and wrote, instead, a stately "Imprimatur." +He placed the proofs in their envelope and sealed it with lips that +trembled like a priest's when giving an illuminated Gospel a ritual +kiss.</p> + +<p>The hour was late when Professor Litton finished. He stamped the +brown-paper envelope and went down the steps of the boarding-house that +had been for years his nearest approach to a home. He left the precious +envelope on the hall-tree, whence it would be taken to the post-office +for the first mail.</p> + +<p>Feeling the need of a breath of air, he stepped out on the porch. It was +a spring midnight and the college roofs were wonderful under the +quivering moon—or <i>tremulo sub lumine</i>, as he remembered it. And he +remembered how Quintus Smyrnćus had said that the Amazon queen walked +among her outshone handmaidens, "as when, on the wide heavens, among the +stars, the divine Selene moves pre-eminent among them all."</p> + +<p>He thought of everything in terms of the past; yet, when he heard, +mingled with the vague murmur of the night, a distant song of befuddled +collegians, among whose voices Teed's soared pre-eminent above the key, +he was not pleasantly reminded of the tipsy army of Dionysus. He was +revolted and, re<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>turning to his solitude, closed an indignant door on +the disgrace.</p> + +<p>Poor old Litton! His learning had so frail a connection with the life +about him! Steeped in the classics and acquainted with the minutest +details of their texts, he never caught their spirit; never seemed to +realize that they are classics because their authors were so close to +life and imbued them with such vitality that time has not yet rendered +them obsolete.</p> + +<p>He had hardly suspected the mischief that is in them. A more innocent +man could hardly be imagined or one more versed in the lore of evil. +Persons who believe that what is called immoral literature has a +debasing effect must overlook such men as Litton. He dwelt among those +Greek and Roman authors who excelled in exploiting the basest emotions +and made poems out of putridity.</p> + +<p>He read in the original those terrifying pages that nobody has ever +dared to put into English without paraphrase—the polished infamies of +Martial; the exquisite atrocities of Theocritus and Catullus. Yet these +books left him as unsullied as water leaves a duck's back. They infected +him no more than a medical work gives the doctor that studies it the +diseases it describes. The appallingly learned Professor Litton was a +babe in arms compared with many of his pupils, who read little—or with +the janitor, who read nothing at all.</p> + +<p>And now, arrived at a scant forty and looking a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> neglected fifty, +short-sighted, stoop-shouldered and absent-minded to a proverb, he cast +a last fond look at the parcel containing his translation of the Bacchic +epic and climbed the stairs to his bachelor bedroom, took off his shabby +garments, and stretched himself out in the illiterate sleep of a tired +farm-hand.</p> + +<p>Just one dream he had—a nightmare in which he read a printed copy of +his work, and a wrongly accented enclitic stuck out from one of the +pages like a sore thumb. He woke in a cold sweat, ran to his duplicate +proofs, found that his text was correct—and went back to bed contented.</p> + +<p>Of such things his terrors and his joys had consisted all his years.</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>The next morning he felt like a laborer whose factory has closed. Every +day would be Sunday hereafter until he got another job. In this unwonted +sloth he dawdled over his porridge, his weak tea, and his morning paper.</p> + +<p>Head-lines caught his eyes shouting the familiar name of Joel +Brown—familiar to the world at large because of the man's tremendous +success and relentless severity in business. Brown fell in love with one +of those shy, sly young women who make a business of millionaires. He +fell out with a thud and his Flossie entered a suit for breach of +promise, submitting selected letters of Brown's as proofs of his guile +and of her weak, womanly trust.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> + +<p>The newspapers pounced on them with joy, as cats pounce and purr on +catnip. The whole country studied Brown's letters with the rapture of +eavesdropping. Such letters! Such oozing molasses of sentiment! Such +elephantine coquetry! Joel weighed two hundred and eighteen pounds and +called himself Little Brownie and Pet Chickie!</p> + +<p>This was the literature that the bewildered Litton found in the first +paper he had read carefully since he came up for air. One of the letters +ran something like this:<br /><br /></p> + +<blockquote><p>Angel of the skies! My own Flossie-dovelet! Your Little Brownie has +not seenest thee for a whole half a day, and he is pining, +starving, famishing, perishing for a word from your blushing +liplets. Oh, my Peaches and Cream! Oh, my Sugar Plum! How can your +Pet Chickie live the eternity until he claspeths thee again this +evening? When can your Brownie-wownie call you all his ownest only +one? Ten billion kisses I send you from</p> + + +<p style="margin-left: 35%;">Your own, owner, ownest</p> + +<p class="citation">Pet Chickie-Brownie.</p> + +<p>x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x<br /><br /> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p>The X's, Flossie explained, indicated kisses—a dozen to an X.</p> + +<p>The jury laughed Little Brownie out of court after pinning a +twenty-five-thousand-dollar verdict to his coat-tail. The nation elected +him the Pantaloon of the hour and pounded him with bladders and +slap-sticks.</p> + +<p>Professor Litton had heard nothing of the preliminary fanfare of the +suit. As he read of it now he was too much puzzled to be amused. He +read<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> with the same incredulity he had felt when he heard the janitor +quote Teed's remarks to his fiancée. Litton called his landlady's +attention to the remarkable case. She had been reading it, with greedy +glee, every morning. She had had such letters herself in her better +days. She felt sorry for poor Mr. Brown and sorrier for the poor +professor when he said:</p> + +<p>"Poor Mr. Brown must have gone quite insane. Nobody could have built up +such wealth without brains; yet nobody with brains could have written +such letters. Ergo, he has lost his brains."</p> + +<p>"You'll be late to prayers," was all the landlady said. She treated +Litton as if he were a half-witted son. And he obeyed her, forsook his +unfinished tea and hurried away to the chapel. Thence he went to his +class-room, where Teed achieved some further miracles of mistranslation. +Litton thought how curious it was that this young man, of whom his +scientific professor spoke so highly, should have fallen into the same +delirium of amorous idiocy as the famous plutocrat, Joel Brown.</p> + +<p>When the class was dismissed he sank back in his chair by the class-room +window. It was wide ajar to-day for the first time since winter. April, +like an early-morning housemaid, was throwing open all the windows of +the world. Litton felt a delicious lassitude; he was bewildered with +leisure. A kind of sweet loneliness fell on him. He had made no +provision for times like these.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> + +<p>He sat back and twiddled his thumbs. His eyes roved lazily about the +campus. The wind that fluttered the sparse forelock on his overweening +forehead hummed in his ears. It had a distance in it. It brought soft +cadences of faint voices from the athletic field. They seemed to come +from no place nearer than the Athenian Academe.</p> + +<p>Along the paths of the campus a few women were sauntering, for the +students and teachers in the Women's Annex had the privilege of the +libraries, the laboratories, and lecture-rooms.</p> + +<p>Across Litton's field of view passed a figure that caught his eye. +Absently he followed it as it enlarged with approach. He realized that +it was Prof. Martha Binley, Ph.D., who taught Greek over there in the +Annex.</p> + +<p>"How well she is looking!" he mused.</p> + +<p>The very thought startled him, as if some one had spoken unexpectedly. +He wondered that he had noticed her appearance. After the window-sill +blotted her from view he still wondered, dallying comfortably with the +reverie.</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>There was a knock at his door and in response to his call the door +opened—and she stood there.</p> + +<p>"May I come in?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Certainly."</p> + +<p>Before he knew it some impulse of gallantry hoisted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> him to his feet. He +lifted a bundle of archeological reviews from a chair close to his desk +and waited until she sat down. The chair was nearer his than he +realized, and as Professor Binley dropped into it she was so close that +Professor Litton pushed his spectacles up to his forehead.</p> + +<p>It was the first time she had seen his eyes except through glasses +darkly. She noted their color instantly, woman-like. They were not dull, +either, as she had imagined. A cloying fragrance saluted his nostrils.</p> + +<p>"What are the flowers you are wearing, may I ask?" he said. He hardly +knew a harebell from a peony.</p> + +<p>"These are hyacinths," she said. "One of the girls gave them to me. I +just pinned them on."</p> + +<p>"Ah, hyacinths!" he murmured. "Ah yes; I've read so much about them. So +these are hyacinths! Such a pretty story the Greeks had. You remember +it, no doubt?"</p> + +<p>She said she did; but, schoolmaster that he was, he went right on:</p> + +<p>"Apollo loved young Hyacinthus—or Huakinthos, as the Greeks called +it—and was teaching him to throw the discus, when a jealous breeze blew +the discus aside. It struck the boy in the forehead. He fell dead, and +from his blood this flower sprang. The petals, they said, were marked +with the letters Ai, Ai!—Alas! Alas! And the poet Moschus, you +remember, in his 'Lament for Bion,' says:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> + +<blockquote><p>"Nun huakinthe lalei ta sa grammata kai pleon aiai!</p></blockquote> + +<p>"Or, as I once Englished it—let me see, I put it into hexameters—it +was a long while ago. Ah, I have it!"</p> + +<p>And with the orotund notes a poet assumes when reciting his own words, +he intoned:</p> + +<blockquote><p>"Now, little hyacinth, babble thy syllables—louder yet—Aiai! +Whimper with all of thy petals; a beautiful singer has perished."</p></blockquote> + +<p>Professor Binley stared at him in amazement and cried: "Charming! +Beautiful! Your own translation, you say?"</p> + +<p>And he, somewhat shaken by her enthusiasm, waved it aside.</p> + +<p>"A little exercise of my Freshman year. But to get back to +our—hyacinths: Theocritus, you remember, speaks of the 'lettered +hyacinth.' May I see whether we can find the words there?"</p> + +<p>He bent forward to take and she bent forward to give the flowers. Her +hair brushed his forehead with a peculiar influence; and when their +fingers touched he noted how soft and warm her hand was. He flushed +strangely. She was flushed a little, too, possibly from +embarrassment—possibly from the warmth of the day, with its insinuation +of spring.</p> + +<p>He pulled his spectacles over his eyes in a comfortable discomfiture and +peered at the flowers closely. And she peered, too, breathing foolishly +fast. When he could not find the living letters he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> shook his head and +felt again the soft touch of her hair.</p> + +<p>"I can't find the words—can you? Your eyes are brighter than mine."</p> + +<p>She bent closer and both their hands held the flowers. He looked down +into her hair. It struck him that it was a remarkably beautiful idea—a +woman's hair—especially hers, streaked as it was with white—silken +silver. When she shook her head a snowy thread tickled his nose +amusingly.</p> + +<p>"I can't find anything like it," she confessed.</p> + +<p>Then he said: "I've just remembered. Theocritus calls the hyacinth +black—<i>melan</i>—and so does Vergil. These cannot be hyacinths at all."</p> + +<p>He was bitterly disappointed. It would have been delightful to meet the +flower in the flesh that he knew so well in literature. Doctor Martha +answered with quiet strength:</p> + +<p>"These are hyacinths."</p> + +<p>"But the Greeks—"</p> + +<p>"Didn't know everything," she said; "or perhaps they referred to another +flower. But then we have dark-purple hyacinths."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" he said. "Sappho speaks of the hyacinth as purple—<i>porphuron</i>."</p> + +<p>Thus the modern world was reconciled with the Greek and he felt easier; +but there was a gentle forcefulness about her that surprised him. He +wondered whether she would not be interested in hearing about his +edition of Nonnus. He assumed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> that she would be, being evidently +intelligent. So he told her. He told her and told her, and she listened +with almost devout interest. He was still telling her when the students +in other classes stampeded to lunch with a many-hoofed clatter. When +they straggled back from lunch he was still telling her.</p> + +<p>It was not until he was interrupted by an afternoon class of his own +that he realized how long he had talked. He apologized to Professor +Binley; but she said she was honored beyond words. She had come to ask +him a technical question in prosody, as from one professor to another; +but she had forgotten it altogether—at least she put it off to another +visit. She hastened away in a flutter, feeling slightly as if she had +been to a tryst.</p> + +<p>Litton went without his lunch that day, but he was browsing on memories +of his visitor. He had not talked so long to a woman since he could +remember. This was the only woman who had let him talk uninterruptedly +about himself—a very superior woman, everybody said.</p> + +<p>When he went to his room that night he was still thinking of hyacinths +and of her who had brought them to his eyes.</p> + +<p>He knocked from his desk a book. It fell open at a page. As he picked it +up he noted that it was a copy of the anonymous old spring rhapsody, the +<i>Pervigilium Veneris</i>, with its ceaselessly reiterated refrain, +"To-morrow he shall love who never loved<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> before." As he fell asleep it +was running through his head like a popular tune: <i>Cras amet qui nunquam +amavit; quique amavit cras amet</i>.</p> + +<p>It struck him as an omen; but it did not terrify him.</p> + + +<h4>V</h4> + +<p>Professor Martha called again to ask her question in verse technic. The +answer led to further talk and the consultation of books. She was a +trifle nearsighted and too proud to wear glasses, so she had to bend +close to the page; and her hair tickled his nose again foolishly.</p> + +<p>Conference bred conference, and one day she asked him whether she would +dare ask him to call. He rewarded her bravery by calling. She lived in a +dormitory, with a parlor for the reception of guests. Male students were +allowed to call on only two evenings a week. Litton did not call on +those evenings; yet the fact that he called at all swept through the +town like a silent thunderbolt. The students were mysteriously apprised +of the fact that old Professor Litton and Prof. Martha Binley were +sitting up and taking notice. To the youngsters it looked like a +flirtation in an old folks' home.</p> + +<p>Litton's very digestion was affected; his brain was in a whirl. He was +the prey of the most childish alarms; gusts of petulant emotion swept +through him if Martha were late when he called; he was mad with jealousy +if she mentioned another professor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> + +<p>She was growing more careful of her appearance. A new youth had come to +her. She took fifteen years off her looks by simply fluffing her hair +out of its professorial constriction. Professor Mackail noticed it and +mentioned to Professor Litton that Professor Binley was looking ever so +much better.</p> + +<p>"She's not half homely for such an old maid!" he said.</p> + +<p>Professor Litton felt murder in his heart. He wanted to slay the +reprobate twice—once for daring to observe Martha's beauty and once for +his parsimony of praise.</p> + +<p>That evening when he called on Martha he was tortured with a sullen +mood. She finally coaxed from him the astounding admission that he +suspected her of flirting with Mackail. She was too new in love to +recognize the ultimate compliment of his distress. She was horrified by +his distrust, and so hurt that she broke forth in a storm of tears and +denunciation. Their precious evening ended in a priceless quarrel of +amazing violence. He stamped down the outer steps as she stamped up the +inner.</p> + +<p>For three days they did not meet and the university wore almost visible +mourning for its pets. Poor Litton had not known that the human heart +could suffer such agony. He was fairly burned alive with loneliness and +resentment—like another Hercules blistering in the shirt of Nessus. And +Martha was suffering likewise as Jason's second wife was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> consumed in +the terrible poisoned robe that Medea sent her.</p> + +<p>One evening a hollow-eyed Litton crept up the dormitory steps and asked +the overjoyed maid for Professor Binley. When she appeared he caught her +in his arms as if she were a spar and he a drowning sailor. They made up +like young lovers and swore oaths that they would never quarrel +again—oaths which, fortunately for the variety of their future +existence, they found capable of infinite breaking and mending.</p> + +<p>Each denied that the other could possibly love each. He decried himself +as a stupid, ugly old fogy; and she cried him up as the wisest and most +beautiful and best of men. Since best sounded rather weak, she called +him the bestest; and he did not charge the impossible word against her +as he had against Teed. He did not remember that Teed had ever used such +language. Nobody could ever have used such language, because nobody was +ever like her!</p> + +<p>And when she said that he could not possibly love a homely, scrawny old +maid like her, he delivered a eulogy that would have struck Aphrodite, +rising milkily from the sea, as a slight exaggeration. And as for old +maid, he cried in a curious blending of puerility and scholasticism:</p> + +<p>"Old maid, do you say? And has my little Margy-wargles forgotten what +Sappho said of an old maid? We'd have lost it if some old scholiast on +the stupid old sophist Hermogenes hadn't happened<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> to quote it to +explain the word glukumalon—an apple grafted on a quince. Sappho said +this old maid was like—let me see!—'like the sweet apple that blushes +on the top of the bough—on the tip of the topmost; and the +apple-gatherers forgot it—no, they did not forget it; they just could +not get it!' And that's you, Moggles mine! You're an old maid because +you've been out of reach of everybody. I can't climb to you; so you're +going to drop into my arms—aren't you?"</p> + +<p>She said she supposed she was. And she did.</p> + +<p>Triumphantly he said, "Hadn't we better announce our engagement?"</p> + +<p>This threw her into a spasm of fear. "Oh, not yet! Not yet! I'm afraid +to let the students all know it. A little later—on Commencement Day +will be time enough."</p> + +<p>He bowed to her decision—not for the last time.</p> + +<p>For a time Litton had taken pleasure in employing his learning in the +service of Martha's beauty. He called her classic names—<i>Meć Delicić</i>, +or <i>Glukutate</i>, or <i>Melema</i>. A poem that he had always thought the last +word in silliness became a modest expression of his own emotions—the +poem in which Catallus begs Lesbia, "Give me a thousand kisses, then a +hundred, then a thousand more, then a second hundred; then, when we have +made up thousands galore, we shall mix them up so that we shall not +know—nor any enemy be able to cast a spell because he knows—how many +kisses there are."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> + +<p>His scholarship began to weary her, however, and it began to seem an +affectation to him; so that he was soon mangling the English language in +speech and in the frequent notes he found it necessary to send his idol +on infinitely unimportant matters that could not wait from after lunch +to after dinner.</p> + +<p>She coined phrases for him, too, and his heart rejoiced when she +achieved the epoch-making revision of Stuart into Stookie-tookie! He had +thought that Toodie was wonderful, but it was a mere stepping-stone to +Stookie-tookie.</p> + +<p>Her babble ran through his head like music, and it softened his heart, +so that almost nothing could bring him to earth except the recitations +of Teed, who crashed through the classics like a bull in a china-shop +or, as Litton's Greeks put it, like an ass among beehives.</p> + +<p>During those black days when Litton had quarreled with Martha he had +fiercely reminded Teed that only a month remained before his final +examinations, and warned him that he would hold him strictly to account. +No classics, no diploma!</p> + +<p>Teed had sulked and moped while Litton sulked and moped; but when Litton +was reconciled to Martha the sun seemed to come out on Teed's clouded +world, too. He took a sudden extra interest in his electrical studies +and obtained permission to work in the laboratory overtime. He obtained +permission even to visit the big city for certain apparatus. And he +wrote the despondent, distant Fannie Newman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> that there would "shortly +be something doing in the classics."</p> + + +<h4>VI</h4> + +<p>One afternoon Professor Litton, having dismissed his class—in which he +was obliged to rebuke Teed more severely than usual—fell to remembering +his last communion with Martha, the things he had said—and heard! He +wondered, as a philologist, at the strange prevalence of the "oo" sound +in his love-making. It was plainly an onomatopœic word representing +the soul's delight. Oo! was what Ah! is to the soul in exaltation and +Oh! to the soul in surprise. If the hyacinths babbled <i>Ai, Ai!</i> the +roses must murmur Oo! Oo!</p> + +<p>The more he thought it over, the more nonsense it became, as all words +turn to drivel on repetition; but chiefly he was amazed that even love +could have wrought this change in him. In his distress he happened to +think of Dean Swift. Had not that fierce satirist created a dialect of +his own for his everlastingly mysterious love affairs?</p> + +<p>Eager for the comfort of fellowship in disgrace he hurried to the +library and sought out the works of the Dean of St. Patrick's. And in +the "Journal to Stella" he found what he sought—and more. Expressions +of the most appalling coarseness alternated with the most insipid +tendernesses.</p> + +<p>The old dean had a code of abbreviations: M.D. for "My dear," Ppt. for +"Poppet," Pdfr. for "Poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> dear foolish rogue," Oo or zoo or loo stood +for "you," Deelest for "Dearest," and Rettle for "Letter," and Dallars +for "Girl," Vely for "Very," and Hele and Lele for "Here and there." +Litton copied out for his own comfort and Martha's this passage.</p> + +<blockquote><p>Do you know what? When I am writing in my own language I make up my +mouth just as if I was speaking it: "Zoo must cly Lele and Hele, +and Hele aden. Must loo mimitate Pdfr., pay? Iss, and so la shall! +And so leles fol ee rettle. Dood mollow."</p></blockquote> + +<p>And Dean Swift had written this while he was in London two hundred years +before, a great man among great men. With such authority back of him +Litton returned to his empty class-room feeling as proud as Gulliver in +Lilliput. A little later he was Gulliver in Brobdingnag.</p> + +<p>Alone at his desk, with none of his students in the seats before him, he +took from his pocket—his left pocket—a photograph of Prof. Martha +Binley. It had been taken one day on a picnic far from the spying eyes +of pupils. Her hair was all wind-blown, her eyes frowned gleamingly into +the sun, and her mouth was curled with laughter.</p> + +<p>He sat there alone—the learned professor—and talked to this snapshot +in a dialogue he would have recently accepted as a perfect examination +paper for matriculation in an insane-asylum.</p> + +<p>"Well, Margy-wargy, zoo and Stookie-tookie is dust like old Dean +Swiffikins, isn't we?"</p> + +<p>There was a rap on the door and the knob turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> as he shot the +photograph into his pocket and pretended to be reading a volume of +Bacchylides—upside down. The intruder was Teed. Litton was too much +startled and too throbbing with guilt to express his indignation. He +stammered:</p> + +<p>"We-well, Teed?" He almost called him teed-leums, his tongue had so +caught the rhythm of love.</p> + +<p>Teed came forward with an ominous self-confidence bordering on +insolence. There was a glow in his eye that made his former tyrant +quail.</p> + +<p>"Professor, I'd like a word with you about those conditions. I wish +you'd let me off on 'em."</p> + +<p>"Let you off, T-Teed?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir. I can't get ready for the exams. I've boned until my skull's +cracked and it lets the blamed stuff run out faster than I can cram it +in. The minute I leave college I expect to forget everything I've +learned here, anyway; so I'd be ever so much obliged if you'd just pass +me along."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I quite comprehend," said Litton, who was beginning to +regain his pedagogical dignity.</p> + +<p>"All you've gotta do," said Teed, "is to put a high enough mark on my +papers. You gimme a special examination and I'll make the best stab I +can at answering the questions; then you just shut one eye and mark it +just over the failure line. That'll save you a lot o' time and fix me +hunky-dory."</p> + +<p>Litton was glaring at him, hearing the uncouth "gimme" and "gotta," and +wondering that a man could spend four years in college and scrape off +so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> little paint. Then he began to realize the meaning of Teed's +proposal. His own honor was in traffic. He groaned in suffocation:</p> + +<p>"Do you dare to ask me to put false marks on examination-papers, sir?"</p> + +<p>"Aw, Professor, what's the dif? You couldn't grind Latin and Greek into +me with a steel-rolling machine. Gimme a chance! There's a little girl +waiting for me outside and a big job. I can't get one without the +other—and I don't get either unless you folks slip me the sheepskin."</p> + +<p>"Impossible, sir! Astounding! Insulting! Impossible!"</p> + +<p>"Have a heart, can't you?"</p> + +<p>"Leave the room, sir, at once!"</p> + +<p>"All right!" Teed sighed, and turned away. At the door he paused to +murmur, "All right for you, Stookie-tookie!"</p> + +<p>Litton's spectacles almost exploded from his nose.</p> + +<p>"What's that?" he shrieked.</p> + +<p>Teed turned and came back, with an intolerable smirk, straight to the +desk. He leaned on it with odious familiarity and grinned.</p> + +<p>"Say, Prof, did you ever hear of the dictagraph?"</p> + +<p>"No! And I don't care to now."</p> + +<p>"You ought to read some of the modern languages, Prof! Dictagraph comes +from two perfectly good Latin words: dictum and graft—well, you'll know +'em. But the Greeks weren't wise to this little device. I got part of it +here."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> + +<p>He took from his pocket the earpiece of the familiar engine of +latter-day detective romance. He explained it to the horribly fascinated +Litton, whose hair stood on end and whose voice stuck in his throat in +the best Vergilian manner. Before he quite understood its black magic +Litton suspected the infernal purpose it had been put to. His wrath had +melted to a sickening fear when Teed reached the conclusion of his +uninterrupted discourse:</p> + +<p>"The other night I was calling on a pair of girls at the dormitory where +your—where Professor Binley lives. They pointed out the sofa near the +fireplace where you and the professoress sit and hold hands and make +googoo eyes."</p> + +<p>There was that awful "oo" sound again! Litton was in an icy +perspiration; but he was even more afraid for his beloved, precious +sweetheart than for himself—and that was being about as much afraid as +there is. Teed went on relentlessly, gloating like a satyric mask:</p> + +<p>"Well, I had an idea, and the girls fell for it with a yip of joy. The +next evening I called I carried a wire from my room across to that +dormitory and nobody paid any attention while I brought it through a +window and under the carpet to the back of the sofa. And there it +waited, laying for you. And over at my digs I had it attached to a +phonograph by a little invention of my own.</p> + +<p>"Gosh! It was wonderful! It even repeated the creak of those old, rusty +springs while you waited for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> her. And when she came—well, anyway, I +got every word you said, engraved in wax, like one of those old poets of +yours used to write on."</p> + +<p>Litton was afraid to ask evidence in verification. Teed supplied the +unspoken demand:</p> + +<p>"For instance, the first thing she says to you is: 'Oh, there you are, +my little lover! I thought you'd never come!' And you says, 'Did it miss +its stupid old Stookie?' And she says: 'Hideously! Sit down, honey +heart.' And splung went the spring—and splung again! Then she says: +'Did it have a mis'ble day in hateful old class-room? Put its boo'ful +head on Margy-wargy's shojer.' Then you says—"</p> + +<p>"Stop!" Litton cried, raising the only missile he could find, an +inkstand. "Who knows of this infamy besides you?"</p> + +<p>"Nobody yet—on my word of honor."</p> + +<p>"Honor!" sneered Litton, so savagely that Teed's shameless leer vanished +in a glare of anger.</p> + +<p>"Nobody yet! The girls are dying to hear and some of the fellows knew +what I was up to; but I was thinking that I'd tell 'em that the blamed +thing didn't work, provided—provided—"</p> + +<p>"Provided?" Litton wailed, miserably.</p> + +<p>"Provided you could see your way clear to being a little careless with +your marks on my exam-papers."</p> + +<p>Litton sat with his head whirling and roaring like a coffee-grinder. A +multitude of considerations ran<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> through and were crushed into +powder—his honor; her honor; the standards of the university; the +standards of a lover; the unimportance of Teed; the all-importance of +Martha; the secret disloyalty to the faculty; the open disloyalty to his +best-beloved. He heard Teed's voice as from far off:</p> + +<p>"Of course, if you can't see your way to sparing my sweetheart's +feelings I don't see why I'm expected to spare yours—or to lie to the +fellows and girls who are perishing to hear how two professors talk when +they're in love."</p> + +<p>Another long pause. Then the artful Teed moved to the door and turned +the knob. Litton could not speak; but he threw a look that was like a +grappling-iron and Teed came back.</p> + +<p>"How do I know," Litton moaned, "how do I know that you will keep your +word?"</p> + +<p>"How do I know that you'll keep yours?" Teed replied, with the insolence +of a conqueror.</p> + +<p>"Sir!" Litton flared, but weakly, like a sick candle.</p> + +<p>"Well," Teed drawled, "I'll bring you the cylinders. I'll have to trust +you, as one gentleman to another."</p> + +<p>"Gentleman!" Litton snarled in hydrophobic frenzy.</p> + +<p>"Well, as one lover to another, then," Teed laughed. "Do I get my +diploma?"</p> + +<p>Litton's head was so heavy he could not nod it.</p> + +<p>"It's my diploma in exchange for your records.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +Come on, Professor—be a sport! And take it from me, it's no fun having +the words you whisper in a girl's ear in the dark shouted out loud in +the open court. And mine were repeated in a Dutch dialect! I got yours +just as they came from your lips—and hers."</p> + +<p>That ended it. Litton surrendered, passed himself under the yoke; +pledged himself to the loathsome compact, and Teed went to fetch the +price of his degree of Bachelor of Arts.</p> + +<p>Litton hung dejected beyond feeling for a long while. His heart was +whimpering <i>Ai, Ai!</i> He felt himself crushed under a hundred different +crimes. He felt that he could never look up again. Then he heard a soft +tap at the door. He could not raise his eyes or his voice. He heard the +door open and supposed it was Teed bringing him the wages of his shame; +but he heard another voice—an unimaginably beautiful, tragically tender +voice—crooning:</p> + +<p>"Oo-oo! Stookie-tookie!"</p> + +<p>He looked up. How radiant she was! He could only sigh. She came across +to him as gracefully and lightly as Iris running down a rainbow. She was +murmuring:</p> + +<p>"I just had to slip over and tell you something."</p> + +<p>"Well, Martha!" he sighed.</p> + +<p>She stopped short, as if he had struck her.</p> + +<p>"'Martha'? What's the matter? You aren't mad at me, are you, Stookie?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How could I be angry with you, Marg—er—Martha?"</p> + +<p>"Then why don't you call me Margy-wargleums?"</p> + +<p>He stared at her. Her whimsical smile, trembling to a piteously pretty +hint of terror, overwhelmed him. He hesitated, then shoved back his +chair and, rising, caught her to him so tightly that she gasped out, +"Oo!" There it was again! He laughed like an overgrown cub as he cried:</p> + +<p>"Why don't I call you Margy-wargleums? Well, what a darned fool I'd be +not to! Margy-wargleums!"</p> + +<p>To such ruin does love—the blind, the lawless, the illiterate +child—bring the noblest intelligences and the loftiest principles.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE MOUTH OF THE GIFT HORSE</h2> + + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>The town of Wakefield was—is—suffering from growing pains—from +ingrowing pains, according to its rival, Gatesville.</p> + +<p>Wakefield has long been guilty of trying to add a cubit to its stature +by taking thought. Established, like thousands of other pools left in +the prairies by that tidal wave of humanity sweeping westward in the +middle of the last century, it passed its tenth thousand with a rush; +then something happened.</p> + +<p>For decades the decennial census dismally tolled the same knell of +fifteen thousand in round numbers. The annual censuses but echoed the +reverberations. A few more cases of measles one year, and the population +lapsed a little below the mark; an easy winter, and it slipped a little +above. No mandragora of bad times or bad health ever quite brought it so +low as fourteen thousand. No fever of prosperity ever sent the +temperature quite so high as sixteen thousand.</p> + +<p>The iteration got on people's nerves till a commercial association was +formed under the name of the Wide-a-Wakefield Club, with a motto of +"Boom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> or Bust." Many individuals accomplished the latter, but the town +still failed of the former. The chief activity of the club was in the +line of decoying manufacturers over into Macedonia by various bribes.</p> + +<p>Its first capture was a cutlery company in another city. Though +apparently prosperous, it had fallen foul of the times, and its +president adroitly allowed the Wide-a-Wakefield Club to learn that, if a +building of sufficient size were offered rent free for a term of years, +the cutlery company might be induced to move to Wakefield and conduct +its business there, employing at least a hundred laborers, year in, year +out.</p> + +<p>There was not in all Wakefield a citizen too dull to see the individual +and collective advantage of this hundred increase. It meant money +in the pocket of every doctor, lawyer, merchant, clothier, +boarding-house-keeper, saloon-keeper, soda-water-vender—whom not?</p> + +<p>Every establishment in town would profit, from the sanatorium to the +"pantatorium"—as the institution for the replenishment of trousers was +elegantly styled.</p> + +<p>Commercial fervor rose to such heights in Wakefield that in no time at +all enough money was subscribed to build a convenient factory and to +purchase as many of the shares of cutlery stock as the amiable president +cared to print. In due season the manufacture of tableware and penknives +began, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> pride of the town was set aglow by the trade-mark +stamped on every article issued from the cutlery factory. It was an +ingenious emblem—a glorious Cupid in a sash marked "Wakefield," +stabbing a miserable Cupid in a sash marked "Sheffield."</p> + +<p>It was Sheffield that survived. In fact, the stupid English city +probably never heard of the Wakefield Cutlery Company. Nor did Wakefield +hear of it long. For the emery dust soon ceased to glisten in the air +and the steel died of a distemper.</p> + +<p>It was a very real shock to Wakefield, and many a boy that had been +meant for college went into his father's store instead, and many a girl +who had planned to go East to be polished stayed at home and polished +her mother's plates and pans, because the family funds had been invested +in the steel-engravings of the cutlery stock certificates. They were +very handsome engravings.</p> + +<p>Hope languished in Wakefield until a company from Kenosha consented to +transport its entire industry thither if it could receive a building +rent free. It was proffered, and it accepted, the cutlery works. For a +season the neighboring streets were acrid with the aroma of the +passionate pickles that were bottled there. And then its briny deeps +ceased to swim with knobby condiments. A tin-foil company abode awhile, +and yet again a tamale-canning corporation, which in its turn sailed on +to the Sargasso Sea of missing industries.</p> + +<p>Other factory buildings in Wakefield fared like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>wise. They were but +lodging-houses for transient failures. The population swung with the +tide, but always at anchor. The lift which the census received from an +artificial-flower company, employing seventy-five hands, was canceled by +the demise of a more redolent pork-packing concern of equal pay-roll. +People missed it when the wind blew from the west.</p> + +<p>But Wakefield hoped on. One day the executive committee of the +Wide-a-Wakefield Club, having nothing else to do, met in executive +session. There were various propositions to consider. All of them were +written on letter-heads of the highest school of commercial art, and all +of them promised to endow Wakefield with some epoch-making advantage, +provided merely that Wakefield furnish a building rent free, tax free, +water free, and subscribe to a certain amount of stock.</p> + +<p>The club regarded these glittering baits with that cold and clammy gaze +with which an aged trout of many-scarred gills peruses some newfangled +spoon.</p> + +<p>But if these letters were tabled with suspicion because they offered too +much for too little, what hospitality could be expected for a letter +which offered still more for still less? The chairman of the committee +was Ansel K. Pettibone, whose sign-board announced him as a "practical +house-painter and paper-hanger." He read this letter, head-lines and +all:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span><br /><br /></p> + + +<h2>MARK A. SHELBY<span class="space"> </span>JOHN R. SHELBY<span class="space"> </span>LUKE B. SHELBY</h2> + +<h2>SHELBY PARADISE POWDER COMPANY</h2> + +<h4>SPRINGFIELD, MASS., U. S. A.</h4> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Makes Washday Welcome.</span><span class="space"> </span><span class="smcap">Sidestep Substitutes.</span></h4> +<p style="margin-left: 10%;"><span class="smcap">Wide-a-Wakefield Club</span>, Wakefield:</p> + +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Dear Sirs</span>,—The undersigned was born in your city, and left same +about twenty years ago to seek his fortune. I have finally found it +after many ups and downs. Us three brothers have jointly perfected +and patented the famous Paradise Powder. It is generally conceded +to be the grandest thing of its kind ever put on the market, and, +in the words of the motto, "Makes Washday Welcome." Ladies who have +used it agree that our statement is not excessive when we say, +"Once tried, you will use no other."</p> + +<p>It is selling at such a rate in the East that I have a personal +profit of two thousand dollars a week. We intend to push it in the +West, and we were talking of where would be the best place to +locate a branch factory at. My brothers mentioned Chicago, St. +Louis, Omaha, Denver, and such places, but I said, "I vote for +Wakefield." My brothers said I was cracked. I says maybe I am, but +I'm going back to my old home town and spend the rest of my life +there and my surplus money, too. I want to beautify Wakefield, and +as near as I can remember there is room for improvement. It may not +be good business, but it is what I want to do. And also what I want +to know is, can I rely on the co-operation of the Wide-a-Wakefield +Club in doing its share to build up the old town into a genuine +metropolis? Also, what would be the probable cost of a desirable +site for the factory?</p> + +<p>Hoping to receive a favorable reply from you at your earliest +convenience,</p> + + +<p style="margin-left: 45%;">Yours truly,</p> + +<p class="citation"><span class="smcap">Luke B. Shelby.</span><br /><br /> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p>The chairman's grin had grown wider as he read<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> and read. When he had +finished the letter he tossed it along the line. Every member read it +and shook with equal laughter.</p> + +<p>"I wonder what kind of green goods he sells?" said Joel Spate, the owner +of the Bon-Ton Grocery.</p> + +<p>"My father used to say to me," said Forshay, of the One-Price Emporium, +"whatever else you do, Jake, always suspicion the fellow that offers you +something for nothing. There's a nigger in the woodpile some'eres."</p> + +<p>"That's so," said Soyer, the swell tailor, who was strong on second +thought.</p> + +<p>"He says he's goin' to set up a factory here, but he don't ask for rent +free, tax free, light free—nothin' free," said the practical +house-painter.</p> + +<p>"What's the name again?" said Spate.</p> + +<p>"Shelby—Luke B. Shelby," answered Pettibone. "Says he used to live here +twenty years ago. Ever hear of him? I never did."</p> + +<p>Spate's voice came from an ambush of spectacles and whiskers: "I've +lived here all m' life—I'm sixty-three next month. I don't remember any +such man or boy."</p> + +<p>"Me, neither," echoed Soyer, "and I'm here going on thirty-five year."</p> + +<p>The heads shook along the line as if a wind had passed over a row of +wheat.</p> + +<p>"It's some new dodge for sellin' stock," suspicioned One-Price Forshay, +who had a large collection of cutlery certificates.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> + +<p>"More likely it's just a scheme to get us talking about his Paradise +Powder. Seems to me I've had some of their circulars," said Bon-Ton +Spate.</p> + +<p>Pettibone, the practical chairman, silenced the gossip with a brisk, +"What is the pleasure of the meeting as regards answering it?"</p> + +<p>"I move we lay it on the table," said Eberhart of the Furniture Palace.</p> + +<p>"I move we lay it under the table," said Forshay, who had a keen sense +of humor.</p> + +<p>"Order, gentlemen! Order," rapped Pettibone, as the room rocked with the +laughter in which Forshay led.</p> + +<p>When sobriety was restored it was moved, seconded, and passed that the +secretary be instructed to send Shelby a copy of the boom number of the +Wakefield <i>Daily Eagle</i>.</p> + +<p>And in due time the homesick Ulysses, waiting a welcome from Ithaca, +received this answer to his letter:<br /><br /></p> + +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Luke B. Shelby</span>, Springfield, Mass.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—Yours of sixteenth inst. rec'd and contents noted. In reply +to same, beg to state are sending last special number <i>Daily +Eagle</i>, giving full information about city and sites.</p> + + +<p style="margin-left: 45%;">Yours truly,</p> + +<p class="citation"><span class="smcap">Joel Spate</span>, <i>Secy. Exec. Comm.</i><br /><br /></p> + +</blockquote> + +<p>Shelby winced. The hand he had held out with pearls of price had been +brushed aside. His brothers laughed.</p> + +<p>"We said you were cracked. They don't want<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> your old money or your +society. Go somewheres where they do."</p> + +<p>But Luke B. Shelby had won his success by refusing to be denied, and he +had set his heart on refurbishing his old home town. The instinct of +place is stronger than any other instinct in some animals, and Shelby +was homesick for Wakefield—not for anybody, any house, or any street in +particular there, but just for Wakefield.</p> + +<p>Without further ado he packed his things and went.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>There was no brass band to meet him. At the hotel the clerk read his +name without emotion. When he required the best two rooms in the hotel, +and a bath at that, the clerk looked suspicious:</p> + +<p>"Any baggage?"</p> + +<p>"Three trunks and a grip."</p> + +<p>"What line do you carry? Will you use the sample-room?"</p> + +<p>"Don't carry any line. Don't want any sample-room."</p> + +<p>He walked out to see the town. It had so much the same look that it +seemed to have been embalmed. Here were the old stores, the old signs, +apparently the same fly-specked wares in the windows.</p> + +<p>He read Doctor Barnby's rusty shingle. Wasn't that the same swaybacked +horse dozing at the hitching-post?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> + +<p>Here was the rough hill road where he used to coast as a child. There +stood Mrs. Hooker on the lawn with a hose, sprinkling the street, the +trees, the grass, the oleander in its tub and the moon-flower on the +porch. He seemed to have left her twenty years ago in that attitude with +the same arch of water springing from the nozzle.</p> + +<p>He paused before the same gap-toothed street-crossing of yore, and he +started across it as across the stepping-stones of a dry stream. A +raw-boned horse whirled around the corner, just avoiding his toes. It +was followed by a bouncing grocery-wagon on the side of whose seat +dangled a shirt-sleeved youth who might have been Shelby himself a score +of years ago.</p> + +<p>Shelby paused to watch. The horse drew up at the home of Doctor +Stillwell, the dentist. Before the wagon was at rest the delivery-boy +was off and half-way around the side of the house. Mrs. Stillwell opened +the screen door to take in the carrots and soap and washing-powder +Shelby used to bring her. Shelby remembered that she used washing-powder +then. He wondered if she had heard of the "Paradise."</p> + +<p>As he hung poised on a brink of memory the screen door flapped shut, the +grocery-boy was hurrying back, the horse was moving away, and the boy +leaped to his side-saddle seat on the wagon while it was in motion. The +delivery-wagons and their Jehus were the only things that moved fast in +Wakefield, now as then.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> + +<p>Shelby drifted back to the main street and found the Bon-Ton Grocery +where it had been when he deserted the wagon. The same old vegetables +seemed to be sprawling outside. The same flies were avid at the +strawberry-boxes, which, he felt sure, the grocer's wife had arranged as +always, with the biggest on top. He knew that some Mrs. Spate had so +distributed them, if it were not the same who had hectored him, for old +Spate had a habit of marrying again. His wives lasted hardly so long as +his hard-driven horses.</p> + +<p>Shelby paused to price some of the vegetables, just to draw Spate into +conversation. The old man was all spectacles and whiskers, as he had +always been. Shelby thought he must have been born with spectacles and +whiskers.</p> + +<p>Joel Spate, never dreaming who Shelby was, was gracious to him for the +first time in history. He evidently looked upon Shelby as a new-comer +who might be pre-empted for a regular customer before Mrs. L. Bowers, +the rival grocer, got him. It somehow hurt Shelby's homesick heart to be +unrecognized, more than it pleased him to enjoy time's topsy-turvy. Here +he was, returned rich and powerful, to patronize the taskmaster who had +worked him hard and paid him harder in the old years. Yet he dared not +proclaim himself and take his revenge.</p> + +<p>He ended the interview by buying a few of the grocer's horrible cigars, +which he gave away to the hotel porter later.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> + +<p>All round the town Shelby wandered, trying to be recognized. But age and +prosperity had altered him beyond recall, though he himself knew almost +every old negro whitewash man, almost every teamster, he met. He was +surer of the first names than of the last, for the first names had been +most used in his day, and it surprised him to find how clearly he +recalled these names and faces, though late acquaintances escaped his +memory with ease.</p> + +<p>The women, too, he could generally place, though many who had been +short-skirted tomboys were now heavy-footed matrons of embonpoint with +children at their skirts, children as old as they themselves had been +when he knew them. Some of them, indeed, he recognized only by the +children that lagged alongside like early duplicates.</p> + +<p>As he sauntered one street of homely homes redeemed by the opulence of +their foliage, he saw coming his way a woman whose outlines seemed but +the enlargement of some photograph in the gallery of remembrance. Before +she reached him he identified Phœbe Carew.</p> + +<p>Her mother, he remembered, had been widowed early and had eked out a +meager income by making chocolate fudge, which the little girl peddled +about town on Saturday afternoons. And now the child, though she must be +thirty or thereabouts, had kept a certain grace of her youth, a wistful +prettiness, a girlish unmarriedness, that marked her as an old maid by +accident or choice, not by nature's decree.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p> + +<p>He wondered if she, at least, would pay him the compliment of +recognition. She made no sign of it as she approached. As she passed he +lifted his hat.</p> + +<p>"Isn't this Miss Phœbe Carew?"</p> + +<p>Wakefield women were not in danger from strangers' advances; she paused +without alarm and answered with an inquiring smile:</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You don't remember me?"</p> + +<p>She studied him. "I seem to, and yet—"</p> + +<p>"I'm Luke Shelby."</p> + +<p>"Luke Shelby! Oh yes! Why, how do you do?" She gave him her beautiful +hand, but she evidently lacked the faintest inkling of his identity. +Time had erased from recollection the boy who used to take her sliding +on his sled, the boy who used to put on her skates for her, the boy who +used to take her home on his grocery-wagon sometimes, pretending that he +was going her way, just for the benizon of her radiant companionship, +her shy laughter.</p> + +<p>"I used to live here," he said, ashamed to be so forgettable. "My mother +was—my stepfather was A. J. Stacom, who kept the hardware-store."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes," she said; "they moved away some years ago, didn't they?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; after mother died my stepfather went back to Council Bluffs, where +we came from in the first place. I used to go to school with you, +Phœbe—er—Miss Carew. Then I drove Spate's delivery-wagon for a +while before I went East."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh yes," she said; "I think I remember you very well. I'm very glad to +see you again, Mr.—Mr. Stacom."</p> + +<p>"Shelby," he said, and he was so heartsick that he merely lifted his hat +and added, "I'm glad to see you looking so well."</p> + +<p>"You're looking well, too," she said, and smiled the gracious, empty +smile one visits on a polite stranger. Then she went her way. In his +lonely eyes she moved with a goddess-like grace that made clouds of the +uneven pavements where he stumbled as he walked with reverted gaze.</p> + +<p>He went back to the hotel lonelier than before, in a greater loneliness +than Ulysses felt ending his Odyssey in Ithaca. For, at least, Ulysses +was remembered by an old dog that licked his hand.</p> + +<p>Once in his room, Shelby sank into a patent rocker of most uncomfortable +plush. The inhospitable garishness of a small-town hotel's luxury +expelled him from the hateful place, and he resumed the streets, taking, +as always, determination from rebuff and vowing within himself:</p> + +<p>"I'll make 'em remember me. I'll make the name of Shelby the biggest +name in town."</p> + +<p>On the main street he found one lone, bobtailed street-car waiting at +the end of its line, its horse dejected with the ennui of its career, +the driver dozing on the step.</p> + +<p>Shelby decided to review the town from this seedy chariot; but the +driver, surly with sleep, opened one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> eye and one corner of his mouth +just enough to inform him that the next "run" was not due for fifteen +minutes.</p> + +<p>"I'll change that," said Shelby. "I'll give 'em a trolley, and open cars +in summer, too."</p> + +<p>He dragged his discouraged feet back to the hotel and asked when dinner +would be served.</p> + +<p>"Supper's been ready sence six," said the clerk, whose agile toothpick +proclaimed that he himself had banqueted.</p> + +<p>Shelby went into the dining-room. A haughty head waitress, zealously +chewing gum, ignored him for a time, then piloted him to a table where +he found a party of doleful drummers sparring in repartee with a damsel +of fearful and wonderful coiffure.</p> + +<p>She detached herself reluctantly and eventually brought Shelby a supper +contained in a myriad of tiny barges with which she surrounded his plate +in a far-reaching flotilla.</p> + +<p>When he complained that his steak was mostly gristle, and that he did +not want his pie yet, Hebe answered:</p> + +<p>"Don't get flip! Think you're at the Worldoff?"</p> + +<p>Poor Shelby's nerves were so rocked that he condescended to complain to +the clerk. For answer he got this:</p> + +<p>"Mamie's all right. If you don't like our ways, better build a hotel of +your own."</p> + +<p>"I guess I will," said Shelby.</p> + +<p>He went to his room to read. The gas was no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> more than darkness made +visible. He vowed to change that, too.</p> + +<p>He would telephone to the theater. The telephone-girl was forever in +answering, and then she was impudent. Besides, the theater was closed. +Shelby learned that there was "a movin'-pitcher show going"! He went, +and it moved him to the door.</p> + +<p>The sidewalks were full of doleful loafers and loaferesses. Men placed +their chairs in the street and smoked heinous tobacco. Girls and women +dawdled and jostled to and from the ice-cream-soda fountains.</p> + +<p>The streets that night were not lighted at all, for the moon was abroad, +and the board of aldermen believed in letting God do all He could for +the town. In fact, He did nearly all that the town could show of charm. +The trees were majestic, the grass was lavishly spread, the sky was +divinely blue by day and angelically bestarred at night.</p> + +<p>Shelby compared his boyhood impressions with the feelings governing his +mind now that it was adult and traveled. He felt that he had grown, but +that the town had stuck in the mire. He felt an ambition to lift it and +enlighten it. Like the old builder who found Rome brick and left it +marble, Shelby determined that the Wakefield which he found of plank he +should leave at least of limestone. Everything he saw displeased him and +urged him to reform it altogether, and he said:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'll change all this. And they'll love me for it."</p> + +<p>And he did. But they—did they?</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>One day a greater than Shelby came to Wakefield, but not to stay. It was +no less than the President of these United States swinging around the +circle in an inspection of his realm, with possibly an eye to the +nearing moment when he should consent to re-election. As his special +train approached each new town the President studied up its statistics +so that he might make his speech enjoyable by telling the citizens the +things they already knew. He had learned that those are the things +people most like to hear.</p> + +<p>His encyclopćdia informed him that Wakefield had a population of about +fifteen thousand. He could not know how venerable an estimate this was, +for Wakefield was still fifteen thousand—now and forever, fifteen +thousand and insuperable.</p> + +<p>The President had a mental picture of just what such a town of fifteen +thousand would look like, and he wished himself back in the White House.</p> + +<p>He was met at the train by the usual entertainment committee, which in +this case coincided with the executive committee of the Wide-a-Wakefield +Club. It had seemed just as well to these members to elect themselves as +anybody else.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Pettibone, the town's most important paper-hanger, was again +chairman after some lapses from office. Joel Spate, the Bon-Ton Grocer, +was once more secretary, after having been treasurer twice and president +once. The One-Price Emporium, however, was now represented by the +younger Forshay, son of the founder, who had gone to the inevitable +Greenwood at the early age of sixty-nine. Soyer, the swell tailor, had +yielded his place to the stateliest man in town, Amasa Harbury, +president of the Wakefield Building and Loan Association. And Eberhart, +of the Furniture Palace, had been supplanted by Gibson Shoals, the bank +cashier.</p> + +<p>To the President's surprise the railroad station proved to be, instead +of the doleful shed usual in those parts, a graceful edifice of +metropolitan architecture. He was to ride in an open carriage, of +course, drawn by the two spanking dapples which usually drew the hearse +when it was needed. But this was tactfully kept from the President.</p> + +<p>There had been some bitterness over the choice of the President's +companions in the carriage, since it was manifestly impossible for the +entire committee of seven to pile into the space of four, though young +Forshay, who had inherited his father's gift of humor, volunteered to +ride on the President's lap or hold him on his.</p> + +<p>The extra members were finally consoled by being granted the next +carriage, an equipage drawn by no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> less than the noble black geldings +usually attached to the chief mourners' carriage.</p> + +<p>As the President was escorted to his place he remarked that a +trolley-car was waiting at the station.</p> + +<p>"I see that Wakefield boasts an electric line," he beamed.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Pettibone, "that's some of Shelby's foolishness."</p> + +<p>A look from Spate silenced him, but the President had not caught the +slip.</p> + +<p>The procession formed behind the town band, whose symphony suffered +somewhat from the effort of the musicians to keep one eye on the music +and throw the other eye backward at the great visitor.</p> + +<p>"What a magnificent building!" said the President as the parade turned a +corner. Nobody said anything, and the President read the name aloud. +"The Shelby House. A fine hotel!" he exclaimed, as he lifted his hat to +the cheers from the white-capped chambermaids and the black-coated +waiters in the windows. They were male waiters.</p> + +<p>"And the streets are lighted by electricity! And paved with brick!" the +President said. "Splendid! Splendid! There must be very enterprising +citizens in Gatesville—I mean Wakefield." He had visited so many towns!</p> + +<p>"That's a handsome office-building," was his next remark. "It's quite +metropolitan." The committee<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> vouchsafed no reply, but they could see +that he was reading the sign:</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Company list"> +<tr><td align="left">THE SHELBY BLOCK:</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">SHELBY INDEPENDENT TELEPHONE COMPANY</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">SHELBY'S PARADISE POWDER COMPANY</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">SHELBY ARTESIAN WELL COMPANY</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">SHELBY PASTIME PARK COMPANY</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">SHELBY OPERA HOUSE COMPANY</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">SHELBY STREET RAILWAY COMPANY</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p>The committee was not used to chatting with Presidents, and even the +practical Pettibone, who had voted against him, had an awe of him in the +flesh. He decided to vote for him next time; it would be comforting to +be able to say, "Oh yes, I know the President well; I used to take long +drives with him—once."</p> + +<p>There were heartaches in the carriage as the President, who commented on +so many things, failed to comment on the banner of welcome over +Pettibone's shop, painted by Pettibone's own practical hand; or the +gaily bedighted Bon-Ton Grocery with the wonderful arrangement of +tomato-cans into the words, "Welcome to Wakefield." The Building and +Loan Association had stretched a streamer across the street, too, and +the President never noticed it. His eyes and tongue were caught away by +the ornate structure of the opera-house.</p> + +<p>"Shelby Opera House. So many things named after Mr. Shelby. Is he the +founder of the city or—or—"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No, just one of the citizens," said Pettibone.</p> + +<p>"I should be delighted to meet him."</p> + +<p>Three votes fell from the Presidential tree with a thud.</p> + +<p>Had the committee been able to imagine in advance how Shelbyisms would +obtrude everywhere upon the roving eye of the visitor, whose one aim was +a polite desire to exclaim upon everything exclaimable, they might have +laid out the line of march otherwise.</p> + +<p>But it was too late to change now, and they grew grimmer and grimmer as +the way led to the stately pleasure-dome which Shelby Khan had decreed +and which imported architects and landscape-gardeners had established.</p> + +<p>Here were close-razored lawns and terraces, a lake with spouting +fountains, statues of twisty nymphs, glaring, many-antlered stags and +couchant lions, all among cedar-trees and flower-beds whose perfumes +saluted the Presidential nostril like a gentle hurrah.</p> + +<p>Emerging through the trees were the roofs, the cupola and ivy-bowered +windows of the home of Shelby, most homeless at home. For, after all his +munificence, Wakefield did not like him. The only tribute the people had +paid him was to boost the prices of everything he bought, from land to +labor, from wall-paper to cabbages. And now on the town's great day he +had not been included in any of the committees of welcome. He had been +left to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> brood alone in his mansion like a prince in ill favor exiled to +his palace.</p> + +<p>He did not know that his palace had delighted even the jaded eye of the +far-traveled First Citizen. He only knew that his fellow-townsmen +sneered at it with dislike.</p> + +<p>Shelby was never told by the discreet committeemen in the carriage that +the President had exclaimed on seeing his home:</p> + +<p>"Why, this is magnificent! This is an estate! I never dreamed +that—er—Wakefield was a city of such importance and such wealth. And +whose home is this?"</p> + +<p>Somebody groaned, "Shelby's."</p> + +<p>"Ah yes; Shelby's, of course. So many things here are Shelby's. You must +be very proud of Mr. Shelby. Is he there, perhaps?"</p> + +<p>"That's him, standing on the upper porch there, waving his hat," +Pettibone mumbled.</p> + +<p>The President waved his hat at Shelby.</p> + +<p>"And the handsome lady is his wife, perhaps?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's Mrs. Shelby," mumbled Spate. "She was Miss Carew. Used to +teach school here."</p> + +<p>Phœbe Shelby was clinging to her husband's side. There were tears in +her eyes and her hands squeezed mute messages upon his arm, for she knew +that his many-wounded heart was now more bitterly hurt than in all his +knowledge of Wakefield. He was a prisoner in disgrace gazing through the +bars at a festival.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> + +<p>He never knew that the President suggested stopping a moment to +congratulate him, and that it was his own old taskmaster Spate who +ventured to say that the President could meet him later. Spate could +rise to an emergency; the other committeemen thanked him with their +eyes.</p> + +<p>As the carriage left the border of the Shelby place the President turned +his head to stare, for it was beautiful, ambitiously beautiful. And +something in the silent attitude of the owner and his wife struck a +deeper note in the noisy, gaudy welcome of the other citizens.</p> + +<p>"Tell me about this Mr. Shelby," said the President.</p> + +<p>Looks were exchanged among the committee. All disliked the task, but +finally Spate broke the silence.</p> + +<p>"Well, Mr. President, Shelby is a kind of eccentric man. Some folks say +he's cracked. Used to drive a delivery-wagon for me. Ran away and tried +his hand at nearly everything. Finally, him and his two brothers +invented a kind of washing-powder. It was like a lot of others, but they +knew how to push it. Borrowed money to advertise it big. Got it started +till they couldn't have stopped it if they'd tried. Shelby decided to +come back here and establish a branch factory. That tall chimney is it. +No smoke comin' out of it to-day. He gave all the hands a holiday in +your honor, Mr. President."</p> + +<p>The President said: "Well, that's mighty nice of him. So he's come back +to beautify his old home,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> eh? That's splendid—a fine spirit. Too many +of us, I'm afraid, forget the old places when ambition carries us away +into new scenes. Mr. Shelby must be very popular here."</p> + +<p>There was a silence. Mr. Pettibone was too honest, or too something, to +let the matter pass.</p> + +<p>"Well, I can't say as to that, Mr. President. Shelby's queer. He's very +pushing. You can't drive people more 'n so fast. Shelby is awful fussy. +Now, that trolley line—he put that in, but we didn't need it."</p> + +<p>"Not but what Wakefield is enterprising," Spate added, anxiously.</p> + +<p>Pettibone nodded and went on: "People used to think the old bobtailed +horse-car—excuse my language—wasn't much, but the trolley-cars are a +long way from perfect. Service ain't so very good. People don't ride on +'em much, because they don't run often enough."</p> + +<p>The President started to say, "Perhaps they can't run oftener because +people don't ride on 'em enough," but something counseled him to +silence, and Pettibone continued:</p> + +<p>"Same way with the electric light. People that had gas hated to change. +He made it cheap, but it's a long way from perfect. He put in an +independent telephone. The old one wasn't much good and it was +expensive. Now we can have telephones at half the old price. But result +is, you've got to have two, or you might just as well not have one.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +Everybody you want to talk to is always on the other line."</p> + +<p>The President nodded. He understood the ancient war between the simple +life and the strenuous. He wished he had left the subject unopened, but +Pettibone had warmed to the theme.</p> + +<p>"Shelby built an opery-house and brought some first-class troupes here. +But this is a religious town, and people don't go much to shows. In the +first place, we don't believe in 'em; in the second place, we've been +bit by bad shows so often. So his opery-house costs more 'n it takes in.</p> + +<p>"Then he laid out the Pastime Park—tried to get up games and things; +but the vacant lots always were good enough for baseball. He tried to +get people to go out in the country and play golf, too; but it was too +much like following the plow. Folks here like to sit on their porches +when they're tired.</p> + +<p>"He brought an automobile to town—scared most of the horses to death. +Our women folks got afraid to drive because the most reliable old nags +tried to climb trees whenever Shelby came honking along. He built two or +three monuments to famous citizens, but that made the families of other +famous citizens jealous.</p> + +<p>"He built that big home of his, but it only makes our wives envious. +It's so far out that the society ladies can't call much. Besides, they +feel uneasy with all that glory.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mrs. Shelby has a man in a dress-suit to open the door. The rest of +us—our wives answer the door-bell themselves. Our folks are kind of +afraid to invite Mr. and Mrs. Shelby to their parties for fear they'll +criticize; so Mrs. Shelby feels as if she was deserted.</p> + +<p>"She thinks her husband is mistreated, too; but—well, Shelby's +eccentric. He says we're ungrateful. Maybe we are, but we like to do +things our own way. Shelby tried to get us to help boost the town, as he +calls it. He offered us stock in his ventures, but we've got taken in so +often that—well, once bit is twice shy, you know, Mr. President. So +Wakefield stands just about where she did before Shelby came here."</p> + +<p>"Not but what Wakefield is enterprising," Mr. Spate repeated.</p> + +<p>The President's curiosity overcame his policy. He asked one more +question:</p> + +<p>"But if you citizens didn't help Mr. Shelby, how did he manage all +these—improvements, if I may use the word?"</p> + +<p>"Did it all by his lonesome, Mr. President. His income was immense. But +he cut into it something terrible. His brothers in the East began to row +at the way he poured it out. When he began to draw in advance they were +goin' to have him declared incompetent. Even his brothers say he's +cracked. Recently they've drawn in on him. Won't let him spend his own +money."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> + +<p>A gruesome tone came from among Spate's spectacles and whiskers:</p> + +<p>"He won't last long. Health's giving out. His wife told my wife, the +other day, he don't sleep nights. That's a bad sign. His pride is set on +keepin' everything going, though, and nothing can hold him. He wants the +street-cars to run regular, and the telephone to answer quick, even if +the town don't support 'em. He's cracked—there's nothing to it."</p> + +<p>Amasa Harbury, of the Building and Loan Association, leaned close and +spoke in a confidential voice:</p> + +<p>"He's got mortgages on 'most everything, Mr. President. He's borrowed on +all his securities up to the hilt. Only yesterday I had to refuse him a +second mortgage on his house. He stormed around about how much he'd put +into it. I told him it didn't count how much you put into a hole, it was +how much you could get out. You can imagine how much that palace of his +would bring in this town on a foreclosure sale—about as much as a white +elephant in a china-shop."</p> + +<p>"Not but what Wakefield is enterprising," insisted Spate.</p> + +<p>The lust for gossip had been aroused and Pettibone threw discretion to +the winds.</p> + +<p>"Shelby was hopping mad because we left him off the committee of +welcome, but we thought we'd better stick to our own crowd of +represent'ive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> citizens. Shelby don't really belong to Wakefield, +anyway. Still, if you want to meet him, it can be arranged."</p> + +<p>"Oh no," said the President. "Don't trouble."</p> + +<p>And he was politic—or politician—enough to avoid the subject +thenceforward. But he could not get Shelby out of his mind that night as +his car whizzed on its way. To be called crazy and eccentric and to be +suspected, feared, resisted by the very people he longed to +lead—Presidents are not unaware of that ache of unrequited affection.</p> + +<p>The same evening Shelby and Phœbe Shelby looked out on their park. +The crowds that had used it as a vantage-ground for the pageant had all +vanished, leaving behind a litter of rubbish, firecrackers, cigar stubs, +broken shrubs, gouged terraces. Not one of them had asked permission, +had murmured an apology or a word of thanks.</p> + +<p>For the first time Phœbe Shelby noted that her husband did not take +new determination from rebuff. His resolution no longer made a +springboard of resistance. He seemed to lean on her a little.</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>The perennially empty cutlery-works gave the Wide-a-Wakefield Club no +rest. Year after year the anxiously awaited census renewed the old note +of fifteen thousand and denied the eloquent argument of increased +population. The committee<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> in its letters continued to refer to +Wakefield as "thriving" rather than as "growing." Its ingeniously +evasive circulars finally roused a curiosity in Wilmer Barstow, a +manufacturer of refrigerators, dissatisfied with the taxes and freight +rates of the city of Clayton.</p> + +<p>Barstow was the more willing to leave Clayton because he had suffered +there from that reward which is more unkind than the winter wind. He +loved a woman and paid court to her, sending her flowers at every +possible excuse and besetting her with gifts.</p> + +<p>She was not much of a woman—her very lover could see that; but he loved +her in his own and her despite. She was unworthy of his jewels as of his +infatuation, yet she gave him no courtesy for his gifts. She behaved as +if they bored her; yet he knew no other way to win her. The more +indifference she showed the more he tried to dazzle her.</p> + +<p>At last he found that she was paying court herself to a younger man—a +selfish good-for-naught who made fun of her as well as of Barstow, and +who borrowed money from her as well as from Barstow.</p> + +<p>When Barstow fully realized that the woman had made him not only her own +booby, but the town joke as well, he could not endure her or the place +longer. He cast about for an escape. But he found his factory no +trifling baggage to move.</p> + +<p>It was on such fertile soil that one of the Wide-a-Wakefield circulars +fell.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p> + +<p>It chimed so well with Barstow's mood that he decided at least to look +the town over.</p> + +<p>He came unannounced to make his own observations, like the spies sent +into Canaan. The trolley-car that met his train was rusty, paintless, +forlorn, untenanted. He took a ramshackle hack to the best hotel. Its +sign-board bore this legend: "The Palace, formerly Shelby +House—entirely new management."</p> + +<p>He saw his baggage bestowed and went out to inspect the factory building +described to him. The cutlery-works proved smaller than his needs, and +it had a weary look. Not far away he found a far larger factory, idle, +empty, closed. The sign declared it to be the Wakefield Branch of the +Shelby Paradise Powder Company. He knew the prosperity of that firm and +wondered why this branch had been abandoned.</p> + +<p>In the course of time the trolley-car overtook him, and he boarded it as +a sole passenger.</p> + +<p>The lonely motorman was loquacious and welcomed Barstow as the Ancient +Mariner welcomed the wedding guest. He explained that he made but few +trips a day and passengers were fewer than trips. The company kept it +going to hold the franchise, for some day Wakefield would reach sixteen +thousand and lift the hoodoo.</p> + +<p>The car passed an opera-house, with grass aspiring through the chinks of +the stone steps leading to the boarded-up doors.</p> + +<p>The car passed the Shelby Block; the legend,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> "For Rent, apply to Amasa +Harbury," hid the list of Shelby enterprises.</p> + +<p>The car grumbled through shabby streets to the outskirts of the town, +where it sizzled along a singing wire past the drooping fences, the +sagging bleachers, and the weedy riot of what had been a +pleasure-ground. A few dim lines in the grass marked the ghost of a +baseball diamond, a circular track, and foregone tennis-courts.</p> + +<p>Barstow could read on what remained of the tottering fence:</p> + + +<p style="margin-left: 35%;">HELBY'S PAST<span class="space"> </span>ARK</p> + + +<p>When the car had reached the end of the line Barstow decided to walk +back to escape the garrulity of the motorman, who lived a lonely life, +though he was of a sociable disposition.</p> + +<p>Barstow's way led him shortly to the edge of a curious demesne, or +rather the débris of an estate. A chaos of grass and weeds thrust even +through the rust of the high iron fence about the place. Shrubs that had +once been shapely grew raggedly up and swept down into the tall and +ragged grass. A few evergreen trees lifted flowering cones like funeral +candles in sconces. What had been a lake with fountains was a great, +cracked basin of concrete tarnished with scabious pools thick with the +dead leaves of many an autumn.</p> + +<p>Barstow entered a fallen gate and walked along paths where his feet +slashed through barbaric tangles<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> clutching at him like fingers. As he +prowled, wondering what splendor this could have been which was so +misplaced in so dull a town and drooping into so early a neglect, birds +took alarm and went crying through the branches. There were lithe +escapes through the grass, and from the rim of the lake ugly toads +plounced into the pool and set the water-spiders scurrying on their +frail catamarans.</p> + +<p>Two bronze stags towered knee-deep in verdure; one had a single antler, +the other none. A pair of toothless lions brooded over their lost +dignity. Between their disconsolate sentry, mounted flight on flight of +marble steps to the house of the manor. It lay like an old frigate +storm-shattered and flung aground to rot. The hospitable doors were +planked shut, the windows, too; the floors of the verandas were broken +and the roof was everywhere sunken and insecure.</p> + +<p>At the portal had stood two nymphs, now almost classic with decay. One +of them, toppling helplessly, quenched her bronze torch in weeds. Her +sister stood erect in grief like a daughter of Niobe wept into stone.</p> + +<p>The scene somehow reminded Barstow of one of Poe's landscapes. It was +the corpse of a home. Eventually he noticed a tall woman in black, +seated on a bench and gazing down the terraces across the dead lake. +Barstow was tempted to ask her whose place this had been and what its +history was, but her mien and her crępe daunted him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> + +<p>He made his way out of the region, looking back as he went. When he +approached the most neighboring house a grocery-wagon came flying down +the road. Before it stopped the slanted driver was off the seat and +half-way across the yard. In a moment he was back again. Barstow called +out:</p> + +<p>"Whose place is that?"</p> + +<p>"Shelby's."</p> + +<p>"Did he move away?"</p> + +<p>But the horse was already in motion, and the youth had darted after, +leaping to the side of the seat and calling back something which Barstow +could not hear.</p> + +<p>Shelby, who had given the town everything he could, had even endowed it +with a ruins.</p> + +<p>When Barstow had reached the hotel again he went in to his supper. A +head waitress, chewing gum, took him to a table where a wildly coiffed +damsel brought him a bewildering array of most undesirable foods in a +flotilla of small dishes.</p> + +<p>After supper Barstow, following the suit of the other guests, took a +chair on the sidewalk, for a little breeze loafed along the hot street. +Barstow's name had been seen upon the hotel register and the executive +committee of the Wide-a-Wakefield Club waited upon him in an august +body.</p> + +<p>Mr. Pettibone introduced himself and the others. They took chairs and +hitched them close to Barstow, while they poured out in alternate +strains the advantages of Wakefield. Barstow listened politely,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> but the +empty factory and the dismantled home of Shelby haunted him and made a +dismal background to their advertisements.</p> + +<p>It was of the factory that he spoke first:</p> + +<p>"The building you wrote me about and offered me rent-free looks a little +small and out of date for our plant. I saw Shelby's factory empty. Could +I rent that at a reasonable figure, do you suppose?"</p> + +<p>The committee leaped at the idea with enthusiasm. Spate laughed through +his beard:</p> + +<p>"Lord, I reckon the company would rent it to you for almost the price of +the taxes."</p> + +<p>Then he realized that this was saying just a trifle too much. They began +to crawfish their way out. But Barstow said, with unconviction:</p> + +<p>"There's only one thing that worries me. Why did Shelby close up his +Paradise Powder factory and move away?"</p> + +<p>Pettibone urged the reason hastily: "His brothers closed it up for him. +They wouldn't stand any more of his extravagant nonsense. They shut down +the factory and then shut down on him, too."</p> + +<p>"So he gave up his house and moved away?" said Barstow.</p> + +<p>"He gave up his house because he couldn't keep it up," said Amasa +Harbury. "Taxes were pretty steep and nobody would rent it, of course. +It don't belong in a town like Wakefield. Neither did Shelby."</p> + +<p>"So he moved away?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Moved away, nothin'," sneered Spate. "He went to a boardin'-house and +died there. Left his wife a lot of stock in a broken-down street-car +line, and a no-good electric-light company, and an independent telephone +system that the regulars gobbled up. She's gone back to teachin' school +again. We used our influence to get her old job back. We didn't think we +ought to blame her for the faults of Shelby."</p> + +<p>"And what had Shelby done?"</p> + +<p>They told him in their own way—treading on one another's toes in their +anxiety; shutting one another up; hunching their chairs together in a +tangle as if their slanders were wares they were trying to sell.</p> + +<p>But about all that Barstow could make of the matter was that Shelby had +been in much such case as his own. He had been hungry for human +gratitude, and had not realized that it is won rather by accepting than +by bestowing gifts.</p> + +<p>Barstow sat and smoked glumly while the committee clattered. He hardly +heard what they were at such pains to emphasize. He was musing upon a +philosophy of his father's:</p> + +<p>"There's an old saying, 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth.' But +sayings and doings are far apart. If you can manage to sell a man a +horse he'll make the best of the worst bargain; he'll nurse the nag and +feed him and drive him easy and brag about his faults. He'll overlook +everything from spavin to bots; he'll<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> learn to think that a hamstrung +hind leg is the poetry of motion. But a gift horse—Lord love you! If +you give a man a horse he'll look him in the mouth and everywhere else. +The whole family will take turns with a microscope. They'll kick because +he isn't run by electricity, and if he's an Arabian they'll roast him +because he holds his tail so high. If you want folks to appreciate +anything don't give it to 'em; make 'em work for it and pay for +it—double if you can."</p> + +<hr style="width: 5%;" /> + +<p>Shelby had mixed poetry with business, had given something for nothing; +had paid the penalty.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME</h2> + + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>The old road came pouring down from the wooded hills to the westward, +flowed round the foot of other hills, skirting a meadow and a pond, and +then went on easterly about its business. Almost overhanging the road, +like a mill jutting upon its journeyman stream, was an aged house. Still +older were the two lofty oaks standing mid-meadow and imaged again in +the pond. Younger than oaks or house or road, yet as old as Scripture +allots, was the man who stalked across the porch and slumped into a +chair. He always slumped into a chair, for his muscles still remembered +the days when he had sat only when he was worn out. Younger than oaks, +house, road, or man, yet older than a woman wants to be, was the woman +in the garden.</p> + +<p>"What you doin', Maw?" the man called across the rail, though he could +see perfectly well.</p> + +<p>"Just putterin' 'round in the garden. What you been doin', Paw?"</p> + +<p>"Just putterin' 'round the barn. Better come in out the hot sun and rest +your old back."</p> + +<p>Evidently the idea appealed to her, for the sun<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>bonnet overhanging the +meek potato-flowers like a flamingo's beak rose in air, as she stood +erect, or as nearly erect as she ever stood nowadays. She tossed a few +uprooted weeds over the lilac-hedge, and, clumping up the steps of the +porch, slumped into a chair. Chairs had once been her luxury, too. She +carried a dish-pan full of green peas, and as her gaze wandered over the +beloved scene her wrinkled fingers were busy among the pods, shelling +them expertly, as if they knew their way about alone.</p> + +<p>The old man sighed, the deep sigh of ultimate contentment. "Well, Maw, +as the fellow says in the circus, here we are again."</p> + +<p>"Here we are again, Paw."</p> + +<p>They always said the same thing about this time of year, when they +wearied of the splendid home they had established as the capital of +their estate and came back to the ground from which they had sprung. +James Coburn always said:</p> + +<p>"Well, Maw, as the fellow says in the circus, here we are again."</p> + +<p>And Sarah Gregg Coburn always answered:</p> + +<p>"Here we are again, Paw."</p> + +<p>This place was to them what old slippers are to tired feet. Here they +put off the manners and the dignities their servants expected of them, +and lapsed into shabby clothes and colloquialisms, such as they had been +used to when they were first married, long before he became the master +of a thousand acres, of cattle upon a hundred hills, of blooded +thorough<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>breds and patriarchal stallions, of town lots and a bank, and +of a record as Congressman for two terms. This pilgrimage had become a +sort of annual elopement, the mischief of two white-haired runaways. Now +that the graveyard or the city had robbed them of all their children, +they loved to turn back and play at an Indian-summer honeymoon.</p> + +<p>This year, for the first time, Maw had consented to the aid of a "hired +girl." She refused to bring one of the maids or the cook from the big +house, and engaged a woman from the village nearest at hand—and then +tried to pretend the woman wasn't there. It hurt her to admit the +triumph of age in her bones, but there was compensation in the privilege +of hearing some one else faintly clattering over the dish-washing of +evenings, while she sat on the porch with Paw and watched the sunset +trail its gorgeous banners along the heavens and across the little toy +sky of the pond.</p> + +<p>It was pleasant in the mornings, too, to lie abed in criminal indolence, +hearing from afar the racket of somebody else building the fire. After +breakfast she made a brave beginning, only to turn the broom and the +bedmaking over to Susan and dawdle about after Paw or celebrate matins +in the green aisles of the garden. But mostly the old couple just +pretended to do their chores, and sat on the porch and watched the +clouds go by and the frogs flop into the pond.</p> + +<p>"Mail come yet, Maw?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Susan's gone for it."</p> + +<p>He glanced up the road to a sunbonneted figure blurred in the glare, and +sniffed amiably. "Humph! Country's getting so citified the morning +papers are here almost before breakfast's cleared off. Remember when we +used to drive eleven mile to get the <i>Weekly Tribune</i>, Maw?"</p> + +<p>"I remember. And it took you about a week to read it. Sometimes you got +one number behind. Nowadays you finish your paper in about five +minutes."</p> + +<p>"Nothing much in the papers nowadays except murder trials and divorce +cases. I guess Susan must have a mash on that mail-carrier."</p> + +<p>"I wish she'd come on home and not gabble so much."</p> + +<p>"Expectin' a letter from the boy?"</p> + +<p>"Ought to be one this morning."</p> + +<p>"You've said that every mornin' for three weeks. I s'pose he's so busy +in town he don't realize how much his letters mean to us."</p> + +<p>"I hate to have him in the city with its dangers—he's so reckless with +his motor, and then there's the temptations and the scramble for money. +I wish Stevie had been contented to settle down with us. We've got +enough, goodness knows. But I suppose he feels he must be a millionaire +or nothing, and what you've made don't seem a drop in the bucket."</p> + +<p>The old man winced. He thought how often the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> boy had found occasion to +draw on him for help in financing his "sure things" and paying up the +losses on the "sure things" that had gone wrong. Those letters had been +sent to the bank in town and had not been mentioned at home, except now +and then, long afterward, when the wife pressed the old man too hard +about holding back money from the boy. Then he would unfold a few +figures. They dazed her, but they never convinced her.</p> + +<p>Who ever convinced a woman? Persuaded? Yes, since Eve! Convinced? Not +yet!</p> + +<p>It hurts a man's pride to hear his wife impliedly disparage his own +achievements in contrast with his son's. Not that he is jealous of his +son; not that he does not hope and expect that the boy will climb to +peaks he has never dared; not that he would not give his all and bend +his own back as a stepping-stone to his son's ascension; but just that +comparisons are odious. This disparagement is natural, though, to wives, +for they compare what their husbands have done with what their sons are +going to do.</p> + +<p>It was an old source of peevishness with Paw Coburn, and he was moved to +say—answering only by implication what she had unconsciously implied, +and seeming to take his theme from the landscape about them:</p> + +<p>"When my father died all he left me was this little—bungalow they'd +call it nowadays, I suppose, and a few acres 'round it. You remember, +Maw,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> how, when the sun first came sneakin' over that knob off to the +left, the shadow of those two oaks used to just touch the stone wall on +the western border of father's property, and when the sun was just +crawlin' into bed behind those woods off yonder the shadow of the oaks +just overlapped the rail fence on the eastern border? That's all my +father left me—that and the mortgage. That's all I brought you home to, +Maw. I'm not disparaging my father. He was a great man. When he left his +own home in the East and came out here all this was woods, woods, woods, +far as you can see. Even that pond wasn't there then. My father cleared +it all—cut down everything except those two oak-trees. He used to call +them the Twin Oaks, but they always seemed to me like man and wife. I +kind o' like to think that they're you and me. And like you and me +they're all that's left standin' of the old trees. They were big trees, +too, and those were big days."</p> + +<p>The greatness of his thoughts rendered him mute. He was a plain man, but +he was hearing the unwritten music of the American epic of the ax and +the plow, the more than Trojan war, the more than ten years' war, +against forests and savages. His wife brought him back from +hyper-Homeric vision to the concrete.</p> + +<p>"Thank Heaven, Susan's finished gossipin' and started home."</p> + +<p>The mail-carrier in his little umbrellaed cart was vanishing up the +hill, and the sunbonnet was floating<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> down the road. The sky was an +unmitigated blue, save for a few masses of cloud, like piles of new +fleece on a shearing-floor. Green woods, gray road, blue sky, pale +clouds, all were steeped in heat and silence so intense it seemed that +something must break. And something broke.</p> + +<p>Appallingly, abruptly, came a shattering crash, a streak of blinding +fire, an unendurable noise, a searing blast of blaze as if the sun had +been dynamite exploded, splintering the very joists of heaven. The whole +air rocked like a tidal wave breaking on a reef; the house writhed in +all its timbers. Then silence—unbearable silence.</p> + +<p>The old woman, made a child again by a paralytic stroke of terror, found +herself on her knees, clinging frantically to her husband. The cheek +buried in his breast felt the lurch and leap of his pounding heart. +Manlike, he found courage in his woman's fright, but his hand quivered +upon her hair; she heard his shaken voice saying:</p> + +<p>"There, there, Maw, it's all over."</p> + +<p>When he dared to open his eyes he was blinded and dazed like the +stricken Saul. When he could see again he found the world unchanged. The +sky was still there, and still azure; the clouds swam serenely; the road +still poured down from the unaltered hills. He tried to laugh; it was a +sickly sound he made.</p> + +<p>"I guess that was what the fellow calls a bolt from the blue. I've often +heard of 'em, but it's the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> first I ever saw. No harm's done, Maw, +except to Susan's feelings. She's pickin' herself up out the dust and +hurryin' home like two-forty. I guess the concussion must have knocked +her over."</p> + +<p>The old woman, her heart still fluttering madly, rose from her knees +with the tremulous aid of the old man and opened her eyes. She could +hardly believe that she would not find the earth an apocalyptic ruin of +uprooted hills. She breathed deeply of the relief, and her eyes ran +along the remembered things as if calling the roll. Suddenly her eyes +paused, widened. Her hand went out to clutch her husband's arm.</p> + +<p>"Look, Paw! The oaks, the oaks!"</p> + +<p>The lightning had leaped upon them like a mad panther, rending their +branches from them, ripping off great strips of bark, and leaving long, +gaping wounds, dripping with the white blood of trees. The lesser of the +two oaks had felt the greater blow, and would have toppled to the ground +had it not fallen across its mate; and its mate, though grievously +riven, held it up, with branches interlocking like cherishing arms.</p> + +<p>To that human couple the tragedy of the trees they had looked upon as +the very emblems of stability was pitiful. The old woman's eyes swam +with tears. She made no shame of her sobs. The old man tried to comfort +her with a commonplace:</p> + +<p>"I was readin' only the other day, Maw, that oaks attract the lightning +more than any other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> trees," and then he broke down. "Father always +called 'em the Twin Oaks, but I always called 'em you and me."</p> + +<p>The panic-racked Susan came stumbling up the steps, gasping with +experiences. But the aged couple either did not hear or did not heed. +With old hand embracing old hand they sat staring at the rapine of the +lightning, the tigerish atrocity that had butchered and mutilated their +beloved trees. Susan dropped into Mrs. Coburn's lap what mail she +brought and hurried inside to faint.</p> + +<p>The old couple sat in a stupor long and long before Mrs. Coburn found +that she was idly fingering letters and papers. She glanced down, and a +familiar writing brought her from her trance.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Paw, here's a letter from the boy! Here's a letter from Stevie. And +here's your paper."</p> + +<p>He took the paper, but did not open it, turning instead to ask, "What +does the boy say?"</p> + +<p>With hands awkwardly eager she ripped the envelope, tore out the letter, +and spread it open on her lap, then pulled her spectacles down from her +hair, and read with loving inflection:<br /><br /></p> + +<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">My Darling Mother and Dad</span>,—It is simply heinous the way I neglect +to write you, but somehow the rush of things here keeps me putting +it off from day to day. If remembrances were letters you would have +them in flocks, for I think of you always and I am homesick for the +sight of your blessed faces.</p> + +<p>"I should like to come out and see you in your little old nest, but +business piles up about me till I can't see my way out at present. +I do wish you could run down here and make<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> me a good long visit, +but I suppose that is impossible, too. There are two or three big +deals pending that look promising, and if any one of them wins out +I shall clean up enough to be a gentleman of leisure. The first +place I turn will be home. My heart aches for the rest and comfort +of your love.</p> + +<p>"Write me often and tell me how you both are, and believe me, with +all the affection in the world,</p> + + +<p style="margin-left: 45%;">"Your devoted son,</p> +<p class="citation">"<span class="smcap">Stephen</span>." +<br /></p> +</blockquote> + +<p>She pushed her dewy spectacles back in her gray hair and pressed the +letter to her lips; she was smiling as only old mothers smile over +letters from their far-off children. The man's face softened, too, with +the ache that battle-scarred fathers feel, thinking of their sons in the +thick of the fight. Then he unfolded his paper, set his glasses on his +big nose, and pursed his lips to read what was new in the world at +large. His wife sat still, just remembering, perusing old files and back +numbers of the gazettes of her boy's past, remembering him from her +first vague thrill of him to his slow youth, to manhood, and the last +good-by kiss.</p> + +<p>Nothing was heard from either of them for a long while, save the creak +of her chair and the rustle of his paper as he turned to the page +recording the results in the incessant Gettysburgs over the prices of +corn, pork, poultry, butter, and eggs. They were history to him. He +could grow angry over a drop in December wheat, and he could glow at a +sign of feverishness in oats. To-day he was profoundly moved to read +that October ribs had opened at 10.95<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> and closed at 11.01, and +depressed to see that September lard had dropped from 11.67 to 11.65.</p> + +<p>As he turned the paper his eye was caught by the head-lines of an old +and notorious trial at law, and he was confirmed in his wrath. He +growled:</p> + +<p>"Good Lord, ain't that dog hung yet?"</p> + +<p>"What you talkin' about, Paw?"</p> + +<p>"I was just noticin' that the third trial of Tom Carey is in full swing +again. It's cost the State a hundred thousand dollars already, and the +scoundrel ain't punished yet."</p> + +<p>"What did he do, Paw?"</p> + +<p>The old man blushed like a boy as he stammered: "You're too young to +know all he did, Maw. If I told you, you wouldn't understand. But it +ended in murder. If he'd been a low-browed dago they'd have had him +railroaded to Jericho in no time. But the lawyers are above the law, and +they've kept this fellow from his deserts till folks have almost forgot +what it was he did. It's disgraceful. It makes our courts the +laughing-stock of the world. It gives the anarchists an excuse for +saying that there's one law for the poor and another for the rich."</p> + +<p>After the thunder of his ire had rolled away there was a gentle murmur +from the old woman. "It's a terrible thing to put a man to death."</p> + +<p>"So it is, Maw, and if this fellow had only realized it he'd have kept +out of trouble."</p> + +<p>"He was excited, most likely, and out of his head. What I mean is, it's +a terrible thing for a judge and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> a jury to try a man and take his life +away from him."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's terrible, of course, Maw, but we've got to have laws to hold +the world together, ain't we? And if we don't enforce 'em, what's the +use of havin' 'em?"</p> + +<p>Silence and a far-away look on the wrinkled face resting on the wrinkled +hand and then a quiet question:</p> + +<p>"Suppose it was our Steve?"</p> + +<p>"I won't suppose any such thing. Thank God there's been no stain on any +of our family, either side; just plain hard-workin' folks—no crazy +ones, no criminals."</p> + +<p>"But supposing it was our boy, Paw?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, what's the use of arguin' with a woman! I love you for it, Maw, +but—well, I'm sorry I spoke."</p> + +<p>He returned to his paper, growling now and then as he read of some new +quibble devised by the attorneys for the defense. As softly and as +surreptitiously as it begins to rain on a cloudy day, she was crying. He +turned again with mock indignation.</p> + +<p>"Here, here! What you turning up about now?"</p> + +<p>"I want to see my boy. I'm worried. He may be sick. He'd never let us +know."</p> + +<p>The old man tried to cajole her from her forebodings, tried to reason +them away, laugh them away. At last he said, with a poor effort at +gruffness:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, for the Lord's sake, why don't you go? He's always askin' us to +come and see him. I'm kind o' homesick for a sight of the boy m'self. +You haven't been to town for a month of Sundays. Throw a few things in a +valise and I'll hitch up. We'll just about make the next train from the +village."</p> + +<p>She needed no coercion from without. She rose at once. As she opened the +squeaky screen-door he was clumping down the steps. He paused to call +back:</p> + +<p>"Oh, Maw!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Paw!"</p> + +<p>"Better tuck in a jar of those preserves you been puttin' up. The boy +always liked those better 'n most anything. Don't wrap 'em in my +nightshirt, though."</p> + +<p>She called out, "All right," and the slap of the screen-door was echoed +a moment later by a similar sound in the barn, accompanied by the old +man's voice:</p> + +<p>"Give over, Fan."</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>The elevator-boy hesitated. "Oh, yes-sum, I got a pass-key, all right, +but I can't hahdly let nobody in Mista Coburn's 'pahtment 'thout his +awdas."</p> + +<p>"But we're his mother and father."</p> + +<p>"Of co'se I take yo' wud for that, ma'am, but, you see, I can't hahdly +let nobody—er—um'm—thank<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> you, sir—well, I reckon Mista Coburn might +be mo' put out ef I didn't let you-all in than ef I did."</p> + +<p>The elevator soared silently to the eighth floor, and there all three +debarked. The boy was so much impressed with the tip the old man had +slipped him that he unlocked the door, put the hand-baggage into the +room, snapped the switch that threw on all the lights, and said, "Thank +you, sir," again as he closed the door.</p> + +<p>Paw opened it to give the boy another coin and say: "Don't you let on +that we're here. It's a surprise."</p> + +<p>The boy, grinning, promised and descended, like an imp through a trap.</p> + +<p>The old couple stood stock-still, hesitating to advance. So many +feelings, such varied timidities, urged them forward, yet held them +back. It was the home of the son they had begotten, conceived, tended, +loved, praised, punished, feared, prayed for, counseled, provisioned, +and surrendered. Years of separation had made him almost a stranger, and +they dreaded the intrusion into the home he had built for himself, +remote from their influence. Poor, weak, silly old things, with a +boy-and-girlish gawkishness about them, the helpless feeling of +uninvited guests!</p> + +<p>"You go first, Paw."</p> + +<p>And Paw went first. On the sill of the drawing-room he paused and swept +a glance around. He would have given an arm to be inspired with some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> +scheme for whisking his wife away or changing what she must see. But she +was already crowding on his heels, pushing him forward. There was no +retreat. He tried to laugh it off.</p> + +<p>"Well, here we are at last, as the fellow doesn't say in the circus."</p> + +<p>There was nothing to do but sit down and wait. The very chairs were of +an architecture and upholstery incongruous to them. They knew something +of luxury, but not of this school. There was nowhere for them to look +that something alien did not meet their eyes. So they looked at the +floor.</p> + +<p>"It gets awful hot in town, don't it?" said Paw, mopping his beaded +forehead.</p> + +<p>"Awful," said Maw, dabbing at hers.</p> + +<p>Eventually they heard the elevator door gride on its grooves. All the +way in on the train they had planned to hide and spring out on the boy. +They had giggled like children over the plot. It was rather their +prearrangement than their wills that moved them to action. Automatically +they hid themselves, without laughter, rather with a sort of guilty +terror. They found a deep wardrobe closet and stepped inside, drawing +the door almost shut.</p> + +<p>They heard a key in the lock, the click of a knob, the sound of a door +closed. Then a pause. They had forgotten to turn off the lights. +Hurrying footsteps, loud on the bare floor, muffled on the rugs. How +well they knew that step! But there was excitement in its rhythm. They +could hear the fa<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>miliar voice muttering unfamiliarly as the footsteps +hurried here and there. He came into the room where they were. They +could hear him breathe now, for he breathed heavily, as if he had been +running. From place to place he moved with a sense of restless stealth. +At length, just as they were about to sally forth, he hurried forward +and flung open their door.</p> + +<p>Standing among the hanging clothes, the light strong on their faces, +they seemed to strike him at first as ghosts. He stared at them aghast, +and recoiled. Then the old ghosts smiled and stepped forward with open +arms. But he recoiled again, and his welcome to his far-come, +heart-hungry parents was a groan.</p> + +<p>They saw that he had a revolver in his hand. His eyes recurred to it, +and he turned here and there for a place to lay it, but seemed unable to +let it go. His mother flung forward and threw her arms about him, her +lips pursed to kiss him, but he turned away with lowered eyes. His +father took him by the shoulders and said:</p> + +<p>"Why, what's the matter, boy? Ain't you glad to see your Maw—and me?"</p> + +<p>For answer he only breathed hard and chokingly. His eyes went to the +revolver again, then roved here and there, always as if searching for a +place to hide it.</p> + +<p>"Give that thing to me, Steve," the old man said. And he took it in his +hands, forcing from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> cold steel the colder fingers that clung as if +frozen about the handle.</p> + +<p>Once he was free of the weapon, the boy toppled into a chair, his mother +still clasping him desperately.</p> + +<p>The old man knew something about firearms. He found the spring, broke +the revolver, and looked into the cylinder. In every chamber was the +round eye of a cartridge. Three of them bore the little scar of the +firing-pin.</p> + +<p>Old Coburn leaned hard against the wall. He looked about for a place to +hide the horrible machine, but he, too, could not let go of it. His +mouth was full of the ashes of life. He would have been glad to drop +dead. But beyond the sick, clammy face of his son he saw the face of his +wife, an old face, a mother's face, witless with bewilderment. The old +man swallowed hard.</p> + +<p>"What's happened, Steve? What's been goin' on?"</p> + +<p>The young man only shook his head, ran his dry tongue along his lips, +tore a piece of loose skin from the lower one with his teeth, and +breathed noisily through nostrils that worked like a dog's. He pushed +his mother's hands away as if they irked him. The old man could have +struck him to the ground for that roughness, but the prayers in the +mother's eyes restrained him.</p> + +<p>"Better tell us, Steve. Maybe we might help you."</p> + +<p>The young man's head worked as if he were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> gulping at a hard lump; his +lips moved without sound, his gaze leaped from place to place, lighting +everywhere but on his father's waiting, watching eyes, and always coming +back to the revolver with a loathing fascination. At last he spoke, in a +whisper like the rasp of chafed husks:</p> + +<p>"I had to do it. He deserved it."</p> + +<p>The mother had not seen the nicks on the cartridges, but she needed no +such evidence. She wailed:</p> + +<p>"You don't mean that you—no—no—you didn't k-kill-ill-ill—"</p> + +<p>The word rattled in her throat, and she went to the floor like a +toppling bolster. It was the old man that lifted her face from the rug, +ran to fetch water, and knelt to restore her. The son just wavered in +his chair and kept saying:</p> + +<p>"I had to do it. He was making her life a—"</p> + +<p>"Her life?" the old man groaned, looking up where he knelt. "Then +there's a woman in it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, it was for her. She's had a hard time. She's been horribly +misunderstood. She may have been indiscreet—still she's a noble woman +at heart. Her husband was a vile dog. He deserved it."</p> + +<p>But the old man's head had dropped as if his neck were cracked. He saw +what it all meant and would mean. He would have sprawled to the floor, +but he caught sight of the pitiful face of his old love still white with +the half-death of her swoon. He clenched his will with ferocity, +resolving that he must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> not break, could not, would not break. He laid a +hand on his son's knee and said, appealingly, in a low tone, as if he +were the suppliant for mercy:</p> + +<p>"Better not mention anything about—about her—the woman you know, +Steve—before your mother, not just now. Your mother's kind of poorly +the last few days. Understand, Steve?"</p> + +<p>The answer was a nod like the silly nodding of a toy mandarin.</p> + +<p>It was a questionable mercy, restoring the mother just then from the +bliss of oblivion, but she came gradually back through a fog of daze to +the full glare of fact. Her thoughts did not run forward upon the +scandal, the horror of the public, the outcry of all the press; she had +but one thought, her son's welfare.</p> + +<p>"Did anybody see you, Steve?"</p> + +<p>"No. I went to his room. I don't think anybody s-saw me—yes, maybe the +man across the hall did. Yes, I guess he saw me. He was at his door when +I came out. He looked as if he sus-suspected-ed me. I suppose he heard +the shots. And probably he s-saw the revol-ver. I couldn't seem to let +it drop—to le-let it drop."</p> + +<p>The mother turned frantic. "They'll come here for you, Stevie. They'll +find it out. You must get away—somewhere—for just now, till we can +think up something to do. Father will find some way of making everything +all right, won't you, Paw? He always does, you know. Don't be scared, my +boy. We must keep very calm." Her hands were waver<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>ing over him in a +palsy. "Where can he go, Paw? Where's the best place for him to go? I'll +tell you, Steve. Is your—your car anywhere near?"</p> + +<p>"It's outside at the door. I came back in it."</p> + +<p>She got to her feet, and her urgency was ferocious. "Then you get right +in this minute and go up to the old place—the little old house opposite +the pond. Go as fast as you can. You know the place—where we lived +before you were born. There's two big oak-trees st-standing there, and a +pond just across the road. You go there and tell Susan—what shall he +tell Susan, father? What shall he tell Susan? We'll stay here, and—and +we'll bribe the elevator-boy to say you haven't come home at all, and if +the po-po-lice come here we'll say we're expecting you, but we haven't +seen you for ever so long. Won't we, Paw? That's what we'll say, won't +we, Paw?"</p> + +<p>The old man stood up to the lightning like an old oak. Trees do not run. +They stand fast and take what the sky sends them. Old Coburn shook his +white hair as a tree its leaves in a blast of wind before he spoke.</p> + +<p>"Steve, my boy, I don't know what call you had to do this, but it's no +use trying to run away and hide. They'll get you wherever you go. The +telegraph and the cable and the detectives—no, it's not a bit of use. +It only makes things look worse. Put on your hat and come with me. We'll +go to the police before they come for you. I'll go with you, and I'll +see you through."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> + +<p>But flight, not fight, was the woman's one hope. She was wild with +resistance to the idea of surrender. Her panic confirmed the young man +in his one impulse—to get away. He dashed out into the hall, and when +the father would have pursued, the mother thrust him aside, hurried +past, and braced herself against the door. He put off her clinging, +clutching hands as gently as he might, but she resisted like a tigress +at bay, and before he could drag her aside they heard the iron-barred +door of the elevator glide open and clang shut. And there they stood in +the strange place, the old man staggered with the realization of the +future, the old woman imbecile with fear.</p> + +<p>What harm is it the honest oaks do, that Heaven hates them so and its +lightnings search them out with such peculiar frenzy?</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>Having no arenas where captive gladiators and martyrs satisfy the public +longing for the sight of bleeding flesh and twitching nerve, the people +of our day flock to the court-rooms for their keenest excitements.</p> + +<p>The case of "The People <i>vs.</i> Stephen Coburn" had been an intensely +popular entertainment. This day the room was unusually stuffed with men +and women. At the door the officers leaned like buttresses against the +thrust of a solid wall of humanity. Outside, the halls, the stairs, and +the sidewalk were jammed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> with the mob crushing toward the door for a +sight of the white-haired mother pilloried in the witness-box and +fighting with all her poor wits against the shrewdest, calmest, fiercest +cross-examiner in the State.</p> + +<p>In the jury-box the twelve silent prisoners of patience sat in awe of +their responsibilities, a dozen extraordinarily ordinary, conspicuously +average persons condemned to the agony of deciding whether they should +consign a fellow-man to death or release a murderer among their +fellow-men.</p> + +<p>Next the judge sat Sarah Coburn, her withered hands clenched bonily in +the lap where, not so many years ago, she had cuddled the babe that was +now the culprit hunted down and abhorred. The mere pressure of his first +finger had sent a soul into eternity and brought the temple of his own +home crashing about his head.</p> + +<p>Next the prisoner sat his father, veteran now with the experience that +runs back to the time when the first father and mother found the first +first-born of the world with hands reddened in the blood of the earliest +sacrifice on the altar of Cain.</p> + +<p>People railed in the street and in the press against the law's delay +with Stephen Coburn's execution and against the ability of a rich father +to postpone indefinitely the vengeance of justice. Old Coburn had forced +the taxpayers to spend vast sums of money. He had spent vaster sums +himself. The public and the prosecution, his own enormously ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>pensive +lawyers, his son and his very wife, supposed that he still had vast sums +to spend. It was solely his own secret that he had no more. He had built +his fortune as his father had built the stone wall along his fields, +digging each boulder from the ground with his hands, lugging it across +the irregular turf and heaving it to its place. Every dollar of his had +its history of effort, of sweat and ache. And now the whole wall was +gone, carried away in wholesale sweeps as by a landslide.</p> + +<p>In his business he had been so shrewd and so close that people had said, +"Old Coburn will fight for five days for five minute's interest on five +cents." When his son's liberty was at stake he signed blank checks, he +told his lawyers to get the best counsel in the nation. He did not ask, +"How much?" He asked, "How good?" Every technical ruse that could be +employed to thwart the prosecution he employed. He bribed everybody +bribable whose silence or speech had value. Dangerous witnesses were +shipped to places whence they could not be summonsed. Blackmailers and +blackguards fattened on his generosity and his fear.</p> + +<p>The son, Stephen Coburn, had gone to the city, warm-hearted, young, +venturesome, not vicious, had learned life in a heap, sowed his wild +oats all at once, fallen among evil companions, and drifted by easy +stages into an affair of inexcusable ugliness, whence he seemed unable +to escape till a misplaced chivalry whispered him what to do. He had +found himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> like Lancelot with "his honor rooted in dishonor" and +"faith unfaithful kept him falsely true." But Stephen Coburn was no +Lancelot, any more than his siren was a Guinevere or her slain husband a +King Arthur. He was simply a well-meaning, hot-headed, madly enamoured +young fool. The proof of this last was that he took a revolver to his +Gordian knot. Revolvers, as he found too late, do not solve problems. +They make a far-reaching noise, and their messengers cannot be recalled.</p> + +<p>His parents had not known the city phase of their son. They had known +the adorable babe he had been, the good boy weeping over a broken-winged +robin tumbled from a nest, running down-stairs in his bare feet for one +more good-night kiss, crying his heart out when he must be sent away to +school, remembering their birthdays and abounding in gentle graces. This +was the Stephen Coburn they had known. They believed it to be the real, +the permanent, Stephen Coburn; the other was but the victim of a +transient demon. They could not believe that their boy would harm the +world again. They could not endure the thought that his repentance and +his atonement should be frustrated by a dishonorable end.</p> + +<p>The public knew only the wicked Stephen Coburn. His crime had been his +entrance into fame. All the bad things he had done, all the bad people +he had known, all the bad places he had gone, were searched out and +published by the detectives and the reporters.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> To blacken Stephen +Coburn's repute so horribly that the jurors would feel it their +inescapable duty to scavenge him from the offended earth, that was the +effort of the prosecution. To prevent that blackening was one of the +most vital and one of the most costly features of the defense. To deny +the murder and tear down the web of circumstantial evidence as fast as +the State could weave it was another.</p> + +<p>The Coburn case had become a notorious example of that peculiarly +American institution, the serial trial. The first instalment had ended +in a verdict of guilty. It had been old Coburn's task to hold up his +wife and his son in the collapse of their mad despair, while he managed +and financed the long, slow struggle with the upper courts till he wrung +from them an order for a new trial. This had ended, after weeks of +torment in the court-room and forty-eight hours of almost unbearable +suspense, in a disagreement of the jury. The third trial found the +prosecution more determined than ever, and acquainted with all the +methods of the defense. The only flaw was the loss of an important +witness, "the man across the hall," whom impatient time had carried off +to the place where subpœnas are not respected. His deposition and his +testimony at the previous trials were as lacking in vitality as himself.</p> + +<p>And now once more old Coburn must carry everything upon his back, aching +like a world-weary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> Atlas who dares not shift his burden. But now he was +three years weaker, and he had no more money to squander. His house, his +acres, the cattle upon his hills, his blooded thoroughbreds, his +patriarchal stallions, his town lots, his bank-building, his bonds and +stocks, all were sold, pawned as collateral, or blanketed with +mortgages.</p> + +<p>As he had comforted his wife when they had witnessed the bolt from the +blue, so now he sat facing her in her third ordeal. Only now she was not +on the home porch, but in the arena. He could not hold her hands. Now +she dared not close her eyes and cry; it was not the work of one +thunderbolt she had to see. Now, under the darting questions of the +court-examiner, she was like a frightened girl lost in the woods and +groping through a tempest, with lightning thrusts pursuing her on every +side, stitching the woods with fire like the needle in a sewing-machine +stabbing and stabbing at the dodging shuttle.</p> + +<p>The old woman had gone down into the pit for her son. She had been led +through the bogs and the sewers of vice. Almost unspeakable, almost +unthinkable wickedness had been taught to her till she had become deeply +versed in the lore that saddens the eyes of the scarlet women of +Babylon. But still her love purified her, and almost sanctified the +strategy she practised, the lies she told, the truths she concealed, the +plots she devised with the uncanny canniness of an old peasant. People +not only felt that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> it was her duty to fight for her young like a mad +she-wolf, but they would have despised her for any failure of sacrifice.</p> + +<p>She sat for hours baffling the inquisitor, foreseeing his wiles by +intuition, evading his masked pitfalls by instinct. She was terribly +afraid of him, yet more afraid of herself, afraid that she would break +down and become a brainless, weeping thing. It was the sincerity of her +fight against this weakness that made her so dangerous to the +prosecuting attorney. He wanted to compel her to admit that her son had +confessed his deed to her. She sought to avoid this admission. She had +not guessed that he was more in dread of her tears than of her guile. He +was gentler with her than her own attorneys had been. At all costs he +felt that he must not succeed too well with her.</p> + +<p>The whole trial had become by now as academic as a game of chess, to all +but the lonely, homesick parents. The prosecuting attorney knew that the +mother was not telling the truth; the judge and the jury knew that she +was not telling the truth. But unless this could be geometrically +demonstrated the jury would disregard its own senses. Yet the prosecutor +knew that if he succeeded in trapping the mother too abruptly into any +admission dangerous to her son she would probably break down and cry her +dreary old heart out, and then those twelve superhuman jurors would weep +with her and care for nothing on earth except her consolation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span></p> + +<p>The crisis came as crises love to come, without warning. The question +had been simple enough, and the tone as gentle as possible: "You have +just stated, Mrs. Coburn, that your son spoke to you in his apartment +the day he is alleged to have committed this act, but I find that at the +first and second trials you testified that you did not see him in his +apartment at all. Which, please, is the correct statement?"</p> + +<p>In a flash she realized what she had done. It is so hard to build and +defend a fortress of lies, and she was very old and not very wise, tired +out, confused by the stare of the mob and the knowledge that every word +she uttered endangered the life she had borne. Now she felt that she had +undone everything. She blamed herself for ruining the work of years. She +saw her son led to death because of her blunder. Her answer to the +question and the patient courtesy of the attorney was to throw her hands +into the air, toss her white head to and fro, and give up the battle. +The tears came like a gush of blood from a deep wound; they poured +through the lean fingers she pressed against her gaunt cheeks, and she +shook with the dry, weak weeping of senility and utter desolation. Then +her old arms yearned for him as when a babe.</p> + +<p>"I want my boy! I want my boy!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The judge grew very busy among his papers, the prosecuting attorney +swallowed hard. The jury<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>men thought no more of evidence and of the +stability of the laws. They all had mothers, or memory-mothers, and they +only resolved that whatever crime Stephen Coburn might have committed, +it would be a more dastardly crime for them to drive their twelve +daggers into the aching breast that had suckled him. On the instant the +trial had resolved itself into "The People <i>vs.</i> One Poor Old Mother." +The jury's tears voted for them, and their real verdict was surging up +in one thought:</p> + +<p>"This white haired saint wants her boy: he may be a black sheep, but she +wants him, and she shall have him, by—" whatever was each juryman's +favorite oath.</p> + +<p>When the judge had finished his charge the jury stumbled on one +another's heels to get to their sanctum. There they reached a verdict so +quickly that, as the saying is, the foreman was coming back into the +court-room before the twelfth man was out of it. Amazed at their own +unanimity, they were properly ashamed, each of the other eleven, for +their mawkish weakness, and their treachery to the stern requirements of +higher citizenship. But they went home not entirely unconsoled by the +old woman's cry of beatitude at that phrase, "Not Guilty."</p> + +<p>She went among them sobbing with ecstasy, and her tears splashed their +hands like holy water. It was all outrageously illegal, and sentimental, +and harmful to the sanctity of the law. And yet, is it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> entirely +desirable that men should ever grow unmindful of the tears of old +mothers?</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>The road came pouring down from the wooded hills, and the house faced +the pond as before. But there was a new guest in the house. Up-stairs, +in a room with a sloping wall and a low ceiling and a dormer window, sat +a young man whose face had been prominent so long in the press and in +the court-room that now he preferred to keep away from human eyes. So he +sat in the little room and read eternally. He had acquired the habit of +books in the whitewashed cell where he had spent the three of his years +that should have been the happiest, busiest, best of all. He read +anything he could find now—old books, old magazines, old newspapers. +Finally he read even the old family Bible his mother had toted into his +room for his comfort. It was a bulky tome with print of giant size and +pictures of crude imagery, with here and there blank pages for recording +births, deaths, marriages. Here he found the names of all his brothers +and sisters, and all of them were entered among the deaths. The manners +of the deaths were recorded in the shaky handwriting of fresh grief: +Alice Anne, scarlet fever; James Arthur, Jr., convulsions; Andrew +Morton, whooping-cough; Cicely Jane, typhoid; Amos Turner, drowned +while<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> saving his brother Stephen's life; Edward John, killed in train +wreck.</p> + +<p>Sick at heart, he turned away from the record, but the book fell open of +itself at a full-page insert of the Decalogue, illuminated by some +artless printer with gaudy splotches of gold, red and blue and green +initials, and silly curlicues of arabesque, as if the man had been +ignorant of what they meant, those ten pillars of the world.</p> + +<p>Stephen smiled wanly at the bad taste of the decoration, till one line +of fire leaped from the text at him, "Thou Shalt Not Kill." But he +needed no further lessoning in that wisdom. He retreated from the +accusing page and went to lean against the dormer window and look out +upon the world from the jail of his past. No jury could release him from +that. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he thought, he saw evidence of +the penalty he had brought upon his father and mother, more than upon +himself and his future. He knew that his father's life-work had been +ruined, and that his honorable career would be summed up in the +remembrance that he was the old man who bankrupted himself to save his +son from the gallows. He knew that this very house, which remained as +the last refuge, was mortgaged again as when his father and mother had +come into it before he was born. The ironic circle was complete.</p> + +<p>Down-stairs he could hear the slow and heavy footsteps of his father, +and the creak of the chair as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> he dropped heavily into it. Then he heard +the screen-door flap and heard his mother's rocking-chair begin its +seesaw strain. He knew that their tired old hands would be +clasped and that their tired old eyes would be staring off at the +lightning-shattered oaks. He heard them say, just about as always:</p> + +<p>"What you been doin', Paw?"</p> + +<p>"Just putterin' 'round the barn. What you been doin', Maw?"</p> + +<p>"Just putterin' 'round the kitchen gettin' supper started. I went +up-stairs and knocked at Stevie's door. He didn't answer. Guess he's +asleep."</p> + +<p>"Guess so."</p> + +<p>"It seems awful good, Paw, to be back in this old place, don't it?—you +and me just settin' here and our boy safe and sound asleep up-stairs."</p> + +<p>"That's so. As the fellow says in the circus, here we are again, Maw."</p> + +<p>"Here we are again, Paw."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> + +<h2>AND THIS IS MARRIAGE</h2> + + +<p>His soul floated upward from the lowermost depths of oblivion, slowly, +as a water-plant, broken beneath, drifts to the surface. And then he was +awake and unutterably afraid.</p> + +<p>His soul opened, as it were, its eyes in terror and his fleshly eyelids +went ajar. There was nothing to frighten him except his own thoughts, +but they seemed to have waited all ready loaded with despair for the +instant of his waking.</p> + +<p>The room was black about him. The world was black. He had left the +window open, but he could not see outdoors. Only his memory told him +where the window was. Never a star pinked the heavens to distinguish it. +He could not tell casement from sky, nor window from wall, nor wall from +ceiling or floor. He was as one hung in primeval chaos before light had +been decreed.</p> + +<p>He could not see his own pillow. He knew of it only because he felt it +where it was hot under his hot cheek. He could not see the hand he +raised to push the hair from his wet brow. He knew that he had a hand +and a brow only from their contact,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> from the sense of himself in them, +from the throb of his pulse at the surface of himself.</p> + +<p>He felt almost completely disembodied, poised in space, in infinite +gloom, alone with complete loneliness. As the old phrase puts it, he was +all by himself.</p> + +<p>The only sound in his universe, besides the heavy surf of his own blood +beating in his ears, was the faint, slow breathing of his wife, asleep +in the same bed, yet separated from him by a sword of hostility that +kept their souls as far apart as planets are.</p> + +<p>He laughed in bitter silence to think how false she was to the devoted +love she had promised him, how harsh her last words had been and how +strange from the lips that used to murmur every devotion, every +love-word, every trust.</p> + +<p>He wanted to whirl on her, shake her out of the cowardly refuge of +sleep, and resume the wrangle that had ended in exhaustion.</p> + +<p>He wanted to gag her so that she would hear him out for once and not +break into every phrase. He wanted to tell her for her own good in one +clear, cold, logical, unbroken harangue how atrocious she was, how +futile, fiendish, heartless. But he knew that she would not listen to +him. Even if he gagged her mouth her mind would still dodge and buffet +him. How ancient was the experience that warned a man against argument +with a woman! And that wise old saw, "Let sleeping dogs lie," referred +even better to wives. He would not let her know that he was +awake—awake, perhaps, for hours of misery.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p> + +<p>This had happened often of late. It had been a hard week, day after day +of bitter toil wearing him down in body and fraying his every nerve.</p> + +<p>His business was in a bad way, and he alone could save it, and he could +save it only by ingenuity and inspiration. But the inspiration, he was +sure, would not come to him till he could rest throughout.</p> + +<p>Sleep was his hope, his passion, food, drink, medicine. He was heavily +pledged at the bank. He could borrow no more. The president had +threatened him if he did not pay what was overdue. Bigger businesses +than his were being left to crash. A financial earthquake was rocking +every tower in the world.</p> + +<p>Though he needed cash vitally to further his business, there was a +sharper and sharper demand upon him from creditors desperately harried +by their own desperate creditors. He must find with his brain some new +source of cash. He must fight the world. But how could he fight without +rest? Even pugilists rested between rounds.</p> + +<p>He had not slept a whole night for a week. To-night he had gone to bed +sternly resolved on a while of annihilation. Anything for the brief +sweet death with the morning of resurrection.</p> + +<p>And then she had quarreled with him. And now he was awake, and he felt +that he would not sleep.</p> + +<p>He wondered what the hour was. He was tempted to rise and make a light +and look at his watch, but he felt that the effort and the blow of the +glare on his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> eyes might confirm his insomnia. He lay and wondered, +consumed with curiosity as to the hour—as if that knowledge could be of +value.</p> + +<p>By and by, out of the stillness and the widespread black came the +slumbrous tone of a far-off town clock. Three times it rumored in the +air as if distance moaned faintly thrice.</p> + +<p>Three o'clock! He had had but two hours' sleep, and would have no more! +And he needed ten! To-morrow morning—this morning!—he must join battle +for his very existence.</p> + +<p>He lay supine, trying not to clench a muscle, seeking to force his +surrender to inanition; but he could not get sleep though he implored +his soul for it, prayed God for it.</p> + +<p>At length he ceased to try to compel slumber. He lay musing. It is a +strange thing to lie musing in the dark. His soul seemed to tug and +waver outside his body as he had seen an elephant chained by one leg in +a circus tent lean far away from its shackles, and sway and put its +trunk forth gropingly. His soul seemed to be under his forehead, pushing +at it as against a door. He felt that if he had a larger, freer forehead +he would have more soul and more room for his mind to work.</p> + +<p>Then the great fear came over him again. In these wakeful moods he +suffered ecstasies of fright.</p> + +<p>He was appalled with life. He felt helpless, bodyless, doomed.</p> + +<p>On his office wall hung a calendar with a colored<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> picture showing +fishermen in a little boat in a fog looking up to see a great Atlantic +liner just about to run them down. So the universe loomed over him now, +rushed down to crush him. The other people of the world were asleep in +their places; his creditors, his rivals were resting, gaining strength +to overwhelm him on the morrow, and he must face them unrefreshed.</p> + +<p>He dreamed forward through crisis after crisis, through bankruptcy, +disgrace, and mortal illness. He thought of his family, the children +asleep in their beds under the roof that he must uphold like an Atlas. +Poor little demanding, demanding things! What would become of them when +their father broke down and was turned out of his factory and out of his +home? How they would hamper him, cling to him, cry out to him not to let +them starve, not to let them go cold or barefoot, not to turn them +adrift.</p> + +<p>Yet they did not understand him. They loved their mother infinitely +more. She watched over them, played with them, cuddled and kissed them, +while he had to leave the house before they were up, and came home at +night too fagged to play their games or endure their noise. And if they +were to be punished, she used him as a threat, and saved them up for him +to torment and denounce.</p> + +<p>They loved her and were afraid of him. Yet what had she done for them? +She had conceived them, borne them, nourished them for a year at most. +Thereafter their food, their shelter, their clothes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> their education, +their whole prosperity must come from their father. Yet the very +necessities of the struggle for their welfare kept him from giving them +the time that would win their favor. They complained because he did not +buy them more. They were discontented with what they had, and covetous +of what the neighbors' children had, even where it was less than their +own.</p> + +<p>He busied himself awhile at figuring out how much, all told, his +children's upbringing had cost him. The total was astounding. If he had +half of that sum now he would not be fretting about his pay-roll or his +notes. He would triumph over every obstacle. Next he made estimate of +what the children would cost him in the future. As they grew their +expenses grew with them. He could not hope for the old comfort of sons, +when they made a man strong, for nowadays grown sons must be started in +business at huge cost with doubtful results and no intention of repaying +the investment. And daughters have to be dressed up like holiday +packages, expensive gifts that must be sent prepaid and may be returned, +collect.</p> + +<p>He could see nothing but vanity back of him and a welter of cost ahead. +He could see no hope of ever catching up, of ever resting. His only rest +would come when he died.</p> + +<p>If he did not sleep soon he would assuredly die or go mad. Perhaps he +was going mad already. He had fought too long, too hard. He would begin +to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> babble and giggle soon and be led away to twiddle his fingers and +talk with phantoms. He saw himself as he had seen other witless, +slavering spectacles that had once been human, and a nausea of fear +crushed big sweat out of his wincing skin.</p> + +<p>Better to die than to play the living burlesque of himself. Better to +die than to face the shame of failure, the shame of reproach and +ridicule; the epitaph of his business a few lines in the small type of +"Business Troubles." Better to kill himself than risk the danger of +going mad and killing perhaps his own children and his wife. He knew a +man once, a faithful, devoted, gentle struggler with the world, whom a +sudden insanity had led to the butchery of his wife and three little +boys. They found him tittering among his mangled dead, and calling them +pet names, telling the shattered red things that he had wrought God's +will upon them.</p> + +<p>What if this should come to him! Better to end all the danger of that by +removing himself from the reach of mania or shame. It would be the final +proof of his love for his flock. And they would not think bitterly of +him. All things are forgiven the dead. They would miss him and remember +the best of him.</p> + +<p>They would appreciate what they had cost him, too, when they no longer +had him to draw on. He felt very sorry for himself. Grown man as he was, +he was driven back into infancy by his terrors, and like a pouting, +supperless boy, he wanted to die to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> spite the rest of the family and +win their apologies even if he should not hear them.</p> + +<p>He wondered if, after all, his wife would not be happier to be rid of +him. No, she would regret him for one thing at least, that he left her +without means.</p> + +<p>Well, she deserved to be penniless. Why should she expect a man to kill +himself for her sake and leave her a wealthy widow to buy some other +man? Let her practise then some of the economies he had vainly begged of +her before. If she had been worthy of his posthumous protection she +would not have treated him so outrageously at a time of such stress as +this.</p> + +<p>She knew he was dog-tired, yet she allowed him to be angered, and she +knew just what themes were sure to provoke his wrath. So she had harped +on these till she had rendered him to a frenzy.</p> + +<p>They had stood about or paced the floor or dropped in chairs and fought +as they flung off their clothes piecemeal. She had combed and brushed +her hair viciously as she raged, weeping the unbeautiful tears of wrath. +But he had not had that comfort of tears; his tears ran down the inside +of his soul and burned. She goaded him out of his ordinary +self-control—knew just how to do it and reveled in it.</p> + +<p>No doubt he had said things to her that a gentleman does not say to a +lady, that hardly any man would say to any woman. He was startled to +remember what he had said to her. He abhorred<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> the thought of such +things coming from his lips—and to the mother of his children. But the +blame for these atrocities was also hers. She had driven him frantic; +she would have driven a less-dignified man to violence, to blows, +perhaps. And she had had the effrontery to blame him for driving her +frantic when it was she that drove him.</p> + +<p>Finally they had stormed themselves out, squandered their vocabularies +of abuse, and taken resort to silence in a pretended dignity. That is, +she had done this. He had relapsed into silence because he realized how +impervious to truth or justice she was. Facts she would not deal in. +Logic she abhorred. Reasoning infuriated her.</p> + +<p>And then in grim, mutual contempt they had crept into bed and lain as +far apart as they could. He would have gone into another room, but she +would have thought he was afraid to hear more of her. Or she would have +come knocking at the door and lured him back only to renew the war at +some appeal of his to that sense of justice he was forever hoping to +find in her soul.</p> + +<p>He was aligned now along the very edge of the mattress. It was childish +of her to behave so spitefully, but what could he do except repay her in +kind? She would not have understood any other behavior. She had turned +her back on him, too, and stretched herself as thin as she could as +close to the edge as she could lie without falling out.</p> + +<p>What a vixen she was! And at this time of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> when she should have been +gentle, soothing. Even if she had thought him wrong and misinterpreted +his natural vehemence as virulence, she should have been patient. What +was a wife for but to be a helpmeet? She knew how easily his temper was +assuaged, she knew the very words. Why had she avoided them?</p> + +<p>And she was to blame for so many of his problems. Her bills and her +children's bills were increasing. She took so much of his time. She +needed so much entertaining, so much waiting on, so much listening to. +Neither she nor the children produced. They simply spent. In a crisis +they never gave help, but exacted it.</p> + +<p>In business, as in a shipwreck, strong and useful men must step back and +sacrifice themselves that the women and children might be saved—for +other men to take care of. And what frauds these women were! All +allurement and gentleness till they had entrapped their victims, then +fiends of exaction, without sympathy for the big work of men, without +interest in the world's problems, alert to ridiculous suspicions, +reckless with accusations, incapable of equity, and impatient of +everything important.</p> + +<p>Marriage was a trap, masking its steel jaws and its chain under flowers. +What changelings brides were! A man never led away from the altar the +woman he led thither. Before marriage, so interested in a man's serious +talk and the business of his life! After marriage, unwilling to listen +to any news of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> import, sworn enemies of achievement, putting an +ingrowing sentiment above all other nobilities of the race.</p> + +<p>And his wife was of all women the most womanish. She had lost what early +graces she had. In the earlier days they had never quarreled. That is, +of course, they had quarreled, but differently. They had left each other +several times, but how rapturously they had returned. And then she had +craved his forgiveness and granted hers without asking. She had always +forgiven him for what he had not done, said, or thought, or for the +things he had done and said most justly. But there had been a charm +about her, a sweet foolishness that was irresistible.</p> + +<p>In the dark now he smiled to think how dear and fascinating she had been +then. Oh, she had loved him then, had loved the very faults she had +imagined in him. Perhaps after he was dead she would remember him with +her earlier tenderness. She would blame herself for making him the +irascible, hot-tempered brute he had been—perhaps—at times.</p> + +<p>And now he had slain and buried himself, and his woe could burrow no +farther down. His soul was at the bottom of the pit. There was no other +way to go but upward, and that, of course, was impossible.</p> + +<p>As he wallowed in the lugubrious comfort of his own post-mortem revenge +he wished that he had left unsaid some of the things he had said. +Quelled by the vision of his wife weeping over him and re<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>penting her +cruelties, they began to seem less cruel. She was absolved by remorse.</p> + +<p>He heard her sobbing over his coffin and heard her recall her ferocious +words with shame. His white, set face seemed to try to console her. He +heard what he was trying to tell her in all the gentle understanding of +the tomb:</p> + +<p>"I said worse things, honey. I don't know how I could have used such +words to you, my sweetheart. A longshoreman wouldn't have called a +fishwife what I called you, you blessed child. But it was my love that +tormented me. If a man had quarreled with me, we'd have had a knock-down +and drag-out and nothing more thought of it. If any woman but you had +denounced me as you did I'd have shrugged my shoulders and not cared +a—at all.</p> + +<p>"It was because I loved you, honey, that your least frown hurt me so. +But I didn't really mean what I said. It wasn't true. You're the best, +the faithfulest, the prettiest, dearest woman in all the world, and you +were a precious wife to me—so much more beautiful, more tender, more +devoted than the wives of the other men I knew. I will pray God to bring +you to me in the place I'm going to. I could not live without you +anywhere."</p> + +<p>This was what he was trying to tell her, and could not utter a word of +it. He seemed to be lying in his coffin, staring up at her through +sealed eyelids. He could not purse his cold lips to kiss her warm mouth. +He could not lift an icy hand to bless her brow. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> would come soon +to lay the last board over his face and screw down the lid. She would +scream and fight, but they would drag her away. And he could not answer +her wild cries. He could not go to her rescue. He would be lifted in the +box from the trestles and carried out on the shoulders of other men, and +slid into the waiting hearse; and the horses would trot away with him, +leaving her to penury, with her children and his at the mercy of the +merciless world, while he was lowered into a ditch and hidden under +shovelfuls of dirt, to lie there motionless, useless, hideously idle +forever.</p> + +<p>This vision of himself dead was so vivid that his heart jumped in his +breast and raced like a propeller out of water. The very pain and the +terror were joyful, for they meant that he still lived.</p> + +<p>Whatever other disasters overhung him, he was at least not dead. Better +a beggar slinking along the dingiest street than the wealthiest +Rothschild under the stateliest tomb. Better the sneers and pity of the +world in whispers about his path than all the empty praise of the most +resounding obituary.</p> + +<p>The main thing was to be alive. Before that great good fortune all +misfortunes were minor, unimportant details. And, after all, he was not +so pitiable. His name was still respected. His factory was still +running. Whatever his liabilities, he still had some assets, not least +of them health and experience and courage.</p> + +<p>But where had his courage been hiding that it left<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> him whimpering +alone? Was he a little girl afraid of the dark, or was he a man?</p> + +<p>There were still men who would lend him money or time. What if he was in +trouble? Were not the merchant princes of the earth sweating blood? +There had been a rich men's panic before the poor were reached. Now +everybody was involved.</p> + +<p>After all, what if he failed? Who had not failed? What if he fell +bankrupt?—that was only a tumble down-stairs. Could he not pick himself +up and climb again? Some of the biggest industries in the world had +passed through temporary strain. The sun himself went into eclipse.</p> + +<p>If his factory had to close, it could be opened again some day. Or even +if he could not recover, how many better men than he had failed? To be +crushed by the luck of things was no crime. There was a glory of defeat +as well as of victory.</p> + +<p>The one great gleaming truth was that he was still alive, still in the +ring. He was not dead yet. He was not going to die. He was going to get +up and win.</p> + +<p>There was no shame in the misfortunes he had had. There was no disgrace +in the fears he had bowed to. All the nations and all the men in them +were in a night of fear. But already there was a change of feeling. The +darker the hour, the nearer the dawn. The worse things were, the sooner +they must mend.</p> + +<p>People had been too prosperous; the world had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> played the spendthrift +and gambled too high. But economy would restore the balance for the +toilers. What had been lost would soon be regained.</p> + +<p>Fate could not down America yet. And he was an American. What was it +"Jim" Hill had said to the scare-mongers: "The man who sells the United +States short is a damned fool." And the man who sells himself short is a +damneder fool.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Thus he struggled through the bad weather of his soul. The clouds that +had gathered and roared and shuttled with lightnings had emptied their +wrath, and the earth still rolled. The mystery of terror was subtly +altered to a mystery of surety.</p> + +<p>Lying in the dark, motionless, he had wrought out the miracle of +meditation. Within the senate chamber of his mind he had debated and +pondered and voted confidence in himself and in life.</p> + +<p>His eyes, still open, still battling for light, had found none yet. The +universe was still black. He could not distinguish sky from window, nor +casement from ceiling. Yet the gloom was no longer terrible. The +universe was still a great ship rushing on, but he was no longer a +midget in a little cockleshell about to be crushed. He was a passenger +on the ship. The night was benevolent, majestic, sonorous with music. +The sea was glorious and the voyage forward.</p> + +<p>And now that his heart was full of good news, he had a wild desire to +rush home with it to her who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> his home. How often he had left her in +the morning after a wrangle, and hurried back to her at night bearing +glad tidings, the quarrel forgotten beyond the need of any treaty. And +she would be there among their children, beaming welcome from her big +eyes.</p> + +<p>And she was always so glad when he was glad. She took so much blame on +herself; though how was she to blame for herself? Yet she took no credit +to herself for being all the sweet things she was. She was the flowers +and the harvest, and the cool, amorous evening after the hard day was +done. And he was the peevish, whining, swearing imbecile that chose a +woman for wife because she was a rose and then clenched her thorns and +complained because she was not a turnip.</p> + +<p>He felt a longing to tell her how false his croakings had been in that +old dead time so long ago as last night. But she was asleep. And she +needed sleep. She had been greatly troubled by his troubles. She had +been anxious for him and the children. She had so many things to worry +over that never troubled him. She had wept and been angry because she +could not make him understand. Her very wrath was a way of crying: "I +love you! You hurt me!"</p> + +<p>He must let her sleep. Her beauty and her graces needed sleep. It was +his blessed privilege to guard her slumbers, his pride to house her well +and to see that she slept in fabrics suited to the delicate fabric of +her exquisite body.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p> + +<p>But if only she might chance to be awake that he might tell her how +sorry he was that he had been weak and wicked enough to torment her with +his baseless fears and his unreasonable ire. At least he must touch her +with tenderness. Even though she slept, he must give her the benediction +of one light caress.</p> + +<p>He put his hand out cautiously toward her. He laid his fingers gently on +her cheek. How beautiful it was even in the dark! But it was wet! with +tears! Suddenly her little invisible fingers closed upon his hand like +grape tendrils.</p> + +<p>But this did not prove her awake. So habited they were to each other +that even in their sleep their bodies gave or answered such endearments.</p> + +<p>He waited till his loneliness for her was unendurable, then he breathed, +softly:</p> + +<p>"Are you asleep, honey?"</p> + +<p>For answer she whirled into his bosom and clenched him in her arms and +wept—in whispers lest the children hear. He petted her tenderly and +kissed her hair and her eyelids and murmured:</p> + +<p>"Did I wake you, honey?"</p> + +<p>"No, no!" she sobbed. "I've been awake for hours."</p> + +<p>"But you didn't move!"</p> + +<p>"I was afraid to waken you. You need your rest so much. I've been +thinking how hard you work, how good you are. I'm so ashamed of myself +for—"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But it was all my fault, honey."</p> + +<p>"Oh no, no, my dear, my dear!"</p> + +<p>He let her have the last word; for an enormous contentedness filled his +heart. He drew the covers about her shoulder and held her close and +breathed deep of the companionship of the soul he had chosen. He +breathed so deeply that his head drooped over hers, his cheek upon her +hair. The night seemed to bend above them and mother them and say to +them, "Hush! hush! and sleep!"</p> + +<p>There are many raptures in the world, and countless beautiful moments, +and not the least of them is this solemn marriage in sleep of the man +and woman whose days are filled with cares, and under whose roof at +night children and servants slumber aloof secure.</p> + +<p>While these two troubled spirits found repose and renewal, locked each +in the other's arms, the blackness was gradually withdrawn from the air. +In the sky there came a pallor that grew to a twilight and became a +radiance and a splendor. And night was day. It would soon be time for +the father to rise and go forth to his work, and for the mother to rise +to the offices of the home.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE MAN THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN</h2> + + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>In the tame little town of Hillsdale he seemed the tamest thing of all, +Will Rudd—especially appropriate to a kneeling trade, a shoe clerk by +election. He bent the pregnant hinges to anybody soever that entered the +shop, with its ingenious rebus on the sign-board:</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/202.png" width="300" height="261" alt="" title="CLAY KITTREDGE and Emporium Nobby Footwear" /> + +</div> + +<p>He not only untied the stilted Oxfords or buttoned in the arching +insteps of those who sat in the "Ladies' and Misses' Dept.," which was +the other side of the double-backed bench whose obverse was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> the "Gents' +Dept.," but also he took upon the glistening surface of his trousers the +muddy soles of merchants, the clay-bronzed brogans of hired men, the +cowhide toboggans of teamsters, and the brass-toed, red-kneed boots of +little boys ecstatic in their first feel of big leather.</p> + +<p>Rudd was a shoe clerk to be trusted. He never revealed to a soul that +Miss Clara Lommel wore shoes two sizes too small, and when she bit her +lip and blenched with agony as he pried her heel into the protesting +dongola, he seemed not to notice that she was no Cinderella.</p> + +<p>And one day, when it was too late, and Miss Lucy Posnett, whose people +lived in the big brick mansard, realized that she had a hole in her +stocking, what did Rudd do? Why, he never let on.</p> + +<p>Stanch Methodist that he was, William Rudd stifled <i>in petto</i> the fact +that the United Presbyterian parson's wife was vain and bought little, +soft black kids with the Cuban heel and a patent-leather tip to the +opera toe! The United Presbyterian parson himself had salved his own +vanity by saying that shoes show so plainly on the pulpit, and it was +better to buy them a trifle too small than a trifle too large, +but—umm!—er, hadn't you better put in a little more of that powder, +Mr. Rudd? I have on—whew!—unusually thick socks to-day.</p> + +<p>Clay Kittredge, Rudd's employer, valued him, secretly, as a man who +brought in customers and sold them goods. But he never mentioned this +to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> his clerk lest Rudd be tempted to the sin of vanity, and +incidentally to demanding an increase in that salary which had remained +the same since he had been promoted from delivery-boy.</p> + +<p>Kittredge found that Rudd kept his secrets as he kept everybody's else. +Professing church member as he was, Rudd earnestly palmed off shopworn +stock for fresh invoices, declared that the obsolete Piccadillies which +Kittredge had snapped up from a bankrupt sale were worn on all the best +feet on Fifth Avenoo, and blandly substituted "just as good" for +advertised wares that Kittredge did not carry.</p> + +<p>Besides, when no customer was in the shop he spent the time at the back +window, doctoring tags—as the King of France negotiated the hill—by +marking up prices, then marking them down.</p> + +<p>But when he took his hat from the peg and set it on his head, he put on +his private conscience. Whatever else he did, he never lied or cheated +to his own advantage.</p> + +<p>And so everybody in town liked William Rudd, and nobody admired him. He +was treated with the affectionate contempt of an old family servant. But +he had his ambitions and great ones, ambitions that reached past himself +into the future of another generation. He felt the thrill that stirs the +acorn, fallen into the ground and hidden there, but destined to father +an oak. His was the ambition beyond ambition that glorifies the seed in +the loam and en<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>nobles the roots of trees thrusting themselves downward +and gripping obscurity in order that trunks and branches, flowers and +fruits, pods and cones, may flourish aloft.</p> + +<p>Eventually old Clay Kittredge died, and the son chopped the "Jr." +curlicue from the end of his name and began a new régime. The old +Kittredge had sought only his own aggrandizement, and his son was his +son. The new Clay Kittredge had gone to public school with Rudd and they +continued to be "Clay" and "Will" to each other; no one would ever have +called Rudd by so demonstrative a name as "Bill."</p> + +<p>When Clay second stepped into his father's boots—and shoes—he began to +enlarge the business, hoping to efface his father's achievements by his +own. The shop gradually expanded to a department store for covering all +portions of the anatomy and supplying inner wants as well.</p> + +<p>Rudd was so overjoyed at not being uprooted and flung aside to die that +he never observed the shrewd irony of Kittredge's phrase, "You may +remain, Will, with no reduction of salary."</p> + +<p>To have lost his humble position would have frustrated his dream, for he +was doing his best to build for himself and for Her a home where they +could fulfil their destinies. He cherished no hope, hardly even a +desire, to be a great or rich man himself. He was one of the +nest-weavers, the cave-burrowers, the home-makers, who prepare the way<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> +for the greater than themselves who shall spring from themselves.</p> + +<p>He was of those who become the unknown fathers of great men. And so, on +a salary that would have meant penury to a man of self-seeking tastes, +he managed to save always the major part of his earning. At the bank he +was a modest but regular visitor to the receiving-teller, and almost a +total stranger to the paying-teller.</p> + +<p>His wildest dissipation being a second pipeful of tobacco before he went +to bed—or "retired," as he would more gently have said it—he +eventually heaped up enough money and courage to ask Martha Kellogg to +marry him. Martha, who was the plainest woman in plain Hillsdale, +accepted William, and they were made one by the parson. The wedding was +accounted "plain" even in Hillsdale.</p> + +<p>The groomy bridegroom and the unbridy bride spent together all the time +that Rudd could spare from the store. He bought for her a little frame +house with a porch about as big as an upper berth, a patch of grass with +a path through it to the back door, some hollyhocks of startling color, +and a highly unimportant woodshed. It spelled <span class="smcap">HOME</span> to them, and they +were as happy as people usually are. He did all he could to please her. +At her desire he even gave up his pipe without missing it—much.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Martha Rudd was an ambitious woman, or at least restless and +discontented. Having escaped her supreme horror, that of being an old +maid,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> she began to grow ambitious for her husband. She nagged him for a +while about his plodding ways, the things that satisfied him, the salary +he endured. But it did no good. Will Rudd was never meant to put boots +and spurs on his own feet and splash around in gore. He was for carpet +slippers, round-toed shoes, and on wet days, rubbers; on slushy days he +even descended to what he called "ar'tics."</p> + +<p>Not understanding the true majesty of her husband's long-distance +dreams, and baffled by his unresponse to her ambitions for him, Martha +grew ambitious for the child that was coming. She grew frantically, +fantastically ambitious. Here was something William Rudd could respond +to. He could be ambitious as Cćsar—but not for himself. He was a +groundling, but his son should climb.</p> + +<p>Husband and wife spent evenings and evenings debating the future of the +child. They never agreed on the name—or the alternative names. For it +is advisable to have two ready for any emergency. But the future was +rosy. They were unanimous on that—President of the United States, +mebbe; or at least the President's wife.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rudd, who occasionally read the continued stories in the evening +paper, had happened on a hero named "Eric." She favored that name—or +Gwendolynne (with a "y"), as the case might be. In any event, the +child's future was so glowing that it warmed Mrs. Rudd to asking one +evening, forgetful of her earlier edict:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why don't you smoke your pipe any more, Will?"</p> + +<p>"I'd kind o' got out of the habit, Marthy," he said, and added, hastily, +"but I guess I'll git back in."</p> + +<p>Thereafter they sat of evenings by the lamp, he smoking, she sewing +things—holding them up now and then for him to see. They looked almost +too small to be convincing, until he brought home from the store a pair +of shoes—"the smallest size made, Marthy, too small for some of the +dolls you see over at Bostwick's."</p> + +<p>It was the golden period of his life. Rudd never sold shoes so well. +People could hardly resist his high spirits. Anticipation is a great +thing—it is all that some people get.</p> + +<p>To be a successful shoe clerk one must acquire the patience of Job +without his gift of complaint, and Rudd was thoroughly schooled. So he +waited with a hope-lit serenity the preamble to the arrival of +his—her—their child.</p> + +<p>And then fate, which had previously been content with denying him +comforts and keeping him from luxuries, dealt him a blow in the face, +smote him on his patient mouth. The doctor told him that the little body +of his son had been born still. After that it was rather a stupor of +despair than courage that carried him through the vain struggle for life +of the worn-out housewife who became only almost a mother. It seemed +merely the logical completion of the world's cruelty when the doctor +laid a heavy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> hand on his shoulder and walked out of the door, without +leaving any prescription to fill. Rudd stood like a wooden Indian, too +dazed to understand or to feel. He opened the door to the undertaker and +waited outside the room, just twiddling his fingers and wondering. His +world had come to an end and he did not know what to do.</p> + +<p>At the church, the offices of the parson, and the soprano's voice from +behind the flowers, singing "Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me"—Marthy's +favorite hymn—brought the tears trickling, but he could not believe +that what had happened had happened. He got through the melancholy honor +of riding in the first hack in the shabby pageant, though the town +looked strange from that window. He shivered stupidly at the first sight +of the trench in the turf which was to be the new lodging of his family. +He kept as quiet as any of the group among the mounds while the +bareheaded preacher finished his part.</p> + +<p>He was too numb with incredulity to find any expression until he heard +that awfulest sound that ever grates the human ear—the first shovelful +of clods rattling on a coffin. Then he understood—then he woke. When he +saw the muddy spade spill dirt hideously above her lips, her cheeks, her +brow, and the little bundle of futile flesh she cuddled with a rigid arm +to a breast of ice—then a cry like the shriek of a falling tree split +his throat and he dropped into the grave, sprawling across the casket, +beating on its denying door, and sobbing:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You mustn't go alone, Marthy. I won't let you two go all by yourselves. +It's so fur and so dark. I can't live without you and the—the baby. +Wait! Wait!"</p> + +<p>They dragged him out, and the shovels concluded their venerable task. He +was sobbing too loudly to hear them, and the parson was holding him in +his arms and patting his back and saying "'Shh! 'Shh!" as if he were a +child afraid of the dark.</p> + +<p>The sparse company that had gathered to pay the last devoir to the +unimportant woman in the box in the ditch felt, most of all, amazement +at such an unexpected outburst from so expectable a man as William Rudd. +There was much talk about it as the horses galloped home, much talk in +every carriage except his and the one that had been hers.</p> + +<p>Up to this, the neighbors had taken the whole affair with that splendid +philosophy neighbors apply to other people's woes. Mrs. Budd Granger had +said to Mrs. Ad. Peck when they met in Bostwick's dry-goods store, at +the linen counter:</p> + +<p>"Too bad about Martha Rudd, isn't it? Plain little body, but nice. Meant +well. Went to church regular. Yes, it's too bad. I don't think they +ought to put off the strawb'ry fest'val, though, just for that, do you? +Never would be any fun if we stopped for every funeral, would there? +Besides, the strawb'ry fest'val's for charity, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>The strawberry festival was not put off and the town paper said that "a +pleasant time was had by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> all." Most of the talk was about Will Rudd. +The quiet shoe clerk had provided the town with an alarm, an +astonishment. He was most astounded of all. As he rode back to the frame +house in the swaying carriage he absolutely could not believe that such +hopes, such plans, could be shattered with such wanton, wasteful +cruelty. That he should have loved, married, and begotten, and that the +new-made mother and the new-born child should be struck dead, nullified, +returned to clay—such things were too foolish, too spendthrift, to +believe.</p> + +<p>It is strange that people do not get used to death. It has come to +nearly every being anybody has ever heard of; and whom it has not yet +reached, it will. Every one of the two billions of us on earth to-day +expects it to come to him, and (if he have them) to his son, his +daughter, his man-servant, his maid-servant, his ox, his ass, the +stranger within his gates, the weeds by the road. Kittens and kingdoms, +potato-bugs, plants, and planets—all are on the visiting-list.</p> + +<p>Death is the one expectation that never fails to arrive. But it comes +always as a new thing, an unheard-of thing, a miracle. It is the +commonest word in the lexicon, yet it always reads as a <i>hapax +legomenon</i>. It is like spring, though so unlike. For who ever believed +that May would emerge from March this year? And who ever remembers that +violets were suddenly abroad on the hills last April, too?</p> + +<p>William Rudd ought to have known better. In<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> a town where funerals were +social events dangerously near to diversion, he had been unusually +frequent at them. For he belonged to the local chapter of the Knights of +Pythias, and when a fellow-member in good standing was forced to resign, +William Rudd donned his black suit, his odd-looking cocked hat with the +plume, and the anachronous sword, which he carried as one would expect a +shoe clerk to carry a sword. The man in the hearse ahead went to no +further funerals, stopped paying his dues, made no more noise at the +bowling-alley, and ceased to dent his pew cushion. Somebody got his job +at once and, after a decent time, somebody else probably got his wife. +The man became a remembrance, if that.</p> + +<p>Rudd had long realized that people eventually become dead; but he had +never realized death. He had been an oblivious child when his mother and +father had taken the long trip whose tickets read but one way, and had +left him to the grudging care of an uncle with a large enough family.</p> + +<p>And now his own family was obliterated. He was again a single man, that +familiar thing called a widower. He could not accept it as a fact. He +denied his eyes. He was as incredulous as a man who sees a magician play +some old vanishing trick. He had seen it, but he could not understand it +enough to believe it. When the hack left him at his house he found it +emptier than he could have imagined a house could be. Marthy was not on +the porch, or in the settin'-room, the dinin'-room, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> kitchen, or +anywhere up-stairs. The bed was empty, the stove cold. The lamp had not +been filled. The cruse of his life was dry, the silver cord loosened, +the pitcher broken at the fountain, the wheel broken at the cistern.</p> + +<p>As he stumbled about filling the lamp, and covering his hands with +kerosene, he wondered what he should do in those long hours between the +closing of the shoe-shop of evenings and its opening of mornings. Men +behave differently in this recurring situation. Some take to drink, or +return to it. Rudd did not like liquor; at least he did not think he +would have liked it if he had ever tasted it. Some take to gambling. +Rudd did not know big casino from little, though he had once almost +acquired a passion for checkers—the give-away game. Some submerge +themselves in money-getting. Rudd would not have given up the serene +certainty of his little salary for a speculator's chance to clean up a +million, or lose his margin.</p> + +<p>If only the child had lived, he should have had an industry, an +ambition, a use.</p> + +<p>Widowers have occasionally hunted consolation with the same sex that +sent them grief. Rudd had never known any woman in town as well as he +had known Martha, and it had taken him years to find courage to propose +to her. The thought of approaching any other woman with intimate +intention gave him an ague sweat.</p> + +<p>And how was he to think of taking another wife?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> Even if he had not been +so confounded with grief for his helpmeet as to believe her the only +woman on earth for him, how could he have accosted another woman when he +had only debts for a dowry?</p> + +<p>Death is an expensive thing in every phase. The event that robbed Rudd +of his wife, his child, his hope, had taken also his companion, his +cook, his chambermaid, his washerwoman, the mender of his things; and in +their place had left an appalling monument of bills. The only people he +had permitted himself to owe money to were the gruesome committee that +brought him his grief; the doctor, the druggist, the casket-maker, the +sexton, and the dealer in the unreal estate who sold the tiny lots in +the sad little town.</p> + +<p>His soul was too bruised to grope its way about, but instinct told him +that bills must be paid. Instinct automatically set him to work clearing +up his accounts. For their sakes he devoted himself to a stricter +economy than ever. He engaged meals at Mrs. Judd's boarding-house. He +resolved even to rent his home. But, mercifully, there was no one in +town to take the place. In economy's name, too, he put away his +pipe—for one horrible evening. The next day he remembered how Marthy +had sung out, "Why don't you smoke your pipe any more, Will?" and he had +answered: "I'd kind o' got out of the habit, Marthy, but I guess I'll +git back in." And Lordy, how she laughed! The laughter of the dead—it +made a lonely echo in the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p> + +<p>Gradually he found, as so many dismal castaways have found, that there +is a mystic companionship in that weed which has come out of the +vegetable world, as the dog from among the animals, to make fellowship +with man. Rudd and his pipe were Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday on +the desert island of loneliness. They stared out to sea; and imagined.</p> + +<p>Remembering how Martha and he used to dream about the child, in the +tobacco twilight, and how they planned his future, Rudd's soul learned +to follow the pipe smoke out from the porch, over the fence and to +disappear beyond the horizons of the town and the sharp definition of +the graveyard fence. He became addicted to dreams, habituated to dealing +in futurities that could never come to pass.</p> + +<p>Being his only luxury on earth, by and by they became his necessities, +realities more concrete than the shoes he sold or the board walk he +plodded to and from his store.</p> + +<p>One Sunday Rudd was present at church when Mr. and Mrs. Budd Granger +brought their fourth baby forward to be christened. The infant bawled +and choked and kicked its safety-pins loose. Rudd was sure that Eric +never would have misbehaved like that. Yet Eric had been denied the +sacred rite.</p> + +<p>This reminded Rudd how many learned theologians had proved by rigid +logic that unbaptized babies are damned forever. He spent days of horror +at the frightful possibility, and nights of infernal travel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> across +gridirons where babies flung their blistered hands in vain appeal to +far-off mothers. He could not get it from his mind until, one evening, +his pipe persuaded him to erect a font in the temple of his imagination.</p> + +<p>He mused through all the ritual, and the little frame house seemed to +thrill as the vague preacher enounced the sonorous phrase:</p> + +<p>"I baptize thee Eric—in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of +the Holy Ghost."</p> + +<p>Marthy was there, too, of course, but it was the father that held the +baby. And the child did not wince when the pastor's fingers moistened +the tiny brow. He just clasped a geranium-petal hand round Rudd's thumb +and stared at the sacrament with eyes of more than mortal understanding.</p> + +<p>The very next day Mrs. Ad. Peck walked into the store, proud as a +peahen. She wanted shoes for her baby. The soles of the old pair were +intact, but the stubby toes were protruding.</p> + +<p>"He crawls all over the house, Mr. Rudd! And he cut his first tooth +to-day, too. Just look at it. Ain't it a beauty?"</p> + +<p>In her insensate conceit she pried the child's mouth apart as if he were +a pony, to disclose the minute peak of ivory. It was nothing to make +such a fuss over, Rudd thought, though he praised it as if it were a +snow-capped Fuji-yama.</p> + +<p>That night Eric cut two teeth. And Marthy nearly laughed her head off.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p> + +<p>Rudd did not talk aloud to the family he had revened from the grave. He +had no occult persuasions. He just sat in his rocker and smoked hard and +imagined hard. He imagined the lives of his family not only as they +might have been, but as they ought to have been. He was like a spectator +at a play, mingling belief and make-belief inextricably, knowing it all +untrue, yet weeping, laughing, thrilling as if it were the very image of +fact.</p> + +<p>All mothers and some fathers have a sad little calendar in their hearts' +cupboards where they keep track of the things that might have been. +"October fifth," they muse. "Why, it's Ned's birthday! He'd have been +twenty-one to-day if he'd lived. He'd have voted this year. December +twenty-third? Alice would have been coming home from boarding-school +to-day if—July fourth? Humph! How Harry loved the fireworks! But he'd +be a Senator now and invited to his home town to make a speech in the +park to-day if—" If! If!</p> + +<p>Everybody must keep some such if-almanac, some such diary of prayers +denied. That was all Rudd did; only he wrote it up every evening. He +would take from the lavender where he kept them the little things Martha +had sewed for the child and the little shoes he had bought. The warm +body had never wriggled and laughed in the tiny trousseau, the little +shoes had never housed pink toes, but they helped him to pretend until +they became to him things outgrown by a living, growing child. He +cherished<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> them as all parents cherish the first shoes and the first +linens and woolens of their young.</p> + +<p>Marthy and Eric Rudd lived just behind the diaphanous curtain of the +pipe smoke, or in the nooks of the twilight shadow, or in the heart of +the settin'-room stove.</p> + +<p>The frame house had no fireplace, and in its lieu he was wont to open +the door of the wood-stove, lean forward, elbows on knees, and gaze into +the creamy core of the glow where his people moved unharmed and radiant, +like the three youths conversing in the fiery furnace.</p> + +<p>In the brief period allotted them before bedtime they must needs live +fast. The boy grew at an extraordinary rate and in an extraordinary +manner, for sometimes Rudd performed for him that feat which God Himself +seems not to achieve in His world; he turned back time and brought on +yesterday again, or reverted the year before last, as a reaper may pause +and return to glean some sheaf overlooked before.</p> + +<p>For instance, Eric was already a strapping lad of seven spinning through +school at a rate that would have given brain fever to a less-gifted +youngster, when, one day, Farmer Stebbins came to the Emporium with a +four-year-old chub of a son who ran in ahead of his father, kicked his +shoes in opposite directions and yelled, to the great dismay of an old +maid in the "Ladies' and Misses' Dept.":</p> + +<p>"Hay, mister, gimme pair boots 'ith brass toes!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p> + +<p>The father, after a formulaic pretense of reproving the lad, explained:</p> + +<p>"We'll have to excuse him, Rudd; it's his first pair of boots."</p> + +<p>Rudd's heart was sore within him, and he was oppressed with guilt. He +had never bought Eric his first pair of brass-toed boots! And he a shoe +clerk!</p> + +<p>So that night Eric had to be reduced several years, brought out of +school, and taken to St. Louis. Rudd knew what an epoch-making event +this was, and he wanted Eric to select from a larger stock than the +meager and out-of-date supply of Kittredge's Emporium—though this +admission was only for Rudd's own family. The thumb-screw could not have +wrung it from him for the public.</p> + +<p>There was a similar mix-up about Eric's first long trousers which Rudd +likewise overlooked. He accomplished the Irish miracle of the tight +boots. Eric had worn his breeches a long while before he put them on for +the first time.</p> + +<p>To the outer knowledge of the stranger or the neighbor, William Rudd's +employer had all the good luck that was coming to him, and all of Rudd's +besides. They were antitheses at every point.</p> + +<p>Where Rudd was without ambition, importance, family, or funds, Kittredge +was the richest man in town, the man of most impressive family, and +easily the leading citizen. People began to talk him up for Congressman, +maybe for Senator. He had held<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> all the other conspicuous offices in his +church, his bank, his county. You could hardly say that he had ever run +for any office; he had just walked up and taken it.</p> + +<p>Yet Rudd did not envy him his record or his family. Clay Kittredge had +children, real children. The cemetery lodged none of them. Yet one of +the girls or boys was always ill or in trouble with somebody; Mrs. +Kittredge was forever cautioning her children not to play with Mrs. +So-and-so's children and Mrs. So-and-so would return the compliment. The +town was fairly torn up with these nursery Guelph and Ghibelline wars.</p> + +<p>Rudd compared the wickednesses of other people's children with the +perfections of Eric. Sometimes his evil genius whispered a bitter +thought that if Eric had lived to enter the world this side of the +tobacco smoke, he, too, might have been a complete scoundrel in +knee-breeches, instead of the clean-hearted, clear-skinned, studious, +truthful little gentleman of light and laughter and love that he was. +But Rudd banished the thought.</p> + +<p>Eric was never ill, or only ill enough at times to give the parents a +little of the rapture of anxiety and of sitting by his bedside holding +his hand and brushing his hair back from a hot forehead. Eric never was +impolite, or cruel to an animal, or impudent to a teacher, or backward +in a class.</p> + +<p>And Rudd's wife differed from Kittredge's wife and wives in general—and +indeed from the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> Martha herself—in staying young and growing more +and more beautiful. The old Martha had been too shy and too cognizant of +the truth ever to face a camera; and Rudd often regretted that he owned +not even a bridal photograph such as the other respectable married folks +of Hillsdale had on the wall, or in a crayon enlargement on an uneasy +easel. He had no likeness of Martha except that in his heart. But +thereby his fancy was unshackled and he was enabled to imagine her +sweeter, fairer, every day.</p> + +<p>It was the boy alone that grew; the mother, having become perfect, +remained stationary in charm like the blessed Greeks in the +asphodel-fields of Hades.</p> + +<p>About the time Eric Rudd outgrew the public schools of Hillsdale and +graduated from the high school with a wonderful oration of his own +writing called "Night Brings Out the Stars," Kittredge announced that +his eldest son would go to Harvard in the fall. Rudd determined that +Eric should go to Yale. He even sent for catalogues. Rudd was appalled +to see how much a person had to know before he could even get into +college. And then, this nearly omniscient intellect was called a +Freshman!</p> + +<p>The prices of rooms, of meals, of books, of extra fees, the estimated +allowances for clothing and spending-money dazed the poor shoe clerk and +nearly sent Eric into business. But, fortunately, the brier pipe came to +the rescue with an unexpected legacy from an unsuspected uncle.</p> + +<p>The four years of college life were imagined with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> a good deal of +elision and an amount of guesswork that would have amused a janitor. But +Rudd and Martha were chiefly interested in the boy's vacations at home, +and their own trips to New Haven, and the letters of approval from the +professors.</p> + +<p>Eric had an athletic career seldom equaled since the days of Hercules. +For Eric was a champion tennis-player, hockey-player, baseballist, +boxer, swimmer, runner, jumper, shot-putter. And he was the best +quoit-thrower in the New Haven town square. Rudd had rather dim notions +of some of the games, so that Eric was established both as center rush +of the football team and the cockswain in the crew.</p> + +<p>He was also a member of all the best fraternities. He was a "Bones" man +in his Freshman year, and in his Sophomore year added the other Senior +societies. And, of course, he stood at the head of all his +classes—though he never condescended to take a single red apple to a +professor.</p> + +<p>The boy's college life lasted Rudd a thousand and one evenings. It was +in beautiful contrast with the career of Kittredge's children, some of +whom were forever flunking their examinations, slipping back a year, +requiring expensive tutors, acquiring bad habits, and getting into debt. +Almost the only joy Kittredge had of them was in telegraphing them money +in response to their telegrams for money—they never wrote. Their +vacations either sent them scurrying on house parties or other +excursions. Or if they came home they were discontented with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> house and +parents. They corrected Kittredge's grammar, though his State accounted +him an orator. They corrected Mrs. Kittredge's etiquette, though +Hillsdale looked up to her as a social arbitrix.</p> + +<p>Kittredge poured a deal of his disappointment into Rudd's ear, because +his hard heart was broken and breaking anew every day, and he had to +tell somebody. He knew that his old clerk would keep it where he kept +all the secrets of his business, but he never knew that Rudd still had a +child of his own, forging ahead without failure. Rudd could give +comfort, for he had it to spare, and he was empty of envy.</p> + +<p>It was a ghastly morning when Kittredge showed Rudd a telegram saying +that his eldest son, Thomas, had thrown himself in front of a train +because of the discovery that his accounts were wrong. Kittredge had +found him a place in a New York bank, but the gambling fever had seized +the young fellow. And now he was dead, in his sins, in his shame. Dives +cried out to Lazarus:</p> + +<p>"It's hell to be a father, Will. It's an awful thing to bring children +into the world and try to carry 'em through it. It's not a man's job. +It's God's."</p> + +<p>At times like these, and when Rudd heard from the tattlers, or read in +the printed gossip of the evening paper concerning the multifarious +wickednesses of the children of men about the earth, he felt almost glad +that his boy had never lived upon so plague-infected a world. But in the +soothe of twi<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span>light the old pipe persuaded him to a pleasanter view of +his boy, alive and always doing the right thing, avoiding the evil.</p> + +<p>His motto was, "Eric would have done different." He was sure of that. It +was his constant conclusion.</p> + +<p>After graduating from an imaginary Yale Eric went to an imaginary +law-school in New York City—no less. Then he was admitted to that +imaginary bar where a lawyer never defends an unrighteous cause, never +loses a case, yet grows rich. And, of course, like every other American +boy that dreams or is dreamed of, in good time he had to become +President.</p> + +<p>Eric lived so exemplary a life, was so busy in virtue, so unblemished of +fault, that he could not be overlooked by the managers of the +quadrennial national performance, searching with Demosthenes' lantern +for a man against whom nothing could be said. They called Eric from +private life to be headliner in their vaudeville.</p> + +<p>Rudd had watched Kittredge clambering to his success, or rather +wallowing to it through a swamp of mud. All the wrong things Kittredge +had ever done, and their name was legion, were hurled in his path. His +family scandals were dug up by the double handful and splashed in his +face. Against his opponent the same methods were used. It was like a +race through a marsh; and when Kittredge reached his goal in the Senate +he was so muck-bemired, his heart had been so lacerated, the naked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>ness +of his past so exposed, that his laurel seemed more like a wreath of +poison ivy. And once mounted on his high post, he was an even better +target than when he was on the wing.</p> + +<p>Against Eric's blameless life the arrows of slander were like darts shot +toward the sun. They fell back upon the archers' heads. That was a +lively night in the tobacco lagoon when the election returns came in and +State after State swung to Eric's column. Rudd made it as nearly +unanimous as he could without making it stupid. The solid South he left +unbroken; he just brought it over to Eric en bloc. For Eric, it seems, +had devised what everybody else has looked for in vain, a solution of +the negro problem to satisfy both North and South—and the negroes. +Unfortunately the details have been lost.</p> + +<p>Marthy was there, of course; she rode in the same hack with their boy. +Some of the politicians and the ex-President wanted to get in, but Eric +said:</p> + +<p>"My mother and father ride with me or I won't be President."</p> + +<p>That settled 'em. Eric even wanted to ride backward, too, but Will, as +his father, insisted; and of course Eric obeyed, though he was +President. And the weather was more like June than March, no blizzards +delaying trains and distributing pneumonia.</p> + +<p>Once the administration was begun, the newspapers differed strangely in +their treatment of Eric from their attitude toward other Chief +Magistrates, from Washington down. Realizing that Eric was an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> honorable +man trying to do the right thing by the people, no editor or cartoonist +dreamed of accusing him of an unworthy motive or an unwise act. As for +the tariff labyrinth, a matter of some trouble to certain Presidents +pulled in all directions at once by warring constituencies, Eric settled +that in a jiffy. And the best of it was that everybody was satisfied, +importers and exporters; East, West, and Middle; farmers, manufacturers, +lumbermen, oilmen, painters—everybody.</p> + +<p>And when his first term was ended the Democrats and Republicans, +realizing that they had at last found a perfectly wise and honorable +ruler, nominated him by acclamation at both conventions. The result was +delightful; both parties elected their candidate.</p> + +<p>Marthy and Will sat with Eric in the carriage at the second inaugural, +too. There was an argument again about who should ride backward. Rudd +said:</p> + +<p>"Eric, your Excellency, these here crowds came to see you, and you ought +to face 'em. As your dad I order you to set there 'side of your mother."</p> + +<p>But Eric said, "Dad, your Majesty, the people have seen me often enough, +and as the President of these here United States I order you to set +there 'side of your wife."</p> + +<p>And of course Rudd had to do it. Folks looked very much surprised to see +him and there was quite a piece in the papers about it.</p> + +<p>To every man his day's work and his night's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> dream. Will Rudd has poor +nourishment of the former, but he is richly fed of the latter. His +failures and his poverty and the monotony of his existence are public +knowledge; his dream is his own triumph and the greater for being his +secret.</p> + +<p>The Fates seemed to go out of their way to be cruel to Will Rudd, but he +beat them at their own game. Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos kept Jupiter +himself in awe of their shears, and the old Norns, Urdur, Verdandi, and +Skuld, ruined Wotan's power and his glory. But they could not touch the +shoe clerk. They shattered his little scheme of things to bits, but he +rebuilt it nearer to his heart's desire. He spread a sky about his +private planet and ruled his little universe like a tribal god. He, +alone of all men, had won the oldest, vainest prayer that was ever said +or sung: "O God, keep the woman I love young and beautiful, and grant +our child happiness and success without sin or sorrow."</p> + +<p>If, sometimes, the imagination of the matter-of-fact man wavers, and the +ugliness of his loneliness overwhelms him, thrusts through his dream +like a hideous mountainside when an avalanche strips the barren crags of +their fleece; and if he then breaks down and calls aloud for his child +and his wife to be given back to him from Out There—these panics are +also his secret. Only the homely sitting-room of the lonely frame house +knows them. He opens the door of the wood-stove or follows his pipe +smoke and rallies his courage, resumes his dream. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> next morning sees +him emerge from his door and go briskly to the shop as always, whether +his path is through rain or sleet, or past the recurrent lilacs that +have scattered many a purple snow across his sidewalk since the +bankruptcy of his ambitions.</p> + +<p>He would have been proud to be the unknown father of a great man. He was +not permitted to be the father even of a humble man. Yet being denied +the reality, he has taken sustenance in what might have been, and has +turned "the saddest words of tongue or pen" into something almost sweet. +If his child has missed the glories of what might have been, he has +escaped the shames that might have been, and the bruises and heartaches +and remorses that must have been, that always have been. That is the +increasing consolation a bitter world offers to those who love and have +lost. That was Rudd's solace. And he made the most of it; added to it a +dream. He was a wise man.</p> + +<p>After he paid his sorrowful debts his next slow savings went to the +building of a monument for his family. It is one of the handsomest +shafts in the cemetery. If Rudd could brag of anything he would brag of +that. The inscription took a long time to write. You could tell that by +its simplicity. And you might notice the blank space left for his own +name when all three shall be together again.</p> + +<p>Rudd is now saving a third fund against the encroaching time when he +shall be too feeble to get up from his knees after he has dropped upon +them to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> unlace somebody's sandal. Lonely old orphans like Rudd must +provide their own pensions. There is a will, however, which bequeaths +whatever is left of his funds to an orphan home. Being a sonless father, +he thinks of the sons who have no fathers to do for them what he was so +fain to do for his. It is not a large fund for these days when rich men +toss millions as tips to posterity, but it is pretty good for a shoe +clerk. And it will mean everything to some Eric that gets himself really +born.</p> + +<p>If you drop in at the Emporium and ask for a pair of shoes or boots, or +slippers or rubbers, or trees or pumps, and wait for old Rudd to get +round to you, you will be served with deference, yet with a pride of +occupation that is almost priestly. And you will probably buy something, +whether you want it or not.</p> + +<p>The old man is slightly shuffly in his gaiters. His own elastics are +less resilient than once they were. If you ask for anything on the top +shelf he is a trifle slow getting the ladder and rather ratchety in +clambering up and down, and his eyes are growing so tired that he may +offer you a 6D when you ask for a 3A.</p> + +<p>But, above all things, don't hurt his pride by offering to help him to +his feet if he shows some difficulty in rising when he has performed his +genuflexion before you. Just pretend not to notice, as he would pretend +not to notice any infirmity or vanity of yours. It is his vanity to be +still the best shoe clerk in town—as he is.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> There is a gracious +satisfiedness about the old man that radiates contentment and makes you +comfortable for the time in most uncomfortable shoes. And as old Rudd +says:</p> + +<p>"You'll find that the best shoe is the one that pinches at first and +hurts a little; in time it will grow very comfortable and still be +becoming."</p> + +<p>That is what Rudd says, and he ought to know.</p> + +<p>In these days he is so supremely comfortable in his old shoes that his +own fellow-clerks hardly know what to make of him. If they only +understood what is going on in his private world they would realize that +Eric is about to be married—in the White House. The boy was so busy for +the country and loved his mother so that he had no time to go sparkin'.</p> + +<p>But Marthy got after him and said: "Eric, they're goin' to make you +President for the third term. Oh, what's that old tradition got to do +with it? Can't they change it? Well, you mark my words, like as not +you'll settle down and live in the White House the rest of your life. +You'd ought to have a wife, Eric, and be raisin' some childern to +comfort your declining years. What would Will and me have done without +you? I'm gettin' old, Eric, and I'd kind o' like to see how it feels to +be a grandmother, before they take me out to the—"</p> + +<p>But that was a word Rudd could never frame even in his thoughts.</p> + +<p>Eric, being a mighty good boy, listened to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> mother, as always. And +Marthy looked everywhere for an ideal woman, and when she found one, +Eric fell in love with her right away. It is not every child that is so +dutiful as that.</p> + +<p>The marriage is to take place shortly and Rudd is very busy with the +details. He will go on to Washington, of course—of evenings. In fact, +the wedding is to be in the evening, so that he won't have to miss any +time at the shop. There are so many people coming in every day and +asking for shoes, that he wouldn't dare be away.</p> + +<p>Martha is insisting on Will's buying a dress soot for the festivities, +but he is in doubt about that. Martha, though, shall have the finest +dress in the land, for she is more beautiful even than Eric's bride, and +she doesn't look a day older than she did when she was a bride herself. +A body would never guess how many years ago that was.</p> + +<p>The White House is going to be all lit up, and a lot of big folks will +be there—a couple of kings, like as not. There will be fried chicken +for dinner and ice-cream—mixed, maybe, chocolate and vanella, and +p'raps a streak of strawb'ry. And there will be enough so's everybody +can have two plates. Marthy will prob'ly bake the cake herself, if she +can get that old White House stove to working right.</p> + +<p>Rudd has a great surprise in store for her. He's going to tell a good +one on Marthy. At just the proper moment he's going to lean over—Lord, +he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> hopes he can keep his face straight—and say, kind of offhand:</p> + +<p>"Do you remember, Marthy, the time when you was makin' little +baby-clothes for the President of the United States here, and you says +to me—you see, Eric, she'd made me quit smokin', herself, but she plumb +forgot all about that—and she says to me, s'she, 'Why don't you smoke +your pipe any more, Will?' she says. And I says, 'I'd kind o' got out of +the habit, Marthy,' s'I, 'but I guess I'll git back in,' s'I. I said it +right off like that, 'I guess I'll git back in!' s'I. Remember, +Marthy?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE HAPPIEST MAN IN IOWAY</h2> + +<div style="margin-left: auto;"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Jes' down the road a piece, 'ith dust so deep<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It teched the bay mare's fetlocks, an' the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So b'ilin' hot, the peewees dassn't peep,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Seemed like midsummer 'fore the spring's begun!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' me plumb beat an' good-for-nothin'-like<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' awful lonedsome fer a sight o' you ...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I come to that big locus' by the pike,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' she was all in bloom, an' trembly, too,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With breezes like drug-store perfumery.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I stood up in my sturrups, with my head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So deep in flowers they almost smothered me.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I kind o' liked to think that I was dead ...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' if I hed 'a' died like that to-day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'd 'a' b'en the happiest man in Ioway.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For what's the use't o' goin' on like this?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your pa not 'lowin' me around the place ...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well, fust I knowed, I'd give' them blooms a kiss;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They tasted like Good-Night on your white face.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I reached my arms out wide, an' hugged 'em—say,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I dreamp' your little heart was hammerin' me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I broke this branch off for a love-bo'quet;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'F I'd b'en a giant, I'd 'a' plucked the tree!<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The blooms is kind o' dusty from the road,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But you won't mind. So, as the feller said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"When this you see remember me"—I knowed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Another poem; but I've lost my head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From seein' you! 'Bout all that I kin say<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is—"I'm the happiest man in Ioway."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well, comin' 'long the road I seen your ma<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Drive by to town—she didn't speak to me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' in the farthest field I seen your pa<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At his spring-plowin', like I'd ought to be.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, knowin' you'd be here all by yourself,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I hed to come; for now's our livin' chance!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Take off yer apern, leave things on the shelf—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Our preacher needs what th' feller calls "romance".<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Ain't got no red-wheeled buggy; but the mare<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Will carry double, like we've trained her to.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jes' put a locus'-blossom in your hair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' let's ride straight to heaven—me an' you!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll build y' a little house, an' folks'll say:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"There lives the happiest pair in Ioway."<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p> + +<h2>PRAYERS</h2> + +<p>God leaned forward in His throne and bent His all-seeing gaze upon one +of the least of the countless suns. A few tiny planets spun slowly about +it like dead leaves around a deserted camp-fire.</p> + +<p>Almost the smallest of these planets had named itself the Earth. The +glow of the central cinder brightened one side and they called that Day. +And where the shadow was was Night.</p> + +<p>The creeping glimmer of Day woke, as it passed, a jangle in shops and +factories, a racket and hurry of traffic, war and business, which the +coming of the gloom hushed in its turn. As God's eyes pierced the shadow +they found, between the dotted lines of street-lamps and under the roofs +where the windows glimmered—revelry or solemnity. In denser shadows +there was a murmur of the voices of lovers and of families at peace or +at war.</p> + +<p>The All-hearing heard no chaos in this discord, but knew each instrument +and understood each melody, concord, and clash. Loudest of all were the +silences or the faint whimperings of those who knelt by their beds and +bent their brows toward their own bosoms, communing with the various +selves that they interpreted as the one God. He knew who prayed for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> +what, and He answered each in His own wisdom, knowing that He would seem +to have answered none and knowing why.</p> + +<p>Among the multitudinous prayers one group arrived at His throne from +separate places, but linked together by their contradictions. He heard +the limping effort to be formal as before a king or a court of justice. +He heard the anxious fear break through the petition; He heard the +selfish eagerness trembling in the pious phrases of altruism. He +understood.</p> + + +<h3>I. A MAN'S VOICE</h3> + +<p>Our Father which art in heaven let me come back to Thy kingdom. Bless my +wife Edith and our little Marjorie and give them to me again. I am not +worthy of them; I have sinned against them and against Thee. I have been +drunken, adulterous, heartless, but from this night I will be good +again. I will try with all my soul, and with Thy help I will succeed. +Teach me to be strong. Forgive me my trespasses and help Edith to +forgive them. Make my wife beautiful in my sight and make all those +other beautiful faces ugly in my eyes so that I shall see only Edith as +I used to.</p> + +<p>Grant me freedom from the wicked woman who will not let me go; don't let +Rose carry out her threats; don't let her wreck my home; make her +understand that I am doing my duty; make her love some one else; make +her forget me. How can I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> be true to my sin and true to Thee! Help me +out of these depths, O Lord, that I may walk in the narrow path and +escape destruction.</p> + +<p>To-morrow I am going back to my wife and my child with words of love and +humility on my lips.</p> + +<p>Give me back my home again, O God. Amen.</p> + + +<h3>II. A WOMAN'S VOICE</h3> + +<p>Let me come to Thee again, dear Father, and do not reject my prayer. +Forgive me for what I shall do to-night. Take care of my little Marjorie +and save her from the temptations that have overwhelmed me. Thou alone +knowest how hard I have tried to live without love, how long I have +waited for John to come back to me. Thou only hast seen me struggling +against the long loneliness. Thou alone canst forgive, for Thou hast +seen me refuse to be tempted with love. Thou hast heard my cries in the +long, long nights. Thou knowest that I have been true to my husband who +was not true to me. Thou hast seen me put away the happiness that Frank +has offered me and asked of me. And now if I can endure no longer, if I +give myself to him, more for his sake than mine, let me bear the +punishment, not Frank; let me bear even the punishment John has earned. +I am what Thou hast made me, Lord. If it be Thy pleasure that I shall +burn in the fires forever, then let Thy will be done; for I can live no +longer without Frank. Thou mayest refuse<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> to hear my prayers, but I +cannot refuse to hear his. Forgive me if I leave my beloved child alone. +She is safer with Thee than with me. Perhaps her father will be good to +her now. Perhaps he will turn back to her if I am away. And help me +through the coming years to be true to Frank. He needs me, he loves me, +he is braving the wrath of the world and of heaven for my sake.</p> + +<p>Help us, Lord, to find in our new life the peace and the virtue that was +not in the old and bless and guard my motherless little Marjorie, O God, +and save her from the fate that overwhelmed her mother for her father's +fault. I am leaving her asleep here in Thy charge, O God. When she wakes +in the morning let Thy angels comfort her and dry her tears. Let me not +hear her crying for me, or I shall kill myself. I cannot bear +everything. I have endured more than my strength can endure. Help me, O +Lord, and forgive me for my sin—if sin it is. Amen.</p> + + +<h3>III. A MAN'S VOICE</h3> + +<p>God, if You are in heaven, hear me and help me. I have not prayed for +many years. My voice is strange to You. My prayer may offend You, but it +rushes from my heart.</p> + +<p>I am about to do what the world calls hideous crime—to steal another +man's wife and carry her to another country where we may have peace. I +loved Edith before her husband loved her. I love her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> better than John +ever loved her. I can't stand it. I can't stand it any longer to see her +deserted in her beauty, and despised and weeping in loneliness, wasting +her love on a dog who squandered his heart on a vile woman. I can't go +on watching her die in a living hell. I have sold all my goods and +gotten all I could save into my safe so that we may sever all ties with +this heartless love. If what we are about to do offends Thee, then let +me suffer for her. She has suffered enough, enough, enough!</p> + +<p>And keep her husband from following us, lest I kill him. Keep her from +mourning too much for her child—his child. Give her a little happiness, +O God. Take bitter toll from my heart afterward, but give us a little +happiness now. Grant us escape to-night and safety and a little +happiness for her. And then I shall believe in Thee again and live +honorably in Thy sight. Amen.</p> + + +<h3>IV. A WOMAN'S VOICE</h3> + +<p>Dear God in heaven, what shall I do? He has abandoned me, John has +turned against me at last. Has denounced me as wicked, and hateful, has +accused me of wrecking his life and breaking his wife's heart—as if she +had a heart, as if I had not saved him from despair, as if I had not +sacrificed my name, my hopes, on earth and in heaven to make him happy.</p> + +<p>O God, why hast Thou persecuted me so fiercely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> always? What made You +hate me so? Why didn't You give me a decent home as a child? Why did You +throw me into the snares of those vile men? Why did You make me +beautiful and weak and trusting? Why didn't You make me ugly and +suspicious and hateful so that I could be good?</p> + +<p>And now, now that I am no longer a girl, now that the wrinkles are +coming, and the fat and the dullness, why didst Thou throw me into the +way of this man who promised to love me forever, who promised me and +praised me and called me his real wife, only to tire of me and tear my +hands away and go back to her?</p> + +<p>But don't let him have her, don't let him be happy with her, while I +grovel here in shame! I can't bear the thought of that, I can't imagine +him in her arms telling her how good she is and how bad I was. I'd +rather kill them both. Isn't that best, O Lord—to kill them both—to +kill her, anyway? Then I can kill myself and he will be sorry. Don't let +him have both of us, O God. Am I going mad, or do I hear Thy voice +telling me to act? Yes, it is Thy voice. Thou hast answered. I will do +as Thou dost command. Perhaps he is going there to-night. I will go to +the house and wait in the shadow and when he comes to the door and she +comes to meet him I will shoot her and myself, and then he shall be +punished as he should be.</p> + +<p>I thank Thee, God, for showing me the way. Guide my arm and my heart and +don't let me be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> afraid to die or to make her die. Forgive my sins and +take me into Thy peace, O God, for I am tired of life and the wickedness +of the world. Amen. Amen.</p> + + +<h3>V. A CHILD'S VOICE</h3> + +<p>Our Father which art in he'v'm, hallowed be Dy name. Dy king'm come. Dy +will be done in earf as it is in he'v'm. Give us dis day our daily bread +and forgive an'—an' forgive Marjorie for bein' a bad chile an' getting +so s'eepy, and b'ess papa an' b'ing him home to mamma an'—an' +trespasses as—tres-passes 'gainst us. King'm, power, and glory forever. +Amen.</p> + + +<h3>VI. AN OLD WOMAN'S VOICE</h3> + +<p>—and give my poor Edith strength and let her find happiness again in +the return of her husband. Let her forget his wrongs and forgive them +and live happily in her old age as I have done with my husband. I thank +Thee for helping me through those cruel years. Thou alone couldst have +helped me and now all would be happiness if only Edith had happiness, +but for the mercies Thou hast vouchsafed make me grateful.</p> + + +<h3>VII. AN OLD WOMAN'S VOICE</h3> + +<p>—and help my poor Rose to be a good girl to her old mother and keep her +out of trouble and make<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> her send me some more money, for I'm so sick +and tired and the rent's comin' due and I need a warm coat for the +winter, and I've had a hard life and many's the curse You've put upon +me, but I'm doing my best and I'm all wore out.</p> + + +<h3>VIII. A MAN'S VOICE</h3> + +<p>Fergimme, O Gawd, if it makes Thou mad fer to be prayed to by a sneakin' +boiglar, but help me t'roo dis one job and I'll go straight from now on, +so help me. Don't let dis guy find me crackin' his safe, so's I won't +have to kill 'im. Help me make a clean getaway and I'll toin over a noo +leaf, I will. I'll send money to me mudder, and I'll go to choich +reg'lar and I'll never do nuttin' crooked again. On'y dis one time, O +Gawd.</p> + +<hr style="width: 5%;" /> + +<p>God closed His eyes and smiled the sorrowful smile of the All-knowing, +the All-pitying, the Unknown, the Unpitied, and He said to Him who sat +at His side:</p> + +<p>"They call these Prayers! They will wonder why I have not finished the +tasks they set Me nor accepted the bribes they offered. And to-morrow +they will rebuke Me as a faithless, indolent servant who has +disobeyed!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p> + +<h2>PAIN</h2> + + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>"How much more bitter, dearly beloved, are the anguishes of the soul +than any mere bodily distress! When the heart under conviction of sin +for the violation of one of God's laws writhes and cries aloud in +repentance and remorse, then, ah, then, is true suffering. What are the +fleeting torments of this tenement of clay, mere bone and flesh, to the +soul's despair? Nothing! Noth—"</p> + +<p>The clergyman's emphatic fist did not thump the Scriptures the second +time. He checked it in air; for a woman stood up straight and stared at +him straight. Her thin mouth seemed to twist with a sneer. He thought he +read on her lips words not quite uttered. He read:</p> + +<p>"You fool! You fool!"</p> + +<p>Then Miss Straley sidled from the family pew to the aisle and marched up +it and out of the church.</p> + +<p>Doctor Crosson was shocked doubly. The woman's action was an outrage +upon the holy composure of the Sabbath, and it would remind everybody +that he was an old lover of Irene Straley's.</p> + +<p>The neatly arranged congregational skulls were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> disordered now, some +still tilted forward in sleep, some tilted back to see what the pastor +would do, some craned round to observe the departer, some turned inward +in whispering couples.</p> + +<p>Such a thing had never happened before in all the parsoning of Doctor +Crosson—the D.D. had been conferred on him by the small theological +institute where he had imbibed enough dogmas in two years to last him a +lifetime.</p> + +<p>Some of his dogmas were so out of fashion that he felt them a trifle +shabby even for village wear. He had laid aside the old red hell-fire +dogma for a new one of hell-as-a-state-of-mind. He was expounding that +doctrine this morning again. He had never heard any complaint of it. But +his mind was so far from his memory that he hardly knew what he had just +uttered. He wondered what he could have said to offend Miss Straley.</p> + +<p>But he must not stand there gaping and wondering before his gaping and +wondering congregation. He must push on to his <i>lastly's</i>. His mind +retraced his words, and he repeated:</p> + +<p>"What are the fleeting torments of this tenement of clay, mere bone and +flesh, to the soul's despair? Nothing! As I said before—nothing!"</p> + +<p>And then he understood why Irene Straley had walked out. The realization +deranged him so that only the police-force every one has among his +faculties coerced him into going on with his sermon.</p> + +<p>It was a good sermon. It was his own, too;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> for at last he had paid the +final instalment on the clergyman's library which contained a thousand +sermons as aids to overworked, underinspired evangelists. He had built +this discourse from well-seasoned timbers. He had used it in two pulpits +where he had visited, and now he was giving it to his own flock. He knew +it well enough to trust his oratorical machinery with its delivery, +while the rest of his mind meditated other things.</p> + +<p>Often, while preaching, a portion of his brain would be watching the +effect on his congregation, another watching the clock, another thinking +of dinner, another musing over the scandals he knew in the lives of the +parishioners.</p> + +<p>But now all his by-thoughts were scattered at the abrupt deed of Irene +Straley. She was the traffic of his other brains now, while his lips +went on enouncing the phrases of his discourse and his fists thudded the +Bible for emphasis. He was remembering his boyhood and his infatuation +for Irene Straley. That was before he was sure of his call to the +ministry. If he had married her, he might not have heard the call.</p> + +<p>Doctor Crosson hoped that he was not regretting that sacrament! Sweat +came out on his brow as he understood the blasphemy of noting (even here +on the rostrum with his mouth pouring forth sacred eloquence) that Irene +Straley as she marched out of the church was still slender and flexile, +virginal. Doctor Crosson mopped his brow at the atrocity of his thoughts +this morning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> The springtime air was to blame. The windows were open +for the first time. The breeze that lolled through the church had no +right there. It was irreverent and frivolous. It was amused at the +people. It rippled with laughter at the preacher's heavy effort to start +a jealousy between the pangs of the flesh and the pangs of the soul.</p> + +<p>It brought into church a savor of green rushes growing in the warm, wet +thickets where Doctor Crosson—once Eddie Crosson—had loved to go +hunting squirrels and rabbits, and wild duck in season. Those were years +of depravity, but they were entrancing in memory. He felt a Satanic +whisper: "Order these old fogies out into the fields and let them +worship there. It is May, you fool!"</p> + +<p>"You fool!" That was what Irene Straley had seemed to whisper. Only, the +breeze made a soft, sweet coo of the word that had been so bitter on her +lips.</p> + +<p>Across the square of a window near the pulpit a venerable locust-tree +brandished a bough dripping with blossoms. Countless little censers of +white spice swung frankincense and myrrh for pagan nostrils.</p> + +<p>There was a beckoning in the locust bough, and in the air an incantation +that made a folly of sermons and souls and old maids' resentments and +gossips' queries. The preacher fought on, another Saint Anthony in a +cloud of witches.</p> + +<p>He could hear himself intoning the long sermon with the familiar +pulpiteering rhythms and the final upsnap of the last syllable of each +sentence. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> could see that the congregation was already drowsily +forgetful of Irene Straley's absence. But, to save his soul, he could +not keep his mind from following her out into the leafy streets and on +into the past where she had been the prize he and young Drury Boldin had +contended for—a past in which he had never dreamed that his future was +a pulpit in his home town.</p> + +<p>He was the manlier of the two, for Drury was a delicate boy, too +sensitive for the approval of his Spartan fellows. They made fun of his +gentleness. He hated to wreathe a fishing-worm on a hook! He loathed to +wrench a hook from a fish's gullet! The nearest he had ever come to +fighting was in defense of a thousand-legged worm that one of the boys +had stuck a pin through, to watch it writhe and bite itself behind the +pin.</p> + +<p>Irene Straley was a sentimental girl. That was right in a girl, but +silly in a boy.</p> + +<p>Once when Eddie Crosson stubbed his toe and it swelled up to great +importance, Irene Straley wept when she saw it, while Drury Boldin +turned pale and sat down hard. Once when Drury cut his thumb with a +penknife he fainted at the sight of his own blood!</p> + +<p>Eddie Crosson was a real boy. He smoked cubeb cigarettes with an almost +unprecedented precocity. He nearly learned to chew tobacco. He could +snap a sparrow off a telegraph-wire with a nigger-shooter almost +infallibly. He had the first air-gun in town and a shot-gun at fifteen. +He thought that he was manlier than Drury because he was wiser and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> +stronger. It never occurred to him that Drury might suffer more because +he was more finely built, that his nerves were harp-strings while +Crosson's were fence-wire.</p> + +<p>So Crosson called Drury a milksop because he would not go hunting. He +called himself one of the sons of Nimrod.</p> + +<p>For a time he gained prestige with Irene Straley, especially as he gave +her bright feathers now and then, an oriole's gilded mourning, or a +tanager's scarlet vesture.</p> + +<p>One day Drury Boldin was at her porch when Ed came in from across the +river with a brace of duck.</p> + +<p>"You can have these for your dinner to-morrow, Reny," he said, as he +laid the limp, silky bodies on the porch floor.</p> + +<p>Their bills and feet were grotesque, but there was something about their +throats, stretched out in waning iridescence, that asked for regret.</p> + +<p>"Oh, much obliged!" Irene cried. "That's awful nice of you, Eddie. Duck +cook awful good."</p> + +<p>And then her enthusiasm ebbed, for she caught the look of Drury Boldin +as he bent down and stroked the glossy mantle of the birds, not with +zest for their flavor, nor envy of the skill that had fetched them from +the sky, but with sorrow for their ended careers, for the miracle gone +out of their wings, and the strange fact that they had once quawked and +chirruped in the high air and on hidden waters—and would never fly or +swim again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> "I wonder if they had souls," he mumbled.</p> + +<p>Eddie Crosson winked at Irene. There was no use getting mad at Drury. +Eddie only laughed:</p> + +<p>"'Course not, you darn galoot!"</p> + +<p>"How do you know?" Drury asked.</p> + +<p>"Anybody knows that much," was Crosson's sufficient answer, and Drury +changed to another topic. He asked:</p> + +<p>"Did it hurt 'em much to die?"</p> + +<p>"'Course not," Eddie answered, promptly. "Not the way I got 'em. They +just stopped sailin' and dropped. I lost one, though. He was goin' like +sixty when I drew bead on him. Light wasn't any too good and I just +nipped one wing. You ought to seen him turning somersets, Reny. He lit +in a swampy spot, though, and I couldn't find him. I hunted for an hour +or more, but I couldn't find him and it was growin' dark, so I come +home."</p> + +<p>Drury spoke up quickly: "You didn't kill him?"</p> + +<p>"I don't guess so. He was workin' mighty hard when he flopped."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's terrible!" Drury groaned. "He must be layin' out there now +somewheres—sufferin'. Oh, that's terrible!"</p> + +<p>"Aw, what's it your business?" was Crosson's gruff comment. But there +was uneasiness in his tone, for Drury had set Irene to wringing her +hands nervously, and Crosson felt a trifle uncomfortable himself. +Twilight always made him susceptible to emotions that daylight blinded +him to, as to the stars.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> He remembered that boyhood emotion now in his +pulpit, and his shoulder-blades twitched; an icy finger seemed to have +written something on them. He was casting up his eyes and his hands in a +familiar gesture and quoting a familiar text:</p> + +<p>"'Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler and from the +noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his +wings shalt thou trust.'"</p> + +<p>From the roof of the church he seemed to see that wounded wild duck +falling, turning in air, striking at the air frantically with his good +wing and feebly with the one that bled. Down he fell, struggling +somewhere among the pews.</p> + +<p>A fantastic notion drifted into the preacher's mind—that Satan had shot +up a bullet from hell and it had lodged among the feathers of Jehovah +the protector, and He was falling and lost among that congregation in +which so often the preacher had failed to find God.</p> + +<p>Doctor Crosson shook his head violently to fling away such madnesses, +and he propounded his next "furthermore" with added energy. But he could +not shake off the torment in the recollection of Drury Boldin's nagging +interest in that wild duck.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>Drury insisted on knowing where the wild duck fell, and Crosson told him +that it was "near where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> the crick emptied into the sluice, where the +cat-tails grew extra high."</p> + +<p>He went on home to his supper, but the thought of the suffering bird had +seized his mind; it flopped and twisted at the roots of his thoughts.</p> + +<p>A few days later Drury met him and asked him again where the duck had +fallen.</p> + +<p>"I can't find it where you said," he said.</p> + +<p>"You ain't been lookin' for it, have you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, for days."</p> + +<p>"What'd you do if you found it?" Crosson asked.</p> + +<p>"Kill it," Drury answered. It was a most unexpectable phrase from him.</p> + +<p>"That sounds funny, comin' from you," Crosson snickered. Then he spoke +gruffly to conceal his own misgivings. "Aw, it's dead long ago."</p> + +<p>"I'd feel better if I was sure," said Drury.</p> + +<p>Crosson called him a natural-born idiot, but the next day Crosson +himself was across the river, dragged by a queer mood. He took his +bearings from the spot where he had fired his shot-gun and then made +toward the place where the duck fell.</p> + +<p>He stumbled about in slime and snarl for an hour in vain. Suddenly he +was startled by the sound of something floundering through the reeds. He +was afraid that it might be a wild animal, a traditional bear or a big +dog. But it was Drury Boldin. And Irene Straley was with him.</p> + +<p>They were covered with mud. Crosson was jealous and suspicious and +indignant. They told<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> him that they were looking for the hurt bird. He +was furious. He advised them to go along about their own business. It +was his bird.</p> + +<p>"Who gave it to you?" Drury answered, with a battling look in his soft +eyes.</p> + +<p>"The Lord and my shot-gun."</p> + +<p>"What right you got to go shootin' wild birds, anyway?" Drury demanded.</p> + +<p>Crosson was even then devoted to the Bible for its majestic music, if +for nothing else. He quoted the phrase about the dominion over the fowls +of the air given to man for his use.</p> + +<p>Drury would not venture to contradict the Scriptures, and so he turned +away silenced. But he continued his search. And Irene followed him.</p> + +<p>In sullen humor Crosson also searched, till he heard Drury cry out; then +he ran to see what he had found.</p> + +<p>Irene and Drury were shrinking back from something that even the son of +Nimrod regarded with disquiet. The duck, one wing caked and festered, +and busy with ants and adrone with flies, was still alive after all +those many days.</p> + +<p>Its flat bill was opening and shutting in hideous awkwardness, its +hunger-emaciated frame rising and falling with a kind of lurching +breath, and the film over its eyes drawing together and rolling back +miserably.</p> + +<p>At the sight of the three visitors to its death-chamber it made a +hopeless effort to lift itself again<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> to the air of its security. It +could not even lift its head.</p> + +<p>Drury fell to one knee before it, and a swarm of flies zooned angrily +away. He put out his hand, but he was afraid to touch, and he only added +panic to the bird's wretchedness.</p> + +<p>He rose and backed away. The three stood off and stared. Crosson felt +the guilt of Cain, but when Irene moaned, "What you goin' to do?" he +shook his head. He could not finish his task.</p> + +<p>It was Drury Boldin, weak-kneed and putty-faced, who went hunting now. +He had to look far before he found a heavy rock. He lugged it back and +said, "Go on away, Reny."</p> + +<p>She hurried to a distance, and even Crosson turned his head aside.</p> + +<p>On the way home they were all three tired and sick, and Drury had to +stop every now and then to sit down and get strength into his knees.</p> + +<p>But there was a sense of grim relief that helped them all, and the bird, +once safely dead, was rapidly forgotten. After that Crosson seemed to +lose his place in Irene's heart, and Drury won all that Crosson lost, +and more. Before long it was understood that Drury and Irene had agreed +to get married as soon as he could earn enough to keep them. All four +parents opposed the match; Irene's because Drury was "no 'count," and +Drury's for much the same reason.</p> + +<p>Old Boldin allowed that Irene would be added to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> his family, for meals +and lodgin', if she married his son; and old Straley guessed that it +would be the other way round, and the Boldin boy would come over to his +house to live.</p> + +<p>Also, Drury could get no work in Carthage. Eventually he went to Chicago +to try his luck there. Crosson seized the chance to try to get back to +Irene. One Sunday he took his shot-gun out in the wilderness and brought +down a duck whose throat had so rich a glimmer that he believed it would +delight Irene. He took it to her.</p> + +<p>She was out in her garden, and she looked at his gift with eyes so hurt +by the pity of the bird's drooping neck that they were blind to its +beauty.</p> + +<p>While Crosson stood in sheepish dismay, recognizing that Drury was +present still in his absence, the minister appeared at his elbow. It was +not the wrecked career of the fowl that shocked the pastor, but the +broken Sabbath.</p> + +<p>"It seems to me, Eddie," he said, "that it is high time you were +beginning to take life seriously. Come to church to-night and make up +for your ungodliness."</p> + +<p>Crosson consented. It was a good way of making his escape from Irene's +haunted eyes.</p> + +<p>The service that night had little influence on his heart, but a month +later a revivalist came into Carthage with a great fanfare of attack on +the hosts of Lucifer. This man was an emotionalist of irresistible fire. +He reasoned less than he sang. His voice was as thrilling as a trombone, +and his words<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> did not matter. It was his tone that made the heart +resound like a smitten bell.</p> + +<p>The revivalist struck unsuspected chords of emotion in Eddie Crosson and +made him weep! But he wept tears of a different sort from the waters of +grief. His unusual tears were a tribute to eloquence. Sonorous words and +noble thoughts thrilled Eddie Crosson then as ever after.</p> + +<p>He had loved to speak pieces at school. Whether it were Spartacus +exhorting his brawny slaves to revolt, or Daniel Webster upholding the +Union now and forever, one and inseparable, he had felt an exaltation, +an exultation that enlarged him to the clouds. He loved the phrase more +than the meaning. What was well worded was well reasoned.</p> + +<p>His passion for elocution had inclined him at first to be a lawyer, but +when he visited the county courthouse the attorneys he listened to had +such dull themes to expound that he felt no call to the law. What glory +was there in pleading for the honor of an old darky chicken-thief when +everybody knew at once that he was guilty of stealing the chickens in +question, or would have been if he had known of their accessibility? +What rapture was there in insisting that a case in an Alabama court +eight years before furnished an exact precedent in the matter of a +mechanic's lien in Carthage?</p> + +<p>So Crosson chilled toward the legal profession. His father urged him to +come into the Crosson hardware emporium, but Eddie hated the silent +trades.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> The revivalist decided him, and he began to make his heart +ready for the clerical life. His father opposed him heathenishly and +would not pay for his seminary course.</p> + +<p>For several months Crosson waited about, becalmed in the doldrums. There +was little to interest him in town except a helpless espionage on +Irene's loyalty to Drury Boldin. Her troth defied both time and space. +She went every day to the post-office to mail a heavy letter and to +receive the heavy letter she was sure to find there.</p> + +<p>She became a sort of tender joke at the post-office, and on the street +as well, for she always read her daily letter on the way home. She would +be so absorbed in the petty chronicles of Drury's life that she would +stroll into people and bump into trees, or fetch up short against a +fence. She sprained her ankle once walking off the walk. And once she +marched plump into the parson's horrified bosom.</p> + +<p>Crosson often stood in ambush so that she would run into him. She was +very soft and delicate, and she usually had flowers pinned at her +breast.</p> + +<p>Crosson would grin as she stumbled against him; then the lovelorn girl +would stare up at him through the haze of the distance her letter had +carried her to, and stammer excuses and fall back and blush, and glide +round him on her way. Crosson would laugh aloud, bravely, but afterward +he would turn and stare at her solemnly enough when she resumed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> her +letter and strolled on in the rosy cloud of her communion with her +far-off "fellow."</p> + +<p>One day Crosson had to run after her, because when she thought she was +turning into her own yard her absent mind led her to unlatch the gate to +a pasture where a muley cow with a scandalous temper was waiting for her +with swaying head.</p> + +<p>Irene laughed at her escape, with an unusual mirth for her. She +explained it by seizing Crosson's sleeve and exclaiming:</p> + +<p>"Oh, Eddie, such good news from Drury you never heard! He's got a +position with a jewelry-store, the biggest in Chicago. And they put him +in the designing department at ten dollars a week, and they say he's got +a future. Isn't it simply glorious?"</p> + +<p>She held Crosson while she read the young man's hallelujahs. They +sounded to Crosson like a funeral address.</p> + +<p>Irene's mother was even prouder of Drury's success than the daughter +was. She bragged now of the wedding she had dreaded before. Finally +Irene proclaimed the glorious truth that Drury's salary had been boosted +again and they would wait no longer for wealth. He was awful busy, and +so he'd just run down for a couple of days and marry her and run back +with her to Chicago and jewelry. This arrangement ended Irene's mother's +dreams of a fine wedding and relieved the townspeople of the expense of +wedding-presents.</p> + +<p>The sudden announcement of the wedding shocked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> Crosson. He endured a +jealousy whose intensity surprised him in retrospect. He endured a good +deal of humor, too, from village cut-ups, who teased him because his +best girl was marrying the other fellow.</p> + +<p>Crosson felt a need of solitude and a fierce desire to kill something. +He got his abandoned gun and went hunting to wear out his wrath. He wore +himself out, at least. He shot savagely at all sorts of life. He +followed one flitting, sarcastic blue-jay with a voice like a village +cut-up, all the way home without getting near enough to shoot.</p> + +<p>He came down the long hill with the sunset, bragging to himself that he +was reconciled to Irene's marriage with anybody she'd a mind to.</p> + +<p>He could see her from a distance, sitting on the porch alone. She was +all dressed up and rocking impatiently. Evidently the train was late +again, as always. From where he was, Crosson could see the track winding +around the hills like a little metal brook. The smoke of the engine was +not yet pluming along the horizon. The train could not arrive for some +minutes yet.</p> + +<p>To prove his freedom from rancor and his emancipation from love, but +really because he could not resist the chance to have a last word with +Irene, he went across lots to her father's back yard and came round to +the porch. He forgot to draw the shells from his gun.</p> + +<p>In the sunset, with his weapon a-shoulder, he must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> have looked a bit +wild, for Irene jumped when he spoke to her. He sought an excuse for his +visit and put at her feet the game he had bagged—a squirrel, a rabbit, +and a few birds—the last he ever shot.</p> + +<p>The moment the dead things were there he regretted the impulse. He was +reminded of his previous quarry and its ill success. Irene was reminded, +too, for she thanked him timidly and asked if he had left any wounded +birds in the field. He laughed "No" with a poor grace.</p> + +<p>She said: "I'd better get these out of sight before Drury comes. He +doesn't like to see such things."</p> + +<p>She lifted them distastefully and went into the house. She came out +almost at once, for she heard a train. But it was not the passenger +swooping south; it was the freight trudging north. There was only a +single track then, and no block system of signals.</p> + +<p>Irene no sooner recognized the lumbering, jostling drove of cattle-cars +and flats going by than she gasped:</p> + +<p>"That freight ought not to be on that track—now!"</p> + +<p>She was frozen with dread. Crosson understood, too. Then from the +distance came the whistle of the express, the long hurrah of its +approach to the station. The freight engineer answered it with short, +sharp blasts of his whistle. He kept jabbing the air with its noise.</p> + +<p>There was the grind of the brakes on the wheels. The cars tried to stop, +like a mob, but the rear cars<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> bunted the front cars forward +irresistibly. The cattle aboard lowed and bellowed. The brakemen, quaint +silhouettes against the red sky, ran along the tops of the box-cars, +twisting the brake-wheels.</p> + +<p>Irene stumbled down the steps and dashed across the pastures toward the +jutting hill that she had so often seen the express sweep round. Crosson +followed.</p> + +<p>They came to a fence. She could not climb, she was trembling so. Crosson +had to help her over. She ran on, and as he sprawled after, he nearly +discharged the gun.</p> + +<p>He brought it along by habit as he followed Irene, who ran and ran, +waving her arms as if she would stop the express with her naked hands.</p> + +<p>But long before they reached the tracks the express roared round the +headland and plunged into the freight. The two locomotives met and rose +up and wrestled like two black bears, and fell over. The cars were +scattered and jumbled like a baby's train. They were all of wood—heated +by soft-coal stoves and lighted by coal-oil lamps.</p> + +<p>The wreck was the usual horror, the usual chaos of wanton destruction +and mysterious escape. The engineers stuck to their engines and were +involved in their ruin somewhere. The passenger-train was crowded, and +destruction showed no favoritism: old men, women, children, sheep, +horses, cows, were maimed, or killed, or left scot-free.</p> + +<p>Some of those who were uninjured ran away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> Some stood weeping. Some of +the wounded began at once to rescue others. Crosson stood gaping at the +spectacle, but Irene went into the wreckage, pawing and peering like a +terrier.</p> + +<p>She could not find what she was looking for. She would bend and stare +into a face glaring under the timbers and maundering for help, then pass +on. She would turn over a twisted frame and let it roll back. She was +not a sister of charity; she was Drury Boldin's helpmeet.</p> + +<p>She kept calling his name, "Drury—Drury—Drury!" Crosson watched her as +she poised to listen for the answer that did not come. He gaped at her +in stupid fascination till a brakeman shook him and ordered him to lend +a hand. He rested his gun against a pile of ties and bowed his shoulder +to the hoisting of a beam overhanging a woman and a suckling babe.</p> + +<p>The helpers dislodged other beams and finished the lives they had meant +to save.</p> + +<p>There were no physicians on the train. But a doctor or two from the town +came out and the others were sent for. A telegram was sent to summon a +relief-train, but it could not arrive for hours.</p> + +<p>The doctors began at the beginning, but they could do little. Their own +lives were in constant danger from tumbling wreckage, for the rescuers +were playing a game of tragic jackstraws. The least mistake brought down +disaster.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span></p> + +<p>As he worked, Crosson could hear Irene calling, calling, "Drury, Drury, +Drury!"</p> + +<p>He left his task to follow her, his jealousy turned into a wild sorrow +for her.</p> + +<p>At last he heard in her cry of "Drury!" a note that meant she had found +him. But such a welcome as it was for a bride to give! And such a +trysting-place!</p> + +<p>The car Drury was in had turned a somersault and cracked open across +another. Its inverted wheels on their trucks had made a bower of steel +about the bridegroom. The flames from the stove and from the oil-lamps +were blooming like hell-flowers everywhere. And the wind that fanned the +blazes was blowing clouds of scalding steam from the crumpled boilers of +the two engines.</p> + +<p>Crosson ran to Irene's side. She was trying to clamber through a trellis +of iron and splintered wood. She was stretching her hand out to Drury, +where he lay unconscious, deep in the clutter. Crosson dragged her away +from a flame that swung toward her. She struck his hand aside and thrust +her body into the danger again.</p> + +<p>Crosson, finding no water, began to shovel loose earth on the blaze with +a sharp plank from the side of a car. Finding that she could not reach +her lover, Irene turned and begged Crosson to run for help and for the +doctors.</p> + +<p>He ran, but the doctors refused to leave the work they had in hand, and +the other men growled:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Everybody's got to take their turn."</p> + +<p>Crosson ran back to Irene with the news. Drury had just emerged from the +merciful swoon of shock to the frenzies of his splintered bones, +lacerated flesh and blistered skin, and the threat of his infernal +environment.</p> + +<p>The last exquisite fiendishness was the sight of his sweetheart as +witness to his agony, her face lighted up by the flames that were +ravening toward him, her hands hungering toward him, just beyond the +stretch of his one free arm.</p> + +<p>Crosson heard the lovers murmur to each other across that little abyss. +He flung himself against the barriers like a madman. But his hands were +futile against the tangle of joists and hot steel.</p> + +<p>Irene saw him working alone and asked him where the others were, and the +doctors.</p> + +<p>"They wouldn't come!" Crosson groaned, ashamed of their ugly sense of +justice.</p> + +<p>The girl's face took on a look of grim ferocity. She said to Crosson:</p> + +<p>"Your gun—where is it?"</p> + +<p>He pointed to where he had left it. It had fallen to the ground.</p> + +<p>She ran and seized it up, and holding it awkwardly but with menace, +advanced on a doctor who toiled with sleeves rolled high, and face and +beard and arms blotched with red grime.</p> + +<p>She thrust the muzzle into his chest and spoke hoarsely:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Doctor Lane, you come with me."</p> + +<p>"I'm busy here," he growled, pushing the gun aside, hardly knowing what +it was.</p> + +<p>She jammed it against his heart again and cried, "Come with me or I'll +kill you!"</p> + +<p>He followed her, wondering rather than fearing, and she swept a group of +men with the weapon, and commanded, "You men come, too." She marched +them to the spot where Drury was concealed, and pointed to him and +snarled, "Get him out!"</p> + +<p>The men tested their strength here and there without promise of success. +One group started a heap of wheels to slewing downward and Crosson +shouted to them to stop. An inch more, and they would have buried Drury +from sight or hope.</p> + +<p>One man wormed through somehow and caught Drury by the hand, but the +first tug brought from him such a wail of anguish that the man fell +back. He could not budge the body clamped with steel. He could only +wrench it. So he came away.</p> + +<p>"There's nothing for me to do, Reny," the doctor faltered, and, choked +with pity for her and her lover and the helplessness of mankind, he +turned away, and she let him go. The gun fell to the ground.</p> + +<p>The other men left the place. One of them said that the wrecking-crew +would be along with a derrick in a few hours.</p> + +<p>"A few hours!" Irene whimpered.</p> + +<p>She leaned against the lattice that kept her from the bridegroom and +tried to tell him to be brave.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> But he had heard his sentence, and with +his last hope went what little courage he had ever had.</p> + +<p>He began to plead and protest and weep. He gave voice to all the voices +of pain, the myriad voices from every tormented particle of him.</p> + +<p>Irene knelt down and twisted through the crevice to where she could hold +his hand. But he snatched it away, babbling: "Don't touch me! Don't +touch me!"</p> + +<p>Crosson stayed near, dreading lest Irene's skirts should catch fire. +Twice he beat them out with his hands. She had not noticed that they +were aflame. She was murmuring love-words of odious vanity to one who +almost forgot her existence, centered in the glowing sphere of his own +hell.</p> + +<p>Drury rolled and panted and gibbered, cursed even, with lips more used +to gentle words and prayers. He prayed, too, but with sacrilege:</p> + +<p>"O Lord, spare me this. O God, have a little mercy. Send rain, send +help, lift this mountain from me just till I can breathe. O God, if You +have any mercy in Your heart—but no, no—no, no, You let Your own Son +hang on the cross, didn't You? He asked You why You had deserted Him, +and You didn't answer, did You?"</p> + +<p>Crosson looked up to see a thunderbolt split the dark sky, but the stars +were agleam now, twinkling about the moon's serenity.</p> + +<p>Irene put her fingers across Drury's lips to hush his blasphemy. She +tore her face with her nails, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> tried for his sake to stifle the sobs +that smote through her.</p> + +<p>By and by Drury's voice grew hoarse, and he whispered. She bent close +and heard. She called to Crosson:</p> + +<p>"Run get the doctor to give him something—some morphine or +something—quick. Every second is agony for my poor boy."</p> + +<p>Crosson ran to the doctor. He stood among writhing bodies and shook his +head dismally. He was saying as Crosson came up:</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry, I'm awful sorry, folks, but the last grain of morphine is +gone. The drug-stores haven't got any more. We've telegraphed to the +next town. You'll just have to stand it."</p> + +<p>Crosson went back slowly with that heavy burden of news. He whispered it +to Irene, but Drury heard him, and a shriek of despair went from him +like a flash of fire. New blazes sprang up with an impish merriment. +Crosson, fearing for Irene's safety, fought at them with earth and with +water that boys fetched from distances, and at last extinguished the +immediate fire.</p> + +<p>The bystanders worked elsewhere, but Crosson lingered to protect Irene. +In the dark he could hear Drury whispering something to her.</p> + +<p>He pleaded, wheedled, kissed her hand, mumbled it like a dog, reasoned +with her insanely, while she trembled all over, a shivering leaf on a +blown twig.</p> + +<p>Crosson could hear occasional phrases: "If you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> love me, you will—if +you love me, Reny. What do you want me to suffer for, honey? You don't +want me just to suffer—just to suffer, do you—you don't, do you? Reny +honey, Reny? You say you love me, and you won't do the thing that will +help me. You don't love me. That's it, you don't really love me!"</p> + +<p>She turned to Crosson at last and moaned: "He wants me to kill him! What +can I do? Oh, what is there to do?"</p> + +<p>Crosson could not bear to look in her eyes. He could not bear the sound +of Drury's voice. He could not even debate that problem. He was cravenly +glad when somebody's hand seized him and a rough voice called him away +to other toil. He slunk off.</p> + +<p>There were miseries enough wherever he went, but they were the miseries +of strangers. He could not forget Irene and the riddle of duty that was +hers. He avoided the spot where she was closeted with grief, and worked +remote in the glimmer from bonfires lighted in the fields alongside.</p> + +<p>The fire in the wreck was out now, save that here and there little +blazes appeared, only to be quenched at once. But smoldering timbers +crackled like rifle-shots, and there were thunderous slidings of +wreckage.</p> + +<p>Irene's mother and father had stood off at a distance for a long time, +but at length they missed Irene and came over to question Crosson. He +knew that Irene would not wish them present at such obsequies, and he +told them she had gone home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p> + +<p>After a time, curiosity nagged him into approaching her hiding-place. He +listened, and there was no sound. He peered in and dimly descried Drury. +He was not moving; he might have been asleep. Irene might have been +asleep, too, for she lay huddled up in what space there was.</p> + +<p>Crosson knelt down and crawled in. She was unconscious. He touched Drury +with a dreading hand, which drew quickly back as from a contact with +ice.</p> + +<p>A kind of panic seized Crosson. He backed out quickly and dragged Irene +away with him in awkward desperation.</p> + +<p>As her body came forth, his gun came too. He thought it had lain +outside. He caught it and broke it at the breech, ejecting the two +shells; one of them was empty. He threw it into the wreck and pocketed +the other shell and tossed the gun under a stack of wreckage.</p> + +<p>He was trying to revive Irene when her father and mother came back +anxiously to say that she was not at home. Her mother dropped down at +her side.</p> + +<p>Crosson left Irene with her own people. He did not want to see her or +hear her when she came back to this miserable world. He did not want her +even to know what he knew.</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>Crosson had tried afterward to forget. It had been hard at first, but in +time he had forgotten.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> He had gone to a theological school and learned +to chide people for their complaints and to administer well-phrased +anodynes. During his vacations he had avoided Irene. When he had been +graduated he had been first pulpited in a far-off city.</p> + +<p>Years afterward he had been invited to supply an empty pulpit in his +home town. He had not succeeded with life. He lacked the flame or the +luck or the tact—something. He had come back to the place he started +from. He had renewed old acquaintances, laughed over the ancient jokes, +and said he was sorry for those who had had misfortune. When he met +Irene Straley he hardly recalled his love, except to smile at it as a +boyish whim. He had forgotten the pangs of that as one forgets almost +all his yester aches. He had forgotten the pains he had seen others +suffer, even more easily than he forgot his own.</p> + +<p>To-day his sermon on the triviality of bodily discomfort had flung Irene +Straley back into the caldron of that old torment. She had made that +silent protest against the iniquitous cruelty of his preachment. She had +dragged him backward into the living presence of his past.</p> + +<p>She had not forgotten. She had been faithful to Drury Boldin while he +was working in a distant city. She was faithful to him still in that +Farthest Country. She had the genius of remembrance.</p> + +<p>These were Doctor Crosson's ulterior thoughts while he harangued his +flock visibly and audibly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> His thoughts had not needed the time their +telling requires. They gave him back his scenes in pictures, not in +words; in heartaches and heartbreaks and terrors and longings, not in +limping syllables that mock the vision with their ineptitude.</p> + +<p>He felt anew what he had felt and seen, and he could not give any verve +to the peroration of his sermon. He could not even change it. It had +been effective when he had preached it previously. But now he parroted +with unconscious irony the phrases he had once so admired. He came to +the last word.</p> + +<p>"And so, to repeat: How much more bitter, dearly beloved, are the +anguishes of the soul than any mere bodily distress! What are the +fleeting torments of this tenement of clay, mere bone and flesh, to the +soul's despair? Nothing, nothing."</p> + +<p>His congregation felt a lack of warmth in his tone. His hand fell limply +on the Bible and the sermon was done. The only stir was one of relief at +its conclusion.</p> + +<p>He gave out the final hymn, and he sat through it while the people +dragged it to the end. He gave forth the benediction "in the name of the +Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost," and he made short work of +the dawdlers who waited to exchange stupidities with him. He took refuge +from his congregation in his study, locked the door, and gave himself up +to meditation.</p> + +<p>Somehow pain had suddenly come to mean more to him than it had yet +meant. He had known it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> groaned under it, lived it down, and let it go. +He had felt sorry for other people and got rid of their woes as best as +he could with the trite expressions in use, and had forgotten whether +they were hushed by health or by death.</p> + +<p>And so he had let the old-fashioned hell go by with other dogmas out of +style. He had fashioned a new Hades to frighten people with, that they +might not find sin too attractive and imperilous.</p> + +<p>Now he was suddenly convinced that if there must be hell, it must be +such as Dante set to rhyme and the old hard-shell preachers preached: a +region where flames sear and demons pluck at the frantic nerves, playing +upon them fiendish tunes.</p> + +<p>Yet he could not reconcile that hell with the God that made the +lilac-bush whose purple clusters shook perfume and little flowers +against his window-sill, while the old locust in rivalry bent down and +flaunted against the lilacs its pendants of ivory grace and heavenly +fragrance.</p> + +<p>Against that torment of beauty came glimpses of Drury and Irene in the +lurid cavern under the wreck. Beyond those delicate blossoms he imagined +the battle-fields of Europe and the ruined vessels where hurt souls +writhed in multitudes.</p> + +<p>He could not be satisfied with any theory of the world. He could not +find that pain was punishment here, or see how it could follow the soul +after the soul had left behind it the fleshly instrument of torture. The +why of it escaped his reason utterly;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> for Drury had been good, and he +had come upon an honorable errand when he fell into the pit.</p> + +<p>Doctor Crosson stood at his window and begged the placid sky for +information. He looked through the lilacs and the locusts and all the +green wilderness where beauty beat and throbbed like a heart in bliss. +It was the Sabbath, and he was not sure. But he was sure of a melting +tenderness in his heart for Irene Straley, and he felt that her power to +feel sorry for her lover—sorry enough to defy all the laws in his +behalf—was a wonderful power. He longed for her sympathy.</p> + +<p>By and by he began to feel a pain, the pain of Drury Boldin. He was +glad. He groaned. "I hurt! I hope that I may hurt terribly."</p> + +<p>Suddenly it seemed that he actually was Drury Boldin in the throes of +every fierce and spasmic thrill. Again he most vividly was Irene Straley +watching her lover till she could not endure his torture or her own, and +with one desperate challenge sent him back to the mystery whence he +came.</p> + +<p>Doctor Crosson, when he came back to himself, could not solve that +mystery or any mystery. He knew one reality, that it hurts to be alive; +that everybody is always hurting, and that human heart must help human +heart as best it can. Pain is the one inescapable fact; the rest is +theory.... He prayed with a deeper fervor than he had ever known:</p> + +<p>"God give me pain, that I may understand, that I may understand!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE BEAUTY AND THE FOOL</h2> + + +<p>There was once a beautiful woman, and she lived in a small town, though +people said that she belonged rather in a great city, where her gifts +would bring her glory, riches, and a brilliant marriage. In repose, she +was superb; in motion, quite perfectly beautiful of form and carriage, +with all the suave rhythms of a beautiful being.</p> + +<p>Her beauty was her sole opulence; the boast of her friends; the +confession of her enemies; the magnet of many lovers; the village's one +statue. She had an ordinary heart, quite commonplace brains, but beauty +that lined the pathway where she walked with eyes of admiration and +delight.</p> + +<p>In her town, among her suitors, was one that was a Fool—not a +remarkable fool; a simple, commonplace fool of the sort that abounds +even in villages. He was foolish enough to love the Beauty so completely +that when he made sure that she would not love him he could not endure +to remain in the village, but went far away in the West to get the +torment of her beauty out of his sight. The other suitors, who were +wiser than he, when they found that she was not for them, gave her up +with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> mild regret as one gives up a fabulous dream, saying: "There was +no hope for us, anyway. If the Fool had stayed at home he would have +been saved from the sight of her, for she is going East, where there are +great fortunes for the very beautiful."</p> + +<p>And this she made ready to do, since the praise she had received had +bred ambition in her—a reasonable and right ambition, for why should a +light be hidden under a bushel when it might be set up on high to +illumine a wide garden? Besides, she had not learned to love any of the +unimportant men who loved her important beauty, yet promised it nothing +more than a bushel to hide itself in.</p> + +<p>So she made ready to take her beauty to the larger market-place. But the +night before she was to leave the village her father's house took fire +mysteriously. The servant, rushing to her door to waken her, died, +suffocated there before she could cry out. The Beauty woke to find her +bed in flames. She rose with hair and gown ablaze, and, agonizing to a +window, leaped blindly out upon the pavement. There the neighbors +quenched the fire and saved her life—but nothing more.</p> + +<p>Thereafter she was a cripple, and her vaunted beauty was dead; it had +gone into the flames, and she had only the ashes of it on her seared +face. Now she had only pity where she had had envy and adulation. Now +there was a turning away of eyes when she hurried abroad on necessary +errands. Now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> her enemies were tenderly disposed toward her, and +everybody forbore to mention what she had been. Everybody spared her +feelings and talked of other things and looked at the floor or at the +sky when she must be spoken to.</p> + +<p>One day the Fool, having heard only that the Beauty was to leave the +village, and having heard nothing of the fire, and not having prospered +where he was, returned to his old home. The first person he saw he asked +of the Beauty, and that one told him of the holocaust of her graces, and +warned him, remembering that the Fool had always spoken his thoughts +without tact or discretion—warned the Fool to disguise when he saw her +the shock he must feel and make no sign that he found her other than he +left her. And the Fool promised.</p> + +<p>When he saw her he made a pretense indeed of greeting her as before, but +he was like a man trying to look upon a fog as upon a sunrise; for the +old beauty of her face did not strike his eyes full of its own radiance. +She saw the struggle of his smile and the wincing of his soul. But she +did not wince, for she was by now bitterly accustomed to this reticence +and self-control.</p> + +<p>He walked along the street with her, and looked always aside or ahead +and talked of other things. He walked with her to her own gate, and to +her porch, trying to find some light thing to say to leave her. But the +cruelty of the world was like a rusty nail in his heart, and when he put +out his hand and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> she set in his hand what her once so exquisite fingers +were now, his heart broke in his breast; and when he lifted his eyes to +what her once so triumphant face was now, they refused to withhold their +tears, and his lips could not hold back his thoughts, and he groaned +aloud:</p> + +<p>"Oh, you were so beautiful! No one was ever so beautiful as you were +then. But now—I can't stand it! I can't stand it! I wish that I might +have died for you. You were so beautiful! I can see you now as you were +when I told you good-by."</p> + +<p>Then he was afraid for what he had said, and ashamed, and he dreaded to +look at her again. He would have dashed away, but she seized him by the +sleeve, and whispered:</p> + +<p>"How good it is to hear your words! You are the only one that has told +me that I ever was beautiful since I became what I am. Tell me, tell me +how I looked when you bade me good-by!"</p> + +<p>And he told her. Looking aside or at the sky, he told her of her face +like a rose in the moonlight, of her hair like some mist spun and woven +in shadows and glamours of its own, of her long creamy arms and her +hands that a god had fashioned lovingly. He told her of her eyes and +their deeps, and their lashes and the brows above them. He told her of +the strange rhythm of her musical form when she walked or danced or +leaned upon the arm of her chair.</p> + +<p>He dared not look at her lest he lose his remembrance of them; but he +heard her laughing, softly at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> first, then with pride and wild triumph. +And she crushed his hand in hers and kissed it, murmuring: "God bless +you! God bless you!"</p> + +<p>For even in poverty it is sweet to know that once we were rich.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE GHOSTLY COUNSELORS</h2> + + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>In a little hall bedroom in a big city lay a little woman in a big +trouble. She had taken the room under an assumed name, and a visitor had +come to her there—to little her in the big city, from the bigger +unknown.</p> + +<p>She had taken the room as "Mrs. Emerton." The landlady, Mrs. Rotch, had +had her doubts. But then she was liberal-minded—folks had to be in that +street. Still, she made it an invariable rule that "no visitors was +never allowed in rooms," a parlor being kept for the purpose up to ten +o'clock, when the landlady went to bed in it, "her having to have her +sleep as well as anybody."</p> + +<p>But, in spite of the rules, a visitor had come to "Mrs. Emerton's" +room—a very, very young man. His only name as yet was "the Baby." She +dared not give the young man his father's name, for then people would +know, and she had come to the city to keep people from knowing. She had +come to the wicked city from the sweet, wholesome country, where, +according to fiction, there is no evil, but where, according to fact, +people are still people and moon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span>light is still madness. In the country, +love could be concealed but not its consequence.</p> + +<p>Her coadjutor in the ceremony of summoning this little spirit from the +vasty deep had not followed her to the city where the miracle was +achieved. He was poor, and his parents would have been brokenhearted; his +employer in the village would have taken away his seven-dollar-a-week job.</p> + +<p>So the boy sent the girl to town alone, with what money he had saved up +and what little he could borrow; and he stayed in the village to earn +more.</p> + +<p>The girl's name was Lightfoot—Hilda Lightfoot—a curiously prophetic +name for her progress in the primrose path, though she had gone +heavy-footed enough afterward. And now she could hardly walk at all.</p> + +<p>Hilda Lightfoot had come to the city in no mood to enjoy its +frivolities, and with no means. She had climbed the four flights to her +room a few days ago for the last time. In all the weeks and weeks she +had never had a caller, except, the other day, a doctor and a nurse, who +had taken away most of her money and left her this little clamorous +youth, whose victim she was as he was hers.</p> + +<p>To-night she was desperately lonely. Even the baby's eternal demands and +uproars were hushed in sleep. She felt strong enough now to go out into +the wonderful air of the city; the breeze was as soft and moonseeped as +the blithe night wind that blew across the meadows at home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p> + +<p>The crowds went by the window and teased her like a circus parade +marching past a school.</p> + +<p>But she could not go to circuses—she had no money. All she had was a +nameless, restless baby.</p> + +<p>She grew frantically lonely. She went almost out of her head from her +solitude, the jail-like loneliness, with no one to talk to except her +little fellow-prisoner who could not talk.</p> + +<p>Her homesick heart ran back to the home life she was exiled from. She +was thinking of the village. It was prayer-meeting night, and the moon +would wait outside the church like Mary's white-fleeced lamb till the +service was over, and then it would follow the couples home, gamboling +after them when they walked, and, when they paused, waiting patiently +about.</p> + +<p>The moon was a lone white lamb on a shadowy hill all spotted with +daisies. Everything in the world was beautiful except her fate, her +prison, her poverty, and her loneliness.</p> + +<p>If only she could go down from this dungeon into the streets! If only +she had some clothes to wear and knew somebody who would take her +somewhere where there was light and music! It was not much to ask. +Hundreds of thousands of girls were having fun in the theaters and the +restaurants and the streets. Hundreds of thousands of fellows were +taking their best girls places.</p> + +<p>If only Webster Edie would come and take her out for a walk! She had +been his best girl, and he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> been her fellow. Why must he send her +here, alone? It was his duty to be with her, now of all times. A woman +had a right to a little petting, now of all times. She had written him +so yesterday, begging him to come to her at any cost. But her letter +must have crossed his letter, and in that he said that he could not get +away and could not send her any money for at least another week, and +then not much.</p> + +<p>She was doomed to loneliness—indefinitely. If only some one would come +in and talk to her! The landlady never came except about the bill. The +little slattern who brought her meals had gone to bed. She knew +nobody—only voices, the voices of other boarders who went up and down +the stairs and sometimes paused outside her door to talk and laugh or +exchange gossip. She had caught a few names from occasional greeting or +exclamation: "Good morning, Miss Marland!" "Why, Mrs. Elsbree!" "How was +the show last night, Miss Bessett?" "Oh, Mrs. Teed, would you mind +mailing these letters as you go out?" "Not at all, Mrs. Braywood."</p> + +<p>They were as formless to her as ghosts, but she could not help imagining +bodies and faces and clothes to fit the voices. She could not help +forming likes and dislikes. She would have been glad to have any of them +come to see her, to ask how she was or admire the baby, or to borrow a +pin or lend a book.</p> + +<p>If somebody did not come to see her she would go mad. If only she dared, +she would leave the baby and steal down the stairs and out of the front +door<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> and slip along the streets. They called her; they beckoned to her +and promised her happiness. She was like a little yacht held fast in a +cove by a little anchor. The breeze was full of summons and nudgings; +the water in the bay was dancing, every ripple a giggle. Only her anchor +held her, such a little anchor, such a gripping anchor!</p> + +<p>If only some one would come in! If only the baby could talk, or even +listen with understanding! She was afraid to be alone any longer, lest +she do something insane and fearful. She sat at the window, with one arm +stretched out across the sill and her chin across it, and stared off +into the city's well of white lights. Then she bent her head, hid her +hot face in the hollow of her elbow, and clenched her eyelids to shut +away the torment. She was loneliest staring at the city, but she was +unendurably lonely with her eyes shut. She would go crazy if somebody +did not come.</p> + +<p>There was a knock at the door. It startled her.</p> + +<p>She sat up and listened. The knock was repeated softly. She turned her +head and stared at the door. Then she murmured, "Come in."</p> + +<p>The door whispered open, and a woman in soft black skirts whispered in. +The room was lighted only by the radiance from the sky, and the +mysterious woman was mysteriously vague against the dimly illuminated +hall.</p> + +<p>She closed the door after her and stood, a shadow in a shadow. Even her +face was a mere glimmer,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> like a patch of moonlight on the door, and her +voice was stealthy as a breeze. It was something like the voice she +heard called "Mrs. Elsbree."</p> + +<p>Hilda started to rise, but a faint, white hand pressed her back and the +voice said:</p> + +<p>"Don't rise, my dear. I know how weak you are, what you have gone +through, alone, here in this dreary place. I know what pain you have +endured, and the shame you have felt, the shame that faces you outside +in the world. It is a cruel world. To women—oh, but it is cruel! It has +no mercy for a woman who loves too well.</p> + +<p>"If you had a lot of money you might fight it with its own weapon. Money +is the one weapon it respects. But you haven't any money, have you, my +dear? If you had, you wouldn't be here in the dark alone, would you?</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid there is nothing ahead of you, either, but darkness, my +dear. The man you loved has deserted you, hasn't he? He is a poor, weak +thing, anyway. Even if he married you, you would probably part. He'd +always hate you. Nobody else will want you for a wife, you poor child; +you know that, don't you? And nobody will help you, because of the baby. +You couldn't find work and keep the baby with you, could you? And you +couldn't leave it. It is a weight about your neck; it will drown you in +deep waters.</p> + +<p>"Even if it lived, it would have only misery ahead of it, for your story +would follow it through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> life. The older it grew, the more it would +suffer. It would despise you and itself. How much happier you would be +not to be alive at all, both of you, you poor, unwelcome things!</p> + +<p>"There are many problems ahead of you, my dear; and you'll never solve +them, except in one way. If you were dead and asleep in your grave with +your poor little one at your breast, all your troubles would be over +then, wouldn't they? People would feel sorry for you; they wouldn't +sneer at you then. And you wouldn't mind loneliness or hunger or +pointing fingers or anything.</p> + +<p>"Take my advice, dearie, and end it now. There are so many ways; so many +things to buy at drug-stores. And that's the river you can just see over +there. It is very peaceful in its depths. Its cool, dark waters will +wash away your sorrows. Or if that is too far for you to go, there's the +window. You could climb out on the ledge with your baby in your arms and +just step off into—peace. Take my advice, poor, lonely, little thing. +It's the one way; I know. The world will forgive you, and Heaven will be +merciful. Didn't Christ take the Magdalen into His own company and His +mother's? He will take you up into heaven, if you go now. Good-by. Don't +be afraid. Good-by. Don't be afraid."</p> + +<p>She was gone so softly that Hilda did not see her go. She had been +staring off into that ocean of space, and when she turned her head the +woman was gone. But her influence was left in the very air.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> Her words +went on whispering about the room. Under their influence the girl rose, +tottered to the bed, gathered the sleeping baby to her young bosom, +kissed his brow without waking him, and stumbled to the window.</p> + +<p>She pushed it as high as it would go and knelt on the ledge, peering +down into the street. It was a fearful distance to the walk.</p> + +<p>She hoped she would not strike the stone steps or the area rail. And yet +what difference would it make? It would only assure her peace the +quicker. She must wait for those people below to walk past. But they +were not gone before others were there. She could not hurl herself upon +them.</p> + +<p>As she waited, it grew terrible to take the plunge. She had always been +afraid of high places. She grew dizzy now, and must cling hard to keep +from falling before she said her prayers and was ready. And, now the +pavement was clear. She kissed her baby again. She drew in a deep +breath, her last sip of the breath of life. How good it was, this clear, +cool air flowing across this great, beautiful, heartless city that she +should never see again! And now—</p> + +<p>There was a knock at the door. It checked her. She lost impulse and +impetus and crept back and sank into a chair. She was pretending to be +rocking the baby to sleep when she murmured, "Come in."</p> + +<p>Perhaps it would be Mrs. Elsbree, returned to reproach her for her +cowardice and her delay. But when she dared to look up it was another +woman.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> At least it was another voice—perhaps Miss Marland's.</p> + +<p>"I've been meaning to call on you, Mrs. Emerton, but I haven't had a +free moment. Of course I've known all along why you were here. We all +have. There's been a good deal of backbiting. But that's the +boarding-house of it. This evening, at dinner, there was some mention of +you at the table, and some of the women were ridiculing you and some +were condemning you. Oh, don't wince, my dear; everybody is always being +ridiculed or condemned or both for something. If you were one of the +saints they would burn you at the stake or put you to the torture.</p> + +<p>"Anyway, I spoke up and told them that the only one who had a right to +cast a stone at you was one without sin, and I despaired of finding such +a person in this boarding-house—or outside, either, for that matter. I +spoke up and told them that you were no worse than the others. They all +had their scandals, and I know most of them. There's some scandal about +everybody. We're all sinners—if you want to call it sin to follow your +most sacred instincts.</p> + +<p>"Why should you be afraid of a little gossip or a few jokes or a little +abuse from a few hypocrites? They're all sinners—worse than you, too, +most of them, if the truth were known.</p> + +<p>"Why blame yourself and call yourself a criminal? You loved the +boy—loved him too much, that's all. If you had been really wicked you +would have re<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>fused to love him or to give yourself up to his plea. If +you had been really bad you'd have known too much to have this child. +You'd have got rid of it at all costs.</p> + +<p>"You are really a very good little woman with a passion for being a +mother. It's the world outside that's bad. Don't be ashamed before it. +Hold your head up. The world owes you a living, and it will pay it if +you demand it. It will pay for you and your child, too. Just demand your +rights. You'll soon find a place. You're too young and beautiful to be +neglected. You're young and beautiful and passionate. You can make some +man awfully happy. He'll be glad to have your baby and you—disgrace and +all. He may be very rich, too. Go find him. The baby may grow up to be a +wonderful man. You could make enough to give the boy every advantage and +a fine start in the world.</p> + +<p>"The world is yours, if you'll only take it. Remember the Bible, 'Ask +and it shall be given unto you.' Think it over, my dear. Don't do +anything foolish or rash. You're too young and too beautiful. And now I +must ran along. Good-by and good luck."</p> + +<p>While Hilda was breathing deep of this wine of hope and courage the +woman was gone.</p> + +<p>Hilda glanced out of the window again. She shuddered. A moment more and +she would have been lying below there, broken, mangled, +unsightly—perhaps not dead, only crippled for life and ar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span>rested as a +suicide that failed; perhaps as a murderess, since the fall would surely +have killed her child—her precious child. She held him close, her great +man-baby, her son; he laughed, beat the air with his hands, chuckled, +and smote her cheek with palms like white roses. She would take him from +this gloomy place. She would go out and demand money, fine clothes, +attention.</p> + +<p>She put on her hat, a very shabby little hat. She began to wrap the baby +in a heavy shawl. They would have finer things soon.</p> + +<p>She grew dizzy with excitement and the exertion, and sank back in the +chair a moment, to regain her strength. The chair creaked. No, it was a +knock at the door. It proved what the last woman had said. "Ask, and it +shall be given unto you."</p> + +<p>She had wished for some one to call on her. The whole boarding-house was +coming. She was giving a party.</p> + +<p>This time it was another voice out of the darkness. It must have been +Miss Bessett's. She spoke in a cold, hard, hasty tone. "Going out, my +dear? Alone, I hope? No, the baby's wrapped up! You're not going to be +so foolish as to lug that baby along? He brands you at once. Nobody will +want you round with a squalling baby. Oh, of course he's a pretty child; +but he's too noisy. He'll ruin every chance you have.</p> + +<p>"You're really very pretty, my dear. The landlady said so. If she +noticed it, you must be a beauty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> indeed. This is a great town for +pretty girls. There's a steady market for them.</p> + +<p>"The light is poor here, but beauty like yours glows even in darkness, +and that's what they want, the men. The world will pay anything for +beauty, if beauty has the brains to ask a high price and not give too +much for it.</p> + +<p>"Think of the slaves who have become queens, the mistresses who have +become empresses. There are rich women all over town who came by their +money dishonestly. You should see some of them in the Park with their +automobiles. You'd be ashamed even to let them run over you. Yet, if you +were dressed up, you'd look better than any of the automobile brigade.</p> + +<p>"You might be a great singer. I've heard you crooning to the baby. You +find a rich man and make him pay for your lessons, and then you make +eyes at the manager and, before you know it, you'll be engaged for the +opera and earning a thousand dollars a night—more than that, maybe.</p> + +<p>"Think how much that means. It would make you mighty glad you didn't +marry that young gawp at home. He's a cheap skate to get you into this +trouble and not help you out.</p> + +<p>"But I'll set you in the way of making a mint of money. There's only one +thing: you must give up the baby and never let anybody know you ever had +it. Don't freeze up and turn away. There are so many ways of disposing +of a baby. Send it to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> foundling asylum. No questions will be asked. +The baby will have the best of care and grow so strong that some rich +couple will insist on adopting it, or you could come back when you are +married to a rich man and pretend you took a fancy to it and adopt it +yourself.</p> + +<p>"And there's a lot of other ways to get rid of a baby. You could give it +the wrong medicine by mistake, or just walk out and forget it. And +there's the river; you could drop it into those black waters. And then +you're free—baby would never know. He would be ever so much better off. +And you would be free.</p> + +<p>"You must be free. You must get a little taste of life. You've a right +to it. You lived in a little stupid village all your years—and now +you're in the city. Listen to it! It would be yours for the asking. And +it gives riches and glory to the pretty girls it likes. But you must go +to it as a girl, not as a poor, broken, ragged thing, lugging a sickly +baby with no name. Get rid of the baby, my dear. It will die, anyway. It +will starve and sicken. Put it out of its misery. That medicine on your +wash-stand—an overdose of that and you can say it was a mistake. Who +can prove it wasn't? Then you are free. You'll have hundreds of friends, +and a career, and a motor of your own, and servants, and a beautiful +home. Don't waste your youth, my dear. Invest your beauty where it will +bring big proceeds.</p> + +<p>"See those lights off there—the big lights with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> the name of that woman +in electric letters? She came to town poorer than you and with a worse +name. Now she is rich and famous. And the Countess of—What's-her-name? +She was poor and bad, but she didn't let any old-fashioned ideas of +remorse hold her back. Go on; get rid of the brat. Go on!"</p> + +<p>Hilda clutched the baby closer and moved away to shield her from this +grim counselor. When she turned again she was alone. The woman had gone, +but the air trembled with her fierce wisdom. She was ruthless, but how +wise!</p> + +<p>The lights flaring up into the sky carried that other woman's name. Her +picture was everywhere. She had been poor and wicked. Now she was a +household word, respected because she was rich. She had succeeded.</p> + +<p>There came a lilting of music on a breeze. They were dancing, somewhere. +The tango "coaxed her feet." Her body swayed with it.</p> + +<p>If she were there, men would quarrel over her, rush to claim her—as +they had done even in the village before she threw herself away on the +most worthless, shiftless of the lot, who got her into trouble and +deserted her. It was not her business to starve for his baby.</p> + +<p>The baby began to fret again, to squawk with vicious explosions of ugly +rage; it puled and yowled. It was a nuisance. It caught a fistful of her +hair and wrenched till the tears of pain rushed to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> eyes. She +unclasped the little talons, ran to the wash-stand, took up an ugly +bottle and poured out enough to put an end to that nauseating wail.</p> + +<p>She bent over to lift the baby to the glass. Its lips touched her bosom. +Its crying turned to a little chortle like a brook's music. It pommeled +her with hands like white roses. The moon rested on its little head and +made its fuzz of hair a halo. She paused, adoring it sacredly like +another Madonna.</p> + +<p>A soft tap at the door. She put the fatal glass away and turned +guiltily. A dark little woman was there, and a soft, motherly voice +spoke. It must be Mrs. Braywood's. She could not have suspected, for her +tone was all of affection.</p> + +<p>"I heard your child laughing, my dear—and crying. I don't know which +went to my heart deeper. I just had to come to see it. It is so +marvelous to be a mother. I've been married for ten years, and my +husband and I have prayed and waited. But God would not send us a baby. +He saved that honor for you. And such an honor and glory and power! To +be a mother! To be a rose-bush and have a white bud grow upon your stem, +and bloom! Oh, you lucky child, to be selected for such a privilege! You +must have suffered; you must be suffering now; but there's nothing worth +while that doesn't cost pain.</p> + +<p>"It occurred to me that—don't misunderstand me, my child, but—well, +the landlady said you were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> poor; she was in doubt of the room rent; so +I thought—perhaps you might not want the baby as much as I do.</p> + +<p>"I hoped you might let me take him. I'd be such a good mother to him. +I'd love him as if he were my own, and my husband would pay you well for +him. We'd give him our own name, and people should never know that +he—that you—that we weren't really his parents. Give him to me, won't +you? Please! I beg you!"</p> + +<p>Hilda whirled away from her pleading hands and clenched the baby so hard +that it cried a little. The sound was like that first wail of his she +had ever heard. Again it went into her heart like a little hand seizing +and wringing it.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Braywood—if it were Mrs. Braywood—was not angry at the rebuff, +though she was plainly disheartened. She tried to be brave, and sighed.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't wonder you turn away. I understand. I wouldn't give him up +if I were in your place. The father must come soon. He won't stay away +long. Just let him see the baby and hear its voice and know it is his +baby, and he will stand by you.</p> + +<p>"He will come to you. He will hear the voice wherever he is, and he will +make you his wife. And the baby will make a man of him and give him +ambition and inspiration. Babies always provide for themselves, they +say. You will have trouble, and you will suffer from the gibes of +self-righteous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> people, and you will be cruelly blamed; but there is +only one way to expiate sin, my child, and that is to face its +consequences and pay its penalties in full. The only way to atone for a +wrong deed is to do the next right thing. Take good care of your +precious treasure. Good-by. His father will come soon. He will come. +Good-by. Oh, you enviable thing, you mother!"</p> + +<p>And now she was gone. But she had left the baby's value enhanced, and +the mother's, too.</p> + +<p>She had offered a price for the baby, and glorified the mother. The +lonely young country girl felt no longer utterly disgraced. She did not +feel that the baby was a mark of Heaven's disfavor, but rather of its +favor. She felt lonely no longer. The streets interested her no more. +Let those idle revelers go their way; let them dance and laugh. They had +no child of their own to adore and to enjoy.</p> + +<p>If the baby's father came they would be married. If he delayed—well, +she would stumble on alone. The baby was her cross. She must carry it up +the hill.</p> + +<p>Hilda felt entirely content, but very tired, full of hope that Webster +Edie would come to her, but full of contentment, too. She talked to the +baby, and he seemed to understand her now. She could not translate his +language, but he translated hers.</p> + +<p>She slipped out of her day clothes and into her nightgown—and so to +bed. She fell asleep with her baby in her arms. Her head drooped back +and her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> parted lips seemed to pant and glow. The moon reached her +window and sent in a long shaft of light. It found a great tear on her +cheek. It gleamed on her throat bent back; it gleamed on one bare +shoulder where the gown was torn; it gleamed on her breast where the +baby drowsily clung.</p> + +<p>There was a benediction in the moonlight.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span></p> + +<h2>DAUGHTERS OF SHILOH</h2> + + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>Mrs. Serina Pepperall had called her husband twice without success. It +was at that hatefulest hour of the whole week when everybody that has to +get up is getting up and realizing that it is Monday morning, and +raining besides.</p> + +<p>It is bad enough for it to be Monday, but for it to be raining is +inexcusable.</p> + +<p>Young Horace Pepperall used to say that that was the reason the world +didn't improve much. People got good on Sunday, and then it had to go +and be Monday. He had an idea that if Sunday could be followed by some +other day, preferably Saturday, there would be more happiness and virtue +in the world. Mrs. Pepperall used to say that her boy was quite a +ph'losopher in his way. Mr. Pepperall said he was a hopeless loafer and +spent more time deciding whether he'd ought to do this or that than it +would have taken to do 'em both twice. Whereupon Mrs. Pepperall, whose +maiden name was Boody—daughter of Mrs. Ex-County-Clerk Boody—would +remind her husband that he was only a Pepperall, after all, while her +son was at least half Boody.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> Whereupon her husband would remind her of +certain things about the Boodys. And so it would go. But that was other +mornings. This was this morning.</p> + +<p>Among all the homes that the sun looked upon—or would have looked upon +if it could have looked upon anything and if it hadn't been raining and +the Pepperall roof had not been impervious to light, though not to +moisture—among them all, surely the Pepperall reveille would have been +the least attractive. Homer never got his picture of rosy-fingered +Aurora smilingly leaping out of the couch of night from any such home as +the Pepperalls' in Carthage.</p> + +<p>Serina was as unlike Aurora as possible. Aurora is usually poised on +tiptoe, with her well-manicured nails gracefully extended, and nothing +much about her except a chariot and more or less chiffon, according to +whether the picture is for families or bachelors.</p> + +<p>Serina was entirely surrounded by flannelette, of simple and pitilessly +chaste design—a hole at the top for her head to go through and a larger +one at the other extreme for her feet to stick out at. But it was so +long that you couldn't have seen her feet if you had been there. And +Papa Pepperall, who was there, was no longer interested in those once +exciting ankles. They had been more interesting when there had been less +of them. But we'd better talk about the sleeves.</p> + +<p>The sleeves were so long that they kept falling into the water where +Serina was making a hasty toilet at the little marble-topped altar to +cleanliness<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> which the Pepperalls called the "worsh-stand"—that is, the +"hand-wash-basin," as Mrs. Hippisley called it after she came back from +her never-to-be-forgotten trip to England.</p> + +<p>But then Serina's sleeves had always been falling into the suds, and +ever since she could remember she had rolled them up again with that +peculiar motion with which people roll up sleeves. This morning, having +failed to elicit papa from the bed by persuasion, she made such a racket +about her ablutions that he lifted his dreary lids at last. He realized +that it was morning, Monday, and raining. It irritated him so that he +glared at his faithful wife with no fervor for her unsullied and +unwearied—if not altogether unwearisome—devotion. He watched her roll +up those sleeves thrice more. Somehow he wanted to scream at the +futility of it. But he checked the impulse partly, and it was with +softness that he made a comment he had choked back for years. "Serina—" +he began.</p> + +<p>"Well," she returned, pausing with the soap clenched in one hand.</p> + +<p>He spoke with the luxurious leisureliness and the pauses for commas of a +nearly educated man lolling too long abed:</p> + +<p>"Serina, it has just occurred to me that, since we have been married, +you have expended, on rolling back those everlastingly relapsing sleeves +of yours, enough energy to have rolled the Sphinx of Egypt up on top of +the Pyramid of Cheops."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p> + +<p>Serina was so surprised that she shot the slippery soap under the +wash-stand. She went right after it. There may be nymphs who can stalk a +cake of soap under a wash-stand with grace, but Serina was not one of +them. Her indolent spouse made another cynical comment:</p> + +<p>"Don't do that! You look like the Goddess of Liberty trying to peek into +the Subway."</p> + +<p>But she did not hear him. She was rummaging for the soap and for an +answer to his first remark. At length she emerged with both. She stood +up and panted.</p> + +<p>"Well, I can't see as it would 'a' done me any good if I had have!"</p> + +<p>"Had have what?" her husband yawned, having forgotten his original +remark.</p> + +<p>"Got the Sphinnix on top of the Cheops. And besides, I've been meaning +to hem them up; but now that you've gone bankrupt again, and I have to +do my own cooking and all—"</p> + +<p>"But, my dear Serina, you've said the same thing ever since we were +married. What frets me is to think of the terrible waste of labor with +nothing to show for it."</p> + +<p>She sniffed, and retorted with all the superiority of the unsuccessful +wife of an unsuccessful husband:</p> + +<p>"Well, I can't see as you're so smart. Ever since we been married you +been goin' to that stationery-store of yours, and you never learned +enough to keep from going bankrupt three times. And now they've<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> shut +the shop, and you've nothing better to do than lay in bed and make fun +of me that have slaved for you and your children."</p> + +<p>They were always his children when she talked of the trouble they were. +Her all too familiar oration was interrupted by the eel-like leap of the +soap. This time it described a graceful arc that landed it under the +middle of the bed—a double bed at that.</p> + +<p>Pepperall had the gallantry to pursue it. He went head first over the +starboard quarter of the deck, leaving his feet aboard. Just as he +tagged the soap with his fingers his feet came on over after him, and he +found himself flat on his back, with his head under the bed and his feet +under the bureau.</p> + +<p>When the thunder of his downfall had subsided he heard Serina say, "Now +that you're up you better stay up."</p> + +<p>So he wriggled out from under and got himself aloft, rubbing his +indignant back. If Serina was no Aurora rising from the sea, her husband +was no Phœbus Apollo. His gown looked like hers, only younger. It had +a frivolous little pocket, and the slit-skirt effect on both sides; and +it was cut what is called "misses' length," disclosing two of the least +attractive shins in Carthage.</p> + +<p>He was aching all over and he was angry, and he snarled as he stood at +the wash-stand:</p> + +<p>"Have you finished with this water?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, muffledly, from the depths of a face-towel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why don't you ever empty the bowl then?" he growled, and viciously +tilted the contents into the—must I say the awful word?—the +slop-jar—what other word is there?</p> + +<p>The water splashed over and struck the bare feet of both icily. They +yowled and danced like Piute Indians, and glared at each other as they +danced. They glared in a nagged rage that would have turned into an ugly +quarrel if a great sorrow had not suddenly overswept them. They saw +themselves as they were and by a whim of memory they remembered what +they had been. He laughed bitterly:</p> + +<p>"It's the first time we've danced together in a long time, eh?"</p> + +<p>Her lower lip began to quiver and swell quite independently and she +sighed:</p> + +<p>"Not much like the dances we used to dance. Oh dear!"</p> + +<p>She dropped into a chair and stared, not at her husband, but at the +bridegroom of long ago he had shriveled from. She remembered those +honeymoon mornings when they had awakened like eager children and +laughed and romped and been glad of the new day. The mornings had been +precious then, for it was a tragedy to let him go to his shop, as it was +a festival to watch from the porch in the evening till he came round the +corner and waved to her.</p> + +<p>She looked from him to herself, to what she could see of herself—it was +not all, but more than enough.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> She saw her heavy red hands and the +coarse gown over her awkward knees, and the dismal slovenliness of her +attitude. She felt that he was remembering the slim, wild, sweet girl he +had married. And she was ashamed before his eyes, because she had let +the years prey upon her and had lazily permitted beauty to escape from +her—from her body, her face, her motions, her thoughts.</p> + +<p>She felt that for all her prating of duty she had committed a great +wickedness lifelong. She wondered if this were not "the unpardonable +sin," whose exact identity nobody had seemed to decide—to grow +strangers with beauty and to forget grace.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>Whatever her husband may have been thinking, he had the presence of mind +to hide his eyes in the water he had poured from the pitcher. He scooped +it up now in double handfuls. He made a great splutter and soused his +face in the bowl, and scrubbed the back of his neck and behind his ears +and his bald spot, and slapped his eminent collar-bones with his wet +hand. And then he was bathed.</p> + +<p>Serina pulled on her stockings, and hated them and the coarser feet they +covered. She opened the wardrobe door as a screen, less from modesty for +herself than from sudden disgust of her old corset and her all too sober +lingerie. She resolved that she would hereafter deck herself with more +of that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> coquetry which had abruptly returned to her mind as a wife's +most solemn duty.</p> + +<p>Then she remembered that they were poorer than they ever had been. Now +they could not even run into debt again; for who would give them further +credit, since their previous bills had been canceled by nothing more +satisfactory than the grim "Received payment" of the bankruptcy court?</p> + +<p>It was too late for her to reform. Her song was sung. And as for buying +frills and fallals, there were two daughters to provide for and a son +who was growing into the stratum of foppery. With a sigh of dismissal +she flung on her old wrapper, whose comfortableness she suddenly +despised, and made her escape, murmuring, "I'll call the childern."</p> + +<p>She pounded on the boy's door, and Horace eventually answered with his +regular program of uncouth noises, like some one protesting against +being strangled to death. These were followed by moans of woe, and then +by far-off-sounding promises of "Oh, aw ri', I'm git'nup."</p> + +<p>Serina moved on to her youngest daughter's door. She had tapped but once +when it was opened by "the best girl that ever lived," according to her +father; and according to her mother, "a treasure; never gave me a bit of +trouble—plain, of course, but so willing!"</p> + +<p>Ollie was fully dressed and so was her room, except for the bed, the +covers of which were thrown back like a wave breaking over the +footboard. In fact,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> after Ollie had kissed her mother she informed her +that the kitchen fire was made, the wash-boiler on, and the breakfast +going.</p> + +<p>"You are a treasure!" Serina sighed.</p> + +<p>She passed on to the door of Prue. Prue was the second daughter. Rosie, +the eldest, had married Tom Milford and moved away. She was having +troubles of her own, and children with a regularity that led Serina to +dislike Tom Milford more than ever.</p> + +<p>Serina knocked several times at Prue's door without response. Then she +went in as she always had to. Prue was still asleep, and her yesterday's +clothes seemed to be asleep, too, in all sorts of attitudes and all +sorts of places. The only regularity about the room was the fact that +every single thing was out of place. The dressing-table held a little +chaos, including one stocking. The other stocking was on the floor. One +silken garter glowed in the southeast corner and one in the northwest. +One shoe reclined in the southwest corner and the other gaped in the +northeast. But they were pretty shoes.</p> + +<p>Her frock was in a heap, but it suggested a heap of flowers. +Hair-ribbons and ribboned things and a crumpled sash bedecked the +carpet. But the prettiest thing of all was the head half fallen from the +pillow and half smothered in the tangled skeins of hair. One arm was +bent back over her brow to shut out the sunlight and the other arm +dangled to the floor. There was something adorable about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> round chin +nestling in the soft throat. Her chin seemed to frown with a lovable +sullenness. There was a mysterious grace in the very sprawl vaguely +outlined by the long wrinkles and ridges of the blankets.</p> + +<p>Serina shook her head over Prue in a loving despair. She was the bad boy +of the family, impatient, exacting, hot-tempered, stormy, luxurious, yet +never monotonous.</p> + +<p>"You can always put your hand on Ollie," Serina would say; "but you +never know where Prue is from one minute to the next."</p> + +<p>Consequently Ollie was not interesting and Prue was.</p> + +<p>They were all afraid of Prue and afraid for her. They all toadied to her +and she kept them excited—alarmed, perhaps; angry, oh yes; but never +bored.</p> + +<p>And there were rewards in her service, too, for she could be as stormy +with affection as with mutiny. Sometimes she would attack Serina with +such gusts of gratitude or admiration that her mother would cry for +help. She would squeeze her father's ribs till he gasped for breath. +When she was pleased she would dance about the house like a whirling +mćnad with ululations of ecstasy. These crises were sharp, but they left +a sweet taste in the memory.</p> + +<p>So Prue had the best clothes and did the least work. Prue was sent off +to boarding-school in Chicago, though she had never been able to keep up +with her classes in Carthage; while Ollie—who took first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> prizes till +even the goody-goody boys hated her—stayed at home. She had dreamed of +being a teacher in the High, but she never mentioned it, and she studied +bookkeeping and stenography in the business college so that she could +help her father.</p> + +<p>Prue had not been home long and had come home with bad grace. When her +father had found it impossible to borrow more money even to pay his +clerks, to say nothing of boarding-school bills, he had to write the +truth to Prue. He told her to come again to Carthage.</p> + +<p>She did not come back at once and she refused to explain why. As a +matter of fact, she had desperately endeavored to find a permanent job +in Chicago. It was easy for so attractive a girl to get jobs, but it was +hard for so domineering a soul to keep one. She was regretfully bounced +out of three department stores in six days for "sassing" the customers +and the aisle-manager.</p> + +<p>She even tried the theater. She was readily accepted by a stage-manager, +but when he found that he could not teach her the usual figures or +persuade her to keep in step or line with the rest he regretfully let +her go.</p> + +<p>It was the regularity of it that stumped Prue. She could dance like a +ballerina by herself, but she could not count "one-two-three-four" twice +in succession. The second time it was "o-o-one-t'threeee-f'r" and next +it would be "onety-thry-fo-o-our."</p> + +<p>Prue hung about Chicago, getting herself into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> scrapes by her charm and +fighting her way out of them by her ferocious pride. Finally she went +hungry and came home. When she learned the extent of her father's +financial collapse she delivered tirades against the people of Carthage +and she sang him up as a genius. And then she sought escape from the +depression at home by seeking what gaiety Carthage afforded. She made no +effort to master the typewriter and she declined to sell dry-goods.</p> + +<p>Serina stood and studied the sleeping girl, that strange wild thing she +had borne and had tried in vain to control. She thought how odd it was +that in the mystic transmission of her life she had given all the useful +virtues to Ollie and none of them to Prue. She wondered what she had +been thinking of to make such a mess of motherhood. And what could she +do to correct the oversight? Ollie did not need restraint, and Prue +would not endure it. She stood aloof, afraid to waken the girl to the +miseries of existence in a household where every day was blue Monday +now.</p> + +<p>Ollie had not waited to be called. Ollie had risen betimes and done all +the work that could be done, and stood ready to do whatever she could. +Prue was still aloll on a bed of ease. Even to waken her was to waken a +March wind. The moment she was up she would have everybody running +errands for her. She would be lavish in complaint and parsimonious of +help. And yet she was a dear! She did enjoy her morning sleep so well. +It would be a pity to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> disturb her. The rescuing thought came to Serina +that Prue loved to take a long hot bath on Monday mornings, because on +wash-day there was always a plenty of hot water in the bathroom. On +other mornings the hot-water faucet suffered from a distressing cough +and nothing more.</p> + +<p>So she tiptoed out and closed the door softly.</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>At breakfast Ollie waited on the table after compelling Serina to sit +down and eat. There was little to tempt the appetite and no appetite to +be tempted.</p> + +<p>Papa was in the doldrums. He had always complained before of having to +gulp his breakfast and hurry to the shop. And now he complained because +there was no hurry; indeed, there was no shop. He must set out at his +time of years, after his life of independent warfare, to ask for +enlistment as a private in some other man's company—in a town where +vacancies rarely occurred and where William Pepperall would not be +welcome.</p> + +<p>The whole town was mad at him. He had owed everybody, and then suddenly +he owed nobody. By the presto-change-o of bankruptcy his debts had been +passed from the hat of unpaid bills to the hat of worthless accounts.</p> + +<p>Serina was as dismal as any wife is when she is faced with the prospect +of having her man hanging about the house all day. A wife in a man's +office<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> hours is a nuisance, but a man at home in household office hours +is a pest. This was the newest but not the least of Serina's woes.</p> + +<p>Horace was even glummer than ever, as soggy as his own oatmeal. At best +he was one of those breakfast bruins. Now he was a bear that has been +hit on the nose. He, too, must seek a job. School had seemed confining +before, but now that he must go to work, school seemed like one long +recess.</p> + +<p>Even Ollie was depressed. Hers was the misery of an active person denied +activity. She had prepared herself as an aid in her father's business, +and now he had no business. In this alkali desert of inanition Prue's +vivacious temper would have been welcome.</p> + +<p>"Where's Prue?" said papa for the fifth time.</p> + +<p>Serina was about to say that she was still asleep when Prue made her +presence known. Everybody was apprised that the water had been turned on +in the bathroom; it resounded throughout the house. It seemed to fall +about one's head.</p> + +<p>Prue was filling the tub for her Monday morning siesta. She was humming +a strange tune over the cascade like another Minnehaha. And from the +behavior of the dining-room chandelier and the plates on the sideboard +she was evidently dancing.</p> + +<p>"What's that toon she's dancing to?" papa asked, after a while.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Serina.</p> + +<p>"I never heard it," said Ollie.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah," growled Horace, "it's the Argentine tango."</p> + +<p>"The tango!" gasped papa. "Isn't that the new dance I've been reading +about, that's making a sensation in New York?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, wake up, pop!" said Horace. "It's a sensation here, too."</p> + +<p>"In Carthage? They're dancing the tango in our home town?"</p> + +<p>"Surest thing you know, pop. The whole burg's goin' bug over it."</p> + +<p>"How is it done? What is it like?"</p> + +<p>"Something like this," said Horace, and, rising, he indulged in the +prehistoric turkey-trot of a year ago, with burlesque hip-snaps and +poultry-yard scrapings of the foot.</p> + +<p>"Stop it!" papa thundered. "It's loathsome! Do you mean to tell me that +my daughter does that sort of thing?"</p> + +<p>"Sure! She's a wonder at it."</p> + +<p>"What scoundrel taught my poor child such—such—Who taught her, I say?"</p> + +<p>"Gosh!" sniffed Horace, "sis don't need teachin'. She's teachin' the +rest of 'em. They're crazy about her."</p> + +<p>"Teaching others! My g-g-goodness! Where did she learn?"</p> + +<p>"Chicago, I guess."</p> + +<p>"Oh, the wickedness of these cities and the foreigners that are dragging +our American homes down to their own level!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I guess the foreigners got nothin' on us," said Horace. "It's a +Namerican dance."</p> + +<p>"What are we coming to? Go tell Prue to come here at once. I'll put a +stop to that right here and now."</p> + +<p>Serina gave him one searing glance, and he understood that he could not +deliver his edict to Prue yet awhile. He heard her singing even more +barbaric strains. The chandelier danced with a peculiar savagery, then +the dance was evidently quenched and subdued. Awestruck yowls from above +indicated that Prue was in hot water.</p> + +<p>"This is the last straw!" groaned papa, with all the wretchedness of a +father learning that his daughter was gone to the bad.</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>Prue did not appear below-stairs for so long that her father had lost +his magnificent running start by the time she sauntered in all sleek and +shiny and asked for her food. She brought a radiant grace into the dull +gray room; and Serina whispered to Will to let her have her breakfast +first.</p> + +<p>She and Ollie waited on Prue, while the father paced the floor, stealing +sidelong glances at her, and wondering if it were possible that so sweet +a thing should be as vicious as she would have to be to tango.</p> + +<p>When she had scoured her plate and licked her spoon with a child-like +charm her father began to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> crank up his throat for a tirade. He began +with the reluctant horror of a young attorney cross-examining his first +murderer:</p> + +<p>"Prue—I want to—to—er—Prue, do you—did you—ever—This—er—this +tango business—Prue—have you—do you—er—What do you know about it?"</p> + +<p>"Well, of course, papa, they change it so fast on you it's hard to keep +up with it, but I was about three days ahead of Chicago when I left +there. I met with a man who had just stepped off the twenty-hour train +and I learned all he knew before I turned him loose."</p> + +<p>In a strangled tone the father croaked, "You dance it, then?"</p> + +<p>"You bet! Papa, stand up and I'll show you the very newest roll. It's a +peach. Put your weight on your right leg. Say, it's a shame we haven't a +phonograph! Don't you suppose you could afford a little one? I could +have you all in fine form in no time. And it would be so good for +mamma."</p> + +<p>Papa fell back into a chair with just strength enough to murmur, "I want +you to promise me never to dance it again."</p> + +<p>"Don't be foolish, you dear old bump-on-a-log!"</p> + +<p>"I forbid you to dance it ever again."</p> + +<p>She laughed uproariously: "Listen at the old Skeezicks! Get up here and +I'll show you the cutest dip."</p> + +<p>When at last he grew angry, and made her realize<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> it, she flared into a +tumult of mutiny that drove him out into the rain. He spent the day +looking for a job without finding one. Horace came home wet and +discouraged with the same news. Ollie, the treasure, however, announced +that she had obtained a splendid position as typist in Judge Hippisley's +office, at a salary of thirty dollars a month.</p> + +<p>William was overjoyed, but Serina protested bitterly. She and Mrs. Judge +Hippisley had been bitter social rivals for twenty years. They had +fought each other with teas and euchre parties and receptions from young +wifehood to middle-aged portliness. And now her daughter was to work in +that hateful Anastasia Hippisley's old fool of a husband's office? Well, +hardly!</p> + +<p>"It's better than starving," said Ollie, and for once would not be +coerced, though even her disobedience was on the ground of service. +After she had cleared the table and washed the dishes she set out for +her room, lugging a typewriter she had borrowed to brush up her speed +on.</p> + +<p>Prue had begged off from even wiping the dishes, because she had to +dress. As Ollie started up-stairs to her task she was brought back by +the door-bell. She ushered young Orton Hippisley into the parlor. He had +come to take Prue to a dance.</p> + +<p>When papa heard this mamma had to hold her hand over his mouth to keep +him from making a scene. He was for kicking young Hippisley out of the +house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And lose me my job?" gasped Ollie.</p> + +<p>The overpowered parent whispered his determination to go up-stairs and +forbid Prue to leave. He went up-stairs and forbade her, but she went +right on binding her hair with Ollie's best ribbon. In the midst of her +father's peroration she kissed him good-by and danced down-stairs in +Ollie's new slippers. Her own had been trotted into shreds.</p> + +<p>Papa sat fuming all evening. He would not go to bed till Prue came home +to the ultimatum he was preparing for her. From above came the +tick-tock-tock of Ollie's typewriter. It got on his nerves, like rain on +a tin roof.</p> + +<p>"To think of it—Ollie up-stairs working her fingers to the bone to help +us out, and Prue dancing her feet off disgracing us! To think that one +of our daughters should be so good and one so bad!"</p> + +<p>"I can't believe that our little Prue is really bad," Serina sighed.</p> + +<p>"Yet girls do go wrong, don't they?" her husband groaned. "This +morning's paper prints a sermon about the tango. Reverend Doctor +What's-his-name, the famous New York newspaper preacher, tears the whole +tango crowd to pieces. He points out that the tango is the cause of the +present-day wickedness, the ruin of the home!"</p> + +<p>Serina was dismal and terrified, but from force of habit she took the +opposite side.</p> + +<p>"Oh, they were complaining of divorces long before the tango was ever +heard of. That same preacher<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> used to blame them on the bicycle, then on +the automobile and the movies. And now it's the tango. It'll be +flying-machines next."</p> + +<p>Papa was used to fighting with mamma, and he roared with fine leoninity: +"Are you defending your daughter's shamelessness? Do you approve of the +tango?"</p> + +<p>"I've never seen it."</p> + +<p>"Then it must be just because you always encourage your children to +flout my authority. I never could keep any discipline because you always +fought for them, encouraged them to disobey their father, to—to—to—"</p> + +<p>She chanted her responses according to the familiar family antipathy +antiphony. They talked themselves out eventually; but Prue was not home. +Ollie gradually typewrote herself to sleep and Prue was not home. Horace +came in from the Y. M. C. A. bowling-alley and went to bed, and Prue was +not home.</p> + +<p>The old heads nodded. The sentinels slept. At some dimly distant time +papa woke with a start and inquired, "Huh?"</p> + +<p>Mamma jumped and gasped, "Who?"</p> + +<p>They were shivering with the after-midnight chill of the cold room, and +Prue was not home. Papa snapped his watch open and snapped it shut; and +the same to his jaw:</p> + +<p>"Two o'clock! And Prue not home. I'm going after her!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span></p> + +<p>He thrust into his overcoat, slapped his hat on his aching head, flung +open the door. And Prue came home.</p> + +<p>She was alone! And in tears!</p> + + +<h4>V</h4> + +<p>As papa's overcoat slid off his arms and his hat off his head she tore +down her gloves, tossed her cloak in the direction of the hat-tree and +stumbled up the stairs, sobbing. Her mother caught her hand.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter, honey?"</p> + +<p>Prue wrenched loose and went on up.</p> + +<p>Father and mother stared at her, then at each other, then at the floor. +Each read the same unspeakable fear in the other's soul. Serina ran up +the stairs as fast as she could. William automatically locked the doors +and windows, turned out the lights, and followed.</p> + +<p>He paused in the upper hall to listen. Prue was explaining at last.</p> + +<p>"It's that Orton Hippisley," Prue sobbed.</p> + +<p>"What—what has he done?" Serina pleaded, and Prue sobbed on:</p> + +<p>"Oh, he got fresh! Some of these fellas in this town think that because +a girl likes to have a good time and knows how to dance they can get +fresh with her. I didn't like the way Ort Hippisley held me and I told +him. Finally I wouldn't dance any more with him. I gave his dances to +Grant Beadle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> till the last; then Ort begged so hard I said all right. +And he danced like a gentleman. But on the way home he—he put his arm +round me. And when I told him to take it away he wouldn't. He said I had +been in his arms half the evening before folks, and if I hadn't minded +then I oughtn't to mind now. And I said: 'Is that so? Well, it's mighty +different when you're dancing.' And he said, 'Oh no, it isn't,' and I +said, 'Oh yes, it is.' And he tried to kiss me and I hauled off and +smashed him right in the nose. It bloodied all over his dress soot, and +I'm glad of it."</p> + +<p>Somehow Papa Pepperall felt such an impulse to give three cheers that he +had to put his own hand over his mouth. He tiptoed to his room, and when +mamma appeared to announce with triumph, "I guess Prue hasn't gone to +the bad yet," papa said: "Who said she had? Prue is the finest girl in +America!"</p> + +<p>"I thought you were saying—"</p> + +<p>"Why can't you ever once get me right? I was saying that Prue is too +fine a girl to be allowed to mingle with that tango set. I'm going to +cowhide that Hippisley cub. And Prue's not going to another one of those +dances."</p> + +<p>But he didn't. And she did.</p> + + +<h4>VI</h4> + +<p>Ollie was up betimes the next morning to get breakfast and make haste to +her office. She was so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> excited that she dropped a stove-lid on the +coalscuttle just as her mother appeared.</p> + +<p>"For mercy's sake, less noise!" Serina whispered. "You'll wake poor +Prue!"</p> + +<p>Ollie next dropped the tray she had just unloaded on the table. Serina +was furious. Ollie whispered:</p> + +<p>"I'm so nervous for fear I've lost my job at Judge Hippisley's, now that +Prue had to go and slap Orton."</p> + +<p>"Always thinking of yourself," was Serina's rebuke. "Don't be so +selfish!"</p> + +<p>But Ollie's fears were wasted. Orton Hippisley might have boasted of +kisses he did not get, but not of the slaps that he did. He had gained a +new respect for Prue, and at the first opportunity pleaded for +forgiveness, eying her little fist the while. He begged her to go with +him to a dance at his home that evening.</p> + +<p>She forgave him for the sake of the invitation—and she glided and +dipped at the judge's house while Ollie spent the evening in his office +trying to finish the day's work. Her speed was not yet up to +requirements. Prue's speed was.</p> + +<p>Other girls watched Prue manipulating her members in the intricate +mechanisms of the latest dances. They begged her to teach them, but she +laughed and said: "It's easy. Just watch what I do and do the same."</p> + +<p>So Raphael told his pupils and Napoleon his subordinates.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span></p> + +<p>That night Ollie and Prue reached home at nearly the same time. Ollie +told how well she was getting along in the judge's office. Prue told how +she had made wall-flowers of everybody else in Mrs. Hippisley's parlor. +Let those who know a mother's heart decide which daughter Serina was the +prouder of, the good or the bad.</p> + +<p>She told William about it—how Ollie had learned to type letters with +both hands and how Prue got there with both feet. And papa said, "She's +a great girl!"</p> + +<p>And that was singular.</p> + + +<h4>VII</h4> + +<p>A few mornings later Judge Hippisley stopped William on the street and +spoke in his best bench manner:</p> + +<p>"Will, I hate to speak about your daughter, but I've got to."</p> + +<p>"Why, Judge, what's Ollie done? Isn't she fast enough?"</p> + +<p>"Ollie's all right. I'm speaking of Prue. She's entirely too fast. I +want you to tell her to let my son alone."</p> + +<p>"Why, I—you—he—"</p> + +<p>"My boy was clerking in Beadle's hardware-store, learning the business +and earning twelve dollars a week. And now he spends half his time +dancing with that dam—daughter of yours. And Beadle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> is going to fire +him if he doesn't 'tend to business better."</p> + +<p>"I—I'll speak to Prue," was all Pepperall dared to say. The judge had +too many powers over him to be talked back to.</p> + +<p>Papa spoke to Prue and it amused her very much. She said that old Mr. +Beadle had better speak to his own boy, who was Orton's fiercest rival +at the dances. And as for the fat old judge, he'd better take up dancing +himself.</p> + +<p>The following Sunday three of the Carthage preachers attacked the tango. +One of them used for his text Matthew xiv:6, and the other used Mark +vi:22. Both told how John the Baptist had lost his head over Salome's +dancing. Doctor Brearley chose Isaiah lix:7 "Their feet run to evil ... +their thoughts are thoughts of iniquity; wasting and destruction are in +their paths."</p> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Pepperall and Ollie sat under Doctor Brearley. Prue had +slept too late to be present. Doctor Brearley blamed so many of the +evils of the world on the tango craze that if a visitor from Mars had +dropped into a pew he might have judged that the world had been an Eden +till the tango came. But then Doctor Brearley had always blamed old +things on new things.</p> + +<p>It was a ferocious sermon, however, and the wincing Pepperalls felt that +it was aimed directly at them. When Doctor Brearley denounced modern +parents for their own godlessness and the irreligion of their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> homes, +William took the blame to himself. On his way home he announced his +determination to resume the long-neglected family custom of reading from +the Bible.</p> + +<p>After the heavy Sabbath dinner had been eaten—Prue was up in time for +this rite—he gathered his little flock in the parlor for a solemn +while. It had been his habit to choose the reading of the day at +random—he called it "letting the Lord decide." The big rusty-hinged +Bible fell open with a loud puff of dust several years old. Papa +adjusted his spectacles and read what he found before him:</p> + +<p>"Nehemiah x: 'Now those that sealed were, Nehemiah, the Tirshatha, the +son of Hachaliah, and Zidkijah, Seraiah, Azariah, Jeremiah, Pashur, +Amariah, Malchijah, Hattush ...'" He began to breathe hard. He was lost +in an impenetrable forest of names, and he could not pronounce one of +them. He sneaked a peek ahead, dimly made out "Bunni, Hizkijah, Magpiash +and Hashub," and choked.</p> + +<p>It looked like sacrilege, but he ventured to close the Book and open it +once more.</p> + +<p>This time he happened on the last chapter of the Book of Judges, wherein +is the chronicle of the plight of the tribe of Benjamin, which could not +get women to marry into it. The wife famine of the Benjamites was not in +the least interesting to Mr. Pepperall, but he would not tempt the Lord +again. So he read on, while the children yawned and shuffled, Prue +especially.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span></p> + +<p>Suddenly Prue sat still and listened, and papa's cough grew worse. He +was reading about the "feast of the Lord in Shiloh yearly," and how the +elders of the congregation ordered the children of Benjamin to go and +lie in wait in the vineyards.</p> + +<p>"'And see, and behold, if the daughters of Shiloh come out to dance in +dances, then come ye out of the vineyards and catch you every man his +wife of the daughters of Shiloh....</p> + +<p>"'And the children of Benjamin did so, and took them wives, according to +their number, of them that danced, whom they caught: and they went and +returned unto their inheritance, and repaired the cities, and dwelt in +them....</p> + +<p>"'In those days there was no king in Israel; every man did that which +was right in his own eyes."</p> + +<p>He closed the Book and stole a glance at Prue. Her eyes were so bright +with triumph that he had to say:</p> + +<p>"Of course that proves nothing about dancing. It doesn't say that the +Shiloh girls made good wives."</p> + +<p>Prue had the impudence to add, "And it doesn't say that the sons of +Benjamin were good dancers."</p> + +<p>Her father silenced her with a scowl of horror. Then he made a long +prayer, directed more at his family than at the Lord. It apparently had +an equal effect on each. After a hymn had been mumbled through the +family dispersed.</p> + +<p>Prue lingered just long enough to capture the Bible and carry it off to +her room in a double embrace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> Serina and William tried to be glad to +see her sudden interest, but they were a little afraid of her exact +motive.</p> + +<p>She made no noise at all and did not come down in time to help get +supper—the sad, cold supper of a Sunday evening. She slipped into the +dining-room just before the family was called. Papa found at his plate a +neat little stack of cards, bearing each a carefully lettered legend in +Prue's writing. He picked them up, glanced at them, and flushed.</p> + +<p>"I dare you to read them," said Prue.</p> + +<p>So he read: "'To every thing there is a season, and a time to every +purpose under the heaven ... a time to mourn and a time to dance.... He +hath made every thing beautiful in his time.' Ecclesiastes iii.</p> + +<p>"'Let them praise his name in the dance ... for the Lord taketh pleasure +in his people.... Praise him with the timbrel and dance.... Praise him +upon the loud cymbals.' Psalms cxlix, cl.</p> + +<p>"'O virgin of Israel ... thou shalt go forth in the dances of them that +make merry.... Then shall the virgin rejoice in the dance, both young +men and old together.' Jeremiah xxxi.</p> + +<p>"'We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced.' Matthew xi: 17.</p> + +<p>"'Michal, Saul's daughter, looked through a window, and saw King David +leaping and dancing before the Lord; and she despised him in her +heart.... Therefore Michal the daughter of Saul had no child unto the +day of her death.' II Samuel vi: 16, 23."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span></p> + +<p>Papa did not fall back upon the Shakesperean defense that the devil can +quote Scripture to his purpose. He choked a little and filled his hand +with the apple-butter he was spreading on his cold biscuit. Then he +said:</p> + +<p>"It's not that I don't believe in dancing. I don't say all dances are +immor'l."</p> + +<p>"You better not," said Serina, darkly. "You met me at a dance. We used +to dance all the time till you got so's you wouldn't take me to parties +any more. And you got so clumsy and I began to take on flesh, and ran +short of breath like."</p> + +<p>"Oh, there's mor'l dances as well as immor'l dances," William confessed, +not knowing the history of the opposition every dance has encountered in +its younger days. "The waltz now, or the lancers or the Virginia reel. +Even the two-step was all right. But this turkey-trot-tango +business—it's goin' to be the ruination of the home. It isn't fit for +decent folks to look at, let alone let their daughters do. I want you +should quit it, Prue. If you need exercise help your mother with the +housework. You go and tango round with a broom awhile. I don't see why +you don't try to help your sister, too, and make something useful of +yourself. I tell you, in these days a woman ought to be able to earn her +own living same's a man. You could get a good position in Shillaber's +dry-goods store if you only would."</p> + +<p>Prue wriggled her shoulders impatiently and said: "I guess I'm one of +those Shiloh girls. I'll just<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> dance round awhile, and maybe some rich +Benjamin gent'man will grab me and take me off your hands."</p> + + +<h4>VIII</h4> + +<p>One evening Prue came home late to supper after a session at Bertha +Appleby's. An informal gathering had convened under the disguise of a +church-society meeting, only to degenerate into a dancing-bee after a +few perfunctory formalities.</p> + +<p>Prue had just time to seize a bite before she went to dress for a +frankly confessed dancing-bout at Eliza Erf's. As she ate with angry +voracity she complained:</p> + +<p>"I guess I'll just quit going to dances. I don't have a bit of fun any +more."</p> + +<p>Her father started from his chair to embrace the returned prodigal, but +he dropped into Ollie's place as Prue exclaimed:</p> + +<p>"Everybody is always at me for help. 'Prue, is this right?' 'Prue, teach +me that.' 'Oh, what did you do then?' 'Is it the inside foot or the +outside you start on?' 'Do you drop on the front knee or the hind?' 'Do +you do the Innovation?' Why, it's worse than teaching school!"</p> + +<p>"Why don't you teach school?" said William, feebly. "There's going to be +a vacancy in the kindergarten."</p> + +<p>Prue sniffed. "I see myself!" And went to her room to dress.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span></p> + +<p>Her father sank back discouraged. What ailed the girl? She simply would +not take life seriously. She would not lift her hand to help. When they +were so poor and the future so dour, how could she keep from earning a +little money? Was she condemned to be altogether useless, shiftless, +unprofitable? A weight about her father's neck till he could shift her +to the neck of some unhappy husband?</p> + +<p>He remembered the fable of the ant and the locust. Prue was the locust, +frivoling away the summer. At the first cold blast she would be pleading +with the industrious ant, Ollie, to take her in. In the fable the locust +was turned away to freeze, but you couldn't do that with a human locust. +The ants just have to feed them. Poor Ollie!</p> + +<p>Munching this quinine cud of thought, he went up to bed. He was footsore +from tramping the town for work. He had covered almost as much distance +as Prue had danced. He was all in. She was just going out.</p> + +<p>She kissed him good night, but he would not answer. She went to kiss her +mother and Ollie and Horace. Ollie was practising shorthand, and kissed +Prue with sorrowing patience. Horace dodged the kiss, but called her +attention to an article in the evening paper:</p> + +<p>"Say, Prue, if you want to get rich quick whyn't you charge for your +tango advice? Says here that teachers are springing up all over Noo York +and Chicawgo, and they get big, immense prices."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How much?" said Prue, indifferently.</p> + +<p>"Says here twenty-five dollars an hour. Some of 'em's earning a couple +of thousand dollars a week."</p> + +<p>This information went through the room like a projectile from a +coast-defense gun. Serina listened with bated breath as Horace read the +confirmation. She shook her head:</p> + +<p>"It beats all the way vice pays in this world."</p> + +<p>Horace read on. The article described how some of the most prominent +women in metropolitan society were sponsoring the dances. A group of +ladies, whose names were more familiar to Serina than the Christian +martyrs, had rented a whole dwelling-house for a dancing couple to +disport in, so that the universal amusement could be practised +exclusively.</p> + +<p>That settled Serina. Whatever Mrs. —— and Miss —— and the mother of +the Duchess of —— did was better than right. It was swell.</p> + +<p>Prue's frown now was the frown of meditation. "If they charge +twenty-five dollars an hour in New York, what ought to be the price in +Carthage?"</p> + +<p>"About five cents a week," said Serina, who did not approve of Carthage. +"Nobody in this town would pay anything for anything."</p> + +<p>"We used to pay old Professor Durand to teach us to waltz and polka," +said Horace, "in the good old days before pop got the bankruptcy habit."</p> + +<p>That night Prue made an experiment. She danced exclusively with Ort +Hippisley and Grant Beadle, the surest-footed bipeds in the town. When +members of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> the awkward squad pleaded to cut in she danced away +impishly, will-o'-the-wispishly. When the girls lifted their skirts and +asked her to correct their footwork she referred them to the articles in +the magazines.</p> + +<p>She was chiefly pestered by Idalene Brearley, daughter of the clergyman, +and his chief cross.</p> + +<p>Finally Idalene Brearley tore Prue from the arms of Ort Hippisley, +backed her into a corner, and said:</p> + +<p>"Say, Prue, you've got to listen! I'm invited to visit the swellest home +in Council Bluffs for a house-party. They call it a week-end; that shows +how swell they are. They're going to dance all the time. When it comes +to these new dances I'm weak at both ends, head and feet." She laughed +shamelessly at her own joke, as women do. "I don't want to go there like +I'd never been any place, or like Carthage wasn't up to date. I'm just +beginning to get the hang of the Maxixe and the Hesitation, and I +thought if you could give me a couple of days' real hard work I wouldn't +be such an awful gump. Could you? Do you suppose you could? Or could +you?</p> + +<p>Prue looked such astonishment at this that Idalene hastened to say:</p> + +<p>"O' course I'm not asking you to kill yourself for nothing. How much +would you charge? Of course I haven't much saved up; but I thought if I +took two lessons a day you could make me a special rate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> How much would +it be, d'you s'pose? Or what do you think?"</p> + +<p>Prue wondered. This was a new and thrilling moment for her. A boy is +excited enough over the first penny he earns, but he is brought up to +earn money. To a girl, and a girl like Prue, the luxury was almost +intolerably intense. She finally found voice to murmur:</p> + +<p>"How much you gettin' for the lessons you give?"</p> + +<p>Idalene had, for the sake of pin money, been giving a few alleged +lessons in piano, voice, water-colors, bridge whist, fancy stitching, +brass-hammering, and things like that. She answered Prue with +reluctance:</p> + +<p>"I get fifty cents an hour. But o' course I make a specialty of those +things."</p> + +<p>"I'm making a specialty of dancing," said Prue, coldly.</p> + +<p>Idalene was torn between the bitterly opposite emotions of getting and +giving. Prue tried to speak with indifference, but she looked as greedy +as the old miser in the "Chimes of Normandy."</p> + +<p>"Fifty cents suits me, seeing it's you."</p> + +<p>Idalene gasped: "Well, o' course, two lessons a day would be a dollar. +Could you make it six bits by wholesale?"</p> + +<p>Prue didn't see how she could. Teaching would interfere so with her +amusements. Finally Idalene sighed:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, well, all right! Call it fifty cents straight. When can I come over +to your house?"</p> + +<p>"To my house?" gasped Prue. "Papa doesn't approve of my dancing. I'll +come to yours."</p> + +<p>"Oh no, you won't," gasped Idalene. "My father doesn't dream that I +dance. I'm going to let him sleep as long as I can."</p> + +<p>Here was a plight! Mrs. Judge Hippisley strolled up and demanded, +"What's all this whispering about?"</p> + +<p>They explained their predicament. Mrs. Hippisley thought it was a +perfectly wonderful idea to take lessons. She would let Prue teach +Idalene in her parlor if Prue would teach her at the same time for +nothing.</p> + +<p>"Unless you think I'm too old and stupid to learn," she added, +fishingly.</p> + +<p>Prue put a catfish on her hook: "Oh, Mrs. Hippisley, I've seen women +much older and fatter and stupider than you dancing in Chicago."</p> + +<p>While the hours of tuition were being discussed Bertha Appleby tiptoed +up to eavesdrop, and pleaded to be accepted as a pupil. And she forced +on the timorous Prue a quarter as her matriculation fee.</p> + +<p>Orton Hippisley beau'd Prue home that night, and they paused in an +arcade of maples to practise a new step she had been composing in the +back of her head.</p> + +<p>He was an apt pupil, and when they had resumed their homeward stroll she +neglected to make him take his arm away. Encouraged, he tried to kiss<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> +her when they reached the gate. She cuffed him again, but this time her +buffet was almost a caress. She sighed:</p> + +<p>"I can't get very mad at you, you're such a quick student. I hope your +mother will learn as fast."</p> + +<p>"My mother!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Yes. She wants me to teach her the one-step."</p> + +<p>"Don't you dare!"</p> + +<p>"And why not?" she asked, with sultry calm.</p> + +<p>"Do you think I'll let my mother carry on like that? Well, hardly!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, so what I do isn't good enough for your mother!"</p> + +<p>"I don't mean just that; but can't you see—Wait a minute—"</p> + +<p>She slammed the gate on his outstretched fingers and he went home +fondling his wound.</p> + +<p>The next day he strolled by the parlor door at his own home, but Prue +would not speak to him and his mother was too busy to invite him in. It +amazed him to see how humble his haughty mother was before the hitherto +neglected Prue.</p> + +<p>Prue would have felt sorrier for him if she had not been so exalted over +her earnings.</p> + +<p>She had not let on at home about her class till she could lay the proof +of her success on the supper-table. When she stacked up the entire two +dollars that she had earned by only a few miles of trotting, it looked +like the loot the mercenaries captured in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> that old Carthage which the +new Carthage had never heard of.</p> + +<p>The family was aghast. It was twice as much as Ollie had earned that +day. Ollie's money "came reg'lar," of course, and would total up more in +the long run.</p> + +<p>But for Prue to earn anything was a miracle. And in Carthage two dollars +is two dollars, at the very least.</p> + + +<h4>IX</h4> + +<p>The news that Carthage had a tango-teacher created a sensation rivaling +the advent of its first street-car. It gave the place a metropolitan +flavor. If it only had a slums district, now, it would be a great and +gloriously wicked city.</p> + +<p>Prue was fairly besieged with applicants for lessons. Those who could +dance a few steps wanted the new steps. Those who could not dance at all +wanted to climb aboard the ark.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hippisley's drawing-room did not long serve its purpose. On the +third day the judge stalked in. He came home with a chill. At the sight +of his wife with one knee up, trying to paw like a horse, his chill +changed to fever. His roar was heard in the kitchen. He was so used to +domineering that he was not even afraid of his wife when he was in the +first flush of rage.</p> + +<p>Prue and Idalene and Bertha he would have sentenced to deportation if he +had had the jurisdiction.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> He could at least send them home. He +threatened his wife with dire punishments if she ever took another step +of the abominable dance.</p> + +<p>Prue was afraid of the judge, but she was not afraid of her own father. +She told him that she was going to use the parlor, and he told her that +she wasn't. The next day he came home to find the class installed.</p> + +<p>He peeked into the parlor and saw Bertha Appleby dancing with Idalene +Brearley. Prue was in the arms of old "Tawm" Kinch, the town scoundrel, +a bald and wealthy old bachelor who had lingered uncaught like a wise +old trout in a pool, though generations of girls had tried every device, +from whipping the' stream to tickling his sides. He had refused every +bait and lived more or less alone in the big old mansion he had +inherited from his skinflint mother.</p> + +<p>At the sight of Tawm Kinch in his parlor embracing his daughter and +bungling an odious dance with her, William Pepperall saw red. He would +throw the old brute out of his house. As he made his temper ready Mrs. +Judge Hippisley hurried up the hall. She had walked round the block, +crossed two back yards and climbed the kitchen steps to throw the judge +off the scent. William could hardly make a scene before these women. He +could only protest by leaving the house.</p> + +<p>He found that, having let the outrage go unpunished, once, it was hard +to work up steam to drive it out the second day. Also he remembered that +he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> had asked Tawm Kinch for a position in his sash-and-blind factory +and Tawm had said he would see about it. Attacking Tawm Kinch would be +like assaulting his future bread and butter. He kept away from the house +as much as he could, sulking like a punished boy. One evening as he went +home to supper, purposely delaying as long as possible, he saw Tawm +Kinch coming from the house. He ran down the steps like an urchin and +seized William's hand as if he had not seen him for a long time.</p> + +<p>"Take a walk with me, Bill," he said, and led William along an +unfrequented side street. After much hemming and hawing he began: "Bill, +I got a proposition to make you. I find there's a possibility of a +p'sition openin' up in the works and maybe I could fit you into it if +you'd do something for me."</p> + +<p>William tried not to betray his overweening joy.</p> + +<p>"I'd always do anything for you, Tawm," he said. "I always liked you, +always spoke well of you, which is more 'n I can say of some of the +other folks round here."</p> + +<p>Tawm was flying too high to note the raw tactlessness of this; he went +right on:</p> + +<p>"Bill—or Mr. Pepperall, I'd better say—I'm simply dead gone on that +girl of yours. She's the sweetest, smartest, gracefulest thing that ever +struck this town, and when I—Well, I'm afraid to ask her m'self, but I +was thinkin' if you could arrange it."</p> + +<p>"Arrange what?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I want to marry her. I know I'm no kid, but she could have the big +house, and I can be as foolish as anybody about spending money when I've +a mind to. Prue could have 'most anything she wanted and I could give +you a good job. And then ever'body would be happy."</p> + + +<h4>X</h4> + +<p>Papa did his best to be dignified and not turn a handspring or shout for +joy. He was like a boy trying to look sad when he learns that the +school-teacher is ill. He managed to hold back and tell Tawm Kinch that +this was kind of sudden like and he'd have to talk to the wife about it, +and o' course the girl would have to be considered.</p> + +<p>He was good salesman enough not to leap at the first offer, and he left +Tawm Kinch guessing at the gate of the big house. To Tawm it looked as +lonely and forlorn as it looked majestic and desirable to Papa +Pepperall, glancing back over his shoulder as he sauntered home with +difficult deliberation. His heart was singing, "What a place to eat +Sunday dinners at!"</p> + +<p>Once out of Tawm Kinch's range, he broke into a walk that was almost a +lope, and he rounded a corner into the portico that Judge Hippisley +carried ahead of him. When the judge had regained his breath he seized +papa by both lapels and growled:</p> + +<p>"Look here, Pepperall, I told you to keep your daughter away from my +boy, and you didn't; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> now Ort has lost his job. Beadle fired him +to-day. And jobs ain't easy to get in this town, as you know. And now +what's going to happen?"</p> + +<p>William Pepperall was so exultant that he tried to say two things at the +same time; that Orton's job or loss of it was entirely immaterial and a +matter of perfect indifference. What he said was, "It's material of +perfect immaterence to me."</p> + +<p>He spurned to correct himself and stalked on, leaving the judge gaping. +A few paces off William's knees weakened at the thought of how he had +jeopardized Ollie's position; but he tossed that aside with equal +"immaterence," for when Prue became Mrs. Kinch she could take Ollie to +live with her, or send her to school, or something.</p> + +<p>When he reached home he drew his wife into the parlor to break the +glorious news to her. She was more hilarious than he had been. All their +financial problems were solved and their social position enhanced, as if +the family had suddenly been elevated to the peerage.</p> + +<p>She was on pins and needles of impatience because Prue was late for +supper. She came down at last when the others had heard all about it and +nearly finished their food. She had her hat on, and she was in such a +hurry that she paid no attention to the fluttering of the covey, or the +prolonged throat-clearing of her father, who had difficulty in keeping +Serina from blurting out the end of the story first. At length he said:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, Prue, I guess the tango ain't as bad as I made out."</p> + +<p>"You going to join the class, poppa?" said Prue, round the spoonful of +preserved pears she checked before her mouth.</p> + +<p>Her father went on: "I guess you're one of those daughters of Shiloh +like you said you was. And the son of Benjamin has come right out after +you. And he's the biggest son of a gun in the whole tribe."</p> + +<p>Prue put down the following spoonful and turned to her mother: "What +ails poppa, momma? He talks feverish."</p> + +<p>Serina fairly gurgled: "Prepare yourself for the grandest surprise. +You'd never guess."</p> + +<p>And William had to jump to beat her to the news: "Tawm Kinch wants to +marry you."</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"Yep."</p> + +<p>"What makes you think so?"</p> + +<p>"He asked me."</p> + +<p>"Asked you!"</p> + +<p>Serina clasped her hands and her eyes filled with tears of the rescued. +"Oh, Prue, ain't it wonderful? Ain't the Lord good to us?"</p> + +<p>Prue did not catch fire from the blaze. She sniffed, "He wasn't very +good to Tawm Kinch."</p> + +<p>William, bitter with disappointment, snapped: "What do you mean? He's +the richest man in town. Some folks say he's as good as worth a hundred +thousand dollars."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, what of it? He'll never learn to dance. His feet interfere."</p> + +<p>"What's dancing got to do with it? You'll stop all that foolishness +after you've married Tawm."</p> + +<p>"Oh, will I? Ort Hippisley can dance better with one foot than Tawm +Kinch could dance if he was a centipede."</p> + +<p>"Ort Hippisley! Humph! He's lost his job and he'll never get another. +You couldn't marry him."</p> + +<p>"I'm not in any hurry to marry anybody."</p> + +<p>The reaction from hope to confusion, the rejection of the glittering +gift he proffered, infuriated the hen-pecked, chickpecked father. He +shrieked:</p> + +<p>"Well, you're going to marry Tawm Kinch or you're going to get out of my +house!"</p> + +<p>"Papa!" gasped Ollie.</p> + +<p>"Here, dad!" growled Horace.</p> + +<p>"William!" cried Serina.</p> + +<p>William thumped the table and rose to his full height. He had not often +risen to it. And his voice had an unsuspected timbre:</p> + +<p>"I mean it. I've been a worm in this house long enough. Here's where I +turn. This girl has made me a laughing-stock and a despising-stock long +enough. She can take this grand opportunity I got for her or she can +pack up her duds and clear out—for good!"</p> + +<p>He thumped the table again and sat down trembling with spent rage. +Serina was so crushed under the crumbled wall of her air-castles that +she could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> not protest. Olive and Horace felt that since Prue was so +indifferent to their happiness they need not consider hers. There was a +long, long silence.</p> + +<p>The sound of a low whistle outside stole into the silence. Prue rose and +said, quietly:</p> + +<p>"Ollie, would you mind packing my things for me? I'll send over for them +when I know where I'll be."</p> + +<p>Ollie tried to answer, but her lips made no sound. Prue kissed each of +the solemn faces round the table, including her father's. They might +have been dead in their chairs for all their response. She paused with +prophetic loneliness. That low whistle shrilled again.</p> + +<p>She murmured a somber, "Good-by, everybody," and went out.</p> + +<p>The door closed like a dull "Good-by." They heard her swift feet slowly +crossing the porch and descending the steps. They imagined them upon the +walk. They heard the old gate squeal a rusty, "Good-by-y—Prue-ue!"</p> + + +<h4>XI</h4> + +<p>It was Ort Hippisley, of course, that waited for Prue outside the gate. +They swapped bad news. She had heard that he had lost his job, but not +that his father had forbidden him to speak to Prue.</p> + +<p>Her evil tidings that she had been compelled to choose between marrying +Tawm Kinch and banishment from home threw Ort into a panic of dismay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> +He was a natural-born dancer, but not a predestined hero. He had no +inspirations for crises like these. He was as graceful as a manly man +could be, but he was not at his best when the hour was darkest. He was +at his best when the band was playing.</p> + +<p>In him Prue found somebody to support, not to lean on. But his distress +at her distress was so complete that it endeared him to her war-like +soul more than a braver quality might have done. They stood awhile thus +in each other's arms like a Pierrot and his Columbine with winter coming +on. Finally Orton sighed:</p> + +<p>"What in Heaven's name is goin' to become of us? What you goin' to do, +Prue? Where can you go?"</p> + +<p>Prue's resolution asserted itself. "The first place to go is Mrs. +Prosser's boardin'-house and get me a room. Then we can go on to the +dance and maybe that'll give us an idea."</p> + +<p>"But maybe Mrs. Prosser won't want you since your father's turned you +out."</p> + +<p>"In the first place it was me that turned me out. In the second place +Mrs. Prosser wants 'most anybody that's got six dollars a week comin' +in. And I've got that, provided I can find a room to teach in."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Prosser welcomed Prue, not without question, not without every +question she could get answered, but she made no great bones of the +family war. "The best o' families quar'ls," she said. "And half the time +they take their meals with me till they quiet down. I'll be losin' you +soon."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span></p> + +<p>Prue broached the question of a room to teach in. To Mrs. Prosser, +renting a room had always the joy of renting a room. She said that her +"poller" was not used much and she'd be right glad to get something for +it. She would throw in the use of the pianna. Prue touched the keys. It +was an old boarding-house piano and sounded like a wire fence plucked; +but almost anything would serve.</p> + +<p>So Prue and Orton hastened away to the party, and danced with the final +rapture of doing the forbidden thing under an overhanging cloud of +menace. Several more pupils enlisted themselves in Prue's classes. +Another problem was solved and a new danger commenced by Mr. Norman +Maugans.</p> + +<p>The question of music had become serious. It was hard to make progress +when the dancers had to hum their own tunes. Prue could not buy a +phonograph, and the Prosser piano dated from a time when pianos did not +play themselves. Prue could "tear off a few rags," as she put it, but +she could not dance and teach and play her own music all at once. Mrs. +Hippisley was afraid to lend her phonograph lest the judge should notice +its absence.</p> + +<p>And now like a sent angel came Mr. Norman Maugans, who played the +pipe-organ at the church, and offered to exchange his services as +musician for occasional lessons and the privilege of watching Prue +dance, for which privilege, he said, "folks in New York would pay a +hundred dollars a night if they knew what they was missin'."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span></p> + +<p>Prue grabbed the bargain, and the next morning began to teach him to +play such things as "Some Smoke" and "Leg of Mutton."</p> + +<p>At first he played "Girls, Run Along" so that it could hardly be told +from "Where Is My Wandering Boy To-night?" and his waltzes were mostly +hesitation; but by and by he got so that he fairly tangoed on the +pedals, and he was so funny bouncing about on the piano-stool to +"Something Seems Tingle-ingle-ingle-ingling So Queer" that the pupils +stopped dancing to watch him.</p> + +<p>The tango was upon the world like a Mississippi at flood-time. The +levees were going over one by one; or if they stood fast they stood +alone, for the water crept round from above and backed up from below.</p> + +<p>In Carthage, as in both Portlands, Maine and Oregon, and the two Cairos, +Illinois and Egypt, the Parises of Kentucky and France, the Yorks and +Londons, old and new; in Germany, Italy, and Japan, fathers, monarchs, +mayors, editors stormed against the new dance; societies passed +resolutions; police interfered; ballet-girls declared the dances immoral +and ungraceful. The army of the dance went right on growing.</p> + +<p>Doctor Brearley called a meeting of the chief men of his congregation to +talk things over and discipline, if not expel, all guilty members. +Deacon Luxton was in a state of mind. He dared not vote in favor of the +dance and he dared not vote against it. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> and his wife were taking +lessons from Prue surreptitiously at their own home. Judge Hippisley's +voice would have been louder for war if he had not discovered that his +wife was secretly addicted to the one-step. Old Doctor Brearley was +walking about rehearsing a sermon against it when he happened to enter a +room where Idalene was practising. He wrung from her a confession of the +depth of her iniquity. This knowledge paralyzed his enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>Sour old Deacon Flugal was loudly in favor of making an example of Prue. +His wife was even more violent. She happened to mention her disgust to +Mrs. Deacon Luxton:</p> + +<p>"I guess this'll put an end to the tango in Carthage!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I hope not!" Mrs. Luxton cried.</p> + +<p>"You hope not!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do. It has done my husband no end of good. It's taken pounds and +pounds of fat off him. It brings out the prespiration on him something +wonderful. And it's taken years off his age. He's that spry and full of +jokes and he's gettin' right spoony. He used to be a tumble cut-up, and +then he settled down so there was no livin' with him. But now he keeps +at me to buy some new clothes and he's thinkin' of gettin' a tuxeda. His +old disp'sition seems to have come back and he's as cheerful and, oh, so +affectionate! It's like a second honeymoon."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Luxton gazed off into space with rapture. Mrs. Flugal was so silent +that Mrs. Luxton turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span> to see if she had walked away in disgust. But +there was in her eyes that light that lies in woman's eyes, and she +turned a delicious tomato-red as she murmured:</p> + +<p>"How much, do you s'pose, would a term of lessons cost for my husband?"</p> + + +<h4>XII</h4> + +<p>Somehow the church failed to take official action. There was loud +criticism still, but phonographs that had hitherto been silent or at +least circumspect were heard to blare forth dance rhythms, and not +always with the soft needle on.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Prosser's boarders were mainly past the age when they were liable +to temptation. At first the presence and activities of Prue had added a +tang of much-needed spice to this desert-island existence. They loved to +stare through the door or even to sit in at the lessons. But at the +first blast of the storm that the church had set up they scurried about +in consternation. Mrs. Prosser was informed that her boarding-house was +no longer a fit place for church-fearing ladies. She was warned to +expurgate Prue or lose the others. Mrs. Prosser regretfully banished the +girl.</p> + +<p>And now Prue felt like the locust turned away from ant-hill after +ant-hill. She walked the streets disconsolately. Her feet from old habit +led her past her father's door. She paused to gaze at the dear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> front +walk and the beloved frayed steps, the darling need of paint, the +time-gnawed porch furniture, the empty hammock hooks. She sighed and +would have trudged on, but her mother saw her and called to her from the +sewing-room window, and ran out bareheaded in her old wrapper.</p> + +<p>They embraced across the gate and Serina carried on so that Prue had to +go in with her to keep the neighbors from having too good a time. Prue +told her story, and Serina's jaw set in the kind of tetanus that mothers +are liable to. She sent Horace to fetch Prue's baggage from "old +Prosser's," and she re-established Prue in her former room.</p> + +<p>When William came slumping up the steps, still jobless, he found the +doors locked, front and back, and the porch windows fastened. Serina +from an upper sill informed him that Prue was back, and he could either +accept her or go somewhere else to live.</p> + +<p>William yielded, salving his conscience by refusing to speak to the +girl. Prue settled down with the meekness of returned prodigals for whom +fatted calves are killed. According to the old college song, "The +Prod.," when he got back, "sued father and brother for time while away." +That was the sort of prodigal Prue was. Prue brought her classes with +her.</p> + +<p>Papa Pepperall gave up the battle. He dared not lock his daughter in or +out or up. He must not beat her or strangle her with a bowstring or drop +her into the Bosporus. He could not sell her down the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span> river. A modern +father has about as much authority as a chained watch-dog. He can jump +about and bark and snap, but he only abrades his own throat.</p> + +<p>There were Pepperall feuds all over town. One by one the most +conservative were recruited or silenced.</p> + +<p>William Pepperall, however, still fumed at home and abroad, and Judge +Hippisley would have authorized raids if there had been any places to +raid. Thus far the orgies had been confined to private walls. There was, +indeed, no place in Carthage for public dancing except the big room in +the Westcott Block over Jake Meyer's restaurant, and that room was +rented to various secret societies on various nights.</p> + +<p>Prue's class outgrew the parlor, spread to the dining-room, and trickled +into the kitchen. Here the growth had to stop, till it was learned that +if Mr. Maugans played very loud he could be heard in the bedrooms +up-stairs. And there a sort of University Extension was practised for +ladies only.</p> + +<p>And still the demand for education increased. The benighted held out +hands pleading for help. Young men and old offered fabulous sums, a +dollar a lesson, two dollars! Prue decided that if her mother would stay +up-stairs as a chaperon it would be proper to let the men dance there, +too.</p> + +<p>"But how am I going to cook the meals?" said mamma.</p> + +<p>"We'll hire a cook," said Prue. And it was done.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> She even bought mamma +a new dress, and established her above-stairs as a sort of grand duenna.</p> + +<p>Mamma watched Prue with such keenness that now and then, when Prue had +to rush down-stairs, mamma would sometimes solve a problem for one of +Prue's "scholars," as she called them.</p> + +<p>One day papa came home to his pandemonium, jostled through the +couple-cluttered hall, stamped up-stairs, and found mamma showing Deacon +Flugal how to do the drop-step.</p> + +<p>"You trot four short steps backward," mamma was saying, "then you make a +little dip; but don't swing your shoulders. Prue says if you want to +dance refined you mustn't swing your shoulders or your—your—the rest +of you."</p> + +<p>Papa was ready to swing his shoulders and drop the deacon through the +window, but as he was about to protest the deacon caught mamma in his +arms and swept backward, dropping his fourth step incisively on papa's +instep, rendering papa <i>hors de combat</i>.</p> + +<p>By the time William had rubbed witch-hazel into the deacon's heel-mark, +the deacon in a glorious "prespiration" had gone home with his own +breathless wife ditto. William dragged Serina into the bathroom, the +only room where dancing was not in progress. He warned her not to forget +that she had sworn to be a faithful wife. She pooh-poohed him and said:</p> + +<p>"You'd better learn to dance yourself. Come on,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> I'll show you the Jedia +Luna. It's very easy and awful refined. Do just like I do."</p> + +<p>She put her hands on her hips and began to sidle. She had him nearly +sidled into the bathtub before he could escape with the cry of a hunted +animal. At supper he thumped the table with another of his resolutions, +and cried:</p> + +<p>"My house was not built for a dance-hall!"</p> + +<p>"That's right, poppa," said Prue; "and it shakes so I'm afraid it'll +come down on us. I've been thinking that you'll have to hire me the +lodge-room in the Westcott Block. I can give classes there all day."</p> + +<p>He refused flatly. So she persuaded Deacon Flugal and several gentlemen +who were on the waiting-list of her pupils to arrange it for her.</p> + +<p>And now all day long she taught in the Westcott Block. The noise of her +music interfered with business—with lawyers and dentists and insurance +agents. At first they were hostile, then they were hypnotized. Lawyer +and client would drop a title discussion to quarrel over a step. The +dentist's forceps would dance along the teeth, and many an uncomplaining +bicuspid was wrenched from its happy home, many an uneasy molar assumed +a crown. The money Prue made would have been scandalous if money did not +tend to become self-sterilizing after it passes certain dimensions.</p> + +<p>By and by the various lodge members found their meetings and their +secret rites to be so stupid, com<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span>pared with the new dances, that almost +nobody came. Quorums were rare. Important members began to resign. +Everybody wanted to be Past Grand Master of the Tango.</p> + +<p>The next step was the gradual postponement of meetings to permit of a +little informal dancing in the evening. The lodges invited their ladies +to enter the precincts and revel. Gradually the room was given over +night and day to the worship of Saint Vitus.</p> + + +<h4>XIII</h4> + +<p>The solution of every human problem always opens another. People danced +themselves into enormities of appetite and thirst. It was not that food +was attractive in itself. Far from it. It was an interruption, a +distraction from the tango; a base streak of materialism in the bacon of +ecstasy. But it was necessary in order that strength might be kept up +for further dancing.</p> + +<p>Deacon Flugal put it happily: "Eating is just like stoking. When I'm +giving a party at our house I hate to have to leave the company and go +down cellar and throw coal in the furnace. But it's got to be did or the +party's gotter stop."</p> + +<p>Carthage had one good hotel and two bad ones, but all three were "down +near the deepo." Almost the only other place to eat away from home was +"Jake Meyer's Place," an odious restaurant where the food was ill chosen +and ill cooked, and served in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span> china of primeval shapes as if stone had +been slightly hollowed out.</p> + +<p>Prue was complaining that there was no place in Carthage where people +could dance with their meals and give "teas donsons." Horace was smitten +with a tremendous idea.</p> + +<p>"Why not persuade Jake Meyer to clear a space in his rest'runt like they +do in Chicawgo?"</p> + +<p>Prue was enraptured, and Horace was despatched to Jake with the proffer +of a magnificent opportunity. Horace cannily tried to extract from Jake +the promise of a commission before he told him. Jake promised. Then +Horace sprang his invention.</p> + +<p>Now Jake was even more bitter against the tango than Doctor Brearley, +Judge Hippisley, or Mr. Pepperall. The bar annex to his restaurant, or +rather the bar to which his restaurant was annexed, had been almost +deserted of evenings since the vicious dance mania raged. The +bowling-alley where the thirst-producing dust was wont to arise in +clouds was mute. Over his head he heard the eternal Maugans and the +myriad-hoofed shuffle of the unceasing dance. When he understood what +Horace proposed he emitted the roar of an old uhlan, and the only +commission he offered Horace was the commission of murder upon his +person.</p> + +<p>Horace retreated in disorder and reported to Prue. Prue called upon Jake +herself, smilingly told him that all he needed to do was to crowd his +tables together round a clear space, revolutionize his menu,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span> get a cook +who would cook, and spend about five hundred dollars on decorations.</p> + +<p>"Five hundret thalers!" Jake howled. "I sell you de whole shop for five +hundret thalers."</p> + +<p>"I'll think it over," said Prue as she walked out.</p> + +<p>She could think over all of it except the five hundred dollars. She had +never thought that high. She told Horace, and he said that the way to +finance anything was to borrow the money from the bank.</p> + +<p>Prue called on Clarence Dolge, the bank president she knew best. He +asked her a number of personal questions about her earnings. He was +surprised at their amount and horrified that she had saved none of them. +He advised her to start an account with him; but she reminded him that +she had not come to put in, but to take out.</p> + +<p>He said that he would cheerfully lend her the money if she could get a +proper indorsement on her note. She knew that her father did not indorse +her dancing, but perhaps he might feel differently about her note.</p> + +<p>"I might get poppa to sign his name," she smiled.</p> + +<p>Mr. Dolge exclaimed, "No, thank you!" without a moment's hesitation. He +already had a sheaf of papa's autographs, all duly protested.</p> + +<p>She went to another bank, whose president announced that he would have +to put the very unusual proposal before the directors. Judge Hippisley +was most of the directors. The president did not report exactly what the +directors said, for Prue, after<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span> all, was a woman. But she did not get +the five hundred.</p> + +<p>Prue had set her heart on providing Carthage with a <i>café dansant</i>. She +determined to save her money. Prue saving!</p> + +<p>It was hard, too, for shoes gave out quickly and she could not wear the +same frock all the time. And sometimes at night she was so tired she +just could not walk home and she rode home in a hack. A number of young +men offered to buggy-ride her home or to take her in their little +automobiles. But they, too, seemed to confuse art and business with +foolishness.</p> + +<p>Sometimes she would ask Ort to ride home with her, but she wouldn't let +him pay for the hack. Indeed he could not if he would. His devotion to +Prue's school had cost him his job, and the judge would not give him a +penny.</p> + +<p>Sometimes in the hack Prue would permit Ort to keep his arm round her. +Sometimes when he was very doleful she would have to ask him to put it +round her. But it was all right, because they were going to get married +when Orton learned how to earn some money. He was afraid he would have +to leave Carthage. But how could he tear himself from Prue? She would +not let him talk about it.</p> + + +<h4>XIV</h4> + +<p>Now the fame of Prue and her prancing was not long pent up in Carthage. +Visitors from other towns<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span> saw her work and carried her praises home. +Sometimes farmers, driving into town, would hear Mr. Maugans's music +through the open windows. Their daughters would climb the stairs and +peer in and lose their taste for the old dances, and wistfully entreat +Prue to learn them them newfangled steps.</p> + +<p>In the towns smaller than Carthage the anxiety for the tango fermented. +A class was formed in Oscawanna, and Prue was bribed to come over twice +a week and help.</p> + +<p>Clint Sprague, the manager of the Carthage Opera House, which was now +chiefly devoted to moving pictures, with occasional interpolations of +vaudeville, came home from Chicago with stories of the enormous moneys +obtained by certain tango teams. He proposed to book Prue in a chain of +small theaters round about, if she could get a dancing partner. She said +she had one.</p> + +<p>Sprague wrote glowing letters to neighboring theater-managers, but, +being theater-managers, they were unable to know what their publics +wanted. They declined to take any risks, but offered Sprague their +houses at the regular rental, leaving him any profits that might result.</p> + +<p>Clint glumly admitted that it wouldn't cost much to try it out in +Oscawanna. He would guarantee the rental and pay for the show-cards and +the dodgers; Prue would pay the fare and hotel bills of herself, her +partner, and Mr. Maugans.</p> + +<p>Prue hesitated. It was an expense and a risk.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span> Prue cautious! She would +take nobody for partner but Orton Hippisley. Perhaps he could borrow the +money from his father. She told him about it, and he was wild with +enthusiasm. He loved to dance with Prue. To invest money in enlarging +her fame would be divine.</p> + +<p>He saw the judge. Then he heard him.</p> + +<p>He came back to Prue and told her in as delicate a translation as he +could manage that it was all off. The judge had bellowed at him that not +only would he not finance his outrageous escapade with that shameless +Pepperall baggage, but if the boy dared to undertake it he would disown +him.</p> + +<p>"Now you'll have to go," said Prue, grimly.</p> + +<p>"But I have no money, honey," he protested, miserably.</p> + +<p>"I'll pay your expenses and give you half what I get," she said.</p> + +<p>He refused flatly to share in the profits. His poverty consented to +accept the railroad fare and food enough to dance on. And he would pay +that back the first job he got.</p> + +<p>Then Prue went to Clint Sprague and offered to pay the bills if he would +give her three-fourths of the profits. He fumed; but she drove a good +bargain. Prue driving bargains! At last he consented, growling.</p> + +<p>When Prue announced the make-up of her troupe there was a cyclone in her +own home. Papa was as loud as the judge.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You goin' gallivantin' round the country with that Maugans idiot and +that young Hippisley scoundrel? Well, I guess not! You've disgraced us +enough in our own town, without spreading the poor but honorable name of +Pepperall all over Oscawanna and Perkinsville and Athens and Thebes."</p> + +<p>The worn-out, typewritten-out Ollie pleaded against Prue's lawlessness. +It would be sure to cost her her place in the judge's office. It was bad +enough now.</p> + +<p>Even Serina, who had become a mere echo of Prue, herself went so far as +to say, "Really, Prue, you know!"</p> + +<p>Prue thought awhile and said: "I'll fix that all right. Don't you worry. +There'll be no scandal. I'll marry the boy."</p> + + +<h4>XV</h4> + +<p>And she did! Took ten dollars from the hiding-place where she banked her +wealth, and took the boy to an Oscawanna preacher, and telegraphed home +that he was hers and she his and both each other's.</p> + +<p>The news spread like oil ablaze on water. Mrs. Hippisley had consented +to take lessons of Prue, but she had never dreamed of losing her eldest +son to her. She and Serina had quite a "run-in" on the telephone. +William and the judge almost had a fight-out—and right on Main Street, +too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span></p> + +<p>Each accused the other of fathering a child that had decoyed away and +ruined the life of the other child. Both were so scorched with helpless +wrath that each went home to his bed and threatened to bite any hand +that was held out in comfort. Judge Hippisley had just strength enough +to send word to poor Olive that she was fired.</p> + + +<h4>XVI</h4> + +<p>The next news came the next day. Oscawanna had been famished for a sight +of the world-sweeping dances. It turned out in multitudes to see the +famous Carthage queen in the new steps. The opera-house there had not +held such a crowd since William J. Bryan spoke there—the time he did +not charge admission. According to the Oscawanna <i>Eagle</i>: "This +enterprising city paid one thousand dollars to see Peerless Prue +Pepperall dance with her partner Otto Hipkinson. What you got to say +about that, ye scribes of Carthage?"</p> + +<p>Like the corpse in Ben King's poem, Judge Hippisley sat up at the news +and said: "What's that?" And when the figures were repeated he "dropped +dead again."</p> + +<p>The next day word was received that Perkinsville, jealous of Oscawanna, +had shoveled twelve hundred dollars into the drug-store where tickets +were sold. Two sick people had nearly died because they couldn't get +their prescriptions filled for twelve hours,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span> and the mayor of the town +had had to go behind the counter and pick out his own stomach bitters.</p> + +<p>The Athens theater had been sold out so quickly that the town hall was +engaged for a special matinée. Athens paid about fifteen hundred +dollars. The Athenians had never suspected that there was so much money +in town. People who had not paid a bill for months managed to dig up +cash for tickets.</p> + +<p>Indignant Oscawanna wired for a return engagement, so that those who had +been crowded out could see the epoch-making dances. Those who had seen +them wanted to see them again. In the mornings Prue gave lessons to +select classes at auction prices.</p> + +<p>Wonderful as this was, unbelievable, indeed, to Carthage, it was not +surprising. This blue and lonely dispeptic world has always been ready +to enrich the lucky being that can tempt its palate with something it +wants and didn't know it wanted. Other people were leaping from poverty +to wealth all over the world for teaching the world to dance again. Prue +caught the crest of the wave that overswept a neglected region.</p> + +<p>The influence of her success on her people and her neighbors was bound +to be overwhelming. The judge modulated from a contemptuous allusion to +"that Pepperall cat" to "my daughter-in-law." Prue's father, who had +never watched her dance, had refused to collaborate even that far in her +ruination,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> could not continue to believe that she was entirely lost +when she was so conspicuously found.</p> + +<p>Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the world is so wholesome and so well +balanced that nobody ever attained enormous prosperity without some +excuse for it. People who contribute the beauty, laughter, thrills, and +rhythm to the world may do as much to make life livable as people who +invent electric lights and telephones and automobiles. Why should they +not be paid handsomely?</p> + +<p>Prue, the impossible, unimaginable Prue, triumphed home safely with +several thousands of dollars in her satchel. Orton bought a revolver to +guard it with, and nearly shot one of his priceless feet off with it. +They dumped the money upon the shelf of the banker who had refused to +lend Prue five hundred dollars. He had to raise the steel grating to get +the bundle in. The receiving teller almost fainted and had to count it +twice.</p> + +<p>Clint Sprague alone was disconsolate. He had refused to risk Prue's +expenses, had forced her to take the lioness's share of the actual costs +and the imaginary profits. He almost wept over what he might have had, +despising what he had.</p> + +<p>Prue ought to have been a wreck; but there is no stimulant like success. +In a boat-race the winning crew never collapses. Prue's mother begged +her to rest; her doctor warned her that she would drop dead. But she +smiled, "If I can die dancing it won't be so bad."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span></p> + +<p>Even more maddeningly joyful than the dancing now was the rhapsody of +income. To be both Salome and Hetty Green! Mr. Dolge figured out her +income. At any reasonable rate of interest it represented a capital far +bigger than Tawm Kinch's mythical hundred thousand. Mr. Dolge said to +William Pepperall:</p> + +<p>"Bill, your daughter is the richest man in town. Any time you want to +borrow a little money, get her name on your note and I'll be glad to let +you have it."</p> + +<p>Somehow his little pleasantry brought no smile to William's face. He +snapped:</p> + +<p>"You mind your own business and I'll mind mine."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I suppose you don't have to borrow it," Dolge purred; "she just +gives it to you."</p> + +<p>William almost wept at this humiliation.</p> + +<p>Prue bought out Jake Meyer's restaurant. She spent a thousand dollars on +its decoration. She consoled Ollie with a position as her secretary at +twenty-five dollars a week and bought her some new dresses.</p> + +<p>Her mother scolded poor Ollie for being such a stick as not to be able +to dance like her sister and having to be dependent on her. There was +something hideously immoral and disconcerting about this success. But +then there always is. Prue was whisked from the ranks of the resentful +poor to those of the predatory rich.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span></p> + +<p>Prue established Horace as cashier of the restaurant. She wanted to make +her father manager, but he could not bend his pride to the yoke of +taking wages from his child. If she had come home in disgrace and +repentance he could have been a father to her.</p> + +<p>The blossoming of what had been Jake Meyer's place into what Carthage +called the "Palais de Pepperall" was a festival indeed. The newspapers, +in which at Horace's suggestion Prue advertised lavishly, gave the event +head-lines on the front page. The article included a complete catalogue +of those present. This roster of forty "Mesdames" was thereafter +accepted as the authorized beadroll of the Carthage Four Hundred. Mrs. +Hippisley was present and as proud as Judy. But the judge and William +Pepperall were absent, and Prue felt an ache in a heart that should have +been so full of pride. She and Orton rode home in a hack and she cried +all the way. In fact, he had to stick his head out and tell the driver +to drive round awhile until she was calm enough to go home.</p> + +<p>A few days later, as Prue was hurrying along the street looking over a +list of things she had to purchase for her restaurant, she encountered +old Doctor Brearley, who was looking over a list of subscribers to the +fund for paying the overdue interest on the mortgage on the new steeple. +He was afraid the builders might take it down.</p> + +<p>In trying to pass each other Prue and the preacher<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span> fell into an +involuntary tango step that delighted the witnesses. When Doctor +Brearley had recovered his composure, and before he had adjusted his +spectacles, he thought that Prue was Bertha Appleby, and he said:</p> + +<p>"Ah, my dear child, I was just going to call on you and see if you +couldn't contribute a little to help us out in this very worthy cause."</p> + +<p>Prue let him explain, and then she said:</p> + +<p>"Tell you what I'll do, Doctor: I'll give you the entire proceeds of my +restaurant for one evening. And I'll dance for you with my husband."</p> + +<p>Doctor Brearley was aghast when he realized the situation. He was afraid +to accept; afraid to refuse. He was in an excruciating dilemma. Prue had +mercy on him. She said:</p> + +<p>"I'll just announce it as an idea of my own. You needn't have anything +to do with it."</p> + +<p>The townspeople were set in a turmoil over Prue's latest audacity. Half +the church members declared it an outrage; the other half decided that +it gave them an opportunity to see her dance under safe auspices. Foxy +Prue!</p> + + +<h4>XVII</h4> + +<p>The restaurant was crowded with unfamiliar faces, terrified at what they +were to witness. Doctor Brearley had not known what to do. It seemed so +mean to stay away and so perilous to go. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span> daughter solved the +problem by telling him that she would say she had made him come. He went +so far as to let her drag him in. "But just for a moment," he +explained." He really must leave immediately after Mr. and Mrs. +Hippisley's—er—exercises." He apparently apologized to the other +guests, but really to an outraged heaven.</p> + +<p>He trembled with anxiety on the edge of his chair. The savagery of the +music alarmed him. When Prue walked out with her husband the old Doctor +was distressed by her beauty. Then they danced and his heart thumped; +but subtly it was persuaded to thump in the measure of that unholy +Maxixe. He did not know that outside in the street before the two +windows stood two exiled fathers watching in bitter loneliness.</p> + +<p>He saw a little love drama displayed, and reminded himself that, after +all, some critics said that the Song of Solomon was a kind of wedding +drama or dance. After all, Mrs. Hippisley was squired by her perfectly +proper and very earnest young husband—though Orton in his black clothes +was hardly more than her shifting shadow.</p> + +<p>The old preacher had been studying his Cruden, and bolstering himself +up, too, with the very Scriptural texts that Prue had written out for +her stiff-necked father. He had met other texts that she had not known +how to find. The idea came to the preacher that, in a sense, since God +made everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span> He must have made the dance, breathed its impulse into +the clay.</p> + +<p>This daughter of Shiloh was an extraordinarily successful piece of +workmanship. There was nothing very wicked surely about that coquettish +bending of her head, those playful escapes from her husband's embrace, +that heel-and-toe tripping, that lithe elusiveness, that joyous psalmody +of youth.</p> + +<p>Prue was so pretty and her ways so pretty that the old man felt the +pathos of beauty, so fleet, so fleeting, so lyrical, so full of—Alas! +The tears were in his eyes, and he almost applauded with the others when +the dance was finished. He bowed vaguely in the direction of the anxious +Prue and made his way out. She felt rebuked and condemned and would not +be comforted by the praise of others. She did not know that the old +preacher had encountered on the sidewalk Judge Hippisley. Doctor +Brearley had forgotten that the judge had not yet ordered his own +decision reversed, and he thought he was saying the unavoidable thing +when he murmured:</p> + +<p>"Ah, Judge, how proud you must be of your dear son's dear wife. I fancy +that Miriam, the prophetess, must have danced something like that on the +banks of the Red Sea when the Egyptians were overthrown."</p> + +<p>Then he put up the umbrella he always carried and stumbled back to his +parsonage under the star-light. His heart was dancing a trifle, and he +escaped the scene of wrath that broke out as soon as he was away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span></p> + +<p>For William Pepperall had a lump in his throat made up of equal parts of +desire to cry and desire to fight, and he said to Judge Hippisley with +all truculence:</p> + +<p>"Look here, Judge! I understand you been jawin' round this town about my +daughter not being all she'd ought to be. Now I'm goin' to put a stop to +that jaw of yours if I have to slam it right through the top of your +head. If you want to send me to jail for contemp' of court, sentence me +for life, because that's the way I feel about you, you fat old—"</p> + +<p>Judge Hippisley put up wide-open hands and protested:</p> + +<p>"Why, Bill, I—I just been wonderin' how I could get your daughter to +make up with me. I been afraid to ask her for fear she'd just think I +was toadyin' to her. I think she's the finest girl ever came out of +Carthage. Do you suppose she'd make up and—and come over to our house +to dinner Sunday?"</p> + +<p>"Let's ask her," said William, and they walked in at the door.</p> + + +<h4>XVIII</h4> + +<p>Early one morning about six months from the first dismal Monday morning +after William Pepperall's last bankruptcy, Serina wakened to find that +William was already up. She had been oversleeping with that luxury which +a woman can experience only in an expensive and frilly nightie combined<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span> +with hemstitched linen sheets. She opened her heavy and +slumber-contented eyes to behold her husband in a suit of partly-silk +pajamas. He was making strange motions with his feet. "What on earth you +doing there?" she yawned, and William grinned.</p> + +<p>"Yestiddy afternoon the judge was showin' me a new step in this Max +Hicks dance. It's right cute. Goes like this."</p> + +<p>Mamma Pepperall watched him cavort a moment, then sniffed +contemptuously, and rolled out like a fireman summoned.</p> + +<p>"Not a bit like it! It goes like this."</p> + +<p>A few minutes later the door opened and Ollie put her head in.</p> + +<p>"For Heaven's sake be quiet! You'll wake Prue, and she's all wore out; +and she's only got an hour more before they have to get up and take the +train for Des Moines."</p> + +<p>The old rascals promised to be good, but as soon as she had gone they +wrangled in whispers and danced on tiptoes. Suddenly Prue put her head +in at the door and gasped:</p> + +<p>"What in Heaven's name are you and poppa up to? Do you want to wake +Orton?"</p> + +<p>Papa had to explain:</p> + +<p>"I got a new step, Prue. Goes like this. Come on, momma."</p> + +<p>Serina shyly took her place in his arms; but they had taken only a few +strides when Prue hissed:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Sh-h! Don't do it! Stop it!"</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"In the first place it's out of date. And in the second place it's not +respectable."</p> + +<p>Then the hard-working locust, having rebuked the frivolous ants, went +back to bed.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span></p> + +<h2>"A" AS IN "FATHER"</h2> + + +<h4>I</h4> + +<p>For two years life at Harvard was one long siesta to Orson Carver, 2d. +And then he fell off the window-seat. Orson Carver, 1st, ordered him to +wake up and get to work at once. Orson announced to his friends that he +was leaving college to pay an extensive visit to "Carthage" and it +sounded magnificent until he added, "in the Middle West."</p> + +<p>A struggling young railroad had succumbed to hard times out there, and +Orson senior had been appointed receiver. It was the Carthage, Thebes & +Rome Railroad, connecting three towns whose names were larger than their +populations.</p> + +<p>Since Orson had seemed unable to decide what career to choose, if any, +his father decided for him—decided that he should take up railroading +and begin at the beginning, which was the office at Carthage. And Orson +went West to "grow up young man with the country."</p> + +<p>Carthage bore not the faintest resemblance to the moving-picture life of +the West; he didn't see a single person on horseback. Yet his mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span> +thought of him as one who had vanished into the Mojave desert. She wrote +to warn him not to drink the alkali water.</p> + +<p>Young Orson, regarding the villagers with patient disdain, was amazed to +find that they were patronizing him with amusement. They spoke of his +adored Boston as an old-fogy place with "no git-up-and-git."</p> + +<p>Orson's mother was somewhat comforted when he wrote her that the young +women of Carthage were noisy rowdies dressed like frumps. She was a +trifle alarmed when she read in his next letter that some of them were +not half bad-looking, surprisingly well groomed for so far West, and +fairly attractive till they opened their mouths. Then, he said, they +twanged the banjo at every vowel and went over the letter "r" as if it +were a bump in the road. He had no desire for blinders, but he said that +he would derive comfort from a pair of ear-muffs. By and by he was +writing her not to be worried about losing him, for there was safety in +numbers, and Carthage was so crowded with such graces that he could +never single out one siren among so many. The word "siren" forced his +mother to conclude that even their voices had ceased to annoy him. She +expected him to bring home an Indian squaw or a cowgirl bride on any +train.</p> + +<p>And so Orson Carver was by delicate degrees engulfed in the life of +Carthage. He was never assimilated. He kept his own "dialect," as they +called it.</p> + +<p>The girl that Orson especially attended in Car<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span>thage was Tudie Litton, +as pretty a creature as he could imagine or desire. For manifest reasons +he affected an interest in her brother Arthur. And Arthur, with a +characteristic brotherly feeling, tried to keep his sister in her place. +He not only told her that she was "not such a much," but he also said to +Orson:</p> + +<p>"You think my sister is some girl, but wait till you see Em Terriberry. +She makes Tudie look like something the pup found outside. Just you wait +till you see Em. She's been to boarding-school and made some swell +friends there, and they've taken her to Europe with 'em. Just you wait."</p> + +<p>"I'll wait," said Orson, and proceeded to do so.</p> + +<p>But Em remained out of town so long that he had begun to believe her a +myth, when one day the word passed down the line that she was coming +home at last.</p> + +<p>That night Tudie murmured a hope that Orson would not be so infatuated +with the new-comer as to cast old "friends" aside. She underlined the +word "friends" with a long, slow sigh like a heavy pen-stroke, and not +without reason, for the word by itself was mild in view of the fact that +the "friends" were seated in a motionless hammock in a moon-sheltered +porch corner and holding on to each other as if a comet had struck the +earth and they were in grave danger of being flung off the planet.</p> + +<p>Orson assured Tudie: "No woman exists who could come between us!" And a +woman must have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span> supernaturally thin to achieve the feat at that +moment.</p> + +<p>But even Tudie, in her jealous dread, had no word to say against the +imminent Em. Everybody spoke so well of her that Orson had a mingled +expectation of seeing an Aphrodite and a Sister of Charity rolled into +one.</p> + +<p>Now Carthage was by no means one of those petty towns where nearly +everybody goes to the station to meet nearly every train. But nearly +everybody went down to see Em arrive. Foremost among the throng was +Arthur Litton. Before Em left town he and she had been engaged "on +approval." While she was away he kept in practice by taking Liddy Sovey +to parties and prayer-meetings and picnics. Now that Em was on the way +home Arthur let Liddy drop with a thud and groomed himself once more to +wear the livery of Em's fiancé.</p> + +<p>When the crowd met the train it was recognized that Arthur was next in +importance to Em's father and mother. Nobody dreamed of pushing up ahead +of him. On the outskirts of the męlée stood Orson Carver. He gave +railroad business as the pretext for his visit to the station, and he +hovered in the offing.</p> + +<p>As the train from the East slid in, voices cried, "Hello, Em!" "Woo-oo!" +"Oh, Em!" "Oh, you Emma!" and other Carthage equivalents for "<i>Ave!</i>" +and "all hail!"</p> + +<p>Orson saw that a girl standing on the Pullman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span> platform waved a +handkerchief and smiled joyously in response. This must be Em. When the +train stopped with a pneumatic wail she descended the steps like a young +queen coming down from a dais.</p> + +<p>She was gowned to the minute; she carried herself with metropolitan +poise; her very hilarity had the city touch. Orson longed to dash +forward and throw his coat under her feet, to snatch away the porter's +hand-step and put his heart there in its place. But he could not do +these things unintroduced. He hung back and watched her hug her mother +and father in a brief wrestling-match while Arthur stood by in simpering +homage.</p> + +<p>When she reached out her hand to Arthur he wrung it and clung to it with +the dignity of proprietorship and a smirk that seemed to say: "I own +this beautiful object, and I could kiss her if I wanted to. And she +would like it. But I am too well bred to do such a thing in the presence +of so many people."</p> + +<p>Orson was not close enough to hear what he actually said. The glow in +his eyes, however, was enough. Then Em visibly spoke. When her lips +moved Arthur stared at her aghast; seemed to ask her to repeat what she +said. She evidently did. Now Arthur looked askance as if her words +shocked him.</p> + +<p>Her father and mother, too, exchanged glances of dismay and chagrin. The +throng of friends pressing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span> forward in noisy salutation was silenced as +if a great hand were clapped over every murmurous mouth.</p> + +<p>Orson wondered what terrible thing the girl could have spoken. There was +nothing coarse in her manner. Delicacy and grace seemed to mark her. And +whatever it was she said she smiled luminously when she said it.</p> + +<p>The look in her eyes was incompatible with profanity, mild soever. Yet +her language must have been appalling, for her father and mother blushed +and seemed to be ashamed of bringing her into the world, sorry that she +had come home. The ovation froze away into a confused babble.</p> + +<p>What could the girl have said?</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>Orson was called in by the station agent before he could question any of +the greeters. When he was released the throng had dispersed. The +Terriberrys had clambered into the family surrey and driven home with +their disgrace.</p> + +<p>But that night there was a party at the Littons', planned in Emma's +honor. Tudie had invited Orson to be present.</p> + +<p>He found that the one theme of conversation was Emma. Everybody said to +him, "Have you seen Emma?" and when he said "Yes," everybody demanded, +"Have you heard her?" and when he said "No" everybody said, "Just you +wait!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span></p> + +<p>Orson was growing desperate over the mystery. He seized Newt Elkey by +the arm and said, "What does she do?"</p> + +<p>"What does who do?"</p> + +<p>"This Miss Em Terriberry. Everybody says, 'Have you heard her?'"</p> + +<p>"Well, haven't you?"</p> + +<p>"No! What under the sun does she say?"</p> + +<p>"Just you wait. 'Shh!"</p> + +<p>Then Emma came down the stairs like a slowly swooping angel.</p> + +<p>She had seemed a princess in her traveling-togs; in her evening gown—! +Orson had not seen such a gown since he had been in Paris. He imagined +this girl poised on the noble stairway of the Opéra there. Em came +floating down upon these small-town girls with this fabric from heavenly +looms, and reduced them once for all to a chorus.</p> + +<p>But there was no scorn in her manner and no humility in her welcome. The +Carthage girls frankly gave her her triumph, yet when she reached the +foot of the stairs and the waiting Arthur she murmured something that +broke the spell. The crowd rippled with suppressed amusement. Arthur +flushed.</p> + +<p>Orson was again too remote to hear. But he could feel the wave of +derision, and he could see the hot shame on Arthur's cheeks. Emma bent +low for her train, took Arthur's arm, and disappeared into the parlor +where the dancing had begun.</p> + +<p>Orson felt his arm pinched, and turned to find<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span> Tudie looking at him. +"This is our dance," she said, "unless you'd rather dance with her."</p> + +<p>"With her? With Miss Terriberry, you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Naturally. You were staring at her so hard I thought your eyes would +roll out on the floor."</p> + +<p>There was only one way to quell this mutiny, and that was to soothe it +away. He caught Tudie in his arms. It was strenuous work bumping about +in that little parlor, and collisions were incessant, but he wooed Tudie +as if they were afloat in interstellar spaces.</p> + +<p>They collided oftenest with Arthur and his Emma, for the lucky youth who +held that drifting nymph seemed most unhappy in his pride. The girl was +talking amiably, but the man was grim and furtive and as careless of his +steering as a tipsy chauffeur.</p> + +<p>Orson forgot himself enough to comment to Tudie, "Your brother doesn't +seem to be enjoying himself."</p> + +<p>"Poor boy, he's heartbroken."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"He's so disappointed with Em."</p> + +<p>"I can't see anything wrong with her."</p> + +<p>"Evidently not; but have you heard her?"</p> + +<p>In a sudden access of rage Orson stopped short in the middle of the +swirl, and, ignoring the battery of other dancers, demanded, "In +Heaven's name, what's the matter with the girl?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing, I should judge from the look on your face after your close +inspection."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, for pity's sake, don't begin on me; but tell me—"</p> + +<p>"Talk to her and find out," said Tudie, with a twang that resounded as +the music came to a stop. "Oh, Em—Miss Terriberry, this is Mr. Carver; +he's dying to meet you."</p> + +<p>She whirled around so quickly that he almost fell into the girl's arms. +She received him with a smile of self-possession: "Chahmed, Mr. Cahveh."</p> + +<p>Orson's Eastern ears, expecting some horror of speech, felt delight +instead. She did not say "charrmed" like an alarm-clock breaking out. +She did not trundle his name up like a wheelbarrow. She softened the "a" +and ignored the "r."</p> + +<p>Tudie rolled the "r" on his ear-drums as with drum-sticks, and by +contrast the sound came to him as: "Misterr Carrverr comes from +Harrvarrd. He calls it Havvad."</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Em, with further illumination, "I woah the Hahvahd colohs the +lahst time I went to a game."</p> + +<p>Orson wanted to say something about her lips being the perfect Havvad +crimson, but he did not quite dare—yet. And being of New England, he +would always be parsimonious with flatteries.</p> + +<p>Tudie hooked her brother's arm and said with an angelic spitefulness, +"We'll leave you two together," and swished away.</p> + +<p>Orson immediately asked for the next dance and Em granted it. While they +were waiting for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span> rheumatic piano to resume they promenaded. Orson +noted that everybody they passed regarded them with a sly and cynical +amusement. It froze all the language on his lips, and the girl was still +breathing so fast from the dance that she apologized. Orson wanted to +tell her how glorious she looked with her cheeks kindled, her lips +parted, and her young bosom panting. But he suppressed the feverish +impulse. And he wondered more and more what ridiculous quality the +Carthaginians could have found in her who had returned in such splendor.</p> + +<p>The piano exploded now with a brazen impudence of clamor. Orson opened +his arms to her, but she shook her head: "Oh, I cahn't dahnce again just +yet. You'd bettah find anothah pahtnah."</p> + +<p>She said it meekly, and seemed to be shyly pleased when he said he much +preferred to sit it out. And they sat it out—on the porch. Moonlight +could not have been more luscious on Cleopatra's barge than it was +there. The piazza, which needed paint in the daylight, was blue enameled +by the moon. The girl's voice was in key with the harmony of the hour +and she brought him tidings from the East and from Europe. They were as +grateful as home news in exile.</p> + +<p>He expected to have her torn from him at any moment. But, to his +amazement, no one came to demand her. They were permitted to sit +undisturbed for dance after dance. She was suffering ostracism. The more +he talked to her the more he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</a></span> was puzzled. Even Arthur did not appear. +Even the normal jealousy of a fiancé was not evident. Orson's brain grew +frantic for explanation. The girl was not wicked, nor insolent. She +plainly had no contagious disease, no leprosy, no plague, not even a +cold. Then why was she persecuted?</p> + +<p>He was still fretting when the word was passed that supper was ready, +and they were called in. Plates and napkins were handed about by +obliging young gallants; chicken salad and sandwiches were dealt out +with a lavish hand, and ice-cream and cake completed the banquet.</p> + +<p>Arthur had the decency to sit with Em and to bring her things to eat, +but he munched grimly at his own fodder. Orson tagged along and sat on +the same sofa. It was surprising how much noise the guests made while +they consumed their food. The laughter and clatter contrasted with the +soft speech of Em, all to her advantage.</p> + +<p>When the provender was gone, and the plates were removed, Tudie whisked +Orson away to dance with her. As he danced he noted that Em was a +wall-flower, trying to look unconcerned, but finally seeking shelter by +the side of Tudie's mother, who gave her scant hospitality.</p> + +<p>Tudie began at once, "Well, have you found out?"</p> + +<p>"No, I haven't."</p> + +<p>"Didn't you notice how affected she is?"</p> + +<p>"No more than any other girl."</p> + +<p>"Oh, thank you! So you think I'm affected."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not especially. But everybody is, one way or another—even the animals +and the birds."</p> + +<p>"Really! And what is my affectation?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, and I wouldn't tell you if I did. What's Miss +Terriberry's?"</p> + +<p>"Didn't you dahnce with her?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Well, that's it."</p> + +<p>"What's that?"</p> + +<p>"She says 'dahnce,' doesn't she?"</p> + +<p>"I believe she does."</p> + +<p>"Well, she used to say 'dannce' like the rest of us."</p> + +<p>"What of it? Is it a sin to change?"</p> + +<p>"It's an affectation."</p> + +<p>"Why? Is education an affectation?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! so you call the rest of us uneducated?"</p> + +<p>"For Heaven's sake, no! You know too much, if anything. But what has +that to do with Miss Terriberry?"</p> + +<p>Because their minds were at such loggerheads their feet could not keep +measure. They dropped out of the dance and sought the porch, while Tudie +raged on:</p> + +<p>"She has no right to put on airs. Her father is no better than mine. Who +is she, anyway, that she should say 'dahnce' and 'cahn't' and +'chahmed'?"</p> + +<p>Orson was amazed at the depths of bitterness stirred up by a mere +question of pronunciation. He answered, softly: "Some of the meekest +people in the world use the soft 'a.' I say 'dahnce.'"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, but you can't help saying it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I could if I tried."</p> + +<p>"But you were born where everybody talks like that. Em was born out +here."</p> + +<p>"She has traveled, though."</p> + +<p>"So have I. And I didn't come back playing copy-cat."</p> + +<p>"It's natural for some people to mimic others. She may not be as +strong-minded as you are." He thought that rather diplomatic. "Besides +'dannce' and 'cann't' aren't correct."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, they are!"</p> + +<p>"Oh no, they're not! Not by any dictionary ever printed."</p> + +<p>"Then they'd better print some more. Dictionaries don't know everything. +They're very inconsistent."</p> + +<p>"Naturally."</p> + +<p>"Now you say 'tomahto' where I say 'tomayto.'"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Why don't you say 'potahto'?"</p> + +<p>"Because nobody does."</p> + +<p>"Well, nobody that was born out here says 'dahnce' and 'cahn't.'"</p> + +<p>"But she's been East and in Europe, and—where's the harm of it, anyway? +What's your objection to the soft 'a'?"</p> + +<p>"It's all right for those that are used to it."</p> + +<p>"But you say 'father.' Why don't you say 'rather' to rhyme with it?"</p> + +<p>"Don't be foolish."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'm trying not to be."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, don't try to convince me that Em Terriberry is a wonderful +creature because she's picked up a lot of foreign mannerisms and comes +home thinking she's better than the rest of us. We'll show her—the +conceited thing! Her own father and mother are ashamed of her, and +Arthur is so disgusted the poor boy doesn't know what to do. I think he +ought to give her a good talking to or break off the engagement."</p> + +<p>Orson sank back stunned at the ferocity of her manner. He beheld how +great a matter a little fire kindleth. It was so natural to him to speak +as Miss Terriberry spoke that he could not understand the hatred the +alien "a" and the suppressed "r" could evoke among those native to the +flat vowel and the protuberant consonant. He was yet to learn to what +lengths disputes could go over quirks of speech.</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>The very "talking to" that Tudie believed her brother ought to give his +betrothed he was giving her at that moment at the other end of the +porch. Arthur had hesitated to attempt the reproof. It was not pleasant +to broach the subject, and he knew that it was dangerous, since Em was +high-spirited. Even when she expressed a wonder at the coolness of +everybody's behavior he could not find the courage for the lecture +seething in his indignant heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</a></span></p> + +<p>He was worrying through a perfunctory consolation: "Oh, you just imagine +that people are cold to you, Em. Everybody's tickled to death to have +you home. You see, Em—"</p> + +<p>"I wish you wouldn't call me Em," she said.</p> + +<p>"It's your name, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"It's a part of my old name; but I've changed Emma to Amélie. After this +I want to be called Amélie."</p> + +<p>If she had announced her desire to wear trousers on the street, or to +smoke a pipe in church, or even to go in for circus-riding, he could not +have been more appalled than he was at what she said.</p> + +<p>"Amélie?" he gasped. "What in the name of—of all that's sensible is +that for?"</p> + +<p>"I hate Em. It's ugly. It sounds like a letter of the alphabet. I like +Amélie better. It's pretty and I choose it."</p> + +<p>"But look here, Em—"</p> + +<p>"Amélie."</p> + +<p>"This is carrying things too blamed far."</p> + +<p>He was not entirely heedless of her own welfare. He had felt the +animosity and ridicule that had gathered like sultry electricity in the +atmosphere when Emma had murmured at the station those words that Orson +had not heard.</p> + +<p>Orson, seated with Tudie at one end of the porch, heard them now at the +other end of the porch as they were quoted with mockery by Arthur. Orson +and Tudie forgot their own quarrel in the supernal rapture of +eavesdropping somebody's else wrangle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</a></span></p> + +<p>"When you got off the train," Arthur groaned, "you knocked me off my +pins by what you said to your father and mother."</p> + +<p>"And what did I say?" said Em in innocent wonder.</p> + +<p>"You said, 'Oh, my dolling m'mah, I cahn't believe it's you'!"</p> + +<p>"What was wrong with that?"</p> + +<p>"You used to call her 'momma' and you called me 'darrling.' And you +wouldn't have dared to say 'cahn't'! When I heard you I wanted to die. +Then you grabbed your father and gurgled, 'Oh, p'pah, you deah old +angel!' I nearly dropped in my tracks, and so did your father. And then +you turned to me and I knew what was coming! I tried to stop you, but I +couldn't. And you said it! You called me 'Ahthuh'!"</p> + +<p>"Isn't that your name, deah?"</p> + +<p>"No, it is not! My name is 'Arrthurr' and you know it! 'Ahthuh'! what do +you think I am? My name is good honest 'Arrthurr.'" He said it like a +good honest watch-dog, and he gnarred the "r" in the manner that made +the ancients call it the canine letter.</p> + +<p>Amélie, born Emma, laughed at his rage. She tried to appease him. "I +think 'Ahthuh' is prettiah. It expresses my tendah feelings bettah. The +way you say it, it sounds like garrgling something."</p> + +<p>But her levity in such a crisis only excited her lover the more. +"Everybody at the station was laughing at you. To-night when you +traipsed down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</a></span> the stairs, looking so pretty in your new dress, you had +to spoil everything by saying: 'What a chahming pahty. Shall we dahnce, +Ahthuh?' I just wanted to die."</p> + +<p>The victim of his tirade declined to wither. She answered: "I cahn't +tell you how sorry I am to have humiliated you. But if it's a sin to +speak correctly you'll have to get used to it."</p> + +<p>"No, I won't; but you'll get over it. You can live it down in time; but +don't you dare try to change your name to Amélie. They'd laugh you out +of Carthage."</p> + +<p>"Oh, would they now? Well, Amélie is my name for heahaftah, and if you +don't want to call me that you needn't call me anything."</p> + +<p>"Look here, Em."</p> + +<p>"Amélie."</p> + +<p>"Emamélie! for Heaven's sake don't be a snob!"</p> + +<p>"You're the snob, not I. There's just as much snobbery in sticking to +mispronunciation as there is in being correct. And just as much +affectation in talking with a burr as in dropping it. You think it's all +right for me to dress as they do in New York. Why shouldn't I talk the +same way? If it's all right for me to put on a pretty gown and weah my +haiah the most becoming way, why cahn't I improve my name, too? You +cahn't frighten me. I'm not afraid of you or the rest of your backwoods +friends. Beauty is my religion, and if necessary I'll be a mahtah to +it."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You'll be a what?"</p> + +<p>"A mahtah."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean a motto?"</p> + +<p>"I mean what you'd call a marrtyrr. But I won't make you one. I'll +release you from our engagement, and you can go back to Liddy Sovey. I +understand you've been rushing her very hahd. And you needn't take me +home. I'll get back by the gahden pahth."</p> + +<p>She rose and swept into the house, followed by her despairing swain.</p> + +<p>Orson and Tudie eavesdropped in silence. Tudie was full of scorn. +Amélie's arguments were piffle or worse to her, and her willingness to +undergo "martyrdom" for them was the most arrant pigheadedness, as the +martyrdom of alien creeds usually is.</p> + +<p>Orson, the alien, was full of amazement. Here was a nice young man in +love with a beautiful young woman. He had been devoted for years, and +now, because she had slightly altered her habits in one vowel and on +consonant, their love was curdled.</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>Greater wars have begun from less causes and been waged more fiercely. +They say that an avalanche can be brought down from a mountain by a +whispered word. Small wonder, then, that the murmur of a vowel and the +murder of a consonant should precipitate upon the town of Carthage the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</a></span> +stored-up snows of tradition. Business was dull in the village and any +excitement was welcome. Before Emma's return there had been a certain +slight interest in pronunciation.</p> + +<p>Orson Carver had for a time stimulated amusement by his droll talk. He +had been suspected for some time of being an impostor because he spoke +of his university as "Havvad." The Carthaginians did not expect him to +call it "Harrvarrd," as it was spelled, but they had always understood +that true graduates called it "Hawvawd," and local humorists won much +laughter by calling it "Haw-haw-vawd." Orson had bewildered them further +by a sort of cockneyism of misappropriated letters. He used the flat "a" +in words where Carthaginians used the soft, as in his own name and his +university's. He saved up the "r" that he dropped from its rightful +place and put it on where it did not belong, as in "idear." He had +provoked roars of laughter one evening when a practical joker requested +him to read a list of the books of the Bible, and he had mentioned +"Numbas, Joshuar, Ezrar, Nehemiar, Estha, Provubbs, Isaiar, Jeremiar."</p> + +<p>Eventually he was eclipsed by another young man sent to a post in the +C., T. & R. Railroad by an ambitious parent—Jefferson Digney, of Yale. +Digney, born and raised in Virginia and removed to Georgia, had taken +his accent to New Haven and taken it away with him unsullied. His +Southern speech had given Carthage acute joy for a while.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</a></span></p> + +<p>Arthur Litton had commented once on the contrast between Orson and +Jefferson. "Neither of you can pronounce the name of his State," said +Arthur. "He calls it 'Jawja' and you call it 'Jahjar.'"</p> + +<p>"What should it be?"</p> + +<p>"Jorrjuh."</p> + +<p>"Really!"</p> + +<p>"You can't pronounce your own name."</p> + +<p>"Oh, cahn't I?"</p> + +<p>"No, you cahn't I. You call it 'Cavveh.' He calls it 'Cyahvah.'"</p> + +<p>"What ought it to be?"</p> + +<p>"Carrvurr—as it's spelt."</p> + +<p>Yet another new-comer to the town was an Englishman, Anthony Hopper, a +younger son of a stock-holder abroad. He was not at all the Englishman +of the stage, and the Carthaginians were astonished to find that he did +not drop his "h's" or misapply them. And he never once said "fawncy," +but flat "fancy." He did not call himself "Hanthony 'Opper," as they +expected. But he did take a "caold bahth in the mawning."</p> + +<p>With a New Englander, an old Englander, and an Atlantan in the town, +Carthage took an astonishing interest in pronunciation that winter. When +conversation flagged anybody could raise a laugh by referring to their +outlandish pronunciations. Quoting their remarks took the place of such +parlor games as trying to say "She sells sea shells," or "The sea +ceaseth and it sufficeth us."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</a></span></p> + +<p>The foreigners entered into the spirit of it and retorted with +burlesques of Carthagese. They were received with excellent +sportsmanship. One might have been led to believe that the Carthaginians +took the matter of pronunciation lightly, since they could laugh +tolerantly at foreigners. This, however, was because the foreigners had +missed advantages of Carthaginian standards.</p> + +<p>Emma Terriberry's crime was not in her pronunciation, but in the fact +that she had changed it. Having come from Carthage, she must forever +remain a Carthagenian or face down a storm of wrath. Her quarrel with +her lover was the beginning of a quarrel with the whole town.</p> + +<p>Arthur Litton became suddenly a hero, like the first man wounded in a +war. The town rallied to his support. Emma was a heartless wretch, who +had insulted a faithful lover because he would not become as abject a +toady to the hateful East as she was. Her new name became a byword. Her +pronunciations were heard everywhere in the most ruthless parody. She +was accused of things that she never had said, things that nobody could +ever say.</p> + +<p>They inflicted on her the impossible habit of consistency. She was +reported as calling a hat a "hot," a rat a "rot," of teaching her little +sister to read from the primer, "Is the cot on the mot?" Pronunciation +became a test of character. The soft "r" and the hard "a" were taken as +proofs of effeminate hypocrisy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[Pg 377]</a></span></p> + +<p>Carthage differed only in degree, not in kind, from old Italy at the +time of the "Sicilian Vespers," when they called upon everybody to +pronounce the word "ciceri." The natives who could say "chee-cheree" +escaped, but the poor French who could come no nearer than "seeseree" +were butchered. Gradually now in Carthage the foreigners from +Massachusetts, Georgia, England, and elsewhere ceased to be regarded +with tolerance. Their accents no longer amused. They gave offense.</p> + +<p>In the railroad office there were six or seven of these new-comers. They +were driven together by indignation. They took up Amélie's cause; made +her their queen; declined invitations in which she was not included; +gave parties in her honor: took her buggy-riding. Each had his day.</p> + +<p>A few girls could not endure her triumph. They broke away from the fold +and became renegades, timidly softening their speech. This infuriated +the others, and the town was split into Guelph and Ghibelline.</p> + +<p>Amélie enjoyed the notoriety immensely. She flaunted her success. She +ridiculed the Carthage people as yokels. She burlesqued their jargon as +outrageously as they hers.</p> + +<p>The soda-water fountains became battle-fields of backbiting and mockery. +The feuds were as bitter, if not as deadly, as those that flourished +around the fountains in medieval Italian towns. Two girls would perch on +the drug-store stools back to back,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[Pg 378]</a></span> and bicker in pretended ignorance +of each other's presence. Tudie Litton would order "sahsahpahrillah," +which she hated, just to mock Amélie's manner; and Amélie, assuming to +be ignorant of Tudie's existence, would retort by ordering "a +strorrburry sody wattur." Then each would laugh recklessly but +miserably.</p> + +<p>The church at which the Terriberrys worshiped was almost torn apart by +the matter. The more ardent partisans felt that Amélie's unrepentant +soul had no right in the sacred edifice. Others urged that there should +be a truce to factions there, as in heaven. One Sunday dear old Dr. +Brearley, oblivious of the whole war, as of nearly everything else less +than a hundred years away, chose as his text Judges xii: 6:</p> + +<p>"Then said they unto him, Say now Shibboleth: and he said Sibboleth: for +he could not frame to pronounce it right. Then they took him, and slew +him at the passages of Jordan: and there fell at that time of the +Ephraimites forty and two thousand."</p> + +<p>If the anti-Amélites had needed any increase of enthusiasm they got it +now. They had Scripture on their side. If it were proper for the men of +Gilead, where the well-known balm came from, to slay forty-two thousand +people for a mispronunciation, surely the Carthaginians had authority to +stand by their "alturrs" and their "fi-urs" and protect them from those +who called them "altahs" and "fiahs."</p> + +<p>No country except ours could foster such a feud.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[Pg 379]</a></span> No language except the +chaos we fumble with could make it possible. By and by the war wore out +of its own violence. People ceased to care how a thing was said, and +began to take interest again in what was said. Those who had mimicked +Amélie had grown into the habit of mimicry until they half forgot their +scorn. The old-time flatness and burr began to soften from attrition, to +be modified because they were conspicuous. You would have heard Arthur +subduing his twang and unburring the "r." If you had asked him he would +have told you his name was either "Arthuh" or "Ahthur."</p> + +<p>Amélie and her little bodyguard, on the other hand, grew so nervous of +the sacred emblems that they avoided their use. When they came to a word +containing an "a" or a final "r" they hesitated or sidestepped and let +it pass. Amélie fell into the habit of saying "couldn't" for "cahn't," +and "A. M." for "mawning."</p> + +<p>People began to smile when they met her, and she smiled back. Slowly +everybody that had "not been speaking" began speaking, bowing, chatting. +Now, when one of the disputed words drifted into the talk, each tried to +concede a little to the other's belief, as soldiers of the blue and the +gray trod delicately on one another's toes after peace was decreed. +Everybody was now half and half, or, as Tudie vividly spoke it, "haff +and hahf." You would hear the same person say "haff-pahst ten," +"hahf-passt eleven," and "hahf-pahst twelve."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[Pg 380]</a></span></p> + +<p>Carthage became as confused in its language as Alsace-Lorraine.</p> + + +<h4>V</h4> + +<p>All through this tremendous feud Orson Carver had been faithful to +Amélie. Whether he had given Tudie the sack or she him was never +decided. But she was loyal to her dialect. He ceased to call; Tudie +ceased to invite him. They smiled coldly and still more coldly, and then +she ceased to see him when they met. He was simply transparent.</p> + +<p>Orson was Amélie's first cavalier in Carthage. He found her mightily +attractive. She was brisk of wit and she adored his Boston and his ways. +She was sufficiently languorous and meek in the moonlight, too—an +excellent hammock-half.</p> + +<p>But when the other Outlanders had begun to gather to her standard it +crowded the porch uncomfortably.</p> + +<p>Dissension rose within the citadel. Orson's father had fought +Jefferson's father in 1861-65. The great-grandfathers of both of them +had fought Anthony Hopper's forefathers in '76-83. The pronunciations of +the three grew mutually distasteful, and dreadful triangular rows took +place on matters of speech.</p> + +<p>Amélie sat in silence while they wrangled, and her thoughts reverted to +Arthur Litton. He had loved her well enough to be ashamed of her and +rebuke her. She was afraid that she had been a bit of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[Pg 381]</a></span> snob, a trifle +caddish. She had aired her new accent and her new clothes a trifle too +insolently. Old customs grew dear to her like old slippers. She +remembered the Littons' shabby buggy and the fuzzy horse, and the drives +Arthur and she had taken under the former moons.</p> + +<p>Her father and mother had shocked her with their modes of speech when +she came home, and she had ventured to rebuke them. She felt now that +they ought to have spanked her. A great tenderness welled up in her +heart for them and their homely ways. She wanted to be like them.</p> + +<p>The village was taking her back into its slumberous comfortableness.</p> + +<p>She would waken from her reveries to hear the aliens arguing their alien +rules of speech. It suddenly struck her that they were all wrong, +anyway. She felt an impulse to run for a broom and sweep them off into +space. She grew curt with them. They felt the chill and dropped away, +all but Orson. At last his lonely mother bullied his father into +recalling him from the Western wilds.</p> + +<p>He called on Amélie to bid a heartbreaking good-by. He was disconsolate. +He asked her to write to him. She promised she would. He was excited to +the point of proposing. She declined him plaintively. She could never +leave the old folks. "My place is here," she said.</p> + +<p>He left her and walked down the street like a moving elegy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[Pg 382]</a></span></p> + +<p>He suffered agonies of regret till he met a girl on the East-bound +train. She was exceedingly pretty and he made a thrilling adventure of +scraping acquaintance with her mother first, and thus with her. They +were returning to Boston, too. They were his home folks.</p> + +<p>When at last the train hurtled him back into Massachusetts he had almost +forgotten that he had ever been in Carthage. He had a sharp awakening.</p> + +<p>When he flung his arms about his mother and told her how glad he was to +see her, her second exclamation was: "But how on uth did you acquiah +that ghahstly Weste'n accent?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>One evening in the far-off Middle West the lonely Amélie was sitting in +her creaking hammock, wondering how she could endure her loneliness, +plotting how she could regain her old lover. She was desperately +considering a call upon his sister. She would implore forgiveness for +her sin of vanity and beg Tudie's intercession with Arthur. She had +nearly steeled herself to this glorious contrition when she heard a +warning squeal from the front gate, a slow step on the front walk, and +hesitant feet on the porch steps.</p> + +<p>And there he stood, a shadow against the shadow. In a sorrowful voice he +mumbled, "Is anybody home?"</p> + +<p>"I am!" she cried. "I was hoping you would come."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[Pg 383]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No!"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I was just about ready to telephone you."</p> + +<p>There was so much more than hospitality in her voice that he stumbled +forward. Their shadows collided and merged in one embrace.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Amélie!" he sighed in her neck.</p> + +<p>And she answered behind his left ear: "Don't call me Amélie any more. I +like Em betterr from you! It's so shorrt and sweet—as you say it. We'll +forget the passt forreverr."</p> + +<p>"Am! my dolling!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Arrthurr!"</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + + + +<h2>THE END</h2> + + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + + +<h2>RECENT BOOKS OF TRAVEL</h2> + +<hr style="width: 15%;" /> + +<h4><i>IN VACATION AMERICA</i><span class="space"> </span> By <span class="smcap">Harrison Rhodes</span></h4> + +<p><i>In this book of leisurely wanderings the author journeys among the +various holiday resorts of the United States from Maine to Atlantic +City, Newport, Bar Harbor, the Massachusetts beaches, Long Island Sound, +the Great Lakes, Niagara, ever-young Greenbriar White and other Virginia +Springs, Saratoga, White Mountains, the winter resorts of Florida, the +Carolinas and California.</i> Illustrated in Color</p> + +<hr style="width: 15%;" /> + +<h4><i>ALONG NEW ENGLAND ROADS</i><br /> + +By<span class="smcap">William C. 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In other verses the Puritans, the Dutch inhabitants +of New Amsterdam are gently satirized.</i></p> + +<h5>Post 8vo, Cloth</h5> + +<hr style="width: 15%;" /> + +<h4>HARPER & BROTHERS</h4> + +<h3>NEW YORK <span class="smcap">Established</span> 1817 LONDON</h3> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In a Little Town, by Rupert Hughes + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN A LITTLE TOWN *** + +***** This file should be named 29561-h.htm or 29561-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29561/ + +Produced by Colin Bell, Woodie4, Michael and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://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. 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